《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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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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Chapter 59
   CATELYN
   As the host trooped down the causeway through the black bogs of the Neck and spilled out into the riverlands beyond, Catelyn’s apprehensions grew. She masked her fears behind a face kept still and stern, yet they were there all the same, growing with every league they crossed. Her days were anxious, her nights restless, and every raven that flew overhead made her clench her teeth.
   She feared for her lord father, and wondered at his ominous silence. She feared for her brother Edmure, and prayed that the gods would watch over him if he must face the Kingslayer in battle. She feared for Ned and her girls, and for the sweet sons she had left behind at Winterfell. And yet there was nothing she could do for any of them, and so she made herself put all thought of them aside. You must save your strength for Robb, she told herself. He is the only one you can help. You must be as fierce and hard as the north, Catelyn Tully. You must be a Stark for true now, like your son.
   Robb rode at the front of the column, beneath the flapping white banner of Winterfell. Each day he would ask one of his lords to join him, so they might confer as they marched; he honored every man in turn, showing no favorites, listening as his lord father had listened, weighing the words of one against the other. He has learned so much from Ned, she thought as she watched him, but has he learned enough?
   The Blackfish had taken a hundred picked men and a hundred swift horses and raced ahead to screen their movements and scout the way. The reports Ser Brynden’s riders brought back did little to reassure her. Lord Tywin’s host was still many days to the south?.?.?.?but Walder Frey, Lord of the Crossing, had assembled a force of near four thousand men at his castles on the Green Fork.
   “Late again,” Catelyn murmured when she heard. It was the Trident all over, damn the man. Her brother Edmure had called the banners; by rights, Lord Frey should have gone to join the Tully host at Riverrun, yet here he sat.
   “Four thousand men,” Robb repeated, more perplexed than angry. “Lord Frey cannot hope to fight the Lannisters by himself. Surely he means to join his power to ours.”
   “Does he?” Catelyn asked. She had ridden forward to join Robb and Robett Glover, his companion of the day. The vanguard spread out behind them, a slow-moving forest of lances and banners and spears. “I wonder. Expect nothing of Walder Frey, and you will never be surprised.”
   “He’s your father’s bannerman.”
   “Some men take their oaths more seriously than others, Robb. And Lord Walder was always friendlier with Casterly Rock than my father would have liked. One of his sons is wed to Tywin Lannister’s sister. That means little of itself, to be sure. Lord Walder has sired a great many children over the years, and they must needs marry someone. Still?.?.?.?”
   “Do you think he means to betray us to the Lannisters, my lady?” Robett Glover asked gravely.
   Catelyn sighed. “If truth be told, I doubt even Lord Frey knows what Lord Frey intends to do. He has an old man’s caution and a young man’s ambition, and has never lacked for cunning.”
   “We must have the Twins, Mother,” Robb said heatedly. “There is no other way across the river. You know that.”
   “Yes. And so does Walder Frey, you can be sure of that.”
   That night they made camp on the southern edge of the bogs, halfway between the kingsroad and the river. It was there Theon Greyjoy brought them further word from her uncle. “Ser Brynden says to tell you he’s crossed swords with the Lannisters. There are a dozen scouts who won’t be reporting back to Lord Tywin anytime soon. Or ever.” He grinned. “Ser Addam Marbrand commands their outriders, and he’s pulling back south, burning as he goes. He knows where we are, more or less, but the Blackfish vows he will not know when we split.”
   “Unless Lord Frey tells him,” Catelyn said sharply. “Theon, when you return to my uncle, tell him he is to place his best bowmen around the Twins, day and night, with orders to bring down any raven they see leaving the battlements. I want no birds bringing word of my son’s movements to Lord Tywin.”
   “Ser Brynden has seen to it already, my lady,” Theon replied with a cocky smile. “A few more blackbirds, and we should have enough to bake a pie. I’ll save you their feathers for a hat.”
   She ought to have known that Brynden Blackfish would be well ahead of her. “What have the Freys been doing while the Lannisters burn their fields and plunder their holdfasts?”
   “There’s been some fighting between Ser Addam’s men and Lord Walder’s,” Theon answered. “Not a day’s ride from here, we found two Lannister scouts feeding the crows where the Freys had strung them up. Most of Lord Walder’s strength remains massed at the Twins, though.”
   That bore Walder Frey’s seal beyond a doubt, Catelyn thought bitterly; hold back, wait, watch, take no risk unless forced to it.
   “If he’s been fighting the Lannisters, perhaps he does mean to hold to his vows,” Robb said.
   Catelyn was less encouraged. “Defending his own lands is one thing, open battle against Lord Tywin quite another.”
   Robb turned back to Theon Greyjoy. “Has the Blackfish found any other way across the Green Fork?”
   Theon shook his head. “The river’s running high and fast. Ser Brynden says it can’t be forded, not this far north.”
   “I must have that crossing!” Robb declared, fuming. “Oh, our horses might be able to swim the river, I suppose, but not with armored men on their backs. We’d need to build rafts to pole our steel across, helms and mail and lances, and we don’t have the trees for that. Or the time. Lord Tywin is marching north?.?.?.?” He balled his hand into a fist.
   “Lord Frey would be a fool to try and bar our way,” Theon Greyjoy said with his customary easy confidence. “We have five times his numbers. You can take the Twins if you need to, Robb.”
   “Not easily,” Catelyn warned them, “and not in time. While you were mounting your siege, Tywin Lannister would bring up his host and assault you from the rear.”
   Robb glanced from her to Greyjoy, searching for an answer and finding none. For a moment he looked even younger than his fifteen years, despite his mail and sword and the stubble on his cheeks. “What would my lord father do?” he asked her.
   “Find a way across,” she told him. “Whatever it took.”
   The next morning it was Ser Brynden Tully himself who rode back to them. He had put aside the heavy plate and helm he’d worn as the Knight of the Gate for the lighter leather-and-mail of an outrider, but his obsidian fish still fastened his cloak.
   Her uncle’s face was grave as he swung down off his horse. “There has been a battle under the walls of Riverrun,” he said, his mouth grim. “We had it from a Lannister outrider we took captive. The Kingslayer has destroyed Edmure’s host and sent the lords of the Trident reeling in flight.”
   A cold hand clutched at Catelyn’s heart. “And my brother?”
   “Wounded and taken prisoner,” Ser Brynden said. “Lord Blackwood and the other survivors are under siege inside Riverrun, surrounded by Jaime’s host.”
   Robb looked fretful. “We must get across this accursed river if we’re to have any hope of relieving them in time.”
   “That will not be easily done,” her uncle cautioned. “Lord Frey has pulled his whole strength back inside his castles, and his gates are closed and barred.”
   “Damn the man,” Robb swore. “If the old fool does not relent and let me cross, he’ll leave me no choice but to storm his walls. I’ll pull the Twins down around his ears if I have to, we’ll see how well he likes that!”
   “You sound like a sulky boy, Robb,” Catelyn said sharply. “A child sees an obstacle, and his first thought is to run around it or knock it down. A lord must learn that sometimes words can accomplish what swords cannot.”
   Robb’s neck reddened at the rebuke. “Tell me what you mean, Mother,” he said meekly.
   “The Freys have held the crossing for six hundred years, and for six hundred years they have never failed to exact their toll.”
   “What toll? What does he want?”
   She smiled. “That is what we must discover.”
   “And what if I do not choose to pay this toll?”
   “Then you had best retreat back to Moat Cailin, deploy to meet Lord Tywin in battle?.?.?.?or grow wings. I see no other choices.” Catelyn put her heels to her horse and rode off, leaving her son to ponder her words. It would not do to make him feel as if his mother were usurping his place. Did you teach him wisdom as well as valor, Ned? she wondered. Did you teach him how to kneel? The graveyards of the Seven Kingdoms were full of brave men who had never learned that lesson.
   It was near midday when their vanguard came in sight of the Twins, where the Lords of the Crossing had their seat.
   The Green Fork ran swift and deep here, but the Freys had spanned it many centuries past and grown rich off the coin men paid them to cross. Their bridge was a massive arch of smooth grey rock, wide enough for two wagons to pass abreast; the Water Tower rose from the center of the span, commanding both road and river with its arrow slits, murder holes, and portcullises. It had taken the Freys three generations to complete their bridge; when they were done they’d thrown up stout timber keeps on either bank, so no one might cross without their leave.
   The timber had long since given way to stone. The Twins, two squat, ugly, formidable castles, identical in every respect, with the bridge arching between, had guarded the crossing for centuries. High curtain walls, deep moats, and heavy oak-and-iron gates protected the approaches, the bridge footings rose from within stout inner keeps, there was a barbican and portcullis on either bank, and the Water Tower defended the span itself.
   One glance was sufficient to tell Catelyn that the castle would not be taken by storm. The battlements bristled with spears and swords and scorpions, there was an archer at every crenel and arrow slit, the drawbridge was up, the portcullis down, the gates closed and barred.
   The Greatjon began to curse and swear as soon as he saw what awaited them. Lord Rickard Karstark glowered in silence. “That cannot be assaulted, my lords,” Roose Bolton announced.
   “Nor can we take it by siege, without an army on the far bank to invest the other castle,” Helman Tallhart said gloomily. Across the deep-running green waters, the western twin stood like a reflection of its eastern brother. “Even if we had the time. Which, to be sure, we do not.”
   As the northern lords studied the castle, a sally port opened, a plank bridge slid across the moat, and a dozen knights rode forth to confront them, led by four of Lord Walder’s many sons. Their banner bore twin towers, dark blue on a field of pale silver-grey. Ser Stevron Frey, Lord Walder’s heir, spoke for them. The Freys all looked like weasels; Ser Stevron, past sixty with grandchildren of his own, looked like an especially old and tired weasel, yet he was polite enough. “My lord father has sent me to greet you, and inquire as to who leads this mighty host.”
   “I do.” Robb spurred his horse forward. He was in his armor, with the direwolf shield of Winterfell strapped to his saddle and Grey Wind padding by his side.
   The old knight looked at her son with a faint flicker of amusement in his watery grey eyes, though his gelding whickered uneasily and sidled away from the direwolf. “My lord father would be most honored if you would share meat and mead with him in the castle and explain your purpose here.”
   His words crashed among the lords bannermen like a great stone from a catapult. Not one of them approved. They cursed, argued, shouted down each other.
   “You must not do this, my lord,” Galbart Glover pleaded with Robb. “Lord Walder is not to be trusted.”
   Roose Bolton nodded. “Go in there alone and you’re his. He can sell you to the Lannisters, throw you in a dungeon, or slit your throat, as he likes.”
   “If he wants to talk to us, let him open his gates, and we will all share his meat and mead,” declared Ser Wendel Manderly.
   “Or let him come out and treat with Robb here, in plain sight of his men and ours,” suggested his brother, Ser Wylis.
   Catelyn Stark shared all their doubts, but she had only to glance at Ser Stevron to see that he was not pleased by what he was hearing. A few more words and the chance would be lost. She had to act, and quickly. “I will go,” she said loudly.
   “You, my lady?” The Greatjon furrowed his brow.
   “Mother, are you certain?” Clearly, Robb was not.
   “Never more,” Catelyn lied glibly. “Lord Walder is my father’s bannerman. I have known him since I was a girl. He would never offer me any harm.” Unless he saw some profit in it, she added silently, but some truths did not bear saying, and some lies were necessary.
   “I am certain my lord father would be pleased to speak to the Lady Catelyn,” Ser Stevron said. “To vouchsafe for our good intentions, my brother Ser Perwyn will remain here until she is safely returned to you.”
   “He shall be our honored guest,” said Robb. Ser Perwyn, the youngest of the four Freys in the party, dismounted and handed the reins of his horse to a brother. “I require my lady mother’s return by evenfall, Ser Stevron,” Robb went on. “It is not my intent to linger here long.”
   Ser Stevron Frey gave a polite nod. “As you say, my lord.” Catelyn spurred her horse forward and did not look back. Lord Walder’s sons and envoys fell in around her.
   Her father had once said of Walder Frey that he was the only lord in the Seven Kingdoms who could field an army out of his breeches. When the Lord of the Crossing welcomed Catelyn in the great hall of the east castle, surrounded by twenty living sons (minus Ser Perwyn, who would have made twenty-one), thirty-six grandsons, nineteen great-grandsons, and numerous daughters, granddaughters, bastards, and grandbastards, she understood just what he had meant.
   Lord Walder was ninety, a wizened pink weasel with a bald spotted head, too gouty to stand unassisted. His newest wife, a pale frail girl of sixteen years, walked beside his litter when they carried him in. She was the eighth Lady Frey.
   “It is a great pleasure to see you again after so many years, my lord,” Catelyn said.
   The old man squinted at her suspiciously. “Is it? I doubt that. Spare me your sweet words, Lady Catelyn, I am too old. Why are you here? Is your boy too proud to come before me himself? What am I to do with you?”
   Catelyn had been a girl the last time she had visited the Twins, but even then Lord Walder had been irascible, sharp of tongue, and blunt of manner. Age had made him worse than ever, it would seem. She would need to choose her words with care, and do her best to take no offense from his.
   “Father,” Ser Stevron said reproachfully, “you forget yourself. Lady Stark is here at your invitation.”
   “Did I ask you? You are not Lord Frey yet, not until I die. Do I look dead? I’ll hear no instructions from you.”
   “This is no way to speak in front of our noble guest, Father,” one of his younger sons said.
   “Now my bastards presume to teach me courtesy,” Lord Walder complained. “I’ll speak any way I like, damn you. I’ve had three kings to guest in my life, and queens as well, do you think I require lessons from the likes of you, Ryger? Your mother was milking goats the first time I gave her my seed.” He dismissed the red-faced youth with a flick of his fingers and gestured to two of his other sons. “Danwell, Whalen, help me to my chair.”
   They shifted Lord Walder from his litter and carried him to the high seat of the Freys, a tall chair of black oak whose back was carved in the shape of two towers linked by a bridge. His young wife crept up timidly and covered his legs with a blanket. When he was settled, the old man beckoned Catelyn forward and planted a papery dry kiss on her hand. “There,” he announced. “Now that I have observed the courtesies, my lady, perhaps my sons will do me the honor of shutting their mouths. Why are you here?”
   “To ask you to open your gates, my lord,” Catelyn replied politely. “My son and his lords bannermen are most anxious to cross the river and be on their way.”
   “To Riverrun?” He sniggered. “Oh, no need to tell me, no need. I’m not blind yet. The old man can still read a map.”
   “To Riverrun,” Catelyn confirmed. She saw no reason to deny it. “Where I might have expected to find you, my lord. You are still my father’s bannerman, are you not?”
   “Heh,” said Lord Walder, a noise halfway between a laugh and a grunt. “I called my swords, yes I did, here they are, you saw them on the walls. It was my intent to march as soon as all my strength was assembled. Well, to send my sons. I am well past marching myself, Lady Catelyn.” He looked around for likely confirmation and pointed to a tall, stooped man of fifty years. “Tell her, Jared. Tell her that was my intent.”
   “It was, my lady,” said Ser Jared Frey, one of his sons by his second wife. “On my honor.”
   “Is it my fault that your fool brother lost his battle before we could march?” He leaned back against his cushions and scowled at her, as if challenging her to dispute his version of events. “I am told the Kingslayer went through him like an axe through ripe cheese. Why should my boys hurry south to die? All those who did go south are running north again.”
   Catelyn would gladly have spitted the querulous old man and roasted him over a fire, but she had only till evenfall to open the bridge. Calmly, she said, “All the more reason that we must reach Riverrun, and soon. Where can we go to talk, my lord?”
   “We’re talking now,” Lord Frey complained. The spotted pink head snapped around. “What are you all looking at?” he shouted at his kin. “Get out of here. Lady Stark wants to speak to me in private. Might be she has designs on my fidelity, heh. Go, all of you, find something useful to do. Yes, you too, woman. Out, out, out.” As his sons and grandsons and daughters and bastards and nieces and nephews streamed from the hall, he leaned close to Catelyn and confessed, “They’re all waiting for me to die. Stevron’s been waiting for forty years, but I keep disappointing him. Heh. Why should I die just so he can be a lord? I ask you. I won’t do it.”
   “I have every hope that you will live to be a hundred.”
   “That would boil them, to be sure. Oh, to be sure. Now, what do you want to say?”
   “We want to cross,” Catelyn told him.
   “Oh, do you? That’s blunt. Why should I let you?”
   For a moment her anger flared. “If you were strong enough to climb your own battlements, Lord Frey, you would see that my son has twenty thousand men outside your walls.”
   “They’ll be twenty thousand fresh corpses when Lord Tywin gets here,” the old man shot back. “Don’t you try and frighten me, my lady. Your husband’s in some traitor’s cell under the Red Keep, your father’s sick, might be dying, and Jaime Lannister’s got your brother in chains. What do you have that I should fear? That son of yours? I’ll match you son for son, and I’ll still have eighteen when yours are all dead.”
   “You swore an oath to my father,” Catelyn reminded him.
   He bobbed his head side to side, smiling. “Oh, yes, I said some words, but I swore oaths to the crown too, it seems to me. Joffrey’s the king now, and that makes you and your boy and all those fools out there no better than rebels. If I had the sense the gods gave a fish, I’d help the Lannisters boil you all.”
   “Why don’t you?” she challenged him.
   Lord Walder snorted with disdain. “Lord Tywin the proud and splendid, Warden of the West, Hand of the King, oh, what a great man that one is, him and his gold this and gold that and lions here and lions there. I’ll wager you, he eats too many beans, he breaks wind just like me, but you’ll never hear him admit it, oh, no. What’s he got to be so puffed up about anyway? Only two sons, and one of them’s a twisted little monster. I’ll match him son for son, and I’ll still have nineteen and a half left when all of his are dead!” He cackled. “If Lord Tywin wants my help, he can bloody well ask for it.”
   That was all Catelyn needed to hear. “I am asking for your help, my lord,” she said humbly. “And my father and my brother and my lord husband and my sons are asking with my voice.”
   Lord Walder jabbed a bony finger at her face. “Save your sweet words, my lady. Sweet words I get from my wife. Did you see her? Sixteen she is, a little flower, and her honey’s only for me. I wager she gives me a son by this time next year. Perhaps I’ll make him heir, wouldn’t that boil the rest of them?”
   “I’m certain she will give you many sons.”
   His head bobbed up and down. “Your lord father did not come to the wedding. An insult, as I see it. Even if he is dying. He never came to my last wedding either. He calls me the Late Lord Frey, you know. Does he think I’m dead? I’m not dead, and I promise you, I’ll outlive him as I outlived his father. Your family has always pissed on me, don’t deny it, don’t lie, you know it’s true. Years ago, I went to your father and suggested a match between his son and my daughter. Why not? I had a daughter in mind, sweet girl, only a few years older than Edmure, but if your brother didn’t warm to her, I had others he might have had, young ones, old ones, virgins, widows, whatever he wanted. No, Lord Hoster would not hear of it. Sweet words he gave me, excuses, but what I wanted was to get rid of a daughter.
   “And your sister, that one, she’s full as bad. It was, oh, a year ago, no more, Jon Arryn was still the King’s Hand, and I went to the city to see my sons ride in the tourney. Stevron and Jared are too old for the lists now, but Danwell and Hosteen rode, Perwyn as well, and a couple of my bastards tried the melee. If I’d known how they’d shame me, I would never have troubled myself to make the journey. Why did I need to ride all that way to see Hosteen knocked off his horse by that Tyrell whelp? I ask you. The boy’s half his age, Ser Daisy they call him, something like that. And Danwell was unhorsed by a hedge knight! Some days I wonder if those two are truly mine. My third wife was a Crakehall, all of the Crakehall women are sluts. Well, never mind about that, she died before you were born, what do you care?
   “I was speaking of your sister. I proposed that Lord and Lady Arryn foster two of my grandsons at court, and offered to take their own son to ward here at the Twins. Are my grandsons unworthy to be seen at the king’s court? They are sweet boys, quiet and mannerly. Walder is Merrett’s son, named after me, and the other one?.?.?.?heh, I don’t recall?.?.?.?he might have been another Walder, they’re always naming them Walder so I’ll favor them, but his father?.?.?.?which one was his father now?” His face wrinkled up. “Well, whoever he was, Lord Arryn wouldn’t have him, or the other one, and I blame your lady sister for that. She frosted up as if I’d suggested selling her boy to a mummer’s show or making a eunuch out of him, and when Lord Arryn said the child was going to Dragonstone to foster with Stannis Baratheon, she stormed off without a word of regrets and all the Hand could give me was apologies. What good are apologies? I ask you.”
   Catelyn frowned, disquieted. “I had understood that Lysa’s boy was to be fostered with Lord Tywin at Casterly Rock.”
   “No, it was Lord Stannis,” Walder Frey said irritably. “Do you think I can’t tell Lord Stannis from Lord Tywin? They’re both bungholes who think they’re too noble to shit, but never mind about that, I know the difference. Or do you think I’m so old I can’t remember? I’m ninety and I remember very well. I remember what to do with a woman too. That wife of mine will give me a son before this time next year, I’ll wager. Or a daughter, that can’t be helped. Boy or girl, it will be red, wrinkled, and squalling, and like as not she’ll want to name it Walder or Walda.”
   Catelyn was not concerned with what Lady Frey might choose to name her child. “Jon Arryn was going to foster his son with Lord Stannis, you are quite certain of that?”
   “Yes, yes, yes,” the old man said. “Only he died, so what does it matter? You say you want to cross the river?”
   “We do.”
   “Well, you can’t!” Lord Walder announced crisply. “Not unless I allow it, and why should I? The Tullys and the Starks have never been friends of mine.” He pushed himself back in his chair and crossed his arms, smirking, waiting for her answer.
   The rest was only haggling.
   A swollen red sun hung low against the western hills when the gates of the castle opened. The drawbridge creaked down, the portcullis winched up, and Lady Catelyn Stark rode forth to rejoin her son and his lords bannermen. Behind her came Ser Jared Frey, Ser Hosteen Frey, Ser Danwell Frey, and Lord Walder’s bastard son Ronel Rivers, leading a long column of pikemen, rank on rank of shuffling men in blue steel ringmail and silvery grey cloaks.
   Robb galloped out to meet her, with Grey Wind racing beside his stallion. “It’s done,” she told him. “Lord Walder will grant you your crossing. His swords are yours as well, less four hundred he means to keep back to hold the Twins. I suggest that you leave four hundred of your own, a mixed force of archers and swordsmen. He can scarcely object to an offer to augment his garrison?.?.?.?but make certain you give the command to a man you can trust. Lord Walder may need help keeping faith.”
   “As you say, Mother,” Robb answered, gazing at the ranks of pikemen. “Perhaps?.?.?.?Ser Helman Tallhart, do you think?”
   “A fine choice.”
   “What?.?.?.?what did he want of us?”
   “If you can spare a few of your swords, I need some men to escort two of Lord Frey’s grandsons north to Winterfell,” she told him. “I have agreed to take them as wards. They are young boys, aged eight years and seven. It would seem they are both named Walder. Your brother Bran will welcome the companionship of lads near his own age, I should think.”
   “Is that all? Two fosterlings? That’s a small enough price to...”
   “Lord Frey’s son Olyvar will be coming with us,” she went on. “He is to serve as your personal squire. His father would like to see him knighted, in good time.”
   “A squire.” He shrugged. “Fine, that’s fine, if he’s...”
   “Also, if your sister Arya is returned to us safely, it is agreed that she will marry Lord Walder’s youngest son, Elmar, when the two of them come of age.”
   Robb looked nonplussed. “Arya won’t like that one bit.”
   “And you are to wed one of his daughters, once the fighting is done,” she finished. “His lordship has graciously consented to allow you to choose whichever girl you prefer. He has a number he thinks might be suitable.”
   To his credit, Robb did not flinch. “I see.”
   “Do you consent?”
   “Can I refuse?”
   “Not if you wish to cross.”
   “I consent,” Robb said solemnly. He had never seemed more manly to her than he did in that moment. Boys might play with swords, but it took a lord to make a marriage pact, knowing what it meant.
   They crossed at evenfall as a horned moon floated upon the river. The double column wound its way through the gate of the eastern twin like a great steel snake, slithering across the courtyard, into the keep and over the bridge, to issue forth once more from the second castle on the west bank.
   Catelyn rode at the head of the serpent, with her son and her uncle Ser Brynden and Ser Stevron Frey. Behind followed nine tenths of their horse; knights, lancers, freeriders, and mounted bowmen. It took hours for them all to cross. Afterward, Catelyn would remember the clatter of countless hooves on the drawbridge, the sight of Lord Walder Frey in his litter watching them pass, the glitter of eyes peering down through the slats of the murder holes in the ceiling as they rode through the Water Tower.
   The larger part of the northern host, pikes and archers and great masses of men-at-arms on foot, remained upon the east bank under the command of Roose Bolton. Robb had commanded him to continue the march south, to confront the huge Lannister army coming north under Lord Tywin.
   For good or ill, her son had thrown the dice.



Ⅰ 权力的游戏 Chapter60 凯特琳
　　眼看部队沿堤道穿过颈泽的黑色沼地，涌进彼方的河间地区，凯特琳的忧虑与日俱增。虽然她将恐惧埋藏在沉着冷静的面具之下，但它依旧存在，并随着他们跨越的每一里格不断增长。白天她焦虑不安，晚上则辗转反侧，每一只飞过头顶的渡鸦，都令她不禁咬紧牙关。
　　她为父亲恐惧，对他的缄默大惑不解。她为弟弟艾德慕恐惧，并暗自祈求，倘若他必须与弑君者在战场上相见，请天上诸神务必看护他。她更为奈德和两个女儿，为那两个她丢在临冬城不管的乖儿子恐惧。然而，她对他们每一个人都无能为力，于是她逼迫自己将这些念头统统抛到脑后。你必须将力量留给罗柏，她这么对自己说，他是你惟一帮得上忙的人。凯特琳·徒利，现在的你，必须像北方一样坚毅刚强，必须成为一个名符其实的史塔克家人，像你的儿子一样。
　　罗柏骑马走在队伍最前面，临冬城的白色旗帜在他头顶迎风飘扬。每天，他都会请一位封臣与他同行，借此机会讨论战略；他轮流邀请每一位诸侯，丝毫没有表现出个人好恶，像他的父亲一样用心聆听对方意见，仔细衡量每种说法。他从奈德那里学了好多，她看着他，心里想着，可他学够了吗？
　　黑鱼精挑细选出一百个人和一百匹好马，当先到前方掩蔽他们的行踪，并执行侦察任务。而布林登爵士的部下回报的消息，丝毫未能纾解她的忧虑。泰温大人的部队虽与他们仍有相当距离……但河渡口领主瓦德·佛雷却已在他绿叉河畔的城堡聚集了近四千的兵力。
　　“又迟到了。”凯特琳得知消息时，不禁喃喃自语。这人真该遭天谴，眼下简直是当年三叉戟河之战的翻版。她的弟弟艾德慕既已召集封臣，照说佛雷侯爵早该率兵前往奔流城加入徒利大军，结果他却按兵不动。
　　“四千人，”罗柏复诵了一遍，话中有些恼火，更有困惑。“佛雷大人绝不可能单独对付兰尼斯特军，所以他一定打算加入我们。”
　　“是吗？”凯特琳反问。她骑到队伍前方，与罗柏和他今天的同伴罗贝特·葛洛佛同行。先锋军散开跟在他们身后，犹如一座由熗戟、旗帜和长矛组成的森林，缓缓移动。“我可不敢说。决不要对瓦德·佛雷抱任何期望，到时候你就不会觉得意外。”
　　“可他是外公的封臣。”
　　“罗柏，不是每个人都把自己立下的誓言当回事的，更何况瓦德大人与凯岩城的友好程度，向来令你外公不满。他有一个儿子就是娶了泰温·兰尼斯特的妹妹，虽说这算不了什么，瓦德大人膝下儿孙满堂，他们总是得结婚的。不过……”
　　“夫人，您认为他打算把我们出卖给兰尼斯特？”罗贝特·葛洛佛语气沉重地问。
　　凯特琳叹道：“说真的，我怀疑佛雷大人自己都不确定有何打算。他既有老人家的行事谨慎，又有年轻人的野心勃勃，更不缺精打细算。”
　　“母亲，我们一定要得到孪河城的支持。”罗柏的口气有些冲，“你也知道，除此之外无处可以渡河。”
　　“没错，而且你大可放心，瓦德·佛雷也很清楚。”
　　当晚，他们在沼泽的南界扎营，正好在国王大道和河流中间。席恩·葛雷乔伊便是在此为他们带来她叔叔的新情报。“布林登爵士要我告诉你们，他已经和兰尼斯特军发生了遭遇战。有十来个斥候大概暂时不会回去跟泰温大人报告了，我看他们永远也回不去了。”他嘻嘻笑道，“负责指挥敌军侦察部队的是亚当·马尔布兰爵士，他正掉头往南，沿途到处放火。他约略知道我们的位置，但黑鱼发誓绝不让他知道我们何时兵分两路。”
　　“除非佛雷大人告诉他。”凯特琳语气尖锐，“席恩，你回去之后，请我叔叔将手下最厉害的弓箭手布置在孪河城四周，日夜监视，一旦有渡鸦出城，立刻将其射下，我不希望有任何飞鸟将我儿的动向报告给泰温大人。”
　　“夫人，布林登大人早已这么办了。”席恩带着一抹得意的笑容回答，“再多几只黑鸟，我们都可以拿来做馅饼了。我会把羽毛留下来给您做顶帽子的。”
　　她早该想到，黑鱼布林登的考虑远比自己周详。“既然兰尼斯特军纵火焚烧佛雷家族的田地，掠夺他们的农舍，那他们有何反应？”
　　“亚当爵士和瓦德大人双方的部队有过遭遇战，”席恩回答，“距此不到一日骑程，我们发现两个兰尼斯特斥候被佛雷家士兵绑起来喂乌鸦。当然，瓦德大人绝大多数兵力集结在孪河城。”
　　按兵不动，静观其变，不明动态，绝不出手，这真是瓦德·佛雷的不改作风，凯特琳苦涩地想。
　　“既然他已和兰尼斯特军开战，或许他的确有意遵守誓言。”罗柏道。
　　凯特琳可没那么乐观。“保护自己的领地是一回事，公然与泰温大人作战又是另一回事。”
　　罗柏转头对席恩·葛雷乔伊说：“黑鱼有没有发现其他渡过绿叉河的方法？”
　　席恩摇摇头。“现在水位很高，水流又湍急，布林登爵士说在这么上游的地方是不可能渡河的。”
　　“我非渡河不可！”罗柏火冒三丈，“唉，我们的马或许可以游泳，但驮着全副武装的人可不行。我们得建造木筏，把头盔、铠甲和长熗等兵器运过去，可我们不但没有木头，更没有时间。泰温大人已经往北来了……”他握紧拳头。
　　“佛雷大人若想阻拦我们，那是自寻死路。”席恩·葛雷乔伊以他一贯的自信口吻说，“我们的兵力足足是他五倍，罗柏，如果必要，你可以轻易拿下孪河城。”
　　“恐怕不容易，”凯特琳警告他们，“至少绝非短时间内可以攻下。当你们还在架设攻城器械的时候，泰温·兰尼斯特便会带着大军从后掩杀而来。”
　　罗柏看看她，又看看葛雷乔伊，想要找寻答案，但徒劳无功。一时之间，他虽然披甲带剑，两颊又留了短须，看起来却比十五岁还要年幼。“父亲会怎么做？”他问她。
　　“想办法过河，”她告诉他，“用尽一切方法。”
　　翌日清晨，布林登·徒利爵士亲自骑马回报，他已经卸下血门骑士的重铠和头盔，换上轻便的斥候皮甲，但那条黑曜石雕的鱼依旧扣住披风。
　　叔叔脸色沉重地翻身下马。“奔流城下有一场战事，”他抿抿嘴，“我们是从一个被俘的兰尼斯特斥候口中听说的。弑君者歼灭了艾德慕的军队，把三河诸侯打得四散奔逃。”
　　一只冰冷的手攫住了凯特琳的心。“我弟弟怎样？”
　　“受伤被俘，”布林登爵士道，“布莱伍德大人和其他生还者被困在奔流城里，詹姆的大军将他们团团包围。”
　　罗柏一脸焦躁。“我们得赶紧渡过这条该死的河，否则就来不及了。”
　　“恐怕不容易，”叔叔告诫他，“佛雷大人所有的兵力现下都在城里，城门却是紧紧关闭。”
　　“这家伙该死，”罗柏咒道，“如果这老王八蛋不肯让我过去，我别无选择，非得攻城不可，待我们把孪河城拆个一干二净，瞧他喜不喜欢！”
　　“罗柏，你的话听起来活像个赌气的小孩。”凯特琳口气锐利地说，“小孩子一遇阻碍，不是想绕过去，就是想把它推倒。作为一方领主，你得清楚言语有时候可以解决武力所办不到的事。”
　　听她责备，罗柏从脸孔红到脖子。“母亲，请您告诉我您的意见。”他口气温顺地说。
　　“佛雷家族把守渡口已经六百年，六百年来，他们从来不忘收取过桥费。”
　　“过桥费？他到底想怎样？”
　　她微笑道：“这就轮到我们去发现了。”
　　“假如我不打算付过桥费呢？”
　　“那么你最好退回卡林湾，布好阵势迎接泰温大人……不然就是长出翅膀。我看没别的方法。”凯特琳轻踢马肚，向前奔去，让儿子留下来思索她的话。若是让他觉得母亲在抢夺他的权位，那可不成。奈德，除了勇气之外，你可有教导他智慧？她暗想，你可有教导他如何低头？七大王国的坟墓里多的是徒有勇武，却不知该何时低头的人。
　　日近正午，孪河城进入先锋部队的视线，此地便是河渡口领主的根据地。
　　这里的绿叉河水既深且急，但佛雷家族的势力早在几世纪前便横跨两岸，并靠着渡河者缴纳的费用致富。他们建造的通道是一座巨大的平滑灰石拱桥，宽度足以让两部马车并眉而行；卫河塔矗立于弧桥中央，以其射箭孔、杀人洞和铁闸门睥睨河流和道路。佛雷家花了三代才完成这座拱桥，竣工之后，他们在两岸都筑起木头堡垒，如此一来，任何人若未经他们允许，都不能过河。
　　如今木头早已改为石材，孪河城——两座方正、丑陋却坚固的城堡，两边的样貌几乎完全相同，拱桥则横越其间——已经守护渡口几世纪之久。它有着高耸的域墙，深深的护城河和厚重的橡木镶铁门。桥的两边入口均位于防护严密的内城，两岸有桥头堡和铁闸门，河中央则由卫河塔保护。
　　凯特琳只需一眼，便看出面前的城堡无法迅速攻陷。城墙上处处是熗剑光影和大型弓弩，每个雉堞和箭口皆有弓箭手部署，吊桥已经升起，闸门也已降下。城门紧闭，扣上门闩。
　　大琼恩一见，立即开始高声咒骂。瑞卡德·卡史塔克伯爵则静静地怒视。“诸位大人，这样的城堡无法在短时间内攻下。”卢斯·波顿表示。
　　“若我们在对岸没有军队，就算包围也不行，”赫曼·陶哈郁闷地说。深流奔涌的绿水对岸，河西城堡有如其东边兄弟的倒影。“即使时间充裕也没办法，而我们的时间可是一点也不充裕。”
　　正当北方诸侯观察城堡时，一扇边门突然打开，伸出一座木板桥跨越护城河，十来个骑士朝他们而来。他们由瓦德侯爵的四个儿子率领，打着银灰色底、深蓝双塔的旗帜。史提夫伦·瓦德爵士，瓦德侯爵的继承人，代表他们发言。佛雷家的人个个看起来像黄鼠狼；年过六旬，自己都有孙子的史提夫伦爵士，看起来尤其像只年老而疲惫的黄鼠狼，不过他到底还颇有礼貌。“家父派我前来问候诸位，敢问率领这支劲旅的是何许人？”
　　“是我。”罗柏催马上前。他全身铠甲，临冬城的冰原狼徽盾系在马鞍，灰风轻步跟在身边。
　　老骑士水汪汪的灰眼里闪现出一抹兴味，但他的坐骑却不安地哼了两声，避开了冰原狼。“如您愿意到城里与家父共进晚餐，表明您的来意，相信他必定大感荣幸。”
　　他的这番话，有如投石机射出的巨石，在北境诸侯中炸裂开来。众人均大为不满，他们或咒骂，或争执，彼此大呼小叫。
　　“大人，您千万不能去，”盖伯特·葛洛佛向罗柏陈情。“绝不能信任瓦德大人。”
　　卢斯·波顿点点头。“单身赴约，您就是任他宰割。他可以把您卖给兰尼斯特，把您丢进地牢，甚或割了您喉咙，一切随他高兴。”
　　“如果他想跟我们谈谈，叫他打开城门，让我们全体进去与他共进晚餐。”文德尔·曼德勒爵士高声宣布。
　　“干脆要他出来，就在这里宴请罗柏，当着双方所有人的面。”他的哥哥威里斯爵士提议。
　　凯特琳·史塔克与他们同感疑虑，但她只瞄了史提夫伦爵士一眼，便看出他对所见所闻甚感不悦，只要再多几句，机会就会稍纵即逝。她必须采取行动，越快越好。“让我去。”她高声说。
　　“夫人，您去？”大琼恩皱起眉头。
　　“母亲，您确定吗？”显然，罗柏并不确定。
　　“我当然确定，”凯特琳伶俐地撒谎，“瓦德大人是我父亲的封臣，我从小就认识他，他绝对不会对我怎么样的。”除非有利可图，她在心里暗暗注明，但有些事情不能明讲，有些谎言也是必须。
　　“相信家父一定乐于和凯特琳夫人谈谈，”史提夫伦爵士道。“为了保证我们并无不良企图，我弟弟派温爵士会留在这里，直到夫人您安全归来为止。”
　　“而我们将待之如上宾。”罗柏说。派温爵士是佛雷家四兄弟中最年轻的一位，他下了马，把缰绳交给哥哥。“史提夫伦爵士，我希望家母能在日落时归来，”罗柏继续说，“我不愿在此逗留。”
　　史提夫伦·佛雷爵士礼貌地点头：“大人，照您吩咐。”凯特琳轻踢马刺，向前奔去，没有回头。瓦德侯爵的儿子和护卫们随即跟上。
　　父亲曾说，放眼七大王国，瓦德·佛雷是惟一能自己生出一支军队的领主。当天，河渡口侯爵在河东城堡的大厅里欢迎凯特琳时，他身边围绕着二十个活着的儿子（这不包括派温爵士，加上他就成了二十一个），三十六个孙子，十九个曾孙，以及许多女儿、孙女、私生子、私生女，和私生孙子孙女。她终于明白父亲是什么意思。
　　瓦德侯爵今年九十，活像条干瘪的粉红色黄鼠狼，头早已光秃，上面遍布老人斑，因为痛风的关系，若无人搀扶，就没法站立。他最新一任妻子是个十六岁的女孩，苍白瘦弱，跟在他担架旁边走进来。她是第八任佛雷夫人。
　　“大人，多年不见，今日重逢，真是倍感喜悦。”凯特琳道。
　　老人满腹狐疑地眯眼盯着她。“是么？我倒很怀疑。凯特琳夫人，我年纪大了，你就省省这些甜言蜜语吧。为什么是你在这里？难道说你家儿子太尊贵，不愿亲自来见我？我又该拿你怎么办呢？”
　　凯特琳上次造访孪河城，还是个小女孩，当时的瓦德侯爵便已经是个脾气暴躁，语气尖刻且无甚礼貌的人，看来岁月使他更令人难以忍受了。她的措辞必须格外谨慎，尽全力不去在意他的言语冒犯。
　　“父亲，”史提夫伦爵士语带责备地说，“您忘了吗？凯特琳夫人正是受您之邀而来。”
　　“我在问你吗？我还没死，你就不是佛雷侯爵。我看起来像死人吗？我用不着听你说教。”
　　“父亲大人，这不是待客之道吧？”他另一个年纪较轻的儿子说。
　　“这会儿连我的私生子都教训起我来啦？”瓦德侯爵抱怨，“你们都该死，我爱说什么便说什么。莱格，我这辈子招待过三个国王，王后就不用提了，你觉得我还用你教我‘待客之道’？我第一次在你妈身上播种的时候，她还在牧羊咧。”他弹弹指头，赶走那面红耳赤的年轻人，然后又向另外两个儿子打了个手势。“丹威尔，惠伦，扶我到椅子坐下。”
　　他们把瓦德侯爵从担架上扶下来，搀他到佛雷家的高位坐下。那是一张黑橡木椅子，椅背雕成以桥相连的双城式样。他年轻的妻子怯生生地走过来，为他的双脚盖上毛毯。老人坐定之后，招手示意凯特琳上前，在她手掌印下一个干如纸张的吻。“喏，”他宣布，“夫人，我已经行过礼了，或许我的儿子们可以赏个脸，给我闭上嘴巴。请问你来此有何目的？”
　　“大人，我们想请您打开城门。”凯特彬彬有礼地回答，“我儿子和他的封臣正急着渡河上路。”
　　“去奔流城？”他窃笑一声，“喏，用不着告诉我，用不着。我的眼睛还没瞎，老人家照样可以看地图。”
　　“去奔流城。”凯特琳证实。她不觉有何必要否认。“大人，我本以为会在那里见到您。您仍然是家父的臣属，是吧？”
　　“嘿，”瓦德侯爵道，他的声音介乎于冷笑和咕哝之间。“你也看到啦，城墙上那么多兵，还不都是我召集的？我打算等部队全体到齐之后，立刻就出发。当然啦，我的意思是派我儿子去，凯特琳夫人，我这身老骨头已经过了带兵打仗的年纪啰。”他环顾四周，仿佛在期待众人的肯定，接着他指指一位五十来岁，高大驼背的男子。“杰瑞，你告诉她，告诉她这的确是我的打算。”
　　“夫人，的确是这样，”杰瑞·佛雷爵士道，他是第二任佛雷夫人所生的儿子。“我以我的名誉发誓。”
　　“你那蠢弟弟在我们动身之前就吃了败仗，难道说这是我的错？”他向后靠上背垫，皱眉看她，仿佛在等她质疑他的说词。“我听说弑君者把他打得落花流水，跟拿斧头切乳酪一样。我的儿子干嘛急着南下送死啊？到南方去的人现在不都慌着逃回来？”
　　凯特琳真想朝这满腹牢骚的老头吐口水，然后把他架在火上烤，然而她只有黄昏之前这段时间来打开桥梁，于是她平静地说：“所以我们才更应该尽快赶到奔流城。大人，我们可否换个地方谈话？”
　　“我们现在不就在谈？”佛雷侯爵抱怨。他那遍布老人斑的粉红秃头倏地一转。“你们看什么？”他朝周围的亲人吼，“还不快滚？史塔克夫人要跟我私下谈谈，搞不好她想让我出轨哩，嘿。你们通通都退下，去找点有用的事做。对，你也一样，臭女人，出去，出去，出去！”他的儿子、孙子、女儿、私生子、外孙、外孙女们鱼贯离开大厅，他则靠向凯特琳，坦白承认，“他们全部都在等我死，史提夫伦已经等了四十年啦，可我偏要教他失望。嘿，我干嘛提早上天，好让他继承爵位啊，你说是不是？我偏不要。”
　　“我衷心希望您活到一百岁。”
　　“那可会叫他们七窍生烟，一定会的。好吧，你到底想谈什么？”
　　“我们想渡河。”凯特琳对他说。
　　“哦，是嘛？你说得轻巧，我为何放你们过去？”
　　一时之间，她的怒意猛地冒上来。“佛雷大人，假如你还有力气爬上自己的城墙，你会看到城外有我儿子的两万精兵。”
　　“等泰温大人到来，他们就会变成两万具活尸，”老人不甘示弱。“夫人，你少跟我来这套。你丈夫因叛国被关在红堡底下的牢房，你老爹卧病在床，弄不好快没气了，而詹姆·兰尼斯特又抓了你老弟，你拿什么来吓唬我？你那宝贝儿子吗？我可以跟你一个换一个，等你儿子死光了，我还剩下十八个。”
　　“你可是宣誓效忠于我父亲。”凯特琳提醒他。
　　他的头左右摇摆，微微一笑：“呵，可不是吗，我发过誓，可我也宣誓效忠王室啊，依我看呢，这会儿既然乔佛里是国王了，你和你家小鬼，以及外面那群蠢蛋不就是叛徒嘛？对不对？这事连鱼都知道，我应该帮兰尼斯特把你们通通杀光。”
　　“那你为什么不帮他？”她质问他。
　　瓦德侯爵不屑地哼了一声。“泰温大人，他可是个大人物哩，既是西境守护，又是御前首相，呵，多了不起，这样也是金子打的，那样又是狮子形状，心高气傲得很。我敢跟你打赌，他豆子吃多了，跟我一样会放屁，不过你甭想听他承认，想都别想。他在拽个什么劲咧？也不过两个儿子，其中一个还是畸形小怪物，我可以拿儿子跟他一个换一个，等他的都死光了，我还剩十九个半咧！”他咯咯笑道，“如果泰温大人需要我帮忙，他好歹可以问他妈的一声吧？”
　　凯特琳需要的就是这句。“大人，我现在就是请求您帮忙，”她谦卑地说，“我代表我父亲、我弟弟、我丈夫以及我儿子向您请求。”
　　瓦德大人伸出一只干枯的手指指着她。“夫人，你省省这些甜言蜜语，甜言蜜语我听我老婆讲就够了。你见着她没有？才十六岁，像朵小花，她的花蜜可是只给我一个人喝哟。我敢打赌，明年这时候啊，她就会再给我添个儿子。说不定我就让他当我的继承人，你说这会不会把他们活活气死啊？”
　　“我相信她一定会给您添许多儿子的。”
　　他的头前后摇摆。“令尊没来参加我的婚礼，在我看来，就算他快死了，这依旧是侮辱。别忘了，我上次结婚他也没来，还叫我做‘迟到的佛雷侯爵’，这你总知道吧？难道他以为我死了？我可没死，而且我跟你保证，我绝对要活得比他长，就像我活得比他老爸还久一样。你们家的人老是看我不顺眼，你别否认，也别想骗我，你很清楚我说的是实话。好些年前，我去找令尊，提议让他儿子和我女儿联姻。这有什么不好？我有个乖女儿是合适人选，只比艾德慕大几岁，就算你老弟不喜欢她，我也还有其他女儿给他挑，要年轻的有年轻的，要老的有老的，要闺女要寡妇要什么样的都成，可是呢，霍斯特大人说什么也不肯。他讲了一大堆甜言蜜语，通通都是借口，我真正想要的却是赶紧嫁掉一个女儿啊。”
　　“还有你老妹，同样一副坏德行，那是一年前的事啰，当时琼恩·艾林还是御前首相，我到城里去看我儿子参加比武竞技。史提夫伦和杰瑞年纪都太大，没法下场比武，不过丹威尔和霍斯丁前去参加，派温也去了，我还有两个私生子参加团队比试。早知道他们会丢我的脸，我也不必大费周章地跑去，我倒是问你，我干嘛千里迢迢跑去看霍斯丁被提利尔家那小崽子打下马来啊？那小鬼是他一半年纪，大家都叫他什么‘小花爵士’；更可气的是丹威尔竟被一个雇佣骑士打下马来！有时候我还真怀疑他们俩到底是不是我的种？我的第三任老婆是个克雷赫家的人，克雷赫家的女人通通是些残货。唉，这些都不重要啦，你还没出生她就死了，所以干你什么事？”
　　“我刚刚在说你妹妹。我向艾林公爵夫妇提议让我两个孙子到宫廷里做他们的养子，与之相对呢，让他们的儿子到孪河城来住一段时日。哼，莫非我的孙子就那么见不得人，没资格给朝廷里的人看？他们可都是既安静又懂礼的乖孩子，瓦德是梅里的儿子，照着我的名字取的，另外一个哩……嘿，我不记得了……好像也叫瓦德。他们都把孩子叫做瓦德·瓦妲，以为这样就会讨我喜欢，那孩子的爹……是哪一个来着？”他的脸整个皱成一团。“唉，管他是谁，总之艾林大人不要，不管哪个都不要，而我得把这事怪罪到你妹妹头上。你没看她那样子，整个人像是结了冰，好像我打算把她儿子卖给戏班，或是抓去当太监似的！艾林大人为了平息尴尬，便吐露那孩子已经决定送到龙石岛去给史坦尼斯·拜拉席恩收养，一听此言，她立刻半声不吭地冲了出去，首相大人只好不停地向我道歉。我倒是问你，道歉顶什么用哩？”
　　凯特琳有些不安地皱起眉头。“我记得莱沙的孩子是要送到凯岩城去给泰温大人收养的。”
　　“不对，是史坦尼斯大人，”瓦德。佛雷很不耐烦地说，“你以为我连史坦尼斯大人和泰温大人都分不出来吗？他们两个都是自以为高贵不拉屎的粪坑，但即便这样，我还是知道谁是谁，莫非你觉得我老了，就记不清啦？我今年才九十，记得清楚得很，连怎么搞女人也没忘。我敢跟你打赌，我家那老婆不到明年这时候就会给我再添个儿子，或者女儿，那也没法子。哎呀，管他儿子女儿，还不都是红彤彤地皱成一团，哭个没完没了？我看她八成又要给孩子取名瓦德或瓦妲啦。”
　　凯特琳对佛雷夫人如何帮孩子取名毫无兴趣。“琼恩·艾林有意让史坦尼斯大人收养他的儿子，此事您可确定？”
　　“对，对，对，”老人说，“只是他死啦，这有什么差别？你说你们想过河？”
　　“是的。”
　　“唉，你们过不了！”瓦德侯爵干脆地宣布，“除非我答应，可我干嘛答应呢？徒利家和史塔克家对我向来不太友善。”他往后靠向椅背，双手抱胸，露出得意的笑容，等她答复。
　　剩下的就只是讨价还价。
　　城堡大门打开时，一轮火红夕阳低垂在西方丘陵，吊桥“嘎吱嘎吱”地降下来，闸门缓缓升起，凯特琳·史塔克夫人骑马回到儿子和北境诸侯身边。跟在她身后的是杰瑞·佛雷爵士、霍斯丁·佛雷爵士、丹威尔·佛雷爵士，以及瓦德侯爵的私生子朗诺尔·河文，以及一大队长矛兵。他们身穿蓝色环甲，肩披银色披风，排成纵队，缓步走来。
　　罗柏快马加鞭地迎上前，灰风飞也似地跟在他身边。“一切都办妥了，”她告诉他，“瓦德大人会让你过河，他的军队也是你的，不过他会留下四百人防守孪河城。我建议你也留下相同数目的剑士和弓箭手，他绝对无法拒绝额外的协防兵力……但千万要找你信得过的人负责指挥。瓦德大人可能会需要提醒，才能守住承诺。”
　　“母亲，就照您说的办。”罗柏边说边盯着那一大队长矛兵，“或许……让赫曼·陶哈爵士来负责，你意下如何？”
　　“很好。”
　　“他……他要我们怎么样？”
　　“你要拨出几个手下，护送佛雷大人的两个孙子北上临冬城。”她告诉他，“我已经同意收他们为养子，他们年纪还小，一个七岁，一个八岁，两个都叫瓦德。我想你弟弟布兰应该会很高兴有同龄人作伴。”
　　“就这样而已？两个养子？这样的代价未免也太——”
　　“佛雷大人的儿子奥利法跟我们一起走，”她继续说，“他将担任你的私人侍从，过段时间以后，他的父亲希望能看到他被策封为骑士。”
　　“带个侍从？”他耸耸肩，“很好，没问题，如果他——”
　　“还有，假如你妹妹艾莉亚平安归来，我们同意让她嫁给瓦德大人的幼子艾尔玛，当然，等两人成年以后。”
　　罗柏有些不知所措。“艾莉亚不会喜欢的。”
　　“等战事结束，你也将迎娶他一个女儿，”她把话说完，“侯爵大人慷慨地同意你自行挑选，他有好些个适合的人选。”
　　这次，罗柏倒是眉头都没皱一下。“原来如此。”
　　“你同意吗？”
　　“我可以拒绝吗？”
　　“那你就不能渡河。”
　　“我同意。”罗柏郑重地说。在她眼中，他从未像此时这么有成年人的样子。小男孩或许也能舞刀弄剑，但只有真正的成年领主才能明白政治婚约的意涵，并坦然接受。
　　当晚，一弯新月漂浮水面，他们展开了渡河行动。两列纵队有如一条巨大的钢蛇，蜿蜒进入东河城，迂回绕过广场，通过内城，走上拱桥，经过又一次相同的地形后，从西岸的城堡离开。
　　凯特琳骑在钢蛇前端，同行的有她儿子，叔叔布林登爵士，以及史提夫伦·佛雷爵士。身后是他们九成的骑兵，包括骑士、熗骑兵、自由骑手和弓骑兵。他们花了好几个钟头方才完成穿越。事后，凯特琳始终忘不掉无数的马蹄踏过吊桥发出的声音，以及卫河塔上瓦德·佛雷侯爵炯炯的目光。他坐在担架上，从杀人洞的细长铁条间向下俯瞰，目送他们离去。
　　北军的主力，包括徒步的长矛兵、弓箭手和大量民兵留在东岸，由卢斯·波顿指挥。罗柏命令他继续南下，与由泰温大人指挥，正朝北进逼的兰尼斯特大军进行决战。
　　是好是坏，儿子已经孤注一掷。
[ 此帖被挽墨在2015-09-03 00:14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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Chapter 60

  
   JON
   Are you well, Snow?” Lord Mormont asked, scowling.
   “Well,” his raven squawked. “Well.”
   “I am, my lord,” Jon lied?.?.?.?loudly, as if that could make it true. “And you?”
   Mormont frowned. “A dead man tried to kill me. How well could I be?” He scratched under his chin. His shaggy grey beard had been singed in the fire, and he’d hacked it off. The pale stubble of his new whiskers made him look old, disreputable, and grumpy. “You do not look well. How is your hand?”
   “Healing.” Jon flexed his bandaged fingers to show him. He had burned himself more badly than he knew throwing the flaming drapes, and his right hand was swathed in silk halfway to the elbow. At the time he’d felt nothing; the agony had come after. His cracked red skin oozed fluid, and fearsome blood blisters rose between his fingers, big as roaches. “The maester says I’ll have scars, but otherwise the hand should be as good as it was before.”
   “A scarred hand is nothing. On the Wall, you’ll be wearing gloves often as not.”
   “As you say, my lord.” It was not the thought of scars that troubled Jon; it was the rest of it. Maester Aemon had given him milk of the poppy, yet even so, the pain had been hideous. At first it had felt as if his hand were still aflame, burning day and night. Only plunging it into basins of snow and shaved ice gave any relief at all. Jon thanked the gods that no one but Ghost saw him writhing on his bed, whimpering from the pain. And when at last he did sleep, he dreamt, and that was even worse. In the dream, the corpse he fought had blue eyes, black hands, and his father’s face, but he dared not tell Mormont that.
   “Dywen and Hake returned last night,” the Old Bear said. “They found no sign of your uncle, no more than the others did.”
   “I know.” Jon had dragged himself to the common hall to sup with his friends, and the failure of the rangers’ search had been all the men had been talking of.
   “You know,” Mormont grumbled. “How is it that everyone knows everything around here?” He did not seem to expect an answer. “It would seem there were only the two of?.?.?.?of those creatures, whatever they were, I will not call them men. And thank the gods for that. Any more and?.?.?.?well, that doesn’t bear thinking of. There will be more, though. I can feel it in these old bones of mine, and Maester Aemon agrees. The cold winds are rising. Summer is at an end, and a winter is coming such as this world has never seen.”
   Winter is coming. The Stark words had never sounded so grim or ominous to Jon as they did now. “My lord,” he asked hesitantly, “it’s said there was a bird last night?.?.?.?”
   “There was. What of it?”
   “I had hoped for some word of my father.”
   “Father,” taunted the old raven, bobbing its head as it walked across Mormont’s shoulders. “Father.”
   The Lord Commander reached up to pinch its beak shut, but the raven hopped up on his head, fluttered its wings, and flew across the chamber to light above a window. “Grief and noise,” Mormont grumbled. “That’s all they’re good for, ravens. Why I put up with that pestilential bird?.?.?.?if there was news of Lord Eddard, don’t you think I would have sent for you? Bastard or no, you’re still his blood. The message concerned Ser Barristan Selmy. It seems he’s been removed from the Kingsguard. They gave his place to that black dog Clegane, and now Selmy’s wanted for treason. The fools sent some watchmen to seize him, but he slew two of them and escaped.” Mormont snorted, leaving no doubt of his view of men who’d send gold cloaks against a knight as renowed as Barristan the Bold. “We have white shadows in the woods and unquiet dead stalking our halls, and a boy sits the Iron Throne,” he said in disgust.
   The raven laughed shrilly. “Boy, boy, boy, boy.”
   Ser Barristan had been the Old Bear’s best hope, Jon remembered; if he had fallen, what chance was there that Mormont’s letter would be heeded? He curled his hand into a fist. Pain shot through his burned fingers. “What of my sisters?”
   “The message made no mention of Lord Eddard or the girls.” He gave an irritated shrug. “Perhaps they never got my letter. Aemon sent two copies, with his best birds, but who can say? More like, Pycelle did not deign to reply. It would not be the first time, nor the last. I fear we count for less than nothing in King’s Landing. They tell us what they want us to know, and that’s little enough.”
   And you tell me what you want me to know, and that’s less, Jon thought resentfully. His brother Robb had called the banners and ridden south to war, yet no word of that had been breathed to him?.?.?.?save by Samwell Tarly, who’d read the letter to Maester Aemon and whispered its contents to Jon that night in secret, all the time saying how he shouldn’t. Doubtless they thought his brother’s war was none of his concern. It troubled him more than he could say. Robb was marching and he was not. No matter how often Jon told himself that his place was here now, with his new brothers on the Wall, he still felt craven.
   “Corn,” the raven was crying. “Corn, corn.”
   “Oh, be quiet,” the Old Bear told it. “Snow, how soon does Maester Aemon say you’ll have use of that hand back?”
   “Soon,” Jon replied.
   “Good.” On the table between them, Lord Mormont laid a large sword in a black metal scabbard banded with silver. “Here. You’ll be ready for this, then.”
   The raven flapped down and landed on the table, strutting toward the sword, head cocked curiously. Jon hesitated. He had no inkling what this meant. “My lord?”
   “The fire melted the silver off the pommel and burnt the crossguard and grip. Well, dry leather and old wood, what could you expect? The blade, now?.?.?.?you’d need a fire a hundred times as hot to harm the blade.” Mormont shoved the scabbard across the rough oak planks. “I had the rest made anew. Take it.”
   “Take it,” echoed his raven, preening. “Take it, take it.”
   Awkwardly, Jon took the sword in hand. His left hand; his bandaged right was still too raw and clumsy. Carefully he pulled it from its scabbard and raised it level with his eyes.
   The pommel was a hunk of pale stone weighted with lead to balance the long blade. It had been carved into the likeness of a snarling wolf’s head, with chips of garnet set into the eyes. The grip was virgin leather, soft and black, as yet unstained by sweat or blood. The blade itself was a good half foot longer than those Jon was used to, tapered to thrust as well as slash, with three fullers deeply incised in the metal. Where Ice was a true two-handed greatsword, this was a hand-and-a-halfer, sometimes named a “bastard sword.” Yet the wolf sword actually seemed lighter than the blades he had wielded before. When Jon turned it sideways, he could see the ripples in the dark steel where the metal had been folded back on itself again and again. “This is Valyrian steel, my lord,” he said wonderingly. His father had let him handle Ice often enough; he knew the look, the feel.
   “It is,” the Old Bear told him. “It was my father’s sword, and his father’s before him. The Mormonts have carried it for five centuries. I wielded it in my day and passed it on to my son when I took the black.”
   He is giving me his son’s sword. Jon could scarcely believe it. The blade was exquisitely balanced. The edges glimmered faintly as they kissed the light. “Your son...”
   “My son brought dishonor to House Mormont, but at least he had the grace to leave the sword behind when he fled. My sister returned it to my keeping, but the very sight of it reminded me of Jorah’s shame, so I put it aside and thought no more of it until we found it in the ashes of my bedchamber. The original pommel was a bear’s head, silver, yet so worn its features were all but indistinguishable. For you, I thought a white wolf more apt. One of our builders is a fair stonecarver.”
   When Jon had been Bran’s age, he had dreamed of doing great deeds, as boys always did. The details of his feats changed with every dreaming, but quite often he imagined saving his father’s life. Afterward Lord Eddard would declare that Jon had proved himself a true Stark, and place Ice in his hand. Even then he had known it was only a child’s folly; no bastard could ever hope to wield a father’s sword. Even the memory shamed him. What kind of man stole his own brother’s birthright? I have no right to this, he thought, no more than to Ice. He twitched his burned fingers, feeling a throb of pain deep under the skin. “My lord, you honor me, but...”
   “Spare me your but’s, boy,” Lord Mormont interrupted. “I would not be sitting here were it not for you and that beast of yours. You fought bravely?.?.?.?and more to the point, you thought quickly. Fire! Yes, damn it. We ought to have known. We ought to have remembered. The Long Night has come before. Oh, eight thousand years is a good while, to be sure?.?.?.?yet if the Night’s Watch does not remember, who will?”
   “Who will,” chimed the talkative raven. “Who will.”
   Truly, the gods had heard Jon’s prayer that night; the fire had caught in the dead man’s clothing and consumed him as if his flesh were candle wax and his bones old dry wood. Jon had only to close his eyes to see the thing staggering across the solar, crashing against the furniture and flailing at the flames. It was the face that haunted him most; surrounded by a nimbus of fire, hair blazing like straw, the dead flesh melting away and sloughing off its skull to reveal the gleam of bone beneath.
   Whatever demonic force moved Othor had been driven out by the flames; the twisted thing they had found in the ashes had been no more than cooked meat and charred bone. Yet in his nightmare he faced it again?.?.?.?and this time the burning corpse wore Lord Eddard’s features. It was his father’s skin that burst and blackened, his father’s eyes that ran liquid down his cheeks like jellied tears. Jon did not understand why that should be or what it might mean, but it frightened him more than he could say.
   “A sword’s small payment for a life,” Mormont concluded. “Take it, I’ll hear no more of it, is that understood?”
   “Yes, my lord.” The soft leather gave beneath Jon’s fingers, as if the sword were molding itself to his grip already. He knew he should be honored, and he was, and yet?.?.?.?
   He is not my father. The thought leapt unbidden to Jon’s mind. Lord Eddard Stark is my father. I will not forget him, no matter how many swords they give me. Yet he could scarcely tell Lord Mormont that it was another man’s sword he dreamt of?.?.?.?
   “I want no courtesies either,” Mormont said, “so thank me no thanks. Honor the steel with deeds, not words.”
   Jon nodded. “Does it have a name, my lord?”
   “It did, once. Longclaw, it was called.”
   “Claw,” the raven cried. “Claw.”
   “Longclaw is an apt name.” Jon tried a practice cut. He was clumsy and uncomfortable with his left hand, yet even so the steel seemed to flow through the air, as if it had a will of its own. “Wolves have claws, as much as bears.”
   The Old Bear seemed pleased by that. “I suppose they do. You’ll want to wear that over the shoulder, I imagine. It’s too long for the hip, at least until you’ve put on a few inches. And you’ll need to work at your two-handed strikes as well. Ser Endrew can show you some moves, when your burns have healed.”
   “Ser Endrew?” Jon did not know the name.
   “Ser Endrew Tarth, a good man. He’s on his way from the Shadow Tower to assume the duties of master-at-arms. Ser Alliser Thorne left yestermorn for Eastwatch-by-the-Sea.”
   Jon lowered the sword. “Why?” he said, stupidly.
   Mormont snorted. “Because I sent him, why do you think? He’s bringing the hand your Ghost tore off the end of Jafer Flowers’s wrist. I have commanded him to take ship to King’s Landing and lay it before this boy king. That should get young Joffrey’s attention, I’d think?.?.?.?and Ser Alliser’s a knight, highborn, anointed, with old friends at court, altogether harder to ignore than a glorified crow.”
   “Crow.” Jon thought the raven sounded faintly indignant.
   “As well,” the Lord Commander continued, ignoring the bird’s protest, “it puts a thousand leagues twixt him and you without it seeming a rebuke.” He jabbed a finger up at Jon’s face. “And don’t think this means I approve of that nonsense in the common hall. Valor makes up for a fair amount of folly, but you’re not a boy anymore, however many years you’ve seen. That’s a man’s sword you have there, and it will take a man to wield her. I’ll expect you to act the part, henceforth.”
   “Yes, my lord.” Jon slid the sword back into the silver-banded scabbard. If not the blade he would have chosen, it was nonetheless a noble gift, and freeing him from Alliser Thorne’s malignance was nobler still.
   The Old Bear scratched at his chin. “I had forgotten how much a new beard itches,” he said. “Well, no help for that. Is that hand of yours healed enough to resume your duties?”
   “Yes, my lord.”
   “Good. The night will be cold, I’ll want hot spice wine. Find me a flagon of red, not too sour, and don’t skimp on the spices. And tell Hobb that if he sends me boiled mutton again I’m like to boil him. That last haunch was grey. Even the bird wouldn’t touch it.” He stroked the raven’s head with his thumb, and the bird made a contented quorking sound. “Away with you. I’ve work to do.”
   The guards smiled at him from their niches as he wound his way down the turret stair, carrying the sword in his good hand. “Sweet steel,” one man said. “You earned that, Snow,” another told him. Jon made himself smile back at them, but his heart was not in it. He knew he should be pleased, yet he did not feel it. His hand ached, and the taste of anger was in his mouth, though he could not have said who he was angry with or why.
   A half dozen of his friends were lurking outside when he left the King’s Tower, where Lord Commander Mormont now made his residence. They’d hung a target on the granary doors, so they could seem to be honing their skills as archers, but he knew lurkers when he saw them. No sooner did he emerge than Pyp called out, “Well, come about, let’s have a look.”
   “At what?” Jon said.
   Toad sidled close. “Your rosy butt cheeks, what else?”
   “The sword,” Grenn stated. “We want to see the sword.”
   Jon raked them with an accusing look. “You knew.”
   Pyp grinned. “We’re not all as dumb as Grenn.”
   “You are so,” insisted Grenn. “You’re dumber.”
   Halder gave an apologetic shrug. “I helped Pate carve the stone for the pommel,” the builder said, “and your friend Sam bought the garnets in Mole’s Town.”
   “We knew even before that, though,” Grenn said. “Rudge has been helping Donal Noye in the forge. He was there when the Old Bear brought him the burnt blade.”
   “The sword!” Matt insisted. The others took up the chant. “The sword, the sword, the sword.”
   Jon unsheathed Longclaw and showed it to them, turning it this way and that so they could admire it. The bastard blade glittered in the pale sunlight, dark and deadly. “Valyrian steel,” he declared solemnly, trying to sound as pleased and proud as he ought to have felt.
   “I heard of a man who had a razor made of Valyrian steel,” declared Toad. “He cut his head off trying to shave.”
   Pyp grinned. “The Night’s Watch is thousands of years old,” he said, “but I’ll wager Lord Snow’s the first brother ever honored for burning down the Lord Commander’s Tower.”
   The others laughed, and even Jon had to smile. The fire he’d started had not, in truth, burned down that formidable stone tower, but it had done a fair job of gutting the interior of the top two floors, where the Old Bear had his chambers. No one seemed to mind that very much, since it had also destroyed Othor’s murderous corpse.
   The other wight, the one-handed thing that had once been a ranger named Jafer Flowers, had also been destroyed, cut near to pieces by a dozen swords?.?.?.?but not before it had slain Ser Jaremy Rykker and four other men. Ser Jaremy had finished the job of hacking its head off, yet had died all the same when the headless corpse pulled his own dagger from its sheath and buried it in his bowels. Strength and courage did not avail much against foemen who would not fall because they were already dead; even arms and armor offered small protection.
   That grim thought soured Jon’s fragile mood. “I need to see Hobb about the Old Bear’s supper,” he announced brusquely, sliding Longclaw back into its scabbard. His friends meant well, but they did not understand. It was not their fault, truly; they had not had to face Othor, they had not seen the pale glow of those dead blue eyes, had not felt the cold of those dead black fingers. Nor did they know of the fighting in the riverlands. How could they hope to comprehend? He turned away from them abruptly and strode off, sullen. Pyp called after him, but Jon paid him no mind.
   They had moved him back to his old cell in tumbledown Hardin’s Tower after the fire, and it was there he returned. Ghost was curled up asleep beside the door, but he lifted his head at the sound of Jon’s boots. The direwolf’s red eyes were darker than garnets and wiser than men. Jon knelt, scratched his ear, and showed him the pommel of the sword. “Look. It’s you.”
   Ghost sniffed at his carved stone likeness and tried a lick. Jon smiled. “You’re the one deserves an honor,” he told the wolf?.?.?.?and suddenly he found himself remembering how he’d found him, that day in the late summer snow. They had been riding off with the other pups, but Jon had heard a noise and turned back, and there he was, white fur almost invisible against the drifts. He was all alone, he thought, apart from the others in the litter. He was different, so they drove him out.
   “Jon?” He looked up. Samwell Tarly stood rocking nervously on his heels. His cheeks were red, and he was wrapped in a heavy fur cloak that made him look ready for hibernation.
   “Sam.” Jon stood. “What is it? Do you want to see the sword?” If the others had known, no doubt Sam did too.
   The fat boy shook his head. “I was heir to my father’s blade once,” he said mournfully. “Heartsbane. Lord Randyll let me hold it a few times, but it always scared me. It was Valyrian steel, beautiful but so sharp I was afraid I’d hurt one of my sisters. Dickon will have it now.” He wiped sweaty hands on his cloak. “I ah?.?.?.?Maester Aemon wants to see you.”
   It was not time for his bandages to be changed. Jon frowned suspiciously. “Why?” he demanded. Sam looked miserable. That was answer enough. “You told him, didn’t you?” Jon said angrily. “You told him that you told me.”
   “I?.?.?.?he?.?.?.?Jon, I didn’t want to?.?.?.?he asked?.?.?.?I mean I think he knew, he sees things no one else sees ?.?.?.?”
   “He’s blind,” Jon pointed out forcefully, disgusted. “I can find the way myself.” He left Sam standing there, openmouthed and quivering.
   He found Maester Aemon up in the rookery, feeding the ravens. Clydas was with him, carrying a bucket of chopped meat as they shuffled from cage to cage. “Sam said you wanted me?”
   The maester nodded. “I did indeed. Clydas, give Jon the bucket. Perhaps he will be kind enough to assist me.” The hunched, pink-eyed brother handed Jon the bucket and scurried down the ladder. “Toss the meat into the cages,” Aemon instructed him. “The birds will do the rest. “
   Jon shifted the bucket to his right hand and thrust his left down into the bloody bits. The ravens began to scream noisily and fly at the bars, beating at the metal with night-black wings. The meat had been chopped into pieces no larger than a finger joint. He filled his fist and tossed the raw red morsels into the cage, and the squawking and squabbling grew hotter. Feathers flew as two of the larger birds fought over a choice piece. Quickly Jon grabbed a second handful and threw it in after the first. “Lord Mormont’s raven likes fruit and corn.”
   “He is a rare bird,” the maester said. “Most ravens will eat grain, but they prefer flesh. It makes them strong, and I fear they relish the taste of blood. In that they are like men?.?.?.?and like men, not all ravens are alike.”
   Jon had nothing to say to that. He threw meat, wondering why he’d been summoned. No doubt the old man would tell him, in his own good time. Maester Aemon was not a man to be hurried.
   “Doves and pigeons can also be trained to carry messages,” the maester went on, “though the raven is a stronger flyer, larger, bolder, far more clever, better able to defend itself against hawks?.?.?.?yet ravens are black, and they eat the dead, so some godly men abhor them. Baelor the Blessed tried to replace all the ravens with doves, did you know?” The maester turned his white eyes on Jon, smiling. “The Night’s Watch prefers ravens.”
   Jon’s fingers were in the bucket, blood up to the wrist. “Dywen says the wildlings call us crows,” he said uncertainty.
   “The crow is the raven’s poor cousin. They are both beggars in black, hated and misunderstood.”
   Jon wished he understood what they were talking about, and why. What did he care about ravens and doves? If the old man had something to say to him, why couldn’t he just say it?
   “Jon, did you ever wonder why the men of the Night’s Watch take no wives and father no children?” Maester Aemon asked.
   Jon shrugged. “No.” He scattered more meat. The fingers of his left hand were slimy with blood, and his right throbbed from the weight of the bucket.
   “So they will not love,” the old man answered, “for love is the bane of honor, the death of duty.”
   That did not sound right to Jon, yet he said nothing. The maester was a hundred years old, and a high officer of the Night’s Watch; it was not his place to contradict him.
   The old man seemed to sense his doubts. “Tell me, Jon, if the day should ever come when your lord father must needs choose between honor on the one hand and those he loves on the other, what would he do?”
   Jon hesitated. He wanted to say that Lord Eddard would never dishonor himself, not even for love, yet inside a small sly voice whispered, He fathered a bastard, where was the honor in that? And your mother, what of his duty to her, he will not even say her name. “He would do whatever was right,” he said?.?.?.?ringingly, to make up for his hesitation. “No matter what.”
   “Then Lord Eddard is a man in ten thousand. Most of us are not so strong. What is honor compared to a woman’s love? What is duty against the feel of a newborn son in your arms?.?.?.?or the memory of a brother’s smile? Wind and words. Wind and words. We are only human, and the gods have fashioned us for love. That is our great glory, and our great tragedy.
   “The men who formed the Night’s Watch knew that only their courage shielded the realm from the darkness to the north. They knew they must have no divided loyalties to weaken their resolve. So they vowed they would have no wives nor children.
   “Yet brothers they had, and sisters. Mothers who gave them birth, fathers who gave them names. They came from a hundred quarrelsome kingdoms, and they knew times may change, but men do not. So they pledged as well that the Night’s Watch would take no part in the battles of the realms it guarded.
   “They kept their pledge. When Aegon slew Black Harren and claimed his kingdom, Harren’s brother was Lord Commander on the Wall, with ten thousand swords to hand. He did not march. In the days when the Seven Kingdoms were seven kingdoms, not a generation passed that three or four of them were not at war. The Watch took no part. When the Andals crossed the narrow sea and swept away the kingdoms of the First Men, the sons of the fallen kings held true to their vows and remained at their posts. So it has always been, for years beyond counting. Such is the price of honor.
   “A craven can be as brave as any man, when there is nothing to fear. And we all do our duty, when there is no cost to it. How easy it seems then, to walk the path of honor. Yet soon or late in every man’s life comes a day when it is not easy, a day when he must choose.”
   Some of the ravens were still eating, long stringy bits of meat dangling from their beaks. The rest seemed to be watching him. Jon could feel the weight of all those tiny black eyes. “And this is my day?.?.?.?is that what you’re saying?”
   Maester Aemon turned his head and looked at him with those dead white eyes. It was as if he were seeing right into his heart. Jon felt naked and exposed. He took the bucket in both hands and flung the rest of the slops through the bars. Strings of meat and blood flew everywhere, scattering the ravens. They took to the air, shrieking wildly. The quicker birds snatched morsels on the wing and gulped them down greedily. Jon let the empty bucket clang to the floor.
   The old man laid a withered, spotted hand on his shoulder. “It hurts, boy,” he said softly. “Oh, yes. Choosing?.?.?.?it has always hurt. And always will. I know.”
   “You don’t know,” Jon said bitterly. “No one knows. Even if I am his bastard, he’s still my father?.?.?.?”
   Maester Aemon sighed. “Have you heard nothing I’ve told you, Jon? Do you think you are the first?” He shook his ancient head, a gesture weary beyond words. “Three times the gods saw fit to test my vows. Once when I was a boy, once in the fullness of my manhood, and once when I had grown old. By then my strength was fled, my eyes grown dim, yet that last choice was as cruel as the first. My ravens would bring the news from the south, words darker than their wings, the ruin of my House, the death of my kin, disgrace and desolation. What could I have done, old, blind, frail? I was helpless as a suckling babe, yet still it grieved me to sit forgotten as they cut down my brother’s poor grandson, and his son, and even the little children?.?.?.?”
   Jon was shocked to see the shine of tears in the old man’s eyes. “Who are you?” he asked quietly, almost in dread.
   A toothless smile quivered on the ancient lips. “Only a maester of the Citadel, bound in service to Castle Black and the Night’s Watch. In my order, we put aside our house names when we take our vows and don the collar.” The old man touched the maester’s chain that hung loosely around his thin, fleshless neck. “My father was Maekar, the First of his Name, and my brother Aegon reigned after him in my stead. My grandfather named me for Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, who was his uncle, or his father, depending on which tale you believe. Aemon, he called me?.?.?.?”
   “Aemon?.?.?.?Targaryen?” Jon could scarcely believe it.
   “Once,” the old man said. “Once. So you see, Jon, I do know?.?.?.?and knowing, I will not tell you stay or go. You must make that choice yourself, and live with it all the rest of your days. As I have.” His voice fell to a whisper. “As I have?.?.?.?”



