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- Джордж Мартин
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- Стр. 814/853
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"
And
your
own
House
?
Beth
is
the
last
of
your
blood
.
"
The
old
knight
drew
himself
up
straight
.
"
I
offer
myself
in
my
daughter
’
s
place
.
Release
her
,
and
take
me
as
your
hostage
.
Surely
the
castellan
of
Winterfell
is
worth
more
than
a
child
.
"
"
Not
to
me
.
"
A
valiant
gesture
,
old
man
,
but
I
am
not
that
great
a
fool
.
"
Not
to
Lord
Manderly
or
Leobald
Tallhart
either
,
I
’
d
wager
.
"
Your
sorry
old
skin
is
worth
no
more
to
them
than
any
other
man
’
s
.
"
No
,
I
’
ll
keep
the
girl
.
.
.
and
keep
her
safe
,
so
long
as
you
do
as
I
’
ve
commanded
you
.
Her
life
is
in
your
hands
.
"
"
Gods
be
good
,
Theon
,
how
can
you
do
this
?
You
know
I
must
attack
,
have
sworn
.
.
.
"
"
If
this
host
is
still
in
arms
before
my
gate
when
the
sun
sets
,
Beth
will
hang
,
"
said
Theon
.
"
Another
hostage
will
follow
her
to
the
grave
at
first
light
,
and
another
at
sunset
.
Every
dawn
and
every
dusk
will
mean
a
death
,
until
you
are
gone
.
I
have
no
lack
of
hostages
.
"
He
did
not
wait
for
a
reply
,
but
wheeled
Smiler
around
and
rode
back
toward
the
castle
.
He
went
slowly
at
first
,
but
the
thought
of
those
archers
at
his
back
soon
drove
him
to
a
canter
.
The
small
heads
watched
him
come
from
their
spikes
,
their
tarred
and
flayed
faces
looming
larger
with
every
yard
;
between
them
stood
little
Beth
Cassel
,
noosed
and
crying
.
Theon
put
his
heel
into
Smiler
and
broke
into
a
hard
gallop
.
Smiler
’
s
hooves
clattered
on
the
drawbridge
,
like
drumbeats
.
In
the
yard
he
dismounted
and
handed
his
reins
to
Wex
.
"
It
may
stay
them
,
"
he
told
Black
Lorren
.
"
We
’
ll
know
by
sunset
.
Take
the
girl
in
till
then
,
and
keep
her
somewhere
safe
.
"
Under
the
layers
of
leather
,
steel
,
and
wool
,
he
was
slick
with
sweat
.
"
I
need
a
cup
of
wine
.
A
vat
of
wine
would
do
even
better
.
"
A
fire
had
been
laid
in
Ned
Stark
’
s
bedchamber
.
Theon
sat
beside
it
and
filled
a
cup
with
a
heavy
-
bodied
red
from
the
castle
vaults
,
a
wine
as
sour
as
his
mood
.
They
will
attack
,
he
thought
gloomily
,
staring
at
the
flames
.
Ser
Rodrik
loves
his
daughter
,
but
he
is
still
castellan
,
and
most
of
all
a
knight
.
Had
it
been
Theon
with
a
noose
around
his
neck
and
Lord
Balon
commanding
the
army
without
,
the
warhorns
would
already
have
sounded
the
attack
,
he
had
no
doubt
.
He
should
thank
the
gods
that
Ser
Rodrik
was
not
ironborn
.
The
men
of
the
green
lands
were
made
of
softer
stuff
,
though
he
was
not
certain
they
would
prove
soft
enough
.
If
not
,
if
the
old
man
gave
the
command
to
storm
the
castle
regardless
,
Winterfell
would
fall
;
Theon
entertained
no
delusions
on
that
count
.
His
seventeen
might
kill
three
,
four
,
five
times
their
own
number
,
but
in
the
end
they
would
be
overwhelmed
.
Theon
stared
at
the
flames
over
the
rim
of
his
wine
goblet
,
brooding
on
the
injustice
of
it
all
.
"
I
rode
beside
Robb
Stark
in
the
Whispering
Wood
,
"
he
muttered
.
