第十二章 提利昂



　　太监穿着宽松的粉红丝袍，哼着不成调的小曲走过房门，浑身散发出柠檬的味道。他看见提利昂坐在火炉边，吃了一惊，顿时停下。“提利昂大人，”他尖声说，一边神经质地咯咯笑。
　　“这么说你还记得我？真让人意想不到。”

　　“看到您如此强壮健康，实在是太好了。”瓦里斯的微笑极尽阿谀奉承之能事。“但我得承认，没想到会在自个儿陋室里碰见您。”

　　“的确是陋室，陋得有些夸张。”提利昂专等父亲传唤瓦里斯之后，才悄悄溜进来。太监的住处位于北城墙下，小而局促，仅包括三间紧凑的无窗房间。“我本希望找到几大桶有趣的秘密，却连一张纸都没发现。”八爪蜘蛛来来往往一定有秘密通道，可惜在这方面，他仍旧一无所获。“而且啊，诸神在上，你酒壶里装的居然是水，”提利昂续道，“卧房不比棺材大，而床……它确实是石头做的呢，还是感觉上如此？”

　　瓦里斯关门上栓。“大人啊，背痛把我折磨得不行，非得睡硬东西。”

　　“我以为你是睡羽毛床的人。”

　　“这太令人惊讶了，怎能这样误会我呢？难道您在生我的气？”

　　“哪里，我说了，我当你是我的血亲骨肉一般地信赖。”

　　“唉，尊敬的好大人，黑水河之战后我躲在一边是有难处，您瞧，我的处境十分微妙，而您的疤痕又如此可怕……”他夸张地耸耸肩，“您那可怜的鼻子……”

　　提利昂恼火地揉揉伤疤。“也许我该换个新鼻子，纯金打造。你有什么建议，瓦里斯？我能不能装个像你那样可以嗅出秘密的鼻子？我能不能告诉金匠，照我父亲的鼻子打造？”他笑笑。“我那高贵的父亲大人近来忠勤国事，鞠躬尽瘁，终日不见人影。告诉我，他真的恢复了派席尔大学士的重臣席位？”

　　“没错，大人。”

　　“对此，我应该感谢我那亲爱的老姐？”派席尔是姐姐的爪牙，提利昂剥夺了他的职位、尊严乃至胡须，并将他扔进黑牢。

　　“并非如此，大人，这是由于旧镇的博士们的压力。他们坚持派席尔必须复职，因为任免大学士应由枢机会决定。”

　　该死的蠢货们，提利昂心想，“记得残酷的梅葛用刽子手罢免了三个。”

　　“非常正确，”瓦里斯说，“伊耿二世还把格拉底斯国师拿去喂龙。”

　　“可惜啊，我没有龙，不过可以把派席尔浸到野火里面点燃，效果相差无几。对此，学城会怎么看呢？”

　　“哎哟，别那么狠心，人家博士们也只是秉承传统嘛。”太监窃笑。“其实，枢机会挺机灵的，早就接受了派席尔下台的既成事实，并着手选择继任者。起初，他们详细考量皮匠之子特奎因学士和流浪骑士的私生子艾瑞克学士，好表明能力优先于出生，最后呢，定下的人选却是葛蒙学士，高庭提利尔家族的成员。我把消息报告您父亲大人，他立即采取了行动。”

　　枢机会于旧镇的学城里召开，提利昂心想，会谈的内容都是秘密，毫无疑问，瓦里斯在哪儿也有小小鸟。“我明白了，父亲决定在玫瑰绽放前将其摘下。”他忍不住低声轻笑。“派席尔是个讨厌的蛤蟆，但兰尼斯特的蛤蟆总好过提利尔的蛤蟆，对吧？”

　　“派席尔大学士一直是你们家族的朋友，”瓦里斯甜腻腻地说，“假如您得知柏洛斯？布劳恩爵士也官复原职，或许会更为欣慰。”

　　柏洛斯？布劳恩的白袍被瑟曦亲自剥夺，因为当拜瓦特在罗斯比路上虏走托曼时，他没有誓死捍卫她的儿子。他不是提利昂的朋友，但经过此事，大概也同样痛恨瑟曦。这点很重要。“布劳恩是个虚张声势的懦夫，”他轻描淡写地说。

　　“是吗？噢，真可悲啊。不过哪，按照传统，御林铁卫是终身职，或许柏洛斯将来会有用处。经过这次磨难，他无疑会变得非常忠诚。”

　　“对我父亲忠诚，”提利昂尖刻地说。

　　“谈到御林铁卫……我在想，您这次令人惊喜的造访是否跟柏洛斯爵士去世的弟兄，咱们英勇的曼登？穆尔爵士有关呢？”太监摸摸扑粉的脸颊。“你的波隆似乎突然对他产生了兴趣。”

　　波隆已尽其所能地调查过曼登爵士，但毫无疑问，瓦里斯知道的更多……假如他愿意分享的话。“那人似乎少有亲朋，”提利昂谨慎地说。

　　“可惜啊，”瓦里斯说，“噢，真可惜，若您肯将搜查范围扩大到艾林谷，或许就能发现他的亲戚了。但在君临嘛……艾林公爵将他带来，劳勃赐予他白袍，仅此而已，俩人都没给他多余的关怀。而他尽管实力超群，却不是那种老百姓愿意在比武会上为之欢呼喝彩的人，更奇怪的是，他和自个儿的铁卫弟兄们也没往来。有人曾听巴利斯坦爵士言道，曼登爵士没有朋友，惟有宝剑，没有生活，惟有职责……您看，我觉得赛尔弥这话不完全是称赞。只需仔细想一想，就会觉得其中的古怪，不是吗？他完全是理想中的御林铁卫，没有任何家室牵累，活着的唯一目的就是守护国王。而今他死得也符合御林铁卫的标准，手中擎剑，为了守护王族而英勇献身。”太监腻腻一笑，目光锐利地盯着他。

　　你的意思是，企图谋害王族而死于非命？提利昂怀疑瓦里斯知道的比说出来的多。刚才所言与波隆的报告大致相同，对他来说都不是新闻。他需要的是一个连接瑟曦的环节，以证明曼登爵士是她的爪牙。没有人能够随心所欲，他苦涩地反思，得到自己想要的东西……

　　“我不是为曼登爵士而来。”

　　“我看出来了，”太监穿过屋子，来到盛水的酒壶边。“需要我为您效劳吗，大人？”他边说边斟满一杯。

　　“好的。但我要的不是水，”他双手交叠，“我要你把雪伊带来。”

　　瓦里斯吮了一口。“这明智吗，大人？她是个既亲切又可爱的孩子，假如被您父亲大人吊死，真是太令人伤心了。”

　　太监知道这点他不奇怪。“对，这不是明智之举，简直称得上疯狂。但我想见她最后一面，之后再把人送走，因为我实在受不了离得这么近，却不能和她亲热。”

　　“我理解。”

　　你怎么可能理解？提利昂昨天刚见过雪伊，当时她正提着水桶攀爬螺旋梯。一个年轻骑士前来帮忙，她触碰他的手臂，还朝他微笑，提利昂见了肠子打结。他和她擦肩而过，仅隔几寸之遥，他往下走，她向上攀，鼻孔里是她头发的清香。“大人，”她一边说，一边屈膝行礼，他心里好想伸手抓她，当场亲吻，但现实中却只能僵硬地点头，蹒跚着走开。“我见过她几次，”他告诉瓦里斯，“但不敢说话。我怀疑自己所有的行动均受到监视。”

　　“好大人，您这么怀疑就对了。”

　　“谁？”他抬起头。

　　“凯特布莱克兄弟经常向您可爱的姐姐汇报您的情况。”

　　“该死，我付给这三个卑鄙小人多少金子……你认为，我有没可能用更多钱把他们收买回来？”

　　“机会总是存在，但如果我是你，不会把宝押这上面。他们仨都当骑士了，而且令姐许诺他们继续晋升。”太监唇边泛起一抹坏笑。“最年长的那个，御林铁卫的奥斯蒙爵士，还梦想其他形式的……宠爱……咯咯。太后陛下每提供一个铜板，您也可以相应加价，这点我不怀疑，但她有一个资源，您无论如何都做不到。”

　　七层地狱啊，提利昂心想，“瑟曦找奥斯蒙？凯特布莱克出轨？”

　　“噢，天哪，我可没这么说，这是多可怕的事，您不觉得吗？不过呢，太后陛下只需略微暗示……或许明天，或许等婚礼结束……一次微笑，一声低语，一句猥亵的俏皮话……不经意间用胸部蹭蹭他的袖子……就够了嘛。唉，说到底，这些事情，太监怎会懂呢？”他的舌尖象一只害羞的粉红动物，滑过下嘴唇。

　　假如我能设法让他们逾越调情的界限，并安排父亲捉歼在床……提利昂摸摸鼻子上的伤疤。他想不出该怎么做，也许将来会有计划。“监视我的只有凯特布莱克兄弟？”

　　“真那样就好啦，大人，恐怕有许多双眼睛在注视您哟。您……怎么说好呢？十分引人注目，而且我必须很难过地承认，您不大受人爱戴。杰诺斯？史林特的儿子们很乐意为父报仇，还有咱们亲爱的培提尔，君临城内一半妓院都有他的朋友。假如您笨到造访其中任何一家，他便会知道，然后您父亲大人也会知道。”

　　比我担心的更糟。“我父亲呢？他派谁来监视我？”

　　这回太监大笑出声。“哈哈，那个嘛，就是我啊，大人。”

　　提利昂也跟着笑。他并非傻瓜，决不信任瓦里斯——但太监光现下了解的情报就足以弄死雪伊，而他却没有说，显然还有余地。“我要你通过秘密通道把雪伊带来，做到神不知鬼不觉，和以前一样。”

　　瓦里斯绞住双手。“噢，大人，能为您效劳，我乐意之极，可是……您听我解释，梅葛王不希望自个儿楼中隔墙有耳，当然啰，为预防被困，确实留下一条秘密通道，但这条通道不与任何别的通道相连。也就是说，我能把您的雪伊从洛丽丝小姐身边偷出来一会儿，但无论如何也没办法既把她带到您的卧室，中途又不让人发现。”

　　“那就带到别处。”

　　“带到哪里呢？到处都不安全。”

　　“安全之地是有的，”提利昂咧嘴而笑，“就这儿。我想，该让你那硬石头床派用场了。”

　　太监张大嘴巴，紧接着咯咯笑出声来。“洛丽丝怀了孩子，近来容易疲劳，我猜月亮升起之时她多半就睡着了。”

　　提利昂跳下椅子。“那么，就定在月亮升起之时。你给我准备一些葡萄酒，以及两个干净杯子。”

　　瓦里斯鞠了一躬，“如您所愿。”

　　这天余下的时光好比虫子在蜜糖里爬行一样缓慢。提利昂登上城堡图书馆，试图拿贝德加所著《罗伊拿战争史》来分心，却发现自己根本看不进大象的事迹，心中所想全是雪伊的笑容。到得下午，他放下书本，命人准备洗澡水。他拼命擦洗，直到水温变凉，才让波德替他刮胡子。胡须是一团乱麻，黄色、白色和黑色的毛发乱七八糟地纠缠，非常难看，好处在于能隐藏面容。

　　当提利昂洗得白白净净，并尽可能地理好胡子后，又翻遍衣柜，选出一条绯红绸缎紧身马裤，正是兰尼斯特家族的颜色，以及他最好的上衣，厚实的黑天鹅绒镶狮头纽扣。若非父亲趁他躺在床上濒临死亡时偷走了金手项链，他还会戴上它。待穿戴完毕，他才意识到自己的愚蠢：七层地狱啊，白痴侏儒，头脑和鼻子一样都丢了吗？你这身打扮，任何人看了都会奇怪，有这么穿着礼服见太监的道理？于是提利昂只好一边诅咒，一边脱衣换装，这次选的比较朴素：黑羊毛马裤，白色旧外衣，外加一件褪色的棕皮革背心。这没关系，他一边等待月亮升起，一边告诉自己，这没关系。不管穿什么，你终究是个侏儒，永远也不能成为高大骑士，永远都不可能有长腿、腹肌和宽阔雄伟的肩膀。

　　月亮终于出现在城头上方，他忙告诉波德瑞克？派恩，自己要去拜访瓦里斯。“会待很久吗，大人？”男孩问。

　　“噢，希望如此。”

　　红堡里如此拥挤，提利昂的出行不可能掩人耳目。巴隆？史文爵士在大门站岗，守吊桥的则是洛拉斯？提利尔爵士。他停下来跟他俩分别寒暄了几句。百花骑士从前总穿得五彩缤纷，现今看他一身白衣倒有些奇怪。“你多大了，洛拉斯爵士？”提利昂问他。

　　“十七岁，大人。”

　　才十七岁啊，长得又如此俊俏，他已经成为传奇人物，七大王国里一半的女孩想上他的床，所有的男孩都想成为他。“请原谅我的冒昧，爵士先生——你为什么十七岁就选择加入御林铁卫呢？”

　　“龙骑士伊蒙王子就是十七岁那年立誓加入的，”洛拉斯爵士说，“而您哥哥詹姆参加时就更年轻了。”

　　“我知道他们的理由。你呢？你是为什么？为了跟咱们的模范骑士马林？特兰和柏洛斯？布劳恩并肩作战吗？”他冲男孩嘲弄地一笑。“为守护国王，你放弃了自己的生活，放弃了土地和头衔，放弃了结婚生子的希望……”

　　“提利尔家族会通过我的哥哥们延续，”洛拉斯爵士说，“第三子没必要繁衍后嗣。”

　　“的确没必要，但多数人会乐意享受其中的愉悦。比方说，爱情，爵士先生？”

　　“太阳落山以后，蜡烛无法替代。”

　　“这是歌词吗？”提利昂抬头微笑，“是的，你才十七岁，我现在明白了。”

　　洛拉斯爵士一紧，“您嘲笑我？”

　　他是个自尊心极强的男孩。“不，若有冒犯，请多原谅。喏，我是说，我也是爱过的人，也有过一首歌。”我爱上一位美如夏日的姑娘，阳光照在她的秀发。他向洛拉斯爵士道晚安，继续赶路。

　　一群士兵在兽舍附近斗狗，提利昂停下来观察了一会儿。小狗扯掉了大狗半边脸，他评论说失败者就象桑铎？克里冈，为此赢得了几声粗犷的欢笑喝彩。接着，他继续向北墙走，期望自己业已解除了士兵们可能的怀疑。走下通往太监简陋居所的短楼梯，正要敲门时，门自动开了。

　　“瓦里斯？”提利昂溜进去，“是你？”一支蜡烛发出昏暗的光，空气中有茉莉花的香味。

　　“大人，”一个女人溜进亮光下，她肥胖丰满，圆圆的脸如粉红的月亮，有一头浓密的黑卷发。提利昂见状退了一步。

　　“有麻烦，大人？”她问。

　　原来是瓦里斯，他恼怒地意识到。“你把我吓坏了，我还以为你雪伊没偷成，反把洛丽丝给带来了。她人呢？在哪儿？”

　　“在这儿，大人。”她从后面伸手遮住他的眼睛。“您来猜，我穿了什么？”

　　“什么也没穿？”

　　“哎哟，好机灵的大人唷，”她撅起嘴，抽开双手。“您怎么知道的？”

　　“这有什么难？你什么也不穿的时候最美丽呀。”

　　“是吗？”她说，“真的？”

　　“嗯，当然是。”

　　“那您跟我上床好不好，别说话啦。”

　　“很好，但我们得先摆脱瓦里斯‘夫人’，我这个侏儒作爱时可不喜欢旁人围观。”

　　“他已经走了呀，”雪伊道。

　　提利昂扭头看去，果然，穿裙子的太监已经消失无踪。哪儿有暗门，就在附近。他刚想到这，便被雪伊扭过头来亲吻。那双唇潮湿而饥渴，她毫不在意他的疤痕和结痂的烂鼻子。他伸手出去，女人的肌肤如温暖的丝绸，当他拇指拂过她的乳头，它立即硬起来。“快，”她边吻边催促，他的手指伸向衣带，“噢，快，快，我想感觉你在我里面，在我里面，在我里面。”他甚至来不及脱下衣服，雪伊便把那话儿从他裤裆里拉出来，然后将他摁倒在地，爬到上面。他插进阴唇中，她尖声叫喊，疯狂地骑。“我的巨人，我的巨人，我的巨人，”每次坐下，她都如此呻吟，“我的巨人，我的巨人，我的巨人，”提利昂好饥渴，才第五下就迸射出来，但雪伊并不埋怨。她感觉到他的喷射，便淘气地笑笑，俯身吻去他额上的汗。“我的兰尼斯特巨人，”她低语，“请不要拔出来，我喜欢它在我体内的感觉。”

　　因此提利昂没有动，只用手抱住女人。互相依偎，紧紧拥抱，好美的感觉，他心想，好美的人，怎能让她受罪，让她被吊死呢？“雪伊，”他说，“亲爱的，很抱歉，这将是我们最后一次欢悦。真的很危险，如果你被我父亲大人发现……”

　　“我爱您的伤疤，”她的手指顺着他的鼻子抚摸，“它让您看起来异常威武。”

　　他笑出声来，“你的意思是异常丑陋吧。”

　　“哪儿的话！在我眼中，大人您永远最英俊！”她边说边吻提利昂烂鼻子上的痂。

　　“行了，你该关心的不是我的脸，而是我父亲——”

　　“我不怕他。大人会把我的珠宝和丝绸还我吗？您受伤以后，我去问瓦里斯，可不可以把它们拿回来，但他就是不肯给。如果您真死了，它们会怎么样呢？”

　　“我没死，人好端端地在这儿。”

　　“噢，我知道，”雪伊压在他身上边笑边扭，“大人您就属于这儿。”她又撅起嘴，“可仗已经打完，我还得在洛丽丝那边待多久啊？”

　　“你刚才没听我说吗？”提利昂道，“当然，如果你喜欢，可以留在洛丽丝身边，但我建议你最好离开君临。”

　　“不要，我不要走，您答应过，仗打完后会送我一栋新宅子。”她用下体轻轻挤他那话儿，它再度硬起来。“兰尼斯特有债必还，您明明说好的。”

　　“噢，天哪，雪伊，停下来，真该死。听我说。你必须离开，城内到处都是提利尔家的人，况且我日夜受到紧密监视。你不明白其中的危险。”

　　“我能参加国王的婚宴吗？洛丽丝不敢去，我再三向她解释，不会有人在王座厅里强暴她，可她蠢得不肯相信。”雪伊翻身躺下，那话儿从她体内滑出来，发出轻微而潮湿的声音。“西蒙说有一场歌手比试，有人耍杂技，甚至还有小丑比武。”

　　提利昂几乎忘了雪伊身边那个该死的歌手。“西蒙？”

　　“我把他介绍给坦妲伯爵夫人，夫人则雇他为洛丽丝表演，这头肥母牛，每当肚里的孩子开始蹬踢时，音乐能让她恢复平静。西蒙对我说，宴会中人们会边看熊跳舞，边喝青亭岛的红酒。我从没见过跳舞的熊。”

　　“有什么好看？它们跳得还没我好。”他担心的是歌手，不是熊。万一此人走漏风声，便会连累雪伊送命。

　　“西蒙说有七十七道大餐，还有一个大烤馅饼，里面装了一百只鸽子，”雪伊滔滔不绝，“割开脆皮，它们便一下子全飞出来。”

　　“是啊，然后停在房梁上，像下雨一样朝客人们拉屎。”提利昂吃过婚宴馅饼的苦头，他一直怀疑鸽子特别喜欢拿他当目标。

　　“我能不能穿着丝衣和天鹅绒去参加宴会，扮作贵族小姐，而不是使女呢？大人，没有人会知道的嘛。”

　　每个人都会知道，提利昂心想。“洛丽斯的女仆凭空多出这许多珠宝，坦妲伯爵夫人一定会起疑心。”

　　“西蒙说有上千宾客，我不让她看见就是了。我会在下席找个阴暗角落，无论何时，您只消上厕所，我就溜出来。”她捧着那话儿，轻轻抚摸。“裙服下我不穿内衣，好省了大人为我宽衣解带的工夫。”她用手指上下逗弄。“如果您喜欢，我还可以这样。”她将阳具含进嘴里。

　　提利昂已经蓄势待发，但这次坚持得比较久。完事之后，雪伊又爬回来，浑身赤裸地蜷在他胳膊底。“您会准我参加的，对吧？”

　　“雪伊，”他长叹一声，“这不安全。”

　　之后很长时间，她什么也没说。提利昂试图谈论别的话题，却发现自己碰上了一堵恭敬却阴沉的墙，和北方的绝境长城一样冰冷生硬。蜡烛越烧越短，闪烁不定。诸神在上，他心想，经历了泰莎事件，我无论如何也不能让它重演，无论如何也不能给父亲把柄。他幻想给予她满意的承诺，幻想让她挽起他的手结伴走回卧室，幻想让她穿上丝绸和天鹅绒，得遂心愿。如果他有权选择，一定会在乔佛里的婚宴上同她坐在一起，陪她随心所欲地与熊共舞。但首先，他不能让她死。

　　蜡烛熄灭后，提利昂放开雪伊，点起另外一支，沿墙走了一遭，依次敲打，搜寻暗门。雪伊收起大腿，胳膊抱膝，注视着他，最后开口道：“秘密楼梯在床底下。”

　　他难以置信地望着她，“那石床？它是实心的，至少有半吨重。”

　　“我不知道，反正瓦里斯在什么地方扳一阵，它就会升起来。我问他怎么弄，他说那是魔法。”

　　“啊哈，”提利昂忍不住咧嘴笑道，“看来是杠杆魔法。”

　　雪伊起身。“我该走了。洛丽斯的胎儿有时候不安宁，她会醒来叫我。”

　　“也罢，瓦里斯该回来了，或许他正在下面听我们说话呢，”提利昂放下蜡烛，马裤前面有个湿点，但黑夜里应该没人注意。他要雪伊穿上衣服等太监。

　　“遵命，”她答应，“您是我的狮子，对吗？我的兰尼斯特巨人？”

　　“是的，”他说。“而你是——”

　　“——您的妓女。”她将一根手指按到他唇上。“我明白，我明白自己的身份。我梦想成为您的情人，但那是不可能的事，否则您会带我去参加宴会。这些都没关系，做您的妓女我已经很满意，提利昂大人，我的狮子，请留下我，保护我吧。”全世界的甜蜜天真都写在她年轻的脸庞。

　　“我会的，”他允诺。笨蛋，笨蛋，内心有个声音在尖声呼叫，为何这么说？你是来送她走的！他反而又在临别时吻了她一次。

　　回去的路孤寂而漫长。波德瑞克？派恩在床脚的小矮床上已睡着了，他把男孩叫醒。“波隆，”他说。

　　“波隆爵士？”波德揉揉睡眼，“呃，您要我去找他？大人？”

　　“啊，不，我想和你谈谈他的着装打扮，”提利昂说，看见波德张大嘴巴的疑惑表情，挖苦算是白费了。他只好详细说明，“是的，把他找来。带他过来。快去吧。”

　　男孩匆忙穿上衣服，跑着出去。我有那么可怕吗？提利昂一边想，一边换上睡袍，并给自己倒上红酒。

　　夜晚过去一半，他喝第三杯时，波德才回来，佣兵骑士跟在后面。“这小子把我从莎塔雅的地方拽出来，想必有要事喽？”波隆边说边坐下。

　　“莎塔雅的地方？”提利昂烦躁地道。

　　“当骑士真不赖，不用满大街找便宜妓院。”波隆咧嘴一笑，“嘿嘿，我要的熟人，骑士波隆在中间，雅雅、玛丽靠两边啰。”

　　提利昂强吞怒气。波隆和其他恩客一样有权上爱拉雅雅的床，可是……不管心里怎么想，我确实没碰她，当然，这些事波隆不会知道。不知他有没有善待雅雅。他再不敢造访莎塔雅的妓院，以免瑟曦向父亲告发，导致爱拉雅雅遭殃。为补偿前次的鞭打，他曾送给那女孩一条翡翠银项链和一副相配的手镯，但除此之外……

　　多想无益。“有个自称银舌西蒙的歌手，”提利昂推开罪恶感，疲倦地说，“经常为坦妲夫人伯爵的女儿表演。”

　　“你想怎样？”

　　杀了他，他心里想。但那人除了唱几支歌谣，并往雪伊可爱的脑瓜里灌输鸽子与跳舞熊的梦幻之外没做什么。“找到他，”他说，“在其他人之前找到他。”

ARYA
She was grubbing for vegetables in a dead man’s garden when she heard the singing.
Arya stiffened, still as stone, listening, the three stringy carrots in her hand suddenly forgotten. She thought of the Bloody Mummers and Roose Bolton’s men, and a shiver of fear went down her back. It’s not fair, not when we finally found the Trident, not when we thought we were almost safe.
Only why would the Mummers be singing?
The song came drifting up the river from somewhere beyond the little rise to the east. “Off to Gulltown to see the fair maid, heigh-ho, heigh-ho . . . ”
Arya rose, carrots dangling from her hand. It sounded like the singer was coming up the river road. Over among the cabbages, Hot Pie had heard it too, to judge by the look on his face. Gendry had gone to sleep in the shade of the burned cottage, and was past hearing anything.
“I’ll steal a sweet kiss with the point of my blade, heigh-ho, heigh-ho.” She thought she heard a woodharp too, beneath the soft rush of the river.
“Do you hear?” Hot Pie asked in a hoarse whisper, as he hugged an armful of cabbages. “Someone’s coming.”
“Go wake Gendry,” Arya told him. “Just shake him by the shoulder, don’t make a lot of noise.” Gendry was easy to wake, unlike Hot Pie, who needed to be kicked and shouted at.
“I’ll make her my love and we’ll rest in the shade, heigh-ho, heigh-ho.” The song swelled louder with every word.
Hot Pie opened his arms. The cabbages fell to the ground with soft thumps. “We have to hide.”
Where? The burned cottage and its overgrown garden stood hard beside the banks of the Trident. There were a few willows growing along the river’s edge and reed beds in the muddy shallows beyond, but most of the ground hereabouts was painfully open. I knew we should never have left the woods, she thought. They’d been so hungry, though, and the garden had been too much a temptation. The bread and cheese they had stolen from Harrenhal had given out six days ago, back in the thick of the woods. “Take Gendry and the horses behind the cottage,” she decided. There was part of one wall still standing, big enough, maybe, to conceal two boys and three horses. If the horses don’t whinny, and that singer doesn’t come poking around the garden.
“What about you?”
“I’ll hide by the tree. He’s probably alone. If he bothers me, I’ll kill him. Go!”
Hot Pie went, and Arya dropped her carrots and drew the stolen sword from over her shoulder. She had strapped the sheath across her back; the longsword was made for a man grown, and it bumped against the ground when she wore it on her hip. It’s too heavy besides, she thought, missing Needle the way she did every time she took this clumsy thing in her hand. But it was a sword and she could kill with it, that was enough.
Lightfoot, she moved to the big old willow that grew beside the bend in the road and went to one knee in the grass and mud, within the veil of trailing branches. You old gods, she prayed as the singer’s voice grew louder, you tree gods, hide me, and make him go past. Then a horse whickered, and the song broke off suddenly. He’s heard, she knew, but maybe he’s alone, or if he’s not, maybe they’ll be as scared of us as we are of them.
“Did you hear that?” a man’s voice said. “There’s something behind that wall, I would say.”
“Aye,” replied a second voice, deeper. “What do you think it might be, Archer?”
Two, then. Arya bit her lip. She could not see them from where she knelt, on account of the willow. But she could hear.
“A bear.” A third voice, or the first one again?
“A lot of meat on a bear,” the deep voice said. “A lot of fat as well, in fall. Good to eat, if it’s cooked up right.”
“Could be a wolf. Maybe a lion.”
“With four feet, you think? Or two?”
“Makes no matter. Does it?”
“Not so I know. Archer, what do you mean to do with all them arrows?”
“Drop a few shafts over the wall. Whatever’s hiding back there will come out quick enough, watch and see.”
“What if it’s some honest man back there, though? Or some poor woman with a little babe at her breast?”
“An honest man would come out and show us his face. Only an outlaw would skulk and hide.”
“Aye, that’s so. Go on and loose your shafts, then.”
Arya sprang to her feet. “Don’t!” She showed them her sword. There were three, she saw. Only three. Syrio could fight more than three, and she had Hot Pie and Gendry to stand with her, maybe. But they’re boys, and these are men.
They were men afoot, travel-stained and mud-specked. She knew the singer by the woodharp he cradled against his jerkin, as a mother might cradle a babe. A small man, fifty from the look of him, he had a big mouth, a sharp nose, and thinning brown hair. His faded greens were mended here and there with old leather patches, and he wore a brace of throwing knives on his hip and a woodman’s axe slung across his back.
The man beside him stood a good foot taller, and had the look of a soldier. A longsword and dirk hung from his studded leather belt, rows of overlapping steel rings were sewn onto his shirt, and his head was covered by a black iron halfhelm shaped like a cone. He had bad teeth and a bushy brown beard, but it was his hooded yellow cloak that drew the eye. Thick and heavy, stained here with grass and there with blood, frayed along the bottom and patched with deerskin on the right shoulder, the greatcloak gave the big man the look of some huge yellow bird.
The last of the three was a youth as skinny as his longbow, if not quite as tall. Red-haired and freckled, he wore a studded brigantine, high boots, fingerless leather gloves, and a quiver on his back. His arrows were fletched with grey goose feathers, and six of them stood in the ground before him, like a little fence.
The three men looked at her, standing there in the road with her blade in hand. Then the singer idly plucked a string. “Boy,” he said, “put up that sword now, unless you’re wanting to be hurt. It’s too big for you, lad, and besides, Anguy here could put three shafts through you before you could hope to reach us.”
“He could not,” Arya said, “and I’m a girl.”
“So you are.” The singer bowed. “My pardons.”
“You go on down the road. Just walk right past here, and you keep on singing, so we’ll know where you are. Go away and leave us be and I won’t kill you.”
The freckle-faced archer laughed. “Lem, she won’t kill us, did you hear?”
“I heard,” said Lem, the big soldier with the deep voice.
“Child,” said the singer, “put up that sword, and we’ll take you to a safe place and get some food in that belly. There are wolves in these parts, and lions, and worse things. No place for a little girl to be wandering alone.”
“She’s not alone.” Gendry rode out from behind the cottage wall, and behind him Hot Pie, leading her horse. In his chainmail shirt with a sword in his hand, Gendry looked almost a man grown, and dangerous. Hot Pie looked like Hot Pie. “Do like she says, and leave us be,” warned Gendry.
“Two and three,” the singer counted, “and is that all of you? And horses too, lovely horses. Where did you steal them?”
“They’re ours.” Arya watched them carefully. The singer kept distracting her with his talk, but it was the archer who was the danger. If he should pull an arrow from the ground . . .
“Will you give us your names like honest men?” the singer asked the boys.
“I’m Hot Pie,” Hot Pie said at once.
“Aye, and good for you.” The man smiled. “It’s not every day I meet a lad with such a tasty name. And what would your friends be called, Mutton Chop and Squab?”
Gendry scowled down from his saddle. “Why should I tell you my name? I haven’t heard yours.”
“Well, as to that, I’m Tom of Sevenstreams, but Tom Sevenstrings is what they call me, or Tom o’ Sevens. This great lout with the brown teeth is Lem, short for Lemoncloak. It’s yellow, you see, and Lem’s a sour sort. And young fellow me lad over there is Anguy, or Archer as we like to call him.”
“Now who are you?” demanded Lem, in the deep voice that Arya had heard through the branches of the willow.
She was not about to give up her true name as easy as that. “Squab, if you want,” she said. “I don’t care.”
The big man laughed. “A squab with a sword,” he said. “Now there’s something you don’t often see.”
“I’m the Bull,” said Gendry, taking his lead from Arya. She could not blame him for preferring Bull to Mutton Chop.
Tom Sevenstrings strummed his harp. “Hot Pie, Squab, and the Bull. Escaped from Lord Bolton’s kitchen, did you?”
“How did you know?” Arya demanded, uneasy.
“You bear his sigil on your chest, little one.”
She had forgotten that for an instant. Beneath her cloak, she still wore her fine page’s doublet, with the flayed man of the Dreadfort sewn on her breast. “Don’t call me little one!”
“Why not?” said Lem. “You’re little enough.”
“I’m bigger than I was. I’m not a child.” Children didn’t kill people, and she had.
“I can see that, Squab. You’re none of you children, not if you were Bolton’s.”
“We never were.” Hot Pie never knew when to keep quiet. “We were at Harrenhal before he came, that’s all.”
“So you’re lion cubs, is that the way of it?” said Tom.
“Not that either. We’re nobody’s men. Whose men are you?”
Anguy the Archer said, “We’re king’s men.”
Arya frowned. “Which king?”
“King Robert,” said Lem, in his yellow cloak.
“That old drunk?” said Gendry scornfully. “He’s dead, some boar killed him, everyone knows that.”
“Aye, lad,” said Tom Sevenstrings, “and more’s the pity.” He plucked a sad chord from his harp.
Arya didn’t think they were king’s men at all. They looked more like outlaws, all tattered and ragged. They didn’t even have horses to ride. King’s men would have had horses.
But Hot Pie piped up eagerly. “We’re looking for Riverrun,” he said. “How many days’ ride is it, do you know?”
Arya could have killed him. “You be quiet, or I’ll stuff rocks in your big stupid mouth,”
“Riverrun is a long way upstream,” said Tom. “A long hungry way. Might be you’d like a hot meal before you set out? There’s an inn not far ahead kept by some friends of ours. We could share some ale and a bite of bread, instead of fighting one another.”
“An inn?” The thought of hot food made Arya’s belly rumble, but she didn’t trust this Tom. Not everyone who spoke you friendly was really your friend. “It’s near, you say?”
“Two miles upstream,” said Tom. “A league at most.”
Gendry looked as uncertain as she felt. “What do you mean, friends?” he asked warily.
“Friends. Have you forgotten what friends are?”
“Sharna is the innkeep’s name,” Tom put in. “She has a sharp tongue and a fierce eye, I’ll grant you that, but her heart’s a good one, and she’s fond of little girls.”
“I’m not a little girl,” she said angrily. “Who else is there? You said friends”
“Sharna’s husband, and an orphan boy they took in. They won’t harm you. There’s ale, if you think you’re old enough. Fresh bread and maybe a bit of meat.” Tom glanced toward the cottage. “And whatever you stole from Old Pate’s garden besides.”
“We never stole,” said Arya.
“Are you Old Pate’s daughter, then? A sister? A wife? Tell me no lies, Squab. I buried Old Pate myself, right there under that willow where you were hiding, and you don’t have his look.” He drew a sad sound from his harp. “We’ve buried many a good man this past year, but we’ve no wish to bury you, I swear it on my harp. Archer, show her.”
The archer’s hand moved quicker than Arya would have believed. His shaft went hissing past her head within an inch of her ear and buried itself in the trunk of the willow behind her. By then the bowman had a second arrow notched and drawn. She’d thought she understood what Syrio meant by quick as a snake and smooth as summer silk, but now she knew she hadn’t. The arrow thrummed behind her like a bee. “You missed,” she said.
“More fool you if you think so,” said Anguy. “They go where I send them.”
“That they do,” agreed Lem Lemoncloak.
There were a dozen steps between the archer and the point of her sword. We have no chance, Arya realized, wishing she had a bow like his, and the skill to use it. Glumly, she lowered her heavy longsword till the point touched the ground. “We’ll come see this inn,” she conceded, trying to hide the doubt in her heart behind bold words. “You walk in front and we’ll ride behind, so we can see what you’re doing.”
Tom Sevenstrings bowed deeply and said, “Before, behind, it makes no matter. Come along, lads, let’s show them the way. Anguy, best pull up those arrows, we won’t be needing them here.”
Arya sheathed her sword and crossed the road to where her friends sat on their horses, keeping her distance from the three strangers. “Hot Pie, get those cabbages,” she said as she vaulted into her saddle. “And the carrots too.”
For once he did not argue. They set off as she had wanted, walking their horses slowly down the rutted road a dozen paces behind the three on foot. But before very long, somehow they were riding right on top of them. Tom Sevenstrings walked slowly, and liked to strum his woodharp as he went. “Do you know any songs?” he asked them. “I’d dearly love someone to sing with, that I would. Lem can’t carry a tune, and our longbow lad only knows marcher ballads, every one of them a hundred verses long.”
“We sing real songs in the marches,” Anguy said mildly.
“Singing is stupid,” said Arya. “Singing makes noise. We heard you a long way off. We could have killed you.”
Tom’s smile said he did not think so. “There are worse things than dying with a song on your lips.”
“If there were wolves hereabouts, we’d know it,” groused Lem. “Or lions. These are our woods.”
“You never knew we were there,” said Gendry.
“Now, lad, you shouldn’t be so certain of that,” said Tom. “Sometimes a man knows more than he says.”
Hot Pie shifted his seat. “I know the song about the bear,” he said. “Some of it, anyhow.”
Tom ran his fingers down his strings. “Then let’s hear it, pie boy.” He threw back his head and sang, “A bear there was, a bear, a bear! All black and brown, and covered with hair . . . ”
Hot Pie joined in lustily, even bouncing in his saddle a little on the rhymes. Arya stared at him in astonishment. He had a good voice and he sang well. He never did anything well, except bake, she thought to herself.
A small brook flowed into the Trident a little farther on. As they waded across, their singing flushed a duck from among the reeds. Anguy stopped where he stood, unslung his bow, notched an arrow, and brought it down. The bird fell in the shallows not far from the bank. Lem took off his yellow cloak and waded in knee-deep to retrieve it, complaining all the while. “Do you think Sharna might have lemons down in that cellar of hers?” said Anguy to Tom as they watched Lem splash around, cursing. “A Dornish girl once cooked me duck with lemons.” He sounded wistful.
Tom and Hot Pie resumed their song on the other side of the brook, with the duck hanging from Lem’s belt beneath his yellow cloak. Somehow the singing made the miles seem shorter. It was not very long at all until the inn appeared before them, rising from the riverbank where the Trident made a great bend to the north. Arya squinted at it suspiciously as they neared. It did not look like an outlaws’ lair, she had to admit; it looked friendly, even homey, with its whitewashed upper story and slate roof and the smoke curling up lazy from its chimney. Stables and other outbuildings surrounded it, and there was an arbor in back, and apple trees, a small garden. The inn even had its own dock, thrusting out into the river, and . . .
“Gendry,” she called, her voice low and urgent. “They have a boat. We could sail the rest of the way up to Riverrun. It would be faster than riding, I think.”
He looked dubious. “Did you ever sail a boat?”
“You put up the sail,” she said, “and the wind pushes it.”
“What if the wind is blowing the wrong way?”
“Then there’s oars to row.”
“Against the current?” Gendry frowned. “Wouldn’t that be slow? And what if the boat tips over and we fall into the water? It’s not our boat anyway, it’s the inn’s.”
We could take it. Arya chewed her lip and said nothing. They dismounted in front of stables. There were no other horses to be seen, but Arya noticed fresh manure in many of the stalls. “One of us should watch the horses,” she said, wary.
Tom overheard her. “There’s no need for that, Squab. Come eat, they’ll be safe enough.”
“I’ll stay,” Gendry said, ignoring the singer. “You can come get me after you’ve had some food.”
Nodding, Arya set off after Hot Pie and Lem. Her sword was still in its sheath across her back, and she kept a hand close to the hilt of the dagger she had stolen from Roose Bolton, in case she didn’t like whatever they found within.
The painted sign above the door showed a picture of some old king on his knees. Inside was the common room, where a very tall ugly woman with a knobby chin stood with her hands on her hips, glaring. “Don’t just stand there, boy,” she snapped. “Or are you a girl? Either one, you’re blocking my door. Get in or get out. Lem, what did I tell you about my floor? You’re all mud.”
“We shot a duck.” Lem held it out like a peace banner.
The woman snatched it from his hand. “Anguy shot a duck, is what you’re meaning. Get your boots off, are you deaf or just stupid?” She turned away. “Husband!” she called loudly. “Get up here, the lads are back. Husband!”
Up the cellar steps came a man in a stained apron, grumbling. He was a head shorter than the woman, with a lumpy face and loose yellowish skin that still showed the marks of some pox. “I’m here, woman, quit your bellowing. What is it now?”
“Hang this,” she said, handing him the duck.
Anguy shuffled his feet. “We were thinking we might eat it, Sharna. With lemons. If you had some.”
“Lemons. And where would we get lemons? Does this look like Dorne to you, you freckled fool? Why don’t you hop out back to the lemon trees and pick us a bushel, and some nice olives and pomegranates too.” She shook a finger at him. “Now, I suppose I could cook it with Lem’s cloak, if you like, but not till it’s hung for a few days. You’ll eat rabbit, or you won’t eat. Roast rabbit on a spit would be quickest, if you’ve got a hunger. Or might be you’d like it stewed, with ale and onions.”
Arya could almost taste the rabbit. “We have no coin, but we brought some carrots and cabbages we could trade you.”
“Did you now? And where would they be?”
“Hot Pie, give her the cabbages,” Arya said, and he did, though he approached the old woman as gingerly as if she were Rorge or Biter or Vargo Hoat.
The woman gave the vegetables a close inspection, and the boy a closer one. “Where is this hot pie?”
“Here. Me. It’s my name. And she’s . . . ah . . . Squab.”
“Not under my roof. I give my diners and my dishes different names, so as to tell them apart. Husband!”
Husband had stepped outside, but at her shout he hurried back. “The duck’s hung. What is it now, woman?”
“Wash these vegetables,” she commanded. “The rest of you, sit down while I start the rabbits. The boy will bring you drink.” She looked down her long nose at Arya and Hot Pie. “I am not in the habit of serving ale to children, but the cider’s run out, there’s no cows for milk, and the river water tastes of war, with all the dead men drifting downstream. If I served you a cup of soup full of dead flies, would you drink it?”
“Arry would,” said Hot Pie. “I mean, Squab.”
“So would Lem,” offered Anguy with a sly smile.
“Never you mind about Lem,” Sharna said. “It’s ale for all.” She swept off toward the kitchen.
Anguy and Tom Sevenstrings took the table near the hearth while Lem was hanging his big yellow cloak on a peg. Hot Pie plopped down heavily on a bench at the table by the door, and Arya wedged herself in beside him.
Tom unslung his harp. “A lonely inn on a forest road,” he sang, slowly picking out a tune to go with the words. “The innkeep’s wife was plain as a toad.”
“Shut up with that now or we won’t be getting no rabbit,” Lem warned him. “You know how she is.”
Arya leaned close to Hot Pie. “Can you sail a boat?” she asked. Before he could answer, a thickset boy of fifteen or sixteen appeared with tankards of ale. Hot Pie took his reverently in both hands, and when he sipped he smiled wider than Arya had ever seen him smile. “Ale,” he whispered, “and rabbit.”
“Well, here’s to His Grace,” Anguy the Archer called out cheerfully, lifting a toast. “Seven save the king!”
“All twelve o’them,” Lem Lemoncloak muttered. He drank, and wiped the foam from his mouth with the back of his hand.
Husband came bustling in through the front door, with an apron full of washed vegetables. “There’s strange horses in the stable,” he announced, as if they hadn’t known.
“Aye,” said Tom, setting the woodharp aside, “and better horses than the three you gave away.”
Husband dropped the vegetables on a table, annoyed. “I never gave them away. I sold them for a good price, and got us a skiff as well. Anyways, you lot were supposed to get them back.”
I knew they were outlaws, Arya thought, listening. Her hand went under the table to touch the hilt of her dagger, and make sure it was still there. If they try to rob us, they’ll be sorry.
“They never came our way,” said Lem.
“Well, I sent them. You must have been drunk, or asleep.”
“Us? Drunk?” Tom drank a long draught of ale. “Never.”
“You could have taken them yourself,” Lem told Husband.
“What, with only the boy here? I told you twice, the old woman was up to Lambswold helping that Fern birth her babe. And like as not it was one o’ you planted the bastard in the poor girl’s belly.” He gave Tom a sour look. “You, I’d wager, with that harp o’ yours, singing all them sad songs just to get poor Fern out of her smallclothes.”
“If a song makes a maid want to slip off her clothes and feel the good warm sun kiss her skin, why, is that the singer’s fault?” asked Tom. “And ’twas Anguy she fancied, besides. ‘Can I touch your bow?’ I heard her ask him. ‘Ooohh, it feels so smooth and hard. Could I give it a little pull, do you think?’ ”
Husband snorted. “You and Anguy, makes no matter which. You’re as much to blame as me for them horses. They was three, you know. What can one man do against three?”
“Three,” said Lem scornfully, “but one a woman and t’other in chains, you said so yourself.”
Husband made a face. “A big woman, dressed like a man. And the one in chains . . . I didn’t fancy the look of his eyes.”
Anguy smiled over his ale. “When I don’t fancy a man’s eyes, I put an arrow through one.”
Arya remembered the shaft that had brushed by her ear. She wished she knew how to shoot arrows.
Husband was not impressed. “You be quiet when your elders are talking. Drink your ale and mind your tongue, or I’ll have the old woman take a spoon to you.”
“My elders talk too much, and I don’t need you to tell me to drink my ale.” He took a big swallow, to show that it was so.
Arya did the same. After days of drinking from brooks and puddles, and then the muddy Trident, the ale tasted as good as the little sips of wine her father used to allow her. A smell was drifting out from the kitchen that made her mouth water, but her thoughts were still full of that boat. Sailing it will be harder than stealing it. If we wait until they’re all asleep . . .
The serving boy reappeared with big round loaves of bread. Arya broke off a chunk hungrily and tore into it. It was hard to chew, though, sort of thick and lumpy, and burned on the bottom.
Hot Pie made a face as soon as he tasted it. “That’s bad bread,” he said. “It’s burned, and tough besides.”
“It’s better when there’s stew to sop up,” said Lem.
“No, it isn’t,” said Anguy, “but you’re less like to break your teeth.”
“You can eat it or go hungry,” said Husband. “Do I look like some bloody baker? I’d like to see you make better.”
“I could,” said Hot Pie. “It’s easy. You kneaded the dough too much, that’s why it’s so hard to chew.” He took another sip of ale, and began talking lovingly of breads and pies and tarts, all the things he loved. Arya rolled her eyes.
Tom sat down across from her. “Squab,” he said, “or Arry, or whatever your true name might be, this is for you.” He placed a dirty scrap of parchment on the wooden tabletop between them.
She looked at it suspiciously. “What is it?”
“Three golden dragons. We need to buy those horses.”
Arya looked at him warily. “They’re our horses.”
“Meaning you stole them yourselves, is that it? No shame in that, girl. War makes thieves of many honest folk.” Tom tapped the folded parchment with his finger. “I’m paying you a handsome price. More than any horse is worth, if truth be told.”
Hot Pie grabbed the parchment and unfolded it. “There’s no gold,” he complained loudly. “It’s only writing.”
“Aye,” said Tom, “and I’m sorry for that. But after the war, we mean to make that good, you have my word as a king’s man.”
Arya pushed back from the table and got to her feet. “You’re no king’s men, you’re robbers.”
“If you’d ever met a true robber, you’d know they do not pay, not even in paper. It’s not for us we take your horses, child, it’s for the good of the realm, so we can get about more quickly and fight the fights that need fighting. The king’s fights. Would you deny the king?”
They were all watching her; the Archer, big Lem, Husband with his sallow face and shifty eyes. Even Sharna, who stood in the door to the kitchen squinting. They are going to take our horses no matter what I say, she realized. We’ll need to walk to Riverrun, unless . . . “We don’t want paper.” Arya slapped the parchment out of Hot Pie’s hand. “You can have our horses for that boat outside. But only if you show us how to work it.”
Tom Sevenstrings stared at her a moment, and then his wide homely mouth quirked into a rueful grin. He laughed aloud. Anguy joined in, and then they were all laughing, Lem Lemoncloak, Sharna and Husband, even the serving boy, who had stepped out from behind the casks with a crossbow under one arm. Arya wanted to scream at them, but instead she started to smile . . .
“Riders!” Gendry’s shout was shrill with alarm. The door burst open and there he was. “Soldiers,” he panted. “Coming down the river road, a dozen of them.”
Hot Pie leapt up, knocking over his tankard, but Tom and the others were unpertubed. “There’s no cause for spilling good ale on my floor,” said Sharna. “Sit back down and calm yourself, boy, there’s rabbit coming. You too, girl. Whatever harm’s been done you, it’s over and it’s done and you’re with king’s men now. We’ll keep you safe as best we can.”
Arya’s only answer was to reach over her shoulder for her sword, but before she had it halfway drawn Lem grabbed her wrist. “We’ll have no more of that, now.” He twisted her arm until her hand opened. His fingers were hard with callus and fearsomely strong. Again! Arya thought. It’s happening again, like it happened in the village, with Chiswyck and Raff and the Mountain That Rides. They were going to steal her sword and turn her back into a mouse. Her free hand closed around her tankard, and she swung it at Lem’s face. The ale sloshed over the rim and splashed into his eyes, and she heard his nose break and saw the spurt of blood. When he roared his hands went to his face, and she was free. “Run!” she screamed, bolting.
But Lem was on her again at once, with his long legs that made one of his steps equal to three of hers. She twisted and kicked, but he yanked her off her feet effortlessly and held her dangling while the blood ran down his face.
“Stop it, you little fool,” he shouted, shaking her back and forth. “Stop it now!” Gendry moved to help her, until Tom Sevenstrings stepped in front of him with a dagger.
By then it was too late to flee. She could hear horses outside, and the sound of men’s voices. A moment later a man came swaggering through the open door, a Tyroshi even bigger than Lem with a great thick beard, bright green at the ends but growing out grey. Behind came a pair of crossbowmen helping a wounded man between them, and then others . . .
A more ragged band Arya had never seen, but there was nothing ragged about the swords, axes, and bows they carried. One or two gave her curious glances as they entered, but no one said a word. A one-eyed man in a rusty pothelm sniffed the air and grinned, while an archer with a head of stiff yellow hair was shouting for ale. After them came a spearman in a lioncrested helm, an older man with a limp, a Braavosi sellsword, a . . .
“Harwin?” Arya whispered. It was! Under the beard and the tangled hair was the face of Hullen’s son, who used to lead her pony around the yard, ride at quintain with Jon and Robb, and drink too much on feast days. He was thinner, harder somehow, and at Winterfell he had never worn a beard, but it was him—her father’s man. “Harwin!” Squirming, she threw herself forward, trying to wrench free of Lem’s iron grip. “It’s me,” she shouted, “Harwin, it’s me, don’t you know me, don’t you?” The tears came, and she found herself weeping like a baby, just like some stupid little girl. “Harwin, it’s me!”
Harwin’s eyes went from her face to the flayed man on her doublet. “How do you know me?” he said, frowning suspiciously. “The flayed man . . . who are you, some serving boy to Lord Leech?”
For a moment she did not know how to answer. She’d had so many names. Had she only dreamed Arya Stark? “I’m a girl,” she sniffed. “I was Lord Bolton’s cupbearer but he was going to leave me for the goat, so I ran off with Gendry and Hot Pie. You have to know me! You used to lead my pony, when I was little.”
His eyes went wide. “Gods be good,” he said in a choked voice. “Arya Underfoot? Lem, let go of her.”
“She broke my nose.” Lem dumped her unceremoniously to the floor. “Who in seven hells is she supposed to be?”
“The Hand’s daughter.” Harwin went to one knee before her. “Arya Stark, of Winterfell.”

第十三章 艾莉亚



　　听见歌声时，她正在死人的花园里挖菜。
　　艾莉亚立时停止，不动如石，突然忘了手中那三根小萝卜。血戏班还是卢斯·波顿的人？她恐惧得发抖。这不公平，就在我们终于找到三叉戟河，就在我们认为自己差不多安全了的时候，这不公平。

　　只是……血戏子为什么要唱歌？

　　歌声从东边一个矮坡后传来，在河面飘荡。“去海鸥镇看美少女哟，嗨哟，嗨哟……”

　　艾莉亚站起身，胡萝卜在手中摇晃。唱歌的人似乎正沿河边小路走来。从表情看得出，拔白菜的热派也听见了。当然，詹德利在烧毁农舍的阴影里睡觉，毫无反应。

　　“用利剑偷取甜甜一吻哟，嗨哟，嗨哟……”河流轻柔的水声中，夹着木竖琴的弹奏。

　　“你听见没？”热派抱着一堆白菜，嘶哑地低声询问，“有人过来了。”

　　“把詹德利叫醒，”艾莉亚吩咐他，“摇摇肩膀就好，不要大张旗鼓，弄出声响。”詹德利容易唤醒，不像热派，非得又踢又吼。

　　“我拿她做情人，一起睡在树荫底哟，嗨哟，嗨哟……”歌声越来越嘹亮。

　　热派不由得手一松，白菜“噌”一声轻响，落在地上。“我们得躲起来。”

　　躲到哪里去呢？烧毁殆尽的农舍和野草疯长的花园醒目地矗立在三叉戟河边，河畔还有几棵柳树，以及芦苇丛生的烂泥浅滩，除此之外，全是讨厌的开阔地。我就知道我们不该离开树林，她心想。但他们好饿，从赫伦堡偷出来的面包与奶酪六天前就在森林里吃光了，因此花园的诱惑实在太大。“把詹德利和马带到农舍背后，”她下定决心。那堵墙还没完全垮塌，说不定能藏住两个男孩和三匹马——假如马儿不叫，歌手也不往这边走的话。

　　“你呢？”

　　“我躲树下面好了。他可能就一个人，敢来惹我的话，我杀了他。快走！”

　　热派听话离开，艾莉亚扔下胡萝卜，从背后拔出偷来的剑。她把剑鞘绑在背上，因为它是给成年男子打的，与她尺寸不合，佩在腰间的话，会撞到地面。它实在太重了，每次拿起这笨家伙，她便会想念“缝衣针”。好歹它可以杀人，这就够了。

　　她蹑手蹑脚地走到那棵长在小路拐弯处的老柳树边，单膝跪在青草和泥土中，以摇曳的柳枝作为掩护。远古诸神啊，她祈祷，歌手则继续逼近，树的神，请保护我，隐藏我，让他过去，让他过去……一匹马嘶叫起来，歌声嘎然而止。他听见了，她对此不抱幻想，但或许就一个人，就算不是，说不定他们怕我们就跟我们怕他们一样呢。

　　“听见了吗？”一个男人说，“我敢打赌，那堵墙后面有东西。”

　　“没错，”另一个更深沉的声音回答，“射手，你认为那里有什么？”

　　原来是两个人，艾莉亚咬紧嘴唇。由于柳树的关系，她看不见对方，只能听见声音。

　　“一头熊吧。”第三个声音参加进来，或者这就是第一个人？

　　“熊身上肉多，”那个深沉的声音说，“特别在秋天，会有许多脂肪，烤的话很好吃。”

　　“也可能是狼或狮子呢。”

　　“你指四条腿的？两条腿的？”

　　“四条腿跟两条腿的都是一丘之貉，不是吗？”

　　“那可不一样，四条腿的才能吃。射手，该你上场喽。”

　　“没问题，射几箭到墙后面，管他啥东西都会跑出来，等着瞧吧。”

　　“如果后面是个正派人呢？如果后面是个怀抱婴儿的可怜女子呢？”

　　“正派人应该出来跟我们见面，只有歹徒才会偷偷摸摸地藏起来。”

　　“对，正是如此。那就去吧，射手，放箭。”

　　听罢此言，艾莉亚跳将起来。“站住！”她亮出长剑。原来是三个人，她看清楚了，只有三个人。西利欧一人对付三个绰绰有余，而她还有热派和詹德利做伴呢。可惜他们是男孩，对方却是成年人。

　　三人皆为徒步，身上泥斑点点，风尘仆仆。她认出那个唱歌的，因为他抱着一把木竖琴，好像母亲抱着孩子。他个子小，年纪约莫五十岁，嘴巴大，鼻子尖，棕色的头发十分稀疏，褪色的绿衣服上到处用旧皮革打着补丁。他腰间别了一圈飞刀，背后悬一把伐木工的斧头。

　　站他旁边的人比他高出一尺，外貌像个兵。镶钉皮革剑带上挂一把长剑和一把匕首，衬衫缝了排排交叠的铁环，头戴一顶锥形黑铁半盔。他牙齿很黄，还有一把浓密的黄褐胡须，最引人注目的是那身带兜帽的亮黄斗篷。它又厚又沉，沾了青草和鲜血，下沿已被磨损，右肩用鹿皮打个补丁。这顶大斗篷穿在大个子身上，使他看上去象只黄色巨鸟。

　　三人中最后一位是个青年，和他手上的长弓一样纤瘦，但个头没长弓那么高。红头发，雀斑脸，穿镶钉战甲、高筒皮靴和无指皮手套，背一个箭囊。他用的箭装着灰色鹅毛，其中六支如一道小栅栏插在他面前的地上。

　　三个男人瞪着她手执长剑，站在小道中央。歌手懒洋洋地拨一下琴弦。“小子，”他说，“快把剑放下，这不是孩子家的玩具。再说，你冲过来之前，安盖能射穿你三次。”

　　“才怪！”艾莉亚道，“而且我是女生。”

　　“是嘛？”歌手鞠了一躬，“请原谅。”

　　“你们沿着小路继续走，往前面走，你继续唱歌，好让我知道你已经走了。走开，别来惹我们，我就不杀你。”

　　雀斑脸的弓箭手哈哈大笑，“柠檬，她说不杀我们，听到了吗？”

　　“听到了，”柠檬道，他就是那声音低沉的大个子士兵。

　　“孩子，”歌手说，“把剑放下，我们带你去安全的地方，还给你吃东西。这一带不仅有狼，有狮子，还有更可怕的东西哟，小女孩可不应该独自游荡。”

　　“她并非独自一人。”詹德利骑马冲出农舍墙壁，热派跟在后面，牵了她的马。詹德利身着链甲衫，长剑在手，雄赳赳气昂昂，看上去几乎就是个成年壮汉。热派看上去还是热派。“照她说的做，别来惹我们，”詹德利警告。

　　“两个，三个，”歌手数道，“所有人都在这儿？你们还有马，好可爱的马，从哪儿偷的呀？”

　　“这是我们的马。”艾莉亚审视着他们。歌手用谈话来分她的心，但最危险的是弓箭手。若他敢从地上拔箭……

　　“你俩是不是正派人，愿不愿把名字告诉我们呢？”歌手问两个男孩。

　　“我叫热派，”热派立即回答。

　　“取得好哇，”对方微笑，“我不是每天都能碰上这么好名字的孩子。你那两位朋友叫什么，羊排和乳鸽？”

　　詹德利坐在马上，皱起眉头。“我凭什么把名字告诉你？你自己也没报上姓名。”

　　“是么？那好，我乃七泉地方的汤姆，人称七弦汤姆和七神汤姆。这大个子痴汉，黄板牙的，叫柠檬，柠檬斗篷的简称。你知道，柠檬是黄的，味道也很酸，和他的脾气差不多。那边的年轻小伙儿是安盖，我们叫他射手。”

　　“你到底是谁？”柠檬用艾莉亚刚才听过的低沉嗓音问。

　　她可不会轻易透露真名。“愿意的话，叫乳鸽也行，”她说，“我无所谓。”

　　大个子咧嘴一笑。“拿剑的乳鸽，”他道，“希奇，真希奇。”

　　“我叫大牛，”詹德利边说边挡到艾莉亚前面。大牛至少比羊排好听。

　　七弦汤姆拨出一个愉快的音符，“热派、乳鸽和大牛，你们是从波顿大人的厨房里逃跑的吗？”

　　“你怎知道？”艾莉亚有些不知所措。

　　“小家伙，你分明戴着他的纹章。”

　　她居然忘了，她在羊毛斗篷下仍旧穿着侍酒的制服，胸口缝有恐怖堡的剥皮人。“我不是小家伙！”

　　“不对吗？”柠檬说，“你就是个臭屁小孩。”

　　“我比以前长大了。而且我不是孩子。”孩子不会杀人，可我会。

　　“我懂了，乳鸽，你不是寻常小孩，而是波顿家的崽。”

　　“根本不对。”热派根本不知道闭嘴。“事实上，他到赫伦堡之前我们就在那儿了。”

　　“这么说，你们是小狮子，对吧？”汤姆道。

　　“也不对，我们就是我们自己，不是谁的人。你们呢？”

　　射手安盖说：“我们是国王的人。”

　　艾莉亚皱起眉头，“哪个国王？”

　　“劳勃国王，”黄斗篷的柠檬道。

　　“那老酒鬼？”詹德利轻蔑地说，“他被野猪杀了，大家都知道。”

　　“是啊，孩子，”七弦汤姆道，“真令人遗憾。”他弹出一个哀伤的音符。

　　艾莉亚不相信对方是国王的人。瞧他们穿得破破烂烂，活象一群土匪，甚至连马都没有。国王的人应该有马才对。

　　热派听了却很激动。“我们要去奔流城咧，”他说，“骑马得走多少天，你们知道吗？”

　　艾莉亚差点想杀了他，“安静！否则我拿石头塞你的苯嘴巴。”

　　“奔流城在上游，很远，”汤姆道，“远得会饿穿你们的肚皮。出发以前，想不想吃顿热腾腾的饭菜呢？前面不远处有家客栈，是我朋友开的。我说，咱们还是化干戈为玉帛，敬几杯酒，吃几块面包吧。”

　　“一家客栈？”想到热腾腾的饭菜，艾莉亚的肚子打起咕噜来，但她不信任汤姆。并非说话和气的就是朋友。“前面不远处？”

　　“往上游走两里地，”汤姆说，“顶多一里格。”

　　詹德利看上去跟她一样怀疑。“你说的‘朋友’是什么意思？”他谨慎地问。

　　“朋友就是朋友。没听过这个词吗？”柠檬道。

　　“店家叫沙玛，”汤姆插嘴，“舌尖眼厉，但我向你保证，她心肠好，而且最喜欢小女孩。”

　　“我不是小女孩，”她气愤地说，“那儿还有谁？不止一个人吧？”

　　“还有沙玛的丈夫，以及一个被收养的孤儿。他们不会伤害你。到时候有麦酒——如果你能喝——有面包，也许还有一点肉。”汤姆瞥瞥农舍，“外加你从老佩特的花园里偷的菜。”

　　“我才不偷东西，”艾莉亚说。

　　“那你是老佩特的女儿喽？他妹妹？他老婆？得了，乳鸽，老佩特是我亲手埋的，就埋在你躲的那棵柳树下，你跟他长得可不像。”他又拨出一个忧伤的音符。“过去这一年来，我们埋了许多好人，但并不想埋你，我以这把竖琴的名义发誓。射手，露一手。”

　　射手的动作比艾莉亚想象的快得多。飞箭从她脑袋边呼啸而过，离耳朵只有一寸，插进柳树树干。她还没回过神来，对方已搭上第二支，引弓待发。她本以为自己能做到西利欧口中的“迅如蛇”和“柔如丝”，现在才明白实在差得远。箭只在身后如蜜蜂一样“嗡嗡”作响，抖动不休。“你没射中，”她说。

　　“你这样想就更蠢了，”安盖道，“我指哪儿射哪儿。”

　　“说的好，”柠檬斗篷赞同。

　　射手离她足有十几步远。我们没机会，艾莉亚心想，要是我有他那把弓，并像他一样会用箭就好了。她怏怏地放低沉重的长剑，剑尖触到地面。“去瞧瞧这家客栈也罢，”她勉强让步，企图用言语隐藏心中的疑虑，“但你们得走前面，我们骑马跟在后，好看着你们。”

