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- Джордж Мартин
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Harren
the
Black
had
mixed
human
blood
in
the
mortar
,
Nan
used
to
say
,
dropping
her
voice
so
the
children
would
need
to
lean
close
to
hear
,
but
Aegon
’
s
dragons
had
roasted
Harren
and
all
his
sons
within
their
great
walls
of
stone
.
Arya
chewed
her
lip
as
she
walked
along
on
feet
grown
hard
with
callus
.
It
would
not
be
much
longer
,
she
told
herself
;
those
towers
could
not
be
more
than
a
few
miles
off
.
Yet
they
walked
all
that
day
and
most
of
the
next
before
at
last
they
reached
the
fringes
of
Lord
Tywin
’
s
army
,
encamped
west
of
the
castle
amidst
the
scorched
remains
of
a
town
.
Harrenhal
was
deceptive
from
afar
,
because
it
was
so
huge
.
Its
colossal
curtain
walls
rose
beside
the
lake
,
sheer
and
sudden
as
mountain
cliffs
,
while
atop
their
battlements
the
rows
of
wood
-
and
-
iron
scorpions
looked
as
small
as
the
bugs
for
which
they
were
named
.
The
stink
of
the
Lannister
host
reached
Arya
well
before
she
could
make
out
the
devices
on
the
banners
that
sprouted
along
the
lakeshore
,
atop
the
pavilions
of
the
westermen
.
From
the
smell
,
Arya
could
tell
that
Lord
Tywin
had
been
here
some
time
.
The
latrines
that
ringed
the
encampment
were
overflowing
and
swarming
with
flies
,
and
she
saw
faint
greenish
fuzz
on
many
of
the
sharpened
stakes
that
protected
the
perimeters
.
Harrenhal
’
s
gatehouse
,
itself
as
large
as
Winterfell
’
s
Great
Keep
,
was
as
scarred
as
it
was
massive
,
its
stones
fissured
and
discolored
.
From
outside
,
only
the
tops
of
five
immense
towers
could
be
seen
beyond
the
walls
.
The
shortest
of
them
was
half
again
as
tall
as
the
highest
tower
in
Winterfell
,
but
they
did
not
soar
the
way
a
proper
tower
did
.
Arya
thought
they
looked
like
some
old
man
’
s
gnarled
,
knuckly
fingers
groping
after
a
passing
cloud
.
She
remembered
Nan
telling
how
the
stone
had
melted
and
flowed
like
candlewax
down
the
steps
and
in
the
windows
,
glowing
a
sullen
searing
red
as
it
sought
out
Harren
where
he
hid
.
Arya
could
believe
every
word
;
each
tower
was
more
grotesque
and
misshapen
than
the
last
,
lumpy
and
runneled
and
cracked
.
"
I
don
’
t
want
to
go
there
,
"
Hot
Pie
squeaked
as
Harrenhal
opened
its
gates
to
them
.
"
There
’
s
ghosts
in
there
.
"
Chiswyck
heard
him
,
but
for
once
he
only
smiled
.
"
Baker
boy
,
here
’
s
your
choice
.
Come
join
the
ghosts
,
or
be
one
.
"
Hot
Pie
went
in
with
the
rest
of
them
.
In
the
echoing
stone
-
and
-
timber
bathhouse
,
the
captives
were
stripped
and
made
to
scrub
and
scrape
themselves
raw
in
tubs
of
scalding
hot
water
.
Two
fierce
old
women
supervised
the
process
,
discussing
them
as
bluntly
as
if
they
were
newly
acquired
donkeys
.
When
Arya
’
s
turn
came
round
,
Goodwife
Amabel
clucked
in
dismay
at
the
sight
of
her
feet
,
while
Goodwife
Harra
felt
the
callus
on
her
fingers
that
long
hours
of
practice
with
Needle
had
earned
her
.
"
Got
those
churning
butter
,
I
’
ll
wager
,
"
she
said
.
"
Some
farmer
’
s
whelp
,
are
you
?
Well
,
never
you
mind
,
girl
,
you
have
a
chance
to
win
a
higher
place
in
this
world
if
you
work
hard
.
If
you
won
’
t
work
hard
,
you
’
ll
be
beaten
.
And
what
do
they
call
you
?
"
