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- Джордж Мартин
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- Стр. 586/751
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The
crown
prince
wore
the
armor
he
would
die
in
:
gleaming
black
plate
with
the
three-headed
dragon
of
his
House
wrought
in
rubies
on
the
breast
.
A
plume
of
scarlet
silk
streamed
behind
him
when
he
rode
,
and
it
seemed
no
lance
could
touch
him
.
Brandon
fell
to
him
,
and
Bronze
Yohn
Royce
,
and
even
the
splendid
Ser
Arthur
Dayne
,
the
Sword
of
the
Morning
.
Robert
had
been
jesting
with
Jon
and
old
Lord
Hunter
as
the
prince
circled
the
field
after
unhorsing
Ser
Barristan
in
the
final
tilt
to
claim
the
champion
's
crown
.
Ned
remembered
the
moment
when
all
the
smiles
died
,
when
Prince
Rhaegar
Targaryen
urged
his
horse
past
his
own
wife
,
the
Dornish
princess
Elia
Martell
,
to
lay
the
queen
of
beauty
's
laurel
in
Lyanna
's
lap
.
He
could
see
it
still
:
a
crown
of
winter
roses
,
blue
as
frost
.
Ned
Stark
reached
out
his
hand
to
grasp
the
flowery
crown
,
but
beneath
the
pale
blue
petals
the
thorns
lay
hidden
.
He
felt
them
clawing
at
his
skin
,
sharp
and
cruel
,
saw
the
slow
trickle
of
blood
run
down
his
fingers
,
and
woke
,
trembling
,
in
the
dark
.
Promise
me
,
Ned
,
his
sister
had
whispered
from
her
bed
of
blood
.
She
had
loved
the
scent
of
winter
roses
.
"
Gods
save
me
,
"
Ned
wept
.
"
I
am
going
mad
.
"
The
gods
did
not
deign
to
answer
.
Each
time
the
turnkey
brought
him
water
,
he
told
himself
another
day
had
passed
.
At
first
he
would
beg
the
man
for
some
word
of
his
daughters
and
the
world
beyond
his
cell
.
Grunts
and
kicks
were
his
only
replies
.
Later
,
when
the
stomach
cramps
began
,
he
begged
for
food
instead
.
It
made
no
matter
;
he
was
not
fed
.
Perhaps
the
Lannisters
meant
for
him
to
starve
to
death
.
"
No
,
"
he
told
himself
.
If
Cersei
had
wanted
him
dead
,
he
would
have
been
cut
down
in
the
throne
room
with
his
men
.
She
wanted
him
alive
.
Weak
,
desperate
,
yet
alive
.
Catelyn
held
her
brother
;
she
dare
not
kill
him
or
the
Imp
's
life
would
be
forfeit
as
well
.
From
outside
his
cell
came
the
rattle
of
iron
chains
.
As
the
door
creaked
open
,
Ned
put
a
hand
to
the
damp
wall
and
pushed
himself
toward
the
light
.
The
glare
of
a
torch
made
him
squint
.
"
Food
,
"
he
croaked
.
"
Wine
,
"
a
voice
answered
.
It
was
not
the
rat-faced
man
;
this
gaoler
was
stouter
,
shorter
,
though
he
wore
the
same
leather
half
cape
and
spiked
steel
cap
.
"
Drink
,
Lord
Eddard
.
"
He
thrust
a
wineskin
into
Ned
's
hands
.
