-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Джордж Мартин
-
- Игра престолов
-
- Стр. 383/751
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
The
wind
tugged
at
his
blanket
with
gusts
sharp
as
talons
.
His
cell
was
miserably
small
,
even
for
a
dwarf
.
Not
five
feet
away
,
where
a
wall
ought
to
have
been
,
where
a
wall
would
be
in
a
proper
dungeon
,
the
floor
ended
and
the
sky
began
.
He
had
plenty
of
fresh
air
and
sunshine
,
and
the
moon
and
stars
by
night
,
but
Tyrion
would
have
traded
it
all
in
an
instant
for
the
dankest
,
gloomiest
pit
in
the
bowels
of
the
Casterly
Rock
.
"
You
fly
,
"
Mord
had
promised
him
,
when
he
'd
shoved
him
into
the
cell
.
"
Twenty
day
,
thirty
,
fifty
maybe
.
Then
you
fly
.
"
The
Arryns
kept
the
only
dungeon
in
the
realm
where
the
prisoners
were
welcome
to
escape
at
will
.
That
first
day
,
after
girding
up
his
courage
for
hours
,
Tyrion
had
lain
flat
on
his
stomach
and
squirmed
to
the
edge
,
to
poke
out
his
head
and
look
down
.
Sky
was
six
hundred
feet
below
,
with
nothing
between
but
empty
air
.
If
he
craned
his
neck
out
as
far
as
it
could
go
,
he
could
see
other
cells
to
his
right
and
left
and
above
him
.
He
was
a
bee
in
a
stone
honeycomb
,
and
someone
had
torn
off
his
wings
.
It
was
cold
in
the
cell
,
the
wind
screamed
night
and
day
,
and
worst
of
all
,
the
floor
sloped
.
Ever
so
slightly
,
yet
it
was
enough
.
He
was
afraid
to
close
his
eyes
,
afraid
that
he
might
roll
over
in
his
steep
and
wake
in
sudden
terror
as
he
went
sliding
off
the
edge
.
Small
wonder
the
sky
cells
drove
men
mad
.
Gods
save
me
,
some
previous
tenant
had
written
on
the
wall
in
something
that
looked
suspiciously
like
blood
,
the
blue
is
calling
.
At
first
Tyrion
wondered
who
he
'd
been
,
and
what
had
become
of
him
;
later
,
he
decided
that
he
would
rather
not
know
.
If
only
he
had
shut
his
mouth
...
The
wretched
boy
had
started
it
,
looking
down
on
him
from
a
throne
of
carved
weirwood
beneath
the
moon-and-falcon
banners
of
House
Arryn
.
Tyrion
Lannister
had
been
looked
down
on
all
his
life
,
but
seldom
by
rheumy-eyed
six-year-olds
who
needed
to
stuff
fat
cushions
under
their
cheeks
to
lift
them
to
the
height
of
a
man
.
"
Is
he
the
bad
man
?
"
the
boy
had
asked
,
clutching
his
doll
.
"
He
is
,
"
the
Lady
Lysa
had
said
from
the
lesser
throne
beside
him
.
She
was
all
in
blue
,
powdered
and
perfumed
for
the
suitors
who
filled
her
court
.
"
He
's
so
small
,
"
the
Lord
of
the
Eyrie
said
,
giggling
.
