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- Джордж Мартин
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- Битва королей
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- Стр. 823/853
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He
dreamed
of
a
better
place
,
a
snug
little
cottage
by
the
sunset
sea
.
The
walls
were
lopsided
and
cracked
and
the
floor
had
been
made
of
packed
earth
,
but
he
had
always
been
warm
there
,
even
when
they
let
the
fire
go
out
.
She
used
to
tease
me
about
that
,
he
remembered
.
I
never
thought
to
feed
the
fire
,
that
had
always
been
a
servant
’
s
task
.
"
We
have
no
servants
,
"
she
would
remind
me
,
and
I
would
say
,
"
You
have
me
,
I
’
m
your
servant
,
"
and
she
would
say
,
"
A
lazy
servant
.
What
do
they
do
with
lazy
servants
in
Casterly
Rock
,
my
lord
?
"
and
he
would
tell
her
,
"
They
kiss
them
.
"
That
would
always
make
her
giggle
.
"
They
do
not
neither
.
They
beat
them
,
I
bet
,
"
she
would
say
,
but
he
would
insist
,
"
No
,
they
kiss
them
,
just
like
this
.
"
He
would
show
her
how
.
"
They
kiss
their
fingers
first
,
every
one
,
and
they
kiss
their
wrists
,
yes
,
and
inside
their
elbows
.
Then
they
kiss
their
funny
ears
,
all
our
servants
have
funny
ears
.
Stop
laughing
!
And
they
kiss
their
cheeks
and
they
kiss
their
noses
with
the
little
bump
in
them
,
there
,
so
,
like
that
,
and
they
kiss
their
sweet
brows
and
their
hair
and
their
lips
,
their
.
.
.
mmmm
.
.
.
mouths
.
.
.
so
.
.
.
"
They
would
kiss
for
hours
,
and
spend
whole
days
doing
no
more
than
lolling
in
bed
,
listening
to
the
waves
,
and
touching
each
other
.
Her
body
was
a
wonder
to
him
,
and
she
seemed
to
find
delight
in
his
.
Sometimes
she
would
sing
to
him
.
I
loved
a
maid
as
fair
as
summer
,
with
sunlight
in
her
hair
.
"
I
love
you
,
Tyrion
,
"
she
would
whisper
before
they
went
to
sleep
at
night
.
"
I
love
your
lips
.
I
love
your
voice
,
and
the
words
you
say
to
me
,
and
how
you
treat
me
gentle
.
I
love
your
face
.
"
"
My
face
?
"
"
Yes
.
Yes
.
I
love
your
hands
,
and
how
you
touch
me
.
Your
cock
,
I
love
your
cock
,
I
love
how
it
feels
when
it
’
s
in
me
.
"
"
It
loves
you
too
,
my
lady
.
"
"
I
love
to
say
your
name
.
Tyrion
Lannister
.
It
goes
with
mine
.
Not
the
Lannister
,
t
’
other
part
.
Tyrion
and
Tysha
.
Tysha
and
Tyrion
.
Tyrion
.
My
lord
Tyrion
.
.
.
"
Lies
,
he
thought
,
all
feigned
,
all
for
gold
,
she
was
a
whore
,
Jaime
’
s
whore
,
Jaime
’
s
gift
,
my
lady
of
the
lie
.
Her
face
seemed
to
fade
away
,
dissolving
behind
a
veil
of
tears
,
but
even
after
she
was
gone
he
could
still
hear
the
faint
,
far
-
off
sound
of
her
voice
,
calling
his
name
.
"
.
.
.
my
lord
,
can
you
hear
me
?
My
lord
?
Tyrion
?
My
lord
?
My
lord
?
"
Through
a
haze
of
poppied
sleep
,
he
saw
a
soft
pink
face
leaning
over
him
.
He
was
back
in
the
dank
room
with
the
torn
bed
hangings
,
and
the
face
was
wrong
,
not
hers
,
too
round
,
with
a
brown
fringe
of
beard
.
"
Do
you
thirst
,
my
lord
?
I
have
your
milk
,
your
good
milk
.
You
must
not
fight
,
no
,
don
’
t
try
to
move
,
you
need
your
rest
.
"
He
had
the
copper
funnel
in
one
damp
pink
hand
and
a
flask
in
the
other
.
As
the
man
leaned
close
,
Tyrion
’
s
fingers
slid
underneath
his
chain
of
many
metals
,
grabbed
,
pulled
.
The
maester
dropped
the
flask
,
spilling
milk
of
the
poppy
all
over
the
blanket
.
Tyrion
twisted
until
he
could
feel
the
links
digging
into
the
flesh
of
the
man
’
s
fat
neck
.
"
No
.
More
,
"
he
croaked
,
so
hoarse
he
was
not
certain
he
had
even
spoken
.
