《冰与火之歌卷Ⅰ：权力的游戏》（Game of Thrones）【9/9完结】_派派后花园

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[Novel] 《冰与火之歌卷Ⅰ：权力的游戏》（Game of Thrones）【9/9完结】

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等级: 内阁元老
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你看着眼前的人，分明还是以前的模样，可心里终究不是以前那般澄清透明了。
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《权力的游戏》（Game of Thrones）改编自美国作家乔治·R·R·马丁的奇幻小说《冰与火之歌》系列，是美国HBO电视网制作推出的一部中世纪史诗奇幻题材的电视剧。该剧由戴维·贝尼奥夫、D·B·威斯、Alan Taylor等人执导，大卫·贝尼奥夫和丹尼尔·威斯编剧，乔治·马丁担任剧本顾问，彼特·丁拉基、琳娜·海蒂、艾米莉亚·克拉克、基特·哈灵顿等人主演。《权力的游戏》第五季定于4月12日晚9：00在HBO开播。

正面评价
《权力的游戏》以“创造奇迹”的高姿态打破了魔幻剧难以取得成功的美剧“魔咒”，一举颠覆所有好莱坞魔幻电影的创意水平，成为魔幻影视界不可逾越的高峰。它给予演员、导演、编剧创意的无限可能，以其无限且有序的创作空间囊括了成千上万形象饱满的人物角色、怪诞独特充满想象的风土人情，其空间之完整、细节之丰富、叙事之恣意让人感叹。（新浪娱乐评）
《权力的游戏》是为HBO而生的剧集：奢华、血腥、黑暗、古怪，有时甚至是令人惊奇地甘美。恶意和善意交织，就像人生一样不可预测。乔治·R·R·马丁的绚美宏大的奇幻故事，被成功地影像化，这是一小步，也是一大步。（时光网评）
《权力的游戏》的改编没有出现“神经分裂”，它的思路是一致的，就是在保持原著风味的大前提下，让电视剧显得更精练、重点更突出。电视剧新增的情节绝大部分合情合理，对话中不时有神来之笔，这些都值得称道——更是改编类影视作品所中不多见的 。（时光网评）

反面评价
《权力的游戏》第三季在北美开播遇到差评，有观众不满于剧集蜻蜓点水式的介绍，完全没有张力的剧情，以及几个能拍好的地方都潦草事。《纽约时报》专栏作家罗斯·杜塔特则认为，该剧已渐趋颓势。（新浪娱乐评）
从效果上看，电视剧呈现出的维斯特洛更小、也更紧凑了。长城的高度下降、红堡的尺寸缩小、连奈德手中的历史书（那本记录贵族家谱的书）也由前朝历史学家的传承变成一本当代的记录，大陆的历史信息被切成更为琐碎的小块给予观众，而其中许多甚至没有被装进电视剧里面 。（时光网评）

[ 此帖被挽墨在2015-09-09 01:57重新编辑 ]
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你看着眼前的人，分明还是以前的模样，可心里终究不是以前那般澄清透明了。
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Chapter1 序曲
     PROLOGUE
   We should start back,” Gared urged as the woods began to grow dark around them. “The wildlings are dead.”
   “Do the dead frighten you?” Ser Waymar Royce asked with just the hint of a smile.
   Gared did not rise to the bait. He was an old man, past fifty, and he had seen the lordlings come and go. “Dead is dead,” he said. “We have no business with the dead.”
   “Are they dead?” Royce asked softly. “What proof have we?”
   “Will saw them,” Gared said. “If he says they are dead, that’s proof enough for me.”
   Will had known they would drag him into the quarrel sooner or later. He wished it had been later rather than sooner. “My mother told me that dead men sing no songs,” he put in.
   “My wet nurse said the same thing, Will,” Royce replied. “Never believe anything you hear at a woman’s tit. There are things to be learned even from the dead.” His voice echoed, too loud in the twilit forest.
   “We have a long ride before us,” Gared pointed out. “Eight days, maybe nine. And night is falling.”
   Ser Waymar Royce glanced at the sky with disinterest. “It does that every day about this time. Are you unmanned by the dark, Gared?”
   Will could see the tightness around Gared’s mouth, the barely suppressed anger in his eyes under the thick black hood of his cloak. Gared had spent forty years in the Night’s Watch, man and boy, and he was not accustomed to being made light of. Yet it was more than that. Under the wounded pride, Will could sense something else in the older man. You could taste it; a nervous tension that came perilous close to fear.
   Will shared his unease. He had been four years on the Wall. The first time he had been sent beyond, all the old stories had come rushing back, and his bowels had turned to water. He had laughed about it afterward. He was a veteran of a hundred rangings by now, and the endless dark wilderness that the southron called the haunted forest had no more terrors for him.
   Until tonight. Something was different tonight. There was an edge to this darkness that made his hackles rise. Nine days they had been riding, north and northwest and then north again, farther and farther from the Wall, hard on the track of a band of wildling raiders. Each day had been worse than the day that had come before it. Today was the worst of all. A cold wind was blowing out of the north, and it made the trees rustle like living things. All day, Will had felt as though something were watching him, something cold and implacable that loved him not. Gared had felt it too. Will wanted nothing so much as to ride hellbent for the safety of the Wall, but that was not a feeling to share with your commander.
   Especially not a commander like this one.
   Ser Waymar Royce was the youngest son of an ancient house with too many heirs. He was a handsome youth of eighteen, grey-eyed and graceful and slender as a knife. Mounted on his huge black destrier, the knight towered above Will and Gared on their smaller garrons. He wore black leather boots, black woolen pants, black moleskin gloves, and a fine supple coat of gleaming black ringmail over layers of black wool and boiled leather. Ser Waymar had been a Sworn Brother of the Night’s Watch for less than half a year, but no one could say he had not prepared for his vocation. At least insofar as his wardrobe was concerned.
   His cloak was his crowning glory; sable, thick and black and soft as sin. “Bet he killed them all himself, he did,” Gared told the barracks over wine, “twisted their little heads off, our mighty warrior.” They had all shared the laugh.
   It is hard to take orders from a man you laughed at in your cups, Will reflected as he sat shivering atop his garron. Gared must have felt the same.
   “Mormont said as we should track them, and we did,” Gared said. “They’re dead. They shan’t trouble us no more. There’s hard riding before us. I don’t like this weather. If it snows, we could be a fortnight getting back, and snow’s the best we can hope for. Ever seen an ice storm, my lord?”
   The lordling seemed not to hear him. He studied the deepening twilight in that half-bored, half-distracted way he had. Will had ridden with the knight long enough to understand that it was best not to interrupt him when he looked like that. “Tell me again what you saw, Will. All the details. Leave nothing out.”
   Will had been a hunter before he joined the Night’s Watch. Well, a poacher in truth. Mallister freeriders had caught him red-handed in the Mallisters’ own woods, skinning one of the Mallisters’ own bucks, and it had been a choice of putting on the black or losing a hand. No one could move through the woods as silent as Will, and it had not taken the black brothers long to discover his talent.
   “The camp is two miles farther on, over that ridge, hard beside a stream,” Will said. “I got close as I dared. There’s eight of them, men and women both. No children I could see. They put up a lean-to against the rock. The snow’s pretty well covered it now, but I could still make it out. No fire burning, but the firepit was still plain as day. No one moving. I watched a long time. No living man ever lay so still.”
   “Did you see any blood?”
   “Well, no,” Will admitted.
   “Did you see any weapons?”
   “Some swords, a few bows. One man had an axe. Heavy-looking, double-bladed, a cruel piece of iron. It was on the ground beside him, right by his hand.”
   “Did you make note of the position of the bodies?”
   Will shrugged. “A couple are sitting up against the rock. Most of them on the ground. Fallen, like.”
   “Or sleeping,” Royce suggested.
   “Fallen,” Will insisted. “There’s one woman up an ironwood, half-hid in the branches. A far-eyes.” He smiled thinly. “I took care she never saw me. When I got closer, I saw that she wasn’t moving neither.” Despite himself, he shivered.
   “You have a chill?” Royce asked.
   “Some,” Will muttered. “The wind, m’lord.”
   The young knight turned back to his grizzled man-at-arms. Frostfallen leaves whispered past them, and Royce’s destrier moved restlessly. “What do you think might have killed these men, Gared?” Ser Waymar asked casually. He adjusted the drape of his long sable cloak.
   “It was the cold,” Gared said with iron certainty. “I saw men freeze last winter, and the one before, when I was half a boy. Everyone talks about snows forty foot deep, and how the ice wind comes howling out of the north, but the real enemy is the cold. It steals up on you quieter than Will, and at first you shiver and your teeth chatter and you stamp your feet and dream of mulled wine and nice hot fires. It burns, it does. Nothing burns like the cold. But only for a while. Then it gets inside you and starts to fill you up, and after a while you don’t have the strength to fight it. It’s easier just to sit down or go to sleep. They say you don’t feel any pain toward the end. First you go weak and drowsy, and everything starts to fade, and then it’s like sinking into a sea of warm milk. Peaceful, like.”
   “Such eloquence, Gared,” Ser Waymar observed. “I never suspected you had it in you.”
   “I’ve had the cold in me too, lordling.” Gared pulled back his hood, giving Ser Waymar a good long look at the stumps where his ears had been. “Two ears, three toes, and the little finger off my left hand. I got off light. We found my brother frozen at his watch, with a smile on his face.”
   Ser Waymar shrugged. “You ought dress more warmly, Gared.”
   Gared glared at the lordling, the scars around his ear holes flushed red with anger where Maester Aemon had cut the ears away. “We’ll see how warm you can dress when the winter comes.” He pulled up his hood and hunched over his garron, silent and sullen.
   “If Gared said it was the cold?.?.?.?” Will began.
   “Have you drawn any watches this past week, Will?”
   “Yes, m’lord.” There never was a week when he did not draw a dozen bloody watches. What was the man driving at?
   “And how did you find the Wall?”
   “Weeping,” Will said, frowning. He saw it clear enough, now that the lordling had pointed it out. “They couldn’t have froze. Not if the Wall was weeping. It wasn’t cold enough.”
   Royce nodded. “Bright lad. We’ve had a few light frosts this past week, and a quick flurry of snow now and then, but surely no cold fierce enough to kill eight grown men. Men clad in fur and leather, let me remind you, with shelter near at hand, and the means of making fire.” The knight’s smile was cocksure. “Will, lead us there. I would see these dead men for myself.”
   And then there was nothing to be done for it. The order had been given, and honor bound them to obey.
   Will went in front, his shaggy little garron picking the way carefully through the undergrowth. A light snow had fallen the night before, and there were stones and roots and hidden sinks lying just under its crust, waiting for the careless and the unwary. Ser Waymar Royce came next, his great black destrier snorting impatiently. The warhorse was the wrong mount for ranging, but try and tell that to the lordling. Gared brought up the rear. The old man-at-arms muttered to himself as he rode.
   Twilight deepened. The cloudless sky turned a deep purple, the color of an old bruise, then faded to black. The stars began to come out. A half-moon rose. Will was grateful for the light.
   “We can make a better pace than this, surely,” Royce said when the moon was full risen.
   “Not with this horse,” Will said. Fear had made him insolent. “Perhaps my lord would care to take the lead?”
   Ser Waymar Royce did not deign to reply.
   Somewhere off in the wood a wolf howled.
   Will pulled his garron over beneath an ancient gnarled ironwood and dismounted.
   “Why are you stopping?” Ser Waymar asked.
   “Best go the rest of the way on foot, m’lord. It’s just over that ridge.”
   Royce paused a moment, staring off into the distance, his face reflective. A cold wind whispered through the trees. His great sable cloak stirred behind like something half-alive.
   “There’s something wrong here,” Gared muttered.
   The young knight gave him a disdainful smile. “Is there?”
   “Can’t you feel it?” Gared asked. “Listen to the darkness.”
   Will could feel it. Four years in the Night’s Watch, and he had never been so afraid. What was it?
   “Wind. Trees rustling. A wolf. Which sound is it that unmans you so, Gared?” When Gared did not answer, Royce slid gracefully from his saddle. He tied the destrier securely to a low-hanging limb, well away from the other horses, and drew his longsword from its sheath. Jewels glittered in its hilt, and the moonlight ran down the shining steel. It was a splendid weapon, castle-forged, and new-made from the look of it. Will doubted it had ever been swung in anger.
   “The trees press close here,” Will warned. “That sword will tangle you up, m’lord. Better a knife.”
   “If I need instruction, I will ask for it,” the young lord said. “Gared, stay here. Guard the horses.”
   Gared dismounted. “We need a fire. I’ll see to it.”
   “How big a fool are you, old man? If there are enemies in this wood, a fire is the last thing we want.”
   “There’s some enemies a fire will keep away,” Gared said. “Bears and direwolves and?.?.?.?and other things?.?.?.?”
   Ser Waymar’s mouth became a hard line. “No fire.”
   Gared’s hood shadowed his face, but Will could see the hard glitter in his eyes as he stared at the knight. For a moment he was afraid the older man would go for his sword. It was a short, ugly thing, its grip discolored by sweat, its edge nicked from hard use, but Will would not have given an iron bob for the lordling’s life if Gared pulled it from its scabbard.
   Finally Gared looked down. “No fire,” he muttered, low under his breath.
   Royce took it for acquiescence and turned away. “Lead on,” he said to Will.
   Will threaded their way through a thicket, then started up the slope to the low ridge where he had found his vantage point under a sentinel tree. Under the thin crust of snow, the ground was damp and muddy, slick footing, with rocks and hidden roots to trip you up. Will made no sound as he climbed. Behind him, he heard the soft metallic slither of the lordling’s ringmail, the rustle of leaves, and muttered curses as reaching branches grabbed at his longsword and tugged on his splendid sable cloak.
   The great sentinel was right there at the top of the ridge, where Will had known it would be, its lowest branches a bare foot off the ground. Will slid in underneath, flat on his belly in the snow and the mud, and looked down on the empty clearing below.
   His heart stopped in his chest. For a moment he dared not breathe. Moonlight shone down on the clearing, the ashes of the firepit, the snow-covered lean-to, the great rock, the little half-frozen stream. Everything was just as it had been a few hours ago.
   They were gone. All the bodies were gone.
   “Gods!” he heard behind him. A sword slashed at a branch as Ser Waymar Royce gained the ridge. He stood there beside the sentinel, longsword in hand, his cloak billowing behind him as the wind came up, outlined nobly against the stars for all to see.
   “Get down!” Will whispered urgently. “Something’s wrong.”
   Royce did not move. He looked down at the empty clearing and laughed. “Your dead men seem to have moved camp, Will.”
   Will’s voice abandoned him. He groped for words that did not come. It was not possible. His eyes swept back and forth over the abandoned campsite, stopped on the axe. A huge double-bladed battle-axe, still lying where he had seen it last, untouched. A valuable weapon?.?.?.?
   “On your feet, Will,” Ser Waymar commanded. “There’s no one here. I won’t have you hiding under a bush.”
   Reluctantly, Will obeyed.
   Ser Waymar looked him over with open disapproval. “I am not going back to Castle Black a failure on my first ranging. We will find these men.” He glanced around. “Up the tree. Be quick about it. Look for a fire.”
   Will turned away, wordless. There was no use to argue. The wind was moving. It cut right through him. He went to the tree, a vaulting grey-green sentinel, and began to climb. Soon his hands were sticky with sap, and he was lost among the needles. Fear filled his gut like a meal he could not digest. He whispered a prayer to the nameless gods of the wood, and slipped his dirk free of its sheath. He put it between his teeth to keep both hands free for climbing. The taste of cold iron in his mouth gave him comfort.
   Down below, the lordling called out suddenly, “Who goes there?” Will heard uncertainty in the challenge. He stopped climbing; he listened; he watched.
   The woods gave answer: the rustle of leaves, the icy rush of the stream, a distant hoot of a snow owl.
   The Others made no sound.
   Will saw movement from the corner of his eye. Pale shapes gliding through the wood. He turned his head, glimpsed a white shadow in the darkness. Then it was gone. Branches stirred gently in the wind, scratching at one another with wooden fingers. Will opened his mouth to call down a warning, and the words seemed to freeze in his throat. Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps it had only been a bird, a reflection on the snow, some trick of the moonlight. What had he seen, after all?
   “Will, where are you?” Ser Waymar called up. “Can you see anything?” He was turning in a slow circle, suddenly wary, his sword in hand. He must have felt them, as Will felt them. There was nothing to see. “Answer me! Why is it so cold?”
   It was cold. Shivering, Will clung more tightly to his perch. His face pressed hard against the trunk of the sentinel. He could feel the sweet, sticky sap on his cheek.
   A shadow emerged from the dark of the wood. It stood in front of Royce. Tall, it was, and gaunt and hard as old bones, with flesh pale as milk. Its armor seemed to change color as it moved; here it was white as new-fallen snow, there black as shadow, everywhere dappled with the deep grey-green of the trees. The patterns ran like moonlight on water with every step it took.
   Will heard the breath go out of Ser Waymar Royce in a long hiss. “Come no farther,” the lordling warned. His voice cracked like a boy’s. He threw the long sable cloak back over his shoulders, to free his arms for battle, and took his sword in both hands. The wind had stopped. It was very cold.
   The Other slid forward on silent feet. In its hand was a longsword like none that Will had ever seen. No human metal had gone into the forging of that blade. It was alive with moonlight, translucent, a shard of crystal so thin that it seemed almost to vanish when seen edge-on. There was a faint blue shimmer to the thing, a ghost-light that played around its edges, and somehow Will knew it was sharper than any razor.
   Ser Waymar met him bravely. “Dance with me then.” He lifted his sword high over his head, defiant. His hands trembled from the weight of it, or perhaps from the cold. Yet in that moment, Will thought, he was a boy no longer, but a man of the Night’s Watch.
   The Other halted. Will saw its eyes; blue, deeper and bluer than any human eyes, a blue that burned like ice. They fixed on the longsword trembling on high, watched the moonlight running cold along the metal. For a heartbeat he dared to hope.
   They emerged silently from the shadows, twins to the first. Three of them?.?.?.?four?.?.?.?five?.?.?.?Ser Waymar may have felt the cold that came with them, but he never saw them, never heard them. Will had to call out. It was his duty. And his death, if he did. He shivered, and hugged the tree, and kept the silence.
   The pale sword came shivering through the air.
   Ser Waymar met it with steel. When the blades met, there was no ring of metal on metal; only a high, thin sound at the edge of hearing, like an animal screaming in pain. Royce checked a second blow, and a third, then fell back a step. Another flurry of blows, and he fell back again.
   Behind him, to right, to left, all around him, the watchers stood patient, faceless, silent, the shifting patterns of their delicate armor making them all but invisible in the wood. Yet they made no move to interfere.
   Again and again the swords met, until Will wanted to cover his ears against the strange anguished keening of their clash. Ser Waymar was panting from the effort now, his breath steaming in the moonlight. His blade was white with frost; the Other’s danced with pale blue light.
   Then Royce’s parry came a beat too late. The pale sword bit through the ringmail beneath his arm. The young lord cried out in pain. Blood welled between the rings. It steamed in the cold, and the droplets seemed red as fire where they touched the snow. Ser Waymar’s fingers brushed his side. His moleskin glove came away soaked with red.
   The Other said something in a language that Will did not know; his voice was like the cracking of ice on a winter lake, and the words were mocking.
   Ser Waymar Royce found his fury. “For Robert!” he shouted, and he came up snarling, lifting the frost-covered longsword with both hands and swinging it around in a flat sidearm slash with all his weight behind it. The Other’s parry was almost lazy.
   When the blades touched, the steel shattered.
   A scream echoed through the forest night, and the longsword shivered into a hundred brittle pieces, the shards scattering like a rain of needles. Royce went to his knees, shrieking, and covered his eyes. Blood welled between his fingers.
   The watchers moved forward together, as if some signal had been given. Swords rose and fell, all in a deathly silence. It was cold butchery. The pale blades sliced through ringmail as if it were silk. Will closed his eyes. Far beneath him, he heard their voices and laughter sharp as icicles.
   When he found the courage to look again, a long time had passed, and the ridge below was empty.
   He stayed in the tree, scarce daring to breathe, while the moon crept slowly across the black sky. Finally, his muscles cramping and his fingers numb with cold, he climbed down.
   Royce’s body lay facedown in the snow, one arm outflung. The thick sable cloak had been slashed in a dozen places. Lying dead like that, you saw how young he was. A boy.
   He found what was left of the sword a few feet away, the end splintered and twisted like a tree struck by lightning. Will knelt, looked around warily, and snatched it up. The broken sword would be his proof. Gared would know what to make of it, and if not him, then surely that old bear Mormont or Maester Aemon. Would Gared still be waiting with the horses? He had to hurry.
   Will rose. Ser Waymar Royce stood over him.
   His fine clothes were a tatter, his face a ruin. A shard from his sword transfixed the blind white pupil of his left eye.
   The right eye was open. The pupil burned blue. It saw.
   The broken sword fell from nerveless fingers. Will closed his eyes to pray. Long, elegant hands brushed his cheek, then tightened around his throat. They were gloved in the finest moleskin and sticky with blood, yet the touch was icy cold.

　　“既然野人①已经死了，”眼看周围的树林逐渐黯淡，盖瑞不禁催促，“咱们回头吧。”
　　“死人吓着你了吗？”威玛·罗伊斯爵士带着轻浅的笑意问。
　　盖瑞并未中激将之计，年过五十的他也算得上是个老人，这辈子看过太多贵族子弟来来去去。“死了就是死了，”他说，“咱们何必追寻死人。”
　　“你能确定他们真死了？”罗伊斯轻声问，“证据何在？”
　　“威尔看到了，”盖瑞道，“我相信他说的话。”
　　威尔料到他们早晚会把自己卷入这场争执，只是没想到这么快。“我娘说过，死人没戏可唱。”他插嘴道。
　　“威尔，我奶妈也说过这话，”罗伊斯回答：“千万别相信你在女人怀里听到的东西。就算人是死了，也能让我们了解很多东西。”他的余音在暮色昏暝的森林里回荡，似乎吵闹了点。
　　“回去的路还长着呢，”盖瑞指出，“少不了走个八九天，况且天色渐渐暗下来了。”
　　威玛·罗伊斯爵士意兴阑珊地扫视天际。“每天这时候不都如此？盖瑞，你该不会怕黑吧？”
　　威尔看见盖瑞紧抿的嘴唇，以及他厚重黑斗篷下强自遏抑的怒火。盖瑞当了四十年的守夜人②，这种资历可不是随便让人寻开心的。但盖瑞不仅是愤怒，在他受伤的自尊底下，威尔隐约察觉到某种潜藏的不安，一种近似于畏惧的紧张情绪。
　　威尔深有同感。他戍守长城不过四年，当初首次越墙北进，所有的传说故事突然都涌上心头，把他吓得四肢发软，事后想起难免莞尔。如今他已是拥有百余次巡逻经验的老手，眼前这片南方人称作鬼影森林的广袤黑荒，他早已无所畏惧。
　　然而今晚是个例外，迥异往昔，四方暗幕中有种莫可名状、让他汗毛竖立的惊悚。他们轻骑北出长城，中途转向西北，随即又向北，九天来昼夜加急、不断推进，紧咬一队土匪的足迹。环境日益恶化，今天已降到谷底。阴森北风吹得树影幢幢，宛如狰狞活物，威尔整天都觉得自己受到一种冰冷且对他毫无好感的莫名之物监视，盖瑞也感觉出了。此刻威尔心中只想掉转马头，没命似地逃回长城。但这却是万万不能在长官面前说出的念头。
　　尤其是这样的长官。
　　威玛·罗伊斯爵士出身贵族世家，在儿孙满堂的家里排行老幺。他是个俊美的十八岁青年，有双灰色眸子，举止优雅，瘦得像把尖刀。骑在他那匹健壮的黑色战马上，比骑着矮小犁马的威尔和盖瑞高出许多。他穿着黑色皮靴，黑色羊毛裤，戴着黑色鼹鼠皮手套，黑色羊毛衫外套硬皮甲，又罩了一件闪闪发光的黑色环甲。威玛爵士宣誓成为守夜人尚不满半年，但他绝非空手而来，最起码行头一件不少。
　　而他身上最耀眼的行头，自然便是那件既厚实、又柔软惊人的黑色貂皮斗篷。“我敢打赌，那堆黑貂一定是他亲手杀的，”盖瑞在军营里喝酒时对兄弟们说：“我们伟大的战士哦，把它们的小头一颗颗扭断啦。”当时便引得众人哄笑一团。
　　假如你的长官是大伙儿饮酒作乐时的嘲笑对象，你怎么去尊敬他呢？威尔骑在马上，不禁如此思量。想必盖瑞也深有同感。
　　“莫尔蒙叫我们追查野人行踪，我们照办了，”盖瑞道：“现在他们死去，再也不会来骚扰我们。而眼前还有好长一段路等着我们。我实在不喜欢这种天气，要是下雪，我们得花两个星期才能回去。其实下雪还算不上什么，大人，您可见过冰风暴肆虐的景象？”
　　小少爷似乎没听见这番话。他用他特有的那种缺乏兴趣、漫不经心的方式审视着渐暗的暮色。威尔跟随他已有些时日，知道这种时候最好不要打断他。“威尔，再跟我说一遍你看到了些什么。仔细讲来，别漏掉任何细节。”
　　在成为守夜人以前，威尔原本靠打猎为生。说难听点，其实就是偷猎者。当年他在梅利斯特家族的森林里偷猎公鹿，正忙着剥鹿皮，弄得一手血腥的时候，被受雇于梅利斯特家的自由骑手③逮个正着。他若不选择加入黑衫军，就只有单手被砍一途。威尔潜行的本事是一等一的，在森林里无声潜行等闲难及，黑衫军的弟兄们果然很快也就发现了他的长处。
　　“营地在两里之外，翻过山脊，紧邻着一条溪。”威尔答道，“我已经靠得很近了。总共有八个人，男女都有，但没看见小孩。他们背靠着大石头，虽然雪几乎把营地整个盖住，但我还是分辨得出来。没有营火，只有火堆的余烬比较明显。他们一动不动，我仔细看了好长时间，活人绝不会躺得这么安静。”
　　“你发现血迹了吗？”
　　“嗯，没有。”威尔坦承。
　　“你看见任何武器了吗？”
　　“几支剑、两三把弓，还有个家伙带了一柄斧头。铁打的双刃斧，似乎挺沉的，摆在他右手边的地上。”
　　“你记得他们躺着的相对位置吗？”
　　威尔耸耸肩。“两三个靠着石头，大部分躺在地上，像是被打死的。”
　　“也可能在睡觉。”罗伊斯提出异议。
　　“肯定是被打死的，”威尔坚持己见，“因为有个女的爬在铁树上，藏在枝头，应该是个斥候。”他浅浅一笑。“我很小心，没让她见着。但等我靠近，却发现她根本毫无动静。”说到这儿他不禁一阵颤抖。
　　“你受寒了？”罗伊斯问。
　　“有点罢，”威尔喃喃道，“大人，是风的关系啊。”
　　年轻骑士转头面对灰发老兵。结霜的落叶在他们耳边低语飘零，罗伊斯的战马局促不安。“盖瑞，你觉得是谁杀了这些人？”威玛爵士随口问，顺手整了整貂皮长袍的褶裥。
　　“是这该死的天气，”盖瑞斩钉截铁地说，“上个严冬④，我亲眼见人活活冻死，再之前那次也看过，当时我还是个孩子。人人都说当时积雪深达四十尺，北风冷得跟玄冰似的，但真正要命的却是低温。它会无声无息地逮住你，比威尔还安静，起初你会发抖、牙齿打颤、两腿一伸，梦见滚烫的酒，温暖的营火。很烫人，是的，再也没什么像寒冷那样烫人了。但只消一会儿，它便会钻进你体内，填满你的身体，过不了多久你就没力气抵抗，渴望坐下休息或小睡片刻，据说到最后完全不觉痛苦。你只是浑身无力，昏昏欲睡，然后一切渐渐消逝，最后，就像淹没在热牛奶里一样，安详而恬静。”
　　“我看你蛮有诗意嘛，”威玛爵士下了评论，“没想到你还有这方面的天分。”
　　“大人，我亲身体验过严寒的威力，”盖瑞往后拉开他的兜帽，好让威玛爵士看清楚他耳朵冻掉之后剩下的肉团。“两只耳朵，三根脚趾，还有左手的小指，我这算是轻伤了。我大哥当年就是站岗的时候活活冻死的，等我们找到他，他脸上还挂着笑容。”
　　威玛爵士耸耸肩道：“我说盖瑞，你该多穿两件衣服。”
　　盖瑞怒视着他的年轻长官，气得耳根发红。当年伊蒙学士⑤把他坏死的耳朵割去，如今耳洞旁还留着伤疤。“等冬天真正来临时，看你能穿得多暖。”他拉起兜帽，缩着身子骑上马，阴沉地不再吭声。
　　“既然盖瑞都说是天气的关系了……”威尔正要开口。
　　“威尔，上周你有没有站岗？”
　　“有啊，大人。”他哪星期没抽到站岗的签，这家伙究竟想说什么？
　　“长城的情形如何？”
　　“在‘哭泣’啊，”威尔皱着眉头说。这下他明白了。“所以他们不是冻死的，假如城墙会滴水，表示天气还不够冷。”
　　罗伊斯点点头。“聪明。过去这周结了点霜，偶尔还下点雪，但绝对没有冷到冻死八个人的地步。更何况他们穿着保暖的毛皮御寒，所处地形足以遮挡风雪，还有充足的生火材料。”骑士露出充满自信的笑容。“威尔，带路罢，我要亲眼看看这些死人。”
　　事情至此，他们别无选择。既然命令已下，也只有照办的份儿。
　　威尔打前锋，骑着他那匹长毛的马，在矮树丛里小小心翼翼地探路。昨夜下了一场小雪，这会儿树丛底下有许多石块、树根和水洼，一不小心就会摔倒。威玛·罗伊斯爵士跟在后面，他那匹高壮骏马不耐烦地吐着气。巡逻任务最不适合骑战马，但贵族子弟哪听得进去？老兵盖瑞殿后，一路低声喃喃自语。
　　暮色渐沉，无云的天空转为淤青般的深紫，然后没入黑幕。星星出来了，新月也升起。威尔暗自感谢星月的光辉。
　　“我们应该可以再走快点。”罗伊斯说。这时月亮已快升上天顶。
　　“你的马没这能耐，”威尔道，恐惧使他无礼起来。“少爷您走前面试试？”
　　威玛·罗伊斯爵士显然不屑回答。
　　树林深处传来一声狼嗥。
　　威尔在一棵长满树瘤的老铁树旁停住，下了马。
　　“为何停下？”威玛爵士问。
　　“大人，后面的路步行比较好，翻过那道山脊就到。”
　　罗伊斯也停下来凝神远望，一脸思索的表情。阵阵冷风飒飒响彻林间，他的貂皮大衣在背后抖了抖，仿佛有了生命。
　　“这儿不太对劲。”盖瑞喃喃地说。
　　年轻骑士对他轻蔑地一笑。“是吗？”
　　“你难道没感觉？”盖瑞质问，“仔细听听暗处的声音。”
　　威尔也感觉到了。在守夜人服役这四年来，他从未如此恐惧。究竟是什么东西在作怪？
　　“风声，树叶沙沙响，还有狼嚎。盖瑞，是哪一种把你吓破胆啦？”罗伊斯见盖瑞没接腔，便优雅地翻身下马。他把战马牢牢地绑在一根低垂的枝干上，跟其他两匹离得远远的，然后抽出长剑。这是把城里打造的好剑，剑柄镶着珠宝，熠熠发亮，月光在明晃晃的钢剑身上反射出璀璨光芒，无疑是新打造的。威尔很怀疑它有没有沾过血。
　　“大人，这儿树长得很密，”威尔警告，“可能会缠住您的剑，还是用短刀罢。”
　　“我需要指导的时候自然会开口。”年轻贵族道，“盖瑞，你守在这里，看好马匹。”
　　盖瑞下马。“我来生个火。”
　　“老头子，愚蠢也有个限度。若这林子里有敌人，我们难道要生火引他们过来么？”
　　“有些东西就只怕火，”盖瑞道，“比如熊、冰原狼、还有……还有好些东西。”
　　威玛爵士紧抿嘴唇。“我说不准就是不准。”
　　盖瑞的斗篷遮住了他的脸，但威尔还是看得到他瞪骑士时的眼神。他一度害怕这老头会冲动地拔剑动粗。老头的剑虽然又短又丑，剑柄早被汗渍浸得没了颜色，剑刃也因长期使用而布满缺口，但若盖瑞真的拔剑，威尔知道那贵族公子哥儿必死无疑。
　　最后盖瑞低下头。“那就算了”。他讪讪地说。
　　罗伊斯于是妥协，“带路罢”。他对威尔说。
　　威尔领他穿越浓密树丛，爬上低缓斜坡，朝山脊走去，他先前便是在那儿的一棵树下找到藏身处所。薄薄的积雪底，地面潮湿而泥泞，极易滑倒，石块和暗藏的树根也能绊人一跤。威尔爬坡时没有发出任何声响，身后却不时传来公子哥环甲的金属碰撞，叶子摩擦，以及分叉枝干绊住他的长剑，勾住他漂亮貂皮斗篷时所发出的咒骂声。
　　威尔知道那棵大哨兵树位于山脊最高处，底部枝干离地仅有一尺。于是他爬进矮树丛，平趴在残雪和泥泞里，往下方空旷的平地望去。
　　他的心脏停止了跳动，好一阵不敢呼吸。月光洒落在空地上，映照出营火余烬，白雪覆盖的岩石，半结冰的小溪，全都和数小时前所见一模一样。
　　惟一的差别是，所有的人都不见了。
　　“诸神保佑！”他听见背后传来的声音。威玛·罗伊斯爵士挥剑劈砍树枝，总算上了坡顶。他站在哨兵树旁，手握宝剑，披风被吹得噼啪作响，明亮的星光清楚地勾勒出他高贵的身影。
　　“快趴下来！”威尔焦急地低声说：“出怪事了。”
　　罗伊斯没动，他俯瞰着下面空荡荡的平地笑道：“威尔，看来你说的那些死人转移阵地啰。”
　　威尔仿佛突然间丧失了说话能力，他竭力寻找合适的字眼，却徒劳无功。怎么会有这种事，他的视线在荒废的营地中来回扫视，最后停留在那柄斧头上。这么一把巨大的双刃战斧，竟会留在原地纹丝不动。照说这么值钱的家伙……
　　“威尔，起来罢。”威玛爵士命令道，“这里没人，躲躲藏藏的，成何体统！”
　　威尔很不情愿地照办。
　　威玛爵士不满地上下打量他。“我可不想第一次巡逻就铩羽而归。我们一定要找到这些家伙。”他环顾四周。“爬到树上去看看，动作快，注意附近有没有火光。”
　　威尔无言地转身，知道辩解无益。风势转强，有如刀割。他走到高耸笔直的青灰色哨兵树旁开始往上爬。很快他便消失在无边松针里，双手沾满树汁。恐惧像肚里一顿难以消化的饭菜，他只能向不知名的森林之神默祷，一边抽出匕首，用牙咬住，空出双手攀爬。嘴里冰冷的兵器让他稍微安了点心。
　　下方突然传来年轻贵族的喊叫。“谁在那里？”威尔在他的恫吓中听出了不安，便停止爬行，凝神谛听，仔细观察。
　　森林给了他答案：树叶沙沙作响，寒溪潺潺脉动，远方传来雪枭的呐喊。
　　异鬼无声无息地出现。
　　威尔的眼角余光瞄到白色身影穿过树林。他转过头，看见黑暗中一道白影，随即又消失不见。树枝在风中微微悸动，伸出木指彼此搔抓。威尔张口想出声警告，言语却冻结在他的喉头。或许是看错了，或许那不过是只鸟，或是雪地上的反光，更或许是月光造成的错觉。他到底看到了什么？
　　“威尔，你在哪里？”威玛爵士朝上方喊，“你看到什么了吗？”他突然提高警觉，手中持剑缓缓转圈。他一定也和威尔一样感觉到了。然而四周却空无一人。“快回答我！这里为什么这么冷？”
　　这里真的非常冷。威尔颤抖着抱紧树干，面颊贴住哨兵树的树皮。黏稠而甜腻的树汁流到他脸上。
　　一道阴影突然自树林暗处冒出，站到罗伊斯面前。它的体型十分高大，憔悴坚毅浑似枯骨，肤色苍白如同乳汁。它的盔甲似乎会随着移动而改变颜色，一会儿白如新雪，一会儿黑如暗影，处处点缀着森林的深奥灰绿。它每走一步，其上的图案便似水面上的粼粼月光般不断改变。
　　威尔只听威玛·罗伊斯爵士倒抽一口冷气。“不要过来！”贵族少爷警告对方，声音却小得像个孩童。他将那件长长的貂皮大衣翻到背后，空出活动空间，双手持剑。风已停，寒彻骨。
　　异鬼安静地向前滑行，手中握着长剑，威尔从没见过类似的武器。那是把半透明的剑，材质完全不是人类所使用的金属，更像是一片极薄的水晶碎片，倘若平放刃面，几乎无从发现。它与月光相互辉映，剑身周围有股淡淡而诡异的蓝光。不知怎地，威尔明白这柄剑比任何剃刀都要锋利。
　　威玛爵士勇敢地迎上前去。“既然如此，我们就来较量较量罢。”他举剑过头，语带挑衅。虽然他的手不知因为重量或是酷寒而颤抖，威尔却觉得在那一刻，他已经不再是个软弱怯懦的少年，而成了真正的守夜人男子汉。
　　异鬼停住脚步。威尔看到了它的眼睛，那是一种比任何人眼都要湛蓝深邃的颜色，如玄冰一般冷冷燃烧。它把视线停留在对方高举的颤抖着的剑上，凝视着冷冷月光在金属剑缘流动。那一刹那，威尔觉得事情还有转机。
　　此时它们静悄悄地从阴影里冒出来，与第一个异鬼长得一模一样，三个……四个……五个……，威玛爵士或许能感觉伴随他们而来的寒意，但他既没看到它们、也没听见它们的声音。威尔应该警告他，毕竟那是他职责所在。然而一旦出声，他便必死无疑。于是他颤抖着紧抱树干，不敢作声。
　　惨白的长剑厉声破空。
　　威玛爵士举起钢剑迎敌。当两剑交击，发出的却非金属碰撞，而是一种位于人类听觉极限边缘，又高又细，像是动物痛苦哀嚎的声音。罗伊斯挡住第二道攻击，接着是第三道，然后退了一步。又一阵刀光剑影之后，他再度后退。
　　在他左右两侧，前后周围，其余异鬼耐心地伫立旁观。它们一声不吭，面无表情，盔甲上不断变化的细致图案在树林中格外显眼。它们迟迟未出手干预。
　　两人不断交手，直到威尔想要捂住耳朵，再也无法忍受武器碰撞时刺耳的诡异声响。威玛爵士的呼吸开始急促，呼出的气在月光下蒸腾如烟。他的长剑已结满白霜，异鬼的剑则依旧闪耀着苍蓝光芒。
　　这时罗伊斯一记挡格慢了一拍，惨白色的剑顿时咬穿他腋下环甲。年轻贵族痛苦地喊了一声，鲜血流淌在铁环间，炽热的血液在冷空气中蒸汽朦朦，滴到雪地的血泊，红得像火。威玛爵士伸手按住伤口，鼹鼠皮手套整个浸成鲜红。
　　异鬼开口用一种威尔听不懂的语言说了几句话，声音如冰湖碎裂，腔调充满嘲弄。
　　威玛·罗伊斯爵士找回了勇气。“劳勃国王万岁！”他高声怒吼，双手紧紧握住覆满白霜的长剑，使尽全身力气疯狂挥舞。异鬼泰然自若。
　　两剑相击，钢剑应声碎裂。
　　尖叫声回荡在深夜的林里，罗伊斯的长剑裂成千千碎片，如同一阵针雨四散甩落。罗伊斯惨叫着跪下，伸手捂住双眼，鲜血从他指缝间汩汩流下。
　　旁观的异鬼仿佛接收到什么讯号，这时一涌向前。一片死寂之中，剑雨纷飞，这是场冷酷的屠杀。惨白的剑刃砍丝般切进环甲。威尔闭上眼睛。他听见地面上远远传来它们的谈笑声，尖利一如冰针。
　　良久，他终于鼓起勇气睁开眼睛。树下的山脊空无一人。
　　月亮缓缓爬过漆黑的天幕，但他依旧留在树上，吓得大气也不敢出。最后，他驱动抽筋的肌肉和冻僵的手指，爬回树下。
　　罗伊斯的尸体面朝下倒卧在雪地里，一只手臂朝外伸出，厚重的貂皮披风被砍得惨不忍睹。见他命丧于此，才发现他原来有多年轻，不过是个大孩子罢了。
　　他在几尺外找到断剑的残骸，剑身像遭雷击的树顶支离破碎。威尔弯下腰，小心翼翼地环顾四周之后才把剑捡起来。他要拿这柄断剑当证物，盖瑞会知道该怎么做。就算他不知道，“熊老”莫尔蒙或伊蒙学士也一定有办法。盖瑞还守着马匹等他回去么？最好加快脚步。
　　威尔起身。威玛·罗伊斯爵士站在他面前。
　　他的华裳尽碎，容貌全毁，断剑的裂片反映出他左眼瞳孔的一片茫然。
　　他的右眼却是张开的，瞳孔中烧着蓝火，看着活人。
　　断剑从威尔无力的手中落下，他闭眼默祷。优雅修长的双手拂过他的两颊，掐住他的咽喉。这双手虽然包裹在最上等的鼹鼠皮手套里，且满是黏稠血块，却冰冷无比。
　　※※※※※※
　　①野人：指居住在绝境长城以北，不在王国法律统治之下的人。他们的首领是曼斯·雷德，号称“塞外之王”。
　　②守夜人：一支驻守王国最北绝境长城的部队，因身着黑衣，以对付长城外的各种威胁为职责而得名。
　　③自由骑手：雇佣兵的一种，拥有马匹，但并无骑士身份。
　　④在冰与火之歌的世界里，四季的持续时间与地球不同，四季均可逾年，甚至长达数年。一个人一生能够经历的冬季和夏季次数相当少。
　　⑤学士为一身兼学者、医生、教师、顾问之职业。有时亦翻作“师傅”，作为较口语、较亲昵之用法。在国王的御前会议中拥有席位的大学士亦称作“国师”。
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寒烟柔。

ZxID：14225420

28006鲜花 0鸡蛋

等级: 内阁元老
配偶: 逐烟霞。
你看着眼前的人，分明还是以前的模样，可心里终究不是以前那般澄清透明了。
举报 只看该作者 板凳   发表于: 2015-08-22 0
1．BRAN

   The morning had dawned clear and cold, with a crispness that hinted at the end of summer. They set forth at daybreak to see a man beheaded, twenty in all, and Bran rode among them, nervous with excitement. This was the first time he had been deemed old enough to go with his lord father and his brothers to see the king’s justice done. It was the ninth year of summer, and the seventh of Bran’s life.
   The man had been taken outside a small holdfast in the hills. Robb thought he was a wildling, his sword sworn to Mance Rayder, the King-beyond-the-Wall. It made Bran’s skin prickle to think of it. He remembered the hearth tales Old Nan told them. The wildlings were cruel men, she said, slavers and slayers and thieves. They consorted with giants and ghouls, stole girl children in the dead of night, and drank blood from polished horns. And their women lay with the Others in the Long Night to sire terrible half-human children.
   But the man they found bound hand and foot to the holdfast wall awaiting the king’s justice was old and scrawny, not much taller than Robb. He had lost both ears and a finger to frostbite, and he dressed all in black, the same as a brother of the Night’s Watch, except that his furs were ragged and greasy.
   The breath of man and horse mingled, steaming, in the cold morning air as his lord father had the man cut down from the wall and dragged before them. Robb and Jon sat tall and still on their horses, with Bran between them on his pony, trying to seem older than seven, trying to pretend that he’d seen all this before. A faint wind blew through the holdfast gate. Over their heads flapped the banner of the Starks of Winterfell: a grey direwolf racing across an ice-white field.
   Bran’s father sat solemnly on his horse, long brown hair stirring in the wind. His closely trimmed beard was shot with white, making him look older than his thirty-five years. He had a grim cast to his grey eyes this day, and he seemed not at all the man who would sit before the fire in the evening and talk softly of the age of heroes and the children of the forest. He had taken off Father’s face, Bran thought, and donned the face of Lord Stark of Winterfell.
   There were questions asked and answers given there in the chill of morning, but afterward Bran could not recall much of what had been said. Finally his lord father gave a command, and two of his guardsmen dragged the ragged man to the ironwood stump in the center of the square. They forced his head down onto the hard black wood. Lord Eddard Stark dismounted and his ward Theon Greyjoy brought forth the sword. “Ice,” that sword was called. It was as wide across as a man’s hand, and taller even than Robb. The blade was Valyrian steel, spell-forged and dark as smoke. Nothing held an edge like Valyrian steel.
   His father peeled off his gloves and handed them to Jory Cassel, the captain of his household guard. He took hold of Ice with both hands and said, “In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, by the word of Eddard of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, I do sentence you to die.” He lifted the greatsword high above his head.
   Bran’s bastard brother Jon Snow moved closer. “Keep the pony well in hand,” he whispered. “And don’t look away. Father will know if you do.”
   Bran kept his pony well in hand, and did not look away.
   His father took off the man’s head with a single sure stroke. Blood sprayed out across the snow, as red as surnmerwine. One of the horses reared and had to be restrained to keep from bolting. Bran could not take his eyes off the blood. The snows around the stump drank it eagerly, reddening as he watched.
   The head bounced off a thick root and rolled. It came up near Greyjoy’s feet. Theon was a lean, dark youth of nineteen who found everything amusing. He laughed, put his boot on the head, and kicked it away.
   “Ass,” Jon muttered, low enough so Greyjoy did not hear. He put a hand on Bran’s shoulder, and Bran looked over at his bastard brother. “You did well,” Jon told him solemnly. Jon was fourteen, an old hand at justice.
   It seemed colder on the long ride back to Winterfell, though the wind had died by then and the sun was higher in the sky. Bran rode with his brothers, well ahead of the main party, his pony struggling hard to keep up with their horses.
   “The deserter died bravely,” Robb said. He was big and broad and growing every day, with his mother’s coloring, the fair skin, red-brown hair, and blue eyes of the Tullys of Riverrun. “He had courage, at the least.”
   “No,” Jon Snow said quietly. “It was not courage. This one was dead of fear. You could see it in his eyes, Stark.” Jon’s eyes were a grey so dark they seemed almost black, but there was little they did not see. He was of an age with Robb, but they did not look alike. Jon was slender where Robb was muscular, dark where Robb was fair, graceful and quick where his half brother was strong and fast.
   Robb was not impressed. “The Others take his eyes,” he swore. “He died well. Race you to the bridge?”
   “Done,” Jon said, kicking his horse forward. Robb cursed and followed, and they galloped off down the trail, Robb laughing and hooting, Jon silent and intent. The hooves of their horses kicked up showers of snow as they went.
   Bran did not try to follow. His pony could not keep up. He had seen the ragged man’s eyes, and he was thinking of them now. After a while, the sound of Robb’s laughter receded, and the woods grew silent again.
   So deep in thought was he that he never heard the rest of the party until his father moved up to ride beside him. “Are you well, Bran?” he asked, not unkindly.
   “Yes, Father,” Bran told him. He looked up. Wrapped in his furs and leathers, mounted on his great warhorse, his lord father loomed over him like a giant. “Robb says the man died bravely, but Jon says he was afraid.”
   “What do you think?” his father asked.
   Bran thought about it. “Can a man still be brave if he’s afraid?”
   “That is the only time a man can be brave,” his father told him. “Do you understand why I did it?”
   “He was a wildling,” Bran said. “They carry off women and sell them to the Others.”
   His lord father smiled. “Old Nan has been telling you stories again. In truth, the man was an oathbreaker, a deserter from the Night’s Watch. No man is more dangerous. The deserter knows his life is forfeit if he is taken, so he will not flinch from any crime, no matter how vile. But you mistake me. The question was not why the man had to die, but why I must do it.”
   Bran had no answer for that. “King Robert has a headsman,” he said, uncertainly.
   “He does,” his father admitted. “As did the Targaryen kings before him. Yet our way is the older way. The blood of the First Men still flows in the veins of the Starks, and we hold to the belief that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. If you would take a man’s life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. And if you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die.
   “One day, Bran, you will be Robb’s bannerman, holding a keep of your own for your brother and your king, and justice will fall to you. When that day comes, you must take no pleasure in the task, but neither must you look away. A ruler who hides behind paid executioners soon forgets what death is.”
   That was when Jon reappeared on the crest of the hill before them. He waved and shouted down at them. “Father, Bran, come quickly, see what Robb has found!” Then he was gone again.
   Jory rode up beside them. “Trouble, my lord?”
   “Beyond a doubt,” his lord father said. “Come, let us see what mischief my sons have rooted out now.” He sent his horse into a trot. Jory and Bran and the rest came after.
   They found Robb on the riverbank north of the bridge, with Jon still mounted beside him. The late summer snows had been heavy this moonturn. Robb stood knee-deep in white, his hood pulled back so the sun shone in his hair. He was cradling something in his arm, while the boys talked in hushed, excited voices.
   The riders picked their way carefully through the drifts, groping for solid footing on the hidden, uneven ground. Jory Cassel and Theon Greyjoy were the first to reach the boys. Greyjoy was laughing and joking as he rode. Bran heard the breath go out of him. “Gods!” he exclaimed, struggling to keep control of his horse as he reached for his sword.
   Jory’s sword was already out. “Robb, get away from it!” he called as his horse reared under him.
   Robb grinned and looked up from the bundle in his arms. “She can’t hurt you,” he said. “She’s dead, Jory.”
   Bran was afire with curiosity by then. He would have spurred the pony faster, but his father made them dismount beside the bridge and approach on foot. Bran jumped off and ran.
   By then Jon, Jory, and Theon Greyjoy had all dismounted as well. “What in the seven hells is it?” Greyjoy was saying.
   “A wolf,” Robb told him.
   “A freak,” Greyjoy said. “Look at the size of it.”
   Bran’s heart was thumping in his chest as he pushed through a waist-high drift to his brothers’ side.
   Half-buried in bloodstained snow, a huge dark shape slumped in death. Ice had formed in its shaggy grey fur, and the faint smell of corruption clung to it like a woman’s perfume. Bran glimpsed blind eyes crawling with maggots, a wide mouth full of yellowed teeth. But it was the size of it that made him gasp. It was bigger than his pony, twice the size of the largest hound in his father’s kennel.
   “It’s no freak,” Jon said calmly. “That’s a direwolf. They grow larger than the other kind.”
   Theon Greyjoy said, “There’s not been a direwolf sighted south of the Wall in two hundred years.”
   “I see one now,” Jon replied.
   Bran tore his eyes away from the monster. That was when he noticed the bundle in Robb’s arms. He gave a cry of delight and moved closer. The pup was a tiny ball of grey-black fur, its eyes still closed. It nuzzled blindly against Robb’s chest as he cradled it, searching for milk among his leathers, making a sad little whimpery sound. Bran reached out hesitantly. “Go on,” Robb told him. “You can touch him.”
   Bran gave the pup a quick nervous stroke, then turned as Jon said, “Here you go.” His half brother put a second pup into his arms. “There are five of them.” Bran sat down in the snow and hugged the wolf pup to his face. Its fur was soft and warm against his cheek.
   “Direwolves loose in the realm, after so many years,” muttered Hullen, the master of horse. “I like it not.”
   “It is a sign,” Jory said.
   Father frowned. “This is only a dead animal, Jory,” he said. Yet he seemed troubled. Snow crunched under his boots as he moved around the body. “Do we know what killed her?”
   “There’s something in the throat,” Robb told him, proud to have found the answer before his father even asked. “There, just under the jaw.”
   His father knelt and groped under the beast’s head with his hand. He gave a yank and held it up for all to see. A foot of shattered antler, tines snapped off, all wet with blood.
   A sudden silence descended over the party. The men looked at the antler uneasily, and no one dared to speak. Even Bran could sense their fear, though he did not understand.
   His father tossed the antler to the side and cleansed his hands in the snow. “I’m surprised she lived long enough to whelp,” he said. His voice broke the spell.
   “Maybe she didn’t,” Jory said. “I’ve heard tales?.?.?.?maybe the bitch was already dead when the pups came.”
   “Born with the dead,” another man put in. “Worse luck.”
   “No matter,” said Hullen. “They be dead soon enough too.”
   Bran gave a wordless cry of dismay.
   “The sooner the better,” Theon Greyjoy agreed. He drew his sword. “Give the beast here, Bran.”
   The little thing squirmed against him, as if it heard and understood. “No!” Bran cried out fiercely. “It’s mine.”
   “Put away your sword, Greyjoy,” Robb said. For a moment he sounded as commanding as their father, like the lord he would someday be. “We will keep these pups.”
   “You cannot do that, boy,” said Harwin, who was Hullen’s son.
   “It be a mercy to kill them,” Hullen said.
   Bran looked to his lord father for rescue, but got only a frown, a furrowed brow. “Hullen speaks truly, son. Better a swift death than a hard one from cold and starvation.”
   “No!” He could feel tears welling in his eyes, and he looked away. He did not want to cry in front of his father.
   Robb resisted stubbornly. “Ser Rodrik’s red bitch whelped again last week,” he said. “It was a small litter, only two live pups. She’ll have milk enough.”
   “She’ll rip them apart when they try to nurse.”
   “Lord Stark,” Jon said. It was strange to hear him call Father that, so formal. Bran looked at him with desperate hope. “There are five pups,” he told Father. “Three male, two female.”
   “What of it, Jon?”
   “You have five trueborn children,” Jon said. “Three sons, two daughters. The direwolf is the sigil of your House. Your children were meant to have these pups, my lord.”
   Bran saw his father’s face change, saw the other men exchange glances. He loved Jon with all his heart at that moment. Even at seven, Bran understood what his brother had done. The count had come right only because Jon had omitted himself. He had included the girls, included even Rickon, the baby, but not the bastard who bore the surname Snow, the name that custom decreed be given to all those in the north unlucky enough to be born with no name of their own.
   Their father understood as well. “You want no pup for yourself, Jon?” he asked softly.
   “The direwolf graces the banners of House Stark,” Jon pointed out. “I am no Stark, Father.”
   Their lord father regarded Jon thoughtfully. Robb rushed into the silence he left. “I will nurse him myself, Father,” he promised. “I will soak a towel with warm milk, and give him suck from that.”
   “Me too!” Bran echoed.
   The lord weighed his sons long and carefully with his eyes. “Easy to say, and harder to do. I will not have you wasting the servants’ time with this. If you want these pups, you will feed them yourselves. Is that understood?”
   Bran nodded eagerly. The pup squirmed in his grasp, licked at his face with a warm tongue.
   “You must train them as well,” their father said. “You must train them. The kennelmaster will have nothing to do with these monsters, I promise you that. And the gods help you if you neglect them, or brutalize them, or train them badly. These are not dogs to beg for treats and slink off at a kick. A direwolf will rip a man’s arm off his shoulder as easily as a dog will kill a rat. Are you sure you want this?”
   “Yes, Father,” Bran said.
   “Yes,” Robb agreed.
   “The pups may die anyway, despite all you do.”
   “They won’t die,” Robb said. “We won’t let them die.”
   “Keep them, then. Jory, Desmond, gather up the other pups. It’s time we were back to Winterfell.”
   It was not until they were mounted and on their way that Bran allowed himself to taste the sweet air of victory. By then, his pup was snuggled inside his leathers, warm against him, safe for the long ride home. Bran was wondering what to name him.
   Halfway across the bridge, Jon pulled up suddenly.
   “What is it, Jon?” their lord father asked.
   “Can’t you hear it?”
   Bran could hear the wind in the trees, the clatter of their hooves on the ironwood planks, the whimpering of his hungry pup, but Jon was listening to something else.
   “There,” Jon said. He swung his horse around and galloped back across the bridge. They watched him dismount where the direwolf lay dead in the snow, watched him kneel. A moment later he was riding back to them, smiling.
   “He must have crawled away from the others,” Jon said.
   “Or been driven away,” their father said, looking at the sixth pup. His fur was white, where the rest of the litter was grey. His eyes were as red as the blood of the ragged man who had died that morning. Bran thought it curious that this pup alone would have opened his eyes while the others were still blind.
   “An albino,” Theon Greyjoy said with wry amusement. “This one will die even faster than the others.”
   Jon Snow gave his father’s ward a long, chilling look. “I think not, Greyjoy,” he said. “This one belongs to me.”


Ⅰ 权力的游戏 Chapter2 布兰
　　晨色清冷，带着一丝寂寥，隐然暗示夏日将尽。为数二十人的队伍于破晓时分启程，布兰策马置身其间，满心焦虑又兴奋难耐。这次他年纪总算够大，可与父兄同往刑场，一观国王律法的执行。这是夏天的第九年，布兰七岁。
　　死囚已被领至小丘上的庄园，罗柏认为他是个誓死效忠“塞外之王”曼斯·雷德的野人。布兰想起老奶妈在火炉边说过的故事，不禁浑身起了鸡皮疙瘩。她说野人生性凶残蛮横，个个都是贩卖奴隶、杀人放火的偷盗之徒。他们与巨人族、食尸鬼狼狈为奸，趁黑夜诱拐童女，还以磨亮的兽角啜饮鲜血。他们的女人则相传在远古的“长夜”里与异鬼媾合，繁衍半人半鬼的恐怖后代。
　　然而眼前这个老人削瘦枯槁，比罗柏高不了多少，手脚紧缚身后，静待国王的旨意发落。他在酷寒中因冻疮失去了双耳和一根手指。而他全身漆黑的衣服，与守夜人弟兄们的制服没有两样，只不过衣衫褴褛，脓疮四溢。
　　人马的气息在清晨的冷空气里交织成蒸腾的雪白雾网，父亲下令将墙边的人犯松绑，拖到队伍前面。罗柏和琼恩直挺背脊，昂然跨坐鞍背；布兰则骑着小马停在两人中间，努力想表现出七岁孩童所没有的成熟气度，仿佛眼前一切早已司空见惯。微风吹过栅门，众人头顶飘扬着临冬城史塔克家族的旗帜，上面画着白底灰色的冰原奔狼。
　　父亲神情肃穆地骑在马上，满头棕色长发在风中飞扬。他修剪整齐的胡子里冒出几缕白丝，看起来比三十五岁的实际年龄要老些。这天他的灰色眼瞳严厉无情，怎么看也不像是那个会在风雪夜里端坐炉前，娓娓细述远古英雄纪元和森林之子故事的人。他已经摘下慈父的容颜，戴上临冬城主史塔克公爵的面具，布兰心想。
　　清晨的寒意里，布兰听到有人问了些问题，以及问题的答案，然而事后他却想不起来究竟说过了哪些话。总之最后父亲下了命令，两名卫士便把那衣衫褴褛的人拖到空地中央的铁树木桩前，将头硬是按在漆黑的硬木上。艾德·史塔克解鞍下马，他的养子席恩·葛雷乔伊立刻递上宝剑。剑名“寒冰”，身宽过掌，立起来比罗柏还高。剑刃乃是用瓦雷利亚钢锻造而成，受过法术加持，颜色暗如黑烟。世上没有别的东西比瓦雷利亚钢更锐利。
　　父亲脱下手套，交给侍卫队长乔里·凯索，然后双手擎剑，朗声说道：“以安达尔人、洛伊拿人和‘先民’的国王，七国统治者暨全境守护者，拜拉席恩家族的劳勃一世之名，我临冬城公爵与北境守护，史塔克家族的艾德，在此宣判你死刑。”语毕，他将巨剑高举过头。
　　布兰的异母哥哥琼恩·雪诺凑过来。“握紧缰绳，别让马儿乱动。还有，千万别扭头，不然父亲会知道。”
　　于是布兰紧握缰绳，没让小马乱动，也没有把头转开。
　　父亲巨剑一挥，利落地砍下死囚首级。鲜血溅洒在雪地上，殷红一如葡萄美酿夏日红。队伍中一匹马嘶声跃起，差点就要发狂乱跑。布兰目不转睛地直视血迹，只见树干旁的白雪饥渴地啜饮鲜血，在他的注视下迅速染成暗红。
　　人头翻过树根，滚至葛雷乔伊脚边。席恩是个身形精瘦，肤色黝黑的十九岁青年，对任何事物都觉得兴致勃勃。他咧嘴一笑，扬脚踢开人头。
　　“混账东西。”琼恩低声咒道，刻意放低声音不让葛雷乔伊听见。他伸手搭住布兰肩膀，布兰也转头看着私生子哥哥。“你做得很好。”琼恩神情庄重地告诉他。琼恩今年十四岁，观看死刑对他来说已是司空见惯。
　　冷风已停，暖阳高照，但返回临冬城的漫漫长路却似乎愈加寒冷。布兰与兄长并骑，远远走在队伍前方，他跨下小马气喘吁吁方能跟上兄长坐骑的迅捷步伐。
　　“这逃兵死得挺勇敢。”罗柏说。高大壮硕的他每天都在成长，他承袭了母亲的白皙肤色、红褐头发，以及徒利家族的蓝色眼眸。“不管怎么说，好歹他有点勇气。”
　　“不对，”琼恩静静地说，“那不算勇气。史塔克，这家伙正是因为恐惧而死的，你可以从他的眼神里看出来。”琼恩的灰色眼瞳深得近乎墨黑，但世间少有事物能逃过他的观察。他与罗柏同年，两人容貌却大相径庭：罗柏肌肉发达，皮肤白皙，强壮而动作迅速；琼恩则是体格精瘦，肤色沉黑，举止优雅而敏捷。
　　罗柏不以为然。“叫异鬼把他眼睛给挖了罢，”他咒道，“他总算是死得壮烈。怎么样，比赛谁先到桥边？”
　　“一言为定。”琼恩语毕两脚一夹马肚，纵骑前奔。罗柏咒骂几句后也追了上去，两人沿着路径向前急驰。罗柏又叫又笑，琼恩则凝神专注。马蹄在两人身后溅起一片翻飞雪雨。
　　布兰没有跟上去，他的小马没这般能耐。他方才见到了死囚的眼睛，现在则陷入沉思。没过多久，罗柏的笑声渐远，林间归于寂静。
　　太过专注的他，丝毫没注意到跟进的队伍已赶上自己，直到父亲骑马赶到身边，语带关切地问：“布兰，你还好吧？”
　　“父亲大人，我很好。”布兰应答，他抬头仰望父亲，父亲穿着毛皮大衣和皮革护甲，骑在雄骏战马上如巨人般笼罩住他。“罗柏说刚才那个人死得很勇敢，琼恩却说他死的时候很害怕。”
　　“你自己怎么想呢？”他的父亲问。
　　布兰寻思片刻后反问：“人在恐惧的时候还能勇敢吗？”
　　“人惟有恐惧的时候方能勇敢。”父亲告诉他，“你知道为什么我要杀他？”
　　“因为他是野人，”布兰不假思索地回答，“他们绑架女人，然后把她们卖给异鬼。”
　　父亲微笑道：“老奶妈又跟你说故事了。那人其实是个逃兵，背弃了守夜人的誓言。世间最危险的人莫过于此，因为他们自知一旦被捕，只有死路一条，于是恶向胆边生，再伤天害理的勾当也干得出来。不过你会错了意，我不是问你他为什么要死，而是我为何要亲自行刑”。
　　布兰想不出答案。“我只知道劳勃国王有个刽子手，”他不太确定地说。
　　“他确实是由王家刽子手代劳，执行国王律法，”父亲承认，“在他之前的坦格利安王朝也是如此。但我们遵循古老的传统，史塔克家族的人体内仍流有‘先民’的血液，而我们相信判决死刑的人必须亲自动手。如果你要取人性命，至少应该注视他的双眼，聆听他的临终遗言。倘若做不到这点，那么或许他罪不致死。”
　　“布兰，有朝一日你会成为罗柏的封臣，为你哥哥和国王治理属于自己的领地，届时你也必须执掌律法。当那天来临时，你绝不可以杀戮为乐，亦不能逃避责任。统治者若是躲在幕后，付钱给刽子手执行，很快就会忘记死亡为何物。”
　　这时琼恩出现在他们前面的坡顶，挥手朝下大喊：“父亲大人，布兰，快来看看罗柏找到了什么！”语毕又消失在丘陵后方。
　　乔里赶上前来，“大人，出事了吗？”
　　“那还用说，”父亲大人答道，“来罢，我们去看看我那调皮的儿子又闯了什么祸。”他策马狂奔，乔里、布兰以及其他人也跟了上去。
　　他们在桥北河畔找到罗柏，琼恩仍在马上。这个月来，晚夏的积雪沉厚，罗柏站在及膝深的雪中，披风后敞，阳光在他发际闪耀。他怀里抱着不知什么东西，正和琼恩两人兴奋地窃语交谈。
　　队伍骑马小心地穿过河面的诸多浮物，寻找隐藏于雪地之下的崎岖地面。乔里·凯索和席恩·葛雷乔伊最先赶到男孩身边。葛雷乔伊原本正有说有笑，紧接着布兰却听他倒抽一口气。“诸神保佑！”他惊叫起来伸手拔剑，一边挣扎着稳住坐骑。
　　乔里的佩剑已然出鞘，“罗柏，离那东西远点！”他刚叫出声，坐骑便已前蹄高举，人立空中。
　　罗柏怀里抱着一团东西，这时他嘻嘻笑着抬起头，“她伤不了你的，”他说，“乔里，她已经死啦。”
　　布兰满心好奇，焦躁不安，一心只想教鞍下小马再跑快点，但父亲却要他在桥边下马，徒步前往。他迫不及待地跳下马，三步并作两步地跑了过去。
　　等他到来，琼恩、乔里和席恩·葛雷乔伊都已下马。“七层地狱啊，这是什么鬼东西？”葛雷乔伊喃喃道。
　　“狼。”罗柏告诉他。
　　“胡说，”葛雷乔伊反驳，“狼哪有这么大的？”
　　布兰的心怦怦狂跳，他推开一堆齐腰的漂浮物，奔至兄长身旁。
　　一个巨大的暗黝身形半掩在血渍斑驳的雪堆里，绵软而无生息。蓬松的灰绒毛已经结冰，腐朽的气息紧附其间，就像女人身上的香水味，布兰隐约瞥见它无神的眼窝里爬满蛆虫，咧嘴内满是黄牙。但真正吓住他的是这只狼的体形，它竟比他的小马还大，是他父亲最大的猎犬身躯的两倍。
　　“我没骗你，”琼恩正色道，“这确实是冰原狼，他们比其他狼都要大。”
　　席恩·葛雷乔伊说：“可两百年来，绝境长城以南没人见过半头冰原狼。”
　　“眼前不就是一头？”琼恩回答。
　　布兰努力将视线离开面前的怪物，这才注意到罗柏怀里抱着的东西。他高兴得叫了一声，随即靠过去。那只幼狼只是团灰黑的毛球，双眼仍未张开。它盲目地往罗柏胸膛磨蹭，在他的皮护甲上寻找奶头，发出哀伤的低吟。布兰有些犹豫地探出手，“没关系，”罗柏告诉他，“你可以摸摸看。”
　　布兰非常紧张，飞快碰了小狼一下，听到琼恩的声音，便转过头。“瞧，这只是给你的。”他的私生子哥哥把第二头幼狼放进他怀里。“总共有五只呢。”布兰在雪地里坐下，把小狼温软的皮毛贴近自己脸颊。
　　“经过了这么多年，冰原狼突然重现人间，”马房总管胡伦喃喃道，“这种事我可不喜欢。”
　　“这是个坏兆头。”乔里说。
　　父亲皱起眉头。“乔里，不过是头死狼罢了。”他说，但脸庞却蒙上了一层阴霾。他绕着狼尸，积雪在他脚下碎裂。“知道它被什么杀死的吗？”
　　“喉咙里好像有东西。”罗柏得意地回答，暗暗为自己能在父亲提出疑问前找到解答而骄傲。“就在下巴底下。”
　　他的父亲蹲下来，伸手探向狼尸的头底，使劲一拧，举起某个物体让大家看。原来那是一只碎裂的鹿角，分叉断尽，染满鲜血。
　　一阵突如其来的寂静笼罩了队伍，众人局促不安地看着那只鹿角，没有人出声说话。布兰虽然不解旁人为何惊恐，却也能感觉得到他们的惧怕。
　　父亲扔开鹿角，在雪地里把手弄干净。“没想到它还有力气把孩子生下来。”他的声音打破了先前的沉默。
　　“也许它没撑那么久，”乔里说：“我听过这样的传说……也许小狼降生时母狼就已经死了。”
　　“随死降生，”另一个人接口道，“这是更坏的兆头。”
　　“都没差，”胡伦说，“反正这些小家伙也活不长。”
　　布兰发出无声的失望叹息。
　　“我看它们死得越快越好，”席恩·葛雷乔伊同意，他抽出佩剑。“布兰，把那东西丢过来。”
　　布兰怀中的小东西仿佛听懂人话，偎着他蠕动了一下。“不要！”他坚决地叫道，“它是我的。”
　　“葛雷乔伊，把剑拿开。”罗柏说，那一刹那，他听起来像父亲一样威严有力，正如他有朝一日将会成为的一方领主。“我们要养这些小狼。”
　　“小子，这是行不通的。”胡伦的儿子哈尔温道。
　　“杀了它们才是慈悲啊。”胡伦接口。
　　布兰朝父亲望去，期盼能找到救兵，却只见到深锁的双眉。“好儿子，胡伦说得没错。与其让它们挨饿受冻，不如干脆趁早了结。”
　　“不要！”他已经感觉到泪水在眼眶里打转，于是转开目光，他可不想在父亲面前落泪。
　　罗柏固执地继续抗拒。“罗德利克爵士的那头红母狗上星期才刚生产，”他说：“那胎死了不少，只有两只小狗活了下来，奶水应该还够它们喝。”
　　“它们只要想走近喝奶，立刻会被它撕成碎片。”
　　“史塔克大人，”琼恩说。听他如此正式地称呼自己父亲，实在很怪。布兰抱着最后一丝希望看着他。“总共有五只小狼，”他告诉父亲，“三只公的，两只母的。”
　　“琼恩，这有什么意义吗？”
　　“您有五个孩子，”琼恩回答，“三个儿子，两个女儿。冰原狼又是你们的家徽，大人，您的孩子们注定要拥有这些小狼。”
　　布兰看到父亲的脸色转变，其他人则交换眼神，就在那一刻，他全身心地爱着琼恩。虽然他只有七岁，布兰仍很清楚自己的私生子哥哥这样做所代表的意义：他是把自己排除在父亲的子嗣之外，才会刚好凑成数的。他把两个女孩算了进去，甚至连襁褓中的小瑞肯也有分，却独独没有算冠着雪诺这个私生子姓氏的自己。雪诺这个姓氏是专门给那些在北方出生，却不幸没有父亲的人用的。
　　父亲也明白这点。“琼恩，你自己不想要小狼么？”他轻声问。
　　“冰原狼是史塔克家族的纹章，”琼恩指出，“我并非史塔克家族的一员，父亲。”
　　父亲若有所思地看了琼恩一眼，罗柏急切地打破沉默，“父亲，我会亲自喂养小狼。”他保证，“我会用浸过温牛奶的湿毛巾喂它。”
　　“我也会！”布兰连忙跟进。
　　公爵意味深长地审视儿子，“说起来简单，真要做可不容易。我不会让你们占用仆人的时间。假如你们真要养这群小狼，就得一切自己来，知道么？”
　　布兰热切地连连点头，小狼蜷缩在他怀里，伸出温热的舌头舔舔他的脸颊。
　　“你们还得亲自训练它们，”父亲又道：“我保证驯兽长和这些怪物将毫无干系。倘若你们把它们练得残忍成性，或有什么闪失，那么祈祷天上诸神保佑吧。这些可不是讨好卖乖的狗，也不是随便踢一脚就能打发的角色。冰原狼要扯下胳膊就和狗杀老鼠一样简单，你们确定要养么？”
　　“是的，父亲大人。”布兰答道。
　　“嗯。”罗柏同意。
　　“即使你们费尽苦心，小狼还是有夭折的可能”。
　　“不会，”罗柏说：“我们不会让它们死掉。”
　　“那就留着它们罢。乔里，戴斯蒙，把其他几只小狼带上，我们该回临冬城了。”
　　一直到他们骑马踏上归途，布兰方才允许自己享受胜利的喜悦。他的小狼此刻正安全地藏靠在他的皮护甲里，他不禁思索该为它取个什么名字才好。
　　走到桥中央，琼恩突然勒住马缰。
　　“琼恩，怎么了？”公爵父亲问。
　　“你们没听到么？”
　　布兰只听见林间风声和哒哒马蹄，以及怀间嗷嗷待哺的小狼，但琼恩正侧耳倾听别的事物。
　　“在那里。”琼恩道，他掉转马头，急驰过桥，大家看着他在母狼尸体旁下马，屈膝跪下，一会儿过后又骑马归来，满面笑容。
　　“这只一定是先爬开了。”琼恩说。
　　“或是被赶开的。”他们的父亲看着第六只小狼说。它毛色净白，其他的小狼则多半灰黑，它的眼瞳红如早上死囚的鲜血。布兰很觉好奇，不知为何其他小狼连眼睛都还没睁开，惟独它双目炯炯有神。
　　“白子，”席恩·葛雷乔伊话里有种兴味十足的讥讽，“只怕这只会死得最快。”
　　琼恩·雪诺给了他父亲的养子一个意味深长的冷绝凝视，“葛雷乔伊，我可不这么认为。”他答道，“因为这是我的狼。”
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寒烟柔。

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28006鲜花 0鸡蛋

等级: 内阁元老
配偶: 逐烟霞。
你看着眼前的人，分明还是以前的模样，可心里终究不是以前那般澄清透明了。
举报 只看该作者 地板   发表于: 2015-08-22 0
2．CATELYN
Catelyn had never liked this godswood.
   She had been born a Tully, at Riverrun far to the south, on the Red Fork of the Trident. The godswood there was a garden, bright and airy, where tall redwoods spread dappled shadows across tinkling streams, birds sang from hidden nests, and the air was spicy with the scent of flowers.
   The gods of Winterfell kept a different sort of wood. It was a dark, primal place, three acres of old forest untouched for ten thousand years as the gloomy castle rose around it. It smelled of moist earth and decay. No redwoods grew here. This was a wood of stubborn sentinel trees armored in grey-green needles, of mighty oaks, of ironwoods as old as the realm itself. Here thick black trunks crowded close together while twisted branches wove a dense canopy overhead and misshappen roots wrestled beneath the soil. This was a place of deep silence and brooding shadows, and the gods who lived here had no names.
   But she knew she would find her husband here tonight. Whenever he took a man’s life, afterward he would seek the quiet of the godswood.
   Catelyn had been anointed with the seven oils and named in the rainbow of light that filled the sept of Riverrun. She was of the Faith, like her father and grandfather and his father before him. Her gods had names, and their faces were as familiar as the faces of her parents. Worship was a septon with a censer, the smell of incense, a seven-sided crystal alive with light, voices raised in song. The Tullys kept a godswood, as all the great houses did, but it was only a place to walk or read or lie in the sun. Worship was for the sept.
   For her sake, Ned had built a small sept where she might sing to the seven faces of god, but the blood of the First Men still flowed in the veins of the Starks, and his own gods were the old ones, the nameless, faceless gods of the greenwood they shared with the vanished children of the forest.
   At the center of the grove an ancient weirwood brooded over a small pool where the waters were black and cold. “The heart tree,” Ned called it. The weirwood’s bark was white as bone, its leaves dark red, like a thousand bloodstained hands. A face had been carved in the trunk of the great tree, its features long and melancholy, the deep-cut eyes red with dried sap and strangely watchful. They were old, those eyes; older than Winterfell itself. They had seen Brandon the Builder set the first stone, if the tales were true; they had watched the castle’s granite walls rise around them. It was said that the children of the forest had carved the faces in the trees during the dawn centuries before the coming of the First Men across the narrow sea.
   In the south the last weirwoods had been cut down or burned out a thousand years ago, except on the Isle of Faces where the green men kept their silent watch. Up here it was different. Here every castle had its godswood, and every godswood had its heart tree, and every heart tree its face.
   Catelyn found her husband beneath the weirwood, seated on a moss-covered stone. The greatsword Ice was across his lap, and he was cleaning the blade in those waters black as night. A thousand years of humus lay thick upon the godswood floor, swallowing the sound of her feet, but the red eyes of the weirwood seemed to follow her as she came. “Ned,” she called softly.
   He lifted his head to look at her. “Catelyn,” he said. His voice was distant and formal. “Where are the children?”
   He would always ask her that. “In the kitchen, arguing about names for the wolf pups.” She spread her cloak on the forest floor and sat beside the pool, her back to the weirwood. She could feel the eyes watching her, but she did her best to ignore them. “Arya is already in love, and Sansa is charmed and gracious, but Rickon is not quite sure.”
   “Is he afraid?” Ned asked.
   “A little,” she admitted. “He is only three.”
   Ned frowned. “He must learn to face his fears. He will not be three forever. And winter is coming.”
   “Yes,” Catelyn agreed. The words gave her a chill, as they always did. The Stark words. Every noble house had its words. Family mottoes, touchstones, prayers of sorts, they boasted of honor and glory, promised loyalty and truth, swore faith and courage. All but the Starks. Winter is coming, said the Stark words. Not for the first time, she reflected on what a strange people these northerners were.
   “The man died well, I’ll give him that,” Ned said. He had a swatch of oiled leather in one hand. He ran it lightly up the greatsword as he spoke, polishing the metal to a dark glow. “I was glad for Bran’s sake. You would have been proud of Bran.”
   “I am always proud of Bran,” Catelyn replied, watching the sword as he stroked it. She could see the rippling deep within the steel, where the metal had been folded back on itself a hundred times in the forging. Catelyn had no love for swords, but she could not deny that Ice had its own beauty. It had been forged in Valyria, before the Doom had come to the old Freehold, when the ironsmiths had worked their metal with spells as well as hammers. Four hundred years old it was, and as sharp as the day it was forged. The name it bore was older still, a legacy from the age of heroes, when the Starks were Kings in the North.
   “He was the fourth this year,” Ned said grimly. “The poor man was half-mad. Something had put a fear in him so deep that my words could not reach him.” He sighed. “Ben writes that the strength of the Night’s Watch is down below a thousand. It’s not only desertions. They are losing men on rangings as well.”
   “Is it the wildlings?” she asked.
   “Who else?” Ned lifted Ice, looked down the cool steel length of it. “And it will only grow worse. The day may come when I will have no choice but to call the banners and ride north to deal with this King-beyond-the-Wall for good and all.”
   “Beyond the Wall?” The thought made Catelyn shudder.
   Ned saw the dread on her face. “Mance Rayder is nothing for us to fear.”
   “There are darker things beyond the Wall.” She glanced behind her at the heart tree, the pale bark and red eyes, watching, listening, thinking its long slow thoughts.
   His smile was gentle. “You listen to too many of Old Nan’s stories. The Others are as dead as the children of the forest, gone eight thousand years. Maester Luwin will tell you they never lived at all. No living man has ever seen one.”
   “Until this morning, no living man had ever seen a direwolf either,” Catelyn reminded him.
   “I ought to know better than to argue with a Tully,” he said with a rueful smile. He slid Ice back into its sheath. “You did not come here to tell me crib tales. I know how little you like this place. What is it, my lady?”
   Catelyn took her husband’s hand. “There was grievous news today, my lord. I did not wish to trouble you until you had cleansed yourself.” There was no way to soften the blow, so she told him straight. “I am so sorry, my love. Jon Arryn is dead.”
   His eyes found hers, and she could see how hard it took him, as she had known it would. In his youth, Ned had fostered at the Eyrie, and the childless Lord Arryn had become a second father to him and his fellow ward, Robert Baratheon. When the Mad King Aerys II Targaryen had demanded their heads, the Lord of the Eyrie had raised his moon-and-falcon banners in revolt rather than give up those he had pledged to protect.
   And one day fifteen years ago, this second father had become a brother as well, as he and Ned stood together in the sept at Riverrun to wed two sisters, the daughters of Lord Hoster Tully.
   “Jon?.?.?.?” he said. “Is this news certain?”
   “It was the king’s seal, and the letter is in Robert’s own hand. I saved it for you. He said Lord Arryn was taken quickly. Even Maester Pycelle was helpless, but he brought the milk of the poppy, so Jon did not linger long in pain.”
   “That is some small mercy, I suppose,” he said. She could see the grief on his face, but even then he thought first of her. “Your sister,” he said. “And Jon’s boy. What word of them?”
   “The message said only that they were well, and had returned to the Eyrie,” Catelyn said. “I wish they had gone to Riverrun instead. The Eyrie is high and lonely, and it was ever her husband’s place, not hers. Lord Jon’s memory will haunt each stone. I know my sister. She needs the comfort of family and friends around her.”
   “Your uncle waits in the Vale, does he not? Jon named him Knight of the Gate, I’d heard.”
   Catelyn nodded. “Brynden will do what he can for her, and for the boy. That is some comfort, but still?.?.?.?”
   “Go to her,” Ned urged. “Take the children. Fill her halls with noise and shouts and laughter. That boy of hers needs other children about him, and Lysa should not be alone in her grief.”
   “Would that I could,” Catelyn said. “The letter had other tidings. The king is riding to Winterfell to seek you out.”
   It took Ned a moment to comprehend her words, but when the understanding came, the darkness left his eyes. “Robert is coming here?” When she nodded, a smile broke across his face.
   Catelyn wished she could share his joy. But she had heard the talk in the yards; a direwolf dead in the snow, a broken antler in its throat. Dread coiled within her like a snake, but she forced herself to smile at this man she loved, this man who put no faith in signs. “I knew that would please you,” she said. “We should send word to your brother on the Wall.”
   “Yes, of course,” he agreed. “Ben will want to be here. I shall tell Maester Luwin to send his swiftest bird.” Ned rose and pulled her to her feet. “Damnation, how many years has it been? And he gives us no more notice than this? How many in his party, did the message say?”
   “I should think a hundred knights, at the least, with all their retainers, and half again as many freeriders. Cersei and the children travel with them.”
   “Robert will keep an easy pace for their sakes,” he said. “It is just as well. That will give us more time to prepare.”
   “The queen’s brothers are also in the party,” she told him.
   Ned grimaced at that. There was small love between him and the queen’s family, Catelyn knew. The Lannisters of Casterly Rock had come late to Robert’s cause, when victory was all but certain, and he had never forgiven them. “Well, if the price for Robert’s company is an infestation of Lannisters, so be it. It sounds as though Robert is bringing half his court.”
   “Where the king goes, the realm follows,” she said.
   “It will be good to see the children. The youngest was still sucking at the Lannister woman’s teat the last time I saw him. He must be, what, five by now?”
   “Prince Tommen is seven,” she told him. “The same age as Bran. Please, Ned, guard your tongue. The Lannister woman is our queen, and her pride is said to grow with every passing year.”
   Ned squeezed her hand. “There must be a feast, of course, with singers, and Robert will want to hunt. I shall send Jory south with an honor guard to meet them on the kingsroad and escort them back. Gods, how are we going to feed them all? On his way already, you said? Damn the man. Damn his royal hide.”