　　七弦汤姆深深一鞠躬，“前面，后面，都没关系。来吧，孩子们，让我们带路。安盖，把箭拔起来，在这儿派不上用场了。”

　　艾莉亚收剑入鞘，走到小路对面去见朋友们。他们继续跟三个陌生人保持距离。“热派，把白菜拿上，”她边说边翻身上马，“还有我的胡萝卜。”

　　这回他没争辩。出发之后，两个男孩照她吩咐的那样缓缓骑马，离三个步行者十余步，沿着印满车辙的路往前走。但过不多久，他们又不知不觉地赶了上去。七弦汤姆走得很慢，边行边弹木竖琴。“你们会唱什么歌？”他问，“和我一起来，好么？柠檬根本不入调，而这长弓小子只会他们边疆地的民谣，一首得有一百句那么长。”

　　“咱边疆地的歌才是真正的歌咧，”安盖温和地表示。

　　“笨蛋才唱歌，”艾莉亚道，“唱歌是制造噪声。瞧，我们很远就听到了，可以来杀你们。”

　　汤姆的微笑表明他不以为然，“好汉子宁愿哼着歌奔赴黄泉。”

　　“狼或狮子都逃不过我们的眼光，”柠檬大咧咧地说，“因为这是我们的森林。”

　　“但你们就没发现我们，”詹德利道。

　　“噢，孩子，别那么肯定，”汤姆说，“有的人说的少，做得多。”

　　热派在马鞍上挪了一下。“我知道一首关于熊的歌，”他说，“会一点点。”

　　汤姆的手指滑过琴弦，“那我们一起来吧，热派小子。”他昂头唱道，“这只狗熊，狗熊，狗熊！全身黑棕，罩着毛绒……”

　　热派神气活现地加入，甚至在马鞍上依着节奏轻轻摇晃。艾莉亚吃惊地瞪着他：他竟有副好嗓子，唱得也好。除了烤面包，她本以为他做不好任何事。

　　走不多远，有条小溪注入三叉戟河，当他们涉水穿越时，歌声惊起芦苇丛中一只鸭子。安盖原地站定，弯弓搭箭，将它射了下来。鸟儿落在岸边的浅滩。柠檬脱下黄斗篷，淌入及膝深的水中去取，边走边抱怨。“沙玛的地窖里会不会有真柠檬？”安盖问汤姆，他们看柠檬溅起层层水花，粗口诅咒。“多恩的女孩曾用柠檬给我煮鸭子咧，”射手渴望地说。

　　过了小溪，汤姆和热派继续唱歌，鸭子则被柠檬挂在皮带。唱着唱着，似乎路途也变得不那么遥远，客栈很快出现在眼前。它耸立在三叉戟河的拐弯处，河流由此转向南方。艾莉亚怀疑地斜睨它。这不像歹徒的巢穴，她不得不承认，上层刷成白色，石板房顶，烟囱里轻烟袅袅升起。一切都很正常，甚至有几分亲切。马厩和其他建筑环绕在周围，后面有座凉亭，还有些苹果树和一个小花园。这家客栈甚至带着伸向河中的码头，以及……

　　“詹德利，”她急切地低唤，“他们有船耶。剩下的路我们坐船，肯定比骑马快。”

　　他似乎很怀疑，“你驾过船吗？”

　　“升起帆，”她说，“风就会带你走了。”

　　“假如风向不对呢？”

　　“还有桨呀。”

　　“逆着水划？”詹德利皱起眉头，“那岂不很慢？如果船翻了，掉进水里怎么办？再说了，那不是我们的船，是这家客栈的船。”

　　我们可以取走它，艾莉亚心想，但她咬紧嘴唇，什么也没说。他们在马厩前下马，虽然看不见别的牲畜，可是畜栏里有新鲜粪便。“得留一个人看马，”她警惕地说。

　　这话被汤姆听到了，“没必要吧，乳鸽，快进来吃东西，它们没事的。”

　　“我留下，”詹德利道，毫不理会歌手。“你们吃完再来替我。”

　　艾莉亚点点头，转身去追热派和柠檬。长剑仍插在背上的剑鞘里，而她一只手始终没有离开从卢斯·波顿那儿偷来的匕首，以防万一。

　　门边铁柱上挂着一张招牌，画了某位下跪的老国王。进去是大堂，一个又高又丑、下巴多瘤的女人叉腰站着，朝她怒目而视，“别站在那儿，小子，”她扯起嗓门喊，“你好象是女的？管你是什么，反正别堵我的门。要么进来，要么出去。柠檬，地板的事老娘跟你说过几百遍了？你浑身是泥！”

　　“我们打下一只鸭子。”柠檬像举白旗般把它举起来。

　　女人一把抓过，“安盖射下一只鸭子。快把靴子脱掉，你聋了还是傻了？”她转身叫道，“老公！上来，臭小子们回来了。老公！”

　　从地窖里咕哝着走上来一个男人，身穿沾有污渍的围裙。他比那女人矮一头，脸胖胖的，松垮的黄皮肤上看得到疱疹的痕迹。“来了来了，老婆，别叫唤。到底什么事啊？”

　　“把它挂起来，”她边说边把鸭子塞给他。

　　安盖蹭蹭脚。“我们以为能吃它咧，沙玛，如果你有柠檬的话，可以煮着吃。”

　　“柠檬？我上哪儿去弄柠檬？你把这里当多恩吗，长雀斑的傻瓜？你为什么不跳上柠檬树为我们摘一箩筐，外加可口的橄榄和石榴呢？”她朝他晃晃手指。“老娘没有柠檬，你实在想吃的话，可以把鸭子跟柠檬的斗篷一起煮，但得先挂上几天。这顿要么吃兔子，要么就别吃。饿的话，叉上就烤；不急呢，就用麦酒和洋葱炖。”

　　听她这么说，艾莉亚流下口水。“我们没钱，但带了些萝卜和白菜，可以跟你换。”

　　“是吗？它们在哪儿？”

　　“热派，把白菜给她，”艾莉亚道。他照办了，尽管行动小心翼翼，仿佛当她是罗尔杰、尖牙或者瓦格·赫特。

　　那女人仔细看了看蔬菜，又仔细打量男孩。“热派在哪儿？”

　　“在这儿。我，我就叫热派。她是……呃……乳鸽。”

　　“老娘屋檐下你们得换个名儿，菜和人可不能混在一起。老公！”

　　丈夫刚想溜出去，被她一叫，赶紧回来。“鸭子挂好了，还有什么事，老婆？”

　　“洗菜！”她命令，“我去弄饭，你们都给我坐着别动，让我家小子来张罗喝的。”她顺着长鼻子看看艾莉亚和热派。“我不给孩子提供麦酒，但果酒喝光了，又没奶牛可以挤奶，河水尝起来都是战争的味道。顺流飘下那么多死人，我给你一杯满是死苍蝇的汤，你会喝吗？”

　　“阿利会，”热派道，“我是说，乳鸽会。”

　　“柠檬也会，”安盖不怀好意地笑笑。

　　“你少管柠檬，”沙玛道，“大家都喝麦酒。”她急惊风一样地扫向厨房。

　　安盖和七弦汤姆挑了靠近壁炉的桌子坐下，柠檬找地方挂他的黄色大斗篷。热派“扑通”一声坐到门边板凳，艾莉亚挤到他旁边。

　　汤姆卸下竖琴。“有家孤独客栈在林间小路上哟，”他唱道，曲调奏得缓慢，以配合歌词。“店家的老婆象蛤蟆一样难看……”

　　“换首歌，否则就吃不到兔子了，”柠檬警告他，“你知道她什么德性。”

　　艾莉亚倾身靠近热派。“你会驾船吗？”她问。他还不及回答，只见一个约莫十五六岁的矮胖男孩端着几杯麦酒出现。热派虔诚地双手接住，啜了一口，露出艾莉亚从未见过的灿烂笑容。“麦酒耶，”他轻声叹道，“还有兔子。”

　　“嗷，为陛下干杯！”射手安盖举起杯子，兴高采烈地喊，“七神保佑国王！”

　　“噢，孩子，别那么肯定，”汤姆说，“有的人说的少，做得多。”

　　热派在马鞍上挪了一下。“我知道一首关于熊的歌，”他说，“会一点点。”

　　汤姆的手指滑过琴弦，“那我们一起来吧，热派小子。”他昂头唱道，“这只狗熊，狗熊，狗熊！全身黑棕，罩着毛绒……”

　　热派神气活现地加入，甚至在马鞍上依着节奏轻轻摇晃。艾莉亚吃惊地瞪着他：他竟有副好嗓子，唱得也好。除了烤面包，她本以为他做不好任何事。

　　走不多远，有条小溪注入三叉戟河，当他们涉水穿越时，歌声惊起芦苇丛中一只鸭子。安盖原地站定，弯弓搭箭，将它射了下来。鸟儿落在岸边的浅滩。柠檬脱下黄斗篷，淌入及膝深的水中去取，边走边抱怨。“沙玛的地窖里会不会有真柠檬？”安盖问汤姆，他们看柠檬溅起层层水花，粗口诅咒。“多恩的女孩曾用柠檬给我煮鸭子咧，”射手渴望地说。

　　过了小溪，汤姆和热派继续唱歌，鸭子则被柠檬挂在皮带。唱着唱着，似乎路途也变得不那么遥远，客栈很快出现在眼前。它耸立在三叉戟河的拐弯处，河流由此转向南方。艾莉亚怀疑地斜睨它。这不像歹徒的巢穴，她不得不承认，上层刷成白色，石板房顶，烟囱里轻烟袅袅升起。一切都很正常，甚至有几分亲切。马厩和其他建筑环绕在周围，后面有座凉亭，还有些苹果树和一个小花园。这家客栈甚至带着伸向河中的码头，以及……

　　“詹德利，”她急切地低唤，“他们有船耶。剩下的路我们坐船，肯定比骑马快。”

　　他似乎很怀疑，“你驾过船吗？”

　　“升起帆，”她说，“风就会带你走了。”

　　“假如风向不对呢？”

　　“还有桨呀。”

　　“逆着水划？”詹德利皱起眉头，“那岂不很慢？如果船翻了，掉进水里怎么办？再说了，那不是我们的船，是这家客栈的船。”

　　我们可以取走它，艾莉亚心想，但她咬紧嘴唇，什么也没说。他们在马厩前下马，虽然看不见别的牲畜，可是畜栏里有新鲜粪便。“得留一个人看马，”她警惕地说。

　　这话被汤姆听到了，“没必要吧，乳鸽，快进来吃东西，它们没事的。”

　　“我留下，”詹德利道，毫不理会歌手。“你们吃完再来替我。”

　　艾莉亚点点头，转身去追热派和柠檬。长剑仍插在背上的剑鞘里，而她一只手始终没有离开从卢斯·波顿那儿偷来的匕首，以防万一。

　　门边铁柱上挂着一张招牌，画了某位下跪的老国王。进去是大堂，一个又高又丑、下巴多瘤的女人叉腰站着，朝她怒目而视，“别站在那儿，小子，”她扯起嗓门喊，“你好象是女的？管你是什么，反正别堵我的门。要么进来，要么出去。柠檬，地板的事老娘跟你说过几百遍了？你浑身是泥！”

　　“我们打下一只鸭子。”柠檬像举白旗般把它举起来。

　　女人一把抓过，“安盖射下一只鸭子。快把靴子脱掉，你聋了还是傻了？”她转身叫道，“老公！上来，臭小子们回来了。老公！”

　　从地窖里咕哝着走上来一个男人，身穿沾有污渍的围裙。他比那女人矮一头，脸胖胖的，松垮的黄皮肤上看得到疱疹的痕迹。“来了来了，老婆，别叫唤。到底什么事啊？”

　　“把它挂起来，”她边说边把鸭子塞给他。

　　安盖蹭蹭脚。“我们以为能吃它咧，沙玛，如果你有柠檬的话，可以煮着吃。”

　　“柠檬？我上哪儿去弄柠檬？你把这里当多恩吗，长雀斑的傻瓜？你为什么不跳上柠檬树为我们摘一箩筐，外加可口的橄榄和石榴呢？”她朝他晃晃手指。“老娘没有柠檬，你实在想吃的话，可以把鸭子跟柠檬的斗篷一起煮，但得先挂上几天。这顿要么吃兔子，要么就别吃。饿的话，叉上就烤；不急呢，就用麦酒和洋葱炖。”

　　听她这么说，艾莉亚流下口水。“我们没钱，但带了些萝卜和白菜，可以跟你换。”

　　“是吗？它们在哪儿？”

　　“热派，把白菜给她，”艾莉亚道。他照办了，尽管行动小心翼翼，仿佛当她是罗尔杰、尖牙或者瓦格·赫特。

　　那女人仔细看了看蔬菜，又仔细打量男孩。“热派在哪儿？”

　　“在这儿。我，我就叫热派。她是……呃……乳鸽。”

　　“老娘屋檐下你们得换个名儿，菜和人可不能混在一起。老公！”

　　丈夫刚想溜出去，被她一叫，赶紧回来。“鸭子挂好了，还有什么事，老婆？”

　　“洗菜！”她命令，“我去弄饭，你们都给我坐着别动，让我家小子来张罗喝的。”她顺着长鼻子看看艾莉亚和热派。“我不给孩子提供麦酒，但果酒喝光了，又没奶牛可以挤奶，河水尝起来都是战争的味道。顺流飘下那么多死人，我给你一杯满是死苍蝇的汤，你会喝吗？”

　　“阿利会，”热派道，“我是说，乳鸽会。”

　　“柠檬也会，”安盖不怀好意地笑笑。

　　“你少管柠檬，”沙玛道，“大家都喝麦酒。”她急惊风一样地扫向厨房。

　　安盖和七弦汤姆挑了靠近壁炉的桌子坐下，柠檬找地方挂他的黄色大斗篷。热派“扑通”一声坐到门边板凳，艾莉亚挤到他旁边。

　　汤姆卸下竖琴。“有家孤独客栈在林间小路上哟，”他唱道，曲调奏得缓慢，以配合歌词。“店家的老婆象蛤蟆一样难看……”

　　“换首歌，否则就吃不到兔子了，”柠檬警告他，“你知道她什么德性。”

　　艾莉亚倾身靠近热派。“你会驾船吗？”她问。他还不及回答，只见一个约莫十五六岁的矮胖男孩端着几杯麦酒出现。热派虔诚地双手接住，啜了一口，露出艾莉亚从未见过的灿烂笑容。“麦酒耶，”他轻声叹道，“还有兔子。”

　　“嗷，为陛下干杯！”射手安盖举起杯子，兴高采烈地喊，“七神保佑国王！”

　　“保佑所有的国王，”柠檬斗篷咕哝着。他喝了一口，用手背抹去嘴边的泡沫。

　　老板娘的丈夫急匆匆地从前门赶来，围裙里兜了一大堆洗好的蔬菜。“马厩里有马！”他宣布，当他们还不知道一样。

　　“是啊，”汤姆边说边放下木竖琴，“比你送出去的三匹要好。”

　　那丈夫恼怒地将蔬菜扔到桌子上。“不是送，是卖的！卖了个好价钱，还搞到一艘小船。不管怎么说，把马弄回来是你们这帮家伙的责任。”

　　我就知道他们是土匪，艾莉亚边听边想。她伸手到桌子底下，摸摸匕首柄，确认它还在。敢来打劫的话，我会让他们后悔的。

　　“根本没人往这边过，”柠檬说。

　　“呃，我明明叫他们朝这边走。你们一定喝醉了，要么就是睡过头。”

　　“我们？喝醉了？”汤姆深吸一大口麦酒，“从来不会。”

　　“你们可以自己干，”柠檬告诉老板娘的丈夫。

　　“凭什么，凭这孩子？我再说一遍，我家老婆子当时去羊肠镇帮芬穆生崽了，多半就是你们这帮家伙让那可怜的女孩怀上的。”他酸溜溜地看了汤姆一眼。“看什么？就是你！我敢打赌，是你用那把竖琴，弹些个悲伤曲子，好让可怜的芬穆脱衣服。”

　　“如果唱歌弹琴能使姑娘脱下衣服，感受温暖明媚的阳光，这难道是歌手的错吗？”汤姆反问。“此外，她看上的是安盖。‘我能摸摸你的弓吗？’我听她问，‘噢噢噢，它又滑又硬，拉一拉成不成？’”

　　那丈夫哼了一声，“是你还是安盖，都没差，反正跟我一样该为丢马负责。我说，他们有三个，我一个怎么对付得了三个？”

　　“三个？”柠檬嗤之以鼻，“一个是女人，一个戴铁链，你自己说的。”

　　那丈夫扮个鬼脸，“大个子女人，穿得象男子。而那戴铁链的……我讨厌他的眼睛。”

　　喝酒的安盖笑道：“我不喜欢谁的眼睛，就射穿它。”

　　艾莉亚忆起擦过耳边那支箭，忽然很想拜他为师。

　　那丈夫却不为所动，“长辈说话时安静点！喝酒就是，管住舌头，否则我让我家老婆子给你一勺子。”

　　“哈，老大爷，怕大嫂的该是你吧。好啦，至少喝酒不要你教。”他边说边咽下一大口，以兹证明。

　　艾莉亚也喝了一大口。这些天来，他们一直喝溪水和坑洞里的水，还有混浊的三叉戟河水，而今麦酒就象以前父亲在特殊场合才准她啜饮一杯的葡萄酒般可口。厨房飘出的香气让她垂涎欲滴，她强迫自己思考那艘小船。驾船比偷船难。只等他们睡着……

　　小男孩拿着几大轮面包出现。艾莉亚忙不迭地扯下一大块，咬将下去。又粗又硬，不好吃，底部还烤焦了。

　　热派尝了一口，做个鬼脸。“这面包太糟糕，”他说，“不仅烤糊了，里面还是硬的。”

　　“蘸点肉汤会好一点，”柠檬道。

　　“见鬼，才不会咧，”安盖说，“蘸点水只能保你的牙不被嘣掉。”

　　“妈的，小子，你要么吃了它，要么继续饿肚子，”那丈夫道，“我他妈看起来像面包师吗？你来就能做好啦？”

　　“我当然行，”热派说，“这很容易。你捏面团捏得过头了，所以嚼起来才这么硬。”他又喝下一口麦酒，开始大谈特谈面包、馅饼和烘饼——这些他最钟爱的东西。艾莉亚翻翻白眼。

　　汤姆坐到她对面。“乳鸽，”他说，“阿利，不管你真名叫什么，这个给你。”他将一片肮脏的羊皮纸放在他们之间的木桌面上。

　　她怀疑地看看它。“这是什么？”

　　“三枚金龙币。用来买马。”

　　艾莉亚警觉起来，“那是我们的马。”

　　“你们偷的马，对吧？没什么好羞耻的，孩子，可恨的战争让正派人变成了盗贼。”汤姆敲敲折叠好的羊皮纸。“我们出的是高价，说实话，那三匹马不值这么多。”

　　热派抓起羊皮纸，打开来看。“没有金币，”他大声抱怨，“只有几个字。”

　　“是的，”汤姆说，“对此我很抱歉。但战争结束之后，我们便会兑现，我是国王的人，以国王的名义向你担保。”

　　艾莉亚推开桌子，站起身来，“你们不是国王的人，你们是强盗！”

　　“等哪天你碰到真正的强盗，就会发现之间的区别。他们决不会付钱补偿，即便欠条也不给。孩子，我们要马不是为自己，而是为国家，为了来去方便，好及时赶去打仗。为国王打仗。你要拒绝国王吗？”

　　他们一齐看着她；射手安盖，大个子柠檬，还有那面如菜色、眼神游移的丈夫。甚至站在厨房门口的沙玛也斜睨着。不管我说什么，他们都会抢走我们的马，她意识到，只好走着去奔流城，除非……“我们不要纸，”艾莉亚拍掉热派手中那张羊皮纸，“我们要外面那条船，还要你们教怎么用。”

　　七弦汤姆瞪了她一会儿，然后他那张大嘴仿佛突然憋不住，大笑失声。安盖也笑，大家都在笑，柠檬斗篷，沙玛，那个丈夫，甚至伺候的男孩……他从木桶后走出来，胳膊夹着一把十字弓。艾莉亚想朝他们尖叫，她强迫自己微笑……

　　“有骑兵！”詹德利的尖叫中充满警惕，他踢门闯进来。“有骑兵！”他喘着气道，“沿着河边小路过来，有十几个。”

　　热派一跃而起，打翻酒杯，但汤姆等人泰然自若。“把顶好的麦酒洒在老娘地板上可不对，”沙玛说，“乖乖坐下，小子，兔子肉来了。还有你，女孩儿，不管有过什么遭遇，都已经结束，已经过去了。你现在跟国王的人在一起，我们会保护你的安全。”

　　艾莉亚惟一的反应就是伸手过肩去拔剑，刚拔出一半，手腕就被柠檬扣住。“够了！你想干嘛！”他扭她的胳膊，直到她松手。他的指头坚硬而布满老茧，十分有力。来了！艾莉亚心想，又来了！我又要回到湖边的仓库，又要见到奇斯威克、甜嘴拉夫和魔山。他们要偷走我的剑，让我变回老鼠！她左手握住酒杯，朝柠檬的脸砸去。麦酒涌出来，溅入他的眼睛，接着是鼻子断裂声和喷射的鲜血。他吼叫着双手去捂，她则获得了自由。“大家快跑！”她一边尖叫，一边飞箭般跑开。

　　柠檬立即赶上，他的长腿一步当她三步。虽然她又扭又踢，却依旧被他轻松提离地面，在空中挣扎摇晃。血从他脸上流下来。

　　“停下，你这小笨蛋，”他边喊边晃她，“快停下！”詹德利要过来帮她，但七弦汤姆掏出匕首挡在前面。

　　要逃来不及了。外面传来马嘶和人声，片刻之后，一个泰洛西人昂首阔步地走进门来。他比柠檬更高大，浓密的大胡子末端是亮绿色，新长出来的却是灰色。后面跟着两名十字弓兵，扶一个伤员，然后是其他人……

　　艾莉亚没见过如此衣杉褴褛的队伍，但他们手中的长剑、战斧和弓箭很精良。有两人进门时好奇地瞥了她几眼，但没有说话。一个戴生锈半盔的独眼人嗅嗅空气，咧嘴微笑，一个满头僵硬黄发的弓箭手大叫着要麦酒。队伍末尾是一个戴狮冠盔的长矛兵，一个跛腿老人，一个布拉佛斯雇佣兵和……

　　“哈尔温？”艾莉亚轻声道。是他！真的是他！透过胡子和纠结的头发，她看见胡伦儿子的脸，他从前常牵她的小马在院里走动，常跟琼恩和罗柏一起练习长熗冲刺，在宴会上他酒量惊人。而今他虽瘦了，却变得强壮，还留起了以前从未留过的胡子。真的是他——她父亲的人！“哈尔温！”她挣扎着向前去，试图挣脱柠檬铁一般的抓握。“是我啊，”她喊，“哈尔温，是我，你不认识我了吗，不认识了吗？”泪水涌出来，她发现自己像婴儿一样哭泣，又变回从前那个苯女孩。“哈尔温，是我啊！”

　　哈尔温看看她的脸，又看看她衣服上的剥皮人。“你认识我？”他怀疑地皱起眉头，“剥皮人纹章……伺候水蛭大人的小厮怎会认识我？”

　　一时她不知如何回答。她有过那么多名字，她真的还是艾莉亚·史塔克吗？“我是女生，”她抽泣着，“我是波顿大人的侍酒，但他要把我交给山羊，所以我跟詹德利和热派一起逃了。你一定认识我的！我小时候，你牵过我的小马。”

　　他瞪大眼睛。“诸神在上，”他的声音噎住了，“捣蛋鬼艾莉亚？柠檬，快把她放开。”

　　“这家伙打断了我的鼻子。”柠檬随手把她扔在地上。“七层地狱，她究竟是什么人？”

　　“她是首相之女。”哈尔温单膝跪下。“临冬城的艾莉亚·史塔克。”

CATELYN
Robb, she knew, the moment she heard the kennels erupt.
Her son had returned to Riverrun, and Grey Wind with him. Only the scent of the great grey direwolf could send the hounds into such a frenzy of baying and barking. He will come to me, she knew. Edmure had not returned after his first visit, preferring to spend his days with Marq Piper and Patrek Mallister, listening to Rymund the Rhymer’s verses about the battle at the Stone Mill. Robb is not Edmure, though. Robb will see me.
It had been raining for days now, a cold grey downpour that well suited Catelyn’s mood. Her father was growing weaker and more delirious with every passing day, waking only to mutter, “Tansy,” and beg forgiveness. Edmure shunned her, and Ser Desmond Grell still denied her freedom of the castle, however unhappy it seemed to make him. Only the return of Ser Robin Ryger and his men, footweary and drenched to the bone, served to lighten her spirits. They had walked back, it seemed. Somehow the Kingslayer had contrived to sink their galley and escape, Maester Vyman confided. Catelyn asked if she might speak with Ser Robin to learn more of what had happened, but that was refused her.
Something else was wrong as well. On the day her brother returned, a few hours after their argument, she had heard angry voices from the yard below. When she climbed to the roof to see, there were knots of men gathered across the castle beside the main gate. Horses were being led from the stables, saddled and bridled, and there was shouting, though Catelyn was too far away to make out the words. One of Robb’s white banners lay on the ground, and one of the knights turned his horse and trampled over the direwolf as he spurred toward the gate. Several others did the same. Those are men who fought with Edmure on the fords, she thought. What could have made them so angry? Has my brother slighted them somehow, given them some insult? She thought she recognized Ser Perwyn Frey, who had traveled with her to Bitterbridge and Storm’s End and back, and his bastard half brother Martyn Rivers as well, but from this vantage it was hard to be certain. Close to forty men poured out through the castle gates, to what end she did not know.
They did not come back. Nor would Maester Vyman tell her who they had been, where they had gone, or what had made them so angry. “I am here to see to your father, and only that, my lady,” he said. “Your brother will soon be Lord of Riverrun. What he wishes you to know, he must tell you.”
But now Robb was returned from the west, returned in triumph. He will forgive me, Catelyn told herself. He must forgive me, he is my own son, and Arya and Sansa are as much his blood as mine. He will free me from these rooms and then I will know what has happened.
By the time Ser Desmond came for her, she had bathed and dressed and combed out her auburn hair. “King Robb has returned from the west, my lady,” the knight said, “and commands that you attend him in the Great Hall.”
It was the moment she had dreamt of and dreaded. Have I lost two sons, or three? She would know soon enough.
The hall was crowded when they entered. Every eye was on the dais, but Catelyn knew their backs: Lady Mormont’s patched ringmail, the Greatjon and his son looming above every other head in the hall, Lord Jason Mallister white-haired with his winged helm in the crook of his arm, Tytos Blackwood in his magnificent raven-feather cloak . . . Half of them will want to hang me now. The other half may only turn their eyes away. She had the uneasy feeling that someone was missing, too.
Robb stood on the dais. He is a boy no longer, she realized with a pang. He is sixteen now, a man grown. Just look at him. War had melted all the softness from his face and left him hard and lean. He had shaved his beard away, but his auburn hair fell uncut to his shoulders. The recent rains had rusted his mail and left brown stains on the white of his cloak and surcoat. Or perhaps the stains were blood. On his head was the sword crown they had fashioned him of bronze and iron. He bears it more comfortably now. He bears it like a king.
Edmure stood below the crowded dais, head bowed modestly as Robb praised his victory. “ . . . fell at the Stone Mill shall never be forgotten. Small wonder Lord Tywin ran off to fight Stannis. He’d had his fill of northmen and rivermen both.” That brought laughter and approving shouts, but Robb raised a hand for quiet. “Make no mistake, though. The Lannisters will march again, and there will be other battles to win before the kingdom is secure.”
The Greatjon roared out, “King in the North!” and thrust a mailed fist into the air. The river lords answered with a shout of “King of the Trident!” The hall grew thunderous with pounding fists and stamping feet.
Only a few noted Catelyn and Ser Desmond amidst the tumult, but they elbowed their fellows, and slowly a hush grew around her. She held her head high and ignored the eyes. Let them think what they will. It is Robb’s judgment that matters.
The sight of Ser Brynden Tully’s craggy face on the dais gave her comfort. A boy she did not know seemed to be acting as Robb’s squire. Behind him stood a young knight in a sand-colored surcoat blazoned with seashells, and an older one who wore three black pepperpots on a saffron bend, across a field of green and silver stripes. Between them were a handsome older lady and a pretty maid who looked to be her daughter. There was another girl as well, near Sansa’s age. The seashells were the sigil of some lesser house, Catelyn knew; the older man’s she did not recognize. Prisoners? Why would Robb bring captives onto the dais?
Utherydes Wayn banged his staff on the floor as Ser Desmond escorted her forward. If Robb looks at me as Edmure did, I do not know what I will do. But it seemed to her that it was not anger she saw in her son’s eyes, but something else . . . apprehension, perhaps? No, that made no sense. What should he fear? He was the Young Wolf, King of the Trident and the North.
Her uncle was the first to greet her. As black a fish as ever, Ser Brynden had no care for what others might think. He leapt off the dais and pulled Catelyn into his arms. When he said, “It is good to see you home, Cat,” she had to struggle to keep her composure. “And you,” she whispered.
“Mother.”
Catelyn looked up at her tall kingly son. “Your Grace, I have prayed for your safe return. I had heard you were wounded.”
“I took an arrow through the arm while storming the Crag,” he said. “It’s healed well, though. I had the best of care.”
“The gods are good, then.” Catelyn took a deep breath. Say it. It cannot be avoided. “They will have told you what I did. Did they tell you my reasons?”
“For the girls.”
“I had five children. Now I have three.”
“Aye, my lady.” Lord Rickard Karstark pushed past the Greatjon, like some grim specter with his black mail and long ragged grey beard, his narrow face pinched and cold. “And I have one son, who once had three. You have robbed me of my vengeance.”
Catelyn faced him calmly. “Lord Rickard, the Kingslayer’s dying would not have bought life for your children. His living may buy life for mine.”
The lord was unappeased. “Jaime Lannister has played you for a fool. You’ve bought a bag of empty words, no more. My Torrhen and my Eddard deserved better of you.”
“Leave off, Karstark,” rumbled the Greatjon, crossing his huge arms against his chest. “It was a mother’s folly. Women are made that way.”
“A mother’s folly?” Lord Karstark rounded on Lord Umber. “I name it treason.”
“Enough.” For just an instant Robb sounded more like Brandon than his father. “No man calls my lady of Winterfell a traitor in my hearing, Lord Rickard.” When he turned to Catelyn, his voice softened. “If I could wish the Kingslayer back in chains I would. You freed him without my knowledge or consent . . . but what you did, I know you did for love. For Arya and Sansa, and out of grief for Bran and Rickon. Love’s not always wise, I’ve learned. It can lead us to great folly, but we follow our hearts . . . wherever they take us. Don’t we, Mother?”
Is that what I did? “If my heart led me into folly, I would gladly make whatever amends I can to Lord Karstark and yourself.”
Lord Rickard’s face was implacable. “Will your amends warm Torrhen and Eddard in the cold graves where the Kingslayer laid them?” He shouldered between the Greatjon and Maege Mormont and left the hall.
Robb made no move to detain him. “Forgive him, Mother.”
“If you will forgive me.”
“I have. I know what it is to love so greatly you can think of nothing else.”
Catelyn bowed her head. “Thank you.” I have not lost this child, at least.
“We must talk,” Robb went on. “You and my uncles. Of this and . . . other things. Steward, call an end.”
Utherydes Wayn slammed his staff on the floor and shouted the dismissal, and river lords and northerners alike moved toward the doors. It was only then that Catelyn realized what was amiss. The wolf. The wolf is not here. Where is Grey Wind? She knew the direwolf had returned with Robb, she had heard the dogs, but he was not in the hall, not at her son’s side where he belonged.
Before she could think to question Robb, however, she found herself surrounded by a circle of well-wishers. Lady Mormont took her hand and said, “My lady, if Cersei Lannister held two of my daughters, I would have done the same.” The Greatjon, no respecter of proprieties, lifted her off her feet and squeezed her arms with his huge hairy hands. “Your wolf pup mauled the Kingslayer once, he’ll do it again if need be.” Galbart Glover and Lord Jason Mallister were cooler, and Jonos Bracken almost icy, but their words were courteous enough. Her brother was the last to approach her. “I pray for your girls as well, Cat. I hope you do not doubt that. “
“Of course not.” She kissed him. “I love you for it.”
When all the words were done, the Great Hall of Riverrun was empty save for Robb, the three Tullys, and the six strangers Catelyn could not place. She eyed them curiously. “My lady, sers, are you new to my son’s cause?”
“New,” said the younger knight, him of the seashells, “but fierce in our courage and firm in our loyalties, as I hope to prove to you, my lady.”
Robb looked uncomfortable. “Mother, “ he said, “may I present the Lady Sybell, the wife of Lord Gawen Westerling of the Crag.” The older woman came forward with solemn mien. “Her husband was one of those we took captive in the Whispering Wood.”
Westerling, yes, Catelyn thought. Their banner is six seashells, white on sand. A minor house sworn to the Lannisters.
Robb beckoned the other strangers forward, each in turn. “Ser Rolph Spicer, Lady Sybell’s brother. He was castellan at the Crag when we took it.” The pepperpot knight inclined his head. A square-built man with a broken nose and a close-cropped grey beard, he looked doughty enough. “The children of Lord Gawen and Lady Sybell. Ser Raynald Westerling.” The seashell knight smiled beneath a bushy mustache. Young, lean, rough-hewn, he had good teeth and a thick mop of chestnut hair. “Elenya.” The little girl did a quick curtsy. “Rollam Westerling, my squire.” The boy started to kneel, saw no one else was kneeling, and bowed instead.
“The honor is mine,” Catelyn said. Can Robb have won the Crag’s allegiance? If so, it was no wonder the Westerlings were with him. Casterly Rock did not suffer such betrayals gently. Not since Tywin Lannister had been old enough to go to war . . .
The maid came forward last, and very shy. Robb took her hand. “Mother,” he said, “I have the great honor to present you the Lady Jeyne Westerling. Lord Gawen’s elder daughter, and my . . . ah . . . my lady wife.”
The first thought that flew across Catelyn’s mind was, No, that cannot be, you are only a child.
The second was, And besides, you have pledged another.
The third was, Mother have mercy, Robb, what have you done?
Only then came her belated remembrance. Follies done for love? He has bagged me neat as a hare in a snare. I seem to have already forgiven him. Mixed with her annoyance was a rueful admiration; the scene had been staged with the cunning worthy of a master mummer . . . or a king. Catelyn saw no choice but to take Jeyne Westerling’s hands. “I have a new daughter,” she said, more stiffly than she’d intended. She kissed the terrified girl on both cheeks. “Be welcome to our hall and hearth.”
“Thank you, my lady. I shall be a good and true wife to Robb, I swear. And as wise a queen as I can.”
Queen. Yes, this pretty little girl is a queen, I must remember that. She was pretty, undeniably, with her chestnut curls and heart-shaped face, and that shy smile. Slender, but with good hips, Catelyn noted. She should have no trouble bearing children, at least.
Lady Sybell took a hand before any more was said. “We are honored to be joined to House Stark, my lady, but we are also very weary. We have come a long way in a short time. Perhaps we might retire to our chambers, so you may visit with your son?”
“That would be best.” Robb kissed his Jeyne. “The steward will find you suitable accommodations.”
“I’ll take you to him,” Ser Edmure Tully volunteered.
“You are most kind,” said Lady Sybell.
“Must I go too?” asked the boy, Rollam. “I’m your squire.”
Robb laughed. “But I’m not in need of squiring just now.”
“Oh.”
“His Grace has gotten along for sixteen years without you, Rollam,” said Ser Raynald of the seashells. “He will survive a few hours more, I think.” Taking his little brother firmly by the hand, he walked him from the hall.
“Your wife is lovely,” Catelyn said when they were out of earshot, “and the Westerlings seem worthy . . . though Lord Gawen is Tywin Lannister’s sworn man, is he not?”
“Yes. Jason Mallister captured him in the Whispering Wood and has been holding him at Seagard for ransom. Of course I’ll free him now, though he may not wish to join me. We wed without his consent, I fear, and this marriage puts him in dire peril. The Crag is not strong. For love of me, Jeyne may lose all.”
“And you,” she said softly, “have lost the Freys.”
His wince told all. She understood the angry voices now, why Perwyn Frey and Martyn Rivers had left in such haste, trampling Robb’s banner into the ground as they went.
“Dare I ask how many swords come with your bride, Robb?”
“Fifty. A dozen knights.” His voice was glum, as well it might be. When the marriage contract had been made at the Twins, old Lord Walder Frey had sent Robb off with a thousand mounted knights and near three thousand foot. “Jeyne is bright as well as beautiful. And kind as well. She has a gentle heart.”
It is swords you need, not gentle hearts. How could you do this, Robb? How could you be so heedless, so stupid? How could you be so . . . so very . . . young. Reproaches would not serve here, however. All she said was, “Tell me how this came to be.”
“I took her castle and she took my heart.,’ Robb smiled. “The Crag was weakly garrisoned, so we took it by storm one night. Black Walder and the Smalljon led scaling parties over the walls, while I broke the main gate with a ram. I took an arrow in the arm just before Ser Rolph yielded us the castle. It seemed nothing at first, but it festered. Jeyne had me taken to her own bed, and she nursed me until the fever passed. And she was with me when the Greatjon brought me the news of . . . of Winterfell. Bran and Rickon.” He seemed to have trouble saying his brothers’ names. “That night, she . . . she comforted me, Mother.”
Catelyn did not need to be told what sort of comfort Jeyne Westerling had offered her son. “And you wed her the next day.”
He looked her in the eyes, proud and miserable all at once. “It was the only honorable thing to do. She’s gentle and sweet, Mother, she will make me a good wife.”
“Perhaps. That will not appease Lord Frey.”
“I know,” her son said, stricken. “I’ve made a botch of everything but the battles, haven’t I? I thought the battles would be the hard part, but . . . if I had listened to you and kept Theon as my hostage, I’d still rule the north, and Bran and Rickon would be alive and safe in Winterfell.”
“Perhaps. Or not. Lord Balon might still have chanced war. The last time he reached for a crown, it cost him two sons. He might have thought it a bargain to lose only one this time.” She touched his arm. “What happened with the Freys, after you wed?”
Robb shook his head. “With Ser Stevron, I might have been able to make amends, but Ser Ryman is dull-witted as a stone, and Black Walder . . . that one was not named for the color of his beard, I promise you. He went so far as to say that his sisters would not be loath to wed a widower. I would have killed him for that if Jeyne had not begged me to be merciful.”
“You have done House Frey a grievous insult, Robb.”
“I never meant to. Ser Stevron died for me, and Olyvar was as loyal a squire as any king could want. He asked to stay with me, but Ser Ryman took him with the rest. All their strength. The Greatjon urged me to attack them . . . ”
“Fighting your own in the midst of your enemies?” she said. “It would have been the end of you.”
“Yes. I thought perhaps we could arrange other matches for Lord Walder’s daughters. Ser Wendel Manderly has offered to take one, and the Greatjon tells me his uncles wish to wed again. If Lord Walder will be reasonable—”
“He is not reasonable,” said Catelyn. “He is proud, and prickly to a fault. You know that. He wanted to be grandfather to a king. You will not appease him with the offer of two hoary old brigands and the second son of the fattest man in the Seven Kingdoms. Not only have you broken your oath, but you’ve slighted the honor of the Twins by choosing a bride from a lesser house.”
Robb bristled at that. “The Westerlings are better blood than the Freys. They’re an ancient line, descended from the First Men. The Kings of the Rock sometimes wed Westerlings before the Conquest, and there was another Jeyne Westerling who was queen to King Maegor three hundred years ago.”
“All of which will only salt Lord Walder’s wounds. It has always rankled him that older houses look down on the Freys as upstarts. This insult is not the first he’s borne, to hear him tell it. Jon Arryn was disinclined to foster his grandsons, and my father refused the offer of one of his daughters for Edmure.” She inclined her head toward her brother as he rejoined them.
“Your Grace,” Brynden Blackflsh said, “perhaps we had best continue this in private.”
“Yes.” Robb sounded tired. “I would kill for a cup of wine. The audience chamber, I think.”
As they started up the steps, Catelyn asked the question that had been troubling her since she entered the hall. “Robb, where is Grey Wind?”
“In the yard, with a haunch of mutton. I told the kennelmaster to see that he was fed.”
“You always kept him with you before.”
“A hall is no place for a wolf. He gets restless, you’ve seen. Growling and snapping. I should never have taken him into battle with me. He’s killed too many men to fear them now. Jeyne’s anxious around him, and he terrifies her mother.”
And there’s the heart of it, Catelyn thought. “He is part of you, Robb. To fear him is to fear you.”
“I am not a wolf, no matter what they call me.” Robb sounded cross. “Grey Wind killed a man at the Crag, another at Ashemark, and six or seven at Oxcross. If you had seen—”
“I saw Bran’s wolf tear out a man’s throat at Winterfell,” she said sharply, “and loved him for it.”
“That’s different. The man at the Crag was a knight Jeyne had known all her life. You can’t blame her for being afraid. Grey Wind doesn’t like her uncle either. He bares his teeth every time Ser Rolph comes near him.”
A chill went through her. “Send Ser Rolph away. At once.”
“Where? Back to the Crag, so the Lannisters can mount his head on a spike? Jeyne loves him. He’s her uncle, and a fair knight besides. I need more men like Rolph Spicer, not fewer. I am not going to banish him just because my wolf doesn’t seem to like the way he smells.”
“Robb.” She stopped and held his arm. “I told you once to keep Theon Greyjoy close, and you did not listen. Listen now. Send this man away. I am not saying you must banish him. Find some task that requires a man of courage, some honorable duty, what it is matters not . . . but do not keep him near you.”
He frowned. “Should I have Grey Wind sniff all my knights? There might be others whose smell he mislikes.”
“Any man Grey Wind mislikes is a man I do not want close to you. These wolves are more than wolves, Robb. You must know that. I think perhaps the gods sent them to us. Your father’s gods, the old gods of the north. Five wolf pups, Robb, five for five Stark children.”
“Six,” said Robb. “There was a wolf for Jon as well. I found them, remember? I know how many there were and where they came from. I used to think the same as you, that the wolves were our guardians, our protectors, until . . . ”
“Until?” she prompted.
Robb’s mouth tightened. “ . . . Until they told me that Theon had murdered Bran and Rickon. Small good their wolves did them. I am no longer a boy, Mother. I’m a king, and I can protect myself.” He sighed. “I will find some duty for Ser Rolph, some pretext to send him away. Not because of his smell, but to ease your mind. You have suffered enough.”
Relieved, Catelyn kissed him lightly on the cheek before the others could come around the turn of the stair, and for a moment he was her boy again, and not her king.
Lord Hoster’s private audience chamber was a small room above the Great Hall, better suited to intimate discussions. Robb took the high seat, removed his crown, and set it on the floor beside him as Catelyn rang for wine. Edmure was filling his uncle’s ear with the whole story of the fight at the Stone Mill. It was only after the servants had come and gone that the Blackfish cleared his throat and said, “I think we’ve all heard sufficient of your boasting, Nephew.”
Edmure was taken aback. “Boasting? What do you mean?”
“I mean,” said the Blackfish, “that you owe His Grace your thanks for his forbearance. He played out that mummer’s farce in the Great Hall so as not to shame you before your own people. Had it been me I would have flayed you for your stupidity rather than praising this folly of the fords.”
“Good men died to defend those fords, Uncle.” Edmure sounded outraged. “What, is no one to win victories but the Young Wolf? Did I steal some glory meant for you, Robb?”
“Your Grace,” Robb corrected, icy. “You took me for your king, Uncle. Or have you forgotten that as well?”
The Blackfish said, “You were commanded to hold Riverrun, Edmure, no more.”
“I held Riverrun, and I bloodied Lord Tywin’s nose—”
“So you did,” said Robb. “But a bloody nose won’t win the war, will it? Did you ever think to ask yourself why we remained in the west so long after Oxcross? You knew I did not have enough men to threaten Lannisport or Casterly Rock.”
“Why . . . there were other castles . . . gold, cattle . . . ”
“You think we stayed for plunder?” Robb was incredulous. “Uncle, I wanted Lord Tywin to come west.”
“We were all horsed,” Ser Brynden said. “The Lannister host was mainly foot. We planned to run Lord Tywin a merry chase up and down the coast, then slip behind him to take up a strong defensive position athwart the gold road, at a place my scouts had found where the ground would have been greatly in our favor. If he had come at us there, he would have paid a grievous price. But if he did not attack, he would have been trapped in the west, a thousand leagues from where he needed to be. All the while we would have lived off his land, instead of him living off ours.”
“Lord Stannis was about to fall upon King’s Landing,” Robb said. “He might have rid us of Joffrey, the queen, and the Imp in one red stroke. Then we might have been able to make a peace.”
Edmure looked from uncle to nephew. “You never told me.”
“I told you to hold Riverrun, “ said Robb. “What part of that command did you fail to comprehend?”
“When you stopped Lord Tywin on the Red Fork,” said the Blackfish, “you delayed him just long enough for riders out of Bitterbridge to reach him with word of what was happening to the east. Lord Tywin turned his host at once, joined up with Matthis Rowan and Randyll Tarly near the headwaters of the Blackwater, and made a forced march to Tumbler’s Falls, where he found Mace Tyrell and two of his sons waiting with a huge host and a fleet of barges. They floated down the river, disembarked half a day’s ride from the city, and took Stannis in the rear.”
Catelyn remembered King Renly’s court, as she had seen it at Bitterbridge. A thousand golden roses streaming in the wind, Queen Margaery’s shy smile and soft words, her brother the Knight of Flowers with the bloody linen around his temples. If you had to fall into a woman’s arms, my son, why couldn’t they have been Margaery Tyrell’s? The wealth and power of Highgarden could have made all the difference in the fighting yet to come. And perhaps Grey Wind would have liked the smell of her as well.
Edmure looked ill. “I never meant . . . never, Robb, you must let me make amends. I will lead the van in the next battle!”
For amends, Brother? Or for glory? Catelyn wondered.
“The next battle,” Robb said. “Well, that will be soon enough. Once Joffrey is wed, the Lannisters will take the fleld against me once more, I don’t doubt, and this time the Tyrells will march beside them. And I may need to fight the Freys as well, if Black Walder has his way . . . ”
“So long as Theon Greyjoy sits in your father’s seat with your brothers’ blood on his hands, these other foes must wait,” Catelyn told her son. “Your first duty is to defend your own people, win back Winterfell, and hang Theon in a crow’s cage to die slowly. Or else put off that crown for good, Robb, for men will know that you are no true king at all.”
From the way Robb looked at her, she could tell that it had been a long while since anyone had dared speak to him so bluntly. “When they told me Winterfell had fallen, I wanted to go north at once,” he said, with a hint of defensiveness. “I wanted to free Bran and Rickon, but I thought . . . I never dreamed that Theon could harm them, truly. If I had . . . ”
“It is too late for ifs, and too late for rescues,” Catelyn said. “All that remains is vengeance.”
“The last word we had from the north, Ser Rodrik had defeated a force of ironmen near Torrhen’s Square, and was assembling a host at Castle Cerwyn to retake Winterfell.” said Robb. “By now he may have done it. There has been no news for a long while. And what of the Trident, if I turn north? I can’t ask the river lords to abandon their own people.”
“No,” said Catelyn. “Leave them to guard their own, and win back the north with northmen.”
“How will you get the northmen to the north?” her brother Edmure asked. “The ironmen control the sunset sea. The Greyjoys hold Moat Cailin as well. No army has ever taken Moat Cailin from the south. Even to march against it is madness. We could be trapped on the causeway, with the ironborn before us and angry Freys at our backs.”
“We must win back the Freys,” said Robb. “With them, we still have some chance of success, however small. Without them, I see no hope. I am willing to give Lord Walder whatever he requires . . . apologies, honors, lands, gold . . . there must be something that would soothe his pride . . . ”
“Not something,” said Catelyn. “Someone.”

第十四章 凯特琳
　　是罗柏，兽舍沸腾的那一刻，她就知道了。
　　她的长子已带着灰风回到奔流城，只有那硕大的灰色冰原狼的气味会惹得猎狗们如此疯狂吠叫。他会来见我，她心想，艾德慕见了她一次以后，便再没来过，成天跟马柯·派柏和派崔克·梅利斯特在一起，听打油诗人雷蒙德歌颂石磨坊之役。罗柏不是艾德慕，罗柏会来见我。

　　雨连着下了好几天，冰冷灰暗，正与凯特琳的心境相符。日子一天天过去，父亲变得越发虚弱，越发神志不清，每当醒来，只会喃喃低语：“艾菊，”然后恳求原谅。艾德慕躲着她，戴斯蒙·格瑞尔爵士虽不情愿，仍禁止她在城堡内自由行动，惟有罗宾·莱格爵士的空手而归给了她不少安慰。兵士们回城时步伐疲倦，浑身湿透，看来是走回来的。韦曼学士说，他们的船被弑君者设计弄沉了。凯特琳请求和罗宾爵士谈话，以详细了解情况，却遭到拒绝。

　　有什么事不对劲。弟弟回来当天，他们争执之后不久，下面院子里传来愤怒的叫嚣，她爬上堡顶察看。只见一群人聚集在城堡正门处，牵着上好鞍配的战马，高声喝骂，凯特琳离得太远，听不清在说什么。一面白色冰原狼旗帜搁在地上，一名骑士飞弛而前，践踏旗帜，冲出城门，另有几人也依样而行。这些人在渡口之役里跟艾德慕并肩作战，她明白，而今为何如此愤怒？难道弟弟怠慢了他们，侮辱了他们？在人群中，她认出派温·佛雷爵士——他曾保护她往返苦桥和风息堡——以及他同父异母的兄弟马丁·河文。离得这么远，其他人都看不清楚，反正将近四十人离开奔流城，去往哪里不得而知。

　　他们没有回来。韦曼爵士不肯透露他们是谁，去了哪儿，以及他们愤怒的原因。“我是来照顾您父亲的，仅此而已，夫人，”他道，“您弟弟很快就会成为奔流城公爵，一切消息，可以由他亲口告诉您。”

　　现在罗柏已从西境凯旋而归。他会原谅我，凯特琳告诉自己，他必须原谅我，我是他的母亲，而艾莉亚和珊莎不仅是我的女儿，也是他的妹妹。他会放我出去，然后我就知道外面发生的事了。

　　戴斯蒙爵士来找她时，她已洗浴完毕，穿戴整齐，枣红的头发也梳理安好。“国王陛下西征归来，夫人，”骑士说，“命您去大厅见他。”

　　这是她梦寐以求的时刻，也是她所惧怕的时刻。我失去了两个儿子，还是三个？答案很快就要揭晓。

　　他们进去时，厅内已站满了人，每双眼睛都看着高台，但凯特琳认得出那些背影：穿着打补丁锁甲的莫尔蒙伯爵夫人，比在场所有人都高的大琼恩父子，一头白发、掖下夹着飞鹰盔的杰森·梅利斯特，穿着华丽的鸦羽披风的泰陀斯·布莱伍德……他们中有的人想吊死我，有的人假装不认识我。除此之外，她还有一种不安的感觉，似乎缺了什么。

　　罗柏站在高台上。他不再是孩子了，她心痛地意识到，他已经十六岁，迈入成人阶段，而战争将他脸上柔和的线条通通融掉，将他变得精瘦而坚强。他把胡子剃光，但枣红的头发没有剪，一直披到肩头。近来的雨水锈掉他的锁甲，在白披风和外套上留下棕色的污点。或许那是血吧。罗柏戴着青铜和黑铁的剑冠，戴得自在多了，戴得像个国王。

　　艾德慕站在拥挤的高台下，谦恭地低下头，罗柏正在表彰他的胜利。“……永不会忘记在石磨坊英勇献身的战士。正因为他们所显示出的北境和奔流城的力量，才使泰温公爵倍感挫折，不得不回头对付史坦尼斯。”这番话引起一阵笑闹和赞同，罗柏举手示意安静。“但我们不能放松警惕，兰尼斯特必将再度进犯，为了王国安泰，还得继续战斗。”

　　大琼恩吼道：“北境之王万岁！”并将一只钢甲拳头冲天举起。三河流域的领主们也大喊：“三河之王万岁！”。大厅里击拳跺脚的声音如雷鸣般响亮。

　　一片喧嚣中，起初少有人关注凯特琳和戴斯蒙爵士，但人们用胳膊互相捅挤，渐渐安静下来。她高昂着头，不去在意别人的目光。随他们怎么看，我只在乎罗柏。

　　高台上布林登·徒利粗犷的脸，使她感到安心。一个她不认识的男孩正担任罗柏的侍从，孩子后面站一个年轻骑士，穿着画了六只海贝的沙色外套，另一个年长骑士的徽章则是三个黑色胡椒罐，底色为绿银相间的斑纹。他们间有一位端庄的老妇人和一位美貌少女，看来是她女儿。此外，还有一个跟珊莎年纪相仿的女孩。海贝是西境某家小诸侯的纹章，凯特琳知道，但那个老骑士的纹章她不认识。他们是囚犯吗？罗柏为何让俘虏站到高台上？

　　戴斯蒙爵士护她上前，乌瑟莱斯·韦恩将权杖往地上重重一击，表示肃静。若罗柏象艾德慕一样待我，怎么办？但从儿子眼中，她看到的不是愤怒，而是别的什么……忧惧？不，这不可能，他有什么好怕的？他是少狼主，三叉戟河与北境之王啊。

　　叔叔首先向她致意。这条黑鱼从不管别人的看法，他径直跳下高台，将凯特琳揽进怀中，“回家见到你真好，凯特。”她不得不挣扎着保持镇静。“你也一样，”她低声说。

　　“母亲。”

　　凯特琳抬头望向她那威严高大的儿子。“陛下，我曾为您的安全回归而祈祷，听说您受了伤。”

　　“攻打峭岩城时，一支箭射穿手臂，”他道，“但伤口愈合得很好，因为我受到世上最好的照料。”

　　“诸神保佑。”凯特琳长出一口气。说吧，无法逃避的。“他们一定把我的作为禀报了您，是否也解释过我的理由呢？”

　　“为了两个女孩。”

　　“我有过五个孩子，现在只剩下三个。”

　　“是的，夫人。”瑞卡德·卡史塔克伯爵推开大琼恩走上前，黑锁甲和又长又粗的灰胡子使他看起来活象个阴沉的幽灵，那张长脸冰冷而痛苦。“我也有过三个儿子，现在只剩下一个……您剥夺了我复仇的权利！”

　　凯特琳平静地面对他。“瑞卡德大人，弑君者的死不能换得你儿子的生命，让他活着回去却能保我女儿归来。”

　　伯爵毫不信服，“詹姆·兰尼斯特拿您当熗使，把您当傻瓜！您得到的不过一堆空话，仅此而已！我的托伦和艾德决不会就此埋没。”

　　“算了吧，卡史塔克，”大琼恩将两条粗胳膊交叠在胸，咕哝道，“这是母亲的疯狂，女人天生就这个样。”

　　“母亲的疯狂？”卡史塔克伯爵转身面对安柏伯爵，“我说这是背叛！”

　　“够了。”片刻之间，罗柏听上去更象布兰登，而不是他父亲。“不准在我面前说临冬城的夫人是叛徒，瑞卡德大人。”他转向凯特琳，声音柔和下来。“我要将弑君者抓回来。你私自放走了他，既没通知我，更没征得我的同意……但我明白，你所做的一切都是为了爱，为了艾莉亚和珊莎，为了失去布兰和瑞肯的悲哀。从自己的角度出发，我已经明白，爱并不总是明智的，它往往会将我们引向愚行，但我们生而为人，遵循情感行动……而不管其后果如何。对吗，母亲？”

　　是么？“假如我的情感导致我的愚行，我真诚地向您和卡史塔克大人道歉。”

　　瑞卡德伯爵怒气不息，“弑君者杀害我的托伦和艾德，您道个歉就算完了？”他从大琼恩和梅姬·莫尔蒙中间挤过，离开大厅。

　　罗柏没有阻止他，“原谅他吧，母亲。”

　　“如果您愿意原谅我的话。”

　　“我已经原谅你了。爱到深切，让你无法考虑其余。”

　　凯特琳低下头，“谢谢。”至少我还没有失去这个孩子。

　　“我们得谈谈，”罗柏续道，“你和舅公、舅舅留下来，谈谈这事……以及其他一些事情。总管，宣布会议结束。”

　　乌瑟莱斯·韦恩用权杖敲击地面，高喊散会，三河诸侯和北地人便一起离开。凯特琳猛然意识到缺的是什么——狼。狼不在。灰风怎么了？那头冰原狼明明跟罗柏一起回来，她听见狗群吠叫。但他却不在厅内，不在她儿子身边，他上哪儿去了？

　　她还来不及问罗柏，就被一群前来表达善意的人所包围。莫尔蒙夫人拉住她的手，“夫人，若我有两个女儿被瑟曦·兰尼斯特抓住，也会这么做。”不拘礼节的大琼恩用毛绒绒的大胳膊使劲捏她双臂，将她提起来，“您的小狼崽打败过弑君者，日后疆场相逢，再干一次就是了。”盖伯特·葛洛佛和杰森·梅利斯特伯爵比较平静，杰诺斯·布雷肯则近乎冷漠，但他们的话都说得相当有礼。弟弟最后一个走来，“我也为你的女儿们祈祷，凯特，希望你不要怀疑。”

　　“当然不会，”她吻他，“我爱你。”

　　祝福完毕后，奔流城的大厅里空空荡荡，只剩罗柏、三个徒利家的人和六个凯特琳不认识的陌生人。她好奇地打量着他们，“先生们女士们，您们是新近参加我儿子的事业的吗？”

　　“是，”海贝徽章的年轻骑士说，“我们虽然新近加入，但勇气非凡，忠贞不移，您会看到的，夫人。”

　　罗柏看上去不大自在。“母亲，”他说，“请允许我向你介绍希蓓儿夫人，峭岩城伯爵加文·维斯特林的妻子。”老妇人仪态端庄地走向前，“她的丈夫被我们在呓语森林俘虏。”

　　维斯特林？是了，凯特琳心想，他们家的旗帜正是沙黄底色上的六枚白海贝。这个小家族效忠兰尼斯特。

　　罗柏依次招呼其他陌生人上前。“罗佛·斯派瑟（注）爵士，希蓓儿夫人的哥哥，我军攻打峭岩城时，他担任代理城主。”胡椒罐纹章的骑士点点头。他身材壮硕，有断鼻子和短短的灰胡须，看上去相当勇猛。“这几位是加文大人和希蓓儿夫人的孩子。雷纳德·维斯特林爵士。”海贝徽章的骑士在浓密的小胡子底微微一笑。他年轻，精瘦，粗犷，牙齿健康，栗色头发十分密实。“艾琳妮亚，”小女孩飞快地行了个屈膝礼。“洛拉姆·维斯特林，我的侍从，”男孩想跪下，见在场诸人都没跪，便慌忙改成鞠躬。

　　“非常荣幸，”凯特琳说。罗柏收服了峭岩城的维斯特林家族？若是这样，就没什么好奇怪的了。可是，凯岩城遭到如此背叛，一定咽不下这口气。是的，自打泰温·兰尼斯特能骑马上战场起就不会……

　　那美貌少女最后一个走上前，表现得很羞涩。罗柏执起她的手。“母亲，”他说，“我怀着最大的荣幸向你介绍简妮·维斯特林小姐，加文大人的长女，我的……呃……我的夫人。”

　　闪过凯特琳脑海的第一个想法是：不，这不可能，你只是个孩子。

　　第二个是：况且你已经许了一个。

　　第三个是：圣母慈悲，罗柏，你都干了些什么？

　　这时她明白了。为爱而犯下的愚行？他干净利落地把我象兔子一样套进陷阱，让我不得不原谅他，接受他。凯特琳虽恼火，却又感到一丝沮丧的钦佩，这出戏演得真巧妙……国王的游戏就该这样。凯特琳别无选择，只好握住简妮·维斯特林的手。“我又添了一个女儿，”她说，却觉得声音比较生硬，于是亲吻对方的双颊，“欢迎来到我们的大厅，与我们共享壁炉。”

　　“谢谢您，夫人，我会成为罗柏忠诚的好妻子，我发誓，尽力做个贤明的王后。”

　　王后。对，这个漂亮小姑娘是王后了，我必须记住。她的美貌无可挑剔，栗色卷发和心形的脸，还有那羞涩的笑容。她虽苗条，但臀部很大，凯特琳心想，生孩子应该没问题。

　　希蓓儿夫人举起一只手，“夫人，我们很荣幸加入史塔克家族的事业，但此刻从西境急匆匆赶来，业已人困马乏。陛下，是否可以准我们先回房间，让您们母子好好聊聊呢？”

　　“如此最好，”罗柏亲吻简妮，“总管会为你们安排住处。

　　“我带您们去找他，”艾德慕·徒利爵士自告奋勇。

　　“您真好心，”希蓓儿夫人道。

　　“我也得去吗？”男孩洛拉姆问，“我是您的侍从呀。”

　　罗柏笑道：“但我暂时不需要随侍。”

　　“噢。”男孩一本正经地说。

　　“陛下没有你已经过了十六年，洛拉姆，”海贝徽章的雷纳德爵士说，“依我看，再多过个几小时也无碍。”他牢牢拉住弟弟的手，将对方带离大厅。

　　“你的夫人很可爱，”当维斯特林家的人全部走出耳力范围，凯特琳道，“他们家族看来也很值得敬重……嗯，加文大人是泰温·兰尼斯特的封臣，对吧？”

　　“是的。他被杰森·梅利斯特在呓语森林俘虏，现关押于海疆城待赎。不管他愿不愿加入我方，我都将立刻释放他，恐怕我们未征得他的同意就结了婚，将他置于极其危险的境地。峭岩城势孤力薄，为了对我的爱，简妮可能失去一切。”

　　“而你，”她柔声道，“失去了佛雷家族。”

　　他怔了一下。她明白了，明白了那些愤怒的叫嚣，明白了派温·佛雷和马丁·河文的离开，明白了他们践踏冰原狼旗的举动。

　　“请问，你的新娘为你带来多少军队，罗柏？”

　　“五十个人，其中有十来位骑士。”他声音阴郁，正如她所预料。当初孪河城方面为缔结婚约，可是慷慨地派出一千名骑士和近三千步兵。“母亲，简妮不仅聪明美丽，而且十分善良，她有一颗温柔的心。”

　　你需要的是军队，不是温柔的心。你怎能这么做，罗柏？你怎能如此不计后果，如此卤莽？你怎能如此……如此……幼稚。然而现在说什么都无济于事了，她只问，“告诉我，这一切是怎么发生的。”

　　“我攻占了她的城堡，她则攻占了我的心。”罗柏微笑。“峭岩城守备很弱，因此我们猛攻一晚就告成功。当时黑瓦德和小琼恩带队攀登城墙，我则督促攻城锤突击主城门。就在罗佛爵士献城投降时，我手上中了一箭。起初觉得没什么，但很快感染了。简妮让人把我抬到她床上，照料我直到退烧。期间大琼恩带来消息，关于……关于临冬城……关于布兰和瑞肯。她和我在一起。”说出弟弟们的名字，对他而言似乎很困难。“那一夜……那一夜，她……她安慰我，母亲。”

