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- Джордж Мартин
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"
I
am
the
Prince
of
Winterfell
!
"
Theon
had
shouted
.
"
This
is
my
seat
,
no
man
will
drive
me
from
it
.
No
,
nor
woman
either
!
"
Asha
.
It
was
her
doing
.
My
own
sweet
sister
,
may
the
Others
bugger
her
with
a
sword
.
She
wanted
him
dead
,
so
she
could
steal
his
place
as
their
father
’
s
heir
.
That
was
why
she
had
let
him
languish
here
,
ignoring
the
urgent
commands
he
had
sent
her
.
He
found
her
in
the
high
seat
of
the
Starks
,
ripping
a
capon
apart
with
her
fingers
.
The
hall
rang
with
the
voices
of
her
men
,
sharing
stories
with
Theon
’
s
own
as
they
drank
together
.
They
were
so
loud
that
his
entrance
went
all
but
unnoticed
.
"
Where
are
the
rest
?
"
he
demanded
of
Reek
.
There
were
no
more
than
fifty
men
at
the
trestle
tables
,
most
of
them
his
.
Winterfell
’
s
Great
Hall
could
have
seated
ten
times
the
number
.
"
This
is
the
whole
o
’
the
company
,
m
’
lord
prince
.
"
"
The
whole
—
how
many
men
did
she
bring
?
"
"
Twenty
,
by
my
count
.
"
Theon
Greyjoy
strode
to
where
his
sister
was
sprawled
.
Asha
was
laughing
at
something
one
of
her
men
had
said
,
but
broke
off
at
his
approach
.
"
Why
,
‘
tis
the
Prince
of
Winterfell
.
"
She
tossed
a
bone
to
one
of
the
dogs
sniffing
about
the
hall
.
Under
that
hawk
’
s
beak
of
a
nose
,
her
wide
mouth
twisted
in
a
mocking
grin
.
"
Or
is
it
Prince
of
Fools
?
"
"
Envy
ill
becomes
a
maid
.
"
Asha
sucked
grease
from
her
fingers
.
A
lock
of
black
hair
fell
across
her
eyes
.
Her
men
were
shouting
for
bread
and
bacon
.
They
made
a
deal
of
noise
,
as
few
as
they
were
.
"
Envy
,
Theon
?
"
"
What
else
would
you
call
it
?
With
thirty
men
,
I
captured
Winterfell
in
a
night
.
You
needed
a
thousand
and
a
moon
’
s
turn
to
take
Deepwood
Motte
.
"
