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- Джордж Мартин
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- Битва королей
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- Стр. 821/853
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They
wept
and
moaned
,
they
begged
for
an
end
to
pain
,
they
cried
for
help
and
wanted
their
mothers
.
Tyrion
had
never
known
his
mother
.
He
wanted
Shae
,
but
she
was
not
there
.
He
walked
alone
amidst
grey
shadows
,
trying
to
remember
.
.
.
The
silent
sisters
were
stripping
the
dead
men
of
their
armor
and
clothes
.
All
the
bright
dyes
had
leached
out
from
the
surcoats
of
the
slain
;
they
were
garbed
in
shades
of
white
and
grey
,
and
their
blood
was
black
and
crusty
.
He
watched
their
naked
bodies
lifted
by
arm
and
leg
,
to
be
carried
swinging
to
the
pyres
to
join
their
fellows
.
Metal
and
cloth
were
thrown
in
the
back
of
a
white
wooden
wagon
,
pulled
by
two
tall
black
horses
.
So
many
dead
,
so
very
many
.
Their
corpses
hung
limply
,
their
faces
slack
or
stiff
or
swollen
with
gas
,
unrecognizable
,
hardly
human
.
The
garments
the
sisters
took
from
them
were
decorated
with
black
hearts
,
grey
lions
,
dead
flowers
,
and
pale
ghostly
stags
.
Their
armor
was
all
dented
and
gashed
,
the
chain
-
mail
riven
,
broken
,
slashed
.
Why
did
I
kill
them
all
?
He
had
known
once
,
but
somehow
he
had
forgotten
.
He
would
have
asked
one
of
the
silent
sisters
,
but
when
he
tried
to
speak
he
found
he
had
no
mouth
.
Smooth
seamless
skin
covered
his
teeth
.
The
discovery
terrified
him
.
How
could
he
live
without
a
mouth
?
He
began
to
run
.
The
city
was
not
far
.
He
would
be
safe
inside
the
city
,
away
from
all
these
dead
.
He
did
not
belong
with
the
dead
.
He
had
no
mouth
,
but
he
was
still
a
living
man
.
No
,
a
lion
,
a
lion
,
and
alive
.
But
when
he
reached
the
city
walls
,
the
gates
were
shut
against
him
.
It
was
dark
when
he
woke
again
.
At
first
he
could
see
nothing
,
but
after
a
time
the
vague
outlines
of
a
bed
appeared
around
him
.
The
drapes
were
drawn
,
but
he
could
see
the
shape
of
carved
bedposts
,
and
the
droop
of
the
velvet
canopy
over
his
head
.
Under
him
was
the
yielding
softness
of
a
featherbed
,
and
the
pillow
beneath
his
head
was
goose
down
.
My
own
bed
,
I
am
in
my
own
bed
,
in
my
own
bedchamber
.
It
was
warm
inside
the
drapes
,
under
the
great
heap
of
furs
and
blankets
that
covered
him
.
He
was
sweating
.
Fever
,
he
thought
groggily
.
He
felt
so
weak
,
and
the
pain
stabbed
through
him
when
he
struggled
to
lift
his
hand
.
He
gave
up
the
effort
.
His
head
felt
enormous
,
as
big
as
the
bed
,
too
heavy
to
raise
from
the
pillow
.
His
body
he
could
scarcely
feel
at
all
.
How
did
I
come
here
?
He
tried
to
remember
.
The
battle
came
back
in
fits
and
flashes
.
The
fight
along
the
river
,
the
knight
who
’
d
offered
up
his
gauntlet
,
the
bridge
of
ships
.
.
.
Ser
Mandon
.
He
saw
the
dead
empty
eyes
,
the
reaching
hand
,
the
green
fire
shining
against
the
white
enamel
plate
.
Fear
swept
over
him
in
a
cold
rush
;
beneath
the
sheets
he
could
feel
his
bladder
letting
go
.
He
would
have
cried
out
,
if
he
’
d
had
a
mouth
.
No
,
that
was
the
dream
,
he
thought
,
his
head
pounding
.
Help
me
,
someone
help
me
.
Jaime
,
Shae
,
Mother
,
someone
.
.
.
Tysha
.
.
.
No
one
heard
.
No
one
came
.
Alone
in
the
dark
,
he
fell
back
into
piss
-
scented
sleep
.
He
dreamed
his
sister
was
standing
over
his
bed
,
with
their
lord
father
beside
her
,
frowning
.
It
had
to
be
a
dream
,
since
Lord
Tywin
was
a
thousand
leagues
away
,
fighting
Robb
Stark
in
the
west
.
Others
came
and
went
as
well
.
Varys
looked
down
on
him
and
sighed
,
but
Littlefinger
made
a
quip
.
Bloody
treacherous
bastard
,
Tyrion
thought
venomously
,
we
sent
you
to
Bitterbridge
and
you
never
came
back
.
Sometimes
he
could
hear
them
talking
to
one
another
,
but
he
did
not
understand
the
words
.
Their
voices
buzzed
in
his
ears
like
wasps
muffled
in
thick
felt
.