　　凯特琳不用说也明白简妮·维斯特林给她儿子的是什么样的安慰。“你第二天就娶了她。”

　　他望进她的眼睛，目光既骄傲又酸楚，“惟有这么做，才能保持荣誉。她既温柔又甜蜜，母亲，真的，她会成为我的好妻子。”

　　“也许会吧，但这件事是不会让佛雷侯爵满意的。”

　　“我明白，”儿子倍感挫折地说，“除了打仗，我把一切都搞砸了，不是吗？我真的以为打仗最困难，可……如果我听你的话，把席恩留做人质，就能保住北境，布兰和瑞肯就会活下来，安全地待在临冬城里。”

　　“也许会，也许不会。不管有没有席恩，巴隆大王都可能发动战争。别忘了，上次他为王冠付出了两个儿子，这次只需一个，或许会觉得是笔不错的买卖。”她碰碰他的手臂。“你结婚之后，佛雷家的人有何反应？”

　　罗柏摇摇头。“如果史提夫伦爵士还在，好歹可以提出补偿，但莱曼爵士跟石头一样呆板，而黑瓦德……那家伙叫这个名字决不是因为胡子的颜色，我向你保证。他太过分！居然宣称他的姑婆们不介意跟鳏夫成婚。若非简妮求我慈悲，我早宰了他！”

　　“你狠狠地侮辱了佛雷家族，罗柏。”

　　“这不是我的本意。史提夫伦爵士为我战死，而奥利法做侍从忠勇可嘉，甚至请求继续留在我身边，最后是被莱曼爵士强行带走。他还带走了他们家所有的部队。大琼恩催促我加以攻击……”

　　“强敌环饲，还要窝里斗？”她说，“简直胡说八道！”

　　“我也不赞成……也许我们可以为瓦德侯爵的女儿安排其他人选。文德尔·曼德勒提议代我成婚，大琼恩则说他的叔父们希望续弦。如果瓦德侯爵通情达理——”

　　“他根本就不会‘通情达理’，”凯特琳道，“他这人既骄傲又暴躁，受不得半点轻慢。你明知他想成为国王的岳父，现在却硬塞给他两个年迈的老家伙和七国最大的胖子的次子，如何能让他满足？你可要想清楚，违背誓约是一层，娶一家小诸侯的姑娘为妻这件事本身就是对孪河城极大的轻侮。”

　　这番话让罗柏激动起来。“维斯特林家族的血脉远比佛雷家族古老，他们渊源悠久，乃是先民的后裔。征服战争之前，历代凯岩王常与维斯特林家族通婚，而在近三百年前，另一位简妮·维斯特林当过梅葛王的王后。”

　　“所有这一切都在往瓦德侯爵的伤口上洒盐啊。他最恨这些世家名门，恨他们把佛雷家当暴发户。我到孪河城谈判那回，他已经表现得很明显了，他恨琼恩·艾林不愿收养他的孙子，更恨我父亲拒绝让艾德慕迎娶他的女儿。”弟弟办事回来，她朝他点点头。

　　“陛下，”黑鱼布林登说，“这事我们还是找个私密地点从长计议吧。”

　　“是的，”罗柏听上去很疲惫，“天啊，我只想喝一杯红酒。我们去会客室。”

　　步上阶梯时，凯特琳问到从入厅起就困扰着她的问题。“罗柏，灰风在哪儿？”

　　“在院子里啃羊腿。我特地吩咐兽舍掌管准备的。”

　　“你不总让他跟在身边吗？”

　　“让冰原狼待在大厅里于礼不合。你也见过，他会变得坐立不安，又吼又咬。唉，早知我就不带他上战场了，他杀了太多人，现在一点也不怕生。有他在旁边，简妮总是很不安，而她母亲则是怕他。”

　　这就对了，凯特琳心想。“他是你的一部分，罗柏，怕他就是怕你。”

　　“我才不是狼，不管别人怎么说！”罗柏有些生气。“灰风在攻打峭岩城和烙印城时分别杀了一个人，在牛津一役中则咬死六七个，如果你看到——”

　　“我在临冬城亲眼见过布兰的狼撕开活人的喉咙，”她尖锐地说，“我喜欢他那样。”

　　“这不是一回事。死在峭岩城的那个骑士简妮从小就认识，她会害怕，难道是她的错吗？而今灰风又讨厌她舅舅，每当见到罗佛爵士，就会呲牙咧齿，就会……”

　　一阵寒意掠过。“听我说，立刻遣走罗佛爵士。”

　　“遣走？笑话！遣去哪里？遣回峭岩城，好让兰尼斯特把他脑袋插熗上吗？母亲，简妮爱他，他不仅是她舅舅，还是个好骑士。我需要一千个罗佛·斯派瑟，而不是把忠勇的人拿掉，仅仅因为我的狼不喜欢他的味道。”

　　“罗柏。”她停步抓住他的胳膊。“我曾劝告过你，把席恩·葛雷乔伊留在身边，你没有听；现在，我要再次对你提出劝告。让这个人走吧。我并非叫你拿掉他，你可以给他找一项任务，一项需要勇气、能获得光荣的任务，具体是什么并不重要……重要的是不能把他留在身边。”

　　他皱紧眉头。“如此说来，我该让灰风把我所有的骑士都嗅上一遍啰？若还有其他人的气味他不喜欢怎么办？”

　　“灰风不喜欢的人，统统赶走。罗柏啊，你必须明白，这几头冰原狼不只是狼，而是诸神送给我们家的礼物，是你父亲的神，北方的旧神所赐予的。五只幼崽，罗柏，五只幼崽正好对应史塔克家的五个孩子。”

　　“共有六只，”罗柏说，“还有一只给琼恩。是我发现他们的，记得吗？我很清楚他们打哪儿来，有多少。从前，我和你想法一致，以为他们就是我们的保镖，是诸神的使者，直到……”

　　“直到？”她提示。

　　罗柏抿紧嘴唇。“……直到他们告诉我席恩谋杀了布兰和瑞肯，很明显，两匹狼救不了弟弟们。母亲，我不再是孩子了，我是国王，可以自己保护自己。”他叹口气。“我会为罗佛爵士找个任务，让他离开。不是因为他的气味，而是为了你。你已经受够了折磨。”

　　趁其他人还没转过楼梯拐弯，凯特琳欣慰地在罗柏脸颊轻轻一吻。片刻间，他又成为她的孩子，而不是她的国王。

　　霍斯特公爵的私人会客室在大厅顶上，屋子较小，适合私秘交流。罗柏就座高位，脱下王冠，置于身边地上，凯特琳摇铃传唤上酒，艾德慕则向叔叔灌输石磨坊之役的经过。等仆人们离开后，黑鱼清清嗓子，“我们已经听够了你的卖弄，侄儿。”

　　艾德慕糊涂了。“卖弄？您什么意思？”

　　“我的意思是，”黑鱼说，“你该感谢陛下的宽容。他在大厅里演戏，以免你在自家封臣面前出丑。如果换作我，将毫不留情地严斥你的愚笨，决不会赞扬那些许微功！”

　　“渡口一战中，无数勇士献出生命，叔叔，您应该尊重他们。”艾德慕很生气，“怎么啦，除了少狼主，就没人该获得胜利？我抢走了属于您的荣耀，罗柏？”

　　“陛下，”罗柏冷淡地纠正。“你是否承认我是你的国王，舅舅，是否连这点也记不住？”

　　黑鱼道，“给你的命令是留守奔流城，艾德慕，仅此而已。”

　　“我守住了奔流城，还挫败泰温公爵……”

　　“确实如此，”罗柏说，“但挫败不等于胜利，对不对？你有没有扪心自问，牛津战役后我们为何还在西境久留？你知道我没有足够力量威胁兰尼斯港或凯岩城。”

　　“为何……为了占领其他城堡……金钱，牲畜……”

　　“见鬼，你以为我们留下来当强盗？”罗柏难以置信地说，“舅舅，我正是要引泰温公爵西进。”

　　“我军是马队，”布林登爵士解释，“兰尼斯特军泰半是步兵。我们计划让泰温公爵高高兴兴地追上一段，直到海边，然后从旁溜过去，横穿黄金大道，占据稳固的防守位置。我的斥侯找到了地方，地形极为有利，如果他在那儿发动攻击，将付出惨重代价；如果他不进攻，则会被困在西境，不仅距离需要他的地方千里之遥，而且始终消耗着自己的资源，而不是掠夺三河诸侯。”

　　“与此同时，史坦尼斯公爵将打下君临城，”罗柏说，“帮我们一笔勾销乔佛里、太后和小恶魔，然后我就与他讲和。”

　　艾德慕看看叔叔，又看看外甥，“你们从未把计划告诉我。”

　　“我告诉你守住奔流城，”罗柏说，“这道命令，什么地方你无法理解？”

　　“你在红叉河阻住泰温公爵，”黑鱼说，“呵，挡得可真久，刚好让苦桥来的信使赶上他的军队。泰温公爵立即让部队掉头，在黑水河源头附近跟马图斯·罗宛与蓝道·塔利会合，急行军到翻斗瀑——梅斯·提利尔和他两个儿子正带着大军和驳船队等在那里。于是他们合兵一股，顺流而下，在距离君临城半日马程的地方登陆，从后袭击史坦尼斯。”

　　凯特琳在苦桥见过蓝礼国王的队伍。千百朵金玫瑰在风中飞舞，玛格丽王后笑容羞涩、语调温柔，她哥哥百花骑士虽然额上缠着亚麻绷带，却英俊不减。如果你非得投入女人的怀抱，我的儿子啊，为何不是玛格丽·提利尔？高庭的财富和军队足以扭转形势，或许灰风还会喜欢她的味道。

　　艾德慕蔫了气，“我一点也不想……不想……罗柏，你得让我补偿，就准我在下场战役里担任前锋吧！”

　　这是补偿，弟弟？还是为了荣誉？凯特琳很怀疑。

　　“下场战役，”罗柏沉吟道，“嗯，下场战役很快就会到来。乔佛里成亲之后，兰尼斯特就会再次开战，对此我毫不怀疑，这一回，他们有了提利尔家的支持……也许我还要对付佛雷家，若黑瓦德……

　　“席恩·葛雷乔伊坐着你父亲的宝座，手上沾染了你弟弟们的鲜血，除了他，其他敌人都必须先放在一边。”凯特琳告诉儿子。“领主的首要职责是保护子民，罗柏，你身为国王，要么赢回临冬城，把席恩吊在鸦笼里，让他慢慢烂掉；要么就永远放弃王冠——因为人们将不会把你当成真正的国王。”

　　从罗柏瞧她的神情来看，她断定，已经很久没有人敢如此坦率直言了。“他们告诉我临冬城陷落时，我首先想到的就是返回北方，”他带着一丝辩解的意味道。“我想去营救布兰和瑞肯，但我以为……我做梦也想不到席恩会伤害他们，真的，如果我……”

　　“说‘如果’已太晚，要营救也太迟，”凯特琳说，“剩下的只有复仇。”

　　“根据从北境得到的最新消息，罗德利克爵士在托伦方城附近击败了铁群岛的部队，然后于赛文城重新整军，准备夺回临冬城。”罗柏道。“他或许已经成功了，因为我们很久没有收到进一步的消息。退一步讲，假如我回师北上，三河地区怎么办？我不可能要求三河诸侯遗弃人民随我出征啊。”

　　“不，”凯特琳说，“把他们留下，让他们自己管自己，我们靠北地人赢回北境。”

　　“您的北地人如何去得了北境？”弟弟艾德慕反问，“铁群岛方面不仅控制了落日之海，而且占领了卡林湾。一万年来，没有一支军队能从南面攻下卡林湾，即便朝那里进军也是疯狂之举。我们很可能被困在堤道上，铁民在前，愤怒的佛雷家族在后。”

　　“所以必须赢回佛雷家族，”罗柏说，“有了他们，才有成功的机会——不管机会多么渺茫；没有他们的支持，我看不到希望。我愿向瓦德侯爵提出一切……道歉，荣誉，土地，金钱……一定有东西可以抚平他受创的自尊心……”

　　“东西办不到，”凯特琳道，“但人可以。”

JON
Big enough for you?” Snowflakes speckled Tormund’s broad face, melting in his hair and beard.
‘The giants swayed slowly atop the mammoths as they rode past two by two. Jon’s garron shied, frightened by such strangeness, but whether it was the mammoths or their riders that scared him it was hard to say. Even Ghost backed off a step, baring his teeth in a silent snarl. The direwolf was big, but the mammoths were a deal bigger, and there were many and more of them.
Jon took the horse in hand and held him still, so he could count the giants emerging from the blowing snow and pale mists that swirled along the Milkwater. He was well beyond fifty when Tormund said something and he lost the count. There must be hundreds. No matter how many went past, they just seemed to keep coming.
In Old Nan’s stories, giants were outsized men who lived in colossal castles, fought with huge swords, and walked about in boots a boy could hide in. These were something else, more bearlike than human, and as wooly as the mammoths they rode. Seated, it was hard to say how big they truly were. Ten feet tall maybe, or twelve, Jon thought. Maybe fourteen, but no taller. Their sloping chests might have passed for those of men, but their arms hung down too far, and their lower torsos looked half again as wide as their upper. Their legs were shorter than their arms, but very thick, and they wore no boots at all; their feet were broad splayed things, hard and horny and black. Neckless, their huge heavy heads thrust forward from between their shoulder blades, and their faces were squashed and brutal. Rats’ eyes no larger than beads were almost lost within folds of horny flesh, but they snuffled constantly, smelling as much as they saw.
They’re not wearing skins, Jon realized. That’s hair. Shaggy pelts covered their bodies, thick below the waist, sparser above. The stink that came off them was choking, but perhaps that was the mammoths. And Joramun blew the Horn of Winter, and woke giants from the earth. He looked for great swords ten feet long, but saw only clubs. Most were just the limbs of dead trees, some still trailing shattered branches. A few had stone balls lashed to the ends to make colossal mauls. The song never says if the horn can put them back to sleep.
One of the giants coming up on them looked older than the rest. His pelt was grey and streaked with white, and the mammoth he rode, larger than any of the others, was grey and white as well. Tormund shouted something up to him as he passed, harsh clanging words in a tongue that Jon did not comprehend. The giant’s lips split apart to reveal a mouth full of huge square teeth, and he made a sound half belch and half rumble. After a moment Jon realized he was laughing. The mammoth turned its massive head to regard the two of them briefly, one huge tusk passing over the top of Jon’s head as the beast lumbered by, leaving huge footprints in the soft mud and fresh snow along the river. The giant shouted down something in the same coarse tongue that Tormund had used.
“Was that their king?” asked Jon.
“Giants have no kings, no more’n mammoths do, nor snow bears, nor the great whales o’ the grey sea. That was Mag Mar Tun Doh Weg. Mag the Mighty. You can kneel to him if you like, he won’t mind. I know your kneeler’s knees must be itching, for want of some king to bend to. Watch out he don’t step on you, though. Giants have bad eyes, and might be he wouldn’t see some little crow all the way down there by his feet.”
“What did you say to him? Was that the Old Tongue?”
“Aye. I asked him if that was his father he was forking, they looked so much alike, except his father had a better smell.”
“And what did he say to you?”
Tormund Thunderfist cracked a gap-toothed smile. “He asked me if that was my daughter riding there beside me, with her smooth pink cheeks.” The wildling shook snow from his arm and turned his horse about. “It may be he never saw a man without a beard before. Come, we start back. Mance grows sore wroth when I’m not found in my accustomed place.”
Jon wheeled and followed Tormund back toward the head of the column, his new cloak hanging heavy from his shoulders. It was made of unwashed sheepskins, worn fleece side in, as the wildlings suggested. It kept the snow off well enough, and at night it was good and warm, but he kept his black cloak as well, folded up beneath his saddle. “Is it true you killed a giant once?” he asked Tormund as they rode. Ghost loped silently beside them, leaving paw prints in the new-fallen snow.
“Now why would you doubt a mighty man like me? It was winter and I was half a boy, and stupid the way boys are. I went too far and my horse died and then a storm caught me. A true storm, not no little dusting such as this. Har! I knew I’d freeze to death before it broke. So I found me a sleeping giant, cut open her belly, and crawled up right inside her. Kept me warm enough, she did, but the stink near did for me. The worst thing was, she woke up when the spring come and took me for her babe. Suckled me for three whole moons before I could get away. Har! There’s times I miss the taste o’ giant’s milk, though.”
“If she nursed you, you couldn’t have killed her.”
“I never did, but see you don’t go spreading that about. Tormund Giantsbane has a better ring to it than Tormund Giantsbabe, and that’s the honest truth o’ it.”
“So how did you come by your other names?” Jon asked. “Mance called you the Horn-Blower, didn’t he? Mead-king of Ruddy Hall, Husband to Bears, Father to Hosts?” It was the horn blowing he particularly wanted to hear about, but he dared not ask too plainly. And Joramun blew the Horn of Winter, and woke giants from the earth. Is that where they had come from, them and their mammoths? Had Mance Rayder found the Horn of Joramun, and given it to Tormund Thunderfist to blow?
“Are all crows so curious?” asked Tormund. “Well, here’s a tale for you. It were another winter, colder even than the one I spent inside that giant, and snowing day and night, snowflakes as big as your head, not these little things. It snowed so hard the whole village was half buried. I was in me Ruddy Hall, with only a cask o’ mead to keep me company and nothing to do but drink it. The more I drank the more I got to thinking about this woman lived close by, a fine strong woman with the biggest pair of teats you ever saw. She had a temper on her, that one, but oh, she could be warm too, and in the deep of winter a man needs his warmth.
“The more I drank the more I thought about her, and the more I thought the harder me member got, till I couldn’t suffer it no more. Fool that I was, I bundled meself up in furs from head to heels, wrapped a winding wool around me face, and set off to find her. The snow was coming down so hard I got turned around once or twice, and the wind blew right through me and froze me bones, but finally I come on her, all bundled up like I was.
“The woman had a terrible temper, and she put up quite the fight when I laid hands on her. It was all I could do to carry her home and get her out o’ them furs, but when I did, oh, she was hotter even than I remembered, and we had a fine old time, and then I went to sleep. Next morning when I woke the snow had stopped and the sun was shining, but I was in no fit state to enjoy it. All ripped and torn I was, and half me member bit right off, and there on me floor was a she-bear’s pelt. And soon enough the free folk were telling tales o’ this bald bear seen in the woods, with the queerest pair o’ cubs behind her. Har!” He slapped a meaty thigh. “Would that I could find her again. She was fine to lay with, that bear. Never was a woman gave me such a fight, nor such strong sons neither.”
“’What could you do if you did find her?” Jon asked, smiling. “You said she bit your member off.”
“Only half. And half me member is twice as long as any other man’s.” Tormund snorted. “Now as to you . . . is it true they cut your members off when they take you for the Wall?”
“No,” Jon said, affronted.
“I think it must be true. Else why refuse Ygritte? She’d hardly give you any fight at all, seems to me. The girl wants you in her, that’s plain enough to see.”
Too bloody plain, thought Jon, and it seems that half the column has seen it. He studied the falling snow so Tormund might not see him redden. I am a man of the Night’s Watch, he reminded himself. So why did he feel like some blushing maid?
He spent most of his days in Ygritte’s company, and most nights as well. Mance Rayder had not been blind to Rattleshirt’s mistrust of the “crow-come-over,” so after he had given Jon his new sheepskin cloak he had suggested that he might want to ride with Tormund Giantsbane instead. Jon had happily agreed, and the very next day Ygritte and Longspear Ryk left Rattleshirt’s band for Tormund’s as well. “Free folk ride with who they want,” the girl told him, “and we had a bellyful of Bag o’ Bones.”
Every night when they made camp, Ygritte threw her sleeping skins down beside his own, no matter if he was near the fire or well away from it. Once he woke to find her nestled against him, her arm across his chest. He lay listening to her breathe for a long time, trying to ignore the tension in his groin. Rangers often shared skins for warmth, but warmth was not all Ygritte wanted, he suspected. After that he had taken to using Ghost to keep her away. Old Nan used to tell stories about knights and their ladies who would sleep in a single bed with a blade between them for honor’s sake, but he thought this must be the first time where a direwolf took the place of the sword.
Even then, Ygritte persisted. The day before last, Jon had made the mistake of wishing he had hot water for a bath. “Cold is better,” she had said at once, “if you’ve got someone to warm you up after. The river’s only part ice yet, go on.”
Jon laughed. “You’d freeze me to death.”
“Are all crows afraid of gooseprickles? A little ice won’t kill you. I’ll jump in with you t’prove it so.”
“And ride the rest of the day with wet clothes frozen to our skins?” he objected.
“Jon Snow, you know nothing. You don’t go in with clothes.”
“I don’t go in at all,” he said firmly, just before he heard Tormund Thunderfist bellowing for him (he hadn’t, but never mind).
The wildlings seemed to think Ygritte a great beauty because of her hair; red hair was rare among the free folk, and those who had it were said to be kissed by fire, which was supposed to be lucky. Lucky it might be, and red it certainly was, but Ygritte’s hair was such a tangle that Jon was tempted to ask her if she only brushed it at the changing of the seasons.
At a lord’s court the girl would never have been considered anything but common, he knew. She had a round peasant face, a pug nose, and slightly crooked teeth, and her eyes were too far apart. Jon had noticed all that the first time he’d seen her, when his dirk had been at her throat. Lately, though, he was noticing some other things. When she grinned, the crooked teeth didn’t seem to matter. And maybe her eyes were too far apart, but they were a pretty blue-grey color, and lively as any eyes he knew. Sometimes she sang in a low husky voice that stirred him. And sometimes by the cookfire when she sat hugging her knees with the flames waking echoes in her red hair, and looked at him, just smiling . . . well, that stirred some things as well.
But he was a man of the Night’s Watch, he had taken a vow. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. He had said the words before the weirwood, before his father’s gods. He could not unsay them . . . no more than he could admit the reason for his reluctance to Tormund Thunderfist, Father to Bears.
“Do you mislike the girl?” Tormund asked him as they passed another twenty mammoths, these bearing wildlings in tall wooden towers instead of giants.
“No, but I . . . ” What can I say that he will believe? “I am still too young to wed.”
“Wed?” Tormund laughed. “Who spoke of wedding? In the south, must a man wed every girl he beds?”
Jon could feel himself turning red again. “She spoke for me when Rattleshirt would have killed me. I would not dishonor her.”
“You are a free man now, and Ygritte is a free woman. What dishonor if you lay together?”
“I might get her with child.”
“Aye, I’d hope so. A strong son or a lively laughing girl kissed by fire, and where’s the harm in that?”
Words failed him for a moment. “The boy . . . the child would be a bastard.”
“Are bastards weaker than other children? More sickly, more like to fail?”
“No, but—”
“You’re bastard-born yourself. And if Ygritte does not want a child, she will go to some woods witch and drink a cup o’ moon tea. You do not come into it, once the seed is planted.”
“I will not father a bastard.”
Tormund shook his shaggy head. “What fools you kneelers be. Why did you steal the girl if you don’t want her?”
“Steal? I never . . . ”
“You did,” said Tormund. “You slew the two she was with and carried her off, what do you call it?”
“I took her prisoner.”
“You made her yield to you.”
“Yes, but . . . Tormund, I swear, I’ve never touched her.”
“Are you certain they never cut your member off?” Tormund gave a shrug, as if to say he would never understand such madness. “Well, you are a free man now, but if you will not have the girl, best find yourself a she-bear. If a man does not use his member it grows smaller and smaller, until one day he wants to piss and cannot find it.”
Jon had no answer for that. Small wonder that the Seven Kingdoms thought the free folk scarcely human. They have no laws, no honor, not even simple decency. They steal endlessly from each other, breed like beasts, prefer rape to marriage, and fill the world with baseborn children. Yet he was growing fond of Tormund Giantsbane, great bag of wind and lies though he was. Longspear as well. And Ygritte . . . no, I will not think about Ygritte.
Along with the Tormunds and the Longspears rode other sorts of wildlings, though; men like Rattleshirt and the Weeper who would as soon slit you as spit on you. There was Harma Dogshead, a squat keg of a woman with cheeks like slabs of white meat, who hated dogs and killed one every fortnight to make a fresh head for her banner; earless Styr, Magnar of Thenn, whose own people thought him more god than lord; Varamyr Sixskins, a small mouse of a man whose steed was a savage white snow bear that stood thirteen feet tall on its hind legs. And wherever the bear and Varamyr went, three wolves and a shadowcat came following. Jon had been in his presence only once, and once had been enough; the mere sight of the man had made him bristle, even as the fur on the back of Ghost’s neck had bristled at the sight of the bear and that long black-and-white ’cat.
And there were folks fiercer even than Varamyr, from the northernmost reaches of the haunted forest, the hidden valleys of the Frostfangs, and even queerer places: the men of the Frozen Shore who rode in chariots made of walrus bones pulled along by packs of savage dogs, the terrible ice-river clans who were said to feast on human flesh, the cave dwellers with their faces dyed blue and purple and green. With his own eyes Jon had beheld the Hornfoot men trotting along in column on bare soles as hard as boiled leather. He had not seen any snarks or grumpkins, but for all he knew Tormund would be having some to supper.
Half the wildling host had lived all their lives without so much as a glimpse of the Wall, Jon judged, and most of those spoke no word of the Common Tongue. It did not matter. Mance Rayder spoke the Old Tongue, even sang in it, fingering his lute and filling the night with strange wild music.
Mance had spent years assembling this vast plodding host, talking to this clan mother and that magnar, winning one village with sweet words and another with a song and a third with the edge of his sword, making peace between Harma Dogshead and the Lord o’ Bones, between the Hornfoots and the Nightrunners, between the walrus men of the Frozen Shore and the cannibal clans of the great ice rivers, hammering a hundred different daggers into one great spear, aimed at the heart of the Seven Kingdoms. He had no crown nor scepter, no robes of silk and velvet, but it was plain to Jon that Mance Rayder was a king in more than name.
Jon had joined the wildlings at Qhorin Halfhand’s command. “Ride with them, eat with them, fight with them,” the ranger had told him, the night before he died. “And watch.” But all his watching had learned him little. The Halfhand had suspected that the wildlings had gone up into the bleak and barren Frostfangs in search of some weapon, some power, some fell sorcery with which to break the Wall . . . but if they had found any such, no one was boasting of it openly, or showing it to Jon. Nor had Mance Rayder confided any of his plans or strategies. Since that first night, he had hardly seen the man save at a distance.
I will kill him if I must. The prospect gave Jon no joy; there would be no honor in such a killing, and it would mean his own death as well. Yet he could not let the wildlings breach the Wall, to threaten Winterfell and the north, the barrowlands and the Rills, White Harbor and the Stony Shore, even the Neck. For eight thousand years the men of House Stark had lived and died to protect their people against such ravagers; and reavers . . . and bastard-born or no, the same blood ran in his veins. Bran and Rickon are still at Winterfell besides. Maester Luwin, Ser Rodrik, Old Nan, Farlen the kennelmaster, Mikken at his forge and Gage by his ovens . . . everyone I ever knew, everyone I ever loved. If Jon must slay a man he half admired and almost liked to save them from the mercies of Rattleshirt and Harma Dogshead and the earless Magnar of Thenn, that was what he meant to do.
Still, he prayed his father’s gods might spare him that bleak task. The host moved but slowly, burdened as it was by all the wildlings’ herds and children and mean little treasures, and the snows had slowed its progress even more. Most of the column was out of the foothills now, oozing down along the west bank of the Milkwater like honey on a cold winter’s morning, following the course of the river into the heart of the haunted forest.
And somewhere close ahead, Jon knew, the Fist of the First Men loomed above the trees, home to three hundred black brothers of the Night’s Watch, armed, mounted, and waiting. The Old Bear had sent out other scouts besides the Halfhand, and surely Jarman Buckwell or Thoren Smallwood would have returned by now with word of what was coming down out of the mountains.
Mormont will not run, Jon thought. He is too old and he has come too far. He will strike, and damn the numbers. One day soon he would hear the sound of warhorns, and see a column of riders pounding down on them with black cloaks flapping and cold steel in their hands. Three hundred men could not hope to kill a hundred times their number, of course, but Jon did not think they would need to. He need not slay a thousand, only one. Mance is all that keeps them together.
The King-beyond-the-Wall was doing all he could, yet the wildlings remained hopelessly undisciplined, and that made them vulnerable. Here and there within the leagues-long snake that was their line of march were warriors as fierce as any in the Watch, but a good third of them were grouped at either end of the column, in Harma Dogshead’s van and the savage rearguard with its giants, aurochs, and fire flingers. Another third rode with Mance himself near the center, guarding the wayns and sledges and dog carts that held the great bulk of the host’s provisions and supplies, all that remained of the last summer harvest. The rest, divided into small bands under the likes of Rattleshirt, Jarl, Tormund Giantsbane, and the Weeper, served as outriders, foragers, and whips, galloping up and down the column endlessly to keep it moving in a more or less orderly fashion.
And even more telling, only one in a hundred wildlings was mounted. The Old Bear will go through them like an axe through porridge. And when that happened, Mance must give chase with his center, to try and blunt the threat. If he should fall in the fight that must follow, the Wall would be safe for another hundred years, Jon judged. And if not . . .
He flexed the burned fingers of his sword hand. Longclaw was slung to his saddle, the carved stone wolf’s-head pommel and soft leather grip of the great bastard sword within easy reach.
The snow was falling heavily by the time they caught Tormund’s band, several hours later. Ghost departed along the way, melting into the forest at the scent of prey. The direwolf would return when they made camp for the night, by dawn at the latest. However far he prowled, Ghost always came back . . . and so, it seemed, did Ygritte.
“So,” the girl called when she saw him, “d’you believe us now, Jon Snow? Did you see the giants on their mammoths?”
“Har!” shouted Tormund, before Jon could reply. “The crow’s in love! He means to marry one!”
“A giantess?” Longspear Ryk laughed.
“No, a mammoth!” Tormund bellowed. “Har!”
Ygritte trotted beside Jon as he slowed his garron to a walk. She claimed to be three years older than him, though she stood half a foot shorter; however old she might be, the girl was a tough little thing. Stonesnake had called her a “spearwife” when they’d captured her in the Skirling Pass. She wasn’t wed and her weapon of choice was a short curved bow of horn and weirwood, but “spearwife” fit her all the same. She reminded him a little of his sister Arya, though Arya was younger and probably skinnier. It was hard to tell how plump or thin Ygritte might be, with all the furs and skins she wore.
“Do you know ‘The Last of the Giants’?” Without waiting for an answer Ygritte said, “You need a deeper voice than mine to do it proper.” Then she sang, “Ooooooh, I am the last of the giants, my people are gone from the earth.”
Tormund Giantsbane heard the words and grinned. “The last of the great mountain giants, who ruled all the world at my birth,” he bellowed back through the snow.
Longspear Ryk joined in, singing, “Oh, the smallfolk have stolen my forests, they’ve stolen my rivers and hills.”
“And they’ve built a great wall through my valleys, and fished all the fish from my rills,” Ygritte and Tormund sang back at him in turn, in suitably gigantic voices.
Tormund’s sons Toregg and Dormund added their deep voices as well, then his daughter Munda and all the rest. Others began to bang their spears on leathern shields to keep rough time, until the whole war band was singing as they rode.
In stone halls they burn their great fires,
in stone halls they forge their sharp spears.
Whilst I walk alone in the mountains,
with no true companion but tears.
They hunt me with dogs in the daylight,
they hunt me with torches by night.
For these men who are small can never stand tall,
whilst giants still walk in the light.
Oooooooh, I am the LAST of the giants,
so learn well the words of my song.
For when I am gone the singing will fade,
and the silence shall last long and long.
There were tears on Ygritte’s cheeks when the song ended.
“Why are you weeping?” Jon asked. “It was only a song. There are hundreds of giants, I’ve just seen them.”
“Oh, hundreds,” she said furiously. “You know nothing, Jon Snow. You—JON!”
Jon turned at the sudden sound of wings. Blue-grey feathers filled his eyes, as sharp talons buried themselves in his face. Red pain lanced through him sudden and fierce as pinions beat round his head. He saw the beak, but there was no time to get a hand up or reach for a weapon. Jon reeled backward, his foot lost the stirrup, his garron broke in panic, and then he was falling. And still the eagle clung to his face, its talons tearing at him as it flapped and shrieked and pecked. The world turned upside down in a chaos of feathers and horseflesh and blood, and then the ground came up to smash him.
The next he knew, he was on his face with the taste of mud and blood in his mouth and Ygritte kneeling over him protectively, a bone dagger in her hand. He could still hear wings, though the eagle was not in sight. Half his world was black. “My eye,” he said in sudden panic, raising a hand to his face.
“It’s only blood, Jon Snow. He missed the eye, just ripped your skin up some.”
His face was throbbing. Tormund stood over them bellowing, he saw from his right eye as he rubbed blood from his left. Then there were hoofbeats, shouts, and the clacking of old dry bones.
“Bag o’ Bones,” roared Tormund, “call off your hellcrow!”
“There’s your hellcrow!” Rattleshirt pointed at Jon. “Bleeding in the mud like a faithless dog!” The eagle came flapping down to land atop the broken giant’s skull that served him for his helm. “I’m here for him.”
“Come take him then,” said Tormund, “but best come with sword in hand, for that’s where you’ll find mine. Might be I’ll boil your bones, and use your skull to piss in. Har!”
“Once I prick you and let the air out, you’ll shrink down smaller’n that girl. Stand aside, or Mance will hear o’ this.”
Ygritte stood. “What, is it Mance who wants him?”
“I said so, didn’t I? Get him up on those black feet.”
Tormund frowned down at Jon. “Best go, if it’s the Mance who’s wanting you.”
Ygritte helped pull him up. “He’s bleeding like a butchered boar. Look what Orell did t’ his sweet face.”
Can a bird hate? Jon had slain the wildling Orell, but some part of the man remained within the eagle. The golden eyes looked out on him with cold malevolence. “I’ll come,” he said. The blood kept running down into his right eye, and his cheek was a blaze of pain. When he touched it his black gloves came away stained with red. “Let me catch my garron.” It was not the horse he wanted so much as Ghost, but the direwolf was nowhere to be seen. He could be leagues away by now, ripping out the throat of some elk. Perhaps that was just as well.
The garron shied away from him when he approached, no doubt frightened by the blood on his face, but Jon calmed him with a few quiet words and finally got close enough to take the reins. As he swung back into the saddle his head whirled. I will need to get this tended, he thought, but not just now. Let the King-beyond-the-Wall see what his eagle did to me. His right hand opened and closed, and he reached down for Longclaw and slung the bastard sword over a shoulder before he wheeled to trot back to where the Lord of Bones and his band were waiting,
Ygritte was waiting too, sitting on her horse with a fierce look on her face. “I am coming too.”
“Be gone.” The bones of Rattleshirt’s breastplate clattered together. “I was sent for the crow-come-down, none other.”
“A free woman rides where she will,” Ygritte said.
The wind was blowing snow into Jon’s eyes. He could feel the blood freezing on his face. “Are we talking or riding?”
“Riding,” said the Lord of Bones.
It was a grim gallop. They rode two miles down the column through swirling snows, then cut through a tangle of baggage wayns to splash across the Milkwater where it took a great loop toward the east. A crust of thin ice covered the river shallows; with every step their horses’ hooves crashed through, until they reached the deeper water ten yards out. The snow seemed be falling even faster on the eastern bank, and the drifts were deeper too. Even the wind is colder. And night was falling too.
But even through the blowing snow, the shape of the great white hill that loomed above the trees was unmistakable. The Fist of the First Men. Jon heard the scream of the eagle overhead. A raven looked down from a soldier pine and quorked as he went past. Had the Old Bear made his attack? Instead of the clash of steel and the thrum of arrows taking flight, Jon heard only the soft crunch of frozen crust beneath his garron’s hooves.
In silence they circled round to the south slope, where the approach was easiest. It was there at the bottom that Jon saw the dead horse, sprawled at the base of the hill, half buried in the snow. Entrails spilled from the belly of the animal like frozen snakes, and one of its legs was gone. Wolves, was Jon’s first thought, but that was wrong. Wolves eat their kill.
More garrons were strewn across the slope, legs twisted grotesquely, blind eyes staring in death. The wildlings crawled over them like flies, stripping them of saddles, bridles, packs, and armor, and hacking them apart with stone axes.
“Up,” Rattleshirt told Jon. “Mance is up top.”
Outside the ringwall they dismounted to squeeze through a crooked gap in the stones. The carcass of a shaggy brown garron was impaled upon the sharpened stakes the Old Bear had placed inside every entrance. He was trying to get out, not in. There was no sign of a rider.
Inside was more, and worse. Jon had never seen pink snow before. The wind gusted around him, pulling at his heavy sheepskin cloak. Ravens flapped from one dead horse to the next. Are those wild ravens, or our own? Jon could not tell. He wondered where poor Sam was now. And what he was.
A crust of frozen blood crunched beneath the heel of his boot. The wildlings were stripping the dead horses of every scrap of steel and leather, even prying the horseshoes off their hooves. A few were going through packs they’d turned up, looking for weapons and food. Jon passed one of Chett’s dogs, or what remained of him, lying in a sludgy pool of half-frozen blood.
A few tents were still standing on the far side of the camp, and it was there they found Mance Rayder. Beneath his slashed cloak of black wool and red silk he wore black ringmail and shaggy fur breeches, and on his head was a great bronze-and-iron helm with raven wings at either temple. Jarl was with him, and Harma the Dogshead; Styr as well, and Varamyr Sixskins with his wolves and his shadowcat.
The look Mance gave Jon was grim and cold. “What happened to your face?”
Ygritte said, “Orell tried to take his eye out.”
“It was him I asked. Has he lost his tongue? Perhaps he should, to spare us further lies.”
Styr the Magnar drew a long knife. “The boy might see more clear with one eye, instead of two.”
“Would you like to keep your eye, Jon?” asked the King-beyond-the-Wall. “If so, tell me how many they were. And try and speak the truth this time, Bastard of Winterfell.”
Jon’s throat was dry. “My lord . . . what . . . ”
“I am not your lord,” said Mance. “And the what is plain enough. Your brothers died. The question is, how many?”
Jon’s face was throbbing, the snow kept coming down, and it was hard to think. You must not balk, whatever is asked of you, Qhorin had told him. The words stuck in his throat, but he made himself say, “There were three hundred of us.”
“Us?” Mance said sharply.
“Them. Three hundred of them.” Whatever is asked, the Halfhand said. So why do I feel so craven? “Two hundred from Castle Black, and one hundred from the Shadow Tower.”
“There’s a truer song than the one you sang in my tent.” Mance looked to Harma Dogshead. “How many horses have we found?”
“More’n a hundred,” that huge woman replied, “less than two. There’s more dead to the east, under the snow, hard t’ know how many.” Behind her stood her banner bearer, holding a pole with a dog’s head on it, fresh enough to still be leaking blood.
“You should never have lied to me, Jon Snow,” said Mance.
“I . . . I know that.” What could he say?
The wildling king studied his face. “Who had the command here? And tell me true. Was it Rykker? Smallwood? Not Wythers, he’s too feeble. Whose tent was this?”
I have said too much. “You did not find his body?”
Harma snorted, her disdain frosting from her nostrils. “What fools these black crows be.”
“The next time you answer me with a question, I will give you to my Lord of Bones,” Mance Rayder promised Jon. He stepped closer. “Who led here?”
One more step, thought Jon. Another foot. He moved his hand closer to Longclaw’s hilt. If I hold my tongue . . .
“Reach up for that bastard sword and I’ll have your bastard head off before it clears the scabbard,” said Mance. “I am fast losing patience with you, crow.”
“Say it,” Ygritte urged. “He’s dead, whoever he was.”
His frown cracked the blood on his cheek. This is too hard, Jon thought in despair. How do I play the turncloak without becoming one? Qhorin had not told him that. But the second step is always easier than the first. “The Old Bear.”
“That old man?” Harma’s tone said she did not believe it. “He came himself? Then who commands at Castle Black?”
“Bowen Marsh.” This time Jon answered at once. You must not balk, whatever is asked of you.
Mance laughed. “If so, our war is won. Bowen knows a deal more about counting swords than he’s ever known about using them.”
“The Old Bear commanded,” said Jon. “This place was high and strong, and he made it stronger. He dug pits and planted stakes, laid up food and water. He was ready for . . . ”
“ . . . Me?” finished Mance Rayder. “Aye, he was. Had I been fool enough to storm this hill, I might have lost five men for every crow I slew and still counted myself lucky.” His mouth grew hard. “But when the dead walk, walls and stakes and swords mean nothing. You cannot fight the dead, Jon Snow. No man knows that half so well as me.” He gazed up at the darkening sky and said, “The crows may have helped us more than they know. I’d wondered why we’d suffered no attacks. But there’s still a hundred leagues to go, and the cold is rising. Varamyr, send your wolves sniffing after the wights, I won’t have them taking us unawares. My Lord of Bones, double all the patrols, and make certain every man has torch and flint. Styr, Jarl, you ride at first light.”
“Mance,” Rattleshirt said, “I want me some crow bones.”
Ygritte stepped in front of Jon. “You can’t kill a man for lying to protect them as was his brothers.”
“They are still his brothers,” declared Styr.
“They’re not,” insisted Ygritte. “He never killed me, like they told him. And he slew the Halfhand, we all saw.”
Jon’s breath misted the air. If I lie to him, he’ll know. He looked Mance Rayder in the eyes, opened and closed his burned hand. “I wear the cloak you gave me, Your Grace.”
“A sheepskin cloak!” said Ygritte. “And there’s many a night we dance beneath it, too!”
Jarl laughed, and even Harma Dogshead smirked. “Is that the way of it, Jon Snow?” asked Mance Rayder, mildly. “Her and you?”
It was easy to lose your way beyond the Wall. Jon did not know that he could tell honor from shame anymore, or right from wrong. Father forgive me. “Yes,” he said.
Mance nodded. “Good. You’ll go with Jarl and Styr on the morrow, then. Both of you. Far be it from me to separate two hearts that beat as one.”
“Go where?” said Jon.
“Over the Wall. It’s past time you proved your faith with something more than words, Jon Snow.”
The Magnar was not pleased. “What do I want with a crow?”
“He knows the Watch and he knows the Wall,” said Mance, “and he knows Castle Black better than any raider ever could. You’ll find a use for him, or you’re a fool.”
Styr scowled. “His heart may still be black.”
“Then cut it out.” Mance turned to Rattleshirt. “My Lord of Bones, keep the column moving at all costs. If we reach the Wall before Mormont, we’ve won.”
“They’ll move.” Rattleshirt’s voice was thick and angry.
Mance nodded, and walked away, Harma and Sixskins beside him.
Varamyr’s wolves and shadowcat followed behind. Jon and Ygritte were left with Jarl, Rattleshirt, and the Magnar. The two older wildlings looked at Jon with ill-concealed rancor as Jarl said, “You heard, we ride at daybreak. Bring all the food you can, there’ll be no time to hunt. And have your face seen to, crow. You look a bloody mess.”
“I will,” said Jon.
“You best not be lying, girl,” Rattleshirt said to Ygritte, his eyes shiny behind the giant’s skull.
Jon drew Longclaw. “Get away from us, unless you want what Qhorin got.”
“You got no wolf to help you here, boy.” Rattleshirt reached for his own sword.
“Sure o’ that, are you?” Ygritte laughed.
Atop the stones of the ringwall, Ghost hunched with white fur bristling. He made no sound, but his dark red eyes spoke blood. The Lord of Bones moved his hand slowly away from his sword, backed off a step, and left them with a curse.
Ghost padded beside their garrons as Jon and Ygritte descended the Fist. It was not until they were halfway across the Milkwater that Jon felt safe enough to say, “I never asked you to lie for me.”
“I never did,” she said. “I left out part, is all.”
“You said—”
“—that we fuck beneath your cloak many a night. I never said when we started, though.” The smile she gave him was almost shy. “Find another place for Ghost to sleep tonight, Jon Snow. It’s like Mance said. Deeds is truer than words.”

第十五章 琼恩



　　“他们够大吧？”雪花星星点点地落到托蒙德的宽脸上，在头发和胡子间融化。
　　巨人们坐在长毛象背上缓缓摇晃，两骑一排地经过。琼恩的矮马见此奇景惊恐后退，不知是长毛象还是骑手吓着了它。就连白灵也退后一步，呲牙露齿，无声咆哮。冰原狼固然身材硕大，但和长毛象相比，却是小巫见大巫，更何况后者数量众多。

　　琼恩手握缰绳，将马稳住，试图数清在这雪花飘飞、雾气弥漫的乳河沿岸究竟有多少巨人。数到五十好几时，他被托蒙德的话语打断，但肯定有数百个。他们的队伍无穷无尽，源源不断。

　　在老奶妈的故事中，巨人是体型超大的人类，住在巨型城堡里，用巨剑战斗，光穿的鞋就足以让人类男孩躲在里面。然而眼前这些生物却和她的描述不大相符，应该说更像熊，和跨下的长毛象一样多毛。由于巨人们都坐着，所以很难判断确切高度。或许十尺，或许十二尺，琼恩心想，也可能十四尺，但不会再高。他们隆起的胸膛和人类差不多，胳膊很长，悬吊而下，下臂又比上臂宽一半。而他们的腿比手短，很粗，且根本不穿鞋，因为脚掌宽阔，又黑又硬，长满老茧。由于没脖子，他们沉重的大脑袋从肩胛骨间向前伸出，脸则扁平而凶残，老鼠般的小眼睛不过珠子大小，陷在角质皮肤中几乎看不见，可他们鼻子很灵，边走边嗅。

　　他们并非披着兽皮，琼恩意识到，只是毛发很长。乱蓬蓬的毛发覆盖身体，腰部以下较密，以上则较稀疏，散发的臭气令人窒息——当然，气味也可能源于长毛象。在歌谣里，乔曼吹响冬之号角，从地底将巨人们唤醒。眼前的巨人没有装备十尺长的巨剑，只看到棍棒，其中多数是枯树枝干做成，拖着残破的分枝，有几根末端还绑了石球，当槌子用。歌谣里可没说号角能否让他们重回睡眠。

　　朝他们走来的巨人中，有一个看上去比其余的年长。他的毛发乃是灰色，间有白色条纹，跨下的长毛象也比同类要大，一样灰白相间。他经过时，托蒙德用某种刺耳铿锵的语言喊了些什么，琼恩无法领会，巨人张开嘴巴，露出满口结实的大牙齿，发出半象打嗝、半象轰鸣的声音。过了好一会儿，琼恩才意识到他在笑。那头长毛象转过巨大的脑袋，短暂地瞥了他俩一眼，笨拙地走来，在河边的烂泥浆和新雪地上留下硕大的足印，一根巨齿从琼恩头上掠过。这时，巨人用托蒙德刚才所说的粗犷语言冲下面叫喊。

　　“那是他们的王吗？”琼恩问。

　　“巨人没有国王，就跟长毛象、雪熊和灰海里的巨鲸一样。此乃玛格·玛兹·屯多·铎尔·威格，意为‘强壮的玛格’。哈哈，如果你喜欢，可以向他下跪，他不会介意，我知道你那对爱弯曲的膝盖又痒痒了，总想朝什么王爷跪拜。但小心哟，别让他踩着你，巨人眼睛不好，或许看不到脚边的小乌鸦。”

　　“你跟他说了些什么？这是古语吗？”

　　“不错。我说他真是父亲的好儿子，他两个看上去实在太像，不过他父亲的气味要好一些。”

　　“他跟你说什么呢？”

　　雷拳托蒙德咧开缺齿的嘴笑道：“他问我边上骑马的这位白洁粉嫩的家伙是不是我女儿！”野人抖落手臂上的雪，调转马头。“大概他这辈子从没见过不长胡子的男人咧，来，我们回去，待会找不到我，曼斯铁定大发脾气。”

　　琼恩调头随托蒙德朝队列前端走去，新斗篷沉重地披在肩头。它由未经清洗的羊皮缝制而成，遵照野人的建议，毛绒的一面穿在内。它足以遮挡风雪，夜里也能保证睡个暖和的好觉，但他并没丢弃黑斗篷，而是将其折好放在马鞍下。“你真的杀过巨人？”边向前骑，他边问托蒙德。白灵安静地在旁慢跑，新雪地上印下爪印。

　　“噢，这还有假？你小子干嘛怀疑我这么强壮的汉子呢？那是冬天的事，当年我人还小，小男孩都傻乎乎的。我跑得太远，结果马死掉了，偏又遭遇风暴袭击。一场真正的风暴哟，不是现在这种撒面粉似的天气。哈！我知道不等风暴平息我就会冻死，于是找到一个熟睡的巨人，割开她的肚子，爬了进去。她体内确实暖和，只是臭气差点把我熏死。最糟的是，春天的时候她醒过来，把我当成她的孩子，在我想办法逃离前，足足喂了我三个月的奶。哈！不过有时候我还挺想念巨人奶的味道。”

　　“她喂你奶，你怎能杀她呢？”

　　“我当然没杀她——你千万别把这话传出去。巨人克星托蒙德比巨人婴儿托蒙德好听多了，对吧？”

　　“你的其他外号又怎么来的呢？”琼恩问，“曼斯叫你吹号者，是么？还有红厅的蜜酒之王，雪熊之夫，生灵之父？”他其实想打听的是“吹号者”这个外号，但不敢问得太直接。传说乔曼吹响冬之号角，从地底将巨人们唤醒。巨人和长毛象真的就是这样来的？莫非曼斯·雷德找到乔曼的号角，并把它交给雷拳托蒙德来吹？

　　“乌鸦都这么好奇吗？”托蒙德反问。“好吧，故事是这样的。那是另一个冬季，比我在巨人肚里渡过的那个还冷，没日没夜地下雪，雪花有你脑袋那么大，可不是现在这种小场面。大雪纷飞，整个村子被埋住一半，我住在红厅里面，陪伴我的只有一桶蜜酒。无事可做，只有喝酒，而我喝得越多，就越想住在附近的那个女人，她的模样强壮又漂亮，一对奶子更大得惊人，虽然脾气很坏，没错—但是，哦，她也很热和，在隆冬季节，男人就需要热和劲。”

　　“我喝得越多就越想她，越想她，那话儿就越硬，直到再也受不了。我傻得热血上冲，当即把自己从头到脚裹进毛皮，脸上蒙一块羊毛风巾，冲出去找她。雪下得太大，辩不清路途，风穿透身子，冻僵了骨头，但最后还是找着了她，她跟我一样全身裹着毛皮。

　　“女人的脾气确实恶劣，我抱住她，她激烈反抗，我费劲全力才把她带回家，脱掉一身毛皮，当我这么做的时候，哦，她热烈的程度简直让人无法回忆。后来呢，后来我们好好享受了一段，然后就睡了。第二天早晨醒来，雪已停止，阳光照耀，但我的状态却不好，全身都是伤口，那话儿被咬掉一半，地板上则有一张母熊皮。不久后，自由民们传说森林里有头光秃秃的熊，身后跟着两只非常怪异的熊崽。哈！”他拍了一下粗壮的大腿。“但愿我还能找到她，再睡一觉，这头母熊！没一个女人能这样反抗我，也没一个女人能给我生这么强壮的儿子。”

　　“你找到她又能怎样呢？”琼恩笑问，“她不是把你那话儿咬掉了么？”

　　“只咬掉一半！我那话儿有旁人两倍长咧。”托蒙德喷喷鼻息，“话说回来，关于你……在长城当兵时那话儿被割过吗？”

　　“没有，”琼恩道，感觉受了羞辱。

　　“我还以为一定是这样，否则你干嘛拒绝耶哥蕊特？在我看来，她根本不会抗拒你，她想要你，这是很明显的事，瞎子都能看出来。”

　　确实很明显，琼恩心想，似乎队伍里一半的人都看出来了。他注视着飘落的雪花，以便在托蒙德面前掩饰羞红的脸。我是守夜人的汉子，他提醒自己，不是害羞的少女。

　　他白天大部分时间都跟耶哥蕊特在一起，晚上也一样。由于叮当衫不信任“反复无常的乌鸦”，因此曼斯·雷德给了琼恩新羊皮斗篷之后，便提议让他跟随巨人克星托蒙德，琼恩愉快地接受了。第二天，耶哥蕊特和长矛里克便离开叮当衫的队伍，加入托蒙德的行列。“自由民想跟谁就跟谁，”女孩告诉他，“我们受够了那堆骨头。”

　　每晚扎营时，耶哥蕊特总是将毛皮铺在他身旁睡觉，也不管他离营火近还是远。有一回他半夜醒来，竟发觉她偎着自己，胳膊抱紧他的胸。他躺着倾听她的呼吸，许久许久，试图抑制股间的冲动。他安慰自己游骑兵经常大被同眠，却又怀疑取暖远非耶哥蕊特想要的全部。后来，他用白灵将两人隔开。在老奶妈的故事里，骑士当万不得已和女士同床时，为了荣誉，会在中间放一把剑，他想，用冰原狼来代替宝剑大概是世上头一遭吧。

　　即便如此，耶哥蕊特仍坚持不懈。就前天，琼恩犯下一个错误，他透露自己想洗热水澡。“冷点也行，”她立即道，“之后有人帮你取暖呢。快去吧，河水只有一半结冰。”

　　琼恩笑道：“你想冻死我呀？”

　　“乌鸦都这么怕冷吗？结点冰咋了？死不了人，要不，我跟你一起跳下去。”

　　“湿衣服会冻住皮肤！”他反对。

　　“琼恩·雪诺，你什么都不懂。跳下去当然是不穿衣服的。”

　　“我才不下去，”他坚决地说，然后便慌称雷拳托蒙德在找，趁机溜走了。

　　因红发的关系，野人们都认为耶哥蕊特极其美丽；自由民中少有红发，它代表火吻而生，乃是幸运的象征。幸运不幸运且不论，耶哥蕊特的头发的确很红，只是乱蓬蓬的，琼恩有时候忍不住想问她，是否只在季节更迭时才梳头。

　　他明白，若生在南方贵族世家，这女孩只会被认定为相貌平平。她有一张农民般的圆脸，狮子鼻，牙齿有些歪斜，双眼分得很开，这些琼恩头一次遇见她，把刀抵住女孩喉咙时就注意到了。但到后来，他还注意到其他一些东西：咧嘴微笑时，她歪斜的牙齿并不碍事；也许她两眼分得很开，但那漂亮的蓝灰眸子是他所见过最生动的东西；她用沙哑的声音低吟浅唱，会令他十分感动；还有时候，她抱膝坐在营火边，火焰与红发交相辉映，她望着他，微笑……啊，那也带给他某些触动。

　　不，我是守夜人的汉子，我发过誓。我将不娶妻，不封地，不生子。我在鱼梁木、在父亲的神灵面前发下誓言，决不能反悔……而我也不能向这位“生灵之父”雷拳托蒙德承认我的勉强。

　　“你不喜欢那女孩？”他们又经过二十头长毛象，托蒙德问他。这批长毛象驮的不是巨人，而是高高的木塔，其中有野人。

　　“不是的，可我……”我说什么他会信？“我太年轻，不能结婚的。”

　　“结婚？”托蒙德哈哈大笑，“谁说结婚？难道在南方，男人必须跟每个上床的女孩结婚吗？”

　　琼恩感到自己又脸红了。“叮当衫要杀我时，她替我说话，我不能损害她的名誉。”

　　“你已经是自由民了，耶哥蕊特也是。你们想睡就睡，哪有不名誉呢？”

　　“我会让她怀孩子的。”

　　“对啊，但愿如此。生一个强壮的儿子，或者活泼欢笑的女孩，火吻而生，再好不过了么？”

　　他不知该怎么说。“那孩子……那孩子会是个私生子。”

　　“莫非私生子比其他孩子更虚弱？更容易得病？更容易夭折？”

　　“不，可——”

　　“你自己就是个私生子！若耶哥蕊特不想要，自会去找森林女巫，讨一杯月茶。种子播下以后，别的你就不用管了。”

　　“我绝不会在外面生什么私生子。”

　　托蒙德摇摇满头乱发，“你们爱下跪的南方佬真蠢，你既不想要她，干嘛又要偷她？”

　　“偷？我没有……”

　　“没有？”托蒙德道，“你杀了她身边的两个人，并把她带走，这不叫偷叫什么？”

　　“她是我的俘虏。”

　　“想清楚，是你要她向你投降。”

　　“没错，可……托蒙德，我发誓，我没碰她。”

　　“他们真的没把你那话儿割掉？”托蒙德耸耸肩，仿佛在说自己永远也不能理解这种愚行。“好吧，你是自由民，如果不想要女人，最好替自己找头母熊。男子汉是不能老放着他那话儿不用的，那样它会越变越小，直到有一天，你想尿尿，却找不到它了。”

　　琼恩无言以对。难怪七大王国的人认为自由民简直不是人。他们没有法律，没有荣誉，甚至连基本的道德准则也没有。他们相互间无休止地偷窃，像野兽一样繁殖，崇拜强暴无视婚姻，到处产下私生子。可不管怎么说，他发现自己渐渐喜欢上了巨人克星托蒙德——尽管他是个名副其实的吹牛大王——还有长矛里克，耶哥蕊特……不，不要去想耶哥蕊特。

　　跟托蒙德和长矛他们一起骑行的还有其他各种各样的野人：有的像叮当衫或哭泣者一样讨厌，不止朝他吐唾沫，还很乐意捅他一刀；狗头哈犸是个木桶般粗壮的女人，脸颊像两块厚厚的白肉，她最恨狗，每隔两周杀一条，并把新鲜狗头挂在旗上做标志；无耳的斯迪是瑟恩的马格拿，他的族人把他当神看待，而不仅仅是首领；“六形人”瓦拉米尔，老鼠一样的小个头，他的座骑是凶猛的白色雪熊，后腿直立起来足有十三尺高，他身边还跟了三匹狼和一只影子山猫。琼恩只见过他一次，一次就足以让他毛骨悚然，连白灵看到那头熊和黑白相间的大山猫时，也竖起了颈毛。

　　还有比瓦拉米尔凶猛的野人，他们来自鬼影森林极北处，或霜雪之牙中的隐秘山谷，甚至更奇怪的地方。冰封海岸的原住民驾着海象骨战车，由彪悍的大白狗牵引；恐怖的冰川部落据说以人肉为生；穴居人把脸染成蓝、紫和绿色；矮小的硬足民赤脚列队在冰雪上疾走，脚板像沸水煮过的皮革。当然，队伍中没有什么古灵精怪，但他很确定如果必要，托蒙德也会弄一些来当夜宵。

　　根据琼恩判断，野人部队中至少有一半一辈子没见过长城，而且绝大多数不会讲通用语。但这没关系。曼斯·雷德会说古语，甚至能用它唱歌，每到夜晚，他便弹起竖琴，演奏奇异而野性的音乐。

　　为整合这支庞大冗杂的队伍，曼斯花了多年心血。他跟各地部落酋长谈判，跟各位马格拿谈判，用甜言蜜语赢得第一个村落，用歌谣吟唱赢得另一个，又用刀锋宝剑赢得第三个；他让狗头哈犸与骸骨之王讲和，让硬足部与夜行部交流，让冰冻海岸的海象民与大冰川的食人部落和解；他将一百把不同的匕首打造成一支巨矛，瞄准七大王国的心脏。他没有王冠，没有权杖，也没有丝衣华服，但琼恩看得很清楚，曼斯·雷德决不是名义上的国王。

　　琼恩遵照断掌科林的托付加入野人。“与他们一起行军，与他们一起用餐，与他们一起作战，”游骑兵在死前的那一夜对他如是说，“你的任务是，观察。”但一直以来，他观察的成果殊为有限。断掌怀疑野人们进入偏僻寒冷的霜雪之牙搜寻某件武器，某种力量，某种没落的法术，用于突破长城……不管他们找到没有，反正既无人谈论，更无人买弄。曼斯·雷德也没向他诉说任何计划或策略，自打头天晚上的会面后，他从未接近过野人国王。

　　若情非得己，我会杀了他。想到这里，琼恩心情阴郁，谋杀不仅毫无荣誉，也会赔上自己性命。但他不能让野人们突破长城，侵略临冬城和北境，先民荒冢和溪流地，白港和磐石海岸，甚至南下颈泽。八千年来，为保护子民不受掠袭者的威胁，史塔克家族奋勇抗争，代代相传……而不管是不是私生子，他血管里终究流着相同的血液。况且，布兰和瑞肯仍在临冬城，还有鲁温学士、罗德利克爵士、老奶妈、兽舍掌管法兰、铁匠密肯、大厨盖吉……每一个他认识与深爱的人都在。若我必须杀死一位值得仰慕的人，以保护他们不受叮当衫、狗头哈犸和无耳的瑟恩马格拿的残害，这也无可奈何。

　　但他依然向父亲的旧神祈祷，以求免除这一令人沮丧的任务。队伍为牲畜群、孩童和各种辎重所累，前行得非常缓慢，大雪更进一步放慢了进程。不过多数人马已下了山，如融化的蜂蜜一样于乳河西岸慢慢流淌，沿河朝鬼影森林深处而去。

　　琼恩清楚，前方不远处，先民拳峰耸立在森林上方，那儿驻有三百名守夜人军团的黑衣弟兄，全副武装，配有座骑，扼守要道。除断掌之外，熊老还派出其他斥候，现在贾曼·布克威尔和索伦·斯莫伍德应已返回，并带去野人来袭的消息。

　　莫尔蒙是不会逃跑的，琼恩心想，他人老顽固，也走得太远。他会不顾人数众寡悬殊，仍然发动攻击。不久后，当能听到号角长鸣，目睹骑手冲杀而至，黑色斗篷飘扬，手擎冰冷武器。当然，三百人不可能杀光三万人，但琼恩很清楚守夜人的策略。目标只有一个，一个关键点，曼斯。

　　塞外之王已竭尽全力，可野人缺乏纪律的状况仍让人绝望，这使他们十分脆弱。队伍蜿蜒数里格，其中不乏勇猛战士，但能作战的人中三分之一强在队伍两头，或效力于狗头哈犸的前锋，或与巨人、野牛和掷火者组成凶悍的后卫部队；另有三分之一随曼斯本人行在中军，守卫推车、雪橇和狗拉小车，这是队伍的补给物资，是夏季剩下的全部收获；其余的分成小队，由叮当衫、贾尔、巨人克星托蒙德及哭泣者等人率领，担任斥候、征粮队或监军，沿着队伍无休止地跑前跑后，以约束大家或多或少有序前进。

　　尤为致命的是，一百个野人中才一人有马。熊老的队伍将如利斧穿过麦片粥一样畅通无阻。这样一来，曼斯只好亲率骑兵追赶，以求挫败守夜人。如果他在接下来的战斗中死去，长城又会安宁一百年，如果相反……

　　他用剑的手开开合合，灼烧的指头蠢蠢欲动。长爪挂在马鞍上，他很轻易就能够到这把长柄剑咆哮狼头的石圆球和柔软的皮革把手。

　　几小时之后，他们才赶上托蒙德的小队，雪下得正大。白灵半路离去，前往森林追踪猎物，他会在夜里扎营时分回来，最晚不过黎明。冰原狼一直都在……就和耶哥蕊特一样。

　　“那么，”女孩看到他便喊，“你现在信了吗，琼恩·雪诺？你看到骑长毛象的巨人了吗？”

　　“哈！不止如此，”琼恩不及回答，托蒙德便嚷嚷，“这只乌鸦还给人家看上了！多半得娶一个咧！”

　　“娶女巨人？”长矛里克笑道。

　　“不，娶长毛象！”托蒙德吼回去，“哈！”

