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- Джордж Мартин
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He
wants
me
to
sleep
,
yes
.
.
.
to
sleep
and
never
wake
.
He
’
d
like
that
as
much
as
Asha
would
.
He
sent
for
Kyra
,
kicked
shut
the
door
,
climbed
on
top
of
her
,
and
fucked
the
wench
with
a
fury
he
’
d
never
known
was
in
him
,
By
the
time
he
finished
,
she
was
sobbing
,
her
neck
and
breasts
covered
with
bruises
and
bite
marks
.
Theon
shoved
her
from
the
bed
and
threw
her
a
blanket
.
"
Get
out
.
"
Yet
even
then
,
he
could
not
sleep
.
Come
dawn
,
he
dressed
and
went
outside
,
to
walk
along
the
outer
walls
.
A
brisk
autumn
wind
was
swirling
through
the
battlements
.
It
reddened
his
cheeks
and
stung
his
eyes
.
He
watched
the
forest
go
from
grey
to
green
below
him
as
light
filtered
through
the
silent
trees
.
On
his
left
he
could
see
tower
-
tops
above
the
inner
wall
,
their
roofs
gilded
by
the
rising
sun
.
The
red
leaves
of
the
weirwood
were
a
blaze
of
flame
among
the
green
.
Ned
Stark
’
s
tree
,
he
thought
,
and
Stark
’
s
wood
,
Stark
’
s
castle
,
Stark
’
s
sword
,
Stark
’
s
gods
.
This
is
their
place
,
not
mine
.
I
am
a
Greyjoy
of
Pyke
,
born
to
paint
a
kraken
on
my
shield
and
sail
the
great
salt
sea
.
I
should
have
gone
with
Asha
.
On
their
iron
spikes
atop
the
gatehouse
,
the
heads
waited
.
Theon
gazed
at
them
silently
while
the
wind
tugged
on
his
cloak
with
small
ghostly
hands
The
miller
’
s
boys
had
been
of
an
age
with
Bran
and
Rickon
,
alike
in
size
and
coloring
,
and
once
Reek
had
flayed
the
skin
from
their
faces
and
dipped
their
heads
in
tar
,
it
was
easy
to
see
familiar
features
in
those
misshapen
lumps
of
rotting
flesh
.
People
were
such
fools
.
If
we
’
d
said
they
were
rams
’
heads
,
they
would
have
seen
horns
.
They
had
been
singing
in
the
sept
all
morning
,
since
the
first
report
of
enemy
sails
had
reached
the
castle
.
The
sound
of
their
voices
mingled
with
the
whicker
of
horses
,
the
clank
of
steel
,
and
the
groaning
hinges
of
the
great
bronze
gates
to
make
a
strange
and
fearful
music
.
In
the
sept
they
sing
for
the
Mother
’
s
mercy
but
on
the
walls
it
’
s
the
Warrior
they
pray
to
,
and
all
in
silence
.
She
remembered
how
Septa
Mordane
used
to
tell
them
that
the
Warrior
and
the
Mother
were
only
two
faces
of
the
same
great
god
.
But
if
there
is
only
one
,
whose
prayers
will
be
heard
?
Ser
Meryn
Trant
held
the
blood
bay
for
Joffrey
to
mount
.
Boy
and
horse
alike
wore
gilded
mail
and
enameled
crimson
plate
,
with
matching
golden
lions
on
their
heads
.
The
pale
sunlight
flashed
off
the
golds
and
reds
every
time
Joff
moved
.
Bright
,
shining
,
and
empty
,
Sansa
thought
.
The
Imp
was
mounted
on
a
red
stallion
,
armored
more
plainly
than
the
king
in
battle
gear
that
made
him
look
like
a
little
boy
dressed
up
in
his
father
’
s
clothes
.
But
there
was
nothing
childish
about
the
battle
-
axe
slung
below
his
shield
.
Ser
Mandon
Moore
rode
at
his
side
,
white
steel
icy
-
bright
.
When
Tyrion
saw
her
he
turned
his
horse
her
way
.
"
Lady
Sansa
,
"
he
called
from
the
saddle
,
"
surely
my
sister
has
asked
you
to
join
the
other
highborn
ladies
in
Maegor
’
s
?
"
