《冰与火之歌卷Ⅱ：列王的纷争》（A_Clash_Of_Kings）【完结】_派派后花园

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[Novel] 《冰与火之歌卷Ⅱ：列王的纷争》（A_Clash_Of_Kings）【完结】

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寒烟柔。

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

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

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

[ 此帖被挽墨在2015-09-07 00:37重新编辑 ]
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这么好的中英文版本竟然不分享附件。。。
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好书，谢谢楼主分享！
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你看着眼前的人，分明还是以前的模样，可心里终究不是以前那般澄清透明了。
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Chapter 68

　　CHAPTER 68 BRAN The ashes fell like a soft grey snow.
　　He padded over dry needles and brown leaves, to the edge of the wood where the pines grew thin. Beyond the open fields he could see the great piles of man-rock stark against the swirling flames. The wind blew hot and rich with the smell of blood and burnt meat, so strong he began to slaver.
　　Yet as one smell drew them onward, others warned them back. He sniffed at the drifting smoke. Men, many men, many horses, and fire, fire, fire. No smell was more dangerous, not even the hard cold smell of iron, the stuff of manclaws and hardskin. The smoke and ash clouded his eyes, and in the sky he saw a great winged snake whose roar was a river of flame. He bared his teeth, but then the snake was gone. Behind the cliffs tall fires were eating up the stars.
　　All through the night the fires crackled, and once there was a great roar and a crash that made the earth jump under his feet. Dogs barked and whined and horses screamed in terror. Howls shuddered through the night; the howls of the man-pack, wails of fear and wild shouts, laughter and screams. No beast was as noisy as man. He pricked up his ears and listened, and his brother growled at every sound. They prowled under the trees as a piney wind blew ashes and embers through the sky. In time the flames began to dwindle, and then they were gone. The sun rose grey and smoky that morning. Only then did he leave the trees, stalking slow across the fields. His brother ran with him, drawn to the smell of blood and death. They padded silent through the dens the men had built of wood and grass and mud. Many and more were burned and many and more were collapsed; others stood as they had before. Yet nowhere did they see or scent a living man. Crows blanketed the bodies and leapt into the air screeching when his brother and he came near. The wild dogs slunk away before them.
　　Beneath the great grey cliffs a horse was dying noisily, struggling to rise on a broken leg and screaming when he fell. His brother circled round him, then tore out his throat while the horse kicked feebly and rolled his eyes. When he approached the carcass his brother snapped at him and laid back his ears, and he cuffed him with a forepaw and bit his leg. They fought amidst the grass and dirt and falling ashes beside the dead horse, until his brother rolled on his back in submission, tail tucked low. One more bite at his upturned throat; then he fed, and let his brother feed, and licked the blood off his black fur.
　　The dark place was pulling at him by then, the house of whispers where all men were blind. He could feel its cold fingers on him. The stony smell of it was a whisper up the nose. He struggled against the pull. He did not like the darkness. He was wolf. He was hunter and stalker and slayer, and he belonged with his brothers and sisters in the deep woods, running free beneath a starry sky. He sat on his haunches, raised his head, and howled. I will not go, he cried. I am wolf, I will not go. Yet even so the darkness thickened, until it covered his eyes and filled his nose and stopped his ears, so he could not see or smell or hear or run, and the grey cliffs were gone and the dead horse was gone and his brother was gone and all was black and still and black and cold and black and dead and black . . .
　　“Bran,” a voice was whispering softly. “Bran, come back. Come back now, Bran. Bran . . .”
　　He closed his third eye and opened the other two, the old two, the blind two. In the dark place all men were blind. But someone was holding him. He could feel arms around him, the warmth of a body snuggled close. He could hear Hodor singing “Hodor, hodor, hodor,” quietly to himself.
　　“Bran?” It was Meera’s voice. “You were thrashing, making terrible noises. What did you see?”
　　“Winterfell.” His tongue felt strange and thick in his mouth. One day when I come back I won’t know how to talk anymore. “It was Winterfell. It was all on fire. There were horse smells, and steel, and blood. They killed everyone, Meera.”
　　He felt her hand on his face, stroking back his hair. “You’re all sweaty,” she said. “Do you need a drink?”
　　“A drink,” he agreed. She held a skin to his lips, and Bran swallowed so fast the water ran out of the corner of his mouth. He was always weak and thirsty when he came back. And hungry too. He remembered the dying horse, the taste of blood in his mouth, the smell of burnt flesh in the morning air. “How long?”
　　“Three days,” said Jojen. The boy had come up softfoot, or perhaps he had been there all along; in this blind black world, Bran could not have said. “We were afraid for you.”
　　“I was with Summer,” Bran said.
　　“Too long. You’ll starve yourself. Meera dribbled a little water down your throat, and we smeared honey on your mouth, but it is not enough.”
　　“I ate,” said Bran. “We ran down an elk and had to drive off a treecat that tried to steal him.” The cat had been tan-andbrown, only half the size of the direwolves, but fierce. He remembered the musky smell of him, and the way he had snarled down at them from the limb of the oak.
　　“The wolf ate,” Jojen said. “Not you. Take care, Bran. Remember who you are.”
　　He remembered who he was all too well; Bran the boy, Bran the broken. Better Bran the beastling. Was it any wonder he would sooner dream his Summer dreams, his wolf dreams? Here in the chill damp darkness of the tomb his third eye had finally opened. He could reach Summer whenever he wanted, and once he had even touched Ghost and talked to Jon. Though maybe he had only dreamed that. He could not understand why Jojen was always trying to pull him back now. Bran used the strength of his arms to squirm to a sitting position. “I have to tell Osha what I saw. Is she here? Where did she go?”
　　The wildling woman herself gave answer. “Nowhere, m’lord. I’ve had my fill o’ blundering in the black.” He heard the scrape of a heel on stone, turned his head toward the sound, but saw nothing. He thought he could smell her, but he wasn’t sure. All of them stank alike, and he did not have Summer’s nose to tell one from the other. “Last night I pissed on a king’s foot,” Osha went on. “Might be it was morning, who can say? I was sleeping, but now I’m not.” They all slept a lot, not only Bran. There was nothing else to do, Sleep and eat and sleep again, and sometimes talk a little . . . but not too much, and only in whispers, just to be safe. Osha might have liked it better if they had never talked at all, but there was no way to quiet Rickon, or to stop Hodor from muttering, “Hodor, hodor, hodor,” endlessly to himself.
　　“Osha,” Bran said, “I saw Winterfell burning.” Off to his left, he could hear the soft sound of Rickon’s breathing.
　　“A dream,” said Osha. “A wolf dream,” said Bran. “I smelled it too. Nothing smells like fire, or blood.”
　　“Whose blood?”
　　“Men, horses, dogs, everyone. We have to go see.”
　　“This scrawny skin of mine’s the only one I got,” said Osha. “That squid prince catches hold o’ me, they’ll strip it off my back with a whip.”
　　Meera’s hand found Bran’s in the darkness and gave his fingers a squeeze. “I’ll go if you’re afraid.”
　　Bran heard fingers fumbling at leather, followed by the sound of steel on flint. Then again. A spark flew, caught. Osha blew softly. A long pale flame awoke, stretching upward like a girl on her toes. Osha’s face floated above it. She touched the flame with the head of a torch. Bran had to squint as the pitch began to burn, filling the world with orange glare. The light woke Rickon, who sat up yawning.
　　When the shadows moved, it looked for an instant as if the dead were rising as well. Lyanna and Brandon, Lord Rickard Stark their father, Lord Edwyle his father, Lord Willam and his brother Artos the Implacable, Lord Donnor and Lord Beron and Lord Rodwell, one-eyed Lord jonnel, Lord Barth and Lord Brandon and Lord Cregan who had fought the Dragonknight. On their stone chairs they sat with stone wolves at their feet. This was where they came when the warmth had seeped out of their bodies; this was the dark hall of the dead, where the living feared to tread.
　　And in the mouth of the empty tomb that waited for Lord Eddard Stark, beneath his stately granite likeness, the six fugitives huddled round their little cache of bread and water and dried meat. “Little enough left,” Osha muttered as she blinked down on their stores. “I’d need to go up soon to steal food in any case, or we’d be down to eating Hodor.”
　　“Hodor,” Hodor said, grinning at her.
　　“Is it day or night up there?” Osha wondered. “I’ve lost all count o’ such.”
　　“Day,” Bran told her, “but it’s dark from all the smoke.”
　　“M’lord is certain?”
　　Never moving his broken body, he reached out all the same, and for an instant he was seeing double. There stood Osha holding the torch, and Meera and jojen and Hodor, and the double row of tall granite pillars and long dead lords behind them stretching away into darkness . . . but there was Winterfell as well, grey with drifting smoke, the massive oak-and-iron gates charred and askew, the drawbridge down in a tangle of broken chains and missing planks. Bodies floated in the moat, islands for the crows.
　　“Certain,” he declared.
　　Osha chewed on that a moment. “I’ll risk a look then. I want the lot o’ you close behind. Meera, get Bran’s basket.”
　　“Are we going home?” Rickon asked excitedly. “I want my horse. And I want applecakes and butter and honey, and Shaggy. Are we going where Shaggydog is?”
　　“Yes,” Bran promised, “but you have to be quiet.”
　　Meera strapped the wicker basket to Hodor’s back and helped lift Bran into it, easing his useless legs through the holes. He had a queer flutter in his belly. He knew what awaited them above, but that did not make it any less fearful. As they set off, he turned to give his father one last look, and it seemed to Bran that there was a sadness in Lord Eddard’s eyes, as if he did not want them to go. We have to, he thought. It’s time.
　　Osha carried her long oaken spear in one hand and the torch in the other. A naked sword hung down her back, one of the last to bear Mikken’s mark. He had forged it for Lord Eddard’s tomb, to keep his ghost at rest. But with Mikken slain and the ironmen guarding the armory, good steel had been hard to resist, even if it meant grave-robbing. Meera had claimed Lord Rickard’s blade, though she complained that it was too heavy. Brandon took his namesake’s, the sword made for the uncle he had never known. He knew he would not be much use in a fight, but even so the blade felt good in his hand.
　　But it was only a game, and Bran knew it.
　　Their footsteps echoed through the cavernous crypts. The shadows behind them swallowed his father as the shadows ahead retreated to unveil other statues; no mere lords, these, but the old Kings in the North. On their brows they wore stone crowns. Torrhen Stark, the King Who Knelt. Edwyn the Spring King. Theon Stark, the Hungry Wolf. Brandon the Burner and Brandon the Shipwright. Jorah and jonos, Brandon the Bad, Walton the Moon King, Edderion the Bridegroom, Eyron, Benjen the Sweet and Benjen the Bitter, King Edrick Snowbeard. Their faces were stern and strong, and some of them had done terrible things, but they were Starks every one, and Bran knew all their tales. He had never feared the crypts; they were part of his home and who he was, and he had always known that one day he would lie here too.
　　But now he was not so certain. If I go up, will I ever come back down? Where will I go when I die?
　　“Wait,” Osha said when they reached the twisting stone stairs that led up to the surface, and down to the deeper levels where kings more ancient still sat their dark thrones. She handed Meera the torch. “I’ll grope my way up.” For a time they could hear the sound of her footfalls, but they grew softer and softer until they faded away entirely. “Hodor,” said Hodor nervously.
　　Bran had told himself a hundred times how much he hated hiding down here in the dark, how much he wanted to see the sun again, to ride his horse through wind and rain. But now that the moment was upon him, he was afraid. He’d felt safe in the darkness; when you could not even find your own hand in front of your face, it was easy to believe that no enemies could ever find you either. And the stone lords had given him courage. Even when he could not see them, he had known they were there.
　　It seemed a long while before they heard anything again. Bran had begun to fear that something had happened to Osha. His brother was squirming restlessly. “I want to go home!” he said loudly. Hodor bobbed his head and said, “Hodor.” Then they heard the footsteps again, growing louder, and after a few minutes Osba emerged into the light, looking grim. “Something is blocking the door. I can’t move it.”
　　“Hodor can move anything,” said Bran.
　　Osha gave the huge stableboy an appraising look. “Might be he can. Come on, then.”
　　The steps were narrow, so they had to climb in single file. Osha led. Behind came Hodor, with Bran crouched low on his back so his head wouldn’t hit the ceiling. Meera followed with the torch, and Jojen brought up the rear, leading Rickon by the hand. Around and around they went, and up and up. Bran thought he could smell smoke now, but perhaps that was only the torch.
　　The door to the crypts was made of ironwood. It was old and heavy, and lay at a slant to the ground. Only one person could approach it at a time. Osha tried once more when she reached it, but Bran could see that it was not budging. “Let Hodor try.”
　　They had to pull Bran from his basket first, so he would not get squished. Meera squatted beside him on the steps, one arm thrown protectively across his shoulders, as Osha and Hodor traded places. “Open the door, Hodor,” Bran said.
　　The huge stableboy put both hands flat on the door, pushed, and grunted. “Hodor?” He slammed a fist against the wood, and it did not so much as jump. “Hodor.”
　　“Use your back,” urged Bran. “And your legs.”
　　Turning, Hodor put his back to the wood and shoved. Again. Again. “Hodor!” He put one foot on a higher step so he was bent under the slant of the door and tried to rise. This time the wood groaned and creaked. “Hodor!” The other foot came up a step, and Hodor spread his legs apart, braced, and straightened. His face turned red, and Bran could see cords in his neck bulging as he strained against the weight above him. “Hodor hodor hodor hodor hodor HODOR!” From above came a dull rumble. Then suddenly the door jerked upward and a shaft of daylight fell across Bran’s face, blinding him for a moment. Another shove brought the sound of shifting stone, and then the way was open. Osha poked her spear through and slid out after it, and Rickon squirmed through Meera’s legs to follow. Hodor shoved the door open all the way and stepped to the surface. The Reeds had to carry Bran up the last few steps.
　　The sky was a pale grey, and smoke eddied all around them. They stood in the shadow of the First Keep, or what remained of it. One whole side of the building had torn loose and fallen away. Stone and shattered gargoyles lay strewn across the yard. They fell just where I did, Bran thought when he saw them. Some of the gargoyles had broken into so many pieces it made him wonder how he was alive at all. Nearby some crows were pecking at a body crushed beneath the tumbled stone, but he lay facedown and Bran could not say who he was.
　　The First Keep had not been used for many hundreds of years, but now it was more of a shell than ever. The floors had burned inside it, and all the beams. Where the wall had fallen away, they could see right into the rooms, even into the privy. Yet behind, the broken tower still stood, no more burned than before. Jojen Reed was coughing from the smoke. “Take me home!” Rickon demanded. “I want to be home!” Hodor stomped in a circle. “Hodor,” he whimpered in a small voice. They stood huddled together with ruin and death all around them.
　　“We made noise enough to wake a dragon,” Osha said, “but there’s no one come. The castle’s dead and burned, just as Bran dreamed, but we had best—” She broke off suddenly at a noise behind them, and whirled with her spear at the ready.
　　Two lean dark shapes emerged from behind the broken tower, padding slowly through the rubble. Rickon gave a happy shout of “Shaggy!” and the black direwolf came bounding toward him. Summer advanced more slowly, rubbed his head up against Bran’s arm, and licked his face.
　　“We should go,” said Jojen. “So much death will bring other wolves besides Summer and Shaggydog, and not all on four feet.”
　　“Aye, soon enough,” Osha agreed, “but we need food, and there may be some survived this, Stay together. Meera, keep your shield up and guard our backs.” it took the rest of the morning to make a slow circuit of the castle. The great granite walls remained, blackened here and there by fire but otherwise untouched. But within, all was death and destruction. The doors of the Great Hall were charred and smoldering, and inside the rafters had given way and the whole roof had crashed down onto the floor. The green and yellow panes of the glass gardens were all in shards, the trees and fruits and flowers torn up or left exposed to die. Of the stables, made of wood and thatch, nothing remained but ashes, embers, and dead horses. Bran thought of his Dancer, and wanted to weep. There was a shallow steaming lake beneath the Library Tower, and hot water gushing from a crack in its side. The bridge between the Bell Tower and the rookery had collapsed into the yard below, and Maester Luwin’s turret was gone. They saw a dull red glow shining up through the narrow cellar windows beneath the Great Keep, and a second fire still burning in one of the storehouses.
　　Osha called softly through the blowing smoke as they went, but no one answered. They saw one dog worrying at a corpse, but he ran when he caught the scents of the direwolves; the rest had been slain in the kennels. The maester’s ravens were paying court to some of the corpses, while the crows from the broken tower attended others. Bran recognized Poxy Tym, even though someone had taken an axe to his face. One charred corpse, outside the ashen shell of Mother’s sept, sat with his arms drawn up and his hands balled into hard black fists, as if to punch anyone who dared approach him. “If the gods are good,” Osha said in a low angry voice, “the Others will take them that did this work.”
　　“It was Theon,” Bran said blackly.
　　“No. Look.” She pointed across the yard with her spear. “That’s one of his ironmen. And there. And that’s Greyjoy’s warhorse, see? The black one with the arrows in him.” She moved among the dead, frowning. “And here’s Black Lorren.” He had been hacked and cut so badly that his beard looked a reddish-brown now. “Took a few with him, he did.” Osha turned over one of the other corpses with her foot. “There’s a badge. A little man, all red.”
　　“The flayed man of the Dreadfort,” said Bran.
　　Summer howled, and darted away.
　　“The godswood.” Meera Reed ran after the direwolf, her shield and frog spear to hand. The rest of them trailed after, threading their way through smoke and fallen stones. The air was sweeter under the trees. A few pines along the edge of the wood had been scorched, but deeper in the damp soil and green wood had defeated the flames. “There is a power in living wood,” said jojen Reed, almost as if he knew what Bran was thinking, “a power strong as fire.”
　　On the edge of the black pool, beneath the shelter of the heart tree, Maester Luwin lay on his belly in the dirt. A trail of blood twisted back through damp leaves where he had crawled. Summer stood over him, and Bran thought he was dead at first, but when Meera touched his throat, the maester moaned. “Hodor?” Hodor said mournfully. “Hodor?”
　　Gently, they eased Luwin onto his back. He had grey eyes and grey hair, and once his robes had been grey as well, but they were darker now where the blood had soaked through. “Bran,” he said softly when he saw him sitting tall on Hodor’s back. “And Rickon too.” He smiled. “The gods are good. I knew . . .”
　　“Knew?” said Bran uncertainly.
　　“The legs, I could tell . . . the clothes fit, but the muscles in his legs . . . poor lad . . .” He coughed, and blood came up from inside him. “You vanished . . . in the woods . . . how, though?”
　　“We never went,” said Bran. “Well, only to the edge, and then doubled back. I sent the wolves on to make a trail, but we hid in Father’s tomb.”
　　“The crypts.” Luwin chuckled, a froth of blood on his lips. When the maester tried to move, he gave a sharp gasp of pain.
　　Tears filled Bran’s eyes. When a man was hurt you took him to the maester, but what could you do when your maester was hurt?
　　“We’ll need to make a litter to carry him,” said Osha.
　　“No use,” said Luwin. “I’m dying, woman.”
　　“You can’t,” said Rickon angrily. “No you can’t.” Beside him, Shaggydog bared his teeth and growled.
　　The maester smiled. “Hush now, child, I’m much older than you. I can . . . die as I please.”
　　“Hodor, down,” said Bran. Hodor went to his knees beside the maester.
　　“Listen,” Luwin said to Osha, “the princes . . . Robb’s heirs. Not . . . not together . . . do you hear?”
　　The wildling woman leaned on her spear. “Aye. Safer apart. But where to take them? I’d thought, might be these Cerwyns . . .”
　　Maester Luwin shook his head, though it was plain to see what the effort cost him. “Cerwyn boy’s dead. Ser Rodrik, Leobald Tallhart, Lady Hornwood . . . all slain. Deepwood fallen, Moat Cailin, soon Torrhen’s Square. Ironmen on the Stony Shore. And east, the Bastard of Bolton.”
　　“Then where?” asked Osha.
　　“White Harbor . . . the Umbers . . . I do not know . . . war everywhere . . . each man against his neighbor, and winter coming . . . such folly, such black mad folly . . .” Maester Luwin reached up and grasped Bran’s forearm, his fingers closing with a desperate strength. “You must be strong now. Strong.”
　　“I will be,” Bran said, though it was hard. Ser Rodrik killed and Maester Luwin, everyone, everyone . . .
　　“Good,” the maester said. “A good boy. Your . . . your father’s son, Bran. Now go.”
　　Osha gazed up at the weirwood, at the red face carved in the pale trunk. “And leave you for the gods?”
　　“I beg . . .” The maester swallowed. “A . . . a drink of water, and . . . another boon. If you would . . .”
　　“Aye.” She turned to Meera. “Take the boys.”
　　Jojen and Meera led Rickon out between them. Hodor followed. Low branches whipped at Bran’s face as they pushed between the trees, and the leaves brushed away his tears. Osha joined them in the yard a few moments later. She said no word of Maester Luwin. “Hodor must stay with Bran, to be his legs,” the wildling woman said briskly. “I will take Rickon with me.”
　　“We’ll go with Bran,” said Jojen Reed.
　　“Aye, I thought you might,” said Osha. “Believe I’ll try the East Gate, and follow the kingsroad a ways.”
　　“We’ll take the Hunter’s Gate,” said Meera.
　　“Hodor,” said Hodor.
　　They stopped at the kitchens first. Osha found some loaves of burned bread that were still edible, and even a cold roast fowl that she ripped in half. Meera unearthed a crock of honey and a big sack of apples. Outside, they made their farewells. Rickon sobbed and clung to Hodor’s leg until Osha gave him a smack with the butt end of her spear. Then he followed her quick enough. Shaggydog stalked after them. The last Bran saw of them was the direwolf’s tail as it vanished behind the broken tower.
　　The iron portcullis that closed the Hunter’s Gate had been warped so badly by heat it could not be raised more than a foot. They had to squeeze beneath its spikes, one by one.
　　“Will we go to your lord father?” Bran asked as they crossed the drawbridge between the walls. “To Greywater Watch?”
　　Meera looked to her brother for the answer. “Our road is north,” Jojen announced.
　　At the edge of the wolfswood, Bran turned in his basket for one last glimpse of the castle that had been his life. Wisps of smoke still rose into the grey sky, but no more than might have risen from Winterfell’s chimneys on a cold autumn afternoon. Soot stains marked some of the arrow loops, and here and there a crack or a missing merlon could be seen in the curtain wall, but it seemed little enough from this distance. Beyond, the tops of the keeps and towers still stood as they had for hundreds of years, and it was hard to tell that the castle had been sacked and burned at all. The stone is strong, Bran told himself, the roots of the trees go deep, and under the ground the Kings of Winter sit their thrones. So long as those remained, Winterfell remained. It was not dead, just broken. Like me, he thought. I’m not dead either.
　　
（end）



Ⅱ 列王的纷争 Chapter69 琼恩
　　当断掌科林吩咐他去寻柴生火时，琼恩明白他们死期已近。
　　能重享温暖是不幸中的大幸，哪怕为时不长，他一边从枯木上砍伐枝条一边想。白灵蹲坐着看他，沉静一如往昔。我死以后，他会为我哀嚎吗？就像布兰坠楼时的夏天？琼恩不禁思量。临冬城的毛毛狗会叫么？身在他乡的灰风与娜梅莉亚，他们是否会齐声加入？
　　月亮从山的这边升起，太阳从山的那头落下，琼恩用打火石和小刀摩擦生火，好容易弄出一缕青烟。火苗摇曳，在刮下的树皮和枯死干燥的松针上蔓延，科林走到他身边。“含羞的新娘，”高大的游骑兵轻声道，“如花的美貌。火的美，真让人击节赞叹。”
　　他不像是那种会谈论美女和新娘的男人。据琼恩所知，科林把一生都献给守夜人。他爱过女人？结过婚吗？问题难以出口，于是他只默默煽动火苗。当篝火熊熊，他摘下硬邦邦的手套，温暖掌心，不由自主地发出一声轻叹，哪有比这更甜美的亲吻呢？暖意如熔化的黄油，在指尖扩散。
　　断掌在火边席地盘腿而坐，摇曳的光亮照着他脸上坚毅的线条。从风声峡撤退的五个游骑兵只剩他们两人，终日在霜雪之牙无垠的蓝灰荒野中亡命躲藏。
　　最初琼恩心存侥幸，希望侍从戴里吉在峡口拦住野人，但猎号沉寂片刻后又二度响起，人人心照不宣：侍从已然丧命。接着，那只老鹰再次出现，它张开雄伟的灰蓝翅膀翱翔在暮霭的天空。石蛇弯弓瞄准，鸟儿却在他放箭前飞出射程。伊班啐口唾沫，低声咒骂狼灵和易形者。
　　之后这一天，他们至少两次看见那鹰，猎号也一直在身后的群山中回荡。一响高过一响，一声近似一声。等夜幕降临，断掌吩咐伊班带上自己和侍从的马，沿来路向东朝莫尔蒙的营地全速前进。其他人将为他引开追兵。“派琼恩去，”伊班劝阻，“他身手敏捷，不逊于我。”
　　“琼恩另有任务。”
　　“他还是个孩子。”
　　“不，”科林道，“他是守夜人的汉子。”
　　明月高升，伊班脱离团队，石蛇和他同行一段，再回头掩盖踪迹。三人奔西南而行。
　　他们日夜兼程，加急赶路，睡卧马鞍，只是饮马时方才稍作休息，之后又继续前进。他们踏过光秃的岩石，穿行阴郁的松林和陈年的积雪，翻越冰脊，跨过无名的浅河。科林和石蛇不时折返去清扫踪迹，但只是白费功夫。他们一直被监视。每个清晨，每个黄昏，老鹰盘旋在山峰之巅，犹如长天中的一个点。
　　一次，当他们走过雪峰之间的低矮山脊时，影子山猫从巢穴里出来咆哮，离人们不足十码。尽管野兽憔悴而饥饿，但石蛇的母马还是惊慌失措，掀人落马，飞跑逃跑，等找到它，它已绊在陡坡上，摔断了腿。
　　那天，白灵饱餐一顿，科林则坚持要大家将马血混进燕麦，以增强体力。味道刺鼻的麦粥呛得琼恩难受，但他勉力为之。上路之前，他们各自从马尸上割下十几条生肉，剩下的都留给了影子山猫。
　　两人同骑不可想像。石蛇自愿留下，奇袭追兵，他说或能在下地狱前拼掉几个。科林拒绝了。“如果说守夜人中还有谁能独步穿越霜雪之牙，那就是你，兄弟。马儿上不了的山你能上。回拳峰去。把琼恩的见闻、以及他见闻的方式告诉莫尔蒙。告诉他，古老的力量已经苏醒，他必须面对巨人、狼灵和更可怕的事物。告诉他，树眼再现。”
　　他回不去的。琼恩一边看着石蛇消失在大雪覆盖的山脊上，一边想。他如一只渺小的黑甲虫，爬附在起着涟漪的无垠白原中。
　　自那天起，每个夜晚都更趋凄冷，更趋孤单。白灵不总在身边，但从未离得太远。就算分开，琼恩也能感觉他的存在，对此深感欣慰。断掌是个不苟言笑的人，平日只见他默默骑马，长长的灰辫子缓缓甩动，几个钟头也没一句交流，惟一的声音是马蹄在石上的轻踏和冷风的恸哭。高山之上，风从未宁息。而今他常能无梦入眠：梦不到狼，梦不到兄弟，惟有空虚。诸神的诅咒之地，连造梦也没有空间，他告诉自己。
　　“你的剑可还锋利，琼恩·雪诺？”透过闪烁的篝火，断掌科林问。
　　“我的剑乃是瓦雷利亚钢制成，熊老所赐之物。”
　　“你可还记得发下的誓言？”
　　“不敢或忘。”那是男子汉永生难泯的誓约。一旦出口，决无反悔。今世的命运由它主宰。
　　“那么，请和我一起复诵，琼恩·雪诺。”
　　“是。”高悬的明月之下，两人的声音和为一体，白灵和群山是他们的见证。“长夜将至，我从今开始守望，至死方休。我将不娶妻，不封地，不生子。我将不戴宝冠，不争荣宠。我将尽忠职守，生死于斯。我是黑暗中的利剑，长城上的守卫，抵御寒冷的烈焰，破晓时分的光线，唤醒眠者的号角，守护王国的坚盾！我将生命与荣耀献给守夜人，今夜如此，夜夜皆然。”
　　诵毕，天地间惟有火苗的噼啪和晚风的微叹。琼恩热切地舒展灼伤的手掌，誓词在脑海中不断回响，他向父亲的无名诸神祷告，请让自己勇敢赴死。快了，马儿到了体力透支的极限。琼恩知道，科林的马甚至连明天也熬不过。
　　篝火渐衰，暖意褪去。“火焰将灭，”科林说，“倘若长城沦陷，天下的火将全部熄灭。”
　　琼恩无话可说。他点点头。
　　“我们要么脱逃，”游骑兵说，“要么被捕。”
　　“我不怕死。”这只算半句谎话。
　　“事情不像你想像的这么简单，琼恩。”
　　他不明白，“您什么意思？”
　　“等他们追上，你得投降。”
　　“投降？”他难以置信地眨眨眼。野人不拿这些被他们称为乌鸦的人当俘虏，落到他们手中只有死路一条，除非……“他们只留背誓者，只留曼斯·雷德那样的逃兵。”
　　“这就是你将扮演的角色。”
　　“不，”他拼命摇头，“决不！我做不到。”
　　“你会的。这是命令。”
　　“命令？可是……”
　　“记住，我们将生命与荣耀献给守夜人，只为维护王国安泰。你是不是守夜人的汉子？”
　　“是。可是——”
　　“没有‘可是’，琼恩·雪诺。只有是，或者否。”
　　琼恩挺直身子。“是。”
　　“那么，听着，一旦被擒，你得主动去讨饶，就像当初那个女野人求你那样。他们会要你当面把黑斗篷砍成碎片，要你以父亲的坟墓之名发誓，永远唾弃和诅咒弟兄们和总司令。不管要你做什么，都不准违抗，统统照办……但在心里，你要记得你是谁，记得你的誓言。与他们一起行军，与他们一起用餐，与他们一起作战，直到时机来临。你的任务是：观察。”
　　“观察什么？”琼恩道。
　　“我也不知道，”科林说，“你的狼看见他们在乳河河谷挖掘。在那片偏僻寒冷的荒原上，有什么值得寻找的东西呢？找到了吗？这就是你必须追寻的答案，在重回莫尔蒙司令和兄弟们身边之前，你必须弄清楚。记住，这是我的托付，琼恩·雪诺。”
　　“我将不负所托。”琼恩勉强应道。“但……您会告诉他们真相，对吗？至少告诉熊老？请您告诉他，我从未背弃自己的誓言。”
　　断掌科林隔着火焰瞪视他，双眼深不可测。“下次见面，我会告诉他。我发誓。”他朝火堆做个手势。“加点柴，多些温暖与光亮。”
　　琼恩跑去砍来更多枝条，将每根劈成两半，扔进火中。树木枯死已久，但在火中却重复苏醒，如获新生。根根木条旋转燃烧，放出黄、红、橙三色光芒，犹如一场烈火之舞。
　　“行，”科林突然说，“上马吧。”
　　“上马？”篝火之外一片乌黑，寒夜笼罩。“去哪儿？”
　　“回头。”科林骑上疲累的坐骑。“希望火光引他们往前追。来吧，兄弟。”
　　琼恩重新戴上手套，拉起兜帽。马儿不愿离开篝火。太阳已没，一轮残月撒下冰冷的银光，照耀在险恶的前路。他不知科林有什么打算，但或许还有机会，对此他衷心盼望。不管有什么理由，我都不要当背誓者。
　　他们谨慎行进，竭尽人马所能地沉默移动，跟随来时的足迹，直到两山间的隘口，一条覆冰的小溪从中流出。琼恩记得这个地方，日落前曾在这里饮马。
　　“可惜，水开始结冰，”科林评论，“我本想顺溪走，但冰上会留下痕迹，暴露行踪。现在贴着山崖，前方半里处有个弯道可以隐蔽。”他骑进隘口。琼恩留恋地望了遥远的花火最后一眼，跟上前去。
　　他们骑得越远，两边的峭壁就压迫得越紧。月光下，溪流如缎带，指引他们直向源头。石岸上全是冰，但在细薄的硬壳下，琼恩听见潺潺水声。
　　此路曾发生山崩，一块巨大的落石横断中间，但他们的矮小犁马挤了过去。其后山壁愈加紧密陡峭，溪流延伸，直通一座曲折高耸的瀑布。雾气笼罩，如庞然冰兽的喘息，奔涌的流水在月光下发出银白的辉芒。琼恩沮丧地望着瀑布。死路一条。他和科林或许能爬上去，但马儿不行。没有马，他们徒步撑不久。
　　“动作快！”断掌指令。骑在小马上的大个子朝瀑布飞驰，穿过水帘，消失无踪。他许久不曾出现，于是琼恩也夹紧坐骑，跟随前去。他的马竭力想逃，如注的冰水用结冻的拳头展开殴打，苦寒的震颤则让他无法呼吸。
　　接着便通过了。他浑身湿透，不住发抖，但终究是过去了。
　　石缝极窄，难容通行，但过去之后，道路大开，地面变成柔软的沙地。飞沫在琼恩的胡子上结冰。白灵怒气冲冲地穿过水帘，摇晃身体，抖干毛皮，怀疑地嗅闻四周的黑暗，最后在石壁边抬腿撒尿。科林已下马，琼恩也照办，“原来你知道这地方。”“有兄弟给我讲过追踪影子山猫穿越瀑布的故事，那时我比你还年轻。”他卸下马鞍，取走嚼子和缰绳，用手梳理坐骑茸茸的鬃毛。“这条道贯穿山脉核心。等到黎明，倘若他们未察觉，我们就上路。第一班我来值，兄弟。”语毕，科林背靠岩壁，坐在沙地，成为阴郁洞穴中一道模糊的黑影。透过匆匆的流水声，琼恩听见钢铁与皮革摩擦的细微响动，断掌已拔剑在手：
　　他脱下湿斗篷，但此地又冷又潮，不容他再脱。白灵摊开身体，蜷缩在旁边睡觉，舔了舔他的手套。琼恩感激他的温暖，心里又想起野外的篝火，不知此刻是否熄灭？倘若长城沦陷，天下的火将全部熄灭。月光一度透过奔涌的水帘，在沙地撒下数道苍白式微的条纹，但很快褪去，一切又重归黑暗。
　　睡意终于袭来，随之而至的竟是噩梦连连。他梦见燃烧的城堡，梦见坟墓里爬出的死人。科林唤醒他时，四周仍一片漆黑。断掌入眠，琼恩将背靠上洞壁，听着水声，等待黎明。
　　第二天破晓时分，他们各咽下一块半冻的马肉，之后为马上鞍，重披黑斗篷。断掌值班时制作了六支火把，而今从鞍袋里取出干燥的苔藓，浸油后绑上。他点燃第一支，当先进入黑暗，苍白的焰苗指引路途，琼恩牵马跟随。多石的隧道蜿蜒曲折，起初向下，接着又向上，并愈加陡峭狭窄，到头来马儿几乎过不去。出去就甩掉他们了，琼恩边走边想，老鹰总不能看穿岩石吧？我们会摆脱追兵，直奔拳峰，将一切报告熊老。
　　可经过数小时跋涉，重见天日时，老鹰正恭候他们。它栖息在坡顶一棵枯树上，足足比他们高过百尺。白灵跳过岩石，朝它扑去，鸟儿拍拍翅膀，飞入空中。
　　科林的视线随着老鹰移动，嘴唇越抿越紧。
　　“这里地势不错，”他宣布，“上方有遮蔽，后方是密道，他们无法偷袭。你的剑可还锋利，琼恩·雪诺？”
　　“是的，”他说。
　　“我们先喂马。可怜的畜生，感谢它们英勇的服务。”
　　琼恩把最后一把燕麦喂给自己的坐骑，抚摸它柔软的毛鬃，白灵则在岩石间不安地游荡。他狠狠扯下手套，舒活灼伤过的指头。我是守护王国的坚盾！
　　一声猎号在山间回荡，琼恩听见猎狗的吠叫。“他们片刻即至，”科林说，“把狼管好。”
　　“白灵，过来，”琼恩唤道。冰原狼勉强跑回他旁边，尾巴在身后高高竖起。
　　不到半里外的山脊上，野人们纷纷出现。猎狗们跑在最前，这些灰棕的野兽混合了狼的血统，来势汹汹，哮吠不止。白灵咧牙露齿，毛发直立。“放松，”琼恩低语，“别动。”头顶传来扑翅之声，老鹰停在一块突出的岩石上，发出胜利的尖啸。
　　猎人们小心翼翼地靠拢，以防遭飞箭攻击。琼恩数了一下，共有十四人，外加八条狗。他们巨大的圆盾乃是柳条编成，覆盖人皮，涂上骷髅图案。约有一半人用木头和熟皮制的粗糙头盔遮脸。左右两翼，各有一名射手将箭搭上由木头和兽角做成的短弓，但没释放。其他人装备长矛或大槌，还有一人握着有裂口的石斧。看得出，他们身上那点破烂的护具不是抢来，便是得自于死去的游骑兵。野人既不挖矿也不会冶炼，长城以北，铁匠寥寥可数，锻炉更是稀罕。
　　科林抽出长剑。传说中，他失去半只右手后，练成了左手剑，威力更甚以往。琼恩和这位高大的游骑兵并肩而立，长爪在手。空气虽寒，汗水却模糊了视线。
　　他们在洞口十码前停步，带头人单独上前。他的马平缓地攀登崎岖的坡地，模样活像只山羊。随着靠近，琼恩听见咯咯啦啦声——原来人马皆用骸骨护体：牛骨，羊骨，山羊、野牛和麇鹿的残骸，长毛象的巨骨……以及人骨都穿在身上。
　　“叮当衫，”科林冰冷有礼地朝下喊。
　　“乌鸦理当称我骸骨之王。”此人的头盔乃是用巨人的头骨制成，双手从上到下，皮革外缝着无数熊爪。
　　科林嗤之以鼻。“我没见什么大王，只有一条穿鸡骨头的狗，边走边响，招摇现市。”
　　野人恼怒得发出嘶叫，坐骑也人立起来。真是名副其实，琼恩想，对方那身骨头松散串连，只需一动，便会叮叮当当，响个不休。“是啊，待会儿就听你的骨头作响啦，断掌。我要煮你的肉，拿你的肋骨当锁甲，敲你的牙齿做项链，用你的头骨来喝粥。”
　　“好，我奉陪到底。”
　　对这份邀约，叮当衫面露难色。黑衣兄弟据守着山洞狭口，人数起不了作用，顶多只能两人同上。他手下一名女战士牵马挤过来，想必也是个“矛妇”吧。“十四比二，乌鸦，八条狗对一匹狼，”她高叫，“要打要跑，你们都输定了。”
　　“给他们瞧，”叮当衫下令。
　　女人从血迹斑斑的口袋里掏出战利品。伊班的秃头圆得像颗蛋，所以她拎着耳朵摇晃。“他很勇敢，”她说。
　　“但还是没了命，”叮当衫，“你们也一样。”他亮出战斧，在头顶炫耀挥舞。那是上好的钢铁，两面闪着寒光——伊班一向爱护兵器。其他野人围上前，聚到叮当衫身边，高声辱骂。有几个把奚落对象选准琼恩。“小子，你的狼？”一个提着石连枷的瘦弱少年叫道，“太阳落坡前他就成我的斗篷啦。”另一边，一位矛妇掀开粗糙的皮衣，把肥大的白乳房露给琼恩看。“乖儿子，想妈妈了？来，过来，喝一口，宝宝乖。”狗们也不甘示弱，大声喧哗。
　　“别管他们的嘲讽，”科林给了琼恩一个意味深长的凝视，“记住自己的使命。”“赶乌鸦啦，”叮当衫的吼叫压过吵闹。“放箭！”
　　“不！”琼恩抢在开打前逼自己开口，并急促地趋前两步。“我们投降！”
　　“他们警告我，杂种是天生的懦夫，”断掌科林在身边冷冷地说，“我总算明白了。滚到你新主人那边去！胆小鬼！”
　　琼恩满脸通红，缓缓下坡，来到叮当衫马前。野人头目隔着头盔眼洞打量他，“自由民要懦夫何用？”
　　“他不是懦夫。”一位射手掀开山羊皮头盔，露出满头杂乱红发。“他是临冬城的私生子，是他放了我。让他活命。”
　　琼恩和耶哥蕊特四目交汇，无言以对。
　　“我要他死！”骸骨之王坚持，“黑乌鸦是狡猾的鸟。我不信任他。”
　　头顶的山岩上，老鹰拍拍翅膀，恼怒地尖叫。
　　“那只鸟讨厌你，琼恩·雪诺，”耶哥蕊特道，“那是有理由的。他原本是个人，却死在你手中。”
　　“我不知道，”琼恩老老实实地回答，一边努力回忆自己在峡口所杀之人的面容。“你说曼斯会收留我。”
　　“不错，”耶哥蕊特道。
　　“曼斯离这儿远着呢，”叮当衫说，“芮温勒，捅他。”
　　大个子矛妇眯起眼睛：“这乌鸦想加入自由民，就得凭真本事。”
　　“要我做什么都成。”很难出口，但琼恩还是说了。
　　叮当衫的骨甲随着狂笑而剧响。“去毙了断掌，杂种。”
　　“想都别想，”科林说。“转过来！琼恩，受死吧！”
　　说时迟，那时快，科林的剑已劈至眼前，长爪反射性地上弹格，碰撞的力道几乎把它从琼恩手中震飞。他踉跄后退。不管要你做什么，都不准违抗。他将长柄剑双手交握，利落反击，却被高个子游骑兵漫不经心地扫开。两人你来我往，黑斗篷交织一体，青年用快捷灵巧对抗科林左手剑的凶蛮力量。刹时间，断掌的剑无处不在，左左右右，如飞雨迭至，剑随心动，潇洒自如。琼恩只觉手臂逐渐麻木。
　　即使白灵用牙齿狠狠撕扯游骑兵的小腿，科林还是踏稳了脚步。但在那一瞬间，当他扭身时，露出了破绽。琼恩一剑递出，反手一撩。游骑兵向外让开，似乎这一击未起作用，但紧接着喉头浮现一连串朱红的泪滴，明亮鲜活，犹如红宝石的项链。最后血如泉涌，断掌科林倒了下去。
　　白灵的口鼻也在滴血，但长柄剑只锋尖有染，在最后的半寸。琼恩把冰原狼赶开，跪下来搂住兄弟。最后一丝光芒正从科林眼中褪去。“……锋利。”他说，伤残的手指举起又落下。他死了。
　　他知道，琼恩麻木地想，他知道他们会要求我做什么。他突然想起山姆威尔·塔利，想起葛兰和忧郁的艾迪，想起留守黑城堡的派普和陶德。难道我从此就要失去他们，正如我失去了亲兄弟布兰、瑞肯和罗柏？我到底是谁？我到底在做什么？
　　“扶他起来。”一双粗糙的手在拉他。琼恩没有抗拒。“有名字吗？”
　　耶哥蕊特替他回话：“他叫琼恩·雪诺，是临冬城艾德·史塔克的血脉。”
　　芮温勒笑道：“呵呵，谁想到？断掌科林竟死在贵族老爷的杂种手里！”
　　“捅他，”叮当衫坚持。老鹰朝他飞去，停在骨盔上，刺耳地呐喊。
　　“他投降了，”耶哥蕊特提醒他们。
　　“是啊，还杀了自家兄弟来证明，”一名头戴生锈的铁半盔、相貌平庸的矮个野人说。
　　叮当衫骑近前来，骨甲响个不停。“那是狼做的下流勾当。断掌的死该算在我头上。”
　　“呵呵，我们都看到你跃跃欲试呢。”罗温勒嘲笑。
　　“他是个狼灵，”骸骨之王说，“乌鸦！我不喜欢他。”
　　“倘若他真是狼灵，”耶哥蕊特说，“就能吓着我们吗？”其他人叫喊着表示同意。透过焦黄的头骨眼洞，叮当衫恶狠狠地瞪视琼恩，但最终不得不让步。好一帮自由民，琼恩心想。
　　他们在断掌科林倒下的地方用松针、灌木和断枝垒起柴堆，就地焚尸。有的木料还有绿意，所以燃起来和缓而多烟，片片黑羽，高升至明亮的晴空。叮当衫取走几片焦骨，其余人掷色子决定其他东西的归属。得到斗篷的是耶哥蕊特。
　　“我们回风声峡？”琼恩问她。他不知自己重新面对那片高山时会作何感想，也不知他的马能否坚持。
　　“不，”她说，“我们身后什么也没有了。”她望他的眼神带着一抹怜伤。“曼斯已率大队人马沿乳河南下，浩浩荡荡朝你的长城进发。”


Ⅱ 列王的纷争 Chapter70 布兰
　　漫天尘烬，犹如一场柔软的灰雪。
　　他踏着干燥的松针和棕色的落叶，来到松木稀疏的树林边缘。开阔场地远端，在人类荒凉的石山里，熊熊火焰盘旋上升，热风迎面扑来，带着浓浓的鲜血和烤肉的味道，令他垂涎欲滴。
　　这些味道吸引他们前去，别的气息又在警告他们退避。他仔细嗅闻飘来的烟。人，好多人，好多马，还有火、火、火。这是最危险的气息，即便坚硬冰冷的钢铁，即便酸臭的人类爪子和硬皮都比不上。烟雾和灰烬刺痛眼睛，他举目上望，只见一条长翅膀的大蛇张牙舞爪，咆哮着喷出烈焰洪流。他朝它咧牙露齿，但大蛇无动于衷。峭壁之外，冲天大火吞噬繁星。
　　大火彻夜燃烧，一度发出怒吼和巨响，脚底的土地摇摇欲裂。狗在吠叫、呜咽，马儿在恐惧中厉声尖嘶。暗夜中的哀号惊天动地——那是人类的哀号，惧怕的嚎啕，狂野的呼叫，歇斯底里的大笑和莫可名状的呼唤。人类是最吵闹的动物。他竖起耳朵、仔细聆听，弟弟却对每个声音都报以咆哮。他们整夜游荡林间，无垠的风吹来漫天的尘，散布余烬，遮盖长天。当火势渐衰，他们决定离去。雾的清晨，灰的太阳。
　　他离开树林，缓慢穿过场地，弟弟跑在身畔。他们追随鲜血和死亡的气息，沉寂地穿过人类用木头、青草和泥巴筑成的洞穴。其中许多烧毁，许多垮塌，只有极少数维持原状。他们见不着也闻不到一个活人。乌鸦遍布尸体，等他兄弟俩走近，便跳进空中尖声叫喊。野狗则在他们跟前落荒而逃。
　　雄伟的灰壁下，一匹垂死的马大声闹嚷，它想用断腿挣扎站立，却屡屡嘶叫着倒下。弟弟围着它转圈，然后一口撕开它的喉咙，马儿无力地踢打几下，闭上了眼睛。他朝马尸走去，弟弟却一口咬来，衔住他耳朵往后拖，于是他拿前脚环住对方，反咬弟弟的腿。他们在草地、泥土和散落的灰烬之中争斗，为死马而扭打，直到弟弟仰面朝天，卷起尾巴，表示顺服为止。他朝弟弟暴露的喉头咬了最后一小口，然后开始用餐，并让弟弟也参加。吃饱后，他帮弟弟舔掉黑毛上的血。
　　此时，黑暗角落的呼唤突然传来，喃喃的低语把他往那座什么也看不见的房子拖。冰冷的召唤，带着石头气息，盖过所有扰攘。他挣扎，抗拒那份引力。他厌恶黑暗。他是狼，他是猎人、游侠和杀手，他属于辽阔大森林里的兄弟姐妹，他希望自由自在奔跑于星斗之下。于是他坐下来，仰天长嗥。我不要去，他高喊，我是狼，我不要去。然而黑暗却逐渐笼罩，蒙住眼睛，灌满鼻子，遮掩耳朵，他看不见、听不到、闻不出、跑不动。灰壁消失，死马不见，弟弟无踪，一切都化为黑暗。沉寂、黑暗、冰冷、黑暗、死亡、黑暗……
　　“布兰，”温柔的耳语传来。“布兰，快醒醒。快醒醒啊，布兰。布兰……”
　　他闭上第三只眼，睁开其余的两只，老旧的两只，瞎盲的两只。理所当然，在黑暗中人类都是瞎子。但有人紧搂着他，他感觉出胳膊的环绕，体会到依偎的温暖。阿多在不断念叨：“阿多，阿多，阿多，”他自己保持沉默。“布兰？”这是梅拉的声音。“你刚才拳打脚踢，发出恐怖的喊叫。看见什么了？”
　　“是临冬城。”他有些口齿不清地回答。总有一天，当我回来时，将彻底忘记怎么说话。“那是临冬城，整个都在燃烧。马的味道，铁的味道，还有血。梅拉，他们把所有人都害死了。”
　　他觉出她伸手抚着他的脸，梳理他的头发。“好多汗，”她说，“要喝水吗？”
　　“喝水，”他同意。于是她把皮袋凑过来，布兰急切吞咽，水从嘴角不断溢出。每次回来，他都虚弱、干渴而饥饿。他还记得垂死的马，鲜血的味道和晨风中烤肉的气息。“我睡了多久？”
　　“整整三天，”玖健道。不知男孩刚轻手轻脚地赶到，还是一直便在旁边；在这黑暗迟钝的世界里，布兰什么也不能确定。“我们都为你担心。”
　　“我和夏天在一起，”布兰说。
　　“太久了，你会饿死自己的本体。梅拉曾为你灌了点水，我们还往你嘴唇涂蜂蜜，但这些远远不够。”
　　“我吃过，”布兰道，“我们扑杀一头鹿，还赶走想来偷吃的树猫。”那猫体毛棕褐，只有冰原狼一半大，却十分凶猛。他还记得它身上的麝香味道，记得它趴在橡树枝干上低头咆哮。
　　“吃东西的是狼，”玖健说，“不是你。小心，布兰，请记得自己的身份。”
　　他怎不记得自己的身份？他太清楚了：小男孩布兰，残废的布兰。倒不如当凶兽布兰。这教他怎不思念夏天，怎不想做狼梦呢？在这阴冷潮湿的漆黑墓窖，他的第三只眼终于睁开。而今他随时能连接夏天，甚至触碰过白灵，并透过他与琼恩对话——不过或许那只是梦罢！他不明白玖健干嘛老急着把他拉回来。布兰用双手撑起身子，蠕动坐定。“我得把看见的情形告诉欧莎。她在这里吗？她上哪儿去了？”
　　女野人出声答道：“我在。大人，这里黑黑的，什么都不方便。”他听见脚跟与石地板的摩擦，便转头看去，一无所获。无妨，闻得出来。转念间，他想起自己没了夏天的鼻子，众人都是一样的味道。“昨晚我尿在那个国王腿上，”欧莎说，“也可能是早晨，谁知道？我睡着了，刚刚醒。”大家和布兰一样，通常都在睡，这里无事可做，只有睡了吃，吃了睡，间或交流几句……却不敢多说，更不敢大声，只为确保安全。欧莎认为大家最好一句话都别说，但安抚瑞肯谈何容易，阿多的呢喃也无法阻止。“阿多，阿多，阿多，”他总是自言自语，说个不休。
　　“欧莎，”布兰道，“我看见临冬城在燃烧。”瑞肯轻柔的呼吸从左边传来。
　　“那只是梦，”欧莎说。
　　“是狼梦，”布兰道，“我记得那味道。血与火，非比寻常的气息。”
　　“谁的血？”
　　“马血，狗血，人血，大家的血。我们得去看看。”
　　“我可只有这身瘦皮囊，”欧莎道，“若给那乌贼亲王捉住，非被剥皮不可。”
　　梅拉在黑暗中牵起布兰的手，捏捏他的指头。“你害怕，我去。”
　　布兰听见手指在皮革中摸索的响动，接着是铁石相击的声音。一次又一次。火花迸出来，被欧莎轻轻地攥住、呵护。一道长白的焰火向上舒展，犹如踮起脚尖的少女。欧莎的脸在火旁浮现，她点燃一根火把。布兰眯眼看去，沥青开始燃烧，给整个世界带来橙色的光芒。瑞肯也醒了，打着呵欠，坐起身子。
　　影随光动，刹时似乎所有的死人都苏醒过来。莱安娜和布兰登，他俩的父亲瑞卡德·史塔克公爵，瑞卡德的父亲艾德勒公爵，威廉公爵和他的兄弟“躁动的”阿托斯，多诺公爵、伯隆公爵和罗德威公爵，独眼的琼尼尔公爵，巴斯公爵、布兰登公爵和曾与龙骑士决斗的克雷根公爵。他们坐在石椅上，脚边是石制冰原狼。这是尸骨已寒后的安息殿堂，这是属于死者的黑暗大厅，这是仇视生人的恐怖之地。
　　他们所躲藏的墓穴张开空虚大口，等待着艾德·史塔克公爵，在父亲庄严的花岗石像下，六个亡命者聚在一起，靠微薄的面包、淡水和干肉维生。“不多了，”欧莎眨眼瞧着存粮，低语道，“算啦，我反正都得潜回去偷吃的，否则咱们该拿阿多当点心了。”
　　“阿多，”阿多朝她露齿而笑。
　　“上面到底白天还是晚上？”欧莎问，“我已经失去了感觉。”
　　“是白天，”布兰告诉她，“但烟雾层层，和黑夜没两样。”
　　“您确定，大人？”
　　残破的身躯不曾移动，但他看到了一切，两个世界在眼中浮现：一边是手执火把站立的欧莎，以及梅拉、玖健和阿多，在他们身后，两排耸立的花岗岩柱和高大的领主石像朝黑暗中延伸……另一边是临冬城，滚滚浓烟下的灰堡，橡木与钢铁的雄伟大门烧焦坍塌，吊桥锁链断裂、木板散落。护城河里满满的浮尸，成了乌鸦的岛屿。
　　“确定。”他宣布。
　　欧莎考虑了一会儿。“那就冒险上去瞧瞧吧，但你们一定要跟紧。梅拉，把布兰的篮子拿来。”
　　“我们回家家？”瑞肯兴奋地问。“我好想骑小马，好想吃苹果蛋糕、黄油和蜂蜜。我想毛毛。我们去找毛毛狗吧！”
　　“好的，”布兰允诺，“但你得乖一点，别乱说话。”
　　梅拉把柳条篮绑在阿多背上，抱布兰进去，将他无用的双腿放进洞。此刻，他肚里七上八下，虽然明知地面有什么等着他，却不能稍减恐惧。出发前，布兰望了父亲最后一眼，只觉艾德公爵的眼中饱含悲伤，好似在恳求他们别走。我们必须去，他心想，再不能拖延。
　　欧莎一手拿橡木长矛，一手举火把，背上挂一把无鞘的剑——那是密肯最后的作品之一，原本放在艾德公爵墓前，用来确保灵魂安息的。铁匠死后，敌人占领了军械库，兵器被统统没收，如今只得事急从权。梅拉拿了瑞卡德公爵的剑，不停抱怨它过于沉重。布兰登则取走同名叔叔的武器，那个他从未谋面的大叔。宝剑在手的感觉很美妙，但他知道派不上用场。
　　对我来说，剑只是玩具，布兰心想。
　　他们的脚步声在长长的墓窖中回荡。身后的阴影很快吞没了父亲，身前的阴影则急促后退，现出更多雕像——这些不是服膺国家的地方领主，而是酷寒北境的古老君王，石冠戴在他们额上。“降服王”托伦·史塔克，“春王”艾德温，“饿狼”席恩·史塔克，“焚船者”布兰登和“造船者”布兰登，乔拉和杰诺斯，“恶人”布兰登，“月王”沃顿，“新郎”艾里昂，艾隆，“甜蜜的”班扬和“苦涩的”班扬，“雪胡王”艾德瑞克。这些面容坚毅刚强，不管曾犯下滔天罪恶，还是一生向善，他们个个都是货真价实的史塔克。布兰知道每个人的故事。他向来不怕墓窖的气氛，因为这是他家园的一部分，他本人的一部分。他一直都知道，将来有一天，自己会和他们安息在一起。
　　如今，他彷徨。如果我上去，还能下来吗？如果我死了，又该葬于何处？
　　“等等，”他们抵达通往地表的螺旋楼梯前——它的另一端直向地底，更为古老的君王就坐在那里的黑暗王座上——欧莎说，并将火把递给梅拉。“我去探路，”她的脚步渐行逐远，终至完全消失。“阿多，”阿多紧张地说。
　　布兰上百次告诉自己有多讨厌藏在这黑暗的地方，有多希望重见阳光，骑乘小舞穿越风雨。但当出墓时刻近在眼前，他却害怕起来。身处暗处的安全感令他眷恋，倘若伸手不见五指，敌人又如何能找上门来？石头君主也给他勇气。虽然看不见，但他们一直都在。
　　他们等了许久，方有声响再度传来。布兰已开始担心欧莎遇到不测。弟弟也不安地动来动去。“我要回家家！”他大声说。阿多把头晃个不停，说：“阿多。”脚步声逐渐增大，又过了一会儿，欧莎终于在光圈内出现。她一脸严肃，“有东西把门堵住了。我推不开。”
　　“让阿多上，他什么都推得动，”布兰道。
　　欧莎审视了魁梧的马童一番。“或许吧，来。”
　　楼梯狭窄，只能单列行走。欧莎带头，阿多随后，他背上的布兰连忙低头以防脑袋撞上天顶。梅拉执火把紧跟，玖健断后，牵着瑞肯。他们顺应石阶，一圈一圈地爬，不断向上。布兰似乎闻到烟味，但宽慰自己那只是火把在燃烧。
　　墓窖出口的大门乃是铁树制成，老旧而厚重，朝内倾斜，一次只容一人靠近。欧莎推了好几次，纹丝不动。“让阿多试试。”
　　他们先把布兰抱出来，以免受到波及。梅拉陪他坐在石阶上，一只手保护性地环住他的肩膀。欧莎和阿多换了位。“把门打开，阿多，”布兰说。
　　高大的马童把两只手掌平放门上，使劲一推，咕哝几声。“阿多？”他一拳砸向木门，门只抖了抖。“阿多。”
　　“用背顶，”布兰催促，“还有腿。”
　　于是阿多转过身来，将背贴上大门，开始顶撞。一次，又一次。“阿多！”他将两腿在阶梯上高低错开，弯下腰来，顺着倾斜的门，竭力上顶。木头嘎吱呻吟。“阿多！”他将一只脚再下降一阶，两腿分得更开，紧着身子，直往上突。他面红耳赤，随着力道加强，脖子青筋暴出。“阿多阿多阿多阿多阿多阿多！”上方传来一声沉闷的轰隆，大门突然向外凹去，一束天光照在布兰脸上，令他无法视物。随着又一阵推挤，石头翻滚，通道完全敞开。欧莎二话不说，端起长矛朝外一戳，接着便冲出去，瑞肯钻过梅拉大腿也跟着跑。阿多用力把门完全拉开，之后才走上地面。黎德姐弟则留下来抱布兰走完最后几步阶梯。
　　天空灰白，浓烟滚滚。他们站在首堡——或者说首堡残骸——的阴影下。这座建筑半边全坍。院子里随处可见散落的石像鬼。它们和我从同一个地方摔下来，布兰触目惊心地想。雕像们碎得好彻底，他不禁怀疑自己为何能苟活。旁边，有群乌鸦在啄一具被乱石压住的尸体，他面目朝下，布兰认不出是谁。
　　首堡已有数百年不曾使用，如今成为一具空壳。楼层焚毁，木梁燃尽，墙壁塌陷，可以直接看进房间，甚至看到厕所。在它后面，残塔依旧耸立，它早被烧过，现下竟成为惟一维持原状的部分。漫天烟雾呛得玖健·黎德咳嗽不止。“带我回家！”瑞肯要求，“我要回家家！”阿多边跺脚边转圈。“阿多，”他低声呜咽。他们挤在断垣残壁间，周围是无尽的死亡。
　　“我们弄出的声音只怕能吵醒睡龙，”欧莎说，“却没有人来。看来城堡真的焚烧毁灭，和布兰的梦一样。我们最好——”身后传来响动，她嘎然住嘴，立刻旋身，长矛在手。
　　两个消瘦的黑影从残塔后浮现，缓缓跑过瓦砾堆。瑞肯开心地叫道：“毛毛！”，黑冰原狼报之以热情的冲撞。夏天走得较慢，他用脑袋挤挤布兰的胳膊，舔舔主人的脸。
　　“我们得离开这里，”玖健道，“遍地死尸，很快会引来狼群，以及更危险的东西。”
　　“没错，得赶快上路，”欧莎同意，“但我们需要食物，城里应该留下不少。大家别分开。梅拉，你端好盾牌断后。”
　　早晨剩下的时间里，他们绕着城堡仔细转了一圈。雄伟的大理石城墙仍旧健在，虽多处焦黑，但并未垮塌。墙内成了死亡和毁灭的展台。厅门化为焦炭，房椽消失无影，天花板压坠在地。玻璃花园的绿黄窗格全部粉碎，其中的树木、瓜果和鲜花要么断裂夭折，要么无遮无盖。茅草和木料盖的马厩荡然无存，故地只余灰烬、碎屑和马尸。布兰想起小舞，忍不住落泪。藏书塔下出现一个蒸汽腾腾的浅池，热水正从塔中裂口喷涌而出。连接钟楼和鸦巢的桥梁垮进下方庭院，钟楼旁鲁温师傅居住的塔楼也不见了。他们看见主堡下方的地窖窄窗内闪烁着阴暗的红光，某座库房的火势也未平息。
　　在惨不忍睹的烟火废墟中，欧莎轻声叫唤，却始终无人应答。有只狗偎在一具尸体旁，不停地拱，但闻到冰原狼的气味拔腿就跑；其余的狗全死在狗舍里。学士的渡鸦正在尸体上大快朵颐，它们残塔上的近亲也应邀来参加宴会。布兰依稀认出麻脸提姆，他给人当面砍下一斧。圣堂的残壳外，坐着一具烧焦的尸体，它举起双手，握成两个焦黑的硬拳头，好似在殴打靠近的敌人。“诸神慈悲，”欧莎愤怒地低语，“让异鬼抓去犯罪的人！”
　　“席恩，”布兰抑郁地说。
　　“不对，你看。”她用长矛指指院子对面。“那是他手下的铁民。这儿也有。还有那边，那是葛雷乔伊的战马，看见吗？那匹浑身是箭的黑马。”她皱紧眉头，在死者之间穿梭。“黑罗伦在这里。”他被乱刀砍死，胡须染成红褐色。“临死还捎带几个，了不起。”欧莎用脚翻过旁边一具尸体，“上面有徽章小人儿一个，全身血红。”
　　“是恐怖堡的剥皮人，”布兰说。
　　夏天狂吼一声，飞奔而去。
　　“神木林！”梅拉一手执盾，一手拿蛙矛，追赶冰原狼。余人随即跟上，穿过烟尘和落石。林中空气清新，虽然边沿有几棵松木被烧，但深处的润土和绿枝战胜了火焰。“这片树林有力量，”玖健道，似乎窥见了布兰的想法，“不逊烈火的力量。”
　　黑水池边，心树之下，鲁温师傅匍匐在泥地中。满地湿叶上，有一股弯曲的血迹，标示出爬行的轨道。夏天正在他身边，布兰乍一眼以为他死了，但梅拉伸手摸他脖子时，师傅却发出呻吟。“阿多？”阿多难过地说，“阿多？”
　　他们小心翼翼地抱起鲁温学士，让他靠坐在树旁。他一直灰眼灰发，袍子也是灰的，但如今鲜血浸染，通通成了暗红。“布兰，”师傅看见高踞在阿多背上的他，轻声唤道。“瑞肯，”他笑了，“诸神慈悲，我就知道……”
　　“知道？”布兰疑惑地说。
　　“那双腿，我认得出……衣服虽然吻合，但腿上的肌肉……可怜的孩子……”他边咳边吐血。“你们消失在……森林……这……怎么办到？”
　　“我们根本没离开，”布兰说，“嗯，我们只走到林地边缘，便折回来。我派冰原狼去制造痕迹，然后大家躲进父亲的坟墓。”
　　“原来是墓窖。”鲁温哈哈大笑，唇边冒出一连串带血的泡沫。师傅想动，却发出一阵尖锐而痛苦的喘息。
　　泪水盈满了布兰眼眶。每当有人受伤，人们总来找老学士，可当师傅受伤时，又该去找谁呢？
　　“我们帮你做担架。”欧莎说。
　　“不用，”鲁温道，“我快死了，女人。”
　　“你不能死，”瑞肯恼火地说。“不，你不能死。”他身边的毛毛狗露出牙齿，跟着咆哮。
　　师傅朝他会心地微笑，“别吵啦，孩子，我活得比你长多了，也该……甘心地死去……”
　　“阿多，蹲下，”布兰说。于是阿多跪在学士身边。
　　“听着，”鲁温对欧莎说，“两个王子……是罗柏的继承人。不能……不能走在一起……你听见吗？”
　　女野人靠住长矛，“是，分开比较安全。但要带他们去哪儿？依我看，或许去赛文家的……”
　　鲁温师傅努力摇头，牵起剧烈疼痛。“赛文家那孩子死了。罗德利克爵士，兰巴德·陶哈，霍伍德伯爵夫人……他们统统被杀。深林堡沦陷，卡林湾被夺，很快连托伦方城也保不住。磐石海岸有铁民。而东边……东边是波顿的私生子。”
　　“那我们该去哪儿？”欧莎问。
　　“去白港……去找安柏家……我不知道……四处都在打仗……人人攻击友邻……而凛冬将至……好蠢啊，麻木，疯狂，愚蠢……”鲁温师傅伸手抓住布兰前臂，指尖有一种不顾一切的力量。“从今往后，你必须坚强……坚强！”
　　“我会的，”布兰说，几乎吐不出字句。罗德利克爵士被杀，鲁温师傅垂死，每个人，每个人都……
　　“好样的，”师傅道，“好孩子。你果然是……你父亲的孩子，布兰。现在快走吧。”欧莎举头凝视鱼梁木，望向雕刻在苍白树干上的红脸。“你留下来陪伴诸神？”
　　“我求你……”师傅在竭力忍耐，“一口……一点水喝，然后……帮忙……如果你愿意……”
　　“唉，”她转向梅拉，”把孩子们带走。”
　　玖健和梅拉牵走瑞肯。阿多随后。他们穿过树林，低枝抽打布兰的脸庞，树叶则抹去他层层泪花。不一会儿，欧莎回到院子与他们会合，再没提起鲁温师傅。“阿多跟布兰一起，当他的双腿。”女野人明快地说，“我来保护瑞肯。”
　　“我们和布兰同行，”玖健·黎德道。
　　“啊，我想也是。”欧莎说。“我走东门，顺着国王大道走一段。”
　　“我们走猎人门，”梅拉道。
　　“阿多，”阿多说。
　　大家去了厨房一趟。欧莎找到好几条虽然烤焦但勉强可食用的面包，甚至还有一只冷掉的烤鸭，她把它分成两半。梅拉掘出一坛蜂蜜和一大袋苹果。准备完毕后，他们互道珍重。瑞肯哭了，抱住阿多的腿不放手，直到欧莎用矛柄轻轻拍他，这才快步跟上。毛毛狗跟着弟弟。布兰目送他们远去，直到冰原狼的尾巴消失在残塔之后。
　　猎人门的铁闸被高热扭折变形，只能升起一尺，他们不得不一个接一个地从尖刺下挤过去。
　　“我们去找你父亲大人吗？”穿过城墙之间的吊桥时，布兰问，“去灰水望？”
　　梅拉看着弟弟，寻求答案。“我们去北方，”玖健宣布。
　　进入狼林之前，布兰在篮子上回头，朝这座他生活了一辈子的城堡瞥了最后一眼。缕缕清烟继续爬上灰色长空，和清冷的秋日午后临冬城炊烟缭绕的情景并无二致。外墙箭孔有的被熏黑，不少城垛开裂塌落，但从远观之，城堡依旧是那般模样。高墙之后，堡垒和塔楼傲然耸立，一如千百年的沧桑岁月，劫掠和焚烧无法侵袭。好坚强的石头，布兰告诉自己，树木的根扎进地底，那里有冬境之王的宝座，是他们给了它力量。只要他们存在，临冬城便会不朽。它没有死，只是残破，和我一样，他想，我也没有死。

　　冰与火之歌卷Ⅱ：列王的纷争（完）
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你看着眼前的人，分明还是以前的模样，可心里终究不是以前那般澄清透明了。
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Chapter 67

　　CHAPTER 67 JON
　　When Qhorin Halfhand told him to find some brush for a fire, Jon knew their end was near. It will be good to feel warm again, if only for a little while, he told himself while he hacked bare branches from the trunk of a dead tree. Ghost sat on his haunches watching, silent as ever. Will he howl for me when I’m dead, as Bran’s wolf howled when he fell? Jon wondered. Will Shaggydog howl, far off in Winterfell, and Grey Wind and Nymeria, wherever they might be?
　　The moon was rising behind one mountain and the sun sinking behind another as Jon struck sparks from flint and dagger, until finally a wisp of smoke appeared. Qhorin came and stood over him as the first flame rose up flickering from the shavings of bark and dead dry pine needles. “As shy as a maid on her wedding night,” the big ranger said in a soft voice, “and near as fair. Sometimes a man forgets how pretty a fire can be.”
　　He was not a man you’d expect to speak of maids and wedding nights. So far as Jon knew, Qhorin had spent his whole life in the Watch. Did he ever love a maid or have a wedding? He could not ask. Instead he fanned the fire. When the blaze was all acrackle, he peeled off his stiff gloves to warm his hands, and sighed, wondering if ever a kiss had felt as good. The warmth spread through his fingers like melting butter.
　　The Halfhand eased himself to the ground and sat cross-legged by the fire, the flickering light playing across the hard planes of his face. Only the two of them remained of the five rangers who had fled the Skirling Pass, back into the blue-grey wilderness of the Frostfangs.
　　At first Jon had nursed the hope that Squire Dalbridge would keep the wildlings bottled up in the pass. But when they’d heard the call of a faroff horn every man of them knew the squire had fallen. Later they spied the eagle soaring through the dusk on great blue-grey wings and Stonesnake unslung his bow, but the bird flew out of range before he could so much as string it. Ebben spat and muttered darkly of wargs and skinchangers.
　　They glimpsed the eagle twice more the day after, and heard the hunting horn behind them echoing against the mountains. Each time it seemed a little louder, a little closer. When night fell, the Halfhand told Ebben to take the squire’s garron as well as his own, and ride east for Mormont with all haste, back the way they had come. The rest of them would draw off the pursuit. “Send Jon,” Ebben had urged. “He can ride as fast as me.”
　　“Jon has a different part to play.”
　　“He is half a boy still.”
　　“No,” said Qhorin, “he is a man of the Night’s Watch.”
　　When the moon rose, Ebben parted from them. Stonesnake went east with him a short way, then doubled back to obscure their tracks, and the three who remained set off toward the southwest.
　　After that the days and nights blurred one into the other. They slept in their saddles and stopped only long enough to feed and water the garrons, then mounted up again. Over bare rock they rode, through gloomy pine forests and drifts of old snow, over icy ridges and across shallow rivers that had no names. Sometimes Qhorin or Stonesnake would loop back to sweep away their tracks, but it was a futile gesture. They were watched. At every dawn and every dusk they saw the eagle soaring between the peaks, no more than a speck in the vastness of the sky.
　　They were scaling a low ridge between two snowcapped peaks when a shadowcat came snarling from its lair, not ten yards away. The beast was gaunt and half-starved, but the sight of it sent Stonesnake’s mare into a panic; she reared and ran, and before the ranger could get her back under control she had stumbled on the steep slope and broken a leg.
　　Ghost ate well that day, and Qhorin insisted that the rangers mix some of the garron’s blood with their oats, to give them strength. The taste of that foul porridge almost choked Jon, but he forced it down. They each cut a dozen strips of raw stringy meat from the carcass to chew on as they rode, and left the rest for the shadowcats.
　　There was no question of riding double. Stonesnake offered to lay in wait for the pursuit and surprise them when they came. Perhaps he could take a few of them with him down to hell. Qhorin refused. “if any man in the Night’s Watch can make it through the Frostfangs alone and afoot, it is you, brother. You can go over mountains that a horse must go around. Make for the Fist. Tell Mormont what Jon saw, and how. Tell him that the old powers are waking, that he faces giants and wargs and worse. Tell him that the trees have eyes again.”
　　He has no chance, Jon thought when he watched Stonesnake vanish over a snow-covered ridge, a tiny black bug crawling across a rippling expanse of white.
　　After that, every night seemed colder than the night before, and more lonely. Ghost was not always with them, but he was never far either. Even when they were apart, Jon sensed his nearness. He was glad for that. The Halfhand was not the most companionable of men. Qhorin’s long grey braid swung slowly with the motion of his horse. Often they would ride for hours without a word spoken, the only sounds the soft scrape of horseshoes on stone and the keening of the wind, which blew endlessly through the heights. When he slept, he did not dream; not of wolves, nor his brothers, nor anything. Even dreams cannot live up here, he told himself.
　　“Is your sword sharp, Jon Snow?” asked Qhorin Halfhand across the flickering fire.
　　“My sword is Valyrian steel. The Old Bear gave it to me.”
　　“Do you remember the words of your vow?”
　　“Yes.” They were not words a man was like to forget. Once said, they could never be unsaid. They changed your life forever.
　　“Say them again with me, Jon Snow.”
　　“If you like.” Their voices blended as one beneath the rising moon, while Ghost listened and the mountains themselves bore witness. “Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men. I pledge my life and honor to the Night’s Watch, for this night and all the nights to come.”
　　When they were done, there was no sound but the faint crackle of the flames and a distant sigh of wind. Jon opened and closed his burnt fingers, holding tight to the words in his mind, praying that his father’s gods would give him the strength to die bravely when his hour came. It would not be long now. The garrons were near the end of their strength. Qhorin’s mount would not last another day, Jon suspected.
　　The flames were burning low by then, the warmth fading. “The fire will soon go out,” Qhorin said, “but if the Wall should ever fall, all the fires will go out.”
　　There was nothing Jon could say to that. He nodded.
　　“We may escape them yet,” the ranger said. “Or not.”
　　“I’m not afraid to die.” It was only half a lie.
　　“It may not be so easy as that, Jon.”
　　He did not understand. “What do you mean?”
　　“If we are taken, you must yield.”
　　“Yield?” He blinked in disbelief. The wildlings did not make captives of the men they called the crows. They killed them, except for . . . “They only spare oathbreakers. Those who join them, like Mance Rayder.”
　　“And you.”
　　“No.” He shook his head. “Never. I won’t.”
　　“You will. I command it of you.”
　　“Command it? But . . .”
　　“Our honor means no more than our lives, so long as the realm is safe. Are you a man of the Night’s Watch?”
　　“Yes, but—”
　　“There is no but, Jon Snow. You are, or you are not.”
　　Jon sat up straight. “I am.”
　　“Then hear me. If we are taken, you will go over to them, as the wildling girl you captured once urged you. They may demand that you cut your cloak to ribbons, that you swear them an oath on your father’s grave, that you curse your brothers and your Lord Commander. You must not balk, whatever is asked of you. Do as they bid you . . . but in your heart, remember who and what you are. Ride with them, eat with them, fight with them, for as long as it takes. And watch.”
　　“For what?” Jon asked.
　　“Would that I knew,” said Qhorin. “Your wolf saw their diggings in the valley of the Milkwater. What did they seek, in such a bleak and distant place? Did they find it? That is what you must learn, before you return to Lord Mormont and your brothers. That is the duty I lay on you, Jon Snow.”
　　“I’ll do as you say,” Jon said reluctantly, “but . . . you will tell them, won’t you? The Old Bear, at least? You’ll tell him that I never broke my oath.”
　　Qhorin Halfhand gazed at him across the fire, his eyes lost in pools of shadow. “When I see him next. I swear it.” He gestured at the fire. “More wood. I want it bright and hot.”
　　Jon went to cut more branches, snapping each one in two before tossing it into the flames. The tree had been dead a long time, but it seemed to live again in the fire, as fiery dancers woke within each stick of wood to whirl and spin in their glowing gowns of yellow, red, and orange.
　　“Enough,” Qhorin said abruptly. “Now we ride.”
　　“Ride?” It was dark beyond the fire, and the night was cold. “Ride where?”
　　“Back.” Qhorin mounted his weary garron one more time. “The fire will draw them past, I hope. Come, brother.”
　　Jon pulled on his gloves again and raised his hood. Even the horses seemed reluctant to leave the fire. The sun was long gone, and only the cold silver shine of the half-moon remained to light their way over the treacherous ground that lay behind them. He did not know what Qhorin had in mind, but perhaps it was a chance. He hoped so. I do not want to play the oathbreaker, even for good reason.
　　They went cautiously, moving as silent as man and horse could move, retracing their steps until they reached the mouth of a narrow defile where an icy little stream emerged from between two mountains. Jon remembered the place. They had watered the horses here before the sun went down.
　　“The water’s icing up,” Qhorin observed as he turned aside, “else we’d ride in the streambed. But if we break the ice, they are like to see. Keep close to the cliffs. There’s a crook a half mile on that will hide us.” He rode into the defile. Jon gave one last wistful look to their distant fire, and followed.
　　The farther in they went, the closer the cliffs pressed to either side. They followed the moonlit ribbon of stream back toward its source. Icicles bearded its stony banks, but Jon could still hear the sound of rushing water beneath the thin hard crust.
　　A great jumble of fallen rock blocked their way partway up, where a section of the cliff face had fallen, but the surefooted little garrons were able to pick their way through. Beyond, the walls pinched in sharply, and the stream led them to the foot of a tall twisting waterfall. The air was full of mist, like the breath of some vast cold beast. The tumbling waters shone silver in the moonlight. Jon looked about in dismay. There is no way out. He and Qhorin might be able to climb the cliffs, but not with the horses. He did not think they would last long afoot.
　　“Quickly now,” the Halfhand commanded. The big man on the small horse rode over the ice-slick stones, right into the curtain of water, and vanished. When he did not reappear, Jon put his heels into his horse and went after. His garron did his best to shy away. The falling water slapped at them with frozen fists, and the shock of the cold seemed to stop Jon’s breath.
　　Then he was through; drenched and shivering, but through.
　　The cleft in the rock was barely large enough for man and horse to pass, but beyond, the walls opened up and the floor turned to soft sand. Jon could feel the spray freezing in his beard. Ghost burst through the waterfall in an angry rush, shook droplets from his fur, sniffed at the darkness suspiciously, then lifted a leg against one rocky wall. Qhorin had already dismounted. Jon did the same. “You knew this place was here.” “When I was no older than you, I heard a brother tell how he followed a shadowcat through these falls.” He unsaddled his horse, removed her bit and bridle, and ran his fingers through her shaggy mane. “There is a way through the heart of the mountain. Come dawn, if they have not found us, we will press on. The first watch is mine, brother.” Qhorin seated himself on the sand, his back to a wall, no more than a vague black shadow in the gloom of the cave. Over the rush of falling waters, Jon heard a soft sound of steel on leather that could only mean that the Halfhand had drawn his sword.
　　He took off his wet cloak, but it was too cold and damp here to strip down any further. Ghost stretched out beside him and licked his glove before curling up to sleep. Jon was grateful for his warmth. He wondered if the fire was still burning outside, or if it had gone out by now. If the Wall should ever fall, all the fires will go out. The moon shone through the curtain of falling water to lay a shimmering pale stripe across the sand, but after a time that too faded and went dark.
　　Sleep came at last, and with it nightmares. He dreamed of burning castles and dead men rising unquiet from their graves. It was still dark when Qhorin woke him. While the Halfhand slept, Jon sat with his back to the cave wall, listening to the water and waiting for the dawn.
　　At break of day, they each chewed a half-frozen strip of horsemeat, then saddled their garrons once again, and fastened their black cloaks around their shoulders. During his watch the Halfhand had made a halfdozen torches, soaking bundles of dry moss with the oil he carried in his saddlebag. He lit the first one now and led the way down into the dark, holding the pale flame up before him. Jon followed with the horses. The stony path twisted and turned, first down, then up, then down more steeply. In spots it grew so narrow it was hard to convince the garrons they could squeeze through. By the time we come out we will have lost them, he told himself as they went. Not even an eagle can see through solid stone. We will have lost them, and we will ride hard for the Fist, and tell the Old Bear all we know . . .
　　But when they emerged back into the light long hours later, the eagle was waiting for them, perched on a dead tree a hundred feet up the slope. Ghost went bounding up the rocks after it, but the bird flapped its wings and took to the air.
　　Qhorin’s mouth tightened as he followed its flight with his eyes.
　　“Here is as good a place as any to make a stand,” he declared. “The mouth of the cave shelters us from above, and they cannot get behind us without passing through the mountain. Is your sword sharp, Jon Snow?”
　　“Yes,” he said.
　　“We’ll feed the horses. They’ve served us bravely, poor beasts.”
　　Jon gave his garron the last of the oats and stroked his shaggy mane while Ghost prowled restlessly amongst the rocks. He pulled his gloves on tighter and flexed his burnt fingers. I am the shield that guards the realms of men.
　　A hunting horn echoed through the mountains, and a moment later Jon heard the baying of hounds. “They will be with us soon,” announced Qhorin. “Keep your wolf in hand.”
　　“Ghost, to me,” Jon called. The direwolf returned reluctantly to his side, tail held stiffly behind him.
　　The wildlings came boiling over a ridge not half a mile away. Their hounds ran before them, snarling grey-brown beasts with more than a little wolf in their blood. Ghost bared his teeth, his fur bristling. “Easy,” Jon murmured. “Stay.” Overhead he heard a rustle of wings. The eagle landed on an outcrop of rock and screamed in triumph.
　　The hunters approached warily, perhaps fearing arrows. Jon counted fourteen, with eight dogs. Their large round shields were made of skins stretched over woven wicker and painted with skulls. About half of them hid their faces behind crude helms of wood and boiled leather. On either wing, archers notched shafts to the strings of small wood-and-horn bows, but did not loose. The rest seemed to be armed with spears and mauls. One had a chipped stone axe. They wore only what bits of armor they had looted from dead rangers or stolen during raids. Wildlings did not mine or smelt, and there were few smiths and fewer forges north of the Wall.
　　Qhorin drew his longsword. The tale of how he had taught himself to fight with his left hand after losing half of his right was part of his legend; it was said that he handled a blade better now than he ever had before. Jon stood shoulder to shoulder with the big ranger and pulled Longclaw from its sheath. Despite the chill in the air, sweat stung his eyes.
　　Ten yards below the cave mouth the hunters halted. Their leader came on alone, riding a beast that seemed more goat than horse, from the surefooted way it climbed the uneven slope. As man and mount grew nearer Jon could hear them clattering; both were armored in bones. Cow bones, sheep bones, the bones of goats and aurochs and elk, the great bones of the hairy mammoths . . . and human bones as well.
　　“Rattleshirt,” Qhorin called down, icy-polite.
　　“To crows I be the Lord o’ Bones.” The rider’s helm was made from the broken skull of a giant, and all up and down his arms bearclaws had been sewn to his boiled leather.
　　Qhorin snorted. “I see no lord. Only a dog dressed in chickenbones, who rattles when he rides.”
　　The wildling hissed in anger, and his mount reared. He did rattle, Jon could hear it; the bones were strung together loosely, so they clacked and clattered when he moved. “It’s your bones I’ll be rattling soon, Halfhand. I’ll boil the flesh off you and make a byrnie from your ribs. I’ll carve your teeth to cast me runes, and eat me oaten porridge from your skull.”
　　“If you want my bones, come get them.”
　　That, Rattleshirt seemed reluctant to do. His numbers meant little in the close confines of the rocks where the black brothers had taken their stand; to winkle them out of the cave the wildlings would need to come up two at a time. But another of his company edged a horse up beside him, one of the fighting women called spearwives. “We are four-and-ten to two, crows, and eight dogs to your wolf,” she called. “Fight or run, you are ours.”
　　“Show them,” commanded Rattleshirt.
　　The woman reached into a bloodstained sack and drew out a trophy. Ebben had been bald as an egg, so she dangled the head by an ear. “He died brave,” she said.
　　“But he died,” said Rattleshirt, “same like you.” He freed his battleaxe, brandishing it above his head. Good steel it was, with a wicked gleam to both blades; Ebben was never a man to neglect his weapons. The other wildlings crowded forward beside him, yelling taunts. A few chose Jon for their mockery. “Is that your wolf, boy?” a skinny youth called, unlimbering a stone flail. “He’ll be my cloak before the sun is down.” On the other side of the line, another spearwife opened her ragged furs to show Jon a heavy white breast. “Does the baby want his momma? Come, have a suck o’ this, boy.” The dogs were barking too.
　　“They would shame us into folly.” Qhorin gave Jon a long look. “Remember your orders.”
　　“Belike we need to flush the crows,” Rattleshirt bellowed over the clamor. “Feather them!”
　　“No!” The word burst from Jon’s lips before the bowmen could loose. He took two quick steps forward. “We yield!”
　　“They warned me bastard blood was craven,” he heard Qhorin Halfhand say coldly behind him. “I see it is so. Run to your new masters, coward.”
　　Face reddening, Jon descended the slope to where Rattleshirt sat his horse. The wildling stared at him through the eyeholes of his helm, and said, “The free folk have no need of cravens.”
　　“He is no craven.” One of the archers pulled off her sewn sheepskin helm and shook out a head of shaggy red hair. “This is the Bastard o’ Winterfell, who spared me. Let him live.”
　　Jon met Ygritte’s eyes, and had no words.
　　“Let him die,” insisted the Lord of Bones. “The black crow is a tricksy bird. I trust him not.”
　　On a rock above them, the eagle flapped its wings and split the air with a scream of fury.
　　“The bird hates you, Jon Snow,” said Ygritte. “And well he might. He was a man, before you killed him.”
　　“I did not know,” said Jon truthfully, trying to remember the face of the man he had slain in the pass. “You told me Mance would take me.”
　　“And he will,” Ygritte said.
　　“Mance is not here,” said Rattleshirt. “Ragwyle, gut him.”
　　The big spearwife narrowed her eyes and said, “If the crow would join the free folk, let him show us his prowess and prove the truth of him.”
　　“I’ll do whatever you ask.” The words came hard, but Jon said them.
　　Rattleshirt’s bone armor clattered loudly as he laughed. “Then kill the Halfhand, bastard.”
　　“As if he could,” said Qhorin. “Turn, Snow, and die.”
　　And then Qhorin’s sword was coming at him and somehow Longclaw leapt upward to block. The force of impact almost knocked the bastard blade from Jon’s hand, and sent him staggering backward. You must not balk, whatever is asked of you. He shifted to a two-hand grip, quick enough to deliver a stroke of his own, but the big ranger brushed it aside with contemptuous ease. Back and forth they went, black cloaks swirling, the youth’s quickness against the savage strength of Qhorin’s left-hand cuts. The Halfhand’s longsword seemed to be everywhere at once, raining down from one side and then the other, driving him where he would, keeping him off balance. Already he could feel his arms growing numb.
　　Even when Ghost’s teeth closed savagely around the ranger’s calf, somehow Qhorin kept his feet. But in that instant, as he twisted, the opening was there. Jon planted and pivoted. The ranger was leaning away, and for an instant it seemed that Jon’s slash had not touched him. Then a string of red tears appeared across the big man’s throat, bright as a ruby necklace, and the blood gushed out of him, and Qhorin Halfhand fell.
　　Ghost’s muzzle was dripping red, but only the point of the bastard blade was stained, the last half inch. Jon pulled the direwolf away and knelt with one arm around him. The light was already fading in Qhorin’s eyes. “. . . sharp,” he said, lifting his maimed fingers. Then his hand fell, and he was gone.
　　He knew, he thought numbly. He knew what they would ask of me.
　　He thought of Samwell Tarly then, of Grenn and Dolorous Edd, of Pyp and Toad back at Castle Black. Had he lost them all, as he had lost Bran and Rickon and Robb? Who was he now? What was he?
　　“Get him up.” Rough hands dragged him to his feet. Jon did not resist. “Do you have a name?”
　　Ygritte answered for him. “His name is Jon Snow. He is Eddard Stark’s blood, of Winterfell.”
　　Ragwyle laughed. “Who would have thought it? Qhorin Halfhand slain by some lordling’s byblow.”
　　“Gut him.” That was Rattleshirt, still ahorse. The eagle flew to him and perched atop his bony helm, screeching.
　　“He yielded,” Ygritte reminded them.
　　“Aye, and slew his brother,” said a short homely man in a rust-eaten iron halffielm.
　　Rattleshirt rode closer, bones clattering. “The wolf did his work for him. It were foully done. The Halfhand’s death was mine.”
　　“We all saw how eager you were to take it,” mocked Ragwyle.
　　“He is a warg,” said the Lord of Bones, “and a crow. I like him not.”
　　“A warg he may be,” Ygritte said, “but that has never frightened us.” Others shouted agreement. Behind the eyeholes of his yellowed skull Rattleshirt’s stare was malignant, but he yielded grudgingly. These are a free folk indeed, thought Jon.
　　They burned Qhorin Halfhand where he’d fallen, on a pyre made of pine needles, brush, and broken branches. Some of the wood was still green, and it burned slow and smoky, sending a black plume up into the bright hard blue of the sky. Afterward Rattleshirt claimed some charred bones, while the others threw dice for the ranger’s gear. Ygritte won his cloak.
　　“Will we return by the Skirling Pass?” Jon asked her. He did not know if he could face those heights again, or if his garron could survive a second crossing.
　　“No,” she said. “There’s nothing behind us.” The look she gave him was sad. “By now Mance is well down the Milkwater, marching on your Wall.”



