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- Джордж Мартин
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- Стр. 399/853
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"
He
isn
’
t
.
Even
my
father
relied
on
his
counsel
.
"
"
Your
father
listened
,
I
have
no
doubt
.
But
in
the
end
,
he
decided
for
himself
.
Bran
,
will
you
let
me
tell
you
about
a
dream
Jojen
dreamed
of
you
and
your
fosterling
brothers
?
"
"
The
Walders
aren
’
t
my
brothers
.
"
She
paid
that
no
heed
.
"
You
were
sitting
at
supper
,
but
instead
of
a
servant
,
Maester
Luwin
brought
you
your
food
.
He
served
you
the
king
’
s
cut
off
the
roast
,
the
meat
rare
and
bloody
,
but
with
a
savory
smell
that
made
everyone
’
s
mouth
water
.
The
meat
he
served
the
Freys
was
old
and
grey
and
dead
.
Yet
they
liked
their
supper
better
than
you
liked
yours
.
"
"
I
don
’
t
understand
.
"
"
You
will
,
my
brother
says
.
When
you
do
,
we
’
ll
talk
again
"
Bran
was
almost
afraid
to
sit
to
supper
that
night
,
but
when
he
did
,
it
was
pigeon
pie
they
set
before
him
.
Everyone
else
was
served
the
same
,
and
he
couldn
’
t
see
that
anything
was
wrong
with
the
food
they
served
the
Walders
.
Maester
Luwin
has
the
truth
of
it
,
he
told
himself
.
Nothing
bad
was
coming
to
Winterfell
,
no
matter
what
Jojen
said
.
Bran
was
relieved
.
.
.
but
disappointed
too
.
So
long
as
there
was
magic
,
anything
could
happen
.
Ghosts
could
walk
,
trees
could
talk
,
and
broken
boys
could
grow
up
to
be
knights
.
"
But
there
isn
’
t
,
"
he
said
aloud
in
the
darkness
of
his
bed
.
"
There
’
s
no
magic
,
and
the
stories
are
just
stories
.
"
And
he
would
never
walk
,
nor
fly
,
nor
be
a
knight
.
The
rushes
were
scratchy
under
the
soles
of
his
bare
feet
.
"
My
cousin
chooses
a
queer
hour
to
come
visiting
,
"
Tyrion
told
a
sleep
-
befuddled
Podrick
Payne
,
who
’
d
doubtless
expected
to
be
well
roasted
for
waking
him
.
"
See
him
to
my
solar
and
tell
him
I
’
ll
be
down
shortly
.
"
It
was
well
past
midnight
,
he
judged
from
the
black
outside
the
window
.
Does
Lancel
think
to
find
me
drowsy
and
slow
of
wit
at
this
hour
?
he
wondered
.
No
,
Lancel
scarce
thinks
at
all
,
this
is
Cersei
’
s
doing
.
His
sister
would
be
disappointed
.
Even
abed
,
he
worked
well
into
the
morning
—
reading
by
the
flickering
light
of
a
candle
,
scrutinizing
the
reports
of
Varys
’
s
whisperers
,
and
poring
over
Littlefinger
’
s
books
of
accounts
until
the
columns
blurred
and
his
eyes
ached
.