凯特琳向来不喜欢这座神木林。
　　她出身南境的徒利家族，自小在红叉河畔的奔流城长大。红叉河是三叉戟河的支流，那里的神木林是座明亮清朗的花园，高大的红木树影洒进溪涧，鸟儿在栖隐的林间巢穴里高唱，空气中弥漫百花馨香。
　　临冬城信仰的则是另一番气象。这是个阴暗原始的地方，昏暝古堡巍然独立其间，万年古木横亘周边，散发出潮湿和腐败的气味。此地不生红木，树林由披戴灰绿松针的哨兵树、壮实的橡树，以及与王国同样苍老的铁树所组成。在这里，粗壮厚实的黑色树干相互攘挤，扭曲的枝在头顶织就一片浓密的参天树顶，变形的错节盘根则在地底彼此角力。这是个属于深沉寂静和窒郁暗影的地方，而蛰居其间的神连名字也付之阙如。
　　但她知道今晚可以在这里找到丈夫。每当他取人性命后，总会来此觅求神木林的宁静。
　　凯特琳身受七种圣油祝福与加持，命名仪式乃是在浸沐于七彩虹光的奔流城圣堂里举行的。她和先辈数代一样信仰七神。她信奉的神有名有姓，脸庞也如同自己双亲般熟悉。她在香炉冉冉的圣堂里祷告，燃香气味弥漫，指引的修士挂着光芒共生的七面水晶，喃喃地低声吟唱。徒利家族虽如其他大家贵族般拥有自己的神木林，但那只不过是个散步阅读或在暖阳下休憩的处所，敬拜神明向来是圣堂里的事。
　　奈德为她建了座小圣堂，好让她有个向七面之神诵唱的地方。然而史塔克家族体内依旧流淌着“先民”的血液，他信奉那些既无名号亦无容貌的远古诸神，那些属于苍翠树林，先民与消失的森林之子共同信仰的神。
　　林子中央有棵古老的鱼梁木，笼罩着一泓黑冷池水，奈德称之为“心树”。鱼梁木的树皮灰白如骨，叶色深红，有如千只染血手掌。树干上刻了一张人脸，容貌深长而忧郁，满是干涸红树汁的深陷眼凹形容怪异、充满警戒意味。那是一双古老的眼睛，比临冬城本身还要古老，它们曾经目睹“筑城者”布兰登安下第一块基石，倘若传说属实，它们也见证了城堡的大理石墙在四周逐渐高筑。传说这些脸是在黎明纪元时，在“先民”渡过狭海而来之前，由森林之子刻上去的。
　　南方的鱼梁木早在千年前便遭砍伐焚烧殆尽，只在千面屿上还有“绿人”静静地看守。然而在北境一切都迥然不同，这里每一座城堡都有自己的神木林，每片神木林都有一棵心树，每棵心树都有一张人脸。
　　凯特琳在鱼梁木下找到了她的丈夫，他静坐在苔藓爬盖的磐石上。宝剑“寒冰”斜躺于膝，而他正用那漆黑如永夜的池水清洗剑上血污。千年累积的腐植质厚厚地覆盖在神木林的土地上，吸走了她的足音，但鱼梁木那双红眼却仿佛紧跟不舍。“奈德①。”她轻声唤道。
　　他抬起头看着她。“凯特琳，”他的语调庄重而遥远。“孩子们呢？”
　　他总是会先问这句。“都在厨房里，为了要帮小狼们取些什么名字正吵架呢。”她把披风铺在林地上，然后在池边坐下，背靠鱼梁木。她感觉得到那双眼睛正盯着自己看，但她竭尽所能去忽略它。“艾莉亚已经爱得发狂，珊莎也很喜欢，瑞肯则还不太确定。”
　　“他害怕吗？”奈德问。
　　“有一点，”她承认，“毕竟他才三岁。”。
　　奈德皱眉：“他得学着面对自己的恐惧，他不可能永远都是三岁，更何况凛冬将至。”
　　“是啊，”凯特琳也同意，最后那句话一如既往地教她不寒而栗。这是史塔克家族的铭言，每一个贵族家族都有着自己的箴言警句：或是世代相传的座右铭，或是待人处事的衡量标准，或是针对困境的祷词；有的夸耀荣誉，有些讲究忠贞诚信，还有的为信仰和勇气宣誓，惟独史塔克家族例外。凛冬将至，史塔克家族的铭言如是说。她已经不只一次在心里暗忖：这些北方人究竟是什么样的一群怪人。
　　“今天那个人死得很干脆，这一点我承认。”奈德说，他手里握了一块上了油的皮革，边说边轻拭剑身，金属被逐渐磨出暗沉的光泽。“我很为布兰高兴，你要是在场，也会为他骄傲的。”
　　“我向来都很为他骄傲。”凯特琳边看他拭剑边答道，她可以瞧见钢铁深处的波纹，那是锻冶时千锤百炼的印记。凯特琳对刀剑素无好感，但她不能否认“寒冰”确有其独特的美。它是末日浩劫降临古自由堡垒以前，在瓦雷利亚锻造而成，当时的铁匠不仅用凿锤冶铁，更用法术来形塑金属。宝剑已有四百年历史，却仍旧如它锻冶初成时那般锋利。它的名字则更源远流长，乃是袭自古代英雄纪元时的族剑之名，那时史塔克一族是北境之王。
　　“这已经是今年第四个逃兵了，”奈德沉着脸说，“那个可怜的家伙已经疯了一半，不知什么东西把他吓成那副德行，连我说话都起不了作用。”他叹口气，“班写信来说守夜人的兵力只剩不到一千，不只因为逃兵，他们派出去的巡逻队也损失惨重。”
　　“是野人的关系吗？”她问。
　　“还会有谁呢？”奈德举起“寒冰”，俯首审视手中冰冷的钢铁。“恐怕情况只会越来越糟，也许我真的别无选择，非得召集封臣，率军北进，与这个绝境长城以外的国王一决生死。”
　　“绝境长城以外？”凯特琳想到就不禁浑身颤抖。
　　奈德察觉了她脸上的恐惧。“我们用不着害怕曼斯·雷德。”
　　“长城之外还有更可怕的东西。”她转过头去，看着心树惨白的树皮和赭红的双眼，凝视、倾听、考虑着深邃悠远的思绪。
　　他的微笑好温柔。“老奶妈的故事你听太多啦。异鬼和森林之子一样，早已经消失了八千多年。鲁温师傅会告诉你他们根本就没存在过，没有活人见过他们。”
　　“今天早上之前，不也没人见过冰原狼？”凯特琳提醒他。
　　“我怎么也说不过徒利家的人，”他嘴角浮起一抹后悔的微笑，将“寒冰”收回剑鞘。“我猜你不是跑来跟我聊睡前故事的，何况我知道你一点也不喜欢这个地方。究竟是什么事，我的好夫人？”
　　凯特琳握住丈夫的手。“今天我们接获了悲伤的消息，大人，我不想在你清理宝剑之前打扰你。”既然无法减轻伤害，她决定实话实说。“亲爱的，我很难过，琼恩·艾林过世了。”
　　他们视线相对，她可以清楚地看见他受的打击有多大，正如她所预料。奈德年轻时曾在鹰巢城做过养子，而膝下无子的艾林公爵待他和另一名养子劳勃·拜拉席恩有如生父再世。当疯王伊里斯·坦格利安二世要求他交出两人的项上人头时，这位鹰巢城公爵揭起他的新月猎鹰旗，宁可兴兵发难也不愿出卖他誓言守护的人。
　　而就在十五年前的那一天，这位再世生父又成了奈德的连襟。他们俩并肩站在奔流城的圣堂里，娶了一对姐妹，也就是霍斯特·徒利公爵的两个女儿。
　　“琼恩……”他说，“这消息确实么？”
　　“信上有国王的印鉴，且是劳勃亲手书写。他说艾林公爵走得很仓促，就连派席尔国师也束手无策。不过国师给他喝了罂粟花奶，所以琼恩并没受太多折磨。”
　　“我想这也算是最后的一点慈悲。”他说，她看见他脸上的悲伤，但他最先想到的还是她。“你妹妹，”他问，“还有琼恩的儿子，有他们的消息吗？”。
　　“信上只说他们安然无恙，并已返回了鹰巢城。”凯特琳说，“我真希望他们回的是奔流城。鹰巢城高耸孤绝，那里一直是她丈夫的地盘，并非她的归宿。琼恩大人的回忆肯定会萦绕鹰巢城里每一块砖石。我很了解妹妹，她需要的是家人和朋友的支持与陪伴。”
　　“你叔叔不是正在艾林谷中等着她？我听说琼恩任命他做了血门骑士。”
　　凯特琳点点头，“布林登当然会尽他所能照顾她和她儿子，可是……”
　　“那么你去陪她吧，”奈德劝促，“把孩子们也一起带去，让她的居所充满欢笑和喧闹。那孩子需要其他同伴的陪伴，你妹妹更不应该独自哀悼。”
　　“如果我能去就好了。”凯特琳说道：“信上还说到别的事，国王正在前往临冬城的路上，他要找你共商国事。”
　　奈德好一会儿才理解她话中含义，但当他恍然大悟时，眼中阴霾顿时一扫而空。“劳勃要来？”她点点头，他脸上随即绽开一抹微笑。
　　凯特琳真希望自己能分享他此刻的喜悦，但她在庭院里听到了传闻，说是有只冰原狼死在雪地里，喉咙中有根断裂的鹿角。恐惧如同毒蛇般在她心里蜷曲，但她迫使自己在这个她所深爱的男人面前强颜欢笑，这个不相信任何预兆的男人。“我就知道你听了会高兴，”她说，“我们应该通知你在长城的弟弟。”
　　“对，对，当然，”他同意，“班一定想来。我请鲁温师傅派他最快的鸟儿送信去。”奈德直起身，也拉她起来。“该死，我们有多少年没见面了？他居然没有特意通知我。信上有否注明大约有多少人会来？”
　　“我想至少有一百位骑士罢，加上他们的随从，还有这个数目一半的自由骑手。瑟曦和她的孩子们也都来了。”
　　“那么为他们着想，劳勃不会走太快的。”他说：“也好，这样一来我们才多点时间准备。”
　　“王后的哥哥也在队伍里。”她告诉他。
　　奈德听后脸色立刻一沉。凯特琳很清楚他对王后的家族素无好感，凯岩城的兰尼斯特家族当年是最晚加入劳勃势力的大贵族，直等到胜败情势明朗化后方才表态，而奈德始终没有原谅他们。“也罢，如果劳勃来访的代价是这些兰尼斯特家的讨厌鬼，那就认了罢。只是，听起来劳勃好像把他半个宫廷的人都带来了。”
　　“国王走到哪儿，王国就跟到哪儿嘛。”她答道。
　　“看看那些孩子倒也不错。上次见到那个兰尼斯特女人，劳勃最小的儿子还在喝她的奶水。一转眼都几年了？他现在应该已经……多少……五岁了吧？”
　　“托曼王子七岁了，”她告诉他，“和布兰同年。奈德，请你小心措辞，那兰尼斯特女人好歹是我们的王后，而且据说她一年比一年傲慢。”
　　奈德捏捏她的手，“我们得办场晚宴，当然还要请乐师和歌手，嗯，劳勃铁定会去外面打猎。我这就派乔里带上一名荣誉护卫南下国王大道去迎接，把他们护送回来吧。诸神在上，我们要怎么喂饱这些人啊？你说他已经在路上了？这家伙真该死，他这做国王的家伙真是该死。”
　　※※※※※※
　　①奈德是艾德的小名。

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等级: 内阁元老
配偶: 逐烟霞。
你看着眼前的人，分明还是以前的模样，可心里终究不是以前那般澄清透明了。
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3．DAENERYS
Her brother held the gown up for her inspection. “This is beauty. Touch it. Go on. Caress the fabric.”
   Dany touched it. The cloth was so smooth that it seemed to run through her fingers like water. She could not remember ever wearing anything so soft. It frightened her. She pulled her hand away. “Is it really mine?”
   “A gift from the Magister Illyrio,” Viserys said, smiling. Her brother was in a high mood tonight. “The color will bring out the violet in your eyes. And you shall have gold as well, and jewels of all sorts. Illyrio has promised. Tonight you must look like a princess.”
   A princess, Dany thought. She had forgotten what that was like. Perhaps she had never really known. “Why does he give us so much?” she asked. “What does he want from us?” For nigh on half a year, they had lived in the magister’s house, eating his food, pampered by his servants. Dany was thirteen, old enough to know that such gifts seldom come without their price, here in the free city of Pentos.
   “Illyrio is no fool,” Viserys said. He was a gaunt young man with nervous hands and a feverish look in his pale lilac eyes. “The magister knows that I will not forget my friends when I come into my throne.”
   Dany said nothing. Magister Illyrio was a dealer in spices, gemstones, dragonbone, and other, less savory things. He had friends in all of the Nine Free Cities, it was said, and even beyond, in Vaes Dothrak and the fabled lands beside the Jade Sea. It was also said that he’d never had a friend he wouldn’t cheerfully sell for the right price. Dany listened to the talk in the streets, and she heard these things, but she knew better than to question her brother when he wove his webs of dream. His anger was a terrible thing when roused. Viserys called it “waking the dragon.”
   Her brother hung the gown beside the door. “Illyrio will send the slaves to bathe you. Be sure you wash off the stink of the stables. Khal Drogo has a thousand horses, tonight he looks for a different sort of mount.” He studied her critically. “You still slouch. Straighten yourself” He pushed back her shoulders with his hands. “Let them see that you have a woman’s shape now.” His fingers brushed lightly over her budding breasts and tightened on a nipple. “You will not fail me tonight. If you do, it will go hard for you. You don’t want to wake the dragon, do you?” His fingers twisted her, the pinch cruelly hard through the rough fabric of her tunic. “Do you?” he repeated.
   “No,” Dany said meekly.
   Her brother smiled. “Good.” He touched her hair, almost with affection. “When they write the history of my reign, sweet sister, they will say that it began tonight.”
   When he was gone, Dany went to her window and looked out wistfully on the waters of the bay. The square brick towers of Pentos were black silhouettes outlined against the setting sun. Dany could hear the singing of the red priests as they lit their night fires and the shouts of ragged children playing games beyond the walls of the estate. For a moment she wished she could be out there with them, barefoot and breathless and dressed in tatters, with no past and no future and no feast to attend at Khal Drogo’s manse.
   Somewhere beyond the sunset, across the narrow sea, lay a land of green hills and flowered plains and great rushing rivers, where towers of dark stone rose amidst magnificent blue-grey mountains, and armored knights rode to battle beneath the banners of their lords. The Dothraki called that land Rhaesh Andahli, the land of the Andals. In the Free Cities, they talked of Westeros and the Sunset Kingdoms. Her brother had a simpler name. “Our land,” he called it. The words were like a prayer with him. If he said them enough, the gods were sure to hear. “Ours by blood right, taken from us by treachery, but ours still, ours forever. You do not steal from the dragon, oh, no. The dragon remembers.”
   And perhaps the dragon did remember, but Dany could not. She had never seen this land her brother said was theirs, this realm beyond the narrow sea. These places he talked of, Casterly Rock and the Eyrie, Highgarden and the Vale of Arryn, Dorne and the Isle of Faces, they were just words to her. Viserys had been a boy of eight when they fled King’s Landing to escape the advancing armies of the Usurper, but Daenerys had been only a quickening in their mother’s womb.
   Yet sometimes Dany would picture the way it had been, so often had her brother told her the stories. The midnight flight to Dragonstone, moonlight shimmering on the ship’s black sails. Her brother Rhaegar battling the Usurper in the bloody waters of the Trident and dying for the woman he loved. The sack of King’s Landing by the ones Viserys called the Usurper’s dogs, the lords Lannister and Stark. Princess Elia of Dorne pleading for mercy as Rhaegar’s heir was ripped from her breast and murdered before her eyes. The polished skulls of the last dragons staring down sightlessly from the walls of the throne room while the Kingslayer opened Father’s throat with a golden sword.
   She had been born on Dragonstone nine moons after their flight, while a raging summer storm threatened to rip the island fastness apart. They said that storm was terrible. The Targaryen fleet was smashed while it lay at anchor, and huge stone blocks were ripped from the parapets and sent hurtling into the wild waters of the narrow sea. Her mother had died birthing her, and for that her brother Viserys had never forgiven her.
   She did not remember Dragonstone either. They had run again, just before the Usurper’s brother set sail with his new-built fleet. By then only Dragonstone itself, the ancient seat of their House, had remained of the Seven Kingdoms that had once been theirs. It would not remain for long. The garrison had been prepared to sell them to the Usurper, but one night Ser Willem Darry and four loyal men had broken into the nursery and stolen them both, along with her wet nurse, and set sail under cover of darkness for the safety of the Braavosian coast.
   She remembered Ser Willem dimly, a great grey bear of a man, half-blind, roaring and bellowing orders from his sickbed. The servants had lived in terror of him, but he had always been kind to Dany. He called her “Little Princess” and sometimes “My Lady,” and his hands were soft as old leather. He never left his bed, though, and the smell of sickness clung to him day and night, a hot, moist, sickly sweet odor. That was when they lived in Braavos, in the big house with the red door. Dany had her own room there, with a lemon tree outside her window. After Ser Willem had died, the servants had stolen what little money they had left, and soon after they had been put out of the big house. Dany had cried when the red door closed behind them forever.
   They had wandered since then, from Braavos to Myr, from Myr to Tyrosh, and on to Qohor and Volantis and Lys, never staying long in any one place. Her brother would not allow it. The Usurper’s hired knives were close behind them, he insisted, though Dany had never seen one.
   At first the magisters and archons and merchant princes were pleased to welcome the last Targaryens to their homes and tables, but as the years passed and the Usurper continued to sit upon the Iron Throne, doors closed and their lives grew meaner. Years past they had been forced to sell their last few treasures, and now even the coin they had gotten from Mother’s crown had gone. In the alleys and wine sinks of Pentos, they called her brother “the beggar king.” Dany did not want to know what they called her.
   “We will have it all back someday, sweet sister,” he would promise her. Sometimes his hands shook when he talked about it. “The jewels and the silks, Dragonstone and King’s Landing, the Iron Throne and the Seven Kingdoms, all they have taken from us, we will have it back.” Viserys lived for that day. All that Daenerys wanted back was the big house with the red door, the lemon tree outside her window, the childhood she had never known.
   There came a soft knock on her door. “Come,” Dany said, turning away from the window. Illyrio’s servants entered, bowed, and set about their business. They were slaves, a gift from one of the magister’s many Dothraki friends. There was no slavery in the free city of Pentos. Nonetheless, they were slaves. The old woman, small and grey as a mouse, never said a word, but the girl made up for it. She was Illyrio’s favorite, a fair-haired, blue-eyed wench of sixteen who chattered constantly as she worked.
   They filled her bath with hot water brought up from the kitchen and scented it with fragrant oils. The girl pulled the rough cotton tunic over Dany’s head and helped her into the tub. The water was scalding hot, but Daenerys did not flinch or cry out. She liked the heat. It made her feel clean. Besides, her brother had often told her that it was never too hot for a Targaryen. “Ours is the house of the dragon,” he would say. “The fire is in our blood.”
   The old woman washed her long, silver-pale hair and gently combed out the snags, all in silence. The girl scrubbed her back and her feet and told her how lucky she was. “Drogo is so rich that even his slaves wear golden collars. A hundred thousand men ride in his khalasar, and his palace in Vaes Dothrak has two hundred rooms and doors of solid silver.” There was more like that, so much more, what a handsome man the khal was, so tall and fierce, fearless in battle, the best rider ever to mount a horse, a demon archer. Daenerys said nothing. She had always assumed that she would wed Viserys when she came of age. For centuries the Targaryens had married brother to sister, since Aegon the Conqueror had taken his sisters to bride. The line must be kept pure, Viserys had told her a thousand times; theirs was the kingsblood, the golden blood of old Valyria, the blood of the dragon. Dragons did not mate with the beasts of the field, and Targaryens did not mingle their blood with that of lesser men. Yet now Viserys schemed to sell her to a stranger, a barbarian.
   When she was clean, the slaves helped her from the water and toweled her dry. The girl brushed her hair until it shone like molten silver, while the old woman anointed her with the spiceflower perfume of the Dothraki plains, a dab on each wrist, behind her ears, on the tips of her breasts, and one last one, cool on her lips, down there between her legs. They dressed her in the wisps that Magister Illyrio had sent up, and then the gown, a deep plum silk to bring out the violet in her eyes. The girl slid the gilded sandals onto her feet, while the old woman fixed the tiara in her hair, and slid golden bracelets crusted with amethysts around her wrists. Last of all came the collar, a heavy golden torc emblazoned with ancient Valyrian glyphs.
   “Now you look all a princess,” the girl said breathlessly when they were done. Dany glanced at her image in the silvered looking glass that Illyrio had so thoughtfully provided. A princess, she thought, but she remembered what the girl had said, how Khal Drogo was so rich even his slaves wore golden collars. She felt a sudden chill, and gooseflesh pimpled her bare arms.
   Her brother was waiting in the cool of the entry hall, seated on the edge of the pool, his hand trailing in the water. He rose when she appeared and looked her over critically. “Stand there,” he told her. “Turn around. Yes. Good. You look ?.?.?.?”
   “Regal,” Magister Illyrio said, stepping through an archway. He moved with surprising delicacy for such a massive man. Beneath loose garments of flame-colored silk, rolls of fat jiggled as he walked. Gemstones glittered on every finger, and his man had oiled his forked yellow beard until it shone like real gold. “May the Lord of Light shower you with blessings on this most fortunate day, Princess Daenerys,” the magister said as he took her hand. He bowed his head, showing a thin glimpse of crooked yellow teeth through the gold of his beard. “She is a vision, Your Grace, a vision,” he told her brother. “Drogo will be enraptured.”
   “She’s too skinny,” Viserys said. His hair, the same silver-blond as hers, had been pulled back tightly behind his head and fastened with a dragonbone brooch. It was a severe look that emphasized the hard, gaunt lines of his face. He rested his hand on the hilt of the sword that Illyrio had lent him, and said, “Are you sure that Khal Drogo likes his women this young?”
   “She has had her blood. She is old enough for the khal,” Illyrio told him, not for the first time. “Look at her. That silver-gold hair, those purple eyes?.?.?.?she is the blood of old Valyria, no doubt, no doubt?.?.?.?and highborn, daughter of the old king, sister to the new, she cannot fail to entrance our Drogo.” When he released her hand, Daenerys found herself trembling.
   “I suppose,” her brother said doubtfully. “The savages have queer tastes. Boys, horses, sheep?.?.?.?”
   “Best not suggest this to Khal Drogo,” Illyrio said.
   Anger flashed in her brother’s lilac eyes. “Do you take me for a fool?”
   The magister bowed slightly. “I take you for a king. Kings lack the caution of common men. My apologies if I have given offense.” He turned away and clapped his hands for his bearers.
   The streets of Pentos were pitch-dark when they set out in Illyrio’s elaborately carved palanquin. Two servants went ahead to light their way, carrying ornate oil lanterns with panes of pale blue glass, while a dozen strong men hoisted the poles to their shoulders. It was warm and close inside behind the curtains. Dany could smell the stench of Illyrio’s pallid flesh through his heavy perfumes.
   Her brother, sprawled out on his pillows beside her, never noticed. His mind was away across the narrow sea. “We won’t need his whole khalasar,” Viserys said. His fingers toyed with the hilt of his borrowed blade, though Dany knew he had never used a sword in earnest. “Ten thousand, that would be enough, I could sweep the Seven Kingdoms with ten thousand Dothraki screamers. The realm will rise for its rightful king. Tyrell, Redwyne, Darry, Greyjoy, they have no more love for the Usurper than I do. The Dornishmen burn to avenge Elia and her children. And the smallfolk will be with us. They cry out for their king.” He looked at Illyrio anxiously. “They do, don’t they?”
   “They are your people, and they love you well,” Magister Illyrio said amiably. “In holdfasts all across the realm, men lift secret toasts to your health while women sew dragon banners and hide them against the day of your return from across the water.” He gave a massive shrug. “Or so my agents tell me.”
   Dany had no agents, no way of knowing what anyone was doing or thinking across the narrow sea, but she mistrusted Illyrio’s sweet words as she mistrusted everything about Illyrio. Her brother was nodding eagerly, however. “I shall kill the Usurper myself,” he promised, who had never killed anyone, “as he killed my brother Rhaegar. And Lannister too, the Kingslayer, for what he did to my father.”
   “That would be most fitting,” Magister Illyrio said. Dany saw the smallest hint of a smile playing around his full lips, but her brother did not notice. Nodding, he pushed back a curtain and stared off into the night, and Dany knew he was fighting the Battle of the Trident once again.
   The nine-towered manse of Khal Drogo sat beside the waters of the bay, its high brick walls overgrown with pale ivy. It had been given to the khal by the magisters of Pentos, Illyrio told them. The Free Cities were always generous with the horselords. “It is not that we fear these barbarians,” Illyrio would explain with a smile. “The Lord of Light would hold our city walls against a million Dothraki, or so the red priests promise?.?.?.?yet why take chances, when their friendship comes so cheap?”
   Their palanquin was stopped at the gate, the curtains pulled roughly back by one of the house guards. He had the copper skin and dark almond eyes of a Dothraki, but his face was hairless and he wore the spiked bronze cap of the Unsullied. He looked them over coldly. Magister Illyrio growled something to him in the rough Dothraki tongue; the guardsman replied in the same voice and waved them through the gates.
   Dany noticed that her brother’s hand was clenched tightly around the hilt of his borrowed sword. He looked almost as frightened as she felt. “Insolent eunuch,” Viserys muttered as the palanquin lurched up toward the manse.
   Magister Illyrio’s words were honey. “Many important men will be at the feast tonight. Such men have enemies. The khal must protect his guests, yourself chief among them, Your Grace. No doubt the Usurper would pay well for your head.”
   “Oh, yes,” Viserys said darkly. “He has tried, Illyrio, I promise you that. His hired knives follow us everywhere. I am the last dragon, and he will not sleep easy while I live.”
   The palanquin slowed and stopped. The curtains were thrown back, and a slave offered a hand to help Daenerys out. His collar, she noted, was ordinary bronze. Her brother followed, one hand still clenched hard around his sword hilt. It took two strong men to get Magister Illyrio back on his feet.
   Inside the manse, the air was heavy with the scent of spices, pinchfire and sweet lemon and cinnamon. They were escorted across the entry hall, where a mosaic of colored glass depicted the Doom of Valyria. Oil burned in black iron lanterns all along the walls. Beneath an arch of twining stone leaves, a eunuch sang their coming. “Viserys of the House Targaryen, the Third of his Name,” he called in a high, sweet voice, “King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. His sister, Daenerys Stormborn, Princess of Dragonstone. His honorable host, Illyrio Mopatis, Magister of the Free City of Pentos.”
   They stepped past the eunuch into a pillared courtyard overgrown in pale ivy. Moonlight painted the leaves in shades of bone and silver as the guests drifted among them. Many were Dothraki horselords, big men with red-brown skin, their drooping mustachios bound in metal rings, their black hair oiled and braided and hung with bells. Yet among them moved bravos and sellswords from Pentos and Myr and Tyrosh, a red priest even fatter than Illyrio, hairy men from the Port of Ibben, and lords from the Summer Isles with skin as black as ebony. Daenerys looked at them all in wonder?.?.?.?and realized, with a sudden start of fear, that she was the only woman there.
   Illyrio whispered to them. “Those three are Drogo’s bloodriders, there,” he said. “By the pillar is Khal Moro, with his son Rhogoro. The man with the green beard is brother to the Archon of Tyrosh, and the man behind him is Ser Jorah Mormont.”
   The last name caught Daenerys. “A knight?”
   “No less.” Illyrio smiled through his beard. “Anointed with the seven oils by the High Septon himself.”
   “What is he doing here?” she blurted.
   “The Usurper wanted his head,” Illyrio told them. “Some trifling affront. He sold some poachers to a Tyroshi slaver instead of giving them to the Night’s Watch. Absurd law. A man should be able to do as he likes with his own chattel.”
   “I shall wish to speak with Ser Jorah before the night is done,” her brother said. Dany found herself looking at the knight curiously. He was an older man, past forty and balding, but still strong and fit. Instead of silks and cottons, he wore wool and leather. His tunic was a dark green, embroidered with the likeness of a black bear standing on two legs.
   She was still looking at this strange man from the homeland she had never known when Magister Illyrio placed a moist hand on her bare shoulder. “Over there, sweet princess,” he whispered, “there is the khal himself.”
   Dany wanted to run and hide, but her brother was looking at her, and if she displeased him she knew she would wake the dragon. Anxiously, she turned and looked at the man Viserys hoped would ask to wed her before the night was done.
   The slave girl had not been far wrong, she thought. Khal Drogo was a head taller than the tallest man in the room, yet somehow light on his feet, as graceful as the panther in Illyrio’s menagerie. He was younger than she’d thought, no more than thirty. His skin was the color of polished copper, his thick mustachios bound with gold and bronze rings.
   “I must go and make my submissions,” Magister Illyrio said. “Wait here. I shall bring him to you.”
   Her brother took her by the arm as Illyrio waddled over to the khal, his fingers squeezing so hard that they hurt. “Do you see his braid, sweet sister?”
   Drogo’s braid was black as midnight and heavy with scented oil, hung with tiny bells that rang softly as he moved. It swung well past his belt, below even his buttocks, the end of it brushing against the back of his thighs.
   “You see how long it is?” Viserys said. “When Dothraki are defeated in combat, they cut off their braids in disgrace, so the world will know their shame. Khal Drogo has never lost a fight. He is Aegon the Dragonlord come again, and you will be his queen.”
   Dany looked at Khal Drogo. His face was hard and cruel, his eyes as cold and dark as onyx. Her brother hurt her sometimes, when she woke the dragon, but he did not frighten her the way this man frightened her. “I don’t want to be his queen,” she heard herself say in a small, thin voice. “Please, please, Viserys, I don’t want to, I want to go home.”
   “Home?” He kept his voice low, but she could hear the fury in his tone. “How are we to go home, sweet sister? They took our home from us!” He drew her into the shadows, out of sight, his fingers digging into her skin. “How are we to go home?” he repeated, meaning King’s Landing, and Dragonstone, and all the realm they had lost.
   Dany had only meant their rooms in Illyrio’s estate, no true home surely, though all they had, but her brother did not want to hear that. There was no home there for him. Even the big house with the red door had not been home for him. His fingers dug hard into her arm, demanding an answer. “I don’t know?.?.?.?”she said at last, her voice breaking. Tears welled in her eyes.
   “I do,” he said sharply. “We go home with an army, sweet sister. With Khal Drogo’s army, that is how we go home. And if you must wed him and bed him for that, you will.” He smiled at her. “I’d let his whole khalasar fuck you if need be, sweet sister, all forty thousand men, and their horses too if that was what it took to get my army. Be grateful it is only Drogo. In time you may even learn to like him. Now dry your eyes. Illyrio is bringing him over, and he will not see you crying.”
   Dany turned and saw that it was true. Magister Illyrio, all smiles and bows, was escorting Khal Drogo over to where they stood. She brushed away unfallen tears with the back of her hand.
   “Smile,” Viserys whispered nervously, his hand failing to the hilt of his sword. “And stand up straight. Let him see that you have breasts. Gods know, you have little enough as is.”
   Daenerys smiled, and stood up straight.

哥哥举起长袍给她看。“真漂亮，你摸摸，没关系，你瞧瞧这料子。”
　　丹妮摸了摸，衣料柔软如水，流过她的手指，她从没穿过这么柔软的衣服。她突然害怕了起来，连忙抽回手。“这真是给我的么？”
　　“这是伊利里欧总督送的礼物，”韦赛里斯微笑道。哥哥今晚心情很好。“袍子的颜色刚好衬出你紫罗兰色的眼睛。你还要配戴金饰，以及各式各样的珠宝玉石，今晚你看起来必须有个公主的样子。”
　　有个公主的样子，丹妮想着。她早已忘记那是什么样子了，也许她根本就不知道。“他为什么对我们这么好？”她问，“他想从我们这里得到什么好处？”过去近半年来，他们吃住都靠这位总督，在他的仆佣伺候下恃宠而骄。丹妮今年十三岁，已经懂得这种优渥的待遇不会凭空而来，尤其是在潘托斯这样的自由贸易城邦。
　　“伊利里欧可不笨，”韦赛里斯回答，他是个削瘦的年轻人，双手局促不安，泛白的淡紫色眼瞳里有种狂热的神色。“他知道有朝一日当我重登王位，不会忘记曾经雪中送炭的朋友。”
　　丹妮没有答话。伊利里欧总督是个商人，专做香料、宝石和龙骨买卖，还有其他见不得人的勾当。据说他交游广泛，不仅遍布九个自由贸易城邦，更远至东方的维斯·多斯拉克，以及玉海沿岸的传奇之地。又有人说，只要开得出价钱，任何朋友他都乐于出卖。这些话丹妮都静静地听了进去，但她知道最好不要在兄长编织迷梦时戳破。韦赛里斯一旦生气起来非常骇人，他称之为“唤醒睡龙之怒”。
　　哥哥把袍子挂在门边。“伊利里欧会派奴隶前来伺候你沐浴，记得把身上的马臊味洗掉。卓戈卡奥①虽有千百良驹，但他今晚要骑的可是另一种马。”他仔细端详着她，“你还是弯腰驼背的老样子，要抬头挺胸。”他伸手把她的肩膀往后挺。“让他们知道你已经有女人的形态了。”他的手指微微掠扫过她正开始发育的胸部，捏住一边乳头。“今晚你不许给我出丑，若是出了差错，以后可有你受的！你不想唤醒睡龙之怒吧？”他的手指越捏越紧，隔着粗料外衣她也疼痛难忍。“想不想？”他重复。
　　“不想。”丹妮怯弱地回答。
　　哥哥笑了，“很好，”他爱怜地轻抚她的秀发，“将来史家为我立传时，会说我的统治始自今夜。”
　　他离开后，丹妮走到窗边，思慕地望着海湾。潘托斯的方砖高塔是斜阳残照里的黑色剪影，丹妮可以听见红袍僧点燃夜火时的诵唱祝祷，以及高墙外孩童玩耍的笑闹喧哗。就在那一刹那，她好希望自己能在外面和他们一起赤足嬉戏，穿着破烂衣裳喘着粗气：没有过去，没有未来，也不用参加卓戈卡奥的宅邸晚宴。
　　在夕阳狭海的对岸，有个青陵纵横、花开平野、深河奔涌的地方，那里有高耸于壮丽灰蓝峰峦间的黑石巨塔，有高举鲜明旗帜赶赴沙场的铁甲武士。多斯拉克人称之为“雷叙·安达里”，意思是“安达尔人之地”。在自由贸易城邦里，人们呼其为“维斯特洛”和“日落国度”。而哥哥有个更简单的说法，他称之为“我们的土地”。这个名字就像句祷词，仿佛只要他挂在嘴边，就定能上达天听。“那是我们真龙血脉所继承的土地，虽然遭阴谋诡计所夺，但仍然属于我们，永远属于我们。没人能从真龙手中偷走东西，门儿都没有，因为真龙凡事都永远记得。”
　　也许真龙记得罢，只是丹妮却记不得。那块位于狭海对岸，哥哥信誓旦旦属于他们的土地，她从来没有见过。那些他口中的名字：凯岩城、鹰巢城、高庭和艾林谷，多恩领和千面屿等，对她来说不过是文字的拼凑罢了。当年他们躲避节节进逼的“篡夺者”军队，被迫逃离君临时，韦赛里斯还是个八岁大的男孩，而丹妮只不过是母亲子宫里胎动的血肉。
　　然而哥哥的故事听得多了，丹妮有时还是会在脑海里自行拼凑出过往的光景：母后他们乘着船影黑帆，在当空皓月下夜奔龙石岛；她的长兄雷加在染血的三叉戟河上与篡夺者殊死决斗，为他心爱的女人丧命；兰尼斯特和史塔克家族的部众，那些被韦赛里斯称做篡夺者走狗的队伍，洗劫君临；多恩的伊莉亚公主苦苦哀求，却眼睁睁地看着她和雷加的亲生骨肉，那个还在她胸脯上吸吮母奶的婴儿，被硬生生夺走，血淋淋地惨死；那些悬挂于王座大厅后方高墙上，末裔巨龙的亮磨头骨，用瞎盲的空洞眼窟看着“弑君者”拿起金色宝剑，切开父王的喉咙。
　　逃亡之后九个月，她降生于龙石岛，时值夏季暴风来袭，仿佛要把城堡撕成碎片。据说那场暴风雨骇人无比，停泊在军港的坦格利安王家舰队被摧毁殆尽，巨石自城垛上崩落，朝海峡疯狂翻涌的潮水腾滚而去。她的母亲难产而死，为此韦赛里斯始终没有原谅她。
　　然而她也不记得龙石岛。就在“篡夺者”弟弟的舰队初成，率众来伐的前夕，他们继续亡命天涯。当时原本属于他们的七大王国②之中，只剩下他们历史悠久的家族堡垒龙石岛尚未落入敌人手中。而就连这样的情形也维持不了多久，城中守军早已暗中计划把他们出卖给“篡夺者”。但某天夜里，威廉·戴瑞爵士带着四位死士杀进育婴房，把他们连同奶妈一起带走，在夜幕掩护下纵帆驶往布拉佛斯的海岸。
　　她只依稀记得威廉·戴瑞爵士，他是个魁梧的灰胡壮汉，纵使后来眼睛半盲，还能从病榻上高声怒吼、发号施令。仆人们很怕他，但他待丹妮始终亲切慈蔼，唤她作“小公主”，有时则是“我的小姐”；他的双手犹如皮革般柔软。然而他始终没有离开病床，日夜被疾病的气息所缠绕，那是种湿热而恶心的甜味。当时他们住在布拉佛斯一栋有着红漆大门的房子里，丹妮有自己的房间，寝室窗外还有棵柠檬树。威廉爵士死后，仆人们把仅剩的一点钱全给偷走，没过多久他们便被逐出那栋宽敞红屋。当红漆大门为他们永远关闭时，丹妮再也止不住眼泪。
　　从那之后，他们开始了流浪的岁月，从布拉佛斯到密尔，从密尔到泰洛西，后来又到过科霍尔、瓦兰提斯和里斯，漂泊无依，未曾在一处落脚扎根。哥哥不肯定居下来，他总说“篡夺者”派来的杀手紧追在后，然而丹妮却连半个刺客也没见着。
　　起初统治各自由贸易城邦的总督、大君和商界巨贾很乐于接待坦格利安后裔，但随着日子渐渐过去，“篡夺者”在铁王座上越坐越稳，原本为他们敞开的门便一扇扇关了起来，他们的日子也日益艰苦。几年来，他们当掉了所有的珠宝。到如今，连贩卖母亲的王冠所得的钱币也全部花光。在潘托斯的酒馆和巷弄里，人们给哥哥取了个外号叫“乞丐王”，丹妮不敢想像他们怎么称呼她。
　　“我的好妹妹，有朝一日我们定会收复故土。”韦赛里斯经常这么对她承诺，有时他边说手还会无法克制地颤抖。“想想那些珠宝丝绸，龙石岛和君临，铁王座和七大王国，全都从我们手中抢了过去，而我们通通会要回来的。”韦赛里斯之所以活着就是为了那一天的到来，丹妮却只想重回那栋有红漆大门的宅院，想要她窗外的那株柠檬树，还有她失去的童年。
　　门上响起一阵轻敲。“进来。”窗边的丹妮回过神，伊利里欧的仆婢们走进屋内，鞠躬行礼，然后动手准备沐浴。他们皆为奴隶，是总督熟识的多斯拉克人酋长中某一位赠送的礼物。自由城邦潘托斯名义上没有奴隶制度，即便如此，握有实权的人们却能够逾越体例。那名瘦小而灰白如鼠的老妪总是不发一语，但另外那位年轻女孩正好弥补这个空缺。她是个金发碧眼的十六岁少女，也是伊利里欧最宠爱的奴婢，工作时总是喋喋不休。
　　她们在澡盆里放满从厨房提来的热水，洒进香油。女孩用条粗布巾裹住丹妮头发，搀扶她入浴。洗浴水滚烫无比，但丹妮莉丝没有吭声。她喜欢这种热，让她有干净的感觉。更何况哥哥常对她说，坦格利安家族的人是不怕烫的。“我们是真龙传人，”他常说：“血液里燃烧着熊熊烈焰。”
　　老妇人仔细地为她梳洗，把她银白色的秀发扎成辫子，默默理清纠结起来的发束。女孩则一边为她刷背洗脚，一边告诉她她有多么幸运。“听说卓戈家财万贯，连他奴隶的项圈都是金子做的。他的‘卡拉萨’③有十万名战士，他在维斯·多斯拉克城里的宫殿有两百个房间，还有用银子打造的门扉。”她说个不停，没完没了。她告诉丹妮，卡奥是多么英俊，多么高大凶猛，在战场上又是如何从不畏惧，说他不仅是有史以来最优秀的骑手，更是如恶魔般的神射手。丹妮莉丝从头到尾不发一语，她一直以为自己成年后嫁的人是韦赛里斯。自“征服者”伊耿娶两位妹妹为妻伊始，数百年来坦格利安王族成员向来是兄妹通婚。惟有如此，才能确保血脉纯正，这话韦赛里斯不知已经告诉过她多少遍了。他们体内流淌的是王者的血液，古老瓦雷利亚民族的金色血液，骄傲真龙的血液。真龙绝不和寻常野兽媾合，坦格利安族人自然更不会将他们的血液和下等人种混杂一起。然而现在韦赛里斯却打算把她卖给这个异乡的野蛮人。
　　沐浴清净之后，女奴扶她起身，拿毛巾擦干她的躯体。女孩把她的头发梳理得亮如熔银，老妇则为她搽上原产多斯拉克草原的花草香精，两腕、耳后、乳尖、双唇和下体各轻触一抹；接着为她穿上伊利里欧总督送来的内衣，再罩上深紫丝袍，衬出她的紫罗兰色眼瞳。女孩为她套上金边凉鞋，老妪又为她戴上宝冠和镶着紫水晶的金手镯。最后才是黄金打造的厚重项圈，上面刻满古瓦雷利亚的符文。
　　“这下你看起来总算有几分公主的模样了。”装扮完毕之后，女孩惊叹道。丹妮转身看看自己在镶银穿衣镜里的模样，镜子是伊利里欧殷勤提供的。有个公主的样子，她暗忖，忽然又想起女孩刚才说过的话，卓戈卡奥富可敌国，连他奴隶的项圈都是金子打造，不禁浑身发冷，鸡皮疙瘩冒了出来。
　　哥哥在阴凉的门厅里等她，他坐在池塘边，探手在水里晃悠。看到她来了他便站起身，带着评审意味地上下打量。“站过来，”他告诉她，“转过去，对，很好，你看起来……”
　　“颇有王家风范。”伊利里欧总督从过道里走出，他虽臃肿肥胖，踏起步来却意外地轻盈优雅。随着脚步，他那一身肥肉在宽松的火红丝衣下不住晃动。他的每根指头都有宝石闪烁，仆人更为他的黄色八字胡擦了油，亮得仿若真金。“丹妮莉丝公主，愿您在这个黄道吉日里，得到光之王的所有祝福。”总督说罢牵起她的手，低头行礼，透过金色胡须，他露出满嘴黄牙。“王子殿下，就算是梦中佳人也不过如此啊。”他告诉哥哥，“卓戈一定会满意的。”
　　“她实在是太瘦了，”韦赛里斯说。他的头发和丹妮一样是淡银色，梳理到脑后，用一根龙骨发夹固定。他过分凝重的神色凸显出他僵硬枯槁的面容，他把手放在伊利里欧借给他的佩剑柄上。“你确定卓戈卡奥喜欢这么年轻的女人吗？”
　　“她既有过月事，对马王来说便已足龄。”这不是伊利里欧第一次重复了。“你瞧瞧她那头银金色的秀发，那双紫薇般的眼睛……她拥有古老瓦雷利亚的血统，毫无疑问，毫无疑问……况且她出身显赫，既是老王的女儿，又是新王的妹妹，说什么也不会吸引不了卓戈的。”当他放开她的手时，丹妮发现自己竟浑身颤抖。
　　“是这样吗？”哥哥满腹狐疑地说，“这些野蛮人口味特别怪，连小男孩、马和羊都能搞……”
　　“最好别在卓戈卡奥面前提起这些。”
　　哥哥淡紫色的眼瞳里闪现怒火。“你当我是笨蛋？”
　　总督微微低头。“我当您是个王者。所谓王者无凡虑，倘若我冒犯了您，那么我向您道歉。”语毕他转身击掌，示意轿夫动身。
　　待他们坐上伊利里欧雕琢华丽的轿子，潘托斯的街市已经漆黑一片。两名仆人走在前方照明，手里提着装饰精美，有着淡蓝玻璃罩子的油灯；另外十来个壮丁则协力扛着轿子。轿子帘幕之内封闭而温暖，透过伊利里欧身上那层厚重的香水，丹妮闻得到他苍白皮肤的臭味。
　　那斜卧在她身旁枕边的哥哥对此倒是浑然不觉，他的心思早飞到狭海对岸去了。“我们用不着他整个卡拉萨，”韦赛里斯说，手指头把弄着那把借来的宝剑剑柄。其实丹妮知道哥哥从未认真学过剑术。“只要一万人，我想就够了。有这一万名多斯拉克哮吼武士，我便可以横扫七国全境。届时诸侯望族必会纷纷起而效力，追随他们真正的国王。提利尔、雷德温、戴瑞、葛雷乔伊等家族和我一样痛恨‘篡夺者’，南境多恩领的人早就满腔怒火，要为伊莉亚公主和她的孩子们复仇。更别提平民百姓了，他们会发出正义的怒吼，为国王而奋战。”他有点紧张地看看伊利里欧，“他们一直都这么想，对吧？”
　　“他们是您的子民，对您爱戴有加，”伊利里欧总督和颜悦色地回答，“全国上下的农庄村舍里，男人偷偷举杯向你致敬，女人则暗中缝制真龙旗帜，等待你率军渡海之日。”他耸耸宽阔的肩膀，“我的手下都这么说。”
　　丹妮没有手下，也无从得知狭海对岸的人们究竟在想些什么，做些什么，但她不相信伊利里欧这个人，也不相信他的甜言蜜语。然而哥哥却很热切地颔首同意。“我要亲自手刃篡夺者，”他立下宏愿，也没想想自己从没杀过人。“像他当年杀我哥哥一样。我也饶不了那个兰尼斯特家的‘弑君者’，我要为父王报仇。”
　　“这是再恰当不过的了。”伊利里欧总督道。丹妮瞥见他嘴际扬起细微的笑意，但哥哥却没注意，只是满意地点点头，然后掀开帘幕，望向无边黑夜。丹妮知道他脑海里又在演练当年三河血战的场景了。
　　卓戈卡奥的寝宫坐落在海湾边，拔起九座高塔，高耸砖墙上爬满苍白的长春藤。伊利里欧告诉他们，这座宫殿是潘托斯的总督们联合致赠卡奥的礼物，自由贸易城邦向来对这些游牧族长礼敬有加。“其实我们也不是真怕这些野蛮人，”他笑吟吟地给他们解释，“红袍僧们保证，有光之王庇佑，纵使百万多斯拉克人来袭，我们也无须惧怕……但他们的友谊既然如此廉价，咱们何乐而不为呢？”
　　轿子在门口停下来，一名守卫粗鲁地掀开帘幕。他有多斯拉克人典型的古铜色皮肤和黑色杏眼，但脸上却没有胡须，戴着“无垢者”④的青铜盔，上面有根刺。他冷冷扫视轿内乘客，伊利里欧总督用刺耳的多斯拉克语朝他吼了几句，对方也用相同的声调回应，然后便挥挥手示意他们进去。
　　丹妮注意到她哥哥的手紧紧握住那把借来的佩剑剑柄，看起来仿佛和她一样害怕。“不知好歹的臭太监。”韦赛里斯喃喃道，轿子颠簸着抬进宅院。
　　伊利里欧总督的话语甜如蜜糖：“许多达官显赫都会出席今晚盛宴，这些人平日里树敌甚多，作东的卡奥自然要保护客人，尤其是陛下您。不难想见，‘篡夺者’可是会出高价悬赏您的项上人头啊。”
　　“可不是么？”韦赛里斯阴沉地说，“伊利里欧，他可是试了又试，这点我可以向你保证。他雇来的刺客紧盯我们不放，我是最后的真龙传人，只要我活着，他自然寝食难安。”
　　轿子速度渐缓，终于停了下来。帘幕再度掀开，一名奴隶伸手搀扶丹妮莉丝出轿。此时她注意到他的项圈不过是青铜打造罢了。她的兄长亦步亦趋地跟上，一只手仍旧紧握着剑柄不放。伊利里欧则靠着两名壮丁的帮忙好不容易才下了轿子。
　　厅院之内，空气中弥漫着火椒、肉桂和甜檬等香料的馨香气息。他们被护送进会客厅，彩色镶嵌玻璃描绘出瓦雷利亚的殒落场景。四面墙壁上黑色灯笼里的灯油燃烧不绝，刻绘着两片石叶的拱廊下，一名太监正高声宣告他们的到访：“坦格利安家族的韦赛里斯三世，”他用高亢甜腻的声音喊，“安达尔人、洛伊拿人及‘先民’的国王，七国统治者暨全境守护者。他的妹妹，龙石岛公主‘风暴降生’丹妮莉丝。他的赞助人，潘托斯自由贸易城邦总督，伊利里欧·摩帕提斯。”
　　他们越过太监，走进石柱林立，苍白长春藤四处攀蔓的庭院，叶影被月光染成白骨般的银色。院落里宾客往来穿梭，其中不少是多斯拉克卡奥，个个身躯高大，皮肤红褐，低垂长髯用金属银圈环环相扣，黑色长发乌黑油亮，绑成无数发辫，银铃悬系其间。然而人群中同样也有来自潘托斯、密尔和泰洛西的杀手和佣兵，有个比伊利里欧更胖的红袍僧，还有来自伊班港，浑身是毛的怪人，以及几位皮肤黑如暗檀的盛夏群岛领主。丹妮莉丝满怀惊奇地看着这些人……突然惊觉自己是在场惟一女性。
　　伊利里欧向他们耳语道：“站在那边的三位是卓戈的血盟卫，柱子边的是摩洛卡奥和他儿子罗戈洛。那个绿胡子的人是泰洛西大君的哥哥，他后面的则是乔拉·莫尔蒙爵士。”
　　最后一个名字引起了丹妮莉丝的注意，“他是个骑士？”
　　“如假包换，”伊利里欧透过胡子咯咯笑道，“被总主教大人亲手涂抹七圣油的骑士。”
　　“他在这里做什么？”她脱口而出。
　　“就为了点芝麻绿豆小事，”伊利里欧告诉他们，“‘篡夺者’下令要他项上人头。他把几个逮着的盗猎者私自卖给泰洛西的奴隶贩子，而没有把他们交给守夜人。真是荒谬的法律，人人都应当有权处置自己的财产才对。”
　　“晚宴结束前，我要和乔拉爵士谈谈。”哥哥说。丹妮发现自己也好奇地端详着这位骑士，他年纪颇大，约莫四十来岁，头发虽已逐渐稀少，但身体仍旧健壮。他不穿丝棉质的衣服，改穿羊毛和皮革，一件暗绿色的外衣上绣着双脚人立的黑熊。
　　伊利里欧总督用他潮湿的手拍了拍丹妮裸露的肩膀，此刻她正目不转睛地看着那名来自她一无所知的草原的怪异男子。“好公主，您瞧好了，”他悄声道，“这就是卡奥他本人啦。”
　　丹妮心中只想赶紧逃避躲藏，但哥哥正盯着她呢，假如惹火了他，又得唤醒睡龙之怒。于是她紧张地转过头去，怯生生地打量起那个韦赛里斯希望在今晚宴会结束前开口要求娶她为妻的人。
　　先前帮她沐浴的那名女孩所说的和事实倒也差距不大：卓戈卡奥比在场最高的人都还要高出一头，然而动作却极为敏捷轻灵，矫健的身形一如伊利里欧百兽园里的猎豹。他远比她想像中来得年轻，应该不超过三十岁。他的皮肤乃是亮铜色，厚重的胡须上系着黄金和青铜的铃铛。
　　“我得过去表明来意。”伊利里欧总督说，“在这儿等着，我会带他过来。”
　　当伊利里欧摇摇摆摆地走向卡奥时，哥哥紧紧抓住她的手，箍得她直想喊痛。“好妹妹，你看到他的辫子了没？”
　　卓戈的发辫黑亮宛如午夜长空，涂抹了香油，看起来沉甸甸的，上面系有许多金属小铃，随他行动而当啷作响。他的长发过腰，超过臀部，尾端轻拂着大腿。
　　“你看到他的头发有多长了没？”韦赛里斯问，“每当多斯拉克人在战斗中落败，他们便割去辫子以示不誉，如此全世界都会知道他们的耻辱。卓戈卡奥一辈子都没有吃过败仗，他称得上是龙王伊耿再世，而你将会是他的王后。”
　　丹妮看着卓戈卡奥，他的容貌刚毅冷峻，眼瞳黑亮冰如玛瑙。当她不小心唤醒睡龙之怒的时候，哥哥会欺负她，但他不像眼前这个男人这样能把她吓得六神无主。“我不想当他的王后，”她听见自己用细小的声音说，“韦赛里斯，求求你，求求你，我不要，我真的好想回家。”
　　“回家？”虽然他刻意把声音压低，但丹妮还是听得出话音里的愤怒。“好妹妹，你倒是说说看，我们回哪个家啊？我们的家早给人夺走了！”他把她拉进一旁的阴影里，避开众人的视线，指甲用力抠进她的肌肤。“我们回哪个家啊？”他重复着问，言下之意，家即是指君临、龙石岛和那整个失去的国度。
　　可丹妮所指的根本就不是这些，她要的只是他们在伊利里欧宅邸里的居所，那儿虽然算不上真正的归宿，但毕竟是眼下他们所拥有的一切。可哥哥不愿听这些话，那里不是他的家，就连红漆门院也不是。他的指甲越掐越紧，似乎在逼问答案。最后她终于哑着嗓子，噙着泪水低语道：“我不知道……”
　　“我却是知道的。”哥哥尖刻地说，“我们会带着一支军队回家，好妹妹，我们会带着卓戈的千军万马回家。假如你必须嫁给他，跟他上床才能换来这些，你就给我乖乖去做。”他朝她浅笑，“只要我能得到那支军队，就算得让他卡拉萨里的四万人通通把你操上一遍，我也会同意，必要的话，连他们的马一起上也行。现在你只给卓戈一个人干，已经该偷笑了。还不快把眼泪擦干，伊利里欧就要带他过来，我可不想让他看见你哭哭啼啼的样子。”
　　丹妮转过头去，果然总督脸上堆满笑容，正一边打躬作揖一边陪送卓戈卡奥朝他们这边走来，她赶紧用手背抹去还未掉下的泪滴。
　　“快对他笑，”韦赛里斯的手又落到佩剑的剑柄上，紧张地说，“抬头挺胸，让他看看你那点胸部。诸神在上，你已经够平了。”
　　于是丹妮莉丝露出微笑，挺起胸膛。
　　※※※※※※
　　①卡奥：游牧民族多斯拉克人首领的称号，类似蒙古人的“汗”或突厥人的“可汗”。
　　②七大王国：维斯特洛在征服者伊耿渡海而来时的七个国家，分别是北境王国、凯岩王国、河湾王国、山谷王国、暴风王国、河屿王国以及多恩王国。
　　③卡拉萨：多斯拉克语中一个一起行动的族群代称。每个卡拉萨都有一位卡奥。
　　④无垢者：一种经过阉割，训练精良，对命令绝对服从，战技精良的男性奴隶武士，可谓没有感情的终极杀人机器。

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你看着眼前的人，分明还是以前的模样，可心里终究不是以前那般澄清透明了。
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4．EDDARD
The visitors poured through the castle gates in a river of gold and silver and polished steel, three hundred strong, a pride of bannermen and knights, of sworn swords and freeriders. Over their heads a dozen golden banners whipped back and forth in the northern wind, emblazoned with the crowned stag of Baratheon.
   Ned knew many of the riders. There came Ser Jaime Lannister with hair as bright as beaten gold, and there Sandor Clegane with his terrible burned face. The tall boy beside him could only be the crown prince, and that stunted little man behind them was surely the Imp, Tyrion Lannister.
   Yet the huge man at the head of the column, flanked by two knights in the snow-white cloaks of the Kingsguard, seemed almost a stranger to Ned?.?.?.?until he vaulted off the back of his warhorse with a familiar roar, and crushed him in a bone-crunching hug. “Ned! Ah, but it is good to see that frozen face of yours.” The king looked him over top to bottom, and laughed. “You have not changed at all.”
   Would that Ned had been able to say the same. Fifteen years past, when they had ridden forth to win a throne, the Lord of Storm’s End had been clean-shaven, clear-eyed, and muscled like a maiden’s fantasy. Six and a half feet tall, he towered over lesser men, and when he donned his armor and the great antlered helmet of his House, he became a veritable giant. He’d had a giant’s strength too, his weapon of choice a spiked iron warhammer that Ned could scarcely lift. In those days, the smell of leather and blood had clung to him like perfume.
   Now it was perfume that clung to him like perfume, and he had a girth to match his height. Ned had last seen the king nine years before during Balon Greyjoy’s rebellion, when the stag and the direwolf had joined to end the pretensions of the self-proclaimed King of the Iron Islands. Since the night they had stood side by side in Greyjoy’s fallen stronghold, where Robert had accepted the rebel lord’s surrender and Ned had taken his son Theon as hostage and ward, the king had gained at least eight stone. A beard as coarse and black as iron wire covered his jaw to hide his double chin and the sag of the royal jowls, but nothing could hide his stomach or the dark circles under his eyes.
   Yet Robert was Ned’s king now, and not just a friend, so he said only, “Your Grace. Winterfell is yours.”
   By then the others were dismounting as well, and grooms were coming forward for their mounts. Robert’s queen, Cersei Lannister, entered on foot with her younger children. The wheelhouse in which they had ridden, a huge double-decked carriage of oiled oak and gilded metal pulled by forty heavy draft horses, was too wide to pass through the castle gate. Ned knelt in the snow to kiss the queen’s ring, while Robert embraced Catelyn like a long-lost sister. Then the children had been brought forward, introduced, and approved of by both sides.
   No sooner had those formalities of greeting been completed than the king had said to his host, “Take me down to your crypt, Eddard. I would pay my respects.”
   Ned loved him for that, for remembering her still after all these years. He called for a lantern. No other words were needed. The queen had begun to protest. They had been riding since dawn, everyone was tired and cold, surely they should refresh themselves first. The dead would wait. She had said no more than that; Robert had looked at her, and her twin brother Jaime had taken her quietly by the arm, and she had said no more.
   They went down to the crypt together, Ned and this king he scarcely recognized. The winding stone steps were narrow. Ned went first with the lantern. “I was starting to think we would never reach Winterfell,” Robert complained as they descended. “In the south, the way they talk about my Seven Kingdoms, a man forgets that your part is as big as the other six combined.”
   “I trust you enjoyed the journey, Your Grace?”
   Robert snorted. “Bogs and forests and fields, and scarcely a decent inn north of the Neck. I’ve never seen such a vast emptiness. Where are all your people?”
   “Likely they were too shy to come out,” Ned jested. He could feel the chill coming up the stairs, a cold breath from deep within the earth. “Kings are a rare sight in the north.”
   Robert snorted. “More likely they were hiding under the snow. Snow, Ned!” The king put one hand on the wall to steady himself as they descended.
   “Late summer snows are common enough,” Ned said. “I hope they did not trouble you. They are usually mild.”
   “The Others take your mild snows,” Robert swore. “What will this place be like in winter? I shudder to think.”
   “The winters are hard,” Ned admitted. “But the Starks will endure. We always have.”
   “You need to come south,” Robert told him. “You need a taste of summer before it flees. In Highgarden there are fields of golden roses that stretch away as far as the eye can see. The fruits are so ripe they explode in your mouth, melons, peaches, fireplums, you’ve never tasted such sweetness. You’ll see, I brought you some. Even at Storm’s End, with that good wind off the bay, the days are so hot you can barely move. And you ought to see the towns, Ned! Flowers everywhere, the markets bursting with food, the summerwines so cheap and so good that you can get drunk just breathing the air. Everyone is fat and drunk and rich.” He laughed and slapped his own ample stomach a thump. “And the girls, Ned!” he exclaimed, his eyes sparkling. “I swear, women lose all modesty in the heat. They swim naked in the river, right beneath the castle. Even in the streets, it’s too damn hot for wool or fur, so they go around in these short gowns, silk if they have the silver and cotton if not, but it’s all the same when they start sweating and the cloth sticks to their skin, they might as well be naked.” The king laughed happily.
   Robert Baratheon had always been a man of huge appetites, a man who knew how to take his pleasures. That was not a charge anyone could lay at the door of Eddard Stark. Yet Ned could not help but notice that those pleasures were taking a toll on the king. Robert was breathing heavily by the time they reached the bottom of the stairs, his face red in the lantern light as they stepped out into the darkness of the crypt.
   “Your Grace,” Ned said respectfully. He swept the lantern in a wide semicircle. Shadows moved and lurched. Flickering light touched the stones underfoot and brushed against a long procession of granite pillars that marched ahead, two by two, into the dark. Between the pillars, the dead sat on their stone thrones against the walls, backs against the sepulchres that contained their mortal remains. “She is down at the end, with Father and Brandon.”
   He led the way between the pillars and Robert followed wordlessly, shivering in the subterranean chill. It was always cold down here. Their footsteps rang off the stones and echoed in the vault overhead as they walked among the dead of House Stark. The Lords of Winterfell watched them pass. Their likenesses were carved into the stones that sealed the tombs. In long rows they sat, blind eyes staring out into eternal darkness, while great stone direwolves curled round their feet. The shifting shadows made the stone figures seem to stir as the living passed by.
   By ancient custom an iron longsword had been laid across the lap of each who had been Lord of Winterfell, to keep the vengeful spirits in their crypts. The oldest had long ago rusted away to nothing, leaving only a few red stains where the metal had rested on stone. Ned wondered if that meant those ghosts were free to roam the castle now. He hoped not. The first Lords of Winterfell had been men hard as the land they ruled. In the centuries before the Dragonlords came over the sea, they had sworn allegiance to no man, styling themselves the Kings in the North.
   Ned stopped at last and lifted the oil lantern. The crypt continued on into darkness ahead of them, but beyond this point the tombs were empty and unsealed; black holes waiting for their dead, waiting for him and his children. Ned did not like to think on that. “Here,” he told his king.
   Robert nodded silently, knelt, and bowed his head.
   There were three tombs, side by side. Lord Rickard Stark, Ned’s father, had a long, stern face. The stonemason had known him well. He sat with quiet dignity, stone fingers holding tight to the sword across his lap, but in life all swords had failed him. In two smaller sepulchres on either side were his children.
   Brandon had been twenty when he died, strangled by order of the Mad King Aerys Targaryen only a few short days before he was to wed Catelyn Tully of Riverrun. His father had been forced to watch him die. He was the true heir, the eldest, born to rule.
   Lyanna had only been sixteen, a child-woman of surpassing loveliness. Ned had loved her with all his heart. Robert had loved her even more. She was to have been his bride.
   “She was more beautiful than that,” the king said after a silence. His eyes lingered on Lyanna’s face, as if he could will her back to life. Finally he rose, made awkward by his weight. “Ah, damn it, Ned, did you have to bury her in a place like this?” His voice was hoarse with remembered grief. “She deserved more than darkness?.?.?.?”
   “She was a Stark of Winterfell,” Ned said quietly. “This is her place.”
   “She should be on a hill somewhere, under a fruit tree, with the sun and clouds above her and the rain to wash her clean.”
   “I was with her when she died,” Ned reminded the king. “She wanted to come home, to rest beside Brandon and Father.” He could hear her still at times. Promise me, she had cried, in a room that smelled of blood and roses. Promise me, Ned. The fever had taken her strength and her voice had been faint as a whisper, but when he gave her his word, the fear had gone out of his sister’s eyes. Ned remembered the way she had smiled then, how tightly her fingers had clutched his as she gave up her hold on life, the rose petals spilling from her palm, dead and black. After that he remembered nothing. They had found him still holding her body, silent with grief. The little crannogman, Howland Reed, had taken her hand from his. Ned could recall none of it. “I bring her flowers when I can,” he said. “Lyanna was?.?.?.?fond of flowers.”
   The king touched her cheek, his fingers brushing across the rough stone as gently as if it were living flesh. “I vowed to kill Rhaegar for what he did to her.”
   “You did,” Ned reminded him.
   “Only once,” Robert said bitterly.
   They had come together at the ford of the Trident while the battle crashed around them, Robert with his warhammer and his great antlered helm, the Targaryen prince armored all in black. On his breastplate was the three-headed dragon of his House, wrought all in rubies that flashed like fire in the sunlight. The waters of the Trident ran red around the hooves of their destriers as they circled and clashed, again and again, until at last a crushing blow from Robert’s hammer stove in the dragon and the chest beneath it. When Ned had finally come on the scene, Rhaegar lay dead in the stream, while men of both armies scrabbled in the swirling waters for rubies knocked free of his armor.
   “In my dreams, I kill him every night,” Robert admitted. “A thousand deaths will still be less than he deserves.”
   There was nothing Ned could say to that. After a quiet, he said, “We should return, Your Grace. Your wife will be waiting.”
   “The Others take my wife,” Robert muttered sourly, but he started back the way they had come, his footsteps falling heavily. “And if I hear ‘Your Grace’ once more, I’ll have your head on a spike. We are more to each other than that.”
   “I had not forgotten,” Ned replied quietly. When the king did not answer, he said, “Tell me about Jon.”
   Robert shook his head. “I have never seen a man sicken so quickly. We gave a tourney on my son’s name day. If you had seen Jon then, you would have sworn he would live forever. A fortnight later he was dead. The sickness was like a fire in his gut. It burned right through him.” He paused beside a pillar, before the tomb of a long-dead Stark. “I loved that old man.”
   “We both did.” Ned paused a moment. “Catelyn fears for her sister. How does Lysa bear her grief?”
   Robert’s mouth gave a bitter twist. “Not well, in truth,” he admitted. “I think losing Jon has driven the woman mad, Ned. She has taken the boy back to the Eyrie. Against my wishes. I had hoped to foster him with Tywin Lannister at Casterly Rock. Jon had no brothers, no other sons. Was I supposed to leave him to be raised by women?”
   Ned would sooner entrust a child to a pit viper than to Lord Tywin, but he left his doubts unspoken. Some old wounds never truly heal, and bleed again at the slightest word. “The wife has lost the husband,” he said carefully. “Perhaps the mother feared to lose the son. The boy is very young.”
   “Six, and sickly, and Lord of the Eyrie, gods have mercy,” the king swore. “Lord Tywin had never taken a ward before. Lysa ought to have been honored. The Lannisters are a great and noble House. She refused to even hear of it. Then she left in the dead of night, without so much as a by-your-leave. Cersei was furious.” He sighed deeply. “The boy is my namesake, did you know that? Robert Arryn. I am sworn to protect him. How can I do that if his mother steals him away?”
   “I will take him as ward, if you wish,” Ned said. “Lysa should consent to that. She and Catelyn were close as girls, and she would be welcome here as well.”
   “A generous offer, my friend,” the king said, “but too late. Lord Tywin has already given his consent. Fostering the boy elsewhere would be a grievous affront to him.”
   “I have more concern for my nephew’s welfare than I do for Lannister pride,” Ned declared.
   “That is because you do not sleep with a Lannister.” Robert laughed, the sound rattling among the tombs and bouncing from the vaulted ceiling. His smile was a flash of white teeth in the thicket of the huge black beard. “Ah, Ned,” he said, “you are still too serious.” He put a massive arm around Ned’s shoulders. “I had planned to wait a few days to speak to you, but I see now there’s no need for it. Come, walk with me.”
   They started back down between the pillars. Blind stone eyes seemed to follow them as they passed. The king kept his arm around Ned’s shoulder. “You must have wondered why I finally came north to Winterfell, after so long.”
   Ned had his suspicions, but he did not give them voice. “For the joy of my company, surely,” he said lightly. “And there is the Wall. You need to see it, Your Grace, to walk along its battlements and talk to those who man it. The Night’s Watch is a shadow of what it once was. Benjen says...”
   “No doubt I will hear what your brother says soon enough,” Robert said. “The Wall has stood for what, eight thousand years? It can keep a few days more. I have more pressing concerns. These are difficult times. I need good men about me. Men like Jon Arryn. He served as Lord of the Eyrie, as Warden of the East, as the Hand of the King. He will not be easy to replace.”
   “His son?.?.?.?” Ned began.
   “His son will succeed to the Eyrie and all its incomes,” Robert said brusquely. “No more.”
   That took Ned by surprise. He stopped, startled, and turned to look at his king. The words came unbidden. “The Arryns have always been Wardens of the East. The title goes with the domain.”
   “Perhaps when he comes of age, the honor can be restored to him,” Robert said. “I have this year to think of, and next. A six-year-old boy is no war leader, Ned.”
   “In peace, the title is only an honor. Let the boy keep it. For his father’s sake if not his own. Surely you owe Jon that much for his service.”
   The king was not pleased. He took his arm from around Ned’s shoulders. “Jon’s service was the duty he owed his liege lord. I am not ungrateful, Ned. You of all men ought to know that. But the son is not the father. A mere boy cannot hold the east.” Then his tone softened. “Enough of this. There is a more important office to discuss, and I would not argue with you.” Robert grasped Ned by the elbow. “I have need of you, Ned.”
   “I am yours to command, Your Grace. Always.” They were words he had to say, and so he said them, apprehensive about what might come next.
   Robert scarcely seemed to hear him. “Those years we spent in the Eyrie?.?.?.?gods, those were good years. I want you at my side again, Ned. I want you down in King’s Landing, not up here at the end of the world where you are no damned use to anybody.” Robert looked off into the darkness, for a moment as melancholy as a Stark. “I swear to you, sitting a throne is a thousand times harder than winning one. Laws are a tedious business and counting coppers is worse. And the people?.?.?.?there is no end of them. I sit on that damnable iron chair and listen to them complain until my mind is numb and my ass is raw. They all want something, money or land or justice. The lies they tell?.?.?.?and my lords and ladies are no better. I am surrounded by flatterers and fools. It can drive a man to madness, Ned. Half of them don’t dare tell me the truth, and the other half can’t find it. There are nights I wish we had lost at the Trident. Ah, no, not truly, but?.?.?.?
   “I understand,” Ned said softly.
   Robert looked at him. “I think you do. If so, you are the only one, my old friend.” He smiled. “Lord Eddard Stark, I would name you the Hand of the King.”
   Ned dropped to one knee. The offer did not surprise him; what other reason could Robert have had for coming so far? The Hand of the King was the second-most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms. He spoke with the king’s voice, commanded the king’s armies, drafted the king’s laws. At times he even sat upon the Iron Throne to dispense king’s justice, when the king was absent, or sick, or otherwise indisposed. Robert was offering him a responsibility as large as the realm itself.
   It was the last thing in the world he wanted.
   “Your Grace,” he said. “I am not worthy of the honor.”
   Robert groaned with good-humored impatience. “If I wanted to honor you, I’d let you retire. I am planning to make you run the kingdom and fight the wars while I eat and drink and wench myself into an early grave.” He slapped his gut and grinned. “You know the saying, about the king and his Hand?”
   Ned knew the saying. “What the king dreams,” he said, “the Hand builds.”
   “I bedded a fishmaid once who told me the lowborn have a choicer way to put it. The king eats, they say, and the Hand takes the shit.” He threw back his head and roared his laughter. The echoes rang through the darkness, and all around them the dead of Winterfell seemed to watch with cold and disapproving eyes.
   Finally the laughter dwindled and stopped. Ned was still on one knee, his eyes upraised. “Damn it, Ned,” the king complained. “You might at least humor me with a smile.”
   “They say it grows so cold up here in winter that a man’s laughter freezes in his throat and chokes him to death,” Ned said evenly. “Perhaps that is why the Starks have so little humor.”
   “Come south with me, and I’ll teach you how to laugh again,” the king promised. “You helped me win this damnable throne, now help me hold it. We were meant to rule together. If Lyanna had lived, we should have been brothers, bound by blood as well as affection. Well, it is not too late. I have a son. You have a daughter. My Joff and your Sansa shall join our houses, as Lyanna and I might once have done.”
   This offer did surprise him. “Sansa is only eleven.”
   Robert waved an impatient hand. “Old enough for betrothal. The marriage can wait a few years.” The king smiled. “Now stand up and say yes, curse you.”
   “Nothing would give me greater pleasure, Your Grace,” Ned answered. He hesitated. “These honors are all so unexpected. May I have some time to consider? I need to tell my wife?.?.?.?”
   “Yes, yes, of course, tell Catelyn, sleep on it if you must.” The king reached down, clasped Ned by the hand, and pulled him roughly to his feet. “Just don’t keep me waiting too long. I am not the most patient of men.”
   For a moment Eddard Stark was filled with a terrible sense of foreboding. This was his place, here in the north. He looked at the stone figures all around them, breathed deep in the chill silence of the crypt. He could feel the eyes of the dead. They were all listening, he knew. And winter was coming.
来访的队伍如同一条由金、银和钢铁交融而成的璀璨河流，浩浩荡荡涌进城堡大门。他们为数一共三百，由引以为傲的封臣与骑士、誓言骑士①和自由骑手所组成。冰冷的北风拍打着他们头顶高举的十数面金色旗帜，上面绣了象征拜拉席恩家族的宝冠雄鹿。
　　队伍中有不少奈德熟悉的面孔。一头亮眼金发的是詹姆·兰尼斯特爵士，脸带烧伤的是桑铎·克里冈。他身旁的高大男孩一定是王储，而他们身后的那个畸形矮子则毫无疑问是“小恶魔”提利昂·兰尼斯特了。
　　然而那个走在队伍前列，由两名雪白披风御林铁卫随侍左右的人，在奈德眼里竟像个陌生人……一直到对方翻身跳下战马，发出熟悉的洪钟呐喊，然后一把抱住他，差点把他全身骨头拆散，他方才认出来者是谁。“奈德！啊，见到你真好，尤其是看到你那张冻得发紫的脸。”国王仔仔细细地上下打量他一番，然后朗声笑道，“你真是一点都没变。”
　　要是奈德也能对他说同样的话就好了。十五年前，当他们并肩为王位而奋战时，这位风息堡公爵是个面容修整干净，眼神清澈，让怀春少女梦寐以求的精壮男子。他身高六尺五寸，如巍然巨塔，在众人之中似鹤立鸡群。当他身披战甲，头戴双叉鹿角巨盔，则成了个名副其实的巨人。他的力气也不输巨人，惯用的那柄铁刺战锤连奈德都只能勉强举起。在那些岁月里，皮革和血的气味就如贵妇身上的香水，和他如影随形。
　　如今香水却当真和他如影随形了。他的腰围也变得和身高同样惊人。奈德上次见到国王，始自九年前的巴隆·葛雷乔伊之乱。那时雄鹿与冰原狼的旗帜齐飞，七国军队合力征讨那自立为铁群岛之王的领主。胜利之夜，两人并肩站在葛雷乔伊家族陷落的堡垒大厅里，劳勃接受叛军首领的降书，奈德则将其幼子席恩收为养子，之后劳勃起码胖了八石。如今虽有一团粗黑如铁丝的胡子遮住他肥胖的双下巴，却没有东西可以掩盖他突出的小腹和凹陷的黑眼圈。
　　但劳勃终究是奈德的国君，而不仅仅是朋友，所以他只说：“陛下，临冬城听候您差遣。”
　　此时其他人纷纷下马，城里的马夫过来照料马匹。劳勃的王后，瑟曦·兰尼斯特带着她年幼的孩子们走进城里。他们乘坐的轮宫乃是一辆巨大的双层马车，以油亮的橡木和镶滚金边的金属搭建而成，由四十匹骏马共同拖拉，因为太宽，只得停在城门外。奈德在雪地里跪下，亲吻王后手上的戒指，劳勃则像是拥抱自己失散已久的妹妹般地拥抱了凯特琳。接着孩子们被带上前来，彼此正式介绍过后，得到双方家长的赞许。
　　正式的见面礼仪刚结束，国王便说：“艾德，带我到你们家墓窖去，我要聊表敬意。”
　　奈德就爱他这点，都过了这么多年，他依旧对她念念不忘。他叫人拿来提灯。一切都尽在不言之中。王后开口反对，她说大家打清早起就在赶路，这时人人又冷又倦，应该先稍事休息，要看死人也用不着这么急。她话说到这里，只见劳勃冷冷地盯着她，她的孪生弟弟詹姆静静地握住她的手，她也就没再说下去。
　　于是奈德和他几乎快不认得的国王一同往地下墓窖走去。通往墓窖的螺旋楼梯非常狭窄，所以奈德打着灯走在前面。“我原本都快以为我们永远也到不了临冬城了，”劳勃边下楼边抱怨，“南方住久了，成天听人说我的七大王国如何如何，很容易就忘记你的领地和其他六国加起来一样大。”
　　“陛下，相信您这趟旅途一定很愉快吧？”
　　劳勃哼了一声，“一路上到处都是沼泽、树林和田野，过了颈泽后连间像样的旅店都找不着。我这辈子还没见过这么广袤无边的冷野荒芜，你的子民都躲哪儿去了？”
　　“多半是害羞不敢出来吧。”奈德打趣道，他感觉得到一股寒意自地窖席卷而上，有如幽深地底的冰冷气息。“在北方，国王可不是天天都见得着的。”
　　劳勃又哼了一声，“我看是躲在厚厚的积雪底下去了吧！奈德，都什么时候了你们这儿还冰天雪地！”国王边下楼边伸手扶着墙壁，稳住身子。
　　“晚夏降雪在北方是稀松平常的事情，”奈德说，“希望没给您带来什么困扰，夏末的雪通常都不大。”
　　“这叫做不大？异鬼才相信！”劳勃骂道，“那等到冬天你们这要冷成什么样子？我光想想就浑身发抖。”
　　“北方的冬天很冷很苦，”奈德承认，“但史塔克家族会熬过去的，这么多年来我们不是一直都熬过来了吗？”
　　“你真该来南方看看，”劳勃对他说：“趁夏天还没结束好好见识一下。高庭的原野放眼望去尽是金黄玫瑰。水果甜熟到会在你口中爆开，有甜瓜、蜜桃还有火梅，我保证你绝对没尝过这么甜美的东西。你待会儿就知道了，我这次给你捎了点过来。就算在风息堡，当热风吹起，天气热得你几乎无法动弹。奈德，你真该看看南方市镇的模样！遍地繁花，市集里的食物车载斗量；夏季的葡萄酒不但好喝，而且便宜得不像话，光闻闻市场里的酒味都会醉。人人都丰衣足食，喝得醉醺醺，吃得肥嘟嘟。”他咧嘴笑道，又用手拍了拍自己的啤酒肚。“奈德，还有南方的女孩子啊！”他的眼里焕发着光芒，高声叫道，“我敢跟你保证，只要天一热，女人的矜持就全不见了。她们会直接光着身子，在城堡附近的河里裸泳。就算上了街，也是热得穿不住毛衣皮衣，所以有钱的就穿丝织短袖，穷一点就穿棉质的。不过只要一流汗，衣服贴着皮肤，根本就和脱光光没两样。”国王开心地笑着。
　　劳勃·拜拉席恩向来是个物欲旺盛，很懂享受的人。这一点他没有变，但是奈德没法不注意国王为声色娱乐所付出的代价。当他们抵达楼梯底端，进入墓窖的深沉黑暗时，劳勃已经气喘吁吁，呼吸困难，在灯光照映下面红耳赤了。
　　“陛下请进，”奈德恭谨地说，然后将灯笼绕了个半圆。黑影鬼祟潜动，摇曳的火光照上脚底的石板，左右显现出两两成对的花岗岩柱，一直延展到远处的黑暗。历代逝者端坐石柱间的石制宝座上，背向墙壁，身后靠着存放遗体的石棺。“她在最后面，就在父亲和布兰登旁边。”
　　他领路在前，穿梭于石柱间的过道，劳勃被地底的阴寒冻得直打哆嗦，默然无语地跟随其后。墓窖里总是冷的，他们走在史塔克家族历代的死者之间，足音回响在偌大的陵墓里。历代临冬城领主注视着他们，紧闭石棺上的雕像刻有他们生前的容貌，巨大的咆哮冰原狼石雕则蜷缩脚下。他们并列而坐，用再也看不见的眼睛注视着永寂的黑暗。生者的走动仿佛惊动了他们，墙壁上轮换着窜动的黑影。
　　根据传统，凡是曾为临冬城之主的石像膝上都要放置一把铁制长剑，以确保这些含恨的复仇怨灵被封印在陵墓里，不致到阳间肆虐。其中最古老的早已锈蚀殆尽，原本放置宝剑的地方如今只剩红褐铁锈。奈德不禁扪心自问，这是否意味着那些幽魂如今可以恣意兴扰城堡？早先的临冬城主坚毅刚强一如他们脚底下的土地，在龙王尚未渡海来犯的日子里，他们不向任何人低头，自封为北境之王。
　　奈德停下脚步，举起油灯，陵墓仍然持续向前延伸，没入黑暗，然而之后的都是空位，没有封上，有如等待死者的黑洞，等待着他和他的子女。奈德想到这里就不舒服：“在这儿。”他对国王说。
　　劳勃静静地点头，跪了下来，低头行礼。
　　眼前共有三个并肩排列的石棺，奈德的父亲瑞卡德·史塔克有张严峻的长脸，当年的雕刻师父把他的神韵掌握得很好，他庄严地坐定，石指紧紧握住膝上横躺的宝剑，然而当年倾国的剑都救不了他。在他两旁较小的石棺里，则是他的子女。
　　布兰登死时不过二十，他就在和奔流城的凯特琳·徒利成婚前不久，被“疯王”伊里斯·坦格利安二世残忍地绞死。他父亲被迫全程目睹爱子惨死的经过。其实布兰登才是临冬城真正的继承人，他既是长子，又是天生的领袖。
　　莱安娜香消玉殒那时年方十六，还是个童心未泯的女孩。奈德全心全意地疼爱着这个妹妹，劳勃对她的爱犹有过之。她原本是要当他新娘的。
　　“她比这漂亮多了。”一阵沉默之后，国王开口。他的眼光仍眷恋在莱安娜脸上不忍离去，仿佛这样可以将她唤回人世。最后他终于站起身，步履却因肥胖而显得有些不稳。“妈的，奈德，真有必要把她葬在这种地方么？”他的声音因为忆起的悲痛而嘶哑起来，“她不该与阴暗为伍……”
　　“她是临冬城史塔克家族的人，”奈德平静地说，“她属于这里。”
　　“她应该安葬在风景优美的山丘上，坟上种棵果树，头顶有阳光白云与她为伴，有风霜雨露为她沐浴。”
　　“她临终前我就在她身边，”奈德提醒国王，“她只想回家，长眠在布兰登和父亲身边。”他至今还偶尔能听得见她死前的呓语。答应我，她在那个弥漫血腥和玫瑰馨香的房间里朝他喊，奈德，答应我。迟迟不退的高烧吸走了她全部的力量，当时的她气若游丝。但当他保证将信守诺言时，妹妹眼里的恐惧顿时一扫而空。奈德记得她最后的微笑，还有她如何紧抓他的手，随后离开人世，玫瑰花瓣自她掌心倾流而出，沉暗而无生气。在那之后发生了什么，他全都不记得。当人们找到他时，他仍然紧紧抱着她了无生气的躯体，哀恸得难以言语。据说最后是那个矮小的泽地人霍兰·黎德将她的手自他手中抽开，奈德自己一片茫然。“我一有机会就会带花来看她，”他说，“莱安娜她……一直很喜欢花。”
　　国王摸了摸她的脸颊，手指温柔地滑过粗砺的岩石表面，好似在爱抚活生生的恋人。“我发誓杀雷加为她报仇。”
　　“你已经杀了他。”奈德提醒他。
　　“只杀了一次。”劳勃满腹酸楚地说。
　　两个死敌当年在三河交汇处的沙洲浅滩上碰面，炽烈的战火在四周蔓延。劳勃手持他的铁刺战锤，头戴鹿角巨盔；坦格利安王子则全身黑甲，胸铠上用红宝石镶成象征家族纹章的三头巨龙，在烈日照耀下有若熊熊烈火。两人鏖战不休，三叉戟河的河水在战马铁蹄下染成血红，直到最后劳勃的战锤击碎了对手铠甲上的三头龙，穿过铠甲下的躯体。奈德赶到现场时，雷加已经倒卧河中，气绝身亡；双方士兵在水里争抢从他铠甲上掉落的红宝石，激起翻飞水花。
　　“每晚在梦中，我都要杀他一次。”劳勃道，“就算再杀他个一千遍，他还是死有余辜。”
　　奈德不知道该说什么才好。又一阵沉默后，他说：“陛下，我们该回去了，王后正等着呢。”
　　“王后王后，就算异鬼抓走她又如何？”劳勃尖酸地喃喃道，但他还是脚步蹒跚，沉重地朝来时的方向走去。“还有，你要敢再叫我一声陛下，我一定把你枭首示众。咱们之间可不只是君臣关系而已。”
　　“我不敢忘。”奈德静静地回答。眼看国王没有答话，他便问，“跟我说说琼恩的事。”
　　劳勃摇摇头：“我这辈子没看过一个人病情恶化得那么迅速。为了庆祝我儿子的命名日，我们举办了一场比武竞技，当天见了他，你一定会认为他健康得能长命百岁。但两个星期之后他就死了，得的病像把烈火，活活把他给燃尽。”劳勃在一根石柱边停下来，正好站在一个死去已久的史塔克族人面前。“我好敬爱那个老人啊。”
　　“我们都一样。”奈德停了一会儿，“凯特琳很为她妹妹担心，莱莎还好吗？”
　　劳勃的嘴角苦涩地扭了扭，“坦白说，一点也不好。”他顿了顿，“奈德，我认为琼恩的死把那个女人给逼疯了。她已经带着儿子逃回了鹰巢城。我是不希望她这么做的，我本来打算把他过继给凯岩城的泰温·兰尼斯特。琼恩既没有兄弟，又只有这么一个儿子，我怎么能让个女人家独自抚养他长大呢？”
　　奈德宁可把孩子交给毒蛇抚养，也不愿意交给泰温公爵，但他没说出口。有些旧伤永难愈合，只需简短几字，就会再汩汩流血。“她刚失去丈夫，”他小心翼翼地说，“或许做母亲的害怕再失去儿子吧，况且那孩子年纪还小。”
　　“六岁，成天病恹恹，这种人是新任鹰巢城公爵，诸神饶了我罢。”国王咒骂，“泰温公爵以前从没收过养子，莱莎应该觉得光荣才对。兰尼斯特家族历史悠久，势力又大，可她竟然连考虑都不肯考虑，也没得到我准许，就趁着月黑风高不声不响离开了。瑟曦差点没气炸。”他深深地叹了口气，“你知道吗？那孩子的名是照着我取的，叫劳勃·艾林。我发誓要保护他，怎么能让他母亲就这样把他偷偷带走呢？”
　　“不如让我来收养他，你意下如何？”奈德说，“莱莎应该会同意。她年轻时和凯特琳很亲，她来这儿也会比较有家的感觉。”
　　“我的老友啊，你是个好人。”国王回答，“只可惜为时已晚。泰温公爵既然同意收养，如果又把那孩子转到别的地方，对他是种侮辱。”
　　“我关心的是我外甥的幸福，而不在乎兰尼斯特家族高兴不高兴。”奈德表示。
　　“那是因为你晚上不用陪兰尼斯特家的女人睡觉，”劳勃放声大笑，笑声在墓窖里回荡，在拱形屋顶上反射，那笑容是浓密黑虬髯里的一条白线。“呵，奈德，”他说，“你还是老样子，太严肃了。”他伸出巨大的手臂环住奈德的肩膀，“我本想过几天再跟你谈这件事，但你既然提起，就现在说罢。来，我们走。”
　　他们朝墓窖的出口走去，穿梭于石柱之间，两旁的史塔克死者空洞的眼神仿佛正跟随他们的脚步。国王依旧搂着奈德：“你一定想不透，隔了这么多年，为什么现在我才到临冬城来。”
　　奈德确有几个可能的猜测，但他没说出来。“我看，想来和我作伴？”他故作轻松地说，“不然就是绝境长城的缘故。陛下，您一定要去看看，在城墙上亲自走一遭，再和守军谈谈。守夜人部队如今已没有过去的盛况，班扬说……”
　　“相信我很快就有机会当面和你弟弟聊聊，”劳勃道，“至于绝境长城，已经在那儿多久了？八千多年了罢，再撑个几天应该没问题。我有更要紧的事要跟你说，如今时局紧张，我需要信得过的得力助手，就像琼恩·艾林那样的人。他既是鹰巢城公爵，又是东境守护和御前首相，要找到合适的替代人选可不容易。”
　　“他儿子……”奈德开口。
　　“他的儿子会继承鹰巢城公爵爵位，以及麾下领地所有税赋。”劳勃打断他，“就这样了。”
　　奈德大吃一惊，错愕地停下脚步，转身面对国王，脱口便道：“艾林家族世代担任东境守护，这是个世袭的职位啊。”
　　“等他长大成人，我再考虑要不要交还给他。”劳勃说，“然而我首先要打算的是今年和往后的几年。奈德，六岁的小男孩没法统率军队。”
　　“这头衔在承平时期不过是个荣誉职，就让那孩子保留这个称号吧。就算不为了他，为了他那一生为国鞠躬尽瘁的父亲，这也是应该的。”
　　国王听了不大高兴，把手从奈德肩膀上抽了回来：“琼恩鞠躬尽瘁是他职责所在，他本来就该对他的君王效忠。奈德，我不是忘恩负义的人，这点你应该最清楚。但那孩子可不是他父亲，一个稚龄幼儿绝对治理不了东方。”他的语气缓和下来，“不说这些了，我有更要紧的事跟你商量，而且这次我不准你跟我争辩。”劳勃紧握住奈德的手肘，“奈德，我有事需要你帮忙。”
　　“陛下，我永远任您差遣。”
　　他虽然很担心国王的下一步，却不得不这么说。
　　劳勃好像根本就没听他说话，只自顾自地续道：“想想我们一起在鹰巢城度过的那几年……妈的，好一段快乐时光！奈德，我希望你能再次陪在我身边，我希望你能南下到君临与我共商国事，不要一个人躲在世界的尽头，毫无用武之地。”劳勃望向远处的昏暗，突然像个史塔克族人般忧郁地说：“我向你发誓，坐在铁王座上管理国政，比夺取王位要难上千倍。法律仲裁是件累煞人的事，清算国库更麻烦。还有那些没完没了的平民百姓，我成天坐在那该死的铁椅子上听他们怨东怨西，听得我脑筋麻木，屁股酸痛。每个人一开口就是要钱，不然就是要土地或法律仲裁。全是些满口胡言的家伙，偏偏我的大臣贵妇们也好不到哪里去。我身边都是些白痴和马屁精，奈德，这真会把人逼疯的。他们要么稀里糊涂，要么故意说谎。有时候我睡觉，还真希望咱们当年在三叉戟河吃了败仗。啊，我不是说真吃了败仗，只是……”
　　“我了解。”奈德轻轻地说。
　　劳勃看着他：“老朋友，我想也只有你能够了解。”他面带微笑，“艾德·史塔克大人，我将任命你为国王之手，即御前首相。”
　　奈德单膝跪下。他并不意外，除了这个原因，劳勃还会为了什么千里迢迢北上呢？御前首相是七大王国中一人之下，万人之上的显赫要职，他将代表国王发号施令、运用权威、统御三军、执掌司法。遇到国王缺席、生病或其他突发事件，他甚至会坐上铁王座，直接统治国家。劳勃等于是将王国交到他手中。
　　而这，却是他最最不想要的。
　　“陛下，”他说，“恐怕我的能力不足以胜任此等要职。”
　　劳勃高兴地发出一声佯装不耐的咕哝，“我要真为你着想，早让你退休啦。我是打算让你来治理国家，带兵打仗，而我自己呢？痛痛快快地吃喝玩乐，嫖个过瘾。”他拍拍肚皮，嘿嘿笑道：“你知道那句形容国王和首相的谚语吧？”
　　奈德当然知道。“国王做梦，”他说，“首相筑梦。”
　　“有个跟我上床的渔家女孩告诉我，他们中下阶层的百姓有个更妙的比喻：国王吃席，首相拉屎。”
　　此话一出，他仰头狂笑，回音响彻黑暗，四面八方的临冬城死者却似乎很不以为然地冷眼旁观。当笑声终止，奈德仍然单膝跪地，眼睛上扬。“妈的，奈德，”国王抱怨，“你好歹也跟我一起笑一笑？”
　　“有人说这里的冬天太冷，人若是笑了，声音会冻结在喉咙里，直到把人活活噎死。”奈德平静地说，“或许这就是为什么我们史塔克家人甚少有幽默感。”
　　“跟我一起到南方去，我一定让你再露笑颜。”国王向他保证，“你既然帮我得到了这张该死的铁椅子，就该帮我保住它吧。我们注定是要并肩治理国家的。倘若莱安娜还活着，我们现在就该是连姻手足，名副其实的兄弟了。呵呵，好在现在也不迟，我有个儿子，你有个女儿，我家小乔和你的珊莎会把两家结合在一起，就好像当年的莱安娜和我。”
　　这个提议却真吓了奈德一跳：“可珊莎才十一岁。”
　　劳勃不耐烦地挥挥手：“已经大到可以订婚啦，结婚等过几年再说。”国王微笑，“你这浑球，还不快站起来说好。”
　　“陛下，这是至高无上的荣耀与喜乐。”奈德回答，接着他露出迟疑，“可也太让我措手不及，能否给我点时间考虑？我要告诉我妻子……”
　　“好，好，当然没问题，去跟凯特琳说罢，好好想清楚。”国王伸出手，拍了拍奈德的手，然后把他拉起来。“别教我等太久就是，你也知道我没什么耐性。”
　　一时之间，艾德·史塔克心中充满了一种山雨欲来的恐惧，毕竟寒冷的北国才是真正属于他的故乡。他看看四周石像，吸了口墓窖的冰冷空气。他隐约可以感觉得出身旁历代先祖的目光，他知道他们正侧耳倾听，他知道凛冬将至。
　　※※※※※※
　　①誓言骑士：庇依在其他贵族门下的骑士，发下誓言为其效劳，故称誓言骑士。多半为有骑士称号，但无封地的小贵族。
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寒烟柔。