Ⅱ 列王的纷争 Chapter68 提利昂
　　他梦见开裂的石天花板，闻到鲜血、粪便和烧焦血肉的味道，空中弥漫着辛辣的烟雾，人们在四周呻吟呜咽，时时发出痛苦尖叫。他想动，却发现自己居然尿了床。浓雾熏得他直掉眼泪。我在哭？一定不能让父亲看到。他是堂堂凯岩城的兰尼斯特。狮子，我是一头雄狮，生亦为狮，死亦为狮。但他痛得好厉害，虚弱到呻吟的力气都没有，只能闭起眼睛躺在自己排出的污物里等待。附近有人粗着嗓子反复诅咒诸神。听着这些亵渎的话语，他疑惑自己死期已临。就这样过了一会儿，房间渐渐消失。
　　之后，他发觉自己身在城外，走在一个没有色彩的世界。乌鸦展开宽阔的黑翅膀，在灰色的天空中飞翔，随着他的移动，它们如片片狂暴的乌云，升腾而起，暂别腐肉盛宴。白蛆在黑的腐肉中钻来钻去。灰色的狼，灰色的静默姐妹，协力为死者脱去血肉。比武场中尸横遍地。太阳如炽热的白硬币，照耀着灰色河流上焦黑的沉船残骸。缕缕黑烟和纯白灰烬从火葬堆中升起。我的杰作，提利昂·兰尼斯特心想，他们死于我的号令。
　　这个世界起初无声，但过了一会儿，死者们开始说话，轻柔而可怖。他们抽泣呻吟，他们祈死厌生，他们哭喊求助，他们渴望母亲。提利昂没见过自己的母亲，他想要雪伊，但她不在这个世界。于是他在憧憧灰影中独行，满腹思绪……
　　静默姐妹们把死者的铠甲和衣服扒下来。杀戮抹去了衣甲上所有鲜亮色泽，只余或白或灰的单调装饰，以及凝结的黑血。他看着裸尸被托起手脚，抛进火葬堆中，与同伴们汇合。武装和衣料则被扔到一辆由两匹高大黑马牵拉的白木马车内。
　　好多死人，好多，好多。他们的身体了无生气，他们的脸庞呆滞、僵硬、肿胀、骇人，面目全非。修女们脱下的衣服上绣有漆黑的心，灰暗的狮，枯萎的花，以及苍白如幽灵的鹿。铠甲伤痕累累，千疮百孔，衣衫撕裂毁坏，褴褛不堪。我为何要杀他们？从前是知道的，现今却说不上来。
　　他向其中一位修女打听，却赫然发现自己没有嘴，平整的皮肤覆盖牙齿，一点缝隙也无。他吓坏了，没有嘴巴怎么活？于是他开始奔跑，奔向不远处的城市。只要进城，远离这些死人，就安全了。他没有死，虽然嘴巴消失，但依旧是个活人。不，不，我是一头雄狮，雄狮，生龙活虎的雄狮。他好不容易跑到城下，城门却对他紧闭。
　　当他再次醒来，天已黑暗。起初完全混沌，但过了一会儿，床的轮廓在周围模糊浮现。床幔虽已放下，但他可以看出雕花床柱，以及头顶的天鹅绒顶篷。身下是柔顺的羽床，头后是鹅毛枕。我自己的床，我睡在自己的羽床上，这是我自己的卧室。
　　床幔内很暖和，又有一大堆毛皮和毯子盖着。汗水。我在发烧，他晕乎乎地想。如此虚脱，连抬手的动作，都惹起袭向全身的疼痛，于是他放弃了努力。头好大，像床那么大，重得无法离开枕头。而整个身体都丧失了知觉。我怎么到这儿来的？他努力回忆。战斗的片断零零星星地在脑中闪现。河边的战斗，献上护手的骑士，废船构成的桥……
　　曼登爵士。他仿佛又看到那双木讷的眼睛，那只伸出的手，还有映在釉彩白甲上的绿火。恐惧如冰冷的激流，贯穿全身，他再度尿了床。如果有嘴，想必自己会狂呼乱叫。不，不，这是梦，他心想，脑袋砰砰直响。救我，谁来救我。詹姆，雪伊，圣母，谁来救我……泰莎……
　　没人听见。没人过来。他在屎尿和黑暗中再度独眠。这一次，他梦见姐姐站在床前，旁边是一如既往板着脸孔的父亲大人。好一个梦啊，泰温公爵想必远在千里之外的西境，与罗柏·史塔克作战罢。还有其他人来来去去。瓦里斯低头观看，叹了口气，小指头则拿他开玩笑。该死，你这背信弃义的混蛋，提利昂恶狠狠地想，我们送你到苦桥，你却一去不回。有时他听见他们互相交谈，却不懂他们的语言，只有声音在耳边嗡嗡作响，好似被厚毛毡捂住一样。
　　他想知道战役赢了没有。我们一定赢了，否则我的头早被挂在熗上。既然我还活着，我们一定赢了。他不知哪件事更令他高兴：胜利，还是恢复了些许思考的能力。太棒了，不管多慢，他的头脑正在恢复。这是他惟一的武器。
　　下次醒来，床幔已被拉开，波德瑞克·派恩拿着蜡烛站在旁边。他看见提利昂睁开双眼，拔腿就跑。不，别走，救我，救救我，他想大喊，但用尽全力也出不了声，只发出一下闷哼。我没有嘴。他抬手摸脸，每个动作都痛苦而笨拙。他的手指在原本该是血肉、嘴唇和牙齿的地方找到一块硬梆梆的东西。亚麻布。他的下半边脸被紧紧包扎，凝结的膏药面具上只留呼吸和进食的孔。
　　不久，波德再次出现，跟了一个陌生人，一个戴项链、穿长袍的学士。“大人，您千万别动，”来人喃喃道，“您伤得很重，贸然行动对身体不利。渴吗？”
　　他好容易笨拙地点点头，学士便将一个弯曲的铜漏斗通过进食孔插入他口中，缓缓灌入一些液体。提利昂别无选择，便吞咽下去，当意识到这是罂粟花奶时，已经太迟。学士将漏斗从嘴边移开，他回到梦中。
　　这次他梦见自己参加盛宴，在大厅里举行的庆功宴。他坐在高台上，人们举起酒杯向他欢呼，向英雄致敬。随他穿越明月山脉的歌手马瑞里安弹奏木竖琴，歌颂小恶魔的英勇事迹，连父亲也露出嘉许的微笑。歌曲唱完后，詹姆离开座位，令提利昂跪下，然后用金剑在他双肩各一轻触，起身时，他成了骑士，雪伊等着拥他入怀。她拉起他的手，笑闹逗趣，称他为她的兰尼斯特巨人……
　　他又在黑暗中醒来，面对空旷寒冷的房间。床幔再度放下。有些事不大对劲，发生了什么变化，但他说不出所以然。他孤身一人，推开毯子，想坐起来，但疼痛实在太厉害，很快就得停止行动，一边急促地喘气。脸上的疼最轻微，整个右半身则剧痛无比，而每次举手，胸口便一阵刺痛。我到底怎么了？他努力去想，战斗的场景如梦幻一般。我似乎没受重伤啊……曼登爵士……
　　记忆令他惊恐，但提利昂牢牢抓住它，面对它，审视它。他想杀我，不错，这不是梦。他想把我劈成两半，若不是波德……波德，波德在哪儿？
　　他咬牙抓住床幔，使劲一拽。幔帐脱离顶篷，跌落下来，一半压在身上，一边落到草席。稍一用力便令他头晕眼花，房间在周围旋转，光秃的墙和黑暗的阴影，一扇窄窗。他还看到属于自己的一只箱子，一堆乱七八糟的衣服和伤痕累累的铠甲。这不是我的卧室，他意识到，甚至不在首相塔里。有人给他换了地方！他愤怒地喊叫，发出的却是含糊的呻吟。他们把我移到这儿——等死！他一边想，一边放弃挣扎，再次合眼。房间潮湿阴冷，他却浑身发烫。
　　这次他梦到一个美妙的地方，一个坐落在落日之海滨的舒适小屋。墙壁有些歪斜，布满裂纹，地板则是压实的泥土，但他却很温暖，哪怕他们总是忘记加柴，总是让火熄灭。她爱拿这个取笑我，他记得，我想不到添柴，因为那向来是仆人的任务。“我们没有仆人，”她提醒他，然后我说，“你有我呢，我就是你的仆人，”她接着道，“哼！懒仆人！在凯岩城，你们怎么处置懒仆人呀，大人？”他告诉她，“谁懒惰就亲吻谁，”她咯咯直笑，“才不会呢。他们会挨揍，我敢打赌，”但他坚持，“不，我们亲吻他，就像这样。”他示范给她看。“先吻手指头，一根根挨着吻，然后吻手腕，对，再到手肘内侧，接着吻他们好玩的耳朵，我们的仆人都有好玩的耳朵。别笑！然后我们吻他们的脸蛋，吻他们的鼻子，上面有个小痣，这儿，嗯，就像这个，然后再吻他们可爱的额头，头发，嘴唇，他们的……唔，唔……嘴……嗯……”
　　他们会亲吻几个小时，然后懒洋洋地靠在床上，一整天一整天，什么也不做，听大海的波涛，抚摸彼此的身体。她的身体是他的奇迹，而她似乎也从他的身体中找到乐趣。她常为他唱歌。我爱上一位美如夏日的姑娘，阳光照在她的秀发。“我爱你，提利昂，”夜里入睡前，她在他耳边低语，“我爱你的嘴唇。我爱你的声音，我爱你对我说的话，我爱你给我的温柔。我爱你的脸。”
　　“我的脸？”
　　“是的，是的。我还爱你的手，爱它们的抚摸。你的命根子，我爱你的命根子，爱它在我体内的感觉。”
　　“它也爱你，我的夫人。”
　　“我爱说你的名字。提利昂·兰尼斯特。它跟我很配。我指的不是兰尼斯特，而是另外一半。提利昂和泰莎。泰莎和提利昂。提利昂。我的提利昂大人……”
　　谎言，他心想，全是假的，全是为了钱，她是个妓女，詹姆找的妓女，詹姆送的礼物，我的谎言夫人。她的面容渐渐隐去，融化在泪水里，即便如此，他仍能听见她遥远微弱的声音，呼唤着他的名字。“……大人，您听得见吗？大人？提利昂？大人？大人？”
　　他挣脱罂粟花奶引起的混沌睡眠，看到头顶有一张柔软粉红的脸。他又回到了那间潮湿阴冷的房间，四周是扯下的床幔，这张脸不是她，太圆，且带着一缕棕色胡须。“您渴吗，大人？我给您准备了奶，可口的奶。您别动，不，安静下来，您需要休息。”他潮湿粉红的手一边拿着铜漏斗，一边拿着瓶子。
　　那人俯身时，提利昂乘机抓住他那由许多金属组成的链子，拼命拉扯。学士惊得松手，罂粟花奶全洒在毯子上。提利昂扭转颈链，直到感觉金属环陷进肥胖的肉脖子。“再也、不要，”他嘶哑地说，嘶哑得不知自己是否真的说出了口，但他一定是说了，因为学士哽咽着答道，“放手，求求您，大人……您得喝下去，否则伤口疼痛……颈链，别，放手吧，不……”
　　提利昂放手时，那张粉脸已经变紫。学士向后退缩，用力喘气，涨红的脖子现出链条勒出的深深白痕，眼神更是惨白惊慌。提利昂举手，示意除去硬邦邦的面具。他一次又一次地做手势。
　　“您……您想除掉绷带，是吗？”学士终于道，“可我不……这……这很不明智，大人。您尚未痊愈，太后会……”
　　提起姐姐，提利昂怒火冲天。那么，你也是她的人？他指指学士，然后捏手成拳。挤压，窒息，一个誓言！除非这呆瓜照他吩咐做。
　　谢天谢地，他明白了。“我……我会执行大人的命令，一定，一定，但……这不明智，您的伤……”
　　“快、做，”这次他的声音大了一点。
　　那人鞠了一躬，离开房间，随即又带着一把有纤细锯齿的细长小刀、一盆水、一堆软布和几个瓶子返回。提利昂努力向上蠕动几寸，靠在枕头上半坐着。学士一边让他保持绝对静止，一边将刀尖伸到他下巴底，稳稳地锯面具。轻轻一划，瑟曦就永远摆脱了我，他心想。刀刃割破僵硬的麻布，正在咽喉上方。
　　所幸这个粉红柔弱的人不属于姐姐手下比较勇敢的傀儡。没过多久，他的脸颊感觉到凉气。疼痛依旧，但他尽力不理会。学士扔掉带膏药的硬绷带。“别动，让我为您清洗伤口。”他的触碰轻细，水则温柔。伤口，提利昂想起来，那记突然在眼底掠过的银光。“可能有一点刺痛，”学士一边警告，一边用酒精润湿一块有捣碎草药味道的软布，擦拭提利昂的脸。岂止是一点刺痛，软布所经之处如火烫一般，尤其是鼻子，好似被一根燃烧的拨火棍戳刺拧转。他紧抓床单，深深吸气，好容易没有尖叫。学士啧啧称奇，活像只老母鸡。“留着面具比较明智，至少等肌肉长好，大人。不过，现在伤口总算还干净，很好，很好。我们在地窖找到您时，您躺在一堆死人和快死的人中间，伤口又脏又臭，一根肋骨断了，您肯定感觉得到，不知是战锤砸的，还是摔伤造成，很难说。您胳膊中了一箭，就在肩手交接的地方，伤口有坏死的迹象，我一度担心得给您截肢呢！但我们先用沸酒和蛆来治疗，它似乎愈合得很干净……”
　　“名字，”提利昂喘着粗气抬头，“名字！”
　　学士眨眨眼。“啊？您是提利昂·兰尼斯特，大人。您是太后的弟弟。您可记得那场战役？有时头部受伤会——”
　　“你的名字。”他喉咙干燥，舌头似乎忘了如何吐词。
　　“我是巴拉拔学士。”
　　“巴拉拔，”提利昂重复，“给我、镜子。”
　　“大人，”学士说，“我建议……这恐怕，呃，不大明智……因为……您的伤……”
　　“拿来，”他坚持。嘴唇僵硬疼痛，仿佛挨了一记老拳。“还有喝的，酒，不要罂粟花奶。”
　　学士红着脸站起来，急急忙忙跑出去，带回一壶淡黄的葡萄酒，以及一面镶金框的小银镜。他坐在床沿，倒了半杯，送到提利昂肿胀的唇边。没有滋味，丝丝液体凉爽地流进腹中。“再来，”杯子空了之后他说。巴拉拔学士又倒一杯。待第二杯喝完，提利昂·兰尼斯特觉得自己坚强到足以面对自己的脸了。
　　他举起镜子，不知该笑还是该哭。那道剑伤，弯曲而绵长，从左眼下一路划到右侧下巴。四分之三的鼻子不见了，嘴唇也少了一块，撕裂的皮肉被羊肠线缝到一起，粗糙的线脚横在半愈合的红色肌肤上。“漂亮，”他嘶哑地说，一面将镜子撂到一边。他全记起来了。船桥，曼登·穆尔爵士，左手，剑光。如果我没退缩，那一击会削掉半截脑袋。詹姆常说曼登爵士是御林铁卫中最危险的角色，因为这家伙面无表情，谁也猜不透他心中的打算。我永不该信任他们中的任何一个。他知道马林爵士、柏洛斯爵士、还有后来的奥斯蒙爵士都是姐姐的人，但一直假装以为其他人尚未完全丧失荣誉心。瑟曦一定买通了他，以确保我上战场一去不回。难道不是吗？否则我和曼登爵士无冤无仇，他干嘛来害我？提利昂摸着自己的脸，用粗短的手指拨弄伤疤。亲爱的姐姐，又送给我一份礼物。
　　学士站在床边摆手，活像一只要起飞的鹅。“大人，别，别乱动，那儿可能会留下一道疤……”
　　“可能？”他不屑的嘲笑伴随着痛苦的抽搐。当然会有一道疤，鼻子也不可能长回来。罢了，他从没让人看顺眼过。“这是我的——教训——不要——再玩——斧头。”嘴唇的伤口很紧，“我们——在哪儿？这是——什么地方？”讲话牵起疼痛，但提利昂沉默得已经太久。
　　“啊，大人，您在梅葛楼，这是太后的舞厅底下的房间。太后陛下特地将你就近安置，才好时时照顾您。”
　　她当然会，我敢打赌！“送我回去，”提利昂命令，“我要自己的床，自己的房间。”我要自己的人，自己的学士，如果……还找得到可信赖的人的话。
　　“您自己的……大人，这不可能。那是首相的房间。”
　　“我——就是——首相。”努力说话令他疲惫，听到的东西更是困惑。
　　巴拉拔学士苦着脸道：“不，大人，我……您先前受了重伤，濒临死亡，您父亲大人已接过重任。泰温大人，他……”
　　“在这里？”
　　“那晚，他拯救了我们大家。百姓们以为蓝礼国王的鬼魂显灵，但聪明人都知道是你父亲和提利尔大人的功劳，还有百花骑士和小指头大人。他们奔袭千里，穿越灰烬，从后掩杀篡夺者史坦尼斯。那是一场伟大的胜利，如今泰温大人搬进了首相塔，辅佐国王陛下拨乱反正，真是诸神保佑。”
　　“诸神保佑，”提利昂空洞地重复。该死的父亲，该死的小指头，该死的蓝礼的鬼魂！“去找……”去找谁？总不能叫这粉红脸的巴拉拔把雪伊带来吧。他该找谁？他还能信任谁？瓦里斯？波隆？杰斯林爵士？“……我的侍从，”他把话说完，“波德、派恩。”在那座船桥上，是波德这孩子救了我的命。
　　“男孩？那个古怪的男孩？”
　　“怪男孩——波德瑞克——派恩——你走——叫他来。”
　　“遵命，大人。”巴拉拔学士点点头，匆忙离开。提利昂一边等待一边感觉力气从体内一点点渗漏而出。不知自己究竟在这儿睡了多久。瑟曦要我一睡不醒，我偏不顺从。
　　波德瑞克·派恩走进卧室，胆怯得像只老鼠。“大人？”他蹑手蹑脚地靠近床边。这孩子，在战场上多么英勇，这会儿怎反而战战兢兢？提利昂不明白，“我打算留在您身边，但学士要我走开。”
　　“让他走——听我说——讲话很辛苦——我要安眠酒——安眠酒——不是罂粟花奶——去找法兰肯——法兰肯——不是巴拉拔——监视他调制——然后带来。”波德偷偷瞥了他的脸，立即移开视线。唉，这不能怪他。“我还要——”提利昂续道，“自己的——护卫——波隆——波隆在哪儿？”
　　“他当了骑士。”
　　连皱眉都疼，“找到他——带他来。”
　　“遵命，大人。我去找波隆。”
　　提利昂扣住孩子的手腕，“曼登爵士呢？”
　　男孩打个哆嗦，“不——不是我要杀他，他——他——他——死——”
　　“他死了？你确定？他死了？”
　　他怯怯地蹭着脚，“淹死了。”
　　“很好——什么也别说——关于他——关于我——关于这事——什么也别说。”
　　侍从离开时，提利昂已经彻底筋疲力尽，于是他躺回去，闭上眼睛。不知是否会再梦见泰莎，不知她还爱不爱我的脸，他苦涩地想。
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等级: 内阁元老
配偶: 逐烟霞。
你看着眼前的人，分明还是以前的模样，可心里终究不是以前那般澄清透明了。
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Chapter 66

　　CHAPTER 66
　　TYRION
　　He dreamed of a cracked stone ceiling and the smells of blood and shit and burnt flesh. The air was full of acrid smoke. Men were groaning and whimpering all around him, and from time to time a scream would pierce the air, thick with pain. When he tried to move, he found that he had fouled his own bedding. The smoke in the air made his eyes water. Am I crying? He must not let his father see. He was a Lannister of Casterly Rock. A lion, I must be a lion, live a lion, die a lion. He hurt so much, though. Too weak to groan, he lay in his own filth and shut his eyes. Nearby someone was cursing the gods in a heavy, monotonous voice. He listened to the blasphemies and wondered if he was dying. After a time the room faded.
　　He found himself outside the city, walking through a world without color. Ravens soared through a grey sky on wide black wings, while carrion crows rose from their feasts in furious clouds wherever he set his steps. White maggots burrowed through black corruption. The wolves were grey, and so were the silent sisters; together they stripped the flesh from the fallen. There were corpses strewn all over the tourney fields. The sun was a hot white penny, shining down upon the grey river as it rushed around the charred bones of sunken ships. From the pyres of the dead rose black columns of smoke and white-hot ashes. My work, thought Tyrion Lannister. They died at my command.
　　At first there was no sound in the world, but after a time he began to hear the voices of the dead, soft and terrible. They wept and moaned, they begged for an end to pain, they cried for help and wanted their mothers. Tyrion had never known his mother. He wanted Shae, but she was not there. He walked alone amidst grey shadows, trying to remember . . .
　　The silent sisters were stripping the dead men of their armor and clothes. All the bright dyes had leached out from the surcoats of the slain; they were garbed in shades of white and grey, and their blood was black and crusty. He watched their naked bodies lifted by arm and leg, to be carried swinging to the pyres to join their fellows. Metal and cloth were thrown in the back of a white wooden wagon, pulled by two tall black horses.
　　So many dead, so very many. Their corpses hung limply, their faces slack or stiff or swollen with gas, unrecognizable, hardly human. The garments the sisters took from them were decorated with black hearts, grey lions, dead flowers, and pale ghostly stags. Their armor was all dented and gashed, the chainmail riven, broken, slashed. Why did I kill them all? He had known once, but somehow he had forgotten.
　　He would have asked one of the silent sisters, but when he tried to speak he found he had no mouth. Smooth seamless skin covered his teeth. The discovery terrified him. How could he live without a mouth? He began to run. The city was not far. He would be safe inside the city, away from all these dead. He did not belong with the dead. He had no mouth, but he was still a living man. No, a lion, a lion, and alive. But when he reached the city walls, the gates were shut against him.
　　It was dark when he woke again. At first he could see nothing, but after a time the vague outlines of a bed appeared around him. The drapes were drawn, but he could see the shape of carved bedposts, and the droop of the velvet canopy over his head. Under him was the yielding softness of a featherbed, and the pillow beneath his head was goose down. My own bed, I am in my own bed, in my own bedchamber.
　　It was warm inside the drapes, under the great heap of furs and blankets that covered him. He was sweating. Fever, he thought groggily. He felt so weak, and the pain stabbed through him when he struggled to lift his hand. He gave up the effort. His head felt enormous, as big as the bed, too heavy to raise from the pillow. His body he could scarcely feel at all. How did I come here? He tried to remember. The battle came back in fits and flashes. The fight along the river, the knight who’d offered up his gauntlet, the bridge of ships . . .
　　Ser Mandon. He saw the dead empty eyes, the reaching hand, the green fire shining against the white enamel plate. Fear swept over him in a cold rush; beneath the sheets he could feel his bladder letting go. He would have cried out, if he’d had a mouth. No, that was the dream, he thought, his head pounding. Help me, someone help me. Jaime, Shae, Mother, someone ... Tysha ...
　　No one heard. No one came. Alone in the dark, he fell back into pissscented sleep. He dreamed his sister was standing over his bed, with their lord father beside her, frowning. It had to be a dream, since Lord Tywin was a thousand leagues away, fighting Robb Stark in the west. Others came and went as well. Varys looked down on him and sighed, but Littlefinger made a quip. Bloody treacherous bastard, Tyrion thought venomously, we sent you to Bitterbridge and you never came back. Sometimes he could hear them talking to one another, but he did not understand the words. Their voices buzzed in his ears like wasps muffled in thick felt.
　　He wanted to ask if they’d won the battle. We must have, else I’d be a head on a spike somewhere. If I live, we won. He did not know what pleased him more: the victory, or the fact he had been able to reason it out. His wits were coming back to him, however slowly. That was good. His wits were all he had.
　　The next time he woke, the draperies had been pulled back, and Podrick Payne stood over him with a candle. When he saw Tyrion open his eyes he ran off. No, don’t go, help me, help, he tried to call, but the best he could do was a muffled moan. I have no mouth. He raised a hand to his face, his every movement pained and fumbling. His fingers found stiff cloth where they should have found flesh, lips, teeth. Linen. The lower half of his face was bandaged tightly, a mask of hardened plaster with holes for breathing and feeding.
　　A short while later Pod reappeared. This time a stranger was with him, a maester chained and robed. “My lord, you must be still,” the man murmured. “You are grievous hurt. You will do yourself great injury. Are you thirsty?”
　　He managed an awkward nod. The maester inserted a curved copper funnel through the feeding hole over his mouth and poured a slow trickle down his throat. Tyrion swallowed, scarcely tasting. Too late he realized the liquid was milk of the poppy. By the time the maester removed the funnel from his mouth, he was already spiraling back to sleep.
　　This time he dreamed he was at a feast, a victory feast in some great hall. He had a high seat on the dais, and men were lifting their goblets and hailing him as hero. Marillion was there, the singer who’d journeyed with them through the Mountains of the Moon. He played his woodharp and sang of the imp’s daring deeds. Even his father was smiling with approval. When the song was over, Jaime rose from his place, commanded Tyrion to kneel, and touched him first on one shoulder and then on the other with his golden sword, and he rose up a knight. Shae was waiting to embrace him. She took him by the hand, laughing and teasing, calling him her giant of Lannister.
　　He woke in darkness to a cold empty room. The draperies had been drawn again. Something felt wrong, turned around, though he could not have said what. He was alone once more. Pushing back the blankets, he tried to sit, but the pain was too much and he soon subsided, breathing raggedly. His face was the least part of it. His right side was one huge ache, and a stab of pain went through his chest whenever he lifted his arm. What’s happened to me? Even the battle seemed half a dream when he tried to think back on it. I was hurt more badly than I knew Ser Mandon . . .
　　The memory frightened him, but Tyrion made himself hold it, turn it in his head, stare at it hard. He tried to kill me, no mistake. That part was not a dream. He would have cut me in half if Pod had not . . . Pod, where’s Pod?
　　Gritting his teeth, he grabbed hold of the bed hangings and yanked. The drapes ripped free of the canopy overhead and tumbled down, half on the rushes and half on him. Even that small effort had dizzied him. The room whirled around him, all bare walls and dark shadows, with a single narrow window. He saw a chest he’d owned, an untidy pile of his clothing, his battered armor. This is not my bedchamber, he realized. Not even the Tower of the Hand. Someone had moved him. His shout of anger came out as a muffled moan. They have moved me here to die, he thought as he gave up the struggle and closed his eyes once more. The room was dank and cold, and he was burning.
　　He dreamed of a better place, a snug little cottage by the sunset sea. The walls were lopsided and cracked and the floor had been made of packed earth, but he had always been warm there, even when they let the fire go out. She used to tease me about that, he remembered. I never thought to feed the fire, that had always been a servant’s task. “We have no servants,” she would remind me, and I would say, “You have me, I’m your servant,” and she would say, “A lazy servant. What do they do with lazy servants in Casterly Rock, my lord?” and he would tell her, “They kiss them.” That would always make her giggle. “They do not neither. They beat them, I bet,” she would say, but he would insist, “No, they kiss them, just like this.” He would show her how. “They kiss their fingers first, every one, and they kiss their wrists, yes, and inside their elbows. Then they kiss their funny ears, all our servants have funny ears. Stop laughing! And they kiss their cheeks and they kiss their noses with the little bump in them, there, so, like that, and they kiss their sweet brows and their hair and their lips, their . . . mmmm . . . mouths . . . so . . .”
　　They would kiss for hours, and spend whole days doing no more than lolling in bed, listening to the waves, and touching each other. Her body was a wonder to him, and she seemed to find delight in his. Sometimes she would sing to him. I loved a maid as fair as summer, with sunlight in her hair. “I love you, Tyrion,” she would whisper before they went to sleep at night. “I love your lips. I love your voice, and the words you say to me, and how you treat me gentle. I love your face.”
　　“My face?”
　　“Yes. Yes. I love your hands, and how you touch me. Your cock, I love your cock, I love how it feels when it’s in me.”
　　“It loves you too, my lady.”
　　“I love to say your name. Tyrion Lannister. It goes with mine. Not the Lannister, Vother part. Tyrion and Tysha. Tysha and Tyrion. Tyrion. My lord Tyrion . . .”
　　Lies, he thought, all feigned, all for gold, she was a whore, Jaime’s whore, Jaime’s gift, my lady of the lie. Her face seemed to fade away, dissolving behind a veil of tears, but even after she was gone he could still hear the faint, far-off sound of her voice, calling his name. “My lord, can you hear me? My lord? Tyrion? My lord? My lord?”
　　Through a haze of poppied sleep, he saw a soft pink face leaning over him. He was back in the dank room with the torn bed hangings, and the face was wrong, not hers, too round, with a brown fringe of beard. “Do you thirst, my lord? I have your milk, your good milk. You must not fight, no, don’t try to move, you need your rest.” He had the copper funnel in one damp pink hand and a flask in the other.
　　As the man leaned close, Tyrion’s fingers slid underneath his chain of many metals, grabbed, pulled. The maester dropped the flask, spilling milk of the poppy all over the blanket. Tyrion twisted until he could feel the links digging into the flesh of the man’s fat neck. “No. More,” he croaked, so hoarse he was not certain he had even spoken. But he must have, for the maester choked out a reply. “Unhand, please, my lord . . . need your milk, the pain . . . the chain, don’t, unhand, no . . .”
　　The pink face was beginning to purple when Tyrion let go. The maester reeled back, sucking in air. His reddened throat showed deep white gouges where the links had pressed. His eyes were white too. Tyrion raised a hand to his face and made a ripping motion over the hardened mask. And again. And again.
　　“You . . . you want the bandages off, is that it?” the maester said at last. “But I’m not to . . . that would be . . . be most unwise, my lord. You are not yet healed, the queen would . . .”
　　The mention of his sister made Tyrion growl. Are you one of hers, then? He pointed a finger at the maester, then coiled his hand into a fist. Crushing, choking, a promise, unless the fool did as he was bid.
　　Thankfully, he understood. “I . . . I will do as my lord commands, to be sure, but . . . this is unwise, your wounds . . .”
　　“Do. It.” Louder that time.
　　Bowing, the man left the room, only to return a few moments later, bearing a long knife with a slender sawtooth blade, a basin of water, a pile of soft cloths, and several flasks. By then Tyrion had managed to squirm backward a few inches, so he was half sitting against his pillow. The maester bade him be very still as he slid the tip of the knife in under his chin, beneath the mask. A slip of the hand here, and Cersei will be free of me, he thought. He could feel the blade sawing through the stiffened linen, only inches above his throat.
　　Fortunately this soft pink man was not one of his sister’s braver creatures. After a moment he felt cool air on his cheeks. There was pain as well, but he did his best to ignore that. The maester discarded the bandages, still crusty with potion. “Be still now, I must wash out the wound.” His touch was gentle, the water warm and soothing. The wound, Tyrion thought, remembering a sudden flash of bright silver that seemed to pass just below his eyes. “This is like to sting some,” the maester warned as he wet a cloth with wine that smelled of crushed herbs. It did more than sting. It traced a line of fire all the way across Tyrion’s face, and twisted a burning poker up his nose. His fingers clawed the bedclothes and he sucked in his breath, but somehow he managed not to scream. The maester was clucking like an old hen. “It would have been wiser to leave the mask in place until the flesh had knit, my lord. Still, it looks clean, good, good. When we found you down in that cellar among the dead and dying, your wounds were filthy. One of your ribs was broken, doubtless you can feel it, the blow of some mace perhaps, or a fall, it’s hard to say. And you took an arrow in the arm, there where it joins the shoulder. It showed signs of mortification, and for a time I feared you might lose the limb, but we treated it with boiling wine and maggots, and now it seems to be healing clean . . .”
　　“Name,” Tyrion breathed up at him. “Name.”
　　The maester blinked. “Why, you are Tyrion Lannister, my lord. Brother to the queen. Do you remember the battle? Sometimes with head wounds—” “Your name.” His throat was raw, and his tongue had forgotten how to shape the words.
　　“I am Maester Ballabar.”
　　“Ballabar,” Tyrion repeated. “Bring me. Looking glass.”
　　“my lord,” the maester said, “I would not counsel . . . that might be, ah, unwise, as it were . . . your wound . . .”
　　“Bring it,” he had to say. His mouth was stiff and sore, as if a punch had split his lip. “And drink. Wine. No poppy.”
　　The maester rose flush-faced and hurried off. He came back with a flagon of pale amber wine and a small silvered looking glass in an ornate golden frame. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he poured half a cup of wine and held it to Tyrion’s swollen lips. The trickle went down cool, though he could hardly taste it. “More,” he said when the cup was empty. Maester Ballabar poured again. By the end of the second cup, Tyrion Lannister felt strong enough to face his face.
　　He turned over the glass, and did not know whether he ought to laugh or cry. The gash was long and crooked, starting a hair under his left eye and ending on the right side of his jaw. Three-quarters of his nose was gone, and a chunk of his lip. Someone had sewn the torn flesh together with catgut, and their clumsy stitches were still in place across the seam of raw, red, half-healed flesh. “Pretty,” he croaked, flinging the glass aside.
　　He remembered now. The bridge of boats, Ser Mandon Moore, a hand, a sword coming at his face. If I had not pulled back, that cut would have taken off the top of my head. Jaime had always said that Ser Mandon was the most dangerous of the Kingsguard, because his dead empty eyes gave no hint to his intentions. I should never have trusted any of them. He’d known that Ser Meryn and Ser Boros were his sister’s, and Ser Osmund later, but he had let himself believe that the others were not wholly lost to honor. Cersei must have paid him to see that I never came back from the battle. Why else? I never did Ser Mandon any harm that I know of. Tyrion touched his face, plucking at the proud flesh with blunt thick fingers. Another gift from my sweet sister.
　　The maester stood beside the bed like a goose about to take flight. “My lord, there, there will most like be a scar . . .”
　　“Most like?” His snort of laughter turned into a wince of pain. There would be a scar, to be sure. Nor was it likely that his nose would be growing back anytime soon. It was not as if his face had ever been fit to look at. “Teach me, not to, play with, axes.” His grin felt tight. “Where, are we? What, what place?” It hurt to talk, but Tyrion had been too long in silence.
　　“Ah, you are in Maegor’s Holdfast, my lord. A chamber over the Queen’s Ballroom. Her Grace wanted you kept close, so she might watch over you herself.”
　　I’ll wager she did. “Return me,” Tyrion commanded. “Own bed. Own chambers.” Where I will have my own men about me, and my own maester too, if I find one I can trust.
　　“Your own . . . my lord, that would not be possible. The King’s Hand has taken up residence in your former chambers.”
　　“I Am . . . King’s Hand.” He was growing exhausted by the effort of speaking, and confused by what he was hearing.
　　Maester Ballabar looked distressed. “No, my lord, I . . . you were wounded, near death. Your lord father has taken up those duties now. Lord Tywin, he . . .”
　　“Here?”
　　“Since the night of the battle. Lord Tywin saved us all. The smallfolk say it was King Renly’s ghost, but wiser men know better. It was your father and Lord Tyrell, with the Knight of Flowers and Lord Littlefinger. They rode through the ashes and took the usurper Stannis in the rear. It was a great victory, and now Lord Tywin has settled into the Tower of the Hand to help His Grace set the realm to rights, gods be praised.”
　　“Gods be praised,” Tyrion repeated hollowly. His bloody father and bloody Littlefinger and Renly’s ghost? “I want . . .” Who do I want? He could not tell pink Ballabar to fetch him Shae. Who could he send for, who could he trust? Varys? Bronn? Ser Jacelyn? “. . . my squire,” he finished. “Pod. Payne.” It was Pod on the bridge of boats, the lad saved my life.
　　“The boy? The odd boy?”
　　“Odd boy. Podrick. Payne. You go. Send him.”
　　“As you will, my lord.” Maester Ballabar bobbed his head and hurried out. Tyrion could feel the strength seeping out of him as he waited. He wondered how long he had been here, asleep. Cersei would have me sleep forever, but I won’t be so obliging.
　　Podrick Payne entered the bedchamber timid as a mouse. “My lord?” He crept close to the bed. How can a boy so bold in battle be so frightened in a sickroom? Tyrion wondered. “I meant to stay by you, but the maester sent me away.”
　　“Send him away. Hear me. Talk’s hard. Need dreamwine. Dreamwine, not milk of the poppy. Go to Frenken. Frenken, not Ballabar. Watch him make it. Bring it here.” Pod stole a glance at Tyrion’s face, and just as quickly averted his eyes. Well, I cannot blame him for that. “I want,” Tyrion went on, “mine own. Guard. Bronn. Where’s Bronn?”
　　“They made him a knight.”
　　Even frowning hurt. “Find him. Bring him.”
　　“As you say. My lord. Bronn.”
　　Tyrion seized the lad’s wrist. “Ser Mandon?”
　　The boy flinched. “I n-never meant to k-k-k-k—”
　　“Dead? You’re, certain? Dead?”
　　He shuffled his feet, sheepish. “Drowned.”
　　“Good. Say nothing. Of him. Of me. Any of it. Nothing.”
　　By the time his squire left, the last of Tyrion’s strength was gone as well. He lay back and closed his eyes. Perhaps he would dream of Tysha again. I wonder how she’d like my face now, he thought bitterly.



Ⅱ 列王的纷争 Chapter67 席恩
　　头一批斥候在城下出现时，鲁温学士来找他。“亲王殿下，”他说，“您必须投降。”
　　席恩盯着面前一盘燕麦饼、蜂蜜和血肠发呆，这是他的早餐。又一个无眠之夜让他浑身酸痛，看见食物只想作呕。“我叔叔还没回话？”
　　“没有，”学士道，“派克岛令尊那儿也没有消息。”
　　“再派几只鸟。”
　　“没有用的。这些鸟还没到达您就——”
　　“派出去！”他一拳砸在餐盘上，掀开毯子，裸着身体，怒气冲天地从奈德·史塔克的床上爬起来。“你是不是想我死？是不是？鲁温，你给我说实话！”
　　灰色的小个子面不改色。“我的职责是服务。”
　　“没错。为谁服务？”
　　“为国家，”鲁温学士道，“为临冬城。席恩，过去我孜孜不倦地教你计算和书写，历史与战略。若你更勤奋好学，我本想教会你更多。我不敢吹嘘自己有多么爱你，不，但我也无法恨你。再说，就算我恨你，只要你占有临冬城一天，我受誓言的约束就必须给你忠诚的谏言。现在，我建议您开城投降。”
　　席恩弯腰拾起一件脏斗篷，抖掉上面的灯芯草，披在肩上。火，我要升火，还要干净衣服。威克斯上哪儿去了？我不能脏兮兮地进坟墓。
　　“您不可能守住，”师傅续道，“倘若令尊大人打算施以援手，救兵早就到了，但他关心的只有颈泽。征服卡林湾之后，他才会挥师北上。”
　　“你说的有理，”席恩说，“因此只要我占据临冬城，就能钳制罗德利克爵士和史塔克的封臣诸侯们，使他们无力南下夹击我叔叔。”我可不像你想像的那样对战略一无所知，老头。“必要的话，我手中的存粮足以支撑一年围城。”
　　“不会有什么围城。起初一两天，他们或许会扎营下来加工云梯，捆扎爪钩。一旦准备完毕，您的城墙会在上百个地点被同时突破。您也许可以退到主堡固守一时，但其他地方会在一个小时之内沦陷。与其那样，您还不如打开城门，请求——”
　　“——他们发发慈悲？他们会给什么慈悲我清楚得很。”
　　“这不失为一种选择。”
　　“我是天生的铁种，”席恩提醒对方。“我有自己的选择。他们给过我选择吗？不，不用回答，我已经听够了你的‘谏言’。照我的命令去办，放出渡鸦，叫罗伦来见我。还有威克斯，让他把我的盔甲擦拭干净。通知守卫在广场上全体集合。”
　　片刻之间他以为学士就要抗命，但鲁温最终只僵硬的一鞠躬，“遵命。”
　　他的队伍小得可怜：寥寥无几的铁民，空旷寂寞的广场。“入夜之前，北方人就要到了，”他告诉他们。“罗德利克爵士带着所有应召的诸侯一起杀来，但我决不临阵脱逃。我夺下了这里，我要守住这里，无论是生是死，我都是临冬城的亲王。然而，我不勉强任何人为我而死，趁罗德利克爵士的主力部队尚未到达，想走的人赶紧撤退，应该有逃命的机会。”他拔出长剑，在地上划了道横线。“想留下来作战的人，请上前。”
　　无人回话。穿着锁甲、皮衣和镶钉皮甲的众人，纹丝不动，好似石雕。少数几个人交换着眼神。乌兹的脚挪了挪重心。迪克·哈尔洛清清喉咙，吐出一口痰。清风的手指弄乱了安德哈整洁的长发。
　　席恩觉得自己正是下沉溺毙中的人。干嘛吃惊？他凄凉地想。父亲遗弃了我，姐姐、叔叔、连那个狡猾的怪物臭佬，他们统统都抛弃了我。既然如此，我的手下又何必对我忠诚？没什么可说的了，没什么可做的了。我只好站在这雄伟高大的灰城墙下，在这严酷苍白的晴空底下，手握长剑，等着，等着……
　　头一个越线的是威克斯，他快走三步，垂头站在席恩身旁。或许是因男孩的行为而羞愧，黑罗伦愁容满面地跟了上来。“还有谁？”席恩询问。红拉夫走上前，接着是科蒙，魏拉格，泰莫和他两个兄弟，“病人”乌夫，“偷羊贼”哈拉格，四个哈尔洛和两个波特里，最后是“鲸鱼”肯德。一共十七人。
　　没动的人包括乌兹，斯提吉，阿莎从深林堡带来的十个人不出意料地无动于衷。“好，你们走吧，”席恩对他们说，“逃到我姐姐那边去。我向你们保证，她一定会热烈欢迎。”
　　斯提吉至少还知道脸红，其他人则是一言不发地掉头离开。席恩望向留下来的十七个人。“上城墙。假如神灵开眼，得以生还，我将永不忘记诸位。”
　　其他人走后黑罗伦多待了一会儿，“战事一开，城里的人就会反叛。”
　　“我知道。你要我怎么做？”
　　“宰掉，”罗伦说，“统统宰掉。”
　　席恩摇摇头，“吊绳准备好了吗？”
　　“好了。您真打算用这个？”
　　“你有更好的法子？”
　　“有。请让我拿起斧子上吊桥，放他们来打我。一次来一个、两个、三个都无所谓。只要我一息尚存，谁也别想过去。”
　　他这是找死，席恩想，并非寻求胜利，他要的只是死后受人歌颂。“我们还是用吊绳。”
　　“遵命，”罗伦回答，眼里却含着轻蔑。
　　威克斯为他着装准备战斗。在黑色的外衣和金色的披风下，席恩穿着一件上好油的锁甲衫，其内还套了一层硬皮甲。他全副披挂之后，拿起武器，登上东墙与南墙交汇处的了望塔，好亲眼见证自己的毁灭。北方人正散开队形，包围城堡。从这里很难判断他们的总人数，不过至少有一千——或许是这个数字的两倍。两千对十七。他们带来投石机和弩炮。虽然他还没看见攻城塔自国王大道隆隆而来，但狼林里的木材取之不尽，需要多少就有多少。
　　席恩用鲁温学士的密尔透镜察着对方旗帜。不论转到哪个方向，都能看到赛文家的战斧旗迎风飞扬，还有陶哈家的三树旗，白港的美人鱼旗，间或还有菲林特家和卡史塔克家的徽记，他甚至还看见一两面霍伍德家的驼鹿旗。但没有葛洛佛家的踪影——阿莎消灭了他们，没有恐怖堡的波顿家族，也没有长城边安柏家的部众。不过眼前的部队已经完全足够。不一会儿，克雷·赛文那小子用长竿打着和平的旗帜来到城门前，宣称罗德利克·凯索爵士希望和“变色龙”席恩当面对话。
　　变色龙！这个称号和胆汁一样苦涩。他记得自己回派克本是要率父亲的长船舰队袭击兰尼斯港的。“我马上出来，”他朝下面嚷道，“就我一个人。”
　　黑罗伦不赞同。“血债都得血偿，”他劝道，“这些骑士或许跟同辈之间讲什么仁义道德，可我们在他们眼中只是强盗，只怕下手会不顾荣誉信条。”
　　席恩发火了：“我是临冬城的亲王和铁群岛的继承人，不能瞻前顾后，怕东怕西！你别管，去把那女孩找来，照我说的做。”
　　黑罗伦狠狠地瞪了他一眼。“是，亲王殿下。”
　　连他也反对我，席恩意识到。临冬城的一砖一瓦都在反抗他。假如我现在就死，一定孤孤零零，被人遗忘。所以我必须活下去，还有什么选择？
　　他头戴王冠，策马骑出城门楼。一位妇女正在井边汲水，大厨盖奇站在厨房门边，他们空白如板岩的面孔和阴郁沉闷的表情隐藏了无穷的恨意，但席恩还是感觉得到。
　　吊桥放下，刺骨的寒风叹息着越过河沟，扑面而来。令他它浑身颤抖。只是有点冷，不要紧，席恩告诉自己，只是打颤，并非发抖，再勇敢的人遇冷也会打颤。他渐行渐远，骑进狂风的利齿中，走出闸门，越过吊桥。外墙城门在面前开启，走在城下，他感觉到孩子们正用空洞的眼眶注视他。
　　罗德利克爵士骑着他的斑点马，在市集广场等他，年轻的克雷·赛文是掌旗官史塔克的冰原狼在他们头顶飘扬。广场内只有他们两人，然而席恩注意到周围拥挤的房屋顶上站满了弓箭手，左边有矛兵，右边则是长长一列骑士，打着曼德勒家族手握三叉戟的美人鱼旗帜。每个人都要我死。他们中的很多人打小和他一起喝酒，一起赌博，甚至一起嫖妓，但只要他此刻落入敌手，这一切都不能挽救他分毫。
　　“罗德利克爵士。”席恩勒住缰绳，“今日我们沙场相见，甚为遗憾。”
　　“我惟一的遗憾就是不能立刻吊死你。”老骑士朝尘土飞扬的地面啐了口唾沫。“变色龙席恩。”
　　“我生来是派克的葛雷乔伊，”席恩提醒他，“在我出生之日，父亲给我裹的襁褓是金色海怪，不是冰原狼。”
　　“十年以来，你都是史塔克家的养子。”
　　“人质和囚犯，我是这么看。”
　　“艾德公爵若地下有知，早该把你拴在地牢。他不仅没这么做，反而把你和他自己的孩子一视同仁，这些可爱的孩子如今遭你残害。对我而言，这一生永难磨灭的耻辱就是当年曾教授你战斗的技艺。若能时光倒流，我宁愿戳穿你的肚肠，也决不会把剑交到你手中。”
　　“我是来谈判的，没工夫听你的侮辱。说说条件，老头子，你要我怎样？”
　　“很简单，就两条。”老人道，“临冬城，你的命。命你部下打开城门，扔下武器，只要能证明和谋杀孩童无关的人可以自由离开，但你必须留下来接受罗柏国王的制裁。等国王归来，你就祈求诸神怜悯吧。”
　　“罗柏回不了临冬城，”席恩保证，“他会在卡林湾碰得头破血流，一万年来每支北上的军队都落得这个下场。北境是我们的，爵士。”
　　“三座孤城是你们的，”罗德利克爵士答道，“而这一座很快会被我夺回，变色龙。”
　　席恩佯作不理。“以下是我的条件：日落之前解散部队。愿意宣誓效忠，承认巴隆。葛雷乔伊为国王，承认我为临冬城亲王的人，他们的权利和财产将得到承认，不受任何伤害；胆敢违抗的人将遭到彻底毁灭。”
　　年轻的赛文难以置信。“你疯了，葛雷乔伊？”
　　罗德利克爵士摇头道：“他只是自负罢了，小伙子。席恩总是自视过高，只怕本性难改。”老人伸出一根手指指着他，“千万别幻想我要等待罗柏突破颈泽，与我合兵一处后才奈何得了你。我手中有近两千士兵……而若消息非虚，你那边还不到五十人。”
　　只有十七个。席恩强装笑脸。“我有比士兵更好的王牌。”他握拳过顶，这是与黑罗伦约定的信号。
　　他身后是临冬城的高墙，罗德利克爵士正对着他们，看得一清二楚。席恩审视他的面孔，当老人拘谨的花白胡须后的下巴开始颤抖时，席恩明白他瞧见了。他并不惊讶，席恩悲哀地想，他只是恐惧。
　　“懦夫的行为，”罗德利克爵士道，“居然利用孩童……太卑鄙了。”
　　“噢，我很清楚，”席恩说，“这种滋味我也尝过。您难道忘了？我十岁那年就被活生生地从父亲房里带走，就为了确保他不再叛乱。”
　　“这不是一回事！”
　　席恩表情冷漠。“不错，套在我脖子上的并非粗糙的麻绳，但它给我的感觉却分毫未差。它勒我，罗德利克爵士，勒得我好痛。”在此之前他从没这么说过，话一出口，却陡然领悟到这是事实。
　　“没有人伤害过你。”
　　“也不会有人伤害贝丝，只要你——”
　　罗德利克爵士让他说完。“毒蛇！”骑士高喊，白须下的脸因暴怒而通红。“我给你机会拯救部下，然后带着仅存的一点荣誉去死，变色龙！我早该知道和残杀儿童的人之间没什么好说的。”他手按剑柄，“我真该立时将你砍翻在地，就此终止这无穷无尽的谎言与欺骗。以天上诸神之名，我办得到！”
　　席恩并不害怕一个摇摇晃晃的老头，但附近凝神观望的弓箭手和骑兵队列不是闹着玩的。只要刀剑一现，他活着回城的希望便荡然无存。“你就违约谋杀我吧！你的小贝丝就会被吊绳活活勒死。”
　　罗德利克爵士的指关节捏成了惨白，良久，他终于放开剑柄。“老实讲，我活得够长了。”
　　“深有同感，爵士。您接不接受我的条件？”
　　“我对凯特琳夫人和史塔克家族负有责任。”
　　“对您自己的家族呢？贝丝可是您最后的血脉。”
　　老骑士挺直腰板。“我愿用自己来交换女儿。放了她，拿我当人质。临冬城代理城主肯定比一个小孩价值大。”
　　“对我来说并非如此。”高贵而英勇的举动，老头子，但我不是傻瓜。“我敢打赌，对曼德勒伯爵和兰巴德·陶哈来说也并非如此。”你这身老骨头对他们而言不值一哂。“不，我会留着女孩……并保证她的安全，只要你遵命行事。记住，她的性命取决于你。”
　　“诸神在上，席恩，你怎忍心做出这种事？你明知我非攻城不可，我宣誓……”
　　“日落之时，你还在城下磨刀霍霍，我就吊死贝丝。”席恩说，“若继续不退，明天天亮前我处死第二名人质，日落时处死第三名。从今往后，每一个清晨，每一个黄昏，都意味一个人质的死亡，直到你撤军为止。你知道，我手中人质多的是。”他不等对方回答，便掉转笑星的马头，返回城堡。起初他骑得较慢，随即想到身后大群的弓箭手，便忍不住踢马开跑。两个幼小的头颅依然在远处的熗尖守望他，随着距离接近，那剥去脸皮又浸过焦油的面孔越变越大——小贝丝就站在他们之间，颈套绳索，哭泣不止。席恩狠狠夹紧笑星，狂奔入城，马蹄踏在吊桥上“嗒嗒”作响，犹如敲打的鼓点。
　　他在院子里翻身下马，将缰绳扔给威克斯。“希望能阻止他们轻举妄动，”他告诉黑罗伦，“反正日落之前会有答案。把那女孩带下来吧，送到安全的地方。”在层层的皮革、钢铁和羊毛之下，他已经周身汗湿。“我要葡萄酒，最好来一桶。”
　　奈德·史塔克的卧室升起了火。席恩坐在壁炉边，倒上一杯从酒窖取出的夏日红，只觉酒液和他的心情一样酸败。他们会进攻，他望着火焰，阴郁地想。罗德利克爵士固然疼爱他的女儿，但毕竟身为代理城主，毕竟是个骑士。今天若换成席恩套着绳子在上，巴隆大王指挥军队在下，只怕进攻的号角早就吹响，他对此毫不怀疑。感谢神灵，罗德利克爵士并非铁种，青绿之地的人乃是用柔弱质材所塑造——但他不确定他们是否柔弱到屈服的程度。
　　如果他错了，如果老头子不顾一切地发动进攻，临冬城将立刻陷落——席恩对此不抱幻想。他的十七个部下或能干掉三倍、四倍、乃至五倍于己的敌人，但终究寡不敌众。
　　席恩凝视着映在酒杯边缘的火光，冥想一切的不公。“我和罗柏·史塔克在呓语森林并肩奋战呢，”他低语道。那个晚上，他其实很害怕，却远不如今天这么强烈。和朋友共赴沙场是一回事，在众人的鄙夷中孤独地毁灭是另一回事。发发慈悲吧，他凄凉地想。
　　空洞的美酒带不来慰藉，于是席恩叫威克斯取出弓箭，陪他去老内院——那是临冬城扩建前的中庭。他站在那里，瞄准靶子一箭又一箭地射，直到肩膀酸痛，手指滴血。他停了一会儿，把箭从靶标上拔出，又开始新一轮射击。我靠这张弓救过布兰的命，他提醒自己，也一定能拯救自己。间或有妇女来井边打水，却无人停留——看见席恩的表情，人人掉头走避。
　　在他身后，残塔矗立，很久以前，烈火焚尽了它的上层，留下锯齿状的尖端，犹如一顶王冠。太阳移动，高塔的阴影亦步亦趋，逐渐拉长，如一支黑手伸向席恩。日头还没落到墙后，他已完全落入黑手掌握。假如我吊死女孩，北方人会立刻攻城，他边射边想，假如我就此罢休，他们便会把我的威胁当耳边风。他又搭上一支箭。进退两难，无路可走。
　　“假如您麾下有一百位和您一样出色的弓箭手，或能守住城堡，”一个声音轻轻地说。
　　他回头一看，鲁温师傅正在身后。“走开，”席恩告诉他，“我受够了你的谏言。”“您的生命呢？您觉得自己活够了吗，亲王殿下？”
　　他抬起弓，“再敢多言，休怪我将你一箭穿心。”
　　“您不会这么做。”
　　席恩拉满弓弦，灰色的鹅毛羽翎拉到颊边。“打赌？”
　　“我是你最后的希望，席恩。”
　　我没有希望了，他心想，但还是将弓放低一寸：“我不会逃走。”
　　“我并非建议你逃走。穿上黑衣吧。”
　　“当守夜人？”席恩缓缓松开弓弦，箭尖指地。
　　“罗德利克爵士将毕生奉献给史塔克家族，而史塔克家族一直是守夜人军团的盟友，他无法拒绝这个提议。请打开城门，放下武器，公开答应他的条件，您一定能得到穿上黑衣的机会。”
　　成为守夜人军团的兄弟。那意味着没有王冠，没有儿子，没有老婆……同时也意味着生命，拥有荣誉的生命。奈德·史塔克的弟弟不就选择当守夜人么？琼恩·雪诺也一样。
　　我的黑衣服很多，只要把上面的海怪纹章撕掉就成，连我的马也是黑的。凭我的能力。足以在守夜人中出人头地——成为首席游骑兵，甚至当上总司令。就让阿莎保有那些鸟不生蛋的岛屿吧，它们跟她一样乏味。如果我去东海望当差，说不定还能指挥自己的船。在长城之外打猎也一定很棒。至于女人嘛，哪个女野人不幻想跟亲王作爱呢？微笑在他脸上缓缓地扩散，穿上黑衣就能洗清“变色龙”的称号，一切重新开始……
　　“席恩亲王殿下！”突如其来的一声大喊粉碎了他的白日梦。科蒙大步奔过院子。“北方人——”
　　无边的恐惧让他动弹不得。“进攻了？”
　　鲁温学士抓住他的手。“趁现在还有时间，赶紧升起和平的旗帜——”
　　“他们在自相残杀，”科蒙上气不接下气地说，“起初有另一只军队赶到，约莫数百士兵，加入围城的队伍。现在，他们突然打起自己人来！”
　　“是阿莎？”她最后还是来救他了？
　　科蒙的头摇得像拨浪鼓。“不是，我敢肯定不是，他们是北方佬，旗帜上有个血人。”
　　恐怖堡的剥皮人。席恩想起来，臭佬被俘前效命于波顿的私生子。真难以置信，像他这么卑劣的怪物不知用什么办法，竟让波顿家族转变了效忠对象。但与结果相比，这都不重要了，“我要自己看，”席恩说。
　　鲁温学士紧跟在后。到达城墙时，死人和垂死的马已塞满城门外的市集广场。他看不出战斗的阵线，只有一团混乱交织的旗帜和刀剑，呼喊和尖叫絮绕于秋日的冷气中。罗德利克爵士的部队人数虽多，但恐怖堡的士兵有更坚强的领导，况且是偷袭不备，因此占了上风。他们冲锋、厮杀、再冲锋，调度灵活。在拥挤的房屋间，大队人马每次整队的企图都是徒劳，庞大的兵力被冲散为可怜的碎片。垂死战马发出的可怖嘶叫中，传来铁斧敲击橡木盾的巨响。他发现旅店也在燃烧。
　　黑罗伦来到身边，静静地站了一会儿。夕阳西垂，给田野和房屋镀上一层红光。一声细微而颤抖的惨叫回荡在城墙之上，一阵绵长的号角在燃烧的房屋背后悠悠奏响。席恩望见一个伤兵拖着身子，痛苦万分地爬过战场，挣扎着前往市集中心的水井，生命之血在污泥尘土中留下一条细长的红线。爬到之前，他便死了。此人穿着皮甲和圆锥形的半盔，但看到不到徽章，不知他为谁而战。
　　乌鸦迎着夜晚的星光，飞向蓝色的土地。“多斯拉克人相信群星是勇敢者的灵魂。”席恩说。很久很久以前，鲁温师傅如此教诲他。
　　“多斯拉克人？”
　　“狭海对岸的马族。”
　　“啊，是他们，”黑罗伦眉头皱成一团，“野蛮人就信蠢事。”
　　夜色渐浓，烟雾弥漫，下方的战况愈来愈混沌，只听金铁交击声逐渐减低，呼喝和号声让位于呻吟与哀嚎。最后，一队人马从浓雾中奔出，为首的骑士全身黑甲，头顶的圆盔闪着暗红的光芒，淡红披风在肩头飞舞。此人在城门前勒马，他的一位手下高声叫门。
　　“你们是敌是友？”黑罗伦朝下吼。
　　“敌人会送这种大礼吗？”红盔骑士把手一挥，三具尸体扔在大门前。他让人举着火把，在尸体上方挥舞，好让城上守军看清死者的脸。
　　“是老骑士，”黑罗伦说。
　　“以及兰巴德·陶哈与克雷·赛文。”年轻的领主单眼中箭，罗德利克爵士则是左臂齐肘而断。鲁温学士发出一声无言的惊叫，从城垛别开头去，跌倒在地，狂呕不休。
　　“大肥猪曼德勒没胆量，不敢离开白港，否则我把他一起献上。”红盔骑士夸口。我得救了，席恩想，为何心里却如此空虚？这是胜利啊，甜美的胜利，是我日夜祈祷的奇迹。他瞥瞥鲁温学士，刚才只差一步就要投降，穿上黑……
　　“为我们的盟友打开城门。”或许今夜，我能沉睡安眠，不再噩梦缠身。
　　恐怖堡的部队跨越护城河，穿过内城门。席恩同黑罗伦和鲁温学士一道去院子里迎接。对方只举着几根淡红旗帜，多数人拿着战斧、巨剑和砍得破烂不堪的盾牌。“你损失了多少人？”红盔骑士下马时席恩问他。
　　“二三十个吧。”火炬的光芒映在他面甲破损的瓷釉上。他的头盔和颈甲被锻成人脸人肩的形状——剥去皮肤，鲜血淋漓，张开的大口似乎在发出极端痛苦的无声狂啸。
　　“罗德利克的军队是你的好几倍。”
　　“是啊，可他以为我们是盟友。一个常人易犯的错误。这老笨蛋朝我伸手时，我一刀把它宰成两半，然后让他看了我的脸。”骑士双手举起头盔，高抬过顶，夹在腋下。
　　“臭佬！”席恩有些不安。一个仆人怎能拥有如此光鲜的铠甲？
　　对方哈哈大笑。“那可怜虫早死了。”他踱上一步。“都是那女孩的错，她不跑那么快，他的马便不会折腿，我们就可以成功脱逃。我看见山坡顶上骑兵出现，便把自己的马让给了他。当时我先干完，轮到他，他喜欢趁温热的时候动手，结果我不得不强行将他推开，并把自己的衣服交到他手中——小牛皮靴、天鹅绒上衣、银丝剑带以及黑貂披风。快回恐怖堡，我吩咐他，把能找到的救兵都带来。‘快来，骑我的马，它跑得快；这个戴上，这是父亲给我的指环，如此部下们准能相信你受我委托。’他没多问，知道我的话不容置疑。于是我一面看着他被射杀，一面用女孩的污秽为自己制造气味，并穿上他的烂衣服。其实我也知道，他们很可能当即吊死我，但这毕竟是惟一的机会。”他用手背擦擦嘴。“现在嘛，我亲爱的亲王殿下，您不是许给我一个姑娘么？——假如我带来两百援兵的话。呵呵，如今我带来三倍的人手，他们可不是什么新手菜鸟或乡野匹夫，全是父亲留下的精锐部队哪。”
　　席恩话已出口，现在无法反悔。先给他点甜头尝尝，以后再收拾他。“哈拉格，”他说，“去狗舍，把帕拉带来给……？”
　　“拉姆斯——”他丰厚的嘴唇带着笑意，那双淡白的眼睛里却一点也无。“——波顿先生。告诉你，我老婆啃手指之前，居然敢叫我雪诺。”他的笑容凝住了。“那么，对我出色的服务，您就打算赏个狗舍小妹作犒劳，不太公平罢？”
　　他的声音里有股席恩讨厌的腔调，正如他讨厌周围恐怖堡的士兵看他时那种傲慢无礼的眼神。“我许给你的只有她。”
　　“她一身狗屎味。事实上，我受够了臭气。我在想，我还是收下那个替您暖床的女人吧。她叫什么来着？凯拉？”
　　“你疯了？”席恩愤怒地说，“我要把你——”
　　私生子反手狠狠一掌，厚重钢拳下，颊骨“噶啦噶啦”地碎裂。席恩晕了过去，整个世界消失在一片红色的痛苦咆哮中。
　　不知过了多久，席恩醒来，发现自己躺在广场上。他翻过身，咽下一口鲜血。关城门！他想高喊，但一切都迟了。恐怖堡的人砍倒红拉夫和肯德，鱼贯而入，好似甲胄与利剑的洪流。他的耳朵一片狂响，内心则充满恐怖。黑罗伦拔剑在手，却在四个对手的进逼下节节败退。他见乌夫朝大厅逃窜，途中被十字弓一箭射穿肚皮，钉在地上。鲁温师傅想过来帮他，但一人骑马奔去，手执长矛戳进学士双肩之间，然后调转马头，踩踏人体。另一人将火炬高举过顶，旋转几圈，朝马厩的茅草屋顶掷去。“留下佛雷家的孩子，”火焰熊熊，私生子声若洪钟地喊，“其他的都烧掉。烧！烧！烧光！”
　　席恩所见的最后一件事物是他的笑星。马儿踢打着，从燃烧的马厩里冲出，鬃毛着火，惨叫不休，抬腿人立……
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你看着眼前的人，分明还是以前的模样，可心里终究不是以前那般澄清透明了。
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Chapter 65

　　CHAPTER 65
　　THEON
　　Maester Luwin came to him when the first scouts were seen outside the walls. “My lord prince,” he said, “you must yield.”
　　Theon stared at the platter of oakcakes, honey, and blood sausage they’d brought him to break his fast. Another sleepless night had left his nerves raw, and the very sight of food sickened him. “There has been no reply from my uncle?”
　　“None,” the maester said. “Nor from your father on Pyke.”
　　“Send more birds.”
　　“It will not serve. By the time the birds reach—”
　　“Send them!” Knocking the platter of food aside with a swipe of his arm, he pushed off the blankets and rose from Ned Stark’s bed naked and angry. “Or do you want me dead? Is that it, Luwin? The truth now.”
　　The small grey man was unafraid. “My order serves.”
　　“Yes, but whom?”
　　“The realm,” Maester Luwin said, “and Winterfell. Theon, once I taught you sums and letters, history and warcraft. And might have taught you more, had you wished to learn. I will not claim to bear you any great love, no, but I cannot hate you either. Even if I did, so long as you hold Winterfell I am bound by oath to give you counsel. So now I counsel you to yield.”
　　Theon stooped to scoop a puddled cloak off the floor, shook off the rushes, and draped it over his shoulders. A fire, I’ll have a fire, and clean garb. Where’s Wex? I’ll not po to my grave in dirty clothes.
　　“You have no hope of holding here,” the maester went on. “If your lord father meant to send you aid, he would have done so by now. It is the Neck that concerns him. The battle for the north will be fought amidst the ruins of Moat Cailin.”
　　“That may be so,” said Theon. “And so long as I hold Winterfell, Ser Rodrik and Stark’s lords bannermen cannot march south to take my uncle in the rear.” I am not so innocent of warcraft as you think, old man. “I have food enough to stand a year’s siege, if need be.”
　　“There will be no siege. Perhaps they will spend a day or two fashioning ladders and tying grapnels to the ends of ropes. But soon enough they will come over your walls in a hundred places at once. You may be able to hold the keep for a time, but the castle will fall within the hour. You would do better to open your gates and ask for mercy? I know what kind of mercy they have for me.”
　　“There is a way.” “I am ironborn,” Theon reminded him. “I have my own way. What choice have they left me? No, don’t answer, I’ve heard enough of your counsel. Go and send those birds as I commanded, and tell Lorren I want to see him. And Wex as well. I’ll have my mail scoured clean, and my garrison assembled in the yard.”
　　For a moment he thought the maester was going to defy him. But finally Luwin bowed stiffly. “As you command.”
　　They made a pitifully small assembly; the ironmen were few, the yard large. “The northmen will be on us before nightfall,” he told them. “Ser Rodrik Cassel and all the lords who have come to his call. I will not run from them. I took this castle and I mean to hold it, to live or die as Prince of Winterfell. But I will not command any man to die with me. If you leave now, before Ser Rodrik’s main force is upon us, there’s still a chance you may win free.” He unsheathed his longsword and drew a line in the dirt. “Those who would stay and fight, step forward.”
　　No one spoke. The men stood in their mail and fur and boiled leather, as still as if they were made of stone. A few exchanged looks. Urzen shuffled his feet. Dykk Harlaw hawked and spat. A finger of wind ruffled Endehar’s long fair hair.
　　Theon felt as though he were drowning. Why am I surprised? he thought bleakly. His father had forsaken him, his uncles, his sister, even that wretched creature Reek. Why should his men prove any more loyal? There was nothing to say, nothing to do. He could only stand there beneath the great grey walls and the hard white sky, sword in hand, waiting, waiting . . .
　　Wex was the first to cross the line. Three quick steps and he stood at Theon’s side, slouching. Shamed by the boy, Black Lorren followed, all scowls. “Who else?” he demanded. Red Rolfe came forward. Kromm. Werlag. Tymor and his brothers. Ulf the Ill. Harrag Sheepstealer. Four Harlaws and two Botleys. Kenned the Whale was the last. Seventeen in all.
　　Urzen was among those who did not move, and Stygg, and every man of the ten that Asha had brought from Deepwood Motte. “Go, then,” Theon told them. “Run to my sister. She’ll give you all a warm welcome, I have no doubt.”
　　Stygg had the grace at least to look ashamed. The rest moved off without a word. Theon turned to the seventeen who remained. “Back to the walls. If the gods should spare us, I shall remember every man of you.”
　　Black Lorren stayed when the others had gone. “The castle folk will turn on us soon as the fight begins.”
　　“I know that. What would you have me do?”
　　“Put them out,” said Lorren. “Every one.”
　　Theon shook his head. “Is the noose ready?”
　　“It is. You mean to use it?”
　　“Do you know a better way?”
　　“Aye. I’ll take my axe and stand on that drawbridge, and let them come try me. One at a time, two, three, it makes no matter. None will pass the moat while I still draw breath.”
　　He means to die, thought Theon. It’s not victory he wants, it’s an end worthy of a song. “We’ll use the noose.”
　　“As you say,” Lorren replied, contempt in his eyes.
　　Wex helped garb him for battle. Beneath his black surcoat and golden mantle was a shirt of well-oiled ringmail, and under that a layer of stiff boiled leather. Once armed and armored, Theon climbed the watchtower at the angle where the eastern and southern walls came together to have a look at his doom. The northmen were spreading out to encircle the castle. It was hard to judge their numbers. A thousand at least; perhaps twice that many. Against seventeen. They’d brought catapults and scorpions. He saw no siege towers rumbling up the kingsroad, but there was timber enough in the wolfswood to build as many as were required.
　　Theon studied their banners through Maester Luwin’s Myrish lens tube. The Cerwyn battle-axe flapped bravely wherever he looked, and there were Tallhart trees as well, and mermen from White Harbor. Less common were the sigils of Flint and Karstark. Here and there he even saw the bull moose of the Hornwoods. But no Glovers, Asha saw to them, no Boltons from the Dreadfort, no Umbers come down from the shadow of the Wall. Not that they were needed. Soon enough the boy Cley Cerwyn appeared before the gates carrying a peace banner on a tall staff, to announce that Ser Rodrik Cassel wished to parley with Theon Turncloak.
　　Turncloak. The name was bitter as bile. He had gone to Pyke to lead his father’s longships against Lannisport, he remembered. “I shall be out shortly,” he shouted down. “Alone.”
　　Black Lorren disapproved. “Only blood can wash out blood,” he declared. “Knights may keep their truces with other knights, but they are not so careful of their honor when dealing with those they deem outlaw.”
　　Theon bristled. “I am the Prince of Winterfell and heir to the Iron Islands. Now go find the girl and do as I told you.”
　　Black Lorren gave him a murderous look. “Aye, Prince.”
　　He’s turned against me too, Theon realized. Of late it seemed to him as if the very stones of Winterfell had turned against him. If I die, I die friendless and abandoned. What choice did that leave him, but to live?
　　He rode to the gatehouse with his crown on his head. A woman was drawing water from the well, and Gage the cook stood in the door of the kitchens. They hid their hatred behind sullen looks and faces blank as slate, yet he could feel it all the same.
　　When the drawbridge was lowered, a chill wind sighed across the moat. The touch of it made him shiver. It is the cold, nothing more, Theon told himself, a shiver, not a tremble. Even brave men shiver. Into the teeth of that wind he rode, under the portcullis, over the drawbridge. The outer gates swung open to let him pass. As he emerged beneath the walls, he could sense the boys watching from the empty sockets where their eyes had been.
　　Ser Rodrik waited in the market astride his dappled gelding. Beside him, the direwolf of Stark flapped from a staff borne by young Cley Cerwyn. They were alone in the square, though Theon could see archers on the roofs of surrounding houses, spearmen to his right, and to his left a line of mounted knights beneath the merman-and-trident of House Manderly. Every one of them wants me dead. Some were boys he’d drunk with, diced with, even wenched with, but that would not save him if he fell into their hands.
　　“Ser Rodrik.” Theon reined to a halt. “It grieves me that we must meet as foes.”
　　“My own grief is that I must wait a while to hang you.” The old knight spat onto the muddy ground. “Theon Turncloak.” “I am a Greyjoy of Pyke,” Theon reminded him. “The cloak my father swaddled me in bore a kraken, not a direwolf.”
　　“For ten years you have been a ward of Stark.”
　　“Hostage and prisoner, I call it.”
　　“Then perhaps Lord Eddard should have kept you chained to a dungeon wall. Instead he raised you among his own sons, the sweet oys you have butchered, and to my undying shame I trained you in the arts of war. Would that I had thrust a sword through your belly instead of placing one in your hand.”
　　“I came out to parley, not to suffer your insults. Say what you have to say, old man. What would you have of me?”
　　“Two things,” the old man said. “Winterfell, and your life. Command your men to open the gates and lay down their arms. Those who murdered no children shall be free to walk away, but you shall be held for King Robb’s justice. May the gods take pity on you when he returns.”
　　“Robb will never look on Winterfell again,” Theon promised. “He will break himself on Moat Cailin, as every southron army has done for ten thousand years. We hold the north now, ser.”
　　“You hold three castles,” replied Ser Rodrik, “and this one I mean to take back, Turncloak.”
　　Theon ignored that. “Here are my terms. You have until evenfall to disperse. Those who swear fealty to Balon Greyjoy as their king and to myself as Prince of Winterfell will be confirmed in their rights and properties and suffer no harm. Those who defy us will be destroyed.”
　　Young Cerwyn was incredulous. “Are you mad, Greyjoy?”
　　Ser Rodrik shook his head. “Only vain, lad. Theon has always had too lofty an opinion of himself, I fear.” The old man jabbed a finger at him. “Do not imagine that I need wait for Robb to fight his way up the Neck to deal with the likes of you. I have near two thousand men with me . . . and if the tales be true, you have no more than fifty.”
　　Seventeen, in truth. Theon made himself smile. “I have something better than men.” And he raised a fist over his head, the signal Black Lorren had been told to watch for.
　　The walls of Winterfell were behind him, but Ser Rodrik faced them squarely and could not fail to see. Theon watched his face. When his chin quivered under those stiff white whiskers, he knew just what the old man was seeing. He is not surprised, he thought with sadness, but the fear is there.
　　“This is craven,” Ser Rodrik said. “To use a child so . . . this is despicable.”
　　“Oh, I know,” said Theon. “It’s a dish I tasted myself, or have you forgotten? I was ten when I was taken from my father’s house, to make certain he would raise no more rebellions.”
　　“It is not the same!”
　　Theon’s face was impassive. “The noose I wore was not made of hempen rope, that’s true enough, but I felt it all the same. And it chafed, Ser Rodrik. It chafed me raw.” He had never quite realized that until now, but as the words came spilling out he saw the truth of them.
　　“No harm was ever done you.”
　　“And no harm will be done your Beth, so long as you—”
　　Ser Rodrik never gave him the chance to finish. “Viper,” the knight declared, his face red with rage beneath those white whiskers. “I gave you the chance to save your men and die with some small shred of honor, Turncloak. I should have known that was too much to ask of a childkiller.” His hand went to the hilt of his sword. “I ought cut you down here and now and put an end to your lies and deceits. By the gods, I should.”
　　Theon did not fear a doddering old man, but those watching archers and that line of knights were a different matter. If the swords came out his chances of getting back to the castle alive were small to none. “Forswear your oath and murder me, and you will watch your little Beth strangle at the end of a rope.”
　　Ser Rodrik’s knuckles had gone white, but after a moment he took his hand off the swordhilt. “Truly, I have lived too long.”
　　“I will not disagree, ser. Will you accept my terms?”
　　“I have a duty to Lady Catelyn and House Stark.”
　　“And your own House? Beth is the last of your blood.”
　　The old knight drew himself up straight. “I offer myself in my daughter’s place. Release her, and take me as your hostage. Surely the castellan of Winterfell is worth more than a child.”
　　“Not to me.” A valiant gesture, old man, but I am not that great a fool. “Not to Lord Manderly or Leobald Tallhart either, I’d wager.” Your sorry old skin is worth no more to them than any other man’s. “No, I’ll keep the girl . . . and keep her safe, so long as you do as I’ve commanded you. Her life is in your hands.”
　　“Gods be good, Theon, how can you do this? You know I must attack, have sworn . . .”
　　“If this host is still in arms before my gate when the sun sets, Beth will hang,” said Theon. “Another hostage will follow her to the grave at first light, and another at sunset. Every dawn and every dusk will mean a death, until you are gone. I have no lack of hostages.” He did not wait for a reply, but wheeled Smiler around and rode back toward the castle. He went slowly at first, but the thought of those archers at his back soon drove him to a canter. The small heads watched him come from their spikes, their tarred and flayed faces looming larger with every yard; between them stood little Beth Cassel, noosed and crying. Theon put his heel into Smiler and broke into a hard gallop. Smiler’s hooves clattered on the drawbridge, like drumbeats.
　　In the yard he dismounted and handed his reins to Wex. “It may stay them,” he told Black Lorren. “We’ll know by sunset. Take the girl in till then, and keep her somewhere safe.” Under the layers of leather, steel, and wool, he was slick with sweat. “I need a cup of wine. A vat of wine would do even better.”
　　A fire had been laid in Ned Stark’s bedchamber. Theon sat beside it and filled a cup with a heavy-bodied red from the castle vaults, a wine as sour as his mood. They will attack, he thought gloomily, staring at the flames. Ser Rodrik loves his daughter, but he is still castellan, and most of all a knight. Had it been Theon with a noose around his neck and Lord Balon commanding the army without, the warhorns would already have sounded the attack, he had no doubt. He should thank the gods that Ser Rodrik was not ironborn. The men of the green lands were made of softer stuff, though he was not certain they would prove soft enough.
　　If not, if the old man gave the command to storm the castle regardless, Winterfell would fall; Theon entertained no delusions on that count. His seventeen might kill three, four, five times their own number, but in the end they would be overwhelmed.
　　Theon stared at the flames over the rim of his wine goblet, brooding on the injustice of it all. “I rode beside Robb Stark in the Whispering Wood,” he muttered. He had been frightened that night, but not like this. It was one thing to go into battle surrounded by friends, and another to perish alone and despised. Mercy, he thought miserably.
　　When the wine brought no solace, Theon sent Wex to fetch his bow and took himself to the old inner ward. There he stood, loosing shaft after shaft at the archery butts until his shoulders ached and his fingers were bloody, pausing only long enough to pull the arrows from the targets for another round. I saved Bran’s life with this bow, he reminded himself. Would that I could save my own. Women came to the well, but did not linger; whatever they saw on Theon’s face sent them away quickly.
　　Behind him the broken tower stood, its summit as jagged as a crown where fire had collapsed the upper stories long ago. As the sun moved, the shadow of the tower moved as well, gradually lengthening, a black arm reaching out for Theon Greyjoy. By the time the sun touched the wall, he was in its grasp. If I hang the girl, the northmen will attack at once, he thought as he loosed a shaft. If I do not hang her, they will know my threats are empty. He knocked another arrow to his bow. There is no way out, none.
　　“If you had a hundred archers as good as yourself, you might have a chance to hold the castle,” a voice said softly.
　　When he turned, Maester Luwin was behind him. “Go away,” Theon told him. “I have had enough of your counsel.”
　　“And life? Have you had enough of that, my lord prince?”
　　He raised the bow. “One more word and I’ll put this shaft through your heart.”
　　“You won’t.”
　　Theon bent the bow, drawing the grey goose feathers back to his cheek. “Care to make a wager?”
　　“I am your last hope, Theon.”
　　I have no hope, he thought. Yet he lowered the bow half an inch and said, “I will not run.”
　　“I do not speak of running. Take the black.”
　　“The Night’s Watch?” Theon let the bow unbend slowly and pointed the arrow at the ground.
　　“Ser Rodrik has served House Stark all his life, and House Stark has always been a friend to the Watch. He will not deny you. Open your gates, lay down your arms, accept his terms, and he must let you take the black.”
　　A brother of the Night’s Watch. It meant no crown, no sons, no wife . . . but it meant life, and life with honor. Ned Stark’s own brother had chosen the Watch, and Jon Snow as well.
　　I have black garb aplenty, once I tear the krakens off Even my horse is black. I could rise high in the Watch—chief of rangers, likely even Lord Commander. Let Asha keep the bloody islands, they’re as dreary as she is. If I served at Eastwatch, I could command my own ship, and there’s fine hunting beyond the Wall. As for women, what wildling woman wouldn’t want a prince in her bed? A slow smile crept across his face, A black cloak can’t be turned. I’d be as good as any man . . .
　　“PRINCE THEON!” The sudden shout shattered his daydream. Kromm was loping across the ward. “The northmen—”
　　He felt a sudden sick sense of dread. “Is it the attack?”
　　Maester Luwin clutched his arm. “There’s still time. Raise a peace banner—”
　　“They’re fighting,” Kromm said urgently. “More men came up, hundreds of them, and at first they made to join the others. But now they’ve fallen on them!”
　　“Is it Asha?” Had she come to save him after all?
　　But Kromm gave a shake of his head. “No. These are northmen, I tell you. With a bloody man on their banner.”
　　The flayed man of the Dreadfort. Reek had belonged to the Bastard of Bolton before his capture, Theon recalled. It was hard to believe that a vile creature like him could sway the Boltons to change their allegiance, but nothing else made sense. “I’ll see this for myself,” Theon said.
　　Maester Luwin trailed after him. By the time they reached the battlements, dead men and dying horses were strewn about the market square outside the gates. He saw no battle lines, only a swirling chaos of banners and blades. Shouts and screams rang through the cold autumn air. Ser Rodrik seemed to have the numbers, but the Dreadfort men were better led, and had taken the others unawares. Theon watched them charge and wheel and charge again, chopping the larger force to bloody pieces every time they tried to form up between the houses. He could hear the crash of iron axeheads on oaken shields over the terrified trumpeting of a maimed horse. The inn was burning, he saw.
　　Black Lorren appeared beside him and stood silently for a time. The sun was low in the west, painting the fields and houses all a glowing red. A thin wavering cry of pain drifted over the walls, and a warhorn sounded off beyond the burning houses. Theon watched a wounded man drag himself painfully across the ground, smearing his life’s blood in the dirt as he struggled to reach the well that stood at the center of the market square. He died before he got there. He wore a leather jerkin and conical halfhelm, but no badge to tell which side he’d fought on.
　　The crows came in the blue dust, with the evening stars. “The Dothraki believe the stars are spirits of the valiant dead,” Theon said. Maester Luwin had told him that, a long time ago.
　　“Dothraki?”
　　“The horselords across the narrow sea.”
　　“Oh. Them.” Black Lorren frowned through his beard. “Savages believe all manner of foolish things.”
　　As the night grew darker and the smoke spread it was harder to make out what was happening below, but the din of steel gradually diminished to nothing, and the shouts and warhorns gave way to moans and piteous wailing. Finally a column of mounted men rode out of the drifting smoke. At their head was a knight in dark armor. His rounded helm gleamed a sullen red, and a pale pink cloak streamed from his shoulders. Outside the main gate he reined up, and one of his men shouted for the castle to open.
　　“Are you friend or foe?” Black Lorren bellowed down.
　　“Would a foe bring such fine gifts?” Red Helm waved a hand, and three corpses were dumped in front of the gates. A torch was waved above the bodies, so the defenders upon the walls might see the faces of the dead.
　　“The old castellan,” said Black Lorren.
　　“With Leobald Tallhart and Cley Cerwyn.” The boy lord had taken an arrow in the eye, and Ser Rodrik had lost his left arm at the elbow. Maester Luwin gave a wordless cry of dismay, turned away from the battlements, and fell to his knees sick.
　　“The great pig Manderly was too craven to leave White Harbor, or we would have brought him as well,” shouted Red Helm.
　　I am saved, Theon thought. So why did he feel so empty? This was victory, sweet victory, the deliverance he had prayed for. He glanced at Maester Luwin. To think how close I came to yielding, and taking the black . . .
　　“Open the gates for our friends.” Perhaps tonight Theon would sleep without fear of what his dreams might bring.
　　The Dreadfort men made their way across the moat and through the inner gates. Theon descended with Black Lorren and Maester Luwin to meet them in the yard. Pale red permons trailed from the ends of a few lances, but many more carried battle-axes and greatswords and shields hacked half to splinters. “How many men did you lose?” Theon asked Red Helm as he dismounted.
　　“Twenty or thirty.” The torchlight glittered off the chipped enamel of his visor. His helm and gorget were wrought in the shape of a man’s face and shoulders, skinless and bloody, mouth open in a silent howl of anguish.
　　“Ser Rodrik had you five-to-one.”
　　“Aye, but he thought us friends. A common mistake. When the old fool gave me his hand, I took half his arm instead. Then I let him see my face.” The man put both hands to his helm and lifted it off his head, holding it in the crook of his arm.
　　“Reek,” Theon said, disquieted. How did a serving man get such fine armor?
　　The man laughed. “The wretch is dead.” He stepped closer. “The girl’s fault. If she had not run so far, his horse would not have lamed, and we might have been able to flee. I gave him mine when I saw the riders from the ridge. I was done with her by then, and he liked to take his turn while they were still warm. I had to pull him off her and shove my clothes into his hands-calfskin boots and velvet doublet, silver-chased swordbelt, even my sable cloak. Ride for the Dreadfort, I told him, bring all the help you can. Take my horse, he’s swifter, and here, wear the ring my father gave me, so they’ll know you came from me. He’d learned better than to question me. By the time they put that arrow through his back, I’d smeared myself with the girl’s filth and dressed in his rags. They might have hanged me anyway, but it was the only chance I saw.” He rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth. “And now, my sweet prince, there was a woman promised me, if I brought two hundred men. Well, I brought three times as many, and no green boys nor fieldhands neither, but my father’s own garrison.”
　　Theon had given his word. This was not the time to flinch. Pay him his pound of flesh and deal with him later. “Harrag,” he said, “go to the kennels and bring Palla out for . . . ?”
　　“Ramsay.” There was a smile on his plump lips, but none in those pale pale eyes. “Snow, my wife called me before she ate her fingers, but I say Bolton.” His smile curdled. “So you’d offer me a kennel girl for my good service, is that the way of it?”
　　There was a tone in his voice Theon did not like, no more than he liked the insolent way the Dreadfort men were looking at him. “She was what was promised.”
　　“She smells of dogshit. I’ve had enough of bad smells, as it happens. I think I’ll have your bedwarmer instead. What do you call her? Kyra?”
　　“Are you mad?” Theon said angrily. “I’ll have you—”
　　The Bastard’s backhand caught him square, and his cheekbone shattered with a sickening crunch beneath the lobstered steel. The world vanished in a red roar of pain.
　　Sometime later, Theon found himself on the ground. He rolled onto his stomach and swallowed a mouthful of blood. Close the gates! he tried to shout, but it was too late. The Dreadfort men had cut down Red Rolfe and Kenned, and more were pouring through, a river of mail and sharp swords. There was a ringing in his ears, and horror all around him. Black Lorren had his sword out, but there were already four of them pressing in on him. He saw Ulf go down with a crossbow bolt through the belly as he ran for the Great Hall. Maester Luwin was trying to reach him when a knight on a warhorse planted a spear between his shoulders, then swung back to ride over him. Another man whipped a torch round and round his head and then lofted it toward the thatched roof of the stables. “Save me the Freys,” the Bastard was shouting as the flames roared upward, “and burn the rest. Burn it, burn it all.”
　　The last thing Theon Greyjoy saw was Smiler, kicking free of the burning stables with his mane ablaze, screaming, rearing . . .



