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- Джордж Мартин
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When
he
lowered
her
back
to
the
ground
,
the
little
man
kissed
her
lightly
on
the
brow
and
came
waddling
across
the
yard
toward
Joffrey
.
Two
of
his
men
followed
close
behind
him
;
a
black
-
haired
black
-
eyed
sellsword
who
moved
like
a
stalking
cat
,
and
a
gaunt
youth
with
an
empty
socket
where
one
eye
should
have
been
.
Tommen
and
Myrcella
trailed
after
them
.
The
dwarf
went
to
one
knee
before
the
king
.
"
Your
Grace
.
"
"
You
,
"
Joffrey
said
.
"
Me
,
"
the
Imp
agreed
,
"
although
a
more
courteous
greeting
might
be
in
order
,
for
an
uncle
and
an
elder
.
"
"
They
said
you
were
dead
,
"
the
Hound
said
.
The
little
man
gave
the
big
one
a
look
.
One
of
his
eyes
was
green
,
one
was
black
,
and
both
were
cool
.
"
I
was
speaking
to
the
king
,
not
to
his
cur
.
"
"
I
’
m
glad
you
’
re
not
dead
,
"
said
Princess
Myrcella
.
"
We
share
that
view
,
sweet
child
.
"
Tyrion
turned
to
Sansa
.
"
My
lady
,
I
am
sorry
for
your
losses
.
Truly
,
the
gods
are
cruel
.
"
Sansa
could
not
think
of
a
word
to
say
to
him
.
How
could
he
be
sorry
for
her
losses
?
Was
he
mocking
her
?
It
wasn
’
t
the
gods
who
’
d
been
cruel
,
it
was
Joffrey
.