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等级: 内阁元老
配偶: 逐烟霞。
你看着眼前的人，分明还是以前的模样，可心里终究不是以前那般澄清透明了。
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   5．JON

   5．JON
   There were times, not many, but a few, when Jon Snow was glad he was a bastard. As he filled his wine cup once more from a passing flagon, it struck him that this might be one of them.
   He settled back in his place on the bench among the younger squires and drank. The sweet, fruity taste of summerwine filled his mouth and brought a smile to his lips.
   The Great Hall of Winterfell was hazy with smoke and heavy with the smell of roasted meat and fresh-baked bread. Its grey stone walls were draped with banners. White, gold, crimson: the direwolf of Stark, Baratheon’s crowned stag, the lion of Lannister. A singer was playing the high harp and reciting a ballad, but down at this end of the hall his voice could scarcely be heard above the roar of the fire, the clangor of pewter plates and cups, and the low mutter of a hundred drunken conversations.
   It was the fourth hour of the welcoming feast laid for the king. Jon’s brothers and sisters had been seated with the royal children, beneath the raised platform where Lord and Lady Stark hosted the king and queen. In honor of the occasion, his lord father would doubtless permit each child a glass of wine, but no more than that. Down here on the benches, there was no one to stop Jon drinking as much as he had a thirst for.
   And he was finding that he had a man’s thirst, to the raucous delight of the youths around him, who urged him on every time he drained a glass. They were fine company, and Jon relished the stories they were telling, tales of battle and bedding and the hunt. He was certain that his companions were more entertaining than the king’s offspring. He had sated his curiosity about the visitors when they made their entrance. The procession had passed not a foot from the place he had been given on the bench, and Jon had gotten a good long look at them all.
   His lord father had come first, escorting the queen. She was as beautiful as men said. A jeweled tiara gleamed amidst her long golden hair, its emeralds a perfect match for the green of her eyes. His father helped her up the steps to the dais and led her to her seat, but the queen never so much as looked at him. Even at fourteen, Jon could see through her smile.
   Next had come King Robert himself, with Lady Stark on his arm. The king was a great disappointment to Jon. His father had talked of him often: the peerless Robert Baratheon, demon of the Trident, the fiercest warrior of the realm, a giant among princes. Jon saw only a fat man, red-faced under his beard, sweating through his silks. He walked like a man half in his cups.
   After them came the children. Little Rickon first, managing the long walk with all the dignity a three-year-old could muster. Jon had to urge him on when he stopped to visit. Close behind came Robb, in grey wool trimmed with white, the Stark colors. He had the Princess Myrcella on his arm. She was a wisp of a girl, not quite eight, her hair a cascade of golden curls under a jeweled net. Jon noticed the shy looks she gave Robb as they passed between the tables and the timid way she smiled at him. He decided she was insipid. Robb didn’t even have the sense to realize how stupid she was; he was grinning like a fool.
   His half sisters escorted the royal princes. Arya was paired with plump young Tommen, whose white-blond hair was longer than hers. Sansa, two years older, drew the crown prince, Joffrey Baratheon. He was twelve, younger than Jon or Robb, but taller than either, to Jon’s vast dismay. Prince Joffrey had his sister’s hair and his mother’s deep green eyes. A thick tangle of blond curls dripped down past his golden choker and high velvet collar. Sansa looked radiant as she walked beside him, but Jon did not like Joffrey’s pouty lips or the bored, disdainful way he looked at Winterfell’s Great Hall.
   He was more interested in the pair that came behind him: the queen’s brothers, the Lannisters of Casterly Rock. The Lion and the Imp; there was no mistaking which was which. Ser Jaime Lannister was twin to Queen Cersei; tall and golden, with flashing green eyes and a smile that cut like a knife. He wore crimson silk, high black boots, a black satin cloak. On the breast of his tunic, the lion of his House was embroidered in gold thread, roaring its defiance. They called him the Lion of Lannister to his face and whispered “Kingslayer” behind his back.
   Jon found it hard to look away from him. This is what a king should look like, he thought to himself as the man passed.
   Then he saw the other one, waddling along half-hidden by his brother’s side. Tyrion Lannister, the youngest of Lord Tywin’s brood and by far the ugliest. All that the gods had given to Cersei and Jaime, they had denied Tyrion. He was a dwarf, half his brother’s height, struggling to keep pace on stunted legs. His head was too large for his body, with a brute’s squashed-in face beneath a swollen shelf of brow. One green eye and one black one peered out from under a lank fall of hair so blond it seemed white. Jon watched him with fascination.
   The last of the high lords to enter were his uncle, Benjen Stark of the Night’s Watch, and his father’s ward, young Theon Greyjoy. Benjen gave Jon a warm smile as he went by. Theon ignored him utterly, but there was nothing new in that. After all had been seated, toasts were made, thanks were given and returned, and then the feasting began.
   Jon had started drinking then, and he had not stopped.
   Something rubbed against his leg beneath the table. Jon saw red eyes staring up at him. “Hungry again?” he asked. There was still half a honeyed chicken in the center of the table. Jon reached out to tear off a leg, then had a better idea. He knifed the bird whole and let the carcass slide to the floor between his legs. Ghost ripped into it in savage silence. His brothers and sisters had not been permitted to bring their wolves to the banquet, but there were more curs than Jon could count at this end of the hall, and no one had said a word about his pup. He told himself he was fortunate in that too.
   His eyes stung. Jon rubbed at them savagely, cursing the smoke. He swallowed another gulp of wine and watched his direwolf devour the chicken.
   Dogs moved between the tables, trailing after the serving girls. One of them, a black mongrel bitch with long yellow eyes, caught a scent of the chicken. She stopped and edged under the bench to get a share. Jon watched the confrontation. The bitch growled low in her throat and moved closer. Ghost looked up, silent, and fixed the dog with those hot red eyes. The bitch snapped an angry challenge. She was three times the size of the direwolf pup. Ghost did not move. He stood over his prize and opened his mouth, baring his fangs. The bitch tensed, barked again, then thought better of this fight. She turned and slunk away, with one last defiant snap to save her pride. Ghost went back to his meal.
   Jon grinned and reached under the table to ruffle the shaggy white fur. The direwolf looked up at him, nipped gently at his hand, then went back to eating.
   “Is this one of the direwolves I’ve heard so much of?” a familiar voice asked close at hand.
   Jon looked up happily as his uncle Ben put a hand on his head and ruffled his hair much as Jon had ruffled the wolf’s. “Yes,” he said. “His name is Ghost.”
   One of the squires interrupted the bawdy story he’d been telling to make room at the table for their lord’s brother. Benjen Stark straddled the bench with long legs and took the wine cup out of Jon’s hand. “Summerwine,” he said after a taste. “Nothing so sweet. How many cups have you had, Jon?”
   Jon smiled.
   Ben Stark laughed. “As I feared. Ah, well. I believe I was younger than you the first time I got truly and sincerely drunk.” He snagged a roasted onion, dripping brown with gravy, from a nearby trencher and bit into it. It crunched.
   His uncle was sharp-featured and gaunt as a mountain crag, but there was always a hint of laughter in his blue-grey eyes. He dressed in black, as befitted a man of the Night’s Watch. Tonight it was rich black velvet, with high leather boots and a wide belt with a silver buckle. A heavy silver chain was looped round his neck. Benjen watched Ghost with amusement as he ate his onion. “A very quiet wolf,” he observed.
   “He’s not like the others,” Jon said. “He never makes a sound. That’s why I named him Ghost. That, and because he’s white. The others are all dark, grey or black.”
   “There are still direwolves beyond the Wall. We hear them on our rangings.” Benjen Stark gave Jon a long look. “Don’t you usually eat at table with your brothers?”
   “Most times,” Jon answered in a flat voice. “But tonight Lady Stark thought it might give insult to the royal family to seat a bastard among them.”
   “I see.” His uncle glanced over his shoulder at the raised table at the far end of the hall. “My brother does not seem very festive tonight.”
   Jon had noticed that too. A bastard had to learn to notice things, to read the truth that people hid behind their eyes. His father was observing all the courtesies, but there was tightness in him that Jon had seldom seen before. He said little, looking out over the hall with hooded eyes, seeing nothing. Two seats away, the king had been drinking heavily all night. His broad face was flushed behind his great black beard. He made many a toast, laughed loudly at every jest, and attacked each dish like a starving man, but beside him the queen seemed as cold as an ice sculpture. “The queen is angry too,” Jon told his uncle in a low, quiet voice. “Father took the king down to the crypts this afternoon. The queen didn’t want him to go.”
   Benjen gave Jon a careful, measuring look. “You don’t miss much, do you, Jon? We could use a man like you on the Wall.”
   Jon swelled with pride. “Robb is a stronger lance than I am, but I’m the better sword, and Hullen says I sit a horse as well as anyone in the castle.”
   “Notable achievements.”
   “Take me with you when you go back to the Wall,” Jon said in a sudden rush. “Father will give me leave to go if you ask him, I know he will.”
   Uncle Benjen studied his face carefully. “The Wall is a hard place for a boy, Jon.”
   “I am almost a man grown,” Jon protested. “I will turn fifteen on my next name day, and Maester Luwin says bastards grow up faster than other children.”
   “That’s true enough,” Benjen said with a downward twist of his mouth. He took Jon’s cup from the table, filled it fresh from a nearby pitcher, and drank down a long swallow.
   “Daeren Targaryen was only fourteen when he conquered Dorne,” Jon said. The Young Dragon was one of his heroes.
   “A conquest that lasted a summer,” his uncle pointed out. “Your Boy King lost ten thousand men taking the place, and another fifty trying to hold it. Someone should have told him that war isn’t a game.” He took another sip of wine. “Also,” he said, wiping his mouth, “Daeren Targaryen was only eighteen when he died. Or have you forgotten that part?”
   “I forget nothing,” Jon boasted. The wine was making him bold. He tried to sit very straight, to make himself seem taller. “I want to serve in the Night’s Watch, Uncle.”
   He had thought on it long and hard, lying abed at night while his brothers slept around him. Robb would someday inherit Winterfell, would command great armies as the Warden of the North. Bran and Rickon would be Robb’s bannermen and rule holdfasts in his name. His sisters Arya and Sansa would marry the heirs of other great houses and go south as mistress of castles of their own. But what place could a bastard hope to earn?
   “You don’t know what you’re asking, Jon. The Night’s Watch is a sworn brotherhood. We have no families. None of us will ever father sons. Our wife is duty. Our mistress is honor.”
   “A bastard can have honor too,” Jon said. “I am ready to swear your oath.”
   “You are a boy of fourteen,” Benjen said. “Not a man, not yet. Until you have known a woman, you cannot understand what you would be giving up.”
   “I don’t care about that!” Jon said hotly.
   “You might, if you knew what it meant,” Benjen said. “If you knew what the oath would cost you, you might be less eager to pay the price, son.”
   Jon felt anger rise inside him. “I’m not your son!”
   Benjen Stark stood up. “More’s the pity.” He put a hand on Jon’s shoulder. “Come back to me after you’ve fathered a few bastards of your own, and we’ll see how you feel.”
   Jon trembled. “I will never father a bastard,” he said carefully. “Never!” He spat it out like venom.
   Suddenly he realized that the table had fallen silent, and they were all looking at him. He felt the tears begin to well behind his eyes. He pushed himself to his feet.
   “I must be excused,” he said with the last of his dignity. He whirled and bolted before they could see him cry. He must have drunk more wine than he had realized. His feet got tangled under him as he tried to leave, and he lurched sideways into a serving girl and sent a flagon of spiced wine crashing to the floor. Laughter boomed all around him, and Jon felt hot tears on his cheeks. Someone tried to steady him. He wrenched free of their grip and ran, half-blind, for the door. Ghost followed close at his heels, out into the night.
   The yard was quiet and empty. A lone sentry stood high on the battlements of the inner wall, his cloak pulled tight around him against the cold. He looked bored and miserable as he huddled there alone, but Jon would have traded places with him in an instant. Otherwise the castle was dark and deserted. Jon had seen an abandoned holdfast once, a drear place where nothing moved but the wind and the stones kept silent about whatever people had lived there. Winterfell reminded him of that tonight.
   The sounds of music and song spilled through the open windows behind him. They were the last things Jon wanted to hear. He wiped away his tears on the sleeve of his shirt, furious that he had let them fall, and turned to go.
   “Boy,” a voice called out to him. Jon turned.
   Tyrion Lannister was sitting on the ledge above the door to the Great Hall, looking for all the world like a gargoyle. The dwarf grinned down at him. “Is that animal a wolf?”
   “A direwolf,” Jon said. “His name is Ghost.” He stared up at the little man, his disappointment suddenly forgotten. “What are you doing up there? Why aren’t you at the feast?”
   “Too hot, too noisy, and I’d drunk too much wine,” the dwarf told him. “I learned long ago that it is considered rude to vomit on your brother. Might I have a closer look at your wolf?”
   Jon hesitated, then nodded slowly. “Can you climb down, or shall I bring a ladder?”
   “Oh, bleed that,” the little man said. He pushed himself off the ledge into empty air. Jon gasped, then watched with awe as Tyrion Lannister spun around in a tight ball, landed lightly on his hands, then vaulted backward onto his legs.
   Ghost backed away from him uncertainly.
   The dwarf dusted himself off and laughed. “I believe I’ve frightened your wolf. My apologies.”
   “He’s not scared,” Jon said. He knelt and called out. “Ghost, come here. Come on. That’s it.”
   The wolf pup padded closer and nuzzled at Jon’s face, but he kept a wary eye on Tyrion Lannister, and when the dwarf reached out to pet him, he drew back and bared his fangs in a silent snarl. “Shy, isn’t he?” Lannister observed.
   “Sit, Ghost,” Jon commanded. “That’s it. Keep still.” He looked up at the dwarf. “You can touch him now. He won’t move until I tell him to. I’ve been training him.”
   “I see,” Lannister said. He ruffled the snow-white fur between Ghost’s ears and said, “Nice wolf.”
   “If I wasn’t here, he’d tear out your throat,” Jon said. It wasn’t actually true yet, but it would be.
   “In that case, you had best stay close,” the dwarf said. He cocked his oversized head to one side and looked Jon over with his mismatched eyes. “I am Tyrion Lannister.”
   “I know,” Jon said. He rose. Standing, he was taller than the dwarf. It made him feel strange.
   “You’re Ned Stark’s bastard, aren’t you?”
   Jon felt a coldness pass right through him. He pressed his lips together and said nothing.
   “Did I offend you?” Lannister said. “Sorry. Dwarfs don’t have to be tactful. Generations of capering fools in motley have won me the right to dress badly and say any damn thing that comes into my head.” He grinned. “You are the bastard, though.”
   “Lord Eddard Stark is my father,” Jon admitted stiffly.
   Lannister studied his face. “Yes,” he said. “I can see it. You have more of the north in you than your brothers.”
   “Half brothers,” Jon corrected. He was pleased by the dwarf’s comment, but he tried not to let it show.
   “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 don’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.



Ⅰ 权力的游戏 Chapter6 琼恩
　　在某些场合——虽然不多，却依旧存在——琼恩·雪诺会暗自庆幸自己是个私生子。当他拿起传来的酒壶，把自己刚喝干的杯子斟满时，他惊觉现在就是这样的场合。
　　他返身坐回长凳，和青年侍从们坐在一起，啜饮杯中佳酿。满口夏日红酒甜美的水果香气，牵起他嘴角的一丝微笑。
　　临冬城的大厅里热气蒸腾，四溢着烤肉和刚出炉的面包所散发的香味。大厅的灰石墙上挂满了各家旗帜，白色是史塔克家族的冰原奔狼，金色是拜拉席恩家族的宝冠雄鹿，绯红则是兰尼斯特家族的怒吼雄狮。大厅里有位歌手正拨弄竖琴，高唱歌谣，然而在炉火熊熊，蜡碟碰撞和酩酊交谈的喧嚣覆盖下，坐在长厅末端的他根本听不清楚。
　　为国王接风洗尘而举办的欢迎晚宴，已经进行了整整四个钟头。琼恩的兄弟姐妹和他隔着整个大厅，他们和王子公主们坐在一起，只比史塔克公爵夫妇和国王王后所处的高台低一席。每逢这种特殊场合，他的公爵父亲总会特许每个孩子喝一杯葡萄酒，但不准再多。反倒是像他这样与随从仆役们在一块儿，没人会管他喝多少。
　　他发现自己的酒量原来和成人差不多，在身旁这群兴高采烈的年轻人怂恿下，每当喝干一杯，他们就怂恿他再来一杯。琼恩很乐意与他们为伍，津津有味地听他们彼此吹嘘战争、打猎和偷情的故事。他相信这群伙伴绝对比王子公主们有趣。先前当访客们从大门口鱼贯而入时，他已经满足了自己的好奇心。队伍正好从他座位前方不远处经过，他便好好地瞧了个清楚。
　　他的公爵父亲护送王后走在前面，她正如传闻中那么美丽，镶满宝石的头冠衬着她金色的长发，闪闪发亮，其上镶嵌的翡翠和她璀璨明亮的碧眼搭配得完美无瑕。父亲搀扶她步上高台，引她到席位坐下，然而她自始至终都没正眼瞧他一下。琼恩虽然只有十四岁，但他还是看得出王后的笑容只是表面功夫。
　　接着是国王本人，他挽着史塔克夫人的手走了进来。琼恩见到国王，只觉大失所望。父亲常说起那个天下无双的勇士劳勃·拜拉席恩，三叉戟河的恶魔，全国最骁勇善战的武士，在王公贵族间卓然不群。可在琼恩眼里，他不过是个红脸长须，汗流浃背的胖子，走起路来一副耽溺杯中物的模样。
　　在他之后进来的是孩子们，小瑞肯走在第一，很努力地要装出三岁小孩所能表现出来的庄严姿态。他走到琼恩面前时还停下来打招呼，琼恩只得催促他快走。罗柏紧跟在后，他穿着象征史塔克家族色彩的灰绒白边羊毛衣，挽着弥赛菈公主的手。她还是个小女孩，年纪不满八岁，珠光宝气的发网内金色卷发有如瀑布般流泻直下。他们经过时，琼恩注意到她看着罗柏时的羞赧微笑。他的结论是这女孩八成挺无趣。不过罗柏根本就没发现她有多蠢，他自己也看着她，笑得像个傻子。
　　接着他的两个异母妹妹也护送王子们进来了，艾莉亚和胖嘟嘟的托曼王子走在一块儿，他那白金色的长发比她的头发还要长。大她两岁的珊莎则陪着王太子乔佛里·拜拉席恩。乔佛里今年十二岁，年纪比琼恩和罗柏都小，长得却比两人都要高，琼恩想到这就不痛快。乔佛里王子有妹妹的长发和母亲的深邃碧眼，金色的发卷盖过金色宽领带和高贵的天鹅绒衣领，珊莎走在他身旁，容光焕发。不过琼恩可一点也不喜欢乔佛里那副嘴唇上噘，对临冬城大厅轻蔑鄙夷的神态。
　　他对走在王太子后面的这一对比较感兴趣：他们是王后的兄弟，都是凯岩城兰尼斯特家的人。任何人都不会把谁是“雄狮”，谁又是“小恶魔”给弄混的。詹姆·兰尼斯特爵士是瑟曦王后的孪生手足，生得高大英挺，金发飘扬，有着闪亮的碧眼和利如刀锋的笑容。他穿着大红丝质长衫，漆黑高统靴和黑缎长披风。上衣的前胸用金线绣了只兰尼斯特家怒吼不驯的雄狮。人们称他“兰尼斯特雄狮”，又在背后窃窃私语“弑君者”这个名号。
　　琼恩发觉自己几乎无法将视线自他身上抽离。这才是王者应有的风范，詹姆走过面前时，他如此暗想。
　　接着他望向詹姆的兄弟，他正摇摇摆摆、半躲藏地走在哥哥身边。提利昂·兰尼斯特是泰温公爵年纪最小，也最丑陋的孩子。诸神赐予瑟曦和詹姆的一切优点，一样都没留给提利昂。他是个身高只有哥哥一半的侏儒，鼓动着畸形的双腿努力想跟上哥哥的脚步。他的头大得不合比例，鼓胀额头下是一张扭曲的怪脸。双眼一碧一黑，从满头长直金发下面向外窥视，他头发的颜色几乎金亮成白。琼恩饶富兴味地看着他打面前经过。
　　达官贵胄中最后进来的是他叔叔，守夜人部队的班扬·史塔克，以及父亲年轻的养子席恩·葛雷乔伊。班扬经过时对他露出温和的微笑，席恩则对他完全视若无睹，不过这也不是一两天的事情了。等贵宾全部就座之后，大家彼此举杯祝福，互致贺词，然后晚宴便正式开始。
　　琼恩从那时起就在喝酒，到现在还没停下。
　　长桌下有东西摩擦他的脚，低头只见一对红眼睛盯着他望。“肚子又饿了？”他问。餐桌中间还有半只蜜汁烤鸡，琼恩伸手撕下一只鸡腿，突然心生一计，用餐刀把整只鸡的肉切割下来，然后让剩余的鸡骨从自己双腿间滑到地上。“白灵”野蛮却安静地撕咬起骨头。他的兄妹们都不准带狼进宴会厅，惟有琼恩所处的大厅尾端，狗多得数不清，自然也没人管他的小狼。他告诉自己这也算专有的好福气。
　　眼睛突然一阵刺痛，琼恩粗鲁地揉揉，咒骂着熏烟。他又喝了一大口葡萄酒，然后看着白灵吞噬了整只鸡。
　　狗们在餐桌间来回走动，跟着女侍四处逡巡。其中有一只长着大大的黄眼睛的黑色混血母狗闻到了鸡肉香味，便停下脚步，低身挤过长椅想要分一杯羹。琼恩冷眼旁观双方对峙，只见那母狗喉头发出低吼，慢慢靠近。白灵则沉默地抬头，用那双血红的眼睛冷冷瞪视对方。母狗发出一声愤怒的挑衅，她的身躯是小冰原狼的三倍，但白灵却动也不动，只霸占住自己的食物，张开嘴巴，露出尖牙。母狗见状，又吠了一声，最后决定这场架还是不打为妙。于是它转身溜走，离去前还不忘傲慢地吠了一声以维持自尊。白灵继续低头猛嚼。
　　琼恩得意地笑着，探手到桌底摸摸它一身蓬松的白绒毛。小狼抬起头望他，温柔地咬了他的手一口，然后又低头大快朵颐。
　　“这就是大名鼎鼎的冰原狼吗？”一个熟悉的声音在身旁问。
　　琼恩开心地抬头，班叔叔把手放在他头上，拨弄着他的头发，就好像他刚才拨弄白灵身上的毛一样。“对，”他回答，“它叫做白灵。”
　　一名正说着低级故事的侍从停下来，挪出位置给公爵的弟弟坐。班扬·史塔克跨坐上长凳，从琼恩手里接过酒杯。“夏日红，”他尝了一口后缓缓地说，“没有东西比得上这酒甜美。琼恩，你今晚喝了几杯？”
　　琼恩笑而不答。
　　班扬·史塔克笑道：“果不出我所料。呵呵，算了。记得我自己第一次喝得酩酊大醉时，年纪比你还小。”他从旁边木餐盘里拣起一颗滴着棕色肉汁的烤洋葱，一口咬将下去，发出松脆的喀嚓声响。
　　他的叔叔容貌锐利，瘦削有如危岩嶙峋，但他灰蓝色的眼睛里永远带着笑意。他和所有守夜人一样一袭黑衣，今晚他身着厚实的天鹅绒长衫，脚穿皮里高统靴，腰系宽边皮带和镀银扣环，脖间还戴了串沉甸甸的银项链。班扬一边吃洋葱，一边兴味盎然地看着白灵。“很安静的一只狼。”他做出结论。
　　“它和其他几只很不一样，”琼恩说，“从来都一声不吭，所以我才叫它白灵，这也是因为它的毛色，其他几只狼毛色都很深，不是灰就是黑。”
　　“长城外也有冰原狼，我们外出巡逻时经常听到它们的嚎叫。”班扬·史塔克意味深长地看着琼恩，“你平日不是都和你弟弟他们同桌吃饭吗？”
　　“那是平日，”琼恩语调平板地回答，“夫人认为，今晚若让私生子与他们同桌用餐，对王族是种侮辱。”
　　“原来如此。”叔叔转头看看大厅尽头高台上的餐桌，“我哥哥今晚看上去不太有庆祝的兴致。”
　　琼恩也注意到了，私生子必须学会察言观色，洞悉隐藏在人们眼里的喜怒哀乐。他父亲固然举止都合乎礼数，但神情里却有种琼恩从未见过的拘束。他不多说话，始终用低低的眼神扫视全厅，目光十分空洞。隔着两个位子的国王倒是整晚开怀畅饮，络腮胡后那张大脸胀得通红，他不断地举杯敬酒，听了每一个笑话都乐得前仰后合，每一道菜他都像个饿鬼似地吃个不休。但坐在他身旁的王后却如一尊冰冷的雕像。“王后也在生气，”琼恩低声对他叔叔说，“下午父亲大人带国王去了地下陵寝，王后本不希望他去的。”
　　班扬仔细地审视了琼恩一番，说：“琼恩，什么事都逃不过你眼光，是么？我们长城守军很需要你这样的人才。”
　　琼恩骄傲地说：“罗柏用起长熗来比我有力，但是我剑使得比较好，胡伦还说我的骑术在城里也是数一数二。”
　　“的确很不容易。”
　　“你回去的时候，带我一道走罢。”琼恩突然激动起来，“只要你去跟父亲大人说，他一定会同意，我知道他一定会。”
　　班扬叔叔再度审视他的脸庞，“琼恩，对一个男孩子来说，长城是个很艰苦的地方。”
　　“我差不多成年了，”琼恩辩解，“下个命名日我就满十五岁，而且鲁温师傅说私生子会比其他孩子长得快。”
　　“这倒是真的。”班扬的嘴角向下微翘，他从桌上拿起琼恩的酒杯，斟满葡萄酒，深吸一口。
　　“戴伦·坦格利安征服多恩领的时候也不过十四岁。”琼恩又说。传说中的年轻龙王是他心目中的英雄。
　　“那场仗可是打了一整个夏天，”叔叔提醒道，“你说的这个年轻国王，为了攻下多恩，死了一万人，后来为了守住它，又死了五万人。应该有人告诉他，战争可不是儿戏。”他又啜了口酒，抹抹嘴，“而且，戴伦·坦格利安十八岁就英年早逝，你该不会忘记这一部分吧？”
　　“我什么都没忘，”琼恩吹嘘，酒精让他胆子也大了起来。他试着坐直身子，好让自己看起来更高大，“叔叔，我想进入守夜人部队服役。”
　　对于这个决定，他早已反复思量，夜里，当他的兄弟们在身边安睡酣眠，他却辗转难安。罗柏有朝一日会继承临冬城，以北境守护的身份指挥千军万马。布兰和瑞肯则将成为他的封臣，拥有各自的庄园，为他管理内政。妹妹艾莉亚和珊莎会嫁给其他豪族的子嗣，以贵族夫人的身份前往南方属于她们的领地。惟有他，区区一个私生子，能指望些什么呢？
　　“琼恩，你恐怕不知道。守夜人是一个视死如归的团体，我们没有家庭羁绊，永远也不会生儿育女，我们以责任为妻，以荣誉为妾。”
　　“私生子一样有荣誉心，”琼恩说，“我已经做好宣誓加入的准备了。”
　　“你只是个十四岁的孩子，”班扬答道，“还算不上成人。在你接触女人之前，恐怕无法想像要付出的代价有多大。”
　　“我才不在乎那个！”琼恩火气直往上撞。
　　“你若是知道，多半就会在乎了。”班扬说，“孩子啊，倘若你知道发了这誓，会有什么样的后果，你就不会这么急着要加入了。”
　　琼恩听了更觉气恼：“我才不是你的孩子！”
　　班扬·史塔克站起身，“我就可惜你不是我孩子。”他拍拍琼恩肩膀，“等你在外面生了两三个私生子，再来找我，到时候看看自己会有什么想法。”
　　琼恩浑身颤抖。“我绝不会在外面生什么私生子，”他一字一顿地说，“永远不会！”他将最后一句话当成毒液般吐出口。
　　这时他惊觉全桌的人不知什么时候都静了下来，所有人都盯着他。他只觉泪水充满眼眶，最后他站了起来。
　　“恕我先告退。”他用最后一丝尊严说道，然后趁其他人看到他眼泪掉下之前，旋风似地跑开。他一定是喝多了，两只脚仿佛打了结，当即与一位女侍撞个满怀，使一壶掺香料的葡萄酒泼洒在地，四座顿时响起哄堂大笑。琼恩眼中的热泪滚下面颊，有人想搀他，但他甩开善意的手，凭着辨不清地面的眼睛，继续朝大门跑去。白灵紧随其后，奔进低垂的夜幕。
　　空荡的庭院分外寂静，内墙城垛上只有一位拉紧斗篷抵御寒意的守卫，独自蜷缩墙角，虽然看上去百无聊赖，表情悲苦，但琼恩却有一千个一万个想和他交换位置的愿望。除此之外，整座孤城四下漆黑，满是寂寥。琼恩曾去过一座被遗弃的庄园，那里杳无人迹、沉默阴郁，四下一片肃然，惟有巨石在默默倾诉过往主人的景况。今夜的临冬城便让琼恩联想起当时的情景。
　　笙歌舞乐从身后敞开的窗户向外流泻，正是他此刻最不想听的靡靡之音。他用衣袖抹去泪水，气恼自己如何把持不住，随后准备转身离开。
　　“小子。”有人叫住他。琼恩转头。
　　提利昂·兰尼斯特正坐在厅堂前门上面突出的壁架上，睥睨世间万物，活像只石像鬼。这侏儒朝他笑笑：“你身旁那家伙可是只狼？”
　　“是冰原狼。”琼恩说，“叫做白灵。”他抬头望着侏儒，先前的不满被好奇取而代之。“你在那儿做什么？怎没在里面参加晚宴呢？”
　　“里面太热太吵，我又多喝了点酒。”侏儒告诉他，“很久以前，我就学到了一个教训：在你的哥哥身上呕吐是件不太礼貌的事。我可以靠近瞧瞧你那只狼吗？”
　　琼恩迟疑了一下，然后缓缓点头：“你能自己下来么？还是要我去弄张梯子？”
　　“去，瞧不起我啊？”小个子说。他两手往后一用力，整个人翻腾进半空中。琼恩惊讶得喘不过气，瞠目结舌地看着提利昂紧缩成一个球，轻巧地以手着地，然后后空翻站起身。
　　白灵有些迟疑地向后退了几步。
　　侏儒拍拍身上的灰尘，笑道：“我想我一定是吓着你的小狼了。真不好意思。”
　　“他才没被吓着。”琼恩边说边弯身唤道：“白灵，过来，快过来，乖。”
　　小狼溜达过来，亲热地用鼻子摩擦琼恩的脸颊，却始终对提利昂·兰尼斯特保持警戒。当侏儒伸手想摸它时，它立刻抽身后退，露出利齿，发出无声的咆哮。“挺怕生的么？”兰尼斯特说。
　　“白灵，坐下。”琼恩命令，“就是这样，坐着别乱动。”他抬头望向侏儒，“你现在可以摸他了。除非我叫它动，否则他不会乱动的。我正在训练他。”
　　“原来如此。”兰尼斯特搔搔白灵两耳间白如细雪的绒毛，“乖狼狼。”
　　“若我不在这里，他早把你的喉咙撕开了。”琼恩说。其实这话当下还不能成真，不过看小狼的长势却也为时不远。
　　“如果这样，那你还是别走开的好。”侏儒答道。他歪了歪那颗过大的脑袋，用那双大小不一的眼睛仔细打量琼恩，“我是提利昂·兰尼斯特。”
　　“我知道。”琼恩边说边起身。他站着比那侏儒高多了，不禁觉得很怪异。
　　“你是奈德·史塔克的私生子吧？”
　　琼恩只觉得一股寒意刺进全身，他抿紧嘴唇，没有答话。
　　“我冒犯到你了吗？”兰尼斯特忙道，“抱歉，侏儒向来不太懂得察言观色。反正历来杂耍卖艺的侏儒前辈们个个衣着随便，口无遮拦，我也就有样学样啦。”他嘿嘿笑着，“不过你确实是个私生子。”
　　“艾德·史塔克大人是我父亲没错。”琼恩终于还是承认了。
　　“嗯，”兰尼斯特端详着他的脸，“看得出来。跟你那些兄弟相比，你还比较有北方人的味道。”
　　“同父异母的兄弟。”琼恩纠正，心里暗暗为侏儒的说法感到高兴。
　　“那么私生子小弟，让我给你一点建议罢。”兰尼斯特道，“永远不要忘记自己是什么人，因为这个世界不会忘记。你要化阻力为助力，如此一来才没有弱点。用它来武装自己，就没有人可以用它来伤害你。”
　　琼恩可没心情听人说教：“你又知道身为私生子是什么样了？”
　　“全天下的侏儒，在他们父亲眼里都跟私生子没两样。”
　　“你可是你母亲的亲生儿子，地地道道的兰尼斯特。”
　　“是么？”侏儒苦笑，“这话你去跟我父亲大人说吧。我妈生我的时候难产而死，所以我老爸始终不确定我是不是他亲生的。”
　　“我连我母亲是谁都不知道。”琼恩道。
　　“反正是个女人。”他朝琼恩露出一抹哀伤的笑容，“小子，请记住，虽然全天下的侏儒都可能被视为私生子，私生子却不见得要被人视为侏儒。”说完，他转过身，驼着背返回宴会大厅，嘴里还哼起一首爱情小调。当他打开门的刹那，室内的灯光将他的背影清楚地洒在庭院中。就在那一瞬间，提利昂·兰尼斯特的身影宛如帝王般昂首挺立。
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等级: 内阁元老
配偶: 逐烟霞。
你看着眼前的人，分明还是以前的模样，可心里终究不是以前那般澄清透明了。
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6．CATELYN
   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.
   So when they had finished, Ned rolled off and climbed from her bed, as he had a thousand times before. He crossed the room, pulled back the heavy tapestries, and threw open the high narrow windows one by one, letting the night air into the chamber.
   The wind swirled around him as he stood facing the dark, naked and empty-handed. Catelyn pulled the furs to her chin and watched him. He looked somehow smaller and more vulnerable, like the youth she had wed in the sept at Riverrun, fifteen long years gone. Her loins still ached from the urgency of his lovemaking. It was a good ache. She could feel his seed within her. She prayed that it might quicken there. It had been three years since Rickon. She was not too old. She could give him another son.
   “I will refuse him,” Ned said as he turned back to her. His eyes were haunted, his voice thick with doubt.
   Catelyn sat up in the bed. “You cannot. You must not.”
   “My duties are here in the north. I have no wish to be Robert’s Hand.”
   “He will not understand that. He is a king now, and kings are not like other men. If you refuse to serve him, he will wonder why, and sooner or later he will begin to suspect that you oppose him. Can’t you see the danger that would put us in?”
   Ned shook his head, refusing to believe. “Robert would never harm me or any of mine. We were closer than brothers. He loves me. If I refuse him, he will roar and curse and bluster, and in a week we will laugh about it together. I know the man!”
   “You knew the man,” she said. “The king is a stranger to you.” Catelyn remembered the direwolf dead in the snow, the broken antler lodged deep in her throat. She had to make him see. “Pride is everything to a king, my lord. Robert came all this way to see you, to bring you these great honors, you cannot throw them back in his face.”
   “Honors?” Ned laughed bitterly.
   “In his eyes, yes,” she said.
   “And in yours?”
   “And in mine,” she blazed, angry now. Why couldn’t he see? “He offers his own son in marriage to our daughter, what else would you call that? Sansa might someday be queen. Her sons could rule from the Wall to the mountains of Dorne. What is so wrong with that?”
   “Gods, Catelyn, Sansa is only eleven,” Ned said. “And Joffrey?.?.?.?Joffrey is?.?.?.?”
   She finished for him. “?.?.?.?crown prince, and heir to the Iron Throne. And I was only twelve when my father promised me to your brother Brandon.”
   That brought a bitter twist to Ned’s mouth. “Brandon. Yes. Brandon would know what to do. He always did. It was all meant for Brandon. You, Winterfell, everything. He was born to be a King’s Hand and a father to queens. I never asked for this cup to pass to me.”
   “Perhaps not,” Catelyn said, “but Brandon is dead, and the cup has passed, and you must drink from it, like it or not.”
   Ned turned away from her, back to the night. He stood staring out in the darkness, watching the moon and the stars perhaps, or perhaps the sentries on the wall.
   Catelyn softened then, to see his pain. Eddard Stark had married her in Brandon’s place, as custom decreed, but the shadow of his dead brother still lay between them, as did the other, the shadow of the woman he would not name, the woman who had borne him his bastard son.
   She was about to go to him when the knock came at the door, loud and unexpected. Ned turned, frowning. “What is it?”
   Desmond’s voice came through the door. “My lord, Maester Luwin is without and begs urgent audience.”
   “You told him I had left orders not to be disturbed?”
   “Yes, my lord. He insists.”
   “Very well. Send him in.”
   Ned crossed to the wardrobe and slipped on a heavy robe. Catelyn realized suddenly how cold it had become. She sat up in bed and pulled the furs to her chin. “Perhaps we should close the windows,” she suggested.
   Ned nodded absently. Maester Luwin was shown in.
   The maester was a small grey man. His eyes were grey, and quick, and saw much. His hair was grey, what little the years had left him. His robe was grey wool, trimmed with white fur, the Stark colors. Its great floppy sleeves had pockets hidden inside. Luwin was always tucking things into those sleeves and producing other things from them: books, messages, strange artifacts, toys for the children. With all he kept hidden in his sleeves, Catelyn was surprised that Maester Luwin could lift his arms at all.
   The maester waited until the door had closed behind him before he spoke. “My lord,” he said to Ned, “pardon for disturbing your rest. I have been left a message.”
   Ned looked irritated. “Been left? By whom? Has there been a rider? I was not told.”
   “There was no rider, my lord. Only a carved wooden box, left on a table in my observatory while I napped. My servants saw no one, but it must have been brought by someone in the king’s party. We have had no other visitors from the south.”
   “A wooden box, you say?” Catelyn said.
   “Inside was a fine new lens for the observatory, from Myr by the look of it. The lenscrafters of Myr are without equal.”
   Ned frowned. He had little patience for this sort of thing, Catelyn knew. “A lens,” he said. “What has that to do with me?”
   “I asked the same question,” Maester Luwin said. “Clearly there was more to this than the seeming.”
   Under the heavy weight of her furs, Catelyn shivered. “A lens is an instrument to help us see.”
   “Indeed it is.” He fingered the collar of his order; a heavy chain worn tight around the neck beneath his robe, each link forged from a different metal.
   Catelyn could feel dread stirring inside her once again. “What is it that they would have us see more clearly?”
   “The very thing I asked myself.” Maester Luwin drew a tightly rolled paper out of his sleeve. “I found the true message concealed within a false bottom when I dismantled the box the lens had come in, but it is not for my eyes.”
   Ned held out his hand. “Let me have it, then.”
   Luwin did not stir. “Pardons, my lord. The message is not for you either. It is marked for the eyes of the Lady Catelyn, and her alone. May I approach?”
   Catelyn nodded, not trusting to speak. The maester placed the paper on the table beside the bed. It was sealed with a small blob of blue wax. Luwin bowed and began to retreat.
   “Stay,” Ned commanded him. His voice was grave. He looked at Catelyn. “What is it? My lady, you’re shaking.”
   “I’m afraid,” she admitted. She reached out and took the letter in trembling hands. The furs dropped away from her nakedness, forgotten. In the blue wax was the moon-and-falcon seal of House Arryn. “It’s from Lysa.” Catelyn looked at her husband. “It will not make us glad,” she told him. “There is grief in this message, Ned. I can feel it.”
   Ned frowned, his face darkening. “Open it.”
   Catelyn broke the seal.
   Her eyes moved over the words. At first they made no sense to her. Then she remembered. “Lysa took no chances. When we were girls together, we had a private language, she and I.”
   “Can you read it?”
   “Yes,” Catelyn admitted.
   “Then tell us.”
   “Perhaps I should withdraw,” Maester Luwin said.
   “No,” Catelyn said. “We will need your counsel.” She threw back the furs and climbed from the bed. The night air was as cold as the grave on her bare skin as she padded across the room.
   Maester Luwin averted his eyes. Even Ned looked shocked. “What are you doing?” he asked.
   “Lighting a fire,” Catelyn told him. She found a dressing gown and shrugged into it, then knelt over the cold hearth.
   “Maester Luwin...” Ned began.
   “Maester Luwin has delivered all my children,” Catelyn said. “This is no time for false modesty.” She slid the paper in among the kindling and placed the heavier logs on top of it.
   Ned crossed the room, took her by the arm, and pulled her to her feet. He held her there, his face inches from her. “My lady, tell me! What was this message?”
   Catelyn stiffened in his grasp. “A warning,” she said softly. “If we have the wits to hear.”
   His eyes searched her face. “Go on.”
   “Lysa says Jon Arryn was murdered.”
   His fingers tightened on her arm. “By whom?”
   “The Lannisters,” she told him. “The queen.”
   Ned released his hold on her arm. There were deep red marks on her skin. “Gods,” he whispered. His voice was hoarse. “Your sister is sick with grief. She cannot know what she is saying.”
   “She knows,” Catelyn said. “Lysa is impulsive, yes, but this message was carefully planned, cleverly hidden. She knew it meant death if her letter fell into the wrong hands. To risk so much, she must have had more than mere suspicion.” Catelyn looked to her husband. “Now we truly have no choice. You must be Robert’s Hand. You must go south with him and learn the truth.”
   She saw at once that Ned had reached a very different conclusion. “The only truths I know are here. The south is a nest of adders I would do better to avoid.”
   Luwin plucked at his chain collar where it had chafed the soft skin of his throat. “The Hand of the King has great power, my lord. Power to find the truth of Lord Arryn’s death, to bring his killers to the king’s justice. Power to protect Lady Arryn and her son, if the worst be true.”
   Ned glanced helplessly around the bedchamber. Catelyn’s heart went out to him, but she knew she could not take him in her arms just then. First the victory must be won, for her children’s sake. “You say you love Robert like a brother. Would you leave your brother surrounded by Lannisters?”
   “The Others take both of you,” Ned muttered darkly. He turned away from them and went to the window. She did not speak, nor did the maester. They waited, quiet, while Eddard Stark said a silent farewell to the home he loved. When he turned away from the window at last, his voice was tired and full of melancholy, and moisture glittered faintly in the corners of his eyes. “My father went south once, to answer the summons of a king. He never came home again.”
   “A different time,” Maester Luwin said. “A different king.”
   “Yes,” Ned said dully. He seated himself in a chair by the hearth. “Catelyn, you shall stay here in Winterfell.”
   His words were like an icy draft through her heart. “No,” she said, suddenly afraid. Was this to be her punishment? Never to see his face again, nor to feel his arms around her?
   “Yes,” Ned said, in words that would brook no argument. “You must govern the north in my stead, while I run Robert’s errands. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. Robb is fourteen. Soon enough, he will be a man grown. He must learn to rule, and I will not be here for him. Make him part of your councils. He must be ready when his time comes.”
   “Gods will, not for many years,” Maester Luwin murmured.
   “Maester Luwin, I trust you as I would my own blood. Give my wife your voice in all things great and small. Teach my son the things he needs to know. Winter is coming.”
   Maester Luwin nodded gravely. Then silence fell, until Catelyn found her courage and asked the question whose answer she most dreaded. “What of the other children?”
   Ned stood, and took her in his arms, and held her face close to his. “Rickon is very young,” he said gently. “He should stay here with you and Robb. The others I would take with me.”
   “I could not bear it,” Catelyn said, trembling.
   “You must,” he said. “Sansa must wed Joffrey, that is clear now, we must give them no grounds to suspect our devotion. And it is past time that Arya learned the ways of a southron court. In a few years she will be of an age to marry too.”
   Sansa would shine in the south, Catelyn thought to herself, and the gods knew that Arya needed refinement. Reluctantly, she let go of them in her heart. But not Bran. Never Bran. “Yes,” she said, “but please, Ned, for the love you bear me, let Bran remain here at Winterfell. He is only seven.”
   “I was eight when my father sent me to foster at the Eyrie,” Ned said. “Ser Rodrik tells me there is bad feeling between Robb and Prince Joffrey. That is not healthy. Bran can bridge that distance. He is a sweet boy, quick to laugh, easy to love. Let him grow up with the young princes, let him become their friend as Robert became mine. Our House will be the safer for it.”
   He was right; Catelyn knew it. It did not make the pain any easier to bear. She would lose all four of them, then: Ned, and both girls, and her sweet, loving Bran. Only Robb and little Rickon would be left to her. She felt lonely already. Winterfell was such a vast place. “Keep him off the walls, then,” she said bravely. “You know how Bran loves to climb.”
   Ned kissed the tears from her eyes before they could fall. “Thank you, my lady,” he whispered. “This is hard, I know.”
   “What of Jon Snow, my lord?” Maester Luwin asked.
   Catelyn tensed at the mention of the name. Ned felt the anger in her, and pulled away.
   Many men fathered bastards. Catelyn had grown up with that knowledge. It came as no surprise to her, in the first year of her marriage, to learn that Ned had fathered a child on some girl chance met on campaign. He had a man’s needs, after all, and they had spent that year apart, Ned off at war in the south while she remained safe in her father’s castle at Riverrun. Her thoughts were more of Robb, the infant at her breast, than of the husband she scarcely knew. He was welcome to whatever solace he might find between battles. And if his seed quickened, she expected he would see to the child’s needs.
   He did more than that. The Starks were not like other men. Ned brought his bastard home with him, and called him “son” for all the north to see. When the wars were over at last, and Catelyn rode to Winterfell, Jon and his wet nurse had already taken up residence.
   That cut deep. Ned would not speak of the mother, not so much as a word, but a castle has no secrets, and Catelyn heard her maids repeating tales they heard from the lips of her husband’s soldiers. They whispered of Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, deadliest of the seven knights of Aerys’s Kingsguard, and of how their young lord had slain him in single combat. And they told how afterward Ned had carried Ser Arthur’s sword back to the beautiful young sister who awaited him in a castle called Starfall on the shores of the Summer Sea. The Lady Ashara Dayne, tall and fair, with haunting violet eyes. It had taken her a fortnight to marshal her courage, but finally, in bed one night, Catelyn had asked her husband the truth of it, asked him to his face.
   That was the only time in all their years that Ned had ever frightened her. “Never ask me about Jon,” he said, cold as ice. “He is my blood, and that is all you need to know. And now I will learn where you heard that name, my lady.” She had pledged to obey; she told him; and from that day on, the whispering had stopped, and Ashara Dayne’s name was never heard in Winterfell again.
   Whoever Jon’s mother had been, Ned must have loved her fiercely, for nothing Catelyn said would persuade him to send the boy away. It was the one thing she could never forgive him. She had come to love her husband with all her heart, but she had never found it in her to love Jon. She might have overlooked a dozen bastards for Ned’s sake, so long as they were out of sight. Jon was never out of sight, and as he grew, he looked more like Ned than any of the trueborn sons she bore him. Somehow that made it worse. “Jon must go,” she said now.
   “He and Robb are close,” Ned said. “I had hoped?.?.?.?”
   “He cannot stay here,” Catelyn said, cutting him off. “He is your son, not mine. I will not have him.” It was hard, she knew, but no less the truth. Ned would do the boy no kindness by leaving him here at Winterfell.
   The look Ned gave her was anguished. “You know I cannot take him south. There will be no place for him at court. A boy with a bastard’s name?.?.?.?you know what they will say of him. He will be shunned.”
   Catelyn armored her heart against the mute appeal in her husband’s eyes. “They say your friend Robert has fathered a dozen bastards himself.”
   “And none of them has ever been seen at court!” Ned blazed. “The Lannister woman has seen to that. How can you be so damnably cruel, Catelyn? He is only a boy. He...”
   His fury was on him. He might have said more, and worse, but Maester Luwin cut in. “Another solution presents itself,” he said, his voice quiet. “Your brother Benjen came to me about Jon a few days ago. It seems the boy aspires to take the black.”
   Ned looked shocked. “He asked to join the Night’s Watch?”
   Catelyn said nothing. Let Ned work it out in his own mind; her voice would not be welcome now. Yet gladly would she have kissed the maester just then. His was the perfect solution. Benjen Stark was a Sworn Brother. Jon would be a son to him, the child he would never have. And in time the boy would take the oath as well. He would father no sons who might someday contest with Catelyn’s own grandchildren for Winterfell.
   Maester Luwin said, “There is great honor in service on the Wall, my lord.”
   “And even a bastard may rise high in the Night’s Watch,” Ned reflected. Still, his voice was troubled. “Jon is so young. If he asked this when he was a man grown, that would be one thing, but a boy of fourteen?.?.?.?”
   “A hard sacrifice,” Maester Luwin agreed. “Yet these are hard times, my lord. His road is no crueler than yours or your lady’s.”
   Catelyn thought of the three children she must lose. It was not easy keeping silent then.
   Ned turned away from them to gaze out the window, his long face silent and thoughtful. Finally he sighed, and turned back. “Very well,” he said to Maester Luwin. “I suppose it is for the best. I will speak to Ben.”
   “When shall we tell Jon?” the maester asked.
   “When I must. Preparations must be made. It will be a fortnight before we are ready to depart. I would sooner let Jon enjoy these last few days. Summer will end soon enough, and childhood as well. When the time comes, I will tell him myself.”

Ⅰ 权力的游戏 Chapter7 凯特琳
　　在临冬城主堡所有的房间里，就属凯特琳的卧室最是闷热，以至于当时鲜少有生火取暖的必要。城堡立基于天然的温泉之上，蒸腾热水如同人体内的血液般流贯高墙寝室，将寒意驱出石材大厅，使玻璃花园充满湿气与暖意，让土壤不致结冻。十几个较小的露天庭院中，温泉日夜蒸腾。夏日里，这或许无足轻重，但到了冬季，却往往是生与死的差别。
　　凯特琳喜欢把洗澡水弄得滚烫炙热、蒸汽四溢，而她选择的居室四周墙壁摸起来也一向很温暖。只因这种温暖能勾起她对于奔流城的回忆，让她想起那段在艳阳底下，与莱莎和艾德慕嘻闹奔逐的日子，只是奈德始终无法忍受这种热度。他总告诉她，史塔克家族的人生来就要与冰天雪地为伍，而她也总会笑答：倘若真是这样，那么他们的城堡真是盖错了地方。
　　所以，当他们完事之后，奈德便翻过身，从她床上爬起来，如以前千百次一样走过房间，拉开厚重的织锦帷幕，把高处的窄窗一扇扇推开，让夜里的寒意灌进卧房。
　　他静静伫立窗边，全身赤裸，手无长物，独向漫天的幽暗长空，冷风在他身边穿梭呼啸。凯特琳拉过温暖的毛皮，盖到下巴，默默地看着丈夫，觉得他看起来似乎变得瘦小又脆弱，仿佛突然之间又成了那个自己十五年前在奔流城圣堂托付一生的年轻人。她的下体仍然因为刚才他剧烈的动作而疼痛，但这是一种感觉美好的疼痛，她可以感觉到他的种子在自己体内。她祈祷种子能开花结果。生完瑞肯已是三年前的事了，她年纪还轻，可以再为他添个儿子。
　　“我拒绝他就是。”他边说边转身面向她，眼神阴霾不开，语调充满疑虑。
　　凯特琳从床上坐起来：“不行，你不能拒绝。”
　　“我的责任在这里、在北方，我无意接任劳勃的首相一职。”
　　“他才不懂这些，他现在是国王了，国王可不能当常人看待。倘若你拒绝了他，他定会纳闷其原因，随后迟早会怀疑你是否包藏二心。你难道看不出拒绝之后，可能为我们带来的危险吗？”
　　奈德摇摇头：“劳勃绝不会做出对我或我家人不利的事。他爱我更胜亲兄弟，假如我拒绝，他会暴跳如雷，骂不绝口，但一个星期之后我们便会对这件事嗤之以鼻。他这个人我清楚！”
　　“你清楚的是过去的他，”她答道，“现在的国王对你来言，已经成了陌生人。”凯特琳想起倒卧雪地的那头冰原狼，想起喉咙里深插的鹿角。她得想办法让他认清事实。“大人，国王的自尊是他的一切，劳勃不远千里来看望你，为你带来如此至高无上的荣誉，你说什么也不能断然拒绝，这等于当众摔他一个耳光呀。”
　　“荣誉？”奈德苦涩地笑道。
　　“在他眼里，没有更高的荣誉了。”她回答。
　　“在你眼里呢？”
　　“在我眼里也一样！”她叱道，突然间生气起来。他为什么就不懂呢？“他愿意让自己的长子迎娶珊莎，还有什么能比这更光荣？珊莎有朝一日说不定会成为王后，她的孩子们将统治北起绝境长城，南及多恩峻岭的辽阔土地，这难道不好么？”
　　“老天，凯特琳，珊莎才十一岁，”奈德说，“而乔佛里……乔佛里他……”
　　她忙接口：“他是当今王太子，铁王座的继承人。我父亲将我许配给你哥哥布兰登的时候，我也不过十二岁。”
　　这话引起了奈德嘴角苦涩的牵动，“布兰登，是啊，布兰登知道怎么做，他做什么都充满自信，成竹在胸。你和临冬城本来都该是布兰登的。他是个当首相和作王后父亲的料。我可从没说过要喝这杯苦酒。”
　　“也许你没有，”凯特琳说，“但布兰登早已不在人世，酒杯也已经传到你手中，不管喜不喜欢，你都非喝不可。”
　　奈德再度转身，返回暗夜之中。他站在原地望着屋外的黑暗，或许在凝视月光星辰，或许在瞭望城上哨兵。
　　见他受了伤，凯特琳缓和下来。依照习俗，艾德·史塔克代替布兰登娶了她，然而他过世兄长的阴影仍旧夹在两人之间，就像另一个女人的阴影，一个他不愿说出名字，却为他生下私生子的女人。
　　她正准备起身走到他身旁，敲门声却突然传来，在这样的时刻显得尤为刺耳，出乎意料。奈德回身，皱眉道：“是谁？”
　　戴斯蒙的声音从门外传来：“老爷，鲁温学士在外面，说有急事求见。”
　　“你有没跟他讲，我交代不准任何人打扰？”
　　“有的，老爷，不过他坚持要见您一面。”
　　“好罢，让他进来。”
　　奈德走到衣橱前，披上一件厚重的长袍。凯特琳这才突然惊觉到屋里的寒意，她在床上坐起身子，把毛毯拉到下巴。“我们是不是该把窗子关起来？”她建议。
　　奈德心不在焉地点点头，鲁温学士已经被带进来了。
　　学士是个瘦小的人，一身灰色。他的眼睛是灰色，但眼神敏锐，少有东西能逃过他的注意；岁月给他残留的头发也是灰的；他的长袍是灰色羊毛织成的，镶滚着白色绒边，正是史塔克家的色彩。宽大的袖子里藏有许许多多的口袋，鲁温总是忙不迭地把东西放进袖子，不时能从里面拿出书、信笺、古怪的法器、孩子们的玩具等等。想到鲁温师傅袖子里放了那么多东西，凯特琳很惊讶他的手还能活动。
　　学士直等到身后的门关上之后方才开口：“老爷，”他对奈德说，“请原谅我打扰你们休息，有人留给我一封信。”
　　奈德面带愠色地问：“有人留给你一封信？谁留的？今天有信使来过？我如何不知情？”
　　“老爷，不是信使带来的。有人趁我打盹时，把一个雕工精巧的木盒放在我观星室的书桌上。我的仆人说没看到人进出，但想来一定是跟国王一道的人留下的，我们没有其他从南方来的访客。”
　　“你说是个木盒子？”凯特琳问。
　　“里面装了个精美的透镜，专用于观星，看来应该是密尔的做工。密尔产的透镜可称举世无双。”
　　奈德又皱起眉头，凯特琳知道他对这类琐事一向毫无耐性。“透镜？”他说，“这与我有何关系？”
　　“当时，我也抱着相同的疑问，”鲁温师傅道，“显然这里面暗藏玄机。”
　　躲在厚重毛皮下的凯特琳颤抖着说：“透镜的用途是看清真相。”
　　“没错。”学士摸了摸象征自己身份的项圈，那是一串用许多片不同金属打造而成的沉重项链。
　　凯特琳只觉一股恐惧从心底升起。“那究竟想让我们看清什么呢？”
　　“这正是问题所在。”鲁温学士从衣袖里取出一封卷得密密实实的信笺。“于是我把整个木盒分解开来，在假的盒底找到真正的信。不过这封信不是给我的。”
　　奈德伸出手：“那就交给我罢。”
　　鲁温学士没有反应。“老爷，很抱歉，可信也不是给您的。上面清楚写着只能让凯特琳夫人拆看。我可以把信送过去吗？”
　　凯特琳点点头，没有答话。鲁温把信放在她床边的矮桌上，信封乃是用一滴蓝色蜡油封笺。鲁温鞠了个躬，准备告退。
　　“留下来。”奈德语气沉重地命令，他看看凯特琳。“夫人，怎么了？你在发抖。”
　　“我害怕啊。”她坦承。她伸出颤抖的双手拿起信封，皮毛从她身上滑落，她完全忘记了自己赤裸的身体。只见蓝色封蜡上印有艾林家族的新月猎鹰家徽。“是莱莎写的信，”凯特琳看着她丈夫说，“只怕不会是什么好消息。”她告诉他，“奈德，这封信里蕴藏着无尽的哀伤，我感觉得出来。”
　　奈德双眉深锁，脸色转阴。“拆开。”
　　凯特琳揭开封印。
　　她的眼神扫过内文，起初看不出所以，随后才猛然醒悟：“莱莎行事谨慎，不肯冒险。我们年幼时发明了一种秘密语言，只有我和她懂。”
　　“那你能否读出信上的内容？”
　　“能。”凯特琳表示。
　　“告诉我们。”
　　“我想我还是先告退为好。”鲁温学士道。
　　“不，”凯特琳说，“我们需要你的意见。”她掀开毛皮，翻身下床，走到房间的另一头。午夜的冷气寒彻心肺，凄冷有如坟墓。
　　鲁温学士见状立刻别过头去，连奈德都被她突如其来的举动给吓住。“你要做什么？”他问。
　　“生火。”凯特琳告诉他。她从衣柜里找出一件睡袍，披上之后在早已冷却的火炉前蹲了下来。
　　“鲁温师傅……”奈德开口。
　　“我每一个孩子都是鲁温师傅接生的，”凯特琳道，“现在可不是讲究虚伪礼数的时候。”说完她把信纸塞进甫燃的火中，然后将几根粗木堆在上面。
　　奈德走过房间，挽着她的胳膊，把她扶起。他的手紧握她不放，脸离她只有几寸。“夫人，快告诉我！信里面究竟写了些什么？”
　　凯特琳在他的逼问下浑身僵直。“那是封警告信，”她轻声道，“如果我们够聪明，听得进去的话。”
　　他的眼神在她脸上搜索。“请说下去。”
　　“莱莎说琼恩·艾林乃是被人谋害。”
　　他的手指握得更紧。“被谁谋害？”
　　“兰尼斯特家。”她告诉他说，“当今的王后。”
　　奈德松开手，她的臂膀上留下了鲜明的深红指印。“老天，”他粗声低语，“你妹妹伤心过度，她根本不知道自己在说些什么。”
　　“她当然知道，”凯特琳道，“莱莎本人是很冲动，但这封信乃是经过精密策划，小心隐藏的。她一定很清楚信若是落入他人手里，她必死无疑，可见这绝非空穴来风，否则她不会甘冒这么大的风险。”凯特琳注视着她的丈夫，“这下我们真的别无选择，你非当劳勃的首相不可，你得亲自南下去查个水落石出。”
　　她立即明白奈德已然下了个截然相反的结论。“我知道的是，南方是个充满毒蛇猛兽的地方，我还是避开为宜。”
　　鲁温拨了拨项链刮伤喉咙皮肤的地方：“老爷，御前首相握有大权，足以查出艾林公爵的真正死因，并将凶手绳之以法。就算情况不妙，要保护艾林夫人和她的幼子，却也绰绰有余。”
　　奈德无助地环视房间四周，凯特琳的心也随着他的视线飘移，但她知道此刻还不能拥他入怀。为了她的子女着想，她必须先打赢眼前这场仗。“你说你爱劳勃胜过亲生兄弟，你难道忍心眼看自家兄弟被兰尼斯特家的人包围吗？”
　　“你们两个都叫异鬼给抓去吧。”奈德喃喃咒道。他转身背对他们两人，径往窗边走去。她没有开口，学士也一言不发。他们默默地等待奈德向他挚爱的家园静静地道别，当他终于从窗边回首时，他的声音是如此疲惫而感伤，眼角也微微湿润，“我父亲一生之中只去过南方一次，就是响应国王的召唤。结果一去不返。”
　　“时局不同，”鲁温师傅道，“国王也不一样。”
　　“是吗？”奈德木然地应了一声，在火炉边找了张椅子坐下。“凯特琳，你留在临冬城。”
　　他的话有如寒冰刺进她心口。“不要。”她突然害怕起来，难道这是对她的惩罚？再也见不到他？再也得不到他的温情拥抱？
　　“一定要。”奈德的语气不容许任何辩驳。“我南下辅佐劳勃期间，你必须代替我管理北方。无论如何，临冬城一定得有史塔克家的人坐镇。罗柏已经十四岁，很快就会长大成人，他得开始学习如何统御，而我没法陪在他身边教导他。你要让他参与你的机要会议。在需要独当一面的时刻来临前，他必须做好万全的准备。”
　　“诸神保佑，让您早日回来。”鲁温学士嗫嚅道。
　　“鲁温师傅，我一直把你当成自己血亲骨肉一般看待，请不论事情大小，都给我妻子意见，并教导我的孩子必须了解的知识。别忘记，凛冬将至。”
　　鲁温师傅沉重地点点头，屋里又复归寂静，直到凯特琳鼓起勇气问了她最害怕听到答案的问题：“其他孩子呢？”
　　奈德站起身，拥她入怀，捧着她的脸靠近自己说：“瑞肯年纪还小，”他温柔地说，“他留在这里跟你和罗柏作伴。其他孩子跟我一起南下。”
　　“这样子我承受不了。”她颤抖着回答。
　　“你必须忍耐。”他说：“珊莎要嫁给乔佛里，这已经是既成的事实，我们绝不能留下让他们怀疑忠诚的口实。艾莉亚也早该学学南方宫廷仕女的规矩和礼节，再过几年，她也要准备出嫁了。”
　　珊莎在南方会成为一颗璀璨耀眼的明珠，凯特琳心想，而艾莉亚确实需要好好学点规矩。于是她很不情愿地暂时抛开心中对两个女儿的执着，但是布兰不能走，布兰一定要留下来。“好罢，”她说，“但是奈德，看在你对我的爱的份上，求求你让布兰留在临冬城，他才七岁呀。”
　　“当年我父亲把我送去鹰巢城做养子时，我也只有八岁。”奈德道，“罗德利克爵士说罗柏和乔佛里王子处得不太好，这可不是好现象。布兰恰好可以成为两家之间的桥梁，他是个可爱的孩子，笑容满面，讨人喜欢，让他和王子们一同长大，自然而然地产生友谊，就像当年我和劳勃一样，如此一来我们家族的地位也会更加安全稳固。”
　　凯特琳很清楚他说的是实话，但她的痛苦却并未因此而稍减。眼看着她就要失去他们全部：奈德、两个女儿，还有她最疼惜的心肝宝贝布兰，只剩下罗柏和瑞肯。此刻的她已感寂寞，临冬城毕竟是个很大的地方啊。“那就别让他靠墙太近，”她勇敢地说，“你知道布兰最爱爬上爬下。”
　　奈德轻吻了她眼里还未掉下的泪滴。“谢谢你，我亲爱的夫人，”他悄声道，“我知道这很痛苦。”
　　“老爷，琼恩·雪诺该怎么办？”鲁温学士问。
　　一听这名字，凯特琳立刻全身僵硬。奈德察觉到她的怒意，便抽身放开她。
　　凯特琳打小就知道，贵族男子在外偷生私生子是常有的事，因此她在新婚不久，得知奈德在作战途中与农家少女生了个私生子时，丝毫不感意外。再怎么说，奈德有他男人的需求，而他征战的那一年，只和她婚后团聚数日便匆匆南下，留她安然地待在后方父亲的奔流城，两人分隔两地。那时她的心思都放在襁褓中的罗柏身上，甚少念及她几乎不认识的丈夫。他在戎马倥偬间，自然不免寻求慰藉。而一旦他留下了种，她也希望他至少能让那孩子衣食无虞。
　　但他做的不只如此，史塔克家和别人不一样，奈德把他的私生子带回家来，在众人面前叫他“儿子”。当战争终于结束，凯特琳返回临冬城时，琼恩和他的奶妈已经在城里住了下来。
　　这件事伤她很深，奈德非但不肯说出孩子的母亲，连关系情形半个字也不跟她提。然而城堡里没有不透风的墙，凯特琳很快就从她的侍女群中听说了几种揣测，这些都是从跟随她丈夫打仗的士兵嘴里传出来的。她们交头接耳说着外号“拂晓神剑”的亚瑟·戴恩爵士，说他是伊里斯麾下御林七铁卫中武艺最高强的骑士，但他们的年轻主子却在一对一的决斗中击毙了他。她们还绘声绘影地叙述事后奈德是如何地带着亚瑟爵士的佩剑，前往盛夏海岸的星坠城寻找亚瑟的妹妹。她们说亚夏拉·戴恩小姐皮肤白皙，身材高挑，一双紫罗兰色的眸子深邃而幽冷。她想了两个星期才终于鼓起勇气，某天夜里在床上向丈夫当面问起。
　　然而，那却是两人结婚多年以来，奈德惟一吓着她的一次。“永远不要跟我问起琼恩的事，”他的口气寒冷如冰，“他是我的亲生骨肉，你只需知道这点就够了。现在，夫人，我要知道你是打哪儿听来这名字的。”她向他保证以后不会再提起这件事，于是便把消息来源告诉了他。翌日起，城中一切谣言戛然而止，临冬城中从此再听不到亚夏拉·戴恩这个名字。
　　无论琼恩的生母是谁，奈德对她铁定是一往情深，因为不管凯特琳说好说歹，就是没法说服他把孩子送走。这是她永远不会原谅他的一件事。她已经学着全心全意去爱自己丈夫，但她怎么也无法对琼恩产生感情。其实只要别在她眼前出现，奈德爱在外面生多少私生子她都可以睁一只眼闭一只眼。然而琼恩却总是看得见摸得着，怎么看怎么碍眼，更糟的是他越长越像奈德，竟比她生的几个儿子都还要像父亲。“琼恩非走不可。”她回答。
　　“他和罗柏感情很好，”奈德说，“我本来希望……”
　　“他绝不能留下来。”凯特琳打断他，“他是你儿子，可不是我的，我不会让他留在这里。”她知道自己这样有些过分，但她也是实话实说。奈德倘若真把他留在临冬城，对那孩子本身也无好处。
　　奈德看她的眼神里充满痛楚。“你也知道我不能带他南下，朝廷里根本没他容身之处。一个冠着私生子姓氏的孩子……你应该很清楚旁人会如何闲言闲语。他会被排挤。”
　　凯特琳再次武装起自己，对抗丈夫眼底无声的诉求：“我听说你的好朋友劳勃在外面也生了不少私生子。”
　　“但一个也没在宫廷里出现过！”奈德怒道，“那个兰尼斯特家的女人很坚持这一点，天杀的，凯特琳，你怎么狠得下心这样对他？他不过是个孩子罢了，他——”
　　他正在气头上，原本可能会说出更不堪入耳的话，但鲁温学士却适时插话：“我倒有个主意。您的弟弟班扬前几天来找过我，那孩子似乎对加入黑衫军颇有兴趣。”
　　奈德听了大吃一惊：“他想加入守夜人？”
　　凯特琳没说什么，就让奈德自己理出一番头绪罢，现在她多说只会惹他生气。然而她却高兴得想亲吻眼前这位老师傅呢！他所提出的这个建议正是最完美的解决方案。班扬·史塔克是个发过誓的黑衣弟兄，对他而言，琼恩等于是此生不可能有的儿子。日子久了，那孩子自然而然也会跟着宣誓加入黑衣弟兄，这样一来，他就不能养儿育女，有朝一日来和凯特琳自己的孙子孙女抢夺临冬城的继承权了。
　　鲁温学士又说：“老爷，加入长城守军可是很高的荣誉。”
　　“而且即使是私生子，在守夜人军团里也可能升到高位。”奈德思忖，但他的语气仍然有些困惑，“可琼恩年纪还这么小，倘若他是个成人，说要加入一切还好，然而他只是个十四岁的孩子……。”
　　“这确实是个困难的抉择，”鲁温师傅同意，“但我们也身处艰难时刻，他所走的这条路，不会比您或夫人走的路更崎岖坎坷。”
　　凯特琳又无可避免地想起她即将失去的三个孩子，想要保持沉默太难了。
　　奈德转过身去，再次望向窗外，他那长长的脸庞宁静中若有所思。最后他叹口气，又回过头：“好罢，”他对鲁温学士说，“看来这是目前最好的办法了。我会跟班扬谈谈。”
　　“我们什么时候告诉琼恩呢？”老师傅问。
　　“还不是时候，我们要先做些准备，距离启程足足还有两个星期，就让他尽情享受这段剩余的时光吧。夏天很快就要结束，童年的日子所剩无多。时机一到，我会亲自告诉他。”

