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

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

 刷新数据 楼层直达
寒烟柔。

ZxID：14225420

9879鲜花 0鸡蛋

等级: 内阁元老
配偶: 逐烟霞。
你看着眼前的人，分明还是以前的模样，可心里终究不是以前那般澄清透明了。
举报 只看该作者 40楼  发表于: 2015-08-30 0
  39.EDDARD



   He dreamt an old dream, of three knights in white cloaks, and a tower long fallen, and Lyanna in her bed of blood.
   In the dream his friends rode with him, as they had in life. Proud Martyn Cassel, Jory’s father; faithful Theo Wull; Ethan Glover, who had been Brandon’s squire; Ser Mark Ryswell, soft of speech and gentle of heart; the crannogman, Howland Reed; Lord Dustin on his great red stallion. Ned had known their faces as well as he knew his own once, but the years leech at a man’s memories, even those he has vowed never to forget. In the dream they were only shadows, grey wraiths on horses made of mist.
   They were seven, facing three. In the dream as it had been in life. Yet these were no ordinary three. They waited before the round tower, the red mountains of Dorne at their backs, their white cloaks blowing in the wind. And these were no shadows; their faces burned clear, even now. Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, had a sad smile on his lips. The hilt of the greatsword Dawn poked up over his right shoulder. Ser Oswell Whent was on one knee, sharpening his blade with a whetstone. Across his white-enameled helm, the black bat of his House spread its wings. Between them stood fierce old Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.
   “I looked for you on the Trident,” Ned said to them.
   “We were not there,” Ser Gerold answered.
   “Woe to the Usurper if we had been,” said Ser Oswell.
   “When King’s Landing fell, Ser Jaime slew your king with a golden sword, and I wondered where you were.”
   “Far away,” Ser Gerold said, “or Aerys would yet sit the Iron Throne, and our false brother would burn in seven hells.”
   “I came down on Storm’s End to lift the siege,” Ned told them, “and the Lords Tyrell and Redwyne dipped their banners, and all their knights bent the knee to pledge us fealty. I was certain you would be among them.”
   “Our knees do not bend easily,” said Ser Arthur Dayne.
   “Ser Willem Darry is fled to Dragonstone, with your queen and Prince Viserys. I thought you might have sailed with him.”
   “Ser Willem is a good man and true,” said Ser Oswell.
   “But not of the Kingsguard,” Ser Gerold pointed out. “The Kingsguard does not flee.”
   “Then or now,” said Ser Arthur. He donned his helm.
   “We swore a vow,” explained old Ser Gerold.
   Ned’s wraiths moved up beside him, with shadow swords in hand. They were seven against three.
   “And now it begins,” said Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. He unsheathed Dawn and held it with both hands. The blade was pale as milkglass, alive with light.
   “No,” Ned said with sadness in his voice. “Now it ends.” As they came together in a rush of steel and shadow, he could hear Lyanna screaming. “Eddard!” she called. A storm of rose petals blew across a blood-streaked sky, as blue as the eyes of death.
   “Lord Eddard,” Lyanna called again.
   “I promise,” he whispered. “Lya, I promise?.?.?.?”
   “Lord Eddard,” a man echoed from the dark.
   Groaning, Eddard Stark opened his eyes. Moonlight streamed through the tall windows of the Tower of the Hand.
   “Lord Eddard?” A shadow stood over the bed.
   “How?.?.?.?how long?” The sheets were tangled, his leg splinted and plastered. A dull throb of pain shot up his side.
   “Six days and seven nights.” The voice was Vayon Poole’s. The steward held a cup to Ned’s lips. “Drink, my lord.”
   “What?.?.?.??”
   “Only water. Maester Pycelle said you would be thirsty.”
   Ned drank. His lips were parched and cracked. The water tasted sweet as honey.
   “The king left orders,” Vayon Poole told him when the cup was empty. “He would speak with you, my lord.”
   “On the morrow,” Ned said. “When I am stronger.” He could not face Robert now. The dream had left him weak as a kitten.
   “My lord,” Poole said, “he commanded us to send you to him the moment you opened your eyes.” The steward busied himself lighting a bedside candle.
   Ned cursed softly. Robert was never known for his patience. “Tell him I’m too weak to come to him. If he wishes to speak with me, I should be pleased to receive him here. I hope you wake him from a sound sleep. And summon?.?.?.?” He was about to say Jory when he remembered. “Summon the captain of my guard.”
   Alyn stepped into the bedchamber a few moments after the steward had taken his leave. “My lord.”
   “Poole tells me it has been six days,” Ned said. “I must know how things stand.”
   “The Kingslayer is fled the city,” Alyn told him. “The talk is he’s ridden back to Casterly Rock to join his father. The story of how Lady Catelyn took the Imp is on every lip. I have put on extra guards, if it please you.”
   “It does,” Ned assured him. “My daughters?”
   “They have been with you every day, my lord. Sansa prays quietly, but Arya?.?.?.?” He hesitated. “She has not said a word since they brought you back. She is a fierce little thing, my lord. I have never seen such anger in a girl.”
   “Whatever happens,” Ned said, “I want my daughters kept safe. I fear this is only the beginning.”
   “No harm will come to them, Lord Eddard,” Alyn said. “I stake my life on that.”
   “Jory and the others?.?.?.?”
   “I gave them over to the silent sisters, to be sent north to Winterfell. Jory would want to lie beside his grandfather.”
   It would have to be his grandfather, for Jory’s father was buried far to the south. Martyn Cassel had perished with the rest. Ned had pulled the tower down afterward, and used its bloody stones to build eight cairns upon the ridge. It was said that Rhaegar had named that place the tower of joy, but for Ned it was a bitter memory. They had been seven against three, yet only two had lived to ride away; Eddard Stark himself and the little crannogman, Howland Reed. He did not think it omened well that he should dream that dream again after so many years.
   “You’ve done well, Alyn,” Ned was saying when Vayon Poole returned. The steward bowed low. “His Grace is without, my lord, and the queen with him.”
   Ned pushed himself up higher, wincing as his leg trembled with pain. He had not expected Cersei to come. It did not bode well that she had. “Send them in, and leave us. What we have to say should not go beyond these walls.” Poole withdrew quietly.
   Robert had taken time to dress. He wore a black velvet doublet with the crowned stag of Baratheon worked upon the breast in golden thread, and a golden mantle with a cloak of black and gold squares. A flagon of wine was in his hand, his face already flushed from drink. Cersei Lannister entered behind him, a jeweled tiara in her hair.
   “Your Grace,” Ned said. “Your pardons. I cannot rise.”
   “No matter,” the king said gruffly. “Some wine? From the Arbor. A good vintage.”
   “A small cup,” Ned said. “My head is still heavy from the milk of the poppy.”
   “A man in your place should count himself fortunate that his head is still on his shoulders,” the queen declared.
   “Quiet, woman,” Robert snapped. He brought Ned a cup of wine. “Does the leg still pain you?”
   “Some,” Ned said. His head was swimming, but it would not do to admit to weakness in front of the queen.
   “Pycelle swears it will heal clean.” Robert frowned. “I take it you know what Catelyn has done?”
   “I do.” Ned took a small swallow of wine. “My lady wife is blameless, Your Grace. All she did she did at my command.”
   “I am not pleased, Ned,” Robert grumbled.
   “By what right do you dare lay hands on my blood?” Cersei demanded. “Who do you think you are?”
   “The Hand of the King,” Ned told her with icy courtesy. “Charged by your own lord husband to keep the king’s peace and enforce the king’s justice.”
   “You were the Hand,” Cersei began, “but now...”
   “Silence!” the king roared. “You asked him a question and he answered it.” Cersei subsided, cold with anger, and Robert turned back to Ned. “Keep the king’s peace, you say. Is this how you keep my peace, Ned? Seven men are dead?.?.?.?”
   “Eight,” the queen corrected. “Tregar died this morning, of the blow Lord Stark gave him.”
   “Abductions on the kingsroad and drunken slaughter in my streets,” the king said. “I will not have it, Ned.”
   “Catelyn had good reason for taking the Imp...”
   “I said, I will not have it! To hell with her reasons. You will command her to release the dwarf at once, and you will make your peace with Jaime.”
   “Three of my men were butchered before my eyes, because Jaime Lannister wished to chasten me. Am I to forget that?”
   “My brother was not the cause of this quarrel,” Cersei told the king. “Lord Stark was returning drunk from a brothel. His men attacked Jaime and his guards, even as his wife attacked Tyrion on the kingsroad.”
   “You know me better than that, Robert,” Ned said. “Ask Lord Baelish if you doubt me. He was there.”
   “I’ve talked to Littlefinger,” Robert said. “He claims he rode off to bring the gold cloaks before the fighting began, but he admits you were returning from some whorehouse.”
   “Some whorehouse? Damn your eyes, Robert, I went there to have a look at your daughter! Her mother has named her Barra. She looks like that first girl you fathered, when we were boys together in the Vale.” He watched the queen as he spoke; her face was a mask, still and pale, betraying nothing.
   Robert flushed. “Barra,” he grumbled. “Is that supposed to please me? Damn the girl. I thought she had more sense.”
   “She cannot be more than fifteen, and a whore, and you thought she had sense?” Ned said, incredulous. His leg was beginning to pain him sorely. It was hard to keep his temper. “The fool child is in love with you, Robert.”
   The king glanced at Cersei. “This is no fit subject for the queen’s ears.”
   “Her Grace will have no liking for anything I have to say,” Ned replied. “I am told the Kingslayer has fled the city. Give me leave to bring him back to justice.”
   The king swirled the wine in his cup, brooding. He took a swallow. “No,” he said. “I want no more of this. Jaime slew three of your men, and you five of his. Now it ends.”
   “Is that your notion of justice?” Ned flared. “If so, I am pleased that I am no longer your Hand.”
   The queen looked to her husband. “If any man had dared speak to a Targaryen as he has spoken to you...”
   “Do you take me for Aerys?” Robert interrupted.
   “I took you for a king. Jaime and Tyrion are your own brothers, by all the laws of marriage and the bonds we share. The Starks have driven off the one and seized the other. This man dishonors you with every breath he takes, and yet you stand there meekly, asking if his leg pains him and would he like some wine.”
   Robert’s face was dark with anger. “How many times must I tell you to hold your tongue, woman?”
   Cersei’s face was a study in contempt. “What a jape the gods have made of us two,” she said. “By all rights, you ought to be in skirts and me in mail.”
   Purple with rage, the king lashed out, a vicious backhand blow to the side of the head. She stumbled against the table and fell hard, yet Cersei Lannister did not cry out. Her slender fingers brushed her cheek, where the pale smooth skin was already reddening. On the morrow the bruise would cover half her face. “I shall wear this as a badge of honor,” she announced.
   “Wear it in silence, or I’ll honor you again,” Robert vowed. He shouted for a guard. Ser Meryn Trant stepped into the room, tall and somber in his white armor. “The queen is tired. See her to her bedchamber.” The knight helped Cersei to her feet and led her out without a word.
   Robert reached for the flagon and refilled his cup. “You see what she does to me, Ned.” The king seated himself, cradling his wine cup. “My loving wife. The mother of my children.” The rage was gone from him now; in his eyes Ned saw something sad and scared. “I should not have hit her. That was not?.?.?.?that was not kingly.” He stared down at his hands, as if he did not quite know what they were. “I was always strong?.?.?.?no one could stand before me, no one. How do you fight someone if you can’t hit them?” Confused, the king shook his head. “Rhaegar?.?.?.?Rhaegar won, damn him. I killed him, Ned, I drove the spike right through that black armor into his black heart, and he died at my feet. They made up songs about it. Yet somehow he still won. He has Lyanna now, and I have her.” The king drained his cup.
   “Your Grace,” Ned Stark said, “we must talk?.?.?.?”
   Robert pressed his fingertips against his temples. “I am sick unto death of talk. On the morrow I’m going to the kingswood to hunt. Whatever you have to say can wait until I return.”
   “If the gods are good, I shall not be here on your return. You commanded me to return to Winterfell, remember?”
   Robert stood up, grasping one of the bedposts to steady himself. “The gods are seldom good, Ned. Here, this is yours.” He pulled the heavy silver hand clasp from a pocket in the lining of his cloak and tossed it on the bed. “Like it or not, you are my Hand, damn you. I forbid you to leave.”
   Ned picked up the silver clasp. He was being given no choice, it seemed. His leg throbbed, and he felt as helpless as a child. “The Targaryen girl...”
   The king groaned. “Seven hells, don’t start with her again. That’s done, I’ll hear no more of it.”
   “Why would you want me as your Hand, if you refuse to listen to my counsel?”
   “Why?” Robert laughed. “Why not? Someone has to rule this damnable kingdom. Put on the badge, Ned. It suits you. And if you ever throw it in my face again, I swear to you, I’ll pin the damned thing on Jaime Lannister.”




Ⅰ 权力的游戏 Chapter40 艾德
　　他再度梦见那三位雪白披风的骑士，那座倾塌已久的塔楼，以及躺卧血床的莱安娜。
　　在梦中他与从前的战友并肩而行：骄傲的马丁·凯索、乔里的父亲，忠心耿耿的席奥·渥尔本为布兰登侍从的伊森·葛洛佛，还有轻声细语、心地善良的马克·莱斯威尔爵士，泽地人霍兰·黎德，以及骑着红色骏马的达斯丁伯爵。他们的面容，对奈德来说，曾如自己的脸庞一般熟悉，但岁月仿如水蛭，渐渐吸走了人们的记忆，即使是他一度发誓绝不忘记的部分也不例外。在梦里他们只剩幻影，宛如灰色的幽灵，骑在浓雾聚成的马上。
　　他们一行七人，对方则是三个。梦中如此，当年亦然。但这三人绝非平庸之辈。他们静待于圆形的高塔前，身后是多恩的赤红峰峦，肩上的雪白披风在风中飘荡。而这三人并非幻影，他们的面容深深烙印，至今依旧清晰。“拂晓神剑”亚瑟·戴恩爵士嘴角挂着一抹哀伤的微笑，巨剑“黎明”斜出右肩。奥斯威尔·河安爵士单膝跪地，正拿着磨刀石霍霍磨剑。他那顶白色瓷釉的头盔上，有着象征家徽的展翅黑蝙蝠。站在两人之间的是年迈的御林铁卫队长杰洛·海塔尔爵士，外号“白牛”。
　　“我在三叉戟河上没见到你们。”奈德对他们说。
　　“我们不在那里。”杰洛爵士回答。
　　“我们在的话，篡夺者就要倒霉了。”奥斯威尔爵士道。
　　“君临城陷之时，詹姆爵士用他的黄金宝剑杀了你们的国王，你们也没出现。”
　　“我们身在远方。”杰洛爵士道，“否则伊里斯还会好端端地坐在铁王座上，而我们虚伪的弟兄则会下七层地狱。”
　　“我解了风息堡之围，”奈德告诉他们，“提利尔和雷德温大人俯首称臣，他们麾下的骑士也都下跪效忠。我本以为你们一定会在其中。”
　　“我们不轻易下跪。”亚瑟·戴恩爵士道。
　　“威廉·戴瑞爵士带着你们的王后和韦赛里斯王子，往龙石岛逃去。我猜想你们可能也在船上。”
　　“威廉爵士忠勇可嘉。”奥斯威尔爵士说。
　　“但他并非御林铁卫，”杰洛爵士指出，“御林铁卫绝不临危脱逃。”
　　“过去如此，现在亦然。”亚瑟爵士说着戴上头盔。
　　“我们发过誓。”老杰洛爵士解释。
　　奈德的幽灵们与他并肩上前，手握影子宝剑。以七对三。
　　“一切就从这里开始吧。”拂晓神剑亚瑟·戴恩爵士道。他抽出黎明，双手高举，剑身苍白好似乳白琉璃，在光线照耀下宛如蕴涵生命。
　　“不对，”奈德哀伤地说，“一切将在这里结束。”当钢铁与幻影冲杀成一团，他听见了莱安娜的尖叫。“艾德！”她喊。一阵玫瑰花瓣的暴风，吹过染血长天，天空蓝得像死亡之眼。
　　“艾德大人。”莱安娜又叫。
　　“我保证，”他轻声说，“莱安，我保证……”
　　“艾德大人。”有人从暗处也说了这句话。
　　艾德·史塔克呻吟着睁开眼睛。月光从首相塔的高窗透进来。
　　“艾德大人？”床边站了个影子。
　　“多……多久了？”床单乱成一团，他的腿用夹板固定，打上了石膏，隐隐抽痛。
　　“六天七夜。”那是维扬·普尔的声音。总管拿起杯子送到奈德唇边。“老爷，喝吧。”
　　“这是……？”
　　“只是开水而已。派席尔大学士说您醒来会渴。”
　　于是奈德喝了。他的嘴唇干裂，开水如同蜂蜜般甜美。
　　“国王陛下有令，”杯子见底后，维扬·普尔告诉他。“老爷，他要跟您谈谈。”
　　“明天再说，”奈德道，“等我体力好点再说。”这会儿他无法面对劳勃。刚才那个梦吸走了他仅存的力量，让他软弱得像只小猫。
　　“老爷，”普尔说，“陛下他要我们等您一睁眼，就带您去见他。”总管点起床边的蜡烛。
　　奈德轻声咒骂。劳勃向来很没耐性。“跟他说我还太虚弱，没办法过去。如果他坚持要跟我谈谈，我很愿意在床上接待他。我希望你别把他从美梦中吵醒。顺便……”他正要说“乔里”，却想了起来。“把我的侍卫队长找来。”
　　总管离开后没几分钟，埃林走进他的卧房。“大人。”
　　“普尔说我睡了六天。”奈德道，“我要知道现在局势如何。”
　　“弑君者跑了。”埃林告诉他，“传说是逃回凯岩城和他父亲会合。凯特琳夫人逮捕小恶魔的事，已经传遍大街小巷，所以我加派了守卫，希望您不介意。”
　　“你做得很好。”奈德赞许道。“我的女儿们呢？”
　　“大人，她们每天都陪着您。珊莎静静地为您祷告，可艾莉亚……”他迟疑了一下。“自他们把您带回来后，她就没说过半个字。大人，她性子很烈，我从没见哪个小女孩这么生气过。”
　　“无论如何，”奈德道，“我希望我女儿们平安无事。恐怕麻烦才刚开始。”
　　“艾德大人，她们不会有事的。”埃林道，“我拿性命担保。”
　　“乔里他们……”
　　“我把他们交给了静默修女会的姐妹，准备送回临冬城去。应该让乔里葬在他祖父身边。”
　　他只能与祖父葬在一块，因为乔里的父亲葬在遥远的南方。马丁·凯索和其他人一样命丧南疆，战后奈德拆掉高塔，用其血色石砖在山脊上筑起八座石冢。据说雷加将它命名为极乐塔，但对奈德而言，那里却充满了痛苦的回忆。他们以七对三，却只有艾德·史塔克他自己，和小个子的泽地人霍兰·黎德两人生还。多年以来，这个梦反复出现，实在不是什么好兆头。
　　“埃林，你做得很好。”奈德正说着，维扬·普尔又回来了。总管深深一鞠躬，“老爷，国王陛下在外面，王后也跟他一起。”
　　奈德撑着坐起，断腿痛得他咬紧牙关。他没想到瑟曦会来，这也不是好兆头。“请他们进来，然后你们下去罢。我们的谈话内容不能外传。”普尔静静地离开。
　　劳勃还花了点心思打扮。他穿着黑天鹅绒上衣，胸前用金线绣着拜拉席恩家族的宝冠雄鹿，外罩黑金格子披风。他手里拿了瓶葡萄酒，喝得满脸通红。瑟曦·兰尼斯特跟在他身后，头上带着珠宝王冠。
　　“陛下，”奈德道，“请您原谅，恕我无法起身。”
　　“没关系。”国王粗声道，“要不要喝两口？青亭岛的好东西。”
　　“一小杯就好，”奈德说，“我喝了罂粟花奶，头还昏昏沉沉的。”
　　“还保得住脑袋，已经算你走运。”王后表示。
　　“臭女人，给我安静点。”国王斥道。他端给奈德一杯酒。“脚还痛吗？”
　　“还有一点。”奈德说。他虽然头晕目眩，却不愿在王后面前自承虚弱。
　　“派席尔保证痊愈以后不会留下疤痕，”劳勃皱眉道，“我想你知道凯特琳干了什么好事吧？”
　　“我知道。”奈德啜了一小口酒。“我夫人没有错，陛下。都是我的意思。”
　　“奈德，我很不高兴。”劳勃咕哝道。
　　“你凭什么对我家人下手？”瑟曦质问，“你以为你什么东西？”
　　“我是御前首相。”奈德有礼但冰冷地回敬，“奉了你丈夫的指令，以国王之名维护和平和公理正义。”
　　“你曾经是首相，”瑟曦不依不饶，“如今——”
　　“安静！”国王咆哮道，“你问他问题，他也回答了你。”瑟曦冷冷地退开，满脸怒容。劳勃又转向奈德。“奈德，你说以国王之名维护和平，请问这就是你维护和平的方式么？总共死了七个人……”
　　“八个，”王后纠正他，“崔格今早上死了，死于史塔克大人那一剑。”
　　“先是在国王大道上公然绑架，然后又在城里面喝酒杀人，”国王道，“奈德，我不会容许这种事的。”
　　“凯特琳有充分的理由去抓小恶魔——”
　　“我说我不容许这种事发生！管她什么理由。我要你命令她立刻释放侏儒，然后跟詹姆和好。”
　　“詹姆只因为想‘教训我’，就当着我的面屠杀了我三个部下，而你却叫我当这事没发生过？”
　　“这场争端可不是我弟弟挑起的，”瑟曦告诉国王，“当时史塔克大人喝醉了酒，刚从妓院里出来。他手下的人攻击詹姆和他的卫士，就像他太太在国王大道上攻击提利昂一样。”
　　“劳勃，事实是否如此你很清楚。”奈德道，“你可以问问贝里席大人，当时他在现场。”
　　“我跟小指头谈过了，”劳勃道，“他说他急忙去找都城守卫队时，你们还没开打，不过他承认你当时的确是从某家妓院回来。”
　　“某家妓院？劳勃，你是瞎了眼不成？我到那儿是去看你女儿！她妈给她取了个名字叫芭拉，长得很像我们住在峡谷、都还是小男孩时你那个女儿，你的第一个女儿。”他边说边看王后，可她像是戴着面具，苍白而冷静，不露出任何情绪。
　　劳勃红了脸。“芭拉，”他喃喃说，“想哄我高兴吗？这小女子真该死，怎么一点常识都没有。”
　　“她连十五岁都不到，就得出卖肉体，你还期望她有常识？”奈德难以置信地说。他的腿痛得厉害，使他按捺不住怒气。“劳勃，那傻孩子疯狂地爱着你，你知道吗？”
　　国王瞄了瑟曦一眼。“这些事给王后听见不好。”
　　“只怕不管我说什么，王后陛下都不会爱听。”奈德答道，“我听说弑君者逃出城去了。请你允许我把他抓回来接受法律制裁。”
　　国王晃着杯中酒，沉思半晌，最后灌了一大口。“不行，”他说，“这样下去没完没了。詹姆杀了你三个人，你也杀了他五个，算扯平了。”
　　“这就是你所谓的正义吗？”奈德怒道，“如果是的话，那我真庆幸没继续当你的首相。”
　　王后看看她丈夫。“以前要是有人敢用这种口气对坦格利安家的人说话——”
　　“你当我是伊里斯吗？”劳勃打断她的话。
　　“我当你是一国之君。论法律论姻亲，詹姆和提利昂都算是你兄弟，如今史塔克家的人赶走一个又抓了另一个，而这个人说的每一句话都在羞辱你，你却只会乖乖站在旁边，一会儿问他腿痛不痛，一会儿问他要不要喝酒。”
　　劳勃脸色阴沉，满面怒容。“臭女人，你要我说几次才会闭嘴？”
　　瑟曦的神情轻蔑得无以复加。“天上诸神还真开了我俩一个大玩笑，”她说，“你应该穿裙子当女人，像个男人披挂上阵的该是我。”
　　国王气得脸色发紫，伸手就是狠狠一拳，把她打得踉跄着撞上桌子，重重跌倒在地。瑟曦·兰尼斯特没吭半声，她伸出纤细的手指抚着脸，面颊光滑的雪白肌肤已经开始泛红，等到明天，半边脸就会肿起来。“我会把这当成荣誉的奖章。”她宣示。
　　“那就给我安静地戴好，否则我让你更光荣。”劳勃保证。他大喊来人，穿着白色铠甲，高大阴沉的马林·特兰爵士走进屋内。“王后累了。送她回房。”骑士扶起瑟曦，一言不发地领她出去了。
　　劳勃又拿起酒瓶，为自己斟满。“奈德，你也看到她是如何待我的了。”国王坐下来，抚着酒杯。“这就是我亲爱的妻子，我孩子的母亲。”他怒气已消，此刻奈德在他眼里所见只有哀伤和恐惧。“我不该打她的。这实在不是……实在不是国王该有的举动。”他低头盯着自己的手，仿佛不太明白那是什么东西。“我的力气向来很大……没人能打赢我，没有人。可万一你碰不到他，这场架又该怎么打？”国王困惑地摇摇头。“雷加……雷加他赢了，挨千刀的。奈德，我杀了他，我的战锤狠狠凿穿他那件黑铠甲，刺进他那颗黑心，教他当场死在我脚下。后人为这件事称颂不已。可他还是赢了。如今他拥有莱安娜，而我得到的却是她。”国王一饮而尽。
　　“陛下，”奈德·史塔克道，“我有事要跟您谈……”
　　劳勃伸出手指按住太阳穴。“我已经谈到反胃了。明天我要去御林打猎，你等我回来再说罢。”
　　“若是诸神眷顾，等您回来我就不在了。您命令我返回临冬城，记得吗？”
　　劳勃站起来，握着床柱稳住身子。“奈德，诸神很少眷顾世人的。拿去罢，这是你的东西。”他从斗篷内袋里拿出沉重的手形银徽章，丢在床上。“管你喜不喜欢，总之你他妈是我的首相。我不准你走。”
　　奈德拾起银胸针。看来他别无选择。他脚伤抽痛，觉得自己无助得像个孩子。“坦格利安家那女孩——”
　　国王一声呻吟，“七层地狱啊，你还提她干嘛？那件事算完了，我不想再谈。”
　　“若你不愿听我忠告，还要我这个首相做什么？”
　　“做什么？”劳勃大笑，“这烂国家总得有人管。奈德，把徽章戴起来。我跟你发誓，你要是敢再丢还给我，我就亲自把这烂东西配在詹姆·兰尼斯特身上。”

[ 此帖被挽墨在2015-08-30 15:52重新编辑 ]
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  40.CATELYN

   The eastern sky was rose and gold as the sun broke over the Vale of Arryn. Catelyn Stark watched the light spread, her hands resting on the delicate carved stone of the balustrade outside her window. Below her the world turned from black to indigo to green as dawn crept across fields and forests. Pale white mists rose off Alyssa’s Tears, where the ghost waters plunged over the shoulder of the mountain to begin their long tumble down the face of the Giant’s Lance. Catelyn could feel the faint touch of spray on her face.
   Alyssa Arryn had seen her husband, her brothers, and all her children slain, and yet in life she had never shed a tear. So in death, the gods had decreed that she would know no rest until her weeping watered the black earth of the Vale, where the men she had loved were buried. Alyssa had been dead six thousand years now, and still no drop of the torrent had ever reached the valley floor far below. Catelyn wondered how large a waterfall her own tears would make when she died. “Tell me the rest of it,” she said.
   “The Kingslayer is massing a host at Casterly Rock,” Ser Rodrik Cassel answered from the room behind her. “Your brother writes that he has sent riders to the Rock, demanding that Lord Tywin proclaim his intent, but he has had no answer. Edmure has commanded Lord Vance and Lord Piper to guard the pass below the Golden Tooth. He vows to you that he will yield no foot of Tully land without first watering it with Lannister blood.”
   Catelyn turned away from the sunrise. Its beauty did little to lighten her mood; it seemed cruel for a day to dawn so fair and end so foul as this one promised to. “Edmure has sent riders and made vows,” she said, “but Edmure is not the Lord of Riverrun. What of my lord father?”
   “The message made no mention of Lord Hoster, my lady.” Ser Rodrik tugged at his whiskers. They had grown in white as snow and bristly as a thornbush while he was recovering from his wounds; he looked almost himself again.
   “My father would not have given the defense of Riverrun over to Edmure unless he was very sick,” she said, worried. “I should have been woken as soon as this bird arrived.”
   “Your lady sister thought it better to let you sleep, Maester Colemon told me.”
   “I should have been woken,” she insisted.
   “The maester tells me your sister planned to speak with you after the combat,” Ser Rodrik said.
   “Then she still plans to go through with this mummer’s farce?” Catelyn grimaced. “The dwarf has played her like a set of pipes, and she is too deaf to hear the tune. Whatever happens this morning, Ser Rodrik, it is past time we took our leave. My place is at Winterfell with my sons. If you are strong enough to travel, I shall ask Lysa for an escort to see us to Gulltown. We can take ship from there.”
   “Another ship?” Ser Rodrik looked a shade green, yet he managed not to shudder. “As you say, my lady.”
   The old knight waited outside her door as Catelyn summoned the servants Lysa had given her. If she spoke to her sister before the duel, perhaps she could change her mind, she thought as they dressed her. Lysa’s policies varied with her moods, and her moods changed hourly. The shy girl she had known at Riverrun had grown into a woman who was by turns proud, fearful, cruel, dreamy, reckless, timid, stubborn, vain, and, above all, inconstant.
   When that vile turnkey of hers had come crawling to tell them that Tyrion Lannister wished to confess, Catelyn had urged Lysa to have the dwarf brought to them privately, but no, nothing would do but that her sister must make a show of him before half the Vale. And now this?.?.?.?
   “Lannister is my prisoner,” she told Ser Rodrik as they descended the tower stairs and made their way through the Eyrie’s cold white halls. Catelyn wore plain grey wool with a silvered belt. “My sister must be reminded of that.”
   At the doors to Lysa’s apartments, they met her uncle storming out. “Going to join the fool’s festival?” Ser Brynden snapped. “I’d tell you to slap some sense into your sister, if I thought it would do any good, but you’d only bruise your hand.”
   “There was a bird from Riverrun,” Catelyn began, “a letter from Edmure?.?.?.?”
   “I know, child.” The black fish that fastened his cloak was Brynden’s only concession to ornament. “I had to hear it from Maester Colemon. I asked your sister for leave to take a thousand seasoned men and ride for Riverrun with all haste. Do you know what she told me? The Vale cannot spare a thousand swords, nor even one, Uncle, she said. You are the Knight of the Gate. Your place is here.” A gust of childish laughter drifted through the open doors behind him, and her uncle glanced darkly over his shoulder. “Well, I told her she could bloody well find herself a new Knight of the Gate. Black fish or no, I am still a Tully. I shall leave for Riverrun by evenfall.”
   Catelyn could not pretend to surprise. “Alone? You know as well as I that you will never survive the high road. Ser Rodrik and I are returning to Winterfell. Come with us, Uncle. I will give you your thousand men. Riverrun will not fight alone.”
   Brynden thought a moment, then nodded a brusque agreement. “As you say. It’s the long way home, but I’m more like to get there. I’ll wait for you below.” He went striding off, his cloak swirling behind him.
   Catelyn exchanged a look with Ser Rodrik. They went through the doors to the high, nervous sound of a child’s giggles.
   Lysa’s apartments opened over a small garden, a circle of dirt and grass planted with blue flowers and ringed on all sides by tall white towers. The builders had intended it as a godswood, but the Eyrie rested on the hard stone of the mountain, and no matter how much soil was hauled up from the Vale, they could not get a weirwood to take root here. So the Lords of the Eyrie planted grass and scattered statuary amidst low, flowering shrubs. It was there the two champions would meet to place their lives, and that of Tyrion Lannister, into the hands of the gods.
   Lysa, freshly scrubbed and garbed in cream velvet with a rope of sapphires and moonstones around her milk-white neck, was holding court on the terrace overlooking the scene of the combat, surrounded by her knights, retainers, and lords high and low. Most of them still hoped to wed her, bed her, and rule the Vale of Arryn by her side. From what Catelyn had seen during her stay at the Eyrie, it was a vain hope.
   A wooden platform had been built to elevate Robert’s chair; there the Lord of the Eyrie sat, giggling and clapping his hands as a humpbacked puppeteer in blue-and-white motley made two wooden knights hack and slash at each other. Pitchers of thick cream and baskets of blackberries had been set out, and the guests were sipping a sweet orange-scented wine from engraved silver cups. A fool’s festival, Brynden had called it, and small wonder.
   Across the terrace, Lysa laughed gaily at some jest of Lord Hunter’s, and nibbled a blackberry from the point of Ser Lyn Corbray’s dagger. They were the suitors who stood highest in Lysa’s favor?.?.?.?today, at least. Catelyn would have been hard-pressed to say which man was more unsuitable. Eon Hunter was even older than Jon Arryn had been, half-crippled by gout, and cursed with three quarrelsome sons, each more grasping than the last. Ser Lyn was a different sort of folly; lean and handsome, heir to an ancient but impoverished house, but vain, reckless, hot-tempered?.?.?.?and, it was whispered, notoriously uninterested in the intimate charms of women.
   When Lysa espied Catelyn, she welcomed her with a sisterly embrace and a moist kiss on the cheek. “Isn’t it a lovely morning? The gods are smiling on us. Do try a cup of the wine, sweet sister. Lord Hunter was kind enough to send for it, from his own cellars.”
   “Thank you, no. Lysa, we must talk.”
   “After,” her sister promised, already beginning to turn away from her.
   “Now.” Catelyn spoke more loudly than she’d intended. Men were turning to look. “Lysa, you cannot mean to go ahead with this folly. Alive, the Imp has value. Dead, he is only food for crows. And if his champion should prevail here...”
   “Small chance of that, my lady,” Lord Hunter assured her, patting her shoulder with a liver-spotted hand. “Ser Vardis is a doughty fighter. He will make short work of the sellsword.”
   “Will he, my lord?” Catelyn said coolly. “I wonder.” She had seen Bronn fight on the high road; it was no accident that he had survived the journey while other men had died. He moved like a panther, and that ugly sword of his seemed a part of his arm.
   Lysa’s suitors were gathering around them like bees round a blossom. “Women understand little of these things,” Ser Morton Waynwood said. “Ser Vardis is a knight, sweet lady. This other fellow, well, his sort are all cowards at heart. Useful enough in a battle, with thousands of their fellows around them, but stand them up alone and the manhood leaks right out of them.”
   “Say you have the truth of it, then,” Catelyn said with a courtesy that made her mouth ache. “What will we gain by the dwarf’s death? Do you imagine that Jaime will care a fig that we gave his brother a trial before we flung him off a mountain?”
   “Behead the man,” Ser Lyn Corbray suggested. “When the Kingslayer receives the Imp’s head, it will be a warning to him,”
   Lysa gave an impatient shake of her waist-long auburn hair. “Lord Robert wants to see him fly,” she said, as if that settled the matter. “And the Imp has only himself to blame. It was he who demanded a trial by combat.”
   “Lady Lysa had no honorable way to deny him, even if she’d wished to,” Lord Hunter intoned ponderously.
   Ignoring them all, Catelyn turned all her force on her sister. “I remind you, Tyrion Lannister is my prisoner.”
   “And I remind you, the dwarf murdered my lord husband!” Her voice rose. “He poisoned the Hand of the King and left my sweet baby fatherless, and now I mean to see him pay!” Whirling, her skirts swinging around her, Lysa stalked across the terrace. Ser Lyn and Ser Morton and the other suitors excused themselves with cool nods and trailed after her.
   “Do you think he did?” Ser Rodrik asked her quietly when they were alone again. “Murder Lord Jon, that is? The Imp still denies it, and most fiercely?.?.?.?”
   “I believe the Lannisters murdered Lord Arryn,” Catelyn replied, “but whether it was Tyrion, or Ser Jaime, or the queen, or all of them together, I could not begin to say.” Lysa had named Cersei in the letter she had sent to Winterfell, but now she seemed certain that Tyrion was the killer?.?.?.?perhaps because the dwarf was here, while the queen was safe behind the walls of the Red Keep, hundreds of leagues to the south. Catelyn almost wished she had burned her sister’s letter before reading it.
   Ser Rodrik tugged at his whiskers. “Poison, well?.?.?.?that could be the dwarf’s work, true enough. Or Cersei’s. It’s said poison is a woman’s weapon, begging your pardons, my lady. The Kingslayer, now?.?.?.?I have no great liking for the man, but he’s not the sort. Too fond of the sight of blood on that golden sword of his. Was it poison, my lady?”
   Catelyn frowned, vaguely uneasy. “How else could they make it look a natural death?” Behind her, Lord Robert shrieked with delight as one of the puppet knights sliced the other in half, spilling a flood of red sawdust onto the terrace. She glanced at her nephew and sighed. “The boy is utterly without discipline. He will never be strong enough to rule unless he is taken away from his mother for a time.”
   “His lord father agreed with you,” said a voice at her elbow. She turned to behold Maester Colemon, a cup of wine in his hand. “He was planning to send the boy to Dragonstone for fostering, you know?.?.?.?oh, but I’m speaking out of turn.” The apple of his throat bobbed anxiously beneath the loose maester’s chain. “I fear I’ve had too much of Lord Hunter’s excellent wine. The prospect of bloodshed has my nerves all a-fray?.?.?.?”
   “You are mistaken, Maester,” Catelyn said. “It was Casterly Rock, not Dragonstone, and those arrangements were made after the Hand’s death, without my sister’s consent.”
   The maester’s head jerked so vigorously at the end of his absurdly long neck that he looked half a puppet himself. “No, begging your forgiveness, my lady, but it was Lord Jon who...”
   A bell tolled loudly below them. High lords and serving girls alike broke off what they were doing and moved to the balustrade. Below, two guardsmen in sky-blue cloaks led forth Tyrion Lannister. The Eyrie’s plump septon escorted him to the statue in the center of the garden, a weeping woman carved in veined white marble, no doubt meant to be Alyssa.
   “The bad little man,” Lord Robert said, giggling. “Mother, can I make him fly? I want to see him fly.”
   “Later, my sweet baby,” Lysa promised him.
   “Trial first,” drawled Ser Lyn Corbray, “then execution.”
   A moment later the two champions appeared from opposite sides of the garden. The knight was attended by two young squires, the sellsword by the Eyrie’s master-at-arms.
   Ser Vardis Egen was steel from head to heel, encased in heavy plate armor over mail and padded surcoat. Large circular rondels, enameled cream-and-blue in the moon-and-falcon sigil of House Arryn, protected the vulnerable juncture of arm and breast. A skirt of lobstered metal covered him from waist to midthigh, while a solid gorget encircled his throat. Falcon’s wings sprouted from the temples of his helm, and his visor was a pointed metal beak with a narrow slit for vision.
   Bronn was so lightly armored he looked almost naked beside the knight. He wore only a shirt of black oiled ringmail over boiled leather, a round steel halfhelm with a noseguard, and a mail coif. High leather boots with steel shinguards gave some protection to his legs, and discs of black iron were sewn into the fingers of his gloves. Yet Catelyn noted that the sellsword stood half a hand taller than his foe, with a longer reach?.?.?.?and Bronn was fifteen years younger, if she was any judge.
   They knelt in the grass beneath the weeping woman, facing each other, with Lannister between them. The septon removed a faceted crystal sphere from the soft cloth bag at his waist. He lifted it high above his head, and the light shattered. Rainbows danced across the Imp’s face. In a high, solemn, singsong voice, the septon asked the gods to look down and bear witness, to find the truth in this man’s soul, to grant him life and freedom if he was innocent, death if he was guilty. His voice echoed off the surrounding towers.
   When the last echo had died away, the septon lowered his crystal and made a hasty departure. Tyrion leaned over and whispered something in Bronn’s ear before the guardsmen led him away. The sellsword rose laughing and brushed a blade of grass from his knee.
   Robert Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie and Defender of the Vale, was fidgeting impatiently in his elevated chair. “When are they going to fight?” he asked plaintively.
   Ser Vardis was helped back to his feet by one of his squires. The other brought him a triangular shield almost four feet tall, heavy oak dotted with iron studs. They strapped it to his left forearm. When Lysa’s master-at-arms offered Bronn a similar shield, the sellsword spat and waved it away. Three days growth of coarse black beard covered his jaw and cheeks, but if he did not shave it was not for want of a razor; the edge of his sword had the dangerous glimmer of steel that had been honed every day for hours, until it was too sharp to touch.
   Ser Vardis held out a gauntleted hand, and his squire placed a handsome double-edged longsword in his grasp. The blade was engraved with a delicate silver tracery of a mountain sky; its pommel was a falcon’s head, its crossguard fashioned into the shape of wings. “I had that sword crafted for Jon in King’s Landing,” Lysa told her guests proudly as they watched Ser Vardis try a practice cut. “He wore it whenever he sat the Iron Throne in King Robert’s place. Isn’t it a lovely thing? I thought it only fitting that our champion avenge Jon with his own blade.”
   The engraved silver blade was beautiful beyond a doubt, but it seemed to Catelyn that Ser Vardis might have been more comfortable with his own sword. Yet she said nothing; she was weary of futile arguments with her sister.
   “Make them fight!” Lord Robert called out.
   Ser Vardis faced the Lord of the Eyrie and lifted his sword in salute. “For the Eyrie and the Vale!”
   Tyrion Lannister had been seated on a balcony across the garden, flanked by his guards. It was to him that Bronn turned with a cursory salute.
   “They await your command,” Lady Lysa said to her lord son.
   “Fight!” the boy screamed, his arms trembling as they clutched at his chair.
   Ser Vardis swiveled, bringing up his heavy shield. Bronn turned to face him. Their swords rang together, once, twice, a testing. The sellsword backed off a step. The knight came after, holding his shield before him. He tried a slash, but Bronn jerked back, just out of reach, and the silver blade cut only air. Bronn circled to his right. Ser Vardis turned to follow, keeping his shield between them. The knight pressed forward, placing each foot carefully on the uneven ground. The sellsword gave way, a faint smile playing over his lips. Ser Vardis attacked, slashing, but Bronn leapt away from him, hopping lightly over a low, moss-covered stone. Now the sellsword circled left, away from the shield, toward the knight’s unprotected side. Ser Vardis tried a hack at his legs, but he did not have the reach. Bronn danced farther to his left. Ser Vardis turned in place.
   “The man is craven,” Lord Hunter declared. “Stand and fight, coward! “ Other voices echoed the sentiment.
   Catelyn looked to Ser Rodrik. Her master-at-arms gave a curt shake of his head. “He wants to make Ser Vardis chase him. The weight of armor and shield will tire even the strongest man.”
   She had seen men practice at their swordplay near every day of her life, had viewed half a hundred tourneys in her time, but this was something different and deadlier: a dance where the smallest misstep meant death. And as she watched, the memory of another duel in another time came back to Catelyn Stark, as vivid as if it had been yesterday.
   They met in the lower bailey of Riverrun. When Brandon saw that Petyr wore only helm and breastplate and mail, he took off most of his armor. Petyr had begged her for a favor he might wear, but she had turned him away. Her lord father promised her to Brandon Stark, and so it was to him that she gave her token, a pale blue handscarf she had embroidered with the leaping trout of Riverrun. As she pressed it into his hand, she pleaded with him. “He is only a foolish boy, but I have loved him like a brother. It would grieve me to see him die.” And her betrothed looked at her with the cool grey eyes of a Stark and promised to spare the boy who loved her.
   That fight was over almost as soon as it began. Brandon was a man grown, and he drove Littlefinger all the way across the bailey and down the water stair, raining steel on him with every step, until the boy was staggering and bleeding from a dozen wounds. “Yield!” he called, more than once, but Petyr would only shake his head and fight on, grimly. When the river was lapping at their ankles, Brandon finally ended it, with a brutal backhand cut that bit through Petyr’s rings and leather into the soft flesh below the ribs, so deep that Catelyn was certain that the wound was mortal. He looked at her as he fell and murmured “Cat” as the bright blood came flowing out between his mailed fingers. She thought she had forgotten that.
   That was the last time she had seen his face?.?.?.?until the day she was brought before him in King’s Landing.
   A fortnight passed before Littlefinger was strong enough to leave Riverrun, but her lord father forbade her to visit him in the tower where he lay abed. Lysa helped their maester nurse him; she had been softer and shyer in those days. Edmure had called on him as well, but Petyr had sent him away. Her brother had acted as Brandon’s squire at the duel, and Littlefinger would not forgive that. As soon as he was strong enough to be moved, Lord Hoster Tully sent Petyr Baelish away in a closed litter, to finish his healing on the Fingers, upon the windswept jut of rock where he’d been born.
   The ringing clash of steel on steel jarred Catelyn back to the present. Ser Vardis was coming hard at Bronn, driving into him with shield and sword. The sellsword scrambled backward, checking each blow, stepping lithely over rock and root, his eyes never leaving his foe. He was quicker, Catelyn saw; the knight’s silvered sword never came near to touching him, but his own ugly grey blade hacked a notch from Ser Vardis’s shoulder plate.
   The brief flurry of fighting ended as swiftly as it had begun when Bronn sidestepped and slid behind the statue of the weeping woman. Ser Vardis lunged at where he had been, striking a spark off the pale marble of Alyssa’s thigh.
   “They’re not fighting good, Mother,” the Lord of the Eyrie complained. “I want them to fight.”
   “They will, sweet baby,” his mother soothed him. “The sellsword can’t run all day.”
   Some of the lords on Lysa’s terrace were making wry jests as they refilled their wine cups, but across the garden, Tyrion Lannister’s mismatched eyes watched the champions dance as if there were nothing else in the world.
   Bronn came out from behind the statue hard and fast, still moving left, aiming a two-handed cut at the knight’s unshielded right side. Ser Vardis blocked, but clumsily, and the sellsword’s blade flashed upward at his head. Metal rang, and a falcon’s wing collapsed with a crunch. Ser Vardis took a half step back to brace himself, raised his shield. Oak chips flew as Bronn’s sword hacked at the wooden wall. The sellsword stepped left again, away from the shield, and caught Ser Vardis across the stomach, the razor edge of his blade leaving a bright gash when it bit into the knight’s plate.
   Ser Vardis drove forward off his back foot, his own silver blade descending in a savage arc. Bronn slammed it aside and danced away. The knight crashed into the weeping woman, rocking her on her plinth. Staggered, he stepped backward, his head turning this way and that as he searched for his foe. The slit visor of his helm narrowed his vision.
   “Behind you, ser!” Lord Hunter shouted, too late. Bronn brought his sword down with both hands, catching Ser Vardis in the elbow of his sword arm. The thin lobstered metal that protected the joint crunched. The knight grunted, turning, wrenching his weapon up. This time Bronn stood his ground. The swords flew at each other, and their steel song filled the garden and rang off the white towers of the Eyrie.
   “Ser Vardis is hurt,” Ser Rodrik said, his voice grave.
   Catelyn did not need to be told; she had eyes, she could see the bright finger of blood running along the knight’s forearm, the wetness inside the elbow joint. Every parry was a little slower and a little lower than the one before. Ser Vardis turned his side to his foe, trying to use his shield to block instead, but Bronn slid around him, quick as a cat. The sellsword seemed to be getting stronger. His cuts were leaving their marks now. Deep shiny gashes gleamed all over the knight’s armor, on his right thigh, his beaked visor, crossing on his breastplate, a long one along the front of his gorget. The moon-and-falcon rondel over Ser Vardis’s right arm was sheared clean in half, hanging by its strap. They could hear his labored breath, rattling through the air holes in his visor.
   Blind with arrogance as they were, even the knights and lords of the Vale could see what was happening below them, yet her sister could not. “Enough, Ser Vardis!” Lady Lysa called down. “Finish him now, my baby is growing tired.”
   And it must be said of Ser Vardis Egen that he was true to his lady’s command, even to the last. One moment he was reeling backward, half-crouched behind his scarred shield; the next he charged. The sudden bull rush caught Bronn off balance. Ser Vardis crashed into him and slammed the lip of his shield into the sellsword’s face. Almost, almost, Bronn lost his feet?.?.?.?he staggered back, tripped over a rock, and caught hold of the weeping woman to keep his balance. Throwing aside his shield, Ser Vardis lurched after him, using both hands to raise his sword. His right arm was blood from elbow to fingers now, yet his last desperate blow would have opened Bronn from neck to navel?.?.?.?if the sellsword had stood to receive it.
   But Bronn jerked back. Jon Arryn’s beautiful engraved silver sword glanced off the marble elbow of the weeping woman and snapped clean a third of the way up the blade. Bronn put his shoulder into the statue’s back. The weathered likeness of Alyssa Arryn tottered and fell with a great crash, and Ser Vardis Egen went down beneath her.
   Bronn was on him in a heartbeat, kicking what was left of his shattered rondel aside to expose the weak spot between arm and breastplate. Ser Vardis was lying on his side, pinned beneath the broken torso of the weeping woman. Catelyn heard the knight groan as the sellsword lifted his blade with both hands and drove it down and in with all his weight behind it, under the arm and through the ribs. Ser Vardis Egen shuddered and lay still.
   Silence hung over the Eyrie. Bronn yanked off his halfhelm and let it fall to the grass. His lip was smashed and bloody where the shield had caught him, and his coal-black hair was soaked with sweat. He spit out a broken tooth.
   “Is it over, Mother?” the Lord of the Eyrie asked.
   No, Catelyn wanted to tell him, it’s only now beginning.
   “Yes,” Lysa said glumly, her voice as cold and dead as the captain of her guard.
   “Can I make the little man fly now?”
   Across the garden, Tyrion Lannister got to his feet. “Not this little man,” he said. “This little man is going down in the turnip hoist, thank you very much.”
   “You presume...” Lysa began.
   “I presume that House Arryn remembers its own words,” the Imp said. “As High as Honor.”
   “You promised I could make him fly,” the Lord of the Eyrie screamed at his mother. He began to shake.
   Lady Lysa’s face was flushed with fury. “The gods have seen fit to proclaim him innocent, child. We have no choice but to free him.” She lifted her voice. “Guards. Take my lord of Lannister and his?.?.?.?creature here out of my sight. Escort them to the Bloody Gate and set them free. See that they have horses and supplies sufficient to reach the Trident, and make certain all their goods and weapons are returned to them. They shall need them on the high road.”
   “The high road,” Tyrion Lannister said. Lysa allowed herself a faint, satisfied smile. It was another sort of death sentence, Catelyn realized. Tyrion Lannister must know that as well. Yet the dwarf favored Lady Arryn with a mocking bow. “As you command, my lady,” he said. “I believe we know the way.”



Ⅰ 权力的游戏 Chapter41 凯特琳
　　艾林谷的日出，将东方的天空染成玫瑰和金黄。凯特琳·史塔克双手搁在窗外雕饰华丽的栏杆上，凝望着逐渐散溢的光辉。黎明爬过田野和森林，世界在她脚下由漆黑转为靛青，再变成茵绿。幽魂般的水冲出山脊，开始它们腾涌直落巨人之熗的漫长旅程，阿莱莎之泪上白雾激荡。凯特琳隐约可以感觉水花溅到脸上。
　　阿莱莎·艾林生前眼睁睁地见到丈夫、兄弟和儿女惨遭杀害，却从未掉过一滴眼泪。于是诸神谕令，死后她将泪流不止，直到流下的泪水浇灌至峡谷平原的黑色沃野，因为她所爱的人们都葬在那里。阿莱莎已经死了六千年，然而至今没有一滴河水流到谷底。凯特琳不禁揣测，等自己死后，她的泪水又会变成多大的瀑布。“还有什么消息？”她说。
　　“弑君者正在凯岩城集结军队，”身后的房间里，罗德利克爵士回答，“您哥哥信上说他派人去凯岩城，要求泰温大人表明意图，但至今没有回应。艾德慕已命凡斯大人和派柏大人把守金牙城下的隘口，并向您发誓，他决不放弃徒利家族的每一寸土地，若兰尼斯特敢来进犯，就用他们的血来浇灌。”
　　凯特琳移开视线，不再观看日出。朝阳再美，也难以振奋她的心绪。想到一日之始如此美丽，却注定将以惨剧收场，她愈发感慨造物者的残酷。“艾德慕派了人也发了誓，”她说：“但他不是奔流城公爵。我父亲大人有消息吗？”
　　“夫人，信上没提到霍斯特大人。”罗德利克爵士捻捻胡须。他养伤期间，胡子又重新色白如雪，林立如丛。现在的他，模样与从前几无二致了。
　　“父亲若非病重，决不会把奔流的防务交给艾德慕。”她忧心忡忡地说，“鸟儿捎信来的时候，你应该立刻叫醒我才对。”
　　“柯蒙学士告诉我，您妹妹想让您好好休息。”
　　“应该叫醒我。”她坚持。
　　“学士他还说，您妹妹准备在比武之后再和您谈谈。”
　　“这么说来，她真打算把这出闹剧演下去？”凯特琳皱眉。“那侏儒拿她当笛子吹，她自己还蒙在鼓里。罗德利克爵士，无论今天早上结果如何，我们都该动身。我的职责是在临冬城陪伴儿子们。假如你体力还撑得住，我这就请莱莎派人护送我们到海鸥镇，我们从那里搭船回去。”
　　“又要坐船？”罗德利克脸色发青，但还是忍耐住没有发抖。“夫人，就照您吩咐。”
　　凯特琳唤来莱莎派给她差遣的仆人，老骑士则候在门外。她一边更衣，一边想着如果赶在决斗开始前与妹妹谈谈，或许能让她改变心意。莱莎行事全依心情而定，偏偏她的个性又阴晴不定。她所认识的，昔日奔流城那位羞怯少女，已经长成了时而傲慢，时而忧惧，又或残忍，甚至空幻不切实际，粗心大意、怯懦怕事、好大喜功的妇人，最糟糕的是她还变化无常。
　　当初她那阴狠的狱吏连走带爬，跑来告诉她们提利昂·兰尼斯特有意认罪，凯特琳便力劝莱莎私下会审侏儒，然而妹妹非得在峡谷贵族面前大肆炫耀一番不可，结果竟演变至此……
　　“兰尼斯特是我的犯人，”他们步上高塔楼梯，朝鹰巢城冰冷苍白的大厅走去时，她这么对罗德利克爵士说。凯特琳穿了一件朴素的灰羊毛外衣，系上一条镀银的腰带。“我妹妹不能忘记这点。”
　　他们在莱莎居所外遇见叔叔怒气冲冲地冲出来。“这群傻瓜过节呢，你也去干嘛？”布林登爵士斥道，“本来我想叫你甩你妹妹两个耳光，把她打清醒，可这没用，你只会打痛自己的手。”
　　“有只鸟儿从奔流城过来，”凯特琳开口，“艾德慕写信……”
　　“孩子，我知道，”布林登斗篷上的黑鱼，是他全身上下惟一称得上装饰的东西。“我从柯蒙师傅那儿听到了消息。我请你妹妹拨给我一千精兵，火速驰援奔流城，结果你知道她说了些什么？她说“叔叔，鹰巢城的守军少不了一个，更别提一千，再说你是血门骑士，理应留守于此。”他身后敞开的大门内传出一阵充满稚气的笑声，叔叔沉着脸回头看了一眼。“好吧，反正我告诉她大可再找个新的血门骑士。无论我是不是黑鱼，我到底是徒利家的人。今天傍晚我就回奔流城。”
　　凯特琳难掩惊讶之情。“就你一个人？你我都很清楚一个人走山路根本是找死。正好罗德利克爵士和我也准备回临冬城去。叔叔，跟我们一道走罢，那一千精兵我来给。奔流城绝不会孤军作战。”
　　布林登沉吟半晌，然后唐突地点点头。“那就这样。虽然是绕远路，但我抵达的机会却也比较大。我在下面等你。”说完他大跨步离去，披风在背后飘荡。
　　凯特琳与罗德利克爵士交换了个眼色，接着穿过大门，朝那一片高亢尖锐，却又焦虑不安的孩童嘻笑声走去。
　　莱莎的居所位于一座小花园之上，花园呈圆圈状，白色高塔环绕四周。花园的泥土和青草上种植着蓝色花朵，当初工匠的原意是要栽培神木林，然而鹰巢城立基于山巅坚硬的磐石之上，无论自艾林谷运来多少沃壤，依旧不能让鱼梁木在此生根茁长。于是历任公爵改种草坪，并在花朵繁茂的矮树丛间放置雕像。两位决斗者与提利昂·兰尼斯特的性命，便将在此交付天上诸神，做出最后决断。
　　莱莎刚梳洗完毕，换了身奶油色的天鹅绒外衣，乳白的颈项间戴了一串青玉和月长石，这时正在露天阳台上主持集会。该处视野恰好可将决斗过程尽收眼底，莱莎身边围满了随从、骑士、以及大小领主。其中大部分人依旧怀着希望，想娶她睡她，然后与她并肩统治艾林谷。但就凯特琳这些天来在鹰巢城所见判断，他们的希望不大。
　　劳勃坐在高高的椅子上，座位下方搭了个木台，眼前有个穿着蓝白弄臣服的驼背木偶师，正操纵两个木头骑士相互砍杀，逗得鹰巢城公爵咯咯直笑，不停鼓掌。阳台上摆了一罐罐浓乳酪，以及一篮篮黑莓，宾客们正手拿雕花银杯，啜饮一种掺了橙香的甜葡萄酒。傻瓜过节，难怪布林登这么说。
　　阳台上，杭特伯爵说了个笑话，引得莱莎开怀大笑，然后她又从林恩·科布瑞爵士的匕首上咬过一颗黑莓。众位追求者中，便数他俩最得莱莎欢心……至少，今天的情形是如此。若问凯特琳他们谁比较不适合，她还真无从答起。伊恩·杭特的年纪比琼恩·艾林更大，害了痛风，走起路来有些跛，膝下还有三个争吵不休的儿子，一个比一个贪婪。林恩爵士则是另一番荒唐相，他苗条英俊，是古老而衰败的科布瑞家族的继承人，但他性好虚荣，脾气暴躁，行事又不加思考……有人更谣传，他对男文之间的亲密关系出了名的没兴趣。
　　莱莎远远望见凯特琳，立即起身热情拥抱，还在她颊上印下湿湿一吻。“早上天气可真好，你说是不是？天上诸神都在对我们微笑呢。亲爱的姐姐，快尝尝这酒，这是杭特大人特意从他自家酒窖里送来的。”
　　“谢谢，不用了。莱莎，我要跟你谈谈。”
　　“等下再说。”妹妹刚出口保证，就转身准备离开。
　　“现在要谈。”凯特琳不自觉地提高音量，引来旁人转头观望。“莱莎，你不能这样胡闹下去。小恶魔活着才有价值，死了就只能喂乌鸦。若是他的代理骑士打赢——”
　　“夫人，我看没这可能。”杭特爵士伸出布满老人斑的手拍拍她肩膀，向她保证。“瓦狄斯爵士武艺超群，三两下便可把那佣兵解决掉。”
　　“大人，你就这么有把握？”凯特琳冷冷地说，“我可不敢说。”她在山路上亲眼见识过波隆的身手，他之所以能活到现在，绝非偶然。他行动灵敏宛如猎豹，那柄丑陋的剑更仿佛与他手臂合为一体。
　　莱莎的追求者们纷纷聚集过来，如同围绕花朵的蜜蜂。“女人家哪懂这种事？”莫顿·韦伍德爵士道，“亲爱的夫人，瓦狄斯爵士乃堂堂骑士。至于那家伙嘛，呵，他那种人骨子里都是懦夫。打仗的时候，几千个聚在一起，还管点用，可叫他一对一与人单打独斗，谅他没这能耐。”
　　“就算是这样，”凯特琳硬装出来的礼貌口吻，连自己都受不了。“敢问侏儒死了对我们有何好处？只要我们把他丢下山崖，您觉得詹姆会在乎我们有没有事先举行审判吗？”
　　“干脆把他脑袋砍了，”林恩·科布瑞爵士提议，“再把首级送给弑君者，当作给他的警告。”
　　莱莎不耐烦地甩甩及腰的红棕长发。“劳勃大人想要看他飞，”她的语气仿佛在为这场争执划下句点。“要怪也只能怪小恶魔自己，当初要求比武审判的也是他。”
　　“即使莱莎夫人想拒绝，也无法在兼顾礼数的前提下办到。”杭特伯爵语气沉重地发言。
　　凯特琳不理睬他们，把所有的力气都用来对付妹妹。“容我提醒你，提利昂·兰尼斯特是我的犯人。”
　　“让我也提醒你，侏儒谋害的是我丈夫！”她提高音量。“他毒害了国王的首相，让我宝贝小小年纪就没了父亲，现在我要他付出代价！”莱莎旋身，裙裾跟着飞扬，她昂首阔步地走到阳台的一边。林恩爵士、莫顿爵士和其他追求者冷冰冰地点头致意，跟在她身后离去。
　　“您认为真的是他干的吗？”只剩他们俩后，罗德利克爵士悄声问她。“谋害琼恩大人的事，是真的吗？小恶魔始终否认，坚决否认……”
　　“我相信谋害艾林大人的是兰尼斯特家的人，”凯特琳回答：“但究竟是提利昂，还是詹姆爵士，抑或王后，甚至三人都有份，我就不敢说了。”当初莱莎送到临冬城的信上指称瑟曦为凶手，而现在她似乎又认定提利昂才是真凶……这难道因为侏儒近在眼前，王后却在好几百里格以外的南方，安全地躲在红堡高墙之后？凯特琳不禁希望自己当初在没拆信之前，就先把它烧掉。
　　罗德利克爵士捻捻胡须。“若用毒药，那么……的确有可能是侏儒下的手，或者瑟曦。夫人，我无意冒犯，但人们不都说毒药是女人的武器吗？至于弑君者，呃……我对此人无甚好感，但他不像是会做这种事的人。他太喜欢看自己那把黄金宝剑染血了。夫人，真的是用毒药？”
　　凯特琳有些不安地皱皱眉：“不然还有什么能造成自然死亡的假象？”身后，劳勃公爵眼见一个傀儡骑士把另外一个砍成两半，洒了一地红木屑，开心得兴奋尖叫。她瞄了外甥一眼，不禁叹气。“那孩子一点教养都没有。除非让他离开母亲身边一段时间，否则他永远不会有统治的能力。”
　　“他的先父也有同感。”身旁有个声音接口。她转过头，看见手拿酒杯的柯蒙学士。“事实上，他原本打算送这孩子去龙石岛做养子，您知道……唉，我这是说了不该说的话。”他的喉结在松垂的学士锁链下方焦虑地起伏。“恐怕我喝多了杭特大人的好酒。流血之事总教我紧张……”
　　“学士，你一定是弄错了，”凯特琳道，“是凯岩城，不是龙石岛，而且还是首相死后，未经我妹妹同意安排的。”
　　学士的头猛地一抖，配上他长得出奇的脖子，看起来活像个木偶。“不，请您原谅，夫人，这是琼恩大人他自己——”
　　他们下方铃声大作。贵族和侍女都不约而同放下手边的事，走到栏杆旁边。台下，两名身着天蓝色披风的卫兵领着提利昂·兰尼斯特出来。鹰巢城的臃肿修士伴他走到花园中央的石像旁。那是一座用带纹理的白色大理石雕刻出的、正在哭泣的女人，无疑便是阿莱莎。
　　“小坏蛋来了，”劳勃公爵咯咯笑道，“妈咪，我可以让他飞了吗？我想看他飞。”
　　“再等一等，小宝贝。”莱莎向他保证。
　　“先审判，”林恩·科布瑞爵士慢条斯理地说，“再处决。”
　　片刻之后，两名决斗者也从花园两边进场。骑士身边跟了两个年轻侍从，佣兵则由两位鹰巢城的士兵侍候。
　　瓦狄斯·伊根爵士穿了锁甲和加垫外衣，其外从头到脚都被厚重的钢甲所覆盖。许多金属圆碟保护着手臂和胸膛间铠甲的交接处，它们都被涂成蓝白相间的艾林家族新月猎鹰纹章的式样。腰部到大腿罩着一件龙虾甲壳状的金属裙，脖子上则有一道坚固的颈甲。他的头盔两侧展出鹰翼，面罩是尖锐的鹰喙形状，只留一条细缝容他观察。
　　轻装便甲的波隆，站在骑士身旁简直浑似赤身裸体。他只穿了件硬皮衣，外罩上好油的黑环甲，戴上金属头套和带护鼻的半罩圆盔。他挑了双高统皮靴，前端有钢制护腿，手套的指头部分缝上了黑铁环。凯特琳注意到佣兵足足比他的对手高出一头，手也较长……更别提两人的年龄差距了，根据她的目测，波隆起码年轻十五岁。
　　他们在哭泣女人雕像脚下的草坪上面对面单膝跪地，兰尼斯特站在两人中间。修士从腰间的软布袋里取出一个多面水晶，高举过头，光线随即散射开来。七彩虹光轻跃过小恶魔的脸庞。修士以高亢、庄严，近乎歌唱的声调，请求天上诸神作见证，找出这人灵魂中的真相，若他无辜，则还其自由，若其有罪，则赐之以死。他的声音在四周的塔楼间回荡。
　　当最后一抹余音散去，修士放下水晶，快步离去。提利昂在卫兵将他带走前，凑到波隆耳边低声说了几句，佣兵听了哈哈大笑，起身拍拍膝盖上的草。
　　鹰巢城公爵与峡谷守护者劳勃·艾林此时正不耐烦地在高高的座椅上扭来扭去。“他们什么时候开打？”他哀怨地问。
　　瓦狄斯爵士的侍从之一扶他起身，另一个则为他拿来长近四尺，厚重橡木所制，表面有铁钉的三角形盾牌。两位侍从协力替他把盾绑在左臂前端。莱莎的士兵递给波隆一面类似的护盾，但佣兵啐了口唾沫，挥手拒绝。三天没刮的粗黑胡子盖住了他的下巴和两颊，但他决非没有剃刀。他的剑锋闪着致命的光泽，看得出每天都花好几个小时打磨，直到锋利得血肉难近为止。
　　瓦狄斯爵士伸出一只戴着铁护腕的手，他的侍从递过一把漂亮的、两面开刃的长剑。剑身用银线雕镂出山间长空的纹理，剑柄如猎鹰的头，护手则是两只翅膀。“这把剑是我在君临的时候特意叫人为琼恩铸的，”莱莎骄傲地告诉她的宾客，他们都看着瓦狄斯爵士尝试挥舞。“每当他代替劳勃国王坐上铁王座，他总会配戴这柄剑。你们说它漂不漂亮？我认为让我们的骑士手持琼恩的剑替他复仇，是再恰当也不过了。”
　　雕花银剑固然漂亮，但在凯特琳看来，若让瓦狄斯爵士用他自己的武器会更称手。可她深知与妹妹争执徒劳无功，因此什么也没说。
　　“叫他们快打！”劳勃公爵大喊。
　　瓦狄斯爵士转身面向鹰巢城公爵，举剑致敬。“为鹰巢城和艾林谷而战！”
　　提利昂·兰尼斯特被安排坐在花园对面的露天阳台上，身边围满了守卫。波隆转身漫不经心地朝他做了个敬礼的动作。
　　“他们就等你命令了。”莱莎夫人告诉她的公爵儿子。
　　“快打！”男孩尖叫，两手紧握座椅扶手，不住地颤抖。
　　瓦狄斯爵士立刻旋身，举起重盾。波隆也转过来面对他。两人的长剑交锋一次，两次，彼此试探。佣兵后退一步，骑士举盾在前追赶。他挥出一剑，但波隆猛地后跳，躲到攻击范围之外，银剑划过空气。波隆转向右边，瓦狄斯爵士跟过去，依然高举护盾。骑士向前逼近，一步一步、小心翼翼地踩在不平坦的地面上。佣兵嘴边挂着淡淡的微笑，不断后退。瓦狄斯爵士挥剑猛攻，可波隆跳得更快，轻盈地跃过一块长满青苔的低矮石头。然后佣兵往左边绕，远离盾牌，朝骑士没有保护的那方而去。瓦狄斯爵士想砍他的腿，然而距离太远。波隆再往左跳，瓦狄斯爵士也跟着转身。
　　“这家伙是个懦夫，”杭特伯爵道，“胆小鬼，有种就光明正大地打！”其他人也同声附和。
　　凯特琳望向罗德利克爵士。她的教头简短地摇头道：“他故意让瓦狄斯爵士追他。全副武装加上盾牌，再强壮的人也会很快疲累。”
　　其实，她几乎是看着他人练剑长大，观赏过的比武竞技不只半百，然而眼前这场决斗却与之殊异，更为致命：一招棋错，便在劫难逃。看着这番场景，凯特琳·史塔克却忆起了在不同时间，不同地点，曾经发生过的另一场决斗，在脑海中历历如绘，恍如昨日。
　　那是在奔流城的下层庭院。布兰登眼见培提尔只穿戴头盔、护胸和锁甲，便也脱去自己的大半护具。当时培提尔恳求她以信物相赠，却被她拒绝。既然她被父亲大人许配给布兰登·史塔克，她的信物自然归他所有。那是由她亲手缝制的淡蓝手帕，上面绣着奔流城的飞跃鳟鱼。当她把手帕塞进他手中时，她向他恳求：“他只是个傻孩子，但我把他当弟弟一样疼爱。他若是死了，我会很难过。”她的未婚夫听了，便用那双史塔克家的冷静灰眸看着她，并答应饶那疯狂爱着她的小子一命。
　　决斗才刚开始便告结束。已经成年的布兰登逼得小指头节节后退，从城堡庭院一直退到临水阶梯，攻势猛烈，剑如雨下，打得那男孩脚步踉跄，浑身是伤。“快投降！”他不止一次呼喊，但培提尔总是摇摇头，执拗地继续奋战。最后在水深及踝的地方，布兰登终于做出了断，他反手一记猛烈的挥砍，穿透培提尔的护胸环甲和皮革，划破肋骨下方的柔软血肉，伤口之深，凯特琳以为必定致命。他倒在血泊中，一边凝望着她，喃喃念着“凯特”，同时明艳的鲜血从他铁手套间汩汩涌出。这一切，她以为自己早已遗忘。
　　那是她最后一次见到他的脸庞……直到那天他们在君临重逢。
　　小指头足足休养了两个星期，才有体力离开奔流城，然而她的父亲大人却禁止她到塔里的病房去探望。是莱莎协助学士照顾他，当年的她温柔得多，也害羞得多。艾德慕也去探望过，然而培提尔不愿见他。弟弟在决斗中担任布兰登的助手，小指头说什么也不能原谅。待他体力稍稍恢复，霍斯特·徒利公爵便派人将培提尔·贝里席放进一个密闭小轿，将他抬回五指半岛强风呼啸的嶙峋巨岩，回到他的诞生地继续疗养。
　　刀剑的金属交击将凯特琳拉回现实。瓦狄斯爵士剑盾并用，攻势猛烈。佣兵不断后退，挡下道道攻势，脚步轻灵地跳过石块与树根，眼睛却从未离开对手。凯特琳发现他的动作极其灵敏，骑士的银剑始终碰不到他，而他那把丑恶的灰剑却在瓦狄斯爵士的肩甲上划了一道。
　　突然，波隆溜到哭泣女人的雕像背后。瓦狄斯爵士收势不及，一剑朝他刚才的位置挥去，阿莱莎的白色大理石腿上火花迸发，两人这场迅捷的过招才开始没多久，便就暂告段落。
　　“妈咪，他们打得不好看，”鹰巢城主抱怨，“我要看他们打真的。”
　　“宝贝乖，他们马上就打给你看。”他母亲安慰他，“佣兵跑不了一整天的。”
　　莱莎所在的阳台上，有些贵族一边对波隆冷嘲热讽，一边斟酒笑闹，然而在花园对面，提利昂-兰尼斯特那双大小不一的眼睛却全神贯注地看着两位决斗者你来我往，似乎身边一切都已消失。
　　波隆倏地自雕像后窜出，依旧向左，双手擎剑朝骑士没有盾牌保护的那边猛砍。瓦狄斯爵士虽然挡下，但挡得很勉强。佣兵的剑顺势往上一弹，朝对方的头部扑去。只听铿锵一声，猎鹰的一只翅膀应声而断。瓦狄斯爵士后退半步，稳住身子，然后又举起盾牌。波隆的剑攻向这道木墙，砍得木屑四溅。佣兵再度向左，避开盾牌，一剑正中瓦狄斯爵士腹部，在骑士的铠甲上留下一道鲜明的裂口。
　　瓦狄斯爵士后脚一蹬，手中银剑凌空挥出一道凶猛的圆弧。波隆硬是把它拨开，然后跳出去。骑士撞上哭泣的女人，震得她在基座上摇晃。他踉跄着退开，左顾右盼搜索对手，面罩上的细缝限制了他的视线。
　　“爵士先生，在你后面！”杭特伯爵大喝，可惜为时已晚。波隆双手举剑，狠狠往下一斩，正中瓦狄斯爵士的右手肘。保护关节的细薄圆碟响声大作。骑士闷哼着转身，托起长剑。这回波隆守在原地，两人你来我往，刀剑交织出的金属歌声响彻花园，回荡在鹰巢城的七座白塔之间。
　　“瓦狄斯爵士受伤了。”罗德利克爵士语气沉重地说。
　　不需他说，凯特琳也看得见鲜血正如无数手指，从他前臂缓缓流下，她还看得见他手肘关节的黏湿。他的每记挡格越来越慢，越来越低。瓦狄斯爵士侧身面对敌人，想用盾牌抵挡攻势，然而波隆也跟着侧移，行动灵敏如猫。而今，佣兵似乎愈发强壮，他的挥砍陆续留下痕迹。骑士的铠甲、右腿、喙状面罩和护胸，甚至颈甲都印上了深陷的闪亮凹痕。瓦狄斯爵士右臂的新月猎鹰圆碟被砍成两截，挂在皮带上。他们可以听见从他面罩里传出的沉重呼吸。
　　无论在场的众峡谷骑士和贵族多么高傲自大，他们都很清楚下面情势如何，只有妹妹依旧看不到真相。“瓦狄斯爵士，打够了，”莱莎夫人向下高喊，“快收拾他，我的宝贝等得不耐烦了。”
　　瓦狄斯·伊根爵士的确是忠心耿耿，至死不渝。原本他还蹒跚后退，半蹲着躲在他那伤痕累累的盾牌后面，听了这话，他转而向前冲锋。这阵突如其来的猛攻大出波隆意外。瓦狄斯爵士跟他撞在一起，并将盾牌狠狠地朝佣兵面部砸去，差一点，差一点就把波隆打倒在地……佣兵踉跄后退，被一块石头绊到，赶忙扶住哭泣的女人维持重心。瓦狄斯爵士抛下盾牌，双手举剑猛扑上去。他的右手从肘部到指尖全都是血，但他最后的死命一击足以将波隆从头到脚劈成两半……如果佣兵跟他硬碰硬的话。
　　反之，波隆箭步向后跳开。琼恩·艾林漂亮的雕花银剑砍到哭泣女人的大理石手肘，剑身三分之一处应声而断。这时波隆用肩膀拼命朝雕像背部撞去，饱经风雨摧残的阿莱莎·艾林雕像摇晃几下之后轰然倒下，将瓦狄斯·伊根爵士压在下面。
　　转瞬间波隆已踏上他身体，踢开残余的金属圆碟碎片，暴露出手臂和胸甲间的脆弱部位。瓦狄斯爵士侧身躺卧，被断裂的哭泣女人雕像压住的躯体无法动弹。凯特琳听见骑士不住呻吟。佣兵双手握剑高举，用尽全身力气，狠命刺进，划过手臂，穿透肋骨。瓦狄斯·伊根爵士抖了一下，便不再动弹。
　　一阵死寂笼罩着鹰巢城。波隆拔掉半罩头盔，扔在草坪上。刚才被盾牌撞到的嘴唇，此刻正流着血，炭黑色的头发也被汗水完全浸湿。他吐出一颗打落的牙齿。
　　“妈咪，结束了吗？”鹰巢城公爵问。
　　不，凯特琳想告诉他，一切才刚刚开始。
　　“是的。”莱莎郁闷地说，声音一如她的侍卫队长那般冰冷而死寂。
　　“现在我可以让那个小坏蛋飞了吗？”
　　花园的另一头，提利昂站起身。“总之飞的不会是我这个小坏蛋，”他说，“这个小坏蛋打算跟萝卜一起搭篮子下山去，感谢您的关照。”
　　“你以为——”莱莎开口。
　　“我以为艾林家族还记得他们的族语，”小恶魔道，“高如荣誉。”
　　“你答应我可以让他飞的。”鹰巢城公爵对他母亲尖叫，然后开始颤抖。
　　莱莎夫人气得满脸通红。“孩子，天上诸神认为这人无辜，除了放他走，我们别无选择。”她提高音量，“来人，把兰尼斯特家的大人和他……那只怪物给我带走。护送他们到血门，然后放他们自由。要为他们准备足以维持到三叉戟河的马匹和粮食，同时务必归还他们一切行李和武器。他们走山路，想必会很需要这些装备。”
　　“走山路？”提利昂·兰尼斯特道。莱莎嘴角泛起一丝细小但得意的微笑。凯特琳忽然明白过来，这不啻另一种死刑。提利昂·兰尼斯特想必也很清楚。然而侏儒仅故作礼貌地朝莱莎·艾林鞠了个躬。“遵命，夫人。”他说，“我们认得这条路。”
[ 此帖被挽墨在2015-08-31 00:36重新编辑 ]
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   41.JON
   You are as hopeless as any boys I have ever trained,” Ser Alliser Thorne announced when they had all assembled in the yard. “Your hands were made for manure shovels, not for swords, and if it were up to me, the lot of you would be set to herding swine. But last night I was told that Gueren is marching five new boys up the kingsroad. One or two may even be worth the price of piss. To make room for them, I have decided to pass eight of you on to the Lord Commander to do with as he will.” He called out the names one by one. “Toad. Stone Head. Aurochs. Lover. Pimple. Monkey. Ser Loon.” Last, he looked at Jon. “And the Bastard.”
   Pyp let fly a whoop and thrust his sword into the air. Ser Alliser fixed him with a reptile stare. “They will call you men of Night’s Watch now, but you are bigger fools than the Mummer’s Monkey here if you believe that. You are boys still, green and stinking of summer, and when the winter comes you will die like flies.” And with that, Ser Alliser Thorne took his leave of them.
   The other boys gathered round the eight who had been named, laughing and cursing and offering congratulations. Halder smacked Toad on the butt with the flat of his sword and shouted, “Toad, of the Night’s Watch!” Yelling that a black brother needed a horse, Pyp leapt onto Grenn’s shoulders, and they tumbled to the ground, rolling and punching and hooting. Dareon dashed inside the armory and returned with a skin of sour red. As they passed the wine from hand to hand, grinning like fools, Jon noticed Samwell Tarly standing by himself beneath a bare dead tree in the corner of the yard. Jon offered him the skin. “A swallow of wine?”
   Sam shook his head. “No thank you, Jon.”
   “Are you well?”
   “Very well, truly,” the fat boy lied. “I am so happy for you all.” His round face quivered as he forced a smile. “You will be First Ranger someday, just as your uncle was.”
   “Is,” Jon corrected. He would not accept that Benjen Stark was dead. Before he could say more, Haider cried, “Here, you planning to drink that all yourself?” Pyp snatched the skin from his hand and danced away, laughing. While Grenn seized his arm, Pyp gave the skin a squeeze, and a thin stream of red squirted Jon in the face. Haider howled in protest at the waste of good wine. Jon sputtered and struggled. Matthar and Jeren climbed the wall and began pelting them all with snowballs.
   By the time he wrenched free, with snow in his hair and wine stains on his surcoat, Samwell Tarly had gone.
   That night, Three-Finger Hobb cooked the boys a special meal to mark the occasion. When Jon arrived at the common hall, the Lord Steward himself led him to the bench near the fire. The older men clapped him on the arm in passing. The eight soon-to-be brothers feasted on rack of lamb baked in a crust of garlic and herbs, garnished with sprigs of mint, and surrounded by mashed yellow turnips swimming in butter. “From the Lord Commander’s own table,” Bowen Marsh told them. There were salads of spinach and chickpeas and turnip greens, and afterward bowls of iced blueberries and sweet cream.
   “Do you think they’ll keep us together?” Pyp wondered as they gorged themselves happily.
   Toad made a face. “I hope not. I’m sick of looking at those ears of yours.”
   “Ho,” said Pyp. “Listen to the crow call the raven black. You’re certain to be a ranger, Toad. They’ll want you as far from the castle as they can. If Mance Rayder attacks, lift your visor and show your face, and he’ll run off screaming.”
   Everyone laughed but Grenn. “I hope I’m a ranger.”
   “You and everyone else,” said Matthar. Every man who wore the black walked the Wall, and every man was expected to take up steel in its defense, but the rangers were the true fighting heart of the Night’s Watch. It was they who dared ride beyond the Wall, sweeping through the haunted forest and the icy mountain heights west of the Shadow Tower, fighting wildlings and giants and monstrous snow bears.
   “Not everyone,” said Halder. “It’s the builders for me. What use would rangers be if the Wall fell down?”
   The order of builders provided the masons and carpenters to repair keeps and towers, the miners to dig tunnels and crush stone for roads and footpaths, the woodsmen to clear away new growth wherever the forest pressed too close to the Wall. Once, it was said, they had quarried immense blocks of ice from frozen lakes deep in the haunted forest, dragging them south on sledges so the Wall might be raised ever higher. Those days were centuries gone, however; now, it was all they could do to ride the Wall from Eastwatch to the Shadow Tower, watching for cracks or signs of melt and making what repairs they could.
   “The Old Bear’s no fool,” Dareon observed. “You’re certain to be a builder, and Jon’s certain to be a ranger. He’s the best sword and the best rider among us, and his uncle was the First before he?.?.?.?” His voice trailed off awkwardly as he realized what he had almost said.
   “Benjen Stark is still First Ranger,” Jon Snow told him, toying with his bowl of blueberries. The rest might have given up all hope of his uncle’s safe return, but not him. He pushed away the berries, scarcely touched, and rose from the bench.
   “Aren’t you going to eat those?” Toad asked.
   “They’re yours.” Jon had hardly tasted Hobb’s great feast. “I could not eat another bite.” He took his cloak from its hook near the door and shouldered his way out.
   Pyp followed him. “Jon, what is it?”
   “Sam,” he admitted. “He was not at table tonight.”
   “It’s not like him to miss a meal,” Pyp said thoughtfully. “Do you suppose he’s taken ill?”
   “He’s frightened. We’re leaving him.” He remembered the day he had left Winterfell, all the bittersweet farewells; Bran lying broken, Robb with snow in his hair, Arya raining kisses on him after he’d given her Needle. “Once we say our words, we’ll all have duties to attend to. Some of us may be sent away, to Eastwatch or the Shadow Tower. Sam will remain in training, with the likes of Rast and Cuger and these new boys who are coming up the kingsroad. Gods only know what they’ll be like, but you can bet Ser Alliser will send them against him, first chance he gets.”
   Pyp made a grimace. “You did all you could.”
   “All we could wasn’t enough,” Jon said.
   A deep restlessness was on him as he went back to Hardin’s Tower for Ghost. The direwolf walked beside him to the stables. Some of the more skittish horses kicked at their stalls and laid back their ears as they entered. Jon saddled his mare, mounted, and rode out from Castle Black, south across the moonlit night. Ghost raced ahead of him, flying over the ground, gone in the blink of an eye. Jon let him go. A wolf needed to hunt.
   He had no destination in mind. He wanted only to ride. He followed the creek for a time, listening to the icy trickle of water over rock, then cut across the fields to the kingsroad. It stretched out before him, narrow and stony and pocked with weeds, a road of no particular promise, yet the sight of it filled Jon Snow with a vast longing. Winterfell was down that road, and beyond it Riverrun and King’s Landing and the Eyrie and so many other places; Casterly Rock, the Isle of Faces, the red mountains of Dorne, the hundred islands of Braavos in the sea, the smoking ruins of old Valyria. All the places that Jon would never see. The world was down that road?.?.?.?and he was here.
   Once he swore his vow, the Wall would be his home until he was old as Maester Aemon. “I have not sworn yet,” he muttered. He was no outlaw, bound to take the black or pay the penalty for his crimes. He had come here freely, and he might leave freely?.?.?.?until he said the words. He need only ride on, and he could leave it all behind. By the time the moon was full again, he would be back in Winterfell with his brothers.
   Your half brothers, a voice inside reminded him. And Lady Stark, who will not welcome you. There was no place for him in Winterfell, no place in King’s Landing either. Even his own mother had not had a place for him. The thought of her made him sad. He wondered who she had been, what she had looked like, why his father had left her. Because she was a whore or an adulteress, fool. Something dark and dishonorable, or else why was Lord Eddard too ashamed to speak of her?
   Jon Snow turned away from the kingsroad to look behind him. The fires of Castle Black were hidden behind a hill, but the Wall was there, pale beneath the moon, vast and cold, running from horizon to horizon.
   He wheeled his horse around and started for home.
   Ghost returned as he crested a rise and saw the distant glow of lamplight from the Lord Commander’s Tower. The direwolf s muzzle was red with blood as he trotted beside the horse. Jon found himself thinking of Samwell Tarly again on the ride back. By the time he reached the stables, he knew what he must do.
   Maester Aemon’s apartments were in a stout wooden keep below the rookery. Aged and frail, the maester shared his chambers with two of the younger stewards, who tended to his needs and helped him in his duties. The brothers joked that he had been given the two ugliest men in the Night’s Watch; being blind, he was spared having to look at them. Clydas was short, bald, and chinless, with small pink eyes like a mole. Chett had a wen on his neck the size of a pigeon’s egg, and a face red with boils and pimples. Perhaps that was why he always seemed so angry.
   It was Chett who answered Jon’s knock. “I need to speak to Maester Aemon,” Jon told him.
   “The maester is abed, as you should be. Come back on the morrow and maybe he’ll see you.” He began to shut the door.
   Jon jammed it open with his boot. “I need to speak to him now. The morning will be too late.”
   Chett scowled. “The maester is not accustomed to being woken in the night. Do you know how old he is?”
   “Old enough to treat visitors with more courtesy than you,” Jon said. “Give him my pardons. I would not disturb his rest if it were not important.”
   “And if I refuse?”
   Jon had his boot wedged solidly in the door. “I can stand here all night if I must.”
   The black brother made a disgusted noise and opened the door to admit him. “Wait in the library. There’s wood. Start a fire. I won’t have the maester catching a chill on account of you.”
   Jon had the logs crackling merrily by the time Chett led in Maester Aemon. The old man was clad in his bed robe, but around his throat was the chain collar of his order. A maester did not remove it even to sleep. “The chair beside the fire would be pleasant,” he said when he felt the warmth on his face. When he was settled comfortably, Chett covered his legs with a fur and went to stand by the door.
   “I am sorry to have woken you, Maester,” Jon Snow said.
   “You did not wake me,” Maester Aemon replied. “I find I need less sleep as I grow older, and I am grown very old. I often spend half the night with ghosts, remembering times fifty years past as if they were yesterday. The mystery of a midnight visitor is a welcome diversion. So tell me, Jon Snow, why have you come calling at this strange hour?”
   “To ask that Samwell Tarly be taken from training and accepted as a brother of the Night’s Watch.”
   “This is no concern of Maester Aemon,” Chett complained.
   “Our Lord Commander has given the training of recruits into the hands of Ser Alliser Thorne,” the maester said gently. “Only he may say when a boy is ready to swear his vow, as you surely know. Why then come to me?”
   “The Lord Commander listens to you,” Jon told him. “And the wounded and the sick of the Night’s Watch are in your charge.”
   “And is your friend Samwell wounded or sick?”
   “He will be,” Jon promised, “unless you help.”
   He told them all of it, even the part where he’d set Ghost at Rast’s throat. Maester Aemon listened silently, blind eyes fixed on the fire, but Chett’s face darkened with each word. “Without us to keep him safe, Sam will have no chance,” Jon finished. “He’s hopeless with a sword. My sister Arya could tear him apart, and she’s not yet ten. If Ser Alliser makes him fight, it’s only a matter of time before he’s hurt or killed.”
   Chett could stand no more. “I’ve seen this fat boy in the common hall,” he said. “He is a pig, and a hopeless craven as well, if what you say is true.”
   “Maybe it is so,” Maester Aemon said. “Tell me, Chett, what would you have us do with such a boy?”
   “Leave him where he is,” Chett said. “The Wall is no place for the weak. Let him train until he is ready, no matter how many years that takes. Ser Alliser shall make a man of him or kill him, as the gods will.”
   “That’s stupid,” Jon said. He took a deep breath to gather his thoughts. “I remember once I asked Maester Luwin why he wore a chain around his throat.”
   Maester Aemon touched his own collar lightly, his bony, wrinkled finger stroking the heavy metal links. “Go on.”
   “He told me that a maester’s collar is made of chain to remind him that he is sworn to serve,” Jon said, remembering. “I asked why each link was a different metal. A silver chain would look much finer with his grey robes, I said. Maester Luwin laughed. A maester forges his chain with study, he told me. The different metals are each a different kind of learning, gold for the study of money and accounts, silver for healing, iron for warcraft. And he said there were other meanings as well. The collar is supposed to remind a maester of the realm he serves, isn’t that so? Lords are gold and knights steel, but two links can’t make a chain. You also need silver and iron and lead, tin and copper and bronze and all the rest, and those are farmers and smiths and merchants and the like. A chain needs all sorts of metals, and a land needs all sorts of people.”
   Maester Aemon smiled. “And so?”
   “The Night’s Watch needs all sorts too. Why else have rangers and stewards and builders? Lord Randyll couldn’t make Sam a warrior, and Ser Alliser won’t either. You can’t hammer tin into iron, no matter how hard you beat it, but that doesn’t mean tin is useless. Why shouldn’t Sam be a steward?”
   Chett gave an angry scowl. “I’m a steward. You think it’s easy work, fit for cowards? The order of stewards keeps the Watch alive. We hunt and farm, tend the horses, milk the cows, gather firewood, cook the meals. Who do you think makes your clothing? Who brings up supplies from the south? The stewards.”
   Maester Aemon was gentler. “Is your friend a hunter?”
   “He hates hunting,” Jon had to admit.
   “Can he plow a field?” the maester asked. “Can he drive a wagon or sail a ship? Could he butcher a cow?”
   “No.”
   Chett gave a nasty laugh. “I’ve seen what happens to soft lordlings when they’re put to work. Set them to churning butter and their hands blister and bleed. Give them an axe to split logs, and they cut off their own foot.”
   “I know one thing Sam could do better than anyone.”
   “Yes?” Maester Aemon prompted.
   Jon glanced warily at Chett, standing beside the door, his boils red and angry. “He could help you,” he said quickly. “He can do sums, and he knows how to read and write. I know Chett can’t read, and Clydas has weak eyes. Sam read every book in his father’s library. He’d be good with the ravens too. Animals seem to like him. Ghost took to him straight off. There’s a lot he could do, besides fighting. The Night’s Watch needs every man. Why kill one, to no end? Make use of him instead.”
   Maester Aemon closed his eyes, and for a brief moment Jon was afraid that he had gone to sleep. Finally he said, “Maester Luwin taught you well, Jon Snow. Your mind is as deft as your blade, it would seem.”
   “Does that mean?.?.?.?”
   “It means I shall think on what you have said,” the maester told him firmly. “And now, I believe I am ready to sleep. Chett, show our young brother to the door.”