Ⅱ 列王的纷争 Chapter66 珊莎
　　王座厅内是一片珠宝、裘皮和亮丽织锦的海洋。领主和贵妇们群聚于大厅后方，站在高窗之下，像码头的渔妇一般互相推挤。
　　乔佛里的廷臣们今日都极力攀比。贾拉巴·梭尔一身豪华的羽衣，奇异而夸张的服饰让他看来像只亟欲腾空的巨鸟。总主教的头每动一下，水晶冠冕便散发出七彩虹光。议事桌边，瑟曦太后身穿带金色条纹的酒红色天鹅绒礼服，熠熠生辉，她身边的瓦里斯穿着淡紫锦袍，时而大呼小叫，时而咯咯窃喜。月童和唐托斯爵士穿着崭新的小丑服，洁净一如春日之晨。连坦妲伯爵夫人母女都换上青绿丝绸与毛皮做的礼服，彼此相得益彰，而盖尔斯伯爵咳嗽用的方巾也换成镶金边的鲜红绸帕。乔佛里国王高坐在所有人之上，那布满剑刃和刺棘的铁王座里。他穿着绯红锦衣，黑披风上嵌有许多红宝石，头戴沉重的金冠。
　　珊莎穿过一大群骑士、侍从和名流富商，好不容易挤到旁听席前端，这时喇叭声骤然响起：泰温·兰尼斯特公爵驾到。
　　他骑着战马横穿大厅，直到王座前方才下马。珊莎没见过这般华丽的铠甲：锃亮如火的红钢板嵌有繁复的黄金涡形装饰，巨盔上围了一圈旭日状的钻石，盔顶咆哮的雄狮有红宝石的眼睛，双肩上的母狮扣住一件又长又重的金色披风，它垂下来一直盖住马的臀部。马铠也是镀金，马饰是闪耀的绯红丝绸，其上饰有兰尼斯特家族的雄狮纹章。
　　凯岩城公爵的形象如此令人敬畏，因此当他的坐骑陡然在铁王座下拉出一堆粪便时，大家都吃了一惊。乔佛里不得不小心翼翼地绕过它去拥抱外公，并称他为君临的救星。见此光景，珊莎连忙捂嘴，以掩饰笑容。
　　小乔故作诚恳地请求外公代他掌管王国全境，泰温公爵庄严地接受了职务，“吾将不辞辛劳，直到陛下成年为止。”随后侍从们帮他卸下盔甲，由小乔亲手将首相项链为他挂上。泰温公爵在议事桌边太后身旁落坐。待到战马牵走，地板亦被清理干净之后，瑟曦点头示意典礼继续进行。
　　列位英雄逐个通过巨大的橡木门走进大厅，每进一位，黄铜喇叭都响起一阵嘹亮的号声以为致敬。司仪高声宣布他们的姓名与事迹，列席的骑士与夫人们热烈欢呼，活像斗鸡场边的观众。最先进场的是高庭公爵梅斯·提利尔，据说他当年身体魁伟，如今却有些发福，不过俊朗依然。他两个儿子紧随在后：洛拉斯爵士和其兄“勇武的”加兰。三人一律穿着镶紫貂皮边的绿天鹅绒长袍。
　　国王再次走下王座，向他们致意。这是特有的殊荣。他还为他们每人系上一条软金玫瑰项链，坠子是一块金牌，嵌有红宝石雕刻而成的兰尼斯特雄狮。“玫瑰支撑雄狮，正如高庭的力量支持国家，”乔佛里宣告，“卿等有何请求，但说无妨，吾定当准卿所请。”
　　开始了！珊莎心想。
　　“陛下，”洛拉斯爵士道，“臣请求加入您的御林铁卫，以对抗您的敌人，保护您的安全。”
　　乔佛里扶起百花骑士，在他脸颊印上一吻，“就这么办，兄弟。”
　　提利尔公爵低头道：“无上之荣光莫过于为陛下效劳。臣愿以此绵薄之躯顾问于陛下之御前会议，肝脑涂地，在所不惜。”
　　小乔将一只手搭上提利尔公爵的肩膀，并在他起身时吻了他，“准了。”
　　加兰·提利尔爵士比洛拉斯爵士年长五岁，两人长得十分相似。与更有名气的弟弟相比，加兰比较高大，留了胡子，胸膛更厚，肩膀更宽，虽然相貌也算清秀，却没有洛拉斯爵士那种令人震撼的美。“陛下，”待国王走近后加兰开口，“臣有个待字闺中的妹妹玛格丽，实乃吾家之明珠。陛下明查，她曾嫁予蓝礼·拜拉席恩，但公爵尚未圆房便赴沙场，故而舍妹处子之身未破。玛格丽听闻陛下桩桩丰功伟绩，迷醉于您的智慧、勇气与骑士精神，远在他方便坠入爱河。臣恳请陛下即日将她接来京师，携手联姻，结合两大家族，共铸世代辉煌。”
　　乔佛里国王故作惊讶：“加兰爵士，舍妹之姿七大王国远近驰名，但吾已有婚约在先。君无戏言。”
　　裙裾婆娑，瑟曦太后站了起来，“陛下，御前会议认为，以吾王万金之躯迎娶已被明正典刑的叛徒之女既为不智亦为不妥，况其兄时至今日尚冥顽不化，不肯降下叛旗，归顺于朝。陛下，为国家福祉，御前会议恳请您痛下决心，取消与珊莎·史塔克之婚约，另立玛格丽小姐为后。”
　　大厅里列位贵族男女立即像训练有素的狗一般，急切地呐喊起来。“玛格丽，”他们高呼。“我们要玛格丽！”“不要叛徒王后！给我们提利尔！给我们提利尔！”乔佛里举起一只手。“身为国王，吾当顺应民意，但母后明鉴，吾之婚约乃立于诸神之前，郑重其事。”
　　总主教走上前。“陛下，诸神固然看顾婚约，但先王——受神荣宠之劳勃国王——在临冬城许婚之时，史塔克家叛迹未显。今其族事迹败露，恶行滔天，神人共愤，人人得而诛之，自无需念昔日之友盟，守过往之重诺。陛下，吾以诸神之名在此宣布，您的义务已告解除，婚约无效！”
　　嘈杂的欢呼响彻大厅，阵阵“玛格丽！玛格丽！”的喊叫在她四周掀起。珊莎倾身向前，紧紧抓住旁听席的木栏杆。虽然她明知接下来会发生什么，却免不了担心乔佛里的说词——担心他会不顾大局，拒绝解放她。她觉得自己仿佛又回到贝勒大圣堂外的大理石讲坛上，等待她的王子宽恕父亲，结果却听他命伊林·派恩砍下父亲的首级。诸神啊，求求您们，她热切地祈祷，求求您们让他说出来，说出来吧。
　　泰温公爵紧盯着外孙不放。乔佛里闷闷不乐地望了他一眼，迈步上前，扶起加兰·提利尔爵士。“既然诸神慈悲，吾当自主行为，以遂心愿。爵士先生，迎娶令妹，实乃无上之喜。”他亲吻加兰爵士留胡子的脸颊，欢呼在周围响起。
　　珊莎感到一阵奇妙的晕眩。我自由了！无数的眼光落在她身上，不能笑！她提醒自己。太后警告过她：不管她心里怎么想，脸上都必须表现出伤心欲绝的神色。“我不许我儿子丢脸，”瑟曦说，“你清楚了吗？”
　　“是的。嗯……现在我做不了王后了，以后怎么办呢？”
　　“这事以后决定。目前你得留在朝中，接受我们的监护。”
　　“我想回家。”
　　太后不耐烦起来：“你还没弄明白吗？没有人能够随心所欲。”
　　可我已经满足了，珊莎心想。我摆脱了乔佛里。不需要亲吻他，不需要将童贞给他，不需要怀他的孩子。这一切都留给玛格丽·提利尔吧，可怜的女孩。
　　等喊声渐息，高庭公爵也在议事桌旁就座，他的儿子们则退到高窗下与其他骑士、领主站到一起。黑水河一役的英雄们继续入厅领赏，珊莎努力装出一副失魂落魄的样子。
　　青亭岛领主派克斯特·雷德温沿着大厅迈步上前，两边是他的孪生子“恐怖爵士”和“流口水爵士”，前者在战斗中受了点腿伤，显得一瘸一拐。在他们之后有身穿雪白上衣的马图斯·罗宛伯爵，胸前用金丝纹着一棵大树；瘦长而秃顶的蓝道·塔利伯爵，背后斜挎一把珠宝剑鞘的巨剑；凯冯·兰尼斯特爵士是个秃顶粗汉，胡子修得很短；亚当·马尔布兰爵士红铜色的长发披在肩头；随后还有西境的几大诸侯莱顿、克雷赫与布拉克斯。
　　接着是四位出生贫寒，但战功彪炳的人物：独眼的雇佣骑士菲利普·福特在一对一决斗中杀死了布莱斯·卡伦伯爵；自由骑手罗索·布伦冲破数十名佛索威家士兵的包围，活捉绿苹果佛索威家的琼恩爵士，击毙红苹果佛索威家的布赖恩爵士和艾德威爵士，为自己赢得“苹果食客罗索”的称号；威里特，哈瑞斯·史威佛爵士手下一名头发斑白的老兵，在危急关头将主人从垂死的战马下拖出来，并杀退十余敌兵的攻击；嘴上无毛的侍从乔斯敏·派克顿，尚不满十四岁，但在战斗中杀死两名骑士，另击伤一名，俘虏两名。这四人中，威里特是抬进来的，他的伤势实在太重。
　　凯冯爵士先前已在哥哥泰温公爵旁边落坐，等司仪报完各位英雄的事迹，他站起来。“于此国难当头之际，诸位精忠报效，奋不顾身，令陛下深为感叹，决意着力嘉奖。由是，遵照陛下意愿，菲利普·福特爵士即日起受封为福特家族的菲利普伯爵，原卡隆家族领有之土地、权益和税赋转归其所有；罗索·布伦擢升为骑士，一旦海内平息，将于三叉戟河流域授予其土地与城堡；乔斯敏·派克顿受赐一把长剑和一副铠甲，并可在王家马厩任选一匹战马，成年之后，立即成为骑士；最后，赏赐威里斯先生一支银柄长矛，一件新造锁甲，外加一顶带面甲的全盔，此外，其子将入凯岩城为兰尼斯特家族效劳，长子为侍从，次子为侍酒，若此二人忠诚得力，均有机会晋升骑士。陛下有令，首相与重臣均表赞同。”
　　接下来，王家战舰野风号、伊蒙王子号与河箭号的船长受到嘉奖，同时受奖的还有一些来自于神恩号、长熗号、丝绸夫人号和羊首号的下层军官。据珊莎所知，他们主要的功绩就是从河上战斗中活了下来——这其实算一桩鲜有人能夸耀的成就。炼金术士公会的火术士哈林和其他众位师傅也受到国王的感谢，哈林本人擢升为伯爵，但珊莎注意到他的头衔和瓦里斯一样只是虚位，并无土地和城堡与之伴随。截至目前为止，最引人注目的爵禄给了蓝赛尔·兰尼斯特爵士，乔佛里把戴瑞家的土地、城堡和权益转隶于他，因为在三河一带的战争中，戴瑞家血脉已绝，“戴瑞家族无合法之嫡出继承人，惟余一支私生远亲。”
　　蓝赛尔爵士没有现身受封，据说他的伤或许需要截掉一条胳膊，甚至保不住性命。谣传小恶魔也快死了，因为头上受了狠狠一击。
　　最后司仪高唱：“培提尔·贝里席伯爵”，他便穿着玫瑰和李子色的服装，披风绣满仿声鸟，施施然走进来，微笑着跪在铁王座前。他看上去真得意。珊莎没听说小指头在战斗中有什么英勇事迹，但他似乎也是来受赏的。
　　凯冯爵士再次起立，“于此动乱频仍的险恶之际，陛下忠诚之顾问培提尔·贝里席以其一贯之操守，为国为民鞠躬尽瘁，堪为标榜，遵照陛下意愿，特予嘉奖：兹昭告天下，加封培提尔·贝里席为公爵，授予历史悠久之赫伦堡及其所有封地税赋，令其择日将居城迁至该地，总督三叉戟河流域，其子嗣将世代继承此等荣耀，万世不辍，凡三河流域之领主均须奉其族为封君。陛下有令，首相和重臣均表赞同。”
　　小指头跪在地上，抬眼望着乔佛里国王。“微臣谢陛下厚恩，微臣这就设法弄几个子孙出来。”
　　乔佛里哈哈大笑，朝堂众人也跟着笑。总督三叉戟河流域，珊莎心想，赫伦堡公爵。她不明白，他干嘛这么高兴，难道他看不出来，这些封号和赐予火术士哈林与太监瓦里斯的头衔一样，都是虚位呀！每个人都知道，赫伦堡受了诅咒，况且目前也不在兰尼斯特家手中，而三河诸侯效忠的是奔流城的徒利家和北境之王，他们不可能接受小指头为封君。除非他们战败。除非我的哥哥、舅舅和外公全被推翻、被杀死。这念头令珊莎不安，她告诉自己，别傻了。罗柏战无不胜。必要时，他也会打败贝里席公爵。
　　那天有六百多骑士受封。他们整晚在贝勒大圣堂守夜，早上赤脚穿过城区到达红堡，以示谦卑。如今他们身穿未经染色的羊毛外衣一个个走上前，接受御林铁卫的册封。册封仪式持续了很久，因为目前只有三名白袍兄弟操作。曼登·穆尔此役战死，猎狗失踪，亚历斯·奥克赫特在多恩保护弥赛菈公主，詹姆·兰尼斯特是罗柏的俘虏，御林铁卫只剩巴隆·史文、马林·特兰和奥斯蒙·凯特布菜克。受封后的骑士起身扣好剑带，站到高窗下，其中许多人在游城时磨破了脚掌，但在珊莎眼中，他们仍然挺拔而骄傲。
　　新骑士们还没册封完毕，大厅的气氛就变得焦躁不宁，其中乔佛里尤甚。旁听席上有人已经开溜，不幸的是那些站在下方的诸侯显贵，众目睽睽之下，未经国王允许不得离开。其实从小乔在铁王座上坐立不安的样子判断，他倒是乐于批准散会，但今天的事务远没有结束。现在，履行完论功行赏的程序，俘虏们被带了进来。
　　这群人中也不乏大诸侯和名骑士：闷闷不乐的老爵爷“红蟹”赛提加；“好人”博尼佛爵士；族系比赛提加更悠久的伊斯蒙伯爵；拖着碎裂的膝盖蹒跚上前、不肯接受任何协助的瓦尔纳伯爵；鹫巢堡凶猛的红罗兰爵士；雨林的德莫特爵士；威廉伯爵及其儿乔苏拉和埃利斯；琼恩·佛索威爵士；“碎剑”提蒙爵士；潮头岛的私生子奥雷恩；人称“拜金伯爵”的领主史戴蒙；以及其他数百人。
　　在战斗中投诚的，如今只需向乔佛里宣誓效忠就算了结，但那些为史坦尼斯苦斗到最后的人必须表态，以此决定自己的命运。如若痛悔叛国罪行，请求饶恕，并保证今后忠心无二，乔佛里便欢迎其回到国王治下，恢复旧有的土地与权益。不过，仍有一撮人公然反抗。“别以为事情就完了，小鬼，”一个似乎来自于佛罗伦家族的私生子警告，“无论现在还是将来，光之王都守护着史坦尼斯国王。时候一到，任你有多少军队和诡计都无济于事。”
　　“你的时候已经到了。”乔佛里招呼伊林·派恩爵士将那人拉出去斩首。那人刚被拉走，又一位表情严肃、外衣上有颗烈焰红心的骑士高声呼叫：“史坦尼斯才是真正的国王！怪物坐在铁王座上，它是乱伦产生的孽根！”
　　“肃静！”凯冯·兰尼斯特爵士吼道。
　　骑士反而提高音量。“乔佛里就是那黑蛆，啃蚀着王国的心脏！黑暗为其父，死亡为其母！消灭他，否则你们将统统腐化！杀死娼妓太后，灭掉蛆虫国王，除去邪恶的侏儒和搬弄是非的蜘蛛，再点燃虚伪的玫瑰花。拯救你们自己吧！”一个金袍卫士将骑士踢翻在地，但他继续喊叫。“圣火将涤尽一切邪恶！史坦尼斯国王必将归来！”
　　乔佛里歪歪扭扭地站起来。“我才是国王！杀了他！快杀了他！我命令他们杀了他。”他的手愤怒而狂乱往下一劈……扫过铁王座无处不在的锐利尖刺，不由得尖声惨叫。鲜血浸透了绯红亮丽的锦衣袖口，将其染为暗红。“妈妈！”他哀号。
　　躺在地上的人趁大家的注意力都在国王身上，冷不防夺过一名金袍卫士手中的长矛，拄着它站好。“看哪，铁王座拒绝他！”他高喊，“他不是真正的国王！”
　　瑟曦朝王座奔去，但泰温公爵如岩石一般纹丝不动，只抬起一根手指，马林·特兰爵士便拔剑上前。死亡来得迅速而残酷，金袍卫士们架住骑士的双臂。马林爵士将长剑尖端没入他胸膛，“不是国王！”他临死时再度高呼。
　　小乔扑进母亲怀中。三名学士急忙上前，簇拥着国王母子走出王座后方的国王门。大家议论纷纷。金袍卫士们拖走尸体，在石地板上留下一道明亮的血迹。贝里席公爵捋着胡须听瓦里斯在耳边低语。是不是该散会了？珊莎疑惑地想。还有二十来个俘虏未曾表态，谁知道他们会宣誓效忠还是放声咒骂？
　　泰温公爵终于起身。“我们继续，”声音清晰有力，立时压制所有低语。“大人们，想清楚过后，上前来忏悔罪行，恳求原谅。我不许再有闹剧发生。”他走向铁王座，坐到离地三尺的台阶上。
　　等仪式完全结束，天光已然黯淡。珊莎筋疲力尽地从旁听席走出来，浑身绵软无力。她很好奇乔佛里伤得有多重。据说铁王座对不配坐在上面的人而言是非常危险的，甚至能杀人呢。
　　回到卧室安全的空间，她连忙用枕头捂脸，以掩饰一声欢喜的尖叫。噢，诸神保佑，他真的说出口了，他在众人面前将我遗弃！一个女仆送来晚餐，她差点要亲吻她。晚餐有热面包、新搅拌的黄油、一碗浓稠的牛肉汤、鸡肉和胡萝卜，还有浸在蜂蜜里的桃子。多么美味！她心想。
　　天黑之后，她披上斗篷前往神木林。守吊桥的是一身白甲的奥斯蒙·凯特布莱克爵士。珊莎向他问好，努力让自己的声音听来痛苦而可怜。从他瞅她的模样看来，她不确定他是否信服。
　　月光穿过层层枝叶，唐托斯等在斑驳的叶影下。“干嘛愁眉苦脸呀？”珊莎欢快地问候他，“你也在场听见啦。小乔不要我了，他跟我结束了，他……”
　　他握住她的手。“噢，琼琪，我可怜的琼琪，您不明白。结束？这才要开始呢。”她的心猛地一沉，“你什么意思？”
　　“太后决不会放你走，决不会。作为人质，你是无价之宝。而乔佛里……亲爱的，他是一国之君，只要想跟你上床，随时都能占有你，惟一的区别在于，如今他在你肚里留下的将不是嫡子，而是野种。”
　　“不！”珊莎震惊地说，“他放过我了，他……”
　　唐托斯在她耳畔印下一个湿湿的吻。“勇敢起来。我发誓要送你回家，就一定会办到。日子已经定好了。”
　　“什么时候？”珊莎问，“我们什么时候离开？”
　　“乔佛里的新婚之夜，等婚宴结束我们就走，一切都安排好了。到时候红堡里全是陌生人，其中一半会喝得大醉，另一半人则会去闹乔佛里的新房。这时，您将暂时被遗忘，混乱就是我们的朋友。”
　　“婚礼一月之内都不会举行。玛格丽·提利尔远在高庭，这才刚派人去接呢！”
　　“您已经等了这么久，就请再耐心一时，好吗？来，我有东西给您。”唐托斯爵士从口袋里摸出一张类似银色蛛网的东西，捏在粗壮的指头间晃了晃。仔细一看，原来这是细银丝编织的发网，珊莎伸手接过，丝线细致精巧，几乎没有重量。银丝交汇的每个节点都嵌有一小粒宝石，黑黝黝的仿佛能吸收月光。“这是什么石头？”
　　“亚夏的黑紫晶，十分稀罕，其颜色在日光下会变成深紫。”
　　“真可爱。”珊莎边感叹边想：可我要的是船，不是发网呀。
　　“比您想像的更可爱，亲爱的孩子，这上面有魔法。您瞧，正义之剑就在您手中，您会为父复仇。”唐托斯倾身靠近，又吻了她。“您会回家。”
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你看着眼前的人，分明还是以前的模样，可心里终究不是以前那般澄清透明了。
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Chapter 64

　　CHAPTER 64
　　SANSA
　　The throne room was a sea of jewels, furs, and bright fabrics. Lords and ladies filled the back of the hall and stood beneath the high windows, jostling like fishwives on a dock.
　　The denizens of Joffrey’s court had striven to outdo each other today. Jalabhar Xho was all in feathers, a plumage so fantastic and extravagant that he seemed like to take flight. The High Septon’s crystal crown fired rainbows through the air every time he moved his head. At the council table, Queen Cersei shimmered in a cloth-of-gold gown slashed in burgundy velvet, while beside her Varys fussed and simpered in a lilac brocade. Moon Boy and Ser Dontos wore new suits of motley, clean as a spring morning. Even Lady Tanda and her daughters looked pretty in matching gowns of turquoise silk and vair, and Lord Gyles was coughing into a square of scarlet silk trimmed with golden lace. King Joffrey sat above them all, amongst the blades and barbs of the Iron Throne. He was in crimson samite, his black mantle studded with rubies, on his head his heavy golden crown.
　　Squirming through a press of knights, squires, and rich townfolk, Sansa reached the front of the gallery just as a blast of trumpets announced the entry of Lord Tywin Lannister.
　　He rode his warhorse down the length of the hall and dismounted before the Iron Throne. Sansa had never seen such armor; all burnished red steel, inlaid with golden scrollwork and ornamentation. His rondels were sunbursts, the roaring lion that crowned his helm had ruby eyes, and a lioness on each shoulder fastened a cloth-of-gold cloak so long and heavy that it draped the hindquarters of his charger. Even the horse’s armor was gilded, and his bardings were shimmering crimson silk emblazoned with the lion of Lannister.
　　The Lord of Casterly Rock made such an impressive figure that it was a shock when his destrier dropped a load of dung right at the base of the throne. Joffrey had to step gingerly around it as he descended to embrace his grandfather and proclaim him Savior of the City. Sansa covered her mouth to hide a nervous smile.
　　Joff made a show of asking his grandfather to assume governance of the realm, and Lord Tywin solemnly accepted the responsibility, “until Your Grace does come of age.” Then squires removed his armor and Joff fastened the Hand’s chain of office around his neck. Lord Tywin took a seat at the council table beside the queen. After the destrier was led off and his homage removed, Cersei nodded for the ceremonies to continue.
　　A fanfare of brazen trumpets greeted each of the heroes as he stepped between the great oaken doors. Heralds cried his name and deeds for all to hear, and the noble knights and highborn ladies cheered as lustily as cutthroats at a cockfight. Pride of place was given to Mace Tyrell, the Lord of Highgarden, a once-powerful man gone to fat, yet still handsome. His sons followed him in; Ser Loras and his older brother Ser Garlan the Gallant. The three dressed alike, in green velvet trimmed with sable.
　　The king descended the throne once more to greet them, a great honor. He fastened about the throat of each a chain of roses wrought in soft yellow gold, from which hung a golden disc with the lion of Lannister picked out in rubies. “The roses support the lion, as the might of Highgarden supports the realm,” proclaimed Joffrey. “If there is any boon you would ask of me, ask and it shall be yours.”
　　And now it comes, thought Sansa.
　　“Your Grace,” said Ser Loras, “I beg the honor of serving in your Kingsguard, to defend you against your enemies.”
　　Joffrey drew the Knight of Flowers to his feet and kissed him on his cheek. “Done, brother.”
　　Lord Tyrell bowed his head. “There is no greater pleasure than to serve the King’s Grace. If I was deemed worthy to join your royal council, you would find none more loyal or true.”
　　Joff put a hand on Lord Tyrell’s shoulder and kissed him when he stood. “Your wish is granted.”
　　Ser Garlan Tyrell, five years senior to Ser Loras, was a taller bearded version of his more famous younger brother. He was thicker about the chest and broader at the shoulders, and though his face was comely enough, he lacked Ser Loras’s startling beauty. “Your Grace,” Garlan said when the king approached him, “I have a maiden sister, Margaery, the delight of our House. She was wed to Renly Baratheon, as you know, but Lord Renly went to war before the marriage could be consummated, so she remains innocent. Margaery has heard tales of your wisdom, courage, and chivalry, and has come to love you from afar. I beseech you to send for her, to take her hand in marriage, and to wed your House to mine for all time.”
　　King Joffrey made a show of looking surprised. “Ser Garlan, your sister’s beauty is famed throughout the Seven Kingdoms, but I am promised to another. A king must keep his word.”
　　Queen Cersei got to her feet in a rustle of skirts. “Your Grace, in the judgment of your small council, it would be neither proper nor wise for you to wed the daughter of a man beheaded for treason, a girl whose brother is in open rebellion against the throne even now. Sire, your councilors beg you, for the good of your realm, set Sansa Stark aside. The Lady Margaery will make you a far more suitable queen.”
　　Like a pack of trained dogs, the lords and ladies in the hall began to shout their pleasure. “Margaery,” they called. “Give us Margaery!” and “No traitor queens! Tyrell! Tyrell!”
　　Joffrey raised a hand. “I would like to heed the wishes of my people, Mother, but I took a holy vow.”
　　The High Septon stepped forward. “Your Grace, the gods hold bethrothal solemn, but your father, King Robert of blessed memory, made this pact before the Starks of Winterfell had revealed their falseness. Their crimes against the realm have freed you from any promise you might have made. So far as the Faith is concerned, there is no valid marriage contract ‘twixt you and Sansa Stark.”
　　A tumult of cheering filled the throne room, and cries of “Margaery, Margaery” erupted all around her. Sansa leaned forward, her hands tight around the gallery’s wooden rail. She knew what came next, but she was still frightened of what Joffrey might say, afraid that he would refuse to release her even now, when his whole kingdom depended upon it. She felt as if she were back again on the marble steps outside the Great Sept of Baelor, waiting for her prince to grant her father mercy, and instead hearing him command Ilyn Payne to strike off his head. Please, she prayed fervently, make him say it, make him say it.
　　Lord Tywin was looking at his grandson. Joff gave him a sullen glance, shifted his feet, and helped Ser Garlan Tyrell to rise. “The gods are good. I am free to heed my heart. I will wed your sweet sister, and gladly, ser.” He kissed Ser Garlan on a bearded cheek as the cheers rose all around them.
　　Sansa felt curiously light-headed. I am free. She could feel eyes upon her. I must not smile, she reminded herself. The queen had warned her; no matter what she felt inside, the face she showed the world must look distraught. “I will not have my son humiliated,” Cersei said. “Do you hear me?”
　　“Yes. But if I’m not to be queen, what will become of me?”
　　“That will need to be determined. For the moment, you shall remain here at court, as our ward.”
　　“I want to go home.”
　　The queen was irritated by that. “You should have learned by now, none of us get the things we want.”
　　I have, though, Sansa thought. I am free of Joffrey. I will not have to kiss him, nor give him my maidenhood, nor bear him children. Let Margaery Yyrell have all that, poor girl.
　　By the time the outburst died down, the Lord of Highgarden had been seated at the council table, and his sons had joined the other knights and lordlings beneath the windows. Sansa tried to look forlorn and abandoned as other heroes of the Battle of the Blackwater were summoned forth to receive their rewards.
　　Paxter Redwyne, Lord of the Arbor, marched down the length of the hall flanked by his twin sons Horror and Slobber, the former limping from a wound taken in the battle. After them followed Lord Mathis Rowan in a snowy doublet with a great tree worked upon the breast in gold thread; Lord Randyll Tarly, lean and balding, a greatsword across his back in a jeweled scabbard; Ser Kevan Lannister, a thickset balding man with a close-trimmed beard; Ser Addam Marbrand, coppery hair streaming to his shoulders; the great western lords Lydden, Crakehall, and Brax.
　　Next came four of lesser birth who had distinguished themselves in the fighting: the one-eyed knight Ser Philip Foote, who had slain Lord Bryce Caron in single combat; the freerider Lothor Brune, who’d cut his way through half a hundred Fossoway men-at-arms to capture Ser Jon of the green apple and kill Ser Bryan and Ser Edwyd of the red, thereby winning himself the name Lothor Apple-Eater; Willit, a grizzled man-atarms in the service of Ser Harys Swyft, who’d pulled his master from beneath his dying horse and defended him against a dozen attackers; and a downycheeked squire named Josmyn Peckledon, who had killed two knights, wounded a third, and captured two more, though he could not have been more than fourteen. Willit was borne in on a litter, so grievous were his wounds.
　　Ser Kevan had taken a seat beside his brother Lord Tywin. When the heralds had finished telling of each hero’s deeds, he rose. “It is His Grace’s wish that these good men be rewarded for their valor. By his decree, Ser Philip shall henceforth be Lord Philip of House Foote, and to him shall go all the lands, rights, and incomes of House Caron. Lothor Brune to be raised to the estate of knighthood, and granted land and keep in the riverlands at war’s end. To Josmyn Peckledon, a sword and suit of plate, his choice of any warhorse in the royal stables, and knighthood as soon as he shall come of age. And lastly, for Goodman Willit, a spear with a silver-banded haft, a hauberk of new-forged ringmail, and a full helm with visor. Further, the goodman’s sons shall be taken into the service of House Lannister at Casterly Rock, the elder as a squire and the younger as a page, with the chance to advance to knighthood if they serve loyally and well. To all this, the King’s Hand and the small council consent.”
　　The captains of the king’s warships Wildwind, Prince Aemon, and River Arrow were honored next, along with some under officers from Godsgrace, Lance, Lady of Silk, and Ramshead. As near as Sansa could tell, their chief accomplishment had been surviving the battle on the river, a feat that few enough could boast. Hallyne the Pyromancer and the masters of the Alchemists’ Guild received the king’s thanks as well, and Hallyne was raised to the style of lord, though Sansa noted that neither lands nor castle accompanied the title, which made the alchemist no more a true lord than Varys was. A more significant lordship by far was granted to Ser Lancel Lannister. Joffrey awarded him the lands, castle, and rights of House Darry, whose last child lord had perished during the fighting in the riverlands, “leaving no trueborn heirs of lawful Darry blood, but only a bastard cousin.”
　　Ser Lancel did not appear to accept the title; the talk was, his wound might cost him his arm or even his life. The Imp was said to be dying as well, from a terrible cut to the head.
　　When the herald called, “Lord Petyr Baelish,” he came forth dressed all in shades of rose and plum, his cloak patterned with mockingbirds. She could see him smiling as he knelt before the Iron Throne. He looks so pleased. Sansa had not heard of Littlefinger doing anything especially heroic during the battle, but it seemed he was to be rewarded all the same.
　　Ser Kevan got back to his feet. “It is the wish of the King’s Grace that his loyal councillor Petyr Baelish be rewarded for faithful service to crown and realm. Be it known that Lord Baelish is granted the castle of Harrenhal with all its attendant lands and incomes, there to make his seat and rule henceforth as Lord Paramount of the Trident. Petyr Baelish and his sons and grandsons shall hold and enjoy these honors until the end of time, and all the lords of the Trident shall do him homage as their rightful liege. The King’s Hand and the small council consent.”
　　On his knees, Littlefinger raised his eyes to King Joffrey. “I thank you humbly, Your Grace. I suppose this means I’ll need to see about getting some sons and grandsons.”
　　Joffrey laughed, and the court with him. Lord Paramount of the Trident, Sansa thought, and Lord of Harrenhal as well. She did not understand why that should make him so happy; the honors were as empty as the title granted to Hallyne the Pyromancer. Harrenhal was cursed, everyone knew that, and the Lannisters did not even hold it at present. Besides, the lords of the Trident were sworn to Riverrun and House Tully, and to the King in the North; they would never accept Littlefinger as their liege. Unless they are made to. Unless my brother and my uncle and my grandfather are all cast down and killed. The thought made Sansa anxious, but she told herself she was being silly. Robb has beaten them every time. He’ll beat Lord Baelish too, if he must.
　　More than six hundred new knights were made that day. They had held their vigil in the Great Sept of Baelor all through the night and crossed the city barefoot that morning to prove their humble hearts. Now they came forward dressed in shifts of undyed wool to receive their knighthoods from the Kingsguard. It took a long time, since only three of the Brothers of the White Sword were on hand to dub them. Mandon Moore had perished in the battle, the Hound had vanished, Aerys Oakheart was in Dorne with Princess Myrcella, and Jaime Lannister was Robb’s captive, so the Kingsguard had been reduced to Balon Swann, Meryn Trant, and Osmund Kettleblack. Once knighted, each man rose, buckled on his swordbelt, and stood beneath the windows. Some had bloody feet from their walk through the city, but they stood tall and proud all the same, it seemed to Sansa.
　　By the time all the new knights had been given their sers the hall was growing restive, and none more so than Joffrey. Some of those in the gallery had begun to slip quietly away, but the notables on the floor were trapped, unable to depart without the king’s leave. Judging by the way he was fidgeting atop the Iron Throne, Joff would willingly have granted it, but the day’s work was far from done. For now the coin was turned over, and the captives were ushered in.
　　There were great lords and noble knights in that company too: sour old Lord Celtigar, the Red Crab; Ser Bonifer the Good; Lord Estermont, more ancient even than Celtigar; Lord Varner, who hobbled the length of the hall on a shattered knee, but would accept no help; Ser Mark Mullendore, grey-faced, his left arm gone to the elbow; fierce Red Ronnet of Griffin Roost; Ser Dermot of the Rainwood; Lord Willurn and his sons josua and Elyas; Ser Jon Fossoway; Ser Timon the Scrapesword; Aurane, the bastard of Driftmark; Lord Staedmon, called Pennylover; hundreds of others.
　　Those who had changed their allegiance during the battle needed only to swear fealty to Joffrey, but the ones who had fought for Stannis until the bitter end were compelled to speak. Their words decided their fate. If they begged forgiveness for their treasons and promised to serve loyally henceforth, Joffrey welcomed them back into the king’s peace and restored them to all their lands and rights. A handful remained defiant, however. “Do not imagine this is done, boy,” warned one, the bastard son of some Florent or other. “The Lord of Light protects King Stannis, now and always. All your swords and all your scheming shall not save you when his hour comes.”
　　“Your hour is come right now.” Joffrey beckoned to Ser Ilyn Payne to take the man out and strike his head off. But no sooner had that one been dragged away than a knight of solemn mien with a fiery heart on his surcoat shouted out, “Stannis is the true king! A monster sits the Iron Throne, an abomination born of incest!”
　　“Be silent,” Ser Kevan Lannister bellowed.
　　The knight raised his voice instead. “Joffrey is the black worm eating the heart of the realm! Darkness was his father, and death his mother! Destroy him before he corrupts you all! Destroy them all, queen whore and king worm, vile dwarf and whispering spider, the false flowers. Save yourselves!” One of the gold cloaks knocked the man off his feet, but he continued to shout. “The scouring fire will come! King Stannis will return!”
　　Joffrey lurched to his feet. “I’m king! Kill him! Kill him now! I command it.” He chopped down with his hand, a furious, angry gesture . . . and screeched in pain when his arm brushed against one of the sharp metal fangs that surrounded him. The bright crimson samite of his sleeve turned a darker shade of red as his blood soaked through it. “Mother!” he wailed.
　　With every eye on the king, somehow the man on the floor wrested a spear away from one of the gold cloaks, and used it to push himself back to his feet. “The throne denies him!” he cried. “He is no king!”
　　Cersei was running toward the throne, but Lord Tywin remained still as stone. He had only to raise a finger, and Ser Meryn Trant moved forward with drawn sword. The end was quick and brutal. The gold cloaks seized the knight by the arms. “No king!” he cried again as Ser Meryn drove the point of his longsword through his chest.
　　Joff fell into his mother’s arms. Three maesters came hurrying forward, to bundle him out through the king’s door. Then everyone began talking at once. When the gold cloaks dragged off the dead man, he left a trail of bright blood across the stone floor. Lord Baelish stroked his beard while Varys whispered in his ear. Will they dismiss us now? Sansa wondered. A score of captives still waited, though whether to pledge fealty or shout curses, who could say? Lord Tywin rose to his feet. “We continue,” he said in a clear strong voice that silenced the murmurs. “Those who wish to ask pardon for their treasons may do so. We will have no more follies.” He moved to the Iron Throne and there seated himself on a step, a mere three feet off the floor.
　　The light outside the windows was fading by the time the session drew to a close. Sansa felt limp with exhaustion as she made her way down from the gallery. She wondered how badly Joffrey had cut himself. They say the Iron Throne can be perilous cruel to those who were not meant to sit it.
　　Back in the safety of her own chambers, she hugged a pillow to her face to muffle a squeal of joy. Oh, gods be good, he did it, he put me aside in front of everyone. When a serving girl brought her supper, she almost kissed her. There was hot bread and fresh-churned butter, a thick beef soup, capon and carrots, and peaches in honey. Even the food tastes sweeter, she thought.
　　Come dark, she slipped into a cloak and left for the godswood. Ser Osmund Kettleblack was guarding the drawbridge in his white armor. Sansa tried her best to sound miserable as she bid him a good evening. From the way he leered at her, she was not sure she had been wholly convincing.
　　Dontos waited in the leafy moonlight. “Why so sadface?” Sansa asked him gaily. “You were there, you heard. Joff put me aside, he’s done with me, he’s . . .”
　　He took her hand. “Oh, Jonquil, my poor Jonquil, you do not understand. Done with you? They’ve scarcely begun.”
　　Her heart sank. “What do you mean?”
　　“The queen will never let you go, never. You are too valuable a hostage. And Joffrey . . . sweetling, he is still king. If he wants you in his bed, he will have you, only now it will be bastards he plants in your womb instead of trueborn sons.”
　　“No,” Sansa said, shocked. “He let me go, he . . .”
　　Ser Dontos planted a slobbery kiss on her ear. “Be brave. I swore to see you home, and now I can. The day has been chosen.”
　　“When?” Sansa asked. “When will we go?”
　　“The night of Joffrey’s wedding. After the feast. All the necessary arrangements have been made. The Red Keep will be full of strangers. Half the court will be drunk and the other half will be helping Joffrey bed his bride. For a little while, you will be forgotten, and the confusion will be our friend.”
　　“The wedding won’t be for a moon’s turn yet. Margaery Tyrell is at Highgarden, they’ve only now sent for her.”
　　“You’ve waited so long, be patient awhile longer. Here, I have something for you.” Ser Dontos fumbled in his pouch and drew out a silvery spiderweb, dangling it between his thick fingers. It was a hair net of fine-spun silver, the strands so thin and delicate the net seemed to weigh no more than a breath of air when Sansa took it in her fingers. Small gems were set wherever two strands crossed, so dark they drank the moonlight. “What stones are these?”
　　“Black amethysts from Asshai. The rarest kind, a deep true purple by daylight.”
　　“It’s very lovely,” Sansa said, thinking, It is a ship I need, not a net for my hair.
　　“Lovelier than you know, sweet child. It’s magic, you see. It’s justice you hold. It’s vengeance for your father.” Dontos leaned close and kissed her again. “It’s home.”



Ⅱ 列王的纷争 Chapter65 艾莉亚
　　头颅浸过焦油，不会很快腐烂。每天早上，当艾莉亚去井边给卢斯·波顿打水时，都从它们下面经过。它们背对广场，因此她从来看不见脸孔，只在心里幻想其中之一是乔佛里的头，幻想他那副漂亮脸蛋浸了焦油的光景。如果我是乌鸦，头一个目标就是他肥厚的笨嘴唇。
　　这些头颅并不孤单。食腐乌鸦在城门楼上整日盘旋，沙哑地聒噪，为每一颗眼珠而你争我夺，互相嘶喊驱逐，只有当巡城哨兵经过时，方才暂时散开。时而学士的渡鸦也会拍着宽阔的黑翼从鸦巢飞过来加入盛宴。每当这时，普通的乌鸦便拍翅离开，只等它们体型稍大的远亲饱餐之后，方才飞回来清理残渣剩羹。
　　这些渡鸦可还记得托斯谬学士？艾莉亚疑惑地想，它们会为他悲哀吗？它们日夜对着他啼叫，是否在奇怪他为何不再回答？或许，死人有沟通的秘法，只是活人听不到罢了。
　　托斯缪被利斧斩首，因为他在赫伦堡陷落当晚放出鸟儿给凯岩城和君临报信；铁匠卢坎的罪名是替兰尼斯特家打造武器；哈拉太太的罪名是组织河安伯爵夫人的仆人们为兰尼斯特家服务；管家被处死则因为他把财宝库的钥匙交给了泰温公爵。大厨保住性命（据说全赖那锅黄鼠狼汤），但“小美人”皮雅和其他跟兰尼斯特士兵相好的女人都被赶到一起，扒去衣服，剃光毛发，扔在中庭的熊坑边上，任凭男人们享用。
　　这天早晨艾莉亚去井边打水时，三个佛雷家的士兵正在她们身上作乐。她尽量不看，但男人们的淫笑依旧传到耳中。装满水的木桶很重，她转身要把它提回焚王塔，却被埃玛贝尔太太抓住手臂。水从桶边晃出，溅到埃玛贝尔腿上。“你故意的！”女人尖叫。
　　“你想干嘛？”艾莉亚奋力扭动。自他们砍掉哈拉的脑袋之后，埃玛贝尔就有些疯疯癫癫。
　　“看到没有？”埃玛贝尔指着院子对面的皮雅。“北方人垮台时，这就是你的下场！”
　　“放手。”她想挣脱，但埃玛贝尔的指头越攥越紧。
　　“他会垮台的！赫伦堡诅咒所有人。泰温大人打了胜仗，很快将带着大军杀回来，然后就轮到他惩罚叛徒了。别以为他不会知道你干的好事！”老妇人纵声大笑，“我会亲自折磨你。哈拉有把旧扫帚，我一直替你留着，那扫帚棍开裂多刺——”
　　艾莉亚抡起水桶。水的重量使她失去了准头，没能击中埃玛贝尔的脑袋，但泼出的水溅得老妇人一身，迫使她放手。“别碰我，”艾莉亚大喊，“否则我杀了你。走开！”
　　湿淋淋的埃玛贝尔太太伸出一根细长的手指，指着艾莉亚外衣前襟上的剥皮人。“别以为胸口有小血人就可以作威作福，没这回事！兰尼斯特会回来的！等着瞧吧，你等着瞧吧！”
　　四分之三的水溅到地上，艾莉亚不得不返回井边。如果我把她的话告诉波顿大人，天黑前她的头就会挂在城墙上和哈拉的头作伴，她一边想一边将水桶拉上来，知道自己不会说。
　　曾有一次，当城墙上的头还只有现在一半多的时候，詹德利撞见她打量它们，“欣赏自己的杰作？”他问她。
　　她知道他为卢坎的死而生气，但这样说太不公平。“杀他的是‘铁腿’沃顿，”她防卫地说，“一切都是血戏班和波顿大人的手下做的。”
　　“是谁把他们弄到我们头上来的呢？你和你的黄鼠狼汤。”
　　艾莉亚捶了他胳膊一拳。“那只是一锅热汤而已。况且，你也恨亚摩利爵士。”“我更恨这帮家伙。亚摩利爵士只是为主子卖命，但血戏班是无耻的佣兵，变色龙！他们中一半人连通用语都不会讲。厄特修士喜欢小男孩，科本操纵黑魔法，你的朋友尖牙还吃人。”
　　糟糕的是，她无法否认他的话。赫伦堡的粮秣主要靠勇士团征集，卢斯·波顿还命他们在收粮之余将兰尼斯特的残余势力连根拔除。瓦格·赫特把队伍分成四队，自领最大的一队，其余交给信任的部下，以尽可能多地劫掠村落。罗尔杰经常将瓦格大人找叛徒的法子当谈资，这位大人只不过回到从前勇士团打着兰尼斯特的旗帜造访的地方，把那些投靠过他的人统统抓起来。这些人当初大都收了兰尼斯特的钱，因此血戏班带回城的除了一筐筐头颅，还有一袋袋钱币。“猜谜时间！”夏格维愉快地到处大喊。“波顿大人有一只山羊，它把那些给兰尼斯特大人的山羊喂食的人吃光了，请问现在有几只山羊？”
　　“一只，”问到艾莉亚时，她回答。
　　“黄鼠狼跟山羊一样聪明呢！”小丑窃笑。
　　罗尔杰和尖牙跟他们一样坏。每当波顿大人与守军一起进餐，艾莉亚就会在那帮人里面发现他们。尖牙一身臭气，像变质的奶酪，因此勇士团安排他坐在桌子最末端，随他在那儿咕咕哝哝，嘶嘶怪叫，手齿并用地撕肉。艾莉亚走过时，他会朝她嗅，但最让她害怕的是罗尔杰。他坐在“虔诚的”乌斯威克边上，艾莉亚四处走动伺候，感觉他的目光就在自己周身游走。
　　有时她真后悔当初没跟贾昆·赫加尔一起去狭海对岸。她留着他给的笨硬币，那只是一块比铜板大不了多少的铁片，边缘已经生锈。其中一面有些她不认识的怪异文字，另一面是个男子的头像，几乎完全磨损。他说它很珍贵，但和他的假脸假名字一样，这只是又一个谎言。想到这里她很气愤，便把硬币扔了，但不出一个小时，她开始难过，于是又把硬币找了回来，尽管它一钱不值。
　　她一边琢磨那枚硬币，一边使劲提水，穿过流石庭院。“娜娜，”有人在喊，“放下水桶，过来帮我。”
　　艾尔玛·佛雷和她年纪相仿，个子却有些偏矮。他正沿着凹凸不平的石地面使劲滚沙桶，脸涨得通红。艾莉亚过去帮他，他们一起将桶推到墙壁，然后再返回，最后竖立起来。
　　艾尔玛打开盖子，拽出一件锁甲，沙子“哗哗”流动。“你看它干净了没？”作为卢斯·波顿的侍从，他负责保养主人的锁甲明亮光鲜。
　　“你得把沙子全抖掉。那儿还有锈斑，看见吗？”她指指，“你最好再来一遍。”
　　“你来。”艾尔玛求助时会露出一副友善的表情，但之后会记起自己身为侍从，而她不过是个女仆。他老爱吹嘘自己是河渡口领主的亲生儿子——不是侄子，不是私生子，不是孙子，而是亲生的嫡子哟——还和一位公主订了婚。
　　艾莉亚既不在乎他的宝贝公主，也不喜欢听他发号施令。“大人等着我的水呢。他正在卧房里用水蛭放血。不是普通的黑水蛭哟，这回是又大又白的那种。”
　　艾尔玛的眼睛瞪得跟煮熟的鸡蛋那么大。他怕极了水蛭，尤其是那种肥大的、吸满血之前像肉冻一样的白水蛭。“我忘了，你太瘦，推不动这么重的桶。”
　　“我也忘了，你笨得要死。”艾莉亚提起水桶。“你也该放放血。颈泽里有猪那么大的水蛭。”她留下他独自跟他的沙桶作伴。
　　领主的卧室挤满了人。科本在服侍大人，阴沉的沃顿穿着锁甲衫和手套站在一旁，此外还有十来个佛雷家的人——彼此是亲兄弟、异母兄弟、堂兄弟及表兄弟。卢斯·波顿光着身子躺在床上，四肢内侧和苍白的胸膛爬满水蛭，长长的透明虫子逐渐变为闪亮的粉红。对它们，波顿就和对艾莉亚一样，完全不加理会。
　　“不能让泰温公爵把我们困在赫伦堡，”艾莉亚注满水盆时，伊尼斯·佛雷爵士正在说话。他是个秃顶驼背的灰大个，长着水汪汪的红眼睛和粗糙的巨手。赫伦堡内，一千五百名佛雷家的士兵归他节制，但他似乎很无能，连自己的兄弟也指挥不大动。“此城太大，要守住需要一整支军队，而一旦被围，我们却养不起一支军队，因为无法储备足够的补给。农田成为灰烬，村庄被狼群占据，收获要么被烧，要么被偷。秋天已临，我军却没有存粮，更没有种子用于播种，只能靠劫掠维生。假如兰尼斯特军加以封锁，一月之内，就只剩老鼠和皮鞋可吃。”
　　“我不会被困住。”卢斯·波顿的声音之轻，人们只能伸长耳朵才听得见，因此他的房间总是出奇地静。
　　“那怎么办？”杰瑞·佛雷爵士提问，他是个秃顶的瘦子，一脸痘疮。“莫非顺着被胜利冲昏头脑的艾德慕·徒利的意思，跟泰温公爵正面决战？”
　　他会打垮他们！艾莉亚心想，他会像在红叉河岸一样打垮他们，你们等着瞧吧。她悄悄站到科本身边，没有引起任何人注意。
　　“泰温公爵离这儿远着呢，”波顿平静地说，“他在君临有很多事等着处理，短期内不可能进攻赫伦堡。”
　　伊尼斯爵士固执地摇头，“大人，您对兰尼斯特的了解没我们深。您瞧，史坦尼斯国王也认为泰温公爵远在千里之外，结果遭到灭顶之灾。”
　　水蛭吸食着床上这名苍白男子的鲜血，他微微一笑。“我和他不一样，爵士先生。”
　　“就算奔流城召集所有兵力，少狼主也从西境趁胜而回，与艾德慕合军一处，我们的部队仍无法与泰温公爵的大军相提并论。我提醒您，他目前的军队远超当初在绿叉河的数目，高庭加入了乔佛里！”
　　“我没有忘。”
　　“我做过泰温公爵的俘虏，”霍斯丁爵士说，他是个高大的方脸汉子，据说在佛雷家中最为强壮，“可不希望再受一次款待。”
　　哈瑞斯·海伊爵士不住点头，他母亲是佛雷家的人。“连身经百战的史坦尼斯·拜拉席恩尚且败在秦温公爵手下，咱们的小鬼国王与他为敌岂不是以卵击石？”他环顾兄弟与亲戚们寻求支持，他们果真咕哝着同意。
　　“丑话总得有人站出来说，”霍斯丁道，“罗柏国王必须明白，战争业已失败。”
　　卢斯·波顿用淡白的眼珠打量他，“陛下与兰尼斯特军多次交锋，从无败绩。”
　　“但他失去了北境，”霍斯丁·佛雷坚持，“失去了临冬城！他的弟弟们都死了……”
　　轰地一声，艾莉亚无法呼吸。死了？布兰和瑞肯死了？他什么意思？临冬城怎么了？乔佛里不可能夺取临冬城，不可能，罗柏会打败他。然后她才想起罗柏远征西境，根本不在临冬城，布兰成了残废，瑞肯只有四岁。她竭尽全力才没奔过去大声质问，而是运用西利欧·佛瑞尔教她的方法，像件家具似的笔直挺立。泪水在眼睛里积聚，但她硬生生忍住。这不是真的，这不可能是真的，这只是兰尼斯特的谎言。
　　“若是史坦尼斯获胜，情况迥然不同，”朗诺尔·河文渴望地说，他是瓦德侯爵的私生子。
　　“史坦尼斯已经输了，”霍斯丁爵士生硬地说，“愿望不会改变事实。不管罗柏国王高不高兴，都必须与兰尼斯特家讲和，并脱下王冠，屈膝臣服。”
　　“这个提议，由谁来告诉他呢？”卢斯·波顿微笑，“多事之秋，能有这么多英勇的好兄弟站在我一边，实在是太好了。我会仔细考虑你们的话。”
　　他的微笑意味着散会，佛雷家的人行礼之后纷纷离去，只留科本、铁腿沃顿和艾莉亚。波顿大人召她上前，“血放够了，娜娜，把水蛭拿掉。”
　　“我马上去办，大人，”任何事都不能让卢斯·波顿说第二遍。艾莉亚真想问他霍斯丁爵士提到的临冬城的事，但她不敢。我去问艾尔玛，她心想，艾尔玛会告诉我。她小心翼翼地将水蛭从伯爵的身体上摘下来，虫子在指间缓缓蠕动，粉红的身体湿漉漉，因吸血而膨胀。不过是水蛭，她提醒自己，一捏就烂的啦。
　　“夫人来信。”科本从袖子里抽出一卷羊皮纸。他虽穿着学士的袍子，脖子上却没有颈链，据说是因为涉足死灵术而被学城放逐。
　　“念，”波顿道。
　　瓦妲夫人几乎每天都从孪河城写信来，内容千篇一律。“我日夜为您祈祷，亲爱的大人，”她写道，“数着日子等您回来与我再度共眠。早日归来吧，我将为您产下许多嫡子，以取代您珍爱的多米利克，继您之后统治恐怖堡。”艾莉亚的脑海中不禁浮现一个圆鼓鼓的粉红婴儿，浑身爬满粉红的水蛭躺在摇篮中。
　　她递给波顿大人一块湿毛巾，以擦拭他柔软而无毛的身体。“我要写信，”他告诉前学士。
　　“给瓦妲夫人？”
　　“给赫曼·陶哈爵士。”
　　赫曼爵士的信使两天前就到了。陶哈的部队夺回了戴瑞的城堡，经过短暂围城，兰尼斯特驻军便告投降。
　　“以国王的名义，要他处死俘虏，烧毁城堡，然后跟罗贝特·葛洛佛汇合，东进攻打暮谷城。此间土地还很肥沃，几乎未遭战火波及，该让它们也尝尝滋味。葛洛佛没了家堡，陶哈没了儿子，势必急于复仇。”
　　“我马上去办，然后带过来给您封印，大人。”
　　艾莉亚很高兴戴瑞家的城堡要被烧毁。她跟乔佛里打架之后，正是被抓去那里，也正是在那里，王后逼父亲杀了珊莎的小狼。那地方活该！其实她先前希望罗贝特·葛洛佛和赫曼·陶哈爵士早些回到赫伦堡，他们走得匆忙，她还不及决定是否把秘密告诉他们。
　　“我今天要去打猎，”卢斯·波顿一边说，一边让科本帮他穿上一件夹絮背心。
　　“安全吗，大人？”科本问，“三天之前，厄特修士的人刚遭狼群袭击。它们直接闯进营地，在离营火不到五码远咬死两匹马。”
　　“我要猎的正是狼，它们吵得我晚上睡不着。”波顿扣上皮带，调整好长剑和匕首的位置。“据说在我们北境，一度冰原狼结成上百只的群落四处游荡，不怕人，连长毛象也不怕，但那是古代，况且在北方。我很奇怪，南方的寻常狼只怎会如此大胆？”
　　“糟糕的时代孕育糟糕的东西，大人。”
　　波顿露齿似笑非笑，“如今有这么糟糕，学士？”
　　“夏日已尽，国内又有四王争雄。”
　　“一个国王才糟糕，四个？嘿，”他耸耸肩。“娜娜，我的裘皮斗篷。”她将斗篷递给他。“我回来之前，房间要打扫干净，收拾整齐，”她一面替他系斗篷，他一面说。“对了，把瓦妲夫人的信处理掉。”
　　“遵命，大人。”
　　伯爵和学士迅速离开房间，没多看她一眼。他们走后，艾莉亚把信丢进火炉，用拨火棍搅动木柴，激发火焰。她呆呆地看着羊皮纸卷曲变黑，发出阵阵火光。兰尼斯特敢伤害布兰和瑞肯，罗柏定会杀光他们，他决不会屈服，不会，不会，不会！他谁也不怕！缕缕烟尘飘上烟囱，艾莉亚蹲在火堆边，热泪盈眶。如果临冬城真的没有了，这儿就是我的家吗？我还是艾莉亚吗？我是不是永远、永远、永远都只能当女仆娜娜？
　　接下来的几个小时，她专心收拾领主的套房。她扫掉旧的灯芯草，铺上气味清新的新草，并在壁炉里重新生火，把羽毛床弄蓬松，更换亚麻床单，在小厕所里倒了夜壶，并把它刷洗干净，最后捧一大堆脏衣服给洗衣妇，又从厨房拿来一碗脆秋梨。收拾完套房，她下去半层楼梯，继续整理书房。这是一间通风良好的大房间，规模与许多小城堡的厅堂无异。蜡烛已成残桩，艾莉亚把它们都换好。窗下有张大橡木桌，平日里大人就在这儿写信。她把书籍堆好，放上新蜡烛，并将羽毛笔、墨水和封腊排列整齐。
　　文件之间有一大张破破烂烂的羊皮纸。艾莉亚刚要卷起来，却被上面各种斑驳的颜色所吸引：蓝色代表湖泊与河流，红点代表城堡和市镇，绿色代表森林。她不由自主地将它铺开来。地图下华丽的字体写着：三河流域全图。看来这张图画的正是颈泽与黑水河之间的地理。赫伦堡在一个大湖上方，她想起来，奔流城在哪里？……找到了，并不太远……
　　干完活之后，下午才刚过一半，因此她去了神木林。当波顿大人的侍酒，比在威斯或粉红眼手下轻松多了，惟一的麻烦是必须穿戴整齐，时时梳洗，这让她有些不耐烦。捕猎的队伍没几个小时回不来，因此她有点时间做“针线活”。
　　她狠狠地劈砍白桦树叶，直到扫帚剑参差的顶端变得又绿又粘。“格雷果爵士，”她喘口气，“邓森，波利佛，‘甜嘴’拉夫。”她旋身跃起，脚尖着地，忽左忽右，四面游移，打得松果到处乱飞。“记事本，”她大喝一声，接着又喊“猎狗，伊林爵士，马林爵士，瑟曦太后。”橡树树干耸立在前，她作势突刺，一边低吼：“乔佛里！乔佛里！乔佛里！”阳光叶影在身上洒下点点斑驳，当她终于停下，已是通体大汗，右脚跟还擦破了皮，流出血来，因此她单腿站在心树前，举剑致敬。“Valar morghulis，”她对北方的远古诸神说。她喜欢这串发音。
　　穿过庭院去澡堂时，艾莉亚瞥到一只渡鸦盘旋降落在鸦巢，不禁疑惑它从哪里来，带来什么消息。说不定是罗柏派来的，专门澄清布兰和瑞肯的事。她咬紧嘴唇如此期望。如果我也有翅膀，就可以自己飞回，临冬城去看。如果事情是真的，那我就干脆一直飞，飞过月亮，飞过闪亮的星星，飞去看老奶妈故事里的一切，飞去看龙、海怪和布拉佛斯的泰坦巨人像。再也不要回来。
　　捕猎的队伍近黄昏时才回来，带回九匹死狼，其中七匹是成年狼，体型很大，一身灰棕，凶猛而强壮，由于临死前的咆哮，它们嘴巴张开露出黄色的牙齿；另有两匹是幼崽。波顿大人下令把它们的皮缝成毯子铺在他床上。“小狼皮软，大人，”他的一名手下指出，“不如做一副暖和的手套。”
　　波顿抬头瞥瞥城门楼上飘扬的旗帜，“好吧，正如史塔克常提醒我们的：凛冬将至。那就做吧。”他看见艾莉亚望着他，便道，“娜娜，我在林子里受了点风寒，来一壶加热的香料酒，别让它凉掉。我打算独自进晚餐。大麦面包，黄油和野猪肉。”
　　“我马上去办，大人。”这总是最佳回答。
　　到厨房时，热派做着燕麦饼，另三个厨子在剔鱼骨，司炉小弟则在火焰上翻转野猪。“大人要晚餐，配上加热的香料葡萄酒，”艾莉亚宣布，“不能凉掉。”听罢此言，一个厨子连忙洗手，取出一个锅子，倒满粘稠芬芳的红酒，然后叫热派边看着火边把香料捣碎了加进去。艾莉亚过去帮忙。
　　“我自己来，”他沉着脸说。“这点小事不用你教。”
　　他恨我，不然就是怕我。她退开去，伤心更甚气恼。食物准备好之后，厨子们扣上银罩，并拿厚毛巾包住酒壶保温。暮色降临，城墙上的乌鸦绕着头颅嘀嘀咕咕，活像满朝文武觐见国王。一个卫兵守在焚王塔门口，“这不是黄鼠狼汤吧？”他打趣道。
　　卢斯·波顿正在火炉边看一本皮革装订的厚书。“多点几只蜡烛，”他边翻书页边下令，“越来越暗了。”
　　她把餐盘放在他手边，然后遵命去点蜡烛，屋里顷刻间充满摇曳的亮光和丁香的气味。波顿又用手指夹着翻了几页，然后合上，缓缓地将书放进火堆。他目睹火焰将其吞噬，淡白的眼珠映着亮光。干燥的旧皮革“呼”的一声着了火，泛黄的书页一张张卷起来，仿佛有个幽灵正在阅读。“今晚用不着你了，”他说话时一眼都没瞧她。
　　她该像老鼠一样悄悄离开，却不知怎地留了下来。“大人，”她开口问，“您离开赫伦堡时会带上我吗？”
　　他转头凝视她，那眼神好像是突然发现晚餐在跟他说话。“我准你问话了吗，娜娜？”
　　“没有，大人。”她垂下眼。
　　“那你就不该问，对不对？”
　　“不该，大人。”
　　他似乎有些兴致。“念你是初犯，我就回答一次，下不为例。我回北方的时候，打算把赫伦堡交给瓦格大人。你和他一起留下。”
　　“但我不——”
　　他打断她，“我没有被仆人质问的习惯，娜娜，要我把你的舌头拔出来吗？”
　　她知道这种事对他而言，就跟别人打狗一样稀松平常。“不，大人。”
　　“那就把嘴巴闭上。”
　　“是，大人。”
　　“去吧，我原谅你这次无礼。”
　　艾莉亚离开了，但没有回去睡觉，她走出焚王塔，踏入黑暗的庭院，门口的卫兵点头道：“闻到了吧？暴风雨要来了。”阵阵朔风吹过，插在城墙上那些头颅旁的火炬急速摇曳。去神木林途中，经过号哭塔，她曾在那儿生活，生活在对威斯的恐惧中。赫伦堡陷落后，佛雷家将它占用，她听见一扇窗户内传来许多愤怒的话音，一群人在同时叫嚣，讨论争吵。艾尔玛独坐在门外台阶上。
　　“怎么回事？”艾莉亚问，他的脸颊闪着泪花。
　　“我的公主，”他抽泣着，“伊尼斯说我们蒙羞了。父亲大人从孪河城派来一只鸟，要我跟别人结婚，否则就去做修士。”
　　就为一个笨公主，她心想，有什么好哭的。“我弟弟可能死了呢，”她向他吐露。
　　艾尔玛轻蔑地看了她一眼，“谁在乎女仆的弟弟呀。”
　　听他这么说，很难不去揍他。“你的公主去死吧！”她大声道，然后趁他抓她之前飞身跑掉。她跑进神木林，在原处找到扫帚剑，提着它来到心树前跪下。红叶沙沙作响，红眼洞穿内心，这是远古诸神的眼睛。“诸神啊，请告诉我该怎么做，”她祈求。良久，一片寂静，惟有风声、水声和枝叶的婆娑。接着，从遥远的地方，从神木林之外，从闹鬼的塔楼之外，从赫伦堡巨大的石墙之外，从世界的某处，传来一声孤寂而悠长的狼嚎。艾莉亚起了鸡皮疙瘩，片刻之间头晕目眩。然后，她朦朦胧胧听见父亲的声音，“当大雪降下，冷风吹起，独行狼死，群聚狼生，”他说。
　　“可我找不到伴，”她轻声对鱼梁木说。布兰和瑞肯死了，珊莎在兰尼斯特家手中，琼恩去了长城。“我甚至都不是自己，我成了娜娜。”
　　“你是临冬城的艾莉亚，北境的女儿。你答应过我会变得坚强，别忘了，你体内流着奔狼之血。”
　　“奔狼之血。”艾莉亚记起来。“我说过，我会变得跟罗柏一样坚强。”她深吸一口气，然后双手举起扫帚棍，往膝盖上一磕。它响亮地断裂，碎片被她扔掉。我是冰原狼，不需要木牙。
　　当天晚上，她躺在狭窄的稻草床上等待明月升起，一边聆听生者与死人的低语争辩。这是她现在惟一相信的声音。她耳中不但有自己的呼吸，也有狼群的嗥叫，它们已经成群。它们比我在神木林里听到时更接近了，她心想，它们在呼唤我。
　　最后，她从被子底下溜出来，摸索着套上外衣，光脚走下楼梯。卢斯·波顿是个谨慎的人，焚王塔门口日夜有人把守，她不得不从地窖的窄窗溜出去。庭院寂静无声，巨大的城堡陷入鬼影憧憧的迷梦，惟有寒风在头顶的号哭塔尖啸。
　　她发现铁匠房炉火已熄，门也关闭上闩，于是像上次一样翻窗进去。詹德利跟另外两个铁匠学徒睡在一起。她在阁楼上蜷伏良久，等待眼睛适应黑暗，确定他就是边上那个。她用一只手捂住他的嘴，捏了他一把。他立刻睁眼，一定没睡熟。“求求你，”她轻声道，一边把手从他的嘴上移开，指指外面。
　　片刻之间，她以为他不明白，但他随后从被子底下溜出来，光着身子穿过房间，套上一件松垮的粗布上衣，跟在她后面爬下阁楼。熟睡的人们没有动静。“你又要干什么？”詹德利压低声音恼怒地问。
　　“我要一把剑。”
　　“我给你说过一百遍，黑拇指把所有刀剑都锁起来了。水蛭大人叫你来拿？”
　　“我自己要。用你的锤子把锁砸开。”
　　“他们会砍断我的手，”他咕哝道，“或者更糟。”
　　“跟我一起逃就不会了。”
　　“逃？他们会杀了你。”
　　“留下来更糟。波顿大人亲口告诉我，要把赫伦堡交给血戏班。”
　　詹德利把盖在眼睛上的黑发拨开，“那又怎样？”
　　她勇敢地直视他，“一旦瓦格·赫特当上城主，会把全城仆人的脚都砍掉以防他们逃跑。铁匠也一样。”
　　“这只是吓小孩的故事，”他不屑地说。
　　“不，是真的，我听瓦格大人亲口这么说，”她撒谎。“每个人都会被他砍掉一只脚。似乎是左脚。去厨房叫醒热派——他听你的话——让他准备些面包或燕麦饼之类。反正你负责拿剑，我负责牵马，最后在厉鬼塔后的东墙边门碰面。那里少有人进出。”
　　“我知道那里，还不是跟其他门一样，有人守卫。”
　　“那又怎样？好啦，你别忘了剑！”
　　“我又没说要来。”
　　“好好。但如果你要来，不会忘记带剑？”
　　他皱起眉头。“不会，”他最后说，“我想不会。”
　　艾莉亚原路返回焚王塔，一边悄悄走上蜿蜒的楼梯，一边聆听脚步。在自己的小房间里，她脱光衣服，仔细地着装。她穿上两层内衣，一双温暖的长袜，还有自己最干净的外衣——那是波顿家的制服，胸口上缝着恐怖堡的剥皮人纹章。随后她系紧鞋子，瘦小的肩膀披上一件羊毛斗篷，并在喉咙下打好结。静如影，她再次下楼，中途在领主的书房门口驻足聆听。惟有静默。于是她缓缓推开门。
　　羊皮纸地图就在桌上，在波顿大人吃剩的晚餐旁边。她将它紧紧卷好，插入腰带。为防詹德利万一不敢来，她把大人留在桌上的匕首也拿走了。
　　之后她溜进漆黑的马厩，有匹马低嘶了一声。马夫们都睡着了，她用脚尖捅醒一个，对方歪歪扭扭地坐起来，“呃？干嘛？”
　　“波顿大人要三匹马，上好马鞍和辔头。”
　　男孩站起身，拍拍头发里的稻草，“干嘛？现在？你……要马？”他对着她外衣上的家徽眨眨眼。“大半夜的，他要马做什么？”
　　“波顿大人没有被仆人质问的习惯。”她双手抱胸。
　　马童盯着剥皮人不放，他知道那代表的含义。“你要……三匹？”
　　“一，二，三。打猎用的马，又稳又快的那种。”艾莉亚帮他准备辔头和马鞍，以防惊动其他人。她希望将来不会连累到他，但心里知道这很难。
　　牵马过城是最困难的部分。只要可能，她便躲在墙内的阴影里，如此城头上走动的卫兵就得垂直往下看才能发现她。他们发现又怎样？我可是大人的贴身侍酒。这是个寒冷阴湿的秋夜，西边吹来的乌云遮住了星星，每阵风都让号哭塔发出凄厉的悲泣。闻起来快下雨了。艾莉亚不知这对他们的逃亡而言是好还是坏。
　　没人看见她，她也没看见任何人，只有一只灰白相间的猫，沿着神木林的围墙悄悄走动。它停下来朝她吐口水，刹时间唤起她关于红堡、父亲和西利欧·佛瑞尔的记忆。“我想抓就能抓住你，”她轻声对它说，“但我得走了，猫咪。”那只猫嘶了一声，然后跑掉。
　　厉鬼塔在赫伦堡的五座巨塔中损坏最为严重。它阴沉凄凉地矗立在一座倾颓的圣堂后面——近三百年来，只有老鼠到此祈祷。她就在那里等待詹德利和热派。仿佛过了很久很久，马匹啃食碎石间的杂草，乌云吞没最后一颗星星。艾莉亚百无聊赖地拿出匕首打磨。照着西利欧教她的法子，悠长而平稳地摩擦。这声音令她平静。
　　人还没到，她远远便听见他们的声音。热派呼吸粗浊，还在黑暗中绊了一跤，擦破小腿的皮，随之而来的大声咒骂几乎能吵醒半个赫伦堡。詹德利比较安静，但走动时身上扛的剑互相撞击，叮当作响。“我在这儿。”她站起来，“安静点，否则他们会听到。”
　　男孩们在碎石堆中择路朝她走来。詹德利在斗篷下穿了上好油的锁甲，背挎铁匠的锤子。热派涨红的圆脸在兜帽里若隐若现，他右手摇摇晃晃地拎着一袋面包，左臂夹着一大轮奶酪。“边门有个卫兵，”詹德利平静地说，“我告诉你会有卫兵。”
　　“你们留下来看马，”艾莉亚道，“我去处理。听到信号就赶快跟上。”
　　詹德利点点头。热派说：“你学猫头鹰，我们就过来。”
　　“我不是猫头鹰，”艾莉亚道，“我是狼。我会嗥叫。”
　　她独自一人穿越厉鬼塔的阴影，走得很快，以抵制内心的恐惧，一面幻想西利欧·佛瑞尔、尤伦、贾昆·赫加尔和琼恩·雪诺就在身边。她没带詹德利给的剑，现在还不需要。尖锐锋利的匕首更合适。东墙边门是赫伦堡最小的入口，十分狭窄，厚实的橡木板镶嵌铁钉，与城墙呈斜角，设在防御塔楼下。门边只有一个守卫，但塔楼里一定还有，沿墙巡逻的更多。不管发生什么，静如影。不能让他出声。零星的雨点开始落下，有一滴掉在眉梢，沿着鼻子缓缓流淌。
　　她没有隐藏，而是径直走向卫兵，装作波顿大人有所差遣的样子。他看她走近，十分好奇一个仆人为何在漆黑的夜晚跑来找他。末了，她发现他是个又高又瘦的北方人，裹一件破烂的毛皮斗篷。真糟糕。她也许能瞒过佛雷家或勇士团的人，但恐怖堡的部属跟随卢斯·波顿一辈子，比她更了解他。如果我告诉他，我是艾莉亚·史塔克，命令他让开……不，她不敢。他是北方人，但不是临冬城的人。他是卢斯·波顿的手下。
　　于是她走到他面前，敞开斗篷，露出胸口的剥皮人。”波顿大人派我过来。“
　　“这个时候？做什么？”
　　她看见皮斗篷下钢铁的反光，却不知自己够不够强壮，能不能将匕首尖捅进锁甲。喉咙，一定要刺喉咙，但他太高，我够不到！片刻之间，她不知如何是好；片刻之间，她又成了受惊的小女孩。雨水聚在脸上，感觉像是眼泪。
　　“他要我发给每个卫兵一枚银币，以示嘉奖。”这句话也不知打哪儿冒出来的。
　　“你说……银币？”他并不相信她，但心里渴望相信，毕竟银币就是银币。“拿过来吧。”
　　她把手伸进外衣，掏出贾昆给的硬币。黑暗中，钢铁可以冒充褪色的银子。她递出去……并让它从指间滑落。
　　那人低声骂了一句，蹲下来在泥地中摸索，脖子凑到她眼前。艾莉亚拔出匕首，划破喉咙，动作流利得像夏日的丝绸。热血一下子涌出，喷满她的手。他想喊叫，却被血哽住。
　　“Valar morghulis。”他死去时，她轻声念。
　　当他不再动弹，她捡起了硬币。赫伦堡的高墙之外，传来一声悠长而响亮的狼嗥。她推起门闩，搁到一边，然后打开沉重的橡木门。等热派和詹德利牵马过来，雨势已大。“你杀了他！”热派倒抽一口气。
　　“当然！”手指上全是粘粘的血，气味令母马紧张不安。没关系，她一边想一边翻上马鞍，雨水会将它们冲得干干净净。
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你看着眼前的人，分明还是以前的模样，可心里终究不是以前那般澄清透明了。
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Chapter 63

　　CHAPTER 63
　　ARYA
　　The heads had been dipped in tar to slow the rot. Every morning when Arya went to the well to draw fresh water for Roose Bolton’s basin, she had to pass beneath them. They faced outward, so she never saw their faces, but she liked to pretend that one of them was Joffrey’s. She tried to picture how his pretty face would look dipped in tar. If I was a crow I could fly down and peck off his stupid fat pouty lips.
　　The heads never lacked for attendants. The carrion crows wheeled about the gatehouse in raucous unkindness and quarreled upon the ramparts over every eye, screaming and cawing at each other and taking to the air whenever a sentry passed along the battlements. Sometimes the maester’s ravens joined the feast as well, flapping down from the rookery on wide black wings. When the ravens came the crows would scatter, only to return the moment the larger birds were gone.
　　Do the ravens remember Maester Tothmure? Arya wondered. Are they sad for him? When they quork at him, do they wonder why he doesn’t answer? Perhaps the dead could speak to them in some secret tongue the living could not hear.
　　Tothmure had been sent to the axe for dispatching birds to Casterly Rock and King’s Landing the night Harrenhal had fallen, Lucan the armorer for making weapons for the Lannisters, Goodwife Harra for telling Lady Whent’s household to serve them, the steward for giving Lord Tywin the keys to the treasure vault. The cook was spared (some said because he’d made the weasel soup), but stocks were hammered together for pretty Pia and the other women who’d shared their favors with Lannister soldiers. Stripped and shaved, they were left in the middle ward beside the bear pit, free for the use of any man who wanted them.
　　Three Frey men-at-arms were using them that morning as Arya went to the well. She tried not to look, but she could hear the men laughing. The pail was very heavy once full. She was turning to bring it back to Kingspyre when Goodwife Amabel seized her arm. The water went sloshing over the side onto Amabel’s legs. “You did that on purpose,” the woman screeched.
　　“What do you want?” Arya squirmed in her grasp. Amabel had been half-crazed since they’d cut Harra’s head off.
　　“See there?” Arnabel pointed across the yard at Pia. “When this northman falls you’ll be where she is.”
　　“Let me go.” She tried to wrench free, but Amabel only tightened her fingers.
　　“He will fall too, Harrenhal pulls them all down in the end. Lord Tywin’s won now, he’ll be marching back with all his power, and then it will be his turn to punish the disloyal. And don’t think he won’t know what you did!” The old woman laughed. “I may have a turn at you myself. Harra had an old broom, I’ll save it for you. The handle’s cracked and splintery—”
　　Arya swung the bucket. The weight of the water made it turn in her hands, so she didn’t smash Amabel’s head in as she wanted, but the woman let go of her anyway when the water came out and drenched her. “Don’t ever touch me,” Arya shouted, “or I’ll kill you. You get away.”
　　Sopping, Goodwife Amabel jabbed a thin finger at the flayed man on the front of Arya’s tunic. “You think you’re safe with that little bloody man on your teat, but you’re not! The Lannisters are coming! See what happens when they get here.”
　　Three-quarters of the water had splashed out on the ground, so Arya had to return to the well. If I told Lord Bolton what she said, her head would be up next to Harra’s before it got dark, she thought as she drew up the bucket again. She wouldn’t, though.
　　Once, when there had been only half as many heads, Gendry had caught Arya looking at them. “Admiring your work?” he asked.
　　He was angry because he’d liked Lucan, she knew, but it still wasn’t fair. “It’s Steelshanks Walton’s work,” she said defensively. “And the Mummers, and Lord Bolton.”
　　“And who gave us all them? You and your weasel soup.”
　　Arya punched his arm. “It was just hot broth. You hated Ser Amory too.”
　　“I hate this lot worse. Ser Amory was fighting for his lord, but the Mummers are sellswords and turncloaks. Half of them can’t even speak the Common Tongue. Septon Utt likes little boys, Qyburn does black magic, and your friend Biter eats people.”
　　The worst thing was, she couldn’t even say he was wrong. The Brave Companions did most of the foraging for Harrenhal, and Roose Bolton had given them the task of rooting out Lannisters. Vargo Hoat had divided them into four bands, to visit as many villages as possible. He led the largest group himself, and gave the others to his most trusted captains. She had heard Rorge laughing over Lord Vargo’s way of finding traitors. All he did was return to places he had visited before under Lord Tywin’s banner and seize those who had helped him. Many had been bought with Lannister silver, so the Mummers often returned with bags of coin as well as baskets of heads. “A riddle!” Shagwell would shout gleefully. “If Lord Bolton’s goat eats the men who fed Lord Lannister’s goat, how many goats are there?”
　　“One,” Arya said when he asked her.
　　“Now there’s a weasel clever as a goat!” the fool tittered.
　　Rorge and Biter were as bad as the others. Whenever Lord Bolton took a meal with the garrison, Arya would see them there among the rest. Biter gave off a stench like bad cheese, so the Brave Companions made him sit down near the foot of the table where he could grunt and hiss to himself and tear his meat apart with fingers and teeth. He would sniff at Arya when she passed, but it was Rorge who scared her most. He sat up near Faithful Ursywck, but she could feel his eyes crawling over her as she went about her duties.
　　Sometimes she wished she had gone off across the narrow sea with Jaqen H’ghar. She still had the stupid coin he’d given her, a piece of iron no larger than a penny and rusted along the rim. One side had writing on it, queer words she could not read. The other showed a man’s head, but so worn that all his features had rubbed off. He said it was of great value, but that was probably a lie too, like his name and even his face. That made her so angry that she threw the coin away, but after an hour she got to feeling bad and went and found it again, even though it wasn’t worth anything.
　　She was thinking about the coin as she crossed the Flowstone Yard, struggling with the weight of the water in her pail. “Nan,” a voice called out. “Put down that pail and come help me.”
　　Elmar Frey was no older than she was, and short for his age besides. He had been rolling a barrel of sand across the uneven stone, and was red-faced from exertion. Arya went to help him. Together they pushed the barrel all the way to the wall and back again, then stood it upright.
　　She could hear the sand shifting around inside as Elmar pried open the lid and pulled out a chainmail hauberk. “Do you think it’s clean enough?” As Roose Bolton’s squire, it was his task to keep his mail shiny bright.
　　“You need to shake out the sand. There’s still spots of rust. See?” She pointed. “You’d best do it again.”
　　“You do it.” Elmar could be friendly when he needed help, but afterward he would always remember that he was a squire and she was only a serving girl, He liked to boast how he was the son of the Lord of the Crossing, not a nephew or a bastard or a grandson but a trueborn son, and on account of that he was going to marry a princess.
　　Arya didn’t care about his precious princess, and didn’t like him giving her commands. “I have to bring m’lord water for his basin. He’s in his bedchamber being leeched. Not the regular black leeches but the big pale ones.”
　　Elmar’s eyes got as big as boiled eggs. Leeches terrified him, especially the big pale ones that looked like jelly until they filled up with blood. “I forgot, you’re too skinny to push such a heavy barrel.”
　　“I forgot, you’re stupid.” Arya picked up the pail. “Maybe you should get leeched too. There’s leeches in the Neck as big as pigs.” She left him there with his barrel.
　　The lord’s bedchamber was crowded when she entered. Qyburn was in attendance, and dour Walton in his mail shirt and greaves, plus a dozen Freys, all brothers, half brothers, and cousins. Roose Bolton lay abed, naked. Leeches clung to the inside of his arms and legs and dotted his pallid chest, long translucent things that turned a glistening pink as they fed. Bolton paid them no more mind than he did Arya.
　　“We must not allow Lord Tywin to trap us here at Harrenhal Ser Aenys Frey was saying as Arya filled the washbasin. A grey stooped giant of a man with watery red eyes and huge gnarled hands, Ser Aenys had brought fifteen hundred Frey swords south to Harrenhal, yet it often seemed as if he were helpless to command even his own brothers. “The castle is so large it requires an army to hold it, and once surrounded we cannot feed an army. Nor can we hope to lay in sufficient supplies, The country is ash, the villages given over to wolves, the harvest burnt or stolen. Autumn is on us, yet there is no food in store and none being planted. We live on forage, and if the Lannisters deny that to us, we will be down to rats and shoe leather in a moon’s turn.”
　　“I do not mean to be besieged here.” Roose Bolton’s voice was so soft that men had to strain to hear it, so his chambers were always strangely hushed.
　　“What, then?” demanded Ser Jared Frey, who was lean, balding, and pockmarked. “Is Edmure Tully so drunk on his victory that he thinks to give Lord Tywin battle in the open field?”
　　If he does he’ll beat them, Arya thought. He’ll beat them as he did on the Red Fork, you’ll see. Unnoticed, she went to stand by Qyburn.
　　“Lord Tywin is many leagues from here,” Bolton said calmly. “He has many matters yet to settle at King’s Landing. He will not march on Harrenhal for some time.”
　　Ser Aenys shook his head stubbornly. “You do not know the Lannisters as we do, my lord. King Stannis thought that Lord Tywin was a thousand leagues away as well, and it undid him.”
　　The pale man in the bed smiled faintly as the leeches nursed of his blood. “I am not a man to be undone, ser.”
　　“Even if Riverrun marshals all its strength and the Young Wolf wins back from the west, how can we hope to match the numbers Lord Tywin can send against us? When he comes, he will come with far more power than he commanded on the Green Fork. Highgarden has joined itself to Joffrey’s cause, I remind you!”
　　“I had not forgotten.”
　　“I have been Lord Tywin’s captive once,” said Ser Hosteen, a husky man with a square face who was said to be the strongest of the Freys. “I have no wish to enjoy Lannister hospitality again.”
　　Ser Harys Haigh, who was a Frey on his mother’s side, nodded vigorously. “If Lord Tywin could defeat a seasoned man like Stannis Baratheon, what chance will our boy king have against him?” He looked round to his brothers and cousins for support, and several of them muttered agreement.
　　“Someone must have the courage to say it,” Ser Hosteen said. “The war is lost. King Robb must be made to see that.”
　　Roose Bolton studied him with pale eyes. “His Grace has defeated the Lannisters every time he has faced them in battle.”
　　“He has lost the north,” insisted Hosteen Frey. “He has lost Winterfell! His brothers are dead . . .”
　　For a moment Arya forgot to breathe. Dead? Bran and Rickon, dead? What does he mean? What does he mean about Winterfell, Joffrey could never take Winterfell, never, Robb would never let him. Then she remembered that Robb was not at Winterfell. He was away in the west, and Bran was crippled, and Rickon only four. It took all her strength to remain still and silent, the way Syrio Forel had taught her, to stand there like a stick of furniture. She felt tears gathering in her eyes, and willed them away. It’s not true, it can’t be true, it’s just some Lannister lie.
　　“Had Stannis won, all might have been different,” Ronel Rivers said wistfully. He was one of Lord Walder’s bastards.
　　“Stannis lost,” Ser Hosteen said bluntly. “Wishing it were otherwise will not make it so. King Robb must make his peace with the Lannisters. He must put off his crown and bend the knee, little as he may like it.”
　　“And who will tell him so?” Roose Bolton smiled. “It is a fine thing to have so many valiant brothers in such troubled times. I shall think on all you’ve said.”
　　His smile was dismissal. The Freys made their courtesies and shuffled out, leaving only Qyburn, Steelshanks Walton, and Arya. Lord Bolton beckoned her closer. “I am bled sufficiently. Nan, you may remove the leeches.”
　　“At once, my lord.” It was best never to make Roose Bolton ask twice. Arya wanted to ask him what Ser Hosteen had meant about Winterfell, but she dared not. I’ll ask Elmar, she thought. Elmar will tell me. The leeches wriggled slowly between her fingers as she plucked them carefully from the lord’s body, their pale bodies moist to the touch and distended with blood. They’re only leeches, she reminded herself. If I closed my hand, they’d squish between my fingers.
　　“There is a letter from your lady wife.” Qyburn pulled a roll of parchment from his sleeve. Though he wore maester’s robes, there was no chain about his neck; it was whispered that he had lost it for dabbling in necromancy.
　　“You may read it,” Bolton said.
　　The Lady Walda wrote from the Twins almost every day, but all the letters were the same. “I pray for you morn, noon, and night, my sweet lord,” she wrote, “and count the days until you share my bed again. Return to me soon, and I will give you many trueborn sons to take the place of your dear Domeric and rule the Dreadfort after you.” Arya pictured a plump pink baby in a cradle, covered with plump pink leeches.
　　She brought Lord Bolton a damp washcloth to wipe down his soft hairless body. “I will send a letter of my own,” he told the onetime maester.
　　“To the Lady Walda?”
　　“To Ser Helman Tallhart.”
　　A rider from Ser Helman had come two days past. Tallhart men had taken the castle of the Darrys, accepting the surrender of its Lannister garrison after a brief siege.
　　“Tell him to put the captives to the sword and the castle to the torch, by command of the king. Then he is to join forces with Robett Glover and strike east toward Duskendale. Those are rich lands, and hardly touched by the fighting. It is time they had a taste. Glover has lost a castle, and Tallhart a son. Let them take their vengeance on Duskendale.”
　　“I shall prepare the message for your seal, my lord.”
　　Arya was glad to hear that the castle of the Darrys would be burned. That was where they’d brought her when she’d been caught after her fight with Joffrey, and where the queen had made her father kill Sansa’s wolf. It deserves to burn. She wished that Robett Glover and Ser Helman Tallhart would come back to Harrenhal, though; they had marched too quickly, before she’d been able to decide whether to trust them with her secret.
　　“I will hunt today,” Roose Bolton announced as Qyburn helped him into a quilted jerkin.
　　“Is it safe, my lord?” Qyburn asked. “Only three days past, Septon Utt’s men were attacked by wolves. They came right into his camp, not five yards from the fire, and killed two horses.”
　　“It is wolves I mean to hunt. I can scarcely sleep at night for the howling.” Bolton buckled on his belt, adjusting the hang of sword and dagger. “It’s said that direwolves once roamed the north in great packs of a hundred or more, and feared neither man nor mammoth, but that was long ago and in another land. It is queer to see the common wolves of the south so bold.”
　　“Terrible times breed terrible things, my lord.”
　　Bolton showed his teeth in something that might have been a smile. “Are these times so terrible, Maester?”
　　“Summer is gone and there are four kings in the realm.”
　　“One king may be terrible, but four?” He shrugged. “Nan, my fur cloak.” She brought it to him. “My chambers will be clean and orderly upon my return,” he told her as she fastened it. “And tend to Lady Walda’s letter.”
　　“As you say, my lord.”
　　The lord and maester swept from the room, giving her not so much as a backward glance. When they were gone, Arya took the letter and carried it to the hearth, stirring the logs with a poker to wake the flames anew. She watched the parchment twist, blacken, and flare up. If the Lannisters hurt Bran and Rickon, Robb will kill them every one. He’ll never bend the knee, never, never, never. He’s not afraid of any of them. Curls of ash floated up the chimney. Arya squatted beside the fire, watching them rise through a veil of hot tears. If Winterfell is truly gone, is this my home now? Am I still Arya, or only Nan the serving girl, for forever and forever and forever?
　　She spent the next few hours tending to the lord’s chambers. She swept out the old rushes and scattered fresh sweetsmelling ones, laid a fresh fire in the hearth, changed the linens and fluffed the featherbed, emptied the chamber pots down the privy shaft and scrubbed them out, carried an armload of soiled clothing to the washerwomen, and brought up a bowl of crisp autumn pears from the kitchen. When she was done with the bedchamber, she went down half a flight of stairs to do the same in the great solar, a spare drafty room as large as the halls of many a smaller castle. The candles were down to stubs, so Arya changed them out. Under the windows was a huge oaken table where the lord wrote his letters. She stacked the books, changed the candles, put the quills and inks and sealing wax in order.
　　A large ragged sheepskin was tossed across the papers. Arya had started to roll it up when the colors caught her eye: the blue of lakes and rivers, the red dots where castles and citie’s could be found, the green of woods. She spread it out instead. THE LANDS OF THE TRIDENT, said the ornate script beneath the map. The drawing showed everything from the Neck to the Blackwater Rush. There’s Harrenhal at the top of the big lake, she realized, but where’s Riverrun? Then she saw. It’s not so far . . .
　　The afternoon was still young by the time she was done, so Arya took herself off to the godswood. Her duties were lighter as Lord Bolton’s cupbearer than they had been under Weese or even Pinkeye, though they required dressing like a page and washing more than she liked. The hunt would not return for hours, so she had a little time for her needlework.
　　She slashed at birch leaves till the splintery point of the broken broomstick was green and sticky. “Ser Gregor,” she breathed. “Dunsen, Polliver, Raff the Sweetling.” She spun and leapt and balanced on the balls of her feet, darting this way and that, knocking pinecones flying. “The Tickler,” she called out one time, “the Hound,” the next. “Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn, Queen Cersei.” The bole of an oak loomed before her, and she lunged to drive her point through it, grunting “Joffrey, Joffrey, Joffrey.” Her arms and legs were dappled by sunlight and the shadows of leaves. A sheen of sweat covered her skin by the time she paused. The heel of her right foot was bloody where she’d skinned it, so she stood one-legged before the heart tree and raised her sword in salute. “Valar morghulis,” she told the old gods of the north. She liked how the words sounded when she said them.
　　As Arya crossed the yard to the bathhouse, she spied a raven circling down toward the rookery, and wondered where it had come from and what message it carried. Might be it’s from Robb, come to say it wasn’t true about Bran and Rickon. She chewed on her lip, hoping. If I had wings I could fly back to Winterfell and see for myself. And if it was true, I’d just fly away, fly up past the moon and the shining stars, and see all the things in Old Nan’s stories, dragons and sea monsters and the Titan of Braavos, and maybe I wouldn’t ever fly back unless I wanted to.
　　The hunting party returned near evenfall with nine dead wolves. Seven were adults, big grey-brown beasts, savage and powerful, their mouths drawn back over long yellow teeth by their dying snarls. But the other two had only been pups. Lord Bolton gave orders for the skins to be sewn into a blanket for his bed. “Cubs still have that soft fur, my lord,” one of his men pointed out. “Make you a nice warm pair of gloves.”
　　Bolton glanced up at the banners waving above the gatehouse towers. “As the Starks are wont to remind us, winter is coming. Have it done.” When he saw Arya looking on, he said, “Nan, I’ll want a flagon of hot spice wine, I took a chill in the woods. See that it doesn’t get cold. I’m of a mind to sup alone. Barley bread, butter, and boar.”
　　“At once, my lord.” That was always the best thing to say.
　　Hot Pic was making oatcakes when she entered the kitchen. Three other cooks were boning fish, while a spit boy turned a boar over the flames. “My lord wants his supper, and hot spice wine to wash it down,” Arya announced, “and he doesn’t want it cold.” One of the cooks washed his hands, took out a kettle, and filled it with a heavy, sweet red. Hot Pie was told to crumble in the spices as the wine heated. Arya went to help.
　　“I can do it,” he said sullenly. “I don’t need you to show me how to spice wine.”
　　He hates me too, or else he’s scared of me. She backed away, more sad than angry. When the food was ready, the cooks covered it with a silver cover and wrapped the flagon in a thick towel to keep it warm. Dusk was settling outside. On the walls the crows muttered round the heads like courtiers round a king. One of the guards held the door to Kingspyre. “Hope that’s not weasel soup,” he jested.
　　Roose Bolton was seated by the hearth reading from a thick leatherbound book when she entered. “Light some candles,” he commanded her as he turned a page. “It grows gloomy in here.”
　　She placed the food at his elbow and did as he bid her, filling the room with flickering light and the scent of cloves. Bolton turned a few more pages with his finger, then closed the book and placed it carefully in the fire. He watched the flames consume it, pale eyes shining with reflected light. The old dry leather went up with a whoosh, and the yellow pages stirred as they burned, as if some ghost were reading them. “I will have no further need of you tonight,” he said, never looking at her.
　　She should have gone, silent as a mouse, but something had hold of her. “My lord,” she asked, “will you take me with you when you leave Harrenhal?”
　　He turned to stare at her, and from the look in his eyes it was as if his supper had just spoken to him. “Did I give you leave to question me, Nan?”
　　“No, my lord.” She lowered her eyes.
　　“You should not have spoken, then. Should you?”
　　“No. My lord.”
　　For a moment he looked amused. “I will answer you, just this once. I mean to give Harrenhal to Lord Vargo when I return to the north. You will remain here, with him.”
　　“But I don’t—” she started.
　　He cut her off. “I am not in the habit of being questioned by servants, Nan. Must I have your tongue out?”
　　He would do it as easily as another man might cuff a dog, she knew. “No, my lord.”
　　“Then I’ll hear no more from you?”
　　“No, my lord.”
　　“Go, then. I shall forget this insolence.”
　　Arya went, but not to her bed. When she stepped out into the darkness of the yard, the guard on the door nodded at her and said, “Storm coming. Smell the air?” The wind was gusting, flames swirling off the torches mounted atop the walls beside the rows of heads. On her way to the godswood, she passed the Wailing Tower where once she had lived in fear of Weese. The Freys had taken it for their own since Harrenhal’s fall. She could hear angry voices coming from a window, many men talking and arguing all at once. Elmar was sitting on the steps outside, alone.
　　“What’s wrong?” Arya asked him when she saw the tears shining on his cheeks.
　　“My princess,” he sobbed. “We’ve been dishonored, Aenys says. There was a bird from the Twins. My lord father says I’ll need to marry someone else, or be a septon.”
　　A stupid princess, she thought, that’s nothing to cry over. “My brothers might be dead,” she confided.
　　Elmar gave her a scornful look. “No one cares about a serving girl’s brothers.”
　　It was hard not to hit him when he said that. “I hope your princess dies,” she said, and ran off before he could grab her. In the godswood she found her broomstick sword where she had left it, and carried it to the heart tree. There she knelt. Red leaves rustled. Red eyes peered inside her. The eyes of the gods. “Tell me what to do, you gods,” she prayed.
　　For a long moment there was no sound but the wind and the water and the creak of leaf and limb. And then, far far off, beyond the godswood and the haunted towers and the immense stone walls of Harrenhal, from somewhere out in the world, came the long lonely howl of a wolf. Gooseprickles rose on Arya’s skin, and for an instant she felt dizzy. Then, so faintly, it seemed as if she heard her father’s voice. “When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives,” he said.
　　“But there is no pack,” she whispered to the weirwood. Bran and Rickon were dead, the Lannisters had Sansa, Jon had gone to the Wall. “I’m not even me now, I’m Nan.”
　　“You are Arya of Winterfell, daughter of the north. You told me you could be strong. You have the wolf blood in you.”
　　“The wolf blood.” Arya remembered now. “I’ll be as strong as Robb. I said I would.” She took a deep breath, then lifted the broomstick in both hands and brought it down across her knee. It broke with a loud crack, and she threw the pieces aside. I am a direwolf, and done with wooden teeth.
　　That night she lay in her narrow bed upon the scratchy straw, listening to the voices of the living and the dead whisper and argue as she waited for the moon to rise. They were the only voices she trusted anymore. She could hear the sound of her own breath, and the wolves as well, a great pack of them now. They are closer than the one I heard in the godswood, she thought. They are calling to me.
　　Finally she slipped from under the blanket, wriggled into a tunic, and padded barefoot down the stairs. Roose Bolton was a cautious man, and the entrance to Kingspyre was guarded day and night, so she had to slip out of a narrow cellar window. The yard was still, the great castle lost in haunted dreams. Above, the wind keened through the Wailing Tower.
　　At the forge she found the fires extinguished and the doors closed and barred. She crept in a window, as she had once before. Gendry shared a mattress with two other apprentice smiths. She crouched in the loft for a long time before her eyes adjusted enough for her to be sure that he was the one on the end. Then she put a hand over his mouth and pinched him. His eyes opened. He could not have been very deeply asleep. “Please,” she whispered. She took her hand off his mouth and pointed.
　　For a moment she did not think he understood, but then he slid out from under the blankets. Naked, he padded across the room, shrugged into a loose roughspun tunic, and climbed down from the loft after her. The other sleepers did not stir. “What do you want now?” Gendry said in a low angry voice.
　　“A sword.”
　　“Blackthumb keeps all the blades locked up, I told you that a hundred times. Is this for Lord Leech?”
　　“For me. Break the lock with your hammer.”
　　“They’ll break my hand,” he grumbled. “Or worse.”
　　“Not if you run off with me.”
　　“Run, and they’ll catch you and kill you.”
　　“They’ll do you worse. Lord Bolton is giving Harrenhal to the Bloody Mummers, he told me so.” Gendry pushed black hair out of his eyes. “So?”
　　She looked right at him, fearless. “So when Vargo Hoat’s the lord, he’s going to cut off the feet of all the servants to keep them from running away. The smiths too.”
　　“That’s only a story,” he said scornfully.
　　, ‘No, it’s true, I heard Lord Vargo say so,” she lied. “He’s going to cut one foot off everyone. The left one. Go to the kitchens and wake Hot Pie, he’ll do what you say. We’ll need bread or oakcakes or something. You get the swords and I’ll do the horses. We’ll meet near the postern in the east wall, behind the Tower of Ghosts. No one ever comes there.”
　　“I know that gate. It’s guarded, same as the rest.”
　　“So? You won’t forget the swords?”
　　“I never said I’d come.”
　　“No. But if you do, you won’t forget the swords?”
　　He frowned. “No,” he said at last. “I guess I won’t.”
　　Arya reentered Kingspyre the same way she had left it, and stole up the winding steps listening for footfalls. In her cell, she stripped to the skin and dressed herself carefully, in two layers of smallclothes, warm stockings, and her cleanest tunic. It was Lord Bolton’s livery. On the breast was sewn his sigil, the flayed man of the Dreadfort. She tied her shoes, threw a wool cloak over her skinny shoulders, and knotted it under her throat. Quiet as a shadow, she moved back down the stairs. Outside the lord’s solar she paused to listen at the door, easing it open slowly when she heard only silence.
　　The sheepskin map was on the table, beside the remains of Lord Bolton’s supper. She rolled it up tight and thrust it through her belt. He’d left his dagger on the table as well, so she took that too, just in case Gendry lost his courage.
　　A horse neighed softly as she slipped into the darkened stables. The grooms were all asleep. She prodded one with her toe until he sat up groggily and said, “Eh? Whas?”
　　“Lord Bolton requires three horses saddled and bridled.”
　　The boy got to his feet, pushing straw from his hair. “Wha, at this hour? Horses, you say?” He blinked at the sigil on her tunic. “Whas he want horses for, in the dark?”
　　“Lord Bolton is not in the habit of being questioned by servants.” She crossed her arms.
　　The stableboy was still looking at the flayed man. He knew what it meant. “Three, you say?”
　　“One two three. Hunting horses. Fast and surefoot.” Arya helped him with the bridles and saddles, so he would not need to wake any of the others. She hoped they would not hurt him afterward, but she knew they probably would.
　　Leading the horses across the castle was the worst part. She stayed in the shadow of the curtain wall whenever she could, so the sentries walking their rounds on the ramparts above would have needed to look almost straight down to see her. And if they do, what of it? I’m my lord’s own cupbearer. It was a chill dank autumn night. Clouds were blowing in from the west, hiding the stars, and the Wailing Tower screamed mournfully at every gust of wind. It smells like rain. Arya did not know whether that would be good or bad for their escape.
　　No one saw her, and she saw no one, only a grey and white cat creeping along atop the godswood wall. It stopped and spit at her, waking memories of the Red Keep and her father and Syrio Forel. “I could catch you if I wanted,” she called to it softly, “but I have to go, cat.” The cat hissed again and ran off.
　　The Tower of Ghosts was the most ruinous of Harrenhal’s five immense towers. It stood dark and desolate behind the remains of a collapsed sept where only rats had come to pray for near three hundred years. It was there she waited to see if Gendry and Hot Pie would come. It seemed as though she waited a long time. The horses nibbled at the weeds that grew up between the broken stones while the clouds swallowed the last of the stars. Arya took out the dagger and sharpened it to keep her hands busy. Long smooth strokes, the way Syrio had taught her. The sound calmed her.
　　She heard them coming long before she saw them. Hot Pie was breathing heavily, and once he stumbled in the dark, barked his shin, and cursed loud enough to wake half of Harrenhal. Gendry was quieter, but the swords he was carrying rang together as he moved. “Here I am.” She stood. “Be quiet or they’ll hear you.”
　　The boys picked their way toward her over tumbled stones. Gendry was wearing oiled chainmail under his cloak, she saw, and he had his blacksmith’s hammer slung across his back. Hot Pie’s red round face peered out from under a hood. He had a sack of bread dangling from his right hand and a big wheel of cheese under his left arm. “There’s a guard on that postern,” said Gendry quietly. “I told you there would be.”
　　“You stay here with the horses,” said Arya. “I’ll get rid of him. Come quick when I call.”
　　Gendry nodded. Hot Pie said, “Hoot like an owl when you want us to come.”
　　“I’m not an owl,” said Arya. “I’m a wolf. I’ll howl.”
　　Alone, she slid through the shadow of the Tower of Ghosts. She walked fast, to keep ahead of her fear, and it felt as though Syrio Forel walked beside her, and Yoren, and Jaqen H’ghar, and Jon Snow. She had not taken the sword Gendry had brought her, not yet. For this the dagger would be better. It was good and sharp. This postern was the least of Harrenhal’s gates, a narrow door of stout oak studded with iron nails, set in an angle of the wall beneath a defensive tower. Only one man was set to guard it, but she knew there would be sentries up in that tower as well, and others nearby walking the walls. Whatever happened, she must be quiet as a shadow. He must not call out. A few scattered raindrops had begun to fall. She felt one land on her brow and run slowly down her nose.
　　She made no effort to hide, but approached the guard openly, as if Lord Bolton himself had sent her. He watched her come, curious as to what might bring a page here at this black hour. When she got closer, she saw that he was a northman, very tall and thin, huddled in a ragged fur cloak. That was bad. She might have been able to trick a Frey or one of the Brave Companions, but the Dreadfort men had served Roose Bolton their whole life, and they knew him better than she did. If I tell him I am Arya Stark and command him to stand aside . . . No, she dare not. He was a northman, but not a Winterfell man. He belonged to Roose Bolton. When she reached him she pushed back her cloak so he would see the flayed man on her breast. “Lord Bolton sent me.”
　　“At this hour? Why for?”
　　She could see the gleam of steel under the fur, and she did not know if she was strong enough to drive the point of the dagger through chainmail. His throat, it must be his throat, but he’s too tall, I’ll never reach it. For a moment she did not know what to say. For a moment she was a little girl again, and scared, and the rain on her face felt like tears.
　　“He told me to give all his guards a silver piece, for their good service.” The words seemed to come out of nowhere.
　　“Silver, you say?” He did not believe her, but he wanted to; silver was silver, after all. “Give it over, then.”
　　Her fingers dug down beneath her tunic and came out clutching the coin Jaqen had given her. In the dark the iron could pass for tarnished silver. She held it out . . . and let it slip through her fingers.
　　Cursing her softly, the man went to a knee to grope for the coin in the dirt and there was his neck right in front of her. Arya slid her dagger out and drew it across his throat, as smooth as summer silk. His blood covered her hands in a hot gush and he tried to shout but there was blood in his mouth as well.
　　“Valar morghulis,” she whispered as he died.
　　When he stopped moving, she picked up the coin. Outside the walls of Harrenhal, a wolf howled long and loud. She lifted the bar, set it aside, and pulled open the heavy oak door. By the time Hot Pie and Gendry came up with the horses, the rain was falling hard. “You killed him!” Hot Pie gasped.
　　“What did you think I would do?” Her fingers were sticky with blood, and the smell was making her mare skittish. It’s no matter, she thought, swinging up into the saddle. The rain will wash them clean again.