　　琼恩放慢马速，耶哥蕊特跟在身旁。她自称比他大三岁，尽管身高要矮上半尺，不过不管究竟几岁，她的强韧无庸置疑。在风声峡，石蛇说她是个“矛妇”，但她其实没结婚，擅用的武器也是一把兽角和鱼梁木做的短弯弓，可琼恩觉得“矛妇”的说法很适合她。她让他想起小妹艾莉亚，尽管艾莉亚更小更瘦，耶哥蕊特则常穿许多兽毛皮革，难以判断体形。

　　“你会唱‘最后的巨人’吗？”耶哥蕊特不待回答，便道，“我的嗓音不够深沉，唱不好呢，”她唱起来，“啊啊啊啊啊啊啊，我是最后的巨人，我没有同伴。”

　　巨人克星托蒙德听到歌声，也跟着唱。“最后的巨人，从大山中走来，我们曾经统治世界，”他透过大雪吼回来。

　　长矛里克加入进来，“啊，小人族偷走森林，偷走山脉，偷走江河。”

　　“他们在谷地筑起巨墙，捕尽溪流所有鱼获，”耶哥蕊特和托蒙德用宏亮的声音交替合唱。

　　托蒙德的儿子托雷格和多蒙德也用低沉的嗓音应和，然后是他女儿蒙妲和所有人。大家搭配节奏，用长矛敲击皮革盾牌，边行边唱：

　　他们在石厅内燃起大火，

　　铸造锋利的长矛。

　　而我在群山中孤独，

　　没有同伴惟有眼泪。

　　白天被狗群追赶，

　　夜晚还有火炬。

　　只因阳光下若巨人存在，

　　小人族便寝食难安。

　　啊啊啊啊啊啊，我是最后的巨人，

　　请记住我的歌。

　　总有一天，我将离去，歌声消逝，

　　沉寂持续，长长久久。

　　唱完后，耶哥蕊特脸上挂着泪珠。

　　“你为什么哭呀？”琼恩不解地问，“只是一首歌而已。巨人还有几百个呢，我刚看见的。”

　　“噢，几百个！”她激动地说。“你什么都不懂，琼恩·雪诺。你——琼恩！”

　　琼恩随着突如其来的拍翅声转头。灰蓝的巨翅遮蔽视线，尖利的爪子陷进他的脸。刺痛来得猛烈而突然，鹰翼围绕脑袋拍打。他看到鸟喙，但没时间抬手阻挡或取武器。于是他向后翻转，脚从马镫上脱出，马儿惊恐地跑开，人则向下坠落。那只鹰抓住他的脸不放，用爪子撕扯，尖叫着又拍又啄。世界在混乱中上下颠倒，羽毛、马肉和血液搅成一团，随着重重的撞击，地面迎将上来。

　　他意识到的下一件事，是自己面孔朝下，嘴里满是泥土和鲜血的味道，耶哥蕊特保护性地跪在上方，手握兽骨匕首。他仍能听到翅膀的声音，那只鹰却看不见了。世界的一半都是黑暗。“我的眼睛，”他突然恐慌地喊，一边抬手摸向脸部。

　　“只有血而已，琼恩·雪诺，他戳破了上方的皮，没击中眼睛。”

　　脸颊阵阵悸动，他边擦左眼的血，边用右眼观察。托蒙德在上方大吼，然后传来马蹄声、喊叫声和枯骨的碰撞声。

　　“骨头袋子，”托蒙德咆哮，“把你该死的乌鸦叫回去！”

　　“该死的乌鸦在你这儿！”叮当衫指着琼恩说，“他就象一条背信弃义的狗，躺在泥浆里流血！”那只鹰拍拍翅膀飞下来，降落在他当作头盔的碎裂巨人头骨上。“我要他！”

　　“你来啊，”托蒙德道，“最好拿起剑过来，因为我会拿起我的。我要煮了你的骨头，当尿壶用。哈！”

　　“少废话！等我戳穿你这吹牛大王的身躯，你会缩得比那女孩还小！站一边去，如果不想惹恼曼斯的话。”

　　耶哥蕊特起身，“你说什么？是曼斯要找他？”

　　“没错，耳朵生茧了吗？让这黑心肝的家伙自己起来。”

　　托蒙德低头朝琼恩皱眉，“如果是曼斯的意思，最好快去。”

　　耶哥蕊特扶他站住，“他在流血耶！活象一头被宰杀的猪，看看欧瑞尔对这张漂亮脸蛋干了些什么！”

　　鸟也会记仇吗？琼恩杀死了野人欧瑞尔，但对方的一部分留在这只鹰体内，而今用金黄的眼瞳冷酷恶毒地看着他。“我就去，”他应道。血不停地流进右眼，脸颊火辣辣地痛。他触摸脸颊，黑手套成了红色，“请把马带来。”其实他想要的是白灵，不是马，但冰原狼不在身边，也许正在数里之外享用麋鹿呢。这个时候，他还是离开比较好。

　　他靠近时，坐骑惊恐地闪开，无疑被他满脸鲜血吓到了，琼恩的软语使它恢复平静，任他抓住缰绳，翻身上鞍。随着动作，他的脑袋阵阵晕眩。我需要包扎伤口，但现在不必，得先让塞外之王看看他的鹰对我做了什么。他先让右手开合片刻，然后握起长爪，甩到肩头，调转马匹，朝骸骨之王和他的队伍走去。

　　耶哥蕊特也上了马，表情严峻，“我也去。”

　　“滚，”叮当衫胸部的骨甲叮当作响，“我们只要这臭乌鸦，不要别人。”

　　“自由民想去哪儿就去哪儿，”耶哥蕊特说。

　　寒风将雪花吹进琼恩的眼睛，血在脸上冻结，“我们是说废话还是走？”

　　“走，”骸骨之王道。

　　一路快跑，气氛阴郁。他们沿着队伍，在翻滚的雪花中骑行两里地，然后穿越一堆乱七八糟的辎重车，溅起水花跨过乳河。在这里，乳河向东绕个大弯，形成浅滩，上面覆着薄冰，任由马蹄清脆踩踏，走出十码开外，方才变深。东岸的雪下得更疾，积雪更深，风也更冷。夜晚快要降临了。

　　但透过风雪，他能看见耸立在森林上方的巨大白色山丘。先民拳峰。头顶传来老鹰的尖叫，经过士卒松时，一只乌鸦从上俯瞰，发出刺耳的声音。莫非熊老开始行动了？可听不到金铁相交和弓箭弹射，惟有马蹄踩破碎冰的轻微吱嘎。

　　他们沉默地绕到南坡，那是上山的便利途径。琼恩在山丘底部看到死马，半埋在积雪里，肠子从腹部流出，活象冻僵的蛇，一条腿也不见了。是狼干的，琼恩先这么想，随即发现不对，狼会把猎物吃掉。

　　更多马尸散布在山坡，腿脚奇异地扭曲，无神的眼睛空洞地睁开。野人们象苍蝇一样附在它们身上，剥下鞍子、缰绳、包裹和甲胄等，用石斧将它们切开。

　　“上去，”叮当衫告诉琼恩，“曼斯在山顶。”

　　他们在环墙外下马，挤过石头间歪扭的通道。一匹毛发蓬松的棕色战马戳在一根削尖木桩上，熊老在每个入口内都放置了这样的木桩。这马是想冲出去，不是闯进来。没有骑手的踪迹。

　　里边有更多马尸和更糟糕的情形在等着他——琼恩从没见过粉红色的雪。朔风在周围涌动，拉扯厚重的羊皮白斗篷，乌鸦拍着翅膀在死马间飞来飞去。这是野生乌鸦还是我们的信鸦？琼恩无法判断。他不知可怜的山姆现在在哪儿，成了什么东西。

　　冻结的血在靴下“嘎吱”一声碎裂。野人们扒下马尸上每片钢铁和皮革，甚至蹄铁也不放过。有些人在翻查包裹，寻找武器与食物。琼恩经过齐特的一条狗，或者说这条狗剩下的部分，它还活着，躺在一滩泥泞、半冻结的血里。

　　有些帐蓬仍矗立在营地远端，他们便在那儿找到了曼斯·雷德。在那红丝线缝补的羊毛黑斗篷下，他穿了黑色环甲和粗糙的毛皮马裤，头戴一顶铜铁巨盔，两侧各有鸦翼作装饰。贾尔和狗头哈犸跟他在一起，斯迪也在，还有六形人瓦拉米尔跟他的狼与影子山猫。

　　曼斯阴沉冰冷地看着琼恩，“你的脸怎么了？”

　　耶哥蕊特道：“欧瑞尔想挖他的眼睛。”

　　“我在问他。难道他舌头丢了？也许真该丢了，免得再向我们撒谎。”

　　斯迪马格拿抽出长匕首，“这小子用不着两只眼睛，留一只也许更识时务。”

　　“你想保住眼睛吗，琼恩？”塞外之王问，“想的话，赶紧招供，他们有多少人。这次试着说实话，临冬城的杂种。”

　　琼恩喉咙干涩，“大人……怎么……”

　　“我不是什么大人，”曼斯说，“而这个‘怎么’再明白不过。你的弟兄们死了，我问你，他们究竟有多少人？”

　　琼恩的脸阵阵悸动，雪一直下，很难静心思考。不管要你做什么，都不准违抗，统统照办，这是科林的吩咐。话语卡在喉咙，他逼自己说出来，“我们共有三百人。”

　　“我们？”曼斯尖刻地反问。

　　“他们……他们有三百人。”不管要你做什么，都……这明明是断掌的命令，可我为什么觉得自己如此怯懦？“两百来自黑城堡，一百来自影子塔。”

　　“你在我帐蓬里讲的故事可不一样。”曼斯望向狗头哈犸，“找到多少马？”

　　“一百多，”大个子女人回答，“将近两百。东边还有死马，在积雪下面，我没算在内。”她身后站着她的掌旗官，举一根狗头杆子，那狗头新鲜得渗出血来。

　　“你不该向我撒谎，琼恩·雪诺，”曼斯道。

　　“我……我明白。”还能怎么说呢？

　　塞外之王仔细端详他的脸，“谁是这里的头？说实话，莱克？斯莫伍德？威勒斯？不，他太软弱……这是谁的帐蓬？”

　　我已经说得太多。“您没发现他的尸体？”

　　哈犸轻蔑地哼了一声，鼻孔里喷出霜气，“蠢蛋乌鸦！”

　　“你再用提问作回答，我就把你交给骸骨之王，”曼斯·雷德边向琼恩保证，边走过来，“谁是这里的头？”

　　再近一步，琼恩心想，再近一步。他摸向长爪的剑柄。只要我不说……

　　“敢拔剑，我会在它出鞘之前让你这杂种人头落地，”曼斯道，“我快对你失去耐心了，乌鸦。”

　　“说吧，”耶哥蕊特催促，“反正不管是谁，都已经死了。”

　　他皱紧眉头，脸颊上伤口开裂。这太难了，琼恩绝望地想，可若要扮演变色龙又怎能不成为变色龙呢？科林没告诉他怎么做，好歹第二步比第一步容易。“熊老。”

　　“老头子亲自出马？”哈犸并不相信，“真的？那黑城堡由谁指挥？”

　　“波文·马尔锡，”这次琼恩立即回答。不管要你做什么，都不准违抗，统统照办。

　　曼斯哈哈大笑，“如果真是这样，那我们已经不战而胜。波文这家伙数剑比用剑在行。”

　　“熊老亲自坐镇于此，”琼恩说，“原本地势就险峻坚固，而他继续加强防备，设陷坑，插木桩，储存食水，以对付……”

　　“……我？”曼斯替他说完。“哼，他想得倒美。假如我笨到猛攻的话，至少五比一的伤亡，那还算走运。”他抿紧嘴唇。“但当死人出没，环墙、木桩和宝剑都变得毫无意义。人是无法跟死者作战的，琼恩·雪诺，没有谁比我更清楚。”他抬头凝望渐暗的天空，“这群乌鸦似乎在不经意间帮了我们的大忙，我一直纳闷为何队伍没遭攻击呢。好，还有一百里格的路，天气越来越冷。瓦拉米尔，派你的狼去嗅嗅，追踪尸鬼的行藏，以防他们偷袭。骸骨之王，将巡逻人数加倍，并确保人人都带有火炬和打火石。斯迪，贾尔，你们天亮就出发。”

　　“曼斯，”叮当衫道，“我想要这乌鸦的骨头。”

　　耶哥蕊特踏步上前，挡住琼恩，“他只是保护过去的兄弟，你不能为这个就杀他。”

　　“我瞧他还把他们当兄弟，”斯迪宣称。

　　“不是的，”耶哥蕊特坚持，“他没照他们的命令杀我，反而毙了断掌，大家都知道。”

　　琼恩的吐息在空气中结霜。我瞒不过他。他望进曼斯·雷德的眼睛，灼伤的五指开开合合。“我穿着您给的斗篷，陛下。”

　　“一件羊皮斗篷！”耶哥蕊特道，“每天夜里，我们都在它底下跳舞！”

　　贾尔咧嘴大笑，狗头哈犸也讪笑起来。“是这样吗，琼恩·雪诺？”曼斯·雷德温和地问，“她和你？”

　　长城之外难辩是非。琼恩不知自己还能不能区分荣誉与耻辱，正确和错误。愿天父原谅我。“是的，”他说。

　　曼斯点点头，“很好，那你俩明天跟贾尔和斯迪一起出发，参加行动。我绝不会把两颗跳动如一的心分开。”

　　“我们去哪里？”琼恩问。

　　“去长城。是你证明忠诚的时候了，行胜于言，琼恩·雪诺。”

　　马格拿不大高兴。“我要个乌鸦做什么？”

　　“他不仅了解守夜人，了解长城，”曼斯说，“而且对黑城堡的熟悉程度超过你手下任何一个掠袭者。你会发现他的用处，否则你就是个笨蛋。”

　　斯迪皱起眉头，“我认为他是个黑心肝的家伙。”

　　“是吗？到时候挖出来不就得了。”曼斯转向叮当衫。“骸骨之王，不惜一切代价保持队伍的行进速度，只要赶在莫尔蒙之前抵达长城，我们便胜券在握。”

　　“是，”叮当衫含糊而恼怒地回答。

　　曼斯点头离开，哈犸和六形人瓦拉米尔紧跟上去，他的狼和影子山猫也走在后面。琼恩、耶哥蕊特、贾尔、叮当衫和马格拿留在原地。两个年长的野人用难以掩饰的恨意瞪着琼恩，而贾尔开口道：“你听到曼斯的吩咐了，我们天亮出发，多带食物，路上没时间打猎。还有啊，乌鸦，把脸料理料理，血淋淋的简直一团糟。”

　　“我会的，”琼恩答应。

　　“你千万别撒谎，小妹妹，”叮当衫恶狠狠地对耶哥蕊特说，眼睛在巨人头骨后闪闪发光。

　　琼恩拔出长爪，“离我们远点，否则科林的下场就是榜样！”

　　“现在可没有狼护着你，小子。”叮当衫摸向自己的剑。

　　“哦，你很肯定哟？”耶哥蕊特笑道。

　　白灵正蹲伏在环墙顶端，雪白的毛发直立。他没发出半点声音，只是睁大血红的眼睛。骸骨之王缓缓放开剑柄，退后一步，诅咒着走了。

　　随后，琼恩和耶哥蕊特骑下先民拳峰，白灵在旁跟随。“我不要你为我撒谎，”走到乳河中央，琼恩觉得安全了，方才开口道。

　　“我没撒谎，”她说，“只是没说完整。”

　　“你说——”

　　“——每天夜里，我们都在你的斗篷底下作爱。是的，我没说从什么时候开始。”她有些羞赧地朝他笑笑。“今晚给白灵找个别的地方睡吧，琼恩·雪诺，诚如曼斯所说，行胜于言。”

SANSA
A new gown?” she said, as wary as she was astonished.
“More lovely than any you have worn, my lady,” the old woman promised. She measured Sansa’s hips with a length of knotted string. “All silk and Myrish lace, with satin linings. You will be very beautiful. The queen herself has commanded it.”
“Which queen?” Margaery was not yet Joff’s queen, but she had been Renly’s. Or did she mean the Queen of Thorns? Or . . .
“The Queen Regent, to be sure.”
“Queen Cersei?”
“None other. She has honored me with her custom for many a year.” The old woman laid her string along the inside of Sansa’s leg. “Her Grace said to me that you are a woman now, and should not dress like a little girl. Hold out your arm.”
Sansa lifted her arm. She needed a new gown, that was true. She had grown three inches in the past year, and most of her old wardrobe had been ruined by the smoke when she’d tried to burn her mattress on the day of her first flowering
“Your bosom will be as lovely as the queen’s,” the old woman said as she looped her string around Sansa’s chest. “You should not hide it so.”
The comment made her blush. Yet the last time she’d gone riding, she could not lace her jerkin all the way to the top, and the stableboy gaped at her as he helped her mount. Sometimes she caught grown men looking at her chest as well, and some of her tunics were so tight she could scarce breathe in them.
“What color will it be?” she asked the seamstress.
“Leave the colors to me, my lady. You will be pleased, I know you will. You shall have smallclothes and hose as well, kirtles and mantles and cloaks, and all else befitting a . . . a lovely young lady of noble birth.”
“Will they be ready in time for the king’s wedding?”
“Oh, sooner, much sooner, Her Grace insists. I have six seamstresses and twelve apprentice girls, and we have set all our other work aside for this. Many ladies will be cross with us, but it was the queen’s command.”
“Thank Her Grace kindly for her thoughtfulness,” Sansa said politely. “She is too good to me.”
“Her Grace is most generous,” the seamstress agreed, as she gathered up her things and took her leave.
But why? Sansa wondered when she was alone. It made her uneasy. I’ll wager this gown is Margaery’s doing somehow, or her grandmother’s.
Margaery’s kindness had been unfailing, and her presence changed everything. Her ladies welcomed Sansa as well. It had been so long since she had enjoyed the company of other women, she had almost forgotten how pleasant it could be. Lady Leonette gave her lessons on the high harp, and Lady Janna shared all the choice gossip. Merry Crane always had an amusing story, and little Lady Bulwer reminded her of Arya, though not so fierce.
Closest to Sansa’s own age were the cousins Elinor, Alla, and Megga, Tyrells from junior branches of the House. “Roses from lower on the bush,” quipped Elinor, who was witty and willowy. Megga was round and loud, Alla shy and pretty, but Elinor ruled the three by right of womanhood; she was a maiden flowered, whereas Megga and Alla were mere girls.
The cousins took Sansa into their company as if they had known her all their lives. They spent long afternoons doing needlework and talking over lemon cakes and honeyed wine, played at tiles of an evening, sang together in the castle sept . . . and often one or two of them would be chosen to share Margaery’s bed, where they would whisper half the night away. Alla had a lovely voice, and when coaxed would play the woodharp and sing songs of chivalry and lost loves. Megga couldn’t sing, but she was mad to be kissed. She and Alla played a kissing game sometimes, she confessed, but it wasn’t the same as kissing a man, much less a king. Sansa wondered what Megga would think about kissing the Hound, as she had. He’d come to her the night of the battle stinking of wine and blood. He kissed me and threatened to kill me, and made me sing him a song.
“King Joffrey has such beautiful lips,” Megga gushed, oblivious, “oh, poor Sansa, how your heart must have broken when you lost him. Oh, how you must have wept!”
Joffrey made me weep more often than you know, she wanted to say, but Butterbumps was not on hand to drown out her voice, so she pressed her lips together and held her tongue.
As for Elinor, she was promised to a young squire, a son of Lord Ambrose; they would be wed as soon as he won his spurs. He had worn her favor in the Battle of the Blackwater, where he’d slain a Myrish crossbowman and a Mullendore man-at-arms. “Alyn said her favor made him fearless,” said Megga. “He says he shouted her name for his battle cry, isn’t that ever so gallant? Someday I want some champion to wear my favor, and kill a hundred men.” Elinor told her to hush, but looked pleased all the same.
They are children, Sansa thought. They are silly little girls, even Elinor. They’ve never seen a battle, they’ve never seen a man die, they know nothing. Their dreams were full of songs and stories, the way hers had been before Joffrey cut her father’s head off. Sansa pitied them. Sansa envied them.
Margaery was different, though. Sweet and gentle, yet there was a little of her grandmother in her, too. The day before last she’d taken Sansa hawking. It was the first time she had been outside the city since the battle. The dead had been burned or buried, but the Mud Gate was scarred and splintered where Lord Stannis’s rams had battered it, and the hulls of smashed ships could be seen along both sides of the Blackwater, charred masts poking from the shallows like gaunt black fingers. The only traffic was the flat-bottomed ferry that took them across the river, and when they reached the kingswood they found a wilderness of ash and charcoal and dead trees. But the waterfowl teemed in the marshes along the bay, and Sansa’s merlin brought down three ducks while Margaery’s peregrine took a heron in full flight.
“Willas has the best birds in the Seven Kingdoms,” Margaery said when the two of them were briefly alone. “He flies an eagle sometimes. You will see, Sansa.” She took her by the hand and gave it a squeeze. “Sister.”
Sister. Sansa had once dreamt of having a sister like Margaery; beautiful and gentle, with all the world’s graces at her command. Arya had been entirely unsatisfactory as sisters went. How can I let my sister marry Joffrey? she thought, and suddenly her eyes were full of tears. “Margaery, please,” she said, “you mustn’t.” It was hard to get the words out. “You mustn’t marry him. He’s not like he seems, he’s not. He’ll hurt you.”
“I shouldn’t think so.” Margaery smiled confidently. “It’s brave of you to warn me, but you need not fear. Joff’s spoiled and vain and I don’t doubt that he’s as cruel as you say, but Father forced him to name Loras to his Kingsguard before he would agree to the match. I shall have the finest knight in the Seven Kingdoms protecting me night and day, as Prince Aemon protected Naerys. So our little lion had best behave, hadn’t he?” She laughed, and said, “Come, sweet sister, let’s race back to the river. It will drive our guards quite mad.” And without waiting for an answer, she put her heels into her horse and flew.
She is so brave, Sansa thought, galloping after her . . . and yet, her doubts still gnawed at her. Ser Loras was a great knight, all agreed. But Joffrey had other Kingsguard, and gold cloaks and red cloaks besides, and when he was older he would command armies of his own. Aegon the Unworthy had never harmed Queen Naerys, perhaps for fear of their brother the Dragonknight . . . but when another of his Kingsguard fell in love with one of his mistresses, the king had taken both their heads.
Ser Loras is a Tyrell, Sansa reminded herself. That other knight was only a Toyne. His brothers had no armies, no way to avenge him but with swords. Yet the more she thought about it all, the more she wondered. Joff might restrain himself for a few turns, perhaps as long as a year, but soon or late he will show his claws, and when he does . . . the realm might have a second Kingslayer, and there would be war inside the city, as the men of the lion and the men of the rose made the gutters run red.
Sansa was surprised that Margaery did not see it too. She is older than me, she must be wiser. And her father, Lord Tyrell, he knows what he is doing, surely. I am just being silly.
When she told Ser Dontos that she was going to Highgarden to marry Willas Tyrell, she thought he would be relieved and pleased for her. Instead he had grabbed her arm and said, “You cannot!” in a voice as thick with horror as with wine. “I tell you, these Tyrells are only Lannisters with flowers. I beg of you, forget this folly, give your Florian a kiss, and promise you’ll go ahead as we have planned. The night of Joffrey’s wedding, that’s not so long, wear the silver hair net and do as I told you, and afterward we make our escape.” He tried to plant a kiss on her cheek.
Sansa slipped from his grasp and stepped away from him. “I won’t. I can’t. Something would go wrong. When I wanted to escape you wouldn’t take me, and now I don’t need to.”
Dontos stared at her stupidly. “But the arrangements are made, sweetling. The ship to take you home, the boat to take you to the ship, your Florian did it all for his sweet Jonquil.”
“I am sorry for all the trouble I put you to,” she said, “but I have no need of boats and ships now.”
“But it’s all to see you safe.”
“I will be safe in Highgarden. Willas will keep me safe.”
“But he does not know you,” Dontos insisted, “and he will not love you. Jonquil, Jonquil, open your sweet eyes, these Tyrells care nothing for you. It’s your claim they mean to wed.”
“My claim?” She was lost for a moment.
“Sweetling,” he told her, “you are heir to Winterfell.” He grabbed her again, pleading that she must not do this thing, and Sansa wrenched free and left him swaying beneath the heart tree. She had not visited the godswood since.
But she had not forgotten his words, either. The heir to Winterfell, she would think as she lay abed at night. It’s your claim they mean to wed. Sansa had grown up with three brothers. She never thought to have a claim, but with Bran and Rickon dead . . . It doesn’t matter, there’s still Robb, he’s a man grown now, and soon he’ll wed and have a son. Anyway, Willas Tyrell will have Highgarden, what would he want with Winterfell?
Sometimes she would whisper his name into her pillow just to hear the sound of it. “Willas, Willas, Willas.” Willas was as good a name as Loras, she supposed. They even sounded the same, a little. What did it matter about his leg? Willas would be Lord of Highgarden and she would be his lady.
She pictured the two of them sitting together in a garden with puppies in their laps, or listening to a singer strum upon a lute while they floated down the Mander on a pleasure barge. If I give him sons, he may come to love me. She would name them Eddard and Brandon and Rickon, and raise them all to be as valiant as Ser Loras. And to hate Lannisters, too. In Sansa’s dreams, her children looked just like the brothers she had lost. Sometimes there was even a girl who looked like Arya.
She could never hold a picture of Willas long in her head, though; her imaginings kept turning him back into Ser Loras, young and graceful and beautiful. You must not think of him like that, she told herself. Or else he may see the disappointment in your eyes when you meet, and how could he marry you then, knowing it was his brother you loved? Willas Tyrell was twice her age, she reminded herself constantly, and lame as well, and perhaps even plump and red-faced like his father. But comely or no, he might be the only champion she would ever have.
Once she dreamed it was still her marrying Joff, not Margaery, and on their wedding night he turned into the headsman Ilyn Payne. She woke trembling. She did not want Margaery to suffer as she had, but she dreaded the thought that the Tyrells might refuse to go ahead with the wedding. I warned her, I did, I told her the truth of him. Perhaps Margaery did not believe her. Joff always played the perfect knight with her, as once he had with Sansa. She will see his true nature soon enough. After the wedding if not before. Sansa decided that she would light a candle to the Mother Above the next time she visited the sept, and ask her to protect Margaery from Joffrey’s cruelty. And perhaps a candle to the Warrior as well, for Loras.
She would wear her new gown for the ceremony at the Great Sept of Baelor, she decided as the seamstress took her last measurement. That must be why Cersei is having it made for me, so I will not look shabby at the wedding. She really ought to have a different gown for the feast afterward but she supposed one of her old ones would do. She did not want to risk getting food or wine on the new one. I must take it with me to Highgarden. She wanted to look beautiful for Willas Tyrell. Even if Dontos was right, and it is Winterfell he wants and not me, he still may come to love me for myself. Sansa hugged herself tightly, wondering how long it would be before the gown was ready. She could scarcely wait to wear it.
ARYA
The rains came and went, but there was more grey sky than blue, and all the streams were running high. On the morning of the third day, Arya noticed that the moss was growing mostly on the wrong side of the trees. “We’re going the wrong way,” she said to Gendry, as they rode past an especially mossy elm. “We’re going south. See how the moss is growing on the trunk?”
He pushed thick black hair from eyes and said, “We’re following the road, that’s all. The road goes south here.”
We’ve been going south all day, she wanted to tell him. And yesterday too, when we were riding along that streambed. But she hadn’t been paying close attention yesterday, so she couldn’t be certain. “I think we’re lost,” she said in a low voice. “We shouldn’t have left the river. All we had to do was follow it.”
“The river bends and loops,” said Gendry. “This is just a shorter way, I bet. Some secret outlaw way. Lem and Tom and them have been living here for years.”
That was true. Arya bit her lip. “But the moss . . . ”
“The way it’s raining, we’ll have moss growing from our ears before long,” Gendry complained.
“Only from our south ear,” Arya declared stubbornly. There was no use trying to convince the Bull of anything. Still, he was the only true friend she had, now that Hot Pie had left them.
“Sharna says she needs me to bake bread,” he’d told her, the day they rode. “Anyhow I’m tired of rain and saddlesores and being scared all the time. There’s ale here, and rabbit to eat, and the bread will be better when I make it. You’ll see, when you come back. You will come back, won’t you? When the war’s done?” He remembered who she was then, and added, “My lady,” reddening.
Arya didn’t know if the war would ever be done, but she had nodded. “I’m sorry I beat you that time,” she said. Hot Pie was stupid and craven, but he’d been with her all the way from King’s Landing and she’d gotten used to him. “I broke your nose.”
“You broke Lem’s too.” Hot Pie grinned. “That was good.”
“Lem didn’t think so,” Arya said glumly. Then it was time to go. When Hot Pie asked if he might kiss milady’s hand, she punched his shoulder. “Don’t call me that. You’re Hot Pie, and I’m Arry.”
“I’m not Hot Pie here. Sharna just calls me Boy. The same as she calls the other boy. It’s going to be confusing.”
She missed him more than she thought she would, but Harwin made up for it some. She had told him about his father Hullen, and how she’d found him dying by the stables in the Red Keep, the day she fled. “He always said he’d die in a stable,” Harwin said, “but we all thought some bad-tempered stallion would be his death, not a pack of lions.” Arya told of Yoren and their escape from King’s Landing as well, and much that had happened since, but she left out the stableboy she’d stabbed with Needle, and the guard whose throat she’d cut to get out of Harrenhal. Telling Harwin would be almost like telling her father, and there were some things that she could not bear having her father know.
Nor did she speak of Jaqen H’ghar and the three deaths he’d owed and paid. The iron coin he’d given her Arya kept tucked away beneath her belt, but sometimes at night she would take it out and remember how his face had melted and changed when he ran his hand across it. “Valar morghulis,” she would say under her breath. “Ser Gregor, Dunsen, Polliver, Raff the Sweetling. The Tickler and the Hound. Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn, Queen Cersei, King Joffrey.”
Only six Winterfell men remained of the twenty her father had sent west with Beric Dondarrion, Harwin told her, and they were scattered. “It was a trap, milady. Lord Tywin sent his Mountain across the Red Fork with fire and sword, hoping to draw your lord father. He planned for Lord Eddard to come west himself to deal with Gregor Clegane. If he had he would have been killed, or taken prisoner and traded for the Imp, who was your lady mother’s captive at the time. Only the Kingslayer never knew Lord Tywin’s plan, and when he heard about his brother’s capture he attacked your father in the streets of King’s Landing.”
“I remember,” said Arya. “He killed Jory.” Jory had always smiled at her, when he wasn’t telling her to get from underfoot.
“He killed Jory,” Harwin agreed, “and your father’s leg was broken when his horse fell on him. So Lord Eddard couldn’t go west. He sent Lord Beric instead, with twenty of his own men and twenty from Winterfell, me among them. There were others besides. Thoros and Ser Raymun Darry and their men, Ser Gladden Wylde, a lord named Lothar Mallery. But Gregor was waiting for us at the Mummer’s Ford, with men concealed on both banks. As we crossed he fell upon us from front and rear.
“I saw the Mountain slay Raymun Darry with a single blow so terrible that it took Darry’s arm off at the elbow and killed the horse beneath him too. Gladden Wylde died there with him, and Lord Mallery was ridden down and drowned. We had lions on every side, and I thought I was doomed with the rest, but Alyn shouted commands and restored order to our ranks, and those still a horse rallied around Thoros and cut our way free. Six score we’d been that morning. By dark no more than two score were left, and Lord Beric was gravely wounded. Thoros drew a foot of lance from his chest that night, and poured boiling wine into the hole it left.
“Every man of us was certain his lordship would be dead by daybreak. But Thoros prayed with him all night beside the fire, and when dawn came, he was still alive, and stronger than he’d been. It was a fortnight before he could mount a horse, but his courage kept us strong. He told us that our war had not ended at the Mummer’s Ford, but only begun there, and that every man of ours who’d fallen would be avenged tenfold.
“By then the fighting had passed by us. The Mountain’s men were only the van of Lord Tywin’s host. They crossed the Red Fork in strength and swept up into the riverlands, burning everything in their path. We were so few that all we could do was harry their rear, but we told each other that we’d join up with King Robert when he marched west to crush Lord Tywin’s rebellion. Only then we heard that Robert was dead, and Lord Eddard as well, and Cersei Lannister’s whelp had ascended the Iron Throne.
“That turned the whole world on its head. We’d been sent out by the King’s Hand to deal with outlaws, you see, but now we were the outlaws, and Lord Tywin was the Hand of the King. There was some wanted to yield then, but Lord Beric wouldn’t hear of it. We were still king’s men, he said, and these were the king’s people the lions were savaging. If we could not fight for Robert, we would fight for them, until every man of us was dead. And so we did, but as we fought something queer happened. For every man we lost, two showed up to take his place. A few were knights or squires, of gentle birth, but most were common men—fieldhands and fiddlers and innkeeps, servants and shoemakers, even two septons. Men of all sorts, and women too, children, dogs . . . ”
“Dogs?” said Arya.
“Aye.” Harwin grinned. “One of our lads keeps the meanest dogs you’d ever want to see.”
“I wish I had a good mean dog,” said Arya wistfully. “A lion-killing dog.” She’d had a direwolf once, Nymeria, but she’d thrown rocks at her until she fled, to keep the queen from killing her. Could a direwolf kill a lion? she wondered.
It rained again that afternoon, and long into the evening. Thankfully the outlaws had secret friends all over, so they did not need to camp out in the open or seek shelter beneath some leaky bower, as she and Hot Pie and Gendry had done so often.
That night they sheltered in a burned, abandoned village. At least it seemed to be abandoned, until Jack-Be-Lucky blew two short blasts and two long ones on his hunting horn. Then all sorts of people came crawling out of the ruins and up from secret cellars. They had ale and dried apples and some stale barley bread, and the outlaws had a goose that Anguy had brought down on the ride, so supper that night was almost a feast.
Arya was sucking the last bit of meat off a wing when one of the villagers turned to Lem Lemoncloak and said, “There were men through here not two days past, looking for the Kingslayer.”
Lem snorted. “They’d do better looking in Riverrun. Down in the deepest dungeons, where it’s nice and damp.” His nose looked like a squashed apple, red and raw and swollen, and his mood was foul.
“No,” another villager said. “He’s escaped.”
The Kingslayer. Arya could feel the hair on the back of her neck prickling. She held her breath to listen.
“Could that be true?” Tom o’ Sevens said.
“I’ll not believe it,” said the one-eyed man in the rusty pothelm. The other outlaws called him Jack-Be-Lucky, though losing an eye didn’t seem very lucky to Arya. “I’ve had me a taste o’ them dungeons. How could he escape?”
The villagers could only shrug at that. Greenbeard stroked his thick grey-and-green whiskers and said, “The wolves will drown in blood if the Kingslayer’s loose again. Thoros must be told. The Lord of Light will show him Lannister in the flames.”
“There’s a fine fire burning here,” said Anguy, smiling.
Greenbeard laughed, and cuffed the archer’s ear. “Do I look a priest to you, Archer? When Pello of Tyrosh peers into the fire, the cinders singe his beard.”
Lem cracked his knuckles and said, “Wouldn’t Lord Beric love to capture Jaime Lannister, though . . . ”
“Would he hang him, Lem?” one of the village women asked. “It’d be half a shame to hang a man as pretty as that one.”
“A trial first!” said Anguy. “Lord Beric always gives them a trial, you know that.” He smiled. “Then he hangs them.”
There was laughter all around. Then Tom drew his fingers across the strings of his woodharp and broke into soft song.
The brothers of the Kingswood,
they were an outlaw band.
The forest was their castle,
but they roamed across the land.
No man’s gold was safe from them,
nor any maiden’s hand.
Oh, the brothers of the Kingswood,
that fearsome outlaw band . . .
Warm and dry in a corner between Gendry and Harwin, Arya listened to the singing for a time, then closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep. She dreamt of home; not Riverrun, but Winterfell. It was not a good dream, though. She was alone outside the castle, up to her knees in mud. She could see the grey walls ahead of her, but when she tried to reach the gates every step seemed harder than the one before, and the castle faded before her, until it looked more like smoke than granite. And there were wolves as well, gaunt grey shapes stalking through the trees all around her, their eyes shining. Whenever she looked at them, she remembered the taste of blood.
The next morning they left the road to cut across the fields. The wind was gusting, sending dry brown leaves swirling around the hooves of their horses, but for once it did not rain. When the sun came out from behind a cloud, it was so bright Arya had to pull her hood forward to keep it out of her eyes.
She reined up very suddenly. “We are going the wrong way!”
Gendry groaned. “What is it, moss again?”
“Look at the sun,” she said. “We’re going south!” Arya rummaged in her saddlebag for the map, so she could show them. “We should never have left the Trident. See.” She unrolled the map on her leg. All of them were looking at her now. “See, there’s Riverrun, between the rivers.”
“As it happens,” said Jack-Be-Lucky, “we know where Riverrun is. Every man o’ us.”
“You’re not going to Riverrun,” Lem told her bluntly.
I was almost there, Arya thought. I should have let them take our horses. I could have walked the rest of the way. She remembered her dream then, and bit her lip.
“Ah, don’t look so hurt, child,” said Tom Sevenstrings. “No harm will come to you, you have my word on that.”
“The word of a liar!”
“No one lied,” said Lem. “We made no promises. It’s not for us to say what’s to be done with you.”
Lem was not the leader, though, no more than Tom; that was Greenbeard, the Tyroshi. Arya turned to face him. “Take me to Riverrun and you’ll be rewarded,” she said desperately.
“Little one,” Greenbeard answered, “a peasant may skin a common squirrel for his pot, but if he finds a gold squirrel in his tree he takes it to his lord, or he will wish he did.”
“I’m not a squirrel,” Arya insisted.
“You are.” Greenbeard laughed. “A little gold squirrel who’s off to see the lightning lord, whether she wills it or not. He’ll know what’s to be done with you. I’ll wager he sends you back to your lady mother, just as you wish.”
Tom Sevenstrings nodded. “Aye, that’s like Lord Beric. He’ll do right by you, see if he don’t.”
Lord Beric Dondarrion. Arya remembered all she’d heard at Harrenhal, from the Lannisters and the Bloody Mummers alike. Lord Beric the wisp o’ the wood. Lord Beric who’d been killed by Vargo Hoat and before that by Ser Amory Lorch, and twice by the Mountain That Rides. If he won’t send me home maybe I’ll kill him too. “Why do I have to see Lord Beric?” she asked quietly.
“We bring him all our highborn captives,” said Anguy.
Captive. Arya took a breath to still her soul. Calm as still water. She glanced at the outlaws on their horses, and turned her horse’s head. Now, quick as a snake, she thought, as she slammed her heels into the courser’s flank. Right between Greenbeard and Jack-Be-Lucky she flew, and caught one glimpse of Gendry’s startled face as his mare moved out of her way. And then she was in the open field, and running.
North or south, east or west, that made no matter now. She could find the way to Riverrun later, once she’d lost them. Arya leaned forward in the saddle and urged the horse to a gallop. Behind her the outlaws were cursing and shouting at her to come back. She shut her ears to the calls, but when she glanced back over her shoulder four of them were coming after her, Anguy and Harwin and Greenbeard racing side by side with Lem farther back, his big yellow cloak flapping behind him as he rode. “Swift as a deer,” she told her mount. “Run, now, run.”
Arya dashed across brown weedy fields, through waist-high grass and piles of dry leaves that flurried and flew when her horse galloped past. There were woods to her left, she saw. I can lose them there. A dry ditch ran along one side of the field, but she leapt it without breaking stride, and plunged in among the stand of elm and yew and birch trees. A quick peek back showed Anguy and Harwin still hard on her heels. Greenbeard had fallen behind, though, and she could not see Lem at all. “Faster,” she told her horse, “you can, you can.”
Between two elms she rode, and never paused to see which side the moss was growing on. She leapt a rotten log and swung wide around a monstrous deadfall, jagged with broken branches. Then up a gentle slope and down the other side, slowing and speeding up again, her horse’s shoes striking sparks off the flintstones underfoot. At the top of the hill she glanced back. Harwin had pushed ahead of Anguy, but both were coming hard. Greenbeard had fallen further back and seemed to be flagging.
A stream barred her way. She splashed down into it, through water choked with wet brown leaves. Some clung to her horse’s legs as they climbed the other side. The undergrowth was thicker here, the ground so full of roots and rocks that she had to slow, but she kept as good a pace as she dared. Another hill before her, this one steeper. Up she went, and down again. How big are these woods? she wondered. She had the faster horse, she knew that, she had stolen one of Roose Bolton’s best from the stables at Harrenhal, but his speed was wasted here. I need to find the fields again. I need to find a road. Instead she found a game trail. It was narrow and uneven, but it was something. She raced along it, branches whipping at her face. One snagged her hood and yanked it back, and for half a heartbeat she feared they had caught her. A vixen burst from the brush as she passed, startled by the fury of her flight. The game trail brought her to another stream. Or was it the same one? Had she gotten turned around? There was no time to puzzle it out, she could hear their horses crashing through the trees behind her. Thorns scratched at her face like the cats she used to chase in King’s Landing. Sparrows exploded from the branches of an alder. But the trees were thinning now, and suddenly she was out of them. Broad level fields stretched before her, all weeds and wild wheat, sodden and trampled. Arya kicked her horse back to a gallop. Run, she thought, run for Riverrun, run for home. Had she lost them? She took one quick look, and there was Harwin six yards back and gaining. No, she thought, no, he can’t, not him, it isn’t fair.
Both horses were lathered and flagging by the time he came up beside her, reached over, and grabbed her bridle. Arya was breathing hard herself then. She knew the fight was done. “You ride like a northman, milady,” Harwin said when he’d drawn them to a halt. “Your aunt was the same. Lady Lyanna. But my father was master of horse, remember.”
The look she gave him was full of hurt. “I thought you were my father’s man.”
“Lord Eddard’s dead, milady. I belong to the lightning lord now, and to my brothers.”
“What brothers?” Old Hullen had fathered no other sons that Arya could remember.
“Anguy, Lem, Tom o’ Sevens, Jack and Greenbeard, all of them. We mean your brother Robb no ill, milady . . . but it’s not him we fight for. He has an army all his own, and many a great lord to bend the knee. The smallfolk have only us.” He gave her a searching look. “Can you understand what I am telling you?”
“Yes.” That he was not Robb’s man, she understood well enough. And that she was his captive. I could have stayed with Hot Pie. We could have taken the little boat and sailed it up to Riverrun. She had been better off as Squab. No one would take Squab captive, or Nan, or Weasel, or Arry the orphan boy. I was a wolf, she thought, but now I’m just some stupid little lady again.
“Will you ride back peaceful now,” Harwin asked her, “or must I tie you up and throw you across your horse?”
“I’ll ride peaceful,” she said sullenly. For now.
SAMWELL
Sobbing, Sam took another step. This is the last one, the very last, I can’t go on, I can’t. But his feet moved again. One and then the other. They took a step, and then another, and he thought, They’re not my feet, they’re someone else’s, someone else is walking, it can’t be me.
When he looked down he could see them stumbling through the snow; shapeless things, and clumsy. His boots had been black, he seemed to remember, but the snow had caked around them, and now they were misshapen white balls. Like two clubfeet made of ice.
It would not stop, the snow. The drifts were up past his knees, and a crust covered his lower legs like a pair of white greaves. His steps were dragging, lurching. The heavy pack he carried made him look like some monstrous hunchback. And he was tired, so tired. I can’t go on. Mother have mercy, I can’t.
Every fourth or fifth step he had to reach down and tug up his swordbelt. He had lost the sword on the Fist, but the scabbard still weighed down the belt. He did have two knives; the dragonglass dagger Jon had given him and the steel one he cut his meat with. All that weight dragged heavy, and his belly was so big and round that if he forgot to tug the belt slipped right off and tangled round his ankles, no matter how tight he cinched it. He had tried belting it above his belly once, but then it came almost to his armpits. Grenn had laughed himself sick at the sight of it, and Dolorous Edd had said, “I knew a man once who wore his sword on a chain around his neck like that. One day he stumbled, and the hilt went up his nose.”
Sam was stumbling himself. There were rocks beneath the snow, and the roots of trees, and sometimes deep holes in the frozen ground. Black Bernarr had stepped in one and broken his ankle three days past, or maybe four, or . . . he did not know how long it had been, truly. The Lord Commander had put Bernarr on a horse after that.
Sobbing, Sam took another step. It felt more like he was falling down than walking, falling endlessly but never hitting the ground, just falling forward and forward. I have to stop, it hurts too much. I’m so cold and tired, I need to sleep, just a little sleep beside a fire, and a bite to eat that isn’t frozen.
But if he stopped he died. He knew that. They all knew that, the few who were left. They had been fifty when they fled the Fist, maybe more, but some had wandered off in the snow, a few wounded had bled to death . . . and sometimes Sam heard shouts behind him, from the rear guard, and once an awful scream. When he heard that he had run, twenty yards or thirty, as fast and as far as he could, his half-frozen feet kicking up the snow, He would be running still if his legs were stronger. They are behind us, they are still behind us, they are taking us one by one.
Sobbing, Sam took another step. He had been cold so long he was forgetting what it was like to feel warm. He wore three pairs of hose, two layers of smallclothes beneath a double lambswool tunic, and over that a thick quilted coat that padded him against the cold steel of his chainmail. Over the hauberk he had a loose surcoat, over that a triple-thick cloak with a bone button that fastened tight under his chins. Its hood flopped forward over his forehead. Heavy fur mitts covered his hands over thin wool-and-leather gloves, a scarf was wrapped snugly about the lower half of his face, and he had a tight-fitting fleece-lined cap to pull down over his ears beneath the hood. And still the cold was in him. His feet especially. He couldn’t even feel them now, but only yesterday they had hurt so bad he could hardly bear to stand on them, let alone walk. Every step made him want to scream. Was that yesterday? He could not remember. He had not slept since the Fist, not once since the horn had blown. Unless it was while he was walking. Could a man walk while he was sleeping? Sam did not know, or else he had forgotten.
Sobbing, he took another step. The snow swirled down around him. Sometimes it fell from a white sky, and sometimes from a black, but that was all that remained of day and night. He wore it on his shoulders like a second cloak, and it piled up high atop the pack he carried and made it even heavier and harder to bear. The small of his back hurt abominably, as if someone had shoved a knife in there and was wiggling it back and forth with every step. His shoulders were in agony from the weight of the mail. He would have given most anything to take it off, but he was afraid to. Anyway he would have needed to remove his cloak and surcoat to get at it, and then the cold would have him.
If only I was stronger . . . he wasn’t, though, and it was no good wishing. Sam was weak, and fat, so very fat, he could hardly bear his own weight, the mail was much too much for him. It felt as though it was rubbing his shoulders raw, despite the layers of cloth and quilt between the steel and skin. The only thing he could do was cry, and when he cried the tears froze on his cheeks.
Sobbing, he took another step. The crust was broken where he set his feet, otherwise he did not think he could have moved at all. Off to the left and right, half-seen through the silent trees, torches turned to vague orange haloes in the falling snow. When he turned his head he could see them, slipping silent through the wood, bobbing up and down and back and forth. The Old Bear’s ring of fire, he reminded himself, and woe to him who leaves it. As he walked, it seemed as if he were chasing the torches ahead of him, but they had legs as well, longer and stronger than his, so he could never catch them.
Yesterday he begged for them to let him be one of the torchbearers, even if it meant walking outside of the column with the darkness pressing close. He wanted the fire, dreamed of the fire. If I had the fire, I would not be cold. But someone reminded him that he’d had a torch at the start, but he’d dropped it in the snow and snuffed the fire out. Sam didn’t remember dropping any torch, but he supposed it was true. He was too weak to hold his arm up for long. Was it Edd who reminded him about the torch, or Grenn? He couldn’t remember that either. Fat and weak and useless, even my wits are freezing now. He took another step.
He had wrapped his scarf over his nose and mouth, but it was covered with snot now, and so stiff he feared it must be frozen to his face. Even breathing was hard, and the air was so cold it hurt to swallow it. “Mother have mercy,” he muttered in a hushed husky voice beneath the frozen mask. “Mother have mercy, Mother have mercy, Mother have mercy.” With each prayer he took another step, dragging his legs through the snow. “Mother have mercy, Mother have mercy, Mother have mercy.”
His own mother was a thousand leagues south, safe with his sisters and his little brother Dickon in the keep at Horn Hill. She can’t hear me, no more than the Mother Above. The Mother was merciful, all the septons agreed, but the Seven had no power beyond the Wall. This was where the old gods ruled, the nameless gods of the trees and the wolves and the snows. “Mercy,” he whispered then, to whatever might be listening, old gods or new, or demons too, “oh, mercy, mercy me, mercy me.”
Maslyn screamed for mercy. Why had he suddenly remembered that? It was nothing he wanted to remember. The man had stumbled backward, dropping his sword, pleading, yielding, even yanking off his thick black glove and thrusting it up before him as if it were a gauntlet. He was still shrieking for quarter as the wight lifted him in the air by the throat and near ripped the head off him. The dead have no mercy left in them, and the Others . . . no, I mustn’t think of that, don’t think, don’t remember, just walk, just walk, just walk.
Sobbing, he took another step.
A root beneath the crust caught his toe, and Sam tripped and fell heavily to one knee, so hard he bit his tongue. He could taste the blood in his mouth, warmer than anything he had tasted since the Fist. This is the end, he thought. Now that he had fallen he could not seem to find the strength to rise again. He groped for a tree branch and clutched it tight, trying to pull himself back to his feet, but his stiff legs would not support him. The mail was too heavy, and he was too fat besides, and too weak, and too tired.
“Back on your feet, Piggy,” someone growled as he went past, but Sam paid him no mind. I’ll just lie down in the snow and close my eyes. It wouldn’t be so bad, dying here. He couldn’t possibly be any colder, and after a little while he wouldn’t be able to feel the ache in his lower back or the terrible pain in his shoulders, no more than he could feel his feet. I won’t be the first to die, they can’t say I was. Hundreds had died on the Fist, they had died all around him, and more had died after, he’d seen them. Shivering, Sam released his grip on the tree and eased himself down in the snow. It was cold and wet, he knew, but he could scarcely feel it through all his clothing. He stared upward at the pale white sky as snowflakes drifted down upon his stomach and his chest and his eyelids. The snow will cover me like a thick white blanket. It will be warm under the snow, and if they speak of me they’ll have to say I died a man of the Night’s Watch. I did. I did. I did my duty. No one can say I forswore myself. I’m fat and I’m weak and I’m craven, but I did my duty.
The ravens had been his responsibility. That was why they had brought him along. He hadn’t wanted to go, he’d told them so, he’d told them all what a big coward he was. But Maester Aemon was very old and blind besides, so they had to send Sam to tend to the ravens. The Lord Commander had given him his orders when they made their camp on the Fist. “You’re no fighter. We both know that, boy. If it happens that we’re attacked, don’t go trying to prove otherwise, you’ll just get in the way. You’re to send a message. And don’t come running to ask what the letter should say. Write it out yourself, and send one bird to Castle Black and another to the Shadow Tower.” The Old Bear pointed a gloved finger right in Sam’s face. “I don’t care if you’re so scared you foul your breeches, and I don’t care if a thousand wildlings are coming over the walls howling for your blood, you get those birds off, or I swear I’ll hunt you through all seven hells and make you damn sorry that you didn’t.” And Mormont’s own raven had bobbed its head up and down and croaked, “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”
Sam was sorry; sorry he hadn’t been braver, or stronger, or good with swords, that he hadn’t been a better son to his father and a better brother to Dickon and the girls. He was sorry to die too, but better men had died on the Fist, good men and true, not squeaking fat boys like him. At least he would not have the Old Bear hunting him through hell, though. I got the birds off. I did that right, at least. He had written out the messages ahead of time, short messages and simple, telling of an attack on the Fist of the First Men, and then he had tucked them away safe in his parchment pouch, hoping he would never need to send them.
When the horns blew Sam had been sleeping. He thought he was dreaming them at first, but when he opened his eyes snow was falling on the camp and the black brothers were all grabbing bows and spears and running toward the ringwall. Chett was the only one nearby, Maester Aemon’s old steward with the face full of boils and the big wen on his neck. Sam had never seen so much fear on a man’s face as he saw on Chett’s when that third blast came moaning through the trees. “Help me get the birds off,” he pleaded, but the other steward had turned and run off, dagger in hand. He has the dogs to care for, Sam remembered. Probably the Lord Commander had given him some orders as well.
His fingers had been so stiff and clumsy in the gloves, and he was shaking from fear and cold, but he found the parchment pouch and dug out the messages he’d written. The ravens were shrieking furiously, and when he opened the Castle Black cage one of them flew right in his face. Two more escaped before Sam could catch one, and when he did it pecked him through his glove, drawing blood. Yet somehow he held on long enough to attach the little roll of parchment. The warhorn had fallen silent by then, but the Fist rang with shouted commands and the clatter of steel. “Fly!” Sam called as he tossed the raven into the air.
The birds in the Shadow Tower cage were screaming and fluttering about so madly that he was afraid to open the door, but he made himself do it anyway. This time he caught the first raven that tried to escape. A moment later, it was clawing its way up through the falling snow, bearing word of the attack.
His duty done, he finished dressing with clumsy, frightened fingers, donning his cap and surcoat and hooded cloak and buckling on his swordbelt, buckling it real tight so it wouldn’t fall down. Then he found his pack and stuffed all his things inside, spare smallclothes and dry socks, the dragonglass arrowheads and spearhead Jon had given him and the old horn too, his parchments, inks, and quills, the maps he’d been drawing, and a rock-hard garlic sausage he’d been saving since the Wall. He tied it all up and shouldered the pack onto his back. The Lord Commander said I wasn’t to rush to the ringwall, he recalled, but he said I shouldn’t come running to him either. Sam took a deep breath and realized that he did not know what to do next.
He remembered turning in a circle, lost, the fear growing inside him as it always did. There were dogs barking and horses trumpeting, but the snow muffled the sounds and made them seem far away. Sam could see nothing beyond three yards, not even the torches burning along the low stone wall that ringed the crown of the hill. Could the torches have gone out? That was too scary to think about. The horn blew thrice long, three long blasts means Others. The white walkers of the wood, the cold shadows, the monsters of the tales that made him squeak and tremble as a boy, riding their giant ice-spiders, hungry for blood . . .
Awkwardly he drew his sword, and plodded heavily through the snow holding it. A dog ran past barking, and he saw some of the men from the Shadow Tower, big bearded men with longaxes and eight-foot spears. He felt safer for their company, so he followed them to the wall. When he saw the torches still burning atop the ring of stones a shudder of relief went through him.
The black brothers stood with swords and spears in hand, watching the snow fall, waiting. Ser Mallador Locke went by on his horse, wearing a snow-speckled helm. Sam stood well back behind the others, looking for Grenn or Dolorous Edd. If I have to die, let me die beside my friends, he remembered thinking. But all the men around him were strangers, Shadow Tower men under the command of the ranger named Blane.
“Here they come,” he heard a brother say.
“Notch,” said Blane, and twenty black arrows were pulled from as many quivers, and notched to as many bowstrings.
“Gods be good, there’s hundreds,” a voice said softly.
“Draw,” Blane said, and then, “hold.” Sam could not see and did not want to see. The men of the Night’s Watch stood behind their torches, waiting with arrows pulled back to their ears, as something came up that dark, slippery slope through the snow. “Hold,” Blane said again, “hold, hold.” And then, “Loose.”
The arrows whispered as they flew.
A ragged cheer went up from the men along the ringwall, but it died quickly. “They’re not stopping, m’lord,” a man said to Blane, and another shouted, “More! Look there, coming from the trees,” and yet another said, “Gods ha’ mercy, they’s crawling. They’s almost here, they’s on us!” Sam had been backing away by then, shaking like the last leaf on the tree when the wind kicks up, as much from cold as from fear. It had been very cold that night. Even colder than now. The snow feels almost warm. I feel better now. A little rest was all I needed. Maybe in a little while I’ll be strong enough to walk again. In a little while.
A horse stepped past his head, a shaggy grey beast with snow in its mane and hooves crusted with ice. Sam watched it come and watched it go. Another appeared from out of the falling snow, with a man in black leading it. When he saw Sam in his path he cursed him and led the horse around. I wish I had a horse, he thought. If I had a horse I could keep going. I could sit, and even sleep some in the saddle. Most of their mounts had been lost at the Fist, though, and those that remained carried their food, their torches, and their wounded. Sam wasn’t wounded. Only fat and weak, and the greatest craven in the Seven Kingdoms.
He was such a coward. Lord Randyll, his father, had always said so, and he had been right. Sam was his heir, but he had never been worthy, so his father had sent him away to the Wall. His little brother Dickon would inherit the Tarly lands and castle, and the greatsword Heartsbane that the lords of Horn Hill had borne so proudly for centuries. He wondered whether Dickon would shed a tear for his brother who died in the snow, somewhere off beyond the edge of the world. Why should he? A coward’s not worth weeping over. He had heard his father tell his mother as much, half a hundred times. The Old Bear knew it too.
“Fire arrows,” the Lord Commander roared that night on the Fist, when he appeared suddenly astride his horse, “give them flame.” It was then he noticed Sam there quaking. “Tarly! Get out of here! Your place is with the ravens.”
“I . . . I . . . I got the messages away.”
“Good.” On Mormont’s shoulder his own raven echoed, “Good, good.”
The Lord Commander looked huge in fur and mail. Behind his black iron visor, his eyes were fierce. “You’re in the way here. Go back to your cages. If I need to send another message, I don’t want to have to find you first. See that the birds are ready.” He did not wait for a response, but turned his horse and trotted around the ring, shouting, “Fire! Give them fire!”
Sam did not need to be told twice. He went back to the birds, as fast as his fat legs could carry him. I should write the message ahead of time, he thought, so we can get the birds away as fast as need be. It took him longer than it should have to light his little fire, to warm the frozen ink. He sat beside it on a rock with quill and parchment, and wrote his messages.
Attacked amidst snow and cold, but we’ve thrown them back with fire arrows, he wrote, as he heard Thoren Smallwood’s voice ring out with a command of, “Notch, draw . . . loose.” The flight of arrows made a sound as sweet as a mother’s prayer. “Burn, you dead bastards, burn,” Dywen sang out, cackling. The brothers cheered and cursed. All safe, he wrote. We remain on the Fist of the First Men. Sam hoped they were better archers than him.
He put that note aside and found another blank parchment. Still fighting on the Fist, amidst heavy snow, he wrote when someone shouted, “They’re still coming.” Result uncertain. “Spears,” someone said. It might have been Ser Mallador, but Sam could not swear to it. Wights attacked us on the Fist, in snow, he wrote, but we drove them off with fire. He turned his head. Through the drifting snow, all he could see was the huge fire at the center of the camp, with mounted men moving restlessly around it. The reserve, he knew, ready to ride down anything that breached the ringwall. They had armed themselves with torches in place of swords, and were lighting them in the flames.
Wights all around us, he wrote, when he heard the shouts from the north face. Coming up from north and south at once. Spears and swords don’t stop them, only fire. “Loose, loose, loose,” a voice screamed in the night, and another shouted, “Bloody huge,” and a third voice said, “A giant!” and a fourth insisted, “A bear, a bear!” A horse shrieked and the hounds began to bay, and there was so much shouting that Sam couldn’t make out the voices anymore. He wrote faster, note after note. Dead wildlings, and a giant, or maybe a bear, on us, all around. He heard the crash of steel on wood, which could only mean one thing. Wights over the ringwall. Fighting inside the camp. A dozen mounted brothers pounded past him toward the east wall, burning brands streaming flames in each rider’s hand. Lord Commander Mormont is meeting them with fire. We’ve won. We’re winning. We’re holding our own. We’re cutting our way free and retreating for the Wall. We’re trapped on the Fist, hard pressed.
One of the Shadow Tower men came staggering out of the darkness to fall at Sam’s feet. He crawled within a foot of the fire before he died. Lost, Sam wrote, the battle’s lost. We’re all lost.
Why must he remember the fight at the Fist? He didn’t want to remember. Not that. He tried to make himself remember his mother, or his little sister Talla, or that girl Gilly at Craster’s Keep. Someone was shaking him by the shoulder. “Get up,” a voice said. “Sam, you can’t go to sleep here. Get up and keep walking.”
I wasn’t asleep, I was remembering. “Go away,” he said, his words frosting in the cold air. “I’m well. I want to rest.”
“Get up.” Grenn’s voice, harsh and husky. He loomed over Sam, his blacks crusty with snow. “There’s no resting, the Old Bear said. You’ll die.”
“Grenn.” He smiled. “No, truly, I’m good here. You just go on. I’ll catch you after I’ve rested a bit longer.”
“You won’t.” Grenn’s thick brown beard was frozen all around his mouth. It made him look like some old man. “You’ll freeze, or the Others will get you. Sam, get up!”
The night before they left the Wall, Pyp had teased Grenn the way he did, Sam remembered, smiling and saying how Grenn was a good choice for the ranging, since he was too stupid to be terrified. Grenn hotly denied it until he realized what he was saying. He was stocky and thick-necked and strong—Ser Alliser Thorne had called him “Aurochs,” the same way he called Sam “Ser Piggy” and Jon “Lord Snow”—but he had always treated Sam nice enough. That was only because of Jon, though. If it weren’t for Jon, none of them would have liked me. And now Jon was gone, lost in the Skirling Pass with Qhorin Halfhand, most likely dead. Sam would have cried for him, but those tears would only freeze as well, and he could scarcely keep his eyes open now.
A tall brother with a torch stopped beside them, and for a wonderful moment Sam felt the warmth on his face. “Leave him,” the man said to Grenn. “If they can’t walk, they’re done. Save your strength for yourself, Grenn.”
“He’ll get up,” Grenn replied. “He only needs a hand.”
The man moved on, taking the blessed warmth with him. Grenn tried to pull Sam to his feet. “That hurts,” he complained. “Stop it. Grenn, you’re hurting my arm. Stop it.”
“You’re too bloody heavy.” Grenn jammed his hands into Sam’s armpits, gave a grunt, and hauled him upright. But the moment he let go, the fat boy sat back down in the snow. Grenn kicked him, a solid thump that cracked the crust of snow around his boot and sent it flying everywhere. “Get up!” He kicked him again. “Get up and walk. You have to walk.”
Sam fell over sideways, curling up into a tight ball to protect himself from the kicks. He hardly felt them through all his wool and leather and mail, but even so, they hurt. I thought Grenn was my friend. You shouldn’t kick your friends. Why won’t they let me be? I just need to rest, that’s all, to rest and sleep some, and maybe die a little.
“If you take the torch, I can take the fat boy.”
Suddenly he was jerked up into the cold air, away from his sweet soft snow; he was floating. There was an arm under his knees, and another one under his back. Sam raised his head and blinked. A face loomed close, a broad brutal face with a flat nose and small dark eyes and a thicket of coarse brown beard. He had seen the face before, but it took him a moment to remember. Paul. Small Paul. Melting ice ran down into his eyes from the heat of the torch. “Can you carry him?” he heard Grenn ask.
“I carried a calf once was heavier than him. I carried him down to his mother so he could get a drink of milk.”
Sam’s head bobbed up and down with every step that Small Paul took. “Stop it,” he muttered, “put me down, I’m not a baby. I’m a man of the Night’s Watch.” He sobbed. “Just let me die.”
“Be quiet, Sam,” said Grenn. “Save your strength. Think about your sisters and brother. Maester Aemon. Your favorite foods. Sing a song if you like.”
“Aloud?”
“In your head.”
Sam knew a hundred songs, but when he tried to think of one he couldn’t. The words had all gone from his head. He sobbed again and said, “I don’t know any songs, Grenn. I did know some, but now I don’t.”
“Yes you do,” said Grenn. “How about ‘The Bear and the Maiden Fair’ everybody knows that one. A bear there was, a bear, a bear! All black and brown and covered with hair!”
“No, not that one,” Sam pleaded. The bear that had come up the Fist had no hair left on its rotted flesh. He didn’t want to think about bears. “No songs. Please, Grenn.”
“Think about your ravens, then.”
“They were never mine.” They were the Lord Commander’s ravens, the ravens of the Night’s Watch. “They belonged to Castle Black and the Shadow Tower.”
Small Paul frowned. “Chett said I could have the Old Bear’s raven, the one that talks. I saved food for it and everything.” He shook his head. “I forgot, though. I left the food where I hid it.” He plodded onward, pale white breath coming from his mouth with every step, then suddenly said, “Could I have one of your ravens? Just the one. I’d never let Lark eat it.”
“They’re gone,” said Sam. “I’m sorry.” So sorry. “They’re flying back to the Wall now.” He had set the birds free when he’d heard the warhorns sound once more, calling the Watch to horse. Two short blasts and a long one, that was the call to mount up. But there was no reason to mount, unless to abandon the Fist, and that meant the battle was lost. The fear bit him so strong then that it was all Sam could do to open the cages. Only as he watched the last raven flap up into the snowstorm did he realize that he had forgotten to send any of the messages he’d written.
“No,” he’d squealed, “oh, no, oh, no.” The snow fell and the horns blew; ahooo ahooo ahooooooooooooooooooo, they cried, to horse, to horse, to horse. Sam saw two ravens perched on a rock and ran after them, but the birds flapped off lazily through the swirling snow, in opposite directions. He chased one, his breath puffing out his nose in thick white clouds, stumbled, and found himself ten feet from the ringwall.
After that . . . he remembered the dead coming over the stones with arrows in their faces and through their throats. Some were all in ringmail and some were almost naked . . . wildlings, most of them, but a few wore faded blacks. He remembered one of the Shadow Tower men shoving his spear through a wight’s pale soft belly and out his back, and how the thing staggered right up the shaft and reached out his black hands and twisted the brother’s head around until blood came out his mouth. That was when his bladder let go the first time, he was almost sure.
He did not remember running, but he must have, because the next he knew he was near the fire half a camp away, with old Ser Ottyn Wythers and some archers. Ser Ottyn was on his knees in the snow, staring at the chaos around them, until a riderless horse came by and kicked him in the face. The archers paid him no mind. They were loosing fire arrows at shadows in the dark. Sam saw one wight hit, saw the flames engulf it, but there were a dozen more behind it, and a huge pale shape that must have been the bear, and soon enough the bowmen had no arrows.
And then Sam found himself on a horse. It wasn’t his own horse, and he never recalled mounting up either. Maybe it was the horse that had smashed Ser Ottyn’s face in. The horns were still blowing, so he kicked the horse and turned him toward the sound.
In the midst of carnage and chaos and blowing snow, he found Dolorous Edd sitting on his garron with a plain black banner on a spear. “Sam,” Edd said when he saw him, “would you wake me, please? I am having this terrible nightmare.”
More men were mounting up every moment. The warhorns called them back. Ahooo ahooo ahooooooooooooooooooo. “They’re over the west wall, m’lord,” Thoren Smallwood screamed at the Old Bear, as he fought to control his horse. “I’ll send reserves . . . ”
“NO!” Mormont had to bellow at the top of his lungs to be heard over the horns. “Call them back, we have to cut our way out.” He stood in his stirrups, his black cloak snapping in the wind, the fire shining off his armor. “Spearhead!” he roared. “Form wedge, we ride. Down the south face, then east!”
“My lord, the south slope’s crawling with them!”
“The others are too steep,” Mormont said. “We have—”
His garron screamed and reared and almost threw him as the bear came staggering through the snow. Sam pissed himself all over again. I didn’t think I had any more left inside me. The bear was dead, pale and rotting, its fur and skin all sloughed off and half its right arm burned to bone, yet still it came on. Only its eyes lived. Bright blue, just as Jon said. They shone like frozen stars. Thoren Smallwood charged, his longsword shining all orange and red from the light of the fire. His swing near took the bear’s head off. And then the bear took his.
“RIDE!” the Lord Commander shouted, wheeling.
They were at the gallop by the time they reached the ring. Sam had always been too frightened to jump a horse before, but when the low stone wall loomed up before him he knew he had no choice. He kicked and closed his eyes and whimpered, and the garron took him over, somehow, somehow, the garron took him over. The rider to his right came crashing down in a tangle of steel and leather and screaming horseflesh, and then the wights were swarming over him and the wedge was closing up. They plunged down the hillside at a run, through clutching black hands and burning blue eyes and blowing snow. Horses stumbled and rolled, men were swept from their saddles, torches spun through the air, axes and swords hacked at dead flesh, and Samwell Tarly sobbed, clutching desperately to his horse with a strength he never knew he had.
He was in the middle of the flying spearhead with brothers on either side, and before and behind him as well. A dog ran with them for a ways, bounding down the snowy slope and in and out among the horses, but it could not keep up. The wights stood their ground and were ridden down and trampled underhoof. Even as they fell they clutched at swords and stirrups and the legs of passing horses. Sam saw one claw open a garron’s belly with its right hand while it clung to the saddle with its left.
Suddenly the trees were all about them, and Sam was splashing through a frozen stream with the sounds of slaughter dwindling behind. He turned, breathless with relief . . . until a man in black leapt from the brush and yanked him out of the saddle. Who he was, Sam never saw; he was up in an instant, and galloping away the next. When he tried to run after the horse, his feet tangled in a root and he fell hard on his face and lay weeping like a baby until Dolorous Edd found him there.
That was his last coherent memory of the Fist of the First Men. Later, hours later, he stood shivering among the other survivors, half mounted and half afoot. They were miles from the Fist by then, though Sam did not remember how. Dywen had led down five packhorses, heavy laden with food and oil and torches, and three had made it this far. The Old Bear made them redistribute the loads, so the loss of any one horse and its provisions would not be such a catastrophe. He took garrons from the healthy men and gave them to the wounded, organized the walkers, and set torches to guard their flanks and rear. All I need do is walk, Sam told himself, as he took that first step toward home. But before an hour was gone he had begun to struggle, and to lag . . .
They were lagging now as well, he saw. He remembered Pyp saying once how Small Paul was the strongest man in the Watch. He must be, to carry me. Yet even so, the snow was growing deeper, the ground more treacherous, and Paul’s strides had begun to shorten. More horsemen passed, wounded men who looked at Sam with dull incurious eyes. Some torch bearers went by as well. “You’re falling behind,” one told them. The next agreed. “No one’s like to wait for you, Paul. Leave the pig for the dead men.”
“He promised I could have a bird,” Small Paul said, even though Sam hadn’t, not truly. They aren’t mine to give. “I want me a bird that talks, and eats corn from my hand.”
“Bloody fool,” the torch man said. Then he was gone.
It was a while after when Grenn stopped suddenly. “We’re alone,” he said in a hoarse voice. “I can’t see the other torches. Was that the rear guard?”
Small Paul had no answer for him. The big man gave a grunt and sank to his knees. His arms trembled as he lay Sam gently in the snow. “I can’t carry you no more. I would, but I can’t.” He shivered violently.
The wind sighed through the trees, driving a fine spray of snow into their faces. The cold was so bitter that Sam felt naked. He looked for the other torches, but they were gone, every one of them. There was only the one Grenn carried, the flames rising from it like pale orange silks. He could see through them, to the black beyond. That torch will burn out soon, he thought, and we are all alone, without food or friends or fire.
But that was wrong. They weren’t alone at all.
The lower branches of the great green sentinel shed their burden of snow with a soft wet plop. Grenn spun, thrusting out his torch. “Who goes there?” A horse’s head emerged from the darkness. Sam felt a moment’s relief, until he saw the horse. Hoarfrost covered it like a sheen of frozen sweat, and a nest of stiff black entrails dragged from its open belly. On its back was a rider pale as ice. Sam made a whimpery sound deep in his throat. He was so scared he might have pissed himself all over again, but the cold was in him, a cold so savage that his bladder felt frozen solid. The Other slid gracefully from the saddle to stand upon the snow. Sword-slim it was, and milky white. Its armor rippled and shifted as it moved, and its feet did not break the crust of the new-fallen snow.
Small Paul unslung the long-hafted axe strapped across his back. “Why’d you hurt that horse? That was Mawney’s horse.”
Sam groped for the hilt of his sword, but the scabbard was empty. He had lost it on the Fist, he remembered too late.
“Get away!” Grenn took a step, thrusting the torch out before him. “Away, or you burn.” He poked at it with the flames.
The Other’s sword gleamed with a faint blue glow. It moved toward Grenn, lightning quick, slashing. When the ice blue blade brushed the flames, a screech stabbed Sam’s ears sharp as a needle. The head of the torch tumbled sideways to vanish beneath a deep drift of snow, the fire snuffed out at once. And all Grenn held was a short wooden stick. He flung it at the Other, cursing, as Small Paul charged in with his axe.
The fear that filled Sam then was worse than any fear he had ever felt before, and Samwell Tarly knew every kind of fear. “Mother have mercy,” he wept, forgetting the old gods in his terror. “Father protect me, oh oh . . . ” His fingers found his dagger and he filled his hand with that.
The wights had been slow clumsy things, but the Other was light as snow on the wind. It slid away from Paul’s axe, armor rippling, and its crystal sword twisted and spun and slipped between the iron rings of Paul’s mail, through leather and wool and bone and flesh. It came out his back with a hissssssssssss and Sam heard Paul say, “Oh,” as he lost the axe. Impaled, his blood smoking around the sword, the big man tried to reach his killer with his hands and almost had before he fell. The weight of him tore the strange pale sword from the Other’s grip.
Do it now. Stop crying and fight, you baby. Fight, craven. It was his father he heard, it was Alliser Thorne, it was his brother Dickon and the boy Rast. Craven, craven, craven. He giggled hysterically, wondering if they would make a wight of him, a huge fat white wight always tripping over its own dead feet. Do it, Sam. Was that Jon, now? Jon was dead. You can do it, you can, just do it. And then he was stumbling forward, falling more than running, really, closing his eyes and shoving the dagger blindly out before him with both hands. He heard a crack, like the sound ice makes when it breaks beneath a man’s foot, and then a screech so shrill and sharp that he went staggering backward with his hands over his muffled ears, and fell hard on his arse.
When he opened his eyes the Other’s armor was running down its legs in rivulets as pale blue blood hissed and steamed around the black dragonglass dagger in its throat. It reached down with two bone-white hands to pull out the knife, but where its fingers touched the obsidian they smoked.
Sam rolled onto his side, eyes wide as the Other shrank and puddled, dissolving away. In twenty heartbeats its flesh was gone, swirling away in a fine white mist. Beneath were bones like milkglass, pale and shiny, and they were melting too. Finally only the dragonglass dagger remained, wreathed in steam as if it were alive and sweating. Grenn bent to scoop it up and flung it down again at once. “Mother, that’s cold.”
“Obsidian.” Sam struggled to his knees. “Dragonglass, they call it. Dragonglass. Dragon glass.” He giggled, and cried, and doubled over to heave his courage out onto the snow.
Grenn pulled Sam to his feet, checked Small Paul for a pulse and closed his eyes, then snatched up the dagger again. This time he was able to hold it.
“You keep it,” Sam said. “You’re not craven like me.”
“So craven you killed an Other.” Grenn pointed with the knife. “Look there, through the trees. Pink light. Dawn, Sam. Dawn. That must be east. If we head that way, we should catch Mormont.”
“If you say.” Sam kicked his left foot against a tree, to knock off all the snow. Then the right. “I’ll try.” Grimacing, he took a step. “I’ll try hard.” And then another.

