-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Джордж Мартин
-
- Битва королей
-
- Стр. 373/853
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
The
axe
swept
back
down
,
rasping
over
the
skin
.
A
thin
film
of
spit
bubbled
on
Pycelle
’
s
lips
as
his
mouth
trembled
.
"
I
tried
to
save
Lord
Arryn
.
I
vow
—
"
"
Careful
now
,
Shagga
,
you
’
ve
cut
him
.
"
Shagga
growled
.
"
Dolf
fathered
warriors
,
not
barbers
.
"
When
he
felt
the
blood
trickling
down
his
neck
and
onto
his
chest
,
the
old
man
shuddered
,
and
the
last
strength
went
out
of
him
.
He
looked
shrunken
,
both
smaller
and
frailer
than
he
had
been
when
they
burst
in
on
him
.
"
Yes
,
"
he
whimpered
,
"
yes
,
Colemon
was
purging
,
so
I
sent
him
away
The
queen
needed
Lord
Arryn
dead
,
she
did
not
say
so
,
could
not
,
Varys
was
listening
,
always
listening
,
but
when
I
looked
at
her
I
knew
.
It
was
not
me
who
gave
him
the
poison
,
though
,
I
swear
it
.
"
The
old
man
wept
.
"
Varys
will
tell
you
,
it
was
the
boy
,
his
squire
,
Hugh
he
was
called
,
he
must
surely
have
done
it
,
ask
your
sister
,
ask
her
.
"
Tyrion
was
disgusted
.
"
Bind
him
and
take
him
away
,
"
he
commanded
.
"
Throw
him
down
in
one
of
the
black
cells
.
"
They
dragged
him
out
the
splintered
door
.
"
Lannister
,
"
he
moaned
,
"
all
I
’
ve
done
has
been
for
Lannister
.
.
.
"
When
he
was
gone
,
Tyrion
made
a
leisurely
search
of
the
quarters
and
collected
a
few
more
small
jars
from
his
shelves
.
The
ravens
muttered
above
his
head
as
he
worked
,
a
strangely
peaceful
noise
.
He
would
need
to
find
someone
to
tend
the
birds
until
the
Citadel
sent
a
man
to
replace
Pycelle
.
He
was
the
one
I
’
d
hoped
to
trust
.
Varys
and
Littlefinger
were
no
more
loyal
,
he
suspected
.
.
.
only
more
subtle
,
and
thus
more
dangerous
.
Perhaps
his
father
’
s
way
would
have
been
best
:
summon
Ilyn
Payne
,
mount
three
heads
above
the
gates
,
and
have
done
.
And
wouldn
’
t
that
be
a
pretty
sight
,
he
thought
.
Fear
cuts
deeper
than
swords
,
Arya
would
tell
herself
,
but
that
did
not
make
the
fear
go
away
.
It
was
as
much
a
part
of
her
days
as
stale
bread
and
the
blisters
on
her
toes
after
a
long
day
of
walking
the
hard
,
rutted
road
.
