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- Джордж Мартин
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"
So
he
says
.
"
"
Sweet
cousin
.
Show
me
to
him
.
"
The
gold
cloaks
had
confined
Ser
Cleos
to
a
windowless
guardroom
in
the
gatehouse
.
He
rose
when
they
entered
.
"
Tyrion
,
you
are
a
most
welcome
sight
.
"
"
That
’
s
not
something
I
hear
often
,
cousin
.
"
"
Has
Cersei
come
with
you
?
"
"
My
sister
is
otherwise
occupied
.
Is
this
Stark
’
s
letter
?
"
He
plucked
it
off
the
table
.
"
Ser
Jacelyn
,
you
may
leave
us
.
"
Bywater
bowed
and
departed
.
"
I
was
asked
to
bring
the
offer
to
the
Queen
Regent
,
"
Ser
Cleos
said
as
the
door
shut
.
"
I
shall
.
"
Tyrion
glanced
over
the
map
that
Robb
Stark
had
sent
with
his
letter
.
"
All
in
good
time
,
cousin
.
Sit
.
Rest
.
You
look
gaunt
and
haggard
.
"
He
looked
worse
than
that
,
in
truth
.
"
Yes
.
"
Ser
Cleos
lowered
himself
onto
a
bench
.
"
It
is
bad
in
the
riverlands
,
Tyrion
.
Around
the
Gods
Eye
and
along
the
kingsroad
especially
.
The
river
lords
are
burning
their
own
crops
to
try
and
starve
us
,
and
your
father
’
s
foragers
are
torching
every
village
they
take
and
putting
the
smallfolk
to
the
sword
.
"
That
was
the
way
of
war
.
The
smallfolk
were
slaughtered
,
while
the
highborn
were
held
for
ransom
.
Remind
me
to
thank
the
gods
that
I
was
born
a
Lannister
.
