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- Джордж Мартин
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"
Lysa
will
not
come
.
"
"
If
you
wrote
her
yourself
,
perhaps
.
.
.
"
"
I
will
put
some
words
to
paper
,
if
that
please
you
.
"
She
wondered
who
Lysa
’
s
"
wretched
stripling
"
had
been
.
Some
young
squire
or
hedge
knight
,
like
as
not
.
.
.
though
by
the
vehemence
with
which
Lord
Hoster
had
opposed
him
,
he
might
have
been
a
tradesman
’
s
son
or
baseborn
apprentice
,
even
a
singer
.
Lysa
had
always
been
too
fond
of
singers
.
I
must
not
blame
her
.
Jon
Arryn
was
twenty
years
older
than
our
father
,
however
noble
.
The
tower
her
brother
had
set
aside
for
her
use
was
the
very
same
that
she
and
Lysa
had
shared
as
maids
.
It
would
feel
good
to
sleep
on
a
featherbed
again
,
with
a
warm
fire
in
the
hearth
;
when
she
was
rested
the
world
would
seem
less
bleak
.
But
outside
her
chambers
she
found
Utherydes
Wayn
waiting
with
two
women
clad
in
grey
,
their
faces
cowled
save
for
their
eyes
.
Catelyn
knew
at
once
why
they
were
here
.
"
Ned
?
"
The
sisters
lowered
their
gaze
.
Utherydes
said
,
"
Ser
Cleos
brought
him
from
King
’
s
Landing
,
my
lady
.
"
"
Take
me
to
him
,
"
she
commanded
.
They
had
laid
him
out
on
a
trestle
table
and
covered
him
with
a
banner
,
the
white
banner
of
House
Stark
with
its
grey
direwolf
sigil
.
"
I
would
look
on
him
,
"
Catelyn
said
.
"
Only
the
bones
remain
,
my
lady
.
"
"
I
would
look
on
him
,
"
she
repeated
.