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你看着眼前的人，分明还是以前的模样，可心里终究不是以前那般澄清透明了。
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7．ARYA
   Arya’s stitches were crooked again.
   She frowned down at them with dismay and glanced over to where her sister Sansa sat among the other girls. Sansa’s needlework was exquisite. Everyone said so. “Sansa’s work is as pretty as she is,” Septa Mordane told their lady mother once. “She has such fine, delicate hands.” When Lady Catelyn had asked about Arya, the septa had sniffed. “Arya has the hands of a blacksmith.”
   Arya glanced furtively across the room, worried that Septa Mordane might have read her thoughts, but the septa was paying her no attention today. She was sitting with the Princess Myrcella, all smiles and admiration. It was not often that the septa was privileged to instruct a royal princess in the womanly arts, as she had said when the queen brought Myrcella to join them. Arya thought that Myrcella’s stitches looked a little crooked too, but you would never know it from the way Septa Mordane was cooing.
   She studied her own work again, looking for some way to salvage it, then sighed and put down the needle. She looked glumly at her sister. Sansa was chatting away happily as she worked. Beth Cassel, Ser Rodrik’s little girl, was sitting by her feet, listening to every word she said, and Jeyne Poole was leaning over to whisper something in her ear.
   “What are you talking about?” Arya asked suddenly.
   Jeyne gave her a startled look, then giggled. Sansa looked abashed. Beth blushed. No one answered.
   “Tell me,” Arya said.
   Jeyne glanced over to make certain that Septa Mordane was not listening. Myrcella said something then, and the septa laughed along with the rest of the ladies.
   “We were talking about the prince,” Sansa said, her voice soft as a kiss.
   Arya knew which prince she meant: Jofftey, of course. The tall, handsome one. Sansa got to sit with him at the feast. Arya had to sit with the little fat one. Naturally.
   “Joffrey likes your sister,” Jeyne whispered, proud as if she had something to do with it. She was the daughter of Winterfell’s steward and Sansa’s dearest friend. “He told her she was very beautiful.”
   “He’s going to marry her,” little Beth said dreamily, hugging herself. “Then Sansa will be queen of all the realm.”
   Sansa had the grace to blush. She blushed prettily. She did everything prettily, Arya thought with dull resentment. “Beth, you shouldn’t make up stories,” Sansa corrected the younger girl, gently stroking her hair to take the harshness out of her words. She looked at Arya. “What did you think of Prince Joff, sister? He’s very gallant, don’t you think?”
   “Jon says he looks like a girl,” Arya said.
   Sansa sighed as she stitched. “Poor Jon,” she said. “He gets jealous because he’s a bastard.”
   “He’s our brother,” Arya said, much too loudly. Her voice cut through the afternoon quiet of the tower room.
   Septa Mordane raised her eyes. She had a bony face, sharp eyes, and a thin lipless mouth made for frowning. It was frowning now. “What are you talking about, children?”
   “Our half brother,” Sansa corrected, soft and precise. She smiled for the septa. “Arya and I were remarking on how pleased we were to have the princess with us today,” she said.
   Septa Mordane nodded. “Indeed. A great honor for us all.” Princess Myrcella smiled uncertainly at the compliment. “Arya, why aren’t you at work?” the septa asked. She rose to her feet, starched skirts rustling as she started across the room. “Let me see your stitches.”
   Arya wanted to scream. It was just like Sansa to go and attract the septa’s attention. “Here,” she said, surrendering up her work.
   The septa examined the fabric. “Arya, Arya, Arya,” she said. “This will not do. This will not do at all.”
   Everyone was looking at her. It was too much. Sansa was too well bred to smile at her sister’s disgrace, but Jeyne was smirking on her behalf. Even Princess Myrcella looked sorry for her. Arya felt tears filling her eyes. She pushed herself out of her chair and bolted for the door.
   Septa Mordane called after her. “Arya, come back here! Don’t you take another step! Your lady mother will hear of this. In front of our royal princess too! You’ll shame us all!”
   Arya stopped at the door and turned back, biting her lip. The tears were running down her cheeks now. She managed a stiff little bow to Myrcella. “By your leave, my lady.”
   Myrcella blinked at her and looked to her ladies for guidance. But if she was uncertain, Septa Mordane was not. “Just where do you think you are going, Arya?” the septa demanded.
   Arya glared at her. “I have to go shoe a horse,” she said sweetly, taking a brief satisfaction in the shock on the septa’s face. Then she whirled and made her exit, running down the steps as fast as her feet would take her.
   It wasn’t fair. Sansa had everything. Sansa was two years older; maybe by the time Arya had been born, there had been nothing left. Often it felt that way. Sansa could sew and dance and sing. She wrote poetry. She knew how to dress. She played the high harp and the bells. Worse, she was beautiful. Sansa had gotten their mother’s fine high cheekbones and the thick auburn hair of the Tullys. Arya took after their lord father. Her hair was a lusterless brown, and her face was long and solemn. Jeyne used to call her Arya Horseface, and neigh whenever she came near. It hurt that the one thing Arya could do better than her sister was ride a horse. Well, that and manage a household. Sansa had never had much of a head for figures. If she did marry Prince Joff, Arya hoped for his sake that he had a good steward.
   Nymeria was waiting for her in the guardroom at the base of the stairs. She bounded to her feet as soon as she caught sight of Arya. Arya grinned. The wolf pup loved her, even if no one else did. They went everywhere together, and Nymeria slept in her room, at the foot of her bed. If Mother had not forbidden it, Arya would gladly have taken the wolf with her to needlework. Let Septa Mordane complain about her stitches then.
   Nymeria nipped eagerly at her hand as Arya untied her. She had yellow eyes. When they caught the sunlight, they gleamed like two golden coins. Arya had named her after the warrior queen of the Rhoyne, who had led her people across the narrow sea. That had been a great scandal too. Sansa, of course, had named her pup “Lady.” Arya made a face and hugged the wolfling tight. Nymeria licked her ear, and she giggled.
   By now Septa Mordane would certainly have sent word to her lady mother. If she went to her room, they would find her. Arya did not care to be found. She had a better notion. The boys were at practice in the yard. She wanted to see Robb put gallant Prince Joffrey flat on his back. “Come,” she whispered to Nymeria. She got up and ran, the wolf coming hard at her heels.
   There was a window in the covered bridge between the armory and the Great Keep where you had a view of the whole yard. That was where they headed.
   They arrived, flushed and breathless, to find Jon seated on the sill, one leg drawn up languidly to his chin. He was watching the action, so absorbed that he seemed unaware of her approach until his white wolf moved to meet them. Nymeria stalked closer on wary feet. Ghost, already larger than his litter mates, smelled her, gave her ear a careful nip, and settled back down.
   Jon gave her a curious look. “Shouldn’t you be working on your stitches, little sister?”
   Arya made a face at him. “I wanted to see them fight.”
   He smiled. “Come here, then.”
   Arya climbed up on the window and sat beside him, to a chorus of thuds and grunts from the yard below.
   To her disappointment, it was the younger boys drilling. Bran was so heavily padded he looked as though he had belted on a featherbed, and Prince Tommen, who was plump to begin with, seemed positively round. They were huffing and puffing and hitting at each other with padded wooden swords under the watchful eye of old Ser Rodrik Cassel, the master-at-arms, a great stout keg of a man with magnificent white cheek whiskers. A dozen spectators, man and boy, were calling out encouragement, Robb’s voice the loudest among them. She spotted Theon Greyjoy beside him, his black doublet emblazoned with the golden kraken of his House, a look of wry contempt on his face. Both of the combatants were staggering. Arya judged that they had been at it awhile.
   “A shade more exhausting than needlework,” Jon observed.
   “A shade more fun than needlework,” Arya gave back at him. Jon grinned, reached over, and messed up her hair. Arya flushed. They had always been close. Jon had their father’s face, as she did. They were the only ones. Robb and Sansa and Bran and even little Rickon all took after the Tullys, with easy smiles and fire in their hair. When Arya had been little, she had been afraid that meant that she was a bastard too. It been Jon she had gone to in her fear, and Jon who had reassured her.
   “Why aren’t you down in the yard?” Arya asked him.
   He gave her a half smile. “Bastards are not allowed to damage young princes,” he said. “Any bruises they take in the practice yard must come from trueborn swords.”
   “Oh.” Arya felt abashed. She should have realized. For the second time today, Arya reflected that life was not fair.
   She watched her little brother whack at Tommen. “I could do just as good as Bran,” she said. “He’s only seven. I’m nine.”
   Jon looked her over with all his fourteen-year-old wisdom. “You’re too skinny,” he said. He took her arm to feel her muscle. Then he sighed and shook his head. “I doubt you could even lift a longsword, little sister, never mind swing one.”
   Arya snatched back her arm and glared at him. Jon messed up her hair again. They watched Bran and Tommen circle each other.
   “You see Prince Joffrey?” Jon asked.
   She hadn’t, not at first glance, but when she looked again she found him to the back, under the shade of the high stone wall. He was surrounded by men she did not recognize, young squires in the livery of Lannister and Baratheon, strangers all. There were a few older men among them; knights, she surmised.
   “Look at the arms on his surcoat,” Jon suggested.
   Arya looked. An ornate shield had been embroidered on the prince’s padded surcoat. No doubt the needlework was exquisite. The arms were divided down the middle; on one side was the crowned stag of the royal House, on the other the lion of Lannister.
   “The Lannisters are proud,” Jon observed. “You’d think the royal sigil would be sufficient, but no. He makes his mother’s House equal in honor to the king’s.”
   “The woman is important too!” Arya protested.
   Jon chuckled. “Perhaps you should do the same thing, little sister. Wed Tully to Stark in your arms.”
   “A wolf with a fish in its mouth?” It made her laugh. “That would look silly. Besides, if a girl can’t fight, why should she have a coat of arms?”
   Jon shrugged. “Girls get the arms but not the swords. Bastards get the swords but not the arms. I did not make the rules, little sister.”
   There was a shout from the courtyard below. Prince Tommen was rolling in the dust, trying to get up and failing. All the padding made him look like a turtle on its back. Bran was standing over him with upraised wooden sword, ready to whack him again once he regained his feet. The men began to laugh.
   “Enough!” Ser Rodrik called out. He gave the prince a hand and yanked him back to his feet. “Well fought. Lew, Donnis, help them out of their armor.” He looked around. “Prince Joffrey, Robb, will you go another round?”
   Robb, already sweaty from a previous bout, moved forward eagerly. “Gladly.”
   Joffrey moved into the sunlight in response to Rodrik’s summons. His hair shone like spun gold. He looked bored. “This is a game for children, Ser Rodrik.”
   Theon Greyjoy gave a sudden bark of laughter. “You are children,” he said derisively.
   “Robb may be a child,” Joffrey said. “I am a prince. And I grow tired of swatting at Starks with a play sword.”
   “You got more swats than you gave, Joff,” Robb said. “Are you afraid?”
   Prince Joffrey looked at him. “Oh, terrified,” he said. “You’re so much older.” Some of the Lannister men laughed.
   Jon looked down on the scene with a frown. “Joffrey is truly a little shit,” he told Arya.
   Ser Rodrik tugged thoughtfully at his white whiskers. “What are you suggesting?” he asked the prince.
   “Live steel.”
   “Done,” Robb shot back. “You’ll be sorry!”
   The master-at-arms put a hand on Robb’s shoulder to quiet him. “Live steel is too dangerous. I will permit you tourney swords, with blunted edges.”
   Joffrey said nothing, but a man strange to Arya, a tall knight with black hair and burn scars on his face, pushed forward in front of the prince. “This is your prince. Who are you to tell him he may not have an edge on his sword, ser?”
   “Master-at-arms of Winterfell, Clegane, and you would do well not to forget it.”
   “Are you training women here?” the burned man wanted to know. He was muscled like a bull.
   “I am training knights,” Ser Rodrik said pointedly. “They will have steel when they are ready. When they are of an age.”
   The burned man looked at Robb. “How old are you, boy?”
   “Fourteen,” Robb said.
   “I killed a man at twelve. You can be sure it was not with a blunt sword.”
   Arya could see Robb bristle. His pride was wounded. He turned on Ser Rodrik. “Let me do it. I can beat him.”
   “Beat him with a tourney blade, then,” Ser Rodrik said.
   Joffrey shrugged. “Come and see me when you’re older, Stark. If you’re not too old.” There was laughter from the Lannister men.
   Robb’s curses rang through the yard. Arya covered her mouth in shock. Theon Greyjoy seized Robb’s arm to keep him away from the prince. Ser Rodrik tugged at his whiskers in dismay.
   Joffrey feigned a yawn and turned to his younger brother. “Come, Tommen,” he said. “The hour of play is done. Leave the children to their frolics.”
   That brought more laughter from the Lannisters, more curses from Robb. Ser Rodrik’s face was beet-red with fury under the white of his whiskers. Theon kept Robb locked in an iron grip until the princes and their party were safely away.
   Jon watched them leave, and Arya watched Jon. His face had grown as still as the pool at the heart of the godswood. Finally he climbed down off the window. “The show is done,” he said. He bent to scratch Ghost behind the ears. The white wolf rose and rubbed against him. “You had best run back to your room, little sister. Septa Mordane will surely be lurking. The longer you hide, the sterner the penance. You’ll be sewing all through winter. When the spring thaw comes, they will find your body with a needle still locked tight between your frozen fingers.”
   Arya didn’t think it was funny. “I hate needlework!” she said with passion. “It’s not fair!”
   “Nothing is fair,” Jon said. He messed up her hair again and walked away from her, Ghost moving silently beside him. Nymeria started to follow too, then stopped and came back when she saw that Arya was not coming.
   Reluctantly she turned in the other direction.
   It was worse than Jon had thought. It wasn’t Septa Mordane waiting in her room. It was Septa Mordane and her mother.

Ⅰ 权力的游戏 Chapter8 艾莉亚
　　艾莉亚的缝衣针又歪了。
　　她懊恼地皱起眉头，看着手里那团乱七八糟的东西，然后又偷偷瞄了瞄和其他女孩坐在一起的姐姐珊莎。每个人都说珊莎的针线功夫完美无瑕。“珊莎织出来的东西就跟她人一样漂亮。”有次茉丹修女对她们的母亲大人这么说，“她那双手既纤细又灵巧。”当凯特琳夫人问起艾莉亚的表现时，修女哼了一声答道：“艾莉亚的手跟铁匠的手没两样。”
　　艾莉亚偷偷环视房间四周，担心茉丹修女会读出她的思想。但是修女今天可没把心思放在她身上，她正坐在弥赛菈公主身旁，脸上堆满笑容，口中连声赞美。先前当王后把弥赛菈带来加入她们时，修女就说她平生可没这种福气，可以指导公主针线女红。艾莉亚觉得弥赛菈的针线也有点歪七扭八，但是从茉丹修女的甜言蜜语听起来，旁人绝对想不到。
　　她又瞧了瞧自己的活儿，想找出个补救的法子，最后还是叹了口气，把针线搁到一边去了。她沮丧地看看自己的姐姐，珊莎正一边巧手缝纫，一边开心地说闲话。罗德利克爵士的女儿小贝丝·凯索坐在她脚边，认真地聆听她所说的一字一句。这时候，珍妮·普尔刚巧凑在她耳旁不知说了些什么悄悄话。
　　“你们在说什么呀？”艾莉亚突然问。
　　珍妮露出吃惊的表情，随即咯咯笑了起来。珊莎一脸羞赧，贝丝也面红耳赤。没有人答话。
　　“跟我说嘛。”艾莉亚说。
　　珍妮偷瞟了那边一眼，确定茉丹修女没有注意听。恰好弥赛菈说了点话，修女随即和其他仕女一同放声大笑。
　　“我们刚刚在说王子的事。”珊莎说，声音轻得像一个吻。
　　艾莉亚当然知道姐姐指的哪一个王子，除了那个高大英俊的乔佛里还会是谁？先前晚宴的时候珊莎和他坐在一起，艾莉亚则自然而然地得坐在另外那个小胖子旁边了。
　　“乔佛里喜欢你姐姐哟。”珍妮悄声道，语气中带着自豪，仿佛这件事是她一手促成似的。她是临冬城总管的女儿，也是珊莎最要好的朋友。“他跟她说她很漂亮。”
　　“有一天他会娶她作新娘子。”小贝丝双手环膝，用一种如梦似幻的语调说，“然后珊莎就会变成全世界的王后啰。”
　　珊莎很有礼貌地脸红了。她脸红起来还是很漂亮，她不管做什么都漂漂亮亮，艾莉亚一肚子不满地想。“贝丝，不要这样瞎编故事。”珊莎纠正身旁的小女孩，同时轻轻拨弄她的发丝，好让自己的话听起来不那么严厉。她转向艾莉亚：“好妹妹，你觉得小乔王子怎么样？他实在是个很勇敢的人，你说是不是？”
　　“琼恩说他看起来像个女孩子。”艾莉亚回答。
　　珊莎叹了口气，继续手中的针线活。“可怜的琼恩，”她说，“作私生子的难免嫉妒别人。”
　　“他是我们的哥哥。”艾莉亚回嘴，却说得大声了。她的声音划破了塔顶房间午后的静谧。
　　茉丹修女抬起眼。她有张细瘦的脸，一双锐利的眼睛，还有一张薄得几乎看不到唇的嘴，这张脸仿佛生来就是用于皱眉生气似的。这下她立刻皱起眉头来了。“孩子们，你们在说些什么呀？”
　　“同父异母的哥哥，”珊莎轻柔而准确地纠正她，同时朝修女露出微笑，“艾莉亚和我刚才正在说：今天能与公主作伴，真是件快乐的事。”
　　茉丹修女点头：“没错，对我们所有人来说都是莫大的荣幸。”弥赛菈公主听到这样的恭维，有点迟疑地笑了笑。“艾莉亚，你怎么不织东西呢？”她问，随即起身走来，浆过的裙子在身后沙沙作响。“让我看看你织出了什么。”
　　艾莉亚好想扯开嗓子大声尖叫，都是珊莎把修女给引过来的。“喏。”她边说边无奈地交出“成果”。
　　修女仔细检视着手中的织锦。“艾莉亚、艾莉亚、艾莉亚，”她说：“这样不行啊！你这样完全不行啊！”
　　每个人都在看她，这真是太过分了。珊莎很有教养，不会因为自己妹妹出丑而展露嘲笑，但珍妮却在一旁窃笑，连弥赛菈公主也一副怜悯的模样。艾莉亚只觉得眼里充满泪水，她倏地从椅子上站起，往门的方向冲了过去。
　　茉丹修女在她背后叫道：“艾莉亚，你给我回来，你再走一步试试看！我会把这件事告诉你母亲大人。竟然在我们公主面前做出这种事，你可把我们的脸全丢光了！”
　　于是艾莉亚在门边停下脚步，咬着嘴唇转过身，眼泪却已经流下脸颊。她勉强对弥赛 微一鞠躬：“公主小姐，请恕我先告退。”
　　弥赛菈朝她眨了眨眼，转向身旁的仕女们寻求协助。但她虽然犹疑不决，茉丹修女可是斩钉截铁：“艾莉亚，你要上哪儿去呀？”
　　艾莉亚瞪着她，“我去帮马儿装蹄铁。”她甜甜地说，并从修女脸上的惊讶表情中得到一丝满足。语毕她旋身离开房间，以最快的速度飞奔下楼。
　　上天真是太不公平，凭什么珊莎就拥有一切？有时候艾莉亚会这么觉得。自己出生的时候，珊莎已经两岁多了，早已没有任何东西剩下来。珊莎精于缝纫刺绣，又能歌善舞，她会吟诗作词，又懂得如何打扮；她奏起竖琴拨弦宛转，摇起钟铃悦耳轻灵。更糟糕的是，她还是大美人一个。珊莎自母亲那儿继承了徒利家族的玲珑颊骨和浓密的枣红秀发，艾莉亚则活像她父亲，发色深褐，黯淡无光；脸形细长，阴霾不开。珍妮老爱叫她“马脸艾莉亚”，每次遇上她就学起马儿嘶叫。想到自己惟一做得比姐姐好的事情就是骑马，她越发难过起来。不过珊莎不擅长管理家务，对数字也向来一窍不通，倘若哪天她真嫁给乔佛里王子，艾莉亚希望他最好有个好管家，否则后果不堪设想。
　　娜梅莉亚一直在楼梯底部的守卫室里等着她。一见艾莉亚的身影，她立刻跳将起来，艾莉亚开心地笑了，就算全世界没人爱她，最起码还有这只小狼。她们上哪儿都形影不离，娜梅莉亚晚上就睡在她房间，蜷缩在床脚下。若非母亲不准，她原本想把小狼一起带去针线室。到时候看看茉丹修女还敢不敢批评她的活儿。
　　艾莉亚为她松绑，娜梅莉亚则热切地舔着她的手，她有双黄色的眼珠子，阳光一照，亮得就像两枚金币。艾莉亚用传说中率领子民横渡狭海的战士女王的名讳为小狼命名，自然也引起了不小的骚动。珊莎呢，不消说，把她的小狼叫做“淑女”。想到这儿，艾莉亚扮了个鬼脸，紧紧地抱着小狼。娜梅莉亚舔了舔她耳根，痒得她咯咯直笑。
　　茉丹修女这时一定已经派人通知她母亲大人了，所以她若是直接回房，一定会被逮个正着。艾莉亚可不想被逮着，她心里有个更好的点子。现在刚好是男孩子们在校场上练习比试的时间，她想看看罗柏亲手把勇敢的乔佛里王子打成鼻青脸肿的模样。“来罢。”她朝娜梅莉亚低语，随即起身迈步飞奔，小狼紧跟在后。
　　连接主堡和武器库的密闭桥梁上，有扇窗子可以将整个校场尽收眼底，她要去的就是那地方。
　　等她气喘吁吁地跑到目的地，却发现琼恩已经靠坐在窗棂上，一只脚无精打采地翘起顶着下巴。他聚精会神地注意着下方的打斗，直等到他自己的白狼站起来朝她们迎去方才回过神来。娜梅莉亚小心翼翼地靠了过去，白灵已经长得比其他几只狼都要高大，它嗅了嗅她，轻轻地咬了一下她的耳朵，然后返身趴下。
　　琼恩狐疑地看着她：“小妹，你这会儿不是该上缝纫课么？”
　　艾莉亚朝他扮个鬼脸。“我想看他们打架。”
　　他笑道：“那就快过来吧。”
　　艾莉亚爬上窗台，在他身边坐下，下面校场上的铿锵响声顿时传入耳中。
　　可令她大失所望的是，在场子上比划的只有年纪比较小的几个男孩子。布兰全身上下穿着护具，看起来活像被绑在一张羽毛床上。而托曼王子本来就胖，这一模样更是浑圆无比。他们正在老罗德利克爵士的监视下，挥舞木制钝剑相互攻击。老爵士是城里的教头，身材高大魁梧，有一把气派非凡的雪白胡须。十几个在旁围观的人正为两个小男孩加油打气，里面喊声最大的就是罗柏。艾莉亚看到席恩·葛雷乔伊站在罗柏旁边，穿着黑色紧身上衣，上面绣有他的金色海怪家徽，脸上则挂着一抹嘲讽的轻蔑。两个比武的男孩子脚步都不太稳，艾莉亚推测他们可能已经打上好一阵子了。
　　“看到没有，这恐怕比做针线活儿要累哟。”琼恩表示。
　　“可也比做针线活儿要好玩多了。”艾莉亚回嘴。琼恩咧嘴一笑，伸手过来拨弄她的头发。艾莉亚脸红了，他们一向很亲，在所有的孩子里，就数琼恩和她遗传到父亲的长脸。罗柏、珊莎和布兰都长得比较像徒利家的人，就连小瑞肯也是笑容可掬，发红似火。艾莉亚小时候，还曾经害怕自己也是个私生子。她害怕的时候就去找琼恩，因为琼恩总能让她安心。
　　“你怎么没跟他们一起下场子？”艾莉亚问他。
　　他浅浅一笑：“私生子没资格跟王子过招，”他说，“就算练习，也只有正室的孩子可以伤他们。”
　　“噢。”艾莉亚觉得好生尴尬，她早该想到这点才对。在同一天里，她第二次感叹生命的不公平。
　　她看着自己的小弟挥剑朝托曼砍去。“我打起来不输布兰，”她说，“他才七岁，我已经九岁了。”
　　琼恩以一副小大人的姿态打量着她：“你太瘦啦，”他挽起她的手，量度她的肌肉发育，然后摇头叹气，“小妹，我看你连把长剑都举不起，更别说是挥舞格斗了。”
　　艾莉亚抽回手，很不服气地瞪着他看。于是琼恩又伸手拨弄她的一头乱发。两人静静地坐在一起，看着布兰和托曼互相兜圈子。
　　“你看到乔佛里王子了吗？”琼恩问。
　　她原本没有看到，但仔细一瞧，便发现他站在广场后方高大石墙的阴影里，身旁围绕着她不认识的人，他们穿着兰尼斯特家和拜拉席恩家的制服，大概都是年轻侍从吧。人群里还有几个年长的，她猜多半是成年骑士。
　　“你瞧瞧他外套上的家徽。”琼恩提出。
　　艾莉亚一看，只见王子外衣上绣了一面华丽无比的盾牌，毫无疑问是极为精巧的手工。这盾牌被分为左右两半，一边是代表王室的宝冠雄鹿，另一边则是兰尼斯特家族的怒吼雄狮。
　　“兰尼斯特是个骄傲的家族，”琼恩说，“本来他衣服绣上王族的家徽就够了，但是他却把母亲那边的家徽也绣了上去，而且还和王室的纹章平起平坐。”
　　“女人也很重要呀！”艾莉亚不禁反驳。
　　琼恩呵呵笑道：“小妹呀，那么你也应该有样学样，把针线活学好，然后将徒利和史塔克两家的徽章都绣在衣服上。”
　　“绣一匹嘴里叼鱼的狼么？”她想想就觉得好笑，“那样看起来好蠢。更何况，又不准女孩子上战场打仗，那她要家徽做什么用？”
　　琼恩耸耸肩：“女孩子有家徽却不能拿剑作战，私生子能拿剑却没家徽可绣。小妹，世上的规矩不是我订的，我也无能为力呀。”
　　下方广场传来一声大喊，只见托曼王子倒在翻飞尘土里打滚，想站起来却力不从心，外加绑的那堆皮垫护甲，使他整个人看起来就像只翻过身的乌龟似地在那儿挣扎。布兰正高举木剑，站在他旁边，准备等他一站起来就立刻补上一剑。
　　“住手！”罗德利克爵士吼道，他拉了托曼一把，协助他站起来。“打得很好。路易、唐尼斯，帮他们把护甲脱掉。”他环顾四周，“乔佛里王子，罗柏，你们要不要再来一场？”
　　罗柏身上虽然还流淌着前一场比试的汗水，却迫不及待地踏步向前：“乐意之至。”
　　乔佛里听到罗德利克爵士的传唤，这会儿也从先前所在的阴影里走进阳光下。他的头发在太阳照射下亮如金箔，但脸上却挂着一副百无聊赖的神色。“罗德利克爵士，这都是小孩子把戏。”
　　席恩·葛雷乔伊不禁放声笑道：“你们俩是小孩子没错呀。”
　　“罗柏是不是小孩子我不知道，”乔佛里说，“但我可是堂堂王太子，我不想再跟姓史塔克的家伙拿木头玩具挥来挥去了。”
　　“小乔，你中剑的次数可比你挥的次数要多。”罗柏道，“你怕了么？”
　　乔佛里面无表情地看着他。“噢哟，好恐怖。”他说：“咱们的老战士发话哩。”兰尼斯特家的侍从闻言便笑。
　　琼恩皱眉看着场子上发生的事。“乔佛里实在是个不折不扣的浑球。”他告诉艾莉亚。
　　罗德利克爵士若有所思地捻捻那撮白胡子，“那请问您有什么想法？”他询问王子。
　　“我要真刀真熗地打。”
　　“没问题，”罗柏立刻吼回去，“你会后悔的！”
　　教头伸手按住罗柏的肩膀，要他冷静。“用真剑太危险，我只准你们用比武时的钝剑。”
　　乔佛里没答腔，却有一个身躯高大，半边脸有着明显灼烧痕迹的黑发男子推开旁边的人，挡在王子面前：“爵士先生，这可是你的王太子，你算什么，有何资格要他不准用这不准用那？”
　　“克里冈，我算临冬城的教头，你最好牢牢记住。”
　　“你们这儿是专门训练女人的吗？”带烧伤的高个子问，他浑身肌肉，壮得像头牛。
　　“我训练的是骑士，”罗德利克爵士口气锐利地说，“等他们长大成人，技巧足够纯熟，我自会让他们使用真正的武器。”
　　带烧伤的男子转头问罗柏：“小子，你几岁？”
　　“十四岁。”罗柏应道。
　　“我十二岁就杀过人，告诉你，我用的可不是钝剑。”
　　艾莉亚看得出罗柏的自尊心已然受创，正火冒三丈，快要按捺不住怒气。他对罗德利克爵士说：“让我用真剑罢，我可以打败他。”
　　“不，用钝剑打。”罗德利克爵士回答。
　　乔佛里耸耸肩：“史塔克，我看你就等长大之后再来跟我较量好了，不过也别等到走不动了才来喔。”兰尼斯特的人又是一阵哄笑。
　　罗柏的咒骂响彻整个校场。艾莉亚吃惊地捂住嘴巴。席恩·葛雷乔伊捉住罗柏的手，没让他朝王子冲去，罗德利克爵士则忧心忡忡地捻着胡子。
　　乔佛里装模作样地打个呵欠，然后转身对他弟弟说：“走罢，托曼，游戏时间结束了。让孩子们留下来继续玩吧。”
　　此话一出，兰尼斯特的部属们笑得更开心，罗柏也骂得更大声。罗德利克爵士气得满脸通红，席恩则是紧紧地抱住罗柏，直到王子一行离去之后才肯松手。
　　琼恩目送他们离去，艾莉亚则看着琼恩，他的脸沉静得有如神木林中那泓冷泉。最后他爬下窗台：“好戏结束了。”他弯下身子搔搔白灵的耳后根，小狼也站起身，向他靠过去撒娇。“小妹，你最好还是快回房去。茉丹修女一定正等着修理你，你躲得越久，到时候处罚就越重，弄不好她会叫你织一整个冬天的东西，等到春天冰雪融化，我们就会发现你冰冷的尸体，而缝衣针还牢牢地握在结冰的手里哟。”
　　艾莉亚听了完全笑不出来。“我最讨厌女红！”她激动地说，“真不公平！”
　　“这世上没有公平这回事，”琼恩应道，他又拨拨她的乱发，起身走了，白灵安静地跟在他后面。娜梅莉亚正准备跟去，走了几步回头才发现主人没跟来。
　　于是她只好很不情愿地朝反方向去。
　　事情比琼恩料想的还惨，因为等在她房里的可不只是茉丹修女，而是茉丹修女和母亲两个人。

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等级: 内阁元老
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你看着眼前的人，分明还是以前的模样，可心里终究不是以前那般澄清透明了。
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8．BRAN
   The hunt left at dawn. The king wanted wild boar at the feast tonight. Prince Joffrey rode with his father, so Robb had been allowed to join the hunters as well. Uncle Benjen, Jory, Theon Greyjoy, Ser Rodrik, and even the queen’s funny little brother had all ridden out with them. It was the last hunt, after all. On the morrow they left for the south.
   Bran had been left behind with Jon and the girls and Rickon. But Rickon was only a baby and the girls were only girls and Jon and his wolf were nowhere to be found. Bran did not look for him very hard. He thought Jon was angry at him. Jon seemed to be angry at everyone these days. Bran did not know why. He was going with Uncle Ben to the Wall, to join the Night’s Watch. That was almost as good as going south with the king. Robb was the one they were leaving behind, not Jon.
   For days, Bran could scarcely wait to be off. He was going to ride the kingsroad on a horse of his own, not a pony but a real horse. His father would be the Hand of the King, and they were going to live in the red castle at King’s Landing, the castle the Dragonlords had built. Old Nan said there were ghosts there, and dungeons where terrible things had been done, and dragon heads on the walls. It gave Bran a shiver just to think of it, but he was not afraid. How could he be afraid? His father would be with him, and the king with all his knights and sworn swords.
   Bran was going to be a knight himself someday, one of the Kingsguard. Old Nan said they were the finest swords in all the realm. There were only seven of them, and they wore white armor and had no wives or children, but lived only to serve the king. Bran knew all the stories. Their names were like music to him. Serwyn of the Mirror Shield. Ser Ryam Redwyne. Prince Aemon the Dragonknight. The twins Ser Erryk and Ser Arryk, who had died on one another’s swords hundreds of years ago, when brother fought sister in the war the singers called the Dance of the Dragons. The White Bull, Gerold Hightower. Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. Barristan the Bold.
   Two of the Kingsguard had come north with King Robert. Bran had watched them with fascination, never quite daring to speak to them. Ser Boros was a bald man with a jowly face, and Ser Meryn had droopy eyes and a beard the color of rust. Ser Jaime Lannister looked more like the knights in the stories, and he was of the Kingsguard too, but Robb said he had killed the old mad king and shouldn’t count anymore. The greatest living knight was Ser Barristan Selmy, Barristan the Bold, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Father had promised that they would meet Ser Barristan when they reached King’s Landing, and Bran had been marking the days on his wall, eager to depart, to see a world he had only dreamed of and begin a life he could scarcely imagine.
   Yet now that the last day was at hand, suddenly Bran felt lost. Winterfell had been the only home he had ever known. His father had told him that he ought to say his farewells today, and he had tried. After the hunt had ridden out, he wandered through the castle with his wolf at his side, intending to visit the ones who would be left behind, Old Nan and Gage the cook, Mikken in his smithy, Hodor the stableboy who smiled so much and took care of his pony and never said anything but “Hodor,” the man in the glass gardens who gave him a blackberry when he came to visit?.?.?.?
   But it was no good. He had gone to the stable first, and seen his pony there in its stall, except it wasn’t his pony anymore, he was getting a real horse and leaving the pony behind, and all of a sudden Bran just wanted to sit down and cry. He turned and ran off before Hodor and the other stableboys could see the tears in his eyes. That was the end of his farewells. Instead Bran spent the morning alone in the godswood, trying to teach his wolf to fetch a stick, and failing. The wolfling was smarter than any of the hounds in his father’s kennel and Bran would have sworn he understood every word that was said to him, but he showed very little interest in chasing sticks.
   He was still trying to decide on a name. Robb was calling his Grey Wind, because he ran so fast. Sansa had named hers Lady, and Arya named hers after some old witch queen in the songs, and little Rickon called his Shaggydog, which Bran thought was a pretty stupid name for a direwolf. Jon’s wolf, the white one, was Ghost. Bran wished he had thought of that first, even though his wolf wasn’t white. He had tried a hundred names in the last fortnight, but none of them sounded right.
   Finally he got tired of the stick game and decided to go climbing. He hadn’t been up to the broken tower for weeks with everything that had happened, and this might be his last chance.
   He raced across the godswood, taking the long way around to avoid the pool where the heart tree grew. The heart tree had always frightened him; trees ought not have eyes, Bran thought, or leaves that looked like hands. His wolf came sprinting at his heels. “You stay here,” he told him at the base of the sentinel tree near the armory wall. “Lie down. That’s right. Now stay...”
   The wolf did as he was told. Bran scratched him behind the ears, then turned away, jumped, grabbed a low branch, and pulled himself up. He was halfway up the tree, moving easily from limb to limb, when the wolf got to his feet and began to howl.
   Bran looked back down. His wolf fell silent, staring up at him through slitted yellow eyes. A strange chill went through him. He began to climb again. Once more the wolf howled. “Quiet,” he yelled. “Sit down. Stay. You’re worse than Mother.” The howling chased him all the way up the tree, until finally he jumped off onto the armory roof and out of sight.
   The rooftops of Winterfell were Bran’s second home. His mother often said that Bran could climb before he could walk. Bran could not remember when he first learned to walk, but he could not remember when he started to climb either, so he supposed it must be true.
   To a boy, Winterfell was a grey stone labyrinth of walls and towers and courtyards and tunnels spreading out in all directions. In the older parts of the castle, the halls slanted up and down so that you couldn’t even be sure what floor you were on. The place had grown over the centuries like some monstrous stone tree, Maester Luwin told him once, and its branches were gnarled and thick and twisted, its roots sunk deep into the earth.
   When he got out from under it and scrambled up near the sky, Bran could see all of Winterfell in a glance. He liked the way it looked, spread out beneath him, only birds wheeling over his head while all the life of the castle went on below. Bran could perch for hours among the shapeless, rain-worn gargoyles that brooded over the First Keep, watching it all: the men drilling with wood and steel in the yard, the cooks tending their vegetables in the glass garden, restless dogs running back and forth in the kennels, the silence of the godswood, the girls gossiping beside the washing well. It made him feel like he was lord of the castle, in a way even Robb would never know.
   It taught him Winterfell’s secrets too. The builders had not even leveled the earth; there were hills and valleys behind the walls of Winterfell. There was a covered bridge that went from the fourth floor of the bell tower across to the second floor of the rookery. Bran knew about that. And he knew you could get inside the inner wall by the south gate, climb three floors and run all the way around Winterfell through a narrow tunnel in the stone, and then come out on ground level at the north gate, with a hundred feet of wall looming over you. Even Maester Luwin didn’t know that, Bran was convinced.
   His mother was terrified that one day Bran would slip off a wall and kill himself. He told her that he wouldn’t, but she never believed him. Once she made him promise that he would stay on the ground. He had managed to keep that promise for almost a fortnight, miserable every day, until one night he had gone out the window of his bedroom when his brothers were fast asleep.
   He confessed his crime the next day in a fit of guilt. Lord Eddard ordered him to the godswood to cleanse himself. Guards were posted to see that Bran remained there alone all night to reflect on his disobedience. The next morning Bran was nowhere to be seen. They finally found him fast asleep in the upper branches of the tallest sentinel in the grove.
   As angry as he was, his father could not help but laugh. “You’re not my son,” he told Bran when they fetched him down, “you’re a squirrel. So be it. If you must climb, then climb, but try not to let your mother see you.”
   Bran did his best, although he did not think he ever really fooled her. Since his father would not forbid it, she turned to others. Old Nan told him a story about a bad little boy who climbed too high and was struck down by lightning, and how afterward the crows came to peck out his eyes. Bran was not impressed. There were crows’ nests atop the broken tower, where no one ever went but him, and sometimes he filled his pockets with corn before he climbed up there and the crows ate it right out of his hand. None of them had ever shown the slightest bit of interest in pecking out his eyes.
   Later, Maester Luwin built a little pottery boy and dressed him in Bran’s clothes and flung him off the wall into the yard below, to demonstrate what would happen to Bran if he fell. That had been fun, but afterward Bran just looked at the maester and said, “I’m not made of clay. And anyhow, I never fall.”
   Then for a while the guards would chase him whenever they saw him on the roofs, and try to haul him down. That was the best time of all. It was like playing a game with his brothers, except that Bran always won. None of the guards could climb half so well as Bran, not even Jory. Most of the time they never saw him anyway. People never looked up. That was another thing he liked about climbing; it was almost like being invisible.
   He liked how it felt too, pulling himself up a wall stone by stone, fingers and toes digging hard into the small crevices between. He always took off his boots and went barefoot when he climbed; it made him feel as if he had four hands instead of two. He liked the deep, sweet ache it left in the muscles afterward. He liked the way the air tasted way up high, sweet and cold as a winter peach. He liked the birds: the crows in the broken tower, the tiny little sparrows that nested in cracks between the stones, the ancient owl that slept in the dusty loft above the old armory. Bran knew them all.
   Most of all, he liked going places that no one else could go, and seeing the grey sprawl of Winterfell in a way that no one else ever saw it. It made the whole castle Bran’s secret place.
   His favorite haunt was the broken tower. Once it had been a watchtower, the tallest in Winterfell. A long time ago, a hundred years before even his father had been born, a lightning strike had set it afire. The top third of the structure had collapsed inward, and the tower had never been rebuilt. Sometimes his father sent ratters into the base of the tower, to clean out the nests they always found among the jumble of fallen stones and charred and rotten beams. But no one ever got up to the jagged top of the structure now except for Bran and the crows.
   He knew two ways to get there. You could climb straight up the side of the tower itself, but the stones were loose, the mortar that held them together long gone to ash, and Bran never liked to put his full weight on them.
   The best way was to start from the godswood, shinny up the tall sentinel, and cross over the armory and the guards hall, leaping roof to roof, barefoot so the guards wouldn’t hear you overhead. That brought you up to the blind side of the First Keep, the oldest part of the castle, a squat round fortress that was taller than it looked. Only rats and spiders lived there now but the old stones still made for good climbing. You could go straight up to where the gargoyles leaned out blindly over empty space, and swing from gargoyle to gargoyle, hand over hand, around to the north side. From there, if you really stretched, you could reach out and pull yourself over to the broken tower where it leaned close. The last part was the scramble up the blackened stones to the eyrie, no more than ten feet, and then the crows would come round to see if you’d brought any corn.
   Bran was moving from gargoyle to gargoyle with the ease of long practice when he heard the voices. He was so startled he almost lost his grip. The First Keep had been empty all his life.
   “I do not like it,” a woman was saying. There was a row of windows beneath him, and the voice was drifting out of the last window on this side. “You should be the Hand.”
   “Gods forbid,” a man’s voice replied lazily. “It’s not an honor I’d want. There’s far too much work involved.”
   Bran hung, listening, suddenly afraid to go on. They might glimpse his feet if he tried to swing by.
   “Don’t you see the danger this puts us in?” the woman said. “Robert loves the man like a brother.”
   “Robert can barely stomach his brothers. Not that I blame him. Stannis would be enough to give anyone indigestion.”
   “Don’t play the fool. Stannis and Renly are one thing, and Eddard Stark is quite another. Robert will listen to Stark. Damn them both. I should have insisted that he name you, but I was certain Stark would refuse him.”
   “We ought to count ourselves fortunate,” the man said. “The king might as easily have named one of his brothers, or even Littlefinger, gods help us. Give me honorable enemies rather than ambitious ones, and I’ll sleep more easily by night.”
   They were talking about Father, Bran realized. He wanted to hear more. A few more feet?.?.?.?but they would see him if he swung out in front of the window.
   “We will have to watch him carefully,” the woman said.
   “I would sooner watch you,” the man said. He sounded bored. “Come back here.”
   “Lord Eddard has never taken any interest in anything that happened south of the Neck,” the woman said. “Never. I tell you, he means to move against us. Why else would he leave the seat of his power?”
   “A hundred reasons. Duty. Honor. He yearns to write his name large across the book of history, to get away from his wife, or both. Perhaps he just wants to be warm for once in his life.”
   “His wife is Lady Arryn’s sister. It’s a wonder Lysa was not here to greet us with her accusations.”
   Bran looked down. There was a narrow ledge beneath the window, only a few inches wide. He tried to lower himself toward it. Too far. He would never reach.
   “You fret too much. Lysa Arryn is a frightened cow.”
   “That frightened cow shared Jon Arryn’s bed.”
   “If she knew anything, she would have gone to Robert before she fled King’s Landing.”
   “When he had already agreed to foster that weakling son of hers at Casterly Rock? I think not. She knew the boy’s life would be hostage to her silence. She may grow bolder now that he’s safe atop the Eyrie.”
   “Mothers.” The man made the word sound like a curse. “I think birthing does something to your minds. You are all mad.” He laughed. It was a bitter sound. “Let Lady Arryn grow as bold as she likes. Whatever she knows, whatever she thinks she knows, she has no proof.” He paused a moment. “Or does she?”
   “Do you think the king will require proof?” the woman said. “I tell you, he loves me not.”
   “And whose fault is that, sweet sister?”
   Bran studied the ledge. He could drop down. It was too narrow to land on, but if he could catch hold as he fell past, pull himself up?.?.?.?except that might make a noise, draw them to the window. He was not sure what he was hearing, but he knew it was not meant for his ears.
   “You are as blind as Robert,” the woman was saying.
   “If you mean I see the same thing, yes,” the man said. “I see a man who would sooner die than betray his king.”
   “He betrayed one already, or have you forgotten?” the woman said. “Oh, I don’t deny he’s loyal to Robert, that’s obvious. What happens when Robert dies and Joff takes the throne? And the sooner that comes to pass, the safer we’ll all be. My husband grows more restless every day. Having Stark beside him will only make him worse. He’s still in love with the sister, the insipid little dead sixteen-year-old. How long till he decides to put me aside for some new Lyanna?”
   Bran was suddenly very frightened. He wanted nothing so much as to go back the way he had come, to find his brothers. Only what would he tell them? He had to get closer, Bran realized. He had to see who was talking.
   The man sighed. “You should think less about the future and more about the pleasures at hand.”
   “Stop that!” the woman said. Bran heard the sudden slap of flesh on flesh, then the man’s laughter.
   Bran pulled himself up, climbed over the gargoyle, crawled out onto the roof. This was the easy way. He moved across the roof to the next gargoyle, right above the window of the room where they were talking.
   “All this talk is getting very tiresome, sister,” the man said. “Come here and be quiet.”
   Bran sat astride the gargoyle, tightened his legs around it, and swung himself around, upside down. He hung by his legs and slowly stretched his head down toward the window. The world looked strange upside down. A courtyard swam dizzily below him, its stones still wet with melted snow.
   Bran looked in the window.
   Inside the room, a man and a woman were wrestling. They were both naked. Bran could not tell who they were. The man’s back was to him, and his body screened the woman from view as he pushed her up against a wall.
   There were soft, wet sounds. Bran realized they were kissing. He watched, wide-eyed and frightened, his breath tight in his throat. The man had a hand down between her legs, and he must have been hurting her there, because the woman started to moan, low in her throat. “Stop it,” she said, “stop it, stop it. Oh, please?.?.?.?” But her voice was low and weak, and she did not push him away. Her hands buried themselves in his hair, his tangled golden hair, and pulled his face down to her breast.
   Bran saw her face. Her eyes were closed and her mouth was open, moaning. Her golden hair swung from side to side as her head moved back and forth, but still he recognized the queen.
   He must have made a noise. Suddenly her eyes opened, and she was staring right at him. She screamed.
   Everything happened at once then. ‘ The woman pushed the man away wildly, shouting and pointing. Bran tried to pull himself up, bending double as he reached for the gargoyle. He was in too much of a hurry. His hand scraped uselessly across smooth stone, and in his panic his legs slipped, and suddenly he was failing. There was an instant of vertigo, a sickening lurch as the window flashed past. He shot out a hand, grabbed for the ledge, lost it, caught it again with his other hand. He swung against the building, hard. The impact took the breath out of him. Bran dangled, one-handed, panting.
   Faces appeared in the window above him.
   The queen. And now Bran recognized the man beside her. They looked as much alike as reflections in a mirror.
   “He saw us,” the woman said shrilly.
   “So he did,” the man said.
   Bran’s fingers started to slip. He grabbed the ledge with his other hand. Fingernails dug into unyielding stone. The man reached down. “Take my hand,” he said. “Before you fall.”
   Bran seized his arm and held on tight with all his strength. The man yanked him up to the ledge. “What are you doing?” the woman demanded.
   The man ignored her. He was very strong. He stood Bran up on the sill. “How old are you, boy?”
   “Seven,” Bran said, shaking with relief. His fingers had dug deep gouges in the man’s forearm. He let go sheepishly.
   The man looked over at the woman. “The things I do for love,” he said with loathing. He gave Bran a shove.
   Screaming, Bran went backward out the window into empty air. There was nothing to grab on to. The courtyard rushed up to meet him.
   Somewhere off in the distance, a wolf was howling. Crows circled the broken tower, waiting for corn.


Ⅰ 权力的游戏 Chapter9 布兰
　　打猎的队伍于黎明启程，国王希望能为今天的晚宴多添一道野熊大餐。因为乔佛里王子与国王同行，所以罗柏也得到允许，跟着狩猎队伍一同前往。班扬叔叔、乔里、席恩·葛雷乔伊和罗德利克爵士他们都跟着一道去，就连王后的滑稽小弟也在队伍中。毕竟这是他们在北方最后的打猎机会，明天，国王的队伍就要动身南下。
　　布兰和琼恩、姐姐们以及瑞肯留在城里。瑞肯只是个小娃娃，女孩子们本来就不喜欢打猎，而琼恩和他的小狼则跑得不见踪影。布兰也没有努力去找他，因为他觉得琼恩似乎在生自己的气。琼恩这几天似乎在生城里每一个人的气，布兰很纳闷，他要和班扬叔叔到长城去加入守夜人军团，那可不是和跟国王南下一样的好事吗？要留在家里的人是罗柏，不是琼恩呀。
　　这几天来，布兰兴奋得坐立不安。他很快就要在国王大道上策马驰骋了，不是骑小马喔，而是骑真正的骏马。父亲将成为国王的首相，他们会搬进君临，住进龙王建造的“红堡”。老奶妈说那里闹鬼，地牢里有不为人知的恐怖酷刑，墙上还挂着龙头。布兰光想想就浑身打颤，但他却不害怕，有什么好怕的呢？他有父亲保护，还有国王和他所有的骑士与宣誓效忠的武士呢。
　　有朝一日布兰自己也要当骑士，加入国王的御林铁卫。老奶妈说他们是全国最优秀的战士。御林铁卫一共只有七人，身穿白衣白甲，没有任何家室牵累，活着的惟一目的就是守护国王。关于他们的故事布兰早就听得滚瓜烂熟，倒背如流了：“镜盾”萨文，莱安·雷德温爵士，龙骑士伊蒙王子，几百年前死在对方剑下的孪生兄弟伊利克爵士和亚历克爵士——那是一场骨肉相残，姐弟交战，被后世吟游诗人称为“血龙狂舞”的战争，还有“白牛”杰洛·海陶尔，“拂晓神剑”亚瑟·戴恩爵士，以及“无畏的”巴利斯坦。
　　这次有两名御林铁卫和劳勃国王一同北来，布兰瞠目结舌地看着他们，始终不敢上前攀谈。柏洛斯爵士是个秃了顶、双下巴的人，马林爵士则两眼低垂，须如铁锈。只有詹姆·兰尼斯特爵士看起来比较像故事里的伟大骑士，他也是七铁卫之一，不过罗柏说他杀了疯狂的老王，已经不能算御林铁卫了。如今世上最伟大的骑士是巴利斯坦·赛尔弥爵士，人称“无畏的”巴利斯坦，他是御林铁卫队长。父亲答应过他们，等抵达君临之后，一定会让他们见见巴利斯坦爵士。布兰每天在墙上画记号数日子，迫不及待想动身出发，去看看一个以往只存在于梦中的世界，过另一种从来无法想像的生活。
　　可现在离出发只剩一天，布兰却突然若有所失起来。临冬城是他惟一熟悉的家园，父亲叮嘱他今天要向大家道别，他也尽力去试。打猎队伍离开后，他带着小狼在城堡里闲逛，打算和熟人们一个个说再见。老奶妈、厨师盖吉，铁匠密肯，还有负责帮他照顾小马，成天咧着嘴笑，除了“阿多”两个字以外，一句话也不会讲的马夫阿多。每次布兰去玻璃花园玩，阿多总会给他一颗黑莓。
　　但他开不了口。他先去了马厩，看到自己的小马，只是现在已经不属于他了。他很快便会拥有一匹真正的马，而把小马留在这里，突然间布兰好想坐下来放声大哭，于是他赶紧跑开，以免阿多和其他马夫见到他眼中的泪水。他总共就说了这么一次再见，之后便一早上独自躲在神木林里，教他的小狼把丢出去的树枝叼回来，却徒劳无功。他的小狼比父亲兽舍里所有的猎狗都要聪明，他几乎可以肯定他听得懂他说的每一句话。只可惜他对叼树枝似乎没多少兴趣。
　　他到现在还无法决定给它取什么名字。罗柏的狼叫做“灰风”，因为它跑起来迅捷如风；珊莎的叫做“淑女”；艾莉亚用歌谣里某个古老的女巫王为她的狼命名；小瑞肯则把他的狼叫做“毛毛狗”——布兰觉得给冰原狼起这种名字实在很蠢；琼恩的那只白狼叫白灵。布兰真希望自己比琼恩先想到这个名字，即使他的狼毛色不是很白。过去这两周以来，他不知道已经想过多少名字了，偏偏就是没一个听来顺耳。
　　最后他累了，便决定去爬墙。最近发生了这么多事情，他已经好几个星期没爬到残塔上玩了，这说不定还是他最后的机会呢。
　　于是他拔腿跑过神木林，还特地绕路避开心树旁边的那泓冷泉。布兰一直很怕心树，他总觉得树不应该长眼睛，叶子也不该生成手掌的模样。小狼跟在他身边。“你留在这儿。”他在武器库墙外哨兵树下对它说，“乖乖躺下，对，就这样，留在这儿别动——”
　　小狼果然乖乖地留在原地，布兰搔了搔它的耳后根，然后转身一跃，抓住低垂的枝干，一翻身便上了树。可当他爬到一半，正游刃有余地穿梭枝丫时，小狼却霍地起身嗥叫开来。
　　布兰低头一看，小狼便立刻安静，睁大那双亮闪闪的黄色眼珠往上瞧。布兰觉得有股诡异的寒意流贯全身。他继续爬，小狼又继续嗥。“别叫啦！”他喊，“乖乖坐好别动，你比妈还烦。”然而狼嗥却一直跟随着他，直到他跳上武器库屋顶，消失了踪影为止。
　　临冬城的屋顶几乎可算是布兰的第二个家，母亲总说他连走路都还没学会，就先学会爬墙啦。布兰既不记得自己什么时候学会走路，也不知道自己什么时候学会爬墙，所以他猜她说得应该没错。
　　对一个小男孩而言，临冬城的城墙高塔、庭院甬道就像是座灰石砌成的广袤迷宫。在城堡比较老旧的部分，无数厅堂四处倾斜，容易让人产生不知置身何处之感。鲁温学士曾说，几千年来，城堡就像一棵不断蔓生的怪物般的石头巨树，枝干扭曲，盘根错节。
　　当布兰穿过错综复杂的倾颓古城，爬到接近天空的地方，全城的景致终于一览无遗。他很喜欢临冬城在他面前展开的辽阔样貌，城堡里的一切熙来攘往、人声喧哗都在他脚下，惟有天际飞鸟在头上盘旋。布兰往往就这样趴在首堡之上，置身在形状早已不复辨识、被风霜雨雪摧残殆尽的石像鬼间，俯瞰下方的城间百态。看着广场上拖运木材和钢铁的长工，看着玻璃花园里采集菜蔬的厨师，看着犬舍里来回奔跑、局促不安的猎狗，看着静默无语的神木林，看着深井边交头接耳的女侍，仿佛他才是城堡真正的主人，即使罗柏也无法体会这种境界。
　　他也因此挖掘出临冬城许多不为人知的秘密，比如当初建筑工人并没有把城堡附近的地势铲平，所以城墙外面不但有起伏丘陵，还有溪涧峡谷。布兰知道一座密闭的桥道，可以从钟塔的四楼直接通鸦巢的二层。他还知道如何从南门进入内城墙里边，顺着门梯爬三层，便能找到一条狭窄的石砌甬道，它可以绕行临冬城，最后抵达位于百尺高墙阴影下的北门底层。布兰相信就连鲁温师傅也不知道这条捷径。
　　母亲一直很害怕布兰哪天会不小心滑下来，失足摔死。任他再三保证，她却怎么也不肯相信。有次她强迫他发誓不再往高处爬，结果这个诺言只勉强维持了两个星期，他每天都痛苦无比，最后有一天夜里，趁他兄弟熟睡的时候，他还是爬出了卧房窗户。
　　翌日他满怀罪恶感地自行招认，艾德公爵叫他独自去神木林忏悔，还派了守卫监视，以确保他整晚都在林子里反省他不听话的行为。没想到第二天清晨，布兰却不见踪影，最后众人是在林间最高的一棵哨兵树的上层枝干找到睡得正香甜的他。
　　尽管父亲气得半死，终于还是忍不住笑道：“你一定不是我儿子，”当其他人把布兰抱下来时，他对儿子说，“你根本是只松鼠。算了，我认了，如果你真的非爬不可，那就去爬吧，尽量别让你母亲瞧见就是。”
　　布兰很努力，虽然他认为母亲对他的举动其实一清二楚。既然父亲不愿阻止他四处攀爬，她便转而采取迂回策略。首先来的是老奶妈，她跟他讲了一个故事，说从前有个不听话的坏小孩，越爬越高，最后被雷活活劈死，死后乌鸦还来啄他眼睛。布兰听了不为所动，因为残塔上多的是乌鸦窠巢，那里除了他没人会去，所以有时他会在口袋里装满玉米。一上塔顶，乌鸦便都开开心心地聚拢来从他手心啄食，怎么也不像会啄他眼睛的模样。
　　眼看这招无效，鲁温师傅便用陶土捏了个小男孩，为它穿上布兰的衣服，然后从城墙上丢下去，好让布兰了解他若是摔下，会有多么凄惨的结果。那是个有趣的实验，但事后布兰却只盯着鲁温师傅，面无表情地说：“我不是泥做的，而且我绝对不会摔下去。”
　　在此之后，轮到了城里的守卫，有一段时间，只要他们发现他在屋顶上，就会吆喝追赶，想把他赶下来。那是最紧张刺激的时刻了，简直就像和哥哥弟弟们玩游戏，只不过，这游戏每次都是布兰获胜。卫兵们谁也没有布兰这种本事，连乔里也拿他没辙。不过多数时候他们根本就没看见他，人是从来不往上看的。这也是他喜欢爬墙的原因之一，仿佛可以因此隐身遁形。
　　他很喜欢攀爬时那种一石高过一石，手脚并用，聚精会神的感觉。每次他都先把靴子脱掉，然后光着脚丫爬墙，如此一来让他觉得自己多出两只手。他喜欢每次事后浑身肌肉那种疲累却甜丝丝的酸疼；喜欢高处清冽的空气，冰冷甘美宛如冬雪甜桃；喜欢各式各样的鸟类，包括群聚残塔上的大乌鸦，筑巢乱石间的小麻雀和栖息在旧武器库积满灰尘阁楼里的老夜枭。布兰对这些事物通通了如指掌。
　　不过他最喜欢的还是登上人迹罕至的地方，看着城堡以一种不曾为他人展示的样貌，在眼前灰蒙蒙地呈现出来。整座临冬城似乎都因此成了布兰的秘密基地。
　　他对曾是临冬城最高瞭望台的残塔情有独钟。很久很久以前，在他父亲出生前约一百年，高塔遭暴雷击中，起火燃烧，顶端三分之一的建筑朝塔内崩塌，自此以后始终没有重建。父亲偶尔会派人进到残塔底层清理断垣残壁间的老鼠窝，然而除了布兰和乌鸦，从来没有人登上过塔顶废墟。
　　他知道两种登上塔顶的途径，一是直接从残塔外围爬上去，但是由于当年刷的泥浆早已干燥风化，砖石容易松落，因此布兰爬的时候不太敢把重心放在上面。
　　最好的方法还是从神木林出发，爬上高高的哨兵树，从武器库的屋顶跳到守卫室的屋顶，其间光着脚以免守卫听见，如此便可顺利抵达城中最古老的首堡后方。那是座低矮的圆形堡垒，其实它比乍看上去要高得多。如今堡内虽只有老鼠和蜘蛛，但当年建筑的古老石块仍旧提供了攀爬的最佳场所。你甚至可以直接爬到眼神空洞的石像鬼雕像驻守的空旷高台，两手勾紧，从这个石像鬼悬荡到那个石像鬼，随后抵达城楼北端。接着，只要全力伸展，便可够到倾斜的残塔。最后的部分只是翻越焦黑的乱石堆登上养鹰楼，爬不到十尺，乌鸦群便会竞相迎接，看你有没有带玉米粒给它们了。
　　这天布兰一如往常，驾轻就熟地在石像鬼雕像间荡来荡去，不料却听到说话的声音。他吓得差点松手，首堡向来是个人迹罕至的地方呀！
　　“我不喜欢这样，”有个女人的声音说。布兰下方有一排窗户，声音是从最后一扇窗里传出来的，“当首相的该是你才对。”
　　“饶了我罢，”一个男人的声音慵懒地回答，“这种苦差我可不想揽，想做的事多着呢。”
　　布兰悬在半空，静静地听着，突然心生恐惧，不敢再往前荡，生怕经过时自己的双脚会被他们发现。
　　“你难道看不出背后隐藏的危险？”女人接着说，“劳勃把那家伙当亲兄弟一样。”
　　“劳勃最受不了他两个弟弟。我也不怪他，有史坦尼斯那样的老弟，任谁都要反胃。”
　　“别傻了，史坦尼斯和蓝礼是一回事，艾德·史塔克又是另一回事。劳勃对史塔克会言听计从。这两人都该下地狱，早知道我就坚持要他选你当首相。我一直以为史塔克会拒绝他。”
　　“我们这样已经算走运啦，”男人道，“诸神在上，谁知道国王会不会叫他弟弟或那个小指头来当首相。比起野心勃勃的对手，让我面对讲究荣誉的敌人，可能还会睡得安稳些。”
　　布兰这才会意，他们谈论的正是父亲！他想多听一些，再靠近几尺……可他如果荡过那扇窗户，他们一定会看到他的脚。
　　“我们得好好监视他才行。”女人说。
　　“我宁愿好好看看你，”男人说，他的语气听起来很无趣，“过来吧。”
　　“艾德公爵从没插手过南方的事务，”女人道，“从来没有。我告诉你，他明明就是要对付我们，不然何必离开他的势力中心？”
　　“理由多的是，责任心、荣誉感都有可能，或者他想名垂青史，或者他们夫妻不和，甚至两者皆有，也或许他只想找个温暖的地方住住而已。”
　　“他太太是艾林夫人的姐姐，莱莎竟然没有跑到这里，用她的指控欢迎我们，已经很难得了。”
　　布兰往下看去，窗子下方只有个几寸宽的窗棂，他试着放低身子，但是距离太远，够不到。
　　“你想太多啦，艾林夫人不过是头吓坏的母牛嘛。”
　　“这头母牛可是和琼恩·艾林同床共枕的。”
　　“假如她知道，早在离开君临之前就去找劳勃告状了。”
　　“在他刚刚决定要把她那没用的儿子送去凯岩城作养子的时候？我想不会。她自己也明白如此一来她儿子会成为人质，威胁她不准说出实情。现在回到了鹰巢城，只怕她胆子会大起来。”
　　“作母亲的都一个样，”男人把“母亲”一词说得仿佛是个诅咒，“我总认为生产会烧坏脑子，你们全都疯了。”他苦涩地笑笑，“不管她究竟知道什么，或自以为知道多少，反正她没有证据。”他停了一会儿，“她有么？”
　　“告诉我，你觉得国王会需要什么证据？”女人回答，“他根本就不爱我！”
　　“好姐姐，这是谁的错啊？”
　　布兰仔细看看窗棂，他应该可以跳下去，虽然窗棂太窄，没法站稳，但他可以在坠落的时候钩住，然后再攀上去……怕只怕会弄出声音，引来他们的注意。他不太了解所听到的事情，只是很确定这些话不是说给他听的。
　　“你和劳勃一样都瞎了眼。”女人说。
　　“如果你的意思是我和他看法一致，没有错，”男人答道，“我眼中的艾德·史塔克是个宁死也不愿背叛国王的人。”
　　“他已经背叛过一个国王，你难道忘了吗？”女人道，“噢，我不否认他对劳勃忠心耿耿，这毋庸置疑，但要是劳勃死了，小乔继承王位呢？而劳勃越早死，我们便越安全。我丈夫近来愈加焦躁不安，让史塔克随侍他身旁只会让情况恶化。他到现在还爱着那个死了的十六岁小妹，谁知道哪天他会为了新的莱安娜，把我丢到一边？”
　　布兰突然觉得害怕极了，此时的他只想赶快循原路回去，去找他的兄弟寻求协助。然而他要告诉他们些什么呢？布兰明白自己非再靠近一点不可，他得看看说话的人是谁。
　　男人叹道：“你别老担心未来的事，多想想眼前的幸福罢。”
　　“少说这种话！”女人斥道。布兰听到突如其来的皮肉拍打，接着又听见男人的笑声。
　　布兰决定往上攀，翻过石像鬼，爬到屋顶上。这是比较容易的路径，他跑到下一只石像鬼雕像旁，恰好在传出说话声的房间正上方。
　　“好姐姐，尽说些这种事，说得我都累了。”男人说，“闭上嘴巴过来吧。”
　　布兰跨坐在石像鬼雕像上，两腿夹紧，然后整个人头朝下倒转过去。他两脚紧勾住石像，缓缓地把头靠近窗边。上下颠倒的世界感觉非常怪异，庭院在他下方天旋地转地晃动，砖石上还留有未化的残雪。
　　布兰从窗外向里看去。
　　房间内一男一女正扭成一团，两人都没穿衣服。布兰认不出他们是谁，男人背对着他，不断地将女人往墙边推挤，他的身体恰好挡住了女人的脸。
　　屋内有种细小而濡湿的声音，布兰发觉他们正在亲嘴。他张大眼睛，呼吸急促，惊恐地看着房里发生的这一切。男人伸手到女人两腿间，他一定弄痛了她，因为女人开始低声呻吟：“别……别这样，”她说，“住手，住手，噢，求求你……”可她的声音细小微弱，又始终没有把他推开。她反而把双手埋进他凌乱的亮金色头发里，把他的脸往自己胸前拉。
　　布兰这才见着她的脸。虽然她紧闭双眼，张嘴呻吟，金发随着头部动作而剧烈晃动，他仍然认出她是王后。
　　此时他一定是不小心发出了什么声音，只见她突然睁开眼睛，视线直直地盯着他，然后惊声尖叫起来。
　　所有的事情都发生得好快。女人狂乱地推开男人，一边指指点点，一边大声叫嚷。布兰想把自己翻上去，使尽腰力钩住石像鬼雕像，然而他使力太急，双手只是擦过平滑的石像表面，随后他心里一怕，双腿松开，立刻就往下掉。他感到一阵晕眩，窗棂从他身边疾速闪失，一种不舒服的恶心感由胃里升起。他慌忙伸出一只手想抓住窗棂，却立刻滑开，赶紧又用另一只手牢牢抓紧。他狠狠地撞上了墙壁，猛烈的冲击力道痛得他几乎无法呼吸。布兰单手抓住窗棂，在半空中悬晃，喘不过气来。
　　两个人的脸同时出现在他上方的窗边。
　　的确是王后。这时布兰也认出了她旁边的男人，他们相貌神似，站在一起宛如镜子里的倒影。
　　“他瞧见我们了。”女人尖声道。
　　“他是瞧见我们了。”男人说。
　　布兰的手指开始松脱，他换用另一只手勾窗棂，指甲深深地陷进坚硬的岩壁。男人向下伸手。“来，”他说，“快抓住我，别要掉下去。”
　　布兰使出浑身力气抓住他的手，男人把他拉上窗台。“你想做什么？”女人质问。
　　男人没有理会她，他用健壮有力的手，把布兰扶到窗台上站稳。“小鬼，你几岁啦？”
　　“七岁。”布兰听了如释重负，但仍旧不免发抖。他的指头深深抠进男人的手臂，这时连忙惭愧地放开。
　　男人转头去看着女人。“好好想一想，我为爱情做了些什么。”他极不情愿地说，接着便用力把布兰朝外一推。
　　布兰尖叫着飞出窗外，落进半空。这次没有任何东西可以让他抓握，庭院以疯狂的速度朝他袭来。
　　邈远处，孤狼长吼；残塔上，乌鸦盘旋，犹然等待玉米之赐。

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寒烟柔。

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等级: 内阁元老
配偶: 逐烟霞。
你看着眼前的人，分明还是以前的模样，可心里终究不是以前那般澄清透明了。
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   9．TYRION
   Somewhere in the great stone maze of Winterfell, a wolf howled. The sound hung over the castle like a flag of mourning.
   Tyrion Lannister looked up from his books and shivered, though the library was snug and warm. Something about the howling of a wolf took a man right out of his here and now and left him in a dark forest of the mind, running naked before the pack.
   When the direwolf howled again, Tyrion shut the heavy leatherbound cover on the book he was reading, a hundred-year-old discourse on the changing of the seasons by a long-dead maester. He covered a yawn with the back of his hand. His reading lamp was flickering, its oil all but gone, as dawn light leaked through the high windows. He had been at it all night, but that was nothing new. Tyrion Lannister was not much a one for sleeping.
   His legs were stiff and sore as he eased down off the bench. He massaged some life back into them and limped heavily to the table where the septon was snoring softly, his head pillowed on an open book in front of him. Tyrion glanced at the title. A life of the Grand Maester Aethelmure, no wonder. “Chayle,” he said softly. The young man jerked up, blinking, confused, the crystal of his order swinging wildly on its silver chain. “I’m off to break my fast. See that you return the books to the shelves. Be gentle with the Valyrian scrolls, the parchment is very dry. Ayrmidon’s Engines of War is quite rare, and yours is the only complete copy I’ve ever seen.” Chayle gaped at him, still half-asleep. Patiently, Tyrion repeated his instructions, then clapped the septon on the shoulder and left him to his tasks.
   Outside, Tyrion swallowed a lungful of the cold morning air and began his laborious descent of the steep stone steps that corkscrewed around the exterior of the library tower. It was slow going; the steps were cut high and narrow, while his legs were short and twisted. The rising sun had not yet cleared the walls of Winterfell, but the men were already hard at it in the yard below. Sandor Clegane’s rasping voice drifted up to him. “The boy is a long time dying. I wish he would be quicker about it.”
   Tyrion glanced down and saw the Hound standing with young Joffrey as squires swarmed around them. “At least he dies quietly,” the prince replied. “It’s the wolf that makes the noise. I could scarce sleep last night.”
   Clegane cast a long shadow across the hard-packed earth as his squire lowered the black helm over his head. “I could silence the creature, if it please you,” he said through his open visor. His boy placed a longsword in his hand. He tested the weight of it, slicing at the cold morning air. Behind him, the yard rang to the clangor of steel on steel.
   The notion seemed to delight the prince. “Send a dog to kill a dog!” he exclaimed. “Winterfell is so infested with wolves, the Starks would never miss one.”
   Tyrion hopped off the last step onto the yard. “I beg to differ, nephew,” he said. “The Starks can count past six. Unlike some princes I might name.”
   Joffrey had the grace at least to blush.
   “A voice from nowhere,” Sandor said. He peered through his helm, looking this way and that. “Spirits of the air!”
   The prince laughed, as he always laughed when his bodyguard did this mummer’s farce. Tyrion was used to it. “Down here.”
   The tall man peered down at the ground, and pretended to notice him. “The little lord Tyrion,” he said. “My pardons. I did not see you standing there.”
   “I am in no mood for your insolence today.” Tyrion turned to his nephew. “Joffrey, it is past time you called on Lord Eddard and his lady, to offer them your comfort.”
   Joffrey looked as petulant as only a boy prince can look. “What good will my comfort do them?”
   “None,” Tyrion said. “Yet it is expected of you. Your absence has been noted.”
   “The Stark boy is nothing to me,” Joffrey said. “I cannot abide the wailing of women.”
   Tyrion Lannister reached up and slapped his nephew hard across the face. The boy’s cheek began to redden.
   “One word,” Tyrion said, “and I will hit you again.”
   “I’m going to tell Mother!” Joffrey exclaimed.
   Tyrion hit him again. Now both cheeks flamed.
   “You tell your mother,” Tyrion told him. “But first you get yourself to Lord and Lady Stark, and you fall to your knees in front of them, and you tell them how very sorry you are, and that you are at their service if there is the slightest thing you can do for them or theirs in this desperate hour, and that all your prayers go with them. Do you understand? Do you?”
   The boy looked as though he was going to cry. Instead, he managed a weak nod. Then he turned and fled headlong from the yard, holding his cheek. Tyrion watched him run.
   A shadow fell across his face. He turned to find Clegane looming overhead like a cliff. His soot-dark armor seemed to blot out the sun. He had lowered the visor on his helm. It was fashioned in the likeness of a snarling black hound, fearsome to behold, but Tyrion had always thought it a great improvement over Clegane’s hideously burned face.
   “The prince will remember that, little lord,” the Hound warned him. The helm turned his laugh into a hollow rumble.
   “I pray he does,” Tyrion Lannister replied. “If he forgets, be a good dog and remind him.” He glanced around the courtyard. “Do you know where I might find my brother?”
   “Breaking fast with the queen.”
   “Ah,” Tyrion said. He gave Sandor Clegane a perfunctory nod and walked away as briskly as his stunted legs would carry him, whistling. He pitied the first knight to try the Hound today. The man did have a temper.
   A cold, cheerless meal had been laid out in the morning room of the Guest House. Jaime sat at table with Cersei and the children, talking in low, hushed voices.
   “Is Robert still abed?” Tyrion asked as he seated himself, uninvited, at the table.
   His sister peered at him with the same expression of faint distaste she had worn since the day he was born. “The king has not slept at all,” she told him. “He is with Lord Eddard. He has taken their sorrow deeply to heart.”
   “He has a large heart, our Robert,” Jaime said with a lazy smile. There was very little that Jaime took seriously. Tyrion knew that about his brother, and forgave it. During all the terrible long years of his childhood, only Jaime had ever shown him the smallest measure of affection or respect, and for that Tyrion was willing to forgive him most anything.
   A servant approached. “Bread,” Tyrion told him, “and two of those little fish, and a mug of that good dark beer to wash them down. Oh, and some bacon. Burn it until it turns black.” The man bowed and moved off. Tyrion turned back to his siblings. Twins, male and female. They looked very much the part this morning. Both had chosen a deep green that matched their eyes. Their blond curls were all a fashionable tumble, and gold ornaments shone at wrists and fingers and throats.
   Tyrion wondered what it would be like to have a twin, and decided that he would rather not know. Bad enough to face himself in a looking glass every day. Another him was a thought too dreadful to contemplate.
   Prince Tommen spoke up. “Do you have news of Bran, Uncle?”
   “I stopped by the sickroom last night,” Tyrion announced. “There was no change. The maester thought that a hopeful sign.”
   “I don’t want Brandon to die,” Tommen said timorously. He was a sweet boy. Not like his brother, but then Jaime and Tyrion were somewhat less than peas in a pod themselves.
   “Lord Eddard had a brother named Brandon as well,” Jaime mused. “One of the hostages murdered by Targaryen. It seems to be an unlucky name.”
   “Oh, not so unlucky as all that, surely,” Tyrion said. The servant brought his plate. He ripped off a chunk of black bread.
   Cersei was studying him warily. “What do you mean?”
   Tyrion gave her a crooked smile. “Why, only that Tommen may get his wish. The maester thinks the boy may yet live.” He took a sip of beer.
   Myrcella gave a happy gasp, and Tommen smiled nervously, but it was not the children Tyrion was watching. The glance that passed between Jaime and Cersei lasted no more than a second, but he did not miss it. Then his sister dropped her gaze to the table. “That is no mercy. These northern gods are cruel to let the child linger in such pain.”
   “What were the maester’s words?” Jaime asked.
   The bacon crunched when he bit into it. Tyrion chewed thoughtfully for a moment and said, “He thinks that if the boy were going to die, he would have done so already. It has been four days with no change.”
   “Will Bran get better, Uncle?” little Myrcella asked. She had all of her mother’s beauty, and none of her nature.
   “His back is broken, little one,” Tyrion told her. “The fall shattered his legs as well. They keep him alive with honey and water, or he would starve to death. Perhaps, if he wakes, he will be able to eat real food, but he will never walk again.”
   “If he wakes,” Cersei repeated. “Is that likely?”
   “The gods alone know,” Tyrion told her. “The maester only hopes.” He chewed some more bread. “I would swear that wolf of his is keeping the boy alive. The creature is outside his window day and night, howling. Every time they chase it away, it returns. The maester said they closed the window once, to shut out the noise, and Bran seemed to weaken. When they opened it again, his heart beat stronger.”
   The queen shuddered. “There is something unnatural about those animals,” she said. “They are dangerous. I will not have any of them coming south with us.”
   Jaime said, “You’ll have a hard time stopping them, sister. They follow those girls everywhere.”
   Tyrion started on his fish. “Are you leaving soon, then?”
   “Not near soon enough,” Cersei said. Then she frowned. “Are we leaving?” she echoed. “What about you? Gods, don’t tell me you are staying here?”
   Tyrion shrugged. “Benjen Stark is returning to the Night’s Watch with his brother’s bastard. I have a mind to go with them and see this Wall we have all heard so much of.”
   Jaime smiled. “I hope you’re not thinking of taking the black on us, sweet brother.”
   Tyrion laughed. “What, me, celibate? The whores would go begging from Dorne to Casterly Rock. No, I just want to stand on top of the Wall and piss off the edge of the world.”
   Cersei stood abruptly. “The children don’t need to hear this filth. Tommen, Myrcella, come.” She strode briskly from the morning room, her train and her pups trailing behind her.
   Jaime Lannister regarded his brother thoughtfully with those cool green eyes. “Stark will never consent to leave Winterfell with his son lingering in the shadow of death.”
   “He will if Robert commands it,” Tyrion said. “And Robert will command it. There is nothing Lord Eddard can do for the boy in any case.”
   “He could end his torment,” Jaime said. “I would, if it were my son. It would be a mercy.”
   “I advise against putting that suggestion to Lord Eddard, sweet brother,” Tyrion said. “He would not take it kindly.”
   “Even if the boy does live, he will be a cripple. Worse than a cripple. A grotesque. Give me a good clean death.”
   Tyrion replied with a shrug that accentuated the twist of his shoulders. “Speaking for the grotesques,” he said, “I beg to differ. Death is so terribly final, while life is full of possibilities.”
   Jaime smiled. “You are a perverse little imp, aren’t you?”
   “Oh, yes,” Tyrion admitted. “I hope the boy does wake. I would be most interested to hear what he might have to say.”
   His brother’s smile curdled like sour milk. “Tyrion, my sweet brother,” he said darkly, “there are times when you give me cause to wonder whose side you are on.”
   Tyrion’s mouth was full of bread and fish. He took a swallow of strong black beer to wash it all down, and grinned up wolfishly at Jaime, “Why, Jaime, my sweet brother,” he said, “you wound me. You know how much I love my family.”


