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- Джордж Мартин
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But
he
must
have
,
for
the
maester
choked
out
a
reply
.
"
Unhand
,
please
,
my
lord
.
.
.
need
your
milk
,
the
pain
.
.
.
the
chain
,
don
’
t
,
unhand
,
no
.
.
.
"
The
pink
face
was
beginning
to
purple
when
Tyrion
let
go
.
The
maester
reeled
back
,
sucking
in
air
.
His
reddened
throat
showed
deep
white
gouges
where
the
links
had
pressed
.
His
eyes
were
white
too
.
Tyrion
raised
a
hand
to
his
face
and
made
a
ripping
motion
over
the
hardened
mask
.
And
again
.
And
again
.
"
You
.
.
.
you
want
the
bandages
off
,
is
that
it
?
"
the
maester
said
at
last
.
"
But
I
’
m
not
to
.
.
.
that
would
be
.
.
.
be
most
unwise
,
my
lord
.
You
are
not
yet
healed
,
the
queen
would
.
.
.
"
The
mention
of
his
sister
made
Tyrion
growl
.
Are
you
one
of
hers
,
then
?
He
pointed
a
finger
at
the
maester
,
then
coiled
his
hand
into
a
fist
.
Crushing
,
choking
,
a
promise
,
unless
the
fool
did
as
he
was
bid
.
Thankfully
,
he
understood
.
"
I
.
.
.
I
will
do
as
my
lord
commands
,
to
be
sure
,
but
.
.
.
this
is
unwise
,
your
wounds
.
.
.
"
"
Do
.
It
.
"
Louder
that
time
.
Bowing
,
the
man
left
the
room
,
only
to
return
a
few
moments
later
,
bearing
a
long
knife
with
a
slender
saw
-
tooth
blade
,
a
basin
of
water
,
a
pile
of
soft
cloths
,
and
several
flasks
.
By
then
Tyrion
had
managed
to
squirm
backward
a
few
inches
,
so
he
was
half
-
sitting
against
his
pillow
.
The
maester
bade
him
be
very
still
as
he
slid
the
tip
of
the
knife
in
under
his
chin
,
beneath
the
mask
.
A
slip
of
the
hand
here
,
and
Cersei
will
be
free
of
me
,
he
thought
.
He
could
feel
the
blade
sawing
through
the
stiffened
linen
,
only
inches
above
his
throat
.
Fortunately
this
soft
pink
man
was
not
one
of
his
sister
’
s
braver
creatures
.
After
a
moment
he
felt
cool
air
on
his
cheeks
.
There
was
pain
as
well
,
but
he
did
his
best
to
ignore
that
.
The
maester
discarded
the
bandages
,
still
crusty
with
potion
.
"
Be
still
now
,
I
must
wash
out
the
wound
.
"
His
touch
was
gentle
,
the
water
warm
and
soothing
.
The
wound
,
Tyrion
thought
,
remembering
a
sudden
flash
of
bright
silver
that
seemed
to
pass
just
below
his
eyes
.
"
This
is
like
to
sting
some
,
"
the
maester
warned
as
he
wet
a
cloth
with
wine
that
smelled
of
crushed
herbs
.
It
did
more
than
sting
.
It
traced
a
line
of
fire
all
the
way
across
Tyrion
’
s
face
,
and
twisted
a
burning
poker
up
his
nose
.
His
fingers
clawed
the
bedclothes
and
he
sucked
in
his
breath
,
but
somehow
he
managed
not
to
scream
.
The
maester
was
clucking
like
an
old
hen
.
"
It
would
have
been
wiser
to
leave
the
mask
in
place
until
the
flesh
had
knit
,
my
lord
.
Still
,
it
looks
clean
,
good
,
good
.
When
we
found
you
down
in
that
cellar
among
the
dead
and
dying
,
your
wounds
were
filthy
.
One
of
your
ribs
was
broken
,
doubtless
you
can
feel
it
,
the
blow
of
some
mace
perhaps
,
or
a
fall
,
it
’
s
hard
to
say
.
And
you
took
an
arrow
in
the
arm
,
there
where
it
joins
the
shoulder
.
It
showed
signs
of
mortification
,
and
for
a
time
I
feared
you
might
lose
the
limb
,
but
we
treated
it
with
boiling
wine
and
maggots
,
and
now
it
seems
to
be
healing
clean
.
.
.
"
"
Name
,
"
Tyrion
breathed
up
at
him
.
"
Name
.
"
The
maester
blinked
.
"
Why
,
you
are
Tyrion
Lannister
,
my
lord
.
