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- Джордж Мартин
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"
Let
me
give
you
some
counsel
,
bastard
,
"
Lannister
said
.
"
Never
forget
what
you
are
,
for
surely
the
world
will
not
.
Make
it
your
strength
.
Then
it
can
never
be
your
weakness
.
Armor
yourself
in
it
,
and
it
will
never
be
used
to
hurt
you
.
"
Jon
was
in
no
mood
for
anyone
's
counsel
.
"
What
do
you
know
about
being
a
bastard
?
"
"
All
dwarfs
are
bastards
in
their
father
's
eyes
.
"
"
You
are
your
mother
's
trueborn
son
of
Lannister
.
"
"
Am
I
?
"
the
dwarf
replied
,
sardonic
"
Do
tell
my
lord
father
.
My
mother
died
birthing
me
,
and
he
's
never
been
sure
.
"
"
I
do
n't
even
know
who
my
mother
was
,
"
Jon
said
.
"
Some
woman
,
no
doubt
.
Most
of
them
are
.
"
He
favored
Jon
with
a
rueful
grin
.
"
Remember
this
,
boy
.
All
dwarfs
may
be
bastards
,
yet
not
all
bastards
need
be
dwarfs
.
"
And
with
that
he
turned
and
sauntered
back
into
the
feast
,
whistling
a
tune
.
When
he
opened
the
door
,
the
light
from
within
threw
his
shadow
clear
across
the
yard
,
and
for
just
a
moment
Tyrion
Lannister
stood
tall
as
a
king
.
Of
all
the
rooms
in
Winterfell
's
Great
Keep
,
Catelyn
's
bedchambers
were
the
hottest
.
She
seldom
had
to
light
a
fire
.
The
castle
had
been
built
over
natural
hot
springs
,
and
the
scalding
waters
rushed
through
its
walls
and
chambers
like
blood
through
a
man
's
body
,
driving
the
chill
from
the
stone
halls
,
filling
the
glass
gardens
with
a
moist
warmth
,
keeping
the
earth
from
freezing
.
Open
pools
smoked
day
and
night
in
a
dozen
small
courtyards
.
That
was
a
little
thing
,
in
summer
;
in
winter
,
it
was
the
difference
between
life
and
death
.
Catelyn
's
bath
was
always
hot
and
steaming
,
and
her
walls
warm
to
the
touch
.
The
warmth
reminded
her
of
Riverrun
,
of
days
in
the
sun
with
Lysa
and
Edmure
,
but
Ned
could
never
abide
the
heat
.
The
Starks
were
made
for
the
cold
,
he
would
tell
her
,
and
she
would
laugh
and
tell
him
in
that
case
they
had
certainly
built
their
castle
in
the
wrong
place
.
