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- Джордж Мартин
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- Игра престолов
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- Стр. 115/751
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He
had
rather
less
sympathy
for
the
uncle
.
Benjen
Stark
seemed
to
share
his
brother
's
distaste
for
Lannisters
,
and
he
had
not
been
pleased
when
Tyrion
had
told
him
of
his
intentions
.
"
I
warn
you
,
Lannister
,
you
'll
find
no
inns
at
the
Wall
,
"
he
had
said
,
looking
down
on
him
.
"
No
doubt
you
'll
find
some
place
to
put
me
,
"
Tyrion
had
replied
.
"
As
you
might
have
noticed
,
I
'm
small
.
"
One
did
not
say
no
to
the
queen
's
brother
,
of
course
,
so
that
had
settled
the
matter
,
but
Stark
had
not
been
happy
.
"
You
will
not
like
the
ride
,
I
promise
you
that
,
"
he
'd
said
curtly
,
and
since
the
moment
they
set
out
,
he
had
done
all
he
could
to
live
up
to
that
promise
.
By
the
end
of
the
first
week
,
Tyrion
's
thighs
were
raw
from
hard
riding
,
his
legs
were
cramping
badly
,
and
he
was
chilled
to
the
bone
.
He
did
not
complain
.
He
was
damned
if
he
would
give
Benjen
Stark
that
satisfaction
.
He
took
a
small
revenge
in
the
matter
of
his
riding
fur
,
a
tattered
bearskin
,
old
and
musty-smelling
.
Stark
had
offered
it
to
him
in
an
excess
of
Night
's
Watch
gallantry
,
no
doubt
expecting
him
to
graciously
decline
.
Tyrion
had
accepted
with
a
smile
.
He
had
brought
his
warmest
clothing
with
him
when
they
rode
out
of
Winterfell
,
and
soon
discovered
that
it
was
nowhere
near
warm
enough
.
It
was
cold
up
here
,
and
growing
colder
.
The
nights
were
well
below
freezing
now
,
and
when
the
wind
blew
it
was
like
a
knife
cutting
right
through
his
warmest
woolens
.
By
now
Stark
was
no
doubt
regretting
his
chivalrous
impulse
.
Perhaps
he
had
learned
a
lesson
.
The
Lannisters
never
declined
,
graciously
or
otherwise
.
The
Lannisters
took
what
was
offered
.
Farms
and
holdfasts
grew
scarcer
and
smaller
as
they
pressed
northward
,
ever
deeper
into
the
darkness
of
the
wolfswood
,
until
finally
there
were
no
more
roofs
to
shelter
under
,
and
they
were
thrown
back
on
their
own
resources
.
Tyrion
was
never
much
use
in
making
a
camp
or
breaking
one
.
Too
small
,
too
hobbled
,
too
in-the-way
.
So
while
Stark
and
Yoren
and
the
other
men
erected
rude
shelters
,
tended
the
horses
,
and
built
a
fire
,
it
became
his
custom
to
take
his
fur
and
a
wineskin
and
go
off
by
himself
to
read
.
On
the
eighteenth
night
of
their
journey
,
the
wine
was
a
rare
sweet
amber
from
the
Summer
Isles
that
he
had
brought
all
the
way
north
from
Casterly
Rock
,
and
the
book
a
rumination
on
the
history
and
properties
of
dragons
.
With
Lord
Eddard
Stark
's
permission
,
Tyrion
had
borrowed
a
few
rare
volumes
from
the
Winterfell
library
and
packed
them
for
the
ride
north
.
He
found
a
comfortable
spot
just
beyond
the
noise
of
the
camp
,
beside
a
swift-running
stream
with
waters
clear
and
cold
as
ice
.
A
grotesquely
ancient
oak
provided
shelter
from
the
biting
wind
.
Tyrion
curled
up
in
his
fur
with
his
back
against
the
trunk
,
took
a
sip
of
the
wine
,
and
began
to
read
about
the
properties
of
dragonbone
.
Dragonbone
is
black
because
of
its
high
iron
content
,
the
book
told
him
.
It
is
strong
as
steel
,
yet
lighter
and
far
more
flexible
,
and
of
course
utterly
impervious
to
fire
.
Dragonbone
bows
are
greatly
prized
by
the
Dothraki
,
and
small
wonder
.
An
archer
so
armed
can
outrange
any
wooden
bow
.