Ⅰ 权力的游戏 Chapter61 琼恩
　　“雪诺，你还好吧？”莫尔蒙司令皱眉问。
　　“好吧？”他的乌鸦呱呱叫，“好吧？”
　　“大人，我很好。”琼恩撒了谎……还特意大声，仿佛这样可让谎言成真。“您呢？”
　　莫尔蒙又是眉头一皱。“有个死人想杀我，你觉得我能好到哪里去？”他抓了抓下巴。由于长长的灰胡子被火烧到，他便把胡子给割了。新长出来的白色短须使他看起来不仅丑陋了些，老上许多，更显得脾气暴躁。“说实话，你的气色不太好，手怎么样了？”
　　“正在复原。”琼恩动动自己绑了绷带的手指给他看。扔那堆窗帘所带来的灼伤比他预期中严重许多，现在他的右手臂缠满了丝绷带，一直绑到手肘。当时他一点感觉也没有，之后才开始疼痛。他裂开的红皮肤内流出液体，一个个吓人的充血水泡布满指间，大得像蟑螂似的。“学士说会留下疤痕，但除此之外应该没有大碍。”
　　“手上有疤没关系，在长城这儿，你大多时候都会戴手套。”
　　“大人，您说的是。”困扰琼恩的不是疤痕，而是其他的部分。伊蒙师傅给他喝了罂粟花奶，但即便如此，手依旧痛得要命。起初他感觉自己的手仍然着火，日夜烧个不停，惟有将之插进装满陈雪和碎冰的盆子里才能稍减疼痛。琼恩在床上疼痛难耐，翻滚哀嚎的模样，只有白灵知道，为此他暗自感谢天上诸神。可等他真的睡了，他又会作梦，这些梦比手伤还可怕。在梦中，和他厮杀的尸体不仅有蓝眼睛和黑手掌，更有父亲的脸，他可不敢把这个告诉莫尔蒙。
　　“戴文和哈克昨晚回来了，”熊老说，“和其他人一样，他们没找到半点你叔叔的踪迹。”
　　“我知道。”昨晚琼恩硬拖着身子去大厅和朋友们共进晚餐，当时大家谈论的都是游骑兵失败的搜查行动。
　　“你也知道，”莫尔蒙咕哝，“怎么大家什么都知道啊？”他也没期待答案。“看来，总共就那么两个……东西。不管他们是什么，我绝对不承认他们是人。感谢天上诸神。要是再多几个……唉．还是别去想的好。只是我这身老骨头有预感，以后迟早会再碰上，伊蒙师傅也这么说。冷风吹起，夏日将尽，前所未见的寒冬即将来临。”
　　凛冬将至。对琼恩而言，史塔克家的箴言从未如此阴森，如此充满不祥之气。“大人，”他迟疑地说，“听说昨晚又来了一只鸟儿……”
　　“是有这么回事。怎样？”
　　“我想知道有没有我父亲的消息。”
　　“父亲！”老乌鸦在莫尔蒙肩上走来走去，头上下摆动，嘲弄地叫道，“父亲！”
　　司令伸手想捏住它的长嘴，但乌鸦跳上他的头，拍拍翅膀，飞过房间，停在窗户上。“就只会吵闹捣蛋，”莫尔蒙咕哝着说，“乌鸦通通这副德行，真不知我养这只讨人厌的鸟做什么……如果有艾德大人的消息，你觉得我会不叫你来么？无论你是不是私生子，你毕竟是他的亲生骨肉。信上说的是巴利斯坦·赛尔弥爵士的事。他似乎被从御林铁卫里给革职了。他们把他原先的席位给了那条黑狗克里冈，现在赛尔弥正被通缉中，罪名是叛国。那些蠢才派了几个卫士去拿他，结果他宰了两个后逃走了。”莫尔蒙哼了一声，他对那些派都城守卫去对付像无畏的巴利斯坦如此武艺超凡的人的看法，溢于言表。“我们这儿森林里有白色鬼影，城里面有不安分的死人行走，结果坐在铁王座上的竟是个小毛头！”他语带嫌恶地说。
　　乌鸦尖声怪笑：“小毛头！小毛头！小毛头！小毛头！”
　　琼恩记得熊老对巴利斯坦爵士寄予厚望，如果连他都失势，那莫尔蒙的信还有什么机会上达国王呢？他不禁紧握手指，剧痛却立即从伤口炸裂开来。“那我妹妹呢？”
　　“信上既没提到艾德大人，也没说他女儿的事。”他有些恼火地耸耸肩。“说不定他们根本就没收到我的信。虽然伊蒙师傅送了两份抄本，也派他最好的鸟儿带去了，可这种事谁说得准呢？我看八成是派席尔懒得回信。这也不是第一次了，当然更不会是最后一次。恐怕对君临那些人而言，我们什么也不是。他们只肯告诉我们他们想让我们知道的事，而这些事少得可怜！”
　　你也只告诉我你想让我知道的事，这些事还更少呢，琼恩忿忿不平地想。罗柏已经号召封臣，率军南进，却没有人告诉他……后来还是念信给伊蒙学士听的山姆威尔·塔利当天夜里偷偷跑来找他，一边轻声细语，一边忏悔自己不该这么做。可想而知，他们一定是认为他兄弟的战争与他无关。然而这却比其他所有事更教他烦心。罗柏正驰骋沙场，他却坐困愁城。无论琼恩如何宽慰自己：如今他的职责所在是与新弟兄们共同防守长城，他依旧觉得自己像个懦夫。
　　“玉米！”乌鸦又叫起来，“玉米！玉米！”
　　“噢，给我闭嘴。”熊老告诉它。“雪诺，伊蒙师傅估计你的手多久可以复原？”
　　“快了。”琼恩回答。
　　“那敢情好，”莫尔蒙司令拿出一把剑，放在两人之间的桌上，那剑有着黑色金属镶银边的鞘。“喏，到时候你就用这个。”
　　乌鸦振翅而下，停在桌上，昂首阔步地朝剑走去，一边好奇地歪着头。琼恩犹豫了一下。这究竟是什么意思，他一点头绪都没有。“大人，这是？”
　　“之前那场火把剑柄圆头的银给熔掉了，护手和剑柄也被烧毁，唉，干皮革和木头，不烧才有鬼。至于剑本身嘛……你得用热一百倍的火才能伤到剑身。”莫尔蒙把手一挥，连剑带鞘推过粗糙的橡木桌面。“我把其余的部分重新打过了。拿去吧。”
　　“拿去吧！”乌鸦得意洋洋地附和，“拿去吧！拿去吧！”
　　琼恩僵硬地伸手拿剑。他用的是左手，因为右手不但绑了绷带，而且伤口未愈，不甚灵活。他小心翼翼地将剑从鞘里抽出，举到眼前。
　　剑柄尾端的圆球是一块淡白色的石头，还加了铅以平衡剑身的重量，圆球雕刻成一只咆哮狼头的模样，眼睛是两小片红榴石。剑柄裹着又黑又软的新皮，未经汗渍和血水沾染。剑身则足足比琼恩惯用的剑长了半尺，前端极尖，既能刺击，亦可挥砍，上面开了三道深深的血槽。“寒冰”是名副其实的双手剑，这把则是一手半，有时也称为“长柄剑”。这柄狼剑似乎比他以前用过的剑都轻。琼恩轻转剑身，看到色泽沉暗的精钢剑身历经千锤百炼所留下的波纹。“大人，这是用瓦雷利亚钢锻铸的剑啊。”他讶异地说。父亲以前时常让他把握“寒冰”，所以他知道这外观和手感。
　　“没错。”熊老告诉他，“这是我父亲的剑，是我祖父传给他的。这把剑在莫尔蒙家族父子相传了五百年，我年轻时也用这把剑，后来我穿上黑衣，便将它传给儿子。”
　　他将传给儿子的剑给了我，琼恩简直不敢相信。剑刃极度平衡，锋芒一遇光线，立即熠熠发光。“您的儿子——”
　　“我儿让莫尔蒙家族蒙上耻辱，但他逃亡之前，倒还懂得留下这把剑。我妹妹把剑送还给我，然而每当见到它，就让我想起乔拉的事，所以我把剑收起来，日子一久也就忘了，直到这回在我卧室的灰烬里找到它。原本剑柄尾端是个银制熊头，不过因为经年累月的磨损，早已辨认不出。你用的话，我想白狼比较适合。正好我们工匠里面有个不错的雕刻师傅。”
　　当琼恩还在布兰那个年纪的时候，也像所有的男孩子一样，梦想着将来干出一番大事业。虽然每次白日梦的细节都不同，但他总想像自己救了父亲一命，事后艾德公爵宣布琼恩已经证明了自己是真正的史塔克传人，并将“寒冰”交到他手中。即便在当时，他也知道这不过是小孩子的玩笑，私生子是绝不可能继承家传宝剑的。如今想起这些，他却觉得羞耻。夺走自己兄弟的继承权，这算什么？我没资格接受这把剑，他心想，一如我没资格继承“寒冰”。他动动灼伤的手指，感觉到皮肤底下深层的痛楚。“大人，您让我受宠若惊，可是——”
　　“小子，少跟我‘可是’。”莫尔蒙司令打断他。“若不是你和你那头狼，我现在就不会坐在这里了。你不仅勇敢……更重要的是，你的脑筋动得快。没错，天杀的，就是用火！我们早该知道，早该想起来。古时也曾有过长夜之劫，唉，八千年虽然久了点……可若是连守夜人都不记得，还有谁会记得呢？”
　　“谁会！”聒噪的乌鸦跟着叫，“谁会！”
　　那天晚上，诸神确是听见了琼恩的祈祷；尸鬼的衣服一着火，瞬间便被烈焰吞噬，仿佛它的皮肤是蜡油，骨头是干柴。琼恩只需闭上眼睛，依然可以见到那具尸体踉跄着走过书房，四处碰撞家具，挥舞双臂拍打火焰的景象。萦绕心头久久不去的是那张脸：四周为火围绕，头发燃如稻草，坏死的肌肉一块块熔解滑落，露出下面的颅骨。
　　不管驱使奥瑟的是何种恶魔力量，都已被烈火赶走；他们在余烬堆里找到的那团扭曲东西，只不过是烤熟的人肉和烧焦的骨头罢了。然而在他的噩梦里，它又再度到来……这次冒火的尸体头上生着艾德公爵的容貌。焦黑爆突的是父亲的皮肤，如结冻眼泪般流下脸颊的是父亲的眼睛。琼恩不明白为何会做这种梦，也不了解这代表的意义，他只是吓坏了。
　　“一剑换一命，够便宜了。”莫尔蒙总结。“快拿去，别再跟我啰唆，听懂了没？”
　　“是，大人。”琼恩的手指抚摩着柔软的皮革，这把剑似乎迫不及待地渴望他的掌握。他明白，这是莫大的荣耀，他也的确非常感激，可是……
　　他不是我父亲，这个念头毫无预警地跃上琼恩心头。艾德·史塔克公爵才是我父亲。我永远不会忘记他，无论别人给我多少把剑，我都不会变。但他怎么能对莫尔蒙司令说他梦想的是另一个人的剑呢……
　　“我也不想听什么客套话，”莫尔蒙道，“所以把道谢都省了罢。用实际行动证明你珍惜它，比说多少废话都管用。”
　　琼恩点点头。“大人，这把剑可有名讳？”
　　“以前是有的。名叫‘长爪’。”
　　“长爪！”乌鸦大叫，“长爪！”
　　“长爪，好名字，”琼恩试着挥砍了一下。虽然左手持剑，难看又笨拙，但宝剑仿佛凭着自己的意志划破空气。“狼和熊都有爪子。”
　　熊老听了似乎很高兴。“我也这么想。我看你得把剑背在背后。这剑太长，没法佩在腰际，至少在你再长高个几寸之前是这样。还有，你好好练习一下双手攻击。等你的手伤痊愈，可以找安德鲁爵士教你几招。”
　　“安德鲁爵士？”琼恩不记得这个名字。
　　“安德鲁·塔斯爵士。他正从影子塔赶来，他是我们新任的教头。艾里沙·索恩爵士昨天早上到东海望去了。”
　　琼恩放下剑。“为什么？”他傻傻地问。
　　莫尔蒙哼了一声。“你以为呢？当然是我派他去的。他身上带着杰佛·佛花被你那白灵咬断的手。我命令他搭船去君临，将手呈报给那小鬼头国王看看，这总该吸引乔佛里的注意吧……何况艾里沙爵士出身既好，又是正式册封的骑士，朝廷里也有旧识，应该不至于像其他穿黑衣的‘乌鸦’弟兄般受到冷落。”
　　“乌鸦！”琼恩觉得乌鸦的口气有些愤慨。
　　“总之呢，”总司令不理会乌鸦的抗议，续道，“如此一来你和他就自然隔开了几千里，也不显得我偏袒。”他伸出一根指头指着琼恩的脸。“但是，别以为这代表我赞同你在大厅里胡来。勇气虽然可以弥补相当程度的愚蠢，但无论你几岁，都不是小孩子了。这是把成年人的剑，也只有成年人才配用它。我希望你好自为之。”
　　“是，大人。”琼恩把剑收回镶银边的剑鞘。虽说这并非他梦想的剑，但依然是件贵重的礼物，而将他自艾里沙·索恩的恶意侮辱之中释放出来，更是高贵之举。
　　熊老搔搔下巴。“我都忘记刚长出来的胡子有多痒了。”他说，“唉，也罢。你的手能工作么？”
　　“可以，大人。”
　　“那敢情好。今晚会很冷，我要喝点加料的热葡萄酒。帮我找瓶红的，不要太酸，香料也别省。还有，你去跟哈布说，他要是敢再给我送煮羊肉来，我就把他给煮了。上次的后腿肉整个是灰的，连鸟都不吃。”他用拇指搓搓乌鸦的头，鸟儿发出一声满足的咕噜。“你去吧，我还有事要忙。”
　　他佩着宝剑走下高塔楼梯，站在壁龛里的守卫微笑着看他。“真是把好剑。”其中一人说。“雪诺，干得漂亮，”另一个人告诉他。琼恩逼自己也对他们微笑，然而他心底却没有笑意。他知道自己应该高兴，却怎么也高兴不起来。他的手隐隐作痛，口中有愤怒的味道，可他说不出自己究竟是对谁生气，或是为何生气。
　　如今莫尔蒙总司令改住国王塔，琼恩出塔时，发现五六个朋友正鬼鬼祟祟地等在外面。他们在谷仓门上挂了个箭靶，装作练习箭法，但他一眼就知道他们别有企图。他前脚刚落地，派普便叫道：“嘿，快过来让咱们瞧瞧吧！”
　　“瞧什么？”琼恩说。
　　陶德溜过来。“当然是你的红屁股啰，还有什么？”
　　“那把剑啦，”葛兰说，“我们想瞧瞧那把剑。”
　　琼恩用充满责难的眼光扫视他们。“原来你们都知道。”
　　派普嘻嘻笑道：“我们可不像葛兰那么笨。”
　　“你明明就笨，”葛兰坚持，“你比我还笨。”
　　霍德有些歉疚地耸耸肩。“剑尾的圆球是我和派特一起雕的，”这位工匠说，“红榴石则是你朋友山姆从鼹鼠村带回来的。”
　　“我们知道得比那更早哩，”葛兰说。“路奇在唐纳·诺伊的锻炉那边帮忙，熊老拿烧坏的剑去的时候他刚好在场。”
　　“快把剑拿出来！”梅沙坚持。其他人也跟着起哄。“拿剑来！拿剑来！拿剑来！”
　　于是琼恩抽出长爪，左右旋转，让他们好好欣赏。长柄剑身在苍白的日光下闪着阴暗而致命的光泽。“这是瓦雷利亚钢呢。”他严肃地表示，努力装出应有的快乐和骄傲。
　　“我听说啊，从前有个人有把瓦雷利亚钢打的剃刀，”陶德说，“结果他刮胡子的时候把头给剃掉了。”
　　派普嘿嘿一笑。“守夜人虽有几千年历史，”他说，“但我敢打赌，咱们雪诺大人肯定是头一个把司令塔给烧掉的人。”
　　众人哈哈大笑，连琼恩也忍俊不禁。其实他引起的那场火，并未当真烧毁那座坚实的石砌高塔，只是把塔顶两层楼的所有房间，也就是熊老的居所，给烧得一干二净。大家对于损失倒是不以为意，因为这场大火同时也烧毁了奥瑟的杀人死尸。
　　至于那个生前叫做杰佛·佛花，原本是游骑兵，后来只剩一只手的尸鬼，也被十几个弟兄剁成碎片……然而它却先杀死了杰瑞米·莱克爵士及其他四人。杰瑞米爵士本已砍下它的头，可依旧没能阻止无头尸鬼拔出他的匕首，深深插入他的肚腹。遇上早已死亡，怎么也不会倒下的敌人，无论力量还是勇气都没有太大用处；武器和护甲，所能提供的保护也殊为有限。
　　这个悲惨的念头，使得琼恩原本脆弱的心绪更加恶劣。“我要去找哈布，请他安排熊老的晚餐。”他唐突地对大家宣布，然后将长爪插进剑鞘。他知道朋友们是一番好意，可惜他们不懂。这实在不能说是他们的错：他们用不着面对奥瑟，没有亲眼目睹那双死人蓝眼的惨白光芒，没能感受到死人黑手指的冰冷，自然更不关心三河流域的激烈战事。既然如此，又怎能期望他们了解呢？他唐突地转身，闷闷不乐地大步离去。派普在身后叫他，但琼恩没有理会。
　　火灾之后，他们让他搬回倾颓的哈丁塔，住在他以前那间旧石室里。当他回到房间，白灵正蜷缩在门边睡觉，但它一听见琼恩的靴子声，便抬起头来。冰原狼的红眼睛比红榴石还要沉暗，比人眼更睿智。琼恩蹲下来，搔搔它的耳朵，给它看剑尾的圆球。“看，是你呢。”
　　白灵闻闻石雕，伸出舌头舔了一下。琼恩微笑着告诉小狼：“荣耀归你所有。”突然间，他回想起自己在晚夏的雪地里找到它的经过。当时他们带着其他小狼正要回去，可琼恩听见了别的声音，回头看去，只见雪地里的它一身白毛，几乎无从分辨。“它就孤身一个，”他心想，“离兄弟姐妹远远的。它与众不同，所以被它们赶走。”
　　“琼恩？”他抬起头。两颊通红的山姆威尔·塔利站在面前，局促不安地发抖，全身紧紧裹在厚重的毛皮斗篷里，仿佛即将进入冬眠。
　　“山姆，”琼恩起身。“怎么了？你也想看看那把剑么？”既然大家都知道，山姆自然不例外。
　　胖男孩摇摇头。“我曾经是我父亲的宝剑传人，”他悲戚地说，“那把剑叫‘碎心’。蓝道大人让我拿过几回，可我每次都很害怕。剑是用瓦雷利亚钢铸成，美丽异常，也锋利异常，我怕会伤到妹妹们。现在狄肯是它的传人了。”他在斗篷上擦擦手汗。“我……嗯……伊蒙师傅要见你。”
　　还不到换绷带的时间。琼恩狐疑地皱眉质问：“他找我做什么？”看着山姆可怜兮兮的模样，答案已经不问自明。“你跟他说了，是不是？”琼恩怒道，“你跟他说你告诉我了。”
　　“我……他……琼恩，我不是故意的……是他问的……我的意思是说……我觉得他根本就知道，他看得见别人看不到的东西。”
　　“他的眼睛早就瞎了。”琼恩口气嫌恶地大嚷，“我自己认得路。”说完，他径自走开，留下目瞪口呆的山姆站在原地发抖。
　　伊蒙学士正在鸦巢里喂渡鸦，克莱达斯提着一桶肉片，跟着他在笼子间行进。“山姆说您有事找我？”
　　学士点点头。“是我的意思。克莱达斯，请把桶子交给琼恩，或许他愿意好心地帮我个忙。”驼背红眼的弟兄将桶子递给琼恩，随后赶忙爬下梯子。“只管把肉丢进笼子，”伊蒙指点他。“鸟儿自己明白。”
　　琼恩将桶子换到右手，左手伸进血红的肉块。鸦群见状，纷纷发出嘈杂的尖叫，在铁栏里飞来飞去，拍动漆黑如夜的翅膀击打着金属鸟笼。肉被切成比指节大不了多少的小碎块，他抓起满满一把血红肉片丢进笼中，尖叫和振翅声立刻愈演愈烈。两只体型较大的渡鸦为了争夺一块上好的肉，彼此厮打起来，一时之间羽毛纷飞。琼恩赶忙又抓一把，丢给其中一只。“莫尔蒙大人的乌鸦喜欢吃水果和玉米。”
　　“那是只很罕见的鸟，”学士道：“大部分的乌鸦虽然也吃谷子，但还是偏好肉类。这不光能让它们强壮，恐怕它们生性就嗜血。在这点上，它们和人类倒是挺像……所以，和人一样，乌鸦的个性也不全然相同。”
　　琼恩接不上话，只好继续丢肉，不禁纳闷自己为何会被找来。也罢，等老人家觉得时机适当，自然会告诉他。伊蒙学士这个人可是催不得的。
　　“鸽子虽然也可以训练来递送讯息，”学士续道，“但我们用来送信的渡鸦不仅强健，体型大，胆子壮，聪明得多，遇上老鹰也更有能力自卫……然而渡鸦色黑，又以尸体为食，因此有些信仰虔诚的人憎恨它们。你可知道，‘受神祝福的’贝勒曾试图用鸽子全面取代渡鸦？当然，他没有成功。”老师傅面露微笑，将那双白色盲眼转向琼恩。“只有守夜人比较喜欢渡鸦。”
　　琼恩的手指浸在桶子里，血淹及腕。“我听戴文说，野人也把我们叫做乌鸦。”
　　“乌鸦是渡鸦的可怜远亲。它们是一身黑羽的乞食者，向来受到误解，遭人怨恨。”
　　琼恩真希望自己能清楚他到底在讲些什么，以及其中缘由。渡鸦和鸽子与他何干？如果老人家有话要说，为何不肯直截了当？
　　“琼恩，你可曾想过，为何守夜人不娶妻也不生子？”伊蒙学士问。
　　琼恩耸耸肩。“我没想过。”他又丢了些碎肉。此时他的左手已经沾满黏滑血渍，右手则因木桶的重量而隐隐作痛。
　　“只因如此一来，他们才不会为情爱所困扰，”老师傅自问自答，“情爱是荣誉的大敌，更是责任的大忌。”
　　琼恩觉得不太对劲，但他没说什么。老学士年逾百岁，在守夜人军团里德高望重，他没资格去反驳他。
　　老人家似乎察觉了他的不以为然。“琼恩，你告诉我，假如有这么一天，你的父亲大人必须在荣誉和他所爱的人之间做出抉择，你想他会怎么做？”
　　琼恩迟疑了。他想说艾德公爵绝对不会做出有损名誉的事，即使为了情爱也不例外。然而他心中却有个狡诈的声音在悄悄低语：他有个私生子，这有何荣誉可言？还有你母亲啊，他负起过对她的责任吗？他连她的名字都不肯讲！“他会做他该做的事，”他刻意拖长音调，借此掩饰自己的犹豫不决。“不管那是什么。”
　　“那么，艾德大人是万里挑一的人才。多数人不若他这么坚强。跟女人的情爱相比，荣誉算得了什么？当你怀抱初生幼儿……或是想起兄弟的笑容，责任又算得了什么？不过都是虚幻，都是空谈罢了。我们身为凡人，天上诸神使我们有能力去爱，那是对我们最美好的恩赐，却也是我们最深沉的悲哀。”
　　“守夜人军团的创建者深知他们的勇气是守护王国，抵抗北方黑暗势力的惟一屏障。他们深知自己不能分神他顾，否则决心必将动摇，所以他们誓不娶妻，誓不生子。”
　　“然而人皆有父母，皆有兄弟姐妹。他们来自纷争不断的大小王国，也深知时局虽改，人性终究不变。于是他们立下誓言：守夜人守护王国，但绝不参与其中任何战役。”
　　“他们恪守誓言。当伊耿杀死黑心赫伦，夺其王国的时候，赫伦的兄弟正是长城守军总司令，手下有一万精兵，但他没有出兵。当七大王国依旧是七国分立的年代，任何一个时代，至少都有三四个国家彼此交战，但守夜人没有参战。当安达尔人渡海而来，横扫先民诸国，这些死去国王的子孙们依旧奉誓不渝，坚守岗位。千百年来，始终如一，这便是荣誉的代价。”
　　“当一个人无所畏惧时，即便懦夫也能展现不输于人的勇气。当我们毋需付出代价时，自然都能尽忠职守。行走在这条荣耀的大道上，似乎是那么地容易。然而每个人的生命中迟早会遇到考验，那便是他必须抉择的时刻。”
　　有些渡鸦还在吃，细细的肉丝悬挂在长喙边，不住摇晃。大多数乌鸦似乎都看着他。琼恩能感觉每一双细小的黑眼停在他身上的重量。“如今就是我要抉择的时刻……您的意思，是这样吗？”
　　伊蒙师傅转过头，用那双瞎了的白眼“看”着他，仿佛可以看透他的心。琼恩觉得自己赤裸裸的，什么都藏不住。他情不自禁地两手握起桶子，把剩下的碎肉全倒进笼里。肉条和血水，四处飞溅，渡鸦纷纷振翅散开，疯狂尖叫。动作快的在空中叼住肉条，贪婪地大口吞咽。琼恩松开手，任由空桶“咔啦”落地。
　　老人伸出一只枯槁而遍布斑点的手，放在他肩上。“孩子，这很痛苦，”他轻声说，“噢，可不是嘛，做出抉择……总是痛苦的。现在如此，以后依然。我知道。”
　　“不，你不知道。”琼恩苦涩地说，“没有人知道。就算我是他的私生子，他依旧是我父亲……”
　　伊蒙师傅叹道：“琼恩，我刚才告诉你的，你难道都没听进去？你难道认为自己是第一个经历考验的人吗？”他摇摇苍老的头，那是个虚弱得难以形容的动作。“天上诸神为我的誓言设立过三次考验。一次在我年幼，一次我正值壮年，最后一次则在我步入老年之后。那时我已年老体衰，视力渐弱，然而面临的抉择如同第一次那般残酷。渡鸦从南方带来我家族灭亡的消息。黑色的翅膀，黑暗的消息。我的亲人死亡、名声扫地、景况凄凉。但我这个身体虚弱的瞎眼老人能做些什么呢？我像是襁褓中嗷嗷待哺的婴儿一般无助，可一旦想到自己坐在这里，置身事外，听任他们杀害我弟弟可怜的孙子，他的曾孙，还有那些无辜的孩儿……”
　　老人眼中晶莹的泪水，让琼恩惊骇得不能言语。“您究竟是谁？”他近乎恐惧地轻声问。
　　那双老迈的唇微微牵起，露出一张无牙的嘴。“不过就是个自学城毕业，立誓为黑城堡与守夜人奉献心力的学士罢了。在我的组织里，每当我们立下誓言，戴起项链之时，便须抛弃原有的家族姓氏。”老人摸摸挂在自己削瘦脖子上的项链。“我的父亲是梅卡一世，在他之后，我的弟弟伊耿代替我继承王位。我的祖父为我取名伊蒙，用以纪念龙骑士伊蒙王子，也就是他的叔叔，或者他的父亲，看你相信哪个版本的故事。我原名……”
　　“伊蒙……‘坦格利安’？”琼恩简直不敢相信。
　　“都是过去的事，”老人说：“过去的事了。所以，琼恩，你看，我的确是明白你的感受……正因为明白，所以我不会要求你留下或是离开。你必须自己做出这个抉择，然后一辈子与之相伴，就像我一样。”他的声音只剩呓语。“就像我一样……”
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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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Chapter 61


  
   DAENERYS
   When the battle was done, Dany rode her silver through the fields of the dead. Her handmaids and the men of her khas came after, smiling and jesting among themselves.
   Dothraki hooves had torn the earth and trampled the rye and lentils into the ground, while arakhs and arrows had sown a terrible new crop and watered it with blood. Dying horses lifted their heads and screamed at her as she rode past. Wounded men moaned and prayed. Jaqqa rhan moved among them, the mercy men with their heavy axes, taking a harvest of heads from the dead and dying alike. After them would scurry a flock of small girls, pulling arrows from the corpses to fill their baskets. Last of all the dogs would come sniffing, lean and hungry, the feral pack that was never far behind the khalasar.
   The sheep had been dead longest. There seemed to be thousands of them, black with flies, arrow shafts bristling from each carcass. Khal Ogo’s riders had done that, Dany knew; no man of Drogo’s khalasar would be such a fool as to waste his arrows on sheep when there were shepherds yet to kill.
   The town was afire, black plumes of smoke roiling and tumbling as they rose into a hard blue sky. Beneath broken walls of dried mud, riders galloped back and forth, swinging their long whips as they herded the survivors from the smoking rubble. The women and children of Ogo’s khalasar walked with a sullen pride, even in defeat and bondage; they were slaves now, but they seemed not to fear it. It was different with the townsfolk. Dany pitied them; she remembered what terror felt like. Mothers stumbled along with blank, dead faces, pulling sobbing children by the hand. There were only a few men among them, cripples and cowards and grandfathers.
   Ser Jorah said the people of this country named themselves the Lhazareen, but the Dothraki called them haesh rakhi, the Lamb Men. Once Dany might have taken them for Dothraki, for they had the same copper skin and almond-shaped eyes. Now they looked alien to her, squat and flat-faced, their black hair cropped unnaturally short. They were herders of sheep and eaters of vegetables, and Khal Drogo said they belonged south of the river bend. The grass of the Dothraki sea was not meant for sheep.
   Dany saw one boy bolt and run for the river. A rider cut him off and turned him, and the others boxed him in, cracking their whips in his face, running him this way and that. One galloped behind him, lashing him across the buttocks until his thighs ran red with blood. Another snared his ankle with a lash and sent him sprawling. Finally, when the boy could only crawl, they grew bored of the sport and put an arrow through his back.
   Ser Jorah met her outside the shattered gate. He wore a dark green surcoat over his mail. His gauntlets, greaves, and greathelm were dark grey steel. The Dothraki had mocked him for a coward when he donned his armor, but the knight had spit insults right back in their teeth, tempers had flared, longsword had clashed with arakh, and the rider whose taunts had been loudest had been left behind to bleed to death.
   Ser Jorah lifted the visor of his flat-topped greathelm as he rode up. “Your lord husband awaits you within the town.”
   “Drogo took no harm?”
   “A few cuts,” Ser Jorah answered, “nothing of consequence. He slew two khals this day. Khal Ogo first, and then the son, Fogo, who became khal when Ogo fell. His bloodriders cut the bells from their hair, and now Khal Drogo’s every step rings louder than before.”
   Ogo and his son had shared the high bench with her lord husband at the naming feast where Viserys had been crowned, but that was in Vaes Dothrak, beneath the Mother of Mountains, where every rider was a brother and all quarrels were put aside. It was different out in the grass. Ogo’s khalasar had been attacking the town when Khal Drogo caught him. She wondered what the Lamb Men had thought, when they first saw the dust of their horses from atop those cracked-mud walls. Perhaps a few, the younger and more foolish who still believed that the gods heard the prayers of desperate men, took it for deliverance.
   Across the road, a girl no older than Dany was sobbing in a high thin voice as a rider shoved her over a pile of corpses, facedown, and thrust himself inside her. Other riders dismounted to take their turns. That was the sort of deliverance the Dothraki brought the Lamb Men.
   I am the blood of the dragon, Daenerys Targaryen reminded herself as she turned her face away. She pressed her lips together and hardened her heart and rode on toward the gate.
   “Most of Ogo’s riders fled,” Ser Jorah was saying. “Still, there may be as many as ten thousand captives.”
   Slaves, Dany thought. Khal Drogo would drive them downriver to one of the towns on Slaver’s Bay. She wanted to cry, but she told herself that she must be strong. This is war, this is what it looks like, this is the price of the Iron Throne.
   “I’ve told the khal he ought to make for Meereen,” Ser Jorah said. “They’ll pay a better price than he’d get from a slaving caravan. Illyrio writes that they had a plague last year, so the brothels are paying double for healthy young girls, and triple for boys under ten. If enough children survive the journey, the gold will buy us all the ships we need, and hire men to sail them.”
   Behind them, the girl being raped made a heartrending sound, a long sobbing wail that went on and on and on. Dany’s hand clenched hard around the reins, and she turned the silver’s head. “Make them stop,” she commanded Ser Jorah.
   “Khaleesi?” The knight sounded perplexed.
   “You heard my words,” she said. “Stop them.” She spoke to her khas in the harsh accents of Dothraki. “Jhogo, Quaro, you will aid Ser Jorah. I want no rape.”
   The warriors exchanged a baffled look.
   Jorah Mormont spurred his horse closer. “Princess,” he said, “you have a gentle heart, but you do not understand. This is how it has always been. Those men have shed blood for the khal. Now they claim their reward.”
   Across the road, the girl was still crying, her high singsong tongue strange to Dany’s ears. The first man was done with her now, and a second had taken his place.
   “She is a lamb girl,” Quaro said in Dothraki. “She is nothing, Khaleesi. The riders do her honor. The Lamb Men lay with sheep, it is known.”
   “It is known,” her handmaid Irri echoed.
   “It is known,” agreed Jhogo, astride the tall grey stallion that Drogo had given him. “If her wailing offends your ears, Khaleesi, Jhogo will bring you her tongue.” He drew his arakh.
   “I will not have her harmed,” Dany said. “I claim her. Do as I command you, or Khal Drogo will know the reason why.”
   “Ai, Khaleesi,” Jhogo replied, kicking his horse. Quaro and the others followed his lead, the bells in their hair chiming.
   “Go with them,” she commanded Ser Jorah.
   “As you command.” The knight gave her a curious look. “You are your brother’s sister, in truth.”
   “Viserys?” She did not understand.
   “No,” he answered. “Rhaegar.” He galloped off.
   Dany heard Jhogo shout. The rapers laughed at him. One man shouted back. Jhogo’s arakh flashed, and the man’s head went tumbling from his shoulders. Laughter turned to curses as the horsemen reached for weapons, but by then Quaro and Aggo and Rakharo were there. She saw Aggo point across the road to where she sat upon her silver. The riders looked at her with cold black eyes. One spat. The others scattered to their mounts, muttering.
   All the while the man atop the lamb girl continued to plunge in and out of her, so intent on his pleasure that he seemed unaware of what was going on around him. Ser Jorah dismounted and wrenched him off with a mailed hand. The Dothraki went sprawling in the mud, bounced up with a knife in hand, and died with Aggo’s arrow through his throat. Mormont pulled the girl off the pile of corpses and wrapped her in his blood-spattered cloak. He led her across the road to Dany. “What do you want done with her?”
   The girl was trembling, her eyes wide and vague. Her hair was matted with blood. “Doreah, see to her hurts. You do not have a rider’s look, perhaps she will not fear you. The rest, with me.” She urged the silver through the broken wooden gate.
   It was worse inside the town. Many of the houses were afire, and the jaqqa rhan had been about their grisly work. Headless corpses filled the narrow, twisty lanes. They passed other women being raped. Each time Dany reined up, sent her khas to make an end to it, and claimed the victim as slave. One of them, a thick-bodied, flat-nosed woman of forty years, blessed Dany haltingly in the Common Tongue, but from the others she got only flat black stares. They were suspicious of her, she realized with sadness; afraid that she had saved them for some worse fate.
   “You cannot claim them all, child,” Ser Jorah said, the fourth time they stopped, while the warriors of her khas herded her new slaves behind her.
   “I am khaleesi, heir to the Seven Kingdoms, the blood of the dragon,” Dany reminded him. “It is not for you to tell me what I cannot do.” Across the city, a building collapsed in a great gout of fire and smoke, and she heard distant screams and the wailing of frightened children.
   They found Khal Drogo seated before a square windowless temple with thick mud walls and a bulbous dome like some immense brown onion. Beside him was a pile of heads taller than he was. One of the short arrows of the Lamb Men stuck through the meat of his upper arm, and blood covered the left side of his bare chest like a splash of paint. His three bloodriders were with him.
   Jhiqui helped Dany dismount; she had grown clumsy as her belly grew larger and heavier. She knelt before the khal. “My sun-and-stars is wounded.” The arakh cut was wide but shallow; his left nipple was gone, and a flap of bloody flesh and skin dangled from his chest like a wet rag.
   “Is scratch, moon of life, from arakh of one bloodrider to Khal Ogo,” Khal Drogo said in the Common Tongue. “I kill him for it, and Ogo too.” He turned his head, the bells in his braid ringing softly. “Is Ogo you hear, and Fogo his khalakka, who was khal when I slew him.”
   “No man can stand before the sun of my life,” Dany said, “the father of the stallion who mounts the world.”
   A mounted warrior rode up and vaulted from his saddle. He spoke to Haggo, a stream of angry Dothraki too fast for Dany to understand. The huge bloodrider gave her a heavy look before he turned to his khal “This one is Mago, who rides in the khas of Ko Jhaqo. He says the khaleesi has taken his spoils, a daughter of the lambs who was his to mount.”
   Khal Drogo’s face was still and hard, but his black eyes were curious as they went to Dany. “Tell me the truth of this, moon of my life,” he commanded in Dothraki.
   Dany told him what she had done, in his own tongue so the khal would understand her better, her words simple and direct.
   When she was done, Drogo was frowning. “This is the way of war. These women are our slaves now, to do with as we please.”
   “It pleases me to hold them safe,” Dany said, wondering if she had dared too much. “If your warriors would mount these women, let them take them gently and keep them for wives. Give them places in the khalasar and let them bear you sons.”
   Qotho was ever the cruelest of the bloodriders. It was he who laughed. “Does the horse breed with the sheep?”
   Something in his tone reminded her of Viserys. Dany turned on him angrily. “The dragon feeds on horse and sheep alike.”
   Khal Drogo smiled. “See how fierce she grows!” he said. “It is my son inside her, the stallion who mounts the world, filling her with his fire. Ride slowly, Qotho?.?.?.?if the mother does not burn you where you sit, the son will trample you into the mud. And you, Mago, hold your tongue and find another lamb to mount. These belong to my khaleesi.” He started to reach out a hand to Daenerys, but as he lifted his arm Drogo grimaced in sudden pain and turned his head.
   Dany could almost feel his agony. The wounds were worse than Ser Jorah had led her to believe. “Where are the healers?” she demanded. The khalasar had two sorts: barren women and eunuch slaves. The herbwomen dealt in potions and spells, the eunuchs in knife, needle, and fire. “Why do they not attend the khal?”
   “The khal sent the hairless men away, Khaleesi,” old Cohollo assured her. Dany saw the bloodrider had taken a wound himself; a deep gash in his left shoulder.
   “Many riders are hurt,” Khal Drogo said stubbornly. “Let them be healed first. This arrow is no more than the bite of a fly, this little cut only a new scar to boast of to my son.”
   Dany could see the muscles in his chest where the skin had been cut away. A trickle of blood ran from the arrow that pierced his arm. “It is not for Khal Drogo to wait,” she proclaimed. “Jhogo, seek out these eunuchs and bring them here at once.”
   “Silver Lady,” a woman’s voice said behind her, “I can help the Great Rider with his hurts.”
   Dany turned her head. The speaker was one of the slaves she had claimed, the heavy, flat-nosed woman who had blessed her.
   “The khal needs no help from women who lie with sheep,” barked Qotho. “Aggo, cut out her tongue.”
   Aggo grabbed her hair and pressed a knife to her throat.
   Dany lifted a hand. “No. She is mine. Let her speak.”
   Aggo looked from her to Qotho. He lowered his knife.
   “I meant no wrong, fierce riders.” The woman spoke Dothraki well. The robes she wore had once been the lightest and finest of woolens, rich with embroidery, but now they were mud-caked and bloody and ripped. She clutched the torn cloth of her bodice to her heavy breasts. “I have some small skill in the healing arts.”
   “Who are you?” Dany asked her.
   “I am named Mirri Maz Duur. I am godswife of this temple.”
   “Maegi,” grunted Haggo, fingering his arakh. His look was dark. Dany remembered the word from a terrifying story that Jhiqui had told her one night by the cookfire. A maegi was a woman who lay with demons and practiced the blackest of sorceries, a vile thing, evil and soulless, who came to men in the dark of night and sucked life and strength from their bodies.
   “I am a healer,” Mirri Maz Duur said.
   “A healer of sheeps,” sneered Qotho. “Blood of my blood, I say kill this maegi and wait for the hairless men.”
   Dany ignored the bloodrider’s outburst. This old, homely, thickbodied woman did not look like a maegi to her. “Where did you learn your healing, Mirri Maz Duur?”
   “My mother was godswife before me, and taught me all the songs and spells most pleasing to the Great Shepherd, and how to make the sacred smokes and ointments from leaf and root and berry. When I was younger and more fair, I went in caravan to Asshai by the Shadow, to learn from their mages. Ships from many lands come to Asshai, so I lingered long to study the healing ways of distant peoples. A moonsinger of the Jogos Nhai gifted me with her birthing songs, a woman of your own riding people taught me the magics of grass and corn and horse, and a maester from the Sunset Lands opened a body for me and showed me all the secrets that hide beneath the skin.”
   Ser Jorah Mormont spoke up. “A maester?”
   “Marwyn, he named himself,” the woman replied in the Common Tongue. “From the sea. Beyond the sea. The Seven Lands, he said. Sunset Lands. Where men are iron and dragons rule. He taught me this speech.”
   “A maester in Asshai,” Ser Jorah mused. “Tell me, Godswife, what did this Marwyn wear about his neck?”
   “A chain so tight it was like to choke him, Iron Lord, with links of many metals.”
   The knight looked at Dany. “Only a man trained in the Citadel of Oldtown wears such a chain,” he said, “and such men do know much of healing.”
   “Why should you want to help my khal?”
   “All men are one flock, or so we are taught,” replied Mirri Maz Duur. “The Great Shepherd sent me to earth to heal his lambs, wherever I might find them.”
   Qotho gave her a stinging slap. “We are no sheep, maegi.”
   “Stop it,” Dany said angrily. “She is mine. I will not have her harmed.”
   Khal Drogo grunted. “The arrow must come out, Qotho.”
   “Yes, Great Rider,” Mirri Maz Duur answered, touching her bruised face. “And your breast must be washed and sewn, lest the wound fester.”
   “Do it, then,” Khal Drogo commanded.
   “Great Rider,” the woman said, “my tools and potions are inside the god’s house, where the healing powers are strongest.”
   “I will carry you, blood of my blood,” Haggo offered.
   Khal Drogo waved him away. “I need no man’s help,” he said, in a voice proud and hard. He stood, unaided, towering over them all. A fresh wave of blood ran down his breast, from where Ogo’s arakh had cut off his nipple. Dany moved quickly to his side. “I am no man,” she whispered, “so you may lean on me.” Drogo put a huge hand on her shoulder. She took some of his weight as they walked toward the great mud temple. The three bloodriders followed. Dany commanded Ser Jorah and the warriors of her khas to guard the entrance and make certain no one set the building afire while they were still inside.
   They passed through a series of anterooms, into the high central chamber under the onion. Faint light shone down through hidden windows above. A few torches burnt smokily from sconces on the walls. Sheepskins were scattered across the mud floor. “There,” Mirri Maz Duur said, pointing to the altar, a massive blue-veined stone carved with images of shepherds and their flocks. Khal Drogo lay upon it. The old woman threw a handful of dried leaves onto a brazier, filling the chamber with fragrant smoke. “Best if you wait outside,” she told the rest of them.
   “We are blood of his blood,” Cohollo said. “Here we wait.”
   Qotho stepped close to Mirri Maz Duur. “Know this, wife of the Lamb God. Harm the khal and you suffer the same.” He drew his skinning knife and showed her the blade.
   “She will do no harm.” Dany felt she could trust this old, plainfaced woman with her flat nose; she had saved her from the hard hands of her rapers, after all.
   “If you must stay, then help,” Mirri told the bloodriders. “The Great Rider is too strong for me. Hold him still while I draw the arrow from his flesh.” She let the rags of her gown fall to her waist as she opened a carved chest, and busied herself with bottles and boxes, knives and needles. When she was ready, she broke off the barbed arrowhead and pulled out the shaft, chanting in the singsong tongue of the Lhazareen. She heated a flagon of wine to boiling on the brazier, and poured it over his wounds. Khal Drogo cursed her, but he did not move. She bound the arrow wound with a plaster of wet leaves and turned to the gash on his breast, smearing it with a pale green paste before she pulled the flap of skin back in place. The khal ground his teeth together and swallowed a scream. The godswife took out a silver needle and a bobbin of silk thread and began to close the flesh. When she was done she painted the skin with red ointment, covered it with more leaves, and bound the breast in a ragged piece of lambskin. “You must say the prayers I give you and keep the lambskin in place for ten days and ten nights,” she said. “There will be fever, and itching, and a great scar when the healing is done.”
   Khal Drogo sat, bells ringing. “I sing of my scars, sheep woman.” He flexed his arm and scowled.
   “Drink neither wine nor the milk of the poppy,” she cautioned him. “Pain you will have, but you must keep your body strong to fight the poison spirits.”
   “I am khal,” Drogo said. “I spit on pain and drink what I like. Cohollo, bring my vest.” The older man hastened off.
   “Before,” Dany said to the ugly Lhazareen woman, “I heard you speak of birthing songs?.?.?.?”
   “I know every secret of the bloody bed, Silver Lady, nor have I ever lost a babe,” Mirri Maz Duur replied.
   “My time is near,” Dany said. “I would have you attend me when he comes, if you would.”
   Khal Drogo laughed. “Moon of my life, you do not ask a slave, you tell her. She will do as you command.” He jumped down from the altar. “Come, my blood. The stallions call, this place is ashes. It is time to ride.”
   Haggo followed the khal from the temple, but Qotho lingered long enough to favor Mirri Maz Duur with a stare. “Remember, maegi, as the khal fares, so shall you.”
   “As you say, rider,” the woman answered him, gathering up her jars and bottles. “The Great Shepherd guards the flock.”



Ⅰ 权力的游戏 Chapter62 丹妮莉丝
　　战事结束之后，丹妮骑着银马穿过遍野横尸，女仆和卡斯部众紧随其后，彼此嬉笑玩闹。
　　大地为多斯拉克铁蹄撕裂，裸麦和扁豆都被踩进泥土，插在地上的亚拉克弯刀和箭支经过鲜血浇灌，成了新的可怕作物。她骑马走过战场，濒死的马儿抬头对她嘶鸣，伤者有的呻吟、有的祈祷。大批拿着重斧，专替伤者解脱的“贾卡朗”穿梭其间，从亡者和将死之人身上收割下数不清的人头。跑在他们后面的是一群小女孩，她们从尸体上拔取箭枝，装进提篮，以备再次使用。最后则是削瘦饥饿但凶猛的狗群，它们闻闻嗅嗅，永远跟随卡拉萨。
　　羊群最早死去，似乎有几千只之多，它们身上插满了箭，羽毛竖立在尸体之上。丹妮知道这一定是奥戈卡奥的的部队干的；卓戈的卡拉萨绝不会如此愚蠢，在没杀掉牧羊人之前，就把箭浪费在羊身上。
　　城镇起火燃烧，缕缕黑烟腾涌翻滚，直上湛蓝的天空。在倾颓的干泥土墙下，骑马战士往来奔驰，挥舞手中长鞭，驱策生还者离开冒烟的废墟。奥戈卡拉萨的女人和小孩即便战败、即使被人奴役，走起路来依旧有种愠怒的自尊；他们如今沦为奴隶，却似乎勇敢地接受自己的命运。当地镇民就不一样了。丹妮深深地怜悯他们，她清楚地记得恐惧的滋味。许多母亲面无表情，死气沉沉，步伐踉跄地拉着啜泣不停的孩子。他们之中仅有少数男性，多半是残废、懦夫和祖父辈的老人。
　　乔拉爵士曾说，这个地方的人自称拉札林人，但多斯拉克人唤他们作“赫西拉奇”，意思是“羊人”。若是从前，丹妮可能会把他们错当成多斯拉克人，因为他们同样有着古铜色皮肤和杏仁形的眼睛。但如今他们在她眼中显得殊异：扁脸、粗矮，黑发剪得异常地短。他们牧养羊群，种植作物，卓戈卡奥说他们的活动范围一直在多斯拉克海边沿的大河以南，因为多斯拉克海的草不是给羊吃的。
　　丹妮看到一个男孩健步奔向河畔，一名骑马战士阻断他的来路，逼他转身，其余的人则把他围在中间，扬鞭抽打他的脸，驱策他四处逃窜。又一名战士快马跑到他背后，不停鞭打他的臀部，直到鲜血染红了他的大腿。还有一人挥鞭勾住他的脚踝，使之扑倒在地。最后，那男孩只能坚持爬行，他们觉得无聊，便一箭射穿他的背。
　　乔拉爵士在崩毁的城门外迎接她。他在盔甲外罩了一件暗绿色罩袍。他的铁手套、护膝和巨盔都是深灰色精钢打造。当他穿上盔甲时，多斯拉克人嘲笑他是胆小鬼，这名骑士立刻骂了回去，双方一言不合，长剑与亚拉克弯刀交击的结果，那个嘲笑最大声的多斯拉克武士被丢在后方，流血至死。
　　乔拉爵士骑上前来，揭开平顶巨盔的面罩。“您的夫君在镇里等您。”
　　“卓戈没受伤吧？”
　　“有点皮肉伤，”乔拉爵士答道，“不碍事。今天他亲手杀了两个卡奥，先是奥戈卡奥，随后是他的儿子佛戈，因为父亲死后他便成为新的卡奥。卓戈卡奥的血盟卫割下那两人发问的铃铛，如今他走起路来比以前更是响声大作了。”
　　韦赛里斯被加冕的那场庆祝命名的宴会上，奥戈父子曾与她的丈夫并肩而坐，把酒言欢。但那是在维斯·多斯拉克，在圣母山的阴影下，在那里，每位草原马民都是手足兄弟，一切纷争都被搁置一边。到了大草原上就不一样了。奥戈的卡拉萨原本正攻击这座城镇，却被卓戈卡奥打了个措手不及。她不知羊人初次从龟裂的泥墙上方，看到卓戈卡拉萨的马匹扬起的烟尘时，心里作何感想。或许有几个年纪较轻、天真愚昧的人当真以为，天上诸神究竟听见了绝望之人的祈求，为他们派来救赎了吧。
　　道路对面，有个年纪比丹妮大不了多少的女孩，正以高亢尖细的声音啜泣，一名战士将她推倒在一堆尸体上，面孔朝下，当场施暴。其他战士也纷纷下马，轮流享乐。这就是多斯拉克人带给羊人的救赎。
　　我是真龙传人，丹妮莉丝·坦格利安一边转开脸，一边提醒自己。她抿紧嘴唇，硬起心肠，骑马朝城门走去。
　　“奥戈的大部分战士都逃了，”乔拉爵士道，“即便如此，仍有一万名左右的俘虏。”
　　是一万名奴隶，丹妮心想。卓戈卡奥将把这些人顺着大河，驱赶到下游奴隶湾的城镇去。她好想哭，但她告诉自己必须坚强。这是战争，战争就是这样，这是为夺回铁王座所必须付出的代价。
　　“我建议卡奥去弥林，”乔拉爵士道，“那里开的价比奴隶商队慷慨得多。伊利里欧信上说，该城去年遭到瘟疫袭击，所以妓院愿付双倍的价钱购买健康的年轻女孩，十岁以下的小男生甚至是三倍的价钱。如果有足够的孩子撑过这趟旅程，所得的金子不但够我们买船，还足以雇水手。”
　　身后，被轮暴的女孩发出令人心碎的声音，那是一声长长的抽噎，无止尽地持续下去。丹妮紧握缰绳，调转马头。“叫他们住手。”她命令乔拉爵士。
　　“卡丽熙？”骑士似乎有些为难。
　　“你听到了我的命令。”她说，“叫他们住手。”她改用多斯拉克语对卡斯部众下令，口气尖锐，“乔戈、魁洛，你们协助乔拉爵士，我不要见到强暴发生。”
　　两个战士交换着困惑的眼神。
　　乔拉·莫尔蒙爵士踢马靠近。“公主殿下，”他说，“您宅心仁厚，但恐怕有所不知，这里习俗向来如此。那些人为了卡奥流血卖命，如今是该他们取得奖赏的时候。”
　　道路对面，女孩仍旧哭泣不止，她那种高亢有如歌唱的语言在丹妮耳中显得异样地陌生。头一个人已经完事，另一个正过来接替。
　　“她是个羊女，”魁洛用多斯拉克语说，“卡丽熙，她什么也不是，和我们的战士在一起，是她的荣幸。羊人与羊交合，大家都知道。”
　　“大家都知道。”女仆伊丽应道。
　　“大家都知道。”乔戈也同意。他骑着卓戈赐给他的那匹高大灰马。“卡丽熙，若她的哭嚎冒犯了您的耳朵，乔戈这就去把她的舌头给您带来。”说完他拔出亚拉克弯刀。
　　“我不要她受伤，”丹妮说，“这女孩我要定了。照我的命令去办，否则卓戈卡奥惟你是问。”
　　“唉，卡丽熙。”乔戈说完一踢马肚，魁洛和其他人也跟着过去，发际铃铛轻声作响。
　　“你也去。”她命令乔拉爵士。
　　“如您所愿。”骑士眼神古怪地看了她一眼。“你果真是你哥哥的妹妹。”
　　“韦赛里斯？”她不懂。
　　“不，”他回答，“雷加。”他策马驰去。
　　丹妮听见乔戈大叫。施暴者们嘲笑他，有个人甚至吼了回去。乔戈的亚拉克弯刀一闪，那人的头便从肩膀滚落地面。笑声转为咒骂，那些人纷纷抽出武器，然而这时魁洛、阿戈和拉卡洛也已赶到。她见路那边的阿戈指指骑在银马上的她，那些战士用冰冷的黑眼睛瞪着她，其中一人啐了口唾沫，其他人则回去骑马，嘴里念念有词。
　　与此同时，骑在羊女身上的人依旧努力运作，全神贯注于他的享乐，对周遭事物毫无所觉。乔拉爵士下马，伸出戴铁手套的手将他硬生生拧开。那多斯拉克人摔在泥地上，翻身跳起，手握短刀，旋即被阿戈一箭封喉。莫尔蒙将女孩自尸堆上拉起来，解下自己血迹斑斑的披风为之披上，然后领她穿过道路，走到丹妮面前。“您要怎么处置她？”
　　女孩睁大眼睛，神情恍惚，浑身颤抖。她的头发因鲜血而纠结。“多莉亚，把她的伤处理一下。你不是本族的人，或许她不会怕你。其他人，跟我来。”她驱策银马。穿过崩毁的木城门。
　　镇上的情形比外面更惨，无数房舍着火燃烧。“贾卡朗”往返忙碌，进行他们的血腥工作，狭窄曲折的巷道里塞满了无头尸体。途中，他们时时见到女人被强暴，每次丹妮都勒住缰绳，派卡斯部众上前制止，并收被害者为自己的奴隶。其中一个肥胖、扁鼻、约四十来岁的妇人用生硬的通用语祝福丹妮，但其他人眼中只有怨毒的瞪视。她们怀疑她，她哀伤地明白，害怕她会将她们带往更悲惨的命运。
　　“孩子，你没法把她们通通收为己有的。”当他们第四次停下，看着卡斯部众把新的一批奴隶带到她身后，乔拉爵士忍不住道。
　　“我是卡丽熙，是七大王国的继承人，也是真龙传人。”丹妮提醒他。“你没资格告诉我什么不能做。”城市彼方，一座建筑在烈火和浓烟中轰然倒塌，她听见远处传来尖叫和孩童惊怕的呜咽。
　　他们找到卓戈时，他正坐在一座无窗的方形神庙前，那庙宇有厚厚的泥墙和球茎状的圆顶，宛如一个巨大的褐色洋葱。在他身边，是一堆人头，叠得比他还高。他的上臂插了一枝羊人的短箭，赤裸的左胸一片血红，像是泼洒了颜料。他的三个血盟卫悉数在场。
　　姬琪搀扶丹妮下马；随着肚子越来越大，她的躯体越显沉重，行动日渐笨拙。她在卡奥面前跪下。“我的日和星受伤了。”亚拉克弯刀所留的伤口虽然很长，幸而割得不深；他的左边乳头不见踪影，一片血淋淋的皮肉垂在胸前，活如一块湿润的破布。
　　“这是擦伤，我生命中的月亮，来自奥戈卡奥的血盟卫。”卓戈卡奥说。“为此我杀了他，也杀了奥戈。”他扭扭头，发辫上的铃铛轻声作响。“你听到的是奥戈，还有他的卡拉喀佛戈，当我杀他的时候，他是卡奥。”
　　“无人能抵挡我生命中的太阳，”丹妮说，“他是骑着世界的骏马之父。”
　　这时，一名战士骑马而至，翻身下鞍，愤怒地用多斯拉克语对哈戈讲了一大串话，由于速度太快，丹妮听不懂。高大的血盟卫沉重地看了她一眼，这才转向卡奥。“这是马戈，贾科寇①的卡斯部众。他说卡丽熙抢走了他的战利品，一个应该让他骑的羔羊之女。”
　　卓戈卡奥转向丹妮，脸上的表情凝重而坚毅，但那双黑眼睛里却流露出疑问。“我生命中的月亮，告诉我实话。”他用多斯拉克语下令。
　　丹妮用卡奥的母语，简练而直接地说出事情经过，好让他了解清楚。
　　说完之后，卓戈皱起眉头。“战争就是这样，眼下这些女人是我们的奴隶，随我们高兴摆布。”
　　“那我高兴让她们平安。”丹妮说，一边怀疑自己是否太过火了。“若你的战士要骑这些女人，请他们温柔地骑，并将她们收作妻子，让她们在卡拉萨中占有一席之地，为你们生儿育女。”
　　柯索向来是三名血盟卫中最残忍的一个，这时他冷笑道：“马会和羊交配吗？”
　　他语气中的某种元素令她想起韦赛里斯。于是丹妮转头怒道：“马和羊都是龙的食物。”
　　卓戈卡奥露出微笑。“看她变得多凶猛！”他说，“这都是因为我的儿子，骑着世界的骏马，在她体内，让她充满火焰。柯索，你小心……就算母亲不把你烧死，儿子也会把你踩进地底。至于你，马戈，闭上你的嘴巴，去找别的羊骑。这些人属于我的卡丽熙。”卓戈朝丹妮莉丝伸出手，没想刚抬手臂就痛得皱眉转头。
　　丹妮几乎可以感受他的痛苦，这些伤远比乔拉爵士形容的严重。“医者在哪里？”她质问。卡拉萨里有两种人专事医疗：不孕的妇女和奴隶太监。草药妇人以药水和符咒疗伤，太监则用尖刀、针线和烈火。“为何无人替卡奥疗伤？”
　　“卡丽熙，是卡奥把无毛人遣走的。”老科霍罗告诉她。丹妮发现血盟卫自己也受了伤，左肩有一道极深的刀痕。
　　“有很多战士受伤，”卓戈卡奥固执地说，“就让他们先接受治疗。这枝箭和苍蝇叮咬没什么两样，而这个小刀伤，只不过是另一个我可以向儿子炫耀的疤痕。”
　　丹妮看到他胸膛被割裂的皮肤下的肌肉，他的箭伤则血流如注。“不能让卓戈卡奥等，”她宣布，“乔戈，找到太监，把他们立刻带来。”
　　“银夫人，”身后传来一个女性的声音。“我可以帮伟大的骑马战士疗伤。”
　　丹妮转头，开口的人是她解救的一名奴隶，就是那个祝福她的肥胖扁鼻妇人。
　　“卡奥不需要跟羊交配的女人帮忙。”柯索大喝一声，“阿戈，割下她的舌头！”
　　阿戈一把扯住她的头发，将匕首往她喉咙按去。
　　丹妮举手制止。“住手，她是我的人。让她说。”
　　“勇猛的骑马战士啊，我没有恶意。”这女人的多斯拉克语很流利。她穿的长袍原本是极轻薄的上等羊毛制成，织有繁复的图案，如今却沾满泥土和血迹，扯得破烂。她抓紧褴褛的衣裳，遮住硕大的乳房。“我真的懂得一点医术。”
　　“你是做什么的？”丹妮问她。
　　“我叫弥丽·马兹·笃尔，是这座神庙的女祭司。”
　　“巫魔女。”哈戈咕哝道，一边玩弄着手中的亚拉克弯刀，眼神阴沉。丹妮回忆起某日晚间姬琪在营火边说的恐怖故事：巫魔女是专与恶魔交媾，施行最黑暗恐怖的妖术，邪恶残忍而无灵魂的女人。她们到了夜间会寻找男性，吸干他们的精力，直到对方死亡为止。
　　“我只是个医者。”弥丽·马兹·笃尔说。
　　“羊的医者。”柯索轻蔑地说，“吾血之血，我说杀了这个巫魔女，等无毛人来。”
　　丹妮不理会暴跳的血盟卫。在她看来，眼前这个年老丑陋的胖女人怎么也不像是巫魔女。“弥丽·马兹·笃尔，你的医术从哪里学来？”
　　“我母亲是从前的女祭司，她教我学会取悦至高牧神的歌曲和咒语，以及如何用树叶、树根和浆果调制圣烟和圣膏。当我年轻貌美的时候，曾跟随商队，前往阴影之旁的亚夏，希望向他们的魔法师讨教。无数国度的船只都在亚夏汇集，于是我在当地长期逗留，学习异邦民族的医疗之术。一位来自鸠格斯奈的月之歌者教我她的分娩之歌，一位你们骑马民族的女人则教我属于青草、玉米和马匹的魔法，更有一位来自日落之地的学士剖开尸体，告诉我埋藏于皮肤之下的所有奥秘。”
　　乔拉·莫尔蒙爵士开口：“学士？”
　　“他自称马尔温，”女人回答，“从汪洋彼端的七国之地乘船而来。那里是日落国度，人们穿着铁衣，被巨龙所统治。他教会了我他家乡的语言。”
　　“学士竟会出现在亚夏？”乔拉爵士若有所思地说，“告诉我，女祭司，这位马尔温的脖子上戴了什么？”
　　“铁大王，他戴了一条用多种金属串成的项链，非常紧，像要把他掐死。”
　　骑士看看丹妮。“只有在旧镇的学城受训的人才会戴这种项链，”他说，“而这种人的确精通医术。”
　　“你为什么要帮助我的卡奥？”
　　“所有的人都属于同一群羊羔，我所接受的教育这么告诉我。”弥丽·马兹·笃尔回答，“至高牧神派遣我下凡医治他的羔羊，不论何时何地。”
　　柯索“啪”一声，抽了她一记耳光。“巫魔女，我们不是羊。”
　　“住手！”丹妮怒道，“她是我的人，不许你伤害她。”
　　卓戈卡奥闷哼一声。“柯索，这枝箭总得弄出来。”
　　“是的，伟大的骑马战士。”弥丽·马兹·笃尔答道，一边抚着自己淤伤的脸颊。“而您的胸伤也必须立刻清洗，然后缝补．不然会化脓的。”
　　“那就快动手罢。”卓戈卡奥命令。
　　“伟大的骑马战士啊，”那女人说：“我的用具和药剂都在神庙里面，那里的治疗之力最为强大。”
　　“吾血之血，我扶你进去。”哈戈提议。
　　卓戈卡奥把他挥开。“我不需要人帮忙，”他用骄傲而坚定的语气说。他不靠搀扶站了起来，比在场所有人都要高大。鲜血自他被奥戈血盟卫的亚拉克弯刀所割去的乳头处汩汩流下，丹妮赶忙走到他身边。“我不是男人，”她小声说，“靠在我身上吧。”卓戈伸出巨手搭住她的肩膀，她便这么扶着他朝泥砌神庙走去。三名血盟卫紧跟在后，丹妮命令乔拉爵士和她的卡斯部众守住神庙入口，确保他们出来之前不会有人来此纵火。
　　他们穿过一连串的前厅，走进位于“洋葱”正下方的中央大堂。微弱的光线从上方隐蔽的窗户射入，墙上烛台里插了几支火把，正在冒烟燃烧。泥地上散乱地铺着羊皮。“躺在那里。”弥丽·马兹·笃尔指着祭坛说。那是一块巨大的蓝纹石板，上面刻画着牧羊人与羊群的图案。卓戈卡奥躺上去，老妇人在火盆里洒上一把干枯的叶子，房间顿时充满香烟。“你们最好到外面等。”她对其他人说。
　　“我们是他血之血，”科霍罗说，“我们在这里等。”
　　柯索走近弥丽·马兹·笃尔。“听好，羊神的祭司，你若敢伤害卡奥，就会有这样的下场。”他抽出剥皮用的猎刀，给她亮亮锋刃。
　　“她不会伤他的。”丹妮觉得自己可以信任这个丑陋的扁鼻胖妇人，毕竟是她将她从施暴者手中拯救出来的啊。
　　“如果你们定要留下，就请帮忙吧。”弥丽对血盟卫们说，“伟大的骑马战士太过强壮，请你们按住他，让我把箭拔出来。”她任自己碎裂的长袍落至腰际，前去打开一个雕花箱子，拿出各式瓶罐、小盒、尖刀和针线。一切备妥之后，她先折断箭身，拔出锯齿状的箭头，一边用拉札林人歌唱般的语调吟诵，随后拿起一瓶葡萄酒在火盆上煮沸，浇在伤口上。卓戈卡奥痛得大声骂她，但一动未动。她以湿叶裹住箭伤。然后她把一种淡绿药膏涂在胸部伤口上，再把那层皮拉回原处。卡奥咬紧牙关，忍住尖叫。女祭司取出一根银针和一团丝线，开始缝合伤口。完成之后，她又在伤口抹了一种红色药膏，覆盖更多湿叶，并用一块羊皮裹住胸部。“您必须包着这羊皮，并照我所说的祷词按时祷告，持续十天十夜。”她说，“您会发烧，还会很痒，伤口愈合后也会留下很大的一块疤。”
　　卓戈卡奥坐起来，发际铃铛丁当作响。“羊女，我以我的伤疤为傲。”他动动手臂，痛得皱眉。
　　“不能喝酒，也不能喝罂粟花奶，”她警告他，“虽然很痛，但你必须保持身体强壮，才能与毒素的恶灵斗争。”
　　“我是卡奥，”卓戈说，“我不怕痛，爱喝什么就喝什么。科霍罗，把我的背心拿来。”老科霍罗快步离开。
　　“刚才，”丹妮对那位丑陋的拉札林女人说。“我听你说起分娩之歌……”
　　“银夫人，我懂得染血产床的所有奥秘，从没有接生失败过。”弥丽·马兹·笃尔回答。
　　“我就快生了，”丹妮说，“如果你愿意，我儿子出生时希望你能帮我接生。”
　　卓戈卡奥笑道：“我生命中的月亮，跟奴隶说话不是用问的，你只要交代下去，让她照办就成了。”他跳下祭坛。“走吧，吾血之血，马儿在呼唤着我们。此地只剩废墟，动身的时刻到了。”
　　哈戈随卡奥走出神庙，但柯索留了片刻，瞪着弥丽·马兹·笃尔。“记住，巫魔女，卡奥没事，你才能留下一条命。”
　　“如您所说，骑马战士。”女人回答他，一边收拾她的瓶瓶罐罐。“愿至高牧神看顾所有羊羔。”
　　※※※※※※
　　①寇：多斯拉克人对卡拉萨里仅次子卡奥的首领的称呼，他们拥有自己的卡斯。
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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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Chapter 62

  
   TYRION
   On a hill overlooking the kingsroad, a long trestle table of rough-hewn pine had been erected beneath an elm tree and covered with a golden cloth. There, beside his pavilion, Lord Tywin took his evening meal with his chief knights and lords bannermen, his great crimson-and-gold standard waving overhead from a lofty pike.
   Tyrion arrived late, saddlesore, and sour, all too vividly aware of how amusing he must look as he waddled up the slope to his father. The day’s march had been long and tiring. He thought he might get quite drunk tonight. It was twilight, and the air was alive with drifting fireflies.
   The cooks were serving the meat course: five suckling pigs, skin seared and crackling, a different fruit in every mouth. The smell made his mouth water. “My pardons,” he began, taking his place on the bench beside his uncle.
   “Perhaps I’d best charge you with burying our dead, Tyrion,” Lord Tywin said. “If you are as late to battle as you are to table, the fighting will all be done by the time you arrive.”
   “Oh, surely you can save me a peasant or two, Father,” Tyrion replied. “Not too many, I wouldn’t want to be greedy.” He filled his wine cup and watched a serving man carve into the pig. The crisp skin crackled under his knife, and hot juice ran from the meat. It was the loveliest sight Tyrion had seen in ages.
   “Ser Addam’s outriders say the Stark host has moved south from the Twins,” his father reported as his trencher was filled with slices of pork. “Lord Frey’s levies have joined them. They are likely no more than a day’s march north of us.”
   “Please, Father,” Tyrion said. “I’m about to eat.”
   “Does the thought of facing the Stark boy unman you, Tyrion? Your brother Jaime would be eager to come to grips with him.”
   “I’d sooner come to grips with that pig. Robb Stark is not half so tender, and he never smelled as good.”
   Lord Lefford, the sour bird who had charge of their stores and supplies, leaned forward. “I hope your savages do not share your reluctance, else we’ve wasted our good steel on them.”
   “My savages will put your steel to excellent use, my lord,” Tyrion replied. When he had told Lefford he needed arms and armor to equip the three hundred men Ulf had fetched down out of the foothills, you would have thought he’d asked the man to turn his virgin daughters over to their pleasure.
   Lord Lefford frowned. “I saw that great hairy one today, the one who insisted that he must have two battle-axes, the heavy black steel ones with twin crescent blades.”
   “Shagga likes to kill with either hand,” Tyrion said as a trencher of steaming pork was laid in front of him.
   “He still had that wood-axe of his strapped to his back.”
   “Shagga is of the opinion that three axes are even better than two.” Tyrion reached a thumb and forefinger into the salt dish, and sprinkled a healthy pinch over his meat.
   Ser Kevan leaned forward. “We had a thought to put you and your wildlings in the vanguard when we come to battle.”
   Ser Kevan seldom “had a thought” that Lord Tywin had not had first. Tyrion had skewered a chunk of meat on the point of his dagger and brought it to his mouth. Now he lowered it. “The vanguard?” he repeated dubiously. Either his lord father had a new respect for Tyrion’s abilities, or he’d decided to rid himself of his embarrassing get for good. Tyrion had the gloomy feeling he knew which.
   “They seem ferocious enough,” Ser Kevan said.
   “Ferocious?” Tyrion realized he was echoing his uncle like a trained bird. His father watched, judging him, weighing every word. “Let me tell you how ferocious they are. Last night, a Moon Brother stabbed a Stone Crow over a sausage. So today as we made camp three Stone Crows seized the man and opened his throat for him. Perhaps they were hoping to get the sausage back, I couldn’t say. Bronn managed to keep Shagga from chopping off the dead man’s cock, which was fortunate, but even so Ulf is demanding blood money, which Conn and Shagga refuse to pay.”
   “When soldiers lack discipline, the fault lies with their lord commander,” his father said.
   His brother Jaime had always been able to make men follow him eagerly, and die for him if need be. Tyrion lacked that gift. He bought loyalty with gold, and compelled obedience with his name. “A bigger man would be able to put the fear in them, is that what you’re saying, my lord?”
   Lord Tywin Lannister turned to his brother. “If my son’s men will not obey his commands, perhaps the vanguard is not the place for him. No doubt he would be more comfortable in the rear, guarding our baggage train.”
   “Do me no kindnesses, Father,” he said angrily. “If you have no other command to offer me, I’ll lead your van.”
   Lord Tywin studied his dwarf son. “I said nothing about command. You will serve under Ser Gregor.”
   Tyrion took one bite of pork, chewed a moment, and spit it out angrily. “I find I am not hungry after all,” he said, climbing awkwardly off the bench. “Pray excuse me, my lords.”
   Lord Tywin inclined his head, dismissing him. Tyrion turned and walked away. He was conscious of their eyes on his back as he waddled down the hill. A great gust of laughter went up from behind him, but he did not look back. He hoped they all choked on their suckling pigs.
   Dusk had settled, turning all the banners black. The Lannister camp sprawled for miles between the river and the kingsroad. In amongst the men and the horses and the trees, it was easy to get lost, and Tyrion did. He passed a dozen great pavilions and a hundred cookfires. Fireflies drifted amongst the tents like wandering stars. He caught the scent of garlic sausage, spiced and savory, so tempting it made his empty stomach growl. Away in the distance, he heard voices raised in some bawdy song. A giggling woman raced past him, naked beneath a dark cloak, her drunken pursuer stumbling over tree roots. Farther on, two spearmen faced each other across a little trickle of a stream, practicing their thrust-and-parry in the fading light, their chests bare and slick with sweat.
   No one looked at him. No one spoke to him. No one paid him any mind. He was surrounded by men sworn to House Lannister, a vast host twenty thousand strong, and yet he was alone.
   When he heard the deep rumble of Shagga’s laughter booming through the dark, he followed it to the Stone Crows in their small corner of the night. Conn son of Coratt waved a tankard of ale. “Tyrion Halfman! Come, sit by our fire, share meat with the Stone Crows. We have an ox.”
   “I can see that, Conn son of Coratt.” The huge red carcass was suspended over a roaring fire, skewered on a spit the size of a small tree. No doubt it was a small tree. Blood and grease dripped down into the flames as two Stone Crows turned the meat. “I thank you. Send for me when the ox is cooked.” From the look of it, that might even be before the battle. He walked on.
   Each clan had its own cookfire; Black Ears did not eat with Stone Crows, Stone Crows did not eat with Moon Brothers, and no one ate with Burned Men. The modest tent he had coaxed out of Lord Lefford’s stores had been erected in the center of the four fires. Tyrion found Bronn sharing a skin of wine with the new servants. Lord Tywin had sent him a groom and a body servant to see to his needs, and even insisted he take a squire. They were seated around the embers of a small cookfire. A girl was with them; slim, dark-haired, no more than eighteen by the look of her. Tyrion studied her face for a moment, before he spied fishbones in the ashes. “What did you eat?”
   “Trout, m’lord,” said his groom. “Bronn caught them.”
   Trout, he thought. Suckling pig. Damn my father. He stared mournfully at the bones, his belly rumbling.
   His squire, a boy with the unfortunate name of Podrick Payne, swallowed whatever he had been about to say. The lad was a distant cousin to Ser Ilyn Payne, the king’s headsman?.?.?.?and almost as quiet, although not for want of a tongue. Tyrion had made him stick it out once, just to be certain. “Definitely a tongue,” he had said. “Someday you must learn to use it.”
   At the moment, he did not have the patience to try and coax a thought out of the lad, whom he suspected had been inflicted on him as a cruel jape. Tyrion turned his attention back to the girl. “Is this her?” he asked Bronn.
   She rose gracefully and looked down at him from the lofty height of five feet or more. “It is, m’lord, and she can speak for herself, if it please you.”
   He cocked his head to one side. “I am Tyrion, of House Lannister. Men call me the Imp.”
   “My mother named me Shae. Men call me?.?.?.?often.”
   Bronn laughed, and Tyrion had to smile. “Into the tent, Shae, if you would be so kind.” He lifted the flap and held it for her. Inside, he knelt to light a candle.
   The life of a soldier was not without certain compensations. Wherever you have a camp, you are certain to have camp followers. At the end of the day’s march, Tyrion had sent Bronn back to find him a likely whore. “I would prefer one who is reasonably young, with as pretty a face as you can find,” he had said. “If she has washed sometime this year, I shall be glad. If she hasn’t, wash her. Be certain that you tell her who I am, and warn her of what I am.” Jyck had not always troubled to do that. There was a look the girls got in their eyes sometimes when they first beheld the lordling they’d been hired to pleasure?.?.?.?a took that Tyrion Lannister did not ever care to see again.
   He lifted the candle and looked her over. Bronn had done well enough; she was doe-eyed and slim, with small firm breasts and a smile that was by turns shy, insolent, and wicked. He liked that. “Shall I take my gown off, m’lord?” she asked.
   “In good time. Are you a maiden, Shae?”
   “If it please you, m’lord,” she said demurely.
   “What would please me would be the truth of you, girl.”
   “Aye, but that will cost you double.”
   Tyrion decided they would get along splendidly. “I am a Lannister. Gold I have in plenty, and you’ll find me generous ?.?.?.?but I’ll want more from you than what you’ve got between your legs, though I’ll want that too. You’ll share my tent, pour my wine, laugh at my jests, rub the ache from my legs after each day’s ride?.?.?.?and whether I keep you a day or a year, for so long as we are together you will take no other men into your bed.”
   “Fair enough.” She reached down to the hem of her thin roughspun gown and pulled it up over her head in one smooth motion, tossing it aside. There was nothing underneath but Shae. “If he don’t put down that candle, m’lord will burn his fingers.”
   Tyrion put down the candle, took her hand in his, and pulled her gently to him. She bent to kiss him. Her mouth tasted of honey and cloves, and her fingers were deft and practiced as they found the fastenings of his clothes.
   When he entered her, she welcomed him with whispered endearments and small, shuddering gasps of pleasure. Tyrion suspected her delight was feigned, but she did it so well that it did not matter. That much truth he did not crave.
   He had needed her, Tyrion realized afterward, as she lay quietly in his arms. Her or someone like her. It had been nigh on a year since he’d lain with a woman, since before he had set out for Winterfell in company with his brother and King Robert. He could well die on the morrow or the day after, and if he did, he would sooner go to his grave thinking of Shae than of his lord father, Lysa Arryn, or the Lady Catelyn Stark.
   He could feel the softness of her breasts pressed against his arm as she lay beside him. That was a good feeling. A song filled his head. Softly, quietly, he began to whistle.
   “What’s that, m’lord?” Shae murmured against him.
   “Nothing,” he told her. “A song I learned as a boy, that’s all. Go to sleep, sweetling.”
   When her eyes were closed and her breathing deep and steady, Tyrion slid out from beneath her, gently, so as not to disturb her sleep. Naked, he crawled outside, stepped over his squire, and walked around behind his tent to make water.
   Bronn was seated cross-legged under a chestnut tree, near where they’d tied the horses. He was honing the edge of his sword, wide awake; the sellsword did not seem to sleep like other men. “Where did you find her?” Tyrion asked him as he pissed.
   “I took her from a knight. The man was loath to give her up, but your name changed his thinking somewhat?.?.?.?that, and my dirk at his throat.”
   “Splendid,” Tyrion said dryly, shaking off the last drops. “I seem to recall saying find me a whore, not make me an enemy.”
   “The pretty ones were all claimed,” Bronn said. “I’ll be pleased to take her back if you’d prefer a toothless drab.”
   Tyrion limped closer to where he sat. “My lord father would call that insolence, and send you to the mines for impertinence.”
   “Good for me you’re not your father,” Bronn replied. “I saw one with boils all over her nose. Would you like her?”
   “What, and break your heart?” Tyrion shot back. “I shall keep Shae. Did you perchance note the name of this knight you took her from? I’d rather not have him beside me in the battle.”
   Bronn rose, cat-quick and cat-graceful, turning his sword in his hand. “You’ll have me beside you in the battle, dwarf.”
   Tyrion nodded. The night air was warm on his bare skin. “See that I survive this battle, and you can name your reward.”
   Bronn tossed the longsword from his right hand to his left, and tried a cut. “Who’d want to kill the likes of you?”
   “My lord father, for one. He’s put me in the van.”
   “I’d do the same. A small man with a big shield. You’ll give the archers fits.”
   “I find you oddly cheering,” Tyrion said. “I must be mad.”
   Bronn sheathed his sword. “Beyond a doubt.”
   When Tyrion returned to his tent, Shae rolled onto her elbow and murmured sleepily, “I woke and m’lord was gone.”
   “M’lord is back now.” He slid in beside her.
   Her hand went between his stunted legs, and found him hard. “Yes he is,” she whispered, stroking him.
   He asked her about the man Bronn had taken her from, and she named the minor retainer of an insignificant lordling. “You need not fear his like, m’lord,” the girl said, her fingers busy at his cock. “He is a small man.”
   “And what am I, pray?” Tyrion asked her. “A giant?”
   “Oh, yes,” she purred, “my giant of Lannister.” She mounted him then, and for a time, she almost made him believe it. Tyrion went to sleep smiling?.?.?.?
   ?.?.?.?and woke in darkness to the blare of trumpets. Shae was shaking him by the shoulder. “M’lord,” she whispered. “Wake up, m’lord. I’m frightened.”
   Groggy, he sat up and threw back the blanket. The horns called through the night, wild and urgent, a cry that said hurry hurry hurry. He heard shouts, the clatter of spears, the whicker of horses, though nothing yet that spoke to him of fighting. “My lord father’s trumpets,” he said. “Battle assembly. I thought Stark was yet a day’s march away.”
   Shae shook her head, lost. Her eyes were wide and white.
   Groaning, Tyrion lurched to his feet and pushed his way outside, shouting for his squire. Wisps of pale fog drifted through the night, long white fingers off the river. Men and horses blundered through the predawn chill; saddles were being cinched, wagons loaded, fires extinguished. The trumpets blew again: hurry hurry hurry. Knights vaulted onto snorting coursers while men-at-arms buckled their sword belts as they ran. When he found Pod, the boy was snoring softly. Tyrion gave him a sharp poke in the ribs with his toe. “My armor,” he said, “and be quick about it.” Bronn came trotting out of the mists, already armored and ahorse, wearing his battered halfhelm. “Do you know what’s happened?” Tyrion asked him.
   “The Stark boy stole a march on us,” Bronn said. “He crept down the kingsroad in the night, and now his host is less than a mile north of here, forming up in battle array.”
   Hurry, the trumpets called, hurry hurry hurry.
   “See that the clansmen are ready to ride.” Tyrion ducked back inside his tent. “Where are my clothes?” he barked at Shae. “There. No, the leather, damn it. Yes. Bring me my boots.”
   By the time he was dressed, his squire had laid out his armor, such that it was. Tyrion owned a fine suit of heavy plate, expertly crafted to fit his misshapen body. Alas, it was safe at Casterly Rock, and he was not. He had to make do with oddments assembled from Lord Lefford’s wagons: mail hauberk and coif, a dead knight’s gorget, lobstered greaves and gauntlets and pointed steel boots. Some of it was ornate, some plain; not a bit of it matched, or fit as it should. His breastplate was meant for a bigger man; for his oversize head, they found a huge bucket-shaped greathelm topped with a foot-long triangular spike.
   Shae helped Pod with the buckles and clasps. “If I die, weep for me,” Tyrion told the whore.
   “How will you know? You’ll be dead.”
   “I’ll know.”
   “I believe you would.” Shae lowered the greathelm down over his head, and Pod fastened it to his gorget. Tyrion buckled on his belt, heavy with the weight of shortsword and dirk. By then his groom had brought up his mount, a formidable brown courser armored as heavily as he was. He needed help to mount; he felt as though he weighed a thousand stone. Pod handed him up his shield, a massive slab of heavy ironwood banded with steel. Lastly they gave him his battle-axe. Shae stepped back and looked him over. “M’lord looks fearsome.”
   “M’lord looks a dwarf in mismatched armor,” Tyrion answered sourly, “but I thank you for the kindness. Podrick, should the battle go against us, see the lady safely home.” He saluted her with his axe, wheeled his horse about, and trotted off. His stomach was a hard knot, so tight it pained him. Behind, his servants hurriedly began to strike his tent. Pale crimson fingers fanned out to the east as the first rays of the sun broke over the horizon. The western sky was a deep purple, speckled with stars. Tyrion wondered whether this was the last sunrise he would ever see?.?.?.?and whether wondering was a mark of cowardice. Did his brother Jaime ever contemplate death before a battle?
   A warhorn sounded in the far distance, a deep mournful note that chilled the soul. The clansmen climbed onto their scrawny mountain horses, shouting curses and rude jokes. Several appeared to be drunk. The rising sun was burning off the drifting tendrils of fog as Tyrion led them off. What grass the horses had left was heavy with dew, as if some passing god had scattered a bag of diamonds over the earth. The mountain men fell in behind him, each clan arrayed behind its own leaders.
   In the dawn light, the army of Lord Tywin Lannister unfolded like an iron rose, thorns gleaming.
   His uncle would lead the center. Ser Kevan had raised his standards above the kingsroad. Quivers hanging from their belts, the foot archers arrayed themselves into three long lines, to east and west of the road, and stood calmly stringing their bows. Between them, pikemen formed squares; behind were rank on rank of men-at-arms with spear and sword and axe. Three hundred heavy horse surrounded Ser Kevan and the lords bannermen Lefford, Lydden, and Serrett with all their sworn retainers.
   The right wing was all cavalry, some four thousand men, heavy with the weight of their armor. More than three quarters of the knights were there, massed together like a great steel fist. Ser Addam Marbrand had the command. Tyrion saw his banner unfurl as his standardbearer shook it out; a burning tree, orange and smoke. Behind him flew Ser Flement’s purple unicorn, the brindled boar of Crakehall, the bantam rooster of Swyft, and more.
   His lord father took his place on the hill where he had slept. Around him, the reserve assembled; a huge force, half mounted and half foot, five thousand strong. Lord Tywin almost always chose to command the reserve; he would take the high ground and watch the battle unfold below him, committing his forces when and where they were needed most.
   Even from afar, his lord father was resplendent. Tywin Lannister’s battle armor put his son Jaime’s gilded suit to shame. His greatcloak was sewn from countless layers of cloth-of-gold, so heavy that it barely stirred even when he charged, so large that its drape covered most of his stallion’s hindquarters when he took the saddle. No ordinary clasp would suffice for such a weight, so the greatcloak was held in place by a matched pair of miniature lionesses crouching on his shoulders, as if poised to spring. Their mate, a male with a magnificent mane, reclined atop Lord Tywin’s greathelm, one paw raking the air as he roared. All three lions were wrought in gold, with ruby eyes. His armor was heavy steel plate, enameled in a dark crimson, greaves and gauntlets inlaid with ornate gold scrollwork. His rondels were golden sunbursts, all his fastenings were gilded, and the red steel was burnished to such a high sheen that it shone like fire in the light of the rising sun.
   Tyrion could hear the rumble of the foemen’s drums now. He remembered Robb Stark as he had last seen him, in his father’s high seat in the Great Hall of Winterfell, a sword naked and shining in his hands. He remembered how the direwolves had come at him out of the shadows, and suddenly he could see them again, snarling and snapping, teeth bared in his face. Would the boy bring his wolves to war with him? The thought made him uneasy.
   The northerners would be exhausted after their long sleepless march. Tyrion wondered what the boy had been thinking. Did he think to take them unawares while they slept? Small chance of that; whatever else might be said of him, Tywin Lannister was no man’s fool.
   The van was massing on the left. He saw the standard first, three black dogs on a yellow field. Ser Gregor sat beneath it, mounted on the biggest horse Tyrion had ever seen. Bronn took one look at him and grinned. “Always follow a big man into battle.”
   Tyrion threw him a hard look. “And why is that?”
   “They make such splendid targets. That one, he’ll draw the eyes of every bowman on the field.”
   Laughing, Tyrion regarded the Mountain with fresh eyes. “I confess, I had not considered it in that light.”
   Clegane had no splendor about him; his armor was steel plate, dull grey, scarred by hard use and showing neither sigil nor ornament. He was pointing men into position with his blade, a two-handed greatsword that Ser Gregor waved about with one hand as a lesser man might wave a dagger. “Any man runs, I’ll cut him down myself,” he was roaring when he caught sight of Tyrion. “Imp! Take the left. Hold the river. If you can.”
   The left of the left. To turn their flank, the Starks would need horses that could run on water. Tyrion led his men toward the riverbank. “Look,” he shouted, pointing with his axe. “The river.” A blanket of pale mist still clung to the surface of the water, the murky green current swirling past underneath. The shallows were muddy and choked with reeds. “That river is ours. Whatever happens, keep close to the water. Never lose sight of it. Let no enemy come between us and our river. If they dirty our waters, hack off their cocks and feed them to the fishes.”
   Shagga had an axe in either hand. He smashed them together and made them ring. “Halfman!” he shouted. Other Stone Crows picked up the cry, and the Black Ears and Moon Brothers as well. The Burned Men did not shout, but they rattled their swords and spears. “Halfman! Halfman! Halfman!”
   Tyrion turned his courser in a circle to look over the field. The ground was rolling and uneven here; soft and muddy near the river, rising in a gentle slope toward the kingsroad, stony and broken beyond it, to the cast. A few trees spotted the hillsides, but most of the land had been cleared and planted. His heart pounded in his chest in time to the drums, and under his layers of leather and steel his brow was cold with sweat. He watched Ser Gregor as the Mountain rode up and down the line, shouting and gesticulating. This wing too was all cavalry, but where the right was a mailed fist of knights and heavy lancers, the vanguard was made up of the sweepings of the west: mounted archers in leather jerkins, a swarming mass of undisciplined freeriders and sellswords, fieldhands on plow horses armed with scythes and their fathers’ rusted swords, half-trained boys from the stews of Lannisport?.?.?.?and Tyrion and his mountain clansmen.
   “Crow food,” Bronn muttered beside him, giving voice to what Tyrion had left unsaid. He could only nod. Had his lord father taken leave of his senses? No pikes, too few bowmen, a bare handful of knights, the ill-armed and unarmored, commanded by an unthinking brute who led with his rage?.?.?.?how could his father expect this travesty of a battle to hold his left?
   He had no time to think about it. The drums were so near that the beat crept under his skin and set his hands to twitching. Bronn drew his longsword, and suddenly the enemy was there before them, boiling over the tops of the hills, advancing with measured tread behind a wall of shields and pikes.
   Gods be damned, look at them all, Tyrion thought, though he knew his father had more men on the field. Their captains led them on armored warhorses, standard-bearers riding alongside with their banners. He glimpsed the bull moose of the Hornwoods, the Karstark sunburst, Lord Cerwyn’s battle-axe, and the mailed fist of the Glovers?.?.?.?and the twin towers of Frey, blue on grey. So much for his father’s certainty that Lord Walder would not bestir himself. The white of House Stark was seen everywhere, the grey direwolves seeming to run and leap as the banners swirled and streamed from the high staffs. Where is the boy? Tyrion wondered.
   A warhorn blew. Haroooooooooooooooooooooooo, it cried, its voice as long and low and chilling as a cold wind from the north. The Lannister trumpets answered, da-DA da-DA da-DAAAAAAAAA, brazen and defiant, yet it seemed to Tyrion that they sounded somehow smaller, more anxious. He could feel a fluttering in his bowels, a queasy liquid feeling; he hoped he was not going to die sick.
   As the horns died away, a hissing filled the air; a vast flight of arrows arched up from his right, where the archers stood flanking the road. The northerners broke into a run, shouting as they came, but the Lannister arrows fell on them like hail, hundreds of arrows, thousands, and shouts turned to screams as men stumbled and went down. By then a second flight was in the air, and the archers were fitting a third arrow to their bowstrings.
   The trumpets blared again, da-DAAA da-DAAA da-DA da-DA da-DAAAAAAA. Ser Gregor waved his huge sword and bellowed a command, and a thousand other voices screamed back at him. Tyrion put his spurs to his horse and added one more voice to the cacophony, and the van surged forward. “The river!” he shouted at his clansmen as they rode. “Remember, hew to the river.” He was still leading when they broke a canter, until Chella gave a bloodcurdling shriek and galloped past him, and Shagga howled and followed. The clansmen charged after them, leaving Tyrion in their dust.
   A crescent of enemy spearmen had formed ahead, a double hedgehog bristling with steel, waiting behind tall oaken shields marked with the sunburst of Karstark. Gregor Clegane was the first to reach them, leading a wedge of armored veterans. Half the horses shied at the last second, breaking their charge before the row of spears. The others died, sharp steel points ripping through their chests. Tyrion saw a dozen men go down. The Mountain’s stallion reared, lashing out with iron-shod hooves as a barbed spearhead raked across his neck. Maddened, the beast lunged into the ranks. Spears thrust at him from every side, but the shield wall broke beneath his weight. The northerners stumbled away from the animal’s death throes. As his horse fell, snorting blood and biting with his last red breath, the Mountain rose untouched, laying about him with his two-handed greatsword.
   Shagga went bursting through the gap before the shields could close, other Stone Crows hard behind him. Tyrion shouted, “Burned Men! Moon Brothers! After me!” but most of them were ahead of him. He glimpsed Timett son of Timett vault free as his mount died under him in full stride, saw a Moon Brother impaled on a Karstark spear, watched Conn’s horse shatter a man’s ribs with a kick. A flight of arrows descended on them; where they came from he could not say, but they fell on Stark and Lannister alike, rattling off armor or finding flesh. Tyrion lifted his shield and hid beneath it.
   The hedgehog was crumbling, the northerners reeling back under the impact of the mounted assault. Tyrion saw Shagga catch a spearman full in the chest as the fool came on at a run, saw his axe shear through mail and leather and muscle and lungs. The man was dead on his feet, the axehead lodged in his breast, yet Shagga rode on, cleaving a shield in two with his left-hand battle-axe while the corpse was bouncing and stumbling bonelessly along on his right. Finally the dead man slid off. Shagga smashed the two axes together and roared.
   By then the enemy was on him, and Tyrion’s battle shrunk to the few feet of ground around his horse. A man-at-arms thrust at his chest and his axe lashed out, knocking the spear aside. The man danced back for another try, but Tyrion spurred his horse and rode right over him. Bronn was surrounded by three foes, but he lopped the head off the first spear that came at him, and raked his blade across a second man’s face on his backslash.
   A thrown spear came hurtling at Tyrion from the left and lodged in his shield with a woody chunk. He wheeled and raced after the thrower, but the man raised his own shield over his head. Tyrion circled around him, raining axe blows down on the wood. Chips of oak went flying, until the northerner lost his feet and slipped, failing flat on his back with his shield on top of him. He was below the reach of Tyrion’s axe and it was too much bother to dismount, so he left him there and rode after another man, taking him from behind with a sweeping downcut that sent a jolt of impact up his arm. That won him a moment’s respite. Reining up, he looked for the river. There it was, off to the right. Somehow he had gotten turned around.
   A Burned Man rode past, slumped against his horse. A spear had entered his belly and come out through his back. He was past any help, but when Tyrion saw one of the northerners run up and make a grab for his reins, he charged.
   His quarry met him sword in hand. He was tall and spare, wearing a long chainmail hauberk and gauntlets of lobstered steel, but he’d lost his helm and blood ran down into his eyes from a gash across his forehead. Tyrion aimed a swipe at his face, but the tall man slammed it aside. “Dwarf,” he screamed. “Die.” He turned in a circle as Tyrion rode around him, hacking at his head and shoulders. Steel rang on steel, and Tyrion soon realized that the tall man was quicker and stronger than he was. Where in the seven hells was Bronn? “Die,” the man grunted, chopping at him savagely. Tyrion barely got his shield up in time, and the wood seemed to explode inward under the force of the blow. The shattered pieces fell away from his arm. “Die!” the swordsman bellowed, shoving in close and whanging Tyrion across the temple so hard his head rang. The blade made a hideous scraping sound as he drew it back over the steel. The tall man grinned?.?.?.?until Tyrion’s destrier bit, quick as a snake, laying his cheek bare to the bone. Then he screamed. Tyrion buried his axe in his head. “You die,” he told him, and he did.
   As he wrenched the blade free, he heard a shout. ‘Eddard!” a voice rang out. “For Eddard and Winterfell!” The knight came thundering down on him, swinging the spiked ball of a morningstar around his head. Their warhorses slammed together before Tyrion could so much as open his mouth to shout for Bronn. His right elbow exploded with pain as the spikes punched through the thin metal around the joint. His axe was gone, as fast as that. He clawed for his sword, but the morningstar was circling again, coming at his face. A sickening crunch, and he was falling. He did not recall hitting the ground, but when he looked up there was only sky above him. He rolled onto his side and tried to find his feet, but pain shuddered through him and the world throbbed. The knight who had felled him drew up above him. “Tyrion the Imp,” he boomed down. “You are mine. Do you yield, Lannister?”
   Yes, Tyrion thought, but the word caught in his throat. He made a croaking sound and fought his way to his knees, fumbling for a weapon. His sword, his dirk, anything?.?.?.?
   “Do you yield?” The knight loomed overhead on his armored warhorse. Man and horse both seemed immense. The spiked ball swung in a lazy circle. Tyrion’s hands were numb, his vision blurred, his scabbard empty. “Yield or die,” the knight declared, his flail whirling faster and faster.
   Tyrion lurched to his feet, driving his head into the horse’s belly. The animal gave a hideous scream and reared. It tried to twist away from the agony, a shower of blood and viscera poured down over Tyrion’s face, and the horse fell like an avalanche. The next he knew, his visor was packed with mud and something was crushing his foot. He wriggled free, his throat so tight he could scarce talk. “?.?.?.?yield?.?.?.?” he managed to croak faintly.
   “Yes,” a voice moaned, thick with pain.
   Tyrion scraped the mud off his helm so he could see again. The horse had fallen away from him, onto its rider. The knight’s leg was trapped, the arm he’d used to break his fall twisted at a grotesque angle. “Yield,” he repeated. Fumbling at his belt with his good hand, he drew a sword and flung it at Tyrion’s feet. “I yield, my lord.”
   Dazed, the dwarf knelt and lifted the blade. Pain hammered through his elbow when he moved his arm. The battle seemed to have moved beyond him. No one remained on his part of the field save a large number of corpses. Ravens were already circling and landing to feed. He saw that Ser Kevan had brought up his center in support of the van; his huge mass of pikemen had pushed the northerners back against the hills. They were struggling on the slopes, pikes thrusting against another wall of shields, these oval and reinforced with iron studs. As he watched, the air filled with arrows again, and the men behind the oak wall crumbled beneath the murderous fire. “I believe you are losing, ser,” he told the knight under the horse. The man made no reply.
   The sound of hooves coming up behind him made him whirl, though he could scarcely lift the sword he held for the agony in his elbow. Brorm reined up and looked down on him.
   “Small use you turned out to be,” Tyrion told him.
   “It would seem you did well enough on your own,” Bronn answered. “You’ve lost the spike off your helm, though.”
   Tyrion groped at the top of the greathelm. The spike had snapped off clean. “I haven’t lost it. I know just where it is. Do you see my horse?”
   By the time they found it, the trumpets had sounded again and Lord Tywin’s reserve came sweeping up along the river. Tyrion watched his father fly past, the crimson-and-gold banner of Lannister rippling over his head as he thundered across the field. Five hundred knights surrounded him, sunlight flashing off the points of their lances. The remnants of the Stark lines shattered like glass beneath the hammer of their charge.
   With his elbow swollen and throbbing inside his armor, Tyrion made no attempt to join the slaughter. He and Bronn went looking for his men. Many he found among the dead. Ulf son of Umar lay in a pool of congealing blood, his arm gone at the elbow, a dozen of his Moon Brothers sprawled around him. Shagga was slumped beneath a tree, riddled with arrows, Conn’s head in his lap. Tyrion thought they were both dead, but as he dismounted, Shagga opened his eyes and said, “They have killed Conn son of Coratt.” Handsome Conn had no mark but for the red stain over his breast, where the spear thrust had killed him. When Bronn pulled Shagga to his feet, the big man seemed to notice the arrows for the first time. He plucked them out one by one, cursing the holes they had made in his layers of mail and leather, and yowling like a babe at the few that had buried themselves in his flesh. Chella daughter of Cheyk rode up as they were yanking arrows out of Shagga, and showed them four ears she had taken. Timett they discovered looting the bodies of the slain with his Burned Men. Of the three hundred clansmen who had ridden to battle behind Tyrion Lannister, perhaps half had survived.
   He left the living to look after the dead, sent Bronn to take charge of his captive knight, and went alone in search of his father. Lord Tywin was seated by the river, sipping wine from a jeweled cup as his squire undid the fastenings on his breastplate. “A fine victory,” Ser Kevan said when he saw Tyrion. “Your wild men fought well.”
   His father’s eyes were on him, pale green flecked with gold, so cool they gave Tyrion a chill. “Did that surprise you, Father?” he asked. “Did it upset your plans? We were supposed to be butchered, were we not?”
   Lord Tywin drained his cup, his face expressionless. “I put the least disciplined men on the left, yes. I anticipated that they would break. Robb Stark is a green boy, more like to be brave than wise. I’d hoped that if he saw our left collapse, he might plunge into the gap, eager for a rout. Once he was fully committed, Ser Kevan’s pikes would wheel and take him in the flank, driving him into the river while I brought up the reserve.”
   “And you thought it best to place me in the midst of this carnage, yet keep me ignorant of your plans.”
   “A feigned rout is less convincing,” his father said, “and I am not inclined to trust my plans to a man who consorts with sellswords and savages.”
   “A pity my savages ruined your dance.” Tyrion pulled off his steel gauntlet and let it fall to the ground, wincing at the pain that stabbed up his arm.
   “The Stark boy proved more cautious than I expected for one of his years,” Lord Tywin admitted, “but a victory is a victory. You appear to be wounded.”
   Tyrion’s right arm was soaked with blood. “Good of you to notice, Father,” he said through clenched teeth. “Might I trouble you to send for your maesters? Unless you relish the notion of having a one-armed dwarf for a son?.?.?.?”
   An urgent shout of “Lord Tywin!” turned his father’s head before he could reply. Tywin Lannister rose to his feet as Ser Addam Marbrand leapt down off his courser. The horse was lathered and bleeding from the mouth. Ser Addam dropped to one knee, a rangy man with dark copper hair that fell to his shoulders, armored in burnished bronzed steel with the fiery tree of his House etched black on his breastplate. “My liege, we have taken some of their commanders. Lord Cerwyn, Ser Wylis Manderly, Harrion Karstark, four Freys. Lord Hornwood is dead, and I fear Roose Bolton has escaped us.”
   “And the boy?” Lord Tywin asked.
   Ser Addam hesitated. “The Stark boy was not with them, my lord. They say he crossed at the Twins with the great part of his horse, riding hard for Riverrun.”
   A green boy, Tyrion remembered, more like to be brave than wise. He would have laughed, if he hadn’t hurt so much.