第十六章 珊莎



　　“一件新裙服？”她既吃惊又谨慎地问。
　　“是的，小姐，比您穿过的每一件都可爱，”老妇人边用打节的绳子测量珊莎的臀围，边向她保证，“丝绸和密尔蕾丝缝制，缎子镶边，配上它，您会美得没话说。啧啧，这可是王后陛下的恩典呢。”

　　“王后？哪个王后？”玛格丽还没当上小乔的王后，但她作过蓝礼的王后。或者她是指刺棘女王？还是……

　　“当然是摄政王太后陛下.”

　　“瑟曦太后？”

　　“是呀，我有幸在她身边服务许多年了。”老妇人把绳子伸到珊莎大腿内侧，“陛下说啊，您已经是成年女人，不该穿得象个小姑娘家。来，把手举起来。”

　　珊莎举起手臂。她的确需要一件新裙服，过去一年中，她长高了三寸，而大部分旧衣服又被烟尘熏坏了——第一次来月经的那天，她想烧掉床垫，结果……

　　“您的胸部跟太后的一样迷人，”老妇人边说边将绳子绕过珊莎胸口，“您不该藏着它。”

　　她脸红了。上回去骑马，她没法将紧身上衣完全系上，于是马房小弟扶她上马时便一直傻呆呆地瞪着她的胸。有时候她发现成年男人也在着，她衣服太紧，穿起来几乎无法呼吸。

　　“裙服是什么颜色呢？”她问女裁缝。

　　“选择颜色这些事就交给我吧，小姐，您会喜欢的，我向您保证。除了裙服，您还需要内衣和长筒袜，外裙、衬裙和斗篷，一切的一切，以适合……以适合一位美貌高贵的年轻女士。”

　　“来得及在国王婚礼前做好？”

　　“噢，当然，我们会在大婚之前做好，很快做好，这是太后陛下的特别关照。我手下有六个女裁缝师和十二个女学徒，为这事得把所有工作搁到一边。别家仕女会怨怪我们，但有什么办法呢？毕竟有太后陛下的命令嘛。”

　　“感谢太后陛下如此煞费苦心，”珊莎礼貌地说，“她对我实在是太好。”

　　“陛下是最慷慨的人，”女裁缝师赞同。测量完毕后，她收拾东西离开了。

　　为什么？这到底是为什么？珊莎独处时感到十分疑惑，十分不安。嗯，我敢打赌，多半是玛格丽或她祖母的意思。

　　玛格丽是真心对她好，她的存在改变了一切。她的女伴们纷纷乐于和珊莎结交。太久没有其他女伴，她几乎忘记了其中的快乐。莱昂妮夫人教她古竖琴，洁娜夫人同她分享所有的八卦闲话。梅内狄斯·克连恩总有好玩的故事，而幼小的布尔威令她想起艾莉亚，尽管她不及妹妹那么暴躁。

　　跟珊莎年龄相仿的是玛格丽的三位表妹，埃萝、雅兰和梅歌，来自于提利尔家族的偏房分支。“我们是低枝上的玫瑰，”埃萝语带双关地说，她为人机智，体形又苗条。梅歌则又胖又吵，雅兰漂亮而羞涩，由于埃萝已是成年女子，所以在三人中占据统治地位——她有了月事，而梅歌与雅兰不过是小女生。

　　几个小姑娘欢天喜地拉珊莎入伙，好像大家从小便是伙伴。她们常常整下午做针线，讨论柠檬蛋糕和蜂蜜酒，晚上玩四方瓦片棋，一起在城堡圣堂里唱歌……四人还轮流和玛格丽同床做伴，悄悄话直说到半夜。雅兰嗓子好，只需稍加怂恿，便会弹奏木竖琴，歌颂骑士精神和失落的爱情。梅歌不会唱，但她喜欢亲吻，喜欢得发疯。她承认自己会和雅兰玩接吻游戏，但那和亲吻男人是不同的，更比不上亲吻国王。不知梅歌对我差点与猎狗亲吻怎么看，珊莎心想。他在激战正酣的那个晚上来找她，浑身散发着血和酒的臭味。他要吻我，他想杀我，还要我为他唱歌。

　　“乔佛里国王的嘴唇好漂亮哦，”梅歌自顾自激动地说，“噢，可怜的珊莎，失去他的时候，你一定心都碎了。噢，你一定大哭一场！”

　　没错，乔佛里常让我哭泣，但恰好不是这次，她心里这么想，但制造噪声的黄油块不在近前，因此抿紧嘴唇，不敢说出来。

　　至于埃萝，她被许配给一位年轻侍从，安布罗斯伯爵的儿子之一——等他当上骑士，他们就结婚。黑水河之役中，他带着未婚妻的信物，杀死一个密尔十字弓手和一个穆伦道尔家的士兵。“埃林说她的信物令他勇敢无畏，”梅歌道，“还说他在战斗中呼喊着她的名字，这不是很了不起吗？总有一天，我也要让某位勇士带着我的信物，杀死一百个敌人。”埃萝要她小声点，但神情实在很高兴。

　　她们都是小孩子，珊莎心想，都是傻乎乎的小女孩，埃萝也不例外。她们没有见识过战争，没有目睹过死人，什么都不懂。她们脑海里，惟有歌谣和故事，就跟她在乔佛里砍掉父亲脑袋之前一样。对她们，珊莎既可怜，又羡慕。

　　玛格丽不一样。国王的未婚妻纵然甜美温柔，身上却带着一丝她祖母的影子。前天，她领珊莎外出鹰狩，这是战斗之后她第一次出城。尸体已经掩埋或焚毁，但烂泥门仍破破烂烂，伤痕累累，乃是史坦尼斯公爵的攻城锤的杰作。黑水河两岸，布满毁坏断裂的船骸，烤焦的桅杆如憔悴的黑手指，从浅滩上伸出。要想过河，只能坐平底小船。御林也是一片焦土荒凉，好在海湾沿岸的沼地里水禽颇丰，珊莎的灰背隼抓到三只野鸭，玛格丽的隼则在空中打下一只苍鹭。

　　“维拉斯养了七大王国里最听话、最俊美的鸟，”独处时，玛格丽对她说，“他还常放飞猎鹰呢。你将来就知道了，珊莎。”她拉住她的手，捏了一下。“我的好姐妹。”

　　姐妹。珊莎梦想过有个玛格丽这样的好姐妹，甜美优雅又善良，和艾莉亚完全不一样。我怎能让我的好姐妹跟乔佛里结婚呢？她想着想着，眼中突然噙满泪水。“玛格丽，求求你，”她道，“一定不要……”这话很难说出口。“……一定不要跟他结婚，他这人表里不一，会……会伤害你的。”

　　“别为我担心，好妹妹。”玛格丽自信地微笑。“你真勇敢，肯来警告我，但请你放心吧，我知道小乔是个被宠坏的孩子，自负又愚蠢，而且跟你说的一样残酷，这些父亲也早料到，所以才会在婚约条款中坚持让洛拉斯成为御林铁卫。你瞧，我有七大王国中最优秀的骑士日夜守护，好比伊蒙王子守护奈丽诗王后，所以咱们的小狮子最好举止恰当，不是吗？”她轻声浅笑，“来吧，亲爱的妹妹，让我们好好跑一段，比赛谁先到河边。噢，这会让侍卫们发狂的。”她不待回答，一夹马肚，飞驰而去。

　　她好勇敢啊，珊莎跟在她后面，边骑边想……然而疑虑却没有打消。洛拉斯是个伟大的骑士，大家都知道，可乔佛里有其他的御林铁卫啊，还有金袍卫士和红袍卫士，长大之后会有自己的军队。庸王伊耿不曾伤害奈丽诗王后，或许是因为害怕弟弟龙骑士伊蒙……但当另一位御林铁卫跟他的一个情妇相爱时，国王却要了两人的脑袋。

　　好在洛拉斯爵士是提利尔家的人，珊莎提醒自己，从前那位骑士不过属于托因家族——他的亲戚们没有军队，除非暗杀，否则无法为他复仇。话虽这么说，可她越深入地想下去，就越觉困惑。一年半载，乔佛里或能克制，但时间一长，迟早会露出狐狸尾巴，到时候……说不定会出现第二个弑君者，说不定会有第二场王位战争，狮子和玫瑰将疆场交兵。

　　珊莎很吃惊玛格丽竟没预见到这一点。她比我年长，比我睿智，而她父亲提利尔大人的考虑肯定比我更周到。我不过在穷操心，犯傻罢了。

　　她把去高庭和维拉斯·提利尔结婚的消息告诉唐托斯爵士，以为对方会感到欣慰，为她高兴，不料弄臣骑士却一把抓住她的手臂，“不行！”他的声音里带着醉意，也充满惊恐。“我告诉您，可怜的琼琪，提利尔家的人和兰尼斯特完全是一丘之貉，毫无二致。求求您咧，千万别理会这种傻事，给您的佛罗理安一个幸运之吻吧，并保证自己会按计划去做。就在乔佛利的新婚之夜，没有几天了，到时候记得戴上银色发网，然后我们回家。”他凑过来吻她的脸。

　　珊莎挣脱抓握，退到远处。“不，我不走，会惹麻烦的。想逃的时候你不带我，现在我不需要了。”

　　唐托斯呆呆地瞪着她。“一切都安排好了，亲爱的琼琪。载你回家的大船，带你上船的小舟，您的佛罗理安为您把一切都安好了。”

　　“我很抱歉给你带来这么多麻烦，”她说，“但我现在不需要大船和小舟。”

　　“一切都是为保证您的安全啊。”

　　“我在高庭有维拉斯的保护，会很安全。”

　　“噢，别傻了，他不认识您，”唐托斯坚持，“也不爱您。噢，琼琪啊，我亲爱的琼琪，请睁开您可爱的眼睛吧，提利尔家的人根本就不关心您，他们盘算的是您的继承权。”

　　“我的继承权？”她有些困惑。

　　“亲爱的，”他告诉她，“您是临冬城的继承人。”他再次抓住她，恳求她不要这么做。珊莎则再次挣脱，并留他独自一人在心树下徘徊。

　　从此以后，她再没去过神木林。

　　但她没有忘记他的话。临冬城的继承人，她夜里躺在床上反复思量，他们盘算的是你的继承权。珊莎有三个兄弟，从未想过自己会有继承权，可现在布兰和瑞肯已死……没关系，还有罗柏，他是成年人了，很快就会结婚生子。而且不管怎么说，维拉斯·提利尔已经有了高庭，还要临冬城作什么呢？

　　有时候，她会对着枕头，轻声念他的名字，仅仅是为了听到它。“维拉斯，维拉斯，维拉斯，”她已经觉得维拉斯这个名字和洛拉斯一样好，它们甚至听起来很相似。残废的腿有什么关系？维拉斯将来会是高庭公爵，而我是他的夫人。

　　她想象着他俩坐在花园里，膝头抱着小狗，或乘花船沿曼德河游玩，边听歌手弹奏竖琴。等我给他生个儿子，他就会爱上我的。我要把他们取名为艾德、布兰登和瑞肯，将他们抚养得同洛拉斯爵士一样英武，而且仇恨兰尼斯特。在珊莎梦中，她的孩子看上去跟她失去的兄弟们一样，其中甚至有一个长得像艾莉亚的女孩。

　　惟一的困扰是，她无法将维拉斯的形象长时间保持在头脑中，总将他的面容转化为洛拉斯爵士的脸，年轻、优雅而漂亮。你不该这样想象，她告诫自己，否则等见面时，他也许会发现你眼中的失望呢。如果他知道你爱的是他弟弟，又怎会跟你结婚呢？维拉斯·提利尔的年纪有我两倍大，她不断提醒自己，而且瘸了腿，或许跟他父亲一样肥胖，一样长着红脸孔。但不管生得是否好看，他都是我最好的依靠。

　　有一回，她梦见嫁给小乔的仍是自己，并非玛格丽，而在婚礼当晚，国王变成了刽子手伊林·派恩。她颤抖着醒来。她不想玛格丽像自己一样受折磨，但也害怕提利尔家拒绝联姻。反正我警告过她，没错，我把真相对她说了。或许玛格丽是自己不相信。小乔跟她在一起时总扮演英雄的角色，他从前对我也这么做。不过，她很快将认识到他的本性——不是在婚礼之前，而是在婚礼之后。珊莎决定下次造访圣堂时在圣母面前点一支蜡烛，祈求她保护玛格丽，免于乔佛里的伤害。或许再在战士面前再为洛拉斯点一支。

　　女裁缝最后一次替她丈量尺寸时，她决定穿着新裙服去参加贝勒大圣堂的婚礼庆典。瑟曦一定是为这个才命人替我做衣服的，总不能让我破破烂烂地参加婚宴吧！不，不行，穿旧的就可以。我不能冒险，让食物或酒水沾到新裙服上。我要把它带到高庭去，在维拉斯·提利尔面前穿起来。就算唐托斯说得对，他要的是临冬城而不是我本人，我仍然可以让他爱上我。珊莎紧紧抱住自己，一边揣测新裙服做好的时间。

　　她迫不及待想要穿上它。

TYRION
Lord Tywin’s chain of hands made a golden glitter against the deep wine velvet of his tunic. The Lords Tyrell, Redwyne, and Rowan gathered round him as he entered. He greeted each in turn, spoke a quiet word to Varys, kissed the High Septon’s ring and Cersei’s cheek, clasped the hand of Grand Maester Pycelle, and seated himself in the king’s place at the head of the long table, between his daughter and his brother.
Tyrion had claimed Pycelle’s old place at the foot, propped up by cushions so he could gaze down the length of the table. Dispossessed, Pycelle had moved up next to Cersei, about as far from the dwarf as he could get without claiming the king’s seat. The Grand Maester was a shambling skeleton, leaning heavily on a twisted cane and shaking as he walked, a few white hairs sprouting from his long chicken’s neck in place of his once-luxuriant white beard. Tyrion gazed at him without remorse.
The others had to scramble for seats: Lord Mace Tyrell, a heavy, robust man with curling brown hair and a spade-shaped beard well salted with white; Paxter Redwyne of the Arbor, stoop-shouldered and thin, his bald head fringed by tufts of orange hair; Mathis Rowan, Lord of Goldengrove, clean-shaven, stout, and sweating; the High Septon, a frail man with wispy white chin hair. Too many strange faces, Tyrion thought, too many new players. The game changed while I lay rotting in my bed, and no one will tell me the rules.
Oh, the lords had been courteous enough, though he could tell how uncomfortable it made them to look at him. “That chain of yours, that was cunning,” Mace Tyrell had said in a jolly tone, and Lord Redwyne nodded and said, “Quite so, quite so, my lord of Highgarden speaks for all of us,” and very cheerfully too.
Tell it to the people of this city, Tyrion thought bitterly. Tell it to the bloody singers, with their songs of Renly’s ghost.
His uncle Kevan had been the warmest, going so far as to kiss his cheek and say, “Lancel has told me how brave you were, Tyrion. He speaks very highly of you.”
He’d better, or I’ll have a few things to say of him. He made himself smile and say, “My good cousin is too kind. His wound is healing, I trust?”
Ser Kevan frowned. “One day he seems stronger, the next . . . it is worrisome. Your sister often visits his sickbed, to lift his spirits and pray for him.”
But is she praying that he lives, or dies? Cersei had made shameless use of their cousin, both in and out of bed; a little secret she no doubt hoped Lancel would carry to his grave now that Father was here and she no longer had need of him. Would she go so far as to murder him, though? To look at her today, you would never suspect Cersei was capable of such ruthlessness. She was all charm, flirting with Lord Tyrell as they spoke of Joffrey’s wedding feast, complimenting Lord Redwyne on the valor of his twins, softening gruff Lord Rowan with jests and smiles, making pious noises at the High Septon. “Shall we begin with the wedding arrangements?” she asked as Lord Tywin took his seat.
“No,” their father said. “With the war. Varys.”
The eunuch smiled a silken smile. “I have such delicious tidings for you all, my lords. Yesterday at dawn our brave Lord Randyll caught Robett Glover outside Duskendale and trapped him against the sea. Losses were heavy on both sides, but in the end our loyal men prevailed. Ser Helman Tallhart is reported dead, with a thousand others. Robett Glover leads the survivors back toward Harrenhal in bloody disarray, little dreaming he will find valiant Ser Gregor and his stalwarts athwart his path.”
“Gods be praised!” said Paxter Redwyne. “A great victory for King Joffrey! “
What did Joffrey have to do with it? thought Tyrion.
“And a terrible defeat for the north, certainly,” observed Littlefinger, “yet one in which Robb Stark played no part. The Young Wolf remains unbeaten in the field.”
“What do we know of Stark’s plans and movements?” asked Mathis Rowan, ever blunt and to the point.
“He has run back to Riverrun with his plunder, abandoning the castles he took in the west,” announced Lord Tywin. “Our cousin Ser Daven is reforming the remnants of his late father’s army at Lannisport. When they are ready he shall join Ser Forley Prester at the Golden Tooth. As soon as the Stark boy starts north, Ser Forley and Ser Daven will descend on Riverrun.”
“You are certain Lord Stark means to go north?” Lord Rowan asked. “Even with the ironmen at Moat Cailin?”
Mace Tyrell spoke up. “Is there anything as pointless as a king without a kingdom? No, it’s plain, the boy must abandon the riverlands, join his forces to Roose Bolton’s once more, and throw all his strength against Moat Cailin. That is what I would do.”
Tyrion had to bite his tongue at that. Robb Stark had won more battles in a year than the Lord of Highgarden had in twenty. Tyrell’s reputation rested on one indecisive victory over Robert Baratheon at Ashford, in a battle largely won by Lord Tarly’s van before the main host had even arrived. The siege of Storm’s End, where Mace Tyrell actually did hold the command, had dragged on a year to no result, and after the Trident was fought, the Lord of Highgarden had meekly dipped his banners to Eddard Stark.
“I ought to write Robb Stark a stern letter,” Littlefinger was saying. “I understand his man Bolton is stabling goats in my high hall, it’s really quite unconscionable.”
Ser Kevan Lannister cleared his throat. “As regards the Starks . . . Balon Greyjoy, who now styles himself King of the Isles and the North, has written to us offering terms of alliance.”
“He ought to be offering fealty,” snapped Cersei. “By what right does he call himself king?”
“By right of conquest,” Lord Tywin said. “King Balon has strangler’s fingers round the Neck. Robb Stark’s heirs are dead, Winterfell is fallen, and the ironmen hold Moat Cailin, Deepwood Motte, and most of the Stony Shore. King Balon’s longships command the sunset sea, and are well placed to menace Lannisport, Fair Isle, and even Highgarden, should we provoke him.”
“And if we accept this alliance?” inquired Lord Mathis Rowan. “What terms does he propose?”
“That we recognize his kingship and grant him everything north of the Neck.”
Lord Redwyne laughed. “What is there north of the Neck that any sane man would want? If Greyjoy will trade swords and sails for stone and snow, I say do it, and count ourselves lucky.”
“Truly,” agreed Mace Tyrell. “That’s what I would do. Let King Balon finish the northmen whilst we finish Stannis.”
Lord Tywin’s face gave no hint as to his feelings. “There is Lysa Arryn to deal with as well. Jon Arryn’s widow, Hoster Tully’s daughter, Catelyn Stark’s sister . . . whose husband was conspiring with Stannis Baratheon at the time of his death.”
“Oh,” said Mace Tyrell cheerfully, “women have no stomach for war. Let her be, I say, she’s not like to trouble us.”
“I agree,” said Redwyne. “The Lady Lysa took no part in the fighting, nor has she committed any overt acts of treason.”
Tyrionstirred. “She did throw me in a cell and put me on trial for my life,” he pointed out, with a certain amount of rancor. “Nor has she returned to King’s Landing to swear fealty to Joff, as she was commanded. My lords, grant me the men, and I will sort out Lysa Arryn.” He could think of nothing he would enjoy more, except perhaps strangling Cersei. Sometimes he still dreamed of the Eyrie’s sky cells, and woke drenched in cold sweat.
Mace Tyrell’s smile was jovial, but behind it Tyrion sensed contempt. “Perhaps you’d best leave the fighting to fighters,” said the Lord of Highgarden. “Better men than you have lost great armies in the Mountains of the Moon, or shattered them against the Bloody Gate. We know your worth, my lord, no need to tempt fate.”
Tyrion pushed off his cushions, bristling, but his father spoke before he could lash back. “I have other tasks in mind for Tyrion. I believe Lord Petyr may hold the key to the Eyrie.”
“Oh, I do,” said Littleflnger, “I have it here between my legs.” There was mischief in his grey-green eyes. “My lords, with your leave, I propose to travel to the Vale and there woo and win Lady Lysa Arryn. Once I am her consort, I shall deliver you the Vale of Arryn without a drop of blood being spilled.”
Lord Rowan looked doubtful. “Would Lady Lysa have you?”
“She’s had me a few times before, Lord Mathis, and voiced no complaints.”
“Bedding,” said Cersei, “is not wedding. Even a cow like Lysa Arryn might be able to grasp the difference.”
“To be sure. It would not have been fitting for a daughter of Riverrun to marry one so far below her.” Littlefinger spread his hands. “Now, though . . . a match between the Lady of the Eyrie and the Lord of Harrenhal is not so unthinkable, is it?”
Tyrion noted the look that passed between Paxter Redwyne and Mace Tyrell. “It might serve,” Lord Rowan said, “if you are certain that you can keep the woman loyal to the King’s Grace.”
“My lords,” pronounced the High Septon, “autumn is upon us, and all men of good heart are weary of war. If Lord Baelish can bring the Vale back into the king’s peace without more shedding of blood, the gods will surely bless him.”
“But can he?” asked Lord Redwyne. “Jon Arryn’s son is Lord of the Eyrie now. The Lord Robert.”
“Only a boy,” said Littleflnger. “I will see that he grows to be Joffrey’s most loyal subject, and a fast friend to us all.”
Tyrion studied the slender man with the pointed beard and irreverent grey-green eyes. Lord of Harrenhal an empty honor? Bugger that, Father. Even if he never sets foot in the castle, the title makes this match possible, as he’s known all along.
“We have no lack of foes,” said Ser Kevan Lannister. “If the Eyrie can be kept out of the war, all to the good. I am of a mind to see what Lord Petyr can accomplish.”
Ser Kevan was his brother’s vanguard in council, Tyrion knew from long experience; he never had a thought that Lord Tywin had not had first. It has all been settled beforehand, he concluded, and this discussion’s no more than show.
The sheep were bleating their agreement, unaware of how neatly they’d been shorn, so it fell to Tyrion to object. “How will the crown pay its debts without Lord Petyr? He is our wizard of coin, and we have no one to replace him.”
Littlefinger smiled. “My little friend is too kind. All I do is count coppers, as King Robert used to say. Any clever tradesman could do as well . . . and a Lannister, blessed with the golden touch of Casterly Rock, will no doubt far surpass me.”
“A Lannister?” Tyrion had a bad feeling about this.
Lord Tywin’s gold-flecked eyes met his son’s mismatched ones. “You are admirably suited to the task, I believe.”
“Indeed!” Ser Kevan said heartily. “I’ve no doubt you’ll make a splendid master of coin, Tyrion.”
Lord Tywin turned back to Littlefinger. “If Lysa Arryn will take you for a husband and return to the king’s peace, we shall restore the Lord Robert to the honor of Warden of the East. How soon might you leave?”
“On the morrow, if the winds permit. There’s a Braavosi galley standing out past the chain, taking on cargo by boat. The Merling King. I’ll see her captain about a berth.”
“You will miss the king’s wedding,” said Mace Tyrell.
Petyr Baelish gave a shrug. “Tides and brides wait on no man, my lord. Once the autumn storms begin the voyage will be much more hazardous. Drowning would definitely diminish my charms as a bridegroom.”
Lord Tyrell chuckled. “True. Best you do not linger.”
“May the gods speed you on your way,” the High Septon said. “All King’s Landing shall pray for your success.”
Lord Redwyne pinched at his nose. “May we return to the matter of the Greyjoy alliance? In my view, there is much to be said for it. Greyjoy’s longships will augment my own fleet and give us sufficient strength at sea to assault Dragonstone and end Stannis Baratheon’s pretensions.”
“King Balon’s longships are occupied for the nonce,” Lord Tywin said politely, “as are we. Greyjoy demands half the kingdom as the price of alliance, but what will he do to earn it? Fight the Starks? He is doing that already. Why should we pay for what he has given us for free? The best thing to do about our lord of Pyke is nothing, in my view. Granted enough time, a better option may well present itself. One that does not require the king to give up half his kingdom.”
Tyrion watched his father closely. There’s something he’s not saying. He remembered those important letters Lord Tywin had been writing, the night Tyrion had demanded Casterly Rock. What was it he said? Some battles are won with swords and spears, others with quills and ravens . . . he wondered who the “better option” was, and what sort of price he was demanding.
“Perhaps we ought move on to the wedding,” Ser Kevan said.
The High Septon spoke of the preparations being made at the Great Sept of Baelor, and Cersei detailed the plans she had been making for the feast. They would feed a thousand in the throne room, but many more outside in the yards. The outer and middle wards would be tented in silk, with tables of food and casks of ale for all those who could not be accommodated within the hall.
“Your Grace,” said Grand Maester Pycelle, “in regard to the number of guests . . . we have had a raven from Sunspear. Three hundred Dornishmen are riding toward King’s Landing as we speak, and hope to arrive before the wedding.”
“How do they come?” asked Mace Tyrell gruffly. “They have not asked leave to cross my lands.” His thick neck had turned a dark red, Tyrion noted. Dornishmen and Highgardeners had never had great love for one another; over the centuries, they had fought border wars beyond count, and raided back and forth across mountains and marches even when at peace. The enmity had waned a bit after Dorne had become part of the Seven Kingdoms . . . until the Dornish prince they called the Red Viper had crippled the young heir of Highgarden in a tourney. This could be ticklish, the dwarf thought, waiting to see how his father would handle it.
“Prince Doran comes at my son’s invitation,” Lord Tywin said calmly, “not only to join in our celebration, but to claim his seat on this council, and the justice Robert denied him for the murder of his sister Elia and her children.”
Tyrion watched the faces of the Lords Tyrell, Redwyne, and Rowan, wondering if any of the three would be bold enough to say, “But Lord Tywin, wasn’t it you who presented the bodies to Robert, all wrapped up in Lannister cloaks?” None of them did, but it was there on their faces all the same. Redwyne does not give a fig, he thought, but Rowan looks fit to gag.
“When the king is wed to your Margaery and Myrcella to Prince Trystane, we shall all be one great House,” Ser Kevan reminded Mace Tyrell. “The enmities of the past should remain there, would you not agree, my lord?”
“This is my daughter’s wedding—”
“—and my grandson’s,” said Lord Tywin firmly. “No place for old quarrels, surely?”
“I have no quarrel with Doran Martell,” insisted Lord Tyrell, though his tone was more than a little grudging. “If he wishes to cross the Reach in peace, he need only ask my leave.”
Small chance of that, thought Tyrion. He’ll climb the Boneway, turn east near Summerhall, and come up the kingsroad.
“Three hundred Dornishmen need not trouble our plans,” said Cersei. “We can feed the men-at-arms in the yard, squeeze some extra benches into the throne room for the lordlings and highborn knights, and find Prince Doran a place of honor on the dais.”
Not by me, was the message Tyrion saw in Mace Tyrell’s eyes, but the Lord of Highgarden made no reply but a curt nod.
“Perhaps we can move to a more pleasant task,” said Lord Tywin. “The fruits of victory await division.”
“What could be sweeter?” said Littlefinger, who had already swallowed his own fruit, Harrenhal.
Each lord had his own demands; this castle and that village, tracts of lands, a small river, a forest, the wardship of certain minors left fatherless by the battle. Fortunately, these fruits were plentiful, and there were orphans and castles for all. Varys had lists. Forty-seven lesser lordlings and six hundred nineteen knights had lost their lives beneath the fiery heart of Stannis and his Lord of Light, along with several thousand common men-at-arms. Traitors all, their heirs were disinherited, their lands and castles granted to those who had proved more loyal.
Highgarden reaped the richest harvest. Tyrion eyed Mace Tyrell’s broad belly and thought, He has a prodigious appetite, this one. Tyrell demanded the lands and castles of Lord Alester Florent, his own bannerman, who’d had the singular ill judgment to back first Renly and then Stannis. Lord Tywin was pleased to oblige. Brightwater Keep and all its lands and incomes were granted to Lord Tyrell’s second son, Ser Garlan, transforming him into a great lord in the blink of an eye. His elder brother, of course, stood to inherit Highgarden itself.
Lesser tracts were granted to Lord Rowan, and set aside for Lord Tarly, Lady Oakheart, Lord Hightower, and other worthies not present. Lord Redwyne asked only for thirty years’ remission of the taxes that Littlefinger and his wine factors had levied on certain of the Arbor’s finest vintages. When that was granted, he pronounced himself well satisfied and suggested that they send for a cask of Arbor gold, to toast good King Joffrey and his wise and benevolent Hand. At that Cersei lost patience. “It’s swords Joff needs, not toasts,” she snapped. “His realm is still plagued with would-be usurpers and self-styled kings.”
“But not for long, I think,” said Varys unctuously.
“A few more items remain, my lords.” Ser Kevan consulted his papers. “Ser Addam has found some crystals from the High Septon’s crown. It appears certain now that the thieves broke up the crystals and melted down the gold.”
“Our Father Above knows their guilt and will sit in judgment on them all,” the High Septon said piously.
“No doubt he will,” said Lord Tywin. “All the same, you must be crowned at the king’s wedding. Cersei, summon your goldsmiths, we must see to a replacement.” He did not wait for her reply, but turned at once to Varys. “You have reports?”
The eunuch drew a parchment from his sleeve. “A kraken has been seen off the Fingers.” He giggled. “Not a Greyjoy, mind you, a true kraken. It attacked an Ibbenese whaler and pulled it under. There is fighting on the Stepstones, and a new war between Tyrosh and Lys seems likely. Both hope to win Myr as ally. Sailors back from the Jade Sea report that a three-headed dragon has hatched in Qarth, and is the wonder of that city—”
“Dragons and krakens do not interest me, regardless of the number of their heads,” said Lord Tywin. “Have your whisperers perchance found some trace of my brother’s son?”
“Alas, our beloved Tyrek has quite vanished, the poor brave lad.” Varys sounded close to tears.
“Tywin,” Ser Kevan said, before Lord Tywin could vent his obvious displeasure, “some of the gold cloaks who deserted during the battle have drifted back to barracks, thinking to take up duty once again. Ser Addam wishes to know what to do with them.”
“They might have endangered Joff with their cowardice,” Cersei said at once. “I want them put to death.”
Varys sighed. “They have surely earned death, Your Grace, none can deny it. And yet, perhaps we might be wiser to send them to the Night’s Watch. We have had disturbing messages from the Wall of late. Of wildlings astir . . . ”
“Wildlings, krakens, and dragons.” Mace Tyrell chuckled. “Why, is there anyone not stirring?”
Lord Tywin ignored that. “The deserters serve us best as a lesson. Break their knees with hammers. They will not run again. Nor will any man who sees them begging in the streets.” He glanced down the table to see if any of the other lords disagreed.
Tyrion remembered his own visit to the Wall, and the crabs he’d shared with old Lord Mormont and his officers. He remembered the Old Bear’s fears as well. “Perhaps we might break the knees of a few to make our point. Those who killed Ser Jacelyn, say. The rest we can send to Marsh. The Watch is grievously under strength. If the Wall should fail . . . ”
“ . . . the wildlings will flood the north,” his father finished, “and the Starks and Greyjoys will have another enemy to contend with. They no longer wish to be subject to the Iron Throne, it would seem, so by what right do they look to the Iron Throne for aid? King Robb and King Balon both claim the north. Let them defend it, if they can. And if not, this Mance Rayder might even prove a useful ally.” Lord Tywin looked to his brother. “Is there more?”
Ser Kevan shook his head. “We are done. My lords, His Grace King Joffrey would no doubt wish to thank you all for your wisdom and good counsel.”
“I should like private words with my children,” said Lord Tywin as the others rose to leave. “You as well, Kevan.”
Obediently, the other councillors made their farewells, Varys the first to depart and Tyrell and Redwyne the last. When the chamber was empty but for the four Lannisters, Ser Kevan closed the door.
“Master of coin?” said Tyrion in a thin strained voice. “Whose notion was that, pray?”
“Lord Petyr’s,” his father said, “but it serves us well to have the treasury in the hands of a Lannister. You have asked for important work. Do you fear you might be incapable of the task?”
“No,” said Tyrion, “I fear a trap. Littlefinger is subtle and ambitious. I do not trust him. Nor should you.”
“He won Highgarden to our side . . . ” Cersei began.
“ . . . and sold you Ned Stark, I know. He will sell us just as quick. A coin is as dangerous as a sword in the wrong hands.”
His uncle Kevan looked at him oddly. “Not to us, surely. The gold of Casterly Rock . . . ”
“ . . . is dug from the ground. Littlefinger’s gold is made from thin air, with a snap of his fingers.”
“A more useful skill than any of yours, sweet brother,” purred Cersei, in a voice sweet with malice.
“Littlefinger is a liar—”
“—and black as well, said the raven of the crow.”
Lord Tywin slammed his hand down on the table. “Enough! I will have no more of this unseemly squabbling. You are both Lannisters, and will comport yourselves as such.”
Ser Kevan cleared his throat. “I would sooner have Petyr Baelish ruling the Eyrie than any of Lady Lysa’s other suitors. Yohn Royce, Lyn Corbray, Horton Redfort . . . these are dangerous men, each in his own way. And proud. Littlefinger may be clever, but he has neither high birth nor skill at arms. The lords of the Vale will never accept such as their liege.” He looked to his brother. When Lord Tywin nodded, he continued. “And there is this—Lord Petyr continues to demonstrate his loyalty. Only yesterday he brought us word of a Tyrell plot to spirit Sansa Stark off to Highgarden for a ‘visit’ and there marry her to Lord Mace’s eldest son, Willas.”
“Littlefinger brought you word?” Tyrion leaned against the table. “Not our master of whisperers? How interesting.”
Cersei looked at their uncle in disbelief. “Sansa is my hostage. She goes nowhere without my leave.”
“Leave you must perforce grant, should Lord Tyrell ask,” their father pointed out. “To refuse him would be tantamount to declaring that we did not trust him. He would take offense.”
“Let him. What do we care?”
Bloody fool, thought Tyrion. “Sweet sister,” he explained patiently, “offend Tyrell and you offend Redwyne, Tarly, Rowan, and Hightower as well, and perhaps start them wondering whether Robb Stark might not be more accommodating of their desires.”
“I will not have the rose and the direwolf in bed together,” declared Lord Tywin. “We must forestall him.”
“How?” asked Cersei.
“By marriage. Yours, to begin with.”
It came so suddenly that Cersei could only stare for a moment. Then her cheeks reddened as if she had been slapped. “No. Not again. I will not.”
“Your Grace,” said Ser Kevan, courteously, “you are a young woman, still fair and fertile. Surely you cannot wish to spend the rest of your days alone? And a new marriage would put to rest this talk of incest for good and all.”
“So long as you remain unwed, you allow Stannis to spread his disgusting slander,” Lord Tywin told his daughter. “You must have a new husband in your bed, to father children on you.”
“Three children is quite sufficient. I am Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, not a brood mare! The Queen Regent!”
“You are my daughter, and will do as I command.”
She stood. “I will not sit here and listen to this—”
“You will if you wish to have any voice in the choice of your next husband,” Lord Tywin said calmly.
When she hesitated, then sat, Tyrion knew she was lost, despite her loud declaration of, “I will not marry again!”
“You will marry and you will breed. Every child you birth makes Stannis more a liar.” Their father’s eyes seemed to pin her to her chair. “Mace Tyrell, Paxter Redwyne, and Doran Martell are wed to younger women likely to outlive them. Balon Greyjoy’s wife is elderly and failing, but such a match would commit us to an alliance with the Iron Islands, and I am still uncertain whether that would be our wisest course.”
“No,” Cersei said from between white lips. “No, no, no.”
Tyrion could not quite suppress the grin that came to his lips at the thought of packing his sister off to Pyke. Just when I was about to give up praying, some sweet god gives me this.
Lord Tywin went on. “Oberyn Martell might suit, but the Tyrells would take that very ill. So we must look to the sons. I assume you do not object to wedding a man younger than yourself?”
“I object to wedding any—”
“I have considered the Redwyne twins, Theon Greyjoy, Quentyn Martell, and a number of others. But our alliance with Highgarden was the sword that broke Stannis. It should be tempered and made stronger. Ser Loras has taken the white and Ser Garlan is wed to one of the Fossoways, but there remains the eldest son, the boy they scheme to wed to Sansa Stark.”
Willas Tyrell. Tyrion was taking a wicked pleasure in Cersei’s helpless fury. “That would be the cripple,” he said.
Their father chilled him with a look. “Willas is heir to Highgarden, and by all reports a mild and courtly young man, fond of reading books and looking at the stars. He has a passion for breeding animals as well, and owns the finest hounds, hawks, and horses in the Seven Kingdoms.”
A perfect match, mused Tyrion. Cersei also has a passion for breeding. He pitied poor Willas Tyrell, and did not know whether he wanted to laugh at his sister or weep for her.
“The Tyrell heir would be my choice,” Lord Tywin concluded, “but if you would prefer another, I will hear your reasons.”
“That is so very kind of you, Father,” Cersei said with icy courtesy. “It is such a difficult choice you give me. Who would I sooner take to bed, the old squid or the crippled dog boy? I shall need a few days to consider. Do I have your leave to go?”
You are the queen, Tyrion wanted to tell her. He ought to be begging leave of you.
“Go,” their father said. “We shall talk again after you have composed yourself. Remember your duty.”
Cersei swept stiffly from the room, her rage plain to see. Yet in the end she will do as Father bid. She had proved that with Robert. Though there is Jaime to consider. Their brother had been much younger when Cersei wed the first time; he might not acquiesce to a second marriage quite so easily. The unfortunate Willas Tyrell was like to contract a sudden fatal case of sword-through-bowels, which could rather sour the alliance between Highgarden and Casterly Rock. I should say something, but what? Pardon me, Father, but it’s our brother she wants to marry?
“Tyrion.”
He gave a resigned smile. “Do I hear the herald summoning me to the lists?”
“Your whoring is a weakness in you,” Lord Tywin said without preamble, “but perhaps some share of the blame is mine. Since you stand no taller than a boy, I have found it easy to forget that you are in truth a man grown, with all of a man’s baser needs. It is past time you were wed.”
I was wed, or have you forgotten? Tyrion’s mouth twisted, and the noise emerged that was half laugh and half snarl.
“Does the prospect of marriage amuse you?”
“Only imagining what a bugger-all handsome bridegroom I’ll make.” A wife might be the very thing he needed. If she brought him lands and a keep, it would give him a place in the world apart from Joffrey’s court . . . and away from Cersei and their father.
On the other hand, there was Shae. She will not like this, for all she swears that she is content to be my whore.
That was scarcely a point to sway his father, however, so Tyrion squirmed higher in his seat and said, “You mean to wed me to Sansa Stark. But won’t the Tyrells take the match as an affront, if they have designs on the girl?”
“Lord Tyrell will not broach the matter of the Stark girl until after Joffrey’s wedding. If Sansa is wed before that, how can he take offense, when he gave us no hint of his intentions?”
“Quite so,” said Ser Kevan, “and any lingering resentments should be soothed by the offer of Cersei for his Willas.”
Tyrion rubbed at the raw stub of his nose. The scar tissue itched abominably sometimes. “His Grace the royal pustule has made Sansa’s life a misery since the day her father died, and now that she is finally rid of Joffrey you propose to marry her to me. That seems singularly cruel. Even for you, Father.”
“Why, do you plan to mistreat her?” His father sounded more curious than concerned. “The girl’s happiness is not my purpose, nor should it be yours. Our alliances in the south may be as solid as Casterly Rock, but there remains the north to win, and the key to the north is Sansa Stark.”
“She is no more than a child.”
“Your sister swears she’s flowered. If so, she is a woman, fit to be wed. You must needs take her maidenhead, so no man can say the marriage was not consummated. After that, if you prefer to wait a year or two before bedding her again, you would be within your rights as her husband.”
Shae is all the woman I need just now, he thought, and Sansa’s a girl, no matter what you say. “If your purpose here is to keep her from the Tyrells, why not return her to her mother? Perhaps that would convince Robb Stark to bend the knee.”
Lord Tywin’s look was scornful. “Send her to Riverrun and her mother will match her with a Blackwood or a Mallister to shore up her son’s alliances along the Trident. Send her north, and she will be wed to some Manderly or Umber before the moon turns. Yet she is no less dangerous here at court, as this business with the Tyrells should prove. She must marry a Lannister, and soon.”
“The man who weds Sansa Stark can claim Winterfell in her name,” his uncle Kevan put in. “Had that not occurred to you?”
“If you will not have the girl, we shall give her to one of your cousins,” said his father. “Kevan, is Lancel strong enough to wed, do you think?”
Ser Kevan hesitated. “If we bring the girl to his bedside, he could say the words . . . but to consummate, no . . . I would suggest one of the twins, but the Starks hold them both at Riverrun. They have Genna’s boy Tion as well, else he might serve.”
Tyrion let them have their byplay; it was all for his benefit, he knew. Sansa Stark, he mused. Soft-spoken sweet-smelling Sansa, who loved silks, songs, chivalry and tall gallant knights with handsome faces. He felt as though he was back on the bridge of boats, the deck shifting beneath his feet.
“You asked me to reward you for your efforts in the battle,” Lord Tywin reminded him forcefully. “This is a chance for you, Tyrion, the best you are ever likely to have.” He drummed his fingers impatiently on the table. “I once hoped to marry your brother to Lysa Tully, but Aerys named Jaime to his Kingsguard before the arrangements were complete. When I suggested to Lord Hoster that Lysa might be wed to you instead, he replied that he wanted a whole man for his daughter.”
So he wed her to Jon Arryn, who was old enough to be her grandfather. Tyrion was more inclined to be thankful than angry, considering what Lysa Arryn had become.
“When I offered you to Dorne I was told that the suggestion was an insult,” Lord Tywin continued. “In later years I had similar answers from Yohn Royce and Leyton Hightower. I finally stooped so low as to suggest you might take the Florent girl Robert deflowered in his brother’s wedding bed, but her father preferred to give her to one of his own household knights.
“If you will not have the Stark girl, I shall find you another wife. Somewhere in the realm there is doubtless some little lordling who’d gladly part with a daughter to win the friendship of Casterly Rock. Lady Tanda has offered Lollys . . . ”
Tyrion gave a shudder of dismay. “I’d sooner cut it off and feed it to the goats.”
“Then open your eyes. The Stark girl is young, nubile, tractable, of the highest birth, and still a maid. She is not uncomely. Why would you hesitate?”
Why indeed? “A quirk of mine. Strange to say, I would prefer a wife who wants me in her bed.”
“If you think your whores want you in their bed, you are an even greater fool than I suspected,” said Lord Tywin. “You disappoint me, Tyrion. I had hoped this match would please you.”
“Yes, we all know how important my pleasure is to you, Father. But there’s more to this. The key to the north, you say? The Greyjoys hold the north now, and King Balon has a daughter. Why Sansa Stark, and not her?” He looked into his father’s cool green eyes with their bright flecks of gold.
Lord Tywin steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “Balon Greyjoy thinks in terms of plunder, not rule. Let him enjoy an autumn crown and suffer a northern winter. He will give his subjects no cause to love him. Come spring, the northmen will have had a bellyful of krakens. When you bring Eddard Stark’s grandson home to claim his birthright, lords and little folk alike will rise as one to place him on the high seat of his ancestors. You are capable of getting a woman with child, I hope?”
“I believe I am,” he said, bristling. “I confess, I cannot prove it. Though no one can say I have not tried. Why, I plant my little seeds just as often as I can . . . ”
“In the gutters and the ditches,” finished Lord Tywin, “and in common ground where only bastard weeds take root. It is past time you kept your own garden.” He rose to his feet. “You shall never have Casterly Rock, I promise you. But wed Sansa Stark, and it is just possible that you might win Winterfell.”
Tyrion Lannister, Lord Protector of Winterfell. The prospect gave him a queer chill. “Very good, Father,” he said slowly, “but there’s a big ugly roach in your rushes. Robb Stark is as capable as I am, presumably, and sworn to marry one of those fertile Freys. And once the Young Wolf sires a litter, any pups that Sansa births are heirs to nothing.”
Lord Tywin was unconcerned. “Robb Stark will father no children on his fertile Frey, you have my word. There is a bit of news I have not yet seen fit to share with the council, though no doubt the good lords will hear it soon enough. The Young Wolf has taken Gawen Westerling’s eldest daughter to wife.”
For a moment Tyrion could not believe he’d heard his father right. “He broke his sworn word?” he said, incredulous. “He threw away the Freys for . . . ” Words failed him.
“A maid of sixteen years, named Jeyne,” said Ser Kevan. “Lord Gawen once suggested her to me for Willem or Martyn, but I had to refuse him. Gawen is a good man, but his wife is Sybell Spicer. He should never have wed her. The Westerlings always did have more honor than sense. Lady Sybell’s grandfather was a trader in saffron and pepper, almost as lowborn as that smuggler Stannis keeps. And the grandmother was some woman he’d brought back from the east. A frightening old crone, supposed to be a priestess. Maegi, they called her. No one could pronounce her real name. Half of Lannisport used to go to her for cures and love potions and the like.” He shrugged. “She’s long dead, to be sure. And Jeyne seemed a sweet child, I’ll grant you, though I only saw her once. But with such doubtful blood . . . ”
Having once married a whore, Tyrion could not entirely share his uncle’s horror at the thought of wedding a girl whose great grandfather sold cloves. Even so . . . A sweet child, Ser Kevan had said, but many a poison was sweet as well. The Westerlings were old blood, but they had more pride than power. It would not surprise him to learn that Lady Sybell had brought more wealth to the marriage than her highborn husband. The Westerling mines had failed years ago, their best lands had been sold off or lost, and the Crag was more ruin than stronghold. A romantic ruin, though, jutting up so brave above the sea. “I am surprised,” Tyrion had to confess. “I thought Robb Stark had better sense.”
“He is a boy of sixteen,” said Lord Tywin. “At that age, sense weighs for little, against lust and love and honor.”
“He forswore himself, shamed an ally, betrayed a solemn promise. Where is the honor in that?”
Ser Kevan answered. “He chose the girl’s honor over his own. Once he had deflowered her, he had no other course.”
“It would have been kinder to leave her with a bastard in her belly,” said Tyrion bluntly. The Westerlings stood to lose everything here; their lands, their castle, their very lives. A Lannister always pays his debts.
“Jeyne Westerling is her mother’s daughter,” said Lord Tywin, “and Robb Stark is his father’s son.”
This Westerling betrayal did not seem to have enraged his father as much as Tyrion would have expected. Lord Tywin did not suffer disloyalty in his vassals. He had extinguished the proud Reynes of Castamere and the ancient Tarbecks of Tarbeck Hall root and branch when he was still half a boy. The singers had even made a rather gloomy song of it. Some years later, when Lord Farman of Faircastle grew truculent, Lord Tywin sent an envoy bearing a lute instead of a letter. But once he’d heard “The Rains of Castamere” echoing through his hall, Lord Farman gave no further trouble. And if the song were not enough, the shattered castles of the Reynes and Tarbecks still stood as mute testimony to the fate that awaited those who chose to scorn the power of Casterly Rock. “The Crag is not so far from Tarbeck Hall and Castamere,” Tyrion pointed out. “You’d think the Westerlings might have ridden past and seen the lesson there.”
“Mayhaps they have,” Lord Tywin said. “They are well aware of Castamere, I promise you.”
“Could the Westerlings and Spicers be such great fools as to believe the wolf can defeat the lion?”
Every once in a very long while, Lord Tywin Lannister would actually threaten to smile; he never did, but the threat alone was terrible to behold. “The greatest fools are ofttimes more clever than the men who laugh at them,” he said, and then, “You will marry Sansa Stark, Tyrion. And soon.”

