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- Джордж Мартин
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He
remembered
their
godswood
;
the
tall
sentinels
armored
in
their
grey
-
green
needles
,
the
great
oaks
,
the
hawthorn
and
ash
and
soldier
pines
,
and
at
the
center
the
heart
tree
standing
like
some
pale
giant
frozen
in
time
.
He
could
almost
smell
the
place
,
earthy
and
brooding
,
the
smell
of
centuries
,
and
he
remembered
how
dark
the
wood
had
been
even
by
day
.
That
wood
was
Winterfell
.
It
was
the
north
.
I
never
felt
so
out
of
place
as
I
did
when
I
walked
there
,
so
much
an
unwelcome
intruder
.
He
wondered
if
the
Greyjoys
would
feel
it
too
.
The
castle
might
well
be
theirs
,
but
never
that
godswood
.
Not
in
a
year
,
or
ten
,
or
fifty
.
Tyrion
Lannister
walked
his
horse
slowly
toward
the
Mud
Gate
.
Winterfell
is
nothing
to
you
,
he
reminded
himself
.
Be
glad
the
place
has
fallen
,
and
look
to
your
own
walls
.
The
gate
was
open
.
Inside
,
three
great
trebuchets
stood
side
by
side
in
the
market
square
,
peering
over
the
battlements
like
three
huge
birds
.
Their
throwing
arms
were
made
from
the
trunks
of
old
oaks
,
and
banded
with
iron
to
keep
them
from
splitting
.
The
gold
cloaks
had
named
them
the
Three
Whores
,
because
they
’
d
be
giving
Lord
Stannis
such
a
lusty
welcome
.
Or
so
we
hope
.
Tyrion
put
his
heels
into
his
horse
and
trotted
through
the
Mud
Gate
,
breasting
the
human
tide
.
Once
beyond
the
Whores
,
the
press
grew
thinner
and
the
street
opened
up
around
him
.
The
ride
back
to
the
Red
Keep
was
uneventful
,
but
at
the
Tower
of
the
Hand
he
found
a
dozen
angry
trader
captains
waiting
in
his
audience
chamber
to
protest
the
seizure
of
their
ships
.
He
gave
them
a
sincere
apology
and
promised
compensation
once
the
war
was
done
.
That
did
little
to
appease
them
.
"
What
if
you
should
lose
,
my
lord
?
"
one
Braavosi
asked
.
"
Then
apply
to
King
Stannis
for
your
compensation
.
"
By
the
time
he
rid
himself
of
them
,
bells
were
ringing
and
Tyrion
knew
he
would
be
late
for
the
installation
.
He
waddled
across
the
yard
almost
at
a
run
and
crowded
into
the
back
of
the
castle
sept
as
Joffrey
fastened
white
silk
cloaks
about
the
shoulders
of
the
two
newest
members
of
his
Kingsguard
.
The
rite
seemed
to
require
that
everyone
stand
,
so
Tyrion
saw
nothing
but
a
wall
of
courtly
arses
.
On
the
other
hand
,
once
the
new
High
Septon
was
finished
leading
the
two
knights
through
their
solemn
vows
and
anointing
them
in
the
names
of
the
Seven
,
he
would
be
well
positioned
to
be
first
out
the
doors
.
He
approved
of
his
sister
’
s
choice
of
Ser
Balon
Swann
to
take
the
place
of
the
slain
Preston
Greenfield
.
The
Swanns
were
Marcher
lords
,
proud
,
powerful
,
and
cautious
.
Pleading
illness
,
Lord
Gulian
Swann
had
remained
in
his
castle
,
taking
no
part
in
the
war
,
but
his
eldest
son
had
ridden
with
Renly
and
now
Stannis
,
while
Balon
,
the
younger
,
served
at
King
’
s
Landing
.
If
he
’
d
had
a
third
son
,
Tyrion
suspected
he
’
d
be
off
with
Robb
Stark
.
It
was
not
perhaps
the
most
honorable
course
,
but
it
showed
good
sense
;
whoever
won
the
Iron
Throne
,
the
Swanns
intended
to
survive
.
In
addition
to
being
well
-
born
,
young
Ser
Balon
was
valiant
,
courtly
,
and
skilled
at
arms
;
good
with
a
lance
,
better
with
a
morningstar
,
superb
with
the
bow
.
He
would
serve
with
honor
and
courage
.
Alas
,
Tyrion
could
not
say
the
same
for
Cersei
’
s
second
choice
.
Ser
Osmund
Kettleblack
looked
formidable
enough
.
He
stood
six
feet
and
six
inches
,
most
of
it
sinew
and
muscle
,
and
his
hook
nose
,
bushy
eyebrows
,
and
spade
-
shaped
brown
beard
gave
his
face
a
fierce
aspect
,
so
long
as
he
did
not
smile
.
Lowborn
,
no
more
than
a
hedge
knight
,
Kettleblack
was
utterly
dependent
on
Cersei
for
his
advancement
,
which
was
doubtless
why
she
’
d
picked
him
.
"
Ser
Osmund
is
as
loyal
as
he
is
brave
,
"
she
’
d
told
Joffrey
when
she
put
forward
his
name
.
It
was
true
,
unfortunately
.
The
good
Ser
Osmund
had
been
selling
her
secrets
to
Bronn
since
the
day
she
’
d
hired
him
,
but
Tyrion
could
scarcely
tell
her
that
.
