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- Джордж Мартин
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- Стр. 486/853
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"
They
sang
better
than
they
fought
.
Harps
would
have
done
them
as
much
good
as
their
lances
did
.
"
"
How
many
men
are
lost
?
"
"
Of
ours
?
"
Theon
shrugged
.
"
Todric
.
I
killed
him
for
getting
drunk
and
fighting
over
loot
.
"
"
Some
men
are
born
to
be
killed
.
"
A
lesser
man
might
have
been
afraid
to
show
a
smile
as
frightening
as
his
,
yet
Dagmer
grinned
more
often
and
more
broadly
than
Lord
Balon
ever
had
.
Ugly
as
it
was
,
that
smile
brought
back
a
hundred
memories
.
Theon
had
seen
it
often
as
a
boy
,
when
he
’
d
jumped
a
horse
over
a
mossy
wall
,
or
flung
an
axe
and
split
a
target
square
.
He
’
d
seen
it
when
he
blocked
a
blow
from
Dagmer
’
s
sword
,
when
he
put
an
arrow
through
a
seagull
on
the
wing
,
when
he
took
the
tiller
in
hand
and
guided
a
longship
safely
through
a
snarl
of
foaming
rocks
.
He
gave
me
more
smiles
than
my
father
and
Eddard
Stark
together
.
Even
Robb
.
.
.
he
ought
to
have
won
a
smile
the
day
he
’
d
saved
Bran
from
that
wildling
,
but
instead
he
’
d
gotten
a
scolding
,
as
if
he
were
some
cook
who
’
d
burned
the
stew
.
"
You
and
I
must
talk
,
Uncle
,
"
Theon
said
.
Dagmer
was
no
true
uncle
,
only
a
sworn
man
with
perhaps
a
pinch
of
Greyjoy
blood
four
or
five
lives
back
,
and
that
from
the
wrong
side
of
the
blanket
.
Yet
Theon
had
always
called
him
uncle
nonetheless
.
"
Come
onto
my
deck
,
then
.
"
There
were
no
m
’
lords
from
Dagmer
,
not
when
he
stood
on
his
own
deck
.
On
the
Iron
Islands
,
every
captain
was
a
king
aboard
his
own
ship
.
He
climbed
the
plank
to
the
deck
of
the
Foamdrinker
in
four
long
strides
,
and
Dagmer
led
him
back
to
the
cramped
aft
cabin
,
where
the
old
man
poured
a
horn
of
sour
ale
and
offered
Theon
the
same
.
He
declined
.
"
We
did
not
capture
enough
horses
.
A
few
,
but
.
.
.
well
,
I
’
ll
make
do
with
what
I
have
,
I
suppose
.
Fewer
men
means
more
glory
.
"
