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- Джордж Мартин
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- Битва королей
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- Стр. 287/853
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"
What
else
is
a
Hand
for
,
if
not
to
hand
you
things
?
"
Tyrion
handed
her
the
letter
His
cheek
still
throbbed
where
Cersei
’
s
hand
had
left
its
mark
.
Let
her
flay
half
my
face
,
it
will
be
a
small
price
to
pay
for
her
consent
to
the
Dornish
marriage
.
He
would
have
that
now
,
he
could
sense
it
.
And
certain
knowledge
of
an
informer
too
.
.
.
well
,
that
was
the
plum
in
his
pudding
.
Dancer
was
draped
in
bardings
of
snowy
white
wool
emblazoned
with
the
grey
direwolf
of
House
Stark
,
while
Bran
wore
grey
breeches
and
white
doublet
,
his
sleeves
and
collar
trimmed
with
vair
.
Over
his
heart
was
his
wolf
’
s
-
head
brooch
of
silver
and
polished
jet
.
He
would
sooner
have
had
Summer
than
a
silver
wolf
on
his
breast
,
but
Ser
Rodrik
had
been
unyielding
.
The
low
stone
steps
balked
Dancer
only
for
a
moment
.
When
Bran
urged
her
on
,
she
took
them
easily
.
Beyond
the
wide
oak
-
and
-
iron
doors
,
eight
long
rows
of
trestle
tables
filled
Winterfell
’
s
Great
Hall
,
four
on
each
side
of
the
center
aisle
.
Men
crowded
shoulder
to
shoulder
on
the
benches
.
"
Stark
!
"
they
called
as
Bran
trotted
past
,
rising
to
their
feet
.
"
Winterfell
!
Winterfell
!
"
He
was
old
enough
to
know
that
it
was
not
truly
him
they
shouted
for
—
it
was
the
harvest
they
cheered
,
it
was
Robb
and
his
victories
,
it
was
his
lord
father
and
his
grandfather
and
all
the
Starks
going
back
eight
thousand
years
.
Still
,
it
made
him
swell
with
pride
.
For
so
long
as
it
took
him
to
ride
the
length
of
that
hall
he
forgot
that
he
was
broken
.
Yet
when
he
reached
the
dais
,
with
every
eye
upon
him
,
Osha
and
Hodor
undid
his
straps
and
buckles
,
lifted
him
off
Dancer
’
s
back
,
and
carried
him
to
the
high
seat
of
his
fathers
.
Ser
Rodrik
was
seated
to
Bran
’
s
left
,
his
daughter
Beth
beside
him
.
Rickon
was
to
his
right
,
his
mop
of
shaggy
auburn
hair
grown
so
long
that
it
brushed
his
ermine
mantle
.
He
had
refused
to
let
anyone
cut
it
since
their
mother
had
gone
.
The
last
girl
to
try
had
been
bitten
for
her
efforts
.
"
I
wanted
to
ride
too
,
"
he
said
as
Hodor
led
Dancer
away
.
"
I
ride
better
than
you
.
"
"
You
don
’
t
,
so
hush
up
,
"
he
told
his
brother
.
Ser
Rodrik
bellowed
for
quiet
.
Bran
raised
his
voice
.
He
bid
them
welcome
in
the
name
of
his
brother
,
the
King
in
the
North
,
and
asked
them
to
thank
the
gods
old
and
new
for
Robb
’
s
victories
and
the
bounty
of
the
harvest
.
"
May
there
be
a
hundred
more
,
"
he
finished
,
raising
his
father
’
s
silver
goblet
.
"
A
hundred
more
!
"
Pewter
tankards
,
clay
cups
,
and
iron
-
banded
drinking
horns
clashed
together
.
Bran
’
s
wine
was
sweetened
with
honey
and
fragrant
with
cinnamon
and
cloves
,
but
stronger
than
he
was
used
to
.
He
could
feel
its
hot
snaky
fingers
wriggling
through
his
chest
as
he
swallowed
.
By
the
time
he
set
down
the
goblet
,
his
head
was
swimming
.
