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- Джордж Мартин
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- Стр. 288/751
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Ned
had
slept
badly
last
night
and
he
felt
tired
beyond
his
years
.
"
None
of
us
is
ever
ready
,
"
he
said
.
"
For
knighthood
?
"
"
For
death
.
"
Gently
Ned
covered
the
boy
with
his
cloak
,
a
bloodstained
bit
of
blue
bordered
in
crescent
moons
.
When
his
mother
asked
why
her
son
was
dead
,
he
reflected
bitterly
,
they
would
tell
her
he
had
fought
to
honor
the
King
's
Hand
,
Eddard
Stark
.
"
This
was
needless
.
War
should
not
be
a
game
.
"
Ned
turned
to
the
woman
beside
the
cart
,
shrouded
in
grey
,
face
hidden
but
for
her
eyes
.
The
silent
sisters
prepared
men
for
the
grave
,
and
it
was
ill
fortune
to
look
on
the
face
of
death
.
"
Send
his
armor
home
to
the
Vale
.
The
mother
will
want
to
have
it
.
"
"
It
is
worth
a
fair
piece
of
silver
,
"
Ser
Barristan
said
.
"
The
boy
had
it
forged
special
for
the
tourney
.
Plain
work
,
but
good
.
I
do
not
know
if
he
had
finished
paying
the
smith
.
"
"
He
paid
yesterday
,
my
lord
,
and
he
paid
dearly
,
"
Ned
replied
.
And
to
the
silent
sister
he
said
,
"
Send
the
mother
the
armor
.
I
will
deal
with
this
smith
.
"
She
bowed
her
head
.
Afterward
Ser
Barristan
walked
with
Ned
to
the
king
's
pavilion
.
The
camp
was
beginning
to
stir
.
Fat
sausages
sizzled
and
spit
over
firepits
,
spicing
the
air
with
the
scents
of
garlic
and
pepper
.
Young
squires
hurried
about
on
errands
as
their
masters
woke
,
yawning
and
stretching
,
to
meet
the
day
.
A
serving
man
with
a
goose
under
his
arm
bent
his
knee
when
he
caught
sight
of
them
.
"
M'lords
,
"
he
muttered
as
the
goose
honked
and
pecked
at
his
fingers
.
The
shields
displayed
outside
each
tent
heralded
its
occupant
:
the
silver
eagle
of
Seagard
,
Bryce
Caron
's
field
of
nightingales
,
a
cluster
of
grapes
for
the
Redwynes
,
brindled
boar
,
red
ox
,
burning
tree
,
white
ram
,
triple
spiral
,
purple
unicorn
,
dancing
maiden
,
blackadder
,
twin
towers
,
horned
owl
,
and
last
the
pure
white
blazons
of
the
Kingsguard
,
shining
like
the
dawn
.
"
The
king
means
to
fight
in
the
melee
today
,
"
Ser
Barristan
said
as
they
were
passing
Ser
Meryn
's
shield
,
its
paint
sullied
by
a
deep
gash
where
Loras
Tyrell
's
lance
had
scarred
the
wood
as
he
drove
him
from
his
saddle
.
"
Yes
,
"
Ned
said
grimly
.
Jory
had
woken
him
last
night
to
bring
him
that
news
.
Small
wonder
he
had
slept
so
badly
.
Ser
Barristan
's
look
was
troubled
.
"
They
say
night
's
beauties
fade
at
dawn
,
and
the
children
of
wine
are
oft
disowned
in
the
morning
light
.
"
