-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Джордж Мартин
-
- Игра престолов
-
- Стр. 406/751
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
"
There
was
a
bird
from
Riverrun
,
"
Catelyn
began
,
"
a
letter
from
Edmure
...
"
"
I
know
,
child
.
"
The
black
fish
that
fastened
his
cloak
was
Brynden
's
only
concession
to
ornament
.
"
I
had
to
hear
it
from
Maester
Colemon
.
I
asked
your
sister
for
leave
to
take
a
thousand
seasoned
men
and
ride
for
Riverrun
with
all
haste
.
Do
you
know
what
she
told
me
?
The
Vale
can
not
spare
a
thousand
swords
,
nor
even
one
,
Uncle
,
she
said
.
You
are
the
Knight
of
the
Gate
.
Your
place
is
here
.
"
A
gust
of
childish
laughter
drifted
through
the
open
doors
behind
him
,
and
her
uncle
glanced
darkly
over
his
shoulder
.
"
Well
,
I
told
her
she
could
bloody
well
find
herself
a
new
Knight
of
the
Gate
.
Black
fish
or
no
,
I
am
still
a
Tully
.
I
shall
leave
for
Riverrun
by
evenfall
.
"
Catelyn
could
not
pretend
to
surprise
.
"
Alone
?
You
know
as
well
as
I
that
you
will
never
survive
the
high
road
.
Ser
Rodrik
and
I
are
returning
to
Winterfell
.
Come
with
us
,
Uncle
.
I
will
give
you
your
thousand
men
.
Riverrun
will
not
fight
alone
.
"
Brynden
thought
a
moment
,
then
nodded
a
brusque
agreement
.
"
As
you
say
.
It
's
the
long
way
home
,
but
I
'm
more
like
to
get
there
.
I
'll
wait
for
you
below
.
"
He
went
striding
off
,
his
cloak
swirling
behind
him
.
Catelyn
exchanged
a
look
with
Ser
Rodrik
.
They
went
through
the
doors
to
the
high
,
nervous
sound
of
a
child
's
giggles
.
Lysa
's
apartments
opened
over
a
small
garden
,
a
circle
of
dirt
and
grass
planted
with
blue
flowers
and
ringed
on
all
sides
by
tall
white
towers
.
The
builders
had
intended
it
as
a
godswood
,
but
the
Eyrie
rested
on
the
hard
stone
of
the
mountain
,
and
no
matter
how
much
soil
was
hauled
up
from
the
Vale
,
they
could
not
get
a
weirwood
to
take
root
here
.
So
the
Lords
of
the
Eyrie
planted
grass
and
scattered
statuary
amidst
low
,
flowering
shrubs
.
It
was
there
the
two
champions
would
meet
to
place
their
lives
,
and
that
of
Tyrion
Lannister
,
into
the
hands
of
the
gods
.
Lysa
,
freshly
scrubbed
and
garbed
in
cream
velvet
with
a
rope
of
sapphires
and
moonstones
around
her
milk-white
neck
,
was
holding
court
on
the
terrace
overlooking
the
scene
of
the
combat
,
surrounded
by
her
knights
,
retainers
,
and
lords
high
and
low
.
Most
of
them
still
hoped
to
wed
her
,
bed
her
,
and
rule
the
Vale
of
Arryn
by
her
side
.
From
what
Catelyn
had
seen
during
her
stay
at
the
Eyrie
,
it
was
a
vain
hope
.
A
wooden
platform
had
been
built
to
elevate
Robert
's
chair
;
there
the
Lord
of
the
Eyrie
sat
,
giggling
and
clapping
his
hands
as
a
humpbacked
puppeteer
in
blue-and-white
motley
made
two
wooden
knights
hack
and
slash
at
each
other
.
Pitchers
of
thick
cream
and
baskets
of
blackberries
had
been
set
out
,
and
the
guests
were
sipping
a
sweet
orange-scented
wine
from
engraved
silver
cups
.
A
fool
's
festival
,
Brynden
had
called
it
,
and
small
wonder
.
Across
the
terrace
,
Lysa
laughed
gaily
at
some
jest
of
Lord
Hunter
's
,
and
nibbled
a
blackberry
from
the
point
of
Ser
Lyn
Corbray
's
dagger
.
They
were
the
suitors
who
stood
highest
in
Lysa
's
favor
...
today
,
at
least
.
Catelyn
would
have
been
hard-pressed
to
say
which
man
was
more
unsuitable
.
Eon
Hunter
was
even
older
than
Jon
Arryn
had
been
,
half-crippled
by
gout
,
and
cursed
with
three
quarrelsome
sons
,
each
more
grasping
than
the
last
.
Ser
Lyn
was
a
different
sort
of
folly
;
lean
and
handsome
,
heir
to
an
ancient
but
impoverished
house
,
but
vain
,
reckless
,
hot-tempered
...
and
,
it
was
whispered
,
notoriously
uninterested
in
the
intimate
charms
of
women
.