Ⅱ 列王的纷争 Chapter64 丹妮莉丝
　　她吃着早餐，一碗冰凉的虾米柿子汤，伊丽给她带来魁尔斯长袍，象牙色绸缎上用小珍珠缝成图案，清凉通风。“把它拿走，”丹妮说，“去码头不用华服。”
　　奶人把我当野蛮人，我索性穿给他们看。她穿着褪色的沙丝长裤和草织凉鞋去了马厩，一对小乳房在多斯拉克彩绘背心下自由晃动，奖章腰带上悬一把小弯刀。姬琪为她编了多斯拉克式的辫子，并在末端系上一个银铃。“我没有打过胜仗，”银铃轻响，她对女仆说。
　　姬琪不这么认为：“您在尘埃之殿烧死巫魔，把他们的灵魂扔回地狱。”
　　那是卓耿的胜利，不是我的，丹妮想分辩，却没有出口。如果头上多几个铃铛，想必多斯拉克人会更钦佩齐心。于是她从跨上小银马起，就刻意弄出声响，但乔拉爵士和血盟卫们都没在意。外出时，她选择拉卡洛保护她的子民和龙，乔戈和阿戈则同往码头区。
　　他们将大理石宫殿和芬芳花园抛在身后，穿过城市的贫民区。这里只有朴素的砖瓦房，临街一面连窗户也无。马匹和骆驼尚且稀罕，舆车自不必说。街上多的是儿童、乞丐和骨瘦如柴的沙色狗。肤色白皙的居民穿着灰尘仆仆的亚麻裙站在拱门下目送他们经过。他们知道我是谁，并且不爱我，丹妮从他们的眼神里看得出。
　　乔拉爵士本想让她坐舆车，安稳地躲在丝幔后面，但她拒绝了。她靠着绸缎垫子坐了太久，老是让牛拉着来去。重新骑上马背，才让她觉得脚踏实地，有了目标。
　　去码头并非她自愿，而是另一次逃亡。她的人生就是一场漫长的逃亡。打从娘胎起，就没有休止，不曾停下。有多少次，她和韦赛里斯在漆黑的夜晚偷偷溜走，仅仅领先篡夺者的刺客一步之遥？不逃就是死。札罗获悉，俳雅·菩厉把幸存的男巫招集到一起，要对她不利。
　　丹妮听他说时忍俊不禁：“你不是告诉我，男巫们跟那些羸弱的老兵一样可笑，只会夸耀当年之勇，全不顾力量与技能早已离他们而去吗？”
　　札罗却忧心忡忡，“本来确实如此，但现在起了变化。据说熄灭一百年之久的玻璃蜡烛又在‘夜行者’厄拉松的宅子里重新燃烧，鬼草在吉海因花园中生长。人们看见幻影龟在男巫大道的无窗房子之间传递消息，而城里所有老鼠纷纷咬掉自己的尾巴。马索斯·马拉若文的老婆曾经嘲笑一个男巫虫蛀的袍子，可现在她发了疯，什么衣服都不肯穿，因为最新鲜的丝绸都让她感觉有成千只虫子在上面爬。人称‘食眼者’的瞎子赛比欣又能视物了，至少他的奴隶们如此发誓。这些情况怎不让人疑惑呢？”他叹口气。“魁尔斯处于非常时期，非常时期对贸易不利。我很难过地奉劝您，彻底地离开魁尔斯，宜早不宜迟。”札罗抚摸她的手指，以示安慰。“但您不会孤单。你在尘埃之殿看到黑暗的景象，札罗的梦境却一片光明。我梦见您喜乐地躺在床上，将我们的孩子抱在胸口。现在还不晚，跟我一起去玉海航行，让美梦成真！给我一个儿子吧，我可爱的天堂之星！”
　　给你一条龙吧，你真虚伪。“我不会跟你结婚，札罗。”
　　闻听此言，他的脸沉下来。“那你走吧。”
　　“我该去哪里？”
　　“远离此地就好。”
　　好吧，是时候了。从前她的卡拉萨在红色荒原饱受折磨，需要时间恢复元气，而今他们精力充沛，已经开始不耐烦了。多斯拉克人不习惯在一地久留，他们是马上民族，不适合居住城市。也许她沉溺于魁尔斯的舒适和美丽，违背了初衷，逗留得太久。在她看来，这座城市的人总是说得多做得少，而且自从不朽之殿在巨大的烟雾与火焰中倾覆以来，之前受的欢迎也开始改变。一夜之间，魁尔斯人忆起龙的危险，便不再竞相献礼。相反，碧玺兄弟会公开呼吁把她驱逐，香料古公会则要将她处死。札罗竭尽全力才制止十三巨子加入他们的行列。
　　我该去哪里？乔拉爵士建议继续东行，以远离她在七大王国的敌人。她的血盟卫们则希望回到大草原，再度挑战红色荒原也在所不惜。丹妮自己琢磨着在维斯·托罗若定居，以等待小龙茁壮成长。但她心中充满疑虑，每个计划都似乎不大对劲，况且……即便她决定了目的地，要怎么去仍是个棘手的问题。
　　但有一点她已认清，札罗·赞旺·达梭斯再不会帮她了。所有的挚爱表白，不过为了一己私利，和俳雅·菩厉毫无二致。在他赶她走的那个晚上，丹妮乞求他帮最后一个忙。“不会吧，你想要一支军队？”札罗问，“一罐金子？呃……一艘战舰？”
　　丹妮涨红了脸。她恨透了乞讨。“是的，我想你给我一艘船。”
　　札罗的眼睛和他鼻子上的珠宝一样闪亮。“我是个商人，卡丽熙，所以我们别说什么给予，而该谈谈生意。你出一头龙，换我手中最好的十艘船。说出那个可爱的字眼，我们成交。”
　　“不，”她说。
　　“唉，”札罗啜泣，“我指的不是这个字。”
　　“母亲怎可卖掉自己的孩子？”
　　“有何不可？反正可以再生。魁尔斯的街市上，每天都有母亲售卖孩子。”
　　“但龙之母不会。”
　　“二十艘也不会？”
　　“一百艘也不会。”
　　他嘴唇下卷，“我没有一百艘船，但您有三条龙。看在我一直以来的慷慨份上，就给我一条吧，您可以留着两条龙，三十艘船。”
　　三十艘船足够运送一支小部队登陆维斯特洛的海岸。但我连一支小部队也没有。“你总共有多少条船，札罗？”
　　“不算那艘豪华游艇的话，一共八十三。”
　　“你十三巨子的同僚们呢？”
　　“全部加起来，大概一千艘。”
　　“香料公会和碧玺兄弟会呢？”
　　“他们那点船微不足道。”
　　“我明白，”她说，“我只是想了解清楚。”
　　“香料商公会一千二三百。兄弟会不超过八百。”
　　“那么亚夏人，布拉佛斯人，盛夏群岛人，伊班人……所有这些在咸海汪洋中航行的民族，他们各有多少船？全部加起来又是多少？”
　　“许多许多，”他烦躁起来，“您想说什么？”
　　“我想为世上仅存的三条活龙之一定个价。”丹妮对他甜甜一笑。“在我看来，全世界三分之一的船是个公平的价码。”
　　晶莹的泪珠沿着札罗镶满珠宝的鼻子两侧滚落。“我不是警告过您吗？别去尘埃之殿，我就怕发生这种事。男巫的吟唱把您逼疯了，您简直跟马拉若文的老婆没两样。全世界三分之一的船？算了吧，算了吧，我说，算了吧！”
　　从此以后，丹妮再没见过他。他的管家负责带话，一次比一次冷淡。他停止供应她和她的子民，要她离开他的家。他还要她为了反复无信而归还所有的礼物。她惟一的安慰是，自己总算没跟他结婚。
　　不朽之人提到三次背叛……一次为血，一次为财，一次为爱。头一次显然是弥丽·马兹·笃尔，为替族人报仇，她谋害了卓戈卡奥和他们未出世的儿子。俳雅·菩厉和札罗·赞旺·达梭斯是第二三次吗？她不这么认为。俳雅所为的不是钱，而札罗根本没爱过她。
　　他们穿过一片灰漾漾的石头仓库，街道变得更为冷清。一行人中，阿戈在前，乔戈在后，乔拉·莫尔蒙爵士与她同行。银铃轻响，丹妮的思绪不由自主地回到尘埃之殿，这感觉就像舌头总离不开脱落的牙齿留下的空隙。他们称她为：三之子，死亡之女，谎言杀手，烈火新娘。三……三团火焰，三匹座骑，三次背叛。“龙有三个头，”她叹口气，“你知道那是什么意思，乔拉？”
　　“女王陛下，坦格利安家族的纹章就是黑底红色的三头火龙。”
　　“这我知道，但世上根本就没有三头的龙。”
　　“三个龙头是代表伊耿和他的两个妹妹。”
　　“维桑尼亚和雷妮斯，”她想起来，“我就是伊耿和雷妮斯的后裔，传承自他们的儿子伊尼斯和孙子杰赫里斯。”
　　“札罗不是告诉过您，蓝嘴唇只吐得出谎言？您何必在乎男巫们的低声细语呢？您已经知道，他们只想汲取您的生命。”
　　“或许吧，”她勉强道，“但我看到的景象……”
　　“一具尸体站立船首，一朵蓝玫瑰，一场血淋淋的盛宴……这能有什么意义，卡丽熙？您说还看到一条布龙，请问这究竟是什么东西？”
　　“挂在旗杆上的布龙，”丹妮解释，“戏班演戏时常用来代表英雄的对手。”
　　乔拉爵士皱起眉头。
　　丹妮无法释怀。“我哥说，他的歌便是冰与火之歌。我敢肯定那是我哥，但不是韦赛里斯，而是雷加。他有一把银弦竖琴。”
　　乔拉爵士的眉头皱得更紧，纠成了一块儿。“雷加王子有一把这样的竖琴，”他认同，“您看到他了？”
　　她点头，“一个女人抱着婴儿躺在床上。我哥说那孩子是预言中的王子，替他取名伊耿。”
　　“伊耿王子是雷加和多恩的伊莉亚之子，当年的王太孙，”乔拉爵士道，“如果他是预言中的王子，那么当兰尼斯特家将他撞死在墙上时，预言也跟着粉碎。”
　　“我知道他的结局，”丹妮伤感地说，“他们同时害了雷加的女儿，小公主雷妮丝，她也照着伊耿的妹妹取的名。他说龙有三个头，独独缺了维桑尼亚。而且，冰与火之歌又是什么呢？”
　　“我没听过这首歌。”
　　“我向男巫们寻求答案，他们却给我一百个新问题。”
　　街上的人流又逐渐稠密。“让路，”阿戈喊，乔戈则狐疑地嗅着空气。“我闻到了，卡丽熙，”他大声宣布，“毒水。”多斯拉克人不信任海洋和一切与海有关的事物，在他们眼中，只要马不能喝的水就是不洁的东西。他们会明白的，丹妮相信，我曾经勇敢地面对卓戈卡奥和他们的海洋，现在轮到他们面对我的海了。
　　魁尔斯是世上最大的港口之一，在巨大的天棚遮盖下，码头色彩缤纷、人声鼎沸、百味杂陈。酒馆，仓库和赌场沿街林立，与廉价妓院和敬拜各种奇异神祗的殿庙紧紧相连。小偷、流氓、符咒商人和钱币贩子无所不在。码头区就是个大市场，不分昼夜都在买卖，只要你不过问货源，相同的物品在这里只需市价的零头就能搞到。枯瘦的老妇像骆驼一样弓身，售卖绑在肩头那一个个光滑陶罐里的山羊奶和有味道的水。来自数十国度的水手在店铺之间游荡，一边喝着香料酒，一边用奇特的口音互相打趣。空气中不仅有盐和炸鱼的香味，还有滚烫沥青和蜂蜜的味道，甚至包含熏香、油料和鲸油的气味。
　　阿戈拿一块铜板跟一个小童买了一串蜂蜜烤鼠肉，边骑边咬着吃。乔戈弄来一大把肥美的白樱桃。一路上，他们还看到售卖漂亮的青铜匕首、墨鱼干、玛瑙雕饰以及一种浓烈的魔法药剂，据说由处女乳汁和夜影之水配成。市场里甚至还有龙蛋，不过看上去颇可疑，似乎是涂了颜料的岩石。
　　他们经过十三巨子专属的长长石码头，她看到一箱箱藏红花、乳香和胡椒正从札罗那艘华丽的“朱砂之吻号”上卸载下来。旁边另有人将一桶桶葡萄酒、一包包酸草叶和一捆捆斑马皮沿着跳板运进“蔚蓝新娘号”，这艘船今晚就要趁着潮水出航。前方，人们聚集在香料公会的划船“日耀号”周围竞买奴隶。众所周知，买奴隶要省钱就得到船边买。日耀号主桅杆上飘扬的旗帜表示她刚从奴隶湾的阿斯塔波城回来。
　　十三巨子、碧玺兄弟会和香料古公会都不会再帮助丹妮，于是她骑银马越过他们数里长的码头、船坞和仓库，一直走向马蹄形港口的末端，来自盛夏群岛、维斯特洛和九大自由贸易城邦的船被规定在那里停靠。
　　她在一个赌坑边下马，在一圈大呼小叫的水手中间，一头蛇蜥正将一条大红狗撕成碎片。“阿戈，乔戈，马儿就交给你们，我和乔拉爵士去找那些船长谈谈。”
　　“遵命，卡丽熙，请您放心。”
　　真想再听到人讲瓦雷利亚语……甚至通用语，丹妮一边想，一边走近第一艘船。水手、码头工和商人们纷纷给她让路，不知这位银金头发、身穿多斯拉克服饰、旁边还跟了一个骑士的纤瘦女孩是什么来头。尽管天气炎热，乔拉爵士还是穿着锁甲，外罩一件绿色羊毛衣，胸前缝着莫尔蒙家的黑熊。
　　但无论她的美貌还是他的强壮，对船主们都不起作用。
　　“你要我载一百个多斯拉克人、他们的马、你自己和这个骑士，再加三条龙？”大货船“挚友号”的船长说罢大笑着走开。当她在“喇叭手号”上告诉里斯人，自己是“风暴降生”丹妮莉丝，七大王国的女王时，对方作个鬼脸：“嘿嘿，我是泰温·兰尼斯特公爵，每晚拉的屎里都有黄金。”米尔划船“丝灵号”的货舱主管认为载龙出海太危险，一不小心就可能烧掉船上的索具。“法罗神之腹号”的主人愿意冒险载龙，却不愿搭多斯拉克人，“我不准这些亵渎神灵的野蛮人上船，决不可能。”姐妹船“水银号”和“灰狗号”的船长是两兄弟，似乎很同情丹妮的遭遇，还邀她进舱喝一杯青亭岛的红酒。他们殷勤的姿态一度让丹妮燃起希望，但最后开出的价码却远超她的财力，甚至连札罗也负担不起。“窄底号”和“黑李眼少女号”太小，不合要求，“杀手号”将航向玉海，“马诺罗总督号”则似乎难经风浪。
　　他们朝下一个码头走去时，乔拉爵士将手悄悄搭在她背心，“陛下，您被人跟踪了。不，别回头。”他领她缓缓走向一个卖黄铜器的摊位。“真是一件杰作，我的女王，”他随手举起一个大浅盘子，朗声宣布，“看哪，它在阳光下多么耀眼！”
　　铜盘被打磨得十分光亮，丹妮可以看清自己的脸……乔拉爵士将角度右挪，身后的情况便随之显现。“棕皮肤的胖子和拄拐杖的老人。你指哪一个？”
　　“他们俩都在跟踪您，”乔拉爵士说，“我们离开水银号之后，就被他们盯上了。”黄铜上的纹路将两个陌生人的影像怪异地扭曲，其中一人显得又长又瘦，男一个则极其壮实宽阔。“这是我最好的铜器，尊贵的夫人，”商人宣称，“它像太阳一般闪亮！作为致敬，我只收龙之母三十个辉币。”
　　这盘子三个辉币也不值。“侍卫何在？”丹妮扬言，“这人想抢劫我！”随后她压低声音用通用语对乔拉说，“也许他们对我并无恶意。自古以来，男人看女人，天经地义。”
　　铜器商不在乎她的悄悄话。“三十？我说三十？不好意思，脑袋犯糊涂呢。真正的价格是二十辉币。”
　　“你这摊子所有的东西加起来还不值二十辉币，”丹妮一边告诉老板，一边仔细观察。那老人像个维斯特洛人，而那棕肤胖子少说也有二十石重。这两个是长途跋涉为着篡夺者许诺的领主封号而来的杀手？还是男巫的傀儡，打算伺机偷袭？
　　“十个辉币！卡丽熙，您多么可爱，拿它去作镜子吧。只有如此精致的铜器，方能捕捉到您美丽的神韵。”
　　“拿它去作夜壶还差不多。扔在地上，我都懒得弯腰去拣，你还要我花钱？”丹妮将盘子塞回他手里，“准是有虫子爬进你的鼻孔，吃掉了你的脑子。”
　　“八个辉币，”他哀求，“我的太太们会揍我，叫我呆子，但在您面前，我就是个无助的孩子。好啦，八个辉币，我赔本卖给您。”
　　“我要这乏味的铜器做什么？札罗·赞旺·达梭斯连吃饭都给我提供金盘子。”丹妮转身离开，趁机用眼角余光扫视陌生人。棕肤的人就跟盘子里映出来的那么宽阔，秃头闪闪发光，脸颊光滑得像太监。一把极长的亚拉克弯刀插在沾染汗渍的黄肚兜里，除此而外，只穿了一件小得离谱的镶钉背心。在他如树干粗壮的手臂上，宽广的胸膛前，以及厚实的肚子间到处是横七竖八的旧伤疤，苍白的疤痕映着榛壳般的棕褐色皮肤，十分显眼。
　　另一个人穿着未经染色的羊毛旅行斗篷，兜帽掀起，长长的白发垂至肩头，如丝般的银白胡须盖住下半边脸。他将身体重心倚在一根和他一般高的硬木拐杖上。只有傻瓜才会在害人前如此明目张胆地盯着被害者看。然而谨慎起见，还是回到乔戈和阿戈身边去比较保险。“老人没武器，”她领乔拉走开，一边用通用语对他说。
　　铜器商急急忙忙追上来，“五个辉币，五个辉币它就是您的！机会难得啊，错过了可惜！”
　　乔拉道：“硬木杖和钉头锤一样致命。”
　　“四个！我知道您中意它！”他在他们跟前手舞足蹈，一边将盘子凑上来，一边随着他们往后退。
　　“他们还在跟？”
　　“举高一点，”骑士告诉商人。“是的，老人假装关注陶器摊子的东西，而棕肤的家伙目不转睛地盯着您。”
　　“两个辉币！两个！两个！”商人倒退着跑，气喘吁吁。
　　“好啦，别让他累死，付钱吧，”丹妮告诉乔拉爵士，一边疑惑该拿这巨大的黄铜盘子怎么办。趁骑士和商人交涉，她扭头过去，打算终止闹剧。真龙血脉岂能被一个老头和一个胖太监在市场里追得团团转！
　　一个魁尔斯人挡在面前。“龙之母，给您的礼物，”他单膝跪下，呈上一个珠宝盒。
　　丹妮下意识地接过来。这是一个精雕的木盒，祖母绿的顶盖嵌着碧玉和玉髓。“你太客气了。”她将它打开，里面有一只闪闪发光的绿甲虫，由玛瑙和翡翠雕刻而成。真漂亮，她心想，正好可以帮我们支付旅费。她把手伸进盒子，那人轻声说：“我很遗憾，”她几乎没听见。
　　甲虫嘶叫着展开身躯。
　　丹妮瞥到一张恶毒的黑脸，像是人脸，带有一条滴毒液的弯曲尾巴……说时迟那时快，盒子从她手中翻飞而出，在空中化为碎片。一阵剧痛令她手指抽搐。她大叫出声，捏住自己的手，铜器商同时尖叫，一个女人也在尖叫，顷刻之间，所有的魁尔斯人都在一边尖叫一边互相推攘。乔拉爵士挤到她前面，丹妮则踉跄着跪下。嘶嘶声再度传来。那个老人将拐杖在地上杵了杵。这时，只见阿戈飞马踏过鸡蛋商的店铺，一跃而前，乔戈的鞭子劈啪作响，乔拉爵士则拿起刚买的盘子朝跟踪她的太监当头砸下。在场的水手、妓女和商人都在狂呼乱叫，没命逃窜……
　　“陛下，万分抱歉。”老人单膝跪下。“它已经死了。我没伤到您的手吧？”
　　她合拢手指，动了动，“我想没有。”
　　“刚才事情紧急……”他话还没说完，她的血盟卫便扑上来。阿戈踢开拐杖，乔戈抱住老人肩膀，不让他起身，并用匕首抵上他的咽喉。“卡丽熙，我们看见他攻击您，要不要看看他血的颜色？”
　　“放开他。”丹妮站起身，“看看他拐杖底下，吾血之血。”乔拉爵士被那太监摔了出去，接着亚拉克弯刀和长剑“唰”地一声同时出鞘，她赶紧奔到他们之间。“放下武器！住手！”
　　“陛下？”莫尔蒙仅将剑尖放低一寸，“这两人意图不轨。”
　　“他们在保护我。”丹妮使劲甩手，以去掉指头的刺痛感，“对我不利的是个魁尔斯人。”她环顾四周，那人已不见踪影。“他是个遗憾客，给了我一个装蝎尾兽的珠宝盒。正是这位老人将它从我手中打落。”铜器商还在地上打滚，她走过去把他扶起来。“你被蛰到了吗？”
　　“没有，好心的夫人，”他颤抖着说，“否则我早没命了。但它碰到了我，哎哎哎，它从盒子里摔出来，正好落到我手上。”难怪，他尿了裤子。
　　她给他一个银币算是补偿，打发他离开，然后转身面对白胡老人，“我欠你一条命。”
　　“您什么也不欠我，女王陛下。我本名阿斯坦，来此的航海途中，贝沃斯为我起了个绰号叫白胡子。”虽然乔戈已经放手，但老人仍保持跪姿。阿戈拣起拐杖，翻过来，忍不住用多斯拉克语轻声咒骂。他把蝎尾兽的尸体在石头上刮掉，递回给老人。“谁是贝沃斯？”她问。
　　高大的棕肤太监把亚拉克弯刀收好，昂首阔步地走上前。“我就是。在弥林的斗技场，大家叫我‘壮汉’贝沃斯，因为我从没输过。”他拍拍布满伤疤的肚子。“我杀人之前，都会给对方一次机会，先砍我一下。算一算，你就知道‘壮汉’贝沃斯杀了多少人。”
　　丹妮无需去数，她早已瞥见伤疤有多少。“你何故来此，‘壮汉’贝沃斯？”
　　“我从弥林被卖到科霍尔，接着又被卖给潘托斯那个头发里有香味的胖子。他派‘壮汉’贝沃斯渡海过来，并让白胡子服侍他。”
　　头发里有香味的胖子……“伊利里欧？”她猜测，“伊利里欧总督派你们来的？”“是，陛下，”白胡老人回答。“不克亲至，总督特请恕罪。他年纪已经不轻，骑不上马，航海旅行又会晕船。”先前他用的是自由贸易城邦的瓦雷利亚方言，如今换为通用语。“如若惊扰，咱俩深切致歉。实话实说，起初我和他都不大确定，本以为您会更有……更有……”
　　“王家风范？”丹妮笑出声来。她没带龙，衣着更和女王的打扮有天壤之别。“你的通用语说得很好，阿斯坦，你是维斯特洛人吗？”
　　“是，陛下，我出生于多恩边疆地，年轻时作过史文家族中一名骑士的侍从。”他将手杖高高举起，活像一杆没有旗帜的长熗，“如今我是贝沃斯的侍从。”
　　“当侍从，你不觉得自己老了点吗？”乔拉爵士挤到丹妮身边，黄铜盘子别扭地夹在掖下——贝沃斯的铁头让它扭曲得厉害。
　　“为我的主人效力还不算老，莫尔蒙大人。”
　　“你认识我？”
　　“我见识过你的身手。在兰尼斯港，你差点把弑君者打下马；在派克岛，你英勇作战。这些事，你都不记得了罢，莫尔蒙伯爵？”
　　乔拉爵士皱起眉头。“你看起来很面熟，但兰尼斯港的比武大会有数百人参加，攻打派克更出动了数千名骑士，我想不起你是谁。不过提醒你，我已经不是伯爵，熊岛另属他人，我只是个流浪骑士。”
　　“你是女王铁卫的首席骑士，”丹妮挽起他的手臂，“我忠实的朋友和优秀的顾问。”她仔细端详阿斯坦的脸。他有一股强烈的威严，一种她倾慕的沉静力量。“起来，白胡子阿斯坦。也欢迎你，壮汉贝沃斯。你们已经认识了乔拉爵士，这两位是阿戈寇和乔戈寇，我的血盟卫。他们跟随我穿越红色荒原，也亲眼目睹龙的诞生。”
　　“马族小子，”贝沃斯露齿而笑，“贝沃斯在斗技场杀过许多马族小子。他们死的时候铃铛作响。”
　　阿戈立刻拔刀。“我还没杀过棕色的胖子，贝沃斯将是头一个。”
　　“收起武器，吾血之血，”丹妮道，“此人前来为我效力。贝沃斯，你必须完全尊重我的子民，否则你的服务将很快结束，那时候你身上的伤疤将比现在更多。”
　　露齿的笑从巨人那张宽阔的棕脸上消失，取而代之的是疑惑的怒容。看来少有人威胁贝沃斯，别说是个头只有他三分之一的女孩。
　　丹妮给他一个微笑，以减轻责怪带来的伤害。“告诉我，伊利里欧总督派你们大老远从潘托斯赶来，所为何事？”
　　“他要龙，”贝沃斯大咧咧地说，“还要那个生龙的女孩。他要你。”
　　“贝沃斯说的是实话，陛下，”阿斯坦说。“我们奉命找到您，并把您带回潘托斯。七大王国正需要您，篡夺者劳勃已死，国家血流成河。当我们从潘托斯出航时，那片土地已有了四个国王，并且个个都不正义。”
　　丹妮心花怒放，脸上却不动声色。“我有三头龙，”她说，“还有超过一百人的卡拉萨，以及他们所有的财物和马匹。”
　　“没问题，”贝沃斯瓮声瓮气地说，“我们照单全收。那个潘托斯胖子为他的银发小女王雇了三条船。”
　　“正是，陛下，”白胡子阿斯坦说，“大商船‘赛杜里昂号’泊于码头末端，划船‘夏日之阳号’和‘戏谑约索号’则在防洪堤外下锚。”
　　龙有三个头，丹妮思量。“我将告知子民，立刻作好出发准备，但载我回家的船必须改名。”
　　“如您所愿，”阿斯坦说，“您喜欢什么名字？”
　　“瓦格哈尔，”丹妮莉丝告诉他，“米拉西斯，贝勒里恩。用金漆把字涂上船壳，至少三尺高。阿斯坦，我要每个看到她们的人都知道：真龙回来了！”
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你看着眼前的人，分明还是以前的模样，可心里终究不是以前那般澄清透明了。
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Chapter 62

　　CHAPTER 62
　　DAENERYS
　　She was breaking her fast on a bowl of cold shrimp-and-persimmon soup when Irri brought her a Qartheen gown, an airy confection of ivory samite patterned with seed pearls. “Take it away,” Dany said. “The docks are no place for lady’s finery.”
　　If the Milk Men thought her such a savage, she would dress the part for them. When she went to the stables, she wore faded sandsilk pants and woven grass sandals. Her small breasts moved freely beneath a painted Dothraki vest, and a curved dagger hung from her medallion belt. Jhiqui had braided her hair Dothraki fashion, and fastened a silver bell to the end of the braid. “I have won no victories,” she tried telling her handmaid when the bell tinkled softly.
　　Jhiqui disagreed. “You burned the maegi in their house of dust and sent their souls to hell.”
　　That was Drogon’s victory, not mine, Dany wanted to say, but she held her tongue. The Dothraki would esteem her all the more for a few bells in her hair. She chimed as she mounted her silver mare, and again with every stride, but neither Ser Jorah nor her bloodriders made mention of it. To guard her people and her dragons in her absence, she chose Rakharo. Jhogo and Aggo would ride with her to the waterfront.
　　They left the marble palaces and fragrant gardens behind and made their way through a poorer part of the city where modest brick houses turned blind walls to the street. There were fewer horses and camels to be seen, and a dearth of palanquins, but the streets teemed with children, beggars, and skinny dogs the color of sand. Pale men in dusty linen skirts stood beneath arched doorways to watch them pass. They know who I am, and they do not love me. Dany could tell from the way they looked at her.
　　Ser Jorah would sooner have tucked her inside her palanquin, safely hidden behind silken curtains, but she refused him. She had reclined too long on satin cushions, letting oxen bear her hither and yon. At least when she rode she felt as though she was getting somewhere.
　　It was not by choice that she sought the waterfront. She was fleeing again. Her whole life had been one long flight, it seemed. She had begun running in her mother’s womb, and never once stopped. How often had she and Viserys stolen away in the black of night, a bare step ahead of the Usurper’s hired knives? But it was run or die. Xaro had learned that Pyat Pree was gathering the surviving warlocks together to work ill on her.
　　Dany had laughed when he told her. “Was it not you who told me warlocks were no more than old soldiers, vainly boasting of forgotten deeds and lost prowess?”
　　Xaro looked troubled. “And so it was, then. But now? I am less certain. It is said that the glass candles are burning in the house of Urrathon Night-Walker, that have not burned in a hundred years. Ghost grass grows in the Garden of Gehane, phantom tortoises have been seen carrying messages between the windowless houses on Warlock’s Way, and all the rats in the city are chewing off their tails. The wife of Mathos Mallarawan, who once mocked a warlock’s drab moth-eaten robe, has gone mad and will wear no clothes at all. Even fresh-washed silks make her feel as though a thousand insects were crawling on her skin. And Blind Sybassion the Eater of Eyes can see again, or so his slaves do swear. A man must wonder.” He sighed. “These are strange times in Qarth. And strange times are bad for trade. It grieves me to say so, yet it might be best if you left Qarth entirely, and sooner rather than later.” Xaro stroked her fingers reassuringly. “You need not go alone, though. You have seen dark visions in the Palace of Dust, but Xaro has dreamed brighter dreams. I see you happily abed, with our child at your breast. Sail with me around the jade Sea, and we can yet make it so! It is not too late. Give me a son, my sweet song of joy!”
　　Give you a dragon, you mean. “I will not wed you, Xaro.”
　　His face had grown cold at that. “Then go.”
　　“But where?”
　　“Somewhere far from here.”
　　Well, perhaps it was time. The people of her khalasar had welcomed the chance to recover from the ravages of the red waste, but now that they were plump and rested once again, they began to grow unruly. Dothraki were not accustomed to staying long in one place. They were a warrior people, not made for cities. Perhaps she had lingered in Qarth too long, seduced by its comforts and its beauties. It was a city that always promised more than it would give you, it seemed to her, and her welcome here had turned sour since the House of the Undying had collapsed in a great gout of smoke and flame. Overnight the Qartheen had come to remember that dragons were dangerous. No longer did they vie with each other to give her gifts. Instead the Tourmaline Brotherhood had called openly for her expulsion, and the Ancient Guild of Spicers for her death. It was all Xaro could do to keep the Thirteen from joining them.
　　But where am I to go? Ser Jorah proposed that they journey farther east, away from her enemies in the Seven Kingdoms. Her bloodriders would sooner have returned to their great grass sea, even if it meant braving the red waste again. Dany herself had toyed with the idea of settling in Vaes Tolorro until her dragons grew great and strong. But her heart was full of doubts. Each of these felt wrong, somehow . . . and even when she decided where to go, the question of how she would get there remained troublesome.
　　Xaro Xhoan Daxos would be no help to her, she knew that now. For all his professions of devotion, he was playing his own game, not unlike Pyat Pree. The night he asked her to leave, Dany had begged one last favor of him. “An army, is it?” Xaro asked. “A kettle of gold? A galley, perhaps?” Dany blushed. She hated begging. “A ship, yes.”
　　Xaro’s eyes had glittered as brightly as the jewels in his nose. “I am a trader, Khaleesi. So perhaps we should speak no more of giving, but rather of trade. For one of your dragons, you shall have ten of the finest ships in my fleet. You need only say that one sweet word.” “No,” she said.
　　“Alas,” Xaro sobbed, “that was not the word I meant.”
　　“Would you ask a mother to sell one of her children?”
　　“Whyever not? They can always make more. Mothers sell their children every day.”
　　“Not the Mother of Dragons.”
　　“Not even for twenty ships?”
　　“Not for a hundred.”
　　His mouth curled downward. “I do not have a hundred. But you have three dragons. Grant me one, for all my kindnesses. You will still have two and thirty ships as well.”
　　Thirty ships would be enough to land a small army on the shore of Westeros. But I do not have a small army. “How many ships do you own, Xaro?”
　　“Eighty-three, if one does not count my pleasure barge.”
　　“And your colleagues in the Thirteen?”
　　“Among us all, perhaps a thousand.”
　　“And the Spicers and the Tourmaline Brotherhood?”
　　“Their trifling fleets are of no account.”
　　“Even so,” she said, “tell me.”
　　“Twelve or thirteen hundred for the Spicers. No more than eight hundred for the Brotherhood.”
　　“And the Asshai’i, the Braavosi, the Summer islanders, the Ibbenese, and all the other peoples who sail the great salt sea, how many ships do they have? All together?”
　　“Many and more,” he said irritably. “What does this matter?”
　　“I am trying to set a price on one of the three living dragons in the world.” Dany smiled at him sweetly. “it seems to me that one-third of all the ships in the world would be fair.”
　　Xaro’s tears ran down his cheeks on either side of his jewel-encrusted nose. “Did I not warn you not to enter the Palace of Dust? This is the very thing I feared. The whispers of the warlocks have made you as mad as Mallarawan’s wife. A third of all the ships in the world? Pah. Pah, I say. Pah.”
　　Dany had not seen him since. His seneschal brought her messages, each cooler than the last. She must quit his house. He was done feeding her and her people. He demanded the return of his gifts, which she had accepted in bad faith. Her only consolation was that at least she’d had the great good sense not to marry him.
　　The warlocks whispered of three treasons . . . once for blood and once for gold and once for love. The first traitor was surely Mirri Maz Duur, who had murdered Khal Drogo and their unborn son to avenge her people. Could Pyat Pree and Xaro Xhoan Daxos be the second and the third? She did not think so. What Pyat did was not for gold, and Xaro had never truly loved her.
　　The streets grew emptier as they passed through a district given over to gloomy stone warehouses. Aggo went before her and Jhogo behind, leaving Ser Jorah Mormont at her side. Her bell rang softly, and Dany found her thoughts returning to the Palace of Dust once more, as the tongue returns to a space left by a missing tooth. Child of three, they had called her, daughter of death, slayer of lies, bride of fire. So many threes. Three fires, three mounts to ride, three treasons. “The dragon has three heads,” she sighed. “Do you know what that means, Jorah?”
　　“Your Grace? The sigil of House Targaryen is a three-headed dragon, red on black.”
　　“I know that. But there are no three-headed dragons.”
　　“The three heads were Aegon and his sisters.”
　　“Visenya and Rhaenys,” she recalled. “I am descended from Aegon and Rhaenys through their son Aenys and their grandson Jaehaerys.”
　　“Blue lips speak only lies, isn’t that what Xaro told you? Why do you care what the warlocks whispered? All they wanted was to suck the life from you, you know that now.”
　　“Perhaps,” she said reluctantly. “Yet the things I saw . . .”
　　“A dead man in the prow of a ship, a blue rose, a banquet of blood . . . what does any of it mean, Khaleesi? A mummer’s dragon, you said. What is a mummer’s dragon, pray?”
　　“A cloth dragon on poles,” Dany explained. “Mummers use them in their follies, to give the heroes something to fight.”
　　Ser Jorah frowned.
　　Dany could not let it go. “His is the song of ice and fire, my brother said. I’m certain it was my brother. Not Viserys, Rhaegar. He had a harp with silver strings.”
　　Ser Jorah’s frown deepened until his eyebrows came together. “Prince Rhaegar played such a harp,” he conceded. “You saw him?”
　　She nodded. “There was a woman in a bed with a babe at her breast. My brother said the babe was the prince that was promised and told her to name him Aegon.”
　　“Prince Aegon was Rhaegar’s heir by Elia of Dorne,” Ser Jorah said. “But if he was this prince that was promised, the promise was broken along with his skull when the Lannisters dashed his head against a wall.”
　　“I remember,” Dany said sadly. “They murdered Rhaegar’s daughter as well, the little princess. Rhaenys, she was named, like Aegon’s sister. There was no Visenya, but he said the dragon has three heads. What is the song of ice and fire?”
　　“It’s no song I’ve ever heard.” “I went to the warlocks hoping for answers, but instead they’ve left me with a hundred new questions.”
　　By then there were people in the streets once more. “Make way,” Aggo shouted, while Jhogo sniffed at the air suspiciously. “I smell it, Khaleesi,” he called. “The poison water.” The Dothraki distrusted the sea and all that moved upon it. Water that a horse could not drink was water they wanted no part of. They will learn, Dany resolved. I braved their sea with Khal Drogo. Now they can brave mine.
　　Qarth was one of the world’s great ports, its great sheltered harbor a riot of color and clangor and strange smells. Winesinks, warehouses, and gaming dens lined the streets, cheek by jowl with cheap brothels and the temples of peculiar gods. Cutpurses, cutthroats, spellsellers, and moneychangers mingled with every crowd. The waterfront was one great marketplace where the buying and selling went on all day and all night, and goods might be had for a fraction of what they cost at the bazaar, if a man did not ask where they came from. Wizened old women bent like hunchbacks sold flavored waters and goat’s milk from glazed ceramic jugs strapped to their shoulders. Seamen from half a hundred nations wandered amongst the stalls, drinking spiced liquors and trading jokes in queer-sounding tongues. The air smelled of salt and frying fish, of hot tar and honey, of incense and oil and sperm.
　　Aggo gave an urchin a copper for a skewer of honey-roasted mice and nibbled them as he rode. Jhogo bought a handful of fat white cherries. Elsewhere they saw beautiful bronze daggers for sale, dried squids and carved onyx, a potent magical elixir made of virgin’s milk and shade of the evening, even dragon’s eggs which looked suspiciously like painted rocks.
　　As they passed the long stone quays reserved for the ships of the Thirteen, she saw chests of saffron, frankincense, and pepper being off-loaded from Xaro’s ornate Vermillion Kiss. Beside her, casks of wine, bales of sourleaf, and pallets of striped hides were being trundled up the gangplank onto the Bride in Azure, to sail on the evening tide. Farther along, a crowd had gathered around the Spicer galley Sunblaze to bid on slaves. It was well known that the cheapest place to buy a slave was right off the ship, and the banners floating from her masts proclaimed that the Sunblaze had just arrived from Astapor on Slaver’s Bay.
　　Dany would get no help from the Thirteen, the Tourmaline Brotherhood, or the Ancient Guild of Spicers. She rode her silver past several miles of their quays, docks, and storehouses, all the way out to the far end of the horseshoe-shaped harbor where the ships from the Summer islands, Westeros, and the Nine Free Cities were permitted to dock.
　　She dismounted beside a gaming pit where a basilisk was tearing a big red dog to pieces amidst a shouting ring of sailors. “Aggo, Jhogo, you will guard the horses while Ser Jorah and I speak to the captains.”
　　“As you say, Khaleesi. We will watch you as you go.”
　　It was good to hear men speaking Valyrian once more, and even the Common Tongue, Dany thought as they approached the first ship. Sailors, dockworkers, and merchants alike gave way before her, not knowing what to make of this slim young girl with silver-gold hair who dressed in the Dothraki fashion and walked with a knight at her side. Despite the heat of the day, Ser Jorah wore his green wool surcoat over chainmail, the black bear of Mormont sewn on his chest.
　　But neither her beauty nor his size and strength would serve with the men whose ships they needed.
　　“You require passage for a hundred Dothraki, all their horses, yourself and this knight, and three dragons?” said the captain of the great cog Ardent Friend before he walked away laughing. When she told a Lyseni on the Trumpeteer that she was Daenerys Stormborn, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, he gave her a deadface look and said, “Aye, and I’m Lord Tywin Lannister and shit gold every night.” The cargomaster of the Myrish galley Silken Spirit opined that dragons were too dangerous at sea, where any stray breath of flame might set the rigging afire. The owner of Lord Faro’s Belly would risk dragons, but not Dothraki. “I’ll have no such godless savages in my Belly, I’ll not.” The two brothers who captained the sister ships Quicksilver and Greyhound seemed sympathetic and invited them into the cabin for a glass of Arbor red. They were so courteous that Dany was hopeful for a time, but in the end the price they asked was far beyond her means, and might have been beyond Xaro’s. Pinchbottom Petto and Sloe-Eyed Maid were too small for her needs, Bravo was bound for the jade Sea, and Magister Manolo scarce looked seaworthy.
　　As they made their way toward the next quay, Ser Jorah laid a hand against the small of her back. “Your Grace. You are being followed. No, do not turn.” He guided her gently toward a brass-seller’s booth. “This is a noble work, my queen,” he proclaimed loudly, lifting a large platter for her inspection. “See how it shines in the sun?”
　　The brass was polished to a high sheen. Dany could see her face in it . . . and when Ser Jorah angled it to the right, she could see behind her. “I see a fat brown man and an older man with a staff. Which is it?”
　　“Both of them,” Ser Jorah said. “They have been following us since we left Quicksilver.”
　　The ripples in the brass stretched the strangers queerly, making one man seem long and gaunt, the other immensely squat and broad. “A most excellent brass, great lady,” the merchant exclaimed. “Bright as the sun! And for the Mother of Dragons, only thirty honors.”
　　The platter was worth no more than three. “Where are my guards?” Dany declared. “This man is trying to rob me!” For Jorah, she lowered her voice and spoke in the Common Tongue. “They may not mean me ill. Men have looked at women since time began, perhaps it is no more than that.”
　　The brass-seller ignored their whispers. “Thirty? Did I say thirty? Such a fool I am. The price is twenty honors.”
　　“All the brass in this booth is not worth twenty honors,” Dany told him as she studied the reflections. The old man had the look of Westeros about him, and the brown-skinned one must weigh twenty stone. The Usurper offered a lordship to the man who kills me, and these two are far from home. Or could they be creatures of the warlocks, meant to take me unawares?
　　“Ten, Khaleesi, because you are so lovely. Use it for a looking glass. Only brass this fine could capture such beauty.”
　　“It might serve to carry nightsoil. If you threw it away, I might pick it up, so long as I did not need to stoop. But pay for it?” Dany shoved the platter back into his hands. “Worms have crawled up your nose and eaten your wits.”
　　“Eight honors,” he cried. “My wives will beat me and call me fool, but I am a helpless child in your hands. Come, eight, that is less than it is worth.” “What do I need with dull brass when Xaro Xhoan Daxos feeds me off plates of gold?” As she turned to walk off, Dany let her glance sweep over the strangers. The brown man was near as wide as he’d looked in the platter, with a gleaming bald head and the smooth cheeks of a eunuch. A long curving arakh was thrust through the sweat-stained yellow silk of his bellyband. Above the silk, he was naked but for an absurdly tiny iron-studded vest. Old scars crisscrossed his tree-trunk arms, huge chest, and massive belly, pale against his nut-brown skin.
　　The other man wore a traveler’s cloak of undyed wool, the hood thrown back. Long white hair fell to his shoulders, and a silky white beard covered the lower half of his face. He leaned his weight on a hardwood staff as tall as he was. Only fools would stare so openly if they meant me harm. All the same, it might be prudent to head back toward Jhogo and Aggo. “The old man does not wear a sword,” she said to Jorah in the Common Tongue as she drew him away.
　　The brass merchant came hopping after them. “Five honors, for five it is yours, it was meant for you.”
　　Ser Jorah said, “A hardwood staff can crack a skull as well as any mace.”
　　“Four! I know you want it!” He danced in front of them, scampering backward as he thrust the platter at their faces.
　　“Do they follow?”
　　“Lift that up a little higher,” the knight told the merchant. “Yes. The old man pretends to linger at a potter’s stall, but the brown one has eyes only for you.”
　　“Two honors! Two! Two!” The merchant was panting heavily from the effort of running backward.
　　“Pay him before he kills himself,” Dany told Ser Jorah, wondering what she was going to do with a huge brass platter. She turned back as he reached for his coins, intending to put an end to this mummer’s farce. The blood of the dragon would not be herded through the bazaar by an old man and a fat eunuch.
　　A Qartheen stepped into her path. “Mother of Dragons, for you.” He knelt and thrust a jewel box into her face.
　　Dany took it almost by reflex. The box was carved wood, its mother-of-pearl lid inlaid with jasper and chalcedony. “You are too generous.” She opened it. Within was a glittering green scarab carved from onyx and emerald. Beautiful, she thought. This will help pay for our passage. As she reached inside the box, the man said, “I am so sorry,” but she hardly heard.
　　The scarab unfolded with a hiss.
　　Dany caught a glimpse of a malign black face, almost human, and an arched tail dripping venom . . . and then the box flew from her hand in pieces, turning end over end. Sudden pain twisted her fingers. As she cried out and clutched her hand, the brass merchant let out a shriek, a woman screamed, and suddenly the Qartheen were shouting and pushing each other aside. Ser Jorah slammed past her, and Dany stumbled to one knee. She heard the hiss again. The old man drove the butt of his staff into the ground, Aggo came riding through an eggseller’s stall and vaulted from his saddle, Jhogo’s whip cracked overhead, Ser Jorah slammed the eunuch over the head with the brass platter, sailors and whores and merchants were fleeing or shouting or both . . .
　　“Your Grace, a thousand pardons.” The old man knelt. “It’s dead. Did I break your hand?”
　　She closed her fingers, wincing. “I don’t think so.”
　　“I had to knock it away,” he started, but her bloodriders were on him before he could finish. Aggo kicked his staff away and Jhogo seized him round the shoulders, forced him to his knees, and pressed a dagger to his throat. “Khaleesi, we saw him strike you. Would you see the color of his blood?”
　　“Release him.” Dany climbed to her feet. “Look at the bottom of his staff, blood of my blood.” Ser Jorah had been shoved off his feet by the eunuch. She ran between them as arakh and longsword both came flashing from their sheaths. “Put down your steel! Stop it!”
　　“Your Grace?” Mormont lowered his sword only an inch. “These men attacked you.”
　　“They were defending me.” Dany snapped her hand to shake the sting from her fingers. “It was the other one, the Qartheen.” When she looked around he was gone. “He was a Sorrowful Man. There was a manticore in that jewel box he gave me. This man knocked it out of my hand.” The brass merchant was still rolling on the ground. She went to him and helped him to his feet. “Were you stung?”
　　“No, good lady,” he said, shaking, “or else I would be dead. But it touched me, aieeee, when it fell from the box it landed on my arm.” He had soiled himself, she saw, and no wonder.
　　She gave him a silver for his trouble and sent him on his way before she turned back to the old man with the white beard. “Who is it that I owe my life to?”
　　“You owe me nothing, Your Grace. I am called Arstan, though Belwas named me Whitebeard on the voyage here.” Though Jhogo had released him the old man remained on one knee. Aggo picked up his staff, turned it over, cursed softly in Dothraki, scraped the remains of the manticore off on a stone, and handed it back.
　　“And who is Belwas?” she asked.
　　The huge brown eunuch swaggered forward, sheathing his arakh. “I am Belwas. Strong Belwas they name me in the fighting pits of Meereen. Never did I lose.” He slapped his belly, covered with scars. “I let each man cut me once, before I kill him. Count the cuts and you will know how many Strong Belwas has slain.”
　　Dany had no need to count his scars; there were many, she could see at a glance. “And why are you here, Strong Belwas?”
　　“From Meereen I am sold to Qohor, and then to Pentos and the fat man with sweet stink in his hair. He it was who send Strong Belwas back across the sea, and old Whitebeard to serve him.”
　　The fat man with sweet stink in his hair “Illyrio?” she said.
　　“You were sent by Magister Illyrio?”
　　“We were, Your Grace,” old Whitebeard replied. “The Magister begs your kind indulgence for sending us in his stead, but he cannot sit a horse as he did in his youth, and sea travel upsets his digestion.” Earlier he had spoken in the Valyrian of the Free Cities, but now he changed to the Common Tongue. “I regret if we caused you alarm. If truth be told, we were not certain, we expected someone more . . . more . . .” “Regal?” Dany laughed. She had no dragon with her, and her raiment was hardly queenly. “You speak the Common Tongue well, Arstan. Are you of Westeros?”
　　“I am. I was born on the Dornish Marches, Your Grace. As a boy I squired for a knight of Lord Swann’s household.” He held the tall staff upright beside him like a lance in need of a banner. “Now I squire for Belwas.”
　　“A bit old for such, aren’t you?” Ser Jorah had shouldered his way to her side, holding the brass platter awkwardly under his arm. Belwas’s hard head had left it badly bent.
　　“Not too old to serve my liege, Lord Mormont.”
　　“You know me as well?”
　　“I saw you fight a time or two. At Lannisport where you near unhorsed the Kingslayer. And on Pyke, there as well. You do not recall, Lord Mormont?”
　　Ser Jorah frowned. “Your face seems familiar, but there were hundreds at Lannisport and thousands on Pyke. And I am no lord. Bear Island was taken from me. I am but a knight.”
　　“A knight of my Queensguard.” Dany took his arm. “And my true friend and good counselor.” She studied Arstan’s face. He had a great dignity to him, a quiet strength she liked. “Rise, Arstan Whitebeard. Be welcome, Strong Belwas. Ser Jorah you know. Ko Aggo and Ko Jhogo are blood of my blood. They crossed the red waste with me, and saw my dragons born.”
　　“Horse boys.” Belwas grinned toothily. “Belwas has killed many horse boys in the fighting pits. They jingle when they die.”
　　Aggo’s arakh leapt to his hand. “Never have I killed a fat brown man. Belwas will be the first.”
　　“Sheath your steel, blood of my blood,” said Dany, “this man comes to serve me. Belwas, you will accord all respect to my people, or you will leave my service sooner than you’d wish, and with more scars than when you came.”
　　The gap-toothed smile faded from the giant’s broad brown face, replaced by a confused scowl. Men did not often threaten Belwas, it would seem, and less so girls a third his size.
　　Dany gave him a smile, to take a bit of the sting from the rebuke. “Now tell me, what would Magister Illyrio have of me, that he would send you all the way from Pentos?”
　　“He would have dragons,” said Belwas gruffly, “and the girl who makes them. He would have you.”
　　“Belwas has the truth of us, Your Grace,” said Arstan. “We were told to find you and bring you back to Pentos. The Seven Kingdoms have need of you. Robert the Usurper is dead, and the realm bleeds. When we set sail from Pentos there were four kings in the land, and no justice to be had.” joy bloomed in her heart, but Dany kept it from her face. “I have three dragons,” she said, “and more than a hundred in my khalasar, with all their goods and horses.”
　　“it is no matter,” boomed Belwas. “We take all. The fat man hires three ships for his little silverhair queen.”
　　“it is so, Your Grace,” Arstan Whitebeard said. “The great cog Saduleon is berthed at the end of the quay, and the galleys Summer Sun and foso’s Prank are anchored beyond the breakwater.”
　　Three heads has the dragon, Dany thought, wondering. “I shall tell my people to make ready to depart at once. But the ships that bring me home must bear different names.”
　　“As you wish,” said Arstan. “What names would you prefer?”
　　“Vhagar,” Daenerys told him. “Meraxes. And Balerion. Paint the names on their hulls in golden letters three feet high, Arstan. I want every man who sees them to know the dragons are returned.”



Ⅱ 列王的纷争 Chapter63 珊莎
　　蓝赛尔·兰尼斯特爵士将战斗失败的消息禀报太后，她懒洋洋地转着手里的空酒杯，“去对我弟弟说，爵士。”她声音漠然，浑如事不关己。
　　“您弟弟很可能死了。”蓝赛尔爵士手臂受伤，外衣浸满渗出的血。他进入舞厅时，许多宾客吓得惊声尖叫。“据我们推测，船桥解体时，他和曼登爵士都在上面。没人找得到猎狗。天杀的！瑟曦，你为什么让他们把乔佛里带回城堡？国王一走，军心顿时涣散，成百上千的金袍卫士扔下长矛逃跑。黑水河已被船骸、火焰和浮尸封堵，我们本可守住，如果——”
　　奥斯尼·凯特布莱克从他身边挤过来。“目前河的两岸都在厮杀，陛下。史坦尼斯的大营似乎起了内讧，没人说得准是怎么回事，一片混乱。猎狗不见了，到处都找不到，巴隆爵士撤回城里。河滨被敌人占领，他们重拾攻城锤，继续撞击国王门。蓝赛尔爵士说得没错，您的人纷纷弃守城墙，格杀长官。暴民蜂拥而至，企图打开钢铁门和诸神门，跳蚤窝更是乱成一团糟。”
　　诸神保佑，珊莎心想，我的祈祷终于成真。乔佛里就快人头落地……而我也会。她慌忙搜寻伊林爵士，但国王的刽子手不见了。我可以感觉到他。他就在附近，我逃不掉，他会砍下我的脑袋。
　　太后异常冷静，她转向奥斯佛利，“升起吊桥，关上大门。未经我允许，谁也不准出入梅葛楼。”
　　“去祈祷的那些女人怎么办？”
　　“她们选择离开我的保护，就让她们去祈祷，或许诸神会保护她们。我儿子呢？”
　　“陛下在红堡城门楼上指挥十字弓兵。门外有暴民叫城，其中半数是他离开烂泥门时扔下的金袍卫士。”
　　“马上把他带进梅葛楼。”
　　“不行！”蓝赛尔恼怒得忘了压低音量。众人听见喊叫都转过头来，“烂泥门的一幕又会重演。让他留在那儿，他是国王——”
　　“他是我儿子。”瑟曦·兰尼斯特站起来。“堂弟，你也号称是兰尼斯特家的人，用行动来证明吧。奥斯佛利，愣在这儿干嘛？我叫你马上出发。”
　　奥斯佛利·凯特布莱克赶紧跟兄弟一起跑出大厅。许多宾客也逃出去。女人们有的哭泣，有的祈祷，有的只是留在桌边，招呼拿酒。“瑟曦，”蓝赛尔爵士恳求，“你应该很清楚，城堡一旦失守，乔佛里性命难保。让他留在那儿，我不会让他离开我身边，我发誓——”
　　“滚。”瑟曦一掌拍在他的伤口上。蓝赛尔爵士痛苦地叫了一声，险些晕厥，太后则扬长而去，甚至瞥都没瞥珊莎一眼。她忘了我。伊林爵士会杀死我，她却一点都不在意。
　　“噢，诸神在上，”一位老太太号哭起来，“我们失败了，战斗失败了，她也逃跑了。”几个小孩跟着哭。他们嗅到了恐惧。珊莎发现自己独坐高台。该留在这里，还是去追赶太后，乞求饶命呢？
　　她不知自己为何要站起来，但就是站了起来。“别怕，”她大声宣布，“太后陛下升起了吊桥，这里已是全城最安全的地方。有壕沟高墙的保护，护城河里还有尖刺……”
　　“到底发生了什么？”一个略为熟识的女人问，她是某个小领主的妻子。“奥斯尼跟她说了些什么？国王受伤了吗？城市陷落了吗？”
　　“告诉我们实情，”众人纷纷要求。一个女人问起父亲，另一个则询问儿子。
　　珊莎举手示意安静。“乔佛里回到了城堡，毫发无伤。据我所知，战斗仍在继续，我军打得很英勇，而太后很快会回来。”最后一句是谎话，但她必须安抚大家。她看见两个弄臣站在楼座下，“月童，让大家欢笑起来吧。”
　　于是月童一个筋斗翻上桌，抓起四只酒杯，开始玩杂耍，不时被杯子砸中脑袋。惶恐而零星的笑声在厅里回荡。珊莎走向蓝赛尔爵士，跪在他身边。太后打在他的伤口上，而今血流不止。“真是疯了，”他喘着粗气，“诸神在上，小恶魔才是对的，他总是对的……”
　　“帮帮他，”珊莎命令两个仆人。其中一个看了她一眼，便带着酒壶逃跑了，其他仆人跟着他溜出大厅，她无能为力。珊莎和另一个仆人合力扶起受伤的骑士，“带他去法兰肯学士那儿。”蓝赛尔是他们中的一员，但她就是不忍心看他死掉。乔佛里说得没错，我是个软弱的蠢女孩。我该杀死他，而不是帮他。
　　火炬越烧越短，一两支已经泯灭，大家也懒得去换。瑟曦始终没有回来。唐托斯爵士趁大家注意力都在另一个弄臣身上，偷偷爬上高台。“亲爱的琼琪，回房间去，”他轻声道。“把门锁好，待在里面比较安全。战斗结束后我会来找你。”
　　有人会来找我，珊莎心想，是你，还是伊林爵士？片刻之间，她发疯似地想乞求唐托斯过来保护自己。他曾经也是骑士，学过剑练过武，并发誓保护弱者。不行，他没有勇气和技艺，我只会连累他一起被杀。
　　她很想飞奔出门，但还是用尽全副心力控制住自己，缓缓走出太后的舞厅。一到楼梯口，她就真的跑起来了，向上跑过重重阶梯，直到最后气喘吁吁，头晕眼花。有个卫兵在楼梯上跟她撞个满怀，包裹东西的红袍里掉出一只镶珠宝的酒杯和一对银烛台，一路“噔噔”滚下楼梯。当他断定珊莎不打算抢他的战利品后，便对她不闻不问，急急忙忙去追东西了。
　　卧房黑如沥青，珊莎将门闩好，摸黑走到窗边。掀开窗帘，她的呼吸哽住了。
　　南方的天空映着下方熊熊大火，不断变换鲜明的颜色。诡异的绿潮在云层中流动，橙色的光亮在天际蔓延。或红或黄的普通火焰与碧绿翡翠的野火竞相攀比，此消彼长，孕育出无数转瞬即逝的影子。翠绿的黎明转眼化为暮色的黄昏。空气本身也有焦灼的味道，好似炖煳了的肉汤。余烬如群群流萤，在夜空中飞舞。
　　珊莎从窗边退开，回到安全的床上。睡吧，她告诉自己，醒来后便是新的一天。天空将会变蓝，战争将会结束，自有人来决定我的生死。“淑女，”她轻声呜咽，不知死后是否能与小狼重逢。
　　身后有东西在动，一只手从黑暗中猛然伸出，扣住她手腕。
　　珊莎张嘴欲喊，却被另一只手捂住，一阵窒息。手指粗糙多茧，黏黏地全是血。“小小鸟，我就知道你会来。”声音刺耳，带着醉意。
　　窗外，一束旋转的翡翠长熗射过星空，令房里充满耀眼的绿光。在这一刹那，她看到了他，绿黑身影，脸上的血污暗如沥青，眼睛在强光照射下如狗眼般闪烁。接着光线暗淡，他成了一团巨大的黑影，穿着污渍斑斑的白袍。
　　“你敢出声，我就杀了你，明白吗？”他放开她的嘴，这才让她缓过气来。床头柜上猎狗放了一壶酒，他长饮一口。“你不问问谁是赢家吗，小小鸟？”
　　“谁？”她吓得不敢不问。
　　猎狗哈哈大笑。“我只知道谁是输家。我。”
　　她从未见他醉得如此厉害。他刚才居然睡我床上！他想干嘛？“为什么？”
　　“我输了全部。”他被烧伤的半边脸上覆了一层干涸的血。“该死的侏儒，多年以前我就该宰了他。”
　　“他们说他死了。”
　　“死？不，去他妈的，我不要他死。”他丢开空酒壶。“我要他被烧个够。诸神有眼，烧他！但我是看不到了，我要走。”
　　“走？”她想挣脱，但他的手像钢铁一般。
　　“小小鸟就会照着别人念。不错，我要走。”
　　“你去哪里？”
　　“离开这里。离开火焰。我会从钢铁门出去，去北方，随便哪儿都好。”
　　“你出不去，”珊莎说，“太后封锁了梅葛楼，城市的门也都关上了。”
　　“关不住我。我有白袍。我有这个。”他拍拍剑柄圆球。“拦我就纳命来……除非他身上有火。”他苦涩地笑笑。
　　“那你到这儿来做什么？”
　　“小小鸟，记得吗？你答应要唱首歌给我听。”
　　她不明白他什么意思。此时此地，空中火焰盘旋，成百上千的人正在死去，她怎么能唱歌呢？“我不能唱，”她说，“放手，你吓到我了。”
　　“什么都能吓到你。看着我，你看着我！”
　　凝固的血覆盖了他脸上最可怕的伤疤，但他的眼睛瞪得老大、白得吓人、充满恐惧，烧伤的嘴角一次又一次地抽搐。珊沙可以闻得到他身上刺鼻的味道，混合了汗臭、酒臭、呕吐物的恶臭，其中最难以忍受的是呛人的血腥，血，血……
　　“我可以保护你，”暗哑的声音再度传来，“他们都怕我，再没有人敢欺负你，否则我就杀了他。”他将她拉近，片刻之间，她以为他要吻她。他太强壮，珊莎明白自己无法反抗，于是闭上眼睛，希望一切赶紧过去。但等了很久，什么也没发生。“还是不敢正眼看我，是吗？”她听见他说。他猛然扭转她的手臂，拖她到床边，推在床上。“我要听那首歌。你说你会唱一首佛罗理安与琼琪的歌。”他拔出匕首，抵向她喉咙。“唱，小小鸟，唱，否则我要了你的小命。”
　　她的喉咙因恐惧而干涸紧绷，她所知道的每一首歌都从脑海里消失。求求你，她想尖叫，我会当个乖女孩，请你不要杀我。她感觉到刀尖旋转，压进咽喉。当她就要闭上眼睛，听天由命时，忽然记起了那首歌，不是佛罗理安与琼琪的那首，但确实是一首歌。她的嗓音又尖又细，不断颤抖：
　　温柔的圣母，慈悲的源泉，
　　保佑您的儿子穿越鏖战，
　　止住流矢，抵挡刀剑，
　　让他们看见美好的明天。
　　温柔的圣母，妇人的希望，
　　帮助您的女儿不受苦难，
　　平息怒火，驯服狂乱，
　　教导我们彼此宽容相待。
　　她忘记了其他段落，声音也逐渐减弱。她好怕他会杀她。但过了一会儿，猎狗把刀从她咽喉移开，一句话也没有说。
　　她本能地伸手捧起他的双颊。屋里太暗，她看不见他的面容，但能感觉到黏稠的血，和一种湿湿的不是血的东西。“小小鸟，”他又说，声音粗糙刺耳，如同钢铁刮过岩石。然后他从床上站起来。珊莎听见衣服撕裂，接着是轻轻的脚步，渐行渐远。
　　良久，她爬下床来，孤身一人。他的袍子掉在地上，紧揉成一团，雪白的羊毛料被血与火所污染。窗外的天空已经暗下来，惟有丝丝绿影仍在群星间徘徊。凉风习习，吹得窗户“砰砰”作响。珊莎好冷。她抖开撕裂的白袍，裹住身子缩在地板，瑟瑟发抖。
　　她不知自己躺了多久，直到听见钟声从城市彼端传来。那是青铜的低沉轰鸣，一声比一声急促。珊莎正在纳闷，另一口钟也随即加入，接着是第三口……钟声响彻山丘和谷地，街道与塔楼，传遍君临的每一个角落。她撇开袍子，走到窗边。
　　黎明的第一丝曙光刚从东方显现，红堡的钟也响起来了，汇入自贝勒大圣堂七座水晶高塔上流泻出来的汹汹之音。她忆起劳勃国王驾崩时曾经敲过钟，但这次听起来不一样。这不是悲哀的丧钟，而是欢欣的乐章。她听见街上的人们也在喊叫。欢呼。
　　给她报信的是唐托斯爵士。他跌跌撞撞走进门，用松垮的胳膊抱起珊莎，胡乱地跳起舞来，一边语无伦次地呼喝。他的话，珊莎一个字也没听清。他跟昨天的猎狗一样醉得厉害，只是情绪充满欢悦。当他终于放下她时，她已头晕眼花，喘不过气。“怎么了？”她紧抓住一根床柱，“发生什么了？快告诉我！”
　　“结束了！结束了！结束了！城市得救了！史坦尼斯公爵战死了，史坦尼斯公爵逃跑了，没有人知道，没有人在乎。他的军队崩溃了，我们的危机解除了。杀的杀，逃的逃，投降的投降，是的！噢，明亮的旗帜啊！旗帜，琼琪，旗帜！您有酒吗？我们该为今天干一杯。是的！您知道吗？您安全了！”
　　“到底怎么回事！”珊莎用力摇他。
　　唐托斯爵士一边大笑，一边双脚轮换着跳，差点摔倒。“当河流还在燃烧时，他们穿过灰烬掩杀而来。河流啊，史坦尼斯正在渡河，却被从后袭击。噢，真想再当上骑士，参加这光荣的战役！据说他的人几乎没作抵抗，有的拔腿就跑，更多的屈膝投降，高呼蓝礼万岁！史坦尼斯听到会作何感想啊？我是听奥斯尼·凯特布莱克说的，他是听奥斯蒙爵士说的，现在巴隆爵士回来了，他的人也这么说，金袍子也这么说。我们得救了，亲爱的！他们沿着玫瑰大道，顺着河岸而来，穿越被史坦尼斯烧焦的土地，灰尘靴边飞扬，甲胄染成灰色，只有——噢！旗帜明亮，金色的玫瑰，金色的狮子，所有的一切，马尔布兰的燃烧之树，罗宛的金树，塔利的健步猎人，雷德温的葡萄，以及奥克赫特伯爵夫人的橡树之叶。所有的西方人，高庭和凯岩城的全部力量！泰温公爵坐镇北岸，指挥右翼，蓝道·塔利统领中军，梅斯·提利尔负责左路，但胜利的关键在于咱们的前锋。他们像长熗穿透南瓜一般击溃史坦尼斯的部队，个个都像咆哮的钢甲恶魔。您知道前锋由谁带领吗？您知道吗？您知道吗？您知道吗？”
　　“罗柏？”这样的期望太不切实际，但是……
　　“是蓝礼大人！蓝礼大人全身耀眼绿甲，金鹿角上闪耀火光！他手持长熗，勇不可挡！他一马当先，将古德·莫里根爵士挑落马下，随后又杀了十来个了不得的骑士。蓝礼，蓝礼，蓝礼万岁！噢！明亮的旗帜啊，亲爱的珊莎！噢！真想再当上骑士！”
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你看着眼前的人，分明还是以前的模样，可心里终究不是以前那般澄清透明了。
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Chapter 61

　　CHAPTER 61
　　TYRION
　　The slot in his helm limited Tyrion’s vision to what was before him, but when he turned his head he saw three galleys beached on the tourney grounds, and a fourth, larger than the others, standing well out into the river, firing barrels of burning pitch from a catapult.
　　“Wedge,” Tyrion commanded as his men streamed out of the sally port. They formed up in spearhead, with him at the point. Ser Mandon Moore took the place to his right, flames shimmering against the white enamel of his armor, his dead eyes shining passionlessly through his helm. He rode a coal-black horse barded all in white, with the pure white shield of the Kingsguard strapped to his arm. On the left, Tyrion was surprised to see Podrick Payne, a sword in his hand. “You’re too young,” he said at once. “Go back.”
　　“I’m your squire, my lord.”
　　Tyrion could spare no time for argument. “With me, then. Stay close.” He kicked his horse into motion.
　　They rode knee to knee, following the line of the looming walls. Joffrey’s standard streamed crimson and gold from Ser Mandon’s staff, stag and lion dancing hoof to paw. They went from a walk to a trot, wheeling wide around the base of the tower. Arrows darted from the city walls while stones spun and tumbled overhead, crashing down blindly onto earth and water, steel and flesh. Ahead loomed the King’s Gate and a surging mob of soldiers wrestling with a huge ram, a shaft of black oak with an iron head. Archers off the ships surrounded them, loosing their shafts at whatever defenders showed themselves on the gatehouse walls. “Lances,” Tyrion commanded. He sped to a canter.
　　The ground was sodden and slippery, equal parts mud and blood. His stallion stumbled over a corpse, his hooves sliding and churning the earth, and for an instant Tyrion feared his charge would end with him tumbling from the saddle before he even reached the foe, but somehow he and his horse both managed to keep their balance. Beneath the gate men were turning, hurriedly trying to brace for the shock. Tyrion lifted his axe and shouted, “King’s Landing!” Other voices took up the cry, and now the arrowhead flew, a long scream of steel and silk, pounding hooves and sharp blades kissed by fire.
　　Ser Mandon dropped the point of his lance at the last possible instant, and drove Joffrey’s banner through the chest of a man in a studded jerkin, lifting him full off his feet before the shaft snapped. Ahead of Tyrion was a knight whose surcoat showed a fox peering through a ring of flowers. Florent was his first thought, but helmless ran a close second. He smashed the man in the face with all the weight of axe and arm and charging horse, taking off half his head. The shock of impact numbed his shoulder. Shagga would laugh at me, he thought, riding on.
　　A spear thudded against his shield. Pod galloped beside him, slashing down at every foe they passed. Dimly, he heard cheers from the men on the walls. The battering ram crashed down into the mud, forgotten in an instant as its handlers fled or turned to fight. Tyrion rode down an archer, opened a spearman from shoulder to armpit, glanced a blow off a swordfish-crested helm. At the ram his big red reared but the black stallion leapt the obstacle smoothly and Ser Mandon flashed past him, death in snow-white silk. His sword sheared off limbs, cracked heads, broke shields asunder—though few enough of the enemy had made it across the river with shields intact.
　　Tyrion urged his mount over the ram. Their foes were fleeing. He moved his head right to left and back again, but saw no sign of Podrick Payne. An arrow clattered against his cheek, missing his eye slit by an inch. His jolt of fear almost unhorsed him. If I’m to sit here like a stump, I had as well paint a target on my breastplate.
　　He spurred his horse back into motion, trotting over and around a scatter of corpses. Downriver, the Blackwater was jammed with the hulks of burning galleys. Patches of wildfire still floated atop the water, sending fiery green plumes swirling twenty feet into the air. They had dispersed the men on the battering ram, but he could see fighting all along the riverfront. Ser Balon Swann’s men, most like, or Lancel’s, trying to throw the enemy back into the water as they swarmed ashore off the burning ships. “We’ll ride for the Mud Gate,” he commanded.
　　Ser Mandon shouted, “The Mud Gate!” And they were off again. “King’s Landing!” his men cried raggedly, and “Halfman! Halfman!” He wondered who had taught them that. Through the steel and padding of his helm, he heard anguished screams, the hungry crackle of flame, the shuddering of warhorns, and the brazen blast of trumpets. Fire was everywhere. Gods be good, no wonder the Hound was frightened. It’s the flames he fears . . .
　　A splintering crash rang across the Blackwater as a stone the size of a horse landed square amidships on one of the galleys. Ours or theirs? Through the roiling smoke, he could not tell. His wedge was gone; every man was his own battle now. I should have turned back, he thought, riding on.
　　The axe was heavy in his fist. A handful still followed him, the rest dead or fled. He had to wrestle his stallion to keep his head to the east. The big destrier liked fire no more than Sandor Clegane had, but the horse was easier to cow.
　　Men were crawling from the river, men burned and bleeding, coughing up water, staggering, most dying. He led his troop among them, delivering quicker cleaner deaths to those strong enough to stand. The war shrank to the size of his eye slit. Knights twice his size fled from him, or stood and died. They seemed little things, and fearful. “Lannister!” he shouted, slaying. His arm was red to the elbow, glistening in the light off the river. When his horse reared again, he shook his axe at the stars and heard them call out “Halfman! Halftnan!” Tyrion felt drunk.
　　The battle fever. He had never thought to experience it himself, though Jaime had told him of it often enough. How time seemed to blur and slow and even stop, how the past and the future vanished until there was nothing but the instant, how fear fled, and thought fled, and even your body. “You don’t feel your wounds then, or the ache in your back from the weight of the armor, or the sweat running down into your eyes. You stop feeling, you stop thinking, you stop being you, there is only the fight, the foe, this man and then the next and the next and the next, and you know they are afraid and tired but you’re not, you’re alive, and death is all around you but their swords move so slowly, you can dance through them laughing.” Battle fever. I am half a man and drunk with slaughter, let them kill me if they can!
　　They tried. Another spearman ran at him. Tyrion lopped off the head of his spear, then his hand, then his arm, trotting around him in a circle. An archer, bowless, thrust at him with an arrow, holding it as if it were a knife. The destrier kicked at the man’s thigh to send him sprawling, and Tyrion barked laughter. He rode past a banner planted in the mud, one of Stannis’s fiery hearts, and chopped the staff in two with a swing of his axe. A knight rose up from nowhere to hack at his shield with a two-handed greatsword, again and again, until someone thrust a dagger under his arm. One of Tyrion’s men, perhaps. He never saw.
　　“I yield, ser,” a different knight called out, farther down the river. “Yield. Ser knight, I yield to you. My pledge, here, here.” The man lay in a puddle of black water, offering up a lobstered gauntlet in token of submission. Tyrion had to lean down to take it from him. As he did, a pot of wildfire burst overhead, spraying green flame. In the sudden stab of light he saw that the puddle was not black but red. The gauntlet still had the knight’s hand in it. He flung it back. “Yield,” the man sobbed hopelessly, helplessly. Tyrion reeled away.
　　A man-at-arms grabbed the bridle of his horse and thrust at Tyrion’s face with a dagger. He knocked the blade aside and buried the axe in the nape of the man’s neck. As he was wresting it free, a blaze of white appeared at the edge of his vision. Tyrion turned, thinking to find Ser Mandon Moore beside him again, but this was a different white knight. Ser Balon Swann wore the same armor, but his horse trappings bore the battling black-and-white swans of his House. He’s more a spotted knight than a white one, Tyrion thought inanely. Every bit of Ser Balon was spattered with gore and smudged by smoke. He raised his mace to point downriver. Bits of brain and bone clung to its head. “My lord, look.”
　　Tyrion swung his horse about to peer down the Blackwater. The current still flowed black and strong beneath, but the surface was a roil of blood and flame. The sky was red and orange and garish green. “What?” he said. Then he saw.
　　Steel-clad men-at-arms were clambering off a broken galley that had smashed into a pier. So many, where are they coming from? Squinting into the smoke and glare, Tyrion followed them back out into the river. Twenty galleys were jammed together out there, maybe more, it was hard to count. Their oars were crossed, their hulls locked together with grappling lines, they were impaled on each other’s rams, tangled in webs of fallen rigging. One great hulk floated hull up between two smaller ships. Wrecks, but packed so closely that it was possible to leap from one deck to the other and so cross the Blackwater.
　　Hundreds of Stannis Baratheon’s boldest were doing just that. Tyrion saw one great fool of a knight trying to ride across, urging a terrified horse over gunwales and oars, across tilting decks slick with blood and crackling with green fire. We made them a bloody bridge, he thought in dismay. Parts of the bridge were sinking and other parts were afire and the whole thing was creaking and shifting and like to burst asunder at any moment, but that did not seem to stop them. “Those are brave men,” he told Ser Balon in admiration. “Let’s go kill them.”
　　He led them through the guttering fires and the soot and ash of the riverfront, pounding down a long stone quay with his own men and Ser Balon’s behind him. Ser Mandon fell in with them, his shield a ragged ruin. Smoke and cinders swirled through the air, and the foe broke before their charge, throwing themselves back into the water, knocking over other men as they fought to climb up. The foot of the bridge was a halfsunken enemy galley with Dragonsbane painted on her prow, her bottom ripped out by one of the sunken hulks Tyrion had placed between the quays. A spearman wearing the red crab badge of House Celtigar drove the point of his weapon up through the chest of Balon Swann’s horse before he could dismount, spilling the knight from the saddle. Tyrion hacked at the man’s head as he flashed by, and by then it was too late to rein up. His stallion leapt from the end of the quay and over a splintered gunwale, landing with a splash and a scream in ankle-deep water. Tyrion’s axe went spinning, followed by Tyrion himself, and the deck rose up to give him a wet smack.
　　Madness followed. His horse had broken a leg and was screaming horribly. Somehow he managed to draw his dagger, and slit the poor creature’s throat. The blood gushed out in a scarlet fountain, drenching his arms and chest. He found his feet again and lurched to the rail, and then he was fighting, staggering and splashing across crooked decks awash with water. Men came at him. Some he killed, some he wounded, and some went away, but always there were more. He lost his knife and gained a broken spear, he could not have said how. He clutched it and stabbed, shrieking curses. Men ran from him and he ran after them, clambering up over the rail to the next ship and then the next. His two white shadows were always with him; Balon Swann and Mandon Moore, beautiful in their pale plate. Surrounded by a circle of Velaryon spearmen, they fought back to back; they made battle as graceful as a dance.
　　His own killing was a clumsy thing. He stabbed one man in the kidney when his back was turned, and grabbed another by the leg and upended him into the river. Arrows hissed past his head and clattered off his armor; one lodged between shoulder and breastplate, but he never felt it. A naked man fell from the sky and landed on the deck, body bursting like a melon dropped from a tower. His blood spattered through the slit of Tyrion’s helm. Stones began to plummet down, crashing through the decks and turning men to pulp, until the whole bridge gave a shudder and twisted violently underfoot, knocking him sideways. Suddenly the river was pouring into his helm. He ripped it off and crawled along the listing deck until the water was only neck deep. A groaning filled the air, like the death cries of some enormous beast, The ship, he had time to think, the ship’s about to tear loose. The broken galleys were ripping apart, the bridge breaking apart. No sooner had he come to that realization than he heard a sudden crack, loud as thunder, the deck lurched beneath him, and he slid back down into the water.
　　The list was so steep he had to climb back up, hauling himself along a snapped line inch by bloody inch. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the hulk they’d been tangled with drifting downstream with the current, spinning slowly as men leapt over her side. Some wore Stannis’s flaming heart, some Joffrey’s stag-and-lion, some other badges, but it seemed to make no matter. Fires were burning upstream and down. On one side of him was a raging battle, a great confusion of bright banners waving above a sea of struggling men, shield walls forming and breaking, mounted knights cutting through the press, dust and mud and blood and smoke. On the other side, the Red Keep loomed high on its hill, spitting fire. They were on the wrong sides, though. For a moment Tyrion thought he was going mad, that Stannis and the castle had traded places. How could Stannis cross to the north bank? Belatedly he realized that the deck was turning, and somehow he had gotten spun about, so castle and battle had changed sides. Battle, what battle, if Stannis hasn’t crossed who is he fighting? Tyrion was too tired to make sense of it. His shoulder ached horribly, and when he reached up to rub it he saw the arrow, and remembered. I have to get off this ship. Downstream was nothing but a wall of fire, and if the wreck broke loose the current would take him right into it.
　　Someone was calling his name faintly through the din of battle. Tyrion tried to shout back. “Here! Here, I’m here, help me!” His voice sounded so thin he could scarcely hear himself. He pulled himself up the slanting deck, and grabbed for the rail. The hull slammed into the next galley over and rebounded so violently he was almost knocked into the water. Where had all his strength gone? It was all he could do to hang on.
　　“MY LORD! TAKE MY HAND! MY LORD TYRION!”
　　There on the deck of the next ship, across a widening gulf of black water, stood Ser Mandon Moore, a hand extended. Yellow and green fire shone against the white of his armor, and his lobstered gauntlet was sticky with blood, but Tyrion reached for it all the same, wishing his arms were longer. It was only at the very last, as their fingers brushed across the gap, that something niggled at him . . . Ser Mandon was holding out his left hand, why . . .
　　Was that why he reeled backward, or did he see the sword after all? He would never know. The point slashed just beneath his eyes, and he felt its cold hard touch and then a blaze of pain. His head spun around as if he’d been slapped. The shock of the cold water was a second slap more jolting than the first. He flailed for something to grab on to, knowing that once he went down he was not like to come back up. Somehow his hand found the splintered end of a broken oar. Clutching it tight as a desperate lover, he shinnied up foot by foot. His eyes were full of water, his mouth was full of blood, and his head throbbed horribly. Gods give me strength to reach the deck . . . There was nothing else, only the oar, the water, the deck.
　　Finally he rolled over the side and lay breathless and exhausted, flat on his back. Balls of green and orange flame crackled overhead, leaving streaks between the stars. He had a moment to think how pretty it was before Ser Mandon blocked out the view. The knight was a white steel shadow, his eyes shining darkly behind his helm. Tyrion had no more strength than a rag doll. Ser Mandon put the point of his sword to the hollow of his throat and curled both hands around the hilt.
　　And suddenly he lurched to the left, staggering into the rail. Wood split, and Ser Mandon Moore vanished with a shout and a splash. An instant later, the hulls came slamming together again, so hard the deck seemed to jump. Then someone was kneeling over him. “Jaime?” he croaked, almost choking on the blood that filled his mouth. Who else would save him, if not his brother?
　　“Be still, my lord, you’re hurt bad.” A boy’s voice, that makes no sense, thought Tyrion. It sounded almost like Pod.
　　SANSA
　　When Ser Lancel Lannister told the queen that the battle was lost, she turned her empty wine cup in her hands and said, “Tell my brother, ser.” Her voice was distant, as if the news were of no great interest to her.
　　“Your brother’s likely dead.” Ser Lancel’s surcoat was soaked with the blood seeping out under his arm. When he had arrived in the hall, the sight of him had made some of the guests scream. “He was on the bridge of boats when it broke apart, we think. Ser Mandon’s likely gone as well, and no one can find the Hound. Gods be damned, Cersei, why did you have them fetch Joffrey back to the castle? The gold cloaks are throwing down their spears and running, hundreds of them. When they saw the king leaving, they lost all heart. The whole Blackwater’s awash with wrecks and fire and corpses, but we could have held if—”
　　Osney Kettleblack pushed past him. “There’s fighting on both sides of the river now, Y’Grace. It may be that some of Stannis’s lords are fighting each other, no one’s sure, it’s all confused over there. The Hound’s gone, no one knows where, and Ser Balon’s fallen back inside the city. The riverside’s theirs. They’re ramming at the King’s Gate again, and Ser Lancel’s right, your men are deserting the walls and killing their own officers. There’s mobs at the Iron Gate and the Gate of the Gods fighting to get out, and Flea Bottom’s one great drunken riot.”
　　Gods be good, Sansa thought, it is happening, Joffrey’s lost his head and so have L She looked for Ser Ilyn, but the King’s justice was not to be seen. I can feel him, though. He’s close, I’ll not escape him, he’ll have my head.
　　Strangely calm, the queen turned to his brother Osfryd. “Raise the drawbridge and bar the doors. No one enters or leaves Maegor’s without my leave.”
　　“What about them women who went to pray?”
　　“They chose to leave my protection. Let them pray; perhaps the gods will defend them. Where’s my son?”
　　“The castle gatehouse. He wanted to command the crossbowmen. There’s a mob howling outside, half of them gold cloaks who came with him when we left the Mud Gate.”
　　“Bring him inside Maegor’s now” “No!” Lancel was so angry he forgot to keep his voice down. Heads turned toward them as he shouted, “We’ll have the Mud Gate all over again. Let him stay where he is, he’s the king—”
　　“He’s my son.” Cersei Lannister rose to her feet. “You claim to be a Lannister as well, cousin, prove it. Osfryd, why are you standing there? Now means today.”
　　Osfryd Kettleblack hurried from the hall, his brother with him. Many of the guests were rushing out as well. Some of the women were weeping, some praying. Others simply remained at the tables and called for more wine. “Cersei,” Ser Lancel pleaded, “if we lose the castle, Joffrey will be killed in any case, you know that. Let him stay, I’ll keep him by me, I swear—”
　　“Get out of my way.” Cersei slammed her open palm into his wound. Ser Lancel cried out in pain and almost fainted as the queen swept from the room. She spared Sansa not so much as a glance. She’s forgotten me. Ser Ilyn will kill me and she won’t even think about it.
　　“Oh, gods,” an old woman wailed. “We’re lost, the battle’s lost, she’s running.” Several children were crying. They can smell the fear. Sansa found herself alone on the dais. Should she stay here, or run after the queen and plead for her life?
　　She never knew why she got to her feet, but she did. “Don’t be afraid,” she told them loudly. “The queen has raised the drawbridge. This is the safest place in the city. There’s thick walls, the moat, the spikes . . .”
　　“What’s happened?” demanded a woman she knew slightly, the wife of a lesser lordling. “What did Osney tell her? Is the king hurt, has the city fallen?”
　　“Tell us,” someone else shouted. One woman asked about her father, another her son.
　　Sansa raised her hands for quiet. “Joffrey’s come back to the castle. He’s not hurt. They’re still fighting, that’s all I know, they’re fighting bravely. The queen will be back soon.” The last was a lie, but she had to soothe them. She noticed the fools standing under the galley. “Moon Boy, make us laugh.”
　　Moon Boy did a cartwheel, and vaulted on top of a table. He grabbed up four wine cups and began to juggle them. Every so often one of them would come down and smash him in the head. A few nervous laughs echoed through the hall. Sansa went to Ser Lancel and knelt beside him. His wound was bleeding afresh where the queen had struck him. “Madness,” he gasped. “Gods, the Imp was right, was right . . .”
　　“Help him,” Sansa commanded two of the serving men. One just looked at her and ran, flagon and all. Other servants were leaving the hall as well, but she could not help that. Together, Sansa and the serving man got the wounded knight back on his feet. “Take him to Maester Frenken.” Lancel was one of them, yet somehow she still could not bring herself to wish him dead. I am soft and weak and stupid, just as Joffrey says. I should be killing him, not helping him.
　　The torches had begun to burn low, and one or two had flickered out. No one troubled to replace them. Cersei did not return. Ser Dontos climbed the dais while all eyes were on the other fool. “Go back to your bedchamber, sweet Jonquil,” he whispered. “Lock yourself in, you’ll be safer there. I’ll come for you when the battle’s done.”
　　Someone will come for me, Sansa thought, but will it be you, or will it be Ser Ilyn? For a mad moment she thought of begging Dontos to defend her. He had been a knight too, trained with the sword and sworn to defend the weak. No. He has not the courage, or the skill. I would only be killing him as well. It took all the strength she had in her to walk slowly from the Queen’s Ballroom when she wanted so badly to run. When she reached the steps, she did run, up and around until she was breathless and dizzy. One of the guards knocked into her on the stair. A jeweled wine cup and a pair of silver candlesticks spilled out of the crimson cloak he’d wrapped them in and went clattering down the steps. He hurried after them, paying Sansa no mind once he decided she was not going to try and take his loot.
　　Her bedchamber was black as pitch. Sansa barred the door and fumbled through the dark to the window. When she ripped back the drapes, her breath caught in her throat.
　　The southern sky was aswirl with glowing, shifting colors, the reflections of the great fires that burned below. Baleful green tides moved against the bellies of the clouds, and pools of orange light spread out across the heavens. The reds and yellows of common flame warred against the emeralds and jades of wildfire, each color flaring and then fading, birthing armies of short-lived shadows to die again an instant later. Green dawns gave way to orange dusks in half a heartbeat. The air itself smelled burnt, the way a soup kettle sometimes smelled if it was left on the fire too long and all the soup boiled away. Embers drifted through the night air like swarms of fireflies.
　　Sansa backed away from the window, retreating toward the safety of her bed. I’ll go to sleep, she told herself, and when I wake it will be a new day, and the sky will be blue again. The fighting will be done and someone will tell me whether I’m to live or die. “Lady,” she whimpered softly, wondering if she would meet her wolf again when she was dead.
　　Then something stirred behind her, and a hand reached out of the dark and grabbed her wrist.
　　Sansa opened her mouth to scream, but another hand clamped down over her face, smothering her. His fingers were rough and callused, and sticky with blood. “Little bird. I knew you’d come.” The voice was a drunken rasp.
　　Outside, a swirling lance of jade light spit at the stars, filling the room with green glare. She saw him for a moment, all black and green, the blood on his face dark as tar, his eyes glowing like a dog’s in the sudden glare. Then the light faded and he was only a hulking darkness in a stained white cloak.
　　“If you scream I’ll kill you. Believe that.” He took his hand from her mouth. Her breath was coming ragged. The Hound had a flagon of wine on her bedside table. He took a long pull. “Don’t you want to ask who’s winning the battle, little bird?”
　　“Who?” she said, too frightened to defy him.
　　The Hound laughed. “I only know who’s lost. Me.”
　　He is drunker than I’ve ever seen him. He was sleeping in my bed. What does he want here? “What have you lost?”
　　“All.” The burnt half of his face was a mask of dried blood. “Bloody dwarf. Should have killed him. Years ago.”
　　“He’s dead, they say.”
　　“Dead? No. Bugger that. I don’t want him dead.” He cast the empty flagon aside. “I want him burned. If the gods are good, they’ll burn him, but I won’t be here to see. I’m going.” “Going?” She tried to wriggle free, but his grasp was iron.
　　“The little bird repeats whatever she hears. Going, yes.”
　　“Where will you go?”
　　“Away from here. Away from the fires. Go out the Iron Gate, I suppose. North somewhere, anywhere.”
　　“You won’t get out,” Sansa said. “The queen’s closed up Maegor’s, and the city gates are shut as well.”
　　“Not to me. I have the white cloak. And I have this.” He patted the pommel of his sword. “The man who tries to stop me is a dead man. Unless he’s on fire.” He laughed bitterly.
　　“Why did you come here?”
　　“You promised me a song, little bird. Have you forgotten?”
　　She didn’t know what he meant. She couldn’t sing for him now, here, with the sky aswirl with fire and men dying in their hundreds and their thousands. “I can’t,” she said. “Let me go, you’re scaring me.”
　　“Everything scares you. Look at me. Look at me.”
　　The blood masked the worst of his scars, but his eyes were white and wide and terrifying. The burnt corner of his mouth twitched and twitched again. Sansa could smell him; a stink of sweat and sour wine and stale vomit, and over it all the reek of blood, blood, blood.
　　“I could keep you safe,” he rasped. “They’re all afraid of me. No one would hurt you again, or I’d kill them.” He yanked her closer, and for a moment she thought he meant to kiss her. He was too strong to fight. She closed her eyes, wanting it to be over, but nothing happened. “Still can’t bear to look, can you?” she heard him say. He gave her arm a hard wrench, pulling her around and shoving her down onto the bed. “I’ll have that song. Florian and Jonquil, you said.” His dagger was out, poised at her throat. “Sing, little bird. Sing for your little life.”
　　Her throat was dry and tight with fear, and every song she had ever known had fled from her mind. Please don’t kill me, she wanted to scream, please don’t. She could feel him twisting the point, pushing it into her throat, and she almost closed her eyes again, but then she remembered. It was not the song of Florian and Jonquil, but it was a song. Her voice sounded small and thin and tremulous in her ears.
　　Gentle Mother, font of mercy, save our sons from war, we pray, stay the swords and stay the arrows, let them know a better day. Gentle Mother, strength of women, help our daughters through this fray, soothe the wrath and tame the fury, teach us all a kinder way.
　　She had forgotten the other verses. When her voice trailed off, she feared he might kill her, but after a moment the Hound took the blade from her throat, never speaking.
　　Some instinct made her lift her hand and cup his cheek with her fingers. The room was too dark for her to see him, but she could feel the stickiness of the blood, and a wetness that was not blood. “Little bird,” he said once more, his voice raw and harsh as steel on stone. Then he rose from the bed. Sansa heard cloth ripping, followed by the softer sound of retreating footsteps.
　　When she crawled out of bed, long moments later, she was alone. She found his cloak on the floor, twisted up tight, the white wool stained by blood and fire. The sky outside was darker by then, with only a few pale green ghosts dancing against the stars. A chill wind was blowing, banging the shutters. Sansa was cold. She shook out the torn cloak and huddled beneath it on the floor, shivering.
　　How long she stayed there she could not have said, but after a time she heard a bell ringing, far off across the city. The sound was a deepthroated bronze booming, coming faster with each knell. Sansa was wondering what it might mean when a second bell joined in, and a third, their voices calling across the hills and hollows, the alleys and towers, to every corner of King’s Landing. She threw off the cloak and went to her window.
　　The first faint hint of dawn was visible in the east, and the Red Keep’s own bells were ringing now, joining in the swelling river of sound that flowed from the seven crystal towers of the Great Sept of Baelor. They had rung the bells when King Robert died, she remembered, but this was different, no slow dolorous death knell but a joyful thunder. She could hear men shouting in the streets as well, and something that could only be cheers.
　　It was Ser Dontos who brought her the word. He staggered through her open door, wrapped her in his flabby arms, and whirled her around and around the room, whooping so incoherently that Sansa understood not a word of it. He was as drunk as the Hound had been, but in him it was a dancing happy drunk. She was breathless and dizzy when he let her down. “What is it?” She clutched at a bedpost. “What’s happened? Tell me!”
　　“It’s done! Done! Done! The city is saved. Lord Stannis is dead , Lord Stannis is fled, no one knows, no one cares, his host is broken, the danger’s done. Slaughtered, scattered, or gone over, they say. Oh, the bright banners! The banners, Jonquil, the banners! Do you have any wine? We ought to drink to this day, yes. It means you’re safe, don’t you see?”
　　“Tell me what’s happened!” Sansa shook him.
　　Ser Dontos laughed and hopped from one leg to the other, almost falling. “They came up through the ashes while the river was burning. The river, Stannis was neck deep in the river, and they took him from the rear. Oh, to be a knight again, to have been part of it! His own men hardly fought, they say. Some ran but more bent the knee and went over, shouting for Lord Renly! What must Stannis have thought when he heard that? I had it from Osney Kettleblack who had it from Ser Osmund, but Ser Balon’s back now and his men say the same, and the gold cloaks as well. We’re delivered, sweetling! They came up the roseroad and along the riverbank, through all the fields Stannis had burned, the ashes puffing up around their boots and turning all their armor grey, but oh! the banners must have been bright, the golden rose and golden lion and all the others, the Marbrand tree and the Rowan, Tarly’s huntsman and Redwyne’s grapes and Lady Oakheart’s leaf. All the westermen, all the power of Highgarden and Casterly Rock! Lord Tywin himself had their right wing on the north side of the river, with Randyll Tarly commanding the center and Mace Tyrell the left, but the vanguard won the fight. They plunged through Stannis like a lance through a pumpkin, every man of them howling like some demon in steel. And do you know who led the vanguard? Do you? Do you? Do yoW”
　　“Robb?” It was too much to be hoped, but . . .
　　“It was Lord Renly! Lord Renly in his green armor, with the fires shimmering off his golden antlers! Lord Renly with his tall spear in his hand! They say he killed Ser Guyard Morrigen himself in single combat, and a dozen other great knights as well. It was Renly, it was Renly, it was Renly! Oh! the banners, darling Sansa! Oh! to be a knight!”