Ⅰ 权力的游戏 Chapter42 琼恩
　　“我从没见过像你们这么无可救药的小鬼。”等他们全体聚集在训练场里，艾里沙·索恩爵士说，“你们的手生来只配挑粪，没资格拿剑。若是依我之见，我会发配你们通通去养猪。可是昨晚我听说葛伦正带着五个小伙子，从国王大道上来。其中一两个或许还有救。为了给他们腾出位置，我决定放过你们其中八个，交给司令官去处置。”他一个接一个喊出名字，“癞蛤蟆、呆头、大笨牛、娘娘腔、雀斑男、猴子、蠢蛋爵士，”最后他看看琼恩，“还有野种。”
　　派普呼了口气，兴奋得把剑抛向空中。艾里沙爵士恶狠狠地瞪着他说：“从现在起，别人会称你们作守夜人，但如果你们信以为真，那就是天字第一号大笨蛋。你们都还是乳臭未干的小毛头，身上都是夏天味道，等冬天一来，你们就会像苍蝇一样全部死得四脚朝天。”说完艾里沙·索恩爵士便离开了。
　　其他男孩立即把八个被擢升的人团团围住，又笑又骂，连声道贺。霍德用剑脊敲敲陶德的屁股，大喊：“现在你可是守夜人癞蛤蟆啦！”派普嚷着说要当黑衫军先得有坐骑，一跃跳上葛兰肩膀，两人同时扑倒，在地上翻滚打闹怪叫。戴利恩冲进武器库，回来时手中多了一袋劣等红酒。正当他们轮流喝酒，像呆瓜似地傻笑时，琼恩注意到山姆威尔·塔利孤伶伶地站在广场角落一棵光秃秃的树下。琼恩把酒袋递过去。“要不要来一口？”
　　山姆摇摇头。“不用了，琼恩，谢谢。”
　　“你还好吧？”
　　“我很好，真的。”胖男孩在撒谎，“我真为你们高兴。”他试图挤出一抹微笑，结果只有那张圆脸木然地晃动。“有朝一日你一定会当上首席游骑兵，像你叔叔从前那样。”
　　“我叔叔现在还是首席游骑兵。”琼恩纠正他。他绝不相信班扬·史塔克已死。他还来不及再说，只听霍德喊道，“好家伙，你打算独吞啊？”派普从他手中一把攫走酒袋，笑着跑开。葛兰抓住他的手，派普使劲把酒袋一捏，一股细细的红色酒柱便喷到琼恩脸上。霍德大吼着叫他别浪费好东西。琼恩含含糊糊、说不出话，挣扎着想站稳，这时梅沙和杰伦爬到墙上，开始朝他们猛扔雪球。
　　等他挣脱开来，满头是雪，衣服上也都是葡萄酒，山姆威尔·塔利已经走了。
　　当晚，三指哈布为庆祝男孩们的晋升，特别煮了顿丰盛晚餐。琼恩走进大厅时，总务长亲自领他前往靠近火炉的座位，途中老鸟们纷纷拍他表示嘉许。八个即将成为黑衣弟兄的男孩品尝了薄荷叶装饰、用大蒜和药草烤的羊肉，以及浸在奶油里的黄萝卜泥。“这可是总司令的餐桌上才有的好东西。”波文·马尔锡告诉他们。除此之外，桌上还有用菠菜、鹰嘴豆和芜菁做的凉拌沙拉，饭后甜点则是冰镇的蓝莓和甜奶油。
　　“你觉得他们会把我们编在一起吗？”当他们开心地狼吞虎咽时，派普不禁问。
　　陶德扮了个鬼脸。“希望不会，我受够了你那双丑耳朵。”
　　“哟，”派普说，“天下乌鸦还不是一般黑。癞蛤蟆，我看你游骑兵是当定了，因为他们会把你派得离城堡越远越好。若是曼斯·雷德打来，只需掀开面罩，叫他们瞧瞧你那张脸，保管他们落荒而逃啊。”
　　除了葛兰，大家哄堂而笑。“我真心希望自己能当游骑兵呢。”
　　“我们不都一样。”梅沙道。黑衫军的每一位成员都有防守长城之责，若是敌人来袭，人人都必须举剑迎敌，然而游骑兵才是守夜人部队中真正的战斗主力。只有他们会骑马北出长城，扫荡影子塔以西鬼影幢幢的森林和冰雪覆盖的崇山峻岭，与野人、巨人和怪物般的雪熊作战。
　　“那可不一定，”霍德说，“我就想当工匠。若是长城垮了，游骑兵还有什么用呢？”
　　工匠群体包括负责维修堡垒和塔楼的石匠和木匠；负责挖掘隧道，敲碎石头铺路的矿工；负责砍伐靠近长城的树林的樵夫。据说多年以前，工匠们从鬼影森林中的冰湖运来巨大冰块，用雪橇南运，以将长城砌高。然而距离那样的年代，已经过了好几百年，如今他们所能做的，便只是沿着城墙，从东海望走到影子塔，修补沿途的裂缝，注意融化的迹象。
　　“熊老可不是笨蛋，”戴利恩发表意见，“你一定会当上工匠，而琼恩也一定会当上游骑兵。咱们这群人里面他不仅剑使得最好，骑术也最棒，更何况他叔叔生前也是首……”他想起自己提到了什么，不自在地住嘴。
　　“班扬·史塔克依旧是首席游骑兵。”琼恩·雪诺一边把玩着手中那碗蓝莓，一边对他说。别人或许对叔叔安然归来不抱期望，但他不会。他推开几乎碰都没碰的蓝莓，起身离开长凳。
　　“这些你还要不要？”陶德问。
　　“都给你。”事实上，连哈布精心烹调的晚餐，琼恩也几乎没动。“我吃不下了。”他从门边的挂勾上取下斗篷，穿了就准备出去。
　　派普跟上来。“琼恩，怎么了？”
　　“是山姆，”他承认，“今晚他没上桌。”
　　“这家伙可不像是会错过餐点的人，”派普若有所思地说，“你觉得他生病了？”
　　“他在害怕。因为我们就要离开他了。”他忆起自己离开临冬城当天，那些悲喜交加的道别。布兰支离破碎地躺在床上，罗柏发际还有雪花，艾莉亚则是得到“缝衣针”后疯狂地吻他。“等我们宣过誓，就会有各自应尽的义务。有些人可能被派往远方，前往东海望或影子塔。只有山姆会留下来继续受训，而雷斯特或库格那种人正在国王大道上等着他。天知道他们是什么德行，不过可以肯定艾里沙爵士一有机会就会叫他们去对付他。”
　　派普皱眉：“能做的你都做了。”
　　“我们做的还不够。”琼恩说。
　　他回哈丁塔找白灵时，心中感到深切的不安。冰原狼跟在他身边走向马厩，刚一进门，几匹比较激动的马便伸腿踢栏，两耳后竖。琼恩为他的母马上鞍，骑出黑城堡，就着月光和夜色往南行去。白灵飞奔在前，转眼便消失无踪。琼恩由他去，狼总有打猎的本能。
　　他的脑中漫无目的，纯粹只想骑马。他先是沿溪而行，聆听冰冷的溪水流过岩石，接着穿越旷野，踏上国王大道。道路在眼前伸展，狭窄、多石、杂草从生，看上去并非通往光明与希望的途径。然而这道路，却让琼恩·雪诺心里盈满思慕之情。临冬城就在路上某地，如果继续前行，则会抵达奔流城、君临、鹰巢城和其他许多地方，例如凯岩城、千面屿，多恩领的红色山脉，海中布拉佛斯的百余列岛，瓦雷西亚浓烟滚滚的古老废墟。这些地方琼恩永远不能得见。世界在路的彼端……而他却在这里。
　　一旦他发下誓言，便将以此为家，在此终老，和伊蒙师傅一样。“我还没发誓呢。”他喃喃自语。他并非违法乱纪之人，不像他们若不穿上黑衣，便得接受法律制裁。他以自由之身来到这里，同样也可以自由之身离去……除非他开口宣誓。他只需继续骑行，便可抛开这里的一切。等到新月再度满盈，他已经返回临冬城，与兄弟重新团聚。
　　他们是你同父异母的兄弟，心中有一个声音在提醒他。还有不欢迎你的史塔克夫人。临冬城里无他容身之地，更不用说君临。连他自己的母亲也无法安顿他。想到她，他不禁难过起来。他想知道她是谁，长什么样，想知道父亲为何离开她。白痴，因为她是个妓女，要不然就是个有夫之妇。一定是牵连到某些阴暗又不名誉的事，否则艾德大人为何羞于提及？
　　琼恩·雪诺将视线从国王大道转开，回头往后看去。黑城堡的灯火被一座小丘遮蔽，但巨大而冷漠的长城，却在月光照耀下直向天际，清晰可见。
　　他调转马头，朝家的方向奔去。
　　他刚爬过缓丘，瞧见远处司令塔的火光，白灵便回来了。冰原狼的口鼻一片血红，缓步跟在马旁边。在回去的路上，琼恩发现自己再度想起了山姆威尔·塔利。等他回到马厩，心里已有了主意。
　　伊蒙学士的居所在一座坚固的木造堡垒内，正好位于鸦巢下方。学士年纪大了，身体也虚弱，因此他和两个负责照顾他起居，平时则协助他处理事务的年轻事务官住在一起。兄弟们间有个笑话，说全守夜人部队里最丑的两个都给派到他手下，只因为他瞎了眼，省得受罪。克莱达斯矮个子，秃头，几乎没下巴，长了一双粉红色的小眼睛，活像只鼹鼠。齐特脖子上长了个鸽子蛋那么大的瘤，脸上则布满疮和疙瘩。或许正因如此，无论何时他看起来总是怒气冲冲。
　　来应门的是齐特。“我有事找伊蒙师傅。”琼恩告诉他。
　　“学士已经睡啦，你也该上床了。明天再来看他愿不愿见你罢。”说完他准备关门。
　　琼恩伸脚卡住门。“我现在就要跟他谈，等明早就太迟了。”
　　齐特皱眉道：“学士可不习惯没事给人半夜吵醒。你知道他年纪多大了吗？”
　　“我知道他年纪大，比你更懂待客之道。”琼恩说，“请代我向他致歉，若非情况紧急，我决不会打扰他休息的。”
　　“如果我拒绝呢？”
　　琼恩把脚稳稳地卡在门缝间。“我可以就这样站上整夜。”
　　黑衣弟兄嫌恶地哼了一声，然后打开门让他进去。“到图书室去等。那边有木材，去生个火。我可不会让学士因为你的关系着凉。”
　　等齐特领着伊蒙师傅进来，琼恩已经生起一炉劈啪作响的柴火。老人穿着睡袍，颈间依然挂着象征身份的锁链。即便睡觉，学士也不能取下。“我坐炉边那张椅子就好。”他大概是察觉到暖意，便这么说。等他舒服地坐下，齐特拿了张毛皮帮他盖住双脚，然后走到门边站定。
　　“学士，这么晚还吵醒您，真是抱歉。”琼恩·雪诺道。
　　“你并没有吵醒我，”伊蒙师傅回答，“我发现年纪越大，睡眠的需求就越少，而我已经很老了。我时常大半夜与过去的鬼魂为伍，回忆起五十年前的往事，恍如昨日。因此三更半夜的神秘访客，也算件不错的事。那么告诉我，琼恩·雪诺，这时候跑来找我，究竟有什么事？”
　　“我想请您让山姆威尔·塔利结束训练，正式加入守夜人弟兄的行列。”
　　“那不干伊蒙学士的事。”齐特抱怨。
　　“总司令把训练新兵的事务交给艾里沙·索恩爵士负责，”师傅温和地说，“只有他才能决定某个孩子够不够格宣誓加入，这你想必也清楚。你为什么还来找我？”
　　“因为总司令会听从您的建议，”琼恩告诉他，“更何况守夜人弟兄若有病痛伤患，也都由您照料。”
　　“这么说来，你这位山姆威尔·塔利可有病痛伤患？”
　　“他很快就会有，”琼恩向他保证，“除非您能伸出援手。”
　　他一五一十地把事情真相说出来，连放白灵去对付雷斯特的部分也没漏掉。伊蒙师傅静静地倾听，盲昧的双眼朝向炉火，然而齐特的眼神却随着他说的每一个字越显阴沉。“没有我们保护，山姆绝对撑不下去。”琼恩收了尾，“他对舞刀弄剑一窍不通。连我妹妹艾莉亚都能把他大卸八块，而她还不满十岁。假如艾里沙爵士强迫他打斗，他早晚会受伤，甚至被杀。”
　　齐特听不下去了。“我在大厅里见过这肥小子，”他说，“他分明就是条猪，如果你说的是实话，那他还是个无可救药的胆小鬼。”
　　“或许真是如此，”伊蒙师傅道，“齐特，你倒是说说，我们该拿这孩子怎么办？”
　　“别理他，”齐特说，“长城本来就不是软脚虾该来的地方。就让他继续受训，直到他够格为止，管他要训练多少年。老天有眼，艾里沙爵士要嘛把他变成个男人，不然就把他杀掉。”
　　“这种作法太愚蠢了，”琼恩道。他深吸一口气，稍稍整理思绪。“记得我曾听鲁温师傅解释过他为什么要始终戴着颈链。”
　　伊蒙师傅伸出骨瘦如柴，满是皱纹的手指轻抚着他沉重的项圈。“继续说。”
　　“他告诉我学士的颈链是用来提醒自己立下的誓言，”琼恩边回忆边说，“然后我追问他为什么每个环节都要用不同的金属，我说如果换成银链，搭配他的灰袍一定更出彩。鲁温师傅笑着告诉我：锁链乃是随着学士的知识渐长而逐一打造。不同的金属，代表不同领域的知识，黄金代表财务会计，白银象征救死扶伤，钢铁则是军事知识。他说除此之外，锁链还有别的意义。戴着锁链，可以随时提醒学士所服务的王国，对不对？想想看，如果说贵族老爷是黄金，骑士是钢铁，但光这两个金属环无法连成一条锁链，你还需要白银、铁和铅，锡、红铜和青铜，以及其他金属，他们象征着农夫、工匠等等各行各业的人。一条锁链需要各种金属，正如一个国家需要形形色色的人。”
　　伊蒙师傅微笑道：“所以呢？”
　　“守夜人也是如此，不然干嘛区分游骑兵、事务官和工匠呢？蓝道大人无法把山姆训练成战士，艾里沙爵士也不会有办法。无论你多用力，也不能把锡打成铁，但这不代表锡就没用。为什么不让山姆当个事务官呢？”
　　齐特愤怒地绷着脸道：“我自己就是个事务官，你以为这是轻松差事，可以随便拿给胆小鬼做？守夜人日子过得下去，全靠我们事务官打猎种田、养马养牛，还有捡柴烧饭。你以为你穿的衣服是谁缝的？补给品又是谁从南方运来的？告诉你，通通是事务官。”
　　伊蒙师傅的反应比较温和。“你这位朋友打猎技术如何？”
　　“他痛恨打猎。”琼恩不得不承认。
　　“那他会犁田吗？”学士问：“他能驾车开船吗？会不会杀牛呢？”
　　“都不会。”
　　齐特阴险地笑道：“我见过像他这种软弱的小少爷被派去做事时是什么德行。叫他们搅个奶油，就弄得皮破血流。叫他们拿斧头劈柴，就把自己的脚给砍了。”
　　“我知道有件事山姆做得比谁都好。”
　　“是什么？”伊蒙学士提问。
　　琼恩警觉地看看站在门边，面疮发红，满脸怒意的齐特。“他可以帮您的忙，”他很快地说，“他懂算术，也会读书写字。我知道齐特不识字，克莱达斯眼睛又不好。山姆把他父亲的藏书都读遍了。他跟乌鸦应该会处得来，动物似乎都很喜欢他，白灵一见他就对他很有好感。除了打架，他能做的事很多。守夜人军团需要每一种人，何苦不为什么就杀掉一个呢？不如知人善任。”
　　伊蒙学士闭上眼睛，琼恩一时还担心他睡着，但最后他开了口：“琼恩·雪诺，鲁温学士把你调教得很好。看来你的心思和你的剑一样灵敏。”
　　“您的意思是……？”
　　“我会仔细想想你的话，”学士语气坚定地告诉他，“现在嘛，我准备睡了。齐特，送这位年轻弟兄出去。”
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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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   42.TYRION

   They had taken shelter beneath a copse of aspens just off the high road. Tyrion was gathering deadwood while their horses took water from a mountain stream. He stooped to pick up a splintered branch and examined it critically. “Will this do? I am not practiced at starting fires. Morrec did that for me.”
   “A fire?” Bronn said, spitting. “Are you so hungry to die, dwarf? Or have you taken leave of your senses? A fire will bring the clansmen down on us from miles around. I mean to survive this journey, Lannister.”
   “And how do you hope to do that?” Tyrion asked. He tucked the branch under his arm and poked around through the sparse undergrowth, looking for more. His back ached from the effort of bending; they had been riding since daybreak, when a stone-faced Ser Lyn Corbray had ushered them through the Bloody Gate and commanded them never to return.
   “We have no chance of fighting our way back,” Bronn said, “but two can cover more ground than ten, and attract less notice. The fewer days we spend in these mountains, the more like we are to reach the riverlands. Ride hard and fast, I say. Travel by night and hole up by day, avoid the road where we can, make no noise and light no fires.”
   Tyrion Lannister sighed. “A splendid plan, Bronn. Try it, as you like?.?.?.?and forgive me if I do not linger to bury you.”
   “You think to outlive me, dwarf?” The sellsword grinned. He had a dark gap in his smile where the edge of Ser Vardis Egen’s shield had cracked a tooth in half.
   Tyrion shrugged. “Riding hard and fast by night is a sure way to tumble down a mountain and crack your skull. I prefer to make my crossing slow and easy. I know you love the taste of horse, Bronn, but if our mounts die under us this time, we’ll be trying to saddle shadowcats?.?.?.?and if truth be told, I think the clans will find us no matter what we do. Their eyes are all around us.” He swept a gloved hand over the high, wind-carved crags that surrounded them.
   Bronn grimaced. “Then we’re dead men, Lannister.”
   “If so, I prefer to die comfortable,” Tyrion replied. “We need a fire. The nights are cold up here, and hot food will warm our bellies and lift our spirits. Do you suppose there’s any game to be had? Lady Lysa has kindly provided us with a veritable feast of salt beef, hard cheese, and stale bread, but I would hate to break a tooth so far from the nearest maester.”
   “I can find meat.” Beneath a fall of black hair, Bronn’s dark eyes regarded Tyrion suspiciously. “I should leave you here with your fool’s fire. If I took your horse, I’d have twice the chance to make it through. What would you do then, dwarf?”
   “Die, most like.” Tyrion stooped to get another stick.
   “You don’t think I’d do it?”
   “You’d do it in an instant, if it meant your life. You were quick enough to silence your friend Chiggen when he caught that arrow in his belly.” Bronn had yanked back the man’s head by the hair and driven the point of his dirk in under the ear, and afterward told Catelyn Stark that the other sellsword had died of his wound.
   “He was good as dead,” Bronn said, “and his moaning was bringing them down on us. Chiggen would have done the same for me?.?.?.?and he was no friend, only a man I rode with. Make no mistake, dwarf. I fought for you, but I do not love you.”
   “It was your blade I needed,” Tyrion said, “not your love.” He dumped his armful of wood on the ground.
   Bronn grinned. “You’re bold as any sellsword, I’ll give you that. How did you know I’d take your part?”
   “Know?” Tyrion squatted awkwardly on his stunted legs to build the fire. “I tossed the dice. Back at the inn, you and Chiggen helped take me captive. Why? The others saw it as their duty, for the honor of the lords they served, but not you two. You had no lord, no duty, and precious little honor, so why trouble to involve yourselves?” He took out his knife and whittled some thin strips of bark off one of the sticks he’d gathered, to serve as kindling. “Well, why do sellswords do anything? For gold. You were thinking Lady Catelyn would reward you for your help, perhaps even take you into her service. Here, that should do, I hope. Do you have a flint?”
   Bronn slid two fingers into the pouch at his belt and tossed down a flint. Tyrion caught it in the air.
   “My thanks,” he said. “The thing is, you did not know the Starks. Lord Eddard is a proud, honorable, and honest man, and his lady wife is worse. Oh, no doubt she would have found a coin or two for you when this was all over, and pressed it in your hand with a polite word and a look of distaste, but that’s the most you could have hoped for. The Starks look for courage and loyalty and honor in the men they choose to serve them, and if truth be told, you and Chiggen were lowborn scum.” Tyrion struck the flint against his dagger, trying for a spark. Nothing.
   Bronn snorted. “You have a bold tongue, little man. One day someone is like to cut it out and make you eat it.”
   “Everyone tells me that.” Tyrion glanced up at the sellsword. “Did I offend you? My pardons?.?.?.?but you are scum, Bronn, make no mistake. Duty, honor, friendship, what’s that to you? No, don’t trouble yourself, we both know the answer. Still, you’re not stupid. Once we reached the Vale, Lady Stark had no more need of you?.?.?.?but I did, and the one thing the Lannisters have never lacked for is gold. When the moment came to toss the dice, I was counting on your being smart enough to know where your best interest lay. Happily for me, you did.” He slammed stone and steel together again, fruitlessly.
   “Here,” said Bronn, squatting, “I’ll do it.” He took the knife and flint from Tyrion’s hands and struck sparks on his first try. A curl of bark began to smolder.
   “Well done,” Tyrion said. “Scum you may be, but you’re undeniably useful, and with a sword in your hand you’re almost as good as my brother Jaime. What do you want, Bronn? Gold? Land? Women? Keep me alive, and you’ll have it.”
   Bronn blew gently on the fire, and the flames leapt up higher. “And if you die?”
   “Why then, I’ll have one mourner whose grief is sincere,” Tyrion said, grinning. “The gold ends when I do.”
   The fire was blazing up nicely. Bronn stood, tucked the flint back into his pouch, and tossed Tyrion his dagger. “Fair enough,” he said. “My sword’s yours, then?.?.?.?but don’t go looking for me to bend the knee and m’lord you every time you take a shit. I’m no man’s toady.”
   “Nor any man’s friend,” Tyrion said. “I’ve no doubt you’d betray me as quick as you did Lady Stark, if you saw a profit in it. If the day ever comes when you’re tempted to sell me out, remember this, Bronn, I’ll match their price, whatever it is. I like living. And now, do you think you could do something about finding us some supper?”
   “Take care of the horses,” Bronn said, unsheathing the long dirk he wore at his hip. He strode into the trees.
   An hour later the horses had been rubbed down and fed, the fire was crackling away merrily, and a haunch of a young goat was turning above the flames, spitting and hissing. “All we lack now is some good wine to wash down our kid,” Tyrion said.
   “That, a woman, and another dozen swords,” Bronn said. He sat cross-legged beside the fire, honing the edge of his longsword with an oilstone. There was something strangely reassuring about the rasping sound it made when he drew it down the steel. “It will be full dark soon,” the sellsword pointed out. “I’ll take first watch?.?.?.?for all the good it will do us. It might be kinder to let them kill us in our sleep.”
   “Oh, I imagine they’ll be here long before it comes to sleep.” The smell of the roasting meat made Tyrion’s mouth water.
   Bronn watched him across the fire. “You have a plan,” he said flatly, with a scrape of steel on stone.
   “A hope, call it,” Tyrion said. “Another toss of the dice.”
   “With our lives as the stake?”
   Tyrion shrugged. “What choice do we have?” He leaned over the fire and sawed a thin slice of meat from the kid. “Ahhhh,” he sighed happily as he chewed. Grease ran down his chin. “A bit tougher than I’d like, and in want of spicing, but I’ll not complain too loudly. If I were back at the Eyrie, I’d be dancing on a precipice in hopes of a boiled bean.”
   “And yet you gave the turnkey a purse of gold,” Bronn said.
   “A Lannister always pays his debts.”
   Even Mord had scarcely believed it when Tyrion tossed him the leather purse. The gaoler’s eyes had gone big as boiled eggs as he yanked open the drawstring and beheld the glint of gold. “I kept the silver,” Tyrion had told him with a crooked smile, “but you were promised the gold, and there it is.” It was more than a man like Mord could hope to earn in a lifetime of abusing prisoners. “And remember what I said, this is only a taste. If you ever grow tired of Lady Arryn’s service, present yourself at Casterly Rock, and I’ll pay you the rest of what I owe you.” With golden dragons spilling out of both hands, Mord had fallen to his knees and promised that he would do just that.
   Bronn yanked out his dirk and pulled the meat from the fire. He began to carve thick chunks of charred meat off the bone as Tyrion hollowed out two heels of stale bread to serve as trenchers. “If we do reach the river, what will you do then?” the sellsword asked as he cut.
   “Oh, a whore and a featherbed and a flagon of wine, for a start.” Tyrion held out his trencher, and Bronn filled it with meat. “And then to Casterly Rock or King’s Landing, I think. I have some questions that want answering, concerning a certain dagger.”
   The sellsword chewed and swallowed. “So you were telling it true? It was not your knife?”
   Tyrion smiled thinly. “Do I look a liar to you?”
   By the time their bellies were full, the stars had come out and a halfmoon was rising over the mountains. Tyrion spread his shadowskin cloak on the ground and stretched out with his saddle for a pillow. “Our friends are taking their sweet time.”
   “If I were them, I’d fear a trap,” Bronn said. “Why else would we be so open, if not to lure them in?”
   Tyrion chuckled. “Then we ought to sing and send them fleeing in terror.” He began to whistle a tune.
   “You’re mad, dwarf,” Bronn said as he cleaned the grease out from under his nails with his dirk.
   “Where’s your love of music, Bronn?”
   “If it was music you wanted, you should have gotten the singer to champion you.”
   Tyrion grinned. “That would have been amusing. I can just see him fending off Ser Vardis with his woodharp.” He resumed his whistling. “Do you know this song?” he asked.
   “You hear it here and there, in inns and whorehouses.”
   “Myrish. ‘The Seasons of My Love.’ Sweet and sad, if you understand the words. The first girl I ever bedded used to sing it, and I’ve never been able to put it out of my head.” Tyrion gazed up at the sky. It was a clear cold night and the stars shone down upon the mountains as bright and merciless as truth. “I met her on a night like this,” he heard himself saying. “Jaime and I were riding back from Lannisport when we heard a scream, and she came running out into the road with two men dogging her heels, shouting threats. My brother unsheathed his sword and went after them, while I dismounted to protect the girl. She was scarcely a year older than I was, dark-haired, slender, with a face that would break your heart. It certainly broke mine. Lowborn, half-starved, unwashed?.?.?.?yet lovely. They’d torn the rags she was wearing half off her back, so I wrapped her in my cloak while Jaime chased the men into the woods. By the time he came trotting back, I’d gotten a name out of her, and a story. She was a crofter’s child, orphaned when her father died of fever, on her way to?.?.?.?well, nowhere, really.
   “Jaime was all in a lather to hunt down the men. It was not often outlaws dared prey on travelers so near to Casterly Rock, and he took it as an insult. The girl was too frightened to send off by herself, though, so I offered to take her to the closest inn and feed her while my brother rode back to the Rock for help.
   “She was hungrier than I would have believed. We finished two whole chickens and part of a third, and drank a flagon of wine, talking. I was only thirteen, and the wine went to my head, I fear. The next thing I knew, I was sharing her bed. If she was shy, I was shyer. I’ll never know where I found the courage. When I broke her maidenhead, she wept, but afterward she kissed me and sang her little song, and by morning I was in love.”
   “You?” Bronn’s voice was amused.
   “Absurd, isn’t it?” Tyrion began to whistle the song again. “I married her,” he finally admitted.
   “A Lannister of Casterly Rock wed to a crofter’s daughter,” Bronn said. “How did you manage that?”
   “Oh, you’d be astonished at what a boy can make of a few lies, fifty pieces of silver, and a drunken septon. I dared not bring my bride home to Casterly Rock, so I set her up in a cottage of her own, and for a fortnight we played at being man and wife. And then the septon sobered and confessed all to my lord father.” Tyrion was surprised at how desolate it made him feel to say it, even after all these years. Perhaps he was just tired. “That was the end of my marriage.” He sat up and stared at the dying fire, blinking at the light.
   “He sent the girl away?”
   “He did better than that,” Tyrion said. “First he made my brother tell me the truth. The girl was a whore, you see. Jaime arranged the whole affair, the road, the outlaws, all of it. He thought it was time I had a woman. He paid double for a maiden, knowing it would be my first time.
   “After Jaime had made his confession, to drive home the lesson, Lord Tywin brought my wife in and gave her to his guards. They paid her fair enough. A silver for each man, how many whores command that high a price? He sat me down in the corner of the barracks and bade me watch, and at the end she had so many silvers the coins were slipping through her fingers and rolling on the floor, she?.?.?.?” The smoke was stinging his eyes. Tyrion cleared his throat and turned away from the fire, to gaze out into darkness. “Lord Tywin had me go last,” he said in a quiet voice. “And he gave me a gold coin to pay her, because I was a Lannister, and worth more.”
   After a time he heard the noise again, the rasp of steel on stone as Bronn sharpened his sword. “Thirteen or thirty or three, I would have killed the man who did that to me.”
   Tyrion swung around to face him. “You may get that chance one day. Remember what I told you. A Lannister always pays his debts.” He yawned. “I think I will try and sleep. Wake me if we’re about to die.”
   He rolled himself up in the shadowskin and shut his eyes. The ground was stony and cold, but after a time Tyrion Lannister did sleep. He dreamt of the sky cell. This time he was the gaoler, not the prisoner, big, with a strap in his hand, and he was hitting his father, driving him back, toward the abyss?.?.?.?
   “Tyrion.” Bronn’s warning was low and urgent.
   Tyrion was awake in the blink of an eye. The fire had burned down to embers, and the shadows were creeping in all around them. Bronn had raised himself to one knee, his sword in one hand and his dirk in the other. Tyrion held up a hand: stay still, it said. “Come share our fire, the night is cold,” he called out to the creeping shadows. “I fear we’ve no wine to offer you, but you’re welcome to some of our goat.”
   All movement stopped. Tyrion saw the glint of moonlight on metal. “Our mountain,” a voice called out from the trees, deep and hard and unfriendly. “Our goat.”
   “Your goat,” Tyrion agreed. “Who are you?”
   “When you meet your gods,” a different voice replied, “say it was Gunthor son of Gurn of the Stone Crows who sent you to them.” A branch cracked underfoot as he stepped into the light; a thin man in a horned helmet, armed with a long knife.
   “And Shagga son of Dolf.” That was the first voice, deep and deadly. A boulder shifted to their left, and stood, and became a man. Massive and slow and strong he seemed, dressed all in skins, with a club in his right hand and an axe in his left. He smashed them together as he lumbered closer.
   Other voices called other names, Conn and Torrek and Jaggot and more that Tyrion forgot the instant he heard them; ten at least. A few had swords and knives; others brandished pitchforks and scythes and wooden spears. He waited until they were done shouting out their names before he gave them answer. “I am Tyrion son of Tywin, of the Clan Lannister, the Lions of the Rock. We will gladly pay you for the goat we ate.”
   “What do you have to give us, Tyrion son of Tywin?” asked the one who named himself Gunthor, who seemed to be their chief.
   “There is silver in my purse,” Tyrion told them. “This hauberk I wear is large for me, but it should fit Conn nicely, and the battle-axe I carry would suit Shagga’s mighty hand far better than that wood-axe he holds.”
   “The halfman would pay us with our own coin,” said Conn.
   “Conn speaks truly,” Gunthor said. “Your silver is ours. Your horses are ours. Your hauberk and your battle-axe and the knife at your belt, those are ours too. You have nothing to give us but your lives. How would you like to die, Tyrion son of Tywin?”
   “In my own bed, with a belly full of wine and a maiden’s mouth around my cock, at the age of eighty,” he replied.
   The huge one, Shagga, laughed first and loudest. The others seemed less amused. “Conn, take their horses,” Gunthor commanded. “Kill the other and seize the halfinan. He can milk the goats and make the mothers laugh.”
   Bronn sprang to his feet. “Who dies first?”
   “No!” Tyrion said sharply. “Gunthor son of Gurn, hear me. My House is rich and powerful. If the Stone Crows will see us safely through these mountains, my lord father will shower you with gold.”
   “The gold of a lowland lord is as worthless as a halfman’s promises,” Gunthor said.
   “Half a man I may be,” Tyrion said, “yet I have the courage to face my enemies. What do the Stone Crows do, but hide behind rocks and shiver with fear as the knights of the Vale ride by?”
   Shagga gave a roar of anger and clashed club against axe. Jaggot poked at Tyrion’s face with the fire-hardened point of a long wooden spear. He did his best not to flinch. “Are these the best weapons you could steal?” he said. “Good enough for killing sheep, perhaps?.?.?.?if the sheep do not fight back. My father’s smiths shit better steel.”
   “Little boyman,” Shagga roared, “will you mock my axe after I chop off your manhood and feed it to the goats?”
   But Gunthor raised a hand. “No. I would hear his words. The mothers go hungry, and steel fills more mouths than gold. What would you give us for your lives, Tyrion son of Tywin? Swords? Lances? Mail?”
   “All that, and more, Gunthor son of Gurn,” Tyrion Lannister replied, smiling. “I will give you the Vale of Arryn.”



Ⅰ 权力的游戏 Chapter43 提利昂
　　他们在紧邻山路的山杨树丛下稍事休息。提利昂捡拾枯枝，马匹则啜饮山泉。他俯身拿起一根断裂的枝干仔细审视。“这个行吗？我对生火这事儿不在行，以前都是莫里斯帮我弄的。”
　　“生火？”波隆啐了口唾沫，“侏儒，你急着找死不成？还是你走得连理智都没啦？生火会把方圆好几里的原住民通通吸引过来。兰尼斯特，我还想活着走完这趟路呢。”
　　“那你倒是打算怎么办？”提利昂问。他把树枝夹在腋下，继续在稀疏的灌木丛中翻找。天刚亮，林恩·科布瑞爵士便铁青着脸把他们送出血门，并明令禁止他们再度出现，从那时起，他俩便快马加鞭地赶路，直到现在还没歇息，害得他腰酸背痛。
　　“靠蛮干杀出重围是别想了，”波隆道，“但两个人轻装便行，总比大批人马速度快，也较不会引人注意。我们在山里停留的时间越短，就越有机会安全抵达河间地带。所以我说咱们应该加紧赶路，白天躲藏，夜间行动，道路能避就避，不要发出噪音，更不要生火。”
　　提利昂·兰尼斯特叹道：“波隆，这计划真是好极了。那你就自己去试试罢……到时候可别怪我没停下来帮你挖坟。”
　　“你这侏儒想活得比我久？”佣兵嘿嘿笑道。他的笑容有个缺口，正是瓦狄斯·伊根爵士的盾牌撞掉他一颗牙齿的地方。
　　提利昂耸耸肩。“你要在夜间加紧赶路，这简直就是想摔破脑袋。我宁可慢慢走，舒舒服服地走。波隆，我知道你爱吃马肉，但这回要是我的马死了，咱俩就只剩影子山猫可骑了……老实说，我认为不管我们怎么做，原住民都会找上我们。这里四处都是他们的眼线。”他伸出戴了手套的手，朝周围风蚀的高耸峭壁挥挥。
　　波隆皱眉道：“兰尼斯特，那我们就跟死人没两样了。”
　　“真那样的话，我也宁愿死得舒服点。”提利昂回答，“我们需要生个火，这里入夜之后冷死人，热腾腾的食物不仅可以温暖咱们的肚皮，还可以提振精神。你觉得这附近能打到什么野味？莱莎夫人好心地给我们准备了丰盛的咸牛肉、硬乳酪和干面包大餐，但我实在不想在这里咬断牙齿，你知道，要找学士还有得走咧。”
　　“我能弄到肉，”一绺黑发之下，波隆的黑眼睛狐疑地打量着提利昂。“但我首先应该把你和这堆笨柴火丢在这里，如果我把你的马也带走，那我逃脱的机会就会加倍。到时候你会怎么做呢，侏儒先生？”
　　“八成是死啰。”提利昂弯腰捡起另一根木棍。
　　“你觉得我不会这么做？”
　　“如果攸关性命，你会毫不犹豫这么做。当初你朋友契根肚子中箭，你不就动作飞快，一刀把他宰了？”当时波隆抓住他的头发往后一扯，匕首从他耳朵贯穿而进，事后他却对凯特琳·史塔克说他的佣兵同伴死于箭伤。
　　“反正他也活不成，”波隆道，“更何况他大呼小叫个不停，把敌人都引来了。那天受伤的换做我，契根也会同样行为……何况他算不上朋友，只是同行的伙伴。侏儒，你给我搞清楚，我帮你杀人，但那不代表我喜欢你。”
　　“我也只需要你帮我杀人，”提利昂说，“用不着你喜欢我。”他把怀中的木材扔到地上。
　　波隆嘿嘿一笑。“我得承认，你胆子够大，不输咱们佣兵。你怎么知道我会替你出场？”
　　“我哪儿知道？”提利昂瘸着腿试图生火。“我是孤注一掷。之前在旅店里，你和契根跟他们一道把我抓住，图什么？其他人要么是因为职责所在，要么是为了主子的名誉，但你俩不是。你既没有主子，也没有义务，更没有什么宝贝荣誉，何苦没事找事？”他取出刀子，削掉一根木棍的树皮，用来当引信。“喏，佣兵是为什么做事啊？还不是为了钱。你们以为凯特琳夫人会奖赏你们的协助，甚至给你们谋个差事。好了，我想这样应该就行了。你有没有打火石？”
　　波隆伸出两根手指滑进腰间的小袋，丢出一块打火石。提利昂在半空中接住。
　　“谢啦。”他说，“问题在于你不了解史塔克家的人。艾德大人既骄傲，又正直，凡事讲求荣誉，而他夫人嘛就更别提了。喏，等事情结束后她当然会赏你两个小钱，带着嫌恶的眼神，一边把钱塞到你手里，一边说几句礼貌的话，但别指望她会给更多啦。史塔克家要的是有忠诚有勇气，还得讲究荣誉的人，而你和契根嘛，老实说，不过是出身低贱的人渣。”提利昂拿燧石敲击匕首想生火，却什么也没弄出来。
　　波隆哼了一声。“小家伙，我看你这舌头挺毒的，小心哪天给人割了叫你吞下肚去。”
　　“别人都这么说。”提利昂瞄瞄佣兵。“我冒犯到你了吗？那还真对不住……不过哩，波隆，你也搞清楚，你的的确确是个人渣。责任感、荣誉心、友谊，哪一样是你有的？哼，不用费工夫想了，答案咱俩都知道。可你不蠢，我们抵达峡谷之后，史塔克夫人就用不着你了……但我用得着，何况兰尼斯特家的人从不吝惜金子。所以，当我需要孤注一掷时，我就是猜你够机灵，知道怎么做对你最有利。让我很高兴的是，你的确够机灵。”他将打火石和刀刃再度撞击，却依旧徒劳无功。
　　“拿来，”波隆蹲下身，“让我来。”他从提利昂手里接过短刀和燧石，一打便擦出火花。一块卷起的树皮开始冒烟。
　　“干得好。”提利昂道，“你虽然是个人渣，但不可否认你很有用。手里再拿把剑，你就跟我老哥詹姆差不多厉害。波隆，你想要什么？金子？土地？还是女人？只要想办法保全我性命，你要什么有什么。”
　　波隆朝火堆轻轻吹气，火焰顿时跃得老高。“万一你死了怎么办？”
　　“那样嘛，起码有了个真心诚意为我哀悼的人。”提利昂嘻嘻笑道，“我挂了，金子也就没啰。”
　　这时火已经烧得很旺。波隆起身，把燧石塞进口袋，然后将匕首抛回给提利昂。“算你公道，”他说，“我的剑是你的了……但别叫我来卑躬屈膝、满口老爷大人那套，我不当别人的仆从。”
　　“你也不当别人的朋友，”提利昂道，“我很清楚一旦有利可图，你会义无返顾地背叛我，就跟你背叛史塔克夫人一样。波隆，要是哪天真有人引诱你出卖我，请你记住——不管对方出价多少，我都付得起。说穿了，就是我很爱惜我这条命。好啦，那你现在到底能不能帮咱们弄点好吃的？”
　　“你把马照顾好。”波隆说着解开系在身后的猎刀，大步走进树林。
　　一个小时后，马匹已经刷洗喂饱，营火也烧得劈啪作响，火上的烤架正转着一只小山羊，滴下油汁，香气四溢。“现在只差一瓶好酒配着下肚啦。”提利昂说。
　　“还要来个女人，最好再多十来个士兵保护我们。”波隆道。他两脚盘坐在火边，正拿油石磨长剑。石头和金属摩擦所发出的刺耳声响有种怪异的安全感。“很快天就要全黑，”佣兵表示，“第一班我来值……虽然没什么用，好歹待会儿我可以死在睡梦中。”
　　“喔，我看用不着等到睡着，他们就会过来了。”闻着烤肉的香气，提利昂不禁口水直流。
　　波隆隔着营火盯着他。“你有打算。”他平板地说，石头又磨了剑一下。
　　“不妨说有一丝希望罢，”提利昂道，“又到孤注一掷的时候了。”
　　“你拿咱俩的性命当赌注？”
　　提利昂耸耸肩。“难道有别的选择？”他伸手从火上割下一小片羊肉。“啊。”他一边咀嚼，一边开心地感叹。油汁从他两颊滴下。“虽然有点硬，又没有酱料，但我还是不抱怨的好。之前在鹰巢城，我在断崖边跳来跳去，连一粒煮豆子都吃不到哩。”
　　“结果你却给了那狱卒一袋金子。”波隆说。
　　“兰尼斯特有债必还。”
　　当提利昂把装了金子的皮袋扔给莫德时，连莫德自己都难以置信。狱卒松开袋口的绳子，看到耀眼黄金，两眼睁得像煮蛋那么大。“我把银币留了下来，”提利昂对他歪嘴一笑。“我们本来就说好给金子，所以就成交啰。”那笔钱是莫德欺负一辈子犯人都挣不到的数目。“还有，别忘记我说过，这些只是开胃小菜。哪天你要是觉得烦，不想继续为艾林夫人做事，就到凯岩城来，到时候我再把欠你的算清。”眼看两手盛满金龙币，莫德当场就双脚跪下，保证他一定会照办。
　　波隆抽出匕首，将肉从火堆上拿下，开始从骨头上切下一块块烤得焦黑的肉，提利昂则挖空两块硬面包充当盘子。“假如我们真能回到河间地，你打算做什么？”佣兵边切边问。
　　“喏，先找个妓女，弄张羽毛床，来壶好酒再说。”提和昂递出盘子，波隆将之装满肉块。“然后再决定去凯岩城或者君临，等我想想，关于某把匕首，可有好些问题要问呢。”
　　佣兵咀嚼吞咽着满口烤肉。“这么说来你没撒谎？那真不是你的刀子？”
　　提利昂挤出一丝微笑。“你觉得我看起来可像个骗子？”
　　待他们填饱肚子，夜空已群星密布，一弯新月升上山头。提利昂将他的山猫皮披风铺在地上，拿马鞍当枕头。“等啊等啊，咱们朋友还没动静，真是好事多磨。”
　　“换做是我，也会担心其中有诈，”波隆道，“要不是有陷阱，干嘛这样大刺刺的？”
　　提利昂咯咯笑道：“那我们岂不更该唱歌跳舞，好把他们通通吓跑啰。”说完他哼起了小调。
　　“侏儒，你真是疯了。”波隆边说边用匕首剔除指甲缝里的油脂。
　　“波隆，你对音乐的喜好都到哪儿去啦？”
　　“你要音乐，当初干嘛不叫那唱歌的当你打手？”
　　提利昂嘻笑道：“那一定很有趣。想想他拿竖琴对付瓦狄斯爵士会是什么情景。”他继续哼唱着。“知不知道这曲儿？”他问。
　　“听得烦了，在旅店或妓院里常听到。”
　　“这是密尔的歌谣，叫做‘我的恋爱季节’。如果你知道歌词，就会明白写得有多么甜美哀怨。我睡过的第一个女孩子以前常唱这首歌，想忘也忘不掉。”提利昂抬头仰视星空。这是个清朗的寒夜，群星的光辉洒在山间，明亮无情有如真理。“我遇见她的那晚就和现在一模一样，”他听见自己说，“当时詹姆和我正从兰尼斯港骑马回来，只听一声尖叫，就见她朝路上跑来，后面跟了两个大呼小叫的男人。我老哥拔剑去对付他们，我则下马保护女孩。她只大我不到一岁，黑头发，很纤细，那张脸教你看了就心碎。最起码我的心碎了。虽然她出身低贱，又一副营养不良的样子，也很久没洗澡……但就是讨人喜欢。那两个男的先前已经扯开了她穿的破布，背几乎都露了出来，所以我用自己的斗篷裹住她，詹姆则把那两个家伙赶回森林里。等他跑回来，我已经问出了她的名字和身世。她是个农夫的女儿，自从她爹发烧病死后就孤伶伶一个人，正准备去……唉，其实要去哪儿她自己也不知道。”
　　“当时詹姆一心只想逮着那两个人。强盗居然敢在距离凯岩城这么近的地方攻击行人，这可不是件寻常事，他把这当成奇耻大辱。那女孩惊慌失措，不敢一个人走路，于是我提议带她到附近的旅馆，弄点东西给她吃，而我老哥则回凯岩城讨救兵。”
　　“她比我原先料想的更饿。我俩足足吃了两只半烤鸡，又喝干了一整壶酒，边吃边聊很愉快。那年我才十三岁，只怕一喝酒就乱了性。总之等我回过神来，已经跟她躺在床上。她很害羞，但我更害羞，真不知我是打哪儿来的勇气？我给她开苞的时候她哭了，但事后她吻了我，然后悄声唱起那首歌，到第二天清晨，我已经爱上她了。”
　　“你爱上她了？”波隆的语气听来饶富兴味。
　　“很可笑，对不对？”提利昂又哼起那首歌。“后来我还娶了她。”最后他终于承认。
　　“兰尼斯特家的人娶个农家女？”波隆说，“真有你的。”
　　“唉，讲几句谎话，口袋里装上五十枚银币，再找个喝醉酒的修士，一个小男孩能干些什么，说了你大概都不相信。我不敢把我的新娘带回凯岩城，就把她安顿在她自己的小屋里，咱俩过了两个星期的夫妻生活。最后那修士酒醒，便把事情前后通通禀报给我公爵老爸。”过了这么多年，讲起这件事竟依旧让提利昂倍感孤寂，他实在大感意外。或许只是旅途困顿的关系罢。“我的婚姻到此结束。”他坐起身，凝视着逐渐熄灭的篝火，就着光亮眨眼。
　　“他把那女孩赶走了？”
　　“他做得更漂亮，”提利昂道，“他先要我老哥跟我说实话。其实……那女孩是个妓女。从那条路到那两个强盗，整件事都是詹姆安排好的。他认为让我体验男女之事的时刻到了，便精心策划了这一切。这是我的第一次，所以他特意付了双倍的价钱找了个处女。”
　　“詹姆说完之后，为了让我牢牢记取教训，泰温大人把我老婆叫进来，交给他手下的卫兵。说实话，他们出的价挺公道，一人一枚银币，你说多少妓女值这个价？他叫我坐在军营的角落，逼我全程观赏，到后来她赚的银币多得拿不完，白花花的银子顺着指缝洒了一地，而她……”浓烟刺痛了他的眼睛。提利昂清清喉咙，从火边转开，朝黑暗的夜空望去。“泰温大人让我最后一个上。”他轻声说，“他还递给我一枚金币，因为我是兰尼斯特家的人，身价不同。”
　　过了一会儿，他又听见波隆拿石头磨剑的声音。“管我十三岁、三十岁还是三岁，有人敢这样对我，我非宰了他不可。”
　　提利昂转头面对他。“说不定哪天你会有机会。记得我跟你说过的话，兰尼斯特有债必还，有仇必报。”他伸个懒腰。“我试着睡一会儿好了。咱们要死的时候记得叫醒我。”
　　他用山猫皮披风裹住身子，闭上眼睛。地面凹凸不平，又冷又硬，但没过多久，提利昂·兰尼斯特竟真的睡着了。他梦见了天牢，但这回他是狱卒，并非犯人，而且他身躯高大，手握皮带，正抽打着父亲，逼他后退，逐渐靠近无尽深渊……
　　“提利昂。”波隆的警告低沉而急促。
　　提利昂立时清醒。营火仅剩余烬，人影正从四面八方朝他们进逼。波隆单膝起立，一手持剑一手握着匕首。提利昂捉住佣兵的手：安静，别轻举妄动。“今晚夜风寒冷，诸位何妨过来一起烤烤火？”他对周围鬼鬼崇祟的人影喊，“虽然我们无酒可以招待，但欢迎各位前来品尝羊肉。”
　　所有的动作都停了下来。就着月色，提利昂瞥见金属反射的光泽。“山是我们的，”树丛里传来一个低沉、坚毅而不友善的声音。“羊肉也是我们的。”
　　“羊肉是你们的没错，”提利昂附和：“你是谁？”
　　“当你升天去见你的神的时候，”另一个声音回答，“告诉他送你上天的是石鸦部的冈恩之子冈梭尔。”他踏开树丛，走进光线范围内。来人个子很瘦，带着个牛角盔，手里握着猎刀。
　　“还有多夫之子夏嘎。”这是头一个声音，低沉而致命。只见一块巨石朝他们左边挪动，然后立起身，变成了人。他的身躯魁梧强壮，看似动作迟缓，全身穿着兽皮，右手拿了根木棍，左手则握着一柄斧头。他脚步笨重地朝他们走来，边走边猛力把两样武器对撞了一下。
　　其他的声音跟着喊出名字，有康恩、托瑞克、贾戈特，还有些名字提利昂记不完全，但对方一共有十人以上。有些拿了刀剑，其他人则挥舞着干草叉、镰刀和树木削的长矛。他直等他们通通报完姓名之后方才回答：“我是兰尼斯特部落的泰温之子提利昂，他是住在凯岩城的狮子酋长。我们很乐意支付吃羊肉的赔偿。”
　　“泰温之子提利昂，你能给我们什么东西呢？”叫冈梭尔的人问。他似乎是这群人的头目。
　　“我钱包里有些银币，”提利昂告诉他们，“我身上这件锁甲对我来说太大，但康恩穿起来应该很合身。另外呢，我这把战斧要是握在夏嘎那双强壮的手里，肯定会比他那柄木头斧威猛得多。”
　　“半人想拿我们的东西当赔偿。”康恩道。
　　“康恩说得对。”冈梭尔说，“你的银币是我们的，你的马是我们的，你的锁甲和你的战斧，还有你腰上的刀子也都是我们的。你只有一条命可以拿来赔偿。泰温之子提利昂，你想要怎么个死法？”
　　“我想活到八十岁，喝饱一肚子酒，找个处女陪着我，这才死在自己的暖床上。”他回答。
　　壮硕的夏嘎第一个发笑，声响如雷。其他人则不若他这么觉得有趣。“康恩，去牵马，”冈梭尔下令，“把另外那家伙宰了，然后把半人抓起来。我们可以让他挤羊奶，顺便讨孩子的妈开心。”
　　波隆一跃起身。“谁想先死？”
　　“住手！”提利昂厉声喝道，“冈恩之子冈梭尔，听我说。我的家族既有钱又有势，只要石鸦部能保我们平安出山，我那公爵老爸赏你们的金子会多到可以拿来洗澡。”
　　“低地领主的金子跟半人说的话一样不值钱。”冈梭尔道。
　　“我虽然只是半个人，”提利昂说，“却有勇气面对敌人。石鸦部呢？等峡谷骑士来了，你们还不是只敢躲在石头后面，害怕得发抖？”
　　夏嘎怒吼一声，将手中的棍棒和斧头再度撞击。贾戈特用他那根前端淬过火的木矛戳了戳提利昂的脸。他极尽所能不畏缩。“你们就只偷得到这种货色？”他说，“杀羊或许可以……还得那羊乖乖认命让你们杀。我老爸的铁匠拉出的屎都比这高级。”
　　“臭小子，”夏嘎吼道，“等我把你的命根子剁下来喂山羊，瞧你还敢嘲笑我的斧头？”
　　然而冈梭尔举起手。“不，我要听听他怎么说。孩子的妈现在都在挨饿，有了家伙比拿金子更有用。泰温之子提利昂，你要拿什么来换你的命？剑？长熗？还是盔甲？”
　　“冈恩之子冈梭尔，这些都不成问题，我给你的远不止于此，”提利昂·兰尼斯特微笑着回答，“我会把整个艾林谷都送给你。”
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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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   43.EDDARD

   Through the high narrow windows of the Red Keep’s cavernous throne room, the light of sunset spilled across the floor, laying dark red stripes upon the walls where the heads of dragons had once hung. Now the stone was covered with hunting tapestries, vivid with greens and browns and blues, and yet still it seemed to Ned Stark that the only color in the hall was the red of blood.
   He sat high upon the immense ancient seat of Aegon the Conqueror, an ironwork monstrosity of spikes and jagged edges and grotesquely twisted metal. It was, as Robert had warned him, a hellishly uncomfortable chair, and never more so than now, with his shattered leg throbbing more sharply every minute. The metal beneath him had grown harder by the hour, and the fanged steel behind made it impossible to lean back. A king should never sit easy, Aegon the Conqueror had said, when he commanded his armorers to forge a great seat from the swords laid down by his enemies. Damn Aegon for his arrogance, Ned thought sullenly, and damn Robert and his hunting as well.
   “You are quite certain these were more than brigands?” Varys asked softly from the council table beneath the throne. Grand Maester Pycelle stirred uneasily beside him, while Littlefinger toyed with a pen. They were the only councillors in attendance. A white hart had been sighted in the kingswood, and Lord Renly and Ser Barristan had joined the king to hunt it, along with Prince Joffrey, Sandor Clegane, Balon Swann, and half the court. So Ned must needs sit the Iron Throne in his absence.
   At least he could sit. Save the council, the rest must stand respectfully, or kneel. The petitioners clustered near the tall doors, the knights and high lords and ladies beneath the tapestries, the smallfolk in the gallery, the mailed guards in their cloaks, gold or grey: all stood.
   The villagers were kneeling: men, women, and children, alike tattered and bloody, their faces drawn by fear. The three knights who had brought them here to bear witness stood behind them.
   “Brigands, Lord Varys?” Ser Raymun Darry’s voice dripped scorn. “Oh, they were brigands, beyond a doubt. Lannister brigands.”
   Ned could feel the unease in the hall, as high lords and servants alike strained to listen. He could not pretend to surprise. The west had been a tinderbox since Catelyn had seized Tyrion Lannister. Both Riverrun and Casterly Rock had called their banners, and armies were massing in the pass below the Golden Tooth. It had only been a matter of time until the blood began to flow. The sole question that remained was how best to stanch the wound.
   Sad-eyed Ser Karyl Vance, who would have been handsome but for the winestain birthmark that discolored his face, gestured at the kneeling villagers. “This is all the remains of the holdfast of Sherrer, Lord Eddard. The rest are dead, along with the people of Wendish Town and the Mummer’s Ford.”
   “Rise,” Ned commanded the villagers. He never trusted what a man told him from his knees. “All of you, up.”
   In ones and twos, the holdfast of Sherrer struggled to its feet. One ancient needed to be helped, and a young girl in a bloody dress stayed on her knees, staring blankly at Ser Arys Oakheart, who stood by the foot of the throne in the white armor of the Kingsguard, ready to protect and defend the king?.?.?.?or, Ned supposed, the King’s Hand.
   “Joss,” Ser Raymun Darry said to a plump balding man in a brewer’s apron. “Tell the Hand what happened at Sherrer.”
   Joss nodded. “If it please His Grace...”
   “His Grace is hunting across the Blackwater,” Ned said, wondering how a man could live his whole life a few days ride from the Red Keep and still have no notion what his king looked like. Ned was clad in a white linen doublet with the direwolf of Stark on the breast; his black wool cloak was fastened at the collar by his silver hand of office. Black and white and grey, all the shades of truth. “I am Lord Eddard Stark, the King’s Hand. Tell me who you are and what you know of these raiders.”
   “I keep?.?.?.?I kept?.?.?.?I kept an alehouse, m’lord, in Sherrer, by the stone bridge. The finest ale south of the Neck, everyone said so, begging your pardons, m’lord. It’s gone now like all the rest, m’lord. They come and drank their fill and spilled the rest before they fired my roof, and they would of spilled my blood too, if they’d caught me. M’lord.”
   “They burnt us out,” a farmer beside him said. “Come riding in the dark, up from the south, and fired the fields and the houses alike, killing them as tried to stop them. They weren’t no raiders, though, m’lord. They had no mind to steal our stock, not these, they butchered my milk cow where she stood and left her for the flies and the crows.”
   “They rode down my ’prentice boy,” said a squat man with a smith’s muscles and a bandage around his head. He had put on his finest clothes to come to court, but his breeches were patched, his cloak travel-stained and dusty. “Chased him back and forth across the fields on their horses, poking at him with their lances like it was a game, them laughing and the boy stumbling and screaming till the big one pierced him clean through.”
   The girl on her knees craned her head up at Ned, high above her on the throne. “They killed my mother too, Your Grace. And they?.?.?.?they?.?.?.?” Her voice trailed off, as if she had forgotten what she was about to say. She began to sob.
   Ser Raymun Darry took up the tale. “At Wendish Town, the people sought shelter in their holdfast, but the walls were timbered. The raiders piled straw against the wood and burnt them all alive. When the Wendish folk opened their gates to flee the fire, they shot them down with arrows as they came running out, even women with suckling babes.”
   “Oh, dreadful,” murmured Varys. “How cruel can men be?”
   “They would of done the same for us, but the Sherrer holdfast’s made of stone,” Joss said. “Some wanted to smoke us out, but the big one said there was riper fruit upriver, and they made for the Mummer’s Ford.”
   Ned could feel cold steel against his fingers as he leaned forward. Between each finger was a blade, the points of twisted swords fanning out like talons from arms of the throne. Even after three centuries, some were still sharp enough to cut. The Iron Throne was full of traps for the unwary. The songs said it had taken a thousand blades to make it, heated white-hot in the furnace breath of Balerion the Black Dread. The hammering had taken fifty-nine days. The end of it was this hunched black beast made of razor edges and barbs and ribbons of sharp metal; a chair that could kill a man, and had, if the stories could be believed.
   What Eddard Stark was doing sitting there he would never comprehend, yet there he sat, and these people looked to him for justice. “What proof do you have that these were Lannisters?” he asked, trying to keep his fury under control. “Did they wear crimson cloaks or fly a lion banner?”
   “Even Lannisters are not so blind stupid as that,” Ser Marq Piper snapped. He was a swaggering bantam rooster of a youth, too young and too hot-blooded for Ned’s taste, though a fast friend of Catelyn’s brother, Edmure Tully.
   “Every man among them was mounted and mailed, my lord,” Ser Karyl answered calmly. “They were armed with steel-tipped lances and longswords, with battle-axes for the butchering.” He gestured toward one of the ragged survivors. “You. Yes, you, no one’s going to hurt you. Tell the Hand what you told me.”
   The old man bobbed his head. “Concerning their horses,” he said, “it were warhorses they rode. Many a year I worked in old Ser Willum’s stables, so I knows the difference. Not a one of these ever pulled a plow, gods bear witness if I’m wrong.”
   “Well-mounted brigands,” observed Littlefinger. “Perhaps they stole the horses from the last place they raided.”
   “How many men were there in this raiding party?” Ned asked.
   “A hundred, at the least,” Joss answered, in the same instant as the bandaged smith said, “Fifty,” and the grandmother behind him, “Hunnerds and hunnerds, m’lord, an army they was.”
   “You are more right than you know, goodwoman,” Lord Eddard told her. “You say they flew no banners. What of the armor they wore? Did any of you note ornaments or decorations, devices on shield or helm?”
   The brewer, Joss, shook his head. “It grieves me, m’lord, but no, the armor they showed us was plain, only?.?.?.?the one who led them, he was armored like the rest, but there was no mistaking him all the same. It was the size of him, m’lord. Those as say the giants are all dead never saw this one, I swear. Big as an ox he was, and a voice like stone breaking.”
   “The Mountain!” Ser Marq said loudly. “Can any man doubt it? This was Gregor Clegane’s work.”
   Ned heard muttering from beneath the windows and the far end of the hall. Even in the galley, nervous whispers were exchanged. High lords and smallfolk alike knew what it could mean if Ser Marq was proved right. Ser Gregor Clegane stood bannerman to Lord Tywin Lannister.
   He studied the frightened faces of the villagers. Small wonder they had been so fearful; they had thought they were being dragged here to name Lord Tywin a red-handed butcher before a king who was his son by marriage. He wondered if the knights had given them a choice.
   Grand Maester Pycelle rose ponderously from the council table, his chain of office clinking. “Ser Marq, with respect, you cannot know that this outlaw was Ser Gregor. There are many large men in the realm.”
   “As large as the Mountain That Rides?” Ser Karyl said. “I have never met one.”
   “Nor has any man here,” Ser Raymun added hotly. “Even his brother is a pup beside him. My lords, open your eyes. Do you need to see his seal on the corpses? It was Gregor.”
   “Why should Ser Gregor turn brigand?” Pycelle asked. “By the grace of his liege lord, he holds a stout keep and lands of his own. The man is an anointed knight.”
   “A false knight!” Ser Marq said. “Lord Tywin’s mad dog.”
   “My lord Hand,” Pycelle declared in a stiff voice, “I urge you to remind this good knight that Lord Tywin Lannister is the father of our own gracious queen.”
   “Thank you, Grand Maester Pycelle,” Ned said. “I fear we might have forgotten that if you had not pointed it out.”
   From his vantage point atop the throne, he could see men slipping out the door at the far end of the hall. Hares going to ground, he supposed?.?.?.?or rats off to nibble the queen’s cheese. He caught a glimpse of Septa Mordane in the gallery, with his daughter Sansa beside her. Ned felt a flash of anger; this was no place for a girl. But the septa could not have known that today’s court would be anything but the usual tedious business of hearing petitions, settling disputes between rival holdfasts, and adjudicating the placement of boundary stones.
   At the council table below, Petyr Baelish lost interest in his quill and leaned forward. “Ser Marq, Ser Karyl, Ser Raymun, perhaps I might ask you a question? These holdfasts were under your protection. Where were you when all this slaughtering and burning was going on?”
   Ser Karyl Vance answered. “I was attending my lord father in the pass below the Golden Tooth, as was Ser Marq. When the word of these outrages reached Ser Edmure Tully, he sent word that we should take a small force of men to find what survivors we could and bring them to the king.”
   Ser Raymun Darry spoke up. “Ser Edmure had summoned me to Riverrun with all my strength. I was camped across the river from his walls, awaiting his commands, when the word reached me. By the time I could return to my own lands, Clegane and his vermin were back across the Red Fork, riding for Lannister’s hills.”
   Littlefinger stroked the point of his beard thoughtfully. “And if they come again, ser?”
   “If they come again, we’ll use their blood to water the fields they burnt,” Ser Marq Piper declared hotly.
   “Ser Edmure has sent men to every village and holdfast within a day’s ride of the border,” Ser Karyl explained. “The next raider will not have such an easy time of it.”
   And that may be precisely what Lord Tywin wants, Ned thought to himself, to bleed off strength from Riverrun, goad the boy into scattering his swords. His wife’s brother was young, and more gallant than wise. He would try to hold every inch of his soil, to defend every man, woman, and child who named him lord, and Tywin Lannister was shrewd enough to know that.
   “If your fields and holdfasts are safe from harm,” Lord Petyr was saying, “what then do you ask of the throne?”
   “The lords of the Trident keep the king’s peace,” Ser Raymun Darry said. “The Lannisters have broken it. We ask leave to answer them, steel for steel. We ask justice for the smallfolk of Sherrer and Wendish Town and the Mummer’s Ford.”
   “Edmure agrees, we must pay Gregor Clegane back his bloody coin,” Ser Marq declared, “but old Lord Hoster commanded us to come here and beg the king’s leave before we strike.”
   Thank the gods for old Lord Hoster, then. Tywin Lannister was as much fox as lion. If indeed he’d sent Ser Gregor to burn and pillage, and Ned did not doubt that he had, he’d taken care to see that he rode under cover of night, without banners, in the guise of a common brigand. Should Riverrun strike back, Cersei and her father would insist that it had been the Tullys who broke the king’s peace, not the Lannisters. The gods only knew what Robert would believe.
   Grand Maester Pycelle was on his feet again. “My lord Hand, if these good folk believe that Ser Gregor has forsaken his holy vows for plunder and rape, let them go to his liege lord and make their complaint. These crimes are no concern of the throne. Let them seek Lord Tywin’s justice.”
   “It is all the king’s justice,” Ned told him. “North, south, east, or west, all we do we do in Robert’s name.”
   “The king’s justice,” Grand Maester Pycelle said. “So it is, and so we should defer this matter until the king...”
   “The king is hunting across the river and may not return for days,” Lord Eddard said. “Robert bid me to sit here in his place, to listen with his ears, and to speak with his voice. I mean to do just that?.?.?.?though I agree that he must be told.” He saw a familiar face beneath the tapestries. “Ser Robar.”
   Ser Robar Royce stepped forward and bowed. “My lord.”
   “Your father is hunting with the king,” Ned said. “Will you bring them word of what was said and done here today?”
   “At once, my lord.”
   “Do we have your leave to take our vengeance against Ser Gregor, then?” Marq Piper asked the throne.
   “Vengeance?” Ned said. “I thought we were speaking of justice. Burning Clegane’s fields and slaughtering his people will not restore the king’s peace, only your injured pride.” He glanced away before the young knight could voice his outraged protest, and addressed the villagers. “People of Sherrer, I cannot give you back your homes or your crops, nor can I restore your dead to life. But perhaps I can give you some small measure of justice, in the name of our king, Robert.”
   Every eye in the hall was fixed on him, waiting. Slowly Ned struggled to his feet, pushing himself up from the throne with the strength of his arms, his shattered leg screaming inside its cast. He did his best to ignore the pain; it was no moment to let them see his weakness. “The First Men believed that the judge who called for death should wield the sword, and in the north we hold to that still. I mislike sending another to do my killing?.?.?.?yet it seems I have no choice.” He gestured at his broken leg.
   “Lord Eddard!” The shout came from the west side of the hall as a handsome stripling of a boy strode forth boldly. Out of his armor, Ser Loras Tyrell looked even younger than his sixteen years. He wore pale blue silk, his belt a linked chain of golden roses, the sigil of his House. “I beg you the honor of acting in your place. Give this task to me, my lord, and I swear I shall not fail you.”
   Littlefinger chuckled. “Ser Loras, if we send you off alone, Ser Gregor will send us back your head with a plum stuffed in that pretty mouth of yours. The Mountain is not the sort to bend his neck to any man’s justice.”
   “I do not fear Gregor Clegane,” Ser Loras said haughtily.
   Ned eased himself slowly back onto the hard iron seat of Aegon’s misshapen throne. His eyes searched the faces along the wall. “Lord Beric,” he called out. “Thoros of Myr. Ser Gladden. Lord Lothar.” The men named stepped forward one by one. “Each of you is to assemble twenty men, to bring my word to Gregor’s keep. Twenty of my own guards shall go with you. Lord Beric Dondarrion, you shall have the command, as befits your rank.”
   The young lord with the red-gold hair bowed. “As you command, Lord Eddard.”
   Ned raised his voice, so it carried to the far end of the throne room. “In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, by the word of Eddard of the House Stark, his Hand, I charge you to ride to the westlands with all haste, to cross the Red Fork of the Trident under the king’s flag, and there bring the king’s justice to the false knight Gregor Clegane, and to all those who shared in his crimes. I denounce him, and attaint him, and strip him of all rank and titles, of all lands and incomes and holdings, and do sentence him to death. May the gods take pity on his soul.”
   When the echo of his words had died away, the Knight of Flowers seemed perplexed. “Lord Eddard, what of me?”
   Ned looked down on him. From on high, Loras Tyrell seemed almost as young as Robb. “No one doubts your valor, Ser Loras, but we are about justice here, and what you seek is vengeance.” He looked back to Lord Beric. “Ride at first light. These things are best done quickly.” He held up a hand. “The throne will hear no more petitions today.”
   Alyn and Porther climbed the steep iron steps to help him back down. As they made their descent, he could feel Loras Tyrell’s sullen stare, but the boy had stalked away before Ned reached the floor of the throne room.
   At the base of the Iron Throne, Varys was gathering papers from the council table. Littlefinger and Grand Maester Pycelle had already taken their leave. “You are a bolder man than I, my lord,” the eunuch said softly.
   “How so, Lord Varys?” Ned asked brusquely. His leg was throbbing, and he was in no mood for word games.
   “Had it been me up there, I should have sent Ser Loras. He so wanted to go?.?.?.?and a man who has the Lannisters for his enemies would do well to make the Tyrells his friends.”
   “Ser Loras is young,” said Ned. “I daresay he will outgrow the disappointment.”
   “And Ser Ilyn?” The eunuch stroked a plump, powdered cheek. “He is the King’s Justice, after all. Sending other men to do his office?.?.?.?some might construe that as a grave insult.”
   “No slight was intended.” In truth, Ned did not trust the mute knight, though perhaps that was only because he misliked executioners. “I remind you, the Paynes are bannermen to House Lannister. I thought it best to choose men who owed Lord Tywin no fealty.”
   “Very prudent, no doubt,” Varys said. “Still, I chanced to see Ser Ilyn in the back of the hall, staring at us with those pale eyes of his, and I must say, he did not look pleased, though to be sure it is hard to tell with our silent knight. I hope he outgrows his disappointment as well. He does so love his work?.?.?.?”



Ⅰ 权力的游戏 Chapter44 艾德
　　透过红堡深广王座厅的狭窄高窗，夕阳余晖遍洒地面，为墙壁挂上暗红色的条纹。龙头曾经高悬于此，如今石墙虽已为青绿和棕褐相衬、栩栩如生地描绘狩猎情景的挂毯织锦所覆盖，但在奈德眼中，整个大厅依旧浸润在一片血红之中。
　　他高高坐在“征服者”伊耿宽大而古老的座位上。那是张钢铁铸成，满是狰狞尖刺利角和诡异扭曲金属的椅子，它正如劳勃所警告的那般，是张天杀的不舒服的椅子。眼下他的断腿不住抽痛，这种感觉更是无以复加。他身子底下的金属每一小时都越显坚硬，布满利齿般尖刺的椅背，更教他无法倚靠。当年征服者伊耿命令手下铁匠使用敌人投降时的弃械，镕铸成一张大椅时，曾说：“作国王的不能舒舒服服地坐着”。伊耿这傲慢的家伙该死，奈德阴沉地想，劳勃和他的打猎游戏也该死。
　　“你能确定他们不是土匪毛贼？”坐在王座下方议事桌边的瓦里斯轻声问。他身旁的派席尔大学士坐立难安，小指头则摆弄着一枝笔。列席的重臣只有他们几个。前几天有人在御林里瞧见了一只白公鹿，蓝礼大人和巴利斯坦爵士便陪伴国王前去打猎，同行的还有乔佛里王子、桑铎·克里冈、巴隆·史文以及半数廷臣。正因如此，奈德才不得不暂代劳勃坐在铁王座上处理国事。
　　好歹他还有椅子可坐。在王座厅里，除了王室家族和几位重臣，余人都得毕恭毕敬地或站或跪。前来请愿的人群聚大门边，骑士、贵族与仕女站在挂毯下，平民百姓则在走廊上。全副武装的卫兵肩披金色或灰色的披风，威严挺立。
　　这群村民单膝下跪，不论男女老少，清一色衣着破烂，满身血污，脸上刻满了恐惧。带他们进来作证的三位骑士站在后面。
　　“土匪？瓦里斯大人，”雷蒙·戴瑞爵士语透轻蔑。“哼，说得好，他们当然是土匪了。兰尼斯特家的土匪。”
　　奈德感觉得到大厅里的紧张气氛，在场人等不论出身高低，均屏息竖耳倾听。这也不是什么新鲜事，自凯特琳逮捕提利昂·兰尼斯特之后，西境便宛如一座柴火库。奔流城与凯岩城均已召集封臣，此刻两军正向金牙城下的山口聚集。爆发流血冲突是迟早的事。现在惟一的问题是如何能将伤害减到最小。
　　满眼忧伤，若非脸上酒红色的胎记，本来还算英俊的卡列尔·凡斯爵士指着跪在地上的村民说：“艾德大人，榭尔全村就只剩这些人，其他的都和温德镇、戏子滩的居民一样，通通死光了。”
　　“起来，”奈德命令村民们。他向来不相信一个人跪着的时候所说的话。“你们通通都起来。”
　　榭尔的居民听了纷纷挣扎着起身。一位老者要靠人搀扶才能站起，另一个穿着血衣的女孩则维持跪姿，怔怔地望着亚历斯·奥克赫特爵士。他身穿御林铁卫的白袍白甲，站在王座下方，随时准备誓死保卫国王……或者，奈德猜测，保卫国王的首相。
　　“乔斯，”雷蒙·戴瑞爵士对一位穿着酿酒师傅围裙的光头胖子说，“快跟首相大人说榭尔发生了什么事。”
　　乔斯点点头。“启禀国王陛下——”
　　“国王陛下他正在黑水湾对岸打猎，”奈德一边说，一边自忖一个人有没有可能终生居住在距红堡仅几日骑程的地方，却仍旧对国王的相貌一无所知。奈德穿着白色的亚麻外衣，胸前绣有史塔克家族的冰原狼纹章，黑羊毛披风用象征职位的银手徽章别在颈边。黑白灰三色，正是真理的三种可能。“我是国王之手，即御前首相艾德·史塔克公爵。告诉我你是谁，以及你对这些强盗所知的一切。”
　　“俺开了……以前俺开了……以前俺开了家酒馆，大人，在榭尔，就在石桥旁边。大家都说俺酿的麦酒是颈泽以南最好的，大人，请您见谅。可是大人，现在全都没了。他们进来喝饱以后又把剩下的倒掉，然后放火烧了房子，本来啊，大人，本来他们还打算要俺命，可他们没逮着。”
　　“他们放火把咱逼走，”他旁边的一个农夫说，“大半夜里从南方来，把田啊房子啊通通给烧了，谁要是敢上前阻拦就没命。可是大人，他们不是强盗，因为他们根本不是来抢东西，他们把我的乳牛宰了之后，把尸体丢在那儿喂苍蝇和乌鸦。”
　　“他们还把我徒弟活活踩死，”一个有着铁匠的肌肉，头上包了绷带的矮胖男子说。看得出他特别换上最好的衣服上朝，但那条裤子却布满补丁，斗篷也是风尘仆仆。“他们骑在马上哈哈大笑，追着他跑来跑去，还拿熗戳他，当成是在玩游戏。那孩子就这样跑啊，惨叫个不停，最后摔倒在地，被块头最大那家伙一熗刺死。”
　　跪在地上的女孩伸长脖子抬头看着高高在上的奈德。“陛下，他们还杀了我娘。然后他们……他们……”她的话音渐弱，仿佛忘了原本要说些什么，自顾自地啼哭了起来。
　　雷蒙·戴瑞爵士接过话茬：“温德镇的居民躲进庄园，可房子乃是木制，入侵者便将其铺上稻草，把他们活活烧死在里面。有些人开门冲出火场逃走，他们便用弓箭射杀，连怀抱奶娃的女人也不放过。”
　　“哎哟，真是可怕，”瓦里斯喃喃道，“怎么会有人如此残忍呢？”
　　“他们本来也要这么对付俺们，幸好榭尔的庄园是石头做的，”乔斯道，“有人想用烟把俺们薰出来，可那大块头说河上游比较有收获，就奔戏子滩去了。”
　　奈德身体前倾，手指触碰到冰冷的金属。他每根指头间都是一柄刀刃，尖端是弯曲的利剑，有如爪子般从王座的扶手向外伸展。虽然历经了三个世纪，其中有些刃叶依旧锋利逼人。对粗心大意的人来说，铁王座称得上机关密布。歌谣里唱着当初花了一千把剑，经过黑死神贝勒里恩的烈焰加热熔解，方才铸成王座。敲敲打打前后总共花了五十九天，最后的成品就是如今这座边缘如剃刀般锋利，无处不是倒钩和纠结的驼背黑怪物。这张椅子可以杀人，倘若传说属实，还真的杀过。
　　艾德·史塔克并不想坐上来，但如今他高踞于此，而下面的人民前来请求他主持正义。“你们有何证据指明这些是兰尼斯特家族的人？”他问，同时努力压抑怒气。“他们穿了红披风或打着狮子旗吗？”
　　“即便兰尼斯特的人，也不至于蠢到这种地步。”马柯·派柏爵士斥道。他是个脾气暴躁、有如好斗雄鸡的年轻人。虽然在奈德看来，他历练太浅，又太过血气方刚，但他却是凯特琳的弟弟艾德慕·徒利的好友。
　　“大人，他们个个骑着骏马身披铠甲，”卡列尔爵士冷静地回答，“手中持有精钢长熗和宝剑，还有用来屠杀村民的战斧。”他伸手指指这群衣衫褴褛的幸存者中的一人。“你，对，就是你，说出来没关系，把你跟我说的话都告诉首相大人。”
　　老人低下头。“关于他们骑的马，”他说，“他们骑的是战马。我在维伦老爵士的马房里做过很多年，看得出其中差异。他们骑的马没有一匹是犁过田的，我敢以天上诸神之名发誓。”
　　“骑好马的土匪，”小指头表示意见，“或许马是他们刚从别处抢来的。”
　　“这群强盗一共有多少人？”奈德问。
　　“最起码一百个。”乔斯回答，而在同时，那位包着绷带的铁匠也开了口，“五十个。”他后面的老太婆则说，“好几百人啊，大人，根本就是一支军队。”
　　“好太太，我相信您说得很正确。”艾德公爵告诉她，“你们说他们没打旗帜，那他们穿的盔甲呢？你们有没有谁注意到上面的花纹或装饰，或者是盾牌和头盔上的家徽？”
　　酿酒师傅乔斯摇摇头。“大人，有的话那敢情好，可他们穿的盔甲样式都很普通，只有……只有那领头的，他虽然穿得和其他人一样，可您绝不会把他和别人弄混。大人，这家伙块头可真大，俺敢打赌，那些断言巨人已死的人没见过这家伙。他块头大得跟头牛似的，讲起话来声音响得像山石迸裂。”
　　“一定是‘魔山’！”马柯爵士大声说，“这还用问？一定是格雷果·克里冈干的好事。”
　　奈德听见窗户下方和大厅远端窃窃私语声此起彼落，不安的说话声也从外面的走廊传来。在场众人不论贫富贵贱，都清楚倘若马柯爵士所言得到证实，代表着什么：格雷果·克里冈爵士正是泰温·兰尼斯特公爵的封臣。
　　他审视着村民惊恐的脸孔，也难怪他们如此害怕，他们起初必定以为自己被拖来这里，要在国王面前指控泰温大人为满手血腥的屠夫——而国王本人正是泰温的女婿。他很怀疑那几位骑士有没有给他们选择的余地。
　　派席尔大学士从议事桌边沉重地站起身，象征职位的项链不住碰撞。“马柯爵士，没有对您不敬的意思，但我们无法就此认定那强盗便是格雷果爵士。国内的大块头大有人在。”
　　“但有人跟魔山一样吗？”卡列尔爵士道，“我可从没见过。”
　　“相信在场也没人见过。”雷蒙爵士愤怒地说，“跟他站在一起，连他弟弟都像只小狗。在座诸君，请睁开您们的眼睛吧，难道你们还需要亲眼见到他的印章盖上尸体才肯相信吗？这一定是格雷果，不会错的。”
　　“然则格雷果爵士何必去打家劫舍？”派席尔问，“靠着他的封君老爷，他不但坐拥坚固堡垒，还有自己的良田领地，此人可是个涂抹圣油，经过正式册封的骑士啊。”
　　“这家伙是个虚伪的骑士！”马柯爵士道，“他是泰温大人的疯狗。”
　　“首相大人，”派席尔语气僵硬地说，“还请您提醒这位‘正直’的骑士先生，泰温·兰尼斯特大人是我们王后陛下的父亲。”
　　“谢谢您，派席尔大学士，”奈德道，“您若不提起，只怕我们都忘了。”
　　从高高的王座上，他看到大厅尽头有人溜出去。兔子就这么跑走了，他心想……不，应该说是贪恋王后奶酪的耗子吧。他瞥见茉丹修女带着珊莎站在走廊上，顿时火冒三丈：这不是小女孩该来的地方。但修女事先也不可能料想到今天的会议内容并非繁冗的日常杂务——聆听百姓请愿，调解村镇间纷争，以及判定土地界石划分等等。
　　下方的议事桌边，培提尔·贝里席终于玩腻了他的羽毛笔，倾身向前道：“马柯爵士，卡列尔爵士，雷蒙爵士——可否容我问个问题？这几个村子都是由你们所管辖与保护，请问屠杀发生当时诸位又在何地呢？”
　　卡列尔·凡斯爵士回答：“当时我与家父都在金牙城下的山口，马柯爵士也是。当这些暴行传到艾德慕·徒利耳中时，他嘱咐我们率领小队人马，前来搜索幸存者，然后带他们觐见国王。”
　　雷蒙·戴瑞爵士发言道：“艾德慕爵士早已让我率领我的兵力赶到奔流城。我接获消息时，正在城外隔河扎营，等候进一步命令。等我赶回封地，克里冈和他的走狗已经渡过红叉河，回兰尼斯特家的丘陵地去了。”
　　小指头若有所思地抚弄他的尖胡子。“爵士先生，倘若他们再度来袭呢？”
　　“他们要是有胆再来，我们就用他们的血，浇灌被他们烧掉的田地。”马柯·派柏爵士愤怒地说。
　　“艾德慕爵士已派兵驻防距离边境一日骑程内所有村镇与庄园。”卡列尔爵士解释，“若还有人来犯，可不会像这次那么好过了。”
　　这很可能正是泰温公爵的目的，奈德心里明白，借此压榨奔流城的力量，诱使那小伙子分散兵力。他小舅子年纪尚轻，英勇有余，睿智却不足。他会竭尽全力守住每一寸土地，保护每一个依附他名下的男女老少。精明老练如泰温·兰尼斯特，自当很清楚这点。
　　“既然你们的田产和房舍都安全了，”培提尔伯爵道，“那还上朝来做什么？”
　　“三河流域的领主以国王之名维持境内和平，”雷蒙·戴瑞说，“兰尼斯特的人破坏了和平。我们要求血债血偿，我们要为榭尔村、温德镇和戏子滩的百姓讨个公道。”
　　“艾德慕同意我们以牙还牙，用相同的手段对付格雷果·克里冈，”马柯爵士宣布，“但霍斯特老爵爷命令我们首先得到国王的允许再出击。”
　　感谢天上诸神，还好有霍斯特大人在。与其说泰温·兰尼斯特是头狮子，不如说他是只狐狸。假如当真是他派格雷果爵士去杀人放火——奈德对此毫无疑问——他一定会特意嘱咐格雷果小心翼翼，夜晚行动，不张旗帜，扮成普通强盗。倘若奔流城反击，瑟曦和她父亲便能坚称破坏和平的是徒利家族，而非兰尼斯特。到时候劳勃会相信哪一边，只有诸神才知道。
　　派席尔大学士又站起来。“首相大人。如果这几位好村民坚信格雷果爵士背弃了他神圣的誓言，转而奸淫掳掠，请让他们去见他的封君大人，向他去抱怨。这些罪行与王室无关，他们应当请求泰温大人主持正义。”
　　“这些当然与国王有关，”奈德告诉他，“不论东西南北，我们均以劳勃之名行事。”
　　“和国王有关，”派席尔大学士说，“此话有理，那么我们该等国王回来再行商——”
　　“国王此刻正在河对岸打猎，可能好几天都不会回来。”艾德公爵说，“劳勃要我暂代他处理国事，用他的耳朵倾听，用他的声音说话，而我将谨遵其意……但我同意应该要知会他。”他在壁毡下看到一张熟悉的脸孔。“罗拔爵士。”
　　罗拔·罗伊斯爵士前跨一步，鞠躬道：“大人，您有何吩咐？”
　　“令尊与国王陛下一道外出狩猎，”奈德说，“可否请你将今日之事通报他们？”
　　“大人，我这就去办。”
　　“那我们是不是这就可找格雷果爵士报一箭之仇？”马柯·派柏询问摄政。
　　“报仇？”奈德说，“我以为我们谈的是主持正义。到克里冈的封地放火杀人并不会恢复王国境内的和平，只能稍稍弥补你受损的自尊。”愤怒的年轻骑士还来不及反驳，他便转开视线，对那群村民说，“榭尔的居民们，我无法归还你们的家园和你们的作物，更不能将死者复生。但或许我能以我们的国王劳勃之名，还你们一个迟来的公道。”
　　大厅里的每一只眼睛都注视着他，凝神等待。奈德缓缓地挣扎着站起来，两手全力撑住王座，断腿撕心裂肺地剧痛。他尽一切所能不去注意疼痛，此刻千万不能在他们面前显示虚弱。“先民认为判人死刑者应该亲自操刀，我们在北境依旧保留了这个传统。我本不愿由他人代为执行……但看来我别无选择。”他指指自己的断腿。
　　“艾德大人！”从大厅西侧传来一声喊叫，一名俊美的年轻男孩勇敢地向前走来。年仅十六的洛拉斯·提利尔爵士，脱去铠甲后愈发显得年轻。他身穿浅蓝色丝衣，系着朵朵金玫瑰连缀而成的腰带。金玫瑰是他家族的纹章。“我恳求您让我有幸代您出战。把这个任务交给我吧，大人，我发誓不会教您失望。”
　　小指头轻笑。“洛拉斯爵士，如果我们单只派您去对付格雷果爵士，他八成会把您的头送回来，顺便塞颗李子在您那张漂亮的嘴里。魔山可不会乖乖地看在正义的份上束手就擒。”
　　“我不怕格雷果·克里冈。”洛拉斯爵士骄傲地说。
　　奈德缓缓坐回伊耿那张畸形王座的冷硬铁板上，他的视线沿着墙壁一张接一张脸孔地搜索。“贝里大人，”他喊，“密尔的索罗斯，葛拉登爵士，罗沙大人。”被点到名字的人纷纷站到前面。“请你们各带二十名士兵，将我的命令送到格雷果的城堡。我将派出自己的二十名侍卫与你们同行。贝里·唐德利恩大人，此次任务由您指挥，因为您的爵禄最高。”
　　金红头发的年轻伯爵鞠躬道：“艾德大人，悉听尊命。”
　　奈德提高音量，让王座大厅里所有的人都能听见。“以安达尔人、洛伊拿人和先民的国王，七国的统治者暨全境守护者，拜拉席恩家族的劳勃一世之名，我，史塔克家族的艾德公爵，身为其国王之手，在此命令你们即刻高举国王的旗帜，全速渡过三叉戟河的红叉支流，进入西境，依照国王律法，制裁虚伪的骑士格雷果·克里冈，以及所有与他合谋的共犯。我在此宣告，从今以后，褫夺其一切官阶与职衔，收回其一切封地、赋税和房产，并明令处之以死刑。愿天上诸神怜悯他的灵魂。”
　　余音渐落之后，百花骑士神情困惑地问：“艾德大人，那我该做什么？”
　　奈德低头看着他。居高临下，洛拉斯·提利尔看起来就和罗柏一样年轻。“洛拉斯爵士，没有人怀疑您的勇武，然而我们今天谈的是律法和正义，你要的却是报仇雪恨。”他转向贝里伯爵说，“明天天亮就出发，这事最好尽快处理。”语毕他举起手。“今天的请愿到此为止。”
　　埃林和波瑟爬上陡峻狭窄的铁台阶，搀扶他下去。步下阶梯时，奈德感觉得出洛拉斯·提利尔愠怒的瞪视，然而等他回到地面，那男孩已经走了。
　　铁王座下方，瓦里斯正忙着收拾议事桌上散乱的文件。小指头和派席尔国师已先行离去。“大人，您的胆子可比我大多了。”太监轻声说。
　　“瓦里斯大人，此话怎讲？”奈德唐突地问。他的断腿隐隐抽痛，此刻他没有心情玩文字游戏。
　　“换做是我坐上面，我大概会派洛拉斯爵士去。瞧他那副跃跃欲试的模样……再说要与兰尼斯特为敌，还有什么能比拉拢提利尔家族更要紧呢？”
　　“洛拉斯爵士还年轻，”奈德道，“我敢说他很快就会忘记这次失意。”
　　“那伊林爵士呢？”太监轻抚他搽过粉的肥胖脸颊。“再怎么说，他到底是国王的执法官哪，叫别人去做他份内之事……可能会被解读成恶意侮辱哟。”
　　“我并无冒犯之意。”老实说，奈德并不信任那位哑巴骑士，但归根到底，或许只是肇因于他对刽子手的嫌恶罢。“容我提醒您，派恩家族世代是兰尼斯特臣属。我认为选择并未对泰温大人宣誓效忠的人前去比较妥当。”
　　“您的作法毫无疑问非常谨慎，”瓦里斯道，“只是我碰巧看见伊林爵士站在大厅后面，张大那双苍白的眼睛瞪着我们，我必须承认，他看起来委实不怎么高兴，虽然我们这位沉默寡言的骑士先生心里究竟在想些什么，原本就不易猜测。我也希望他很快就会忘记这次失意。他可是热爱着他的工作啊……”
[ 此帖被挽墨在2015-08-31 00:38重新编辑 ]
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你看着眼前的人，分明还是以前的模样，可心里终究不是以前那般澄清透明了。
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   44.SANSA

   He wouldn’t send Ser Loras,” Sansa told Jeyne Poole that night as they shared a cold supper by lamplight. “I think it was because of his leg.”
   Lord Eddard had taken his supper in his bedchamber with Alyn, Harwin, and Vayon Poole, the better to rest his broken leg, and Septa Mordane had complained of sore feet after standing in the gallery all day. Arya was supposed to join them, but she was late coming back from her dancing lesson.
   “His leg?” Jeyne said uncertainly. She was a pretty, dark-haired girl of Sansa’s own age. “Did Ser Loras hurt his leg?”
   “Not his leg,” Sansa said, nibbling delicately at a chicken leg. “Father’s leg, silly. It hurts him ever so much, it makes him cross. Otherwise I’m certain he would have sent Ser Loras.”
   Her father’s decision still bewildered her. When the Knight of Flowers had spoken up, she’d been sure she was about to see one of Old Nan’s stories come to life. Ser Gregor was the monster and Ser Loras the true hero who would slay him. He even looked a true hero, so slim and beautiful, with golden roses around his slender waist and his rich brown hair tumbling down into his eyes. And then Father had refused him! It had upset her more than she could tell. She had said as much to Septa Mordane as they descended the stairs from the gallery, but the septa had only told her it was not her place to question her lord father’s decisions.
   That was when Lord Baelish had said, “Oh, I don’t know, Septa. Some of her lord father’s decisions could do with a bit of questioning. The young lady is as wise as she is lovely.” He made a sweeping bow to Sansa, so deep she was not quite sure if she was being complimented or mocked.
   Septa Mordane had been very upset to realize that Lord Baelish had overheard them. “The girl was just talking, my lord,” she’d said. “Foolish chatter. She meant nothing by the comment.”
   Lord Baelish stroked his little pointed beard and said, “Nothing? Tell me, child, why would you have sent Ser Loras?”
   Sansa had no choice but to explain about heroes and monsters. The king’s councillor smiled. “Well, those are not the reasons I’d have given, but?.?.?.?” He had touched her cheek, his thumb lightly tracing the line of a cheekbone. “Life is not a song, sweetling. You may learn that one day to your sorrow.”
   Sansa did not feel like telling all that to Jeyne, however; it made her uneasy just to think back on it.
   “Ser Ilyn’s the King’s Justice, not Ser Loras,” Jcyne said. “Lord Eddard should have sent him.”
   Sansa shuddered. Every time she looked at Ser Ilyn Payne, she shivered. He made her feel as though something dead were slithering over her naked skin. “Ser Ilyn’s almost like a second monster. I’m glad Father didn’t pick him.”
   “Lord Beric is as much a hero as Ser Loras. He’s ever so brave and gallant.”
   “I suppose,” Sansa said doubtfully. Beric Dondarrion was handsome enough, but he was awfully old, almost twenty-two; the Knight of Flowers would have been much better. Of course, Jeyne had been in love with Lord Beric ever since she had first glimpsed him in the lists. Sansa thought she was being silly; Jeyne was only a steward’s daughter, after all, and no matter how much she mooned after him, Lord Beric would never look at someone so far beneath him, even if she hadn’t been half his age.
   It would have been unkind to say so, however, so Sansa took a sip of milk and changed the subject. “I had a dream that Joffrey would be the one to take the white hart,” she said. It had been more of a wish, actually, but it sounded better to call it a dream. Everyone knew that dreams were prophetic. White harts were supposed to be very rare and magical, and in her heart she knew her gallant prince was worthier than his drunken father.
   “A dream? Truly? Did Prince Joffrey just go up to it and touch it with his bare hand and do it no harm?”
   “No,” Sansa said. “He shot it with a golden arrow and brought it back for me.” In the songs, the knights never killed magical beasts, they just went up to them and touched them and did them no harm, but she knew Joffrey liked hunting, especially the killing part. Only animals, though. Sansa was certain her prince had no part in murdering Jory and those other poor men; that had been his wicked uncle, the Kingslayer. She knew her father was still angry about that, but it wasn’t fair to blame Joff. That would be like blaming her for something that Arya had done.
   “I saw your sister this afternoon,” Jeyne blurted out, as if she’d been reading Sansa’s thoughts. “She was walking through the stables on her hands. Why would she do a thing like that?”
   “I’m sure I don’t know why Arya does anything.” Sansa hated stables, smelly places full of manure and flies. Even when she went riding, she liked the boy to saddle the horse and bring it to her in the yard. “Do you want to hear about the court or not?”
   “I do,” Jeyne said.
   “There was a black brother,” Sansa said, “begging men for the Wall, only he was kind of old and smelly.” She hadn’t liked that at all. She had always imagined the Night’s Watch to be men like Uncle Benjen. In the songs, they were called the black knights of the Wall. But this man had been crookbacked and hideous, and he looked as though he might have lice. If this was what the Night’s Watch was truly like, she felt sorry for her bastard half brother, Jon. “Father asked if there were any knights in the hall who would do honor to their houses by taking the black, but no one came forward, so he gave this Yoren his pick of the king’s dungeons and sent him on his way. And later these two brothers came before him, freeriders from the Dornish Marches, and pledged their swords to the service of the king. Father accepted their oaths?.?.?.?”
   Jeyne yawned. “Are there any lemon cakes?”
   Sansa did not like being interrupted, but she had to admit, lemon cakes sounded more interesting than most of what had gone on in the throne room. “Let’s see,” she said.
   The kitchen yielded no lemon cakes, but they did find half of a cold strawberry pie, and that was almost as good. They ate it on the tower steps, giggling and gossiping and sharing secrets, and Sansa went to bed that night feeling almost as wicked as Arya.
   The next morning she woke before first light and crept sleepily to her window to watch Lord Beric form up his men. They rode out as dawn was breaking over the city, with three banners going before them; the crowned stag of the king flew from the high staff, the direwolf of Stark and Lord Beric’s own forked lightning standard from shorter poles. It was all so exciting, a song come to life; the clatter of swords, the flicker of torchlight, banners dancing in the wind, horses snorting and whinnying, the golden glow of sunrise slanting through the bars of the portcullis as it jerked upward. The Winterfell men looked especially fine in their silvery mail and long grey cloaks.
   Alyn carried the Stark banner. When she saw him rein in beside Lord Beric to exchange words, it made Sansa feel ever so proud. Alyn was handsomer than Jory had been; he was going to be a knight one day.
   The Tower of the Hand seemed so empty after they left that Sansa was even pleased to see Arya when she went down to break her fast. “Where is everyone?” her sister wanted to know as she ripped the skin from a blood orange. “Did Father send them to hunt down Jaime Lannister?”
   Sansa sighed. “They rode with Lord Beric, to behead Ser Gregor Clegane.” She turned to Septa Mordane, who was eating porridge with a wooden spoon. “Septa, will Lord Beric spike Ser Gregor’s head on his own gate or bring it back here for the king?” She and Jeyne Poole had been arguing over that last night.
   The septa was horror-struck. “A lady does not discuss such things over her porridge. Where are your courtesies, Sansa? I swear, of late you’ve been near as bad as your sister.”
   “What did Gregor do?” Arya asked.
   “He burned down a holdfast and murdered a lot of people, women and children too.”
   Arya screwed up her face in a scowl. “Jaime Lannister murdered Jory and Heward and Wyl, and the Hound murdered Mycah. Somebody should have beheaded them.”
   “It’s not the same,” Sansa said. “The Hound is Joffrey’s sworn shield. Your butcher’s boy attacked the prince.”
   “Liar,” Arya said. Her hand clenched the blood orange so hard that red juice oozed between her fingers.
   “Go ahead, call me all the names you want,” Sansa said airily. “You won’t dare when I’m married to Joffrey. You’ll have to bow to me and call me Your Grace.” She shrieked as Arya flung the orange across the table. It caught her in the middle of the forehead with a wet squish and plopped down into her lap.
   “You have juice on your face, Your Grace,” Arya said.
   It was running down her nose and stinging her eyes. Sansa wiped it away with a napkin. When she saw what the fruit in her lap had done to her beautiful ivory silk dress, she shrieked again. “You’re horrible,” she screamed at her sister. “They should have killed you instead of Lady!”
   Septa Mordane came lurching to her feet. “Your lord father will hear of this! Go to your chambers, at once. At once!”
   “Me too?” Tears welled in Sansa’s eyes. “That’s not fair.”
   “The matter is not subject to discussion. Go!”
   Sansa stalked away with her head up. She was to be a queen, and queens did not cry. At least not where people could see. When she reached her bedchamber, she barred the door and took off her dress. The blood orange had left a blotchy red stain on the silk. “I hate her!” she screamed. She balled up the dress and flung it into the cold hearth, on top of the ashes of last night’s fire. When she saw that the stain had bled through onto her underskirt, she began to sob despite herself. She ripped off the rest of her clothes wildly, threw herself into bed, and cried herself back to sleep.
   It was midday when Septa Mordane knocked upon her door. “Sansa. Your lord father will see you now.”
   Sansa sat up. “Lady,” she whispered. For a moment it was as if the direwolf was there in the room, looking at her with those golden eyes, sad and knowing. She had been dreaming, she realized. Lady was with her, and they were running together, and?.?.?.?and?.?.?.?trying to remember was like trying to catch the rain with her fingers. The dream faded, and Lady was dead again.
   “Sansa.” The rap came again, sharply. “Do you hear me?”
   “Yes, Septa,” she called out. “Might I have a moment to dress, please?” Her eyes were red from crying, but she did her best to make herself beautiful.
   Lord Eddard was bent over a huge leather-bound book when Septa Mordane marched her into the solar, his plaster-wrapped leg stiff beneath the table. “Come here, Sansa,” he said, not unkindly, when the septa had gone for her sister. “Sit beside me.” He closed the book.
   Septa Mordane returned with Arya squirming in her grasp. Sansa had put on a lovely pale green damask gown and a look of remorse, but her sister was still wearing the ratty leathers and roughspun she’d worn at breakfast. “Here is the other one,” the septa announced.
   “My thanks, Septa Mordane. I would talk to my daughters alone, if you would be so kind.” The septa bowed and left.
   “Arya started it,” Sansa said quickly, anxious to have the first word. “She called me a liar and threw an orange at me and spoiled my dress, the ivory silk, the one Queen Cersei gave me when I was betrothed to Prince Joffrey. She hates that I’m going to marry the prince. She tries to spoil everything, Father, she can’t stand for anything to be beautiful or nice or splendid.”
   “Enough, Sansa.” Lord Eddard’s voice was sharp with impatience.
   Arya raised her eyes. “I’m sorry, Father. I was wrong and I beg my sweet sister’s forgiveness.”
   Sansa was so startled that for a moment she was speechless. Finally she found her voice. “What about my dress?”
   “Maybe?.?.?.?I could wash it,” Arya said doubtfully.
   “Washing won’t do any good,” Sansa said. “Not if you scrubbed all day and all night. The silk is ruined.”
   “Then I’ll?.?.?.?make you a new one,” Arya said.
   Sansa threw back her head in disdain. “You? You couldn’t sew a dress fit to clean the pigsties.”
   Their father sighed. “I did not call you here to talk of dresses. I’m sending you both back to Winterfell.”
   For the second time Sansa found herself too stunned for words. She felt her eyes grow moist again.
   “You can’t,” Arya said.
   “Please, Father,” Sansa managed at last. “Please don’t.”
   Eddard Stark favored his daughters with a tired smile. “At last we’ve found something you agree on.”
   “I didn’t do anything wrong,” Sansa pleaded with him. “I don’t want to go back.” She loved Mng’s Landing; the pagaentry of the court, the high lords and ladies in their velvets and silks and gemstones, the great city with all its people. The tournament had been the most magical time of her whole life, and there was so much she had not seen yet, harvest feasts and masked balls and mummer shows. She could not bear the thought of losing it all. “Send Arya away, she started it, Father, I swear it. I’ll be good, you’ll see, just let me stay and I promise to be as fine and noble and courteous as the queen.”
   Father’s mouth twitched strangely. “Sansa, I’m not sending you away for fighting, though the gods know I’m sick of you two squabbling. I want you back in Winterfell for your own safety. Three of my men were cut down like dogs not a league from where we sit, and what does Robert do? He goes hunting.”
   Arya was chewing at her lip in that disgusting way she had. “Can we take Syrio back with us?”
   “Who cares about your stupid dancing master?” Sansa flared. “Father, I only just now remembered, I can’t go away, I’m to marry Prince Joffrey.” She tried to smile bravely for him. “I love him, Father, I truly truly do, I love him as much as Queen Naerys loved Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, as much as Jonquil loved Ser Florian. I want to be his queen and have his babies.”
   “Sweet one,” her father said gently, “listen to me. When you’re old enough, I will make you a match with a high lord who’s worthy of you, someone brave and gentle and strong. This match with Joffrey was a terrible mistake. That boy is no Prince Aemon, you must believe me.”
   “He is!” Sansa insisted. “I don’t want someone brave and gentle, I want him. We’ll be ever so happy, just like in the songs, you’ll see. I’ll give him a son with golden hair, and one day he’ll be the king of all the realm, the greatest king that ever was, as brave as the wolf and as proud as the lion.”
   Arya made a face. “Not if Joffrey’s his father,” she said. “He’s a liar and a craven and anyhow he’s a stag, not a lion.”
   Sansa felt tears in her eyes. “He is not! He’s not the least bit like that old drunken king,” she screamed at her sister, forgetting herself in her grief.
   Father looked at her strangely. “Gods,” he swore softly, “out of the mouth of babes?.?.?.?” He shouted for Septa Mordane. To the girls he said, “I am looking for a fast trading galley to take you home. These days, the sea is safer than the kingsroad. You will sail as soon as I can find a proper ship, with Septa Mordane and a complement of guards?.?.?.?and yes, with Syrio Forel, if he agrees to enter my service. But say nothing of this. It’s better if no one knows of our plans. We’ll talk again tomorrow.”
   Sansa cried as Septa Mordane marched them down the steps. They were going to take it all away; the tournaments and the court and her prince, everything, they were going to send her back to the bleak grey walls of Winterfell and lock her up forever. Her life was over before it had begun.
   “Stop that weeping, child,” Septa Mordane said sternly. “I am certain your lord father knows what is best for you.”
   “It won’t be so bad, Sansa,” Arya said. “We’re going to sail on a galley. It will be an adventure, and then we’ll be with Bran and Robb again, and Old Nan and Hodor and the rest.” She touched her on the arm.
   “Hodor!” Sansa yelled. “You ought to marry Hodor, you’re just like him, stupid and hairy and ugly!” She wrenched away from her sister’s hand, stormed into her bedchamber, and barred the door behind her.
  