第十七章 艾莉亚



　　雨水来了又去，天空阴霾不开，溪流统统高涨。第三天早上，艾莉亚注意到树下长苔藓的地方不对。“走错方向了，”骑过一颗苔藓茂密的榆树时，她对詹德利说，“我们在往南走。看到树下的苔藓了吗？”
　　他将眼前浓密的黑发拨开，“我们顺着路走，仅此而已，这条路在此是往南。”

　　我们今天一直在往南走，她想告诉他，昨天也是，沿着河床骑行开始就在往南。但昨天她没注意苔藓，因此不大确定。“我想我们迷路了，”她低声说，“不该离开那条河的，沿着它走就好。”

　　“那条河弯来拐去，”詹德利说，“我敢打赌，我们走的这条路是捷径，只有土匪才知道。你瞧，柠檬、汤姆他们在这儿住了许多年。”

　　这倒没错。艾莉亚咬紧嘴唇，“但苔藓……”

　　“雨下得这样大，用不了多久，连耳朵里都会长出苔藓，”詹德利抱怨。

　　“那也只会长在朝南的耳朵里！”艾莉亚固执地申明。想说服大牛可不容易，但眼下热派离开了他们，他是她惟一真正的伙伴。

　　“沙玛要我为她烤面包，”离别那天，他告诉她，“不管怎么说，我厌倦了下雨和屁股酸痛地骑马，也厌倦了老是担惊受怕。这里不仅有麦酒，有兔子肉，我还会把面包做得很好，你们等着瞧吧，下次回来就知道了。你们会回来，对吗？等战争结束之后？”他忽然记起她是谁，涨红了脸补充道，“小姐。”

　　艾莉亚不知战争是否有结束的那一天，但她点点头。“很抱歉那次打了你，”她道。热派虽然又蠢又胆小，但从君临城一路跟着她，几乎从未分离。“我打断了你的鼻子。”

　　“你也打断了柠檬的。”热派咧嘴笑道，“真带劲。”

　　“柠檬可不这么想，”艾莉亚阴郁地说。到了出发时间，热派请求亲吻“小姐”的手，她拍拍他肩膀。“别这么叫我。你是热派，我是阿利。”

　　“在这儿，我不叫热派了。莎玛叫我‘小子’，跟叫那个她收养的男孩一样，我总弄不清她到底指谁。”

　　之后，艾莉亚发觉自己莫名地想念他，好在还有哈尔温。她把胡伦的事对哈尔温说了，逃离红堡那天，她在马厩门边发现奄奄一息的马房总管。“唉，他常说自己会在马厩里过世，”哈尔温道，“我们都担心他到头来会断送在坏脾气的马脚下，想不到下手的却是狮子。”艾莉亚还把尤伦的事，逃出君临的事，以及其他许多经过都向对方倾诉，但留出她用缝衣针杀死马房小弟和割赫伦堡守卫喉咙的部分没有讲——跟哈尔温讲故事就跟和父亲讲故事差不多，有些事是不能坦白的。

　　她也没有提及贾昆·赫加尔，以及兑现的三个死亡承诺。他给的硬币艾莉亚一直藏在腰带下，有时候，她会在晚上拿出来，回想他如何将手抹过脸庞，面容融合变化。“valarmorghulis，”她轻声开始，“格雷果爵士，邓森，波利佛，‘甜嘴’拉夫。记事本和猎狗。伊林爵士，马林爵士，瑟曦太后，乔佛里国王。”

　　哈尔温告诉她，当初由父亲派出，随贝里·唐德利恩伯爵制裁格雷果爵士的二十名临冬城侍卫后来只活了六个，而且还都走散了。“那是个陷阱，小姐。泰温公爵派魔山越过红叉河来杀人放火，希望能引出您父亲大人。他料定艾德公爵会亲自西进对付格雷果·克里冈。好在弑君者不知泰温公爵的计划，听说弟弟被抓的消息后，即刻就在君临城中当街攻击您父亲。”

　　“我记得那件事，”艾莉亚说，“他把乔里杀了。”除了少数被她惹火的时候，乔里对她总是笑口常开。

　　“他杀了乔里，”哈尔温赞同，“还用马撞倒你父亲，撞断了他的腿，因此艾德大人无法亲自出动，只好派贝里大人去，但为对方增派了二十名临冬城的侍卫，我便是其中之一。去的人还包括索罗斯、雷蒙·戴瑞爵士、葛拉登·威尔德爵士以及一个叫罗沙·马勒里的男爵。格雷果在戏子滩等着我们，人马埋伏在两岸，只待我们过河，便从前后两方发动攻击。”

　　“我亲眼目睹魔山一击就杀死雷蒙·戴瑞，那一击实在太可怕，不仅把戴瑞的手臂连肘砍断，还毙了他胯下的马。葛拉登·威尔德也战死在那儿，马勒里男爵则撞在河中淹死。狮子从四面八方围过来，我以为自己铁定没命，危急时刻，埃林大声发号施令，恢复了秩序。我们群聚在索罗斯周围，冲出一条血路。出发时的一百二十人中，到天黑只剩不到四十个，贝里伯爵也身负重伤。那天晚上，索罗斯从他胸口拔出一尺长的熗头，将煮沸的葡萄酒灌进空洞里。”

　　“我们每个人都确信天亮时伯爵大人会死，但索罗斯在火堆边陪他祈祷了一整夜，黎明时，他竟活了过来，而且比前晚更强壮。虽然再过两个星期才能骑马，但他的勇气鼓舞了我们。他说，戏子滩不是结束，而是开始，每一位牺牲者，都将获得十倍的复仇。”

　　“当时我们无法再战。魔山只是泰温公爵的前锋，随后兰尼斯特军队便大举越过红叉河，席卷三河流域，途中烧杀掳掠。我们人少，只能骚扰对方，但彼此承诺，等劳勃国王西征，镇压泰温公爵的叛乱，便起兵与之汇合。后来传来的消息却是劳勃死了，艾德公爵也死了，瑟曦·兰尼斯特的小崽子登上铁王座。”

　　“整个世界颠倒失序。你瞧，我们是御前首相派去对付叛徒的队伍，到头来自己竟成了叛徒，而泰温公爵当上御前首相。有些人想请求招安，但贝里伯爵不同意。‘我们是国王的人，’他如此声明，‘而狮子们残害着国王的子民。若不能为劳勃而战，就为他们而战，至死方休。’我们就是这么做的，日子一天天过去，奇怪的事逐渐发生。我们每损失一个，就会出现更多人顶替他的位置。有些是骑士或侍从，出身名门世家，但多数是平民，包括农民、提琴手、客栈老板、仆人、鞋匠，甚至还有两个修士。形形色色的男人，女人，孩子，狗……”

　　“狗？”艾莉亚诧异地问。

　　“对。”哈尔温咧嘴笑道，“有个小伙子养着全世界最凶狠的狗，你简直无法想象。”

　　“我要是有条凶狠的狗就好了，”艾莉亚向往地说，“一条能杀狮子的狗。”她有过一头冰原狼，名叫娜梅莉亚，但为了保护她不被王后杀掉，她朝她扔石头，把她赶跑了。冰原狼可以杀死狮子吗？她心里纳闷。

　　当天下午又开始下雨，一直下到晚上。幸亏土匪们到处都有朋友，无需在野外扎营或在漏水的凉亭下寻求遮蔽——从前她跟热派和詹德利常这样。

　　他们在一个被焚毁的废弃村落中住宿。它看起来是被“废弃”了，但等“幸运杰克”拿出猎号吹奏，两短两长，各种各样的人就从废墟和地窖中爬出来。他们带来麦酒、干苹果和一些不新鲜的大麦面包，土匪们则提供了一只安盖半路射到的鹅，因此晚餐几乎是一场盛宴。

　　艾莉亚正咂着一根翅膀上最后一点肉，只见一位村民转身对柠檬斗篷说，“不到两天前，有些人打这儿经过，去寻找弑君者。”

　　柠檬哼了一声。“他们该去奔流城。那最深的地牢里，潮湿阴冷，很是舒服。”他的鼻子看上去象压碎的苹果，伤口没好，又红又肿，他的情绪也很糟糕。

　　“不对，”另一位村民说，“他逃跑了。”

　　弑君者跑了？艾莉亚汗毛直竖。于是她屏息聆听。

　　“真的？”七弦汤姆问。

　　“俺才不信咧，”戴生锈半盔的独眼人说，人称他为“幸运杰克”，尽管在艾莉亚看来，失去一只眼睛似乎不算幸运。“俺在那地牢里待过，不可能跑的。”

　　村民们耸耸肩。“绿胡子”抚摸着灰绿相间的浓密分叉胡，“反正，假如弑君者真跑了，狼仔们铁定大开杀戒。这情况得通报索罗斯，希望光之王会让他在圣火之中预见兰尼斯特的动向。”

　　“这儿就有火，”安盖微笑。

　　绿胡子哈哈大笑，一边拎住弓箭手的耳朵根。“妈的，你觉得我看起来像和尚吗，射手？你要泰洛西的佩罗盯着火瞅，除非想烤焦他的胡子！”

　　柠檬将指节捏得“嗒嗒”作响，“贝里大人不是很想抓詹姆·兰尼斯特吗？这是个好机……”

　　“他会不会吊死他，柠檬？”一个村妇问，“吊死这么一个俊俏家伙，多少有点可惜啊。”

　　“先审判！”安盖说，“贝里大人总是先审判，规矩你们都知道。”他微笑道。“再上吊。”

　　大家哄堂大笑。汤姆弹起木竖琴，低声歌唱：

　　流浪的御林兄弟会啊，

　　他们说我们是贼。

　　拿森林当城堡，

　　走大地四海为家。

　　没有金子逃得过我们的刀熗，

　　没有少女逃得出我们的手掌。

　　噢，流浪的御林兄弟会啊，

　　谁人见了都怕……

　　艾莉亚在詹德利和哈尔温之间干燥温暖的角落里听了一会儿歌，便合上眼渐渐睡着了。她梦见了家乡，不是奔流城，而是临冬城，但这并不是一个好梦。她梦见自己独站在城堡外，泥浆直没到膝盖，灰色的城墙就在前方，但当她向城门走去，每一步都比前一步更艰难，城堡在眼前变淡，好似那并非花岗岩，而是烟雾。周围还有狼，细瘦的灰色身形在林木间穿梭，眼睛闪闪发光。无论何时，只要望向它们，她都忆起鲜血的滋味。

　　第二天早晨，队伍离开道路，穿越原野。风，不停地刮，棕色的枯叶在周围旋转，但这次没有下雨，太阳从云朵后钻出来，明亮耀眼，以至于艾莉亚不得不拉起兜帽，遮住眼睛。

　　她突然勒马，“走错方向了！”

　　詹德利哼了一声，“怎么，又是苔藓？”

　　“看那太阳，”她道，“我们在往南走！”艾莉亚从鞍囊里取出地图，好让他们看。“我们不该离开三叉戟河的，你们看。”她把地图在腿上展开，所有人都盯着她，“看这里，这就是奔流城，它在两条河之间。”

　　“说得没错，”幸运杰克道，“我们知道奔流城在哪儿，每个人都知道。”

　　“我们不去奔流城，”柠檬坦白。

　　我差一点就到了，艾莉亚心想，早知道就把马给他们，自己走着去。她想起昨晚的梦，不由得咬紧嘴唇。

　　“啊，别伤心啊，孩子，”七弦汤姆说，“你不会受到伤害的，我向你保证。”

　　“你是个骗子！”

　　“没人在骗你，”柠檬道，“我们本就没承诺什么，如何处置你，我们是作不了主的。”

　　没错，柠檬跟汤姆一样，并非首领，这伙人的头目是泰洛西人佩罗。艾莉亚转过来面对他。“带我去奔流城，重重有赏，”她孤注一掷地说。

　　“小家伙，”绿胡子答道，“寻常松鼠若教农夫抓住，逃不过剥皮下锅的命运，但若他逮住的是金松鼠，就得乖乖献给领主，否则将来会倒大霉的。”

　　“我不是松鼠，”艾莉亚坚持。

　　“谁说不是？”绿胡子哈哈大笑，“你是一只快被献到闪电大王驾前的金色小松鼠，不管是否情愿。别担心，他知道如何处置你，我打赌他会如你的愿把你送回母亲大人身边。”

　　七弦汤姆点点头。“对，贝里伯爵是个好人。他会妥善处理你的，走着瞧吧。”

　　贝里·唐德利恩伯爵。艾莉亚忆起从前在赫伦堡时从兰尼斯特的士兵和血戏子们那儿听到的故事。他们说他是森林中的幽灵，说他曾被瓦格·赫特杀死，被亚摩利·洛奇爵士杀死，魔山更是杀死过他两次。管他的，他不把我送回家，我也会杀死他。“凭什么要我去见贝里伯爵？”她平静地问。

　　“我们把所有贵族俘虏都带给他处理，”安盖道。

　　俘虏。艾莉亚深吸一口气，以稳定心绪。止如水。她瞥瞥骑马的土匪们，默然调转坐骑。迅如蛇。她一边想，一边用脚后跟猛踢马腹，从绿胡子和幸运杰克中间飞奔而去。詹德利的母马从面前一闪而过，她看到男孩脸上震惊的表情，随后便置身于旷野之中狂奔。

　　现在东西南北并不重要。等甩掉他们，自然可以慢慢去找到奔流城的路。艾莉亚倾身向前，敦促马儿快跑。土匪们在身后咒骂，叫嚣着要她回去，但她充耳不闻。良久，她回头一望，只见四个人追了上来，安盖、哈尔温和绿胡子并肩奔驰，柠檬则落后一点，巨大的黄斗篷在身后飞舞。“疾如鹿，”她告诉她的座骑，“快，快，快跑。”

　　艾莉亚在杂草丛生的褐色原野中驰骋，穿过齐腰高的草丛和堆堆枯叶，飞扬的马蹄激起翻飞枯叶。右手是树林，我可以在那儿甩掉他们。原野边沿有条干涸沟渠，她半步未停，飞跃而过，一头扎进榆树、衫木和桦树丛中。她偷偷往后瞧，发现安盖和哈尔温仍奋力紧跟，绿胡子已经落后，柠檬则根本看不到了。“快，再快点，”她告诉她的马，“你能行，你能行的！”

　　她从两棵榆树间穿过，丝毫不在意苔藓长在哪边。随后又跃过一段朽木，远远绕开一棵倾倒的巨大枯树，断裂的枝杈从枯树中间伸出来。上了一个缓坡，又从另一侧下去，减速，加速，马蹄与硬石相击，溅出点点火花。登上小山，她再度向后瞥去。此时哈尔温已领先安盖，两人都在努力。绿胡子则越跑越慢，似乎快放弃了。

　　一条小河挡在面前，她纵马踏进，淌过充塞棕色湿叶的流水，上岸时，不少叶子沾在马腿上。此处灌木较浓密，地上满是树根和石块，不得不减慢速度，但她仍不停地催促马儿。面前出现另一座小山，这座更陡峭。她爬上去，从另一面下来。树林究竟有多大？她疑惑地想。她知道自己的坐骑比较快，因为它是赫伦堡卢斯·波顿的马厩里最好的马之一，但速度在这儿派不上用场。我得返回平原，找到道路。她找了半天，却只发现一条猎人小径，狭窄又崎岖，但好歹比没有强。她沿着小径开跑，任凭树枝抽打脸颊，一根枝条勾住兜帽，将其掠到后面，片刻之间，她好害怕自己会被打下马来。有只狐狸被狂野的奔驰所惊扰，从灌木丛中窜出。小径将她带到另一条小河边。还是同一条河？莫非我在原地打转？没时间多想，马蹄声从身后传来。再往后，她的脸被荆棘划破，她知道自己一定像以前在君临追赶的那些猫一样难看。麻雀从桤木枝头飞散。树木变得稀疏，突然之间，她便走出了森林，宽阔平坦的原野在眼前展开，布满遭到践踏的湿草和野麦。艾莉亚踢马飞驰。跑啊！她心想，跑到奔流城，跑回家去！甩掉他们了吗？她飞快地向后一看，天！哈尔温只差了六码，而且还在接近中。不，她绝望地想，不，他不能，不该是他，这不公平。

　　等他赶上时，两匹马都浑身是汗，近乎虚脱。他伸手抓住她的缰绳。艾莉亚自己也气喘吁吁，她知道没希望了。“你骑起马来像一个堂堂正正的北方人，小姐，”哈尔温边说边将两马都勒住，“和你姑姑莱安娜小姐一样。但你别忘记，我父亲是马房总管。”

　　她用受伤的眼神看着他，“我以为你是我父亲的人。”

　　“艾德大人死了，小姐。我现在属于闪电大王，属于我的弟兄们。”

　　“你的弟兄们？”艾莉亚不记得老胡伦还有其他儿子。

　　“安盖、柠檬、七弦汤姆、杰克、绿胡子……他们所有人。我们对你哥哥罗柏没有恶意，小姐……但并非为他而战。他有自己的军队，还有许多大诸侯，而老百姓们只有我们。”他打量着她，“你明白吗？”

　　“我明白。”没错，我明白了，他不是罗柏的人，而我是他的俘虏。早知道当初就跟热派一起留下，没准可以偷那条小船，向上游航行到奔流城；早知道当乳鸽就好，乳鸽、娜娜、黄鼠狼或无父无母的小男孩阿利都不会有人来追。我曾经是头狼，她想，现在又变回那个愚蠢的小姐。

　　“你要不要乖乖回去，”哈尔温问她，“还是要我把你绑起来，横放在马背上？”

　　“我会回去，”她怏怏地说。只好暂时如此。

CATELYN
They carried the corpses in upon their shoulders and laid them beneath the dais. A silence fell across the torchlit hall, and in the quiet Catelyn could hear Grey Wind howling half a castle away. He smells the blood, she thought, through stone walls and wooden doors, through night and rain, he still knows the scent of death and ruin.
She stood at Robb’s left hand beside the high seat, and for a moment felt almost as if she were looking down at her own dead, at Bran and Rickon. These boys had been much older, but death had shrunken them. Naked and wet, they seemed such little things, so still it was hard to remember them living.
The blond boy had been trying to grow a beard. Pale yellow peach fuzz covered his cheeks and jaw above the red ruin the knife had made of his throat. His long golden hair was still wet, as if he had been pulled from a bath. By the look of him, he had died peacefully, perhaps in sleep, but his brown-haired cousin had fought for life. His arms bore slashes where he’d tried to block the blades, and red still trickled slowly from the stab wounds that covered his chest and belly and back like so many tongueless mouths, though the rain had washed him almost clean.
Robb had donned his crown before coming to the hall, and the bronze shone darkly in the torchlight. Shadows hid his eyes as he looked upon the dead. Does he see Bran and Rickon as well? She might have wept, but there were no tears left in her. The dead boys were pale from long imprisonment, and both had been fair; against their smooth white skin, the blood was shockingly red, unbearable to look upon. Will they lay Sansa down naked beneath the Iron Throne after they have killed her? Will her skin seem as white, her blood as red? From outside came the steady wash of rain and the restless howling of a wolf.
Her brother Edmure stood to Robb’s right, one hand upon the back of his father’s seat, his face still puffy from sleep. They had woken him as they had her, pounding on his door in the black of night to yank him rudely from his dreams. Were they good dreams, brother? Do you dream of sunlight and laughter and a maiden’s kisses? I pray you do. Her own dreams were dark and laced with terrors.
Robb’s captains and lords bannermen stood about the hall, some mailed and armed, others in various states of dishevelment and undress. Ser Raynald and his uncle Ser Rolph were among them, but Robb had seen fit to spare his queen this ugliness. The Crag is not far from Casterly Rock, Catelyn recalled. Leyne may well have played with these boys when all of them were children.
She looked down again upon the corpses of the squires Tion Frey and Willem Lannister, and waited for her son to speak.
It seemed a very long time before Robb lifted his eyes from the bloody dead. “Smalljon,” he said, “tell your father to bring them in.” Wordless, Smalljon Umber turned to obey, his steps echoing in the great stone hall.
As the Greatjon marched his prisoners through the doors, Catelyn made note of how some other men stepped back to give them room, as if treason could somehow be passed by a touch, a glance, a cough. The captors and the captives looked much alike; big men, every one, with thick beards and long hair. Two of the Greatjon’s men were wounded, and three of their prisoners. Only the fact that some had spears and others empty scabbards served to set them apart. All were clad in mail hauberks or shirts of sewn rings, with heavy boots and thick cloaks, some of wool and some of fur. The north is hard and cold, and has no mercy, Ned had told her when she first came to Winterfell a thousand years ago.
“Five,” said Robb when the prisoners stood before him, wet and silent. “Is that all of them?”
“There were eight,” rumbled the Greatjon. “We killed two taking them, and a third is dying now.”
Robb studied the faces of the captives. “It required eight of you to kill two unarmed squires.”
Edmure Tully spoke up. “They murdered two of my men as well, to get into the tower. Delp and Elwood.”
“It was no murder, ser,” said Lord Rickard Karstark, no more discomfited by the ropes about his wrists than by the blood that trickled down his face. “Any man who steps between a father and his vengeance asks for death.”
His words rang against Catelyn’s ears, harsh and cruel as the pounding of a war drum. Her throat was dry as bone. I did this. These two boys died so my daughters might live.
“I saw your sons die, that night in the Whispering Wood,” Robb told Lord Karstark. “Tion Frey did not kill Torrhen. Willem Lannister did not slay Eddard. How then can you call this vengeance? This was folly, and bloody murder. Your sons died honorably on a battlefield, with swords in their hands.”
“They died,” said Rickard Karstark, yielding no inch of ground. “The Kingslayer cut them down. These two were of his ilk. Only blood can pay for blood.”
“The blood of children?” Robb pointed at the corpses. “How old were they? Twelve, thirteen? Squires.”
“Squires die in every battle.”
“Die fighting, yes. Tion Frey and Willem Lannister gave up their swords in the Whispering Wood. They were captives, locked in a cell, asleep, unarmed . . . boys. Look at them!”
Lord Karstark looked instead at Catelyn. “Tell your mother to look at them,” he said. “She slew them, as much as L”
Catelyn put a hand on the back of Robb’s seat. The hall seemed to spin about her. She felt as though she might retch.
“My mother had naught to do with this,” Robb said angrily. “This was your work. Your murder. Your treason.”
“How can it be treason to kill Lannisters, when it is not treason to free them?” asked Karstark harshly. “Has Your Grace forgotten that we are at war with Casterly Rock? In war you kill your enemies. Didn’t your father teach you that, boy?”
“Boy?” The Greatjon dealt Rickard Karstark a buffet with a mailed fist that sent the other lord to his knees.
“Leave him!” Robb’s voice rang with command. Umber stepped back away from the captive.
Lord Karstark spit out a broken tooth. “Yes, Lord Umber, leave me to the king. He means to give me a scolding before he forgives me. That’s how he deals with treason, our King in the North.” He smiled a wet red smile. “or should I call you the King Who Lost the North, Your Grace?”
The Greatjon snatched a spear from the man beside him and jerked it to his shoulder. “Let me spit him, sire. Let me open his belly so we can see the color of his guts.”
The doors of the hall crashed open, and the Blackfish entered with water running from his cloak and helm. Tully men-at-arms followed him in, while outside lightning cracked across the sky and a hard black rain pounded against the stones of Riverrun. Ser Brynden removed his helm and went to one knee. “Your Grace,” was all he said, but the grimness of his tone spoke volumes.
“I will hear Ser Brynden privily, in the audience chamber.” Robb rose to his feet. “Greatjon, keep Lord Karstark here till I return, and hang the other seven.”
The Greatjon lowered the spear. “Even the dead ones?”
“Yes. I will not have such fouling my lord uncle’s rivers. Let them feed the crows.”
One of the captives dropped to his knees. “Mercy, sire. I killed no one, I only stood at the door to watch for guards.”
Robb considered that a moment. “Did you know what Lord Rickard intended? Did you see the knives drawn? Did you hear the shouts, the screams, the cries for mercy?”
“Aye, I did, but I took no part. I was only the watcher, I swear it . . . ”
“Lord Umber,” said Robb, “this one was only the watcher. Hang him last, so he may watch the others die. Mother, Uncle, with me, if you please.” He turned away as the Greatjon’s men closed upon the prisoners and drove them from the hall at spearpoint. Outside the thunder crashed and boomed, so loud it sounded as if the castle were coming down about their ears. Is this the sound of a kingdom falling? Catelyn wondered.
It was dark within the audience chamber, but at least the sound of the thunder was muffled by another thickness of wall. A servant entered with an oil lamp to light the fire, but Robb sent him away and kept the lamp. There were tables and chairs, but only Edmure sat, and he rose again when he realized that the others had remainded standing. Robb took off his crown and placed it on the table before him.
The Blackfish shut the door. “The Karstarks are gone.”
“All?” Was it anger or despair that thickened Robb’s voice like that? Even Catelyn was not certain.
“All the fighting men,” Ser Brynden replied. “A few camp followers and serving men were left with their wounded. We questioned as many as we needed, to be certain of the truth. They started leaving at nightfall, stealing off in ones and twos at first, and then in larger groups. The wounded men and servants were told to keep the campfires lit so no one would know they’d gone, but once the rains began it didn’t matter.”
“Will they re-form, away from Riverrun?” asked Robb.
“No. They’ve scattered, hunting. Lord Karstark has sworn to give the hand of his maiden daughter to any man highborn or low who brings him the head of the Kingslayer.”
Gods be good. Catelyn felt ill again.
“Near three hundred riders and twice as many mounts, melted away in the night.” Robb rubbed his temples, where the crown had left its mark in the soft skin above his ears. “All the mounted strength of Karhold, lost.”
Lost by me. By me, may the gods forgive me. Catelyn did not need to be a soldier to grasp the trap Robb was in. For the moment he held the riverlands, but his kingdom was surrounded by enemies to every side but east, where Lysa sat aloof on her mountaintop. Even the Trident was scarce secure so long as the Lord of the Crossing withheld his allegiance. And now to lose the Karstarks as well . . .
“No word of this must leave Riverrun,” her brother Edmure said. “Lord Tywin would . . . the Lannisters pay their debts, they are always saying that. Mother have mercy, when he hears.”
Sansa. Catelyn’s nails dug into the soft flesh of her palms, so hard did she close her hand.
Robb gave Edmure a look that chilled. “Would you make me a liar as well as a murderer, Uncle?”
“We need speak no falsehood. Only say nothing. Bury the boys and hold our tongues till the war’s done. Willem was son to Ser Kevan Lannister, and Lord Tywin’s nephew. Tion was Lady Genna’s, and a Frey. We must keep the news from the Twins as well, until . . . ”
“Until we can bring the murdered dead back to life?” said Brynden Blackfish sharply. “The truth escaped with the Karstarks, Edmure. It is too late for such games.”
“I owe their fathers truth,” said Robb. “And justice. I owe them that as well.” He gazed at his crown, the dark gleam of bronze, the circle of iron swords. “Lord Rickard defied me. Betrayed me. I have no choice but to condemn him. Gods know what the Karstark foot with Roose Bolton will do when they hear I’ve executed their liege for a traitor. Bolton must be warned.”
“Lord Karstark’s heir was at Harrenhal as well,” Ser Brynden reminded him. “The eldest son, the one the Lannisters took captive on the Green Fork.”
“Harrion. His name is Harrion.” Robb laughed bitterly. “A king had best know the names of his enemies, don’t you think?”
The Blackfish looked at him shrewdly. “You know that for a certainty? That this will make young Karstark your enemy?”
“What else would he be? I am about to kill his father, he’s not like to thank me.”
“He might. There are sons who hate their fathers, and in a stroke you will make him Lord of Karhold.”
Robb shook his head. “Even if Harrion were that sort, he could never openly forgive his father’s killer. His own men would turn on him. These are northmen, Uncle. The north remembers.”
“Pardon him, then,” urged Edmure Tully.
Robb stared at him in frank disbelief.
Under that gaze, Edmure’s face reddened. “Spare his life, I mean. I don’t like the taste of it any more than you, sire. He slew my men as well. Poor Delp had only just recovered from the wound Ser Jaime gave him. Karstark must be punished, certainly. Keep him in chains, say.”
“A hostage?” said Catelyn. It might be best . . .
“Yes, a hostage!” Her brother seized on her musing as agreement. “Tell the son that so long as he remains loyal, his father will not be harmed. Otherwise . . . we have no hope of the Freys now, not if I offered to marry all Lord Walder’s daughters and carry his litter besides. If we should lose the Karstarks as well, what hope is there?”
“What hope . . . ” Robb let out a breath, pushed his hair back from his eyes, and said, “We’ve had naught from Ser Rodrik in the north, no response from Walder Frey to our new offer, only silence from the Eyrie.” He appealed to his mother. “Will your sister never answer us? How many times must I write her? I will not believe that none of the birds have reached her.”
Her son wanted comfort, Catelyn realized; he wanted to hear that it would be all right. But her king needed truth. “The birds have reached her. Though she may tell you they did not, if it ever comes to that. Expect no help from that quarter, Robb.
“Lysa was never brave. When we were girls together, she would run and hide whenever she’d done something wrong. Perhaps she thought our lord father would forget to be wroth with her if he could not find her. It is no different now. She ran from King’s Landing for fear, to the safest place she knows, and she sits on her mountain hoping everyone will forget her.”
“The knights of the Vale could make all the difference in this war,” said Robb, “but if she will not fight, so be it. I’ve asked only that she open the Bloody Gate for us, and provide ships at Gulltown to take us north. The high road would be hard, but not so hard as fighting our way up the Neck. If I could land at White Harbor I could flank Moat Cailin and drive the ironmen from the north in half a year.”
“It will not happen, sire,” said the Blackfish. “Cat is right. Lady Lysa is too fearful to admit an army to the Vale. Any army. The Bloody Gate will remain closed.”
“The Others can take her, then,” Robb cursed, in a fury of despair. “Bloody Rickard Karstark as well. And Theon Greyjoy, Walder Frey, Tywin Lannister, and all the rest of them. Gods be good, why would any man ever want to be king? When everyone was shouting King in the North, King in the North, I told myself . . . swore to myself . . . that I would be a good king, as honorable as Father, strong, just, loyal to my friends and brave when I faced my enemies . . . now I can’t even tell one from the other. How did it all get so confused? Lord Rickard’s fought at my side in half a dozen battles. His sons died for me in the Whispering Wood. Tion Frey and Willem Lannister were my enemies. Yet now I have to kill my dead friends’ father for their sakes.” He looked at them all. “Will the Lannisters thank me for Lord Rickard’s head? Will the Freys?”
“No,” said Brynden Blackfish, blunt as ever.
“All the more reason to spare Lord Rickard’s life and keep him hostage,” Edmure urged.
Robb reached down with both hands, lifted the heavy bronze-and-iron crown, and set it back atop his head, and suddenly he was a king again. “Lord Rickard dies.”
“But why?” said Edmure. “You said yourself—”
“I know what I said, Uncle. It does not change what I must do.” The swords in his crown stood stark and black against his brow. “In battle I might have slain Tion and Willem myself, but this was no battle. They were asleep in their beds, naked and unarmed, in a cell where I put them. Rickard Karstark killed more than a Frey and a Lannister. He killed my honor. I shall deal with him at dawn.”
When day broke, grey and chilly, the storm had diminished to a steady, soaking rain, yet even so the godswood was crowded. River lords and northmen, highborn and low, knights and sellswords and stableboys, they stood amongst the trees to see the end of the night’s dark dance. Edmure had given commands, and a headsman’s block had been set up before the heart tree. Rain and leaves fell all around them as the Greatjon’s men led Lord Rickard Karstark through the press, hands still bound. His men already hung from Riverrun’s high walls, slumping at the end of long ropes as the rain washed down their darkening faces.
Long Lew waited beside the block, but Robb took the poleaxe from his hand and ordered him to step aside. “This is my work,” he said. “He dies at my word. He must die by my hand.”
Lord Rickard Karstark dipped his head stiffly. “For that much, I thank you. But for naught else.” He had dressed for death in a long black wool surcoat emblazoned with the white sunburst of his House. “The blood of the First Men flows in my veins as much as yours, boy. You would do well to remember that. I was named for your grandfather. I raised my banners against King Aerys for your father, and against King Joffrey for you. At Oxcross and the Whispering Wood and in the Battle of the Camps, I rode beside you, and I stood with Lord Eddard on the Trident. We are kin, Stark and Karstark.”
“This kinship did not stop you from betraying me,” Robb said. “And it will not save you now. Kneel, my lord.”
Lord Rickard had spoken truly, Catelyn knew. The Karstarks traced their descent to Karlon Stark, a younger son of Winterfell who had put down a rebel lord a thousand years ago, and been granted lands for his valor. The castle he built had been named Karl’s Hold, but that soon became Karhold, and over the centuries the Karhold Starks had become Karstarks.
“Old gods or new, it makes no matter,” Lord Rickard told her son, “no man is so accursed as the kinslayer.”
“Kneel, traitor,” Robb said again. “Or must I have them force your head onto the block?”
Lord Karstark knelt. “The gods shall judge you, as you have judged me.” He laid his head upon the block.
“Rickard Karstark, Lord of Karhold.” Robb lifted the heavy axe with both hands. “Here in sight of gods and men, I judge you guilty of murder and high treason. In mine own name I condemn you. With mine own hand I take your life. Would you speak a final word?”
“Kill me, and be cursed. You are no king of mine.”
The axe crashed down. Heavy and well-honed, it killed at a single blow, but it took three to sever the man’s head from his body, and by the time it was done both living and dead were drenched in blood. Robb flung the poleaxe down in disgust, and turned wordless to the heart tree. He stood shaking with his hands half-clenched and the rain running down his cheeks. Gods forgive him, Catelyn prayed in silence. He is only a boy, and he had no other choice.
That was the last she saw of her son that day. The rain continued all through the morning, lashing the surface of the rivers and turning the godswood grass into mud and puddles. The Blackfish assembled a hundred men and rode out after Karstarks, but no one expected he would bring back many. “I only pray I do not need to hang them,” he said as he departed. When he was gone, Catelyn retreated to her father’s solar, to sit once more beside Lord Hoster’s bed.
“It will not be much longer,” Maester Vyman warned her, when he came that afternoon. “His last strength is going, though still he tries to fight.”
“He was ever a fighter,” she said. “A sweet stubborn man.”
“Yes,” the maester said, “but this battle he cannot win. It is time he lay down his sword and shield. Time to yield.”
To yield, she thought, to make a peace. Was it her father the maester was speaking of, or her son?
At evenfall, Jeyne Westerling came to see her. The young queen entered the solar timidly. “Lady Catelyn, I do not mean to disturb you . . . ”
“You are most welcome here, Your Grace.” Catelyn had been sewing, but she put the needle aside now.
“Please. Call me Jeyne. I don’t feel like a Grace.”
“You are one, nonetheless. Please, come sit, Your Grace.”
“Jeyne.” She sat by the hearth and smoothed her skirt out anxiously.
“As you wish. How might I serve you, Jeyne?”
“It’s Robb,” the girl said. “He’s so miserable, so . . . so angry and disconsolate. I don’t know what to do.”
“It is a hard thing to take a man’s life.”
“I know. I told him, he should use a headsman. When Lord Tywin sends a man to die, all he does is give the command. It’s easier that way, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” said Catelyn, “but my lord husband taught his sons that killing should never be easy.”
“Oh.” Queen Jeyne wet her lips. “Robb has not eaten all day. I had Rollam bring him a nice supper, boar’s ribs and stewed onions and ale, but he never touched a bite of it. He spent all morning writing a letter and told me not to disturb him, but when the letter was done he burned it. Now he is sitting and looking at maps. I asked him what he was looking for, but he never answered. I don’t think he ever heard me. He wouldn’t even change out of his clothes. They were damp all day, and bloody. I want to be a good wife to him, I do, but I don’t know how to help. To cheer him, or comfort him. I don’t know what he needs. Please, my lady, you’re his mother, tell me what I should do.”
Tell me what I should do. Catelyn might have asked the same, if her father had been well enough to ask. But Lord Hoster was gone, or near enough. Her Ned as well. Bran and Rickon too, and Mother, and Brandon so long ago. Only Robb remained to her, Robb and the fading hope of her daughters.
“Sometimes,” Catelyn said slowly, “the best thing you can do is nothing. When I first came to Winterfell, I was hurt whenever Ned went to the godswood to sit beneath his heart tree. Part of his soul was in that tree, I knew, a part I would never share. Yet without that part, I soon realized, he would not have been Ned. Jeyne, child, you have wed the north, as I did . . . and in the north, the winters will come.” She tried to smile. “Be patient. Be understanding. He loves you and he needs you, and he will come back to you soon enough. This very night, perhaps. Be there when he does. That is all I can tell you.”
The young queen listened raptly. “I will,” she said when Catelyn was done. “I’ll be there.” She got to her feet. “I should go back. He might have missed me. I’ll see. But if he’s still at his maps, I’ll be patient.”
“Do,” said Catelyn, but when the girl was at the door, she thought of something else. “Jeyne,” she called after, “there’s one more thing Robb needs from you, though he may not know it yet himself. A king must have an heir.”
The girl smiled at that. “My mother says the same. She makes a posset for me, herbs and milk and ale, to help make me fertile. I drink it every morning. I told Robb I’m sure to give him twins. An Eddard and a Brandon. He liked that, I think. We . . . we try most every day, my lady. Sometimes twice or more.” The girl blushed very prettily. “I’ll be with child soon, I promise. I pray to our Mother Above, every night.”
“Very good. I will add my prayers as well. To the old gods and the new.”
When the girl had gone, Catelyn turned back to her father and smoothed the thin white hair across his brow. “An Eddard and a Brandon,” she sighed softly. “And perhaps in time a Hoster. Would you like that?” He did not answer, but she had never expected that he would. As the sound of the rain on the roof mingled with her father’s breathing, she thought about Jeyne. The girl did seem to have a good heart, just as Robb had said. And good hips, which might be more important.

第十八章 山姆威尔



　　抽噎着，山姆又迈出一步。这是最后一步，最后最后的一步，我不能再走了，不能再走了。但他的脚却再次移动。一只，另一只；一步，又一步。他心想：这不是我的脚，它们是别人的，别人在走路，不可能是我。
　　他低头就能看到那双笨拙而不成形的东西跌跌撞撞地跨过积雪，依稀记得鞋是黑色，但冰雪在周围冻结，使它们成了奇形怪状的雪球。他的腿好似两根冰棍。

　　大雪一直没有停歇。积雪漫过膝盖，厚厚的冰壳如白色的护胫甲覆盖在小腿上，使他的脚步拖沓而踉跄。背上沉重的包裹让他看起来活象个驮背怪兽。我累了，太累了。我不能再走了，圣母慈悲，不能再走了。

　　每走四五步，他都得伸手提剑带。其实早在先民拳峰，剑就丢了，可带子上还挂着两把匕首：琼恩给的龙晶匕首和他用来切肉的钢铁匕首。它们好沉啊，而他的肚子又大又圆，不管腰带系得多紧，如果忘记往上提，它就会滑落，缠到膝盖上。他试过将剑带系在肚子之上，可那样几乎就要达到腋窝，葛兰看了直想笑，而忧郁的艾迪评论说：“从前我认识一个人，他像这样把剑系在脖子上。有一天他滑倒在地，结果被剑柄刺穿了鼻子。”

　　山姆一天到晚都在滑倒摔跤，因此他害怕。积雪下不仅有岩石树根，有时候冻土还掩盖了深深的窟窿。黑伯纳就踏入过一个窟窿，扭断了脚踝，那是三天前，还是四天前，还是……他其实不知道过了多久，反正在那之后，总司令就让伯纳骑马。

　　抽噎着，山姆又迈出一步。感觉好像在坠落，而不是走路，永无止境地坠落，却又碰不到地面，只是一直往下，往下。我必须停止，好痛苦啊。我又冷又累，想睡……哪怕在火堆边睡一小会儿，吃点没有结冻的食物。

　　但他清楚，如果停下来，就死定了。为数不多的幸存者们对此都清楚。逃离先民拳峰时，他们有五十个，也许更多，但接下来有人在大雪中走失，还有伤员流血至死……有时山姆听到殿后的人发出喊声，甚至是凄厉的惨叫。他一听之下便开始狂奔，奔出二三十码，尽其所能地跑，冻成冰棍的双脚死命踢起积雪。若腿再强壮一点，他还会继续。它们在我们后面，它们还在我们后面，它们要把我们一个个放倒。

　　抽噎着，山姆又迈出一步。长久的天寒地冻，让他忘了温暖的感觉。他共穿了三双长袜，两件内衣，外套双层羔羊毛上装，在此之外是一件厚实的棉褂，然后才是冰冷的铁锁甲，锁甲外他穿一件宽松的外套和加厚两倍的斗篷，斗篷用骨扣在下巴下扣紧，兜帽前翻，盖住额头。他戴了轻便的羊毛皮革手套，外罩厚厚的毛皮拳套，一条头巾紧紧包裹着脸庞，兜帽里面还有一顶绷紧的绒线帽，盖住耳朵。虽然如此，他仍觉得冷。尤其是脚，甚至感觉不到它们的存在——而就在昨天，它们却又痛得厉害，教人站着都无法忍受，逞论走路？每一步都让他想要尖叫。那是昨天吗？他不清楚。自离开先民拳峰以来，他就没睡过觉，应该说从号角吹响之后就没有躺下。除非是在走路时……人可以边走边睡吗？山姆不清楚，或者是又忘记了。

　　抽噎着，山姆又迈出一步。雪盘旋着在周围降下。有时候，它从白色的天空落下，有时候则从黑色的天空坠落，这是白天与黑夜惟一的区别。他肩上披满雪花，就像另一件斗篷，雪在包裹上高高地堆积，使得包裹更加沉重，更加难以承受。他的背心疼痛难忍，仿佛被插进了一把匕首，每走一步都来回绞动。他的肩膀因锁甲的重量而麻木。他一心想把它脱掉，却又不敢脱。因为要脱它，就得先脱大衣和外套，那样会被冻坏的。

　　如果我再强壮一些，就好了……可我并不强壮，想也没有用。山姆又虚弱又肥胖，胖得承受不住自己的重量，锁甲对他而言委实太沉，尽管钢铁与肌肤之间有层层麻布与棉花，感觉上却好像把肩膀都磨破了。他唯一能做的只有抽噎，哭的时候，眼泪冻结在脸颊上。

　　抽噎着，山姆又迈出一步。若不是冰壳在脚下碎裂，他根本不觉得自己在走。左右两边，寂静的树木之间，隐约可以见到火炬，在坠落的雪花当中，发出橙色的光晕。它们静静地在树丛中移动，忽上忽下、忽前忽后地晃。那是熊老的火炬圈，他提醒自己，并为离开了它的人悲哀。他觉得自己是在追赶前方那些火炬，可惜它们也长了脚，而且比他的长，比他的壮，所以一直追不上。

　　昨天，他恳求他们让他当个火炬手，即便那意味着身在外围，在重重黑暗紧逼下行走。他要火，他梦想着火。如果有火，就不会冷了。有人提醒他，开始他是有火炬的，后来却将它失落在雪地，令火熄灭。山姆不记得自己掉过火炬，只好假设那是真的。他太虚弱，无法长时间举手。说这事的是艾迪？是葛兰？他也不清楚。我又肥胖又虚弱又没用，现在连脑子也冻住了。抽噎着，他又迈出一步。

　　他用头巾裹住鼻子和嘴巴，巾上全是鼻涕，僵硬的鼻涕，他担心它和脸冻在了一起。呼吸也困难，空气如此冰冷，吸进去都感到疼痛。“圣母慈悲，”他用沙哑的声音在冰冻的面罩下轻轻咕哝，“圣母慈悲，圣母慈悲，圣母慈悲，”每祈祷一句，就拖着腿在雪地里又跨一步，“圣母慈悲，圣母慈悲，圣母慈悲。”

　　他的亲生母亲远在万里之外的南方，跟他的姐妹们和小弟弟狄肯一起安全地待在角陵城。和天上的圣母一样，她也听不到我的声音。修士们都说，圣母慈悲，但七神在长城外没有力量。这里是旧神的土地，那些属于树、属于狼、属于冰雪的无名神祗。“发发慈悲吧，”他轻声道，不管谁听到，旧神也好，新神也罢，甚至魔鬼……“噢，发发慈悲，可怜可怜我吧。”

　　马斯林尖叫着求它可怜他。为何突然联想起这个？我不该记住这个。他跌跌撞撞地往后退去，扔掉长剑，跪倒，恳求，甚至脱下厚厚的黑手套举在面前，当那是骑士表示降伏的护手甲。但尸鬼捏住他的喉咙，把他举到半空，几乎将脑袋拧下来。他还在尖声呼喊，祈求怜悯。死人没有怜悯，而异鬼……不，我不该想这些，不能想这些，不要去回忆，只管走路，走路，走路。

　　抽噎着，山姆又迈出一步。

　　冰壳下的树根猛然绊住脚趾，山姆一个踉跄，沉重地单膝跪倒，咬到了自己的舌头。他尝到血的滋味，那比自先民拳峰以来尝过的任何东西都温暖。这就是我的终点，他心想，既然跌倒，就再没力气爬起来。他摸到一根树枝，牢牢握住，试图把自己重新拉起，但那双僵硬的腿实在无力支撑。锁甲太沉，而他太肥胖，太虚弱，太疲倦。

　　“起来，猪头爵士，”有人路过时喊，山姆没理会。就让我躺在雪地里闭上双眼。死在这不算太糟。他冷到极点，再过一小会儿，就不会感觉到腰背和肩膀上可怕的疼痛了，正如他感觉不到自己的脚。至少他们不能责备我头一个死去。在先民拳峰，成百人死在他周围，之后他又亲眼目睹许多人毙命。山姆颤抖着松开握住树枝的手，让自己躺在雪地里。雪又冷又湿，但有重重衣服在，他几乎觉察不到。上方是苍白的天空，雪花飘落在肚子、胸口和眼睑上。它会铺成一条厚厚的白毯，盖住我，让我很暖和。将来他们会说，死去的山姆是个堂堂正正的守夜人。是的。是的。我尽到了职责，没有背弃自己的誓言。我又肥胖，又虚弱，又胆小，但我尽到了职责。

　　乌鸦是他的职责，是他们带上他的惟一原因。他告诉过他们，他不想去，他是个胆小鬼，可伊蒙学士又老又瞎，他们需要他来照顾乌鸦。当初在先民拳峰安营扎寨，总司令特地找到他：“听着，你不是战士，我们彼此都很清楚，孩子。万一遭到攻击，你无需参战，否则只会碍手碍脚。你惟一要做的就是把消息送出去，不要跑来问信上该写什么，你自己决定，反正派一只鸟去黑城堡，再派一只去影子塔。”熊老用戴手套的指头指着山姆的脸。“我不管你是否会吓得尿裤子，也不管是否会有成千上万的野人嚎叫着要你的命，你得保证把鸟送出去，否则我发誓追你到七重地狱，要你永世遗憾。”莫尔蒙的乌鸦上上下下地点头叫道，“遗憾，遗憾，遗憾。”

　　山姆很遗憾，他遗憾自己既不勇敢，也不强壮；他遗憾自己不会用武器；他遗憾自己不是父亲的好儿子，不是狄肯和姑娘们的好兄弟；他也遗憾自己即将死去。那么多优秀的人在拳峰上死去，他们坚强可靠，不像我，是个只会尖叫的胖小子。至少熊老不会到七重地狱来追我。我把鸟送了出去，尽到了职责。其实信息是他提前写就的，极简短，只有一句话：我们在先民拳峰上遭到攻击。他一直将其安稳地塞在装羊皮纸的袋子里，期望永远无需送出。

　　号角吹响时，山姆在睡觉。起初他以为自己梦到了号角声，但睁开眼睛，雪正飘落在营地里，黑衣兄弟们都抓起弓箭和长矛，奔向环墙。附近只有齐特，他是伊蒙学士从前的事务官，脸颊长满疖子，脖子上还有一个大粉瘤。当第三声号角自树丛中呻吟着传来，山姆从没见过一个人能如此恐惧。“帮我把鸟放出去，”他请求，但对方转身就跑，手里还拿着匕首。他得去照顾猎狗，山姆想起来，或许总司令也给他下了命令。

　　手套里的指头异常僵硬笨拙，并因恐惧和寒冷而颤抖，他好歹找到装羊皮纸的口袋，拔出事先写的短信。乌鸦们狂乱地咶噪，当他打开来自黑城堡的笼子，其中一只鸟顿时直冲向他的脸，在他抓到另一只之前又有两只逃走，而被他抓住的乌鸦，隔着手套将他的手啄出了血。他死命不放，得以将那一小卷羊皮纸捆上。此时号声已歇，先民拳峰上充斥着发号施令和钢铁碰撞声。“飞吧！”山姆大喊，将乌鸦抛向空中。

　　来自影子塔的笼子里的鸟尖叫扑腾得如此疯狂，以至于他害怕得不敢开门，只好强迫自己。这次他逮住了第一只试图逃走的乌鸦，片刻之后，它载着消息在飞雪中上升离开。

　　职责履行完毕，接下来他用吓得笨拙的手指戴上帽子，穿上外套和兜帽斗蓬，紧紧扣上剑带，使它不至于滑落，然后找到包裹，将所有东西塞进去：备用内衣，干袜子，琼恩给的龙晶箭头和矛尖，那只旧的战号，羊皮纸，墨水，鹅毛笔，先前画的地图，外加从长城带来、一直保存着的一段石头般硬的蒜肠。他系好包裹，把它扛到背上。总司令说我不用上环墙，他心想，也叫我不要跑去问他。山姆深深吸口气，意识到自己不知道下一步该怎么办。

　　他迷乱地转圈，恐惧一如既往在体内增长。狗吠，马嘶，经由大雪的压制，听起来似乎都很遥远。三码以外，什么都看不清，甚至环绕山顶的矮石墙上燃烧的火炬也不例外。难道火炬熄灭了？这个想法太可怕。三声长长的号角，三声代表异鬼来袭。它们是林间的白鬼，冰冷的阴影，骑着巨大的冰蜘蛛，追逐热血……小时侯，这些故事令他尖叫颤抖。

　　他笨手笨脚地拔剑出鞘，在雪地沉重跋涉。一条狗从面前吠叫着跑过。他看到一些影子塔来的人，留大胡子，拿着长柄斧和八尺长矛。有他们为伴，感觉比较安全，因此他跟随他们走到墙边。环形石墙上的火炬还在烧，一阵欣慰的颤栗袭过全身。

　　黑衣兄弟们手持武器，并肩而立，一边凝视大雪飘落，一边等待。马拉多·洛克爵士策马经过，头盔上沾满点点雪花。山姆站在其他人背后，搜寻着葛兰和忧郁的艾迪的身影。如果注定一死，我宁愿死在朋友们身边，他记得自己曾这么想。可惜周围都是陌生人，影子塔的人，由一位名叫班恩的游骑兵指挥。

　　“他们来了，”一位兄弟说。

　　“搭箭，”班恩道，二十支黑色的羽箭沉默地从二十个箭袋中抽出，搭上二十根弓弦。

　　“诸神保佑，有好几百，”另一位兄弟轻声说。

　　“拉弓，”班恩道，接着又补了一句，“别慌。”山姆看不到什么，也不想看见。守夜人站在火炬后面等待，弓箭拉到耳际，有些东西正穿过大雪，自那黑暗湿滑的山坡爬上来。“别慌，”班恩再度强调，“别慌，别慌……”然后——“放。”

　　羽箭嗖地飞出。

　　沿着环墙排列的人们发出一阵参差不齐的欢呼，顷刻间又消退下去。“它们没有停，大人，”一个人对班恩说，另一个则喊，“有更多的过来！看那儿，林子里，”还有一个说，“诸神慈悲，它们还在往上爬。差不多快上来了，马上！”山姆往后退去，颤抖得像秋天的树上最后一片叶子，既寒冷，也恐惧。那晚好冷啊，甚至比现在更冷。现在有好温暖的雪。我感觉好多了。只需再休息一会儿，一小会儿，就能恢复体力，继续前进。再休息一小会儿。

　　一匹马从头顶越过，一匹毛发蓬乱的灰马，鬃毛有积雪，马蹄结了一层冰。山姆看着它出现和消失。又一匹马从降雪中走来，由一个穿黑衣的人牵引。他看见山姆挡路，便一边咒骂他，一边领马绕开。真希望我也有匹马，他心想，如果有匹马，就能继续前进，还可以坐在鞍上，甚至睡一会儿。可惜多数坐骑都在先民拳峰丢失，剩下的驮着食物、火炬和伤员，而山姆没受伤，他只是又肥胖，又虚弱，又胆小。

　　他真是个胆小鬼。蓝道大人，他的父亲，常这么评价，而今证明这没有错。山姆是塔利家的继承人，但他如此无能，因此被父亲送来长城。弟弟狄肯将会继承土地与城堡，还有那把角陵的领主们骄傲地佩戴了数百年的瓦雷利亚巨剑碎心。不知狄肯会不会为这个远在世界边缘、于大雪中死去的哥哥掉一滴眼泪。他为什么要落泪？不值得为胆小鬼哭泣。他听过父亲千百次告诉母亲。这点连熊老也明白。

　　“火箭，”那晚在先民拳峰，总司令突然骑马咆哮着出现，“给它们火尝尝！”此时他注意到浑身发抖的山姆。“塔利！快离开！去照顾乌鸦！”

　　“我……我……我把消息送走了。”

　　“很好。”莫尔蒙的乌鸦在他肩上重复，“很好，很好。”

　　穿着毛皮和盔甲的总司令显得很魁梧，黑铁面罩后的眼睛精光逼人。“你别在这儿碍手碍脚，回鸦笼那儿去。我不想在需要传信时还得先找你。把那些鸟准备好！”他不等回答，掉转马头沿环墙一路小跑，一边喊，“火！给它们火尝尝！”

　　山姆无需别人说第二遍，就以那双胖腿可以达到的最快速度逃回鸦笼边。我可以先把消息写好，他心想，需要时就能尽快送出去。于是他点起一小堆火，花了不必少时间烤融结冰的墨水，然后坐在火堆旁一块石头上，拿起鹅毛笔和羊皮纸，开始写信。

　　在寒气和冰雪中，我们遭到攻击，但火箭将敌人击退，他写道。索伦·斯莫伍德大声下令，“搭箭，拉弓……放。”飞箭的声响犹如圣母的祈祷那么动听。“烧吧，你们这些死混蛋，烧吧，”戴文边喊边纵声大笑。弟兄们又是欢呼，又是咒骂。大家都很安全，他写道，我们还在先民拳峰。山姆希望他们的弓术比自己强。

　　他将写好的信放到一边，又取出一张空白羊皮纸。我们在先民拳峰上战斗，大雪纷飞。只听一个人喊，“它们没有停。”反击的效果尚不明朗。“拿起长矛，”有人叫道。说话的也许是马拉多爵士，但山姆无法确定。尸鬼穿过大雪，继续杀来，他写道，我们用火加以驱赶。他转头看去，透过飘摇的雪花，只能看见营地中央的大火堆，骑马的人们在它周围不安地来回移动。那是预备队，用于冲击任何突破环墙的东西。他们没有执剑，而是在篝火中点燃火炬，用它来武装自己。

　　到处都是尸鬼，他一边写，一边听到北方传来喊叫。它们从南北两面同时发动进攻。长矛和利剑都不起作用，惟有火焰能抵挡它们。“放，放，放！”一个声音在黑夜中嘶喊，另一个则惊叫道，“妈的！好大！，”第三个声音说，“巨人！”第四个声音坚持，“熊，一头熊！”马儿嘶鸣，猎狗吠叫，如此多的声音，山姆再也分辨不清。他落笔更快，一封接着一封。敌人包括大批死野人、一个巨人甚至一头熊，它们漫山遍野地扑上来。他听到钢铁和木头的撞击声，这只意味着一件事：尸鬼越过了环墙，战斗正在营地里展开。十几个骑马的弟兄凶猛地从他身边驰过，往东墙而去，每人手上都举着燃烧的火炬，焰苗跳动。莫尔蒙总司令用火来迎战。我们已经取得了胜利。我们正在取得胜利。我们在坚持。我们要杀开一条血路，退回长城去。我们被困在先民拳峰，四面楚歌。

　　一个影子塔的人跌跌撞撞地从黑暗中走来，倒在山姆脚边。临死前，他爬到离火堆仅一尺之遥的地方。输了，山姆写道，战斗输了，我们输了。

　　为什么我要记住先民拳峰上的战斗？他不该记住这些，不想记住这些。他试图回忆母亲，回忆妹妹塔拉，回忆卡斯特堡垒里那个叫吉莉的女孩。有人在摇他肩膀。“起来，”一个声音说，“山姆，你不能在这儿睡。起来，继续前进！”

　　我没睡，只是休息。“走开，”他道，言语冻在冷气里，“我很好，只想休息休息。”

　　“起来。”是葛兰的声音，沙哑而刺耳。他出现在山姆上方，黑衣结了一层冰，“熊老说，不能休息。你会死的。”

　　“葛兰，”他微笑，“不，真的，我在这儿很好。你快走吧，我再休息一小会儿，就会赶上去。”

　　“才怪！”葛兰浓密的棕胡子在嘴巴四周冻住了，让他看起来显得苍老，“你会冻僵的，要么被异鬼逮着。山姆，你给我起来！”

　　记得离开长城的前夜，派普以一贯的方式嘲弄葛兰，他边微笑边说葛兰最适合参加巡逻，因为太笨，所以不会害怕。葛兰激烈地否认，直到意识到自己在说什么。哎，他健壮，结实，有力——艾里沙·索恩爵士管他叫“笨牛”，就像叫山姆“猪头爵士”和琼恩“雪诺大人”——但一直对山姆相当友好。那只是琼恩的缘故啦，如果没有琼恩，他们都不会喜欢我的。现下琼恩走了，跟断掌科林一起在风声峡失踪，多半已经死去。山姆想为他哭泣，可惜泪水也会结冰，而他的眼睛早已睁不大开了。

　　一位拿火炬的高个子弟兄停在他们身边，在那奇妙的瞬间，山姆感到阵阵温暖。“随他去，”那人对葛兰说，“不能走的就算完了。替自己省点力气吧，葛兰。”

　　“他会起来，”葛兰顽固地回答，“只需要别人帮一把。”

　　那人继续前行，并将神佑的温暖一起带走。葛兰试图拉山姆起来。“好疼，”他抱怨，“停下，葛兰，你弄疼我胳膊了。停下。”

　　“你死沉死沉的。”葛兰将双手塞进山姆的腋窝下，闷哼一声，将他抱了起来。然而刚一放手，胖子又坐回雪地上。葛兰狠狠地给了他一脚，靴上的冰踢碎了，飞散开来。“起来！”他又踢他，“快起来继续走！你不能放弃！”

　　山姆侧身躺下，紧紧蜷缩成球，以保护自己不被踢伤。有层层羊毛、皮革和盔甲保护，他几乎感觉不到痛，即使如此，心里却很受伤。我以为葛兰是我朋友。朋友就不该踢我。他们为何不让我休息？我只想睡一会儿，仅此而已，休息休息，睡一睡，或许死一次。

　　“你帮俺拿火炬，俺扛这胖小子。”

　　他突然离开柔软而甜美的雪毯，被提到冰冷的空气当中，向前漂流。膝盖下有条胳膊，另一条胳膊在背脊下面。山姆抬起头，眨眨眼睛。面前有一张脸，一张宽阔粗犷的脸，扁扁的狮子鼻，黑色的小眼睛，蓬乱的棕色摞腮胡。他见过这张脸，但过了一会儿才记起来。是保罗。小保罗。火炬的热量融化冰水，流进他眼睛里。“你抬得了他吗？”他听见葛兰问。

　　“俺抬过一头比他还沉的小牛。俺把它抬回它妈妈身边，好让它有奶喝。”

　　小保罗每跨一步，山姆的脑袋都随之上下晃动。“停下，”他咕咕哝哝地道，“把我放下，我不是婴儿。我是守夜人的汉子。”他抽噎着。“让我死吧。”

　　“安静，山姆，”葛兰说，“省点力气。想想你的兄弟姐妹，想想伊蒙学士，想想你最喜欢的食物。假如可以的话，唱支歌吧。”

　　“大声地唱？”

　　“在脑子里唱。”

　　山姆知道上百首歌，如今却一首也想不起，好象歌词全部从脑海里消失。他又开始抽噎，“我什么歌都不会，葛兰，本来是会一点的，现在却不记得了。”

　　“没关系，”葛兰道，“瞧，‘狗熊与美少女’怎么样？每个人都会唱呢！‘这只狗熊，狗熊，狗熊！全身黑棕，罩着毛绒！’”

　　“别，别唱这首，”山姆恳求。他记起先民拳峰上那头熊，腐烂的皮肉上没有一丝毛发。我不要想起任何关于熊的事。“别唱了，求求你，葛兰。”

　　“那就想想你的乌鸦。”

　　“它们不是我的。”他们是总司令的乌鸦，守夜人军团的乌鸦。“它们属于黑城堡和影子塔。”

　　小保罗皱起眉头。“齐特说俺可以留着熊老的乌鸦，就那只会说话的鸟儿。俺还省下玉米给它咧。”他摇摇头。“哦，俺又忘了，把玉米留在了藏起来的地方。”他继续沉重地向前走着，每走一步嘴里都冒出苍白的吐息。良久，他突然道，“俺可以要你一只乌鸦吗？只要一只，俺保证，决不让拉克吃掉它。”

　　“它们都飞走了，”山姆说，“对不起。”实在对不起大家。“它们大概都飞回长城去了。”当号角声再度响起，喝令弟兄们上马时，他便把鸟儿全放了。两短一长，紧急上马的指示。没理由上马，除非是为放弃先民拳峰，除非是战斗彻底失败。恐惧狠狠地咬啮着山姆，他唯一能做的就是打开笼子，直到目睹最后一只乌鸦拍翅飞入暴风雪中，方才意识到刚写的消息一条也没送走。

　　“不，”他尖叫，“噢，不，噢，不。”大雪飘飞，号声吹鸣，啊呜呜呜呜，啊呜呜呜呜，啊呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜，它呼喊着，上马啊，上马啊，上马啊！山姆看见两只乌鸦停在一块岩石上，连忙赶过去，但那两只鸟儿懒洋洋地拍拍翅膀，向着相反的方向，飞进漩涡的大雪中。他追向其中一只，呼吸如浓厚的白云般从鼻孔里喷出，接着一个踉跄，发现自己离环墙仅十尺之遥。

　　之后……他记得脸庞和喉咙上都钉着箭的死人爬过岩石，有的浑身披挂锁甲，有的几乎全裸……其中多数是野人，也有一些穿褪色的黑衣。他记得看到一位影子塔的人将长矛刺进一个尸鬼苍白柔软的肚皮，直穿后背，可那东西跌跌撞撞地径直沿着熗杆走上前，伸出黑色的双手，扭转那弟兄的头颅，直到鲜血从他嘴里喷出。山姆差不多可以肯定，那是当天他第一次尿裤子。

　　他不记得自己逃跑，但一定是跑了，因为接下来已身在半个营地之外的篝火边，跟老奥廷·威勒斯爵士和弓箭手们在一起。奥廷爵士跪在雪地，惊恐地扫视着周围的混乱场面，直到一匹无人骑乘的马跑过，踢中了他的脸。弓箭手们对此毫不理会，自顾自地朝着黑暗中的影子施放火箭。山姆看到一个尸鬼中箭后被火焰所吞没，但还有十几个在后面，其中有一苍白的巨影，铁定是头熊，而弓箭手们很快就没弹药了。

　　接下来山姆已骑在马上。那不是他的马，他也不记得自己上马，或许这正是踢碎奥廷爵士脸庞那匹马。号角继续吹奏，他朝声音传来的方向奔去。

　　一片屠杀、混乱和飞雪中，他看到忧郁的艾迪骑在矮马上，用长矛举着守夜人军团的朴素黑旗。“山姆，”艾迪看到他便说，“请你帮个忙，把我叫醒好吗？我在做可怕的恶梦。”

　　每时每刻都有更多人骑上马，战号将大家召集起来。啊呜呜呜呜，啊呜呜呜呜，啊呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜。“它们越过了西墙，大人，”索伦·斯莫伍德一边对熊老嘶喊，一边奋力控制自己的坐骑，“我带预备队出击……”

　　“不！”莫尔蒙竭力吼叫，才让声音压过号角，“把他们叫回来，我们突围！”他站在马蹬上，黑斗蓬在风中剌剌作响，铠甲映射着火光。“全体整队！”他高喊，“楔形队形，我们骑马冲出去！先朝南，再往东！”

　　“大人，南面山坡上爬满了那些东西！”

　　“其他地方太陡！”莫尔蒙说，“我们得——”

　　那头熊蹒跚着从大雪中走出，山姆的马嘶叫人立，差点将他甩下。他又尿了裤子。还以为都尿光了呢。这是头死熊，颜色苍白，皮肉腐烂，毛皮脱落，右前肢的上半部分烧得只剩骨头，但它仍在前进。那双眼睛是活的。明亮的蓝色，正如琼恩所说，象冰冻的星星一样闪烁。索伦·斯莫伍德冲上去，长剑在火光下闪着橙红的光。他的挥劈差点将熊的头砍掉，而熊拍掉了他的头。

　　“快跑！”总司令大喊一声，掉转马头。

　　到达环墙时，人马已进入疾驰状态。山姆以前总是害怕，不敢让马跃起，但当低矮的石墙出现在面前时，他知道这次别无选择。于是他边踢马，边闭上眼睛，发出一声呜咽。马载他跳了过去，不知怎的，不知怎的，马载他跳了过去！他右边的骑手撞到墙上，钢铁、皮革和嘶叫的马搅作一团，然后尸鬼们一拥而上……楔形队形飞奔下山，从抓来的黑手间穿过，从明亮的蓝眼睛间穿过，从凛冽的风雪间穿过。时而有马跌倒翻滚，时而有人坠落在地，时而火炬在空中打转，时而斧剑砍向已死的血肉。山姆威尔·塔利抽噎着，自己也不知打哪儿来那么大力气，只管把马死死抓紧。

　　他位于飞驰的前锋中，前后左右都有弟兄。有条猎狗跟他们跑了一段，顺着积雪的山坡在马匹中间来回穿梭，最后却越奔越慢。守在原地的尸鬼们被马撞翻，被马蹄踩踏，然而即使倒下，它们仍然抓向长剑、马蹬和马腿。山姆看到一个尸鬼用左手拉住一匹马的鞍子，右手则撕裂马腹。

　　树木突然出现在周围，山姆淌过一条冰冻的溪流，溅起水花。厮杀声在身后渐渐变小。他松了口气，回头吁吁直喘……不料一个黑衣人猛地从灌木丛中跳将出来，把他扯下鞍。山姆根本没看清，来人便一跃上马，飞驰而去。他想追，跑不两步绊到树根，脸朝下重重摔倒，像婴儿一样抽噎，直至忧郁的艾迪循声找来。