Ⅰ 权力的游戏 Chapter10 提利昂
　　临冬城堡的巨石迷宫深处，传来一声狼嚎。嚎叫声在堡垒间悬荡，如同一面哀悼的旗帜。
　　虽然图书馆里温暖舒适，提利昂听了却不禁从书堆里抬首，颤抖起来。狼嚎中有种神秘莫测的力量，将他硬生生自现实抽离，弃置于一片广寒的阴郁森林，浑身赤裸，在恶狼追逐下亡命奔逃。
　　当冰原狼的嚎叫声再度传来，提利昂终于忍不住阖上他正在读的书，那是一部探究季节更迭的百年古籍，出自某位早已长眠地下的老学士之手。他打了个呵欠，用手背微微掩住嘴巴。晨色自高窗缝里泄进图书馆，他的写字灯火光摇曳，灯油已尽。他又整夜没睡，然而这也不是什么新鲜事，提利昂·兰尼斯特向来不是个需要大量睡眠的人。
　　他挪动僵硬酸麻的双脚下了长凳，稍事按摩之后，跛着脚走到桌边。修士正趴在桌上，轻声打鼾，头枕在面前一本敞开的大书上。提利昂瞄瞄书名，原来是《伊萨穆尔国师传记》，难怪他会看到睡着。“柴尔，”他轻声唤道，年轻修士陡地惊醒，困惑地眨眨眼，象征他身份的水晶在银项链上晃动。“我去吃早餐，记得帮我把书放回架上。不过动作轻点，这些瓦雷利亚卷轴的羊皮纸很脆弱。伊弥顿的《战争兵器》是一部很稀有的书，我这辈子只看见你这份抄本。”柴尔还没完全清醒，朝他打了个大呵欠。提利昂耐着性子又重复了一遍，然后拍拍修士的肩膀，让他去工作。
　　走出门外，提利昂深吸一口清晨的冷空气，接着费力地走下环绕藏书塔那一级级陡峭的螺旋梯。阶梯高窄，他的脚却短小畸形又扭曲。旭日还没高过临冬城城墙，但校场里已有不少人开始练习。桑铎·克里冈刺耳的声音传了过来：“那小子拖拖拉拉地还不断气，早点死了不挺干脆？”
　　提利昂往下看，看到“猎狗”站在年轻的乔佛里身旁，周围簇拥着一群侍从。“至少他没吭半声，”王子说，“吵的是那只狼，吵得我昨晚快没法睡了。”
　　克里冈的随从为他戴上黑甲头盔，他高大的身躯在硬土地上拉下长长的影子。“假如您高兴，我去叫那只东西闭嘴。”他透过打开的面罩说。这时他的随从将长剑递上，他试了试剑的重量，在清晨的冷空气里比划了几下。在他身后，广场上传来金属交击的声音。
　　王子听了这主意似乎很高兴。“叫狗去杀狗！”他叫道，“反正临冬城里多的是狼，少它一条史塔克家也不会发现。”
　　提利昂跳过最后一级阶梯，下到场子。“好外甥，真不好意思，”他说，“史塔克家的人会数数，不像某位王子，连六都算不到。”
　　乔佛里至少知道脸红。
　　“有声音，”桑铎道，他故意从面罩里向外瞧，左顾右盼地道，“莫非是空气中的精灵！”
　　王子笑了，每次他的贴身护卫作假演戏，都能把他逗得咯咯笑。提利昂早就不以为意。“下面。”
　　高大的桑铎往下瞟了一眼，然后假装刚发现似的道：“原来是提利昂小少爷，”他说，“请您原谅，我方才没见您站这儿呢。”
　　“我现在没心情跟你计较，”提利昂转向他的外甥，“乔佛里，你快去拜见史塔克公爵和夫人，不然就晚了。你要向他们表达你的哀悼，请他们宽心。”
　　乔佛里听罢立刻露出少不更事的暴躁脸色：“我请他们宽心有什么用？”
　　“一点用都没有，”提利昂回答，“但这是应尽的礼数，不然大家会注意到你刻意缺席。”
　　“那史塔克小孩算什么东西，”乔佛里说，“我可不想去听老女人哭哭啼啼。”
　　提利昂·兰尼斯特踮起脚尖，狠狠地摔了侄子一个大耳光，男孩的脸颊立刻红肿起来。
　　“你敢再说一句，”提利昂道，“我就再赏你一记耳光。”
　　“我要去告诉妈妈！”乔佛里喊。
　　提利昂又打了他一个巴掌，这下子他两边脸颊都一般通红了。
　　“随你去跟她怎么说，”提利昂告诉他，“但你首先给我去乖乖拜见史塔克公爵夫妇，我要你在他们面前跪下，说你自己感到非常遗憾，说即便是最微不足道的事情，只要能让他们宽心，你都愿意赴汤蹈火在所不辞，最后还要为他们献上你最虔诚的祝祷，你听懂了没有？听懂了没有？”
　　男孩一副泫然欲泣的模样，但还是勉为其难地点点头，然后转身捂着脸颊，横冲直撞地跑离广场。提利昂目送他远去。
　　一团黑影突然笼罩住他，他转过头，发现高大的克里冈正如同陡峭绝壁般阴恻恻地朝他逼近，煤烟色的黑甲宛如灿烂阳光中的污点。他已经放下了头盔上的面罩，面罩的形状是一只咧嘴咆哮的凶狠猎犬，令人怵目惊心，不过提利昂认为比起克里冈那张烧得稀烂的脸，这面罩已算美得太多。
　　“大人，王子不会轻易忘记您刚才对他的举动的。”猎狗警告他，克里冈的声音从头盔里传来，原本的狞笑成了空洞的轰隆。
　　“他记得最好，”提利昂·兰尼斯特回答，“哪天要是他忘了，你这条狗可要好好提醒他。”他环视广场，又问：“你知道我哥哥在哪儿？”
　　“正与王后共进早餐。”
　　“啊哈。”提利昂道，他半敷衍地朝桑铎·克里冈点头答谢，然后提起那双畸形的腿，尽全力快步离开，心里可怜今天首位与猎狗过招的骑士，那家伙正在气头上。
　　客房的早餐室里摆了一桌冰冷而了无生气的餐点，詹姆、瑟曦和公主王子们坐在一起，低声交头接耳。
　　“劳勃还没起床？”提利昂没等他们招呼，径自在餐桌前坐下。
　　姐姐用那种打从他出生起便惯有的鄙视眼神瞟了他一眼：“国王根本没睡。他整晚和史塔克大人在一起，难过得心都快碎了。”
　　“咱们的好劳勃那颗心倒是挺大的。”詹姆慵懒地微笑。提利昂很清楚哥哥那对凡事都蛮不在乎的个性，因此不想跟他计较。自己过去那段惨痛而漫长的童年岁月里，只有詹姆对他有过那么一丝感情和尊重，光为这一点，提利昂就不愿跟他计较任何事。
　　侍者迎上前来。“我要面包，”提利昂告诉他，“两条这种小鱼，再配上一杯上好的黑啤酒。噢，还要几片培根，记得煎焦一点。”仆人鞠了个躬告退之后，提利昂转头面对他的兄姐。这对孪生兄妹今天都穿着深绿色的衣服，正好搭配他们眼瞳的颜色；金色的卷发呈现出时髦的波浪，金饰在他们的手腕、指间和颈项上闪闪发亮，两人看起来真像一个模子刻出的雕塑。
　　提利昂不禁暗忖，若自己也有个双胞兄弟，不知会是什么样？不过想归想，他决定还是不要成真的好。每天在镜子前面对自己已经够糟，要再多出个长得和他一副德行的人，那还了得？
　　这时托曼王子开口问：“舅舅，你知道布兰现在怎么样了？”
　　“我昨晚经过病房时，”提利昂回答，“病情既没恶化也没好转，学士认为还有希望。”
　　“我希望布兰登不要死。”托曼怯生生地说。他是个可爱的孩子，一点也不像他哥哥。不过话说回来，詹姆和提利昂两人也没什么共通之处。
　　“史塔克大人有个哥哥也叫布兰登，”詹姆饶富兴味地说，“后来作人质被坦格利安家给杀了。看来这名字还真不吉利。”
　　“呵，还不至于不吉利到那种程度啦。”提利昂道。此时侍者送来了餐点，他随即撕下一大块黑麦面包。
　　瑟曦正满怀戒心地盯着他瞧。“你这话什么意思？”
　　提利昂不怀好意地朝她笑笑：“没别的意思，只是恭祝托曼如愿以偿啰。老学士说那孩子活下来的机会很大，所以……”说完他啜了口啤酒。
　　弥赛 听了高兴得惊叫出声，托曼也露出腼腆的微笑，然而提利昂注意的却不是他俩的反应。詹姆和瑟曦交换眼神的时间不过一秒，但他可没错过。接着他姐姐低下头，视线垂到餐桌上。“老天真残忍。这些北方的神，竟让一个年幼的孩子苟延残喘，实在是太狠毒了。”
　　“老学士具体是怎么说的？”詹姆问。
　　提利昂咬了口培根，发出松脆的声响。他若有所思地嚼了一会儿方才开口：“他认为那孩子要死早就死了，不会这样拖了四天毫无动静。”
　　“舅舅，布兰会好起来么？”小弥赛菈又问。她从母亲那里继承了所有的美貌，却丝毫没有半点瑟曦狠毒的性格。
　　“小宝贝，他的背摔断了，”提利昂告诉她，“两只脚也都残废。他们现在喂他蜂蜜和开水，不然他会活活饿死。也许等他醒来之后，可以吃东西，但却一辈子都别想走路了。”
　　“等他醒来，”瑟曦重复了一遍，“你觉得有可能？”
　　“只有天上诸神知道，”提利昂答道，“老师傅只是揣测罢了。”他又咬了几口面包，“不过我敢说那孩子的狼是支持他活下去的原动力，它每天不分昼夜守在窗外，叫个不停，怎么赶也赶不走。老师傅说他们曾关上窗子，以为如此便能减少噪音，谁知布兰的情况却立刻恶化，后来他们打开窗户，他又转危为安。”
　　王后颤声道：“那些动物古怪极了，”她说，“瞧那模样就很危险，我绝不准它们随我们回南方去。”
　　詹姆道：“好姐姐，我看你是阻止不了的，它们和女孩可是形影不离呢。”
　　提利昂开始吃他的烤鱼。“这么说你们很快就要动身了？”
　　“我还嫌不够快。”瑟曦说。接着她突然皱眉，“‘我们’？那你呢？诸神在上，别跟我说你想留在这种鬼地方。”
　　提利昂耸耸肩：“班扬·史塔克要带他哥哥的私生子返回守夜人军团，我打算跟他们一起走，好亲眼见识见识传说中的绝境长城。”
　　詹姆笑道：“好弟弟，你可别玩得太高兴，也当起黑衣弟兄啦。”
　　提利昂哈哈大笑：“呵，叫我打一辈子光棍？那怎么成，全国的妓女都会抗议的。放心，我不过是想爬上长城，对着世界的边缘撒泡尿罢了。”
　　瑟曦霍地起身：“够了，别当着孩子们的面说这种粗话。托曼，弥赛菈，我们走。”她快步离开饭厅，仆人和孩子们簇拥在后。
　　詹姆·兰尼斯特用他那双冰冷碧眼打量着他的弟弟：“如今史塔克的儿子生死未卜，我看他决计不会放心离开临冬城。”
　　“如果劳勃下了命令，他肯定会走。”提利昂道，“而劳勃一定会命令他南下，反正史塔克大人对他儿子根本爱莫能助。”
　　“他可以帮他早日解脱，”詹姆道，“如果是我儿子，我就会这么干，这才是为他好。”
　　“亲爱的哥哥呀，我可不建议你把这话拿去对史塔克大人讲。”提利昂道，“他可不会了解你的好心肠哟。”
　　“就算那孩子活下来，也成了跛子。恐怕连跛子都不如，根本就是个畸形的怪胎。我宁可干脆利落地死。”
　　提利昂用耸肩来回应这番话，只是这个动作更突显出他的驼背。“畸形怪胎，”他说，“不是我多嘴，但死了就什么都没了，活着起码还能充满希望。”
　　詹姆微笑道：“你这小恶魔还真心术不正，是吧？”
　　“呵，那当然，”提利昂承认，“我真心希望那孩子活过来，不为别的，我想听听他还知道些什么。”
　　哥哥的笑容像酸败的牛奶般突然僵住。“提利昂，我亲爱的好弟弟，”他阴阴地说，“有时候我还真不知道你站在哪一边。”
　　提利昂满嘴都是面包和煎鱼，他灌了一大口黑啤酒把食物冲下肚，露出狼一般的笑容对詹姆笑笑：“唉，我最亲爱的詹姆哥哥呀，”他说，“你这话好伤我的心，你难道不知我最爱家人了吗？”

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你看着眼前的人，分明还是以前的模样，可心里终究不是以前那般澄清透明了。
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   10．JON
   Jon climbed the steps slowly, trying not to think that this might be the last time ever. Ghost padded silently beside him. Outside, snow swirled through the castle gates, and the yard was all noise and chaos, but inside the thick stone walls it was still warm and quiet. Too quiet for Jon’s liking.
   He reached the landing and stood for a long moment, afraid. Ghost nuzzled at his hand. He took courage from that. He straightened, and entered the room.
   Lady Stark was there beside his bed. She had been there, day and night, for close on a fortnight. Not for a moment had she left Bran’s side. She had her meals brought to her there, and chamber pots as well, and a small hard bed to sleep on, though it was said she had scarcely slept at all. She fed him herself, the honey and water and herb mixture that sustained life. Not once did she leave the room. So Jon had stayed away.
   But now there was no more time.
   He stood in the door for a moment, afraid to speak, afraid to come closer. The window was open. Below, a wolf howled. Ghost heard and lifted his head.
   Lady Stark looked over. For a moment she did not seem to recognize him. Finally she blinked. “What are you doing here?” she asked in a voice strangely flat and emotionless.
   “I came to see Bran,” Jon said. “To say good-bye.”
   Her face did not change. Her long auburn hair was dull and tangled. She looked as though she had aged twenty years. “You’ve said it. Now go away.”
   Part of him wanted only to flee, but he knew that if he did he might never see Bran again. He took a nervous step into the room. “Please,” he said.
   Something cold moved in her eyes. “I told you to leave,” she said. “We don’t want you here.”
   Once that would have sent him running. Once that might even have made him cry. Now it only made him angry. He would be a Sworn Brother of the Night’s Watch soon, and face worse dangers than Catelyn Tully Stark. “He’s my brother,” he said.
   “Shall I call the guards?”
   “Call them,” Jon said, defiant. “You can’t stop me from seeing him.” He crossed the room, keeping the bed between them, and looked down on Bran where he lay.
   She was holding one of his hands. It looked like a claw. This was not the Bran he remembered. The flesh had all gone from him. His skin stretched tight over bones like sticks. Under the blanket, his legs bent in ways that made Jon sick. His eyes were sunken deep into black pits; open, but they saw nothing. The fall had shrunken him somehow. He looked half a leaf, as if the first strong wind would carry him off to his grave.
   Yet under the frail cage of those shattered ribs, his chest rose and fell with each shallow breath.
   “Bran,” he said, “I’m sorry I didn’t come before. I was afraid.” He could feel the tears rolling down his cheeks. Jon no longer cared. “Don’t die, Bran. Please. We’re all waiting for you to wake up. Me and Robb and the girls, everyone?.?.?.?”
   Lady Stark was watching. She had not raised a cry. Jon took that for acceptance. Outside the window, the direwolf howled again. The wolf that Bran had not had time to name.
   “I have to go now,” Jon said. “Uncle Benjen is waiting. I’m to go north to the Wall. We have to leave today, before the snows come.” He remembered how excited Bran had been at the prospect of the journey. It was more than he could bear, the thought of leaving him behind like this. Jon brushed away his tears, leaned over, and kissed his brother lightly on the lips.
   “I wanted him to stay here with me,” Lady Stark said softly.
   Jon watched her, wary. She was not even looking at him. She was talking to him, but for a part of her, it was as though he were not even in the room.
   “I prayed for it,” she said dully. “He was my special boy. I went to the sept and prayed seven times to the seven faces of god that Ned would change his mind and leave him here with me. Sometimes prayers are answered.”
   Jon did not know what to say. “It wasn’t your fault,” he managed after an awkward silence.
   Her eyes found him. They were full of poison. “I need none of your absolution, bastard.”
   Jon lowered his eyes. She was cradling one of Bran’s hands. He took the other, squeezed it. Fingers like the bones of birds. “Good-bye,” he said.
   He was at the door when she called out to him. “Jon,” she said. He should have kept going, but she had never called him by his name before. He turned to find her looking at his face, as if she were seeing it for the first time.
   “Yes?” he said.
   “It should have been you,” she told him. Then she turned back to Bran and began to weep, her whole body shaking with the sobs. Jon had never seen her cry before.
   It was a long walk down to the yard.
   Outside, everything was noise and confusion. Wagons were being loaded, men were shouting, horses were being harnessed and saddled and led from the stables. A light snow had begun to fall, and everyone was in an uproar to be off.
   Robb was in the middle of it, shouting commands with the best of them. He seemed to have grown of late, as if Bran’s fall and his mother’s collapse had somehow made him stronger. Grey Wind was at his side.
   “Uncle Benjen is looking for you,” he told Jon. “He wanted to be gone an hour ago.”
   “I know,” Jon said. “Soon.” He looked around at all the noise and confusion. “Leaving is harder than I thought.”
   “For me too,” Robb said. He had snow in his hair, melting from the heat of his body. “Did you see him?”
   Jon nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
   “He’s not going to die,” Robb said. “I know it.”
   “You Starks are hard to kill,” Jon agreed. His voice was flat and tired. The visit had taken all the strength from him.
   Robb knew something was wrong. “My mother?.?.?.?”
   “She was?.?.?.?very kind,” Jon told him.
   Robb looked relieved. “Good.” He smiled. “The next time I see you, you’ll be all in black.”
   Jon forced himself to smile back. “It was always my color. How long do you think it will be?”
   “Soon enough,” Robb promised. He pulled Jon to him and embraced him fiercely. “Farewell, Snow.”
   Jon hugged him back. “And you, Stark. Take care of Bran.”
   “I will.” They broke apart and looked at each other awkwardly. “Uncle Benjen said to send you to the stables if I saw you,” Robb finally said.
   “I have one more farewell to make,” Jon told him.
   “Then I haven’t seen you,” Robb replied. Jon left him standing there in the snow, surrounded by wagons and wolves and horses. It was a short walk to the armory. He picked up his package and took the covered bridge across to the Keep.
   Arya was in her room, packing a polished ironwood chest that was bigger than she was. Nymeria was helping. Arya would only have to point, and the wolf would bound across the room, snatch up some wisp of silk in her jaws, and fetch it back. But when she smelled Ghost, she sat down on her haunches and yelped at them.
   Arya glanced behind her, saw Jon, and jumped to her feet. She threw her skinny arms tight around his neck. “I was afraid you were gone,” she said, her breath catching in her throat. “They wouldn’t let me out to say good-bye.”
   “What did you do now?” Jon was amused.
   Arya disentangled herself from him and made a face. “Nothing. I was all packed and everything.” She gestured at the huge chest, no more than a third full, and at the clothes that were scattered all over the room. “Septa Mordane says I have to do it all over. My things weren’t properly folded, she says. A proper southron lady doesn’t just throw her clothes inside her chest like old rags, she says.”
   “Is that what you did, little sister?”
   “Well, they’re going to get all messed up anyway,” she said. “Who cares how they’re folded?”
   “Septa Mordane,” Jon told her. “I don’t think she’d like Nymeria helping, either.” The she-wolf regarded him silently with her dark golden eyes. “It’s just as well. I have something for you to take with you, and it has to be packed very carefully.”
   Her face lit up. “A present?”
   “You could call it that. Close the door.”
   Wary but excited, Arya checked the hall. “Nymeria, here. Guard.” She left the wolf out there to warn of intruders and closed the door. By then Jon had pulled off the rags he’d wrapped it in. He held it out to her.
   Arya’s eyes went wide. Dark eyes, like his. “A sword,” she said in a small, hushed breath.
   The scabbard was soft grey leather, supple as sin. Jon drew out the blade slowly, so she could see the deep blue sheen of the steel. “This is no toy,” he told her. “Be careful you don’t cut yourself. The edges are sharp enough to shave with.”
   “Girls don’t shave,” Arya said.
   “Maybe they should. Have you ever seen the septa’s legs?”
   She giggled at him. “It’s so skinny.”
   “So are you,” Jon told her. “I had Mikken make this special. The bravos use swords like this in Pentos and Myr and the other Free Cities. It won’t hack a man’s head off, but it can poke him full of holes if you’re fast enough.”
   “I can be fast,” Arya said.
   “You’ll have to work at it every day.” He put the sword in her hands, showed her how to hold it, and stepped back. “How does it feel? Do you like the balance?”
   “I think so,” Arya said.
   “First lesson,” Jon said. “Stick them with the pointy end.”
   Arya gave him a whap on the arm with the flat of her blade. The blow stung, but Jon found himself grinning like an idiot. “I know which end to use,” Arya said. A doubtful look crossed her face. “Septa Mordane will take it away from me.”
   “Not if she doesn’t know you have it,” Jon said.
   “Who will I practice with?”
   “You’ll find someone,” Jon promised her. “King’s Landing is a true city, a thousand times the size of Winterfell. Until you find a partner, watch how they fight in the yard. Run, and ride, make yourself strong. And whatever you do?.?.?.?”
   Arya knew what was coming next. They said it together.
   “?.?.?.?don’t?.?.?.?tell?.?.?.? Sansa!”
   Jon messed up her hair. “I will miss you, little sister.”
   Suddenly she looked like she was going to cry. “I wish you were coming with us.”
   “Different roads sometimes lead to the same castle. Who knows?” He was feeling better now. He was not going to let himself be sad. “I better go. I’ll spend my first year on the Wall emptying chamber pots if I keep Uncle Ben waiting any longer.”
   Arya ran to him for a last hug. “Put down the sword first,” Jon warned her, laughing. She set it aside almost shyly and showered him with kisses.
   When he turned back at the door, she was holding it again, trying it for balance. “I almost forgot,” he told her. “All the best swords have names.”
   “Like Ice,” she said. She looked at the blade in her hand. “Does this have a name? Oh, tell me.”
   “Can’t you guess?” Jon teased. “Your very favorite thing.”
   Arya seemed puzzled at first. Then it came to her. She was that quick. They said it together:
   “Needle!”
   The memory of her laughter warmed him on the long ride north.

Ⅰ 权力的游戏 Chapter11 琼恩
　　琼恩缓步爬上楼梯，虽然知道这是他最后一次爬这楼梯了，却又尽力抛开这些念头。白灵无声地跟在身边，外面正下着雪，雪花飞进城门。广场上人声喧嚣，熙来攘往，但在厚重的石墙内，仍旧温暖而静谧，宁静得琼恩有些受不了。
　　他抵达门外，独自伫立了很长时间，心中满怀恐惧。白灵用鼻子磨蹭他的手，他借此找到勇气，于是挺起胸膛，走进房内。
　　史塔克夫人坐在床边。最近两个星期以来，她几乎日日夜夜寸步不离地守着布兰。她差人把餐点送到房里，以及便壶，和一张小硬板床，但人们都说她根本没阖过眼。她亲自用蜂蜜、开水和草药混合的饮料喂养布兰。她不曾离开房间，因此琼恩始终避得远远的。
　　但他已经不能再等下去了。
　　他在门廊里站了好一阵子，不敢作声，也不敢靠近。窗户敞得大开，楼下传来孤狼长嚎之声，白灵听见便抬起了头。
　　史塔克夫人转过头来，起初并没认出他，许久之后她才眨眼问：“你在这里做什么？”语调平板，格外地了无生气。
　　“我来探望布兰，”琼恩回答，“来向他道别。”
　　她依旧面无表情，原本蓬厚的褐红色长发垂头丧气地纠缠乱成一团，看上去仿佛一夕之间老了二十岁。“你已经达到了目的，走吧。”
　　他恨不得拔腿就跑，但他很清楚自己这辈子很可能再也见不着布兰了，于是他反而不安地朝屋里跨了一步：“求求你让我见他一面吧。”
　　她眼里闪过一道寒光。“我叫你走开，”她冷冷地说，“我们不欢迎你。”
　　若是从前，她这席话准会把他吓得没命奔逃，羞得泪流满面，但是现在，却只让他怒火中烧。他即将宣誓加入守夜人的黑衣军团，届时他将面对比凯特琳·徒利·史塔克更骇人的危险。“好歹我是他哥哥。”他说。
　　“你要我叫警卫吗？”
　　“你尽管叫，”琼恩愤愤地道，“但你阻止不了我见他一面的。”说完他穿过房间，走到病床的另一边，低头看着布兰。
　　她正握着布兰的一只手，可那只手看起来不像手，倒像爪子。眼前的病人已非琼恩记忆中那个布兰，他形容枯槁，骨瘦如柴，两脚在毛毯下蜷曲成令人作呕的形状。他的双眼深陷，活像两个黑色的窟窿，张开着，却仿若茫然。他看起来正如一片弱不经风的孤叶，一阵劲风便足以将他吹动飘散。
　　但是在那身支离破碎的骨架下，他的胸膛正随着轻浅急促的呼吸韵律有致地起伏。
　　“布兰，”他说，“原谅我到现在才来看你，因为我好怕。”他只觉得泪水流下脸颊，但他再也不在乎了。“布兰，求求你不要死，我和罗柏、还有妹妹她们，大家都在等你醒来……”
　　史塔克夫人在一旁冷眼旁观，琼恩见她没有传唤守卫，猜想她应是默许了。窗外又传来冰原狼的悲吼，布兰一直没为那只小狼找到适当的名字。
　　“我得走了。”琼恩道，“班扬叔叔还在等呢，我们即刻启程前往北方。趁大雪还没降下，我们得赶紧动身。”他还记得布兰是多么迫不及待要出门远行，想到要把伤成这样的弟弟抛在这里，他更伤心欲绝。琼恩擦去眼泪，凑过去俯身轻吻弟弟的双唇。
　　“我只是希望他能留下来跟我作伴。”史塔克夫人轻声道。
　　琼恩满怀戒心地看着她，却发现她的视线根本不在他身上，她看似在对他说话，实际心不在焉，仿佛旁若无人。
　　“我日夜祈祷，”她呆滞地说，“他是我的心肝宝贝。我在圣堂对着诸神的七面祈祷了七次，祈祷奈德会回心转意，让布兰留下来陪我。也许是诸神实现了我的愿望。”
　　琼恩不知该说什么才好。“不是你的错。”一阵局促的沉默后，他勉强说了一句。
　　她的视线找到了他，眼神充满怨毒。“用不着你这没娘的野种可怜我。”
　　琼恩垂下眼，她正托抚着布兰的一只手，他牵起另一只，握在手中，只觉孱弱得像小鸟的骨头。“别了。”他说。
　　当他走到门边时，她开口唤他。“琼恩，”她说。他实在就应该这么继续走下去，但她从没有用他的名字称呼过他。于是他转过身，发现她正盯着他的脸，仿佛这辈子第一次见到。
　　“什么？”他问。
　　“今天躺在这里的应该是你才对。”她告诉他。说完她转身朝向布兰，痛哭流涕，全身上下都随之而猛烈抽搐。琼恩以前从没见她掉下一滴眼泪。
　　回到楼下广场的路，好漫长。
　　外面到处都是车马喧嚣，乱成一团。人们高声呼喝，将货物运上车辆，为马匹套上缰绳马镫，然后牵进马厩。空中飘起细雪，每个人都急着早些处理完手边的事务，才好躲进屋中。
　　罗柏置身旋涡中心，镇定自若地发号施令。这些日子以来，他似乎突然成熟了许多，似乎布兰的意外和母亲濒临崩溃逼使他不得不坚强起来。灰风随侍在他身旁。
　　“班扬叔叔在找你，”他对琼恩说，“他本来一小时前就打算动身了。”
　　“我知道，”琼恩答道，“我马上就去。”他环顾身边周遭的人马杂沓，众声喧哗。“没想到离别这么难。”
　　“可不是么。”罗柏说。沾落他发际的雪花，正因体温而逐渐融化。“见过他了吗？”
　　琼恩点点头，不敢开口，不知道自己会说出什么话。
　　“他不会死。”罗柏道，“我知道他不会死。”
　　“你们史塔克的命的确很硬。”琼恩同意。他的声音有气无力，刚才的事情已经抽干了他每一分力气。
　　罗柏立刻察觉事有蹊跷。“我母亲她……”
　　“她……待我很亲切。”琼恩告诉他。
　　罗柏松了一口气。“那就好，”他咧嘴笑道，“下次我们碰面，你就全身黑衣黑甲了。”
　　琼恩挤出一丝笑容：“黑色本来就很配我。依你看，咱们要多久才能再见面呢？”
　　“不会太久。”罗柏保证。他把琼恩拉过来，用力紧紧地抱住他。“雪诺，多保重。”
　　琼恩也激动地紧搂着对方：“史塔克，你也一样，好好照顾布兰。”
　　“我会的。”两人松开对方，有些尴尬地对看一眼。“班扬叔叔说若我看到你，叫你到马厩去找他。”最后罗柏开口道。
　　“我还得跟一个人说再见。”琼恩告诉他。
　　“那我就没见你啰。”罗柏答道。琼恩转身离去，留罗柏独自站在雪地，被马车、小狼和马匹所包围。广场离武器库不远，琼恩拿起他的包裹，取道密闭桥梁，往主堡去了。
　　艾莉亚正在她房里收拾行李，把东西装进一个比她还高的磨亮硬木箱子。娜梅莉亚在旁帮忙，艾莉亚只消指指点点，小狼便会跑过房间，衔起她要的丝制衣料，然后乖乖地叼给小主人，她一闻到白灵的味道，便后脚着地坐了下来，发出亲昵的低吠。
　　艾莉亚朝身后瞟了一眼，瞧见是琼恩，便开心地跳了起来。她伸出那双瘦削的臂膀紧紧搂住他的脖子。“我好怕你已经走了，”她上气不接下气地说，“他们不准我下去说再见。”
　　“你又闯了什么祸啦？”琼恩饶富兴味地问。
　　艾莉亚放开他，然后扮了个鬼脸说：“没什么，本来我的东西都收拾好了，”她指着那个还没装到三分之一的巨大箱子，以及散了一地的衣物，“茉丹修女却说我没把衣服摺得漂漂亮亮的，所以得重新来过。她还说规矩的南方小姐绝不会把衣服像破布似的一股脑儿通通扔进箱子里。”
　　“小妹呀，你把衣服像破布一样扔进箱子？”
　　“哎哟，反正这些衣服迟早也要乱成一团嘛，”她说，“谁管它有没有摺好？”
　　“茉丹修女会啰。”琼恩告诉她，“而且我想她一定不喜欢娜梅莉亚这样帮忙的。”小母狼静静地用她那对深沉的金眸子打量他。“不管了，我有样东西要让你带上，而且这东西必须很妥善地藏好。”
　　她的脸庞顿时焕发光芒。“是给我的礼物？”
　　“可以算是。去把门关起来。”
　　艾莉亚既兴奋又紧张地看看门外的回廊。“娜梅莉亚，守在这儿。”她把小狼留在门外，负责发出警讯，然后关上房门。这时琼恩已把破布包裹解开，把东西交给她。
　　她睁大双眼。和他的眼睛一样，那是双颜色沉暗的眸子。“是一把剑！”她用细小的声音说，呼吸急促起来。
　　剑鞘是用柔软的灰皮革做成，琼恩缓缓抽出剑，好让她仔细瞧瞧剑身泛着的深蓝色金属光泽。“这可不是玩具，”他告诉她，“小心不要伤到自己，这把剑很利，利到可以用来刮胡子。”
　　“女生又不用刮胡子。”艾莉亚说。
　　“也许女生该刮一刮。你看过修女的腿吗？”
　　她朝他咯咯直笑。“看过，你好坏哟。”
　　“你不也一样？”琼恩说，“我请密肯特别打造了这把剑，潘托斯、密尔和其他自由贸易城邦的刺客用的就是这种剑。它虽然无法砍人头颅，但只要你动作够快，却可以轻易地将敌人刺得千疮百孔。”
　　“我动作很快呢。”艾利亚道。
　　“你以后要天天练习，”他把剑放进她的掌心，指导她握法，然后退开一步。“感觉如何，还顺手吗？”
　　“我觉得蛮不错。”艾莉亚回答。
　　“第一课，”琼恩正色道，“用尖的那端去刺敌人。”
　　艾莉亚用钝的一端在他手上砰地敲了一下，虽然很痛，琼恩却不由自主地像个傻子般嘻嘻直笑。“我知道该用那一边刺人啦。”艾莉亚说，随即脸上蒙了一层疑惑，“茉丹修女一定会把剑拿走的。”
　　“假如她不知道你有这把剑，就不会把它拿走了。”
　　“那我跟谁练习呢？”
　　“你会找到对手的。”琼恩向她保证，“君临是座名副其实的大城，足足有临冬城的一千倍大。在你还没找到练习伙伴之前，仔细观察校场里其他人怎么打斗。多跑步，多骑马，把身体养壮。还有，无论如何……”
　　艾莉亚知道他接下来要说些，于是两人异口同声道：
　　“……绝对……不要……告诉……珊莎！”
　　琼恩揉揉她的头发：“小妹，我会想念你的。”
　　突然间她的样子像要哭。“我真希望你和我们一起走。”
　　“殊途不见得不能同归，谁知道将来怎么样呢？”他心情渐渐开朗，决定不再沮丧下去。“我该走了。我再这样让班扬叔叔等下去，恐怕在长城的第一年就得天天清理大小便了。”
　　艾莉亚奔向他，做最后一次拥抱。“先把剑放下。”他笑着警告她。她红着脸把剑丢在一旁，然后拼命吻他。
　　他转身朝门口走去时，她已经又拾起剑，试探着挥舞。“我差点忘了，”他对她说，“大凡好剑都有自己的名讳。”
　　“像是‘寒冰’？”她看着手中剑，“这把剑也有名字吗？哇，快告诉我嘛。”
　　“你难道猜不出来？”琼恩揶揄，“就是你最心爱的东西呀。”
　　艾莉亚乍听之下满头雾水，但随即恍然大悟，她的反应就是这么迅捷。于是两人再度异口同声道：
　　“缝衣针！”
　　记忆中她的笑声，在后来北行的漫长路上，始终温暖着他的心房。
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寒烟柔。

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等级: 内阁元老
配偶: 逐烟霞。
你看着眼前的人，分明还是以前的模样，可心里终究不是以前那般澄清透明了。
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   11．DAENERYS
   Daenerys Targaryen wed Khal Drogo with fear and barbaric splendor in a field beyond the walls of Pentos, for the Dothraki believed that all things of importance in a man’s life must be done beneath the open sky.
   Drogo had called his khalasar to attend him and they had come, forty thousand Dothraki warriors and uncounted numbers of women, children, and slaves. Outside the city walls they camped with their vast herds, raising palaces of woven grass, eating everything in sight, and making the good folk of Pentos more anxious with every passing day.
   “My fellow magisters have doubled the size of the city guard,” Illyrio told them over platters of honey duck and orange snap peppers one night at the manse that had been Drogo’s. The khal had joined his khalasar, his estate given over to Daenerys and her brother until the wedding.
   “Best we get Princess Daenerys wedded quickly before they hand half the wealth of Pentos away to sellswords and bravos,” Ser Jorah Mormont jested. The exile had offered her brother his sword the night Dany had been sold to Kbal Drogo; Viserys had accepted eagerly. Mormont had been their constant companion ever since.
   Magister Illyrio laughed lightly through his forked beard, but Viserys did not so much as smile. “He can have her tomorrow, if he likes,” her brother said. He glanced over at Dany, and she lowered her eyes. “So long as he pays the price.”
   Illyrio waved a languid hand in the air, rings glittering on his fat fingers. “I have told you, all is settled. Trust me. The khal has promised you a crown, and you shall have it.”
   “Yes, but when?”
   “When the khal chooses,” Illyrio said. “He will have the girl first, and after they are wed he must make his procession across the plains and present her to the dosh khaleen at Vaes Dothrak. After that, perhaps. If the omens favor war.”
   Viserys seethed with impatience. “I piss on Dothraki omens. The Usurper sits on my father’s throne. How long must I wait?”
   Illyrio gave a massive shrug. “You have waited most of your life, great king. What is another few months, another few years?”
   Ser Jorah, who had traveled as far east as Vaes Dothrak, nodded in agreement. “I counsel you to be patient, Your Grace. The Dothraki are true to their word, but they do things in their own time. A lesser man may beg a favor from the khal, but must never presume to berate him.”
   Viserys bristled. “Guard your tongue, Mormont, or I’ll have it out. I am no lesser man, I am the rightful Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. The dragon does not beg.”
   Ser Jorah lowered his eyes respectfully. Illyrio smiled enigmatically and tore a wing from the duck. Honey and grease ran over his fingers and dripped down into his beard as he nibbled at the tender meat. There are no more dragons, Dany thought, staring at her brother, though she did not dare say it aloud.
   Yet that night she dreamt of one. Viserys was hitting her, hurting her. She was naked, clumsy with fear. She ran from him, but her body seemed thick and ungainly. He struck her again. She stumbled and fell. “You woke the dragon,” he screamed as he kicked her. “You woke the dragon, you woke the dragon.” Her thighs were slick with blood. She closed her eyes and whimpered. As if in answer, there was a hideous ripping sound and the crackling of some great fire. When she looked again, Viserys was gone, great columns of flame rose all around, and in the midst of them was the dragon. It turned its great head slowly. When its molten eyes found hers, she woke, shaking and covered with a fine sheen of sweat. She had never been so afraid?.?.?.?
   ?.?.?.?until the day of her wedding came at last.
   The ceremony began at dawn and continued until dusk, an endless day of drinking and feasting and fighting. A mighty earthen ramp had been raised amid the grass palaces, and there Dany was seated beside Khal Drogo, above the seething sea of Dothraki. She had never seen so many people in one place, nor people so strange and frightening. The horselords might put on rich fabrics and sweet perfumes when they visited the Free Cities, but out under the open sky they kept the old ways. Men and women alike wore painted leather vests over bare chests and horsehair leggings cinched by bronze medallion belts, and the warriors greased their long braids with fat from the rendering pits. They gorged themselves on horseflesh roasted with honey and peppers, drank themselves blind on fermented mare’s milk and Illyrio’s fine wines, and spat jests at each other across the fires, their voices harsh and alien in Dany’s ears.
   Viserys was seated just below her, splendid in a new black wool tunic with a scarlet dragon on the chest. Illyrio and Ser Jorah sat beside him. Theirs was a place of high honor, just below the khal’s own bloodriders, but Dany could see the anger in her brother’s lilac eyes. He did not like sitting beneath her, and he fumed when the slaves offered each dish first to the khal and his bride, and served him from the portions they refused. He could do nothing but nurse his resentment, so nurse it he did, his mood growing blacker by the hour at each insult to his person.
   Dany had never felt so alone as she did seated in the midst of that vast horde. Her brother had told her to smile, and so she smiled until her face ached and the tears came unbidden to her eyes. She did her best to hide them, knowing how angry Viserys would be if he saw her crying, terrified of how Khal Drogo might react. Food was brought to her, steaming joints of meat and thick black sausages and Dothraki blood pies, and later fruits and sweetgrass stews and delicate pastries from the kitchens of Pentos, but she waved it all away. Her stomach was a roil, and she knew she could keep none of it down.
   There was no one to talk to. Khal Drogo shouted commands and jests down to his bloodriders, and laughed at their replies, but he scarcely glanced at Dany beside him. They had no common language. Dothraki was incomprehensible to her, and the khal knew only a few words of the bastard Valyrian of the Free Cities, and none at all of the Common Tongue of the Seven Kingdoms. She would even have welcomed the conversation of Illyrio and her brother, but they were too far below to hear her.
   So she sat in her wedding silks, nursing a cup of honeyed wine, afraid to eat, talking silently to herself. I am blood of the dragon, she told herself. I am Daenerys Stormborn, Princess of Dragonstone, of the blood and seed of Aegon the Conqueror.
   The sun was only a quarter of the way up the sky when she saw her first man die. Drums were beating as some of the women danced for the khal. Drogo watched without expression, but his eyes followed their movements, and from time to time he would toss down a bronze medallion for the women to fight over.
   The warriors were watching too. One of them finally stepped into the circle, grabbed a dancer by the arm, pushed her down to the ground, and mounted her right there, as a stallion mounts a mare. Illyrio had told her that might happen. “The Dothraki mate like the animals in their herds. There is no privacy in a khalasar, and they do not understand sin or shame as we do.”
   Dany looked away from the coupling, frightened when she realized what was happening, but a second warrior stepped forward, and a third, and soon there was no way to avert her eyes. Then two men seized the same woman. She heard a shout, saw a shove, and in the blink of an eye the arakhs were out, long razor-sharp blades, half sword and half scythe. A dance of death began as the warriors circled and slashed, leaping toward each other, whirling the blades around their heads, shrieking insults at each clash. No one made a move to interfere.
   It ended as quickly as it began. The arakhs shivered together faster than Dany could follow, one man missed a step, the other swung his blade in a flat arc. Steel bit into flesh just above the Dothraki’s waist, and opened him from backbone to belly button, spilling his entrails into the dust. As the loser died, the winner took hold of the nearest woman, not even the one they had been quarreling over, and had her there and then. Slaves carried off the body, and the dancing resumed.
   Magister Illyrio had warned Dany about this too. “A Dothraki wedding without at least three deaths is deemed a dull affair,” he had said. Her wedding must have been especially blessed; before the day was over, a dozen men had died.
   As the hours passed, the terror grew in Dany, until it was all she could do not to scream. She was afraid of the Dothraki, whose ways seemed alien and monstrous, as if they were beasts in human skins and not true men at all. She was afraid of her brother, of what he might do if she failed him. Most of all, she was afraid of what would happen tonight under the stars, when her brother gave her up to the hulking giant who sat drinking beside her with a face as still and cruel as a bronze mask.
   I am the blood of the dragon, she told herself again.
   When at last the sun was low in the sky, Khal Drogo clapped his hands together, and the drums and the shouting and feasting came to a sudden halt. Drogo stood and pulled Dany to her feet beside him. It was time for her bride gifts.
   And after the gifts, she knew, after the sun had gone down, it would be time for the first ride and the consummation of her marriage. Dany tried to put the thought aside, but it would not leave her. She hugged herself to try to keep from shaking.
   Her brother Viserys gifted her with three handmaids. Dany knew they had cost him nothing; Illyrio no doubt had provided the girls. Irri and Jhiqui were copper-skinned Dothraki with black hair and almond-shaped eyes, Doreah a fair-haired, blue-eyed Lysene girl. “These are no common servants, sweet sister,” her brother told her as they were brought forward one by one. “Illyrio and I selected them personally for you. Irri will teach you riding, Jhiqui the Dothraki tongue, and Doreah will instruct you in the womanly arts of love.” He smiled thinly. “She’s very good, Illyrio and I can both swear to that.”
   Ser Jorah Mormont apologized for his gift. “It is a small thing, my princess, but all a poor exile could afford,” he said as he laid a small stack of old books before her. They were histories and songs of the Seven Kingdoms, she saw, written in the Common Tongue. She thanked him with all her heart.
   Magister Illyrio murmured a command, and four burly slaves hurried forward, bearing between them a great cedar chest bound in bronze. When she opened it, she found piles of the finest velvets and damasks the Free Cities could produce?.?.?.?and resting on top, nestled in the soft cloth, three huge eggs. Dany gasped. They were the most beautiful things she had ever seen, each different than the others, patterned in such rich colors that at first she thought they were crusted with jewels, and so large it took both of her hands to hold one. She lifted it delicately, expecting that it would be made of some fine porcelain or delicate enamel, or even blown glass, but it was much heavier than that, as if it were all of solid stone. The surface of the shell was covered with tiny scales, and as she turned the egg between her fingers, they shimmered like polished metal in the light of the setting sun. One egg was a deep green, with burnished bronze flecks that came and went depending on how Dany turned it. Another was pale cream streaked with gold. The last was black, as black as a midnight sea, yet alive with scarlet ripples and swirls. “What are they?” she asked, her voice hushed and full of wonder.
   “Dragon’s eggs, from the Shadow Lands beyond Asshai,” said Magister Illyrio. “The eons have turned them to stone, yet still they burn bright with beauty.”
   “I shall treasure them always.” Dany had heard tales of such eggs, but she had never seen one, nor thought to see one. It was a truly magnificent gift, though she knew that Illyrio could afford to be lavish. He had collected a fortune in horses and slaves for his part in selling her to Khal Drogo.
   The khal’s bloodriders offered her the traditional three weapons, and splendid weapons they were. Haggo gave her a great leather whip with a silver handle, Cohollo a magnificent arakh chased in gold, and Qotho a double-curved dragonbone bow taller than she was. Magister Illyrio and Ser Jorah had taught her the traditional refusals for these offerings. “This is a gift worthy of a great warrior, O blood of my blood, and I am but a woman. Let my lord husband bear these in my stead.” And so Khal Drogo too received his “bride gifts.”
   Other gifts she was given in plenty by other Dothraki: slippers and jewels and silver rings for her hair, medallion belts and painted vests and soft furs, sandsilks and jars of scent, needles and feathers and tiny bottles of purple glass, and a gown made from the skin of a thousand mice. “A handsome gift, Khaleesi,” Magister Illyrio said of the last, after he had told her what it was. “Most lucky.” The gifts mounted up around her in great piles, more gifts than she could possibly imagine, more gifts than she could want or use.
   And last of all, Khal Drogo brought forth his own bride gift to her. An expectant hush rippled out from the center of the camp as he left her side, growing until it had swallowed the whole khalasar. When he returned, the dense press of Dothraki gift-givers parted before him, and he led the horse to her.
   She was a young filly, spirited and splendid. Dany knew just enough about horses to know that this was no ordinary animal. There was something about her that took the breath away. She was grey as the winter sea, with a mane like silver smoke.
   Hesitantly she reached out and stroked the horse’s neck, ran her fingers through the silver of her mane. Khal Drogo said something in Dothraki and Magister Illyrio translated. “Silver for the silver of your hair, the khal says.”
   “She’s beautiful,” Dany murmured.
   “She is the pride of the khalasar, “ Illyrio said. “Custom decrees that the khaleesi must ride a mount worthy of her place by the side of the khal.”
   Drogo stepped forward and put his hands on her waist. He lifted her up as easily as if she were a child and set her on the thin Dothraki saddle, so much smaller than the ones she was used to. Dany sat there uncertain for a moment. No one had told her about this part. “What should I do?” she asked Illyrio.
   It was Ser Jorah Mormont who answered. “Take the reins and ride. You need not go far.”
   Nervously Dany gathered the reins in her hands and slid her feet into the short stirrups. She was only a fair rider; she had spent far more time traveling by ship and wagon and palanquin than by horseback. Praying that she would not fall off and disgrace herself, she gave the filly the lightest and most timid touch with her knees.
   And for the first time in hours, she forgot to be afraid. Or perhaps it was for the first time ever.
   The silver-grey filly moved with a smooth and silken gait, and the crowd parted for her, every eye upon them. Dany found herself moving faster than she had intended, yet somehow it was exciting rather than terrifying. The horse broke into a trot, and she smiled. Dothraki scrambled to clear a path. The slightest pressure with her legs, the lightest touch on the reins, and the filly responded. She sent it into a gallop, and now the Dothraki were hooting and laughing and shouting at her as they jumped out of her way. As she turned to ride back, a firepit loomed ahead, directly in her path. They were hemmed in on either side, with no room to stop. A daring she had never known filled Daenerys then, and she gave the filly her head.
   The silver horse leapt the flames as if she had wings.
   When she pulled up before Magister Illyrio, she said, “Tell Khal Drogo that he has given me the wind.” The fat Pentoshi stroked his yellow beard as he repeated her words in Dothraki, and Dany saw her new husband smile for the first time.
   The last sliver of sun vanished behind the high walls of Pentos to the west just then. Dany had lost all track of time. Khal Drogo commanded his bloodriders to bring forth his own horse, a lean red stallion. As the khal was saddling the horse, Viserys slid close to Dany on her silver, dug his fingers into her leg, and said, “Please him, sweet sister, or I swear, you will see the dragon wake as it has never woken before.”
   The fear came back to her then, with her brother’s words. She felt like a child once more, only thirteen and all alone, not ready for what was about to happen to her.
   They rode out together as the stars came out, leaving the khalasar and the grass palaces behind. Khal Drogo spoke no word to her, but drove his stallion at a hard trot through the gathering dusk. The tiny silver bells in his long braid rang softly as he rode. “I am the blood of the dragon,” she whispered aloud as she followed, trying to keep her courage up. “I am the blood of the dragon. I am the blood of the dragon.” The dragon was never afraid.
   Afterward she could not say how far or how long they had ridden, but it was full dark when they stopped at a grassy place beside a small stream. Drogo swung off his horse and lifted her down from hers. She felt as fragile as glass in his hands, her limbs as weak as water. She stood there helpless and trembling in her wedding silks while he secured the horses, and when he turned to look at her, she began to cry.
   Khal Drogo stared at her tears, his face strangely empty of expression. “No,” he said. He lifted his hand and rubbed away the tears roughly with a callused thumb.
   “You speak the Common Tongue,” Dany said in wonder.
   “No,” he said again.
   Perhaps he had only that word, she thought, but it was one word more than she had known he had, and somehow it made her feel a little better. Drogo touched her hair lightly, sliding the silver-blond strands between his fingers and murmuring softly in Dothraki. Dany did not understand the words, yet there was warmth in the tone, a tenderness she had never expected from this man.
   He put his finger under her chin and lifted her head, so she was looking up into his eyes. Drogo towered over her as he towered over everyone. Taking her lightly under the arms, he lifted her and seated her on a rounded rock beside the stream. Then he sat on the ground facing her, legs crossed beneath him, their faces finally at a height. “No,” he said.
   “Is that the only word you know?” she asked him.
   Drogo did not reply. His long heavy braid was coiled in the dirt beside him. He pulled it over his right shoulder and began to remove the bells from his hair, one by one. After a moment Dany leaned forward to help. When they were done, Drogo gestured. She understood. Slowly, carefully, she began to undo his braid.
   It took a long time. All the while he sat there silently, watching her. When she was done, he shook his head, and his hair spread out behind him like a river of darkness, oiled and gleaming. She had never seen hair so long, so black, so thick.
   Then it was his turn. He began to undress her.
   His fingers were deft and strangely tender. He removed her silks one by one, carefully, while Dany sat unmoving, silent, looking at his eyes. When he bared her small breasts, she could not help herself. She averted her eyes and covered herself with her hands. “No,” Drogo said. He pulled her hands away from her breasts, gently but firmly, then lifted her face again to make her look at him. “No,” he repeated.
   “No,” she echoed back at him.
   He stood her up then and pulled her close to remove the last of her silks. The night air was chilly on her bare skin. She shivered, and gooseflesh covered her arms and legs. She was afraid of what would come next, but for a while nothing happened. Khal Drogo sat with his legs crossed, looking at her, drinking in her body with his eyes.
   After a while he began to touch her. Lightly at first, then harder. She could sense the fierce strength in his hands, but he never hurt her. He held her hand in his own and brushed her fingers, one by one. He ran a hand gently down her leg. He stroked her face, tracing the curve of her ears, running a finger gently around her mouth. He put both hands in her hair and combed it with his fingers. He turned her around, massaged her shoulders, slid a knuckle down the path of her spine.
   It seemed as if hours passed before his hands finally went to her breasts. He stroked the soft skin underneath until it tingled. He circled her nipples with his thumbs, pinched them between thumb and forefinger, then began to pull at her, very lightly at first, then more insistently, until her nipples stiffened and began to ache.
   He stopped then, and drew her down onto his lap. Dany was flushed and breathless, her heart fluttering in her chest. He cupped her face in his huge hands and looked into his eyes. “No?” he said, and she knew it was a question.
   She took his hand and moved it down to the wetness between her thighs. “Yes,” she whispered as she put his finger inside her.

Ⅰ 权力的游戏 Chapter12 丹妮莉丝
　　丹妮莉丝·坦格利安满心恐惧，在潘托斯城郊草原上与卓戈卡奥成了婚。之所以选在这里，是因为多斯拉克人认为所有的人生大事，都应该让苍天作见证。
　　卓戈号召他的卡拉萨参加婚礼，他们便都如约前来，包括浩浩荡荡四万名多斯拉克武士，以及难以计数的妇孺奴隶。他们带着为数众多的牲口，扎营于城墙之外，快速搭成草织的宫殿，吃遍目光所及的一切食物，让潘托斯的居民越来越不安。
　　“其他总督把城市守卫翻了一倍。”有天晚上，伊利里欧边吃着一碟碟蜂蜜烤鸭和胡椒橙，边对他们说。卡奥已经回到卡拉萨之中，他的宅院就暂时让丹妮莉丝和哥哥居住，直到婚礼结束。
　　“我看咱们得尽快让丹妮莉丝公主嫁出门，免得潘托斯的财富都给佣兵和无赖赚跑了。”乔拉·莫尔蒙爵士玩笑道。丹妮被卖给卓戈卡奥的当晚，这位遭放逐的骑士便提议为哥哥效力。韦赛里斯迫不及待地答应下来，从那之后，莫尔蒙便成了随侍他们左右的伙伴。
　　伊利里欧总督抖着胡子轻轻笑了，但韦赛里斯连嘴唇都没动一下。“他高兴的话，明天就要她也行。”哥哥说着瞟了丹妮一眼，她垂下眼睛。“只要他信守诺言。”
　　伊利里欧无力地挥挥手，胖手指上一堆戒指闪闪发光。“我跟您说过，一切都打点妥当啦。卡奥既已答应要给你一顶王冠，他就一定说到做到。”
　　“好吧，可什么时候给呢？”
　　“这就要看卡奥他的意思了。”伊利里欧道，“他当然会先要这女孩，等完婚之后，还要带着人马横跨草原，带她晋见维斯·多斯拉克的多希卡林。在那之后，他应该会实现诺言，如果预兆显示战争吉利的话。”
　　韦赛里斯一脸不耐烦：“我管他妈的多斯拉克预兆。篡夺者坐在我父王的王座上，我还得等多久？”
　　伊利里欧耸耸宽大的肩膀。“伟大的国王啊，您已经等了大半辈子，再多等几月……就算再多等个几年，又怎么样呢？”
　　交游广泛，足迹远至维斯·多斯拉克的乔拉爵士点头同意。“陛下，我也建议您耐心等待。多斯拉克人言出必践，但方式却得照他们的意思来。地位较低的人或许可以恳求卡奥帮忙，但千万不能用以上对下之姿教训他。”
　　韦赛里斯怒道：“莫尔蒙，你讲话最好注意点，否则小心我把你舌头给割了。我可不是什么地位较低的人，我乃堂堂七国之君，真龙传人是不会卑躬屈膝的。”
　　乔拉爵士恭敬地垂下眼睛。伊利里欧神秘地笑笑，撕下一只鸭翅膀，咬了起来，胡子上沾满蜂蜜和油汁。真龙已经不复存在了，丹妮怔怔地看着哥哥，却不敢大声说出来。
　　然而那天晚上，她却梦见了一只龙。梦中韦赛里斯又在打她、欺负她。她浑身赤裸，害怕得手足无措。她想从他身边跑开，身体却不听使唤。他再度出手，把她打得踉跄倒地。“你唤醒了睡龙之怒，”他一边尖叫一边对她拳打脚踢，“你唤醒了睡龙，你唤醒了睡龙。”她的大腿淌满鲜血，正闭眼呻吟，只听一阵狰狞的撕裂，接着是一片雄浑的大火劈啪，仿佛有谁在回应。睁眼一看，韦赛里斯已经不见踪影，四周升起巨大火柱，火柱中间有一头巨龙。它缓缓转头，那对宛如熔岩的眼睛与她目光相接。这时她便醒了，醒来时浑身颤抖，冷汗直流。她这辈子从没这么害怕过……
　　……除了这场婚礼。
　　婚宴从黎明开始，一直持续到天黑，其间充斥着无止尽的暴饮暴食和冲突打斗。草织宫殿间筑起一座土丘，丹妮被安置在卓戈卡奥身旁，位居这片多斯拉克人海之上。她从未见过这么多人聚集一起，也未见过如此奇怪又叫人害怕的族群。众位马王来自由贸易城邦拜访时也会穿戴华服，喷洒香水，然而在苍天之下，他们却遵守古老传统。不论男女，均赤裸胸膛，外罩彩绘皮背心，捆上马鬃绑腿，腰系青铜饰带。男性战士们用油坑里的动物脂肪把长长的发辫抹得乌黑光亮。他们大啖加了蜂蜜和胡椒的烤马肉，豪饮发酵马奶和伊利里欧的葡萄佳酿，隔着营火互相笑闹，话音在丹妮耳中显得格外陌生而刺耳。
　　韦赛里斯坐在她正下方，穿着一袭崭新黑羊毛衫，胸前绣了一头猩红色的龙。伊利里欧和乔拉爵士坐在他旁边。他们实已居于高位，仅次于卡奥的血盟卫，但丹妮仍然看出哥哥那双淡紫色眼瞳里闪着怒火。他不高兴位于她之下，更受不了每次上菜仆人都会先给卡奥和他的新娘，然后才把挑剩的拿给他。但除了暗自生气，他不能做什么，于是就这么生着闷气，表情也随着时间流逝，随着每一次对他自尊的伤害越见恶劣。
　　然而丹妮无暇他顾，置身这片广大人海之中，她只感到前所未有的孤独。哥哥要她微笑，所以她努力保持笑容，直到脸部肌肉酸疼，眼泪也不争气地流了下来。她竭力隐藏泪水，因为她太清楚要是教韦赛里斯见到会有多生气，她更害怕卓戈卡奥的反应。食物一盘盘端至眼前，有香气四溢的肉块，肥厚的黑香肠，多斯拉克血馅饼，后来还有各式水果，甜菜汤，以及做工精巧的潘托斯蛋糕，但她都一一挥手赶开。她很清楚自己的胃搅成一团，没法吞下任何东西。
　　没有人陪她聊天解闷。卓戈卡奥朝下方的血盟卫大声嬉笑吆喝，随他们的回答而放声大笑，但他自始至终都不看身旁的丹妮一眼。他们没有共通的语言，她听不懂多斯拉克语，而卡奥只会说几句自由贸易城邦的瓦雷利亚方言，通行七国的标准话语他一窍不通。就算只能跟伊利里欧和哥哥说话，她也非常乐意，只可惜他们的座位离她实在太远。
　　于是她只能身披婚纱，端着一杯掺了蜂蜜的葡萄酒，不吃不动，静静地自言自语：“我是真龙传人，”她告诉自己，“我是风暴降生丹妮莉丝，龙石岛的公主，体内流着‘征服者’伊耿的血液。”
　　目睹当天第一个人丧命时，太阳才刚在天顶移动了四分之一。当时鼓声隆隆，女人们正为卡奥跳舞助兴。卓戈虽面无表情，视线却始终跟随她们的律动，不时还从腰带上解下一个青铜奖章抛过去，让她们为之争得你死我活。
　　其他战士也在旁观赏。后来其中一个终于走进舞者的圆圈，伸手攫住一位舞者的臂膀，把她按倒在地，当场就像公马和母马交配似地做了起来。伊利里欧先前就提醒过她：“多斯拉克人交配的方式和他们养的牲畜没两样。卡拉萨里毫无隐私可言，他们对罪恶和耻辱的观念也与我们完全不同。”
　　丹妮明白了眼前发生的事后，突然害怕起来，忙将视线从交合中的两人身上转开，但紧接着另一个战士也走上前，然后又是一个，很快她连想不看也没办法了。只见两名男子抓住了同一个女人，她听见一声大叫，其中一人推了对方一把，眨眼功夫，两把亚拉克弯刀便已出鞘。这是一种半剑半镰刀的武器，刀刃很长、利如剃刀。两名战士随即展开一阵死亡剑舞，绕着圈子，相互杀伐，扑跳往来，刀锋流转，喊骂不绝。没有人出手干预。
　　死斗蓦然开始，也旋即结束。亚拉克弯刀交击的速度快得丹妮跟不上，但其中一名战士脚步没站稳，他的对手立刻挥刀画出一个圆弧。刀锋砍进多斯拉克人腰部，将他自脊椎到腹部整个切开，内脏喷洒出来撒进尘土。败者挣扎惨死，胜者抓住最近的女人——还不是刚才为之而战的那个——当下做了起来。奴隶抬走尸首，舞蹈继续进行。
　　这种情形，伊利里欧总督事前也警告过丹妮。“任何一场多斯拉克婚礼，若没有闹出至少三条人命，就算失败。”如此说来，她的婚礼想必受到上苍格外眷顾，因为在当天日落之前，一共死了十二个人。
　　时间一分一秒过去，丹妮心中的恐惧却不减反增，最后她所能做的，就只剩下竭力控制自己，不要发出尖叫。她害怕这些行径怪异野蛮，宛如披人皮野兽的多斯拉克人；害怕自己达不到哥哥的期望，不知他会对自己做出什么事来；但最教她害怕的，还是当天晚上，哥哥将她交给此刻坐在她身边喝酒，面无表情，残酷得像戴着一张青铜面具的怪异巨人后，他会在星空下对她做的事。
　　“我是真龙传人。”她再度对自己说。
　　最后，夕阳渐渐西落，卓戈卡奥拍拍手，所有的鼓声、叫喊和饮宴欢闹顿时戛然而止。卓戈起身，然后扶丹妮起来。赠送新娘礼的仪式开始了。
　　可她很清楚，当赠礼仪式结束，太阳下山之后，她就算是真正结婚。丹妮试图抛开这个念头，却徒劳无功，只能绷紧身子，想尽办法不要颤抖。
　　哥哥韦赛里斯送她三位女仆——丹妮知道他根本没花半文钱，必定是伊利里欧掏的腰包——其中伊丽和姬琪是生着杏眼，黑发褐肤的多斯拉克人，多莉亚则是金发蓝眼的里斯女孩。“好妹妹，这些可不是普通奴婢，”她们被依序带到她跟前时，哥哥告诉她，“都是我和伊利里欧精心为你挑选的。伊丽会教你骑马，姬琪会教你多斯拉克语，多莉亚则会教你床上功夫。”他浅浅一笑，“她可是这方面的专家，我和伊利里欧都可以保证。”
　　乔拉·莫尔蒙爵士为他的礼物致歉：“公主殿下，这点小东西实在不成敬意，但放逐在外，一贫如洗的我就只负担得起这个了。”说着他把一小叠旧书放在她面前，那是用标准用语写成的七国历史和歌谣传奇，她满心感激地谢谢他。
　　伊利里欧总督轻声下令，四位粗壮的奴隶立刻抬着一个青铜装饰的雪松木箱快步向前。打开之后，她发现里面装满了自由贸易城邦所产最上等的天鹅绒和锦缎……其上还躺着三颗硕大的蛋。丹妮差点喘不过气来。这是她所见过最美的东西，三颗蛋外表各不相同，其上的纹彩富丽得使她以为表面镶满珠宝，而她得用两手才能抱住一颗。她小心翼翼地拿起来，本以为这是上等陶瓷、彩釉或玻璃制成，想不到却比那沉重得多，仿佛是硬石做的。蛋壳表面覆盖着细小鳞片，它们随她指头转弄，映着落日余晖，散发出宛如金属般的光泽。其中一颗是深绿色，随着丹妮转动的角度露出各式的青铜斑点；另一颗是淡乳白色，有金色条纹；最后一颗是黑的，宛如午夜汪洋，却有生气勃发的暗红波浪和旋涡。“这是什么？”她小声问，口中充满惊奇。
　　“这是来自亚夏以东阴影之地的龙蛋。”伊利里欧总督说，“历经千万年而成化石，却依旧亮丽动人。”
　　“我会永远珍藏他们。”丹妮听过关于龙蛋的种种传闻，但从未亲眼目睹，更没想到会有机会见识。这实在是价值连城的厚礼，虽然她也知道伊利里欧花得起大钱。光是把她卖给卓戈卡奥，就让他赚了大批良驹和奴隶。
　　依照传统，卡奥的血盟卫赠与她三件耀眼武器。哈戈送她一把银柄长鞭，科霍罗送她一柄气派非凡的镀金亚拉克弯刀，柯索则送她一把比她人还高的双弧龙骨长弓。伊利里欧总督和乔拉爵士事先教过她传统的拒绝仪式。“吾血之血啊，这些都是伟大的战士应有的武器，但我仅是一介弱女子，就让我的夫君替我使用罢！”于是卓戈卡奥得到了她的“新娘礼”。
　　其他多斯拉克人也纷纷上前，送她许多礼物：有珠宝拖鞋、银制发环、奖章腰带、彩绘背心和轻软毛皮，纱丝和香精罐，针线、羽毛和小巧的紫玻璃瓶，以及一件以千只老鼠皮织成的睡衣。“卡丽熙①，这可是件好礼啊，”伊利里欧总督边对她解释，边说，“非常吉利的！”礼物在她身边堆得老高，远超出她的想像，更超乎她的真正需要。
　　最后，卓戈卡奥带来他自己的新娘礼。他大步离开她身边，一阵充满期待的静默便从营地中央散开，逐渐吞没了整个卡拉萨。他回来之时，送礼的多斯拉克人们向两边散开，原来他牵来了一匹马。
　　那是一匹年轻的小母马，精神抖擞、闪亮动人。仅凭丹妮对马有限的了解，就已经知道这并非匹寻常良驹。它有种叫她喘不过气的特质，毛发灰如冬季的海，马鬃有若银色的烟。
　　她有些犹豫地伸手抚摸马的脖子，任手指滑过银色马鬃。卓戈卡奥用多斯拉克语说了几句，伊利里欧总督翻译道：“卡奥说，银色的马鬃正好配上你银色的头发。”
　　“她好漂亮！”丹妮喃喃道。
　　“她是全卡拉萨的骄傲，”伊利里欧说，“根据习俗，卡丽熙必须骑着与她身份地位相称的马儿，跟随在卡奥身边。”
　　卓戈跨步向前，伸手环住她的腰，有如抱小孩般把她轻松抱起，让她坐上狭小的多斯拉克马鞍。这鞍比她以前习惯的那种小许多。丹妮有些困惑地坐了一会儿。没人告诉她会如此发展。“我该怎么做？”她问伊利里欧。
　　回答的是乔拉·莫尔蒙爵士，“握起缰绳骑上一段，不用太远。”
　　于是丹妮紧张地双手握缰，把脚伸进矮矮的马镫里。她马术平平，只因长久以来多半乘船或搭马车、轿子旅行，骑马的机会不多。她祈祷自己不要摔下来，惹大家笑话，最后轻轻地一夹马肚。
　　于是，这几个小时以来，她第一次忘却了恐惧。或许，是她这辈子第一次。
　　银灰的小母马步伐平稳，轻盈如丝，众人让出路来，目光全集中在她身上。丹妮发现自己骑得远比料想的要快，而她感觉到的只有兴奋，并无恐惧。马儿开步小跑，她不禁笑了起来。多斯拉克人跌跌撞撞地让开。她只需双脚微微使力，轻轻一抖缰绳，母马便立即有回应。她催马飞奔，多斯拉克人纷纷闪开，一边对她又叫又笑。当她掉转马头，准备返回时，只见前方远处有个火堆。她们两边是人，无路可走。此刻丹妮莉丝心中突然有种前所未有的勇气，她把一切都交给小母马。
　　银色的马载她穿越熊熊烈焰，仿佛为她插上了翅膀。
　　她在伊利里欧总督面前停下，说：“请告诉卓戈卡奥，他给了我风的力量。”这位肥胖的潘托斯人捻捻黄胡子，把她的话译为多斯拉克语，接着丹妮头一次看到她的新婚丈夫露出微笑。
　　就在这时，夕阳的最后一抹余晖消失在潘托斯的高墙尽头。丹妮已完全没了时间概念。卓戈卡奥命令血盟卫们把他的坐骑牵来，那是匹精瘦的红色骏马。卡奥装配马鞍时，韦赛里斯闪到骑着银马的丹妮身边，伸出手指抠进她的大腿肉：“亲爱的好妹妹，你给我好好取悦他，否则我保证让你看看真正的唤醒睡龙是什么样子。”
　　哥哥的这番话把恐惧又带了回来。她再度觉得自己像个小孩子，只有十三岁，孤零零的，对于即将发生在身上的事毫无准备。
　　星星出来的时候，他们一同骑马离开，将卡拉萨和草织宫殿抛在身后。卓戈卡奥一句话也没有说，径自催马狂奔，跑进愈加深沉的夜色。他长长发辫上的银铃一路轻声作响。“我是真龙传人，”她一边跟上，一边大声地对自己说，努力鼓起勇气。“我是真龙传人，我是真龙传人。”龙是不会害怕的。
　　事后想来，她说不准他们究竟骑了多远，骑了多久，但当他们在一条小溪边的草地上停步时，天已经全黑。卓戈翻身下马，然后把她抱下来。在他手里，她觉得自己脆弱得好像玻璃，四肢无力犹如溺水。她穿着结婚礼服，站在原地颤抖，看他把马匹拴好，当他转头望她时，她的眼泪终于忍不住滑落。
　　卓戈卡奥看着她的泪水，脸上却奇怪地毫无表情。“不。”他抬起手，用长茧的拇指粗鲁地抹去她的泪水。
　　“你会通用语？”丹妮惊奇地说。
　　“不。”他又说。
　　或许他就只懂这个字，她心想，但总比她原先想像的要好得多，这稍稍安抚了她的情绪。卓戈轻触她的头发，一边用手抚弄她亮银色的发丝，一边用多斯拉克话喃喃自语。丹妮听不懂他在说些什么，然而话中却有种温暖的感觉，一种她原本不期待会在这个男人身上找到的温柔。
　　他伸出手指抚她下巴，托起她的头，让她直视他的双眼。与她相比，卓戈明显高出一大截，他比所有人都高出一截。他轻轻地自腋下抱起她，把她放在溪边的圆石上。然后他坐在地上，面对她，双脚盘坐，两人的脸终于处在同样高度。“不。”他说。
　　“你只知道这个字吗？”她问他。
　　卓戈没有回答。他又长又重的辫子在身旁的泥土地上缠绕成圈。他将辫子拉过右肩，开始一个一个解下铃铛。过了一会儿，丹妮也靠过去帮他。全部完成之后，卓戈做了个手势。这次她看懂了，便小心翼翼地为他缓缓松开辫子。
　　她花了好长时间。在这期间，他始终静静地坐在原地，凝望着她。她完成之后，他甩甩头，乌黑油亮的头发便如一条黑暗的河流般在他身后泼洒开来。她从未见过这么长、这么黑、这么厚实的头发。
　　然后轮到他了。他开始为她宽衣解带。
　　他的手指不仅灵敏、而且出奇温柔。他轻缓地为她脱去一件件丝质礼服，丹妮一动也不动地静静坐着，凝望他的双眸。当她小小的乳房暴露出来时，她实在克制不住，下意识地伸手遮挡，并将视线转开。“不。”卓戈说。他把她遮住胸部的手拿开，温柔而坚定，然后他再度抬起她的脸，让她看着他。“不。”他重复。
　　“不。”她也跟着说。
　　他扶她站起，将她拉近，为她除去身上最后一件丝衣。夜风寒冷，凉如冰水，吹在赤裸的肌肤上，令她不禁颤抖，手脚也冒出鸡皮疙瘩。她很害怕接下来会发生的事，但她等了好久，什么也没有发生。卓戈卡奥仍旧双腿盘坐，定定地望着她，用眼睛享受她的躯体。
　　又过了一会儿，他开始抚摸她。起初非常轻微，然后稍稍用力。她可以感觉出他手臂里蕴藏的力量，但他始终没有弄痛她。他握住她的手，抚弄她的指头，一根又一根。他爱抚她的脸颊，沿着耳朵的曲线，一根手指轻轻绕着她的嘴巴。他将双手伸进她的头发，用手指为她梳头，接着把她转过身去，按摩她的肩膀，指节沿着脊椎往下滑。
　　似乎又过了好久，他才将手伸向她的乳房。他抚摸着乳房下方的部位，直到她浑身发麻，又用拇指绕着乳头转，拿拇指和食指轻轻夹住，然后向外拉，起初非常轻微，随后渐渐加重，直到她乳头发硬，开始疼痛。
　　这时他停了下来，把她拉进怀里。丹妮面红耳赤，喘气不止，心脏狂跳。他用那双巨掌托起她的脸，两人四目相交。“不？”他说。她听懂这是个问句。
　　她握住他的手，引领它朝向她双腿间湿润的地方。“要。”她一边低语，一边导引他的手指进入她的体内。
　　※※※※※※
　　①卡丽熙：多斯拉克语中对卡奥配偶的称呼。
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你看着眼前的人，分明还是以前的模样，可心里终究不是以前那般澄清透明了。
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12．EDDARD
   12．EDDARD
   The summons came in the hour before the dawn, when the world was still and grey.
   Alyn shook him roughly from his dreams and Ned stumbled into the predawn chill, groggy from sleep, to find his horse saddled and the king already mounted. Robert wore thick brown gloves and a heavy fur cloak with a hood that covered his ears, and looked for all the world like a bear sitting a horse. “Up, Stark!” he roared. “Up, up! We have matters of state to discuss.”
   “By all means,” Ned said. “Come inside, Your Grace.” Alyn lifted the flap of the tent.
   “No, no, no,” Robert said. His breath steamed with every word. “The camp is full of ears. Besides, I want to ride out and taste this country of yours.” Ser Boros and Ser Meryn waited behind him with a dozen guardsmen, Ned saw. There was nothing to do but rub the sleep from his eyes, dress, and mount up.
   Robert set the pace, driving his huge black destrier hard as Ned galloped along beside him, trying to keep up. He called out a question as they rode, but the wind blew his words away, and the king did not hear him. After that Ned rode in silence. They soon left the kingsroad and took off across rolling plains dark with mist. By then the guard had fallen back a small distance, safely out of earshot, but still Robert would not slow.
   Dawn broke as they crested a low ridge, and finally the king pulled up. By then they were miles south of the main party. Robert was flushed and exhilarated as Ned reined up beside him. “Gods,” he swore, laughing, “it feels good to get out and ride the way a man was meant to ride! I swear, Ned, this creeping along is enough to drive a man mad.” He had never been a patient man, Robert Baratheon. “That damnable wheelhouse, the way it creaks and groans, climbing every bump in the road as if it were a mountain?.?.?.?I promise you, if that wretched thing breaks another axle, I’m going to burn it, and Cersei can walk!”
   Ned laughed. “I will gladly light the torch for you.”
   “Good man!” The king clapped him on the shoulder. “I’ve half a mind to leave them all behind and just keep going.”
   A smile touched Ned’s lips. “I do believe you mean it.”
   “I do, I do,” the king said. “What do you say, Ned? Just you and me, two vagabond knights on the kingsroad, our swords at our sides and the gods know what in front of us, and maybe a farmer’s daughter or a tavern wench to warm our beds tonight.”
   “Would that we could,” Ned said, “but we have duties now, my liege?.?.?.?to the realm, to our children, I to my lady wife and you to your queen. We are not the boys we were.”
   “You were never the boy you were,” Robert grumbled. “More’s the pity. And yet there was that one time?.?.?.?what was her name, that common girl of yours? Becca? No, she was one of mine, gods love her, black hair and these sweet big eyes, you could drown in them. Yours was?.?.?.? Aleena? No. You told me once. Was it Merryl? You know the one I mean, your bastard’s mother?”
   “Her name was Wylla,” Ned replied with cool courtesy, “and I would sooner not speak of her.”
   “Wylla. Yes.” The king grinned. “She must have been a rare wench if she could make Lord Eddard Stark forget his honor, even for an hour. You never told me what she looked like?.?.?.?”
   Ned’s mouth tightened in anger. “Nor will I. Leave it be, Robert, for the love you say you bear me. I dishonored myself and I dishonored Catelyn, in the sight of gods and men.”
   “Gods have mercy, you scarcely knew Catelyn.”
   “I had taken her to wife. She was carrying my child.”
   “You are too hard on yourself, Ned. You always were. Damn it, no woman wants Baelor the Blessed in her bed.” He slapped a hand on his knee. “Well, I’ll not press you if you feel so strong about it, though I swear, at times you’re so prickly you ought to take the hedgehog as your sigil.”
   The rising sun sent fingers of light through the pale white mists of dawn. A wide plain spread out beneath them, bare and brown, its flatness here and there relieved by long, low hummocks. Ned pointed them out to his king. “The barrows of the First Men.”
   Robert frowned. “Have we ridden onto a graveyard?”
   “There are barrows everywhere in the north, Your Grace,” Ned told him. “This land is old.”
   “And cold,” Robert grumbled, pulling his cloak more tightly around himself. The guard had reined up well behind them, at the bottom of the ridge. “Well, I did not bring you out here to talk of graves or bicker about your bastard. There was a rider in the night, from Lord Varys in King’s Landing. Here.” The king pulled a paper from his belt and handed it to Ned.
   Varys the eunuch was the king’s master of whisperers. He served Robert now as he had once served Aerys Targaryen. Ned unrolled the paper with trepidation, thinking of Lysa and her terrible accusation, but the message did not concern Lady Arryn. “What is the source for this information?”
   “Do you remember Ser Jorah Mormont?”
   “Would that I might forget him,” Ned said bluntly. The Mormonts of Bear Island were an old house, proud and honorable, but their lands were cold and distant and poor. Ser Jorah had tried to swell the family coffers by selling some poachers to a Tyroshi slaver. As the Mormonts were bannermen to the Starks, his crime had dishonored the north. Ned had made the long journey west to Bear Island, only to find when he arrived that Jorah had taken ship beyond the reach of Ice and the king’s justice. Five years had passed since then.
   “Ser Jorah is now in Pentos, anxious to earn a royal pardon that would allow him to return from exile,” Robert explained. “Lord Varys makes good use of him.”
   “So the slaver has become a spy,” Ned said with distaste. He handed the letter back. “I would rather he become a corpse.”
   “Varys tells me that spies are more useful than corpses,” Robert said. “Jorah aside, what do you make of his report?”
   “Daenerys Targaryen has wed some Dothraki horselord. What of it? Shall we send her a wedding gift?”
   The king frowned. “A knife, perhaps. A good sharp one, and a bold man to wield it.”
   Ned did not feign surprise; Robert’s hatred of the Targaryens was a madness in him. He remembered the angry words they had exchanged when Tywin Lannister had presented Robert with the corpses of Rhaegar’s wife and children as a token of fealty. Ned had named that murder; Robert called it war. When he had protested that the young prince and princess were no more than babes, his new-made king had replied, “I see no babes. Only dragonspawn.” Not even Jon Arryn had been able to calm that storm. Eddard Stark had ridden out that very day in a cold rage, to fight the last battles of the war alone in the south. It had taken another death to reconcile them; Lyanna’s death, and the grief they had shared over her passing.
   This time, Ned resolved to keep his temper. “Your Grace, the girl is scarcely more than a child. You are no Tywin Lannister, to slaughter innocents.” It was said that Rhaegar’s little girl had cried as they dragged her from beneath her bed to face the swords. The boy had been no more than a babe in arms, yet Lord Tywin’s soldiers had torn him from his mother’s breast and dashed his head against a wall.
   “And how long will this one remain an innocent?” Robert’s mouth grew hard. “This child will soon enough spread her legs and start breeding more dragonspawn to plague me.”
   “Nonetheless,” Ned said, “the murder of children?.?.?.?it would be vile?.?.?.?unspeakable?.?.?.?”
   “Unspeakable?” the king roared. “What Aerys did to your brother Brandon was unspeakable. The way your lord father died, that was unspeakable. And Rhaegar?.?.?.?how many times do you think he raped your sister? How many hundreds of times?” His voice had grown so loud that his horse whinnied nervously beneath him. The king jerked the reins hard, quieting the animal, and pointed an angry finger at Ned. “I will kill every Targaryen I can get my hands on, until they are as dead as their dragons, and then I will piss on their graves.”
   Ned knew better than to defy him when the wrath was on him. If the years had not quenched Robert’s thirst for revenge, no words of his would help. “You can’t get your hands on this one, can you?” he said quietly.
   The king’s mouth twisted in a bitter grimace. “No, gods be cursed. Some pox-ridden Pentoshi cheesemonger had her brother and her walled up on his estate with pointy-hatted eunuchs all around them, and now he’s handed them over to the Dothraki. I should have had them both killed years ago, when it was easy to get at them, but Jon was as bad as you. More fool I, I listened to him.”
   “Jon Arryn was a wise man and a good Hand.”
   Robert snorted. The anger was leaving him as suddenly as it had come. “This Khal Drogo is said to have a hundred thousand men in his horde. What would Jon say to that?”
   “He would say that even a million Dothraki are no threat to the realm, so long as they remain on the other side of the narrow sea,” Ned replied calmly. “The barbarians have no ships. They hate and fear the open sea.”
   The king shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. “Perhaps. There are ships to be had in the Free Cities, though. I tell you, Ned, I do not like this marriage. There are still those in the Seven Kingdoms who call me Usurper. Do you forget how many houses fought for Targaryen in the war? They bide their time for now, but give them half a chance, they will murder me in my bed, and my sons with me. If the beggar king crosses with a Dothraki horde at his back, the traitors will join him.”
   “He will not cross,” Ned promised. “And if by some mischance he does, we will throw him back into the sea. Once you choose a new Warden of the East...”
   The king groaned. “For the last time, I will not name the Arryn boy Warden. I know the boy is your nephew, but with Targaryens climbing in bed with Dothraki, I would be mad to rest one quarter of the realm on the shoulders of a sickly child.”
   Ned was ready for that. “Yet we still must have a Warden of the East. If Robert Arryn will not do, name one of your brothers. Stannis proved himself at the siege of Storm’s End, surely.”
   He let the name hang there for a moment. The king frowned and said nothing. He looked uncomfortable.
   “That is,” Ned finished quietly, watching, “unless you have already promised the honor to another.”
   For a moment Robert had the grace to look startled. Just as quickly, the look became annoyance. “What if I have?”
   “It’s Jaime Lannister, is it not?”
   Robert kicked his horse back into motion and started down the ridge toward the barrows. Ned kept pace with him. The king rode on, eyes straight ahead. “Yes,” he said at last. A single hard word to end the matter.
   “Kingslayer,” Ned said. The rumors were true, then. He rode on dangerous ground now, he knew. “An able and courageous man, no doubt,” he said carefully, “but his father is Warden of the West, Robert. In time Ser Jaime will succeed to that honor. No one man should hold both East and West.” He left unsaid his real concern; that the appointment would put half the armies of the realm into the hands of Lannisters.
   “I will fight that battle when the enemy appears on the field,” the king said stubbornly. “At the moment, Lord Tywin looms eternal as Casterly Rock, so I doubt that Jaime will be succeeding anytime soon. Don’t vex me about this, Ned, the stone has been set.”
   “Your Grace, may I speak frankly?”
   “I seem unable to stop you,” Robert grumbled. They rode through tall brown grasses.
   “Can you trust Jaime Lannister?”
   “He is my wife’s twin, a Sworn Brother of the Kingsguard, his life and fortune and honor all bound to mine.”
   “As they were bound to Aerys Targaryen’s,” Ned pointed out.
   “Why should I mistrust him? He has done everything I have ever asked of him. His sword helped win the throne I sit on.”
   His sword helped taint the throne you sit on, Ned thought, but he did not permit the words to pass his lips. “He swore a vow to protect his king’s life with his own. Then he opened that king’s throat with a sword.”
   “Seven hells, someone had to kill Aerys!” Robert said, reining his mount to a sudden halt beside an ancient barrow. “If Jaime hadn’t done it, it would have been left for you or me.”
   “We were not Sworn Brothers of the Kingsguard,” Ned said. The time had come for Robert to hear the whole truth, he decided then and there. “Do you remember the Trident, Your Grace?”
   “I won my crown there. How should I forget it?”
   “You took a wound from Rhaegar,” Ned reminded him. “So when the Targaryen host broke and ran, you gave the pursuit into my hands. The remnants of Rhaegar’s army fled back to King’s Landing. We followed. Aerys was in the Red Keep with several thousand loyalists. I expected to find the gates closed to us.”
   Robert gave an impatient shake of his head. “Instead you found that our men had already taken the city. What of it?”
   “Not our men,” Ned said patiently. “Lannister men. The lion of Lannister flew over the ramparts, not the crowned stag. And they had taken the city by treachery.”
   The war had raged for close to a year. Lords great and small had flocked to Robert’s banners; others had remained loyal to Targaryen. The mighty Lannisters of Casterly Rock, the Wardens of the West, had remained aloof from the struggle, ignoring calls to arms from both rebels and royalists. Aerys Targaryen must have thought that his gods had answered his prayers when Lord Tywin Lannister appeared before the gates of King’s Landing with an army twelve thousand strong, professing loyalty. So the mad king had ordered his last mad act. He had opened his city to the lions at the gate.
   “Treachery was a coin the Targaryens knew well,” Robert said. The anger was building in him again. “Lannister paid them back in kind. It was no less than they deserved. I shall not trouble my sleep over it.”
   “You were not there,” Ned said, bitterness in his voice. Troubled sleep was no stranger to him. He had lived his lies for fourteen years, yet they still haunted him at night. “There was no honor in that conquest.”
   “The Others take your honor!” Robert swore. “What did any Targaryen ever know of honor? Go down into your crypt and ask Lyanna about the dragon’s honor!”
   “You avenged Lyanna at the Trident,” Ned said, halting beside the king. Promise me, Ned, she had whispered.
   “That did not bring her back.” Robert looked away, off into the grey distance. “The gods be damned. It was a hollow victory they gave me. A crown?.?.?.?it was the girl I prayed them for. Your sister, safe?.?.?.?and mine again, as she was meant to be. I ask you, Ned, what good is it to wear a crown? The gods mock the prayers of kings and cowherds alike.”
   “I cannot answer for the gods, Your Grace?.?.?.?only for what I found when I rode into the throne room that day,” Ned said. “Aerys was dead on the floor, drowned in his own blood. His dragon skulls stared down from the walls. Lannister’s men were everywhere. Jaime wore the white cloak of the Kingsguard over his golden armor. I can see him still. Even his sword was gilded. He was seated on the Iron Throne, high above his knights, wearing a helm fashioned in the shape of a lion’s head. How he glittered!”
   “This is well known,” the king complained.
   “I was still mounted. I rode the length of the hall in silence, between the long rows of dragon skulls. It felt as though they were watching me, somehow. I stopped in front of the throne, looking up at him. His golden sword was across his legs, its edge red with a king’s blood. My men were filling the room behind me. Lannister’s men drew back. I never said a word. I looked at him seated there on the throne, and I waited. At last Jaime laughed and got up. He took off his helm, and he said to me, ‘Have no fear, Stark. I was only keeping it warm for our friend Robert. It’s not a very comfortable seat, I’m afraid.’ ”
   The king threw back his head and roared. His laughter startled a flight of crows from the tall brown grass. They took to the air in a wild beating of wings. “You think I should mistrust Lannister because he sat on my throne for a few moments?” He shook with laughter again. “Jaime was all of seventeen, Ned. Scarce more than a boy.”
   “Boy or man, he had no right to that throne.”
   “Perhaps he was tired,” Robert suggested. “Killing kings is weary work. Gods know, there’s no place else to rest your ass in that damnable room. And he spoke truly, it is a monstrous uncomfortable chair. In more ways than one.” The king shook his head. “Well, now I know Jaime’s dark sin, and the matter can be forgotten. I am heartily sick of secrets and squabbles and matters of state, Ned. It’s all as tedious as counting coppers. Come, let’s ride, you used to know how. I want to feel the wind in my hair again.” He kicked his horse back into motion     galloped up over the barrow, raining earth down behind him.
   For a moment Ned did not follow. He had run out of words, and he was filled with a vast sense of helplessness. Not for the first time, he wondered what he was doing here and why he had come. He was no Jon Arryn, to curb the wildness of his king and teach him wisdom. Robert would do what he pleased, as he always had, and nothing Ned could say or do would change that. He belonged in Winterfell. He belonged with Catelyn in her grief, and with Bran.
   A man could not always be where he belonged, though. Resigned, Eddard Stark put his boots into his horse and set off after the king.
  