Ⅰ 权力的游戏 Chapter45 珊莎
　　“他竟然不肯派洛拉斯爵士去，”当晚她们一同就着油灯、吃冰冷的晚餐时，珊莎把这件事告诉珍妮·普尔。“我觉得一定是他脚受伤的关系。”
　　为了休养腿伤，艾德大人在他的卧房里与埃林、哈尔温和维扬·普尔共进晚餐，而茉丹修女在走廊上站了整天，抱怨起两脚酸痛，没有出来用饭。本来艾莉亚该跟她们一起吃，但她上舞蹈课还没回来。
　　“他脚受伤？”珍妮不确定地说。她和珊莎同龄，是个可爱的黑发女孩。“洛拉斯爵士脚受伤了？”
　　“不是他的腿，”珊莎边说边优雅地咬着鸡腿。“傻瓜，是我父亲的腿。你看他痛得那么厉害，连脾气也暴躁起来了。不然我想他一定会派洛拉斯爵士去的。”
　　父亲的决定令她颇感困惑。百花骑士发言的时候，她本以为自己就要亲眼见到老奶妈的故事成真。格雷果爵士是怪兽，而洛拉斯爵士则是真正的英雄，定会将之斩杀。他那么纤瘦美丽，黄金玫瑰围绕着纤细腰身，浓密的棕发坠进双眼，活脱脱就是真英雄的模样。结果父亲竟一口回绝了他！她气得说不出话来。事后她和茉丹修女从长廊走下楼梯时，她忍不住说出自己的想法，但修女却说她不该过问父亲的决定。
　　这时一旁的贝里席伯爵接口道：“哎，修女，我也弄不明白，只觉得她父亲大人有些决策可以再深思熟虑一些。我看您家小姐的睿智不输她的美貌。”说完他向珊莎深深鞠躬，弯腰的程度反而让珊莎怀疑他究竟是在恭维还是讥讽。
　　茉丹修女发现她们的谈话内容被贝里席大人听见，非常不悦。“大人，这孩子只是随便说说，”她说，“不过是瞎说话，没什么特别意思。”
　　贝里席大人捻捻尖胡子，“没有？孩子，告诉我，为什么你觉得应该派洛拉斯爵士去呢？”
　　珊莎别无选择，只好把英雄和怪兽那套和盘托出。国王的重臣微笑道：“呵，这可不是我的理由，不过……”他碰了碰她脸颊，手指轻轻划过颧骨轮廓。“小可爱，人生不比歌谣。有朝一日，你可能会大失所望。”
　　珊莎觉得没必要把这席话也告诉珍妮，光想想就够让她不安了。
　　“国王的执法官是伊林爵士，不是洛拉斯爵士，”珍妮说，“艾德大人应该派他去才对。”
　　珊莎听了不禁发起抖来。每次她见到伊林·派恩爵士，总是无法克制地颤抖，仿佛有什么死掉的东西在贴着皮肤滑动。“伊林爵士也跟怪兽没两样。我很高兴父亲没选他去。”
　　“要论谁是真英雄，贝里大人也不输洛拉斯爵士啊，你瞧他那英勇高贵的模样。”
　　“也是啦。”珊莎有些怀疑地说。贝里·唐德利恩是挺英俊，但他实在有点“老”，都快满二十二岁的人了。还是百花骑士比较合适。话说回来，当初在竞技场上珍妮对贝里伯爵可是一见钟情。珊莎觉得珍妮真蠢，她不过是个管家的女儿，不管多么痴心妄想，贝里大人也绝不可能青睐地位比他低这么多的对象，更何况她的岁数只有他的一半。
　　然而这话说出口太伤人，因此珊莎啜了口牛奶，岔开话题。“我梦见乔佛里会得到那头白鹿喔。”她说。事实上这不过是个小小的希望，但说成梦听起来比较好。大家都知道梦是预言和先兆。传说白鹿非常稀少，具有魔力，她心里非常清楚她那英勇的王子比他的酒鬼老爸更有资格得到它。
　　“你梦见了？真的吗？乔佛里王子是不是就走上前去，伸手摸摸它，不让它受任何伤害呢？”
　　“才不是，”珊莎道，“他用一支黄金箭把它射死，然后把它带回来给我。”歌谣里的骑士从不会杀害魔法动物，他们都是走上前去伸手抚摸它们，绝不加以伤害，但她知道乔佛里喜欢打猎，尤其是杀戮的部分。不过他只喜欢杀动物。珊莎很确定她的王子与杀害乔里和其他可怜人无关，那都是他的坏舅舅弑君者干的。她知道父亲依旧为此事生气，但他不该为此责怪小乔，否则就好像艾莉亚闯了祸，却来怪她一样。
　　“我今天下午看到你妹妹了，”珍妮脱口而出，仿佛能看穿珊莎的思绪。“瞧她两手倒立在马厩里走来走去的样子。她干嘛那样啊？”
　　“我完全搞不懂艾莉亚做事的动机。”珊莎最讨厌像马厩那样充斥肥料和苍蝇恶臭的地方。就连外出骑马，她通常也是先叫马僮给马上好鞍，再牵到庭院里给她。“你到底想不想听宫里的事嘛？”
　　“想。”珍妮说。
　　“今天有个黑衣弟兄，”珊莎说，“来拜托多送点人手去守长城，可他又老又臭。”她一点也不喜欢那个人的模样。她以前总把守夜人都想像成班扬叔叔那样。在歌谣里，大家可称他们为长城上的黑骑士呢。然而今天这人驼着个背，面目可憎，活像生了一身虱子似的。假如守夜人都是这副德行，那她还真为她的同父异母私生子哥哥琼恩感到遗憾。“父亲询问在场的骑士，有没有人愿意披挂黑衣，借此光耀门楣，结果无人响应，最后他让这个叫尤伦的家伙自己去国王的地牢里挑选想要的人，遣他走了。随后来了两个自由骑手，他们是一对来自多恩边疆的兄弟，想要宣誓投效国王。父亲接受了他们的誓约……”
　　珍妮打个哈欠。“还有柠檬蛋糕吗？”
　　珊莎不喜欢被人打断，但她承认跟王座厅里处理的大部分事务比起来，柠檬蛋糕要有意思多了。“我们去看看罢。”
　　厨房里没有柠檬蛋糕，不过她们找到了半块凉掉的草莓派，也还可以接受。她们在高塔的楼梯间把派吃得一干二净，一边咯咯笑着交换闲话传闻和秘密心事。当晚珊莎上床的时候，觉得自己调皮得简直和艾莉亚一样。
　　翌日清晨，天还没亮她就起来，睡眼惺忪地爬到窗边观望贝里伯爵整队出发。晓色才刚笼罩城市，他们便已动身。整齐划一的队伍前方打着三面旗帜，王室的宝冠雄鹿飘扬在最高的旗杖顶端，史塔克家族的冰原奔狼和贝里伯爵的分岔闪电则悬挂在比较短的杆子上。刀剑碰撞，火炬摇曳，旗帜飘舞风中；战马嘶鸣，闸门拉起，旭日金光自闸门铁条斜射而进。一切都如此鲜烈、令人兴奋，宛如歌谣中的梦境成真。穿着银色战甲和灰色长披风的临冬城侍卫，看起来尤其英姿勃发。
　　埃林高举着史塔克家族的旗帜。当她看见他在贝里伯爵身边勒住马缰，与之交谈的时候，珊莎觉得好骄傲。埃林比乔里英俊多了，有朝一日他必会当上骑士。
　　少了他们，首相塔显得空荡荡的，因此珊莎下楼吃早餐时，看到艾莉亚也觉得很高兴。“大家都上哪儿去了？”妹妹一边剥开血橙的皮，一边问，“父亲派他们去追捕詹姆·兰尼斯特了吗？”
　　珊莎叹了口气。“他们是跟贝里大人一同去砍格雷果·克里冈爵士项上人头的，”她转头望着正用木匙舀燕麦粥吃的茉丹修女。“修女，贝里大人会把格雷果爵士的头挂在他家城门上，还是带回来给国王呢？”昨晚她和珍妮·普尔为此争论了半天。
　　修女一脸惊恐。“官家小姐吃饭时怎么能讨论这种事？珊莎，你的礼貌到哪里去了？我敢对天发誓，最近你快变得跟你妹妹一样坏了。”
　　“格雷果怎么啦？”艾莉亚问。
　　“他烧毁了一座村庄，杀了很多人，其中还包括女人和小孩。”
　　艾莉亚的脸皱成一团。“詹姆·兰尼斯特杀了乔里、海华和韦尔，猎狗杀了米凯，也该有人去砍他们的头。”
　　“那不一样，”珊莎说，“猎狗是宣誓保护乔佛里的贴身护卫，而你那杀猪小弟出手攻击王子。”
　　“你这个骗子。”艾莉亚说。她的手握紧血橙，红色的果汁从她指缝间汩汩流下。
　　“你再骂啊，随你怎么骂，”珊莎轻快地说，“等我嫁给乔佛里，看你还敢不敢骂。到时候你就得低头向我行礼，称我为王后陛下了。”
　　艾莉亚把血橙从桌子的那头朝她咂过来。珊莎一声尖叫，血橙正中额心，发出湿湿的、压扁的声音，随后扑通落在她膝盖上。
　　“王后陛下，您脸上有果汁耶。”艾莉亚说。
　　果汁流上鼻子，剌痛她的眼睛。珊莎用餐巾把脸抹干净，当她发现果汁已把她漂亮的象牙色丝衣染得一塌糊涂时，她再度高声大叫。“你真是讨厌死了，”她朝妹妹尖叫，“当初他们不该杀淑女，应该杀你才对！”
　　茉丹修女脚步踉跄地站起来。“我要把这件事告诉你们父亲大人！你们马上给我回房间，现在就去！”
　　“我也要去？”珊莎的眼眶盈满泪水。“不公平嘛。”
　　“不要跟我辩，快去！”
　　珊莎昂首离去。她将来是要当王后的，而王后决不轻易掉眼泪。回房之后，她放下门闩，脱去衣服。血橙汁在丝衣上留下一滩红渍。“我恨她！”她放声尖叫，把衣服揉成一团，丢进冷却的壁炉，落在昨夜炉火的灰烬上。这时她发现果汁已经渗进她的衬裙，于是再也无法遏制地啜泣起来。她狂乱地把身上所有的衣物统统撕开，整个人扑倒在床，哭着直到睡着。
　　等茉丹修女来敲门，已是日正当中。“珊莎。你父亲大人现在要见你。”
　　珊莎坐起身。“淑女。”她悄声道。有那么一会儿，冰原狼仿佛真的置身屋内，用那双金黄的眼睛凝视着她，哀伤却又善解人意。她知道自己在做梦，但她好想淑女在身边，与她一同奔跑，以及……以及……回忆的企图如同伸手盛接雨水。梦境逸去，淑女又是已死之身。
　　“珊莎，”敲门声再度传来，这回相当急促。“你听见没有？”
　　“听见了，修女，”她喊，“能不能给我几分钟换衣服？”她虽然哭红了眼，还是尽力把自己打扮得美美的。
　　茉丹修女领她走进书房时，艾德公爵正埋首于一本皮革封面的大书中。他打了石膏的腿僵直地伸在桌下。“珊莎，你过来。”修女去找妹妹后，他开了口，脸色并无不悦，“过来坐我旁边。”说着他合上书。
　　不一会儿茉丹修女把扭来扭去的艾莉亚也抓来了。珊莎换了一件可爱的浅绿色缎子外衣，脸上堆满愧疚之色，但妹妹依旧穿着早餐时那套脏兮兮的皮背心，一身破烂。“这是另一个。”修女宣布。
　　“茉丹修女，谢谢你。我想跟我女儿私下谈谈，可否请你让我们独处一下？”修女鞠了个躬离开了。
　　“是艾莉亚先动手的，”珊莎立刻开口，生怕不能抢得先机。“她说我是骗子，然后拿血橙砸我，把我衣服弄脏了。那是瑟曦王后因为我跟乔佛里王子订婚特别送的，象牙色的丝衣呢。我要嫁给王子，她就恨我。什么事到她手里都会搞砸，父亲，她就是见不得任何漂亮的东西。”
　　“珊莎，够了。”艾德公爵的声音充满不耐。
　　艾莉亚抬眼道：“父亲，对不起，我错了，请好姐姐原谅我。”
　　珊莎正在气头上，好一阵子说不出话来。最后她总算找回了声音：“那我的衣服怎么办？”
　　“我……或许我可以帮你洗。”艾莉亚不太确定地说。
　　“怎么洗都没用，”珊莎道，“就算你搓上整天整夜也一样。绸子已经毁了。”
　　“那……我帮你做件新的。”艾莉亚说。
　　珊莎嫌恶地甩头。“你？你缝的衣服拿去抹猪舍都不配。”
　　父亲叹道：“我不是叫你们来讨论衣服的。我准备送你们回临冬城。”
　　珊莎震惊得好几秒钟说不出话，她感觉自己的眼睛又湿了。
　　“不要嘛。”艾莉亚说。
　　“求求你，父亲大人，”最后珊莎终于说出话，“求求你别这样。”
　　艾德·史塔克对他两个女儿露出一丝疲惫的微笑。“你们总算有点共识了。”
　　“我又没犯错，”珊莎哀求他，“我不想回去。”她爱死了君临宫廷的壮观华丽，身披绫罗绸缎的贵族男女，以及城里形形色色的人们。那场比武竞技是她一生中最奇妙的时光，而她还有好些东西没观赏过呢，比如丰收宴会、化妆舞会和默剧表演。想到要失去这一切，她实在受不了。“把艾莉亚送走就好，是她先动手的，父亲，我发誓。我会当个乖女儿，真的，只要你让我留下来，我保证我会像王后一样举止高贵又有礼貌。”
　　父亲的嘴角怪异地牵动了一下。“珊莎，我不是因为你们吵架才送你们走，虽然我实在也受够了你们成天拌嘴。我是考虑到你们的安危才希望你们回临冬城。我的三名部下在离此不到三里的地方被人像杀狗似地砍倒，结果劳勃怎么做？他跑去打猎！”
　　艾莉亚正用她那种恶心的方式噘着嘴唇。“我们可以带西利欧一起走吗？”
　　“谁理你的笨舞蹈老师啊？”珊莎怒道，“父亲，我才刚想起来，我不能走啊，我是要嫁给乔佛里王子的。”为了他的缘故，她试着勇敢地微笑。“我爱他，父亲，真的，就像奈丽诗王后爱龙骑士伊蒙王子，琼琪爱佛罗理安那样爱他。我想做他的王后，为他生孩子。”
　　“我亲爱的孩子，”父亲轻声说，“听我说，等你长大，我会帮你找个最配得上你的贵族，既勇敢又温柔又强壮。和乔佛里的这桩婚事是个可怕的错误。那小子可不是伊蒙王子，你得相信我。”
　　“他当然是！”珊莎坚持，“我才不要什么勇敢温柔又强壮的人，我只要他。我们会像歌谣里唱的那样，永远过着幸福快乐的生活，你到时候就知道了。我要帮他生个金发儿子，有朝一日他会成为一国之君，有史以来最伟大的国王，像奔狼一样勇敢，如雄狮一般骄傲。”
　　艾莉亚做了个鬼脸。“有乔佛里当老爸不可能啦，”她说，“他既是骗子又是胆小鬼，更何况他是鹿，不是狮子。”
　　珊莎眼里都是泪水。“他才不是！他一点都不像那酒鬼国王。”她对着妹妹尖叫，悲伤之余完全忘记了礼节。
　　父亲眼神怪异地看着她。“诸神啊，”他轻声咒道，“这话竟从小孩子口中说出来……”他高呼修女进门，然后对两个女孩说：“我打算让你们搭快速商船回家。最近走海路要比国王大道安全。等我找到合适的船，你们就跟茉丹修女和部分侍卫一起出发……如果西利欧·佛瑞尔愿意到我手下做事，也可以带他一起去。这个计划最好不要泄漏，我们明天再谈。”
　　茉丹修女领她们走下台阶时，珊莎禁不住哭了。他们要把比武竞技、繁华宫廷和她的白马王子都夺走，叫她搭什么阴森森的鬼船回临冬城，然后把她永远关起来。她的生命还没开始，就要这么结束了。
　　“孩子，别哭哭啼啼了，”茉丹修女严峻地说，“我相信你父亲大人知道怎么做对你最好。”
　　“珊莎，没那么糟啦。”艾莉亚道，“我们要坐船耶，这将是一次大冒险，然后我们就又可以和布兰、罗柏、老奶妈和阿多他们住在一起了。”她碰碰她的手臂。
　　“阿多！”珊莎大吼，“你这么笨这么脏这么丑，干脆嫁给阿多算了！”说完她甩开妹妹的手，冲进卧房，用力把身后的门闩上。
[ 此帖被挽墨在2015-08-31 00:39重新编辑 ]
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45.EDDARD

   45.EDDARD
   Pain is a gift from the gods, Lord Eddard,” Grand Maester Pycelle told him. “It means the bone is knitting, the flesh healing itself. Be thankful.”
   “I will be thankful when my leg stops throbbing.”
   Pycelle set a stoppered flask on the table by the bed. “The milk of the poppy, for when the pain grows too onerous.”
   “I sleep too much already.”
   “Sleep is the great healer.”
   “I had hoped that was you.”
   Pycelle smiled wanly. “It is good to see you in such a fierce humor, my lord.” He leaned close and lowered his voice. “There was a raven this morning, a letter for the queen from her lord father. I thought you had best know.”
   “Dark wings, dark words,” Ned said grimly. “What of it?”
   “Lord Tywin is greatly wroth about the men you sent after Ser Gregor Clegane,” the maester confided. “I feared he would be. You will recall, I said as much in council.”
   “Let him be wroth,” Ned said. Every time his leg throbbed, he remembered Jaime Lannister’s smile, and Jory dead in his arms. “Let him write all the letters to the queen he likes. Lord Beric rides beneath the king’s own banner. If Lord Tywin attempts to interfere with the king’s justice, he will have Robert to answer to. The only thing His Grace enjoys more than hunting is making war on lords who defy him.”
   Pycelle pulled back, his maester’s chain jangling. “As you say. I shall visit again on the morrow.” The old man hurriedly gathered up his things and took his leave. Ned had little doubt that he was bound straight for the royal apartments, to whisper at the queen. I thought you had best know, indeed?.?.?.?as if Cersei had not instructed him to pass along her father’s threats. He hoped his response rattled those perfect teeth of hers. Ned was not near as confident of Robert as he pretended, but there was no reason Cersei need know that.
   When Pycelle was gone, Ned called for a cup of honeyed wine. That clouded the mind as well, yet not as badly. He needed to be able to think. A thousand times, he asked himself what Jon Arryn might have done, had he lived long enough to act on what he’d learned. Or perhaps he had acted, and died for it.
   It was queer how sometimes a child’s innocent eyes can see things that grown men are blind to. Someday, when Sansa was grown, he would have to tell her how she had made it all come clear for him. He’s not the least bit like that old drunken king, she had declared, angry and unknowing, and the simple truth of it had twisted inside him, cold as death. This was the sword that killed Jon Arryn, Ned thought then, and it will kill Robert as well, a slower death but full as certain. Shattered legs may heal in time, but some betrayals fester and poison the soul.
   Littlefinger came calling an hour after the Grand Maester had left, clad in a plum-colored doublet with a mockingbird embroidered on the breast in black thread, and a striped cloak of black and white. “I cannot visit long, my lord,” he announced. “Lady Tanda expects me to lunch with her. No doubt she will roast me a fatted calf. If it’s near as fatted as her daughter, I’m like to rupture and die. And how is your leg?”
   “Inflamed and painful, with an itch that is driving me mad.”
   Littlefinger lifted an eyebrow. “In future, try not to let any horses fall on it. I would urge you to heal quickly. The realm grows restive. Varys has heard ominous whispers from the west. Freeriders and sellswords have been flocking to Casterly Rock, and not for the thin pleasure of Lord Tywin’s conversation.”
   “Is there word of the king?” Ned demanded. “Just how long does Robert intend to hunt?”
   “Given his preferences, I believe he’d stay in the forest until you and the queen both die of old age,” Lord Petyr replied with a faint smile. “Lacking that, I imagine he’ll return as soon as he’s killed something. They found the white hart, it seems?.?.?.?or rather, what remained of it. Some wolves found it first, and left His Grace scarcely more than a hoof and a horn. Robert was in a fury, until he heard talk of some monstrous boar deeper in the forest. Then nothing would do but he must have it. Prince Joffrey returned this morning, with the Royces, Ser Balon Swann, and some twenty others of the party. The rest are still with the king.”
   “The Hound?” Ned asked, frowning. Of all the Lannister party, Sandor Clegane was the one who concerned him the most, now that Ser Jaime had fled the city to join his father.
   “Oh, returned with Joffrey, and went straight to the queen.” Littlefinger smiled. “I would have given a hundred silver stags to have been a roach in the rushes when he learned that Lord Beric was off to behead his brother.”
   “Even a blind man could see the Hound loathed his brother.”
   “Ah, but Gregor was his to loathe, not yours to kill. Once Dondarrion lops the summit off our Mountain, the Clegane lands and incomes will pass to Sandor, but I wouldn’t hold my water waiting for his thanks, not that one. And now you must forgive me. Lady Tanda awaits with her fatted calves.”
   On the way to the door, Lord Petyr spied Grand Maester Malleon’s massive tome on the table and paused to idly flip open the cover. “The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms, With Descriptions of Many High Lords and Noble Ladies and Their Children,“ he read. “Now there is tedious reading if ever I saw it. A sleeping potion, my lord?”
   For a brief moment Ned considered telling him all of it, but there was something in Littlefinger’s japes that irked him. The man was too clever by half, a mocking smile never far from his lips. “Jon Arryn was studying this volume when he was taken sick,” Ned said in a careful tone, to see how he might respond.
   And he responded as he always did: with a quip. “In that case,” he said, “death must have come as a blessed relief.” Lord Petyr Baelish bowed and took his leave.
   Eddard Stark allowed himself a curse. Aside from his own retainers, there was scarcely a man in this city he trusted. Littlefinger had concealed Catelyn and helped Ned in his inquiries, yet his haste to save his own skin when Jaime and his swords had come out of the rain still rankled. Varys was worse. For all his protestations of loyalty, the eunuch knew too much and did too little. Grand Maester Pycelle seemed more Cersei’s creature with every passing day, and Ser Barristan was an old man, and rigid. He would tell Ned to do his duty.
   Time was perilously short. The king would return from his hunt soon, and honor would require Ned to go to him with all he had learned. Vayon Poole had arranged for Sansa and Arya to sail on the Wind Witch out of Braavos, three days hence. They would be back at Winterfell before the harvest. Ned could no longer use his concern for their safety to excuse his delay.
   Yet last night he had dreamt of Rhaegar’s children. Lord Tywin had laid the bodies beneath the Iron Throne, wrapped in the crimson cloaks of his house guard. That was clever of him; the blood did not show so badly against the red cloth. The little princess had been barefoot, still dressed in her bed gown, and the boy?.?.?.?the boy?.?.?.?
   Ned could not let that happen again. The realm could not withstand a second mad king, another dance of blood and vengeance. He must find some way to save the children.
   Robert could be merciful. Ser Barristan was scarcely the only man he had pardoned. Grand Maester Pycelle, Varys the Spider, Lord Balon Greyjoy; each had been counted an enemy to Robert once, and each had been welcomed into friendship and allowed to retain honors and office for a pledge of fealty. So long as a man was brave and honest, Robert would treat him with all the honor and respect due a valiant enemy.
   This was something else: poison in the dark, a knife thrust to the soul. This he could never forgive, no more than he had forgiven Rhaegar. He will kill them all, Ned realized.
   And yet, he knew he could not keep silent. He had a duty to Robert, to the realm, to the shade of Jon Arryn?.?.?.?and to Bran, who surely must have stumbled on some part of the truth. Why else would they have tried to slay him?
   Late that afternoon he summoned Tomard, the portly guardsman with the ginger-colored whiskers his children called Fat Tom. With Jory dead and Alyn gone, Fat Tom had command of his household guard. The thought filled Ned with vague disquiet. Tomard was a solid man; affable, loyal, tireless, capable in a limited way, but he was near fifty, and even in his youth he had never been energetic. Perhaps Ned should not have been so quick to send off half his guard, and all his best swords among them.
   “I shall require your help,” Ned said when Tomard appeared, looking faintly apprehensive, as he always did when called before his lord. “Take me to the godswood.”
   “Is that wise, Lord Eddard? With your leg and all?”
   “Perhaps not. But necessary.”
   Tomard summoned Varly. With one arm around each man’s shoulders, Ned managed to descend the steep tower steps and hobble across the bailey. “I want the guard doubled,” he told Fat Tom. “No one enters or leaves the Tower of the Hand without my leave.”
   Tom blinked. “M’lord, with Alyn and the others away, we are hard-pressed already...”
   “It will only be a short while. Lengthen the watches.”
   “As you say, m’lord,” Tom answered. “Might I ask why...”
   “Best not,” Ned answered crisply.
   The godswood was empty, as it always was here in this citadel of the southron gods. Ned’s leg was screaming as they lowered him to the grass beside the heart tree. “Thank you.” He drew a paper from his sleeve, sealed with the sigil of his House. “Kindly deliver this at once.”
   Tomard looked at the name Ned had written on the paper and licked his lips anxiously. “My lord?.?.?.?”
   “Do as I bid you, Tom,” Ned said.
   How long he waited in the quiet of the godswood, he could not say. It was peaceful here. The thick walls shut out the clamor of the castle, and he could hear birds singing, the murmur of crickets, leaves rustling in a gentle wind. The heart tree was an oak, brown and faceless, yet Ned Stark still felt the presence of his gods. His leg did not seem to hurt so much.
   She came to him at sunset, as the clouds reddened above the walls and towers. She came alone, as he had bid her. For once she was dressed simply, in leather boots and hunting greens. When she drew back the hood of her brown cloak, he saw the bruise where the king had struck her. The angry plum color had faded to yellow, and the swelling was down, but there was no mistaking it for anything but what it was.
   “Why here?” Cersei Lannister asked as she stood over him.
   “So the gods can see.”
   She sat beside him on the grass. Her every move was graceful. Her curling blond hair moved in the wind, and her eyes were green as the leaves of summer. It had been a long time since Ned Stark had seen her beauty, but he saw it now. “I know the truth Jon Arryn died for,” he told her.
   “Do you?” The queen watched his face, wary as a cat. “Is that why you called me here, Lord Stark? To pose me riddles? Or is it your intent to seize me, as your wife seized my brother?”
   “If you truly believed that, you would never have come.” Ned touched her cheek gently. “Has he done this before?”
   “Once or twice.” She shied away from his hand. “Never on the face before. Jaime would have killed him, even if it meant his own life.” Cersei looked at him defiantly. “My brother is worth a hundred of your friend.”
   “Your brother?” Ned said. “Or your lover?”
   “Both.” She did not flinch from the truth. “Since we were children together. And why not? The Targaryens wed brother to sister for three hundred years, to keep the bloodlines pure. And Jaime and I are more than brother and sister. We are one person in two bodies. We shared a womb together. He came into this world holding my foot, our old maester said. When he is in me, I feel?.?.?.?whole.” The ghost of a smile flitted over her lips.
   “My son Bran?.?.?.?”
   To her credit, Cersei did not look away. “He saw us. You love your children, do you not?”
   Robert had asked him the very same question, the morning of the melee. He gave her the same answer. “With all my heart.”
   “No less do I love mine.”
   Ned thought, If it came to that, the life of some child I did not know, against Robb and Sansa and Arya and Bran and Rickon, what would I do? Even more so, what would Catelyn do, if it were Jon’s life, against the children of her body? He did not know. He prayed he never would.
   “All three are Jaime’s,” he said. It was not a question.
   “Thank the gods.”
   The seed is strong, Jon Arryn had cried on his deathbed, and so it was. All those bastards, all with hair as black as night. Grand Maester Malleon recorded the last mating between stag and lion, some ninety years ago, when Tya Lannister wed Gowen Baratheon, third son of the reigning lord. Their only issue, an unnamed boy described in Malleon’s tome as a large and lusty lad born with a full head of black hair, died in infancy. Thirty years before that a male Lannister had taken a Baratheon maid to wife. She had given him three daughters and a son, each black-haired. No matter how far back Ned searched in the brittle yellowed pages, always he found the gold yielding before the coal.
   “A dozen years,” Ned said. “How is it that you have had no children by the king?”
   She lifted her head, defiant. “Your Robert got me with child once,” she said, her voice thick with contempt. “My brother found a woman to cleanse me. He never knew. If truth be told, I can scarcely bear for him to touch me, and I have not let him inside me for years. I know other ways to pleasure him, when he leaves his whores long enough to stagger up to my bedchamber. Whatever we do, the king is usually so drunk that he’s forgotten it all by the next morning.”
   How could they have all been so blind? The truth was there in front of them all the time, written on the children’s faces. Ned felt sick. “I remember Robert as he was the day he took the throne, every inch a king,” he said quietly. “A thousand other women might have loved him with all their hearts. What did he do to make you hate him so?”
   Her eyes burned, green fire in the dusk, like the lioness that was her sigil. “The night of our wedding feast, the first time we shared a bed, he called me by your sister’s name. He was on top of me, in me, stinking of wine, and he whispered Lyanna.”
   Ned Stark thought of pale blue roses, and for a moment he wanted to weep. “I do not know which of you I pity most.”
   The queen seemed amused by that. “Save your pity for yourself, Lord Stark. I want none of it.”
   “You know what I must do.”
   “Must?” She put her hand on his good leg, just above the knee. “A true man does what he will, not what he must.” Her fingers brushed lightly against his thigh, the gentlest of promises. “The realm needs a strong Hand. Joff will not come of age for years. No one wants war again, least of all me.” Her hand touched his face, his hair. “If friends can turn to enemies, enemies can become friends. Your wife is a thousand leagues away, and my brother has fled. Be kind to me, Ned. I swear to you, you shall never regret it.”
   “Did you make the same offer to Jon Arryn?”
   She slapped him.
   “I shall wear that as a badge of honor,” Ned said dryly.
   “Honor,” she spat. “How dare you play the noble lord with me! What do you take me for? You’ve a bastard of your own, I’ve seen him. Who was the mother, I wonder? Some Dornish peasant you raped while her holdfast burned? A whore? Or was it the grieving sister, the Lady Ashara? She threw herself into the sea, I’m told. Why was that? For the brother you slew, or the child you stole? Tell me, my honorable Lord Eddard, how are you any different from Robert, or me, or Jaime?”
   “For a start,” said Ned, “I do not kill children. You would do well to listen, my lady. I shall say this only once. When the king returns from his hunt, I intend to lay the truth before him. You must be gone by then. You and your children, all three, and not to Casterly Rock. If I were you, I should take ship for the Free Cities, or even farther, to the Summer Isles or the Port of Ibben. As far as the winds blow.”
   “Exile,” she said. “A bitter cup to drink from.”
   “A sweeter cup than your father served Rhaegar’s children,” Ned said, “and kinder than you deserve. Your father and your brothers would do well to go with you. Lord Tywin’s gold will buy you comfort and hire swords to keep you safe. You shall need them. I promise you, no matter where you flee, Robert’s wrath will follow you, to the back of beyond if need be.”
   The queen stood. “And what of my wrath, Lord Stark?” she asked softly. Her eyes searched his face. “You should have taken the realm for yourself. It was there for the taking. Jaime told me how you found him on the Iron Throne the day King’s Landing fell, and made him yield it up. That was your moment. All you needed to do was climb those steps, and sit. Such a sad mistake.”
   “I have made more mistakes than you can possibly imagine,” Ned said, “but that was not one of them.”
   “Oh, but it was, my lord,” Cersei insisted. “When you play the game of thrones, you win or you die. There is no middle ground.”
   She turned up her hood to hide her swollen face and left him there in the dark beneath the oak, amidst the quiet of the godswood, under a blue-black sky. The stars were coming out.




Ⅰ 权力的游戏 Chapter46 艾德
　　“艾德大人，痛觉是天上诸神的恩赐啊，”派席尔大学士告诉他，“这代表骨头正在逐渐接合，伤口也快要痊愈，您该心存感激才是。”
　　“等何时我脚不痛了，再来感激也不迟。”
　　派席尔把塞上瓶盖的药罐放在床边的桌上。“这是罂粟花奶，痛得太厉害的时候喝。”
　　“我已经睡得太多。”
　　“睡眠是最好的医生。”
　　“我以为好医生是你。”
　　派席尔满脸倦容地微笑。“大人，很高兴看到您还这么幽默。”他靠过来低声说，“今天早上来了只渡鸦，带来王后她父亲大人的信。我想最好让您知道。”
　　“黑色的翅膀，黑色的消息。”奈德阴沉地说：“信上怎么说？”
　　“泰温大人对您派人去逮捕格雷果·克里冈一事极为愤概。”大学士悄声对他说，“这正好印证我的担心，您应该记得，当初我在朝廷上也提醒过您。”
　　“让他去愤概。”奈德说。每当他脚伤抽痛，他便会想起詹姆·兰尼斯特的微笑，以及乔里死在他怀中的景况。“他爱写什么给王后是他的事。贝里伯爵打的是国王的旗号，执行的是国王的律法，要是泰温大人敢插手干预，那他就得向劳勃负责。如果说这世上还有什么比打猎更能吸引陛下，莫过于率军讨伐违抗命令的臣下了。”
　　派席尔抽回身子，脖子上的锁链吭啷作响。“如您所言。我明天再来看看。”老人收拾东西很快离去。奈德想也知道他八成会直奔王家居室，把他的反应通报王后。好个“我想最好让您知道”……说得一副瑟曦没有特别吩咐他把她父亲的恐吓说出来似的。他希望自己的回答能让她咬牙切齿。实际上奈德对劳勃并不如他表面上显示的那么有信心，但没必要让瑟曦知道。
　　派席尔走后，奈德要来一杯掺蜂蜜的酒。这东西喝了同样会干扰神智，却没那么严重。他必须保持思绪明晰。他问过自己一千遍：假如琼恩。艾林得知真相后没被人害死，他接下来会采取什么行动？话说回来，说不定他采取过行动，却因此而丧命。
　　说来奇怪，有时候孩子无知的眼睛，反而能看到成年人视而不见的事实。总有一天，等珊莎长大，他一定要告诉她，她的一句话是如何为他拨开了重重疑云。她在一无所知的情况下，说出“他一点都不像那酒鬼国王”这句气话，单纯的真相顿时在他胸口翻涌，冰冷一如死亡。这就是杀死琼恩·艾林的那把剑，当时奈德便想，这把剑同样也会杀死劳勃，或许比较慢，但绝对是迟早的事。断腿终会愈合，然而某些背叛却会逐渐腐蚀灵魂。
　　国师离开后不到一小时，小指头身穿胸前用黑线绣有仿声鸟的李子色外衣，披着黑白相间的条纹披风前来造访。“大人，我不能久留，”他进门便说，“坦妲伯爵夫人等着我共进午餐，想必会特地为我烤只肥牛。呵，如果那只牛跟她女儿一样肥，我吃了八成会活活胀死。您的脚可还好？”
　　“又痛又痒，快把我逼疯了。”
　　小指头抬起一边眉毛。“从今往后，没事别让马压到。我劝你赶紧好起来，国内情势越来越不安定。瓦里斯听到不少从西边传来的坏消息，流浪武士和自由骑手正朝凯岩城蜂拥而去，他们可不是和泰温大人聊天去的。”
　　“国王那边有消息吗？”奈德问，“劳勃到底要打猎到什么时候？”
　　“若是依他的意，我想他会待在森林里，等你和王后都老死了才回来。”培提尔浅浅一笑。“既然这不可能，大概等杀到猎物他就会回来罢。他们找到了那只白鹿……噢，应该说找到了白鹿的残骸。有些狼捷足先登，只留给国王陛下一只鹿蹄和一只鹿角。劳勃气坏了，随后他听说森林深处有只怪物般的大熊，这时怎么也拦不住他啦。乔佛里王子，罗伊斯家的人，巴隆·史文，以及其他二十几号人今早上回来了。其他人陪着国王继续打猎。”
　　“猎狗呢？”奈德皱眉问。眼下詹姆爵士业已逃出城去和他父亲会师，兰尼斯特家的人里面，就数桑铎·克里冈最教他担心。
　　“喔，他跟乔佛里一道回来，他们直接奔王后那儿去了。”小指头微笑，“等他知道贝里大人带兵去杀他老哥的时候，我宁可花一百枚银鹿变成草丛里的蟑螂。”
　　“就算瞎子也看得出猎狗恨透他哥哥。”
　　“是啊，可是格雷果也只有他能恨，轮不到你杀。待唐德利恩削平魔山的山峰，克里冈家族的领地与税赋自然会传给桑铎，但别奢望他跟你道谢啦，绝对不会。抱歉，我真的该走了，坦妲伯爵夫人和她的肥牛还等着我呢。”
　　还没到门边，培提尔瞥见桌上那本梅利恩国师的厚重巨著，便停下来，随意翻开封面。“《七国主要贵族之世家谱系与历史（内附许多关于爵爷夫人和他们子女的描述）》，”他念道，“这可真是我见过的最无聊的东西了。大人，敢情您用这来帮助入眠？”
　　有那么一瞬间，奈德犹豫要不要把实情告诉他，但小指头的玩笑令他生厌。这家伙老是自以为机灵，那抹促狭的微笑从来不离唇边。“琼恩·艾林生病时读的就是这本书。”奈德谨慎地说，打算试探对方的反应。
　　他果然一如既往地耍了个嘴皮子。“若是这样，”他说，“那死还真算得上解脱。”语毕培提尔·贝里席伯爵鞠躬离去。
　　艾德·史塔克容许自己咒骂了一句。除了自己的手下，城里无人可以信任。小指头虽曾帮忙藏匿凯特琳，也协助奈德明查暗访，然而当詹姆和他手下出现时，他那幅急于自保的嘴脸，至今依旧历历如绘。瓦里斯更糟。他成天强调自己忠心耿耿，事实上他知道的太多，真正去做的却太少。派席尔国师越看越像瑟曦的走狗，巴利斯坦爵士则年事已高，又食古不化，多半会告诉奈德管好份内之事即可。
　　时间异常紧迫，待国王游猎归来，出于荣誉，奈德非得向他吐露实情不可。维扬·普尔已经安排好珊莎和艾莉亚三天后搭乘布拉佛斯的风之巫女号离开，奈德再也无法以她们的安危作为自己拖延的借口。
　　然而昨夜他却梦见了雷加的孩子。泰温公爵将尸首用他侍卫的红披风裹好，放在铁王座下。这么做颇为聪明，因为包着红布，血迹便不太明显。小公主死时光着脚，身上穿着睡衣，而那男孩……那男孩……。
　　奈德绝不能让类似的事情重演。王国再不能出现第二个丧心病狂的国王，更经不起又一次充满仇恨的腥风血雨。他得想办法保护那几个孩子。
　　劳勃是很可以表现仁慈的人。巴利斯坦爵士并非他惟一赦免的对象。派席尔国师，“八爪蜘蛛”瓦里斯，巴隆·葛雷乔伊……他们个个曾与劳勃为敌，然而一旦宣誓效忠，也都能得到友谊的拥抱，保留自己的荣誉。只要对方表现英勇，行事正直，劳勃便会将他当成勇敢的对手，尊敬有加。
　　然而这次情况有别：暗中下毒，背后捅刀，这种事他绝对无法原谅，就像他始终无法原谅雷加。我要教他们像龙一样死得干净彻底，奈德想起劳勃的话。
　　即便如此，他依旧无法保持沉默。他要对劳勃负责，更要对整个国家，对死去的琼恩·艾林……对布兰负责。那孩子肯定是无意之中听见部分事实，否则他们何必杀他灭口？
　　当天傍晚，他把身材粗壮，留着淡黄胡须，被他的孩子们戏称为“胖汤姆”的守卫托马德找来。由于乔里已死，埃林又出门在外，胖汤姆便成了他的侍卫队长。想到这奈德觉得些微不安，托马德是个很可靠的人，待人和蔼可亲，忠心耿耿，不辞辛劳，某些地方还算能干，但他已年近五十，而即使年轻时也算不上精力充沛。或许奈德不该这么轻易地送走半数侍卫，那些可都是他手下最精良的战士。
　　“我需要你帮忙，”托马德进门时，奈德对他说。胖汤姆每当被主人传唤，总有些惴惴不安，这回也不例外。“扶我去神木林。”
　　“艾德大人，这样好吗？您脚这个样子……”
　　“或许不好，但我必须这么做。”
　　托马德叫来瓦利，奈德一手扶一人的肩膀，勉强走下高塔陡峭的楼梯，跛着脚穿过内城。“将守卫班次加倍，”他告诉胖汤姆。“未经我允许，任何人不准进出首相塔。”
　　汤姆眨眨眼。“老爷，眼下少了埃林他们，我们的人手很吃紧——”
　　“不用多久。暂时延长值班时间。”
　　“遵命，老爷。”汤姆回答，“我能否询问——”
　　“最好不要。”奈德立时回答。
　　神木林里空无一人，信仰南方诸神的城堡中，向来如此。等他们在心树旁的草地把他放下，他的脚已经痛得撕心裂肺。“谢谢。”他从袖子里取出一张用家徽印章封好的纸。“麻烦你们立刻把它送去。”
　　托马德望见奈德写在纸上的名字，不安地舔舔嘴唇。“老爷……”
　　“汤姆，你照办就是。”奈德说。
　　他不知自己在神木林的静谧中等了多久。这里安详而宁静。厚重的围墙阻隔了城堡里的人马喧腾，他听见虫鸣鸟叫，听见叶子在风中瑟瑟作响。此地的心树是一棵棕色橡木，虽然没有刻脸，但奈德依旧可以感觉他所信仰的无名诸神的存在。脚也似乎不那么痛了。
　　日落时分她才姗姗来临，塔楼高墙上的云朵已经披上红霞。她依约独自前来，难得地衣着朴素，只穿了皮靴和绿色猎衣。当她掀开棕色斗篷的兜帽，他看见国王打她的地方。原本怒放的李子色已经褪为黄色，肿也消去，然而她的遭遇依旧一目了然。
　　“为什么在这里？”瑟曦·兰尼斯特站在他面前，高高在上地问。
　　“好让天上诸神作见证。”
　　她在他身畔的草地坐下，一举一动都优雅异常。她蜷曲的金发在风中轻舞，碧绿双眸一如盛夏的繁叶。奈德·史塔克已有许久不曾见识她的美貌，如今又再度唤起。“我知道琼恩·艾林是为什么死的。”他告诉她。
　　“是吗？”王后审视着他的脸，如灵猫一般小心翼翼。“史塔克大人，您就为这把我叫来？跟我猜谜语？还是您想学尊夫人挟持我弟弟一样挟持我？”
　　“你真这样以为，就不会来了。”奈德轻轻碰触她脸颊。“他以前打过你吗？”
　　“有一两次，”她别过去。“但没打过脸，否则就算是自身难保，詹姆也会跟他拼命。”瑟曦神情挑衅地看着他，“我弟弟胜过你朋友一百倍。”
　　“你弟弟？”奈德说，“还是你爱人？”
　　“两者都是。”面对真相，她脸上毫无异色。“我们从小就在一起。有何不可？坦格利安家三百年来都是兄妹通婚，以保持血统纯正。詹姆和我不只是姐弟，我们根本是分成两半的同一个生命，我们共享同一子宫。据我们家老师傅说，他托着我的脚方才来到人世。当我俩结合的时候，我才……觉得自己完整。”她的唇上隐约掠过一抹微笑。
　　“我儿子布兰他……？”
　　瑟曦坦然面对，没有回避。“他看见我们在一起。你很爱你的孩子，对不对？”
　　团体比武当天早上，劳勃问过他一模一样的问题。他给了她相同的答案。“我全心全意地爱他们。”
　　“我也是这么爱着自己的孩子。”
　　奈德心想：倘若换成别的小孩威胁到罗柏、珊莎、艾莉亚、布兰或瑞肯的生命，他会怎么做？甚或，倘若琼恩威胁到她亲生孩子的性命，凯特琳又会怎么办？他不知道，他祈祷自己永远不要知道。
　　“他们三个都是詹姆的孩子。”他说，这并非提问。
　　“感谢天上诸神。”
　　种性强韧，琼恩·艾林临死前如此大喊，事实的确如此。每一个私生子的头发都漆黑如夜。梅利恩记录了九十多年前雄鹿和狮子间最后一次结合，蒂亚·兰尼斯特嫁给葛文·拜拉席恩——他在本家排行老三。他们惟一的孩子是个无有名字的早夭男婴，梅利恩的书中如此描述：“个头大，食量佳，满头黑发。”再往前三十年，一位兰尼斯特家的男性娶了拜拉席恩家的女孩为妻。她为他生了三个女儿、一个儿子，全部皆为黑发。不管奈德在薄脆的泛黄书页间如何向前追溯，金黄一遇炭黑永远只有屈服的份。
　　“你们结婚十多年，”奈德道，“怎么会没有孩子？”
　　她倔傲地抬起头。“你那劳勃让我怀过一次孕，”她的口气充满轻蔑。“我弟弟找了个女人帮我把孩子清理掉。他根本不知道这回事。真要我说，我完全无法忍受他碰我一根汗毛。我们已经很多年没有行房了。他要是稍微远离他那些婊子，喝完酒还能跌跌撞撞地找到我房间，我也有其他方法满足他。反正不管我们做些什么，国王通常烂醉如泥，隔天就忘得一干二净。”
　　他们怎能如此盲目？事实从头到尾摆在眼前，清清楚楚写在孩子们的脸上，而他们却视若无睹。奈德觉得一阵反胃。“我记得劳勃初登王位那天的模样，完全是翩翩王者风范。”他静静地说，“成千上万的女人都会全心全意爱他，他到底做了什么，让你恨成这样？”
　　她的双眼燃起暮色中的绿火，宛如她家徽的母狮。“我们新婚当晚，初次同床共枕，他叫的却是你妹妹的名字。他压在我身上，进到我体内，浑身酒臭，他竟然悄悄念着‘莱安娜’。”
　　奈德·史塔克想起碧蓝的玫瑰，一时间只觉泫然欲泣。“我真不知该可怜你还是可怜他。”
　　王后似乎觉得这话颇为有趣。“史塔克大人，省省力气可怜你自己罢。我不需要。”
　　“你很清楚我必须怎么做。”
　　“必须怎么做？”她朝他没受伤的脚伸出手，搁在刚过膝盖的地方。“一个真实的人做他想做的事，而不是他必须做的事。”她的手指轻轻拂过他的大腿，带着最温柔的暗示。“离小乔成年还有好些年，国家需要一个强有力的首相。没人想重启战端，我尤其不想。”她的手拂过他的脸庞和头发，“倘若朋友可以反目成仇，我们为何不能化敌为友？尊夫人远在千里之外，我弟弟也不在城中。奈德，对我好一点，我发誓绝不让你后悔。”
　　“你当初也是这么向琼恩·艾林提议吗？”
　　她甩了他一个耳光。
　　“我会把这当成荣誉的奖章。”奈德冷冷地说。
　　“去你的荣誉，”她啐道，“少给我道貌岸然！你把我当什么了？你自己也有个私生子，我亲眼见过。我很好奇他的母亲是谁？是不是哪个家园被你放火烧掉，随后被你强奸的多恩农家女？还是个婊子？或者是那个哀伤的妹妹，亚夏拉小姐？我听说，当你将拂晓神剑那把‘黎明’送还给她后，她便从城墙投海自尽，这到底是什么缘故啊？是因为被你所杀的哥哥，还是被你偷走的孩子？告诉我啊，最讲究荣誉的艾德大人，你和劳勃，或是我，或是詹姆，究竟有什么差别？”
　　“别的不说，”奈德说，“至少我不杀孩子。夫人，请您听好，我话只说一遍。等国王打猎归来，我准备把事情原原本本地告诉他。在这之前你一定得走，带着孩子一起走，三个都带。不要回凯岩城，如果我是你，我会搭船去自由贸易城邦，或是走得更远，到盛夏群岛或伊班港，能跑多远就跑多远。”
　　“你要我自我放逐，”她说，“这是杯难以下咽的苦酒。”
　　“比起令尊给雷加小孩的那杯，算是好的了，”奈德道，“也比你原本应得的好。令尊和你弟弟最好也能一起走，泰温大人的财产足够让你们过舒服日子，还可以雇人保你们安全。你会需要的。我跟你保证，无论你逃得多远，劳勃的怒火都会尾随而至，追你到天涯海角。”
　　王后站起来。“那我的怒火又怎么办，史塔克大人？”她轻声问，目光在他脸上搜索。“王位近在咫尺，你只需伸手便可夺取天下。詹姆跟我说过，君临城陷那天，你发现他坐在铁王座上，便要求他交出王位。那是你千载难逢的机会，你只需爬上阶梯，坐上王位。可悲啊，可悲的错误。”
　　“我这辈子犯过的错，超乎你的想像。”奈德说，“然而这却不是其中之一。”
　　“噢，大人，这当然是，”瑟曦坚持，“在权力的游戏之中，你不当赢家，就只有死路一条，没有中间地带。”
　　她拉上兜帽，遮住浮肿的脸，快步离开，留下他独自坐在橡树的阴影下，置身神木林的静谧之中。头顶的黑蓝天空里，星星逐渐出来了。

[ 此帖被挽墨在2015-09-01 00:30重新编辑 ]
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你看着眼前的人，分明还是以前的模样，可心里终究不是以前那般澄清透明了。
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46.DAENERYS
   The heart was steaming in the cool evening air when Khal Drogo set it before her, raw and bloody. His arms were red to the elbow. Behind him, his bloodriders knelt on the sand beside the corpse of the wild stallion, stone knives in their hands. The stallion’s blood looked black in the flickering orange glare of the torches that ringed the high chalk walls of the pit.
   Dany touched the soft swell of her belly. Sweat beaded her skin and trickled down her brow. She could feel the old women watching her, the ancient crones of Vaes Dothrak, with eyes that shone dark as polished flint in their wrinkled faces. She must not flinch or look afraid. I am the blood of the dragon, she told herself as she took the stallion’s heart in both hands, lifted it to her mouth, and plunged her teeth into the tough, stringy flesh.
   Warm blood filled her mouth and ran down over her chin. The taste threatened to gag her, but she made herself chew and swallow. The heart of a stallion would make her son strong and swift and fearless, or so the Dothraki believed, but only if the mother could eat it all. If she choked on the blood or retched up the flesh, the omens were less favorable; the child might be stillborn, or come forth weak, deformed, or female.
   Her handmaids had helped her ready herself for the ceremony. Despite the tender mother’s stomach that had afflicted her these past two moons, Dany had dined on bowls of half-clotted blood to accustom herself to the taste, and Irri made her chew strips of dried horseflesh until her jaws were aching. She had starved herself for a day and a night before the ceremony in the hopes that hunger would help her keep down the raw meat.
   The wild stallion’s heart was all muscle, and Dany had to worry it with her teeth and chew each mouthful a long time. No steel was permitted within the sacred confines of Vaes Dothrak, beneath the shadow of the Mother of Mountains; she had to rip the heart apart with teeth and nails. Her stomach roiled and heaved, yet she kept on, her face smeared with the heartsblood that sometimes seemed to explode against her lips.
   Khal Drogo stood over her as she ate, his face as hard as a bronze shield. His long black braid was shiny with oil. He wore gold rings in his mustache, gold bells in his braid, and a heavy belt of solid gold medallions around his waist, but his chest was bare. She looked at him whenever she felt her strength failing; looked at him, and chewed and swallowed, chewed and swallowed, chewed and swallowed. Toward the end, Dany thought she glimpsed a fierce pride in his dark, almond-shaped eyes, but she could not be sure. The khal’s face did not often betray the thoughts within.
   And finally it was done. Her cheeks and fingers were sticky as she forced down the last of it. Only then did she turn her eyes back to the old women, the crones of the dosh khaleen.
   “Khalakka dothrae mr’anha!” she proclaimed in her best Dothraki. A prince rides inside me! She had practiced the phrase for days with her handmaid Jhiqui.
   The oldest of the crones, a bent and shriveled stick of a woman with a single black eye, raised her arms on high. “Khalakka dothrae!” she shrieked. The prince is riding!
   “He is riding!” the other women answered. “Rakh! Rakh! Rakh haj!” they proclaimed. A boy, a boy, a strong boy.
   Bells rang, a sudden clangor of bronze birds. A deep-throated warhorn sounded its long low note. The old women began to chant. Underneath their painted leather vests, their withered dugs swayed back and forth, shiny with oil and sweat. The eunuchs who served them threw bundles of dried grasses into a great bronze brazier, and clouds of fragrant smoke rose up toward the moon and the stars. The Dothraki believed the stars were horses made of fire, a great herd that galloped across the sky by night.
   As the smoke ascended, the chanting died away and the ancient crone closed her single eye, the better to peer into the future. The silence that fell was complete. Dany could hear the distant call of night birds, the hiss and crackle of the torches, the gentle lapping of water from the lake. The Dothraki stared at her with eyes of night, waiting.
   Khal Drogo laid his hand on Dany’s arm. She could feel the tension in his fingers. Even a khal as mighty as Drogo could know fear when the dosh khaleen peered into smoke of the future. At her back, her handmaids fluttered anxiously.
   Finally the crone opened her eye and lifted her arms. “I have seen his face, and heard the thunder of his hooves,” she proclaimed in a thin, wavery voice.
   “The thunder of his hooves!” the others chorused.
   “As swift as the wind he rides, and behind him his khalasar covers the earth, men without number, with arakhs shining in their hands like blades of razor grass. Fierce as a storm this prince will be. His enemies will tremble before him, and their wives will weep tears of blood and rend their flesh in grief. The bells in his hair will sing his coming, and the milk men in the stone tents will fear his name.” The old woman trembled and looked at Dany almost as if she were afraid. “The prince is riding, and he shall be the stallion who mounts the world.”
   “The stallion who mounts the world!” the onlookers cried in echo, until the night rang to the sound of their voices.
   The one-eyed crone peered at Dany. “What shall he be called, the stallion who mounts the world?”
   She stood to answer. “He shall be called Rhaego,” she said, using the words that Jhiqui had taught her. Her hands touched the swell beneath her breasts protectively as a roar went up from the Dothraki. “Rhaego,” they screamed. “Rhaego, Rhaego, Rhaego!”
   The name was still ringing in her ears as Khal Drogo led her from the pit. His bloodriders fell in behind them. A procession followed them out onto the godsway, the broad grassy road that ran through the heart of Vaes Dothrak, from the horse gate to the Mother of Mountains. The crones of the dosh khaleen came first, with their eunuchs and slaves. Some supported themselves with tall carved staffs as they struggled along on ancient, shaking legs, while others walked as proud as any horselord. Each of the old women had been a khaleesi once. When their lord husbands died and a new khal took his place at the front of his riders, with a new khaleesi mounted beside him, they were sent here, to reign over the vast Dothraki nation. Even the mightiest of khals bowed to the wisdom and authority of the dosh khaleen. Still, it gave Dany the shivers to think that one day she might be sent to join them, whether she willed it or no.
   Behind the wise women came the others; Khal Ogo and his son, the khalakka Fogo, Khal Jommo and his wives, the chief men of Drogo’s khalasar, Dany’s handmaids, the khal’s servants and slaves, and more. Bells rang and drums beat a stately cadence as they marched along the godsway. Stolen heroes and the gods of dead peoples brooded in the darkness beyond the road. Alongside the procession, slaves ran lightly through the grass with torches in their hands, and the flickering flames made the great monuments seem almost alive.
   “What is meaning, name Rhaego?” Khal Drogo asked as they walked, using the Common Tongue of the Seven Kingdoms. She had been teaching him a few words when she could. Drogo was quick to learn when he put his mind to it, though his accent was so thick and barbarous that neither Ser Jorah nor Viserys could understand a word he said.
   “My brother Rhaegar was a fierce warrior, my sun-and-stars,” she told him. “He died before I was born. Ser Jorah says that he was the last of the dragons.”
   Khal Drogo looked down at her. His face was a copper mask, yet under the long black mustache, drooping beneath the weight of its gold rings, she thought she glimpsed the shadow of a smile. “Is good name, Dan Ares wife, moon of my life,” he said.
   They rode to the lake the Dothraki called the Womb of the World, surrounded by a fringe of reeds, its water still and calm. A thousand thousand years ago, Jhiqui told her, the first man had emerged from its depths, riding upon the back of the first horse.
   The procession waited on the grassy shore as Dany stripped and let her soiled clothing fall to the ground. Naked, she stepped gingerly into the water. Irri said the lake had no bottom, but Dany felt soft mud squishing between her toes as she pushed through the tall reeds. The moon floated on the still black waters, shattering and re-forming as her ripples washed over it. Goose pimples rose on her pale skin as the coldness crept up her thighs and kissed her lower lips. The stallion’s blood had dried on her hands and around her mouth. Dany cupped her fingers and lifted the sacred waters over her head, cleansing herself and the child inside her while the khal and the others looked on. She heard the old women of the dosh khaleen muttering to each other as they watched, and wondered what they were saying.
   When she emerged from the lake, shivering and dripping, her handmaid Doreah hurried to her with a robe of painted sandsilk, but Khal Drogo waved her away. He was looking on her swollen breasts and the curve of her belly with approval, and Dany could see the shape of his manhood pressing through his horsehide trousers, below the heavy gold medallions of his belt. She went to him and helped him unlace. Then her huge khal took her by the hips and lifted her into the air, as he might lift a child. The bells in his hair rang softly.
   Dany wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pressed her face against his neck as he thrust himself inside her. Three quick strokes and it was done. “The stallion who mounts the world,” Drogo whispered hoarsely. His hands still smelled of horse blood. He bit at her throat, hard, in the moment of his pleasure, and when he lifted her off, his seed filled her and trickled down the inside of her thighs. Only then was Doreah permitted to drape her in the scented sandsilk, and Irri to fit soft slippers to her feet.
   Khal Drogo laced himself up and spoke a command, and horses were brought to the lakeshore. Cohollo had the honor of helping the khaleesi onto her silver. Drogo spurred his stallion, and set off down the godsway beneath the moon and stars. On her silver, Dany easily kept pace.
   The silk tenting that roofed Khal Drogo’s hall had been rolled up tonight, and the moon followed them inside. Flames leapt ten feet in the air from three huge stone-lined firepits. The air was thick with the smells of roasting meat and curdled, fermented mare’s milk. The hall was crowded and noisy when they entered, the cushions packed with those whose rank and name were not sufficient to allow them at the ceremony. As Dany rode beneath the arched entry and up the center aisle, every eye was on her. The Dothraki screamed out comments on her belly and her breasts, hailing the life within her. She could not understand all they shouted, but one phrase came clear. “The stallion that mounts the world,” she heard, bellowed in a thousand voices.
   The sounds of drums and horns swirled up into the night. Half-clothed women spun and danced on the low tables, amid joints of meat and platters piled high with plums and dates and pomegranates. Many of the men were drunk on clotted mare’s milk, yet Dany knew no arakhs would clash tonight, not here in the sacred city, where blades and bloodshed were forbidden.
   Khal Drogo dismounted and took his place on the high bench. Khal Jommo and Khal Ogo, who had been in Vaes Dothrak with their khalasars when they arrived, were given seats of high honor to Drogo’s right and left. The bloodriders of the three khals sat below them, and farther down Khal Jommo’s four wives.
   Dany climbed off her silver and gave the reins to one of the slaves. As Doreah and Irri arranged her cushions, she searched for her brother. Even across the length of the crowded hall, Viserys should have been conspicuous with his pale skin, silvery hair, and beggar’s rags, but she did not see him anywhere.
   Her glance roamed the crowded tables near the walls, where men whose braids were even shorter than their manhoods sat on frayed rugs and flat cushions around the low tables, but all the faces she saw had black eyes and copper skin. She spied Ser Jorah Mormont near the center of the hall, close to the middle firepit. It was a place of respect, if not high honor; the Dothraki esteemed the knight’s prowess with a sword. Dany sent Jhiqui to bring him to her table. Mormont came at once, and went to one knee before her. “Khaleesi,” he said, “I am yours to command.”
   She patted the stuffed horsehide cushion beside her. “Sit and talk with me.”
   “You honor me.” The knight seated himself cross-legged on the cushion. A slave knelt before him, offering a wooden platter full of ripe figs. Ser Jorah took one and bit it in half.
   “Where is my brother?” Dany asked. “He ought to have come by now, for the feast.”
   “I saw His Grace this morning,” he told her. “He told me he was going to the Western Market, in search of wine.”
   “Wine?” Dany said doubtfully. Viserys could not abide the taste of the fermented mare’s milk the Dothraki drank, she knew that, and he was oft at the bazaars these days, drinking with the traders who came in the great caravans from east and west. He seemed to find their company more congenial than hers.
   “Wine,” Ser Jorah confirmed, “and he has some thought to recruit men for his army from the sellswords who guard the caravans.” A serving girl laid a blood pie in front of him, and he attacked it with both hands.
   “Is that wise?” she asked. “He has no gold to pay soldiers. What if he’s betrayed?” Caravan guards were seldom troubled much by thoughts of honor, and the Usurper in King’s Landing would pay well for her brother’s head. “You ought to have gone with him, to keep him safe. You are his sworn sword.”
   “We are in Vaes Dothrak,” he reminded her. “No one may carry a blade here or shed a man’s blood.”
   “Yet men die,” she said. “Jhogo told me. Some of the traders have eunuchs with them, huge men who strangle thieves with wisps of silk. That way no blood is shed and the gods are not angered.”
   “Then let us hope your brother will be wise enough not to steal anything.” Ser Jorah wiped the grease off his mouth with the back of his hand and leaned close over the table. “He had planned to take your dragon’s eggs, until I warned him that I’d cut off his hand if he so much as touched them.”
   For a moment Dany was so shocked she had no words. “My eggs?.?.?.?but they’re mine, Magister Illyrio gave them to me, a bride gift, why would Viserys want?.?.?.?they’re only stones?.?.?.?”
   “The same could be said of rubies and diamonds and fire opals, Princess?.?.?.?and dragon’s eggs are rarer by far. Those traders he’s been drinking with would sell their own manhoods for even one of those stones, and with all three Viserys could buy as many sellswords as he might need.”
   Dany had not known, had not even suspected. “Then?.?.?.?he should have them. He does not need to steal them. He had only to ask. He is my brother?.?.?.?and my true king.”
   “He is your brother,” Ser Jorah acknowledged.
   “You do not understand, ser,” she said. “My mother died giving me birth, and my father and my brother Rhaegar even before that. I would never have known so much as their names if Viserys had not been there to tell me. He was the only one left. The only one. He is all I have.”
   “Once,” said Ser Jorah. “No longer, Khaleesi. You belong to the Dothraki now. In your womb rides the stallion who mounts the world.” He held out his cup, and a slave filled it with fermented mare’s milk, sour-smelling and thick with clots.
   Dany waved her away. Even the smell of it made her feel ill, and she would take no chances of bringing up the horse heart she had forced herself to eat. “What does it mean?” she asked. “What is this stallion? Everyone was shouting it at me, but I don’t understand.”
   “The stallion is the khal of khals promised in ancient prophecy, child. He will unite the Dothraki into a single khalasar and ride to the ends of the earth, or so it was promised. All the people of the world will be his herd.”
   “Oh,” Dany said in a small voice. Her hand smoothed her robe down over the swell of her stomach. “I named him Rhaego.”
   “A name to make the Usurper’s blood run cold.”
   Suddenly Doreah was tugging at her elbow. “My lady, “ the handmaid whispered urgently, “your brother?.?.?.?”
   Dany looked down the length of the long, roofless hall and there he was, striding toward her. From the lurch in his step, she could tell at once that Viserys had found his wine?.?.?.?and something that passed for courage.
   He was wearing his scarlet silks, soiled and travel-stained. His cloak and gloves were black velvet, faded from the sun. His boots were dry and cracked, his silver-blond hair matted and tangled. A longsword swung from his belt in a leather scabbard. The Dothraki eyed the sword as he passed; Dany heard curses and threats and angry muttering rising all around her, like a tide. The music died away in a nervous stammering of drums.
   A sense of dread closed around her heart. “Go to him,” she commanded Ser Jorah. “Stop him. Bring him here. Tell him he can have the dragon’s eggs if that is what he wants.” The knight rose swiftly to his feet.
   “Where is my sister?” Viserys shouted, his voice thick with wine. “I’ve come for her feast. How dare you presume to eat without me? No one eats before the king. Where is she? The whore can’t hide from the dragon.”
   He stopped beside the largest of the three firepits, peering around at the faces of the Dothraki. There were five thousand men in the hall, but only a handful who knew the Common Tongue. Yet even if his words were incomprehensible, you had only to look at him to know that he was drunk.
   Ser Jorah went to him swiftly, whispered something in his ear, and took him by the arm, but Viserys wrenched free. “Keep your hands off me! No one touches the dragon without leave.”
   Dany glanced anxiously up at the high bench. Khal Drogo was saying something to the other khals beside him. Khal Jommo grinned, and Khal Ogo began to guffaw loudly.
   The sound of laughter made Viserys lift his eyes. “Khal Drogo,” he said thickly, his voice almost polite. “I’m here for the feast.” He staggered away from Ser Jorah, making to join the three khals on the high bench.
   Khal Drogo rose, spat out a dozen words in Dothraki, faster than Dany could understand, and pointed. “Khal Drogo says your place is not on the high bench,” Ser Jorah translated for her brother. “Khal Drogo says your place is there.”
   Viserys glanced where the khal was pointing. At the back of the long hall, in a corner by the wall, deep in shadow so better men would not need to look on them, sat the lowest of the low; raw unblooded boys, old men with clouded eyes and stiff joints, the dim-witted and the maimed. Far from the meat, and farther from honor. “That is no place for a king,” her brother declared.
   “Is place,” Khal Drogo answered, in the Common Tongue that Dany had taught him, “for Sorefoot King.” He clapped his hands together. “A cart! Bring cart for Khal Rhaggat!”
   Five thousand Dothraki began to laugh and shout. Ser Jorah was standing beside Viserys, screaming in his ear, but the roar in the hall was so thunderous that Dany could not hear what he was saying. Her brother shouted back and the two men grappled, until Mormont knocked Viserys bodily to the floor.
   Her brother drew his sword.
   The bared steel shone a fearful red in the glare from the firepits. “Keep away from me!” Viserys hissed. Ser Jorah backed off a step, and her brother climbed unsteadily to his feet. He waved the sword over his head, the borrowed blade that Magister Illyrio had given him to make him seem more kingly. Dothraki were shrieking at him from all sides, screaming vile curses.
   Dany gave a wordless cry of terror. She knew what a drawn sword meant here, even if her brother did not.
   Her voice made Viserys turn his head, and he saw her for the first time. “There she is,” he said, smiling. He stalked toward her, slashing at the air as if to cut a path through a wall of enemies, though no one tried to bar his way.
   “The blade?.?.?.?you must not,” she begged him. “Please, Viserys. It is forbidden. Put down the sword and come share my cushions. There’s drink, food?.?.?.?is it the dragon’s eggs you want? You can have them, only throw away the sword.”
   “Do as she tells you, fool,” Ser Jorah shouted, “before you get us all killed.”
   Viserys laughed. “They can’t kill us. They can’t shed blood here in the sacred city?.?.?.?but I can.” He laid the point of his sword between Daenerys’s breasts and slid it downward, over the curve of her belly. “I want what I came for,” he told her. “I want the crown he promised me. He bought you, but he never paid for you. Tell him I want what I bargained for, or I’m taking you back. You and the eggs both. He can keep his bloody foal. I’ll cut the bastard out and leave it for him.” The sword point pushed through her silks and pricked at her navel. Viserys was weeping, she saw; weeping and laughing, both at the same time, this man who had once been her brother.
   Distantly, as from far away, Dany heard her handmaid Jhiqui sobbing in fear, pleading that she dared not translate, that the khal would bind her and drag her behind his horse all the way up the Mother of Mountains. She put her arm around the girl. “Don’t be afraid,” she said. “I shall tell him.”
   She did not know if she had enough words, yet when she was done Khal Drogo spoke a few brusque sentences in Dothraki, and she knew he understood. The sun of her life stepped down from the high bench. “What did he say?” the man who had been her brother asked her, flinching.
   It had grown so silent in the hall that she could hear the bells in Khal Drogo’s hair, chiming softly with each step he took. His bloodriders followed him, like three copper shadows. Daenerys had gone cold all over. “He says you shall have a splendid golden crown that men shall tremble to behold.”
   Viserys smiled and lowered his sword. That was the saddest thing, the thing that tore at her afterward?.?.?.?the way he smiled. “That was all I wanted,” he said. “What was promised.”
   When the sun of her life reached her, Dany slid an arm around his waist. The khal said a word, and his bloodriders leapt forward. Qotho seized the man who had been her brother by the arms. Haggo shattered his wrist with a single, sharp twist of his huge hands. Cohollo pulled the sword from his limp fingers. Even now Viserys did not understand. “No,” he shouted, “you cannot touch me, I am the dragon, the dragon, and I will be crowned!”
   Khal Drogo unfastened his belt. The medallions were pure gold, massive and ornate, each one as large as a man’s hand. He shouted a command. Cook slaves pulled a heavy iron stew pot from the firepit, dumped the stew onto the ground, and returned the pot to the flames. Drogo tossed in the belt and watched without expression as the medallions turned red and began to lose their shape. She could see fires dancing in the onyx of his eyes. A slave handed him a pair of thick horsehair mittens, and he pulled them on, never so much as looking at the man.
   Viserys began to scream the high, wordless scream of the coward facing death. He kicked and twisted, whimpered like a dog and wept like a child, but the Dothraki held him tight between them. Ser Jorah had made his way to Dany’s side. He put a hand on her shoulder. “Turn away, my princess, I beg you.”
   “No.” She folded her arms across the swell of her belly, protectively.
   At the last, Viserys looked at her. “Sister, please?.?.?.?Dany, tell them?.?.?.?make them?.?.?.?sweet sister?.?.?.?”
   When the gold was half-melted and starting to run, Drogo reached into the flames, snatched out the pot. “Crown!” he roared. “Here. A crown for Cart King!” And upended the pot over the head of the man who had been her brother.
   The sound Viserys Targaryen made when that hideous iron helmet covered his face was like nothing human. His feet hammered a frantic beat against the dirt floor, slowed, stopped. Thick globs of molten gold dripped down onto his chest, setting the scarlet silk to smoldering?.?.?.?yet no drop of blood was spilled.
   He was no dragon, Dany thought, curiously calm. Fire cannot kill a dragon.



