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- Джордж Мартин
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"
You
will
come
as
well
.
You
command
here
.
The
offering
should
come
from
you
.
"
That
was
more
than
Theon
could
stomach
.
"
You
are
the
priest
,
Uncle
,
I
leave
the
god
to
you
.
Do
me
the
same
kindness
and
leave
the
battles
to
me
.
"
He
waved
his
hand
,
and
Werlag
and
Stygg
began
to
drag
their
captive
off
toward
the
shore
.
Aeron
Damphair
gave
his
nephew
a
reproachful
look
,
then
followed
.
Down
to
the
pebbled
beach
they
would
go
,
to
drown
Benfred
Tallhart
in
salt
water
.
The
old
way
.
Perhaps
it
’
s
a
kindness
,
Theon
told
himself
as
he
stalked
off
in
the
other
direction
.
Stygg
was
hardly
the
most
expert
of
headsmen
,
and
Benfred
had
a
neck
thick
as
a
boar
’
s
,
heavy
with
muscle
and
fat
.
I
used
to
mock
him
for
it
,
just
to
see
how
angry
I
could
make
him
,
he
remembered
.
That
had
been
,
what
,
three
years
past
?
When
Ned
Stark
had
ridden
to
Torrhen
’
s
Square
to
see
Ser
Helman
,
Theon
had
accompanied
him
and
spent
a
fortnight
in
Benfred
’
s
company
.
He
could
hear
the
rough
noises
of
victory
from
the
crook
in
the
road
where
the
battle
had
been
fought
.
.
.
if
you
’
d
go
so
far
as
to
call
it
a
battle
.
More
like
slaughtering
sheep
,
if
truth
be
told
.
Sheep
fleeced
in
steel
,
but
sheep
nonetheless
.
Climbing
a
jumble
of
stone
,
Theon
looked
down
on
the
dead
men
and
dying
horses
.
The
horses
had
deserved
better
.
Tymor
and
his
brothers
had
gathered
up
what
mounts
had
come
through
the
fight
unhurt
,
while
Urzen
and
Black
Lorren
silenced
the
animals
too
badly
wounded
to
be
saved
.
The
rest
of
his
men
were
looting
the
corpses
.
Gevin
Harlaw
knelt
on
a
dead
man
’
s
chest
,
sawing
off
his
finger
to
get
at
a
ring
.
Paying
the
iron
price
.
My
lord
father
would
approve
.
Theon
thought
of
seeking
out
the
bodies
of
the
two
men
he
’
d
slain
himself
to
see
if
they
had
any
jewelry
worth
the
taking
,
but
the
notion
left
a
bitter
taste
in
his
mouth
.
He
could
imagine
what
Eddard
Stark
would
have
said
.
Yet
that
thought
made
him
angry
too
.
Stark
is
dead
and
rotting
,
and
naught
to
me
,
he
reminded
himself
.
Old
Botley
,
who
was
called
Fishwhiskers
,
sat
scowling
by
his
pile
of
plunder
while
his
three
sons
added
to
it
.
One
of
them
was
in
a
shoving
match
with
a
fat
man
named
Todric
,
who
was
reeling
among
the
slain
with
a
horn
of
ale
in
one
hand
and
an
axe
in
the
other
,
clad
in
a
cloak
of
white
fox
-
fur
only
slightly
stained
by
the
blood
of
its
previous
owner
.
Drunk
,
Theon
decided
,
watching
him
bellow
.
It
was
said
that
the
ironmen
of
old
had
oft
been
blood
-
drunk
in
battle
,
so
berserk
that
they
felt
no
pain
and
feared
no
foe
,
but
this
was
a
common
ale
-
drunk
.
"
Wex
,
my
bow
and
quiver
.
"
The
boy
ran
and
fetched
them
.
Theon
bent
the
bow
and
slipped
the
string
into
its
notches
as
Todric
knocked
down
the
Botley
boy
and
flung
ale
into
his
eyes
.
Fishwhiskers
leapt
up
cursing
,
but
Theon
was
quicker
.
He
drew
on
the
hand
that
clutched
the
drinking
horn
,
figuring
to
give
them
a
shot
to
talk
about
,
but
Todric
spoiled
it
by
lurching
to
one
side
just
as
he
loosed
.
The
arrow
took
him
through
the
belly
.
The
looters
stopped
to
gape
.
Theon
lowered
his
bow
.
"
No
drunkards
,
I
said
,
and
no
squabbles
over
plunder
.
"
On
his
knees
,
Todric
was
dying
noisily
.
"
Botley
,
silence
him
.
"
Fishwhiskers
and
his
sons
were
quick
to
obey
.
They
slit
Todric
’
s
throat
as
he
kicked
feebly
,
and
were
stripping
him
of
cloak
and
rings
and
weapons
before
he
was
even
dead
.