　　那是他关于先民拳峰最后一点连贯记忆。之后，若干小时之后，他颤抖着站立在幸存者中间，他们一半骑马，一半步行。那儿离先民拳峰已有好几里，但山姆不记得怎么过来的。逃命的时候，戴文带着五匹驮马，满载食物、油和火炬，其中三匹得以脱身。于是熊老重新分配货物，这样即便失去任何一匹驮马，也不会造成灾难性的损失；他还让健康的人交出马匹，给伤员骑；他组织好步行的人，在前后左右安排火炬圈，以为防卫。我只需一直走，山姆告诉自己，就可以回家了。但走不到一个小时，他便开始踉跄，开始落后……

　　而他们三人现在越落越后，他知道。记得派普曾说，小保罗是守夜人军团中最壮的人。一定是的，所以才能抱着我走。即便如此，前方的积雪却越来越深，地面越来越险，保罗的步伐越来越小。更多骑马的人超过去，伤员们用呆滞冷漠的眼神看看山姆。一些火炬手也超过去。“你们要掉队了，”其中一个说。另一个赞同，“没人会等你，保罗，把这头猪留给那些死人吧。”

　　“他答应送俺一只鸟，”小保罗说，虽然山姆并没有答应，没有真正答应。它们不是我的，不能送人。“俺想搞一只会说话、能从俺手上吃玉米的鸟。”

　　“真是个大呆瓜，”火炬手道，然后走了。

　　过了一会儿，葛兰突然停下。“我们掉队了，”他嘶声道，“看不到其他火炬。殿后的人在哪儿？”

　　小保罗无言以对。大个子咕哝一声，跪了下去，当他轻轻地将山姆放到雪地上时，手臂都在打颤。“俺抱不动你了。俺是想抱，但抱不动了，”他浑身剧烈颤抖。

　　寒风在树木间叹息，将细小的雪粒吹到他们脸上。冷，不堪忍受的冷，山姆感觉自己什么也没穿。他搜寻着火炬，但它们业已消失，个个不见踪影——除了葛兰手里那支，火焰如淡橙色丝绸，向上升起。透过它，他可以看到远处的黑暗。它很快就会燃尽，他想，只剩下我们三人，没有食物，没有朋友，没有火。

　　并非如此。他错了。

　　巨大的绿色哨兵树低处的枝杈动了一动，振落上面沉沉的积雪，发出含混的“噗哧”响。葛兰转身，伸出火炬，“谁在那儿！？”一个马头从黑暗中出现。山姆感到片刻的欣慰，直至看见整匹马。它全身包裹一层白霜，活像结冻的汗水，黑色僵死的肠子从裂开的腹部拖坠而下，在它背部，坐了一位玄冰般苍白的骑手。山姆喉咙深处发出一声呜咽，他吓坏了，只想尿裤子，可体内有股寒意，剧烈的寒意，把膀胱冻得严严实实。异鬼优雅地下马，挺立在雪地里。它像长剑一般纤细，如牛奶一样白皙，它的盔甲随着移动而改变颜色，而它的脚丝毫没有踩碎新雪的结冰。

　　小保罗取下绑在后背的长柄斧，“你为什么伤害这匹马？这是毛尼的马。”

　　山姆摸向自己的剑，鞘是空的。他这才想起把它丢在了先民拳峰。

　　“滚开！”葛兰跨了一步，火炬伸在前面。“滚开，否则烧死你！”他用火焰指着它。

　　异鬼的剑闪着淡淡而诡异的蓝光。它移向葛兰，闪电般攻打过来。冰蓝的剑刃扫过火焰，发出尖锐的响声，如针一样刺痛山姆的耳朵。火炬头被切下，翻落在深深的积雪中，火焰立即熄灭，葛兰手里只剩一小段木棍。他诅咒着将它朝异鬼扔去，小保罗则提起斧子冲锋。

　　此刻充斥他心中的恐惧，比以往任何情形尤有甚之，而山姆威尔·塔利早已了解每一种恐惧。“圣母慈悲，”他抽噎着，惊恐中，将北方的旧神统统抛诸脑后，“天父保佑，噢，噢……”他伸手胡乱摸索，够到一把匕首。

　　尸鬼的行动笨拙而缓慢，但异鬼如风中的雪花一样轻盈。它闪过保罗的长柄斧，盔甲的图案如波光般涟漪，而水晶的剑回扣、翻转，滑进保罗锁甲的铁环间，穿过皮革、羊毛、骨头与血肉，从他后背“嘶嘶嘶嘶嘶嘶嘶嘶嘶嘶嘶嘶嘶嘶”地穿出。只听保罗叫了声“噢”，斧子便从手里松脱。他被钉在水晶剑上，热血在周围蒸汽朦朦，大个子抓向对手，可在几乎快要碰到时，倒了下去，他的体重将那柄诡异的白剑从异鬼手中拉扯下来。

　　停，停下别哭，停下来战斗，你这没用的小子。战斗啊，胆小鬼！这是父亲的声音？艾里沙·索恩的声音？弟弟狄肯的声音？还是那个叫雷斯特的男孩？胆小鬼，胆小鬼，胆小鬼！他歇斯底里地笑起来，不知它们会不会把他也变成尸鬼，一个又白又胖又大的尸鬼，一个老是被已死的双脚绊倒的尸鬼。停，停下别哭，停下来战斗。这是琼恩的声音？不可能，琼恩已经死了。你能行，你能行，快啊。于是他跌跌撞撞地往前撞去，与其说在跑，不如说是跌倒前的踉跄，他闭起眼睛，双手握住那把匕首，盲目地乱戳。只听喀嚓一声，好像冰在脚下碎裂的响动，随后是一声尖啸，如此犀利，以至于他扔了匕首，双手捂住耳朵，盲目向后退去，一屁股沉重地坐到地上。

　　当他睁开眼睛，异鬼的盔甲正像露水一样融化，黑色的龙晶匕首插在它咽喉，淡蓝的血从伤口喷出，在匕首周围嘶嘶冒气。它伸出两只骸骨般苍白的手去拔匕首，但指头一触到黑曜石便开始冒烟消解。

　　山姆侧身坐起，瞪大了眼睛，异鬼的身躯正逐渐缩小，混沌模糊，化为一滩液体，最后彻底消失。几十个心跳间，形体已然不存，只余细细一缕盘旋散发的烟雾。下面是乳白玻璃般的骨头，闪着苍白的光，接着也融化了。最后，只有龙晶匕首存留，水汽缭绕中，它仿佛有了生命，好像在出汗。葛兰弯腰去拣，却又立即将它甩开，“圣母啊，它好冷！”

　　“这是黑曜石，”山姆挣扎着跪起来，“他们管它叫龙晶。龙晶。龙晶。”他咯咯发笑，然后大哭一场，将所有的勇气倾倒在雪地上。

　　葛兰扶山姆起身，检查了小保罗的脉搏后，替他合上眼睛，然后再次抓起匕首。这回拿得住了。

　　“你留着它，”山姆道，“你不像我，你不是胆小鬼。”

　　“好个胆小鬼，连异鬼都杀得了。”葛兰用匕首向前指指，“看哪，看到了吗？光明正穿过树木照进来。天亮了，山姆，天亮了，那就是东方。我们只需往前走，就一定找到莫尔蒙。”

　　“随你怎么说。”山姆用左脚踢了一棵树，以振落上面的雪，接着右脚也踢。“我试试看，”他苦着脸跨了一步，“努力试试看，”接着又跨一步。

JAIME
Two days’ ride to either side of the kingsroad, they passed through a wide swath of destruction, miles of blackened fields and orchards where the trunks of dead trees jutted into the air like archers’ stakes. The bridges were burnt as well, and the streams swollen by autumn rains, so they had to range along the banks in search of fords. The nights were alive with howling of wolves, but they saw no people.
At Maidenpool, Lord Mooton’s red salmon still flew above the castle on its hill, but the town walls were deserted, the gates smashed, half the homes and shops burned or plundered. They saw nothing living but a few feral dogs that went slinking away at the sound of their approach. The pool from which the town took its name, where legend said that Florian the Fool had first glimpsed Jonquil bathing with her sisters, was so choked with rotting corpses that the water had turned into a murky grey-green soup.
Jaime took one look and burst into song. “Six maids there were in a spring-fed pool . . . ”
“What are you doing?” Brienne demanded.
“Singing. ‘Six Maids in a Pool,’ I’m sure you’ve heard it. And shy little maids they were, too. Rather like you. Though somewhat prettier, I’ll warrant.”
“Be quiet,” the wench said, with a look that suggested she would love to leave him floating in the pool among the corpses.
“Please, Jaime,” pleaded cousin Cleos. “Lord Mooton is sworn to Riverrun, we don’t want to draw him out of his castle. And there may be other enemies hiding in the rubble . . . ”
“Hers or ours? They are not the same, coz. I have a yen to see if the wench can use that sword she wears.”
“If you won’t be quiet, you leave me no choice but to gag you, Kingslayer.”
“Unchain my hands and I’ll play mute all the way to King’s Landing. What could be fairer than that, wench?”
“Brienne! My name is Brienne!” Three crows went flapping into the air startled at the sound.
“Care for a bath, Brienne?” He laughed. “You’re a maiden and there’s the pool. I’ll wash your back.” He used to scrub Cersei’s back, when they were children together at Casterly Rock.
The wench turned her horse’s head and trotted away. Jaime and Ser Cleos followed her out of the ashes of Maidenpool. A half mile on, green began to creep back into the world once more. Jaime was glad. The burned lands reminded him too much of Aerys.
“She’s taking the Duskendale road,” Ser Cleos muttered. “it would be safer to follow the coast.”
“Safer but slower. I’m for Duskendale, coz. If truth be told, I’m bored with your company.” You may be half Lannister, but you’re a far cry from my sister.
He could never bear to be long apart from his twin. Even as children, they would creep into each other’s beds and sleep with their arms entwined. Even in the womb. Long before his sister’s flowering or the advent of his own manhood, they had seen mares and stallions in the fields and dogs and bitches in the kennels and played at doing the same. Once their mother’s maid had caught them at it . . . he did not recall just what they had been doing, but whatever it was had horrified Lady Joanna. She’d sent the maid away, moved Jaime’s bedchamber to the other side of Casterly Rock, set a guard outside Cersei’s, and told them that they must never do that again or she would have no choice but to tell their lord father. They need not have feared, though. It was not long after that she died birthing Tyrion. Jaime barely remembered what his mother had looked like.
Perhaps Stannis Baratheon and the Starks had done him a kindness. They had spread their tale of incest all over the Seven Kingdoms, so there was nothing left to hide. Why shouldn’t I marry Cersei openly and share her bed every night? The dragons always married their sisters. Septons, lords, and smallfolk had turned a blind eye to the Targaryens for hundreds of years, let them do the same for House Lannister. It would play havoc with Joffrey’s claim to the crown, to be sure, but in the end it had been swords that had won the Iron Throne for Robert, and swords could keep Joffrey there as well, regardless of whose seed he was. We could marry him to Myrcella, once we’ve sent Sansa Stark back to her mother. That would show the realm that the Lannisters are above their laws, like gods and Targaryens.
Jaime had decided that he would return Sansa, and the younger girl as well if she could be found. It was not like to win him back his lost honor, but the notion of keeping faith when they all expected betrayal amused him more than he could say.
They were riding past a trampled wheatfield and a low stone wall when Jaime heard a soft thrum from behind, as if a dozen birds had taken flight at once. “Down!” he shouted, throwing himself against the neck of his horse. The gelding screamed and reared as an arrow took him in the rump. Other shafts went hissing past. Jaime saw Ser Cleos lurch from the saddle, twisting as his foot caught in the stirrup. His palfrey bolted, and Frey was dragged past shouting, head bouncing against the ground.
Jaime’s gelding lumbered off ponderously, blowing and snorting in pain. He craned around to look for Brienne. She was still ahorse, an arrow lodged in her back and another in her leg, but she seemed not to feel them. He saw her pull her sword and wheel in a circle, searching for the bowmen. “Behind the wall,” Jaime called, fighting to turn his half-blind mount back toward the fight. The reins were tangled in his damned chains, and the air was full of arrows again. “At them!” he shouted, kicking to show her how it was done. The old sorry horse found a burst of speed from somewhere. Suddenly they were racing across the wheatfield, throwing up clouds of chaff. Jaime had just enough time to think, The wench had better follow before they realize they’re being charged by an unarmed man in chains. Then he heard her coming hard behind. “Evenfall!” she shouted as her plow horse thundered by. She brandished her longsword. “Tarth! Tarth!”
A few last arrows sped harmlessly past; then the bowmen broke and ran, the way unsupported bowmen always broke and ran before the charge of knights. Brienne reined up at the wall. By the time Jaime reached her, they had all melted into the wood twenty yards away. “Lost your taste for battle?”
“They were running.”
“That’s the best time to kill them.”
She sheathed her sword. “Why did you charge?”
“Bowmen are fearless so long as they can hide behind walls and shoot at you from afar, but if you come at them, they run. They know what will happen when you reach them. You have an arrow in your back, you know. And another in your leg. You ought to let me tend them.”
“You?”
“Who else? The last I saw of cousin Cleos, his palfrey was using his head to plow a furrow. Though I suppose we ought to find him. He is a Lannister of sorts.”
They found Cleos still tangled in his stirrup. He had an arrow through his right arm and a second in his chest, but it was the ground that had done for him. The top of his head was matted with blood and mushy to the touch, pieces of broken bone moving under the skin beneath the pressure of Jaime’s hand.
Brienne knelt and held his hand. “He’s still warm.”
“He’ll cool soon enough. I want his horse and his clothes. I’m weary of rags and fleas.”
“He was your cousin.” The wench was shocked.
“Was,” Jaime agreed. “Have no fear, I am amply provisioned in cousins. I’ll have his sword as well. You need someone to share the watches.”
“You can stand a watch without weapons.” She rose.
“Chained to a tree? Perhaps I could. Or perhaps I could make my own bargain with the next lot of outlaws and let them slit that thick neck of yours, wench.”
“I will not arm you. And my name is—”
“—Brienne, I know. I’ll swear an oath not to harm you, if that will ease your girlish fears.”
“Your oaths are worthless. You swore an oath to Aerys.”
“You haven’t cooked anyone in their armor so far as I know. And we both want me safe and whole in King’s Landing, don’t we?” He squatted beside Cleos and began to undo his swordbelt.
“Step away from him. Now. Stop that.”
Jaime was tired. Tired of her suspicions, tired of her insults, tired of her crooked teeth and her broad spotty face and that limp thin hair of hers. Ignoring her protests, he grasped the hilt of his cousin’s longsword with both hands, held the corpse down with his foot, and pulled. As the blade slid from the scabbard, he was already pivoting, bringing the sword around and up in a swift deadly arc. Steel met steel with a ringing, bone-jarring clang. Somehow Brienne had gotten her own blade out in time. Jaime laughed. “Very good, wench.”
“Give me the sword, Kingslayer.”
“Oh, I will.” He sprang to his feet and drove at her, the longsword alive in his hands. Brienne jumped back, parrying, but he followed, pressing the attack. No sooner did she turn one cut than the next was upon her. The swords kissed and sprang apart and kissed again. Jaime’s blood was singing. This was what he was meant for; he never felt so alive as when he was fighting, with death balanced on every stroke. And with my wrists chained together, the wench may even give me a contest for a time. His chains forced him to use a two-handed grip, though of course the weight and reach were less than if the blade had been a true two-handed greatsword, but what did it matter? His cousin’s sword was long enough to write an end to this Brienne of Tarth.
High, low, overhand, he rained down steel upon her. Left, right, backslash, swinging so hard that sparks flew when the swords came together, upswing, sideslash, overhand, always attacking, moving into her, step and slide, strike and step, step and strike, hacking, slashing, faster, faster, faster . . .
. . . until, breathless, he stepped back and let the point of the sword fall to the ground, giving her a moment of respite. “Not half bad,” he acknowledged. “For a wench.”
She took a slow deep breath, her eyes watching him warily. “I would not hurt you, Kingslayer.”
“As if you could.” He whirled the blade back up above his head and flew at her again, chains rattling.
Jaime could not have said how long he pressed the attack. It might have been minutes or it might have been hours; time slept when swords woke. He drove her away from his cousin’s corpse, drove her across the road, drove her into the trees. She stumbled once on a root she never saw, and for a moment he thought she was done, but she went to one knee instead of falling, and never lost a beat. Her sword leapt up to block a downcut that would have opened her from shoulder to groin, and then she cut at him, again and again, fighting her way back to her feet stroke by stroke.
The dance went on. He pinned her against an oak, cursed as she slipped away, followed her through a shallow brook half-choked with fallen leaves. Steel rang, steel sang, steel screamed and sparked and scraped, and the woman started grunting like a sow at every crash, yet somehow he could not reach her. It was as if she had an iron cage around her that stopped every blow.
“Not bad at all,” he said when he paused for a second to catch his breath, circling to her right.
“For a wench?”
“For a squire, say. A green one.” He laughed a ragged, breathless laugh. “Come on, come on, my sweetling, the music’s still playing. Might I have this dance, my lady?”
Grunting, she came at him, blade whirling, and suddenly it was Jaime struggling to keep steel from skin. One of her slashes raked across his brow, and blood ran down into his right eye. The Others take her, and Riverrun as well! His skills had gone to rust and rot in that bloody dungeon, and the chains were no great help either. His eye closed, his shoulders were going numb from the jarring they’d taken, and his wrists ached from the weight of chains, manacles, and sword. His longsword grew heavier with every blow, and Jaime knew he was not swinging it as quickly as he’d done earlier, nor raising it as high.
She is stronger than I am.
The realization chilled him. Robert had been stronger than him, to be sure. The White Bull Gerold Hightower as well, in his heyday, and Ser Arthur Dayne. Amongst the living, Greatjon Umber was stronger, Strongboar of Crakehall most likely, both Cleganes for a certainty. The Mountain’s strength was like nothing human. It did not matter. With speed and skill, Jaime could beat them all. But this was a woman. A huge cow of a woman, to be sure, but even so . . . by rights, she should be the one wearing down.
Instead she forced him back into the brook again, shouting, “Yield! Throw down the sword!”
A slick stone turned under Jaime’s foot. As he felt himself falling, he twisted the mischance into a diving lunge. His point scraped past her parry and bit into her upper thigh. A red flower blossomed, and Jaime had an instant to savor the sight of her blood before his knee slammed into a rock. The pain was blinding. Brienne splashed into him and kicked away his sword. “YIELD!”
Jaime drove his shoulder into her legs, bringing her down on top of him. They rolled, kicking and punching until finally she was sitting astride him. He managed to jerk her dagger from its sheath, but before he could plunge it into her belly she caught his wrist and slammed his hands back on a rock so hard he thought she’d wrenched an arm from its socket. Her other hand spread across his face. “Yield!” She shoved his head down, held it under, pulled it up. “Yield!” Jaime spit water into her face. A shove, a splash, and he was under again, kicking uselessly, fighting to breathe. Up again. “Yield, or I’ll drown you!”
“And break your oath?” he snarled. “Like me?”
She let him go, and he went down with a splash.
And the woods rang with coarse laughter.
Brienne lurched to her feet. She was all mud and blood below the waist, her clothing askew, her face red. She looks as if they caught us fucking instead of fighting. Jaime crawled over the rocks to shallow water, wiping the blood from his eye with his chained hands. Armed men lined both sides of the brook. Small wonder, we were making enough noise to wake a dragon. “Well met, friends,” he called to them amiably. “My pardons if I disturbed you. You caught me chastising my wife.”
“Seemed to me she was doing the chastising.” The man who spoke was thick and powerful, and the nasal bar of his iron halfhelm did not wholly conceal his lack of a nose.
These were not the outlaws who had killed Ser Cleos, Jaime realized suddenly. The scum of the earth surrounded them: swarthy Dornishmen and blond Lyseni, Dothraki with bells in their braids, hairy Ibbenese, coal-black Summer Islanders in feathered cloaks. He knew them. The Brave Companions.
Brienne found her voice. “I have a hundred stags—”
A cadaverous man in a tattered leather cloak said, “We’ll take that for a start, m’lady.”
“Then we’ll have your cunt,” said the noseless man. “It can’t be as ugly as the rest of you.”
“Turn her over and rape her arse, Rorge,” urged a Dornish spearman with a red silk scarf wound about his helm. “That way you won’t need to look at her.”
“And rob her o’ the pleasure o’ looking at me?” noseless said, and the others laughed.
Ugly and stubborn though she might be, the wench deserved better than to be gang raped by such refuse as these. “Who commands here?” Jaime demanded loudly.
“I have that honor, Ser Jaime.” The cadaver’s eyes were rimmed in red, his hair thin and dry. Dark blue veins could be seen through the pallid skin of his hands and face. “Urswyck I am. Called Urswyck the Faithful.”
“You know who I am?”
The sellsword inclined his head. “it takes more than a beard and a shaved head to deceive the Brave Companions.”
The Bloody Mummers, you mean. Jaime had no more use for these than he did for Gregor Clegane or Amory Lorch. Dogs, his father called them all, and he used them like dogs, to hound his prey and put fear in their hearts. “If you know me, Urswyck, you know you’ll have your reward. A Lannister always pays his debts. As for the wench, she’s highborn, and worth a good ransom.”
The other cocked his head. “Is it so? How fortunate.”
There was something sly about the way Urswyck was smiling that Jaime did not like. “You heard me. Where’s the goat?”
“A few hours distant. He will be pleased to see you, I have no doubt, but I would not call him a goat to his face. Lord Vargo grows prickly about his dignity.”
Since when has that slobbering savage had dignity? “I’ll be sure and remember that, when I see him. Lord of what, pray?”
“Harrenhal. It has been promised.”
Harrenhal? Has my father taken leave of his senses? Jaime raised his hands. “I’ll have these chains off.”
Urswyck’s chuckle was papery dry.
Something is very wrong here. Jaime gave no sign of his discomfiture, but only smiled. “Did I say something amusing?”
Noseless grinned. “You’re the funniest thing I seen since Biter chewed that septa’s teats off.”
“You and your father lost too many battles,” offered the Dornishman. “We had to trade our lion pelts for wolfskins.”
Urswyck spread his hands. “What Timeon means to say is that the Brave Companions are no longer in the hire of House Lannister. We now serve Lord Bolton, and the King in the North.”
Jaime gave him a cold, contemptuous smile. “And men say I have shit for honor?”
Urswyck was unhappy with that comment. At his signal, two of the Mummers grasped Jaime by the arms and Rorge drove a mailed fist into his stomach. As he doubled over grunting, he heard the wench protesting, “Stop, he’s not to be harmed! Lady Catelyn sent us, an exchange of captives, he’s under my protection . . . ” Rorge hit him again, driving the air from his lungs. Brienne dove for her sword beneath the waters of the brook, but the Mummers were on her before she could lay hands on it. Strong as she was, it took four of them to beat her into submission.
By the end the wench’s face was as swollen and bloody as Jaime’s must have been, and they had knocked out two of her teeth. It did nothing to improve her appearance. Stumbling and bleeding, the two captives were dragged back through the woods to the horses, Brienne limping from the thigh wound he’d given her in the brook. Jaime felt sorry for her. She would lose her maidenhood tonight, he had no doubt. That noseless bastard would have her for a certainty, and some of the others would likely take a turn.
The Dornishman bound them back to back atop Brienne’s plow horse while the other Mummers were stripping Cleos Frey to his skin to divvy up his possessions. Rorge won the bloodstained surcoat with its proud Lannister and Frey quarterings. The arrows had punched holes through lions and towers alike.
“I hope you’re pleased, wench,” Jaime whispered at Brienne. He coughed, and spat out a mouthful of blood. “If you’d armed me, we’d never have been taken.” She made no answer. There’s a pig-stubborn bitch, he thought. But brave, yes. He could not take that from her. “When we make camp for the night, you’ll be raped, and more than once,” he warned her. “You’d be wise not to resist. If you fight them, you’ll lose more than a few teeth.”
He felt Brienne’s back stiffen against his. “Is that what you would do, if you were a woman?”
If I were a woman I’d be Cersei. “If I were a woman, I’d make them kill me. But I’m not.” Jaime kicked their horse to a trot. “Urswyck! A word!”
The cadaverous sellsword in the ragged leather cloak reined up a moment, then fell in beside him. “What would you have of me, ser? And mind your tongue, or I’ll chastise you again.”
“Gold,” said Jaime. “You do like gold?”
Urswyck studied him through reddened eyes. “It has its uses, I do confess.”
Jaime gave Urswyck a knowing smile. “All the gold in Casterly Rock. Why let the goat enjoy it? Why not take us to King’s Landing, and collect my ransom for yourself? Hers as well, if you like. Tarth is called the Sapphire Isle, a maiden told me once.” The wench squirmed at that, but said nothing.
“Do you take me for a turncloak?”
“Certainly. What else?”
For half a heartbeat Urswyck considered the proposition. “King’s Landing is a long way, and your father is there. Lord Tywin may resent us for selling Harrenhal to Lord Bolton.”
He’s cleverer than he looks. Jaime had been been looking forward to hanging the wretch while his pockets bulged with gold. “Leave me to deal with my father. I’ll get you a royal pardon for any crimes you have committed. I’ll get you a knighthood.”
“Ser Urswyck,” the man said, savoring the sound. “How proud my dear wife would be to hear it. If only I hadn’t killed her.” He sighed. “And what of brave Lord Vargo?”
“Shall I sing you a verse of ‘The Rains of Castamere’? The goat won’t be quite so brave when my father gets hold of him.”
“And how will he do that? Are your father’s arms so long that they can reach over the walls of Harrenhal and pluck us out?”
“If need be.” King Harren’s monstrous folly had fallen before, and it could fall again. “Are you such a fool as to think the goat can outfight the lion?”
Urswyck leaned over and slapped him lazily across the face. The sheer casual insolence of it was worse than the blow itself. He does not fear me, Jaime realized, with a chill. “I have heard enough, Kingslayer. I would have to be a great fool indeed to believe the promises of an oathbreaker like you.” He kicked his horse and galloped smartly ahead.
Aerys, Jaime thought resentfully. It always turns on Aerys. He swayed with the motion of his horse, wishing for a sword. Two swords would be even better. One for the wench and one for me. We’d die, but we’d take half of them down to hell with us. “Why did you tell him Tarth was the Sapphire Isle?” Brienne whispered when Urswyck was out of earshot. “He’s like to think my father’s rich in gemstones . . . ”
“You best pray he does.”
“Is every word you say a lie, Kingslayer? Tarth is called the Sapphire Isle for the blue of its waters.”
“Shout it a little louder, wench, I don’t think Urswyck heard you. The sooner they know how little you’re worth in ransom, the sooner the rapes begin. Every man here will mount you, but what do you care? Just close your eyes, open your legs, and pretend they’re all Lord Renly.”
Mercifully, that shut her mouth for a time.
The day was almost done by the time they found Vargo Hoat, sacking a small sept with another dozen of his Brave Companions. The leaded windows had been smashed, the carved wooden gods dragged out into the sunlight. The fattest Dothraki Jaime had ever seen was sitting on the Mother’s chest when they rode up, prying out her chalcedony eyes with the point of his knife. Nearby, a skinny balding septon hung upside down from the limb of a spreading chestnut tree. Three of the Brave Companions were using his corpse for an archery butt. One of them must have been good; the dead man had arrows through both of his eyes.
When the sellswords spied Urswyck and the captives, a cry went up in half a dozen tongues. The goat was seated by a cookfire eating a half-cooked bird off a skewer, grease and blood running down his fingers into his long stringy beard. He wiped his hands on his tunic and rose. “Kingthlayer,” he slobbered. “You are my captifth.”
“My lord, I am Brienne of Tarth,” the wench called out. “Lady Catelyn Stark commanded me to deliver Ser Jaime to his brother at King’s Landing.”
The goat gave her a disinterested glance. “Thilence her.”
“Hear me,” Brienne entreated as Rorge cut the ropes that bound her to Jaime, “in the name of the King in the North, the king you serve, please, listen—”
Rorge dragged her off the horse and began to kick her. “See that you don’t break any bones,” Urswyck called out to him. “The horse-faced bitch is worth her weight in sapphires.”
The Dornishman Timeon and a foul-smelling Ibbenese pulled Jaime down from the saddle and shoved him roughly toward the cookfire. It would not have been hard for him to have grasped one of their sword hilts as they manhandled him, but there were too many, and he was still in fetters. He might cut down one or two, but in the end he would die for it. Jaime was not ready to die just yet, and certainly not for the likes of Brienne of Tarth.
“Thith ith a thweet day,” Vargo Hoat said. Around his neck hung a chain of linked coins, coins of every shape and size, cast and hammered, bearing the likenesses of kings, wizards, gods and demons, and all manner of fanciful beasts.
Coins from every land where he has fought, Jaime remembered. Greed was the key to this man. If he was turned once, he can be turned again. “Lord Vargo, you were foolish to leave my father’s service, but it is not too late to make amends. He will pay well for me, you know it.”
“Oh yeth,” said Vargo Hoat. “Half the gold in Cathterly Rock, I thall have. But firth I mutht thend him a methage.” He said something in his slithery goatish tongue.
Urswyck shoved him in the back, and a jester in green and pink motley kicked his legs out from under him. When he hit the ground one of the archers grabbed the chain between Jaime’s wrists and used it to yank his arms out in front of him. The fat Dothraki put aside his knife to unsheathe a huge curved arakh, the wickedly sharp scythe-sword the horselords loved.
They mean to scare me. The fool hopped on Jaime’s back, giggling, as the Dothraki swaggered toward him. The goat wants me to piss my breeches and beg his mercy, but he’ll never have that pleasure. He was a Lannister of Casterly Rock, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard; no sellsword would make him scream.
Sunlight ran silver along the edge of the arakh as it came shivering down, almost too fast to see. And Jaime screamed.
ARYA
The small square keep was half a ruin, and so too the great grey knight who lived there. He was so old he did not understand their questions. No matter what was said to him, he would only smile and mutter, “I held the bridge against Ser Maynard. Red hair and a black temper, he had, but he could not move me. Six wounds I took before I killed him. Six!”
The maester who cared for him was a young man, thankfully. After the old knight had drifted to sleep in his chair, he took them aside and said, “I fear you seek a ghost. We had a bird, ages ago, half a year at least. The Lannisters caught Lord Beric near the Gods Eye. He was hanged.”
“Aye, hanged he was, but Thoros cut him down before he died.” Lem’s broken nose was not so red or swollen as it had been, but it was healing crooked, giving his face a lopsided look. “His lordship’s a hard man to kill, he is.”
“And a hard man to find, it would seem,” the maester said. “Have you asked the Lady of the Leaves?”
“We shall,” said Greenbeard.
The next morning, as they crossed the little stone bridge behind the keep, Gendry wondered if this was the bridge the old man had fought over. No one knew. “Most like it is,” said Jack-Be-Lucky. “Don’t see no other bridges.”
“You’d know for certain if there was a song,” said Tom Sevenstrings. “One good song, and we’d know who Ser Maynard used to be and why he wanted to cross this bridge so bad. Poor old Lychester might be as far famed as the Dragonknight if he’d only had sense enough to keep a singer.”
“Lord Lychester’s sons died in Robert’s Rebellion,” grumbled Lem. “Some on one side, some on t’other. He’s not been right in the head since. No bloody song’s like to help any o’ that.”
“What did the maester mean, about asking the Lady of the Leaves?” Arya asked Anguy as they rode.
The archer smiled. “Wait and see.”
Three days later, as they rode through a yellow wood, Jack-Be-Lucky unslung his horn and blew a signal, a different one than before. The sounds had scarcely died away when rope ladders unrolled from the limbs of trees. “Hobble the horses and up we go,” said Tom, half singing the words. They climbed to a hidden village in the upper branches, a maze of rope walkways and little moss-covered houses concealed behind walls of red and gold, and were taken to the Lady of the Leaves, a stick-thin white-haired woman dressed in roughspun. “We cannot stay here much longer, with autumn on us,” she told them. “A dozen wolves went down the Hayford road nine days past, hunting. If they’d chanced to look up they might have seen us.”
“You’ve not seen Lord Beric?” asked Tom Sevenstrings.
“He’s dead.” The woman sounded sick. “The Mountain caught him, and drove a dagger through his eye. A begging brother told us. He had it from the lips of a man who saw it happen.”
“That’s an old stale tale, and false,” said Lem. “The lightning lord’s not so easy to kill. Ser Gregor might have put his eye out, but a man don’t die o’ that. Jack could tell you.”
“Well, I never did,” said one-eyed Jack-Be-Lucky. “My father got himself good and hanged by Lord Piper’s bailiff, my brother Wat got sent to the Wall, and the Lannisters killed my other brothers. An eye, that’s nothing.”
“You swear he’s not dead?” The woman clutched Lem’s arm. “Bless you, Lem, that’s the best tidings we’ve had in half a year. May the Warrior defend him, and the red priest too.”
The next night they found shelter beneath the scorched shell of a sept, in a burned village called Sallydance. Only shards remained of its windows of leaded glass, and the aged septon who greeted them said the looters had even made off with the Mother’s costly robes, the Crone’s gilded lantern, and the silver crown the Father had worn. “They hacked the Maiden’s breasts off too, though those were only wood,” he told them. “And the eyes, the eyes were jet and lapis and mother-of-pearl, they pried them out with their knives. May the Mother have mercy on them all.”
“Whose work was this?” said Lem Lemoncloak. “Mummers?”
“No,” the old man said. “Northmen, they were. Savages who worship trees. They wanted the Kingslayer, they said.”
Arya heard him, and chewed her lip. She could feel Gendry looking at her. It made her angry and ashamed.
There were a dozen men living in the vault beneath the sept, amongst cobwebs and roots and broken wine casks, but they had no word of Beric Dondarrion either. Not even their leader, who wore soot-blackened armor and a crude lightning bolt on his cloak. When Greenbeard saw Arya staring at him, he laughed and said, “The lightning lord is everywhere and nowhere, skinny squirrel.”
“I’m not a squirrel,” she said. “I’ll almost be a woman soon. I’ll be one-and-ten.”
“Best watch out I don’t marry you, then!” He tried to tickle her under the chin, but Arya slapped his stupid hand away.
Lem and Gendry played tiles with their hosts that night, while Tom Sevenstrings sang a silly song about Big Belly Ben and the High Septon’s goose. Anguy let Arya try his longbow, but no matter how hard she bit her lip she could not draw it. “You need a lighter bow, milady,” the freckled bowman said. “If there’s seasoned wood at Riverrun, might be I’ll make you one.”
Tom overheard him, and broke off his song. “You’re a young fool, Archer. If we go to Riverrun it will only be to collect her ransom, won’t be no time for you to sit about making bows. Be thankful if you get out with your hide. Lord Hoster was hanging outlaws before you were shaving. And that son of his . . . a man who hates music can’t be trusted, I always say.”
“It’s not music he hates,” said Lem. “It’s you, fool.”
“Well, he has no cause. The wench was willing to make a man of him, is it my fault he drank too much to do the deed?”
Lem snorted through his broken nose. “Was it you who made a song of it, or some other bloody arse in love with his own voice?”
“I only sang it the once,” Tom complained. “And who’s to say the song was about him? ’Twas a song about a fish.”
“A floppy fish,” said Anguy, laughing.
Arya didn’t care what Tom’s stupid songs were about. She turned to Harwin. “What did he mean about ransom?”
“We have sore need of horses, milady. Armor as well. Swords, shields, spears. All the things coin can buy. Aye, and seed for planting. Winter is coming, remember?” He touched her under the chin. “You will not be the first highborn captive we’ve ransomed. Nor the last, I’d hope.”
That much was true, Arya knew. Knights were captured and ransomed all the time, and sometimes women were too. But what if Robb won’t pay their price? She wasn’t a famous knight, and kings were supposed to put the realm before their sisters. And her lady mother, what would she say? Would she still want her back, after all the things she’d done? Arya chewed her lip and wondered.
The next day they rode to a place called High Heart, a hill so lofty that from atop it Arya felt as though she could see half the world. Around its brow stood a ring of huge pale stumps, all that remained of a circle of once-mighty weirwoods. Arya and Gendry walked around the hill to count them. There were thirty-one, some so wide that she could have used them for a bed.
High Heart had been sacred to the children of the forest, Tom Sevenstrings told her, and some of their magic lingered here still. “No harm can ever come to those as sleep here,” the singer said. Arya thought that must be true; the hill was so high and the surrounding lands so flat that no enemy could approach unseen.
The smallfolk hereabouts shunned the place, Tom told her; it was said to be haunted by the ghosts of the children of the forest who had died here when the Andal king named Erreg the Kinslayer had cut down their grove. Arya knew about the children of the forest, and about the Andals too, but ghosts did not frighten her. She used to hide in the crypts of Winterfell when she was little, and play games of come-into-my-castle and monsters and maidens amongst the stone kings on their thrones.
Yet even so, the hair on the back of her neck stood up that night. She had been asleep, but the storm woke her. The wind pulled the coverlet right off her and sent it swirling into the bushes. When she went after it she heard voices.
Beside the embers of their campfire, she saw Tom, Lem, and Greenbeard talking to a tiny little woman, a foot shorter than Arya and older than Old Nan, all stooped and wrinkled and leaning on a gnarled black cane. Her white hair was so long it came almost to the ground. When the wind gusted it blew about her head in a fine cloud. Her flesh was whiter, the color of milk, and it seemed to Arya that her eyes were red, though it was hard to tell from the bushes. “The old gods stir and will not let me sleep,” she heard the woman say. “I dreamt I saw a shadow with a burning heart butchering a golden stag, aye. I dreamt of a man without a face, waiting on a bridge that swayed and swung. On his shoulder perched a drowned crow with seaweed hanging from his wings. I dreamt of a roaring river and a woman that was a fish. Dead she drifted, with red tears on her cheeks, but when her eyes did open, oh, I woke from terror. All this I dreamt, and more. Do you have gifts for me, to pay me for my dreams?”
“Dreams,” grumbled Lem Lemoncloak, “what good are dreams? Fish women and drowned crows. I had a dream myself last night. I was kissing this tavern wench I used to know. Are you going to pay me for that, old woman?”
“The wench is dead,” the woman hissed. “Only worms may kiss her now.” And then to Tom Sevenstrings she said, “I’ll have my song or I’ll have you gone.”
So the singer played for her, so soft and sad that Arya only heard snatches of the words, though the tune was half-familiar. Sansa would know it, I bet. Her sister had known all the songs, and she could even play a little, and sing so sweetly. All I could ever do was shout the words.
The next morning the little white woman was nowhere to be seen. As they saddled their horses, Arya asked Tom Sevenstrings if the children of the forest still dwelled on High Heart. The singer chuckled. “Saw her, did you?”
“Was she a ghost?”
“Do ghosts complain of how their joints creak? No, she’s only an old dwarf woman. A queer one, though, and evil-eyed. But she knows things she has no business knowing, and sometimes she’ll tell you if she likes the look of you.”
“Did she like the looks of you?” Arya asked doubtfully.
The singer laughed. “The sound of me, at least. She always makes me sing the same bloody song, though. Not a bad song, mind you, but I know others just as good.” He shook his head. “What matters is, we have the scent now. You’ll soon be seeing Thoros and the lightning lord, I’ll wager.”
“If you’re their men, why do they hide from you?”
Tom Sevenstrings rolled his eyes at that, but Harwin gave her an answer. “I wouldn’t call it hiding, milady, but it’s true, Lord Beric moves about a lot, and seldom lets on what his plans are. That way no one can betray him. By now there must be hundreds of us sworn to him, maybe thousands, but it wouldn’t do for us all to trail along behind him. We’d eat the country bare, or get butchered in a battle by some bigger host. The way we’re scattered in little bands, we can strike in a dozen places at once, and be off somewhere else before they know. And when one of us is caught and put to the question, well, we can’t tell them where to find Lord Beric no matter what they do to us.” He hesitated. “You know what it means, to be put to the question?”
Arya nodded. “Tickling, they called it. Polliver and Raff and all.” She told them about the village by the Gods Eye where she and Gendry had been caught, and the questions that the Tickler had asked. “Is there gold hidden in the village?” he would always begin. “Silver, gems? Is there food? Where is Lord Beric? Which of you village folk helped him? Where did he go? How many men did he have with him? How many knights? How many bowmen? How many were horsed? How are they armed? How many wounded? Where did they go, did you say?” Just thinking of it, she could hear the shrieks again, and smell the stench of blood and shit and burning flesh. “He always asked the same questions,” she told the outlaws solemnly, “but he changed the tickling every day.”
“No child should be made to suffer that,” Harwin said when she was done. “The Mountain lost half his men at the Stone Mill, we hear. Might be this Tickler’s floating down the Red Fork even now, with fish biting at his face. If not, well, it’s one more crime they’ll answer for. I’ve heard his lordship say this war began when the Hand sent him out to bring the king’s justice to Gregor Clegane, and that’s how he means for it to end.” He gave her shoulder a reassuring pat. “You best mount up, milady. It’s a long day’s ride to Acorn Hall, but at the end of it we’ll have a roof above our heads and a hot supper in our bellies.”
It was a long day’s ride, but as dusk was settling they forded a brook and came up on Acorn Hall, with its stone curtain walls and great oaken keep. Its master was away fighting in the retinue of his master, Lord Vance, the castle gates closed and barred in his absence. But his lady wife was an old friend of Tom Sevenstrings, and Anguy said they’d once been lovers. Anguy often rode beside her; he was closer to her in age than any of them but Gendry, and he told her droll tales of the Dornish Marches. He never fooled her, though. He’s not my friend. He’s only staying close to watch me and make sure I don’t ride off again. Well, Arya could watch as well. Syrio Forel had taught her how.
Lady Smallwood welcomed the outlaws kindly enough, though she gave them a tongue lashing for dragging a young girl through the war. She became even more wroth when Lem let slip that Arya was highborn. “Who dressed the poor child in those Bolton rags?” she demanded of them. “That badge . . . there’s many a man who would hang her in half a heartbeat for wearing a flayed man on her breast.” Arya promptly found herself marched upstairs, forced into a tub, and doused with scalding hot water. Lady Smallwood’s maidservants scrubbed her so hard it felt like they were flaying her themselves. They even dumped in some stinky-sweet stuff that smelled like flowers.
And afterward, they insisted she dress herself in girl’s things, brown woolen stockings and a light linen shift, and over that a light green gown with acorns embroidered all over the bodice in brown thread, and more acorns bordering the hem. “My great-aunt is a septa at a motherhouse in Oldtown,” Lady Smallwood said as the women laced the gown up Arya’s back. “I sent my daughter there when the war began. She’ll have outgrown these things by the time she returns, no doubt. Are you fond of dancing, child? My Carellen’s a lovely dancer. She sings beautifully as well. What do you like to do?”
She scuffed a toe amongst the rushes. “Needlework.”
“Very restful, isn’t it?”
“Well,” said Arya, “not the way I do it.”
“No? I have always found it so. The gods give each of us our little gifts and talents, and it is meant for us to use them, my aunt always says. Any act can be a prayer, if done as well as we are able. Isn’t that a lovely thought? Remember that the next time you do your needlework. Do you work at it every day?”
“I did till I lost Needle. My new one’s not as good.”
“In times like these, we all must make do as best we can.” Lady Smallwood fussed at the bodice of the gown. “Now you look a proper young lady.”
I’m not a lady, Arya wanted to tell her, I’m a wolf.
“I do not know who you are, child,” the woman said, “and it may be that’s for the best. Someone important, I fear.” She smoothed down Arya’s collar. “In times like these, it is better to be insignificant. Would that I could keep you here with me. That would not be safe, though. I have walls, but too few men to hold them.” She sighed.
Supper was being served in the hall by the time Arya was all washed and combed and dressed. Gendry took one look and laughed so hard that wine came out his nose, until Harwin gave him a thwack alongside his ear. The meal was plain but filling; mutton and mushrooms, brown bread, pease pudding, and baked apples with yellow cheese. When the food had been cleared and the servants sent away, Greenbeard lowered his voice to ask if her ladyship had word of the lightning lord.
“Word?” She smiled. “They were here not a fortnight past. Them and a dozen more, driving sheep. I could scarcely believe my eyes. Thoros gave me three as thanks. You’ve eaten one tonight.”
“Thoros herding sheep?” Anguy laughed aloud.
“I grant you it was an odd sight, but Thoros claimed that as a priest he knew how to tend a flock.”
“Aye, and shear them too,” chuckled Lem Lemoncloak.
“Someone could make a rare fine song of that.” Tom plucked a string on his woodharp.
Lady Smallwood gave him a withering look. “Someone who doesn’t rhyme carry on with Dondarrion, perhaps. Or play ‘Oh, Lay My Sweet Lass Down in the Grass’ to every milkmaid in the shire and leave two of them with big bellies.”
“It was ‘Let Me Drink Your Beauty,’ ” said Tom defensively, “and milkmaids are always glad to hear it. As was a certain highborn lady I do recall. I play to please.”
Her nostrils flared. “The riverlands are full of maids you’ve pleased, all drinking tansy tea. You’d think a man as old as you would know to spill his seed on their bellies. Men will be calling you Tom Sevensons before much longer.”
“As it happens,” said Tom, “I passed seven many years ago. And fine boys they are too, with voices sweet as nightingales.” Plainly he did not care for the subject.
“Did his lordship say where he was bound, milady?” asked Harwin.
“Lord Beric never shares his plans, but there’s hunger down near Stoney Sept and the Threepenny Wood. I should look for him there.” She took a sip of wine. “You’d best know, I’ve had less pleasant callers as well. A pack of wolves came howling around my gates, thinking I might have Jaime Lannister in here.”
Tom stopped his plucking. “Then it’s true, the Kingslayer is loose again?
Lady Smallwood gave him a scornful look. “I hardly think they’d be hunting him if he was chained up under Riverrun.”
“What did m’lady tell them?” asked Jack-Be-Lucky.
“Why, that I had Ser Jaime naked in my bed, but I’d left him much too exhausted to come down. One of them had the effrontery to call me a liar, so we saw them off with a few quarrels. I believe they made for Blackbottom Bend.”
Arya squirmed restlessly in her seat. “What northmen was it, who came looking after the Kingslayer?”
Lady Smallwood seemed surprised that she’d spoken. “They did not give their names, child, but they wore black, with the badge of a white sun on the breast.”
A white sun on black was the sigil of Lord Karstark, Arya thought. Those were Robb’s men. She wondered if they were still close. If she could give the outlaws the slip and find them, maybe they would take her to her mother at Riverrun . . .
“Did they say how Lannister came to escape?” Lem asked.
“They did,” said Lady Smallwood. “Not that I believe a word of it. They claimed that Lady Catelyn set him free.”
That startled Tom so badly he snapped a string. “Go on with you,” he said. “That’s madness.”
It’s not true, thought Arya. It couldn’t be true.
“I thought the same,” said Lady Smallwood.
That was when Harwin remembered Arya. “Such talk is not for your ears, milady.”
“No, I want to hear.”
The outlaws were adamant. “Go on with you, skinny squirrel,” said Greenbeard. “Be a good little lady and go play in the yard while we talk, now.”
Arya stalked away angry, and would have slammed the door if it hadn’t been so heavy. Darkness had settled over Acorn Hall. A few torches burned along the walls, but that was all. The gates of the little castle were closed and barred. She had promised Harwin that she would not try and run away again, she knew, but that was before they started telling lies about her mother.
“Arya?” Gendry had followed her out. “Lady Smallwood said there’s a smithy. Want to have a look?”
“If you want.” She had nothing else to do.
“This Thoros,” Gendry said as they walked past the kennels, “is he the same Thoros who lived in the castle at King’s Landing? A red priest, fat, with a shaved head?”
“I think so.” Arya had never spoken to Thoros at King’s Landing that she could recall, but she knew who he was. He and Jalabhar Xho had been the most colorful figures at Robert’s court, and Thoros was a great friend of the king as well.
“He won’t remember me, but he used to come to our forge.” The Smallwood forge had not been used in some time, though the smith had hung his tools neatly on the wall. Gendry lit a candle and set it on the anvil while he took down a pair of tongs. “My master always scolded him about his flaming swords. It was no way to treat good steel, he’d say, but this Thoros never used good steel. He’d just dip some cheap sword in wildfire and set it alight. It was only an alchemist’s trick, my master said, but it scared the horses and some of the greener knights.”
She screwed up her face, trying to remember if her father had ever talked about Thoros. “He isn’t very priestly, is he?”
“No,” Gendry admitted. “Master Mott said Thoros could outdrink even King Robert. They were pease in a pod, he told me, both gluttons and sots.”
“You shouldn’t call the king a sot.” Maybe King Robert had drunk a lot, but he’d been her father’s friend.
“I was talking about Thoros.” Gendry reached out with the tongs as if to pinch her face, but Arya swatted them away. “He liked feasts and tourneys, that was why King Robert was so fond of him. And this Thoros was brave. When the walls of Pyke crashed down, he was the first through the breach. He fought with one of his flaming swords, setting ironmen afire with every slash.”
“I wish I had a flaming sword.” Arya could think of lots of people she’d like to set on fire.
“It’s only a trick, I told you. The wildfire ruins the steel. My master sold Thoros a new sword after every tourney. Every time they would have a fight about the price.” Gendry hung the tongs back up and took down the heavy hammer. “Master Mott said it was time I made my first longsword. He gave me a sweet piece of steel, and I knew just how I wanted to shape the blade. Only Yoren came, and took me away for the Night’s Watch.”
“You can still make swords if you want,” said Arya. “You can make them for my brother Robb when we get to Riverrun.”
“Riverrun.” Gendry put the hammer down and looked at her. “You look different now. Like a proper little girl.”
“I look like an oak tree, with all these stupid acorns.”
“Nice, though. A nice oak tree.” He stepped closer, and sniffed at her. “You even smell nice for a change.”
“You don’t. You stink.” Arya shoved him back against the anvil and made to run, but Gendry caught her arm. She stuck a foot between his legs and tripped him, but he yanked her down with him, and they rolled across the floor of the smithy. He was very strong, but she was quicker. Every time he tried to hold her still she wriggled free and punched him. Gendry only laughed at the blows, which made her mad. He finally caught both her wrists in one hand and started to tickle her with the other, so Arya slammed her knee between his legs, and wrenched free. Both of them were covered in dirt, and one sleeve was torn on her stupid acorn dress. “I bet I don’t look so nice now,” she shouted.
Tom was singing when they returned to the hall.
My featherbed is deep and soft,
and there I’ll lay you down,
I’ll dress you all in yellow silk,
and on your head a crown.
For you shall be my lady love,
and I shall be your lord.
I’ll always keep you warm and safe,
and guard you with my sword.
Harwin took one look at them and burst out laughing, and Anguy smiled one of his stupid freckly smiles and said, “Are we certain this one is a highborn lady?” But Lem Lemoncloak gave Gendry a clout alongside the head. “You want to fight, fight with me! She’s a girl, and half your age! You keep your hands off o’ her, you hear me?”
“I started it “ said Arya. “Gendry was just talking.”
“Leave the boy, Lem,” said Harwin. “Arya did start it, I have no doubt. She was much the same at Winterfell.”
Tom winked at her as he sang:
And how she smiled and how she laughed,
the maiden of the tree.
She spun away and said to him,
no featherbed for me.
I’ll wear a gown of golden leaves,
and bind my hair with grass,
But you can be my forest love,
and me your forest lass.
“I have no gowns of leaves,” said Lady Smallwood with a small fond smile, “but Carellen left some other dresses that might serve. Come, child, let us go upstairs and see what we can find.”
It was even worse than before; Lady Smallwood insisted that Arya take another bath, and cut and comb her hair besides; the dress she put her in this time was sort of lilac-colored, and decorated with little baby pearls. The only good thing about it was that it was so delicate that no one could expect her to ride in it. So the next morning as they broke their fast, Lady Smallwood gave her breeches, belt, and tunic to wear, and a brown doeskin jerkin dotted with iron studs. “They were my son’s things,” she said. “He died when he was seven.”
“I’m sorry, my lady.” Arya suddenly felt bad for her, and ashamed. “I’m sorry I tore the acorn dress too. It was pretty.”
“Yes, child. And so are you. Be brave.”

第十九章 提利昂



　　泰温·兰尼斯特公爵戴着金光灿灿的首相项链，身穿深紫色天鹅绒外衣，踏入议事厅内。提利尔公爵、雷德温伯爵和罗宛伯爵起立致敬，他一一回礼，朝瓦里斯说了句悄悄话，亲吻总主教的戒指与瑟曦的脸颊，拍拍派席尔国师的手掌，最后坐到长桌首位国王的位子上，左右分别是女儿和弟弟。
　　提利昂抢占了派席尔在长桌尾端的老位置，长椅加了垫子，以弥补身高的劣势。被驱逐的派席尔坐在瑟曦旁边，那是除国王的位子以外，离侏儒最远的地方。大学士成了副蹒跚的骨架，走路时沉重地倚着一根扭曲的藤杖，颤抖不休。他长长的鸡脖子上曾经丰饶的白须已不复见，几点发丝萌生而出。提利昂有些同情地看着他。

　　其他人自行落座：梅斯·提利尔公爵结实红润，有着棕色卷发和铁铲形状、间杂白丝的胡须；青亭岛的雷德温伯爵肩膀下垂，身材细瘦，秃顶上只有几丛橙黄头发；金树城伯爵马图斯·罗宛修面齐整，孔武健壮；总主教十分瘦小，下巴上长出稀疏的白须。御前会议有了许多新面孔，提利昂心想，许多新玩家。当我烂在床上时，游戏已经改变，却没有人告诉我规则。

　　噢，大人们都彬彬有礼，但他们的眼神让他说不出的烦躁。“你那铁索的主意，玩得挺高的，”梅斯·提利尔快活地道，罗宛伯爵在一旁点头，接过话茬，“是啊，是啊，高庭老爷替咱们说出了心声，”他讲得也轻巧。

　　去你妈的，去对城里的老百姓讲啊，提利昂苦涩地想，去对该死的歌手讲啊，他们只会颂扬蓝礼的鬼魂。

　　凯冯还算亲切，吻了他的脸颊，“提利昂，蓝赛尔将你的英勇事迹都告诉了我，他非常钦佩你。”

　　他最好多说几句好话，否则我非揭穿他不可。他逼自己微笑，“我的好堂弟实在太客气了，他的伤大好了吧，叔叔？”

　　凯冯爵士皱紧眉头。“反复不定，前天还好点，而今天……真令人担心。你姐姐常到病床前看望，为他提振精神，虔诚祈祷。”

　　没错，但她祈祷他的生，还是他的死呢？瑟曦无耻地利用他们的堂弟，床上用，床下也用——而今这点小秘密她当然希望蓝赛尔带进坟墓去，有父亲坐镇，他已失去了利用价值。如此说来，她会谋害他吗？单凭外貌打扮，你绝无法相信高贵的太后竟这般残忍。今天她表现得格外迷人，巧笑着与提利尔公爵谈论乔佛里的婚宴，恭维雷德温伯爵孪生儿子的英勇，针对古板的罗宛伯爵则轻声软语，还朝总主教背诵虔诚的词句。“我们开始安排婚礼吧？”一待泰温公爵坐定，她忙问。

　　“不急，”他们的父亲道，“先处理战争的事。瓦里斯。”

　　太监掐媚地微笑，“大人，我为您们带来了好消息。昨天早上，咱们果敢的蓝道大人在暮谷城外奇袭罗贝特·葛洛佛，将敌军赶进城堡和大海之间，加以攻击。在随后的战斗中，双方都伤亡惨重，但国王的忠仆最终大获全胜。据报，敌军阵亡超过千人，其中包括赫曼·陶哈爵士。罗贝特·葛洛佛收拾败军，朝赫伦堡逃去，作梦也想不到英勇的格雷果爵士正埋伏在路上。”

　　“赞美诸神！”派克斯特·雷德温伯爵叫道，“乔佛里国王的伟大胜利！”

　　乔佛里做了什么呢？提利昂酸酸地想。

　　“是，而且对北方人而言，这是一次严重的失败，”小指头评论，“但领军的并非罗柏·史塔克，这位‘少狼主’仍旧享有战无不胜的威名。”

　　“关于史塔克军的动向，可有情报？”马图斯·罗宛一如既往的直率和生硬。

　　“他带着掠获物返回奔流城，遗弃了在西境攻占的所有城堡，”泰温公爵宣布，“我的侄子达冯爵士正在兰尼斯港重组他先父的残部，不久将兵进金牙城，与佛勒·普莱斯特爵士汇合。一待史塔克北进，两位爵士便直捣奔流城。”

　　“您肯定史塔克大人会回师北上？”罗宛伯爵质疑，“卡林湾可在铁民手里。”

　　梅斯·提利尔接口：“没王国的国王算什么呢？那叫乞丐！这小子必定会抛弃河间地，带本部军队与卢斯·波顿汇合，全力攻打卡林湾。如果是我，就这么干。”

　　听了最后一句，提利昂差点咬到舌头。罗柏·史塔克在短短一年之内赢得的战斗比高庭公爵在漫长的二十年戎马生涯里赢得的还要多。提利尔惟一的胜绩是十多年前在杨树滩挫败劳勃·拜拉席恩，那主要还得归功于统率前锋部队的塔利伯爵，公爵率主力赶到时，战斗已基本结束。由梅斯·提利尔亲自指挥的风息堡之围，则拖拖拉拉打了一年，毫无成效，等三叉戟河决战分出胜负，高庭公爵只能向奈德·史塔克降旗归顺。

　　“我要写信给罗柏·史塔克抗议，”小指头说，“他家波顿大人用我的厅堂饲养山羊，真让人为难。”

　　凯冯·兰尼斯特爵士清清喉咙，“抛开史塔克不论……最近，自称岛屿和北境之王的巴隆·葛雷乔伊写信来请求结盟。”

　　“他应该表示臣服才对，”瑟曦不屑地说，“凭什么自称国王？”

　　“凭征服者的权利，”泰温公爵道，“巴隆国王据守颈泽，就是扼住了罗柏·史塔克的咽喉。铁民们杀了史塔克的继承人，攻陷临冬城，占领卡林湾、深林堡和磐石海岸大部，极大减缓了我方的压力。反之，由于巴隆国王的舰队掌控着落日之海，如果我们不予绥靖，兰尼斯港，仙女岛甚至高庭都将受到威胁。”

　　“如此说来，只能和他结盟？”马图斯·罗宛伯爵说，“他开出什么条件？”

　　“要我们承认他的国王地位，并将颈泽以北划归他统治。”

　　雷德温伯爵嘻嘻笑道：“疯子才在乎颈泽以北的土地！倘若葛雷乔伊愿用士兵和舰队来交换岩石和积雪，我说是笔好买卖，非常划算！”

　　“不错，”梅斯·提利尔同意，“雷德温大人说出了我的心声。就让巴隆去拖住北方人，我军专心解决史坦尼斯。”

　　泰温公爵不动声色，“我们还要处理莱莎·艾林的问题。她是琼恩·艾林的遗孀，霍斯特·徒利的女儿，凯特琳·史塔克的姐姐……已有确切证据，证明她丈夫死前与史坦尼斯·拜拉席恩合谋不轨。”

　　“噢，”梅斯·提利尔的语调依然轻快，“女人是不能打仗的。依我看，就随她去吧，无关痛痒。”

　　“我同意，”雷德温说，“莱莎夫人一直没出兵，也没犯下叛国罪行。”

　　提利昂坐不住了。“她把我关进天牢，厉行审判，差点要了我的命！”他怨毒地指出，“此外，她也不曾遵令前来君临向小乔输诚效忠。大人们，请把军队拨给我，我替你们把这位莱莎·艾林赶出山来！”除了扼死瑟曦，他不知还有什么事能比这更令他开心。至今，他仍时常梦见鹰巢城的天牢，冷汗琳漓地醒来。

　　梅斯·提利尔笑容可掬，但提利昂瞧得出其中的轻蔑。“您或许该把打仗的事留给战士们操心，”高庭公爵说，“无数本领高强的将军尚且在明月山脉或血门前大败亏输，何况您呢？啊，我们很清楚您的价值，大人，请稍安勿燥。”

　　提利昂推开垫子，想站起来，但父亲在他发作前表了态：“提利昂我另有安排，鹰巢城方面，相信培提尔大人有办法。”

　　“噢，是的，”小指头道，“办法就在我两腿之间。”他那双灰绿眼睛里闪动着淘气的神色，“大人们，只要您们同意，我打算去谷地一游，以赢得莱莎·徒利夫人的青睐。等我讨她做了老婆，我们就将不留一滴血，而把整个艾林谷收入囊中。”

　　罗宛伯爵有些怀疑，“莱莎夫人会接受您吗？”

　　“噢，她接受我很多次了，马图斯大人，这点您不用担心。”

　　“上床，”瑟曦道，“不等于结婚。即便莱莎·艾林这头母牛也清楚其中的区别。”

　　“是的，要奔流城之女嫁给地位低下的小贵族不可能，”小指头将手一摊，“但现在嘛……要鹰巢城夫人嫁给赫伦堡公爵就不是那么不可思议了，您说对吧？”

　　提利昂没有放过派克斯特·雷德温与梅斯·提利尔之间交换的眼神。“可以一试，”罗宛伯爵道，“但您必须确保此女归顺国王陛下的统治。”

　　“大人们，”总主教断言，“深秋将至，世间的善男信女厌倦了战争。若贝里席大人能不费一兵一卒，便将谷地重归国王治下，那自是诸神喜悦，上上之策啊。”

　　“能有这么顺利？”雷德温伯爵反问，“当今鹰巢城公爵可是琼恩·艾林的儿子，劳勃·艾林。”

　　“他只是个兔崽子，”小指头道，“我会好好调教，把他养成乔佛里国王陛下最大的崇拜者和我们最忠实的朋友。”

　　提利昂看着这名留着尖胡须、灰绿眼睛里满溢笑意的瘦小男子。赫伦堡公爵不过是空头衔？算了吧，父亲，他人还没进城，已经在用头衔招摇撞骗啦。狡猾的家伙！

　　“我们的敌人已经不少，”凯冯·兰尼斯特爵士道，“若能将鹰巢城收归旗下，自是万幸。依我之见，不妨有劳培提尔大人辛苦一趟。”

　　凯冯爵士一直替哥哥打头阵，提利昂对此心知肚明，他所说的，通常都是泰温公爵的主意。父亲决心已下，提利昂心想，御前会议不过是橡皮图章。

　　与会的绵羊们咩咩叫着同意，丝毫没有觉察出背后的无形之手，反对者的角色只好由他提利昂来担当。“咱们的培提尔好大人若是要走，王家财政该怎么办呢？总所周知，他是凭空生财的主儿，不可或缺呀。”

　　小指头哈哈大笑，“我的矮朋友实在太客气。诚如劳勃先王所言，我的工作不过是数铜板，任挑一位聪明商贾都能胜任……何况是沾了凯岩城金光的兰尼斯特？无疑远胜于我。”

　　“兰尼斯特？”提利昂觉得不对劲。

　　泰温公爵的金瞳对上儿子大小不一的眼睛，“我相信，你能担当这个遗缺。”

　　“没问题！”凯冯爵士热忱地说，“你定能将财政打理得井井有条，提利昂。”

　　泰温公爵回望向小指头，“只要莱莎夫人肯与你成亲，回归王国治下，我便把东境守护一职还给劳勃大人。你打算何时动身？”

　　“倘若风向顺遂，我明天就走。港内有艘布拉佛斯船‘人鱼之王号’，目前正用小艇装运货物，准备出发，我待会儿就去找船长谈谈。”