Ⅰ 权力的游戏 Chapter47 丹妮莉丝
　　卓戈卡奥把血淋淋的心脏置于她面前，这颗心冒出的热气在夜晚的冷气里蒸腾。他两手红至肘部。身后，他的血盟卫手拿石制短刀，单膝跪在野马尸体旁的沙地上。环绕坑穴的粉白高墙火炬摇曳，橙焰将骏马的血映成漆黑。
　　丹妮轻抚隆起的小腹。汗水在肌肤表面凝结，自她额际流下。她感觉得出维斯·多斯拉克的年迈老妪正看着她，她们爬满皱纹的脸上，眼睛如磨亮的燧石闪着黑光。她不能退缩，不能畏惧。“我是真龙传人，”她一边双手捧起马心，一边这么告诉自己。随后她把马心举到嘴边，用尽力气，朝坚韧的生肉咬去。
　　温热的鲜血溢满口中，自她下巴流下。味道几乎令她作呕，但她强忍着继续咀嚼，继续吞咽。多斯拉克人相信，马心能使儿子体魄强健、身手敏捷、无所畏惧，但作母亲的必须吃下整颗心。假如她被血呛到，或者把肉吐出，便是不祥预兆：胎儿可能流产，或先天多病，畸形，甚至是生女儿。
　　为了这次仪式，她的女仆们已帮她做过精心准备。过去这两个月，丹妮虽因害喜身体不适，却还是以一碗碗半凝固的血块为食，让自己习惯血腥味。伊丽把一片片的马肉拿给她嚼，直到她双颊发痛。仪式举行之前，她还特别一整天不进食，希望饥饿能帮助她吞咽生肉。
　　野生骏马的心全是结实的肌肉，丹妮得用牙齿竭力撕咬，细嚼慢咽才能吞下。圣母山笼罩下的圣城维斯·多斯拉克严禁刀械，所以她只能用牙齿和指甲撕开马心。她的胃里阵阵翻腾，但她咬牙坚持，还必须忍受不时喷溅到脸上的马血。
　　卓戈卡奥高高地站在一旁，看着她吃，那张脸严峻得像青铜盾牌。他长长的黑发辫闪着油亮光泽，小胡子里挂了金环，发辫扎着铃铛，一条沉甸甸的金章腰带系在腰间，胸膛却是赤裸。每当她觉得力量渐失，便抬头望他，然后继续咬牙切齿、咀嚼吞咽。末了，她仿佛在他杏仁状的黑眼瞳里，瞥见了某种坚毅的骄傲，但她不敢确定。无论卡奥心绪为何，他都很少显现于色。
　　终于结束了。她吞下最后一块马肉，双颊和手指早已僵麻。这时她才敢将视线转回到那群老妇人，亦即多希卡林的老妪们身上。
　　“卡拉喀，多斯雷，姆安哈！”她用自己最标准的多斯拉克语说，意思是：王子在我体内骑马！多日以来，她和女仆姬琪反复练习这句话。
　　老妪中最年迈的一位，一个弯腰驼背，骨瘦如柴，只剩一只黑眼的老女人双手高举。“卡拉喀，多斯雷！”她厉声叫道，意思是：王子骑着马！
　　“他骑着马！”另一个女人应道，“拉克！拉克！拉克哈！”她们齐声宣布：是个男孩，是个男孩，是个强壮的男孩。
　　铃声作响，宛如一阵突如其来的青铜鸟鸣。军号奏出低沉的长音，老妇们开始吟唱。在彩绘皮背心下，她们干瘪的乳房来回晃动，闪着油亮汗光。负责伺候她们的太监把一捆捆干草丢进青铜大火盆，顷刻间散发出浓郁的草香，烟雾向天上的月亮星辰直冲而去。在多斯拉克人眼里，星星就是一群以烈火为躯，声势浩大，奔跑夜空的骏马。
　　当浓烟渐升，吟唱声逐渐变小，年迈的老妪阖上她的独眼，朝未来瞥去。继之而来的是全然的寂静，丹妮听见远处的鸟儿啼叫，火炬嘶嘶噼啪，湖水轻柔拍打。多斯拉克人以漆黑如夜的眼睛看着她，等待预言。
　　卓戈卡奥伸手握住丹妮臂膀，从手指的力道她感觉得出他的紧张。强如卓戈卡奥，在多希卡林透过烟尘占卜未来时也会感到恐惧。身后，她的女仆更是焦躁不安。
　　最后老妪睁开独眼，举起双臂。“我看见了他的脸，听见他蹄声如雷。”她用尖细而颤抖的声音宣布。
　　“他蹄声如雷！”几个老妪同声应道。
　　“他的马迅疾如风，身后的卡拉萨覆盖整片大地，不可胜数，手中的亚拉克弯刀锋利如同芒草。王子将会如暴风般威猛，他的敌人会在他面前颤抖不休，敌人的妻子将悲伤泣血，哀恸欲绝。他发际的铃铛歌颂他的到来，居住在石头营帐的“奶人”惧怕他的名号。”老妇颤抖着望向丹妮，仿佛十分惧怕。“王子骑着马，他将成为骑着世界的骏马！”
　　“骑着世界的骏马！”，人们应声高呼，直到夜晚充溢他们的呼唤。
　　独眼老妪睨向丹妮。“骑着世界的骏马要叫什么名字？”
　　她起身回答。“我们将叫他雷戈。”她说出姬琪事先教她的字。多斯拉克人群中顿时响起震耳欲聋的呐喊，她下意识地伸手护住胸部下方隆起的肚腹。“雷戈，”他们尖叫，“雷戈，雷戈，雷戈！”
　　卓戈卡奥领她离开坑穴时，这名字还在她耳际回荡。他的血盟卫尾随在后。庞大的队伍走上众神大道。那是一条宽广嫩绿，贯穿维斯·多斯拉克心脏，从马门直到圣母山下的道路。队伍前列是多希卡林的老妪，以及侍候她们的太监与奴隶。她们有的拄着长长的雕花拐杖，挣扎摆动着老迈而颤抖的双脚；有的则犹如马王般昂首阔步。这些老妇人一度都是卡丽熙，当她们的丈夫过世，新的卡奥走上骑马战士的前列，而新的卡丽熙与他并肩共骑，她们便被送来这里，负责统理广大的多斯拉克国度。即便势力最大的卡奥，也得服膺多希卡林的智慧和威权。虽然如此，想到有朝一日不论自己情愿与否，都会被送来这里，成为她们一员，丹妮还是不禁打了个冷颤。
　　其他人跟随在女智者之后：奥戈卡奥和他的儿子佛戈卡拉喀，鸠摩卡奥和他的妻妾，卓戈卡拉萨的首脑成员，丹妮的侍女，卡奥的贴身奴仆，以及其他人。节奏庄严的铃铛鼓乐伴随他们走在众神大道上。从早已灭绝的种族手中盗来的英雄和神灵雕像默立于路旁的黑暗之中。奴隶轻快地跑在队伍两旁的草地上，手里擎着火把。摇曳的火焰照映下，雄伟的雕像好像有了生命。
　　“什么意思，名字雷戈？”卓戈卡奥边走边用七国的普通话问。平时他若有空，她便教他几个单字。卓戈一旦专心，学习速度很快，然而他的口音委实太重，十足野蛮人腔调，以致不论乔拉爵士还是韦赛里斯都听不懂。
　　“我的日和星，我哥哥雷加生前是个勇猛的战士，”她告诉他，“我还没出生他就战死了。乔拉爵士说他是真龙的最后传人。”
　　卓戈卡奥低头看她，脸庞如同赤铜面具，但在那被金环拉得低垂的长长黑胡须下，她却隐约瞥见了一抹微笑。“是好名字，丹瑞……里丝妻子，我生命的月亮。”他说。
　　他们骑马经过一座长满芦苇的静湖，湖面平坦如镜，多斯拉克人称其为“世界的子宫”。姬琪告诉她：几千万年以前，世界上第一个人便是从湖深处骑着世界上第一匹马出现的。
　　队伍静候于绿草波荡的岸边，丹妮则脱去身上的脏衣服放在地上，赤身裸体，小心翼翼地探脚入水。伊丽说这湖深不见底，可丹妮一边拨开高大的芦苇，一边却感觉到脚趾间挤压的软泥。月亮漂浮在平静的黑水面，随着她激起的涟漪不断碎裂，又复聚合。寒意爬上她的大腿，亲吻她的下体，她白晰的肌肤上立时起了鸡皮疙瘩。手上和嘴边的马血早已干涸，她伸手捧起圣水，高举自头淋下，在卡奥和众目睽睽之下，涤净自己和体内的胎儿。她听见多希卡林的老妇低声私语，不禁好奇她们在说些什么。
　　待她浑身发抖，滴水淋漓自湖中归返，女仆多莉亚急忙拿起彩绘纱丝袍给她，却被卓戈卡奥挥手赶开。他面带称许地望着她肿胀的胸乳和腹部的浑圆曲线。丹妮看见那条厚重的金章腰带下，他的命根在马皮缝制的裤子里紧紧撑立。她上前为他解开裤带，魁梧的卡奥托住她的臀部，像抱小孩似地将她举到半空，发际的铃铛轻轻作响。
　　丹妮伸手搂住他肩膀，将脸贴紧他的颈项。他插进她的体内，有了三下，一切便化为朦胧。“骑着世界的骏马。”卓戈沙哑地低语。他的手上仍有马血的味道。高潮来临的瞬间，他用力咬了她喉咙一口。等他把她抱开，他的体液充满她的体内，自大腿内侧缓缓流下。这时多莉亚才得以用洒过香水的纱丝袍裹住她，伊丽则为她穿上柔软的拖鞋。
　　卓戈卡奥系好裤带，一声令下，立即有人将马牵来湖边。科霍罗扶卡丽熙骑上银马，卓戈一踢马刺，在月亮和星辰照耀下朝众神大道急驰而去。丹妮驱策银马，从容不迫地跟上。
　　卓戈卡奥宫殿顶端的丝织帷幕，今晚已被卷起，月光追随着他们进入室内。三个石砌火盆里，烈焰高高腾跃，离地十尺。空气中充满烤肉和发酵的凝固马奶味道。他们进门时大厅中已是人声鼎沸，摩肩擦踵。靠垫上坐满了地位较低，没有资格参加仪式的人。丹妮骑马穿过拱门，走上中间凸起的走道，众人的目光都集中在她身上。多斯拉克人对她的肚子和胸乳大发议论，为她体内的小生命喝采。她无法完全听懂他们说的内容，但有一句清晰无比：“骑着世界的骏马”，几千个人异口同声地呼喝。
　　鼓声和号角响彻夜空，低矮的桌上摆满菜肴，盘中的李子、蜜枣和石榴堆得老高，还有大块大块的肉，衣着暴露的女人灵动舞跃、穿梭其间。许多人早已被马奶酒灌得烂醉如泥，然而丹妮知道今晚决不会有流血冲突，因为在圣城里，不论刀械或打斗都被绝对禁止。
　　卓戈卡奥下马，坐上高处的凳子。他们抵达维斯·多斯拉克期间，鸠摩卡奥和奥戈卡奥与其卡拉萨也在城内，因此两人被安排在卓戈左右两侧的荣誉位置。三位卡奥的血盟卫坐在他们下方，再下面坐了鸠摩卡奥的四个太太。
　　丹妮莉丝爬下银马，将缰绳交给一名奴隶。趁着多莉亚和伊丽为她摆放靠垫的空当，她在人群中搜寻哥哥的踪影。即便在人潮拥挤的大厅，白肤、银发，一身破烂的韦赛里斯也很好辨认，可今天她却遍寻不着。
　　她的目光扫过墙边挤满人的餐桌，那些辫子比命根还短的人便是坐在破烂而平板的椅垫上，围绕着低矮的桌子。可她及目所见的每一张脸孔，都是黑眼睛古铜色皮肤。大厅中央，在中间的火盆边，她瞥见了乔拉·莫尔蒙爵士。那个位置虽然算不上地位崇高，但起码受人尊敬。多斯拉克人很敬重骑士的使剑本领。丹妮派姬琪去把他带到自己的桌边。莫尔蒙立刻前来，在她面前单膝跪下。“卡丽熙，”他说，“我听候您差遣。”
　　她拍拍身边填满马皮的靠垫。“坐下来跟我聊聊。”
　　“这是我莫大的荣幸。”骑士盘腿坐上椅垫。一名奴隶到他面前跪下，呈上一个装满成熟无花果的木盘。乔拉爵士拣了一个，咬成两半。
　　“我哥哥上哪儿去了？”丹妮问，“他应该在这里，他应该来参加宴会。”
　　“今天早上我见过陛下，”他告诉她，“他说要去城西市集找葡萄酒。”
　　“葡萄酒？”丹妮满腹怀疑地说。韦赛里斯受不了多斯拉克人惯饮的发酵马奶，这她明白，因此他时常光顾市集买酒喝。最近他更是常和东西两边来的商队混在一起，他似乎宁可与他们为伍，也不愿和她作伴。
　　“没错，”乔拉爵士证实，“他有意从商队守卫里雇些佣兵作为自己的侍卫。”一名女侍在他面前放上一张血馅饼，他双手并用大吃起来。
　　“这样做好吗？”她问，“他没有钱支付薪水，万一有人出卖他怎么办？”商队守卫向来不在乎荣誉，而远在君临的篡夺者又一定会出重金悬赏哥哥的项上人头。“你应该跟去保护他才对。你是他的誓言骑士。”
　　我们身处维斯·多斯拉克，”他提醒她，“这里不许任何人携带武器，也决不允许任何流血事件。”
　　“但依然有人丧命，”她说，“姬琪跟我说，有些商人雇了身强体壮的太监，专门负责用绸带勒死小偷。这样杀人不沾血，便不会激怒天上众神。”
　　“那就祈祷您哥哥有足够的智慧，别顺手牵羊吧。”乔拉爵士用手背抹去嘴角油脂，凑近桌子，“他本来想偷您的龙蛋，可我警告过他：若是敢碰一下，我就砍掉他的手。”
　　有好一会儿丹妮震惊得说不出话。“我的蛋……可那是我的东西，是伊利里欧总督送给我的结婚礼物，韦赛里斯为什么要……不过是几颗石头罢了……”
　　“公主殿下，照您这么说，红宝石、钻石和火蛋白石也不过是石头……而龙蛋不用说希罕得多。为了这几颗石头，跟他喝酒那些商人连命根子都可以不要，有了三颗龙蛋，韦赛里斯雇多少佣兵都不成问题。”
　　丹妮莉丝没想到这层，她根本没想过。“那……这些蛋应该给他才是。他不需要偷，只要跟我说就行了啊。他是我的哥哥……也是我真正的国王。”
　　“他是你的哥哥。”乔拉爵士同意。
　　“爵士先生，您不了解，”她说，“家母生我的时候难产而死，家父和家兄雷加死得更早。若不是有韦赛里斯，我连他们的名字都不知道。现在家里就只剩下他，他是硕果仅存的一个。他是我惟一的亲人。”
　　“那是过去的事，”乔拉爵士道，“如今不一样，卡丽熙。如今您属于多斯拉克人，您肚子里怀的是骑着世界的骏马。”他举起酒杯，奴隶便为他斟满酸味扑鼻，结成块状的发酵马奶。
　　丹妮挥她走开。她光闻到这气味就不舒服，况且她可不想连带把刚才勉强吞下的马肉一古脑吐出来。“那是什么意思？”她问，“这匹骏马代表什么？每个人都对我喊这个名字，但我却不懂。”
　　“孩子，这匹骏马是远古预言中许诺的君王，卡奥中的卡奥。他将统一多斯拉克民族，组成一个庞大的卡拉萨，版图远及世界尽头，世上所有人类都会归他统领，预言中是这么说的。”
　　“噢，”丹妮小声说。她伸手抚平肚子上的长袍。“我给他取名雷戈。”
　　“这名字会教篡夺者浑身发冷。”
　　突然多莉亚扯着她的手肘。“卡丽熙，”女仆焦急地耳语，“您哥哥他……”
　　丹妮放眼朝无顶的长厅彼端望去，果然看见他大跨步朝她走来。从那踉跄的脚步看来，她立时明白韦赛里斯已经找到了他的葡萄酒……以及某种勉强可算是勇气的东西。
　　他穿着鲜红丝衣，上面沾满汗渍和尘土，他的披风和手套本为黑色天鹅绒，如今也因日晒而褪色。他的靴子干裂，银发纠结散乱，腰间斜挂着一柄皮套长剑。他走进来时，多斯拉克人纷纷盯着他的剑，丹妮听见咒骂，威胁和愤怒的话语如涨潮般从四周升起。鼓声凌乱，音乐也渐渐停了下来。
　　她的心中充满恐惧。“快去，”她命令乔拉爵士。“叫住他，带他过来。告诉他如果他想要龙蛋，我就给他。”骑士敏捷地起身。
　　“我家老妹在哪儿啊？”韦赛里斯酒气冲天地喊，“老子来参加她的喜宴啦。你们好大胆子，竟然没等老子就先开动？没有人敢比国王先开动。她在哪儿啊？小贱货躲不了真龙啦。”
　　他在最大的火盆边停下脚步，环顾四周一张张多斯拉克人的脸。大厅里有五千人，但通晓通用语的没几个。即便如此，只消看上一眼，任谁都知道他烂醉如泥。
　　乔拉爵士快步走到他身旁，在他耳边悄悄说了几句，然后伸手去扶他。韦赛里斯猛力挣脱。“把你的手拿开！不经允许，谁也不准触碰真龙。”
　　丹妮不安地瞄了高位一眼。卓戈卡奥正对两旁的卡奥说着什么，鸠摩卡奥听了嘻嘻一乐，奥戈卡奥则是扯开嗓门哈哈大笑。
　　笑声引得韦赛里斯抬眼。“卓戈卡奥，”他粗声道，那口吻总算还有礼貌。“我是来参加晚宴的。”他蹒跚着离开乔拉爵士，准备到高位上与三位卡奥同坐。
　　卓戈卡奥站起来，吐出一串多斯拉克话，快得丹妮听不清楚，然后他指了指。“卓戈卡奥说你的座位不在上面，”乔拉爵士翻译给哥哥听，“卡奥说你的座位在那里。”
　　韦赛里斯瞟了一眼卡奥所指的地方。那是大厅尽头的阴暗角落，好让别人眼不见为净，坐在那里的人地位低得不能再低：从未见血的小男孩，筋骨僵硬、两眼生翳的老人，以及智障和残废。他们远离菜肴，更远离荣耀。“那不是给国王坐的地方。”哥哥高声宣告。
　　“是，”卓戈卡奥用丹妮教他的通用语回答，“给酸腿国王设座。”他猛一击掌。“来人！弄辆马车给拉迦特卡奥坐！”
　　五千名多斯拉克人齐声大笑。乔拉爵士站在韦赛里斯身边，扯开喉咙朝他耳朵大吼，可是大厅里的喊叫震耳欲聋，因此丹妮听不见他说些什么。韦赛里斯吼回去，接着两人扭打成一团，直到莫尔蒙把韦赛里斯整个打倒在地。
　　哥哥拔出了剑。
　　在火光照耀下，剑刃闪着一道令人畏惧的红光。“滚远点！”韦赛里斯嘶声道。乔拉爵士向后退开，哥哥踉跄地爬起来，持剑在头上挥舞。那把剑是伊利里欧总督为了让他有个国王的样子，特别借给他的。四面八方的多斯拉克人都在朝他嘶吼，尖叫着恶毒的诅咒。
　　丹妮发出一声无言的惊叫。哥哥或许不知在这里拔剑会有何后果，但她太清楚了。
　　听到她的声音，韦赛里斯转过头，这才终于看见她。“原来她在这儿。”他微笑着说。他朝她步步进逼，胡乱挥舞宝剑，仿佛要在乱军中杀出重围，然而无人阻挡他的来路。
　　“你的剑……你真的不可以这样，”她哀求他，“求求你，韦赛里斯。这是被禁止的。把剑收起来，跟我一起坐吧。这里吃的喝的都有……你想要龙蛋吗？我可以给你，但请你先把剑扔下。”
　　“笨蛋，快照她的话做，”乔拉爵士吼道，“不然你会把我们通通害死。”
　　韦赛里斯朗声大笑。“他们奈何不了我们。他们不能在圣城里流血……但我能。”他将剑尖指着丹妮莉丝双乳之间，缓缓下滑，顺着隆起肚腹的曲线。“我只要属于我的东西，”他告诉她，“我只要他答应我的那顶王冠。他买了你，却没有付钱。叫他遵守约定，否则我就要收回你和龙蛋。他可以留下他的种，我会把那野种割下来给他。”剑尖刺穿丝衣，轻戳她的肚脐。她发现韦赛里斯正在啜泣，眼前这个曾是她哥哥的人，此刻又哭又笑。
　　似乎是很遥远的地方，女仆姬琪也在惧怕地啜泣，哭着说她不敢翻译，因为卡奥会把她绑在坐骑后一路拖上圣母山。她伸手抱住女孩。“别怕，”她说，“让我来告诉他。”
　　她不知自己了解的词汇是否足够，但当她讲完，卓戈卡奥用多斯拉克话说了几个粗鲁的句子，她便知道他是听懂了。她生命中的太阳从高位上走下来。“他说什么？”那曾是她哥哥的人皱眉问。
　　大厅一片寂然，只听卓戈卡奥发际的铃铛随着脚步轻声作响。他的血盟卫尾随在后，仿如三个古铜色的影子。丹妮莉丝浑身发冷。“他说你将会拥有一顶精美绝伦，任谁看了都会颤抖的黄金王冠。”
　　韦赛里斯微笑着放下剑。将来最教她伤心，最让她撕心裂肺的一件事……就是他微笑的模样。“我要的就只是这个，”他说，“他答应要给我的。”
　　当她生命中的太阳走到她身边时，丹妮伸手搂住他的腰。卡奥说了一个字，他的血盟卫立即飞扑上前。柯索抓住那个曾是她哥哥的人的双手，哈戈巨掌一拧，利落地折断了他的手腕。科霍罗从他垂软无力的手中夺下剑来。即便到了此时，韦赛里斯依旧不明白。“不行，”他叫道，“你们不准碰我，我是真龙，真龙，我要我的王冠！”
　　卓戈卡奥解开腰带。带子完全由雕饰华丽的纯金勋章构成，每个勋章都大如男人手掌。他吼出一个命令，负责烹饪的奴隶立刻从火炉上拉出一个沉重的铁锅，将里面的热汤倒在地上，再将锅子放回炉里。卓戈把腰带抛进锅中，面无表情地看着奖章烧得通红，渐渐失去原有的形状。在他黑如玛瑙的眼瞳里，她见到跃动的火苗。一个奴隶递上一双厚实的马毛手套，他静静地戴上，看都没看那人一眼。
　　韦赛里斯这时才像个即将面对死亡的懦夫一般，开始了高亢的无言惨叫。他又踢又扭，像狗一样呜咽，像小孩似地啼哭，但几个多斯拉克人牢牢地把他抓住。乔拉爵士走到丹妮身边，伸手按住她的肩膀。“公主殿下，请您转过头，我求求您。”
　　“不。”她双手抱住隆起的肚腹，下意识地保护受威胁的孩子。
　　最后，韦赛里斯望向她。“妹妹，请你……丹妮，告诉他们……让他们……好妹妹……”
　　当黄金融化了一半，正开始沸腾时，卓戈伸手到烈焰中抓起锅子。“王冠！”他咆哮道，“来，给马车国王戴的王冠！”说完便朝那个曾是她哥哥的人当头浇下。
　　那顶狰狞的铁盔遮盖住韦赛里斯·坦格利安的脸庞时，他所发出的声音，只能以惨绝人寰来形容。他的双脚在泥地上狂乱地蹬了几下，渐缓，终止。半液态的金块滴落他的胸膛，鲜红的丝衣嘶嘶冒烟……但他没有流出一滴血。
　　他不是真龙，丹妮暗想，思绪意外地平静，真龙不怕火。

[ 此帖被挽墨在2015-09-01 00:31重新编辑 ]
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47.EDDARD
   He was walking through the crypts beneath Winterfell, as he he had walked a thousand times before. The Kings of Winter watched him pass with eyes of ice, and the direwolves at their feet turned their great stone heads and snarled. Last of all, he came to the tomb where his father slept, with Brandon and Lyanna beside him. “Promise me, Ned,” Lyanna’s statue whispered. She wore a garland of pale blue roses, and her eyes wept blood.
   Eddard Stark jerked upright, his heart racing, the blankets tangled around him. The room was black as pitch, and someone was hammering on the door. “Lord Eddard,” a voice called loudly.
   “A moment.” Groggy and naked, he stumbled his way across the darkened chamber. When he opened the door, he found Tomard with an upraised fist, and Cayn with a taper in hand. Between them stood the king’s own steward.
   The man’s face might have been carved of stone, so little did it show. “My lord Hand,” he intoned. “His Grace the King commands your presence. At once.”
   So Robert had returned from his hunt. It was long past time. “I shall need a few moments to dress.” Ned left the man waiting without. Cayn helped him with his clothes; white linen tunic and grey cloak, trousers cut open down his plaster-sheathed leg, his badge of office, and last of all a belt of heavy silver links. He sheathed the Valyrian dagger at his waist.
   The Red Keep was dark and still as Cayn and Tomard escorted him across the inner bailey. The moon hung low over the walls, ripening toward full. On the ramparts, a guardsman in a gold cloak walked his rounds.
   The royal apartments were in Maegor’s Holdfast, a massive square fortress that nestled in the heart of the Red Keep behind walls twelve feet thick and a dry moat lined with iron spikes, a castle-within-a-castle. Ser Boros Blount guarded the far end of the bridge, white steel armor ghostly in the moonlight. Within, Ned passed two other knights of the Kingsguard; Ser Preston Greenfield stood at the bottom of the steps, and Ser Barristan Selmy waited at the door of the king’s bedchamber. Three men in white cloaks, he thought, remembering, and a strange chill went through him. Ser Barristan’s face was as pale as his armor. Ned had only to look at him to know that something was dreadfully wrong. The royal steward opened the door. “Lord Eddard Stark, the Hand of the King,” he announced.
   “Bring him here,” Robert’s voice called, strangely thick.
   Fires blazed in the twin hearths at either end of the bedchamber, filling the room with a sullen red glare. The heat within was suffocating. Robert lay across the canopied bed. At the bedside hovered Grand Maester Pycelle, while Lord Renly paced restlessly before the shuttered windows. Servants moved back and forth, feeding logs to the fire and boiling wine. Cersei Lannister sat on the edge of the bed beside her husband. Her hair was tousled, as if from sleep, but there was nothing sleepy in her eyes. They followed Ned as Tomard and Cayn helped him cross the room. He seemed to move very slowly, as if he were still dreaming.
   The king still wore his boots. Ned could see dried mud and blades of grass clinging to the leather where Robert’s feet stuck out beneath the blanket that covered him, A green doublet lay on the floor, slashed open and discarded, the cloth crusted with red-brown stains. The room smelled of smoke and blood and death.
   “Ned,” the king whispered when he saw him. His face was pale as milk. “Come?.?.?.?closer.”
   His men brought him close. Ned steadied himself with a hand on the bedpost. He had only to look down at Robert to know how bad it was. “What?.?.?.??” he began, his throat clenched.
   “A boar.” Lord Renly was still in his hunting greens, his cloak spattered with blood.
   “A devil,” the king husked. “My own fault. Too much wine, damn me to hell. Missed my thrust.”
   “And where were the rest of you?” Ned demanded of Lord Renly. “Where was Ser Barristan and the Kingsguard?”
   Renly’s mouth twitched. “My brother commanded us to stand aside and let him take the boar alone.”
   Eddard Stark lifted the blanket.
   They had done what they could to close him up, but it was nowhere near enough. The boar must have been a fearsome thing. It had ripped the king from groin to nipple with its tusks. The wine-soaked bandages that Grand Maester Pycelle had applied were already black with blood, and the smell off the wound was hideous. Ned’s stomach turned. He let the blanket fall.
   “Stinks,” Robert said. “The stink of death, don’t think I can’t smell it. Bastard did me good, eh? But I?.?.?.?I paid him back in kind, Ned.” The king’s smile was as terrible as his wound, his teeth red. “Drove a knife right through his eye. Ask them if I didn’t. Ask them.”
   “Truly,” Lord Renly murmured. “We brought the carcass back with us, at my brother’s command.”
   “For the feast,” Robert whispered. “Now leave us. The lot of you. I need to speak with Ned.”
   “Robert, my sweet lord?.?.?.?” Cersei began.
   “I said leave,” Robert insisted with a hint of his old fierceness. “What part of that don’t you understand, woman?”
   Cersei gathered up her skirts and her dignity and led the way to the door. Lord Renly and the others followed. Grand Maester Pycelle lingered, his hands shaking as he offered the king a cup of thick white liquid. “The milk of the poppy, Your Grace,” he said. “Drink. For your pain.”
   Robert knocked the cup away with the back of his hand. “Away with you. I’ll sleep soon enough, old fool. Get out.”
   Grand Maester Pycelle gave Ned a stricken look as he shuffled from the room.
   “Damn you, Robert,” Ned said when they were alone. His leg was throbbing so badly he was almost blind with pain. Or perhaps it was grief that fogged his eyes. He lowered himself to the bed, beside his friend. “Why do you always have to be so headstrong?”
   “Ah, fuck you, Ned,” the king said hoarsely. “I killed the bastard, didn’t I?” A lock of matted black hair fell across his eyes as he glared up at Ned. “Ought to do the same for you. Can’t leave a man to hunt in peace. Ser Robar found me. Gregor’s head. Ugly thought. Never told the Hound. Let Cersei surprise him.” His laugh turned into a grunt as a spasm of pain hit him. “Gods have mercy,” he muttered, swallowing his agony. “The girl. Daenerys. Only a child, you were right?.?.?.?that’s why, the girl?.?.?.?the gods sent the boar?.?.?.?sent to punish me . . .” The king coughed, bringing up blood. “Wrong, it was wrong, I?.?.?.?only a girl?.?.?.?Varys, Littlefinger, even my brother?.?.?.?worthless?.?.?.?no one to tell me no but you, Ned . . . only you?.?.?.?” He lifted his hand, the gesture pained and feeble. “Paper and ink. There, on the table. Write what I tell you.”
   Ned smoothed the paper out across his knee and took up the quill. “At your command, Your Grace.”
   “This is the will and word of Robert of House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and all the rest, put in the damn titles, you know how it goes. I do hereby command Eddard of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Hand of the King, to serve as Lord Regent and Protector of the Realm upon my?.?.?.?upon my death?.?.?.?to rule in my?.?.?.?in my stead, until my son Joffrey does come of age?.?.?.?”
   “Robert?.?.?.?” Joffrey is not your son, he wanted to say, but the words would not come. The agony was written too plainly across Robert’s face; he could not hurt him more. So Ned bent his head and wrote, but where the king had said “my son Joffrey,” he scrawled “my heir” instead. The deceit made him feel soiled. The lies we tell for love, he thought. May the gods forgive me. “What else would you have me say?”
   “Say?.?.?.?whatever you need to. Protect and defend, gods old and new, you have the words. Write. I’ll sign it. You give it to the council when I’m dead.”
   “Robert,” Ned said in a voice thick with grief, “you must not do this. Don’t die on me. The realm needs you.”
   Robert took his hand, fingers squeezing hard. “You are?.?.?.?such a bad liar, Ned Stark,” he said through his pain. “The realm?.?.?.?the realm knows?.?.?.?what a wretched king I’ve been. Bad as Aerys, the gods spare me.”
   “No,” Ned told his dying friend, “not so bad as Aerys, Your Grace. Not near so bad as Aerys.”
   Robert managed a weak red smile. “At the least, they will say?.?.?.?this last thing?.?.?.?this I did right. You won’t fail me. You’ll rule now. You’ll hate it, worse than I did?.?.?.?but you’ll do well. Are you done with the scribbling?”
   “Yes, Your Grace.” Ned offered Robert the paper. The king scrawled his signature blindly, leaving a smear of blood across the letter. “The seal should be witnessed.”
   “Serve the boar at my funeral feast,” Robert rasped. “Apple in its mouth, skin seared crisp. Eat the bastard. Don’t care if you choke on him. Promise me, Ned.”
   “I promise.” Promise me, Ned, Lyanna’s voice echoed.
   “The girl,” the king said. “Daenerys. Let her live. If you can, if it?.?.?.?not too late?.?.?.?talk to them?.?.?.?Varys, Littlefinger?.?.?.?don’t let them kill her. And help my son, Ned. Make him be?.?.?.?better than me.” He winced. “Gods have mercy.”
   “They will, my friend,” Ned said. “They will.”
   The king closed his eyes and seemed to relax. “Killed by a pig,” he muttered. “Ought to laugh, but it hurts too much.”
   Ned was not laughing. “Shall I call them back?”
   Robert gave a weak nod. “As you will. Gods, why is it so cold in here?”
   The servants rushed back in and hurried to feed the fires. The queen had gone; that was some small relief, at least. If she had any sense, Cersei would take her children and fly before the break of day, Ned thought. She had lingered too long already.
   King Robert did not seem to miss her. He bid his brother Renly and Grand Maester Pycelle to stand in witness as he pressed his seal into the hot yellow wax that Ned had dripped upon his letter. “Now give me something for the pain and let me die.”
   Hurriedly Grand Maester Pycelle mixed him another draught of the milk of the poppy. This time the king drank deeply. His black beard was beaded with thick white droplets when he threw the empty cup aside. “Will I dream?”
   Ned gave him his answer. “You will, my lord.”
   “Good,” he said, smiling. “I will give Lyanna your love, Ned. Take care of my children for me.”
   The words twisted in Ned’s belly like a knife. For a moment he was at a loss. He could not bring himself to lie. Then he remembered the bastards: little Barra at her mother’s breast, Mya in the Vale, Gendry at his forge, and all the others. “I shall?.?.?.?guard your children as if they were my own,” he said slowly.
   Robert nodded and closed his eyes. Ned watched his old friend sag softly into the pillows as the milk of the poppy washed the pain from his face. Sleep took him.
   Heavy chains jangled softly as Grand Maester Pycelle came up to Ned. “I will do all in my power, my lord, but the wound has mortified. It took them two days to get him back. By the time I saw him, it was too late. I can lessen His Grace’s suffering, but only the gods can heal him now.”
   “How long?” Ned asked.
   “By rights, he should be dead already. I have never seen a man cling to life so fiercely.”
   “My brother was always strong,” Lord Renly said. “Not wise, perhaps, but strong.” In the sweltering heat of the bedchamber, his brow was slick with sweat. He might have been Robert’s ghost as he stood there, young and dark and handsome. “He slew the boar. His entrails were sliding from his belly, yet somehow he slew the boar.” His voice was full of wonder.
   “Robert was never a man to leave the battleground so long as a foe remained standing,” Ned told him.
   Outside the door, Ser Barristan Selmy still guarded the tower stairs. “Maester Pycelle has given Robert the milk of the poppy,” Ned told him. “See that no one disturbs his rest without leave from me.”
   “It shall be as you command, my lord.” Ser Barristan seemed old beyond his years. “I have failed my sacred trust.”
   “Even the truest knight cannot protect a king against himself,” Ned said. “Robert loved to hunt boar. I have seen him take a thousand of them.” He would stand his ground without flinching, his legs braced, the great spear in his hands, and as often as not he would curse the boar as it charged, and wait until the last possible second, until it was almost on him, before he killed it with a single sure and savage thrust. “No one could know this one would be his death.”
   “You are kind to say so, Lord Eddard.”
   “The king himself said as much. He blamed the wine.”
   The white-haired knight gave a weary nod. “His Grace was reeling in his saddle by the time we flushed the boar from his lair, yet he commanded us all to stand aside.”
   “I wonder, Ser Barristan,” asked Varys, so quietly, “who gave the king this wine?”
   Ned had not heard the eunuch approach, but when he looked around, there he stood. He wore a black velvet robe that brushed the floor, and his face was freshly powdered.
   “The wine was from the king’s own skin,” Ser Barristan said.
   “Only one skin? Hunting is such thirsty work.”
   “I did not keep count. More than one, for a certainty. His squire would fetch him a fresh skin whenever he required it.”
   “Such a dutiful boy,” said Varys, “to make certain His Grace did not lack for refreshment.”
   Ned had a bitter taste in his mouth. He recalled the two fair-haired boys Robert had sent chasing after a breastplate stretcher. The king had told everyone the tale that night at the feast, laughing until he shook. “Which squire?”
   “The elder,” said Ser Barristan. “Lancel.”
   “I know the lad well,” said Varys. “A stalwart boy, Ser Kevan Lannister’s son, nephew to Lord Tywin and cousin to the queen. I hope the dear sweet lad does not blame himself. Children are so vulnerable in the innocence of their youth, how well do I remember.”
   Certainly Varys had once been young. Ned doubted that he had ever been innocent. “You mention children. Robert had a change of heart concerning Daenerys Targaryen. Whatever arrangements you made, I want unmade. At once.”
   “Alas,” said Varys. “At once may be too late. I fear those birds have flown. But I shall do what I can, my lord. With your leave.” He bowed and vanished down the steps, his soft-soled slippers whispering against the stone as he made his descent.
   Cayn and Tomard were helping Ned across the bridge when Lord Renly emerged from Maegor’s Holdfast. “Lord Eddard,” he called after Ned, “a moment, if you would be so kind.”
   Ned stopped. “As you wish.”
   Renly walked to his side. “Send your men away.” They met in the center of the bridge, the dry moat beneath them. Moonlight silvered the cruel edges of the spikes that lined its bed.
   Ned gestured. Tomard and Cayn bowed their heads and backed away respectfully. Lord Renly glanced warily at Ser Boros on the far end of the span, at Ser Preston in the doorway behind them. “That letter.” He leaned close. “Was it the regency? Has my brother named you Protector?” He did not wait for a reply. “My lord, I have thirty men in my personal guard, and other friends beside, knights and lords. Give me an hour, and I can put a hundred swords in your hand.”
   “And what should I do with a hundred swords, my lord?”
   “Strike! Now, while the castle sleeps.” Renly looked back at Ser Boros again and dropped his voice to an urgent whisper. “We must get Joffrey away from his mother and take him in hand. Protector or no, the man who holds the king holds the kingdom. We should seize Myrcella and Tommen as well. Once we have her children, Cersei will not dare oppose us. The council will confirm you as Lord Protector and make Joffrey your ward.”
   Ned regarded him coldly. “Robert is not dead yet. The gods may spare him. If not, I shall convene the council to hear his final words and consider the matter of the succession, but I will not dishonor his last hours on earth by shedding blood in his halls and dragging frightened children from their beds.”
   Lord Renly took a step back, taut as a bowstring. “Every moment you delay gives Cersei another moment to prepare. By the time Robert dies, it may be too late?.?.?.?for both of us.”
   “Then we should pray that Robert does not die.”
   “Small chance of that,” said Renly.
   “Sometimes the gods are merciful.”
   “The Lannisters are not.” Lord Renly turned away and went back across the moat, to the tower where his brother lay dying.
   By the time Ned returned to his chambers, he felt weary and heartsick, yet there was no question of his going back to sleep, not now. When you play the game of thrones, you win or you die, Cersei Lannister had told him in the godswood. He found himself wondering if he had done the right thing by refusing Lord Renly’s offer. He had no taste for these intrigues, and there was no honor in threatening children, and yet?.?.?.?if Cersei elected to fight rather than flee, he might well have need of Renly’s hundred swords, and more besides.
   “I want Littlefinger,” he told Cayn. “If he’s not in his chambers, take as many men as you need and search every winesink and whorehouse in King’s Landing until you find him. Bring him to me before break of day.” Cayn bowed and took his leave, and Ned turned to Tomard. “The Wind Witch sails on the evening tide. Have you chosen the escort?”
   “Ten men, with Porther in command.”
   “Twenty, and you will command,” Ned said. Porther was a brave man, but headstrong. He wanted someone more solid and sensible to keep watch over his daughters.
   “As you wish, m’lord,” Tom said. “Can’t say I’ll be sad to see the back of this place. I miss the wife.”
   “You will pass near Dragonstone when you turn north. I need you to deliver a letter for me.”
   Tom looked apprehensive. “To Dragonstone, m’lord?” The island fortress of House Targaryen had a sinister repute.
   “Tell Captain Qos to hoist my banner as soon as he comes in sight of the island. They may be wary of unexpected visitors. If he is reluctant, offer him whatever it takes. I will give you a letter to place into the hand of Lord Stannis Baratheon. No one else. Not his steward, nor the captain of his guard, nor his lady wife, but only Lord Stannis himself.”
   “As you command, m’lord.”
   When Tomard had left him, Lord Eddard Stark sat staring at the flame of the candle that burned beside him on the table. For a moment his grief overwhelmed him. He wanted nothing so much as to seek out the godswood, to kneel before the heart tree and pray for the life of Robert Baratheon, who had been more than a brother to him. Men would whisper afterward that Eddard Stark had betrayed his king’s friendship and disinherited his sons; he could only hope that the gods would know better, and that Robert would learn the truth of it in the land beyond the grave.
   Ned took out the king’s last letter. A roll of crisp white parchment sealed with golden wax, a few short words and a smear of blood. How small the difference between victory and defeat, between life and death.
   He drew out a fresh sheet of paper and dipped his quill in the inkpot. To His Grace, Stannis of the House Baratheon, he wrote. By the time you receive this letter, your brother Robert, our King these past fifteen years, will be dead. He was savaged by a boar whilst hunting in the kingswood?.?.?.?
   The letters seemed to writhe and twist on the paper as his hand trailed to a stop. Lord Tywin and Ser Jaime were not men to suffer disgrace meekly; they would fight rather than flee. No doubt Lord Stannis was wary, after the murder of Jon Arryn, but it was imperative that he sail for King’s Landing at once with all his power, before the Lannisters could march.
   Ned chose each word with care. When he was done, he signed the letter Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Hand of the King, and Protector of the Realm, blotted the paper, folded it twice, and melted the sealing wax over the candle flame.
   His regency would be a short one, he reflected as the wax softened. The new king would choose his own Hand. Ned would be free to go home. The thought of Winterfell brought a wan smile to his face. He wanted to hear Bran’s laughter once more, to go hawking with Robb, to watch Rickon at play. He wanted to drift off to a dreamless sleep in his own bed with his arms wrapped tight around his lady, Catelyn.
   Cayn returned as he was pressing the direwolf seal down into the soft white wax. Desmond was with him, and between them Littlefinger. Ned thanked his guards and sent them away.
   Lord Petyr was clad in a blue velvet tunic with puffed sleeves, his silvery cape patterned with mockingbirds. “I suppose congratulations are in order,” he said as he seated himself.
   Ned scowled. “The king lies wounded and near to death.”
   “I know,” Littlefinger said. “I also know that Robert has named you Protector of the Realm.”
   Ned’s eyes flicked to the king’s letter on the table beside him, its seal unbroken. “And how is it you know that, my lord?”
   “Varys hinted as much,” Littlefinger said, “and you have just confirmed it.”
   Ned’s mouth twisted in anger. “Damn Varys and his little birds. Catelyn spoke truly, the man has some black art. I do not trust him.”
   “Excellent. You’re learning.” Littlefinger leaned forward. “Yet I’ll wager you did not drag me here in the black of night to discuss the eunuch.”
   “No,” Ned admitted. “I know the secret Jon Arryn was murdered to protect. Robert will leave no trueborn son behind him. Joffrey and Tommen are Jaime Lannister’s bastards, born of his incestuous union with the queen.”
   Littlefinger lifted an eyebrow. “Shocking,” he said in a tone that suggested he was not shocked at all. “The girl as well? No doubt. So when the king dies?.?.?.?”
   “The throne by rights passes to Lord Stannis, the elder of Robert’s two brothers.”
   Lord Petyr stroked his pointed beard as he considered the matter. “So it would seem. Unless?.?.?.?”
   “Unless, my lord? There is no seeming to this. Stannis is the heir. Nothing can change that.”
   “Stannis cannot take the throne without your help. If you’re wise, you’ll make certain Joffrey succeeds.”
   Ned gave him a stony stare. “Have you no shred of honor?”
   “Oh, a shred, surely,” Littlefinger replied negligently. “Hear me out. Stannis is no friend of yours, nor of mine. Even his brothers can scarcely stomach him. The man is iron, hard and unyielding. He’ll give us a new Hand and a new council, for a certainty. No doubt he’ll thank you for handing him the crown, but he won’t love you for it. And his ascent will mean war. Stannis cannot rest easy on the throne until Cersei and her bastards are dead. Do you think Lord Tywin will sit idly while his daughter’s head is measured for a spike? Casterly Rock will rise, and not alone. Robert found it in him to pardon men who served King Aerys, so long as they did him fealty. Stannis is less forgiving. He will not have forgotten the siege of Storm’s End, and the Lords Tyrell and Redwyne dare not. Every man who fought beneath the dragon banner or rose with Balon Greyjoy will have good cause to fear. Seat Stannis on the Iron Throne and I promise you, the realm will bleed.
   “Now look at the other side of the coin. Joffrey is but twelve, and Robert gave you the regency, my lord. You are the Hand of the King and Protector of the Realm. The power is yours, Lord Stark. All you need do is reach out and take it. Make your peace with the Lannisters. Release the Imp. Wed Joffrey to your Sansa. Wed your younger girl to Prince Tommen, and your heir to Myrcella. It will be four years before Joffrey comes of age. By then he will look to you as a second father, and if not, well?.?.?.?four years is a good long while, my lord. Long enough to dispose of Lord Stannis. Then, should Joffrey prove troublesome, we can reveal his little secret and put Lord Renly on the throne.”
   “We?” Ned repeated.
   Littlefinger gave a shrug. “You’ll need someone to share your burdens. I assure you, my price would be modest.”
   “Your price.” Ned’s voice was ice. “Lord Baelish, what you suggest is treason.”
   “Only if we lose.”
   “You forget,” Ned told him. “You forget Jon Arryn. You forget Jory Cassel. And you forget this.” He drew the dagger and laid it on the table between them; a length of dragonbone and Valyrian steel, as sharp as the difference between right and wrong, between true and false, between life and death. “They sent a man to cut my son’s throat, Lord Baelish.”
   Littlefinger sighed. “I fear I did forget, my lord. Pray forgive me. For a moment I did not remember that I was talking to a Stark.” His mouth quirked. “So it will be Stannis, and war?”
   “It is not a choice. Stannis is the heir.”
   “Far be it from me to dispute the Lord Protector. What would you have of me, then? Not my wisdom, for a certainty.”
   “I shall do my best to forget your?.?.?.?wisdom,” Ned said with distaste. “I called you here to ask for the help you promised Catelyn. This is a perilous hour for all of us. Robert has named me Protector, true enough, but in the eyes of the world, Joffrey is still his son and heir. The queen has a dozen knights and a hundred men-at-arms who will do whatever she commands ?.?.?.?enough to overwhelm what remains of my own household guard. And for all I know, her brother Jaime may be riding for King’s Landing even as we speak, with a Lannister host at his back.”
   “And you without an army.” Littlefinger toyed with the dagger on the table, turning it slowly with a finger. “There is small love lost between Lord Renly and the Lannisters. Bronze Yohn Royce, Ser Balon Swann, Ser Loras, Lady Tanda, the Redwyne twins?.?.?.?each of them has a retinue of knights and sworn swords here at court.”
   “Renly has thirty men in his personal guard, the rest even fewer. It is not enough, even if I could be certain that all of them will choose to give me their allegiance. I must have the gold cloaks. The City Watch is two thousand strong, sworn to defend the castle, the city, and the king’s peace.”
   “Ah, but when the queen proclaims one king and the Hand another, whose peace do they protect?” Lord Petyr flicked at the dagger with his finger, setting it spinning in place. Round and round it went, wobbling as it turned. When at last it slowed to a stop, the blade pointed at Littlefinger. “Why, there’s your answer,” he said, smiling. “They follow the man who pays them.” He leaned back and looked Ned full in the face, his grey-green eyes bright with mockery. “You wear your honor like a suit of armor, Stark. You think it keeps you safe, but all it does is weigh you down and make it hard for you to move. Look at you now. You know why you summoned me here. You know what you want to ask me to do. You know it has to be done?.?.?.?but it’s not honorable, so the words stick in your throat.”
   Ned’s neck was rigid with tension. For a moment he was so angry that he did not trust himself to speak.
   Littlefinger laughed. “I ought to make you say it, but that would be cruel?.?.?.?so have no fear, my good lord. For the sake of the love I bear for Catelyn, I will go to Janos Slynt this very hour and make certain that the City Watch is yours. Six thousand gold pieces should do it. A third for the Commander, a third for the officers, a third for the men. We might be able to buy them for half that much, but I prefer not to take chances.” Smiling, he plucked up the dagger and offered it to Ned, hilt first.



Ⅰ 权力的游戏 Chapter48 艾德
　　他穿过临冬城底的墓窖，如同之前几千次一样。凛冬国度的王者用冰冷的眼光看着他经过，脚边的冰原狼扭过石砌的狼头向他嘶吼。最后，他来到父亲长眠之处，在他身旁是布兰登和莱安娜。“奈德，答应我。”莱安娜的雕像轻声说。她头戴碧蓝玫瑰织成的花环，双眼泣血。
　　艾德·史塔克惊坐而起，心脏狂跳，毛毯纠结。房间漆黑一片，敲门声大作。“艾德大人。”有人高叫。
　　“等一等。”他身子虚弱，躯体赤裸，跌跌撞撞穿过黑暗的房间。打开门，他看到正举拳敲门的托马德，以及手握烛台的凯恩。两人之间是国王的御前总管。
　　那人面无表情，几乎像是石雕。“首相大人，”他语气平板地说，“国王陛下宣您立刻觐见。”
　　这么说劳勃已经打猎归来，也早该是时候了。“给我几分钟换衣服。”奈德让总管等在门外。凯恩服侍他更衣，他穿上白色亚麻布外衣和灰色披风，裤子已经裁短，方便打上石膏的断腿。他扣上首相徽章，以及一条沉重的银链腰带，最后将那把瓦雷利亚匕首系在腰间。
　　红堡黑暗而寂静。当凯恩和托马德护送他穿过内城时，由缺转圆的月亮已经低悬高墙。壁垒上，一名金色披风的守卫正来回巡视。
　　王家居室位于梅葛楼，那是一座巨大的方形要塞，深藏在红堡的中心地带，由十二尺厚的围墙以及干涸但插满尖刺的护城河团团包围。这是座城中之城。柏洛斯·布劳恩爵士把守在吊桥彼端，白色精钢铠甲在月光下寒气森森。进楼之后，奈德又经过两名御林铁卫，普列斯顿·格林菲尔爵士站在楼梯口，巴利斯坦。赛尔弥爵士守在国王寝室门外。三个雪白披风的骑士，他忆起过去，一阵诡异的寒意袭上心头。巴利斯坦爵士的脸和他的盔甲一样苍白。奈德只需看他一眼，便知大事不妙。王家总管打开门，“艾德·史塔克公爵大人，国王之手。”他高声宣布。
　　“带他进来。”劳勃喊道，声音出奇地混浊。
　　卧室两端对称位置的壁炉里火烧得炽热，让房间充满一种阴沉的红色亮光。屋内的热度高得令人窒息，劳勃躺在挂着幔帐的床上，派席尔国师随侍在旁，蓝礼公爵则焦躁地在紧闭的窗前踱步。仆人来来去去，或增添柴火，或煮热葡萄酒。瑟曦·兰尼斯特坐在床边，靠近她的丈夫。她头发散乱，似乎刚从睡梦中醒来，但那双眼中却毫无睡意。托马德和凯恩扶着奈德穿过房间时，那双眼睛便直直地盯着他看。他移动的速度非常缓慢，仿佛置身梦境。
　　劳勃双脚伸在毛毯外，还套着靴子，奈德看见皮革上沾满泥土和干草。一件绿色外衣扔在地上，上面有割开后弃置的痕迹，以及褐红的污垢。房间弥漫着烟尘与血腥，还有死亡的气息。
　　“奈德，”国王看见他的脸，便小声说。他的脸色苍白一如牛奶。“靠……近一点。”
　　奈德的侍卫扶他上前。他一手撑着床柱，稳住身子。他只需低头看劳勃一眼，便知伤势有多严重。“是什么……？”他开口欲问，喉咙却仿佛被钳子夹住。
　　“是一只野猪。”蓝礼公爵仍穿着绿色猎装，斗篷上全是血。
　　“一头该死的恶魔。”国王嘶声道，“我自己失误。酒喝多了，结果没射中，我活该下地狱。”
　　“你们都在干什么？”奈德质问蓝礼公爵，“巴利斯坦爵士和御林铁卫都跑哪儿去了？”
　　蓝礼撇撇嘴。“我哥哥他命令我们站一边儿去，好让他单独对付那只野猪。”
　　艾德·史塔克揭开毛毯。
　　他们已经竭尽所能为他缝合，但效果依旧不明显。那野猪一定是头可怕的家伙，它用两根长牙把国王从下体一直撕裂到胸部。派席尔国师用来包扎的浸酒纱布已经染满鲜血，散发的气味更是骇人。奈德的胃一阵翻搅。他松开毛毯。
　　“臭死了，”劳勃道，“这就是死亡的臭气，别以为我闻不出来。这回我可被整惨了，对吧？不过我……我也没让它好过，奈德。”国王的笑容与伤口同样惊人，他的牙齿一片血红。“我一刀捅烂了它眼睛。你问问他们是不是真的……问哪！”
　　“是的，”蓝礼公爵喃喃道，“照我哥哥的吩咐，我们把尸体带了回来。”
　　“带回来准备晚宴。”劳勃轻声说，“让我们独处一下。你们都退下，我要跟奈德谈谈。”
　　“劳勃，亲爱的……”瑟曦开口。
　　“我说过了，给我退下。”劳勃的坚持里有几分他昔日的刚毅。“你是哪个字听不懂啊，臭女人？”
　　瑟曦拢起她的裙子和自尊，领头走向房门。蓝礼公爵和其他人跟在后面。派席尔大学士留了下来，双手颤抖着把一杯浓浊的白色液体递给国王。“陛下，这是罂粟花奶，”他说，“请喝下去，给您止痛。”
　　劳勃用手背挥开杯子。“快滚，老不死，我再过不久就要一睡不醒了。滚出去。”
　　派席尔国师给了奈德一个受伤的眼神，拖着脚离开了。
　　“劳勃，你该死的，”只剩他们两人后，奈德开口说。他的腿痛得让他几乎睁不开眼。也或许是悲痛模糊了他的视线。他坐到床边，坐在他的朋友身旁。“你非得这么鲁莽不可？”
　　“啊，操你，奈德，”国王粗声道，“我好歹宰了那王八蛋，对不？”一撮蒙尘的黑发落下来遮住他的眼，他抬头瞪着奈德。“我该把你也宰了才对，连打猎都不肯让人安安静静地打。罗拔爵士找到我啦。说什么要砍格雷果的头。想来就不舒服。我没对猎狗讲。让瑟曦去吓吓他罢。”他笑到一半，突然一阵剧痛袭身，便转为闷哼。“诸神慈悲，”他喃喃念道，疼痛地喘气。“那女孩。丹妮莉丝。她只是个孩子，你说得没错……这就是为什么，那女孩……天上诸神派这头野猪……派来惩罚我……”国王咳出一滩鲜血。“错了，我做错了，我……她只是个女孩……瓦里斯，小指头，连我弟弟……废物……奈德，除了你之外，没有人敢对我说一个不……只有你……”他在极度疼痛的状态下，虚弱地举起手。“拿纸笔来。就在那边桌上。把我说的写下来。”
　　奈德把纸摊平在膝盖上，拿起羽毛笔。“陛下，请您指示。”
　　“以下为拜拉席恩家族的劳勃一世，安达尔人和其他人的——把他妈的那些鬼头衔通通放进去，你知道是哪些——的遗嘱。余在此任命临冬城公爵，国王之手，史塔克家族的艾德为摄政王及全境守护者……自余死后……代余……代余统理国事……俟吾儿乔佛里成年……”
　　“劳勃……”乔佛里不是你儿子，他想说，却说不出口。劳勃所承受的痛苦清楚明白地写在脸上，他不忍心将更多痛苦加诸于他。于是奈德低头振笔疾书，只将“吾儿乔佛里”改为“吾之合法继承人”。欺瞒让他觉得自己人格污损。这是我们为爱而撒的谎，他心想，愿天上诸神原谅我。“您还要我写什么？”
　　“写……该写什么就写什么。遵守，保护，新旧诸神，你知道这些啰嗦词语。写完我来签名。等我死了把这个交给御前会议。”
　　“劳勃，”奈德的语气充满悲伤，“不要这样，不要离开我。国家需要你。”
　　劳勃紧握住他的手，用力挤压。“奈德·史塔克，你……真不会说谎。”他忍痛说，“这国家……这国家很清楚……我是怎样的一个昏君，跟伊里斯一样的昏君。诸神饶恕我。”
　　“不，”奈德告诉他垂死的老友，“陛下，您和伊里斯不一样。您比他好得太多。”
　　劳勃勉强挤出一丝微笑，嘴角还带着血迹。“至少，人们会说……我这辈子所做的最后一件事……没有错。你不会让我失望的。这国家就交给你了。你会比我更讨厌治理……但你会做得很好。你写好了么？”
　　“好了，陛下。”奈德把纸递给国王。国王胡乱签了个名，在字里行间留下一滩血迹。“封印时需有人见证。”
　　“记得把那只野猪当我葬礼的主菜，”劳勃嘶声道，“嘴里塞个苹果，皮烤得香香脆脆，把那王八蛋给吃啰。我管你会不会撑死。答应我，奈德。”
　　“我答应你。”奈德说。答应我，奈德，莱安娜在应和。
　　“那女孩，”国王说，“丹妮莉丝，让她活命吧。如果你有法子，如果……还来得及……命令他们……瓦里斯，小指头……别让他们杀她。还有，帮帮我儿子，奈德。让他变成……比我更好的人。”他痛得皱眉，“诸神可怜我。”
　　“他们会的，我的朋友，”奈德说，“他们会的。”
　　国王闭起眼睛，似是稍觉放松。“到头来竟被野猪所杀，”他喃喃自语，“要不是这么痛，真该大笑一场。”
　　奈德没笑。“要不要这就叫他们进来？”
　　劳勃虚弱地点头。“也好。老天，这儿怎么冷成这副德行？”
　　仆人们冲进来，赶忙为炉火添柴。王后已经走了，至少这算一点安慰。如果瑟曦还有点理智，奈德心想，她应该带着孩子赶在黎明前逃走。她已经拖延太久。
　　劳勃国王也并不想念她。他让弟弟蓝礼和派席尔国师作见证，然后拿起国玺，盖在奈德滴在纸上的热黄蜡泥上。“现在给我止痛的东西，让我去死罢。”
　　派席尔国师匆忙调制了另一帖罂粟花奶。这次国王喝了个干净，抛出杯子，他的黑胡须上沾满了浓稠的白色液滴。“我会做梦吗？”
　　奈德给了他答案。“陛下，您会的。”
　　“那就好，”他微笑道，“奈德，我会替你向莱安娜问好。帮我好好照顾我的孩子。”
　　这番话有如一把尖刀在奈德肚里翻搅。刹那间他不知如何是好，因为他无法逼自己说谎，但他接着想起了那些私生子，想起还在母亲怀里的芭拉，艾林谷的米亚，炉边打铁的詹德利……“我会……把你的孩子当作我自己的孩子一般爱护。”他缓缓地说。
　　劳勃点点头，闭上眼睛。奈德看着罂粟花奶从自己老友脸上洗去疼痛，他软弱无力地陷进枕头堆，沉沉睡去。
　　沉重的锁链轻声作响，派席尔大学士朝奈德走来。“大人，我会尽我全力，可伤口已经长疽。他们花了两天时间才把他送回来，等我见到伤势为时已晚。我可以减轻陛下的伤痛，但现在能救他的只有天上诸神了。”
　　“还能活多久？”奈德问。
　　“照理说他现在已经死了。我还从没见过求生意志这么强的人。”
　　“我哥一向很强壮，”蓝礼公爵说，“或许不顶聪明，但强壮是勿庸置疑。”卧室里闷热难耐，他的额际布满晶亮的汗珠，模样仿佛是劳勃的翻版，年轻、黝黑而英俊。“他杀了那头猪。也不管自己内脏都从肚子里跑出来了，他还是宰了那头野猪。”他的声音充满惊奇。
　　“只要敌人还站着，劳勃就决不会离开战场。”奈德告诉他。
　　门外，巴利斯坦·赛尔弥爵士依旧把守着高塔楼梯。“派席尔大学士已经给劳勃喝过罂粟花奶，”奈德告诉他，“未经我同意，任何人不得打扰他休息。”
　　“遵命，大人。”巴利斯坦爵士看起来比他实际年龄还要苍老。“我辜负了我神圣的职责。”
　　“再忠勇的骑士，也没法避免国王伤害自己，”奈德说，“劳勃喜欢猎野猪，我看他杀死过不下一千只。”他总是毫不退缩地站稳脚跟，立定原地，手握长熗，还常趁野猪冲锋时大声咒骂，只等最后一刻，只等野猪几乎要扑到他身上时，他才准确利落地将其一熗刺死。“谁知道他竟会被这只猪所杀呢？”
　　“艾德大人，您太仁慈了。”
　　“连国王自己也这么说。他说是酒坏了事。”
　　白发苍苍的骑士虚弱地点头。“我们把野猪从窝里赶出来时，陛下他已经连马都坐不稳了，但他还是命令我们站到一边。”
　　“巴利斯坦爵士，我倒是很好奇，”瓦里斯轻声细语地问，“这酒是谁拿给国王的？”
　　奈德根本没听见太监走近的声音，然而一转头，他就在那儿，穿着曳地的黑天鹅绒长袍，脸上新扑过粉。
　　“国王喝的是带在自己身上酒袋里的酒。”巴利斯坦爵士道。
　　“就那么一袋？打猎很容易口渴哪。”
　　“我没有数，但陛下喝的肯定不止一袋。只要他开口，他的侍从就会拿一袋新的给他。”
　　“真是个忠于职守的好孩子，”瓦里斯道，“陛下他永远都不愁没得喝哟。”
　　奈德嘴里一阵苦涩。他回忆起那两个被劳勃赶去拿撑胸甲的钳子的金发男孩。当天晚宴上，国王把这件事说给每个人听，笑到难以自制。“是哪个侍从？”
　　“年长的那个，”巴利斯坦爵士说，“蓝赛尔。”
　　“这孩子我挺清楚的，”瓦里斯说：“是个坚强的男孩，凯冯·兰尼斯特爵士的儿子，泰温大人的侄子，王后的堂弟。真希望这好孩子别太自责。孩子在天真无邪的少年时期总是很脆弱的，这我可是深有体会。”
　　瓦里斯自然有过少年时期，但奈德却怀疑他是否天真无邪过。“听你说起孩子，关于丹妮莉丝·坦格利安那件事，劳勃已经回心转意。无论你安排了什么，我要你立刻收回成命。”
　　“唉哟，”瓦里斯说，“‘立刻’恐怕都为时已晚哪。鸟儿已经飞上了天。不过大人，我尽力而为。告退。”他鞠个躬，消失在楼梯下。下楼之时，软跟的拖鞋在石板表面摩擦，宛如呓语。
　　凯恩和托马德正扶着奈德过桥，蓝礼公爵却从梅葛楼里出来。“艾德大人，”他在身后喊，“若您不介意，可否借一步说话？”
　　奈德停下脚步。“好。”
　　蓝礼走到他身边。“请您的人退下。”他们站在桥的正中央，桥下是干涸的护城河。河床上排列尖刺，月光将残酷的刀刃染成银白。
　　奈德挥手。托马德和凯恩点点头，恭敬地退开。蓝礼公爵小心翼翼地瞥了瞥桥对面的柏洛斯爵士，以及背后楼梯口的普列斯顿爵士。“那封信，”他靠过来。“可与摄政有关？我哥是否任命您为全境守护者？”他没等对方回答。“大人，我有三十个贴身护卫，还有其他骑士和贵族朋友。给我一个钟头，我就能给您一百个人。”
　　“大人，请问我要这一百人做什么呢？”
　　“当然是先发制人！立即行动，趁眼下大家还在熟睡。”蓝礼回头看看柏洛斯爵士，压低音量，急切地悄声说，“我们得把乔佛里从他母亲手里夺过来当筹码，是不是守护者无关紧要，谁挟有国王才能号令全国。弥赛拉和托曼也要抓起来。一旦我们有了瑟曦的孩子，她就不敢轻举妄动。到时候御前会议将承认您为摄政王，并让您当乔佛里的监护人。”
　　奈德冷冷地打量着他。“劳勃还未断气。天上诸神或许会饶他一命也未可知。倘非如是，我也将立刻召集御前会议，公开遗嘱，讨论继承之事。我不会在他生命的最后时刻杀人流血，犯下把惊慌失措的孩子从睡梦中强行拉走的罪行。”
　　蓝礼公爵后退一步，全身绷紧犹如弓弦。“你每耽搁一秒，就是多给瑟曦一秒准备的时间。等劳勃一死，只怕就为时已晚……对你我两人都是如此啊。”
　　“那我们就祈祷劳勃不要死吧。”
　　“我看不大可能。”
　　“有时天上诸神也有慈悲之心。”
　　“兰尼斯特可没有。”蓝礼转身越过护城河，朝他垂死兄长所在的高塔走去。
　　等奈德回到卧室，已经心力交瘁，但他很清楚今晚自己是不用睡了。在权力的游戏之中，你不当赢家，就只有死路一条，那天在神木林里，瑟曦·兰尼斯特这么对他说。他不禁思索：拒绝蓝礼公爵的提议，究竟是不是明智之举？他对权谋斗争毫无兴趣，拿小孩做为要胁筹码更为他所不齿，然而……倘若瑟曦决定反抗，而非流亡，那他需要的可就不仅是蓝礼的一百名卫士了，远远不够。
　　“把小指头找来，”他告诉凯恩，“如果他不在卧室，不管带多少人，把君临的每一间酒店和妓院通通搜遍，你也要找到他。天亮之前必须带他来见我。”凯恩鞠躬离去，奈德又转向托马德，“风之巫女号明晚涨潮时分启航，你选好随行护卫了吗？”
　　“十个人，由波瑟领队。”
　　“二十个，你亲自带头。”奈德说。波瑟虽然勇敢，却嫌鲁莽。他希望照顾女儿的人更可靠也更有判断力。
　　“遵命，老爷，”汤姆说，“说真的，离开这里，我可不会难过。我很想念我老婆。”
　　“你们北行途中会靠近龙石岛，我需要你替我送封信。”
　　汤姆一脸不安。“大人，去龙石岛？”坦格利安家族的这座岛屿要塞素以地势险恶著称。
　　“告诉柯斯船长，一旦进入岛屿的视线范围，即刻升上我的旗帜。他们恐怕不会欢迎不请自来的访客。如果他不肯去，要多少钱都给他。我给你的这封信，你必须当面交给史坦尼斯·拜拉席恩大人，绝不能交给别人。不管是他的总管、侍卫队长或他的夫人都一样，一定要交给史坦尼斯公爵本人。”
　　“是的，大人。”
　　托马德离开后，艾德·史塔克坐着凝望床边桌上的蜡烛明焰，有好一阵子完全被悲伤所淹没。他只想去神木林，跪在心树下，祈祷那曾经与他情胜手足的劳勃·拜拉席恩能够活命。将来人们会说艾德·史塔克背叛了国王的友谊，夺走了他子嗣的继承权。他只希望天上诸神能体谅他的苦衷，而劳勃若死后有知，也能知悉真相。
　　奈德取出国王的临终遗嘱。那只是一张盖上黄色蜡印，写了只字片语，却留下一滩血迹的脆弱的白色卷轴。胜负生死，实在只是一线之间。
　　他抽出一张白纸，取笔沾了墨水。致拜拉席恩家族的史坦尼斯国王陛下，他写道，当您接获此信之时，令兄劳勃，吾人过去十五年来的国君，已经过世。他在御林狩猎时为一野猪所伤……
　　字句似乎在纸上扭曲缠绕，他不得不停笔思考。泰温大人和詹姆爵士绝不会忍受耻辱，他们宁可兴兵反抗也不会逃走。自琼恩·艾林遭人谋害，想必史坦尼斯大人也颇感恐惧，但此刻他必须趁兰尼斯特军还未出动之机，立即率领所部人马驶向君临。
　　奈德字斟句酌写完了信，在末尾签上“全境守护者，国王之手，临冬城公爵，艾德·史塔克。”然后吸干墨水，对折两次，就着烛焰融了封蜡。
　　他的摄政期将会非常短暂，他一边看着封蜡变软，一边想。新王会任命新的首相。届时奈德便可返家。回临冬城的念头牵起他嘴角一丝微笑。他想重听布兰的欢笑，想和罗柏一同出外放鹰，想看瑞肯玩耍嬉闹。他想双手紧紧搂着自己的夫人凯特琳，躺在自己的床上无梦安眠。
　　他正把冰原狼印章盖在柔软的白蜡上时，凯恩回来了，戴斯蒙跟他一道，小指头则走在两人中间。奈德向侍卫道谢后把他俩遣开。
　　培提尔伯爵穿着蓝天鹅绒外衣，带着宽松的袖子，银边斗篷上绣满仿声鸟。“我想我该说恭喜啰。”他边说边坐下。
　　奈德皱眉。“国王此刻身负重伤，命在旦夕。”
　　“我知道，”小指头说，“但我也知道他任命您为全境守护者。”
　　奈德的视线飘到身旁桌上，国王的信还未拆封。“大人，请问您又是怎么知道的？”
　　“瓦里斯的暗示，”小指头说，“而您现在证实了。”
　　奈德的嘴因愤怒而扭曲：“去他的瓦里斯和他的小小鸟儿。凯特琳说得没错，这人懂妖法。我不信任他。”
　　“很好，你慢慢学乖了。”小指头向前靠，“可我敢打赌你大半夜把我拖来，不是来讨论太监的。”
　　“不是，”奈德承认，“我知道了琼恩·艾林保守的秘密，他便是因此遭人灭口。劳勃死后没有亲生儿子可以继承王位。乔佛里和托曼是詹姆·兰尼斯特和王后乱伦产下的私生子。”
　　小指头扬起一道眉毛。“令人震惊。”然而他的语气显然完全不感惊讶。“女孩也是？想也知道。所以国王死后……”
　　“王位应传给史坦尼斯大人，劳勃最年长的弟弟。”
　　培提尔伯爵捻着尖胡子，仔细思索这个问题。“看来是如此。除非……”
　　“大人，除非？这事没有任何疑问。史坦尼斯是王位继承人，没有什么可以改变这事实。”
　　“缺了你的协助，史坦尼斯得不到王位。如果你够聪明，应该确保乔佛里登基为王。”
　　奈德狠狠地瞪了他一眼。“你一点荣誉心都没有吗？”
　　“哎，有当然是有那么一点点啦。”小指头漫不经心地回答，“仔细听我说。史坦尼斯并非你我之友，连他兄弟两人都受不了他。这家伙是钢铁铸的，个性强硬、绝不妥协。想也知道，届时他会另立新的首相和御前会议。他当然会谢谢你把王冠交给他，但他不会因此而喜欢你。更何况他一旦登基，必定会引来战事。你想想，除非瑟曦和她的私生子通通死光，否则史坦尼斯的王位绝对坐不安稳。泰温大人会坐视他女儿的头给晾在熗上吗？凯岩城肯定会起兵，而他们绝非势单力薄。劳勃愿意赦免曾在伊里斯王手下做事的人，只要他们向他宣誓效忠。史坦尼斯可没这么好心肠。他永远不会忘记风息堡之围，提利尔大人和雷德温大人则是不敢忘记。只要曾经高举火龙旗帜，或与巴隆·葛雷乔伊一同兴兵作乱的人都会怕他。若是把史坦尼斯送上铁王座，我敢向你保证，王国会血流成河。”
　　“我们再看看钱币的另一面。乔佛里眼下才十二岁，而且大人，劳勃选的摄政王是你啊。你既是首相，又是全境守护者。史塔克大人，你是大权在握，只需伸手便可夺取天下。与兰尼斯特家和好，释放小恶魔，让乔佛里和你的珊莎结婚，再把你的小女儿嫁给托曼，让你的继承人迎娶弥赛拉。距离乔佛里长大成人还有四年时间，到时候他会把您当成再世生父，就算他没有，这个嘛……大人，四年时间可也不短，足够把史坦尼斯大人解决掉了。之后若是乔佛里惹人厌，我们可以揭穿他的小秘密，然后把蓝礼大人送上王位。”
　　“我们？”奈德重复道。
　　小指头耸耸肩。“您总需要别人来帮您分担重责大任吧。我可以跟您保证，我的价码绝对最公道。”
　　“你的价码。”奈德声音冰冷。“贝里席大人，你刚才建议的可是叛国大罪。”
　　“除非我们失败。”
　　“你忘了，”奈德告诉他，“你忘了琼恩·艾林，你忘了乔里·凯索，你还忘了这个。”他抽出那把匕首，放在两人中间的桌上。由龙骨和瓦雷利亚精钢打造的短刀，锋利一如对与错、真与假，生与死之间的差异。“贝里席大人，他们派人杀我儿子。”
　　小指头叹口气。“恐怕我真是忘了，大人，请您原谅。我居然忘了自己在跟史塔克家的人说话。”他撇撇嘴。“所以就是史坦尼斯和战争？”
　　“我们别无选择，史坦尼斯是继承人。”
　　“反正我也没资格和全境守护者争辩。那么，您找我有何贵干？想必不是为了我的智慧。”
　　“我会尽我所能忘记你的……智慧，”奈德嫌恶地说，“我找你来，是因为你答应过凯特琳会帮忙。眼下对我们每个人都是危险时刻。劳勃的确任命我为守护者，但在世人眼中，乔佛里依旧是他的儿子和继承人。王后身边有十来个骑士和上百名侍卫听候差遣……足够对付我留在身边的护卫。况且就在我们说话的当口，她弟弟詹姆很可能正率领兰尼斯特大军，浩浩荡荡朝君临开来。”
　　“而你却没有军队。”小指头把玩着桌上的匕首，用一根指头缓缓旋转。“蓝礼大人和兰尼斯特家之间素无好感。青铜约恩·罗伊斯，巴隆·史文爵士，洛拉斯爵士，坦妲伯爵夫人，还有雷德温家的双胞胎……他们各自有一批骑士和侍卫在城里。”
　　“蓝礼有三十个贴身护卫，其他人更少。就算他们全站到我这边，也还是不够。我需要都城守卫队的支持。他们一共有两千人，并宣誓守护城堡与市镇，以国王之名维护和平。”
　　“啊，可是当王后立了一个国王，首相却立了另一个，请问他们要以谁之名维护和平呢？”培提尔伯爵伸出手指轻推匕首，让它在原地打转。匕首旋转不息，边转边摇晃。最后速度减缓，终至停止时，刀尖正对着小指头。“唉，这就是答案啦。”他微笑道，“谁付钱，他们就听谁的话。”他向后靠上椅背，直直地看着奈德的脸，那双灰绿的眼睛里闪着嘲弄之色。“史塔克，你把荣誉当铠甲穿在身上，自以为能保你平安，结果却让自己负担沉重，行动困难。瞧你现在这个样子：你很清楚找我来目的为何，也知道要请我做什么，更明白这件事势在必行……可一点也不名誉，所以话哽在喉咙里说不出来。”
　　奈德的颈项因为紧张而僵硬，有好一阵子他委实太过恼怒，以致不敢轻易开口。
　　小指头笑道：“我应该逼你亲口说出来的，但那样太残忍啦……所以我亲爱的好大人，您别担心。为着我对凯特琳的爱，我这就去找杰诺斯·史林特，确保都城守卫队站在您这边。六千金龙应该足够。三分之一给司令，三分之一给各层士官，剩下的三分之一留给士兵。本来用这价钱的一半或许也行，不过我还是别冒险的好。”他面露微笑，拾起匕首交还奈德，刀柄朝向对方。

[ 此帖被挽墨在2015-09-01 00:32重新编辑 ]
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你看着眼前的人，分明还是以前的模样，可心里终究不是以前那般澄清透明了。
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48.JON

Jon was breaking his fast on applecakes and blood sausage when Samwell Tarly plopped himself down on the bench. “I’ve been summoned to the sept,” Sam said in an excited whisper. “They’re passing me out of training. I’m to be made a brother with the rest of you. Can you believe it?”
   “No, truly?”
   “Truly. I’m to assist Maester Aemon with the library and the birds. He needs someone who can read and write letters.”
   “You’ll do well at that,” Jon said, smiling.
   Sam glanced about anxiously. “Is it time to go? I shouldn’t be late, they might change their minds.” He was fairly bouncing as they crossed the weed-strewn courtyard. The day was warm and sunny. Rivulets of water trickled down the sides of the Wall, so the ice seemed to sparkle and shine.
   Inside the sept, the great crystal caught the morning light as it streamed through the south-facing window and spread it in a rainbow on the altar. Pyp’s mouth dropped open when he caught sight of Sam, and Toad poked Grenn in the ribs, but no one dared say a word. Septon Celladar was swinging a censer, filling the air with fragrant incense that reminded Jon of Lady Stark’s little sept in Winterfell. For once the septon seemed sober.
   The high officers arrived in a body; Maester Aemon leaning on Clydas, Ser Alliser cold-eyed and grim, Lord Commander Mormont resplendent in a black wool doublet with silvered bearclaw fastenings. Behind them came the senior members of the three orders: red-faced Bowen Marsh the Lord Steward, First Builder Othell Yarwyck, and Ser Jaremy Rykker, who commanded the rangers in the absence of Benjen Stark.
   Mormont stood before the altar, the rainbow shining on his broad bald head. “You came to us outlaws,” he began, “poachers, rapers, debtors, killers, and thieves. You came to us children. You came to us alone, in chains, with neither friends nor honor. You came to us rich, and you came to us poor. Some of you bear the names of proud houses. Others have only bastards’ names, or no names at all. It makes no matter. All that is past now. On the Wall, we are all one house.
   “At evenfall, as the sun sets and we face the gathering night, you shall take your vows. From that moment, you will be a Sworn Brother of the Night’s Watch. Your crimes will be washed away, your debts forgiven. So too you must wash away your former loyalties, put aside your grudges, forget old wrongs and old loves alike. Here you begin anew.
   “A man of the Night’s Watch lives his life for the realm. Not for a king, nor a lord, nor the honor of this house or that house, neither for gold nor glory nor a woman’s love, but for the realm, and all the people in it. A man of the Night’s Watch takes no wife and fathers no sons. Our wife is duty. Our mistress is honor. And you are the only sons we shall ever know.
   “You have learned the words of the vow. Think carefully before you say them, for once you have taken the black, there is no turning back. The penalty for desertion is death.” The Old Bear paused for a moment before he said, “Are there any among you who wish to leave our company? If so, go now, and no one shall think the less of you.”
   No one moved.
   “Well and good,” said Mormont. “You may take your vows here at evenfall, before Septon Celladar and the first of your order. Do any of you keep to the old gods?”
   Jon stood. “I do, my lord.”
   “I expect you will want to say your words before a heart tree, as your uncle did,” Mormont said.
   “Yes, my lord,” Jon said. The gods of the sept had nothing to do with him; the blood of the First Men flowed in the veins of the Starks.
   He heard Grenn whispering behind him. “There’s no godswood here. Is there? I never saw a godswood.”
   “You wouldn’t see a herd of aurochs until they trampled you into the snow,” Pyp whispered back.
   “I would so,” Grenn insisted. “I’d see them a long way off.”
   Mormont himself confirmed Grenn’s doubts. “Castle Black has no need of a godswood. Beyond the Wall the haunted forest stands as it stood in the Dawn Age, long before the Andals brought the Seven across the narrow sea. You will find a grove of weirwoods half a league from this spot, and mayhap your gods as well.”
   “My lord.” The voice made Jon glance back in surprise. Samwell Tarly was on his feet. The fat boy wiped his sweaty palms against his tunic. “Might I?.?.?.?might I go as well? To say my words at this heart tree?”
   “Does House Tarly keep the old gods too?” Mormont asked.
   “No, my lord,” Sam replied in a thin, nervous voice. The high officers frightened him, Jon knew, the Old Bear most of all. “I was named in the light of the Seven at the sept on Horn Hill, as my father was, and his father, and all the Tarlys for a thousand years.”
   “Why would you forsake the gods of your father and your House?” wondered Ser Jaremy Rykker.
   “The Night’s Watch is my House now,” Sam said. “The Seven have never answered my prayers. Perhaps the old gods will.”
   “As you wish, boy,” Mormont said. Sam took his seat again, as did Jon. “We have placed each of you in an order, as befits our need and your own strengths and skills.” Bowen Marsh stepped forward and handed him a paper. The Lord Commander unrolled it and began to read. “Haider, to the builders,” he began. Haider gave a stiff nod of approval. “Grenn, to the rangers. Albett, to the builders. Pypar, to the rangers.” Pyp looked over at Jon and wiggled his ears. “Samwell, to the stewards.” Sam sagged with relief, mopping at his brow with,a scrap of silk. “Matthar, to the rangers. Dareon, to the stewards. Todder, to the rangers. Jon, to the stewards.”
   The stewards? For a moment Jon could not believe what he had heard. Mormont must have read it wrong. He started to rise, to open his mouth, to tell them there had been a mistake?.?.?.?and then he saw Ser Alliser studying him, eyes shiny as two flakes of obsidian, and he knew.
   The Old Bear rolled up the paper. “Your firsts will instruct you in your duties. May all the gods preserve you, brothers.” The Lord Commander favored them with a half bow, and took his leave. Ser Alliser went with him, a thin smile on his face. Jon had never seen the master-at-arms took quite so happy.
   “Rangers with me,” Ser Jaremy Rykker called when they were gone. Pyp was staring at Jon as he got slowly to his feet. His ears were red. Grenn, grinning broadly, did not seem to realize that anything was amiss. Matt and Toad fell in beside them, and they followed Ser Jaremy from the sept.
   “Builders,” announced lantern-jawed Othell Yarwyck. Haider and Albett trailed out after him.
   Jon looked around him in sick disbelief. Maester Aemon’s blind eyes were raised toward the light he could not see. The septon was arranging crystals on the altar. Only Sam and Darcon remained on the benches; a fat boy, a singer?.?.?.?and him.
   Lord Steward Bowen Marsh rubbed his plump hands together. “Samwell, you will assist Maester Aemon in the rookery and library. Chett is going to the kennels, to help with the hounds. You shall have his cell, so as to be close to the maester night and day. I trust you will take good care of him. He is very old and very precious to us.
   “Dareon, I am told that you sang at many a high lord’s table and shared their meat and mead. We are sending you to Eastwatch. It may be your palate will be some help to Cotter Pyke when merchant galleys come trading. We are paying too dear for salt beef and pickled fish, and the quality of the olive oil we’re getting has been frightful, Present yourself to Borcas when you arrive, he will keep you busy between ships.”
   Marsh turned his smile on Jon. “Lord Commander Mormont has requested you for his personal steward, Jon. You’ll sleep in a cell beneath his chambers, in the Lord Commander’s tower.”
   “And what will my duties be?” Jon asked sharply. “Will I serve the Lord Commander’s meals, help him fasten his clothes, fetch hot water for his bath?”
   “Certainly.” Marsh frowned at Jon’s tone. “And you will run his messages, keep a fire burning in his chambers, change his sheets and blankets daily, and do all else that the Lord Commander might require of you.”
   “Do you take me for a servant?”
   “No,” Maester Aemon said, from the back of the sept. Clydas helped him stand. “We took you for a man of the Night’s Watch?.?.?.?but perhaps we were wrong in that.”
   It was all Jon could do to stop himself from walking out. Was he supposed to churn butter and sew doublets like a girl for the rest of his days? “May I go?” he asked stiffly.
   “As you wish,” Bowen Marsh responded.
   Dareon and Sam left with him. They descended to the yard in silence. Outside, Jon looked up at the Wall shining in the sun, the melting ice creeping down its side in a hundred thin fingers. Jon’s rage was such that he would have smashed it all in an instant, and the world be damned.
   “Jon,” Samwell Tarly said excitedly. “Wait. Don’t you see what they’re doing?”
   Jon turned on him in a fury. “I see Ser Alliser’s bloody hand, that’s all I see. He wanted to shame me, and he has.”
   Dareon gave him a look. “The stewards are fine for the likes of you and me, Sam, but not for Lord Snow.”
   “I’m a better swordsman and a better rider than any of you,” Jon blazed back. “It’s not fair!”
   “Fair?” Dareon sneered. “The girl was waiting for me, naked as the day she was born. She pulled me through the window, and you talk to me of fair?” He walked off.
   “There is no shame in being a steward,” Sam said.
   “Do you think I want to spend the rest of my life washing an old man’s smallclothes?”
   “The old man is Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch,” Sam reminded him. “You’ll be with him day and night. Yes, you’ll pour his wine and see that his bed linen is fresh, but you’ll also take his letters, attend him at meetings, squire for him in battle. You’ll be as close to him as his shadow. You’ll know everything, be a part of everything?.?.?.?and the Lord Steward said Mormont asked for you himself!
   “When I was little, my father used to insist that I attend him in the audience chamber whenever he held court. When he rode to Highgarden to bend his knee to Lord Tyrell, he made me come. Later, though, he started to take Dickon and leave me at home, and he no longer cared whether I sat through his audiences, so long as Dickon was there. He wanted his heir at his side, don’t you see? To watch and listen and learn from all he did. I’ll wager that’s why Lord Mormont requested you, Jon. What else could it be? He wants to groom you for command!”
   Jon was taken aback. It was true, Lord Eddard had often made Robb part of his councils back at Winterfell. Could Sam be right? Even a bastard could rise high in the Night’s Watch, they said. “I never asked for this,” he said stubbornly.
   “None of us are here for asking,” Sam reminded him.
   And suddenly Jon Snow was ashamed.
   Craven or not, Samwell Tarly had found the courage to accept his fate like a man. On the Wall, a man gets only what he earns, Benjen Stark had said the last night Jon had seen him alive. You’re no ranger, Jon, only a green boy with the smell of summer still on you. He’d heard it said that bastards grow up faster than other children; on the Wall, you grew up or you died.
   Jon let out a deep sigh. “You have the right of it. I was acting the boy.”
   “Then you’ll stay and say your words with me?”
   “The old gods will be expecting us.” He made himself smile.
   They set out late that afternoon. The Wall had no gates as such, neither here at Castle Black nor anywhere along its three hundred miles. They led their horses down a narrow tunnel cut through the ice, cold dark walls pressing in around them as the passage twisted and turned. Three times their way was blocked by iron bars, and they had to stop while Bowen Marsh drew out his keys and unlocked the massive chains that secured them. Jon could sense the vast weight pressing down on him as he waited behind the Lord Steward. The air was colder than a tomb, and more still. He felt a strange relief when they reemerged into the afternoon light on the north side of the Wall.
   Sam blinked at the sudden glare and looked around apprehensively. “The wildlings?.?.?.?they wouldn’t?.?.?.?they’d never dare come this close to the Wall. Would they?”
   “They never have.” Jon climbed into his saddle. When Bowen Marsh and their ranger escort had mounted, Jon put two fingers in his mouth and whistled. Ghost came loping out of the tunnel.
   The Lord Steward’s garron whickered and backed away from the direwolf. “Do you mean to take that beast?”
   “Yes, my lord,” Jon said. Ghost’s head lifted. He seemed to taste the air. In the blink of an eye he was off, racing across the broad, weed-choked field to vanish in the trees.
   Once they had entered the forest, they were in a different world. Jon had often hunted with his father and Jory and his brother Robb. He knew the wolfswood around Winterfell as well as any man. The haunted forest was much the same, and yet the feel of it was very different.
   Perhaps it was all in the knowing. They had ridden past the end of the world; somehow that changed everything. Every shadow seemed darker, every sound more ominous. The trees pressed close and shut out the light of the setting sun. A thin crust of snow cracked beneath the hooves of their horses, with a sound like breaking bones. When the wind set the leaves to rustling, it was like a chilly finger tracing a path up Jon’s spine. The Wall was at their backs, and only the gods knew what lay ahead.
   The sun was sinking below the trees when they reached their destination, a small clearing in the deep of the wood where nine weirwoods grew in a rough circle. Jon drew in a breath, and he saw Sam Tarly staring. Even in the wolfswood, you never found more than two or three of the white trees growing together; a grove of nine was unheard of. The forest floor was carpeted with fallen leaves, bloodred on top, black rot beneath. The wide smooth trunks were bone pale, and nine faces stared inward. The dried sap that crusted in the eyes was red and hard as ruby. Bowen Marsh commanded them to leave their horses outside the circle. “This is a sacred place, we will not defile it.”
   When they entered the grove, Samwell Tarly turned slowly looking at each face in turn. No two were quite alike. “They’re watching us,” he whispered. “The old gods.”
   “Yes.” Jon knelt, and Sam knelt beside him.
   They said the words together, as the last light faded in the west and grey day became black night.
   “Hear my words, and bear witness to my vow,” they recited, their voices filling the twilit grove. “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.”
   The woods fell silent. “You knelt as boys,” Bowen Marsh intoned solemnly. “Rise now as men of the Night’s Watch.”
   Jon held out a hand to pull Sam back to his feet. The rangers gathered round to offer smiles and congratulations, all but the gnarled old forester Dywen. “Best we be starting back, m’lord,” he said to Bowen Marsh. “Dark’s falling, and there’s something in the smell o’ the night that I mislike.”
   And suddenly Ghost was back, stalking softly between two weirwoods. White fur and red eyes, Jon realized, disquieted. Like the trees?.?.?.?
   The wolf had something in his jaws. Something black. “What’s he got there?” asked Bowen Marsh, frowning.
   “To me, Ghost.” Jon knelt. “Bring it here.”
   The direwolf trotted to him. Jon heard Samwell Tarly’s sharp intake of breath.
   “Gods be good,” Dywen muttered. “That’s a hand.”