Ⅰ 权力的游戏 Chapter63 提利昂
　　在一座俯瞰国王大道的丘陵上，搭起了一张原松木做成的折叠长桌，其上铺好了金黄桌布。泰温公爵的大帐就在桌旁，红金相间的大旗飘扬于长竿之上，而他本人便是在此与手下重要骑士和诸侯共进晚餐。
　　提利昂到得有些迟，他骑了一整天马，此刻浑身酸痛，摇摇摆摆地爬上缓坡，朝父亲走去，心里十分清楚自己是何等滑稽模样。这天的行军路途漫长，令人筋疲力竭。今晚他打算喝个酩酊大醉。时间已是黄昏，空中满是流萤，仿佛有了生命。
　　厨子正端上当晚的主菜：五只烤得金黄酥脆，嘴里含着不同水果的乳猪。闻到香味，他口水都流了出来。“不好意思，我迟到了。”他一边说，一边在叔叔身边的板凳上坐下。
　　“提利昂，我看还是让你去埋葬死者好了。”泰温公爵说，“要是你上战场也跟上餐桌一般慢，等你光临，仗都已经打完了。”
　　“哎，父亲，留一两个农民给我对付总行吧？”提利昂回答，“不用太多，我这个人向来不贪心。”他自顾自地斟满酒，一边看着仆人切猪肉，松脆的皮在刀子下哔啪作响，滚烫的油汁流下来。提利昂已经很久没见过如此美丽的景象了。
　　“据亚当爵士的斥候报告，史塔克军已从孪河城南下，”父亲一边看着仆人把肉片放进他的木盘，一边说，“佛雷大人的部队加入了他们。此刻敌军就在北边，离我们大概一日行程。”
　　“父亲，您行行好，”提利昂说，“我正要开始吃呢。”
　　“提利昂，一想到面对史塔克家那小鬼，你就吓成这样？换成你哥哥詹姆，他只怕会迫不及待想大显身手。”
　　“我宁可对这头猪大显身手，罗柏·史塔克既没这么嫩，更没这么香。”
　　负责辎重补给的莱佛德伯爵——一个无趣的家伙——向前一靠：“希望你那群野蛮人不像你一样没用，否则我们精良的装备就白白浪费了。”
　　“大人，我保证我那群野蛮人会让你的装备物尽其用。”提利昂回答。之前，当他告诉莱佛德需要武器和护甲，用来装备乌尔夫从山上找来那三百人时，莱佛德的表情活像是别人要他交出自己的闺女。
　　莱佛德伯爵皱起眉头。“我今天碰见了那个浑身是毛的高个子，那家伙坚持要拿两把战斧。他挑的可都是黑色重钢打造，两面月刃的上等货色。”
　　“夏嘎喜欢双手操家伙。”提利昂看着侍者把一盘冒烟的烤猪肉放在面前，一边说。
　　“他自己那柄木斧还挂在背后。”
　　“我想夏嘎的意思是，三把斧头肯定比两把好。”提利昂伸出拇指和食指探进盐碟，在肉上洒了一大把。
　　这时凯冯爵士倾身向前：“我们有个想法，开战的时候，打算把你和你那群野人放在前锋。”
　　凯冯爵士的“想法”通常都是泰温公爵的主意。提利昂原本已拿匕首刺好一块肉，正往嘴边送，一听此言连忙放下。“前锋？”他有些怀疑地重复。若不是父亲大人对他的能力突然产生了敬意，就是打算彻底除掉这个老让他出丑的儿子。至于是前者，还是后者，提利昂有种不祥的预感。
　　“他们看起来很威猛。”凯冯爵士道。
　　“威猛？”提利昂突然惊觉自己像只训练有素的鸟儿一样不断重复叔叔的话。父亲则在旁观看，严加审度，仔细衡量他所说的每一个字。“让我告诉你他们有多威猛。昨天晚上，有个月人部的家伙为了一根香肠，捅死了一个石鸦部的人。所以呢，今天我们扎营时，三个石鸦部的人抓住凶手，割开他的喉咙为同伴报仇。或许他们想拿回香肠，我不确定。波隆好不容易才阻止夏嘎剁掉那死人的老二，算是不幸中的大幸。即便如此，乌尔夫还坚决要求对方为这个血债付出赔偿金，可康恩和夏嘎不肯。”
　　“士兵缺乏纪律，表示指挥官领导无方。”父亲说。
　　哥哥詹姆总有办法使人忠心追随，甚至赔上性命都在所不惜，提利昂可没这本领。他拿黄金换取忠诚，用姓氏使人服从。“您的意思是，换成个子高点的人，可以多些威严，吓他们不敢乱来，对吧，大人？”
　　泰温·兰尼斯特公爵转向弟弟。“若我儿子的手下不愿服从他的命令，那么前锋显然不适合他。毫无疑问，应该让他殿后，负责保护辎重货车。”
　　“父亲，不需要这么替我着想。”他怒道，“如果您没别的地方给我指挥，就让我来率领前锋。”
　　泰温公爵打量着他的侏儒儿子。“我可没说让你指挥，你是格雷果爵士的部属。”
　　提利昂咬了口猪肉，嚼了两下，然后愤怒地吐出来。“我发现自己一点也不饿。”说着他别扭地爬下长凳。“诸位大人，我先告退了。”
　　泰温公爵点头同意。提利昂转身一跛一跛地走下山丘，心里很清楚身后众人的目光。一阵哄笑传来，但他没有回头，只暗自希望他们最好都被乳猪噎死。
　　夜幕已然低垂，将所有旗帜染成黑色。兰尼斯特军的营地位于河流和国王大道之间，绵延数里。在众多人马和树林之中，非常容易迷路。果不其然，提利昂茫然地走过十几个大帐篷和百余座营火，忽然迷失了方向。萤火虫在营帐间窜动，有如游荡的星星。他闻到蒜肠的香味，辛辣又可口，令他空空的肚腹饥肠辘辘。他听见远处有人唱起情色小曲，一个女人咯咯笑着从身边跑过，身上只盖了件深色斗篷，一个醉酒的人追在她后面，没两步就被树根绊倒。更远的地方，两名长矛兵隔着小溪，就着渐渐黯淡的天光，练习格挡和突刺的技巧，赤裸的胸膛上大汗淋漓。
　　无人看他一眼，无人与他交谈，无人注意到他。在他周围，全是宣誓效忠兰尼斯特家族的部属，一共多达两万人的庞大军团。然而他，却孤独无依。
　　后来，他总算听到夏嘎低沉浑厚的笑声透过夜色轰隆传来，便循着笑声，找到石鸦部过夜的小角落。科拉特之子康恩朝他挥挥一大杯麦酒。“半人提利昂！过来，来我们火边坐坐，跟石鸦部一起吃肉，我们弄到一头牛。”
　　“我看到了，科拉特之子康恩。”巨大的血红牛尸被架在熊熊营火之上，用一根粗如小树的烤肉叉串起——恐怕那根叉子原本就是一棵小树罢。鲜血和油汁滴落火焰中，两个石鸦部的人合力转着牛。“谢谢你，等牛烤好后叫我一声。”依目前的情形看来，或许能赶在开战前吃到。他继续往前走。
　　每个部落都生了自己的营火；黑耳部不和石鸦部共食，石鸦部不和月人部共食，而任何部落都不和灼人部共食。他好不容易才从莱佛德伯爵那儿弄来的帐篷，就位于四部营火中间。来到帐前，提利昂发现波隆正和他新来的仆人们喝酒。泰温公爵派来一个马夫和一个贴身仆人照料他起居，甚至还坚持他应该带个侍从。他们围坐在小营火的灰烬旁，在场的还有个女孩；纤细、黑发，看来不超过十八岁。提利昂打量了她一会儿，这才瞥见火烬里的鱼骨头。“你们吃了什么？”
　　“大人，是鳟鱼。”他的马夫说，“波隆抓的。”
　　鳟鱼，他心想，烤乳猪。父亲真该死。他有些哀怨地望着鱼骨，肚子咕噜叫。
　　他的侍从把原本要说的话吞了下去，这孩子很不幸地姓了派恩，波德瑞克·派恩，是御前执法官伊林·派恩爵士的远亲……几乎和他一样沉默寡言，虽然并非没有舌头。某一天，提利昂叫他把舌头吐出来，确定一下。“的确是舌头，”他评说，“哪天你总得学着用。”
　　今天这种时候，他可没耐性去套那孩子的话。他更怀疑父亲派这小鬼来当侍从，根本是个恶意的玩笑。于是提利昂把注意力转移到女孩身上。“就是她？”他问波隆。
　　她优雅地起身，从五尺多的高度俯瞰他。“是的，大人，而且她自己会说话，如果您高兴的话。”
　　他歪歪头。“我是兰尼斯特家族的提利昂，别人叫我小恶魔。”
　　“我母亲为我取名雪伊，别人也常这样叫……我。”
　　波隆哈哈大笑，提利昂也不禁扬起嘴角。“那么，就请进帐罢，雪伊。”他为她掀起帷幕，进去之后，燃起一支蜡烛。
　　军旅生活多少有些补偿，无论在何处扎营，必定有人循踪而至。今天行军结束时，提利昂叫波隆去给他找个像样的营妓。“最好年轻一点的，当然，越漂亮越好。”他说，“如果她今年洗过澡，那最好，如果没有，把她先洗干净。务必告诉她我的身份，以及我是什么德行。”杰克以前通常懒得说明，于是许多女孩初次见到这位她们受雇服侍的贵族少爷时，眼底的神情便油然而生……那是一种提利昂·兰尼斯特这辈子难以忍受的神情。
　　他拿起蜡烛，把她仔细打量一番。波隆眼光不错：她生得一双雌鹿般的眸子，身形纤细，乳房小而结实，脸上的笑容时而羞怯、时而傲慢、时而邪恶。他挺满意。“大人，要我脱衣服吗？”她问。
　　“稍等，雪伊，你是处女吗？”
　　“大人，您高兴的话，就这样想吧。”她故作庄重地说。
　　“小妹妹，知道真相我才会高兴。”
　　“是吗？那您得付双倍的钱。”
　　提利昂认为他们简直是绝配。“我是兰尼斯特家的人，有的是黄金，你会发现我是个很慷慨的人……但我要的不只是你两腿间的东西——当然那个我肯定要。我要你和我一起住，为我倒酒，陪我说笑，每天在我奔波之后替我按摩双脚……而且，不管我留你一天还是一年，只要我们在一起，你就不许跟其他男人上床。”
　　“很公道。”她伸手向下，抓住自己粗布薄衫的裙摆，流畅地上拉过头，丢到一边。底下除了裸体，空无一物。“大人不把蜡烛放下来，可是会烧到手的。”
　　提利昂放下蜡烛，牵起她的手，轻轻拉拢。她俯身亲吻他，嘴里有蜂蜜和苜蓿的味道，她的手指灵活熟练地找到他衣服的绳结。
　　当他进入她体内的时候，她用低回的亲密话语和颤抖的喜乐喘息来迎接他。提利昂怀疑她的愉悦是装出来的，但由于她装得非常逼真，他也就不以为意，毕竟这背后的真相他可不想知道。
　　完事后，当她静静地躺在他的怀里，提利昂才明白自己真的很需要她，或者像她这样的人。自他随哥哥及劳勃国王一行前往临冬城至今，已经快一年没和女人睡过了。而明天，或者后天，他就可能战死，果真如此，他死的时候宁可想着雪伊，也不要想着父亲大人、莱莎·艾林或凯特琳·史塔克夫人。
　　他感觉到她柔软的胸部靠上自己臂膀，那是一种无比美妙的感觉，在他脑海里突然浮现出那首歌。静静地，轻轻地，他哼唱起来。
　　“大人，唱什么哪？”雪伊靠着他呢喃道。
　　“没什么，”他告诉她，“只是我小时候学的一首曲儿罢了。快睡罢，小宝贝。”
　　待她闭上双眼，呼吸变得深沉而规律，提利昂轻轻地从她体下抽身离去，惟恐打扰她好梦。他浑身赤裸地下床，跨过他的侍从，走到帐篷后去撒尿。
　　波隆盘腿坐在一棵栗子树下，靠近拴马的地方，睡意全无地磨着利剑；这佣兵似乎不像别人那般需要睡眠。“你在哪儿找到她的？”提利昂一边尿，一边问他。
　　“从一个骑士手上抢的，那家伙根本不愿放弃她，是你的名字让他改变了主意……当然，还有我架在他脖子上的匕首。”
　　“好极了，”提利昂苦涩地说，一边甩干最后几滴尿液。“我记得我说的是‘帮我找个妓女’，不是‘帮我造个敌人’。”
　　“漂亮的早抢光了，”波隆道，“你要想换个没牙的丑婆娘，我很乐意帮你把她送回去。”
　　提利昂跛着脚走到他身边坐下。“你这话要给我老爸听到，必定被加上无礼放肆的罪名，发配去挖矿。”
　　“好在你不是你老爸，”波隆回答，“还有一个鼻子长满疱子的，你要么？”
　　“那岂不伤了你的心？”提利昂回敬，“我就留着雪伊。你不会刚巧注意到那骑士叫什么名字吧？打仗的时候，我可不想让他在我身边。”
　　波隆霍地起身，动作如灵猫一般迅捷优雅，手心转着剑。“侏儒，打仗时我会在你身边。”
　　提利昂点点头，他的皮肤裸露在外，觉得夜晚的空气十分温暖。“保我这场仗活下来，要什么奖赏随你挑。”
　　波隆将长剑从右手抛到左手，然后试着挥了一下。“谁想杀你这种人？”
　　“我老爸就是一个。他派我打前锋。”
　　“是我也会这么安排。小矮人举个大盾牌，教他们的箭手头痛死。”
　　“听你这么一说，我的心情竟大为振奋，”提利昂道，“我一定是疯了。”
　　波隆收剑入鞘。“毫无疑问。”
　　提利昂回到帐篷，发现雪伊已经翻身用手肘枕着脸，睡意未消地喃喃说：“我一醒来，大人就不见了。”
　　“大人这不就回来了么。”他钻进被窝，在她身边躺下。
　　她探手伸到他畸形的双腿之间，发现他硬了起来。“的确是回来了哟。”她悄声说，同时抚弄他。
　　他问她是被波隆从谁手上带来的，她说出一个小贵族的随从的名字。“大人，您用不着担心他。”女孩说，手指忙个不休。“他是个不起眼的小家伙。”
　　“那你倒是说说看，我又是什么？”提利昂问她，“难不成我是个巨人？”
　　“哎哟，可不是嘛，”她愉悦地说，“我的兰尼斯特巨人。”说完她骑到他身上，一时之间，几乎就让他相信她的话。提利昂微笑着睡去……
　　……直到被黑暗中震耳欲聋的喇叭声吵醒，雪伊摇着他的肩膀。“大人，”她悄声道，“大人您醒醒，我好怕。”
　　他有气无力地坐起来，掀开毛毯，号音响彻夜空，狂野而急促，仿佛在喊着：快啊，快啊，快啊。他听见人们的叫喊、熗矛的撞击、马儿的嘶鸣，好在没有打斗。“是我父亲的喇叭，”他说，“这是作战集合令。史塔克军离我们不是还有一天路程么？”
　　雪伊摇摇头，眼睛睁得老大，面色苍白。
　　提利昂呻吟着下床，摸索着走到帐外，一边叫唤他的侍从。苍白的迷雾自夜幕中飘浮过来，宛如河面上悠长的白手指。人和马在黎明前的寒气里跌跌撞撞，他们忙着系紧马鞍，将货物运上马车，并熄灭营火。号角再度吹响：快啊，快啊，快啊。骑士们纷纷跃上不住吐气的战马，步兵则边跑边扣上剑带。当他找到波德①时，那孩子正轻声打着鼾。提利昂扬腿狠狠地踢了他肋骨一脚。“快把我盔甲拿来，”他说，“动作快。”波隆从雾中跑来，已然全副武装，骑在马上，戴着那顶饱经击打的半罩头盔。“发生什么事了？”提利昂问。
　　“史塔克那小鬼抢先一步，”波隆道，“他趁夜色沿国王大道南下，就在我们北方不到一里，全军成战斗阵形。”
　　快啊，号角仿佛在喊，快啊，快啊，快啊。
　　“叫原住民准备出动。”提利昂缩回帐篷。“我的衣服上哪儿去了？”他朝雪伊叫道。“就那件，不对，是那件皮衣，该死，对对，把我靴子拿来。”
　　等他穿好衣服，侍从已把他的盔甲排好。这身盔甲实在不起眼。提利昂本有一套上好的重铠，特别精心打造，适合他畸形的身体，只可惜而今好端端放在凯岩城，与他相隔千里。他只好将就一下，在莱佛德伯爵的辎重车辆上东拼西凑：锁甲和头套，一名战死骑士的护喉，圆盘护膝，铁手套和尖角钢靴。其中某几件有装饰，有的则样式普通，通通都不成套，颇不合身。他的胸甲原本是要给个子更大的人穿的；为了对付他那颗不合比例的大头，他们找来一个水桶状的大盔，顶端有根一尺长的三角尖刺。
　　雪伊协助波德为他扣上扣环和系带。“如果我死了，记得要为我掉眼泪。”提利昂告诉妓女。
　　“你人都死了，怎么会知道？”
　　“我就是知道。”
　　“我相信你会。”雪伊为他戴上巨盔，波德随即将之与护喉相连。提利昂扣上腰带，挂好短剑和匕首，沉甸甸的。这时马夫牵来他的坐骑，那是一头结实的棕色大马，身上的护甲和他一样厚实。他得别人帮忙才上得了马，只觉自己如有千石重。波德递上他的铁木镶钢边大盾，然后是他的战斧。雪伊退开一步，上下打量他一番。“大人您看起来很威武。”
　　“大人我看起来像个穿着滑稽盔甲的侏儒。”提利昂酸酸地说，“不过我谢谢你的好意。波德瑞克，倘若战事对我方不利，请护送这位小姐平安回家。”他举起战斧向她致意，然后调转马头，飞奔而去。他的肚子里好似打了一个结，绞得很紧，痛得厉害。在他身后，他的仆人连忙开始拔营。朝阳自地平线升起，一根根淡红的手指从东方伸出。西边的天空是一片深紫，缀着几颗星星。提利昂不知这是否会是他今生所见最后一次日出……也不知思索这类事情是否就是怯懦的表现。哥哥詹姆在出战前想过死亡么？
　　远处响起军号，低沉哀怨，令人灵魂不寒而栗。原住民纷纷爬上骨瘦如柴的山地坐骑，高声咒骂、彼此嘲弄，其中几个明显是醉了。提利昂领军出发时，空气中游移的雾丝正逐渐被东升旭日所蒸发，马儿吃剩的青草上凝满露水，仿佛有位天神刚巧路过，洒下整袋钻石。高山氏族紧跟在他身后，各个部落的人各自追随自己的领袖。
　　黎明的晨光中，泰温·兰尼斯特公爵的军队有如一朵缓缓绽开的钢铁玫瑰，尖刺闪闪发光。
　　中军由叔叔指挥，凯冯爵士已在国王大道上竖起旗帜。步弓手排成三列，分立道路东西，冷静地调试弓弦，箭枝在腰间晃动。成方阵队形的长熗兵站在弓箭手中间，后方则是一排接一排手持矛、剑和斧头的步兵。三百名重骑兵围绕着凯冯爵士、莱佛德伯爵、莱顿伯爵和沙略特伯爵等诸侯及其随从。
　　右翼全为骑兵，共约四千人，装甲厚重。超过四分之三的骑士齐聚于此，有如一只巨大钢拳。该队由亚当·马尔布兰爵士指挥。提利昂看到他的掌旗官展开旗帜，家徽立即显露：一棵燃烧之树，橙色与烟灰相间。在他身后有佛列蒙爵士的紫色独角兽，克雷赫家族的斑纹野猪，以及史威佛家族的矮脚公鸡等旗号。
　　父亲大人则坐镇大帐所在的丘陵之上，四周是预备队，一半骑兵一半步兵，多达五千人。泰温公爵向来指挥预备队，身处可将战况尽收眼底的高地，视情形将部队投入最需要的地方。
　　即便从远处观之，父亲也依旧辉煌耀眼。泰温·兰尼斯特的战甲，连他儿子詹姆的镀金套装与之相比，都会黯然失色，他的大披风由难以计数的金缕丝线织成，重到连冲锋都鲜少飘起，一旦上马则几乎将坐骑后腿完全遮住。普通的披风钩扣无法承受如此重量，取而代之的是一对趴在肩头，相互对应的小母狮，仿佛随时准备一跃而出。她们的配偶是一只鬃毛壮伟的雄狮，昂首立于泰温公爵的巨盔顶，一爪探空，张口怒吼。三头狮子都是纯金打造，镶了红宝石眼睛。他的盔甲则是厚重的钢板铠，上了暗红色瓷釉，护膝和铁手套均有繁复的黄金涡形装饰。护手圆盘是黄金日芒，每一个钩扣都镀上了金。红钢铠甲经过一再打磨，在旭日光芒中鲜亮如火。
　　这时，提利昂已可听见敌军的隆隆战鼓。他记起上次在临冬城大厅，看见罗柏·史塔克坐在他父亲的高位上，手中未入鞘的长剑闪闪发光。他记得冰原狼自暗处攻来的景象，突然间仿佛又看到它们咆哮着向他扑来，咧嘴露出尖牙利齿。那小鬼会带狼上战场吗？这念头令他大感不安。
　　经过整夜无休的长途行军，北方人此刻一定筋疲力竭。提利昂不明白那小鬼究竟打的是什么主意，难道想趁对方熟睡时攻其不备？这样的机会实在不大，抛开其他方面不谈，泰温·兰尼斯特对战争可是精明之极。
　　前锋军在左方集结。当先便是黄底的三黑狗旗，格雷果爵士正在旗下，骑着提利昂平生所见最大的马。波隆看了他一眼，嘻嘻笑道：“打仗时，记住跟着大个子。”
　　提利昂严厉地看了他一眼。“这是为什么？”
　　“他们是最棒的箭靶，瞧那家伙，他会吸引全战场弓箭手的目光。”
　　提利昂笑笑，转用全新的观点审视魔山。“我得承认，我还从没这么想过。”
　　克里冈的装备半点也称不上华丽：盔甲是深灰色的厚重钢板，其上只有长期剧烈使用的痕迹，没有任何纹章或装饰。他的佩剑是一把双手巨剑，然而格雷果爵士单手提起浑如常人拿匕首一般轻松。此刻，他正以剑尖戳指，喝令众人就位。“谁要敢逃跑，我就亲手宰了他！”他咆哮道，转头看到了提利昂。“小恶魔！你守左边，看你有没有能耐守住河流。”
　　那是左军的最左翼，只要守住这里，史塔克军便无法从侧面包抄——除非他们的马能在水上跑。提利昂领军朝河岸行去。“你们看！”他以斧指河，叫道。“就是这条河。”一层白雾依然如毯子般笼罩水面，暗绿河水奔流其下。浅滩满布泥泞，遍生芦苇。“我们负责防守此地。无论发生什么，保持靠近河流，决不要让它离开视线，决不能让任何敌人进到河流和我们之间。他们要玷污我们的河水，我们就剁掉他们的命根子，丢进河里喂鱼吃。”
　　夏嘎双手各持一斧，这时他两斧用力一敲，发出巨响。“半人万岁！”他叫道。石鸦部的人立刻跟进，黑耳部和月人部也照样呼喊。灼人部虽然没叫，但他们拿起熗剑互击。“半人万岁！半人万岁！”
　　提利昂骑马绕圈，检视战场。周围的土地崎岖不平：岸边是滑软泥泞，低缓上坡，升向国王大道，再往东去，则是多石的破碎地形。丘陵有些许林木点缀，不过此间树木多半已被伐尽，辟作农田。他听着战鼓，心脏在胸口随着节奏怦怦跳动，在层层的皮衣钢甲下，他的额际冷汗直流。他看着魔山格雷果爵士策马在战线上来来去去．高声喊话，指手画脚。左军的组成也多是骑兵，然而并不若右翼那样是由骑士和重装熗骑兵组成的钢拳，而是西境的杂牌部队：仅穿皮甲的弓骑兵、大批毫无纪律的自由骑手和流浪武士，骑着犁马、手持镰刀和祖父辈遗留的生锈刀剑的庄稼汉，兰尼斯港小巷中找来、并未完成训练的男孩……以及提利昂和他的高山氏族。
　　“等着喂乌鸦吧。”波隆在他身边低声呢喃，说出了提利昂没说的话，他不由得点头同意。父亲大人难道失却了理智？左翼不仅没有矛兵，弓箭手很少，骑士更是稀罕，尽是些装备低劣、未加防护的人，况且还是由一个行事不经大脑、全凭意气用事的残暴粗汉所率领……如此可笑的一支军队，父亲竟期望他们守住左翼？
　　他没有时间仔细思考，鼓声愈来愈近，咚咚咚咚，潜进他的皮肤之下，令他双手抽搐。波隆拔出长剑，刹那间，敌人已出现在前方，从丘陵顶端漫山遍野地冒出来，他们躲在盾牌和长矛构成的壁垒之后，整齐划一地迈步前进。
　　诸神该死，瞧瞧他们有多少人，提利昂心想，不过他明白父亲的总兵力比较多。敌军的首领们骑着披甲战马，领导士兵前进，掌旗官举起家族旗帜与之并肩而行。他瞥见霍伍德家族的驼鹿旗帜、卡史塔克家族的日芒旗、赛文伯爵的战斧旗、葛洛佛家族的盔甲铁拳……其间更有佛雷家族的灰底蓝色双塔旗，前几天父亲还信誓旦旦地说瓦德大人不会出兵。史塔克家族的白色旗帜四处可见，旌旗在风中飘荡，翻飞于长竿之上，灰色的冰原狼仿佛也在旗帜上奔跃。那小鬼在哪里？提利昂纳闷。
　　军号响起，呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜，低沉而悠长，有如来自北方的冷风，令人不寒而栗。兰尼斯特的喇叭随即回应，嘟——嘟、嘟——嘟、嘟——嘟嘟嘟嘟嘟嘟嘟嘟嘟嘟，宏亮而不驯，只是提利昂的心中却觉得比较小声，且有些不安。他的五脏六腑一阵翻搅，涌起一股恶心，眩然欲呕；他暗暗希望自己可别因反胃而死。
　　当号声渐息，嘶嘶声填满了空缺。在他右边，道路两侧的弓箭手洒出一阵箭雨，北方人开步快跑，边跑边吼。兰尼斯特的弓箭如冰雹一般朝他们身上招呼，百枝，千枝，刹那间不可胜数。不少人中箭倒地，呐喊转为哀嚎。这时第二波攻击已从空中落下，弓箭手们纷纷将第三枝箭搭上弓弦。
　　喇叭再度响起，嘟——嘟、嘟——嘟、嘟——嘟、嘟——嘟嘟嘟嘟嘟嘟嘟嘟。格雷果爵士挥动巨剑，吼出一声命令，几千个人的声音随即回应。提利昂一踢马肚，放声加入这个嘈杂的大合唱，随后前锋军便向前冲去。“河岸！”当他们策马开跑，他对原住民吼道，“记住！守住河岸！”开始冲刺时，他还在前方带头，但齐拉随即发出一声毛骨悚然的凄厉呐喊，从他身边向前窜去，夏嘎狂吼一声，也跟了上去，原住民们纷纷跟进，把提利昂留在他们扬起的烟尘中。
　　正前方，一群敌军熗兵组成半月阵形，有如一只两面生刺的钢剌猬，躲在绘有卡史塔克家族日芒纹章的高大橡木盾后方，严阵以待。格雷果·克里冈率领一队精锐的重装骑兵，成楔形阵势，率先与之接战。面对大排长熗，半数的马在最后一刻停止冲刺，闪避开去。有的则是横冲直撞，熗尖贯胸而出，当场死亡，提利昂看到十来个人因此倒地。魔山的坐骑被一根带刺熗尖刮过脖颈，它人立起来，伸出镶蹄铁的双脚便往外踢。发狂的战马跃入敌阵，长熗自四面八方向它捅来，但盾墙也同时在它的重压之下瓦解，北方人脚步踉跄地闪避这只动物的垂死挣扎。战马轰然倒下，吐血身亡，魔山却毫发无伤地起身，高擎双手巨剑，展开疯狂攻击。
　　夏嘎趁敌方的盾墙上的裂缝还来不及合拢，也冲了进去，石鸦部的人众紧跟在后。提利昂高叫：“灼人部！月人部！跟我来！”不过他们大都已冲到他前面去了。他瞥见提魅之子提魅的坐骑倒地而死，人则跳开脱身；有个月人部民被钉死在卡史塔克家的长矛上；康恩的马则扬腿踢断敌人的肋骨。这时，一阵箭雨洒在他们头上，究竟从何而来，他说不准，总之对史塔克军和兰尼斯特军一视同仁。它们或从盔甲上弹开，或找到暴露的血肉。提利昂举起盾牌，躲在下面。
　　在骑兵的冲击下，刺猬逐渐崩解，北方人纷纷后退。提利昂看见有个矛兵愚蠢地朝夏嘎直冲过去，结果被夏嘎战斧一挥正中胸膛，穿透盔甲、皮革、肌肉和肺，顿时毙命。斧刃卡在对手胸膛里，但夏嘎马不停蹄，又用左手的战斧将另一个敌人的盾牌劈成两半，右手的尸体则绵软无力地随马弹跳颠簸。最后，死尸滑落地面，夏嘎高举双斧，交互撞击，发出慑人的呐喊。
　　这时他自己也冲入了敌阵，战场瞬间缩小到坐骑周围几尺。一个步兵手持长矛朝他胸膛戳来，他战斧一挥，将矛格开，那人向后跳去，打算再试一次，但提利昂调转马头，把他踩在马下。波隆被三个敌兵团团围住，但他砍断第一支向他刺去的矛头，反手一剑又正中另一个人面门。
　　一枝飞矛从左方朝提利昂射来，“咚”地一声插在木盾上。他转身追击掷矛者，但对方举盾过头，于是提利昂策马绕着他转，战斧如雨般落在盾上。橡木碎屑四溅，最后北方人终于脚底一滑，仰面摔倒在地，盾牌却刚好挡在身体上。提利昂的战斧够不到他，下马又太麻烦，所以他抛下此人，策马攻击另一目标。这次他从对方后背偷袭成功，战斧向下一劈，正中敌人，却也震得自己手臂酸麻。这时，他获得了短暂的喘息机会，便勒住缰绳，寻找河岸，猛然发现河流竟在右手，看来乱军中他不知不觉调转了方向。
　　一位灼人部民骑马从他身边跑过，软绵绵地趴在马脖子上，一枝长矛插进肚腹，从背后穿出。虽然人是没救了，但当提利昂看见一名北方士兵跑过去要拉住那匹马的缰绳时，他也冲锋过去。
　　对方持剑迎战，他生得高大精瘦，穿着一件长衫锁子甲以及龙虾铁手套，不过掉了头盔，鲜血从额头的伤口直流进眼里。提利昂瞄准他的脸，奋力砍去，却被那高个子挥剑格开。“侏儒！”他尖叫，“去死！”提利昂骑马绕着他转，他也跟着旋身，不断挥剑朝他的头颅和肩膀砍劈。刀斧相交，提利昂立时明白高个子不仅动作比他快，力气也比他大上许多。天杀的七层地狱，波隆跑哪儿去了？“去死！”那人咕哝着发动猛烈攻击。提利昂勉强及时举盾，挨下这一记猛击，盾牌仿佛要向内爆开，碎裂的木片从手边落下。“去死！”剑士咆哮着再度进逼，一剑当头劈下，打得提利昂头昏眼花。那人抽回长剑，在他头盔上拉出可怕的金属摩擦，高个子不由得嘿嘿一笑……谁料提利昂的战马突然张口，如蛇一般迅捷地咬掉他一边脸颊，伤口深可见骨。那人厉声尖叫，提利昂一斧劈进他的脑袋。“去死的是你！”他告诉他，对方果然死了。
　　他正要抽回战斧，却听有人大喊。“为艾德大人而战！”对方声音宏亮，“为临冬城的艾德大人而战！”这名骑士马蹄奔腾，朝他冲来，带刺的流星锤在他头顶挥舞。提利昂还来不及叫唤波隆，两匹战马便轰地撞在一起，流星锤的尖刺穿透右手肘关节处薄弱的金属防护，一阵剧痛顿时炸裂开来，斧头也立刻脱手。他伸手想拔剑，但流星锤呼啦啦转了个圈，又朝他迎面扑来。一声令人作呕的碰撞，他从马上摔了下去。他不记得自己撞到地面，然而待他抬头，上方只有天空。他连忙翻身，想要站起，却痛得浑身发抖，仿佛整个世界都在颤动。将他击落的骑士靠过来，高高在上。“小恶魔提利昂，”他声如洪钟地向下喊，“你是我的俘虏了。投不投降，兰尼斯特？”
　　我投降，提利昂心想，但话却卡在喉咙里。他发出沙哑的声音，挣扎着跪起来，胡乱地摸索武器：剑、匕首、什么都好……
　　“投不投降？”骑士高高地坐在披甲的战马上，人和马都活像庞然大物。带刺流星锤慵懒地转着圈。提利昂双手麻木，视觉模糊，剑鞘竟是空的。“不投降就得死。”骑士高声宣布，链锤越转越快。
　　提利昂踉跄着起身，不觉一头撞上马肚子。马儿发出凄厉的嘶喊，前脚跃起，想要挣开剧痛。鲜血和肉块如雨般喷洒在提利昂脸上，接着，马儿以山崩之势轰然倒地。等他回过神来，面罩里已塞满了泥巴，有东西正在撞击他的脚。他挣脱开来，喉咙紧绷得几乎无法言语。“……投降……”他好不容易挤出声来。
　　“是，我投降。”一个人呻吟道，声音充满痛苦。
　　提利昂拨开头盔的泥土，发现那匹马朝另一方向倒下，正好压在骑士身上。骑士的一只脚被马困住，用来缓冲撞击的手则扭曲成怪异的角度。“我投降。”他继续说，同时用另一只没被折断的手在腰际摸索，抽出佩剑丢在提利昂脚下。“大人，我投降。”
　　侏儒头晕目眩地弯身拾起那把剑，手稍微一动，阵阵剧痛便自肘部直冲脑际。战事似乎已经转移到别的地方，他所在的位置除了大批尸体，没有活人留下来。乌鸦在上空盘旋、落地啄食。他看到凯冯爵士派出中军支援前锋，大批长熗兵将北方人逼回丘陵，两军正在缓坡上作殊死搏斗，长熗方阵碰上了又一堵由椭圆铁钉盾构成的墙垒。他一边看，只见空中又洒下一阵箭雨，盾墙后的士兵在无情的炮火下纷纷倒地。“爵士先生，我想你们快输了。”他对被马压住的骑士说。对方没有答话。
　　背后忽然传来蹄声，他急忙旋身，但由于手肘的剧痛，他已无法举剑作战。幸好来的是波隆，他勒住缰绳，往下看着他。
　　“看来，你还真帮不了什么忙。”提利昂告诉他。
　　“我看你靠自己也就够了。”波隆回答，“你只把头盔上的刺弄丢了。”
　　提利昂伸手一摸，巨盔上的尖剌已然整个儿折断。“我没弄丢，我知道它在哪里。看到我的马了吗？”
　　等他们找到马，喇叭又再度响起，泰温公爵的预备队倾巢而出，沿着河岸朝敌军冲去。提利昂看着父亲急驰而过，身边围绕着五百名骑士，阳光在熗尖闪耀，兰尼斯特家族的红金旗帜在头顶飞扬。史塔克家的残余部队在冲击下彻底溃散，有如被铁锤敲打的玻璃。
　　提利昂盔甲下的手肘又肿又痛，他也就没参加最后的屠杀，转而和波隆前去寻找他的手下。许多人都是在死人堆里找到的。乌玛尔之子乌尔夫倒在一滩渐渐凝固的血泊里，右手肘以下全部不见，身旁还倒卧了十几个月人部的同胞。夏嘎颓然靠坐在一棵树下，全身插满了箭，康恩的头枕在他膝上。提利昂本以为他俩都死了，但当他下马时，夏嘎却睁开了眼睛：“他们杀了科拉特之子康恩。”英俊的康恩身上没有任何伤痕，只有长熗贯穿胸膛的一个红点。波隆扶夏嘎站起来，大个子仿佛这才注意到身上的箭，便一枝枝拔出来，一边抱怨弓箭把他的盔甲和皮革插出一堆窟窿。有几枝箭射进体内，拔得他像个婴儿似喊痛。当他们为夏嘎拔箭时，齐克之女齐拉骑马过来，向他们展示她割取的四只耳朵。提魅则率领灼人部众掠夺被他们杀掉的死人。跟随提利昂·兰尼斯特上战场的三百名原住民，大约只有半数幸存。
　　他让生者打理死者，派波隆去处置被他俘虏的骑士，然后独自去找父亲。泰温公爵坐在河边，正拿一个镶珠宝的杯子喝酒，并让他的侍从为他解开战甲的环扣。“一场漂亮的胜仗。”凯冯爵士看到提利昂，便对他说，“你的野人打得很好。”
　　父亲那双淡绿金瞳看着他，冷酷得令他打颤。“父亲，是不是教您很吃惊啊？”他问，“有没有破坏您的计划啊？我们本该被敌人屠杀的，是不是这样？”
　　泰温公爵一饮而尽，脸上毫无表情。“是的，我把无纪律的部队安排在左翼，预期他们会溃败。罗柏·史塔克是个毛头小鬼，想必勇气多于睿智，我原本希望他一见我左军崩溃，便全力突进，企图侧面包抄。等他进了圈套，凯冯爵士的长熗兵便会转身攻他侧翼，把他逼进河里，这时我再派出预备队。”
　　“您把我丢进这场大屠杀，却不肯把计划告诉我。”
　　“佯攻难以让人信服，”父亲回答，“何况我不能把计划透漏给与雇佣兵和野蛮人为伍的人。”
　　“真可惜我的野蛮人坏了您的大好兴致。”提利昂脱下钢护手，任它落地，因手肘的剧痛皱起眉头。
　　“以史塔克那小鬼的年纪来说，他的用兵超乎预期地谨慎，”泰温公爵承认，“但胜利就是胜利。你似乎受伤了。”
　　提利昂的右臂染满鲜血。“父亲，谢谢您的关心，”他咬牙道，“可否麻烦你派个学士来帮我看看？莫非您觉得有个独臂的侏儒儿子也不赖……”
　　父亲还不及回答，只听一声急切的喊叫：“泰温大人！”，他便转过头去。亚当·马尔布兰爵士翻身下马，泰温公爵起立迎接。那匹马则口吐白沫，嘴流鲜血。亚当爵士生得高瘦，一头暗铜色及肩长发，穿着发亮的镀铜钢铠，胸甲中央有一棵象征家徽的燃烧之树。他在父亲面前单膝跪下，“公爵阁下，我们俘虏了部分敌方头目，包括赛文伯爵、威里斯·曼德勒爵士、哈利昂·卡史塔克和四个佛雷家的人。霍伍德伯爵战死。至于卢斯·波顿，恐怕已经逃了。”
　　“那小鬼呢？”泰温公爵问。
　　亚当爵士迟疑片刻。“大人，史塔克那小鬼没和他们一道，他们说他已从孪河城渡河，带着骑兵主力，赶赴奔流城。”
　　好个毛头小鬼，提利昂想起父亲刚才的话，想必勇气多于睿智。若不是手痛得厉害，他一定会哈哈大笑。
　　※※※※※※
　　①波德是波德瑞克的小名
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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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Chapter 63

  
   CATELYN
   The woods were full of whispers.
   Moonlight winked on the tumbling waters of the stream below as it wound its rocky way along the floor of the valley. Beneath the trees, warhorses whickered softly and pawed at the moist, leafy ground, while men made nervous jests in hushed voices. Now and again, she heard the chink of spears, the faint metallic slither of chain mail, but even those sounds were muffled.
   “It should not be long now, my lady,” Hallis Mollen said. He had asked for the honor of protecting her in the battle to come; it was his right, as Winterfell’s captain of guards, and Robb had not refused it to him. She had thirty men around her, charged to keep her unharmed and see her safely home to Winterfell if the fighting went against them. Robb had wanted fifty; Catelyn had insisted that ten would be enough, that he would need every sword for the fight. They made their peace at thirty, neither happy with it.
   “It will come when it comes,” Catelyn told him. When it came, she knew it would mean death. Hal’s death perhaps?.?.?.?or hers, or Robb’s. No one was safe. No life was certain. Catelyn was content to wait, to listen to the whispers in the woods and the faint music of the brook, to feel the warm wind in her hair.
   She was no stranger to waiting, after all. Her men had always made her wait. “Watch for me, little cat,” her father would always tell her, when he rode off to court or fair or battle. And she would, standing patiently on the battlements of Riverrun as the waters of the Red Fork and the Tumblestone flowed by. He did not always come when he said he would, and days would ofttimes pass as Catelyn stood her vigil, peering out between crenels and through arrow loops until she caught a glimpse of Lord Hoster on his old brown gelding, trotting along the rivershore toward the landing. “Did you watch for me?” he’d ask when he bent to bug her. “Did you, little cat?”
   Brandon Stark had bid her wait as well. “I shall not be long, my lady,” he had vowed. “We will be wed on my return.” Yet when the day came at last, it was his brother Eddard who stood beside her in the sept.
   Ned had lingered scarcely a fortnight with his new bride before he too had ridden off to war with promises on his lips. At least he had left her with more than words; he had given her a son. Nine moons had waxed and waned, and Robb had been born in Riverrun while his father still warred in the south. She had brought him forth in blood and pain, not knowing whether Ned would ever see him. Her son. He had been so small?.?.?.?
   And now it was for Robb that she waited?.?.?.?for Robb, and for Jaime Lannister, the gilded knight who men said had never learned to wait at all. “The Kingslayer is restless, and quick to anger,” her uncle Brynden had told Robb. And he had wagered their lives and their best hope of victory on the truth of what he said.
   If Robb was frightened, he gave no sign of it. Catelyn watched her son as he moved among the men, touching one on the shoulder, sharing a jest with another, helping a third to gentle an anxious horse. His armor clinked softly when he moved. Only his head was bare. Catelyn watched a breeze stir his auburn hair, so like her own, and wondered when her son had grown so big. Fifteen, and near as tall as she was.
   Let him grow taller, she asked the gods. Let him know sixteen, and twenty, and fifty. Let him grow as tall as his father, and hold his own son in his arms. Please, please, please. As she watched him, this tall young man with the new beard and the direwolf prowling at his heels, all she could see was the babe they had laid at her breast at Riverrun, so long ago.
   The night was warm, but the thought of Riverrun was enough to make her shiver. Where are they? she wondered. Could her uncle have been wrong? So much rested on the truth of what he had told them. Robb had given the Blackfish three hundred picked men, and sent them ahead to screen his march. “Jaime does not know,” Ser Brynden said when he rode back. “I’ll stake my life on that. No bird has reached him, my archers have seen to that. We’ve seen a few of his outriders, but those that saw us did not live to tell of it. He ought to have sent out more. He does not know.”
   “How large is his host?” her son asked.
   “Twelve thousand foot, scattered around the castle in three separate camps, with the rivers between,” her uncle said, with the craggy smile she remembered so well. “There is no other way to besiege Riverrun, yet still, that will be their undoing. Two or three thousand horse.”
   “The Kingslayer has us three to one,” said Galbart Glover.
   ‘True enough,” Ser Brynden said, “yet there is one thing Ser Jaime lacks.”
   “Yes?” Robb asked.
   “Patience.”
   Their host was greater than it had been when they left the Twins. Lord Jason Mallister had brought his power out from Seagard to join them as they swept around the headwaters of the Blue Fork and galloped south, and others had crept forth as well, hedge knights and small lords and masterless men-at-arms who had fled north when her brother Edmure’s army was shattered beneath the walls of Riverrun. They had driven their horses as hard as they dared to reach this place before Jaime Lannister had word of their coming, and now the hour was at hand.
   Catelyn watched her son mount up. Olyvar Frey held his horse for him, Lord Walder’s son, two years older than Robb, and ten years younger and more anxious. He strapped Robb’s shield in place and handed up his helm. When he lowered it over the face she loved so well, a tall young knight sat on his grey stallion where her son had been. It was dark among the trees, where the moon did not reach. When Robb turned his head to look at her, she could see only black inside his visor. “I must ride down the line, Mother,” he told her. “Father says you should let the men see you before a battle.”
   ‘Go, then,” she said. “Let them see you.”
   ‘It will give them courage,” Robb said.
   And who will give me courage? she wondered, yet she kept her silence and made herself smile for him. Robb turned the big grey stallion and walked him slowly away from her, Grey Wind shadowing his steps. Behind him his battle guard formed up. When he’d forced Catelyn to accept her protectors, she had insisted that he be guarded as well, and the lords bannermen had agreed. Many of their sons had clamored for the honor of riding with the Young Wolf, as they had taken to calling him. Torrhen Karstark and his brother Eddard were among his thirty, and Patrek Mallister, Smalljon Umber, Daryn Hornwood, Theon Greyjoy, no less than five of Walder Frey’s vast brood, along with older men like Ser Wendel Manderly and Robin Flint. One of his companions was even a woman: Dacey Mormont, Lady Maege’s eldest daughter and heir to Bear Island, a lanky six-footer who had been given a morningstar at an age when most girls were given dolls. Some of the other lords muttered about that, but Catelyn would not listen to their complaints. “This is not about the honor of your houses,” she told them. “This is about keeping my son alive and whole.”
   And if it comes to that, she wondered, will thirty be enough? Will six thousand be enough?
   A bird called faintly in the distance, a high sharp trill that felt like an icy hand on Catelyn’s neck. Another bird answered; a third, a fourth. She knew their call well enough, from her years at Winterfell. Snow shrikes. Sometimes you saw them in the deep of winter, when the godswood was white and still. They were northern birds.
   They are coming, Catelyn thought.
   “They’re coming, my lady,” Hal Mollen whispered. He was always a man for stating the obvious. “Gods be with us.”
   She nodded as the woods grew still around them. In the quiet she could hear them, far off yet moving closer; the tread of many horses, the rattle of swords and spears and armor, the murmur of human voices, with here a laugh, and there a curse.
   Eons seemed to come and go. The sounds grew louder. She heard more laughter, a shouted command, splashing as they crossed and recrossed the little stream. A horse snorted. A man swore. And then at last she saw him?.?.?.?only for an instant, framed between the branches of the trees as she looked down at the valley floor, yet she knew it was him. Even at a distance, Ser Jaime Lannister was unmistakable. The moonlight had silvered his armor and the gold of his hair, and turned his crimson cloak to black. He was not wearing a helm.
   He was there and he was gone again, his silvery armor obscured by the trees once more. Others came behind him, long columns of them, knights and sworn swords and freeriders, three quarters of the Lannister horse.
   “He is no man for sitting in a tent while his carpenters build siege towers,” Ser Brynden had promised. “He has ridden out with his knights thrice already, to chase down raiders or storm a stubborn holdfast.”
   Nodding, Robb had studied the map her uncle had drawn him. Ned had taught him to read maps. “Raid him here,” he said, pointing. “A few hundred men, no more. Tully banners. When he comes after you, we will be waiting…”his finger moved an inch to the left “…here.”
   Here was a hush in the night, moonlight and shadows, a thick carpet of dead leaves underfoot, densely wooded ridges sloping gently down to the streambed, the underbrush thinning as the ground fell away.
   Here was her son on his stallion, glancing back at her one last time and lifting his sword in salute.
   Here was the call of Maege Mormont’s warhorn, a long low blast that rolled down the valley from the east, to tell them that the last of Jaime’s riders had entered the trap.
   And Grey Wind threw back his head and howled.
   The sound seemed to go right through Catelyn Stark, and she found herself shivering. It was a terrible sound, a frightening sound, yet there was music in it too. For a second she felt something like pity for the Lannisters below. So this is what death sounds like, she thought.
   HAAroooooooooooooooooooooooo came the answer from the far ridge as the Greatjon winded his own horn. To east and west, the trumpets of the Mallisters and Freys blew vengeance. North, where the valley narrowed and bent like a cocked elbow, Lord Karstark’s warhorns added their own deep, mournful voices to the dark chorus. Men were shouting and horses rearing in the stream below.
   The whispering wood let out its breath all at once, as the bowmen Robb had hidden in the branches of the trees let fly their arrows and the night erupted with the screams of men and horses. All around her, the riders raised their lances, and the dirt and leaves that had buried the cruel bright points fell away to reveal the gleam of sharpened steel. “Winterfell!” she heard Robb shout as the arrows sighed again. He moved away from her at a trot, leading his men downhill.
   Catelyn sat on her horse, unmoving, with Hal Mollen and her guard around her, and she waited as she had waited before, for Brandon and Ned and her father. She was high on the ridge, and the trees hid most of what was going on beneath her. A heartbeat, two, four, and suddenly it was as if she and her protectors were alone in the wood. The rest were melted away into the green.
   Yet when she looked across the valley to the far ridge, she saw the Greatjon’s riders emerge from the darkness beneath the trees. They were in a long line, an endless line, and as they burst from the wood there was an instant, the smallest part of a heartbeat, when all Catelyn saw was the moonlight on the points of their lances, as if a thousand willowisps were coming down the ridge, wreathed in silver flame.
   Then she blinked, and they were only men, rushing down to kill or die.
   Afterward, she could not claim she had seen the battle. Yet she could hear, and the valley rang with echoes. The crack of a broken lance, the clash of swords, the cries of “Lannister” and “Winterfell” and “Tully! Riverrun and Tully!” When she realized there was no more to see, she closed her eyes and listened. The battle came alive around her. She heard hoofbeats, iron boots splashing in shallow water, the woody sound of swords on oaken shields and the scrape of steel against steel, the hiss of arrows, the thunder of drums, the terrified screaming of a thousand horses. Men shouted curses and begged for mercy, and got it (or not), and lived (or died). The ridges seemed to play queer tricks with sound. Once she heard Robb’s voice, as clear as if he’d been standing at her side, calling, “To me! To me!” And she heard his direwolf, snarling and growling, heard the snap of those long teeth, the tearing of flesh, shrieks of fear and pain from man and horse alike. Was there only one wolf? It was hard to be certain.
   Little by little, the sounds dwindled and died, until at last there was only the wolf. As a red dawn broke in the east, Grey Wind began to howl again.
   Robb came back to her on a different horse, riding a piebald gelding in the place of the grey stallion he had taken down into the valley. The wolf’s head on his shield was slashed half to pieces, raw wood showing where deep gouges had been hacked in the oak, but Robb himself seemed unhurt. Yet when he came closer, Catelyn saw that his mailed glove and the sleeve of his surcoat were black with blood. “You’re hurt,” she said.
   Robb lifted his hand, opened and closed his fingers. “No,” he said. “This is?.?.?.?Torrhen’s blood, perhaps, or?.?.?.?” He shook his head. “I do not know.”
   A mob of men followed him up the slope, dirty and dented and grinning, with Theon and the Greatjon at their head. Between them they dragged Ser Jaime Lannister. They threw him down in front of her horse. “The Kingslayer,” Hal announced, unnecessarily.
   Lannister raised his head. “Lady Stark,” he said from his knees. Blood ran down one cheek from a gash across his scalp, but the pale light of dawn had put the glint of gold back in his hair. “I would offer you my sword, but I seem to have mislaid it.”
   “It is not your sword I want, ser,” she told him. “Give me my father and my brother Edmure. Give me my daughters. Give me my lord husband.”
   “I have mislaid them as well, I fear.”
   “A pity,” Catelyn said coldly.
   “Kill him, Robb,” Theon Greyjoy urged. “Take his head off.”
   “No,” her son answered, peeling off his bloody glove. “He’s more use alive than dead. And my lord father never condoned the murder of prisoners after a battle.”
   “A wise man,” Jaime Lannister said, “and honorable.”
   “Take him away and put him in irons,” Catelyn said.
   “Do as my lady mother says,” Robb commanded, “and make certain there’s a strong guard around him. Lord Karstark will want his head on a pike.”
   “That he will,” the Greatjon agreed, gesturing. Lannister was led away to be bandaged and chained.
   “Why should Lord Karstark want him dead?” Catelyn asked.
   Robb looked away into the woods, with the same brooding look that Ned often got. “He?.?.?.?he killed them?.?.?.?”
   “Lord Karstark’s sons,” Galbart Glover explained.
   “Both of them,” said Robb. “Torrhen and Eddard. And Daryn Hornwood as well.”
   “No one can fault Lannister on his courage,” Glover said. “When he saw that he was lost, he rallied his retainers and fought his way up the valley, hoping to reach Lord Robb and cut him down. And almost did.”
   “He mislaid his sword in Eddard Karstark’s neck, after he took Torrhen’s hand off and split Daryn Hornwood’s skull open,” Robb said. “All the time he was shouting for me. If they hadn’t tried to stop him...”
   “...I should then be mourning in place of Lord Karstark,” Catelyn said. “Your men did what they were sworn to do, Robb. They died protecting their liege lord. Grieve for them. Honor them for their valor. But not now. You have no time for grief. You may have lopped the head off the snake, but three quarters of the body is still coiled around my father’s castle. We have won a battle, not a war.”
   “But such a battle!” said Theon Greyjoy eagerly. “My lady, the realm has not seen such a victory since the Field of Fire. I vow, the Lannisters lost ten men for every one of ours that fell. We’ve taken close to a hundred knights captive, and a dozen lords bannermen. Lord Westerling, Lord Banefort, Ser Garth Greenfield, Lord Estren, Ser Tytos Brax, Mallor the Dornishman?.?.?.?and three Lannisters besides Jaime, Lord Tywin’s own nephews, two of his sister’s sons and one of his dead brother’s?.?.?.?”
   “And Lord Tywin?” Catelyn interrupted. “Have you perchance taken Lord Tywin, Theon?”
   “No,” Greyjoy answered, brought up short.
   “Until you do, this war is far from done.”
   Robb raised his head and pushed his hair back out of his eyes. “My mother is right. We still have Riverrun.”



Ⅰ 权力的游戏 Chapter64 凯特琳
　　林间轻响，絮绕耳际。
　　谷底溪水奔流，蜿蜒穿过石板河床，月光在水面粼粼波动。树下，战马轻声嘶鸣，伸蹄扒开覆满落叶的湿软地面。人们压低声音，紧张地开着玩笑。她不时听见长熗的碰撞和锁子甲滑动所发出的微弱声响，但即便这些声音，也显得朦胧模糊。
　　“夫人，等不了多久了。”哈里斯·莫兰道。他要求在这场战事中有幸担负起保护她的责任，身为临冬城侍卫队长，这本是他的权利，罗柏也没拒绝。她身边还围绕着三十个卫士，他们的任务只是保护她免遭任何伤害，倘若战事不利，则务必将她安然护送回临冬城。罗柏原本要派出五十人，凯特琳坚持这场仗他需要所有的人手，因此十个就够了，最后他们达成妥协，改派三十名卫士，但双方都怏怏不乐。
　　“该来的时刻自然会来。”凯特琳告诉他。当战事到来的时刻，她知道那将意味着死亡，或许是哈尔的死……也或许是她的，甚至是罗柏。在战争中无人安全，任何人的性命都有危险，所以凯特琳宁愿等待，静听林间轻响、溪涧乐音，感受暖风拂过发丝。
　　再怎么说，等待对她来说毫不陌生，她生命中的男人总是让她等待。“小凯特，等我回来哟。”每次父亲上朝、上集或远赴沙场，总是这么对她说。她也乖乖听话，耐心地站在奔流城的城垛上，看着红叉河和腾石河水奔涌流过。他每每不能准时归来，于是凯特琳也在城墙上终日守望，透过雉堞和箭孔向外眺望，直到终于瞥见霍斯特公爵骑着那头棕色老马，沿着河岸，快步朝渡口奔来。“你有没有等我啊？”当他弯身搂抱她时，一定会这么问，“有没有啊，小凯特？”
　　布兰登·史塔克也教她等了好久。“夫人，此行不会太长。”他曾郑重发誓，“等我回来，咱们便可成婚。”然而当成婚那天终于来临，与她并肩站在圣堂的却是他的弟弟艾德。
　　奈德与新娘相守不足两周，便又快马赶赴战场，只留下一个又一个承诺。好歹他留下的不只是空洞的话语，他还给了她一个儿子。月盈月缺，转眼九个月过去，罗柏诞生于奔流城，他的父亲却还在南方作战。她历经莫大痛苦，把浑身是血的罗柏带来人世，却不知奈德今生有无机会见到他。她的儿子啊，当时的他好小好小……
　　如今，她等待的对象变成了罗柏……以及詹姆·兰尼斯特，那个金光闪闪，传说从不知等待为何物的骑士。“弑君者暴躁易怒。”布林登叔叔对罗柏这么说，他则以所有人的性命和惟一的希望为赌注，押在这句话上面。
　　罗柏即便心里害怕，也一点没表现出来。凯特琳看着他在队伍里走动，拍拍这人肩膀，和那人同声说笑，又协助另一人安抚焦躁不安的马匹。他的盔甲随着移动轻声作响，全身上下只有头部暴露在外。微风吹动他的枣红头发，那头和自己一模一样的红发，她不禁讶异儿子何时长得这么高大。才十五岁呢，已经快跟她一般高了。
　　请让他长得更高，她祈求天上诸神，让他活过十六岁、二十岁、五十岁，让他变得和他父亲一样高大，让他有机会把儿子抱在怀中，求求你们，求求你们，求求你们。她看着面前这个留了新胡子，脚边跟了一条冰原狼的高大青年，眼中所见却是那个他们放在她怀中的小婴儿。那是好久好久以前，发生在奔流城的事了。
　　夜空虽暖，想到奔流城却令她打起冷颤。他们究竟在哪里？她纳闷。莫非叔叔出错了？一切的一切，都维系在他的承诺上。罗柏拨给黑鱼三百精兵，派他趋前掩护主力部队的行踪。“詹姆不知情，”布林登爵士回来报告，“我敢拿性命担保。我的弓箭手没让任何一只乌飞回他那里。我们遇到了几个他的斥候，那些人也都无法回去通报了。他应该派出更多人才对。总而言之，他不清楚我们的行踪。”
　　“他的部队规模如何？”儿子问。
　　“总共一万两千步兵，分居三处营地，散于城堡周围，彼此间有河水相隔。”叔叔边说边露出一抹粗犷的微笑，令她觉得好熟悉。“包围奔流城，这是惟一的方法，但这也将是他们的致命伤。对方的骑兵约莫两三千。”
　　“弑君者的兵力将近我们三倍。”盖伯特·葛洛佛道。
　　“不错，”布林登爵士，“但詹姆爵士缺乏一样东西。”
　　“缺什么？”罗柏问。
　　“耐心。”
　　比之刚离开孪河城时，他们目前的兵力又增加了不少。绕过蓝叉河源头，调头往南急驰时，杰森·梅利斯特伯爵从海疆城带兵前来助阵，其他生力军也陆续加入，包括雇佣骑士、小诸侯和没了主子的散兵，他们是在她弟弟艾德慕的军队于奔流城下被击溃后，逃往北方的。人们极尽所能，催马前进，赶在詹姆·兰尼斯特接获消息以前来到此地。眼下，决战时刻已经来临。
　　凯特琳看着儿子上马，瓦德侯爵的儿子奥利法·佛雷则为他拉住缰绳。奥利法较罗柏年长两岁，却幼稚得活像小他十岁，处处显得焦躁不安。他替罗柏绑好盾牌，递上头盔。儿子放下面罩，盖住那张她所深爱的脸庞，摇身一变，成为高大英挺的年轻骑士，端坐于灰色骏马之上。树林极暗，月光无法照及，所以当罗柏转头看她，面罩之下，她只见一片漆黑。“母亲，我得上前线去。”他告诉她，“父亲教导我，开战之前，要让部下看到首领与他们同在。”
　　“去罢，”她说，“让他们好好看看你。”
　　“我会给他们勇气。”罗柏道。
　　谁来给我勇气呢？她扪心自问。然而她保持缄默，逼着自己对他微笑。罗柏调转大灰马，缓缓离她远去，灰风如影随形地伴着他，他的贴身护卫们随即跟上。当他强迫凯特琳接受保护时，她坚持他也得照此办理，对此北境诸侯亦表赞同。众多封臣的子嗣都极力争取与少狼主——这是他们帮他新取的称号——并肩作战的荣耀。最后确定的三十人中包括托伦·卡史塔克与艾德·卡史塔克两兄弟，派崔克·梅利斯特，小琼恩·安柏，戴林恩·霍伍德，席恩·葛雷乔伊，瓦德·佛雷众多子孙中的五个，还有较年长的如文德尔·曼德勒爵士和罗宾·菲林特等等。其中甚至有一位女性，黛西·莫尔蒙，梅姬伯爵夫人的长女和熊岛继承人，身形瘦长，高达六呎，别的女孩还在玩洋娃娃的年纪，她便使起了流星锤。对这最后一项指派，诸侯们颇有微词，但凯特琳不理会他们的抱怨。“此事与家族名誉无关，”她告诉他们，“只为了确保我儿毫发无伤。”
　　到了生死关头，她心想，这三十人够吗？这里的六千人够吗？
　　远处传来一声微弱的鸟鸣，那是一种高亢而尖锐的颤音，有如一只冰冷的手，划过凯特琳颈背。又一只鸟颤鸣应和，接着是第三只、第四只。这是雪伯劳的呼唤，在临冬城的这么多年，她早已非常熟悉。凛冬深雪之时，当神木林白茫茫一片，寂静无声，便能看到它们的踪迹。它们是北方的鸟。
　　他们来了，凯特琳心想。
　　“夫人，他们来了。”哈尔·莫兰悄声道。他总爱重复人尽皆知的事实。“愿诸神与我们同在。”
　　她点点头。周围的树林安静下来，四下寂然之中，她可以听见他们的声音，距离虽远，却在迅速逼近：万马奔腾之声，熗剑铠甲交击，战士喃喃自语，笑骂声此起彼落。
　　亿万年的光阴仿佛来了又去，声音越变越大，她听见更多笑闹，有人发号施令，渡溪时水花飞扬。一匹马在哼气。某个男人在咒骂。最后她看到他了……虽然只是一刹那，虽然只是透过林间细缝望向谷底，但她深知必是他无疑。即便是在这么远的距离，詹姆·兰尼斯特爵士的身影依旧清晰可辨，他的金发金铠被月光染为银白，鲜红披风成了黑色。他没戴头盔。
　　他甫一出现，便又消失，银色铠甲再度被树丛遮蔽。长长的队伍跟在他身后，包括骑士、誓言骑士和自由骑手，大概占兰尼斯特军骑兵总数的四分之三。
　　“他绝不会乖乖待在营帐里，坐等木匠搭建攻城塔。”布林登爵士曾经保证。“迄今为止，他已三度率骑兵出击，追赶零散的我军或强攻顽抗的庄园。”
　　于是罗柏点着头，仔细研读他舅舅绘制的地图。奈德教导他要熟悉地图。“你在这里袭击他，”他指着地图说，“带个两三百人就好，不要多，打着徒利家的旗帜。当他追过来时，我们会在——”他的手指向左移动一寸。“——这里埋伏。”
　　“这里”，夜幕中的一片寂静，月光倾洒，暗影幢幢，地面铺满厚厚落叶，山脊密林遍布，丘陵缓缓下降，直至河床。地势越低，矮树丛便越见稀疏。
　　“这里”，他儿子骑在战马上，回望她最后一眼，举剑行礼。
　　“这里”，梅姬·莫尔蒙奏出长而低沉的号角，自东侧轰然直下，炸进河谷，通知人们詹姆的部队已然全数进了圈套。
　　灰风向后一甩头，仰天长嚎。
　　狼嗥之声仿佛直直地穿透了凯特琳·史塔克，她发现自己浑身颤抖。这是一种恐怖之声，骇人之声，然而其中如有音律。一时之间，她竟为下方河谷里的兰尼斯特军感到一丝怜悯。这就是死亡之声，她心想。
　　啊啊呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜……对面山脊传来大琼恩的号声，东西两边，梅利斯特家和佛雷家也吹起了复仇的喇叭。河谷的北口极窄，有如弯曲的手肘转了方向，卡史塔克伯爵的战号从那里传来，低沉浑厚，充满哀悼之音，加入了这场黑暗的大合唱。下方溪谷里，敌军高声叫喊，马儿前脚踢扬。
　　奉罗柏之命藏身枝干间的弓箭手们齐齐洒下箭雨，呓语森林用力吐出按捺多时的气息，整个夜晚顿时充斥人马哀嚎。她放眼四望，武士们纷纷举起长熗，褪去用来遮掩反光的泥土和树叶，露出锐利无比的残酷尖刃。“临冬城万岁！”当箭雨再度落下，她听见罗柏高喊。他从她身边急驰向前，当先率领部下朝河谷俯冲。
　　凯特琳静坐马上，一动不动。哈尔·莫兰和贴身护卫们环绕四周，而她只是静静等待，一如当年等待布兰登，等待奈德，等待父亲。她置身高高的山脊上，树林几乎完全遮蔽了下方的战事。她的心狂乱地跳动，一下、两下、四下，突然间，森林里似乎只剩下她和她的护卫，余人皆已融进无边的绿色中。
　　然而，当她抬眼，望向河谷对面的山脊，却见到大琼恩的骑兵自密林黑影后现身，排成无止无尽的长长横队，开始冲锋。当他们自树林中激迸而出时，在那么细微的心跳瞬间，凯特琳看到月光洒落熗尖，仿如千只包裹银焰的萤火虫，朝山下扑去。
　　她眨眨眼。他们不过是人，朝山谷俯冲的战士，要么杀人，要么被杀。
　　事后她虽不能宣称亲睹战事，却至少可说听闻全程。河谷里回音激荡，有断折长熗的劈啪，刀剑交击的响动，以及“兰尼斯特万岁！”“临冬城万岁！”和“徒利家万岁！为奔流城与徒利家而战！”的呐喊。当她明白睁眼无益，便闭上双眼，凝神谛听。她听见马蹄奔波，铁靴溅起浅水，剑劈橡木盾的钝音，钢铁碰撞的摩擦，弓箭呼啸，战鼓雷鸣，一千匹马同时发出惊叫。人们或高声咒骂，或乞求饶命，或得免一死，或劫数难逃，有人得以生还，有人则命丧于此。山谷似乎会扰乱听觉，有一次，她仿佛听见了罗柏的声音，清楚得好似他就站在身边，高喊：“跟我来！跟我来！”接着她听到了那只冰原狼的嘶吼咆哮，利齿撕扯肉块，人马发出充满恐惧的痛苦哀嚎。真的只有一只狼？她难以分辨。
　　声音渐渐变弱，终至平息，最后只剩狼嚎。几缕红曙露出东方，灰风仰天长啸。
　　罗柏归来时，骑的已不是原本那匹灰马，而是一匹花斑马。他盾牌上的狼头几乎被砍成碎片，木板上刻画出深深的痕迹，但本人似乎安然无恙。然而当他走近，凯特琳却发现他的锁甲手套和外衣袖子上全是黑血。“你受伤了。”她说。
　　罗柏举起手，伸了伸五指。“我没事，”他说，“这……或许是托伦的血，或是……”他摇摇头。“我不知道。”
　　一大群人跟着他上了斜坡，个个浑身脏污，盔甲凹陷，却嘻笑不停。席恩和大琼恩当先，两人一左一右跩着詹姆·兰尼斯特爵士。他们把他推到她的坐骑前。“弑君者。”哈尔又多此一举地宣示。
　　兰尼斯特抬起头。“史塔克夫人，”他跪着说，他头上有个伤口，鲜血自头顶流下一边脸颊，苍白的晨光将他头发的金黄还给了他。“很乐意为您效劳，可惜我忘了我的剑放哪儿去了。”
　　“爵士阁下，我不需要你的效劳。”她告诉他，“我要的是我父亲和我弟弟艾德慕，我要我的两个女儿，以及我的丈夫。”
　　“恐怕我也不知他们到哪儿去了。”
　　“实在可惜。”凯特琳冷冷地说。
　　“杀了他，罗柏。”席恩·葛雷乔伊劝道，“砍他的头。”
　　“不，”儿子回答，一边把染血的手套脱下。“他活着比较有用。况且父亲大人绝不会在战后杀害俘虏。”
　　“他是个聪明人，”詹姆·兰尼斯特道，“光明磊落。”
　　“把他带走，戴上镣铐，”凯特琳说。
　　“照我母亲大人说的做，”罗柏下令，“此外，务必多派人严加看守。卡史塔克大人恨不得把他的头插在熗上。”
　　“我想也是。”大琼恩同意，他比比手势，兰尼斯特便被领开去，包扎伤口，并戴上枷锁。
　　“卡史塔克大人为何想杀他？”凯特琳问。
　　罗柏转头望向树林，眼中流露出奈德常有的忧郁神色。“他……杀了他们……”
　　“卡史塔克大人的儿子。”盖伯特·葛洛佛解释。
　　“两人都死在他手里，”罗柏说，“托伦和艾德，以及戴林恩·霍伍德。”
　　“谁也不能否认兰尼斯特那厮的勇气，”葛洛佛道，“他眼看大势已去，便号召手下，一路往河谷杀上来，企图冲到罗柏大人身边将他砍倒，他差点就得逞了。”
　　“他忘了他的剑放哪儿……他的剑先砍断托伦的手，劈开戴林恩的脑袋，然后忘在了艾德·卡史塔克的颈子上。”罗柏说，“从头到尾，他一直叫喊着我的名字，若非大家死命阻止他——”
　　“——如今哀悼者就是我，而非卡史塔克大人了。”凯特琳道，“罗柏，你的部下完成了他们宣誓信守的职责，为保护他们的封君而英勇战死。你可以为他们哀悼，表彰他们的忠勇，但不是现在，你没有悲伤的时间。你砍断了蛇头，然而四分之三的蛇身还缠绕着你外公的城堡。我们打赢了一场仗，但不是整个战争。”
　　“但这是多么辉煌的一场仗啊！”席恩·葛雷乔伊兴奋地说，“夫人，自古代‘怒火燎原’一役以来，王国便再没有如此精彩的战役。我敢发誓，兰尼斯特那边每死十个，我们才死一个。我们俘虏了近百名骑士，十来个诸侯，包括维斯特林伯爵、班佛特伯爵、盖尔斯·格林菲尔爵士、伊斯兰伯爵、泰陀斯·布拉克斯爵士、多恩人马洛尔……除詹姆外，我们还抓到三个兰尼斯特家的人，都是泰温大人的侄子，其中两个是他妹妹的，一个是他死去的老弟的……”
　　“那泰温大人呢？”凯特琳打断他。“席恩，请问你有没有刚巧把泰温大人也抓到？”
　　“没有。”葛雷乔伊回答，他突然愣住了。
　　“只要还没抓到他，战争就没有结束。”
　　罗柏抬起头，用手将红发从眼前拨开。“母亲说得对，奔流城之战还等着我们。”
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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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Chapter 64