　　“如此，您就得错过国王陛下的婚礼啦，”梅斯·提利尔道。

　　培提尔·贝里席一耸肩，“潮汛和姑娘都不等人，大人，若是秋季风暴来临，旅途将危机四伏。被淹死的我可就当不了好新郎啰。”

　　“愿诸神赐福于您的坐舰，”总主教说，“全君临的人都会为您的成功而祈祷。”

　　雷德温伯爵摸摸鼻子，“我们深入谈谈与葛雷乔伊结盟一事如何？依我之见，此举有利可图。一旦葛雷乔伊的长船加入咱青亭岛的舰队，那要跨海攻打龙石岛，结果史坦尼斯·拜拉席恩这个叛逆，便是易如反掌。”

　　“巴隆国王的长船目前脱不开身，”泰温公爵说，“我们也有其他要紧事急需处理。哼，他开口就要半个王国，凭什么？凭他替我们和史塔克家作对？那是他自己挑起的战争，我们为什么要为免费的午餐掏钱呢？所以说，针对这位派克岛大王最好的政策就是什么也不做，什么也不说，保持缄默，等时局澄清再做选择——大人们，我敢保证，到时候无需奉上半个王国。”

　　提利昂仔细审视着父亲。他有事瞒住这几位大人，记得上次为凯岩城的继承权争吵时，父亲正有几封重要信件要写。当时他说什么来着？有的胜利靠宝剑和长矛赢取，有的胜利则要靠纸笔和乌鸦。提利昂忍不住揣摩那个所谓的“选择”是什么？父亲为此又开出了什么价码？

　　“我们开始讨论婚礼吧。”凯冯爵士道。

　　于是总主教说起贝勒大圣堂所作的筹备工作，瑟曦则逐条强调婚宴的安排。大家决定在王座厅内摆千人大宴，庭院里则设下更多席位，以款待那些进不了厅的人。中庭和外庭都将搭起丝帐篷，摆好盛满食物和酒桶的桌子。

　　“太后陛下，”派席尔国师道，“为了给婚礼增添喜庆……我们已向阳戟城送出邀请。此刻，三百多恩贵客正向着都城日夜兼程地赶来，希望能不误期。”

　　“什么？”梅斯·提利尔厉声喝道，“未经我允许，多恩人就想穿越河湾地？”公爵的粗脖子胀成暗红。这难怪，多恩与高庭是世仇，多少世纪以来，两者就在边界上争斗，群山和边疆地之间，袭击你来我往，从无宁日。虽然自多恩归并于七大王国之后，旧有的恨意得以稍减……然而近年来，多恩亲王“红毒蛇”在比武会中弄残了高庭年轻的继承人，怨气又复萌生。这可是两难状况，侏儒心想，不知父亲怎么应付。

　　“道朗亲王是应我儿的邀请而来，”泰温公爵平静地说，“不止参加典礼，而且将在御前会议中接任重臣席位，并讨回在劳勃先王那里所没有获得的正义，为其妹伊莉亚和她的孩子们复仇。”

　　提利昂望着提利尔公爵、雷德温伯爵和罗宛伯爵，心里好奇这三人中有没有谁敢大胆到直言询问：“可是，泰温大人，将孩子们的尸体包上兰尼斯特的红斗篷，献给劳勃的，不正是您吗？”没人说出口，但脸色一望即知。他看到雷德温大人张大了嘴巴，罗宛大人则似乎哽住了。

　　“只等国王陛下迎娶您的玛格丽，再将弥赛拉公主嫁给崔斯丹王子，我们三家就是一个大家庭了，”凯冯爵士提醒梅斯·提利尔，“依我看，以往的纠纷就随它去吧，我们要面向未来，您说呢，大人？”

　　“可，可这是我女儿——”

　　“——和我孙子的婚礼，”泰温公爵镇定地说，“不容许继续那些陈年纠纷，行吗？”

　　“我和道朗·马泰尔之间没有纠纷，”提利尔公爵勉强宣布，“只是……他若想假道河湾地，至少该给我打声招呼吧？”

　　他们才不会穿越高庭的土地，提利昂明白，道朗亲王将攀登骨道，在盛夏厅附近转向东行，然后沿国王大道北上。

　　“三百多恩人是小事，”瑟曦说，“士兵就在院子里招待，王座厅内加几条凳子给领主和骑士，至于道朗亲王，当然得坐高台。”

　　别坐我旁边，梅斯·提利尔的眼睛如是说，但他没有答话，只简单地一点头。

　　“接下来我们谈谈愉快的话题，”泰温公爵道，“胜利的果实等着瓜分呢。”

　　“噢，还有什么比这更美的呢？”小指头笑问。他已经吃下了自己那份厚礼，赫伦堡。

　　每位大人都提出要求：城堡、村庄、土地、河流、森林以及小贵族子嗣的抚养权。很幸运，这次战争留下的果实很丰盛，人人都分到了城堡和孤儿。根据瓦里斯的统计，为史坦尼斯的光之王和烈焰红心旗而战的队伍中，共有四十七名领主和六百一十九名骑士送命，此外，还有数以千计的普通士兵丧生。由于被宣布为叛徒，他们子嗣的继承权均遭剥夺，土地和城堡等着分配给国王的忠仆。

　　最富饶的部分给了高庭，提利昂瞧着梅斯·提利尔的大肚子，心想：他真是贪得无厌啊。提利尔索要自己旗下封臣艾利斯特·佛罗伦的所有土地和城堡——此人打错了算盘，很不幸地先追随蓝礼，然后又投效史坦尼斯。对此要求，泰温公爵欣然应允。于是，亮水城的土地、税赋转封给提利尔公爵的次子勇武的加兰，使他眨眼间成为全国排得上号的大贵族。而他兄长，自然还是高庭的继承人。

　　其他土地被依次给予罗宛伯爵，以及塔利伯爵、奥克赫特伯爵夫人、海塔尔伯爵等未到场的功臣。雷德温伯爵只要求小指头手下葡萄酒代理人免征青亭岛佳酿三十年关税，获得批准后，他兴高采烈地宣布要即刻进献青亭岛的特产金色葡萄酒，向好国王乔佛里和慈爱睿智的首相大人致敬。听他喋喋不休，瑟曦失去了耐性。“小乔要的是军队，并非什么致敬，”她叫道，“王国里到处都是叛徒和伪君！”

　　“他们是不会长久的，太后陛下，”瓦里斯甜腻腻地接口。

　　“还有最后几件事，大人们，”凯冯爵士理理文件，“亚当爵士找到了总主教水晶冠的碎片，事情很清楚，有贼人偷走不少水晶，并融化了黄金。”

　　“天父无所不知，他们的罪恶逃不过审判，”总主教虔诚地说。

　　“这点毫无疑问，”泰温公爵道，“但首先，国王的婚礼大典上您必须戴冠冕。瑟曦，召集御用金匠，替我们的总主教大人赶制一顶。”不等回答，他转向瓦里斯。“你有什么新报告？”

　　太监从衣袖里抽出一张羊皮纸。“五指半岛附近有人目击海怪，”他咯咯笑道，“提醒大家，不是说葛雷乔伊哟，而是真家伙，它击沉了一艘伊班捕鲸船。石阶列岛战火不断，主要是泰洛西人和里斯人的火并，双方都在争取密尔人的支持。玉海归来的商人宣称科霍尔城内有只三头龙诞生，整个城市为之——”

　　“我不关心龙或海怪，它有多少个头都无所谓，”泰温公爵说，“你的眼线就没有一点关于我侄子的线索？”

　　“唉，咱们挚爱的提瑞克消失得无影无踪，好个勇敢又可怜的孩子啊。”瓦里斯的眼泪快要掉下来了。

　　“泰温，”凯冯爵士抢在哥哥表现出不悦之前开口，“许多在战斗中逃亡的金袍子如今又回到兵营，打算重新参军。亚当爵士请示如何处理他们。”

　　“他们懦弱无能，差点危及小乔的生命，”瑟曦立刻接口，“应该全部斩首。”

　　瓦里斯叹道：“临阵脱逃，理当一死，太后陛下，这无可厚非。可是呢，眼下人手短缺，或许可以发配他们去戍守长城。我们刚接到报告，野人……”

　　“野人，海怪，巨龙。”梅斯·提利尔“扑哧”一笑，“真是古灵精怪大会合呀！”

　　泰温公爵不理他的嘲弄：“逃兵的用处是给后人警告。用锤子敲掉他们的膝盖，使其不能再逃跑，也无法上街乞讨。”他扫视桌边众人，没人反对。

　　提利昂还记得当初对长城的访问，记得和老莫尔蒙及众官员分享的螃蟹大餐，记得熊老的忧虑。“依我看，敲掉几个带头人的膝盖就好，尤其是那几个杀杰斯林爵士的人。其他人一律发配到颈泽，由他们自行北上。守夜人兵力不足，假如长城有个闪失……”

　　“……野人就会直捣北境，”父亲指出，“为史塔克和葛雷乔伊制造新的麻烦。他们既不向铁王座表示忠顺，我们又为何要提供援助？罗柏和巴隆都自称为北境之王，就该好好保家卫土去，如果办不到的话，那么曼斯·雷德或许才是我们该找的盟友。”泰温公爵望着弟弟，“还有议题么？”

　　凯冯爵士摇摇头，“没有了。大人们，乔佛里国王陛下感谢诸位睿智的建议和忠诚的服务。”

　　“我有话单独和孩子们谈谈，”众人起立后，泰温公爵说，“你也留下，凯冯。”

　　重臣们顺从地告辞。瓦里斯率先出门，走在最后的是提利尔和雷德温。当议事厅内只剩四个兰尼斯特，凯冯爵士关上大门。

　　“财政大臣？”提利昂矫柔造作地说，“乖乖，谁灵光一现的主意啊？”

　　“培提尔大人自己的想法，”父亲说，“我正好顺势推舟，国库早该掌握在我们兰尼斯特手里。怎么，你不是要我给你安排要职吗，究竟能不能胜任？”

　　“当然能。”提利昂道，“怕只怕其中有诈。小指头既狡猾又有野心，我不信任他，你也别信任他。”

　　“他为我们赢得高庭的支持……”瑟曦开口。

　　“……还把奈德·史塔克卖给了你。没错，我很清楚他的行径，只要有利可图，他会同样迅速地出卖我们。钱财和刀剑都不能交到这种人手中。”

　　凯冯叔叔不以为然，“我们兰尼斯特不是史塔克。你就放心接任大臣一职吧，凯岩城的金子……”

　　“……纵然多，但都是从地里辛辛苦苦挖出来的。而小指头的钱似乎能凭空诞生，只需指头轻轻一撮。”

　　“是啊，亲爱的弟弟，他的本领比你高超许多哟。”瑟曦用怨毒的甜美口吻说。

　　“小指头是个骗子——”

　　“——和你一样。乌鸦还嫌八哥黑。”

　　泰温公爵猛地一掌拍在桌子上。“够了！无休无止地争吵，你两个就不觉得丢脸吗？都是兰尼斯特家的人，给我注意点风度！”

　　凯冯爵士清清喉咙。“让培提尔·贝里席统治鹰巢城，总比莱莎夫人其他追求者要好。约恩·罗伊斯、林恩·科布瑞、霍顿·雷德佛……哪个不是野心勃勃，骄傲难驯？小指头固然狡猾，但出身寒微，武艺不精。想想看，谷地诸侯决不会接受他作为主君，明争暗斗不就在眼前？”他望向哥哥，待泰温公爵点头后，便又续道，“而且——培提尔大人的忠诚必须得到奖励。昨天，他刚把提利尔家打算诱骗珊莎·史塔克前往高庭‘拜访’，然后就地由梅斯大人的长子维拉斯迎娶的计划通报我们。“

　　“小指头通风报信？”提利昂朝前倾身，“我们的情报总管反而不知？有趣，真有趣。”

　　瑟曦则轻松地说：“珊莎是我的人质，未经我允许，她哪儿也去不了。”

　　“只要提利尔大人开口，你根本无法阻止，”父亲指出，“拒绝就是不信任，不信任构成冒犯。”

　　“冒犯就冒犯，有何打紧？”

　　真是个猪脑袋，提利昂心想。“亲爱的姐姐，”他耐心解释，“冒犯提利尔就等于冒犯雷德温、冒犯塔利、冒犯罗宛和冒犯海塔尔。他们或许将开始盘算，罗柏·史塔克会不会更合自己胃口呢？”

　　“玫瑰想和冰原狼同床，门都没有，”泰温公爵宣布，“我们得先发制人。”

　　“怎么做？”瑟曦问。

　　“通过联姻。从你开始。”

　　这话来得如此突然，瑟曦楞了半晌，随后脸像挨了巴掌似地红起来。“不，我不要再婚，不……不。”

　　“太后陛下，”凯冯爵士彬彬有礼地说，“您还年轻，美貌依然，丰饶多产，总不能下半辈子独守空闺吧？况且您一旦再婚，就能终结那些有关乱伦的无耻滥言。”

　　“你多当一天的寡妇，就是多给史坦尼斯一天诽谤的机会，”泰温公爵告诉女儿，“你得有个新丈夫，生下新孩子。”

　　“三个孩子已经足够。我是七大王国的太后，不是专司生产的母马！摄政王应该自己做主！”

　　“你是我女儿，必须照我的意思做。”

　　她站起来，“我不会坐在这里听——”

　　“你当然要听，如果还想在丈夫的选择上有发言权的话，”泰温公爵平静地说。

　　她犹豫片刻，又坐下来，“我决不再婚！”

　　尽管姐姐高声叫嚣，但提利昂明白她已经输了。

　　“你必须再婚，也必须生子，每生一个孩子，就是扇史坦尼斯一记耳光。”父亲的眼神似乎将女儿钉在椅子上。“梅斯·提利尔、派克斯特·雷德温和道朗·马泰尔都娶了年轻姑娘，一时半会插不进去，只有巴隆·葛雷乔伊的老婆年老体衰。透过联姻，能赢得铁群岛的支持，但我还在犹豫这样的结合是否明智。”

　　“不，”瑟曦苍白的嘴唇结结巴巴地支吾着，“不，不，不……”

　　想到姐姐要被送去鸟不生蛋的派克岛，提利昂简直掩饰不住内心的狂喜。赞美诸神，它们毕竟听见了我的祈祷。

　　泰温公爵浑不理会地继续，“奥柏伦·马泰尔本可考虑，可如此一来又会冒犯提利尔。所以，算来算去，目光得盯住小字辈，你不会在意嫁给年轻男人吧？”

　　“我不会嫁给任何男——”

　　“我考虑过雷德温的孪生子、席恩·葛雷乔伊、昆廷·马泰尔，以及其他十来个候选人。但从根本上说，助我们打败史坦尼斯、保住王位的，乃是与提利尔的联盟，应该对它加以巩固。现而今，洛拉斯爵士披了白袍，加兰爵士和佛索威家成亲，只剩一个选择，那就是他们计划用来迎娶珊莎·史塔克的长子。”

　　维拉斯·提利尔。从瑟曦无助的怒火中，提利昂感到邪性的欢乐。“这家伙是个残废，”他指出。

　　父亲冷冷一眼让他闭了嘴。“维拉斯是高庭的继承人，根据各种情报来看，还是个温和有礼的青年，喜好读书和观星。此外，他有繁殖动物的兴趣，养了七国上下最为优良的猎狗、猎鹰和骏马。”

　　真是绝配，提利昂欢快地想，瑟曦在“繁殖”那方面也有兴趣。可怜的维拉斯·提利尔，等见到我姐姐，真不知他该哭还是该笑。

　　“综合各种因素，巴隆大王和提利尔的继承人是两大目标，”泰温公爵总结，“如果是我，会选择后者。”

　　“您真是太好心了，父亲，”瑟曦带着冰冷的礼数说。“好一个艰难的选择。要跟我上床的，不是老乌贼，便是残废的狗崽子？好，好，请给我几天时间考虑。我可以走了吗？”

　　你是太后，笨蛋，提利昂想对她说，他才该来请示你。

　　“走吧，”父亲说，“等你冷静下来，我们再谈。记住自己的责任。”

　　瑟曦迅速离开房间，怒气显而易见。她奈何不了父亲。从前在与劳勃的婚事上，已经证明了这一点。但詹姆是个危险因素。瑟曦初次结婚时，哥哥还年轻，如今却决不会轻易接受姐姐再婚的事实。不幸的维拉斯·提利尔很可能将面临死亡威胁，接下来就是高庭和凯岩城联盟瓦解，刀兵相见。呃，我该说点什么吗？对不起，父亲，我老姐想嫁的其实是我老哥？

　　“提利昂。”

　　他听天由命地一笑，“司仪宣我出场了？”

　　“爱搞妓女，是你最大的弱点，”泰温公爵不加掩饰地说，“这点我也有责任。由于你身材跟小孩似的，就不把你当成年男子看待，不考虑你的性需求，这是我的过失。总的来说，你长大了，该结婚了。”

　　我结过婚，你忘了吗？提利昂扭扭嘴唇，烂鼻子呈现出半是嘻笑、半是咆哮的怪相。

　　“提起结婚，令你如此兴奋？”

　　“噢，我只是在想，一个多么英俊潇洒的新郎将要诞生了啊。”事实上，他的确需要一个老婆，凭着对方的土地和城堡，他能远离乔佛里的宫廷……远离瑟曦和父亲。

　　但另一方面，这就很对不起雪伊了。不管她如何睹咒发誓只想当我的“妓女”，我知道她心里很不痛快。

　　当然啦，这名营妓对父亲而言比鸿毛还轻，于是提利昂向上蠕蠕身子，道：“你要我娶珊莎·史塔克，以化解提利尔家的威胁，是也不是？”

　　“在完成乔佛里的婚礼之前，提利尔大人不会提出史塔克女孩的问题，这里面有个时间差。如果珊莎在之前就结了婚，便不构成冒犯，因为我们根本不清楚他的‘意图’。”

　　“正是，”凯冯爵士接口，“然后我们顺势提议瑟曦与维拉斯联姻，作为安抚。”

　　提利昂揉揉发痒的烂鼻子。“自珊莎的父亲身亡以后，咱们高贵的脓包陛下就对她很不好，今天她刚摆脱小乔，你又要她嫁给我。这好残忍啊，即便是你，也不会感到不安吗，父亲？”

　　“怎么，你打算虐待她？”父亲语气中更多的是好奇，“老实讲，她的幸福根本不在我的考虑范围之内，你也不用多想。眼下，我们与南境的联盟如同凯岩城一样坚硬牢实，但北方叛乱未息，解决的关键就在于珊莎·史塔克。”

　　“她不过是个孩子。”

　　“你姐姐向我保证她已经来潮。正确地讲，她是个女人，可以上床。你，必须立刻取得她的贞操，以防夜长梦多。在此之后，要冷落她一年、两年、甚至十年，都是你作为丈夫的权利。”

　　我想要的只有雪伊，他心想，而且珊莎是个天真的小姑娘，老混蛋。“你既不想让提利尔家得到她，干嘛不把她送回去？如此一来，或能与罗柏·史塔克和解也说不定。”

　　泰温公爵一脸轻蔑，“把她送回奔流城，她母亲就会将她嫁给布莱伍德、梅利斯特或其他人，以确保他儿子在三河流域站稳脚跟；把她送回北境，则会让曼德勒家或安柏家得利；与之相比，她和提利尔家结合的威胁倒还小些。所以，时不我待，我们兰尼斯特必须立刻动手。”

　　“谁娶珊莎·史塔克，谁就能获得临冬城的继承权，”凯冯叔叔解释，“你就不动心么？”

　　“如果你实在不愿意，我们只好把她给你的表亲们，”父亲道，“凯冯，依你看，蓝赛尔身体撑得住吗？”

　　凯冯爵士犹豫半晌，“要他和这女孩上床，只能做些前戏……交合嘛，还不行……本来我那对双胞胎挺合适，但俩人目前都被史塔克关押，吉娜的儿子提恩也是这个问题。”

　　提利昂任父亲和叔叔一唱一和，他心知肚明，说了半天都是为了打动他。珊莎·史塔克，他思索，那个说话温柔、笑容甜蜜的珊莎，那个喜欢漂亮衣服、动人歌谣、英雄事迹和俊俏骑士的珊莎。想到要和她成亲，他好似又回到船桥上，甲板在脚底咯吱摇晃。

　　“你要我奖励你在战争中的表现，”泰温公爵刻意提醒他，“这就是奖品，提利昂，是你一辈子最好的机会。”父亲的指头不耐烦地敲打桌面，“从前，我计划让你哥娶莱莎·徒利为妻，可惜伊里斯先我一步把詹姆收为铁卫。我向霍斯特公爵提议用你作代替，他的回答是他们徒利家的女儿要个完人，不要半人。”

　　所以他把她嫁给琼恩·艾林——老得足以当她祖父！想到莱莎·艾林如今的样子，提利昂不由得忘了恼怒，只想谢天谢地。

　　“我还拿你向多恩提亲，却被对方当成侮辱，”泰温公爵续道，“以后数年间，约恩·罗伊斯和雷顿·海塔尔也都拒绝了我的提议。见你实在娶不了人，我只好降低标准，向佛罗伦家讨要那个劳勃在他弟弟婚床上玷污过的女人，但他父亲宁可将她送给麾下诺科斯家的骑士，也不愿要你。”

　　“今次，你若当真拒绝这个史塔克女孩，我也会为你找个老婆。七大王国地域广大，乐意与凯岩城结交的小贵族比比皆是。例如，坦妲伯爵夫人正式提出以洛丽丝……”

　　提利昂慌忙否定：“她？她若过来，我把她大卸八块，喂山羊吃。”

　　“既然你不傻，就给我面对现实！这史塔克女孩年轻、漂亮、温顺，不仅出身高贵，还是个真真正正的处女。条件这么好，你还犹豫什么？”

　　我在犹豫什么？“请原谅，就个人而言，我更想要个乐意跟我上床的老婆。”

　　“你以为那些跟你上床的婊子都心甘情愿吗？不可救药的大傻瓜！”泰温公爵说，“你太让我失望了，提利昂。我本认为这个提议会让你满意。”

　　“是啊，咱俩都清楚您有多在乎我的感受。算了，说说实质问题，你说解决北方的关键在于珊莎·史塔克？但眼下北方的主人是葛雷乔伊，他家也有个女儿，为何要我娶珊莎·史塔克，而不是她？”他望进父亲的眼睛，那对闪烁着明亮金光的冰冷绿眸。

　　泰温公爵十指交叉，顶着下巴。“巴隆·葛雷乔伊满脑子想的都是劫掠，根本不懂统治之道。就让他享受一秋的王冠，然后经历北境的寒冬吧，你瞧好，北方人很快会起来造反，等春天一到，海怪们就得被扔出去。到那时候，你护送艾德·史塔克的孙子荣归故里，接受贵族与平民的朝拜，你的孩子将坐上古老的王座——我希望，你有生孩子的能力吧？”

　　“我相信我能，”他生硬地说，“虽然得承认，我还没证明过。你瞧，我可是试了又试，把我小小的种子播在……”

　　“阴沟和粪坑里，”泰温公爵替他说完，“在那种地方，也只可能留下麻烦的杂种。你该负起责任来，清理后花园了。”他站起身，“我说过，决不会把凯岩城传给你，但是，我可以给你珊莎·史塔克，给你临冬城。”

　　临冬城摄政提利昂·兰尼斯特。想到这儿，他不禁奇怪地浑身颤抖。“很公平，父亲，”他缓缓地说，“但在你整个计划里面，有个极大的障碍：罗柏·史塔克的生产能力想必不在我之下，而他又和素有丰饶之名的佛雷家族订了亲，如此一来，只要少狼主生出个小崽儿，那珊莎的孩子就什么也继承不了了。”

　　泰温公爵不为所动，“我跟你保证，罗柏·史塔克和丰饶的佛雷家族之间没有关系。有个小新闻我没在御前会议上讲，但这些大人们很快就会知道：少狼主已和加文·维斯特林的长女成了亲。”

　　片刻之间，提利昂简直不相信自己的耳朵。“背弃自己的誓言？”他怀疑地反问，“背弃佛雷家族？就为……”真不知该怎么形容。

　　“就为一个名叫简妮的十六岁少女，”凯冯爵士道，“从前，加文大人拿她向我的威廉和马丁提过亲，我拒绝了，理由很简单，加文本身是个好人，可他娶希蓓儿·斯派瑟为妻，她算什么东西？维斯特林家就有这个传统：对荣誉太刻板，搞得脑子不清醒。实际上，希蓓儿夫人的祖父是个卖藏红花和胡椒粉的贩子，出生比史坦尼斯手下那走私贩还低，而她祖母更是东方来的神秘人物——身躯老朽不堪，却有一股怕人气势，人唤作‘巫魔女’，其真名无法发音。当年，兰尼斯港里一多半人跑到她那儿去购买还魂药、春情丹之类的东西。”叔叔耸耸肩，“好在她早死了，简妮我倒见过一次，是个甜美的好孩子，虽然血统嘛……”

　　提利昂和妓女结过婚，因此叔叔认为十恶不赦的血统，他并不太在意。如此说来……甜美的好孩子，毒药往往以糖为衣，这其中有蹊跷……维斯特林家族系古老，更以此为傲。要高贵的加文·维斯特林大人与希蓓儿夫人成亲，想必有钱财的关系。他去过峭岩城，那里的矿藏早已采尽，土地纷纷出卖抵押，城堡本身也年久失修，不过是一座孤立在海边峭壁上的浪漫废墟罢了。“很意外，”提利昂承认，“我以为罗柏·史塔克挺会谋划，”

　　“他是个十六岁的小子，”泰温公爵说，“谋划不属于这个年纪，它让位于时髦的荣誉、爱情和淫欲。”

　　“他背弃自己的誓言，羞辱治下的封臣，致神圣的婚约于不顾，还谈得上什么荣誉？”

　　凯冯爵士给予解答：“他把那女孩的荣誉放在自己的荣誉之上。他开了她的苞，便看得比天还高。”

　　“他若真为她好，不如让她留着一个私生子和对他的想念而去。”提利昂坦率地说。与他成亲，维斯特林家族就彻底完了，土地、城堡和成员将被统统消灭。兰尼斯特有债必还。

　　“你要记住，简妮·维斯特林是她母亲的女儿，”泰温公爵宣布，“而罗柏·史塔克是他父亲的儿子。”

　　提利昂很好奇，为何维斯特林的背叛竟没激怒父亲。父亲最受不了手下封臣三心二意，早在少年时代，便亲自将卡斯特梅城高傲的雷耶斯家和塔贝克厅古老的塔贝克家斩草除根，为此，歌手们谱了一首阴沉的曲谣。多年以后，当仙女城的法曼大人不服管制时，泰温公爵没有多说，只送去一名竖琴手。城堡大厅里响起“卡特特梅的雨季”，法曼从此俯首归顺。对那些敢于蔑视凯岩城威严的人而言，雷耶斯家和塔贝克家无言的废墟是永久的警示。“峭岩城离卡斯特梅和塔贝克厅不远，”提利昂指出，“所以你认为维斯特林家迟早会想起教训。”

　　“他们会的，”泰温公爵道，“我向你保证，他们记得卡斯特梅城的下场。”

　　“那要是维斯特林和斯派瑟们蠢到认定狼能战胜狮子呢？”

　　在很长一段时间里，泰温·兰尼斯特公爵看起来都想笑，虽然到最后他并没有笑，但显然没将提利昂的疑问放在心上。“最蠢的人通常也比嘲笑他们的家伙聪明，”他总结，“你必须与珊莎·史塔克结婚，提利昂，而且要快。”

DAENERYS
In the center of the Plaza of Pride stood a red brick fountain whose waters smelled of brimstone, and in the center of the fountain a monstrous harpy made of hammered bronze. Twenty feet tall she reared. She had a woman’s face, with gilded hair, ivory eyes, and pointed ivory teeth. Water gushed yellow from her heavy breasts. But in place of arms she had the wings of a bat or a dragon, her legs were the legs of an eagle, and behind she wore a scorpion’s curled and venomous tail.
The harpy of Ghis, Dany thought. Old Ghis had fallen five thousand years ago, if she remembered true; its legions shattered by the might of young Valyria, its brick walls pulled down, its streets and buildings turned to ash and cinder by dragonflame, its very fields sown with salt, sulfur, and skulls. The gods of Ghis were dead, and so too its people; these Astapori were mongrels, Ser Jorah said. Even the Ghiscari tongue was largely forgotten; the slave cities spoke the High Valyrian of their conquerors, or what they had made of it.
Yet the symbol of the Old Empire still endured here, though this bronze monster had a heavy chain dangling from her talons, an open manacle at either end. The harpy of Ghis had a thunderbolt in her claws. This is the harpy of Astapor.
“Tell the Westerosi whore to lower her eyes,” the slaver Kraznys mo Nakloz complained to the slave girl who spoke for him. “I deal in meat, not metal. The bronze is not for sale. Tell her to look at the soldiers. Even the dim purple eyes of a sunset savage can see how magnificent my creatures are, surely.”
Kraznys’s High Valyrian was twisted and thickened by the characteristic growl of Ghis, and flavored here and there with words of slaver argot. Dany understood him well enough, but she smiled and looked blankly at the slave girl, as if wondering what he might have said.
‘The Good Master Kraznys asks, are they not magnificent?” The girl spoke the Common Tongue well, for one who had never been to Westeros. No older than ten, she had the round flat face, dusky skin, and golden eyes of Naath. The Peaceful People, her folk were called. All agreed that they made the best slaves.
“They might be adequate to my needs,” Dany answered. It had been Ser Jorah’s suggestion that she speak only Dothraki and the Common Tongue while in Astapor. My bear is more clever than he looks. “Tell me of their training.”
“The Westerosi woman is pleased with them, but speaks no praise, to keep the price down,” the translator told her master. “She wishes to know how they were trained.”
Kraznys mo Nakloz bobbed his head. He smelled as if he’d bathed in raspberries, this slaver, and his jutting red-black beard glistened with oil. He has larger breasts than I do, Dany reflected. She could see them through the thin sea-green silk of the gold-fringed tokar he wound about his body and over one shoulder. His left hand held the tokar in place as he walked, while his right clasped a short leather whip. “Are all Westerosi pigs so ignorant?” he complained. “All the world knows that the Unsullied are masters of spear and shield and shortsword.” He gave Dany a broad smile. “Tell her what she would know, slave, and be quick about it. The day is hot.”
That much at least is no lie. A matched pair of slave girls stood behind them, holding a striped silk awning over their heads, but even in the shade Dany felt light-headed, and Kraznys was perspiring freely. The Plaza of Pride had been baking in the sun since dawn. Even through the thickness of her sandals, she could feel the warmth of the red bricks underfoot. Waves of heat rose off them shimmering to make the stepped pyramids of Astapor around the plaza seem half a dream.
If the Unsullied felt the heat, however, they gave no hint of it. They could be made of brick themselves, the way they stand there. A thousand had been marched out of their barracks for her inspection; drawn up in ten ranks of one hundred before the fountain and its great bronze harpy, they stood stiffly at attention, their stony eyes fixed straight ahead. They wore nought but white linen clouts knotted about their loins, and conical bronze helms topped with a sharpened spike a foot tall. Kraznys had commanded them to lay down their spears and shields, and doff their swordbelts and quilted tunics, so the Queen of Westeros might better inspect the lean hardness of their bodies.
“They are chosen young, for size and speed and strength,” the slave told her. “They begin their training at five. Every day they train from dawn to dusk, until they have mastered the shortsword, the shield, and the three spears. The training is most rigorous, Your Grace. Only one boy in three survives it. This is well known. Among the Unsullied it is said that on the day they win their spiked cap, the worst is done with, for no duty that will ever fall to them could be as hard as their training.”
Kraznys mo Nakloz supposedly spoke no word of the Common Tongue, but he bobbed his head as he listened, and from time to time gave the slave girl a poke with the end of his lash. “Tell her that these have been standing here for a day and a night, with no food nor water. Tell her that they will stand until they drop if I should command it, and when nine hundred and ninety-nine have collapsed to die upon the bricks, the last will stand there still, and never move until his own death claims him. Such is their courage. Tell her that.”
“I call that madness, not courage,” said Arstan Whitebeard, when the solemn little scribe was done. He tapped the end of his hardwood staff against the bricks, tap tap, as if to tell his displeasure. The old man had not wanted to sail to Astapor; nor did he favor buying this slave army. A queen should hear all sides before reaching a decision. That was why Dany had brought him with her to the Plaza of Pride, not to keep her safe. Her bloodriders would do that well enough. Ser Jorah Mormont she had left aboard Balerion to guard her people and her dragons. Much against her inclination, she had locked the dragons belowdecks. It was too dangerous to let them fly freely over the city; the world was all too full of men who would gladly kill them for no better reason than to name themselves dragonslayer.
“What did the smelly old man say?” the slaver demanded of his translator. When she told him, he smiled and said, “Inform the savages that we call this obedience. Others may be stronger or quicker or larger than the Unsullied. Some few may even equal their skill with sword and spear and shield. But nowhere between the seas will you ever find any more obedient.”
“Sheep are obedient,” said Arstan when the words had been translated. He had some Valyrian as well, though not so much as Dany, but like her he was feigning ignorance.
Kraznys mo Nakloz showed his big white teeth when that was rendered back to him. “A word from me and these sheep would spill his stinking old bowels on the bricks,” he said, “but do not say that. Tell them that these creatures are more dogs than sheep. Do they eat dogs or horse in these Seven Kingdoms?”
“They prefer pigs and cows, your worship.”
“Beef. Pfag. Food for unwashed savages.”
Ignoring them all, Dany walked slowly down the line of slave soldiers. The girls followed close behind with the silk awning, to keep her in the shade, but the thousand men before her enjoyed no such protection. More than half had the copper skins and almond eyes of Dothraki and Lhazerene, but she saw men of the Free Cities in the ranks as well, along with pale Qartheen, ebon-faced Summer Islanders, and others whose origins she could not guess. And some had skins of the same amber hue as Kraznys mo Nakloz, and the bristly red-black hair that marked the ancient folk of Ghis, who named themselves the harpy’s sons. They sell even their own kind. It should not have surprised her. The Dothraki did the same, when khalasar met khalasar in the sea of grass.
Some of the soldiers were tall and some were short. They ranged in age from fourteen to twenty, she judged. Their cheeks were smooth, and their eyes all the same, be they black or brown or blue or grey or amber. They are like one man, Dany thought, until she remembered that they were no men at all. The Unsullied were eunuchs, every one of them. “Why do you cut them?” she asked Kraznys through the slave girl. “Whole men are stronger than eunuchs, I have always heard.”
“A eunuch who is cut young will never have the brute strength of one of your Westerosi knights, this is true,” said Kraznys mo Nakloz when the question was put to him. “A bull is strong as well, but bulls die every day in the fighting pits. A girl of nine killed one not three days past in Jothiel’s Pit. The Unsullied have something better than strength, tell her. They have discipline. We fight in the fashion of the Old Empire, yes. They are the lockstep legions of Old Ghis come again, absolutely obedient, absolutely loyal, and utterly without fear.”
Dany listened patiently to the translation.
“Even the bravest men fear death and maiming,” Arstan said when the girl was done.
Kraznys smiled again when he heard that. “Tell the old man that he smells of piss, and needs a stick to hold him up.”
“Truly, your worship?”
He poked her with his lash. “No, not truly, are you a girl or a goat, to ask such folly? Say that Unsullied are not men. Say that death means nothing to them, and maiming less than nothing.” He stopped before a thickset man who had the look of Lhazar about him and brought his whip up sharply, laying a line of blood across one copper cheek. The eunuch blinked, and stood there, bleeding. “Would you like another?” asked Kraznys.
“If it please your worship.”
It was hard to pretend not to understand. Dany laid a hand on Kraznys’s arm before he could raise the whip again. “Tell the Good Master that I see how strong his Unsullied are, and how bravely they suffer pain.”
Kraznys chuckled when he heard her words in Valyrian. “Tell this ignorant whore of a westerner that courage has nothing to do with it.”
“The Good Master says that was not courage, Your Grace.”
“Tell her to open those slut’s eyes of hers.”
“He begs you attend this carefully, Your Grace.”
Kraznys moved to the next eunuch in line, a towering youth with the blue eyes and flaxen hair of Lys. “Your sword,” he said. The eunuch knelt, unsheathed the blade, and offered it up hilt first. It was a shortsword, made more for stabbing than for slashing, but the edge looked razor-sharp. “Stand,” Kraznys commanded.
“Your worship.” The eunuch stood, and Kraznys mo Nakloz slid the sword slowly up his torso, leaving a thin red line across his belly and between his ribs. Then he jabbed the swordpoint in beneath a wide pink nipple and began to work it back and forth.
“What is he doing?” Dany demanded of the girl, as the blood ran down the man’s chest.
“Tell the cow to stop her bleating,” said Kraznys, without waiting for the translation. “This will do him no great harm. Men have no need of nipples, eunuchs even less so.” The nipple hung by a thread of skin. He slashed, and sent it tumbling to the bricks, leaving behind a round red eye copiously weeping blood. The eunuch did not move, until Kraznys offered him back his sword, hilt first. “Here, I’m done with you.”
“This one is pleased to have served you.”
Kraznys turned back to Dany. “They feel no pain, you see.”
“How can that be?” she demanded through the scribe.
“The wine of courage,” was the answer he gave her. “It is no true wine at all, but made from deadly nightshade, bloodfly larva, black lotus root, and many secret things. They drink it with every meal from the day they are cut, and with each passing year feel less and less. It makes them fearless in battle. Nor can they be tortured. Tell the savage her secrets are safe with the Unsullied. She may set them to guard her councils and even her bedchamber, and never a worry as to what they might overhear.
“In Yunkai and Meereen, eunuchs are often made by removing a boy’s testicles, but leaving the penis. Such a creature is infertile, yet often still capable of erection. Only trouble can come of this. We remove the penis as well, leaving nothing. The Unsullied are the purest creatures on the earth.” He gave Dany and Arstan another of his broad white smiles. “I have heard that in the Sunset Kingdoms men take solemn vows to keep chaste and father no children, but live only for their duty. Is it not so?”
“It is,” Arstan said, when the question was put. “There are many such orders. The maesters of the Citadel, the septons and septas who serve the Seven, the silent sisters of the dead, the Kingsguard and the Night’s Watch . . . ”
“Poor things,” growled the slaver, after the translation. “Men were not made to live thus. Their days are a torment of temptation, any fool must see, and no doubt most succumb to their baser selves. Not so our Unsullied. They are wed to their swords in a way that your Sworn Brothers cannot hope to match. No woman can ever tempt them, nor any man.”
His girl conveyed the essence of his speech, more politely. “There are other ways to tempt men, besides the flesh,” Arstan Whitebeard objected, when she was done.
“Men, yes, but not Unsullied. Plunder interests them no more than rape. They own nothing but their weapons. We do not even permit them names.”
“No names?” Dany frowned at the little scribe. “Can that be what the Good Master said? They have no names?”
“It is so, Your Grace.”
Kraznys stopped in front of a Ghiscari who might have been his taller fitter brother, and flicked his lash at a small bronze disk on the swordbelt at his feet. “There is his name. Ask the whore of Westeros whether she can read Ghiscari glyphs.” When Dany admitted that she could not, the slaver turned to the Unsullied. “What is your name?” he demanded.
“This one’s name is Red Flea, your worship.”
The girl repeated their exchange in the Common Tongue.
“And yesterday, what was it?”
“Black Rat, your worship.”
“The day before?”
“Brown Flea, your worship.”
“Before that?”
“This one does not recall, your worship. Blue Toad, perhaps. Or Blue Worm.”
“Tell her all their names are such,” Kraznys commanded the girl. “It reminds them that by themselves they are vermin. The name disks are thrown in an empty cask at duty’s end, and each dawn plucked up again at random.”
“More madness,” said Arstan, when he heard. “How can any man possibly remember a new name every day?”
“Those who cannot are culled in training, along with those who cannot run all day in full pack, scale a mountain in the black of night, walk across a bed of coals, or slay an infant.”
Dany’s mouth surely twisted at that. Did he see, or is he blind as well as cruel? She turned away quickly, trying to keep her face a mask until she heard the translation. Only then did she allow herself to say, “Whose infants do they slay?”
“To win his spiked cap, an Unsullied must go to the slave marts with a silver mark, find some wailing newborn, and kill it before its mother’s eyes. In this way, we make certain that there is no weakness left in them.”
She was feeling faint. The heat, she tried to tell herself. “You take a babe from its mother’s arms, kill it as she watches, and pay for her pain with a silver coin?”
When the translation was made for him, Kraznys mo Nakloz laughed aloud. “What a soft mewling fool this one is. Tell the whore of Westeros that the mark is for the child’s owner, not the mother. The Unsullied are not permitted to steal.” He tapped his whip against his leg. “Tell her that few ever fail that test. The dogs are harder for them, it must be said. We give each boy a puppy on the day that he is cut. At the end of the first year, he is required to strangle it. Any who cannot are killed, and fed to the surviving dogs. It makes for a good strong lesson, we find.”
Arstan Whitebeard tapped the end of his staff on the bricks as he listened to that. Tap tap tap. Slow and steady. Tap tap tap. Dany saw him turn his eyes away, as if he could not bear to look at Kraznys any longer.
“The Good Master has said that these eunuchs cannot be tempted with coin or flesh,” Dany told the girl, “but if some enemy of mine should offer them freedom for betraying me . . . ”
“They would kill him out of hand and bring her his head, tell her that,” the slaver answered. “Other slaves may steal and hoard up silver in hopes of buying freedom, but an Unsullied would not take it if the little mare offered it as a gift. They have no life outside their duty. They are soldiers, and that is all.”
“It is soldiers I need,” Dany admitted.
“Tell her it is well she came to Astapor, then. Ask her how large an army she wishes to buy.”
“How many Unsullied do you have to sell?”
“Eight thousand fully trained and available at present. We sell them only by the unit, she should know. By the thousand or the century. Once we sold by the ten, as household guards, but that proved unsound. Ten is too few. They mingle with other slaves, even freemen, and forget who and what they are.” Kraznys waited for that to be rendered in the Common Tongue, and then continued. “This beggar queen must understand, such wonders do not come cheaply. In Yunkai and Meereen, slave swordsmen can be had for less than the price of their swords, but Unsullied are the finest foot in all the world, and each represents many years of training. Tell her they are like Valyrian steel, folded over and over and hammered for years on end, until they are stronger and more resilient than any metal on earth.”
“I know of Valyrian steel,” said Dany. “Ask the Good Master if the Unsullied have their own officers.”
“You must set your own officers over them. We train them to obey, not to think. If it is wits she wants, let her buy scribes.”
“And their gear?”
“Sword, shield, spear, sandals, and quilted tunic are included,” said Kraznys. “And the spiked caps, to be sure. They will wear such armor as you wish, but you must provide it.”
Dany could think of no other questions. She looked at Arstan. “You have lived long in the world, Whitebeard. Now that you have seen them, what do you say?”
“I say no, Your Grace,” the old man answered at once.
“Why?” she asked. “Speak freely.” Dany thought she knew what he would say, but she wanted the slave girl to hear, so Kraznys mo Nakloz might hear later.
“My queen,” said Arstan, “there have been no slaves in the Seven Kingdoms for thousands of years. The old gods and the new alike hold slavery to be an abomination. Evil. If you should land in Westeros at the head of a slave army, many good men will oppose you for no other reason than that. You will do great harm to your cause, and to the honor of your House.”
“Yet I must have some army,” Dany said. “The boy Joffrey will not give me the Iron Throne for asking politely.”
“When the day comes that you raise your banners, half of Westeros will be with you,” Whitebeard promised. “Your brother Rhaegar is still remembered, with great love.”
“And my father?” Dany said.
The old man hesitated before saying, “King Aerys is also remembered. He gave the realm many years of peace. Your Grace, you have no need of slaves. Magister Illyrio can keep you safe while your dragons grow, and send secret envoys across the narrow sea on your behalf, to sound out the high lords for your cause.”
“Those same high lords who abandoned my father to the Kingslayer and bent the knee to Robert the Usurper?”
“Even those who bent their knees may yearn in their hearts for the return of the dragons.”
“May,” said Dany. That was such a slippery word, may. In any language. She turned back to Kraznys mo Nakloz and his slave girl. “I must consider carefully.”
The slaver shrugged. “Tell her to consider quickly. There are many other buyers. Only three days past I showed these same Unsullied to a corsair king who hopes to buy them all.”
“The corsair wanted only a hundred, your worship,” Dany heard the slave girl say.
He poked her with the end of the whip. “Corsairs are all liars. He’ll buy them all. Tell her that, girl.”
Dany knew she would take more than a hundred, if she took any at all. “Remind your Good Master of who I am. Remind him that I am Daenerys Stormborn, Mother of Dragons, the Unburnt, trueborn queen of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. My blood is the blood of Aegon the Conqueror, and of old Valyria before him.”
Yet her words did not move the plump perfumed slaver, even when rendered in his own ugly tongue. “Old Ghis ruled an empire when the Valyrians were still fucking sheep,” he growled at the poor little scribe, “and we are the sons of the harpy.” He gave a shrug. “My tongue is wasted wagging at women. East or west, it makes no matter, they cannot decide until they have been pampered and flattered and stuffed with sweetmeats. Well, if this is my fate, so be it. Tell the whore that if she requires a guide to our sweet city, Kraznys mo Nakloz will gladly serve her . . . and service her as well, if she is more woman than she looks.”
“Good Master Kraznys would be most pleased to show you Astapor while you ponder, Your Grace,” the translator said.
“I will feed her jellied dog brains, and a fine rich stew of red octopus and unborn puppy.” He wiped his lips.
“Many delicious dishes can be had here, he says.”
“Tell her how pretty the pyramids are at night,” the slaver growled. “Tell her I will lick honey off her breasts, or allow her to lick honey off mine if she prefers.”
“Astapor is most beautiful at dusk, Your Grace,” said the slave girl. “The Good Masters light silk lanterns on every terrace, so all the pyramids glow with colored lights. Pleasure barges ply the Worm, playing soft music and calling at the little islands for food and wine and other delights.”
“Ask her if she wishes to view our fighting pits,” Kraznys added. “Douquor’s Pit has a fine folly scheduled for the evening. A bear and three small boys. One boy will be rolled in honey, one in blood, and one in rotting fish, and she may wager on which the bear will eat first.”
Tap tap tap, Dany heard. Arstan Whitebeard’s face was still, but his staff beat out his rage. Tap tap tap. She made herself smile. “I have my own bear on Balerion,” she told the translator, “and he may well eat me if I do not return to him.”
“See,” said Kraznys when her words were translated. “It is not the woman who decides, it is this man she runs to. As ever!”
“Thank the Good Master for his patient kindness,” Dany said, “and tell him that I will think on all I learned here.” She gave her arm to Arstan Whitebeard, to lead her back across the plaza to her litter. Aggo and Jhogo fell in to either side of them, walking with the bowlegged swagger all the horselords affected when forced to dismount and stride the earth like common mortals.
Dany climbed into her litter frowning, and beckoned Arstan to climb in beside her. A man as old as him should not be walking in such heat. She did not close the curtains as they got under way. With the sun beating down so fiercely on this city of red brick, every stray breeze was to be cherished, even if it did come with a swirl of fine red dust. Besides, I need to see.
Astapor was a queer city, even to the eyes of one who had walked within the House of Dust and bathed in the Womb of the World beneath the Mother of Mountains. All the streets were made of the same red brick that had paved the plaza. So too were the stepped pyramids, the deep-dug fighting pits with their rings of descending seats, the sulfurous fountains and gloomy wine caves, and the ancient walls that encircled them. So many bricks, she thought, and so old and crumbling. Their fine red dust was everywhere, dancing down the gutters at each gust of wind. Small wonder so many Astapori women veiled their faces; the brick dust stung the eyes worse than sand.
“Make way!” Jhogo shouted as he rode before her litter. “Make way for the Mother of Dragons!” But when he uncoiled the great silverhandled whip that Dany had given him, and made to crack it in the air, she leaned out and told him nay. “Not in this place, blood of my blood,” she said, in his own tongue. “These bricks have heard too much of the sound of whips.”
The streets had been largely deserted when they had set out from the port that morning, and scarcely seemed more crowded now. An elephant lumbered past with a latticework litter on its back. A naked boy with peeling skin sat in a dry brick gutter, picking his nose and staring sullenly at some ants in the street. He lifted his head at the sound of hooves, and gaped as a column of mounted guards trotted by in a cloud of red dust and brittle laughter. The copper disks sewn to their cloaks of yellow silk glittered like so many suns, but their tunics were embroidered linen, and below the waist they wore sandals and pleated linen skirts. Bareheaded, each man had teased and oiled and twisted his stiff red-black hair into some fantastic shape, horns and wings and blades and even grasping hands, so they looked like some troupe of demons escaped from the seventh hell. The naked boy watched them for a bit, along with Dany, but soon enough they were gone, and he went back to his ants, and a knuckle up his nose.
An old city, this, she reflected, but not so populous as it was in its glory, nor near so crowded as Qarth or Pentos or Lys.
Her litter came to a sudden halt at the cross street, to allow a coffle of slaves to shuffle across her path, urged along by the crack of an overseer’s lash. These were no Unsullied, Dany noted, but a more common sort of men, with pale brown skins and black hair. There were women among them, but no children. All were naked. Two Astapori rode behind them on white asses, a man in a red silk tokar and a veiled woman in sheer blue linen decorated with flakes of lapis lazuli. In her red-black hair she wore an ivory comb. The man laughed as he whispered to her, paying no more mind to Dany than to his slaves, nor the overseer with his twisted five-thonged lash, a squat broad Dothraki who had the harpy and chains tattooed proudly across his muscular chest.
“Bricks and blood built Astapor,” Whitebeard murmured at her side, “and bricks and blood her people.”
“What is that?” Dany asked him, curious.
“An old rhyme a maester taught me, when I was a boy. I never knew how true it was. The bricks of Astapor are red with the blood of the slaves who make them.”
“I can well believe that,” said Dany.
“Then leave this place before your heart turns to brick as well. Sail this very night, on the evening tide.”
Would that I could, thought Dany. “When I leave Astapor it must be with an army, Ser Jorah says.”
“Ser Jorah was a slaver himself, Your Grace,” the old man reminded her. “There are sellswords in Pentos and Myr and Tyrosh you can hire. A man who kills for coin has no honor, but at least they are no slaves. Find your army there, I beg you.”
“My brother visited Pentos, Myr, Braavos, near all the Free Cities. The magisters and archons fed him wine and promises, but his soul was starved to death. A man cannot sup from the beggar’s bowl all his life and stay a man. I had my taste in Qarth, that was enough. I will not come to Pentos bowl in hand.”
“Better to come a beggar than a slaver,” Arstan said.
“There speaks one who has been neither.” Dany’s nostrils flared. “Do you know what it is like to be sold, squire? I do. My brother sold me to Khal Drogo for the promise of a golden crown. Well, Drogo crowned him in gold, though not as he had wished, and I . . . my sun-and-stars made a queen of me, but if he had been a different man, it might have been much otherwise. Do you think I have forgotten how it felt to be afraid?”
Whitebeard bowed his head. “Your Grace, I did not mean to give offense.”
“Only lies offend me, never honest counsel.” Dany patted Arstan’s spotted hand to reassure him. “I have a dragon’s temper, that’s all. You must not let it frighten you.”
“I shall try and remember.” Whitebeard smiled.
He has a good face, and great strength to him, Dany thought. She could not understand why Ser Jorah mistrusted the old man so. Could he be jealous that I have found another man to talk to? Unbidden, her thoughts went back to the night on Balerion when the exile knight had kissed her. He should never have done that. He is thrice my age, and of too low a birth for me, and I never gave him leave. No true knight would ever kiss a queen without her leave. She had taken care never to be alone with Ser Jorah after that, keeping her handmaids with her aboard ship, and sometimes her bloodriders. He wants to kiss me again, I see it in his eyes.
What Dany wanted she could not begin to say, but Jorah’s kiss had woken something in her, something that been sleeping since Khal Drogo died. Lying abed in her narrow bunk, she found herself wondering how it would be to have a man squeezed in beside her in place of her handmaid, and the thought was more exciting than it should have been. Sometimes she would close her eyes and dream of him, but it was never Jorah Mormont she dreamed of; her lover was always younger and more comely, though his face remained a shifting shadow.
Once, so tormented she could not sleep, Dany slid a hand down between her legs, and gasped when she felt how wet she was. Scarce daring to breathe, she moved her fingers back and forth between her lower lips, slowly so as not to wake Irri beside her, until she found one sweet spot and lingered there, touching herself lightly, timidly at first and then faster. Still, the relief she wanted seemed to recede before her, until her dragons stirred, and one screamed out across the cabin, and Irri woke and saw what she was doing.
Dany knew her face was flushed, but in the darkness Irri surely could not tell. Wordless, the handmaid put a hand on her breast, then bent to take a nipple in her mouth. Her other hand drifted down across the soft curve of belly, through the mound of fine silvery-gold hair, and went to work between Dany’s thighs. It was no more than a few moments until her legs twisted and her breasts heaved and her whole body shuddered. She screamed then. Or perhaps that was Drogon. Irri never said a thing, only curled back up and went back to sleep the instant the thing was done.
The next day, it all seemed a dream. And what did Ser Jorah have to do with it, if anything? It is Drogo I want, my sun-and-stars, Dany reminded herself. Not Irri, and not Ser Jorah, only Drogo. Drogo was dead, though. She’d thought these feelings had died with him there in the red waste, but one treacherous kiss had somehow brought them back to life. He should never have kissed me. He presumed too much, and I permitted it. It must never happen again. She set her mouth grimly and gave her head a shake, and the bell in her braid chimed softly.
Closer to the bay, the city presented a fairer face. The great brick pyramids lined the shore, the largest four hundred feet high. All manner of trees and vines and flowers grew on their broad terraces, and the winds that swirled around them smelled green and fragrant. Another gigantic harpy stood atop the gate, this one made of baked red clay and crumbling visibly, with no more than a stub of her scorpion’s tail remaining. The chain she grasped in her clay claws was old iron, rotten with rust. It was cooler down by the water, though. The lapping of the waves against the rotting pilings made a curiously soothing sound.
Aggo helped Dany down from her litter. Strong Belwas was seated on a massive piling, eating a great haunch of brown roasted meat. “Dog,” he said happily when he saw Dany. “Good dog in Astapor, little queen. Eat?” He offered it with a greasy grin.
“That is kind of you, Belwas, but no.” Dany had eaten dog in other places, at other times, but just now all she could think of was the Unsullied and their stupid puppies. She swept past the huge eunuch and up the plank onto the deck of Balerion.
Ser Jorah Mormont stood waiting for her. “Your Grace,” he said, bowing his head. “The slavers have come and gone. Three of them, with a dozen scribes and as many slaves to lift and fetch. They crawled over every foot of our holds and made note of all we had.” He walked her aft. “How many men do they have for sale?”
“None.” Was it Mormont she was angry with, or this city with its sullen heat, its stinks and sweats and crumbling bricks? “They sell eunuchs, not men. Eunuchs made of brick, like the rest of Astapor. Shall I buy eight thousand brick eunuchs with dead eyes that never move, who kill suckling babes for the sake of a spiked hat and strangle their own dogs? They don’t even have names. So don’t call them men, ser.”
“Khaleesi,” he said, taken aback by her fury, “the Unsullied are chosen as boys, and trained—”
“I have heard all I care to of their training.” Dany could feel tears welling in her eyes, sudden and unwanted. Her hand flashed up and cracked Ser Jorah hard across the face. It was either that, or cry.
Mormont touched the cheek she’d slapped. “If I have displeased my queen—”
“You have. You’ve displeased me greatly, ser. If you were my true knight, you would never have brought me to this vile sty.” If you were my true knight, you would never have kissed me, or looked at my breasts the way you did, or . . .
“As Your Grace commands. I shall tell Captain Groleo to make ready to sail on the evening tide, for some sty less vile.”
“No,” said Dany. Groleo watched them from the forecastle, and his crew was watching too. Whitebeard, her bloodriders, Jhiqui, every one had stopped what they were doing at the sound of the slap. “I want to sail now, not on the tide, I want to sail far and fast and never look back. But I can’t, can I? There are eight thousand brick eunuchs for sale, and I must find some way to buy them.” And with that she left him, and went below.
Behind the carved wooden door of the captain’s cabin, her dragons were restless. Drogon raised his head and screamed, pale smoke venting from his nostrils, and Viserion flapped at her and tried to perch on her shoulder, as he had when he was smaller. “No,” Dany said, trying to shrug him off gently. “You’re too big for that now, sweetling.” But the dragon coiled his white and gold tail around one arm and dug black claws into the fabric of her sleeve, clinging tightly. Helpless, she sank into Groleo’s great leather chair, giggling.
“They have been wild while you were gone, Khaleesi,” Irri told her. “Viserion clawed splinters from the door, do you see? And Drogon made to escape when the slaver men came to see them. When I grabbed his tail to hold him back, he turned and bit me.” She showed Dany the marks of his teeth on her hand.
“Did any of them try to burn their way free?” That was the thing that frightened Dany the most.
“No, Khaleesi. Drogon breathed his fire, but in the empty air. The slaver men feared to come near him.”
She kissed Irri’s hand where Drogon had bitten it. “I’m sorry he hurt you. Dragons are not meant to be locked up in a small ship’s cabin.”
“Dragons are like horses in this,” Irri said. “And riders, too. The horses scream below, Khaleesi, and kick at the wooden walls. I hear them. And Jhiqui says the old women and the little ones scream too, when you are not here. They do not like this water cart. They do not like the black salt sea.”
“I know,” Dany said. “I do, I know.”
“My khaleesi is sad?”
“Yes,” Dany admitted. Sad and lost.
“Should I pleasure the khaleesi?”
Dany stepped away from her. “No. Irri, you do not need to do that. What happened that night, when you woke . . . you’re no bed slave, I freed you, remember? You . . . ”
“I am handmaid to the Mother of Dragons,” the girl said. “It is great honor to please my khaleesi.”
“I don’t want that,” she insisted. “I don’t.” She turned away sharply. “Leave me now. I want to be alone. To think.”
Dusk had begun to settle over the waters of Slaver’s Bay before Dany returned to the deck. She stood by the rail and looked out over Astapor. From here it looks almost beautiful, she thought. The stars were coming out above, and the silk lanterns below, just as Kraznys’s translator had promised. The brick pyramids were all glimmery with light. But it is dark below, in the streets and plazas and fighting pits. And it is darkest of all in the barracks, where some little boy is feeding scraps to the puppy they gave him when they took away his manhood.
There was a soft step behind her. “Khaleesi.” His voice. “Might I speak frankly?”
Dany did not turn. She could not bear to look at him just now. If she did, she might well slap him again. Or cry. Or kiss him. And never know which was right and which was wrong and which was madness. “Say what you will, ser.”
“When Aegon the Dragon stepped ashore in Westeros, the kings of Vale and Rock and Reach did not rush to hand him their crowns. If you mean to sit his Iron Throne, you must win it as he did, with steel and dragonfire. And that will mean blood on your hands before the thing is done.”
Blood and fire, thought Dany. The words of House Targaryen. She had known them all her life. “The blood of my enemies I will shed gladly. The blood of innocents is another matter. Eight thousand Unsullied they would offer me. Eight thousand dead babes. Eight thousand strangled dogs.”
“Your Grace,” said Jorah Mormont, “I saw King’s Landing after the Sack. Babes were butchered that day as well, and old men, and children at play. More women were raped than you can count. There is a savage beast in every man, and when you hand that man a sword or spear and send him forth to war, the beast stirs. The scent of blood is all it takes to wake him. Yet I have never heard of these Unsullied raping, nor putting a city to the sword, nor even plundering, save at the express command of those who lead them. Brick they may be, as you say, but if you buy them henceforth the only dogs they’ll kill are those you want dead. And you do have some dogs you want dead, as I recall.”
The Usurper’s dogs. “Yes.” Dany gazed off at the soft colored lights and let the cool salt breeze caress her. “You speak of sacking cities. Answer me this, ser—why have the Dothraki never sacked this city?” She pointed. “Look at the walls. You can see where they’ve begun to crumble. There, and there. Do you see any guards on those towers? I don’t. Are they hiding, ser? I saw these sons of the harpy today, all their proud highborn warriors. They dressed in linen skirts, and the fiercest thing about them was their hair. Even a modest khalasar could crack this Astapor like a nut and spill out the rotted meat inside. So tell me, why is that ugly harpy not sitting beside the godsway in Vaes Dothrak among the other stolen gods?”
“You have a dragon’s eye, Khaleesi, that’s plain to see.”
“I wanted an answer, not a compliment.”
“There are two reasons. Astapor’s brave defenders are so much chaff, it’s true. Old names and fat purses who dress up as Ghiscari scourges to pretend they still rule a vast empire. Every one is a high officer. On feastdays they fight mock wars in the pits to demonstrate what brilliant commanders they are, but it’s the eunuchs who do the dying. All the same, any enemy wanting to sack Astapor would have to know that they’d be facing Unsullied. The slavers would turn out the whole garrison in the city’s defense. The Dothraki have not ridden against Unsullied since they left their braids at the gates of Qohor.”
“And the second reason?” Dany asked.
“Who would attack Astapor?” Ser Jorah asked. “Meereen and Yunkai are rivals but not enemies, the Doom destroyed Valyria, the folk of the eastern hinterlands are all Ghiscari, and beyond the hills lies Lhazar. The Lamb Men, as your Dothraki call them, a notably unwarlike people.”
“Yes,” she agreed, “but north of the slave cities is the Dothraki sea, and two dozen mighty khals who like nothing more than sacking cities and carrying off their people into slavery.”
“Carrying them off where? What good are slaves once you’ve killed the slavers? Valyria is no more, Qarth lies beyond the red waste, and the Nine Free Cities are thousands of leagues to the west. And you may be sure the sons of the harpy give lavishly to every passing khal, just as the magisters do in Pentos and Norvos and Myr. They know that if they feast the horselords and give them gifts, they will soon ride on. It’s cheaper than fighting, and a deal more certain.”
Cheaper than fighting, Dany thought. Yes, it might be. If only it could be that easy for her. How pleasant it would be to sail to King’s Landing with her dragons, and pay the boy Joffrey a chest of gold to make him go away.
“Khaleesi?” Ser Jorah prompted, when she had been silent for a long time. He touched her elbow lightly.
Dany shrugged him off . “Viserys would have bought as many Unsullied as he had the coin for. But you once said I was like Rhaegar . . . ”
“I remember, Daenerys.”
“Your Grace,” she corrected. “Prince Rhaegar led free men into battle, not slaves. Whitebeard said he dubbed his squires himself, and made many other knights as well.”
“There was no higher honor than to receive your knighthood from the Prince of Dragonstone.”
“Tell me, then—when he touched a man on the shoulder with his sword, what did he say? ‘Go forth and kill the weak’? Or ‘Go forth and defend them’? At the Trident, those brave men Viserys spoke of who died beneath our dragon banners—did they give their lives because they believed in Rhaegar’s cause, or because they had been bought and paid for?” Dany turned to Mormont, crossed her arms, and waited for an answer.
“My queen,” the big man said slowly, “all you say is true. But Rhaegar lost on the Trident. He lost the battle, he lost the war, he lost the kingdom, and he lost his life. His blood swirled downriver with the rubies from his breastplate, and Robert the Usurper rode over his corpse to steal the Iron Throne. Rhaegar fought valiantly, Rhaegar fought nobly, Rhaegar fought honorably. And Rhaegar died.”