Ⅱ 列王的纷争 Chapter62 提利昂
　　头盔的眼缝限制了视线，提利昂只能看到正前方，但当他扭头，只见三艘战舰已靠在比武场，还有一艘大船，正在岸边用投石机抛射沥青火桶，以为掩护。
　　提利昂的人从突击口鱼贯而出。“楔形队列，”他指示。突击队组成矛头，由他担任矛尖。曼登·穆尔爵士在他右手，一身釉彩白甲映着火光，木讷的双眼依旧无神。他跨下战马炭黑，披一身护体白甲，御林铁卫的纯白盾牌绑在手臂。而在左手，提利昂吃惊地发现波德瑞克·派恩提剑跟随。“你太小，”他立即喝道，“回去！”
　　“我是您的侍从，大人。”
　　提利昂没时间争论。“那就跟着我，跟紧了！”语毕踢马出发。
　　大家骑得很近，膝盖抵膝盖，循高墙而行。曼登爵士高举乔佛里的旗帜，红金相间的战旗在风中飘荡，雄鹿与猛狮共舞。队伍绕过堡楼基部，行进速度逐步加快。箭矢从城上疾射而出，石块在头顶旋转翻飞，盲目地撞向地面和河流，粉碎钢铁与血肉。国王门就在前方，敌军蜂拥而上，奋力推动一根巨大的铁头黑橡木攻城锤。船上下来的弓箭手围在他们四周，只要城门楼边有人露面，即刻放箭去射。“长熗准备，”提利昂命令，同时开始冲刺。
　　地面潮湿滑溜，半是烂泥，半是血水。他的马在一具尸体上绊了一下，蹄子打滑，搅动烂泥，差一点令他在冲到敌人队伍之前便滚落马鞍，幸亏最后人马维持了平衡。城门下的敌军转过身来，匆忙应付这突如其来的冲击。提利昂举起战斧，呐喊道：“君临万岁！”众人高声应和。矛头阵形飞射而出，发出钢铁与丝绸的绵长尖啸，滚滚马蹄与犀利剑刃融汇火光。
　　曼登爵士在最后关头放平长熗，用乔佛里的旗帜刺穿了一个穿镶钉皮甲的敌人胸膛，并将来人提离地面，熗杆随即断裂。提利昂面前是个骑士，外衣上有只花环中的狐狸。他首先想到的是“佛罗伦”，第二个念头是“他没有头盔”。于是他用尽全身力气，加上马的惯性，抡起斧子劈向对方的脸，将他脑袋一分为二。碰撞的冲击令他肩膀麻痹。夏嘎若看见，一定会笑我，他边想边继续前进。
　　一支矛砰然击中他的盾牌。波德在身边飞驰，砍向每一个经过的敌人。他隐约听见城墙上的人们在欢呼。攻城锤已被遗忘在烂泥地上，簇拥它的人要么逃走，要么转身战斗。提利昂策马撞倒一个弓箭手，从肩头到腋窝齐齐砍下一个长矛兵的胳膊，随后又在一顶剑鱼头盔上擦过一击。奔到攻城锤前，他的大红马人立起来，但曼登爵士的黑马却从身边一跃而过，爵士本人活如包裹白袍的死亡使者，剑到之处，手折头断，盾牌粉碎——不过，能带着完整无损的盾牌过河的敌人甚少就是了。
　　提利昂最终还是催马越过了攻城锤。敌军正在溃逃。他左顾右盼，就是不见波德瑞克·派恩的踪影。猛然间，一支箭“咔哒”一声撞上面甲，离眼缝仅差一寸。他吃了一惊，险些落马。不能像个木桩似的待在原地，这好比胸甲上画靶子！
　　他策马在四散的尸体间游行。黑水河下游塞满燃烧的战舰躯壳，片片野火仍在水面漂浮，炽烈的绿焰旋转上升，直至二十尺之高。他们虽驱散了操作攻城锤的敌人，但河岸边处处都有厮杀。敌人从燃烧的舰船中蜂拥上岸，巴隆·史文和蓝赛尔的人正竭力抵抗。“去烂泥门！”他下令。
　　曼登爵士喊道：“烂泥门！”于是他们再次出发。“君临万岁！”途中他的人此起彼伏地叫嚷，还有人喊“半人万岁！半人万岁！”真不知是谁教他们的。透过加衬垫的厚重钢盔，传来痛苦的嘶叫，火焰饥渴的劈啪声，颤抖的战号，嘹亮的铜喇叭。到处都是火。诸神慈悲，难怪猎狗吓坏了。他怕的是火……
　　一声巨响回荡在黑水河上，有艘船被一块马大的石头扎扎实实地截为两段。这是我军还是敌军？烟雾弥漫，无法分辨。楔形队列已经散乱，每个人都各自为战。我该回去了，他一边这么想，一边继续往前骑。
　　手中的战斧越来越沉，身边只剩几个人，其余的要么死去要么逃散。他使劲拽马，迫使它始终向东。这匹大红马跟桑铎·克里冈一样不喜欢火，但好歹容易驾驭。许多敌人狼狈不堪地从河里爬出，身带烧伤，通体浴血，一边不住呛水，多数都快死去。他带着他的小队伍在他们中间穿行，给那些还能站起来的人一个利落的死亡。战争局限于眼缝之前，比他高出一倍的骑士若不拔腿逃窜，就得死于非命。他们变得如此渺小，如此惊恐。“兰尼斯特万岁！”他纵声高呼，大开杀戒，手臂一直到肘成了红色，在河面的光线照耀下泛着血光。他勒马直立，向着天上的群星一振战斧，只听众人狂喊：“半人万岁！半人万岁！”提利昂醉了。
　　这就是战斗狂热吧。詹姆从前经常描述，但他从未想过会亲身体验。时间变得含糊，变得缓慢，终至停顿，过去和将来一齐消失，惟有此情此景、此时此刻，而恐惧、思想、甚至身体都不复存在。“你感觉不到伤口的疼痛，感觉不到铠甲的沉重，感觉不到淌进眼睛的汗水。事实上，你不再感觉，不再思想，不再是你自己，只有战斗，只有对手，一个，下一个，再下一个。他们又累又怕，你则生龙活虎。纵然死亡就在身边，但你何惧他们缓慢的刀剑，轻舞欢歌，放声长笑。”战斗狂热。我只是个半人，陶醉在杀戮中，你们有本事就来杀我吧！
　　他们确实在试。又一个熗兵向他奔来。提利昂围着来人绕圈疾走，砍掉他的矛头，接着是手和胳膊。一个没了弓的弓箭手抓着箭像匕首一样戳来，大腿却被红马踢中，摔了个四脚朝天，提利昂哈哈大笑。他骑过插在烂泥地里的一面旗帜，上面有史坦尼斯的烈焰红心纹章，便一斧将旗杆砍为两截。一个骑士不知从哪儿冒出来，举起巨剑对着他的盾牌一下又一下猛砍，却不防被人用匕首偷袭，捅进了腋窝下。救他的应该是他的手下，但提利昂根本没看清。
　　“我投降，爵士，”远处河边另一位骑士大喊。“我投降。骑士先生，我向您投降。这是我的保证，给，给。”那人躺在黑水坑中，扔来一只龙虾护手，以为臣服。提利昂正俯身去拾，又一罐野火在头顶爆炸，绿焰四散，在刹那的强光照映下，他发现坑里不是黑水，而是鲜血，而那手套中有骑士的手。他把它丢回去。“投降，”对方无助而绝望地抽泣。提利昂掉马走开。
　　一个士兵一手抓住提利昂的马缰，一手拿匕首朝他脸刺来。他拨开刀刃，一斧砍进对方脖背。就在使劲拔斧时，余光扫见白袍一闪，提利昂连忙转头，以为曼登·穆尔爵士又回到身边，不料是另一位白袍骑士。巴隆·史文爵士穿着同样的铠甲，但马饰上有自己的家徽：黑白天鹅互斗的图案。他不像白袍骑士，更像污垢骑士，提利昂麻木地想。巴隆爵士浑身是血，被烟熏黑。他提起钉头锤指向下游，锤头沾满脑浆和骨髓，“大人，您看。”
　　提利昂拨转马头，朝黑水河下游望去。河面之下湍急漆黑，河面之上翻滚血焰。天空是红、橙和鲜艳的绿。“什么？”他刚发问，便看到了。
　　全副武装的士兵从一艘撞毁在码头的战舰上鱼贯而下。怎么这么多？从哪儿来的？提利昂眯起眼睛，透过烟雾和火光，视线追随他们直至河心。原来有二十艘战舰堵在一起，或许更多，无法尽数。她们船桨互相交错，船身被绳索纠缠，撞锤相互钉死，坠落的索具则构成罗网。小船托住大船的残骸，彼此紧紧相连，俨然一座横跨天堑的桥梁，敌人从一个甲板跳到另一个甲板，源源不断穿越黑水河。
　　史坦尼斯·拜拉席恩手下数百名胆大士兵正在过“桥”，甚至有个愚蠢的骑士想骑马过来，拼命催促惊恐的坐骑跨越船舷和木桨，通过布满鲜血和燃烧绿火的倾斜甲板。我为他们搭了座该死的血桥！他沮丧地想。虽然桥的某些部分缓缓下沉，其余部分则在燃烧，整体吱吱嘎嘎地移动，随时可能分崩离析，却阻止不了敌人的步伐。“他们是勇士，”他对巴隆爵士赞道，“我们去宰了他们。”
　　他领着大家在摇曳火光和扑面烟灰中穿行，经过河滨的废墟，踏上长长的石码头。巴隆爵士带领手下紧紧跟随。曼登爵士也来汇合，他的盾牌已打成一堆烂铁。烟尘与灰烬在空气中弥漫，敌人在冲锋下瓦解，往河流退去。他们争先恐后地入河，将同伴撞进水中。北桥头是一艘半沉的敌舰，船首漆着“龙祸号”三字，龙骨已被提利昂置于码头间的沉船刮破。巴隆爵士还来不及下马，一个佩戴赛提加家族红蟹纹章的长矛兵便将矛尖捅进他的坐骑胸口，将他从马鞍掀下。提利昂从旁一闪而过，向着来人脑袋狠狠劈下，而后想勒马却迟了。他的马跃出码头，飞过碎裂的船舷，落到及膝深的水中，发出一声嘶鸣，溅起一片水花。战斧旋转脱手，提利昂自己则狠狠砸在潮湿的甲板上。
　　接下来的状况更是疯狂。他的马折了一条腿，恐怖地嘶叫，他好不容易拔出匕首，割了这头可怜牲口的喉咙。血如猩红的喷泉，浸透手臂和胸膛。他再次站起，蹒跚着向栏杆走去，甲板扭曲，满是积水。接下来是无止无尽的战斗。他杀死几个，击伤几个，还有一些人逃跑，可敌人就是源源不绝。他丢了匕首，却抓着一截不知打哪儿来的断矛，反正抓起就刺，一边尖声咒骂。对手从面前奔逃，他则在后面追赶，翻过栏杆跳到另一艘船，再到下一艘。巴隆·史文和曼登·穆尔披着光彩的白甲，如两道白影左右跟随。一群瓦列利安家的长矛兵包围了他们，他们背靠背地战斗，优雅如同舞蹈。
　　提利昂觉得自己杀起人来笨拙了许多。他趁人转身刺其腰，利用身高抓住人腿，将对方掀进河里。箭在头顶呼啸而过，或从甲胄上弹开，其中一支插入胸甲与肩膀间的缝隙，他却浑然不觉。一个裸体男子从天而落，坠到甲板上血肉横飞，好似塔顶掉下来的西瓜。鲜血模糊了提利昂头盔的眼缝。接着石雨骤降，砸穿甲板，搅拌肉泥，最后整个桥一阵颤抖，脚下剧烈运动，他翻倒在地。
　　河水陡然涌进头盔。他赶紧扯掉，一边沿着倾斜的甲板缓缓行进，直到水深只及脖子的地方。四周吱嘎作响，犹如巨兽垂死的哀嚎。这些船，他恍惚地想，这些船要散架了。损毁的战舰分散开来，血桥正在瓦解。他刚回过神来，只听“啪”的一声巨响，如雷鸣一般，甲板在身下倾斜，将他滑回水中。
　　倾斜的幅度如此之大，他得用尽全力拉住一条断绳，一寸一寸艰难地爬回去。眼角余光瞥见先前纠缠一起的某艘船已开始漂流而下，同时缓缓自转，上面的人争先恐后地跳水。有的佩戴着史坦尼斯的烈焰红心标记，有的则是乔佛里的公鹿雄狮纹章，还有其他家族的人，而今这已不重要了。上游和下游都成为一片火海。放眼望去，北方是混战杀场，挣扎奋斗的人海上摇摆着一大簇难以分辨的明亮旗帜，盾墙甫一组建，即告崩溃，无数跨着骏马的骑士杀进拥挤的人群，穿过尘土和泥泞，鲜血与烟雾；在南边，红堡高踞丘顶，弹射出点点火球。这不对！片刻之间，提利昂以为自己疯了，史坦尼斯和城堡如何换了位？他是怎么渡河到北岸的呢？随后才意识到由于甲板的转动，他自己被掉了个头，因此城堡和战场换了方向。战场，什么战场，如果史坦尼斯没有过河，他的大军在和谁作战？提利昂实在疲惫，无法弄清其中意义。肩膀疼得厉害，他伸手去揉，这才发现那支箭，然后想起受伤的事。我得赶紧离开这艘船。下游只有一堵火墙，船只一旦解体，他就会被水流冲去。
　　一片喧嚣嘈杂中，隐约听见有人喊他。提利昂竭力大声回应，“这儿！这儿，我在这儿，快来救我！”声音出口却变得细小，几乎连自己都听不到。他勉强从倾斜的甲板上站起，挣扎着去够栏杆，不料船身陡然撞上另一战舰，剧烈摇晃，差点掀他再度落水。他的力量上哪儿去了？一定要坚持住啊！
　　“大人，快抓住我！提利昂大人！”
　　隔着一片渐渐变宽的黑水，曼登·穆尔爵士站在邻船甲板上，伸出一只手来。他的白甲映着黄色与绿色的光，龙虾护手黏黏地全是血。提利昂顾不得这些，伸手够去，只恨胳膊太短。直到十指在空中相触的一刹那，他才感到一丝不安……曼登爵士出左手，为什么……
　　是这念头令他退缩？还是看见那把剑后的本能反应？他不知道。说时迟那时快，剑尖从眼下划过，冰凉的碰触，随后是剧痛。他像挨了一记巴掌似地别过头去，扑面而来的冷水是第二记更响亮的巴掌。他胡乱摆臂，寻找可抓的东西，心知一旦下沉，就再也上不来了。一支断桨居然给他抓住，他像不舍的情人一样紧紧抱牢，一点一点往上爬。眼里是水，嘴里是血，脑袋阵阵剧痛。诸神赐予我力量，让我爬上甲板……除了桨，水和甲板，其他东西统统消失。
　　终于他翻了上去，筋疲力尽地躺平，喘不过气来。绿色与橙色的火球在头顶爆炸，于群星之间留下条纹，好美啊。景色维持了片刻，接着被曼登爵士阻挡。骑士是个白色的铁皮幽灵，阴郁的眼睛在头盔后闪光。提利昂一点力气也使不上，只能像布娃娃般任人宰割。曼登爵士将剑尖抵住他喉头，双手紧握剑柄。
　　突然骑士向左一个趔趄，撞断栏杆，木头碎裂。随着一声惨叫和水花飞溅，曼登·穆尔爵士消失无踪。两船再度相撞，力道如此之猛，整个甲板都跳将起来。有人跪在他旁边。“詹姆？”他哑着嗓子喊，差点被满口鲜血呛到。除了哥哥，谁会来救他呢？
　　“别动，大人，您伤得好重。”是个孩子的声音，没道理啊，提利昂心想。这声音好像波德。
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等级: 内阁元老
配偶: 逐烟霞。
你看着眼前的人，分明还是以前的模样，可心里终究不是以前那般澄清透明了。
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Chapter 60

　　CHAPTER 60 SANSA
The torches shimmered brightly against the hammered metal of the wall sconces, filling the Queen’s Ballroom with silvery light. Yet there was still darkness in that hall. Sansa could see it in the pale eyes of Ser Ilyn Payne, who stood by the back door still as stone, taking neither food nor wine. She could hear it in Lord Gyles’s racking cough, and the whispered voice of Osney Kettleblack when he slipped in to bring Cersei the tidings.
　　Sansa was finishing her broth when he came the first time, entering through the back. She glimpsed him talking to his brother Osfryd. Then he climbed the dais and knelt beside the high seat, smelling of horse, four long thin scratches on his cheek crusted with scabs, his hair falling down past his collar and into his eyes. For all his whispering, Sansa could not help but hear. “The fleets are locked in battle. Some archers got ashore, but the Hound’s cut them to pieces, Y’Grace. Your brother’s raising his chain, I heard the signal. Some drunkards down to Flea Bottom are smashing doors and climbing through windows. Lord Bywater’s sent the gold cloaks to deal with them. Baelor’s Sept is jammed full, everyone praying.”
　　“And my son?”
　　“The king went to Baelor’s to get the High Septon’s blessing. Now he’s walking the walls with the Hand, telling the men to be brave, lifting their spirits as it were.”
　　Cersei beckoned to her page for another cup of wine, a golden vintage from the Arbor, fruity and rich. The queen was drinking heavily, but the wine only seemed to make her more beautiful; her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes had a bright, feverish heat to them as she looked down over the hall. Eyes of wildfire, Sansa thought.
　　Musicians played, jugglers juggled. Moon Boy lurched about the hall on stilts making mock of everyone, while Ser Dontos chased serving girls on his broomstick horse. The guests laughed, but it was a joyless laughter, the sort of laughter that can turn into sobbing in half a heartbeat. Their bodies are here, but their thoughts are on the city walls, and their hearts as well.
　　After the broth came a salad of apples, nuts, and raisins. At any other time, it might have made a tasty dish, but tonight all the food was flavored with fear. Sansa was not the only one in the hall without an appetite. Lord Gyles was coughing more than he was eating, Lollys Stokeworth sat hunched and shivering, and the young bride of one of Ser Lancel’s knights began to weep uncontrollably. The queen commanded Maester Frenken to put her to bed with a cup of dreamwine. “Tears,” she said scornfully to Sansa as the woman was led from the hall. “The woman’s weapon, my lady mother used to call them. The man’s weapon is a sword. And that tells us all you need to know, doesn’t it?”
　　“Men must be very brave, though,” said Sansa. “To ride out and face swords and axes, everyone trying to kill you . . .”
　　“Jaime told me once that he only feels truly alive in battle and in bed.” She lifted her cup and took a long swallow. Her salad was untouched. “I would sooner face any number of swords than sit helpless like this, pretending to enjoy the company of this flock of frightened hens.”
　　“You asked them here, Your Grace.”
　　“Certain things are expected of a queen. They will be expected of you should you ever wed Joffrey. Best learn.” The queen studied the wives, daughters, and mothers who filled the benches. “Of themselves the hens are nothing, but their cocks are important for one reason or another, and some may survive this battle. So it behooves me to give their women my protection. If my wretched dwarf of a brother should somehow manage to prevail, they will return to their husbands and fathers full of tales about how brave I was, how my courage inspired them and lifted their spirits, how I never doubted our victory even for a moment.”
　　“And if the castle should fall?”
　　“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Cersei did not wait for a denial. “If I’m not betrayed by my own guards, I may be able to hold here for a time. Then I can go to the walls and offer to yield to Lord Stannis in person. That will spare us the worst. But if Maegor’s Holdfast should fall before Stannis can come up, why then, most of my guests are in for a bit of rape,
　　I’d say. And you should never rule out mutilation, torture, and murder at times like these.”
　　Sansa was horrified. “These are women, unarmed, and gently born.”
　　“Their birth protects them,” Cersei admitted, “though not as much as you’d think. Each one’s worth a good ransom, but after the madness of battle, soldiers often seem to want flesh more than coin. Even so, a golden shield is better than none. Out in the streets, the women won’t be treated near as tenderly. Nor will our servants. Pretty things like that serving wench of Lady Tanda’s could be in for a lively night, but don’t imagine the old and the infirm and the ugly will be spared. Enough drink will make blind washerwomen and reeking pig girls seem as comely as you, sweetling.
　　“Me?”
　　“Try not to sound so like a mouse, Sansa. You’re a woman now, remember? And betrothed to my firstborn.” The queen sipped at her wine. “Were it anyone else outside the gates, I might hope to beguile him. But this is Stannis Baratheon. I’d have a better chance of seducing his horse.” She noticed the look on Sansa’s face, and laughed. “Have I shocked you, my lady?” She leaned close. “You little fool. Tears are not a woman’s only weapon. You’ve got another one between your legs, and you’d best learn to use it. You’ll find men use their swords freely enough. Both kinds of swords.”
　　Sansa was spared the need to reply when two Kettleblacks reentered the hall. Ser Osmund and his brothers had become great favorites about the castle; they were always ready with a smile and a jest, and got on with grooms and huntsmen as well as they did with knights and squires. With the serving wenches they got on best of all, it was gossiped. Of late Ser Osmund had taken Sandor Clegane’s place by Joffrey’s side, and Sansa had heard the women at the washing well saying he was as strong as the Hound, only younger and faster. If that was so, she wondered why she had never once heard of these Kettleblacks before Ser Osmund was named to the Kingsguard.
　　Osney was all smiles as he knelt beside the queen. “The hulks have gone up, Y’Grace. The whole Blackwater’s awash with wildfire. A hundred ships burning, maybe more.”
　　“And my son?”
　　“He’s at the Mud Gate with the Hand and the Kingsguard, Y’Grace. He spoke to the archers on the hoardings before, and gave them a few tips on handling a crossbow, he did. All agree, he’s a right brave boy.” “He’d best remain a right live boy.” Cersei turned to his brother Osfryd, who was taller, sterner, and wore a drooping black mustache. “Yes?”
　　Osfryd had donned a steel halfhelm over his long black hair, and the look on his face was grim, “Y’Grace,” he said quietly, “the boys caught a groom and two maidservants trying to sneak out a postern with three of the king’s horses.”
　　“The night’s first traitors,” the queen said, “but not the last, I fear. Have Ser Ilyn see to them, and put their heads on pikes outside the stables as a warning.” As they left, she turned to Sansa. “Another lesson you should learn, if you hope to sit beside my son. Be gentle on a night like this and you’ll have treasons popping up all about you like mushrooms after a hard rain. The only way to keep your people loyal is to make certain they fear you more than they do the enemy.”
　　“I will remember, Your Grace,” said Sansa, though she had always heard that love was a surer route to the people’s loyalty than fear. If I am ever a queen, I’ll make them love me.
　　Crabclaw pies followed the salad. Then came mutton roasted with leeks and carrots, served in trenchers of hollowed bread. Lollys ate too fast, got sick, and retched all over herself and her sister. Lord Gyles coughed, drank, coughed, drank, and passed out. The queen gazed down in disgust to where he sprawled with his face in his trencher and his hand in a puddle of wine. “The gods must have been mad to waste manhood on the likes of him, and I must have been mad to demand his release.”
　　Osfryd Kettleblack returned, crimson cloak swirling. “There’s folks gathering in the square, Y’Grace, asking to take refuge in the castle. Not a mob, rich merchants and the like.”
　　“Command them to return to their homes,” the queen said. “If they won’t go, have our crossbowmen kill a few. No sorties; I won’t have the gates opened for any reason.”
　　“As you command.” He bowed and moved off.
　　The queen’s face was hard and angry. “Would that I could take a sword to their necks myself.” Her voice was starting to slur. “When we were little, Jaime and I were so much alike that even our lord father could not tell us apart. Sometimes as a lark we would dress in each other’s clothes and spend a whole day each as the other. Yet even so, when Jaime was given his first sword, there was none for me. ‘What do I get?’ I remember asking. We were so much alike, I could never understand why they treated us so differently. Jaime learned to fight with sword and lance and mace, while I was taught to smile and sing and please. He was heir to Casterly Rock, while I was to be sold to some stranger like a horse, to be ridden whenever my new owner liked, beaten whenever he liked, and cast aside in time for a younger filly. Jaime’s lot was to be glory and power, while mine was birth and moonblood.”
　　“But you were queen of all the Seven Kingdoms,” Sansa said.
　　“When it comes to swords, a queen is only a woman after all.”
　　Cersei’s wine cup was empty. The page moved to fill it again, but she turned it over and shook her head. “No more. I must keep a clear head.”
　　The last course was goat cheese served with baked apples. The scent of cinnamon filled the hall as Osney Kettleblack slipped in to kneel once more between them. “Y’Grace,” he murmured. “Stannis has landed men on the tourney grounds, and there’s more coming across. The Mud Gate’s under attack, and they’ve brought a ram to the King’s Gate. The Imp’s gone out to drive them off.”
　　“That will fill them with fear,” the queen said dryly. “He hasn’t taken Joff, I hope.”
　　“No, Y’Grace, the king’s with my brother at the Whores, flinging Antler Men into the river.”
　　“With the Mud Gate under assault? Folly. Tell Ser Osmund I want him out of there at once, it’s too dangerous. Fetch him back to the castle.”
　　“The Imp said—”
　　“It’s what I said that ought concern you.” Cersei’s eyes narrowed. “Your brother will do as he’s told, or I’ll see to it that he leads the next sortie himself, and you’ll go with him.”
　　After the meal had been cleared away, many of the guests asked leave to go to the sept. Cersei graciously granted their request. Lady Tanda and her daughters were among those who fled. For those who remained, a singer was brought forth to fill the hall with the sweet music of the high harp. He sang of Jonquil and Florian, of Prince Aemon the Dragonknight and his love for his brother’s queen, of Nymeria’s ten thousand ships. They were beautiful songs, but terribly sad. Several of the women began to weep, and Sansa felt her own eyes growing moist.
　　“Very good, dear.” The queen leaned close. “You want to practice those tears. You’ll need them for King Stannis.”
　　Sansa shifted nervously. “Your Grace?”
　　“Oh, spare me your hollow courtesies. Matters must have reached a desperate strait out there if they need a dwarf to lead them, so you might as well take off your mask. I know all about your little treasons in the godswood.”
　　“The godswood?” Don’t look at Ser Dontos, don’t, don’t, Sansa told herself. She doesn’t know, no one knows, Dontos promised me, my Florian would never fail me. “I’ve done no treasons. I only visit the godswood to pray.”
　　“For Stannis. Or your brother, it’s all the same. Why else seek your father’s gods? You’re praying for our defeat. What would you call that, if not treason?”
　　“I pray for Joffrey,” she insisted nervously.
　　“Why, because he treats you so sweetly?” The queen took a flagon of sweet plum wine from a passing serving girl and filled Sansa’s cup. “Drink,” she commanded coldly. “Perhaps it will give you the courage to deal with truth for a change.”
　　Sansa lifted the cup to her lips and took a sip. The wine was cloyingly sweet, but very strong.
　　“You can do better than that,” Cersei said. “Drain the cup, Sansa. Your queen commands you.” it almost gagged her, but Sansa emptied the cup, gulping down the thick sweet wine until her head was swimming.
　　“More?” Cersei asked.
　　“No. Please.”
　　The queen looked displeased. “When you asked about Ser Ilyn earlier, I lied to you. Would you like to hear the truth, Sansa? Would you like to know why he’s really here?”
　　She did not dare answer, but it did not matter. The queen raised a hand and beckoned, never waiting for a reply. Sansa had not even seen Ser Ilyn return to the hall, but suddenly there he was, striding from the shadows behind the dais as silent as a cat. He carried Ice unsheathed. Her father had always cleaned the blade in the godswood after he took a man’s head, Sansa recalled, but Ser Ilyn was not so fastidious. There was blood drying on the rippling steel, the red already fading to brown. “Tell Lady Sansa why I keep you by us,” said Cersei.
　　Ser Ilyn opened his mouth and emitted a choking rattle. His poxscarred face had no expression.
　　“He’s here for us, he says,” the queen said. “Stannis may take the city and he may take the throne, but I will not suffer him to judge me. I do not mean for him to have us alive.”
　　“us?”
　　“You heard me. So perhaps you had best pray again, Sansa, and for a different outcome. The Starks will have no joy from the fall of House Lannister, I promise you.” She reached out and touched Sansa’s hair, brushing it lightly away from her neck.



Ⅱ 列王的纷争 Chapter61 珊莎
　　托架后的镜子反射着明亮的火炬为太后的舞厅注满银色的光辉，然而厅中仍有阴影。珊莎从伊林·派恩爵士的眼里看得到——他如磐石一样杵在后门，不吃不喝——从盖尔斯伯爵痛苦的咳嗽和奥斯尼·凯特布莱克的低语中听得出。奥斯尼不时溜进来向瑟曦报告消息。
　　他头一次从后门进来时，珊莎刚喝完汤。她瞥见他先和弟弟奥斯佛利说了些什么，接着才登上高台，跪在太后的高位边。他浑身马味，脸上有四条结痂的细长抓痕，头发披散，越过颈项，遮住双眼。尽管他话音很轻，珊莎还是忍不住去听。“我军已缠住敌舰队，有些弓箭手上了岸，但猎狗把他们冲得七零八落。太后陛下，您的弟弟正升起锁链，我听到他发出信号。有些跳蚤窝的醉汉想乘机打家劫舍，拜瓦特大人已派金袍卫士去处理。贝勒大圣堂挤满了人，大家都在祈祷。”
　　“我儿子呢？”
　　“国王陛下也去过大圣堂，以接受总主教的祝福。眼下他跟首相一起在城墙上，安抚守军，激励士气。”
　　瑟曦要侍童再拿一杯酒。这是青亭岛的上等金色葡萄酒，带果味的醇酿。太后喝了许多，愈喝愈是美丽。她脸颊绯红，俯视大厅的眼睛里有一种明亮而狂热的神色。一双燃烧着野火的眼睛，珊莎心想。
　　乐师们在演奏，杂耍艺人变戏法，月童踩着高跷在厅里摇摆走动，嘲笑在场每个人，而唐托斯爵士骑着扫帚马追逐年轻女仆。宾客们大声欢笑，却显得言不由衷，仿佛随时都能化为抽泣。他们人在这里，思绪和心灵却在城墙上。
　　肉汤之后上了苹果、坚果和葡萄干拌的沙拉。其他任何时候，这都是一道美味，但在今晚，所有食物都添加了名叫恐惧的调料。厅里没胃口的远不止珊莎一人。盖尔斯伯爵咳嗽的时间比吃的时间多，洛丽丝·史铎克渥斯驼背坐着发抖，蓝赛尔爵士手下一名骑士的新娘不可遏抑地哭泣起来。太后命法兰肯学士给她一杯安眠酒，安排她上床睡觉。“眼泪，”女子被带离大厅后，她不屑地对珊莎说，“正如我母亲大人常说的那样，是女人的武器。刀剑则属于男人。这说明了一切，不是吗？”
　　“但男人必须勇敢，”珊莎道，“要骑马出去面对刀斧，每个人都来杀你……”“詹姆曾对我说，只有在战场和床上，他才能感觉自己的生命。”她举起酒杯，喝下一大口，面前的沙拉一点没碰。“我宁可面对亿万刀剑，也胜过无助地坐在这里，假装乐意跟这群受惊的母鸡为伴。”
　　“陛下，是您邀请她们来的。”
　　“这是当然，身为太后，就得做这种事。将来，你若跟乔佛里结婚，迟早也会明白这个道理。趁现在好好学一学吧。”太后打量坐满长凳的妻子、女儿和母亲们。“这些母鸡本身一钱不值，但和她们同群的公鸡是当下的关键，其中有些还会从战斗中生还，所以我必须为他们的女人提供保护。若我那可恶的侏儒弟弟侥幸成功，她们就会回到丈夫和父亲身边，宣传各种故事，说我如何勇敢，如何坚强，如何激励她们的士气。说我如何坚定不移，从无片刻疑虑。”
　　“要城堡陷落吗？”
　　“你就希望那样，对不对？”瑟曦不等她否认，续道，“如果不被卫兵出卖，我或能在此坚守一时，等待史坦尼斯公爵到来，以登城向他请降，避免最糟的情形。但若他抵达之前，梅葛楼就告陷落，那样的话，我敢说在座诸位都得忍受一点强暴。非常时刻，虐待、奸淫和拷打是谁也管不了的。”
　　珊莎吓坏了。“这些都是女人啊！手无寸铁，出身高贵。”
　　“出身会提供保护，”瑟曦承认，“但没你想象的那么多。虽然她们每个都值一大笔赎金，但经过疯狂的战斗后，士兵们对血肉娇躯往往比钱财更感兴趣。其实她们应该庆幸，有金子当盾牌总比什么都没有好。街上那些女人会受到更粗暴的对待，我们的女仆们也一样，像坦妲小姐的侍女这样的漂亮妞会被玩上一整夜。对了，亲爱的，千万不要以为年老色衰或天生丑陋的就会被放过，灌下几杯烈酒，瞎眼的洗衣妇和臭烘烘的猪圈小妹就跟你一样标致。”
　　“我？”
　　“别像只老鼠一样咋咋唬唬，珊莎。你已经是女人了，明白吗？你还是我长子的未婚妻。”太后啜一口酒。“城下换作别人，我还能试试去哄他，但这是史坦尼斯·拜拉席恩，我不如去哄他的马！”她注意到珊莎的表情，轻笑失声。“我吓到你了，亲爱的小姐？”她倾身靠近。“你这小傻瓜，眼泪并不是女人惟一的武器，你两腿之间还有一件，最好学会用它。一旦学成，自有男人主动为你使剑。两种剑都免费。”
　　珊莎正不知如何回答，两个凯特布莱克又走进厅里。这两个弟弟和奥斯蒙爵士一样，在城堡很得人缘，他们总是面带微笑，俏皮话信手拈来，不论跟骑士、侍从还是马夫、猎人都很合拍，而且最得女仆们的青睐。如今奥斯蒙爵士取代了桑铎·克里冈在乔佛里身边的位置，井边的洗衣妇们聊天时说他跟猎狗一样强壮，但更年轻，反应更快。要真这样，为什么在奥斯蒙爵士当上御林铁卫之前，她从没听过凯特布莱克这个姓呢？
　　奥斯尼满脸堆笑地跪在太后身边，“火船出动了，太后陛下，整条黑水河沐浴在野火中。一百艘船起火燃烧，或许还不止。”
　　“我儿子呢？”
　　“他在烂泥门，跟首相及御林铁卫们一起。陛下，他刚与堡楼上的士兵交谈，并教授他们一些操作十字弓的小技巧，这是真的，大家都认为他是个勇敢的男孩。”
　　“他要做的是当个活着的男孩。”瑟曦转向他的兄弟奥斯佛利，这一位比较高，也比较严肃，留着一圈耷拉的小黑胡子。“你呢？”
　　奥斯佛利长长的黑发上戴了一顶钢制半盔，表情阴郁，“陛下，”他平静地说，“小伙子们逮到一个马夫和两个女仆，他们偷了三匹国王的马，想溜出边门。”
　　“今晚的第一批叛徒，”太后说，“但不是最后一批。交给伊林爵士处置，把头插在熗上，挂在马厩外以儆效尤。”他们走后，她转向珊莎。“你想坐在我儿子身边的话，这又是一课。今晚这种时刻，倘若心慈手软，叛徒就会如雨后蘑菇一样冒出来。让臣民保持忠诚的惟一办法就是确保他们害怕你更胜敌人。”
　　“我会记住的，陛下，”珊莎说。她向来只听说，要让人民忠诚，爱比恐惧可靠。我要当上王后，会让他们爱我。
　　沙拉之后是蟹爪派，接着是装在空心面包盘里的韭菜胡萝卜烤羊肉。洛丽丝吃得太快，结果吐了出来，洒自己和姐姐一身。盖尔斯伯爵咳嗽了喝酒，喝酒了咳嗽，最后昏睡过去，脸趴进餐盘，手泡在一滩葡萄酒中。太后厌恶地瞪着他。“诸神一定是疯了才让男人的器官长在他这种人身上！我也一定是疯了才会把他救出来。”
　　奥斯佛利·凯特布莱克突然快步返回，红袍飘飘。“陛下，不少百姓在门外广场聚集，请求到城堡避难。他们不是暴民，而是富商匠人之流。”
　　“叫他们回家，”太后说，“若是不走，就用十字弓射杀几个。不许出击，任何情况下都不准开门。”
　　“遵命。”他鞠躬离去。
　　太后变得阴沉恼怒，“我真恨不得拿剑上战场！”她的声音开始含糊，“小时候，詹姆和我长得太像，连父亲大人也常分不清。有时为了恶作剧，我们会互换衣服，假扮对方一整天。可当詹姆得到他的第一把剑时，我却没有份。‘那我呢？’记得当时自己问。我们如此相像，我永远无法理解为何彼此会受到迥异的对待。詹姆练习长剑、熗矛和钉头锤，我却学会微笑、唱歌和讨人欢喜。他成了凯岩城的继承人，我则像马一样被卖给陌生人。新主人想骑就骑，想打就打，若有了新的母马，就把我扔到一边。詹姆抽到一支荣耀和力量的上签，我抽到的则是生育和月经。”
　　“可您是七大王国的太后呀，”珊莎说。
　　“在刀剑面前，太后也不过是个女子而已。”
　　瑟曦一饮而尽，侍童忙过来舔酒，但她将玻璃杯翻转，摇摇头。“够了，今晚我得保持清醒。”
　　最后一道菜是山羊奶酪加烤苹果，肉桂的香气满溢大厅。奥斯尼·凯特布莱克又一次匆忙进来跪在她们之间。“陛下，”他嗫嚅地说，“史坦尼斯的部队在比武场登陆，更多敌人正在渡河。烂泥门遭到攻击，他们还抬了一根攻城锤到国王门。小恶魔已带兵出击。”
　　“嗯，不错，这招会吓死他们，”太后淡淡地道，“他没带小乔去吧？”
　　“没有，陛下，国王由我哥保护，正在监督‘君临三妓’把‘鹿角民’往河里抛。”
　　“烂泥门不正遭到攻击？神经病，告诉奥斯蒙爵士，这太危险了，立刻撤离，护送国王回城！”
　　‘
　　“小恶魔命令——”
　　“我的话才算数。”瑟曦眯起眼睛，“你老哥要么照办，要么就率下一拨突击队出击，连你也一起去。”
　　食物清走之后，众宾客纷纷请求去圣堂祈祷，瑟曦慈蔼地一一批准。坦妲伯爵夫人和她的女儿们也在其中。一个歌手被带进来，为留下的人弹奏古竖琴，甜蜜的乐声填满大厅。他歌颂琼琪和佛罗理安，歌颂龙骑士伊蒙王子和他对兄嫂之爱，歌颂娜梅莉亚的万船横渡。歌谣虽然美丽，却又充满悲伤，让在场的女人忍不住落泪，珊莎的眼睛也渐渐湿润。
　　“很好，亲爱的，”太后再度倾身靠近，“抓紧时间练习流泪，会派上用场的，史坦尼斯国王就要到了。”
　　珊莎不安地动了动。“陛下？”
　　“噢，饶了我吧，省省这套装模作样的鬼把戏。战况若非绝望，是轮不到侏儒出战的。好了，你也摘下面具，我对你在神木林里那些小小的叛国行径可是了若指掌。”
　　“神木林？”别看唐托斯爵士，别看，别看，珊莎告诉自己，她不知道，没人知道，唐托斯向我保证过，我的佛罗理安不会让我失望。“我没有叛国，只是去祈祷。”
　　“哼，为史坦尼斯，还是为你哥哥？够了，你去找你父亲的神还有什么好事？无非就是祈祷我们失败。这不是叛国是什么？”
　　“我为乔佛里祈祷，”她紧张地坚持。
　　“为什么？为他对你的爱？”太后从经过的女侍手中拿过一壶甜李子酒，倒满珊莎的杯子。“喝，”她冷冷地下令，“但愿它给你勇气，迎接即将到来的事实。”
　　珊莎把杯子举到唇边，啜了一小口。酒甜得发腻，非常烈。
　　“你能做得更好，”瑟曦道，“干了它，珊莎，这是太后的命令。”珊莎差点噎着，但勉强喝完一杯，黏稠甜腻的酒下肚，脑袋开始晕眩。
　　“再来？”瑟曦问。
　　“我不行了。求求您。”
　　太后有些不悦，“好吧……我告诉你，之前你问到伊林爵士时，我撒了谎。想不想听实话，珊莎？想不想知道我叫他来的真正原因？”
　　她不敢回答，但无所谓，太后根本没理她，便举手招呼。先前珊莎没见伊林爵士回来，但他就那么突然出现了，大步从高台后的阴影里跨出，如猫一样安静，手提出鞘的寒冰。记得父亲每次取人性命后，都会去神木林里将这把剑洗干净，但伊林爵士没那么讲究，泛着涟漪的瓦雷利亚钢剑上沾有逐渐凝固的鲜血，红色蜕为褐色。“告诉珊莎小姐，我为何让你留在这里，”瑟曦命令。
　　伊林爵士张开嘴，发出一连串梗住的咯咯声，麻子脸上毫无表情。
　　“他说，他为我们而来，”太后道，“史坦尼斯也许能攻进都城，夺取王位，但我决不会接受他的审判。我不会让他擒住我们。”
　　“我们？”
　　“没错。所以我奉劝你更换祷词，珊莎，祈求另一个结局。我向你保证，兰尼斯特家族若是倒台，史塔克家也不会高兴。”她伸出手，轻轻地将珊莎的头发从脖子上拨开。
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等级: 内阁元老
配偶: 逐烟霞。
你看着眼前的人，分明还是以前的模样，可心里终究不是以前那般澄清透明了。
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Chapter 59
　　CHAPTER 59
　　TYRION
　　Motionless as a gargoyle, Tyrion Lannister hunched on one knee atop a merlon. Beyond the Mud Gate and the desolation that had once been the fishmarket and wharves, the river itself seemed to have taken fire. Half of Stannis’s fleet was ablaze, along with most of Joffrey’s. The kiss of wildfire turned proud ships into funeral pyres and men into living torches. The air was full of smoke and arrows and screams.
　　Downstream, commoners and highborn captains alike could see the hot green death swirling toward their rafts and carracks and ferries, borne on the current of the Blackwater. The long white oars of the Myrish galleys flashed like the legs of maddened centipedes as they fought to come about, but it was no good. The centipedes had no place to run.
　　A dozen great fires raged under the city walls, where casks of burning pitch had exploded, but the wildfire reduced them to no more than candles in a burning house, their orange and scarlet pennons fluttering insignificantly against the jade holocaust. The low clouds caught the color of the burning river and roofed the sky in shades of shifting green, eerily beautiful. A terrible beauty. Like dragonfire. Tyrion wondered if Aegon the Conqueror had felt like this as he flew above his Field of Fire.
　　The furnace wind lifted his crimson cloak and beat at his bare face, yet he could not turn away. He was dimly aware of the gold cloaks cheering from the hoardings. He had no voice to join them. It was a half victory. It will not be enough.
　　He saw another of the hulks he’d stuffed full of King Aerys’s fickle fruits engulfed by the hungry flames. A fountain of burning jade rose from the river the blast so bright he had to shield his eyes. Plumes of fire thirty and forty feet high danced upon the waters, crackling and hissing. For a few moments they washed out the screams. There were hundreds in the water, drowning or burning or doing a little of both.
　　Do you hear them shrieking, Stannis? Do you see them burning? This is your work as much as mine. Somewhere in that seething mass of men south of the Blackwater, Stannis was watching too, Tyrion knew. He’d never had his brother Robert’s thirst for battle. He would command from the rear, from the reserve, much as Lord Tywin Lannister was wont to do. Like as not, he was sitting a warhorse right now, clad in bright armor, his crown upon his head. A crown of red gold, Varys says, its points fashioned in the shapes of flames.
　　“My ships.” Joffrey’s voice cracked as he shouted up from the wallwalk, where he huddled with his guards behind the ramparts. The golden circlet of kingship adorned his battle helm. “My Kingslander’s burning, Queen Cersei, Loyal Man. Look, that’s Seaflower, there.” He pointed with his new sword, out to where the green flames were licking at Seaflower’s golden hull and creeping up her oars. Her captain had turned her upriver, but not quickly enough to evade the wildfire.
　　She was doomed, Tyrion knew. There was no other way. If we had not come forth to meet them, Stannis would have sensed the trap. An arrow could be aimed, and a spear, even the stone from a catapult, but wildfire had a will of its own. Once loosed, it was beyond the control of mere men. “It could not be helped,” he told his nephew. “Our fleet was doomed in any case.”
　　Even from atop the merlon he had been too short to see over the ramparts, so he’d had them boost him up the flames and smoke and chaos of battle made it impossible for Tyrion to see what was happening downriver under the castle, but he had seen it a thousand times in his mind’s eye. Bronn would have whipped the oxen into motion the moment Stannis’s flagship passed under the Red Keep; the chain was ponderous heavy, and the great winches turned but slowly, creaking and rumbling. The whole of the usurper’s fleet would have passed by the time the first glimmer of metal could be seen beneath the water. The links would emerge dripping wet, some glistening with mud, link by link by link, until the whole great chain stretched taut. King Stannis had rowed his fleet up the Blackwater, but he would not row out again.
　　Even so, some were getting away. A river’s current was a tricky thing, and the wildfire was not spreading as evenly as he had hoped. The main channel was all aflame, but a good many of the Myrmen had made for the south bank and looked to escape unscathed, and at least eight ships had landed under the city walls. Landed or wrecked, but it comes to the same thing, they’ve put men ashore. Worse, a good part of the south wing of the enemy’s first two battle lines had been well upstream of the inferno when the hulks went up. Stannis would be left with thirty or forty galleys, at a guess; more than enough to bring his whole host across, once they had regained their courage.
　　That might take a bit of time; even the bravest would be dismayed after watching a thousand or so of his fellows consumed by wildfire. Hallyne said that sometimes the substance burned so hot that flesh melted like tallow. Yet even so . . .
　　Tyrion had no illusions where his own men were concerned. If the battle looks to be going sour they’ll break, and they’ll break bad, Jacelyn Bywater had warned him, so the only way to win was to make certain the battle stayed sweet, start to finish.
　　He could see dark shapes moving through the charred ruins of the riverfront wharfs. Time for another sortie, he thought. Men were never so vulnerable as when they first staggered ashore. He must not give the foe time to form up on the north bank.
　　He scrambled down off the merlon. “Tell Lord Jacelyn we’ve got enemy on the riverfront,” he said to one of the runners Bywater had assigned him. To another he said, “Bring my compliments to Ser Arneld and ask him to swing the Whores thirty degrees west.” The angle would allow them to throw farther, if not as far out into the water.
　　“Mother promised I could have the Whores,” Joffrey said. Tyrion was annoyed to see that the king had lifted the visor of his helm again. Doubtless the boy was cooking inside all that heavy steel . . . but the last thing he needed was some stray arrow punching through his nephew’s eye.
　　He clanged the visor shut. “Keep that closed, Your Grace; your sweet person is precious to us all.” And you don’t want to spoil that pretty face, either. “The Whores are yours.” It was as good a time as any; flinging more firepots down onto burning ships seemed pointless. Joff had the Antler Men trussed up naked in the square below, antlers nailed to their heads. When they’d been brought before the Iron Throne for justice, he had promised to send them to Stannis. A man was not as heavy as a boulder or a cask of burning pitch, and could be thrown a deal farther. Some of the gold cloaks had been wagering on whether the traitors would fly all the way across the Blackwater. “Be quick about it, Your Grace,” he told Joffrey. “We’ll want the trebuchets throwing stones again soon enough. Even wildfire does not burn forever.”
　　Joffrey hurried off happy, escorted by Ser Meryn, but Tyrion caught Ser Osmund by the wrist before he could follow. “Whatever happens, keep him safe and keep him there, is that understood?”
　　“As you command.” Ser Osmund smiled amiably.
　　Tyrion had warned Trant and Kettleblack what would happen to them should any harm come to the king. And Joffrey had a dozen veteran gold cloaks waiting at the foot of the steps. I’m protecting your wretched bastard as well as I can, Cersei, he thought bitterly. See you do the same for Alayaya.
　　No sooner was Joff off than a runner came panting up the steps. Iimy lord, hurry!” He threw himself to one knee. “They’ve landed men on the tourney grounds, hundreds! They’re bringing a ram up to the King’s Gate.”
　　Tyrion cursed and made for the steps with a rolling waddle. Podrick Payne waited below with their horses. They galloped off down River Row, Pod and Ser Mandon Moore coming hard behind him. The shuttered houses were steeped in green shadow, but there was no traffic to get in their way; Tyrion had commanded that the street be kept clear, so the defenders could move quickly from one gate to the next. Even so, by the time they reached the King’s Gate, he could hear a booming crash of wood on wood that told him the battering ram had been brought into play. The groaning of the great hinges sounded like the moans of a dying giant. The gatchouse square was littered with the wounded, but he saw lines of horses as well, not all of them hurt, and sellswords and gold cloaks enough to form a strong column. “Form up,” he shouted as he leapt to the ground. The gate moved under the impact of another blow. “Who commands here? You’re going out.”
　　“No.” A shadow detached itself from the shadow of the wall, to become a tall man in dark grey armor. Sandor Clegane wrenched off his helm with both hands and let it fall to the ground. The steel was scorched and dented, the left ear of the snarling hound sheared off. A gash above one eye had sent a wash of blood down across the Hound’s old burn scars, masking half his face.
　　“Yes.” Tyrion faced him.
　　Clegane’s breath came ragged. “Bugger that. And you.”
　　A sellsword stepped up beside him. “We been out. Three times. Half our men are killed or hurt. Wildfire bursting all around us, horses screaming like men and men like horses—”
　　“Did you think we hired you to fight in a tourney? Shall I bring you a nice iced milk and a bowl of raspberries? No? Then get on your fucking horse. You too, dog.”
　　The blood on Clegane’s face glistened red, but his eyes showed white. He drew his longsword.
　　He is afraid, Tyrion realized, shocked. The Hound is frightened. He tried to explain their need. “They’ve taken a ram to the gate, you can hear them, we need to disperse them—”
　　“Open the gates. When they rush inside, surround them and kill them.” The Hound thrust the point of his longsword into the ground and leaned upon the pommel, swaying. “I’ve lost half my men. Horse as well. I’m not taking more into that fire.”
　　Ser Mandon Moore moved to Tyrion’s side, immaculate in his enameled white plate. “The King’s Hand commands you.”
　　“Bugger the King’s Hand.” Where the Hound’s face was not sticky with blood, it was pale as milk. “Someone bring me a drink.” A gold cloak officer handed him a cup. Clegane took a swallow, spit it out, flung the cup away. “Water? Fuck your water. Bring me wine.”
　　He is dead on his feet. Tyrion could see it now. The wound, the fire . . . he’s done, I need to find someone else, but who? Ser Mandon? He looked at the men and knew it would not do. Clegane’s fear had shaken them. Without a leader, they would refuse as well, and Ser Mandon . . . a dangerous man, Jaime said, yes, but not a man other men would follow.
　　In the distance Tyrion heard another great crash. Above the walls, the darkening sky was awash with sheets of green and orange light. How long could the gate hold?
　　This is madness, he thought, but sooner madness than defeat. Defeat is death and shame. “Very well, I’ll lead the sortie.”
　　If he thought that would shame the Hound back to valor, he was wrong. Clegane only laughed. “You?”
　　Tyrion could see the disbelief on their faces. “Me. Ser Mandon, you’ll bear the king’s banner. Pod, my helm.” The boy ran to obey. The Hound leaned on that notched and blood-streaked sword and looked at him with those wide white eyes. Ser Mandon helped Tyrion mount up again. “Form up!” he shouted.
　　His big red stallion wore crinet and charnfron. Crimson silk draped his hindquarters, over a coat of mail. The high saddle was gilded. Podrik Payne handed up helm and shield, heavy oak emblazoned with a golden hand on red, surrounded by small golden lions. He walked his horse in a circle, looking at the little force of men. Only a handful had responded to his command, no more than twenty. They sat their horses with eyes as white as the Hound’s. He looked contemptuously at the others, the knights and sellswords who had ridden with Clegane. “They say I’m half a man,” he said. “What does that make the lot of you?”
　　That shamed them well enough. A knight mounted, helmetless, and rode to join the others. A pair of sellswords followed. Then more. The King’s Gate shuddered again. In a few moments the size of Tyrion’s command had doubled. He had them trapped. If I fight, they must do the same, or they are less than dwarfs.
　　“You won’t hear me shout out Joffrey’s name,” he told them. “You won’t hear me yell for Casterly Rock either. This is your city Stannis means to sack, and that’s your gate he’s bringing down. So come with me and kill the son of a bitch!” Tyrion unsheathed his axe, wheeled the stallion around, and trotted toward the sally port. He thought they were following, but never dared to look.


Ⅱ 列王的纷争 Chapter60 提利昂
　　他蹲在城垛上，如石像鬼般一动不动。烂泥门外，隔着曾为渔市和码头的废墟，河流上烈焰熊熊。史坦尼斯的舰队半数起火，乔佛里的绝大多数船只也在燃烧。野火的亲吻使神气的舰船化为葬礼的柴堆，把人变成活火炬。空中满是烟尘、箭矢和尖叫。
　　在下游的船长，不管出生高贵与否，都眼睁睁地看着木筏、驳轮和废船载着致命的绿色水果，顺着黑水河朝他们袭来。密尔舰船上长长的白色大桨像蜈蚣的脚一般疯狂摆动，奋力扭转方向，但无济于事。这些蜈蚣无路可逃。
　　城墙下燃起十几处大火，但沥青罐爆裂的威力与野火对比相形见绌，就好似燃烧的房子里点的蜡烛。它们那橙色和鲜红的光辉，在翡翠色的火祭大典前显得如此渺小。低矮的云层染上河流的颜色，深浅不一的绿覆盖天空。美得诡异，关得可怕，正如书中的龙焰。不知征服者伊耿在怒火燎原一役中凌空飞翔时，是否也有相同的感触。
　　热风掀起绯红披风，抽打到裸露的脸上，但他不想避开。他隐约意识到堡楼里的金袍卫士在欢呼，却无法出声加入。胜利只到手了一半。还不够。
　　又一艘塞满伊里斯国王的烂熟水果的驳轮被饥渴的火焰所吞没。一股翡翠色的喷泉从河面陡然升起，足有三四十尺高，爆炸的亮光使他不得不遮住眼睛。火焰在水面舞动，噼里啪啦，咝咝作响，盖过所有惨叫。河里成百上千满是人，要么被淹，要么着火，要么两者皆有。
　　你听见他们的惨叫吗，史坦尼斯？你看见他们在燃烧吗？这不仅出自我的计谋，更是由于你的愚蠢。提利昂知道，黑水河南岸沸腾的人群中，史坦尼斯正在观望。他没有哥哥劳勃对战斗的渴望，却有泰温·兰尼斯特公爵之风，习惯坐镇后方，指挥预备队。此刻他可能正在马背上，穿着明亮的甲胄，头戴王冠。那是顶赤金王冠，瓦里斯说过，边缘弄成火焰形状。
　　“我的船！”乔佛里在城墙过道上嘶哑地叫喊，他跟护卫们一齐挤在城垛后面，战盔上戴了一个代表国王身份的金环。“我的君临号烧起来了！还有瑟曦王后号和忠臣号。看，海花号也在燃烧，在那儿！”他用新剑戳指，绿焰舔食着海花号金色的船体，爬上船桨。船长紧急调头逆流规避，却逃不过野火的毒手。
　　她注定难逃一劫，提利昂心知肚明。别无他法。若不主动邀战，史坦尼斯就不会上钩。箭可以瞄准，矛可以挪移，甚至投石机也可以调校，但野火有自己的意愿，一旦出手，非人力所能控制。“没办法，”他告诉外甥，“无论如何，我们的舰队总会完蛋。”
　　即便在城垛上——他身体太矮，看不到外面，因此让人把他托上去——也只能看见浓烟烈火和一片混战，无法分辨确实的状况，但他脑海里早已操练过千百遍。当史坦尼斯的旗舰一经过红堡下方，他便发出信号，敦促波隆抽打牛群，驱赶它们行动。铁索极其沉重，所以巨大的绞盘转动很慢，同时吱吱嘎嘎发出轰鸣。当闪光的金属透过水面时，叛军的整个舰队应该都过去了。巨链将一环接一环冒出，滴滴答答淌水，有些还沾有亮晶晶的烂泥，直到整个绷紧。史坦尼斯将他的舰队驶进黑水河，却别想再出去。
　　但是，有些船得以逃脱。水流难以捉摸，野火不如他希望的那么散布均匀。确实，主河道化为一片火海，但不少密尔舰艇逃向南岸，有希望全身而退，还有至少八艘船已在城下登陆。不管顺利登陆还是失事搁浅，结果都一样，她们把人弄到了岸上。更糟的是，在废船起火前，敌军最前两个战列的左翼已突破防御，到达上游。这样估算，史坦尼斯大概还剩三四十艘战舰，一旦他们重拾勇气，足以将整个军团运过河。
　　那恐怕得花上一点时间——就算再勇敢的人，看到数以千计的袍泽被野火吞噬，也会感到恐慌。哈林说这种物质烧起来非常炽热，血肉将像油脂一样融化。即便如此……
　　提利昂对自己的人不存幻想。只要势头不妙，他们将即刻崩溃，逃之夭夭，杰斯林·拜瓦特警告过，因此获胜的惟一办法就是确保战斗从头至尾一直占上风。
　　他看见焦黑的码头废墟中一片黑压压的人影。是再度突击的时候了，他想。军队踉跄上岸时最为脆弱，不能给敌人在北岸集结的时间。
　　他翻下城垛。“告诉杰斯林大人，河边有敌情，”他对拜瓦特派来的其中一位传令兵说，然后转向另一个，“替我向亚耐德爵士致意，并让他将‘君临三妓’西转三十度。”虽不足封锁河面，至少能投得更远。
　　“母亲答应让我指挥‘君临三妓’，”乔佛里说。提利昂恼火地发现国王又将面甲掀了起来。这孩子无疑在厚重的钢甲里闷得够呛……但此刻他最不愿看到的就是一支流矢戳进外甥的眼睛。
　　他“咣”一声拉下面甲。“别掀起来，陛下，您的安全对大家弥足珍贵。”你不想毁掉这张漂亮脸蛋吧。“如您所愿，‘君临三妓’就由您指挥。”暂时还不要紧，往燃烧的舰船上扔东西没什么意义。先前，小乔已叫人把“鹿角民”们扒光衣服绑在下方广场，一个个头钉鹿角。当初御前审判，他发誓要把他们送还史坦尼斯。人没有巨石或沥青桶那么重，肯定投得更远，金袍子们还为此下注，争论那些叛徒会不会直接飞越黑水河。“速战速决，陛下，”他告诉乔佛里，“很快我们又需要投石机来扔石头。野火也有燃尽之时。”
　　乔佛里高高兴兴地快步离开，马林爵士随侍在旁，奥斯蒙爵士准备跟进时，提利昂扣住他手腕。“无论发生什么，保护他的安全，并让他待在那儿，明白？”
　　“遵命。”奥斯蒙爵士和蔼地微笑。
　　提利昂早警告过特兰和凯特布莱克，若国王有个万一，等待他们的是什么下场。除了他俩，还有十二名资深金袍子在阶梯下准备护送乔佛里。我尽全力保护你肮脏的杂种，瑟曦，他苦涩地想，你能同样对待爱拉雅雅吗？
　　小乔离开不久，一个传令兵气喘吁吁地登上阶梯。“大人，快！”他单膝跪地，“他们在比武场登陆了数百人！带着攻城锤往国王门去了。”
　　提利昂一边咒骂，一边高低不稳、摇摇晃晃地爬下阶梯。波德瑞克·派恩牵马等在下面。上马后，他二话不说，沿着临河道疾驰，波德和曼登·穆尔爵士拼力跟上。家家门户紧闭，房屋被绿影笼罩，路上人马皆无，提利昂早已下令清空街道，以便守军在各城门间快速调度。即使如此，赶到国王门时，已能听见木头受撞的轰鸣，无疑攻城锤投入了战斗。巨大的铰链吱嘎作响，好似垂死巨人的呻吟。门前广场布满伤兵，但马匹排了几列，其中不少并未带伤，幸存的佣兵和金袍子足以组成一支强大的队伍。“全体整队！”他大喊着跳下马。城门在又一波冲击下摇晃。“这里谁负责？他妈的给我冲出去！”
　　“不行，”城墙的阴影里冒出一个阴影。身穿烟灰色盔甲的大个子桑铎·克里冈双手扯下头盔，扔到地上。狰狞的狗头盔焦黑变形，右耳已被削掉。猎狗一只眼睛上方正在淌血，流过他旧时的灼伤疤痕，遮住半边脸。
　　“必须去！”提利昂直视对方。
　　克里冈呼吸粗浊，“去你妈的。”
　　一名佣兵走上前。“我们出击过，大人。一共打了三次，伤亡了一半。四处是席卷的野火，马嘶得像人，人叫得像马——”
　　“你以为我雇你们来参加比武大会？想来杯可口的冰牛奶，外加一碗果莓？啊哈？他妈的快给我上马！你也一样，猎狗。”
　　克里冈脸上的鲜血闪着红光，眼睛却是惨白。他缓缓拔出长剑。
　　他在害怕，提利昂震惊地意识到，猎狗在害怕！他转而解释紧迫的形势：“你竖起耳朵听一听，他们把攻城锤抬到了城门口，必须阻止他们——”
　　“把门打开，让他们进来，然后围起来杀掉。”猎狗将长剑插入地面，倚在剑柄上，身体摇摇晃晃。“我已经损失了一半部下，马匹也所剩不多，不能把整队人都葬送在烈火里。”
　　身穿釉彩白甲的曼登·穆尔爵士走到提利昂身边，打扮得洁白无瑕。“你必须执行御前首相的命令。”
　　“去你妈的御前首相，”猎狗半边脸黏乎乎地全是血，另外一半却比牛奶还苍白，“给我拿点喝的！”一名金袍子的军官递上一个杯子。克里冈喝了一口便即吐掉，反手把杯子摔出去。“水？操你妈的水！拿酒来！”
　　他不行了，提利昂只能面对现实，这伤，这火……他不行了，我得找别人带队。谁上？曼登爵士？他扫视众人，知道这行不通。克里冈的恐惧动摇了军心，若无人出面，人人都会怯阵，可曼登爵士……诚如詹姆所言，是个危险角色，却不能赢得人心。
　　远处又传来一声巨大的撞击。城墙上方，黑暗的天空泛着翡翠和橙色的光晕。城门能坚持多久？
　　真是疯了，他想，但发疯总比失败好。失败意味着死亡和耻辱。“很好，我来带领突击。”
　　若他以为如此便能令猎狗知耻而后勇，那就错了。克里冈只是哈哈大笑：“你？”
　　提利昂看到众人脸上的怀疑。“是的，我。曼登爵士，由你执掌国王的旗帜。波德，我的头盔。”男孩跑去执行命令。猎狗靠在那柄满是豁口、血迹斑斑的长剑上，睁大苍白的眼睛望着他。曼登爵士扶提利昂重新上马。“全体整队！”他高喊。
　　他的大红马戴着颈甲和护面，绯红丝幔罩住后半身，底衬一袭锁甲，高高的马鞍镀了金。波德瑞克·派恩递上头盔和盾牌，盾牌由橡木制成，以红色为底，装饰着金狮环绕金手的图案。他策马兜圈，看着场子里的人马。只有少数人响应，未过二十，他们坐在马上，苍白的眼睛与猎狗无异。他轻蔑地看着其他人，那些克里冈麾下的骑士和佣兵。“你们说我是个半人，”他道，“那你们这些‘完人’比我多出了什么？”
　　这话大大羞辱了他们。有位骑士不戴头盔便上马加入，两个佣兵一声不吭地跟进。人越来越多。其间国王门又抖了一下。不一会儿，提利昂的队伍翻了一番。他用言语套住了他们。我上战场，你们就得跟上，否则就是自认不如侏儒。
　　“我不会高呼乔佛里万岁，”他告诉他们，“也不会高呼凯岩城万岁。史坦尼斯要洗劫的是你们的城市，要撞开的是你们的城门。跟我一起来，宰了这狗杂种！！”提利昂拔出战斧，拨转马头，朝突击口冲去。他认为他们跟了过来，却始终不敢回头。
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等级: 内阁元老
配偶: 逐烟霞。
你看着眼前的人，分明还是以前的模样，可心里终究不是以前那般澄清透明了。
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Chapter 58