  
   DAENERYS
   The flies circled Khal Drogo slowly, their wings buzzing, a low thrum at the edge of hearing that filled Dany with dread.
   The sun was high and pitiless. Heat shimmered in waves off the stony outcrops of low hills. A thin finger of sweat trickled slowly between Dany’s swollen breasts. The only sounds were the steady clop of their horses’ hooves, the rhythmic tingle of the bells in Drogo’s hair, and the distant voices behind them.
   Dany watched the flies.
   They were as large as bees, gross, purplish, glistening. The Dothraki called them bloodflies. They lived in marshes and stagnant pools, sucked blood from man and horse alike, and laid their eggs in the dead and dying. Drogo hated them. Whenever one came near him, his hand would shoot out quick as a striking snake to close around it. She had never seen him miss. He would hold the fly inside his huge fist long enough to hear its frantic buzzing. Then his fingers would tighten, and when he opened his hand again, the fly would be only a red smear on his palm.
   Now one crept across the rump of his stallion, and the horse gave an angry flick of its tail to brush it away. The others flitted about Drogo, closer and closer. The khal did not react. His eyes were fixed on distant brown hills, the reins loose in his hands. Beneath his painted vest, a plaster of fig leaves and caked blue mud covered the wound on his breast. The herbwomen had made it for him. Mirri Maz Duur’s poultice had itched and burned, and he had torn it off six days ago, cursing her for a maegi. The mud plaster was more soothing, and the herbwomen made him poppy wine as well. He’d been drinking it heavily these past three days; when it was not poppy wine, it was fermented mare’s milk or pepper beer.
   Yet he scarcely touched his food, and he thrashed and groaned in the night. Dany could see how drawn his face had become. Rhaego was restless in her belly, kicking like a stallion, yet even that did not stir Drogo’s interest as it had. Every morning her eyes found fresh lines of pain on his face when he woke from his troubled sleep. And now this silence. It was making her afraid. Since they had mounted up at dawn, he had said not a word. When she spoke, she got no answer but a grunt, and not even that much since midday.
   One of the bloodflies landed on the bare skin of the khal’s shoulder. Another, circling, touched down on his neck and crept up toward his mouth. Khal Drogo swayed in the saddle, bells ringing, as his stallion kept onward at a steady walking pace.
   Dany pressed her heels into her silver and rode closer. “My lord,” she said softly. “Drogo. My sun-and-stars.”
   He did not seem to hear. The bloodfly crawled up under his drooping mustache and settled on his cheek, in the crease beside his nose. Dany gasped, “Drogo.” Clumsily she reached over and touched his arm.
   Khal Drogo reeled in the saddle, tilted slowly, and fell heavily from his horse. The flies scattered for a heartbeat, and then circled back to settle on him where he lay.
   “No,” Dany said, reining up. Heedless of her belly for once, she scrambled off her silver and ran to him.
   The grass beneath him was brown and dry. Drogo cried out in pain as Dany knelt beside him. His breath rattled harshly in his throat, and he looked at her without recognition. “My horse,” he gasped. Dany brushed the flies off his chest, smashing one as he would have. His skin burned beneath her fingers.
   The khal’s bloodriders had been following just behind them. She heard Haggo shout as they galloped up. Cohollo vaulted from his horse. “Blood of my blood,” he said as he dropped to his knees. The other two kept to their mounts.
   “No,” Khal Drogo groaned, struggling in Dany’s arms. “Must ride. Ride. No.”
   “He fell from his horse,” Haggo said, staring down. His broad face was impassive, but his voice was leaden.
   “You must not say that,” Dany told him. “We have ridden far enough today. We will camp here.”
   “Here?” Haggo looked around them. The land was brown and sere, inhospitable. “This is no camping ground.”
   “It is not for a woman to bid us halt,” said Qotho, “not even a khaleesi.”
   “We camp here,” Dany repeated. “Haggo, tell them Khal Drogo commanded the halt. If any ask why, say to them that my time is near and I could not continue. Cohollo, bring up the slaves, they must put up the khal’s tent at once. Qotho...”
   “You do not command me, Khaleesi,” Qotho said.
   “Find Mirri Maz Duur,” she told him. The godswife would be walking among the other Lamb Men, in the long column of slaves. “Bring her to me, with her chest.”
   Qotho glared down at her, his eyes hard as flint. “The maegi.” He spat. “This I will not do.”
   “You will,” Dany said, “or when Drogo wakes, he will hear why you defied me.”
   Furious, Qotho wheeled his stallion around and galloped off in anger?.?.?.?but Dany knew he would return with Mirri Maz Duur, however little he might like it. The slaves erected Khal Drogo’s tent beneath a jagged outcrop of black rock whose shadow gave some relief from the heat of the afternoon sun. Even so, it was stifling under the sandsilk as Irri and Doreah helped Dany walk Drogo inside. Thick patterned carpets had been laid down over the ground, and pillows scattered in the corners. Eroeh, the timid girl Dany had rescued outside the mud walls of the Lamb Men, set up a brazier. They stretched Drogo out on a woven mat. “No,” he muttered in the Common Tongue. “No, no.” It was all he said, all he seemed capable of saying.
   Doreah unhooked his medallion belt and stripped off his vest and leggings, while Jhiqui knelt by his feet to undo the laces of his riding sandals. Irri wanted to leave the tent flaps open to let in the breeze, but Dany forbade it. She would not have any see Drogo this way, in delirium and weakness. When her khas came up, she posted them outside at guard. “Admit no one without my leave,” she told Jhogo. “No one.”
   Eroeh stared fearfully at Drogo where he lay. “He dies,” she whispered.
   Dany slapped her. “The khal cannot die. He is the father of the stallion who mounts the world. His hair has never been cut. He still wears the bells his father gave him.”
   “Khaleesi, “ Jhiqui said, “he fell from his horse.”
   Trembling, her eyes full of sudden tears, Dany turned away from them. He fell from his horse! It was so, she had seen it, and the bloodriders, and no doubt her handmaids and the men of her khas as well. And how many more? They could not keep it secret, and Dany knew what that meant. A khal who could not ride could not rule, and Drogo had fallen from his horse.
   “We must bathe him,” she said stubbornly. She must not allow herself to despair. “Irri, have the tub brought at once. Doreah, Eroeh, find water, cool water, he’s so hot.” He was a fire in human skin.
   The slaves set up the heavy copper tub in the corner of the tent. When Doreah brought the first jar of water, Dany wet a length of silk to lay across Drogo’s brow, over the burning skin. His eyes looked at her, but he did not see. When his lips opened, no words escaped them, only a moan. “Where is Mirri Maz Duur?” she demanded, her patience rubbed raw with fear.
   “Qotho will find her,” Irri said.
   Her handmaids filled the tub with tepid water that stank of sulfur, sweetening it with jars of bitter oil and handfuls of crushed mint leaves. While the bath was being prepared, Dany knelt awkwardly beside her lord husband, her belly great with their child within. She undid his braid with anxious fingers, as she had on the night he’d taken her for the first time, beneath the stars. His bells she laid aside carefully, one by one. He would want them again when he was well, she told herself.
   A breath of air entered the tent as Aggo poked his head through the silk. “Khaleesi, “ he said, “the Andal is come, and begs leave to enter.”
   “The Andal” was what the Dothraki called Ser Jorah. “Yes,” she said, rising clumsily, “send him in.” She trusted the knight. He would know what to do if anyone did.
   Ser Jorah Mormont ducked through the door flap and waited a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimness. In the fierce heat of the south, he wore loose trousers of mottled sandsilk and open-toed riding sandals that laced up to his knee. His scabbard hung from a twisted horsehair belt. Under a bleached white vest, he was bare-chested, skin reddened by the sun. “Talk goes from mouth to ear, all over the khalasar,” he said. “It is said Khal Drogo fell from his horse.”
   “Help him,” Dany pleaded. “For the love you say you bear me, help him now.”
   The knight knelt beside her. He looked at Drogo long and hard, and then at Dany. “Send your maids away.”
   Wordlessly, her throat tight with fear, Dany made a gesture. Irri herded the other girls from the tent.
   When they were alone, Ser Jorah drew his dagger. Deftly, with a delicacy surprising in such a big man, he began to scrape away the black leaves and dried blue mud from Drogo’s chest. The plaster had caked hard as the mud walls of the Lamb Men, and like those walls it cracked easily. Ser Jorah broke the dry mud with his knife, pried the chunks from the flesh, peeled off the leaves one by one. A foul, sweet smell rose from the wound, so thick it almost choked her. The leaves were crusted with blood and pus, Drogo’s breast black and glistening with corruption.
   “No,” Dany whispered as tears ran down her cheeks. “No, please, gods hear me, no.”
   Khal Drogo thrashed, fighting some unseen enemy. Black blood ran slow and thick from his open wound.
   “Your khal is good as dead, Princess.”
   “No, he can’t die, he mustn’t, it was only a cut.” Dany took his large callused hand in her own small ones, and held it tight between them. “I will not let him die ?.?.?.?”
   Ser Jorah gave a bitter laugh. “Khaleesi or queen, that command is beyond your power. Save your tears, child. Weep for him tomorrow, or a year from now. We do not have time for grief. We must go, and quickly, before he dies.”
   Dany was lost. “Go? Where should we go?”
   “Asshai, I would say. It lies far to the south, at the end of the known world, yet men say it is a great port. We will find a ship to take us back to Pentos. It will be a hard journey, make no mistake. Do you trust your khas? Will they come with us?”
   “Khal Drogo commanded them to keep me safe,” Dany replied uncertainly, “but if he dies?.?.?.?” She touched the swell of her belly. “I don’t understand. Why should we flee? I am khaleesi. I carry Drogo’s heir. He will be khal after Drogo?.?.?.?”
   Ser Jorah frowned. “Princess, hear me. The Dothraki will not follow a suckling babe. Drogo’s strength was what they bowed to, and only that. When he is gone, Jhaqo and Pono and the other kos will fight for his place, and this khalasar will devour itself. The winner will want no more rivals. The boy will be taken from your breast the moment he is born. They will give him to the dogs?.?.?.?”
   Dany hugged herself. “But why?” she cried plaintively. “Why should they kill a little baby?”
   “He is Drogo’s son, and the crones say he will be the stallion who mounts the world. It was prophesied. Better to kill the child than to risk his fury when he grows to manhood.”
   The child kicked inside her, as if he had heard. Dany remembered the story Viserys had told her, of what the Usurper’s dogs had done to Rhaegar’s children. His son had been a babe as well, yet they had ripped him from his mother’s breast and dashed his head against a wall. That was the way of men. “They must not hurt my son!” she cried. “I will order my khas to keep him safe, and Drogo’s bloodriders will...”
   Ser Jorah held her by the shoulders. “A bloodrider dies with his khal. You know that, child. They will take you to Vaes Dothrak, to the crones, that is the last duty they owe him in life ?.?.?.?when it is done, they will join Drogo in the night lands.”
   Dany did not want to go back to Vaes Dothrak and live the rest of her life among those terrible old women, yet she knew that the knight spoke the truth. Drogo had been more than her sun-and-stars; he had been the shield that kept her safe. “I will not leave him,” she said stubbornly, miserably. She took his hand again. “I will not.”
   A stirring at the tent flap made Dany turn her head. Mirri Maz Duur entered, bowing low. Days on the march, trailing behind the khalasar, had left her limping and haggard, with blistered and bleeding feet and hollows under her eyes. Behind her came Qotho and Haggo, carrying the godswife’s chest between them. When the bloodriders caught sight of Drogo’s wound, the chest slipped from Haggo’s fingers and crashed to the floor of the tent, and Qotho swore an oath so foul it seared the air.
   Mirri Maz Duur studied Drogo, her face still and dead. “The wound has festered.”
   “This is your work, maegi,” Qotho said. Haggo laid his fist across Mirri’s cheek with a meaty smack that drove her to the ground. Then he kicked her where she lay.
   “Stop it!” Dany screamed.
   Qotho pulled Haggo away, saying, “Kicks are too merciful for a maegi. Take her outside. We will stake her to the earth, to be the mount of every passing man. And when they are done with her, the dogs will use her as well. Weasels will tear out her entrails and carrion crows feast upon her eyes. The flies off the river shall lay their eggs in her womb and drink pus from the ruins of her breasts?.?.?.?” He dug iron-hard fingers into the soft, wobbly flesh under the godswife’s arm and hauled her to her feet.
   “No,” Dany said. “I will not have her harmed.”
   Qotho’s lips skinned back from his crooked brown teeth in a terrible mockery of a smile. “No? You say me no? Better you should pray that we do not stake you out beside your maegi. You did this, as much as the other.”
   Ser Jorah stepped between them, loosening his longsword in its scabbard. “Rein in your tongue, bloodrider. The princess is still your khaleesi. “
   “Only while the blood-of-my-blood still lives,” Qotho told the knight. “When he dies, she is nothing.”
   Dany felt a tightness inside her. “Before I was khaleesi, I was the blood of the dragon. Ser Jorah, summon my khas.”
   “No,” said Qotho. “We will go. For now?.?.?.?Khaleesi. “ Haggo followed him from the tent, scowling.
   “That one means you no good, Princess,” Mormont said. “The Dothraki say a man and his bloodriders share one life, and Qotho sees it ending. A dead man is beyond fear.”
   “No one has died,” Dany said. “Ser Jorah, I may have need of your blade. Best go don your armor.” She was more frightened than she dared admit, even to herself.
   The knight bowed. “As you say.” He strode from the tent.
   Dany turned back to Mirri Maz Duur. The woman’s eyes were wary. “So you have saved me once more.”
   “And now you must save him,” Dany said. “Please?.?.?.?”
   “You do not ask a slave,” Mirri replied sharply, “you tell her.” She went to Drogo burning on his mat, and gazed long at his wound. “Ask or tell, it makes no matter. He is beyond a healer’s skills.” The khal’s eyes were closed. She opened one with her fingers. “He has been dulling the hurt with milk of the poppy.”
   “Yes,” Dany admitted.
   “I made him a poultice of firepod and sting-me-not and bound it in a lambskin.”
   “It burned, he said. He tore it off. The herbwomen made him a new one, wet and soothing.”
   “It burned, yes. There is great healing magic in fire, even your hairless men know that.”
   “Make him another poultice,” Dany begged. “This time I will make certain he wears it.”
   “The time for that is past, my lady,” Mirri said. “All I can do now is ease the dark road before him, so he might ride painless to the night lands. He will be gone by morning.”
   Her words were a knife through Dany’s breast. What had she ever done to make the gods so cruel? She had finally found a safe place, had finally tasted love and hope. She was finally going home. And now to lose it all?.?.?.?“No,” she pleaded. “Save him, and I will free you, I swear it. You must know a way?.?.?.?some magic, some?.?.?.?”
   Mirri Maz Duur sat back on her heels and studied Daenerys through eyes as black as night. “There is a spell.” Her voice was quiet, scarcely more than a whisper. “But it is hard, lady, and dark. Some would say that death is cleaner. I learned the way in Asshai, and paid dear for the lesson. My teacher was a bloodmage from the Shadow Lands.”
   Dany went cold all over. “Then you truly are a maegi?.?.?.?”
   “Am I?” Mirri Maz Duur smiled. “Only a maegi can save your rider now, Silver Lady.”
   “Is there no other way?”
   “No other.”
   Khal Drogo gave a shuddering gasp.
   “Do it,” Dany blurted. She must not be afraid; she was the blood of the dragon. “Save him.”
   “There is a price,” the godswife warned her.
   “You’ll have gold, horses, whatever you like.”
   “It is not a matter of gold or horses. This is bloodmagic, lady. Only death may pay for life.”
   “Death?” Dany wrapped her arms around herself protectively, rocked back and forth on her heels. “My death?” She told herself she would die for him, if she must. She was the blood of the dragon, she would not be afraid. Her brother Rhaegar had died for the woman he loved.
   “No,” Mirri Maz Duur promised. “Not your death, Khaleesi.”
   Dany trembled with relief. “Do it.”
   The maegi nodded solemnly. “As you speak, so it shall be done. Call your servants.”
   Khal Drogo writhed feebly as Rakharo and Quaro lowered him into the bath. “No,” he muttered, “no. Must ride.” Once in the water, all the strength seemed to leak out of him.
   “Bring his horse,” Mirri Maz Duur commanded, and so it was done. Jhogo led the great red stallion into the tent. When the animal caught the scent of death, he screamed and reared, rolling his eyes. It took three men to subdue him.
   “What do you mean to do?” Dany asked her.
   “We need the blood,” Mirri answered. “That is the way.”
   Jhogo edged back, his hand on his arakh. He was a youth of sixteen years, whip-thin, fearless, quick to laugh, with the faint shadow of his first mustachio on his upper lip. He fell to his knees before her. “Khaleesi, “ he pleaded, “you must not do this thing. Let me kill this maegi.”
   “Kill her and you kill your khal,” Dany said.
   “This is bloodmagic,” he said. “It is forbidden.”
   “I am khaleesi, and I say it is not forbidden. In Vaes Dothrak, Khal Drogo slew a stallion and I ate his heart, to give our son strength and courage. This is the same. The same.”
   The stallion kicked and reared as Rakharo, Quaro, and Aggo pulled him close to the tub where the khal floated like one already dead, pus and blood seeping from his wound to stain the bathwaters. Mirri Maz Duur chanted words in a tongue that Dany did not know, and a knife appeared in her hand. Dany never saw where it came from. It looked old; hammered red bronze, leaf-shaped, its blade covered with ancient glyphs. The maegi drew it across the stallion’s throat, under the noble head, and the horse screamed and shuddered as the blood poured out of him in a red rush. He would have collapsed, but the men of her khas held him up. “Strength of the mount, go into the rider,” Mirri sang as horse blood swirled into the waters of Drogo’s bath. “Strength of the beast, go into the man.”
   Jhogo looked terrified as he struggled with the stallion’s weight, afraid to touch the dead flesh, yet afraid to let go as well. Only a horse, Dany thought. If she could buy Drogo’s life with the death of a horse, she would pay a thousand times over.
   When they let the stallion fall, the bath was a dark red, and nothing showed of Drogo but his face. Mirri Maz Duur had no use for the carcass. “Burn it,” Dany told them. It was what they did, she knew. When a man died, his mount was killed and placed beneath him on the funeral pyre, to carry him to the night lands. The men of her khas dragged the carcass from the tent. The blood had gone everywhere. Even the sandsilk walls were spotted with red, and the rugs underfoot were black and wet.
   Braziers were lit. Mirri Maz Duur tossed a red powder onto the coals. It gave the smoke a spicy scent, a pleasant enough smell, yet Eroeh fled sobbing, and Dany was filled with fear. But she had gone too far to turn back now. She sent her handmaids away. “Go with them, Silver Lady,” Mirri Maz Duur told her.
   “I will stay,” Dany said. “The man took me under the stars and gave life to the child inside me. I will not leave him.”
   “You must. Once I begin to sing, no one must enter this tent. My song will wake powers old and dark. The dead will dance here this night. No living man must look on them.”
   Dany bowed her head, helpless. “No one will enter.” She bent over the tub, over Drogo in his bath of blood, and kissed him lightly on the brow. “Bring him back to me,” she whispered to Mirri Maz Duur before she fled.
   Outside, the sun was low on the horizon, the sky a bruised red. The khalasar had made camp. Tents and sleeping mats were scattered as far as the eye could see. A hot wind blew. Jhogo and Aggo were digging a firepit to burn the dead stallion. A crowd had gathered to stare at Dany with hard black eyes, their faces like masks of beaten copper. She saw Ser Jorah Mormont, wearing mail and leather now, sweat beading on his broad, balding forehead. He pushed his way through the Dothraki to Dany’s side. When he saw the scarlet footprints her boots had left on the ground, the color seemed to drain from his face. “What have you done, you little fool?” he asked hoarsely.
   “I had to save him.”
   “We could have fled,” he said. “I would have seen you safe to Asshai, Princess. There was no need?.?.?.?”
   “Am I truly your princess?” she asked him.
   “You know you are, gods save us both.”
   “Then help me now.”
   Ser Jorah grimaced. “Would that I knew how.”
   Mirri Maz Duur’s voice rose to a high, ululating wail that sent a shiver down Dany’s back. Some of the Dothraki began to mutter and back away. The tent was aglow with the light of braziers within. Through the blood-spattered sandsilk, she glimpsed shadows moving.
   Mirri Maz Duur was dancing, and not alone.
   Dany saw naked fear on the faces of the Dothraki. “This must not be,” Qotho thundered.
   She had not seen the bloodrider return. Haggo and Cohollo were with him. They had brought the hairless men, the eunuchs who healed with knife and needle and fire.
   “This will be,” Dany replied.
   “Maegi, “ Haggo growled. And old Cohollo, Cohollo who had bound his life to Drogo’s on the day of his birth, Cohollo who had always been kind to her, Cohollo spat full in her face.
   “You will die, maegi,” Qotho promised, “but the other must die first.” He drew his arakh and made for the tent.
   “No,” she shouted, “you mustn’t.” She caught him by the shoulder, but Qotho shoved her aside. Dany fell to her knees, crossing her arms over her belly to protect the child within. “Stop him,” she commanded her khas, “kill him.”
   Rakharo and Quaro stood beside the tent flap. Quaro took a step forward, reaching for the handle of his whip, but Qotho spun graceful as a dancer, the curved arakh rising. It caught Quaro low under the arm, the bright sharp steel biting up through leather and skin, through muscle and rib bone. Blood fountained as the young rider reeled backward, gasping.
   Qotho wrenched the blade free. “Horselord,” Ser Jorah Mormont called. “Try me.” His longsword slid from its scabbard.
   Qotho whirled, cursing. The arakh moved so fast that Quaro’s blood flew from it in a fine spray, like rain in a hot wind. The longsword caught it a foot from Ser Jorah’s face, and held it quivering for an instant as Qotho howled in fury. The knight was clad in chainmail, with gauntlets and greaves of lobstered steel and a heavy gorget around his throat, but he had not thought to don his helm.
   Qotho danced backward, arakh whirling around his head in a shining blur, flickering out like lightning as the knight came on in a rush. Ser Jorah parried as best he could, but the slashes came so fast that it seemed to Dany that Qotho had four arakhs and as many arms. She heard the crunch of sword on mail, saw sparks fly as the long curved blade glanced off a gauntlet. Suddenly it was Mormont stumbling backward, and Qotho leaping to the attack. The left side of the knight’s face ran red with blood, and a cut to the hip opened a gash in his mail and left him limping. Qotho screamed taunts at him, calling him a craven, a milk man, a eunuch in an iron suit. “You die now!” he promised, arakh shivering through the red twilight. Inside Dany’s womb, her son kicked wildly. The curved blade slipped past the straight one and bit deep into the knight’s hip where the mail gaped open.
   Mormont grunted, stumbled. Dany felt a sharp pain in her belly, a wetness on her thighs. Qotho shrieked triumph, but his arakh had found bone, and for half a heartbeat it caught.
   It was enough. Ser Jorah brought his longsword down with all the strength left him, through flesh and muscle and bone, and Qotho’s forearm dangled loose, flopping on a thin cord of skin and sinew. The knight’s next cut was at the Dothraki’s ear, so savage that Qotho’s face seemed almost to explode.
   The Dothraki were shouting, Mirri Maz Duur wailing inside the tent like nothing human, Quaro pleading for water as he died. Dany cried out for help, but no one heard. Rakharo was fighting Haggo, arakh dancing with arakh until Jhogo’s whip cracked, loud as thunder, the lash coiling around Haggo’s throat. A yank, and the bloodrider stumbled backward, losing his feet and his sword. Rakharo sprang forward, howling, swinging his arakh down with both hands through the top of Haggo’s head. The point caught between his eyes, red and quivering. Someone threw a stone, and when Dany looked, her shoulder was torn and bloody. “No,” she wept, “no, please, stop it, it’s too high, the price is too high.” More stones came flying. She tried to crawl toward the tent, but Cohollo caught her. Fingers in her hair, he pulled her head back and she felt the cold touch of his knife at her throat. “My baby,” she screamed, and perhaps the gods heard, for as quick as that, Cohollo was dead. Aggo’s arrow took him under the arm, to pierce his lungs and heart.
   When at last Daenerys found the strength to raise her head, she saw the crowd dispersing, the Dothraki stealing silently back to their tents and sleeping mats. Some were saddling horses and riding off. The sun had set. Fires burned throughout the khalasar, great orange blazes that crackled with fury and spit embers at the sky. She tried to rise, and agony seized her and squeezed her like a giant’s fist. The breath went out of her; it was all she could do to gasp. The sound of Mirri Maz Duur’s voice was like a funeral dirge. Inside the tent, the shadows whirled.
   An arm went under her waist, and then Ser Jorah was lifting her off her feet. His face was sticky with blood, and Dany saw that half his ear was gone. She convulsed in his arms as the pain took her again, and heard the knight shouting for her handmaids to help him. Are they all so afraid? She knew the answer. Another pain grasped her, and Dany bit back a scream. It felt as if her son had a knife in each hand, as if he were hacking at her to cut his way out. “Doreah, curse you,” Ser Jorah roared. “Come here. Fetch the birthing women.”
   “They will not come. They say she is accursed.”
   “They’ll come or I’ll have their heads.”
   Doreah wept. “They are gone, my lord.”
   “The maegi,” someone else said. Was that Aggo? “Take her to the maegi.”
   No, Dany wanted to say, no, not that, you mustn’t, but when she opened her mouth, a long wail of pain escaped, and the sweat broke over her skin. What was wrong with them, couldn’t they see? Inside the tent the shapes were dancing, circling the brazier and the bloody bath, dark against the sandsilk, and some did not look human. She glimpsed the shadow of a great wolf, and another like a man wreathed in flames.
   “The Lamb Woman knows the secrets of the birthing bed,” Irri said. “She said so, I heard her.”
   “Yes,” Doreah agreed, “I heard her too.”
   No, she shouted, or perhaps she only thought it, for no whisper of sound escaped her lips. She was being carried. Her eyes opened to gaze up at a flat dead sky, black and bleak and starless. Please, no. The sound of Mirri Maz Duur’s voice grew louder, until it filled the world. The shapes! she screamed. The dancers!
   Ser Jorah carried her inside the tent.



Ⅰ 权力的游戏 Chapter65 丹妮莉丝
　　成群苍蝇围绕着卓戈卡奥，缓缓打转，翅膀嗡嗡的声音在丹妮的听觉边际回环，令她满怀恐惧。
　　无情的骄阳高挂天空，热气从低矮丘陵裸露的岩层间蒸散而出。汗水如一根根纤细的手指，自丹妮肿胀的双乳缓缓流下。天地间，惟一的声音是马蹄坚定的哒哒声，丹妮发际铃铛有韵律的轻响，以及身后悄声的交谈。
　　丹妮盯着苍蝇。
　　它们大如蜜蜂，体形沉重，略呈紫色，发出湿黏而恶心的光。多斯拉克人称其为“血蝇”。它们居住于沼泽地和死水潭，以吸食人马鲜血为生，并在腐尸或濒死的人畜身上产卵。卓戈恨极了这种生物，每当有血蝇靠近，他的手便如灵蛇般迅速窜出，一把抓住，她从未见他失手过。他会把苍蝇握在巨掌里，听任它狂乱地嗡嗡乱飞，最后才用力捏紧，等张开手，苍蝇已成为他掌心的一滩红印。
　　这时，有一只血蝇在他坐骑的臀部爬来爬去，骏马愤怒地甩着尾巴，想把它赶走。其他苍蝇则在卓戈周围来回飞动，越飞越近，然而卡奥却没有反应。他的视线朝向远方的褐色丘陵，缰绳松松垮垮地垂在手中。在他的彩绘背心下，一层无花果叶和干涸的蓝泥覆盖着胸前的伤口，那是草药妇人专为他调制的。弥丽·马兹·笃尔的药膏不仅灼热，更令他搔痒难耐，因此六天前他便已撕掉膏药，骂她是“巫魔女”。泥膏比较舒服，况且草药妇人还为他调制了罂粟酒，这三天来他喝得厉害；即便不喝罂粟酒，他也豪饮发酵马奶或胡椒啤酒。
　　然而他却几乎不碰食物，到了夜里则是又踢打又呻吟。丹妮看得出，他的脸变得好削瘦。雷戈在她的肚子里不断骚动，活像一匹骏马，但丝毫没有引起卓戈的兴趣。每天早上，当他从噩梦中醒来，她便发现他的脸上又多了新的痛苦痕迹。眼下，他竟连话也不说了，使她倍感惊恐。是啊，自从他们日出时出发以来，他连一个字也没有说。即便她主动开口，得到的也只是一声咕哝，过了中午，连咕哝都没了。
　　一只血蝇降落在卡奥裸露的肩膀上，另外一只则盘旋片刻，停上了他脖子，并朝他嘴巴爬去。卓戈卡奥在马鞍上微微晃动，发际铃铛轻声作响，坐骑则以稳定的步伐继续前进。
　　丹妮夹紧银马，骑到他身旁。“夫君，”她轻声说，“卓戈，我的日和星。”
　　他似乎根本没听见。血蝇顺着他长长的胡子往上爬，爬上脸颊，停在鼻子旁的皱痕里。丹妮惊讶得屏住呼吸。“卓戈，”她笨拙地伸手去扶他的臂膀。
　　卓戈卡奥在马鞍上晃了晃，缓缓倾斜，重重地从马上摔了下去。血蝇群散开了一个心跳的瞬间，随即又徘徊而回，停在他身上。
　　“不，”丹妮连忙勒住缰绳，不顾自己的大肚子，蹒跚着翻下小银马，奔向他身边。
　　他身下的草地棕黄干枯。当丹妮在他身边跪下时，卓戈发出痛苦的叫喊。他的呼吸卡在喉咙里，看她的眼神仿佛不认得她。“我的马。”他喘着气说。丹妮挥开他胸膛上的苍蝇，学他的样子捏死了一只。手指下，他的皮肤烫得吓人。
　　卡奥的血盟卫就跟在后面。她听见哈戈大喊，他们快马加鞭地赶来。科霍罗自马背一跃而下。“吾血之血！”他边跪边喊。其他两人则留在马上。
　　“不，”卓戈卡奥呻吟着在丹妮怀中挣扎。“必须骑马。骑马。不。”
　　“他从自己的马上摔下来。”哈戈瞪着脚下的他们说，他那张阔脸毫无表情，但声音如铅般沉重。
　　“别说这种话，”丹妮告诉他，“今天我们骑得也够远了，就在这里扎营。”
　　“这里？”哈戈环顾四周。此地植物干枯，一片棕黄，不适人居。“这里不能扎营。”
　　“女人无权命令我们停下，”柯索说，“即便卡丽熙也不例外。”
　　“我们就在这里扎营。”丹妮重复，“哈戈，传话下去，就说卓戈卡奥命令大家停下。若有人问起原因，就说我快生了，无法再走。科霍罗，把奴隶带来，让他们立刻搭起卡奥的帐篷。柯索——”
　　“卡丽熙，你无权命令我。”柯索说。
　　“你去把弥丽·马兹·笃尔找来。”她告诉他。女祭司应该和其他“羊人”一起，位于长长的奴隶队伍中。“带她来见我，叫她把药箱也带来。”
　　柯索从马上瞪着她，两眼刚硬如燧石。“巫魔女，”他啐了一口，“我不干。”
　　“你立刻去办，”丹妮说，“否则等卓戈醒来，他会想知道你为何忤逆我。”
　　柯索愤怒地调转马头，飞奔而去……但丹妮知道，无论他多么不情愿，终究是会把弥丽·马兹·笃尔带来的。奴隶们在一片崎岖的黑色岩层下搭起卓戈卡奥的大帐，那里的阴影可以稍稍遮挡午后的骄阳。即便如此，当伊丽和多莉亚协助丹妮搀扶卓戈走进沙丝帐时，里面依旧热得令人窒息。地上铺着厚重的绘画地毯，枕头散置于角落。埃萝叶，那个丹妮在“羊人”城镇的泥墙外解救的羞怯女孩，已经燃起一个火盆。他们让卓戈平躺在草席上。“不，”他用通用语呢喃着，“不，不。”他只说得出这个字，仿佛这是他能力惟一所及。
　　多莉亚解开他的奖章腰带，脱下他的背心和绑腿，姬琪则跪在他脚边，为他解开骑马凉鞋。伊丽想让帐篷敞开通风，但丹妮不准，她绝不能让别人看见卓戈神智不清的虚弱模样。当她的卡斯部众抵达时，她要他们守在门口。“未经我允许，不准任何人进来。”她对乔戈说，“谁都不行。”
　　埃萝叶畏惧地看着躺在席上的卓戈。“他死了。”她小声说。
　　丹妮抽了她一个耳光。“卡奥不会死，他是骑着世界的骏马之父，他的头发从未修剪，至今依旧绑着他父亲留给他的铃铛。”
　　“可是，卡丽熙，”姬琪道，“他从自己的马上摔下来。”
　　丹妮眼中突然盈满泪水，她颤抖着别过头去。他从自己的马上摔下来！的确如此，不仅她亲眼目睹，血盟卫看到了，目击者还包括她的女仆和卡斯部众。除此之外还有多少呢？他们不可能保守秘密，丹妮知道这意味着什么：无法骑马的卡奥便无能统治，而卓戈竟从自己的马上摔了下去。
　　“我们必须帮他沐浴。”她固执地说。她绝不能让自己陷入绝望。“伊丽，叫人马上把澡盆搬来。多莉亚、埃萝叶，去找水，要凉水，他身体好烫。”他简直是人皮包裹的一团火。
　　奴隶们将沉重的赤铜澡盆放在帐篷角落。当多莉亚拿来第一罐水时，丹妮浸湿一卷丝布，盖在卓戈滚烫的额际。他双眼直视，却视而不见。他张开嘴巴，却说不出话，只有呻吟。“弥丽·马兹·笃尔在哪儿？”她的耐心快要被恐惧磨光，忍不住厉声质问。
　　“柯索一定能找到她，”伊丽说。
　　女仆们将澡盆灌满散发着硫磺气息的温水，加入几罐苦油和几把捣碎的薄荷叶。在她们准备洗澡水时，身怀六甲的丹妮笨拙地跪在夫君身边，用不安的手指解开他的发辫，一如他在星空下与她初次结合的那个晚上。她小心翼翼地把他的铃铛一个个放好，她告诉自己，等他康复，他需要重新系上这些铃铛。
　　一股空气吹进帐篷，原来是阿戈从丝幕间探头。“卡丽熙，”他说，“安达尔人来了，他请求进来。”
　　“安达尔人”是多斯拉克人对乔拉爵士的称呼。“好的，”她笨拙地起身，“让他进来。”她信任这位骑士，假如还有人知道现在该怎么做，那此人非他莫属。
　　乔拉·莫尔蒙爵士低头穿过帐门，等了一会儿，使眼睛适应黑暗。在南方的炎热气候下，他穿了宽松的斑纹沙丝长裤，绑到膝盖、露出脚趾的骑马凉鞋，佩剑则挂在一条曲折的马鬃带上。在漂白的背心下，他赤裸胸膛，皮肤因日晒而通红。“到处都是谣言，整个卡拉萨都传遍了。”他说，“据说卓戈卡奥从自己的马上摔下来。”
　　“帮帮他吧，”丹妮哀求。“看在你承诺过对我的爱份上，帮帮他罢。”
　　骑士在她身边跪下，意味深长地审视卓戈良久，最后对丹妮说：“把您的女仆支开。”
　　丹妮的喉咙因恐惧而紧绷，她一言不发地打了个手势，伊丽便哄着其他人出了帐篷。
　　她们离去后，乔拉爵士抽出匕首，熟练地割开卓戈胸膛上的黑叶和干蓝泥，动作之轻巧，难以想像竟是出自如此一位大汉之手。敷料早已干如羊人的泥墙，也像泥墙一样轻易破裂。乔拉爵士用匕首切开于泥，撬掉血肉上的碎块，剥下一片片叶子。一股恶臭甜腻的味道从伤口涌出，浓烈得让她不能呼吸。满地落叶结满了血块和脓疮，卓戈的胸膛一片漆黑，腐烂的伤口闪闪发亮。
　　“不，”丹妮小声说，泪水滚下双颊。“不，求求你，诸神救救我，不要。”
　　卓戈卡奥抽搐了一下，好似在与某个看不见的敌人拼斗。黑色的脓血自他伤口缓缓地流下。
　　“公主殿下，您的卡奥与死人无异。”
　　“不，他不能死，他不可以死，这只是个小伤，”丹妮伸出细小的双手，紧紧握住卓戈长满老茧的巨掌。“我不会让他死……”
　　乔拉爵士苦涩地笑笑。“无论你是卡丽熙还是公主，只怕这个命令都超出了你的能力所及。孩子，请留住你的泪水，明天、或是明年再为他哀悼，眼下我们无暇悲伤。趁他还没断气，我们得赶紧走。”
　　丹妮不知所措。“走？去哪里？”
　　“我提议去亚夏。此地位于极远的南方，是所知世界的尽头，据说也是个繁盛的大港。在那里，我们应当能搭船回潘托斯，但毫无疑问，这将是一趟极为艰苦的旅程。你能信任你的卡斯部众吗？他们会不会跟我们走？”
　　“卓戈卡奥命令他们保护我的安全，”丹妮有些犹疑地回答：“假如他死了……”她摸摸自己隆起的小腹。“我不懂，我们为什么要逃走？我是卡丽熙，肚里怀着卓戈的后代，卓戈死后他会继任卡奥……”
　　乔拉爵士皱起眉头。“公主殿下，请听我说。多斯拉克人绝不会追随嗷嗷待哺的婴儿，他们臣服于卓戈的威势，但仅止于此。卓戈死后，贾科、波诺及其他‘寇’便会争夺他的地位，整个卡拉萨将自相残杀，而最后的胜者一定不会留下对手的活口。你的孩子刚一出生就会被夺走，被他们拿去喂狗……”
　　丹妮的双手紧紧抱住胸口。“可这是为什么？”她哀怨地哭道，“为什么他们要杀一个小婴儿？”
　　“因为他是卓戈的儿子，况且老妪们宣布他将成为骑着世界的骏马，他的成就已被预言。与其冒让他长大成人后回来复仇的风险，不如趁他年纪还小时杀了他。”
　　此话仿佛给胎儿听到，他在她肚子里应声踢打起来。丹妮想起韦赛里斯说过的故事，篡夺者的走狗是如何啃食雷加的孩儿。大哥的儿子当年也只是个襁褓里的婴儿，但他们依旧将他从母亲的怀抱里硬生生夺走，一头撞死在墙上。这就是男人。“他们绝不能伤害我儿子！”她叫道，“我将命令我的卡斯部众保护他的安全，卓戈的血盟卫也会——”
　　乔拉爵士搂住她的肩膀。“孩子，血盟卫会陪卡奥殉死，这你是知道的。他们会带你去维斯·多斯拉克，将你交付给老妪，那是他们在世间对他所付的最后职责……在那之后，他们便会追随卓戈进入夜晚的国度。”
　　丹妮不愿意返回维斯·多斯拉克，去和那群恐怖的老妇共度余生，但她知道骑士说的是实话。卓戈不仅是她的日和星，更是保护她的免遭危难的屏障。“我不能离开他，”她固执而悲苦地说，再度执起他的手。“我绝不能。”
　　帷幕掀动，丹妮回身，只见弥丽·马兹·笃尔进来，深深低头。由于连日跟在卡拉萨后长途跋涉，她跛了脚，形容憔悴，双腿皮破血流，眼窝凹陷。柯索和哈戈跟在她后面，提着女祭司的药箱。血盟卫们一见到卓戈的伤势，哈戈手指一松，药箱滑落在地，匡地一声巨响。柯索则骂了一句非常难听的话，语气之凶恶，仿佛能燃烧空气。
　　弥丽·马兹·笃尔脸如死灰地盯着卓戈。“伤口化脓了。”
　　“巫魔女，都是你干的好事！”柯索说。哈戈一拳挥去，正中弥丽脸颊，轰地一声将她打倒在地，接着又扬腿踢她。
　　“住手！”丹妮尖叫。
　　柯索拉开哈戈，并对他说：“不要踢她，这对巫魔女太仁慈了，把她拖到外面去，钉在地上，让每个经过的男人都骑上一回，结束之后，再让狗来骑她。让黄鼠狼扯出她的内脏，让乌鸦啄食她的眼睛，河边的苍蝇将在她的子宫里产卵，吸食她乳房溃烂的脓汁……”他伸出铁一般刚硬的手指，抠进女祭司臂膀松软的肌肉，一把将她拉起来。
　　“住手！”丹妮说，“我不许你伤害她。”
　　柯索的嘴皮自他弯曲的黄板牙往上一翻，露出恐怖的嘲笑，“住手？你叫我住手？你最好祈祷我们不要把你钉在这个巫魔女旁边，今天发生这种事，你要负一半责任。”
　　乔拉爵士隔在他们之间，作势欲拔长剑。“血盟卫，你讲话小心一点，公主殿下她仍然是你的卡丽熙。”
　　“除非吾血之血还能活下去，”柯索对骑士说，“在他死后，她就什么也不是了。”
　　丹妮只觉浑身一凛。“我不仅是卡丽熙，更是真龙传人。乔拉爵士，立刻召集我的卡斯部众。”
　　“哼，”柯索道，“我们走，先不跟你计较……卡丽熙。”哈戈跟随他走出帐篷，双眉深锁。
　　“公主殿下，那人恐怕会对您不利。”莫尔蒙道，“按多斯拉克习俗，卡奥与他的血盟卫同生共死，柯索眼看自己寿命将近，才会这样放肆。死人是什么都不怕的。”
　　“什么人都没死哪，”丹妮说，“乔拉爵士，我需要借重你的剑术，请你去穿上盔甲。”她不敢承认自己有多害怕，即便在自己心里。
　　骑士一躬到底，“如您所愿。”他大步走出营帐。
　　丹妮转身面向弥丽·马兹·笃尔。妇人的眼神非常虚弱，“看来，您又救了我一命。”
　　“换你救他一命了，”丹妮说，“求求你……”
　　“跟奴隶说话不是用问的，”弥丽尖刻地回答，“你只要交代下去，让她照办就成了。”她走到浑身发烫的卓戈席边，凝视他的伤口良久。“但眼下，无论你询问还是交代，结果都没有差别，已经没有任何医者可以救他。”卡奥双眼紧闭，她伸手拉开一边眼皮。“他是不是一直喝罂粟花奶麻痹痛觉？”
　　“是。”丹妮承认。
　　“我曾用火豆和勿螫我草为他调制药膏，并用羊皮绑上。”
　　“他说那灼热得厉害，所以把羊皮撕了。草药妇人帮他弄了一帖新的，湿湿的很舒服。”
　　“的确很灼热，但火具有强大的疗效，就连你们的无毛人都知道。”
　　“帮他再弄帖敷药罢，”丹妮哀求，“这次我保证让他戴好。”
　　“夫人，来不及了，”弥丽说，“如今我能做的，只是为他指引黑暗的道路，让他毫无痛苦地骑马进入夜晚的国度。明日清晨，他就会离去。”
　　她的这番话有如利刃刺进丹妮胸膛，她究竟造了什么孽，竟得到天上诸神如此残酷的对待？好不容易找到栖身之所，好不容易尝到爱情与希望的甜美，好不容易踏上归乡之路，到头来一切都是幻梦……“不，”她恳求，“只要你救他，我就放你自由，我对天发誓。你一定还知道其他的办法……某种魔法，或者……”
　　弥丽·马兹·笃尔跪坐下来，用那双漆黑如夜的眼睛打量着丹妮。“的确还有一种魔法。”她的声音静得出奇，几与呓语无异。“但是，夫人，这个法术不但施行困难，而且非常黑暗，对某些人而言，死亡反而比较干脆。我在亚夏学会了这个法术，并为此付出惨痛的代价。我的导师是来自阴影之地的血巫。”
　　丹妮只觉全身冰冷。“你真的是巫魔女……”
　　“是吗？”弥丽·马兹·笃尔微笑，“银夫人，眼下也只有巫魔女可以救您的勇士。”
　　“没有别的办法？”
　　“没有。”
　　卓戈卡奥颤抖着喘了口气。
　　“动手吧，”丹妮脱口而出。她不能害怕，她是真龙传人。“快救救他。”
　　“您必须付出代价。”女祭司警告她。
　　“黄金、马匹……你要什么都可以。”
　　“这不是黄金或马匹的问题，夫人，这是血魔法，惟有死亡方能换取生命。”
　　“死亡？”丹妮防卫性地双手抱胸，前后摇晃。“我的死？”她告诉自己，如果情非得已，她愿意为他牺牲性命。她是真龙传人，她不怕，她大哥雷加不就为他深爱的女人而献身了么？
　　“不，”弥丽·马兹·笃尔向她保证。“不是您的死，卡丽熙。”
　　丹妮如释重负地颤抖开来。“那就动手吧。”
　　巫魔女神情肃穆地点点头。“如您所愿，我将完成这个仪式。先请您的仆人进来。”
　　当拉卡洛和魁洛把卓戈卡奥放进浴缸时，他虚弱地动了动。“不，”他喃喃道，“不，必须骑马。”但等他一进到水里，力量便仿佛尽数泄出。
　　“把他的马带进来。”弥丽·马兹·笃尔下达指令，他们随即照办。乔戈将那匹雄壮的红骏马牵进帐篷，它一闻到死亡的气息，立即翻开白眼，扬起前脚，嘶鸣不休，合三人之力才将它制服。
　　“你打算怎么做？”丹妮问她。
　　“我们需要鲜血，”弥丽回答，“这，就是血的来源。”
　　乔戈霍地退后，伸手按住亚拉克弯刀。他是个年方十六的青年，瘦得像根鞭子，沙场上无所畏惧，平时则笑口常开，上唇已开始留出长须。他在她面前跪下。“卡丽熙，”他恳求，“这事做不得，请让我杀了这巫魔女。”
　　“杀了她，你就是杀了卡奥。”丹妮说。
　　“可这是血魔法啊。”他说，“这是禁忌。”
　　“我是卡丽熙，我说不是禁忌就不是禁忌。在维斯·多斯拉克，卓戈卡奥不也杀了一匹骏马，让我吃下它的心脏，好让我们的儿子拥有勇气和力量。现在这个仪式也一样，完全一样。”
　　于是，拉卡洛、魁洛和阿戈三人把又跳又踢的骏马拉到浴缸旁，卡奥漂浮在水里，黑血和脓汁不断流出，仿佛已经死去。弥丽·马兹·笃尔开始用一种丹妮从没听过的语言喃喃念诵，手中陡然出现一把小刀。丹妮没看清刀是从哪里来的。这把刀看起来相当陈旧，红铜铸成，树叶形状，锋刃刻满古老符咒。巫魔女举刀划过骏马颈项，割开它高贵的头颅，马儿惨叫一声，猛烈颤抖，鲜血有如一股红泉，自伤口喷出。若非她的卡斯部众死命扶住，它早已四脚一软，瘫倒在地。“坐骑之力，传予骑者。”马血涌进水中，弥丽跟着高唱，“野兽之力，传予人类。”
　　乔戈挣扎着，竭力支撑沉重的骏马，脸上写满了惊恐，他害怕碰触死去的肉体，却更害怕放手。不过是匹马，丹妮想，假如一匹马的死，就能换取卓戈的性命，那要她付出一千次这样的代价都没关系。
　　待得他们任马瘫倒，澡盆里已一片暗红，卓戈全身上下只有脸孔露在血水外。弥丽·马兹·笃尔不需要尸体，所以丹妮对他们说：“烧了它。”她知道这是多斯拉克人的习俗：每当有人死去，他的坐骑也会被杀，放在他的火葬柴堆下，与他一同焚烧，好载他进入夜晚的国度。她的卡斯部众遵令将马尸拖出帐篷，四处都是鲜红，连沙丝帐幕上也血迹斑斑，地毯更是被黑血彻底浸湿。
　　女仆燃起火盆，弥丽·马兹·笃尔在煤上洒了一种红粉末，顷刻间，冒出的烟便有了辛辣香气，虽然并不难闻，却令埃萝叶哭着逃了出去，丹妮自己也心生恐惧，然而走到这步田地，她已经无法回头，于是她把女仆全部遣开。“银夫人，您也得跟她们出去。”弥丽·马兹·笃尔告诉她。
　　“不，我要留下来，”丹妮说，“这个男人在星空之下与我结合，给了我体内胎儿的生命，我不要离开他。”
　　“你一定要离开。一旦我开始吟唱，任何人都不能进入这座帐篷。我的咒语将唤醒古老而黑暗的力量，今晚亡灵将在此舞蹈，活人不能看到他们。”
　　丹妮无助地低下头。“任何人都不能进入，”她走到澡盆边，弯下身子，看着浸在鲜血里的卓戈，轻轻吻了他的额头。“请为我把他带回来。”逃离帐篷前，她悄声对弥丽·马兹·笃尔说。
　　帐篷外，夕阳低垂，天空是一片瘀伤的红。卡拉萨已在此扎营，举目所及，尽是帐篷和睡席。热风吹起，乔戈和阿戈正在挖掘焚烧马尸的坑洞。营帐前聚集了一群人，用严厉的黑眼睛瞪着丹妮，他们的脸则活像磨亮赤铜做成的面具。她看见了乔拉·莫尔蒙爵士，他已经穿起锁甲和皮衣，日渐光秃的宽额上布满豆大的汗珠。他推开多斯拉克人群，走到丹妮身边，当他看见她的鞋子在地上留下的猩红足印时，顿时脸色苍白。“你这小笨蛋，你到底做了什么？”他嘶哑地问。
　　“我非救他不可。”
　　“我们本来可以逃走，”他说，“公主殿下，我本来可以护送你安全抵达亚夏，实在没必要……”
　　“我真的是你的公主？”她问他。
　　“你很清楚你是。啊，诸神救救我们俩。”
　　“帮帮我。”
　　乔拉爵士皱眉：“我知道怎么帮就好了。”
　　弥丽·马兹·笃尔的声音转为高亢尖细的嚎啕，令丹妮背脊发麻，有些多斯拉克人念念有词地向后退去，火盆的光将营帐照得通明，透过血迹斑斑的沙丝帷幕，她瞥见帐内有无数影子在晃动。
　　弥丽·马兹·笃尔正在跳舞，但并非独自一人。
　　恐惧赤裸裸地呈现在多斯拉克人脸上。“这事不能继续。”柯索大喝。
　　她没注意血盟卫回来，哈戈和科霍罗也跟他一道，带着“无毛人”，亦即用尖刀、针线和火焰为人治病疗伤的太监。
　　“这事必须继续。”丹妮回答。
　　“你这巫魔女！”哈戈咆哮。接着，老科霍罗——就是那个早在卓戈诞生之日，便将自己的性命与之紧紧结合的科霍罗，那个向来待她温和的科霍罗——朝她面门吐了口水。
　　“巫魔女，你等死罢，”柯索向她保证，“但先杀另一个。”他抽出亚拉克弯刀，朝帐篷走去。
　　“不，”她叫道，“你不能进去！”她抓住他的肩膀，却被柯索手一挥手推开。丹妮跌倒在地，连忙双手抱住腹部，保护肚里的胎儿。“阻止他！”她朝她的卡斯部众下令。“杀了他！”
　　站在营帐门口的是拉卡洛和魁洛，听到命令，魁洛前跨一步，伸手欲拿皮鞭，但柯索宛如舞者般优雅地向前一跃，举起亚拉克弯刀，砍中魁洛胸膛。尖利的钢刃咬穿皮革和皮肤，直透肌肉和肋骨。年轻战士喘着气向后倒去，血如泉涌。
　　柯索抽出弯刀。“马王，”乔拉·莫尔蒙爵士叫道，“来跟我试试！”他的长剑铿地一声，滑出剑鞘。
　　柯索咒骂旋身，手中的亚拉克弯刀飞也似地朝对方砍去，速度之快，刀上魁洛的血有如热风中的雨，溅洒开来。乔拉爵士的长剑在离他脸庞只有一尺的地方挡住这记攻势，刀剑僵持了片刻，力道千钧，锋刃颤抖，柯索愤怒地大声嚎叫。骑士穿着锁甲，戴着铁手套和龙虾护膝，还有厚重的护喉，但他没戴头盔。
　　柯索向后一跃，骑士随即突前反攻，但柯索舞动亚拉克弯刀，在头部绽开一片亮如闪电的白芒。在丹妮眼中，柯索仿佛生了四手四刀，乔拉爵士只能勉强抵挡。她听见弯刀砍在锁甲上的响声，看到弯刀划过铁手套时激进的火花，几回合后形势逆转，莫尔蒙踉跄后退，柯索则跳近攻击。骑士的左脸血红一片，一记划破他臀部盔甲的刀伤使他行动艰难。柯索厉声嘲弄，辱骂对手是懦夫、是奶人、是穿着铁衣服的太监。“你去死！”他咒道，舞跃的亚拉克弯刀划破血红暮色。丹妮的儿子在子宫里疯狂地踢打。这时，弯刀滑过笔直的长剑，再度深咬进骑士臀部盔甲的裂口。
　　莫尔蒙闷哼一声，绊了一跤。丹妮只觉腹部传来一阵剧痛，两腿间有湿漉漉的感觉。柯索尖声狂叫庆祝胜利，但他的亚拉克弯刀砍到了骨头，卡住了半个心跳的时间。
　　这就够了。乔拉爵士用尽毕生力气挥剑砍下，穿透皮肤、肌肉和骨头，几乎把柯索的右手前臂硬生生斩断，只剩几丝皮肤和肌腱相连，松垮地摇摆。骑士再度挥剑，朝多斯拉克人耳部一刀，力道极猛，柯索的脸仿佛整个炸开。
　　围观的多斯拉克人大呼小叫，帐篷里弥丽·马兹·笃尔的嚎叫完全不是人的声音。地上的魁洛哀求别人给他水喝，然后死去。丹妮则出声呼救，但无人在意。拉卡洛正与哈戈搏斗，两柄亚拉克弯刀相互交击，直到乔戈的皮鞭喀啦一响，如爆雷般缠住哈戈的喉咙。他猛力一扯，血盟卫失去重心，踉跄地向后摔倒，弯刀从手中松落。拉卡洛向前疾跃，双手紧握亚拉克弯刀，咆哮着从哈戈头顶捅下。刀尖卡在血盟卫两眼之间，鲜红而颤抖。有人朝丹妮丢石头，她定神一看，自己的肩膀已经皮破流血。“住手，”她哭喊，“住手，求求你们，快住手，太高了，这样的代价太高了。”更多石块朝她飞来，她试图往帐篷爬去，却被科霍罗一把攫住头发，向后拉扯，冰冷的刀锋架上她的喉咙。“我的宝宝！”她尖叫，或许天上诸神真的听见了，因为她莆一出声，科霍罗便倒地身亡。阿戈的箭正中他胸膛，射穿肺部和心脏。
　　等丹妮莉丝终于找回力气抬头，群众已经渐渐散去，原本围观的多斯拉克人蹑手蹑脚地返回自己的营帐和睡席。有的直接装上马鞍骑马离去。夕阳西沉，卡拉萨营地里篝火熊熊，团团橙焰发出愤怒的哔啪声，将火星吐进夜空。她试着起身，却因剧痛无法动弹，仿佛被巨人的拳头紧紧握住。她难以呼吸，只能拼命喘气。弥丽·马兹·笃尔的吟唱有如葬仪上的挽歌。帐篷内，黑影盘旋。
　　一只手抱住她的腰，乔拉爵士把她扶了起来。他满脸是血，丹妮发现他还少了半只耳朵。剧痛再度袭来，她在他怀里猛烈抽搐，只听见骑士大声呼唤她的女仆过来帮忙。难道她们都这么怕我吗？她已经知道了答案。又一阵剧痛袭来，丹妮咬紧嘴唇，忍住尖叫。她的儿子仿佛双手都握着尖刀，正从她体内砍出一条路来。“多莉亚，你该死，”乔拉爵士咆哮，“快过来，把接生婆找来！”
　　“她们不肯来。她们说她是被诅咒的人。”
　　“她们要么过来，要么我就把她们的头砍了。”
　　多莉亚哭了出来。“大人，她们都逃了。”
　　“巫魔女，”另一个人说。是阿戈吗？“带她去巫魔女那里。”
　　不，丹妮想开口，不，不，你们不可以。但当她张开嘴巴，却只能吐出长长的痛苦呻吟，全身上下的皮肤不断冒汗。他们这是怎么了？难道他们看不出来？帐篷内，无数的形影正围绕火盆和血淋淋的澡缸盘旋跳舞，投射在沙丝上，显得格外阴暗，有些形体根本不是人。她瞥见一头巨狼，还有一个如在烈焰中扭动的男子。
　　“羊女懂得染血产床的所有奥秘，”伊丽说，“她自己说的，我亲耳听见。”
　　“是的，”多莉亚也同意，“我也听见了。”
　　不，她高声尖叫，莫非这只是她脑中的想法？因为她的双唇没有发出任何声音。有人把她抬起来，她睁开眼睛，凝望着上方平板死寂的天空，漆黑而凄凉，无星之夜。不，求求你们！弥丽·马兹·笃尔的吟唱越变越大，淹没了整个世界。那些可怕的形体啊！她尖叫，那些骇人的舞者啊！
　　乔拉爵士抱着她走进帐篷。
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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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Chapter 65

  
   ARYA
   The scent of hot bread drifting from the shops along the Street of Flour was sweeter than any perfume Arya had ever smelled. She took a deep breath and stepped closer to the pigeon. It was a plump one, speckled brown, busily pecking at a crust that had fallen between two cobblestones, but when Arya’s shadow touched it, it took to the air.
   Her stick sword whistled out and caught it two feet off the ground, and it went down in a flurry of brown feathers. She was on it in the blink of an eye, grabbing a wing as the pigeon flapped and fluttered. It pecked at her hand. She grabbed its neck and twisted until she felt the bone snap.
   Compared with catching cats, pigeons were easy.
   A passing septon was looking at her askance. “Here’s the best place to find pigeon,” Arya told him as she brushed herself off and picked up her fallen stick sword. “They come for the crumbs.” He hurried away.
   She tied the pigeon to her belt and started down the street. A man was pushing a load of tarts by on a two-wheeled cart; the smells sang of blueberries and lemons and apricots. Her stomach made a hollow rumbly noise. “Could I have one?” she heard herself say. “A lemon, or?.?.?.?or any kind.”
   The pushcart man looked her up and down. Plainly he did not like what he saw. “Three coppers.”
   Arya tapped her wooden sword against the side of her boot. “I’ll trade you a fat pigeon,” she said.
   “The Others take your pigeon,” the pushcart man said.
   The tarts were still warm from the oven. The smells were making her mouth water, but she did not have three coppers?.?.?.?or one. She gave the pushcart man a look, remembering what Syrio had told her about seeing. He was short, with a little round belly, and when he moved he seemed to favor his left leg a little. She was just thinking that if she snatched a tart and ran he would never be able to catch her when he said, “You be keepin’ your filthy hands off. The gold cloaks know how to deal with thieving little gutter rats, that they do.”
   Arya glanced warily behind her. Two of the City Watch were standing at the mouth of an alley. Their cloaks hung almost to the ground, the heavy wool dyed a rich gold; their mail and boots and gloves were black. One wore a longsword at his hip, the other an iron cudgel. With a last wistful glance at the tarts, Arya edged back from the cart and hurried off. The gold cloaks had not been paying her any special attention, but the sight of them tied her stomach in knots. Arya had been staying as far from the castle as she could get, yet even from a distance she could see the heads rotting atop the high red walls. Flocks of crows squabbled noisily over each head, thick as flies. The talk in Flea Bottom was that the gold cloaks had thrown in with the Lannisters, their commander raised to a lord, with lands on the Trident and a seat on the king’s council.
   She had also heard other things, scary things, things that made no sense to her. Some said her father had murdered King Robert and been slain in turn by Lord Renly. Others insisted that Renly had killed the king in a drunken quarrel between brothers. Why else should he have fled in the night like a common thief? One story said the king had been killed by a boar while hunting, another that he’d died eating a boar, stuffing himself so full that he’d ruptured at the table. No, the king had died at table, others said, but only because Varys the Spider poisoned him. No, it had been the queen who poisoned him. No, he had died of a pox. No, he had choked on a fish bone.
   One thing all the stories agreed on: King Robert was dead. The bells in the seven towers of the Great Sept of Baelor had tolled for a day and a night, the thunder of their grief rolling across the city in a bronze tide. They only rang the bells like that for the death of a king, a tanner’s boy told Arya.
   All she wanted was to go home, but leaving King’s Landing was not so easy as she had hoped. Talk of war was on every lip, and gold cloaks were as thick on the city walls as fleas on?.?.?.?well, her, for one. She had been sleeping in Flea Bottom, on rooftops and in stables, wherever she could find a place to lie down, and it hadn’t taken her long to learn that the district was well named.
   Every day since her escape from the Red Keep, Arya had visited each of the seven city gates in turn. The Dragon Gate, the Lion Gate, and the Old Gate were closed and barred. The Mud Gate and the Gate of the Gods were open, but only to those who wanted to enter the city; the guards let no one out. Those who were allowed to leave left by the King’s Gate or the Iron Gate, but Lannister men-at-arms in crimson cloaks and lion-crested helms manned the guard posts there. Spying down from the roof of an inn by the King’s Gate, Arya saw them searching wagons and carriages, forcing riders to open their saddlebags, and questioning everyone who tried to pass on foot.
   Sometimes she thought about swimming the river, but the Blackwater Rush was wide and deep, and everyone agreed that its currents were wicked and treacherous. She had no coin to pay a ferryman or take passage on a ship.
   Her lord father had taught her never to steal, but it was growing harder to remember why. If she did not get out soon, she would have to take her chances with the gold cloaks. She hadn’t gone hungry much since she learned to knock down birds with her stick sword, but she feared so much pigeon was making her sick. A couple she’d eaten raw, before she found Flea Bottom.
   In the Bottom there were pot-shops along the alleys where huge tubs of stew had been simmering for years, and you could trade half your bird for a heel of yesterday’s bread and a “bowl o’ brown,” and they’d even stick the other half in the fire and crisp it up for you, so long as you plucked the feathers yourself. Arya would have given anything for a cup of milk and a lemon cake, but the brown wasn’t so bad. It usually had barley in it, and chunks of carrot and onion and turnip, and sometimes even apple, with a film of grease swimming on top. Mostly she tried not to think about the meat. Once she had gotten a piece of fish.
   The only thing was, the pot-shops were never empty, and even as she bolted down her food, Arya could feel them watching. Some of them stared at her boots or her cloak, and she knew what they were thinking. With others, she could almost feel their eyes crawling under her leathers; she didn’t know what they were thinking, and that scared her even more. A couple times, she was followed out into the alleys and chased, but so far no one had been able to catch her.
   The silver bracelet she’d hoped to sell had been stolen her first night out of the castle, along with her bundle of good clothes, snatched while she slept in a burnt-out house off Pig Alley. All they left her was the cloak she had been huddled in, the leathers on her back, her wooden practice sword?.?.?.?and Needle. She’d been lying on top of Needle, or else it would have been gone too; it was worth more than all the rest together. Since then Arya had taken to walking around with her cloak draped over her right arm, to conceal the blade at her hip. The wooden sword she carried in her left hand, out where everybody could see it, to scare off robbers, but there were men in the pot-shops who wouldn’t have been scared off if she’d had a battle-axe. It was enough to make her lose her taste for pigeon and stale bread. Often as not, she went to bed hungry rather than risk the stares.
   Once she was outside the city, she would find berries to pick, or orchards she might raid for apples and cherries. Arya remembered seeing some from the kingsroad on the journey south. And she could dig for roots in the forest, even run down some rabbits. In the city, the only things to run down were rats and cats and scrawny dogs. The potshops would give you a fistful of coppers for a litter of pups, she’d heard, but she didn’t like to think about that.
   Down below the Street of Flour was a maze of twisting alleys and cross streets. Arya scrambled through the crowds, trying to put distance between her and the gold cloaks. She had learned to keep to the center of the street. Sometimes she had to dodge wagons and horses, but at least you could see them coming. If you walked near the buildings, people grabbed you. In some alleys you couldn’t help but brush against the walls; the buildings leaned in so close they almost met.
   A whooping gang of small children went running past, chasing a rolling hoop. Arya stared at them with resentment, remembering the times she’d played at hoops with Bran and Jon and their baby brother Rickon. She wondered how big Rickon had grown, and whether Bran was sad. She would have given anything if Jon had been here to call her “little sister” and muss her hair. Not that it needed mussing. She’d seen her reflection in puddles, and she didn’t think hair got any more mussed than hers.
   She had tried talking to the children she saw in the street, hoping to make a friend who would give her a place to sleep, but she must have talked wrong or something. The little ones only looked at her with quick, wary eyes and ran away if she came too close. Their big brothers and sisters asked questions Arya couldn’t answer, called her names, and tried to steal from her. Only yesterday, a scrawny barefoot girl twice her age had knocked her down and tried to pull the boots off her feet, but Arya gave her a crack on her ear with her stick sword that sent her off sobbing and bleeding.
   A gull wheeled overhead as she made her way down the hill toward Flea Bottom. Arya glanced at it thoughtfully, but it was well beyond the reach of her stick. It made her think of the sea. Maybe that was the way out. Old Nan used to tell stories of boys who stowed away on trading galleys and sailed off into all kinds of adventures. Maybe Arya could do that too. She decided to visit the riverfront. It was on the way to the Mud Gate anyway, and she hadn’t checked that one today.
   The wharfs were oddly quiet when Arya got there. She spied another pair of gold cloaks, walking side by side through the fish market, but they never so much as looked at her. Half the stalls were empty, and it seemed to her that there were fewer ships at dock than she remembered. Out on the Blackwater, three of the king’s war galleys moved in formation, gold-painted hulls splitting the water as their oars rose and fell. Arya watched them for a bit, then began to make her way along the river.
   When she saw the guardsmen on the third pier, in grey woolen cloaks trimmed with white satin, her heart almost stopped in her chest. The sight of Winterfell’s colors brought tears to her eyes. Behind them, a sleek three-banked trading galley rocked at her moorings. Arya could not read the name painted on the hull; the words were strange, Myrish, Braavosi, perhaps even High Valyrian. She grabbed a passing longshoreman by the sleeve. “Please,” she said, “what ship is this?”
   “She’s the Wind Witch, out of Myr,” the man said.
   “She’s still here,” Arya blurted. The longshoreman gave her a queer look, shrugged, and walked away. Arya ran toward the pier. The Wind Witch was the ship Father had hired to take her home?.?.?.?still waiting! She’d imagined it had sailed ages ago.
   Two of the guardsmen were dicing together while the third walked rounds, his hand on the pommel of his sword. Ashamed to let them see her crying like a baby, she stopped to rub at her eyes. Her eyes her eyes her eyes, why did?.?.?.?
   Look with your eyes, she heard Syrio whisper.
   Arya looked. She knew all of her father’s men. The three in the grey cloaks were strangers. “You,” the one walking rounds called out. “What do you want here, boy?” The other two looked up from their dice.
   It was all Arya could do not to bolt and run, but she knew that if she did, they would be after her at once. She made herself walk closer. They were looking for a girl, but he thought she was a boy. She’d be a boy, then. “Want to buy a pigeon?” She showed him the dead bird.
   “Get out of here,” the guardsman said.
   Arya did as he told her. She did not have to pretend to be frightened. Behind her, the men went back to their dice.
   She could not have said how she got back to Flea Bottom, but she was breathing hard by the time she reached the narrow crooked unpaved streets between the hills. The Bottom had a stench to it, a stink of pigsties and stables and tanner’s sheds, mixed in with the sour smell of winesinks and cheap whorehouses. Arya wound her way through the maze dully. It was not until she caught a whiff of bubbling brown coming through a pot-shop door that she realized her pigeon was gone. It must have slipped from her belt as she ran, or someone had stolen it and she’d never noticed. For a moment she wanted to cry again. She’d have to walk all the way back to the Street of Flour to find another one that plump.
   Far across the city, bells began to ring.
   Arya glanced up, listening, wondering what the ringing meant this time.
   “What’s this now?” a fat man called from the pot-shop.
   “The bells again, gods ha’mercy,” wailed an old woman.
   A red-haired whore in a wisp of painted silk pushed open a second-story window. “Is it the boy king that’s died now?” she shouted down, leaning out over the street. “Ah, that’s a boy for you, they never last long.” As she laughed, a naked man slid his arms around her from behind, biting her neck and rubbing the heavy white breasts that hung loose beneath her shift.
   “Stupid slut,” the fat man shouted up. “The king’s not dead, that’s only summoning bells. One tower tolling. When the king dies, they ring every bell in the city.”
   “Here, quit your biting, or I’ll ring your bells,” the woman in the window said to the man behind her, pushing him off with an elbow. “So who is it died, if not the king?”
   “It’s a summoning,” the fat man repeated.
   Two boys close to Arya’s age scampered past, splashing through a puddle. The old woman cursed them, but they kept right on going. Other people were moving too, heading up the hill to see what the noise was about. Arya ran after the slower boy. “Where you going?” she shouted when she was right behind him. “What’s happening?”
   He glanced back without slowing. “The gold cloaks is carryin’ him to the sept.”
   “Who?” she yelled, running hard.
   “The Hand! They’ll be taking his head off, Buu says.”
   A passing wagon had left a deep rut in the street. The boy leapt over, but Arya never saw it. She tripped and fell, face first, scraping her knee open on a stone and smashing her fingers when her hands hit the hard-packed earth. Needle tangled between her legs. She sobbed as she struggled to her knees. The thumb of her left hand was covered with blood. When she sucked on it, she saw that half the thumbnail was gone, ripped off in her fall. Her hands throbbed, and her knee was all bloody too.
   “Make way!” someone shouted from the cross street. “Make way for my lords of Redwyne!” It was all Arya could do to get out of the road before they ran her down, four guardsmen on huge horses, pounding past at a gallop. They wore checked cloaks, blue-and-burgundy. Behind them, two young lordlings rode side by side on a pair of chestnut mares alike as peas in a pod. Arya had seen them in the bailey a hundred times; the Redwyne twins, Ser Horas and Ser Hobber, homely youths with orange hair and square, freckled faces. Sansa and Jeyne Poole used to call them Ser Horror and Ser Slobber, and giggle whenever they caught sight of them. They did not look funny now.
   Everyone was moving in the same direction, all in a hurry to see what the ringing was all about. The bells seemed louder now, clanging, calling. Arya joined the stream of people. Her thumb hurt so bad where the nail had broken that it was all she could do not to cry. She bit her lip as she limped along, listening to the excited voices around her.
   “...the King’s Hand, Lord Stark. They’re carrying him up to Baelor’s Sept.”
   “I heard he was dead.”
   “Soon enough, soon enough. Here, I got me a silver stag says they lop his head off.”
   “Past time, the traitor.” The man spat.
   Arya struggled to find a voice. “He never...” she started, but she was only a child and they talked right over her.
   “Fool! They ain’t neither going to lop him. Since when do they knick traitors on the steps of the Great Sept?”
   “Well, they don’t mean to anoint him no knight. I heard it was Stark killed old King Robert. Slit his throat in the woods, and when they found him, he stood there cool as you please and said it was some old boar did for His Grace.”
   “Ah, that’s not true, it was his own brother did him, that Renly, him with his gold antlers.”
   “You shut your lying mouth, woman. You don’t know what you’re saying, his lordship’s a fine true man.”
   By the time they reached the Street of the Sisters, they were packed in shoulder to shoulder. Arya let the human current carry her along, up to the top of Visenya’s Hill. The white marble plaza was a solid mass of people, all yammering excitedly at each other and straining to get closer to the Great Sept of Baelor. The bells were very loud here.
   Arya squirmed through the press, ducking between the legs of horses and clutching tight to her sword stick. From the middle of the crowd, all she could see were arms and legs and stomachs, and the seven slender towers of the sept looming overhead. She spotted a wood wagon and thought to climb up on the back where she might be able to see, but others had the same idea. The teamster cursed at them and drove them off with a crack of his whip.
   Arya grew frantic. Forcing her way to the front of the crowd, she was shoved up against the stone of a plinth. She looked up at Baelor the Blessed, the septon king. Sliding her stick sword through her belt, Arya began to climb. Her broken thumbnail left smears of blood on the painted marble, but she made it up, and wedged herself in between the king’s feet.
   That was when she saw her father.
   Lord Eddard stood on the High Septon’s pulpit outside the doors of the sept, supported between two of the gold cloaks. He was dressed in a rich grey velvet doublet with a white wolf sewn on the front in beads, and a grey wool cloak trimmed with fur, but he was thinner than Arya had ever seen him, his long face drawn with pain. He was not standing so much as being held up; the cast over his broken leg was grey and rotten.
   The High Septon himself stood behind him, a squat man, grey with age and ponderously fat, wearing long white robes and an immense crown of spun gold and crystal that wreathed his head with rainbows whenever he moved.
   Clustered around the doors of the sept, in front of the raised marble pulpit, were a knot of knights and high lords. Joffrey was prominent among them, his raiment all crimson, silk and satin patterned with prancing stags and roaring lions, a gold crown on his head. His queen mother stood beside him in a black mourning gown slashed with crimson, a veil of black diamonds in her hair. Arya recognized the Hound, wearing a snowy white cloak over his dark grey armor, with four of the Kingsguard around him. She saw Varys the eunuch gliding among the lords in soft slippers and a patterned damask robe, and she thought the short man with the silvery cape and pointed beard might be the one who had once fought a duel for Mother.
   And there in their midst was Sansa, dressed in sky-blue silk, with her long auburn hair washed and curled and silver bracelets on her wrists. Arya scowled, wondering what her sister was doing here, why she looked so happy.
   A long line of gold-cloaked spearmen held back the crowd, commanded by a stout man in elaborate armor, all black lacquer and gold filigree. His cloak had the metallic shimmer of true cloth-of-gold.
   When the bell ceased to toll, a quiet slowly settled across the great plaza, and her father lifted his head and began to speak, his voice so thin and weak she could scarcely make him out. People behind her began to shout out, “What?” and “Louder!” The man in the black-and-gold armor stepped up behind Father and prodded him sharply. You leave him alone! Arya wanted to shout, but she knew no one would listen. She chewed her lip.
   Her father raised his voice and began again. “I am Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Hand of the King,” he said more loudly, his voice carrying across the plaza, “and I come before you to confess my treason in the sight of gods and men.”
   “No,” Arya whimpered. Below her, the crowd began to scream and shout. Taunts and obscenities filled the air. Sansa had hidden her face in her hands.
   Her father raised his voice still higher, straining to be heard. “I betrayed the faith of my king and the trust of my friend, Robert,” he shouted. “I swore to defend and protect his children, yet before his blood was cold, I plotted to depose and murder his son and seize the throne for myself. Let the High Septon and Baelor the Beloved and the Seven bear witness to the truth of what I say: Joffrey Baratheon is the one true heir to the Iron Throne, and by the grace of all the gods, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.”
   A stone came sailing out of the crowd. Arya cried out as she saw her father hit. The gold cloaks kept him from falling. Blood ran down his face from a deep gash across his forehead. More stones followed. One struck the guard to Father’s left. Another went clanging off the breastplate of the knight in the black-and-gold armor. Two of the Kingsguard stepped in front of Joffrey and the queen, protecting them with their shields.
   Her hand slid beneath her cloak and found Needle in its sheath. She tightened her fingers around the grip, squeezing as hard as she had ever squeezed anything. Please, gods, keep him safe, she prayed. Don’t let them hurt my father.
   The High Septon knelt before Joffrey and his mother. “As we sin, so do we suffer,” he intoned, in a deep swelling voice much louder than Father’s. “This man has confessed his crimes in the sight of gods and men, here in this holy place.” Rainbows danced around his head as he lifted his hands in entreaty. “The gods are just, yet Blessed Baelor taught us that they are also merciful. What shall be done with this traitor, Your Grace?”
   A thousand voices were screaming, but Arya never heard them. Prince Joffrey?.?.?.?no, King Joffrey?.?.?.?stepped out from behind the shields of his Kingsguard. “My mother bids me let Lord Eddard take the black, and Lady Sansa has begged mercy for her father.” He looked straight at Sansa then, and smiled, and for a moment Arya thought that the gods had heard her prayer, until Joffrey turned back to the crowd and said, “But they have the soft hearts of women. So long as I am your king, treason shall never go unpunished. Ser Ilyn, bring me his head!”
   The crowd roared, and Arya felt the statue of Baelor rock as they surged against it. The High Septon clutched at the king’s cape, and Varys came rushing over waving his arms, and even the queen was saying something to him, but Joffrey shook his head. Lords and knights moved aside as he stepped through, tall and fleshless, a skeleton in iron mail, the King’s Justice. Dimly, as if from far off, Arya heard her sister scream. Sansa had fallen to her knees, sobbing hysterically. Ser Ilyn Payne climbed the steps of the pulpit.
   Arya wriggled between Baelor’s feet and threw herself into the crowd, drawing Needle. She landed on a man in a butcher’s apron, knocking him to the ground. Immediately someone slammed into her back and she almost went down herself. Bodies closed in around her, stumbling and pushing, trampling on the poor butcher. Arya slashed at them with Needle.
   High atop the pulpit, Ser Ilyn Payne gestured and the knight in black-and-gold gave a command. The gold cloaks flung Lord Eddard to the marble, with his head and chest out over the edge.
   “Here, you!” an angry voice shouted at Arya, but she bowled past, shoving people aside, squirming between them, slamming into anyone in her way. A hand fumbled at her leg and she hacked at it, kicked at shins. A woman stumbled and Arya ran up her back, cutting to both sides, but it was no good, no good, there were too many people, no sooner did she make a hole than it closed again. Someone buffeted her aside. She could still hear Sansa screaming.
   Ser Ilyn drew a two-handed greatsword from the scabbard on his back. As he lifted the blade above his head, sunlight seemed to ripple and dance down the dark metal, glinting off an edge sharper than any razor. Ice, she thought, he has Ice! Her tears streamed down her face, blinding her.
   And then a hand shot out of the press and closed round her arm like a wolf trap, so hard that Needle went flying from her hand. Arya was wrenched off her feet. She would have fallen if he hadn’t held her up, as easy as if she were a doll. A face pressed close to hers, long black hair and tangled beard and rotten teeth. “Don’t look!” a thick voice snarled at her.
   “I?.?.?.?I?.?.?.?I?.?.?.?” Arya sobbed.
   The old man shook her so hard her teeth rattled. “Shut your mouth and close your eyes, boy.” Dimly, as if from far away, she heard a?.?.?.?a noise?.?.?.?a soft sighing sound, as if a million people had let out their breath at once. The old man’s fingers dug into her arm, stiff as iron. “Look at me. Yes, that’s the way of it, at me.” Sour wine perfumed his breath. “Remember, boy?”
   It was the smell that did it. Arya saw the matted greasy hair, the patched, dusty black cloak that covered his twisted shoulders, the hard black eyes squinting at her. And she remembered the black brother who had come to visit her father.
   “Know me now, do you? There’s a bright boy.” He spat. “They’re done here. You’ll be coming with me, and you’ll be keeping your mouth shut.” When she started to reply, he shook her again, even harder. “Shut, I said.”
   The plaza was beginning to empty. The press dissolved around them as people drifted back to their lives. But Arya’s life was gone. Numb, she trailed along beside?.?.?.?Yoren, yes, his name is Yoren. She did not recall him finding Needle, until he handed the sword back to her. “Hope you can use that, boy.”
   “I’m not...” she started.
   He shoved her into a doorway, thrust dirty fingers through her hair, and gave it a twist, yanking her head back. “...not a smart boy, that what you mean to say?”
   He had a knife in his other hand.
   As the blade flashed toward her face, Arya threw herself backward, kicking wildly, wrenching her head from side to side, but he had her by the hair, so strong, she could feel her scalp tearing, and on her lips the salt taste of tears.



