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- Джордж Мартин
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- Стр. 155/751
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The
Hound
's
eyes
seemed
to
glitter
through
the
steel
of
that
hideous
dog
's
-
head
helm
.
"
He
ran
.
"
He
looked
at
Ned
's
face
and
laughed
.
"
But
not
very
fast
.
"
It
seemed
as
though
he
had
been
falling
for
years
.
Fly
,
a
voice
whispered
in
the
darkness
,
but
Bran
did
not
know
how
to
fly
,
so
all
he
could
do
was
fall
.
Maester
Luwin
made
a
little
boy
of
clay
,
baked
him
till
he
was
hard
and
brittle
,
dressed
him
in
Bran
's
clothes
,
and
flung
him
off
a
roof
.
Bran
remembered
the
way
he
shattered
.
"
But
I
never
fall
,
"
he
said
,
falling
.
The
ground
was
so
far
below
him
he
could
barely
make
it
out
through
the
grey
mists
that
whirled
around
him
,
but
he
could
feel
how
fast
he
was
falling
,
and
he
knew
what
was
waiting
for
him
down
there
.
Even
in
dreams
,
you
could
not
fall
forever
.
He
would
wake
up
in
the
instant
before
he
hit
the
ground
,
he
knew
.
You
always
woke
up
in
the
instant
before
you
hit
the
ground
.
And
if
you
do
n't
?
the
voice
asked
.
The
ground
was
closer
now
,
still
far
far
away
,
a
thousand
miles
away
,
but
closer
than
it
had
been
.
It
was
cold
here
in
the
darkness
.
There
was
no
sun
,
no
stars
,
only
the
ground
below
coming
up
to
smash
him
,
and
the
grey
mists
,
and
the
whispering
voice
.
He
wanted
to
cry
.
Not
cry
.
Fly
.
"
I
ca
n't
fly
,
"
Bran
said
.
"
I
ca
n't
,
I
ca
n't
...
"
How
do
you
know
?
Have
you
ever
tried
?