　　CHAPTER 58
　　DAVOS
　　Blackwater Bay was rough and choppy, whitecaps everywhere. Black Betha rode the flood tide, her sail cracking and snapping at each shift of wind. Wraith and Lady Marya sailed beside her, no more than twenty yards between their hulls. His sons could keep a line. Davos took pride in that.
　　Across the sea warhorns boomed, deep throaty moans like the calls of monstrous serpents, repeated ship to ship. “Bring down the sail,” Davos commanded. “Lower mast. Oarsmen to your oars.” His son Matthos relayed the commands. The deck of Black Betha churned as crewmen ran to their tasks, pushing through the soldiers who always seemed to be in the way no matter where they stood. Ser Imry had decreed that they would enter the river on oars alone, so as not to expose their sails to the scorpions and spitfires on the walls of King’s Landing.
　　Davos could make out Fury well to the southeast, her sails shimmering golden as they came down, the crowned stag of Baratheon blazoned on the canvas. From her decks Stannis Baratheon had commanded the assault on Dragonstone sixteen years before, but this time he had chosen to ride with his army, trusting Fury and the command of his fleet to his wife’s brother Ser Imry, who’d come over to his cause at Storm’s End with Lord Alester and all the other Florents.
　　Davos knew Fury as well as he knew his own ships. Above her three hundred oars was a deck given over wholly to scorpions, and topside she mounted catapults fore and aft, large enough to fling barrels of burning pitch. A most formidable ship, and very swift as well, although Ser Irnry had packed her bow to stern with armored knights and men-at-arms, at some cost to her speed.
　　The warhorns sounded again, commands drifting back from the Fury. Davos felt a tingle in his missing fingertips. “Out oars,” he shouted. “Form line.” A hundred blades dipped down into the water as the oarmaster’s drum began to boom. The sound was like the beating of a great slow heart, and the oars moved at every stroke, a hundred men pulling as one.
　　Wooden wings had sprouted from the Wraith and Lady Marya as well. The three galleys kept pace, their blades churning the water. “Slow cruise,” Davos called. Lord Velaryon’s silver-hulled Pride of Driftmark had moved into her position to port of Wraith, and Bold Laughter was coming up fast, but Harridan was only now getting her oars into the water and Seahorse was still struggling to bring down her mast. Davos looked astern. Yes, there, far to the south, that could only be Swordfish, lagging as ever. She dipped two hundred oars and mounted the largest ram in the fleet, though Davos had grave doubts about her captain.
　　He could hear soldiers shouting encouragement to each other across the water. They’d been little more than ballast since Storm’s End, and were eager to get at the foe, confident of victory. In that, they were of one mind with their admiral, Lord High Captain Ser Imry Florent.
　　Three days past, he had summoned all his captains to a war council aboard the Fury while the fleet lay anchored at the mouth of the Wendwater, in order to acquaint them with his dispositions. Davos and his sons had been assigned a place in the second line of battle, well out on the dangerous starboard wing. “A place of honor,” Allard had declared, well satisfied with the chance to prove his valor. “A place of peril,” his father had pointed out. His sons had given him pitying looks, even young Maric. The Onion Knight has become an old woman, he could hear them thinking, still a smuggler at heart.
　　Well, the last was true enough, he would make no apologies for it. Seaworth had a lordly ring to it, but down deep he was still Davos of Flea Bottom, coming home to his city on its three high hills. He knew as much of ships and sails and shores as any man in the Seven Kingdoms, and had fought his share of desperate fights sword to sword on a wet deck. But to this sort of battle he came a maiden, nervous and afraid. Smugglers do not sound warhorns and raise banners. When they smell danger, they raise sail and run before the wind.
　　Had he been admiral, he might have done it all differently. For a start, he would have sent a few of his swiftest ships to probe upriver and see what awaited them, instead of smashing in headlong. When he had suggested as much to Ser Imry, the Lord High Captain had thanked him courteously, but his eyes were not as polite. Who is this lowborn craven? those eyes asked. Is he the one who bought his knighthood with an onion?
　　With four times as many ships as the boy king, Ser Imry saw no need for caution or deceptive tactics. He had organized the fleet into ten lines of battle, each of twenty ships. The first two lines would sweep up the river to engage and destroy Joffrey’s little fleet, or “the boy’s toys” as Ser Imry dubbed them, to the mirth of his lordly captains. Those that followed would land companies of archers and spearmen beneath the city walls, and only then join the fight on the river. The smaller, slower ships to the rear would ferry over the main part of Stannis’s host from the south bank, protected by Salladhor Saan and his Lyseni, who would stand out in the bay in case the Lannisters had other ships hidden up along the coast, poised to sweep down on their rear.
　　To be fair, there was reason for Ser Imry’s haste. The winds had not used them kindly on the voyage up from Storm’s End. They had lost two cogs to the rocks of Shipbreaker Bay on the very day they set sail, a poor way to begin. One of the Myrish galleys had foundered in the Straits of Tarth, and a storm had overtaken them as they were entering the Gullet, scattering the fleet across half the narrow sea. All but twelve ships had finally regrouped behind the sheltering spine of Massey’s Hook, in the calmer waters of Blackwater Bay, but not before they had lost considerable time. Stannis would have reached the Rush days ago. The kingsroad ran from Storm’s End straight to King’s Landing, a much shorter route than by sea, and his host was largely mounted; near twenty thousand knights, light horse, and freeriders, Renly’s unwilling legacy to his brother. They would have made good time, but armored destriers and twelve-foot lances would avail them little against the deep waters of the Blackwater Rush and the high stone walls of the city. Stannis would be camped with his lords on the south bank of the river, doubtless seething with impatience and wondering what Ser Imry had done with his fleet.
　　Off Merling Rock two days before, they had sighted a half-dozen fishing skiffs. The fisherfolk had fled before them, but one by one they had been overtaken and boarded. “A small spoon of victory is just the thing to settle the stomach before battle,” Ser Imry had declared happily. “It makes the men hungry for a larger helping.” But Davos had been more interested in what the captives had to say about the defenses at King’s Landing. The dwarf had been busy building some sort of boom to close off the mouth of the river, though the fishermen differed as to whether the work had been completed or not. He found himself wishing it had. If the river was closed to them, Ser Imry would have no choice but to pause and take stock.
　　The sea was full of sound: shouts and calls, warhorns and drums and the trill of pipes, the slap of wood on water as thousands of oars rose and fell. “Keep line,” Davos shouted. A gust of wind tugged at his old green cloak. A jerkin of boiled leather and a pothelm at his feet were his only armor. At sea, heavy steel was as like to cost a man his life as to save it, he believed. Ser Imry and the other highborn captains did not share his view; they glittered as they paced their decks.
　　Harridan and Seahorse had slipped into their places now, and Lord Celtigar’s Red Claw beyond them. To starboard of Allard’s Lady Marya were the three galleys that Stannis had seized from the unfortunate Lord Sunglass, Piety, Prayer, and Devotion, their decks crawling with archers. Even Swordfish was closing, lumbering and rolling through a thickening sea under both oars and sail. A ship of that many oars ought to be much faster, Davos reflected with disapproval. It’s that ram she carries, it’s too big, she has no balance.
　　The wind was gusting from the south, but under oars it made no matter. They would be sweeping in on the flood tide, but the Lannisters would have the river current to their favor, and the Blackwater Rush flowed strong and swift where it met the sea. The first shock would inevitably favor the foe. We are fools to meet them on the Blackwater, Davos thought. In any encounter on the open sea, their battle lines would envelop the enemy fleet on both flanks, driving them inward to destruction. On the river, though, the numbers and weight of Ser Imry’s ships would count for less. They could not dress more than twenty ships abreast, lest they risk tangling their oars and colliding with each other.
　　Beyond the line of warships, Davos could see the Red Keep up on Aegon’s High Hill, dark against a lemon sky, with the mouth of the Rush opening out below. Across the river the south shore was black with men and horses, stirring like angry ants as they caught sight of the approaching ships. Stannis would have kept them busy building rafts and fletching arrows, yet even so the waiting would have been a hard thing to bear. Trumpets sounded from among them, tiny and brazen, soon swallowed by the roar of a thousand shouts. Davos closed his stubby hand around the pouch that held his fingerbones, and mouthed a silent prayer for luck.
　　Fury herself would center the first line of battle, flanked by the Lord Steffon and the Stag of the Sea, each of two hundred oars. On the port and starboard wings were the hundreds: Lady Harra, Brightfish, Laughing Lord, Sea Demon, Horned Honor, Ragged Jenna, Trident Three, Swift Sword, Princess Rhaenys, Dog’s Nose, Sceptre, Faithful, Red Raven, Queen Alysanne, Cat, Courageous, and Dragonsbane. From every stern streamed the fiery heart of the Lord of Light, red and yellow and orange. Behind Davos and his sons came another line of hundreds commanded by knights and lordly captains, and then the smaller, slower Myrish contingent, none dipping more than eighty oars. Farther back would come the sailed ships, carracks and lumbering great cogs, and last of all Salladhor Saan in his proud Valyrian, a towering three-hundred, paced by the rest of his galleys with their distinctive striped hulls. The flamboyant Lyseni princeling had not been pleased to be assigned the rear guard, but it was clear that Ser Imry trusted him no more than Stannis did. Too many complaints, and too much talk of the gold he was owed. Davos was sorry nonetheless. Salladhor Saan was a resourceful old pirate, and his crews were born seamen, fearless in a fight. They were wasted in the rear.
　　Ahooooooooooooooooooooooooo. The call rolled across whitecaps and churning oars from the forecastle of the Fury: Ser Imry was sounding the attack. Ahoooooooooooooooooooo, ahooooooooooooooooooooo.
　　Swordfish had joined the line at last, though she still had her sail raised. “Fast cruise,” Davos barked. The drum began to beat more quickly, and the stroke picked up, the blades of the oars cutting water, splash-swoosh, splash-swoosh, splash-swoosh. On deck, soldiers banged sword against shield, while archers quietly strung their bows and pulled the first arrow from the quivers at their belts. The galleys of the first line of battle obscured his vision, so Davos paced the deck searching for a better view. He saw no sign of any boom; the mouth of the river was open, as if to swallow them all. Except . . .
　　In his smuggling days, Davos had often jested that he knew the waterfront at King’s Landing a deal better than the back of his hand, since he had not spent a good part of his life sneaking in and out of the back of his hand. The squat towers of raw new stone that stood opposite one another at the mouth of the Blackwater might mean nothing to Ser Irnry Florent, but to him it was as if two extra fingers had sprouted from his knuckles.
　　Shading his eyes against the westering sun, he peered at those towers more closely. They were too small to hold much of a garrison. The one on the north bank was built against the bluff with the Red Keep frowning above; its counterpart on the south shore had its footing in the water. They dug a cut through the bank, he knew at once. That would make the tower very difficult to assault; attackers would need to wade through the water or bridge the little channel. Stannis had posted bowmen below, to fire up at the defenders whenever one was rash enough to lift his head above the ramparts, but otherwise had not troubled.
　　Something flashed down low where the dark water swirled around the base of the tower. It was sunlight on steel, and it told Davos Seaworth all he needed to know. A chain boom . . . and yet they have not closed the river against us. Why?
　　He could make a guess at that as well, but there was no time to consider the question. A shout went up from the ships ahead, and the warhorns blew again: the enemy was before them. Between the flashing oars of Sceptre and Faithful, Davos saw a thin line of galleys drawn across the river, the sun glinting off the gold paint that marked their hulls. He knew those ships as well as he knew his own. When he had been a smuggler, he’d always felt safer knowing whether the sail on the horizon marked a fast ship or a slow one, and whether her captain was a young man hungry for glory or an old one serving out his days.
　　Ahooooooooooooooooooooooooooo, the warhorns called. “Battle speed,” Davos shouted. On port and starboard he heard Dale and Allard giving the same command. Drums began to beat furiously, oars rose and fell, and Black Betha surged forward. When he glanced toward Wraith, Dale gave him a salute. Swordfish was lagging once more, wallowing in the wake of the smaller ships to either side; elsewise the line was straight as a shield wall.
　　The river that had seemed so narrow from a distance now stretched wide as a sea, but the city had grown gigantic as well. Glowering down from Aegon’s High Hill, the Red Keep commanded the approaches. Its iron-crowned battlements, massive towers, and thick red walls gave it the aspect of a ferocious beast hunched above river and streets. The bluffs on which it crouched were steep and rocky, spotted with lichen and gnarled thorny trees. The fleet would have to pass below the castle to reach the harbor and city beyond.
　　The first line was in the river now, but the enemy galleys were backing water. They mean to draw us in. They want us jammed close, constricted, no way to sweep around their flanks . . . and with that boom behind us. He paced his deck, craning his neck for a better look at Joffrey’s fleet. The boy’s toys included the ponderous Godsgrace, he saw, the old slow Prince Aemon, the Lady of Silk and her sister Lady’s Shame, Wildwind, Kingslander, White Hart, Lance, Seaflower. But where was the Lionstar? Where was the beautiful Lady Lyanna that King Robert had named in honor of the maid he’d loved and lost? And where was King Robert’s Hammer? She was the largest war galley in the royal fleet, four hundred oars, the only warship the boy king owned capable of overmatching Fury. By rights she should have formed the heart of any defense.
　　Davos tasted a trap, yet he saw no sign of any foes sweeping in behind them, only the great fleet of Stannis Baratheon in their ordered ranks, stretching back to the watery horizon. Will they raise the chain and cut us in two? He could not see what good that would serve. The ships left out in the bay could still land men north of the city; a slower crossing, but safer.
　　A flight of flickering orange birds took wing from the castle, twenty or thirty of them; pots of burning pitch, arcing out over the river trailing threads of flame. The waters ate most, but a few found the decks of galleys in the first line of battle, spreading flame when they shattered. Men-at-arms were scrambling on Queen Alysanne’s deck, and he could see smoke rising from three different spots on Dragonsbane, nearest the bank. By then a second flight was on its way, and arrows were falling as well, hissing down from the archers’ nests that studded the towers above. A soldier tumbled over Cat’s gunwale, crashed off the oars, and sank. The first man to die today, Davos thought, but he will not be the last.
　　Atop the Red Keep’s battlements streamed the boy king’s banners: the crowned stag of Baratheon on its gold field, the lion of Lannister on crimson. More pots of pitch came flying. Davos heard men shriek as fire spread across Courageous. Her oarsmen were safe below, protected from missiles by the half deck that sheltered them, but the men-at-arms crowded topside were not so fortunate. The starboard wing was taking all the damage, as he had feared. It will be our turn soon, he reminded himself, uneasy. Black Betha was well in range of the firepots, being the sixth ship out from the north bank. To starboard, she had only Allard’s Lady Marya, the ungainly Swordfish—so far behind now that she was nearer the third line than the second—and Piety, Prayer, and Devotion, who would need all the godly intervention they could get, placed as vulnerably as they were.
　　As the second line swept past the twin towers, Davos took a closer look. He could see three links of a huge chain snaking out from a hole no bigger than a man’s head and disappearing under the water. The towers had a single door, set a good twenty feet off the ground. Bowmen on the roof of the northern tower were firing down at Prayer and Devotion. The archers on Devotion fired back, and Davos heard a man scream as the arrows found him.
　　“Captain ser.” His son Matthos was at his elbow. “Your helm.” Davos took it with both hands and slid it over his head. The pothelm was visorless; he hated having his vision impeded.
　　By then the pitch pots were raining down around them. He saw one shatter on the deck of Lady Marya, but Allard’s crew quickly beat it out. To port, warhorns sounded from the Pride of Driftmark. The oars flung up sprays of water with every stroke. The yard-long shaft of a scorpion came down not two feet from Matthos and sank into the wood of the deck, thrumming. Ahead, the first line was within bowshot of the enemy; flights of arrows flew between the ships, hissing like striking snakes.
　　South of the Blackwater, Davos saw men dragging crude rafts toward the water while ranks and columns formed up beneath a thousand streaming banners. The fiery heart was everywhere, though the tiny black stag imprisoned in the flames was too small to make out. We should be flying the crowned stag, he thought. The stag was King Robert’s sigil, the city would rejoice to see it. This stranger’s standard serves only to set men against us.
　　He could not behold the fiery heart without thinking of the shadow Melisandre had birthed in the gloom beneath Storm’s End. At least we fight this battle in the light, with the weapons of honest men, he told himself. The red woman and her dark children would have no part of it. Stannis had shipped her back to Dragonstone with his bastard nephew Edric Storm. His captains and bannermen had insisted that a battlefield was no place for a woman. Only the queen’s men had dissented, and then not loudly. All the same, the king had been on the point of refusing them until Lord Bryce Caron said, “Your Grace, if the sorceress is with us, afterward men will say it was her victory, not yours. They will say you owe your crown to her spells.” That had turned the tide. Davos himself had held his tongue during the arguments, but if truth be told, he had not been sad to see the back of her. He wanted no part of Melisandre or her god.
　　To starboard, Devotion drove toward shore, sliding out a plank. Archers scrambled into the shallows, holding their bows high over their heads to keep the strings dry. They splashed ashore on the narrow strand beneath the bluffs. Rocks came bouncing down from the castle to crash among them, and arrows and spears as well, but the angle was steep and the missiles seemed to do little damage. Prayer landed two dozen yards upstream and Piety was slanting toward the bank when the defenders came pounding down the riverside, the hooves of their warhorses sending up gouts of water from the shallows. The knights fell among the archers like wolves among chickens, driving them back toward the ships and into the river before most could notch an arrow. Men-at-arms rushed to defend them with spear and axe, and in three heartbeats the scene had turned to blood-soaked chaos. Davos recognized the dog’s-head helm of the Hound. A white cloak streamed from his shoulders as he rode his horse up the plank onto the deck of Prayer, hacking down anyone who blundered within reach.
　　Beyond the castle, King’s Landing rose on its hills behind the encircling walls. The riverfront was a blackened desolation; the Lannisters had burned everything and pulled back within the Mud Gate. The charred spars of sunken hulks sat in the shallows, forbidding access to the long stone quays. We shall have no landing there. He could see the tops of three huge trebuchets behind the Mud Gate. High on Visenya’s Hill, sunlight blazed off the seven crystal towers of the Great Sept of Baelor.
　　Davos never saw the battle joined, but he heard it; a great rending crash as two galleys came together. He could not say which two. Another impact echoed over the water an instant later, and then a third. Beneath the screech of splintering wood, he heard the deep thrum-thump of the Fury’s fore catapult. Stag of the Sea split one of Joffrey’s galleys clean in two, but Dog’s Nose was afire and Queen Alysanne was locked between Lady of Silk and Lady’s Shame, her crew fighting the boarders rail-to-rail.
　　Directly ahead, Davos saw the enemy’s Kingslander drive between Faithful and Sceptre. The former slid her starboard oars out of the way before impact, but Sceptre’s portside oars snapped like so much kindling as Kingslander raked along her side. “Loose,” Davos commanded, and his bowmen sent a withering rain of shafts across the water. He saw Kingslander’s captain fall, and tried to recall the man’s name.
　　Ashore, the arms of the great trebuchets rose one, two, three, and a hundred stones climbed high into the yellow sky. Each one was as large as a man’s head; when they fell they sent up great gouts of water, smashed through oak planking, and turned living men into bone and pulp and gristle. All across the river the first line was engaged. Grappling hooks were flung out, iron rams crashed through wooden hulls, boarders swarmed, flights of arrows whispered through each other in the drifting smoke, and men died . . . but so far, none of his.
　　Black Betha swept upriver, the sound of her oarmaster’s drum thundering in her captain’s head as he looked for a likely victim for her ram. The beleaguered Queen Alysanne was trapped between two Lannister warships, the three made fast by hooks and lines.
　　“Ramming speed!” Davos shouted.
　　The drumbeats blurred into a long fevered hammering, and Black Betha flew, the water turning white as milk as it parted for her prow. Allard had seen the same chance; Lady Marya ran beside them. The first line had been transformed into a confusion of separate struggles. The three tangled ships loomed ahead, turning, their decks a red chaos as men hacked at each other with sword and axe. A little more, Davos Seaworth beseeched the Warrior, bring her around a little more, show me her broadside.
　　The Warrior must have been listening. Black Betha and Lady Marya slammed into the side of Lady’s Shame within an instant of each other, ramming her fore and aft with such force that men were thrown off the deck of Lady of Silk three boats away. Davos almost bit his tongue off when his teeth jarred together. He spat out blood. Next time close your mouth, you fool. Forty years at sea, and yet this was the first time he’d rammed another ship. His archers were loosing arrows at will.
　　“Back water,” he commanded. When Black Betha reversed her oars, the river rushed into the splintered hole she left, and Lady’s Shame fell to pieces before his eyes, spilling dozens of men into the river. Some of the living swam; some of the dead floated; the ones in heavy mail and plate sank to the bottom, the quick and the dead alike. The pleas of drowning men echoed in his ears.
　　A flash of green caught his eye, ahead and off to port, and a nest of writhing emerald serpents rose burning and hissing from the stern of Queen Alysanne. An instant later Davos heard the dread cry of “Wildfire!”
　　He grimaced. Burning pitch was one thing, wildfire quite another. Evil stuff, and well-nigh unquenchable. Smother it under a cloak and the cloak took fire; slap at a fleck of it with your palm and your hand was aflame. “Piss on wildfire and your cock burns off,” old seamen liked to say. Still, Ser Imry had warned them to expect a taste of the alchemists’ vile substance. Fortunately, there were few true pyromancers left. They will soon run out, Ser Imry had assured them.
　　Davos reeled off commands; one bank of oars pushed off while the other backed water, and the galley came about. Lady Marya had won clear too, and a good thing; the fire was spreading over Queen Alysanne and her foes faster than he would have believed possible. Men wreathed in green flame leapt into the water, shrieking like nothing human. On the walls of King’s Landing, spitfires were belching death, and the great trebuchets behind the Mud Gate were throwing boulders. One the size of an ox crashed down between Black Betha and Wraith, rocking both ships and soaking every man on deck. Another, not much smaller, found Bold Laughter. The Velaryon galley exploded like a child’s toy dropped from a tower, spraying splinters as long as a man’s arm.
　　Through black smoke and swirling green fire, Davos glimpsed a swarm of small boats bearing downriver: a confusion of ferries and wherries, barges, skiffs, rowboats, and hulks that looked too rotten to float. It stank of desperation; such driftwood could not turn the tide of a fight, only get in the way. The lines of battle were hopelessly ensnarled, he saw. Off to port, Lord Steffon, Ragged fenna, and Swift Sword had broken through and were sweeping upriver. The starboard wing was heavily engaged, however, and the center had shattered under the stones of those trebuchets, some captains turning downstream, others veering to port, anything to escape that crushing rain. Fury had swung her aft catapult to fire back at the city, but she lacked the range; the barrels of pitch were shattering under the walls. Sceptre had lost most of her oars, and Faithful had been rammed and was starting to list. He took Black Betha between them, and struck a glancing blow at Queen Cersei’s ornate carved-and-gilded pleasure barge, laden with soldiers instead of sweetmeats now. The collision spilled a dozen of them into the river, where Betha’s archers picked them off as they tried to stay afloat. Matthos’s shout alerted him to the danger from port; one of the Lannister galleys was coming about to ram. “Hard to starboard,” Davos shouted. His men used their oars to push free of the barge, while others turned the galley so her prow faced the onrushing White Hart. For a moment he feared he’d been too slow, that he was about to be sunk, but the current helped swing Black Betha, and when the impact came it was only a glancing blow, the two hulls scraping against each other, both ships snapping oars. A jagged piece of wood flew past his head, sharp as any spear. Davos flinched. “Board her!” he shouted. Grappling lines were flung. He drew his sword and led them over the rail himself.
　　The crew of the White Hart met them at the rail, but Black Betha’s men-at-arms swept over them in a screaming steel tide. Davos fought through the press, looking for the other captain, but the man was dead before he reached him. As he stood over the body, someone caught him from behind with an axe, but his helm turned the blow, and his skull was left ringing when it might have been split. Dazed, it was all he could do to roll. His attacker charged screaming. Davos grasped his sword in both hands and drove it up point first into the man’s belly.
　　One of his crewmen pulled him back to his feet. “Captain ser, the Hart is ours.” It was true, Davos saw. Most of the enemy were dead, dying, or yielded. He took off his helm, wiped blood from his face, and made his way back to his own ship, trodding carefully on boards slimy with men’s guts. Matthos lent him a hand to help him back over the rail.
　　For those few instants, Black Betha and White Hart were the calm eye in the midst of the storm. Queen Alysanne and Lady of Silk, still locked together, were a ranging green inferno, drifting downriver and dragging pieces of Lady’s Shame. One of the Myrish galleys had slammed into them and was now afire as well. Cat was taking on men from the fastsinking Courageous. The captain of Dragonsbane had driven her between two quays, ripping out her bottom; her crew poured ashore with the archers and men-at-arms to join the assault on the walls. Red Raven, rammed, was slowly listing. Stag of the Sea was fighting fires and boarders both, but the fiery heart had been raised over Joffrey’s Loyal Man. Fury, her proud bow smashed in by a boulder, was engaged with Godsgrace. He saw Lord Velaryon’s Pride of Driftmark crash between two Lannister river runners, overturning one and lighting the other up with fire arrows. On the south bank, knights were leading their mounts aboard the cogs, and some of the smaller galleys were already making their way across, laden with men-at-arms. They had to thread cautiously between sinking ships and patches of drifting wildfire. The whole of King Stannis’s fleet was in the river now, save for Salladhor Saan’s Lyseni. Soon enough they would control the Blackwater. Ser Imry will have his victory, Davos thought, and Stannis will bring his host across, but gods be good, the cost of this . . .
　　“Captain ser!” Matthos touched his shoulder.
　　It was Swordfish, her two banks of oars lifting and falling. She had never brought down her sails, and some burning pitch had caught in her rigging. The flames spread as Davos watched, creeping out over ropes and sails until she trailed a head of yellow flame. Her ungainly iron ram, fashioned after the likeness of the fish from which she took her name, parted the surface of the river before her. Directly ahead, drifting toward her and swinging around to present a tempting plump target, was one of the Lannister hulks, floating low in the water. Slow green blood was leaking out between her boards.
　　When he saw that, Davos Seaworth’s heart stopped beating.
　　“No,” he said. “No, NOOOOOOOO!” Above the roar and crash of battle, no one heard him but Matthos. Certainly the captain of the Swordfish did not, intent as he was on finally spearing something with his ungainly fat sword. The Swordfish went to battle speed. Davos lifted his maimed hand to clutch at the leather pouch that held his fingerbones.
　　With a grinding, splintering, tearing crash, Swordfish split the rotted hulk asunder. She burst like an overripe fruit, but no fruit had ever screamed that shattering wooden scream. From inside her Davos saw green gushing from a thousand broken jars, poison from the entrails of a dying beast, glistening, shining, spreading across the surface of the river . . .
　　“Back water,” he roared. “Away. Get us off her, back water, back water!” The grappling lines were cut, and Davos felt the deck move under his feet as Black Betha pushed free of White Hart. Her oars slid down into the water.
　　Then he heard a short sharp woof, as if someone had blown in his ear. Half a heartbeat later came the roar. The deck vanished beneath him, and black water smashed him across the face, filling his nose and mouth. He was choking, drowning. Unsure which way was up, Davos wrestled the river in blind panic until suddenly he broke the surface. He spat out water, sucked in air, grabbed hold of the nearest chunk of debris, and held on.
　　Swordfish and the hulk were gone, blackened bodies were floating downstream beside him, and choking men clinging to bits of smoking wood. Fifty feet high, a swirling demon of green flame danced upon the river. It had a dozen hands, in each a whip, and whatever they touched burst into fire. He saw Black Betha burning, and White Hart and Loyal Man to either side. Piety, Cat, Courageous, Sceptre, Red Raven, Harridan, Faithful, Fury, they had all gone up, Kingslander and Godsgrace as well, the demon was eating his own. Lord Velaryon’s shining Pride of Driftmark was trying to turn, but the demon ran a lazy green finger across her silvery oars and they flared up like so many tapers. For an instant she seemed to be stroking the river with two banks of long bright torches.
　　The current had him in its teeth by then, spinning him around and around. He kicked to avoid a floating patch of wildfire. My sons, Davos thought, but there was no way to look for them amidst the roaring chaos. Another hulk heavy with wildfire went up behind him. The Blackwater itself seemed to boil in its bed, and burning spars and burning men and pieces of broken ships filled the air.
　　I’m being swept out into the bay. It wouldn’t be as bad there; he ought to be able to make shore, he was a strong swimmer. Salladhor Saan’s galleys would be out in the bay as well, Ser Imry had commanded them to stand off . . .
　　And then the current turned him about again, and Davos saw what awaited him downstream.
　　The chain. Gods save us, they’ve raised the chain.
　　Where the river broadened out into Blackwater Bay, the boom stretched taut, a bare two or three feet above the water. Already a dozen galleys had crashed into it, and the current was pushing others against them. Almost all were aflame, and the rest soon would be. Davos could make out the striped hulls of Salladhor Saan’s ships beyond, but he knew he would never reach them. A wall of red-hot steel, blazing wood, and swirling green flame stretched before him. The mouth of the Blackwater Rush had turned into the mouth of hell.



Ⅱ 列王的纷争 Chapter59 戴佛斯
　　黑水湾内波涛汹涌，浊浪滔天。
　　黑贝丝号随着满潮前进，变换无常的风将帆吹得咯啦作晌。海灵号和玛瑞亚夫人号分居两侧，船与船的间隔不超过二十码。看来儿子们已学会保持战列，戴佛斯为此深感自豪。
　　隆隆的战号穿越海面，啸叫嘶哑深沉，犹如魔鬼的呼唤，船船相传。“收帆，”戴佛斯命令，“降桅。桨手就位。”儿子马索斯传令下去。船员们匆忙跑上岗位，推开舰上站立的士兵——每到此刻，他们总显得碍手碍脚——黑贝丝号的甲板一片忙碌。先前伊姆瑞爵士宣布入河后只准用桨，以免君临城上的弩炮和喷火弩发动攻击，引燃船帆。
　　戴佛斯往东南望去，凝视着怒火号的身影。她的船帆闪着金光，帆布纹饰了拜拉席恩家族的宝冠雄鹿。十六年前，史坦尼斯·拜拉席恩正是站在她的甲板上，率领舰队攻打龙石岛；这一次，他决定随陆军前进，将怒火号和舰队指挥权交给大舅子伊姆瑞爵士，此人在风息堡下随艾利斯特伯爵与佛罗伦家族一起投效。
　　对怒火号，戴佛斯几乎跟自己的船一般熟悉。她有三百支桨，甲板两边布满弩炮，船头和船尾各放置一座投石机，用来投掷燃烧的沥青桶。她不仅令人望而生畏，而且十分敏捷迅速。然而伊姆瑞爵士却让她的甲板挤满装甲骑士和步兵，白白浪费了她的速度。
　　号声再度响起，怒火号上传出指令。戴佛斯感到消失的指尖一阵麻痒。“下桨，”他叫道，“成列。”一百片桨叶同时入水，桨官轰隆击鼓。鼓声犹如硕大而和缓的心跳，每敲一下，桨动一分，百人一体，整齐划一。
　　海灵号和玛瑞亚夫人号也同时展开木翅膀，三舰速度一致，叶刃搅拌黑水。“减速，”戴佛斯高喊。瓦列利安大人银色船壳的坐舰潮头岛之荣光号已驶入海灵号左舷，到达预定位置，傲笑者号跟上来，但老妇人号才刚放桨入水，海马号更慢，降桅还没完成。戴佛斯朝船尾望去。果然，在后面，遥远的南边，剑鱼号一如既往地慢慢吞吞，拖在最后。她有两百支桨和全舰队最大的撞锤，但戴佛斯很怀疑船长的能力。他听见士兵们隔海遥呼，彼此鼓励。自风息堡出发以来，他们一直闷在舱内，无所事事，早已迫不及待，渴望战斗，并且自信满怀，坚信胜利。在这点上，他们和舰队总司令伊姆瑞·佛罗伦爵士倒是一条心。
　　三天前，舰队在文德河口抛锚后，司令召集所有船长到怒火号上召开作战会议，以传达部署。戴佛斯和他的儿子们被安排在第二战列，暴露于危险的右翼。“荣誉的位置，”阿拉德叹道，非常满意有机会证明自己的英勇。“危险的位置，”父亲指出。儿子们报以同情的目光，连年轻的马利克亦然。洋葱骑士成了老朽妇人，他能听到他们的想法，父亲骨子里还是个走私者。
　　呵，至少后者不假，他也不为此遗憾。席渥斯是个荣耀的贵族姓氏，但在心底，他一直都是跳蚤窝的戴佛斯。如今他要回家了，回到这座三丘之上的城市。他对船只、帆桨和海岸的了解在七国上下出类拔萃，也曾在潮湿的甲板上刀刃见红、浴血搏杀，只是今天这种战斗让他觉得自己突然成了青春少女，既紧张又害怕。走私者是决不会吹响号角、升起战旗的。一旦嗅到危险的迹象，他们便会升帆启航，以比风还快的速度逃之天天。
　　倘若我是司令，决不会如此行动。首先，我会挑选数艘快船深入河道，仔细审察，刺探虚实，而非轻率地猛扑而进。他曾向伊姆瑞爵士提过这个建议，舰队总司令客气地道谢，眼神却不那么友好。这个出身微贱的懦夫是谁呀？那双眼睛在问，他就是那个用洋葱换来爵位的人吗？
　　由于船只总数足足是小鬼国王的四倍，伊姆瑞爵士认为小心谨慎或精巧谋划都不必要。他直接将舰队编成十道战列，各由二十艘战舰组成。头两列负责扫清河道，摧毁乔佛里的小舰队——伊姆瑞爵士和贵族船长们谈笑中称其为“小孩的玩具”。紧随其后的舰只首先将船上大批弓箭手和长矛兵登陆到城下，然后加入河上的战斗。最小和最慢的船放在后面，负责将史坦尼斯的主力部队自南岸运到北岸，他们的行动由萨拉多·桑恩的里斯舰队掩护。队伍末端的里斯舰队奉命留守海湾，以防兰尼斯特军将舰只隐藏在岸边，伺机偷袭舰队后方。
　　公正地讲，伊姆瑞爵士的激进并非毫无道理。自风息堡而来的航行途中，海风一直不善。启航当天，两艘小船在破船湾触礁沉没，糟糕的开始。随后在塔斯海峡又沉了一艘密尔战舰。进入喉道过程中，舰队遇风暴侵袭，队列溃散，有的船甚至被吹到狭海正中。等到达洋流较和缓的黑水湾，在马赛岬的岸脊遮蔽下重整完毕，整整十二条船不见踪影，更糟的是，他们耽误了太多时间。
　　史坦尼斯几天前就赶到了河边。风息堡和君临之间是笔直的国王大道，原本就比海路短捷，外加国王的部队几乎全数骑马：将近两万骑士、轻骑兵和自由骑手——蓝礼违心地留给兄长的遗产。他们虽已抵达，但重甲战马和十二尺长熗奈何不了黑水河的辽阔深水与君临城的石砌高墙。史坦尼斯带着诸侯部属在南岸扎营等候，想必沸腾着无奈的怒火，猜疑伊姆瑞爵士将他的舰队带往了何方。
　　两天前，通过美人鱼礁时，他们遇见五六艘小渔船。渔民们一见大船便分头逃窜，最后还是被一个个抓获，关进船舱。“一小匙胜利，大战前的开胃菜，”伊姆瑞爵士兴高采烈地宣布，“有助于我们放开肚皮，打扫正餐。”戴佛斯只关心俘虏吐露的君临守备情况。侏儒似乎忙着修筑某种铁索以堵住河口，然而渔民们众说纷纭，弄不清障碍物是否完工。他暗暗希望有铁索横江，如果河道上不去，伊姆瑞爵士便别无选择，必须停下来，做好整顿。
　　海上众声喧嚣，充斥着吼叫、呼喊，号角、鼓声和笛子的颤音，还有成千的木桨起落击水的声响。“保持阵线，”戴佛斯喊道。一阵海风牵起他老旧的绿披风，他没穿铠甲，只罩了件皮背心，脚边搁着一顶圆盔。在海上，沉重的盔甲不但不能救人于水火，反而会断送性命，对此他坚信不疑。伊姆瑞爵士和其他出身高贵的船长却不这么看，他们在甲板上走来走去，身上的铠甲闪烁着光芒。
　　此时，老妇人号和海马号已就位，赛提加大人的红蟹号也即将就绪。阿拉德的玛瑞亚夫人号右舷是史坦尼斯从不幸的桑格拉斯伯爵手中夺来的三艘战舰：虔诚号，祈祷号和奉献号，她们甲板上排满弓箭手。连剑鱼号也已驶近，她帆桨并用，摇摇摆摆地在洋面挪动。一艘如此多桨的大船本可行得更快，戴佛斯不以为然地想。一定是撞锤的缘故，它实在太大，使她失去了平衡。
　　现下是南风，但由于舰队换帆用桨，所以行动没受什么影响。他们将跟着潮水长驱直入，但一旦入河，优势便会逆转，兰尼斯特军势必会好好利用河道激流，众所周知，黑水河入海处的水流又强又急。在黑水河里与他们交战真是蠢透了，戴佛斯心想。如果在大海中相遇，他们能从两翼合围，将敌军挤向中央，全部消灭。但在河上，伊姆瑞爵士的船再多再好都无用武之地，一次顶多摆开二十艘，惟恐桨叶交割，互相抵触。
　　战列之外，戴佛斯远眺耸立于伊耿高丘之上的红堡，黑色的建筑贴近柠檬色的天空，其下便是黑水河口。河对面，黑压压的全是人马，一见船队出现，骚动得像炸了窝的蚂蚁。史坦尼斯肯定没让他们闲着，而是着手建筑小筏，制造飞箭，虽然如此，等待也一定心焦。人群中喇叭吹响，微弱但刺耳，随即被千军万马的呐喊声所淹没。戴佛斯用残废的手指紧握装有指骨的小袋，默默祈祷好运降临。
　　怒火号主持第一战列，左右是史蒂芬公爵号和海鹿号，两者皆是两百桨的大船。第一战列的其他舰只分列两边，也都是百桨等级：哈拉夫人号、亮鱼号、欢笑君王号、海魔号、荣光角号、珍娜号、三叉戟号、侠剑号、雷妮丝公主号、狗鼻号、王权号、信仰号、红鸦号、亚莉珊王后号、猫号、勇敢号和龙祸号，每艘船尾都飘扬着光之王的烈焰红心，红橙黄三色。戴佛斯和他儿子们所在的第二战列后还有一列百桨等级大船，这一列由骑士和贵族船长指挥。再往后，是船身小、速度慢的密尔船，每艘船桨不过八十。更远处的船还张着帆，她们是大型商船和笨重的货船。最后压阵的是萨拉多‘桑恩的瓦雷利亚人号，一艘巨型的三百桨战舰，里斯战舰群聚在她周围，她们都有与众不同的彩绘船壳。浮华的“狭海亲王”对奉命殿后不太满意，很明显，伊姆瑞爵士和史坦尼斯一样不信任他。他抱怨得太多，老爱谈论人家欠他的黄金。话虽如此，戴佛斯却深感遗憾。萨拉多·桑恩是个足智多谋的老海盗，手下全是经验丰富的海员，在战斗中个个亡命，放作后卫实在浪费。
　　啊呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜
　　透过汹涌的白沫和齐整的拍打，怒火号前甲板上传来指令：伊姆瑞爵士发出总攻信号。
　　啊呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜，啊呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜
　　剑鱼号终于加入战列，但帆还不及降下。“加速前进。”戴佛斯咆哮。鼓声加急，击桨的速度随即跟上，木叶在水面翻飞，嗨哟——噗咻，嗨哟——噗咻，嗨哟——噗咻。甲板上，步兵们以剑击盾，弓箭手则飞快搭好弓弦，从腰上的箭袋里抽出羽箭。第一战列挡住了视野，戴佛斯只好在甲板上走来走去以便观察。迄今为止，他没发现铁索的痕迹，河口在面前无遮无拦地张开，好似要将他们尽数吞没。哦，除了……
　　在漫长的走私生涯里，戴佛斯常对人玩笑说他对君临的河滨比对自己的手背还要熟悉，这不难理解，他可没花半辈子在手背上潜进摸出。黑水河口两岸这两座新砌的石塔对伊姆瑞爵士而言或许毫无意义，但对他来说犹如手上多出两根指头一样。
　　他举手遮挡西洒的阳光，仔细眺望石塔。它们太小，藏不下多少守卫。北岸那座就建在红堡的悬崖下，与之相对的南岸石塔根基则在水中。他们在岸边挖了一道深沟，他立刻看出，如此一来，石塔便难以攻击：要么涉过深水，要么搭桥而行。史坦尼斯在塔下布置了十字弓兵，只要守卫在堡垒上露头，便能加以射杀。他所做的仅止于此。
　　塔底旋转咆哮的黑水里，某种事物闪闪发光。那是阳光在钢铁上的反射，戴佛斯一望便知。一条巨型铁索……然而并未升起，以阻止我们入河。这是为什么呢？
　　他正想仔细揣摩，不料时间不等人。前方战舰传来一阵呼喝，战号再度响起：敌人迎战了！
　　在王权号和信仰号飞速起落的桨叶之间，戴佛斯瞧见一列稀疏的舰船顺流而下，阳光闪烁在船壳金色的图绘上。对这些船只，他也像自己的船一般了若指掌。当走私者的时候，只要这些帆在地平线上一出现，他便知来船是快还是慢，知道船长是渴望荣誉的青年，还是垂暮之年的老人。由于他判断准确，所以每次都应付自如。
　　啊呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜战号长鸣，“战斗速度，”戴佛斯高喊。他听见左右两舷的戴尔和阿拉德也同时下令。战鼓狂暴敲打，船桨起起落落，黑贝丝号破浪而前。当他转头望向海灵号时，戴尔给父亲敬了个礼。剑鱼号再度掉队，被两侧小一号的船超过，除她之外，整条战列整齐得像道盾墙。
　　远处看来狭窄的河道，如今却辽阔得像无边的海洋，城市也在眼前愈变愈大。红堡雄踞于伊耿高丘，掌控河口要道。它有钢铁加固的工事、巨型的堡楼和厚实的红墙，好似蹲坐在河流与市街之上的凶残猛兽。堡下的悬崖多石而陡峭，点缀着苔藓与荆棘。舰队必须从城堡下经过，方能入港攻城。
　　第一战列已经入河，敌舰却开始逆流退却。看来他们想诱敌深入，使我军堵在一团，互相牵制，无法伸展队列，进行侧翼包围……别忘了后面还有那条铁索。他在甲板上来回踱步，伸长脖子想看清乔佛里的舰队。“小孩的玩具”包括笨重的神恩号，他认出来，还有陈旧迟缓的伊蒙王子号，丝绸夫人号和她的姐妹舰夫人之耻号、野风号、君临号、白鹿号、长熗号、海花号。可是，狮星号呢？劳勃国王为纪念他所深爱却又失落的少女而造的华美漂亮的莱安娜小姐号呢？劳勃国王之锤号呢？她不仅是王家舰队最大的战船，拥有四百支桨，更是小鬼国王手中惟一能与怒火号抗衡的舰只。照理说，应该由她居中组织防御才对。
　　戴佛斯嗅出陷阱的味道，却看不出敌人有任何埋伏或突袭的迹象，只见史坦尼斯·拜拉席恩庞大的舰队排成整齐的队型，一直连到天边。难道对方打算适时升起铁索，把我军一截为二？这样做好处何在？留在湾外的船照样可把人马运到北岸，虽然进度慢一点，倒更安全。
　　一群摇曳的橘红飞鸟从城堡上展翅俯冲，约有二三十只：这是燃烧的沥青罐，拖着长长的火尾呈抛物线射下河流。河水吞噬了大半飞鸟，也有几只在第一战列船舰的甲板上着陆，炸开，散射火花。亚莉珊王后号上的步兵乱成一团，他还看见龙祸号三处冒烟，也难怪，她最靠近河岸。第二波攻击接踵而至，这次夹杂飞箭，弓箭手从石塔上无数的箭孔中发射。一名士兵翻过猫号的船舷，撞上桨叶，沉入水底。这是今天流的第一滴血，戴佛斯心想，却远远不是最后一滴。
　　红堡的城垛上高高飘扬着小鬼国王的旗帜：拜拉席恩家族的金底宝冠雄鹿旗，兰尼斯特家族的红底怒吼雄狮旗。沥青火罐不断掷下，勇敢号上焰火弥漫，士兵们尖声惨叫。此时此刻，船舷下的桨手有甲板遮蔽，倒十分安全，挤在上面的步兵却不太走运。正如他所担忧的，右翼被迫承受所有攻击。马上就轮到我们了，他提醒自己，心里忐忑不安。黑贝丝号和北岸问只隔了五艘战舰，正在火罐射程之内。右舷方向，有阿拉德的玛瑞亚夫人号，笨拙的剑鱼号一一她现今落得太远，与其说是第二战列，其实更接近第三战列——以及虔诚号，祈祷号和奉献号，她们三个被放在如此危险的位置，真得希望船名所许的神灵赐福了。
　　第二战列通过双子塔时，戴佛斯抓紧时间仔细观察。只见塔底有个约莫人头大的洞，一条巨型铁链蜿蜒而出，水上只见三个环节，其余都在河底。石塔只有一扇门，且离地二十余尺。北塔顶上，十字弓手正拼命向祈祷号和奉献号发动攻击。奉献号甲板上的弓箭手予以还击，有人被射落，戴佛斯听见惨叫。
　　“船长阁下。”儿子马索斯来到身边。“请戴上头盔。”戴佛斯双手接过，笼在头上。这顶圆盔除去了面甲，他痛恨视线被阻的滋味。
　　接着，沥青火罐如雨般在船边坠落。其中一罐在玛瑞亚夫人号的甲板上炸裂，阿拉德的船员迅速将火扑灭。左舷，潮头岛之荣光号吹响号角，桨手们拼命击桨，拍出无数水花。一只足有一码长的箭自城上弩炮射出，落在离马索斯不到两尺的地方，深深没入木制甲板，颤个不停。前方，第一战列和敌舰之间已进入弓箭射程，船船之间飞箭往来，好似嘶嘶怪叫的毒蛇。
　　黑水河南岸，戴佛斯看见士兵们正将粗制木筏拖入水中，大军整队，千旗飘扬。随处可见烈焰红心，渺小漆黑的雄鹿被禁锢在火焰之中，几乎无法辨认。我们理应在宝冠雄鹿旗下作战，他心想，雄鹿是劳勃国王的徽记，整个城市都会欣然接受。陌生的纹章只会引起反感。
　　看见烈焰红心，他不由得想起梅丽珊卓在风息堡底的阴霾中诞生的影子。至少今天我们在光天化日之下作战，用的是正派人的武器，他告诉自己。红袍女及她的黑暗子孙将与这场战斗毫无瓜葛。史坦尼斯已把她和他的私生侄儿艾德瑞克·风暴一起送回了龙石岛。之前，除后党人士发出微弱抗议外，他的船长和诸侯纷纷坚持不要女人加入这场光荣的战役。不过说归说，史坦尼斯本不打算理会，直到布莱斯·卡伦伯爵的一句话逆转了潮流：“陛下，若巫魔女还跟着咱们，将来人们便会把这场胜利称之为她的胜利，而不是您的。别人会说您靠她的符咒才赢得王冠。”在激烈的争论中，戴佛斯管住了嘴巴，但说心里话，他乐于见她被遣。对梅丽珊卓和她的真主，他只想避而远之。
　　右舷，奉献号朝河岸驶去，放出跳板，弓箭手随即乱哄哄地涉进浅滩，将弓高举，以保持弓弦干燥。他们冲进悬崖和河水之间狭窄的滩头。城上飞石如雨，跳跃砸落，其间还混杂有弓箭与长矛。然而角度太小，在峭壁的掩护下，这些武器作用不大。
　　祈祷号在上游二十多码的地方登陆，虔诚号则歪歪斜斜地朝河岸撞去。这时，守军出来了，他们冲下河岸，军马的铁蹄踏过浅滩，溅起水花。骑士们杀进弓箭手中，好似恶狼驱逐小鸡，大多数人还不及搭箭，便又被赶回船上，甚至落入河中。步兵连忙赶到，用长矛和战斧加以抵御，瞬间之后，整个场面便是血肉横飞。戴佛斯认出猎狗的狗头盔。他骑着骏马，通过跳板，杀上祈祷号，肩上的纯白披风迎风飘扬。不管是谁，只要近身，便被不由分说一斧砍翻。
　　过了城堡，在环型城墙之中，山丘上的君临跃入眼帘。河滨成了一片焦土，兰尼斯特把所有建筑付之一炬，并将各色人等都赶进烂泥门。烧焦的桅杆和沉没的船只堆积在河滩，使船只无法靠近长长的石码头。看来这里无法登陆。烂泥门后，三架巨型投石机露出头来。维桑尼亚丘陵顶，艳阳映在贝勒大圣堂的七座水晶高塔上，璀璨发光。
　　戴佛斯瞧不清前方的战斗，但能听见作战的声音。两艘战舰相撞，发出撕裂的巨响，他辨不出是哪两条船。顷刻之后，又一声巨大的碰撞回荡在水面，接着是第三声。在船木分解的刺耳尖啸中，他听见怒火号船头投石机深沉的咚——咚声。海鹿号将一艘乔佛里的船迎面劈成两半，狗鼻号却开始起火燃烧，亚莉珊女王号被丝绸夫人号和夫人之耻号夹在中间，动弹不得，她的船员正与登舰的敌人做殊死搏斗。
　　正前方，敌方君临号穿过信仰号和王权号之间的缝隙，猛扑而来。信仰号右舷的桨手在撞击之前及时收起船桨，但王权号左舷的桨却如火柴棍般被掠过的君临号全数撞断。“放箭，”戴佛斯命令，他的十字弓兵立刻掀起一阵致命的箭雨。他看见君临号的船长倒下，一时却想不起对方的名字。
　　岸上，巨型投石机的手臂一只、两只、三只，纷纷抬起。数以百计的石头爬上黄色的天空，每块都大如人头。它们坠落下来，或溅起巨大浪花，或击穿橡木甲板，把人活生生打成碎骨、肉泥和肝浆。第一战列的船已全部加入战团。爪钩穿梭，铁撞锤砸过木壳，士兵群聚登船。在流动的浓烟之中，只见箭矢遮天蔽日。人们纷纷死去……所幸到目前为止，他的部下尚无阵亡。
　　黑贝丝号逆流而上，桨官鼓声雷动，好似她正饥渴地寻找撞锤的第一个牺牲品。亚莉珊女王号已被两艘兰尼斯特战舰捕获，三船由爪钩和绳索连成一体。
　　“撞角速度！”戴佛斯高呼。
　　鼓点模糊，成了一片绵长、狂热、无休无止的锤打，黑贝丝起飞了，船首劈开水花，飞沫犹如乳奶。阿拉德发现了同样的机会，他的玛瑞亚夫人号与黑贝丝号并驾齐驱。此刻，第一战列已经散开，各自为战。三艘纠结的战舰就在前方，缠绕着缓缓旋转，甲板上血肉模糊，人们用斧剑互相挥砍。再转过去一点，戴佛斯·席渥斯向战士祷告，让她再转过去一点，把侧舷暴露出来。
　　战士定然听见了他的祷告。黑贝丝号和玛瑞亚夫人号几乎同时扎进夫人之耻号体内，把她从头到尾撞个稀烂，力道之猛，连隔着三条船的丝绸夫人号上的人也被抛入海中。相撞的刹那，戴佛斯的牙齿猛地闭合，差点咬断舌头。他吐出一口鲜血。下次记得闭紧嘴巴，你这蠢货。在海上讨了四十年生活，这还是他头一遭主动撞击别人的船。回头一看，船上的弓箭手正自由射击。
　　“后退，”他命令。黑贝丝号倒划船桨，河水迅猛灌进刚才砸出的大洞，夫人之耻号就这样在她面前支离破碎，成群的人落入河中。活人挣扎求生，死人寂默浮沉，而穿重板甲或锁子甲的人不论死活立刻沉入河底，不再动弹。即将淹死的人们的苦苦哀号，一直萦绕在他耳际。
　　一抹绿光闪过眼帘，飞向前面，落到左舷方向。刹时，一窝翡翠毒蛇咝咝叫着在亚莉珊女王号的船尾升起，翻腾，燃烧。恐怖的哭喊从前方传来：“野火！”
　　他脸色大变。燃烧的沥青是一回事，野火的威胁则大不相同。这种邪恶的物质，几乎无法扑灭。哪怕只有一点火星，用斗篷闷，斗篷反而着火；用手掌拍，手掌反而燃烧。“尿在野火上，你那玩意儿就得烤焦，”这是老海员们的名言之一。伊姆瑞爵士已警告过他们可能会碰上这种炼金术士的邪恶物质。所幸世上活着的火术士寥寥无几，这种物质很快便会耗尽，伊姆瑞爵士向人们保证。
　　戴佛斯下达新指令：战舰掉头，一舷桨手往前划而另一舷往后划。玛瑞亚夫人号也在撤离，没有沾上火苗。烈火以他难以想象的速度吞噬了亚莉珊女王号，随即蔓延到她的捕获者。绿火缠身的人跳进水中，发出非人的惨嚎。君临城上，喷火弩射出死亡，烂泥门内，庞然的投石机掷下巨石。一颗公牛大小的岩石坠落在黑贝丝号和海灵号之间，激得双船摇晃不止，甲板上的人浑身皆湿。另一颗小不了多少的石头直接命中傲笑者号。这条瓦列利安家的战舰像一块从高塔上抛下的孩童玩具般爆炸分裂，溅起的碎片有手臂那么长。
　　在漫天的黑烟和绿火中，戴佛斯瞥见一群小船顺流而下：其中有渡船、划艇、驳轮、木筏、小帆船和船身腐烂得几乎无法漂浮的货船，混乱不堪。真是绝望的挣扎，凭这一堆浮木怎可扭转战局？只能挡道罢了。显而易见，敌军战线已无法重整。左翼，史蒂芬公爵号，珍娜号和侠剑号突破了防守，冲向上游。右翼还在酣战，然而，我军中央部分却在投石机的巨石袭击下土崩瓦解，有的船调头朝下游避去，有的船靠向左边，大家都在匆忙闪避无情的石雨。怒火号调转方向，企图用船尾投石机还击，不料射程不够，投出的沥青桶只砸在城墙上。王权号失去泰半船桨，信仰号被敌舰撞穿，开始下沉。他率领黑贝丝穿出两船之间，擦过瑟曦太后装饰华丽的镀金游艇——如今艇上满载士兵而非糖果蜜饯。这记碰撞将十几个敌人掀进河中，他们试图游泳，却成了黑贝丝号上弓箭手们的活靶子。
　　马索斯高声叫喊，警告左舷方向出现的危机：一艘兰尼斯特战舰正挺着撞锤，直扑而来。“右满舵！”戴佛斯大喝。他的部下用桨叶推开游艇，其他人则拼命划水调头，让船首对准那不顾一切冲来的白鹿号。一时之间，他恐惧不已，生怕动作太慢，只剩被撞沉一途，幸而潮流及时帮助了黑贝丝号，当碰撞最终发生时，只是相互擦击，两船壳摩擦刮割，桨叶齐断。一块参差不齐的木板从头顶飞过，锋利如矛，戴佛斯不由得缩了一下。“登船！”他叫道。爪钩抛出。他抽出长剑，带头翻过栏杆。白鹿号的船员迎上船舷与他们对峙，但黑贝丝号的步兵如一阵钢铁洪流扫荡过去。戴佛斯穿过混战的人群，寻找敌舰船长，此人却在他靠近之前丧命。他站在船长的尸体旁，突然被人从后用战斧偷袭，幸好头盔挡下这一击，脑袋只是嗡嗡作响，并未碎裂。他昏头转向，下意识地着地翻滚。偷袭者喊叫着发起冲锋。戴佛斯双手握剑往上，抢先刺入来人腹中。
　　手下一名船员扶他起立，“船长阁下，白鹿号已被我方夺取。”确实如此，戴佛斯抬眼四望。大多数敌人不是已死，便是奄奄一息，还有一些人投降。他摘下头盔，擦擦脸上的血迹，调头返回自己的船，一路小心翼翼，人们流出的内脏肚肠使甲板黏滑无比。马索斯伸手扶他翻过栏杆。
　　接下来短短时间，黑贝丝号和白鹿号倒成了暴风雨中心的平静风眼。亚莉珊女王号和丝绸夫人号仍捆在一起，如一团绿色的地狱火，拖带夫人之耻号的残骸，飘向下游。一艘密尔战舰不幸撞上了她们，顷刻间也着了火。猫号正靠在迅速下沉的勇敢号边拯救人员。龙祸号的船长操纵坐船于两个码头间的缝隙处强行登陆，龙骨被撕得粉碎，船员和弓箭手、步兵一起蜂拥上岸，加入攻城队伍。红鸦号也被撞穿，正在缓缓倾斜。海鹿号同时与火势和敌兵搏斗，但她把烈焰红心旗插上了身边乔佛里的忠臣号。怒火号神气的船首被巨石打得不见踪影，正与神恩号接舷对战。他看见瓦列利安大人的潮头岛之荣光号撞开两艘兰尼斯特的快船，掀翻一艘，正向另一艘发射火箭。南岸，骑士们正领着战马陆续登上货船，许多小型战舰载满步兵，已开始渡河。她们格外谨慎地在半沉的船只和漂浮的野火之间挑选路径。史坦尼斯国王的全部舰队已驶入了河流，只有萨拉多·桑恩的里斯船还在湾内。很快我军将掌控整条黑水河。伊姆瑞爵士终于得到渴望的胜利，戴佛斯想，史坦尼斯终于能让军队跨过天堑，然而诸神在上，代价实在是……
　　“船长阁下！”马索斯碰碰他肩膀。
　　是剑鱼号。她的两行桨叶起起落落，但风帆始终没降下来。燃烧的沥青点燃索具，火势逐渐蔓延，爬过绳子，登上帆布，长成一个黄焰大瘤。她那笨重的撞锤，形塑成船名所指的鱼类的模样，歪歪斜斜地栽向前方水面。剑鱼号正前方，一艘小船缓缓飘来，在河中缓缓打转，形成一个诱人的目标。这是一艘兰尼斯特的废船，吃水很低，黏稠的绿血从舷板间的隙缝渗漏而出。
　　见此光景，戴佛斯·席渥斯的心脏停止了跳动。
　　“不，”他大喊，“不，不不不不不不不——！”但在一片吼叫和撕杀声中，除了马索斯，没人听见他的话。至少剑鱼号的船长肯定没听见，他兴奋不已，手中笨拙的剑终于找到了合适目标。顷刻间，剑鱼号提升至战斗速度。戴佛斯抬起残废的手掌紧紧握住装指骨的皮袋。
　　碰撞、撕裂、分解，剑鱼号把腐朽的废船撞成纷飞的碎片。她像一颗熟透的水果般爆裂开来，虽然没有一种水果能发出木头分裂的尖啸。伴随漫天的果肉，绿色的汁液从一千个罐子中流溢而出，好似垂死野兽的肚肠，闪耀绿芒，光彩夺目，在河面上散开……
　　“后退，”他咆哮，“快离开。赶快离开她，后退，后退！”绳索砍开，戴佛斯感觉到甲板移动，黑贝丝快速脱离白鹿号，木桨重新入水。
　　接着，只听一声急促而尖利的低吠，好似什么人凑在耳边喘气。半晌之后，成了怒嚎。脚下的甲板消失不见，黑水扑击脸庞，灌进鼻子和嘴巴。他呛水，淹溺，不知身在何方。在无边的惊恐中，戴佛斯盲目挣扎，直到终于浮出水面。他吐出积水，深吸口气，抓住最近的木板，紧抱不放。
　　剑鱼号和废船消失不见，焦黑的残躯同他一起漂向下游，溺水的人们死死抓住散落水中的冒烟木板。河面上升起一个五十尺高的绿火恶魔，他旋转着，翩翩起舞。他有十几只手臂，每只都握着长鞭，鞭子一挥，那儿就起火燃烧。黑贝丝号烧了起来，两旁的白鹿号和忠臣号也一样。虔诚号、猫号、勇敢号、王权号、红鸦号、老妇人号、信仰号和怒火号全都烈焰冲天，连君临号和神恩号也未能幸免，恶魔不分敌我地狼吞虎咽。瓦列利安大人华丽的潮头岛之荣光号企图掉头，但恶魔懒洋洋地伸出一根绿手指，扫过她银色的船桨，把它们像蜡烛一样点燃。一时之间，她好似在用两排长长的明亮火炬击水划行，努力挣脱。
　　流水紧抱住他，裹挟着他，旋转漂流。他咬牙奋力游水，方才避免被一块漂过身边的野火残片触到。我儿子呢？戴佛斯想，但在这一片空前的喧嚣中，根本无法寻找。又一艘满载野火的废船在身后爆炸。整条黑水河似乎从河床开始沸腾，到处是燃烧的桅杆，燃烧的士兵，船只爆裂的碎末纷飞于空气之中。
　　这样下去，我将被冲进海湾。但不管怎样总比待在这儿强，只要能离开，就可想办法上岸。他是个货真价实的游泳好手，何况萨拉多·桑恩的舰队就在海口，伊姆瑞爵士命令他们留在湾内担任后卫……
　　这时，激流刚好把他的身子转了个方向，似乎要他仔细瞧瞧下游等待着的残酷命运。
　　铁索。诸神救我，他们把拦江铁索升起来了。
　　在河流汇入黑水湾的宽阔海口，铁链紧密地伸展，大约比水面高出两三尺。已有十几艘战舰撞上屏障，湍急的黑水正把其他船只牵引过去。几乎所有船都在燃烧，尚还完好的也无法幸免。透过铁索，戴佛斯看见萨拉多·桑恩舰队的彩绘船壳，但他知道自己永远也到不了那儿。一座由火红的钢铁、炽热的船木和旋转的绿火组成的长墙挡在他们之间。黑水河口成了地狱之门。
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你看着眼前的人，分明还是以前的模样，可心里终究不是以前那般澄清透明了。
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Chapter 57

　　CHAPTER 57
　　SANSA
　　They had been singing in the sept all morning, since the first report of enemy sails had reached the castle. The sound of their voices mingled with the whicker of horses, the clank of steel, and the groaning hinges of the great bronze gates to make a strange and fearful music. In the sept they sing for the Mother’s mercy but on the walls it’s the Warrior they pray to, and all in silence. She remembered how Septa Mordane used to tell them that the Warrior and the Mother were only two faces of the same great god. But if there is only one, whose prayers will be heard?
　　Ser Meryn Trant held the blood bay for Joffrey to mount. Boy and horse alike wore gilded mail and enameled crimson plate, with matching golden lions on their heads. The pale sunlight flashed off the golds and reds every time Joff moved. Bright, shining, and empty, Sansa thought.
　　The imp was mounted on a red stallion, armored more plainly than the king in battle gear that made him look like a little boy dressed up in his father’s clothes. But there was nothing childish about the battle-axe slung below his shield. Ser Mandon Moore rode at his side, white steel icy bright. When Tyrion saw her he turned his horse her way. “Lady Sansa,” he called from the saddle, “surely my sister has asked you to join the other highborn ladies in Maegor’s?”
　　“She has, my lord, but King Joffrey sent for me to see him off. I mean to visit the sept as well, to pray.”
　　“I won’t ask for whom.” His mouth twisted oddly; if that was a smile, off with shouts and cheers. When the last was gone, a sudden stillness settled over the yard, like the hush before a storm.
　　Through the quiet, the singing pulled at her. Sansa turned toward the sept. Two stableboys followed, and one of the guards whose watch was ended. Others fell in behind them.
　　Sansa had never seen the sept so crowded, nor so brightly lit; great shafts of rainbow-colored sunlight slanted down through the crystals in the high windows, and candles burned on every side, their little flames twinkling like stars. The Mother’s altar and the Warrior’s swam in light, but Smith and Crone and Maid and Father had their worshipers as well, and there were even a few flames dancing below the Stranger’s halfhuman face . . . for what was Stannis Baratheon, if not the Stranger come to judge them? Sansa visited each of the Seven in turn, lighting a candle at each altar, and then found herself a place on the benches between a wizened old washer woman and a boy no older than Rickon, dressed in the fine linen tunic of a knight’s son. The old woman’s hand was bony and hard with callus, the boy’s small and soft, but it was good to have someone to hold on to. The air was hot and heavy, smelling of incense and sweat, crystal-kissed and candle-bright; it made her dizzy to breathe it.
　　She knew the hymn; her mother had taught it to her once, a long time ago in Winterfell. She joined her voice to theirs.
　　Gentle Mother, font of mercy, save our sons from war, we pray, stay the swords and stay the arrows, let them know a better day. Gentle Mother, strength of women, help our daughters through this fray, soothe the wrath and tame the fury, teach us all a kinder way.
　　Across the city, thousands had jammed into the Great Sept of Baelor on Visenya’s Hill, and they would be singing too, their voices swelling out over the city, across the river, and up into the sky. Surely the gods must hear us, she thought.
　　Sansa knew most of the hymns, and followed along on those she did not know as best she could. She sang along with grizzled old serving men and anxious young wives, with serving girls and soldiers, cooks and falconers, knights and knaves, squires and spit boys and nursing mothers. She sang with those inside the castle walls and those without, sang with all the city. She sang for mercy, for the living and the dead alike, for Bran and Rickon and Robb, for her sister Arya and her bastard brother Jon Snow, away off on the Wall. She sang for her mother and her father, for her grandfather Lord Hoster and her uncle Edmure Tully, for her friend Jeyne Poole, for old drunken King Robert, for Septa Mordane and Ser Dontos and Jory Cassel and Maester Luwin, for all the brave knights and soldiers who would die today, and for the children and the wives who would mourn them, and finally, toward the end, she even sang for Tyrion the Imp and for the Hound. He is no true knight but he saved me all the same, she told the Mother. Save him if you can, and gentle the rage inside him. But when the septon climbed on high and called upon the gods to protect and defend their true and noble king, Sansa got to her feet. The aisles were jammed with people. She had to shoulder through while the septon called upon the Smith to lend strength to Joffrey’s sword and shield, the Warrior to give him courage, the Father to defend him in his need. Let his sword break and his shield shatter, Sansa thought coldly as she shoved out through the doors, let his courage fail him and every man desert him.
　　A few guards paced along on the gatehouse battlements, but otherwise the castle seemed empty. Sansa stopped and listened. Away off, she could hear the sounds of battle. The singing almost drowned them out, but the sounds were there if you had the ears to hear: the deep moan of warhorns, the creak and thud of catapults flinging stones, the splashes and splinterings, the crackle of burning pitch and thrum of scorpions loosing their yard-long iron-headed shafts . . . and beneath it all, the cries of dying men.
　　It was another sort of song, a terrible song. Sansa pulled the hood of her cloak up over her ears, and hurried toward Maegor’s Holdfast, the castle-within-a-castle where the queen had promised they would all be safe. At the foot of the drawbridge, she came upon Lady Tanda and her two daughters. Falyse had arrived yesterday from Castle Stokeworth with a small troop of soldiers. She was trying to coax her sister onto the bridge, but Lollys clung to her maid, sobbing, “I don’t want to, I don’t want to, I don’t want to.”
　　“The battle is begun,” Lady Tanda said in a brittle voice.
　　“I don’t want to, I don’t want to.”
　　There was no way Sansa could avoid them. She greeted them courteously. “May I be of help?”
　　Lady Tanda flushed with shame. “No, my lady, but we thank you kindly. You must forgive my daughter, she has not been well.” “I don’t want to.” Lollys clutched at her maid, a slender, pretty girl with short dark hair who looked as though she wanted nothing so much as to shove her mistress into the dry moat, onto those iron spikes. “Please, please, I don’t want to.”
　　Sansa spoke to her gently. “We’ll all be thrice protected inside, and there’s to be food and drink and song as well.”
　　Lollys gaped at her, mouth open. She had dull brown eyes that always seemed to be wet with tears. “I don’t want to.”
　　“You have to,” her sister Falyse said sharply, “and that is the end of it. Shae, help me.” They each took an elbow, and together half dragged and half carried Lollys across the bridge. Sansa followed with their mother. “She’s been sick,” Lady Tanda said. If a babe can be termed a sickness, Sansa thought. It was common gossip that Lollys was with child.
　　The two guards at the door wore the lion-crested helms and crimson cloaks of House Lannister, but Sansa knew they were only dressed-up sellswords. Another sat at the foot of the stair—a real guard would have been standing, not sitting on a step with his halberd across his kneesbut he rose when he saw them and opened the door to usher them inside.
　　The Queen’s Ballroom was not a tenth the size of the castle’s Great Hall, only half as big as the Small Hall in the Tower of the Hand, but it could still seat a hundred, and it made up in grace what it lacked in space. Beaten silver mirrors backed every wall sconce, so the torches burned twice as bright; the walls were paneled in richly carved wood, and sweet-smelling rushes covered the floors. From the gallery above drifted down the merry strains of pipes and fiddle. A line of arched windows ran along the south wall, but they had been closed off with heavy draperies. Thick velvet hangings admitted no thread of light, and would muffle the sound of prayer and war alike. It makes no matter, Sansa thought. The war is with us.
　　Almost every highborn woman in the city sat at the long trestle tables, along with a handful of old men and young boys. The women were wives, daughters, mothers, and sisters. Their men had gone out to fight Lord Stannis. Many would not return. The air was heavy with the knowledge. As Joffrey’s betrothed, Sansa had the seat of honor on the queen’s right hand. She was climbing the dais when she saw the man standing in the shadows by the back wall. He wore a long hauberk of oiled black mail, and held his sword before him: her father’s greatsword, Ice, near as tall as he was. Its point rested on the floor, and his hard bony fingers curled around the crossguard on either side of the grip. Sansa’s breath caught in her throat. Ser Ilyn Payne seemed to sense her stare. He turned his gaunt, pox-ravaged face toward her.
　　“What is he doing here?” she asked Osfryd Kettleblack. He captained the queen’s new red cloak guard.
　　Osfryd grinned. “Her Grace expects she’ll have need of him before the night’s done.”
　　Ser Ilyn was the King’s justice. There was only one service he might be needed for. Whose head does she want?
　　“All rise for Her Grace, Cersei of House Lannister, Queen Regent and Protector of the Realm,” the royal steward cried.
　　Cersei’s gown was snowy linen, white as the cloaks of the Kingsguard. Her long dagged sleeves showed a lining of gold satin. Masses of bright yellow hair tumbled to her bare shoulders in thick curls. Around her slender neck hung a rope of diamonds and emeralds. The white made her look strangely innocent, almost maidenly, but there were points of color on her cheeks.
　　“Be seated,” the queen said when she had taken her place on the dais, “and be welcome.” Osfryd Kettleblack held her chair; a page performed the same service for Sansa. “You look pale, Sansa,” Cersei observed. “Is your red flower still blooming?”
　　I’Yes.”
　　“How apt. The men will bleed out there, and you in here.” The queen signaled for the first course to be served.
　　“Why is Ser Ilyn here?” Sansa blurted out.
　　The queen glanced at the mute headsman. “To deal with treason, and to defend us if need be. He was a knight before he was a headsman.” She pointed her spoon toward the end of the hall, where the tall wooden doors had been closed and barred. “When the axes smash down those doors, you may be glad of him.”
　　I would be gladder if it were the Hound, Sansa thought. Harsh as he was, she did not believe Sandor Clegane would let any harm come to her. “Won’t your guards protect us?”
　　“And who will protect us from my guards?” The queen gave Osfryd a sideways look. “Loyal sellswords are rare as virgin whores. If the battle is lost my guards will trip on those crimson cloaks in their haste to rip them off. They’ll steal what they can and flee, along with the serving men, washer women, and stableboys, all out to save their own worthless hides. Do you have any notion what happens when a city is sacked, Sansa? No, you wouldn’t, would you? All you know of life you
　　learned from singers, and there’s such a dearth of good sacking songs.”
　　“True knights would never harm women and children.” The words rang hollow in her ears even as she said them.
　　“True knights.” The queen seemed to find that wonderfully amusing. “No doubt you’re right. So why don’t you just eat your broth like a good girl and wait for Symeon Star-Eyes and Prince Aemon the Dragonknight to come rescue you, sweetling. I’m sure it won’t be very long now.”



Ⅱ 列王的纷争 Chapter58 珊莎
　　敌舰抵达的消息传到城堡之后，人们整个早上都在圣堂里唱诵。歌唱声和马匹的嘶鸣，钢铁的铿锵，巨大青铜城门的铰链声响混杂一起，奏出一曲怪异而骇人的音乐。圣堂里，他们为圣母的慈悲而歌唱，城头上，一片沉寂，人们无声地向战士祈祷。记得茉丹修女曾告诉她，战士和圣母是上帝的两种位态。假如上帝独一无二，他会优先听从哪边的祷告呢？
　　马林·特兰爵士为乔佛里牵住枣红骏马，助他骑上。男孩和马都穿着镀金锁甲和绯红瓷釉板甲，两套盔甲的头上装饰着匹配的金狮。淡淡的阳光照射在小乔的板甲上，一举一动都映出金色与红色的光芒。外表光鲜亮丽，里面却是空虚，珊莎心想。
　　小恶魔骑上一匹红色牡马，盔甲比国王的普通，这身装备让他看起来活像一个偷穿父亲衣服的小男孩，但盾牌下挂的战斧却不是小孩的玩意儿。曼登·穆尔爵士骑在他旁边，白甲明亮如冰。提利昂看到她，便调转马头。“珊莎小姐，”他在马鞍上打招呼，“我姐姐一定邀请你跟其他贵妇人一起去梅葛楼了吧？”
　　“是的，大人，但乔佛里国王召我来替他送行。之后我还想去圣堂祈祷。”
　　“真不知你为谁祈祷。”他的嘴古怪地扭了一下——如果这是个微笑，就是她所见过最诡异的微笑。“今天是命运之日。对你、对兰尼斯特家都一样。现在想想，当初真该把你和托曼一起送走。话说回来，梅葛楼里应该还安全，只要——”
　　“珊莎！”孩子气的喊叫从庭院对面传来，乔佛里看见她了。“珊莎，过来！”
　　他招呼我就像招呼狗，她心想。
　　“看来陛下需要你，”提利昂·兰尼斯特评论，“那我们战斗之后再谈——如果诸神允许的话。”
　　于是她穿过一队金袍长矛兵走上前，乔佛里不耐烦地打着手势。“听到大家的话么？快开战了！”
　　“愿诸神慈悲，怜悯我们大家。”
　　“需要慈悲的是我叔叔，但我一丁点儿都不会给他。”说罢乔佛里拔出剑。剑柄上的圆球是一枚切割成心形的红宝石，嵌在狮口中，剑身有三道深深的血槽。“这是我的新剑‘噬心’。”
　　珊莎记得他曾有一把叫狮牙的剑，后来被艾莉亚抢去，丢进河里。但愿史坦尼斯也如此对待这把“噬心”！“它做工真漂亮，陛下。”
　　“快吻它，祝福我的剑。”他把剑伸到她面前。“快啊，吻它。”
　　他一直是个蠢男孩，此刻尤甚！珊莎用唇碰了碰那片金属，自我安慰不管亲多少把剑总比亲乔佛里强。她的动作似乎很令他满意，于是他夸张地还剑入鞘。“等我回来，我要你再吻它，到时候你会尝到我叔叔的鲜血。”
　　除非御林铁卫先替你把他杀掉。三名白袍骑士与乔佛里和他舅舅同行：马林爵士，曼登爵士，以及奥斯蒙·凯特布莱克爵士。“您会率领骑士冲杀敌人吗？”珊莎满怀希望地问。
　　“我也这么想，可小恶魔舅舅说史坦尼斯叔叔根本过不了河。没关系，我会亲自指挥‘君临三妓’，好好料理那些叛徒。”想到这里，乔佛里露出微笑。他肥厚的粉红嘴唇老是往上噘，珊莎以前好喜欢，现在看了却恶心。
　　“听人家说，我哥哥罗柏总往战况最激烈的地方去，”她不顾一切地说，“当然，他比陛下年长，已经成年了。”
　　他脸色一沉。“等我对付完叛徒叔叔，就去收拾你哥哥。我会用噬心剑掏出他的心，你等着瞧吧。”说罢他掉转马头，一踢马刺，朝城门奔去。马林爵士和奥斯蒙爵士跟随左右，金袍卫士四人一排列队行进，小恶魔和曼登·穆尔爵士殿后。红堡的卫兵齐声欢呼，送他们出发。等最后一人离开，一阵沉寂突然笼罩了庭院，好似暴风雨前的宁静。
　　歌声穿越沉寂，吸引着她。于是珊莎走向城堡的圣堂，身后，两个马夫、一个刚下哨的卫兵不约而同地跟上。其他人也纷纷聚拢过去。
　　珊莎没见过圣堂如此拥挤，也没见过它如此明亮：巨大的七彩光束透过水晶高窗斜射进来，四周燃满蜡烛，火焰如群星一般闪烁。不仅圣母和战士的祭坛沐浴在光辉中，铁匠、老妪、少女和天父的祭坛前也摆满蜡烛，甚至陌客那张似人非人的脸孔下也有若干焰火舞动……他们应该自救，史坦尼斯·拜拉席恩不就是来审判他们的陌客吗？珊莎依次参拜七座祭坛，分别点亮一根蜡烛，然后在长凳上找个位置，坐在一个枯瘦的洗衣老妇和一个年纪与瑞肯相仿的小男孩中间。男孩穿着精纺亚麻布外衣，看来是骑士之子。老妇的手瘦骨嶙岣，长满硬茧，男孩的手则又小又软，但握着它们让她心安。空气闷热凝重，映着水晶与烛光的照耀，混合着熏香和汗水的味道，令她头晕目眩。
　　这首正在吟唱的圣歌她是知道的；很久很久之前，在临冬城，母亲曾经教过她。于是她加入合唱：
　　温柔的圣母，慈悲的源泉，
　　保佑您的儿子穿越鏖战，
　　止住流矢，抵挡刀剑，
　　让他们看见美好的明天。
　　温柔的圣母，妇人的希望，
　　帮助您的女儿不受苦难，
　　平息怒火，驯服狂乱，
　　教导我们彼此宽容相待。
　　城市彼端，成千上万的人拥入维桑尼亚丘陵上的贝勒大圣堂。他们也在唱歌，声音溢出城外，越过河流，响彻云霄。诸神一定会听到我们的呼声，她心想。
　　大部分的圣歌珊莎都知道旋律，就算不会的，也尽量跟着一起唱。她跟头发斑白的老仆和忧心忡忡的少妇一起唱，跟女佣和士兵一起唱，跟厨师和司鹰骑士和仆人，侍从、厨房小弟和奶妈们一起唱。她跟城墙之内与之外的人一起唱，跟整个城市一起唱。她为诸神的慈悲而唱，为生者与死人而唱，为布兰、瑞肯和罗柏而唱，为妹妹艾莉亚和远在长城的私生子哥哥琼恩·雪诺而唱。她为父母双亲而唱，为外公霍斯特公爵和舅舅艾德慕·徒利爵士而唱，为她的朋友珍妮·普尔、酒鬼老王劳勃、茉丹修女、唐托斯爵士、乔里·凯索和鲁温学士而唱。她为今天要战死的英勇骑士和果敢士兵而唱，为那些将悼念他们的孤儿和遗孀而唱，最后，到了末尾，她甚至为小恶魔提利昂和猎狗而唱。他不是真正的骑士，但他救了我，她告诉圣母。求求您，请您保佑他，并平息他胸中的怒火。
　　但等修士上台，呼唤诸神保佑他们真正的、高贵的国王时，珊莎站了起来。过道里全是人，她用尽全力才能挤过去，她一边用力，一边听见修士祈求铁匠赋予乔佛里的剑盾以神力，祈求战士赐他勇气，祈求天父在危机时刻保护他。愿他剑折盾破，珊莎冷冷地想，一边赶紧出门，愿他六神无主，为世人所唾弃。
　　除了几个在城门楼边巡逻的卫兵，整个城堡空寂无人。珊莎驻足聆听，听到远处战斗的声音，歌声几乎将它们盖过，但若仔细倾听，其实一直都在：战号的低吟，投石机的甩动和撞击，水花溅起，木头碎裂，燃烧的沥青桶噼啪作响，弩炮射出一码长的铁头箭……这一切之下，是活人濒死的呼号。
　　这是另一首歌，一首可怕的歌。珊莎拉起兜帽，掩住双耳，匆忙往梅葛楼赶去，太后保证大家在这座城中之城中很安全。她在吊桥边遇到坦妲伯爵夫人和她两个女儿。法丽丝昨天刚从史铎克渥斯堡带着一小队士兵赶到，此刻正好说歹说哄妹妹上桥，但洛丽丝死命扣住她的女仆，泣道：“不要，不要，不要。”
　　“战斗开始了！”坦妲伯爵夫人颤声道。
　　“不要，不要。”
　　珊莎无法避开，只好礼貌地向她们致意。“我能帮忙吗？”
　　坦妲伯爵夫人羞红了脸。“不用了，小姐，谢谢你的好意。请原谅我女儿，她身体不太舒服。”
　　“不要。”洛丽丝紧抓着她的女仆。那是个苗条漂亮的女孩，短短的黑发，只是脸上的表情恨不得把女主人推进干涸的护城河，落到那些铁刺上。“求求你，求求你，不要。”
　　珊莎柔声对她道：“我们在里面受到重重保护，还有东西吃，有饮料喝，有人弹奏乐曲哦。”
　　洛丽丝张大嘴巴瞪着她，那双呆滞的棕眼总湿乎乎含着泪。“不要。”
　　“你非去不可，”姐姐法丽丝尖刻地说，“好了，到此为止吧，雪伊，帮我一把。”她们一人架一个胳膊，半拖半抱地将洛丽丝带过吊桥。珊莎和作母亲的跟在后面。“她病了，”坦妲伯爵夫人说。怀孩子算生病么，珊莎心想，城里众人皆知，洛丽丝怀了孩子。
　　守门的两个卫兵戴着兰尼斯特的狮盔，身穿深红披风，但珊莎知道他们只是装扮起来的佣兵。还有一个坐在楼梯下——真正的卫兵应该挺直站哨，而不是坐在台阶，长戟横放膝头——好在他看到她们便站起来，开门领她们进去。
　　太后的舞厅不及城堡大厅的十分之一，也只有首相塔里小厅的一半大，但坐下一百人没问题。空间虽不大，布置却极典雅。每个火炬托架后都有磨平的大银镜，因此光亮成了两倍；墙上镂着精致的木雕，清香的灯芯草覆盖地板。楼座上飘来长笛和提琴轻快的旋律。南墙排列着一排拱窗，却被厚重的天鹅绒幔布遮掩，透不过一丝光线，也隔离了祈祷与战斗的声音。没有差别，珊莎心想，战争已与我们同在。
　　城里几乎所有贵族仕女都坐在长桌边，还有几位老先生和小男孩。这些女人是妻子，是女儿，是母亲，也是姐妹。她们的男人出发跟史坦尼斯公爵作战，多半一去不回。气氛凝重，人人悲哀。身为乔佛里的未婚妻，珊莎有一个尊贵的座位，就在太后右手。登上高台时，她看到那个站在后墙阴影里的男人。他身穿一件长长的、刚上油的黑锁甲，手握巨剑——那是父亲的“寒冰”！几乎跟他人一样高。剑尖着地，剑柄紧攫在瘦长冷硬的指头中，双手交握。珊莎摒住呼吸，心提到嗓子眼。伊林·派恩似乎感觉到她的凝视，瘦长的麻子脸转过来。
　　“‘他’在这儿干什么？”她问奥斯佛利·凯特布莱克，他是太后招募的红袍卫队的新队长。
　　奥斯佛利咧嘴一笑。“陛下认为今晚会用上他。”
　　伊林爵士是国王的刽子手，他只有一个用途。她要谁的脑袋？
　　“全体肃立，向全境守护者，摄政太后，兰尼斯特家族的瑟曦陛下致敬！”御前总管高唱。
　　瑟曦穿一件雪白的亚麻布裙服，白如御林铁卫的袍子，长长的拖袖露出金绸衬底，浓密的明黄卷发披在裸露的肩头，纤细的脖子上挂一条钻石和祖母绿的项链。这身白衣让她有种奇特的纯真，除了脸上有些色斑，真的跟少女一样。
　　“请坐，”太后在高台上就位之后道，“欢迎各位光临。”奥斯佛利·凯特布莱克替她扶住椅子，一名侍童则为珊莎服务。“你看上去脸色不太好，珊莎，”瑟曦说，“初潮还在继续？”
　　“是的。”
　　“真是，男人在外面流血，你却在里面流。”太后示意上菜。
　　“伊林爵士为什么在这儿？”珊莎冲口而出。
　　太后瞥了一眼沉默的刽子手，“为惩办叛徒，必要时也保护我们。你知道吗？成为刽子手之前，他原本是个骑士。”她拿汤匙指指舞厅尽头，高大的木门已经紧闭，并上了闩。“当它被利斧劈开时，你就会庆幸他在这儿了。”
　　猎狗在这儿，我才会庆幸，珊莎想。桑铎·克里冈虽然粗暴，却很厉害，她坚信他不会让自己受到任何伤害。“是啊，还有您的卫兵呢，他们也在保护我们。”
　　“哼，你应该担心的是谁来保护我们不受这些卫兵的伤害！”太后横了奥斯佛利一眼。“上天入地，你找不到贞洁的妓女，也找不到忠诚的佣兵。如果战斗失利，我的卫兵会十万火急地扒下身上红袍，偷走能偷的东西，一走了之。这些仆人，洗衣妇，马夫……统统都一样，他们首先考虑的是自己那副毫无价值的臭皮囊。珊莎，你有没有一点概念，被洗劫的城市是什么样子？不，你什么都不知道，对不对？你对生活的认识全部来自于歌手，而没有一首歌会赞颂苦痛与不公。”
　　“真正的骑士会保护妇女和儿童。”她一边说，一边觉得这些话好空洞。
　　“真正的骑士。”太后似乎颇感有趣。“当然啰，你说得对。你干嘛不当个乖女孩，好好喝你的汤，等着‘星眼’赛米恩和龙骑士伊蒙王子来救你呢？亲爱的，不用怀疑，那个时刻就要到了。”
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你看着眼前的人，分明还是以前的模样，可心里终究不是以前那般澄清透明了。
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Chapter 56

　　CHAPTER 56
　　THEON
　　The sky was a gloom of cloud, the woods dead and frozen. Roots grabbed at Theon’s feet as he ran, and bare branches lashed his face, leaving thin stripes of blood across his cheeks. He crashed through heedless, breathless, icicles flying to pieces before him. Mercy, he sobbed. From behind came a shuddering howl that curdled his blood. Mercy, mercy. When he glanced back over his shoulder he saw them coming, great wolves the size of horses with the heads of small children. Oh, mercy, mercy. Blood dripped from their mouths black as pitch, burning holes in the snow where it fell. Every stride brought them closer. Theon tried to run faster, but his legs would not obey. The trees all had faces, and they were laughing at him, laughing, and the howl came again. He could smell the hot breath of the beasts behind him, a stink of brimstone and corruption. They’re dead, dead, I saw them killed, he tried to shout, I saw their heads dipped in tar, but when he opened his mouth only a moan emerged, and then something touched him and he whirled, shouting . . .
　　. . . flailing for the dagger he kept by his bedside and managing only to knock it to the floor. Wex danced away from him. Reek stood behind the mute, his face lit from below by the candle he carried. “What?” Theon cried. Mercy. “What do you want? Why are you in my bedchamber? Why?”
　　“My lord prince,” said Reek, “your sister has come to Winterfell. You asked to be informed at once if she arrived.”
　　“Past time,” Theon muttered, pushing his fingers through his hair. He had begun to fear that Asha meant to leave him to his fate. Mercy. He glanced outside the window, where the first vague light of dawn was just brushing the towers of Winterfell. “Where is she?”
　　“Lorren took her and her men to the Great Hall to break their fast. Will you see her now?”
　　“Yes.” Theon pushed off the blankets. The fire had burned down to embers. “Wex, hot water.” He could not let Asha see him disheveled and soaked with sweat. Wolves with children’s faces . . . He shivered. “Close the shutters.” The bedchamber felt as cold as the dream forest had been.
　　All his dreams had been cold of late, and each more hideous than the one before. Last night he had dreamed himself back in the mill again, on his knees dressing the dead. Their limbs were already stiffening, so they seemed to resist sullenly as he fumbled at them with half-frozen fingers, tugging up breeches and knotting laces, yanking fur-trimmed boots over hard unbending feet, buckling a studded leather belt around a waist no bigger than the span of his hands. “This was never what I wanted,” he told them as he worked. “They gave me no choice.” The corpses made no answer, but only grew colder and heavier.
　　The night before, it had been the miller’s wife. Theon had forgotten her name, but he remembered her body, soft pillowy breasts and stretch marks on her belly, the way she clawed his back when he fucked her. Last night in his dream he had been in bed with her once again, but this time she had teeth above and below, and she tore out his throat even as she was gnawing off his manhood. It was madness. He’d seen her die too. Gelmarr had cut her down with one blow of his axe as she cried to Theon for mercy. Leave me, woman. It was him who killed you, not me. And he’s dead as well. At least Gelmarr did not haunt Theon’s sleep.
　　The dream had receded by the time Wex returned with the water. Theon washed the sweat and sleep from his body and took his own good time dressing. Asha had let him wait long enough; now it was her turn. He chose a satin tunic striped black and gold and a fine leather jerkin with silver studs . . . and only then remembered that his wretched sister put more stock in blades than beauty. Cursing, he tore off the clothes and dressed again, in felted black wool and ringmail. Around his waist he buckled sword and dagger, remembering the night she had humiliated him at his own father’s table. Her sweet suckling babe, yes. Well, I have a knife too, and know how to use it.
　　Last of all, he donned his crown, a band of cold iron slim as a finger, set with heavy chunks of black diamond and nuggets of gold. It was misshapen and ugly, but there was no help for that. Mikken lay buried in the lichyard, and the new smith was capable of little more than nails and horseshoes. Theon consoled himself with the reminder that it was only a prince’s crown. He would have something much finer when he was crowned king.
　　Outside his door, Reek waited with Urzen and Kromm. Theon fell in with them. These days, he took guards with him everywhere he went, even to the privy. Winterfell wanted him dead. The very night they had returned from Acorn Water, Gelmarr the Grim had tumbled down some steps and broken his back. The next day, Aggar turned up with his throat slit ear to ear. Gynir Rednose became so wary that he shunned wine, took to sleeping in byrnie, coif, and helm, and adopted the noisiest dog in the kennels to give him warning should anyone try to steal up on his sleeping place. All the same, one morning the castle woke to the sound of the little dog barking wildly. They found the pup racing around the well, and Rednose floating in it, drowned.
　　He could not let the killings go unpunished. Farlen was as likely a suspect as any, so Theon sat in judgment, called him guilty, and condemned him to death. Even that went sour. As he knelt to the block, the kennelmaster said, “M’lord Eddard always did his own killings.” Theon had to take the axe himself or look a weakling. His hands were sweating, so the shaft twisted in his grip as he swung and the first blow landed between Farlen’s shoulders. It took three more cuts to hack through all that bone and muscle and sever the head from the body, and afterward he was sick, remembering all the times they’d sat over a cup of mead talking of hounds and hunting. I had no choice, he wanted to scream at the corpse. The ironborn can’t keep secrets, they had to die, and someone had to take the blame for it. He only wished he had killed him cleaner. Ned Stark had never needed more than a single blow to take a man’s head.
　　The killings stopped after Farlen’s death, but even so his men continued sullen and anxious. “They fear no foe in open battle,” Black Lorren told him, “but it is another thing to dwell among enemies, never knowing if the washerwoman means to kiss you or kill you, or whether the serving boy is filling your cup with ale or bale. We would do well to leave this place.”
　　“I am the Prince of Winterfell!” Theon had shouted. “This is my seat, no man will drive me from it. No, nor woman either!”
　　Asha. It was her doing. My own sweet sister, may the Others bugger her with a sword. She wanted him dead, so she could steal his place as their father’s heir. That was why she had let him languish here, ignoring the urgent commands he had sent her.
　　He found her in the high seat of the Starks, ripping a capon apart with her fingers. The hall rang with the voices of her men, sharing stories with Theon’s own as they drank together. They were so loud that his entrance went all but unnoticed. “Where are the rest?” he demanded of Reek. There were no more than fifty men at the trestle tables, most of them his. Winterfell’s Great Hall could have seated ten times the number.
　　“This is the whole o’ the company, m’lord prince.”
　　“The whole—how many men did she bring?”
　　“Twenty, by my count.”
　　Theon Greyjoy strode to where his sister was sprawled. Asha was laughing at something one of her men had said, but broke off at his approach. “Why, ‘tis the Prince of Winterfell.” She tossed a bone to one of the dogs sniffing about the hall. Under that hawk’s beak of a nose, her wide mouth twisted in a mocking grin. “Or is it Prince of Fools?”
　　“Envy ill becomes a maid.”
　　Asha sucked grease from her fingers. A lock of black hair fell across her eyes. Her men were shouting for bread and bacon. They made a deal of noise, as few as they were. “Envy, Theon?”
　　“What else would you call it? With thirty men, I captured Winterfell in a night. You needed a thousand and a moon’s turn to take Deepwood Motte.”
　　“Well, I’m no great warrior like you, brother,” She quaffed half a horn of ale and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “I saw the heads above your gates. Tell me true, which one gave you the fiercest fight, the cripple or the babe?”
　　Theon could feel the blood rushing to his face. He took no joy from those heads, no more than he had in displaying the headless bodies of the children before the castle. Old Nan stood with her soft toothless mouth opening and closing soundlessly, and Farlen threw himself at Theon, snarling like one of his hounds. Urzen and Cadwyl had to beat him senseless with the butts of their spears. How did I come to this? he remembered thinking as he stood over the fly-speckled bodies.
　　Only Maester Luwin had the stomach to come near. Stone-faced, the small grey man had begged leave to sew the boys’ heads back onto their shoulders, so they might be laid in the crypts below with the other Stark dead.
　　“No,” Theon had told him. “Not the crypts.”
　　“But why, my lord? Surely they cannot harm you now. It is where they belong. All the bones of the Starks—”
　　“I said no.” He needed the heads for the wall, but he had burned the headless bodies that very day, in all their finery. Afterward he had knelt amongst the bones and ashes to retrieve a slag of melted silver and cracked jet, all that remained of the wolf’s-head brooch that had once been Bran’s. He had it still.
　　“I treated Bran and Rickon generously,” he told his sister. “They brought their fate on themselves.”
　　“As do we all, little brother.”
　　His patience was at an end. “How do you expect me to hold Winterfell if you bring me only twenty men?”
　　“Ten,” Asha corrected. “The others return with me. You wouldn’t want your own sweet sister to brave the dangers of the wood without an escort, would you? There are direwolves prowling the dark.” She uncoiled from the great stone seat and rose to her feet. “Come, let us go somewhere we can speak more privily.”
　　She was right, he knew, though it galled him that she would make that decision. I should never have come to the hall, he realized belatedly. I should have summoned her to me.
　　It was too late for that now, however. Theon had no choice but to lead Asha to Ned Stark’s solar. There, before the ashes of a dead fire, he blurted, “Dagmer’s lost the fight at Torrhen’s Square—”
　　“The old castellan broke his shield wall, yes,” Asha said calmly. “What did you expect? This Ser Rodrik knows the land intimately, as the Cleftjaw does not, and many of the northmen were mounted. The ironborn lack the discipline to stand a charge of armored horse. Dagmer lives, be grateful for that much. He’s leading the survivors back toward the Stony Shore.”
　　She knows more than I do, Theon realized. That only made him angrier. “The victory has given Leobald Tallhart the courage to come out from behind his walls and join Ser Rodrik. And I’ve had reports that Lord Manderly has sent a dozen barges upriver packed with knights, warhorses, and siege engines. The Umbers are gathering beyond the Last River as well. I’ll have an army at my gates before the moon turns, and you bring me only ten men?”
　　“I need not have brought you any.”
　　“I commanded you—”
　　“Father commanded me to take Deepwood Motte,” she snapped. “He said nothing of me having to rescue my little brother.”
　　“Bugger Deepwood,” he said. “It’s a wooden pisspot on a hill. Winterfell is the heart of the land, but how am I to hold it without a garrison?”
　　“You might have thought of that before you took it. Oh, it was cleverly done, I’ll grant you. If only you’d had the good sense to raze the castle and carry the two little princelings back to Pyke as hostages, you might have won the war in a stroke.” “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? To see my prize reduced to ruins and ashes.”
　　“Your prize will be the doom of you. Krakens rise from the sea, Theon, or did you forget that during your years among the wolves? Our strength is in our longships. My wooden pisspot sits close enough to the sea for supplies and fresh men to reach me whenever they are needful. But Winterfell is hundreds of leagues inland, ringed by woods, hills, and hostile holdfasts and castles. And every man in a thousand leagues is your enemy now, make no mistake. You made certain of that when you mounted those heads on your gatehouse.” Asha shook her head. “How could you be such a bloody fool? Children . . .”
　　“They defied me!” he shouted in her face. “And it was blood for blood besides, two sons of Eddard Stark to pay for Rodrik and Maron.” The words tumbled out heedlessly, but Theon knew at once that his father would approve. “I’ve laid my brothers’ ghosts to rest.”
　　“Our brothers,” Asha reminded him, with a half smile that suggested she took his talk of vengeance well salted. “Did you bring their ghosts from Pyke, brother? And here I thought they haunted only Father.”
　　“When has a maid ever understood a man’s need for revenge?” Even if his father did not appreciate the gift of Winterfell, he must approve of Theon avenging his brothers!
　　Asha snorted back a laugh. “This Ser Rodrik may well feel the same manly need, did you think of that? You are blood of my blood, Theon, whatever else you may be. For the sake of the mother who bore us both, return to Deepwood Motte with me. Put Winterfell to the torch and fall back while you still can.”
　　“No.” Theon adjusted his crown. “I took this castle and I mean to hold it.”
　　His sister looked at him a long time. “Then hold it you shall,” she said, “for the rest of your life.” She sighed. “I say it tastes like folly, but what would a shy maid know of such things?” At the door she gave him one last mocking smile. “You ought to know, that’s the ugliest crown I’ve ever laid eyes on. Did you make it yourself?”
　　She left him fuming, and lingered no longer than was needful to feed and water her horses. Half the men she’d brought returned with her as threatened, riding out the same Hunter’s Gate that Bran and Rickon had used for their escape.
　　Theon watched them go from atop the wall. As his sister vanished into the mists of the wolfswood he found himself wondering why he had not listened and gone with her.
　　“Gone, has she?” Reek was at his elbow.
　　Theon had not heard him approach, nor smelled him either. He could not think of anyone he wanted to see less. It made him uneasy to see the man walking around breathing, with what he knew. I should have had him killed after he did the others, he reflected, but the notion made him nervous. Unlikely as it seemed, Reek could read and write, and he was possessed of enough base cunning to have hidden an account of what they’d done.
　　“M’lord prince, if you’ll pardon me saying, it’s not right for her to abandon you. And ten men, that won’t be near enough.”
　　“I am well aware of that,” Theon said. So was Asha.
　　“Well, might be I could help you,” said Reek. “Give me a horse and bag o’ coin, and I could find you some good fellows.”
　　Theon narrowed his eyes. “How many?”
　　“A hundred, might be. Two hundred. Maybe more.” He smiled, his pale eyes glinting. “I was born up north here. I know many a man, and many a man knows Reek.”
　　Two hundred men were not an army, but you didn’t need thousands to hold a castle as strong as Winterfell. So long as they could learn which end of a spear did the killing, they might make all the difference. “Do as you say and you’ll not find me ungrateful. You can name your own reward.”
　　“Well, m’lord, I haven’t had no woman since I was with Lord Ramsay,” Reek said. “I’ve had my eye on that Palla, and I hear she’s already been had, so . . .”
　　He had gone too far with Reek to turn back now. “Two hundred men and she’s yours. But a man less and you can go back to fucking pigs.”
　　Reek was gone before the sun went down, carrying a bag of Stark silver and the last of Theon’s hopes. Like as not, I’ll never see the wretch again, he thought bitterly, but even so the chance had to be taken.
　　That night he dreamed of the feast Ned Stark had thrown when King Robert came to Winterfell. The hall rang with music and laughter, though the cold winds were rising outside. At first it was all wine and roast meat, and Theon was making japes and eyeing the serving girls and having himself a fine time . . . until he noticed that the room was growing darker. The music did not seem so jolly then; he heard discords and strange silences, and notes that hung in the air bleeding. Suddenly the wine turned bitter in his mouth, and when he looked up from his cup he saw that he was dining with the dead.
　　King Robert sat with his guts spilling out on the table from the great gash in his belly, and Lord Eddard was headless beside him. Corpses lined the benches below, grey-brown flesh sloughing off their bones as they raised their cups to toast, worms crawling in and out of the holes that were their eyes. He knew them, every one; Jory Cassel and Fat Tom, Porther and Cayn and Hullen the master of horse, and all the others who had ridden south to King’s Landing never to return. Mikken and Chayle sat together, one dripping blood and the other water. Benfred Tallhart and his Wild Hares filled most of a table. The miller’s wife was there as well, and Farlen, even the wildling Theon had killed in the wolfswood the day he had saved Bran’s life.
　　But there were others with faces he had never known in life, faces he had seen only in stone. The slim, sad girl who wore a crown of pale blue roses and a white gown spattered with gore could only be Lyanna. Her brother Brandon stood beside her, and their father Lord Rickard just behind. Along the walls figures half-seen moved through the shadows, pale shades with long grim faces. The sight of them sent fear shivering through Theon sharp as a knife. And then the tall doors opened with a crash, and a freezing gale blew down the hall, and Robb came walking out of the night. Grey Wind stalked beside, eyes burning, and man and wolf alike bled from half a hundred savage wounds.
　　Theon woke with a scream, startling Wex so badly that the boy ran naked from the room. When his guards burst in with drawn swords, he ordered them to bring him the maester. By the time Luwin arrived rumpled and sleepy, a cup of wine had steadied Theon’s hands, and he was feeling ashamed of his panic. “A dream,” he muttered, “that was all it was. It meant nothing.”
　　“Nothing,” Luwin agreed solemnly. He left a sleeping draught, but Theon poured it down the privy shaft the moment he was gone. Luwin was a man as well as a maester, and the man had no love for him. He wants me to sleep, yes . . . to sleep and never wake. He’d like that as much as Asha would.
　　He sent for Kyra, kicked shut the door, climbed on top of her, and fucked the wench with a fury he’d never known was in him, By the time he finished, she was sobbing, her neck and breasts covered with bruises and bite marks. Theon shoved her from the bed and threw her a blanket. “Get out.”
　　Yet even then, he could not sleep.
　　Come dawn, he dressed and went outside, to walk along the outer walls. A brisk autumn wind was swirling through the battlements. It reddened his cheeks and stung his eyes. He watched the forest go from grey to green below him as light filtered through the silent trees. On his left he could see tower tops above the inner wall, their roofs gilded by the rising sun. The red leaves of the weirwood were a blaze of flame among the green. Ned Stark’s tree, he thought, and Stark’s wood, Stark’s castle, Stark’s sword, Stark’s gods. This is their place, not mine. I am a Greyjoy of Pyke, born to paint a kraken on my shield and sail the great salt sea. I should have gone with Asha.
　　On their iron spikes atop the gatehouse, the heads waited.
　　Theon gazed at them silently while the wind tugged on his cloak with small ghostly hands. The miller’s boys had been of an age with Bran and Rickon, alike in size and coloring, and once Reek had flayed the skin from their faces and dipped their heads in tar, it was easy to see familiar features in those misshapen lumps of rotting flesh. People were such fools. If we’d said they were rams’ heads, they would have seen horns.