Ⅰ 权力的游戏 Chapter13 艾德
　　国王传唤他时，天还未亮，世界一片寂静，灰蒙蒙的。
　　埃林轻轻地将他自梦中摇醒，奈德睡意未消便踉跄着跌入曙光未露前的清晨，发现自己的坐骑已经鞍辔妥当，而国王本人早已骑乘马上。劳勃戴着棕色厚手套，身披厚重的套头毛皮斗篷，看起来活像只骑在马上的大熊。“史塔克，起床了！”他吼道，“还不快醒醒，咱们有国家大事要商量哪。”
　　“遵命，”奈德说，“陛下，请进帐。”埃林闻言掀起帘幕。
　　“不不不，”劳勃的呼吸在冷气里蒸腾：“营地里闲杂人等太多，只怕隔墙有耳。况且我想出去走走，顺便体验一下你的北地风光。”奈德这才瞧见柏洛斯爵士和马林爵士率领十数护卫跟在国王身后。看来除了揉揉惺忪睡眼，更衣上马之外，别无他法了。
　　劳勃骑着他那匹黑色战马一路狂奔，奈德也只好跟上。他边骑边问了一句，但朔风吹散了他的话音，国王没有听见。之后奈德不再发话，只静静地骑马。他们旋即离开国王大道，奔进黑雾浓郁的辽阔平原。此时护卫已离他们有段距离，再听不见两人交谈，但劳勃仍未减速。
　　直到他们登上一道低缓山脊，晨曦初露，国王方才慢下脚步，此时他们已在营地南方数里之遥。奈德跟上劳勃，只见他满脸通红，神采飞扬。“妈的，”他笑着咒道，“到野外像个男人一样骑他妈一段可真痛快！我告诉你，奈德，那慢吞吞的牛步会把人给逼疯的。”劳勃·拜拉席恩向来不是个有耐性的人。“瞧那天杀的轮宫叽叽嘎嘎的呻吟模样，遇到石子都一副爬山的样子……那鬼东西敢再给我断根车轴，我保证放火烧了它，然后叫瑟曦跟着走路！”
　　奈德笑道：“那我很乐意为您点火。”
　　“说得好！”国王拍拍他肩膀，“我还真想丢下他们，就这样骑下去呢。”
　　一抹笑意浮上奈德嘴角。“我相信您是认真的。”
　　“那当然，那当然。”国王道，“奈德，你觉得怎样？就咱两个游侠骑士仗剑闯江湖，兵来将挡，水来土淹。晚上便找个农夫女儿或是酒店侍女帮咱们温床。”
　　“果真如此倒好，”奈德说，“但是陛下，如今我们有责任在身……不只是对整个王国，更要对我们的子女负责，何况我有我的夫人，您有您的王后，我们已经不再是当年的年轻小伙了。”
　　“你小子从来也没年轻过，”劳勃咕哝，“也罢。不过有那么一回……你那小妞儿叫什么来着？蓓卡？不对，她是我的，老天保佑她，那头黑亮秀发和甜美的大眼睛，一不小心就教人难以自拔。你那个叫……雅莉娜？你跟我提过一次，还是叫梅莉儿？你知道我说的哪一个吧？就你私生子的娘。”
　　“她叫薇拉。”奈德有礼却冷冷说，“我不想谈她。”
　　“对，就叫薇拉。”劳勃嘿嘿直笑，“能让艾德·史塔克公爵暂时忘却荣誉，即使只是短短一个小时，她一定不是个简单的姑娘。你倒是一直没告诉我她生什么模样……？”
　　奈德愤怒地抿嘴道：“以后也不会告诉你。劳勃，不要再说了，就算是看在我俩的情分上罢。我当着诸神和世人的面羞辱了我自己，也羞辱了凯特琳。”
　　“诸神在上，你那时根本就没跟凯特琳见几次面。”
　　“我已娶她为妻，她也怀了我的孩子。”
　　“奈德，你律己太严了。你老是这德行，他妈的，不会有女人想跟圣贝勒上床的。”他拍了拍膝盖，“算了，既然你不想说，我也不勉强。但有时候看你浑身带刺，我觉得你真该拿刺猬来当家徽。”
　　东升旭日的金黄指头探进清晨的朦胧白雾，一片辽阔原野在两人眼前展开，其中除了长而低缓的零星小丘，尽是片片光秃秃的褐色平地。奈德指给国王看，“这里就是‘先民坟冢’。”
　　劳勃皱眉道：“我们骑到坟墓堆里来了吗？”
　　“陛下，北方遍地都是坟墓啊。”奈德告诉他，“这是块古老的土地。”
　　“也是个冷死人的地方。”劳勃拉紧斗篷埋怨道，随从在他们后方停缰勒马，停在山脊上。“也罢，我把你找到这里可不是来讨论坟墓和你私生子的。昨晚瓦里斯伯爵差人从君临送了封信来，喏。”国王从腰带上抽出一张纸递给奈德。
　　太监瓦里斯是国王的情报总管，从前服侍伊里斯·坦格利安，如今改事劳勃。奈德畏惧地打开卷轴，心里想起莱莎和她那骇人的控诉，所幸内容与艾林夫人无关。“这消息的来源是？”
　　“你还记得乔拉·莫尔蒙爵士吗？”
　　“我一辈子也忘不了那家伙。”奈德脱口便道。熊岛的莫尔蒙家族历史悠久，骄傲而讲究荣誉，但他们的领地位置偏远，酷寒贫瘠。
　　乔拉爵士为增加收入，打算把抓到的盗猎者卖给泰洛西的奴隶贩子。由于莫尔蒙是史塔克的封臣，如此一来等于玷污了整个北方的名声。于是奈德千里迢迢西行前往熊岛，却发现乔拉早已搭船潜逃，逃到“寒冰”和国王的法律制裁之外的番邦异地去了。事发至今一转眼已经五年。
　　“乔拉爵士现下人在潘托斯，正焦急地等着王家特赦好渡海回国。”劳勃解释，“瓦里斯伯爵妥善运用了这个优势。”
　　“人口贩子这下又成了间谍？”奈德嫌恶地说，一边把信件交还。“我倒是宁愿他变成一具尸体。”
　　“瓦里斯认为间谍比尸体有用得多，”劳勃道，“不过撇开乔拉不谈，你对此事有何看法？”
　　“丹妮莉丝嫁给一个多斯拉克马王，那又如何？难不成我们该送份结婚贺礼过去？”
　　国王皱眉：“我看送把刀更好。一把锐利的好刀，拿在一个有胆量的人手里。”
　　奈德没有故作惊讶。劳勃对坦格利安家族的恨意几近疯狂，他至今都还记忆犹新，当年泰温·兰尼斯特献上雷加妻儿们的尸体以示效忠时，两人所发生的激烈口角。奈德认为这是谋杀，劳勃却说是战争中难免的惨剧。当他辩称年幼的王子和公主与婴儿无异时，甫登上王位的劳勃应道：“我可没看到什么婴儿，只见到恶龙的孽种。”就连琼恩·艾林也无法平息那场纷争。艾德·史塔克当天便愤然拂袖而去，独自领兵前往南方打最后的一场仗。后来是因为莱安娜的死，两人才言归于好。
　　但这次奈德没有发火。“陛下，她不过是个孩子，您总不会像泰温·兰尼斯特那样滥杀无辜罢？”据说他们把雷加的小女儿从床上硬拖出去受死的时候，她哭得泪眼汪汪。他的儿子根本只是个襁褓中的婴儿，但泰温公爵的手下照样把他从母亲胸膛上扯开来，一头撞死在墙上。
　　“谁知道她还能天真无邪多久？”劳勃语音渐扬，“这个‘孩子’过不了多久就会张开双腿，繁殖一堆恶龙遗毒来找我麻烦了。”
　　“话虽如此，”奈德道，“但谋杀孩子却是很……令人发指……”
　　“令人发指？”国王一声怒喝，“伊里斯对你哥哥布兰登干的那些事，那才叫令人发指。想想你先父如何惨死，那才叫令人发指。还有雷加……你觉得他强暴了你妹妹几次？干了她几百次？”他的暴跳使得鞍下坐骑不安地嘶叫起来，国王猛地一扯缰绳，教马儿安静，然后愤怒地指着奈德，“我要亲手宰掉每一个坦格利安家的人，斩尽杀绝；我要教他们像龙一样死得干净彻底，最后在他们坟上撒尿。”
　　奈德很清楚不能在国王气头上顶撞他。如果这么多年的时间都无法浇熄他复仇的烈焰，只怕他的话也起不了什么作用。“你没法亲手宰掉这一个，对吧？”他轻声说。
　　国王愤恨地撇撇嘴。“是没办法，天杀的。有个操他妈的潘托斯小贩把他们兄妹俩藏在围墙后面，还派了一堆尖帽子太监看守，这会儿又把他们卖给多斯拉克人。几年前不容易杀他们的时候，我早该动手了，但琼恩跟你一样坏心眼。不过我更傻，我听了他的话。”
　　“琼恩·艾林是个英明睿智的首相。”
　　劳勃哼了一声。“传说这个卓戈卡奥手下有十万大军，琼恩听了会作何感想？”
　　“他会说只要多斯拉克人待在狭海对岸，即便百万大军又有何惧？”奈德平静地答道，“那些野蛮人没有船，他们对一望无际的汪洋又惧又怕。”
　　国王不安地在马鞍上挪了挪。“或许如此，不过自由贸易城邦有的是船。奈德，我老实告诉你，我一点也不喜欢这桩婚事。到现在王国里还有人叫我‘篡夺者’，你难道忘了当年有多少豪门望族起兵为坦格利安家族而战吗？他们现在按兵不动，但要是逮着机会，等不及要取我和我儿子的性命哪！倘若哪天这乞丐国王带着多斯拉克大军渡海而来，这些叛徒一定会拥护他。”
　　“他渡不了海的。”奈德保证，“就算他真来了，我们也能协力把他赶回去。等你任命好新的东境守护——”
　　国王呻吟道：“我说最后一遍，我不会让艾林家那小毛头继任东境守护。我知道那孩子是你外甥，但现在坦格利安家和多斯拉克人上了床，我疯了才会把统领王国四分之一军队的重任交给一个体弱多病的小男孩来扛。”
　　奈德早知他会有此答复。“但必须有人出来担任东境守护不可。假如劳勃·艾林不足以胜任，那就让你的兄弟之一来接手罢。史坦尼斯在风息堡之围一役中已经展现出他的才能，相信他应该没问题。”
　　他让史坦尼斯的名字在空气中悬宕了一会儿，国王皱皱眉，没有答腔，看起来不太舒服。
　　“当然，”奈德轻声续道，静观其变。“倘若你已把这个职位许给了别人，那就另当别论。”
　　起初劳勃露出吃惊的神色，但随即转为不悦：“假如真是这样呢？”
　　“詹姆·兰尼斯特，对吧？”
　　劳勃一夹马肚，朝山瘠下的荒冢驰去，奈德紧随在旁。国王径自骑行，两眼直视前方。“对。”最后他总算开了口，仿佛要用这一个字来结束议题。
　　“弑君者。”奈德道。这么说来，所有的谣言都属实了。他很清楚自己此刻措辞务必小心谨慎。“他有能力，也不缺勇气，这毋庸置疑。”他小心翼翼地说，“但是劳勃，他父亲是世袭的西境守护，詹姆爵士迟早要继承父职，东西诸国的大权不应落入同一个人手里。”他没把真正想说的话说出来：如此一来王国一半的兵力将会落入兰尼斯特家族的手中。
　　“等敌人出现了再打也不迟，”国王执拗地说，“眼下泰温公爵好端端地待在凯岩城，我想詹姆还不至于太快继承职位。奈德，这事儿别跟我争，说出去的话，覆水难收了。”
　　“陛下，请恕我直言不讳。”
　　“反正我也阻止不了你。”劳勃咕哝着。他们骑过棕褐长草。
　　“你真信任詹姆·兰尼斯特？”
　　“他是我老婆的孪生弟弟，又是发过誓的御林铁卫，他的生死荣辱都维系在我身上。”
　　“当年他的生死荣辱不也全维系在伊里斯·坦格利安身上？”奈德不客气地指出。
　　“我有什么理由不信任他？我叫他办的事他没有一次让我失望，就连我现在的王位都是靠他的宝剑赢来的咧。”
　　正是他的宝剑玷污了你的王位啊，奈德心想，但没让自己说出口。“他发誓以性命守护国王，结果却一剑割了国王的喉咙。”
　　“妈的，总得有人动手吧？”劳勃道，他在一座古老的荒坟边勒住马缰。“要是他没杀掉伊里斯，那么不是你杀就是我杀。”
　　“我们可不是宣誓效死的御林铁卫。”奈德道，当下他决定是该让劳勃听听实话的时候了。“陛下，您可还记得三叉戟河之战？”
　　“我头上的王冠就是在那儿挣来的，怎么可能忘记？”
　　“您在和雷加的决斗中负了伤，”奈德提醒他，“因此当坦格利安军溃散后，您将追击的任务托付于我。雷加的残兵逃回君临，我们尾随而至。伊里斯和几千名死士守在红堡，我本以为城门一定是紧紧关闭。”
　　劳勃不耐烦地摇头接口：“结果你发现我们的人已经占领了城堡，那又如何？”
　　“不是我们的人，”奈德耐着性子，“是兰尼斯特家的人。当时城垛上飘扬的是兰尼斯特家族的怒吼雄狮，并非宝冠雄鹿。城池乃是他们靠诡计夺下的。”
　　当时战火已经蔓烧将近一年，大小贵族纷纷投至劳勃旗下，也有不少仍旧忠于坦格利安家族。势力庞大，世代担任西境守护的凯岩城兰尼斯特家族，却始终远离战场，不理会叛党和保王人士的呼唤。最后，当泰温·兰尼斯特公爵亲率一万两千精兵出现在君临城下，表示勤王意图时，伊里斯·坦格利安想必以为自己命不该绝罢。于是疯狂的国王下了他最后一道疯狂的命令，大开城门，引狮入室。
　　“坦格利安同样也与诡计为伍，”劳勃道，他的怒气又渐渐升起。“兰尼斯特不过是以其人之道，还治其人之身罢了。天要亡坦格利安，他们死不足惜。”
　　“你当时并不在场，”奈德语带苦涩。这个谎言已经伴随他十四年，至今仍时常在梦中骚扰他。“那场仗毫无荣誉可言。”
　　“去你妈的荣誉！”劳勃破口大骂，“坦格利安懂什么狗屁荣誉？去你老家墓窖里问问莱安娜，问她什么叫恶龙的荣誉！”
　　“三叉戟河一役，你已经为她报了仇。”奈德在国王身旁停下马。奈德，答应我，当年，她死前如此低语。
　　“却不能让她起死回生，”劳勃别转头去，望向灰暗的远方。“诸神都该死，我只求得到你妹妹，他们却硬塞给我一顶狗屁王冠……赢得战争又如何？我只要她平平安安……重回我的怀抱，一切都和原本一样。奈德，我问你，当国王有什么好？管你是国王还是放牛郎，诸神不都一样嘲弄你么？”
　　“陛下，我没法替神灵回答您的问题……我只知道当我骑马进入红堡大厅时，”奈德道，“伊里斯倒卧血泊，墙上龙骨冷冷地看着他。四处都是兰尼斯特的手下，詹姆穿着亮金战甲，外罩御林铁卫的白披风，还有金色的宝剑，那景象直到现在还历历在目。他坐在铁王座上，高耸于众武士之中，狮头面罩下，威风凛凛，好不意气风发！”
　　“这是众人皆知的事嘛！”国王抱怨。
　　“当时我人在马上，骑进正殿，穿过一排排巨龙颅骨，我有种感觉，仿佛他们正看着我。最后我停在王座之前，抬头望他。他把黄金宝剑横陈于大腿之上，国王的血从剑尖不断滴落。这时我的人也涌进大厅，兰尼斯特的部队则不断后退。我半个字也没说，只静静地盯着他坐在王位上的模样，耐心等待。最后他笑着站起来，摘下头盔对我说：‘史塔克，可别瞎担心哟，我只是先帮咱们劳勃暖暖位子罢了。不过这把椅子恐怕坐起来不大舒服哪！’”
　　国王仰头大笑，笑声惊起栖息在附近棕褐长草丛里的乌鸦群，它们嘎嘎惊叫，振翅腾空。“只因为兰尼斯特那小子在我的王位上坐了几分钟，你就叫我别信任他？”他再度放声狂笑，“得了罢，奈德，詹姆当年才十七岁，还是个大孩子。”
　　“不管他是孩子还是成人，都无权坐上王位。”
　　“或许他累了，”劳勃帮他开脱：“杀国王可不是件轻松差事，那该死的大厅里又没别的地方摆屁股。其实，他说的一点不错，不管从哪方面来看，那都是张既狰狞又不舒服的椅子。”国王摇摇头，“好了，如今我知道詹姆不为人知的恶行了，以后就忘了此事。奈德，我对管理国政和机心巧诈实在反胃透顶，全是些跟数铜板没两样的无聊事。来，咱们来好好骑上一段，你从前可是很会骑马的，咱们再尝尝大风在发梢奔驰的爽劲儿。”说完他再度策马前驱，扬长而去，越过坟冢，马蹄在身后溅起如雨泥花。
　　奈德并未立即跟上。他已经费尽唇舌，此刻只觉得心中充满无边的无助感。他不止一次地质疑自己到底在做什么，走这一遭又究竟所为何事。他不是琼恩·艾林，无法约束国王的野性，教导他以智慧。劳勃终究会任性而为，一如既往，奈德不论好说歹说都改变不了事实。他的归宿是临冬城，是哀伤的凯特琳，是他的爱子布兰啊。
　　但凡事毕竟不可能尽如人意。艾德·史塔克心意已决，便一踢马肚，朝国王奔去。
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寒烟柔。

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等级: 内阁元老
配偶: 逐烟霞。
你看着眼前的人，分明还是以前的模样，可心里终究不是以前那般澄清透明了。
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   13．TYRION
   13．TYRION
   The north went on forever.
   Tyrion Lannister knew the maps as well as anyone, but a fortnight on the wild track that passed for the kingsroad up here had brought home the lesson that the map was one thing and the land quite another.
   They had left Winterfell on the same day as the king, amidst all the commotion of the royal departure, riding out to the sound of men shouting and horses snorting, to the rattle of wagons and the groaning of the queen’s huge wheelhouse, as a light snow flurried about them. The kingsroad was just beyond the sprawl of castle and town. There the banners and the wagons and the columns of knights and freeriders turned south, taking the tumult with them, while Tyrion turned north with Benjen Stark and his nephew.
   It had grown colder after that, and far more quiet.
   West of the road were flint hills, grey and rugged, with tall watchtowers on their stony summits. To the east the land was lower, the ground flattening to a rolling plain that stretched away as far as the eye could see. Stone bridges spanned swift, narrow rivers, while small farms spread in rings around holdfasts walled in wood and stone. The road was well trafficked, and at night for their comfort there were rude inns to be found.
   Three days ride from Winterfell, however, the farmland gave way to dense wood, and the kingsroad grew lonely. The flint hills rose higher and wilder with each passing mile, until by the fifth day they had turned into mountains, cold blue-grey giants with jagged promontories and snow on their shoulders. When the wind blew from the north, long plumes of ice crystals flew from the high peaks like banners.
   With the mountains a wall to the west, the road veered north by northeast through the wood, a forest of oak and evergreen and black brier that seemed older and darker than any Tyrion had ever seen. “The wolfswood,” Benjen Stark called it, and indeed their nights came alive with the howls of distant packs, and some not so distant. Jon Snow’s albino direwolf pricked up his ears at the nightly howling, but never raised his own voice in reply. There was something very unsettling about that animal, Tyrion thought.
   There were eight in the party by then, not counting the wolf. Tyrion traveled with two of his own men, as befit a Lannister. Benjen Stark had only his bastard nephew and some fresh mounts for the Night’s Watch, but at the edge of the wolfswood they stayed a night behind the wooden walls of a forest holdfast, and there joined up with another of the black brothers, one Yoren. Yoren was stooped and sinister, his features hidden behind a beard as black as his clothing, but he seemed as tough as an old root and as hard as stone. With him were a pair of ragged peasant boys from the Fingers. “Rapers,” Yoren said with a cold look at his charges. Tyrion understood. Life on the Wall was said to be hard, but no doubt it was preferable to castration.
   Five men, three boys, a direwolf, twenty horses, and a cage of ravens given over to Benjen Stark by Maester Luwin. No doubt they made a curious fellowship for the kingsroad, or any road.
   Tyrion noticed Jon Snow watching Yoren and his sullen companions, with an odd cast to his face that looked uncomfortably like dismay. Yoren had a twisted shoulder and a sour smell, his hair and beard were matted and greasy and full of lice, his clothing old, patched, and seldom washed. His two young recruits smelled even worse, and seemed as stupid as they were cruel.
   No doubt the boy had made the mistake of thinking that the Night’s Watch was made up of men like his uncle. If so, Yoren and his companions were a rude awakening. Tyrion felt sorry for the boy. He had chosen a hard life?.?.?.?or perhaps he should say that a hard life had been chosen for him.
   He had rather less sympathy for the uncle. Benjen Stark seemed to share his brother’s distaste for Lannisters, and he had not been pleased when Tyrion had told him of his intentions. “I warn you, Lannister, you’ll find no inns at the Wall,” he had said, looking down on him.
   “No doubt you’ll find some place to put me,” Tyrion had replied. “As you might have noticed, I’m small.”
   One did not say no to the queen’s brother, of course, so that had settled the matter, but Stark had not been happy. “You will not like the ride, I promise you that,” he’d said curtly, and since the moment they set out, he had done all he could to live up to that promise.
   By the end of the first week, Tyrion’s thighs were raw from hard riding, his legs were cramping badly, and he was chilled to the bone. He did not complain. He was damned if he would give Benjen Stark that satisfaction.
   He took a small revenge in the matter of his riding fur, a tattered bearskin, old and musty-smelling. Stark had offered it to him in an excess of Night’s Watch gallantry, no doubt expecting him to graciously decline. Tyrion had accepted with a smile. He had brought his warmest clothing with him when they rode out of Winterfell, and soon discovered that it was nowhere near warm enough. It was cold up here, and growing colder. The nights were well below freezing now, and when the wind blew it was like a knife cutting right through his warmest woolens. By now Stark was no doubt regretting his chivalrous impulse. Perhaps he had learned a lesson. The Lannisters never declined, graciously or otherwise. The Lannisters took what was offered.
   Farms and holdfasts grew scarcer and smaller as they pressed northward, ever deeper into the darkness of the wolfswood, until finally there were no more roofs to shelter under, and they were thrown back on their own resources.
   Tyrion was never much use in making a camp or breaking one. Too small, too hobbled, too in-the-way. So while Stark and Yoren and the other men erected rude shelters, tended the horses, and built a fire, it became his custom to take his fur and a wineskin and go off by himself to read.
   On the eighteenth night of their journey, the wine was a rare sweet amber from the Summer Isles that he had brought all the way north from Casterly Rock, and the book a rumination on the history and properties of dragons. With Lord Eddard Stark’s permission, Tyrion had borrowed a few rare volumes from the Winterfell library and packed them for the ride north.
   He found a comfortable spot just beyond the noise of the camp, beside a swift-running stream with waters clear and cold as ice. A grotesquely ancient oak provided shelter from the biting wind. Tyrion curled up in his fur with his back against the trunk, took a sip of the wine, and began to read about the properties of dragonbone. Dragonbone is black because of its high iron content, the book told him. It is strong as steel, yet lighter and far more flexible, and of course utterly impervious to fire. Dragonbone bows are greatly prized by the Dothraki, and small wonder. An archer so armed can outrange any wooden bow.
   Tyrion had a morbid fascination with dragons. When he had first come to King’s Landing for his sister’s wedding to Robert Baratheon, he had made it a point to seek out the dragon skulls that had hung on the walls of Targaryen’s throne room. King Robert had replaced them with banners and tapestries, but Tyrion had persisted until he found the skulls in the dank cellar where they had been stored.
   He had expected to find them impressive, perhaps even frightening. He had not thought to find them beautiful. Yet they were. As black as onyx, polished smooth, so the bone seemed to shimmer in the light of his torch. They liked the fire, he sensed. He’d thrust the torch into the mouth of one of the larger skulls and made the shadows leap and dance on the wall behind him. The teeth were long, curving knives of black diamond. The flame of the torch was nothing to them; they had bathed in the heat of far greater fires. When he had moved away, Tyrion could have sworn that the beast’s empty eye sockets had watched him go.
   There were nineteen skulls. The oldest was more than three thousand years old; the youngest a mere century and a half. The most recent were also the smallest; a matched pair no bigger than mastiff’s skulls, and oddly misshapen, all that remained of the last two hatchlings born on Dragonstone. They were the last of the Targaryen dragons, perhaps the last dragons anywhere, and they had not lived very long.
   From there the skulls ranged upward in size to the three great monsters of song and story, the dragons that Aegon Targaryen and his sisters had unleashed on the Seven Kingdoms of old. The singers had given them the names of gods: Balerion, Meraxes, Vhaghar. Tyrion had stood between their gaping jaws, wordless and awed. You could have ridden a horse down Vhaghar’s gullet, although you would not have ridden it out again. Meraxes was even bigger. And the greatest of them, Balerion, the Black Dread, could have swallowed an aurochs whole, or even one of the hairy mammoths said to roam the cold wastes beyond the Port of Ibben.
   Tyrion stood in that dank cellar for a long time, staring at Balerion’s huge, empty-eyed skull until his torch burned low, trying to grasp the size of the living animal, to imagine how it must have looked when it spread its great black wings and swept across the skies, breathing fire.
   His own remote ancestor, King Loren of the Rock, had tried to stand against the fire when he joined with King Mern of the Reach to oppose the Targaryen conquest. That was close on three hundred years ago, when the Seven Kingdoms were kingdoms, and not mere provinces of a greater realm. Between them, the Two Kings had six hundred banners flying, five thousand mounted knights, and ten times as many freeriders and men-at-arms. Aegon Dragonlord had perhaps a fifth that number, the chroniclers said, and most of those were conscripts from the ranks of the last king he had slain, their loyalties uncertain.
   The hosts met on the broad plains of the Reach, amidst golden fields of wheat ripe for harvest. When the Two Kings charged, the Targaryen army shivered and shattered and began to run. For a few moments, the chroniclers wrote, the conquest was at an end?.?.?.?but only for those few moments, before Aegon Targaryen and his sisters joined the battle.
   It was the only time that Vhaghar, Meraxes, and Balerion were all unleashed at once. The singers called it the Field of Fire.
   Near four thousand men had burned that day, among them King Mern of the Reach. King Loren had escaped, and lived long enough to surrender, pledge his fealty to the Targaryens, and beget a son, for which Tyrion was duly grateful.
   “Why do you read so much?”
   Tyrion looked up at the sound of the voice. Jon Snow was standing a few feet away, regarding him curiously. He closed the book on a finger and said, “Look at me and tell me what you see.”
   The boy looked at him suspiciously. “Is this some kind of trick? I see you. Tyrion Lannister.”
   Tyrion sighed. “You are remarkably polite for a bastard, Snow. What you see is a dwarf. You are what, twelve?”
   “Fourteen,” the boy said.
   “Fourteen, and you’re taller than I will ever be. My legs are short and twisted, and I walk with difficulty. I require a special saddle to keep from falling off my horse. A saddle of my own design, you may be interested to know. It was either that or ride a pony. My arms are strong enough, but again, too short. I will never make a swordsman. Had I been born a peasant, they might have left me out to die, or sold me to some slaver’s grotesquerie. Alas, I was born a Lannister of Casterly Rock, and the grotesqueries are all the poorer. Things are expected of me. My father was the Hand of the King for twenty years. My brother later killed that very same king, as it turns out, but life is full of these little ironies. My sister married the new king and my repulsive nephew will be king after him. I must do my part for the honor of my House, wouldn’t you agree? Yet how? Well, my legs may be too small for my body, but my head is too large, although I prefer to think it is just large enough for my mind. I have a realistic grasp of my own strengths and weaknesses. My mind is my weapon. My brother has his sword, King Robert has his warhammer, and I have my mind?.?.?.?and a mind needs books as a sword needs a whetstone, if it is to keep its edge.” Tyrion tapped the leather cover of the book. “That’s why I read so much, Jon Snow.”
   The boy absorbed that all in silence. He had the Stark face if not the name: long, solemn, guarded, a face that gave nothing away. Whoever his mother had been, she had left little of herself in her son. “What are you reading about?” he asked.
   “Dragons,” Tyrion told him.
   “What good is that? There are no more dragons,” the boy said with the easy certainty of youth.
   “So they say,” Tyrion replied. “Sad, isn’t it? When I was your age, used to dream of having a dragon of my own.”
   “You did?” the boy said suspiciously. Perhaps he thought Tyrion was making fun of him.
   “Oh, yes. Even a stunted, twisted, ugly little boy can look down over the world when he’s seated on a dragon’s back.” Tyrion pushed the bearskin aside and climbed to his feet. “I used to start fires in the bowels of Casterly Rock and stare at the flames for hours, pretending they were dragonfire. Sometimes I’d imagine my father burning. At other times, my sister.” Jon Snow was staring at him, a look equal parts horror and fascination. Tyrion guffawed. “Don’t look at me that way, bastard. I know your secret. You’ve dreamt the same kind of dreams.”
   “No,” Jon Snow said, horrified. “I wouldn’t?.?.?.?”
   “No? Never?” Tyrion raised an eyebrow. “Well, no doubt the Starks have been terribly good to you. I’m certain Lady Stark treats you as if you were one of her own. And your brother Robb, he’s always been kind, and why not? He gets Winterfell and you get the Wall. And your father?.?.?.?he must have good reasons for packing you off to the Night’s Watch?.?.?.?”
   “Stop it,” Jon Snow said, his face dark with anger. “The Night’s Watch is a noble calling!”
   Tyrion laughed. “You’re too smart to believe that. The Night’s Watch is a midden heap for all the misfits of the realm. I’ve seen you looking at Yoren and his boys. Those are your new brothers, Jon Snow, how do you like them? Sullen peasants, debtors, poachers, rapers, thieves, and bastards like you all wind up on the Wall, watching for grumkins and snarks and all the other monsters your wet nurse warned you about. The good part is there are no grumkins or snarks, so it’s scarcely dangerous work. The bad part is you freeze your balls off, but since you’re not allowed to breed anyway, I don’t suppose that matters.”
   “Stop it!” the boy screamed. He took a step forward, his hands coiling into fists, close to tears.
   Suddenly, absurdly, Tyrion felt guilty. He took a step forward, intending to give the boy a reassuring pat on the shoulder or mutter some word of apology.
   He never saw the wolf, where it was or how it came at him. One moment he was walking toward Snow and the next he was flat on his back on the hard rocky ground, the book spinning away from him as he fell, the breath going out of him at the sudden impact, his mouth full of dirt and blood and rotting leaves. As he tried to get up, his back spasmed painfully. He must have wrenched it in the fall. He ground his teeth in frustration, grabbed a root, and pulled himself back to a sitting position. “Help me,” he said to the boy, reaching up a hand.
   And suddenly the wolf was between them. He did not growl. The damned thing never made a sound. He only looked at him with those bright red eyes, and showed him his teeth, and that was more than enough. Tyrion sagged back to the ground with a grunt. “Don’t help me, then. I’ll sit right here until you leave.”
   Jon Snow stroked Ghost’s thick white fur, smiling now. “Ask me nicely.”
   Tyrion Lannister felt the anger coiling inside him, and crushed it out with a will. It was not the first time in his life he had been humiliated, and it would not be the last. Perhaps he even deserved this. “I should be very grateful for your kind assistance, Jon,” he said mildly.
   “Down, Ghost,” the boy said. The direwolf sat on his haunches. Those red eyes never left Tyrion. Jon came around behind him, slid his hands under his arms, and lifted him easily to his feet. Then he picked up the book and handed it back.
   “Why did he attack me?” Tyrion asked with a sidelong glance at the direwolf. He wiped blood and dirt from his mouth with the back of his hand.
   “Maybe he thought you were a grumkin.”
   Tyrion glanced at him sharply. Then he laughed, a raw snort of amusement that came bursting out through his nose entirely without his permission. “Oh, gods,” he said, choking on his laughter and shaking his head, “I suppose I do rather look like a grumkin. What does he do to snarks?”
   “You don’t want to know.” Jon picked up the wineskin and handed it to Tyrion.
   Tyrion pulled out the stopper, tilted his head, and squeezed a long stream into his mouth. The wine was cool fire as it trickled down his throat and warmed his belly. He held out the skin to Jon Snow. “Want some?”
   The boy took the skin and tried a cautious swallow. “It’s true, isn’t it?” he said when he was done. “What you said about the Night’s Watch.”
   Tyrion nodded.
   Jon Snow set his mouth in a grim line. “If that’s what it is, that’s what it is.”
   Tyrion grinned at him. “That’s good, bastard. Most men would rather deny a hard truth than face it.”
   “Most men,” the boy said. “But not you.”
   “No,” Tyrion admitted, “not me. I seldom even dream of dragons anymore. There are no dragons.” He scooped up the fallen bearskin. “Come, we had better return to camp before your uncle calls the banners.”
   The walk was short, but the ground was rough underfoot and his legs were cramping badly by the time they got back. Jon Snow offered a hand to help him over a thick tangle of roots, but Tyrion shook him off. He would make his own way, as he had all his life. Still, the camp was a welcome sight. The shelters had been thrown up against the tumbledown wall of a long-abandoned holdfast, a shield against the wind. The horses had been fed and a fire had been laid. Yoren sat on a stone, skinning a squirrel. The savory smell of stew filled Tyrion’s nostrils. He dragged himself over to where his man Morrec was tending the stewpot. Wordlessly, Morrec handed him the ladle. Tyrion tasted and handed it back. “More pepper,” he said.
   Benjen Stark emerged from the shelter he shared with his nephew. “There you are. Jon, damn it, don’t go off like that by yourself. I thought the Others had gotten you.”
   “It was the grumkins,” Tyrion told him, laughing. Jon Snow smiled. Stark shot a baffled look at Yoren. The old man grunted, shrugged, and went back to his bloody work.
   The squirrel gave some body to the stew, and they ate it with black bread and hard cheese that night around their fire. Tyrion shared around his skin of wine until even Yoren grew mellow. One by one the company drifted off to their shelters and to sleep, all but Jon Snow, who had drawn the night’s first watch.
   Tyrion was the last to retire, as always. As he stepped into the shelter his men had built for him, he paused and looked back at Jon Snow. The boy stood near the fire, his face still and hard, looking deep into the flames.
   Tyrion Lannister smiled sadly and went to bed.

Ⅰ 权力的游戏 Chapter14 提利昂
　　北境漫漫，一望无涯。
　　提利昂·兰尼斯特虽然熟读地图，但经过两周以来的一径北行，他深切体会到地图上说的是一回事，实际上却另有蹊跷。
　　他们和国王的队伍于同一天离开临冬城，冒着细雪，穿过那一片人声马嘶、马车嘎吱和王后轮宫的呻吟。国王大道紧邻着主堡和城下市镇。国王的旗帜与车队，骑士和自由骑手就在该处转向南行，提利昂则与班扬·史塔克和琼恩叔侄二人往北走。
　　在那之后，天气越趋凄冷，四周更显沉寂。
　　国王大道逐渐变成一条比森林小路大不了多少的小径。道路西边是崎岖的灰岩丘陵，矮丘顶高耸着一座座守望台。东边则地势低缓，平坦旷野无限伸展，直至极目尽头。石桥跨越汹涌的狭窄激流，农场围绕石墙木梁的聚落。路上来往颇为频繁，日落后极易找到歇脚旅店。
　　然而好景不长，离开临冬城三日之后，农田退去，只见茂密深林，国王大道也越来越人迹罕至。丘陵则日益陡峭，到了第五天，已经成了山脉，宛如肩负陈雪和陡峭岩峰的灰蓝巨人。当北风吹起，长长的冰针像旗帜一般从高耸的峰峦间飞溅而下。
　　山在西方，路往东北，蜿蜒穿过树林。班扬·史塔克称这座满是橡树、常青树和黑荆棘，看起来比提利昂所见过任何林子都要古老的森林为“狼林”，每到夜晚，森林里也确实传来远方狼群此起彼落的嚎叫，有时离他们还不甚远。雪诺的白子冰原狼听到便会竖起耳朵，却从不应和。提利昂总觉得那只东西有种令人极端不安的感觉。
　　扣除小狼不算，他们一行八人。首先提利昂依照兰尼斯特家的排场，带了两个随从。班扬·史塔克则只带着他的私生子侄儿，还有守夜人部队的一些牲口。但当他们在狼林边缘一栋木造庄园过夜时，又有一位叫尤伦的黑衣弟兄加入他们。这个尤伦驼着背，模样颇为阴狠，五官都躲在他那跟制服一般黑的胡子后面，但不难看出他是条汉子。他带了两个来自五指半岛，衣着破烂的农家子弟。“强奸犯。”尤伦冷冷地看着他们说。提利昂顿时领悟，长城上的日子虽然艰苦，但总比阉刑好得多。
　　五个男人，三个孩子，一只冰原狼，二十匹马，还有一笼鲁温学士托班扬·史塔克捎带的大乌鸦，这样的一支队伍，想必是幅相当怪异的景象。
　　提利昂注意到琼恩·雪诺一路不住打量尤伦和他那两名阴郁伙伴，脸上挂着古怪的表情，似乎有些困恼。尤伦不仅驼背，而且浑身酸臭，须发油腻，虱蚤丛生又衣衫破烂，遍布补丁且甚少清洗。他的两名手下味道更难闻，人则既愚蠢又残忍。
　　看来那孩子误以为守夜人军团里全是他叔叔这种人了。倘若他真这么想，那么尤伦一帮人对他可算是个错愕的觉醒。提利昂为那孩子难过，他选择的是一条艰难的道路……或者应该说，别人为他选择了这条艰难的道路。
　　他对孩子的叔叔可没这般好感。班扬·史塔克似乎和他哥哥一样讨厌兰尼斯特家的人，先前当提利昂表示想要同行时，他的反应相当不悦：“兰尼斯特，我话说在前头，长城没旅馆可住的。”他高高在上地盯着他。
　　“你总有办法安顿我罢，”提利昂答道，“你也看到了，我个子很小。”
　　当然，没人敢对王后的弟弟说不，所以事情就算这么定了，但班扬依旧很不高兴。“我保证你不会喜欢这趟旅程。”他很不客气地回敬，而自队伍出发以来，他也果真尽其所能让此话成真。
　　提利昂倒是在御寒皮衣上扳回一城，原本史塔克故作殷勤地献上一件满溢腥羶，老旧破烂的熊皮，以表现守夜人的济弱扶贫，显然希望他会碍于礼数婉拒，但提利昂微笑着收下。离开临冬城的时候，他带上了所有最暖和的衣服，随即却发现根本不够。这里真是冷得吓人，而且气温还在不断下降。夜里的温度早已降至冰点以下，每当朔风吹起，便如尖刀般割进他最暖和的羊皮衣。想必史塔克此时正为自己一时兴起的骑士精神后悔吧。也许他会从中学到教训：兰尼斯特家人来者不拒，管他什么礼数，只要别人给，我就敢拿。
　　越往北行，愈加深入狼林的幽暗国度，农庄田舍便更见疏落，终至人迹绝响，骤然遗世独立。
　　无论扎营拔营，提利昂都帮不上忙。他个子太小，蹒跚跛行只会碍手碍脚。于是他便趁史塔克和尤伦等人搭建帐篷居所，照料马匹，生火取暖之际，裹紧皮衣，揣着酒袋，蹒跚到一边独自读书，这成了他的习惯。
　　旅行的第十八天，他带着从凯岩城一路携来北方，盛夏群岛酿产的珍贵琥珀甜酒，以及相关龙族佚闻事迹的书——这几册珍贵的典籍乃是提利昂求得艾德·史塔克公爵允许，从临冬城的图书馆拿的——独自走开。
　　他走到营地的喧嚣之外，激流奔涌、水冷如冰的溪边觅得一方宁静。一株形体怪诞的老橡树恰好为他遮挡寒风。提利昂背靠树干，扯紧皮毛，啜了一口酒后读起关于龙骨的叙述。龙骨含铁量高，故呈黑色，书上如是说，龙骨坚硬如铁，然材质极轻且有韧性，自然亦不怕火。无怪乎多斯拉克人视龙骨弓为稀世珍宝，配上龙骨弓，射手可以轻易超越木制弓箭的射程。
　　提利昂对龙有种病态的迷恋。当年他初次造访君临，参加姐姐和劳勃·拜拉席恩的婚礼时，就打定主意一定要瞧瞧那些悬挂在坦格利安王座厅墙上的龙头。虽然劳勃国王早已把龙头换成了旗帜和壁毡，提利昂仍不死心，最后总算在阴湿的地窖内找到了它们的收藏处所。
　　他本以为龙头必定令人叹为观止，甚至叫人望而生畏，却怎么也想不到它们竟会是如此美丽的东西。它们的的确确美得让人目瞪口呆。黑如玛瑙，光滑洁亮，在他的火把映照下仿佛会闪闪发光。他察觉到它们喜欢火，因而特地把火把插进其中一个较大的龙嘴里，果真火光大盛，影子在他身后的墙上大肆舞跃。龙牙宛如一柄柄黑钻石制成的长弯刀，长年浸涤于炽热的烈焰里，火把微焰对它们来说根本算不了什么。当他抽身离去时，他发誓那头巨兽空洞的眼窝是目送着自己离开的。
　　巨龙头骨一共十九个，最老的寿命已经超过三千年，最幼小的也有一个半世纪那么久。幼龙的头骨也是最小的，那两个畸形怪状，比猎犬的头骨大不了多少，它们是龙石岛上所孵化的最后两只龙，是坦格利安家族最后的两只，或许也是这世界上最后的两只，它们非常短命。
　　其他的龙头则一个比一个大，最大的三头便是歌谣和传说里最恐怖的巨兽，即伊耿·坦格利安和他的妹妹们攻打古代七国时所骑乘的那三头龙。吟游诗人为他们都取了神的名字：贝勒里恩、米拉西斯和瓦格哈尔。提利昂站在他们的血盆大口间，震慑得说不出话来。瓦格哈尔的咽喉之大，大到你可以骑马进去，当然别想活着出来。米拉西斯体型更加惊人。而最硕大无朋，人称“黑死神”的贝勒里恩，则可一口吞下整只野牛，或是传说中漫游于伊班港以北冰冷荒原上的长毛象。
　　提利昂在阴湿地窖里伫立良久，盯着贝勒里恩空洞而巨大的眼窝，试着想像眼前这只巨兽生前的模样，想像它开展双翼，横扫天际，口吐烈焰的景象，直到火把燃尽。
　　他的远祖凯岩王罗伦，曾与河湾王孟恩联军抵抗坦格利安的征服。那是约三百年前的事，当时七大王国真的是各自为政的王国，而非今日大一统国度下的属地。两军合计有六百诸侯，五千骑兵，以及五万以上的雇佣军和步兵。据史家记载，“龙王”伊耿的军力大概只有对手的五分之一，其中多半是从他之前击败的敌手军队中召募而来，忠诚堪忧。
　　两军在河湾沿岸的沃野平畴中相遇，在遍地结实累累、等待收获的金黄麦田上交战。联军发动冲锋，坦格利安军立时四散溃逃。短短几分钟内，史家又如此写道，连年的征服似乎就要划上休止符……但这只是伊耿·坦格利安和他两个妹妹投入战局之前的那几分钟。
　　这是历史上惟一一次瓦格哈尔、米拉西斯和贝勒里恩同时出击，后世的吟游诗人称之为“怒火燎原”。
　　那天共有将近四千名士兵被烧成灰烬，其中包括河湾王孟恩。罗伦王侥幸逃脱，没过多久便向坦格利安家族投降称臣，后来还产下一子，为此提利昂只有感激的份。
　　“你读那么多书干嘛？”
　　提利昂闻言抬头，琼恩·雪诺正站在几步以外，好奇地端详他。他用一根手指夹住正读的书页：“看着我，然后告诉我你看到了什么？”
　　男孩狐疑地看着他说：“你耍什么把戏？我看到你啊，提利昂·兰尼斯特。”
　　提利昂叹道：“雪诺啊，你是个私生子，却真是够客气。你看到的是个侏儒。你几岁了？十二？”
　　“十四。”
　　“你才十四岁，我却一辈子长不到你现在这个高度。我这双脚又短又畸形，连走路都成问题，骑马还得配着特殊打造的马鞍，才不会摔下去。你有兴趣瞧瞧的话，这马鞍是我自己设计的。假如我不用它，就只能骑着孩子的小矮马。我的手臂还算强壮，但仍旧太短，所以永远也成不了好战士。如果我生在普通农家，早被扔在路边等死，不然就是卖进怪物杂耍团。唉，谁知我偏又生在凯岩城的兰尼斯特家，怪胎更不受欢迎，只因先前众人对我万般期待。你瞧，我爹干了二十年的御前首相，结果我老哥后来竟把国王给宰了，人生就是这样变幻无常。如今我老姐嫁给了新任国王，而我那脾气暴躁的外甥呢，有朝一日则会继任王位，只有我空担着家族的名誉，总得尽点心力，你说对罢？但是要怎么做呢？呵，我的腿太短，头却太大，总算这脑袋对我还算合适，凭着它我很清楚自己能干什么不能干什么，它就是我的武器。老哥有他的宝剑，劳勃国王有他的战锤，我则有我的脑袋瓜……不过人若要保持思路清晰锐利，就得多读书，就好像宝剑需要磨刀石一样。”提利昂轻敲书皮，“琼恩·雪诺，这就是为什么我读个不停啰。”
　　男孩静静地听完这番话。他虽然名分上没有史塔克这个姓，却有张地地道道史塔克家人的脸：脸长，严肃拘谨，喜怒不形于色。不论他母亲是谁，想必在他身上没留下多少自己的特征。“那你在读什么？”他问。
　　“跟龙有关的东西。”提利昂告诉他。
　　“读这有什么用？世上已经没有龙了。”男孩语气里带着少年独有的确信。
　　“人们是这样说没错，”提利昂答道，“很可惜，不是吗？我在你这年纪的时候，还经常梦想哪天有自己的龙哪。”
　　“真的吗？”男孩难以置信地说。或许他认为提利昂在寻他开心罢。
　　“当然是真的了，只要能骑在龙背上，即便是发育不良，畸形扭曲的丑陋小男孩也可以睥睨全世界。”提利昂推开熊皮，站起身来。“以前我常躲在凯岩城深处的地道，燃起火堆，望着熊熊烈焰，一望就是好几个钟头，一边幻想那是魔龙吐出的烈火。有时候我会幻想我老爸被火烧死，有时候则是我老姐。”琼恩·雪诺一脸既害怕又惊奇的表情，提利昂看了哈哈大笑，“小杂种，别用那种眼光看我，我知道你心里在想什么，你也有过这样的梦吧。”
　　“我才没有，”琼恩·雪诺害怕地说，“我不会……。”
　　“没有？从来没有？”提利昂抬起一边眉毛，“那想必史塔克一家人待你不薄？想必夫人对你也视如己出啰？还有你那异母兄弟罗柏，向来都跟你很亲是罢？为什么不呢？他得到临冬城，你得到的却是绝境长城。至于你父亲大人嘛……他一定也有正当理由，才会把你送去当守夜人……。”
　　“不要再说了，”琼恩·雪诺脸色阴沉地怒道，“加入守夜人是神圣的使命！”
　　提利昂笑笑。“聪明如你，怎会相信这种屁话？守夜人军团是个专门接收全国各地人渣废物的垃圾场，我瞧见了你看尤伦和他手下那两小子的神色，他们就是你的新弟兄，琼恩·雪诺，你可还喜欢？一脸死相的农奴、欠债鬼、盗猎者、强奸犯、小偷，还有像你这样的私生子通通都发配到长城上来，负责防范你奶妈小时候告诉你的各种古灵精怪。往好的方面想嘛，根本就没有什么古灵精怪；可是往坏处想呢，那地方冷得连命根子都要冻掉。不过既然原本就不准你生育后代，我看也没什么关系。”
　　“不要说了！”男孩尖叫着前跨一步，双手握拳，眼看就要掉下泪来。
　　提利昂突然很荒谬地有股罪恶感，他也朝前走了一步，想拍拍男孩肩膀安慰他，或是道声歉。
　　那只狼究竟是从什么地方出现的，他自始至终没有瞧见。前一刻他正朝雪诺走去，下一刻已被迎面扑倒在坚石地上，手中的书飞出老远。他被撞得喘不过气来，满嘴都是泥土血腥和枯枝腐叶。等他挣扎着想起身，背部却又剧烈地痉挛，一定是摔倒的时候扭了。他气恼地咬紧牙根，勾着一节树根，勉强坐住。“帮帮我罢。”他朝男孩伸出手。
　　突然，狼又出现在两人之间，它没有吼叫——这只该死的东西从不发出半点声音——只是用那双灿亮的红眼打量他，露出满口尖牙，这就够吓人的了。提利昂咕哝一声缩回地上。“不帮就算了，我就在这里，等你走了再说。”
　　琼恩·雪诺搓搓白灵厚重的白毛，却笑了。“求我，我就帮你。”
　　提利昂·兰尼斯特只觉体内一股怒气逐渐酝酿，只好强自按捺。这不是他这辈子头一次遭人羞辱，肯定也不是最后一次，何况这次还是他自讨苦吃。“琼恩，如果你肯出手相助，我将非常感激。”他温和地说。
　　“白灵，坐下。”男孩命令，冰原狼听罢蹲坐下来，那对红眼却始终不曾离开提利昂。琼恩绕到他身后，把手伸到他腋下，轻松地扶他起来，然后捡书递给他。
　　“刚才它为什么攻击我？”提利昂问，他斜眼瞟了冰原狼一眼，用手背揩了揩嘴里的血污和泥巴。
　　“说不定他以为你就是古灵精怪哟。”
　　提利昂瞪了他一眼，接着放声大笑，那是一股他全然没有预期的原始笑意。“噢，诸神在上，”他笑得差点岔了气，不住摇头，“我想我看起来确实蛮像的嘛！那要是他遇上真的古灵精怪会有何反应啊？”
　　“你不会想知道的。”琼恩拾起酒袋，交还提利昂。
　　提利昂拉开塞子，侧着头喝了一大口，葡萄酒宛如一泓冷火，流过他的喉咙，温暖他的脾胃。他把皮囊传给琼恩·雪诺。“你来点？”
　　男孩接过酒袋，谨慎地啜了一口。“刚才你说的那些关于守夜人的事，”喝完之后他问，“都是真的？”
　　提利昂点点头。
　　琼恩·雪诺神情肃穆地抿抿嘴。“那我就既来之则安之。”
　　提利昂朝他嘿嘿一笑。“私生子，真有你的。大部分的人宁可否认事实，也不愿面对真相。”
　　“那是大部分的人，”男孩道，“但不是你。”
　　“你说得对，”提利昂同意，“不是我。现在我连龙都很少去想了，这世上没有龙了。”他捡起掉落在地的熊皮。“走，我们还是趁你叔叔没出来找人之前回营去罢。”
　　回营的路虽然不长，但地面崎岖不平，等到赶回营区，他的双腿已经抽筋得厉害。琼恩·雪诺伸手准备帮他跨越一丛纠结繁密的树根，但提利昂却挥手拒绝了。他要自己走自己的路，一如他这一生。营地是一副令人欣喜的景象：人们围着一座早已废弃的庄舍倾颓的墙壁，搭起挡风的遮蔽，马儿都已喂饱，营火也生起来了，尤伦坐在一块石头上剥松鼠的皮。浓汤的香味溢满提利昂的鼻腔。他一跛一拐地拖着脚，走到正在搅拌热汤的仆人莫里斯身旁。莫里斯一言不发地把长柄杓递给他，提利昂尝了一口后交回去。“再多加点胡椒。”他说。
　　班扬·史塔克从他和侄子共用的帐篷里冒出来：“琼恩，你总算回来了。妈的，别一个人到处乱跑，我还以为你给异鬼抓走了。”
　　“他是被古灵精怪抓走的。”提利昂笑着告诉他，琼恩·雪诺也微微一笑。史塔克困惑地朝尤伦望去，那老头只耸耸肩，咕哝了一声，便又低头专心剥皮。
　　那只松鼠为肉汤添了点美味，当晚他们就围坐在营火边，配着黑面包和硬乳酪吃。提利昂让大家分享他的美酒，直喝到连尤伦都满脸通红。接着，大伙便一个个起身回帐篷去睡了，只剩下抽到头班守夜的琼恩·雪诺。
　　提利昂照例是最后去睡的人，当踏进手下为他搭建的营房时，他停下脚步，转头回望。只见男孩站在营火边，面色坚毅凝重，深深望进跳跃的熊熊火焰。
　　提利昂·兰尼斯特哀伤地笑了笑，返身进入营帐就寝。
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等级: 内阁元老
配偶: 逐烟霞。
你看着眼前的人，分明还是以前的模样，可心里终究不是以前那般澄清透明了。
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   14．CATELYN
   Ned and the girls were eight days gone when Maester Luwin came to her one night in Bran’s sickroom, carrying a reading lamp and the books of account. “It is past time that we reviewed the figures, my lady,” he said. “You’ll want to know how much this royal visit cost us.”
   Catelyn looked at Bran in his sickbed and brushed his hair back off his forehead. It had grown very long, she realized. She would have to cut it soon. “I have no need to look at figures, Maester Luwin,” she told him, never taking her eyes from Bran. “I know what the visit cost us. Take the books away.”
   “My lady, the king’s party had healthy appetites. We must replenish our stores before...”
   She cut him off. “I said, take the books away. The steward will attend to our needs.”
   “We have no steward,” Maester Luwin reminded her. Like a little grey rat, she thought, he would not let go. “Poole went south to establish Lord Eddard’s household at King’s Landing.”
   Catelyn nodded absently. “Oh, yes. I remember.” Bran looked so pale. She wondered whether they might move his bed under the window, so he could get the morning sun.
   Maester Luwin set the lamp in a niche by the door and fiddled with its wick. “There are several appointments that require your immediate attention, my lady. Besides the steward, we need a captain of the guards to fill Jory’s place, a new master of horse...”
   Her eyes snapped around and found him. “A master of horse?” Her voice was a whip.
   The maester was shaken. “Yes, my lady. Hullen rode south with Lord Eddard, so...”
   “My son lies here broken and dying, Luwin, and you wish to discuss a new master of horse? Do you think I care what happens in the stables? Do you think it matters to me one whit? I would gladly butcher every horse in Winterfell with my own hands if it would open Bran’s eyes, do you understand that? Do you?”
   He bowed his head. “Yes, my lady, but the appointments...”
   “I’ll make the appointments,” Robb said.
   Catelyn had not heard him enter, but there he stood in the doorway, looking at her. She had been shouting, she realized with a sudden flush of shame. What was happening to her? She was so tired, and her head hurt all the time.
   Maester Luwin looked from Catelyn to her son. “I have prepared a list of those we might wish to consider for the vacant offices,” he said, offering Robb a paper plucked from his sleeve.
   Her son glanced at the names. He had come from outside, Catelyn saw; his cheeks were red from the cold, his hair shaggy and windblown. “Good men,” he said. “We’ll talk about them tomorrow.” He handed back the list of names.
   “Very good, my lord.” The paper vanished into his sleeve.
   “Leave us now,” Robb said. Maester Luwin bowed and departed. Robb closed the door behind him and turned to her. He was wearing a sword, she saw. “Mother, what are you doing?”
   Catelyn had always thought Robb looked like her; like Bran and Rickon and Sansa, he had the Tully coloring, the auburn hair, the blue eyes. Yet now for the first time she saw something of Eddard Stark in his face, something as stern and hard as the north. “What am I doing?” she echoed, puzzled. “How can you ask that? What do you imagine I’m doing? I am taking care of your brother. I am taking care of Bran.”
   “Is that what you call it? You haven’t left this room since Bran was hurt. You didn’t even come to the gate when Father and the girls went south.”
   “I said my farewells to them here, and watched them ride out from that window.” She had begged Ned not to go, not now, not after what had happened; everything had changed now, couldn’t he see that? It was no use. He had no choice, he had told her, and then he left, choosing. “I can’t leave him, even for a moment, not when any moment could be his last. I have to be with him, if?.?.?.?if?.?.?.?” She took her son’s limp hand, sliding his fingers through her own. He was so frail and thin, with no strength left in his hand, but she could still feel the warmth of life through his skin.
   Robb’s voice softened. “He’s not going to die, Mother. Maester Luwin says the time of greatest danger has passed.”
   “And what if Maester Luwin is wrong? What if Bran needs me and I’m not here?”
   “Rickon needs you,” Robb said sharply. “He’s only three, he doesn’t understand what’s happening. He thinks everyone has deserted him, so he follows me around all day, clutching my leg and crying. I don’t know what to do with him.” He paused a moment, chewing on his lower lip the way he’d done when he was little. “Mother, I need you too. I’m trying but I can’t?.?.?.?I can’t do it all by myself.” His voice broke with sudden emotion, and Catelyn remembered that he was only fourteen. She wanted to get up and go to him, but Bran was still holding her hand and she could not move.
   Outside the tower, a wolf began to howl. Catelyn trembled, just for a second.
   “Bran’s.” Robb opened the window and let the night air into the stuffy tower room. The howling grew louder. It was a cold and lonely sound, full of melancholy and despair.
   “Don’t,” she told him. “Bran needs to stay warm.”
   “He needs to hear them sing,” Robb said. Somewhere out in Winterfell, a second wolf began to howl in chorus with the first. Then a third, closer. “Shaggydog and Grey Wind,” Robb said as their voices rose and fell together. “You can tell them apart if you listen close.”
   Catelyn was shaking. It was the grief, the cold, the howling of the direwolves. Night after night, the howling and the cold wind and the grey empty castle, on and on they went, never changing, and her boy lying there broken, the sweetest of her children, the gentlest, Bran who loved to laugh and climb and dreamt of knighthood, all gone now, she would never hear him laugh again. Sobbing, she pulled her hand free of his and covered her ears against those terrible howls. “Make them stop!” she cried. “I can’t stand it, make them stop, make them stop, kill them all if you must, just make them stop!”
   She didn’t remember falling to the floor, but there she was, and Robb was lifting her, holding her in strong arms. “Don’t be afraid, Mother. They would never hurt him.” He helped her to her narrow bed in the corner of the sickroom. “Close your eyes,” he said gently. “Rest. Maester Luwin tells me you’ve hardly slept since Bran’s fall.”
   “I can’t,” she wept. “Gods forgive me, Robb, I can’t, what if he dies while I’m asleep, what if he dies, what if he dies?.?.?.?” The wolves were still howling. She screamed and held her ears again. “Oh, gods, close the window!”
   “If you swear to me you’ll sleep.” Robb went to the window, but as he reached for the shutters another sound was added to the mournful howling of the direwolves. “Dogs,” he said, listening. “All the dogs are barking. They’ve never done that before?.?.?.?” Catelyn heard his breath catch in his throat. When she looked up, his face was pale in the lamplight. “Fire,” he whispered.
   Fire, she thought, and then, Bran! “Help me,” she said urgently, sitting up. “Help me with Bran.”
   Robb did not seem to hear her. “The library tower’s on fire,” he said.
   Catelyn could see the flickering reddish light through the open window now. She sagged with relief. Bran was safe. The library was across the bailey, there was no way the fire would reach them here. “Thank the gods,” she whispered.
   Robb looked at her as if she’d gone mad. “Mother, stay here. I’ll come back as soon as the fire’s out.” He ran then. She heard him shout to the guards outside the room, heard them descending together in a wild rush, taking the stairs two and three at a time.
   Outside, there were shouts of “Fire!” in the yard, screams, running footsteps, the whinny of frightened horses, and the frantic barking of the castle dogs. The howling was gone, she realized as she listened to the cacophony. The direwolves had fallen silent.
   Catelyn said a silent prayer of thanks to the seven faces of god as she went to the window. Across the bailey, long tongues of flame shot from the windows of the library. She watched the smoke rise into the sky and thought sadly of all the books the Starks had gathered over the centuries. Then she closed the shutters.
   When she turned away from the window, the man was in the room with her.
   “You weren’t s’posed to be here,” he muttered sourly. “No one was s’posed to be here.”
   He was a small, dirty man in filthy brown clothing, and he stank of horses. Catelyn knew all the men who worked in their stables, and he was none of them. He was gaunt, with limp blond hair and pale eyes deep-sunk in a bony face, and there was a dagger in his hand.
   Catelyn looked at the knife, then at Bran. “No,” she said. The word stuck in her throat, the merest whisper.
   He must have heard her. “It’s a mercy,” he said. “He’s dead already.”
   “No,” Catelyn said, louder now as she found her voice again. “No, you can’t.” She spun back toward the window to scream for help, but the man moved faster than she would have believed. One hand clamped down over her mouth and yanked back her head, the other brought the dagger up to her windpipe. The stench of him was overwhelming.
   She reached up with both hands and grabbed the blade with all her strength, pulling it away from her throat. She heard him cursing into her ear. Her fingers were slippery with blood, but she would not let go of the dagger. The hand over her mouth clenched more tightly, shutting off her air. Catelyn twisted her head to the side and managed to get a piece of his flesh between her teeth. She bit down hard into his palm. The man grunted in pain. She ground her teeth together and tore at him, and all of a sudden he let go. The taste of his blood filled her mouth. She sucked in air and screamed, and he grabbed her hair and pulled her away from him, and she stumbled and went down, and then he was standing over her, breathing hard, shaking. The dagger was still clutched tightly in his right hand, slick with blood. “You weren’t s’posed to be here,” he repeated stupidly.
   Catelyn saw the shadow slip through the open door behind him. There was a low rumble, less than a snarl, the merest whisper of a threat, but he must have heard something, because he started to turn just as the wolf made its leap. They went down together, half sprawled over Catelyn where she’d fallen. The wolf had him under the jaw. The man’s shriek lasted less than a second before the beast wrenched back its head, taking out half his throat.
   His blood felt like warm rain as it sprayed across her face.
   The wolf was looking at her. Its jaws were red and wet and its eyes glowed golden in the dark room. It was Bran’s wolf, she realized. Of course it was. “Thank you,” Catelyn whispered, her voice faint and tiny. She lifted her hand, trembling. The wolf padded closer, sniffed at her fingers, then licked at the blood with a wet rough tongue. When it had cleaned all the blood off her hand, it turned away silently and jumped up on Bran’s bed and lay down beside him. Catelyn began to laugh hysterically.
   That was the way they found them, when Robb and Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrik burst in with half the guards in Winterfell. When the laughter finally died in her throat, they wrapped her in warm blankets and led her back to the Great Keep, to her own chambers. Old Nan undressed her and helped her into a scalding hot bath and washed the blood off her with a soft cloth.
   Afterward Maester Luwin arrived to dress her wounds. The cuts in her fingers went deep, almost to the bone, and her scalp was raw and bleeding where he’d pulled out a handful of hair. The maester told her the pain was just starting now, and gave her milk of the poppy to help her sleep.
   Finally she closed her eyes.
   When she opened them again, they told her that she had slept four days. Catelyn nodded and sat up in bed. It all seemed like a nightmare to her now, everything since Bran’s fall, a terrible dream of blood and grief, but she had the pain in her hands to remind her that it was real. She felt weak and light-headed, yet strangely resolute, as if a great weight had lifted from her.
   “Bring me some bread and honey,” she told her servants, “and take word to Maester Luwin that my bandages want changing.” They looked at her in surprise and ran to do her bidding.
   Catelyn remembered the way she had been before, and she was ashamed. She had let them all down, her children, her husband, her House. It would not happen again. She would show these northerners how strong a Tully of Riverrun could be.
   Robb arrived before her food. Rodrik Cassel came with him, and her husband’s ward Theon Greyjoy, and lastly Hallis Mollen, a muscular guardsman with a square brown beard. He was the new captain of the guard, Robb said. Her son was dressed in boiled leather and ringmail, she saw, and a sword hung at his waist.
   “Who was he?” Catelyn asked them.
   “No one knows his name,” Hallis Mollen told her. “He was no man of Winterfell, m’lady, but some says they seen him here and about the castle these past few weeks.”
   “One of the king’s men, then,” she said, “or one of the Lannisters’. He could have waited behind when the others left.”
   “Maybe,” Hal said. “With all these strangers filling up Winterfell of late, there’s no way of saying who he belonged to.”
   “He’d been hiding in your stables,” Greyjoy said. “You could smell it on him.”
   “And how could he go unnoticed?” she said sharply.
   Hallis Mollen looked abashed. “Between the horses Lord Eddard took south and them we sent north to the Night’s Watch, the stalls were half-empty. It were no great trick to hide from the stableboys. Could be Hodor saw him, the talk is that boy’s been acting queer, but simple as he is?.?.?.?” Hal shook his head.
   “We found where he’d been sleeping,” Robb put in. “He had ninety silver stags in a leather bag buried beneath the straw.”
   “It’s good to know my son’s life was not sold cheaply,” Catelyn said bitterly.
   Hallis Mollen looked at her, confused. “Begging your grace, m’lady, you saying he was out to kill your boy?”
   Greyjoy was doubtful. “That’s madness.”
   “He came for Bran,” Catelyn said. “He kept muttering how I wasn’t supposed to be there. He set the library fire thinking I would rush to put it out, taking any guards with me. If I hadn’t been half-mad with grief, it would have worked.”
   “Why would anyone want to kill Bran?” Robb said. “Gods, he’s only a little boy, helpless, sleeping?.?.?.?”
   Catelyn gave her firstborn a challenging look. “If you are to rule in the north, you must think these things through, Robb. Answer your own question. Why would anyone want to kill a sleeping child?”
   Before he could answer, the servants returned with a plate of food fresh from the kitchen. There was much more than she’d asked for: hot bread, butter and honey and blackberry preserves, a rasher of bacon and a soft-boiled egg, a wedge of cheese, a pot of mint tea. And with it came Maester Luwin.
   “How is my son, Maester?” Catelyn looked at all the food and found she had no appetite.
   Maester Luwin lowered his eyes. “Unchanged, my lady.”
   It was the reply she had expected, no more and no less. Her hands throbbed with pain, as if the blade were still in her, cutting deep. She sent the servants away and looked back to Robb. “Do you have the answer yet?”
   “Someone is afraid Bran might wake up,” Robb said, “afraid of what he might say or do, afraid of something he knows.”
   Catelyn was proud of him. “Very good.” She turned to the new captain of the guard. “We must keep Bran safe. If there was one killer, there could be others.”
   “How many guards do you want, rn’lady?” Hal asked.
   “So long as Lord Eddard is away, my son is the master of Winterfell,” she told him.
   Robb stood a little taller. “Put one man in the sickroom, night and day, one outside the door, two at the bottom of the stairs. No one sees Bran without my warrant or my mother’s.”
   “As you say, m’lord.”
   “Do it now,” Catelyn suggested.
   “And let his wolf stay in the room with him,” Robb added.
   “Yes,” Catelyn said. And then again: “Yes.”
   Hallis Mollen bowed and left the room.
   “Lady Stark,” Ser Rodrik said when the guardsman had gone, “did you chance to notice the dagger the killer used?”
   “The circumstances did not allow me to examine it closely, but I can vouch for its edge,” Catelyn replied with a dry smile. “Why do you ask?”
   “We found the knife still in the villain’s grasp. It seemed to me that it was altogether too fine a weapon for such a man, so I looked at it long and hard. The blade is Valyrian steel, the hilt dragonbone. A weapon like that has no business being in the hands of such as him. Someone gave it to him.”
   Catelyn nodded, thoughtful. “Robb, close the door.”
   He looked at her strangely, but did as she told him.
   “What I am about to tell you must not leave this room,” she told them. “I want your oaths on that. If even part of what I suspect is true, Ned and my girls have ridden into deadly danger, and a word in the wrong ears could mean their lives.”
   “Lord Eddard is a second father to me,” said Theon Greyjoy. “I do so swear.”
   “You have my oath,” Maester Luwin said.
   “And mine, my lady,” echoed Ser Rodrik.
   She looked at her son. “And you, Robb?”
   He nodded his consent.
   “My sister Lysa believes the Lannisters murdered her husband, Lord Arryn, the Hand of the King,” Catelyn told them. “It comes to me that Jaime Lannister did not join the hunt the day Bran fell. He remained here in the castle.” The room was deathly quiet. “I do not think Bran fell from that tower,” she said into the stillness. “I think he was thrown.”
   The shock was plain on their faces. “My lady, that is a monstrous suggestion,” said Rodrik Cassel. “Even the Kingslayer would flinch at the murder of an innocent child.”
   “Oh, would he?” Theon Greyjoy asked. “I wonder.”
   “There is no limit to Lannister pride or Lannister ambition,” Catelyn said.
   “The boy had always been surehanded in the past,” Maester Luwin said thoughtfully. “He knew every stone in Winterfell.”
   “Gods,” Robb swore, his young face dark with anger. “If this is true, he will pay for it.” He drew his sword and waved it in the air. “I’ll kill him myself!”
   Ser Rodrik bristled at him. “Put that away! The Lannisters are a hundred leagues away. Never draw your sword unless you mean to use it. How many times must I tell you, foolish boy?”
   Abashed, Robb sheathed his sword, suddenly a child again. Catelyn said to Ser Rodrik, “I see my son is wearing steel now.”
   The old master-at-arms said, “I thought it was time.”
   Robb was looking at her anxiously. “Past time,” she said. “Winterfell may have need of all its swords soon, and they had best not be made of wood.”
   Theon Greyjoy put a hand on the hilt of his blade and said, “My lady, if it comes to that, my House owes yours a great debt.”
   Maester Luwin pulled at his chain collar where it chafed against his neck. “All we have is conjecture. This is the queen’s beloved brother we mean to accuse. She will not take it kindly. We must have proof, or forever keep silent.”
   “Your proof is in the dagger,” Ser Rodrik said. “A fine blade like that will not have gone unnoticed.”
   There was only one place to find the truth of it, Catelyn realized. “Someone must go to King’s Landing.”
   “I’ll go,” Robb said.
   “No,” she told him. “Your place is here. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.” She looked at Ser Rodrik with his great white whiskers, at Maester Luwin in his grey robes, at young Greyjoy, lean and dark and impetuous. Who to send? Who would be believed? Then she knew. Catelyn struggled to push back the blankets, her bandaged fingers as stiff and unyielding as stone. She climbed out of bed. “I must go myself.”
   “My lady,” said Maester Luwin, “is that wise? Surely the Lannisters would greet your arrival with suspicion.”
   “What about Bran?” Robb asked. The poor boy looked utterly confused now. “You can’t mean to leave him.”
   “I have done everything I can for Bran,” she said, laying a wounded hand on his arm. “His life is in the hands of the gods and Maester Luwin. As you reminded me yourself, Robb, I have other children to think of now.”
   “You will need a strong escort, my lady,” Theon said.
   “I’ll send Hal with a squad of guardsmen,” Robb said.
   “No,” Catelyn said. “A large party attracts unwelcome attention. I would not have the Lannisters know I am coming.”
   Ser Rodrik protested. “My lady, let me accompany you at least. The kingsroad can be perilous for a woman alone.”
   “I will not be taking the kingsroad,” Catelyn replied. She thought for a moment, then nodded her consent. “Two riders can move as fast as one, and a good deal faster than a long column burdened by wagons and wheelhouses. I will welcome your company, Ser Rodrik. We will follow the White Knife down to the sea, and hire a ship at White Harbor. Strong horses and brisk winds should bring us to King’s Landing well ahead of Ned and the Lannisters.” And then, she thought, we shall see what we shall see.


