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- Джордж Мартин
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"
Do
dead
men
dream
?
"
Bran
asked
,
thinking
of
his
father
.
In
the
dark
crypts
below
Winterfell
,
a
stonemason
was
chiseling
out
his
father
’
s
likeness
in
granite
.
"
Some
say
yes
,
some
no
,
"
the
maester
answered
.
"
The
dead
themselves
are
silent
on
the
matter
.
"
"
Do
trees
dream
?
"
"
Trees
?
No
.
.
.
"
"
They
do
,
"
Bran
said
with
sudden
certainty
.
"
They
dream
tree
dreams
.
I
dream
of
a
tree
sometimes
.
A
weirwood
,
like
the
one
in
the
godswood
.
It
calls
to
me
.
The
wolf
dreams
are
better
.
I
smell
things
,
and
sometimes
I
can
taste
the
blood
.
"
Maester
Luwin
tugged
at
his
chain
where
it
chafed
his
neck
.
"
If
you
would
only
spend
more
time
with
the
other
children
—
"
"
I
hate
the
other
children
,
"
Bran
said
,
meaning
the
Walders
.
"
I
commanded
you
to
send
them
away
.
"
Luwin
grew
stern
.
"
The
Freys
are
your
lady
mother
’
s
wards
,
sent
here
to
be
fostered
at
her
express
command
.
It
is
not
for
you
to
expel
them
,
nor
is
it
kind
.
If
we
turned
them
out
,
where
would
they
go
?
"
"
Home
.
It
’
s
their
fault
you
won
’
t
let
me
have
Summer
.
"
"
The
Frey
boy
did
not
ask
to
be
attacked
,
"
the
maester
said
,
"
no
more
than
I
did
.
"
