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- Джордж Мартин
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- Стр. 603/853
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One
of
the
ironmen
went
before
them
carrying
a
torch
,
but
the
rain
had
started
again
and
soon
drowned
it
out
.
As
they
hurried
across
the
yard
they
could
hear
the
direwolves
howling
in
the
godswood
.
I
hope
Summer
wasn
’
t
hurt
falling
from
the
tree
.
Theon
Greyjoy
was
seated
in
the
high
seat
of
the
Starks
.
He
had
taken
off
his
cloak
.
Over
a
shirt
of
fine
mail
he
wore
a
black
surcoat
emblazoned
with
the
golden
kraken
of
his
House
.
His
hands
rested
on
the
wolves
’
heads
carved
at
the
ends
of
the
wide
stone
arms
.
"
Theon
’
s
sitting
in
Robb
’
s
chair
,
"
Rickon
said
.
"
Hush
,
Rickon
.
"
Bran
could
feel
the
menace
around
them
,
but
his
brother
was
too
young
.
A
few
torches
had
been
lit
,
and
a
fire
kindled
in
the
great
hearth
,
but
most
of
the
hall
remained
in
darkness
.
There
was
no
place
to
sit
with
the
benches
stacked
against
the
walls
,
so
the
castle
folk
stood
in
small
groups
,
not
daring
to
speak
.
He
saw
Old
Nan
,
her
toothless
mouth
opening
and
closing
.
Hayhead
was
carried
in
between
two
of
the
other
guards
,
a
bloodstained
bandage
wrapped
about
his
bare
chest
.
Poxy
Tym
wept
inconsolably
,
and
Beth
Cassel
cried
with
fear
.
"
What
have
we
here
?
"
Theon
asked
of
the
Reeds
and
Freys
.
"
These
are
Lady
Catelyn
’
s
wards
,
both
named
Walder
Frey
,
"
Maester
Luwin
explained
.
"
And
this
is
Jojen
Reed
and
his
sister
Meera
,
son
and
daughter
to
Howland
Reed
of
Greywater
Watch
,
who
came
to
renew
their
oaths
of
fealty
to
Winterfell
.
"
"
Some
might
call
that
ill
-
timed
,
"
said
Theon
,
"
though
not
for
me
.
Here
you
are
and
here
you
’
ll
stay
.
"
He
vacated
the
high
seat
.
"
Bring
the
prince
here
,
Lorren
.
"
The
black
-
bearded
man
dumped
Bran
onto
the
stone
as
if
he
were
a
sack
of
oats
.
People
were
still
being
driven
into
the
Great
Hall
,
prodded
along
with
shouts
and
the
butts
of
the
spears
.
Gage
and
Osha
arrived
from
the
kitchens
,
spotted
with
flour
from
making
the
morning
bread
.
Mikken
they
dragged
in
cursing
.
Farlen
entered
limping
,
struggling
to
support
Palla
.
Her
dress
had
been
ripped
in
two
;
she
held
it
up
with
a
clenched
fist
and
walked
as
if
every
step
were
agony
.
Septon
Chayle
rushed
to
lend
a
hand
,
but
one
of
the
ironmen
knocked
him
to
the
floor
.
The
last
man
marched
through
the
doors
was
the
prisoner
Reek
,
whose
stench
preceded
him
,
ripe
and
pungent
.
Bran
felt
his
stomach
twist
at
the
smell
of
him
.
"
We
found
this
one
locked
in
a
tower
cell
,
"
announced
his
escort
,
a
beardless
youth
with
ginger
-
colored
hair
and
sodden
clothing
,
doubtless
one
of
those
who
’
d
swum
the
moat
.
"
He
says
they
call
him
Reek
.
"
"
Can
’
t
think
why
,
"
Theon
said
,
smiling
.
"
Do
you
always
smell
so
bad
,
or
did
you
just
finish
fucking
a
pig
?
"