Ⅰ 权力的游戏 Chapter49 琼恩
　　山姆威尔·塔利扑通一声坐上长凳时，琼恩正吃着早餐的苹果蛋糕和血香肠。“我也要去圣堂了，”山姆难掩兴奋地悄声说，“他们打算让我通过测试，跟你们一起成为正式的黑衣弟兄。你敢相信吗？”
　　“不相信。这是真的？”
　　“真的真的。我被派去协助伊蒙师傅管理图书室和鸟儿。他需要一个能读会写的帮手。”
　　“相信你一定愉快胜任。”琼恩微笑说道。
　　山姆不安地环顾四周。“我们是不是该去了？我们最好不要迟到，免得他们改变主意。”他们走过长满杂草的庭院时，他一直蹦蹦跳跳。天气温润而清朗，晶莹的水滴沿着长城流淌而下，冰层在阳光下闪闪发光。
　　圣堂里，晨光从面南的窗子倾泄进来，射进当中的大水晶，散出七彩虹光，映着祭坛。派普一见山姆，嘴巴顿时张得老大，陶德则碰了一下葛兰，但没人敢说话。赛勒达修士手中摇晃着一个小香炉，溢得满室馨香，琼恩不禁想起史塔克夫人在临冬城的小圣堂祈祷的情景。修士这次很难得没有喝醉。
　　高级官员一齐抵达。伊蒙师傅倚靠着克莱达斯，艾里沙爵士冷眼峻脸，莫尔蒙司令一身华服，黑羊毛外衣，银边熊爪扣。在他们后面是三个职业的负责人：总务长波文·马尔锡，首席工匠奥赛尔·亚威克，以及暂代班扬·史塔克指挥游骑兵的杰瑞米·莱克爵士。
　　莫尔蒙站在祭坛前，七彩虹光在他的大光头上闪闪发亮。“你们来时为法律所不容，”他开口，“盗猎、强奸、欠债、杀人、偷抢拐骗。你们来时尚为孩童，一身孑然，身负枷锁，既无友朋，更无荣誉。你们来时或富贵荣禄，或赤贫如洗。你们来自豪门望族，或仅有私生子之名，甚或藉藉无名，但这些都不重要。一切皆成过去。长城之上，我们都是一家人。”
　　“今日傍晚，夕阳西沉，低垂夜幕之下，你们便将宣誓。从此以后，你们就是誓言效命的守夜人弟兄。你们的罪名将被洗清，债务业已勾销，同样，你们必须抹去从前的家族忠诚，抛开旧时的仇恨，忘却过往的情爱恩怨。你们将于兹重获新生。”
　　“守夜人为王国效命。非为国王，非为贵族，亦非为豪门荣辱，不论财富，不论光荣，亦不论儿女情爱，一切只为王国安泰及其子民平安。守夜人不娶妻，不生子，我们以责任为妻，以荣誉为妾，而你们则是我们惟一的儿子。”
　　“你们已经听过了誓言内容。在发誓前请仔细考虑，一旦穿上黑衣，便永无退路。背离职守是惟一死刑。”熊老暂停片刻，然后继续，“你们之中有没有人想离开？如果有，现在就走，我们绝不会因此而看轻你。”
　　无人移动。
　　“很好，”莫尔蒙道，“傍晚时分，你们回到这里，当着赛勒达修士和你们所属组织首席的面宣誓。你们中有信仰旧神的吗？”
　　琼恩站起来。“有的，大人。”
　　“我想你或许情愿跟你叔叔一样，在心树之下宣誓。”莫尔蒙说。
　　“是的，大人。”琼恩道。圣堂的诸神与他无关。先民的血液依旧流淌在史塔克家人体内。
　　他听见葛兰在背后低语：“这里没有神木林罢，对不对？我从来没发现。”
　　“你啊，就算一群野牛迎面冲来，等它们把你踩进雪里，你也没发现。”派普悄声回答。
　　“我会啦，”葛兰坚持，“我大老远就会看见它们。”
　　莫尔蒙倒是证实了葛兰的疑虑。“黑城堡无需神木林。鬼影森林早在安达尔人将七神带过狭海前的黎明纪元便已耸立在长城之外，至今依然。由此向北半里格你会找到一片鱼梁木，或许也会找到你的神。”
　　“大人，”琼恩惊讶地回头，看见肥胖的山姆威尔·塔利站了起来，将满是汗水的手掌在衣服上抹了抹。“我能……我能不能跟他一起去？到心树下宣誓？”
　　“塔利家族莫非信奉旧神？”莫尔蒙问。
　　“不是的，大人，”山姆用尖细而紧张的声音回答。琼恩知道官员们很叫他害怕，熊老尤甚。“我在七神的荣光照耀下，在角陵的圣堂里举行了命名仪式。我父亲如此，他的父亲亦如此，千年来塔利家族世代如此。”
　　“那么……你为何要抛弃令尊和你家族长久以来信仰的诸神呢？”杰瑞米·莱克爵士很好奇。
　　“如今我以守夜人军团为家，”山姆信誓旦旦地说，“七神从未回应我的祈祷，或许旧神会呢。”
　　“那就这样，小子。”莫尔蒙说。山姆和琼恩返身坐下。“依照我们的需求，以及你们自身的能力和技巧，你们将被分配到不同的岗位。”波文·马尔锡前跨一步，交给他一张纸。总司令摊开纸，“霍德，加入工匠，”他开始念，只见霍德僵硬而激动地点了点头，“葛兰，加入游骑兵。阿贝特，加入工匠。派普尔，加入游骑兵，”派普看看琼恩，兴奋地摇耳朵。“山姆威尔，加入事务官。”山姆如释重负地叹了口气，忙掏出一块丝巾擦干额头。“梅沙，加入游骑兵。戴利恩，加入事务官。陶德，加入游骑兵。琼恩，加入事务官。”
　　事务官？一时之间琼恩简直不敢相信自己的耳朵。莫尔蒙一定是念错了。他正准备站起来申诉，告诉他们弄错了……却看见艾里沙爵士正审视着自己，双眼闪亮犹如黑曜石块，他顿时恍然大悟。
　　熊老卷起纸。“你们各自的首席长官会介绍你们的职责所在。弟兄们，愿天上诸神眷顾你们。”总司令向他们微微颔首致意，便即离开。艾里沙爵士跟他一道，脸上挂着一抹浅浅的微笑。琼恩从没见教头这么开心过。
　　“游骑兵跟我来。”等他们走后，杰瑞米·莱克爵士喊。派普慢慢站立，眼睛却盯着琼恩，双耳通红。葛兰开心地嘻笑，丝毫未察觉有何不对。梅沙和陶德走到他们旁边，跟随杰瑞米爵士离开圣堂。
　　“工匠。”生着灯笼下巴的奥赛尔·亚威克随即宣布，然后霍德和阿贝特也跟他走了。
　　琼恩满心嫌恶地环顾四周。只见伊蒙学士的盲眼正朝他看不见的光源望去，修士正在那里整理祭坛的水晶。山姆和戴利恩还坐在板凳上，一个胖子，一个歌手……还有他。
　　总务长波文·马尔锡搓搓他的胖手。“山姆威尔，你去帮伊蒙学士管理鸟笼和图书室。齐特已被调去犬栏照顾猎狗，你就住他那间屋，以便随时照顾学士的起居。希望你好好工作，他老人家年事已高，对我们更是弥足珍贵。”
　　“戴利恩，我听说你在不少高官老爷面前表演过，也见过一点世面，所以我们派你去东海望协助卡特·派克。等商船前来交易时，你的本领或许能派上用场。近来腌牛肉和咸鱼的价格高得惊人，橄榄油的品质则是烂得吓人。你到了之后先找波卡斯，他会交代你如何与商船交涉。”
　　马尔锡微笑着转头望向琼恩。“琼恩，莫尔蒙司令特别要你当他的私人事务官。你将睡在他卧室楼下的那间房里，住在司令塔里面。”
　　“请问我的职责又是什么？”琼恩尖锐地问，“是不是要帮总司令打理三餐，伺候他更衣，为他打热水洗澡？”
　　“没有错。”马尔锡听了琼恩的口气，皱起眉头。“除此之外，你还要替他跑腿，为他房间生火，每天换洗床单和毛毯，以及承担总司令要你做的其他事情。”
　　“你当我是下人么？”
　　“不，”圣堂后方的伊蒙学士说。克莱达斯扶他站起来。“我们当你是守夜人的汉子……不过或许我们错看了你。”
　　琼恩竭尽所能地克制自己，方才没有掉头离去。难道他就要像女孩子家一样整天切奶油，缝衣服度过一生？“我可以离开吗？”他僵硬地问。
　　“去罢。”波文·马尔锡回答。
　　戴利恩和山姆与他一道离去。他们默默地走回广场，琼恩抬头看着阳光下闪耀的长城，融化的冰水仿如千百根纤细的手指向下流淌。他恼怒至极，恨不得立刻就把整座长城敲个粉碎，管他世界死活。
　　“琼恩，”山姆威尔·塔利兴奋地说，“等等我们，你看不出他们的用意吗？”
　　琼恩大怒转头。“我只看出这是艾里沙爵士搞的鬼。他想羞辱我，这下他可遂心愿了。”
　　戴利恩看了他一眼。“山姆，叫你我这种人当当总务不成问题，但雪诺大人厉害着呢。”
　　“废话，不论使剑、骑马我都比你们行，”琼恩火冒三丈地反击，“这太不公平了！”
　　“公平？”戴利恩嗤之以鼻。“当年那小妞脱得精光，活像刚打娘胎里出生一般等着我，还是她把我从窗户里拉进去的。你倒是告诉我什么叫做公平？”
　　“当个事务官没什么可耻的。”山姆说。
　　“你要我洗一辈子老头的内衣裤吗？”
　　“这老头可是堂堂守夜人军团总司令，”山姆提醒他，“而你则会日夜跟他相处。没错，你是得帮他倒酒，换洗被单，但你也会替他送信，随他参加会议，打仗的时候当他的侍从。你会跟他形影不离，大小事务你都会知情，甚至能施加影响……更何况总务长说是莫尔蒙特别指定要你的！”
　　“我小时候，每当父亲开庭理事，总是坚持要我参加；每次他去高庭提利尔大人输诚，也一定带我去。直到后来他改带狄肯，把我丢在家里。只要狄肯跟着他，他便懒得管我是否出席会议。他的目的是把自己的‘继承人’带在身边，你懂吗？让他察言观色从中学习。琼恩，我敢打赌莫尔蒙司令也是这个意思。不然他干嘛这么做？他想训练你作总司令接班人哪！”
　　琼恩完全愣住了。的确，以前在临冬城的时候，艾德公爵便常要罗柏出席各种会议。难道山姆说的是真的？人家总说在守夜人部队里，即便私生子也可升至高位。“我又不想这样。”他嘴硬地说。
　　“我们没有人想来这里。”山姆又提醒他。
　　突然间琼恩·雪诺觉得羞愧交加。
　　无论他算不算懦夫，山姆威尔·塔利都像个男子汉一样有了接受命运的勇气。在长城守军里，想得到什么样的待遇，就得证明自己有什么样的本事，琼恩最后一次见到活生生的班扬·史塔克的那天夜里，他曾这么说，你还不是游骑兵，你只是个稚气未脱，身上还残留着夏天气味的小鬼。据说私生子成长得比别人都快，在长城上，你若不快快成长，就只有死路一条。
　　琼恩一声长叹。“你说得没错。是我太孩子气了。”
　　“那你会留下来跟我一起宣誓啰？”
　　“旧神正在等着我们哪。”他逼自己挤出一丝微笑。
　　他们于当日下午出发。长城沿线三百里没有一座城门，他们得牵马走进穿透冰层的狭窄隧道。路径曲折蜿蜒，黑暗而冰冷的冰墙无时无刻不向他们逼近。他们经过三道拦路铁栏，每次都得停下脚步，让波文·马尔锡取出大串钥匙，打开锁住栅栏的厚重铁链。等候总务长开门时，琼恩感到无比庞然的重量朝他压来。这里的空气阴冷赛过墓穴，且更为凝滞。等他们终于抵达长城以北，重见午后的阳光，顿时感觉到一股奇异的舒畅。
　　面对突如其来的强光，山姆眨眨眼，担忧地环顾四周。“野人……他们不会……他们不敢跑到离长城这么近的地方来，是不是？”
　　“从来不敢。”琼恩翻身上马。等波文·马尔锡和护送他们的游骑兵都上了马，琼恩把两根手指伸进嘴巴，吹声口哨，白灵从地道里应声奔出。
　　总务长的坐骑嘶叫着退开。“你要带这野兽一起去？”
　　“是的，大人。”琼恩说。白灵抬起头，似乎在体验塞外的空气。然后，只一眨眼功夫他便冲了出去，驰骋过野草蔓生的广阔平原，转瞬间消失在远方的树林里。
　　一进森林，他们就恍如置身另一世界。从前琼恩常跟父亲、乔里和罗柏一道外出打猎。对临冬城外的狼林了若指掌。鬼影森林在样貌上大致相同，但却有种极端殊异的氛围。
　　这或许就是一种感觉罢。想到已经越过世界的尽头，一切便都不一样了。同样的影子，此地更显阴暗，同样的声音，此地更觉不祥。树与树之间靠得很近，遮蔽了渐落的斜射阳光。地表的薄雪在马蹄下碎裂，声音脆如断骨。朔风吹拂，落叶沙沙作响，像有无数根冰凉手指沿着背脊缓缓而上。长城已在后方，前路一片迷离，诸神才知通往何方。
　　当他们抵达目的地时，夕阳已没入树梢。这是森林深处的一小块空地，九棵鱼梁木长在一起，粗略组成一个圆。琼恩深吸一口气，抬头发现山姆也睁大了眼睛。即便在北方，即便在狼林，你也找不到这种白色的树会两三棵长在一起，九棵简直闻所未闻。林地铺满落叶，上层血红，下面则是腐朽的黑色。宽而平滑的树干如枯骨般苍白，九张脸向圆心凝视，眼睛部位干涸的树汁红硬宛如宝石。波文·马尔锡命令他们将马匹留在圆圈之外。“这是神圣之地，我们不可亵渎。”
　　走进树丛后，山姆威尔·塔利慢慢地转头审视每一张脸。它们全都不一样。“远古诸神，”他悄声说，“他们正看着我们呢。”
　　“对啊。”琼恩单膝跪下，山姆也跪在他身边。
　　在最后一线日光沉落西天，灰暗的白昼转为黑夜的时刻，他们齐声念出誓言。
　　“倾听我的誓言，做我的见证。”他们的朗诵充斥暮色中的树林，“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。”
　　森林一片寂然。“你们跪下时尚为孩童，”波文·马尔锡肃穆地吟诵，“起来吧，守夜人的汉子。”
　　琼恩伸手拉山姆起身。随行的游骑兵凑过来微笑恭喜，惟独满脸皱纹的老林务官戴文例外。“大人，咱们最好赶紧上路，”他对波文·马尔锡说，“天黑了，这儿有些味道我不喜欢。”
　　突然，白灵轻步穿过两棵鱼梁木跑了回来。白毛红眼，琼恩不安地想，就像这些树……
　　狼嘴里叼了东西，黑黑的。“他咬了什么？”波文·马尔锡皱眉问。
　　“白灵，来我这儿。”琼恩单膝跪下。“把东西带过来。”
　　冰原狼快步跑到他身边。琼恩听见山姆威尔·塔利猛抽一口冷气。
　　“诸神慈悲，”戴文喃喃地说，“一只手。”

[ 此帖被挽墨在2015-09-01 00:33重新编辑 ]
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49.EDDARD
The grey light of dawn was streaming through his window when the thunder of hoofbeats awoke Eddard Stark from his brief, exhausted sleep. He lifted his head from the table to look down into the yard. Below, men in mail and leather and crimson cloaks were making the morning ring to the sound of swords, and riding down mock warriors stuffed with straw. Ned watched Sandor Clegane gallop across the hard-packed ground to drive an iron-tipped lance through a dummy’s head. Canvas ripped and straw exploded as Lannister guardsmen joked and cursed.
   Is this brave show for my benefit? he wondered. If so, Cersei was a greater fool than he’d imagined. Damn her, he thought, why is the woman not fled? I have given her chance after chance?.?.?.?
   The morning was overcast and grim. Ned broke his fast with his daughters and Septa Mordane. Sansa, still disconsolate, stared sullenly at her food and refused to eat, but Arya wolfed down everything that was set in front of her. “Syrio says we have time for one last lesson before we take ship this evening,” she said. “Can I, Father? All my things are packed.”
   “A short lesson, and make certain you leave yourself time to bathe and change. I want you ready to leave by midday, is that understood?”
   “By midday,” Arya said.
   Sansa looked up from her food. “If she can have a dancing lesson, why won’t you let me say farewell to Prince Joffrey?”
   “I would gladly go with her, Lord Eddard,” Septa Mordane offered. “There would be no question of her missing the ship.”
   “It would not be wise for you to go to Joffrey right now, Sansa. I’m sorry.”
   Sansa’s eyes filled with tears. “But why?”
   “Sansa, your lord father knows best,” Septa Mordane said. “You are not to question his decisions.”
   “It’s not fair!” Sansa pushed back from her table, knocked over her chair, and ran weeping from the solar.
   Septa Mordane rose, but Ned gestured her back to her seat. “Let her go, Septa. I will try to make her understand when we are all safely back in Winterfell.” The septa bowed her head and sat down to finish her breakfast.
   It was an hour later when Grand Maester Pycelle came to Eddard Stark in his solar. His shoulders slumped, as if the weight of the great maester’s chain around his neck had become too great to bear. “My lord,” he said, “King Robert is gone. The gods give him rest.”
   “No,” Ned answered. “He hated rest. The gods give him love and laughter, and the joy of righteous battle.” It was strange how empty he felt. He had been expecting the visit, and yet with those words, something died within him. He would have given all his titles for the freedom to weep?.?.?.?but he was Robert’s Hand, and the hour he dreaded had come. “Be so good as to summon the members of the council here to my solar,” he told Pycelle. The Tower of the Hand was as secure as he and Tomard could make it; he could not say the same for the council chambers.
   “My lord?” Pycelle blinked. “Surely the affairs of the kingdom will keep till the morrow, when our grief is not so fresh.”
   Ned was quiet but firm. “I fear we must convene at once.”
   Pycelle bowed. “As the Hand commands.” He called his servants and sent them running, then gratefully accepted Ned’s offer of a chair and a cup of sweet beer.
   Ser Barristan Selmy was the first to answer the summons, immaculate in white cloak and enameled scales. “My lords,” he said, “my place is beside the young king now. Pray give me leave to attend him.”
   “Your place is here, Ser Barristan,” Ned told him.
   Littlefinger came next, still garbed in the blue velvets and silver mockingbird cape he had worn the night previous, his boots dusty from riding. “My lords,” he said, smiling at nothing in particular before he turned to Ned. “That little task you set me is accomplished, Lord Eddard.”
   Varys entered in a wash of lavender, pink from his bath, his plump face scrubbed and freshly powdered, his soft slippers all but soundless. “The little birds sing a grievous song today,” he said as he seated himself. “The realm weeps. Shall we begin?”
   “When Lord Renly arrives,” Ned said.
   Varys gave him a sorrowful look. “I fear Lord Renly has left the city.”
   “Left the city?” Ned had counted on Renly’s support.
   “He took his leave through a postern gate an hour before dawn, accompanied by Ser Loras Tyrell and some fifty retainers,” Varys told them. “When last seen, they were galloping south in some haste, no doubt bound for Storm’s End or Highgarden.”
   So much for Renly and his hundred swords. Ned did not like the smell of that, but there was nothing to be done for it. He drew out Robert’s last letter. “The king called me to his side last night and commanded me to record his final words. Lord Renly and Grand Maester Pycelle stood witness as Robert sealed the letter, to be opened by the council after his death. Ser Barristan, if you would be so kind?”
   The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard examined the paper. “King Robert’s seal, and unbroken.” He opened the letter and read. “Lord Eddard Stark is herein named Protector of the Realm, to rule as regent until the heir comes of age.”
   And as it happens, he is of age, Ned reflected, but he did not give voice to the thought. He trusted neither Pycelle nor Varys, and Ser Barristan was honor-bound to protect and defend the boy he thought his new king. The old knight would not abandon Joffrey easily. The need for deceit was a bitter taste in his mouth, but Ned knew he must tread softly here, must keep his counsel and play the game until he was firmly established as regent. There would be time enough to deal with the succession when Arya and Sansa were safely back in Winterfell, and Lord Stannis had returned to King’s Landing with all his power.
   “I would ask this council to confirm me as Lord Protector, as Robert wished,” Ned said, watching their faces, wondering what thoughts hid behind Pycelle’s half-closed eyes, Littlefinger’s lazy half-smile, and the nervous flutter of Varys’s fingers.
   The door opened. Fat Tom stepped into the solar. “Pardon, my lords, the king’s steward insists?.?.?.?”
   The royal steward entered and bowed. “Esteemed lords, the king demands the immediate presence of his small council in the throne room.”
   Ned had expected Cersei to strike quickly; the summons came as no surprise. “The king is dead,” he said, “but we shall go with you nonetheless. Tom, assemble an escort, if you would.”
   Littlefinger gave Ned his arm to help him down the steps. Varys, Pycelle, and Ser Barristan followed close behind. A double column of men-at-arms in chainmail and steel helms was waiting outside the tower, eight strong. Grey cloaks snapped in the wind as the guardsmen marched them across the yard. There was no Lannister crimson to be seen, but Ned was reassured by the number of gold cloaks visible on the ramparts and at the gates.
   Janos Slynt met them at the door to the throne room, armored in ornate black-and-gold plate, with a high-crested helm under one arm. The Commander bowed stiffly. His men pushed open the great oaken doors, twenty feet tall and banded with bronze.
   The royal steward led them in. “All hail His Grace, Joffrey of the Houses Baratheon and Lannister, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm,” he sang out.
   It was a long walk to the far end of the hall, where Joffrey waited atop the Iron Throne. Supported by Littlefinger, Ned Stark slowly limped and hopped toward the boy who called himself king. The others followed. The first time he had come this way, he had been on horseback, sword in hand, and the Targaryen dragons had watched from the walls as he forced Jaime Lannister down from the throne. He wondered if Joffrey would step down quite so easily.
   Five knights of the Kingsguard, all but Ser Jaime and Ser Barristan, were arrayed in a crescent around the base of the throne. They were in full armor, enameled steel from helm to heel, long pale cloaks over their shoulders, shining white shields strapped to their left arms. Cersei Lannister and her two younger children stood behind Ser Boros and Ser Meryn. The queen wore a gown of sea-green silk, trimmed with Myrish lace as pale as foam. On her finger was a golden ring with an emerald the size of a pigeon’s egg, on her head a matching tiara.
   Above them, Prince Joffrey sat amidst the barbs and spikes in a cloth-of-gold doublet and a red satin cape. Sandor Clegane was stationed at the foot of the throne’s steep narrow stair. He wore mail and soot-grey plate and his snarling dog’s-head helm.
   Behind the throne, twenty Lannister guardsmen waited with longswords hanging from their belts. Crimson cloaks draped their shoulders and steel lions crested their helms. But Littlefinger had kept his promise; all along the walls, in front of Robert’s tapestries with their scenes of hunt and battle, the gold-cloaked ranks of the City Watch stood stiffly to attention, each man’s hand clasped around the haft of an eight-foot-long spear tipped in black iron. They outnumbered the Lannisters five to one.
   Ned’s leg was a blaze of pain by the time he stopped. He kept a hand on Littlefinger’s shoulder to help support his weight.
   Joffrey stood. His red satin cape was patterned in gold thread; fifty roaring lions to one side, fifty prancing stags to the other. “I command the council to make all the necessary arrangements for my coronation,” the boy proclaimed. “I wish to be crowned within the fortnight. Today I shall accept oaths of fealty from my loyal councillors.”
   Ned produced Robert’s letter. “Lord Varys, be so kind as to show this to my lady of Lannister.”
   The eunuch carried the letter to Cersei. The queen glanced at the words. “Protector of the Realm,” she read. “Is this meant to be your shield, my lord? A piece of paper?” She ripped the letter in half, ripped the halves in quarters, and let the pieces flutter to the floor.
   “Those were the king’s words,” Ser Barristan said, shocked.
   “We have a new king now,” Cersei Lannister replied. “Lord Eddard, when last we spoke, you gave me some counsel. Allow me to return the courtesy. Bend the knee, my lord. Bend the knee and swear fealty to my son, and we shall allow you to step down as Hand and live out your days in the grey waste you call home.”
   “Would that I could,” Ned said grimly. If she was so determined to force the issue here and now, she left him no choice. “Your son has no claim to the throne he sits. Lord Stannis is Robert’s true heir.”
   “Liar!” Joffrey screamed, his face reddening.
   “Mother, what does he mean?” Princess Myrcella asked the queen plaintively. “Isn’t Joff the king now?”
   “You condemn yourself with your own mouth, Lord Stark,” said Cersei Lannister. “Ser Barristan, seize this traitor.”
   The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard hesitated. In the blink of an eye he was surrounded by Stark guardsmen, bare steel in their mailed fists.
   “And now the treason moves from words to deeds,” Cersei said. “Do you think Ser Barristan stands alone, my lord?” With an ominous rasp of metal on metal, the Hound drew his longsword. The knights of the Kingsguard and twenty Lannister guardsmen in crimson cloaks moved to support him.
   “Kill him!” the boy king screamed down from the Iron Throne. “Kill all of them, I command it!”
   “You leave me no choice,” Ned told Cersei Lannister. He called out to Janos Slynt. “Commander, take the queen and her children into custody. Do them no harm, but escort them back to the royal apartments and keep them there, under guard.”
   “Men of the Watch!” Janos Slynt shouted, donning his helm. A hundred gold cloaks leveled their spears and closed.
   “I want no bloodshed,” Ned told the queen. “Tell your men to lay down their swords, and no one need...”
   With a single sharp thrust, the nearest gold cloak drove his spear into Tomard’s back. Fat Tom’s blade dropped from nerveless fingers as the wet red point burst out through his ribs, piercing leather and mail. He was dead before his sword hit the floor.
   Ned’s shout came far too late. Janos Slynt himself slashed open Varly’s throat. Cayn whirled, steel flashing, drove back the nearest spearman with a flurry of blows; for an instant it looked as though he might cut his way free. Then the Hound was on him. Sandor Clegane’s first cut took off Cayn’s sword hand at the wrist; his second drove him to his knees and opened him from shoulder to breastbone.
   As his men died around him, Littlefinger slid Ned’s dagger from its sheath and shoved it up under his chin. His smile was apologetic. “I did warn you not to trust me, you know.”


Ⅰ 权力的游戏 Chapter50 艾德
　　如雷的蹄声将艾德·史塔克自短暂的浅眠中惊醒，灰色的晨光正透过窗户流泄进屋。他从桌上抬起头，朝楼下的广场望去。全副武装，身着鲜红披风的人正进行着例行的晨间操演，或举剑交击，或骑马砍倒稻草扎成的假人。奈德看到桑铎·克里冈策马飞驰，穿过硬泥土地，举起铁熗刺穿傀儡的头。布块碎裂，稻草飞扬，兰尼斯特家的侍卫在旁谈笑咒骂。
　　这是故意表演给我看的吗？他心想，果真如此，那瑟曦比他想像的还愚昧。该死，这女人为什么不逃走？我一次又一次给她机会……
　　晨色阴霾，多云且沉重。奈德和女儿们及茉丹修女共进早餐。珊莎仍在赌气，拉下脸盯着眼前的食物，一口也不吃。艾莉亚则狼吞虎咽地吃光面前所有东西。“西利欧说晚上搭船前还可以再上一堂课。”她说，“父亲，我可以去吗？我的东西都打包好了。”
　　“不能太久，还有，记得留时间洗澡换衣服。我希望你中午就准备好，知道吗？”
　　“好。”艾莉亚说。
　　珊莎将视线从食物上抬起来。“她可以上舞蹈课，为什么不准我去跟乔佛里王子道别？”
　　“艾德大人，我很乐意陪她一起去。”茉丹修女提议，“我绝不会让她错过搭船时间。”
　　“珊莎，现在不适合让你见乔佛里。我很抱歉。”
　　珊莎泪眼汪汪。“为什么不适合？”
　　“珊莎，你父亲知道怎么做最好，”茉丹修女说，“你不该怀疑他的决定。”
　　“这太不公平了！”珊莎向后一推，弄倒椅子，哭哭啼啼地逃离书房。
　　茉丹修女起身，但奈德举手示意她坐下。“修女，让她去吧。有朝一日，等我们全体都安然返回临冬城，我再跟她解释。”修女点点头，坐下继续吃早餐。
　　一小时后，派席尔国师走进艾德·史塔克的书房。他驼着背，仿佛脖子上的链令他不堪重负。“大人，”他说，“劳勃国王陛下走了。愿天上诸神让他安息。”
　　“不，”奈德回答，“他最讨厌休息，愿诸神赐他爱与欢笑，以及为正义而战的喜悦。”他只感觉好生沉重。明知迟早会有这一刻，然而当实际听到这些话语，心中的某些部分依然随之死去。他愿用所有的头衔换取哭泣的自由……但他是劳勃的首相，而他所畏惧的时刻已经来临。“有劳您把朝廷重臣都请到我书房来。”他告诉派席尔。他和托马德已经尽可能地确保首相塔安全无虞，换做议事厅他就不敢担保了。
　　“大人，这样好吗？”派席尔眨眨眼，“是不是等明天我们不那么难过了，再来共商大计？”
　　奈德语气平静而坚决。“恐怕我们必须现在就开会。”
　　派席尔鞠躬，“谨遵首相吩咐。”他召来仆人，遣他们快步跑去，自己则感激地接受奈德的椅子和一杯甜啤酒。
　　巴利斯坦·赛尔弥率先抵达，一身雪白披风，雕花铠甲，十足洁白无瑕模样。“两位大人，”他说，“如今我的职责所在是守护年轻的国王，请让我去服侍他。”
　　“巴利斯坦爵士，你的职责所在是这里。”奈德告诉他。
　　第二个来的是小指头，依旧穿着昨晚那套蓝天鹅绒和灰仿声鸟斗篷，靴子上沾了骑马的尘土。“诸位大人好，”他泛泛地作个微笑，然后转向奈德。“艾德大人，您要我办的那件小事已经妥了。”
　　瓦里斯浑身薰衣草味地进来，他刚洗过澡，胖脸刷洗干净又新扑过粉，脚下的软拖鞋轻柔无声。“今儿个小小鸟儿唱着悲伤的歌谣，”他边坐下边说，“举国都在哭泣。让我们开始吧？”
　　“先等蓝礼大人。”奈德说。
　　瓦里斯哀怨地看了他一眼。“恐怕蓝礼大人已经出城了。”
　　“出城了？”奈德本寄望蓝礼支持他。
　　“天亮前一个小时左右，他自侧门离开，随他一起走的还有洛拉斯·提利尔爵士和五十名随从。”瓦里斯告诉他们，“据最新情报，他们正快马加鞭往南赶，无疑是奔风息堡或高庭而去。”
　　好个蓝礼的一百士兵。这情形虽对奈德不利，却也无可奈何。他抽出劳勃的遗嘱。“昨晚国王召我到他身边，命令我记下他的遗言。劳勃盖下御印时，蓝礼大人和派席尔大学士都在现场作证。这封信该等国王陛下死后由御前会议开启。巴利斯坦爵士，可否劳您检查一番？”
　　御林铁卫队长仔细检视那张纸。“这确是劳勃国王的印信，并未经拆封。”他打开信读出来。“……史塔克家族的艾德为摄政王及全境守护者，代余统理国事，俟吾之合法继承人成年为止。”
　　事实上，这个继承人早就成年了。奈德心想，但没说出口。他不信任派席尔和瓦里斯，巴利斯坦爵士则认定那男孩是新国王，出于荣誉执意要保护他。这老骑士只怕不会轻易放弃乔佛里。虽然用欺骗的方式为他所不愿，但奈德很清楚自己必须步步为营，先不动声色地继续从前的游戏，静待他摄政王的地位逐渐巩固。等艾莉亚和珊莎平安返回临冬城，史坦尼斯公爵也带着军队进驻君临，再来好好解决继承权的问题不迟。
　　“我要请诸位依照劳勃遗愿，确认我摄政王的身份。”奈德边说边看众人的脸，揣测派席尔那双半阖上的眼睛，小指头慵懒的浅笑和瓦里斯焦虑抖动的手指背后，隐藏的是什么样的想法。
　　门突然打开。胖汤姆走进书房。“诸位大人，请见谅，国王的总管坚持……”
　　御前总管进来鞠躬道：“各位可敬的大人，国王要求立刻在王座厅召开御前会议。”
　　奈德早料到瑟曦会抢先下手，因此这次召见他丝毫不感意外。“国王已死。”他说，“但我们还是跟你去。汤姆，请你安排护送。”
　　小指头伸手搀扶奈德走下台阶。瓦里斯，派席尔和巴利斯坦爵士紧跟在后。身穿锁甲，头戴钢盔的临冬城卫士成两列纵队等在高塔外，一共八人。卫士护送他们穿过广场，灰色披风在风中啪啪作响。四下虽不见兰尼斯特的鲜红，却有不少金色披风的都城守卫在城墙上和大门边巡逻，令奈德稍觉安心。
　　杰诺斯·史林特在大厅门口迎接，他穿着一件雕饰华丽的黑金铠甲，腋下夹着一顶高羽头盔。都城守卫司令僵硬地点个头，他的部下便推开足有二十尺高、镶青铜边的橡木大门。
　　御前总管领他们进去。“恭迎安达尔人、洛伊拿人和先民的国王，七国统治者暨全境守护者，拜拉席恩家族与兰尼斯特家族的乔佛里一世陛下。”他朗声唱诵。
　　离大厅另一头还有段漫长的路，乔佛里正坐在铁王座上等他。在小指头的搀扶之下，奈德·史塔克一跛一跛地缓步朝那个自命为王的男孩走去，其他人紧随在后。他头一次走上这条路，乃是身骑骏马，手持利剑，逼迫詹姆·兰尼斯特走下王座，坦格利安的龙头则从四面墙壁上冷眼旁观。他不知乔佛里是否也会那么听话地放弃王位。
　　五名御林铁卫——除开詹姆爵士和巴利斯坦爵士——全部到场，呈新月形围绕着王座底部。他们全副武装，从头到脚披挂着精美的铠甲头盔，长长的白披风抖在身后，闪亮的白盾牌绑上左臂。瑟曦·兰尼斯特和她两个年纪较小的孩子站在柏洛斯爵士和马林爵士后面。王后穿了一袭海绿色丝质长袍，边上绣了白如浪花的密尔蕾丝。手上带了一枚镶有鸽子蛋那么大翡翠的金戒指，头上还有一顶式样相称的金头环。
　　在他们上方密布尖刺的椅子里，坐了穿着金线外衣，红缎披风的乔佛里。桑铎·克里冈站在王座陡峭而狭窄的楼梯口。他身穿烟灰色的铠甲，戴着那顶狰狞狗头盔。
　　王座后方，有二十名腰悬长剑的兰尼斯特卫士。他们肩膀悬挂鲜红披风，头上顶着雄狮钢盔。但小指头果然信守诺言：在两侧墙边，在劳勃那些描绘狩猎和战争的壁毯下，挺立着金披风的都城守卫队，他们每个人手里都紧握着黑铁熗尖的八尺长矛，做好了一切准备，人数则足足是兰尼斯特士兵的五倍。
　　当奈德停下脚步，他的断腿已经痛得难以忍受，只好一手搭着小指头的肩膀稳住身子。
　　乔佛里站起来。他的红缎披风绣了金线，一边是五十只怒吼雄狮，另一边则是五十只跳跃公鹿。“我命令御前会议全速准备我的加冕仪式，”男孩宣布，“我希望在两周内完成加冕。今天我要接受朝廷重臣的宣誓效命。”
　　奈德取出劳勃的信。“瓦里斯大人，有劳您将这封信拿给兰尼斯特家族的夫人。”
　　太监把信递给瑟曦，王后瞄了一眼。“全境守护者，”她念道，“大人，您想拿这当挡箭牌吗？就区区一张纸？”她将纸撕成两半，再撕成四片，碎片散落一地。
　　“那是国王的遗嘱啊。”巴利斯坦爵士骇然。
　　“我们有了新国王。”瑟曦·兰尼斯特说，“艾德大人，上次我们见面，您给了我一些建议，现在让我也回个礼。跪下，大人。只要您下跪宣誓效忠我儿子，我们就准许您卸下首相职务，回到那片您称之为家的灰色荒原安享晚年。”
　　“我倒期望如此。”奈德冷冷地说。既然她执意在此时此地做个了断，那他别无选择。“但你儿子无权继承王位。史坦尼斯大人才是劳勃合法的继承人。”
　　“你骗人！”乔佛里满脸通红地尖叫。
　　“母亲，他这话什么意思？”弥赛拉公主一脸哀怨地问王后。“小乔现在不是国王了吗？”
　　“史塔克大人，你这是自寻死路。”瑟曦·兰尼斯特道，“巴利斯坦爵士，拿下这个叛徒。”
　　御林铁卫队长迟疑了片刻，只一眨眼功夫，他便被拔出武器的史塔克卫士团团围住。
　　“我看你不只是嘴上说说，而是迫不及待要抢位夺权了。”瑟曦道，“大人，你以为巴利斯坦爵士孤军奋战吗？”随着一声充满不祥暗示的金属碰撞，猎狗抽出了长剑。其余的御林铁卫和二十名兰尼斯特卫士也同时前进。
　　“杀了他！”铁王座上的男孩国王扯着喉咙尖叫，“把他们通通给我杀掉！”
　　“你让我别无选择。”奈德告诉瑟曦·兰尼斯特。他召唤杰诺斯·史林特，“司令，请您暂时拘捕王后和她的孩子，但不得加以伤害。将他们送回王家居室，并派人加以看守。”
　　“都城守卫队！”杰诺斯·史林特高叫，一边戴上头盔。一百名金披风卫士放低长熗，朝他们靠拢。
　　“我不希望无谓的流血冲突，”奈德告诉王后，“叫你的手下放下武器，就无须——”
　　一记利落的突刺，离得最近的都城守卫将长熗戳进托马德的背脊。胖汤姆的剑从绵软无力的手中滑落，鲜血淋漓的熗尖自肋骨下刺出，穿透皮革背心和盔甲。剑未落地，人已丧命。
　　奈德的叫喊来得太迟。史林特亲自斩开瓦利的咽喉。凯恩旋身挥剑，绽起一片剑光，逼退身旁的熗兵。刹那间他仿佛就要突围而出，这时却来了猎狗。桑铎·克里冈第一剑砍断凯恩的右手腕，第二剑将他从肩膀至胸骨活活劈开。凯恩当场气绝身亡。
　　眼看手下一个个在身边死去，小指头从奈德腰际抽出匕首，顶住他的下巴。他的微笑充满歉意。“我不是警告你别信任我的嘛。”

[ 此帖被挽墨在2015-09-01 00:34重新编辑 ]
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你看着眼前的人，分明还是以前的模样，可心里终究不是以前那般澄清透明了。
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  50.ARYA
   High,” Syrio Forel called out, slashing at her head. The stick swords clacked as Arya parried.
   “Left,” he shouted, and his blade came whistling. Hers darted to meet it. The clack made him click his teeth together.
   “Right,” he said, and “Low,” and “Left,” and “Left” again, faster and faster, moving forward. Arya retreated before him, checking each blow.
   “Lunge,” he warned, and when he thrust she sidestepped, swept his blade away, and slashed at his shoulder. She almost touched him, almost, so close it made her grin. A strand of hair dangled in her eyes, limp with sweat. She pushed it away with the back of her hand.
   “Left,” Syrio sang out. “Low.” His sword was a blur, and the Small Hall echoed to the clack clack clack. “Left. Left. High. Left. Right. Left. Low. Left!”
   The wooden blade caught her high in the breast, a sudden stinging blow that hurt all the more because it came from the wrong side. “Ow,” she cried out. She would have a fresh bruise there by the time she went to sleep, somewhere out at sea. A bruise is a lesson, she told herself, and each lesson makes us better.
   Syrio stepped back. “You are dead now.”
   Arya made a face. “You cheated,” she said hotly. “You said left and you went right.”
   “Just so. And now you are a dead girl.”
   “But you lied!”
   “My words lied. My eyes and my arm shouted out the truth, but you were not seeing.”
   “I was so,” Arya said. “I watched you every second!”
   “Watching is not seeing, dead girl. The water dancer sees. Come, put down the sword, it is time for listening now.”
   She followed him over to the wall, where he settled onto a bench. “Syrio Forel was first sword to the Sealord of Braavos, and are you knowing how that came to pass?”
   “You were the finest swordsman in the city.”
   “Just so, but why? Other men were stronger, faster, younger, why was Syrio Forel the best? I will tell you now.” He touched the tip of his little finger lightly to his eyelid. “The seeing, the true seeing, that is the heart of it.
   “Hear me. The ships of Braavos sail as far as the winds blow, to lands strange and wonderful, and when they return their captains fetch queer animals to the Sealord’s menagerie. Such animals as you have never seen, striped horses, great spotted things with necks as long as stilts, hairy mouse-pigs as big as cows, stinging manticores, tigers that carry their cubs in a pouch, terrible walking lizards with scythes for claws. Syrio Forel has seen these things.
   “On the day I am speaking of, the first sword was newly dead, and the Sealord sent for me. Many bravos had come to him, and as many had been sent away, none could say why. When I came into his presence, he was seated, and in his lap was a fat yellow cat. He told me that one of his captains had brought the beast to him, from an island beyond the sunrise. ‘Have you ever seen her like?’ he asked of me.
   “And to him I said, ‘Each night in the alleys of Braavos I see a thousand like him,’ and the Sealord laughed, and that day I was named the first sword.”
   Arya screwed up her face. “I don’t understand.”
   Syrio clicked his teeth together. “The cat was an ordinary cat, no more. The others expected a fabulous beast, so that is what they saw. How large it was, they said. It was no larger than any other cat, only fat from indolence, for the Sealord fed it from his own table. What curious small ears, they said. Its ears had been chewed away in kitten fights. And it was plainly a tomcat, yet the Sealord said ‘her,’ and that is what the others saw. Are you hearing?”
   Arya thought about it. “You saw what was there.”
   “Just so. Opening your eyes is all that is needing. The heart lies and the head plays tricks with us, but the eyes see true. Look with your eyes. Hear with your ears. Taste with your mouth. Smell with your nose. Feel with your skin. Then comes the thinking, afterward, and in that way knowing the truth.”
   “Just so,” said Arya, grinning.
   Syrio Forel allowed himself a smile. “I am thinking that when we are reaching this Winterfell of yours, it will be time to put this needle in your hand.”
   “Yes!” Arya said eagerly. “Wait till I show Jon...”
   Behind her the great wooden doors of the Small Hall flew open with a resounding crash. Arya whirled.
   A knight of the Kingsguard stood beneath the arch of the door with five Lannister guardsmen arrayed behind him. He was in full armor, but his visor was up. Arya remembered his droopy eyes and rustcolored whiskers from when he had come to Winterfell with the king: Ser Meryn Trant. The red cloaks wore mail shirts over boiled leather and steel caps with lion crests. “Arya Stark,” the knight said, “come with us, child.”
   Arya chewed her lip uncertainly. “What do you want?”
   “Your father wants to see you.”
   Arya took a step forward, but Syrio Forel held her by the arm. “And why is it that Lord Eddard is sending Lannister men in the place of his own? I am wondering.”
   “Mind your place, dancing master,” Ser Meryn said. “This is no concern of yours.”
   “My father wouldn’t send you,” Arya said. She snatched up her stick sword. The Lannisters laughed.
   “Put down the stick, girl,” Ser Meryn told her. “I am a Sworn Brother of the Kingsguard, the White Swords.”
   “So was the Kingslayer when he killed the old king,” Arya said. “I don’t have to go with you if I don’t want.”
   Ser Meryn Trant ran out of patience. “Take her,” he said to his men. He lowered the visor of his helm.
   Three of them started forward, chainmail clinking softly with each step. Arya was suddenly afraid. Fear cuts deeper than swords, she told herself, to slow the racing of her heart.
   Syrio Forel stepped between them, tapping his wooden sword lightly against his boot. “You will be stopping there. Are you men or dogs that you would threaten a child?”
   “Out of the way, old man,” one of the red cloaks said.
   Syrio’s stick came whistling up and rang against his helm. “I am Syrio Forel, and you will now be speaking to me with more respect.”
   “Bald bastard.” The man yanked free his longsword. The stick moved again, blindingly fast. Arya heard a loud crack as the sword went clattering to the stone floor. “My hand,” the guardsman yelped, cradling his broken fingers.
   “You are quick, for a dancing master,” said Ser Meryn.
   “You are slow, for a knight,” Syrio replied.
   “Kill the Braavosi and bring me the girl,” the knight in the white armor commanded.
   Four Lannister guardsmen unsheathed their swords. The fifth, with the broken fingers, spat and pulled free a dagger with his left hand.
   Syrio Forel clicked his teeth together, sliding into his water dancer’s stance, presenting only his side to the foe. “Arya child,” he called out, never looking, never taking his eyes off the Lannisters, “we are done with dancing for the day. Best you are going now. Run to your father.”
   Arya did not want to leave him, but he had taught her to do as he said. “Swift as a deer,” she whispered.
   “Just so,” said Syrio Forel as the Lannisters closed.
   Arya retreated, her own sword stick clutched tightly in her hand. Watching him now, she realized that Syrio had only been toying with her when they dueled. The red cloaks came at him from three sides with steel in their hands. They had chainmail over their chest and arms, and steel codpieces sewn into their pants, but only leather on their legs. Their hands were bare, and the caps they wore had noseguards, but no visor over the eyes.
   Syrio did not wait for them to reach him, but spun to his left. Arya had never seen a man move as fast. He checked one sword with his stick and whirled away from a second. Off balance, the second man lurched into the first. Syrio put a boot to his back and the red cloaks went down together. The third guard came leaping over them, slashing at the water dancer’s head. Syrio ducked under his blade and thrust upward. The guardsman fell screaming as blood welled from the wet red hole where his left eye had been.
   The fallen men were getting up. Syrio kicked one in the face and snatched the steel cap off the other’s head. The dagger man stabbed at him. Syrio caught the thrust in the helmet and shattered the man’s kneecap with his stick. The last red cloak shouted a curse and charged, hacking down with both hands on his sword. Syrio rolled right, and the butcher’s cut caught the helmetless man between neck and shoulder as he struggled to his knees. The longsword crunched through mail and leather and flesh. The man on his knees shrieked. Before his killer could wrench free his blade, Syrio jabbed him in the apple of his throat. The guardsman gave a choked cry and staggered back, clutching at his neck, his face blackening.
   Five men were down, dead, or dying by the time Arya reached the back door that opened on the kitchen. She heard Ser Meryn Trant curse. “Bloody oafs,” he swore, drawing his longsword from its scabbard.
   Syrio Forel resumed his stance and clicked his teeth together. “Arya child,” he called out, never looking at her, “be gone now.”
   Look with your eyes, he had said. She saw: the knight in his pale armor head to foot, legs, throat, and hands sheathed in metal, eyes hidden behind his high white helm, and in his hand cruel steel. Against that: Syrio, in a leather vest, with a wooden sword in his hand. “Syrio, run,” she screamed.
   “The first sword of Braavos does not run,” he sang as Ser Meryn slashed at him. Syrio danced away from his cut, his stick a blur. In a heartbeat, he had bounced blows off the knight’s temple, elbow, and throat, the wood ringing against the metal of helm, gauntlet, and gorget. Arya stood frozen. Ser Meryn advanced; Syrio backed away. He checked the next blow, spun away from the second, deflected the third.
   The fourth sliced his stick in two, splintering the wood and shearing through the lead core.
   Sobbing, Arya spun and ran.
   She plunged through the kitchens and buttery, blind with panic, weaving between cooks and potboys. A baker’s helper stepped in front of her, holding a wooden tray. Arya bowled her over, scattering fragrant loaves of fresh-baked bread on the floor. She heard shouting behind her as she spun around a portly butcher who stood gaping at her with a cleaver in his hands. His arms were red to the elbow.
   All that Syrio Forel had taught her went racing through her head. Swift as a deer. Quiet as a shadow. Fear cuts deeper than swords. Quick as a snake. Calm as still water. Fear cuts deeper than swords. Strong as a bear. Fierce as a wolverine. Fear cuts deeper than swords. The man who fears losing has already lost. Fear cuts deeper than swords. Fear cuts deeper than swords. Fear cuts deeper than swords. The grip of her wooden sword was slick with sweat, and Arya was breathing hard when she reached the turret stair. For an instant she froze. Up or down? Up would take her to the covered bridge that spanned the small court to the Tower of the Hand, but that would be the way they’d expect her to go, for certain. Never do what they expect, Syrio once said. Arya went down, around and around, leaping over the narrow stone steps two and three at a time. She emerged in a cavernous vaulted cellar, surrounded by casks of ale stacked twenty feet tall. The only light came through narrow slanting windows high in the wall.
   The cellar was a dead end. There was no way out but the way she had come in. She dare not go back up those steps, but she couldn’t stay here, either. She had to find her father and tell him what had happened. Her father would protect her.
   Arya thrust her wooden sword through her belt and began to climb, leaping from cask to cask until she could reach the window. Grasping the stone with both hands, she pulled herself up. The wall was three feet thick, the window a tunnel slanting up and out. Arya wriggled toward daylight. When her head reached ground level, she peered across the bailey to the Tower of the Hand.
   The stout wooden door hung splintered and broken, as if by axes. A dead man sprawled facedown on the steps, his cloak tangled beneath him, the back of his mailed shirt soaked red. The corpse’s cloak was grey wool trimmed with white satin, she saw with sudden terror. She could not tell who he was.
   “No,” she whispered. What was happening? Where was her father? Why had the red cloaks come for her? She remembered what the man with the yellow beard had said, the day she had found the monsters. If one Hand can die, why not a second? Arya felt tears in her eyes. She held her breath to listen. She heard the sounds of fighting, shouts, screams, the clang of steel on steel, coming through the windows of the Tower of the Hand.
   She could not go back. Her father?.?.?.?
   Arya closed her eyes. For a moment she was too frightened to move. They had killed Jory and Wyl and Heward, and that guardsman on the step, whoever he had been. They could kill her father too, and her if they caught her. “Fear cuts deeper than swords,” she said aloud, but it was no good pretending to be a water dancer, Syrio had been a water dancer and the white knight had probably killed him, and anyhow she was only a little girl with a wooden stick, alone and afraid.
   She squirmed out into the yard, glancing around warily as she climbed to her feet. The castle seemed deserted. The Red Keep was never deserted. All the people must be hiding inside, their doors barred. Arya glanced up longingly at her bedchamber, then moved away from the Tower of the Hand, keeping close to the wall as she slid from shadow to shadow. She pretended she was chasing cats?.?.?.?except she was the cat now, and if they caught her, they would kill her.
   Moving between buildings and over walls, keeping stone to her back wherever possible so no one could surprise her, Arya reached the stables almost without incident. A dozen gold cloaks in mail and plate ran past as she was edging across the inner bailey, but without knowing whose side they were on, she hunched down low in the shadows and let them pass.
   Hullen, who had been master of horse at Winterfell as long as Arya could remember, was slumped on the ground by the stable door. He had been stabbed so many times it looked as if his tunic was patterned with scarlet flowers. Arya was certain he was dead, but when she crept closer, his eyes opened. “Arya Underfoot,” he whispered. “You must?.?.?.?warn your?.?.?.?your lord father?.?.?.?” Frothy red spittle bubbled from his mouth. The master of horse closed his eyes again and said no more.
   Inside were more bodies; a groom she had played with, and three of her father’s household guard. A wagon, laden with crates and chests, stood abandoned near the door of the stable. The dead men must have been loading it for the trip to the docks when they were attacked. Arya snuck closer. One of the corpses was Desmond, who’d shown her his longsword and promised to protect her father. He lay on his back, staring blindly at the ceiling as flies crawled across his eyes. Close to him was a dead man in the red cloak and lion-crest helm of the Lannisters. Only one, though. Every northerner is worth ten of these southron swords, Desmond had told her. “You liar!” she said, kicking his body in a sudden fury.
   The animals were restless in their stalls, whickering and snorting at the scent of blood. Arya’s only plan was to saddle a horse and flee, away from the castle and the city. All she had to do was stay on the kingsroad and it would take her back to Winterfell. She took a bridle and harness off the wall.
   As she crossed in back of the wagon, a fallen chest caught her eye. It must have been knocked down in the fight or dropped as it was being loaded. The wood had split, the lid opening to spill the chest’s contents across the ground. Arya recognized silks and satins and velvets she never wore. She might need warm clothes on the kingsroad, though?.?.?.?and besides?.?.?.?
   Arya knelt in the dirt among the scattered clothes. She found a heavy woolen cloak, a velvet skirt and a silk tunic and some smallclothes, a dress her mother had embroidered for her, a silver baby bracelet she might sell. Shoving the broken lid out of the way, she groped inside the chest for Needle. She had hidden it way down at the bottom, under everything, but her stuff had all been jumbled around when the chest was dropped. For a moment Arya was afraid someone had found the sword and stolen it. Then her fingers felt the hardness of metal under a satin gown.
   “There she is,” a voice hissed close behind her.
   Startled, Arya whirled. A stableboy stood behind her, a smirk on his face, his filthy white undertunic peeking out from beneath a soiled jerkin. His boots were covered with manure, and he had a pitchfork in one hand. “Who are you?” she asked.
   “She don’t know me,” he said, “but I knows her, oh, yes. The wolf girl.”
   “Help me saddle a horse,” Arya pleaded, reaching back into the chest, groping for Needle. “My father’s the Hand of the King, he’ll reward you.”
   “Father’s dead,” the boy said. He shuffled toward her. “It’s the queen who’ll be rewarding me. Come here, girl.”
   “Stay away!” Her fingers closed around Needle’s hilt.
   “I says, come.” He grabbed her arm, hard.
   Everything Syrio Forel had ever taught her vanished in a heartbeat. In that instant of sudden terror, the only lesson Arya could remember was the one Jon Snow had given her, the very first.
   She stuck him with the pointy end, driving the blade upward with a wild, hysterical strength.
   Needle went through his leather jerkin and the white flesh of his belly and came out between his shoulder blades. The boy dropped the pitchfork and made a soft noise, something between a gasp and a sigh. His hands closed around the blade. “Oh, gods,” he moaned, as his undertunic began to redden. “Take it out.”
   When she took it out, he died.
   The horses were screaming. Arya stood over the body, still and frightened in the face of death. Blood had gushed from the boy’s mouth as he collapsed, and more was seeping from the slit in his belly, pooling beneath his body. His palms were cut where he’d grabbed at the blade. She backed away slowly, Needle red in her hand. She had to get away, someplace far from here, someplace safe away from the stableboy’s accusing eyes.
   She snatched up the bridle and harness again and ran to her mare, but as she lifted the saddle to the horse’s back, Arya realized with a sudden sick dread that the castle gates would be closed. Even the postern doors would likely be guarded. Maybe the guards wouldn’t recognize her. If they thought she was a boy, perhaps they’d let her?.?.?.?no, they’d have orders not to let anyone out, it wouldn’t matter whether they knew her or not.
   But there was another way out of the castle?.?.?.?
   The saddle slipped from Arya’s fingers and fell to the dirt with a thump and a puff of dust. Could she find the room with the monsters again? She wasn’t certain, yet she knew she had to try.
   She found the clothing she’d gathered and slipped into the cloak, concealing Needle beneath its folds. The rest of her things she tied in a roll. With the bundle under her arm, she crept to the far end of the stable. Unlatching the back door, she peeked out anxiously. She could hear the distant sound of swordplay, and the shivery wail of a man screaming in pain across the bailey. She would need to go down the serpentine steps, past the small kitchen and the pig yard, that was how she’d gone last time, chasing the black tomcat?.?.?.?only that would take her right past the barracks of the gold cloaks. She couldn’t go that way. Arya tried to think of another way. If she crossed to the other side of the castle, she could creep along the river wall and through the little godswood?.?.?.?but first she’d have to cross the yard, in the plain view of the guards on the walls.
   She had never seen so many men on the walls. Gold cloaks, most of them, armed with spears. Some of them knew her by sight. What would they do if they saw her running across the yard? She’d look so small from up there, would they be able to tell who she was? Would they care?
   She had to leave now, she told herself, but when the moment came, she was too frightened to move.
   Calm as still water, a small voice whispered in her ear. Arya was so startled she almost dropped her bundle. She looked around wildly, but there was no one in the stable but her, and the horses, and the dead men.
   Quiet as a shadow, she heard. Was it her own voice, or Syrio’s? She could not tell, yet somehow it calmed her fears.
   She stepped out of the stable.
   It was the scariest thing she’d ever done. She wanted to run and hide, but she made herself walk across the yard, slowly, putting one foot in front of the other as if she had all the time in the world and no reason to be afraid of anyone. She thought she could feel their eyes, like bugs crawling on her skin under her clothes. Arya never looked up. If she saw them watching, all her courage would desert her, she knew, and she would drop the bundle of clothes and run and cry like a baby, and then they would have her. She kept her gaze on the ground. By the time she reached the shadow of the royal sept on the far side of the yard, Arya was cold with sweat, but no one had raised the hue and cry.
   The sept was open and empty. Inside, half a hundred prayer candles burned in a fragrant silence. Arya figured the gods would never miss two. She stuffed them up her sleeves, and left by a back window. Sneaking back to the alley where she had cornered the one-eared tom was easy, but after that she got lost. She crawled in and out of windows, hopped over walls, and felt her way through dark cellars, quiet as a shadow. Once she heard a woman weeping. It took her more than an hour to find the low narrow window that slanted down to the dungeon where the monsters waited.
   She tossed her bundle through and doubled back to light her candle. That was chancy; the fire she’d remembered seeing had burnt down to embers, and she heard voices as she was blowing on the coals. Cupping her fingers around the flickering candle, she went out the window as they were coming in the door, without ever getting a glimpse of who it was.
   This time the monsters did not frighten her. They seemed almost old friends. Arya held the candle over her head. With each step she took, the shadows moved against the walls, as if they were turning to watch her pass. “Dragons,” she whispered. She slid Needle out from under her cloak. The slender blade seemed very small and the dragons very big, yet somehow Arya felt better with steel in her hand.
   The long windowless hall beyond the door was as black as she remembered. She held Needle in her left hand, her sword hand, the candle in her right fist. Hot wax ran down across her knuckles. The entrance to the well had been to the left, so Arya went right. Part of her wanted to run, but she was afraid of snuffing out her candle. She heard the faint squeaking of rats and glimpsed a pair of tiny glowing eyes on the edge of the light, but rats did not scare her. Other things did. It would be so easy to hide here, as she had hidden from the wizard and the man with the forked beard. She could almost see the stableboy standing against the wall, his hands curled into claws with the blood still dripping from the deep gashes in his palms where Needle had cut him. He might be waiting to grab her as she passed. He would see her candle coming a long way off. Maybe she would be better off without the light?.?.?.?
   Fear cuts deeper than swords, the quiet voice inside her whispered. Suddenly Arya remembered the crypts at Winterfell. They were a lot scarier than this place, she told herself. She’d been just a little girl the first time she saw them. Her brother Robb had taken them down, her and Sansa and baby Bran, who’d been no bigger than Rickon was now. They’d only had one candle between them, and Bran’s eyes had gotten as big as saucers as he stared at the stone faces of the Kings of Winter, with their wolves at their feet and their iron swords across their laps.
   Robb took them all the way down to the end, past Grandfather and Brandon and Lyanna, to show them their own tombs. Sansa kept looking at the stubby little candle, anxious that it might go out. Old Nan had told her there were spiders down here, and rats as big as dogs. Robb smiled when she said that. “There are worse things than spiders and rats,” he whispered. “This is where the dead walk.” That was when they heard the sound, low and deep and shivery. Baby Bran had clutched at Arya’s hand.
   When the spirit stepped out of the open tomb, pale white and moaning for blood, Sansa ran shrieking for the stairs, and Bran wrapped himself around Robb’s leg, sobbing. Arya stood her ground and gave the spirit a punch. It was only Jon, covered with flour. “You stupid,” she told him, “you scared the baby,” but Jon and Robb just laughed and laughed, and pretty soon Bran and Arya were laughing too.
   The memory made Arya smile, and after that the darkness held no more terrors for her. The stableboy was dead, she’d killed him, and if he jumped out at her she’d kill him again. She was going home. Everything would be better once she was home again, safe behind Winterfell’s grey granite walls.
   Her footsteps sent soft echoes hurrying ahead of her as Arya plunged deeper into the darkness.



Ⅰ 权力的游戏 Chapter51 艾莉亚
　　“上。”西利欧·佛瑞尔叫喊着，朝她头部挥去。艾莉亚举剑挡格，木剑相交，喀的一声。
　　“左。”他又叫，木剑随即呼啸而出。她的剑也急速迎去。又是喀的一声，她咬紧牙关。
　　“右，”他说，之后是“下”、“左”、“左”，越来越快，向前步步进逼。艾莉亚则不断后退，挥开每一记攻势。
　　“开始冲锋了。”他警告。于是当他向前猛攻，她往旁边一闪，扫开他的剑，朝他肩膀砍去。她差一点就碰到他了，就差那么一点点，她禁不住得意地笑起来。一撮淌着汗水的头发垂下，在她眼前晃来晃去，她用手背拨开。
　　“左。”西利欧叫道。“下。”他的剑快得看不清，喀喀声响彻小厅。“左，左，上，左，右，左，下，左！”
　　这一剑刺得很高，正中她的胸膛。她剧痛难忍，因为这次攻击方向全然不对，打了她一个措手不及。“哎哟！”她叫道。看来，等今晚在海上某个地方睡觉的时候，胸部大概已经淤青一片了。每次受伤都是一次教训，她告诉自己，而每次教训都让我们更强。
　　西利欧后退。“你已经死了。”
　　艾莉亚扮起鬼脸。“你作弊啦，”她气冲冲地说，“你明明说左边结果却打右边。”
　　“就是这样，你从此就是个死女孩了。”
　　“可你‘骗人’啊！”
　　“我的嘴巴骗人，我的眼睛和手说的可是真话，只是你视而不见。”
　　“我哪里看不见，”艾莉亚说，“我每秒钟都盯着你看！”
　　“死掉的小妹妹，‘观看’不代表‘洞察’。水舞者一定要能洞察。来，把剑放下，听课的时候到了。”
　　她跟着他走到墙边，他在板凳上坐下。“西利欧·佛瑞尔能当上布拉佛斯海王的首席剑士，你知道凭什么吗？”
　　“因为你是全城最厉害的剑客。”
　　“就是这样，但为什么是我？有很多人比我强壮，比我敏捷，比我年轻，为什么是西利欧·佛瑞尔最厉害？现在让我来告诉你。”他用指尖轻轻碰了碰睫毛。“诀窍在于洞察，洞察事物的真相。”
　　“听着。海风吹到何方，布拉佛斯的船就开往何地。他们去过很多稀奇古怪的地方，每次返航，船长都会为海王的百兽园献上远方的动物。那是你从未见过的各式珍禽异兽，比如有条纹的马，全身长满斑点、脖子像高跷一样长的东西，还有浑身是毛、长得跟母牛一样大的鼠猪，会螫人的狮身蝎尾兽，把幼兽装在袋子里的老虎，还有走来走去、有镰刀般的爪子的恐怖蜥蜴。这些东西西利欧·佛瑞尔通通都见过。”
　　“我说的那天，前任首席剑士刚刚去世，海王便传我过去，只因按照布拉佛斯的传统必须立刻选择继承人。之前已有不少杀手去见过他，结果通通都被遣走，谁也说不出原因。我进去的时候，他安详地坐着，膝上躺了一只肥胖的黄猫，他告诉我：这是他手下某位船长从比日出之地更远的小岛上带回来给他的。‘你没见过像她这样的动物吧？’他问我。”
　　“而我对他说：‘每晚我在布拉佛斯的小巷都见到几千只他这种动物。’海王听了抚掌大笑，当日就任命我为首席剑士。”
　　艾莉亚露出一张苦脸。“我不懂。”
　　西利欧把牙齿磨得咯咯作响。“那只是一只平凡无奇的猫。其他人以为会看到珍禽异兽，所以他们眼中就只看得到珍禽异兽。他们说这只猫很大，可那只猫并不特别大，只不过因为好吃懒做，海王又常拿自己餐桌上的东西喂它，所以才稍微发福。他们又说它耳朵小巧玲珑，其实只是因为和其他猫打架的时候被咬掉了一块。那明明就是只公猫，但海王开口说‘她’，他们也就信以为真。你听懂了吗？”
　　艾莉亚仔细想想。“你洞察了事情的真相。”
　　“就是这样。最重要的就是睁大眼睛。心会说谎，头脑会愚弄我们，只有眼睛雪亮。用你的眼睛看，用你的耳朵听，用你的嘴巴尝，用你的鼻子闻，用你的皮肤去感觉，最后才用脑袋去想，这样才会洞察真相。”
　　“就是这样。”艾莉亚嘻嘻笑道。
　　西利欧·佛瑞尔难得地露出微笑。“我在想，等我们抵达你家那个临冬城，也差不多是该让你使用这把缝衣针的时候了。”
　　“太棒了！”艾莉亚迫不及待地说，“到时候我让琼恩看——”
　　轰的一声，身后的小厅大木门被人撞开，艾莉亚立刻旋身。
　　一名御林铁卫站在门拱下，身后跟了五个兰尼斯特卫士。他全副武装，只把头盔的面罩打开。此人陪国王来临冬城作客时，艾莉亚见过他，记得他那低垂的眼睛和铁锈色的小胡子，这必是马林·特兰爵士无疑。红披风的侍卫穿着皮革背心和锁甲，头戴雄狮钢盔。“艾莉亚·史塔克，”骑士说，“孩子，跟我们走。”
　　艾莉亚犹豫不决地噘起嘴。“你们找我做什么？”
　　“你父亲要见你。”
　　艾莉亚向前走了一步，但西利欧·佛利尔握住她的手。“艾德大人为何不派他的手下，反而派兰尼斯特家的人来呢？我很好奇。”
　　“舞蹈老师，别不识好歹，”马林爵士说，“此事与你无关。”
　　“我父亲才不会派你们来呢。”艾莉亚说着举起她的木剑。兰尼斯特侍卫见了哈哈大笑。
　　“小妹妹乖，把棍子放下，”马林爵士告诉她，“我乃御林铁卫众弟兄的一员，是宣誓效命的白骑士。”
　　“杀老国王的弑君者也是啊。”艾莉亚说，“我不想去，我不想跟你走。”
　　马林·特兰爵士没了耐性。“抓住她。”他对手下说，然后放下面罩。
　　三个卫士向前走来，锁子甲随着跨出的每一步发出清脆的碰撞。艾莉亚突然害怕起来。恐惧比利剑更伤人，她告诉自己，慢慢缓和狂乱的心跳。
　　西利欧·佛瑞尔走上前来，挡在中间，边拿木剑轻敲靴子。“到此为止。你们是人还是狗，居然有脸威胁小孩子？”
　　“滚开，老头子。”一名红袍侍卫叫道。
　　西利欧的木棍咻地一声上窜，敲了那人头盔一下。“我是西利欧·佛瑞尔，从现在开始，你跟我讲话要放尊重点。”
　　“秃头浑球。”来人拔出长剑。木棍再度窜动，快得刺眼。艾莉亚只听喀啦一声，钢剑已掉在石地板上。“我的手。”那名守卫惨叫着握住断掉的手指。
　　“以一个舞蹈老师来说，你挺快。”马林爵士评价。
　　“以一个骑士而言，你太慢。”西利欧回敬。
　　“宰了这布拉佛斯人，把那小女孩抓来。”白甲骑士命令。
　　四个兰尼斯特士兵纷纷抽出佩剑，断指的那个啐了口唾沫，用左手拔出匕首。
　　西利欧·佛瑞尔喀喀咬紧牙齿，滑出水舞者的姿势，侧面迎敌。“小艾莉亚，”他叫道，但他看都没看她一眼，自始至终没将视线自兰尼斯特卫兵身上移开。“今天的舞蹈课到此为止。你最好快走，跑步去找你父亲。”
　　艾莉亚不想抛下他，但他教导她要听话。“疾如鹿。”她小声说。
　　“就是这样。”西利欧·佛瑞尔说。兰尼斯特士兵向他围去。
　　艾莉亚缓缓后退，手里紧紧握着木剑。看着西利欧应战的架式，她才明白平日和她交手时，他不过随意玩玩罢了。红袍武士握着钢剑从三面向他进逼，他们的胸膛和手臂受锁甲保护，短裤缝了金属护膝，但脚上只有皮革绑腿，双手暴露在外。他们的头盔虽有护鼻，却没有面罩遮眼。
　　西利欧不等他们靠近，便闪身向左。艾莉亚不敢想象人的动作竟能那么快。他用木棍挡住一把剑，旋身躲过第二把。第二个人失去重心，踉跄着朝先前那人跌去。西利欧朝他后背补上一脚，两个红袍武士摔成一团。第三个卫士跳过他们冲来，挥剑往水舞者的头砍去。西利欧身子一低，向上疾刺。那名守卫惨叫倒地，本来是左眼的地方，如今只剩一个血淋淋的窟窿。
　　摔倒的人准备爬起。西利欧踢中一人的面门，扯下男一人的头盔。拿匕首的人朝他猛刺，西利欧用头盔接住他的攻势，然后用木棍敲碎了来人的膝盖。最后一个红袍武士喝骂一声，双手持剑，猛力挥砍着朝他冲锋。西利欧疾闪向右，于是那个没了头盔，正挣扎着站起的人遭了殃，那记屠夫般的猛斩正中他肩脖交接处。利剑砍碎锁甲、皮革和血肉，此人跪倒在地，厉声惨叫。杀他的人还来不及抽出剑，西利欧已刺中他的喉头。卫士发出窒息般的叫声，蹒跚后退，双手掐着脖子，脸如死灰。
　　等艾莉亚走到通往厨房的后门时，五个人不是倒地丧命，就是奄奄一息。她听见马林·特兰爵士咒道：“一群废物，”然后拔出长剑。
　　西利欧·佛瑞尔恢复了战斗姿势，牙齿咯咯作响。“小艾莉亚，”他头也不回地叫道，“快走。”
　　用你的眼睛看，他刚才教导过。于是她看了：骑士穿着全身重铠，头、脚、乃至喉咙、手臂都由钢甲保护，双眼隐藏在纯白高盔后，手拿狰狞的精钢长剑。反观西利欧：皮革背心和手中的木剑。“西利欧，快跑！”她尖叫。
　　“布拉佛斯的首席剑士从不临阵脱逃。”他朗声道。马林爵士挥剑朝他砍来，西利欧优雅地闪开，手中木棍划出一阵白光芒朝骑士攻去。才一次心跳间，他接连击中骑士的太阳穴、手肘和喉咙，木头敲响了头盔、护手和颈甲的金属。艾莉亚整个人愣在原地。马林爵士继续进逼，西利欧退后。他挡下一击攻势，躲开第二剑，又挥开第三击。
　　但第四剑将木棍拦腰砍断，木屑飞溅，铅制骨架断裂。
　　艾莉亚啜泣着迈开脚步，飞奔而去。
　　她冲过厨房和贮藏室，在厨师和侍者间穿梭，害怕得什么都看不清。一个捧着木盘的面包师助手经过她面前，艾莉亚把她整个撞倒，刚出炉、香气四溢的面包洒了一地。她又绕过一个手拿切肉刀，肘部以下全是血，张大嘴巴吃惊地看着她的肥胖屠夫，隐约听见背后的叫喊。
　　西利欧·佛瑞尔所教过的每一件事都在她脑中迅速流窜。疾如鹿，静如影。恐惧比利剑更伤人。迅如蛇，止如水。恐惧比利剑更伤人。壮如熊，猛如狼。恐惧比利剑更伤人。害怕失败者必败无疑。恐惧比利剑更伤人。恐惧比利剑更伤人。恐惧比利剑更伤人。她紧握木剑，汗湿手心，当抵达塔里的楼梯时，已经上气不接下气。她愣了一会儿。往上还是往下？上楼之后会经过覆篷的桥，桥连接着议事厅和首相塔，但他们一定以为她会朝那边去，没错，而且西利欧不是说要“出其不意”吗？于是艾莉亚往下走，一层又一层螺旋，三步并作两步，跳过一级级狭窄的阶梯。直到最后进入宽敞的圆顶地窖，四周的麦酒桶足足堆了二十尺高。惟一的光源是高墙上的倾斜窄窗。
　　地窖是条死路。除了她进来的路，无路可走。她不敢回头，也不敢留在这里。对了，她得找到父亲，告诉他事情经过才是。父亲会保护她。
　　艾莉亚把木剑插进腰带，开始攀爬，在酒桶之间跳跃，终于到了窗边。她双手勾住石头往上拉。墙壁足有三尺厚，窗户有如一条往上向外倾斜的隧道。艾莉亚扭动身躯，朝天光爬去。当她的头到达地面的高度时，她隔着内城，朝首相塔望去。
　　原本坚实的木门只剩裂片、破败不堪，似乎被斧头砍烂。一个死人面朝下倒在阶梯上，披风压在身子下，后背的锁甲衫上全是鲜血。她突然惊恐地发现那是件灰羊毛镶白缎边的披风。但她看不出来那是谁。
　　“怎么会这样？”她小声说。到底出了什么事？父亲又在哪里？红袍武士为何来抓她？她忆起自己发现怪兽那天，那个黄胡子男人所说过的话：既然死了一个首相，为什么不能死第二个？艾莉亚眼里不自觉地充满泪水。她屏气倾听，听见从首相塔窗内传出打斗声，叫喊声，哀嚎声和武器交击声。
　　她不能回去。父亲他……
　　艾莉亚闭上了眼睛，一时间害怕得不敢动弹。他们杀了乔里、韦尔和海华，以及楼梯上那个不知名的守卫。说不定他们也会杀掉父亲，若她被逮着的话，恐怕也难逃一死。“恐惧比利剑更伤人，”她大声说，但假装自己是水舞者无济于事，何况身为水舞者的西利欧很可能已死在白骑士手下。她只是个担惊受怕、孤伶伶的小女孩，手中只有一把木剑。
　　她挤着身子，爬进广场，小心翼翼地环顾四周后，方才站起。城堡似乎空无一人，可城堡绝不可能空无一人。大家一定都关上门躲了起来。艾莉亚思慕地望望自己的卧房，然后沿着墙边阴影，离开了首相塔。她假装自己在抓猫……只可惜现在被抓的是她，而一旦被抓，铁定没命。
　　艾莉亚在建筑和高墙间穿梭，尽可能背靠着墙，防止别人偷袭，最后总算平安无事地抵达马厩。穿过内城时，她看到十来个全副武装、穿着锁甲和全身铠甲的金袍卫士从身边跑过，但由于不知他们站哪一边，所以她躲在阴影里蹲低身子等他们过去。
　　从艾莉亚有记忆以来便担任临冬城马房总管的胡伦趴在马厩门边的地上。他身上中刀无数，以致于外衣好似绣满了腥红花朵。艾莉亚本来确定他已经死了，然而等她爬进去，他却睁开眼睛。“捣蛋鬼艾莉亚，”他小声说，“你快去……警告你……你父亲大人……”马房总管嘴里冒出红色泡沫，接着合上眼睛，不再说话。
　　马厩里陈尸累累，有一个跟她玩耍过的马僮，三个父亲的贴身护卫。一辆满载箱子行李的马车弃置门边。这些人遭到攻击时，想必是正准备把东西运到码头吧。艾莉亚偷偷靠近，发现其中一具尸首是戴斯蒙，那个曾经拿长剑给她看，向她保证会保护父亲的戴斯蒙。他背朝地，空洞地仰视屋顶，苍蝇爬过他的眼睛。他旁边死了一个戴着狮盔的兰尼斯特红袍武士。只有一个。戴斯蒙不是告诉她“咱北方人一个人抵得上南方人十个”吗？“你骗人！”她突然一阵暴怒，踢了那尸体一脚。
　　厩里的马都吓坏了，嘶叫个不停，不时对着呛鼻的血腥吐气。艾莉亚脑中所想只是赶紧找匹马儿放上马鞍，然后溜之大吉，逃得远远的。她只要沿着国王大道，就可以回到临冬城。于是她从墙上拿下一副马鞍和缰绳。
　　当她走到马车背后时，一个倒在地上的箱子吸引了她的注意。箱子一定是在打斗中被碰落，或在搬运途中掉下的。木板已经裂开，箱盖向上掀起，东西洒了一地。艾莉亚看到那些她从没穿过的绫罗绸缎，不过，旅行途中她可能会需要御寒衣物……而且……
　　艾莉亚跪在泥地上散乱的衣物之中。她找到一件厚重的羊毛斗篷，一条天鹅绒裙子和一件丝质外衣，几条内衣裤，一件母亲为她缝制的裙服，还有一个可以变卖的银手镯。她推开破裂的盖板，在衣箱里翻找“缝衣针”。她原本把剑藏在箱子最底端，可箱子掉落时东西全搅成一团。艾莉亚突然很害怕有人先她一步找到剑，并把剑给偷走了。好在她的手指随即碰触到缎子礼服下的坚硬金属。
　　“原来她在这儿啊。”一个声音嘶喊着朝她逼近。
　　艾莉亚惊慌旋身。只见眼前站了个马僮，他脸上挂着不自然的笑容，穿了件脏兮兮的皮背心，里面也是件肮脏的白上衣，靴子沾满肥料，一手拿着根干草叉。“你是谁？”她问。
　　“她不认得我，”他说，“可我却认得她哩，嘿嘿，没错，认得小狼女哟。”
　　“帮我装马鞍好吗？”艾莉亚拜托他，一边伸手到箱里，掏拿缝衣针。“我父亲是国王的首相，他会奖赏你的。”
　　“你老爸死翘翘啦。”男孩边说边向她靠近。“会奖赏我的是王后。小妹妹，过来。”
　　“不要过来！”她握住缝衣针的剑柄。
　　“我叫你‘过来’。”他使劲抓住她的手。
　　在那性命攸关的刹那，西利欧·佛瑞尔教她的一切招式全部消失无踪。在那恐惧的瞬间，艾莉亚惟一记得的要诀是琼恩·雪诺教她的那一招，她学会的第一招。
　　她用尖的那端去刺敌人，使出突如其来、歇斯底里般的蛮力往上猛刺。
　　缝衣针刺进他的皮背心和白肚皮，从肩胛骨穿出来。男孩抛下干草叉，发出介于惊呼和叹息之间的绵软声音。他的手抓住剑。“喔，老天。”他呻吟道。他的上衣开始泛红。“把它拔出来。”
　　等她拔出剑，他已经死了。
　　马儿惊慌嘶叫。艾莉亚站在尸体旁，面对死亡，镇静而又害怕。男孩倒地时口冒鲜血，现在有更多的血从他腹部伤口涌出，在尸身下聚集成潭。他刚才握剑的手掌也被割伤。她慢慢后退，擎着血淋淋的缝衣针。她想离开，她必须离开，她要躲到远离这马僮充满控诉的眼神的地方。
　　于是她慌忙抓起马鞍和缰绳，朝她的母马跑去。然而正当举鞍准备放上马背时，艾莉亚突然恐惧地想到城门一定已经关闭，边门也多半有人看守。或许守卫认不出她。如果他们把她当成男孩，或许就会让她……不对，他们一定接到了不准任何人出去的命令，所以认不认出她都一样。
　　还有一条路可以离开城堡……
　　马鞍从艾莉亚指间滑落，咚地一声，掉在泥土地上，溅起一阵灰尘。她还得去找那个充满怪兽的房间吗？她不确定，但她知道自己非试不可。
　　她找到刚才收集的衣服，然后披上斗篷，以遮掩缝衣针。她把其余东西绑成一束，将包裹夹在腋下，溜到马厩的另一头。她打开后门的锁，不安地向外偷瞄。远处传来剑击声，内城那边还有个人在垂死哀嚎。她必须走下螺旋梯，穿过小厨房和养猪场，上次她追赶黑公猫就是走的这条路……可这样走会直接经过金袍卫士的军营，所以行不通。艾莉亚绞尽脑汁地搜索别的逃跑路线，如果她穿过城堡的另一边，可以沿着河岸的城墙，走过小神木林……但她必须首先冒着城上守卫的众目睽睽，越过眼前这片广场。
　　她从没见过这么多人同时站在城墙上。其中大多是持熗的金袍武士，他们中有些人一眼就可认出她来。如果他们见她跑过广场，会怎么做？城墙距离这么远，她看起来一定像个小不点，他们还能辨别她吗？他们会理会一个小女孩吗？
　　她告诉自己必须立刻动身，然而当要实际采取行动，她却害怕得不敢动弹。
　　止如水，一个小小的声音在耳畔响起。艾莉亚吓了一大跳，差点把东西掉在地上。她慌乱地环顾四周，但马厩里除了她就只有马儿和死人。
　　静如影，那声音又来了。她说不准这是自己的声音，还是西利欧的话语，但不知怎地她渐渐不怕了。
　　她迈开步伐，走出马厩。
　　这是她一辈子所做过最恐怖的事。她想拔腿就跑，找个地方躲起来，但她强迫自己“走”完全程，慢慢地，一步接一步，仿佛她多的是时间，完全没必要害怕。她感觉到他们的视线如同虫子一样在她衣服下爬来爬去，但她头也不抬。艾莉亚很清楚如果她看见他们盯着自己，所有的勇气都会弃她而去，然后她就会扔下衣服，像个小婴儿一样哭哭啼啼，逃之夭夭。她便只瞧地面。等艾莉亚抵达广场彼端王家圣堂的阴影下，已经一身冷汗。好在没有人注意到她，没有人出声吆喝。
　　圣堂空荡荡的，里面，五十来支蜡烛静静地发散香气。艾莉亚猜想天上诸神应该不会介意少两根吧。于是她揣了两根塞进袖子，然后从后窗离开。潜回先前她堵住独耳公猫的巷子简单，但之后要找路就难了。她爬进爬出，翻过一道道围墙，在黑暗的地窖里摸索。静如影。途中她还听见女人的哭泣。足足花了一个多小时她才找到那扇向下倾斜，通往怪兽地牢的窄窗。
　　她先把包裹丢进去，然后快步跑回去点蜡烛。这太惊险了。她印象中的炭火已经烧得只剩余烬，当她忙着吹气以让它重新活跃时，听见有人进屋的声音。她赶在他们进门前，用手呵护摇曳的烛焰，从窗户翻出去，连瞥一眼来者是谁都来不及。
　　这回她一点也不怕那些怪兽，甚至觉得他们像老朋友。艾莉亚将蜡烛举到头顶，每走一步，墙上的影子都跟着移动，仿佛他们都转头注视她。“原来是龙啊。”她小声说。她从斗篷里抽出缝衣针。虽然纤细的剑身看起来好小，群龙看起来好大，但有剑在手，艾莉亚总算觉得比较安全。
　　门后那间无窗的长厅，一如她记忆中那般黑暗。她左手握着缝衣针，右手拿着蜡烛。热烫的蜡油流下指关节。通往那口井的路在左边，所以艾莉亚往右走。她很想拔腿奔跑，又怕弄熄蜡烛。她听见微弱的老鼠吱吱声，在光线所及的范围边缘看到一双发亮的小眼睛。她不怕老鼠，却怕其他不知名的东西。其实她大可就躲在这里，就像上次她躲巫师和长八字胡的人一样。她几乎可以看见那个马僮就站在墙边，双手团成鹰爪，手掌被缝衣针深深割伤的地方还流着血。他正等着她经过呢。他大老远便可以看见她的烛光。或许她还是把火熄灭的好……
　　恐惧比利剑更伤人，脑中那个静默的声音再度响起。艾莉亚突然忆起临冬城下的墓窖。她告诉自己那儿比这里可怕多了。第一次去的时候，她还是个小女孩。那次由哥哥罗柏领队，带着她、珊莎还有小布兰，当时的布兰还没现在的瑞肯大呢。他们只带了一根蜡烛，布兰的眼睛睁得像盘子，目不转睛地盯着列位冬境之王的石面尊容，以及他们脚边的冰原狼和膝上的铁剑。
　　罗柏领他们走到长廊末尾，经过祖父、布兰登和莱安娜的雕像，让他们瞧瞧自己未来的坟墓。然而珊莎的目光却一直不敢离开越烧越短的蜡烛，担心它随时会熄灭。老奶妈之前告诉她，这下面有蜘蛛，还有狗一般大的老鼠。罗柏听她说起这事，只是微笑。“还有比蜘蛛和老鼠更可怕的东西哦，”他悄声道，“这是死人活跃的地方。”就在那时，他们听见了低沉而震颤的声音。小布兰紧紧抓住艾莉亚的手。
　　当幽灵从打开的坟墓里走出来，呻吟着要吸活人鲜血时，珊莎尖叫着朝楼梯跑去，布兰抱住罗柏的大腿抽噎起来，艾莉亚则站在原地，捶了幽灵一下。那不过是身上洒满面粉的琼恩罢了。“你笨蛋啦，”她告诉他，“看你把弟弟吓成这样。”但琼恩和罗柏却只是相视大笑，没过多久布兰和艾莉亚也跟着笑了。
　　忆起往事，艾莉亚也不禁微笑。之后，黑暗便不再可怕。马僮已死，且是她亲手所杀，如果他又跳出来，她就再杀他一次。她要回家。等她回到家，安全地躲在临冬城的灰色大理石墙后，一切都会没事的。
　　艾莉亚的脚步发出轻轻的回音，抢在她身前，朝黑暗的深处迈去。
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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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51.SANSA
They came for Sansa on the third day.
   She chose a simple dress of dark grey wool, plainly cut but richly embroidered around the collar and sleeves. Her fingers felt thick and clumsy as she struggled with the silver fastenings without the benefit of servants. Jeyne Poole had been confined with her, but Jeyne was useless. Her face was puffy from all her crying, and she could not seem to stop sobbing about her father.
   “I’m certain your father is well,” Sansa told her when she had finally gotten the dress buttoned right. “I’ll ask the queen to let you see him.” She thought that kindness might lift Jeyne’s spirits, but the other girl just looked at her with red, swollen eyes and began to cry all the harder. She was such a child.
   Sansa had wept too, the first day. Even within the stout walls of Maegor’s Holdfast, with her door closed and barred, it was hard not to be terrified when the killing began. She had grown up to the sound of steel in the yard, and scarcely a day of her life had passed without hearing the clash of sword on sword, yet somehow knowing that the fighting was real made all the difference in the world. She heard it as she had never heard it before, and there were other sounds as well, grunts of pain, angry curses, shouts for help, and the moans of wounded and dying men. In the songs, the knights never screamed nor begged for mercy.
   So she wept, pleading through her door for them to tell her what was happening, calling for her father, for Septa Mordane, for the king, for her gallant prince. If the men guarding her heard her pleas, they gave no answer. The only time the door opened was late that night, when they thrust Jeyne Poole inside, bruised and shaking. “They’re killing everyone,” the steward’s daughter had shrieked at her. She went on and on. The Hound had broken down her door with a warhammer, she said. There were bodies on the stair of the Tower of the Hand, and the steps were slick with blood. Sansa dried her own tears as she struggled to comfort her friend. They went to sleep in the same bed, cradled in each other’s arms like sisters.
   The second day was even worse. The room where Sansa had been confined was at the top of the highest tower of Maegor’s Holdfast. From its window, she could see that the heavy iron portcullis in the gatehouse was down, and the drawbridge drawn up over the deep dry moat that separated the keep-within-a-keep from the larger castle that surrounded it. Lannister guardsmen prowled the walls with spears and crossbows to hand. The fighting was over, and the silence of the grave had settled over the Red Keep. The only sounds were Jeyne Poole’s endless whimpers and sobs.
   They were fed, hard cheese and fresh-baked bread and milk to break their fast, roast chicken and greens at midday, and a late supper of beef and barley stew, but the servants who brought the meals would not answer Sansa’s questions. That evening, some women brought her clothes from the Tower of the Hand, and some of Jeyne’s things as well, but they seemed nearly as frightened as Jeyne, and when she tried to talk to them, they fled from her as if she had the grey plague. The guards outside the door still refused to let them leave the room.
   “Please, I need to speak to the queen again,” Sansa told them, as she told everyone she saw that day. “She’ll want to talk to me, I know she will. Tell her I want to see her, please. If not the queen, then Prince Joffrey, if you’d be so kind. We’re to marry when we’re older.”
   At sunset on the second day, a great bell began to ring. Its voice was deep and sonorous, and the long slow clanging filled Sansa with a sense of dread. The ringing went on and on, and after a while they heard other bells answering from the Great Sept of Baelor on Visenya’s Hill. The sound rumbled across the city like thunder, warning of the storm to come.
   “What is it?” Jeyne asked, covering her ears. “Why are they ringing the bells?”
   “The king is dead.” Sansa could not say how she knew it, yet she did. The slow, endless clanging filled their room, as mournful as a dirge. Had some enemy stormed the castle and murdered King Robert? Was that the meaning of the fighting they had heard?
   She went to sleep wondering, restless, and fearful. Was her beautiful Joffrey the king now? Or had they killed him too? She was afraid for him, and for her father. If only they would tell her what was happening?.?.?.?
   That night Sansa dreamt of Joffrey on the throne, with herself seated beside him in a gown of woven gold. She had a crown on her head, and everyone she had ever known came before her, to bend the knee and say their courtesies.
   The next morning, the morning of the third day, Ser Boros Blount of the Kingsguard came to escort her to the queen.
   Ser Boros was an ugly man with a broad chest and short, bandy legs. His nose was flat, his cheeks baggy with jowls, his hair grey and brittle. Today he wore white velvet, and his snowy cloak was fastened with a lion brooch. The beast had the soft sheen of gold, and his eyes were tiny rubies. “You look very handsome and splendid this morning, Ser Boros,” Sansa told him. A lady remembered her courtesies, and she was resolved to be a lady no matter what.
   “And you, my lady,” Ser Boros said in a flat voice. “Her Grace awaits. Come with me.”
   There were guards outside her door, Lannister men-at-arms in crimson cloaks and lion-crested helms. Sansa made herself smile at them pleasantly and bid them a good morning as she passed. It was the first time she had been allowed outside the chamber since Ser Arys Oakheart had led her there two mornings past. “To keep you safe, my sweet one,” Queen Cersei had told her. “Joffrey would never forgive me if anything happened to his precious.”
   Sansa had expected that Ser Boros would escort her to the royal apartments, but instead he led her out of Maegor’s Holdfast. The bridge was down again. Some workmen were lowering a man on ropes into the depths of the dry moat. When Sansa peered down, she saw a body impaled on the huge iron spikes below. She averted her eyes quickly, afraid to ask, afraid to look too long, afraid he might be someone she knew.
   They found Queen Cersei in the council chambers, seated at the head of a long table littered with papers, candles, and blocks of sealing wax. The room was as splendid as any that Sansa had ever seen. She stared in awe at the carved wooden screen and the twin sphinxes that sat beside the door.
   “Your Grace,” Ser Boros said when they were ushered inside by another of the Kingsguard, Ser Mandon of the curiously dead face, “I’ve brought the girl.”
   Sansa had hoped Joffrey might be with her. Her prince was not there, but three of the king’s councillors were. Lord Petyr Baelish sat on the queen’s left hand, Grand Maester Pycelle at the end of the table, while Lord Varys hovered over them, smelling flowery. All of them were clad in black, she realized with a feeling of dread. Mourning clothes?.?.?.?
   The queen wore a high-collared black silk gown, with a hundred dark red rubies sewn into her bodice, covering her from neck to bosom. They were cut in the shape of teardrops, as if the queen were weeping blood. Cersei smiled to see her, and Sansa thought it was the sweetest and saddest smile she had ever seen. “Sansa, my sweet child,” she said, “I know you’ve been asking for me. I’m sorry that I could not send for you sooner. Matters have been very unsettled, and I have not had a moment. I trust my people have been taking good care of you?”
   “Everyone has been very sweet and pleasant, Your Grace, thank you ever so much for asking,” Sansa said politely. “Only, well, no one will talk to us or tell us what’s happened?.?.?.?”
   “Us?” Cersei seemed puzzled.
   “We put the steward’s girl in with her,” Ser Boros said. “We did not know what else to do with her.”
   The queen frowned. “Next time, you will ask,” she said, her voice sharp. “The gods only know what sort of tales she’s been filling Sansa’s head with.”
   “Jeyne’s scared,” Sansa said. “She won’t stop crying. I promised her I’d ask if she could see her father.”
   Old Grand Maester Pycelle lowered his eyes.
   “Her father is well, isn’t he?” Sansa said anxiously. She knew there had been fighting, but surely no one would harm a steward. Vayon Poole did not even wear a sword.
   Queen Cersei looked at each of the councillors in turn. “I won’t have Sansa fretting needlessly. What shall we do with this little friend of hers, my lords?”
   Lord Petyr leaned forward. “I’ll find a place for her.”
   “Not in the city,” said the queen.
   “Do you take me for a fool?”
   The queen ignored that. “Ser Boros, escort this girl to Lord Petyr’s apartments and instruct his people to keep her there until he comes for her. Tell her that Littlefinger will be taking her to see her father, that ought to calm her down. I want her gone before Sansa returns to her chamber.”
   “As you command, Your Grace,” Ser Boros said. He bowed deeply, spun on his heel, and took his leave, his long white cloak stirring the air behind him.
   Sansa was confused. “I don’t understand,” she said. “Where is Jeyne’s father? Why can’t Ser Boros take her to him instead of Lord Petyr having to do it?” She had promised herself she would be a lady, gentle as the queen and as strong as her mother, the Lady Catelyn, but all of a sudden she was scared again. For a second she thought she might cry. “Where are you sending her? She hasn’t done anything wrong, she’s a good girl.”
   “She’s upset you,” the queen said gently. “We can’t be having that. Not another word, now. Lord Baelish will see that Jeyne’s well taken care of, I promise you.” She patted the chair beside her. “Sit down, Sansa. I want to talk to you.”
   Sansa seated herself beside the queen. Cersei smiled again, but that did not make her feel any less anxious. Varys was wringing his soft hands together, Grand Maester Pycelle kept his sleepy eyes on the papers in front of him, but she could feel Littlefinger staring. Something about the way the small man looked at her made Sansa feel as though she had no clothes on. Goose bumps pimpled her skin.
   “Sweet Sansa,” Queen Cersei said, laying a soft hand on her wrist. “Such a beautiful child. I do hope you know how much Joffrey and I love you.”
   “You do?” Sansa said, breathless. Littlefinger was forgotten. Her prince loved her. Nothing else mattered.
   The queen smiled. “I think of you almost as my own daughter. And I know the love you bear for Joffrey.” She gave a weary shake of her head. “I am afraid we have some grave news about your lord father. You must be brave, child.”
   Her quiet words gave Sansa a chill. “What is it?”
   “Your father is a traitor, dear,” Lord Varys said.
   Grand Maester Pycelle lifted his ancient head. “With my own ears, I heard Lord Eddard swear to our beloved King Robert that he would protect the young princes as if they were his own sons. And yet the moment the king was dead, he called the small council together to steal Prince Joffrey’s rightful throne.”
   “No,” Sansa blurted. “He wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t!”
   The queen picked up a letter. The paper was torn and stiff with dried blood, but the broken seal was her father’s, the direwolf stamped in pale wax. “We found this on the captain of your household guard, Sansa. It is a letter to my late husband’s brother Stannis, inviting him to take the crown.”
   “Please, Your Grace, there’s been a mistake.” Sudden panic made her dizzy and faint. “Please, send for my father, he’ll tell you, he would never write such a letter, the king was his friend.”
   “Robert thought so,” said the queen. “This betrayal would have broken his heart. The gods are kind, that he did not live to see it.” She sighed. “Sansa, sweetling, you must see what a dreadful position this has left us in. You are innocent of any wrong, we all know that, and yet you are the daughter of a traitor. How can I allow you to marry my son?”
   “But I love him,” Sansa wailed, confused and frightened. What did they mean to do to her? What had they done to her father? It was not supposed to happen this way. She had to wed Joffrey, they were betrothed, he was promised to her, she had even dreamed about it. It wasn’t fair to take him away from her on account of whatever her father might have done.
   “How well I know that, child,” Cersei said, her voice so kind and sweet. “Why else should you have come to me and told me of your father’s plan to send you away from us, if not for love?”
   “It was for love,” Sansa said in a rush. “Father wouldn’t even give me leave to say farewell.” She was the good girl, the obedient girl, but she had felt as wicked as Arya that morning, sneaking away from Septa Mordane, defying her lord father. She had never done anything so willful before, and she would never have done it then if she hadn’t loved Joffrey as much as she did. “He was going to take me back to Winterfell and marry me to some hedge knight, even though it was Joff I wanted. I told him, but he wouldn’t listen.” The king had been her last hope. The king could command Father to let her stay in King’s Landing and marry Prince Joffrey, Sansa knew he could, but the king had always frightened her. He was loud and rough-voiced and drunk as often as not, and he would probably have just sent her back to Lord Eddard, if they even let her see him. So she went to the queen instead, and poured out her heart, and Cersei had listened and thanked her sweetly?.?.?.?only then Ser Arys had escorted her to the high room in Maegor’s Holdfast and posted guards, and a few hours later, the fighting had begun outside. “Please,” she finished, “you have to let me marry Joffrey, I’ll be ever so good a wife to him, you’ll see. I’ll be a queen just like you, I promise.”
   Queen Cersei looked to the others. “My lords of the council, what do you say to her plea?”
   “The poor child,” murmured Varys. “A love so true and innocent, Your Grace, it would be cruel to deny it?.?.?.?and yet, what can we do? Her father stands condemned.” His soft hands washed each other in a gesture of helpless distress.
   “A child born of traitor’s seed will find that betrayal comes naturally to her,” said Grand Maester Pycelle. “She is a sweet thing now, but in ten years, who can say what treasons she may hatch?”
   “No,” Sansa said, horrified. “I’m not, I’d never?.?.?.?I wouldn’t betray Joffrey, I love him, I swear it, I do.”
   “Oh, so poignant,” said Varys. “And yet, it is truly said that blood runs truer than oaths.”
   “She reminds me of the mother, not the father,” Lord Petyr Baelish said quietly. “Look at her. The hair, the eyes. She is the very image of Cat at the same age.”
   The queen looked at her, troubled, and yet Sansa could see kindness in her clear green eyes. “Child,” she said, “if I could truly believe that you were not like your father, why nothing should please me more than to see you wed to my Joffrey. I know he loves you with all his heart.” She sighed. “And yet, I fear that Lord Varys and the Grand Maester have the right of it. The blood will tell. I have only to remember how your sister set her wolf on my son.”
   “I’m not like Arya,” Sansa blurted. “She has the traitor’s blood, not me. I’m good, ask Septa Mordane, she’ll tell you, I only want to be Joffrey’s loyal and loving wife.”
   She felt the weight of Cersei’s eyes as the queen studied her face. “I believe you mean it, child.” She turned to face the others. “My lords, it seems to me that if the rest of her kin were to remain loyal in this terrible time, that would go a long way toward laying our fears to rest.”
   Grand Maester Pycelle stroked his huge soft beard, his wide brow furrowed in thought. “Lord Eddard has three sons.”
   “Mere boys,” Lord Petyr said with a shrug. “I should be more concerned with Lady Catelyn and the Tullys.”
   The queen took Sansa’s hand in both of hers. “Child, do you know your letters?”
   Sansa nodded nervously. She could read and write better than any of her brothers, although she was hopeless at sums.
   “I am pleased to hear that. Perhaps there is hope for you and Joffrey still?.?.?.?”
   “What do you want me to do?”
   “You must write your lady mother, and your brother, the eldest?.?.?.?what is his name?”
   “Robb,” Sansa said.
   “The word of your lord father’s treason will no doubt reach them soon. Better that it should come from you. You must tell them how Lord Eddard betrayed his king.”
   Sansa wanted Joffrey desperately, but she did not think she had the courage to do as the queen was asking. “But he never?.?.?.?I don’t?.?.?.?Your Grace, I wouldn’t know what to say ?.?.?.?”
   The queen patted her hand. “We will tell you what to write, child. The important thing is that you urge Lady Catelyn and your brother to keep the king’s peace.”
   “It will go hard for them if they don’t,” said Grand Maester Pycelle. “By the love you bear them, you must urge them to walk the path of wisdom.”
   “Your lady mother will no doubt fear for you dreadfully,” the queen said. “You must tell her that you are well and in our care, that we are treating you gently and seeing to your every want. Bid them to come to King’s Landing and pledge their fealty to Joffrey when he takes his throne. If they do that?.?.?.?why, then we shall know that there is no taint in your blood, and when you come into the flower of your womanhood, you shall wed the king in the Great Sept of Baelor, before the eyes of gods and men.”
   ?.?.?.?wed the king?.?.?.?The words made her breath come faster, yet still Sansa hesitated. “Perhaps?.?.?.?if I might see my father, talk to him about?.?.?.?”
   “Treason?” Lord Varys hinted.
   “You disappoint me, Sansa,” the queen said, with eyes gone hard as stones. “We’ve told you of your father’s crimes. If you are truly as loyal as you say, why should you want to see him?”
   “I?.?.?.?I only meant?.?.?.?” Sansa felt her eyes grow wet. “He’s not?.?.?.?please, he hasn’t been?.?.?.?hurt, or?.?.?.?or?.?.?.?”
   “Lord Eddard has not been harmed,” the queen said.
   “But?.?.?.?what’s to become of him?”
   “That is a matter for the king to decide,” Grand Maester Pycelle announced ponderously.
   The king! Sansa blinked back her tears. Joffrey was the king now, she thought. Her gallant prince would never hurt her father, no matter what he might have done. If she went to him and pleaded for mercy, she was certain he’d listen. He had to listen, he loved her, even the queen said so. Joff would need to punish Father, the lords would expect it, but perhaps he could send him back to Winterfell, or exile him to one of the Free Cities across the narrow sea. It would only have to be for a few years. By then she and Joffrey would be married. Once she was queen, she could persuade Joff to bring Father back and grant him a pardon.
   Only?.?.?.?if Mother or Robb did anything treasonous, called the banners or refused to swear fealty or anything, it would all go wrong. Her Joffrey was good and kind, she knew it in her heart, but a king had to be stern with rebels. She had to make them understand, she had to!
   “I’ll?.?.?.?I’ll write the letters,” Sansa told them.
   With a smile as warm as the sunrise, Cersei Lannister leaned close and kissed her gently on the cheek. “I knew you would. Joffrey will be so proud when I tell him what courage and good sense you’ve shown here today.”
   In the end, she wrote four letters. To her mother, the Lady Catelyn Stark, and to her brothers at Winterfell, and to her aunt and her grandfather as well, Lady Lysa Arryn of the Eyrie, and Lord Hoster Tully of Riverrun. By the time she had done, her fingers were cramped and stiff and stained with ink. Varys had her father’s seal. She warmed the pale white beeswax over a candle, poured it carefully, and watched as the eunuch stamped each letter with the direwolf of House Stark.
   Jeyne Poole and all her things were gone when Ser Mandon Moore returned Sansa to the high tower of Maegor’s Holdfast. No more weeping, she thought gratefully. Yet somehow it seemed colder with Jeyne gone, even after she’d built a fire. She pulled a chair close to the hearth, took down one of her favorite books, and lost herself in the stories of Florian and Jonquil, of Lady Shella and the Rainbow Knight, of valiant Prince Aemon and his doomed love for his brother’s queen.
   It was not until later that night, as she was drifting off to sleep, that Sansa realized she had forgotten to ask about her sister.