Ⅱ 列王的纷争 Chapter57 席恩
　　天空乌云密布，森林死寂阴沉。席恩亡命逃窜，树根攫住他的脚，枯枝抽打他的脸，在颊间留下猩红的细长血条。他浑然不觉，跌撞前行，撞碎无数林间的垂冰，只觉无法呼吸。发发慈悲，他啜泣。身后传来一阵雷霆般的怒嗥，让他血液凝固。发发慈悲，发发慈悲。他回头瞥去，他们来了，马一样大的狼长着小孩的头颅。啊，发发慈悲，发发慈悲。焦油一般墨黑的血从他们口中滴落，掉入雪地，溶出孔洞。他们越奔越近。席恩用尽全力奔跑，双腿却不听使唤。周围的树长了人脸，统统在嘲笑他，笑声与嚎叫交织一起，穷追不舍的野兽喷出炽热的呼吸，带着硫磺与腐败的恶臭，充斥他的鼻腔。他们死了，死了，我亲眼见他们死了，他想纵声高呼，我亲眼看见他们的头浸进焦油。他张开嘴巴，却只能发出断续的呻吟，接着什么东西撞上来，他急速躲避，呼叫……
　　……跌落之中慌忙抓住一直放在床边的匕首。幸亏预作准备，摔得并不严重。威克斯飞快闪开他。臭佬站在哑巴身后，高举的蜡烛映得脸庞闪闪发光。“干嘛？”席恩叫道。发发慈悲。“你想干嘛？你怎么在我卧室？你想干嘛？”
　　“亲王殿下，”臭佬道，“令姐刚抵达临冬城。您吩咐过，她一到达立刻通知您。”“真慢。”席恩咕哝着用手指梳理头发。他本已怀疑阿莎要任他自生自灭了。发发慈悲。他瞥瞥窗外，黎明的第一束朦胧曙光正扫过临冬城的塔楼。“她在哪儿？”
　　“罗伦把她和她手下带去大厅吃早餐。您现在就见她？”
　　“对。”席恩摔开毯子。炉火已成灰烬。“威克斯，打热水。”不能让阿莎瞧见他这副衣冠不整、浑身是汗的模样。长着孩子头的狼……他禁不住打颤。“关窗！”卧室跟梦中的森林一般寒冷彻骨。
　　近来他所有的梦都奇寒无比，而且一个比一个恐怖。昨晚他又梦回磨坊，跪在地上给死人着装。他们四肢已近僵硬，当他用半冻僵的手指摸索行动时，尸体似乎在无声地抵抗。他为他们拉上裤子，系好裤带，把毛边皮靴套进僵直的脚，将镶钉皮带捆上他们的腰——那腰细得他双手就可握拢。“我不想这样做，”他边做边告诉他们，“但别无选择。”尸体没有回答，只是愈来愈冷，愈来愈沉。
　　前天晚上，梦见的却是磨坊主的老婆。席恩早把她的姓名抛诸脑后，但还记得她的身体，记得她柔软舒适的乳房和小腹上的胎记，记得交欢时她在他背上搔抓。前晚的梦中，他们再度共枕，但这次她的嘴唇和下体都生了利牙，撕开他的喉咙，咬断他的老二。这真是太疯狂了。他也亲眼见她死了。当时她向席恩哭喊慈悲，却被葛马一斧砍翻。走开，女人。杀你的人是他，不是我。他不也偿命了吗？幸好葛马没来梦中扰他。
　　直到威克斯端水进来，他才稍感心安。席恩洗去周身大汗和睡意，换上最好的服饰。阿莎让他等了个够——现在轮到她等。他挑选一条黑金条纹的绸缎上衣，一件银纽扣的上好皮背心……这才想起可恶的姐姐更看中刀剑而非华服，于是一边咒骂，一边脱下衣服，重新换装。这次他穿上粗糙的黑毛衣和锁甲，并在腰间捆好长剑和匕首——对那晚她在父亲桌前给予他的羞辱，他莫齿难忘。哼，你的乳儿宝宝，有何得意？我也有刀，而且用得比你好。
　　最后，他戴上王冠。那是一圈细如手指的冷铁，上缀沉重的黑钻石和天然金块。手工有些误差，冠冕显得丑陋，但这是没办法的事。密肯已葬在临冬城的墓园，新铁匠只会钉钉子和打马蹄铁。这只是亲王的冠冕，席恩安慰自己，等当上国王，一定会做新的。
　　门外，臭佬、乌兹和科蒙一道候着他。席恩带上他们。这些日子来，他无论到哪儿都带着卫士，甚至上厕所都不例外。临冬城的人个个都要他死。从橡树河归来当晚，“严厉的”葛马就跌下楼梯，摔断了背。翌日，阿加莫名其妙地被割了喉咙。红鼻加尼紧张过度，以至于拒绝喝酒，连睡觉也是全副武装，裹着头巾和头盔，还把兽舍里最吵的狗带在身边，生怕有人趁他睡着偷偷接近。不过一切都是徒劳，某天清晨，全城被小狗狂野的吠叫声惊醒。他们发现小家伙疯了似的在水井边打转，红鼻漂在水中，咽了气。
　　他当然不能让谋杀肆无忌惮地继续，否则一切便全乱套了。法兰有最大的嫌疑，于是席恩亲自主持审判，定他的罪，判他死刑。然而这却带来意想不到的尴尬。当驯兽长跪下，把头伸进木桩时，说道：“艾德大人一定会亲自动手。”席恩不愿被看轻，只得亲自操斧。他满手是汗，下斩时斧柄滑脱掌握，第一击竟砍在法兰双肩之间。接下来，他又连劈三次，方才割断骨头和肌腱，把头颅与身躯分离。他只觉天旋地转，眩然欲呕。从前他们同席而坐，把酒言欢，畅谈猎狗和捕猎的往事历历在目。我别无选择啊，他想对尸体尖叫。铁种守不了秘，他们非死不可，其后总得有人为此负责。他愧疚的是没能让他死得干脆。奈德·史塔克砍人头颅从来只需利落一击。
　　法兰死后，谋杀便告终止，但他的手下却变得愈来愈紧张和阴郁。“大伙儿不怕上战场，”黑罗伦告诉他，“如今的问题是看不见摸不着，我们就居住敌人之中。谁也不知这里的仆妇是想亲你还是想杀你，谁也不知侍童给你满上的是美酒还是毒药。我建议赶紧撤离。”
　　“我是临冬城亲王！”席恩破口大骂。“这是我的地盘，谁也不能把我赶走，谁也不能！天神老子都不行！”
　　阿莎。这都是她的所为。我亲爱的姐姐，愿异鬼杀了她。她要我完蛋，才好名正言顺地成为父亲的继承人，所以一直慢慢吞吞，毫不理会他多次催促命令，任他在这里枯坐愁城。
　　此刻她坐在史塔克族长的高位上，用手指撕阉鸡。她部下正和席恩的人一起喝酒，分享往来故事，喧嚷弥漫整个大厅，以至于无人注意他的来临。“其他人呢？”他询问臭佬。长桌边的人不满五十，一大半还是他的。临冬城的厅堂足够容纳十倍于此的人数呢。
　　“全部人手都在这里，亲王殿下。”
　　“全部——她带来多少人？”
　　“据我计算二十个。”
　　席恩大踏步走向懒洋洋躺卧着的姐姐。阿莎本来正为手下的俏皮话哈哈大笑，看他逼近便即止住。“看哪，临冬城亲王登场喽。”她把手中骨头掷给大厅里嗅来闻去的狗们，鹰勾鼻下的大嘴扭出一个嘲弄的微笑。“还是傻瓜亲王到了？”
　　“好个吃飞醋的女人。”
　　阿莎咂咂指头的油脂，一缕黑发垂到两眼之间。她的手下闹着要面包和培根，人只有几个，发出的声音却很吵。“吃醋，席恩？”
　　“难道不是？只用三十个人，我一夜之间便拿下临冬城。你带一千精兵，却花了整整一个月才取得深林堡。”
　　“是啊，我比不上你，伟大的战士。可是，弟弟——”她一口喝下半角杯麦酒，用手背揩揩嘴。“——我方才瞧见你挂在城门上的人头。跟我说实话，谁的武艺比较高强啊，跛子呢还是婴儿？”
　　席恩只觉热血直往脸上冲。对这些头颅他感不到半分乐趣，把两具无头童尸展示在全城人面前更觉得万分揪心。当时，老奶妈静静地站着看，柔软无牙的嘴无声地张合。法兰则死命地朝他扑来，如他手下的猎狗一般咆哮狂吼，直到乌兹和卡德威用矛柄把他打得毫无知觉。他们为什么这么对我？他站在两具苍蝇密布的尸身前，百思不得其解。
　　只有鲁温师傅压住肝火走上前，这灰色的矮男子挺着石头样的表情，恳求席恩准许将孩子的头缝回身体，好让他们和其他史塔克族人一起安眠于地下墓窖之中。“不行，”席恩告诉他。“不能葬在墓窖。”
　　“为什么，大人？毫无疑问，他们现在妨碍不了你了。而他们生来便属于那里，那里有所有史塔克故人的遗骨——”
　　“我说不行。”他得把头颅挂在城墙，而两具无头躯体当天便连同华服一起烧成灰烬。之后，他跪在碎骨和灰烬之中找到融化的残银断玉——布兰的狼头胸针仅存的部分。他一直留着这个。
　　“我给了布兰和瑞肯优遇，”他告诉姐姐。“这是他们自作自受。”
　　“你自己不也一样，小弟弟。”
　　他的耐心到了尽头。“你只带来二十个人，要我怎么守住临冬城？”
　　“十个，”阿莎纠正。“剩下的得护送我回去。你总不会忍心让你亲爱的姐姐孤身一人在原始森林犯险吧，好弟弟？听说林子晚上有冰原狼出没哟。”她从宽大的石座位里挺身站起。“走，我们找个隐秘的地方私下谈谈。”
　　她是对的，席恩意识到，然而令他恼怒的是自己竟不得不听从她的决定。我根本不该来大厅，他后悔不迭，我本该召她来见我。
　　现在说什么都迟了。席恩别无选择，只得带阿莎到奈德·史塔克的书房。进屋之后，望着熄灭的炉火灰烬，他脱口而出：“达格磨在托伦方城吃了败仗——”
　　“不错，老骑士击溃了他安排的盾墙。”阿莎冷静地说，“你以为怎样？这个罗德利克爵士熟悉地形，裂颚则一无所知，很多北方人还骑马。铁种没有坚守面对铁甲马队的纪律。庆幸的是，达格磨还活着，他率领残部逃回了磐石海岸。”
　　她所知的比我多得多，席恩意识到，这让他更加愤懑。“胜利终于给了兰巴德·陶哈足够的勇气出城加入罗德利克的军队。我还得知曼德勒伯爵派出十几只驳船顺白刃河而上，满载骑士、步兵、战马和攻城机械。安柏家的部队也在末江对岸集结。月圆之前，我必须拥有一只军队来保卫城池，你却只给我十个人？”
　　“我一个人也不该给你。”
　　“我命令你——”
　　“父亲命令我占领深林堡。”她打断他，“没叫我救援我的小弟弟。”
　　“去你妈的深林堡，”他说，“不过是荒山上的木尿壶。临冬城才是北地的中心，可我没军队怎么守得住？”
　　“那是你夺城之前就该想好的事。噢，干得挺机灵，我祝贺你，但你也不过如此。你本该把城堡夷为平地，然后押两个小王子回派克作人质，你本可毕其功于一役，为我们赢得整个战争。”
　　“你巴不得我这样干，是不？你巴不得把我的猎物变成废墟和灰烬。”
　　“你的猎物会毁了你。海怪生于大海汪洋，席恩，难道说你这些年和狼仔待在一起已经忘得一干二净了？我们的力量在于我们的长船。我的木尿壶靠近海洋，因而能够接受补给，需要时也能获得援兵。临冬城呢，深入大陆几百里格，四周包围着森林、山丘和敌方的庄园与城堡。你别搞错，此地方圆千里之内都是你的敌人。是你亲手促成的——当你把那些头颅挂上城门楼的时候。”阿莎摇着头。“你他妈的怎么变成了这种蠢货？把孩子……”
　　“他们公然冒犯我！”他冲她大吼。“这也是血债血偿，你忘了艾德·史塔克是怎么害死罗德利克和马伦的吗？”这句话不经意间仓皇而出，席恩立刻明白父亲会接受这个缘由。“一命换一命，我已让我哥哥的魂魄得到安息。”
　　“我们的哥哥，”阿莎提醒他，似笑非笑的表情显示出她对复仇言论不屑一顾。“你把他们的魂魄从派克带来了么，弟弟？我还以为他们俩只去纠缠父亲呢。”
　　“含羞的少女哪里懂得男人复仇的欲望！”没错，即使父亲不赏识临冬城这份大礼，也会肯定席恩为哥哥们复仇的举动啊！
　　阿莎一笑置之。“你想过没，这罗德利克爵士此刻也有同样的欲望哟？算啦算啦，席恩，不管你是什么德行，毕竟算我的血亲骨肉，我是为着生出我们两人的母亲的缘故才来的。跟我回深林堡吧，趁现在还来得及，一把火烧掉临冬城，快快脱身。”
　　“不，”席恩整整头上的王冠。“城堡是我的，我要守住它。”
　　姐姐良久地注视他。“你要守就守吧，”她说，“下半辈子都守在这儿吧。”她叹口气。“我说你是个傻瓜呢，也罢，含羞的少女懂什么呢？”走到门边，她给了他最后一个嘲讽的微笑。“要知道，这是我见过最丑陋的王冠了。自己动手做的？”
　　她任他浑身发抖地站在原地，大摇大摆地走了，并果然在把马喂饱饮足后便撤离了临冬城。她如约留下半数部下，接着穿过布兰和瑞肯用来脱逃的猎人门绝尘而去。
　　席恩站在城墙上，目送他们离开。看着姐姐消失于狼林的薄雾中，怀疑从心底油然上升：自己为何不听她的话？不跟她一起去？
　　“她走了，是吧？”臭佬就在身边。
　　席恩没听到他接近的响动，也没闻到他的气味，此刻最不想见的人就是他。这家伙知道得太多，听凭他晃来晃去真有些不自在。我怎不把他和其他人一起干掉？这念头让他焦虑。旁人容易被臭佬的外表迷惑，其实他能读会写，更狡猾过人，真不知他何时会出卖自己。
　　“亲王殿下，请容我多言两句：令姐抛弃您的举动实在令人寒心，这十个人，远远不够。”
　　“我很清楚，”席恩。这不正是阿莎的目的？
　　“哎……或许我能帮您，”臭佬说，“给我一匹骏马，一包钱币，我去为您募集帮手。”
　　席恩眯起眼睛。“能募多少？”
　　“或许一百，或许两百。甚至更多。”他笑了，淡色的眼睛闪着光。“我是个土生土长的北方人，小有名气，有很多人会为我臭佬卖命。”
　　两百人算不上一只军队，但临冬城这么坚固的城堡也无需成千守卫，只要他们知道用长矛的哪一头去杀人，便足以扭转大局。“那好，你说到做到，我一定慷慨大方。说吧，事成之后，要什么奖赏？”
　　“这个嘛，殿下，自打跟随拉姆斯大人以来，我就没碰过女人。”臭佬说，“我盯上那个帕拉很久了，虽说她已被开苞，不过嘛……”
　　他已和臭佬走得太远，无法回头了。“带两百人回来，她就是你的。少了一个，我就让你去操猪。”
　　夕阳落山之际，臭佬出发了，带走一袋史塔克的银币和席恩最后的希望。聊胜于无，只怕我是再也见不着这滑头了，他苦涩地想，只是心里不肯放弃这最后一根稻草。
　　今晚他梦见的是劳勃国王抵达临冬城那天奈德·史塔克举行的欢迎宴会。洋溢歌声和欢笑的大厅，寒风在外呼啸。起初，席恩只是喝美酒、吃烤肉，边开玩笑边打量来往女仆，满心欢愉……突然发现整个厅堂暗下来，连音乐也不再悦耳，一阵不和谐的嘈杂之后，便是诡异的宁静，所有音符都停止。猛然间，嘴里的美酒变成苦味，他慌忙自杯间抬头，原来同席就餐的都是死人。
　　劳勃国王坐在正中，肚上有道大裂缝，内脏流上餐桌，无头的艾德公爵陪在他身边。下方的长凳上，尸体们坐得整整齐齐，互相举杯庆贺，灰褐色的腐肉从骨头上软泥似的脱落，蛆虫在空洞的眼眶里爬进爬出。他认得他们，认得每个人：乔里·凯索和胖汤姆，波瑟、凯恩和马房总管胡伦，这一大群人南下君临，却一去不返。密肯和柴尔并肩而坐，一个滴血，一个滴水。本福德·陶哈和他的野兔兵团几乎占据了一整个长桌。此外，磨坊主的老婆，法兰……甚至那个席恩为了拯救布兰而在狼林射杀的野人也在其中。
　　这里还有别的面孔，那些他从未目睹、只在石雕上见过的面孔。那位身材苗条，头戴碧蓝玫瑰花冠，身穿沾满血污的洁白裙服的姑娘，一脸哀伤，想必就是莱安娜。她哥哥布兰登站在她身旁，他们的父亲瑞卡德公爵则在她身后。墙边，影影绰绰的形体在黑暗中移动，苍白的身影有严酷的长面孔。看到他们，席恩只觉恐惧犹如尖刀刺穿全身。高耸的大门轰然撞开，冰冻的寒风灌进大厅。罗柏踏出暗夜，缓缓进逼；灰风双眼如炬，亦步亦趋。人和狼带了几十处重伤，浑身浴血。
　　席恩狂叫着醒来，把威克斯吓得魂飞魄散，光着身子逃出房间。不一会儿，卫兵们手执长剑冲进来，他命他们去找学士。当鲁温睡眼惺忪、衣冠不整地赶来时，席恩已灌下一杯葡萄酒，手止住了颤抖，开始为自己的惊慌失措而羞愧。“只是梦，”他喃喃道，“不过只是梦。什么也不代表。”
　　“什么也不代表。”鲁温严肃地同意，并留下一贴安眠药，席恩等他离开便将其倒进便池。鲁温是学士，可他也是人，没人喜欢他。不错，他想让我安睡，最好是……一睡不醒。他和阿莎有同样的渴望。
　　他召来凯拉，一脚踢上门，骑到她身上，用这辈子前所未有的狂暴狠狠操这婊子。他完事之后，她不住哭泣，颈子和乳房到处是淤伤和齿印。席恩推她下床，扔去一条毯子，“滚出去！”
　　但他还是睡不着。
　　黎明终于来了。他穿好衣服，踱出房门，爬上外城城墙。城垛之间，凛冽的秋风盘旋不休，吹得他脸颊发红，刺痛了他的眼睛。阳光从沉寂的树木之间滤过，下方的森林由灰而绿。向左，他望着高过内墙的塔楼，初升的太阳为它们镀上金色的冠冕。在一片绿海之中，鱼梁木那一撮红叶跃动着火焰的光辉。这是奈德·史塔克的树，他心想，这是史塔克的森林，史塔克的城堡，史塔克的宝剑，史塔克的神灵。这是他们的地盘，不是我的归宿。我是派克的葛雷乔伊，生来便应在盾牌上刻起海怪纹章，在辽阔的盐海中乘风破浪。我该跟阿莎一起离开。
　　城门楼的铁熗上，头颅无声地凝视。
　　席恩静静地回望他们，风用幽灵般的小手牵起他的披风。磨坊主人的孩子年纪和布兰、瑞肯相仿，连体形肤色都一样。当臭佬剥去他们的面皮，并将头颅浸过焦油之后，这些奇形怪状的腐败血肉便很容易被别人认作是王子的头颅。人就是这样的傻瓜。我说那是羊头，他们就能找出羊角。
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你看着眼前的人，分明还是以前的模样，可心里终究不是以前那般澄清透明了。
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Chapter 56

　　CHAPTER 55 CATELYN
　　The Great Hall of Riverrun was a lonely place for two to sit to supper. Deep shadows draped the walls. One of the torches had guttered out, leaving only three. Catelyn sat staring into her wine goblet. The vintage tasted thin and sour on her tongue. Brienne was across from her. Between them, her father’s high seat was as empty as the rest of the hall. Even the servants were gone. She had given them leave to join the celebration.
　　The walls of the keep were thick, yet even so, they could hear the muffled sounds of revelry from the yard outside. Ser Desmond had brought twenty casks up from the cellars, and the smallfolk were celebrating Edmure’s imminent return and Robb’s conquest of the Crag by hoisting horns of nut-brown ale.
　　I cannot blame them, Catelyn thought. They do not know And if they did, why should they care? They never knew my sons. Never watched Bran climb with their hearts in their throats, pride and terror so mingled they seemed as one, never heard him laugh, never smiled to see Rickon trying so fiercely to be like his older brothers. She stared at the supper set before her: trout wrapped in bacon, salad of turnip greens and red fennel and sweetgrass, pease and onions and hot bread. Brienne was eating methodically, as if supper were another chore to be accomplished. I am become a sour woman, Catelyn thought. I take no joy in mead nor meat, and song and laughter have become suspicious strangers to me. I am a creature of grief and dust and bitter longings. There is an empty place within me where my heart was once.
　　The sound of the other woman’s eating had become intolerable to her. “Brienne, I am no fit company. Go join the revels, if you would. Drink a horn of ale and dance to Rymund’s harping.”
　　“I am not made for revels, my lady.” Her big hands tore apart a heel of black bread. Brienne stared at the chunks as if she had forgotten what they were. “If you command it, I . . .”
　　Catelyn could sense her discomfort. “I only thought you might enjoy happier company than mine.”
　　“I’m well content.” The girl used the bread to sop up some of the bacon grease the trout had been fried in.
　　“There was another bird this morning.” Catelyn did not know why she said it. “The maester woke me at once. That was dutiful, but not kind. Not kind at all.” She had not meant to tell Brienne. No one knew but her and Maester Vyman, and she had meant to keep it that way until . . . until . . .
　　Until what? Foolish woman, will holding it secret in your heart make it any less true? If you never tell, never speak of it, will it become only a dream, less than a dream, a nightmare half-remembered? Oh, if only the gods would be so good.
　　“Is it news of King’s Landing?” asked Brienne.
　　“Would that it was. The bird came from Castle Cerwyn, from Ser Rodrik, my castellan.” Dark wings, dark words. “He has gathered what power he could and is marching on Winterfell, to take the castle back.” How unimportant all that sounded now. “But he said . . . he wrote . . . he told me, he . . .”
　　“My lady, what is it? Is it some news of your sons?”
　　Such a simple question that was; would that the answer could be as simple. When Catelyn tried to speak, the words caught in her throat. “I have no sons but Robb.” She managed those terrible words without a sob, and for that much she was glad.
　　Brienne looked at her with horror. “My lady?”
　　“Bran and Rickon tried to escape, but were taken at a mill on the Acorn Water. Theon Greyjoy has mounted their heads on the walls of Winterfell. Theon Greyjoy, who ate at my table since he was a boy of ten.” I have said it, gods forgive me. I have said it and made it true.
　　Brienne’s face was a watery blur. She reached across the table, but her fingers stopped short of Catelyn’s, as if the touch might be unwelcome. “I . . . there are no words, my lady. My good lady. Your sons, they . . . they’re with the gods now.”
　　“Are they?” Catelyn said sharply. “What god would let this happen? Rickon was only a baby. How could he deserve such a death? And Bran . . . when I left the north, he had not opened his eyes since his fall. I had to go before he woke. Now I can never return to him, or hear him laugh again.” She showed Brienne her palms, her fingers. “These scars . . . they sent a man to cut Bran’s throat as he lay sleeping. He would have died then, and me with him, but Bran’s wolf tore out the man’s throat.” That gave her a moment’s pause. “I suppose Theon killed the wolves too. He must have, elsewise . . . I was certain the boys would be safe so long as the direwolves were with them. Like Robb with his Grey Wind. But my daughters have no wolves now.”
　　The abrupt shift of topic left Brienne bewildered. “Your daughters . . .”
　　“Sansa was a lady at three, always so courteous and eager to please. She loved nothing so well as tales of knightly valor. Men would say she had my look, but she will grow into a woman far more beautiful than I ever was, you can see that. I often sent away her maid so I could brush her hair myself. She had auburn hair, lighter than mine, and so thick and soft . . . the red in it would catch the light of the torches and shine like copper.
　　“And Arya, well . . . Ned’s visitors would oft mistake her for a stableboy if they rode into the yard unannounced. Arya was a trial, it must be said. Half a boy and half a wolf pup. Forbid her anything and it became her heart’s desire. She had Ned’s long face, and brown hair that always looked as though a bird had been nesting in it. I despaired of ever making a lady of her. She collected scabs as other girls collect dolls, and would say anything that came into her head. I think she must be dead too.” When she said that, it felt as though a giant hand were squeezing her chest. “I want them all dead, Brienne. Theon Greyjoy first, then Jaime Lannister and Cersei and the Imp, every one, every one. But my girls . . . my girls will . . .”
　　“The queen . . . she has a little girl of her own,” Brienne said awkwardly. “And sons too, of an age with yours. When she hears, perhaps she . . . she may take pity, and . . .”
　　“Send my daughters back unharmed?” Catelyn smiled sadly. “There is a sweet innocence about you, child. I could wish . . . but no. Robb will avenge his brothers. Ice can kill as dead as fire. Ice was Ned’s greatsword. Valyrian steel, marked with the ripples of a thousand foldings, so sharp I feared to touch it. Robb’s blade is dull as a cudgel compared to Ice. It will not be easy for him to get Theon’s head off, I fear. The Starks do not use headsmen. Ned always said that the man who passes the sentence should swing the blade, though he never took any joy in the duty. But I would, oh, yes.” She stared at her scarred
　　hands, opened and closed them, then slowly raised her eyes. “I’ve sent him wine.”
　　“Wine?” Brienne was lost. “Robb? Or . . . Theon Greyjoy?”
　　“The Kingslayer.” The ploy had served her well with Cleos Frey. I hope you’re thirsty, Jaime. I hope your throat is dry and tight. “I would like you to come with me.”
　　“I am yours to command, my lady.”
　　“Good.” Catelyn rose abruptly. “Stay, finish your meal in peace. I will send for you later. At midnight.”
　　“So late, my lady?”
　　“The dungeons are windowless. One hour is much like another down there, and for me, all hours are midnight.” Her footsteps rang hollowly when Catelyn left the hall. As she climbed to Lord Hoster’s solar, she could hear them outside, shouting, “Tully!” and “A cup! A cup to the brave young lord!” My father is not dead, she wanted to shout down at them. My sons are dead, but my father lives, damn you all, and he is your lord still.
　　Lord Hoster was deep in sleep. “He had a cup of drearnwine not so long ago, my lady,” Maester Vyman said. “For the pain. He will not know you are here.”
　　“It makes no matter,” Catelyn said. He is more dead than alive, yet more alive than my poor sweet sons.
　　“My lady, is there aught I might do for you? A sleeping draught, perhaps?”
　　“Thank you, Maester, but no. I will not sleep away my grief. Bran and Rickon deserve better from me. Go and join the celebration, I will sit with my father for a time.”
　　“As you will, my lady.” Vyman bowed and left her.
　　Lord Hoster lay on his back, mouth open, his breath a faint whistling sigh. One hand hung over the edge of the mattress, a pale frail fleshless thing, but warm when she touched it. She slid her fingers through his and closed them. No matter how tightly I hold him, I cannot keep him here, she thought sadly. Let him go. Yet her fingers would not seem to unbend.
　　“I have no one to talk with, Father,” she told him. “I pray, but the gods do not answer.” Lightly she kissed his hand. The skin was warm, blue veins branching like rivers beneath his pale translucent skin. Outside the greater rivers flowed, the Red Fork and the Tumblestone, and they would flow forever, but not so the rivers in her father’s hand. Too soon that current would grow still. “Last night I dreamed of that time Lysa and I got lost while riding back from Seagard. Do you remember? That strange fog came up and we fell behind the rest of the party. Everything was grey, and I could not see a foot past the nose of my horse. We lost the road. The branches of the trees were like long skinny arms reaching out to grab us as we passed. Lysa started to cry, and when I shouted the fog seemed to swallow the sound. But Petyr knew where we were, and he rode back and found us . . .
　　“But there’s no one to find me now, is there? This time I have to find our own way, and it is hard, so hard.
　　“I keep remembering the Stark words. Winter has come, Father. For me. For me. Robb must fight the Greyjoys now as well as the Lannisters, and for what? For a gold hat and an iron chair? Surely the land has bled enough. I want my girls back, I want Robb to lay down his sword and pick some homely daughter of Walder Frey to make him happy and give him sons. I want Bran and Rickon back, I want . . .” Catelyn hung her head. “I want,” she said once more, and then her words were gone.
　　After a time the candle guttered and went out. Moonlight slanted between the slats of the shutters, laying pale silvery bars across her father’s face. She could hear the soft whisper of his labored breathing, the endless rush of waters, the faint chords of some love song drifting up from the yard, so sad and sweet. “I loved a maid as red as autumn,” Rymund sang, “with sunset in her hair.”
　　Catelyn never noticed when the singing ended. Hours had passed, yet it seemed only a heartbeat before Brienne was at the door. “MY lady,” she announced softly. “Midnight has come.”
　　Midnight has come, Father, she thought, and I must do my duty. She let go of his hand.
　　The gaoler was a furtive little man with broken veins in his nose. They found him bent over a tankard of ale and the remains of a pigeon pie, more than a little drunk. He squinted at them suspiciously. “Begging your forgiveness, m’lady, but Lord Edmure says no one is to see the Kingslayer without a writing from him, with his seal upon it.”
　　“Lord Edmure? Has my father died, and no one told me?”
　　The gaoler licked his lips. “No, m’lady, not as I knows.”
　　“You will open the cell, or you will come with me to Lord Hoster’s solar and tell him why you saw fit to defy me.”
　　His eyes fell. “As m’lady says.” The keys were chained to the studded leather belt that girdled his waist. He muttered under his breath as he sorted through them, until he found the one that fit the door to the Kingslayer’s cell.
　　“Go back to your ale and leave us,” she commanded. An oil lamp hung from a hook on the low ceiling. Catelyn took it down and turned up the flame. “Brienne, see that I am not disturbed.”
　　Nodding, Brienne took up a position just outside the cell, her hand resting on the pommel of her sword. “My lady will call if she has need of me.”
　　Catelyn shouldered aside the heavy wood-and-iron door and stepped into foul darkness. This was the bowels of Riverrun, and smelled the part. Old straw crackled underfoot. The walls were discolored with patches of nitre. Through the stone, she could hear the faint rush of the Tumblestone. The lamplight revealed a pail overflowing with feces in one corner and a huddled shape in another. The flagon of wine stood beside the door, untouched. So much for that ploy. I ought to be thankful that the gaoler did not drink it himself, I suppose.
　　Jaime raised his hands to cover his face, the chains around his wrists clanking. “Lady Stark,” he said, in a voice hoarse with disuse. “I fear I am in no condition to receive you.”
　　“Look at me, ser.”
　　“The light hurts my eyes. A moment, if you would.” Jaime Lannister had been allowed no razor since the night he was taken in the Whispering Wood, and a shaggy beard covered his face, once so like the queen’s. Glinting gold in the lamplight, the whiskers made him look like some great yellow beast, magnificent even in chains. His unwashed hair fell to his shoulders in ropes and tangles, the clothes were rotting on his body, his face was pale and wasted . . . and even so, the power and the beauty of the man were still apparent.
　　“I see you had no taste for the wine I sent you.”
　　“Such sudden generosity seemed somewhat suspect.”
　　“I can have your head off anytime I want. Why would I need to poison you?”
　　“Death by poison can seem natural. Harder to claim that my head simply fell off.” He squinted up from the floor, his cat-green eyes slowly becoming accustomed to the light. “I’d invite you to sit, but your brother has neglected to provide me a chair.”
　　“I can stand well enough.”
　　“Can you? You look terrible, I must say. Though perhaps it’s just the light in here.” He was fettered at wrist and ankle, each cuff chained to the others, so he could neither stand nor lie comfortably. The ankle chains were bolted to the wall. “Are my bracelets heavy enough for you, or did you come to add a few more? I’ll rattle them prettily if you like.”
　　“You brought this on yourself,” she reminded him. “We granted you the comfort of a tower cell befitting your birth and station. You repaid us by trying to escape.”
　　“A cell is a cell. Some under Casterly Rock make this one seem a sunlit garden. One day perhaps I’ll show them to you.”
　　If he is cowed, he hides it well, Catelyn thought. “A man chained hand and foot should keep a more courteous tongue in his mouth, ser. I did not come here to be threatened.”
　　“No? Then surely it was to have your pleasure of me? It’s said that widows grow weary of their empty beds. We of the Kingsguard vow never to wed, but I suppose I could still service you if that’s what you need. Pour us some of that wine and slip out of that gown and we’ll see if I’m up to it.”
　　Catelyn stared down at him in revulsion. Was there ever a man as beautiful or as vile as this one? “If you said that in my son’s hearing, he would kill you for it.”
　　“Only so long as I was wearing these.” Jaime Lannister rattled his chains at her. “We both know the boy is afraid to face me in single combat.”
　　“My son may be young, but if you take him for a fool, you are sadly mistaken . . . and it seems to me that you were not so quick to make challenges when you had an army at your back.”
　　“Did the old Kings of Winter hide behind their mothers’ skirts as well?”
　　“I grow weary of this, ser. There are things I must know.”
　　“Why should I tell you anything?”
　　“To save your life.”
　　“You think I fear death?” That seemed to amuse him.
　　“You should. Your crimes will have earned you a place of torment in the deepest of the seven hells, if the gods are just.”
　　“What gods are those, Lady Catelyn? The trees your husband prayed to? How well did they serve him when my sister took his head off?” Jaime gave a chuckle. “If there are gods, why is the world so full of pain and injustice?”
　　“Because of men like you.”
　　“There are no men like me. There’s only me.”
　　There is nothing here but arrogance and pride, and the empty courage of a madman. I am wasting my breath with this one. If there was ever a spark of honor in him, it is long dead. “If you will not speak with me, so be it. Drink the wine or piss in it, ser, it makes no matter to me.”
　　Her hand was at the door pull when he said, “Lady Stark.” She turned, waited. “Things go to rust in this damp,” Jaime went on. “Even a man’s courtesies. Stay, and you shall have your answers . . . for a price.”
　　He has no shame. “Captives do not set prices.”
　　“Oh, you’ll find mine modest enough. Your turnkey tells me nothing but vile lies, and he cannot even keep them straight. One day he says Cersei has been flayed, and the next it’s my father. Answer my questions and I’ll answer yours.”
　　“Truthfully?”
　　“Oh, it’s truth you want? Be careful, my lady. Tyrion says that people often claim to hunger for truth, but seldom like the taste when it’s served up.”
　　“I am strong enough to hear anything you care to say.”
　　“As you will, then. But first, if you’d be so kind . . . the wine. My throat is raw.”
　　Catelyn hung the lamp from the door and moved the cup and flagon closer. Jaime sloshed the wine around his mouth before he swallowed. “Sour and vile,” he said, “but it will do.” He put his back to the wall, drew his knees up to his chest, and stared at her. “Your first question, Lady Catelyn?”
　　Not knowing how long this game might continue, Catelyn wasted no time. “Are you Joffrey’s father?”
　　“You would never ask unless you knew the answer.”
　　“I want it from your own lips.”
　　He shrugged. “Joffrey is mine. As are the rest of Cersei’s brood, I suppose.”
　　“You admit to being your sister’s lover?”
　　“I’ve always loved my sister, and you owe me two answers. Do all my kin still live?”
　　“Ser Stafford Lannister was slain at Oxcross, I am told.”
　　Jaime was unmoved. “Uncle Dolt, my sister called him. It’s Cersei and Tyrion who concern me. As well as my lord father.”
　　“They live, all three.” But not long, if the gods are good.
　　Jaime drank some more wine. “Ask your next.”
　　Catelyn wondered if he would dare answer her next question with anything but a lie. “How did my son Bran come to fall?” “I flung him from a window.”
　　The easy way he said it took her voice away for an instant. If I had a knife, I would kill him now, she thought, until she remembered the girls. Her throat constricted as she said, “You were a knight, sworn to defend the weak and innocent.”
　　“He was weak enough, but perhaps not so innocent. He was spying on us.
　　“Bran would not spy.”
　　“Then blame those precious gods of yours, who brought the boy to our window and gave him a glimpse of something he was never meant to see.”
　　“Blame the gods?” she said, incredulous. “Yours was the hand that threw him. You meant for him to die.”
　　His chains chinked softly. “I seldom fling children from towers to improve their health. Yes, I meant for him to die.”
　　“And when he did not, you knew your danger was worse than ever, so you gave your catspaw a bag of silver to make certain Bran would never wake.”
　　“Did I now?” Jaime lifted his cup and took a long swallow. “I won’t deny we talked of it, but you were with the boy day and night, your maester and Lord Eddard attended him frequently, and there were guards, even those damned direwolves . . . it would have required cutting my way through half of Winterfell. And why bother, when the boy seemed like to die of his own accord?”
　　“If you lie to me, this session is at an end.” Catelyn held out her hands, to show him her fingers and palms. “The man who came to slit Bran’s throat gave me these scars. You swear you had no part in sending him?”
　　“On my honor as a Lannister.”
　　“Your honor as a Lannister is worth less than this.” She kicked over the waste pail. Foul-smelling brown ooze crept across the floor of the cell, soaking into the straw.
　　Jaime Lannister backed away from the spill as far as his chains would allow. “I may indeed have shit for honor, I won’t deny it, but I have never yet hired anyone to do my killing. Believe what you will, Lady Stark, but if I had wanted your Bran dead I would have slain him myself.”
　　Gods be merciful, he’s telling the truth. “If you did not send the killer, your sister did.”
　　“If so, I’d know. Cersei keeps no secrets from me.”
　　“Then it was the Imp.”
　　“Tyrion is as innocent as your Bran. He wasn’t climbing around outside of anyone’s window, spying.”
　　“Then why did the assassin have his dagger?”
　　“What dagger was this?”
　　“It was so long,” she said, holding her hands apart, “plain, but finely made, with a blade of Valyrian steel and a dragonbone hilt. Your brother won it from Lord Baelish at the tourney on Prince Joffrey’s name day.”
　　Lannister poured, drank, poured, and stared into his wine cup. “This wine seems to be improving as I drink it. Imagine that. I seem to remember that dagger, now that you describe it. Won it, you say? How?”
　　“Wagering on you when you tilted against the Knight of Flowers.” Yet when she heard her own words Catelyn knew she had gotten it wrong. “No . . . was it the other way?”
　　“Tyrion always backed me in the lists,” Jaime said, “but that day Ser Loras unhorsed me. A mischance, I took the boy too lightly, but no matter. Whatever my brother wagered, he lost . . . but that dagger did change hands, I recall it now. Robert showed it to me that night at the feast. His Grace loved to salt my wounds, especially when drunk. And when was he not drunk?”
　　Tyrion Lannister had said much the same thing as they rode through the Mountains of the Moon, Catelyn remembered. She had refused to believe him. Petyr had sworn otherwise, Petyr who had been almost a brother, Petyr who loved her so much he fought a duel for her hand . . . and yet if Jaime and Tyrion told the same tale, what did that mean? The brothers had not seen each other since departing Winterfell more than a year ago. “Are you trying to deceive me?” Somewhere there was a trap here.
　　“I’ve admitted to shoving your precious urchin out a window, what would it gain me to lie about this knife?” He tossed down another cup of wine. “Believe what you will, I’m past caring what people say of me. And it’s my turn. Have Robert’s brothers taken the field?”
　　“They have.”
　　“Now there’s a niggardly response. Give me more than that, or your next answer will be as poor.”
　　“Stannis marches against King’s Landing,” she said grudgingly. “Renly is dead, murdered at Bitterbridge by his brother, through some black art I do not understand.”
　　“A pity,” Jaime said. “I rather liked Renly, though Stannis is quite another tale. What side have the Tyrells taken?”
　　“Renly, at first. Now, I could not say.”
　　“Your boy must be feeling lonely.”
　　“Robb was sixteen a few days past . . . a man grown, and a king. He’s won every battle he’s fought. The last word we had from him, he had taken the Crag from the Westerlings.”
　　“He hasn’t faced my father yet, has he?”
　　“When he does, he’ll defeat him. As he did you.”
　　“He took me unawares. A craven’s trick.”
　　“You dare talk of tricks? Your brother Tyrion sent us cutthroats in envoy’s garb, under a peace banner.”
　　“If it were one of your sons in this cell, wouldn’t his brothers do as much for him?”
　　My son has no brothers, she thought, but she would not share her pain with a creature such as this.
　　Jaime drank some more wine. “What’s a brother’s life when honor is at stake, eh?” Another sip. “Tyrion is clever enough to realize that your son will never consent to ransom me.”
　　Catelyn could not deny it. “Robb’s bannermen would sooner see you dead. Rickard Karstark in particular. You slew two of his sons in the Whispering Wood.”
　　“The two with the white sunburst, were they?” Jaime gave a shrug. “If truth be told, it was your son that I was trying to slay. The others got in my way. I killed them in fair fight, in the heat of battle. Any other knight would have done the same.”
　　“How can you still count yourself a knight, when you have forsaken every vow you ever swore?”
　　Jaime reached for the flagon to refill his cup. “So many vows . . . they make you swear and swear. Defend the king. Obey the king. Keep his secrets. Do his bidding. Your life for his. But obey your father. Love your sister. Protect the innocent. Defend the weak. Respect the gods. Obey the laws. It’s too much. No matter what you do, you’re forsaking one vow or the other.” He took a healthy swallow of wine and closed his eyes for an instant, leaning his head back against the patch of nitre on the wall. “I was the youngest man ever to wear the white cloak.”
　　“And the youngest to betray all it stood for, Kingslayer.”
　　“Kingslayer,” he pronounced carefully. “And such a king he was!” He lifted his cup. “To Aerys Targaryen, the Second of His Name, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. And to the sword that opened his throat. A golden sword, don’t you know. Until his blood ran red down the blade. Those are the Lannister colors, red and gold.”
　　As he laughed, she realized the wine had done its work; Jaime had drained most of the flagon, and he was drunk. “Only a man like you would be proud of such an act.”
　　“I told you, there are no men like me. Answer me this, Lady Starkdid your Ned ever tell you the manner of his father’s death? Or his brother’s?”
　　“They strangled Brandon while his father watched, and then killed Lord Rickard as well.” An ugly tale, and sixteen years old. Why was he asking about it now?
　　“Killed, yes, but how?”
　　“The cord or the axe, I suppose.”
　　Jaime took a swallow, wiped his mouth. “No doubt Ned wished to spare you. His sweet young bride, if not quite a maiden. Well, you wanted truth. Ask me. We made a bargain, I can deny you nothing. Ask.”
　　“Dead is dead.” I do not want to know this.
　　“Brandon was different from his brother, wasn’t he? He had blood in his veins instead of cold water. More like me.”
　　“Brandon was nothing like you.”
　　“If you say so. You and he were to wed.”
　　“He was on his way to Riverrun when . . .” Strange, how telling it still made her throat grow tight, after all these years. “. . . when he heard about Lyanna, and went to King’s Landing instead. It was a rash thing to do.” She remembered how her own father had raged when the news had been brought to Riverrun. The gallant fool, was what he called Brandon.
　　Jaime poured the last half cup of wine. “He rode into the Red Keep with a few companions, shouting for Prince Rhaegar to come out and die. But Rhaegar wasn’t there. Aerys sent his guards to arrest them all for plotting his son’s murder. The others were lords’ sons too, it seems to me.”
　　“Ethan Glover was Brandon’s squire,” Catelyn said. “He was the only one to survive. The others were Jeffory Mallister, Kyle Royce, and Elbert Arryn, Jon Arryn’s nephew and heir.” It was queer how she still remembered the names, after so many years. “Aerys accused them of treason and summoned their fathers to court to answer the charge, with the sons as hostages. When they came, he had them murdered without trial. Fathers and sons both.”
　　“There were trials. Of a sort. Lord Rickard demanded trial by combat, and the king granted the request. Stark armored himself as for battle, thinking to duel one of the Kingsguard. Me, perhaps. Instead they took him to the throne room and suspended him from the rafters while two of Aerys’s pyromancers kindled a blaze beneath him. The king told him that fire was the champion of House Targaryen. So all Lord Rickard needed to do to prove himself innocent of treason was . . . well, not burn.
　　“When the fire was blazing, Brandon was brought in. His hands were chained behind his back, and around his neck was a wet leathern cord attached to a device the king had brought from Tyrosh. His legs were left free, though, and his longsword was set down just beyond his reach.
　　“The pyromancers roasted Lord Rickard slowly, banking and fanning that fire carefully to get a nice even heat. His cloak caught first, and then his surcoat, and soon he wore nothing but metal and ashes. Next he would start to cook, Aerys promised . . . unless his son could free him. Brandon tried, but the more he struggled, the tighter the cord constricted around his throat. In the end he strangled himself.
　　“As for Lord Rickard, the steel of his breastplate turned cherry-red before the end, and his gold melted off his spurs and dripped down into the fire. I stood at the foot of the Iron Throne in my white armor and white cloak, filling my head with thoughts of Cersei. After, Gerold Hightower himself took me aside and said to me, ‘You swore a vow to guard the king, not to judge him.’ That was the White Bull, loyal to the end and a better man than me, all agree.”
　　“Aerys . . .” Catelyn could taste bile at the back of her throat. The story was so hideous she suspected it had to be true. “Aerys was mad, the whole realm knew it, but if you would have me believe you slew him to avenge Brandon Stark . . .”
　　“I made no such claim. The Starks were nothing to me. I will say, I think it passing odd that I am loved by one for a kindness I never did, and reviled by so many for my finest act. At Robert’s coronation, I was made to kneel at the royal feet beside Grand Maester Pycelle and Varys the eunuch, so that he might forgive us our crimes before he took us into his service. As for your Ned, he should have kissed the hand that slew Aerys, but he preferred to scorn the arse he found sitting on Robert’s throne. I think Ned Stark loved Robert better than he ever loved his brother or his father . . . or even you, my lady. He was never unfaithful to Robert, was he?” Jaime gave a drunken laugh. “Come, Lady Stark, don’t you find this all terribly amusing?”
　　“I find nothing about you amusing, Kingslayer.”
　　“That name again. I don’t think I’ll fuck you after all, Littlefinger had you first, didn’t he? I never eat off another man’s trencher. Besides, you’re not half so lovely as my sister.” His smile cut. “I’ve never lain with any woman but Cersei. In my own way, I have been truer than your Ned ever was. Poor old dead Ned. So who has shit for honor now, I ask you? What was the name of that bastard he fathered?”
　　Catelyn took a step backward. “Brienne.”
　　“No, that wasn’t it.” Jaime Lannister upended the flagon. A trickle ran down onto his face, bright as blood. “Snow, that was the one. Such a white name . . . like the pretty cloaks they give us in the Kingsguard when we swear our pretty oaths.”
　　Brienne pushed open the door and stepped inside the cell. “You called, my lady?”
　　“Give me your sword.” Catelyn held out her hand.




Ⅱ 列王的纷争 Chapter56 凯特琳
　　奔流城的大厅对两个孤苦晚餐的人而言，显得非常空寂。长影洒在墙上。一支火把悄无声息地熄灭，只余三支残留。凯特琳默默地坐着，瞪向面前的酒杯，唇边美酒无味而酸楚。布蕾妮坐在对面，两人之间，父亲的高位同厅堂里其他座位一般空旷无人。连仆人们也都离开，她准许他们去参加庆祝。
　　城堡的墙垒异常厚实，虽然如此，院子里人们的狂欢仍隐约可闻。戴斯蒙从酒窖里搬出二十桶酒，以供平民们庆祝艾德慕即将的凯旋和罗柏对峭岩城的征服。大家举起装满褐色啤酒的角杯，开怀痛饮。
　　我不能责备他们，凯特琳想，他们都不知情。就算他们知道，又与他们何干？他们根本不认识我的孩子，不曾提心吊胆地看着布兰攀爬，骄傲和揪心成为密不可分的孪生兄弟；不曾听过他的欢笑；不曾微笑着看待瑞肯努力模仿兄长们的举动。她看着面前的晚餐：培根裹鳟鱼，芜箐、红茴香和甜菜做的色拉，豌豆、洋葱和热面包。布蕾妮有条不紊地用餐，当吃饭是又一件有待完成的工作。我真是个乏味的女人，凯特琳心想，美酒和好肉提不起兴致，歌谣与欢笑让我陌生。我是悲伤与尘埃的怪物，胸中只有仇恨，从前心之所在的地方。而今是一片空荡。
　　另一位女人吃食的声音让她难以忍受。“布蕾妮，别只顾陪我，有心的话，参加庆祝去吧，喝角麦酒，随雷蒙德的琴声跳跳舞。”
　　“我不适合那个，夫人。”她用大手撕下一块黑面包，然后呆呆地望着面包块，似乎忘了这是什么。“如果是您的命令，我……”
　　凯特琳觉察到她的窘迫。“我只是觉得，你该找个比我好的伴儿。”
　　“就这样挺好。”她拿面包吸吸炸鳟鱼上的培根油。
　　“今早上又来了只鸟。”凯特琳不知自己为何开口。“学士立刻叫醒我。这是他的责任，却不体贴。一点也不体贴。”此事她不想告诉布蕾妮，此事只有她和韦曼学士知道，她打算保守秘密直到……直到……
　　直到何时啊？蠢女人，你以为把秘密留在心中，它就不再真实？你以为不提它，不告诉别人，它就只是一场梦，甚或连梦都不是，只是半梦半醒间的一场惊吓？噢，要真能那样，诸神可太仁慈了。
　　“关于君临的消息吗？”布蕾妮问。
　　“是就好了。鸟儿从赛文城飞来，由我的代理城主、罗德利克爵士亲手放出。”黑色的翅膀，黑色的消息。“他召集了能召集的一切力量，正向临冬城进军，将把城堡夺回来。”这一切是多么地无关紧要啊。“但他说……他写道……他告诉我，他……”
　　“夫人，他说什么？有您儿子们的消息吗？”
　　如此简单的问题，如此简单的答案。凯特琳试图作答，言语却哽在喉咙。“除了罗柏，我没有儿子了。”她竭力挤出这几个可怕的字眼，竟然没哭，不禁暗自庆幸。
　　布蕾妮惊骇地瞪着她。“夫人？”
　　“布兰和瑞肯企图逃跑，结果在橡树河边一座磨坊被抓。席恩·葛雷乔伊把他俩的头挂在临冬城城墙上。席恩·葛雷乔伊！这个打十岁起便和我家同桌吃饭的人！”我把话说出来了，诸神饶恕我，我说出来了，如今它变成了真实。
　　泪眼望去，布蕾妮的面孔一片模糊。只见她从桌子对面伸出手，但指头始终没有碰到凯特琳，似乎犹豫如此的触碰不受欢迎，“我……不知该怎么说，夫人。我的好夫人。您的儿子们，他们……他们现在与诸神同在。”
　　“是吗？”凯特琳尖刻地说，“什么样的神灵允许这种事发生？瑞肯还是个小婴孩，为何就难逃一死？而布兰……当我离开北境时，他自坠楼后还没睁开过眼睛。我在他醒来之前离去，如今再也不能回到他身边，再也听不到他的欢笑。”她张开手掌，让布蕾妮看看她的手指。“这些伤疤……布兰昏迷不醒时，他们派来杀手，想乘机割他喉咙。布兰差点就没了命，我也会和他一起死，幸亏他的狼撕开来人的喉咙，救了他一命。”她顿了一会儿。“想必席恩连狼也杀了，一定是的，否则……我知道只要那些狼一息尚存，我的儿子就很安全，正如灰风之于罗柏……可我的女儿们都没有狼了。”
　　突然的话题转换让布蕾妮有些迷惑。“您的女儿们……”
　　“从三岁起，珊莎便是个小淑女，随时随地都有礼貌，讨人欢心。她最爱听骑士们的英勇故事。大家都说她长得像我，其实她长大后会比我当年漂亮许多，你见了她就明白。我常遣开她的侍女，亲自为她梳头。她的头发是枣红色，比我的浅，浓密而柔软……红色的发丝如火炬的光芒，像铜板一样闪亮。”
　　“而艾莉亚呢，呵呵……奈德的客人们若未经通报径自骑进中庭，总把她当成马房小弟。不得不承认，艾莉亚是个棘手的孩子，一半是男孩，一半是小狼。你越不准她做什么，她就越是想到了心坎里。她继承了奈德的长脸，一头褐发乱得跟鸟窝似的。我费尽心机想让她成为淑女，却一事无成。别的女孩收集玩偶娃娃，她收集的却是一身伤疤，说话又总不经思考，冲口而出。我想她已经死了。”这话贸然出口，好似巨人在挤压她的胸膛。“布蕾妮，我希望他们统统死去。首先是席恩·葛雷乔伊，接着是詹姆·兰尼斯特、瑟曦和小恶魔，每个人……每个人都死去，一个不留。而我的女儿，我的女儿……”
　　“太后……她也有个小女儿，”布蕾妮笨拙地说。“她也有儿子，和您的儿子们年纪相仿。当她听到这消息，或许……或许会同情您，然后……”
　　“把我的女儿平平安安送回来？”凯特琳哀伤地笑了。“这只是你甜美单纯的想法啊，我的孩子。我也这么希望……但那不会发生。如今只能靠罗柏去为他的弟弟们报仇，但愿寒冰也像烈火一般致命。你知道吗？从前奈德的配剑就叫寒冰，那是瓦雷利亚钢剑，其上有千道螺旋的波纹，锋利得让我不敢触碰。罗柏的剑与寒冰相比就如棍棒似的，恐怕要他去砍葛雷乔伊的头不太容易。史塔克冢是没有刽子手的，奈德常说，判人死刑者必须亲自动手，杀戮是他的责任，但他从未从中获得喜乐。但我会的，噢，我会的！”她看着手上的刀疤，五指开开阖阖，最后缓缓抬眼。“我给他也送了壶葡萄酒。”
　　“葡萄酒？”布蕾妮不知所云。“给罗柏？还是给……席恩·葛雷乔伊？”
　　“给弑君者。”这伎俩在克里奥·佛雷那里奏了效。我希望你也口渴难耐，詹姆，我希望你的喉咙又干又燥。“我希望你陪我一起去。”
　　“一切听您吩咐，夫人。”
　　“好。”凯特琳突然起身。“留在这里，好好用餐。晚些时候我会来找你，大约午夜时分。”
　　“这么晚，夫人？”
　　“地牢没有窗户，昼夜毫无分别，反正对于我，所有时刻都和午夜无异。”说罢凯特琳步出大厅，脚步声空洞地回响。她朝主堡顶霍斯特公爵的病房登去，一路只听外面众人呼喊：“徒利万岁！”“干杯！为少年英雄的公爵大人干杯！”我父亲还没死，她只想朝他们吼。我儿子虽死了，但我父亲还活着，你们真该死，他还是你们的公爵大人。
　　霍斯特公爵睡得很沉。“他刚喝下一杯安眠酒，夫人，”韦曼学士道：“用来制止疼痛。现在他并不知道您来了。”
　　“没关系，”凯特琳说。看着父亲的样子，与其说是活着，不如说他已死，然而相比我那两个苦命的爱子，他又是实实在在地活着。
　　“夫人，我能为您做点什么吗？或许，您也要一帖安眠药？”
　　“谢谢你，师傅，我什么都不要。我不会以睡眠来逃避悲伤，那样对布兰和瑞肯不公平。你离开吧，去参加庆祝吧，我想和父亲独处一会儿。”
　　“如您所愿，夫人。”韦曼一鞠躬，然后离开了她。
　　霍斯特公爵躺在床上，嘴巴张开，呼吸微如口哨，仿佛叹息。他的一只手垂在床边，枯瘦苍白，血肉无存，然而当凯特琳触碰上去，仍能感觉温暖。她把自己的手指穿过父亲的手指，紧紧握拢。不管我握得多紧，都不能留住他，她悲伤地想，就让他去吧。但她不愿松手。
　　“爸爸，我没有人可以倾诉，”她告诉他。“我祈祷，但诸神不愿回应。”她轻柔地吻着他的手。肌肤还很温暖，苍白透明的皮肤下，蓝色的脉络盘根错节，一如远方的江河。门外大江滚滚东流，红叉河和腾石河交汇在一起，奔腾不息，但父亲手掌里的河流却做不到这样，不久便将干涸殆尽。“昨晚，我梦见咱们从海疆城回家的情景，就我和莱莎在半途迷路那次，您可还记得？一阵奇特的浓雾包围过来，咱俩落到队伍后面。举目四望，一片灰濛，打马鼻子往前，一尺都看不清。我们找不到大道。树木的枝干像长长瘦瘦的手臂，围住我们，搔抓我们。莱莎哭了，我喊了半天，声音却被浓雾吸收。只有培提尔知道我们在哪儿，他一个人回来，找到了我们……”
　　“这一次，没有人会来找我，对不对？这一次，我必须自己寻找自己的路，这好难啊，真的好难。”
　　“我一直牢记史塔克家的族语。凛冬将至，爸爸，对您来说是如此，对我来说也是如此。如今罗柏不但要对抗兰尼斯特，还得用同样的劲头对阵葛雷乔伊，可这又为了什么？为一顶金冠和一张铁椅子？毋庸置疑，这片土地已经血流成河了啊。我想要女儿们回家；我想要罗柏放下刀剑，去瓦德·佛雷那边挑选一位朴实无华的姑娘，生儿育女，快乐幸福地生活下去；我想要布兰和瑞肯回来；我想要……”凯特琳耷拉下头。“我想要，”她重复着这个词，这个词须臾便随风而去。
　　良久之后，蜡烛闪烁，终归熄灭。月光从窄窗间的缝隙流泻而进，在父亲脸上留下斑驳的银色花斑。她听着他吃力地呼吸所发出的轻弱低语，听着永无休止的湍激波涛，听着院里飘来竖琴弹奏的微弱的情爱歌谣，伤感而又甜蜜。“我爱上一位艳如秋阳的佳人，”雷蒙德唱道，“落霞洒在她的发梢……”
　　歌声已止，凯特琳却没有察觉。一个又一个时辰转眼即过，但布蕾妮敲门之前仿佛一切只是微不足道的一瞬。“夫人，”她轻声宣告，“午夜已至。”
　　午夜已至，爸爸，她心想，我必须去履行我的责任。她放开他的手。
　　狱卒是个鬼鬼祟崇的矮子，鼻上满是破损的脉络。进门时，此人正趴在一大杯麦酒和吃剩的鸽子派旁边，看样子醉得不轻。他眯起眼睛，怀疑地打量她们。“请您原谅，夫人，艾德慕老爷有令在先，除非持有他的印信授权状，任何人均不得探望弑君者。”
　　“艾德慕老爷？莫非我父亲死了，而我还不知情？”
　　狱卒舔舔嘴唇。“没有，夫人，当然没有。”
　　“那好，你要么打开牢门，要么和我一起去霍斯特老爷的书房，当面解释你凭什么拒绝我。”
　　他垂下眼睛。“一切照夫人吩咐。”他的镶钉皮腰带上挂了一大串钥匙，他咕咕噜噜找了半天，才拿出开启弑君者牢门的那把。
　　“回去喝你的酒吧，”她命令。一盏油灯挂在低矮天花板的钩上，凯特琳把它取下，点燃火焰。“布蕾妮，别让任何人打扰我。”
　　布蕾妮点点头，手按剑柄圆头，在牢门外站定。“夫人需要我时，出声便行。”
　　凯特琳用肩膀顶开厚重的铁木门扉，踱进一片污秽的黑暗中。这里可算是奔流城的“肚肠”，也和肚肠的味道一样难闻。许久未换的稻草散落一地，踩上去沙沙作响。墙上有一块块硝石补丁，看不出颜色。透过石壁，传来腾石河水微弱的脉动，在昏黄的灯光下，一边墙脚有一只装溢粪便的提桶，另一边则有个缩成一团的形体。酒壶放在门边，根本没动。看来这次要开动脑筋。庆幸的是那个狱卒没有多嘴贪杯。
　　詹姆抬起一只胳膊遮脸，手腕上的铁铐叮当作响。“史塔克夫人，”他太久没说话，嗓子有些嘶哑。“我这样子，恐怕不能招待您呢。”
　　“看着我，爵士。”
　　“光线刺痛了眼睛。您乐意的话，请稍等一会儿，”自那晚在呓语森林被俘以来，詹姆·兰尼斯特便连刮面也不被允许，那张和太后如此神似的面容而今被蓬松的胡须所覆盖。灯光下，长须闪着金光，他看上去就像硕大的金黄猛狮，虽然被铐住，依然很雄伟。未梳洗的头发纠结垂肩，身上衣物业已破烂，面孔则苍白枯槁……但这位男子依然充满了力与美。
　　“你似乎不领我的情。”
　　“突来的慷慨让人怀疑。”
　　“想砍你脑袋轻而易举，我何必下毒？”
　　“服毒丧命可被认作自然死亡，脑袋却不会自动搬家。”他躺在地板，眯眼往上瞧，灵猫一般的碧眼逐渐适应了光线。“我该请您坐下，可惜您老弟忘了安排椅子。”
　　“我站着就好。”
　　“行吗？我得说，您的脸色糟透了。或许是灯光的缘故。”他带着手铐脚镣，并互相连接，使得他无论是坐是站都很不舒适。脚镣还钉在了墙上。“我的手镯够沉吧？您还想再加点料吗？要不要我用它们来演奏呢？”
　　“全是你自作自受，”她提醒他。“我们让你以符合自己身份和地位的方式舒舒服服待在塔楼囚室，你却以逃跑来回报。”
　　“囚室就是囚室，虽然这里和凯岩城底下某些地方相比，还真算得上阳光明媚的花园。或许有一天，我让您去见识见识。”
　　如果他也会恐惧，至少隐藏得很好，凯特琳心想。“一个手脚被铐住的人应该客气一点，管好嘴巴，爵士。我到这儿不是来听你恐吓的。”
　　“不是？那您八成想和我出轨喽？难怪他们说寡妇难守空闺。虽然咱们御林铁卫发誓永不婚配，但只要您玉口一开，我还是会勉为其难。来，倒两杯酒，把裙服脱掉，看我有没有反应吧。”
　　凯特琳满心厌恶地俯瞰他。世上还能找到别的人像他这般美丽却又如此可鄙吗？”这番话若给我儿子听见，他非把你宰了不可。”
　　“除非他还让我带着这些玩意儿。”詹姆·兰尼斯特把铁链弄得叮当响。“咱们都心知肚明，那小孩根本不敢和我战斗。”
　　“我儿虽年轻，但你若把他当作莽夫，那就大错特错……在我看来，当你统帅大军时，为何来不及向他挑战呢？”
　　“算啦，古代的冬境之王也只会在妈咪裙子后面躲躲藏藏吗？”
　　“我懒得跟你废话，爵士，此次来有事相询。”
　　“我干嘛回答？”
　　“为保住小命。”
　　“您以为我怕死？”他似乎颇觉有趣。
　　“你会的。诸神有眼，你所犯下的滔天罪行将使你死后在七层地狱的最深渊永远受苦。”
　　“诸神在哪儿，凯特琳夫人？难道是那些您老公成天顶礼膜拜的树？我老姐摘他脑袋时，他们做什么去了？”詹姆吃吃笑道，“如果这世上真有神灵存在，为何还充满苦痛与不公？”
　　“因为有像你这样的人。”
　　“没人能像我。世上只有一个我。”
　　他疯了，除了狂妄自大和匹夫之勇外一无所有。我真是浪费时间。如果他身上曾有那么一点点荣誉的火花，也早已熄灭。“你实在不想说，那就算了。这壶酒你是喝下还是撒尿进去，爵士，我都无所谓。”
　　她伸手推门时他开了口，“史塔克夫人，”她转过身来，等待。“在这阴湿的鬼地方什么都生锈，”詹姆续道，“连人的礼貌也不例外。留下来吧，我能给您答案……如果您开得起价。”
　　他毫无廉耻。“俘虏没有讨价还价的权利。”
　　“噢，我很公道。您的狱卒只会说庸俗的谎话，还前后不一。前一天他说瑟曦给剥了皮，第二天又成了我父亲。好吧，您回答我的问题，我给您您要的答案。”
　　“真实的答案？”
　　“噢，您要真相？小心啊，夫人。提利昂常说大部分的人宁可否认事实，也不愿面对真相。”
　　“不管你说什么，我都有那份承担的坚强。”
　　“但愿如此，但愿如此。那好吧，您能不能发发善心……把酒给我，我喉咙干着呢。”
　　凯特琳将灯挂在门边，把杯子和酒壶拿过来。詹姆先把酒在嘴里漱了漱才咽下去。“又酸又劣，”他说，“不过算啦。”他背靠墙壁，膝盖提到胸前，盯着她看。“凯特琳夫人，您的第一个问题是？”
　　不知这场游戏要持续多久，她没有时间可以浪费。“你是乔佛里的爹吗？”
　　“知道答案又何必问。”
　　“我要听你亲口说。”
　　他耸耸肩。“乔佛里是我的种，瑟曦所有子女都是我的。”
　　“你承认是你姐姐的情人？”
　　“我一直爱着老姐。您现在欠我两个问题。我的亲人可还安好？”
　　“据说史戴佛·兰尼斯特爵士战死在牛津。”
　　詹姆无动于衷。“老姐叫他呆瓜叔叔，真是实至名归。我只在乎瑟曦、提利昂和我父亲大人。”
　　“他们还活着，三个都活着。”但活不长的，诸神保佑。
　　詹姆继续喝酒。“下一个问题。”
　　凯特琳不知他敢不敢面对她的下一个问题，或只轻描淡写来句谎话。“我儿布兰如何会摔下去？”
　　“被我从窗边扔出去的。”
　　答得如此轻巧，竟让她半晌说不出话来。若是有刀，我立刻宰了他，她想着想着，直到想起了女儿们，于是竭力平息嗓音：“你可是骑士，发誓要保护弱者和无辜之人。”
　　“他弱是够弱，无辜却说不上。他在偷窥。”
　　“布兰决不会做这样的事。”
　　“那就怪您那些宝贝神灵吧，他们把这孩子领到窗边，看到了他不该看的事。”
　　“责怪神灵？”她难以置信，“是你亲手把他扔出去。你想让他死。”
　　铁镣轻响。“我把小孩从塔顶扔下当然不是让他锻炼身体。是的，我要他死。”
　　“但他没死，你知道你的危险更大，所以付给杀手一袋银币，以确保布兰不会苏醒。”
　　“我？”詹姆举起酒杯，灌下一大口。“我不否认我们谈论过这档子事，但您日夜陪在他身边，您家学士和艾德大人也时不时来探望，还有守卫，以及那些该死的冰原狼……要去的话大概得从半个临冬城的人马里杀出一条血路。何况我干嘛操这份心？当时那小孩和死人有什么差别？”
　　“你不老实，谈话到此结束。”凯特琳摊开手掌，让他看看指头和掌心。“这就是那个想割布兰喉咙的人留下的。你敢发誓与此无关？”
　　“以我身为兰尼斯特的荣誉。”
　　“你兰尼斯特的荣誉比这个还不如。”她踢翻粪桶。肮脏难闻的褐泥散了一地，被稻草所吸收。
　　詹姆·兰尼斯特尽镣铐所能允许地远离污物。“是的，我打心眼儿里瞧不起什么狗屁荣誉，但我决不会雇人来替我杀人。信不信随您，史塔克夫人，倘若我要杀您的布兰，定会亲自动手。”
　　诸神慈悲，他说的是真话。“不是你派的，那就是你姐姐的安排。”
　　“若是那样，我一定会知道。瑟曦与我之间没有秘密。”
　　“那么是小恶魔的所为。”
　　“提利昂和您家布兰一样无辜啊。他长得虽也不高，却不会爬到别人窗边，窥来看去。”
　　“杀手为何带着他的匕首？”
　　“什么匕首？”
　　“这么长，”她边说边比，“样式普通，做工却很精细，刀刃是瓦雷利亚钢，把柄是龙骨。在乔佛里王子命名日庆典的比武大会上，你弟弟从贝里席伯爵那儿把它赢了过来。”
　　兰尼斯特倒酒，喝干，又倒一杯，然后盯着杯子瞧。“这酒似乎越喝越有味儿，起码我这样想像。听您形容，我似乎记得这把匕首。您说他赢过来的？怎么赢？”
　　“你挑战百花骑士时，他下注在你身上。”话一出口，她顿时明白出了问题。“不对……难道不是这么回事？”
　　“您说得没错，提利昂一贯支持我，”詹姆道，“可那天洛拉斯爵士却把我打落马下，真不走运，我太小看这小孩了。算啦，没关系。您瞧，我弟弟当天是输家……对，但是劳勃的确赢过一把匕首，晚宴时还拿它跟我炫耀呢。陛下就爱在我伤口上撤盐，尤其是喝得醉醺醺的时候。哎，他什么时候不醉呢？”穿越明月山脉途中，记得提利昂说过同样的话，当时她拒绝相信，因为就这事培提尔发过誓——那个可算她兄弟的培提尔，那个为了爱她、牵她的手不惜决斗的培提尔……然而詹姆和提利昂口径一致，这意味着什么？她简直不敢去想。这对兄弟自临冬城一别，一年多未谋面了啊。“你想骗我？”一定是陷阱。
　　“我连把您的宝贝小淘气掷出窗外都认了，何苦在一把匕首上遮遮掩掩？”他又灌了一杯酒。“信不信随您，我早不在乎别人怎么评价我了。现在轮到我问，劳勃那两个老弟出兵了吗？”
　　“是的。”
　　“瞧，多吝啬的回答，说详细点，否则您的下个答案也一样简略哟。”
　　“史坦尼斯正向君临进军，”她勉强开口。“蓝礼死了，被他哥哥在苦桥谋害，用的是某种我不明白的黑色技艺。”
　　“可惜，”詹姆道。“我挺欣赏蓝礼，至于史坦尼斯嘛，就完全是另一回事了。提利尔站哪边？”
　　“起初支持蓝礼。现在，我不清楚。”
　　“看来您家小子孤独得很。”
　　“罗柏前几天刚满十六岁……他现在是堂堂男子汉，更是位王者，战无不胜。据最新消息，他已拿下维斯特林家族的峭岩城。”
　　“他没跟我父亲正面交手，对不？”
　　“就算和他交锋，罗柏也能像击败你一样击败他。”
　　“啧啧，他不过乘我不备。这是懦夫的诡计。”
　　“你还有脸说诡计？你弟弟提利昂居然让恶棍扮成使者，打着和平的旗帜混进来！”
　　“倘若今天换成您儿子躺在这里，您想他的兄弟会怎么做？”
　　我儿没有兄弟了，她心想，但不愿在这个怪物面前流露痛苦。
　　詹姆喝下更多葡萄酒。“和自身的荣誉相较，兄弟的性命如何衡量，嗯？”他又吮一口。“总算提利昂够机灵，知道您儿子不会同意我付赎金。”
　　这点凯特琳无法否认。“罗柏的封臣们巴不得你死得越快越好，尤其是瑞卡德·卡史塔克。你在呓语森林害了他两个儿子。”
　　“那两个白色日芒徽的愣头青，对不？”詹姆耸耸肩。“说实话，我想宰了您儿子，扭转战局，不料其他家伙跑来挡道。我在战场上光明正大地击杀他们，何苦大惊小怪？换作别的骑士也一样会下手。”
　　“你怎么还能自称骑士？你背弃了发下的每句誓言！”
　　詹姆拿过酒壶又倒一杯。“是啊，好多好多誓言……他们让我一次又一次地发。捍卫国王。服从国王。保守国王的秘密。执行国王的命令。为国王献身。还有，服从你的父亲，爱护你的姐妹。守护无辜之人。保护弱者。敬重神灵。遵守律法……太多太多了。不管你怎么做，迟早不是犯了这条便是叛了那条。”他呷一口酒，闭目养神半晌，头枕在墙壁的硝石补丁上。“十五岁……我是有史以来最年轻的白袍骑士。”
　　“白袍所谓何在？你是最年轻的无耻叛徒，弑君者！”
　　“弑君者。”他一字一顿地复诵。“那是个什么样的国王啊！”他举起酒杯。“敬坦格利安家族的伊里斯二世，七国统治者和全境守护者！敬割开他喉咙的宝剑！您知道吗？那是柄黄金宝剑。剑上染了他的血，正是兰尼斯特的颜色，红与金。”
　　他笑的时候，她明白酒已生效，詹姆几乎喝完一壶，现在醉了。“只有像你这种人才会不以为耻反以为荣。”
　　“我说了，没人能像我。我问您，史塔克夫人——您的奈德到底有没有告诉您他老爸是怎么死的？有没有告诉您他老哥又是怎么死的？”
　　“他们当着父亲的面绞死布兰登，接着杀了瑞卡德公爵。”丑陋的故事，且过了十六年，他干嘛现在提它？
　　“杀了，没错，怎么杀的？”
　　“多半是绳子或斧头吧。”
　　詹姆猛灌一口，揩揩嘴巴。“奈德一定不想让您听了难过，纵然不是处女，毕竟是他年轻貌美的新娘。好，您要真相，就问我吧，我们达成了协议，我不会拒绝您的问题。问吧。”
　　“死者已逝。”我不想探究。
　　“布兰登和他老弟完全是两种人，对不对？他血管里流的是热血，而非冰水，他像我。”
　　“布兰登和你一丁点儿都不像。”
　　“您这么以为就随您。别忘了，您和他本是一对。”
　　“他当时正赶来奔流城成婚，途中……”奇怪，这么多年之后，说起这件往事依旧让她口干舌燥。“……听到莱安娜的消息，便赶去君临。走得非常匆忙。”她记得口信传到奔流城时父亲多么暴跳如雷。充英雄的傻瓜，他如此称呼布兰登。
　　詹姆倒出最后半杯酒。“他只带几个伴当就急冲冲闯进红堡，大呼小叫要和雷加决斗，可惜王太子当时不在。伊里斯命御林铁卫以叛国和阴谋杀害王太子的罪名逮捕了他和他的随从，记得那几位也都是大贵族的子嗣。”
　　“伊森·葛洛佛是布兰登的侍从，”凯特琳道，“也是惟一一位幸存者。其他还包括乔佛里·梅利斯特，凯勒·罗伊斯，艾伯特·艾林——琼恩·艾林的外甥和继承人。”真是诡异，她竟还记得这些名字，这么多年了。“伊里斯用叛国罪指控他们，并挟以为质，召他们的父亲人宫受讯。结果人到君临，未经审判便遭处死，父子无一幸免。”
　　“其实当时有审判，只是形式不同。瑞卡德公爵要求比武审判，得到国王批准。那天史塔克披盔戴甲，全副武装，以为将面对一名御林铁卫——或许，他想遇到我——却被带到王座厅，吊在屋椽，伊里斯手下两名火术士在他下面升起火炉。国王告诉他：火是坦格利安家族的斗士。瑞卡德公爵要证明清白就必须……哈，不被烧着。”
　　“火焰熊熊之际，布兰登被带进来，双手铐在背后，脖箍一圈湿皮索，一端连在国王从泰洛西买来的某种装置上。他全身上下只有双脚自由，而他的剑，放在面前刚好够不着的地板上。”
　　“火术士们缓缓烧烤瑞卡德公爵，翻过来，又铺开，小心翼翼，让火苗均匀细致地烤。他的披风首先着火，接着是外衣，很快身上就只剩金属和灰烬。烹调会继续，伊里斯保证……除非儿子能拯救父亲。布兰登很努力，可越是用力，脖子上的绳索便箍得越紧，最后生生扼死了自己。”
　　“至于瑞卡德公爵，他的胸甲成了樱桃的红色，马刺上的黄金纷纷溶化，滴入火焰之中。当时我穿着白袍白甲，就站在铁王座下面，拼命用瑟曦填满脑子。事后，杰诺·海塔尔把我拉到一旁，告诉我：‘你要记住，你发誓守护国王，而非评判其是非。’这便是白牛，鞠躬尽瘁直到最后一刻，是个比我好太多的大丈夫，大家都知道。”
　　“伊里斯……”凯特琳只觉胆汁涌到喉头。这故事如此可怕，她简直难以怀疑其真实性。“伊里斯疯了，举国上下人人皆知，你莫非要我相信你杀他就为给布兰登·史塔克报仇雪恨……”
　　“我没那个意思，史塔克对我来说根本无足轻重。我要说的是，这世上虽有一个人为我从未付出的善意爱着我，却有很多很多人因我最大的恩惠而辱骂我，对此我早已习之为常。在劳勃的加冕仪式上，我被迫和大学士派席尔、太监瓦里斯一起跪在他高贵的脚底，好让他在接受我的服务之前，先行‘赦免’我的罪行。您那奈德呢，本该亲吻这双结果伊里斯的手，却非要轻蔑那张他来的时候替劳勃暖过位子的屁股。我只能说奈德·史塔克爱劳勃胜过爱自己的父兄……甚至超过了爱您的程度，夫人。他对劳勃无比忠实，对不对？”詹姆醉态可掬地笑了。“过来，史塔克夫人，你不觉得这一切太可笑了么？”
　　“有何可笑，弑君者？”
　　“又提这个名字。行了，不来算了，我终究不会干你的，小指头干了你的第一次，对不？我可不喜欢到别人盘里抢食吃。更何况，你还没我老姐一半可爱。”他的笑容戛然而止。“除了瑟曦，我这辈子没睡过别的女人。我有自己的行事之道，比您的奈德更诚实、更忠贞。可怜的死了的老奈德。我倒要问你，到底是谁把荣誉当狗屁？他生的杂种叫什么名字？”
　　凯特琳后退一步。“布蕾妮。”
　　“不对不对，不是这个名字。”詹姆·兰尼斯特举起酒壶倾倒，细流横贯脸庞，明亮宛如鲜血。“雪诺，这才是他的名字。好清白啊……就像我们朗诵那堆漂亮誓言时披上的漂亮披风一样。”
　　布蕾妮猛推开门，闪进牢内。“您叫我，夫人？”
　　“拿剑来！”凯特琳伸出手。
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等级: 内阁元老
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你看着眼前的人，分明还是以前的模样，可心里终究不是以前那般澄清透明了。
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Chapter 54

　　CHAPTER 54
　　TYRION
　　Pod dressed him for his ordeal in a plush velvet tunic of Lannister crimson and brought him his chain of office. Tyrion left it on the bedside table. His sister misliked being reminded that he was the King’s Hand, and he did not wish to inflame the relations between them any further.
　　Varys caught up with him as he was crossing the yard. “My lord,” he said, a little out of breath. “You had best read this at once.” He held out a parchment in a soft white hand. “A report from the north.”
　　“Good news or bad?” Tyrion asked.
　　“That is not for me to judge.” Tyrion unrolled the parchment. He had to squint to read the words in the torchlit yard. “Gods be good,” he said softly. “Both of them?”
　　“I fear so, my lord. It is so sad. So grievous sad. And them so young and innocent.”
　　Tyrion remembered how the wolves had howled when the Stark boy had fallen. Are they howling now, I wonder? “Have you told anyone else?” he asked.
　　“Not as yet, though of course I must.”
　　He rolled up the letter. “I’ll tell my sister.” He wanted to see how she took the news. He wanted that very much.
　　The queen looked especially lovely that night. She wore a low-cut gown of deep green velvet that brought out the color of her eyes. Her golden hair tumbled across her bare shoulders, and around her waist was a woven belt studded with emeralds. Tyrion waited until he had been seated and served a cup of wine before thrusting the letter at her. He said not a word. Cersei blinked at him innocently and took the parchment from his hand.
　　“I trust you’re pleased,” he said as she read. “You wanted the Stark boy dead, I believe.”
　　Cersei made a sour face. “It was Jaime who threw him from that window, not me. For love, he said, as if that would please me. It was a stupid thing to do, and dangerous besides, but when did our sweet brother ever stop to think?”
　　“The boy saw you,” Tyrion pointed out.
　　“He was a child. I could have frightened him into silence.” She looked at the letter thoughtfully. “Why must I suffer accusations every time some Stark stubs his toe? This was Greyjoy’s work, I had nothing to do with it.”
　　“Let us hope Lady Catelyn believes that.”
　　Her eyes widened. “She wouldn’t—”
　　“—kill Jaime? Why not? What would you do if Joffrey and Tommen were murdered?”
　　“I still hold Sansa!” the queen declared.
　　“We still hold Sansa,” he corrected her, “and we had best take good care of her. Now where is this supper you’ve promised me, sweet sister?”
　　Cersei set a tasty table, that could not be denied. They started with a creamy chestnut soup, crusty hot bread, and greens dressed with apples and pine nuts. Then came lamprey pie, honeyed ham, buttered carrots, white beans and bacon, and roast swan stuffed with mushrooms and oysters. Tyrion was exceedingly courteous; he offered his sister the choice portions of every dish, and made certain he ate only what she did. Not that he truly thought she’d poison him, but it never hurt to be careful.
　　The news about the Starks had soured her, he could see. “We’ve had no word from Bitterbridge?” she asked anxiously as she speared a bit of apple on the point of her dagger and ate it with small, delicate bites.
　　“None.”
　　“I’ve never trusted Littlefinger. For enough coin, he’d go over to Stannis in a heartbeat.”
　　“Stannis Baratheon is too bloody righteous to buy men. Nor would he make a comfortable lord for the likes of Petyr. This war has made for some queer bedfellows, I agree, but those two? No.”
　　As he carved some slices off the ham, she said, “We have Lady Tanda to thank for the pig.”
　　“A token of her love?”
　　“A bribe. She begs leave to return to her castle. Your leave as well as mine. I suspect she fears you’ll arrest her on the road, as you did Lord Gyles.”
　　“Does she plan to make off with the heir to the throne?” Tyrion served his sister a cut of ham and took one for himself. “I’d sooner she remain. If she wants to feel safe, tell her to bring down her garrison from Stokeworth. As many men as she has.”
　　“If we need men so badly, why did you send away your savages?” A certain testiness crept into Cersei’s voice.
　　“It was the best use I could have made of them,” he told her truthfully. “They’re fierce warriors, but not soldiers. In formal battle, discipline is more important than courage. They’ve already done us more good in the kingswood than they would ever have done us on the city walls.”
　　As the swan was being served, the queen questioned him about the conspiracy of the Antler Men. She seemed more annoyed than afraid. “Why are we plagued with so many treasons? What injury has House Lannister ever done these wretches?”
　　“None,” said Tyrion, “but they think to be on the winning side . . . which makes them fools as well as traitors.”
　　“Are you certain you’ve found them all?”
　　“Varys says so.” The swan was too rich for his taste.
　　A line appeared on Cersei’s pale white brow, between those lovely eyes. “You put too much trust in that eunuch.”
　　“He serves me well.”
　　“Or so he’d have you believe. You think you’re the only one he whispers secrets to? He gives each of us just enough to convince us that we’d be helpless without him. He played the same game with me, when I first wed Robert. For years, I was convinced I had no truer friend at court, but now . . .” She studied his face for a moment. “He says you mean to take the Hound from Joffrey.”
　　Damn Varys. “I need Clegane for more important duties.”
　　“Nothing is more important than the life of the king.”
　　“The life of the king is not at risk. Joff will have brave Ser Osmund guarding him, and Meryn Trant as well.” They’re good for nothing better. “I need Balon Swann and the Hound to lead sorties, to make certain Stannis gets no toehold on our side of the Blackwater.”
　　“Jaime would lead the sorties himself.”
　　“From Riverrun? That’s quite a sortie.”
　　“Joff’s only a boy.”
　　“A boy who wants to be part of this battle, and for once he’s showing some sense. I don’t intend to put him in the thick of the fighting, but he needs to be seen. Men fight more fiercely for a king who shares their peril than one who hides behind his mother’s skirts.”
　　“He’s thirteen, Tyrion.”
　　“Remember Jaime at thirteen? If you want the boy to be his father’s son, let him play the part. Joff wears the finest armor gold can buy, and he’ll have a dozen gold cloaks around him at all times. If the city looks to be in the least danger of falling, I’ll have him escorted back to the Red Keep at once.”
　　He had thought that might reassure her, but he saw no sign of pleasure in those green eyes. “Will the city fall?”
　　“No.” But if it does, pray that we can hold the Red Keep long enough for our lord father to march to our relief.
　　“You’ve lied to me before, Tyrion.”
　　“Always with good reason, sweet sister. I want amity between us as much as you do. I’ve decided to release Lord Gyles.” He had kept Gyles safe for just this gesture. “You can have Ser Boros Blount back as well.”
　　The queen’s mouth tightened. “Ser Boros can rot at Rosby,” she said, “but Tommen—”
　　“—stays where he is. He’s safer under Lord Jacelyn’s protection than he would ever have been with Lord Gyles.”
　　Serving men cleared away the swan, hardly touched. Cersei beckoned for the sweet. “I hope you like blackberry tarts.”
　　“I love all sorts of tarts.”
　　“Oh, I’ve known that a long while. Do you know why Varys is so dangerous?”
　　“Are we playing at riddles now? No.”
　　“He doesn’t have a cock.”
　　“Neither do you.” And don’t you just hate that, Cersei?
　　“Perhaps I’m dangerous too. You, on the other hand, are as big a fool as every other man. That worm between your legs does half your thinking.”
　　Tyrion licked the crumbs off his fingers. He did not like his sister’s smile. “Yes, and just now my worm is thinking that perhaps it is time I took my leave.”
　　“Are you unwell, brother?” She leaned forward, giving him a good look at the top of her breasts. “Suddenly you appear somewhat flustered.”
　　“Flustered?” Tyrion glanced at the door. He thought he’d heard something outside. He was beginning to regret coming here alone. “You’ve never shown much interest in my cock before.”
　　“It’s not your cock that interests me, so much as what you stick it in. I don’t depend on the eunuch for everything, as you do. I have my own ways of finding out things . . . especially things that people don’t want me to know.”
　　“What are you trying to say?”
　　“Only this—I have your little whore.”
　　Tyrion reached for his wine cup, buying a moment to gather his thoughts. “I thought men were more to your taste.”
　　“You’re such a droll little fellow. Tell me, have you married this one yet?” When he gave her no answer she laughed and said, “Father will be ever so relieved.”
　　His belly felt as if it were full of eels. How had she found Shae? Had Varys betrayed him? Or had all his precautions been undone by his impatience the night he rode directly to the manse? “Why should you care who I choose to warm my bed?”
　　“A Lannister always pays his debts,” she said. “You’ve been scheming against me since the day you came to King’s Landing. You sold Myrcella, stole Tommen, and now you plot to have Joff killed. You want him dead so you can rule through Tommen.”
　　Well, I can’t say the notion isn’t tempting. “This is madness, Cersei. Stannis will be here in days. You need me.”
　　“For what? Your great prowess in battle?”
　　“Bronn’s sellswords will never fight without me,” he lied.
　　“Oh, I think they will. It’s your gold they love, not your impish wit. Have no fear, though, they won’t be without you. I won’t say I haven’t thought of slitting your throat from time to time, but Jaime would never forgive me if I did.”
　　“And the whore?” He would not call her by name. If I can convince her Shae means nothing to me, perhaps . . .
　　“She’ll be treated gently enough, so long as no harm comes to my sons. If Joff should be killed, however, or if Tommen should fall into the hands of our enemies, your little cunt will die more painfully than you can possibly imagine.”
　　She truly believes I mean to kill my own nephew “The boys are safe,” he promised her wearily. “Gods be good, Cersei, they’re my own blood! What sort of man do you take me for?”
　　“A small and twisted one.”
　　Tyrion stared at the dregs on the bottom of his wine cup. What would Jaime do in my place? Kill the bitch, most likely, and worry about the consequences afterward. But Tyrion did not have a golden sword, nor the skill to wield one. He loved his brother’s reckless wrath, but it was their lord father he must try and emulate. Stone, I must be stone, I must be Casterly Rock, hard and unmovable. If I fail this test, I had as lief seek out the nearest grotesquerie. “For all I know, you’ve killed her already,” he said.
　　“Would you like to see her? I thought you might.” Cersei crossed the room and threw open the heavy oaken door. “Bring in my brother’s whore.”
　　Ser Osmund’s brothers Osney and Osfryd were peas from the same pod, tall men with hooked noses, dark hair, and cruel smiles. She hung between them, eyes wide and white in her dark face. Blood trickled from her broken lip, and he could see bruises through her torn clothing. Her hands were bound with rope, and they’d gagged her so she could not speak.
　　“You said she wouldn’t be hurt.”
　　“She fought.” Unlike his brothers, Osney Kettleblack was cleanshaven, so the scratches showed plainly on his bare cheeks. “Got claws like a shadowcat, this one.”
　　“Bruises heal,” said Cersei in a bored tone. “The whore will live. So long as Joff does.”
　　Tyrion wanted to laugh at her. It would have been so sweet, so very very sweet, but it would have given the game away. You’ve lost, Cersei, and the Kettleblacks are even bigger fools than Bronn claimed. All he needed to do was say the
　　words. Instead he looked at the girl’s face and said, “You swear you’ll release her after the battle?”
　　“If you release Tommen, yes.”
　　He pushed himself to his feet. “Keep her then, but keep her safe. If these animals think they can use her . . . well, sweet sister, let me point out that a scale tips two ways.” His tone was calm, flat, uncaring; he’d reached for his father’s voice, and found it. “Whatever happens to her happens to Tommen as well, and that includes the beatings and rapes.” If she thinks me such a monster, I’ll play the part for her.
　　Cersei had not expected that. “You would not dare.”
　　Tyrion made himself smile, slow and cold. Green and black, his eyes laughed at her. “Dare? I’ll do it myself.”
　　His sister’s hand flashed at his face, but he caught her wrist and bent it back until she cried out. Osfryd moved to her rescue. “One more step and I’ll break her arm,” the dwarf warned him. The man stopped. “You remember when I said you’d never hit me again, Cersei?” He shoved her to the floor and turned back to the Kettleblacks. “Untie her and remove that gag.”
　　The rope had been so tight as to cut off the blood to her hands. She cried out in pain as the circulation returned. Tyrion massaged her fingers gently until feeling returned. “Sweetling,” he said, “you must be brave. I am sorry they hurt you.”
　　“I know you’ll free me, my lord.”
　　“I will,” he promised, and Alayaya bent over and kissed him on the brow. Her broken lips left a smear of blood on his forehead. A bloody kiss is more than I deserve, Tyrion thought. She would never have been hurt but for me.
　　Her blood still marked him as he looked down at the queen. “I have never liked you, Cersei, but you were my own sister, so I never did you harm. You’ve ended that. I will hurt you for this. I don’t know how yet, but give me time. A day will come when you think yourself safe and happy, and suddenly your joy will turn to ashes in your mouth, and you’ll know the debt is paid.” in war, his father had told him once, the battle is over in the instant one army breaks and flees. No matter that they’re as numerous as they were a moment before, still armed and armored; once they had run before you they would not turn to fight again. So it was with Cersei. “Get out!” was all the answer she could summon. “Get out of my sight!”
　　Tyrion bowed. “Good night, then. And pleasant dreams.”
　　He made his way back to the Tower of the Hand with a thousand armored feet marching through his skull. I ought to have seen this coming the first time I slipped through the back of Chataya’s wardrobe. Perhaps he had not wanted to see. His legs were aching badly by the time he had made the climb. He sent Pod for a flagon of wine and pushed his way into his bedchamber.
　　Shae sat cross-legged in the canopied bed, nude but for the heavy golden chain that looped across the swell of her breasts: a chain of linked golden hands, each clasping the next.
　　Tyrion had not expected her. “What are you doing here?”
　　Laughing, she stroked the chain. “I wanted some hands on my titties . . . but these little gold ones are cold.”
　　For a moment he did know what to say. How could he tell her that another woman had taken the beating meant for her, and might well die in her place should some mischance of battle fell Joffrey? He wiped Alayaya’s blood from his brow with the heel of his hand. “The Lady Lollys—”
　　“She’s asleep. Sleep’s all she ever wants to do, the great cow. She sleeps and she eats. Sometimes she falls asleep while she’s eating. The food falls under the blankets and she rolls in it, and I have to clean her.” She made a disgusted face. “All they did was fuck her.”
　　“Her mother says she’s sick.”
　　“She has a baby in her belly, that’s all.”
　　Tyrion gazed around the room. Everything seemed much as he left it. “How did you enter? Show me the hidden door.”
　　She gave a shrug. “Lord Varys made me wear a hood. I couldn’t see, except . . . there was one place, I got a peep at the floor out the bottom of the hood. It was all tiles, you know, the kind that make a picture?”
　　“A mosaic?”
　　Shae nodded. “They were colored red and black. I think the picture was a dragon. Otherwise, everything was dark. We went down a ladder and walked a long ways, until I was all twisted around. Once we stopped so he could unlock an iron gate. I brushed against it when we went through. The dragon was past the gate. Then we went up another ladder, with a tunnel at the top. I had to stoop, and I think Lord Varys was crawling.”
　　Tyrion made a round of the bedchamber. One of the sconces looked loose. He stood on his toes and tried to turn it. It revolved slowly, scraping against the stone wall. When it was upside down, the stub of the candle fell out. The rushes scattered across the cold stone floor did not show any particular disturbance. “Doesn’t m’lord want to bed me?” asked Shae.
　　“In a moment.” Tyrion threw open his wardrobe, shoved the clothing aside, and pushed against the rear panel. What worked for a whorehouse might work for a castle as well . . . but no, the wood was solid, unyielding. A stone beside the window seat drew his eye, but all his tugging and prodding went for naught. He returned to the bed frustrated and annoyed.
　　Shae undid his laces and threw her arms around his neck. “Your shoulders feel as hard as rocks,” she murmured. “Hurry, I want to feel you inside me.” Yet as her legs locked around his waist, his manhood left him. When she felt him go soft, Shae slid down under the sheets and took him in her mouth, but even that could not rouse him.
　　After a few moments he stopped her. “What’s wrong?” she asked. All the sweet innocence of the world was written there in the lines of her young face.
　　Innocence? Fool, she’s a whore, Cersei was right, you think with your cock, fool, fool.
　　“Just go to sleep, sweetling,” he urged, stroking her hair. Yet long after Shae had taken his advice, Tyrion himself still lay awake, his fingers cupped over one small breast as he listened to her breathing.