Ⅰ 权力的游戏 Chapter15 凯特琳
　　奈德和两个女儿离开后的第十八天夜里，鲁温学士带着一盏写字灯和账本，来到布兰的病房求见。“夫人，我们该清点账目了，”他说，“这样您才知道这次招待王室的开销。”
　　凯特琳望着病榻上的布兰，拨开他额间细发，忽然察觉到他的头发长得好长，她得尽快找时间帮他修剪。“鲁温师傅，用不着给我看账目，”她告诉他，视线始终离不开布兰。“我知道宴客的支出有多吓人。把账本拿走罢。”
　　“夫人，国王的手下食量很大，我们得赶紧补充城里的存粮，以免……”
　　她打断他：“我说过，把账本拿走。这些事交给总管去处理。”
　　“我们没有总管了，”鲁温学士提醒她。他就像只灰鼠，她心想，咬住了就不肯罢休。“普尔随同老爷南下去了君临，以管理艾德大人的家务事。”
　　凯特琳漫不经心地点点头。“噢，对，我想起来了。”布兰看起来好苍白，她暗自思索不知能否把病床移到窗边，好让他晒点早晨的太阳。
　　鲁温学士把油灯安置在门边的壁龛里，胡乱捻着灯芯。“夫人，还有好些职务要请您立刻决定。除总管外，我们需要一名新的守卫队长，以替代乔里的位子，还有新的马房总管——”
　　她的双眼倏地转去，紧紧盯住他。“马房总管？”她的声音如鞭子破空。
　　老学士显然被吓了一跳。“是的，夫人，胡伦也和艾德大人一起南下，所以——”
　　“鲁温，我儿子支离破碎地躺在这里等死，你却要跟我讨论一个管马的家伙？你觉得我在乎马厩里发生了什么事吗？你觉得那边发生的事和我沾得上一点边吗？如果杀光全城的马可以让布兰睁开眼睛，我会很乐意地亲自动手，你听懂了没有？听懂了没有？”
　　他低下头。“夫人，我听得懂，但是这些职位等不——”
　　“我来安排。”罗柏道。
　　凯特琳没听见罗柏的脚步声，但抬头就发现他站在过道里，定定地看着她。她想起自己刚才大呼小叫的举动，脸倏地一红，为自己羞耻。我究竟是怎么了？她只觉得好累，头一整天痛个没完。
　　鲁温师傅看看凯特琳，又看看她儿子。“我已经列好一份合适人选的名单。”他边说边从袖子里掏出一张纸交给罗柏。
　　她的儿子扫了一眼清单上的名字。凯特琳这才发现他刚从外面回来，两颊给冻得红扑扑，头发也被风吹得乱七八糟。“都是很好的人选，”他说：“我们明天再来谈谈这事。”他把名单交还鲁温学士。
　　“好的，大人。”那张纸立刻消失在他袖子里。
　　“你先退下吧。”罗柏道。鲁温学士颔首离去，罗柏关上门，转身面对她。她看到他身上还配了把剑。“母亲，你这又是何苦呢？”
　　凯特琳一直都觉得罗柏长得最像她。他和布兰、瑞肯、珊莎一样，生有一副徒利家的漂亮颜色——枣红头发、碧蓝眼瞳，如今她再一次在他脸上读了艾德·史塔克的神色，一种属于北方的坚毅冷峻。“我怎么了？”她困惑地应道，“你怎么能问这种话？你以为我在做什么，我在照顾你弟弟，我在照顾布兰哪。”
　　“这哪叫照顾？自布兰受伤以来，你就没踏出这房间半步，连父亲和妹妹他们南下的时候，你也没到城门口去送行。”
　　“我在这房里跟他们道了别，还在窗边目送他们离去。”当时她苦苦哀求奈德别走，尤其在发生了这种惨剧之后。难道他看不出来现在一切都改变了吗？结果却徒劳无功，他说他别无选择，而他的选择就是南下。“我不能丢下他，哪怕一刻也不行，他随时可能咽下最后一口气。我得守着他，以免……以免……”她握起爱子了无生气的手掌，把他的手指滑过自己的指间。他实在好脆弱好消瘦，手里半点力气也没有，好在透过他的皮肤，仍旧能感觉生命的温暖。
　　罗柏的语气和缓下来：“母亲，他不会死的，鲁温师傅说危险期已经过了。”
　　“那要是鲁温师傅错了呢？要是布兰需要我时我却不在呢？”
　　“需要你的人是瑞肯，”罗柏语锋转厉，“他才三岁，还根本搞不清事态。他只以为大家都不要他了，所以成天跟着我，抱着我大腿又哭又闹，我真不知该怎么办才好！”说到这里他突然停了下来，像他小时候习惯的那样咬咬下嘴唇。“妈，我也需要你啊。我很努力在尝试，可我……我一个人做不来啊！”随着这突如其来的情绪激动，他的声音陡地沙哑，凯特琳这才想起他不过十四岁。她好想站起来去抱抱他，但布兰仍旧握着她的手，她没法动弹。
　　高塔之外传来一声狼嚎，凯特琳不禁浑身颤抖。
　　“是布兰的狼。”罗柏打开窗，让晚风灌进窒闷的高塔斗室。狼嚎声越来越大，那是一种冷彻心肺的孤绝之音，充满忧郁和绝望。
　　“别开窗，”她告诉他，“让布兰暖和点。”
　　“他需要听听小狼的叫声。”罗柏道。在临冬城的某处，又有一只狼加入到长嚎的阵容，之后又是一只，这次离高塔比较近。“是毛毛狗和灰风。”在高低起伏，抑扬顿挫的狼嚎声中，罗柏说：“仔细听，你可以分辨出他们。”
　　凯特琳却仍旧颤抖不已，这不仅因为悲伤，因为寒冷，还因为冰原狼的叫声。夜复一夜，日复一日，狼嚎、凛风和灰暗空寂的城堡，漫无边际地延续，恒常不变，而她的爱子却倒卧病榻，这是她最甜美的孩子，那个爱笑，爱爬，爱做骑士梦的布兰，如今全成了过眼云烟，只怕此生再也听不到他的笑声。思及此处，她泣不成声，不顾一切地自他掌中抽出双手，捂住耳朵，不愿再听外面那骇人的狼嚎。“叫他们别叫了！”她喊，“我受不了，叫他们别叫了，别叫了，就算杀了他们也没关系，只要他们别叫就好！”
　　她不记得自己何时跌倒在地，但她确实在地上，罗柏扶她起身，用强壮的双臂环住她。“母亲，您别怕，他们绝对不会伤害布兰。”他搀她走到病房角落她的狭窄小床边。“闭上眼睛，”他温柔地说，“好好休息。鲁温师傅跟我说打布兰出事以来您几乎没阖过眼。”
　　“我怎么能休息？”她啜泣，“诸神开眼，罗柏，我不能休息，万一他在我熟睡时过去了，万一……万一……”窗外狼嚎依旧。她高声尖叫，再度捂紧耳朵。“噢，天哪，天哪，关上窗子罢！”
　　“如果你答应我先睡一会儿，我就关。”罗柏走到窗边，就在他伸手去拉的时候，冰原狼的悲鸣中又添加了一种新的声音。“是狗叫，”他专心倾听，“全城的狗都跟着叫起来了，它们以前不会这样的……”凯特琳听见他的呼吸哽在喉咙，便抬起头，只见灯光下他面容惨白。“失火了。”他喃喃道。
　　失火了，她的第一反应是，救救布兰！“快帮帮我，”她催促，“快帮我把布兰抱起来。”
　　可罗柏好像根本没听见。“藏书塔失火了。”他说。
　　透过敞开的窗户，凯特琳看见闪曳的红色亮光。她如释重负，布兰安全了，藏书塔位于城廓之外，火势无论如何没有蔓延到这里的可能。“感谢老天。”她低声轻语。
　　罗柏看她的眼神仿佛将她当成了疯子，“母亲，请您留在这里，火势扑灭之后我就回来。”说完他便跑了出去。她听见他朝门外守卫发号施令，随后他们三步并作两步急奔下楼。
　　外面广场上传来“失火了！”的呐喊、尖叫、奔跑的脚步声、受惊的马儿嘶鸣以及惊狂的狗吠。在阵阵不和谐的声响中，她突然发现听不见狼嚎了，不知怎地，冰原狼都安静了下来。
　　凯特琳走向窗边，心中朝着至高七神默默祷告，以示感激之情。隔着城廓，只见长长的火舌自藏书高塔窗间吐射而出。她望着浓烟直冲云霄，不禁暗自为陷身火海的珍本古籍而惋惜，它们可都是史塔克家族历经多少世代辛苦累积的精华哪。然后她关上了窗。
　　转过身，她才发现屋里多了一名男子。
　　“你不该在这儿，”他阴沉地嘀咕，“这里不该有人。”
　　他穿着一身脏污的褐色衣服，个头很小，浑身散发出马臊味。凯特琳对在马厩工作的仆人了如指掌，却对眼前来人毫无印象。他骨瘦如柴，生了一头软塌的金黄色头发，暗淡的双眼凹陷在皮包骨的脸上，手里握着一把匕首。
　　凯特琳望望那把刀，再看看布兰。“不。”她说。话卡在喉咙里出不来，传出的只剩最微弱的低语。
　　想必他还是听到了。“这是为他好。”他说，“反正他跟死人也没两样。”
　　“不，”凯特琳找回了声音，说话大声起来。“不行，不准你这么做！”她箭步奔向窗边想大声呼救，但对方的动作快得惊人，他飞快地伸出一只手捂住她的嘴巴，将她的头往后扯，利刃随即架上她的咽喉。他全身臭气熏天，她简直快要窒息。
　　她双手齐伸握住匕首，死命将之扯离喉咙。耳边传来他的咒骂，虽然指间鲜血淋漓，她却依旧不肯放手。捂住她嘴巴的手钳制得更紧，使她呼吸困难。凯特琳猛力扭头，在上下齿缝间找到他的手，狠狠地咬将下去。男人痛苦地闷哼一声，她又咬紧牙关用力撕扯，迫使他陡地松开手。她满嘴都是血腥，深深吸了口气，然后厉声尖叫起来。男子见状，忙一把攫住她的头发，使劲一推，她踉跄跌步，倒在地上。他站在她身边大声喘息，颤抖不已，右手仍紧握着那把匕首，刃锋上全是血。“你不该在这儿。”他笨拙地重复这句话。
　　这时，凯特琳看见一道黑影从他身后的门口溜了进来，低低地吼了一声，算不上咆哮，只能说是充满威胁的低语。但他应该还是听见了，因为当狼飞身跃起朝他扑去时，他正准备转身。人和狼同时扑翻在地，卧倒在凯特琳跌落的地方。狼张口便咬，男人的惨叫持续还不到一秒，狼便一扭头，拧下他半个喉咙。
　　鲜血有如一阵温热的雨溅洒在她脸上。
　　狼目不转睛地盯着她瞧，嘴巴腥红，湿漉漉的，眼瞳在暗室里闪着熠熠金光。她恍然大悟，这是布兰的狼，当然是了。“谢谢你。”凯特琳轻声说，她的声音微弱而细小。她举起手，却止不住颤抖。小狼轻步走近，闻闻她的手指头，然后用他粗糙但温润的舌头舔了舔指间的鲜血。舔净之后，他静静地转身跃上布兰的病床，在他身边躺下。凯特琳歇斯底里地笑了起来。
　　后来当罗柏、鲁温学士和罗德利克爵士带着临冬城半数以上的卫士冲进房里时，他们所见到的就是这番景象。当笑声终于止息，他们把她包裹在温暖的毛毯里，带回主堡卧室。老奶妈为她褪去衣物，搀扶她洗了个滚烫的热水澡，并用软布揩去她身上血污。之后鲁温师傅帮她包扎伤口。她指间的刀伤极深，几可见骨，头皮也因刚才粗暴拉扯掉几撮头发而汨汨流血。老师傅告诉她疼痛才刚开始，要她喝下罂粟花奶以安眠入梦。
　　最后她总算闭眼沉沉睡去。
　　再睁眼时，他们告诉她，已经过了四天。凯特琳点头坐起，想起布兰坠楼至今发生的所有事情，充斥血光和悲伤，犹如惊梦一场，但手上的伤痕却告诉她一切都是千真万确。她手脚发软，头重脚轻，思绪却出奇地明晰果决，如释重负。
　　“我要吃点面包和蜂蜜，”她吩咐仆人，“顺便通知鲁温师傅，说我的伤该换药了。”他们惊奇地看着她，连忙照吩咐行事。
　　凯特琳忆起自己这些日子来的模样，只觉羞愧无比。她辜负了大家的期望，辜负了她的孩子、她的丈夫和她的家族声望。同样的事绝不会发生第二次。她要让北方人见识见识奔流城的徒利家人有多么坚强。
　　食物还没送上，罗柏率先赶到。随行的还有罗德利克·凯索和她丈夫的养子席恩·葛雷乔伊，以及肌肉发达，留了一撮棕褐色方正胡子的哈里斯·莫兰。罗柏说他是新上任的侍卫队长。她见到儿子披革裹甲，腰间还佩了剑。
　　“他到底是谁？”她询问他们。
　　“没人知道这家伙的名字。”哈里斯·莫兰告诉她。“夫人，他根本不是咱临冬城的人，只是前几个星期有人看到他在城堡附近出没。”
　　“想必是国王的手下，”她说，“或是兰尼斯特家的走狗。他很可能在别人离开后躲了起来。”
　　“很有可能，”哈尔道，“前阵子临冬城里到处都是外地人，谁也说不准他的来历。”
　　“他躲在马厩，”葛雷乔伊说，“从他身上就能闻出来。”
　　“那怎么没人发现？”她口气尖锐地问。
　　哈里斯·莫兰满脸通红。“除去艾德老爷带去南方的马和咱们送给守夜人的，马厩里没剩下几匹。要躲开马僮本也不是什么难事。或许阿多见着了他，听人说那孩子最近怪怪的，不过他那样单纯的人……”哈尔摇摇头。
　　“我们找到了他睡觉的地方，”罗柏插进来，“他在稻草堆下藏了个皮袋，里面有九十枚银鹿。”
　　“这么说来我儿的性命还挺值钱。”凯特琳苦涩地说。
　　哈里斯·莫兰困惑地看看她。“夫人，恕我冒昧，您的意思是这厮打的是公子的主意？”
　　葛雷乔伊一脸狐疑。“这太疯狂了。”
　　“他正是冲着布兰来的，”凯特琳道，“他从头到尾念个不停，说我不该在这儿。显然他放火引燃藏书塔，以为我会带着所有的卫士冲出去救火。假如不是我伤心得乱了方寸，恐怕他就已经得逞。”
　　“可干嘛对布兰下手呢？”罗柏道，“诸神在上，他不过是个弱小的孩子，病体单薄，沉睡不醒……”
　　凯特琳尖锐地看了她长子一眼。“罗柏，若你想统治北方，就得学着去思考这种问题。你自己想想自己的问题，为什么有人要对一个熟睡的孩子下手？”
　　他还未及回答，仆人便送上了热腾腾的餐点：有热面包、奶油、蜂蜜和黑梅果酱，培根和白煮蛋，还有乳酪与一壶薄荷茶，比她要求的丰盛许多。接着鲁温师傅也进来了。
　　“师傅，我儿怎么样了？”凯特琳望望眼前的丰盛食物，却毫无胃口。
　　鲁温学士低头：“夫人，病情没有变化。”
　　这正是她原本预期的答案，不多也不少。她的手伤隐隐作痛，仿佛利刃仍存，越割越深。她遣走仆人，回头看着罗柏。“你有答案了吗？”
　　“因为他害怕布兰会醒来，”罗柏道，“害怕他醒来后会说的话或会做的事，害怕他所知道的情况。”
　　凯特琳替他骄傲。“很好。”她转向新任侍卫队长。“所谓有一就有二，我们得好好保护布兰。”
　　“夫人，您要多少守卫？”哈尔①问。
　　“如今艾德大人不在，我儿就是临冬城主。”她告诉他。
　　罗柏昂首道：“派一个人守在房里，一个守在门外，不分昼夜，下面楼梯口再派两个。未经我或我母亲的许可，谁也不准接近布兰。”
　　“是的，大人。”
　　“现在就去办。”凯特琳提议。
　　“让他的狼也待在房里陪他。”罗柏又补了一句。
　　“对，”凯特琳说，然后又重复了一遍，“这样很好。”
　　哈里斯·莫兰点头行礼后离开房间。
　　“史塔克夫人，”侍卫队长离开后，罗德利克爵士问，“您有否注意到刺客行凶用的匕首？”
　　“当时我无暇细看，不过它的锋利我可以确定。”凯特琳苦笑着回答。“为何问这个？”
　　“刺客死时手里还握着那把匕首，我觉得以他的身份地位不足以使用这么精良的武器，所以花了很长的时间仔细研究。刀刃乃是瓦雷利亚钢打造，刀柄的材质则是龙骨。这样的武器不可能出现在他手中，一定是有人交给他的。”
　　凯特琳颔首沉吟。“罗柏，把门关上。”
　　他眼神怪异地看了看她，随即照办。
　　“当下我要告诉你们的事，绝对不许外传。”她对他们说，“我的怀疑只要有任何一部份属实，那么奈德和我的女儿们便是身陷险境，消息一旦走漏很可能就会要他们的命。因此我需要你们宣誓守密。”
　　“艾德大人待我恩如生父，”葛雷乔伊道，“我誓不泄漏今日所闻。”
　　“我发誓守密。”鲁温学士说。
　　“夫人，我也是。”罗德利克爵士应道。
　　她望望儿子。“罗柏，你呢？”
　　他点点头。
　　“我妹妹莱莎认为她丈夫，也就是前任御前首相琼恩·艾林，是被兰尼斯特家所谋杀。”凯特琳对他们说，“我又想起布兰坠楼当天，詹姆·兰尼斯特并未参加国王的狩猎活动，而是留在城内。”满室死寂。“所以我认定布兰并非失足坠楼，”她平静地说完。“而是被抛下去的。”
　　震慑清楚地写在众人脸上。“夫人，这真是耸人听闻，”罗德利克·凯索道，“就算‘弑君者’，恐怕也做不出这种残害无辜幼儿的事。”
　　“哦，是吗？”席恩·葛雷乔伊反问，“我却很怀疑。”
　　“以兰尼斯特家的野心和傲慢，没有什么是他们做不出来的。”凯特琳答道。
　　“布兰那孩子以前从没出过事，”鲁温学士沉吟，“临冬城的一砖一瓦他全都了如指掌。”
　　“天杀的，”罗柏咒道，他年轻的脸庞蒙上了愤怒的阴影。“这要是真的，他迟早会付出代价。”他抽出佩剑，举在空中挥舞。“我要亲手宰了他！”
　　罗德利克爵士怒道：“把剑收起来！兰尼斯特远在几百里之外，你这蠢小子。我告诫过你多少次了？除非迫不得已，否则绝不要拔剑！”
　　罗柏羞愧地照办，刹那间又显得孩子气。凯特琳对罗德利克爵士说：“看来我儿已经开始佩戴武器。”
　　老教头回答：“我觉得是时候了。”
　　罗柏紧张地望着她。“早该如此。”她说，“临冬城可能很快就要进入紧急戒备，届时木剑是派不上用场的。”
　　席恩·葛雷乔伊把手放在自己剑柄上：“夫人，倘若真有战事，我们家族听任差遣。”
　　鲁温学士拉拉颈间被金属项链磨伤的地方。“我们现在一切都只能猜测。被控谋杀的不是别人，正是当今王后的亲弟弟，这事万不能传到她的耳中。除非我们握有证据，否则不可轻举妄动。”
　　“匕首就是证据，”罗德利克爵士道，“如此精巧的名刀一定有人见过。”
　　凯特琳明白，若要发掘事实真相，惟有一处可去。“有人必须到君临走一趟。”
　　“我去。”罗柏道。
　　“不行，”她告诉他，“你要留在这里。无论如何，临冬城都要有史塔克家的人当家。”她看看满脸白须的罗德利克爵士，又看看一身灰袍的鲁温学士，再看看年轻精瘦却冲动莽撞的葛雷乔伊，派谁去好呢？谁最值得信赖？她心里已有了答案。凯特琳挣扎着推开毛毯，只觉裹着绷带的手指僵硬如同磐石，她爬下床。“我亲自去。”
　　“夫人，”鲁温学士道，“这样好吗？兰尼斯特家的人一定会对你的出现起疑。”
　　“布兰怎么办？”罗柏问。这可怜的孩子已困惑得乱了方寸。“你总不能丢下他不管吧？”
　　“能为他做的我都做了，”她伸出受伤的手放在他臂膀上。“他的性命就交给天上诸神和鲁温师傅。你不也提醒过我吗？罗柏，我还有其他的孩子需要考虑。”
　　“夫人，您需要人马护送。”席恩道。
　　“我叫哈尔带一队守卫随你去。”罗柏说。
　　“不，”凯特琳说，“大队人马只会惹来不必要的注意。我不希望让兰尼斯特家知道我南下的消息。”
　　罗德利克爵士辩道：“夫人，那么起码让我跟您一道去。国王大道很危险，您一个女人家不方便。”
　　“我不打算走国王大道。”凯特琳回答。她思量半晌，接着点头表示确定。“两人骑马的话，速度并不比单人慢，却比大队车辆和轮宫快上许多。罗德利克爵士，欢迎你和我同行。我们沿白刃河朝海边走，然后在白港雇船走水路。假如马匹迅速，海风顺畅，我们便可赶在奈德和兰尼斯特家的人之前抵达君临。”到时候，她心里暗想，我们走着瞧。
　　※※※※※※
　　①哈尔是哈里斯的小名。
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等级: 内阁元老
配偶: 逐烟霞。
你看着眼前的人，分明还是以前的模样，可心里终究不是以前那般澄清透明了。
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   15．SANSA
   Eddard Stark had left before dawn, Septa Mordane informed Sansa as they broke their fast. “The king sent for him. Another hunt, I do believe. There are still wild aurochs in these lands, I am told.”
   “I’ve never seen an aurochs,” Sansa said, feeding a piece of bacon to Lady under the table. The direwolf took it from her hand, as delicate as a queen.
   Septa Mordane sniffed in disapproval. “A noble lady does not feed dogs at her table,” she said, breaking off another piece of comb and letting the honey drip down onto her bread.
   “She’s not a dog, she’s a direwolf,” Sansa pointed out as Lady licked her fingers with a rough tongue. “Anyway, Father said we could keep them with us if we want.”
   The septa was not appeased. “You’re a good girl, Sansa, but I do vow, when it comes to that creature you’re as willful as your sister Arya.” She scowled. “And where is Arya this morning?”
   “She wasn’t hungry,” Sansa said, knowing full well that her sister had probably stolen down to the kitchen hours ago and wheedled a breakfast out of some cook’s boy.
   “Do remind her to dress nicely today. The grey velvet, perhaps. We are all invited to ride with the queen and Princess Myrcella in the royal wheelhouse, and we must look our best.”
   Sansa already looked her best. She had brushed out her long auburn hair until it shone, and picked her nicest blue silks. She had been looking forward to today for more than a week. It was a great honor to ride with the queen, and besides, Prince Joffrey might be there. Her betrothed. Just thinking it made her feel a strange fluttering inside, even though they were not to marry for years and years. Sansa did not really know Joffrey yet, but she was already in love with him. He was all she ever dreamt her prince should be, tall and handsome and strong, with hair like gold. She treasured every chance to spend time with him, few as they were. The only thing that scared her about today was Arya. Arya had a way of ruining everything. You never knew what she would do. “I’ll tell her,” Sansa said uncertainly, “but she’ll dress the way she always does.” She hoped it wouldn’t be too embarrassing. “May I be excused?”
   “You may.” Septa Mordane helped herself to more bread and honey, and Sansa slid from the bench. Lady followed at her heels as she ran from the inn’s common room.
   Outside, she stood for a moment amidst the shouts and curses and the creak of wooden wheels as the men broke down the tents and pavilions and loaded the wagons for another day’s march. The inn was a sprawling three-story structure of pale stone, the biggest that Sansa had ever seen, but even so, it had accommodations for less than a third of the king’s party, which had swollen to more than four hundred with the addition of her father’s household and the freeriders who had joined them on the road.
   She found Arya on the banks of the Trident, trying to hold Nymeria still while she brushed dried mud from her fur. The direwolf was not enjoying the process. Arya was wearing the same riding leathers she had worn yesterday and the day before.
   “You better put on something pretty,” Sansa told her. “Septa Mordane said so. We’re traveling in the queen’s wheelhouse with Princess Myrcella today.”
   “I’m not,” Arya said, trying to brush a tangle out of Nymeria’s matted grey fur. “Mycah and I are going to ride upstream and look for rubies at the ford.”
   “Rubies,” Sansa said, lost. “What rubies?”
   Arya gave her a look like she was so stupid. “Rhaegar’s rubies. This is where King Robert killed him and won the crown.”
   Sansa regarded her scrawny little sister in disbelief. “You can’t look for rubies, the princess is expecting us. The queen invited us both.”
   “I don’t care,” Arya said. “The wheelhouse doesn’t even have windows, you can’t see a thing.”
   “What could you want to see?” Sansa said, annoyed. She had been thrilled by the invitation, and her stupid sister was going to ruin everything, just as she’d feared. “It’s all just fields and farms and holdfasts.”
   “It is not,” Arya said stubbornly. “If you came with us sometimes, you’d see.”
   “I hate riding,” Sansa said fervently. “All it does is get you soiled and dusty and sore.”
   Arya shrugged. “Hold still,” she snapped at Nymeria, “I’m not hurting you.” Then to Sansa she said, “When we were crossing the Neck, I counted thirty-six flowers I never saw before, and Mycah showed me a lizard-lion.”
   Sansa shuddered. They had been twelve days crossing the Neck, rumbling down a crooked causeway through an endless black bog, and she had hated every moment of it. The air had been damp and clammy, the causeway so narrow they could not even make proper camp at night, they had to stop right on the kingsroad. Dense thickets of half-drowned trees pressed close around them, branches dripping with curtains of pale fungus. Huge flowers bloomed in the mud and floated on pools of stagnant water, but if you were stupid enough to leave the causeway to pluck them, there were quicksands waiting to suck you down, and snakes watching from the trees, and lizard lions floating half-submerged in the water, like black logs with eyes and teeth.
   None of which stopped Arya, of course. One day she came back grinning her horsey grin, her hair all tangled and her clothes covered in mud, clutching a raggedy bunch of purple and green flowers for Father. Sansa kept hoping he would tell Arya to behave herself and act like the highborn lady she was supposed to be, but he never did, he only hugged her and thanked her for the flowers. That just made her worse.
   Then it turned out the purple flowers were called poison kisses, and Arya got a rash on her arms. Sansa would have thought that might have taught her a lesson, but Arya laughed about it, and the next day she rubbed mud all over her arms like some ignorant bog woman just because her friend Mycah told her it would stop the itching. She had bruises on her arms and shoulders too, dark purple welts and faded green-and-yellow splotches, Sansa had seen them when her sister undressed for sleep. How she had gotten those only the seven gods knew.
   Arya was still going on, brushing out Nymeria’s tangles and chattering about things she’d seen on the trek south. “Last week we found this haunted watchtower, and the day before we chased a herd of wild horses. You should have seen them run when they caught a scent of Nymeria.” The wolf wriggled in her grasp and Arya scolded her. “Stop that, I have to do the other side, you’re all muddy.”
   “You’re not supposed to leave the column,” Sansa reminded her. “Father said so.”
   Arya shrugged. “I didn’t go far. Anyway, Nymeria was with me the whole time. I don’t always go off, either. Sometimes it’s fun just to ride along with the wagons and talk to people.”
   Sansa knew all about the sorts of people Arya liked to talk to: squires and grooms and serving girls, old men and naked children, rough-spoken freeriders of uncertain birth. Arya would make friends with anybody. This Mycah was the worst; a butcher’s boy, thirteen and wild, he slept in the meat wagon and smelled of the slaughtering block. Just the sight of him was enough to make Sansa feel sick, but Arya seemed to prefer his company to hers.
   Sansa was running out of patience now. “You have to come with me,” she told her sister firmly. “You can’t refuse the queen. Septa Mordane will expect you.”
   Arya ignored her. She gave a hard yank with the brush. Nymeria growled and spun away, affronted. “Come back here!”
   “There’s going to be lemon cakes and tea,” Sansa went on, all adult and reasonable. Lady brushed against her leg. Sansa scratched her ears the way she liked, and Lady sat beside her on her haunches, watching Arya chase Nymeria. “Why would you want to ride a smelly old horse and get all sore and sweaty when you could recline on feather pillows and eat cakes with the queen?”
   “I don’t like the queen,” Arya said casually. Sansa sucked in her breath, shocked that even Arya would say such a thing, but her sister prattled on, heedless. “She won’t even let me bring Nymeria.” She thrust the brush under her belt and stalked her wolf. Nymeria watched her approach warily.
   “A royal wheelhouse is no place for a wolf,” Sansa said. “And Princess Myrcella is afraid of them, you know that.”
   “Myrcella is a little baby.” Arya grabbed Nymeria around her neck, but the moment she pulled out the brush again the direwolf wriggled free and bounded off. Frustrated, Arya threw down the brush. “Bad wolf!” she shouted.
   Sansa couldn’t help but smile a little. The kennelmaster once told her that an animal takes after its master. She gave Lady a quick little hug. Lady licked her cheek. Sansa giggled. Arya heard and whirled around, glaring. “I don’t care what you say, I’m going out riding.” Her long horsey face got the stubborn look that meant she was going to do something willful.
   “Gods be true, Arya, sometimes you act like such a child,” Sansa said. “I’ll go by myself then. It will be ever so much nicer that way. Lady and I will eat all the lemon cakes and just have the best time without you.”
   She turned to walk off, but Arya shouted after her, “They won’t let you bring Lady either.” She was gone before Sansa could think of a reply, chasing Nymeria along the river.
   Alone and humiliated, Sansa took the long way back to the inn, where she knew Septa Mordane would be waiting. Lady padded quietly by her side. She was almost in tears. All she wanted was for things to be nice and pretty, the way they were in the songs. Why couldn’t Arya be sweet and delicate and kind, like Princess Myrcella? She would have liked a sister like that.
   Sansa could never understand how two sisters, born only two years apart, could be so different. It would have been easier if Arya had been a bastard, like their half brother Jon. She even looked like Jon, with the long face and brown hair of the Starks, and nothing of their lady mother in her face or her coloring. And Jon’s mother had been common, or so people whispered. Once, when she was littler, Sansa had even asked Mother if perhaps there hadn’t been some mistake. Perhaps the grumkins had stolen her real sister. But Mother had only laughed and said no, Arya was her daughter and Sansa’s trueborn sister, blood of their blood. Sansa could not think why Mother would want to lie about it, so she supposed it had to be true.
   As she neared the center of camp, her distress was quickly forgotten. A crowd had gathered around the queen’s wheelhouse. Sansa heard excited voices buzzing like a hive of bees. The doors had been thrown open, she saw, and the queen stood at the top of the wooden steps, smiling down at someone. She heard her saying, “The council does us great honor, my good lords.”
   “What’s happening?” she asked a squire she knew.
   “The council sent riders from King’s Landing to escort us the rest of the way,” he told her. “An honor guard for the king.”
   Anxious to see, Sansa let Lady clear a path through the crowd. People moved aside hastily for the direwolf. When she got closer, she saw two knights kneeling before the queen, in armor so fine and gorgeous that it made her blink.
   One knight wore an intricate suit of white enameled scales, brilliant as a field of new-fallen snow, with silver chasings and clasps that glittered in the sun. When he removed his helm, Sansa saw that he was an old man with hair as pale as his armor, yet he seemed strong and graceful for all that. From his shoulders hung the pure white cloak of the Kingsguard.
   His companion was a man near twenty whose armor was steel plate of a deep forest-green. He was the handsomest man Sansa had ever set eyes upon; tall and powerfully made, with jet-black hair that fell to his shoulders and framed a clean-shaven face, and laughing green eyes to match his armor. Cradled under one arm was an antlered helm, its magnificent rack shimmering in gold.
   At first Sansa did not notice the third stranger. He did not kneel with the others. He stood to one side, beside their horses, a gaunt grim man who watched the proceedings in silence. His face was pockmarked and beardless, with deepset eyes and hollow cheeks. Though he was not an old man, only a few wisps of hair remained to him, sprouting above his ears, but those he had grown long as a woman’s. His armor was iron-grey chainmail over layers of boiled leather, plain and unadorned, and it spoke of age and hard use. Above his right shoulder the stained leather hilt of the blade strapped to his back was visible; a two-handed greatsword, too long to be worn at his side.
   “The king is gone hunting, but I know he will be pleased to see you when he returns,” the queen was saying to the two knights who knelt before her, but Sansa could not take her eyes off the third man. He seemed to feel the weight of her gaze. Slowly he turned his head. Lady growled. A terror as overwhelming as anything Sansa Stark had ever felt filled her suddenly. She stepped backward and bumped into someone.
   Strong hands grasped her by the shoulders, and for a moment Sansa thought it was her father, but when she turned, it was the burned face of Sandor Clegane looking down at her, his mouth twisted in a terrible mockery of a smile. “You are shaking, girl,” he said, his voice rasping. “Do I frighten you so much?”
   He did, and had since she had first laid eyes on the ruin that fire had made of his face, though it seemed to her now that he was not half so terrifying as the other. Still, Sansa wrenched away from him, and the Hound laughed, and Lady moved between them, rumbling a warning. Sansa dropped to her knees to wrap her arms around the wolf. They were all gathered around gaping, she could feel their eyes on her, and here and there she heard muttered comments and titters of laughter.
   “A wolf,” a man said, and someone else said, “Seven hells, that’s a direwolf,” and the first man said, “What’s it doing in camp?” and the Hound’s rasping voice replied, “The Starks use them for wet nurses,” and Sansa realized that the two stranger knights were looking down on her and Lady, swords in their hands, and then she was frightened again, and ashamed. Tears filled her eyes.
   She heard the queen say, “Joffrey, go to her.”
   And her prince was there.
   “Leave her alone,” Joffrey said. He stood over her, beautiful in blue wool and black leather, his golden curls shining in the sun like a crown. He gave her his hand, drew her to her feet. “What is it, sweet lady? Why are you afraid? No one will hurt you. Put away your swords, all of you. The wolf is her little pet, that’s all.” He looked at Sandor Clegane. “And you, dog, away with you, you’re scaring my betrothed.”
   The Hound, ever faithful, bowed and slid away quietly through the press. Sansa struggled to steady herself. She felt like such a fool. She was a Stark of Winterfell, a noble lady, and someday she would be a queen. “It was not him, my sweet prince,” she tried to explain. “It was the other one.”
   The two stranger knights exchanged a look. “Payne?” chuckled the young man in the green armor.
   The older man in white spoke to Sansa gently. “Ofttimes Ser Ilyn frightens me as well, sweet lady. He has a fearsome aspect.”
   “As well he should.” The queen had descended from the wheelhouse. The spectators parted to make way for her. “If the wicked do not fear the Mng’s Justice, you have put the wrong man in the office.”
   Sansa finally found her words. “Then surely you have chosen the right one, Your Grace,” she said, and a gale of laughter erupted all around her.
   “Well spoken, child,” said the old man in white. “As befits the daughter of Eddard Stark. I am honored to know you, however irregular the manner of our meeting. I am Ser Barristan Selmy, of the Kingsguard.” He bowed.
   Sansa knew the name, and now the courtesies that Septa Mordane had taught her over the years came back to her. “The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard,” she said, “and councillor to Robert our king and to Aerys Targaryen before him. The honor is mine, good knight. Even in the far north, the singers praise the deeds of Barristan the Bold.”
   The green knight laughed again. “Barristan the Old, you mean. Don’t flatter him too sweetly, child, he thinks overmuch of himself already.” He smiled at her. “Now, wolf girl, if you can put a name to me as well, then I must concede that you are truly our Hand’s daughter.”
   Joffrey stiffened beside her. “Have a care how you address my betrothed.”
   “I can answer,” Sansa said quickly, to quell her prince’s anger. She smiled at the green knight. “Your helmet bears golden antlers, my lord. The stag is the sigil of the royal House. King Robert has two brothers. By your extreme youth, you can only be Renly Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End and councillor to the king, and so I name you.”
   Ser Barristan chuckled. “By his extreme youth, he can only be a prancing jackanapes, and so I name him.”
   There was general laughter, led by Lord Renly himself. The tension of a few moments ago was gone, and Sansa was beginning to feel comfortable?.?.?.?until Ser Ilyn Payne shouldered two men aside, and stood before her, unsmiling. He did not say a word. Lady bared her teeth and began to growl, a low rumble full of menace, but this time Sansa silenced the wolf with a gentle hand to the head. “I am sorry if I offended you, Ser Ilyn,” she said.
   She waited for an answer, but none came. As the headsman looked at her, his pale colorless eyes seemed to strip the clothes away from her, and then the skin, leaving her soul naked before him. Still silent, he turned and walked away.
   Sansa did not understand. She looked at her prince. “Did I say something wrong, Your Grace? Why will he not speak to me?”
   “Ser Ilyn has not been feeling talkative these past fourteen years,” Lord Renly commented with a sly smile.
   Joffrey gave his uncle a look of pure loathing, then took Sansa’s hands in his own. “Aerys Targaryen had his tongue ripped out with hot pincers.”
   “He speaks most eloquently with his sword, however,” the queen said, “and his devotion to our realm is unquestioned.” Then she smiled graciously and said, “Sansa, the good councillors and I must speak together until the king returns with your father. I fear we shall have to postpone your day with Myrcella. Please give your sweet sister my apologies. Joffrey, perhaps you would be so kind as to entertain our guest today.”
   “It would be my pleasure, Mother,” Joffrey said very formally. He took her by the arm and led her away from the wheelhouse, and Sansa’s spirits took flight. A whole day with her prince! She gazed at Joffrey worshipfully. He was so gallant, she thought. The way he had rescued her from Ser Ilyn and the Hound, why, it was almost like the songs, like the time Serwyn of the Mirror Shield saved the Princess Daeryssa from the giants, or Prince Aemon the Dragonknight championing Queen Naerys’s honor against evil Ser Morgil’s slanders.
   The touch of Joffrey’s hand on her sleeve made her heart beat faster. “What would you like to do?”
   Be with you, Sansa thought, but she said, “Whatever you’d like to do, my prince.”
   Jofftey reflected a moment. “We could go riding.”
   “Oh, I love riding,” Sansa said.
   Joffrey glanced back at Lady, who was following at their heels. “Your wolf is liable to frighten the horses, and my dog seems to frighten you. Let us leave them both behind and set off on our own, what do you say?”
   Sansa hesitated. “If you like,” she said uncertainly. “I suppose I could tie Lady up.” She did not quite understand, though. “I didn’t know you had a dog?.?.?.?”
   Joffrey laughed. “He’s my mother’s dog, in truth. She has set him to guard me, and so he does.”
   “You mean the Hound,” she said. She wanted to hit herself for being so slow. Her prince would never love her if she seemed stupid. “Is it safe to leave him behind?”
   Prince Joffrey looked annoyed that she would even ask. “Have no fear, lady. I am almost a man grown, and I don’t fight with wood like your brothers. All I need is this.” He drew his sword and showed it to her; a longsword adroitly shrunken to suit a boy of twelve, gleaming blue steel, castle-forged and double-edged, with a leather grip and a lion’s-head pommel in gold. Sansa exclaimed over it admiringly, and Joffrey looked pleased. “I call it Lion’s Tooth,” he said.
   And so they left her direwolf and his bodyguard behind them, while they ranged east along the north bank of the Trident with no company save Lion’s Tooth.
   It was a glorious day, a magical day. The air was warm and heavy with the scent of flowers, and the woods here had a gentle beauty that Sansa had never seen in the north. Prince Joffrey’s mount was a blood bay courser, swift as the wind, and he rode it with reckless abandon, so fast that Sansa was hard-pressed to keep up on her mare. It was a day for adventures. They explored the caves by the riverbank, and tracked a shadowcat to its lair, and when they grew hungry, Joffrey found a holdfast by its smoke and told them to fetch food and wine for their prince and his lady. They dined on trout fresh from the river, and Sansa drank more wine than she had ever drunk before. “My father only lets us have one cup, and only at feasts,” she confessed to her prince.
   “My betrothed can drink as much as she wants,” Joffrey said, refilling her cup.
   They went more slowly after they had eaten. Joffrey sang for her as they rode, his voice high and sweet and pure. Sansa was a little dizzy from the wine. “Shouldn’t we be starting back?” she asked.
   “Soon,” Joffrey said. “The battleground is right up ahead, where the river bends. That was where my father killed Rhaegar Targaryen, you know. He smashed in his chest, crunch, right through the armor.” Joffrey swung an imaginary warhammer to show her how it was done. “Then my uncle Jaime killed old Aerys, and my father was king. What’s that sound?”
   Sansa heard it too, floating through the woods, a kind of wooden clattering, snack snack snack. “I don’t know,” she said. It made her nervous, though. “Joffrey, let’s go back.”
   “I want to see what it is.” Joffrey turned his horse in the direction of the sounds, and Sansa had no choice but to follow. The noises grew louder and more distinct, the clack of wood on wood, and as they grew closer they heard heavy breathing as well, and now and then a grunt.
   “Someone’s there,” Sansa said anxiously. She found herself thinking of Lady, wishing the direwolf was with her.
   “You’re safe with me.” Joffrey drew his Lion’s Tooth from its sheath. The sound of steel on leather made her tremble. “This way,” he said, riding through a stand of trees.
   Beyond, in a clearing overlooking the river, they came upon a boy and a girl playing at knights. Their swords were wooden sticks, broom handles from the look of them, and they were rushing across the grass, swinging at each other lustily. The boy was years older, a head taller, and much stronger, and he was pressing the attack. The girl, a scrawny thing in soiled leathers, was dodging and managing to get her stick in the way of most of the boy’s blows, but not all. When she tried to lunge at him, he caught her stick with his own, swept it aside, and slid his wood down hard on her fingers. She cried out and lost her weapon.
   Prince Joffrey laughed. The boy looked around, wide-eyed and startled, and dropped his stick in the grass. The girl glared at them, sucking on her knuckles to take the sting out, and Sansa was horrified. “Arya?” she called out incredulously.
   “Go away,” Arya shouted back at them, angry tears in her eyes. “What are you doing here? Leave us alone.”
   Joffrey glanced from Arya to Sansa and back again. “Your sister?” She nodded, blushing. Joffrey examined the boy, an ungainly lad with a coarse, freckled face and thick red hair. “And who are you, boy?” he asked in a commanding tone that took no notice of the fact that the other was a year his senior.
   “Mycah,” the boy muttered. He recognized the prince and averted his eyes. “M’lord.”
   “He’s the butcher’s boy,” Sansa said.
   “He’s my friend,” Arya said sharply. “You leave him alone.”
   “A butcher’s boy who wants to be a knight, is it?” Joffrey swung down from his mount, sword in hand. “Pick up your sword, butcher’s boy,” he said, his eyes bright with amusement. “Let us see how good you are.”
   Mycah stood there, frozen with fear.
   Joffrey walked toward him. “Go on, pick it up. Or do you only fight little girls?”
   “She ast me to, m’lord,” Mycah said. “She ast me to.”
   Sansa had only to glance at Arya and see the flush on her sister’s face to know the boy was telling the truth, but Joffrey was in no mood to listen. The wine had made him wild. “Are you going to pick up your sword?”
   Mycah shook his head. “It’s only a stick, m’lord. It’s not no sword, it’s only a stick.”
   “And you’re only a butcher’s boy, and no knight.” Joffrey lifted Lion’s Tooth and laid its point on Mycah’s cheek below the eye, as the butcher’s boy stood trembling. “That was my lady’s sister you were hitting, do you know that?” A bright bud of blood blossomed where his sword pressed into Mycah’s flesh, and a slow red line trickled down the boy’s cheek.
   “Stop it!” Arya screamed. She grabbed up her fallen stick.
   Sansa was afraid. “Arya, you stay out of this.”
   “I won’t hurt him?.?.?.?much,” Prince Joffrey told Arya, never taking his eyes off the butcher’s boy.
   Arya went for him.
   Sansa slid off her mare, but she was too slow. Arya swung with both hands. There was a loud crack as the wood split against the back of the prince’s head, and then everything happened at once before Sansa’s horrified eyes. Joffrey staggered and whirled around, roaring curses. Mycah ran for the trees as fast as his legs would take him. Arya swung at the prince again, but this time Joffrey caught the blow on Lion’s Tooth and sent her broken stick flying from her hands. The back of his head was all bloody and his eyes were on fire. Sansa was shrieking, “No, no, stop it, stop it, both of you, you’re spoiling it,” but no one was listening. Arya scooped up a rock and hurled it at Joffrey’s head. She hit his horse instead, and the blood bay reared and went galloping off after Mycah. “Stop it, don’t, stop it!” Sansa screamed. Joffrey slashed at Arya with his sword, screaming obscenities, terrible words, filthy words. Arya darted back, frightened now, but Joffrey followed, hounding her toward the woods, backing her up against a tree. Sansa didn’t know what to do. She watched helplessly, almost blind from her tears.
   Then a grey blur flashed past her, and suddenly Nymeria was there, leaping, jaws closing around Joffrey’s sword arm. The steel fell from his fingers as the wolf knocked him off his feet, and they rolled in the grass, the wolf snarling and ripping at him, the prince shrieking in pain. “Get it off,” he screamed. “Get it off!”
   Arya’s voice cracked like a whip. “Nymeria!”
   The direwolf let go of Joffrey and moved to Arya’s side. The prince lay in the grass, whimpering, cradling his mangled arm. His shirt was soaked in blood. Arya said, “She didn’t hurt you?.?.?.?much.” She picked up Lion’s Tooth where it had fallen, and stood over him, holding the sword with both hands.
   Jofftey made a scared whimpery sound as he looked up at her. “No,” he said, “don’t hurt me. I’ll tell my mother.”
   “You leave him alone!” Sansa screamed at her sister.
   Arya whirled and heaved the sword into the air, putting her whole body into the throw. The blue steel flashed in the sun as the sword spun out over the river. It hit the water and vanished with a splash. Joffrey moaned. Arya ran off to her horse, Nymeria loping at her heels.
   After they had gone, Sansa went to Prince Joffrey. His eyes were closed in pain, his breath ragged. Sansa knelt beside him. “Joffrey,” she sobbed. “Oh, look what they did, look what they did. My poor prince. Don’t be afraid. I’ll ride to the holdfast and bring help for you.” Tenderly she reached out and brushed back his soft blond hair.
   His eyes snapped open and looked at her, and there was nothing but loathing there, nothing but the vilest contempt. “Then go,” he spit at her. “And don’t touch me.”

Ⅰ 权力的游戏 Chapter16 珊莎
　　早餐的时候，茉丹修女告诉珊莎，艾德·史塔克大人天亮前就离了营。“国王找他去的，我想肯定又是去外面打猎。听说这附近还有野牛出没哪。”
　　“我从没见过野牛。”珊莎喂了块培根给餐桌底下的淑女，冰原狼像王后般优雅地从她手上衔过去。
　　茉丹修女不以为然地哼了一声。“好人家的小姐不在用餐时喂狗的。”她掰开一块蜂窝，让蜜滴到面包上。
　　“她才不是狗呢，她是冰原狼。”珊莎纠正。淑女伸出粗糙的舌头舔了舔她的手指。“反正父亲大人说小狼可以陪我们作伴。”
　　修女看来很不服气。“珊莎，你是个好女孩，但只要一说到那只野东西，你就倔得跟你妹妹艾莉亚一个样。”她皱起眉头，“说到艾莉亚，她这会儿又跑哪儿去了？”
　　“她肚子不饿。”珊莎道。她心里很清楚，艾莉亚八成早就溜进厨房，好说歹说地跟哪个厨房小弟讨到一顿丰盛早餐了。
　　“得提醒她今天穿得体面些。那件灰色的天鹅绒衣服不错。王后和弥赛菈公主邀请我们过去一同搭乘轮宫，我们可要表现出最好的一面才行。”
　　珊莎的表现已经好得不能再好。她把栗色长发梳得发亮，然后穿上她最好的蓝丝绒礼服。最近这一个多星期，她天天都在盼望今天的到来。能与王后作伴是至高无尚的荣耀，更何况乔佛里可能也在。那可是她的未婚夫呢。虽然他们还要等许多年才会成婚，但每当想到他，她心里总会产生一阵奇怪的悸动。算起来珊莎还根本不了解乔佛里，可她却已经爱上他了。他具有她心目中白马王子的每一项优点，高大英挺，体格强壮，一头漂亮金发。她珍视与他共处的每一个机会，可惜这样的时刻屈指可数。今天她惟一担心的便是艾莉亚。艾莉亚有种把每件事都搞砸的本领，你永远不知道她接下去会闯出什么祸来。“我去跟她讲，”她不太确定地说，“但她爱怎么穿是她的事。”她只能祈祷别太离谱了。“我可以先告退了吗？”
　　“你去罢。”茉丹修女又拿了一堆面包和蜂蜜，珊莎滑下长凳，跑出旅店大厅，淑女紧跟在后。
　　门外，人们正忙着拆除大小营帐，把东西装上马车，准备新一天的行程。她在叫骂声和木头车轮的嘎吱声中站立了片刻。这是栋占地广阔，白石砌成的三层建筑，珊莎还没见过比这更大的旅馆。即便如此，却只能容纳国王手下不到三分之一的人手。加上她父亲的随从和沿途加入的自由骑手，国王的队伍已经超过了四百人。
　　她在三叉戟河畔找到了妹妹。艾莉亚正死命按住娜梅莉亚，想把她身上干涸结块的泥巴刷掉，但显然小狼并不领情。艾莉亚身上穿的正是昨天那套皮革马装，她前天穿的也是这套。
　　“我看你还是快换件像样的衣服吧，”珊莎对她说。“这可是茉丹修女说的。今天我们要和弥赛菈公主一起搭乘王后的轮宫呢。”
　　“我不去。”艾莉亚一边说，一边试着把娜梅莉亚身上一撮打结的毛梳整齐。“我跟米凯要骑马到河上游的浅滩去找红宝石。”
　　“红宝石，”珊莎不明白，“什么红宝石？”
　　艾莉亚白了她一眼，仿佛把她当成蠢蛋。“当然是雷加的红宝石啊。当年劳勃国王就是在那儿杀死他夺得王位的。”
　　珊莎难以置信地望着自己骨瘦如柴的小妹。“不准你去找什么红宝石，公主正等着我们呢，王后邀请的是我们两人。”
　　“我才不管。”艾莉亚说：“轮宫里连扇窗户都没有，什么也看不见。”
　　“外面有什么好看？”珊莎不悦地说。对于这次邀请她可是满心期待，但她蠢笨的妹妹却要搞砸一切，正如她所害怕的。“不过是些田地、农场和村落罢了。”
　　“才不是呢。”艾莉亚固执地说，“哪天你跟我们一起去看看就知道了。”
　　“我最讨厌骑马了，”珊莎激动地说，“只会溅得一身泥沙，浑身酸麻。”
　　艾莉亚耸耸肩。“别动，”她斥责娜梅莉亚。“我不会伤害你的。”然后她转向珊莎说，“不是啦，穿越颈泽的时候，我一共发现了三十六种以前没见过的花，米凯还给我看了一只蜥狮呢。”
　　珊莎听了浑身颤抖。他们沿着蜿蜒的堤道，缓慢地通过看似永无止尽的黑色泥泞，一共花了十二天的时间方才穿越颈泽。对于这趟旅程，她可是从头痛恨到尾。那里的空气阴湿黏腻，加上堤道太狭窄，夜里连扎营都没办法，只好停留在国王大道上。长年浸泡在腐沼之中的浓密树丛，从道路两旁朝他们步步进逼，枝干间垂下帘幕般的菌类植物。巨大的花朵盛开在烂泥坑里，漂浮在死水潭上。可假如你愚蠢到想离开堤道去采摘，四处随时有流沙等着将你吞噬。密林里有虎视眈眈的毒蛇，水中有半浮半沉的蜥狮，看起来活像长了眼睛和牙齿的黑木头。
　　想也知道，这些全难不倒艾莉亚。有次她居然满脸堆着马一样的笑容，头发乱成一团，衣服全是泥泞，拎了一束烂兮兮的紫绿花朵回来送给爸爸。珊莎一直希望哪天父亲大人会叫艾莉亚注意礼节，有点她应有的淑女模样，可他从没这么做过，这一次，他反而拥抱她并感谢那些花。简直就是火上浇油。
　　事后大家才知道，那些紫花叫做“毒吻花”，而艾莉亚的双臂果然都起了红疹子。珊莎本以为这次的教训够她受了，没想到艾莉亚却只是笑笑，隔天一听她那朋友米凯说涂上烂泥可以减轻疼痛，便立刻照办，把自己弄得活像个未开化的沼泽女人。这还不止，晚上妹妹脱衣服睡觉时，珊莎注意到她的手臂和肩膀上有不少擦伤，深紫的瘀青和褪色的黄绿色脏东西。这些究竟是她打哪儿弄来的，恐怕就只有天上的七神知道了。
　　瞧她现在吧，艾莉亚仍旧没完没了，一边梳理娜梅莉亚的毛团，一边絮絮叨叨这次南下的所见所闻。“上星期我们找到一座很阴森的瞭望塔，昨天我们才追赶了一大群野马。你真该来看看他们一闻到娜梅莉亚拔腿就跑的模样。”小狼在她的魔掌下扭个不停，艾莉亚又叱道：“别闹，还有一边要弄呢，瞧你全身都是泥巴。”
　　“你不该擅自脱队，”珊莎提醒她，“父亲大人说过的。”
　　艾莉亚一耸肩：“我又没跑远。反正有娜梅莉亚陪在身边。况且我也不是每次都脱队，有时候跟着货车一起走，到处串串门子也挺有意思。”
　　艾莉亚专门结交哪些人，珊莎太清楚了：侍从、马夫与女仆，老头子和不穿衣服的小孩，还有满嘴粗话，出身低贱的自由骑手。艾莉亚跟任何人都能做朋友，而这米凯是最糟糕的一个：他是个屠夫的学徒，十三岁，野得很，躺在运肉的货车上，闻起来活像只待宰的猪。光瞧见他就足以令珊莎作呕，谁知艾莉亚却宁可与他为伍。
　　珊莎觉得自己快要失去耐性。“你一定要跟我去，”她语气坚定地告诉妹妹，“你不能拒绝王后的邀请，茉丹修女正等着你呢。”
　　艾莉亚充耳不闻，她突然猛力一刷，娜梅莉亚吃痛，低吼一声，扭头便跑。“你给我回来！”
　　“等下有柠檬蛋糕和茶可吃喔，”珊莎继续说，摆出一副大人说理的口吻。淑女蹭了蹭她的脚，珊莎用她喜欢的方式帮她搔搔耳朵，淑女便后脚蹲地，在她身边坐了下来，看着艾莉亚追赶娜梅莉亚。“当你可以舒舒服服靠着羽毛枕头，和王后一起享受蛋糕时，怎么会想骑着臭马，弄得四肢酸痛，满身大汗呢？”
　　“我不喜欢王后。”艾莉亚随口道。珊莎听了倒抽一口冷气，即便是由艾莉亚口中说出来，她仍旧十分震惊。但艾莉亚却满不在乎地继续下去，“她连让我带娜梅莉亚都不准。”她把梳子往腰带里一插，偷偷地朝她的小狼走去。娜梅莉亚小心翼翼地看着她逼近。
　　“御用轮宫本来就不是让狼撒野的地方。”珊莎说，“而且你也知道弥赛菈公主很怕它们。”
　　“弥赛 是个小娃娃。”艾莉亚一把攫住娜梅莉亚的脖子，可她才拔出梳子，冰原狼便使劲一扭逃开了。艾莉亚气得丢下梳子。“你这个大坏蛋！”她吼道。
　　珊莎不禁微笑。以前临冬城里的驯兽长法兰曾对她说过，有什么样的主人就会养出什么样的动物。她轻轻抱了淑女一下，淑女舔舔她的脸颊，珊莎咯咯直笑。艾莉亚听见笑声，转身怒视道：“我不管你怎么说，我就是要去骑马。”她那张又长又顽固的马脸露出一种即将任性而为的表情。
　　“老天爷，艾莉亚，有时候你才真像个小孩子。”珊莎道，“那我就自己去啰。你不去更好，这样我和淑女就可以把所有的柠檬蛋糕吃完，好好享受美好时光。”
　　她转身要走，艾莉亚却在她身后叫道：“他们也不会让你带上淑女的。”珊莎还没想好如何回嘴，她便沿着河岸追赶娜梅莉亚，跑得不见人影了。
　　珊莎觉得既孤单又羞愤，只好独自返回下榻的旅店，她知道茉丹修女一定在等她。淑女静静地走在她身边，走着走着，她的眼泪便掉了下来。她只不过希望一切都像歌谣里描绘的那样顺利美好，为何艾莉亚偏偏不能当个甜美优雅又善良的好女孩，像弥赛菈公主那样呢？有个那样的妹妹该有多好啊。
　　珊莎怎么也想不透，年龄仅仅相差两岁的姐妹，个性怎么会差那么多。艾莉亚要是个私生女就好了，就像她们的私生子哥哥琼恩。说老实话，艾莉亚连长相都跟琼恩非常神似，两人都有史塔克家的长脸和棕发，却完全没有他们母亲的容貌、肤色与头发。听别人闲话，琼恩的妈妈不过是一介平民而已。珊莎小时候，有一次忍不住问母亲是否弄错了，会不会是什么古灵精怪把她真正的妹妹给抱走了？但母亲只笑笑，然后说没这回事，艾莉亚的确是她女儿，也是珊莎的亲妹妹。珊莎想不出母亲有什么理由要骗她，便把她的话当真了。
　　好在走近营地，方才的种种不快都被她抛在脑后。王后的行宫外正聚集了一群人，珊莎听见他们兴奋地交谈，像是一大群蜜蜂嗡嗡作响。行宫的大门敞开，王后站在木头阶梯的最上层，对着人群里的某人微笑。珊莎听见她说：“两位大人，重臣们真是太周到了。”
　　“发生了什么事？”她问一个认识的侍从。
　　“御前会议派人从君临来迎接我们，”他告诉她，“为国王派出的荣誉护卫。”
　　珊莎迫不及待想瞧瞧，便让淑女走在前面开路。人们见了冰原狼纷纷躲避。等她靠得够近，只见两名骑士单膝跪在王后面前，他们的铠甲做工之精细华丽，使她目炫神迷。
　　其中一名骑士穿了一套雕工繁复，上了瓷釉的白鳞甲，灿烂得活像一片覆盖初雪的洁白大地，白色银线和钩扣在阳光下熠熠发光。待他取下头盔，珊莎才发现他原是个老人，一头白发和他的铠甲颜色一般。虽然如此，他看起来却老当益壮，一举一动甚是优雅。他的双肩垂系着象征御林铁卫的纯白披风。
　　他的同伴年约二十，一身精钢打造的深绿铠甲，绿如密林。他是珊莎所见过的最英俊的男子，体格高大魁梧，黑玉般的及肩长发衬托出他修整干净的脸庞，那双带着笑意的蓝眼，正好与盔甲的颜色交相辉映。他怀抱一顶鹿角盔，两只华丽的鹿角金光闪闪。
　　珊莎起初没注意到第三个陌生人。他形容憔悴，神情冷酷，并未像其他人一样屈膝下跪，而是独自站在他们的坐骑旁，默默地观望。此人满脸麻子，没有胡须，两眼深邃，面颊凹陷。虽然并不老，头发却没剩几根，只在双耳上面冒出几撮，不过他把这些仅存的头发留得跟女人家一样长。他硬皮衣外罩上铁灰色的锁子甲，虽式样平凡，毫无装饰，却历尽沧桑，看得出岁月的痕迹。在他右肩之后，可以见到一把脏污的皮革剑柄，大抵是他的双手巨剑太长，没法佩在腰间。
　　“国王外出打猎，等他回来见到你们，定会大感欣慰。”王后正对眼前跪着的两名骑士说话，但珊莎的视线却始终离不开第三个人。他似乎也察觉到她凝视的压力，缓缓地转过头来。淑女向他咆哮，珊莎·史塔克只觉一种前所未有的恐惧排山倒海地将她淹没。她踉跄后退，结果撞到了别人。
　　一双强而有力的手稳住她的肩膀，珊莎起初以为是父亲，但待她回头，朝下看着她的却是桑铎·克里冈那张烧烂的脸，他的嘴角似笑非笑。“你在发抖啊，小妹妹。”他粗声道，“我有这么可怕么？”
　　他真的就那么可怕，自从珊莎初次看到那张被火毁容的脸以来，始终这么骇人。虽然如此，此际珊莎对他的恐惧却远不及对另一个人的一半。但她还是挣脱了他的掌握，“猎狗”哈哈大笑，淑女挤进两人中间，发出一阵低吼。珊莎蹲下去双手抱住小狼。这时他们反成了四周注目的焦点，她可以感觉到大家的视线都停留在自己身上，还听见此起彼落的窃窃私语和笑声。
　　“是只狼呀。”有人说，然后又有人说，“见鬼，那是冰原狼。”先前那个人接口问，“它在这儿干嘛？”这时“猎狗”厉声回答，“史塔克家的人养狼当保姆。”珊莎这才发现先前那两位陌生的骑士正手里持剑俯视着她和淑女。这下她越发惧怕，更觉羞耻，泪水充满了眼眶。
　　她听见王后说：“乔佛里，快去保护她。”
　　然后她的白马王子就出现在她身边了。
　　“不准欺负她。”乔佛里道。他站在她身旁，穿着一身漂亮的蓝色羊毛衣和黑皮革外套，满头金发宛如艳阳下的王冠。他伸手搀扶她起身。“亲爱的小姐，你怎么了？你在怕什么呢？这儿没人会伤害你的。你们通通把剑收起来，这只狼不过是她的小宠物罢了，没什么好大惊小怪的。”他看看桑铎·克里冈。“还有你这只狗，滚远点罢，你吓到我的未婚妻了。”
　　向来忠心耿耿的“猎狗”鞠了个躬，安静地穿过人群离开。珊莎勉强站稳脚步，觉得自己活像个蠢蛋。她可是堂堂临冬城史塔克家族的大小姐，有朝一日还要做王后的呢。“王子殿下，我怕的不是他。”她试图解释，“是另外那位。”
　　两位新来的骑士互望一眼。“派恩吗？”穿着绿甲的年轻人笑问。
　　身着白甲的老人温柔地对珊莎说：“好小姐，有时连我见了伊林爵士也会怕。他看起来的确挺吓人的。”
　　“本该如此。”王后说着步下轮宫，围观的人群纷纷让路。“国王的御前执法官就是要让坏人惧怕，否则便表示你选择的人并不胜任。”
　　珊莎总算想到该如何应对。“这么说您肯定找对人了，王后陛下。”她说。四周立时响起一阵哄笑。
　　“小妹妹，这话说得好。”白衣老人道，“果然不愧是艾德·史塔克的掌上明珠。我很荣幸认识你，虽然这次的会面有些离奇。我乃御林铁卫的巴利斯坦·赛尔弥爵士。”
　　珊莎知道这个名字，此时茉丹修女多年来的悉心调教派上了用场。“您是御林铁卫队长，”她说：“是吾王劳勃的朝廷重臣和以前伊里斯·坦格利安的御林铁卫。尊贵的骑士，认识您是我的荣幸。即便身处遥远的北方，诗人依旧歌颂‘无畏的’巴利斯坦的丰功伟绩。”
　　绿甲骑士又笑了，“应该是‘老迈的’巴利斯坦才对。小妹妹，马屁可别拍过头，这家伙已经够自命不凡了。”他朝她微笑，“小狼女，如果你也说得出我是谁，我才真相信你是我们首相的女儿。”
　　在她身边的乔佛里挺直身子：“称呼我未婚妻的时候客气点。”
　　“我说得出的。”珊莎连忙接口，企图缓和王子的怒意。她对绿甲骑士笑道：“大人，您的头盔上有两只金色鹿角，这是王室的标志。劳勃国王有两个弟弟，而您又这么年轻，只可能是风息堡公爵和朝廷重臣蓝礼·拜拉席恩，我说的可对？”
　　巴利斯坦爵士忍俊不禁：“他年纪这么轻，只可能是个没礼貌的捣蛋鬼，像我这么说才对。”
　　蓝礼公爵听了哈哈大笑，旁人也随声附和，几分钟前的紧张气氛消失无踪，珊莎也渐渐觉得舒坦……直到伊林·派恩爵士挤开两个人，毫无笑容，一言不发地站到她面前。淑女露出利齿咆哮，吼声中充满敌意，但这回珊莎轻拍她的头，要她安静。“伊林爵士，假如我冒犯到您的话，我很抱歉。”
　　她等着对方的回答，却始终没有等到。刽子手就这么看着她，他那双苍白无色的眼睛仿佛能褪去她每一件衣服，剥开肌肤，直到她的灵魂赤裸裸地呈现在他面前。最后他转身离去，依然未吐半字。
　　珊莎不懂这是怎么回事，于是转头向她的王子求助：“王子殿下，我做错了什么？为何他不愿跟我说话？”
　　“咱们伊林爵士这十六年来似乎都不爱讲话哦。”蓝礼公爵挂着一抹促狭的笑容解释。
　　乔佛里非常嫌恶地看了他叔叔一眼，执起珊莎的纤纤玉手。“伊里斯·坦格利安叫人用烧红的钳子把他舌头给拔了。”
　　“如今他改用剑说话，”王后道，“爵士先生精忠报国，其操守无庸置疑。”然后她满脸堆欢，“珊莎，今日我要和这几位爵爷商谈国事，顺便等国王和你父亲回来。恐怕你和弥赛菈的约定要延期了，请代我向你的好妹妹致上歉意。乔佛里，或许你今天愿意陪陪我们这位贵客？”
　　“母亲大人，那是我的荣幸。”乔佛里郑重其事地说，他挽起她的手，领她离开轮宫，珊莎顿时觉得幸福得飞上了天。和她的白马王子相处一整天！她崇拜地望着乔佛里，想起他方才把她自伊林爵士和“猎狗”手中拯救出来的样子，要多勇敢有多勇敢，简直就像诗歌里写的一样，就像“镜盾”萨文击败巨人救出戴丽莎公主；或是“龙骑士”伊蒙王子为了破除谣言，保护奈丽诗王后名节，与邪恶的莫格尔爵士决战的故事。
　　乔佛里隔着衣袖的碰触更让她心跳加速。“你想做点什么呢？”
　　我只想和你在一起啊，珊莎心想，但她说：“王子殿下，您想做什么，我就做什么。”
　　乔佛里想了想。“我们可以去骑马。”
　　“噢，我最喜欢骑马了。”珊莎道。
　　乔佛里回头看看跟在他们身后的淑女。“你的狼会吓着马，而我的狗好像也吓着了你，不如我们把他们都留在这儿，自己出去玩，你看怎么样？”
　　珊莎迟疑了一会儿。“您觉得好就好，”她犹豫道，“我想我得先把淑女拴起来。”可她还有些地方没听懂。“其实我不知道您养了狗……”
　　乔佛里笑道：“他是我妈的狗，她叫他负责保护我，他就这么跟着我了。”
　　“原来您指的是‘猎狗’。”她边说边懊恼自己反应迟钝，假如她是个笨蛋，那么王子是决计不会爱她的。“这样做好吗？”
　　乔佛里王子听了似乎有点不高兴。“小姐，用不着害怕，我都快成年了，我可不像你哥哥只会用木头剑，我有这个。”他抽出佩剑给珊莎看。那是把经过巧妙微缩，恰好适合十二岁男孩需要的长剑，剑身是用精钢打造，泛着蓝光，两面开刃，剑柄裹着皮革，尾端则是一个黄金做的狮头。珊莎看得连声赞叹，乔佛里相当满意。“我叫它‘狮牙’。”
　　于是他们把冰原狼和保镖抛在脑后，沿着三叉戟河北岸往西行去，除了‘狮牙’以外，没有别的同伴。
　　这是个神奇而灿烂的日子，温暖的空气里弥漫花香，这儿的树林有种珊莎在北方的林子从未见到的柔和之美。乔佛里王子的坐骑是匹箭步如飞的红鬃骏马，他驾驭马儿的方式更是横冲直撞，速度极快，珊莎必须死命驱赶胯下母马才能跟上。今天也是个适合冒险的日子。他们沿着河岸搜索洞穴，把一只影子山猫赶回巢穴。肚子饿的时候，乔佛里循着炊烟找到乡间庄园，吩咐他们为王子和他的同行女士准备食物和葡萄酒。于是他们享用了刚从河里捕来的新鲜鳟鱼，珊莎则一辈子没喝过这么多酒。“父亲大人只准我们喝一杯，而且只能在宴会上。”
　　“我的未婚妻爱喝多少就喝多少。”乔佛里边说边为她斟满酒杯。
　　酒足饭饱后，他们策马缓行。乔佛里唱歌给她听，他的嗓音高亢甜美、纯净无瑕。珊莎喝多了酒，觉得有点晕眩。“我们是不是该回去了？”她问。
　　“再等一会。”乔佛里道，“古战场就在前面，绿叉河转弯的地方。你知道罢，那便是我父亲杀死雷加·坦格利安的地方。他一挥手就敲碎对方的胸膛，咯啦，铠甲打得稀烂。”乔佛里挥舞着假想的战锤向珊莎示范。“后来我舅舅詹姆杀掉老伊里斯，我爸就当上了国王。咦，那是什么声音？”
　　珊莎也听到从林子里传来阵阵木头敲击。喀啦喀啦喀啦。“我不知道，”她说，但心里却紧张起来。“乔佛里，我们回去吧。”
　　“我要瞧个究竟。”乔佛里掉转马头，朝声音的来源骑去，珊莎迫不得已，只好跟上。噪音越来越大，也越来越清晰，的确是木头碰撞的声响。待他们骑得更近，还听见沉重的喘气和隔三差五的闷哼。
　　“那儿有人。”珊莎不安地说。她发现自己想着淑女，盼望她的冰原狼此刻陪在身边。
　　“有我在不用怕。”乔佛里从剑鞘里拔出‘狮牙’，金属和皮革的摩擦却让她浑身颤抖。“走这边。”说着他策马穿过一排树林。
　　树林那端有片空地，地势恰好俯瞰河流。他们在这里找到一对正玩着骑士游戏的男孩女孩，两人正以木棍（其实是扫帚杆）为剑，在草地上横冲直撞，精力充沛地相互砍杀。男孩的年龄要大几岁，个子则足足高出一头，体格也强壮许多，处于发动攻势的一方。女孩一身干瘦，穿着脏兮兮的皮衣，正手忙脚乱地抵挡男孩的攻击，却无法完全避开。当她试图反击时，被对方用剑挡住，并将她的剑往旁一扫，顺势用力劈她手指。她痛得立刻丢下武器大叫。
　　乔佛里王子哈哈大笑。男孩睁大眼睛吃惊地转过头来，随即一松手，木棍落地。女孩瞪着他们，一边吮着指关节想把刺吸出来，珊莎吓坏了。“艾莉亚，是你吗？”她难以置信地惊呼道。
　　“走开。”艾莉亚眼里满是愤怒的泪水，大声地朝他们嚷嚷，“你们来这里做什么？不要管我们的事。”
　　乔佛里看看艾莉亚，又看看珊莎，目光扫了几遍。“这是你妹妹？”珊莎红着脸点头。乔佛里转而仔细审视那名男孩，他是个满脸雀斑，一头浓密红发的丑陋少年。“小子，你又是谁？”他以命令的口吻问，丝毫没在意对方年纪还大他一岁。
　　“我叫米凯，”男孩低声说，他认出眼前的王子，连忙移开视线。“王子殿下。”
　　“他是屠夫的学徒。”珊莎解释说。
　　“他是我朋友，”艾莉亚语气尖锐地道，“你们别欺负他。”
　　“杀猪小弟也想当骑士，是吗？”乔佛里翻身下马，手中握剑。“屠夫小弟，把你的剑捡起来。”他眼里闪着愉悦的光芒，“咱们来瞧瞧你够不够格。”
　　米凯吓得伫立原地。
　　乔佛里朝他走去。“快啊，快捡，难道你只敢欺负小女生？”
　　“大人，是她逼我的，”米凯说，“是她逼我这么做的。”
　　珊莎只需瞄艾莉亚一眼，看见妹妹倏地红了脸，便知男孩所言不假。但乔佛里听不进去，刚喝的那些酒让他性子野了起来。“你到底捡还是不捡？”
　　米凯摇头：“大人，这不过是根木棒，不是剑，只是根棍子罢了。”
　　“你也不过是个杀猪小弟，根本不是骑士。”乔佛里举起‘狮牙’，剑尖指着米凯眼睛下方的脸颊，屠夫学徒站在原地颤抖。“刚才你打的是我这位小姐的妹妹，你知不知道？”一朵殷红的血花在剑刺入的地方绽放，男孩的脸上缓缓流下一道红线。
　　“住手！”艾莉亚尖叫，随即一把抓起刚才掉落的木棍。
　　珊莎好害怕。“艾莉亚，你别插手。”
　　“我不会把他……伤得太厉害。”乔佛里王子告诉艾莉亚，他的视线自始至终没离开屠夫的小徒弟。
　　艾莉亚朝他扑去。
　　珊莎见状急忙跳下马，但已经太迟了。艾莉亚双手握住木棒，朝王子后脑狠狠一敲，只听喀啦一声，棍子应声开裂。乔佛里则踉跄旋身，大声骂着粗话。米凯拔腿便往林子里逃。艾莉亚挥棒再打，但这回乔佛里举起‘狮牙’，把她手中的扫帚棍打断、震飞。他后脑勺全是血，眼里燃烧着怒火，珊莎拚命尖叫：“住手，你们两个都住手，你们把事情都搞砸了。”但没人听她的话。艾莉亚捡起石块朝乔佛里的头掷去，却打中了他的马。血红色的骏马扬起前腿，跟在米凯后面狂奔。“住手！不要打了！”珊莎尖叫。乔佛里挥剑朝艾莉亚猛砍，嘴里不停喝骂着可怕的脏话。这时艾莉亚也害怕得急步后退，但乔佛里节节进逼，把她逼到没有退路的林边。珊莎不知如何是好，只能无助地在旁观望，视线几乎被泪水所掩盖。
　　说时迟，那时快，一团灰影从她身边闪过，下一刻娜梅莉亚已跃上乔佛里右手，张口便咬。狼把人扑倒在地，他手一松剑便掉落，人和狼双双在草地上打滚，狼不停咆哮撕扯，王子则惨叫连连。“把它弄走！”他尖叫道，“快把它弄走！”
　　艾莉亚的声音如鞭子划空。“娜梅莉亚！”
　　冰原狼立时放开乔佛里，跑到艾莉亚身边。王子躺在草丛里，抱着受伤的手臂啜泣。他的衣服上全是血。艾莉亚说：“她也没把你……伤得太厉害嘛。”她捡起‘狮牙’，站在他跟前，双手握剑。
　　乔佛里抬头看到她，发出害怕的呜咽。“不要，”他说，“不要伤害我，不然我要去告诉妈妈。”
　　“你别欺负他！”珊莎对妹妹尖叫。
　　艾莉亚猛地一旋身，用尽全身力气把剑抛了出去。宝剑飞过河面，蓝钢打造的剑身在阳光下闪闪发光，最后噗通一声掉进水里，刹时便沉了下去。乔佛里见状又是一声呻吟。艾莉亚跑向她的坐骑，娜梅莉亚跟在她后面。
　　她们离开后，珊莎走到王子身旁。他痛苦地紧闭双眼，呼吸急促。珊莎在他身旁跪下。“乔佛里，”她抽噎道，“噢，看看她们做了什么好事，把你伤成这样。我可怜的王子，你别害怕，我这就骑马去刚才的庄园，找人来帮忙。”她伸手温柔地拨开他柔软的金发。
　　他猛然睁开双眼，眼里只有恨意和最彻底的轻蔑。“那就滚罢。”他对她啐了口唾沫。“还有，不—准—碰—我。”
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你看着眼前的人，分明还是以前的模样，可心里终究不是以前那般澄清透明了。
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16．EDDARD
   “They’ve found her, my lord.”
   Ned rose quickly. “Our men or Lannister’s?”
   “It was Jory,” his steward Vayon Poole replied. “She’s not been harmed.”
   “Thank the gods,” Ned said. His men had been searching for Arya for four days now, but the queen’s men had been out hunting as well. “Where is she? Tell Jory to bring her here at once.”
   “I am sorry, my lord,” Poole told him. “The guards on the gate were Lannister men, and they informed the queen when Jory brought her in. She’s being taken directly before the king?.?.?.?”
   “Damn that woman!” Ned said, striding to the door. “Find Sansa and bring her to the audience chamber. Her voice may be needed.” He descended the tower steps in a red rage. He had led searches himself for the first three days, and had scarcely slept an hour since Arya had disappeared. This morning he had been so heartsick and weary he could scarcely stand, but now his fury was on him, filling him with strength.
   Men called out to him as he crossed the castle yard, but Ned ignored them in his haste. He would have run, but he was still the King’s Hand, and a Hand must keep his dignity. He was aware of the eyes that followed him, of the muttered voices wondering what he would do.
   The castle was a modest holding a half day’s ride south of the Trident. The royal party had made themselves the uninvited guests of its lord, Ser Raymun Darry, while the hunt for Arya and the butcher’s boy was conducted on both sides of the river. They were not welcome visitors. Ser Raymun lived under the king’s peace, but his family had fought beneath Rhaegar’s dragon banners at the Trident, and his three older brothers had died there, a truth neither Robert nor Ser Raymun had forgotten. With king’s men, Darry men, Lannister men, and Stark men all crammed into a castle far too small for them, tensions burned hot and heavy.
   The king had appropriated Ser Raymun’s audience chamber, and that was where Ned found them. The room was crowded when he burst in. Too crowded, he thought; left alone, he and Robert might have been able to settle the matter amicably.
   Robert was slumped in Darry’s high seat at the far end of the room, his face closed and sullen. Cersei Lannister and her son stood beside him. The queen had her hand on Joffrey’s shoulder. Thick silken bandages still covered the boy’s arm.
   Arya stood in the center of the room, alone but for Jory Cassel, every eye upon her. “Arya,” Ned called loudly. He went to her, his boots ringing on the stone floor. When she saw him, she cried out and began to sob.
   Ned went to one knee and took her in his arms. She was shaking. “I’m sorry,” she sobbed, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
   “I know,” he said. She felt so tiny in his arms, nothing but a scrawny little girl. It was hard to see how she had caused so much trouble. “Are you hurt?”
   “No.” Her face was dirty, and her tears left pink tracks down her cheeks. “Hungry some. I ate some berries, but there was nothing else.”
   “We’ll feed you soon enough,” Ned promised. He rose to face the king. “What is the meaning of this?” His eyes swept the room, searching for friendly faces. But for his own men, they were few enough. Ser Raymun Darry guarded his look well. Lord Renly wore a half smile that might mean anything, and old Ser Barristan was grave; the rest were Lannister men, and hostile. Their only good fortune was that both Jaime Lannister and Sandor Clegane were missing, leading searches north of the Trident. “Why was I not told that my daughter had been found?” Ned demanded, his voice ringing. “Why was she not brought to me at once?”
   He spoke to Robert, but it was Cersei Lannister who answered. “How dare you speak to your king in that manner!”
   At that, the king stirred. “Quiet, woman,” he snapped. He straightened in his seat. “I am sorry, Ned. I never meant to frighten the girl. It seemed best to bring her here and get the business done with quickly.”
   “And what business is that?” Ned put ice in his voice.
   The queen stepped forward. “You know full well, Stark. This girl of yours attacked my son. Her and her butcher’s boy. That animal of hers tried to tear his arm off.”
   “That’s not true,” Arya said loudly. “She just bit him a little. He was hurting Mycah.”
   “Joff told us what happened,” the queen said. “You and the butcher boy beat him with clubs while you set your wolf on him.”
   “That’s not how it was,” Arya said, close to tears again. Ned put a hand on her shoulder.
   “Yes it is!” Prince Joffrey insisted. “They all attacked me, and she threw Lion’s Tooth in the river!” Ned noticed that he did not so much as glance at Arya as he spoke.
   “Liar!” Arya yelled.
   “Shut up!” the prince yelled back.
   “Enough!” the king roared, rising from his seat, his voice thick with irritation. Silence fell. He glowered at Arya through his thick beard. “Now, child, you will tell me what happened. Tell it all, and tell it true. It is a great crime to lie to a king.” Then he looked over at his son. “When she is done, you will have your turn. Until then, hold your tongue.”
   As Arya began her story, Ned heard the door open behind him. He glanced back and saw Vayon Poole enter with Sansa. They stood quietly at the back of the hall as Arya spoke. When she got to the part where she threw Joffrey’s sword into the middle of the Trident, Renly Baratheon began to laugh. The king bristled. “Ser Barristan, escort my brother from the hall before he chokes.”
   Lord Renly stifled his laughter. “My brother is too kind. I can find the door myself.” He bowed to Joffrey. “Perchance later you’ll tell me how a nine-year-old girl the size of a wet rat managed to disarm you with a broom handle and throw your sword in the river.” As the door swung shut behind him, Ned heard him say, “Lion’s Tooth,” and guffaw once more.
   Prince Joffrey was pale as he began his very different version of events. When his son was done talking, the king rose heavily from his seat, looking like a man who wanted to be anywhere but here. “What in all the seven hells am I supposed to make of this? He says one thing, she says another.”
   “They were not the only ones present,” Ned said. “Sansa, come here.” Ned had heard her version of the story the night Arya had vanished. He knew the truth. “Tell us what happened.”
   His eldest daughter stepped forward hesitantly. She was dressed in blue velvets trimmed with white, a silver chain around her neck. Her thick auburn hair had been brushed until it shone. She blinked at her sister, then at the young prince. “I don’t know,” she said tearfully, looking as though she wanted to bolt. “I don’t remember. Everything happened so fast, I didn’t see?.?.?.?”
   “You rotten!” Arya shrieked. She flew at her sister like an arrow, knocking Sansa down to the ground, pummeling her. “Liar, liar, liar, liar.”
   “Arya, stop it!” Ned shouted. Jory pulled her off her sister, kicking. Sansa was pale and shaking as Ned lifted her back to her feet. “Are you hurt?” he asked, but she was staring at Arya, and she did not seem to hear.
   “The girl is as wild as that filthy animal of hers,” Cersei Lannister said. “Robert, I want her punished.”
   “Seven hells,” Robert swore. “Cersei, look at her. She’s a child. What would you have me do, whip her through the streets? Damn it, children fight. It’s over. No lasting harm was done.”
   The queen was furious. “Joff will carry those scars for the rest of his life.”
   Robert Baratheon looked at his eldest son. “So he will. Perhaps they will teach him a lesson. Ned, see that your daughter is disciplined. I will do the same with my son.”
   “Gladly, Your Grace,” Ned said with vast relief.
   Robert started to walk away, but the queen was not done. “And what of the direwolf?” she called after him. “What of the beast that savaged your son?”
   The king stopped, turned back, frowned. “I’d forgotten about the damned wolf.”
   Ned could see Arya tense in Jory’s arms. Jory spoke up quickly. “We found no trace of the direwolf, Your Grace.”
   Robert did not look unhappy. “No? So be it.”
   The queen raised her voice. “A hundred golden dragons to the man who brings me its skin!”
   “A costly pelt,” Robert grumbled. “I want no part of this, woman. You can damn well buy your furs with Lannister gold.”
   The queen regarded him coolly. “I had not thought you so niggardly. The king I’d thought to wed would have laid a wolfskin across my bed before the sun went down.”
   Robert’s face darkened with anger. “That would be a fine trick, without a wolf.”
   “We have a wolf,” Cersei Lannister said. Her voice was very quiet, but her green eyes shone with triumph.
   It took them all a moment to comprehend her words, but when they did, the king shrugged irritably. “As you will. Have Ser Ilyn see to it.”
   “Robert, you cannot mean this,” Ned protested.
   The king was in no mood for more argument. “Enough, Ned, I will hear no more. A direwolf is a savage beast. Sooner or later it would have turned on your girl the same way the other did on my son. Get her a dog, she’ll be happier for it.”
   That was when Sansa finally seemed to comprehend. Her eyes were frightened as they went to her father. “He doesn’t mean Lady, does he?” She saw the truth on his face. “No,” she said. “No, not Lady, Lady didn’t bite anybody, she’s good?.?.?.?”
   “Lady wasn’t there,” Arya shouted angrily. “You leave her alone!”
   “Stop them,” Sansa pleaded, “don’t let them do it, please, please, it wasn’t Lady, it was Nymeria, Arya did it, you can’t, it wasn’t Lady, don’t let them hurt Lady, I’ll make her be good, I promise, I promise?.?.?.?” She started to cry.
   All Ned could do was take her in his arms and hold her while she wept. He looked across the room at Robert. His old friend, closer than any brother. “Please, Robert. For the love you bear me. For the love you bore my sister. Please.”
   The king looked at them for a long moment, then turned his eyes on his wife. “Damn you, Cersei,” he said with loathing.
   Ned stood, gently disengaging himself from Sansa’s grasp. All the weariness of the past four days had returned to him. “Do it yourself then, Robert,” he said in a voice cold and sharp as steel. “At least have the courage to do it yourself.”
   Robert looked at Ned with flat, dead eyes and left without a word, his footsteps heavy as lead. Silence filled the hall.
   “Where is the direwolf?” Cersei Lannister asked when her husband was gone. Beside her, Prince Joffrey was smiling.
   “The beast is chained up outside the gatehouse, Your Grace,” Ser Barristan Selmy answered reluctantly.
   “Send for Ilyn Payne.”
   “No,” Ned said. “Jory, take the girls back to their rooms and bring me Ice.” The words tasted of bile in his throat, but he forced them out. “If it must be done, I will do it.”
   Cersei Lannister regarded him suspiciously. “You, Stark? Is this some trick? Why would you do such a thing?”
   They were all staring at him, but it was Sansa’s look that cut. “She is of the north. She deserves better than a butcher.”
   He left the room with his eyes burning and his daughter’s wails echoing in his ears, and found the direwolf pup where they chained her. Ned sat beside her for a while. “Lady,” he said, tasting the name. He had never paid much attention to the names the children had picked, but looking at her now, he knew that Sansa had chosen well. She was the smallest of the litter, the prettiest, the most gentle and trusting. She looked at him with bright golden eyes, and he ruffled her thick grey fur.
   Shortly, Jory brought him Ice.
   When it was over, he said, “Choose four men and have them take the body north. Bury her at Winterfell.”
   “All that way?” Jory said, astonished.
   “All that way,” Ned affirmed. “The Lannister woman shall never have this skin.”
   He was walking back to the tower to give himself up to sleep at last when Sandor Clegane and his riders came pounding through the castle gate, back from their hunt.
   There was something slung over the back of his destrier, a heavy shape wrapped in a bloody cloak. “No sign of your daughter, Hand,” the Hound rasped down, “but the day was not wholly wasted. We got her little pet.” He reached back and shoved the burden off, and it fell with a thump in front of Ned.
   Bending, Ned pulled back the cloak, dreading the words he would have to find for Arya, but it was not Nymeria after all. It was the butcher’s boy, Mycah, his body covered in dried blood. He had been cut almost in half from shoulder to waist by some terrible blow struck from above.
   “You rode him down,” Ned said.
   The Hound’s eyes seemed to glitter through the steel of that hideous dog’s-head helm. “He ran.” He looked at Ned’s face and laughed. “But not very fast.”

