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- Джордж Мартин
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"
This
is
the
horse
of
Shagga
son
of
Dolf
,
"
he
roared
at
the
stableboy
.
"
If
he
does
n't
give
her
back
,
chop
off
his
manhood
and
feed
it
to
the
goats
,
"
Tyrion
promised
.
"
Provided
you
can
find
some
.
"
A
pair
of
house
guards
in
crimson
cloaks
and
lion-crested
helms
stood
under
the
inn
's
sign
,
on
either
side
of
the
door
.
Tyrion
recognized
their
captain
.
"
My
father
?
"
"
In
the
common
room
,
m
'
lord
.
"
"
My
men
will
want
meat
and
mead
,
"
Tyrion
told
him
.
"
See
that
they
get
it
.
"
He
entered
the
inn
,
and
there
was
Father
.
Tywin
Lannister
,
Lord
of
Casterly
Rock
and
Warden
of
the
West
,
was
in
his
middle
fifties
,
yet
hard
as
a
man
of
twenty
.
Even
seated
,
he
was
tall
,
with
long
legs
,
broad
shoulders
,
a
flat
stomach
.
His
thin
arms
were
corded
with
muscle
.
When
his
once-thick
golden
hair
had
begun
to
recede
,
he
had
commanded
his
barber
to
shave
his
head
;
Lord
Tywin
did
not
believe
in
half
measures
.
He
razored
his
lip
and
chin
as
well
,
but
kept
his
side-whiskers
,
two
great
thickets
of
wiry
golden
hair
that
covered
most
of
his
cheeks
from
ear
to
jaw
.
His
eyes
were
a
pale
green
,
flecked
with
gold
.
A
fool
more
foolish
than
most
had
once
jested
that
even
Lord
Tywin
's
shit
was
flecked
with
gold
.
Some
said
the
man
was
still
alive
,
deep
in
the
bowels
of
Casterly
Rock
.
Ser
Kevan
Lannister
,
his
father
's
only
surviving
brother
,
was
sharing
a
flagon
of
ale
with
Lord
Tywin
when
Tyrion
entered
the
common
room
.
His
uncle
was
portly
and
balding
,
with
a
close-cropped
yellow
beard
that
followed
the
line
of
his
massive
jaw
.
Ser
Kevan
saw
him
first
.
"
Tyrion
,
"
he
said
in
surprise
.
"
Uncle
,
"
Tyrion
said
,
bowing
.
"
And
my
lord
father
.
What
a
pleasure
to
find
you
here
.
"
Lord
Tywin
did
not
stir
from
his
chair
,
but
he
did
give
his
dwarf
son
a
long
,
searching
look
.
"
I
see
that
the
rumors
of
your
demise
were
unfounded
.
"