Ⅰ 权力的游戏 Chapter52 珊莎
　　事发后第三天，他们才带珊莎去见王后。
　　她选了一条式样简单的深灰色羊毛裙，剪裁虽然朴素，袖口和领子却绣得精细。没有仆人帮忙，她只得自己系上银色衣带，顿时觉得手指笨拙而不灵活。珍妮·普尔虽和她软禁在一起，却一点忙也帮不上。她哭肿了脸，一直为了她父亲哭哭啼啼。
　　“我相信你父亲一定没事，”总算扣好衣服后，珊莎告诉她，“我会请王后让你见见他。”她本以为如此好心的提议定可提起珍妮的精神，想不到她却用红肿的眼睛怔怔地看她，然后哭得更厉害。真是个长不大的小孩。
　　事发当天，珊莎也哭过。纵然有梅葛楼重重厚墙所保护，且房门紧闭放下门闩，但屠杀开始时却依旧骇人。她从小听着广场上的金铁交击声长大，几乎天天都会见识刀剑，可一旦知道外面是来真的，一切又都不一样了。它们变得那么陌生，闻所未闻的声音不断传来：吃痛闷哼声、愤怒咒骂声、呼喊求救声，以及负伤垂死之人的呻吟。歌谣里的骑士从来不会惨叫，从来不会跪地求饶。
　　所以她哭了，隔着门请求他们告诉她到底发生了什么。她呼唤父亲，呼唤茉丹修女，呼唤国王，呼唤她的白马王子。可惜就算门外守卫听见了她的哀求，他们也没有回应。他们只在当天深夜打开门，把浑身淤伤、颤抖不已的珍妮·普尔推进来。“他们把所有人都杀光了。”管家的女儿朝她尖叫。说猎狗拿着战锤破门进入她的房间，首相塔的螺旋梯上全是死尸，染血的阶梯滑溜溜的。珊莎擦干眼泪，努力安慰自己的朋友。她们睡在同一张床上，相互搂抱，宛如姐妹。
　　第二天情况更糟。珊莎被监禁的房间位于梅葛楼最高塔的顶层。从窗户望去可以看到城门楼的铁闸已经放下，干涸护城河上的吊桥升起，切断了这座城中城与城堡其余部分的联系。兰尼斯特卫兵手执长熗和十字弓逡巡于城墙之上。打斗已经结束，宛如墓地般的死寂笼罩了红堡，只剩下珍妮·普尔无尽的抽噎啜泣。
　　她们没被饿着——早餐是硬乳酪，刚出炉的面包和牛奶，中午是烤鸡和青蔬，晚餐则是牛肉大麦浓汤——但送饭的人拒绝回答珊莎的问题。当天傍晚，有几位妇人从首相塔带了些她和珍妮的衣物过来，可她们惊慌失措的程度与珍妮不相上下，她刚要开口问话，她们便仿如见了灰疫病般避之唯恐不及。门外的守卫也依旧不让她们离开房间。
　　“求求你，我要跟王后谈谈，”她对他们说，那天她对每个人都这样说。“她想见我的，我知道。请你们转告她我要见她。如果见不到王后，那麻烦你们去找乔佛里王子。我和他长大以后要结婚的。”
　　震耳欲聋的钟声于那天日落时分响起。钟声沉厚而洪亮，缓慢悠长的余音却教珊莎感到莫名的恐惧。钟声响而未绝，一会儿之后她们听见维桑尼亚丘陵上贝勒大圣堂里的钟也跟着回应。声音宛如阵雷，轰隆响彻全城，预示着即将来临的狂风暴雨。
　　“发生了什么事？”珍妮捂着耳朵问，“他们为什么敲钟？”
　　“国王驾崩了。”珊莎说不上自己如何知道，但她就是知道。缓慢而无止尽的钟声充斥房间，哀伤有如挽歌。难道有敌人攻进城里，杀害了劳勃国王？难道这就是她们所听见的打斗？
　　她满脑疑惑地睡去，睡得很不安稳，提心吊胆。她英俊的乔佛里如今是国王了吗？还是他们连他也一起杀了？她为他担心，也为父亲害怕。如果他们告诉她外面究竟怎么回事就好了……
　　那天晚上，珊莎梦见乔佛里坐在王位上，她自己则穿着一袭金衣靠在他身旁，头顶冠冕，她所认识的每个人都来到她面前屈膝致意。
　　翌日清晨，亦即第三天早上，御林铁卫的柏洛斯·布劳恩爵士前来护送她去觐见王后。
　　柏洛斯爵士是个胸膛宽厚，有一双向外弯曲的短腿的丑陋男子。他生了个扁鼻，两颊松弛，一头发质糟糕的灰发。这天他穿了白天鹅绒外衣，雪白披风用一个狮子别针系着。狮子镀上一层软金箔，有小小的红宝石镶成的眼睛。“柏洛斯爵士，您今早真是容光焕发，格外迷人哪。”珊莎告诉他。官家小姐无时无刻不能忘记礼貌，而且她下定决心无论如何都要有个官家小姐的样子。
　　“小姐，您也是哪。”柏洛斯爵士语气平板地说，“王后陛下正在等你。请随我来。”
　　门外有红袍狮盔的兰尼斯特卫兵站岗，珊莎经过时，还特别友好地朝他们微笑早安。这是她自两天前被亚历斯·奥克赫特爵士带来这里后首次踏出房门。“好孩子，这是为你的安全着想，”瑟曦王后告诉她，“如果乔佛里亲爱的女孩出了意外，他一定不会原谅我的。”
　　珊莎本以为柏洛斯爵士会护送她到王家居室，没想到他却领她走出了梅葛楼。吊桥已再度放下。几名工人正把同伴用绳子垂到干涸的护城河床。珊莎探头一看，只见下方巨大的尖刺上钉了一具尸首。她连忙移开视线，不敢发问，不敢再看，不敢想象那是某位她所认识的人。
　　他们在议事厅里找到瑟曦王后，她正坐在长桌的首位，桌上堆满纸张、蜡烛和一叠叠的蜡泥。珊莎不曾见过陈设如此华丽的房间，不由得睁大眼睛看着雕花木屏风，以及蹲坐大门两侧的人面狮身兽雕像。
　　“王后陛下，”当另一名御林铁卫，生了张死人脸的曼登爵士领他们走进去时，柏洛斯爵士开口说，“我把这女孩带来了。”
　　珊莎原本期盼乔佛里会和王后在一起，可惜她的白马王子没来，反倒是三位重臣在场。派提尔·贝里席伯爵坐在王后左手，派席尔国师在桌子另一边，浑身花香的瓦里斯伯爵则在他们周围晃来晃去。她突然恐惧地发现他们都身着黑衣，那是丧服的颜色啊……
　　王后穿了一件高领的黑丝礼服，上身缝缀了上百颗暗红宝石，从脖颈直覆到胸部。宝石被琢磨成泪滴的形状，一眼望去，王后仿佛正在泣血。瑟曦见到她，脸上露出珊莎所见过最甜美、却也最哀伤的微笑。“珊莎，我的好孩子。”她说，“我知道你一直想见我，很抱歉我到现在才找你来。只怪最近诸事纷乱，我实在抽不出时间。我想我的手下没让你受委屈罢？”
　　“陛下，每个人都对我们既照顾又友好，非常感谢您的关心，”珊莎彬彬有礼地说，“只不过，嗯，没有人愿意跟我们说话，或者告诉我们到底发生了什么……”
　　“我们？”瑟曦似乎颇感困惑。
　　“我们把那个管家的女儿送去跟她一起住，”柏洛斯爵士道，“我们实在不知该拿她怎么办。”
　　王后皱起眉头。“下回记得先问，”她口气锐利地说，“天知道她朝珊莎脑子里鬼扯些什么。”
　　“珍妮她吓坏了，”珊莎说，“整天哭个不停。我答应帮她问可不可以让她见见她父亲。”
　　派席尔老国师垂下眼睛。
　　“她父亲没事吧？”珊莎焦急地说。她知道外面发生过打斗，但总不会有人伤害一个做管家的人吧？维扬·普尔平日可是连剑都不配的。
　　瑟曦王后依次扫视每位重臣。“我可不希望珊莎受到无谓的惊吓。诸位大人，我们该如何来安顿她这位小朋友呢？”
　　培提尔伯爵往前靠。“我来给她找个地方吧。”
　　“不要留在城里。”王后说。
　　“你当我是笨蛋不成？”
　　王后没理他。“柏洛斯爵士，劳驾您护送这位小妹妹前往培提尔大人住处，并吩咐他的手下妥善照顾，直到他回去为止。就跟她说小指头会带她去见她父亲，这样该能安抚她的情绪。我希望你在珊莎回去之前将此事办妥。”
　　“遵命，陛下。”柏洛斯爵士道。他深深一鞠躬，笔直地跃起身，抖着身后的白披风离开。
　　珊莎被搞糊涂了。“我不懂，”她说，“珍妮的父亲他人在哪里呢？柏洛斯爵士为何不直接带她去见他，反而要培提尔大人带她去呀？”她本已立志要有淑女风范，要像王后那般温柔，像母亲凯特琳夫人那般坚毅，但这会儿她突然又害怕起来，甚至担心自己会掉下眼泪。“您要把她送到哪儿？她是个好女孩，什么也没做错啊。”
　　“她害你担惊受怕了，”王后温柔地说，“我们可不能让这种事再度发生。别提她了，嗯？我向你保证，贝里席大人会好好照顾珍妮的。”她拍拍旁边的椅子。“坐下吧，珊莎，我有话跟你说。”
　　珊莎在王后身旁坐下。瑟曦再度露出微笑，然而这次却没能纾解她的不安。瓦里斯绞着他柔软的双手，派席尔国师撑着充满睡意的眼睛，看着眼前的纸张，但她能感觉小指头盯着自己的视线。矮个子看她的眼神，总让珊莎觉得自己仿佛没穿衣服，不禁浑身起了鸡皮疙瘩。
　　“亲爱的珊莎，”瑟曦王后边说边伸出一只柔软的手，放在她手腕上。“你真是个漂亮的好孩子。我真希望你知道乔佛里和我有多么爱你。”
　　“真的吗？”珊莎简直喘不过气来。小指头顿时被抛到脑后。她的白马王子爱她。其他一切都不重要了。
　　王后微笑道：“我几乎把你当成自己的女儿，我也知道你是真心真意地爱着乔佛里。”她微微摇头。“但关于你父亲大人，恐怕我有些沉重的消息要对你说。孩子，你千万要鼓起勇气。”
　　她从容的话语却教珊莎打了个冷颤。“什么消息？”
　　“你父亲叛国，亲爱的。”瓦里斯伯爵道。
　　派席尔国师抬起苍老的头颅。“我亲耳听见艾德大人向劳勃国王发誓会保护小王子，把他当成自己儿子看待。想不到等国王一死，他就立刻召集重臣，妄图窃取本应属于乔佛里的王位。”
　　“不，”珊莎脱口而出，“他绝不会做这种事，他绝不会！”
　　王后拣起一封信。信纸撕得稀烂，沾满干涸的血渍，然而上面被揭开的封蜡毫无疑问是父亲的冰原狼家徽。“珊莎，这是我们在你家侍卫队长身上找到的。收信人是我亡夫的弟弟史坦尼斯，信上邀请他来夺取王位。”
　　“求求您，王后陛下，这一定是误会，”突如其来的恐慌使她感到头晕目眩。“求求您，找我父亲过来，他会向您解释，他是国王的朋友，绝不会写这种信。”
　　“劳勃当初也是这么想，”王后道，“他若是地下有知，这件事准会伤透他的心。幸好诸神慈悲，没让他生前见到。”她叹口气。“珊莎，我亲爱的好孩子，你一定也知道这件事让我们有多为难。此事与你无关，这我们都明白，但你毕竟是个叛国者的女儿，你说我怎么敢让你嫁给我儿子呢？”
　　“可是我爱他啊。”珊莎既困惑又害怕地啜泣道。他们打算如何处置她？他们又对父亲做了些什么？事情不应该变成这样子的。她一定要嫁给乔佛里，他们不是已经订婚了吗？他不是已经许给她了吗？她还梦见过两人成亲的景象呢。因为父亲的所作所为，便要硬生生将他夺走，实在太不公平了。
　　“孩子，这我难道不清楚吗？”瑟曦慈祥、和蔼又温柔地说，“你若不是爱他，又怎么会来见我，把你父亲送你走的计划倾诉给我听呢？”
　　“是啊，我好爱他，”珊莎急促地说，“可父亲连让我说声再见都不准。”她向来是听话乖巧的好女儿，但那天早上她偷偷从茉丹修女身边溜开，违背父亲意愿的时候，却觉得自己跟艾莉亚一样坏。她以前从未如此任性而为，若非她深爱着乔佛里，也不会这么做。“他打算送我回临冬城，把我嫁给默默无闻的雇佣骑士，也不管我只想要。我跟他说了，可他就是听不进去。”她的希望只剩下国王，只有国王才能命令父亲让她留在君临，和乔佛里成亲。话虽如此，她却一直很怕这个讲话粗声粗气，成天喝得酩酊大醉的国王，更何况就算当真见到他，他很可能只会派人把她送回父亲身边。所以她去找王后，将心事和盘吐露，瑟曦听完之后，郑重地向她道谢……接着却派亚历斯爵士护送她到梅葛楼的高塔房间，并在门外安排守卫，没过多久，外面便传来打斗声。“求求您，”她把话说完，“您一定要让我嫁给乔佛里，我会当个好妻子的，真的，我保证会当个像您一样的王后。”
　　瑟曦王后看看其他人。“诸位重臣大人，关于她的请求，您们有何看法？”
　　“可怜的孩子，”瓦里斯喃喃道，“王后陛下，多么纯洁的一片痴情，若不答应她未免也太残忍了……但话又说回来，她父亲终究难辞其咎，我们还能怎么样呢？”他柔软的双手相互搓揉，做出无助又无奈的手势。
　　“既然是叛国者的种，只怕背叛之性已在她心中生根发芽。”派席尔国师道，“她眼下是个讨人喜欢的好孩子，可十年以后会怎样呢？谁也说不准。”
　　“不，”珊莎惊恐地说，“我不是，我不会……我绝不会背叛乔佛里，我爱他啊，我发誓我真的爱他。”
　　“噢，真叫人辛酸哪，”瓦里斯道，“但归根结底，毕竟誓言不及血统可靠啊。”
　　“她像母亲，不像父亲，”培提尔·贝里席伯爵轻声说，“你们看看她，这头发和眼晴，十足就是当年的凯特。”
　　王后看着她，显然伤透脑筋，但珊莎发现她那对澄澈的碧绿眸子里闪着慈蔼。“孩子，”她说，“如果我能相信你的确和你父亲不一样，那再没有什么事比你嫁给乔佛里更让我高兴的了。我知道他也是全心全意爱着你。”她叹口气，“怕只怕瓦里斯大人和派席尔国师说得没错。血统决定一切，我还记得你妹妹是怎么放狼咬我儿子的。”
　　“我跟艾莉亚才不一样，”珊莎冲口便说，“她流着叛国者的血液，我可没有。我很听话，问问茉丹修女就知道了。我只想作乔佛里忠诚的好妻子。”
　　王后仔细审视她的脸，她能感觉王后眼神的重量。“孩子，我相信你说的都是真话。”她转头面对其他人。“诸位大人，依我看来，如果她的家人都肯在此动荡之际宣誓效忠王室，那么我们大可不必为她担心。”
　　派席尔国师捻捻大把的软胡须，若有所思地皱起宽眉。“艾德大人有三个儿子。”
　　“都是些孩子，”培提尔伯爵耸肩，“我比较担心凯特琳夫人和徒利家族。”
　　王后双手握住珊莎手掌。“孩子，你可会读书写字？”
　　珊莎不安地点点头。她不论读书写字都比兄弟要行，但一遇算术就没办法。
　　“我很高兴。或许你和乔佛里还有希望……”
　　“您要我怎么做呢？”
　　“你得写信给你母亲，以及你大哥……他叫什么名字？”
　　“罗柏。”珊莎说。
　　“你父亲大人叛国的事，相信不久自会传到他们耳中，所以由你亲自来讲比较妥善。你得告诉他们艾德大人背叛国王的经过。”
　　珊莎极度渴望乔佛里，但她却不知自己是否有照王后吩咐去做的勇气。“可他没有……我不知……陛下，我不知道该怎么写……”
　　王后拍拍她的手。“好孩子，我们会告诉你该怎么写。重要的是你必须敦促凯特琳夫人和你哥哥维护国内和平。”
　　“如果他们不愿听从，情况可对他们不利。”派席尔国师道，“看在你们之间的亲情份上，说什么你都该敦请他们做出明智的抉择。”
　　“你的母亲大人此刻一定非常为你担心，”王后道，“你该告诉她，你正受我们妥善的照顾，一切平安无事，衣食无虞。并邀请他们在乔佛里登基之日，前来君临宣誓效忠。如果他们照办……哎，那我们就知道你的血液里没有一丝一毫的污染，等你有了月事，成为真正的女人，我们就让你和国王在贝勒大圣堂结婚，让天上诸神和地上百姓作见证。”
　　……和国王结婚……这几个字让她呼吸急促，但珊莎依旧有些迟疑。“或许……如果我可以先见见父亲大人，和他谈谈……”
　　“造反的事？”瓦里斯伯爵提示。
　　“珊莎，你太令我失望了。”王后的眼神转为严峻，有如坚硬磐石。“我们已经告诉过你令尊的罪行，假如你真如自己所说那么忠于王室，为何还要见他？”
　　“我……我只是想……”珊莎湿了眼眶。“他没事吧？……请您告诉我，他有没有……受伤，还是……还是……”
　　“艾德大人毫发无伤。”王后说。
　　“可是……你们要如何处置他？”
　　“此事只有国王陛下才能决定。”派席尔国师满腹思量地宣布。
　　国王陛下！珊莎眨眨眼睛忍住泪水。她这才想起，如今乔佛里是国王了。无论他最后作何决定，她相信她的白马王子绝不会伤害父亲。她确信只要自己去找他，求他手下留情，他一定会听的。他怎么可能不听呢？他那么爱她，王后不也这么说？虽然小乔处罚父亲在所难免，群臣也会如此期待，但或许他能把他送回临冬城，或者将他放逐到狭海对岸的自由贸易城邦。只要他安心待个几年，等她和乔佛里成婚，一旦她贵为王后，便可劝说乔佛里赦免父亲的罪行，放他回家。
　　可是……万一母亲和罗柏做出什么违法犯上的事，比如召集封臣举兵叛乱，或是不肯宣誓效忠，那后果可就不堪设想。虽然她心里清楚乔佛里有副高贵的好心肠，可他毕竟身为一国之君，对叛变之事非得严惩不贷，所以她一定要让母亲他们了解，她非这样做不可！
　　“那……那我就写吧。”珊莎告诉他们。
　　瑟曦·兰尼斯特露出如旭日般温煦的笑容，靠过来轻吻她的脸颊。“我知道你会的。等我告诉乔佛里你今天有多勇敢，多懂事，他一定会倍感骄傲。”
　　最后她一共写了四封信。收件人包括母亲凯特琳·史塔克夫人，她临冬城的兄弟们，以及阿姨和爷爷，也就是鹰巢城的莱莎·艾林夫人和奔流城的霍斯特·徒利公爵。待她写完，手指已经酸麻僵硬，沾满墨水。瓦里斯拿来父亲的印章，她在蜡烛上融了白色蜂蜡，小心翼翼地倒在信封口，然后看着太监用史塔克家族的冰原狼印章依次盖上。
　　曼登·穆尔爵士送她回到梅葛楼的高塔时，珍妮·普尔和她的东西已经没了踪影。再也不用听她哭个不休，她有些感激地想。然而少了珍妮，这里却越发显得清冷，即便她生起一炉火也一样。她拉张椅子靠近炉边，从书架上取了本她最喜欢的书，容许自己暂时躲进佛罗理安和琼琪，希拉小姐与彩虹骑士，以及英勇的伊蒙王子和他兄弟之妻注定悲剧收场的爱情故事里。
　　直到当晚准备上床的时候，珊莎才想起自己忘问妹妹的事了。
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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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52.JON
   Othor,” announced Ser Jaremy Rykker, “beyond a doubt. And this one was Jafer Flowers.” He turned the corpse over with his foot, and the dead white face stared up at the overcast sky with blue, blue eyes. “They were Ben Stark’s men, both of them.”
   My uncle’s men, Jon thought numbly. He remembered how he’d pleaded to ride with them. Gods, I was such a green boy. If he had taken me, it might be me lying here?.?.?.?
   Jafer’s right wrist ended in the ruin of torn flesh and splintered bone left by Ghost’s jaws. His right hand was floating in a jar of vinegar back in Maester Aemon’s tower. His left hand, still at the end of his arm, was as black as his cloak.
   “Gods have mercy,” the Old Bear muttered. He swung down from his garron, handing his reins to Jon. The morning was unnaturally warm; beads of sweat dotted the Lord Commander’s broad forehead like dew on a melon. His horse was nervous, rolling her eyes, backing away from the dead men as far as her lead would allow. Jon led her off a few paces, fighting to keep her from bolting. The horses did not like the feel of this place. For that matter, neither did Jon.
   The dogs liked it least of all. Ghost had led the party here; the pack of hounds had been useless. When Bass the kennelmaster had tried to get them to take the scent from the severed hand, they had gone wild, yowling and barking, fighting to get away. Even now they were snarling and whimpering by turns, pulling at their leashes while Chett cursed them for curs.
   It is only a wood, Jon told himself, and they’re only dead men. He had seen dead men before?.?.?.?
   Last night he had dreamt the Winterfell dream again. He was wandering the empty castle, searching for his father, descending into the crypts. Only this time the dream had gone further than before. In the dark he’d heard the scrape of stone on stone. When he turned he saw that the vaults were opening, one after the other. As the dead kings came stumbling from their cold black graves, Jon had woken in pitch-dark, his heart hammering. Even when Ghost leapt up on the bed to nuzzle at his face, he could not shake his deep sense of terror. He dared not go back to sleep. Instead he had climbed the Wall and walked, restless, until he saw the light of the dawn off to the cast. It was only a dream. I am a brother of the Night’s Watch now, not a frightened boy.
   Samwell Tarly huddled beneath the trees, half-hidden behind the horses. His round fat face was the color of curdled milk. So far he had not lurched off to the woods to retch, but he had not so much as glanced at the dead men either. “I can’t look,” he whispered miserably.
   “You have to look,” Jon told him, keeping his voice low so the others would not hear. “Maester Aemon sent you to be his eyes, didn’t he? What good are eyes if they’re shut?”
   “Yes, but?.?.?.?I’m such a coward, Jon.”
   Jon put a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “We have a dozen rangers with us, and the dogs, even Ghost. No one will hurt you, Sam. Go ahead and look. The first look is the hardest.”
   Sam gave a tremulous nod, working up his courage with a visible effort. Slowly he swiveled his head. His eyes widened, but Jon held his arm so he could not turn away.
   “Ser Jaremy,” the Old Bear asked gruffly, “Ben Stark had six men with him when he rode from the Wall. Where are the others?”
   Ser Jaremy shook his head. “Would that I knew.”
   Plainly Mormont was not pleased with that answer. “Two of our brothers butchered almost within sight of the Wall, yet your rangers heard nothing, saw nothing. Is this what the Night’s Watch has fallen to? Do we still sweep these woods?”
   “Yes, my lord, but...”
   “Do we still mount watches?”
   “We do, but...”
   “This man wears a hunting horn.” Mormont pointed at Othor. “Must I suppose that he died without sounding it? Or have your rangers all gone deaf as well as blind?”
   Ser Jaremy bristled, his face taut with anger. “No horn was blown, my lord, or my rangers would have heard it. I do not have sufficient men to mount as many patrols as I should like?.?.?.?and since Benjen was lost, we have stayed closer to the Wall than we were wont to do before, by your own command.”
   The Old Bear grunted. “Yes. Well. Be that as it may.” He made an impatient gesture. “Tell me how they died.”
   Squatting beside the dead man he had named Jafer Flowers, Ser Jaremy grasped his head by the scalp. The hair came out between his fingers, brittle as straw. The knight cursed and shoved at the face with the heel of his hand. A great gash in the side of the corpse’s neck opened like a mouth, crusted with dried blood. Only a few ropes of pale tendon still attached the head to the neck. “This was done with an axe.”
   “Aye,” muttered Dywen, the old forester. “Belike the axe that Othor carried, m’lord.”
   Jon could feel his breakfast churning in his belly, but he pressed his lips together and made himself look at the second body. Othor had been a big ugly man, and he made a big ugly corpse. No axe was in evidence. Jon remembered Othor; he had been the one bellowing the bawdy song as the rangers rode out. His singing days were done. His flesh was blanched white as milk, everywhere but his hands. His hands were black like Jafer’s. Blossoms of hard cracked blood decorated the mortal wounds that covered him like a rash, breast and groin and throat. Yet his eyes were still open. They stared up at the sky, blue as sapphires.
   Ser Jaremy stood. “The wildlings have axes too.”
   Mormont rounded on him. “So you believe this is Mance Rayder’s work? This close to the Wall?”
   “Who else, my lord?”
   Jon could have told him. He knew, they all knew, yet no man of them would say the words. The Others are only a story, a tale to make children shiver. If they ever lived at all, they are gone eight thousand years. Even the thought made him feel foolish; he was a man grown now, a black brother of the Night’s Watch, not the boy who’d once sat at Old Nan’s feet with Bran and Robb and Arya.
   Yet Lord Commander Mormont gave a snort. “If Ben Stark had come under wildling attack a half day’s ride from Castle Black, he would have returned for more men, chased the killers through all seven hells and brought me back their heads.”
   “Unless he was slain as well,” Ser Jaremy insisted.
   The words hurt, even now. It had been so long, it seemed folly to cling to the hope that Ben Stark was still alive, but Jon Snow was nothing if not stubborn.
   “It has been close on half a year since Benjen left us, my lord,” Ser Jaremy went on. “The forest is vast. The wildlings might have fallen on him anywhere. I’d wager these two were the last survivors of his party, on their way back to us?.?.?.?but the enemy caught them before they could reach the safety of the Wall. The corpses are still fresh, these men cannot have been dead more than a day?.?.?.?.”
   “No,” Samwell Tarly squeaked.
   Jon was startled. Sam’s nervous, high-pitched voice was the last he would have expected to hear. The fat boy was frightened of the officers, and Ser Jaremy was not known for his patience.
   “I did not ask for your views, boy,” Rykker said coldly.
   “Let him speak, ser,” Jon blurted.
   Mormont’s eyes flicked from Sam to Jon and back again. “If the lad has something to say, I’ll hear him out. Come closer, boy. We can’t see you behind those horses.”
   Sam edged past Jon and the garrons, sweating profusely. “My lord, it?.?.?.?it can’t be a day or?.?.?.?look?.?.?.?the blood?.?.?.?”
   “Yes?” Mormont growled impatiently. “Blood, what of it?”
   “He soils his smallclothes at the sight of it,” Chett shouted out, and the rangers laughed.
   Sam mopped at the sweat on his brow. “You?.?.?.?you can see where Ghost?.?.?.?Jon’s direwolf?.?.?.?you can see where he tore off that man’s hand, and yet?.?.?.?the stump hasn’t bled, look?.?.?.?” He waved a hand. “My father?.?.?.?L-lord Randyll, he, he made me watch him dress animals sometimes, when?.?.?.?after?.?.?.?” Sam shook his head from side to side, his chins quivering. Now that he had looked at the bodies, he could not seem to look away. “A fresh kill?.?.?.?the blood would still flow, my lords. Later?.?.?.?later it would be clotted, like a?.?.?.?a jelly, thick and?.?.?.?and?.?.?.?” He looked as though he was going to be sick. “This man?.?.?.?look at the wrist, it’s all?.?.?.?crusty?.?.?.?dry?.?.?.?like ?.?.?.?”
   Jon saw at once what Sam meant. He could see the torn veins in the dead man’s wrist, iron worms in the pale flesh. His blood was a black dust. Yet Jaremy Rykker was unconvinced. “If they’d been dead much longer than a day, they’d be ripe by now, boy. They don’t even smell.”
   Dywen, the gnarled old forester who liked to boast that he could smell snow coming on, sidled closer to the corpses and took a whiff. “Well, they’re no pansy flowers, but?.?.?.?m’lord has the truth of it. There’s no corpse stink.”
   “They?.?.?.?they aren’t rotting.” Sam pointed, his fat finger shaking only a little. “Look, there’s?.?.?.?there’s no maggots or?.?.?.?or?.?.?.?worms or anything?.?.?.?they’ve been lying here in the woods, but they?.?.?.?they haven’t been chewed or eaten by animals?.?.?.?only Ghost?.?.?.?otherwise they’re?.?.?.?they’re?.?.?.?”
   “Untouched,” Jon said softly. “And Ghost is different. The dogs and the horses won’t go near them.”
   The rangers exchanged glances; they could see it was true, every man of them. Mormont frowned, glancing from the corpses to the dogs. “Chett, bring the hounds closer.”
   Chett tried, cursing, yanking on the leashes, giving one animal a lick of his boot. Most of the dogs just whimpered and planted their feet. He tried dragging one. The bitch resisted, growling and squirming as if to escape her collar. Finally she lunged at him. Chett dropped the leash and stumbled backward. The dog leapt over him and bounded off into the trees.
   “This?.?.?.?this is all wrong,” Sam Tarly said earnestly. “The blood?.?.?.?there’s bloodstains on their clothes, and?.?.?.?and their flesh, dry and hard, but?.?.?.?there’s none on the ground, or?.?.?.?anywhere. With those?.?.?.?those?.?.?.?those?.?.?.?” Sam made himself swallow, took a deep breath. “With those wounds?.?.?.?terrible wounds?.?.?.?there should be blood all over. Shouldn’t there?”
   Dywen sucked at his wooden teeth. “Might be they didn’t die here. Might be someone brought ’em and left ’em for us. A warning, as like.” The old forester peered down suspiciously. “And might be I’m a fool, but I don’t know that Othor never had no blue eyes afore.”
   Ser Jaremy looked startled. “Neither did Flowers,” he blurted, turning to stare at the dead man.
   A silence fell over the wood. For a moment all they heard was Sam’s heavy breathing and the wet sound of Dywen sucking on his teeth. Jon squatted beside Ghost.
   “Burn them,” someone whispered. One of the rangers; Jon could not have said who. “Yes, burn them,” a second voice urged.
   The Old Bear gave a stubborn shake of his head. “Not yet. I want Maester Aemon to have a look at them. We’ll bring them back to the Wall.”
   Some commands are more easily given than obeyed. They wrapped the dead men in cloaks, but when Hake and Dywen tried to tie one onto a horse, the animal went mad, screaming and rearing, lashing out with its hooves, even biting at Ketter when he ran to help. The rangers had no better luck with the other garrons; not even the most placid wanted any part of these burdens. In the end they were forced to hack off branches and fashion crude slings to carry the corpses back on foot. It was well past midday by the time they started back.
   “I will have these woods searched,” Mormont commanded Ser Jaremy as they set out. “Every tree, every rock, every bush, and every foot of muddy ground within ten leagues of here. Use all the men you have, and if you do not have enough, borrow hunters and foresters from the stewards. If Ben and the others are out here, dead or alive, I will have them found. And if there is anyone else in these woods, I will know of it. You are to track them and take them, alive if possible. Is that understood?”
   “It is, my lord,” Ser Jaremy said. “It will be done.”
   After that, Mormont rode in silence, brooding. Jon followed close behind him; as the Lord Commander’s steward, that was his place. The day was grey, damp, overcast, the sort of day that made you wish for rain. No wind stirred the wood; the air hung humid and heavy, and Jon’s clothes clung to his skin. It was warm. Too warm. The Wall was weeping copiously, had been weeping for days, and sometimes Jon even imagined it was shrinking.
   The old men called this weather spirit summer, and said it meant the season was giving up its ghosts at last. After this the cold would come, they warned, and a long summer always meant a long winter. This summer had lasted ten years. Jon had been a babe in arms when it began.
   Ghost ran with them for a time and then vanished among the trees. Without the direwolf, Jon felt almost naked. He found himself glancing at every shadow with unease. Unbidden, he thought back on the tales that Old Nan used to tell them, when he was a boy at Winterfell. He could almost hear her voice again, and the click-click-click of her needles. In that darkness, the Others came riding, she used to say, dropping her voice lower and lower. Cold and dead they were, and they hated iron and fire and the touch of the sun, and every living creature with hot blood in its veins. Holdfasts and cities and kingdoms of men all fell before them, as they moved south on pale dead horses, leading hosts of the slain. They fed their dead servants on the flesh of human children?.?.?.?
   When he caught his first glimpse of the Wall looming above the tops of an ancient gnarled oak, Jon was vastly relieved. Mormont reined up suddenly and turned in his saddle. “Tarly,” he barked, “come here.”
   Jon saw the start of fright on Sam’s face as he lumbered up on his mare; doubtless he thought he was in trouble. “You’re fat but you’re not stupid, boy,” the Old Bear said gruffly. “You did well back there. And you, Snow.”
   Sam blushed a vivid crimson and tripped over his own tongue as he tried to stammer out a courtesy. Jon had to smile.
   When they emerged from under the trees, Mormont spurred his tough little garron to a trot. Ghost came streaking out from the woods to meet them, licking his chops, his muzzle red from prey. High above, the men on the Wall saw the column approaching. Jon heard the deep, throaty call of the watchman’s great horn, calling out across the miles; a single long blast that shuddered through the trees and echoed off the ice.
   UUUUUUUOOOOOOOOOOOOOOooooooooooooooooooooooo.
   The sound faded slowly to silence. One blast meant rangers returning, and Jon thought, I was a ranger for one day, at least. Whatever may come, they cannot take that away from me.
   Bowen Marsh was waiting at the first gate as they led their garrons through the icy tunnel. The Lord Steward was red-faced and agitated. “My lord,” he blurted at Mormont as he swung open the iron bars, “there’s been a bird, you must come at once.”
   “What is it, man?” Mormont said gruffly.
   Curiously, Marsh glanced at Jon before he answered. “Maester Aemon has the letter. He’s waiting in your solar.”
   “Very well. Jon, see to my horse, and tell Ser Jaremy to put the dead men in a storeroom until the maester is ready for them.” Mormont strode away grumbling.
   As they led their horses back to the stable, Jon was uncomfortably aware that people were watching him. Ser Alliser Thorne was drilling his boys in the yard, but he broke off to stare at Jon, a faint half smile on his lips. One-armed Donal Noye stood in the door of the armory. “The gods be with you, Snow,” he called out.
   Something’s wrong, Jon thought. Something’s very wrong.
   The dead men were carried to one of the storerooms along the base of the Wall, a dark cold cell chiseled from the ice and used to keep meat and grain and sometimes even beer. Jon saw that Mormont’s horse was fed and watered and groomed before he took care of his own. Afterward he sought out his friends. Grenn and Toad were on watch, but he found Pyp in the common hall. “What’s happened?” he asked.
   Pyp lowered his voice. “The king’s dead.”
   Jon was stunned. Robert Baratheon had looked old and fat when he visited Winterfell, yet he’d seemed hale enough, and there’d been no talk of illness. “How can you know?”
   “One of the guards overheard Clydas reading the letter to Maester Aemon.” Pyp leaned close. “Jon, I’m sorry. He was your father’s friend, wasn’t he?”
   “They were as close as brothers, once.” Jon wondered if Joffrey would keep his father as the King’s Hand. It did not seem likely. That might mean Lord Eddard would return to Winterfell, and his sisters as well. He might even be allowed to visit them, with Lord Mormont’s permission. It would be good to see Arya’s grin again and to talk with his father. I will ask him about my mother, he resolved. I am a man now, it is past time he told me. Even if she was a whore, I don’t care, I want to know.
   “I heard Hake say the dead men were your uncle’s,” Pyp said.
   “Yes,” Jon replied. “Two of the six he took with him. They’d been dead a long time, only?.?.?.?the bodies are queer.”
   “Queer?” Pyp was all curiosity. “How queer?”
   “Sam will tell you.” Jon did not want to talk of it. “I should see if the Old Bear has need of me.”
   He walked to the Lord Commander’s Tower alone, with a curious sense of apprehension. The brothers on guard eyed him solemnly as he approached. “The Old Bear’s in his solar,” one of them announced. “He was asking for you.”
   Jon nodded. He should have come straight from the stable. He climbed the tower steps briskly. He wants wine or a fire in his hearth, that’s all, he told himself.
   When he entered the solar, Mormont’s raven screamed at him. “Corn!” the bird shrieked. “Corn! Corn! Corn!”
   “Don’t you believe it, I just fed him,” the Old Bear growled. He was seated by the window, reading a letter. “Bring me a cup of wine, and pour one for yourself.”
   “For myself, my lord?”
   Mormont lifted his eyes from the letter to stare at Jon. There was pity in that look; he could taste it. “You heard me.”
   Jon poured with exaggerated care, vaguely aware that he was drawing out the act. When the cups were filled, he would have no choice but to face whatever was in that letter. Yet all too soon, they were filled. “Sit, boy,” Mormont commanded him. “Drink.”
   Jon remained standing. “It’s my father, isn’t it?”
   The Old Bear tapped the letter with a finger. “Your father and the king,” he rumbled. “I won’t lie to you, it’s grievous news. I never thought to see another king, not at my age, with Robert half my years and strong as a bull.” He took a gulp of wine. “They say the king loved to hunt. The things we love destroy us every time, lad. Remember that. My son loved that young wife of his. Vain woman. If not for her, he would never have thought to sell those poachers.”
   Jon could scarcely follow what he was saying. “My lord, I don’t understand. What’s happened to my father?”
   “I told you to sit,” Mormont grumbled. “Sit,” the raven screamed. “And have a drink, damn you. That’s a command, Snow.”
   Jon sat, and took a sip of wine.
   “Lord Eddard has been imprisoned. He is charged with treason. It is said he plotted with Robert’s brothers to deny the throne to Prince Joffrey.”
   “No,” Jon said at once. “That couldn’t be. My father would never betray the king!”
   “Be that as it may,” said Mormont. “It is not for me to say. Nor for you.”
   “But it’s a lie,” Jon insisted. How could they think his father was a traitor, had they all gone mad? Lord Eddard Stark would never dishonor himself?.?.?.?would he?
   He fathered a bastard, a small voice whispered inside him. Where was the honor in that? And your mother, what of her? He will not even speak her name.
   “My lord, what will happen to him? Will they kill him?”
   “As to that, I cannot say, lad. I mean to send a letter. I knew some of the king’s councillors in my youth. Old Pycelle, Lord Stannis, Ser Barristan?.?.?.?Whatever your father has done, or hasn’t done, he is a great lord. He must be allowed to take the black and join us here. Gods knows, we need men of Lord Eddard’s ability.”
   Jon knew that other men accused of treason had been allowed to redeem their honor on the Wall in days past. Why not Lord Eddard? His father here. That was a strange thought, and strangely uncomfortable. It would be a monstrous injustice to strip him of Winterfell and force him to take the black, and yet if it meant his life?.?.?.?
   And would Joffrey allow it? He remembered the prince at Winterfell, the way he’d mocked Robb and Ser Rodrik in the yard. Jon himself he had scarcely even noticed; bastards were beneath even his contempt. “My lord, will the king listen to you?”
   The Old Bear shrugged. “A boy king?.?.?.?I imagine he’ll listen to his mother. A pity the dwarf isn’t with them. He’s the lad’s uncle, and he saw our need when he visited us. It was a bad thing, your lady mother taking him captive...”
   “Lady Stark is not my mother,” Jon reminded him sharply. Tyrion Lannister had been a friend to him. If Lord Eddard was killed, she would be as much to blame as the queen. “My lord, what of my sisters? Arya and Sansa, they were with my father, do you know...”
   “Pycelle makes no mention of them, but doubtless they’ll be treated gently. I will ask about them when I write.” Mormont shook his head. “This could not have happened at a worse time. If ever the realm needed a strong king?.?.?.?there are dark days and cold nights ahead, I feel it in my bones?.?.?.?” He gave Jon a long shrewd look. “I hope you are not thinking of doing anything stupid, boy.”
   He’s my father, Jon wanted to say, but he knew that Mormont would not want to hear it. His throat was dry. He made himself take another sip of wine.
   “Your duty is here now,” the Lord Commander reminded him. “Your old life ended when you took the black.” His bird made a raucous echo. “Black.” Mormont took no notice. “Whatever they do in King’s Landing is none of our concern.” When Jon did not answer, the old man finished his wine and said, “You’re free to go. I’ll have no further need of you today. On the morrow you can help me write that letter.”
   Jon did not remember standing or leaving the solar. The next he knew, he was descending the tower steps, thinking, This is my father, my sisters, how can it be none of my concern?
   Outside, one of the guards looked at him and said, “Be strong, boy. The gods are cruel.”
   They know, Jon realized. “My father is no traitor,” he said hoarsely. Even the words stuck in his throat, as if to choke him. The wind was rising, and it seemed colder in the yard than it had when he’d gone in. Spirit summer was drawing to an end.
   The rest of the afternoon passed as if in a dream. Jon could not have said where he walked, what he did, who he spoke with. Ghost was with him, he knew that much. The silent presence of the direwolf gave him comfort. The girls do not even have that much, he thought. Their wolves might have kept them safe, but Lady is dead and Nymeria’s lost, they’re all alone.
   A north wind had begun to blow by the time the sun went down. Jon could hear it skirling against the Wall and over the icy battlements as he went to the common hall for the evening meal. Hobb had cooked up a venison stew, thick with barley, onions, and carrots. When he spooned an extra portion onto Jon’s plate and gave him the crusty heel of the bread, he knew what it meant. He knows. He looked around the hall, saw heads turn quickly, eyes politely averted. They all know.
   His friends rallied to him. “We asked the septon to light a candle for your father,” Matthar told him. “It’s a lie, we all know it’s a lie, even Grenn knows it’s a lie,” Pyp chimed in. Grenn nodded, and Sam clasped Jon’s hand, “You’re my brother now, so he’s my father too,” the fat boy said. “If you want to go out to the weirwoods and pray to the old gods, I’ll go with you.”
   The weirwoods were beyond the Wall, yet he knew Sam meant what he said. They are my brothers, he thought. As much as Robb and Bran and Rickon?.?.?.?
   And then he heard the laughter, sharp and cruel as a whip, and the voice of Ser Alliser Thorne. “Not only a bastard, but a traitor’s bastard,” he was telling the men around him.
   In the blink of an eye, Jon had vaulted onto the table, dagger in his hand. Pyp made a grab for him, but he wrenched his leg away, and then he was sprinting down the table and kicking the bowl from Ser Alliser’s hand. Stew went flying everywhere, spattering the brothers. Thorne recoiled. People were shouting, but Jon Snow did not hear them. He lunged at Ser Alliser’s face with the dagger, slashing at those cold onyx eyes, but Sam threw himself between them and before Jon could get around him, Pyp was on his back clinging like a monkey, and Grenn was grabbing his arm while Toad wrenched the knife from his fingers.
   Later, much later, after they had marched him back to his sleeping cell, Mormont came down to see him, raven on his shoulder. “I told you not to do anything stupid, boy,” the Old Bear said. “Boy,” the bird chorused. Mormont shook his head, disgusted. “And to think I had high hopes for you.”
   They took his knife and his sword and told him he was not to leave his cell until the high officers met to decide what was to be done with him. And then they placed a guard outside his door to make certain he obeyed. His friends were not allowed to see him, but the Old Bear did relent and permit him Ghost, so he was not utterly alone.
   “My father is no traitor,” he told the direwolf when the rest had gone. Ghost looked at him in silence. Jon slumped against the wall, hands around his knees, and stared at the candle on the table beside his narrow bed. The flame flickered and swayed, the shadows moved around him, the room seemed to grow darker and colder. I will not sleep tonight, Jon thought.
   Yet he must have dozed. When he woke, his legs were stiff and cramped and the candle had long since burned out. Ghost stood on his hind legs, scrabbling at the door. Jon was startled to see how tall he’d grown. “Ghost, what is it?” he called softly. The direwolf turned his head and looked down at him, baring his fangs in a silent snarl. Has he gone mad? Jon wondered. “It’s me, Ghost,” he murmured, trying not to sound afraid. Yet he was trembling, violently. When had it gotten so cold?
   Ghost backed away from the door. There were deep gouges where he’d raked the wood. Jon watched him with mounting disquiet. “There’s someone out there, isn’t there?” he whispered. Crouching, the direwolf crept backward, white fur rising on the back of his neck. The guard, he thought, they left a man to guard my door, Ghost smells him through the door, that’s all it is.
   Slowly, Jon pushed himself to his feet. He was shivering uncontrollably, wishing he still had a sword. Three quick steps brought him to the door. He grabbed the handle and pulled it inward. The creak of the hinges almost made him jump.
   His guard was sprawled bonelessly across the narrow steps, looking up at him. Looking up at him, even though he was lying on his stomach. His head had been twisted completely around.
   It can’t be, Jon told himself. This is the Lord Commander’s Tower, it’s guarded day and night, this couldn’t happen, it’s a dream, I’m having a nightmare.
   Ghost slid past him, out the door. The wolf started up the steps, stopped, looked back at Jon. That was when he heard it; the soft scrape of a boot on stone, the sound of a latch turning. The sounds came from above. From the Lord Commander’s chambers.
   A nightmare this might be, yet it was no dream.
   The guard’s sword was in its sheath. Jon knelt and worked it free. The heft of steel in his fist made him bolder. He moved up the steps, Ghost padding silently before him. Shadows lurked in every turn of the stair. Jon crept up warily, probing any suspicious darkness with the point of his sword.
   Suddenly he heard the shriek of Mormont’s raven. “Corn,” the bird was screaming. “Corn, corn, corn, corn, corn, corn.” Ghost bounded ahead, and Jon came scrambling after. The door to Mormont’s solar was wide open. The direwolf plunged through. Jon stopped in the doorway, blade in hand, giving his eyes a moment to adjust. Heavy drapes had been pulled across the windows, and the darkness was black as ink. “Who’s there?” he called out.
   Then he saw it, a shadow in the shadows, sliding toward the inner door that led to Mormont’s sleeping cell, a man-shape all in black, cloaked and hooded?.?.?.?but beneath the hood, its eyes shone with an icy blue radiance?.?.?.?
   Ghost leapt. Man and wolf went down together with neither scream nor snarl, rolling, smashing into a chair, knocking over a table laden with papers. Mormont’s raven was flapping overhead, screaming, “Corn, corn, corn, corn.” Jon felt as blind as Maester Aemon. Keeping the wall to his back, he slid toward the window and ripped down the curtain. Moonlight flooded the solar. He glimpsed black hands buried in white fur, swollen dark fingers tightening around his direwolf’s throat. Ghost was twisting and snapping, legs flailing in the air, but he could not break free.
   Jon had no time to be afraid. He threw himself forward, shouting, bringing down the longsword with all his weight behind it. Steel sheared through sleeve and skin and bone, yet the sound was wrong somehow. The smell that engulfed him was so queer and cold he almost gagged. He saw arm and hand on the floor, black fingers wriggling in a pool of moonlight. Ghost wrenched free of the other hand and crept away, red tongue lolling from his mouth.
   The hooded man lifted his pale moon face, and Jon slashed at it without hesitation. The sword laid the intruder open to the bone, taking off half his nose and opening a gash cheek to cheek under those eyes, eyes, eyes like blue stars burning. Jon knew that face. Othor, he thought, reeling back. Gods, he’s dead, he’s dead, I saw him dead.
   He felt something scrabble at his ankle. Black fingers clawed at his calf. The arm was crawling up his leg, ripping at wool and flesh. Shouting with revulsion, Jon pried the fingers off his leg with the point of his sword and flipped the thing away. It lay writhing, fingers opening and closing.
   The corpse lurched forward. There was no blood. One-armed, face cut near in half, it seemed to feel nothing. Jon held the longsword before him. “Stay away!” he commanded, his voice gone shrill. “Corn,” screamed the raven, “corn, corn.” The severed arm was wriggling out of its torn sleeve, a pale snake with a black five-fingered head. Ghost pounced and got it between his teeth. Finger bones crunched. Jon hacked at the corpse’s neck, felt the steel bite deep and hard.
   Dead Othor slammed into him, knocking him off his feet.
   Jon’s breath went out of him as the fallen table caught him between his shoulder blades. The sword, where was the sword? He’d lost the damned sword! When he opened his mouth to scream, the wight jammed its black corpse fingers into Jon’s mouth. Gagging, he tried to shove it off, but the dead man was too heavy. Its hand forced itself farther down his throat, icy cold, choking him. Its face was against his own, filling the world. Frost covered its eyes, sparkling blue. Jon raked cold flesh with his nails and kicked at the thing’s legs. He tried to bite, tried to punch, tried to breathe?.?.?.?
   And suddenly the corpse’s weight was gone, its fingers ripped from his throat. It was all Jon could do to roll over, retching and shaking.
   Ghost had it again. He watched as the direwolf buried his teeth in the wight’s gut and began to rip and tear. He watched, only half conscious, for a long moment before he finally remembered to look for his sword?.?.?.?
   ?.?.?.?and saw Lord Mormont, naked and groggy from sleep, standing in the doorway with an oil lamp in hand. Gnawed and fingerless, the arm thrashed on the floor, wriggling toward him.
   Jon tried to shout, but his voice was gone. Staggering to his feet, he kicked the arm away and snatched the lamp from the Old Bear’s fingers. The flame flickered and almost died. “Burn!” the raven cawed. “Burn, burn, burn!”
   Spinning, Jon saw the drapes he’d ripped from the window. He flung the lamp into the puddled cloth with both hands. Metal crunched, glass shattered, oil spewed, and the hangings went up in a great whoosh of flame. The heat of it on his face was sweeter than any kiss Jon had ever known. “Ghost!” he shouted.
   The direwolf wrenched free and came to him as the wight struggled to rise, dark snakes spilling from the great wound in its belly. Jon plunged his hand into the flames, grabbed a fistful of the burning drapes, and whipped them at the dead man. Let it burn, he prayed as the cloth smothered the corpse, gods, please, please, let it burn.
  



Ⅰ 权力的游戏 Chapter53 琼恩
　　“这是奥瑟，”杰瑞米·莱克爵士宣布，“错不了。另外那个是杰佛·佛花。”他用脚把尸体翻过来，死尸脸色惨白，蓝澄澄的双眼睁得老大，瞪着阴霾不开的天空。“他们两个都是班·史塔克手下的人。”
　　他们是叔叔手下的人，琼恩木然地想。他忆起自己当初哀求与他们同去的模样。诸神保佑，我果真是个稚气未脱的孩子。假如叔叔带的是我，或许就换我躺在这儿了……
　　杰佛的右臂被白灵齐腕咬断，末端只剩一团血肉模糊。他的右手掌此刻正在伊蒙师傅的塔里，悬浮于醋罐之中。至于他的左掌，虽然还好端端地接在臂膀上，却和他的斗篷一般黑。
　　“诸神慈悲。”熊老喃喃道。他翻身从犁马背上跳下，把缰绳交给琼恩。这是个异常暖和的清晨，守夜人司令宽阔的额间遍布汗珠，犹如甜瓜表面的露水。他的坐骑十分局促，一边翻着白眼，一边扯着缰绳，想从死人身边退开。琼恩牵它走开几步，努力不让它挣脱奔走。马儿不喜欢此地的感觉，话说回来，琼恩自己也不喜欢。
　　狗们更是深恶痛绝。带领队伍到这儿的是白灵，整群猎犬根本毫无用处。之前驯兽长贝斯试着拿断手给它们闻，好让它们记住气味，结果狗群整个发狂，又吠又叫，拼死命要逃开。即便到现在，它们也依然时而咆哮时而哀嚎，用力拉扯狗链，齐特为此咒骂不已。
　　这不过是座森林，狗儿闻到的只是尸臭罢了，琼恩这么告诉自己。他刚见过死人……
　　就在昨夜，他又作了那个临冬城的梦。梦中他漫游在空荡荡的城堡，四处寻找父亲，最后下楼梯进了墓窖。但这次梦境并未在此结束。在黑暗中他听见石头刮碰的声音，猛一转身，只见墓穴一个个打开来，死去已久的国王纷纷由冰冷黑暗的坟中蹒跚走出。琼恩恍然惊醒，四周一片漆黑，心脏狂跳。连白灵跳上床，用嘴巴摩擦他的脸，也难减轻他心中深深的恐惧。他不敢再睡，便起身爬上长城，不安地漫步，直到东方初绽曙光。那不过是梦而已，如今我是守夜人军团的一分子，不再是容易受惊的小孩儿了。
　　山姆威尔·塔利蜷缩树下，半躲在马群后。他那张圆胖的脸颜色有如酸败的牛奶。虽然他并未逃进森林上吐下泻，可也没正眼瞧过死尸。“我不敢看。”他可怜兮兮地低语。
　　“你不能不看。”琼恩对他说，一边压低声音不让别人听见。“伊蒙师傅不是派你来当他的眼睛么？眼睛若是闭上了，那还有什么用呢？”
　　“话是这样说，可……琼恩，我实在是个胆小鬼。”
　　琼恩把手放到山姆肩膀。“我们身边有十二个游骑兵，还有成群的猎狗，连白灵都跟来了。山姆，没人伤得了你。去看看罢，第一眼总是最难。”
　　山姆颤巍巍地点个头，很明显地努力鼓起勇气，然后缓缓转头。他的双眼顿时睁得老大，但琼恩抓住他的手，不让他转开。
　　“杰瑞米爵士，”熊老没好气地问，“班·史塔克出长城带了六个人，其他人上哪儿去了？”
　　杰瑞米爵士摇摇头。“我若是知道就好了。”
　　莫尔蒙对这答案显然大为不满。“两个弟兄几乎在长城的肉眼可见范围内惨遭杀害，你的游骑兵却什么也没听见，什么也没看到，难道守夜人已经怠惰到这种地步了？我们到底有没有派人扫荡森林？”
　　“当然是有的，大人，可是——”
　　“我们还有没有派人骑马巡逻？”
　　“有的，可是——”
　　“这家伙身上带着猎号，”莫尔蒙指着奥瑟说，“莫非你要我相信他临死前连一声都没吹？还是你的游骑兵不只眼睛瞎了，连耳朵也聋啦？”
　　杰瑞米爵士气得毛发竖立，满脸怒容。“大人，没有人吹号角，否则我的游骑兵一定会听见。如今人手不够，根本无法照我的意图仔细巡逻……更何况自从班扬失踪，我们已经缩短了巡逻范围，比以前更靠近长城——这可是大人您亲自下的令。”
　　熊老咕哝道：“唉，也是。那就算了罢。”他不耐烦地挥挥手。“跟我说说他们是怎么死的。”
　　杰瑞米爵士在杰佛·佛花身旁蹲下，揪着头皮抓起头颅。发束从他指间落下，松脆有如稻草。骑士骂了一声，伸手把脸部翻过。尸体另一侧的脖颈部位有道深深的伤口，好似一张大嘴，其中积满了干涸的血块。头脖之间仅余几条肌腱相连。“他是给斧头砍死的。”
　　“没错，”老林务官戴文喃喃道，“大人，俺说就是奥瑟平日惯用的那把斧头。”
　　琼恩只觉早餐在胃里翻涌，但他强自抿紧嘴唇，逼自己朝第二具尸体望去。奥瑟生前是个高大丑陋的人，死后尸体也是又大又丑。但四下却没有斧头的踪影。琼恩还记得奥瑟；他就是那个出发前高唱低俗小调的家伙。看来他唱歌的日子是完了。他的双手和杰佛一样完全漆黑。伤口如疹子般覆盖全身，从下体到胸部再到咽喉无一幸免，上面装饰着一朵朵干裂的的血花。他的眼睛依旧睁开，蓝宝石般的珠子直瞪天空。
　　杰瑞米爵士站起身。“野人也是有斧头的。”
　　莫尔蒙语带挑衅地对他说：“那依你之见，这是曼斯·雷德干的好事？在离长城这么近的地方？”
　　“大人，不然还有谁呢？”
　　答案连琼恩都说得出。不仅他知道，大家都很清楚，但没有人愿意说出口。异鬼只是故事，用来吓小孩的传说。就算他们真的存在，也是八千年前的事。光是产生这个念头都教他觉得愚蠢：他是个成年人，是守夜人的黑衣弟兄，已非当年与布兰、罗柏和艾莉亚一同坐在老奶妈脚边的小男孩啦。
　　但莫尔蒙司令哼了一声：“假如班·史塔克在距离黑城堡只有半天骑程的地方遭到野人攻击，他定会回来增调人马，追那些杀人犯到七层地狱，把他们的首级带来给我。”
　　“除非连他自己也遇害。”杰瑞米爵士坚持。
　　即使到现在，听到这些话依然令人心痛。过了这么久，期望班·史塔克还活着无异自欺欺人，但琼恩·雪诺别的没有，就是固执。
　　“大人，班扬离开我们已快半年，”杰瑞米爵士续道，“森林广阔，随处可能遭野人偷袭。我敢打赌，这两个是他队伍最后的幸存者，本准备回来找我们……只可惜在抵达长城之前被敌人追上。你瞧，这些尸体还很新鲜，死亡时间不会超过一天……”
　　“不对。”山姆威尔·塔利尖声说。
　　琼恩吓了一跳，他说什么也没料到会听见山姆紧张而高亢的话音。胖男孩向来很怕官员，而杰瑞米爵士又素以坏脾气出名。
　　“小子，我可没问你意见。”莱克冷冷地说。
　　“让他说吧，爵士先生。”琼恩冲口而出。
　　莫尔蒙的视线从山姆飘向琼恩，然后又转向山姆：“如果那孩子有话要说，就让他说吧。小子，靠过来，躲在马后面我们可瞧不见你。”
　　山姆挤过琼恩和马匹，汗如雨下。“大人，不……不可能只有一天……请看……那个血……”
　　“嗯？”莫尔蒙不耐烦地皱眉，“血怎么样？”
　　“他一见血就尿裤子啦。”齐特高喊，游骑兵们哄堂大笑。
　　山姆抹抹额上的汗珠。“您……您看白灵……琼恩的冰原狼……您看它咬断手的地方，可是……断肢没有流血，您看……”他挥挥手。“家父……蓝……蓝道伯爵，他，他有时候会逼我看他处理猎物……在……之后……”山姆摇头晃脑，下巴动个不休。这会儿他真看了，视线反而离不开尸体。“刚死的猎物……大人，血还会流动。之后……之后才会凝结成块，像是……像是肉冻，浓稠的肉冻，而且……而且……”他似乎要吐了。“这个人……请看，他的手腕很……很脆……又干又脆……像是……”
　　琼恩立刻明白了山姆的意思。他可以看见死人腕部断裂的血管，活像惨白肌肉里的铁蠕虫，血也冻成黑粉末。但杰瑞米·莱克不以为然。“如果他们真死了一天以上，现在早就臭得要命。可他们一点味道也没有。”
　　饱经风霜的老林务官戴文最爱夸耀自己嗅觉灵敏，常说连降雪都能闻出来。这会儿他悄悄走到尸体旁边，嗅了一下。“嗯，是不怎么好闻，不过……大人说得没错，的确没有尸臭。”
　　“他们……他们也没有腐烂，”山姆指给大家看，胖手指颤抖不休。“请看，他们身上没有……没有生蛆，也……也……没有其他的虫子……他们在森林里躺了这么久，却……却没有被动物撕咬或吃掉……若不是白灵……他们……”
　　“可说毫发无伤。”琼恩轻声道，“而且白灵和其他动物不一样。狗儿和马都不愿靠近他们的尸体。”
　　游骑兵们彼此交换眼神，每个人都知道此话不假。莫尔蒙皱起眉头，将视线从尸体移到狗群。“齐特，把猎狗带过来。”
　　齐特连忙照办，一边咒骂，一边拉扯狗链，还伸腿踢了狗一脚。但猎狗们多半呜咽着，打定主意不肯挪动。他试着强拉一只母狗，结果它拼命顽抗，又吼又扭，企图挣脱项圈，最后竟朝他扑去。齐特丢下绳子踉跄后退，狗跳过他跑进森林去了。
　　“这……这很不对劲啊，”山姆·塔利急切地说，“看看这血……他们衣服上有血迹，而且……而且他们的皮肤如此干硬，可……可地上完全没有血迹……这附近一丁点儿都没有。照说他们……他们……他们……”山姆努力吞了口唾沫，深吸一口气。“照说他们伤口那么深……那么可怕，鲜血应该溅得到处都是，对不对？”
　　戴文吸了吸他的木假牙。“弄不好他们不是死在这里。弄不好是被人搬来弃尸，当作警告什么的。”老林务官满腹狐疑地往下瞧。“或许是俺弄不清，可俺记得奥瑟从来就不是蓝眼睛呐。”
　　杰瑞米爵士似乎大为震惊。“佛花也不是。”他脱口便道，一边转头看着两个死人。
　　寂静笼罩森林，一时之间大家只听见山姆沉重的呼吸和戴文吸吮假牙的濡湿声。琼恩在白灵身边蹲下。
　　“烧了他们罢。”有人小声说。是某位游骑兵，但琼恩听不出是谁。“是啊，烧了罢。”又一个声音在催促。
　　熊老固执地摇摇头。“还不行。我得先请伊蒙师傅看看。咱们把他们带回长城去。”
　　有些命令下达容易，执行却难。他们用斗篷裹起尸首，然而当哈克和戴文试图将其中一具绑上马时，马儿整个发了狂，它尖叫着后足站立，伸腿狂踢，跑去帮忙的凯特反被咬伤。游骑兵试了其他犁马，同样不听使唤；即便最温驯的马也拼死不愿与尸体有任何接触。最后迫不得已，人们只好砍下树枝，做成粗陋的拖拉架，动身返回时，已经到了下午。
　　“派人把这片森林搜个彻底，”启程之前，莫尔蒙命令杰瑞米爵士，“方圆十里格内每一棵树、每一块石头、每一丛矮树和每一寸泥地都必须翻找一遍。把你手下所有的人都派出来，如果人手不够，就跟事务官借调猎人和林务官。假如班和他的手下就在其中，不论死活，你都必须找到。假如森林里有‘其他人’，也一定要报告，你必须负责追踪并逮捕他们，能活捉最好，知道了吗？”
　　“知道了，大人。”杰瑞米爵士说，“我一定办妥。”
　　打那之后，莫尔蒙默默地骑马沉思。琼恩紧随在后——身为司令的私人事务官，这是他的位置。天色灰暗，弥漫水气，阴霾不开，正是那种令人急盼降雨的天气。林中无风，空气潮湿而沉重，琼恩的衣服黏紧皮肤。天气很温暖。太温暖了。长城连日以来“泪”如泉涌，有时候琼恩不禁想像它正在萎缩。
　　老人们管这种天气叫“鬼夏”，传说这意味着夏季的鬼魂终于逃脱束缚，四处飘荡。他们还警告说，在这之后，酷寒便会降临，而长夏之后总是漫长的冬季。这次的夏天已经持续了十年，夏季刚开始时，琼恩还是大人怀抱里的小孩儿。
　　白灵跟着他们跑了一段，然后消失在树林。身边少了冰原狼，琼恩觉得自己赤裸裸的。他带着怀疑的目光，不安地瞄着每一处阴影。他不由得想起自己还是个小男孩时，临冬城的老奶妈给他们讲过的故事。她的嗓音和缝衣针的“嗟嗟”声犹在耳际。在一片黑暗之中，异鬼骑马到来，这是她最拿手的开头，之后她不断压低声音，他们浑身冰冷，散发着死亡的气息，痛恨钢铁、烈火和阳光，以及所有流淌着温热血液的生命。他们骑着惨白的死马，率领在战争中遇害的亡灵大军一路南下，横扫农村、城市和王国。他们还拿人类婴儿的肉来饲养手下的死灵仆役……
　　当琼恩终于自一棵扭曲的老橡树枝间瞥见远方高耸的长城时，不禁感到如释重负。这时莫尔蒙突然勒住缰绳，在马鞍上转过头。“塔利，”他喊道，“你过来。”
　　山姆笨重地爬下马，琼恩看见他脸上的恐惧之色：他想必认为自己有麻烦了。“小子，你胖归胖，人倒是不笨。”熊老粗声说，“刚才干得不错。雪诺，你也是。”
　　山姆立刻满面通红，急忙想要道谢，舌头却不听使唤。琼恩忍不住笑了。
　　出森林后，莫尔蒙双脚一蹬，驱使他那匹健壮的小犁马向前疾驰。白灵自林间蹿出来与他们会合。他舔着下巴，口鼻沾满猎物的鲜血。远处，居高临下的长城守卫发现渐近的队伍，接着那低沉浑厚的号角便响彻原野；那是一声长长的巨鸣，颤抖着穿越树林，回荡于冰原之上。
　　喔喔喔喔喔喔喔呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜
　　号音渐弱，终归寂静。一声号角代表兄弟归来，琼恩心想，起码我也当了一天的游骑兵兄弟。无论将来如何，没有人能否认。
　　当他们牵马穿过冰封隧道时，发现波文·马尔锡正站在第一道大门内。总务长满脸通红，显得焦虑不安。“大人，”他一边拉开铁栅门，一边迫不及待地对莫尔蒙说，“有只鸟儿捎信来，请您立刻来一趟。”
　　“嗯？到底怎么回事？”莫尔蒙不耐烦地问。
　　奇怪的是，马尔锡竟先瞄了琼恩一眼，然后才作答：“信在伊蒙师傅手中，他在您的书房等您。”
　　“好罢。琼恩，马就交给你了。告诉杰瑞米爵士把尸体先放进储藏室，等学士来处理。”莫尔蒙咕哝着跨步离去。
　　琼恩和其他人牵着坐骑回到马厩时，他很不自在地发觉大家都盯着他瞧。艾里沙·索恩爵士正在校场训练新兵，但他也暂停手边工作，瞪着琼恩，嘴上挂着一抹微笑。独臂的唐纳·诺伊站在兵器库门口。“雪诺，愿诸神与你同在。”他喊道。
　　一定发生了什么事，琼恩心想，非常不好的事。
　　两具死尸被抬进长城脚下的一间储藏室内，那是个从冰墙里凿出的阴冷房间，专门用来存放肉类和谷物，有时连啤酒也拿来这里。琼恩先喂莫尔蒙的马吃草喝水，梳过毛后，方才去照料自己的坐骑。之后他去找自己那伙朋友，葛兰和陶德正在站岗，但他在大厅里找到派普。“出什么事了？”他问。
　　派普压低声音。“国王死了。”
　　琼恩大感震惊。劳勃·拜拉席恩上次来访临冬城，虽然那模样既老又胖，却似乎很健康，也没听人说他得了什么病。“你怎么知道？”
　　“有个守卫偷听到克莱达斯读信给伊蒙师傅听，”派普靠过来。“琼恩，我很遗憾。他是你老爸的好朋友，对不对？”
　　“他们情同手足。”琼恩暗忖乔佛里是否会继续让父亲担任御前首相一职。他觉得不大可能。也就是说，艾德公爵即将返回临冬城，还有他的两个妹妹。假如他能得到莫尔蒙大人的允许，说不定还可以去探望他们。能再见到艾莉亚机灵的笑容，并和父亲谈谈，一定会是件很棒的事。到时候我定要问他母亲的事，他下定决心，如今我已长大成人，说什么他都该告诉我了。即便她是个妓女我也不在乎，我一定要知道。
　　“我听哈克说，那两个死人是你叔叔的部下。”派普道。
　　“是啊，”琼恩回答，“他带去的那六个人中的两个。他们死了好长一段时间，只是……尸体有些古怪。”
　　“古怪？”派普一听，兴致就来了。“怎么个古怪法？”
　　“去问山姆吧，”琼恩不想谈这个。“我该去照顾熊老了。”
　　他独自走向司令塔，心里有种莫名的焦虑。守门的弟兄们肃穆地看他走近。“熊老在书房里，”其中一人宣布，“他正要找你。”
　　琼恩点点头。他应该直接从马厩过来的。他快步爬上高塔楼梯，一边告诉自己：司令他要的不过是一杯好酒或炉里的暖火罢了。
　　一进书房，莫尔蒙的乌鸦便朝他尖叫。“玉米！”鸟儿厉声喊道，“玉米！玉米！玉米！”
　　“别信他。我刚喂过哪。”熊老咕哝着。他坐在窗边，正读着信。“给我弄杯酒来，你自己也倒上一杯。”
　　“大人，我也要？”
　　莫尔蒙将视线自信上抬起，瞪着琼恩。那眼神里充满怜悯，他感觉得出来。“你没听错。”
　　琼恩格外小心地斟酒，隐约明白自己是在拖延时间。等酒杯倒满，他就别无选择，不得不面对信中之事了。即便如此，酒杯却很快就满了。“孩子，坐下。”莫尔蒙命令他。“喝罢。”
　　琼恩站住不动。“是我父亲的事，对不对？”
　　熊老用一根指头弹弹信纸。“是你父亲和国王的事。”他朗声说，“我也不瞒你，信上写的都是坏消息。我本以为自己这么大把年纪，劳勃的岁数只有我的一半，又壮得像头牛似的，说什么也没机会碰上新国王。”他灌了口酒。“据说国王爱打猎。我告诉你，孩子，我们爱什么，到头来就会毁在什么上面。给我记清楚了。我儿子爱死了他的年轻老婆。那个爱慕虚荣的女人，要不是为了她，他也不会把脑筋动到盗猎者头上去。”
　　琼恩根本不明白他在说什么。“司令大人，我不懂。我父亲到底怎么了？”
　　“我不是叫你坐下么？”莫尔蒙咕哝道。“坐下！”乌鸦尖叫。“去你的，把酒喝了。雪诺，这是命令。”
　　琼恩坐下，啜了一口酒。
　　“艾德大人目前人在狱中。他被控叛国，信上说他与劳勃的两个弟弟共谋夺取乔佛里的王位。”
　　“不可能！”琼恩立刻说，“绝不可能！父亲他说什么也不会背叛国王！”
　　“是真的也好，假的也罢，”莫尔蒙道，“总之轮不到我来讲。当然，更轮不到你说。”
　　“可这是谎言。”琼恩坚持。他们怎么能把父亲当成叛徒？难道他们都疯了？艾德·史塔克公爵最不可能做的，就是玷污自身名节之事……是吧？
　　那他怎么还有个私生子？一个小小的声音在琼恩心里低语，这有何荣誉可言？还有你母亲啊，她怎么样了？他连她的名字都不肯讲。
　　“大人，他会怎么样？他们会杀他吗？”
　　“孩子，这我就说不准了。我打算写封信去。我年轻时认识几位国王的重臣，像是老派席尔、史坦尼斯大人、巴利斯坦爵士……无论你父亲有没有做这些，他都是个了不得的领主。一定要让他有穿上黑衣加入我们的机会。天知道我们有多需要像艾德大人这么有才干的人。”
　　过去，被控叛国的人的确有到长城赎罪的先例，这琼恩知道。为什么艾德大人不行呢？父亲大人会来这里？真是个怪异的念头，而且不知怎地令人十分不安。夺走他的临冬城，强迫他穿上黑衣，这是何等的不公不义啊？然而，假如他能因此逃过一劫……
　　可乔佛里会答应吗？他忆起王太子在临冬城时，是如何在校场上嘲弄罗柏和罗德利克爵士。他倒是没注意琼恩；对他而言，私生子太过微贱，连被他轻蔑都不配。“大人，国王会听您的话吗？”
　　熊老耸耸肩。“国王还是个孩子……我看他会听母亲的话罢。可惜那侏儒不在他们身边。他是那孩子的舅舅，也亲眼目睹我们亟需援助的迫切。你母亲大人就那样把他抓起来，实在是不妥……”
　　“史塔克夫人不是我母亲。”琼恩语气锐利地提醒他。提利昂·兰尼斯特待他如友。倘若艾德大人当真遇害，她和王后要负同样的责任。“大人，我的妹妹们呢？艾莉亚和珊莎都跟我父亲在一起，您可知道——”
　　“派席尔信上没说，但相信她们定会受到妥善照顾。我在回信中会问问她们的情形。”莫尔蒙摇摇头。“什么时候不好，偏偏挑这种时候。王国正需要一个强有力的统治者……眼看黑暗和寒夜就要来临，我这身老骨头都感觉得到……”他意味深长地看了琼恩一眼。“小子，我希望你别做傻事。”
　　可他是我父亲啊，琼恩想说，但他知道说给莫尔蒙听也没用。他只觉喉咙干燥，便逼自己又喝了口酒。
　　“如今你的职责所在是这里。”司令提醒他。“从你穿上黑衣那一刻起，过去的你便已经死去。”他的鸟儿粗声应和，“黑衣。”莫尔蒙不加理会。“不管君临发生了什么，都与我们无关。”老人眼看琼恩不答话，便将酒一饮而尽，然后说，“你可以走了。我今天都用不着你，明天你再来帮我写信罢。”
　　琼恩恍如梦中，他不记得自己站起，更不记得如何离开书房。等他回过神，自己正一边走下高塔楼梯，一边想：出事的是我父亲和我妹妹，怎么可能与我无关呢？
　　到了外面，一名守卫看着他说：“小子，坚强点。诸神很残酷的。”
　　琼恩这才明白，原来他们都知道。“我父亲不是叛徒。”他哑着嗓子说。连这番话也卡在喉咙里，仿佛要噎死他。风势转强，与先前相比，广场上似乎更冷了。鬼夏俨然已近尾声。
　　接下来的大半个下午，就如一场梦般浮过。琼恩不知道自己去过什么地方，做过什么事，跟什么人讲过话。白灵跟在身边，只有这点他还知道。冰原狼沉默的存在给了他一点稍微的安慰。可妹妹她们连这点安慰都没有，他想。小狼原本可以保护她们，然而淑女已死，娜梅莉亚又行踪成谜，她们都是孤身一人啊。
　　日落时分，吹起一阵北风。前往大厅吃晚餐时，琼恩听见它袭上长城，越过冰砌高墙的尖利声响。哈布煮了大锅的鹿肉浓汤，里面有大麦、洋葱和胡萝卜。当他特别多舀了一匙放进琼恩盘子里，又给了他面包最香脆的部分时，他立刻明白这是什么意思。他也知道。琼恩环顾大厅，看见一个个赶忙别开的头，一只只礼貌垂下的眼睛。他们通通都知道。
　　他的朋友们簇拥过来。“我们请修士为你父亲点了根蜡烛。”梅沙告诉他。“他们骗人，我们都知道他们骗人，连葛兰都知道他们说谎。”派普插进来。葛兰点点头，接着山姆握住琼恩的手。“你我现在是兄弟，所以他也是我的父亲。”胖男孩说，“如果你想到鱼梁木树林里去向旧神祷告，我就陪你去。”
　　鱼梁木树林远在长城之外，但他知道山姆并非说空话。他们真是我的兄弟啊，他心想，就和罗柏、布兰和瑞肯一样……
　　就在这时，他听见艾里沙·索恩爵士的笑声，锐利、残忍，有如皮鞭抽打。“原来他不但是个野种，还是个卖国贼的野种哩。”他正忙不迭地告诉身边的人。
　　只一眨眼功夫，琼恩便已跃上长桌，匕首在手。派普想抓住他，但他猛地抽开腿，跳到桌子彼端，踢翻艾里沙爵士手中的碗。肉汤飞溅，洒得附近弟兄一身。索恩向后退开。周围喊声四起，然而琼恩什么也听不见。他擎着匕首朝艾里沙爵士那张脸扑去，对着那双冰冷的玛瑙色眼睛猛砍。可他还来不及冲到对方身边，山姆便挡在两人中间，接着派普像猴子似地跳到他背上紧抓不放，葛兰抓住他的手，陶德则拨开手指，拿走匕首。
　　后来，过了很久，在他们把他押回寝室之后，莫尔蒙下楼来见他，乌鸦停在肩上。“小子，我不是叫你别做傻事么？”熊老说。“小子！”乌鸦也附和。莫尔蒙厌恶地摇摇头。“我本来对你寄予厚望，结果却是这样。”
　　他们搜走他的短刀和佩剑，叫他待在房里，不得离开，直到高层官员决定如何处置。他们还派了一个人在门外看守，以确保他遵守命令。他的朋友们也不准前来探视，但熊老总算网开一面，允许白灵跟他待在一起，所以他不至于完全孤独。
　　“我父亲不是叛徒。”众人离去之后，他对冰原狼说。白灵静静地看着他。琼恩双手抱膝，颓然靠在墙上，盯着窄床边桌子上的蜡烛。烛焰摇曳闪动，影子在他周围晃个不休，房间似乎更显阴暗，也更冰冷。我今晚绝对不睡，琼恩心想。
　　然而他多半还是打了瞌睡吧。醒来时只觉双腿僵硬，酸麻无比，蜡烛也早已燃尽。白灵后脚站立，前脚扒着房门。琼恩看它突然间变得那么高，吓了一跳。“白灵，怎么了？”他轻声唤道。冰原狼转过头，向下看着他，露出利齿，无声地咆哮。它疯了吗？琼恩暗忖。“白灵，是我啊。”他喃喃低语，试图遮掩声音里的恐惧。可另一方面，他又在不由自主地剧烈颤抖。什么时候变得这么冷？
　　白灵从门边退开，木门被他刨出深深的爪痕。琼恩看着它，心中的不安节节升高。“外头有人，是吧？”他轻声说。冰原狼四肢贴地向后爬开，脖颈的白毛根根竖立。一定是那个守卫，他心想，他们派一个人留下看守，看来白灵不喜欢他的味道。
　　琼恩缓缓起身。他完全无法克制地发着抖，心里希望剑还在手中。上前三步，他来到门边，握住门把往里拉，只听铰链一阵嘎吱，差点没吓他跳起来。
　　守卫软绵绵地横躺在狭窄的过道上，头朝上看他。头朝上看他！腹朝下趴地。他的头被整整扭了一百八十度。
　　不可能，琼恩对自己说，这是司令大人的居塔，日夜都有人看守，绝不可能发生这种事，我一定是在作梦，我在作噩梦。
　　白灵从他身边溜到门外，朝楼上走去，途中停下脚步，回头看着琼恩。就在这时，他听见靴子在石板上的摩擦，以及门闩打开的响动。声音是从楼上传来的，从总司令的房间传来的。
　　这或许是一场噩梦，但他绝非置身梦境。
　　守卫的剑还在鞘里。琼恩俯身抽出，武器在手，他的胆子也大了起来。他步上台阶，白灵无声地当着前锋。楼梯的每个转角都有阴影潜伏。琼恩小心翼翼地前进，一遇可疑暗处，便用剑尖捅刺两下。
　　突然，他听到莫尔蒙乌鸦的尖叫。“玉米！”鸟儿扯着嗓门喊，“玉米！玉米！玉米！玉米！玉米！玉米！”白灵向前窜去，琼恩也快步登上楼梯。莫尔蒙书房的门大敞。冰原狼冲了进去。琼恩站在门口，手握利剑，以让眼睛适应黑暗。厚重的垂帘盖住窗户，房里黑暗如墨。“是谁？”他叫道。
　　然后他看见了：一个阴影中的阴影，一个全身漆黑的人形，身披斗篷、戴着兜帽，正朝莫尔蒙卧室的门滑曳过去……但在兜帽下面，那双眼睛却闪着冰冷的蓝芒。
　　白灵凌空一跃，人狼同时扑倒，却无尖叫，亦无咆哮。他们连翻带滚，撞碎椅子，碰倒堆满纸张的书桌。莫尔蒙的乌鸦在空中振翅飞舞，一边尖叫：“玉米！玉米！玉米！玉米！”在这里面，琼恩觉得自己像伊蒙师傅一样目不视物。于是他背贴墙走到窗边，伸手扯下帘幕。月光涌进书房，他瞥见一双黑手深埋于白毛之中，肿胀的手指正渐渐掐紧冰原狼的咽喉。白灵又踢又扭，四肢在空中抽动，但无法脱身。
　　琼恩没有时间恐惧。他纵身向前，出声大喊，使尽浑身力气挥剑劈下。钢铁划过衣袖、皮肤和骨头，却不知怎地，声音很不对劲。他包围的气息奇怪而冰冷，差点将他噎住。他看见地上的断臂，黑色的手指正在一泓月光里蠕动。白灵从另外一只手中挣脱，伸着红彤彤的舌头爬到一边。
　　戴着兜帽的人抬起他那张惨白的圆脸，琼恩毫不迟疑，举剑就砍。利剑将他的鼻子劈成两半，砍出一道深可见骨、贯穿脸颊的裂口，正好在那双有如燃烧的湛蓝星星般的眼睛下方。琼恩认得这张脸。奥瑟，他踉跄后退，诸神保佑，他死了，他死了，我明明看见他死了。
　　他觉得有东西在扒自己脚踝。低头一看，只见漆黑的手指紧紧钳住他的小腿，那条断臂正往大腿上爬，一边撕扯羊毛和肌肉。琼恩感到一阵剧烈的恶心，他大叫一声，连忙用剑尖把脚上的手指撬开，然后把那东西丢掉。断臂在地上蠕动，手指不断开开阖阖。
　　尸体蹒跚着向他逼近。它一滴血都没流，虽然少了一只手，脸也被几乎劈成两半，但它好像毫无知觉。琼恩把长剑举在面前。“不要过来！”他命令，声音刺耳。“玉米！”乌鸦尖叫，“玉米！玉米！”地上那条断臂正从裂开的衣袖里钻出来，宛如一条生了五个黑头的白蛇。白灵挥爪一攫，张口咬住断臂，立即传来指骨碎裂的声音。琼恩朝尸体的脖子砍下，感觉剑锋深深陷了进去。
　　奥瑟的尸体冲过来，把他撞倒在地。
　　琼恩的肩胛骨碰到翻倒的书桌，登时痛得喘不过气。剑在哪里？剑到哪儿去了？他竟然弄丢了那把天杀的剑！琼恩张口欲喊，尸鬼却将黑色的手指塞进他嘴里。他一边噎气，一边想把手推开，但尸体实在太重，鬼手硬是朝他喉咙深处钻，冷得像冰，令他窒息。那张尸脸紧贴他的脸，遮住了整个世界。那对眼睛覆满诡异的冰霜，闪着非人的蓝光。琼恩用指甲扒它冰冷的肌肉，踢它的腿，试着用嘴巴咬，用手捶，试着呼吸……
　　突然间尸体的重量消失，喉咙上的手指也被扯开。琼恩惟一能做的就只有翻身，拼命呕吐，不断发抖。
　　原来是白灵再度攻击。他看着冰原狼的利齿咬进尸鬼的内脏，又撕又扯。他就这么意识模糊地看了好一阵子，才想起来自己该把剑找到……
　　……回身看见浑身赤裸，刚从睡梦中惊醒，还很虚弱的莫尔蒙司令，提着一盏油灯站在过道。那条被咬得稀烂，又少了指头的断臂正在地板上猛烈摆动，蠕动着朝他爬去。
　　琼恩想要大喊，却没了声音。他踉跄地站起来，一脚把断臂踢开，伸手从熊老手中抢过油灯。只见灯焰晃动，险些就要熄灭。“烧啊！”乌鸦哇哇大叫，“烧啊！烧啊！烧啊！”
　　琼恩在原地忙乱转圈，瞥见先前从窗户扯下的帘幕，便两手握住灯，朝那一团布缦掷去。金属油灯落地，玻璃罩应声碎裂，灯油溅洒出来，窗帘立刻轰地一声，燃起熊熊烈焰。扑面而来的热气比琼恩尝过的任何一个吻都来得甜美。“白灵！”他叫道。
　　冰原狼从那正挣扎着爬起的尸鬼身上猛地一扭，抽身跳开。黑色的液体自死尸腹部的大裂口缓缓流出，好似一条条黑蛇。琼恩探手到火里抓起一把燃烧的布块，朝尸鬼扔去。烧啊，看着布块盖住尸体，他暗自祈祷，天上诸神，求求你们，求求你们让它烧啊。
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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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53.BRAN
The Karstarks came in on a cold windy morning, bringing three hundred horsemen and near two thousand foot from their castle at Karhold. The steel points of their pikes winked in the pale sunlight as the column approached. A man went before them, pounding out a slow, deep-throated marching rhythm on a drum that was bigger than he was, boom, boom, boom.
   Bran watched them come from a guard turret atop the outer wall, peering through Maester Luwin’s bronze far-eye while perched on Hodor’s shoulders. Lord Rickard himself led them, his sons Harrion and Eddard and Torrhen riding beside him beneath night-black banners emblazoned with the white sunburst of their House. Old Nan said they had Stark blood in them, going back hundreds of years, but they did not look like Starks to Bran. They were big men, and fierce, faces covered with thick beards, hair worn loose past the shoulders. Their cloaks were made of skins, the pelts of bear and seal and wolf.
   They were the last, he knew. The other lords were already here, with their hosts. Bran yearned to ride out among them, to see the winter houses full to bursting, the jostling crowds in the market square every morning, the streets rutted and torn by wheel and hoof. But Robb had forbidden him to leave the castle. “We have no men to spare to guard you,” his brother had explained.
   “I’ll take Summer,” Bran argued.
   “Don’t act the boy with me, Bran,” Robb said. “You know better than that. Only two days ago one of Lord Bolton’s men knifed one of Lord Cerwyn’s at the Smoking Log. Our lady mother would skin me for a pelt if I let you put yourself at risk.” He was using the voice of Robb the Lord when he said it; Bran knew that meant there was no appeal.
   It was because of what had happened in the wolfswood, he knew. The memory still gave him bad dreams. He had been as helpless as a baby, no more able to defend himself than Rickon would have been. Less, even?.?.?.?Rickon would have kicked them, at the least. It shamed him. He was only a few years younger than Robb; if his brother was almost a man grown, so was he. He should have been able to protect himself.
   A year ago, before, he would have visited the town even if it meant climbing over the walls by himself. In those days he could run down stairs, get on and off his pony by himself, and wield a wooden sword good enough to knock Prince Tommen in the dirt. Now he could only watch, peering out through Maester Luwin’s lens tube. The maester had taught him all the banners: the mailed fist of the Glovers, silver on scarlet; Lady Mormont’s black bear; the hideous flayed man that went before Roose Bolton of the Dreadfort; a bull moose for the Hornwoods; a battle-axe for the Cerwyns; three sentinel trees for the Tallharts; and the fearsome sigil of House Umber, a roaring giant in shattered chains.
   And soon enough he learned the faces too, when the lords and their sons and knights retainer came to Winterfell to feast. Even the Great Hall was not large enough to seat all of them at once, so Robb hosted each of the principal bannermen in turn. Bran was always given the place of honor at his brother’s right hand. Some of the lords bannermen gave him queer hard stares as he sat there, as if they wondered by what right a green boy should be placed above them, and him a cripple too.
   “How many is it now?” Bran asked Maester Luwin as Lord Karstark and his sons rode through the gates in the outer wall.
   “Twelve thousand men, or near enough as makes no matter.”
   “How many knights?”
   “Few enough,” the maester said with a touch of impatience. “To be a knight, you must stand your vigil in a sept, and be anointed with the seven oils to consecrate your vows. In the north, only a few of the great houses worship the Seven. The rest honor the old gods, and name no knights?.?.?.?but those lords and their sons and sworn swords are no less fierce or loyal or honorable. A man’s worth is not marked by a ser before his name. As I have told you a hundred times before.”
   “Still,” said Bran, “how many knights?”
   Maester Luwin sighed. “Three hundred, perhaps four?.?.?.?among three thousand armored lances who are not knights.”
   “Lord Karstark is the last,” Bran said thoughtfully. “Robb will feast him tonight.”
   “No doubt he will.”
   “How long before?.?.?.?before they go?”
   “He must march soon, or not at all,” Maester Luwin said. “The winter town is full to bursting, and this army of his will eat the countryside clean if it camps here much longer. Others are waiting to join him all along the kingsroad, barrow knights and crannogmen and the Lords Manderly and Flint. The fighting has begun in the riverlands, and your brother has many leagues to go.”
   “I know.” Bran felt as miserable as he sounded. He handed the bronze tube back to the maester, and noticed how thin Luwin’s hair had grown on top. He could see the pink of scalp showing through. It felt queer to look down on him this way, when he’d spent his whole life looking up at him, but when you sat on Hodor’s back you looked down on everyone. “I don’t want to watch anymore. Hodor, take me back to the keep.”
   “Hodor,” said Hodor.
   Maester Luwin tucked the tube up his sleeve. “Bran, your lord brother will not have time to see you now. He must greet Lord Karstark and his sons and make them welcome.”
   “I won’t trouble Robb. I want to visit the godswood.” He put his hand on Hodor’s shoulder. “Hodor.”
   A series of chisel-cut handholds made a ladder in the granite of the tower’s inner wall. Hodor hummed tunelessly as he went down hand under hand, Bran bouncing against his back in the wicker seat that Maester Luwin had fashioned for him. Luwin had gotten the idea from the baskets the women used to carry firewood on their backs; after that it had been a simple matter of cutting legholes and attaching some new straps to spread Bran’s weight more evenly. It was not as good as riding Dancer, but there were places Dancer could not go, and this did not shame Bran the way it did when Hodor carried him in his arms like a baby. Hodor seemed to like it too, though with Hodor it was hard to tell. The only tricky part was doors. Sometimes Hodor forgot that he had Bran on his back, and that could be painful when he went through a door.
   For near a fortnight there had been so many comings and goings that Robb ordered both portcullises kept up and the drawbridge down between them, even in the dead of night. A long column of armored lancers was crossing the moat between the walls when Bran emerged from the tower; Karstark men, following their lords into the castle. They wore black iron halfhelms and black woolen cloaks patterned with the white sunburst. Hodor trotted along beside them, smiling to himself, his boots thudding against the wood of the drawbridge. The riders gave them queer looks as they went by, and once Bran heard someone guffaw. He refused to let it trouble him. “Men will look at you,” Maester Luwin had warned him the first time they had strapped the wicker basket around Hodor’s chest. “They will look, and they will talk, and some will mock you.” Let them mock, Bran thought. No one mocked him in his bedchamber, but he would not live his life in bed.
   As they passed beneath the gatehouse portcullis, Bran put two fingers into his mouth and whistled. Summer came loping across the yard. Suddenly the Karstark lancers were fighting for control, as their horses rolled their eyes and whickered in dismay. One stallion reared, screaming, his rider cursing and hanging on desperately. The scent of the direwolves sent horses into a frenzy of fear if they were not accustomed to it, but they’d quiet soon enough once Summer was gone. “The godswood,” Bran reminded Hodor.
   Even Winterfell itself was crowded. The yard rang to the sound of sword and axe, the rumble of wagons, and the barking of dogs. The armory doors were open, and Bran glimpsed Mikken at his forge, his hammer ringing as sweat dripped off his bare chest. Bran had never seen as many strangers in all his years, not even when King Robert had come to visit Father.
   He tried not to flinch as Hodor ducked through a low door. They walked down a long dim hallway, Summer padding easily beside them. The wolf glanced up from time to time, eyes smoldering like liquid gold. Bran would have liked to touch him, but he was riding too high for his hand to reach.
   The godswood was an island of peace in the sea of chaos that Winterfell had become. Hodor made his way through the dense stands of oak and ironwood and sentinels, to the still pool beside the heart tree. He stopped under the gnarled limbs of the weirwood, humming. Bran reached up over his head and pulled himself out of his seat, drawing the dead weight of his legs up through the holes in the wicker basket. He hung for a moment, dangling, the dark red leaves brushing against his face, until Hodor lifted him and lowered him to the smooth stone beside the water. “I want to be by myself for a while,” he said. “You go soak. Go to the pools.”
   “Hodor.” Hodor stomped through the trees and vanished. Across the godswood, beneath the windows of the Guest House, an underground hot spring fed three small ponds. Steam rose from the water day and night, and the wall that loomed above was thick with moss. Hodor hated cold water, and would fight like a treed wildcat when threatened with soap, but he would happily immerse himself in the hottest pool and sit for hours, giving a loud burp to echo the spring whenever a bubble rose from the murky green depths to break upon the surface.
   Summer lapped at the water and settled down at Bran’s side. He rubbed the wolf under the jaw, and for a moment boy and beast both felt at peace. Bran had always liked the godswood, even before, but of late he found himself drawn to it more and more. Even the heart tree no longer scared him the way it used to. The deep red eyes carved into the pale trunk still watched him, yet somehow he took comfort from that now. The gods were looking over him, he told himself; the old gods, gods of the Starks and the First Men and the children of the forest, his father’s gods. He felt safe in their sight, and the deep silence of the trees helped him think. Bran had been thinking a lot since his fall; thinking, and dreaming, and talking with the gods.
   “Please make it so Robb won’t go away,” he prayed softly. He moved his hand through the cold water, sending ripples across the pool. “Please make him stay. Or if he has to go, bring him home safe, with Mother and Father and the girls. And make it?.?.?.?make it so Rickon understands.”
   His baby brother had been wild as a winter storm since he learned Robb was riding off to war, weeping and angry by turns. He’d refused to eat, cried and screamed for most of a night, even punched Old Nan when she tried to sing him to sleep, and the next day he’d vanished. Robb had set half the castle searching for him, and when at last they’d found him down in the crypts, Rickon had slashed at them with a rusted iron sword he’d snatched from a dead king’s hand, and Shaggydog had come slavering out of the darkness like a green-eyed demon. The wolf was near as wild as Rickon; he’d bitten Gage on the arm and torn a chunk of flesh from Mikken’s thigh. It had taken Robb himself and Grey Wind to bring him to bay. Farlen had the black wolf chained up in the kennels now, and Rickon cried all the more for being without him.
   Maester Luwin counseled Robb to remain at Winterfell, and Bran pleaded with him too, for his own sake as much as Rickon’s, but his brother only shook his head stubbornly and said, “I don’t want to go. I have to.”
   It was only half a lie. Someone had to go, to hold the Neck and help the Tullys against the Lannisters, Bran could understand that, but it did not have to be Robb. His brother might have given the command to Hal Mollen or Theon Greyjoy, or to one of his lords bannermen. Maester Luwin urged him to do just that, but Robb would not hear of it. “My lord father would never have sent men off to die while he huddled like a craven behind the walls of Winterfell,” he said, all Robb the Lord.
   Robb seemed half a stranger to Bran now, transformed, a lord in truth, though he had not yet seen his sixteenth name day. Even their father’s bannermen seemed to sense it. Many tried to test him, each in his own way. Roose Bolton and Robett Glover both demanded the honor of battle command, the first brusquely, the second with a smile and a jest. Stout, grey-haired Maege Mormont, dressed in mail like a man, told Robb bluntly that he was young enough to be her grandson, and had no business giving her commands ?.?.?.?but as it happened, she had a granddaughter she would be willing to have him marry. Soft-spoken Lord Cerwyn had actually brought his daughter with him, a plump, homely maid of thirty years who sat at her father’s left hand and never lifted her eyes from her plate. Jovial Lord Hornwood had no daughters, but he did bring gifts, a horse one day, a haunch of venison the next, a silver-chased hunting horn the day after, and he asked nothing in return?.?.?.?nothing but a certain holdfast taken from his grandfather, and hunting rights north of a certain ridge, and leave to dam the White Knife, if it please the lord.
   Robb answered each of them with cool courtesy, much as Father might have, and somehow he bent them to his will.
   And when Lord Umber, who was called the Greatjon by his men and stood as tall as Hodor and twice as wide, threatened to take his forces home if he was placed behind the Hornwoods or the Cerwyns in the order of march, Robb told him he was welcome to do so. “And when we are done with the Lannisters,” he promised, scratching Grey Wind behind the ear, “we will march back north, root you out of your keep, and hang you for an oathbreaker.” Cursing, the Greatjon flung a flagon of ale into the fire and bellowed that Robb was so green he must piss grass. When Hallis Mollen moved to restrain him, he knocked him to the floor, kicked over a table, and unsheathed the biggest, ugliest greatsword that Bran had ever seen. All along the benches, his sons and brothers and sworn swords leapt to their feet, grabbing for their steel.
   Yet Robb only said a quiet word, and in a snarl and the blink of an eye Lord Umber was on his back, his sword spinning on the floor three feet away and his hand dripping blood where Grey Wind had bitten off two fingers. “My lord father taught me that it was death to bare steel against your liege lord,” Robb said, “but doubtless you only meant to cut my meat.” Bran’s bowels went to water as the Greatjon struggled to rise, sucking at the red stumps of fingers?.?.?.?but then, astonishingly, the huge man laughed. “Your meat,” he roared, “is bloody tough.”
   And somehow after that the Greatjon became Robb’s right hand, his staunchest champion, loudly telling all and sundry that the boy lord was a Stark after all, and they’d damn well better bend their knees if they didn’t fancy having them chewed off.
   Yet that very night, his brother came to Bran’s bedchamber pale and shaken, after the fires had burned low in the Great Hall. “I thought he was going to kill me,” Robb confessed. “Did you see the way he threw down Hal, like he was no bigger than Rickon? Gods, I was so scared. And the Greatjon’s not the worst of them, only the loudest. Lord Roose never says a word, he only looks at me, and all I can think of is that room they have in the Dreadfort, where the Boltons hang the skins of their enemies.”
   “That’s just one of Old Nan’s stories,” Bran said. A note of doubt crept into his voice. “Isn’t it?”
   “I don’t know.” He gave a weary shake of his head. “Lord Cerwyn means to take his daughter south with us. To cook for him, he says. Theon is certain I’ll find the girl in my bedroll one night. I wish?.?.?.?I wish Father was here?.?.?.?”
   That was the one thing they could agree on, Bran and Rickon and Robb the Lord; they all wished Father was here. But Lord Eddard was a thousand leagues away, a captive in some dungeon, a hunted fugitive running for his life, or even dead. No one seemed to know for certain; every traveler told a different tale, each more terrifying than the last. The heads of Father’s guardsmen were rotting on the walls of the Red Keep, impaled on spikes. King Robert was dead at Father’s hands. The Baratheons had laid siege to King’s Landing. Lord Eddard had fled south with the king’s wicked brother Renly. Arya and Sansa had been murdered by the Hound. Mother had killed Tyrion the Imp and hung his body from the walls of Riverrun. Lord Tywin Lannister was marching on the Eyrie, burning and slaughtering as he went. One wine-sodden taleteller even claimed that Rhaegar Targaryen had returned from the dead and was marshaling a vast host of ancient heroes on Dragonstone to reclaim his father’s throne.
   When the raven came, bearing a letter marked with Father’s own seal and written in Sansa’s hand, the cruel truth seemed no less incredible. Bran would never forget the look on Robb’s face as he stared at their sister’s words. “She says Father conspired at treason with the king’s brothers,” he read. “King Robert is dead, and Mother and I are summoned to the Red Keep to swear fealty to Joffrey. She says we must be loyal, and when she marries Joffrey she will plead with him to spare our lord father’s life.” His fingers closed into a fist, crushing Sansa’s letter between them. “And she says nothing of Arya, nothing, not so much as a word. Damn her! What’s wrong with the girl?”
   Bran felt all cold inside. “She lost her wolf,” he said, weakly, remembering the day when four of his father’s guardsmen had returned from the south with Lady’s bones. Summer and Grey Wind and Shaggydog had begun to howl before they crossed the drawbridge, in voices drawn and desolate. Beneath the shadow of the First Keep was an ancient lichyard, its headstones spotted with pale lichen, where the old Kings of Winter had laid their faithful servants. It was there they buried Lady, while her brothers stalked between the graves like restless shadows. She had gone south, and only her bones had returned.
   Their grandfather, old Lord Rickard, had gone as well, with his son Brandon who was Father’s brother, and two hundred of his best men. None had ever returned. And Father had gone south, with Arya and Sansa, and Jory and Hullen and Fat Tom and the rest, and later Mother and Ser Rodrik had gone, and they hadn’t come back either. And now Robb meant to go. Not to King’s Landing and not to swear fealty, but to Riverrun, with a sword in his hand. And if their lord father were truly a prisoner, that could mean his death for a certainty. It frightened Bran more than he could say.
   “If Robb has to go, watch over him,” Bran entreated the old gods, as they watched him with the heart tree’s red eyes, “and watch over his men, Hal and Quent and the rest, and Lord Umber and Lady Mormont and the other lords. And Theon too, I suppose. Watch them and keep them safe, if it please you, gods. Help them defeat the Lannisters and save Father and bring them home.”
   A faint wind sighed through the godswood and the red leaves stirred and whispered. Summer bared his teeth. “You hear them, boy?” a voice asked.
   Bran lifted his head. Osha stood across the pool, beneath an ancient oak, her face shadowed by leaves. Even in irons, the wildling moved quiet as a cat. Summer circled the pool, sniffed at her. The tall woman flinched.
   “Summer, to me,” Bran called. The direwolf took one final sniff, spun, and bounded back. Bran wrapped his arms around him. “What are you doing here?” He had not seen Osha since they’d taken her captive in the wolfswood, though he knew she’d been set to working in the kitchens.
   “They are my gods too,” Osha said. “Beyond the Wall, they are the only gods.” Her hair was growing out, brown and shaggy. It made her look more womanly, that and the simple dress of brown roughspun they’d given her when they took her mail and leather. “Gage lets me have my prayers from time to time, when I feel the need, and I let him do as he likes under my skirt, when he feels the need. It’s nothing to me. I like the smell of flour on his hands, and he’s gentler than Stiv.” She gave an awkward bow. “I’ll leave you. There’s pots that want scouring.”
   “No, stay,” Bran commanded her. “Tell me what you meant, about hearing the gods.”
   Osha studied him. “You asked them and they’re answering. Open your ears, listen, you’ll hear.”
   Bran listened. “It’s only the wind,” he said after a moment, uncertain. “The leaves are rustling.”
   “Who do you think sends the wind, if not the gods?” She seated herself across the pool from him, clinking faintly as she moved. Mikken had fixed iron manacles to her ankles, with a heavy chain between them; she could walk, so long as she kept her strides small, but there was no way for her to run, or climb, or mount a horse. “They see you, boy. They hear you talking. That rustling, that’s them talking back.”
   “What are they saying?”
   “They’re sad. Your lord brother will get no help from them, not where he’s going. The old gods have no power in the south. The weirwoods there were all cut down, thousands of years ago. How can they watch your brother when they have no eyes?”
   Bran had not thought of that. It frightened him. If even the gods could not help his brother, what hope was there? Maybe Osha wasn’t hearing them right. He cocked his head and tried to listen again. He thought he could hear the sadness now, but nothing more than that.
   The rustling grew louder. Bran heard muffled footfalls and a low humming, and Hodor came blundering out of the trees, naked and smiling. “Hodor!”
   “He must have heard our voices,” Bran said. “Hodor, you forgot your clothes.”
   “Hodor,” Hodor agreed. He was dripping wet from the neck down, steaming in the chill air. His body was covered with brown hair, thick as a pelt. Between his legs, his manhood swung long and heavy.
   Osha eyed him with a sour smile. “Now there’s a big man,” she said. “He has giant’s blood in him, or I’m the queen.”
   “Maester Luwin says there are no more giants. He says they’re all dead, like the children of the forest. All that’s left of them are old bones in the earth that men turn up with plows from time to time.”
   “Let Maester Luwin ride beyond the Wall,” Osha said. “He’ll find giants then, or they’ll find him. My brother killed one. Ten foot tall she was, and stunted at that. They’ve been known to grow big as twelve and thirteen feet. Fierce things they are too, all hair and teeth, and the wives have beards like their husbands, so there’s no telling them apart. The women take human men for lovers, and it’s from them the half bloods come. It goes harder on the women they catch. The men are so big they’ll rip a maid apart before they get her with child.” She grinned at him. “But you don’t know what I mean, do you, boy?”
   “Yes I do,” Bran insisted. He understood about mating; he had seen dogs in the yard, and watched a stallion mount a mare. But talking about it made him uncomfortable. He looked at Hodor. “Go back and bring your clothes, Hodor,” he said. “Go dress.”
   “Hodor.” He walked back the way he had come, ducking under a low-hanging tree limb.
   He was awfully big, Bran thought as he watched him go. “Are there truly giants beyond the Wall?” he asked Osha, uncertainly.
   “Giants and worse than giants, Lordling. I tried to tell your brother when he asked his questions, him and your maester and that smiley boy Greyjoy. The cold winds are rising, and men go out from their fires and never come back?.?.?.?or if they do, they’re not men no more, but only wights, with blue eyes and cold black hands. Why do you think I run south with Stiv and Hali and the rest of them fools? Mance thinks he’ll fight, the brave sweet stubborn man, like the white walkers were no more than rangers, but what does he know? He can call himself King-beyond-the-Wall all he likes, but he’s still just another old black crow who flew down from the Shadow Tower. He’s never tasted winter. I was born up there, child, like my mother and her mother before her and her mother before her, born of the Free Folk. We remember.” Osha stood, her chains rattling together. “I tried to tell your lordling brother. Only yesterday, when I saw him in the yard. ‘M’lord Stark,’ I called to him, respectful as you please, but he looked through me, and that sweaty oaf Greatjon Umber shoves me out of the path. So be it. I’ll wear my irons and hold my tongue. A man who won’t listen can’t hear.”
   “Tell me. Robb will listen to me, I know he will.”
   “Will he now? We’ll see. You tell him this, m’lord. You tell him he’s bound on marching the wrong way. It’s north he should be taking his swords. North, not south. You hear me?”
   Bran nodded. “I’ll tell him.”
   But that night, when they feasted in the Great Hall, Robb was not with them. He took his meal in the solar instead, with Lord Rickard and the Greatjon and the other lords bannermen, to make the final plans for the long march to come. It was left to Bran to fill his place at the head of the table, and act the host to Lord Karstark’s sons and honored friends. They were already at their places when Hodor carried Bran into the hall on his back, and knelt beside the high seat. Two of the serving men helped lift him from his basket. Bran could feel the eyes of every stranger in the hall. It had grown quiet. “My lords,” Hallis Mollen announced, “Brandon Stark, of Winterfell.”
   “I welcome you to our fires,” Bran said stiffly, “and offer you meat and mead in honor of our friendship.”
   Harrion Karstark, the oldest of Lord Rickard’s sons, bowed, and his brothers after him, yet as they settled back in their places he heard the younger two talking in low voices, over the clatter of wine cups. “?.?.?.?sooner die than live like that,” muttered one, his father’s namesake Eddard, and his brother Torrhen said likely the boy was broken inside as well as out, too craven to take his own life.
   Broken, Bran thought bitterly as he clutched his knife. Is that what he was now? Bran the Broken? “I don’t want to be broken,” he whispered fiercely to Maester Luwin, who’d been seated to his right. “I want to be a knight.”
   “There are some who call my order the knights of the mind,” Luwin replied. “You are a surpassing clever boy when you work at it, Bran. Have you ever thought that you might wear a maester’s chain? There is no limit to what you might learn.”
   “I want to learn magic,” Bran told him. “The crow promised that I would fly.”
   Maester Luwin sighed. “I can teach you history, healing, herblore. I can teach you the speech of ravens, and how to build a castle, and the way a sailor steers his ship by the stars. I can teach you to measure the days and mark the seasons, and at the Citadel in Oldtown they can teach you a thousand things more. But, Bran, no man can teach you magic.”
   “The children could,” Bran said. “The children of the forest.” That reminded him of the promise he had made to Osha in the godswood, so he told Luwin what she had said.
   The maester listened politely. “The wildling woman could give Old Nan lessons in telling tales, I think,” he said when Bran was done. “I will talk with her again if you like, but it would be best if you did not trouble your brother with this folly. He has more than enough to concern him without fretting over giants and dead men in the woods. It’s the Lannisters who hold your lord father, Bran, not the children of the forest.” He put a gentle hand on Bran’s arm. “Think on what I said, child.”
   And two days later, as a red dawn broke across a windswept sky, Bran found himself in the yard beneath the gatehouse, strapped atop Dancer as he said his farewells to his brother.
   “You are the lord in Winterfell now,” Robb told him. He was mounted on a shaggy grey stallion, his shield hung from the horse’s side; wood banded with iron, white and grey, and on it the snarling face of a direwolf. His brother wore grey chainmail over bleached leathers, sword and dagger at his waist, a fur-trimmed cloak across his shoulders. “You must take my place, as I took Father’s, until we come home.”
   “I know,” Bran replied miserably. He had never felt so little or alone or scared. He did not know how to be a lord.
   “Listen to Maester Luwin’s counsel, and take care of Rickon. Tell him that I’ll be back as soon as the fighting is done.”
   Rickon had refused to come down. He was up in his chamber, redeyed and defiant. “No!” he’d screamed when Bran had asked if he didn’t want to say farewell to Robb. “NO farewell!”
   “I told him,” Bran said. “He says no one ever comes back.”
   “He can’t be a baby forever. He’s a Stark, and near four.” Robb sighed. “Well, Mother will be home soon. And I’ll bring back Father, I promise.”
   He wheeled his courser around and trotted away. Grey Wind followed, loping beside the warhorse, lean and swift. Hallis Mollen went before them through the gate, carrying the rippling white banner of House Stark atop a high standard of grey ash. Theon Greyjoy and the Greatjon fell in on either side of Robb, and their knights formed up in a double column behind them, steel-tipped lances glinting in the sun.
   Uncomfortably, he remembered Osha’s words. He’s marching the wrong way, he thought. For an instant he wanted to gallop after him and shout a warning, but when Robb vanished beneath the portcullis, the moment was gone.
   Beyond the castle walls, a roar of sound went up. The foot soldiers and townsfolk were cheering Robb as he rode past, Bran knew; cheering for Lord Stark, for the Lord of Winterfell on his great stallion, with his cloak streaming and Grey Wind racing beside him. They would never cheer for him that way, he realized with a dull ache. He might be the lord in Winterfell while his brother and father were gone, but he was still Bran the Broken. He could not even get off his own horse, except to fall.
   When the distant cheers had faded to silence and the yard was empty at last, Winterfell seemed deserted and dead. Bran looked around at the faces of those who remained, women and children and old men?.?.?.?and Hodor. The huge stableboy had a lost and frightened look to his face. “Hodor?” he said sadly.
   “Hodor,” Bran agreed, wondering what it meant.