Ⅰ 权力的游戏 Chapter66 艾莉亚
　　从面粉街沿路店铺传出的热面包气味，比艾莉亚闻过的任何一种香水都要诱人。她深吸一口气，朝鸽子又靠近一步。这是只肥鸽，身上长满褐斑，正忙着啄食地上鹅卵石缝隙间的面包屑。然而艾莉亚的影子一碰到它，它便拍翅飞起。
　　她的木剑咻地一声窜出，在离地两尺的半空中击中鸟儿，随后它便伴着一堆棕羽毛掉落地面。只一眨眼功夫，她便冲到鸽子旁边，抓住它一只翅膀。鸽子拼命振翅欲飞，还啄她的手。但她抓住它的脖子用力一扭，直到感觉骨头断裂。
　　与抓猫相比，捕鸽子实在简单。
　　一位路过的修士疑惑地看着她。“这里是抓鸽子最好的地方，”艾莉亚一边拍拍身子，拾起掉落的木剑，一边向他解释，“因为它们会来吃面包屑。”听罢此言，他急急忙忙地离开。
　　她把鸽子绑在皮带上，沿着街走下去。一名男子推着一辆两轮车，上面满满地放着果酱甜饼，散发出蓝莓、柠檬和杏子的香气。她的空腹咕噜作响。“可以给我一个么？”她听见自己说，“柠檬，或是……或是什么口味都好。”
　　推车的男子上下打量她，显然不太喜欢眼前的光景。“三个铜板。”
　　艾莉亚用木剑敲敲靴边。“我用一只肥鸽跟你换，”她说。
　　“异鬼才要你的鸽子呢。”推车男子道。
　　刚出炉的果酱饼热腾腾的，香味馋得她直流口水，但她没有三枚铜板……连一个都没有。她看了推车男子一眼，想起西利欧教导她“洞察真相”。他生得很矮，挺着圆圆的小腹，走路时似乎重心偏左。她正在思考假如自己抓了一块饼拔腿就跑，他应该追不上时，只听他说：“把你的脏手给我拿开。你瞧，金袍子知道怎么对付小扒手。”
　　艾莉亚满怀戒心地往后看去。两名都城守卫站在巷口，身披金黄色的厚重羊毛披风，几乎垂到地上；他们的护甲、长靴和手套则是黑色。其中一人腰际佩了长剑，另一个则拿了根铁棍。艾莉亚依依不舍地看了果酱饼最后一眼，转身跑开。金袍卫士虽没特别注意她，可她一看到他们就浑身不对劲。这段时间以来，艾莉亚尽可能地远离城堡，然而即使离得很远，她依旧能看见高高的红墙上腐烂的人头，每颗头上都有大群乌鸦盘旋乱叫，多得像垃圾堆里的苍蝇。跳蚤窟里传言，金袍卫士和兰尼斯特家狼狈为奸，他们的指挥官因而跻身贵族之列，不仅获得了三叉戟河附近的封地，还成了国王的重臣。
　　她也听说了其他的事，吓人的事，把她弄糊涂了。有人说父亲谋害了劳勃国王，之后被蓝礼公爵所杀。有人坚持是两兄弟醉酒发生口角，蓝礼失手把劳勃杀掉的，否则他干嘛大半夜像个小偷似的溜走哩？一种版本的故事宣称国王出外打猎时被一头野猪所杀，另一种版本的故事又说他是吃野猪肉活活撑死。还有人说，不对，国王虽是死在餐桌上，却是因为八爪蜘蛛瓦里斯给他下了毒。不对，毒害他的是王后。不对，他是生疹子死的。不对，他是给鱼骨头噎死的。
　　所有故事只有一个共通之处：劳勃国王死了。贝勒大圣堂的七座钟塔响彻日夜，哀悼的鸣动如雷般朝众人滚滚袭来。一位皮匠学徒告诉艾莉亚，只有国王驾崩时，他们才会这样敲钟。
　　她只想回家，但离开君临远不如她想像的那么容易。每个人都在谈论战争，而城墙上的金袍卫士之多，就好像……好像她身上的跳蚤一样。这段时间，她都睡在跳蚤窝，不管屋顶、马厩，只要能躺下来的地方就行。没过多久，她发现这街区的名字取得真是恰当。
　　自从逃出红堡后，她每天都会到七座城门各绕一遍。巨龙门、雄狮门和旧城门都已紧紧关闭，加上门闩。烂泥门和诸神门虽然还开着，但金袍卫士把守严密，只进不出。获准离开的人走的是国王门和钢铁门，但这两道门由身穿鲜红披风，头顶雄狮头盔的兰尼斯特部队亲自守卫。艾莉亚曾趴在国王门附近的一家旅店屋顶上，眺望过去，只见他们搜索马车货物，强迫骑者打开鞍袋，详加盘查每位徒步出城的人。
　　她也想过游泳渡河，但黑水河既宽且深，而每个人都知道里面的暗流汹涌莫测。要搭船，她又没钱付给船夫。
　　父亲大人教导她绝不能偷东西，可到底为什么不能偷，她是越来越模糊了。眼下她再不赶紧出城，迟早会被金袍子找上。虽然自从她学会用木剑打鸟，肚子就很少挨饿，但天天吃鸽子肉，她已经有些反胃。在找到跳蚤窝以前，有两次她还是生吃的。
　　跳蚤窝的巷子里，有许多煮着大锅浓汤，终年冒烟的食堂。你可以用半只鸟跟他们换一点昨天的面包和一碗“褐汤”，假如你肯自己拔毛，他们还愿意帮你把另外半只鸟烤得香香脆脆。艾莉亚愿以任何代价换取一杯牛奶和一块柠檬蛋糕，但“褐汤”其实也不坏。浓汤表面浮着一层油，里面通常有大麦、胡萝卜块、洋葱和芜菁，有时还有苹果。她已经学会了不去幻想肉的味道。只有一次，她在汤里吃到一片鱼肉。
　　惟一的麻烦是，这些食堂永远挤满了人，每当艾莉亚狼吞虎咽时，总觉得他们盯着她看。他们瞪着她的靴子和斗篷，她很清楚对方在想些什么。还有些人的目光，让她感觉好像在她的皮衣下面爬，她不明白这些人在想什么，反而更加害怕。更有几次她遭人跟踪，在暗巷里没命奔逃，好在到目前为止，没人抓得到她。
　　她原本打算变卖换钱的银手镯，早在离开城堡的第一天晚上就被偷了。当晚她睡在猪巷一间烧毁的屋子里，手镯和那包贵重衣物就在熟睡中不翼而飞，只剩裹在身上的披风，穿着的皮衣和那把练习木剑……以及“缝衣针”。她躺在缝衣针上，否则它肯定也会被偷走，它可比其他东西加起来还要宝贵呢。从那之后，艾莉亚走路时便习惯让斗篷盖住右手，用以遮掩佩在腰际的宝剑。她把木剑拿在左手，让所有人都看得到，用以吓唬强盗——只可惜食堂里有些人，就算她拿着一柄战斧，恐怕也无所谓。看到这些人，足以让她对鸽子肉和硬面包的胃口全失。所以有时候她宁可空着肚子睡觉，也不愿冒险被这些人注意。
　　一旦出城，她便可采野莓吃，或找个果园偷摘苹果和樱桃。艾莉亚记得南下途中曾看到好多园子。再不济，她还可以在森林里挖草根，甚至抓兔子吃。城里会跑的动物，只有老鼠、猫和瘦狗。听说一窝小狗可以在食堂换得一把铜板，但她想想就觉得不安。
　　面粉街下的巷道错综复杂，有如迷宫，艾莉亚在人群里推挤，拉开和金袍卫士之间的距离。她已经学会走在道路中央，虽然免不了时时闪躲车辆和马匹，但至少可以看清来者是谁。假如你走得太靠近建筑物，很容易被人一把攫住。可惜在某些巷子里，你不得不贴墙走：建筑物之间距离太近，几乎彼此相连。
　　一群孩童大呼小叫地跑过身边，追着一个滚动的铁环。艾莉亚怨恨地瞪着他们，想起以前和布兰、琼恩以及小瑞肯玩滚铁环的时光。她不知现在瑞肯长大了多少，也不知布兰是否伤心难过。她愿意付出任何代价，只要琼恩能在她身边，叫她“我的小妹”，弄乱她的头发。其实她的头发已经够乱了，之前她在路上的积水坑中看见自己的倒影，只觉这是全天下最脏的头发。
　　她曾试着和街上的小孩说话，看能不能交个朋友，让她有地方睡。可能是她说错话了吧，年纪小的孩子只是充满戒心，飞快地瞧她一眼，如果她靠近，便立刻跑开。而他们的大哥大姐则会问些艾莉亚回答不出的问题，给她取难听的绰号，甚至偷她的东西。昨天，便有个打着赤脚，骨瘦如柴，年纪足足是她两倍的女孩把她打倒在地，企图扯下她的那双靴子。艾莉亚拿起木剑，喀地一声打中对方耳朵，令她抽抽噎噎地流着血跑走了。
　　她走下雷妮丝丘陵的缓坡，朝跳蚤窝走去。一只海鸥飞过头顶，艾莉亚若有所思地看着它，可它超出木剑攻击范围太远。看到海鸥，不禁让她想起海洋，说不定这正是逃走的办法。老奶妈以前常说一个故事，有位小男孩躲在商船货舱里逃走，结果遇上各式各样的精彩冒险，或许艾莉亚也行哩。于是她决定去河边看看，反正会路过烂泥门，而她今天还没去那儿呢。
　　艾莉亚抵达码头时，周围静得出奇。她瞥见两个金袍卫士，正并排穿过鱼市，可他们看都没看她一眼。市场的摊贩空了一半，港口的船只也比她记忆中少。黑水河上，三艘国王的战船排成固定阵形巡逻，船桨起起落落，金色的船壳破浪前进。艾莉亚看了一会儿，然后开始沿河走。
　　当她看见站在三号码头边，身穿灰色羊毛滚白缎披风的卫士时，她的心几乎停止了跳动。临冬城的颜色，她的眼泪不禁夺眶而出。在他们身后，有一条漂亮的三桅商船，泊在码头里轻轻摆动。艾莉亚看不懂船壳上漆的字，那是种奇怪的语言，可能是密尔语、布拉佛斯语甚至高等瓦雷利亚语。她抓住一个路过的码头工的袖子。“请问，”她说，“这艘船是？”
　　“密尔来的‘风之巫女’号。”那人说。
　　“它还在这儿啊。”艾莉亚脱口便道。码头工人神情怪异地看了她一眼，耸耸肩走了。艾莉亚朝码头跑去。风之巫女号正是父亲雇来送她回家的……它竟然还在这儿！她以为船早就开走了。
　　三个守卫之中，两个在赌骰子，另一个则手按剑柄来回巡视。她不能像个小婴儿一样哭哭啼啼地走过去，给他们见着了准会丢脸，于是她停下来揉揉眼睛。眼睛，眼睛，眼睛，他们为什么还……
　　用你的眼睛看，西利欧的话在耳际回荡。
　　艾莉亚仔细看去。她认得父亲所有的侍卫，但这三个穿灰披风的人她从没见过。“喂，”正在巡逻的那人叫道，“小子，你干什么？”玩骰子的两人抬起头来。
　　艾莉亚用尽浑身解数，才忍住惶恐，没有拔腿就跑。她知道自己若真跑了，他们会立刻追上。于是她逼自己走得更近。他们要找的是个女孩，但他把她错当成小男生了。既然如此，她就当个小男生吧。“要不要买鸽子啊？”她把死鸟拿给他看。
　　“快滚吧你。”守卫说。
　　艾莉亚立刻照办，她根本不需要假装害怕。她一转身，那两人又重新赌起骰子。
　　她不记得自己是怎么跑回跳蚤窝的，但当她抵达丘陵间弯弯曲曲的狭窄巷道时，差点喘不过气。跳蚤窝里有一种臭味，混杂了猪圈、马厩和皮匠棚的气息，外加酸败酒肆和廉价妓院的味道。艾莉亚在这迷宫里麻木地走着，直到经过一间食堂，闻到从门口传出的沸腾褐汤的香味，才发现鸽子没了。一定是跑的时候从腰带上掉了，不然就是有人趁她不备偷走。一时之间，她的眼泪又快掉了下来。她可得大老远走到面粉街，才找得到那么肥的鸽子哪。
　　在城市遥远的另一头，钟声响起。
　　艾莉亚抬眼倾听，不禁纳闷这次的钟声又代表着什么。
　　“这会儿又怎么啦？”食堂里有个胖子喊。
　　“天上诸神行行好，怎么这钟成天响个没完啊。”一名老妇人哀嚎。
　　邻街二楼，有个穿着轻薄彩绘丝衣的红发妓女推开窗户。“这会儿换那小鬼国王死啦？”她探身朝下喊，“我说啊，小鬼就是这德行，个个都不持久！”她正在笑，一个浑身赤裸的男人便伸手从后面抱住她，咬着她的脖子，一边隔着薄衫，用力搓揉她垂在胸前的那对白色大奶子。
　　“你这没脑筋的骚货！”胖子朝二楼叫道，“国王没死，这会儿敲的是集合钟，只有一座塔里的钟在响。国王死的时候，城里每座钟都会响。”
　　“喂，行了，行了，别咬了！再咬小心我敲你的‘钟’！”窗边的女人对身后的男人说，并用手肘推开他。“不是国王，那是谁死了哩？”
　　“这只是集合钟。”胖子重复。
　　两个与艾莉亚年纪相仿的男孩蹦蹦跳跳地跑过，哗啦溅起一大滩水。老妇人咒骂他们，但他们没有停步。其他人也开始陆续朝丘陵上移动，想看看究竟是怎么回事。艾莉亚追着一个动作慢的男孩跑。“你去哪儿？”跑到他背后时，她叫道，“发生了什么事？”
　　他回头看了一眼，脚步却没慢下。“金袍子要把他带去大圣堂。”
　　“带谁？”她大声叫着，拼命快跑。
　　“当然是首相啊！阿布说他们要砍他的头咧。”
　　一辆经过的马车在地上留下深深的车辙。男孩一跃而过，但艾莉亚没有在意，结果被这么一绊，整个人扑倒在地，一只脚擦到石头，膝盖全破了皮，指头则狠狠地撞上硬泥地，缝衣针也钩住了脚。她抽抽噎噎地挣扎着站起身，左手大拇指全是血。她把拇指伸进嘴里吸吮，才发现摔倒时断了半片指甲。她的双手痛得要命，膝盖红成一片。
　　“速速回避！”十字街口有人高喊，“雷德温大人驾到！速速回避！”艾莉亚好容易才从路中央跑开，差点没被活活踩死。四名穿着蓝红相间格子披风的卫士骑着高大骏马，轰隆隆地经过，在他们之后是两位贵族小少爷，肩并肩骑乘两匹栗子色母马，宛如一个盘里的豌豆。艾莉亚在城堡院子里见过他们几百次，他们是雷德温家的双胞胎，霍拉斯爵士和霍柏爵士，年纪很轻，相貌平庸，橙色头发，还有长满雀斑的方脸。珊莎和珍妮·普尔以前常背地里叫他们“恐怖爵士”和“流口水”爵士，一见到他们，就咯咯直笑。但他们现在的模样可一点都不好笑。
　　每个人都朝着同一方向前进，急着想弄清敲钟的缘故。钟声似乎越来越大，叮当做响，不停呼唤。艾莉亚加入人潮，断指甲痛得不得了，她拼命忍住才没尖叫出声。她紧咬嘴唇，一路跛行，一边倾听周围兴奋的话音。
　　“——是御前首相史塔克大人。他们要把他带到贝勒大圣堂去。”
　　“我听说他死了。”
　　“就快啦，就快啦。来来来，我赌一个银鹿他们会砍他的头。”
　　“早该砍头了，这卖国贼。”男人啐了口唾沫。
　　艾莉亚挣扎着想出声。“他才没有——”她开口，可她只是个孩子，他们的说话声完全把她盖住了。
　　“笨蛋！他们才不会砍他头哩。打哪时起叛徒砍头是在大圣堂啊？”
　　“呃，总不会是封他当骑士吧？我听说啊，杀咱们老国王劳勃的就是这史塔克。他在森林里割了陛下的喉咙，后来被发现时，还装作没事人似的，撒谎说陛下是被啥老野猪干掉的。”
　　“唉，才不是这样，杀死陛下的是他老弟，就那个头生金鹿角的蓝礼。”
　　“臭女人，你给我闭上你那张碎嘴！少在这儿胡扯，蓝礼大人他是个正直的好人。”
　　等他们到了静默姐妹街，人群已经摩肩擦踵，挤得水泄不通。艾莉亚任由人潮将推上维桑尼亚丘顶。圣堂前的白色大理石广场满满的都是人，兴奋地彼此交谈，拥挤着希望能更靠近贝勒大圣堂。这里，钟声非常响亮。
　　艾莉亚左推右挤，在一双双马腿之间穿梭，同时还得抓紧她的剑。在人群里，她只能看到别人的手脚和肚子，以及耸立头顶的七座纤细高塔。她瞄到一辆木马车，便想爬上去，期望这样看得比较清楚，但四周的人也有相同的念头，结果车夫破口大骂，鞭子一挥把他们通通赶走。
　　艾莉亚急了，她硬是往前钻，结果被人群挤得贴在一个石头基座上。她抬起头，看到“主教国王，受神祝福的”圣贝勒的脸庞，于是艾莉亚把剑塞进腰带，开始往上爬。虽然断掉的指甲在彩绘大理石上留下斑斑血迹，但她最后还是爬了上去，楔进国王的两腿中间。
　　她看到了父亲。
　　艾德公爵站在圣堂大门外的总主教讲坛上，左右各由一位金袍卫士搀扶。他穿着一件厚实的灰天鹅绒上衣，胸前用珠子绣了一只白狼，肩披灰色羊毛滚绒边斗篷，但艾莉亚从没见他这么瘦过，那张长脸上写满了痛苦。他几乎无法站立，全靠两个卫兵支撑，他断腿上的石膏是灰的，整个都烂掉了。
　　站在他身后的是矮胖的总主教，年事已高，发色灰白，臃肿不堪，身着一件纯白长袍，头戴一顶由金箔和水晶做成的巨大宝冠，随着他的动作散发出七彩虹光。
　　在圣堂的大门边，在高高的讲坛前，聚集了一群骑士和贵族。乔佛里一身大红丝衣和缎子装束，绣满腾跃雄鹿与怒吼猛狮，头戴金冠，在人群之中最为显眼。王后站在他身旁，穿了一袭哀悼的黑礼服，衣上间或有几许红丝，发际戴着黑钻石头纱。艾莉亚认出了猎狗，他身穿暗灰盔甲，外罩雪白披风，旁边围绕着四个御林铁卫。她也看见了太监瓦里斯，他披着彩绘的锦缎袍子，穿了拖鞋，在贵族之间游走。至于那个披着银斗篷，生了尖胡须的矮个子，她认为就是那个曾为母亲决斗的人。
　　珊莎也站在这群人中间，穿了一袭天蓝丝质礼服，长长的卷曲的枣红头发放了下来，手腕上戴了好些个银手镯。艾莉亚皱起眉头，不知姐姐在这里干嘛，更不知她为何看来如此高兴。
　　在一名粗壮的中年人指挥下，一长排金袍熗兵把群众挡在外围。那人身着一副华丽盔甲，上了黑漆，镶有金线，他的披风则用货真价实的金缕缝成，闪耀着金属光泽。
　　钟声停止，一阵寂静慢慢地笼罩住整个大广场。父亲抬起头，开始说话，但他的声音气若游丝，她听不出他说了什么。她身后的人大声叫嚣：“搞什么？”“大声点！”接着那个身穿黑金盔甲的人踱到父亲身后，狠狠戳了他一下。你不要欺负他！艾莉亚想大喊。但她知道没人会理会的，于是她咬紧嘴唇。
　　父亲提高音量，重新开始：“我是临冬城公爵暨国王之手，艾德·史塔克，”他越说越响亮，声音在广场回荡。“今天我来到这里，当着天上诸神和地上凡人的面，承认我的叛国罪行。”
　　“不要！”艾莉亚哀嚎。她下面的群众开始大吼大叫，空中充满了各种嘲弄与脏话。珊莎则把脸深埋进双手间。
　　父亲再度提高音量，努力让众人都听见。“我背叛了我的国王，我的挚友，劳勃。我背叛了他的信任与托付，”他高喊，“我发誓保护他的孩子，然而当他尸骨未寒，我便阴谋废黜并杀害他的儿子，自立为王。现在，请总主教、“受神爱护的”贝勒，以及至高七神为我所说的真相作见证：乔佛里·拜拉席恩乃铁王座惟一的合法继承人，以天上七神之名，他是七国统治者与全境守护者。”
　　人群里飞出一颗石头，击中父亲，艾莉亚见状叫出声来。金袍卫士撑着他，不让他倒下，他的前额砸出一道深深的伤口，鲜血汩汩流下。更多石头随即跟进，有一块打到了父亲左边的卫士，更有一个匡当一声，正中黑金铠甲骑士的前胸。两名御林铁卫出列挡在乔佛里和王后身前，举起盾牌保护他们。
　　她的手伸到斗篷下，抽出鞘里的缝衣针。她使出浑身力气，紧紧握住剑柄。天上诸神，求求你们，请你们保护他，她暗自祷告，别让他们伤害我父亲。
　　总主教在乔佛里和他母亲面前跪下。“因为我们有罪，所以我们受苦，”他用浑厚而低沉的声音吟诵，音量比父亲大上许多。“此人当着天上诸神与地上凡人的面，于此神圣之处所坦承其罪行。”他高举双手祈求，头际闪耀七彩虹光。“天上诸神是公正的，然而‘受神祝福的’贝勒曾教导我们，他们同时也是慈悲的。国王陛下，请问该如何处置这名叛徒呢？”
　　四周众声喧哗，但艾莉亚全不在意。乔佛里王子……不，是乔佛里“国王”……从御林铁卫的盾牌后方踱步而出。“我的母亲敦请我让艾德公爵穿上黑衣，珊莎小姐也多次为她父亲求情。”说完，他直直地盯着珊莎，面露微笑，一时间，艾莉亚以为天上诸神当真听见了她的祈祷，但乔佛里随即转身面对群众，“那是她们软弱的妇女心肠使然。只要我一日为王，叛国之罪必将严惩！伊林爵士，给我砍下他的头！”
　　群众哗然。他们纷纷向前推挤，艾莉亚只觉贝勒的雕像也跟着摇晃。总主教抓住国王的披风，瓦里斯则冲上前来指手画脚，就连王后都对他说着些什么，但乔佛里只摇摇头。贵族和骑士让开一条路，“他”走了出来。御前执法官伊林·派恩爵士，身躯高大，骨瘦如柴，活像一具穿着铁甲的骷髅。艾莉亚隐约听到姐姐的尖叫，从遥远的地方传来。珊莎双膝一跪，歇斯底里地啜泣。伊林爵士爬上讲坛的阶梯。
　　艾莉亚从贝勒的双脚间扭出身子，握着缝衣针，跳进人群。她正跳到一个穿屠夫围裙的人身上，把那人撞倒在地，但立刻就有人轰然撞上她的背，害她也险些跟着摔倒。四周都是身躯，跌跌撞撞，相互推挤，把可怜的屠夫踩在脚下。艾莉亚拿起缝衣针朝他们挥砍。
　　在高高的讲坛上，伊林·派恩爵士做了个手势，黑金铠甲的骑士立即下达命令。金袍卫士把艾德大人按在大理石板上，头和胸露出台子边缘。
　　“喂！干什么啊你！”一个愤怒的声音对艾莉亚大吼，但她浑不关心，她或把人推开，或从中钻过，谁要挡路就一头撞去。有人伸手抓她的脚，她挥剑便砍，又用力踢中对方胫骨。有位女人摔倒，艾莉亚立刻跳上她的背，一边朝左右猛砍，可是没用，完全没用，人实在是太多了，无论何处，她才瞥见缺口，瞬间又被人填满。有人在殴打她，想把她赶开。她惟一能分辨的是珊莎的尖叫。
　　伊林爵士从背后抽出一把双手巨剑，当他把剑高举过头时，阳光在沉暗的金属上舞跃波动，那剑锋比任何剃刀都要锐利。寒冰，她意识到，他拿的是寒冰！眼泪流下两颊，遮住了视线。
　　正在这时，一只手从人群中飞速窜出，如捕狼的陷阱般紧紧扣住她的手臂，力道之大，使得缝衣针从手里飞了出去。艾莉亚被抓离地面，她觉得自己好像个洋娃娃，被轻易地擒来抱去。一张脸贴上了来，这张脸有黑长发，还有纠结的胡须和烂掉的牙齿。“不要看！”对方粗声粗气地对她咆哮。
　　“我……我……我……”艾莉亚抽抽噎噎地哭着。
　　老人用力摇她，摇得她牙齿喀喀作响。“小子，你给我乖乖闭嘴，把眼睛也闭上。”隐隐约约，仿佛从很遥远的地方，她听见……一个声音……一声轻轻的叹息，好似几百万人同时舒了一口气。老人铁一般的手指抠进她的手臂。“看着我，没错，就这样，看着我就好。”他满口酒臭。“小子，记得我么？”
　　这个味道起了作用。艾莉亚看着他那头油腻的乱发，满是灰尘和补丁的黑斗篷，扭曲的肩膀，以及那双直直盯着她的坚定黑眼珠，想起了曾来拜访父亲的黑衣弟兄。
　　“认出我了吧，对不对？这才是好孩子。”他啐了一口，“这儿没什么好看的。你跟我走，把嘴巴闭上。”她正要回答，他更用力地摇她。“我说了，把嘴巴闭上。”
　　广场上的群众开始散去，人潮渐息，人们纷纷返回各自的生活。只是艾莉亚的生活却已经找不着了，她麻木地跟着他……尤伦，对了，他叫尤伦。她不记得他回去找过缝衣针，可他却把剑还给她。“小子，希望这东西你真的会用。”
　　“我不是——”她开口。
　　他把她推进一道门，伸出脏兮兮的手指，抓住她的头发往后一扯。“——不是个聪明小子，你是不是要说这个？”
　　他另一只手里握着匕首。
　　眼见刀子朝她迎面逼近，艾莉亚猛地往后撞去，两脚狂踢，死命扭头，但他抓住了她的头发，力气好大，她觉得头皮都被扯了下来。唇上，是咸咸的泪水。
[ 此帖被挽墨在2015-09-07 00:39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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Chapter 66

  
   BRAN
   The oldest were men grown, seventeen and eighteen years from the day of their naming. One was past twenty. Most were younger, sixteen or less.
   Bran watched them from the balcony of Maester Luwin’s turret, listening to them grunt and strain and curse as they swung their staves and wooden swords. The yard was alive to the clack of wood on wood, punctuated all too often by thwacks and yowls of pain when a blow struck leather or flesh. Ser Rodrik strode among the boys, face reddening beneath his white whiskers, muttering at them one and all. Bran had never seen the old knight look so fierce. “No,” he kept saying. “No. No. No.”
   “They don’t fight very well,” Bran said dubiously. He scratched Summer idly behind the ears as the direwolf tore at a haunch of meat. Bones crunched between his teeth.
   “For a certainty,” Maester Luwin agreed with a deep sigh. The maester was peering through his big Myrish lens tube, measuring shadows and noting the position of the comet that hung low in the morning sky. “Yet given time?.?.?.?Ser Rodrik has the truth of it, we need men to walk the walls. Your lord father took the cream of his guard to King’s Landing, and your brother took the rest, along with all the likely lads for leagues around. Many will not come back to us, and we must needs find the men to take their places.”
   Bran stared resentfully at the sweating boys below. “If I still had my legs, I could beat them all.” He remembered the last time he’d held a sword in his hand, when the king had come to Winterfell. It was only a wooden sword, yet he’d knocked Prince Tommen down half a hundred times. “Ser Rodrik should teach me to use a poleaxe. If I had a poleaxe with a big long haft, Hodor could be my legs. We could be a knight together.”
   “I think that?.?.?.?unlikely,” Maester Luwin said. “Bran, when a man fights, his arms and legs and thoughts must be as one.”
   Below in the yard, Ser Rodrik was yelling. “You fight like a goose. He pecks you and you peck him harder. Parry! Block the blow. Goose fighting will not suffice. If those were real swords, the first peck would take your arm off!” One of the other boys laughed, and the old knight rounded on him. “You laugh. You. Now that is gall. You fight like a hedgehog?.?.?.?”
   “There was a knight once who couldn’t see,” Bran said stubbornly, as Ser Rodrik went on below. “Old Nan told me about him. He had a long staff with blades at both ends and he could spin it in his hands and chop two men at once.”
   “Symeon Star-Eyes,” Luwin said as he marked numbers in a book. “When he lost his eyes, he put star sapphires in the empty sockets, or so the singers claim. Bran, that is only a story, like the tales of Florian the Fool. A fable from the Age of Heroes.” The maester tsked. “You must put these dreams aside, they will only break your heart.”
   The mention of dreams reminded him. “I dreamed about the crow again last night. The one with three eyes. He flew into my bedchamber and told me to come with him, so I did. We went down to the crypts. Father was there, and we talked. He was sad.”
   “And why was that?” Luwin peered through his tube.
   “It was something to do about Jon, I think.” The dream had been deeply disturbing, more so than any of the other crow dreams. “Hodor won’t go down into the crypts.”
   The maester had only been half listening, Bran could tell. He lifted his eye from the tube, blinking. “Hodor won’t?.?.?.?”
   “Go down into the crypts. When I woke, I told him to take me down, to see if Father was truly there. At first he didn’t know what I was saying, but I got him to the steps by telling him to go here and go there, only then he wouldn’t go down. He just stood on the top step and said ‘Hodor,’ like he was scared of the dark, but I had a torch. It made me so mad I almost gave him a swat in the head, like Old Nan is always doing.” He saw the way the maester was frowning and hurriedly added, “I didn’t, though.”
   “Good. Hodor is a man, not a mule to be beaten.”
   “In the dream I flew down with the crow, but I can’t do that when I’m awake,” Bran explained.
   “Why would you want to go down to the crypts?”
   “I told you. To look for Father.”
   The maester tugged at the chain around his neck, as he often did when he was uncomfortable. “Bran, sweet child, one day Lord Eddard will sit below in stone, beside his father and his father’s father and all the Starks back to the old Kings in the North?.?.?.?but that will not be for many years, gods be good. Your father is a prisoner of the queen in King’s Landing. You will not find him in the crypts.”
   “He was there last night. I talked to him.”
   “Stubborn boy,” the maester sighed, setting his book aside. “Would you like to go see?”
   “I can’t. Hodor won’t go, and the steps are too narrow and twisty for Dancer.”
   “I believe I can solve that difficulty.”
   In place of Hodor, the wildling woman Osha was summoned. She was tall and tough and uncomplaining, willing to go wherever she was commanded. “I lived my life beyond the Wall, a hole in the ground won’t fret me none, m’lords,” she said.
   “Summer, come,” Bran called as she lifted him in wiry-strong arms. The direwolf left his bone and followed as Osha carried Bran across the yard and down the spiral steps to the cold vault under the earth. Maester Luwin went ahead with a torch. Bran did not even mind, too badly, that she carried him in her arms and not on her back. Ser Rodrik had ordered Osha’s chain struck off, since she had served faithfully and well since she had been at Winterfell. She still wore the heavy iron shackles around her ankles, a sign that she was not yet wholly trusted, but they did not hinder her sure strides down the steps.
   Bran could not recall the last time he had been in the crypts. It had been before, for certain. When he was little, he used to play down here with Robb and Jon and his sisters.
   He wished they were here now; the vault might not have seemed so dark and scary. Summer stalked out in the echoing gloom, then stopped, lifted his head, and sniffed the chill dead air. He bared his teeth and crept backward, eyes glowing golden in the light of the maester’s torch. Even Osha, hard as old iron, seemed uncomfortable. “Grim folk, by the look of them,” she said as she eyed the long row of granite Starks on their stone thrones.
   “They were the Kings of Winter,” Bran whispered. Somehow it felt wrong to talk too loudly in this place.
   Osha smiled. “Winter’s got no king. If you’d seen it, you’d know that, summer boy.”
   “They were the Kings in the North for thousands of years,” Maester Luwin said, lifting the torch high so the light shone on the stone faces. Some were hairy and bearded, shaggy men fierce as the wolves that crouched by their feet. Others were shaved clean, their features gaunt and sharp-edged as the iron longswords across their laps. “Hard men for a hard time. Come.” He strode briskly down the vault, past the procession of stone pillars and the endless carved figures. A tongue of flame trailed back from the upraised torch as he went.
   The vault was cavernous, longer than Winterfell itself, and Jon had told him once that there were other levels underneath, vaults even deeper and darker where the older kings were buried. It would not do to lose the light. Summer refused to move from the steps, even when Osha followed the torch, Bran in her arms.
   “Do you recall your history, Bran?” the maester said as they walked. “Tell Osha who they were and what they did, if you can.”
   He looked at the passing faces and the tales came back to him. The maester had told him the stories, and Old Nan had made them come alive. “That one is Jon Stark. When the sea raiders landed in the east, he drove them out and built the castle at White Harbor. His son was Rickard Stark, not my father’s father but another Rickard, he took the Neck away from the Marsh King and married his daughter. Theon Stark’s the real thin one with the long hair and the skinny beard. They called him the ‘Hungry Wolf,’ because he was always at war. That’s a Brandon, the tall one with the dreamy face, he was Brandon the Shipwright, because he loved the sea. His tomb is empty. He tried to sail west across the Sunset Sea and was never seen again. His son was Brandon the Burner, because he put the torch to all his father’s ships in grief. There’s Rodrik Stark, who won Bear Island in a wrestling match and gave it to the Mormonts. And that’s Torrhen Stark, the King Who Knelt. He was the last King in the North and the first Lord of Winterfell, after he yielded to Aegon the Conqueror. Oh, there, he’s Cregan Stark. He fought with Prince Aemon once, and the Dragonknight said he’d never faced a finer swordsman.” They were almost at the end now, and Bran felt a sadness creeping over him. “And there’s my grandfather, Lord Rickard, who was beheaded by Mad King Aerys. His daughter Lyanna and his son Brandon are in the tombs beside him. Not me, another Brandon, my father’s brother. They’re not supposed to have statues, that’s only for the lords and the kings, but my father loved them so much he had them done.”
   “The maid’s a fair one,” Osha said.
   “Robert was betrothed to marry her, but Prince Rhaegar carried her off and raped her,” Bran explained. “Robert fought a war to win her back. He killed Rhaegar on the Trident with his hammer, but Lyanna died and he never got her back at all.”
   “A sad tale,” said Osha, “but those empty holes are sadder.”
   “Lord Eddard’s tomb, for when his time comes,” Maester Luwin said. “Is this where you saw your father in your dream, Bran?”
   “Yes.” The memory made him shiver. He looked around the vault uneasily, the hairs on the back of his neck bristling. Had he heard a noise? Was there someone here?
   Maester Luwin stepped toward the open sepulchre, torch in hand. “As you see, he’s not here. Nor will he be, for many a year. Dreams are only dreams, child.” He thrust his arm into the blackness inside the tomb, as into the mouth of some great beast. “Do you see? It’s quite empt...”
   The darkness sprang at him, snarling.
   Bran saw eyes like green fire, a flash of teeth, fur as black as the pit around them. Maester Luwin yelled and threw up his hands. The torch went flying from his fingers, caromed off the stone face of Brandon Stark, and tumbled to the statue’s feet, the flames licking up his legs. In the drunken shifting torchlight, they saw Luwin struggling with the direwolf, beating at his muzzle with one hand while the jaws closed on the other.
   “Summer!” Bran screamed.
   And Summer came, shooting from the dimness behind them, a leaping shadow. He slammed into Shaggydog and knocked him back, and the two direwolves rolled over and over in a tangle of grey and black fur, snapping and biting at each other, while Maester Luwin struggled to his knees, his arm torn and bloody. Osha propped Bran up against Lord Rickard’s stone wolf as she hurried to assist the maester. In the light of the guttering torch, shadow wolves twenty feet tall fought on the wall and roof.
   “Shaggy,” a small voice called. When Bran looked up, his little brother was standing in the mouth of Father’s tomb. With one final snap at Summer’s face, Shaggydog broke off and bounded to Rickon’s side. “You let my father be,” Rickon warned Luwin. “You let him be.”
   “Rickon,” Bran said softly. “Father’s not here.”
   “Yes he is. I saw him.” Tears glistened on Rickon’s face. “I saw him last night.”
   “In your dream?.?.?.??”
   Rickon nodded. “You leave him. You leave him be. He’s coming home now, like he promised. He’s coming home.”
   Bran had never seen Maester Luwin took so uncertain before. Blood dripped down his arm where Shaggydog had shredded the wool of his sleeve and the flesh beneath. “Osha, the torch,” he said, biting through his pain, and she snatched it up before it went out. Soot stains blackened both legs of his uncle’s likeness. “That?.?.?.?that beast,” Luwin went on, “is supposed to be chained up in the kennels.”
   Rickon patted Shaggydog’s muzzle, damp with blood. “I let him loose. He doesn’t like chains.” He licked at his fingers.
   “Rickon,” Bran said, “would you like to come with me?”
   “No. I like it here.”
   “It’s dark here. And cold.”
   “I’m not afraid. I have to wait for Father.”
   “You can wait with me,” Bran said. “We’ll wait together, you and me and our wolves.” Both of the direwolves were licking wounds now, and would bear close watching.
   “Bran,” the maester said firmly, “I know you mean well, but Shaggydog is too wild to run loose. I’m the third man he’s savaged. Give him the freedom of the castle and it’s only a question of time before he kills someone. The truth is hard, but the wolf has to be chained, or?.?.?.?&rdquo He hesitated?.?.?.?or killed, Bran thought, but what he said was, “He was not made for chains. We will wait in your tower, all of us.”
   “That is quite impossible,” Maester Luwin said.
   Osha grinned. “The boy’s the lordling here, as I recall.” She handed Luwin back his torch and scooped Bran up into her arms again. “The maester’s tower it is.”
   “Will you come, Rickon?”
   His brother nodded. “If Shaggy comes too,” he said, running after Osha and Bran, and there was nothing Maester Luwin could do but follow, keeping a wary eye on the wolves.
   Maester Luwin’s turret was so cluttered that it seemed to Bran a wonder that he ever found anything. Tottering piles of books covered tables and chairs, rows of stoppered jars lined the shelves, candle stubs and puddles of dried wax dotted the furniture, the bronze Myrish lens tube sat on a tripod by the terrace door, star charts hung from the walls, shadow maps lay scattered among the rushes, papers, quills, and pots of inks were everywhere, and all of it was spotted with droppings from the ravens in the rafters. Their strident quorks drifted down from above as Osha washed and cleaned and bandaged the maester’s wounds, under Luwin’s terse instruction. “This is folly,” the small grey man said while she dabbed at the wolf bites with a stinging ointment. “I agree that it is odd that both you boys dreamed the same dream, yet when you stop to consider it, it’s only natural. You miss your lord father, and you know that he is a captive. Fear can fever a man’s mind and give him queer thoughts. Rickon is too young to comprehend...”
   “I’m four now,” Rickon said. He was peeking through the lens tube at the gargoyles on the First Keep. The direwolves sat on opposite sides of the large round room, licking their wounds and gnawing on bones.
   “...too young, and, ooh, seven hells, that burns, no, don’t stop, more. Too young, as I say, but you, Bran, you’re old enough to know that dreams are only dreams.”
   “Some are, some aren’t.” Osha poured pale red firemilk into a long gash. Luwin gasped. “The children of the forest could tell you a thing or two about dreaming.”
   Tears were streaming down the maester’s face, yet he shook his head doggedly. “The children?.?.?.?live only in dreams. Now. Dead and gone. Enough, that’s enough. Now the bandages. Pads and then wrap, and make it tight, I’ll be bleeding.”
   “Old Nan says the children knew the songs of the trees, that they could fly like birds and swim like fish and talk to the animals,” Bran said. “She says that they made music so beautiful that it made you cry like a little baby just to hear it.”
   “And all this they did with magic,” Maester Luwin said, distracted. “I wish they were here now. A spell would heal my arm less painfully, and they could talk to Shaggydog and tell him not to bite.” He gave the big black wolf an angry glance out of the corner of his eye. “Take a lesson, Bran. The man who trusts in spells is dueling with a glass sword. As the children did. Here, let me show you something.” He stood abruptly, crossed the room, and returned with a green jar in his good hand. “Have a look at these,” he said as he pulled the stopper and shook out a handful of shiny black arrowheads.
   Bran picked one up. “It’s made of glass.” Curious, Rickon drifted closer to peer over the table.
   “Dragonglass,” Osha named it as she sat down beside Luwin, bandagings in hand.
   “Obsidian,” Maester Luwin insisted, holding out his wounded arm. “Forged in the fires of the gods, far below the earth. The children of the forest hunted with that, thousands of years ago. The children worked no metal. In place of mail, they wore long shirts of woven leaves and bound their legs in bark, so they seemed to melt into the wood. In place of swords, they carried blades of obsidian.”
   “And still do.” Osha placed soft pads over the bites on the maester’s forearm and bound them tight with long strips of linen.
   Bran held the arrowhead up close. The black glass was slick and shiny. He thought it beautiful. “Can I keep one?”
   “As you wish,” the maester said.
   “I want one too,” Rickon said. “I want four. I’m four.”
   Luwin made him count them out. “Careful, they’re still sharp. Don’t cut yourself.”
   “Tell me about the children,” Bran said. It was important.
   “What do you wish to know?”
   “Everything.”
   Maester Luwin tugged at his chain collar where it chafed against his neck. “They were people of the Dawn Age, the very first, before kings and kingdoms,” he said. “In those days, there were no castles or holdfasts, no cities, not so much as a market town to be found between here and the sea of Dorne. There were no men at all. Only the children of the forest dwelt in the lands we now call the Seven Kingdoms.
   “They were a people dark and beautiful, small of stature, no taller than children even when grown to manhood. They lived in the depths of the wood, in caves and crannogs and secret tree towns. Slight as they were, the children were quick and graceful. Male and female hunted together, with weirwood bows and flying snares. Their gods were the gods of the forest, stream, and stone, the old gods whose names are secret. Their wise men were called greenseers, and carved strange faces in the weirwoods to keep watch on the woods. How long the children reigned here or where they came from, no man can know.
   “But some twelve thousand years ago, the First Men appeared from the east, crossing the Broken Arm of Dorne before it was broken. They came with bronze swords and great leathern shields, riding horses. No horse had ever been seen on this side of the narrow sea. No doubt the children were as frightened by the horses as the First Men were by the faces in the trees. As the First Men carved out holdfasts and farms, they cut down the faces and gave them to the fire. Horror-struck, the children went to war. The old songs say that the greenseers used dark magics to make the seas rise and sweep away the land, shattering the Arm, but it was too late to close the door. The wars went on until the earth ran red with blood of men and children both, but more children than men, for men were bigger and stronger, and wood and stone and obsidian make a poor match for bronze. Finally the wise of both races prevailed, and the chiefs and heroes of the First Men met the greenseers and wood dancers amidst the weirwood groves of a small island in the great lake called Gods Eye.
   “There they forged the Pact. The First Men were given the coastlands, the high plains and bright meadows, the mountains and bogs, but the deep woods were to remain forever the children’s, and no more weirwoods were to be put to the axe anywhere in the realm. So the gods might bear witness to the signing, every tree on the island was given a face, and afterward, the sacred order of green men was formed to keep watch over the Isle of Faces.
   “The Pact began four thousand years of friendship between men and children. In time, the First Men even put aside the gods they had brought with them, and took up the worship of the secret gods of the wood. The signing of the Pact ended the Dawn Age, and began the Age of Heroes.”
   Bran’s fist curled around the shiny black arrowhead. “But the children of the forest are all gone now, you said.”
   “Here, they are,” said Osha, as she bit off the end of the last bandage with her teeth. “North of the Wall, things are different. That’s where the children went, and the giants, and the other old races.”
   Maester Luwin sighed. “Woman, by rights you ought to be dead or in chains. The Starks have treated you more gently than you deserve. It is unkind to repay them for their kindness by filling the boys’ heads with folly.”
   “Tell me where they went,” Bran said. “I want to know.”
   “Me too,” Rickon echoed.
   “Oh, very well,” Luwin muttered. “So long as the kingdoms of the First Men held sway, the Pact endured, all through the Age of Heroes and the Long Night and the birth of the Seven Kingdoms, yet finally there came a time, many centuries later, when other peoples crossed the narrow sea.
   “The Andals were the first, a race of tall, fair-haired warriors who came with steel and fire and the seven-pointed star of the new gods painted on their chests. The wars lasted hundreds of years, but in the end the six southron kingdoms all fell before them. Only here, where the King in the North threw back every army that tried to cross the Neck, did the rule of the First Men endure. The Andals burnt out the weirwood groves, hacked down the faces, slaughtered the children where they found them, and everywhere proclaimed the triumph of the Seven over the old gods. So the children fled north...”
   Summer began to howl.
   Maester Luwin broke off, startled. When Shaggydog bounded to his feet and added his voice to his brother’s, dread clutched at Bran’s heart. “It’s coming,” he whispered, with the certainty of despair. He had known it since last night, he realized, since the crow had led him down into the crypts to say farewell. He had known it, but he had not believed. He had wanted Maester Luwin to be right. The crow, he thought, the three-eyed crow?.?.?.?
   The howling stopped as suddenly as it had begun. Summer padded across the tower floor to Shaggydog, and began to lick at a mat of bloody fur on the back of his brother’s neck. From the window came a flutter of wings.
   A raven landed on the grey stone sill, opened its beak, and gave a harsh, raucous rattle of distress.
   Rickon began to cry. His arrowheads fell from his hand one by one and clattered on the floor. Bran pulled him close and hugged him.
   Maester Luwin stared at the black bird as if it were a scorpion with feathers. He rose, slow as a sleepwalker, and moved to the window. When he whistled, the raven hopped onto his bandaged forearm. There was dried blood on its wings. “A hawk,” Luwin murmured, “perhaps an owl. Poor thing, a wonder it got through.” He took the letter from its leg.
   Bran found himself shivering as the maester unrolled the paper. “What is it?” he said, holding his brother all the harder.
   “You know what it is, boy,” Osha said, not unkindly. She put her hand on his head.
   Maester Luwin looked up at them numbly, a small grey man with blood on the sleeve of his grey wool robe and tears in his bright grey eyes. “My lords,” he said to the sons, in a voice gone hoarse and shrunken, “we?.?.?.?we shall need to find a stonecarver who knew his likeness well?.?.?.?”



Ⅰ 权力的游戏 Chapter67 布兰
　　他们之中最年长的已经成年，达到十七八岁，还有一个年过二十。但多数人都很年轻，在十六岁以下。
　　布兰在鲁温师傅塔楼的阳台上观看他们挥舞棍棒和木剑，气喘吁吁，闷哼和咒骂。木头敲击的喀啦声响彻校场，不时还传来挨揍时发出的号叫。罗德利克爵士迈着大步，在男孩群里走来走去，白胡子下脸红成一片，嘴里念念有词，布兰从没见老骑士的表情如此严厉过。“不行，”他不停念叨，“不行，不行，不行啊！”
　　“他们打得不太好。”布兰怀疑地说。他漫不经心地搔搔夏天的耳背，冰原狼啃着一块后腿肉，牙齿咬得骨头嘎吱作晌。
　　“没错，”鲁温师傅长叹一声，表示同意。老学士正用长长的密尔透镜管测量影子，计算低挂在晨空中的彗星的位置。“他们得多花时间训练……罗德利克爵士考虑周到，我们需要人手防守城堡。城里精锐的卫士都被你父亲大人带去君临，你哥哥又把剩下的全部带走，方圆几里格内可用的年轻人也都跟着他走了，许多人一去就不会回来。我们得找人代替他们的位置。”
　　布兰愤恨地看着楼下汗流浃背的男孩。“如果我还能走路，他们谁都打不过我。”他记得自己最后一次握剑，是国王到临冬城来的时候，只是用把木剑，他却把托曼王子打倒在地好多次。“罗德利克爵士应该教我用斧子，我去做一把长柄斧，就可以让阿多当我的脚，我们一起当骑士。”
　　“我想这……恐怕不太可能。”鲁温师傅说，“布兰，打仗的时候，人必须手脚和思想完全一致才行。”
　　下方的场子里，罗德利克爵士正在高喊：“你们打起来活像呆头鹅，他啄一下，你啄回去，要挡啊！把攻击挡下来！打架像鹅怎么成？这是真剑的话，啄一下你的手就没啦！”旁边一个男孩忍不住笑出声，老骑士立刻转身面对他。“你觉得好笑？啊？你到底懂不懂礼貌？你瞧瞧你，打起来像刺猬……”
　　“从前有个骑士眼睛看不见，”布兰固执地说。罗德利克爵士在下面继续喝骂。“老奶妈跟我说，他有一根长长的棍子，两边都有尖刀，他可以拿在手中转，一次砍两个人。”
　　“那是‘星眼’赛米恩，”鲁温边说边在簿子上做记号。“失去双眼之后，他把星辰蓝宝石放进空空的眼窝，吟游诗人是这么唱的。可布兰啊，那只是个故事，就像傻瓜佛罗理安的故事一样，都是从英雄纪元流传下来的寓言。”老学士啧了一声。“你要学着抛开这些白日梦，它们只会伤你心的。”
　　说到了白日梦，倒是提醒了他。“我昨晚又梦见了那只乌鸦，就是生了三只眼睛的那只。它飞进我的卧房，要我跟它一起走，我就随它去了。我们飞下墓窖，父亲正在那里，我和他说了话。他很难过。”
　　“为什么难过？”鲁温透过镜管向外看。
　　“我记得……好像是和琼恩有关的事，”这个梦令他很不舒服，比其他有乌鸦的梦更甚。“后来阿多不肯下墓窖去。”
　　布兰看得出，老师傅有些心不在焉。他把眼睛从镜管上抬起，眨了眨。“阿多不肯怎样？”
　　“不肯下墓窖去。我醒来之后，叫他带我下去，看看父亲是不是真的在那里。起初他不明白我在说什么，我只好叫他到这到那，最后走到楼梯边，但他却死活不肯下去。他就站在楼梯口，说着‘阿多’，好像他怕黑，可我有火把啊。我好生气，差点就像老奶妈一样敲他的头。”他见老师傅皱起眉头，赶忙补充一句，“不过我没敲啦。”
　　“很好。阿多是个人，不能像驴子一样随便打的。”
　　“在梦里，我跟乌鸦一起飞下去，可我醒来以后就飞不了了。”布兰解释。
　　“你为什么想到墓窖去？”
　　“我跟你说了啊，去找父亲嘛。”
　　学士扯扯脖子上的项链，他觉得不安的时候常会这么做。“布兰，好孩子，总有一天艾德大人会化身石像，坐在地底墓窖，和他的父亲、祖父，以及古代冬境之王以来所有的史塔克家人团聚……但愿诸神保佑，那是很多年以后的事。你父亲现下人在君临，是太后的阶下囚，你到了墓窖也找不到他的。”
　　“可他昨天晚上真的在啊，我还跟他讲话呢。”
　　“好个固执的孩子。”老师傅叹口气，把簿子挪到一边。“你想下去看看？”
　　“我去不了，阿多又不肯，楼梯太窄还曲折得厉害，所以小舞也不行。”
　　“我想这还难不倒我。”
　　于是他找来女野人欧莎代替阿多，她身高体壮，又从不抱怨，叫她去哪里就去哪里。“大人，咱打小在长城外长大，一个地洞吓不倒我，”她保证。
　　“夏天，过来。”欧莎伸出精瘦而结实双手抱起布兰，布兰一边唤道。冰原狼立刻丢下骨头，跟随欧莎穿过校场，走下螺旋阶梯，来到地底的冰冷墓窖。鲁温师傅走在最前，手持火把。布兰不在意——不太在意——被她抱着，而非背在身后。罗德利克爵士已命人砍断欧莎的脚链，因为她来到临冬城之后，不仅忠心耿耿，而且工作又有效率。两个重镣环虽仍在她踝上——表示她还未得到完全的信赖——却不影响她下楼梯的稳健步伐。
　　布兰不记得自己上次到墓窖来是什么时候的事了，但可以确定，是意外发生之前。他小时候常与罗柏、琼恩及姐姐们在这下面玩耍。
　　他好希望这会儿他们都在，那样的话，墓窖就不会这么阴森吓人。夏天潜入充满回音的幽暗，停下脚步，抬起头，嗅嗅死寂的冰冷空气。随后它张嘴露出尖牙，缓步向后爬开，在学士的火炬照耀下，它的双眼闪着金光。即便刚强如铁的欧莎，此刻也觉得有些不自在。“看起来都是些阴森的家伙。”她一边扫视长排的大理石王座，一边说，上面坐着历代的史塔克。
　　“他们是冬境之王。”布兰低声道。不知怎地，他觉得在这里似乎不应该大声讲话。
　　欧莎微微一笑。“冬天是没有国王的。假如你亲眼见识过凛冬的威力，你就知道啦，夏天的小子。”
　　“他们在北境称王长达数千年之久，”鲁温师傅说着举起火把，照亮石像的脸庞。它们有的头发极长，生了大胡子，毛茸而坚毅的脸有如趴伏脚下的冰原狼；有的则是修面整洁，五官憔悴而锐利，有如横放膝上的铁剑。“他们都是生长在艰苦环境中的坚毅之人。来吧。”他快步朝墓窖深处走去，经过一排排石柱和无数的雕像，手中高举的火把向后曳出一条长舌。
　　墓窖宽阔，比临冬城本身还长。琼恩曾对他说，在墓窖底下，更深更幽暗的地方，还有其他墓穴，年代更久远的古代君王便睡在那里。这样看来，如果火把熄灭，那可就糟了。夏天不肯离开楼梯，只有欧莎怀抱布兰，跟着火把。
　　“布兰，学过的历史还记得么？”学士边走边说，“如果你还没忘掉，就告诉欧莎这些人是谁，以及他们的生平事迹吧。”
　　于是他环顾经过的张张脸庞，属于他们的故事便纷纷涌现。这些故事虽是鲁温师傅告诉他的，但使他们鲜活还得归功于老奶妈。“那个是琼恩·史塔克，海盗从东方来袭时，他把他们打退，并在白港盖了城堡。他的儿子是瑞卡德·史塔克，不是我爷爷，而是另一个瑞卡德，他从沼泽王手中夺走颈泽，并娶了沼泽王的女儿为妻。那个很瘦很瘦，长头发尖胡子的是席恩·史塔克，大家叫他“饿狼”，因为他一天到晚打仗。那个个子很高，一副做梦模样的国王也叫布兰登，‘造船者’布兰登，他很喜欢海洋。他的坟墓是空的，因为他乘船向西横渡落日之海，从此下落不明。他的儿子是‘焚船者’布兰登，他在伤心之余，纵火烧掉了父亲所有的船只。那个是罗德利克·史塔克，传说他在一场摔角比赛里赢得了熊岛，并把熊岛赠送给莫尔蒙家族。那个就是‘降服王’托伦·史塔克，最后的北境之王，第一个临冬城公爵，是他向征服者伊耿投降。噢，你看那边，他是克雷根·史塔克，曾经和伊蒙王子决斗，后来，龙骑士说这辈子再没碰上比他更优秀的剑手。”他们几乎走到了末端，布兰只觉一阵哀伤涌上心头。“那是我爷爷，瑞卡德公爵，他被‘疯王’伊里斯处死。他女儿莱安娜和他儿子布兰登就在他身旁的坟墓里。不是我，是另一个布兰登，我父亲的哥哥。他们原本不该有雕像的，那是公爵和国王才享有的荣耀，可父亲实在太爱他们，所以也为他们造了雕像。”
　　“这女孩很漂亮。”欧莎说。
　　“劳勃和她已经订了婚，雷加王子却把她强行掳走，并强暴了她。”布兰解释，“为了救她回来，劳勃挑起了一场战争，他在三叉戟河上用自己的战锤亲手杀了雷加，但莱安娜却已经死去，他最后还是来不及救她。”（文＇心＇手＇打＇组＇手＇打＇整＇理）
　　“真是个悲伤的故事，”欧莎说，“但那几个空空的洞更教人难过。”
　　“以后，那里就是艾德大人的坟墓，”鲁温师傅道，“布兰，你梦中就是在这里看到你父亲的吗？”
　　“是啊。”回忆令他颤抖，他不安地环顾墓窖，颈背毛发竖立。他好像听见了什么？难道这里还有别人？
　　鲁温师傅举着火把，朝敞开的坟墓走去。“你看，他不在这儿，他还要等好多好多年才会在这儿。孩子，梦，不过就是梦。”他伸手探进墓穴中的黑暗，活像探进怪兽的巨口。“你看清楚了，这里空得——”
　　黑暗咆哮着朝他扑来。
　　一双宛如绿火的眼睛，一排闪烁即逝的洁白利齿，还有黑得像所处墓穴的毛皮。鲁温师傅大叫一声，扬起双手。火把从他指间飞了出去，撞到布兰登·史塔克的石脸，反弹开来，滚落至雕像脚边，火舌舔上他的小腿。在宛如醺醉的摇曳光线下，他们看见鲁温正与一头冰原狼搏斗，他的一只手拼命捶打狼嘴，另一只手则被狼牢牢咬住。
　　“夏天！”布兰尖叫。
　　夏天立刻从身后的昏暗中射出，有如一个奔跃的影子，一头把毛毛狗撞开，两只冰原狼在地上来回翻滚，灰色和黑色的毛皮纠结在一起，互相撕扯啮咬。鲁温师傅挣扎着起身，欧莎让布兰斜靠在瑞卡德公爵的石狼身上，急忙过去帮老学士的忙。摇曳的火光一照，狼影成了二十尺高的庞然大物，在墙壁和天顶上拼斗。
　　“毛毛。”一个小小的声音唤道。布兰抬头，发现他的小弟正站在父亲坟墓的进口。毛毛狗朝夏天的脸咬了最后一口，回身奔至瑞肯身旁。“你别来烦我爸爸，”瑞肯警告鲁温，“你别烦他。”
　　“瑞肯，”布兰轻声说，“父亲不在这里。”
　　“他明明就在，我看到的，”瑞肯脸上泪水晶莹。“我昨晚上看到的。”
　　“你梦见……？”
　　瑞肯点点头。“你别来烦他，别来伤他，他要回家了，他答应过我的，他要回家了。”
　　布兰从未见鲁温师傅这么犹豫不决。毛毛狗撕裂了他的羊毛衣袖，暴露的手臂不住淌血。“欧莎，把火把拿来。”他强忍着痛说，那火炬尚未熄灭，她拾起来交给他。伯伯雕像的双腿都被熏黑了。“那……那头野东西，”鲁温续道，“应该是被拴在狗舍里。”
　　瑞肯拍拍毛毛狗血染的嘴巴。“我把它放出来了。它不喜欢被拴着。”他舔舔手指。
　　“瑞肯，”布兰说，“要不要跟我回去？”
　　“不要，我喜欢待在这里。”
　　“可这里又黑又冷。”
　　“我不怕。我要等爸爸回来。”
　　“你可以跟我一起等啊，”布兰说，“你和我，还有我们的小狼，我们一起等他回来。”这时两只冰原狼都舔起伤口，经此恶斗，他们需要悉心照料。
　　“布兰，”学士坚定地说，“我知道你是好意，但毛毛狗性子太野，不能让它这样乱跑。我是第三个被他咬伤的人了。假如让它在城里随意活动，迟早会闹出人命。事实很难接受，可这只狼一定得拴起来，否则……”他犹豫了一下。
　　……就得杀掉，布兰心想，然而他却说：“它生来就不是被拴的，就让我们一起到你的塔里等嘛。”
　　“这实在不可能。”鲁温师傅道。
　　欧莎嘻嘻笑道：“我没记错的话，这里该由这孩子当家，”她把火炬交还鲁温，抱起布兰。“所以就到学士的塔里去吧。”
　　“瑞肯，要一起来么？”
　　弟弟点点头。“如果毛毛也一起去的话。”说完他跑在欧莎和布兰后面，这下子，鲁温师傅也只好跟上，不过他还是充满戒心地看着两只狼。
　　鲁温学士的塔里到处堆满了物品，他居然还能从中找到东西，布兰觉得简直就是奇迹。书籍在桌椅上堆得老高，架子上陈列着一排排瓶瓶罐罐，家具上则满是烧剩的蜡烛和干涸的蜡滴，那根密尔制的青铜镜管就端坐在阳台门边的三角架上，墙上挂着星象图，草席上摊着散乱的地图，纸张、羽毛笔和墨水瓶则随处可见，许多东西都沾上了居住屋梁间的渡鸦所遗留的粪便。欧莎听从鲁温简洁的指示，替他清洗伤口，着手包扎。头顶的乌鸦不停地嘎嘎叫唤。“这样的想法真是荒唐，”她为他在狼咬的伤口涂上一种气味扑鼻的膏药，头发灰白的瘦小学士一边说，“我承认，你们两个同时做了相同的梦，咋看起来的确很怪，但仔细一想，其实非常自然。你们想念你们的父亲大人，也知道他如今身遭囚禁。恐惧会影响人的思绪，让人产生奇怪的念头。瑞肯年纪还小，不了解——”
　　“我已经四岁了。”瑞肯说。他正透过镜管，眺望首堡上的石像鬼。两只冰原狼各据偌大的圆形房间的一端，舔着伤口，啃食骨头。
　　“——年纪还小，所以——哎哟，七层地狱，还真痛。不，别停下，多抹点。正如我刚才所说，他年纪还小，但布兰你应该知道：梦是没有任何意义的。”
　　“有些有，有些没有。”欧莎将淡红色的火奶倒在长长的伤口上，鲁温吸了口气。“森林之子能告诉你关于梦的知识。”
　　老师傅疼得眼泪都流了下来，但他仍旧固执地摇摇头。“森林之子……本身就只存在于梦中。他们早已灭亡、消失。够了，这样就够了，现在把绷带拿来。先垫棉花，再裹绷带，绑紧一点，我大概还会流不少血。”
　　“老奶妈说森林之子懂得树木的歌谣，会说动物的语言。他们能像鸟一样飞翔，像鱼一般游泳。”布兰说，“她说他们的音乐很美，光是听到就会让你像婴儿一样哭泣。”
　　“他们是靠魔法才办到的，”鲁温师傅有些心不在焉地说，“我真希望他们还在。如果有魔法，我的手就不用痛得这么厉害，他们也可以跟毛毛狗沟通，叫它别乱咬人。”他愤怒地瞟了一眼那头大黑狼。“布兰，你要记好，不能相信魔法，否则就会做出拿玻璃剑和人打架的蠢事。森林之子正是如此。来，让我给你看件东西。”他突然起身，穿过房间，回来之时，没受伤的手里多了个绿罐子。“你看看这些。”说着他打开瓶盖，倒出几个闪亮的黑箭头。
　　布兰拾起一个。“这是玻璃做的。”瑞肯也好奇地靠过来，朝桌上看。
　　“这种玻璃叫龙晶。”欧莎道。她手拿绷带，在鲁温身边坐下。
　　“学名是黑曜石。”鲁温澄清，一边挺起受伤的手臂。“这种物质是在地心深处，用诸神之火锻造而成。几千年前，森林之子便是用黑曜石打猎，因为他们不懂冶炼金属。他们以树叶编织的衣服代替盔甲，用树皮充作绑腿，所以看起来仿佛与森林融为一体。他们的飞箭和刀刃都是黑曜石做的。”
　　“现在也依旧如此。”欧莎把一块软垫布盖在学士的前臂伤口，然后用长长的棉绷带扎紧。
　　布兰把箭头拿近细看，黑色的玻璃又滑又亮，他觉得好漂亮。“可以给我一个么？”
　　“你就拿去吧。”老师傅说。
　　“我也要，”瑞肯说，“我要四个，因为我四岁。”
　　鲁温要他算清楚了。“小心，它们依然很锋利，可别割伤自己。”
　　“告诉我森林之子的事。”布兰说。这很重要。
　　“你想知道哪方面的事呢？”
　　“每个方面我都想知道。”
　　鲁温师傅拉拉颈链。“他们是生活在黎明之纪元的族群，是世界最初的统治者，远在国王和王国出现之前。”他说，“那时没有城堡，没有村庄，也没有城市，从这里到多恩海，连半个市集都没有。当时没有人类存在，只有森林之子居住在这片我们称之为七大王国的土地上。”
　　“他们是一支黝黑而美丽的民族，身材矮小，即使成年人的身高也和我们的小孩子差不多。他们居住于森林深处、洞穴、泽地岛屿和秘密的树上城镇。虽然个子小，森林之子却行动敏捷而优雅，不论男女均用鱼梁木制的弓箭和飞网狩猎。他们信仰属于森林、溪流和岩石的古老神明，这些神的名字都是秘密。他们的智者称为‘绿先知’，绿先知在鱼梁木上刻画奇怪的脸孔，藉以守护森林。森林之子究竟在此统治了多久，或是他们来自何方，没有人知道。”
　　“大约一万两千年前，‘先民’出现了，他们通过当时还没断裂的多恩断臂角自东方跨海而来。先民骑着马，带着青铜宝剑和皮革巨盾。狭海这边的生物还没有见过马匹，森林之子对他们的马儿，想必和他们对树上刻画的脸同样感到害怕吧。当先民建造房舍和农田时，他们把有脸的树砍下来当柴烧。惊骇万分的森林之子，随即与他们开战。古老的歌谣传说绿先知施展强力魔法，使海平面上升，横扫陆地，粉碎了多恩之臂，然而为时已晚。战争持续下去，直到人类和森林之子的鲜血染红大地。因为人类更加高大强壮，木材、石头和黑曜石又无法与青铜匹敌，所以森林之子死伤惨重。终于，双方的有识之士提议讲和，于是先民的酋长、英雄，以及森林之子的绿先知和木舞者来到神眼湖中的小岛，在岛上的鱼梁木森林间会面。”
　　“他们在那里订立了‘盟誓’，规定先民拥有海岸、平原、草原、山脉和沼泽，但繁茂的大森林永远归森林之子所有，而王国全境也不准再砍伐任何一棵鱼梁木。为使天上诸神见证此神圣盟誓，他们为岛上每一棵树都刻了脸，并在此成立‘绿人’的神圣组织，专司看守千面屿。”
　　“‘盟誓’开始了人类与森林之子间四千年的友谊，到后来，先民甚至抛弃了他们从东方带来的信仰，改而崇拜森林之子的神秘诸神。盟誓的签署结束了黎明之纪元，开始了英雄之纪元。”
　　布兰的手掌，紧紧握住闪亮的黑箭头。“可你说森林之子已经灭绝了。”
　　“在这里，他们是灭绝了，”欧莎一边说，一边用牙齿咬断绷带末端。“长城以北可就不一样。森林之子、巨人还有其他古老的民族就是到那儿去啦。”
　　鲁温师傅叹道：“女人，照理说你应该被处以死刑或至少披枷戴锁。史塔克家族给你的待遇，远超过你所应得的。他们对你这么好，你却把这孩子的脑袋里装满荒唐思想，实在是太忘恩负义了。”
　　“跟我说嘛，他们到哪里去了？”布兰说，“我想知道。”
　　“我也是。”瑞肯应和。
　　“唉，好罢。”鲁温喃喃道，“只要先民的国度还在，‘盟誓’便仍有效力，经过英雄之纪元、长夜和七大王国的诞生，许多个世纪之后，其他的民族也终于渡海而来。”
　　“最先来到的是高大金发的安达尔战士。约从千年前，他们带着精钢打造的武器，胸膛画了象征新神的七芒星，渡海杀来。先民和他们的战争持续了数百年，六个南方王国一个接一个落入他们手中。只有在这里，冬境之王击败了所有试图穿越颈泽的军队；也只有在这里，先民依旧占有一席之地。安达尔人烧毁了所有的鱼梁木丛林，砍倒人面树，一遇森林之子便肆意捕杀，所到之处均大力倡导七神信仰，贬抑远古诸神。于是森林之子纷纷向北逃亡——”
　　夏天仰天长嚎。
　　鲁温师傅吓了一跳，停住讲话。毛毛狗随即跳起来，加入兄弟的长吼，布兰心中充满恐惧。“它来了。”他小声说，语气中有种肯定的绝望。他突然明白，自己从昨天晚上便已知道，因为三眼乌鸦带他到墓窖去道别。他虽然知道，却不肯相信，只下意识地希望鲁温师傅说得没错。那只乌鸦，他心想，那只三眼乌鸦……
　　狼嚎才刚开始，便告结束。夏天穿过房间，走到毛毛狗身边，开始舔舐弟弟颈背干涸的血块。窗边传来翅膀拍打的声音。
　　一只渡鸦降落在灰石窗棂上，张开鸟喙，发出一声尖锐、粗哑而痛苦的哀鸣。
　　瑞肯哭了，箭头从他手中一个又一个地滑落，坠地，叮当作响。布兰把他拉过来，紧紧搂住他。
　　鲁温师傅怔怔地望着黑鸟，仿佛它是生了羽毛的毒蝎。他站起身，动作缓慢，宛如梦游般地走向窗边。当他轻吹口哨，渡鸦便跳上他缠着绷带的前臂。鸟儿翅膀上有干掉的血迹。“一定是猎鹰，”鲁温喃喃自语：“或者是夜枭。可怜的家伙，它能活着抵达真是奇迹。”他取下鸟儿脚上的信。
　　眼看学士展开信纸，布兰发现自己止不住颤抖。“信上说什么？”他问，同时更用力地抱紧弟弟。
　　“小子，你已经知道是什么了。”欧莎说，话中并无恶意。她伸手摸摸他的头。
　　鲁温师傅抬起头，木然地看着他们。这位身材瘦小，灰衣灰发的老人，长袍袖子上沾满血迹，明亮的灰色眼瞳里泪光晶莹。“大人，”他用一种整个沙哑掉、干瘪掉的声音，对公爵的两个儿子说，“我们……我们得找个熟悉他容貌的雕刻师父了……”
[ 此帖被挽墨在2015-09-07 00:39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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Chapter 67

  
   SANSA
   In the tower room at the heart of Maegor’s Holdfast, Sansa gave herself to the darkness.
   She drew the curtains around her bed, slept, woke weeping, and slept again. When she could not sleep she lay under her blankets shivering with grief. Servants came and went, bringing meals, but the sight of food was more than she could bear. The dishes piled up on the table beneath her window, untouched and spoiling, until the servants took them away again.
   Sometimes her sleep was leaden and dreamless, and she woke from it more tired than when she had closed her eyes. Yet those were the best times, for when she dreamed, she dreamed of Father. Waking or sleeping, she saw him, saw the gold cloaks fling him down, saw Ser Ilyn striding forward, unsheathing Ice from the scabbard on his back, saw the moment?.?.?.?the moment when?.?.?.?she had wanted to look away, she had wanted to, her legs had gone out from under her and she had fallen to her knees, yet somehow she could not turn her head, and all the people were screaming and shouting, and her prince had smiled at her, he’d smiled and she’d felt safe, but only for a heartbeat, until he said those words, and her father’s legs?.?.?.?that was what she remembered, his legs, the way they’d jerked when Ser Ilyn?.?.?.?when the sword?.?.?.?
   Perhaps I will die too, she told herself, and the thought did not seem so terrible to her. If she flung herself from the window, she could put an end to her suffering, and in the years to come the singers would write songs of her grief. Her body would lie on the stones below, broken and innocent, shaming all those who had betrayed her. Sansa went so far as to cross the bedchamber and throw open the shutters?.?.?.?but then her courage left her, and she ran back to her bed, sobbing.
   The serving girls tried to talk to her when they brought her meals, but she never answered them. Once Grand Maester Pycelle came with a box of flasks and bottles, to ask if she was ill. He felt her brow, made her undress, and touched her all over while her bedmaid held her down. When he left he gave her a potion of honeywater and herbs and told her to drink a swallow every night. She drank it all right then and went back to sleep.
   She dreamt of footsteps on the tower stair, an ominous scraping of leather on stone as a man climbed slowly toward her bedchamber, step by step. All she could do was huddle behind her door and listen, trembling, as he came closer and closer. It was Ser Ilyn Payne, she knew, coming for her with Ice in his hand, coming to take her head. There was no place to run, no place to hide, no way to bar the door. Finally the footsteps stopped and she knew he was just outside, standing there silent with his dead eyes and his long pocked face. That was when she realized she was naked. She crouched down, trying to cover herself with her hands, as her door began to swing open, creaking, the point of the greatsword poking through?.?.?.?
   She woke murmuring, “Please, please, I’ll be good, I’ll be good, please don’t,” but there was no one to hear.
   When they finally came for her in truth, Sansa never heard their footsteps. It was Joffrey who opened her door, not Ser Ilyn but the boy who had been her prince. She was in bed, curled up tight, her curtains drawn, and she could not have said if it was noon or midnight. The first thing she heard was the slam of the door. Then her bed hangings were yanked back, and she threw up a hand against the sudden light and saw them standing over her.
   “You will attend me in court this afternoon,” Joffrey said. “See that you bathe and dress as befits my betrothed.” Sandor Clegane stood at his shoulder in a plain brown doublet and green mantle, his burned face hideous in the morning light. Behind them were two knights of the Kingsguard in long white satin cloaks.
   Sansa drew her blanket up to her chin to cover herself. “No,” she whimpered, “please?.?.?.?leave me be.”
   “If you won’t rise and dress yourself, my Hound will do it for you,” Joffrey said.
   “I beg of you, my prince?.?.?.?”
   “I’m king now. Dog, get her out of bed.”
   Sandor Clegane scooped her up around the waist and lifted her off the featherbed as she struggled feebly. Her blanket fell to the floor. Underneath she had only a thin bedgown to cover her nakedness. “Do as you’re bid, child,” Clegane said. “Dress.” He pushed her toward her wardrobe, almost gently.
   Sansa backed away from them. “I did as the queen asked, I wrote the letters, I wrote what she told me. You promised you’d be merciful. Please, let me go home. I won’t do any treason, I’ll be good, I swear it, I don’t have traitor’s blood, I don’t. I only want to go home.” Remembering her courtesies, she lowered her head. “As it please you,” she finished weakly.
   “It does not please me,” Joffrey said. “Mother says I’m still to marry you, so you’ll stay here, and you’ll obey.”
   “I don’t want to marry you,” Sansa wailed. “You chopped off my father’s head!”
   “He was a traitor. I never promised to spare him, only that I’d be merciful, and I was. If he hadn’t been your father, I would have had him torn or flayed, but I gave him a clean death.”
   Sansa stared at him, seeing him for the first time. He was wearing a padded crimson doublet patterned with lions and a cloth-of-gold cape with a high collar that framed his face. She wondered how she could ever have thought him handsome. His lips were as soft and red as the worms you found after a rain, and his eyes were vain and cruel. “I hate you,” she whispered.
   King Joffrey’s face hardened. “My mother tells me that it isn’t fitting that a king should strike his wife. Ser Meryn.”
   The knight was on her before she could think, yanking back her hand as she tried to shield her face and backhanding her across the ear with a gloved fist. Sansa did not remember failing, yet the next she knew she was sprawled on one knee amongst the rushes. Her head was ringing. Ser Meryn Trant stood over her, with blood on the knuckles of his white silk glove.
   “Will you obey now, or shall I have him chastise you again?”
   Sansa’s ear felt numb. She touched it, and her fingertips came away wet and red. “I?.?.?.?as?.?.?.?as you command, my lord.”
   “Your Grace,” Joffrey corrected her. “I shall look for you in court.” He turned and left.
   Ser Meryn and Ser Arys followed him out, but Sandor Clegane lingered long enough to yank her roughly to her feet. “Save yourself some pain, girl, and give him what he wants.”
   “What?.?.?.?what does he want? Please, tell me.”
   “He wants you to smile and smell sweet and be his lady love,” the Hound rasped. “He wants to hear you recite all your pretty little words the way the septa taught you. He wants you to love him?.?.?.?and fear him.”
   After he was gone, Sansa sank back onto the rushes, staring at the wall until two of her bedmaids crept timidly into the chamber. “I will need hot water for my bath, please,” she told them, “and perfume, and some powder to hide this bruise.” The right side of her face was swollen and beginning to ache, but she knew Joffrey would want her to be beautiful.
   The hot water made her think of Winterfell, and she took strength from that. She had not washed since the day her father died, and she was startled at how filthy the water became. Her maids sluiced the blood off her face, scrubbed the dirt from her back, washed her hair and brushed it out until it sprang back in thick auburn curls. Sansa did not speak to them, except to give them commands; they were Lannister servants, not her own, and she did not trust them. When the time came to dress, she chose the green silk gown that she had worn to the tourney. She recalled how gallant Joff had been to her that night at the feast. Perhaps it would make him remember as well, and treat her more gently.
   She drank a glass of buttermilk and nibbled at some sweet biscuits as she waited, to settle her stomach. It was midday when Ser Meryn returned. He had donned his white armor; a shirt of enameled scales chased with gold, a tall helm with a golden sunburst crest, greaves and gorget and gauntlet and boots of gleaming plate, a heavy wool cloak clasped with a golden lion. His visor had been removed from his helm, to better show his dour face; pouchy bags under his eyes, a wide sour mouth, rusty hair spotted with grey. “My lady,” he said, bowing, as if he had not beaten her bloody only three hours past. “His Grace has instructed me to escort you to the throne room.”
   “Did he instruct you to hit me if I refused to come?”
   “Are you refusing to come, my lady?” The look he gave her was without expression. He did not so much as glance at the bruise he had left her.
   He did not hate her, Sansa realized; neither did he love her. He felt nothing for her at all. She was only a?.?.?.?a thing to him. “No,” she said, rising. She wanted to rage, to hurt him as he’d hurt her, to warn him that when she was queen she would have him exiled if he ever dared strike her again?.?.?.?but she remembered what the Hound had told her, so all she said was, “I shall do whatever His Grace commands.”
   “As I do,” he replied.
   “Yes?.?.?.?but you are no true knight, Ser Meryn.”
   Sandor Clegane would have laughed at that, Sansa knew. Other men might have cursed her, warned her to keep silent, even begged for her forgiveness. Ser Meryn Trant did none of these. Ser Meryn Trant simply did not care.
   The balcony was deserted save for Sansa. She stood with her head bowed, fighting to hold back her tears, while below Joffrey sat on his Iron Throne and dispensed what it pleased him to call justice. Nine cases out of ten seemed to bore him; those he allowed his council to handle, squirming restlessly while Lord Baelish, Grand Maester Pycelle, or Queen Cersei resolved the matter. When he did choose to make a ruling, though, not even his queen mother could sway him.
   A thief was brought before him and he had Ser Ilyn chop his hand off, right there in court. Two knights came to him with a dispute about some land, and he decreed that they should duel for it on the morrow. “To the death,” he added. A woman fell to her knees to plead for the head of a man executed as a traitor. She had loved him, she said, and she wanted to see him decently buried. “If you loved a traitor, you must be a traitor too,” Joffrey said. Two gold cloaks dragged her off to the dungeons.
   Frog-faced Lord Slynt sat at the end of the council table wearing a black velvet doublet and a shiny cloth-of-gold cape, nodding with approval every time the king pronounced a sentence. Sansa stared hard at his ugly face, remembering how he had thrown down her father for Ser Ilyn to behead, wishing she could hurt him, wishing that some hero would throw him down and cut off his head. But a voice inside her whispered, There are no heroes, and she remembered what Lord Petyr had said to her, here in this very hall. “Life is not a song, sweetling,” he’d told her. “You may learn that one day to your sorrow.” In life, the monsters win, she told herself, and now it was the Hound’s voice she heard, a cold rasp, metal on stone. “Save yourself some pain, girl, and give him what he wants.”
   The last case was a plump tavern singer, accused of making a song that ridiculed the late King Robert. Joff commanded them to fetch his woodharp and ordered him to perform the song for the court. The singer wept and swore he would never sing that song again, but the king insisted. It was sort of a funny song, all about Robert fighting with a pig. The pig was the boar who’d killed him, Sansa knew, but in some verses it almost sounded as if he were singing about the queen. When the song was done, Joffrey announced that he’d decided to be merciful. The singer could keep either his fingers or his tongue. He would have a day to make his choice. Janos Slynt nodded.
   That was the final business of the afternoon, Sansa saw with relief, but her ordeal was not yet done. When the herald’s voice dismissed the court, she fled the balcony, only to find Joffrey waiting for her at the base of the curving stairs. The Hound was with him, and Ser Meryn as well. The young king examined her critically, top to bottom. “You look much better than you did.”
   “Thank you, Your Grace,” Sansa said. Hollow words, but they made him nod and smile.
   “Walk with me,” Joffrey commanded, offering her his arm. She had no choice but to take it. The touch of his hand would have thrilled her once; now it made her flesh crawl. “My name day will be here soon,” Joffrey said as they slipped out the rear of the throne room. “There will be a great feast, and gifts. What are you going to give me?”
   “I?.?.?.?I had not thought, my lord.”
   “Your Grace,” he said sharply. “You truly are a stupid girl, aren’t you? My mother says so.”
   “She does?” After all that had happened, his words should have lost their power to hurt her, yet somehow they had not. The queen had always been so kind to her.
   “Oh, yes. She worries about our children, whether they’ll be stupid like you, but I told her not to trouble herself.” The king gestured, and Ser Meryn opened a door for them.
   “Thank you, Your Grace,” she murmured. The Hound was right, she thought, I am only a little bird, repeating the words they taught me. The sun had fallen below the western wall, and the stones of the Red Keep glowed dark as blood.
   “I’ll get you with child as soon as you’re able,” Joffrey said as he escorted her across the practice yard. “If the first one is stupid, I’ll chop off your head and find a smarter wife. When do you think you’ll be able to have children?”
   Sansa could not look at him, he shamed her so. “Septa Mordane says most?.?.?.?most highborn girls have their flowering at twelve or thirteen.”
   Joffrey nodded. “This way.” He led her into the gatehouse, to the base of the steps that led up to the battlements.
   Sansa jerked back away from him, trembling. Suddenly she knew where they were going. “No,” she said, her voice a frightened gasp. “Please, no, don’t make me, I beg you ?.?.?.?”
   Joffrey pressed his lips together. “I want to show you what happens to traitors.”
   Sansa shook her head wildly. “I won’t. I won’t.”
   “I can have Ser Meryn drag you up,” he said. “You won’t like that. You had better do what I say.” Joffrey reached for her, and Sansa cringed away from him, backing into the Hound.
   “Do it, girl,” Sandor Clegane told her, pushing her back toward the king. His mouth twitched on the burned side of his face and Sansa could almost hear the rest of it. He’ll have you up there no matter what, so give him what he wants.
   She forced herself to take King Joffrey’s hand. The climb was something out of a nightmare; every step was a struggle, as if she were pulling her feet out of ankle-deep mud, and there were more steps than she would have believed, a thousand thousand steps, and horror waiting on the ramparts.
   From the high battlements of the gatehouse, the whole world spread out below them. Sansa could see the Great Sept of Baelor on Visenya’s hill, where her father had died. At the other end of the Street of the Sisters stood the fire-blackened ruins of the Dragonpit. To the west, the swollen red sun was half-hidden behind the Gate of the Gods. The salt sea was at her back, and to the south was the fish market and the docks and the swirling torrent of the Blackwater Rush. And to the north?.?.?.?
   She turned that way, and saw only the city, streets and alleys and hills and bottoms and more streets and more alleys and the stone of distant walls. Yet she knew that beyond them was open country, farms and fields and forests, and beyond that, north and north and north again, stood Winterfell.
   “What are you looking at?” Joffrey said. “This is what I wanted you to see, right here.”
   A thick stone parapet protected the outer edge of the rampart, reaching as high as Sansa’s chin, with crenellations cut into it every five feet for archers. The heads were mounted between the crenels, along the top of the wall, impaled on iron spikes so they faced out over the city. Sansa had noted them the moment she’d stepped out onto the wallwalk, but the river and the bustling streets and the setting sun were ever so much prettier. He can make me look at the heads, she told herself, but he can’t make me see them.
   “This one is your father,” he said. “This one here. Dog, turn it around so she can see him.”
   Sandor Clegane took the head by the hair and turned it. The severed head had been dipped in tar to preserve it longer. Sansa looked at it calmly, not seeing it at all. It did not really look like Lord Eddard, she thought; it did not even look real. “How long do I have to look?”
   Joffrey seemed disappointed. “Do you want to see the rest?” There was a long row of them.
   “If it please Your Grace.”
   Joffrey marched her down the wallwalk, past a dozen more heads and two empty spikes. “I’m saving those for my uncle Stannis and my uncle Renly,” he explained. The other heads had been dead and mounted much longer than her father. Despite the tar, most were long past being recognizable. The king pointed to one and said, “That’s your septa there,” but Sansa could not even have told that it was a woman. The jaw had rotted off her face, and birds had eaten one ear and most of a cheek.
   Sansa had wondered what had happened to Septa Mordane, although she supposed she had known all along. “Why did you kill her?” she asked. “She was godsworn?.?.?.?”
   “She was a traitor.” Joffrey looked pouty; somehow she was upsetting him. “You haven’t said what you mean to give me for my name day. Maybe I should give you something instead, would you like that?”
   “If it please you, my lord,” Sansa said.
   When he smiled, she knew he was mocking her. “Your brother is a traitor too, you know.” He turned Septa Mordane’s head back around. “I remember your brother from Winterfell. My dog called him the lord of the wooden sword. Didn’t you, dog?”
   “Did I?” the Hound replied. “I don’t recall.”
   Joffrey gave a petulant shrug. “Your brother defeated my uncle Jaime. My mother says it was treachery and deceit. She wept when she heard. Women are all weak, even her, though she pretends she isn’t. She says we need to stay in King’s Landing in case my other uncles attack, but I don’t care. After my name day feast, I’m going to raise a host and kill your brother myself. That’s what I’ll give you, Lady Sansa. Your brother’s head.”
   A kind of madness took over her then, and she heard herself say, “Maybe my brother will give me your head.”
   Joffrey scowled. “You must never mock me like that. A true wife does not mock her lord. Ser Meryn, teach her.”
   This time the knight grasped her beneath the jaw and held her head still as he struck her. He hit her twice, left to right, and harder, right to left. Her lip split and blood ran down her chin, to mingle with the salt of her tears.
   “You shouldn’t be crying all the time,” Joffrey told her. “You’re more pretty when you smile and laugh.”
   Sansa made herself smile, afraid that he would have Ser Meryn hit her again if she did not, but it was no good, the king still shook his head. “Wipe off the blood, you’re all messy.”
   The outer parapet came up to her chin, but along the inner edge of the walk was nothing, nothing but a long plunge to the bailey seventy or eighty feet below. All it would take was a shove, she told herself. He was standing right there, right there, smirking at her with those fat wormlips. You could do it, she told herself. You could. Do it right now. It wouldn’t even matter if she went over with him. It wouldn’t matter at all.
   “Here, girl.” Sandor Clegane knelt before her, between her and Joffrey. With a delicacy surprising in such a big man, he dabbed at the blood welling from her broken lip.
   The moment was gone. Sansa lowered her eyes. “Thank you,” she said when he was done. She was a good girl, and always remembered her courtesies.



