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- Джордж Мартин
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Ser
Rodrik
waited
in
the
market
astride
his
dappled
gelding
.
Beside
him
,
the
direwolf
of
Stark
flapped
from
a
staff
borne
by
young
Cley
Cerwyn
.
They
were
alone
in
the
square
,
though
Theon
could
see
archers
on
the
roofs
of
surrounding
houses
,
spearmen
to
his
right
,
and
to
his
left
a
line
of
mounted
knights
beneath
the
merman
-
and
-
trident
of
House
Manderly
.
Every
one
of
them
wants
me
dead
.
Some
were
boys
he
’
d
drunk
with
,
diced
with
,
even
wenched
with
,
but
that
would
not
save
him
if
he
fell
into
their
hands
.
"
Ser
Rodrik
.
"
Theon
reined
to
a
halt
.
"
It
grieves
me
that
we
must
meet
as
foes
.
"
"
My
own
grief
is
that
I
must
wait
a
while
to
hang
you
.
"
The
old
knight
spat
onto
the
muddy
ground
.
"
Theon
Turncloak
.
"
"
I
am
a
Greyjoy
of
Pyke
,
"
Theon
reminded
him
.
"
The
cloak
my
father
swaddled
me
in
bore
a
kraken
,
not
a
direwolf
.
"
"
For
ten
years
you
have
been
a
ward
of
Stark
.
"
"
Hostage
and
prisoner
,
I
call
it
.
"
"
Then
perhaps
Lord
Eddard
should
have
kept
you
chained
to
a
dungeon
wall
.
Instead
he
raised
you
among
his
own
sons
,
the
sweet
boys
you
have
butchered
,
and
to
my
undying
shame
I
trained
you
in
the
arts
of
war
.
Would
that
I
had
thrust
a
sword
through
your
belly
instead
of
placing
one
in
your
hand
.
"
"
I
came
out
to
parley
,
not
to
suffer
your
insults
.
Say
what
you
have
to
say
,
old
man
.
What
would
you
have
of
me
?
"
"
Two
things
,
"
the
old
man
said
.
"
Winterfell
,
and
your
life
.
Command
your
men
to
open
the
gates
and
lay
down
their
arms
.
Those
who
murdered
no
children
shall
be
free
to
walk
away
,
but
you
shall
be
held
for
King
Robb
’
s
justice
.
May
the
gods
take
pity
on
you
when
he
returns
.
"
