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- Джордж Мартин
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"
Was
there
one
who
was
best
of
all
?
"
"
The
finest
knight
I
ever
saw
was
Ser
Arthur
Dayne
,
who
fought
with
a
blade
called
Dawn
,
forged
from
the
heart
of
a
fallen
star
.
They
called
him
the
Sword
of
the
Morning
,
and
he
would
have
killed
me
but
for
Howland
Reed
.
"
Father
had
gotten
sad
then
,
and
he
would
say
no
more
.
Bran
wished
he
had
asked
him
what
he
meant
.
He
went
to
sleep
with
his
head
full
of
knights
in
gleaming
armor
,
fighting
with
swords
that
shone
like
starfire
,
but
when
the
dream
came
he
was
in
the
godswood
again
.
The
smells
from
the
kitchen
and
the
Great
Hall
were
so
strong
that
it
was
almost
as
if
he
had
never
left
the
feast
.
He
prowled
beneath
the
trees
,
his
brother
close
behind
him
.
This
night
was
wildly
alive
,
full
of
the
howling
of
the
man
-
pack
at
their
play
.
The
sounds
made
him
restless
.
He
wanted
to
run
,
to
hunt
,
he
wanted
to
—
The
rattle
of
iron
made
his
ears
prick
up
.
His
brother
heard
it
too
.
They
raced
through
the
undergrowth
toward
the
sound
.
Bounding
across
the
still
water
at
the
foot
of
the
old
white
one
,
he
caught
the
scent
of
a
stranger
,
the
man
-
smell
well
mixed
with
leather
and
earth
and
iron
.
The
intruders
had
pushed
a
few
yards
into
the
wood
when
he
came
upon
them
;
a
female
and
a
young
male
,
with
no
taint
of
fear
to
them
,
even
when
he
showed
them
the
white
of
his
teeth
.
His
brother
growled
low
in
his
throat
,
yet
still
they
did
not
run
"
Here
they
come
,
"
the
female
said
.
Meera
,
some
part
of
him
whispered
,
some
wisp
of
the
sleeping
boy
lost
in
the
wolf
dream
.
"
Did
you
know
they
would
be
so
big
?
"
"
They
will
be
bigger
still
before
they
are
grown
,
"
the
young
male
said
,
watching
them
with
eyes
large
,
green
,
and
unafraid
.
"
The
black
one
is
full
of
fear
and
rage
,
but
the
grey
is
strong
.
.
.
stronger
than
he
knows
.
.
.
can
you
feel
him
,
sister
?
"
"
No
,
"
she
said
,
moving
a
hand
to
the
hilt
of
the
long
brown
knife
she
wore
.
"
Go
careful
,
Jojen
.
"
"
He
won
’
t
hurt
me
.
This
is
not
the
day
I
die
.
"
The
male
walked
toward
them
,
unafraid
,
and
reached
out
for
his
muzzle
,
a
touch
as
light
as
a
summer
breeze
.
Yet
at
the
brush
of
those
fingers
the
wood
dissolved
and
the
very
ground
turned
to
smoke
beneath
his
feet
and
swirled
away
laughing
,
and
then
he
was
spinning
and
falling
,
falling
,
falling
.
.
.
As
she
slept
amidst
the
rolling
grasslands
,
Catelyn
dreamt
that
Bran
was
whole
again
,
that
Arya
and
Sansa
held
hands
,
that
Rickon
was
still
a
babe
at
her
breast
.
Robb
,
crownless
,
played
with
a
wooden
sword
,
and
when
all
were
safe
asleep
,
she
found
Ned
in
her
bed
,
smiling
.