Ⅰ 权力的游戏 Chapter68 珊莎
　　在梅葛楼深处的高塔房间里，珊莎将自己彻底投入黑暗。
　　她拉上床帘，昏沉沉地睡去，醒了便哭，哭累再睡。睡不着的时候，她蜷缩在被窝里，哀恸欲绝，颤抖不已。仆人们来了又去，为她送来一日三餐，但她一见食物就无法忍受。于是一碟碟碰都没碰的饭菜在窗边桌上越堆越高，直到后来发酸发臭，仆人将之收走为止。
　　有时候她的睡眠沉重如铅，整夜无梦，等醒来精疲力竭，甚至较合眼时更累。但那还算好的，因为她若是做梦，必定与父亲有关。或睡或醒，她眼中所见都只有他被金袍卫士按倒在地的景象，伊林爵士大跨步向他走去，一边从背上的剑鞘里抽出“寒冰”，然后……然后……当时她只想把头转开，她真的好想把头转开，但她的双脚早已绵软无力，于是她跪倒在地。而不知怎地，她就是无法别过头去。四周的人大吼大叫，她的白马王子刚才不是对她露出微笑么？他真的笑了，她以为一切都没事了，但只有一瞬间，接着他便说了那句话。父亲的脚……她只记得他的双脚猛烈抽搐了一下……当伊林爵士……当他的剑……
　　我也死了算了，她对自己说，她发现这个念头一点也不可怕。假如她从窗户纵身跳下，便可结束一切苦难，多年以后，吟游诗人会歌颂她的悲伤。她将支离破碎地倒在塔下的石板上，纯洁无瑕，令所有背叛她的人均感羞愧。珊莎几度穿过卧室，敞开窗扉……但勇气就在那时离她而去，她只能哭着跑回床上。
　　女侍送饭来时，曾试着和她说话，但她一概置之不理。有次，派席尔大学士带着一箱瓶瓶罐罐前来，询问她是否病了。他摸摸她的额头，命她宽衣，要女侍按住她手脚，他则摸遍她全身上下。临走时他留给她一罐蜂蜜和药草调成的药水，叮嘱她每晚喝一小口。她乖乖照办，然后倒头再睡。
　　她梦见高塔楼梯上传来脚步声，一种皮革与石头摩擦的不祥之声。有人正一步一步缓缓朝她卧室走来。她所能做的只有蜷缩门后，不住地发抖，听他越来越近。她很清楚那一定是手握“寒冰”的伊林·派恩爵士，准备来取她首级。但她无路可逃，无处可躲，无法将门闩上。最后脚步声总算停了下来，她知道他就站在门外，一言不发，长长的麻子脸，一双死人眼。这时她才发觉自己浑身赤裸，赶紧趴在地上，用手遮掩身体。门缓缓打开，嘎吱作响，巨剑的尖端穿刺而进……
　　她醒来之时，嘴里还不住念叨：“求求你，求求你，我很乖的，我会听话，请你不要杀我。”但没人理会她。
　　等他们当真找上门的时候，珊莎却没听见脚步声。开门的并非伊林爵士，而是她曾经的白马王子乔佛里。她正在床上，缩成一团，由于床帘紧闭，分不清中午还是午夜。她首先听见门轰然摔开，紧接着帷帐被猛地扯开，她赶忙伸手，遮挡突现的强光，发现他们高高地站在床边。
　　“今天下午你要跟我上朝，”乔佛里道，“快去洗澡，换衣服，打扮得有点我未婚妻的样子。”桑铎·克里冈站在他身旁，穿着一件式样简单的褐色外衣，绿色披风，那张烧烂的脸在晨光中更显狰狞。站在二人之后的是两名御林铁卫，肩披长长的雪白锦缎披风。
　　珊莎把毯子拉至下巴，遮住身子。“不要，”她哀求，“请……请放过我吧。”
　　“你不赶紧起来换衣服，我就叫我的狗帮你换。”乔佛里说。
　　“求求您，我的王子……”
　　“我是国王。狗，把她拖下来。”
　　桑铎·克里冈抓住她的手腕，将她自羽毛床上拎起来，任她虚弱的挣扎。毯子滑落地面，她只穿了一件薄薄的睡袍。“孩子，照他的话去做，”克里冈说，“快把衣服穿上。”他把她推向衣柜，动作竟有些温柔。
　　珊莎推开他们。“我照王后的要求做了，写了信，内容也都是照她的话写的。您答应我会手下留情。求求您，让我回家吧。我不会背叛你的，我会很乖、很听话，我发誓。我体内没有叛徒的血统，真的没有。我只是想回家。”想起应该注重礼节，她垂下头。“如果您高兴的话，”她有气无力地说。
　　“我一点也不高兴。”乔佛里道，“母亲说我还是得娶你，所以你必须留在这里，而且要乖乖听话。”
　　“我不想嫁给你，”珊莎悲泣着说，“你砍了我父亲的头！”
　　“他是个叛徒，我从没答应饶他一命，只说会手下留情，我也真的手下留情了。他要不是你父亲，我会把他分尸剥皮，但我却让他死得干脆。”
　　珊莎怔怔地望着他，这才头一次把他瞧了个清楚。他穿着绣满狮子的加衬鲜红外衣，金缕披风，高领搭配着他那张脸。她不禁纳闷自己怎么会觉得他英俊潇洒？他的嘴唇又红又软，活像雨后土中翻到的蠕虫，他的双眼则是虚妄又残忍。“我恨你。”她低声说。
　　乔佛里国王脸色一凛。“母亲说国王不应该动手打妻子。马林爵士。”
　　她还不及反应，骑士便已拉开她试图遮脸的手，掐起重拳甩了她一记耳光。珊莎不记得自己跌倒，但等她回过神来，已经单膝跪倒在草席上，头晕目眩。马林·特兰爵士矗立在她上方，白丝手套指节处有血迹。
　　“你是乖乖听话，还是要我再让他教训你一次？”
　　珊莎的耳朵没了知觉，她伸手一摸，指尖湿湿的都是血。“我……听候您差遣，大人。”
　　“是‘陛下’。”乔佛里纠正她，“等会儿朝廷上见。”说完他转身离去。
　　马林爵士和亚历斯爵士随他离开，但桑铎·克里冈粗略地拉了她一把，提她起来。“小妹妹，为你自己好，照他的想法去做。”
　　“他……他想怎么样？求求您，告诉我吧。”
　　“他想看你笑容可掬，浑身香气，当他的美丽未婚妻。”猎狗嘶声道，“他想听你背诵那套漂亮话语，就跟修女教你的一样。他想要你既爱他……又怕他。”
　　他走之后，珊莎立刻又软倒在草席上，怔怔地望着墙壁出神，直到两个女侍怯怯地走进房间。“我需要沐浴，请帮我准备热水。”她告诉她们，“还有香水，以及妆粉，好遮住淤伤。”她的右半边脸整个肿了起来，隐隐作痛，但她知道乔佛里希望她打扮得漂漂亮亮的。
　　热水，令她想起了临冬城，稍稍坚强起来。自从父亲死后，她就没洗过澡，这时才惊讶地发现水变得多脏。女仆为她洗去脸上的血污，刷净背上的尘土，将浆洗的头发梳成浓密的枣红发卷。除了下令，珊莎不和她们交谈：她们是兰尼斯特家的仆人，不是她自家的人，她不信任她们。穿衣服时，她特地拣了那件绿丝礼服，正是比武大会当天穿的那件。她记得那晚席间乔佛里对她有多殷勤，如果她穿上这件衣服，或许能让他联想起来，对她温柔一点。
　　打扮完毕后，她坐下等待，喝了一杯酪乳，啃下几块甜饼干，暂时止住胃里的翻腾。到马林爵士来找她时，已经日当正午。他穿上了全套纯白甲胄：精工金线白鳞甲，高顶黄金日芒盔，护膝、护喉、护手和长靴都是闪闪发光的铁铠，还有一袭厚重的羊毛披风，装饰着黄金狮扣。他的头盔除去了面罩，显露出冷峻的脸；两个大眼袋，一张宽阔而乖戾的嘴，铁锈般的头发里夹杂着几许灰白。“小姐，”他鞠躬道，仿佛不记得自己三小时前把她打得满脸是血。“陛下吩咐我护送您上朝。”
　　“如果我拒绝，他有没有吩咐你打我啊？”
　　“小姐，您这是在拒绝么？”他看她的眼神毫无感情，对他稍早造成的淤伤无动于衷。
　　珊莎突然明白，他并不恨她，也不爱她，他对她根本一点感觉也没有。对他来说，她不过是个……东西。“不是，”她说罢起身，心中好想疯狂发怒，狠狠地揍他，就像他打她一样，她要警告他，等她当上王后，他若再敢动她一根汗毛，便将他永世放逐……但她心中依然记得猎狗的话，所以她只说：“我将谨遵陛下的旨意。”
　　“我也是。”他回答。
　　“是么……可是，马林爵士，你不是真正的骑士。”
　　珊莎知道，桑铎·克里冈若是听了这话，准会哈哈大笑。换做其他人，或许会咒骂她，或许会警告她闭嘴，甚或恳求她原谅，但马林·特兰爵士什么也没做，因为他根本不在乎。
　　除了珊莎，供旁听的楼台上空无一人。她低着头，强忍泪水，看着下面的乔佛里端坐铁王座，自以为公义地裁决国事。十件案子，有九件他觉得无聊，便把它们统统交给御前会议，自己则在宝座上焦躁不安地动来动去。贝里席伯爵、派席尔大学士和瑟曦太后忙个不停，但当国王偶而决定亲自出马时，连他的母后大人也左右不了局面。
　　有个小偷被拖上来，他吩咐伊林爵士在王座厅里当场剁下他的手。两名骑士对某块地产生纷争，上朝请他定夺，他则下诏令他们明日决斗解决，并且补上一句：“至死方休。”有个女人跪地乞求一位因叛国罪而被砍头的男子的首级，她说她很爱他，希望能让他全尸下葬。“你爱叛徒，说明你也是叛徒。”乔佛里说，于是两个金袍卫士把她拖进地牢。
　　生着一张青蛙脸的史林特伯爵坐在议事桌末端，身穿黑天鹅绒外衣，肩披闪亮的金缕披风，国王每下一个判决，他就点头称是。珊莎仔细地看着他那张丑脸，想起他当时如何把父亲按倒在地，让伊林爵士斩首示众，心中只盼能狠狠地报复他，希望哪个英雄能把“他”也按倒在地，斩首示众。但在她心底，有个声音却在低语：世上已经没有英雄了。她忆起培提尔伯爵从前在这个大厅里对她说的话，“小可爱，人生不比歌谣，”他告诉她，“有朝一日，你可能会大失所望。”看来在现实生活中，往往是怪兽得胜，她对自己说，接着她耳边又回响起猎狗那如金属和石头摩擦的冰冷嘶声：“小妹妹，为你自己好，照他想法去做。”
　　最后一件案子的被告是一位肥胖的酒店歌手，他被控谱曲嘲弄故王劳勃。乔佛里派人把他的木竖琴拿来，命令他当场表演给所有人听。歌手泪流满面，发誓再也不会唱这首歌了，但国王坚持要他唱。歌词其实挺有趣，大致是描述劳勃和猪打架。珊莎知道，那头猪就是杀死国王的野猪，但歌中的某些小节却像在影射太后。唱完之后，乔佛里宣布他将网开一面，歌手可以选择保留手指或者舌头，他有一天的时间来决定。杰诺斯·史林特点头称许。
　　下午的朝政总算告一段落，珊莎松了口气，但她的苦难却没有结束。司仪宣布退朝后，她急忙逃离旁听台，谁料乔佛里正在蜿蜒的楼梯下等她，猎狗和马林爵士在他身边。年轻的国王从上到下，仔细地审视着她。“你看起来比先前漂亮多了。”
　　“多谢陛下称赞。”珊莎说。虽是违心之论，他听了却点头微笑。
　　“陪我散步吧。”乔佛里命令，一边伸出了手，她别无选择，只好挽着他。若是从前，摸到他的手会令她震颤不已，但如今她却浑身起了鸡皮疙瘩。“我的命名日快到了，”他们从王座厅后方离开时，乔佛里说，“我们将举办盛大的宴会，会有很多人送我礼物。你要送我什么？”
　　“我……我还没想好送什么，大人。”
　　“陛下，”他口气尖锐地说，“你真是个笨女孩，对不对？母亲早跟我说了。”
　　“她真这么说？”经过这些日子以来的经历，她以为他的话已经失去了伤害她的力量，但是却不然。王后向来对她很好啊。
　　“噢，当然是真的，她还担心我们的孩子会不会像你一样笨，不过我叫她别操心。”国王做个手势，马林爵士便为他们打开门。
　　“谢谢您，陛下。”她嗫嚅着说。猎狗说得没错，她心想，我是一只小小鸟，只会重复别人教我的话。夕阳已经落下西边的城墙，红堡的砖石在暮色中沉暗如血。
　　“一旦你能生孩子，我就会让你怀孕，”乔佛里陪她走过练习场。“如果头胎是个笨蛋，我就立刻把你的头砍了，另外找个聪明的妻子。你什么时候才能生孩子啊？”
　　他把她羞辱成这样，珊莎无法正视他。“茉丹修女说多……多数的官家小姐在十二或十三岁的时候就会发育成熟。”
　　乔佛里点点头。“这边。”他领她进入红堡的城门塔，走到通往城垛的楼梯口。
　　珊莎猛地从他身旁抽身，不住发抖，突然明白这是要去哪里。“不要，”她呼吸急促，语带恐慌。“求求你，不要这样，不要带我去，我求求你……”
　　乔佛里抿紧嘴唇。“我要让你瞧瞧叛徒的下场！”
　　珊莎疯狂地摇头。“不，我不要去看。”
　　“我可以叫马林爵士拖你上去，”他说，“你不会喜欢的。你还是给我乖乖照办的好。”乔佛里朝她伸手，珊莎向后退开，结果撞上了猎狗。
　　“小妹妹，听话。”桑铎·克里冈边说边把她推回给国王。他烧伤那边脸的嘴角抽搐了片刻，珊莎几乎可以听见他没说出来的话：无论如何他都会把你弄上去的，所以，照他想法去做吧。
　　她强迫自己挽起乔佛里国王的手。登楼是一场噩梦，每一步都是挣扎，就像把脚从及膝的泥泞里抽出来那么困难。楼梯好似永无止尽，几千几万级，而梯顶的城墙上有无边恐惧正等着她。
　　从城门塔顶的城垛望去，整个世界摊在下方。珊莎可以看到座落于维桑尼亚丘陵上的贝勒大圣堂，父亲就是在那里被处死的。静默姐妹街的另一端，耸立着烧得焦黑的龙穴废墟。西边，红色的夕阳被诸神门遮掩了一半。在她身后，是咸海汪洋。南面有鱼市、码头和浩荡奔涌的黑水河，北面则有……
　　她望向北方，只见城市、街道、巷弄、丘陵……更多的街道巷弄，以及远方的城墙。然而她知道，在这些尘世扰攘之外，是开阔的原野、农田和森林，在更北更北更北的地方，是临冬城，是家。
　　“你在看什么？”乔佛里道，“我要你看这个，这里。”
　　一堵厚厚的石砌胸墙环绕着壁垒外围，高及珊莎下巴，每隔五尺便有一个让弓箭手使用的雉堞。那些首级便位于城墙顶端的雉堞之间，插在铁熗尖端，面朝城市。珊莎踏上城墙的那一刻便注意到了，但河滨景致、熙来攘往的街道和落日余晖是那么的美。他可以逼我看，她告诉自己，但我可以视而不见。
　　“这个是你父亲，”他说，“这边这个。狗，把头转过来给她瞧。”
　　桑铎·克里冈伸手到半空中，把首级转了过来。砍下的头颅浸过沥青，如此才能保存得较长。珊莎冷静地看着父亲的首级，不动声色。这看起来不像艾德公爵，她心想，看起来不像真的。“请问，您要我看多久？”
　　乔佛里似乎大感失望。“你想不想看其他人的头？”城垛上有一大排。
　　“如果陛下您高兴的话。”
　　于是乔佛里领她沿着走道前进，经过十几颗人头，还有两根空着的长熗。“这两根是我特地留给史坦尼斯叔叔和蓝礼叔叔的。”他解释。其他人死亡的时间比父亲长很多，首级待在熗尖上也久得多。虽然泡过沥青，但多数都变得难以辨认。国王指着其中一个说：“这个是你们家的修女。”可珊莎根本看不出那是女人的头。头颅的下巴已经整个烂掉，鸟儿吃掉了一只耳朵和大半边脸颊。
　　珊莎之前还纳闷茉丹修女到底发生了什么，现在想来，或许她早就心里有数了罢。“您为什么杀她呀？”她问：“她只是个虔诚的……”
　　“她是个叛徒。”乔佛里看起来闷闷不乐，她似乎惹恼他了。“你还没决定送我什么命名日礼物。不然换我送你好了，你觉得怎么样？”
　　“如果您高兴的话，大人。”珊莎说。
　　他一露出微笑，她便知道他在嘲讽自己。“你哥哥也是个叛徒，这你知道吧？”他把茉丹修女的头转回去。“我记得那次去临冬城见过你哥哥。我家的狗叫他玩木剑的少爷，对不对啊，好狗儿？”
　　“我这么说过？”猎狗回答，“我倒是不记得了。”
　　乔佛里暴躁地耸耸肩。“你哥哥把我詹姆舅舅打败了。母亲说他是靠诡计和欺骗才得逞的。她接获消息时，马上哭了起来。女人都是软弱的动物，连她也不例外，虽然总是假装很坚强。她说我们必须留在君临，以防我的两个叔叔发动攻击，但我才不在乎。等过了我的命名日宴会，我就要召集一支军队，亲手把你哥哥杀掉。珊莎·史塔克，这就是我要给你的礼物，你哥哥的首级。”
　　突来的一股狂念袭上她心头，她听见自己说：“或许我哥哥会把你的头拿来送我。”
　　乔佛里皱起眉头。“不准你这样开我玩笑。一个好妻子绝不可以拿她丈夫乱开玩笑。马林爵士，教训教训她。”
　　这回骑士打她时，用一只手紧紧托住她下巴。他一共打了两次，先打左边，然后更用力地打右边。她的嘴唇整个破了，鲜血一直流到下巴，混杂着咸咸的泪水。
　　“你不要整天哭哭啼啼。”乔佛里告诉她，“你笑起来比较漂亮。”
　　珊莎勉强挤出微笑，深恐若是不从，他又会叫马林爵士打她。可惜她笑了还是没用，国王嫌恶地摇摇头：“把血擦掉，你这样难看死了。”
　　外围的胸墙高到她下巴，但靠内的走道没有任何遮挡，距离下方的庭院足有七八十尺。用力一推就成了，她告诉自己。他就站在那里，就在那里，张着蠕虫般的嘴唇傻笑。你可以办到的，她告诉自己，你可以的，动手罢。即使跟他同归于尽也没关系，一点也没关系。
　　“过来，小妹妹。”桑铎·克里冈在她面前蹲下，正好挡在她和乔佛里之间。他轻轻地为她拭去自裂唇汩汩涌出的鲜血，动作出奇地温柔，令人很难与眼前的大个子联想在一起。
　　时机稍纵即逝，珊莎垂下眼睛。“谢谢。”他擦完之后，她向他道谢，因为她是个乖女孩，随时随地都要记得有礼貌。
[ 此帖被挽墨在2015-09-07 00:40重新编辑 ]
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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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Chapter 68

  
   DAENERYS
   Wings shadowed her fever dreams.
   “You don’t want to wake the dragon, do you?”
   She was walking down a long hall beneath high stone arches. She could not look behind her, must not look behind her. There was a door ahead of her, tiny with distance, but even from afar, she saw that it was painted red. She walked faster, and her bare feet left bloody footprints on the stone.
   “You don’t want to wake the dragon, do you?”
   She saw sunlight on the Dothraki sea, the living plain, rich with the smells of earth and death. Wind stirred the grasses, and they rippled like water. Drogo held her in strong arms, and his hand stroked her sex and opened her and woke that sweet wetness that was his alone, and the stars smiled down on them, stars in a daylight sky. “Home,” she whispered as he entered her and filled her with his seed, but suddenly the stars were gone, and across the blue sky swept the great wings, and the world took flame.
   “?.?.?.?don’t want to wake the dragon, do you?”
   Ser Jorah’s face was drawn and sorrowful. “Rhaegar was the last dragon,” he told her. He warmed translucent hands over a glowing brazier where stone eggs smouldered red as coals. One moment he was there and the next he was fading, his flesh colorless, less substantial than the wind. “The last dragon,” he whispered, thin as a wisp, and was gone. She felt the dark behind her, and the red door seemed farther away than ever.
   “?.?.?.?don’t want to wake the dragon, do you?”
   Viserys stood before her, screaming. “The dragon does not beg, slut. You do not command the dragon. I am the dragon, and I will be crowned.” The molten gold trickled down his face like wax, burning deep channels in his flesh. “I am the dragon and I will be crowned!” he shrieked, and his fingers snapped like snakes, biting at her nipples, pinching, twisting, even as his eyes burst and ran like jelly down seared and blackened cheeks.
   “?.?.?.?don’t want to wake the dragon?.?.?.?”
   The red door was so far ahead of her, and she could feel the icy breath behind, sweeping up on her. If it caught her she would die a death that was more than death, howling forever alone in the darkness. She began to run.
   “?.?.?.?don’t want to wake the dragon?.?.?.?”
   She could feel the heat inside her, a terrible burning in her womb. Her son was tall and proud, with Drogo’s copper skin and her own silver-gold hair, violet eyes shaped like almonds. And he smiled for her and began to lift his hand toward hers, but when he opened his mouth the fire poured out. She saw his heart burning through his chest, and in an instant he was gone, consumed like a moth by a candle, turned to ash. She wept for her child, the promise of a sweet mouth on her breast, but her tears turned to steam as they touched her skin.
   “?.?.?.?want to wake the dragon?.?.?.?”
   Ghosts lined the hallway, dressed in the faded raiment of kings. In their hands were swords of pale fire. They had hair of silver and hair of gold and hair of platinum white, and their eyes were opal and amethyst, tourmaline and jade. “Faster,” they cried, “faster, faster.” She raced, her feet melting the stone wherever they touched. “Faster!” the ghosts cried as one, and she screamed and threw herself forward. A great knife of pain ripped down her back, and she felt her skin tear open and smelled the stench of burning blood and saw the shadow of wings. And Daenerys Targaryen flew.
   “?.?.?.?wake the dragon?.?.?.?”
   The door loomed before her, the red door, so close, so close, the hall was a blur around her, the cold receding behind. And now the stone was gone and she flew across the Dothraki sea, high and higher, the green rippling beneath, and all that lived and breathed fled in terror from the shadow of her wings. She could smell home, she could see it, there, just beyond that door, green fields and great stone houses and arms to keep her warm, there. She threw open the door.
   “?.?.?.?the dragon?.?.?.?”
   And saw her brother Rhaegar, mounted on a stallion as black as his armor. Fire glimmered red through the narrow eye slit of his helm. “The last dragon,” Ser Jorah’s voice whispered faintly. “The last, the last.” Dany lifted his polished black visor. The face within was her own.
   After that, for a long time, there was only the pain, the fire within her, and the whisperings of stars.
   She woke to the taste of ashes.
   “No,” she moaned, “no, please.”
   “Khaleesi?” Jhiqui hovered over her, a frightened doe.
   The tent was drenched in shadow, still and close. Flakes of ash drifted upward from a brazier, and Dany followed them with her eyes through the smoke hole above. Flying, she thought. I had wings, I was flying. But it was only a dream. “Help me,” she whispered, struggling to rise. “Bring me?.?.?.?” Her voice was raw as a wound, and she could not think what she wanted. Why did she hurt so much? It was as if her body had been torn to pieces and remade from the scraps. “I want?.?.?.?”
   “Yes, Khaleesi.” Quick as that Jhiqui was gone, bolting from the tent, shouting. Dany needed?.?.?.?something?.?.?.?someone?.?.?.?what? It was important, she knew. It was the only thing in the world that mattered. She rolled onto her side and got an elbow under her, fighting the blanket tangled about her legs. It was so hard to move. The world swam dizzily. I have to?.?.?.?
   They found her on the carpet, crawling toward her dragon eggs. Ser Jorah Mormont lifted her in his arms and carried her back to her sleeping silks, while she struggled feebly against him. Over his shoulder she saw her three handmaids, Jhogo with his little wisp of mustache, and the flat broad face of Mirri Maz Duur. “I must,” she tried to tell them, “I have to?.?.?.?”
   “?.?.?.?sleep, Princess,” Ser Jorah said.
   “No,” Dany said. “Please. Please.”
   “Yes.” He covered her with silk, though she was burning. “Sleep and grow strong again, Khaleesi. Come back to us.” And then Mirri Maz Duur was there, the maegi, tipping a cup against her lips. She tasted sour milk, and something else, something thick and bitter. Warm liquid ran down her chin. Somehow she swallowed. The tent grew dimmer, and sleep took her again. This time she did not dream. She floated, serene and at peace, on a black sea that knew no shore.
   After a time, a night, a day, a year, she could not say, she woke again. The tent was dark, its silken walls flapping like wings when the wind gusted outside. This time Dany did not attempt to rise. “Irri,” she called, “Jhiqui. Doreah.” They were there at once. “My throat is dry,” she said, “so dry,” and they brought her water. It was warm and flat, yet Dany drank it eagerly, and sent Jhiqui for more. Irri dampened a soft cloth and stroked her brow. “I have been sick,” Dany said. The Dothraki girl nodded. “How long?” The cloth was soothing, but Irri seemed so sad, it frightened her. “Long,” she whispered. When Jhiqui returned with more water, Mirri Maz Duur came with her, eyes heavy from sleep. “Drink,” she said, lifting Dany’s head to the cup once more, but this time it was only wine. Sweet, sweet wine. Dany drank, and lay back, listening to the soft sound of her own breathing. She could feel the heaviness in her limbs, as sleep crept in to fill her up once more. “Bring me?.?.?.?” she murmured, her voice slurred and drowsy. “Bring?.?.?.?I want to hold?.?.?.?”
   “Yes?” the maegi asked. “What is it you wish, Khaleesi?”
   “Bring me?.?.?.?egg?.?.?.?dragon’s egg?.?.?.?please?.?.?.?” Her lashes turned to lead, and she was too weary to hold them up.
   When she woke the third time, a shaft of golden sunlight was pouring through the smoke hole of the tent, and her arms were wrapped around a dragon’s egg. It was the pale one, its scales the color of butter cream, veined with whorls of gold and bronze, and Dany could feel the heat of it. Beneath her bedsilks, a fine sheen of perspiration covered her bare skin. Dragondew, she thought. Her fingers trailed lightly across the surface of the shell, tracing the wisps of gold, and deep in the stone she felt something twist and stretch in response. It did not frighten her. All her fear was gone, burned away.
   Dany touched her brow. Under the film of sweat, her skin was cool to the touch, her fever gone. She made herself sit. There was a moment of dizziness, and the deep ache between her thighs. Yet she felt strong. Her maids came running at the sound of her voice. “Water,” she told them, “a flagon of water, cold as you can find it. And fruit, I think. Dates.”
   “As you say, Khaleesi.”
   “I want Ser Jorah,” she said, standing. Jhiqui brought a sandsilk robe and draped it over her shoulders. “And a warm bath, and Mirri Maz Duur, and?.?.?.?” Memory came back to her all at once, and she faltered. “Khal Drogo,” she forced herself to say, watching their faces with dread. “Is he&mdash?”
   “The khal lives,” Irri answered quietly?.?.?.?yet Dany saw a darkness in her eyes when she said the words, and no sooner had she spoken than she rushed away to fetch water.
   She turned to Doreah. “Tell me.”
   “I?.?.?.?I shall bring Ser Jorah,” the Lysene girl said, bowing her head and fleeing the tent.
   Jhiqui would have run as well, but Dany caught her by the wrist and held her captive. “What is it? I must know. Drogo?.?.?.?and my child.” Why had she not remembered the child until now? “My son?.?.?.?Rhaego?.?.?.?where is he? I want him.”
   Her handmaid lowered her eyes. “The boy?.?.?.?he did not live, Khaleesi.” Her voice was a frightened whisper.
   Dany released her wrist. My son is dead, she thought as Jhiqui left the tent. She had known somehow. She had known since she woke the first time to Jhiqui’s tears. No, she had known before she woke. Her dream came back to her, sudden and vivid, and she remembered the tall man with the copper skin and long silver-gold braid, bursting into flame.
   She should weep, she knew, yet her eyes were dry as ash. She had wept in her dream, and the tears had turned to steam on her cheeks. All the grief has been burned out of me, she told herself. She felt sad, and yet?.?.?.?she could feel Rhaego receding from her, as if he had never been.
   Ser Jorah and Mirri Maz Duur entered a few moments later, and found Dany standing over the other dragon’s eggs, the two still in their chest. It seemed to her that they felt as hot as the one she had slept with, which was passing strange. “Ser Jorah, come here,” she said. She took his hand and placed it on the black egg with the scarlet swirls. “What do you feel?”
   “Shell, hard as rock.” The knight was wary. “Scales.”
   “Heat?”
   “No. Cold stone.” He took his hand away. “Princess, are you well? Should you be up, weak as you are?”
   “Weak? I am strong, Jorah.” To please him, she reclined on a pile of cushions. “Tell me how my child died.”
   “He never lived, my princess. The women say?.?.?.?” He faltered, and Dany saw how the flesh hung loose on him, and the way he limped when he moved.
   “Tell me. Tell me what the women say.”
   He turned his face away. His eyes were haunted. “They say the child was?.?.?.?”
   She waited, but Ser Jorah could not say it. His face grew dark with shame. He looked half a corpse himself.
   “Monstrous,” Mirri Maz Duur finished for him. The knight was a powerful man, yet Dany understood in that moment that the maegi was stronger, and crueler, and infinitely more dangerous. “Twisted. I drew him forth myself. He was scaled like a lizard, blind, with the stub of a tail and small leather wings like the wings of a bat. When I touched him, the flesh sloughed off the bone, and inside he was full of graveworms and the stink of corruption. He had been dead for years.”
   Darkness, Dany thought. The terrible darkness sweeping up behind to devour her. If she looked back she was lost. “My son was alive and strong when Ser Jorah carried me into this tent,” she said. “I could feel him kicking, fighting to be born.”
   “That may be as it may be,” answered Mirri Maz Duur, “yet the creature that came forth from your womb was as I said. Death was in that tent, Khaleesi.”
   “Only shadows,” Ser Jorah husked, but Dany could hear the doubt in his voice. “I saw, maegi. I saw you, alone, dancing with the shadows. “
   “The grave casts long shadows, Iron Lord,” Mirri said. “Long and dark, and in the end no light can hold them back.”
   Ser Jorah had killed her son, Dany knew. He had done what he did for love and loyalty, yet he had carried her into a place no living man should go and fed her baby to the darkness. He knew it too; the grey face, the hollow eyes, the limp. “The shadows have touched you too, Ser Jorah,” she told him. The knight made no reply. Dany turned to the godswife. “You warned me that only death could pay for life. I thought you meant the horse.”
   “No,” Mirri Maz Duur said. “That was a lie you told yourself. You knew the price.”
   Had she? Had she? If I look back I am lost. “The price was paid,” Dany said. “The horse, my child, Quaro and Qotho, Haggo and Cohollo. The price was paid and paid and paid.” She rose from her cushions. “Where is Khal Drogo? Show him to me, godswife, maegi, bloodmage, whatever you are. Show me Khal Drogo. Show me what I bought with my son’s life.”
   “As you command, Khaleesi,” the old woman said. “Come, I will take you to him.”
   Dany was weaker than she knew. Ser Jorah slipped an arm around her and helped her stand. “Time enough for this later, my princess,” he said quietly.
   “I would see him now, Ser Jorah.”
   After the dimness of the tent, the world outside was blinding bright. The sun burned like molten gold, and the land was seared and empty. Her handmaids waited with fruit and wine and water, and Jhogo moved close to help Ser Jorah support her. Aggo and Rakharo stood behind. The glare of sun on sand made it hard to see more, until Dany raised her hand to shade her eyes. She saw the ashes of a fire, a few score horses milling listlessly and searching for a bite of grass, a scattering of tents and bedrolls. A small crowd of children had gathered to watch her, and beyond she glimpsed women going about their work, and withered old men staring at the flat blue sky with tired eyes, swatting feebly at bloodflies. A count might show a hundred people, no more. Where the other forty thousand had made their camp, only the wind and dust lived now.
   “Drogo’s khalasar is gone,” she said.
   “A khal who cannot ride is no khal,” said Jhogo.
   “The Dothraki follow only the strong,” Ser Jorah said. “I am sorry, my princess. There was no way to hold them. Ko Pono left first, naming himself Khal Pono, and many followed him. Jhaqo was not long to do the same. The rest slipped away night by night, in large bands and small. There are a dozen new khalasars on the Dothraki sea, where once there was only Drogo’s.”
   “The old remain,” said Aggo. “The frightened, the weak, and the sick. And we who swore. We remain.”
   “They took Khal Drogo’s herds, Khaleesi,” Rakharo said. “We were too few to stop them. It is the right of the strong to take from the weak. They took many slaves as well, the khal’s and yours, yet they left some few.”
   “Eroeh?” asked Dany, remembering the frightened child she had saved outside the city of the Lamb Men.
   “Mago seized her, who is Khal Jhaqo’s bloodrider now,” said Jhogo. “He mounted her high and low and gave her to his khal, and Jhaqo gave her to his other bloodriders. They were six. When they were done with her, they cut her throat.”
   “It was her fate, Khaleesi,” said Aggo.
   If I look back I am lost. “It was a cruel fate,” Dany said, “yet not so cruel as Mago’s will be. I promise you that, by the old gods and the new, by the lamb god and the horse god and every god that lives. I swear it by the Mother of Mountains and the Womb of the World. Before I am done with them, Mago and Ko Jhaqo will plead for the mercy they showed Eroeh.”
   The Dothraki exchanged uncertain glances. “Khaleesi, “ the handmaid Irri explained, as if to a child, “Jhaqo is a khal now, with twenty thousand riders at his back.”
   She lifted her head. “And I am Daenerys Stormhorn, Daenerys of House Targaryen, of the blood of Aegon the Conqueror and Maegor the Cruel and old Valyria before them. I am the dragon’s daughter, and I swear to you, these men will die screaming. Now bring me to Khal Drogo.”
   He was lying on the bare red earth, staring up at the sun.
   A dozen bloodflies had settled on his body, though he did not seem to feel them. Dany brushed them away and knelt beside him. His eyes were wide open but did not see, and she knew at once that he was blind. When she whispered his name, he did not seem to hear. The wound on his breast was as healed as it would ever be, the scar that covered it grey and red and hideous.
   “Why is he out here alone, in the sun?” she asked them.
   “He seems to like the warmth, Princess,” Ser Jorah said. “His eyes follow the sun, though he does not see it. He can walk after a fashion. He will go where you lead him, but no farther. He will eat if you put food in his mouth, drink if you dribble water on his lips.”
   Dany kissed her sun-and-stars gently on the brow, and stood to face Mirri Maz Duur. “Your spells are costly, maegi.”
   “He lives,” said Mirri Maz Duur. “You asked for life. You paid for life.”
   “This is not life, for one who was as Drogo was. His life was laughter, and meat roasting over a firepit, and a horse between his legs. His life was an arakh in his hand and his bells ringing in his hair as he rode to meet an enemy. His life was his bloodriders, and me, and the son I was to give him.”
   Mirri Maz Duur made no reply.
   “When will he be as he was?” Dany demanded.
   “When the sun rises in the west and sets in the east,” said Mirri Maz Duur. “When the seas go dry and mountains blow in the wind like leaves. When your womb quickens again, and you bear a living child. Then he will return, and not before.”
   Dany gestured at Ser Jorah and the others. “Leave us. I would speak with this maegi alone.” Mormont and the Dothraki withdrew. “You knew,” Dany said when they were gone. She ached, inside and out, but her fury gave her strength. “You knew what I was buying, and you knew the price, and yet you let me pay it.”
   “It was wrong of them to burn my temple,” the heavy, flat-nosed woman said placidly. “That angered the Great Shepherd.”
   “This was no god’s work,” Dany said coldly. If I look back I am lost. “You cheated me. You murdered my child within me.”
   “The stallion who mounts the world will burn no cities now. His khalasar shall trample no nations into dust.”
   “I spoke for you,” she said, anguished. “I saved you.”
   “Saved me?” The Lhazareen woman spat. “Three riders had taken me, not as a man takes a woman but from behind, as a dog takes a bitch. The fourth was in me when you rode past. How then did you save me? I saw my god’s house burn, where I had healed good men beyond counting. My home they burned as well, and in the street I saw piles of heads. I saw the head of a baker who made my bread. I saw the head of a boy I had saved from deadeye fever, only three moons past. I heard children crying as the riders drove them off with their whips. Tell me again what you saved.”
   “Your life.”
   Mirri Maz Duur laughed cruelly. “Look to your khal and see what life is worth, when all the rest is gone.”
   Dany called out for the men of her khas and bid them take Mirri Maz Duur and bind her hand and foot, but the maegi smiled at her as they carried her off, as if they shared a secret. A word, and Dany could have her head off?.?.?.?yet then what would she have? A head? If life was worthless, what was death?
   They led Khal Drogo back to her tent, and Dany commanded them to fill a tub, and this time there was no blood in the water. She bathed him herself, washing the dirt and the dust from his arms and chest, cleaning his face with a soft cloth, soaping his long black hair and combing the knots and tangles from it till it shone again as she remembered. It was well past dark before she was done, and Dany was exhausted. She stopped for drink and food, but it was all she could do to nibble at a fig and keep down a mouthful of water. Sleep would have been a release, but she had slept enough?.?.?.?too long, in truth. She owed this night to Drogo, for all the nights that had been, and yet might be.
   The memory of their first ride was with her when she led him out into the darkness, for the Dothraki believed that all things of importance in a man’s life must be done beneath the open sky. She told herself that there were powers stronger than hatred, and spells older and truer than any the maegi had learned in Asshai. The night was black and moonless, but overhead a million stars burned bright. She took that for an omen.
   No soft blanket of grass welcomed them here, only the hard dusty ground, bare and strewn with stones. No trees stirred in the wind, and there was no stream to soothe her fears with the gentle music of water. Dany told herself that the stars would be enough. “Remember, Drogo,” she whispered. “Remember our first ride together, the day we wed. Remember the night we made Rhaego, with the khalasar all around us and your eyes on my face. Remember how cool and clean the water was in the Womb of the World. Remember, my sun-and-stars. Remember, and come back to me.”
   The birth had left her too raw and torn to take him inside of her, as she would have wanted, but Doreah had taught her other ways. Dany used her hands, her mouth, her breasts. She raked him with her nails and covered him with kisses and whispered and prayed and told him stories, and by the end she had bathed him with her tears. Yet Drogo did not feel, or speak, or rise.
   And when the bleak dawn broke over an empty horizon, Dany knew that he was truly lost to her. “When the sun rises in the west and sets in the east,” she said sadly. “When the seas go dry and mountains blow in the wind like leaves. When my womb quickens again, and I bear a living child. Then you will return, my sun-and-stars, and not before.”
   Never, the darkness cried, never never never.
   Inside the tent Dany found a cushion, soft silk stuffed with feathers. She clutched it to her breasts as she walked back out to Drogo, to her sun-and-stars. If I look back I am lost. It hurt even to walk, and she wanted to sleep, to sleep and not to dream.
   She knelt, kissed Drogo on the lips, and pressed the cushion down across his face.
  
 
Ⅰ 权力的游戏 Chapter69 丹妮莉丝
　　她发着高烧，噩梦连连，梦中有长了翅膀的黑影。
　　“你不想唤醒睡龙之怒，对吧？”
　　她在一个长长的大厅里走着，上方是高高的石拱。她无法转头，不能回头。在她前方极远之处有一扇门，因为距离的关系，显得相当微小，但她依旧看得出门乃是漆成红色。她加快步伐，赤裸的双脚在石地板上留下一个又一个血印。
　　“你不想唤醒睡龙之怒，对吧？”
　　他看见阳光洒在生意盎然的多斯拉克海上，空气中充满泥土和死亡的气息。风吹草动，碧浪荡漾有如汪洋。卓戈用健壮的双手环抱住她，抚弄她，撩拨她，使她流出那甜蜜的汁液，只属于他的甜蜜汁液。天上的星星含笑俯视着他们，赤日和繁星。“家，”她轻声细语的同时，他进入她的身体，将精液注入她体内。突然间，星星不见了，巨大的翅膀横扫天际，世界起火燃烧。
　　“……不想唤醒睡龙之怒，对吧？”
　　乔拉爵士的脸憔悴而哀伤。“雷加是最后的真龙传人。”他边告诉她，边伸出半透明的手在火盆上取暖，火盆里躺着几颗石蛋，如煤炭般烧红冒烟。前一刻他还有血肉，紧接着便开始消逝，肌肉失去颜色，比风儿还要无形。“最后的真龙。”他的声音如一缕轻烟，接着他便消失无踪。她感觉到身后紧迫的黑暗，而那扇红门，却是越来越远。
　　“……不想唤醒睡龙之怒，对吧？”
　　韦赛里斯站在她面前，厉声尖叫：“你这个小贱货，真龙是不会低声下气的，不准你对真龙之子颐指气使。我是真龙传人，我会得到王冠！”融化的黄金像蜡一样从他脸上流下，烧出条条深陷的凹痕。“我是真龙传人！我会得到王冠的！”他厉声嚎叫，手指像蛇一样，啮咬她的乳头，又捏又拧又扭，他的眼睛爆突出来，宛如胶冻，流下他焦黑的双颊。
　　“……不想唤醒睡龙之怒……”
　　红门在前方，好远好远，但她可以感觉到背后冰冷的气息朝她袭来，假如她被抓到，就会陷入比死亡更恐怖的境地，永远在无边黑暗中孤独地哀嚎。于是她开步快跑。
　　“……不想唤醒睡龙之怒……”
　　她感觉到体内的热气，仿佛有什么可怕的东西正在她的子宫燃烧。她的儿子生得高大威武，有卓戈的古铜色皮肤和她银金色的头发，以及杏仁形状的紫罗兰色眼睛。他对她微笑，朝她伸手拥抱，然而当他张开嘴巴，吐出的却是滔天烈焰。她看见他的心脏正在胸腔里熊熊燃烧，只一瞬间，人便消失得无影无踪，有如扑火飞蛾被烛焰吞噬，化为灰烬。她为孩子哭泣，哀悼这原本会吸吮她乳房的甜美婴孩，但她的泪水一碰肌肤，竟立即化成蒸汽。
　　“……唤醒睡龙之怒……”
　　鬼魂罗列长厅两侧，穿着古代君王的褪色服饰，手握淡色火焰剑，他们的头发有的银色、有的金黄，有的亮如白金，眼睛则是蛋白石、紫水晶、电气石和翡翠的颜色。“快！”他们高叫，“快，快跑！”她拔腿飞奔，每次落脚，都融化了石地板。“快跑！”鬼魂齐声呐喊，她跟着尖叫，往前扑去。剧痛有如一把尖刀，划过她的背脊，她只觉自己的皮肤被撕扯开来，闻到鲜血蒸腾的臭味，看到巨大翅膀的阴影。然后，丹妮莉丝·坦格利安飞了起来。
　　“……唤醒睡龙……”
　　红门就耸立在她面前，越来越近，越来越近，长厅变成周围的一团模糊，冷气自她身后退去，石地板也消失不见。她飞越过多斯拉克海，越飞越高，任绿海在下方波荡，世上所有的生物都在她的翅膀阴影下亡命奔逃。她闻到家的味道，见到家的景致，在门的那边，有茵绿田野和石砌大房，有温暖她心房的怀抱，就在那边。她猛地打开门。
　　“……睡龙……”
　　看见的是哥哥雷加，身穿漆黑盔甲，骑着同样颜色的骏马，在头盔的狭窄眼缝内，有火焰熊熊燃烧。“最后的真龙传人，”乔拉爵士在微弱低语，“最后的，最后的。”丹妮揭开他擦亮的黑面罩，发现里面的那张脸，竟然是她自己。
　　在那之后，长长久久，痛楚，体内燃烧的熊熊大火和低声细语的群星，覆盖了整个天地。
　　她骤然醒来，嘴里有灰烬的味道。
　　“不，”她呻吟道，“不要，求求你！”
　　“卡丽熙？”姬琪凑过来，像一头害怕的雌鹿。
　　帐篷沉浸在黑影中，寂静而封闭。无数碎片的灰烬自火盆向上飘散，丹妮的视线跟着它们穿过上方的排烟口。飞啊，她心想，我有了翅膀，我会飞了。然而那究竟只是惊梦一场。“救救我，”她小声说，挣扎着想站起来。“请给我……”她的喉咙沙哑刺痛，想不起来自己究竟要什么。为什么痛得如此厉害？她觉得自己的身体好似被撕成碎片，又再重新组合。“我要……”
　　“是的，卡丽熙。”说完姬琪便飞奔出去，大声喊叫，帐里则空无一人。丹妮想要……某件东西……某个人……到底是什么？她知道这很重要，世界上只有这件事最重要。她翻过身，用手肘支撑身体，与纠缠双脚的毛毯搏斗。移动好难好难：整个世界天旋地转。我一定要……
　　他们进来时，发现她倒卧在地毯上，正朝那几颗龙蛋爬去。乔拉·莫尔蒙爵士把她抱回丝床上，她虚弱地抵抗。从他的肩头后方，她看到了自己的三个女仆，长了点小胡子的乔戈，以及弥丽·马兹·笃尔那张平板的阔脸。“我必须，”她试图告诉他们，“我一定要……”
　　“……睡吧，公主殿下。”乔拉爵士说。
　　“不，”丹妮说：“求求你，求求你。”
　　“一定要。”他为她盖上丝被，也不管她浑身发烫。“卡丽熙，好好睡，赶快好起来，回到我们身边。”接着，那巫魔女弥丽·马兹·笃尔出现了，她拿着一个杯子靠到她唇边。她尝出里面酸牛奶的味道，还有另一种浓而苦涩的东西。温热的液体流过她的下巴，她麻木地吞了下去。于是营帐渐渐黯淡，她再度入睡，这回没有做梦，而是在一片无边无际的黑色汪洋上漂浮，恬适而安宁。
　　过了一段时间——一个晚上，一天，还是一年，她不知道——她再度醒来，帐里一片漆黑，外面劲风吹拂，丝质帷幕有如飞翅般啪啦作响。这次丹妮不再挣扎起身。“伊丽，”她叫道：“姬琪、多莉亚。”她们立刻出现。“我的喉咙好干，”她说，“好干、好干。”于是她们拿来了水。这水温热而无味，但丹妮却饥渴地喝个精光，并差姬琪多拿一点。伊丽浸湿一块软布，擦拭她的额头。“我生病了么？”丹妮说。多斯拉克女孩点点头。“病了多久？”湿布很舒爽，但伊丽的神情却无比哀伤，她不禁害怕起来。“很久，”女仆小声说。姬琪拿水回来时，睡眼朦胧的弥丽·马兹·笃尔也跟着来了。“喝吧。”她边说边再度抬起丹妮的头就着杯子，不过这次杯中是葡萄酒，好甜好甜的酒。丹妮喝完以后，躺了回去，听着自己轻柔的呼吸，只觉四肢沉重，睡意又袭上心头。“我要……”她喃喃道，声音含混而模糊。“我要……我要抱……”
　　“要什么？”巫魔女问，“卡丽熙，您要什么？”
　　“我要……蛋……龙蛋……麻烦你……”她的眼皮沉重如铅，而她太累太倦，再没力气张开它们。
　　待她三度睁眼，一缕金色的阳光正从帐顶的排烟口直射而进，而她的双手环抱着一颗龙蛋。是乳白的那颗，奶油色的鳞壳，有金黄和青铜的螺旋条纹，丹妮可以感觉到龙蛋所散发出的热度。在丝被之下，她全身覆满一层晶莹的汗水，这就是龙露吧，她心想。她伸出手指，轻轻拂过蛋壳，沿着缕缕金黄挪移，感觉到石蛋深处有什么东西在跃动着、伸展着遥相应和。她并不害怕，所有的恐惧都已经随着高热焚烧殆尽了。
　　丹妮摸摸额头，汗水之下，皮肤凉凉的，高烧已退。她逼自己坐起来，虽然有点短暂的晕眩，两腿深处还很疼痛，但她觉得体力已经恢复。女仆们听到她的响动，急忙跑来。“我要喝水，”她告诉她们，“帮我拿瓶水来，越凉越好。再拿点水果，我想吃枣子。”
　　“遵命，卡丽熙。”
　　“我要见乔拉爵士。”说着她站起来，姬琪拿了一件纱丝长袍给她披上。“还要洗个温水澡。把弥丽·马兹·笃尔也叫来，还有……”回忆突然同时涌现，她讲不下去。“卓戈卡奥。”她逼自己说出口，惊恐地看着她们的脸庞。“他是不是——”
　　“卡奥他还活着。”伊丽静静地回答……但在她说话的同时，丹妮却在她眼中察觉了一抹黯淡，她话一说完，就连忙跑出去拿水了。
　　于是她转向多莉亚：“告诉我是怎么回事。”
　　“我……我去找乔拉爵士。”里斯女孩说罢鞠了个躬，逃离了帐篷。
　　姬琪原本也要跑，可丹妮抓住她的手腕，将她扣留下来。“到底怎么回事？我一定要知道。卓戈……和我的孩子。”为何她现在才想起孩子？“我儿子……雷戈……他在哪里？我要看看他。”
　　女仆垂下眼睛。“孩子……没活成，卡丽熙。”她的声音只剩惊恐的呓语。
　　丹妮松开手腕，任姬琪逃出营帐。我儿子死了，她怔怔地想。不知怎地，她好像早就知道，在她第一次醒来，看见姬琪泪流满面之前，不对，还没醒来前她就知道了。梦境突然袭上心头，历历如绘，她想起那个高个子，有着古铜色皮肤和银金色发辫，轰地葬身烈焰。
　　她知道自己应该哭泣，但双眼却干如灰烬。因为她在梦中已经哭过，泪水一碰两颊便化为蒸汽。所有的悲伤，已在我体内蒸腾干净，她告诉自己。她虽然哀痛，可是……她只感到雷戈渐渐离她远去，仿佛从未存在。
　　须臾，当乔拉爵士和弥丽·马兹·笃尔走进帐篷时，丹妮跑去查看另外两颗龙蛋。那两颗蛋还在箱子里，却和她睡觉时抱着的那颗同样发热，实在很奇怪。“乔拉爵士，请你过来。”她执起他的手，将之放在那颗有鲜红条纹的黑色龙蛋上。“你有什么感觉？”
　　“蛋壳，硬得像石头。”骑士的神情有些谨慎。“还有鳞片。”
　　“热么？”
　　“不热，冷冰冰的石头。”他抽开手。“公主殿下，您还好吗？您的身体还这么虚弱，现在起来好吗？”
　　“虚弱？乔拉，我的身体很强壮。”为了让他放心，她在一堆靠垫上坐下。“告诉我，我儿子是怎么死的。”
　　“公主殿下，他根本就没活成。那些女人说……”他止住不说，丹妮这才发现他整个人已经垮了，移动时跛着脚。
　　“告诉我，告诉我那些女人说了些什么。”
　　他别过头去，眼里仿佛有些愧疚。“她们说那孩子是……”
　　她耐心等待，但乔拉爵士说不出口。他的脸色因羞愧而黯淡，看上去活像一具行尸走肉。
　　“那孩子是个怪物，”弥丽·马兹·笃尔替他说完。骑士虽然武艺超群，但丹妮明白此刻巫魔女比他更有力量、更残酷，更是难以想像地危险。“整个人畸形扭曲。我亲自帮他接生，他像蜥蜴一样全身长满鳞片，眼睛是瞎的，屁股上生了条短尾巴，还有一对像蝙蝠一样的小翅膀。我一碰他，他的皮肉就从骨头上脱落，里面满满的都是蛆虫，散发出腐烂的恶臭，他已经死了很多年了。”
　　就是那股黑暗，丹妮心想，就是那股紧追身后，想要吞噬她的恐怖黑暗。假如她回头，一切就都完了。“乔拉爵士把我抱进这座帐篷时，我儿子还健康强壮。”她说，“我感觉得到他不断拳打脚踢，急着要降临人世。”
　　“或许如此，”弥丽·马兹·笃尔回答，“可从你肚子里生出来的东西就是我刚刚说的那样。卡丽熙，当时这座帐篷里充满死亡。”
　　“不过是些影子，”乔拉爵士嘶声道，然而丹妮听得出他话中的疑虑。“我亲眼看到了，巫魔女，我看到你独自待在这里，和影子跳舞。”
　　“铁大王，坟墓洒下的影子是很长的，”弥丽说，“又长又暗，直到任何亮光都无法阻挡。”
　　丹妮明白了，是乔拉爵士害死了她儿子。他出于对她的敬爱和忠诚，将她抱进了一个任何活人都不该进入的地方，把她的宝贝喂给了黑暗。对此，他自己一清二楚；那张灰白的脸庞，那对空洞的眼瞳，那双不便于行的跛足，实实在在说明了他的悔恨。“乔拉爵士，你也被阴影所害。”她对他说，但骑士没有答话。丹妮转向女祭司，“你警告我：惟有死亡方能换取生命，我以为你指的是那匹马。”
　　“不对，”弥丽·马兹·笃尔道，“那只是您用来欺骗自己的谎言，您很清楚代价是什么。”
　　她知道么？她当时真的知道么？如果我回头，一切就都完了。“我已经付出了代价，”丹妮说：“我付出了那匹骏马，我的孩子，还有魁洛、柯索、哈戈和科霍罗，付了好多好多倍。”她霍地从靠垫上站起。“卓戈卡奥人在哪里？带我去见他，不管你是女祭司、巫魔女还是血巫，总之我要见他。我要看看我用儿子的性命换来了什么。”
　　“如您所愿，卡丽熙。”老妇人说，“请随我来，我带您去见他。”
　　丹妮远比自己以为的虚弱，乔拉爵士伸手环抱住她，支撑她站立。“公主殿下，以后有的是时间。”他静静地说。
　　“乔拉爵士，我现在就要见他。”
　　习惯了帐篷内的昏暗，外面的世界亮得吓人。太阳如融化的黄金，烧灼着大地，炙烤的地面干裂而空洞。女仆们端着水、酒和瓜果等在一旁，乔戈走上前来，协助乔拉爵士搀扶她，阿戈和拉卡洛则站在后面。烈日照在沙地上，反射的强光使她很难视物，直到丹妮举手遮眼，这才见到一团营火的余烬，几十匹马无精打采地走来走去，寻找那一点点青草，此外还有少数的营帐和睡袋。一小群幼童围聚过来看她，更远处还有些妇人做着日常琐事，几名佝偻的老人，睁着疲倦不堪的眼睛，痴痴地望向湛蓝的天空，虚弱地挥赶血蝇。仔细一数，大约只有百来个人，就这么多。原先足足四万战士的营地，如今只剩风沙和尘土。
　　“卓戈的卡拉萨走了。”她说。
　　“无法骑马的卡奥没有资格当卡奥。”乔戈道。
　　“多斯拉克人只追随强者，”乔拉爵士说，“公主殿下，我很抱歉，我们实在留不住人。波诺‘寇’第一个离开，并自称波诺卡奥，不少人跟了他。没过多久，贾科也如法炮制。剩下的人则趁着夜色，大群小群地，一天一天走光。从前多斯拉克海中只有卓戈的卡拉萨，如今却有了十多个新的。”
　　“老人们留了下来，”阿戈说，“还有胆小鬼、弱者和病夫，以及发过誓的我们。我们决不离开您。”
　　“卡丽熙，他们带走了卓戈卡奥的牧群，”拉卡洛道，“我们人手太少，阻止不了他们。抢夺弱者本是强者的权利。他们还抢走了很多奴隶，卡奥和您的都有，只留了几个下来。”
　　“埃萝叶呢？”丹妮想起自己在羊人城镇外拯救的受惊女孩，连忙问。
　　“马戈把她抓走，他如今是贾科卡奥的血盟卫，”乔戈说，“他先将她大骑特骑，然后把她给了他的卡奥，之后贾科又把她给了其他的血盟卫，而他总共有六个卫士。完事之后，他们割了她的喉咙。”
　　“卡丽熙，这是她的命。”阿戈道。
　　如果我回头，一切就都完了。“这是她悲惨的命运，”丹妮说，“但马戈的命运将更悲惨。我以新旧诸神之名起誓，以羊神、马神和世上所有神灵之名起誓，向圣母山和世界的子宫湖起誓：在我处置他们之前，马戈和贾科将会哀求我按照他们对待埃萝叶的方式赐给他们慈悲。”
　　多斯拉克人不安地彼此对视。“卡丽熙，”女仆伊丽像对小孩子解释一般地跟她说，“贾科现在是卡奥，身后有两万名骑马战士。”
　　她昂首道：“我呢？我是‘暴风降生’丹妮莉丝，坦格利安家族的丹妮莉丝，我是征服者伊耿与残酷的梅葛的后裔，血缘可以上溯至古老的瓦雷利亚民族。吾乃真龙之女，我向你们发誓，这些人将会尖叫痛苦而死。现在，带我去见卓戈卡奥。”
　　他躺在光溜溜的红沙地上，睁眼望着太阳。
　　他的身上停了十几只血蝇，但他似乎浑然不觉。丹妮挥开苍蝇，在他身边跪下。他的眼睛睁得老大，却视而不见，她当下便明白他双目已瞎。可当她轻声说出他的名字，他似乎仍旧充耳不闻。他胸口的伤已经完全愈合，结成的疤又灰又红，看来十分狰狞可怕。
　　“他为什么一个人待在这里晒太阳？”她问他们。
　　“公主殿下，他似乎喜欢阳光的温暖，”乔拉爵士道，“他的眼睛会随太阳移动，虽然他根本看不到。他能走路，只要有人带着他，他会跟着走，但仅止于此。若把食物放进他的嘴中，他就会吃；若把清水滴到他唇上，他就会喝。”
　　丹妮轻轻吻了她的日和星的额头，起身面对弥丽·马兹·笃尔。“巫魔女，你的法术可真是代价高昂。”
　　“他活了下来，”弥丽·马兹·笃尔说，“您要的是他的生命，您也支付了生命。”
　　“对卓戈那样的人来说，这根本不是生命。他的生命是开怀大笑，是火炉上烧烤的肉块，是双腿间骑乘的骏马。他的生命是手握亚拉克弯刀，骑马迎敌，铃铛在发际作响。他的生命是他的血盟卫，是我，以及我原本要为他产下的儿子。”
　　弥丽·马兹·笃尔没有回答。
　　“要多久他才会变回以前那样？”丹妮质问。
　　“等太阳从西边升起，在东边落下。”弥丽·马兹·笃尔说，“等海水干枯，山脉像枯叶一样随风吹落。等您的子宫再度胎动，您再次怀了孩子。到了那时候，他才会变回以前的模样，在那之前绝不可能。”
　　丹妮朝乔拉爵士和其他人打个手势。“你们先退下，我要单独跟巫魔女谈谈。”莫尔蒙和多斯拉克人随即离开。“你明明知道，”等他们走后，丹妮开口道。不论她的内心和肉体有多么痛楚，愤怒却给了她力量。“你明知我会得到什么，也明知代价为何，却依旧让我付出了代价。”
　　“他们烧了我的神庙，这是不对的。”肥胖的扁鼻妇人平静地说，“他们触怒了至高牧神。”
　　“神灵才不会做出这种事，”丹妮冷冷地说。如果我回头，一切就都完了。“你欺骗了我，谋害了我体内的孩子。”
　　“是啊，骑着世界的骏马没有办法烧毁城市，他的卡拉萨再也无法令其他国度灰飞烟灭了。”
　　“是我替你求情，”她痛苦地说，“是我救了你。”
　　“救我？”拉札林妇人啐了一口。“我被三个男人侵犯，那不是男女正常结合的姿势，而是从后面上，好像公狗和母狗交配一样。你骑马经过时，第四个男人正插入我体内。你要怎么救我？我亲眼见到我所信奉之神的庙堂遭到焚烧，而我曾在那里医治过不计其数的善男信女。我的家园被他们烧毁，街上随处可见堆堆人头，人头堆里有给我做面包吃的烘焙师傅，有罹患死眼热病，好不容易才被我救治的小男孩，而那不过是三个月前的事。我至今还能听见骑马战士挥动皮鞭，催赶孩童离开，他们震天动地地哭泣。你倒是说说看：你救了什么？”
　　“我救了你的命。”
　　弥丽·马兹·笃尔冷酷地笑笑：“那就好好瞧瞧你的卡奥，让你明白当一切都消失的时候，生命究竟有何价值。”
　　丹妮唤来卡斯部众，命他们逮捕弥丽·马兹·笃尔，将她五花大绑。然而当巫魔女被带走时，却对她露出微笑，仿佛两人间共享某种秘密。丹妮只需一个字，便可让她人头落地……但她又能得到什么？一颗头？假如生命都没了价值，死又何妨？
　　他们领着卓戈卡奥来到她的帐篷，丹妮命令他们将浴缸装满水，这次不是血水。她亲自为他沐浴，为他洗去手臂和胸膛的尘土，用软布拭净他的脸庞，为他长长的黑发抹上肥皂，将纠缠打结的地方梳理柔顺，直到头发如她记忆中那般乌黑发亮。完成之后，夜幕早已低垂，丹妮只觉筋疲力竭。她停下来吃东西，却只能吞下一颗无花果，喝了一口水。睡眠或许是种解脱，但她已经睡了很久……睡得太久了。为了从前和将来每个他们共有的晚上，她应该为他奉献今夜。
　　她领他走进黑夜，初次结合的回忆伴随着她。多斯拉克人相信，所有的人生大事都应该让苍天作见证。她告诉自己，这世上有比仇恨更强大的力量，有比巫魔女在亚夏习得的妖术更古老更真切的魔法。夜空沉暗，明月隐没，头顶只有百万颗星星熠熠发光，她把这当作吉兆。
　　这里没有柔软的草坪欢迎他们，只有坚硬飞尘的沙地，裸露的岩石。虽然没有微风吹拂的树林和潺潺溪涧温柔的水声抚平她的恐惧，但丹妮告诉自己，只需天际点点繁星便已足够。“卓戈，请你想起来，”她悄声说，“请你想起我们结婚那天晚上，我们的第一次结合。想起我们孕育雷戈的那个晚上，整个卡拉萨看着我们，而你的眼中只有我。想起世界的子宫湖，水有多么清凉澄澈。请你想起来啊，我的日和星，请你想起来，回到我身边。”
　　由于刚生产完毕，伤口未愈，她无法如愿与他结合，不过多莉亚教过她其他方法，于是丹妮用上了她的手、她的嘴巴和她的胸乳，她用指甲抠他，在他身上印满吻痕，在他耳边轻声细语，向他祈求祷告，说故事给他听。末了，她用泪水淹没了他。
　　然而卓戈没有知觉，没有说话，更没有勃起。
　　当空洞荒凉的地平线上露出凄凉的曙光，丹妮终于知道自己永远地失去了他。“等太阳从西边升起，在东边落下。”她哀伤地说，“等海水干枯，山脉像枯叶一样随风吹落。等我的子宫再度胎动，我再次怀了孩子。到了那时候，我的日和星，你才会变回以前的模样，在那之前绝不可能。”
　　回不来了，那股黑暗喊道，回不来了回不来了回不来了。
　　丹妮在帐篷里找到一个装满羽毛的柔软丝枕，将枕头紧抱在前胸，走回到她的日和星卓戈身边。如果我回头，一切就都完了。她走起路来觉得好痛苦，心中只想就此长眠，并不再做梦。
　　她在卓戈身边跪下，吻了他的双唇，然后用枕头盖住他的脸。
[ 此帖被挽墨在2015-09-09 01:52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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Chapter 69
TYRION
   They have my son,” Tywin Lannister said.
   “They do, my lord.” The messenger’s voice was dulled by exhaustion. On the breast of his torn surcoat, the brindled boar of Crakehall was half-obscured by dried blood.
   One of your sons, Tyrion thought. He took a sip of wine and said not a word, thinking of Jaime. When he lifted his arm, pain shot through his elbow, reminding him of his own brief taste of battle. He loved his brother, but he would not have wanted to be with him in the Whispering Wood for all the gold in Casterly Rock.
   His lord father’s assembled captains and bannermen had fallen very quiet as the courier told his tale. The only sound was the crackle and hiss of the log burning in the hearth at the end of the long, drafty common room.
   After the hardships of the long relentless drive south, the prospect of even a single night in an inn had cheered Tyrion mightily?.?.?.?though he rather wished it had not been this inn again, with all its memories. His father had set a grueling pace, and it had taken its toll. Men wounded in the battle kept up as best they could or were abandoned to fend for themselves. Every morning they left a few more by the roadside, men who went to sleep never to wake. Every afternoon a few more collapsed along the way. And every evening a few more deserted, stealing off into the dusk. Tyrion had been half-tempted to go with them.
   He had been upstairs, enjoying the comfort of a featherbed and the warmth of Shae’s body beside him, when his squire had woken him to say that a rider had arrived with dire news of Riverrun. So it had all been for nothing. The rush south, the endless forced marches, the bodies left beside the road?.?.?.?all for naught. Robb Stark had reached Riverrun days and days ago.
   “How could this happen?” Ser Harys Swyft moaned. “How? Even after the Whispering Wood, you had Riverrun ringed in iron, surrounded by a great host?.?.?.?what madness made Ser Jaime decide to split his men into three separate camps? Surely he knew how vulnerable that would leave them?”
   Better than you, you chinless craven, Tyrion thought. Jaime might have lost Riverrun, but it angered him to hear his brother slandered by the likes of Swyft, a shameless lickspittle whose greatest accomplishment was marrying his equally chinless daughter to Ser Kevan, and thereby attaching himself to the Lannisters.
   “I would have done the same,” his uncle responded, a good deal more calmly than Tyrion might have. “You have never seen Riverrun, Ser Harys, or you would know that Jaime had little choice in the matter. The castle is situated at the end of the point of land where the Tumblestone flows into the Red Fork of the Trident. The rivers form two sides of a triangle, and when danger threatens, the Tullys open their sluice gates upstream to create a wide moat on the third side, turning Riverrun into an island. The walls rise sheer from the water, and from their towers the defenders have a commanding view of the opposite shores for many leagues around. To cut off all the approaches, a besieger must needs place one camp north of the Tumblestone, one south of the Red Fork, and a third between the rivers, west of the moat. There is no other way, none.”
   “Ser Kevan speaks truly, my lords,” the courier said. “We’d built palisades of sharpened stakes around the camps, yet it was not enough, not with no warning and the rivers cutting us off from each other. They came down on the north camp first. No one was expecting an attack. Marq Piper had been raiding our supply trains, but he had no more than fifty men. Ser Jaime had gone out to deal with them the night before?.?.?.?well, with what we thought was them. We were told the Stark host was east of the Green Fork, marching south?.?.?.?”
   “And your outriders?” Ser Gregor Clegane’s face might have been hewn from rock. The fire in the hearth gave a somber orange cast to his skin and put deep shadows in the hollows of his eyes. “They saw nothing? They gave you no warning?”
   The bloodstained messenger shook his head. “Our outriders had been vanishing. Marq Piper’s work, we thought. The ones who did come back had seen nothing.”
   “A man who sees nothing has no use for his eyes,” the Mountain declared. “Cut them out and give them to your next outrider. Tell him you hope that four eyes might see better than two?.?.?.?and if not, the man after him will have six.”
   Lord Tywin Lannister turned his face to study Ser Gregor. Tyrion saw a glimmer of gold as the light shone off his father’s pupils, but he could not have said whether the look was one of approval or disgust. Lord Tywin was oft quiet in council, preferring to listen before he spoke, a habit Tyrion himself tried to emulate. Yet this silence was uncharacteristic even for him, and his wine was untouched.
   “You said they came at night,” Ser Kevan prompted.
   The man gave a weary nod. “The Blackfish led the van, cutting down our sentries and clearing away the palisades for the main assault. By the time our men knew what was happening, riders were pouring over the ditch banks and galloping through the camp with swords and torches in hand. I was sleeping in the west camp, between the rivers. When we heard the fighting and saw the tents being fired, Lord Brax led us to the rafts and we tried to pole across, but the current pushed us downstream and the Tullys started flinging rocks at us with the catapults on their walls. I saw one raft smashed to kindling and three others overturned, men swept into the river and drowned?.?.?.?and those who did make it across found the Starks waiting for them on the riverbanks.”
   Ser Flement Brax wore a silver-and-purple tabard and the look of a man who cannot comprehend what he has just heard. “My lord father...”
   “Sorry, my lord,” the messenger said. “Lord Brax was clad in plate-and-mail when his raft overturned. He was very gallant.”
   He was a fool, Tyrion thought, swirling his cup and staring down into the winy depths. Crossing a river at night on a crude raft, wearing armor, with an enemy waiting on the other side, if that was gallantry, he would take cowardice every time. He wondered if Lord Brax had felt especially gallant as the weight of his steel pulled him under the black water.
   “The camp between the rivers was overrun as well,” the messenger was saying. “While we were trying to cross, more Starks swept in from the west, two columns of armored horse. I saw Lord Umber’s giant-in-chains and the Mallister eagle, but it was the boy who led them, with a monstrous wolf running at his side. I wasn’t there to see, but it’s said the beast killed four men and ripped apart a dozen horses. Our spearmen formed up a shieldwall and held against their first charge, but when the Tullys saw them engaged, they opened the gates of Riverrun and Tytos Blackwood led a sortie across the drawbridge and took them in the rear.”
   “Gods save us,” Lord Lefford swore.
   “Greatjon Umber fired the siege towers we were building, and Lord Blackwood found Ser Edmure Tully in chains among the other captives, and made off with them all. Our south camp was under the command of Ser Forley Prester. He retreated in good order when he saw that the other camps were lost, with two thousand spears and as many bowmen, but the Tyroshi sellsword who led his freeriders struck his banners and went over to the foe.”
   “Curse the man.” His uncle Kevan sounded more angry than surprised. “I warned Jaime not to trust that one. A man who fights for coin is loyal only to his purse.”
   Lord Tywin wove his fingers together under his chin. Only his eyes moved as he listened. His bristling golden side-whiskers framed a face so still it might have been a mask, but Tyrion could see tiny beads of sweat dappling his father’s shaven head.
   “How could it happen?” Ser Harys Swyft wailed again. “Ser Jaime taken, the siege broken?.?.?.?this is a catastrophe!”
   Ser Addam Marbrand said, “I am sure we are all grateful to you for pointing out the obvious, Ser Harys. The question is, what shall we do about it?”
   “What can we do? Jaime’s host is all slaughtered or taken or put to flight, and the Starks and the Tullys sit squarely across our line of supply. We are cut off from the west! They can march on Casterly Rock if they so choose, and what’s to stop them? My lords, we are beaten. We must sue for peace.”
   “Peace?” Tyrion swirled his wine thoughtfully, took a deep draft, and hurled his empty cup to the floor, where it shattered into a thousand pieces. “There’s your peace, Ser Harys. My sweet nephew broke it for good and all when he decided to ornament the Red Keep with Lord Eddard’s head. You’ll have an easier time drinking wine from that cup than you will convincing Robb Stark to make peace now. He’s winning?.?.?.?or hadn’t you noticed?”
   “Two battles do not make a war,” Ser Addam insisted. “We are far from lost. I should welcome the chance to try my own steel against this Stark boy.”
   “Perhaps they would consent to a truce, and allow us to trade our prisoners for theirs,” offered Lord Lefford.
   “Unless they trade three-for-one, we still come out light on those scales,” Tyrion said acidly. “And what are we to offer for my brother? Lord Eddard’s rotting head?”
   “I had heard that Queen Cersei has the Hand’s daughters,” Lefford said hopefully. “If we give the lad his sisters back?.?.?.?”
   Ser Addam snorted disdainfully. “He would have to be an utter ass to trade Jaime Lannister’s life for two girls.”
   “Then we must ransom Ser Jaime, whatever it costs,” Lord Lefford said.
   Tyrion rolled his eyes. “If the Starks feel the need for gold, they can melt down Jaime’s armor.”
   “if we ask for a truce, they will think us weak,” Ser Addarn argued. “We should march on them at once.”
   “Surely our friends at court could be prevailed upon to join us with fresh troops,” said Ser Harys. “And someone might return to Casterly Rock to raise a new host.”
   Lord Tywin Lannister rose to his feet. “They have my son,” he said once more, in a voice that cut through the babble like a sword through suet. “Leave me. All of you.”
   Ever the soul of obedience, Tyrion rose to depart with the rest, but his father gave him a look. “Not you, Tyrion. Remain. And you as well, Kevan. The rest of you, out.”
   Tyrion eased himself back onto the bench, startled into speechlessness. Ser Kevan crossed the room to the wine casks. “Uncle,” Tyrion called, “if you would be so kind...”
   “Here.” His father offered him his cup, the wine untouched.
   Now Tyrion truly was nonplussed. He drank.
   Lord Tywin seated himself. “You have the right of it about Stark. Alive, we might have used Lord Eddard to forge a peace with Winterfell and Riverrun, a peace that would have given us the time we need to deal with Robert’s brothers. Dead?.?.?.?” His hand curled into a fist. “Madness. Rank madness.”
   “Joff’s only a boy,” Tyrion pointed out. “At his age, I committed a few follies of my own.”
   His father gave him a sharp look. “I suppose we ought to be grateful that he has not yet married a whore.”
   Tyrion sipped at his wine, wondering how Lord Tywin would look if he flung the cup in his face.
   “Our position is worse than you know,” his father went on. “It would seem we have a new king.”
   Ser Kevan looked poleaxed. “A new, who? What have they done to Joffrey?”
   The faintest flicker of distaste played across Lord Tywin’s thin lips. “Nothing?.?.?.?yet. My grandson still sits the Iron Throne, but the eunuch has heard whispers from the south. Renly Baratheon wed Margaery Tyrell at Highgarden this fortnight past, and now he has claimed the crown. The bride’s father and brothers have bent the knee and sworn him their swords.”
   “Those are grave tidings.” When Ser Kevan frowned, the furrows in his brow grew deep as canyons.
   “My daughter commands us to ride for King’s Landing at once, to defend the Red Keep against King Renly and the Knight of Flowers.” His mouth tightened. “Commands us, mind you. In the name of the king and council.”
   “How is King Joffrey taking the news?” Tyrion asked with a certain black amusement.
   “Cersei has not seen fit to tell him yet,” Lord Tywin said. “She fears he might insist on marching against Renly himself.”
   “With what army?” Tyrion asked. “You don’t plan to give him this one, I hope?”
   “He talks of leading the City Watch,” Lord Tywin said.
   “If he takes the Watch, he’ll leave the city undefended,” Ser Kevan said. “And with Lord Stannis on Dragonstone?.?.?.?”
   “Yes.” Lord Tywin looked down at his son. “I had thought you were the one made for motley, Tyrion, but it would appear that I was wrong.”
   “Why, Father,” said Tyrion, “that almost sounds like praise.” He leaned forward intently. “What of Stannis? He’s the elder, not Renly. How does he feel about his brother’s claim?”
   His father frowned. “I have felt from the beginning that Stannis was a greater danger than all the others combined. Yet he does nothing. Oh, Varys hears his whispers. Stannis is building ships, Stannis is hiring sellswords, Stannis is bringing a shadowbinder from Asshai. What does it mean? Is any of it true?” He gave an irritated shrug. “Kevan, bring us the map.”
   Ser Kevan did as he was bid. Lord Tywin unrolled the leather, smoothing it flat. “Jaime has left us in a bad way. Roose Bolton and the remnants of his host are north of us. Our enemies hold the Twins and Moat Cailin. Robb Stark sits to the west, so we cannot retreat to Lannisport and the Rock unless we choose to give battle. Jaime is taken, and his army for all purposes has ceased to exist. Thoros of Myr and Beric Dondarrion continue to plague our foraging parties. To our east we have the Arryns, Stannis Baratheon sits on Dragonstone, and in the south Highgarden and Storm’s End are calling their banners.”
   Tyrion smiled crookedly. “Take heart, Father. At least Rhaegar Targaryen is still dead.”
   “I had hoped you might have more to offer us than japes, Tyrion,” Lord Tywin Lannister said.
   Ser Kevan frowned over the map, forehead creasing. “Robb Stark will have Edmure Tully and the lords of the Trident with him now. Their combined power may exceed our own. And with Roose Bolton behind us?.?.?.?Tywin, if we remain here, I fear we might be caught between three armies.”
   “I have no intention of remaining here. We must finish our business with young Lord Stark before Renly Baratheon can march from Highgarden. Bolton does not concern me. He is a wary man, and we made him warier on the Green Fork. He will be slow to give pursuit. So?.?.?.?on the morrow, we make for Harrenhal. Kevan, I want Ser Addam’s outriders to screen our movements. Give him as many men as he requires, and send them out in groups of four. I will have no vanishings.”
   “As you say, my lord, but?.?.?.?why Harrenhal? That is a grim, unlucky place. Some call it cursed.”
   “Let them,” Lord Tywin said. “Unleash Ser Gregor and send him before us with his reavers. Send forth Vargo Hoat and his freeriders as well, and Ser Amory Lorch. Each is to have three hundred horse. Tell them I want to see the riverlands afire from the Gods Eye to the Red Fork.”
   “They will burn, my lord,” Ser Kevan said, rising. “I shall give the commands.” He bowed and made for the door.
   When they were alone, Lord Tywin glanced at Tyrion. “Your savages might relish a bit of rapine. Tell them they may ride with Vargo Hoat and plunder as they like, goods, stock, women, they may take what they want and burn the rest.”
   “Telling Shagga and Timett how to pillage is like telling a rooster how to crow,” Tyrion commented, “but I should prefer to keep them with me.” Uncouth and unruly they might be, yet the wildlings were his, and he trusted them more than any of his father’s men. He was not about to hand them over.
   “Then you had best learn to control them. I will not have the city plundered.”
   “The city?” Tyrion was lost. “What city would that be?”
   “King’s Landing. I am sending you to court.”
   It was the last thing Tyrion Lannister would ever have anticipated.
   He reached for his wine, and considered for a moment as he sipped. “And what am I to do there?”
   “Rule,” his father said curtly.
   Tyrion hooted with laughter. “My sweet sister might have a word or two to say about that!”
   “Let her say what she likes. Her son needs to be taken in hand before he ruins us all. I blame those jackanapes on the council, our friend Petyr, the venerable Grand Maester, and that cockless wonder Lord Varys. What sort of counsel are they giving Joffrey when he lurches from one folly to the next? Whose notion was it to make this Janos Slynt a lord? The man’s father was a butcher, and they grant him Harrenhal. Harrenhal, that was the seat of kings! Not that he will ever set foot inside it, if I have a say. I am told he took a bloody spear for his sigil. A bloody cleaver would have been my choice.” His father had not raised his voice, yet Tyrion could see the anger in the gold of his eyes. “And dismissing Selmy, where was the sense in that? Yes, the man was old, but the name of Barristan the Bold still has meaning in the realm. He lent honor to any man he served. Can anyone say the same of the Hound? You feed your dog bones under the table, you do not seat him beside you on the high bench.” He pointed a finger at Tyrion’s face. “If Cersei cannot curb the boy, you must. And if these councillors are playing us false?.?.?.?”
   Tyrion knew. “Spikes,” he sighed. “Heads. Walls.”
   “I see you have taken a few lessons from me.”
   “More than you know, Father,” Tyrion answered quietly. He finished his wine and set the cup aside, thoughtful. A part of him was more pleased than he cared to admit. Another part was remembering the battle upriver, and wondering if he was being sent to hold the left again. “Why me?” he asked, cocking his head to one side. “Why not my uncle? Why not Ser Addam or Ser Flement or Lord Serrett? Why not a?.?.?.?bigger man?”
   Lord Tywin rose abruptly. “You are my son.”
   That was when he knew. You have given him up for lost, he thought. You bloody bastard, you think Jaime’s good as dead, so I’m all you have left. Tyrion wanted to slap him, to spit in his face, to draw his dagger and cut the heart out of him and see if it was made of old hard gold, the way the smallfolks said. Yet he sat there, silent and still.
   The shards of the broken cup crunched beneath his father’s heels as Lord Tywin crossed the room. “One last thing,” he said at the door. “You will not take the whore to court.”
   Tyrion sat alone in the common room for a long while after his father was gone. Finally he climbed the steps to his cozy garret beneath the bell tower. The ceiling was low, but that was scarcely a drawback for a dwarf. From the window, he could see the gibbet his father had erected in the yard. The innkeep’s body turned slowly on its rope whenever the night wind gusted. Her flesh had grown as thin and ragged as Lannister hopes.
   Shae murmured sleepily and rolled toward him when he sat on the edge of the featherbed. He slid his hand under the blanket and cupped a soft breast, and her eyes opened. “M’lord,” she said with a drowsy smile.
   When he felt her nipple stiffen, Tyrion kissed her. “I have a mind to take you to King’s Landing, sweetling,” he whispered.