Ⅱ 列王的纷争 Chapter55 提利昂
　　为今晚这场磨难，波德特地给他穿上一件柔软的长毛绒外衣，颜色是兰尼斯特的绯红，还拿来那条代表他职位的颈链。提利昂将它留在床头桌上。他是国王之手，而姐姐不喜欢别人提醒她这点，没必要去火上浇油。
　　穿过庭院时，瓦里斯追上来。“大人，”他有些气喘吁吁地说，“你最好赶紧看看这个。”他柔软白皙的手递上一卷羊皮纸。“北方来的报告。”
　　“是好是坏？”提利昂问。
　　“不该由我判断。”
　　提利昂展开羊皮纸，院子依靠火炬照明，不得不眯眼阅读上面的词句。“诸神保佑，”他轻声道，“两个都……？”
　　“恐怕是的，大人。多可悲，多令人伤感啊。他们年纪那么小，那么天真无邪。”提利昂还记得史塔克家那男孩坠落后，冰原狼们如何哀嗥。不知此刻他们是何光景？“有没有告诉别人？”他问。
　　“还没有，当然我瞒不了多久。”
　　他卷起信。“我去告诉姐姐。”他想看看她对此的反应，很想看。
　　这晚，太后看上去格外迷人。她穿了一袭深绿天鹅绒低胸礼服，与眼睛的颜色相衬，金发披在裸露的肩头，腰上系一条镶祖母绿的织带。提利昂等自己坐定，仆人送上一杯红酒之后，方才将信递上，一个字也没有说。瑟曦朝他无辜地眨眨眼，接过羊皮纸。
　　“相信你很满意，”她边读他边说。“我知道，你想要史塔克家那孩子死。”
　　瑟曦表情不悦，“将他丢出窗外的是詹姆，不是我。他说为了爱情，好像就能取悦我，其实这根本是件蠢事，危险极了。我们亲爱的兄弟什么时候停下来思考过？”“那孩子看到你们了，”提利昂指出。
　　“他只是个孩子，我吓吓他就能让他闭嘴。”她若有所思地看信。“为什么每次史塔克家的人扭到脚趾头都来怪我？这是葛雷乔伊干的，与我无关。”
　　“我们就祈祷凯特琳夫人会这么想吧。”
　　她瞪大眼睛，“她不会——”
　　“——杀死詹姆？怎么不会？如果乔佛里和托曼被杀，你怎么做？”
　　“珊莎还在我手里！”太后宣告。
　　“在我们手里，”他纠正，“我们得好好看紧她。好啦，你答应我的晚餐在哪儿，亲爱的姐姐？”
　　不可否认，瑟曦准备了一桌美味食物。他们从奶油栗子汤、脆皮热面包和拌苹果与松子的菜蔬沙拉开始。接着是鳗鱼派、蜜汁火腿、黄油胡萝卜、白豆培根，还有塞满蘑菇和牡蛎的烤天鹅。提利昂极为恭谦，每道菜都把最好的部分奉给姐姐，并只等她吃过后，自己才开动。他不是真认为她会下毒，但小心一点没坏处。
　　他看得出，史塔克家的消息令她心情烦乱。“苦桥那边还没消息？”她焦虑地问，一边用匕首叉起一块苹果，优雅地小口咬着吃。
　　“没有。”
　　“我从不信任小指头。只要对方出价够高，他转眼间就会改换门庭。”
　　“史坦尼斯·拜拉席恩是个一本正经的家伙，收买之道他一窍不通，反过来对培提尔这样的人而言，他也不是个合格的主君。战争造就了不少怪诞组合，但不管怎么说，让这两人睡一张床？不可能。”
　　他切下几片火腿，她道：“我们该感谢坦妲伯爵夫人的猪。”
　　“爱的信物？”
　　“是贿赂。她请求返回自己的城堡——向你我二人同时请求。我想她是怕你在半路拦截，像对盖尔斯伯爵干的那样。”
　　“她也想带王座继承人一起逃走？”提利昂先为姐姐奉上一片火腿，再给自己一片。“把人留住，她若缺乏安全感，正好将史铎克渥斯堡的驻军都召来都城，有多少召多少。”
　　“真这么缺人，你干嘛还把你的野人派走？”一丝恼怒渗入瑟曦的声调。
　　“这是利用他们的最佳方式，”他坦诚相告，“他们虽凶猛，毕竟不是士兵。在正规战斗中，纪律比勇气重要。他们在御林里为我们带来的好处，远超过留在城墙上能派的用场。”
　　享用天鹅肉时，太后问起“鹿角民”的阴谋，对此她似乎恼怒甚于担忧。“为何有这么多人谋反？兰尼斯特家到底哪里得罪了这些卑鄙的家伙？”
　　“一点也没有，”提利昂道，“但他们想站在胜利者一边……所以当了叛徒，也成了傻瓜。”
　　“你确定把他们统统挖出来了？”
　　“瓦里斯很确定。”天鹅肉太油腻，不合他口味。
　　瑟曦白皙的额头上皱起一波纹路，恰好在那对漂亮碧眼之间。“你太信赖那太监了。”
　　“他很好地为我服务。”
　　“他让你如此相信而已。你以为他只向你一人偷偷倾诉秘密？他对我们每个人都这么干，刚好足以让我们认为没有他就不行。这套把戏，从我嫁给劳勃的那天开始，他就对我玩，多年以来，让我以为他是我在朝中最真诚的朋友，但现在……”她朝他的脸审视片刻。“他说你想把猎狗从乔佛里身边遣开。”
　　该死的瓦里斯。“我有更重要的任务交给克里冈。”
　　“没什么比国王的生命更重要。”
　　“国王的生命没有危险，小乔身边有咱们英勇的奥斯蒙爵士和马林·特兰爵士。”他们别无他用。“我需要巴隆·史文和猎狗统率突击队，以确保史坦尼斯无法在黑水河北岸立足。”
　　“詹姆会亲自率军出击。”
　　“从奔流城？好伟大的出击。”
　　“小乔还是个孩子，得保证他绝对安全。”
　　“他是个急切想参战的孩子，难得有这么懂事的时候。我不会把他放在激战场合，但必须让大家看见他。人们会为一个与他们风雨同舟的国王奋战，却不会拥护一个躲在母亲裙下的君主。”
　　“他才十三岁呀！提利昂。”
　　“还记得十三岁时的詹姆吗？如果你想他成为父亲的儿子，就得让他扮演该扮演的角色。小乔穿的是世上最好的盔甲，身边始终有十二名金袍卫士护卫。况且只要都城有一丝一毫陷落的迹象，我会即刻派人护送他回红堡。”
　　他以为这样能打消她的疑虑，想不到那双碧眼里却毫无喜色。“都城会陷落？”
　　“不会。”如果当真陷落，那就祈祷我们能坚守红堡，好让父亲大人发兵解围吧。
　　“你对我撒过谎，提利昂。”
　　“都是善意的谎言，亲爱的姐姐。我和你一样希望彼此和睦友好，为此，我已决定释放盖尔斯伯爵，”他留着盖尔斯就是为了示好，“你想召回柏洛斯·布劳恩也行。”
　　太后抿紧嘴巴。“柏洛斯爵士烂在罗斯比也无所谓，”她道，“但托曼——”
　　“——也得留下。杰斯林伯爵的保护比盖尔斯伯爵要周全许多。”
　　仆人们撤下几乎没动的天鹅。瑟曦招呼上甜点。“希望你喜欢黑莓甜饼。”
　　“甜饼我都喜欢。”
　　“噢，这点我很久以前就了解。你知道瓦里斯为何这么危险？”
　　“玩猜谜游戏？我不知道。”
　　“因为他没有那话儿。”
　　“你也没有。”这不就是你最深恶痛绝的吗，瑟曦？
　　“或许我也算个危险人物，但你呢？你跟其他男人一样，大傻瓜一个，一半时间是用两腿之间那条软虫在思考。”
　　提利昂舔舔手指上的碎屑，他不喜欢姐姐的微笑。“是的，此刻我的软虫在想，也许该告辞了。”
　　“你不舒服吗，老弟？”她倾身向前，漂亮的胸脯正对着他。“怎么突然紧张起来了？”
　　“紧张？”提利昂朝门口瞥了一眼，外面似乎有响动，他开始后悔孤身一人前来了。“我只是奇怪，你以前对我的那话儿从不感兴趣。”
　　“我感兴趣的当然不是你的那话儿，而是它插进去的地方。我不像你，凡事都依靠太监，我有自己的渠道挖掘情报……尤其是挖掘那些别人不想让我知道的事。”
　　“你想说什么？”
　　“很简单——我搞到了你的小妓女。”
　　提利昂伸手去拿酒杯，以换取一点收拾思绪的时间。“我以为男人更合你口味。”
　　“你真是个小丑，告诉我，你有没有跟这一位结婚啊？”见他不答，她哈哈大笑，“那父亲就放心了。”
　　他肚里好似装满鳗鱼。她如何找到雪伊？瓦里斯出卖了他？还是那晚他冲动地直奔宅邸，使得所有的警惕防范统统白费？“我选谁来暖床，关你什么事？”
　　“兰尼斯特有债必还，”她说。“自你来到君临的第一天起，就处处跟我作对。你卖掉弥赛菈，偷走托曼，现在还想加害小乔，对不对？你想害死他，然后以托曼之名号令天下。”
　　哎呀，早知道我就顺应波隆的暗示。“你这样做太蠢了，瑟曦，史坦尼斯不日即到，你需要我。”
　　“要你做甚？你会打仗？”
　　“没有我，波隆的佣兵决不会战斗，”他撒谎。
　　“噢，他们会的。他们看上的是你的金子，不是你畸形的脑袋。但你别怕，他们不会失去你。非是我不想割你喉咙——我经常这么想——而是如果这么做，詹姆永远不会原谅我。”
　　“那么，那妓女呢？”他不愿称呼她的名字。假如能让她以为雪伊对我不重要，或许……
　　“只要我儿子们没事，她自会受到一定优待。不过，若出了什么岔子，小乔被杀，或托曼落入敌手，你的小婊子会死得很痛苦，惨到你无法想像。”
　　她居然真的相信我意图伤害自己的亲外甥！“你的儿子们很安全，”他疲倦地向她保证。“诸神在上，瑟曦，他们是我的骨肉啊！你把我当成了什么人？”
　　“无耻小人。”
　　提利昂凝视着酒杯底的沉淀。换作詹姆，会怎么做？多半会跳起来宰了这贱人，之后再考虑后果。可提利昂没有黄金宝剑，就算有也不会用。他喜欢哥哥的不顾一切、率意而为，但他要效法模仿的是父亲大人。岩石，我必须成为岩石，就像凯岩城，坚硬牢固，岿然不动。若经不住考验，只能证明我和杂耍戏班的怪物无异。“就我看来，她已被你杀了，”他说。
　　“你想见见她？我就知道。”瑟曦穿过房间，打开沉重的橡木门。“把我弟弟的妓女带进来。”
　　奥斯蒙爵士的弟弟奥斯尼和奥斯佛利活像一个豆荚蹦出来的豌豆，都是高个子，鹰钩鼻，黑头发，唇边挂着残酷的微笑。她被他俩悬架在中间，黝黑脸上那双深色眼睛瞪得又大又白，血从碎裂的嘴角淌下，透过撕裂的衣服，他看得见淤伤。她的双手被绳子绑着，他们还塞住她的嘴，让她无法说话。
　　“你说她会受到优待。”
　　“她反抗。”跟兄弟们不同，奥斯尼·凯特布莱克把胡子刮得干干净净，所以脸上的抓痕清晰可见。“这家伙的爪子利得跟影子山猫似的。”
　　“淤伤会很快愈合，”瑟曦不耐烦地说，“这婊子不会死，只要小乔没事。”
　　提利昂想朝她大笑。那会很痛快，非常非常痛快，但他要以大局为重。你输了，瑟曦，凯特布莱克兄弟比波隆认定的还蠢。他真想把这些说出来。
　　但他只盯着女孩的脸道：“你保证战斗结束后放了她？”
　　“是的，只要你释放托曼。”
　　他站起身。“你就留着她吧，但必须确保她的安全。若这些畜生想打她的主意……那么，亲爱的姐姐，容我提醒你，天平可以往两边倾斜。”他的调子镇静平淡，显得事不关己；他寻求父亲的语气，并达到了目标。“她发生的任何事都会在托曼身上重演，包括殴打和强暴。”你把我想成怪物，我就来表演一番。
　　瑟曦有些不知所措，“你敢！”
　　提利昂逼自己缓缓作出一个冰冷的微笑，一碧一黑的眼睛嘲弄着她。“不敢？我会亲自动手。”
　　姐姐扬手朝他脸打来，但他抓住手腕，往后掰去，直到她尖叫出声。奥斯佛利上前营救。“再走一步，我就扭断她的胳膊，”侏儒警告，他停下来。“记不记得我叫你不准再动手，瑟曦？”他将她推倒在地，然后转向凯特布莱克兄弟。“给她松绑，把嘴里的东西拿掉。”
　　绳子绑得太紧，以至于隔断手上的血流，当血管恢复流通时，她疼得叫出声来。提利昂温柔地替她按摩手指，直到知觉恢复。“亲爱的，”他说，“你一定要勇敢。我很抱歉他们伤了你。”
　　“我知道你会来救我，大人。”
　　“我会的，”他承诺。于是爱拉雅雅弯腰亲吻他，碎裂的嘴唇在他前额留下一抹血渍。我受不起这个血吻，提利昂心想，若非为我，她决不会受伤。
　　他带着她的鲜血俯视太后。“我没喜欢过你，瑟曦，但你是我亲姐姐，因此我不肯伤害你。可你今天竟然走到这一步，令我再也不能容忍。我现在还不知该怎样做，但时间会给我答案。总有一天，当你自以为平安快活时，喜乐会在嘴里化成灰烬，到那时候，你将明白债已偿还。”父亲曾经教诲他：两军对垒时，只要一方出现瓦解逃逸的迹象，战斗就告结束。纵然对手还如之前那般阵容强盛，全副武装，但兵败如山倒，再也不能构成威胁。瑟曦正是如此。“滚出去！”这是她惟一能作的应答。“滚出我的视线！”
　　提利昂鞠了一躬。“那么，晚安。祝你好梦。”
　　回首相塔的路上，他脑中似有千军万马在踏步行进。我早该料到会有这一天，取道沙塔雅的衣柜迟早会导致这种后果。或许一直以来他只是不愿去想。爬楼梯让腿疼得厉害，他叫波德去拿一壶酒，然后费力地走进卧室。
　　雪伊翘脚坐在遮罩床上，一丝不挂，高耸的胸脯前有那条沉重的金链子，金手环环相扣。
　　提利昂没料到她会来。“你来做什么？”
　　她笑着抚摸链子。“我想要手摸摸乳房……可这些小金手好冷哦。”
　　一时之间，他实在说不出话。他要如何告诉她：另一个女人替她挨了打，假如乔佛里在战斗中遭遇不幸，还可能替她殉死呢？他用掌心擦去额上爱拉雅雅的鲜血。“洛丽丝小姐——”
　　“——睡着了。这头大母牛，睡觉是她的最爱。她一天到晚吃饱了睡，睡够了吃，有时吃着吃着就睡着。食物掉一床，而她在上面打滚，最后由我来给她清洗身体。”她扮个鬼脸。“她只不过被干了几次而已。”
　　“她母亲说她病了。”
　　“怀孕啦，就这么回事。”
　　他仔细扫视房间。房内和离开时一模一样。“你怎么进来的？密门在哪儿？”她耸耸肩。“瓦里斯大人让我带上头罩。我看不到，除了……在某个地方，我从头罩下偷瞄了几眼，地板都是瓷砖，你明白吗，那种拼出图画的？”
　　“马赛克？”
　　雪伊点头。“有黑砖和红砖，我想它们拼出了一条龙。除此之外，我什么也没看清。我们先爬下楼梯，走了很长一段，弯来拐去，我都糊涂了。途中我们停下来，他打开一道铁门上的锁，进门时我摸了摸，门上似乎也有龙的图案。然后我们又爬上梯子，顶端是一条隧道。我不得不弯腰，瓦里斯大人则在爬行。”
　　提利昂绕着卧室走了一圈。墙上某个烛台看来有些松动，他踮起脚竭力去转它。它刮着石壁缓缓移动，上下颠倒之后，蜡烛头掉出来，而冰冷石地板上的草席没有任何变迁的迹象。“大人不想跟我上床？”雪伊问。
　　“马上就来。”提利昂打开衣橱，拨开衣服去推后面的壁板。妓院的故伎也许会在城堡里重演……不对，木头坚固结实，纹丝不动。紧接着，窗边座位旁一块石头吸引了他的注意，但推拉戳刺都徒劳无功。最后他满腹沮丧郁闷地回到床上。
　　雪伊替他宽衣解带，搂住他的脖子。“你肩膀坚硬得跟岩石似的，”她喃喃道，“快，我想感觉你在我里面。”她的腿锁住他的腰，他却欲振无力。雪伊感到它变软了，于是滑到被单下，把它放进嘴里，却怎么也唤不起它。
　　过了一会儿，他制止她。“怎么了？”她问。全世界的甜蜜天真都写在她年轻的脸庞。
　　天真？傻瓜，她是个妓女，瑟曦说得没错，你用那话儿思考，傻瓜，大傻瓜！
　　“睡吧，亲爱的，”他摸摸她的秀发，劝道。雪伊听话入睡之后很久，提利昂自己还清醒地躺着，倾听她的呼吸，手指绕在她小小的乳房。
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你看着眼前的人，分明还是以前的模样，可心里终究不是以前那般澄清透明了。
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Chapter 53

　　CHAPTER 53
　　JON
　　It was dark in the Skirling Pass. The great stone flanks of the mountains hid the sun for most of the day, so they rode in shadow, the breath of man and horse steaming in the cold air. Icy fingers of water trickled down from the snowpack above into small frozen pools that cracked and broke beneath the hooves of their garrons. Sometimes they would see a few weeds struggling from some crack in the rock or a splotch of pale lichen, but there was no grass, and they were above the trees now. The track was as steep as it was narrow, wending its way ever upward. Where the pass was so constricted that rangers had to go single file, Squire Dalbridge would take the lead, scanning the heights as he went, his longbow ever close to hand. It was said he had the keenest eyes in the Night’s Watch.
　　Ghost padded restlessly by Jon’s side. From time to time he would stop and turn, his ears pricked, as if he heard something behind them. Jon did not think the shadowcats would attack living men, not unless they were starving, but he loosened Longclaw in its scabbard even so.
　　A wind-carved arch of grey stone marked the highest point of the pass. Here the way broadened as it began its long descent toward the valley of the Milkwater. Qhorin decreed that they would rest here until the shadows began to grow again. “Shadows are friends to men in black,” he said.
　　Jon saw the sense of that. It would be pleasant to ride in the light for a time, to let the bright mountain sun soak through their cloaks and chase the chill from their bones, but they dared not. Where there were three watchers there might be others, waiting to sound the alarm.
　　Stonesnake curled up under his ragged fur cloak and was asleep almost at once. Jon shared his salt beef with Ghost while Ebben and Squire Dalbridge fed the horses. Qhorin Halfhand sat with his back to a rock, honing the edge of his longsword with long slow strokes. Jon watched the ranger for a few moments, then summoned his courage and went to him. “My lord,” he said, “you never asked me how it went. With the girl.” “I am no lord, Jon Snow.” Qhorin slid the stone smoothly along the steel with his two-fingered hand.
　　“She told me Mance would take me, if I ran with her.”
　　“She told you true.”
　　“She even claimed we were kin. She told me a story . . .”
　　“. . . of Bael the Bard and the rose of Winterfell. So Stonesnake told me. It happens I know the song. Mance would sing it of old, when he came back from a ranging. He had a passion for wildling music. Aye, and for their women as well.”
　　“You knew him?”
　　“We all knew him.” His voice was sad.
　　They were friends as well as brothers, Jon realized, and now they are sworn foes. “Why did he desert?”
　　“For a wench, some say. For a crown, others would have it.” Qhorin tested the edge of his sword with the ball of his thumb. “He liked women, Mance did, and he was not a man whose knees bent easily, that’s true. But it was more than that. He loved the wild better than the Wall. It was in his blood. He was wildling born, taken as a child when some raiders were put to the sword. When he left the Shadow Tower he was only going home again.”
　　“Was he a good ranger?”
　　“He was the best of us,” said the Halfhand, “and the worst as well. Only fools like Thoren Smallwood despise the wildlings. They are as brave as we are, Jon. As strong, as quick, as clever. But they have no discipline. They name themselves the free folk, and each one thinks himself as good as a king and wiser than a maester. Mance was the same. He never learned how to obey.”
　　“No more than me,” said Jon quietly.
　　Qhorin’s shrewd grey eyes seemed to see right through him. “So you let her go?” He did not sound the least surprised.
　　“You know?”
　　“Now. Tell me why you spared her.”
　　It was hard to put into words. “My father never used a headsman. He said he owed it to men he killed to look into their eyes and hear their last words. And when I looked into Ygritte’s eyes, I . . .” Jon stared down at his hands helplessly. “I know she was an enemy, but there was no evil in her.”
　　“No more than in the other two.”
　　“It was their lives or ours Jon said. “If they had seen us, if they had sounded that horn . . .”
　　“The wildlings would hunt us down and slay us, true enough.”
　　“Stonesnake has the horn now, though, and we took Ygritte’s knife and axe. She’s behind us, afoot, unarmed . . .”
　　“And not like to be a threat,” Qhorin agreed. “If I had needed her dead, I would have left her with Ebben, or done the thing myself.”
　　“Then why did you command it of me?”
　　“I did not command it. I told you to do what needed to be done, and left you to decide what that would be.” Qhorin stood and slid his longsword back into its scabbard. “When I want a mountain scaled, I call on Stonesnake. Should I need to put an arrow through the eye of some foe across a windy battlefield, I summon Squire Dalbridge. Ebben can make any man give up his secrets. To lead men you must know them, Jon Snow. I know more of you now than I did this morning.”
　　“And if I had slain her?” asked Jon.
　　“She would be dead, and I would know you better than I had before. But enough talk. You ought be sleeping. We have leagues to go, and dangers to face. You will need your strength.”
　　Jon did not think sleep would come easily, but he knew the Halfhand was right. He found a place out of the wind, beneath an overhang of rock, and took off his cloak to use it for a blanket. “Ghost,” he called. “Here. To me.” He always slept better with the great white wolf beside him; there was comfort in the smell of him, and welcome warmth in that shaggy pale fur. This time, though, Ghost did no more than look at him. Then he turned away and padded around the garrons, and quick as that he was gone. He wants to hunt, Jon thought. Perhaps there were goats in these mountains. The shadowcats must live on something. “Just don’t try and bring down a ‘cat,” he muttered. Even for a direwolf, that would be dangerous. He tugged his cloak over him and stretched out beneath the rock.
　　When he closed his eyes, he dreamed of direwolves.
　　There were five of them when there should have been six, and they were scattered, each apart from the others. He felt a deep ache of emptiness, a sense of incompleteness. The forest was vast and cold, and they were so small, so lost. His brothers were out there somewhere, and his sister, but he had lost their scent. He sat on his haunches and lifted his head to the darkening sky, and his cry echoed through the forest, a long lonely mournful sound. As it died away, he pricked up his ears, listening for an answer, but the only sound was the sigh of blowing snow.
　　Jon?
　　The call came from behind him, softer than a whisper, but strong too. Can a shout be silent? He turned his head, searching for his brother, for a glimpse of a lean grey shape moving beneath the trees, but there was nothing, only . . .
　　A weirwood.
　　It seemed to sprout from solid rock, its pale roots twisting up from a myriad of fissures and hairline cracks. The tree was slender compared to other weirwoods he had seen, no more than a sapling, yet it was growing as he watched, its limbs thickening as they reached for the sky. Wary, he circled the smooth white trunk until he came to the face. Red eyes looked at him. Fierce eyes they were, yet glad to see him. The weirwood had his brother’s face. Had his brother always had three eyes?
　　Not always, came the silent shout. Not before the crow.
　　He sniffed at the bark, smelled wolf and tree and boy, but behind that there were other scents, the rich brown smell of warm earth and the hard grey smell of stone and something else, something terrible. Death, he knew. He was smelling death. He cringed back, his hair bristling, and bared his fangs.
　　Don’t be afraid, I like it in the dark. No one can see you, but you can see them. But first you have to open your eyes. See? Like this. And the tree reached down and touched him.
　　And suddenly he was back in the mountains, his paws sunk deep in a drift of snow as he stood upon the edge of a great precipice. Before him the Skirling Pass opened up into airy emptiness, and a long vee-shaped valley lay spread beneath him like a quilt, awash in all the colors of an autumn afternoon.
　　A vast blue-white wall plugged one end of the vale, squeezing between the mountains as if it had shouldered them aside, and for a moment he thought he had dreamed himself back to Castle Black. Then he realized he was looking at a river of ice several thousand feet high. Under that glittering cold cliff was a great lake, its deep cobalt waters reflecting the snowcapped peaks that ringed it. There were men down in the valley, he saw now; many men, thousands, a huge host. Some were tearing great holes in the half-frozen ground, while others trained for war. He watched as a swarming mass of riders charged a shield wall, astride horses no larger than ants. The sound of their mock battle was a rustling of steel leaves, drifting faintly on the wind. Their encampment had no plan to it; he saw no ditches, no sharpened stakes, no neat rows of horse lines. Everywhere crude earthen shelters and hide tents sprouted haphazardly, like a pox on the face of the earth. He spied untidy mounds of hay, smelled goats and sheep, horses and pigs, dogs in great profusion. Tendrils of dark smoke rose from a thousand cookfires.
　　This is no army, no more than it is a town. This is a whole people come together.
　　Across the long lake, one of the mounds moved. He watched it more closely and saw that it was not dirt at all, but alive, a shaggy lumbering beast with a snake for a nose and tusks larger than those of the greatest boar that had ever lived. And the thing riding it was huge as well, and his shape was wrong, too thick in the leg and hips to be a man.
　　Then a sudden gust of cold made his fur stand up, and the air thrilled to the sound of wings. As he lifted his eyes to the ice-white mountain heights above, a shadow plummeted out of the sky. A shrill scream split the air. He glimpsed blue-grey pinions spread wide, shutting out the sun . . .
　　“Ghost!” Jon shouted, sitting up. He could still feel the talons, the pain. “Ghost, to me!”
　　Ebben appeared, grabbed him, shook him. “Quiet! You mean to bring the wildlings down on us? What’s wrong with you, boy?”
　　“A dream,” said Jon feebly. “I was Ghost, I was on the edge of the mountain looking down on a frozen river, and something attacked me. A bird . . . an eagle, I think . . .”
　　Squire Dalbridge smiled. “It’s always pretty women in my dreams. Would that I dreamed more often.”
　　Qhorin came up beside him. “A frozen river, you say?”
　　“The Milkwater flows from a great lake at the foot of a glacier,” Stonesnake put in.
　　“There was a tree with my brother’s face. The wildlings . . . there were thousands, more than I ever knew existed. And giants riding mammoths.” From the way the light had shifted, Jon judged that he had been asleep for four or five hours. His head ached, and the back of his neck where the talons had burned through him. But that was in the dream.
　　“Tell me all that you remember, from first to last,” said Qhorin Halfhand.
　　Jon was confused. “It was only a dream.”
　　“A wolf dream,” the Halfhand said. “Craster told the Lord Commander that the wildlings were gathering at the source of the Milkwater. That may be why you dreamed it. Or it may be that you saw what waits for us, a few hours farther on. Tell me.” it made him feel half a fool to talk of such things to Qhorin and the other rangers, but he did as he was commanded. None of the black brothers laughed at him, however. By the time he was done, even Squire Dalbridge was no longer smiling.
　　“Skinchanger?” said Ebben grimly, looking at the Halfhand. Does he mean the eagle? Jon wondered. Or me? Skinchangers and wargs belonged in Old Nan’s stories, not in the world he had lived in all his life. Yet here, in this strange bleak wilderness of rock and ice, it was not hard to believe.
　　“The cold winds are rising. Mormont feared as much. Benjen Stark felt it as well. Dead men walk and the trees have eyes again. Why should we balk at wargs and giants?”
　　“Does this mean my dreams are true as well?” asked Squire Dalbridge. “Lord Snow can keep his mammoths, I want my women.”
　　“Man and boy I’ve served the Watch, and ranged as far as any,” said Ebben. “I’ve seen the bones of giants, and heard many a queer tale, but no more. I want to see them with my own eyes.”
　　“Be careful they don’t see you, Ebben,” Stonesnake said. Ghost did not reappear as they set out again. The shadows covered the floor of the pass by then, and the sun was sinking fast toward the jagged twin peaks of the huge mountain the rangers named Forktop. If the dream was true . . . Even the thought scared him. Could the eagle have hurt Ghost, or knocked him off the precipice? And what about the weirwood with his brother’s face, that smelled of death and darkness?
　　The last ray of sun vanished behind the peaks of Forktop. Twilight filled the Skirling Pass. It seemed to grow colder almost at once. They were no longer climbing. In fact, the ground had begun to descend, though as yet not sharply. It was littered with cracks and broken boulders and tumbled heaps of rock. It will be dark soon, and still no sight of Ghost. It was tearing Jon apart, yet he dare not shout for the direwolf as he would have liked. Other things might be listening as well.
　　“Qhorin,” Squire Dalbridge called softly. “There. Look.”
　　The eagle was perched on a spine of rock far above them, outlined against the darkening sky. We’ve seen other eagles, Jon thought. That need not be the one I dreamed of.
　　Even so, Ebben would have loosed a shaft at it, but the squire stopped him. “The bird’s well out of bowshot.”
　　“I don’t like it watching us.”
　　The squire shrugged. “Nor me, but you won’t stop it. Only waste a good arrow.”
　　Qhorin sat in his saddle, studying the eagle for a long time. “We press on,” he finally said. The rangers resumed their descent.
　　Ghost, Jon wanted to shout, where are you?
　　He was about to follow Qhorin and the others when he glimpsed a flash of white between two boulders. A patch of old snow, he thought, until he saw it stir. He was off his horse at once. As he went to his knees,
　　Ghost lifted his head. His neck glistened wetly, but he made no sound when Jon peeled off a glove and touched him. The talons had torn a bloody path through fur and flesh, but the bird had not been able to snap his neck.
　　Qhorin Halfhand was standing over him. “How bad?”
　　As if in answer, Ghost struggled to his feet.
　　“The wolf is strong,” the ranger said. “Ebben, water. Stonesnake, your skin of wine. Hold him still, Jon.”
　　Together they washed the caked blood from the direwolf’s fur. Ghost struggled and bared his teeth when Qhorm poured the wine into the ragged red gashes the eagle had left him, but Jon wrapped his arms around him and murmured soothing words, and soon enough the wolf quieted. By the time they’d ripped a strip from Jon’s cloak to wrap the wounds, full dark had settled. Only a dusting of stars set the black of sky apart from the black of stone. “Do we press on?” Stonesnake wanted to know.
　　Qhorin went to his garron. “Back, not on.”
　　“Back?” Jon was taken by surprise.
　　“Eagles have sharper eyes than men. We are seen. So now we run.” The Halfhand wound a long black scarf around his face and swung up into the saddle.
　　The other rangers exchanged a look, but no man thought to argue. One by one they mounted and turned their mounts toward home. “Ghost, come,” he called, and the direwolf followed, a pale shadow moving through the night.
　　All night they rode, feeling their way up the twisting pass and through the stretches of broken ground. The wind grew stronger. Sometimes it was so dark that they dismounted and went ahead on foot, each man leading his garron. Once Ebben suggested that some torches might serve them well, but Qhorin said, “No fire,” and that was the end of that. They reached the stone bridge at the summit and began to descend again. Off in the darkness a shadowcat screamed in fury, its voice bouncing off the rocks so it seemed as though a dozen other ‘cats were giving answer. Once Jon thought he saw a pair of glowing eyes on a ledge overhead, as big as harvest moons.
　　In the black hour before dawn, they stopped to let the horses drink and fed them each a handful of oats and a twist or two of hay. “We are not far from the place the wildlings died,” said Qhorin. “From there, one man could hold a hundred. The right man.” He looked at Squire Dalbridge.
　　The squire bowed his head. “Leave me as many arrows as you can spare, brothers.” He stroked his longbow. “And see my garron has an apple when you’re home. He’s earned it, poor beastie.”
　　He’s staying to die, Jon realized.
　　Qhorin clasped the squire’s forearm with a gloved hand. “If the eagle flies down for a look at you . . .”
　　“. . . he’ll sprout some new feathers.”
　　The last Jon saw of Squire Dalbridge was his back as he clambered up the narrow path to the heights.
　　When dawn broke, Jon looked up into a cloudless sky and saw a speck moving through the blue. Ebben saw it too, and cursed, but Qhorin told him to be quiet. “Listen.”
　　Jon held his breath, and heard it. Far away and behind them, the call of a hunting horn echoed against the mountains.
　　“And now they come,” said Qhorin.



Ⅱ 列王的纷争 Chapter54 琼恩
　　风声峡中一片黑暗。一天中的大半时间，两旁的巨石山峦遮蔽阳光，人马行在阴影下，吐息在冷气里结霜。覆冰的水流自头顶的积雪堆中涓涓滴落，掉在地上，形成冻结的小池，随即被马蹄踩踏而碎。几根杂草从乱石缝隙中挣脱出来，间或还有几点苍白的地衣，但此地没有青草，而他们正在森林之上前进。
　　小路既陡且窄，盘旋上升，到了山上，狭隘得只能单列前进。侍从戴里吉走在最前，长弓在手，远眺侦察。据说他的视力守夜人军团上下无人能及。
　　白灵焦躁不安地跑在琼恩身旁，不时驻足回头，竖起耳朵，仿如听见什么事物在尾随。琼恩知道影子山猫不会攻击活人——除非实在饿得难受，但仍旧拔出长爪，仔细戒备。
　　峡道最顶点是块风蚀的灰拱石。从这往下，道路变宽，逐渐下落，直达乳河河谷。科林宣布团队在阴影增长前将于此休息。“影子是黑衣人的朋友，”他说。
　　对此琼恩深以为然。在阳光下骑行——任山区的艳阳撒落斗篷，驱散浸骨的寒意——固然令人陶醉，却充满危险。峡口既有三个守望者，越是深入一定更多，随时可能遭遇。
　　石蛇蜷进破烂的毛斗篷，几乎立刻睡着了。琼恩和白灵分享腌牛肉，而伊班和侍从戴里吉则喂养马匹。断掌科林背靠岩石坐下，缓慢而无休止地磨着长剑。琼恩盯着高大的游骑兵看了一会儿，才提起勇气走上前。“大人，”他说，“关于那女孩，您还没过问我后来的经过呢。”
　　“我不是大人，琼恩·雪诺。”科林用只剩两根指头的手掌平稳地握石磨刀。
　　“她要我跟他走，她说曼斯会收留我。”
　　“她说的没错。”
　　“她甚至宣称我跟她是亲戚。她给我讲了个故事，关于……”
　　“……吟游诗人贝尔和临冬城的玫瑰。石蛇已对我说了。恰好我也听过这首歌。从前，曼斯每次巡逻归来都会唱它。他很喜欢野人的音乐，唉，还有他们的女人。”
　　“您认识他？”
　　“我们都认识他。”他语调悲哀。
　　他们曾并肩作战，亲如兄弟，琼恩明白了，如今却成为不共戴天的仇敌。“他为什么背誓离开？”
　　“有人说他为个婊子，有人说他为顶王冠。”科林用拇指试试剑锋。“曼斯很爱女人，而且也属于那种不爱向别人屈膝的人，这些都没错，但他离去的理由更深刻。比起长城来，他更爱荒野。那是他的血液、他的天性。他生来便是野种，是我们从截杀的掠袭者怀中留下的孩子——这种孩子守夜人为之取姓‘雷德’①，离开影子塔对他而言不过是回家。”
　　“当年他是个好游骑兵吗？”
　　“他是咱们这批人中最棒的一个，”断掌说，“但从某种意义上而言，也算得上最糟糕的一人。琼恩，只有索伦·斯莫伍德那样的傻瓜才鄙视野人，他们其实和我们一样勇敢，一样强健，一样迅捷，一样聪明，只是缺乏纪律。他们自称为自由民，每个人都以为自己似国王一般伟大，如学士一样睿智。曼斯正是如此，他从未学会服从的含义。”
　　“和我一样，”琼恩静静地说。
　　科林精明的灰眼睛似乎能看穿他。“你放了她。”他的语气没有一丝一毫的惊讶。
　　“您知道？”
　　“刚知道。告诉我，你为何放过她？”
　　这很难说明白。“我父亲从不用刽子手。他常说，如果你要取人性命，至少应该注视她的双眼，聆听她的临终遗言。当我望向耶哥蕊特的眼睛，我……”琼恩埋下头，无助地望着双手。“我知道她是敌人，可她眼里没有邪恶。”
　　“之前那两人也没有。”
　　“可当时他们跟咱们是你死我活的关系，”琼恩说，“如果被他们发现，如果他们吹响号角……”
　　“野人便会对我们穷追不舍，斩尽杀绝。这不结了？”
　　“但后来石蛇拿到了号，我们也取走耶哥蕊特的小刀和斧头。她跟着我们，一路步行，手无寸铁……”
　　“应该不构成威胁，”科林同意，“我真想她死，早留下伊班去办，或是亲自动手。”
　　“那您为何命令我去？”
　　“我没有命令你。我只让你做你自己该做的事，一切由你自行考虑。”科林站起身来，长剑收回鞘中。“要攀登高山，我会叫石蛇；要在刮着强风的战场上射穿敌人眼睛，我会派侍从戴里吉；而伊班能让任何人吐露秘密。知人才能善任，琼恩·雪诺，我现在对你的了解比今晨时更深。”
　　“假如我杀了她呢？”琼恩问。
　　“她死，而我了解你的目的也同样达到。好，话不多说，你应该睡一会儿。前面还有好多里格的路，危险着呢，你需要保存体力。”
　　琼恩知道自己睡不着，但明白断掌确是好意。他在一块高悬的岩石下找到避风之所，合衣躺下，斗篷权当毯子。“白灵，”他唤道，“过来，到我这儿。”通常只要大白狼偎在身边会睡得比较香甜，他的气味让琼恩心安，那身蓬松的厚白毛更能带来久违的温暖。但这一次，白灵只看了他几眼，便转头绕着马儿小跑，旋即飞速逃开。他想打猎，琼恩心想，山里面说不定有山羊，影子山猫总得靠什么过活吧。“别太勉强喔，抓猫可不太好。”他呢喃道。即使对冰原狼而言，影子山猫也是个威胁。他拉起斗篷盖住自己，在岩石遮蔽下摊开身体。
　　闭上眼睛，他梦见了冰原狼。
　　六狼一体，五狼残存，分割天涯，互不联络。他只觉深沉的空虚和撕裂的疼痛。森林辽广清寒，他们如此渺小，如此失落。他知道兄弟姐妹就在某地，却嗅不出气息。于是他蜷身而坐，向着黑暗的天空仰天长嗥，叫声回荡在森林，成为悠长孤寂的哀叹。余音渐衰，他竖起耳朵，等待答复。惟一的回应是吹雪的叹息。
　　琼恩？
　　身后传来一声呼唤，虽微如耳语，却坚定依然。呼喊也可能静寂吗？他忙回头，寻找他的兄弟，期望瞥见林间消瘦的灰影，但对面什么也没有，除了……
　　一棵鱼梁木。
　　它自坚固的岩石中萌生而出，苍白的树根从无数裂沟和细缝间螺旋而上。初时这棵鱼梁木比同类来得纤细，几乎只能算树苗，但它在眼前陡然生长，枝干变粗，直向云霄。他警觉起来，小心翼翼地绕着平滑的粗白树干行走，正好撞见树的脸庞。只见红色的眼睛盯着他，目光凶猛但愉悦。原来这棵鱼梁木的脸生得和弟弟一模一样。弟弟一直都有三只眼吗？
　　不是一直，静寂的呼喊再度传来，是乌鸦到来之后。
　　他嗅嗅树皮，闻到狼、树和男孩的气息，除此之外，蕴涵有更深远的味道：浓重的棕味是温暖的大地，坚硬的灰味是冰冷的石头，还有别的、更可怕的气味……死亡，他明白过来。他闻到的是死亡的气息。他猛然缩后，毛发直立，露出利齿。
　　别害怕，我喜欢身处暗处的感觉。别人看不见你，你看得见别人。但你首先必须睁开眼睛。明白吗？就像这样。大树弯下腰来，触碰了他。
　　猛然间，他又回到群山之中，只见自己站在一道巨大的悬崖边，爪子深深地插进雪堆。前方，风声峡已到尽头，展开成为无垠的空旷。一道长长的V字形河谷摆在身下，充盈着秋日午后所有的色彩。
　　谷地尽头，有一道硕大无朋的蓝白巨墙，紧贴着山，好似要把两山挤开。一时之间，他以为自己梦回黑城堡，但随即发现这不过是道数千尺高的冰川。寒光闪烁的冰壁下，有一个雄伟的湖泊，蓝钻般的深水映射着四周雪峰的辉芒。峡谷里有人，他看清了：有好多人，成千上万，拥挤不堪。有的在半冻的土地上挖大坑，其他人则操练战斗。他看见大群骑兵冲击一道盾墙，胯下的马如蚁蝼般渺小。演习的声音好似铁叶瑟瑟拂动，轻微地悬荡在风中。他们的营地毫无规划，杂乱无章：既无沟渠，更无尖桩，连马匹也未整备成列。随处可见土制陋屋，兽皮帐篷萌生出来，犹如大地这张脸上长的痘疹。他望着凌乱的干草堆，闻到山羊、绵羊、马、猪和狗发出的浓郁气味，黑烟如卷须般自千堆营火袅袅上升。
　　这哪是一支军队，分明是一座闹市。四面八方的人都聚集而来。
　　长湖对面，一座土墩正在移动。他目不转睛地盯着它走近，赫然发现那并非泥土，而是活物，是一只有着蛇样鼻子、行动迟缓的毛茸怪兽，那对獠牙比他所见过最壮观的野猪牙都庞大。骑着它的东西也同样巨大，不过形体有些奇怪，腿臀极粗，不太像人。
　　突如其来一阵寒风，吹得他毛发直竖，翅翼的尖啸令天空战栗。他抬眼望向白雪皑皑的高峰，只见一道阴影自半空垂直而下。恐怖的呐喊撕裂长天，灰蓝的巨翅向外伸展，遮天蔽日……
　　“白灵！”琼恩大喊一声，坐起身来。他仍能感觉那利爪，那疼痛。“白灵，回来！”
　　来的是伊班，他捉住琼恩，摇晃不休。“安静！你打算把野人都引下来吗？你是哪里不对劲，小子？”
　　“梦，”琼恩无力地说，“梦中我成为白灵，站在悬崖边俯瞰结冻的河流。接着有东西攻击我。是只鸟……鹰，我想……”
　　侍从戴里吉笑了，“咱常梦的都是漂亮妞儿，真该多发发梦的。”
　　科林走到身旁。“你是说，结冻的河流？”
　　“乳河发源于冰川底部的深湖，”石蛇插话。
　　“那里有棵树，长着我弟弟的脸庞。有野人……成千上万的野人，我从来不知他们有那么多，还有骑长毛象的巨人。”透过天光的变化，琼恩判断自己已睡了四五个钟头。他头痛欲裂，后颈处因爪牙的攻击而灼痛。可那是梦啊。
　　“把你还记得的东西都告诉我，从头到尾，巨细无遗。”断掌科林道。
　　琼恩糊涂了。“那不是梦么？”
　　“那是狼梦，”断掌说，“卡斯特告诉总司令，野人们正在乳河源头集结。或许因为这个，你做这个梦；或许你是真看见了等待着我们的东西，远远提前于我们的脚步。不管怎样，告诉我实情。”把这些事说给科林和其他游骑兵听，让他觉得自己像个蠢蛋，但必须服从命令。奇怪的是，听完之后，没一个黑衣兄弟笑话他，连侍从戴里吉也收起笑容。
　　“易形者？”伊班严峻地说，一边望向断掌。他指的是老鹰？琼恩思量，还是我？易形者和狼灵只出现在老奶妈的故事里，并不属于这个他所降生的世界。但在此地，在这一片陌生凄冷的岩雪荒原中，什么都不难相信。
　　“冷风正要吹起，莫尔蒙感觉到了，班扬·史塔克也感觉到了。死人行走，树眼重现。狼灵和易形者又有什么难以置信的呢？”
　　“莫非咱的梦也能成真？”侍从戴里吉道，“雪诺大人就留着他的长毛象好了，我要我那些女人。”
　　“我从小到大为守夜人服役，巡逻次数比旁人都多，”伊班说，“我见过巨人遗骨，听过许多奇怪的传说，却从未看过实物。眼见为实，如今我要好好瞧瞧。”
　　“小心，别让他们瞧见你，伊班，”石蛇道。
　　直到人们再次前进，白灵也未现身。这时阴影已完全覆盖峡道底部，太阳正朝着游骑兵们称为“叉梢”的两座尖锐的孪生巨峰急速下落。如果梦是真的……这念头想想都吓人。难道白灵真的伤在老鹰爪下？难道被推下悬崖了吗？还有那棵长着弟弟脸庞的鱼梁木，它怎么有死亡和黑暗的气息？
　　最后一缕阳光隐没在“叉梢”之后，黄昏的朦胧笼罩风声峡，气温似乎刹那间便下降许多。他们不再攀登，事实上，道路缓缓下降，虽然粗拙却不陡峭。路上充满裂缝、碎岩和大块落石。天很快就要全黑，白灵仍不见踪影，这种感觉快把琼恩生生撕裂，偏偏他不能像平日一样呼唤冰原狼，因为此地危机四伏。
　　“科林，”侍从戴里吉轻唤道，“那儿。你看。”
　　一只老鹰栖息在头顶一道岩脊上，衬着逐渐暗淡的天空。我们常见到鹰，琼恩心想，这不可能是我梦见的那只。
　　虽然如此，伊班还是搭箭弯弓，侍从拦住他。“那鸟远在射程之外。”
　　“我不喜欢它盯着我们。”
　　侍从耸肩，“我也是，但你管不了它，只会浪费一根上好的羽箭。”
　　科林坐在鞍上，长时间观察老鹰。“我们继续，”最后他说。于是游骑兵们继续下坡。
　　白灵啊，琼恩只想高呼，你到底在哪儿？
　　他刚想跟上科林和其他人，不觉瞥见两颗大石之间白光一闪。是堆积的残雪罢，他正这么想，只见那堆“雪”抖了抖。这次他立刻翻身下马，跪倒在乱石间。
　　白灵抬头，颈项闪烁着潮湿的反光，当琼恩摘下手套抚摩他时，也没发出半点声音。鹰爪撕得皮开肉绽，血肉模糊，幸好没有折断脖子，致他死命。
　　断掌科林站在琼恩身边。“有多严重？”
　　白灵似乎想作答，挣扎着起身。
　　“好强壮的狼，”游骑兵道，“伊班，水。石蛇，你的酒袋。琼恩，把他按紧。”
　　众人协力，总算清掉冰原狼毛皮上的凝血。科林将酒倒入鹰爪留下的一片血红模糊的伤口时，白灵竭力挣脱，咧牙露齿，然而琼恩紧紧抱住，呢喃安慰的话语，终于使狼平静下来。最后，他们从琼恩的斗篷撕下布条，为狼包裹伤口。四野全然黑暗，一抹星光将漆黑的天空和漆黑的山岩区分开来。“我们继续？”石蛇想知道。
　　科林走向坐骑。“不，回头。”
　　“回头？”琼恩讶异得一愣。
　　“鹰眼比人眼尖锐。我们被发现了，得赶快逃。”断掌在头上绑条黑长巾，翻身上马。
　　其他游骑兵互看一眼，无人争辩。接下来他们一个个上马，朝家的方向调头。“白灵，过来，”他呼唤，于是冰原狼跟上来，犹如穿梭夜色的一道白影。
　　他们整夜骑行，踏着蜿蜒上升的峡道，穿越破碎的土地。风势渐强。天地间时时骤然漆黑，只能下马步行，一边牵引坐骑。伊班曾建议引火照明，但科林断然拒绝：“不能有火”。到达顶峰石梁后，他们接着下行。黑暗之中，有只影子山猫在愤怒咆哮，吼声于山谷间回荡传扬，好似成打的猫遥相呼应。琼恩一度看见头顶峰巅上有对炽热的眼眸，大如圆月。
　　黎明前的黑暗时分，他们终于停下来饮马，一匹喂一把燕麦、几撮干草。“离咱们杀野人的地方不远了，”科林说，“那里可以以一挡百，只要人选正确。”他望向侍从戴里吉。
　　侍从低头一鞠躬。“弟兄们，把多余的箭都留给我。”他敲敲长弓。“回家以后记得给我的马喂个苹果。可怜的家伙，那是它应得的奖励。”
　　他要留下殉死，琼恩明白。
　　科林用带手套的手紧握侍从的前臂。“若老鹰从天上飞下……”
　　“……它就得换身羽毛。”
　　琼恩看见侍从戴里吉的最后一眼是他的背影，手脚并用，直上峰峦。
　　天亮后，琼恩抬眼望向无云的天空，一个斑点在蓝幕上移动。伊班也发现了，禁不住咒骂，科林要他静声，“听。”
　　琼恩屏住呼吸，侧耳倾听。在他们身后，辽远的地方，传来一声猎号的呼唤，游荡于群山之间。
　　“他们来了，”科林说。
　　※※※※※※
　　①在英语中，“Rayder”雷德是“Raider”掠袭者的变体。
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等级: 内阁元老
配偶: 逐烟霞。
你看着眼前的人，分明还是以前的模样，可心里终究不是以前那般澄清透明了。
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Chapter 52

　　CHAPTER 52
　　SANSA
　　The southern sky was black with smoke. It rose swirling off a hundred distant fires, its sooty fingers smudging out the stars. Across the Blackwater Rush, a line of flame burned nightly from horizon to horizon, while on this side the Imp had fired the whole riverfront: docks and warehouses, homes and brothels, everything outside the city walls.
　　Even in the Red Keep, the air tasted of ashes. When Sansa found Ser Dontos in the quiet of the godswood, he asked if she’d been crying. “It’s only from the smoke,” she lied. “It looks as though half the kingswood is burning.”
　　“Lord Stannis wants to smoke out the Imp’s savages.” Dontos swayed as he spoke, one hand on the trunk of a chestnut tree. A wine stain discolored the red-and-yellow motley of his tunic. “They kill his scouts and raid his baggage train. And the wildlings have been lighting fires too. The Imp told the queen that Stannis had better train his horses to eat ash, since he would find no blade of grass. I heard him say so. I hear all sorts of things as a fool that I never heard when I was a knight. They talk as though I am not there, and—he leaned close, breathing his winey breath right in her face—”the Spider pays in gold for any little trifle. I think Moon Boy has been his for years.”
　　He is drunk again. My poor Florian he names himself, and so he is. But he is all I have. “Is it true Lord Stannis burned the godswood at Storm’s End?”
　　Dontos nodded. “He made a great pyre of the trees as an offering to his new god. The red priestess made him do it. They say she rules him now, body and soul. He’s vowed to burn the Great Sept of Baelor too, if he takes the city.”
　　“Let him.” When Sansa had first beheld the Great Sept with its marble walls and seven crystal towers, she’d thought it was the most beautiful building in the world, but that had been before Joffrey beheaded her father on its steps. “I want it burned.”
　　“Hush, child, the gods will hear you.”
　　“Why should they? They never hear my prayers.”
　　“Yes they do. They sent me to you, didn’t they?”
　　Sansa picked at the bark of a tree. She felt light-headed, almost feverish. “They sent you, but what good have you done? You promised you would take me home, but I’m still here.”
　　Dontos patted her arm. “I’ve spoken to a certain man I know, a good friend to me . . . and you, my lady. He will hire a swift ship to take us to safety, when the time is right.”
　　“The time is right now,” Sansa insisted, “before the fighting starts. They’ve forgotten about me. I know we could slip away if we tried.” “Child, child.” Dontos shook his head. “Out of the castle, yes, we could do that, but the city gates are more heavily guarded than ever, and the Imp has even closed off the river.”
　　It was true. The Blackwater Rush was as empty as Sansa had ever seen it. All the ferries had been withdrawn to the north bank, and the trading galleys had fled or been seized by the Imp to be made over for battle. The only ships to be seen were the king’s war galleys. They rowed endlessly up and down, staying to the deep water in the middle of the river and exchanging flights of arrows with Stannis’s archers on the south shore.
　　Lord Stannis himself was still on the march, but his vanguard had appeared two nights ago during the black of the moon. King’s Landing had woken to the sight of their tents and banners. They were five thousand, Sansa had heard, near as many as all the gold cloaks in the city. They flew the red or green apples of House Fossoway, the turtle of Estermont, and the fox-andflowers of Florent, and their commander was Ser Guyard Morrigen, a famous southron knight who men now called Guyard the Green. His standard showed a crow in flight, its black wings spread wide against a storm-green sky. But it was the pale yellow banners that worried the city. Long ragged tails streamed behind them like flickering flames, and in place of a lord’s sigil they bore the device of a god: the burning heart of the Lord of Light.
　　“When Stannis comes, he’ll have ten times as many men as Joffrey does, everyone says so.”
　　Dontos squeezed her shoulder. “The size of his host does not matter, sweetling, so long as they are on the wrong side of the river. Stannis cannot cross without ships.”
　　“He has ships. More than Joffrey.”
　　“It’s a long sail from Storm’s End, the fleet will need to come up Massey’s Hook and through the Gullet and across Blackwater Bay. Perhaps the good gods will send a storm to sweep them from the seas.” Dontos gave a hopeful smile. “It is not easy for you, I know. You must be patient, child. When my friend returns to the city, we shall have our ship. Have faith in your Florian, and try not to be afraid.”
　　Sansa dug her nails into her hand. She could feel the fear in her tummy, twisting and pinching, worse every day. Nightmares of the day Princess Myrcella had sailed still troubled her sleep; dark suffocating dreams that woke her in the black of night, struggling for breath. She could hear the people screaming at her, screaming without words, like animals. They had hemmed her in and thrown filth at her and tried to pull her off her horse, and would have done worse if the Hound had not cut his way to her side. They had torn the High Septon to pieces and smashed in Ser Aron’s head with a rock. Try not to be afraid! he said.
　　The whole city was afraid. Sansa could see it from the castle walls. The smallfolk were hiding themselves behind closed shutters and barred doors as if that would keep them safe. The last time King’s Landing had fallen, the Lannisters looted and raped as they pleased and put hundreds to the sword, even though the city had opened its gates. This time the Imp meant to fight, and a city that fought could expect no mercy at all.
　　Dontos was prattling on. “If I were still a knight, I should have to put on armor and man the walls with the rest. I ought to kiss King Joffrey’s feet and thank him sweetly.”
　　“If you thanked him for making you a fool, he’d make you a knight again,” Sansa said sharply.
　　Dontos chuckled. “My Jonquil’s a clever girl, isn’t she?”
　　“Joffrey and his mother say I’m stupid.”
　　“Let them. You’re safer that way, sweetling. Queen Cersei and the Imp and Lord Varys and their like, they all watch each other keen as hawks, and pay this one and that one to spy out what the others are doing, but no one ever troubles themselves about Lady Tanda’s daughter, do they?” Dontos covered his mouth to stifle a burp. “Gods preserve you, my little Jonquil.” He was growing weepy. The wine did that to him. “Give your Florian a little kiss now. A kiss for luck.” He swayed toward her.
　　Sansa dodged the wet groping lips, kissed him lightly on an unshaven cheek, and bid him good night. It took all her strength not to weep. She had been weeping too much of late. It was unseemly, she knew, but she could not seem to help herself; the tears would come, sometimes over a trifle, and nothing she did could hold them back.
　　The drawbridge to Maegor’s Holdfast was unguarded. The imp had moved most of the gold cloaks to the city walls, and the white knights of the Kingsguard had duties more important than dogging her heels. Sansa could go where she would so long as she did not try to leave the castle, but there was nowhere she wanted to go.
　　She crossed over the dry moat with its cruel iron spikes and made her way up the narrow turnpike stair, but when she reached the door of her bedchamber she could not bear to enter. The very walls of the room made her feel trapped; even with the window opened wide it felt as though there were no air to breathe.
　　Turning back to the stair, Sansa climbed. The smoke blotted out the stars and the thin crescent of moon, so the roof was dark and thick with shadows. Yet from here she could see everything: the Red Keep’s tall towers and great cornerforts, the maze of city streets beyond, to south and west the river running black, the bay to the east, the columns of smoke and cinders, and fires, fires everywhere. Soldiers crawled over the city walls like ants with torches, and crowded the hoardings that had sprouted from the ramparts. Down by the Mud Gate, outlined against the drifting smoke, she could make out the vague shape of the three huge catapults, the biggest anyone had ever seen, overtopping the walls by a good twenty feet. Yet none of it made her feel less fearful. A stab went through her, so sharp that Sansa sobbed and clutched at her belly. She might have fallen, but a shadow moved suddenly, and strong fingers grabbed her arm and steadied her.
　　She grabbed a merlon for support, her fingers scrabbling at the rough stone. “Let go of me,” she cried. “Let go.”
　　“The little bird thinks she has wings, does she? Or do you mean to end up crippled like that brother of yours?”
　　Sansa twisted in his grasp. “I wasn’t going to fall. It was only . . . you startled me, that’s all.”
　　“You mean I scared you. And still do.”
　　She took a deep breath to calm herself. “I thought I was alone, I She glanced away.
　　“The little bird still can’t bear to look at me, can she?” The Hound released her. “You were glad enough to see my face when the mob had you, though. Remember?”
　　Sansa remembered all too well. She remembered the way they had howled, the feel of the blood running down her cheek from where the stone had struck her, and the garlic stink on the breath of the man who had tried to pull her from her horse. She could still feel the cruel pinch of fingers on her wrist as she lost her balance and began to fall.
　　She’d thought she was going to die then, but the fingers had twitched, all five at once, and the man had shrieked loud as a horse. When his hand fell away, another hand, stronger, shoved her back into her saddle. The man with the garlicky breath was on the ground, blood pumping out the stump of his arm, but there were others all around, some with clubs in hand. The Hound leapt at them, his sword a blur of steel that trailed a red mist as it swung. When they broke and ran before him he had laughed, his terrible burned face for a moment transformed.
　　She made herself look at that face now, really look. It was only courteous, and a lady must never forget her courtesies. The scars are not the worst part, nor even the way his mouth twitches. It’s his eyes. She had never seen eyes so full of anger. “I . . . I should have come to you after,” she said haltingly. “To thank you, for . . . for saving me . . . you were so brave.”
　　“Brave?” His laugh was half a snarl. “A dog doesn’t need courage to chase off rats. They had me thirty to one, and not a man of them dared face me.”
　　She hated the way he talked, always so harsh and angry. “Does it give you joy to scare people?”
　　“No, it gives me joy to kill people.” His mouth twitched. “Wrinkle up your face all you like, but spare me this false piety. You were a high lord’s get. Don’t tell me Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell never killed a man.”
　　“That was his duty. He never liked it.”
　　“Is that what he told you?” Clegane laughed again. “Your father lied. Killing is the sweetest thing there is.” He drew his longsword. “Here’s your truth. Your precious father found that out on Baelor’s steps. Lord of Winterfell, Hand of the King, Warden of the North, the mighty Eddard Stark, of a line eight thousand years old . . . but Ilyn Payne’s blade went through his neck all the same, didn’t it? Do you remember the dance he did when his head came off his shoulders?”
　　Sansa hugged herself, suddenly cold. “Why are you always so hateful? I was thanking you . . .”
　　“Just as if I was one of those true knights you love so well, yes. What do you think a knight is for, girl? You think it’s all taking favors from ladies and looking fine in gold plate? Knights are for killing.” He laid the edge of his longsword against her neck, just under her ear. Sansa could feel the sharpness of the steel. “I killed my first man at twelve. I’ve lost count of how many I’ve killed since then. High lords with old names, fat rich men dressed in velvet, knights puffed up like bladders with their honors, yes, and women and children too—they’re all meat, and I’m the butcher. Let them have their lands and their gods and their gold. Let them have their sers.” Sandor Clegane spat at her feet to show what he thought of that. “So long as I have this,” he said, lifting the sword from her throat, “there’s no man on earth I need fear.”
　　Except your brother, Sansa thought, but she had better sense than to say it aloud. He is a dog, just as he says. A half-wild, mean-tempered dog that bites any hand that tries to pet him, and yet will savage any man who tries to hurt his masters. “Not even the men across the river?”
　　Clegane’s eyes turned toward the distant fires. “All this burning.” He sheathed his sword. “Only cowards fight with fire.”
　　“Lord Stannis is no coward.”
　　“He’s not the man his brother was either. Robert never let a little thing like a river stop him.”
　　“What will you do when he crosses?”
　　“Fight. Kill. Die, maybe.”
　　“Aren’t you afraid? The gods might send you down to some terrible hell for all the evil you’ve done.”
　　“What evil?” He laughed. “What gods?”
　　“The gods who made us all.”
　　“All?” he mocked. “Tell me, little bird, what kind of god makes a monster like the Imp, or a halfwit like Lady Tanda’s daughter? If there are gods, they made sheep so wolves could eat mutton, and they made the weak for the strong to play with.”
　　“True knights protect the weak.”
　　He snorted. “There are no true knights, no more than there are gods. If you can’t protect yourself, die and get out of the way of those who can. Sharp steel and strong arms rule this world, don’t ever believe any different.”
　　Sansa backed away from him. “You’re awful.”
　　“I’m honest. It’s the world that’s awful. Now fly away, little bird, I’m sick of you peeping at me.”
　　Wordless, she fled. She was afraid of Sandor Clegane . . . and yet, some part of her wished that Ser Dontos had a little of the Hound’s ferocity. There are gods, she told herself, and there are true knights too. All the stories can’t be lies.
　　That night Sansa dreamed of the riot again. The mob surged around her, shrieking, a maddened beast with a thousand faces. Everywhere she turned she saw faces twisted into monstrous inhuman masks. She wept and told them she had never done them hurt, yet they dragged her from her horse all the same. “No,” she cried, “no, please, don’t, don’t,” but no one paid her any heed. She shouted for Ser Dontos, for her brothers, for her dead father and her dead wolf, for gallant Ser Loras who had given her a red rose once, but none of them came. She called for the heroes from the songs, for Florian and Ser Ryam Redwyne and Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, but no one heard. Women swarmed over her like weasels, pinching her legs and kicking her in the belly, and someone hit her in the face and she felt her teeth shatter. Then she saw the bright glimmer of steel. The knife plunged into her belly and tore and tore and tore, until there was nothing left of her down there but shiny wet ribbons.
　　When she woke, the pale light of morning was slanting through her window, yet she felt as sick and achy as if she had not slept at all. There was something sticky on her thighs. When she threw back the blanket and saw the blood, all she could think was that her dream had somehow come true. She remembered the knives inside her, twisting and ripping. She squirmed away in horror, kicking at the sheets and falling to the floor, breathing raggedly, naked, bloodied, and afraid.
　　But as she crouched there, on her hands and knees, understanding came. “No, please,” Sansa whimpered, “please, no.” She didn’t want this happening to her, not now, not here, not now, not now, not now, not now.
　　Madness took hold of her. Pulling herself up by the bedpost, she went to the basin and washed between her legs, scrubbing away all the stickiness. By the time she was done, the water was pink with blood. When her maidservants saw it they would know Then she remembered the bedclothes. She rushed back to the bed and stared in horror at the dark red stain and the tale it told. All she could think was that she had to get rid of it, or else they’d see. She couldn’t let them see, or they’d marry her to Joffrey and make her lay with him.
　　Snatching up her knife, Sana hacked at the sheet, cutting out the stain. If they ask me about the hole, what will I say? Tears ran down her face. She pulled the torn sheet from the bed, and the stained blanket as well. I’ll have to burn them. She balled up the evidence, stuffed it in the fireplace, drenched it in oil from her bedside lamp, and lit it afire. Then she realized that the blood had soaked through the sheet into the featherbed, so she bundled that up as well, but it was big and cumbersome, hard to move. Sansa could get only half of it into the fire. She was on her knees, struggling to shove the mattress into the flames as thick grey smoke eddied around her and filled the room, when the door burst open and she heard her maid gasp.
　　In the end it took three of them to pull her away. And it was all for nothing. The bedclothes were burnt, but by the time they carried her off her thighs were bloody again. It was as if her own body had betrayed her to Joffrey, unfurling a banner of Lannister crimson for all the world to see.
　　When the fire was out, they carried off the singed featherbed, fanned away the worst of the smoke, and brought up a tub. Women came and went, muttering and looking at her strangely. They filled the tub with scalding hot water, bathed her and washed her hair and gave her a cloth to wear between her legs. By then Sansa was calm again, and ashamed for her folly. The smoke had ruined most of her clothing. One of the women went away and came back with a green wool shift that was almost her size. “It’s not as pretty as your own things, but it will serve,” she announced when she’d pulled it down over Sansa’s head. “Your shoes weren’t burned, so at least you won’t need to go barefoot to the queen.”
　　Cersei Lannister was breaking her fast when Sansa was ushered into her solar. “You may sit,” the queen said graciously. “Are you hungry?” She gestured at the table. There was porridge, honey, milk, boiled eggs, and crisp fried fish.
　　The sight of the food made Sansa feel ill. Her tummy was tied in a knot. “No, thank you, Your Grace.”
　　“I don’t blame you. Between Tyrion and Lord Stannis, everything I cat tastes of ash. And now you’re setting fires as well. What did you hope to accomplish?”
　　Sansa lowered her head. “The blood frightened me.”
　　“The blood is the seal of your womanhood. Lady Catelyn might have prepared you. You’ve had your first flowering, no more.”
　　Sansa had never felt less flowery. “My lady mother told me, but I . . . I thought it would be different.”
　　“Different how?”
　　“I don’t know. Less . . . less messy, and more magical.”
　　Queen Cersei laughed. “Wait until you birth a child, Sansa. A woman’s life is nine parts mess to one part magic, you’ll learn that soon enough . . . and the parts that look like magic often turn out to be messiest of all.” She took a sip of milk. “So now you are a woman. Do you have the least idea of what that means?”
　　“It means that I am now fit to be wedded and bedded,” said Sansa, “and to bear children for the king.”
　　The queen gave a wry smile. “A prospect that no longer entices you as it once did, I can see. I will not fault you for that. Joffrey has always been difficult. Even his birth . . . I labored a day and a half to bring him forth. You cannot imagine the pain, Sansa. I screamed so loudly that I fancied Robert might hear me in the kingswood.”
　　“His Grace was not with you?”
　　“Robert? Robert was hunting. That was his custom. Whenever my time was near, my royal husband would flee to the trees with his huntsmen and hounds. When he returned he would present me with some pelts or a stag’s head, and I would present him with a baby.
　　“Not that I wanted him to stay, mind you. I had Grand Maester Pycelle and an army of midwives, and I had my brother. When they told Jaime he was not allowed in the birthing room, he smiled and asked which of them proposed to keep him out.
　　“Joffrey will show you no such devotion, I fear. You could thank your sister for that, if she weren’t dead. He’s never been able to forget that day on the Trident when you saw her shame him, so he shames you in turn. You’re stronger than you seem, though—I expect you’ll survive a bit of humiliation. I did. You may never love the king, but you’ll love his children.”
　　“I love His Grace with all my heart,” Sansa said.
　　The queen sighed. “You had best learn some new lies, and quickly. Lord Stannis will not like that one, I promise you.”
　　“The new High Septon said that the gods will never permit Lord Stannis to win, since Joffrey is the rightful king.”
　　A half smile flickered across the queen’s face. “Robert’s trueborn son and heir. Though Joff would cry whenever Robert picked him up. His Grace did not like that. His bastards had always gurgled at him happily, and sucked his finger when he put it in their little baseborn mouths. Robert wanted smiles and cheers, always, so he went where he found them, to his friends and his whores. Robert wanted to be loved. My brother Tyrion has the same disease. Do you want to be loved, Sansa?”
　　“Everyone wants to be loved.”
　　“I see flowering hasn’t made you any brighter,” said Cersei. “Sansa, permit me to share a bit of womanly wisdom with you on this very special day. Love is poison. A sweet poison, yes, but it will kill you all the same.”


Ⅱ 列王的纷争 Chapter53 珊莎
　　南方的天空浓烟密布。乌黑的烟柱从远方成百火堆中盘旋升起，黑色的手指掩盖星辰。黑水河对岸，火焰占满地平线，彻夜燃烧，而在这一边，小恶魔点燃整个河滨地区：码头和仓库，民宅和妓院，城墙外的一切统统焚毁。
　　即使身处红堡，空气中也有灰烬的味道。当珊莎在宁静的神木林里找到唐托斯爵士时，他看到她的红眼睛，便问她是否哭过。“只是烟尘的关系，”她撒谎，“似乎半个御林都在燃烧。”
　　“史坦尼斯公爵想把小恶魔的野人熏出森林。”唐托斯说话时摇摇晃晃，一手扶住栗树树干，红黄相间的小丑装上沾染一片酒渍。“他们杀死他的斥候，袭击他的辎重车队，还到处放火。我听小恶魔对太后说，史坦尼斯得训练他的马儿吃灰烬，因为他将找不到一片叶子。以前身为骑士，听不到这许多事，如今成了弄臣，他们却对我视若无睹，谈话时当我不存在。我告诉您——”他俯身靠近，酒气直喷到她脸上“——八爪蜘蛛花钱收买一切琐碎消息，我想月童已为他服务好多年了。”
　　他又喝醉了。他自称可怜的佛罗理安，果真名副其实。但现在我只能指望他。“史坦尼斯公爵真的烧了风息堡的神木林？”
　　唐托斯点头。“他将树木积成一个巨大的柴堆，奉献给他的新神，红袍女祭司要他这么做的。听说他现在灵肉都归她驱使，甚至发誓一但夺取君临，便要焚毁贝勒大圣堂呢！”
　　“烧就烧吧。”珊莎初次见到大圣堂的大理石墙和七座水晶塔时，真以为这是世上最美的建筑，但自乔佛里在圣堂讲坛上将父亲斩首后，她对之则是满心厌恶。“烧干净最好。”
　　“嘘，孩子，诸神会听见的。”
　　“怎么会？他们从不听我祈祷。”
　　“他们在听，所以才派我来，不是吗？”
　　珊莎用手抠抠树皮，觉得自己头晕眼花，似乎有点发烧。“就算他们派你来，又有什么用呢？你答应带我回家，可我一直走不了。”
　　唐托斯拍拍她手臂。“我跟某个人谈过了，他是我的好朋友……也是您的朋友，小姐。等时机一到，他便会雇艘快船，送我们去安全的地方。”
　　“现在正是时机，”珊莎坚持，“现在开战在即，没人会注意我。我想我们只要行动，就一定能溜出去。”
　　“孩子呀，孩子。”唐托斯摇摇头。“溜出红堡很简单，我们能做到。但每道城门都戒备森严，何况小恶魔还封锁了河道。”
　　这是事实。如今黑水河比以往任何时候都空旷。所有渡船都撤到北岸，而商船要么逃走，要么被小恶魔扣留，用于作战。放眼望去，唯一的船是国王的战舰。它们不断来回穿梭，保持在河中央的深水区，与南岸史坦尼斯的弓手飞箭往来。
　　史坦尼斯公爵本人还在行军，但他的先锋部队已于两天前趁一个月黑风高的晚上先行抵达。早上醒来，全君临都看到了他们的帐篷与旗帜。珊莎听说他们有五千人之多，几乎相当于城里金袍卫士的总数。敌人营地里飘扬着佛索威家族的青苹果旗和红苹果旗，伊斯蒙家族的海龟旗以及佛罗伦家族的狐狸鲜花旗，他们的指挥官是古德·莫里根爵士，一个著名的南方骑士，从前是蓝礼的绿衣卫。他的旗帜乃是一只飞鸦，在风雨欲来的碧绿天空中大展黑翅。但最令整个城市揪心的还是那些淡黄的旗，长长的旗穗拖在后面，如火焰一样摇曳，原本该是家族纹章的地方放着神的标记：光之王的烈焰红心。
　　“大家都说，等史坦尼斯亲临城下，他的人马将达到乔佛里的十倍。”
　　唐托斯捏捏她肩膀。“亲爱的，兵力多寡并不重要，他们在大河对岸，没有船过不来。”
　　“可他有船，而且比乔佛里的多。”
　　“风息堡到这儿路程遥远，舰队需经马赛岬，穿过喉道，进入黑水湾。或许正道诸神会卷起风暴，把他们统统抹去。”唐托斯充满希望地微笑。“我知道您很不容易，但是孩子，千万得耐心。等我的朋友回到都城，我们就会有船。您不要怕，请相信您的佛罗理安吧。”
　　珊莎的指甲深深掐进掌心，肚子里则有恐惧绞动抽搐，一天比一天强烈。弥赛菈公主离去那天的经历一直在梦中纠缠不休，梦魇黑暗而令人窒息，令她每每在深晚惊醒，拼命喘气。群众的尖叫萦绕耳际，不成词句，活像动物的嘶喊。他们把她团团围住，各种东西朝她扔来，还想将她拉下马，若不是猎狗杀开一条血路来救她，后果不堪设想。想想看，他们将总主教撕成碎片，用石头砸扁了艾伦爵士的头。您不要怕！他居然要我别害怕！
　　其实全城都陷入了恐慌。珊莎在城堡围墙上看到，老百姓们统统关闭窗户，上好门闩，似乎这样就能保住性命。上次君临城陷，兰尼斯特家肆意奸淫掳掠，带走几百条人命，那一次还是开城投降的。而今小恶魔意图抵抗，城破之后的下场可想而知。
　　唐托斯还在喋喋不休。“如果我还是骑士，就得穿上盔甲，和其他人一起守城。我真该亲吻乔佛里国王的脚，真心实意地感谢他的安排。”
　　“你去谢他把你变成弄臣，他就会让你再做回骑士，”珊莎尖刻地说。
　　唐托斯咯咯笑道：“我的琼琪是个聪明姑娘，不是吗？”
　　“乔佛里和他母亲说我很笨。”
　　“他们这样想就好，亲爱的，这样您更安全。瑟曦太后，小恶魔以及瓦里斯这些人当彼此是毒蛇猛兽，像老鹰一样互相盯得紧紧的，到处花钱雇人探听消息，但坦妲伯爵夫人的女儿就没人劳神关心，对不对？”唐托斯捂住嘴巴，打了个嗝。“诸神保佑您，我的小琼琪。”他的泪水涌上来，是酒的缘故。“快给您的佛罗理安一个小小的吻吧。一个幸运之吻。”他摇摇晃晃地向她靠近。
　　珊莎避开他探出的湿润双唇，轻轻吻在他胡子拉碴的脸颊上，并跟他道晚安，竭尽全力才没有哭泣。最近她哭得太多。这样很不体面，她知道，但就是控制不住。有时为了一些琐事，眼泪便掉下来，怎么都收不住。
　　梅葛楼的吊桥无人看守。小恶魔将大部分金袍卫士调去守城，而白袍的御林铁卫们而今也忙得不可开交，无暇步步尾随她。只要别离开城堡，珊莎想去哪儿就可以去哪儿，但她哪儿也不想去。
　　她穿过布满尖锐铁刺的干涸护城河，走上狭窄的高架楼梯，当到达卧房门口时，居然不想进去。房间的墙壁让她窒息，明知里面窗户大开，她仍然感觉空气稀薄。
　　于是珊莎转回楼梯，继续攀登。浓烟遮掩了群星和一轮纤细的新月，堡顶黑呼呼的，满是阴影。但从这儿看出去，全城尽在眼帘：红堡高耸的塔楼和巨大的角堡，下方如迷宫般的城市街道，西面南面是奔流的黑水，东面则是海湾，以及一丛丛烟柱和灰烬，火，到处都是火。近处，士兵擎着火炬，像蚂蚁一样爬满城墙和从城垛延伸出的塔楼。烂泥门下，飘荡的烟尘中依稀可辨三座投石机的轮廓，这是前所未有的巨型投石机，高过城墙足足二十尺。但这一切都不能减轻她的恐惧。一阵尖利的刺痛突然袭来，珊莎紧捂肚子，眼泪夺眶而出。她差点摔下去，幸亏一个影子突然闪出，用强有力的手紧扣她的胳膊，将她稳住。
　　她仓皇地抓向城垛寻求支撑，指头在粗糙的岩石上乱扒。“放开我，”她大喊。“放开！”
　　“小小鸟认为自己真的长翅膀，是吗？还是想学你弟弟一样当瘸子啊？”
　　珊莎想挣脱他的抓握。“我不会掉下去。我只是……被你吓了一跳，如此而已。”
　　“我吓着你了？我还是把你吓着了？”
　　她深吸一口气，稳定心神。“我以为只有我一个人，我……”她瞥向别处。
　　“算了吧，小小鸟，你还是不敢正眼看我，对不对？”猎狗放开她。“呵呵，当你被暴民围住时，倒挺高兴看见我的脸啊，记得吗？”
　　这一切，珊莎记得再清楚不过。她记得他们的吼叫，记得鲜血从石块砸破的额角沿着脸颊流淌而下，记得那个想把她从马上拉下去的男人嘴里喷出的刺鼻蒜味。她仍能感觉那几根冷酷的手指钳着自己手腕，让她失去平衡，摇摇欲坠。
　　她以为自己就要死去，但那只手忽然一阵抽搐，五根手指一起抽搐，手的主人像马一样尖声嘶叫。胳膊落地，男一只手，另一只更强壮的手将她推回马鞍。大蒜气味的男人倒在地上，手臂断处血流如注，但周围还有许多人，有的甚至手拿棍棒。猎狗策马相迎，长剑舞成一片钢铁幻影，所经之处血肉横飞，人们四散奔逃。他所向披靡，仰天长笑，那张烧伤的可怕脸庞似乎顷刻间变了形。
　　而今，她逼自己再度正视那张脸庞，真正地看。这是礼貌，贵妇人必须随时随地都要记得有礼貌。其实最可怕的不是那些疮疤，甚至不是他嘴唇抽搐的模样，最可怕的是他那双眼睛。她从没见过如此一双充满怒火的眼睛。“我……我想我事后该去找你，”她吞吞吐吐地说，“当面向你道谢，因……因为你救了我的命……你真勇敢。”
　　“勇敢？”他的笑声好似咆哮。“狗追老鼠有何勇气可言？他们三十个对我一个，却无一人敢直视我的眼睛。”
　　她讨厌他说话的方式，总是那么刺耳，那么怒气冲冲。“你觉得吓唬老百姓很令你愉快吗？”
　　“不，杀人才让我愉快。”他的嘴巴再度抽搐。“你爱怎么皱脸都行，但在我面前，不要故作虔诚。你出身世家，可别告诉我艾德·史塔克公爵从没杀过人啊？”
　　“他只是履行责任，没有喜欢过。”
　　“他这么告诉你？”克里冈再次大笑。“看来你父亲不是个骗子便是个傻瓜。杀戮才是世上最美好的事。”他拔出长剑。“这就是真实。想必你尊贵的父亲大人在贝勒大圣堂前深有体会。瞧啊，临冬城公爵，国王之手，北境守护，了不得的艾德。史塔克，传承八千年之久的血脉……却被伊林·派恩一剑斩首，不是吗？你记不记得，当人头落地时，他的躯体还手舞足蹈地痉挛？”
　　珊莎突然感到一阵寒意，于是抱住自己。“你为何总这么讨厌？我是在感谢你……”
　　“没错，你把我当作那些你喜欢的‘真正的骑士’。算了吧，小妹妹，你以为骑士有什么用？成天穿着黄金铠甲，一心博取女士欢心？我告诉你，骑士惟一的用处就是生来被我杀。”他将长剑锋刃抵住她脖子，就在耳朵下面，她可以感觉它的锋利。“我从十二岁时开始杀人，至今刀下之鬼已数不胜数。不论历史悠久的世家豪门，一身天鹅绒的肥佬富翁，趾高气昂的贵族骑士，是的，还有女人和小孩——人为鱼肉，我为刀俎。他们尽可以占有土地，神灵和金钱！他们尽可以彼此高呼‘爵士’！”桑铎·克里冈朝她脚边啐了一口，以示不屑。“我只要这个，”他边说边把剑从她咽喉举起，“有了它，世上我什么都不怕。”
　　除了你哥哥，珊莎心想，但她控制情绪，没说出口。看来，他正如他自己所说，真是一条狗，一条坏脾气的疯狗，谁想摸他反而被咬，谁想伤他主人他也和谁拼命。“河对岸那些人你也不怕？”
　　克里冈转头望向远处的火焰。“火，”他还剑入鞘。“火是懦夫的武器。”
　　“史坦尼斯公爵不是懦夫。”
　　“但也没他哥哥的气概。区区一条小河，难不倒劳勃。”
　　“他要是过了河，你怎么办？”
　　“战斗。杀人。也许被杀。”
　　“你不害怕吗？你犯下这么多罪孽，人死以后，也许会被诸神罚下七层地狱呢。”
　　“罪孽何在？”他大笑，“诸神何在？”
　　“诸神创造了我们所有人呀。”
　　“所有人？”他嘲讽地笑道。“那你告诉我，小小鸟，什么样的神会创造出小恶魔那样的怪物？什么样的神会容忍坦妲伯爵夫人的女儿那样的弱智？如果这世上真有神灵存在，他们只是创造绵羊好让狼不挨饿，创造弱者来给强者愚弄。”
　　“真正的骑士会保护弱者。”
　　他嗤之以鼻。“真正的骑士和诸神一样，都不存在，活在人间，倘若无法自卫，就是死路一条，必须为别人让道。刀剑和强权统治着这个世界，千万别相信旁的说法。”
　　珊莎从他身边踉跄退开。“你好恐怖！”
　　“我很诚实，恐怖的是这个世界。好了，快飞吧，小小鸟，你不敢面对我，我则受不了你的偷看。”
　　她一声不吭地跑开。她害怕桑铎·克里冈……然而，她心中又忍不住希望唐托斯爵士有一点点猎狗的桀骜。诸神是存在的，她告诉自己，真正的骑士也存在。所有的故事都不是谎言。
　　当晚，珊莎又梦到了暴动。暴民们朝她蜂拥而来，大声尖叫，像一头疯狂的千面野兽。不管她转向何方，眼前都是一张张扭曲的脸孔，仿佛戴着凶残的怪兽面具。她哭着告诉他们，告诉他们自己是个乖女孩，但他们还是照样将她从马上拉下来。“不，”她高喊，“不，求求你们，请不要，不要啊！”没人理会。她大声呼唤唐托斯爵士，呼唤她的兄弟，呼唤死去的父亲和冰原狼，呼唤那曾献给她一朵红玫瑰的英勇的洛拉斯爵士，但无人前来救她。她呼唤歌谣中的英雄，呼唤傻子佛罗理安、莱安·雷德温爵士以及龙骑士伊蒙王子，但他们都听不见。女人们像黄鼠狼一样涌上前，把她围住，掐她的腿，踢她肚子，还有人打她的脸，牙齿碎裂开来。然后是钢铁闪耀的光芒，匕首刺进肚腹，一刀一刀又一刀，直到她整个人支离破碎，只剩丝丝潮湿闪亮的肉片。
　　她醒了。苍白的晨光斜射进窗，但她只感到恶心疼痛，好像一夜没睡似的。双股之间有些黏黏的东西，掀开毯子一看，原来是血。一时之间，她只想到噩梦成真。她还记得刀子在体内扭转撕割的滋味。于是她恐惧地挪动，想踢床单却滚到了地上，赤裸身子，喘着粗气，下体流血，满心恐惧。
　　但当她趴着蜷在地上，忽然明白了过来。“不要，千万不要，”珊莎呜咽着，“求求你，千万不要啊。”她不要自己发生这种变化，不是现在，不是在这里，不是现在，不是现在，不是现在，不是现在！
　　疯狂攫住了她，她撑着床柱站起身，走到水盆边清洗大腿，擦掉那些黏黏的东西。腿是清干净了，水却成了粉红。女侍一进门就会发现。然后她想到床单，于是冲回床边，惊恐地瞪着那滩暗红污渍，她所有的秘密就清楚明白地摆在那里。怎么办？怎么办？必须抢在别人看见之前处理掉，否则就晚了。她不要被逼着跟乔佛里结婚，她不要跟他睡在一起啊！
　　珊莎抓起匕首，切割床单，把污渍挖下来。她们问起这个洞，我要怎么说呢？热泪从脸上滚落。她将撕破的床单扯下，发现毯子上也有血。我把它们全烧光。她将证物聚成一团，塞进壁炉，用床边油灯里的油润湿后，点火焚烧。然后她意识到血早就一路透过床单渗进羽毛床垫，因此她把床垫也抱来。它又大又重，很难移动，珊莎费尽全力，才塞了一半进火里。正当她双膝跪地，拼命将床垫往火焰里推，浓密的灰烟在四周旋转，充溢房间的时候，门猛然打开，她听见女侍倒抽一口气。
　　最后，三人合力才将她拖开。之前的一切都白费工夫。床单虽已焚毁，但当她被架开时，两条大腿又是血迹斑斑。她仿佛用身躯向全世界展开一面兰尼斯特家族的绯红旗帜，明目昭彰地将自己出卖给了乔佛里。
　　火被扑灭以后，她们抬走焦黑的羽毛床垫，驱散屋内烟尘，然后拿来浴盆。女人们进进出出，低声细语，都用奇怪的目光看着她。她们将浴盆注满滚烫的热水，替她沐浴冲头，还给她一块布裹在两腿中间。此时珊莎已经冷静下来，不禁为自己的愚行感到羞傀。浓烟把大部分衣服都毁了。有个女人出去带回一件绿色羊毛连衣裙，大小基本合身。“这不如您自己的东西漂亮，但只好凑合着用，”她一边说一边将它从珊莎头上套下。“您的鞋还完好，您至少不用光脚去见太后。”
　　珊莎被带进瑟曦·兰尼斯特的书房时，她正在吃早餐。“坐下，”太后和蔼地说，“饿不饿？”她指指桌上，有粥，蜂蜜，牛奶，白煮蛋和脆皮炸鱼。
　　她一见食物就想吐，好似肠胃打了结。“我不饿，谢谢您，陛下。”
　　“哼，咱们的提利昂和史坦尼斯公爵闹得每样食物都有灰烬的味道。不过你也放起火来了，想做什么呀？”
　　珊莎低头，“血把我吓坏了。”
　　“血是你成为女人的标志。凯特琳夫人应该早告诉过你作好心理准备。你的初潮到来，仅此而已。”
　　珊莎从没感觉如此语穷词短。“母亲大人是告诫过我，可我……我以为不是这样。”
　　“那是怎样？”
　　“我不知道。应该不会这么……脏乱，应该比较神奇。”
　　瑟曦太后忍俊不禁。“等生个孩子，珊莎，你就明白了。女人的生命九分脏乱，一分神奇，你很快就会知道……而表面上神奇的部分往往最为脏乱。”她啜一口牛奶。“那么，你现在是女人了，有没有一点概念，知道这意味着什么？”
　　“意味着我已适合同房共枕，”珊莎说，“并为国王怀孩子。”
　　太后苦笑，“你已不像从前那样期盼这个了，我看得出来，也不会怪你。乔佛里向来不太听话，甚至连他出生……我整整辛苦了一天半才把他生出来。你无法想像那种疼痛，珊莎，我的尖叫声如此之大，想必劳勃在御林里都能听见。”
　　“国王陛下没陪在您身边？”
　　“劳勃？劳勃在打猎。这是惯例，每当我产期一近，我的王夫便带着猎人和狗逃进森林。回来的时候，他送我一堆毛皮或一只鹿头，我则给他一个孩子。”
　　“我提醒你，我可不想他留下。我有派席尔大学士和足以组成一支军团的助产妇，以及我弟弟。他们不让詹姆进产房，他笑问：谁敢拦他？”
　　“乔佛里恐怕就不会这么爱你了。这你该去感谢你妹妹——如果她还没死的话。他永不会忘记在三叉戟河畔她是如何当你的面羞辱他，他会羞辱你作为报复。不过，你比外表看上去要坚强，估计能挺住一点点的羞耻。瞧，我不就挺过来了吗？你也许永远不会爱上国王，但你会爱着他的孩子。”
　　“我全心全意地爱着国王陛下，”珊莎说。
　　太后叹口气。“你最好多学点谎话，而且要快。史坦尼斯大人不会喜欢这一句，我向你保证。”
　　“新任总主教说，诸神反对史坦尼斯公爵，因为乔佛里才是真正的国王。”
　　一丝奇特的微笑闪过太后脸庞，“他是劳勃的嫡子和继承人，但劳勃每次抱起他，他都会大哭，令国王陛下很不喜欢。他那群杂种不但总开心地对他咯咯傻笑，当他把手指放进那些低贱的小嘴时，他们还会高兴地吮吸。劳勃向来渴望欢乐和笑颜，他总是如此，哪里能找到这些他就去哪里，所以去找了他的朋友和他的婊子。劳勃想要被爱。我弟弟提利昂也有同样的毛病。你想被爱吗，珊莎？”
　　“每个人都想被爱啊。”
　　“看来初潮也没让你变聪明，”瑟曦道。“珊莎，容我在这个特殊的日子里跟你分享一点做女人的智慧。爱是毒药，虽然甜蜜，但依旧能杀人。”
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