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- Джордж Мартин
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- Игра престолов
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- Стр. 382/751
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Tyrion
sighed
.
The
turnkey
was
twenty
stone
of
gross
stupidity
,
with
brown
rotting
teeth
and
small
dark
eyes
.
The
left
side
of
his
face
was
slick
with
scar
where
an
axe
had
cut
off
his
ear
and
part
of
his
cheek
.
He
was
as
predictable
as
he
was
ugly
,
but
Tyrion
was
hungry
.
He
reached
up
for
the
plate
.
Mord
jerked
it
away
,
grinning
.
"
Is
here
,
"
he
said
,
holding
it
out
beyond
Tyrion
's
reach
.
The
dwarf
climbed
stiffly
to
his
feet
,
every
joint
aching
.
"
Must
we
play
the
same
fool
's
game
with
every
meal
?
"
He
made
another
grab
for
the
beans
.
Mord
shambled
backward
,
grinning
through
his
rotten
teeth
.
"
Is
here
,
dwarf
man
.
"
He
held
the
plate
out
at
arm
's
length
,
over
the
edge
where
the
cell
ended
and
the
sky
began
.
"
You
not
want
eat
?
Here
.
Come
take
.
"
Tyrion
's
arms
were
too
short
to
reach
the
plate
,
and
he
was
not
about
to
step
that
close
to
the
edge
.
All
it
would
take
would
be
a
quick
shove
of
Mord
's
heavy
white
belly
,
and
he
would
end
up
a
sickening
red
splotch
on
the
stones
of
Sky
,
like
so
many
other
prisoners
of
the
Eyrie
over
the
centuries
.
"
Come
to
think
on
it
,
I
'm
not
hungry
after
all
,
"
he
declared
,
retreating
to
the
corner
of
his
cell
.
Mord
grunted
and
opened
his
thick
fingers
.
The
wind
took
the
plate
,
flipping
it
over
as
it
fell
.
A
handful
of
beans
sprayed
back
at
them
as
the
food
tumbled
out
of
sight
.
The
turnkey
laughed
,
his
gut
shaking
like
a
bowl
of
pudding
.
Tyrion
felt
a
pang
of
rage
.
"
You
fucking
son
of
a
pox-ridden
ass
,
"
he
spat
.
"
I
hope
you
die
of
a
bloody
flux
.
"
For
that
,
Mord
gave
him
a
kick
,
driving
a
steel-toed
boot
hard
into
Tyrion
's
ribs
on
the
way
out
.
"
I
take
it
back
!
"
he
gasped
as
he
doubled
over
on
the
straw
.
"
I
'll
kill
you
myself
,
I
swear
it
!
"
The
heavy
iron-bound
door
slammed
shut
.
Tyrion
heard
the
rattle
of
keys
.
For
a
small
man
,
he
had
been
cursed
with
a
dangerously
big
mouth
,
he
reflected
as
he
crawled
back
to
his
corner
of
what
the
Arryns
laughably
called
their
dungeon
.
He
huddled
beneath
the
thin
blanket
that
was
his
only
bedding
,
staring
out
at
a
blaze
of
empty
blue
sky
and
distant
mountains
that
seemed
to
go
on
forever
,
wishing
he
still
had
the
shadowskin
cloak
he
'd
won
from
Marillion
at
dice
,
after
the
singer
had
stolen
it
off
the
body
of
that
brigand
chief
.
The
skin
had
smelled
of
blood
and
mold
,
but
it
was
warm
and
thick
.
Mord
had
taken
it
the
moment
he
laid
eyes
on
it
.
