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- Джордж Мартин
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- Битва королей
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- Стр. 822/853
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He
wanted
to
ask
if
they
’
d
won
the
battle
.
We
must
have
,
else
I
’
d
be
a
head
on
a
spike
somewhere
.
If
I
live
,
we
won
.
He
did
not
know
what
pleased
him
more
:
the
victory
,
or
the
fact
he
had
been
able
to
reason
it
out
.
His
wits
were
coming
back
to
him
,
however
slowly
.
That
was
good
.
His
wits
were
all
he
had
.
The
next
time
he
woke
,
the
draperies
had
been
pulled
back
,
and
Podrick
Payne
stood
over
him
with
a
candle
.
When
he
saw
Tyrion
open
his
eyes
he
ran
off
.
No
,
don
’
t
go
,
help
me
,
help
,
he
tried
to
call
,
but
the
best
he
could
do
was
a
muffled
moan
.
I
have
no
mouth
.
He
raised
a
hand
to
his
face
,
his
every
movement
pained
and
fumbling
.
His
fingers
found
stiff
cloth
where
they
should
have
found
flesh
,
lips
,
teeth
.
Linen
.
The
lower
half
of
his
face
was
bandaged
tightly
,
a
mask
of
hardened
plaster
with
holes
for
breathing
and
feeding
.
A
short
while
later
Pod
reappeared
.
This
time
a
stranger
was
with
him
,
a
maester
chained
and
robed
.
"
My
lord
,
you
must
be
still
,
"
the
man
murmured
.
"
You
are
grievous
hurt
.
You
will
do
yourself
great
injury
.
Are
you
thirsty
?
"
He
managed
an
awkward
nod
.
The
maester
inserted
a
curved
copper
funnel
through
the
feeding
hole
over
his
mouth
and
poured
a
slow
trickle
down
his
throat
.
Tyrion
swallowed
,
scarcely
tasting
.
Too
late
he
realized
the
liquid
was
milk
of
the
poppy
.
By
the
time
the
maester
removed
the
funnel
from
his
mouth
,
he
was
already
spiraling
back
to
sleep
.
This
time
he
dreamed
he
was
at
a
feast
,
a
victory
feast
in
some
great
hall
.
He
had
a
high
seat
on
the
dais
,
and
men
were
lifting
their
goblets
and
hailing
him
as
hero
.
Marillion
was
there
,
the
singer
who
’
d
journeyed
with
them
through
the
Mountains
of
the
Moon
.
He
played
his
woodharp
and
sang
of
the
Imp
’
s
daring
deeds
.
Even
his
father
was
smiling
with
approval
.
When
the
song
was
over
,
Jaime
rose
from
his
place
,
commanded
Tyrion
to
kneel
,
and
touched
him
first
on
one
shoulder
and
then
on
the
other
with
his
golden
sword
,
and
he
rose
up
a
knight
.
Shae
was
waiting
to
embrace
him
.
She
took
him
by
the
hand
,
laughing
and
teasing
,
calling
him
her
giant
of
Lannister
.
He
woke
in
darkness
to
a
cold
empty
room
.
The
draperies
had
been
drawn
again
.
Something
felt
wrong
,
turned
around
,
though
he
could
not
have
said
what
.
He
was
alone
once
more
.
Pushing
back
the
blankets
,
he
tried
to
sit
,
but
the
pain
was
too
much
and
he
soon
subsided
,
breathing
raggedly
.
His
face
was
the
least
part
of
it
.
His
right
side
was
one
huge
ache
,
and
a
stab
of
pain
went
through
his
chest
whenever
he
lifted
his
arm
.
What
’
s
happened
to
me
?
Even
the
battle
seemed
half
a
dream
when
he
tried
to
think
back
on
it
.
I
was
hurt
more
badly
than
I
knew
.
Ser
Mandon
.
.
.
The
memory
frightened
him
,
but
Tyrion
made
himself
hold
it
,
turn
it
in
his
head
,
stare
at
it
hard
.
He
tried
to
kill
me
,
no
mistake
.
That
part
was
not
a
dream
.
He
would
have
cut
me
in
half
if
Pod
had
not
.
.
.
Pod
,
where
’
s
Pod
?
Gritting
his
teeth
,
he
grabbed
hold
of
the
bed
hangings
and
yanked
.
The
drapes
ripped
free
of
the
canopy
overhead
and
tumbled
down
,
half
on
the
rushes
and
half
on
him
.
Even
that
small
effort
had
dizzied
him
.
The
room
whirled
around
him
,
all
bare
walls
and
dark
shadows
,
with
a
single
narrow
window
.
He
saw
a
chest
he
’
d
owned
,
an
untidy
pile
of
his
clothing
,
his
battered
armor
.
This
is
not
my
bedchamber
,
he
realized
.
Not
even
the
Tower
of
the
Hand
.
Someone
had
moved
him
.
His
shout
of
anger
came
out
as
a
muffled
moan
.
They
have
moved
me
here
to
die
,
he
thought
as
he
gave
up
the
struggle
and
closed
his
eyes
once
more
.
The
room
was
dank
and
cold
,
and
he
was
burning
.