Ⅰ 权力的游戏 Chapter70 提利昂
　　“我儿子在他们手上。”泰温·兰尼斯特说。
　　“是的，大人。”信使的声音因疲累而呆滞。在他破碎的无袖罩袍前胸部，干涸的血渍遮住了克雷赫家族的斑纹野猪。
　　你两个儿子中的一个，提利昂心想。他啜了口酒，一言不发，心里想着詹姆。抬手之时，剧痛从肘部直冲脑际，提醒着他战场的滋味。他虽然爱哥哥，但就算给他全凯岩城的金子，他也不想和哥哥待在呓语森林。
　　父亲召集的诸侯和将领纷纷安静下来，听信使陈述事情经过。宽敞通风的旅馆长厅里，只有火炉中的柴薪在劈啪作晌。
　　经历了长途的急行南下，想到可以在旅店稍作歇息，虽然只有一晚，依旧使提利昂大为振奋……只是他暗暗希望别要又是这家充满回忆的旅店。父亲严令他们以耗尽体力的速度行进，结果损失惨重。战争中的伤员如果不能跟上，就落得被抛下来自生自灭的下场。每天早上他们动身之时，总有些人倒在路边，睡着便再没醒来；下午，又有另一些人筋疲力竭地瘫在道旁；到得晚上，更有些人当了逃兵，遁进夜色之中，连提利昂本人都很想跟他们一起走。
　　片刻前，他人还在楼上，躺在柔软舒适的羽毛床上，怀抱雪伊温暖的身体。然而他的侍从匆匆跑来把他摇醒，报告说有人骑马带来奔流城方面的重大消息。他立刻明白他们是白跑了一趟。往南急奔，无止尽的急行军和弃于路边的尸体……全成了空。罗柏·史塔克早在好几天前便解了奔流城之围。
　　“这怎么可能？”哈瑞斯·史威佛爵士呻吟道，“怎么可能？即便在呓语森林之战以后，奔流城依旧为大军团团包围……詹姆爵士到底在想什么，怎会把部队分为三处驻扎？他总该清楚这样会有何风险吧？”
　　他比你这没下巴的懦夫清楚多了，提利昂心想。纵然詹姆丢了奔流城，然而听见哥哥被史威佛这种人毁谤，依旧令他怒火中烧。史威佛是个厚颜无耻的马屁精，他这辈子最大的成就，就是把他那个同样没下巴的女儿嫁给凯冯爵士，借此与兰尼斯特家族攀上亲戚。
　　“换我也会这么做，”叔叔应道，提利昂若是开口，绝不会如他这般冷静。“哈瑞斯爵士，您没见过奔流城，不然您一定会清楚詹姆别无选择。奔流城座落于腾石河汇流进三叉戟河的支流红叉河的三角洲尖端，河流构成了三角形的两边，而一旦遇到危险，徒利家便打开上游的闸门，在第三边造出宽阔的护城河，将奔流城变为河中孤岛。城墙自水中高高拔起，守军自塔楼上可以看清对岸数里格之内的所有事物。若要切断各方支援，攻城方必须在腾石河北岸、红又河南岸以及护城河西岸，亦即两条河之间，各放置一支军队。除此之外，别无他法。
　　“诸位大人，凯冯爵士说得没错，”信使说，“我军已在营地周围密布削尖木栅，但在没有任何预警，河水又把我们的营地互相切断的情况下，这样的准备远远不够。他们首先袭击北方的营地，时机完全出乎我们的意料。先前，马柯·派柏不断骚扰我军的补给车队，但他手下只有五六十人。遭受攻击的前一晚，詹姆爵士亲自带兵去对付他们……唉，当时我们以为目标就是派柏那伙人。我们听说史塔克军还在绿叉河东岸，正朝南而去……”
　　“你们的斥候呢？”格雷果·克里冈爵士的脸活像石雕，火光为他的皮肤罩上了一层阴森的橙色，在他的眼眶底投下深深的阴影。“莫非他们什么都没看到？没给你们任何警讯？”
　　满身血污的信使摇摇头。“我们的侦察部队最近不断失踪，我们以为是马柯·派柏搞的鬼。而偶尔回来的人又说什么也没发现。”
　　“什么也发现不了表示他用不着眼睛，”魔山宣布，“把他们的眼睛挖出来，交给替补的斥候，告诉他：希望四只眼睛可以比两只眼睛看得清楚……如果他还是不行，那么下一个人就会有六只眼睛了。”
　　泰温·兰尼斯特公爵转头审视格雷果爵士，提利昂看到父亲瞳中金光一闪，但他说不准那是赞许抑或嫌恶。泰温公爵在会议上通常保持缄默，宁可在发言前先倾听别人的意见，提利昂一直很想仿效他这个习惯。然而就算是父亲，如此沉默也很不寻常，他连酒都没碰。
　　“你说他们发动夜袭？”凯冯爵士提问。
　　来人疲累地点点头。“前锋由黑鱼率领，砍倒我们的卫兵，清除栅栏，以利主力攻击。等我们的人醒悟过来，对方骑兵已经跃过沟渠，手执刀剑和火把冲进了营区。我睡在西寨，就是两条河之间的地方。我们这边的人听到打斗，看见帐篷着火，布拉克斯大人便领着大家上了木筏，想划到对岸去援救。然而水流湍急，直把我们往下游冲，徒利家的守军发现后，便用城墙上的投石机发动轰击。我亲眼看到一艘木筏被砸得稀烂，另外三艘翻倒，上面的人都被卷进河里淹死……而好不容易过河的人，却发现史塔克军正在对岸等着他们。”
　　佛列蒙·布拉克斯爵士穿着一件银紫相间的罩袍，脸上露出难以置信的表情。“我父亲，我父亲大人他——”
　　“大人，我很遗憾。”信使说，“布拉克斯大人的筏子翻船时，他穿戴着全身铠和锁甲。他是个勇士。”
　　他是个蠢蛋，提利昂心想，一边摇晃酒杯，朝杯中的漩涡望去。大半夜的，全副武装，乘着简陋的木筏穿过急流，朝对岸严阵以待的敌人扑去——假如这叫做勇士，他宁可每次都当懦夫。不知布拉克斯伯爵被沉重的盔甲拖进漆黑的深水时，有没有觉得特别英勇啊？
　　“随后，两河之间的营地也被敌人攻陷，”信使续道，“我们忙着渡河时，史塔克军的重骑兵排成两个纵队，从西边杀出。我看到安柏伯爵的碎链巨人旗和梅利斯特家族的老鹰纹章，但最可怕的却是那个带头的小鬼，他身边跟了一头怪物似的狼。我没和他们交手，听说那只怪物杀了四个活人，咬死十几匹马。后来我军的长熗兵组成盾墙，挡住他们的第一次冲锋，谁料徒利家一看咱们无暇他顾，便打开奔流城门，由泰陀斯·布莱伍德率军渡过吊桥出击，偷袭我军后方。”
　　“诸神保佑。”莱佛德伯爵咒道。
　　“大琼恩·安柏放火烧了我们辛苦建造的攻城塔，布莱伍德大人则找到了被我们锁起来的艾德慕·徒利爵士以及其他战俘，并将他们通通救走。南寨由佛勒·普莱斯特爵士指挥，眼见相邻的阵地纷纷失守，他便率领手下两千熗兵和两千弓箭手井井有条地向西撤退了，但那掌管自由骑手的泰洛西佣兵却砍断旗帜，投靠了敌方。”
　　“该死的家伙，”凯冯叔叔的口气不仅惊讶，更加愤怒。“我早警告过詹姆别相信这混蛋，为钱而战的人只会为自己的腰包卖命。”
　　泰温公爵十指交叉，顶着下巴，倾听时只有眼睛在动。他两颊的金黄短须围出一张纹丝不动的脸，活像一张面具。然而，提利昂注意到父亲的光头上密布细小汗珠。
　　“这怎么可能？”哈瑞斯·史威佛爵士再度哀嚎。“詹姆爵士被俘，围城军队又遭击溃……简直是大难临头！”
　　亚当·马尔布兰爵士道：“哈瑞斯爵士，我们都很感激您指出显而易见的事实，但眼下的当务之急是，我们下一步该怎么走？”
　　“还能怎么样？詹姆的军队不是被杀、被俘就是逃散，而史塔克家与徒利家的部队正好扼住我们的补给线，我们与西边的联系完全被切断了！他们甚至可以大摇大摆地进军凯岩城，谁又能阻止他们呢？诸位大人，我们战败了，应该立刻求和。”
　　“求和？”提利昂若有所思地晃着酒杯，一饮而尽，随后将空杯往地上一掷，摔成千百碎片。“哈瑞斯爵士，这就是求和的结果。打从我那好外甥决定拿艾德大人的头来装饰红堡的那一刻起，所有和谈的机会都粉碎了。眼下要跟罗柏·史塔克求和，比用地下这破杯装酒还难。占上风的是他……难道您没发现？”
　　“两场战役的胜负并不能决定整个战争的成败，”亚当爵士坚持，“我们还远远没有战败。我很乐意跟这史塔克小鬼在战场上亲自较量较量。”
　　“或许他们会答应暂时停战，以便双方交换人质。”莱佛德伯爵提议。
　　“除非他们愿意三个换一个——这样我们都嫌不够咧。”提利昂尖酸地说，“再说了，我们拿谁去换我哥哥？拿艾德大人烂掉的头么？”
　　“听说瑟曦太后手上握有首相的两个女儿，”莱佛德满怀希望地说，“假如我们提出把这小子的妹妹还给他……”
　　亚当爵士轻蔑地哼了一声。“他疯了才拿詹姆·兰尼斯特的命来换两个小女生。”
　　“那就把詹姆爵士赎回来，不管花多少金子。”莱佛德伯爵道。
　　提利昂翻起白眼。“史塔克家要真那么缺钱，把詹姆的盔甲拿去熔掉不就得啦。”
　　“我们求和，他们就会看轻我们。”亚当爵士争辩，“依我之见，我们应该立刻进兵。”
　　“嗯，想必我们宫中的朋友会乐意提供补充兵力，”哈瑞斯爵士说，“同时也应当派人回凯岩城组织新军。”
　　这时，泰温·兰尼斯特公爵霍地起身。“我儿子在他们手上！”他重复了一遍，声音穿透众声喧哗，宛如利剑划破油脂。“退下，统统退下。”
　　提利昂向来习于听命，于是他立即起身，准备和其他人一起离去。但父亲看了他一眼，“不，提利昂，你留下。凯冯，你也是。其他人给我出去。”
　　提利昂坐回板凳，惊讶得说不出话来。凯冯爵士穿过房间，走到酒桶边。“叔叔，”提利昂叫道，“可否麻烦您——”
　　“拿去。”父亲把自己面前那杯一动未动的酒递给他。
　　这下提利昂真有些不知所措。他只有喝的份。
　　泰温公爵坐下来。“关于史塔克那边，你的判断没错。假如艾德大人还活着，我们可以用他当筹码，与临冬城和奔流城达成停战，如此一来，便有时间全力对付劳勃的两个弟弟。眼下他死了……”他的手紧握成拳。“胡来，完全是胡来。”
　　“小乔只是个孩子，”提利昂解释，“我在他这年纪的时候，也干过不少蠢事。”
　　父亲目光锐利地瞪了他一眼。“是么？好在他没娶妓女为妻。”
　　提利昂啜着酒，心想他若把酒杯朝父亲的脸上泼去，泰温公爵会是什么表情。
　　“目前形势比你们所知的更糟，”父亲继续道，“我们有了个新国王。”
　　凯冯爵士浑身一震。“新国——是谁？他们把乔佛里怎样了？”
　　一抹极细微的嫌恶扫过泰温公爵的薄唇。“没怎么样……至少到目前为止，我外孙依旧坐在铁王座上，但那太监收到南方的消息。两周前，蓝礼·拜拉席恩在高庭娶了玛格丽·提利尔为妻，并登基为王，新娘的父亲和兄长都已向他下跪宣誓效忠。”
　　“这真是坏消息。”凯冯爵士皱眉时，额上的沟纹深如峡谷。
　　“我女儿命令我们立刻前往君临，协防红堡，抵御蓝礼‘国王’和百花骑士。”他嘴唇一抿。“注意，她是以国王和御前会议之名‘命令’我们。”
　　“乔佛里国王对此事有何反应？”提利昂带着某种黑色的兴致发问。
　　“瑟曦认为现在还不宜告诉他，”泰温公爵说，“她恐怕他会坚持亲自出兵征讨蓝礼。”
　　“出兵？哪来的军队？”提利昂问，“你该不会打算把这支军队交给他吧？”
　　“他曾宣称要率领都城守卫队出征。”泰温公爵道。
　　“他带走都城守卫队，城里势必防御空虚，”凯冯爵士说，“那么龙石岛的史坦尼斯公爵……”
　　“是的。”泰温公爵睥睨着侏儒儿子。“提利昂，我原以为你生来只有杂耍的份，不过看来我是错了。”
　　“哟，老爸，”提利昂说，“听起来好像赞美哩。”他笑着往前靠去。“那么，史坦尼斯方面有何行动？他才是长兄，蓝礼只是三子。对于弟弟称王一事，他有何反应？”
　　父亲皱眉道：“从一开始，我就认为史坦尼斯比其他所有人加起来还要危险，但他却毫无动静。嗯，瓦里斯是有些情报，比如史坦尼斯正在建造船只，史坦尼斯正在招募佣兵，还说史坦尼斯从亚夏找来一个缚影师，可这究竟代表着什么？其中又有多少属实？”他有些恼怒地耸耸肩。“凯冯，拿地图来。”
　　凯冯爵士即刻照办。泰温公爵展开皮地图，将之摊平。“詹姆留给我们一个烂摊子。卢斯·波顿及其残部在我们北方，我们的敌人还握有孪河城和卡林湾；另一方面，罗柏·史塔克坐镇西边，除非开战，我们无法退回兰尼斯特港和凯岩城。詹姆既已被捕，他的军队便也不复存在，密尔的索罗斯和贝里·唐德利恩将继续骚扰我们的征粮部队。往更远的方面看，东有艾林家族和盘据龙石岛的史坦尼斯·拜拉席恩，南边的高庭和风息堡也已经整兵待发。”
　　提利昂狡猾地笑了笑。“父亲，别担心，至少雷加·坦格利安还没死而复生。”
　　“提利昂，我希望你能提供一点有用的建议，不要只要嘴皮子。”泰温·兰尼斯特公爵说。
　　凯冯爵士看着地图皱眉，额头又挤成条条深缝。“眼下罗柏·史塔克得到艾德慕·徒利和三河诸侯的支持，他们的总兵力超过了我军，我们后方还有卢斯。波顿……泰温，留在这里，只怕会被三面夹击。”
　　“我不打算留在这里。我们得在蓝礼从高庭出兵前解决掉小史塔克公爵。波顿那边我不担心，他是个谨慎的人，想必绿叉河之战只会使他更谨慎，因此他的追击不会很快。所以……明日一早我们便朝赫伦堡出发。凯冯，命令亚当爵士的斥候掩蔽我军行踪，他要多少人就给他多少人，四人为一小队，不准再发生失踪的事……”
　　“遵命，大人，可是……为什么去赫伦堡？那是个阴森不祥的地方，听说还受了诅咒。”
　　“让他们去说，”泰温公爵道，“把格雷果爵士放出去，要他领着那群屠夫四处劫掠。把瓦格·霍特和他的佣兵以及亚摩利·洛奇爵士也派出去，让他们各带三百骑兵，告诉他们：从神眼湖到红叉河，我希望河间地带化为焦土。”
　　“大人，请拭目以待。”凯冯爵士说罢起身。“我这就去传令。”他鞠躬离去。
　　剩下父子俩之后，泰温公爵瞄了提利昂一眼。“你的野蛮人可能也喜欢来点掠夺，你去通知他们：他们尽可以随瓦格·赫特出动，任意劫掠——不论财货、牲口还是女人，喜欢的就抢，不中意的就烧。”
　　“教夏嘎和提魅如何抢劫，就跟教公鸡怎么报晓一般多此一举。”提利昂表示，“但我宁可把他们留在身边。”他们或许粗鲁难驯，但终究是他的手下，相较于父亲的人马，他宁愿信任自己的人。他可不想就这么将他们拱手让人。
　　“那你得学会如何管束他们，我不想见到他们在城里打家劫舍。”
　　“城里？”提利昂糊涂了，“哪个城？”
　　“君临。我要派你进宫。”
　　这是提利昂·兰尼斯特最没预料到的事。他举起酒杯，边喝边想，“派我进宫做什么？”
　　“管事。”父亲唐突地说。
　　提利昂哈哈大笑。“我亲爱的老姐对此恐怕有意见哟！”
　　“随她去说，总得有人管管她儿子，以免他把我们全部搞垮。我认为这都是那群三心二意的重臣搞的鬼——我们的朋友培提尔、年高德劭的大学士，还有那个少了老二的活宝瓦里斯大人。乔佛里做出一桩又一桩蠢事时，他们都在干什么？到底是谁出的馊主意，竟把这个杰诺斯·史林特拔擢为贵族？这家伙的父亲是个屠夫，而他们竟给了他赫伦堡，赫伦堡！那是国王住的城堡！只要我一息尚存，他就别想踏进去。听说他挑了一支染血长熗作家徽，假如我在，非逼他改成染血的菜刀不可。”父亲并未提高音量，但提利昂从他的金黄眼瞳里体会得出他的愤怒。“他们还赶走了赛尔弥，到底是哪根筋有问题？没错，他是一把年纪了，但‘无畏的巴利斯坦’光这名号在王国就很有份量，他服侍谁，谁就跟着沾光，猎狗起得了这种作用？狗是在桌子底下啃骨头的，不是拿来平起平坐的。”他伸出一根手指，指着提利昂的脸。“既然瑟曦管不了那小鬼，就由你来管。倘若那几个重臣胆敢跟我们耍两面派……”
　　提利昂太清楚了。“砍头，”他叹道，“熗尖插着，挂上城墙。”
　　“你总算还从我这儿学了点东西。”
　　“父亲，我学的可多了。”提利昂平静地说。他喝干了酒，若有所思地把杯子放到一边。一方面，他很高兴，高兴到自己不敢承认的地步；另一方面，他又想起了不久前在绿叉河上游打的那场仗，不知自己是否又被派去防守“左翼”。“为什么派我？”他歪头问，“为何不派叔叔？为何不派亚当爵士、佛列蒙爵士或沙略特大人？为何不派……个头大点的人？”
　　泰温公爵陡地起身。“因为你是我儿子。”
　　他这才明白。原来你已经放弃他了，他心想，你这天杀的王八蛋，你认为詹姆与死无异，所以你只剩下了我。提利昂想一巴掌掴去，想朝他脸上吐口水，想抽出匕首把他的心掏出来，看看究竟是不是如老百姓所说的用黄金铸成。然而最终，他只是静静地坐着，一言不发。
　　泰温公爵穿过房间，碎酒杯在他脚下喀啦作响。“最后一件事，”他走到门边时说，“不准你带那个妓女进宫。”
　　父亲离去之后，提利昂在旅店大厅里静坐良久，最后他终于爬上楼梯，回到钟塔下舒适的阁楼房。房间的天花板虽矮，但对侏儒来说并无妨碍。从窗户看出去，他见到父亲在院子里搭的绞刑架，夜风吹起，绳子上老板娘的尸体便晃个不休。她身上的肌肉就和兰尼斯特家的希望一般微薄而破败。
　　他回身在羽毛床边坐下，雪伊睡意惺忪地呢喃着，翻身朝向他。他把手伸到棉被下，握住她柔软的乳房，她张开了眼睛。“大人，”她慵懒地微笑。
　　当她的乳头逐渐变硬，提利昂俯身亲吻她。“小宝贝，我真想带你去君临。”他悄声说。
[ 此帖被挽墨在2015-09-09 01:53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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Chapter 70
  JON
   The mare whickered softly as Jon Snow tightened the cinch. “Easy, sweet lady,” he said in a soft voice, quieting her with a touch. Wind whispered through the stable, a cold dead breath on his face, but Jon paid it no mind. He strapped his roll to the saddle, his scarred fingers stiff and clumsy. “Ghost,” he called softly, “to me.” And the wolf was there, eyes like embers.
   “Jon, please. You must not do this.”
   He mounted, the reins in his hand, and wheeled the horse around to face the night. Samwell Tarly stood in the stable door, a full moon peering over his shoulder. He threw a giant’s shadow, immense and black. “Get out of my way, Sam.”
   “Jon, you can’t,” Sam said. “I won’t let you.”
   “I would sooner not hurt you,” Jon told him. “Move aside, Sam, or I’ll ride you down.”
   “You won’t. You have to listen to me. Please?.?.?.?”
   Jon put his spurs to horseflesh, and the mare bolted for the door. For an instant Sam stood his ground, his face as round and pale as the moon behind him, his mouth a widening O of surprise. At the last moment, when they were almost on him, he jumped aside as Jon had known he would, stumbled, and fell. The mare leapt over him, out into the night.
   Jon raised the hood of his heavy cloak and gave the horse her head. Castle Black was silent and still as he rode out, with Ghost racing at his side. Men watched from the Wall behind him, he knew, but their eyes were turned north, not south. No one would see him go, no one but Sam Tarly, struggling back to his feet in the dust of the old stables. He hoped Sam hadn’t hurt himself, falling like that. He was so heavy and so ungainly, it would be just like him to break a wrist or twist his ankle getting out of the way. “I warned him,” Jon said aloud. “It was nothing to do with him, anyway.” He flexed his burned hand as he rode, opening and closing the scarred fingers. They still pained him, but it felt good to have the wrappings off.
   Moonlight silvered the hills as he followed the twisting ribbon of the kingsroad. He needed to get as far from the Wall as he could before they realized he was gone. On the morrow he would leave the road and strike out overland through field and bush and stream to throw off pursuit, but for the moment speed was more important than deception. It was not as though they would not guess where he was going.
   The Old Bear was accustomed to rise at first light, so Jon had until dawn to put as many leagues as he could between him and the Wall?.?.?.?if Sam Tarly did not betray him. The fat boy was dutiful and easily frightened, but he loved Jon like a brother. If questioned, Sam would doubtless tell them the truth, but Jon could not imagine him braving the guards in front of the King’s Tower to wake Mormont from sleep.
   When Jon did not appear to fetch the Old Bear’s breakfast from the kitchen, they’d look in his cell and find Longclaw on the bed. It had been hard to abandon it, but Jon was not so lost to honor as to take it with him. Even Jorah Mormont had not done that, when he fled in disgrace. Doubtless Lord Mormont would find someone more worthy of the blade. Jon felt bad when he thought of the old man. He knew his desertion would be salt in the still-raw wound of his son’s disgrace. That seemed a poor way to repay him for his trust, but it couldn’t be helped. No matter what he did, Jon felt as though he were betraying someone.
   Even now, he did not know if he was doing the honorable thing. The southron had it easier. They had their septons to talk to, someone to tell them the gods’ will and help sort out right from wrong. But the Starks worshiped the old gods, the nameless gods, and if the heart trees heard, they did not speak.
   When the last lights of Castle Black vanished behind him, Jon slowed his mare to a walk. He had a long journey ahead and only the one horse to see him through. There were holdfasts and farming villages along the road south where he might be able to trade the mare for a fresh mount when he needed one, but not if she were injured or blown.
   He would need to find new clothes soon; most like, he’d need to steal them. He was clad in black from head to heel; high leather riding boots, roughspun breeches and tunic, sleeveless leather jerkin, and heavy wool cloak. His longsword and dagger were sheathed in black moleskin, and the hauberk and coif in his saddlebag were black ringmail. Any bit of it could mean his death if he were taken. A stranger wearing black was viewed with cold suspicion in every village and holdfast north of the Neck, and men would soon be watching for him. Once Maester Aemon’s ravens took flight, Jon knew he would find no safe haven. Not even at Winterfell. Bran might want to let him in, but Maester Luwin had better sense. He would bar the gates and send Jon away, as he should. Better not to call there at all.
   Yet he saw the castle clear in his mind’s eye, as if he had left it only yesterday; the towering granite walls, the Great Hall with its smells of smoke and dog and roasting meat, his father’s solar, the turret room where he had slept. Part of him wanted nothing so much as to hear Bran laugh again, to sup on one of Gage’s beef-and-bacon pies, to listen to Old Nan tell her tales of the children of the forest and Florian the Fool.
   But he had not left the Wall for that; he had left because he was after all his father’s son, and Robb’s brother. The gift of a sword, even a sword as fine as Longclaw, did not make him a Mormont. Nor was he Aemon Targaryen. Three times the old man had chosen, and three times he had chosen honor, but that was him. Even now, Jon could not decide whether the maester had stayed because he was weak and craven, or because he was strong and true. Yet he understood what the old man had meant, about the pain of choosing; he understood that all too well.
   Tyrion Lannister had claimed that most men would rather deny a hard truth than face it, but Jon was done with denials. He was who he was; Jon Snow, bastard and oathbreaker, motherless, friendless, and damned. For the rest of his life, however long that might be, he would be condemned to be an outsider, the silent man standing in the shadows who dares not speak his true name. Wherever he might go throughout the Seven Kingdoms, he would need to live a lie, lest every man’s hand be raised against him. But it made no matter, so long as he lived long enough to take his place by his brother’s side and help avenge his father.
   He remembered Robb as he had last seen him, standing in the yard with snow melting in his auburn hair. Jon would have to come to him in secret, disguised. He tried to imagine the look on Robb’s face when he revealed himself. His brother would shake his head and smile, and he’d say?.?.?.?he’d say?.?.?.?
   He could not see the smile. Hard as he tried, he could not see it. He found himself thinking of the deserter his father had beheaded the day they’d found the direwolves. “You said the words,” Lord Eddard had told him. “You took a vow, before your brothers, before the old gods and the new.” Desmond and Fat Tom had dragged the man to the stump. Bran’s eyes had been wide as saucers, and Jon had to remind him to keep his pony in hand. He remembered the look on Father’s face when Theon Greyjoy brought forth Ice, the spray of blood on the snow, the way Theon had kicked the head when it came rolling at his feet.
   He wondered what Lord Eddard might have done if the deserter had been his brother Benjen instead of that ragged stranger. Would it have been any different? It must, surely, surely?.?.?.?and Robb would welcome him, for a certainty. He had to, or else?.?.?.?
   It did not bear thinking about. Pain throbbed, deep in his fingers, as he clutched the reins. Jon put his heels into his horse and broke into a gallop, racing down the kingsroad, as if to outrun his doubts. Jon was not afraid of death, but he did not want to die like that, trussed and bound and beheaded like a common brigand. If he must perish, let it be with a sword in his hand, fighting his father’s killers. He was no true Stark, had never been one?.?.?.?but he could die like one. Let them say that Eddard Stark had fathered four sons, not three.
   Ghost kept pace with them for almost half a mile, red tongue lolling from his mouth. Man and horse alike lowered their heads as he asked the mare for more speed. The wolf slowed, stopped, watching, his eyes glowing red in the moonlight. He vanished behind, but Jon knew he would follow, at his own pace.
   Scattered lights flickered through the trees ahead of him, on both sides of the road: Mole’s Town. A dog barked as he rode through, and he heard a mule’s raucous haw from the stable, but otherwise the village was still. Here and there the glow of hearth fires shone through shuttered windows, leaking between wooden slats, but only a few.
   Mole’s Town was bigger than it seemed, but three quarters of it was under the ground, in deep warm cellars connected by a maze of tunnels. Even the whorehouse was down there, nothing on the surface but a wooden shack no bigger than a privy, with a red lantern hung over the door. On the Wall, he’d heard men call the whores “buried treasures.” He wondered whether any of his brothers in black were down there tonight, mining. That was oathbreaking too, yet no one seemed to care.
   Not until he was well beyond the village did Jon slow again. By then both he and the mare were damp with sweat. He dismounted, shivering, his burned hand aching. A bank of melting snow lay under the trees, bright in the moonlight, water trickling off to form small shallow pools. Jon squatted and brought his hands together, cupping the runoff between his fingers. The snowmelt was icy cold. He drank, and splashed some on his face, until his cheeks tingled. His fingers were throbbing worse than they had in days, and his head was pounding too. I am doing the right thing, he told himself, so why do I feel so bad?
   The horse was well lathered, so Jon took the lead and walked her for a while. The road was scarcely wide enough for two riders to pass abreast, its surface cut by tiny streams and littered with stone. That run had been truly stupid, an invitation to a broken neck. Jon wondered what had gotten into him. Was he in such a great rush to die?
   Off in the trees, the distant scream of some frightened animal made him look up. His mare whinnied nervously. Had his wolf found some prey? He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Ghost!” he shouted. “Ghost, to me.” The only answer was a rush of wings behind him as an owl took flight.
   Frowning, Jon continued on his way. He led the mare for half an hour, until she was dry. Ghost did not appear. Jon wanted to mount up and ride again, but he was concerned about his missing wolf. “Ghost,” he called again. “Where are you? To me! Ghost!” Nothing in these woods could trouble a direwolf, even a half-grown direwolf, unless?.?.?.?no, Ghost was too smart to attack a bear, and if there was a wolf pack anywhere close Jon would have surely heard them howling.
   He should eat, he decided. Food would settle his stomach and give Ghost the chance to catch up. There was no danger yet; Castle Black still slept. In his saddlebag, he found a biscuit, a piece of cheese, and a small withered brown apple. He’d brought salt beef as well, and a rasher of bacon he’d filched from the kitchens, but he would save the meat for the morrow. After it was gone he’d need to hunt, and that would slow him.
   Jon sat under the trees and ate his biscuit and cheese while his mare grazed along the kingsroad. He kept the apple for last. It had gone a little soft, but the flesh was still tart and juicy. He was down to the core when he heard the sounds: horses, and from the north. Quickly Jon leapt up and strode to his mare. Could he outrun them? No, they were too close, they’d hear him for a certainty, and if they were from Castle Black?.?.?.?
   He led the mare off the road, behind a thick stand of grey-green sentinels. “Ouiet now,” he said in a hushed voice, crouching down to peer through the branches. If the gods were kind, the riders would pass by. Likely as not, they were only smallfolk from Mole’s Town, farmers on their way to their fields, although what they were doing out in the middle of the night?.?.?.?
   He listened to the sound of hooves growing steadily louder as they trotted briskly down the kingsroad. From the sound, there were five or six of them at the least. Their voices drifted through the trees.
   “?.?.?.?certain he came this way?”
   “We can’t be certain.”
   “He could have ridden east, for all you know. Or left the road to cut through the woods. That’s what I’d do.”
   “In the dark? Stupid. If you didn’t fall off your horse and break your neck, you’d get lost and wind up back at the Wall when the sun came up.”
   “I would not.” Grenn sounded peeved. “I’d just ride south, you can tell south by the stars.”
   “What if the sky was cloudy?” Pyp asked.
   “Then I wouldn’t go.”
   Another voice broke in. “You know where I’d be if it was me? I’d be in Mole’s Town, digging for buried treasure.” Toad’s shrill laughter boomed through the trees. Jon’s mare snorted.
   “Keep quiet, all of you,” Haider said. “I thought I heard something.”
   “Where? I didn’t hear anything.” The horses stopped.
   “You can’t hear yourself fart.”
   “I can too,” Grenn insisted.
   “Quiet!”
   They all fell silent, listening. Jon found himself holding his breath. Sam, he thought. He hadn’t gone to the Old Bear, but he hadn’t gone to bed either, he’d woken the other boys. Damn them all. Come dawn, if they were not in their beds, they’d be named deserters too. What did they think they were doing?
   The hushed silence seemed to stretch on and on. From where Jon crouched, he could see the legs of their horses through the branches. Finally Pyp spoke up. “What did you hear?”
   “I don’t know,” Haider admitted. “A sound, I thought it might have been a horse but?.?.?.?”
   “There’s nothing here.”
   Out of the corner of his eye, Jon glimpsed a pale shape moving through the trees. Leaves rustled, and Ghost came bounding out of the shadows, so suddenly that Jon’s mare started and gave a whinny. “There!” Halder shouted.
   “I heard it too!”
   “Traitor,” Jon told the direwolf as he swung up into the saddle. He turned the mare’s head to slide off through the trees, but they were on him before he had gone ten feet.
   “Jon!” Pyp shouted after him.
   “Pull up,” Grenn said. “You can’t outrun us all.”
   Jon wheeled around to face them, drawing his sword. “Get back. I don’t wish to hurt you, but I will if I have to.”
   “One against seven?” Halder gave a signal. The boys spread out, surrounding him.
   “What do you want with me?” Jon demanded.
   “We want to take you back where you belong,” Pyp said.
   “I belong with my brother.”
   “We’re your brothers now,” Grenn said.
   “They’ll cut off your head if they catch you, you know,” Toad put in with a nervous laugh. “This is so stupid, it’s like something the Aurochs would do.”
   “I would not,” Grenn said. “I’m no oathbreaker. I said the words and I meant them.”
   “So did I,” Jon told them. “Don’t you understand? They murdered my father. It’s war, my brother Robb is fighting in the riverlands...”
   “We know,” said Pyp solemnly. “Sam told us everything.”
   “We’re sorry about your father,” Grenn said, “but it doesn’t matter. Once you say the words, you can’t leave, no matter what.”
   “I have to,” Jon said fervently.
   “You said the words,” Pyp reminded him. “Now my watch begins, you said it. It shall not end until my death.”
   “I shall live and die at my post,” Grenn added, nodding.
   “You don’t have to tell me the words, I know them as well as you do.” He was angry now. Why couldn’t they let him go in peace? They were only making it harder.
   “I am the sword in the darkness,” Halder intoned.
   “The watcher on the walls,” piped Toad.
   Jon cursed them all to their faces. They took no notice. Pyp spurred his horse closer, reciting, “I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men.”
   “Stay back,” Jon warned him, brandishing his sword. “I mean it, Pyp.” They weren’t even wearing armor, he could cut them to pieces if he had to.
   Matthar had circled behind him. He joined the chorus. “I pledge my life and honor to the Night’s Watch.”
   Jon kicked his mare, spinning her in a circle. The boys were all around him now, closing from every side.
   “For this night?.?.?.?” Halder trotted in from the left.
   “?.?.?.?and all the nights to come,” finished Pyp. He reached over for Jon’s reins. “So here are your choices. Kill me, or come back with me.”
   Jon lifted his sword?.?.?.?and lowered it, helpless. “Damn you,” he said. “Damn you all.”
   “Do we have to bind your hands, or will you give us your word you’ll ride back peaceful?” asked Halder.
   “I won’t run, if that’s what you mean.” Ghost moved out from under the trees and Jon glared at him. “Small help you were,” he said. The deep red eyes looked at him knowingly.
   “We had best hurry,” Pyp said. “If we’re not back before first light, the Old Bear will have all our heads.”
   Of the ride back, Jon Snow remembered little. It seemed shorter than the journey south, perhaps because his mind was elsewhere. Pyp set the pace, galloping, walking, trotting, and then breaking into another gallop. Mole’s Town came and went, the red lantern over the brothel long extinguished. They made good time. Dawn was still an hour off when Jon glimpsed the towers of Castle Black ahead of them, dark against the pale immensity of the Wall. It did not seem like home this time.
   They could take him back, Jon told himself, but they could not make him stay. The war would not end on the morrow, or the day after, and his friends could not watch him day and night. He would bide his time, make them think he was content to remain here?.?.?.?and then, when they had grown lax, he would be off again. Next time he would avoid the kingsroad. He could follow the Wall east, perhaps all the way to the sea, a longer route but a safer one. Or even west, to the mountains, and then south over the high passes. That was the wildling’s way, hard and perilous, but at least no one wouid follow him. He wouldn’t stray within a hundred leagues of Winterfell or the kingsroad.
   Samwell Tarly awaited them in the old stables, slumped on the ground against a bale of hay, too anxious to sleep. He rose and brushed himself off. “I?.?.?.?I’m glad they found you, Jon.”
   “I’m not,” Jon said, dismounting.
   Pyp hopped off his horse and looked at the lightening sky with disgust. “Give us a hand bedding down the horses, Sam,” the small boy said. “We have a long day before us, and no sleep to face it on, thanks to Lord Snow.”
   When day broke, Jon walked to the kitchens as he did every dawn. Three-Finger Hobb said nothing as he gave him the Old Bear’s breakfast. Today it was three brown eggs boiled hard, with fried bread and ham steak and a bowl of wrinkled plums. Jon carried the food back to the King’s Tower. He found Mormont at the window seat, writing. His raven was walking back and forth across his shoulders, muttering, “Corn, corn, corn.” The bird shrieked when Jon entered. “Put the food on the table,” the Old Bear said, glancing up. “I’ll have some beer.”
   Jon opened a shuttered window, took the flagon of beer off the outside ledge, and filled a horn. Hobb had given him a lemon, still cold from the Wall. Jon crushed it in his fist. The juice trickled through his fingers. Mormont drank lemon in his beer every day, and claimed that was why he still had his own teeth.
   “Doubtless you loved your father,” Mormont said when Jon brought him his horn. “The things we love destroy us every time, lad. Remember when I told you that?”
   “I remember,” Jon said sullenly. He did not care to talk of his father’s death, not even to Mormont.
   “See that you never forget it. The hard truths are the ones to hold tight. Fetch me my plate. Is it ham again? So be it. You look weary. Was your moonlight ride so tiring?”
   Jon’s throat was dry. “You know?”
   “Know,” the raven echoed from Mormont’s shoulder. “Know.”
   The Old Bear snorted. “Do you think they chose me Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch because I’m dumb as a stump, Snow? Aemon told me you’d go. I told him you’d be back. I know my men?.?.?.?and my boys too. Honor set you on the kingsroad?.?.?.?and honor brought you back.”
   “My friends brought me back,” Jon said.
   “Did I say it was your honor?” Mormont inspected his plate.
   “They killed my father. Did you expect me to do nothing?”
   “If truth be told, we expected you to do just as you did.” Mormont tried a plum, spit out the pit. “I ordered a watch kept over you., You were seen leaving. If your brothers had not fetched you back, you would have been taken along the way, and not by friends. Unless you have a horse with wings like a raven. Do you?”
   “No.” Jon felt like a fool.
   “Pity, we could use a horse like that.”
   Jon stood tall. He told himself that he would die well; that much he could do, at the least. “I know the penalty for desertion, my lord. I’m not afraid to die.”
   “Die!” the raven cried.
   “Nor live, I hope,” Mormont said, cutting his ham with a dagger and feeding a bite to the bird. “You have not deserted, yet. Here you stand. If we beheaded every boy who rode to Mole’s Town in the night, only ghosts would guard the Wall. Yet maybe you mean to flee again on the morrow, or a fortnight from now. Is that it? Is that your hope, boy?”
   Jon kept silent.
   “I thought so.” Mormont peeled the shell off a boiled egg. “Your father is dead, lad. Do you think you can bring him back?”
   “No,” he answered, sullen.
   “Good,” Mormont said. “We’ve seen the dead come back, you and me, and it’s not something I care to see again.” He ate the egg in two bites and flicked a bit of shell out from between his teeth. “Your brother is in the field with all the power of the north behind him. Any one of his lords bannermen commands more swords than you’ll find in all the Night’s Watch. Why do you imagine that they need your help? Are you such a mighty warrior, or do you carry a grumkin in your pocket to magic up your sword?”
   Jon had no answer for him. The raven was pecking at an egg, breaking the shell. Pushing his beak through the hole, he pulled out morsels of white and yoke.
   The Old Bear sighed. “You are not the only one touched by this war. Like as not, my sister is marching in your brother’s host, her and those daughters of hers, dressed in men’s mail. Maege is a hoary old snark, stubborn, short-tempered, and willful. Truth be told, I can hardly stand to be around the wretched woman, but that does not mean my love for her is any less than the love you bear your half sisters.” Frowning, Mormont took his last egg and squeezed it in his fist until the shell crunched. “Or perhaps it does. Be that as it may, I’d still grieve if she were slain, yet you don’t see me running off. I said the words, just as you did. My place is here?.?.?.?where is yours, boy?”
   I have no place, Jon wanted to say, I’m a bastard, I have no rights, no name, no mother, and now not even a father. The words would not come. “I don’t know.”
   “I do,” said Lord Commander Mormont. “The cold winds are rising, Snow. Beyond the Wall, the shadows lengthen. Cotter Pyke writes of vast herds of elk, streaming south and east toward the sea, and mammoths as well. He says one of his men discovered huge, misshapen footprints not three leagues from Eastwatch. Rangers from the Shadow Tower have found whole villages abandoned, and at night Ser Denys says they see fires in the mountains, huge blazes that burn from dusk till dawn. Quorin Halfhand took a captive in the depths of the Gorge, and the man swears that Mance Rayder is massing all his people in some new, secret stronghold he’s found, to what end the gods only know. Do you think your uncle Benjen was the only ranger we’ve lost this past year?”
   “Ben Jen,” the raven squawked, bobbing its head, bits of egg dribbling from its beak. “Ben Jen. Ben Jen.”
   “No,” Jon said. There had been others. Too many.
   “Do you think your brother’s war is more important than ours?” the old man barked.
   Jon chewed his lip. The raven flapped its wings at him. “War, war, war, war,” it sang.
   “It’s not,” Mormont told him. “Gods save us, boy, you’re not blind and you’re not stupid. When dead men come hunting in the night, do you think it matters who sits the Iron Throne?”
   “No.” Jon had not thought of it that way.
   “Your lord father sent you to us, Jon. Why, who can say?”
   “Why? Why? Why?” the raven called.
   “All I know is that the blood of the First Men flows in the veins of the Starks. The First Men built the Wall, and it’s said they remember things otherwise forgotten. And that beast of yours?.?.?.?he led us to the wights, warned you of the dead man on the steps. Ser Jaremy would doubtless call that happenstance, yet Ser Jaremy is dead and I’m not.” Lord Mormont stabbed a chunk of ham with the point of his dagger. “I think you were meant to be here, and I want you and that wolf of yours with us when we go beyond the Wall.”
   His words sent a chill of excitement down Jon’s back. “Beyond the Wall?”
   “You heard me. I mean to find Ben Stark, alive or dead.” He chewed and swallowed. “I will not sit here meekly and wait for the snows and the ice winds. We must know what is happening. This time the Night’s Watch will ride in force, against the King-beyond-the-Wall, the Others, and anything else that may be out there. I mean to command them myself.” He pointed his dagger at Jon’s chest. “By custom, the Lord Commander’s steward is his squire as well?.?.?.?but I do not care to wake every dawn wondering if you’ve run off again. So I will have an answer from you, Lord Snow, and I will have it now. Are you a brother of the Night’s Watch?.?.?.?or only a bastard boy who wants to play at war?”
   Jon Snow straightened himself and took a long deep breath. Forgive me, Father. Robb, Arya, Bran?.?.?.?forgive me, I cannot help you. He has the truth of it. This is my place. “I am?.?.?.?yours, my lord. Your man. I swear it. I will not run again.”
   The Old Bear snorted. “Good. Now go put on your sword.”



Ⅰ 权力的游戏 Chapter71 琼恩
　　琼恩·雪诺扎紧马鞍上的皮带，母马则轻声嘶叫。“好女孩，别怕，”他轻声安抚它。寒风在马厩间细语，宛如迎面袭击来的冰冷死气，但琼恩未加理会。他把铺盖捆上马鞍，结疤的手指僵硬而笨拙。“白灵，”他轻声呼唤，“过来。”狼立刻出现，双眼如两团火烬。
　　“琼恩，求求你，别这样。”
　　他骑上马，握紧缰绳，策马转头，面对黑夜。山姆威尔·塔利站在马厩门口，一轮满月从他肩膀后照进，洒下一道巨人般的影子，硕大而黑暗。“山姆，别挡道。”
　　“琼恩，你不能这样一走了之，”山姆说，“我不会放你走。”
　　“我不想伤害你，”琼恩告诉他，“山姆，你走开，不然我就踩过去。”
　　“你不会的。听我说，求求你……”
　　琼恩双脚一踢，母马立即朝门飞奔而去。刹那间，山姆站在原地，脸庞如同身后那轮满月般又圆又白，嘴巴惊讶地张成一个大圆。就在人马即将撞上的最后一刻，他跳了开去，并如琼恩所预料地，步履踉跄，跌倒在地。母马跳过他，冲进黑夜。
　　琼恩掀起厚重斗篷的兜帽，拍拍母马的头。他骑马离开静谧的黑城堡，白灵紧随在旁。他知道身后的长城上有人值守，但他们面朝极北，而非南方。除了正从马厩的泥地上挣扎起身的山姆·塔利，不会有人见到他离去。眼看山姆摔成那样，琼恩暗自希望他没事才好。他那么肥胖，手脚又笨拙，很可能因此摔断手腕，或扭到脚踝。“我警告过他了，”琼恩大声说，“而且本来就不干他的事。”他一边骑，一边活动自己灼伤的手，结疤的指头开开阖阖。疼痛依旧，不过取掉绷带后的感觉真好。
　　他沿着蝴蝶结般蜿蜒的国王大道飞奔，月光将附近的丘陵洒成一片银白。他得在计划被人发觉前尽可能地远离长城。等到明天，他将被迫离开道路，穿越田野、树丛和溪流以摆脱追兵，但眼下速度比掩护更重要。毕竟他的目的地显而易见。
　　熊老习惯黎明起床，所以琼恩至少还有天亮前的时间，用来尽量拉开与长城间的距离……假定山姆·塔利没有背叛他。胖男孩虽然尽忠职守，且胆子又小，但他把琼恩当亲兄弟看待。若是被人问起，山姆肯定会说出实情，不过琼恩不认为他有那个勇气，敢大半夜去找国王塔的守卫，把莫尔蒙吵醒。
　　等到明天，发现琼恩没去厨房帮熊老端早餐，大家便会到寝室来查找，随后看到孤零零躺在床上的长爪。留下那把宝剑很不容易，但琼恩还不至于恬不知耻地将它带走。就连乔拉·莫尔蒙亡命天涯前，也没有这么做。莫尔蒙司令一定能找到更适合佩带那把剑的人。想起老人，琼恩心里很不好受。他知道自己这样弃营逃跑，无异是在总司令丧子之痛上洒盐。想到他对自己如此信任，这实在是忘恩负义的作法，但他别无选择。不管怎么做，琼恩都会背叛某个人。
　　即使到了现在，他依旧不知自己的做法是否荣誉。南方人的作派比较简单，他们有修士可供咨询，由他们传达诸神意旨，协助理清对错。然而史塔克家族信奉的是无名古神，心树就算听见了，也不会言语。
　　当黑城堡的最后一丝灯火消失在身后，琼恩便放慢速度，让母马缓步而行。眼前还有漫漫长路，他却只有这匹马可供依凭。往南的路上，沿途都有村庄农舍，如有必要，他可以和他们交换新的马匹，不过若是母马受伤或瘫倒在地就不成了。
　　他得尽快找到新衣服，恐怕还只能去偷。眼下的他从头到脚都是黑色：高统黑皮革马靴，粗布黑长裤黑外衣，无袖黑皮革背心，厚重的黑羊毛披风。长剑和匕首包在黑鞘里，鞍袋里则是黑环甲和头盔。如果他被捕，这每一件都足以致他于死地。在颈泽以北，任何穿黑衣的陌生人进了村舍庄园，都会被投以冷漠的怀疑眼光，并遭到监视。而一旦伊蒙师傅的渡鸦送出消息，自己便再也找不到容身之所，即便临冬城也一样。布兰或许会放他进城，但鲁温师傅很清楚该怎么做，他会履行职责，关上城门，把琼恩赶走。所以，打一开始他就没动临冬城的主意。
　　虽然如此，在他脑海里，却能清晰地见到城堡的影像，仿佛昨天才刚离开：高耸的大理石墙；香气四溢、烟雾弥漫的城堡大厅，里面到处是乱跑的狗；父亲的书房；自己在塔楼上的卧室。在他心底的某一部分，只想再瞧瞧布兰的欢笑，再吃一个盖奇做的牛肉培根派，再听老奶妈说关于森林之子和傻瓜佛罗理安的故事。
　　可是，他并非因为这些才离开长城：他之所以离开，只因为他是父亲的儿子，罗柏的兄弟。他不会因为别人送他一把剑，即便像长爪那么好的剑，就变成莫尔蒙家族的人。他也不是伊蒙·坦格利安。老人做了三次抉择，三次都选择了荣誉，但那是他。即便现在，琼恩还是不敢确定，老学士做出那样的选择，究竟是因为懦弱无力，还是因为心地坚强、忠于职守。但无论如何，他了解老人的困惑，关于抉择的痛苦，他太了解了。
　　提利昂·兰尼斯特曾说：多数人宁可否认事实，也不愿面对真相，但琼恩已经想透了种种磨难。他清楚地知道自己是谁：他是琼恩·雪诺，不但是私生子，更是背离誓约的逃兵，既无母亲，亦无朋友，将遭天谴。终其一生——不论他这一生能有多长——都将被迫流浪，成为阴影中沉默的孤民，不敢说出真名。无论走到七国何处，必将生活在谎言之中，否则别人会对他群起而攻之。但是，只要他能与兄弟并肩作战，为父亲报仇雪恨，所有这些都无足轻重。
　　他记得自己最后一次见到罗柏的情景。当时罗柏站在广场上，红褐头发间雪花融化。如今琼恩可能必须易容之后，才能偷偷去见他。他试着想像当自己揭开真面目时，罗柏脸上会是什么表情。他的兄弟会摇摇头，面露微笑，然后他说……他会说……
　　他拼凑不出那抹微笑，无论怎么努力，就是想不出来。他反而不自觉地想起他们找到冰原狼那天，被父亲砍头的逃兵。“你立下了誓言，”艾德公爵告诉那人，“你在你的弟兄们以及新旧诸神面前立下了誓约。”戴斯蒙和胖汤姆把逃兵拖到木桩前。布兰的眼睛睁得像盘子，琼恩还特意提醒他别让小马乱动。他忆起当席恩·葛雷乔伊递上寒冰时，父亲脸上的表情，随后又想起鲜血溅落雪地，席恩扬腿把人头踢到他脚边。
　　他不禁想，假如逃兵是艾德公爵的亲弟弟班扬，而非一个衣着破烂的陌生人，他会怎么做？两者会有差别吗？一定会，一定会的，一定……毫无疑问，罗柏也一定会欢迎他。他怎么可能不欢迎他呢？除非……
　　还是别多想的好。他握紧缰绳，手指隐隐作痛。琼恩再度夹紧马肚，顺着国王大道疾驰，仿佛要驱离心中的疑惑。琼恩不怕死，但他不要这种被五花大绑，像个寻常强盗般斩首示众的死法。倘若他非死不可，他甘愿手握利剑，死在与杀父仇人的决斗中。他生来就不是真正的史塔克族人，从来不是……但他可以死得像个史塔克。就让大家都知道艾德·史塔克膝下不只三个儿子，而是四个。
　　白灵跟着他的速度跑了一里，红红的舌头伸在嘴巴外悬荡。他催马加速，人马低头飞奔。冰原狼则放慢脚步，停了下来，左顾右盼，眼睛在月色中闪着红光。不久，他消失在后方，琼恩知道他会按自己的步调跟随。
　　前方的道路两旁，摇曳的灯火穿过树林照过来。这里是鼹鼠村。他催马奔过，听到一阵狗吠，以及马厩里传来的驴叫，除此之外，村子悄然无声。有几处炉火微光从禁闭的窗户中穿透而出，或自房舍木板间流泄出来，但寥寥无几。
　　其实鼹鼠村比乍看之下要大得多，只是四分之三的部分位于地底，由一个个既深且暖的地窖组成，经由错综复杂的隧道彼此衔接。就连妓院也在地下，从地面上看，它们只是比厕所大不了多少的小木屋，门上挂了盏红灯笼。长城上守军把妓女们叫做“地底的宝藏”，他不禁揣测今晚有多少黑衣弟兄在下面挖宝呢？这当然也算是一种背誓，只是无人在意。
　　直到把村子远远地抛在后面，琼恩方才再次减速。这时，他和母马都已经满身大汗。于是他跳下马背，只觉浑身发抖，灼伤的手更是疼痛。树丛下有大堆融雪，在月光下映射发亮，涓滴细流从中淌出，汇聚成浅浅的小池。琼恩蹲下来，双手合掌，捧起雪水。融雪冰冷刺骨，他喝了几口，接着洗脸，直洗得两颊发麻。他感觉到头昏脑胀，手指也好几天没有痛得这么厉害。我做得没错，他告诉自己，可我为何这么难受？
　　马儿仍旧气喘吁吁，于是琼恩牵它走了一段。道路很窄，只能勉强容两人并肩而骑，表面更被细小沟渠所切割，布满碎石。刚才那样狂奔委实愚蠢，分明就是自找麻烦，稍不小心就会摔断脖子。琼恩不禁纳闷，自己究竟怎么搞的？就这么急着寻死么？
　　远方的树林里传来动物的受惊尖叫，他立刻抬头，母马也不安地哼着。是他的狼找到猎物了？他把手环在嘴边，“白灵！”他叫道，“白灵！到我这儿来！”但惟一的回应只是身后某只猫头鹰振翅高飞的声响。
　　琼恩皱起眉头，继续上路。他牵马走了半小时，直到它身上干透为止。但白灵始终没有出现。琼恩想上马赶路，却又担心不知去向的狼。“白灵，”他再度叫喊，“你在哪里？快过来！白灵！”这片林子里应该没什么能威胁到冰原狼——就算这只冰原狼尚未发育完全也罢，除非……不，白灵绝不会蠢到去攻击熊，而假使这附近有狼群，琼恩也一定能听见它们的嚎叫。
　　最后他决定先吃点东西再说。食物可以稍微安抚脾胃，更能多给白灵一点时间跟上。此时尚无危险，黑城堡依然在沉睡中。于是他从鞍袋里找出一块饼干，一小片乳酪和一个干瘪的褐色苹果。他还带了腌牛肉，以及从厨房偷来的一片培根，但他想把肉留到明天。因为等食物没了，他就得自己打猎，而那一定会拖延他的行程。
　　琼恩坐在树下，吃着饼干和乳酪，任母马沿着国王大道吃草。他把苹果留到最后，虽然摸起来有些软，果肉仍然酸甜多汁。听到声音时，他正在啃果核：是蹄声，从北方来。琼恩一跃而起，奔向母马。跑得掉吗？不，距离太近，一定会暴露声音，何况假如他们从黑城堡来……
　　于是他牵着母马离开大路，走到一丛浓密的灰青色哨兵树后。“别出声喔。”他悄声说，一边蹲伏下来，透过树枝缝隙向外窥视。倘若诸神保佑，对方就会不经意地骑马跑过。八成鼹鼠村的农民，正返回自己的田地，可他们干嘛大半夜的走呢？……
　　他静静呤听，蹄声沿着国王大道急速而来，步伐坚定，逐渐增大。依声音判断，大概有五六个人。对方的话音在林木间穿梭。
　　“……确定他走这边？”
　　“当然不确定。”
　　“搞不好他朝东去了。或是离开道路，穿越树林。换了我就会这么做。”
　　“在这一团漆黑的晚上？你别傻了。就算没摔下马来，折了脖子，辨不清路乱走，等太阳升起大概也绕回长城了。”
　　“我才不会，”葛兰听起来很气愤。“我会往南骑，看星星就知道哪边是南方。”
　　“要是被云遮住呢？”派普问。
　　“那我就不走。”
　　又一个声音插进来。“换作是我，你们知道我会怎么做？我会直接去鼹鼠村挖宝。”陶德尖锐的笑声在林间回响，琼恩的母马哼了一声。
　　“你们通通给我闭嘴，”霍德说，“我好像听到了什么。”
　　“在哪儿？我啥都没听见。”蹄声停止。
　　“你连自己放屁都听不见。”
　　“我听得见啦。”葛兰坚持。
　　“闭嘴！”
　　于是他们都安静下来，凝神倾听。琼恩不自觉地屏住呼吸。一定是山姆，他心想。他既没去找熊老，也没上床睡觉，而是叫醒了其他几个男孩。真要命，若是天亮前他们还未归营，也会被当成逃兵处理。他们到底在想什么呀？
　　寂静无限延伸。从琼恩蹲的地方，透过树丛，可以看到他们坐骑的脚。最后派普开口道：“你刚才到底听到什么？”
　　“我也不知道。”霍德承认，“但的确有什么声音，我认为是马叫，可……”
　　“这儿什么声音都没有啊。”
　　琼恩的眼角余光瞥见一个白色影子在林间窜动。树叶窸窣抖动，白灵从阴影中跑了出来，由于来得突然，琼恩的母马不禁轻声惊叫。“在那里！”霍德大叫。
　　“我也听到了！”
　　“我被你害死了。”琼恩一边翻身上马，一边对冰原狼说。他调转马头，往森林走去，但不出十尺，他们便追了上来。
　　“琼恩！”派普在身后喊。
　　“停下来，”葛兰说，“你跑不掉的。”
　　琼恩抽出佩剑，策马旋身。“通通退后。我不想伤害你们，但如果情非得已，我会动手的。”
　　“你想以一对七？”霍德挥手，男孩们一拥而上，将他团团围住。
　　“你们要拿我怎样？”琼恩质问。
　　“我们要把你带回属于你的地方。”派普说。
　　“我属于我的兄弟。”
　　“我们就是你的兄弟。”葛兰说。
　　“他们逮到你，你会被砍头的，知道吗？”陶德紧张地笑笑，“这么笨的事，只有笨牛才做得出来。”
　　我才不会呢。”葛兰道：“我不会违背誓言，我发过誓，说话算话的。”
　　“我也一样，”琼恩告诉他们，“可你们难道不懂么？他们谋害了我父亲！这是一场战争，我兄弟罗柏正在河间地作战——”
　　“我们都知道，”派普严肃地说，“山姆跟我们说了。”
　　“你父亲的事我们很遗憾，”葛兰说，“但那与你无关。一旦发了誓，你就不能离开，不管怎样都不行。”
　　“我非走不可。”琼恩激动地说。
　　“你发过誓了。”派普提醒他，“我从今开始守望，至死方休，你是不是这么说的？”
　　“我将尽忠职守，生死于斯。”葛兰点头附和。
　　“用不着你们告诉我，我跟你们背得一样熟。”这下他真的生气了。他们为何不能干脆一点，放他走呢？这样子大家都不好过。
　　“我是黑暗中的利剑。”霍德诵道。
　　“长城上的守卫。”癞蛤蟆跟着念。
　　琼恩开始一个一个咒骂他们，但他们置之不理。派普催马上前，继续背诵：“抵御寒冷的烈焰，破晓时分的光线，唤醒眠者的号角，守护王国的坚盾。”
　　“别过来，”琼恩挥剑警告他，“派普，我是说真的。”他们连护甲都没穿，假如真的动手，他可以把他们统统砍成碎片。
　　梅沙绕到他身后，加入了念诵：“我将生命与荣耀献给守夜人。”
　　琼恩双脚一踢，调转马头。然而男孩们已将他彻底包围，步步逼近。
　　“今夜如此……”霍德堵住了左边的缺口。
　　“……夜夜皆然。”派普说完最后一句，伸手抓住琼恩的缰绳。“你有两个选择：要么杀了我，要么跟我回去。”
　　琼恩举起长剑……最后还是无助地放了下来。“去你的，”他说，“你们通通该死。”
　　“我们该不该把你的手绑起来？你愿不愿乖乖回去呢？”霍德问。
　　“我不跑便是。”这时白灵从树下跑出来，琼恩瞪着他，“你可真会帮倒忙。”他说，但那双深沉的红眼却仿若洞悉一切地看着他。
　　“我们最好赶快，”派普道，“假如天亮前回不去，只怕熊老会把我们的头通通砍了。”
　　回程途中发生过什么，琼恩·雪诺记得不多，只觉这趟路似乎比南行短暂得多，或许是他心不在焉的缘故罢。派普带队，不时飞奔，慢走，小跑，接着又恢复奔驰。鼹鼠村来了又去，妓院门口悬着的红灯早已熄灭。派普把时间掌握得很好，距离天亮刚好还有一个小时，琼恩见到黑城堡的黑塔楼出现在前方，衬着背后硕大无朋的苍白长城。只是这回，城堡再也没了家的感觉。
　　他们可以抓他回去，琼恩告诉自己，但他们无法留住他。南方的战争不是一两天就能解决的事，而他的朋友不可能日夜都守着他。他只需耐心等待时机，让他们放松警惕，以为他心甘情愿留下来……然后就再度逃走。下一次，他不走国王大道，而是沿着长城东行，或许就这么一直走到海边，然后往南翻越崇山峻岭。那是野人们常走的路，崎岖难行，危机四伏，却足以摆脱追兵。从始至终，他与国王大道和临冬城都将保持一百里格以上的距离。
　　老旧的马房里，山姆威尔·塔利正等着他们。他坐在泥地上，靠着一堆稻草，紧张得睡不着。一见他们，他立刻起身，拍拍尘土道：“琼恩，我……我很高兴他们找到你了。”
　　“我可不高兴。”琼恩说着下马。
　　派普也跳下坐骑，一脸嫌恶地望着逐渐泛白的天空。“山姆，帮个忙，把马儿安顿好。”矮个男孩说，“这一天还长着呢，可咱们半点觉都没睡成，这都得感谢雪诺大人。”
　　天亮之后，琼恩像往常一样走进厨房。三指哈布把熊老的早餐交给他，什么也没说。今天的早餐包括三颗褐色的白煮蛋，油炸面包，火腿肉片以及一碗有些皱的李子。琼恩端着东西回到国王塔，发现莫尔蒙正坐在窗边写东西。乌鸦在他肩膀上来回踱步，边走边念：“玉米！玉米！玉米！”琼恩一进房间，乌鸦便提声尖叫。“把早餐放桌上。”熊老抬头道，“我还想喝点啤酒。”
　　琼恩打开一扇紧闭的窗户，从外面的窗台上拿了啤酒瓶，倒满一角杯。之前哈布给了他一个刚从长城储藏室里拿出来的柠檬，现下还是冰的。琼恩用拳头捏破它，果汁从指缝间滴下。莫尔蒙每天都喝掺柠檬的啤酒，宣称这是他依旧一口好牙的原因。
　　“你一定很爱你父亲，”琼恩将角杯端给他时，莫尔蒙开口：“孩子，我们爱什么，到头来就会毁在什么上面，你还记不记得我跟你说过这话？”
　　“记得。”琼恩面带愠色地说。他不想谈父亲遇害的事，即便对莫尔蒙也不行。
　　“你要仔细记好，别忘记。残酷的事实是最应该牢牢记住的。把我的盘子端过来。又是火腿？算了，我认了。你没什么精神。怎么，昨晚骑马就这么累啊？”
　　琼恩喉咙一干，“您知道？”
　　“知道！”莫尔蒙肩头的乌鸦应和，“知道！”
　　熊老哼了一声。“雪诺，他们选我当守夜人军团总司令，莫非因为我是个呆头鹅？伊蒙说你一定会走，我则告诉他你一定会回来。我了解我的部下……也了解我的孩子们。荣誉心驱使你踏上国王大道……荣誉心也将你鞭策回来。”
　　“带我回来的是我朋友们。”琼恩说。
　　“我指的就是‘你的’荣誉心么？”莫尔蒙检视着眼前的餐盘。
　　“他们杀害了我父亲，难道我应该置之不理？”
　　“说真的，你的行为不出我们所料。”莫尔蒙咬了口李子，吐出果核。“我专派了一个人看守你，知道你何时离开。即便你的弟兄们没把你追回来，你也会在途中被逮住。到时候，抓你的可就不是朋友了。哼，除非你的马像乌鸦，生了翅膀。你有这样的马吗？”
　　“没有。”琼恩觉得自己像傻瓜。
　　“真可惜。我们倒急需那样的马。”
　　琼恩挺直身子。他已经对自己说过，要死得有尊严，至少，他能做到这点。“大人，我知道逃营的惩罚。我不怕死。”
　　“死！”乌鸦叫道。
　　“我希望你也别怕继续活下去。”莫尔蒙边说边用匕首切开火腿，还拿一小块喂乌鸦。“你不算逃兵——因为你没走成。眼下你不就好端端站在这里？要是我把每个半夜溜到鼹鼠村的孩子都抓来砍头，那防守长城的就只剩鬼魂了。不过呢，或许你打算明天再跑，或许再隔两个星期。是不是？小子，你有没有这样想？”
　　琼恩默不作声。
　　“我就知道。”莫尔蒙剥开白煮蛋的壳，“小子，你父亲死了，你有办法让他起死回生吗？”
　　“没有。”他闷闷不乐地回答。
　　“那敢情好。”莫尔蒙道，“你我都见识过死人复活是什么样，我可不想再碰上那种事。”他两大口吞下煮蛋，从齿缝间吐出几片蛋壳。“你的兄弟虽然上了战场，但他身后有全北境的军力，随便他哪一个封臣手下的士兵都比整个守夜人军团的人加起来还多，你觉得他们会需要你的帮助？难道说你真那么厉害，还是说你随身带着古灵精怪，帮你的剑附加魔法？”
　　琼恩无话可说。乌鸦啄着一颗蛋，穿破蛋壳，将长长的喙伸进去，拉出丝丝蛋白和蛋黄。
　　熊老叹道：“你也不是惟一被战争波及的人。依我看，我妹妹此刻也应该带着她那群女儿，穿着男人的盔甲，加入你兄弟的军队去了南方。梅格是个上了年纪的老怪物，个性固执，脾气又差，说实话，我根本受不了那糟女人，但这并不代表我对她的感情不如你爱你的异母妹妹。”莫尔蒙皱着眉头拾起最后一颗蛋，用力握住，直到外壳碎裂。“或许不如你。但总之，她若在战场上被杀，我一定很难过，可你瞧，我并没打算逃跑。因为我和你一样都发过誓，我的职责所在是这里……你呢，孩子？”
　　我无家可归，琼恩想说，我是个私生子，没有权利、没有姓氏、没有母亲，现在连父亲都没了。可他说不出口。“我不知道。”
　　“可我知道，”莫尔蒙总司令说，“雪诺，冷风正要吹起，长城之外，阴影日长。卡特·派克的来信中提到大群麇鹿向东南沿海迁徙，之外还有长毛象。他还说，他有个部下在距离东海望仅三里格的地方发现了巨大的畸形脚印。影子塔的游骑兵则回报，长城外有好些村落完全被遗弃，到了晚上，丹尼斯爵士说能看到群山中的火光，大把大把的烈焰，从黄昏直烧到天亮。‘断掌’科林在大峡谷抓到了一个野人，对方发誓说曼斯·雷德正躲在一个新的秘密要塞里，召集属下所有臣民，至于他的目的为何，我看只有天上诸神知道。你以为你叔叔班扬是这几年来我们惟一失去的游骑兵么？”
　　“班扬！”乌鸦歪头嘎嘎怪叫，蛋白从嘴角流下。“班扬！班扬！”
　　“不。”琼恩说。除了他还有其他人，太多人。
　　“你觉得你兄弟的战争比我们这场战争更重要？”老人喝道。
　　琼恩噘起嘴唇。乌鸦朝他拍拍翅膀，“战争！战争！战争！战争！”它唱道。
　　“我看不然。”莫尔蒙告诉他，“诸神保佑，孩子，你眼睛没瞎，人也不笨。等哪天死人在黑夜里大举入侵，你觉得谁坐在铁王座上还有差别么？”
　　“没有。”琼恩没想到这层。
　　“琼恩，你父亲大人把你送来这里，你可知为什么？”
　　“为什么？为什么？为什么？”乌鸦又叫道。
　　“我知道你们史塔克家人体内依旧流淌着先民的血液，而长城正是先民所建筑，据说他们还记得早已被人遗忘的事情。至于你那头小狼……引领我们找到尸鬼的是他，警告你楼上有死人的也是他。杰瑞米爵士多半会说一切纯属巧合，但他死了，我还好端端地活着。”莫尔蒙司令用匕首刺起一块火腿。“我认为你是命中注定要来这里的。等我们越墙北进时，我希望你和你那头狼与我们同在。”
　　他的这番话使琼恩的背脊为之一颤。“越墙北进？”
　　“不错。我打算把班·史塔克找回来，不论是死是活。”他嚼了几口，吞下火腿。“我不会在这里坐等风雪来临，我们一定要知道究竟发生了什么。这次守夜人军团将大举出动，与塞外之王、异鬼，以及其他什么的东西作战。我将亲自领军。”他拿匕首指着琼恩的胸膛。“依惯例，总司令的事务官就是他的侍从……但我可不想每天早上醒来，都还要担心你是不是又逃了。所以呢，雪诺大人，你现在就给我个答案：你究竟是守夜人的弟兄……还是个只爱玩骑马打仗的私生小毛头？”
　　琼恩·雪诺站直身子，深吸一口气。父亲、罗柏、艾莉亚、布兰……请你们原谅我，原谅我不能帮助你们。他说得没错，我属于这里。“我……随时听候您差遣，大人。我郑重发誓，绝不再逃跑了。”
　　熊老哼了一声。“那敢情好。还不快把剑佩上？”
[ 此帖被挽墨在2015-09-09 01:55重新编辑 ]
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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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Chapter 71

