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- Джордж Мартин
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"
I
'll
...
I
'll
write
the
letters
,
"
Sansa
told
them
.
With
a
smile
as
warm
as
the
sunrise
,
Cersei
Lannister
leaned
close
and
kissed
her
gently
on
the
cheek
.
"
I
knew
you
would
.
Joffrey
will
be
so
proud
when
I
tell
him
what
courage
and
good
sense
you
've
shown
here
today
.
"
In
the
end
,
she
wrote
four
letters
.
To
her
mother
,
the
Lady
Catelyn
Stark
,
and
to
her
brothers
at
Winterfell
,
and
to
her
aunt
and
her
grandfather
as
well
,
Lady
Lysa
Arryn
of
the
Eyrie
,
and
Lord
Hoster
Tully
of
Riverrun
By
the
time
she
had
done
,
her
fingers
were
cramped
and
stiff
and
stained
with
ink
.
Varys
had
her
father
's
seal
.
She
warmed
the
pale
white
beeswax
over
a
candle
,
poured
it
carefully
,
and
watched
as
the
eunuch
stamped
each
letter
with
the
direwolf
of
House
Stark
.
Jeyne
Poole
and
all
her
things
were
gone
when
Ser
Mandon
Moore
returned
Sansa
to
the
high
tower
of
Maegor
's
Holdfast
.
No
more
weeping
,
she
thought
gratefully
.
Yet
somehow
it
seemed
colder
with
Jeyne
gone
,
even
after
she
'd
built
a
fire
.
She
pulled
a
chair
close
to
the
hearth
,
took
down
one
of
her
favorite
books
,
and
lost
herself
in
the
stories
of
Florian
and
Jonquil
,
of
Lady
Shella
and
the
Rainbow
Knight
,
of
valiant
Prince
Aemon
and
his
doomed
love
for
his
brother
's
queen
.
It
was
not
until
later
that
night
,
as
she
was
drifting
off
to
sleep
,
that
Sansa
realized
she
had
forgotten
to
ask
about
her
sister
.
"
Othor
,
"
announced
Ser
Jaremy
Rykker
,
"
beyond
a
doubt
.
And
this
one
was
Jafer
Flowers
.
"
He
turned
the
corpse
over
with
his
foot
,
and
the
dead
white
face
stared
up
at
the
overcast
sky
with
blue
,
blue
eyes
.
"
They
were
Ben
Stark
's
men
,
both
of
them
.
"
My
uncle
's
men
,
Jon
thought
numbly
.
He
remembered
how
he
'd
pleaded
to
ride
with
them
.
Gods
,
I
was
such
a
green
boy
.
If
he
had
taken
me
,
it
might
be
me
lying
here
...
Jafer
's
right
wrist
ended
in
the
ruin
of
torn
flesh
and
splintered
bone
left
by
Ghost
's
jaws
.
His
right
hand
was
floating
in
a
jar
of
vinegar
back
in
Maester
Aemon
's
tower
.
His
left
hand
,
still
at
the
end
of
his
arm
,
was
as
black
as
his
cloak
.
"
Gods
have
mercy
,
"
the
Old
Bear
muttered
.
He
swung
down
from
his
garron
,
handing
his
reins
to
Jon
.
The
morning
was
unnaturally
warm
;
beads
of
sweat
dotted
the
Lord
Commander
's
broad
forehead
like
dew
on
a
melon
.
His
horse
was
nervous
,
rolling
her
eyes
,
backing
away
from
the
dead
men
as
far
as
her
lead
would
allow
.
Jon
led
her
off
a
few
paces
,
fighting
to
keep
her
from
bolting
.
The
horses
did
not
like
the
feel
of
this
place
.
For
that
matter
,
neither
did
Jon
.
