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- Джордж Мартин
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He
is
drunker
than
I
’
ve
ever
seen
him
.
He
was
sleeping
in
my
bed
.
What
does
he
want
here
?
"
What
have
you
lost
?
"
"
All
.
"
The
burnt
half
of
his
face
was
a
mask
of
dried
blood
.
"
Bloody
dwarf
.
Should
have
killed
him
.
Years
ago
.
"
"
He
’
s
dead
,
they
say
.
"
"
Dead
?
No
.
Bugger
that
.
I
don
’
t
want
him
dead
.
"
He
cast
the
empty
flagon
aside
.
"
I
want
him
burned
.
If
the
gods
are
good
,
they
’
ll
burn
him
,
but
I
won
’
t
be
here
to
see
.
I
’
m
going
.
"
"
Going
?
"
She
tried
to
wriggle
free
,
but
his
grasp
was
iron
.
"
The
little
bird
repeats
whatever
she
hears
.
Going
,
yes
.
"
"
Where
will
you
go
?
"
"
Away
from
here
.
Away
from
the
fires
.
Go
out
the
Iron
Gate
,
I
suppose
.
North
somewhere
,
anywhere
.
"
"
You
won
’
t
get
out
,
"
Sansa
said
.
"
The
queen
’
s
closed
up
Maegor
’
s
,
and
the
city
gates
are
shut
as
well
.
"