   CATELYN
   It seemed a thousand years ago that Catelyn Stark had carried her infant son out of Riverrun, crossing the Tumblestone in a small boat to begin their journey north to Winterfell. And it was across the Tumblestone that they came home now, though the boy wore plate and mail in place of swaddling clothes.
   Robb sat in the bow with Grey Wind, his hand resting on his direwolf s head as the rowers pulled at their oars. Theon Greyjoy was with him. Her uncle Brynden would come behind in the second boat, with the Greatjon and Lord Karstark.
   Catelyn took a place toward the stern. They shot down the Tumblestone, letting the strong current push them past the looming Wheel Tower. The splash and rumble of the great waterwheel within was a sound from her girlhood that brought a sad smile to Catelyn’s face. From the sandstone walls of the castle, soldiers and servants shouted down her name, and Robb’s, and “Winterfell!” From every rampart waved the banner of House Tully: a leaping trout, silver, against a rippling blue-and-red field. It was a stirring sight, yet it did not lift her heart. She wondered if indeed her heart would ever lift again. Oh, Ned?.?.?.?
   Below the Wheel Tower, they made a wide turn and knifed through the churning water. The men put their backs into it. The wide arch of the Water Gate came into view, and she heard the creak of heavy chains as the great iron portcullis was winched upward. It rose slowly as they approached, and Catelyn saw that the lower half of it was red with rust. The bottom foot dripped brown mud on them as they passed underneath, the barbed spikes mere inches above their heads. Catelyn gazed up at the bars and wondered how deep the rust went and how well the portcullis would stand up to a ram and whether it ought to be replaced. Thoughts like that were seldom far from her mind these days.
   They passed beneath the arch and under the walls, moving from sunlight to shadow and back into sunlight. Boats large and small were tied up all around them, secured to iron rings set in the stone. Her father’s guards waited on the water stair with her brother. Ser Edmure Tully was a stocky young man with a shaggy head of auburn hair and a fiery beard. His breastplate was scratched and dented from battle, his blue-and-red cloak stained by blood and smoke. At his side stood the Lord Tytos Blackwood, a hard pike of a man with close-cropped salt-and-pepper whiskers and a hook nose. His bright yellow armor was inlaid with jet in elaborate vine-and-leaf patterns, and a cloak sewn from raven feathers draped his thin shoulders. It had been Lord Tytos who led the sortie that plucked her brother from the Lannister camp.
   “Bring them in,” Ser Edmure commanded. Three men scrambled down the stairs knee-deep in the water and pulled the boat close with long hooks. When Grey Wind bounded out, one of them dropped his pole and lurched back, stumbling and sitting down abruptly in the river. The others laughed, and the man got a sheepish look on his face. Theon Greyjoy vaulted over the side of the boat and lifted Catelyn by the waist, setting her on a dry step above him as water lapped around his boots.
   Edmure came down the steps to embrace her. “Sweet sister,” he murmured hoarsely. He had deep blue eyes and a mouth made for smiles, but he was not smiling now. He looked worn and tired, battered by battle and haggard from strain. His neck was bandaged where he had taken a wound. Catelyn hugged him fiercely.
   “Your grief is mine, Cat,” he said when they broke apart. “When we heard about Lord Eddard?.?.?.?the Lannisters will pay, I swear it, you will have your vengeance.”
   “Will that bring Ned back to me?” she said sharply. The wound was still too fresh for softer words. She could not think about Ned now. She would not. It would not do. She had to be strong. “All that will keep. I must see Father.”
   “He awaits you in his solar,” Edmure said.
   “Lord Hoster is bedridden, my lady,” her father’s steward explained. When had that good man grown so old and grey? “He instructed me to bring you to him at once.”
   “I’ll take her.” Edmure escorted her up the water stair and across the lower bailey, where Petyr Baelish and Brandon Stark had once crossed swords for her favor. The massive sandstone walls of the keep loomed above them. As they pushed through a door between two guardsmen in fish-crest helms, she asked, “How bad is he?” dreading the answer even as she said the words.
   Edmure’s look was somber. “He will not be with us long, the maesters say. The pain is?.?.?.?constant, and grievous.”
   A blind rage filled her, a rage at all the world; at her brother Edmure and her sister Lysa, at the Lannisters, at the maesters, at Ned and her father and the monstrous gods who would take them both away from her. “You should have told me,” she said. “You should have sent word as soon as you knew.”
   “He forbade it. He did not want his enemies to know that he was dying. With the realm so troubled, he feared that if the Lannisters suspected how frail he was?.?.?.?”
   “?.?.?.?they might attack?” Catelyn finished, hard. It was your doing, yours, a voice whispered inside her. If you had not taken it upon yourself to seize the dwarf?.?.?.?
   They climbed the spiral stair in silence.
   The keep was three-sided, like Riverrun itself, and Lord Hoster’s solar was triangular as well, with a stone balcony that jutted out to the east like the prow of some great sandstone ship. From there the lord of the castle could look down on his walls and battlements, and beyond, to where the waters met. They had moved her father’s bed out onto the balcony. “He likes to sit in the sun and watch the rivers,” Edmure explained. “Father, see who I’ve brought. Cat has come to see you?.?.?.?”
   Hoster Tully had always been a big man; tall and broad in his youth, portly as he grew older. Now he seemed shrunken, the muscle and meat melted off his bones. Even his face sagged. The last time Catelyn had seen him, his hair and beard had been brown, well streaked with grey. Now they had gone white as snow.
   His eyes opened to the sound of Edmure’s voice. “Little cat,” he murmured in a voice thin and wispy and wracked by pain. “My little cat.” A tremulous smile touched his face as his hand groped for hers. “I watched for you?.?.?.?”
   “I shall leave you to talk,” her brother said, kissing their lord father gently on the brow before he withdrew.
   Catelyn knelt and took her father’s hand in hers. It was a big hand, but fleshless now, the bones moving loosely under the skin, all the strength gone from it. “You should have told me,” she said. “A rider, a raven?.?.?.?”
   “Riders are taken, questioned,” he answered. “Ravens are brought down?.?.?.?” A spasm of pain took him, and his fingers clutched hers hard. “The crabs are in my belly?.?.?.?pinching, always pinching. Day and night. They have fierce claws, the crabs. Maester Vyman makes me dreamwine, milk of the poppy?.?.?.?I sleep a lot?.?.?.?but I wanted to be awake to see you, when you came. I was afraid?.?.?.?when the Lannisters took your brother, the camps all around us?.?.?.?was afraid I would go, before I could see you again?.?.?.?I was afraid?.?.?.?”
   “I’m here, Father,” she said. “With Robb, my son. He’ll want to see you too.”
   “Your boy,” he whispered. “He had my eyes, I remember?.?.?.?”
   “He did, and does. And we’ve brought you Jaime Lannister, in irons. Riverrun is free again, Father.”
   Lord Hoster smiled. “I saw. Last night, when it began, I told them?.?.?.?had to see. They carried me to the gatehouse?.?.?.?watched from the battlements. Ah, that was beautiful?.?.?.?the torches came in a wave, I could hear the cries floating across the river?.?.?.?sweet cries?.?.?.?when that siege tower went up, gods?.?.?.?would have died then, and glad, if only I could have seen you children first. Was it your boy who did it? Was it your Robb?”
   “Yes,” Catelyn said, fiercely proud. “It was Robb?.?.?.?and Brynden. Your brother is here as well, my lord.”
   “Him.” Her father’s voice was a faint whisper. “The Blackfish?.?.?.?came back? From the Vale?”
   “Yes.”
   “And Lysa?” A cool wind moved through his thin white hair. “Gods be good, your sister?.?.?.?did she come as well?”
   He sounded so full of hope and yearning that it was hard to tell the truth. “No. I’m sorry?.?.?.?”
   “Oh.” His face fell, and some light went out of his eyes. “I’d hoped I would have liked to see her, before?.?.?.?”
   “She’s with her son, in the Eyrie.”
   Lord Hoster gave a weary nod. “Lord Robert now, poor Arryn’s gone?.?.?.?I remember?.?.?.?why did she not come with you?”
   “She is frightened, my lord. In the Eyrie she feels safe.” She kissed his wrinkled brow. “Robb will be waiting. Will you see him? And Brynden?”
   “Your son,” he whispered. “Yes. Cat’s child?.?.?.?he had my eyes, I remember. When he was born. Bring him ?.?.?.?yes.”
   “And your brother?”
   Her father glanced out over the rivers. “Blackfish,” he said. “Has he wed yet? Taken some?.?.?.?girl to wife?”
   Even on his deathbed, Catelyn thought sadly. “He has not wed. You know that, Father. Nor will he ever.”
   “I told him?.?.?.?commanded him. Marry! I was his lord. He knows. My right, to make his match. A good match. A Redwyne. Old House. Sweet girl, pretty?.?.?.?freckles?.?.?.?Bethany, yes. Poor child. Still waiting. Yes. Still?.?.?.?”
   “Bethany Redwyne wed Lord Rowan years ago,” Catelyn reminded him. “She has three children by him.”
   “Even so,” Lord Hoster muttered. “Even so. Spit on the girl. The Redwynes. Spit on me. His lord, his brother?.?.?.?that Blackfish. I had other offers. Lord Bracken’s girl. Walder Frey?.?.?.?any of three, he said?.?.?.?Has he wed? Anyone? Anyone?”
   “No one,” Catelyn said, “yet he has come many leagues to see you, fighting his way back to Riverrun. I would not be here now, if Ser Brynden had not helped us.”
   “He was ever a warrior,” her father husked. “That he could do. Knight of the Gate, yes.” He leaned back and closed his eyes, inutterably weary. “Send him. Later. I’ll sleep now. Too sick to fight. Send him up later, the Blackfish?.?.?.?”
   Catelyn kissed him gently, smoothed his hair, and left him there in the shade of his keep, with his rivers flowing beneath. He was asleep before she left the solar.
   When she returned to the lower bailey, Ser Brynden Tully stood on the water stairs with wet boots, talking with the captain of Riverrun’s guards. He came to her at once. “Is he...”
   “Dying,” she said. “As we feared.”
   Her uncle’s craggy face showed his pain plain. He ran his fingers through his thick grey hair. “Will he see me?”
   She nodded. “He says he is too sick to fight.”
   Brynden Blackfish chuckled. “I am too old a soldier to believe that. Hoster will be chiding me about the Redwyne girl even as we light his funeral pyre, damn his bones.”
   Catelyn smiled, knowing it was true. “I do not see Robb.”
   “He went with Greyjoy to the hall, I believe.”
   Theon Greyjoy was seated on a bench in Riverrun’s Great Hall, enjoying a horn of ale and regaling her father’s garrison with an account of the slaughter in the Whispering Wood. “Some tried to flee, but we’d pinched the valley shut at both ends, and we rode out of the darkness with sword and lance. The Lannisters must have thought the Others themselves were on them when that wolf of Robb’s got in among them. I saw him tear one man’s arm from his shoulder, and their horses went mad at the scent of him. I couldn’t tell you how many men were thrown...”
   “Theon,” she interrupted, “where might I find my son?”
   “Lord Robb went to visit the godswood, my lady.”
   It was what Ned would have done. He is his father’s son as much as mine, I must remember. Oh, gods, Ned?.?.?.?
   She found Robb beneath the green canopy of leaves, surrounded by tall redwoods and great old elms, kneeling before the heart tree, a slender weirwood with a face more sad than fierce. His longsword was before him, the point thrust in the earth, his gloved hands clasped around the hilt. Around him others knelt: Greatjon Umber, Rickard Karstark, Maege Mormont, Galbart Glover, and more. Even Tytos Blackwood was among them, the great raven cloak fanned out behind him. These are the ones who keep the old gods, she realized. She asked herself what gods she kept these days, and could not find an answer.
   It would not do to disturb them at their prayers. The gods must have their due?.?.?.?even cruel gods who would take Ned from her, and her lord father as well. So Catelyn waited. The river wind moved through the high branches, and she could see the Wheel Tower to her right, ivy crawling up its side. As she stood there, all the memories came flooding back to her. Her father had taught her to ride amongst these trees, and that was the elm that Edmure had fallen from when he broke his arm, and over there, beneath that bower, she and Lysa had played at kissing with Petyr.
   She had not thought of that in years. How young they all had been, she no older than Sansa, Lysa younger than Arya, and Petyr younger still, yet eager. The girls had traded him between them, serious and giggling by turns. It came back to her so vividly she could almost feel his sweaty fingers on her shoulders and taste the mint on his breath. There was always mint growing in the godswood, and Petyr had liked to chew it. He had been such a bold little boy, always in trouble. “He tried to put his tongue in my mouth,” Catelyn had confessed to her sister afterward, when they were alone. “He did with me too,” Lysa had whispered, shy and breathless. “I liked it.”
   Robb got to his feet slowly and sheathed his sword, and Catelyn found herself wondering whether her son had ever kissed a girl in the godswood. Surely he must have. She had seen Jeyne Poole giving him moist-eyed glances, and some of the serving girls, even ones as old as eighteen?.?.?.?he had ridden in battle and killed men with a sword, surely he had been kissed. There were tears in her eyes. She wiped them away angrily.
   “Mother,” Robb said when he saw her standing there. “We must call a council. There are things to be decided.”
   “Your grandfather would like to see you,” she said. “Robb, he’s very sick.”
   “Ser Edmure told me. I am sorry, Mother?.?.?.?for Lord Hoster and for you. Yet first we must meet. We’ve had word from the south. Renly Baratheon has claimed his brother’s crown.”
   “Renly?” she said, shocked. “I had thought, surely it would be Lord Stannis?.?.?.?”
   “So did we all, my lady,” Galbart Glover said.
   The war council convened in the Great Hall, at four long trestle tables arranged in a broken square. Lord Hoster was too weak to attend, asleep on his balcony, dreaming of the sun on the rivers of his youth. Edmure sat in the high seat of the Tullys, with Brynden Blackfish at his side, and his father’s bannermen arrayed to right and left and along the side tables. Word of the victory at Riverrun had spread to the fugitive lords of the Trident, drawing them back. Karyl Vance came in, a lord now, his father dead beneath the Golden Tooth. Ser Marq Piper was with him, and they brought a Darry, Ser Raymun’s son, a lad no older than Bran. Lord Jonos Bracken arrived from the ruins of Stone Hedge, glowering and blustering, and took a seat as far from Tytos Blackwood as the tables would permit.
   The northern lords sat opposite, with Catelyn and Robb facing her brother across the tables. They were fewer. The Greatjon sat at Robb’s left hand, and then Theon Greyjoy; Galbart Glover and Lady Mormont were to the right of Catelyn. Lord Rickard Karstark, gaunt and hollow-eyed in his grief, took his seat like a man in a nightmare, his long beard uncombed and unwashed. He had left two sons dead in the Whispering Wood, and there was no word of the third, his eldest, who had led the Karstark spears against Tywin Lannister on the Green Fork.
   The arguing raged on late into the night. Each lord had a right to speak, and speak they did?.?.?.?and shout, and curse, and reason, and cajole, and jest, and bargain, and slam tankards on the table, and threaten, and walk out, and return sullen or smiling. Catelyn sat and listened to it all.
   Roose Bolton had re-formed the battered remnants of their other host at the mouth of the causeway. Ser Helman Tallhart and Walder Frey still held the Twins. Lord Tywin’s army had crossed the Trident, and was making for Harrenhal. And there were two kings in the realm. Two kings, and no agreement.
   Many of the lords bannermen wanted to march on Harrenhal at once, to meet Lord Tywin and end Lannister power for all time. Young, hot-tempered Marq Piper urged a strike west at Casterly Rock instead. Still others counseled patience. Riverrun sat athwart the Lannister supply lines, Jason Mallister pointed out; let them bide their time, denying Lord Tywin fresh levies and provisions while they strengthened their defenses and rested their weary troops. Lord Blackwood would have none of it. They should finish the work they began in the Whispering Wood. March to Harrenhal and bring Roose Bolton’s army down as well. What Blackwood urged, Bracken opposed, as ever; Lord Jonos Bracken rose to insist they ought pledge their fealty to King Renly, and move south to join their might to his.
   “Renly is not the king,” Robb said. It was the first time her son had spoken. Like his father, he knew how to listen.
   “You cannot mean to hold to Joffrey, my lord,” Galbart Glover said. “He put your father to death.”
   “That makes him evil,” Robb replied. “I do not know that it makes Renly king. Joffrey is still Robert’s eldest trueborn son, so the throne is rightfully his by all the laws of the realm. Were he to die, and I mean to see that he does, he has a younger brother. Tommen is next in line after Joffrey.”
   “Tommen is no less a Lannister,” Ser Marq Piper snapped.
   “As you say,” said Robb, troubled. “Yet if neither one is king, still, how could it be Lord Renly? He’s Robert’s younger brother. Bran can’t be Lord of Winterfell before me, and Renly can’t be king before Lord Stannis.”
   Lady Mormont agreed. “Lord Stannis has the better claim.”
   “Renly is crowned,” said Marq Piper. “Highgarden and Storm’s End support his claim, and the Dornishmen will not be laggardly. If Winterfell and Riverrun add their strength to his, he will have five of the seven great houses behind him. Six, if the Arryns bestir themselves! Six against the Rock! My lords, within the year, we will have all their heads on pikes, the queen and the boy king, Lord Tywin, the Imp, the Kingslayer, Ser Kevan, all of them! That is what we shall win if we join with King Renly. What does Lord Stannis have against that, that we should cast it all aside?”
   “The right,” said Robb stubbornly. Catelyn thought he sounded eerily like his father as he said it.
   “So you mean us to declare for Stannis?” asked Edmure.
   “I don’t know,” said Robb. “I prayed to know what to do, but the gods did not answer. The Lannisters killed my father for a traitor, and we know that was a lie, but if Joffrey is the lawful king and we fight against him, we will be traitors.”
   “My lord father would urge caution,” aged Ser Stevron said, with the weaselly smile of a Frey. “Wait, let these two kings play their game of thrones. When they are done fighting, we can bend our knees to the victor, or oppose him, as we choose. With Renly arming, likely Lord Tywin would welcome a truce ?.?.?.?and the safe return of his son. Noble lords, allow me to go to him at Harrenhal and arrange good terms and ransoms?.?.?.?”
   A roar of outrage drowned out his voice. “Craven!” the Greatjon thundered. “Begging for a truce will make us seem weak,” declared Lady Mormont. “Ransoms be damned, we must not give up the Kingslayer,” shouted Rickard Karstark.
   “Why not a peace?” Catelyn asked.
   The lords looked at her, but it was Robb’s eyes she felt, his and his alone. “My lady, they murdered my lord father, your husband,” he said grimly. He unsheathed his longsword and laid it on the table before him, the bright steel on the rough wood. “This is the only peace I have for Lannisters.”
   The Greatjon bellowed his approval, and other men added their voices, shouting and drawing swords and pounding their fists on the table. Catelyn waited until they had quieted. “My lords,” she said then, “Lord Eddard was your liege, but I shared his bed and bore his children. Do you think I love him any less than you?” Her voice almost broke with her grief, but Catelyn took a long breath and steadied herself. “Robb, if that sword could bring him back, I should never let you sheathe it until Ned stood at my side once more?.?.?.?but he is gone, and hundred Whispering Woods will not change that. Ned is gone, and Daryn Hornwood, and Lord Karstark’s valiant sons, and many other good men besides, and none of them will return to us. Must we have more deaths still?”
   “You are a woman, my lady,” the Greatjon rumbled in his deep voice. “Women do not understand these things.”
   “You are the gentle sex,” said Lord Karstark, with the lines of grief fresh on his face. “A man has a need for vengeance.”
   “Give me Cersei Lannister, Lord Karstark, and you would see how gentle a woman can be,” Catelyn replied. “Perhaps I do not understand tactics and strategy?.?.?.?but I understand futility. We went to war when Lannister armies were ravaging the riverlands, and Ned was a prisoner, falsely accused of treason. We fought to defend ourselves, and to win my lord’s freedom.
   “Well, the one is done, and the other forever beyond our reach. I will mourn for Ned until the end of my days, but I must think of the living. I want my daughters back, and the queen holds them still. If I must trade our four Lannisters for their two Starks, I will call that a bargain and thank the gods. I want you safe, Robb, ruling at Winterfell from your father’s seat. I want you to live your life, to kiss a girl and wed a woman and father a son. I want to write an end to this. I want to go home, my lords, and weep for my husband.”
   The hall was very quiet when Catelyn finished speaking.
   “Peace,” said her uncle Brynden. “Peace is sweet, my lady?.?.?.?but on what terms? It is no good hammering your sword into a plowshare if you must forge it again on the morrow.”
   “What did Torrhen and my Eddard die for, if I am to return to Karhold with nothing but their bones?” asked Rickard Karstark.
   “Aye,” said Lord Bracken. “Gregor Clegane laid waste to my fields, slaughtered my smallfolk, and left Stone Hedge a smoking ruin. Am I now to bend the knee to the ones who sent him? What have we fought for, if we are to put all back as it was before?”
   Lord Blackwood agreed, to Catelyn’s surprise and dismay. “And if we do make peace with King Joffrey, are we not then traitors to King Renly? What if the stag should prevail against the lion, where would that leave us?”
   “Whatever you may decide for yourselves, I shall never call a Lannister my king,” declared Marq Piper.
   “Nor I!” yelled the little Darry boy. “I never will!”
   Again the shouting began. Catelyn sat despairing. She had come so close, she thought. They had almost listened, almost?.?.?.?but the moment was gone. There would be no peace, no chance to heal, no safety. She looked at her son, watched him as he listened to the lords debate, frowning, troubled, yet wedded to his war. He had pledged himself to marry a daughter of Walder Frey, but she saw his true bride plain before her now: the sword he had laid on the table.
   Catelyn was thinking of her girls, wondering if she would ever see them again, when the Greatjon lurched to his feet.
   “MY LORDS!” he shouted, his voice booming off the rafters. “Here is what I say to these two kings!” He spat. “ Renly Baratheon is nothing to me, nor Stannis neither. Why should they rule over me and mine, from some flowery seat in Highgarden or Dorne? What do they know of the Wall or the wolfswood or the barrows of the First Men? Even their gods are wrong. The Others take the Lannisters too, I’ve had a bellyful of them.” He reached back over his shoulder and drew his immense two-handed greatsword. “Why shouldn’t we rule ourselves again? It was the dragons we married, and the dragons are all dead!” He pointed at Robb with the blade. “There sits the only king I mean to bow my knee to, m’lords,” he thundered. “The King in the North!”
   And he knelt, and laid his sword at her son’s feet.
   “I’ll have peace on those terms,” Lord Karstark said. “They can keep their red castle and their iron chair as well.” He eased his longsword from its scabbard. “The King in the North!” he said, kneeling beside the Greatjon.
   Maege Mormont stood. “The King of Winter!” she declared, and laid her spiked mace beside the swords. And the river lords were rising too, Blackwood and Bracken and Mallister, houses who had never been ruled from Winterfell, yet Catelyn watched them rise and draw their blades, bending their knees and shouting the old words that had not been heard in the realm for more than three hundred years, since Aegon the Dragon had come to make the Seven Kingdoms one?.?.?.?yet now were heard again, ringing from the timbers of her father’s hall:
   “The King in the North!”
   “The King in the North!”
   “THE KING IN THE NORTH!”



Ⅰ 权力的游戏 Chapter72 凯特琳
　　多年以前，凯特琳怀抱襁褓里的儿子，离开奔流城，搭乘小船渡过腾石河，北上临冬城。而今想起来，仿佛是千年前的事。而今，他们同样渡过腾石河，重返家园，然而当初那个婴儿，已经长成了披甲戴剑的英挺战士。
　　划桨起起落落，罗柏和灰风坐在船首，他把手放在冰原狼的头上，席恩·葛雷乔伊陪伴着他。布林登叔叔坐在后面的第二艘船上，与大琼恩和卡史塔克伯爵一道。
　　凯特琳坐在船尾，他们乘船顺流而下，任腾石河强劲的水流载着他们经过高大的水车塔。塔内巨大水车辘辘轮转，水声哗啦，儿时种种回忆牵起凯特琳嘴角一抹哀伤的微笑。城中军民排列在砂岩城墙上，高喊着他们母子的名字，高喊着“临冬城万岁！”每一座壁垒上都飘扬着徒利家族的旗帜：一尾腾跃的银色鳟鱼，衬着波动的红蓝底色。这是一幅令人振奋的景象，然而凯特琳的心却高兴不起来，她怀疑自己的心这辈子还能不能再感受喜悦。噢，奈德……
　　他们在水车塔下转了个大弯，直直地穿越汹涌河水，船夫使劲划桨，水门的巨大拱形映入眼帘，她听见绞链的卷动，巨大的铁闸门缓缓升起。当他们逐渐接近，凯特琳发现闸门下半部几乎全是红色铁锈，它们长年浸在水中，“水门”正是因此而得名。穿过闸门时，褐色烂泥不住滴下，门底尖刺距离头顶仅有几寸。凯特琳抬头看着铁栅，不禁纳闷其锈蚀的程度有多严重，若是遇上撞锤，这道闸门又究竟能撑多久，到底该不该换新的？这些日子以来，她脑中所想尽是这类事情。
　　他们穿过拱门和城墙，从阳光下走进阴影中，接着又回到日光照耀下。四周停泊着大小船只，均稳固地系在石中铁环上。弟弟正带着父亲的卫士们在临水阶梯上等候他们。艾德慕·徒利爵士是个体格壮硕的年轻人，一蓬枣红头发，一把火红胡须，胸甲上尽是战争遗留的刮痕和凹陷，红蓝披风沾染了血渍与烟尘。站在他身边的是泰陀斯·布莱伍德伯爵，身躯硬挺，留了短短的灰胡子，生了个鹰钩鼻，亮黄色的盔甲上用黑玉镶成繁复的藤蔓图案，削瘦的肩膀上垂着鸦羽披风。率兵出城突击，将弟弟从兰尼斯特军营地里救出来的人，正是泰陀斯伯爵。
　　“带他们进来。”艾德慕爵士下令。三个人步下阶梯，走到及膝深的水里，用长钩把小艇拉过去。灰风一跃而出，却将对方一人吓得慌忙后退，步履踉跄，跌坐水中，众人哈哈大笑，那人则露出难为情的表情。席恩·葛雷乔伊跳到船边，将凯特琳拦腰抱到干燥的石阶上，任凭流水拍打他的靴子。
　　艾德慕走下阶梯拥抱她。“亲爱的姐姐。”他哑着嗓子说。他生了一对深邃的蓝眼睛，那双唇天生便该用来微笑，只是现在他却笑不出来。他的模样筋疲力竭，因为一连串的战争、压力而显得憔悴不堪，脖子上受伤的地方还绑了绷带。凯特琳紧紧地搂住他。
　　“凯特，我和你一样难过。”他们分开时，他这么说，“当我们听说艾德大人出事的时候……兰尼斯特家会付出代价的，我对天发誓，一定为你复仇雪恨。”
　　“那能让奈德活过来吗？”她语气尖锐地说。伤口还太新，听不得安慰的话语。现在她无法去想与奈德有关的事，也不愿去想。这样是不行的，她必须坚强。“这些以后再说，我要去见父亲。”
　　“他正在书房里等你。”艾德慕道。
　　“夫人，霍斯特大人卧病在床。”父亲的总管解释。这好人何时变得如此灰白苍老？“他吩咐我立刻带您去见他。”
　　“让我带她去。”艾德慕陪着她步上临水阶梯，穿越下层庭院，培提尔和布兰登·史塔克就在那里为她拼斗过。巍峨的砂岩城墙高耸于头顶，他推开由一道两名头戴鱼纹盔的卫士把守的门，她借机询问：“他的情形有多坏？”她一边说，心里一边害怕即将听到的答案。
　　艾德慕神情严肃。“学士说他在人世的时间不长了。病痛时常发作……而且相当厉害。”
　　一股无名怒火陡然充斥了她的内心，她痛恨这整个世界，痛恨弟弟艾德慕和妹妹莱沙，痛恨兰尼斯特家族，痛恨学士，痛恨奈德和父亲，尤其痛恨将他俩自她身边夺走的狰狞诸神。“你应该早点告诉我，”她说，“你知道情形就应该跟我说。”
　　“是他不准，他不想让敌人知道自己将不久人世。眼下王国如此动乱，若是兰尼斯特家知道他这么虚弱，他怕他们会……”
　　“……出兵进攻？”凯特琳艰难地替他说完。一切都是你的错，你的错啊，她心中有个声音在说，假如你没有头脑发热，逮捕那侏儒……
　　他们沉默地登上螺旋梯。
　　主堡和奔流城本身一样是三边造型，霍斯特公爵的书房也是三角形，东边有一突出的石制阳台，像是一艘巨大砂岩舰只的船首。从那里，公爵大人可将自己的城墙、堡垒和对面河流交界处尽收眼底。父亲的床已被移到阳台上。“他喜欢晒太阳，观看河上风景。”艾德慕解释，“父亲，看看我带谁来了？凯特来看您了……”
　　霍斯特·徒利一向体形硕大：年轻时高大魁梧，步入老年后则显得有些臃肿。然而如今的他看起来却似乎有点萎缩，全身肌肉都融进了骨头，脸庞是那么干瘪。凯特琳上次见他时，他的头发和胡子还是棕褐里带了点灰，如今却整个变成了雪白。
　　听到艾德慕的声音，他睁开眼睛。“小凯特，”声音细小，充满痛苦，“我的小凯特。”他脸上露出一抹颤巍巍的微笑，他摸索着要握她的手。“我在等你哪……”
　　“你们谈吧。”说着弟弟轻轻吻了父亲大人的额头，然后转身离开。
　　凯特琳跪下来，握住父亲的手。那手从前虽大，如今却显得枯槁，皮肤松垮垮地覆盖着骨头，早已丧失了所有的力量。“您早该跟我说，”她说，“派人送信，或是叫鸟儿……”
　　“使者会被抓，被严刑逼供，”他回答，“渡鸦会被射下来……”一阵剧痛突然袭来，他的指头紧紧抓住她的手。“螃蟹在我肚子里……夹啊夹，夹个不停，日夜不休地夹。他们的钳子好生锐利啊，这些螃蟹。韦曼师傅调了梦酒给我喝，还有罂粟奶……所以我睡得很多……但你来的时候，我一定要醒着，好好看看你。兰尼斯特家抓走你弟弟那会儿……我好害怕……到处是他们的营地……我好怕我就这么走了，没机会再见你一面……我好怕……”
　　“父亲，我这不就来了么？”她说，“我和罗柏一道来的，他是您的外孙呢，他很想见您。”
　　“你的孩子，”他小声说，“他继承了我的眼睛，我记得的……”
　　“是的，如今依然。我们还为您带来了詹姆·兰尼斯特，他是我们的阶下囚了。父亲，奔流城之围已经化解。”
　　霍斯特公爵微笑：“我看到了，昨晚开战的时候，我跟他们说……我非看不可，于是他们把我抬上城门楼……我从城垛上看去。啊，真是太美了……火把像潮水一般涌过来，我听见河对岸的惨叫……多美妙的惨叫……攻城塔整个烧起来了，诸神保佑……我要是那时候就死了也没关系，还会很高兴地走，只是我想先看看你的孩子。昨晚是你儿子干的么？就你家那个罗柏？”
　　“是，”凯特琳的口气坚定而骄傲。“正是罗柏……还有布林登。父亲大人，叔叔他也回来了。”
　　“他，”父亲的声音成了微弱的呓语，“黑鱼……也回来了？从艾林谷回来了？”
　　“是的。”
　　“莱沙呢？”一阵冷风吹过他稀疏的白发。“诸神保佑，你妹妹……她也回来了吗？”
　　他的话中充满希望和渴盼，要说出真相实在困难。“没有，我很抱歉……”
　　“噢，”他脸色一垮，眼里少了些许光芒。“我本希望……我本想再看看她，然后才……”
　　“她在鹰巢城守着她儿子。”
　　霍斯特公爵虚弱地点点头。“可怜的艾林一死，眼下他成了劳勃公爵……我明白……但她怎么不跟你一道来？”
　　“父亲大人，她很害怕，只是在鹰巢城里才有安全感。”她吻了吻他满是皱纹的眉头。“罗柏正在外面等候，您要不要先看看他？还有布林登？”
　　“你儿子，”他小声说，“对，小凯特的孩子……他有我的眼睛，我记得的，他刚出生时……好……带他进来吧。”
　　“那叔叔呢？”
　　父亲望了河流一眼。“黑鱼，”他说，“他结婚了么？娶……娶妻了没？”
　　到了临终还是念念不忘，凯特琳哀伤地想。“他没结婚。父亲，你知道的，他这辈子都不会结婚了。”
　　“我跟他说了……我命令他结婚！我是他的领主，他知道我有权替他安排婚事。雷德温家族血统古老，门当户对，那女孩人既漂亮，又乖巧……只是有一点雀斑……蓓珊妮，对，就是这名字。可怜的孩子，一直等到现在，是啊，可是……”
　　“蓓珊妮·雷德温多年以前就嫁给了罗宛伯爵，”凯特琳提醒他，“都已经是三个孩子的母亲了。”
　　“是么，”霍斯特公爵喃喃自语，“是这样的么，那女孩该死，雷德温家该死，我最该死。我是他的领主，他的哥哥……这条黑鱼，不然我也有其他对象啊，布雷肯大人的女儿，瓦德·佛雷……三个随他挑，这是那家伙自己说的……他到底成婚了没？娶妻了没？娶了没？”
　　“他谁也没娶，”凯特琳说，“但他却不远千里，一路奋战，回到奔流城来看您。如果没有布林登爵士的协助，我也不会在这里。”
　　“他向来是块打仗的料，”他喉咙干涩，“他的确有这方面的本领，血门骑士，对不对？”他向后躺去，闭上眼睛，似乎浑身虚脱。“等会儿再叫他来，现在我要睡一会儿，太累了，没力气吵架，晚点，再叫他进来，这条黑鱼……”
　　凯特琳轻轻吻了他，整整他的头发，把他留在自己城堡的阴影里，与下方奔涌流淌的河流为伴。她还未离开书房，他便已入睡。
　　当她回到下层庭院，只见布林登·徒利爵士正站在临水阶梯上，鞋子淌水，一边和奔流城的侍卫队长交谈。一见她面，他立刻问道：“他是不是——？”
　　“他时候不多了，”她说，“和我们料想的一样。”
　　叔叔那张粗犷的脸上明显流露出痛苦之色，他伸手拨拨蓬厚的灰发。“他愿意见我吗？”
　　她点点头，“是的，但他说自己现在太累，没力气吵架。”
　　黑鱼布林登忍俊不禁。“我相信才有鬼。就算他已经上了火葬堆，我们一边给他点火，霍斯特这家伙还是会念个没完，说我没娶那个雷德温家的女孩，这老浑球。”
　　凯特琳露出微笑，心照不宣。“我没看到罗柏。”
　　“他应该同葛雷乔伊一起到大厅去了。”
　　席恩·葛雷乔伊坐在奔流城大厅的板凳上，一手拿着麦酒角杯，一边跟父亲的手下叙述呓语森林大捷的经过。“……那群人想逃，可我们把河谷两头堵得死死的，然后拿刀拿熗从黑暗里冲出来，罗柏那头狼杀进去时，兰尼斯特家的人八成以为是异鬼来了。我亲眼看见它把一个人的胳膊活生生地扯下来，周围的马闻到它的气味就发了狂，落马的人不可胜数……”
　　“席恩，”她打断他，“我儿子到哪里去了？”
　　“夫人，罗柏大人去了神木林。”
　　奈德以前也每每如此。他是他父亲的儿子，正如他是我的儿子，我必须牢牢记住。噢，诸神慈悲，奈德……
　　她在绿叶编织的树蓬下找到罗柏，四周满是大红杉和老榆树。他跪在心树之前，那是一棵纤瘦的鱼梁木，刻画其上的脸庞多了几许哀伤，少了几分坚毅。他的长剑插在面前，剑尖深入土中，他双手戴着手套，紧紧握住剑柄，跪在他身旁的是大琼恩·安柏、瑞卡德·卡史塔克、梅姬·莫尔蒙、盖伯特·葛洛佛等人，泰陀斯·布莱伍德亦在其中，硕大的鸦羽披风摊在身后。这些是依旧信奉古老诸神的人，她明白，但当她扪心自问：如今的自己究竟信奉哪个神？却找不到答案。
　　她只觉不应打扰他们祷告，诸神行事自有其理由……即便是从她手中夺走奈德，夺走父亲大人的残酷神祗，于是凯特琳静静等候。河风吹动树梢，她看到右边远方的水车塔，上面爬满了长春藤。伫立原地，所有的回忆排山倒海般向她袭来，当年父亲正是在这片树林里教她骑马，艾德慕曾经从那棵榆树上摔下来，跌断了手臂，她和莱沙还在那片树荫下与培提尔玩亲吻游戏。
　　她已有多年不曾回想起这些事，记得他们当时年纪还小——她自己与现在的珊莎相若，莱莎比艾莉亚年幼，培提尔则更小，却最迫不及待。两个女孩轮流和他接吻，一会儿郑重其事，一会儿咯咯直笑，如今回想起来，历历在目。她仿佛还可以感觉到他搭着她肩膀的手，大汗淋漓，闻到他嘴里的薄荷气味。神木林里薄荷遍地，培提尔没事最爱嚼个几片。那时的他真是个胆大的小鬼，一天到晚闯祸。“他想把舌头伸进我嘴里呢。”独处时，凯特琳偷偷跟妹妹说。“他也这么对我做，”莱莎悄声道，面带羞怯，但兴奋得喘不过气。“我很喜欢。”
　　罗柏缓缓起身，收剑入鞘，凯特琳突然想到：她的儿子曾否在神木林里吻过女孩子呢？一定有吧。她看见珍妮·普尔睁着水汪汪的眼睛望着他，城堡里好些女侍也是，其中有几个已经满了十八岁……他既然已经打过仗、杀过人，一定也吻过女孩子。她眼里充满泪水，连忙愤怒地将之抹去。
　　“母亲，”罗柏看到她站在那里，便开口道，“我们必须召开会议，很多事情需要讨论决定。”
　　“你外公想见你，”她说，“罗柏，他病得很重。”
　　“艾德慕爵士把他的情况跟我说了。母亲，我很为霍斯特大人难过……也为你难过，但我们必须先开会，我们刚刚接到南方传来的消息，蓝礼·拜拉席恩已经登基称王。”
　　“蓝礼？”她大为震惊，“应该是史坦尼斯大人……”
　　“夫人，我们也都这么想。”盖伯特·葛洛佛道。
　　战争会议在大厅举行，四张长折叠桌排成向上开口的方形。霍斯特公爵病情太重，无法与会，依旧浅眠于阳台上，做着他年轻时长河落日的梦。艾德慕坐上了徒利家族的高位，身旁是黑鱼布林登，他父亲的封臣则分坐于左右两侧。原本兵败逃亡的三叉戟河贵族，接获奔流城捷报后，又纷纷回来了。卡利尔·凡斯的父亲战死于金牙山城，如今他已继承了爵位。与他同来的有马柯·派柏，此外还有雷蒙·戴瑞爵士的儿子，那孩子年纪和布兰差不多。杰诺斯·布雷肯伯爵怒火冲天地从石篱城的废墟中赶来，并尽可能地跟泰陀斯·布莱伍德伯爵保持距离。
　　凯特琳、罗柏和北境诸侯坐在高位对面，面朝她弟弟。他们人数较少。大琼恩坐在罗柏左手，之后是席恩·葛雷乔伊；盖伯特·葛洛佛和莫尔蒙伯爵夫人坐在凯特琳右侧。遭受丧子之痛的瑞卡德·卡史塔克伯爵形容憔悴，眼神空洞，宛如噩梦缠身的人，长长的胡子也不再梳洗。他的两个儿子战死于呓语森林，长子则率领卡史塔克部队在绿叉河与泰温·兰尼斯特作战，至今生死未卜。
　　接下来是持续的争吵，直至深夜。每位贵族都有权发言，他们也各自把握机会，卯足全力……或大吼大叫、或高声咒骂、或晓之以理、或连哄带骗、或语带玩笑、或讨价还价、或拿酒拍桌、或出言要胁，时时有人愤而离席，然后沉着脸或微笑着回来。凯特琳静静地坐着，凝神倾听。
　　根据情报，卢斯·波顿已在颈泽的堤道口重整败军，赫曼·陶哈爵士和瓦德·佛雷则依旧握有孪河城。泰温公爵的部队已经回头渡过三叉戟河，正朝赫伦堡前进。目前国内有两人称王，且彼此互不相让。
　　许多诸侯希望即刻进军赫伦堡，与泰温公爵决战，一举消灭兰尼斯特势力。血气方刚的年轻人马柯·派柏更力主派兵西进凯岩城。但仍有不少人建议暂缓行动。杰森·梅利斯特特别指出：眼下奔流城刚好扼住兰尼斯特军的补给线，不妨把握这个优势，阻止泰温大人获得补充兵力和物资，并借机加强自身防御，让疲累的军队得到休整。对所有谨慎的提议，布莱伍德伯爵一概听不进去，他认为应该乘着呓语森林之战的势头，早日结束战事，所以不但要立刻进军赫伦堡，还要卢斯·波顿的部队南下配合支援。依照惯例，只要是布莱伍德家族的主意，布雷肯家族一定反对到底，于是杰诺斯·布雷肯起身力促大家向蓝礼国王效忠，并南下与其大军会师。
　　“蓝礼不是国王。”罗柏说。这是会议以来他首次开口。他知道何时该留心倾听，这点颇有乃父之风。
　　“大人，您总不能向乔佛里效忠吧？”盖伯特·葛洛佛道，“令尊就死在他手里啊。”
　　“这代表他是个恶人，”罗柏回答：“却不代表蓝礼就是国王。乔佛里是劳勃的嫡长子，依照王国律法，王位理应归他所有。若他死了——请诸位相信我打算亲眼看着他死——他也还有个弟弟。王位的继承权会传到托曼手中。”
　　“托曼也是个不折不扣的兰尼斯特。”马柯·派柏爵士斥道。
　　“没错，”罗柏有些困扰，“但即便两人皆死，也轮不到蓝礼称王。他是劳勃的二弟，好比布兰不能先于我成为临冬城公爵，蓝礼也不能先于史坦尼斯取得王位。”
　　莫尔蒙伯爵夫人表示同意：“史坦尼斯大人的确比他有资格。”
　　“但蓝礼已经接受了加冕，”马柯·派柏说，“高庭和风息堡都支持他，多恩领想必也不会袖手旁观。倘若临冬城和奔流城的势力与之结合，七大家族中便有五家归他指挥。若是艾林家族也肯出兵，那就是七分之六的势力！以六敌一，诸位大人，用不了一年，我们便可把太后、小鬼国王、泰温公爵、小恶魔、弑君者、凯冯爵士他们的头通通插在熗尖上！我们只需加入蓝礼国王，便可取得这样丰硕的战果，何必抛开一切去投效史坦尼斯大人呢？他能给我们什么好处？”
　　“依照律法，他的权利先于蓝礼。”罗柏固执地说。凯特琳觉得他说话的模样像极了他父亲，竟有些害怕。
　　“那么，你的意思是要我们投效史坦尼斯大人？”艾德慕问。
　　“我不知道。”罗柏说，“我向诸神祈求，希望他们指点接下来的方向，但他们并未回答。兰尼斯特说我父亲是叛徒，并谋害了他，我们都知道这是无耻的谎言，可是，倘若乔佛里是合法的国王，而我们又举兵反抗，那我们就真的成了叛徒了。”
　　“在目前的情势下，家父会敦促各位谨慎行事，”年长的史提夫伦爵士说，露出佛雷家黄鼠狼般的招牌微笑。“何妨静观其变，让两个国王大玩权力游戏呢？等他们打完了，我们既可以向胜利者称臣，也可以举兵反抗，一切任凭我们抉择。而目前蓝礼既已起兵，泰温大人应该会急于与我方谈和……并换取他儿子平安归去。诸位可敬的大人，就让我前往赫伦堡，与他谈判休兵的条件，并提出赎金……”
　　一声怒吼淹没了他的话音。“你这个懦夫！”大琼恩吼道。“乞求议和就是示弱。”莫尔蒙伯爵夫人也宣布。“去他妈的赎金，说什么我们都不能放走弑君者！”瑞卡德·卡史塔克伯爵叫道。
　　“为什么不议和？”凯特琳问。
　　诸侯们全转过头来，盯着她，但她只感觉得出罗柏注视她的眼神。“母亲，他们谋杀了我的父亲，您的丈夫。”他沉痛地说。他抽出长剑，放在面前的桌子上，精钢打造的利刃在粗糙的木头上闪着寒光。“我拿这个跟他们谈判。”
　　大琼恩高声附和，其他人也表示同意，他们或随之呐喊，或握拳拍桌，纷纷抽出佩剑。凯特琳静待他们平息。“诸位大人，”她接着说，“艾德大人是各位的主子和同僚，但我与他同床共枕，为他生儿育女，难道我对他的爱不如各位么？”她哀恸得险些没了声音，但她深吸一口气，用力安抚情绪。“罗柏，假如用剑可以使他起死回生，那么直到奈德再次站在我身边为止，我都绝不允许你收剑入鞘……然而逝者已矣，纵然有一百次呓语森林大捷也改变不了这事实。奈德走了，戴林恩·霍伍德走了，卡史塔克大人两个英勇的儿子，以及除此之外许许多多的人都走了，他们都不会再回来。难道我们还要赔上更多人命？”
　　“夫人，您毕竟是女人家，”大琼恩用那浑厚低沉的声音说：“女人家不懂这种事。”
　　“女人家心肠软，”卡史塔克伯爵道，脸上刻满悲伤的痕迹。“男人是需要复仇的。”
　　“卡史塔克大人，把瑟曦·兰尼斯特交到我手上，我就让您见识一下女人家的心肠有多软。”凯特琳回答：“我或许不懂战术谋略……但我知道什么是徒劳无功。我们出兵打仗，是为了阻止兰尼斯特军在河间地烧杀掳掠，是为了拯救遭人诬陷，身陷囹圄的奈德。我们的目的在于保护领土，并使我夫君重获自由。”
　　“目前我们已经达成一个目的，而另一个则永远不可能达成。虽然直到我死的那一天，我都会为奈德哀悼，然而我必须首先为生者考虑。我希望我的两个女儿能平安归来，她们如今还在太后手里。倘若我必须拿四个兰尼斯特家人去交换两个史塔克家人，我认为这样非常划算，并为此感谢天上诸神。罗柏，我希望你平平安安，接替你父亲的爵位，统治临冬城。我希望能见你幸福快乐地生活，亲吻女孩的双唇，娶妻生子。我希望能结束这一切。诸位大人，我渴望重返家园，并为亡夫哭泣终老。”
　　凯特琳语毕，大厅一片寂然。
　　“议和，”布林登叔叔说，“夫人，能议和自然好……但在什么条件之下呢？如果今日议和，马放南山，明日便得拿起武器，重返战场，这是没有意义的。”
　　“假如我只能带着儿子的尸骨返回卡霍城，那么我的托伦和艾德死了又有何价值？”瑞卡德·卡史塔克质问。
　　“没错，”布雷肯伯爵道，“格雷果·克里冈烧光我的田地，屠杀我的子民，石篱城而今只剩一片焦黑废墟。难道我还得向派他来的人卑躬屈膝？假如能这么轻易地忘记一切，何必辛辛苦苦打仗呢？”
　　令凯特琳意外和沮丧的是，布莱伍德大人竟也同意他的说法：“就算我们和乔佛里国王达成和议，岂不又成了蓝礼国王眼中的叛徒？若是狮鹿相争鹿得胜，我们又怎么办？”
　　“无论你们作何决定，反正我绝不承认兰尼斯特家的人是国王。”马柯·派柏爵士宣布。
　　“我也不会！”戴瑞家的小男孩叫道，“我绝不会！”
　　众人再度互相大呼小叫。凯特琳绝望地坐着，差一点就说服他们了，她心想，他们几乎就要听从她了，就差那么一点……然而时机稍纵即逝，议和的希望已然破灭，再也没有机会疗伤止痛，保护儿女们安全了。她看看儿子，看着他聆听诸侯争论。他皱眉、困扰，已经全然与这场战争密不可分。他承诺将娶瓦德·佛雷的女儿为妻，但她看得出他真正的新娘是眼前桌上的那把剑。
　　凯特琳想着两个女儿，不知今生是否还有机会见面，这时大琼恩一跃而起。
　　“诸位大人！”他高声大喝，声音在屋宇间回荡。“听我说说我对这两个国王的看法！”他啐了一口。“蓝礼·拜拉席恩对我来说狗屁不是，史坦尼斯也一样，凭什么让坐在满地开花的高庭或多恩的人来统治我们？他们哪里懂得绝境长城、狼林和先民荒冢？就连他们信奉的神也不是真神。至于兰尼斯特，叫异鬼把他们抓去吧，老子受够了。”他伸手过肩，抽出那把骇人的双手巨剑。“咱们为什么不能像以前一样自己管自己？咱们娶的是真龙的女儿，眼下真龙已经死光啦！”他剑指罗柏。“诸位大人，要我下跪没问题，但我只跟这一位国王下跪。”他话声如雷，“北境之王万岁！”
　　然后他跪下来，将佩剑放在她儿子脚边。
　　“这样的话，我也同意停战。”卡史塔克伯爵道，“就让他们继续保有红城堡和铁椅子吧。”他抽出长剑。“北境之王万岁！”说罢他跪在大琼恩身边。
　　梅姬·莫尔蒙站起来。“冬境之王万岁！”她高声宣布，接着将她的带刺钉头锤放在两把剑旁边。这时河间贵族们也纷纷起身，虽然布莱伍德、布雷肯和梅利斯特等家族从未被临冬城统辖，凯特琳却见他们一一起立，拔出佩剑，屈膝下跪，口中高喊着三百年来无人听过的古老名讳。自从龙王伊耿一统六国，这个称号首度堂皇重现，响彻于她父亲的木造殿堂：
　　“北境之王万岁！”
　　“北境之王万岁！”
　　“北境之王万岁！"
[ 此帖被挽墨在2015-09-09 01:56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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Chapter 72

  
  
   DAENERYS
   The land was red and dead and parched, and good wood was hard to come by. Her foragers returned with gnarled cottonwoods, purple brush, sheaves of brown grass. They took the two straightest trees, hacked the limbs and branches from them, skinned off their bark, and split them, laying the logs in a square. Its center they filled with straw, brush, bark shavings, and bundles of dry grass. Rakharo chose a stallion from the small herd that remained to them; he was not the equal of Khal Drogo’s red, but few horses were. In the center of the square, Aggo fed him a withered apple and dropped him in an instant with an axe blow between the eyes.
   Bound hand and foot, Mirri Maz Duur watched from the dust with disquiet in her black eyes. “It is not enough to kill a horse,” she told Dany. “By itself, the blood is nothing. You do not have the words to make a spell, nor the wisdom to find them. Do you think bloodmagic is a game for children? You call me maegi as if it were a curse, but all it means is wise. You are a child, with a child’s ignorance. Whatever you mean to do, it will not work. Loose me from these bonds and I will help you.”
   “I am tired of the maegi’s braying,” Dany told Jhogo. He took his whip to her, and after that the godswife kept silent.
   Over the carcass of the horse, they built a platform of hewn logs; trunks of smaller trees and limbs from the greater, and the thickest straightest branches they could find. They laid the wood east to west, from sunrise to sunset. On the platform they piled Khal Drogo’s treasures: his great tent, his painted vests, his saddles and harness, the whip his father had given him when he came to manhood, the arakh he had used to slay Khal Ogo and his son, a mighty dragonbone bow. Aggo would have added the weapons Drogo’s bloodriders had given Dany for bride gifts as well, but she forbade it. “Those are mine,” she told him, “and I mean to keep them.” Another layer of brush was piled about the khal’s treasures, and bundles of dried grass scattered over them.
   Ser Jorah Mormont drew her aside as the sun was creeping toward its zenith. “Princess?.?.?.?” he began.
   “Why do you call me that?” Dany challenged him. “My brother Viserys was your king, was he not?”
   “He was, my lady.”
   “Viserys is dead. I am his heir, the last blood of House Targaryen. Whatever was his is mine now.”
   “My?.?.?.?queen,” Ser Jorah said, going to one knee. “My sword that was his is yours, Dacnerys. And my heart as well, that never belonged to your brother. I am only a knight, and I have nothing to offer you but exile, but I beg you, hear me. Let Khal Drogo go. You shall not be alone. I promise you, no man shall take you to Vaes Dothrak unless you wish to go. You need not join the dosh khaleen. Come east with me. Yi Ti, Qarth, the Jade Sea, Asshai by the Shadow. We will see all the wonders yet unseen, and drink what wines the gods see fit to serve us. Please, Khaleesi. I know what you intend. Do not. Do not.”
   “I must,” Dany told him. She touched his face, fondly, sadly. “You do not understand.”
   “I understand that you loved him,” Ser Jorah said in a voice thick with despair. “I loved my lady wife once, yet I did not die with her. You are my queen, my sword is yours, but do not ask me to stand aside as you climb on Drogo’s pyre. I will not watch you burn.”
   “Is that what you fear?” Dany kissed him lightly on his broad forehead. “I am not such a child as that, sweet ser.”
   “You do not mean to die with him? You swear it, my queen?”
   “I swear it,” she said in the Common Tongue of the Seven Kingdoms that by rights were hers.
   The third level of the platform was woven of branches no thicker than a finger, and covered with dry leaves and twigs. They laid them north to south, from ice to fire, and piled them high with soft cushions and sleeping silks. The sun had begun to lower toward the west by the time they were done. Dany called the Dothraki around her. Fewer than a hundred were left. How many had Aegon started with? she wondered. It did not matter.
   “You will be my khalasar,” she told them. “I see the faces of slaves. I free you. Take off your collars. Go if you wish, no one shall harm you. If you stay, it will be as brothers and sisters, husbands and wives.” The black eyes watched her, wary, expressionless. “I see the children, women, the wrinkled faces of the aged. I was a child yesterday. Today I am a woman. Tomorrow I will be old. To each of you I say, give me your hands and your hearts, and there will always be a place for you.” She turned to the three young warriors of her khas. “Jhogo, to you I give the silver-handled whip that was my bride gift, and name you ko, and ask your oath, that you will live and die as blood of my blood, riding at my side to keep me safe from harm.”
   Jhogo took the whip from her hands, but his face was confused. “Khaleesi, “ he said hesitantly, “this is not done. It would shame me, to be bloodrider to a woman.”
   “Aggo,” Dany called, paying no heed to Jhogo’s words. If I look back I am lost. “To you I give the dragonbone bow that was my bride gift.” It was double-curved, shiny black and exquisite, taller than she was. “I name you ko, and ask your oath, that you should live and die as blood of my blood, riding at my side to keep me safe from harm.”
   Aggo accepted the bow with lowered eyes. “I cannot say these words. Only a man can lead a khalasar or name a ko.”
   “Rakharo,” Dany said, turning away from the refusal, “you shall have the great arakh that was my bride gift, with hilt and blade chased in gold. And you too I name my ko, and ask that you live and die as blood of my blood, riding at my side to keep me safe from harm.”
   “You are khaleesi,” Rakharo said, taking the arakh. “I shall ride at your side to Vaes Dothrak beneath the Mother of Mountains, and keep you safe from harm until you take your place with the crones of the dosh khaleen. No more can I promise.”
   She nodded, as calmly as if she had not heard his answer, and turned to the last of her champions. “Ser Jorah Mormont,” she said, “first and greatest of my knights, I have no bride gift to give you, but I swear to you, one day you shall have from my hands a longsword like none the world has ever seen, dragon-forged and made of Valyrian steel. And I would ask for your oath as well.”
   “You have it, my queen,” Ser Jorah said, kneeling to lay his sword at her feet. “I vow to serve you, to obey you, to die for you if need be.”
   “Whatever may come?”
   “Whatever may come.”
   “I shall hold you to that oath. I pray you never regret the giving of it.” Dany lifted him to his feet. Stretching on her toes to reach his lips, she kissed the knight gently and said, “You are the first of my Queensguard.”
   She could feel the eyes of the khalasar on her as she entered her tent. The Dothraki were muttering and giving her strange sideways looks from the corners of their dark almond eyes. They thought her mad, Dany realized. Perhaps she was. She would know soon enough. If I look back I am lost.
   Her bath was scalding hot when Irri helped her into the tub, but Dany did not flinch or cry aloud. She liked the heat. It made her feel clean. Jhiqui had scented the water with the oils she had found in the market in Vaes Dothrak; the steam rose moist and fragrant. Doreah washed her hair and combed it out, working loose the mats and tangles. Irri scrubbed her back. Dany closed her eyes and let the smell and the warmth enfold her. She could feel the heat soaking through the soreness between her thighs. She shuddered when it entered her, and her pain and stiffness seemed to dissolve. She floated.
   When she was clean, her handmaids helped her from the water. Irri and Jhiqui fanned her dry, while Doreah brushed her hair until it fell like a river of liquid silver down her back. They scented her with spiceflower and cinnamon; a touch on each wrist, behind her ears, on the tips of her milk-heavy breasts. The last dab was for her sex. Irri’s finger felt as light and cool as a lover’s kiss as it slid softly up between her lips.
   Afterward, Dany sent them all away, so she might prepare Khal Drogo for his final ride into the night lands. She washed his body clean and brushed and oiled his hair, running her fingers through it for the last time, feeling the weight of it, remembering the first time she had touched it, the night of their wedding ride. His hair had never been cut. How many men could die with their hair uncut? She buried her face in it and inhaled the dark fragrance of the oils. He smelled like grass and warm earth, like smoke and semen and horses. He smelled like Drogo. Forgive me, sun of my life, she thought. Forgive me for all I have done and all I must do. I paid the price, my star, but it was too high, too high?.?.?.?
   Dany braided his hair and slid the silver rings onto his mustache and hung his bells one by one. So many bells, gold and silver and bronze. Bells so his enemies would hear him coming and grow weak with fear. She dressed him in horsehair leggings and high boots, buckling a belt heavy with gold and silver medallions about his waist. Over his scarred chest she slipped a painted vest, old and faded, the one Drogo had loved best. For herself she chose loose sandsilk trousers, sandals that laced halfway up her legs, and a vest like Drogo’s.
   The sun was going down when she called them back to carry his body to the pyre. The Dothraki watched in silence as Jhogo and Aggo bore him from the tent. Dany walked behind them. They laid him down on his cushions and silks, his head toward the Mother of Mountains far to the northeast.
   “Oil,” she commanded, and they brought forth the jars and poured them over the pyre, soaking the silks and the brush and the bundles of dry grass, until the oil trickled from beneath the logs and the air was rich with fragrance. “Bring my eggs,” Dany commanded her handmaids. Something in her voice made them run.
   Ser Jorah took her arm. “My queen, Drogo will have no use for dragon’s eggs in the night lands. Better to sell them in Asshai. Sell one and we can buy a ship to take us back to the Free Cities. Sell all three and you will be a wealthy woman all your days.”
   “They were not given to me to sell,” Dany told him.
   She climbed the pyre herself to place the eggs around her sun-and-stars. The black beside his heart, under his arm. The green beside his head, his braid coiled around it. The cream-and-gold down between his legs. When she kissed him for the last time, Dany could taste the sweetness of the oil on his lips.
   As she climbed down off the pyre, she noticed Mirri Maz Duur watching her. “You are mad,” the godswife said hoarsely.
   “Is it so far from madness to wisdom?” Dany asked. “Ser Jorah, take this maegi and bind her to the pyre.”
   “To the?.?.?.?my queen, no, hear me?.?.?.?”
   “Do as I say.” Still he hesitated, until her anger flared. “You swore to obey me, whatever might come. Rakharo, help him.”
   The godswife did not cry out as they dragged her to Khal Drogo’s pyre and staked her down amidst his treasures. Dany poured the oil over the woman’s head herself. “I thank you, Mirri Maz Duur,” she said, “for the lessons you have taught me.”
   “You will not hear me scream,” Mirri responded as the oil dripped from her hair and soaked her clothing.
   “I will,” Dany said, “but it is not your screams I want, only your life. I remember what you told me. Only death can pay for life.” Mirri Maz Duur opened her mouth, but made no reply. As she stepped away, Dany saw that the contempt was gone from the maegi’s flat black eyes; in its place was something that might have been fear. Then there was nothing to be done but watch the sun and look for the first star.
   When a horselord dies, his horse is slain with him, so he might ride proud into the night lands. The bodies are burned beneath the open sky, and the khal rises on his fiery steed to take his place among the stars. The more fiercely the man burned in life, the brighter his star will shine in the darkness.
   Jhogo spied it first. “There,” he said in a hushed voice. Dany looked and saw it, low in the east. The first star was a comet, burning red. Bloodred; fire red; the dragon’s tail. She could not have asked for a stronger sign.
   Dany took the torch from Aggo’s hand and thrust it between the logs. The oil took the fire at once, the brush and dried grass a heartbeat later. Tiny flames went darting up the wood like swift red mice, skating over the oil and leaping from bark to branch to leaf. A rising heat puffed at her face, soft and sudden as a lover’s breath, but in seconds it had grown too hot to bear. Dany stepped backward. The wood crackled, louder and louder. Mirri Maz Duur began to sing in a shrill, ululating voice. The flames whirled and writhed, racing each other up the platform. The dusk shimmered as the air itself seemed to liquefy from the heat. Dany heard logs spit and crack. The fires swept over Mirri Maz Duur. Her song grew louder, shriller?.?.?.?then she gasped, again and again, and her song became a shuddering wail, thin and high and full of agony.
   And now the flames reached her Drogo, and now they were all around him. His clothing took fire, and for an instant the khal was clad in wisps of floating orange silk and tendrils of curling smoke, grey and greasy. Dany’s lips parted and she found herself holding her breath. Part of her wanted to go to him as Ser Jorah had feared, to rush into the flames to beg for his forgiveness and take him inside her one last time, the fire melting the flesh from their bones until they were as one, forever.
   She could smell the odor of burning flesh, no different than horseflesh roasting in a firepit. The pyre roared in the deepening dusk like some great beast, drowning out the fainter sound of Mirri Maz Duur’s screaming and sending up long tongues of flame to lick at the belly of the night. As the smoke grew thicker, the Dothraki backed away, coughing. Huge orange gouts of fire unfurled their banners in that hellish wind, the logs hissing and cracking, glowing cinders rising on the smoke to float away into the dark like so many newborn fireflies. The heat beat at the air with great red wings, driving the Dothraki back, driving off even Mormont, but Dany stood her ground. She was the blood of the dragon, and the fire was in her.
   She had sensed the truth of it long ago, Dany thought as she took a step closer to the conflagration, but the brazier had not been hot enough. The flames writhed before her like the women who had danced at her wedding, whirling and singing and spinning their yellow and orange and crimson veils, fearsome to behold, yet lovely, so lovely, alive with heat. Dany opened her arms to them, her skin flushed and glowing. This is a wedding, too, she thought. Mirri Maz Duur had fallen silent. The godswife thought her a child, but children grow, and children learn.
   Another step, and Dany could feel the heat of the sand on the soles of her feet, even through her sandals. Sweat ran down her thighs and between her breasts and in rivulets over her cheeks, where tears had once run. Ser Jorah was shouting behind her, but he did not matter anymore, only the fire mattered. The flames were so beautiful, the loveliest things she had ever seen, each one a sorcerer robed in yellow and orange and scarlet, swirling long smoky cloaks. She saw crimson firelions and great yellow serpents and unicorns made of pale blue flame; she saw fish and foxes and monsters, wolves and bright birds and flowering trees, each more beautiful than the last. She saw a horse, a great grey stallion limned in smoke, its flowing mane a nimbus of blue flame. Yes, my love, my sun-and-stars, yes, mount now, ride now.
   Her vest had begun to smolder, so Dany shrugged it off and let it fall to the ground. The painted leather burst into sudden flame as she skipped closer to the fire, her breasts bare to the blaze, streams of milk flowing from her red and swollen nipples. Now, she thought, now, and for an instant she glimpsed Khal Drogo before her, mounted on his smoky stallion, a flaming lash in his hand. He smiled, and the whip snaked down at the pyre, hissing.
   She heard a crack, the sound of shattering stone. The platform of wood and brush and grass began to shift and collapse in upon itself. Bits of burning wood slid down at her, and Dany was showered with ash and cinders. And something else came crashing down, bouncing and rolling, to land at her feet; a chunk of curved rock, pale and veined with gold, broken and smoking. The roaring filled the world, yet dimly through the firefall Dany heard women shriek and children cry out in wonder.
   Only death can pay for life.
   And there came a second crack, loud and sharp as thunder, and the smoke stirred and whirled around her and the pyre shifted, the logs exploding as the fire touched their secret hearts. She heard the screams of frightened horses, and the voices of the Dothraki raised in shouts of fear and terror, and Ser Jorah calling her name and cursing. No, she wanted to shout to him, no, my good knight, do not fear for me. The fire is mine. I am Daenerys Stormborn, daughter of dragons, bride of dragons, mother of dragons, don’t you see? Don’t you SEE? With a belch of flame and smoke that reached thirty feet into the sky, the pyre collapsed and came down around her. Unafraid, Dany stepped forward into the firestorm, calling to her children.
   The third crack was as loud and sharp as the breaking of the world.
   When the fire died at last and the ground became cool enough to walk upon, Ser Jorah Mormont found her amidst the ashes, surrounded by blackened logs and bits of glowing ember and the burnt bones of man and woman and stallion. She was naked, covered with soot, her clothes turned to ash, her beautiful hair all crisped away?.?.?.?yet she was unhurt.
   The cream-and-gold dragon was suckling at her left breast, the green-and-bronze at the right. Her arms cradled them close. The black-and-scarlet beast was draped across her shoulders, its long sinuous neck coiled under her chin. When it saw Jorah, it raised its head and looked at him with eyes as red as coals.
   Wordless, the knight fell to his knees. The men of her khas came up behind him. Jhogo was the first to lay his arakh at her feet. “Blood of my blood,” he murmured, pushing his face to the smoking earth. “Blood of my blood,” she heard Aggo echo. “Blood of my blood,” Rakharo shouted.
   And after them came her handmaids, and then the others, all the Dothraki, men and women and children, and Dany had only to look at their eyes to know that they were hers now, today and tomorrow and forever, hers as they had never been Drogo’s.
   As Daenerys Targaryen rose to her feet, her black hissed, pale smoke venting from its mouth and nostrils. The other two pulled away from her breasts and added their voices to the call, translucent wings unfolding and stirring the air, and for the first time in hundreds of years, the night came alive with the music of dragons.
  
（end）

Ⅰ 权力的游戏 Chapter73 丹妮莉丝
　　此地遍野红沙，四下死寂，干枯焦裂，木柴难寻。
　　她手下的人带回纠结的绵木、紫灌木以及束束褐草。他们还找来两棵生得最直的树，砍下树枝，剥去树皮，然后将之劈开，把所得木柴堆成方形，中间放满稻草、灌木、树皮屑和干草。拉卡洛从剩下的小马群里挑了一头骏马，虽然比不上卓戈卡奥的赤红坐骑，但世间原本就少有与之匹敌的畜生。阿戈把它牵到木柴堆成的方形中间，喂它吃了一颗干瘪的苹果，然后照它面门一斧砍去，利落地把它放倒。
　　弥丽·马兹·笃尔手脚被缚，站在漫漫烟尘中，睁大那双黑眼，不安地看着这一切。“杀马是不够的，”她告诉丹妮，“血液本身没有力量，你既不懂魔咒的语言，更没有寻求这种语言的智慧。你以为血魔法是小孩子玩的把戏？你称呼我为‘巫魔女’，仿佛那是个诅咒，但它真正的意思其实是‘智慧’。你只是个年幼无知的孩子，无论你打算做什么，都注定不会成功。为我松绑，我会帮你。”
　　“我听够了巫魔女的废话。”丹妮对乔戈说。他取出鞭子交给她，在那之后，女祭司沉默了。
　　他们拿柴薪在马尸上堆起一座平台，用上了小树的主干、大树的枝桠，以及所有能找到的最粗最直的枝条。他们将木柴从东摆到西，象征日升到日落，然后在平台上放置卓戈卡奥的宝物：他的大帐篷、他的彩绘背心、他的马鞍和缰绳、他成年时父亲所赠的马鞭、他那把曾击杀奥戈卡奥父子的亚拉克弯刀，还有他巨大的龙骨长弓。阿戈原本要把卓戈的血盟卫赠与丹妮作新娘礼的武器也放上去，却被她阻止。“那些是我的东西，”她对他说，“我要留着。”卡奥的宝物上又铺了一层灌木枝条，然后放上几捆干草。
　　太阳逐渐朝天顶爬去，乔拉·莫尔蒙爵士把她拉到一边。“公主殿下……”他开口。
　　“你为何如此称呼我？”丹妮质问他，“我哥哥韦赛里斯从前是你的国王，不是吗？”
　　“是的，小姐。”
　　“如今韦赛里斯死了，我就是他的继承人，是坦格利安家族的最后血脉，过去属于他的东西，现在都是我的。”
　　“是……女王陛下。”乔拉爵士说着单膝跪下。“丹妮莉丝，我的剑是您的，我的心也是您的——而在过去，我这颗心却不曾属于您哥哥。我仅是一介骑士，遭遇放逐，身无长物，但我求求您，听我说。让卓戈卡奥去罢，你绝不会孤身一人。我向你保证，除非你自愿，否则谁都别想带你回维斯·多斯拉克，你无须加入多希卡林。跟我走吧，我们去东方，去夷地、魁尔斯、玉海和阴影之地旁的亚夏，我们将会看到前所未见的奇观，啜饮天上诸神赐予我们的玉露琼浆。我求求您，卡丽熙，我知道您的打算，但请您千万别这么做，千万不要啊。”
　　“我必须这么做，”丹妮一边说，一边伸出手，爱怜而哀伤地轻抚他的脸颊，“你不了解。”
　　“不，我了解您深爱着他，”乔拉爵士的声音里充满绝望。“过去，我也深爱着我的妻子，但我并不曾与她生死相随。您是我的女王，我的剑是您的，但你若要爬上卓戈的火葬台，休想叫我袖手旁观，我绝不能眼睁睁地看着你被火焚烧。”
　　“你怕的就是这个？”丹妮轻轻地吻了他宽阔的额头。“好爵士，我没有孩子气到那种地步啊。”
　　“你不会陪他殉死？女王陛下，您发誓不会这么做？”
　　“我发誓。”她用七大王国——那些照理归她统治的国度——的通用语答道。
　　平台的第三层用跟手指一般粗细的树枝搭成，上面铺满干叶和枯枝。他们将枝叶从北摆到南，象征玄冰到烈火，最后把柔软的枕头和丝被堆在最上，积得老高。等到一切备妥，太阳已经渐渐西沉。丹妮将所剩无几、尚不满一百的多斯拉克人召集到身边。当年伊耿扬帆出征时，最初又带了多少人呢？她不禁好奇地想。多少都没有关系。
　　“你们将是我的卡拉萨。”她对他们说，“在你们当中，我看到了奴隶的脸庞，首先，我放你们自由。取下你们的奴隶项圈吧，如果你们要走，没人会加以阻止，但如果你们选择留下，你们将彼此成为兄弟姐妹、男女夫妻。”一双双黑眼睛看着她，充满戒心，面无表情。“在这里，我更看到幼儿、妇女和满是皱纹的老人的脸孔。昨天我尚为幼儿，今夕我已成为女人，明日我便将衰老。我告诉你们中每一个：把你们的双手和你们的心灵交给我，这里永远有你们的一席之地。”她转身面对自己卡斯部众的三名年轻战士。“乔戈，这把银柄长鞭是我的新娘礼，在此我把它送给你，并任命你为寇，同时要求你宣誓成为吾血之血，与我同生共死，并肩作战，保护我免于危难。”
　　乔戈从她手中接过鞭子，脸上却满是困惑。“卡丽熙，”他有些犹豫地说，“这事不成的。当女人的血盟卫，会令我感到羞耻的。”
　　“阿戈，”丹妮唤道，不理会乔戈的话。如果我回头，一切就都完了。“这把龙骨长弓是我的新娘礼，在此我把它送给你，”那把双弧龙弓，雕工精细，乌黑发亮，立起来比她还高。“我也任命你为寇，同时要求你宣誓成为吾血之血，与我同生共死，并肩作战，保护我免于危难。”
　　阿戈垂下眼睛，接受了那把弓。“我无法宣誓。只有男人才能领导卡拉萨，或是任命别人为寇。”
　　“拉卡洛，”丹妮不理会他的拒绝。“这把亚拉克巨弯刀是我的新娘礼，它的刀鞘和刀身都镶上了金线，在此我把它送给你，并任命你为寇，同时要求你成为吾血之血，与我同生共死，并肩作战，保护我免于危难。”
　　“您是卡丽熙，”拉卡洛说罢接过亚拉克弯刀。“我将与您并肩骑到圣母山下的维斯·多斯拉克，保护您免于危难，直到您加入多希卡林的老妪。除此之外，我无法作任何承诺。”
　　她冷静地点点头，仿佛压根儿没听见他的回答，然后她转身面对她的最后一名武士。“乔拉·莫尔蒙爵士，”她说，“你是追随我的第一个、也是最忠勇的骑士，我虽无新娘礼相赠，但我向你发誓，有朝一日，你将会从我手中得到一把举世无双的长剑，它将由真龙打造，以瓦雷利亚钢铸成。我也要求你宣誓效忠。”
　　“女王陛下，我的命是您的，”乔拉骑士说着单膝跪下，将佩剑放在她脚边。“我宣誓为您效力，奉行您一切旨意，牺牲性命，再所不辞。”
　　“至死不渝？”
　　“至死不渝。”
　　“我将谨记你的誓言，希望你永不后悔。”丹妮扶他起身，然后垫起脚尖，轻柔地在骑士唇上印下一吻。“你是我第一个女王铁卫。”
　　她进帐时，感觉整个卡拉萨都在注目她。多斯拉克人窃窃私语，睁着杏仁形的黑眼睛，用眼角余光怪异地打量她。他们一定以为我疯了，丹妮明白，或许我真疯了，究竟是不是这样，很快就能揭晓。如果我回头，一切就都完了。
　　伊丽搀她进入浴缸，洗澡水烫得吓人，但丹妮既未退缩，也未吭声。她喜欢这种热，让她有干净的感觉。姬琪在水里洒了香油，那是她在维斯·多斯拉克的市集里收的礼物，此刻帐篷里蒸汽四溢，馨香弥漫。多莉亚为她洗净头发，把纠缠打结的地方都梳理柔顺，伊丽则替她刷背。丹妮阖上双眼，任香气和暖意裹住全身。她可以感觉热气渗进双腿间的酸痛，当热气进入体内时，她禁不住颤抖，接着，所有的疼痛和僵硬似乎都随之融化，令她飘飘欲仙。
　　沐浴干净后，女仆扶她走出浴缸。伊丽和姬琪为她擦干身体，多莉亚则为她梳整头发，将她一头长发梳成银色瀑布，流泻到后背。她们为她抹上辛香花和肉桂：双腕、耳后、肿胀的乳头各轻触一点，最后抹在下体。伊丽的手指轻轻滑过细部，冰凉而温柔，有如爱人的吻。
　　在这之后，丹妮把她们都遣走，亲自帮卓戈卡奥准备前往夜晚国度的最后一趟旅程。她洗净他的身体，梳理他的头发，并为之搽上香油。她最后一次伸手滑过他的头发，感觉到它们的重量，想起新婚当晚自己初次碰触的情景。他的头发从未修剪，有多少死者有如此殊荣呢？她把脸深埋其中，吸进发油朦胧的芳香。他闻起来有青草和大地的感觉，有轻烟、精液和骏马的气息，他闻起来有卓戈的味道。我生命中的太阳，请你原谅我，她想，原谅我所做的一切，以及我必须做的一切。我的星星，我付出了代价，可这个代价实在太高、太高了……
　　丹妮为他扎起发辫，把银环穿上他的胡子，又把铃铛一个个系在他发梢。这么多铃铛，其中有金、银，还有青铜，这些铃铛将向他的敌人宣告他的到来，令他们胆怯害怕。她为他穿上马鬃绑腿和高统长靴，在他腰间系上一条满是金银奖牌的沉重皮带。最后，她为他穿上彩绘背心，遮住胸膛的伤疤，这背心虽然老旧褪色，却是他最喜欢的一件。至于自己，她选了一件宽松的沙丝长裤，一双绑到膝盖的凉鞋，以及和卓戈穿的相似的背心。
　　当她召唤他们来把卓戈的遗体搬到火葬台上时，太阳已经快要下山。乔戈和阿戈抬着他走出帐篷，多斯拉克人在旁静默地观看。丹妮走在他们之后。他们让他躺在自己的枕头和丝被上，头朝遥远东北的圣母山。
　　“拿油来。”她一声令下，他们便抱来那一罐罐香油，浇淋在火葬堆上，浸湿了丝被、树枝和捆捆干草，渗进下面的木柴，空气中弥漫着香气。“把我的蛋也拿来。”丹妮吩咐女仆，声音里的某种东西促使她们拔腿就跑。
　　乔拉爵士抓住她的臂膀。“女王陛下，卓戈在夜晚的国度是用不着龙蛋的，不如拿到亚夏去卖了，只需卖一颗，我们便足以买下一艘大船，返回自由贸易城邦。而卖掉三颗所换来的财富，够您一辈子享用不尽。”
　　“他送我这些蛋，不是要我拿去卖的。”丹妮告诉他。
　　她爬上火葬堆，亲自将龙蛋放置于她的日和星身边。黑色的放在他心上，用手掌按住；绿色的放在他头旁，用发辫卷起；乳白和金黄相间的那颗则放在他双腿之间。随后，丹妮最后一次与他吻别，尝到他嘴唇上香精的甜蜜。
　　从火葬台上爬下来时，她注意到弥丽·马兹·笃尔注视着自己。“你疯了。”女祭司嘶声道。
　　“疯狂与智慧，真有那么大差别吗？”丹妮问，“乔拉爵士，将这巫魔女绑上火葬台。”
　　“绑上火……不，女王陛下，请您听我说……”
　　“照我的话去做，”看他依旧犹豫不决，终于燃起了她的熊熊怒火。“你不是宣誓奉行我的意旨，至死不渝么？拉卡洛，你来帮他。”
　　于是女祭司被他俩拖到卓戈卡奥的火葬台上，跟他的宝物绑在一起。她没有叫喊。丹妮亲自将香油倒在那女人头上。“我感谢你，弥丽·马兹·笃尔，”她说，“感谢你教会我的一切。”
　　“你绝不会听见我的哀嚎。”弥丽回答。香油从她的发际流下，渗进衣服。
　　“不，我会的，”丹妮说，“但我要的不是你的哀嚎，而是你的生命。我记得你曾对我说：惟有死亡方能换取生命。”弥丽·马兹·笃尔张口欲言，但最后还是没有答话。丹妮步下火葬台，发现巫魔女那双平板黑眼里的轻蔑已经不见，取而代之的是近似恐惧的神色。能做的都已经做了，接下来就是等待太阳落幕，群星现身。
　　每当马王死去，他的坐骑也会被杀陪葬，如此他才可以骑乘骏马，昂然进入夜晚的国度。当他们的遗体在苍天之下火葬时，卡奥将骑着烈焰熊熊的炎马，腾越而出，化为天际的星斗。遗体燃烧得越旺，他在黑暗中的星宿就越是熠熠发光。
　　第一个发现的是乔戈。“在那里。”他压低声音说。丹妮朝他指的方向望去，低低的东方天际，有一颗红色的彗星，那是血的红色，火的红色，拖着龙的尾巴。她无法要求比这更强的征兆了。
　　丹妮从阿戈手中接过火把，插进柴堆。香油立即起火燃烧，细枝和干草只隔了一个心跳的瞬间也马上跟进。细小的火苗从柴堆各处窜出，有如动作迅捷的红鼠，滑过油层，从树皮跃到枝干，再跳上叶子。一股热气从火中升腾，朝她迎面扑来，轻柔而突兀，恍如爱人的呼息，但几秒之后，就热得令人难以忍受了。丹妮向后退去，木柴哔啪作响，声音越来越大，弥丽·马兹·笃尔开始用高亢尖锐的声音歌唱。火焰时而盘旋，时而扭动，彼此竟相追逐，朝台顶节节攀升。空气也仿佛因高热而液化，在暮色中闪闪发亮。丹妮听见柴薪爆裂，烈焰淹没了弥丽·马兹·笃尔，她的歌声变得更嘹亮、更尖锐……然后她突然喘了口气，再喘一口、一口，接着歌声成了颤抖的嚎啕，尖细高亢，充满痛苦。
　　火焰烧到了卓戈，很快将他团团围住。他的衣服着了火，刹那间，卡奥仿佛穿着翻飞的橙色丝衣，身上冒出缕缕灰烟。丹妮张大了嘴巴，这才发现自己早已屏住呼吸。正如乔拉爵士所担心的，她心中的一部分只想冲进烈焰，请求他宽恕自己，最后一次进到自己体内。火熔肌肤，只余枯骨，长相厮守，直到永远。
　　她闻到人肉烧熟的味道，这与营火上烤马肉的气息并无二致。在渐渐深沉的暮色里，火葬台宛如一只咆哮的巨兽，盖过了弥丽·马兹·笃尔微弱的惨叫，吐出长长的火舌，舔噬夜空的肚腹。烟雾愈加浓密，多斯拉克人一边咳嗽，一边纷纷后退。橙色的巨焰鼓起炼狱的强风，将附近的旗帜吹得啪哒作响，木柴嘶声爆裂，发光的余烬自烟幕中升起，朝无边的黑夜飘去，仿若千百只新生的萤火虫。烈焰高升，挥动着巨大而火红的翅膀，逼得多斯拉克人节节退后，连莫尔蒙也走避开来，只有丹妮纹丝不动。她是真龙传人，体内有熊熊烈焰。
　　早在很久以前，她便已察觉了真相，只是当时的火盆不够热，丹妮一边想，一边朝大火走近一步。焰火在她面前蠕动，活如婚礼当天的女舞者，旋转着，高歌着，舞动着她们红橙黄三色的头纱。它们模样虽然骇人，形体却随着高热展现生机，显得异常美丽。丹妮张开双臂，迎向它们，她的皮肤泛红发光。这也像一场婚礼啊，她心想。弥丽·马兹·笃尔已经安静下来。女祭司当她是小孩子，但孩子是会成长，会学习的。
　　丹妮再踏前一步，感觉到沙土的高热透过凉鞋底传到脚掌。汗水流过她的大腿和乳房，如河流一样自她双颊奔泻而下，那里本是她流干泪水的地方。乔拉爵士在背后喊她，但他已经不重要了，惟一要紧的是火。火焰是如此美丽，她此生没见过比这更漂亮的事物，每一簇火，都像身穿红橙黄三色袍子，肩披飘舞冒烟长斗篷的巫师。她看见鲜红的火狮、金黄的巨蛇和淡蓝火苗组成的独角兽，她看见鱼、狐狸和怪物，看见狼、鲜丽的飞乌和繁花的大树，一个比一个漂亮。最后，她看见一匹浓烟绘成的灰骏马，飞扬的马鬃是一团发光的蓝火。是的，吾爱，我的日和星，是的，上马吧，勇敢地骑马前行吧。
　　她的背心开始冒烟，丹妮把它脱开，任它落到地面，彩绘皮革立即爆出朵朵红焰。她朝火再迈一步，双乳暴露，火焰炙烤下，奶水如溪流般从她红润肿胀的乳头流下。就是现在，她明白，就是现在。刹那间，她瞥见卓戈卡奥正在她前方，骑着那匹烟灰骏马，手握火焰长鞭。他朝她微笑，只听嘶的一声，长鞭如蛇般朝火葬台窜去。
　　喀啦，声音好似顽石挣裂。由木柴、细枝和干草搭建而成的平台开始摇晃，向内倒塌。燃烧的碎木片散落在她身旁，丹妮沐浴在一片灰烬和火星之中。某个不知名的东西轰隆滚落，弹跳之后掉在她脚边：那是一颗有弧度的石头，乳白色中有金黄纹路，正裂开冒烟。火势轰隆震天，隔着崩塌的烈焰，丹妮隐约听见妇女的尖叫和孩童惊奇的呼喊。
　　惟有死亡方能换取生命。
　　喀啦，尖声轰隆有如雷霆。火葬台再度摇晃，浓烟卷起，在她周围旋绕，烈焰烧至中心，干柴纷纷爆裂。她听见马儿的惊叫，听见多斯拉克人惊恐的叫喊，听见乔拉爵士唤着她的名字，不停咒骂。不，她想吼回去，不，我亲爱的好骑士，毋需为我担心。你可知道？火焰本属于我，我是风暴降生丹妮莉丝，龙的女儿，龙的新娘，龙的母亲，你难道看不到吗？你难道听不见吗？随着一柱高达三十尺的擎天烈焰和浓烟，火葬台终于彻底崩塌，朝她四周坍倒下来。丹妮毫不畏惧地向前走去，走进火焰风暴，呼唤她的孩子。
　　喀啦，震耳欲聋，仿佛天崩地裂。
　　当火焰终于熄灭，地面稍稍冷却之后，乔拉·莫尔蒙爵士在一片灰烬之中找到了她。在她身旁，尽是焦黑的木炭和发光的火烬，以及男人、女人和骏马烧焦的骨头。她浑身赤裸，覆盖烟灰，华裳全成灰屑，美丽的头发也焚烧殆尽……但她本人却安然无恙。
　　那只乳白和金黄相间的龙吸吮着她的左乳，青铜与碧绿的那只吸着右乳，她用双手环抱着它们。黑红相间的那只龙垂挂在她肩头，用长长而蜿蜒的脖子缠绕着她的下巴。当它看到乔拉，便抬起头，睁大亮红如炭的眼睛盯着他。
　　骑士一言不发地跪下，她的卡斯部众也跟上来。乔戈头一个将亚拉克弯刀放在她脚边。“吾血之血，”他喃喃道，将脸贴近冒烟的地面。“吾血之血，”她听见阿戈应和。“吾血之血，”拉卡洛叫道。
　　在他们之后，她的女仆们也来了，接着是其他的多斯拉克人，不论男女老幼，丹妮只需看看他们的眼睛，便知他们已经臣服于她，今日如此，明日亦然，直到永远，不是惧于卓戈威势的臣服，而是打从心底的心悦诚服。
　　丹妮莉丝·坦格利安站起身来，她的黑龙嘶地一声从口鼻吐出几缕白烟，另外的两只也同时松开她的乳头，齐声加入它的怒吼。它们张开半透明的翅膀，拍打空气。
　　于是，龙族齐声高鸣的乐音响彻夜空，数百年来，这是头一次。


Ⅰ 权力的游戏 跋
　　有人说，写作时恶魔藏身于诸多细节之中。
　　这么厚的一本书，自然有着许多许多的恶魔，稍不注意，每个都会咬你一口。幸运的是，我也认识许多天使。
　　在此我要感谢所有慷慨倾听、或以他们本身专长（或是书本）协助我的好心人，由于他们，我才能将所有的小细节做到尽善尽美。感谢赛奇·渥克、马丁·莱特、玛琳达·史诺葛拉斯、卡尔·凯姆、布鲁斯·波夫、提姆·奥布莱恩、罗杰·泽拉兹尼、珍·林斯寇，以及萝拉·米克森，当然，还有亲爱的派莉丝。
　　此外，特别感谢珍妮佛·赫西，她为这本书倾注了远超职责的心血……

　　冰与火之歌卷Ⅰ：权力的游戏（完）
[ 此帖被挽墨在2015-09-09 01:57重新编辑 ]
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test122

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好书，谢谢楼主分享！
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qtmyda

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想要附件格式的啊。。。。
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flybird1120

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共享好文，欢乐读书
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这种字体看久了，眼睛好花，楼主能不能换一种格式
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