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- Джордж Мартин
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- Стр. 585/751
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He
found
himself
thinking
of
Robert
more
and
more
.
He
saw
the
king
as
he
had
been
in
the
flower
of
his
youth
,
tall
and
handsome
,
his
great
antlered
helm
on
his
head
,
his
warhammer
in
hand
,
sitting
his
horse
like
a
horned
god
.
He
heard
his
laughter
in
the
dark
,
saw
his
eyes
,
blue
and
clear
as
mountain
lakes
.
"
Look
at
us
,
Ned
,
"
Robert
said
.
"
Gods
,
how
did
we
come
to
this
?
You
here
,
and
me
killed
by
a
pig
.
We
won
a
throne
together
...
"
I
failed
you
,
Robert
,
Ned
thought
.
He
could
not
say
the
words
.
I
lied
to
you
,
hid
the
truth
.
I
let
them
kill
you
.
The
king
heard
him
.
"
You
stiff-necked
fool
,
"
he
muttered
,
"
too
proud
to
listen
.
Can
you
eat
pride
,
Stark
?
Will
honor
shield
your
children
?
"
Cracks
ran
down
his
face
,
fissures
opening
in
the
flesh
,
and
he
reached
up
and
ripped
the
mask
away
.
It
was
not
Robert
at
all
;
it
was
Littlefinger
,
grinning
,
mocking
him
.
When
he
opened
his
mouth
to
speak
,
his
lies
turned
to
pale
grey
moths
and
took
wing
.
Ned
was
half-asleep
when
the
footsteps
came
down
the
hall
.
At
first
he
thought
he
dreamt
them
;
it
had
been
so
long
since
he
had
heard
anything
but
the
sound
of
his
own
voice
.
Ned
was
feverish
by
then
,
his
leg
a
dull
agony
,
his
lips
parched
and
cracked
.
When
the
heavy
wooden
door
creaked
open
,
the
sudden
light
was
painful
to
his
eyes
.
A
gaoler
thrust
a
jug
at
him
.
The
clay
was
cool
and
beaded
with
moisture
.
Ned
grasped
it
with
both
hands
and
gulped
eagerly
.
Water
ran
from
his
mouth
and
dripped
down
through
his
beard
.
He
drank
until
he
thought
he
would
be
sick
.
"
How
long
...
?
"
he
asked
weakly
when
he
could
drink
no
more
.
The
gaoler
was
a
scarecrow
of
a
man
with
a
rat
's
face
and
frayed
beard
,
clad
in
a
mail
shirt
and
a
leather
half
cape
.
"
No
talking
,
"
he
said
as
he
wrenched
the
jug
from
Ned
's
hands
.
"
Please
,
"
Ned
said
,
"
my
daughters
...
"
The
door
crashed
shut
.
He
blinked
as
the
light
vanished
,
lowered
his
head
to
his
chest
,
and
curled
up
on
the
straw
.
It
no
longer
stank
of
urine
and
shit
.
It
no
longer
smelled
at
all
.
He
could
no
longer
tell
the
difference
between
waking
and
sleeping
.
The
memory
came
creeping
upon
him
in
the
darkness
,
as
vivid
as
a
dream
.
It
was
the
year
of
false
spring
,
and
he
was
eighteen
again
,
down
from
the
Eyrie
to
the
tourney
at
Harrenhal
.
He
could
see
the
deep
green
of
the
grass
,
and
smell
the
pollen
on
the
wind
.
Warm
days
and
cool
nights
and
the
sweet
taste
of
wine
.
He
remembered
Brandon
's
laughter
,
and
Robert
's
berserk
valor
in
the
melee
,
the
way
he
laughed
as
he
unhorsed
men
left
and
right
.
He
remembered
Jaime
Lannister
,
a
golden
youth
in
scaled
white
armor
,
kneeling
on
the
grass
in
front
of
the
king
's
pavilion
and
making
his
vows
to
protect
and
defend
King
Aerys
.
Afterward
,
Ser
Oswell
Whent
helped
Jaime
to
his
feet
,
and
the
White
Bull
himself
,
Lord
Commander
Ser
Gerold
Hightower
,
fastened
the
snowy
cloak
of
the
Kingsguard
about
his
shoulders
.
All
six
White
Swords
were
there
to
welcome
their
newest
brother
.
Yet
when
the
jousting
began
,
the
day
belonged
to
Rhaegar
Targaryen
.