Ⅰ 权力的游戏 Chapter54 布兰
　　在一个北风飕飕的寒冷清晨，卡史塔克家族从卡霍城带着三百骑兵和近两千步兵抵达了临冬城。兵士的熗尖在苍白的目光中眨着眼睛。有个士卒走在队伍前方，敲着一个比他人还大的鼓，“咚，咚，咚”，击打出缓慢而沉厚的行军节奏。
　　布兰待在外城墙上一座守卫塔里，坐在阿多肩头，正用鲁温学士的青铜望远镜观察渐渐走近的军队。瑞卡德伯爵亲自领军，他的儿子哈利昂、艾德和托伦骑马与之并肩而行，他们头顶飞扬着以漆黑夜色为底、白色日芒为徽的旗帜。老奶妈说他们体内流有史塔克族人的血液，可以追溯到数百年前，然而在布兰看来，这些人实在不像史塔克家后代，他们个个生得人高马大，神情剽悍，脸上长着粗粗的胡子，发长过肩，披风则是用熊、海豹和狼的皮做成。
　　他知道，这是最后一批军队。其他领主已先后率兵抵达。布兰满心期盼能和他们一道骑马出城，去看看避冬市镇的屋宇人满为患、挤得水泄不通的模样；看看每天早上市集广场上的摩肩接踵；看看巷道印满车辙马蹄的景况。可罗柏不准他离开城堡。“我们没有多余的人手保护你。”哥哥向他解释。
　　“我会带夏天一起去啊。”布兰辩解。
　　“布兰，别跟我孩子气，”罗柏说，“你自己很清楚。前两天波顿大人的手下才在烟柴酒馆杀了赛文伯爵一位部属。我若是让你身处险境，母亲大人不把我皮剥了才怪。”说这话的时候，他用的是“罗柏城主”的语气，布兰知道没有回旋余地。
　　其实他心里明白，这一定是因为之前狼林里那件事。如今回想起来，他依然会作噩梦。他像个婴儿一般无助，换做小瑞肯，大概也不会比他更无力。说不定他还比不上瑞肯……瑞肯至少能踢他们。为此他深感羞耻。他只比罗柏小几岁；假如哥哥已近成年，那他也相去不远。照说他应该能保卫自己才对。
　　若是一年前，在事情发生以前，就算必须爬墙，他也会去探访市镇。那些日子里他可以奔跑楼梯，不假他人之力上下小马，还可以挥舞木剑，将托曼王子打倒在地。如今他只有拿鲁温师傅的透镜管观望的份。老学士把所有的旗帜家徽都教给了他：葛洛佛家族红底银色的钢甲拳套旗，莫尔蒙伯爵夫人的大黑熊旗，飞扬于恐怖堡领主卢斯·波顿队伍前方的剥皮人旗，霍伍德家族的驼鹿旗，赛文家族的战斧旗，陶哈家族的参天三哨兵树旗，以及安伯家族那吓人的碎链咆哮巨人旗。
　　短短时日里，北境诸侯们纷纷带着儿子、骑士和部属前来临冬城聚餐，他把他们的容貌也都记住了。即便城堡大厅，也无法同时容纳所有人，于是罗柏依次分开宴请主要封臣。布兰通常坐在哥哥右边的荣誉高位，可总有些领主眼神怪异地看着他，仿佛在质疑这么个乳臭未干的小孩儿有何资格坐他们上位，更何况他还是个残废。
　　“之前到了多少人？”卡史塔克伯爵和他的儿子们骑马穿过外墙城门时，布兰问鲁温学士。
　　“约莫一万两千人吧。”
　　“有多少骑士呢？”
　　“非常少。”老师傅话中有些不耐烦，“要成为骑士，你必须先在圣堂里守夜，接受修士用七种圣油的涂抹，宣读誓言后方能得到祝福。在我们北方，多数人信奉旧神，少有贵族归化七神，所以并不册封骑士……然而这些领主和他们的儿子、部下不论武艺、忠诚还是荣誉感，可一点也不输他人。人的价值并非以爵士这个头衔来衡量，我已经告诉过你几百遍了。”
　　“可是，”布兰说，“到底有几个骑士嘛？”
　　鲁温学士叹了口气。“三四百罢……但骑马配熗的普通战士总共约有三千。”
　　“卡史塔克大人是最后来的，”布兰若有所思地说，“罗柏今晚会宴请他。”
　　“毫无疑问。”
　　“还有多久……他们才会出发？”
　　“他得尽快动身，否则就走不了了。”鲁温师傅道，“避冬市镇里已经人满为患，而这支军队若是再待久一点，会把附近地区的存粮吃得一干二净。更何况国王大道沿途还有荒冢地的骑士，泽地人，曼德勒伯爵和佛林特伯爵等着加入呢。战火已在三河流域蔓延开来，你哥哥有很长一段路要走。”
　　“我知道。”布兰说。他把青铜镜管还给老学士，一边注意到鲁温脑顶的头发愈发稀少，以至于粉红的头皮若隐若现。这样从上俯视他感觉有些古怪，自己向来都是抬头仰望他的。话说回来，一旦坐上阿多的肩头，无论是看谁都成了俯视。“我不想看了。阿多，带我回城去。”
　　“阿多。”阿多说。
　　鲁温师傅把镜管藏进袖子。“布兰，你哥哥现在没空见你，他得去迎接卡史塔克大人父子一行。”
　　“我不会打扰罗柏，我要去神木林。”他把手放在阿多的肩上。“阿多。”
　　塔楼内部的大理石墙上，有一连串凿出的把手，可作攀爬的楼梯。阿多一边哼着不成调的小曲，一边慢慢地爬下去。布兰坐在他背后的柳条篮子里，晃荡不停。篮子是鲁温学士特别制作的，他从妇女捡拾柴火所用的背篮中得到灵感，在此基础上割出两个洞让脚伸出，多加几条皮带以分散布兰的重量，完成了这个作品。这当然比不上骑乘小舞的感觉，但小舞有很多地方没法去，况且比起被阿多像个婴儿似的抱来抱去，这样起码不会让布兰觉得那么丢脸。阿多似乎也挺喜欢这个设计，虽然阿多到底在想些什么谁也说不准。惟一麻烦的是进出门，阿多有时会忘记背上还有个小布兰，这种进门方式可真让他疼痛难忘。
　　近两周来，由于人马进出频繁，罗柏下令将内外城墙的闸门全都升起，两者之间的吊桥也放下，即使入夜也不例外。布兰从守卫塔出来时，一列长长的重装熗骑兵纵队正穿越护城河，他们是卡史塔克家的部队，正跟随主子进入城堡。这群人头戴黑色的半罩铁盔，身披有着白色日芒图案的黑羊毛披风。阿多快步走在旁边，自顾自地笑，靴子咚咚咚踩着木头吊桥。骑兵神情怪异地看着他们经过，布兰还听见有人粗声大笑，但他拒绝自己心绪被扰乱。“别人会看着你，”当他们头一次把柳条篮绑上阿多后背时，鲁温师傅就警告过他：“他们不但会看，会议论纷纷，有些人还会嘲笑你。”让他们嘲笑去罢，布兰心想。如果他待在卧房，就没有人能嘲笑，但他不愿一辈子都在床上度过。
　　从闸门下经过时，布兰将两根手指伸进口中，吹起口哨。夏天立刻从广场彼端轻步跑来。刹时，马儿纷纷翻起白眼，惊恐地嘶声呜叫，卡史塔克家的熗骑兵不得不努力维持平衡。有一匹战马尖叫着抬起前蹄，骑在上面的武士高声咒骂，好容易才没摔下去。非经天长日久的习惯，马匹通常一闻到冰原狼的味道就会害怕得发狂，直等夏天走远它们才没事。“去神木林。”布兰提醒阿多。
　　他想不到临冬城也有人满为患的时候。场子里处处是刀斧碰撞、马车辘辘和猎狗吠叫。兵器库门大敞，布兰瞥见密肯站在锻炉边，不停敲打铁锤，赤裸的胸膛上汗水淋漓。布兰这辈子从没见过这么多陌生人，即便是劳勃国王来拜访父亲时也比不上。
　　阿多低身穿过一道矮门，布兰努力克制住自己不要畏缩。他们沿着一条漫长而阴暗的走廊前进，夏天脚步轻快地走在身边，不时抬眼看他，眼睛好似两团熊熊燃烧的液态黄金。布兰好想摸摸它，可他离地太远，手够不到。
　　这段日子以来，若说临冬城成了一片混乱汪洋，那神木林则是其中的宁静之岛。阿多穿过繁密的橡树、铁树和哨兵树，来到心树下静止无波的水潭边。他停在盘根错节的鱼梁木枝干底，口中哼着歌。布兰伸手抓住头顶的树枝，把自己拉出篮子，也将他那双软弱无力的脚自柳篮的两个洞里拉出来。他在那儿挂了一会儿，晃了几下，任暗红的树叶拂过脸庞，然后阿多接住他，把他放在池边平坦的大石上。“我想独处一下，”他说，“你去洗洗吧，去温泉。”
　　“阿多！”阿多踩着“咚咚”大步，消失在树丛中。在神木林的另一边，客房窗户的正下方，有一座天然的地底温泉，注满了三个小池。池水日夜热气蒸腾，池边高墙爬满青苔。阿多痛恨冷水，若是叫他用肥皂，更会像只被踩到尾巴的山猫般拼死抵抗，但要换成温泉，即便最滚烫的池子他也不在乎，而且一泡动辄几个小时。每当浑浊的绿水面冒出气泡，他就大声打嗝，好像是在相互应和。
　　夏天舔舔池水，在布兰身边坐下。他挠挠狼的下巴，接下来的短短时间，小男孩和冰原狼都觉得宁静而安详。布兰向来很喜欢神木林，在意外发生前就很喜欢，而近来他发现自己越来越常来这里。即便心树，也不再像以前那么令他害怕。刻在惨白树干上的那对深邃红眼依旧凝视着他，然而他却能从中寻得慰藉。这是诸神在看顾着他，他这么告诉自己；这是古老的诸神，属于史塔克家族、先民和森林之子的神，是父亲所信仰的神。在他们的注视下，他觉得很有安全感，而树林里深沉的寂静更有助于他理清思绪。自坠楼以来，布兰经常陷入沉思：思索，作梦，和诸神对话。
　　“请不要让罗柏离开，”他轻声祷告，伸手拨弄冰冷的池水，池面激起涟漪。“请让他留下来吧。如果他真的非走不可，就让他平安归来，和父亲母亲以及姐姐们一起回家。还有，请让……请让瑞肯懂事。”
　　得知罗柏即将率兵出征的那一天，他的小弟弟便像冬天的暴风雪一样发了狂，一会儿嚎啕大哭，一会儿又大发脾气。他不肯吃饭，整晚哭闹尖叫，连给他唱摇篮曲的老奶妈，他也拳头相向，第二天更是跑得没了踪影。罗柏派出城里大半的人手去找他，最后才发现他躲在地下墓窖，还从某个死去国王的雕像手中抓了把生锈铁剑，朝人们又挥又砍，毛毛狗也流着口水从暗处冲出挑衅，活像个绿眼睛的恶魔。那只狼差不多跟瑞肯一样狂乱；它不仅咬伤盖奇的手，还撕掉密肯一块大腿肉。最后是罗柏带着灰风亲自出马，才把他们制服。现在法兰把黑狼锁在狗舍里，瑞肯没了狼，哭得更厉害了。
　　鲁温师傅建议罗柏留在临冬城，布兰也向他哀求过，不光为了自己，更是为了瑞肯。但哥哥固执地摇摇头：“我并不想走，但我非走不可。”
　　这并非全然谎话。总得有人去防守颈泽，协助徒利家族对付兰尼斯特，这点布兰可以理解，但不一定非要罗柏出马啊。哥哥大可把指挥权交给哈尔·莫兰或席恩·葛雷乔伊，甚或他手下的封臣。鲁温学士也劝他这么做，可罗柏不肯听。“父亲大人绝不会派别人去送死，自己却像个胆小鬼似的躲在临冬城的墙垒之后。”他这么说，完全是罗柏城主的口气。
　　对布兰来说，如今的罗柏活像半个陌生人，仿佛真正变成了一方之主，虽然他还不到十六岁。父亲的封臣们注意到他的状况，许多人试图用自己的方式来考验他：卢斯·波顿口气莽撞地要求让他领军；罗贝特·葛洛佛虽是说说笑笑，但有着相同的目的；体格粗壮，头发灰白，像男人全身着盔甲的梅姬·莫尔蒙毫不客气地说罗柏的年纪足以当她孙子，没资格对她颐指气使……不过呢，她倒刚巧有个孙女儿可以嫁给他；讲话轻声细语的赛文伯爵直接把女儿给带来了，她的相貌平庸，胖嘟嘟的，年约三十，坐在她父亲左手，自始至终没将视线从餐盘里抬起过；友善的霍伍德伯爵没有女儿，但他带了很多礼物，今天送匹马，明天送一大块鹿肉，隔天又送一个漂亮的银边猎号，而且完全不要回报……除了希求从他祖父手中夺走的一小块地，某个山脊北部的狩猎权，以及在白刃河修筑水坝的权利等等。当然，如果城主大人高兴的话。
　　罗柏冷静而有礼貌地一一应答，渐渐收服了他们的心，今天若换做父亲，大概也不过如此吧。
　　而当那个人称“大琼恩”，身形和阿多一样高，却足足壮他两倍的安柏伯爵出言不逊，声称假如要他走在霍伍德或赛文家部队后面，他就立刻班师回家时，罗柏说欢迎他这么做。“等收拾兰尼斯特之后，”他向对方保证，一边搔着灰风的耳背。“我们会立刻回师北方，把你从你家城堡里抓出来，当成背誓者吊死。”大琼恩听了破口大骂，将一罐麦酒丢进火里，他吹胡子瞪眼地说罗柏不过是个青涩的毛头小鬼，八成连尿都是草绿色的。哈里斯·莫兰上前劝阻，却被他推倒在地，接着他踢翻桌子，拔出一把布兰所知最大最丑的巨剑。他坐在两边长凳上的儿子、兄弟和部下们也纷纷一跃起身，伸手握住武器。
　　然而罗柏不过轻轻说了一个字，只听灰风一声怒吼，立时便咬掉安柏伯爵两根手指，把他摔得四脚朝天，剑飞到三尺之外，手上鲜血淋漓。“家父曾经教导我，在宣誓效忠的领主面前拔剑是惟一死罪。”罗柏说，“但我相信您只是想帮我切肉罢了。”布兰看着大琼恩挣扎起身，吸吮那血红一片的断指，五脏六腑绞成一团……出人意料，接着这大个子竟然笑了。“你的肉，”他大吼，“还真他妈的硬！”
　　不知为什么，从那之后，大琼恩便成了罗柏的左右手和最坚定的拥护者，到处扯开嗓门对人说，别看这位新城主年纪小，他可是个货真价实的史塔克传人，你们都他妈的赶紧乖乖下跪，不然瞧他不把你膝盖剁掉。
　　然而当天夜里，大厅的炉火渐熄之后，哥哥却一脸苍白地来到布兰卧房，浑身发抖。“我以为他会把我给杀了，”罗柏坦承，“你看他推倒哈尔的样子吗？好像当他是瑞肯！诸神在上，真是吓死我了。大琼恩还不是最麻烦的，他只是嗓门最大而已。卢斯大人他一句话也不说，就这么看着我，结果我满脑子想的都是他恐怖堡里那个房间，听说波顿家族的人把敌人的皮剥下来挂在那儿。”
　　“那只是老奶妈的故事，”布兰说，一丝怀疑却爬进了他的嗓音。“对吧？”
　　“我不知道。”哥哥虚弱地摇摇头。“赛文大人打算带他女儿一道南下，说要为他煮饭。可席恩却肯定，某天夜里我一定会发现这女孩躺进我的睡铺。我好希望……我好希望父亲也在……”
　　布兰、瑞肯和罗柏城主总算在这件事上达成一致：他们都希望父亲还在身边。但艾德公爵毕竟身在千里之外，身陷囹圄，或许成了亡命奔逃的通缉犯，甚至已经死去。真相究竟如何，没有人能确定，每个旅人所说的版本都不一样，而且一个比一个可怕：父亲手下卫士的头被插在熗尖，挂在红堡城墙上腐烂啦；劳勃国王死在父亲手中啦；拜拉席恩家的军队围攻君临啦；艾德公爵和国王的坏弟弟蓝礼一同逃往南方啦；艾莉亚和珊莎都被猎狗所杀啦；母亲杀了小恶魔提利昂，把他的尸体挂在奔流城城墙上啦；或者是泰温·兰尼斯特公爵率兵往鹰巢城进发，沿途烧杀掳掠之类。有个浑身酒味的说书人，甚至宣称雷加·坦格利安已经死而复生，正在龙石岛上号召千古英雄，准备夺回他父王的宝座呢。
　　所以，后来当渡鸦带着由珊莎手书，盖了父亲印章的信件抵达时，残酷的事实似乎也不再那么令人惊讶。布兰永远忘不了罗柏读着姐姐来信时脸上的表情。“她说父亲和国王的两个弟弟密谋篡位，”他念道，“劳勃国王已死，母亲和我应火速前往红堡向乔佛里宣誓效忠。她说我们必须保证忠贞不贰，等她嫁给乔佛里，她会请求他饶父亲一命。”他用力握拳，把珊莎的信捏得稀烂。“她只字未提艾莉亚的情形，没有，一个字都没有！真是该死！这女孩到底怎么回事？”
　　布兰的心凉了半截。“她没了小狼。”他虚弱地说，忆起那天父亲手下四名卫士从南方归来，带回淑女的遗骸，还没走过吊桥，夏天、灰风和毛毛狗便开始了凄楚的长嚎。在首堡的阴影下，有座古老的墓园，其中的墓碑上爬满了苍白的地衣，从前的冬境之王便是在此安葬他们忠诚的部属。他们在这里葬了淑女，她的兄弟不安地在坟墓间来回走动。她前往南方，归来却只剩骨骸。
　　他们的祖父，老瑞卡德公爵，也曾前往南方，去的还有父亲的哥哥布兰登，以及公爵手下两百名精锐武士，结果无人归来。父亲也去了南方，他带着艾莉亚和珊莎，乔里、胡伦、胖汤姆和其他人，后来母亲和罗德利克爵士亦跟着去了，他们至今也都没回来。而今罗柏也要去，况且目的并非前往君临宣誓效忠，而是手握利剑，杀到奔流城去。假如父亲大人真的身在狱中，此举等于是宣判了他的死刑。布兰害怕得不知如何是好。
　　“如果罗柏非去不可，请您们务必看顾他，”在远古诸神透过心树红眼睛的注视之下，布兰向他们祈求。“也请您们看顾他的部下，看顾哈尔、昆特他们，以及安柏大人、莫尔蒙夫人和其他诸侯。还有，还有席恩罢。请帮助他们打败兰尼斯特家的军队，救出父亲，把他带回家。”
　　一阵微风拂过神木林，有如深沉的叹息，红叶沙沙作响，彼此窃窃私语。夏天露出利齿。“小子，你听见他们的回答了吗？”一个声音问。
　　布兰抬起头，发现欧莎站在水池对面，正好在一棵古老的橡树底下，树叶遮住了她的脸。即使戴着手铐脚镣，这名野人依旧敏捷如猫。夏天绕过池子，朝她嗅了嗅。高个女人不禁一缩。
　　“夏天，过来。”布兰唤道。冰原狼闻了最后一下，转身跑回。布兰伸手抱住它。“你在这里做什么？”自她在狼林被俘之后，布兰便没再见过她，但他知道她被派去厨房工作。
　　“他们也是我的神，”欧莎道，“在长城之外，他们是惟一的真神。”她逐渐长长的棕色短发，和着那件朴素的棕色粗布衣，使她看起来比较像个女人。至于她的盔甲和皮革背心，早在被捕时就被拿走了。“盖奇时常会放我来这儿祷告，当我有需要的时候；而我也会让他掀起我的裙子办事，当他有需要的时候。对我来说这没什么，我还挺喜欢他手上的面粉味，更何况他比史帝夫温柔多了。”她有些不自在地鞠了个躬。“我不打扰了，还有些罐子要涮呢。”
　　“不，留下来。”布兰命令她。“你刚才说能听见神说话，告诉我那是什么意思。”
　　欧莎端详着他。“你向他们祈求，而他们正在回答。竖起耳朵，仔细倾听，你就会听到。”
　　布兰竖耳倾听。“不过是风声，”听了一会儿后，他不太确定地说，“还有叶子响动。”
　　“你以为这风是谁送来的？当然是天上诸神啊。”她在池对面坐下来，身上的锁链一阵轻响。密肯打造了一副脚镣，用沉重的铁链相连，扣住她两边脚踝；她能小步走路，但绝对跑不了，也没办法爬墙或骑马。“小子，他们看到了你，也听到了你说的话。树叶的声音就是他们的回答。”
　　“他们在说什么？”
　　“他们很哀伤。你的城主哥哥要去的地方，他们无法帮他。旧神在南方没有力量，那儿的鱼梁木早在几千年前就被砍伐一空。没有眼睛，他们该如何看顾你哥哥呢？”
　　布兰没想到这层。于是他害怕起来，若是连天上诸神都无法帮助哥哥，那还有何希望？或许是欧莎听错了。他歪着头，想要亲自再听听看，这回他听出了风中的哀伤，但仅此而已。
　　沙沙声渐大，混杂着模糊的脚步和低沉的哼歌，浑身赤裸的阿多大步从林子里跑出来，面带微笑。“阿多！”
　　“他一定是听到了我们的声音，”布兰说，“阿多，你忘记穿衣服啰。”
　　“阿多！”阿多同意。他从头到脚滴着水，在冷空气里冒烟。他浑身长满褐色体毛，厚厚的活像一层皮，又长又大的命根子垂挂在两脚之间。
　　欧莎似笑非笑地看了他一眼。“这可真是个大块头啊，”她道，“我敢说，他体内有巨人的血统。”
　　“鲁温师傅说世界上已经没有巨人了，他们都死了，和森林之子一样。剩下的只是他们的骨头，埋在地底，农夫犁田的时候常会翻到。”
　　“你叫鲁温师傅到长城外面去瞧瞧，”欧莎说：“他会看到巨人，不然巨人也会找上他。我老哥就杀死过一个，她身高十尺，这还算是矮的。据说他们可以长到十二尺或十三尺，性情凶猛，浑身体毛，还生着尖牙齿。女巨人和她们的丈夫一样长有胡子，让人难以辨认。女巨人也会找人类男子当情人，巨人的血统就是这样流传出来的。相反，女方则做不到，男巨人体型太大，被他们强暴的女孩子还没怀孕就先被扯裂了。”她对他嘿嘿一笑。“小子，我看你不明白我在说什么，对吧？”
　　“我知道啦。”布兰坚持。他知道交配是怎么回事：他看过场子上的狗交配，也见过公马骑母马，但谈论这方面的事令他不太舒服。他望向阿多。“阿多，去把你的衣服拿来，”他说：“去把衣服穿上。”
　　“阿多。”他循原路走回，弯身穿过一根低垂的树枝。
　　他块头真的好大呀，布兰目送他离去，心里想着。“长城外真的有巨人吗？”他有些迟疑地问欧莎。
　　“小少爷，不只巨人，还有比巨人更可怕的东西。你哥哥盘问我的时候，我就是这么跟他和你家老学士，以及那成天笑嘻嘻的葛雷乔伊说的。冷风已然吹起，人们若是离开炉火，就一去不返……就算回得来，也已经不是人了。他们变成尸鬼，生了蓝眼睛和冷冰冰的黑手。你以为我和史帝夫、哈莉以及其他那几个蠢蛋为啥逃到南方？曼斯这固执幼稚的老小子，自以为勇敢，想要对付他们，好像白鬼跟游骑兵没两样，可他懂什么？他再怎么自称‘塞外之王’，说穿了还不是只影子塔上飞下来的臭乌鸦？他根本没尝过冬天的滋味。我告诉你，小子，我是在那儿出生的，跟我老妈，我老妈的老妈以及她祖上好几代一样，我们是天生的‘自由民’，冬天什么样子，我们可是记得一清二楚。”欧莎站起身，脚上的铁链喀啦作响。“我试着告诉你那城主老哥，就昨天，我还在场子上见着他。‘史塔克大人，’我叫他，客气得可以，可他正眼都不瞧我一眼，而那满身汗臭的笨牛大琼恩·安柏手一挥就把我推开。既然这样，那就算啦，我就乖乖闭上嘴巴，戴着铁链。不愿倾听的人自然什么也听不到。”
　　“跟我说吧。我说的话罗柏会听，我知道他会听。”
　　“真的吗？那好。大人，您就这么跟他说：你走错了方向，应该带兵去北方。北方，不是南方，你听懂了没？”
　　布兰点点头。“我会告诉他的。”
　　然而当晚在大厅用餐时，罗柏却不在场。他在书房里用餐，和瑞卡德伯爵、大琼恩以及其他诸侯共商大计，为即将来临的长征做最后策划。于是布兰只好扮演主人的角色，代替他坐在餐桌首席，欢迎卡史塔克伯爵的儿子和部下。阿多背着布兰走进大厅时，他们都已就座。阿多在高位旁蹲下，两名仆人把他从篮子里抱出。布兰觉得整个大厅顿时安静下来，每一双陌生的眼睛都盯着他看。“诸位大人，”哈里斯·莫兰朗声宣布，“临冬城的布兰登·史塔克到。”
　　“欢迎各位来到我们的火炉边，”布兰生硬地说，“让我们共享佳肴美酒，象征友谊长存。”
　　卡史塔克伯爵的大儿子哈利昂·卡史塔克鞠了个躬，他的弟弟们也依次行礼，可当他们坐下后，在一片酒杯碰撞声中，他却听见那两个小儿子低声交谈。“……宁愿死也不要这样苟延残喘。”名叫艾德的那个说，而另一个叫托伦的则说那男孩大概不只身体残废，心里也是残废，胆子太小，不敢自杀。
　　残废，布兰握着餐刀，心中苦涩地想，这就是现在的他？残废的布兰？“我也不想残废啊，”他语气激烈地对坐在右手边的鲁温学士低语，“我想当骑士。”
　　“有人称我的组织为‘心灵的骑士’，”鲁温回答，“布兰，你一旦用心起来，是个聪明绝顶的孩子。你可曾考虑戴上学士的项链？学海无涯，你想学什么都可以。”
　　“我想学魔法。”布兰告诉他，“我梦里那只乌鸦向我保证我可以飞。”
　　鲁温学士叹了口气。“我可以教你历史、医术和药草知识；可以教你如何与乌鸦沟通、如何修筑城堡；可以教你水手是如何借助星辰制定航向；可以教你如何计算历法、观测季节。在旧镇的学城里，他们还可以教你一千种其他功夫。但是，布兰，没有人能教你魔法。”
　　“森林之子可以，”布兰说，“森林之子一定可以。”这让他想起早先时在神木林里答应欧莎的事，于是他把她所说的话一五一十告诉了鲁温师傅。
　　老学士很有礼貌地听完。“我认为这个女野人可以教老奶妈说故事。”布兰讲完之后，他静静地说，“你坚持的话，我可以再去跟她谈谈，不过，我认为你最好别拿这些荒唐话去烦你哥哥。他要操心的事情已经够多，没时间理会什么巨人和林子里的死者。布兰，囚禁你父亲的是兰尼斯特，而非森林之子啊。”他轻拍布兰手臂。“孩子，仔细想想我说的话吧。”
　　两天后，当晨光染红强风吹拂的天边薄云之际，布兰被捆在小舞背上，在城门楼下的广场与哥哥道别。
　　“如今你就是临冬城主，”罗柏告诉他。哥哥骑着一匹长毛的灰骏马，盾牌悬挂在旁边：木造盾牌，外镶铁片，灰白相间，上面刻画了咆哮的冰原狼头。他身穿漂白的皮革背心，外罩灰色锁子甲，腰际挂着长剑和匕首，肩披绒毛滚边的披风。“你必须暂代我职，如同我暂代父亲的位置一样，直到我们回家。”
　　“我知道。”布兰可怜兮兮地回答。他从未感觉如此孤单寂寞，又如此害怕。他根本不知道城主该怎么当。
　　“听从鲁温师傅的意见，并好好照顾瑞肯。告诉他，等战事结束，我就立刻回家。”
　　瑞肯拒绝下楼，他红着眼睛，倔强地躲在楼上卧房里。“不要！”当布兰问他要不要跟罗柏说再见时，他大声尖叫，“不要说再见！”
　　“我跟他说过了，”布兰道，“可他说大家都没回来。”
　　“他不能永远当个小孩子。他是史塔克家族的人，已经快满四岁了。”罗柏叹道，“嗯，母亲就快回来了，我也会把父亲带回来，我向你保证。”
　　说完，他调转马头，快步跑开。灰风身形矫健地跟了上去，跑在战马旁边。哈里斯·莫兰走在最前，领头穿过城门，高举史塔克家族的灰白旗帜，旌旗在风中飘动。席恩·葛雷乔伊和大琼恩走在罗柏两侧，骑士们则成两列纵队紧随在后，钢铁熗尖在日光下闪闪发亮。
　　他不安地想起欧莎所说的话，他走错方向了。一时之间，他竟想纵马追上，高声警告，但罗柏很快消失在闸门之外，时机转瞬即逝。
　　城墙之外响起阵阵欢呼，布兰知道这是步兵和镇民在夹道欢送罗柏，欢送史塔克大人，欢送跨骑骏马的临冬城主，他的披风在风中飘动，灰风奔驰于身畔。他突然想到，他们永远也不会这样为他欢呼，心里不禁隐隐作痛。父兄不在时，他或许能暂任临冬城主，但他依旧是“残废的布兰”，连自己下马都做不到，除非是摔下去。
　　当远处的欢呼声逐渐平息，终归寂静，广场上的部队都离开之后，临冬城仿佛遭人遗弃，了无生气。布兰环顾周遭留下来的老弱妇孺……还有阿多。高个马僮脸上有种失落和害怕的神情。“阿多？”他哀伤地说。
　　“阿多。”布兰附和，心里却不知道那是什么意思。
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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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54.DAENERYS
   When he had taken his pleasure, Khal Drogo rose from their sleeping mats to tower above her. His skin shone dark as bronze in the ruddy light from the brazier, the faint lines of old scars visible on his broad chest. Ink-black hair, loose and unbound, cascaded over his shoulders and down his back, well past his waist. His manhood glistened wetly. The khal’s mouth twisted in a frown beneath the droop of his long mustachio. “The stallion who mounts the world has no need of iron chairs.”
   Dany propped herself on an elbow to look up at him, so tall and magnificent. She loved his hair especially. It had never been cut; he had never known defeat. “It was prophesied that the stallion will ride to the ends of the earth,” she said.
   “The earth ends at the black salt sea,” Drogo answered at once. He wet a cloth in a basin of warm water to wipe the sweat and oil from his skin. “No horse can cross the poison water.”
   “In the Free Cities, there are ships by the thousand,” Dany told him, as she had told him before. “Wooden horses with a hundred legs, that fly across the sea on wings full of wind.”
   Khal Drogo did not want to hear it. “We will speak no more of wooden horses and iron chairs.” He dropped the cloth and began to dress. “This day I will go to the grass and hunt, woman wife,” he announced as he shrugged into a painted vest and buckled on a wide belt with heavy medallions of silver, gold, and bronze.
   “Yes, my sun-and-stars,” Dany said. Drogo would take his bloodriders and ride in search of hrakkar, the great white lion of the plains. If they returned triumphant, her lord husband’s joy would be fierce, and he might be willing to hear her out.
   Savage beasts he did not fear, nor any man who had ever drawn breath, but the sea was a different matter. To the Dothraki, water that a horse could not drink was something foul; the heaving grey-green plains of the ocean filled them with superstitious loathing. Drogo was a bolder man than the other horselords in half a hundred ways, she had found?.?.?.?but not in this. If only she could get him onto a ship?.?.?.?
   After the khal and his bloodriders had ridden off with their bows, Dany summoned her handmaids. Her body felt so fat and ungainly now that she welcomed the help of their strong arms and deft hands, whereas before she had often been uncomfortable with the way they fussed and fluttered about her. They scrubbed her clean and dressed her in sandsilk, loose and flowing. As Doreah combed out her hair, she sent Jhiqui to find Ser Jorah Mormont.
   The knight came at once. He wore horsehair leggings and painted vest, like a rider. Coarse black hair covered his thick chest and muscular arms. “My princess. How may I serve you?”
   “You must talk to my lord husband,” Dany said. “Drogo says the stallion who mounts the world will have all the lands of the earth to rule, and no need to cross the poison water. He talks of leading his khalasar east after Rhaego is born, to plunder the lands around the Jade Sea.”
   The knight looked thoughtful. “The khal has never seen the Seven Kingdoms,” he said. “They are nothing to him. If he thinks of them at all, no doubt he thinks of islands, a few small cities clinging to rocks in the manner of Lorath or Lys, surrounded by stormy seas. The riches of the east must seem a more tempting prospect.”
   “But he must ride west,” Dany said, despairing. “Please, help me make him understand.” She had never seen the Seven Kingdoms either, no more than Drogo, yet she felt as though she knew them from all the tales her brother had told her. Viserys had promised her a thousand times that he would take her back one day, but he was dead now and his promises had died with him.
   “The Dothraki do things in their own time, for their own reasons,” the knight answered. “Have patience, Princess. Do not make your brother’s mistake. We will go home, I promise you.”
   Home? The word made her feel sad. Ser Jorah had his Bear Island, but what was home to her? A few tales, names recited as solemnly as the words of a prayer, the fading memory of a red door?.?.?.?was Vaes Dothrak to be her home forever? When she looked at the crones of the dosh khaleen, was she looking at her future?
   Ser Jorah must have seen the sadness on her face. “A great caravan arrived during the night, Khaleesi. Four hundred horses, from Pentos by way of Norvos and Qohor, under the command of Merchant Captain Byan Votyris. Illyrio may have sent a letter. Would you care to visit the Western Market?”
   Dany stirred. “Yes,” she said. “I would like that.” The markets came alive when a caravan had come in. You could never tell what treasures the traders might bring this time, and it would be good to hear men speaking Valyrian again, as they did in the Free Cities. “Irri, have them prepare a litter.”
   “I shall tell your khas,” Ser Jorah said, withdrawing.
   If Khal Drogo had been with her, Dany would have ridden her silver. Among the Dothraki, mothers stayed on horseback almost up to the moment of birth, and she did not want to seem weak in her husband’s eyes. But with the khal off hunting, it was pleasant to lie back on soft cushions and be carried across Vaes Dothrak, with red silk curtains to shield her from the sun. Ser Jorah saddled up and rode beside her, with the four young men of her khas and her handmaids.
   The day was warm and cloudless, the sky a deep blue. When the wind blew, she could smell the rich scents of grass and earth. As her litter passed beneath the stolen monuments, she went from sunlight to shadow and back again. Dany swayed along, studying the faces of dead heroes and forgotten kings. She wondered if the gods of burned cities could still answer prayers.
   If I were not the blood of the dragon, she thought wistfully, this could be my home. She was khaleesi, she had a strong man and a swift horse, handmaids to serve her, warriors to keep her safe, an honored place in the dosh khaleen awaiting her when she grew old?.?.?.?and in her womb grew a son who would one day bestride the world. That should be enough for any woman?.?.?.?but not for the dragon. With Viserys gone, Daenerys was the last, the very last. She was the seed of kings and conquerors, and so too the child inside her. She must not forget.
   The Western Market was a great square of beaten earth surrounded by warrens of mud-baked brick, animal pens, whitewashed drinking halls. Hummocks rose from the ground like the backs of great subterranean beasts breaking the surface, yawning black mouths leading down to cool and cavernous storerooms below. The interior of the square was a maze of stalls and crookback aisles, shaded by awnings of woven grass.
   A hundred merchants and traders were unloading their goods and setting up in stalls when they arrived, yet even so the great market seemed hushed and deserted compared to the teeming bazaars that Dany remembered from Pentos and the other Free Cities. The caravans made their way to Vaes Dothrak from east and west not so much to sell to the Dothraki as to trade with each other, Ser Jorah had explained. The riders let them come and go unmolested, so long as they observed the peace of the sacred city, did not profane the Mother of Mountains or the Womb of the World, and honored the crones of the dosh khaleen with the traditional gifts of salt, silver, and seed. The Dothraki did not truly comprehend this business of buying and selling.
   Dany liked the strangeness of the Eastern Market too, with all its queer sights and sounds and smells. She often spent her mornings there, nibbling tree eggs, locust pie, and green noodles, listening to the high ululating voices of the spellsingers, gaping at manticores in silver cages and immense grey elephants and the striped black-and-white horses of the Jogos Nhai. She enjoyed watching all the people too: dark solemn Asshai’i and tall pale Qartheen, the bright-eyed men of Yi Ti in monkey-tail hats, warrior maids from Bayasabhad, Shamyriana, and Kayakayanaya with iron rings in their nipples and rubies in their cheeks, even the dour and frightening Shadow Men, who covered their arms and legs and chests with tattoos and hid their faces behind masks. The Eastern Market was a place of wonder and magic for Dany.
   But the Western Market smelled of home.
   As Irri and Jhiqui helped her from her litter, she sniffed, and recognized the sharp odors of garlic and pepper, scents that reminded Dany of days long gone in the alleys of Tyrosh and Myr and brought a fond smile to her face. Under that she smelled the heady sweet perfumes of Lys. She saw slaves carrying bolts of intricate Myrish lace and fine wools in a dozen rich colors. Caravan guards wandered among the aisles in copper helmets and knee-length tunics of quilted yellow cotton, empty scabbards swinging from their woven leather belts. Behind one stall an armorer displayed steel breastplates worked with gold and silver in ornate patterns, and helms hammered in the shapes of fanciful beasts. Next to him was a pretty young woman selling Lannisport goldwork, rings and brooches and torcs and exquisitely wrought medallions suitable for belting. A huge eunuch guarded her stall, mute and hairless, dressed in sweat-stained velvets and scowling at anyone who came close. Across the aisle, a fat cloth trader from Yi Ti was haggling with a Pentoshi over the price of some green dye, the monkey tail on his hat swaying back and forth as he shook his head.
   “When I was a little girl, I loved to play in the bazaar,” Dany told Ser Jorah as they wandered down the shady aisle between the stalls. “It was so alive there, all the people shouting and laughing, so many wonderful things to look at?.?.?.?though we seldom had enough coin to buy anything?.?.?.?well, except for a sausage now and again, or honeyfingers?.?.?.?do they have honeyfingers in the Seven Kingdoms, the kind they bake in Tyrosh?”
   “Cakes, are they? I could not say, Princess.” The knight bowed. “If you would pardon me for a time, I will seek out the captain and see if he has letters for us.”
   “Very well. I’ll help you find him.”
   “There is no need for you to trouble yourself.” Ser Jorah glanced away impatiently. “Enjoy the market. I will rejoin you when my business is concluded.”
   Curious, Dany thought as she watched him stride off through the throngs. She didn’t see why she should not go with him. Perhaps Ser Jorah meant to find a woman after he met with the merchant captain. Whores frequently traveled with the caravans, she knew, and some men were queerly shy about their couplings. She gave a shrug. “Come,” she told the others.
   Her handmaids trailed along as Dany resumed her stroll through the market. “Oh, look,” she exclaimed to Doreah, “those are the kind of sausages I meant.” She pointed to a stall where a wizened little woman was grilling meat and onions on a hot firestone. “They make them with lots of garlic and hot peppers.” Delighted with her discovery, Dany insisted the others join her for a sausage. Her handmaids wolfed theirs down giggling and grinning, though the men of her khas sniffed at the grilled meat suspiciously. “They taste different than I remember,” Dany said after her first few bites.
   “In Pentos, I make them with pork,” the old woman said, “but all my pigs died on the Dothraki sea. These are made of horsemeat, Khaleesi, but I spice them the same.”
   “Oh.” Dany felt disappointed, but Quaro liked his sausage so well he decided to have another one, and Rakharo had to outdo him and eat three more, belching loudly. Dany giggled.
   “You have not laughed since your brother the Khal Rhaggat was crowned by Drogo,” said Irri. “It is good to see, Khaleesi.”
   Dany smiled shyly. It was sweet to laugh. She felt half a girl again.
   They wandered for half the morning. She saw a beautiful feathered cloak from the Summer Isles, and took it for a gift. In return, she gave the merchant a silver medallion from her belt. That was how it was done among the Dothraki. A birdseller taught a green-and-red parrot to say her name, and Dany laughed again, yet still refused to take him. What would she do with a green-and-red parrot in a khalasar? She did take a dozen flasks of scented oils, the perfumes of her childhood; she had only to close her eyes and sniff them and she could see the big house with the red door once more. When Doreah looked longingly at a fertility charm at a magician’s booth, Dany took that too and gave it to the handmaid, thinking that now she should find something for Irri and Jhiqui as well.
   Turning a corner, they came upon a wine merchant offering thimble-sized cups of his wares to the passersby. “Sweet reds,” he cried in fluent Dothraki, “I have sweet reds, from Lys and Volantis and the Arbor. Whites from Lys, Tyroshi pear brandy, firewine, pepperwine, the pale green nectars of Myr. Smokeberry browns and Andalish sours, I have them, I have them.” He was a small man, slender and handsome, his flaxen hair curled and perfumed after the fashion of Lys. When Dany paused before his stall, he bowed low. “A taste for the khaleesi? I have a sweet red from Dorne, my lady, it sings of plums and cherries and rich dark oak. A cask, a cup, a swallow? One taste, and you will name your child after me.”
   Dany smiled. “My son has his name, but I will try your summerwine,” she said in Valyrian, Valyrian as they spoke it in the Free Cities. The words felt strange on her tongue, after so long. “Just a taste, if you would be so kind.”
   The merchant must have taken her for Dothraki, with her clothes and her oiled hair and sun-browned skin. When she spoke, he gaped at her in astonishment. “My lady, you are?.?.?.?Tyroshi? Can it be so?”
   “My speech may be Tyroshi, and my garb Dothraki, but I am of Westeros, of the Sunset Kingdoms,” Dany told him.
   Doreah stepped up beside her. “You have the honor to address Daenerys of the House Targaryen, Daenerys Stormborn, khaleesi of the riding men and princess of the Seven Kingdoms.”
   The wine merchant dropped to his knees. “Princess,” he said, bowing his head.
   “Rise,” Dany commanded him. “I would still like to taste that summerwine you spoke of.”
   The man bounded to his feet. “That? Dornish swill. It is not worthy of a princess. I have a dry red from the Arbor, crisp and delectable. Please, let me give you a cask.”
   Khal Drogo’s visits to the Free Cities had given him a taste for good wine, and Dany knew that such a noble vintage would please him. “You honor me, ser,” she murmured sweetly.
   “The honor is mine.” The merchant rummaged about in the back of his stall and produced a small oaken cask. Burned into the wood was a cluster of grapes. “The Redwyne sigil,” he said, pointing, “for the Arbor. There is no finer drink.”
   “Khal Drogo and I will share it together. Aggo, take this back to my litter, if you’d be so kind.” The wineseller beamed as the Dothraki hefted the cask.
   She did not realize that Ser Jorah had returned until she heard the knight say, “No.” His voice was strange, brusque. “Aggo, put down that cask.”
   Aggo looked at Dany. She gave a hesitant nod. “Ser Jorah, is something wrong?”
   “I have a thirst. Open it, wineseller.”
   The merchant frowned. “The wine is for the khaleesi, not for the likes of you, ser.”
   Ser Jorah moved closer to the stall. “If you don’t open it, I’ll crack it open with your head.” He carried no weapons here in the sacred city, save his hands, yet his hands were enough, big, hard, dangerous, his knuckles covered with coarse dark hairs. The wineseller hesitated a moment, then took up his hammer and knocked the plug from the cask.
   “Pour,” Ser Jorah commanded. The four young warriors of Dany’s khas arrayed themselves behind him, frowning, watching with their dark, almond-shaped eyes.
   “It would be a crime to drink this rich a wine without letting it breathe.” The wineseller had not put his hammer down.
   Jhogo reached for the whip coiled at his belt, but Dany stopped him with a light touch on the arm. “Do as Ser Jorah says,” she said. People were stopping to watch.
   The man gave her a quick, sullen glance. “As the princess commands.” He had to set aside his hammer to lift the cask. He filled two thimble-sized tasting cups, pouring so deftly he did not spill a drop.
   Ser Jorah lifted a cup and sniffed at the wine, frowning.
   “Sweet, isn’t it?” the wineseller said, smiling. “Can you smell the fruit, ser? The perfume of the Arbor. Taste it, my lord, and tell me it isn’t the finest, richest wine that’s ever touched your tongue.”
   Ser Jorah offered him the cup. “You taste it first.”
   “Me?” The man laughed. “I am not worthy of this vintage, my lord. And it’s a poor wine merchant who drinks up his own wares.” His smile was amiable, yet she could see the sheen of sweat on his brow.
   “You will drink,” Dany said, cold as ice. “Empty the cup, or I will tell them to hold you down while Ser Jorah pours the whole cask down your throat.”
   The wineseller shrugged, reached for the cup?.?.?.?and grabbed the cask instead, flinging it at her with both hands. Ser Jorah bulled into her, knocking her out of the way. The cask bounced off his shoulder and smashed open on the ground. Dany stumbled and lost her feet. “No,” she screamed, thrusting her hands out to break her fall?.?.?.?and Doreah caught her by the arm and wrenched her backward, so she landed on her legs and not her belly.
   The trader vaulted over the stall, darting between Aggo and Rakharo. Quaro reached for an arakh that was not there as the blond man slammed him aside. He raced down the aisle. Dany heard the snap of Jhogo’s whip, saw the leather lick out and coil around the wineseller’s leg. The man sprawled face first in the dirt.
   A dozen caravan guards had come running. With them was the master himself, Merchant Captain Byan Votyris, a diminutive Norvoshi with skin like old leather and a bristling blue mustachio that swept up to his ears. He seemed to know what had happened without a word being spoken. “Take this one away to await the pleasure of the khal,” he commanded, gesturing at the man on the ground. Two guards hauled the wineseller to his feet. “His goods I gift to you as well, Princess,” the merchant captain went on. “Small token of regret, that one of mine would do this thing.”
   Doreah and Jhiqui helped Dany back to her feet. The poisoned wine was leaking from the broken cask into the dirt. “How did you know?” she asked Ser Jorah, trembling. “How?”
   “I did not know, Khaleesi, not until the man refused to drink, but once I read Magister Illyrio’s letter, I feared.” His dark eyes swept over the faces of the strangers in the market. “Come. Best not to talk of it here.”
   Dany was near tears as they carried her back. The taste in her mouth was one she had known before: fear. For years she had lived in terror of Viserys, afraid of waking the dragon. This was even worse. It was not just for herself that she feared now, but for her baby. He must have sensed her fright, for he moved restlessly inside her. Dany stroked the swell of her belly gently, wishing she could reach him, touch him, soothe him. “You are the blood of the dragon, little one,” she whispered as her litter swayed along, curtains drawn tight. “You are the blood of the dragon, and the dragon does not fear.”
   Under the hollow hummock of earth that was her home in Vaes Dothrak, Dany ordered them to leave her, all but Ser Jorah. “Tell me,” she commanded as she lowered herself onto her cushions. “Was it the Usurper?”
   “Yes.” The knight drew out a folded parchment. “A letter to Viserys, from Magister Illyrio. Robert Baratheon offers lands and lordships for your death, or your brother’s.”
   “My brother?” Her sob was half a laugh. “He does not know yet, does he? The Usurper owes Drogo a lordship.” This time her laugh was half a sob. She hugged herself protectively. “And me, you said. Only me?”
   “You and the child,” Ser Jorah said, grim.
   “No. He cannot have my son.” She would not weep, she decided. She would not shiver with fear. The Usurper has woken the dragon now, she told herself?.?.?.?and her eyes went to the dragon’s eggs resting in their nest of dark velvet. The shifting lamplight limned their stony scales, and shimmering motes of jade and scarlet and gold swam in the air around them, like courtiers around a king.
   Was it madness that seized her then, born of fear? Or some strange wisdom buried in her blood? Dany could not have said. She heard her own voice saying, “Ser Jorah, light the brazier.”
   “Khaleesi?” The knight looked at her strangely. “It is so hot. Are you certain?”
   She had never been so certain. “Yes. I?.?.?.?I have a chill. Light the brazier.”
   He bowed. “As you command.”
   When the coals were afire, Dany sent Ser Jorah from her. She had to be alone to do what she must do. This is madness, she told herself as she lifted the black-and-scarlet egg from the velvet. It will only crack and burn, and it’s so beautiful, Ser Jorah will call me a fool if I ruin it, and yet, and yet?.?.?.?
   Cradling the egg with both hands, she carried it to the fire and pushed it down amongst the burning coals. The black scales seemed to glow as they drank the heat. Flames licked against the stone with small red tongues. Dany placed the other two eggs beside the black one in the fire. As she stepped back from the brazier, the breath trembled in her throat.
   She watched until the coals had turned to ashes. Drifting sparks floated up and out of the smokehole. Heat shimmered in waves around the dragon’s eggs. And that was all.
   Your brother Rhaegar was the last dragon, Ser Jorah had said. Dany gazed at her eggs sadly. What had she expected? A thousand thousand years ago they had been alive, but now they were only pretty rocks. They could not make a dragon. A dragon was air and fire. Living flesh, not dead stone.
   The brazier was cold again by the time Khal Drogo returned. Cohollo was leading a packhorse behind him, with the carcass of a great white lion slung across its back. Above, the stars were coming out. The khal laughed as he swung down off his stallion and showed her the scars on his leg where the hrakkar had raked him through his leggings. “I shall make you a cloak of its skin, moon of my life,” he swore.
   When Dany told him what had happened at the market, all laughter stopped, and Khal Drogo grew very quiet.
   “This poisoner was the first,” Ser Jorah Mormont warned him, “but he will not be the last. Men will risk much for a lordship.”
   Drogo was silent for a time. Finally he said, “This seller of poisons ran from the moon of my life. Better he should run after her. So he will. Jhogo, Jorah the Andal, to each of you I say, choose any horse you wish from my herds, and it is yours. Any horse save my red and the silver that was my bride gift to the moon of my life. I make this gift to you for what you did.
   “And to Rhaego son of Drogo, the stallion who will mount the world, to him I also pledge a gift. To him I will give this iron chair his mother’s father sat in. I will give him Seven Kingdoms. I, Drogo, khal, will do this thing.” His voice rose, and he lifted his fist to the sky. “I will take my khalasar west to where the world ends, and ride the wooden horses across the black salt water as no khal has done before. I will kill the men in the iron suits and tear down their stone houses. I will rape their women, take their children as slaves, and bring their broken gods back to Vaes Dothrak to bow down beneath the Mother of Mountains. This I vow, I, Drogo son of Bharbo. This I swear before the Mother of Mountains, as the stars look down in witness.”
   His khalasar left Vaes Dothrak two days later, striking south and west across the plains. Khal Drogo led them on his great red stallion, with Daenerys beside him on her silver. The wineseller hurried behind them, naked, on foot, chained at throat and wrists. His chains were fastened to the halter of Dany’s silver. As she rode, he ran after her, barefoot and stumbling. No harm would come to him?.?.?.?so long as he kept up.




Ⅰ 权力的游戏 Chapter55 丹妮莉丝
　　卓戈卡奥满足之后，便从他们睡觉的草席上站起来，高高地立在她身边。在火盆的红润光线照耀下，他的皮肤沉黑有如青铜，旧时伤疤的线条在他宽阔的胸膛上若隐若现。他的墨黑长发松散开来，如瀑布般垂过肩膀，沿着背部直下腰际。卡奥的嘴巴隐藏于长长的胡须之下，这时有些不悦地抿起双唇。“骑着世界的骏马不需要铁椅子。”
　　丹妮用手肘撑起身子，抬头望着他。他是如此雄伟高大，她尤其钟爱他的头发。他从未剪过；因为他从未战败。“预言所载，骏马将行至世界尽头。”她说。
　　“世界的尽头是黑色咸海，”卓戈立刻答道。他把布在温水盆里浸湿，揩掉皮肤上的汗水和油。“没有马可以穿越毒水。”
　　“自由贸易城邦有几千艘船，”丹妮一如既往地告诉他，“它们就像生了几百只脚的木马，能够乘风展翼，横越海洋。”
　　卓戈卡奥不想听。“我们不要再谈木马和铁椅子。”他丢下湿布，开始穿衣服。“女人妻子，今天我将到草原上打猎。”他一边穿上彩绘背心，扣上沉重的金银铜章大腰带，一边宣布。
　　“好的，我的日和星。”丹妮说。卓戈会带他的血盟卫外出寻找“赫拉卡”，就是草原上的大白狮。假如他们得手归来，夫君必是兴高采烈，或许就会听她的话。
　　他不畏凶猛野兽，或是世上任何一人，但海洋却不同。对多斯拉克人而言，只要马不能喝的水就是不洁的东西，波涛汹涌的灰绿洋面让他们有种迷信的憎厌。她很清楚，卓戈在无数方面都比其他马王勇敢……只有这点他做不到。若她有办法让他上船就好了……
　　等卡奥和他的血盟卫带着弓箭离开后，丹妮召来女仆。从前她对于她们东摸西碰感到不适，如今身体越发臃肿笨拙，她反而喜欢她们健壮的臂膀和灵巧的双手。她们为她擦洗干净，穿上松滑的纱丝服饰。多莉亚一边帮她梳头，她一边差姬琪去把乔拉·莫尔蒙爵士找来。
　　骑士立刻前来，他穿着马鬃绑腿，彩绘背心，和多斯拉克人无异。粗黑的体毛覆盖了他厚实的胸膛和健壮的手臂。“公主殿下，请问您有何吩咐？”
　　“你得和我夫君谈谈，”丹妮说，“卓戈说骑着世界的骏马将统治全世界，但无需横越毒水。他还说等雷戈出生后，要率领卡拉萨往东走，去掠夺玉海沿岸的土地。”
　　骑士似乎若有所思。“卡奥从未见过七大王国，”他说。“七国对他来说什么都不是。就算他真的想过，大概也以为那只是建在一群小岛上的城邦，周围是风暴不息的海洋，就像罗拉斯或里斯那样，相较之下，富饶的东方想必更吸引人罢。”
　　“可他一定得朝西走，”丹妮急了起来。“求求你，请帮助我让他了解罢。”其实，她和卓戈一样没见过七大王国，但听了哥哥所说的那些故事，她却觉得自己很熟悉。韦赛里斯承诺过几千几百次有朝一日会带她回家，但他已经死了，所有的诺言自然也都不算数了。
　　“多斯拉克人行事自有其步调和理由，”骑士回答，“公主，请您耐心等待，不要重蹈你哥哥的覆辙。我们会回家的，我向你保证。”
　　家？这个字眼令她悲伤。乔拉爵士有熊岛可归，但她的家在哪里？是那几个故事，那几个有如祷词般庄严吟诵的名号，还是回忆中逐渐消逝的红漆大门？……难道维斯·多斯拉克将是她永恒的归宿？当她看着多希卡林的众老妪时，她可是目睹了自己的未来？
　　乔拉爵士应是察觉到她脸上的哀伤。“卡丽熙，昨晚有大批商队进城，足足有四百匹马，他们从潘托斯经诺佛斯和科霍尔而来，由商队统领拜安·佛提利斯领队。伊利里欧曾答应与我们通信联络，说不定捎了信来，您要不要到城西市集去逛一趟？”
　　丹妮起身。“好的。”她说，“我很想去。”每当有商队进城，市集便会热闹起来。你永远也不知道这回商人们又带来什么奇珍异宝，况且能听到有人说瓦雷利亚语，总是件很愉快的事情。自由贸易城邦的人都操这种语言。“伊丽，叫人帮我备轿。”
　　“我去通知您的卡斯部众。”乔拉说着也退下。
　　如果卓戈卡奥在她身边，丹妮就会骑小银马外出。多斯拉克女性即使怀孕也依旧骑马，只有临盆前夕才是例外，她自然不想在丈夫眼中自承虚弱。不过，既然卡奥已经外出打猎，她便可舒服地躺在靠垫上，坐轿子让人抬着穿越维斯·多斯拉克，还有红丝帷幕为她遮挡骄阳。乔拉爵士策马骑行在她身边，同行的还有四名年轻的卡斯部众与三位女仆。
　　天气和煦无云，晴空湛蓝。微风吹起，她闻到青草和土地的浓郁芬香。轿子从夺自异邦的神祗雕像下经过，她也随之脱离目光，进入阴影，接着再返回日光。一路上，丹妮随着轿子轻轻摇晃，审视着故去的英雄和被遗忘的国王们的脸庞，不知那些曾受人崇敬，如今信徒的城市早已付之一炬的诸神，是否依旧能应许她的祈祷。
　　假如我不是真龙血脉，她满心思慕地想，这里就会是我的家。她身为卡丽熙，有一个强壮的男人和一匹迅捷的马，还有服侍她的女仆、保护她的武士，年老之后，还有多希卡林受人敬重的地位等着她……而且，在她的子宫里，那有朝一日将统御世界的儿子正日渐成长，对任何女人来说，都应该心满意足……然而对真龙来说，这样却是不够的。韦赛里斯既死，丹妮莉丝便是独一无二的真龙传人，她是国王与征服者的后裔，她体内的孩子也将继承这样的命运。她不敢忘却。
　　城西市集占地广大，呈正方形，四周由泥砖小屋、牲畜圈栏，以及石灰粉涂砌的酒厅所环绕。地面突起小丘，宛如无数硕大无朋、潜伏地底的怪兽，脊梁破地而出，张开的黑色大口，直通地下阴凉宽阔的储藏室。方形正中则是一座由摊贩和崎岖过道构成的迷宫，上方用长草织成的天篷遮盖。
　　他们抵达之时，上百个商人正忙着卸货摆摊，然而与潘托斯和其他自由贸易城邦的市集广场相比，这里依旧显得宁静而冷清。乔拉爵士向她解释，商队从东西两方来到此处，主要目的不在于和多斯拉克人做买卖，而是与其他商人交易。游牧民族让他们自由来去，只要他们遵守圣城中不得动武的戒条，不亵渎圣母山与世界的子宫湖，并按传统赠与多希卡林老妪盐、银子和种子等礼品即可。其实多斯拉克人并不了解买卖这种行为。
　　丹妮也很喜欢城东市集，那里的事物、声音和气味都充满异国情调。她时常整个早上泡在那里，吃吃树卵、蝗虫馅饼和绿面条，听听吟咒师高亢的嚎叫，张大嘴巴看着来自鸠格斯奈，关在银笼子里的狮首蝎尾兽、巨大无比的灰象、以及黑白斑马。她也喜欢观看形形色色的人群：肤色黝黑、表情凝重的亚夏人；高大白皙的魁尔斯人；头戴猴尾帽、眼睛炯炯有神的夷地人；以及来自巴亚撒布哈德、沙米利安纳和卡亚卡亚纳亚等地，乳头串上铁环、两颊镶着红玉的处女战士；甚至是面色阴郁、令人害怕的阴影之民，他们的手、脚和胸膛上都是刺青，脸则用面具遮住。对丹妮而言，城东市集是个充满惊奇和魔法的地方。
　　但城西市集，却有家的味道。
　　伊丽和姬琪扶她步下轿子，她借机嗅了一下，立刻辨出大蒜和胡椒的辛辣味道，令她回忆起从前在泰洛西和密尔巷弄里的日子，不禁开心地笑了出来。在这些味道之外，她又闻到里斯甜腻得令人头晕目眩的香水味。她看见奴隶背着繁重的密尔蕾丝和十数种颜色的高级羊毛。商队守卫戴着赤铜盔，身披加衬里的黄棉及膝长袍，逡巡于过道之间，空空的剑鞘悬荡在皮腰带上。一个盔甲师父站在摊贩后面，展示着用金银雕饰的精钢胸甲，以及打造成珍禽异兽形状的头盔。在他的摊贩隔壁，有个年轻美妇正在贩售兰尼斯港的金饰，包括戒指、胸针、手镯和精工雕琢、可做成腰带的奖章。她身旁站了一个高大魁梧的太监，不发一语、全身无毛，汗水渗透了他的天鹅绒衣服，他对每个靠近的人都皱眉怒视。走道对面，一位来自夷地的肥胖布商正和一个潘托斯人争论某种绿色染料的价钱，他不停摇头，帽子上的猴尾巴也跟着前后晃动。
　　“我小时候最喜欢在市集里玩。”丹妮一边同乔拉爵士穿梭于摊位间的遮荫过道，一边对他说，“那里最有活力了，到处都是人，又叫又笑，还有好多新奇事物……虽然我们通常什么也买不起……嗯，除了偶尔买条香肠，或是蜂蜜棒……七大王国里有蜂蜜棒吗？就泰洛西烤的那种？”
　　“是蛋糕吗？公主殿下，我不知道。”骑士一鞠躬，“请容我暂时告退，我要去找商队统领，看看有没有给我们的信。”
　　“太好了，我也帮你找。”
　　“不必劳动您，”乔拉爵士有些不耐烦地瞄了远处一眼。“请您尽情享受这市集罢，我办完事立刻回来。”
　　这真是奇了，丹妮目送他大步走进人群，心里想着。她想不出有何原因不便让她同行。或许乔拉爵士见了商队统领之后想找个女人吧。她知道妓女通常会随商队行走各地，也知道男人对房事特别难以启齿，于是她耸耸肩。“走罢。”她对其他人说。
　　丹妮继续在市集里闲逛，她的女仆跟在后面。“啊，你看，”她惊喜地对多莉亚说，“我说的就是这种香肠。”她指指一个摊贩，一位佝偻的矮小妇人正在一颗滚烫的火石上烤着肉和洋葱。“他们加很多的大蒜和辣椒。”惊喜于自己的发现，丹妮坚持其他人也一起尝尝。女仆“咯咯”笑着大口吃完，她的卡斯部众却满腹狐疑地嗅了嗅烤肉。“吃起来和我印象中不一样。”丹妮吃了几口后评说。
　　“在潘托斯，我是用猪肉做的，”老妇人说，“可我的猪通通死在多斯拉克海上。所以这是用马肉做的，卡丽熙，不过酱料完全一样。”
　　“噢。”丹妮觉得有些失望，但是魁洛满喜欢吃，决定再来一根，拉卡洛不甘示弱，结果吃了三根，连连大声打嗝，看得丹妮“咯咯”直笑。
　　“自从您的哥哥拉迦特卡奥被卓戈戴上王冠之后，您就没再笑过。”伊丽说，“卡丽熙，看到您笑，是一件很美的事。”
　　丹妮怯怯地微笑。能笑真的好棒好美，她觉得自己仿佛又成了小女孩。
　　他们晃了大半个早上，她看上一件盛夏群岛的漂亮羽毛斗篷，随后接受了对方的馈赠，她也从腰带上解下一个银牌奖章回送给商人，多斯拉克人就是这样交易的。有个养鸟人教一只红绿相间的鹦鹉说她的名字，丹妮又笑了，但她还是没收下那只鸟，毕竟带着一只红绿鹦鹉在卡拉萨里有什么用呢？她倒是收下十来罐香油，那是属于她童年记忆的香水；她只需闭上眼睛，深深吸气，那栋红门宅院便会在眼前浮现。她见多莉亚以渴望的目光看着魔法师摊位上的丰饶护身符，就收下来送给侍女，心想也该找些别的送给伊丽和姬琪。
　　转了个弯，他们来到一名酒商的摊贩前，那人正拿着精制的小陶杯请经过的人喝。“香甜的红酒啰，”他用流利的多斯拉克语喊，“我有里斯、瓦兰提斯和青亭岛产的香甜红酒、里斯产的白酒、泰洛西产的梨子白兰地、火酒、胡椒酒和密尔产的淡绿神酒、烟莓棕酒和安达尔酸酒，我通通都有，通通都有啰。”他个头很小，生得纤瘦而英俊，淡黄头发梳成里斯流行的款式，烫卷中搽了香水。当丹妮停在他摊位前时，他深深鞠躬，“卡丽熙，您要不要尝一口？尊贵的夫人，我有多恩产的夏日红酒，乃是用蜜李、樱桃和漂亮的黑橡木酿成。您是要一桶、一杯、还是一口？您只需喝上一口，保证会用我的名字为孩子命名。”
　　丹妮浅浅一笑。“我儿子已经有名字了，不过我还是尝尝你的夏日红吧。”她用自由贸易城邦口音的瓦雷利亚语说。这么久没用，讲起来还真有些古怪。“一口就好，麻烦你了。”
　　由于她的衣着、抹油的头发和晒黑的皮肤，那商人原本一定把她当成多斯拉克人了，所以当她开口说话时，他吃惊地张大了嘴。“尊贵的夫人，您是……泰洛西人吗？是么？”
　　“我说话或许有泰洛西口音，穿的或许是多斯拉克服饰，但我却是日落国度的维斯特洛人。”丹妮告诉他。
　　多莉亚走到她身边。“你有幸与马上民族的卡丽熙、七大王国的公主，坦格利安家族的‘风暴降生’丹妮莉丝说话。”
　　酒商连忙跪下。“公主殿下。”他低头道。
　　“起来吧，”丹妮命令他，“我还想尝尝你的夏日红呢。”
　　商人一跃起身，“您是说刚才那个？那是多恩的猪饲料，配不上公主您的。我有一种青亭岛产的干红，喝起来既甘甜又爽口。请让我荣幸地送您一桶罢。”
　　卓戈卡奥在几次做客自由贸易城邦的过程中，养成了对好酒的喜爱，丹妮知道如此名贵的陈酿定会讨他欢心。“您太客气了，先生。”她甜甜地轻声说。
　　“这是我的荣幸。”商人在摊位后面翻找半天，拿出一个小木桶。桶子的木头上烙了葡萄串的图案。“这是雷德温家族的标志，”他指着说，“青亭岛的特产，世上没有比这更好的东西。”
　　“而卓戈卡奥将与我共饮此酒。阿戈，麻烦你把这个拿回我的轿子。”多斯拉克武士搬起酒桶时，酒商的眼睛整个亮了起来。
　　她没察觉乔拉爵士已经返回，直到她听见骑士喝道：“慢着！”他的声音怪异而粗鲁。“阿戈，把那桶酒放下。”
　　阿戈看看丹妮，她有些犹豫地点点头。“乔拉爵士，有什么不对？”
　　“我口正渴，老板，把酒打开。”
　　酒贩皱起眉头。“爵士，酒是要送给卡丽熙，不是给你这种人喝的。”
　　乔拉爵士走近摊位。“你如果不打开，我就用你的头敲开。”碍于圣城戒律，他并未携带武器，仅有双手——然而他那双手强壮结实、肌肉虬张，关节上长满黑毛，散发出危险的气息。酒商迟疑了一会儿，终于拿起锤子，敲开封盖。
　　“倒酒。”乔拉爵士下令。丹妮卡斯部众的四名年轻武士在他身后一字排开，睁大黑色的杏仁眼，皱起眉头看着他。
　　“这么好的酒，假如不让它先透透气就喝，简直是滔天大罪啊。”酒商的锤子没有放下。
　　乔戈伸手要取盘在腰间的鞭子，但丹妮轻触他的手臂，表示制止。“照乔拉爵士说的做。”她说。附近的人纷纷驻足观看。
　　那人飞快地看了她一眼，神情充满怨怒。“谨遵公主殿下吩咐。”他放下锤子，挪动酒桶，小心翼翼地倒了两小杯，一滴也没洒出。
　　乔拉爵士举起一杯，皱着眉闻了闻。
　　“很香吧？”酒商笑眯眯地说，“爵士先生，您可闻出了葡萄的香气？青亭岛的特产哟。大人，就请您先尝尝，然后再告诉我这是不是您喝过的最甘甜最浓郁的酒。”
　　乔拉爵士把酒递给他。“你先喝。”
　　“我？”那人笑笑，“大人，我不够格喝这么好的酒，更何况哪有酒贩子喝自己的酒呢？”他的笑容虽然和蔼可亲，但她却看到他额间布满汗珠。
　　“叫你喝你就喝。”丹妮口气冰冷地说，“把这杯喝干，不然我就叫他们抓住你，让乔拉爵士把整桶灌进你喉咙。”
　　酒商耸耸肩，伸手去拿杯子……结果却双手抓起酒桶，朝她掷来。乔拉爵士连忙用力一撞，把她整个人推开，酒桶滚过他的肩膀，落地裂开。丹妮重心不稳跌了一跤。“哎呀！”她尖叫着想伸手撑地……幸好多莉亚及时抓住她的手臂往后一拉，所以她是双脚着地，腹部没有受碰撞。
　　酒商翻身跳过摊位，从阿戈和拉卡洛中间窜了出去，撞开伸手想拿亚拉克弯刀、却扑了个空的魁洛，然后沿着过道逃走。丹妮听到乔戈的鞭子啪啦，只见皮鞭如舌头般窜出，卷住酒贩的脚，这金发男子登时面朝下仆倒在地。
　　十来个商队守卫快步赶来，商队统领拜安·佛提利斯也来了。他是个诺佛斯人，皮肤有如老旧皮革，身材矮小，蓝色竖胡直上耳际。他一句话也没问，似乎就明白发生了什么。“把这人带走，听候卡奥发落。”他指着地上的人下令，两名守卫随即架起酒贩。“公主殿下，请收下他的酒当礼物。”商队统领继续说，“算是一点不成敬意的补偿，没想到我们商队里竟有人干出这种事，真对不住。”
　　多莉亚和姬琪扶着丹妮站起来，毒酒正从裂开的酒桶缓缓流到泥地上。“你怎么知道？”她颤抖着问乔拉爵士。“你怎么知道？”
　　“卡丽熙，本来我也不知，是看他不肯喝酒方才确定。先前我读了伊利里欧总督的信，就害怕会有这种事发生。”他深色的眼睛环视着市集里围观的陌生人群。“走吧，不适合在这里谈。”
　　他们抬她回去时，丹妮几乎要哭出来。嘴里这种味道她早已尝过：恐惧。她长年生活在对韦赛里斯的恐惧当中，害怕唤醒睡龙之怒，现在的情形却更糟。如今她不只为自己害怕，还要担心肚子里的胎儿。他想必是察觉了她的恐惧，因此在她体内不安地胎动着。丹妮轻抚隆起的肚子，希望她可以伸手触碰他、搂抱他、抚慰他。“小宝贝，你是真龙传人呢。”轿子帘幕紧掩，微微摇晃，她也随之晃动，“真龙传人哟，龙是不会害怕的。”
　　回到她在维斯·多斯拉克的空心圆丘后，丹妮吩咐人们全部退下——除了乔拉爵士。“告诉我，”她在靠垫上缓缓躺下，同时命令道，“是‘篡夺者’下的令吗？”
　　“是的，”骑士取出一张卷起的羊皮纸。“这是伊利里欧总督写给韦赛里斯的信。信中说，劳勃·拜拉席恩已经下令，只要有人能杀了你或你哥哥，即可受领封地成为贵族。”
　　“我哥哥？”她的啜泣中有一半是笑。“他还不知道，是不是？这么说来篡夺者欠卓戈一个领主封号。”这次是她的笑声夹杂着啜泣，她保护性地紧抱住自己。“你说还有我，是吗？只有我吗？”
　　“你和你的孩子。”乔拉爵士脸色凝重地说。
　　“不行，他绝不能伤害我儿子。”她暗自决定，自己绝不会哭，也不会恐惧发抖。篡夺者唤醒了睡龙之怒，她对自己说……然后她把视线转移到躺在深色天鹅绒上的龙蛋。摇曳的灯光描绘出它们石面的鳞甲，将周遭空气的微尘染成鲜红和金黄，宛如国王身边的廷臣。
　　接下来紧紧攫住她念头的，是因恐惧而生的疯狂，还是某种潜藏于血脉之中的怪异智慧？丹妮说不准。她只听见自己的声音道：“乔拉爵士，点起火盆。”
　　“卡丽熙？”骑士眼神怪异地看着她。“天这么热，您确定吗？”
　　她这辈子从未如此确定。“是的。我……我受了点风寒，把火盆点上。”
　　他鞠了个躬。“如您所愿。”
　　煤炭烧起来后，丹妮将乔拉爵士遣走。她必须在无人注视的情况下才敢完成。真是疯狂之举，她一边对自己说，一边将那颗黑红交杂的蛋从天鹅绒上拿起来。蛋只会燃烧崩裂，那将是多么美丽的景象，乔拉爵士若知道我毁了龙蛋。一定会说我是个傻子。可是，可是……
　　她两手捧着龙蛋，走到火边，往下一放，把它与燃烧的煤炭放在一起。黑色的龙鳞仿佛在啜饮高热，熠熠发光，细小的红火舌舔着石头表面。丹妮将另外两颗蛋也放进火里，靠在黑的那颗旁边，然后她从火盆边退开，颤抖得喘不过气来。
　　她在旁观看，直到炭火只余灰烬，游移的火星自排烟口飘腾而出，热气在龙蛋周围波荡闪亮，最后归于平静。
　　你大哥雷加是最后的真龙传人，乔拉爵士曾对她这么说。丹妮哀伤地望着龙蛋，她究竟在期待什么？千万年前它们有生命，如今不过是漂亮石头罢了。它们不可能变成龙。真正的龙能腾空飞翔，喷吐烈焰，是活生生的血肉，而非死板板的顽石。
　　卓戈卡奥归来时，火盆已然冷却。科霍罗领着一匹驮马走在他后面，马背上挂着一头巨大的白狮。头顶的苍穹，星星就要出来了。卡奥笑着翻身下马，向她展示赫拉卡的爪子刮破绑腿所留下的伤痕。“我将用它的皮为你做一件斗篷，我生命中的月亮。”他对天发誓。
　　丹妮把在市集发生的事告诉他之后，所有的笑容都停住了，卓戈卡奥变得非常安静。
　　“这个下毒的人是第一个，”乔拉·莫尔蒙爵士警告他，“但绝不会是最后一个。为了贵族封号，很多人会铤而走险。”
　　卓戈沉默了一阵子，最后他说：“这个卖毒药的人，想从我生命中的月亮身边逃走，那就让他跟在她后面跑，让他跑。乔戈，安达尔人乔拉，我对你们两人说，从我的马群里挑选任何一匹——除了我自己的红马和我送给我生命的月亮做为新娘礼的银马——它就是你们的了。我送给你们这件礼物，是为了感谢你们的功绩。”
　　“至于卓戈之子雷戈，骑着世界的骏马，我也要送他一件礼物。我要送他那张他母亲的父亲曾经坐过的铁椅子，我要送他七大王国。我，卓戈，卡奥，要做这件事。”他的音量渐高，举起拳头对天呼喊，“我要带着我的卡拉萨向西走到世界尽头，骑着木马横渡黑色咸水，做出古往今来其他卡奥都从来没有做过的事。我要杀死穿铁衣服的人，拆了他们的石头房子，我要强奸他们的女人，抓他们的小孩来做奴隶，把他们无用的神像带回维斯·多斯拉克，向圣母山行礼。我，拔尔勃之子卓戈在此发誓，在圣母山前发誓，以天上群星为证。”
　　两天后，他的卡拉萨离开维斯·多斯拉克，往西南穿越草原。卓戈卡奥骑着红色骏马领路在前，丹妮莉丝骑着小银马紧跟在他身边。至于那个酒贩，则裸着身子，赤脚跑在后面。他的脖颈和手腕绑着锁链，锁链很长，一直系到丹妮银马的辔头上。她一边骑，他一边跟着她跑，赤裸双脚，步履踉跄。他不会受到任何伤害……只要他跟上。
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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 55