Ⅰ 权力的游戏 Chapter17 艾德
　　“老爷，找到她了。”
　　奈德立刻起身。“是我们的人，还是兰尼斯特家的人？”
　　“是乔里找到的。”他的管家维扬·普尔回答，“小姐没有受伤。”
　　“谢天谢地。”奈德道。他的部下已经找了艾莉亚四天，王后的人马也同时出动。“她在哪儿？叫乔里立刻把她带来。”
　　“老爷，对不起。”普尔告诉他，“城门的守卫是兰尼斯特家的人，乔里带她进来时他们马上通报了王后，结果她被直接带到国王那里去了……”
　　“这女人该死！”奈德大步朝门口走去。“去找珊莎，然后把她带到会客厅，到时候可能会需要她出面作证。”他火冒三丈地走下高塔楼梯。前三天他亲自率领搜寻行动，自打艾莉亚失踪，他几乎没阖过眼。到今早上，他心痛外加疲倦，连站都快站不稳了。然而现在他怒火中烧，全身充满力量。
　　穿过城堡庭院时有人出声叫他，但奈德行色匆忙，根本无暇理会。他本想迈步开跑，可再怎么说他总是御前首相，而首相多少得维持一定的尊严。他很清楚众人的眼光都集中在他身上，人们正四下窃窃私语，讨论他会作出什么举动。
　　这座城堡连同周围的土地都很朴素，位于三叉戟河以南，离河边只有半日骑程。先前王家车队不请自来地进驻城堡，成为城主雷蒙·戴瑞爵士的座上客，同时沿河两岸搜索艾莉亚和那屠夫小弟。他们实在称得上是不速之客。雷蒙爵士虽向国王称臣，但当年戴瑞家可是打着雷加的真龙旗帜在三叉戟河为勤王奋战的望族之一，他三位兄长通通命丧于斯，而这事不论劳勃还是雷蒙爵士都没有忘记。如今国王的队伍、戴瑞家的群众、兰尼斯特家和史塔克家的人马通通涌进狭小的城堡中，紧张的气氛可想而知。
　　国王把雷蒙爵士的会客厅临时征来处理公务，奈德果然在此找到他们。他冲进房间时，里面已经挤满了人。太拥挤了，他心想，假如没这么多人，他和劳勃应该可以私下心平气和地解决此事。
　　劳勃脸色凝重，整个人跨坐在长厅尽头戴瑞的高位上。瑟曦·兰尼斯特和她儿子站在他身旁。王后把一只手搭上乔佛里的肩膀。男孩的手臂仍旧扎满厚重的丝质绷带。
　　艾莉亚孤零零地站在大厅中央，只有乔里·凯索陪着她，每一只眼睛的视线都集中在她身上。“艾莉亚。”奈德大声唤道。他朝她走去，靴子在石地板上铿锵作响。她一看到他立刻大叫出声，随即抽抽噎噎地哭了起来。
　　奈德单膝跪下，把她搂进怀里，她浑身颤抖个不停。“对不起，”她啜泣道，“对不起，对不起！”
　　“我知道。”他说。在他怀中的她实在好瘦小，不过是个骨瘦如柴的小女孩。很难想像她竟能闯出这么大的祸。“你有没有受伤？”
　　“没有。”她一脸污泥，眼泪在脸颊上留下了粉红色的痕迹。“只是有点饿，我吃了点野莓，但没别的东西吃。”
　　“我们马上就给你弄吃的。”奈德向她保证，然后他起身面对国王。“你这是什么意思？”他环视大厅，寻找友善的面孔，然而除了他自己的部属以外，寥寥无几。雷蒙·戴瑞爵士面无表情，蓝礼公爵似笑非笑，谁也弄不清他究竟在想什么，老巴利斯坦则是神色沉重。余众都是兰尼斯特的人，自然个个满怀敌意。惟一算得好运的是詹姆·兰尼斯特和桑铎·克里冈此刻正率领搜索队去了三叉戟河北岸，因此都不在场。“找到我女儿为什么不通知我？”
　　他本是对劳勃说话，但瑟曦·兰尼斯特却抢先开口：“放肆！你竟敢用这种口气对国王说话！”
　　听到这话，国王动了动。“臭女人，你给我闭嘴。”他斥道，接着坐直身子，“奈德，不好意思，我没有吓她的意思，只是想先把她带过来，早点了结这桩事比较好。”
　　“你指的到底是哪桩事？”奈德的声音冷若冰霜。
　　王后踏步向前。“史塔克，你自己很清楚。你这野丫头和那杀猪的联手攻击我的宝贝儿子，她那只野狼差点就咬断他一条胳膊。”
　　“才不是这样，”艾莉亚高声道，“她只咬了他一下，而且是因为他先欺负米凯。”
　　“乔佛里已经把事情的经过都告诉我们了，”王后道，“你和那屠夫学徒一边用棍子打他，你一边放狼咬他。”
　　“事情不是这样的。”艾莉亚眼泪又快掉了下来，奈德连忙伸手拍拍她肩膀。
　　“明明就是这样！”乔佛里王子坚持，“他们一起围攻我，她还把‘狮牙’丢进河里！”奈德发觉他说话时正眼都不瞧艾莉亚一眼。
　　“你说谎！”艾莉亚大叫。
　　“够了！”国王大吼着从椅子上站起来，声音里充满了恼怒。四周立时安静，他吹胡子瞪眼地对艾莉亚说：“孩子，你现在把事情经过告诉我，原原本本地告诉我，老老实实地讲。要知道欺骗国王可是滔天大罪。”然后他转向儿子，“等她说完自然会轮到你，在那之前，你给我把嘴闭上。”
　　当艾莉亚开始陈述事情始末时，奈德听见身后大门开启。他往后一瞄，只见维扬·普尔带着珊莎走了进来。他们静静地站在厅堂后方听艾莉亚说话。当她说到把乔佛里的剑丢进三叉戟河那段时，蓝礼·拜拉席恩忍不住哈哈大笑，国王则怒发冲冠，“巴利斯坦爵士，请护送我弟弟出去，免得他笑岔了气。”
　　蓝礼公爵止住笑。“哥哥真是太周到了。我自己可以找到路。”他朝乔佛里一鞠躬，“待会儿你或许可以告诉我，一个干巴巴的九岁小女生究竟是怎么用扫把棍打落你的武器，然后丢进河里的。”大门关闭之际，奈德还听见他说：“好个‘狮牙’。”说完又是大笑不已。
　　接着轮到乔佛里说他那个大相径庭的版本，他的脸色非常苍白。儿子说完之后，国王沉重地起立，那样子恨不得能及早脱身。“你叫我怎么办？他说的是一回事，而她说的却完全是另一回事。”
　　“当时在场的不止他们两人。”奈德道，“珊莎，过来。”艾莉亚失踪的那天夜里，奈德听珊莎讲过事情经过，他知道实情为何。“告诉我们究竟是怎么回事。”
　　他的长女犹豫不决地走向前。她穿着一件蓝色绣白边的天鹅绒洋装，脖子上挂了条银锁链，蓬松的红褐头发梳得发亮。她对妹妹眨了眨眼，接着又看看王子。“我不知道，”她噙着眼泪说，仿佛想拔腿就逃。“我不记得了，事情发生得好快，我没看见……”
　　“你这个烂货！”艾莉亚狂叫。她像一枝利箭般朝她姐姐飞扑过去，把珊莎撞倒在地板上，使劲地拳打脚踢。“骗子，骗子，骗子，骗子。”
　　“艾莉亚，住手！”奈德喝道。乔里把她从她姐姐身上拉开时，她双脚还兀自踢个不停。奈德扶起珊莎，她脸色苍白，浑身颤抖。“你没受伤吧？”他问。但她只是怔怔地望着艾莉亚，仿佛充耳不闻。
　　“这丫头跟她那只脏东西一个野德行。”瑟曦·兰尼斯特说，“劳勃，她非受罚不可。”
　　“七层地狱啊，”劳勃咒道，“瑟曦，你看看她，她是个小孩子，你要我怎么办？打她几鞭游街示众吗？该死，不过就是小孩打架，现在没事了，也没什么严重后果。”
　　王后气坏了。“小乔手上一辈子都会留着疤痕。”
　　劳勃·拜拉席恩看了看他长子。“那就留着吧，或许这会给他一点教训。奈德，好好管教你女儿，我也会好好管教我儿子。”
　　“国王陛下，我乐意之至。”奈德如释重负。
　　劳勃正准备走开，没想到王后还不肯罢休。“那只狼又该怎么办？”她叫住他。“那只蹂躏你儿子的禽兽该如何处置？”
　　国王停下脚步，转身皱眉道：“我倒是把那头该死的狼给忘了。”
　　奈德看见艾莉亚在乔里怀中绷紧身子，乔里连忙开口：“陛下，那只狼一点影子都没有。”
　　劳勃看来并无不悦。“找不到？那就算了。”
　　王后则提高音量：“把狼皮给我剥来的，赏金龙一百枚！”
　　“这毛皮还真贵，”劳勃咕哝，“臭女人，我可没兴趣。你要买就用你他妈兰尼斯特家的钱去买。”
　　王后冷冷地看着他，“想不到你如此吝啬。我以为我嫁的国王会赶快为我找来狼皮铺床。”
　　劳勃脸色一沉，怒道：“没狼还能铺得满床狼皮，你当我会变魔术？”
　　“谁说我们没有狼？”瑟曦·兰尼斯特说。她的语气非常沉静，但那双碧眼里却闪着胜利的光芒。
　　众人过了好一阵子才明白她的意思，等大家都会意过来，国王很不高兴地耸耸肩：“随你便。叫伊林爵士去办。”
　　“劳勃，你不是说真的吧？”奈德抗议。
　　国王已经没心情再争论下去。“别说了，奈德，这事到此为止。冰原狼本来就野性难改，假如不除掉，你女儿迟早会跟我儿子一样遭殃。帮她弄条狗，她会快乐点。”
　　这时珊莎终于明白了国王的意思，她望向父亲，眼里满是惊惶。“他不是指淑女，是不是？”她在他脸上看到了答案。“不，”她说，“不要杀淑女。淑女不咬人的，她最乖……”
　　“淑女当时根本不在场，”艾莉亚生气地叫道，“你不要欺负她！”
　　“叫他们住手，”珊莎哀求，“叫他们住手，求求你，咬人的不是淑女，是娜梅莉亚，动手的是艾莉亚，别让他们乱来，不是淑女干的，别让他们伤害淑女，我会叫她乖乖听话，我保证，我保证……”她终于忍不住哭了起来。
　　奈德惟一能做的只是紧紧搂住她，让她哭个痛快。他的视线穿过大厅，看着他那比骨肉还亲的老友劳勃。“劳勃，看在我的份上，看在你对我妹妹的爱份上，不要这样。我求求你。”
　　国王看他良久，然后转头看着妻子。“瑟曦，你真该死。”他愤恨地说。
　　奈德轻柔地从珊莎的搂抱里脱身而起，突然间，过去四天累积的所有疲惫又排山倒海般袭上心头。“劳勃，那你自己动手，”他的音调冷若冰霜。“敢作敢当。”
　　劳勃眼神呆滞地看了看奈德，然后迈开沉重的步伐，一言不发地转身离去。厅堂里顿时一片死寂。
　　“那只冰原狼在哪里？”她丈夫刚离开，瑟曦·兰尼斯特便迫不及待地问。乔佛里王子站在她身边微笑。
　　“王后陛下，那头狼被拴在城门外。”巴利斯坦·赛尔弥爵士很不情愿地回答。
　　“伊林·派恩爵……”
　　“不，”奈德道，“乔里，带女孩们回房去，然后把‘寒冰’拿来。”这番话一字一句都苦如胆汁，但他不得不说。“假如她非死不可，我要亲自动手。”
　　瑟曦·兰尼斯特满脸狐疑地看着他。“史塔克大人，你要亲自动手？想耍什么把戏？你为什么要亲自动手？”
　　众人的目光都集中在他身上，其中珊莎的眼神最伤人。“她来自北方，死也要死得像个北方人，决不死在屠夫手里。”
　　他带着眼底熊熊的怒火和耳际女儿悲泣的回音离开大厅，在拴狼的地方找到那头小冰原狼。奈德在她身边坐了一会儿。“淑女，”他试探着叫她的名字。从前他没怎么留心孩子们给小狼起的名字，如今这么一细看，立时便明白珊莎取得真是恰如其分。她是整窝狼里最娇小，最漂亮，也最柔顺服帖的一只。她睁大明亮的金黄色眸子望他，他忍不住摸摸她厚实的灰毛。
　　没过多久，乔里便送来了“寒冰”。
　　完事之后，他说：“挑四个人，派他们将遗体护送回北方，将她葬在临冬城。”
　　“从这里一路送回北方？”乔里有些吃惊。
　　“一路送回北方。”奈德重复。“那兰尼斯特女人休想得到这张狼皮。”
　　他拖着疲惫不堪的身躯朝城楼走去，打算狠狠睡上一觉，结果迎面撞见桑铎·克里冈和他的手下结束搜索任务，骑马吆喝着冲进城堡。他的战马背上悬着一个沉甸甸，用血淋淋的斗篷包裹的东西。“首相大人，没看到您女儿。”“猎狗”在马上嘶声说，“但我们找到了她的小宠物，总算也没白费工夫。”他伸手把那袋东西一扫，布袋重重地落在奈德面前。
　　奈德弯身拉开斗篷，心里不知待会如何向艾莉亚交代。但布里包着的却并非娜梅莉亚，而是屠夫小弟米凯。他浑身都是干涸的血渍，伤口从肩膀直到腰际，整个人几乎被一记自上而下的重击生生劈成两截。
　　“你骑马追杀他。”奈德说。
　　猎狗的眼睛似乎从他那顶狰狞的狗头盔底射出光芒。“还不是因为他爱跑，”他看着奈德的脸，笑了，“只可惜跑得不够快。”
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寒烟柔。

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28006鲜花 0鸡蛋

等级: 内阁元老
配偶: 逐烟霞。
你看着眼前的人，分明还是以前的模样，可心里终究不是以前那般澄清透明了。
举报 只看该作者 18楼  发表于: 2015-08-25 0
  17．BRAN
   It seemed as though he had been falling for years.
   Fly, a voice whispered in the darkness, but Bran did not know how to fly, so all he could do was fall.
   Maester Luwin made a little boy of clay, baked him till he was hard and brittle, dressed him in Bran’s clothes, and flung him off a roof. Bran remembered the way he shattered. “But I never fall,” he said, falling.
   The ground was so far below him he could barely make it out through the grey mists that whirled around him, but he could feel how fast he was falling, and he knew what was waiting for him down there. Even in dreams, you could not fall forever. He would wake up in the instant before he hit the ground, he knew. You always woke up in the instant before you hit the ground.
   And if you don’t? the voice asked.
   The ground was closer now, still far far away, a thousand miles away, but closer than it had been. It was cold here in the darkness. There was no sun, no stars, only the ground below coming up to smash him, and the grey mists, and the whispering voice. He wanted to cry.
   Not cry. Fly.
   “I can’t fly,” Bran said. “I can’t, I can’t?.?.?.?”
   How do you know? Have you ever tried?
   The voice was high and thin. Bran looked around to see where it was coming from. A crow was spiraling down with him, just out of reach, following him as he fell. “Help me,” he said.
   I’m trying, the crow replied. Say, got any corn?
   Bran reached into his pocket as the darkness spun dizzily around him. When he pulled his hand out, golden kernels slid from between his fingers into the air. They fell with him.
   The crow landed on his hand and began to eat.
   “Are you really a crow?” Bran asked.
   Are you really falling? the crow asked back.
   “It’s just a dream,” Bran said.
   Is it? asked the crow.
   “I’ll wake up when I hit the ground,” Bran told the bird.
   You’ll die when you hit the ground, the crow said. It went back to eating corn.
   Bran looked down. He could see mountains now, their peaks white with snow, and the silver thread of rivers in dark woods. He closed his eyes and began to cry.
   That won’t do any good, the crow said. I told you, the answer is flying, not crying. How hard can it be? I’m doing it. The crow took to the air and flapped around Bran’s hand.
   “You have wings,” Bran pointed out.
   Maybe you do too.
   Bran felt along his shoulders, groping for feathers.
   There are different kinds of wings, the crow said.
   Bran was staring at his arms, his legs. He was so skinny, just skin stretched taut over bones. Had he always been so thin? He tried to remember. A face swam up at him out of the grey mist, shining with light, golden. “The things I do for love,” it said.
   Bran screamed.
   The crow took to the air, cawing. Not that, it shrieked at him. Forget that, you do not need it now, put it aside, put it away. It landed on Bran’s shoulder, and pecked at him, and the shining golden face was gone.
   Bran was falling faster than ever. The grey mists howled around him as he plunged toward the earth below. “What are you doing to me?” he asked the crow, tearful.
   Teaching you how to fly.
   “I can’t fly!”
   You’re flying tight now.
   “I’m falling!”
   Every flight begins with a fall, the crow said. Look down.
   “I’m afraid?.?.?.?”
   LOOK DOWN!
   Bran looked down, and felt his insides turn to water. The ground was rushing up at him now. The whole world was spread out below him, a tapestry of white and brown and green. He could see everything so clearly that for a moment he forgot to be afraid. He could see the whole realm, and everyone in it.
   He saw Winterfell as the eagles see it, the tall towers looking squat and stubby from above, the castle walls just lines in the dirt. He saw Maester Luwin on his balcony, studying the sky through a polished bronze tube and frowning as he made notes in a book. He saw his brother Robb, taller and stronger than he remembered him, practicing swordplay in the yard with real steel in his hand. He saw Hodor, the simple giant from the stables, carrying an anvil to Mikken’s forge, hefting it onto his shoulder as easily as another man might heft a bale of hay. At the heart of the godswood, the great white weirwood brooded over its reflection in the black pool, its leaves rustling in a chill wind. When it felt Bran watching, it lifted its eyes from the still waters and stared back at him knowingly.
   He looked east, and saw a galley racing across the waters of the Bite. He saw his mother sitting alone in a cabin, looking at a bloodstained knife on a table in front of her, as the rowers pulled at their oars and Ser Rodrik leaned across a rail, shaking and heaving. A storm was gathering ahead of them, a vast dark roaring lashed by lightning, but somehow they could not see it.
   He looked south, and saw the great blue-green rush of the Trident. He saw his father pleading with the king, his face etched with grief. He saw Sansa crying herself to sleep at night, and he saw Arya watching in silence and holding her secrets hard in her heart. There were shadows all around them. One shadow was dark as ash, with the terrible face of a hound. Another was armored like the sun, golden and beautiful. Over them both loomed a giant in armor made of stone, but when he opened his visor, there was nothing inside but darkness and thick black blood.
   He lifted his eyes and saw clear across the narrow sea, to the Free Cities and the green Dothraki sea and beyond, to Vaes Dothrak under its mountain, to the fabled lands of the Jade Sea, to Asshai by the Shadow, where dragons stirred beneath the sunrise.
   Finally he looked north. He saw the Wall shining like blue crystal, and his bastard brother Jon sleeping alone in a cold bed, his skin growing pale and hard as the memory of all warmth fled from him. And he looked past the Wall, past endless forests cloaked in snow, past the frozen shore and the great blue-white rivers of ice and the dead plains where nothing grew or lived. North and north and north he looked, to the curtain of light at the end of the world, and then beyond that curtain. He looked deep into the heart of winter, and then he cried out, afraid, and the heat of his tears burned on his cheeks.
   Now you know, the crow whispered as it sat on his shoulder. Now you know why you must live.
   “Why?” Bran said, not understanding, falling, falling.
   Because winter is coming.
   Bran looked at the crow on his shoulder, and the crow looked back. It had three eyes, and the third eye was full of a terrible knowledge. Bran looked down. There was nothing below him now but snow and cold and death, a frozen wasteland where jagged blue-white spires of ice waited to embrace him. They flew up at him like spears. He saw the bones of a thousand other dreamers impaled upon their points. He was desperately afraid.
   “Can a man still be brave if he’s afraid?” he heard his own voice saying, small and far away.
   And his father’s voice replied to him. “That is the only time a man can be brave.”
   Now, Bran, the crow urged. Choose. Fly or die.
   Death reached for him, screaming.
   Bran spread his arms and flew.
   Wings unseen drank the wind and filled and pulled him upward. The terrible needles of ice receded below him. The sky opened up above. Bran soared. It was better than climbing. It was better than anything. The world grew small beneath him.
   “I’m flying!” he cried out in delight.
   I’ve noticed, said the three-eyed crow. It took to the air, flapping its wings in his face, slowing him, blinding him. He faltered in the air as its pinions beat against his cheeks. Its beak stabbed at him fiercely, and Bran felt a sudden blinding pain in the middle of his forehead, between his eyes.
   “What are you doing?” he shrieked.
   The crow opened its beak and cawed at him, a shrill scream of fear, and the grey mists shuddered and swirled around him and ripped away like a veil, and he saw that the crow was really a woman, a serving woman with long black hair, and he knew her from somewhere, from Winterfell, yes, that was it, he remembered her now, and then he realized that he was in Winterfell, in a bed high in some chilly tower room, and the black-haired woman dropped a basin of water to shatter on the floor and ran down the steps, shouting, “He’s awake, he’s awake, he’s awake.”
   Bran touched his forehead, between his eyes. The place where the crow had pecked him was still burning, but there was nothing there, no blood, no wound. He felt weak and dizzy. He tried to get out of bed, but nothing happened.
   And then there was movement beside the bed, and something landed lightly on his legs. He felt nothing. A pair of yellow eyes looked into his own, shining like the sun. The window was open and it was cold in the room, but the warmth that came off the wolf enfolded him like a hot bath. His pup, Bran realized?.?.?.?or was it? He was so big now. He reached out to pet him, his hand trembling like a leaf.
   When his brother Robb burst into the room, breathless from his dash up the tower steps, the direwolf was licking Bran’s face. Bran looked up calmly. “His name is Summer,” he said.

Ⅰ 权力的游戏 Chapter18 布兰
　　他不断下坠，仿佛经过了好多好多年。
　　快飞吧，一个声音在黑暗中低语，然而布兰不知该怎么飞，所以只好继续不断坠落。
　　鲁温师傅曾经捏制了一个陶土娃娃，烧烤得又硬又脆，为它穿上布兰的衣服，然后从城楼上扔下去。布兰一直记得陶土娃娃摔得粉身碎骨的模样。“但我绝对不会摔下去。”他说，然后继续往下坠。
　　虽然四周都是灰蒙蒙的雾气，看不清地面究竟有多远，但他可以感觉到自己掉落的速度有多快，也知道下面等着自己的是什么。即便在梦中，你也不可能永无止尽地这么一直掉下去。他知道，他会在落地前的一刹那醒来，人总是在落地前的一刹那醒来的。
　　那要是你醒不来呢？那个声音问。
　　地面变得更近，虽然依旧遥遥无期，相距千里，但总是近了些。置身半空又暗又冷，没有太阳，没有星辰，只有迎面扑来的大地和灰雾，还有这陌生的细语。他好想哭。
　　不要哭，飞。
　　“我不会飞，”布兰说，“不会，不会啊……”
　　你怎么知道？你试过吗？
　　那声音高亢而尖细，布兰环顾四周想找出声音的来源。他见到一只乌鸦正随着他盘旋直落，但保持在他够不到的距离外。“救救我。”他说。
　　我正在想办法，乌鸦回答，嘿，你可有玉米？
　　黑暗在他周围晕眩地旋转，布兰忙把手伸进口袋，抽出来时，金黄的谷粒由他指间滑下，与他一同坠落。
　　乌鸦停在他手上，开始啄食。
　　“你真的是乌鸦？”布兰问。
　　你真的在往下坠？乌鸦反问。
　　“这只是一场梦。”布兰说。
　　是吗？乌鸦又问。
　　“我摔到地面的时候自然会醒的。”布兰告诉鸟儿。
　　等摔到地面你就死了，乌鸦说完，径自去吃玉米。
　　布兰低下头，现在他可以看见白雪皑皑的连绵峰峦，银色河流在深绿树林中留下的蜿蜒丝线。他闭上双眼，哭了起来。
　　哭哭啼啼没用的，乌鸦说，我说了，惟一的办法就是飞，不是掉眼泪。这有什么难？我不就在飞？乌鸦腾空飞起，拍着翅膀，绕在布兰手边。
　　“可你有翅膀。”布兰指出。
　　说不定你也有。
　　布兰沿着肩膀摸索，想找自己的羽毛。
　　翅膀不只一种，乌鸦说。
　　布兰看到自己的手脚，好瘦啊，瘦得跟皮包骨一样。难道他一直都这么瘦？他试着去回忆。一张脸从灰雾中浮现，闪耀着金色的光芒。“好好想一想，我为爱情做了些什么，”它说。
　　布兰尖叫起来。
　　乌鸦腾空飞起，嘎嘎大叫。不是那个，它对他嘶声叫道，忘记那个，你现在需要的不是它，忘记那件事，抛开那个念头。它停在布兰肩头，啄他，那张亮澄澄的金黄脸孔便随即消失。
　　这时，布兰越掉越快，朝地面急速扑去，灰雾在他耳际怒吼。“你对我做了什么？”他噙着眼泪问乌鸦。
　　我在教你飞。
　　“我不会飞！”
　　你现在不就在飞。
　　“我在往下掉！”
　　飞，都是从坠落开始的，乌鸦说，往下看。
　　“我怕……”
　　往下看！
　　布兰往下看，觉得五脏六腑简直都要融化。地面正朝他迎面袭来，整个世界摊在下方，如同一幅五颜六色的织锦。每一件事物都清晰无比，他甚至暂时忘却了恐惧。王国全境和行走其间的形色人事尽收眼底。
　　他以翱空翔鹰之姿俯瞰临冬城，高处观之，原本高耸的塔楼竟显得矮胖，城墙则成了泥地上的线条。他看到阳台上的鲁温师傅，一边用只擦得晶亮的青铜管子观测天象，一边皱着眉头在记事本上涂涂写写。他看见哥哥罗柏在广场上练习剑术，手中拿着精钢打造的真正武器，个头比记忆中更要高壮。他看见在马房里工作的那个头脑简单的巨人阿多，轻而易举地把铁砧扛在肩上，仿佛常人举起稻束，送往铁匠密肯的锻炉。在神木林的深处，高大苍白的鱼梁木正对着黑水潭里的倒影沉思，树叶在冷风中作响。当它发觉布兰看着自己，它也自止水里抬起视线，定定地回望他。
　　向东望，他看到一艘帆船乘风破浪，穿越咬人湾。他看见母亲独坐船舱，盯着面前桌上一把沾满血渍的尖刀。水手使劲划桨，罗德利克爵士靠着桅栏颤抖喘息。一阵暴风正在他们前方形成，一团怒吼的翻滚乌云，充满无边的雷霆电闪，但不知怎么的，他们却看不到。
　　他又向南望，只见三叉戟河的蓝绿河水奔涌浩荡，他看到父亲脸上刻满哀伤，正向国王苦苦哀求；看到大姐珊莎夜里哭着入眠；看到二姐艾莉亚静静地观望，把秘密藏在心中。他们全被黑影所笼罩，其中一个暗影黑如灰烬，还有张猎犬般恐怖的脸，另一个则全身耀眼金甲，美丽宛如阳光。他们之后站着一个身穿石甲的巨人，更为高壮，当他揭开面罩，里面空空如也，惟有无尽的幽暗和浓浓的黑血。
　　抬起眼，他的视线越过狭海，清晰地望向自由贸易城邦及彼方宛如绿色汪洋的多斯拉克草原，望向峰峦脚下的维斯·多斯拉克，望向玉海的传奇之地，望向亚夏之外的阴影之地，魔龙正在那里初曙的旭日下蠢蠢欲动。
　　最后他向北望去，看到闪亮如蓝色水晶的绝境长城，看到私生子哥哥琼恩孤独地睡在冰冷的床上，温暖和热度的记忆渐渐消逝，皮肤也随之苍白坚实。他眺望长城之外，视线穿过无边无际、白雪覆盖的森林，越过结冻的河岸，广阔的蓝白冰河，以及不见任何活物踪迹的死寂冰原。他不断朝北望，望向世界尽头的光幕，然后穿过那层光幕，朝寒冬之心看去，这时，他不禁害怕得叫出声来，滚烫的泪水在两颊灼灼发热。
　　现在你知道了吧？乌鸦端坐在他肩膀上悄声道，现在你知道为什么要活下去了吧？
　　“为什么？”布兰不解地问，仍旧不停地往下掉，往下掉。
　　因为凛冬将至。
　　布兰看看肩膀上的乌鸦，乌鸦也看着他。它原来有三只眼睛，第三只眼里充满一种恐怖的知识。布兰再度下望，如今下方空无一物，惟有冰雪、寒冷和死亡，在一片冰冻的荒原上，插满了锯齿状的蓝白冰针，正等着拥抱他。它们如飞矛般朝他射来，他看到上面挂满成千个做梦人的枯骨，一阵绝望的恐惧笼罩了他。
　　“人在恐惧的时候还能勇敢吗？”他听见自己细小邈远的声音这么说。
　　随后父亲的声音回答道：“人惟有恐惧的时候方能勇敢。”
　　就是现在，布兰，乌鸦催促，你得做出抉择，若是不飞，就只有摔死一途。
　　死亡厉声尖叫着朝他伸出魔爪。
　　布兰伸展手臂，飞了。
　　看不见的翅膀饱饮长风，充满空气，将他带往高处。下方可怕的冰针逐渐消退，天顶苍穹豁然开朗。布兰展翅翱翔，这感觉比爬墙还棒，比任何事都棒。他下面的世界越来越小。
　　“我会飞了！”他开心地叫道。
　　我知道，三眼乌鸦说。它振翅而飞，翅膀拍打着他的脸颊，减缓他的速度，遮蔽他的视线。他不由得在空中摇摆不定。乌鸦的尖喙狠狠啄进他额头中央，两眼之间的地方，布兰突然觉得一阵尖锐的疼痛。
　　“你干什么？”他尖叫道。
　　乌鸦张嘴对他嘎嘎叫，那是充满恐惧的刺耳呐喊，随后原本笼罩他的灰雾突然开始颤抖旋转，如同布幔被一把掀开，他这才发现那只乌鸦赫然是个满头黑发的女侍。他好像在什么地方见过她，在临冬城里见过她，对，是这样没错，这下他记起她了。接着他明白自己正是身在临冬城，在某个寒冷高塔房间里的床上，而那个黑发女人失手把一盆水掉在地上。她顾不上摔破的盆子，径自奔下楼梯，一边高喊：“他醒了！他醒了！他醒过来啦！”
　　布兰摸摸双眼之间，刚才乌鸦啄的地方还热辣辣的，但额头上却没有任何痕迹，既没有流血也没有伤口。他觉得虚弱又晕眩，试着想下床，却动弹不得。
　　就在这时，床边有了动静，有个东西轻轻跳上他的双脚，用一双黄澄澄、像是闪亮太阳般的眸子看进他的眼睛。窗子敞开，屋里很冷，但狼传来的暖意却像热水澡一般包围住他。布兰方才明白这是他的小狼……真的吗？他长得好大了。他伸出落叶般颤抖的手摸摸他。
　　等到哥哥罗柏三步并作两步跑上高塔，上气不接下气地冲进房间时，冰原狼正舔着布兰的脸。布兰抬起头，一脸安详地说：“我要叫它‘夏天’。”
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等级: 内阁元老
配偶: 逐烟霞。
你看着眼前的人，分明还是以前的模样，可心里终究不是以前那般澄清透明了。
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18．CATELYN
   We will make King’s Landing within the hour.”
   Catelyn turned away from the rail and forced herself to smile. “Your oarmen have done well by us, Captain. Each one of them shall have a silver stag, as a token of my gratitude.”
   Captain Moreo Turnitis favored her with a half bow. “You are far too generous, Lady Stark. The honor of carrying a great lady like yourself is all the reward they need.”
   “But they’ll take the silver anyway.”
   Moreo smiled. “As you say.” He spoke the Common Tongue fluently, with only the slightest hint of a Tyroshi accent. He’d been plying the narrow sea for thirty years, he’d told her, as oarman, quartermaster, and finally captain of his own trading galleys. The Storm Dancer was his fourth ship, and his fastest, a two-masted galley of sixty oars.
   She had certainly been the fastest of the ships available in White Harbor when Catelyn and Ser Rodrik Cassel had arrived after their headlong gallop downriver. The Tyroshi were notorious for their avarice, and Ser Rodrik had argued for hiring a fishing sloop out of the Three Sisters, but Catelyn had insisted on the galley. It was good that she had. The winds had been against them much of the voyage, and without the galley’s oars they’d still be beating their way past the Fingers, instead of skimming toward King’s Landing and journey’s end.
   So close, she thought. Beneath the linen bandages, her fingers still throbbed where the dagger had bitten. The pain was her scourge, Catelyn felt, lest she forget. She could not bend the last two fingers on her left hand, and the others would never again be dexterous. Yet that was a small enough price to pay for Bran’s life.
   Ser Rodrik chose that moment to appear on deck. “My good friend,” said Moreo through his forked green beard. The Tyroshi loved bright colors, even in their facial hair. “It is so fine to see you looking better.”
   “Yes,” Ser Rodrik agreed. “I haven’t wanted to die for almost two days now.” He bowed to Catelyn. “My lady.”
   He was looking better. A shade thinner than he had been when they set out from White Harbor, but almost himself again. The strong winds in the Bite and the roughness of the narrow sea had not agreed with him, and he’d almost gone over the side when the storm seized them unexpectedly off Dragonstone, yet somehow he had clung to a rope until three of Moreo’s men could rescue him and carry him safely below decks.
   “The captain was just telling me that our voyage is almost at an end,” she said.
   Ser Rodrik managed a wry smile. “So soon?” He looked odd without his great white side whiskers; smaller somehow, less fierce, and ten years older. Yet back on the Bite it had seemed prudent to submit to a crewman’s razor, after his whiskers had become hopelessly befouled for the third time while he leaned over the rail and retched into the swirling winds.
   “I will leave you to discuss your business,” Captain Moreo said. He bowed and took his leave of them.
   The galley skimmed the water like a dragonfly, her oars rising and falling in perfect time. Ser Rodrik held the rail and looked out over the passing shore. “I have not been the most valiant of protectors.”
   Catelyn touched his arm. “We are here, Ser Rodrik, and safely. That is all that truly matters.” Her hand groped beneath her cloak, her fingers stiff and fumbling. The dagger was still at her side. She found she had to touch it now and then, to reassure herself. “Now we must reach the king’s master-at-arms, and pray that he can be trusted.”
   “Ser Aron Santagar is a vain man, but an honest one.” Ser Rodrik’s hand went to his face to stroke his whiskers and discovered once again that they were gone. He looked nonplussed. “He may know the blade, yes?.?.?.?but, my lady, the moment we go ashore we are at risk. And there are those at court who will know you on sight.”
   Catelyn’s mouth grew tight. “Littlefinger,” she murmured. His face swam up before her; a boy’s face, though he was a boy no longer. His father had died several years before, so he was Lord Baelish now, yet still they called him Littlefinger. Her brother Edmure had given him that name, long ago at Riverrun. His family’s modest holdings were on the smallest of the Fingers, and Petyr had been slight and short for his age.
   Ser Rodrik cleared his throat. “Lord Baelish once, ah?.?.?.?” His thought trailed off uncertainly in search of the polite word.
   Catelyn was past delicacy. “He was my father’s ward. We grew up together in Riverrun. I thought of him as a brother, but his feelings for me were?.?.?.?more than brotherly. When it was announced that I was to wed Brandon Stark, Petyr challenged for the right to my hand. It was madness. Brandon was twenty, Petyr scarcely fifteen. I had to beg Brandon to spare Petyr’s life. He let him off with a scar. Afterward my father sent him away. I have not seen him since.” She lifted her face to the spray, as if the brisk wind could blow the memories away. “He wrote to me at Riverrun after Brandon was killed, but I burned the letter unread. By then I knew that Ned would marry me in his brother’s place.”
   Ser Rodrik’s fingers fumbled once again for nonexistent whiskers. “Littlefinger sits on the small council now.”
   “I knew he would rise high,” Catelyn said. “He was always clever, even as a boy, but it is one thing to be clever and another to be wise. I wonder what the years have done to him.”
   High overhead, the far-eyes sang out from the rigging. Captain Moreo came scrambling across the deck, giving orders, and all around them the Storm Dancer burst into frenetic activity as King’s Landing slid into view atop its three high hills.
   Three hundred years ago, Catelyn knew, those heights had been covered with forest, and only a handful of fisherfolk had lived on the north shore of the Blackwater Rush where that deep, swift river flowed into the sea. Then Aegon the Conqueror had sailed from Dragonstone. It was here that his army had put ashore, and there on the highest hill that he built his first crude redoubt of wood and earth.
   Now the city covered the shore as far as Catelyn could see; manses and arbors and granaries, brick storehouses and timbered inns and merchant’s stalls, taverns and graveyards and brothels, all piled one on another. She could hear the clamor of the fish market even at this distance. Between the buildings were broad roads lined with trees, wandering crookback streets, and alleys so narrow that two men could not walk abreast. Visenya’s hill was crowned by the Great Sept of Baelor with its seven crystal towers. Across the city on the hill of Rhaenys stood the blackened walls of the Dragonpit, its huge dome collapsing into ruin, its bronze doors closed now for a century. The Street of the Sisters ran between them, straight as an arrow. The city walls rose in the distance, high and strong.
   A hundred quays lined the waterfront, and the harbor was crowded with ships. Deepwater fishing boats and river runners came and went, ferrymen poled back and forth across the Blackwater Rush, trading galleys unloaded goods from Braavos and Pentos and Lys. Catelyn spied the queen’s ornate barge, tied up beside a fat-bellied whaler from the Port of Ibben, its hull black with tar, while upriver a dozen lean golden warships rested in their cribs, sails furled and cruel iron rams lapping at the water.
   And above it all, frowning down from Aegon’s high hill, was the Red Keep; seven huge drum-towers crowned with iron ramparts, an immense grim barbican, vaulted halls and covered bridges, barracks and dungeons and granaries, massive curtain walls studded with archers’ nests, all fashioned of pale red stone. Aegon the Conqueror had commanded it built. His son Maegor the Cruel had seen it completed. Afterward he had taken the heads of every stonemason, woodworker, and builder who had labored on it. Only the blood of the dragon would ever know the secrets of the fortress the Dragonlords had built, he vowed.
   Yet now the banners that flew from its battlements were golden, not black, and where the three-headed dragon had once breathed fire, now pranced the crowned stag of House Baratheon.
   A high-masted swan ship from the Summer Isles was beating out from port, its white sails huge with wind. The Storm Dancer moved past it, pulling steadily for shore.
   “My lady,” Ser Rodrik said, “I have thought on how best to proceed while I lay abed. You must not enter the castle. I will go in your stead and bring Ser Aron to you in some safe place.”
   She studied the old knight as the galley drew near to a pier. Moreo was shouting in the vulgar Valyrian of the Free Cities. “You would be as much at risk as I would.”
   Ser Rodrik smiled. “I think not. I looked at my reflection in the water earlier and scarcely recognized myself. My mother was the last person to see me without whiskers, and she is forty years dead. I believe I am safe enough, my lady.”
   Moreo bellowed a command. As one, sixty oars lifted from the river, then reversed and backed water. The galley slowed. Another shout. The oars slid back inside the hull. As they thumped against the dock, Tyroshi seamen leapt down to tie up. Moreo came bustling up, all smiles. “King’s Landing, my lady, as you did command, and never has a ship made a swifter or surer passage. Will you be needing assistance to carry your things to the castle?”
   “We shall not be going to the castle. Perhaps you can suggest an inn, someplace clean and comfortable and not too far from the river.”
   The Tyroshi fingered his forked green beard. “Just so. I know of several establishments that might suit your needs. Yet first, if I may be so bold, there is the matter of the second half of the payment we agreed upon. And of course the extra silver you were so kind as to promise. Sixty stags, I believe it was.”
   “For the oarmen,” Catelyn reminded him.
   “Oh, of a certainty,” said Moreo. “Though perhaps I should hold it for them until we return to Tyrosh. For the sake of their wives and children. If you give them the silver here, my lady, they will dice it away or spend it all for a night’s pleasure.”
   “There are worse things to spend money on,” Ser Rodrik put in. “Winter is coming.”
   “A man must make his own choices,” Catelyn said. “They earned the silver. How they spend it is no concern of mine.”
   “As you say, my lady,” Moreo replied, bowing and smiling.
   Just to be sure, Catelyn paid the oarmen herself, a stag to each man, and a copper to the two men who carried their chests halfway up Visenya’s hill to the inn that Moreo had suggested. It was a rambling old place on Eel Alley. The woman who owned it was a sour crone with a wandering eye who looked them over suspiciously and bit the coin that Catelyn offered her to make sure it was real. Her rooms were large and airy, though, and Moreo swore that her fish stew was the most savory in all the Seven Kingdoms. Best of all, she had no interest in their names.
   “I think it best if you stay away from the common room,” Ser Rodrik said, after they had settled in. “Even in a place like this, one never knows who may be watching.” He wore ringmail, dagger, and longsword under a dark cloak with a hood he could pull up over his head. “I will be back before nightfall, with Ser Aron,” he promised. “Rest now, my lady.”
   Catelyn was tired. The voyage had been long and fati
   guing, and she was no longer as young as she had been. Her windows opened on the alley and rooftops, with a view of the Blackwater beyond. She watched Ser Rodrik set off, striding briskly through the busy streets until he was lost in the crowds, then decided to take his advice. The bedding was stuffed with straw instead of feathers, but she had no trouble falling asleep.
   She woke to a pounding on her door.
   Catelyn sat up sharply. Outside the window, the rooftops of King’s Landing were red in the light of the setting sun. She had slept longer than she intended. A fist hammered at her door again, and a voice called out, “Open, in the name of the king.”
   “A moment,” she called out. She wrapped herself in her cloak. The dagger was on the bedside table. She snatched it up before she unlatched the heavy wooden door.
   The men who pushed into the room wore the black ringmail and golden cloaks of the City Watch. Their leader smiled at the dagger in her hand and said, “No need for that, m’lady. We’re to escort you to the castle.”
   “By whose authority?” she said.
   He showed her a ribbon. Catelyn felt her breath catch in her throat. The seal was a mockingbird, in grey wax. “Petyr,” she said. So soon. Something must have happened to Ser Rodrik. She looked at the head guardsman. “Do you know who I am?”
   “No, m’lady,” he said. “M’lord Littlefinger said only to bring you to him, and see that you were not mistreated.”
   Catelyn nodded. “You may wait outside while I dress.”
   She bathed her hands in the basin and wrapped them in clean linen. Her fingers were thick and awkward as she struggled to lace up her bodice and knot a drab brown cloak about her neck. How could Littlefinger have known she was here? Ser Rodrik would never have told him. Old he might be, but he was stubborn, and loyal to a fault. Were they too late, had the Lannisters reached King’s Landing before her? No, if that were true, Ned would be here too, and surely he would have come to her. How?.?.?.? ?
   Then she thought, Moreo. The Tyroshi knew who they were and where they were, damn him. She hoped he’d gotten a good price for the information.
   They had brought a horse for her. The lamps were being lit along the streets as they set out, and Catelyn felt the eyes of the city on her as she rode, surrounded by the guard in their golden cloaks. When they reached the Red Keep, the portcullis was down and the great gates sealed for the night, but the castle windows were alive with flickering lights. The guardsmen left their mounts outside the walls and escorted her through a narrow postern door, then up endless steps to a tower.
   He was alone in the room, seated at a heavy wooden table, an oil lamp beside him as he wrote. When they ushered her inside, he set down his pen and looked at her. “Cat,” he said quietly.
   “Why have I been brought here in this fashion?”
   He rose and gestured brusquely to the guards. “Leave us.” The men departed. “You were not mistreated, I trust,” he said after they had gone. “I gave firm instructions.” He noticed her bandages. “Your hands?.?.?.?”
   Catelyn ignored the implied question. “I am not accustomed to being summoned like a serving wench,” she said icily. “As a boy, you still knew the meaning of courtesy.”
   “I’ve angered you, my lady. That was never my intent.” He looked contrite. The look brought back vivid memories for Catelyn. He had been a sly child, but after his mischiefs he always looked contrite; it was a gift he had. The years had not changed him much. Petyr had been a small boy, and he had grown into a small man, an inch or two shorter than Catelyn, slender and quick, with the sharp features she remembered and the same laughing grey-green eyes. He had a little pointed chin beard now, and threads of silver in his dark hair, though he was still shy of thirty. They went well with the silver mockingbird that fastened his cloak. Even as a child, he had always loved his silver.
   “How did you know I was in the city?” she asked him.
   “Lord Varys knows all,” Petyr said with a sly smile. “He will be joining us shortly, but I wanted to see you alone first. It has been too long, Cat. How many years?”
   Catelyn ignored his familiarity. There were more important questions. “So it was the King’s Spider who found me.”
   Littlefinger winced. “You don’t want to call him that. He’s very sensitive. Comes of being an eunuch, I imagine. Nothing happens in this city without Varys knowing. Oftimes he knows about it before it happens. He has informants everywhere. His little birds, he calls them. One of his little birds heard about your visit. Thankfully, Varys came to me first.”
   “Why you?”
   He shrugged. “Why not me? I am master of coin, the king’s own councillor. Selmy and Lord Renly rode north to meet Robert, and Lord Stannis is gone to Dragonstone, leaving only Maester Pycelle and me. I was the obvious choice. I was ever a friend to your sister Lysa, Varys knows that.”
   “Does Varys know about?.?.?.?”
   “Lord Varys knows everything?.?.?.?except why you are here.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Why are you here?”
   “A wife is allowed to yearn for her husband, and if a mother needs her daughters close, who can tell her no?”
   Littlefinger laughed. “Oh, very good, my lady, but please don’t expect me to believe that. I know you too well. What were the Tully words again?”
   Her throat was dry. “Family, Duty, Honor,” she recited stiffly. He did know her too well.
   “Family, Duty, Honor,” he echoed. “All of which required you to remain in Winterfell, where our Hand left you. No, my lady, something has happened. This sudden trip of yours bespeaks a certain urgency. I beg of you, let me help. Old sweet friends should never hesitate to rely upon each other.” There was a soft knock on the door. “Enter,” Littlefinger called out.
   The man who stepped through the door was plump, perfumed, powdered, and as hairless as an egg. He wore a vest of woven gold thread over a loose gown of purple silk, and on his feet were pointed slippers of soft velvet. “Lady Stark,” he said, taking her hand in both of his, “to see you again after so many years is such a joy.” His flesh was soft and moist, and his breath smelled of lilacs. “Oh, your poor hands. Have you burned yourself, sweet lady? The fingers are so delicate?.?.?.?Our good Maester Pycelle makes a marvelous salve, shall I send for a jar?”
   Catelyn slid her fingers from his grasp. “I thank you, my lord, but my own Maester Luwin has already seen to my hurts.”
   Varys bobbed his head. “I was grievous sad to hear about your son. And him so young. The gods are cruel.”
   “On that we agree, Lord Varys,” she said. The title was but a courtesy due him as a council member; Varys was lord of nothing but the spiderweb, the master of none but his whisperers.
   The eunuch spread his soft hands. “On more than that, I hope, sweet lady. I have great esteem for your husband, our new Hand, and I know we do both love King Robert.”
   “Yes,” she was forced to say. “For a certainty.”
   “Never has a king been so beloved as our Robert,” quipped Littlefinger. He smiled slyly. “At least in Lord Varys’s hearing.”
   “Good lady,” Varys said with great solicitude. “There are men in the Free Cities with wondrous healing powers. Say only the word, and I will send for one for your dear Bran.”
   “Maester Luwin is doing all that can be done for Bran,” she told him. She would not speak of Bran, not here, not with these men. She trusted Littlefinger only a little, and Varys not at all. She would not let them see her grief. “Lord Baelish tells me that I have you to thank for bringing me here.”
   Varys giggled like a little girl. “Oh, yes. I suppose I am guilty. I hope you forgive me, kind lady.” He eased himself down into a seat and put his hands together. “I wonder if we might trouble you to show us the dagger?”
   Catelyn Stark stared at the eunuch in stunned disbelief. He was a spider, she thought wildly, an enchanter or worse. He knew things no one could possibly know, unless?.?.?.?“What have you done to Ser Rodrik?” she demanded.
   Littlefinger was lost. “I feel rather like the knight who arrives at the battle without his lance. What dagger are we talking about? Who is Ser Rodrik?”
   “Ser Rodrik Cassel is master-at-arms at Winterfell,” Varys informed him. “I assure you, Lady Stark, nothing at all has been done to the good knight. He did call here early this afternoon. He visited with Ser Aron Santagar in the armory, and they talked of a certain dagger. About sunset, they left the castle together and walked to that dreadful hovel where you were staying. They are still there, drinking in the common room, waiting for your return. Ser Rodrik was very distressed to find you gone.”
   “How could you know all that?”
   “The whisperings of little birds,” Varys said, smiling. “I know things, sweet lady. That is the nature of my service.” He shrugged. “You do have the dagger with you, yes?”
   Catelyn pulled it out from beneath her cloak and threw it down on the table in front of him. “Here. Perhaps your little birds will whisper the name of the man it belongs to.”
   Varys lifted the knife with exaggerated delicacy and ran a thumb along its edge. Blood welled, and he let out a squeal and dropped the dagger back on the table.
   “Careful,” Catelyn told him, “it’s sharp.”
   “Nothing holds an edge like Valyrian steel,” Littlefinger said as Varys sucked at his bleeding thumb and looked at Catelyn with sullen admonition. Littlefinger hefted the knife lightly in his hand, testing the grip. He flipped it in the air, caught it again with his other hand. “Such sweet balance. You want to find the owner, is that the reason for this visit? You have no need of Ser Aron for that, my lady. You should have come to me.”
   “And if I had,” she said, “what would you have told me?”
   “I would have told you that there was only one knife like this at King’s Landing.” He grasped the blade between thumb and forefinger, drew it back over his shoulder, and threw it across the room with a practiced flick of his wrist. It struck the door and buried itself deep in the oak, quivering. “It’s mine.”
   “Yours?” It made no sense. Petyr had not been at Winterfell.
   “Until the tourney on Prince Joffrey’s name day,” he said, crossing the room to wrench the dagger from the wood. “I backed Ser Jaime in the jousting, along with half the court.” Petyr’s sheepish grin made him look half a boy again. “When Loras Tyrell unhorsed him, many of us became a trifle poorer. Ser Jaime lost a hundred golden dragons, the queen lost an emerald pendant, and I lost my knife. Her Grace got the emerald back, but the winner kept the rest.”
   “Who?” Catelyn demanded, her mouth dry with fear. Her fingers ached with remembered pain.
   “The Imp,” said Littlefinger as Lord Varys watched her face. “Tyrion Lannister.”


Ⅰ 权力的游戏 Chapter19 凯特琳
　　“一个小时之内，咱们便到君临啦！”
　　凯特琳从桅栏处转过头，强作欢颜道：“船长先生，您的水手表现得非常称职，我要给他们每人一枚银鹿，以表达我的感激。”
　　莫里欧·图密提斯船长半鞠躬答谢道：“史塔克夫人，您实在是太慷慨了。有幸为您这样的官家夫人服务，就是最好的报酬。”
　　“我总是要给他们的。”
　　莫里欧微笑：“那就恭敬不如从命。”他的通用语讲得十分流利，只带极轻微的泰洛西口音。他在狭海上讨生活已足足有三十年，据他所说，他最初只是个划桨的水手，继而当上大副，最后才终于有了自己的商船队。双桅帆船“暴风舞者号”是他的第四艘船，共有六十条桨、两根桅杆，也是他最快的一艘。
　　至少当凯特琳和罗德利克·凯索爵士马不停蹄地顺流奔波，抵达白港的时候，她是港湾里最快的一艘。泰洛西人的贪婪恶名远播，罗德利克爵士原本主张雇艘无桨单桅渔船出三姐妹群岛，然而凯特琳坚持要这艘大帆船。这是个明智的选择。一路上，风向都与他们作对，倘若没有这些划桨好手，恐怕他们现在还在五指半岛挣扎，遑论驶向旅程的终点君临了。
　　就快到了啊，她心想。包扎在棉布绷带中的手指上，被匕首割伤的地方仍在隐隐作痛，凯特琳觉得，痛楚是在提醒她别忘记发生过的事。她左手的小指和无名指没法弯曲，而其他三根手指也永远不可能恢复灵活动作。然而，若能换得布兰性命，这算得了什么？
　　这时罗德利克爵士走上甲板。“我的好朋友啊，”一脸分岔绿胡子的莫里欧说。泰洛西人热爱各种鲜明色彩，连他们的胡须睫毛都不放过。“看到你气色好多了，真替你高兴。”
　　“哦，”罗德利克附和。“这两天我的确舒服了点，不会那么想寻短见了。”说完他向凯特琳鞠躬。“夫人您好。”
　　他的气色真的好多了，虽然比起他们自白港启程时，整个人瘦了一小圈，但差不多恢复了原有的神采。他适应不了咬人湾的劲风和狭海的猛浪，行经龙石岛时暴风骤临，他还差点落海，总算是死命抓住一根缆绳，三名莫里欧手下的水手才把他安然救回船舱。
　　“船长刚才说，我们的旅程快结束了。”她说。
　　罗德利克爵士勉强挤出一丝笑容。“这么快？”少了雪白的鬓角和胡须，他看起来有些不对劲，仿佛突然间老了十岁，个头变小，往日的威猛也不复见。这是没办法的事，途经啮咬湾时，他趴在桅栏边朝狂风中吐个不休，到得第三次，胡子已经脏得无可救药，只好乖乖让水手用剃刀把胡子理干净。
　　“你们谈正事，我不打扰了。”莫里欧说完鞠躬离去。
　　帆船像蜻蜓般在水面漂浮，桨叶整齐划一地起起落落。罗德利克爵士拉住栏杆，朝飞驰的陆地远眺。“我实在不是个称职的护卫。”
　　凯特琳拍拍他的臂膀，“罗德利克爵士，我们安然抵达了目的地，这样就够了。”她的另一只手在斗篷底下摸索，指头僵硬而笨拙。匕首依然在腰际，她发现自己必须不时碰触它才能安心。“接下来我们便去找国王的教头，诸神保佑，希望他值得信赖。”
　　“艾伦·桑塔加爵士人虽然虚荣了点，却非常正直。”罗德利克爵士伸手欲捻胡须，却扑了个空。他有些不知所措地说：“他很可能认得出那把刀……。可是夫人，上岸之后，我们便有暴露身份的危险，更何况宫中有人一眼就可认出您。”
　　凯特琳抿紧嘴唇。“小指头，”她喃喃道。他的脸浮现在她眼前，一张男孩子的脸，然而他早已不是个孩子了。他的父亲几年前刚过世，如今他是贝里席伯爵，但大家仍唤他作小指头。这绰号是她弟弟艾德慕很久以前在奔流城帮他取的，起因是他家族封地狭小，且位于五指半岛中最小的半岛上，而培提尔在同龄孩子间又特别瘦小的缘故。
　　罗德利克爵士清清喉咙。“贝里席大人以前是，呃……”他结结巴巴，试图找出比较礼貌的用词。
　　凯特琳顾不得什么称谓。“他是我父亲的养子，我们在奔流城一起长大。我视他为兄弟，但他却……不只把我当成姐妹。当我和布兰登·史塔克将要成亲的消息宣布时，他要求决斗，胜者才能娶我为妻。那根本就是疯狂之举，布兰登当时已经二十岁，培提尔才不过十五。我求布兰登放他一马，结果他只在他身上留了个疤。事后我父亲把他送走，我至今没和他再见面。”她抬脸面向浪花，仿佛轻快的海风可以吹走回忆。“布兰登死后，他寄信到奔流城给我，但我没拆就通通烧掉。因为那时候，我已经知道奈德会代替他哥哥娶我为妻。”
　　罗德利克爵士伸手想摸胡子，又扑了个空。“小指头如今是御前会议的成员。”
　　“我早知道他会大有发展。”凯特琳说，“他打小就很机灵。可机灵和睿智是两回事，真不知道这些年他有多大改变。”
　　头顶的瞭望员从绳索上高声呼喝，莫里欧船长在甲板上来回走动下达命令，随着位于三座丘陵之上的都城君临映入眼帘，整个“暴风舞者号”立刻陷入一片忙乱的活动中。
　　凯特琳知道三百年前这片高地完全被森林覆盖，只有零星的渔夫在水流湍急、深涌入海的黑水河北岸定居。后来征服者伊耿自龙石岛渡海而来，他的军队便是在此处登陆，随后他在最高的丘陵顶端用木材和泥土筑起了他第一座粗糙的防御堡垒。
　　而今凯特琳视线所及，皆已成为繁华城区，豪宅、凉亭、谷仓、砖砌仓库、木屋旅店和市集摊位，酒馆、墓园和妓院，一座接着一座。即使距离尚远，她仍可听见渔市里的喧闹。宽阔的林荫大道，蜿蜒的曲折小街，还有窄得无法容纳两人并肩通行的巷弄穿梭在建筑物之间。圣贝勒大教堂的大理石墙环绕着维桑尼亚丘陵顶，七座水晶塔楼耸立其中。彼端的雷妮丝丘陵上，坐落着龙穴焦黑的残垣断壁，倒塌的巨大圆顶废墟，紧闭一世纪之久的青铜大门。两丘之间，静默姐妹街笔直如箭，坚实的围城高墙则环绕在外。
　　百余座码头罗列水滨，港口里停泊着无数船只。深水渔船和河流渡筏络绎不绝，船夫撑篙往来于黑水湾，商船则源源不断卸下来自布拉佛斯、潘托斯和里斯的货物。凯特琳瞥见王后装饰华丽的游艇，停泊在一艘吃水颇深、船身涂满黑色焦油、从伊班港来的捕鲸船旁边。上游处有十来艘狭长的黄金战船，船帆卷起，铁制撞锤轻轻拍打水面。
　　睥睨这一切的是伊耿丘陵上的红堡。它包括七栋加固钢铁工事的巨大鼓塔，一座硕大无比而冷酷的堡楼，圆顶大厅与密闭桥梁、军营、地牢和谷仓，以及开满箭口的厚重护墙，全是浅红色石头砌成。征服者伊耿当年下令建造这座城堡，他的儿子“残酷梅葛”将之完成。竣工以后，他将每位参与筑城的石匠、木工和建筑师全部斩首，誓言惟有真龙传人方能掌握龙王堡垒的秘密。
　　不想如今，飘扬在城墙上的旗帜却是金黄而非墨黑，三头龙曾经怒吐烈焰的地方，成了拜拉席恩家族的宝冠雄鹿奔驰昂扬的疆域。
　　一艘来自盛夏群岛的高桅天鹅船，正乘风张满白帆，驶离港口。暴风舞者号从她身边驶过，稳稳地准备靠岸。
　　“夫人，”罗德利克爵士说，“我趁躺在床上休养这段时间，仔细考虑过下一步该如何行动。首先，您绝对不能进城，由我一个人去把艾伦带到安全的地方见您就好。”
　　帆船驶近码头，她仔细端详着老骑士。莫里欧正用自由贸易城邦粗野的瓦雷利亚方言大声喝令。“你冒的风险不比我少。”
　　罗德利克爵士微笑道：“我看不然。早些时候我朝水里的倒影瞧了瞧，差点认不出自己。我母亲是这世上最后一个见过我没留胡子模样的人，而她已经过世了四十年。夫人，我相信我一定安全。”
　　莫里欧大声吆喝，六十支桨整齐划一地自水中拉起，然后朝反方向划去。船速减缓，又是一声大喝，桨叶便都缩回船壳里面。船靠码头之后，泰洛西水手立即跳下船拴住缆绳。莫里欧满脸堆笑地跑过来。“夫人，照您吩咐，咱们抵达君临了，我敢打赌从没有一艘船能这么迅速、这么平顺地抵达目标。您可需要派人帮忙把行李搬去城堡？”
　　“我们不去城堡，你倒是可以推荐几家干净舒适的旅馆，离河不要太远。”
　　泰洛西船长捻捻绿色的八字胡，“那敢情好，我倒是知道几个符合您要求的店家。不过首先嘛，恕我无礼，咱们约定的旅费还剩一半没付清呢。还有您慷慨答应的额外小费，如果我没记错的话，好像是六十枚银币。”
　　“那是给船员的。”凯特琳提醒他。
　　“噢，那当然，”莫里欧道，“不过还是我先帮他们保管，等咱们回到泰洛西再分配好了。这可是为他们妻小着想啊，想想看，若是现在就给他们，夫人，他们肯定会赌个精光或拿去买一夜之欢呀。”
　　“花花钱也无可厚非，”罗德利克爵士插话，“因为凛冬将至。”
　　“人应该为自己的行为负责。”凯特琳说，“这是他们辛苦挣来的血汗钱，怎么花我无足置喙。”
　　“那就照您吩咐，夫人。”莫里欧一边打躬作揖一边笑着回答。
　　为以防万一，凯特琳把钱当面赏给水手，每人一枚银鹿，至于帮她搬行李的两位海员，则额外多加了两个铜币。他们把东西搬到莫里欧推荐的旅馆，位于维桑尼亚丘陵半腰，据说是鳗鱼巷里的老字号。老板娘是个坏脾气的老妇，先是满腹狐疑地上下打量他们俩，又把凯特琳付的钱币用牙齿咬了又咬，大概在审是不是真的。虽然如此，房间倒是挺宽敞，通风也好，而且莫里欧说她煮的鱼汤七国上下无人能及。最棒的是，她完全不过问客人的名姓。
　　“我想您最好别待在大厅里，”安顿妥当之后，罗德利克爵士说，“即便在这种地方，还是小心为妙。”他穿了环甲，配上匕首和长剑，外面再套上黑斗篷，拉起兜帽。“我天黑以前把艾伦爵士带来。”他保证，“夫人，您好好休息。”
　　凯特琳真的累了。这趟旅途漫长而疲惫，况且她年纪也已不轻。房间的窗户面向一条屋顶之间的小巷，恰可看到远方的黑水湾。她目送罗德利克爵士快步走进熙来攘往的街道，消失在人群当中，最后决定顺从他的建议。床铺塞的是稻草并非羽毛，但她还是头一沾枕便进入梦乡。
　　她被砰砰的敲门声吵醒。
　　凯特琳立时坐起，窗外，夕阳残照把君临的屋顶洒得通红。她睡得比预期的长。房门再度响起敲门声，人声传进屋内：“以国王之名，开门！”
　　“等等。”她一边应声，一边赶紧用斗篷裹住自己。那把匕首躺在床边桌上，她匆忙拾起，然后才打开厚重木门的门闩。
　　蜂拥进房的人都穿着都城守卫队的制服：黑色环甲和金色披风。为首之人一见她手中利刃，便笑道：“夫人，不必如此。我们是特地来护送您进城的。”
　　“是谁的命令？”她问。
　　他拿出一条缎带，凯特琳一看，顿时喉头一紧。灰蜡上盖有一只仿声鸟。“培提尔，”她说。想不到他动作这么快，罗德利克爵士肯定出了事。她望着带头的守卫，“你知道我是谁？”
　　“不知道，夫人。”他回答，“小指头大人只吩咐我们带您去见他，而且绝不能让您受到一点委屈。”
　　凯特琳点点头：“你去门外等，我换好衣服便来。”
　　她在水盆里洗了手，又用干净的麻布擦干。她的手指仍然僵硬而不灵活，好容易才穿上胸衣，在颈间系好那件褐色的粗布斗篷。小指头怎么知道她在这里？这绝不会是罗德利克爵士说的。他虽然一把年纪，脾气却倔得紧，忠心耿耿到顽固的地步。难道他们来得太迟，兰尼斯特家已经抢先一步抵达了君临？不可能，倘若真是如此，那么奈德一定也在，他会亲自来接她。这到底是怎么回事？
　　她恍然大悟：莫里欧。这该死的泰洛西人知道他们的身份，也知道他们下榻处所。她不仅揣摩他为这则消息开了多少价。
　　他们为她备好了马。动身出发时，街上已经点起了灯，凯特琳左右围绕着肩披金色披风的守卫，只觉全城的目光都集中在自己身上。当他们抵达红堡时，铁闸已经降下，入夜后大门也已紧闭，但城堡的窗户里火光摇曳，生气依旧。守卫们把坐骑留在城墙外，护送她从一道狭窄的边门进入，踏着级级阶梯，登上高塔。
　　房里只有他一个人，坐在一张大木桌边，就着一盏油灯写字。他们把她送进屋内，他便搁下笔望着她。“凯特。”他静静地说。
　　“为什么带我来这儿？”
　　他起身朝守卫粗鲁地摆摆手。“你们可以走了。”守卫离开，“没事吧，”待他们走后他才开口，“我可是再三告诫过的。”他注意到她的绷带。“你的手……”
　　凯特琳故意忽略这个含蓄的问题。“我可不习惯被人当成女佣一般呼来唤去。”她冷冷地说，“小时候的你多少还懂得一点礼貌。”
　　“夫人，我绝对没有冒犯你的意思。”他看似充满悔意，这个神情也勾起凯特琳历历如绘的回忆。他是个狡猾机灵的孩子，但每次闯了祸总会一副悔不当初的模样，他就有这种天生的本事。看来这些年来他没什么改变。培提尔从前是个瘦小的男孩，如今长成一个瘦小的男子，比凯特琳还要矮上一两寸，但纤细敏捷，容貌一如她记忆中那般锐利，还有那双满是笑意的灰绿眼睛。他下巴留了点胡子，黑发间也有几抹银丝，其实人还不到三十。这个特质和他系住披风的银白仿声鸟倒是挺配，他从小就得意自己的少年白。
　　“你怎么知道我在城里？”她问。
　　“因为瓦里斯消息灵通。”培提尔露出一抹促狭的微笑。“他马上就来，我只是想先单独见见你。凯特，我们好久不见，算算，多少年了？”
　　凯特琳不理睬他的亲昵，如今她有比这更重要的事情要问。“原来是八爪蜘蛛找到我的。”
　　小指头皱眉道：“可别当面这样叫他哟。他这人敏感得很，大概和身为太监有关吧。城里的事，瓦里斯不但都知道，还常常未卜先知。到处都有他的眼线，他称呼他们作他的小小鸟儿。他的一只小小鸟听说了你抵达的消息。谢天谢地，瓦里斯知道以后，第一个找的人是我。”
　　“为什么第一个找你？”
　　他耸耸肩。“为什么不呢？我是财政大臣，也是国王的御前顾问。赛尔弥和蓝礼公爵到北边去迎接劳勃，史坦尼斯大人回了龙石岛，只剩下派席尔国师和我。我是当然的选择，何况瓦里斯知道我还是你妹妹莱莎的朋友。”
　　“那瓦里斯知不知道……”
　　“瓦里斯大人什么都知道……惟独不知道你为什么造访。”他抬起一边眉毛。“你到底为什么造访？”
　　“作妻子的想念丈夫，作母亲的挂念女儿。我来拜访，有何不妥？”
　　小指头笑道：“呵呵，我说夫人，这借口不赖，可惜我不相信。我太了解你了。你们徒利家族的箴言是什么来着？”
　　她喉咙一干。“家族，责任，荣誉。”她僵硬地复诵。他的确是太了解她了。
　　“家族，责任，荣誉。”他应道，“这每一项都要求你遵照首相嘱咐留在临冬城。夫人哪，我看事情没这么简单。若非事关紧要，你不会这样突然来访。就请你把话说出来吧，让我为你效劳，老朋友本该戮力相助。”这时门上传来一声轻响。“请进。”小指头叫道。
　　进来的的男子体态丰腴，脂粉味十足，头上光溜得像颗蛋。他身着一件宽松的紫色丝质长袍，外罩金丝线缝制的背心，脚踏前尖后宽的天鹅绒软拖鞋。“史塔克夫人，”他双掌执起她的手，“阔别多年，不料今日相见，真是叫人欢欣鼓舞。”他的皮肤柔软而湿润，呼吸有丁香花的味道。“哎呀，您的手是怎么了？亲爱的夫人，敢情您不小心给烫到了？如此纤纤玉手竟然……咱们派席尔大学士调制的药膏疗效一流，要不我这就差人给您送一罐？”
　　凯特琳从他掌心抽回手，“伯爵大人，感谢您的美意，不过我这伤口已经让家里的鲁温师傅处理过了。”
　　瓦里斯低头道：“您公子的事，我深感遗憾。一想到他小小年纪，就觉得天上诸神真是残酷。”
　　瓦里斯伯爵，我们总算有点共识。“她说。瓦里斯的伯爵头衔只是虚位，这也是为了顾及他朝廷重臣的身份，其实瓦里斯根本不是任何封邑的领主，他统御的不过是手下那批眼线。
　　太监把手软软地一摊。“好夫人，相信我们不只是有这点共识。我对您丈夫，也就是咱们新任首相，怀着极高的敬意，同时我也知道我们大家都非常爱戴劳勃国王。”
　　“是的，”她不得不说，“毫无疑问。”
　　“要找咱们劳勃这么受爱戴的国王，恐怕很难啰。”小指头露出促狭的微笑，酸溜溜地说，“最起码瓦里斯大人听到是这样。”
　　“好夫人，”瓦里斯忧心忡忡地道，“自由贸易城邦有不少精通医术的奇人异士。只消您点个头，我即刻去找这样的人来医治您的小布兰。”
　　“能做的鲁温师傅都做了。”她告诉他。此时此地她不愿谈布兰的事，尤其是和这些人。她不太信任小指头，更何况瓦里斯。她绝不能让他们看见她悲伤的模样。“贝里席大人刚才告诉我，我现在能在这里，全都要归功于您。”
　　瓦里斯像个小女孩般咯咯直笑。“呵呵，可不是嘛。我看我是难辞其咎了，好心的夫人，希望您原谅我吧。”他悠闲地找了张椅子坐下，双手交握，“我在想，不知能否请您让我们瞧瞧那把匕首呐？”
　　凯特琳·史塔克惊愕地看着他，不敢相信自己所听到的话。他真的是只无孔不入的蜘蛛，说不定还是个懂得妖术的魔法师，她不禁狂乱地暗想。他竟然知道没有人会知道的事，除非……“你把罗德利克爵士怎样了？”她质问。
　　小指头一头雾水。“我觉得自己像个上了战场却没带长熗的骑士。这匕首是怎么回事？罗德利克爵士又是何方神圣？”
　　“罗德利克·凯索爵士是临冬城的教头，”瓦里斯告诉他，“史塔克夫人，您大可放心，这位好骑士平安无事。他今天下午的确来过一趟，到兵器库去拜访了艾伦·桑塔加爵士，两人谈及一把匕首。约莫日落时分，他们结伴离开城堡，徒步返回您下榻的那间粗陋房舍。这会儿他们还在那里，正在大厅里喝酒，等您回去。罗德利克爵士发现您不在，可是焦虑得紧哪。”
　　“你怎么会知道这些事？”
　　“小小鸟儿叽叽喳喳传来的呗。”瓦里斯微笑道，“好夫人，我的职责所在便是打听消息，所以我才知道不少。”他耸耸肩。“不过您确实把匕首带在了身上，对吧？”
　　凯特琳从斗篷里抽出匕首，扔到他面前的桌上。“拿去看罢，或许你的小小鸟也会告诉你这匕首的主人是谁。”
　　瓦里斯用夸张的优雅姿势拿起短刀，然后伸出拇指滑过刀锋，没想到立时见血，他惊呼一声，手一松，匕首掉回桌上。
　　“小心，”凯特琳告诉他，“这匕首很利。”
　　“世上最锋利的莫过于瓦雷利亚钢。”小指头道。瓦里斯一边吸吮血流不止的拇指，一边面带愠色地瞪着凯特琳。小指头拿起利刃，轻轻地把玩，测试称手的程度。随后把匕首抛至半空，再用另一只手接住。“轻重恰到好处。您这次来访的目的，便是想查出匕首的主人？夫人，那您大可不必去找艾伦爵士，您应该直接来问我。”
　　“假如我直接问你，”她说，“你怎么说？”
　　“我会告诉你这种刀全君临只有一把，”他用拇指和食指夹起刀刃，举过肩头，手腕一抖，熟练地将匕首朝房间对面射去。短刀正中房门，深深地插进橡木板，随着残余的劲道晃动不止。“它是我的。”
　　“这是你的刀？”不可能，培提尔根本没去临冬城。
　　“一直到乔佛里王子命名日那天的比武大会为止，”他穿过房间，从木门上拔出匕首。“我和半数的廷臣都赌詹姆爵士会赢得长熗比试，”培提尔露出羞怯的笑，突然又显得孩子气。“所以当洛拉斯·提利尔爵士把他一熗刺下马时，我们都输了点小东西。詹姆爵士输掉一百枚金龙币，王后赔上一条翡翠首饰，而我则是这把刀。赢家放过了王后陛下的翡翠，但把其他东西都留下了。”
　　“此人是谁？”凯特琳质问，她的嘴巴因恐惧而干涩，手指头则因回忆而隐隐作痛。
　　“小恶魔，”小指头说。瓦里斯伯爵在一旁看着她的脸。“提利昂·兰尼斯特。”
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