   55.CATELYN
   It was too far to make out the banners clearly, but even through the drifting fog she could see that they were white, with a dark smudge in their center that could only be the direwolf of Stark, grey upon its icy field. When she saw it with her own eyes, Catelyn reined up her horse and bowed her head in thanks. The gods were good. She was not too late.
   “They await our coming, my lady,” Ser Wylis Manderly said, “as my lord father swore they would.”
   “Let us not keep them waiting any longer, ser.” Ser Brynden Tully put the spurs to his horse and trotted briskly toward the banners. Catelyn rode beside him.
   Ser Wylis and his brother Ser Wendel followed, leading their levies, near fifteen hundred men: some twenty-odd knights and as many squires, two hundred mounted lances, swordsmen, and freeriders, and the rest foot, armed with spears, pikes and tridents. Lord Wyman had remained behind to see to the defenses of White Harbor. A man of near sixty years, he had grown too stout to sit a horse. “If I had thought to see war again in my lifetime, I should have eaten a few less eels,” he’d told Catelyn when he met her ship, slapping his massive belly with both hands. His fingers were fat as sausages. “My boys will see you safe to your son, though, have no fear.”
   His “boys” were both older than Catelyn, and she might have wished that they did not take after their father quite so closely. Ser Wylis was only a few eels short of not being able to mount his own horse; she pitied the poor animal. Ser Wendel, the younger boy, would have been the fattest man she’d ever known, had she only neglected to meet his father and brother. Wylis was quiet and formal, Wendel loud and boisterous; both had ostentatious walrus mustaches and heads as bare as a baby’s bottom; neither seemed to own a single garment that was not spotted with food stains. Yet she liked them well enough; they had gotten her to Robb, as their father had vowed, and nothing else mattered.
   She was pleased to see that her son had sent eyes out, even to the east. The Lannisters would come from the south when they came, but it was good that Robb was being careful. My son is leading a host to war, she thought, still only half believing it. She was desperately afraid for him, and for Winterfell, yet she could not deny feeling a certain pride as well. A year ago he had been a boy. What was he now? she wondered.
   Outriders spied the Manderly banners, the white merman with trident in hand, rising from a blue-green sea, and hailed them warmly. They were led to a spot of high ground dry enough for a camp. Ser Wylis called a halt there, and remained behind with his men to see the fires laid and the horses tended, while his brother Wendel rode on with Catelyn and her uncle to present their father’s respects to their liege lord.
   The ground under their horses’ hooves was soft and wet. It fell away slowly beneath them as they rode past smoky peat fires, lines of horses, and wagons heavy-laden with hardbread and salt beef. On a stony outcrop of land higher than the surrounding country, they passed a lord’s pavilion with walls of heavy sailcloth. Catelyn recognized the banner, the bull moose of the Hornwoods, brown on its dark orange field.
   Just beyond, through the mists, she glimpsed the walls and towers of Moat Cailin?.?.?.?or what remained of them. Immense blocks of black basalt, each as large as a crofter’s cottage, lay scattered and tumbled like a child’s wooden blocks, half-sunk in the soft boggy soil. Nothing else remained of a curtain wall that had once stood as high as Winterfell’s. The wooden keep was gone entirely, rotted away a thousand years past, with not so much as a timber to mark where it had stood. All that was left of the great stronghold of the First Men were three towers?.?.?.?three where there had once been twenty, if the taletellers could be believed.
   The Gatehouse Tower looked sound enough, and even boasted a few feet of standing wall to either side of it. The Drunkard’s Tower, off in the bog where the south and west walls had once met, leaned like a man about to spew a bellyful of wine into the gutter. And the tall, slender Children’s Tower, where legend said the children of the forest had once called upon their nameless gods to send the hammer of the waters, had lost half its crown. It looked as if some great beast had taken a bite out of the crenellations along the tower top, and spit the rubble across the bog. All three towers were green with moss. A tree was growing out between the stones on the north side of the Gatehouse Tower, its gnarled limbs festooned with ropy white blankets of ghostskin.
   “Gods have mercy,” Ser Brynden exclaimed when he saw what lay before them. “This is Moat Cailin? It’s no more than a...”
   “...death trap,” Catelyn finished. “I know how it looks, Uncle. I thought the same the first time I saw it, but Ned assured me that this ruin is more formidable than it seems. The three surviving towers command the causeway from all sides, and any enemy must pass between them. The bogs here are impenetrable, full of quicksands and suckholes and teeming with snakes. To assault any of the towers, an army would need to wade through waist-deep black muck, cross a moat full of lizard-lions, and scale walls slimy with moss, all the while exposing themselves to fire from archers in the other towers.” She gave her uncle a grim smile. “And when night falls, there are said to be ghosts, cold vengeful spirits of the north who hunger for southron blood.”
   Ser Brynden chuckled. “Remind me not to linger here. Last I looked, I was southron myself.”
   Standards had been raised atop all three towers. The Karstark sunburst hung from the Drunkard’s Tower, beneath the direwolf; on the Children’s Tower it was the Greatjon’s giant in shattered chains. But on the Gatehouse Tower, the Stark banner flew alone. That was where Robb had made his seat. Catelyn made for it, with Ser Brynden and Ser Wendel behind her, their horses stepping slowly down the log-and-plank road that had been laid across the green-and-black fields of mud.
   She found her son surrounded by his father’s lords bannermen, in a drafty hall with a peat fire smoking in a black hearth. He was seated at a massive stone table, a pile of maps and papers in front of him, talking intently with Roose Bolton and the Greatjon. At first he did not notice her?.?.?.?but his wolf did. The great grey beast was lying near the fire, but when Catelyn entered he lifted his head, and his golden eyes met hers. The lords fell silent one by one, and Robb looked up at the sudden quiet and saw her. “Mother?” he said, his voice thick with emotion.
   Catelyn wanted to run to him, to kiss his sweet brow, to wrap him in her arms and hold him so tightly that he would never come to harm?.?.?.?but here in front of his lords, she dared not. He was playing a man’s part now, and she would not take that away from him. So she held herself at the far end of the basalt slab they were using for a table. The direwolf got to his feet and padded across the room to where she stood. It seemed bigger than a wolf ought to be. “You’ve grown a beard,” she said to Robb, while Grey Wind sniffed her hand.
   He rubbed his stubbled jaw, suddenly awkward. “Yes.” His chin hairs were redder than the ones on his head.
   “I like it.” Catelyn stroked the wolfs head, gently. “It makes you look like my brother Edmure.” Grey Wind nipped at her fingers, playful, and trotted back to his place by the fire.
   Ser Helman Tallhart was the first to follow the direwolf across the room to pay his respects, kneeling before her and pressing his brow to her hand. “Lady Catelyn,” he said, “you are fair as ever, a welcome sight in troubled times.” The Glovers followed, Galbart and Robett, and Greatjon Umber, and the rest, one by one. Theon Greyjoy was the last. “I had not looked to see you here, my lady,” he said as he knelt.
   “I had not thought to be here,” Catelyn said, “until I came ashore at White Harbor, and Lord Wyman told me that Robb had called the banners. You know his son, Ser Wendel.” Wendel Manderly stepped forward and bowed as low as his girth would allow. “And my uncle, Ser Brynden Tully, who has left my sister’s service for mine.”
   “The Blackfish,” Robb said. “Thank you for joining us, ser. We need men of your courage. And you, Ser Wendel, I am glad to have you here. Is Ser Rodrik with you as well, Mother? I’ve missed him.”
   “Ser Rodrik is on his way north from White Harbor. I have named him castellan and commanded him to hold Winterfell till our return. Maester Luwin is a wise counsellor, but unskilled in the arts of war.”
   “Have no fear on that count, Lady Stark,” the Greatjon told her in his bass rumble. “Winterfell is safe. We’ll shove our swords up Tywin Lannister’s bunghole soon enough, begging your pardons, and then it’s on to the Red Keep to free Ned.”
   “My lady, a question, as it please you.” Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort, had a small voice, yet when he spoke larger men quieted to listen. His eyes were curiously pale, almost without color, and his look disturbing. “It is said that you hold Lord Tywin’s dwarf son as captive. Have you brought him to us? I vow, we should make good use of such a hostage.”
   “I did hold Tyrion Lannister, but no longer,” Catelyn was forced to admit. A chorus of consternation greeted the news. “I was no more pleased than you, my lords. The gods saw fit to free him, with some help from my fool of a sister.” She ought not to be so open in her contempt, she knew, but her parting from the Eyrie had not been pleasant. She had offered to take Lord Robert with her, to foster him at Winterfell for a few years. The company of other boys would do him good, she had dared to suggest. Lysa’s rage had been frightening to behold. “Sister or no,” she had replied, “if you try to steal my son, you will leave by the Moon Door.” After that there was no more to be said.
   The lords were anxious to question her further, but Catelyn raised a hand. “No doubt we will have time for all this later, but my journey has fatigued me. I would speak with my son alone. I know you will forgive me, my lords.” She gave them no choice; led by the ever-obliging Lord Hornwood, the bannermen bowed and took their leave. “And you, Theon,” she added when Greyjoy lingered. He smiled and left them.
   There was ale and cheese on the table. Catelyn tilled a horn, sat, sipped, and studied her son. He seemed taller than when she’d left, and the wisps of beard did make him look older. “Edmure was sixteen when he grew his first whiskers.”
   “I will be sixteen soon enough,” Robb said.
   “And you are fifteen now. Fifteen, and leading a host to battle. Can you understand why I might fear, Robb?”
   His look grew stubborn. “There was no one else.”
   “No one?” she said. “Pray, who were those men I saw here a moment ago? Roose Bolton, Rickard Karstark, Galbart and Robett Glover, the Greatjon, Helman Tallhart?.?.?.?you might have given the command to any of them. Gods be good, you might even have sent Theon, though he would not be my choice.”
   “They are not Starks,” he said.
   “They are men, Robb, seasoned in battle. You were fighting with wooden swords less than a year past.”
   She saw anger in his eyes at that, but it was gone as quick as it came, and suddenly he was a boy again. “I know,” he said, abashed. “Are you?.?.?.?are you sending me back to Winterfell?”
   Catelyn sighed. “I should. You ought never have left. Yet I dare not, not now. You have come too far. Someday these lords will look to you as their liege. If I pack you off now, like a child being sent to bed without his supper, they will remember, and laugh about it in their cups. The day will come when you need them to respect you, even fear you a little. Laughter is poison to fear. I will not do that to you, much as I might wish to keep you safe.”
   “You have my thanks, Mother,” he said, his relief obvious beneath the formality.
   She reached across his table and touched his hair. “You are my firstborn, Robb. I have only to look at you to remember the day you came into the world, red-faced and squalling.”
   He rose, clearly uncomfortable with her touch, and walked to the hearth. Grey Wind rubbed his head against his leg. “You know?.?.?.?about Father?”
   “Yes.” The reports of Robert’s sudden death and Ned’s fall had frightened Catelyn more than she could say, but she would not let her son see her fear. “Lord Manderly told me when I landed at White Harbor. Have you had any word of your sisters?”
   “There was a letter,” Robb said, scratching his direwolf under the jaw. “One for you as well, but it came to Winterfell with mine.” He went to the table, rummaged among some maps and papers, and returned with a crumpled parchment. “This is the one she wrote me, I never thought to bring yours.”
   Something in Robb’s tone troubled her. She smoothed out the paper and read. Concern gave way to disbelief, then to anger, and lastly to fear. “This is Cersei’s letter, not your sister’s,” she said when she was done. “The real message is in what Sansa does not say. All this about how kindly and gently the Lannisters are treating her?.?.?.?I know the sound of a threat, even whispered. They have Sansa hostage, and they mean to keep her.”
   “There’s no mention of Arya,” Robb pointed out, miserable.
   “No.” Catelyn did not want to think what that might mean, not now, not here.
   “I had hoped?.?.?.?if you still held the Imp, a trade of hostages?.?.?.?” He took Sansa’s letter and crumpled it in his fist, and she could tell from the way he did it that it was not the first time. “Is there word from the Eyrie? I wrote to Aunt Lysa, asking help. Has she called Lord Arryn’s banners, do you know? Will the knights of the Vale come join us?”
   “Only one,” she said, “the best of them, my uncle?.?.?.?but Brynden Blackfish was a Tully first. My sister is not about to stir beyond her Bloody Gate.”
   Robb took it hard. “Mother, what are we going to do? I brought this whole army together, eighteen thousand men, but I don’t?.?.?.?I’m not certain?.?.?.?” He looked to her, his eyes shining, the proud young lord melted away in an instant, and quick as that he was a child again, a fifteen-year-old boy looking to his mother for answers.
   It would not do.
   “What are you so afraid of, Robb?” she asked gently.
   “I?.?.?.?” He turned his head away, to hide the first tear. “If we march?.?.?.?even if we win?.?.?.?the Lannisters hold Sansa, and Father. They’ll kill them, won’t they?”
   “They want us to think so.”
   “You mean they’re lying?”
   “I do not know, Robb. What I do know is that you have no choice. If you go to King’s Landing and swear fealty, you will never be allowed to leave. If you turn your tail and retreat to Winterfell, your lords will lose all respect for you. Some may even go over to the Lannisters. Then the queen, with that much less to fear, can do as she likes with her prisoners. Our best hope, our only true hope, is that you can defeat the foe in the field. If you should chance to take Lord Tywin or the Kingslayer captive, why then a trade might very well be possible, but that is not the heart of it. So long as you have power enough that they must fear you, Ned and your sister should be safe. Cersei is wise enough to know that she may need them to make her peace, should the fighting go against her.”
   “What if the fighting doesn’t go against her?” Robb asked. “What if it goes against us?”
   Catelyn took his hand. “Robb, I will not soften the truth for you. If you lose, there is no hope for any of us. They say there is naught but stone at the heart of Casterly Rock. Remember the fate of Rhaegar’s children.”
   She saw the fear in his young eyes then, but there was a strength as well. “Then I will not lose,” he vowed.
   “Tell me what you know of the fighting in the riverlands,” she said. She had to learn if he was truly ready.
   “Less than a fortnight past, they fought a battle in the hills below the Golden Tooth,” Robb said. “Uncle Edmure had sent Lord Vance and Lord Piper to hold the pass, but the Kingslayer descended on them and put them to flight. Lord Vance was slain. The last word we had was that Lord Piper was falling back to join your brother and his other bannermen at Riverrun, with Jaime Lannister on his heels. That’s not the worst of it, though. All the time they were battling in the pass, Lord Tywin was bringing a second Lannister army around from the south. It’s said to be even larger than Jaime’s host.
   “Father must have known that, because he sent out some men to oppose them, under the king’s own banner. He gave the command to some southron lordling, Lord Erik or Derik or something like that, but Ser Raymun Darry rode with him, and the letter said there were other knights as well, and a force of Father’s own guardsmen. Only it was a trap. Lord Derik had no sooner crossed the Red Fork than the Lannisters fell upon him, the king’s banner be damned, and Gregor Clegane took them in the rear as they tried to pull back across the Mummer’s Ford. This Lord Derik and a few others may have escaped, no one is certain, but Ser Raymun was killed, and most of our men from Winterfell. Lord Tywin has closed off the kingsroad, it’s said, and now he’s marching north toward Harrenhal, burning as he goes.”
   Grim and grimmer, thought Catelyn. It was worse than she’d imagined. “You mean to meet him here?” she asked.
   “If he comes so far, but no one thinks he will,” Robb said. “I’ve sent word to Howland Reed, Father’s old friend at Greywater Watch. If the Lannisters come up the Neck, the crannogmen will bleed them every step of the way, but Galbart Glover says Lord Tywin is too smart for that, and Roose Bolton agrees. He’ll stay close to the Trident, they believe, taking the castles of the river lords one by one, until Riverrun stands alone. We need to march south to meet him.”
   The very idea of it chilled Catelyn to the bone. What chance would a fifteen-year-old boy have against seasoned battle commanders like Jaime and Tywin Lannister? “Is that wise? You are strongly placed here. It’s said that the old Kings in the North could stand at Moat Cailin and throw back hosts ten times the size of their own.”
   “Yes, but our food and supplies are running low, and this is not land we can live off easily. We’ve been waiting for Lord Manderly, but now that his sons have joined us, we need to march.”
   She was hearing the lords bannermen speaking with her son’s voice, she realized. Over the years, she had hosted many of them at Winterfell, and been welcomed with Ned to their own hearths and tables. She knew what sorts of men they were, each one. She wondered if Robb did.
   And yet there was sense in what they said. This host her son had assembled was not a standing army such as the Free Cities were accustomed to maintain, nor a force of guardsmen paid in coin. Most of them were smallfolk: crofters, fieldhands, fishermen, sheepherders, the sons of innkeeps and traders and tanners, leavened with a smattering of sellswords and freeriders hungry for plunder. When their lords called, they came?.?.?.?but not forever. “Marching is all very well,” she said to her son, “but where, and to what purpose? What do you mean to do?”
   Robb hesitated. “The Greatjon thinks we should take the battle to Lord Tywin and surprise him,” he said, “but the Glovers and the Karstarks feel we’d be wiser to go around his army and join up with Uncle Ser Edmure against the Kingslayer.” He ran his fingers through his shaggy mane of auburn hair, looking unhappy. “Though by the time we reach Riverrun?.?.?.?I’m not certain?.?.?.?”
   “Be certain,” Catelyn told her son, “or go home and take up that wooden sword again. You cannot afford to seem indecisive in front of men like Roose Bolton and Rickard Karstark. Make no mistake, Robb, these are your bannermen, not your friends. You named yourself battle commander. Command.”
   Her son looked at her, startled, as if he could not credit what he was hearing. “As you say, Mother.”
   “I’ll ask you again. What do you mean to do?”
   Robb drew a map across the table, a ragged piece of old leather covered with lines of faded paint. One end curled up from being rolled; he weighed it down with his dagger. “Both plans have virtues, but?.?.?.?look, if we try to swing around Lord Tywin’s host, we take the risk of being caught between him and the Kingslayer, and if we attack him?.?.?.?by all reports, he has more men than I do, and a lot more armored horse. The Greatjon says that won’t matter if we catch him with his breeches down, but it seems to me that a man who has fought as many battles as Tywin Lannister won’t be so easily surprised.”
   “Good,” she said. She could hear echoes of Ned in his voice, as he sat there, puzzling over the map. “Tell me more.”
   “I’d leave a small force here to hold Moat Cailin, archers mostly, and march the rest down the causeway,” he said, “but once we’re below the Neck, I’d split our host in two. The foot can continue down the kingsroad, while our horsemen cross the Green Fork at the Twins.” He pointed. “When Lord Tywin gets word that we’ve come south, he’ll march north to engage our main host, leaving our riders free to hurry down the west bank to Riverrun.” Robb sat back, not quite daring to smile, but pleased with himself and hungry for her praise.
   Catelyn frowned down at the map. “You’d put a river between the two parts of your army.”
   “And between Jaime and Lord Tywin,” he said eagerly. The smile came at last. “There’s no crossing on the Green Fork above the ruby ford, where Robert won his crown. Not until the Twins, all the way up here, and Lord Frey controls that bridge. He’s your father’s bannerman, isn’t that so?”
   The Late Lord Frey, Catelyn thought. “He is,” she admitted, “but my father has never trusted him. Nor should you.”
   “I won’t,” Robb promised. “What do you think?”
   She was impressed despite herself. He looks like a Tully, she thought, yet he’s still his father’s son, and Ned taught him well. “Which force would you command?”
   “The horse,” he answered at once. Again like his father; Ned would always take the more dangerous task himself.
   “And the other?”
   “The Greatjon is always saying that we should smash Lord Tywin. I thought I’d give him the honor.”
   It was his first misstep, but how to make him see it without wounding his fledgling confidence? “Your father once told me that the Greatjon was as fearless as any man he had ever known.”
   Robb grinned. “Grey Wind ate two of his fingers, and he laughed about it. So you agree, then?”
   “Your father is not fearless,” Catelyn pointed out. “He is brave, but that is very different.”
   Her son considered that for a moment. “The eastern host will be all that stands between Lord Tywin and Winterfell,” he said thoughtfully. “Well, them and whatever few bowmen I leave here at the Moat. So I don’t want someone fearless, do I?”
   “No. You want cold cunning, I should think, not courage.”
   “Roose Bolton,” Robb said at once. “That man scares me.”
   “Then let us pray he will scare Tywin Lannister as well.”
   Robb nodded and rolled up the map. “I’ll give the commands, and assemble an escort to take you home to Winterfell.”
   Catelyn had fought to keep herself strong, for Ned’s sake and for this stubborn brave son of theirs. She had put despair and fear aside, as if they were garments she did not choose to wear?.?.?.?but now she saw that she had donned them after all.
   “I am not going to Winterfell,” she heard herself say, surprised at the sudden rush of tears that blurred her vision. “My father may be dying behind the walls of Riverrun. My brother is surrounded by foes. I must go to them.”


Ⅰ 权力的游戏 Chapter56 凯特琳
　　虽然距离尚远，无法看清旗帜上的图案，但透过迷朦雾气，她依旧瞧得出那是白色旌旗，中间暗色一点只可能是史塔克家族的灰色冰原奔狼。一会儿，待亲眼目睹之后，凯特琳勒住马缰，低头感谢天上诸神，她总算没有来得太迟。
　　“夫人，他们正等着我们过去呢，”威里斯·曼德勒爵士道，“如我父亲所保证的。”
　　“那我们就别让他们再等下去吧，爵士先生。”布林登·徒利爵士轻踢马刺，快步朝前奔去，凯特琳策马与之并肩而行。
　　威里斯爵士和他的弟弟文德尔爵士跟在后面，率领着为数将近一千五百名士兵：其中包括二十来位骑士和相同数目的侍从，两百名或持熗或佩剑的骑马战士与自由骑手，其余则是配备长矛、长熗和三叉戟的步兵。威曼伯爵留在后方负责白港的防御，他已年过六旬，体态臃肿得无法再骑马作战。“我若知道这辈子还会遇上打仗，就应该少吃几条鳗鱼。”前来接船时，他这么对凯特琳说，一边还双手拍拍大肚子，那指头肥得跟香肠没两样。“不过呢，您用不着担心，我家这两个小鬼会护送您平安达到您儿子那边的。”
　　他的两个“小鬼”年纪都比凯特琳大，她还真希望他父子三人不要长得那么相像。威里斯爵士若是再重一点，大概也骑不成马了；她真心怜悯他的坐骑。年纪较轻的文德尔爵士也算得上是她所知最胖的人——假如她没遇见他父亲和哥哥的话。威里斯为人沉默多礼，文德尔则粗声粗气，两人都有大把海象式的长胡子，头秃得像新生婴儿的屁股，而且几乎每件衣服都沾染了食物痕迹。不过，她挺喜欢他们，他们依约护送她到了罗柏身边，如他们父亲所保证的，这样就足够了。
　　看到儿子连东边也派出了斥候，她感到很高兴。兰尼斯特军出现时会在南方，但罗柏谨慎行事毕竟是好的。我儿正领军出征，她心里想，依然不太敢相信。她非常为他，也为临冬城担心害怕，但她不能否认心里也同样感到骄傲。一年之前，他还只是个孩子，如今的他变成什么样了？她不禁纳闷。
　　骑马斥候看见了曼德勒家族的旗帜——手握三叉戟的白色人鱼，自蓝绿海洋中缓缓升起——便热情地招呼他们。他们被领到一处干燥、可供扎营的高地，威里斯爵士命令军队停在那里，升起营火，照料马匹。他的弟弟文德尔则陪伴凯特琳和她叔叔，代表他父亲去向少主致意。
　　马蹄下的土地湿软不堪，随着踩踏缓缓下陷。他们行经煤烟袅袅的营火，一排排的战马，满载硬面包和咸牛肉的货车。在一个地势较高的裸岩上，他们经过了一座用厚重帆布搭建而成的领主帐篷。凯特琳认出霍伍德家族的旗帜，褐色驼鹿衬着暗橙色底。
　　稍远处，透过雾气，她瞥见了卡林湾的高墙塔楼……或者应该说，高墙塔楼的遗迹。一块块大如农舍的黑色玄武岩四处倾颓，活像小孩的积木，半沉进湿软的沼地泥泞。而由它们所筑成的、曾与临冬城等高的城墙，业已完全消失；木造的堡楼更在千年前便已腐烂蛀蚀，如今连半根木头都不剩，再也看不出辉煌一时的痕迹。先民所建筑的雄伟要塞只剩三座高塔……而说书人却说古时曾有二十座。
　　“城门塔”看来还算完整，左右两边甚至还有几尺城墙。“醉鬼塔”陷在泽地边缘，位于过去南墙和西墙交会的地方，如今倾斜得厉害，有如一位准备吐出满肚子酒水的醉汉。相传，森林之子便是在高瘦尖细的“森林之子塔”顶召唤他们的无名诸神，送出巨浪的惩罚，如今塔尖少了一半，看上去像是有只大怪兽咬了一口塔楼雉堞，随后又把它吐进沼泽。三座塔楼均爬满青苔，有棵树从城门塔北面石墙缝隙间长出，盘根错节，表面覆盖着幽灵般苍白的坏死树皮。
　　“诸神慈悲，”看到眼前的景象，布林登爵士不禁吃了一惊，“这就是卡林湾？这不过是个——”
　　“——死亡陷阱。”凯特琳接口道：“叔叔，我知道这里看起来很不起眼，我初次见到时也这么想，但奈德向我保证，这片‘废墟’远比看起来要易守难攻。残存的三塔从三个方面控制堤道，任何北上的敌人都必须从他们中间通过，因为沼泽充满流沙和陷坑，毒蛇肆虐其间，无法穿越。而若要攻打其中一塔，军队必须涉过深至腰部的黑色泥泞，跨越蜥狮出没的护城河，再登上长满青苔、滑溜异常的城墙，同时从头到尾都暴露在另外两塔弓箭手的箭雨之下。”她故作严峻地朝叔叔一笑，“入夜之后，据说这里闹鬼，有很多充满恨意的北方幽魂等着吸南方人的鲜血。”
　　布林登爵士笑道：“记得提醒我别在此逗留太久。我上次照镜子时，看到自己还是个南方人哪。”
　　三座塔顶均竖起了旗帜。醉鬼塔上的是卡史塔克家族的日芒旗，飘扬于冰原狼旗帜下；森林之子塔上则是大琼恩的碎链巨人；但城门塔顶仅有史塔克家族的旗帜，罗柏当是选该处作为指挥部。于是凯特琳朝那里走去，布林登爵士和文德尔爵士跟在后面，他们的坐骑缓缓走过铺于黑绿泥泞上的木板桥。
　　她在一个通风的大厅找到儿子。此时，他的身边围绕着父亲的封臣，黑火炉里烧着燃煤，他坐在一张巨大的石桌前，面前堆满地图和各式纸张，正聚精会神地与卢斯·波顿和大琼恩讨论战略。他起初没注意到她……是他的狼先发现了。那头大灰狼原本趴在火炉边，凯特琳刚进门，它便抬起头，金色的眸子与她四目相交。诸侯们纷纷安静下来，罗柏察觉到突来的静默，也抬起头。“母亲？”他的声音充满感情。
　　凯特琳好想飞奔过去，亲吻他甜美的双眉，将他紧紧搂住，再不让他受任何伤害……然而在众多诸侯面前，她不敢这么做。眼下他扮演的是男人的角色，她说什么也不能剥夺他的权力。于是她让自己站在人们权作长桌的玄武岩石板末端。冰原狼起身，轻步穿过大厅，走到她身边。她没见过这么大的狼。“你留了胡子。”她对罗柏说，灰风则嗅嗅她的手。
　　他摸摸长满胡茬的下巴，好像突然觉得不太习惯。“是啊。”他的胡须比头发更红。
　　“我挺喜欢你这样子，”凯特琳温柔地摸摸狼头，“你看起来很像我弟弟艾德慕。”灰风玩闹似地咬咬她的手指，然后快步跑回火边。
　　赫曼·陶哈爵士率先追随冰原狼穿过房间向她致意，他在她面前单膝跪下，将额头按上她的手。“凯特琳夫人，”他说，“您依旧如此美丽，在当今的动乱时刻，见到您真是令人宽心。”葛洛佛家的盖伯特和罗贝特、大琼恩以及其他封臣也陆续上前致意。席恩·葛雷乔伊是最后一个。“夫人，没想到会在这里见到您。”说着他单膝跪下。
　　“我也没想到会来这里，”凯特琳道，“我在白港登岸后，威曼大人告诉我罗柏业已召集封臣，我才临时改变了主意。你们应该都认识他的儿子，文德尔爵士。”文德尔·曼德勒走上前来，极尽腰带所能容许的程度，向众人弯腰行礼。“这是我叔叔布林登爵士，他离开了我妹妹，前来协助我方。”
　　“黑鱼大人，”罗柏说，“感谢您加入我们，我们正需要像您这般勇武的人。文德尔爵士，我也很高兴得到您的协助。母亲，罗德利克爵士可有同你一道归来？我很想念他。”
　　“罗德利克爵士自白港往北去了，我己任命他为代理城主，令他守护临冬城，直到我们返回。鲁温学士虽然学识渊博，毕竟不擅战争之事。”
　　“史塔克夫人，您毋需担心，”大琼恩声如洪钟地告诉她，“临冬城不会有事。而咱们过不了多久就会拿剑捅进兰尼斯特的屁眼，唉，说话粗鲁还请见谅，然后呢，咱们就一路杀进红堡，把奈德给救出来。”
　　“夫人，如您不见怪，我有个问题想请教。”恐怖堡领主卢斯·波顿的声音极其细小，然而当他开口讲话时，再高大的人都会安静倾听。他的眼瞳颜色淡得出奇，几乎无从描绘，而他的眼神更是令人烦乱。“听说您逮捕了泰温大人的侏儒儿子，不知您是否把他也带来了？我对天发誓，我们会好好利用这个人质。”
　　“我的确逮捕了提利昂·兰尼斯特，只可惜他现下已不在我手上了。”凯特琳不得不承认。此话一出，四周立即响起阵阵错愕之声。“诸位大人，我也不希望此事发生，然而天上诸神有意放他自由，更加上我那妹妹愚行所致。”她自知不应如此明显地流露对妹妹的轻蔑，但鹰巢城一别实在很不愉快。她原本提议带小劳勃公爵同行，让他在临冬城住上一段时日，她更大胆表示，与其他几个男孩作伴，应该对他很有好处。然而莱沙的怒意简直让人看了都害怕。“我管你是不是我姐姐，”她回答，“你敢偷我儿子，就给我从月门出去！”在那之后，什么都不用说了。
　　北境诸侯急于进一步探询相关消息，但凯特琳举起一只手。“我们稍后一定有时间谈，眼下我长途跋涉，颇感疲惫，只想单独和我儿子讲几句。相信诸位大人必会谅解。”她让他们别无选择，于是在向来遵从命令的霍伍德伯爵率领下，封臣们纷纷鞠躬离开。“席恩，你也是。”看到葛雷乔伊留了下来，她又补上这句。他微笑着走开。
　　桌上有麦酒和乳酪，凯特琳倒了一角杯，坐下来，小啜一口之后，细细端详儿子。他似乎比她离开时长得高了些，那点胡子也确让他看起来年纪大了不少。“艾德慕是从十六岁开始留胡子的。”
　　“我很快就满十六岁了。”罗柏说。
　　“但你现在是十五岁，才十五岁，就带领大军投入战场。罗柏，你能理解我的担忧吗？”
　　他的眼神倔强起来。“除了我没别人了。”
　　“没别人？”她说，“你倒是说说，我几分钟前见到的那些人是谁？卢斯·波顿、瑞卡德·卡史塔克、盖伯特·葛洛佛与罗贝特·葛洛佛，还有大琼恩、赫曼·陶哈……你大可把指挥权交给他们中的任何一人。诸神有眼，你就算派席恩都成，虽说我不会选他。”
　　“他们不是史塔克。”他说。
　　“他们是成年人，罗柏，他们经验丰富。而不到一年前，你还拿着木剑在练习呢。”
　　听到这句话，她看到他眼里闪现怒意，但那火光稍现即逝，转眼间他又变回了大男孩。“我知道，”他困窘地说，“那你……你要把我送回临冬城去吗？”
　　凯特琳叹口气，“我应该要送你回去的，你原本就不该动身。可现在我不敢这么做，你已经走到了这一步，有朝一日，你会成为这些诸侯的封君，倘若我现在就这么把你给送回去，像把小孩子赶上床。不给他吃晚饭一样，他们便会牢牢记住，并在背后取笑。将来你会需要他们的尊敬，甚至他们的畏惧，而嘲笑是惧怕的毒药，我不会对你这么做，虽然我一心只想保你平安。”
　　“母亲，谢谢你。”他说。脸上那层礼貌下的如释重负之情清晰可见。
　　她把手伸到桌子对面摸摸他的头发。“罗柏，你是我第一个孩子，我只要看着你，就能想起你红着脸呱呱坠地的那一天。”
　　他站起来，显然对于她的碰触感到有些不自在。他走到火炉边，灰风伸头摩擦着他的脚。“你知道……父亲的事吗？”
　　“知道。”劳勃猝死和奈德入狱的消息比任何事都更教凯特琳害怕，但她不能让儿子发现自己的恐惧。“我在白港上岸时，曼德勒大人跟我说了。你有你妹妹们的消息吗？”
　　“我收到一封信，”罗柏边说边搔冰原狼的下巴。“还有一封是给你的，但和我那封一起寄到了临冬城。”他走到桌边，在地图和纸张间翻找了一会儿，拿出一张摺皱的羊皮纸走回来。“这是她写给我的，我没想到把你的那封也带来。”
　　罗柏的语气令她有些不安。她摊平纸张读了起来，然而关切随即转为怀疑，接着变成愤怒，最后成了忧惧。“这是瑟曦写的信，不是你妹妹写的。”看完之后她说，“这封信真正的意思，正是珊莎没写出来的部分。什么兰尼斯特家对她多么照顾优待……其实是威胁的口气。他们扣住了珊莎，当成人质和筹码。”
　　“上面也没提到艾莉亚。”罗柏难过地指出。
　　“的确没有。”凯特琳不愿去想这代表着什么意思，尤其在此时此地。
　　“我本来希望……如果小恶魔还在你手上，我们就可以交换人质……”他拿过珊莎的信，把它揉得稀烂，她看得出这不是他第一次揉了。“鹰巢城那边有消息吗？我已经写信给莱沙阿姨，请她援助。她是否召集了艾林大人的封臣？峡谷骑士会加入我们吗？”
　　“只有一个会来，”她说，“最优秀的一个，那就是我叔叔……然而黑鱼布林登毕竟是徒利家的人。我妹妹不打算派兵到血门之外。”
　　罗柏深受打击。“母亲，那我们该怎么办？我召集了这支一万八千人的大军，可我不……我不确定……”他看着她，眼里闪着泪光，方才那个年轻气盛的领主转瞬间消失得无影无踪，他又变回了十五岁的大男孩，希望母亲能提供解答。
　　这样是不行的。
　　“罗柏，你在怕什么？”她温柔地问。
　　“我……”他转过头，借以掩饰流下的泪水。“如果我们进兵……就算我们赢了……珊莎还在兰尼斯特手上，父亲也是，他们会被杀的，对不对？”
　　“他们正希望我们这么想。”
　　“你的意思是他们说谎？”
　　“我不知道，罗柏，我只知道你别无选择。假如你到君临宣誓效忠，便永远也不可能脱身。若是你夹着尾巴逃回临冬城，那封臣们对你原有的尊敬更将荡然无存，有些人甚至会倒戈投靠兰尼斯特。届时王后便无后顾之忧，可以随意处置手上人犯。我们最大的希望，或者说惟一的希望，便是你能在战场上击败对手。假如你能活捉泰温大人或弑君者，那么交换人质便会非常可行。其实交换人质亦非重点所在，最重要的是，只要你的实力令他们不敢小觑，奈德和你妹妹就会平安无事。瑟曦不笨，知道若是战事对她不利，她可能会需要他们来换取和平。”
　　“若是战争并非对她不利，”罗柏问，“而是对我们不利呢？”
　　凯特琳握住他的手。“罗柏，我不打算隐瞒事实，假如你战败，那我们就一点希望都没有了。据说凯岩城的人都是铁石心肠，你要牢牢记住雷加的孩子是什么下场。”
　　她在他年轻的眼睛里见到了恐惧，却也看到了力量。“那么，我一定不能输。”
　　“把你所知的河间战事告诉我。”她说。她要知道他是否已准备就绪。
　　“不到两周前，在金牙城下的丘陵地有一场激战。”罗柏道，“艾德慕舅舅命凡斯大人和派柏大人防守隘口，但弑君者率兵下山猛攻，把他们打得落花流水，凡斯大人以身殉职。根据我们最新得到的消息，派柏大人正向奔流城撤军，以便和舅舅以及他的其他封臣会合，詹姆·兰尼斯特穷追不舍。但这还不是最糟的情报，他们在山口交战的同时，泰温大人正带着另一支军队从南方迂回进逼，据说规模比詹姆的部队大得多。”
　　“父亲一定也知道这件事，所以他派人打着国王的旗帜前去阻止。领头的好像是个南方少爷，叫艾里还是德里大人来着，雷蒙·戴瑞爵士也跟着去了，信上说还有其他的骑士，以及一队父亲自己的卫士。然而这却是个陷阱，德里爵士刚渡过红叉河，立刻遭到兰尼斯特军猛烈攻击，国王的旗帜毫无效力，被人随意践踏。后来他们想撤过戏子滩，格雷果·克里冈又从后方突袭。我们不确定德里大人和其他少数人是否逃脱，但雷蒙爵士和我们临冬城的多数卫士都战死了。传说泰温大人的军队已接近国王大道，正往北朝赫伦堡而来，沿途烧杀抢劫。”
　　消息一个比一个更悲惨，凯特琳心想。情况比她想像中还糟。“你打算在这里等他么？”
　　“除非他真打算北上来此，但我们都认为他不会。”罗柏道，“我已经派人送信给父亲在灰水望的老朋友霍兰·黎德，假如兰尼斯特军企图穿越沼泽，泽地人会让他们举步维艰、损失惨重。盖柏特·葛洛佛认为以泰温大人的精明，他不会这么做，卢斯·波顿也表示同意。他们相信他会在三河流域一带活动，将河间诸侯的城堡一个一个逐步攻陷，直到最后奔流城孤立无援。所以我们必须南下去会他。”
　　光这念头便令凯特琳毛骨悚然。单凭他一个十五岁的男孩，怎么可能与詹姆或泰温·兰尼斯特那样经验丰富的沙场老手抗衡？“这样好吗？此地易守难攻，传说古代的北境之王只需守住卡林湾，便可击退十倍于己的敌军。”
　　“没错，话是这样说，但我们的粮食补给日渐短缺，待在这里自给自足已不容易。我们原本是在等曼德勒大人，眼下他的儿子既然到了，我们便得动身。”
　　她突然明白，她听到的是诸侯们透过她儿子的声音在说话。这些年来，她在临冬城多次宴请北方诸侯，也曾与奈德到他们家中作客，她很明白他们是什么样的人，每一家她都摸透了底细，却纳闷罗柏知不知道。
　　然而他们顾虑的却也有理。她儿子所集结的这支军队既非自由贸易城邦的常备军，亦非领薪水吃饭的守卫队，他们多数是平民百姓：佃农、庄稼汉、渔夫、牧羊人、旅店老板的儿子、生意人和皮革匠，外加少数渴望掠夺的雇佣骑士、自由骑手和流浪武士。当他们的领主发出召集令，他们便前来效命……然而并非永远。“进军当然很好，”她对儿子说，“但要前往何处，有何目的？你有什么打算？”
　　罗柏迟疑片刻，“大琼恩认为我们应该出其不意突袭泰温大人，”他说，“然而葛洛佛家和卡史塔克家的人都觉得避其锋芒，赶紧与艾德慕舅舅合力对付弑君者才是明智之举。”他伸手拨拨蓬乱的枣红头发，看来有些闷闷不乐。“可等我们抵达奔流城……我不确定……”
　　“你非确定不可，”凯特琳对儿子说，“不然就回家继续拿木剑练习罢。在卢斯·波顿或瑞卡德·卡史塔克这种人面前，你绝不能犹豫不决。罗柏，你别搞错了，他们是你的封臣，不是你的朋友。你既自任为总指挥，就得发号施令。”
　　儿子看着她，显得有些吃惊，仿佛不能完全相信刚才听到的话。“母亲，您说的对。”
　　“我再问你一次：你有什么打算？”
　　罗柏抽出一张绘满褪色线条的老旧皮质地图，摊平在桌，其中一角因为长期卷动而翘了起来，他用匕首固定住。“两个计划备有优点，可是……你看，假如我们试图绕开泰温大人主力，就得冒被他和弑君者两面夹击的风险，如果我们与他正面交战……根据各种情报显示，他不但总兵力比我多，骑兵的数量更是远远超过我们。虽然大琼恩说只要趁对方脱下裤子的时候攻其不备，人再多都不怕，可在我看来，像泰温·兰尼斯特这样身经百战的人，恐怕不容易被逮到啊。”
　　“很好。”她说。看他坐在那里，为地图伤脑筋，从他的话中，她可以听见奈德的声音。“继续说。”
　　“我打算分配少量兵力留下来防守卡林湾，以弓箭手为核心，然后全军沿堤道南下。”他说，“渡过颈泽之后，我将兵分两路，步兵继续走国王大道，骑兵则从孪河城渡过绿叉河。”他指给她看。“泰温大人一旦得知我军南下的消息，当会率军北进与我们主力交战，届时我们的骑兵便可无后顾之忧地从河流西岸赶往奔流城。”说完罗柏坐下来，不太敢露出微笑，但看得出他对自己的表现颇感满意，渴望听到她的称许。
　　凯特琳皱紧眉，低头看着地图。“你让一条河挡在自己的军队之间。”
　　“却也挡在詹姆和泰温大人之间！”他急切地说，终于绽开微笑。“绿叉河在红宝石滩以北就没有渡口，劳勃就是在那里赢得了王冠。惟一的渡口是在孪河城，距离很远，更何况桥还掌控在佛雷大人手中。他是外公的封臣，对不对？”
　　迟到的佛雷侯爵，凯特琳心想。“他的确是，”她承认，“但你外公从来不信任他，你也不应该轻信他。”
　　“我不会的。”罗柏向她保证。“你觉得这计划如何？”
　　虽然担心，她依旧不得不同意这是个出色的计划。他长得虽像徒利，她心想，心底却是他父亲的儿子，奈德把他教导得很好。“你要指挥哪一队？”
　　“骑兵队。”他立刻答道。这也像他父亲：危险的任务，奈德永远自己扛。
　　“另一队呢？”
　　“大琼恩老说我们应该迎头痛宰泰温大人，我想给他这个荣誉，让他实现愿望。”
　　这是他犯的第一个错误，但要如何让他明白，而不伤害到他仅见雏形的自尊呢？“你父亲曾经对我说，大琼恩是他平生所见最勇猛无畏的人。”
　　罗柏嘻嘻笑道：“灰风咬掉他两根手指头，他却哈哈大笑。这么说来你同意啰？”
　　“你父亲并非无畏，”凯特琳指出：“而是勇敢，这是完全不一样的。”
　　儿子仔细考虑了半晌。“东路军将是惟一能阻挡泰温大人前往临冬城的屏障。”他若有所思地说，“嗯，就只有他们，以及我留在卡林湾的少量弓箭手。所以我不应该让无畏的人来率领，对不对？”
　　“没错。我认为你要的应该是冷静的头脑，而非匹夫之勇。”
　　“那就是卢斯·波顿了。”罗柏马上说，“我很怕那个人。”
　　“就让我们祈祷泰温·兰尼斯特也怕他吧。”
　　罗柏点点头，卷起地图。“就这样办，我会派一队人马护送你回临冬城。”
　　这些日子以来，凯特琳极力使自己坚强。为了奈德，也为了他俩这个勇敢而倔强的儿子，她抛开了绝望和恐惧，仿佛那是她所不愿穿的衣服……然而现在她发现自己终究还是穿着。
　　“我不回临冬城，”她听见自己这么说，同时惊讶地发现，骤然涌出的泪水，已然模糊了她的视线。“你外公正奄奄一息地躺在奔流城里，你舅舅也被敌人团团包围。”
[ 此帖被挽墨在2015-09-03 00:10重新编辑 ]
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你看着眼前的人，分明还是以前的模样，可心里终究不是以前那般澄清透明了。
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Chapter 56


  
   TYRION
   Chella daughter of Cheyk of the Black Ears had gone ahead to scout, and it was she who brought back word of the army at the crossroads. “By their fires I call them twenty thousand strong,” she said. “Their banners are red, with a golden lion.”
   “Your father?” Bronn asked.
   “Or my brother Jaime,” Tyrion said. “We shall know soon enough.” He surveyed his ragged band of brigands: near three hundred Stone Crows, Moon Brothers, Black Ears, and Burned Men, and those just the seed of the army he hoped to grow. Gunthor son of Gurn was raising the other clans even now. He wondered what his lord father would make of them in their skins and bits of stolen steel. If truth be told, he did not know what to make of them himself. Was he their commander or their captive? Most of the time, it seemed to be a little of both. “It might be best if I rode down alone,” he suggested.
   “Best for Tyrion son of Tywin,” said Ulf, who spoke for the Moon Brothers.
   Shagga glowered, a fearsome sight to see. “Shagga son of Dolf likes this not. Shagga will go with the boyman, and if the boyman lies, Shagga will chop off his manhood...”
   “...and feed it to the goats, yes,” Tyrion said wearily. “Shagga, I give you my word as a Lannister, I will return.”
   “Why should we trust your word?” Chella was a small hard woman, flat as a boy, and no fool. “Lowland lords have lied to the clans before.”
   “You wound me, Chella,” Tyrion said. “Here I thought we had become such friends. But as you will. You shall ride with me, and Shagga and Conn for the Stone Crows, Ulf for the Moon Brothers, and Timett son of Timett for the Burned Men.” The clansmen exchanged wary looks as he named them. “The rest shall wait here until I send for you. Try not to kill and maim each other while I’m gone.”
   He put his heels to his horse and trotted off, giving them no choice but to follow or be left behind. Either was fine with him, so long as they did not sit down to talk for a day and a night. That was the trouble with the clans; they had an absurd notion that every man’s voice should be heard in council, so they argued about everything, endlessly. Even their women were allowed to speak. Small wonder that it had been hundreds of years since they last threatened the Vale with anything beyond an occasional raid. Tyrion meant to change that.
   Brorm rode with him. Behind them, after a quick bit of grumbling, the five clansmen followed on their undersize garrons, scrawny things that looked like ponies and scrambled up rock walls like goats.
   The Stone Crows rode together, and Chella and Ulf stayed close as well, as the Moon Brothers and Black Ears had strong bonds between them. Timett son of Timett rode alone. Every clan in the Mountains of the Moon feared the Burned Men, who mortified their flesh with fire to prove their courage and (the others said) roasted babies at their feasts. And even the other Burned Men feared Timett, who had put out his own left eye with a white-hot knife when he reached the age of manhood. Tyrion gathered that it was more customary for a boy to burn off a nipple, a finger, or (if he was truly brave, or truly mad) an ear. Timett’s fellow Burned Men were so awed by his choice of an eye that they promptly named him a red hand, which seemed to be some sort of a war chief.
   “I wonder what their king burned off,” Tyrion said to Bronn when he heard the tale. Grinning, the sellsword had tugged at his crotch?.?.?.?but even Bronn kept a respectful tongue around Timett. If a man was mad enough to put out his own eye, he was unlikely to be gentle to his enemies.
   Distant watchers peered down from towers of unmortared stone as the party descended through the foothills, and once Tyrion saw a raven take wing. Where the high road twisted between two rocky outcrops, they came to the first strong point. A low earthen wall four feet high closed off the road, and a dozen crossbowmen manned the heights. Tyrion halted his followers out of range and rode to the wall alone. “Who commands here?” he shouted up.
   The captain was quick to appear, and even quicker to give them an escort when he recognized his lord’s son. They trotted past blackened fields and burned holdfasts, down to the riverlands and the Green Fork of the Trident. Tyrion saw no bodies, but the air was full of ravens and carrion crows; there had been fighting here, and recently.
   Half a league from the crossroads, a barricade of sharpened stakes had been erected, manned by pikemen and archers. Behind the line, the camp spread out to the far distance. Thin fingers of smoke rose from hundreds of cookfires, mailed men sat under trees and honed their blades, and familiar banners fluttered from staffs thrust into the muddy ground.
   A party of mounted horsemen rode forward to challenge them as they approached the stakes. The knight who led them wore silver armor inlaid with amethysts and a striped purple-and-silver cloak. His shield bore a unicorn sigil, and a spiral horn two feet long jutted up from the brow of his horsehead helm. Tyrion reined up to greet him. “Ser Flement.”
   Ser Flement Brax lifted his visor. “Tyrion,” he said in astonishment. “My lord, we all feared you dead, or?.?.?.?” He looked at the clansmen uncertainly. “These?.?.?.?companions of yours?.?.?.?”
   “Bosom friends and loyal retainers,” Tyrion said. “Where will I find my lord father?”
   “He has taken the inn at the crossroads for his quarters.”
   Tyrion laughed. The inn at the crossroads! Perhaps the gods were just after all. “I will see him at once.”
   “As you say, my lord.” Ser Flement wheeled his horse about and shouted commands. Three rows of stakes were pulled from the ground to make a hole in the line. Tyrion led his party through.
   Lord Tywin’s camp spread over leagues. Chella’s estimate of twenty thousand men could not be far wrong. The common men camped out in the open, but the knights had thrown up tents, and some of the high lords had erected pavilions as large as houses. Tyrion spied the red ox of the Presters, Lord Crakehall’s brindled boar, the burning tree of Marbrand, the badger of Lydden. Knights called out to him as he cantered past, and men-at-arms gaped at the clansmen in open astonishment.
   Shagga was gaping back; beyond a certainty, he had never seen so many men, horses, and weapons in all his days. The rest of the mountain brigands did a better job of guarding their faces, but Tyrion had no doubts that they were full as much in awe. Better and better. The more impressed they were with the power of the Lannisters, the easier they would be to command.
   The inn and its stables were much as he remembered, though little more than tumbled stones and blackened foundations remained where the rest of the village had stood. A gibbet had been erected in the yard, and the body that swung there was covered with ravens. At Tyrion’s approach they took to the air, squawking and flapping their black wings. He dismounted and glanced up at what remained of the corpse. The birds had eaten her lips and eyes and most of her cheeks, baring her stained red teeth in a hideous smile. “A room, a meal, and a flagon of wine, that was all I asked,” he reminded her with a sigh of reproach.
   Boys emerged hesitantly from the stables to see to their horses. Shagga did not want to give his up. “The lad won’t steal your mare,” Tyrion assured him. “He only wants to give her some oats and water and brush out her coat.” Shagga’s coat could have used a good brushing too, but it would have been less than tactful to mention it. “You have my word, the horse will not be harmed.”
   Glaring, Shagga let go his grip on the reins. “This is the horse of Shagga son of Dolf,” he roared at the stableboy.
   “If he doesn’t give her back, chop off his manhood and feed it to the goats,” Tyrion promised. “Provided you can find some.”
   A pair of house guards in crimson cloaks and lion-crested helms stood under the inn’s sign, on either side of the door. Tyrion recognized their captain. “My father?”
   “In the common room, m’lord.”
   “My men will want meat and mead,” Tyrion told him. “See that they get it.” He entered the inn, and there was Father.
   Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West, was in his middle fifties, yet hard as a man of twenty. Even seated, he was tall, with long legs, broad shoulders, a flat stomach. His thin arms were corded with muscle. When his once-thick golden hair had begun to recede, he had commanded his barber to shave his head; Lord Tywin did not believe in half measures. He razored his lip and chin as well, but kept his side-whiskers, two great thickets of wiry golden hair that covered most of his cheeks from ear to jaw. His eyes were a pale green, flecked with gold. A fool more foolish than most had once jested that even Lord Tywin’s shit was flecked with gold. Some said the man was still alive, deep in the bowels of Casterly Rock.
   Ser Kevan Lannister, his father’s only surviving brother, was sharing a flagon of ale with Lord Tywin when Tyrion entered the common room. His uncle was portly and balding, with a close-cropped yellow beard that followed the line of his massive jaw. Ser Kevan saw him first. “Tyrion,” he said in surprise.
   “Uncle,” Tyrion said, bowing. “And my lord father. What a pleasure to find you here.”
   Lord Tywin did not stir from his chair, but he did give his dwarf son a long, searching look. “I see that the rumors of your demise were unfounded.”
   “Sorry to disappoint you, Father,” Tyrion said. “No need to leap up and embrace me, I wouldn’t want you to strain yourself.” He crossed the room to their table, acutely conscious of the way his stunted legs made him waddle with every step. Whenever his father’s eyes were on him, he became uncomfortably aware of all his deformities and shortcomings. “Kind of you to go to war for me,” he said as he climbed into a chair and helped himself to a cup of his father’s ale.
   “By my lights, it was you who started this,” Lord Tywin replied. “Your brother Jaime would never have meekly submitted to capture at the hands of a woman.”
   “That’s one way we differ, Jaime and I. He’s taller as well, you may have noticed.”
   His father ignored the sally. “The honor of our House was at stake. I had no choice but to ride. No man sheds Lannister blood with impunity.”
   “Hear Me Roar,” Tyrion said, grinning. The Lannister words. “Truth be told, none of my blood was actually shed, although it was a close thing once or twice. Morrec and Jyck were killed.”
   “I suppose you will be wanting some new men.”
   “Don’t trouble yourself, Father, I’ve acquired a few of my own.” He tried a swallow of the ale. It was brown and yeasty, so thick you could almost chew it. Very fine, in truth. A pity his father had hanged the innkeep. “How is your war going?”
   His uncle answered. “Well enough, for the nonce. Ser Edmure had scattered small troops of men along his borders to stop our raiding, and your lord father and I were able to destroy most of them piecemeal before they could regroup.”
   “Your brother has been covering himself with glory,” his father said. “He smashed the Lords Vance and Piper at the Golden Tooth, and met the massed power of the Tullys under the walls of Riverrun. The lords of the Trident have been put to rout. Ser Edmure Tully was taken captive, with many of his knights and bannermen. Lord Blackwood led a few survivors back to Riverrun, where Jaime has them under siege. The rest fled to their own strongholds.”
   “Your father and I have been marching on each in turn,” Ser Kevan said. “With Lord Blackwood gone, Raventree fell at once, and Lady Whent yielded Harrenhal for want of men to defend it. Ser Gregor burnt out the Pipers and the Brackens?.?.?.?”
   “Leaving you unopposed?” Tyrion said.
   “Not wholly,” Ser Kevan said. “The Mallisters still hold Seagard and Walder Frey is marshaling his levies at the Twins.”
   “No matter,” Lord Tywin said. “Frey only takes the field when the scent of victory is in the air, and all he smells now is ruin. And Jason Mallister lacks the strength to fight alone. Once Jaime takes Riverrun, they will both be quick enough to bend the knee. Unless the Starks and the Arryns come forth to oppose us, this war is good as won.”
   “I would not fret overmuch about the Arryns if I were you,” Tyrion said. “The Starks are another matter. Lord Eddard...”
   “...is our hostage,” his father said. “He will lead no armies while he rots in a dungeon under the Red Keep.”
   “No,” Ser Kevan agreed, “but his son has called the banners and sits at Moat Cailin with a strong host around him.”
   “No sword is strong until it’s been tempered,” Lord Tywin declared. “The Stark boy is a child. No doubt he likes the sound of warhorns well enough, and the sight of his banners fluttering in the wind, but in the end it comes down to butcher’s work. I doubt he has the stomach for it.”
   Things had gotten interesting while he’d been away, Tyrion reflected. “And what is our fearless monarch doing whilst all this ‘butcher’s work’ is being done?” he wondered. “How has my lovely and persuasive sister gotten Robert to agree to the imprisonment of his dear friend Ned?”
   “Robert Baratheon is dead,” his father told him. “Your nephew reigns in King’s Landing.”
   That did take Tyrion aback. “My sister, you mean.” He took another gulp of ale. The realm would be a much different place with Cersei ruling in place of her husband.
   “If you have a mind to make yourself of use, I will give you a command,” his father said. “Marq Piper and Karyl Vance are loose in our rear, raiding our lands across the Red Fork.”
   Tyrion made a tsking sound. “The gall of them, fighting back. Ordinarily I’d be glad to punish such rudeness, Father, but the truth is, I have pressing business elsewhere.”
   “Do you?” Lord Tywin did not seem awed. “We also have a pair of Ned Stark’s afterthoughts making a nuisance of themselves by harassing my foraging parties. Beric Dondarrion, some young lordling with delusions of valor. He has that fat jape of a priest with him, the one who likes to set his sword on fire. Do you think you might be able to deal with them as you scamper off? Without making too much a botch of it?”
   Tyrion wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and smiled. “Father, it warms my heart to think that you might entrust me with?.?.?.?what, twenty men? Fifty? Are you sure you can spare so many? Well, no matter. If I should come across Thoros and Lord Beric, I shall spank them both.” He climbed down from his chair and waddled to the sideboard, where a wheel of veined white cheese sat surrounded by fruit. “First, though, I have some promises of my own to keep,” he said as he sliced off a wedge. “I shall require three thousand helms and as many hauberks, plus swords, pikes, steel spearheads, maces, battleaxes, gauntlets, gorgets, greaves, breastplates, wagons to carry all this...”
   The door behind him opened with a crash, so violently that Tyrion almost dropped his cheese. Ser Kevan leapt up swearing as the captain of the guard went flying across the room to smash against the hearth. As he tumbled down into the cold ashes, his lion helm askew, Shagga snapped the man’s sword in two over a knee thick as a tree trunk, threw down the pieces, and lumbered into the common room. He was preceded by his stench, riper than the cheese and overpowering in the closed space. “Little redcape,” he snarled, “when next you bare steel on Shagga son of Dolf, I will chop off your manhood and roast it in the fire.”
   “What, no goats?” Tyrion said, taking a bite of cheese.
   The other clansmen followed Shagga into the common room, Bronn with them. The sellsword gave Tyrion a rueful shrug.
   “Who might you be?” Lord Tywin asked, cool as snow.
   “They followed me home, Father,” Tyrion explained. “May I keep them? They don’t eat much.”
   No one was smiling. “By what right do you savages intrude on our councils?” demanded Ser Kevan.
   “Savages, lowlander?” Conn might have been handsome if you washed him. “We are free men, and free men by rights sit on all war councils.”
   “Which one is the lion lord?” Chella asked.
   “They are both old men,” announced Timett son of Timett, who had yet to see his twentieth year.
   Ser Kevan’s hand went to his sword hilt, but his brother placed two fingers on his wrist and held him fast. Lord Tywin seemed unperturbed. “Tyrion, have you forgotten your courtesies? Kindly acquaint us with our?.?.?.?honored guests.”
   Tyrion licked his fingers. “With pleasure,” he said. “The fair maid is Chella daughter of Cheyk of the Black Ears.”
   “I’m no maid,” Chella protested. “My sons have taken fifty ears among them.”
   “May they take fifty more.” Tyrion waddled away from her. “This is Conn son of Coratt. Shagga son of Dolf is the one who looks like Casterly Rock with hair. They are Stone Crows. Here is Ulf son of Umar of the Moon Brothers, and here Timett son of Timett, a red hand of the Burned Men. And this is Bronn, a sellsword of no particular allegiance. He has already changed sides twice in the short time I’ve known him, you and he ought to get on famously, Father.” To Bronn and the clansmen he said, “May I present my lord father, Tywin son of Tytos of House Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West, Shield of Lannisport, and once and future Hand of the King.”
   Lord Tywin rose, dignified and correct. “Even in the west, we know the prowess of the warrior clans of the Mountains of the Moon. What brings you down from your strongholds, my lords?”
   “Horses,” said Shagga.
   “A promise of silk and steel,” said Timett son of Timett.
   Tyrion was about to tell his lord father how he proposed to reduce the Vale of Arryn to a smoking wasteland, but he was never given the chance. The door banged open again. The messenger gave Tyrion’s clansmen a quick, queer look as he dropped to one knee before Lord Tywin. “My lord,” he said, “Ser Addam bid me tell you that the Stark host is moving down the causeway.”
   Lord Tywin Lannister did not smile. Lord Tywin never smiled, but Tyrion had learned to read his father’s pleasure all the same, and it was there on his face. “So the wolfling is leaving his den to play among the lions,” he said in a voice of quiet satisfaction. “Splendid. Return to Ser Addam and tell him to fall back. He is not to engage the northerners until we arrive, but I want him to harass their flanks and draw them farther south.”
   “It will be as you command.” The rider took his leave.
   “We are well situated here,” Ser Kevan pointed out. “Close to the ford and ringed by pits and spikes. If they are coming south, I say let them come, and break themselves against us.”
   “The boy may hang back or lose his courage when he sees our numbers,” Lord Tywin replied. “The sooner the Starks are broken, the sooner I shall be free to deal with Stannis Baratheon. Tell the drummers to beat assembly, and send word to Jaime that I am marching against Robb Stark.”
   “As you will,” Ser Kevan said.
   Tyrion watched with a grim fascination as his lord father turned next to the half-wild clansmen. “It is said that the men of the mountain clans are warriors without fear.”
   “It is said truly,” Conn of the Stone Crows answered.
   “And the women,” Chella added.
   “Ride with me against my enemies, and you shall have all my son promised you, and more,” Lord Tywin told them.
   “Would you pay us with our own coin?” Ulf son of Umar said. “Why should we need the father’s promise, when we have the son’s?”
   “I said nothing of need,” Lord Tywin replied. “My words were courtesy, nothing more. You need not join us. The men of the winterlands are made of iron and ice, and even my boldest knights fear to face them.”
   Oh, deftly done, Tyrion thought, smiling crookedly.
   “The Burned Men fear nothing. Timett son of Timett will ride with the lions.”
   “Wherever the Burned Men go, the Stone Crows have been there first,” Conn declared hotly. “We ride as well.”
   “Shagga son of Dolf will chop off their manhoods and feed them to the crows.”
   “We will ride with you, lion lord,” Chella daughter of Cheyk agreed, “but only if your halfman son goes with us. He has bought his breath with promises. Until we hold the steel he has pledged us, his life is ours.”
   Lord Tywin turned his gold-flecked eyes on his son.
   “Joy,” Tyrion said with a resigned smile.
  


Ⅰ 权力的游戏 Chapter57 提利昂
　　黑耳部的齐克之女齐拉当先去侦察，带回岔路口有支军队的消息。“从他们的营火计算，应该有两万个，”她说，“红旗子，上面一只金狮子。”
　　“是你父亲？”波隆问。
　　“要不就是我老哥詹姆。”提利昂说，“我们很快就会知道了。”他检视着自己这支衣着破烂的土匪队伍：三百名来自石鸦部、月人部、黑耳部和灼人部的原住民，这只是他着手组建的军队的种子。而冈恩之子冈梭尔此刻正在召集其他部落。他不知父亲看了这些身穿兽皮、手持偷来的破铜烂铁的人会怎么说，事实上，他自己看了都不知道该说什么才好。他究竟是他们的首领还是俘虏？恐怕是两者皆有罢。“我最好自个儿下去。”他提议。
　　“对泰温之子提利昂来说最好。”月人部的首领乌尔夫说。
　　夏嘎睁大眼睛瞪着他，露出骇人的神情。“多夫之子夏嘎不喜欢。夏嘎要和小男人一起去，如果小男人说谎，夏嘎就会剁掉他的命根子——”
　　“——拿去喂山羊，我知道。”提利昂有气无力地说，“夏嘎，我以兰尼斯特家之名起誓，我会回来的。”
　　“我们为什么要相信你的话？”齐拉是个矮小强悍的女人，胸平坦得和男孩子一样，却一点也不笨。“平地人的酋长以前欺骗过山上部落。”
　　“齐拉，你这样说真是太伤我的心了，”提利昂道，“我还以为我们已经成了好朋友呢。不过算啦，你就跟我一道去吧，夏嘎、康恩代表石鸦部，乌尔夫代表月人部，提魅之子提魅代表灼人部，你们几个也一起来。”被他点名的原住民满怀戒心地彼此看看。“其余的留在这里等我通知。我不在的时候，拜托千万不要自相残杀。”
　　他两腿一夹马肚，向前快跑，逼他们要么立刻跟上，要么被抛在后面。其实他们有没有跟上对他来说都没差，怕只怕他们坐下来“讨论”个三天三夜。这是原住民最麻烦的地方，他们有种古怪的观念，认为开会的时候每个人都有权表达意见，甚至连女人也有开口的权利，所以不论事情大小，他们一律争吵不休。难怪几百年来，除了偶尔实施小规模的突袭，他们无法真正威胁到艾林谷。提利昂有意改变这个局面。
　　波隆和他并肩而行，身后——咕哝了几声以后——五个原住民骑着营养不良的矮种马跟了上来。每匹马都骨瘦如柴，看起来小得可怜，走在颠簸山路上活像是山羊。
　　两个石鸦部的人走在一块，齐拉跟乌尔夫靠得很近，因为月人部和黑耳部之间的关系向来密切。提魅之子提魅则独自前行。明月山脉里的每一个部落都害怕灼人部，因为他们用火自虐来证明勇气，甚至在宴会上烧烤婴儿来吃（这是其他几部说的）。而提魅更令所有灼人部民害怕，因为他成年的时候用一把烧得白热的尖刀剜出了自己的左眼。提利昂大致听出，灼人部中一般男孩的成年礼多半是烧掉自己的一边乳头、一根手指或是（只有非常勇敢或非常疯狂的人才做得出）一只耳朵。提魅的灼人部同胞由于对他的挖眼行径大为折服，立刻便让他成为“红手”，约略等于战争领袖的意思。
　　“我真想知道他们的国王烧掉的是什么。”提利昂听这故事的时候，对波隆这么说。佣兵嘿嘿一笑，伸手指指他的胯下……不过就连波隆，在提魅身边讲话也特别小心。既然这人疯到连自己眼睛都敢挖出来，想必不会对敌人温柔。
　　队伍骑马走下山麓小丘，远处，未砌水泥的石制嘹望塔上，守卫正向下扫视。一只渡鸦振翅高飞。山路夹在裸岩中间转弯，他们来到了第一个有重兵防守的关卡。道路为一堵四尺陶土矮墙所阻挡，高处站有十来个十字弓兵负责把守。提利昂要同伴们停在射程之外，策马独自走近。“这儿由谁负责？”
　　守卫队长很快出现，一认出他是领主的儿子，立刻派人马护送他们下山。他们快马跑过焦黑的田野和焚尽的村舍，进入河间地区，接近三叉戟河的支流绿叉河。提利昂虽没看见尸体，但空气中弥漫着专食腐尸的乌鸦发出的味道；显然这里最近曾发生战斗。
　　离十字路口半里格的地方，架起了一道削尖木桩排列的防御工事，由长矛兵和弓箭手负责防守。防线之后，营地绵延直至远方，炊烟如纤细的手指，自几百座营火中升起，全副武装的人坐在树下磨利武器，熟悉的旗帜飘扬风中，旗竿深深插进泥泞的地面。
　　他们走近木栅时，一群骑兵上前盘问。领头的骑士身穿镶紫水晶的银铠甲，肩披紫银条纹披风，盾牌上绘有独角兽纹饰，马形头盔前端有一根螺旋独角。提利昂勒马问候：“佛列蒙爵士。”
　　佛列蒙·布拉克斯爵士揭起面罩。“提利昂，”他惊讶地说，“大人，我们都以为您死了，不然也……”他有些犹豫地看着那群原住民。“您的这些……同伴……”
　　“他们是我亲密的朋友和忠诚的部属，”提利昂道，“我父亲在哪儿？”
　　“他暂时将岔路口的旅店当成指挥总部。”
　　提利昂不禁苦笑，路口那家旅店！或许天上诸神当真有其公理在。“我这就去见他。”
　　“遵命，大人。”佛列蒙爵士调转马头，一声令下，便有人将三排木桩从地上拔起，空出一条路来，让提利昂带着他的人马穿过。
　　泰温公爵的军营广达数里，齐拉估计的两万人与事实相去不远。普通士兵露天扎营，骑士则搭建帐篷，而有些领主的营帐大得像房屋一样。提利昂瞥见普莱斯特家族的红牛纹饰、克雷赫伯爵的斑纹野猪、马尔布兰家族的燃烧之树，以及莱顿家族的獾。他快步跑过，骑士们纷纷向他打招呼，而民兵见了那群原住民，吃惊得张大了嘴。
　　夏嘎的嘴张得也不小；显然他这辈子都没见过这么多人、马和武器。其他几名高山盗匪的惊讶之情掩饰得稍微好一点，但提利昂认为他们的惊讶程度绝不在夏嘎之下。情况对他越来越有利了，他们越是对兰尼斯特家的势力感到折服，就越容易听他摆布。
　　旅店和马厩与记忆中相去不远，只是村里的其他屋舍如今只剩乱石残垣和焦黑地基。旅店院子里搭起了一座绞刑台，挂在上面的尸体前后摇摆，全身停满了乌鸦。提利昂接近时，乌鸦纷纷“嘎嘎”怪叫，振翅腾空。他跳下马，抬头看着尸体的残余部分。她的嘴唇、眼睛和大半脸颊都给啃了个干净，腥红的牙齿暴露在外，露出一抹狰狞的笑容。“我不过跟你要一个房间、一顿晚饭和一瓶酒罢了。”他语带指责地叹了口气。
　　几个小男孩迟疑地从马厩里出来照料他们的马匹，可夏嘎不愿交出自己的坐骑。“这小鬼不会偷你的母马啦，”提利昂向他保证。“他只是想喂它吃点燕麦，喝些水，刷刷背罢了。”老实说，夏嘎自己的毛皮外衣也很需要刷一刷，不过直接说出口未免太没技巧了。“我跟你保证，马儿绝不会受伤。”
　　夏嘎瞪大眼睛，松开紧握缰绳的手。“这是多夫之子夏嘎的马。”他朝马厩小厮咆哮。
　　“如果他不把马还你，就剁掉他的命根子，拿去喂山羊。”提利昂保证，“不过你得先找到山羊。”
　　旅店招牌下站了两个红袍狮盔的卫士，一左一右看守着门。提利昂认出了侍卫队长。“我父亲人呢？”
　　“在大厅里，大人。”
　　“我的人需要吃喝，”提利昂告诉他，“交给你打点。”他走进旅店，立刻看到了父亲。
　　身兼凯岩城公爵与西境守护二职的泰温·兰尼斯特现年五十多岁，却健壮得像个二十岁的小伙子。即便坐着，他依旧显得身躯高大，两腿颀长，肩膀宽厚，小腹平坦，手臂虽细却肌肉结实。自从原本蓬厚的金发开始渐渐稀少后，他便命令理发师把他剃成光头；泰温公爵是个做事果敢决断的人，因此他也把唇边和下巴的胡子通通刮干净，只留两颊鬓须，两大丛结实的金胡子从双耳一直覆到下颚。他的眼睛淡绿中带着金黄。曾经有个愚蠢的弄臣开玩笑说泰温大人连拉的屎里都有黄金——此人据说还活着，不过住在凯岩城最深处的地牢里。
　　提利昂走进旅店大厅时，泰温公爵正和他仅存的手足——凯冯·兰尼斯特爵士喝着一瓶麦酒。叔叔有些发胖，头也快秃了，下巴全是肉，黄胡子修剪得很短。凯冯爵士首先看到他。“提利昂？”他惊讶地说。
　　“叔叔，”提利昂一鞠躬，“父亲大人。见到你们真好。”
　　泰温公爵并未起身，他只意味深长地打量了侏儒儿子一番。“看来关于你已死的传言不攻自破了。”
　　“真抱歉让您失望，父亲大人。”提利昂说，“千万不用跳起来拥抱我，我可不希望您扭到腰。”他穿过房间，走到桌边，一边走一边觉得自己畸形的腿摇摇摆摆、格外醒目。只要父亲的视线一刻停留在他身上，他就很不自在地想起自己所有的畸形和缺陷。“非常感谢您为我出兵打仗。”说着，他爬上一张椅子，自顾自地拿起父亲的酒瓶倒酒。
　　“得了吧，乱局都是你挑起的。”泰温公爵回答，“换成你哥哥詹姆，他绝不会屈服于一介妇人之手。”
　　“这就是詹姆和我的不同之一啦。他还比我高呢，如果您注意到的话。”
　　父亲没理会他的俏皮话。“事关家族荣誉，除了出兵，我别无选择。让兰尼斯特家人流血的人，必受惩罚，休想全身而退！”
　　“听我怒吼。”提利昂嘻嘻笑道，这是兰尼斯特家族的箴言。“说真的，其实我半滴血都没流，虽然有几次很接近。莫里斯和杰克却死了。”
　　“所以你需要新手下？”
　　“父亲大人，这就不用劳烦您了，我自己找了几个。”他试着咽下麦酒，酒是褐色，充满发酵的味道，非常浓，浓到几乎能咀嚼，不过的确香醇之极，真可惜父亲把老板娘给吊死了。“您的战事进展如何？”
　　作答的是叔叔，“到目前为止，还算顺利。艾德慕爵士将人马分散为小队，派到领土边界阻止我方突袭，你父亲大人和我在他们会合之前，就将其大部各个击破。”
　　“你哥哥打的胜仗则是一场接一场。”父亲说，“他先在金牙城外击溃凡斯伯爵和派柏伯爵的军队，随后在奔流城下与徒利家的主力部队进行决战。那一仗，三河诸侯被打得落花流水，艾德慕·徒利爵士和手下许多封臣骑士一同被俘。布莱伍德伯爵集结少数残兵逃回奔流城，闭门死守，詹姆正加紧围城。其他诸侯大都作鸟兽散，各自逃回家去了。”
　　“而你父亲和我正一个一个消灭他们。”凯冯爵士说，“缺了布莱伍德伯爵坐镇，鸦树城立即陷落，河安伯爵夫人由于缺乏人手，也献出了赫伦堡。格雷果爵士则把派柏家和布雷肯家的领地烧得一干二净……”
　　“所以没人挡得住你们啰？”提利昂说。
　　“也不尽然，”凯冯爵士道，“梅利斯特家依旧保有海疆城，孪河城的瓦德·佛雷也正在召集兵马。”
　　“不碍事，”泰温公爵说，“除非嗅到胜利的气息，否则佛雷家不会出兵，而眼下空中都是溃败的味道。至于杰森·梅利斯特，他缺乏单独作战的兵力，一旦詹姆攻下奔流城，他们两家自会跟着臣服。史塔克家和艾林家若不出兵，这场仗已经赢了。”
　　“换作是我，不会太担心艾林家。”提利昂道，“但史塔克家就不一样了，艾德大人——”
　　“——是我们的人质。”父亲说，“人在红堡底下的地牢里发烂发臭，无法带兵打仗。”
　　“的确是没办法，”凯冯爵士同意，“但他儿子已经召集诸侯，目前正带着一支大军坐镇卡林湾。”
　　“任何一把剑，惟有试过之后方才知其效果。”泰温公爵表示，“史塔克家那小鬼还是个孩子，想必很喜欢号角吹奏、旗帜飘扬的景象，可战争毕竟是屠杀之事，只怕他承受不了。”
　　看来他缺席期间，局势产生了有趣的发展，提利昂心想。“当外面净在干些‘屠杀之事’的时候，咱们骁勇善战的国王陛下又在做什么呢？”他问，“我倒很想知道，我那能言善道的漂亮姐姐，究竟是怎么说服劳勃，同意囚禁他亲爱的伙伴奈德？”
　　“劳勃·拜拉席恩已经死了。”父亲告诉他。“如今在君临执政的是你外甥。”
　　这倒真令提利昂大吃一惊。“你的意思是我姐姐执政？”他又灌了一口酒。眼下瑟曦的老公死了，换她掌权，王国局势必将大为动荡。
　　“如果你有意帮忙，我倒有个任务可以交给你。”父亲说，“马柯·派柏和卡列尔·凡斯在我们后方兴风作浪，袭击我红叉河对岸的领土。”
　　提利昂啧了一声。“不过就是几只寄生虫捣蛋，若是平常，我会很乐意去给这些没礼貌的家伙一点颜色瞧瞧，可是父亲大人，我还可以派上别的用场。”
　　“是吗？”父亲看来不为所动。“另外还有两个奈德·史塔克的余孽，专门骚扰我们的征粮部队。一个是想逞英雄的贵族少爷贝里·唐德利恩，还有他带在身边的那个痴肥僧侣，最爱让剑喷火的那位。你能发挥你逃跑的本事，去对付他们么？当然，不能给我捅出更大的漏子。”
　　提利昂用手背抹抹嘴，微笑道：“父亲，知道您这么信任我真教人感动，嗯，您要给我……二十个人？五十个？您确定拨得出这许多人手？唉，没关系，假如我碰上索罗斯和贝里大人，一定好好揍他们一顿屁股。”他爬下椅子，摇摇摆摆地走向餐具柜，柜子上摆了一盘白乳酪，周围放着水果。“不过首先，我得实现我的诺言。”他边说边切下一块奶酪。“我要三千顶头盔，三千套锁甲、剑、长熗、钢制矛头、钉头锤、战斧、铁手套、颈甲、护膝、胸甲，以及用来载运这些东西的马车——”
　　身后的门轰然撞开，力道刚猛，提利昂差点松开手上的食物。凯冯爵士咒骂着跳起来，侍卫队长整个人飞过房间，撞上壁炉，滚进已经冷却的灰烬，狮盔歪在一边。夏嘎跟着闯进来，啪的一声，用他粗如树干的膝盖将队长的佩剑折成两段。随后他丢下断剑，大摇大摆地走进大厅，人还未到，全身有如烂乳酪的臭味先至，在密闭房间里显得格外呛人。“红衣小鬼，”他咆哮道，“下次你要再敢在多夫之子夏嘎面前拔剑，我就剁掉你的命根子，拿来用火烤。”
　　“怎么，找不到山羊？”提利昂边说边咬了口乳酪。
　　其他几个原住民跟随夏嘎走进大厅，波隆也在其中。佣兵有些遗憾地朝提利昂耸耸肩。
　　“你又是哪位？”泰温公爵问，口气冰冷如霜。
　　“父亲，他们跟着我一道回家。”提利昂解释，“我可以把他们留下来吗？他们吃不了多少的。”
　　无人发笑。“你们这帮野蛮人凭什么打断我们的会议？”凯冯爵士质问。
　　“平地人，你说我们是野蛮人？”若你帮他洗个澡，康恩其实还算得上英俊。“我们乃是自由人，自由人天生有权参加所有的作战会议。”
　　“你们哪一个是狮子酋长？”齐拉问。
　　“他们两个都是老头子。”未满二十岁的提魅之子提魅宣布。
　　凯冯爵士伸手拔剑，但他哥哥伸出两根手指，按在他的手腕上，表示制止。泰温公爵不动声色。“提利昂，你的礼貌上哪儿去了？还不快帮我们介绍这几位……贵客。”
　　提利昂舔舔手指。“乐意之至，”他说，“这位美少女是黑耳部的齐克之女齐拉。”
　　“我不是什么少女，”齐拉抗议，“我的儿子们已经割了五十只耳朵了。”
　　“愿他们再多割五十只。”提利昂摇摇摆摆地从她身边走开。“这位是科拉特之子康恩，生得活像凯岩城堡，一身长毛的是多夫之子夏嘎，他们两个是石鸦部的。这位是月人部的乌玛尔之子乌尔夫。这位是灼人部的红手，提魅之子提魅。这是佣兵波隆，并无特定效忠对象，在我认识他的短短时间里，已经两次变节，父亲大人，他跟你应该很和得来。”然后他转向波隆和原住民，“容我为各位介绍家父，兰尼斯特家族的泰陀斯之子泰温、凯岩城公爵、西境守护、兰尼斯港之盾，以及永远的国王之手。”
　　泰温公爵站起来，那威严和气势完全符合上述头衔。“即便远处西境，明月山脉各部落战士的英勇事迹我们也时有耳闻。诸位可敬的大人，什么风将您们从自家要塞吹到这儿来的呢？”
　　“我们骑马。”夏嘎说。
　　“他答应给我们衣服和武器。”提魅之子提魅说。
　　提利昂正打算将他那把艾林谷化为冒烟荒原的构想告诉父亲，大门却又再度打开，便只得暂时作罢。使者用怪异的眼神飞快地瞥了提利昂那群原住民一眼，然后在泰温公爵面前单膝跪下。“启禀大人，”他说，“亚当爵士要我向您报告，史塔克军已开始沿堤道南下。”
　　泰温·兰尼斯特公爵没有笑，泰温公爵从来不笑，但提利昂早已学会观察父亲的喜悦神情，此时此刻这样的神情明明白白地写在他脸上。“这么说来，小狼终于挪窝了，准备来跟狮子们玩玩了。”他用略带满足的口气说，“好极了。你回去吩咐亚当爵士，要他立刻撤退，在我军主力抵达之前，不准与北方人交战，但我希望他派人骚扰对方侧翼，并尽量吸引他们南下。”
　　“一切照您吩咐。”传令兵骑马离开。
　　“这里地势良好，”凯冯爵士指出，“不仅接近浅滩，周围又布下了陷坑和尖桩。假如他们南下，我看不如以逸待劳，在此迎头痛击。”
　　“等见识我方的兵力后，那小鬼有可能丧失勇气，直接撤退。”泰温公爵回答，“而我们越早击败史塔克军，就能越快摆脱牵制，抽出手来，全力对付史坦尼斯。拜拉席恩。吩咐鼓手敲集合令，并派人传话通知詹姆，我要即刻进军与罗柏·史塔克决战。”
　　“遵命。”凯冯爵士道。
　　提利昂饶富兴味地看着父亲转身面向这群半野蛮的原住民。“据说高山部落的男子是勇猛无惧的战士。”
　　“没错。”石鸦部的康恩回答。
　　“女人也一样，”齐拉补充。
　　“与我一同出兵抗敌，我保证你们能得到我儿子承诺的一切，甚至更多。”泰温公爵告诉他们。
　　“我们怎么知道你会遵守约定，”乌玛尔之子乌尔夫说，“况且我们已经有了儿子的承诺，干嘛还需要父亲的？”
　　“我没说你们‘需要’，”泰温公爵回答，“我那是客套话，没别的意思。你们不需要和我们并肩作战，来自冬境北国的人乃是玄冰铸成，碰上他们，连我手下最勇敢的骑士也会害怕。”
　　喔，这招漂亮，提利昂心想，脸上露出狡猾的微笑。
　　“灼人部什么都不怕，提魅之子提魅将和狮子一起打仗。”
　　“灼人部去过的地方，石鸦部都先去了。”康恩不甘示弱地表示，“我们也去。”
　　“多夫之子夏嘎会剁掉他们的命根子，拿去喂乌鸦。”
　　“狮子酋长，我们跟你一起去，”齐克之女齐拉同意。“但你的半人儿子也要跟我们在一起。他用种种承诺换得一条命，在我们拿到他答应的武器之前，他的命是我们的。”
　　泰温转头，用那双金瞳眼睛看着儿子。
　　“乐意之至。”提利昂听天由命地笑了笑。
[ 此帖被挽墨在2015-09-03 00:12重新编辑 ]
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Chapter 57


   SANSA
   The walls of the throne room had been stripped bare, the hunting tapestries that King Robert loved taken down and stacked in the corner in an untidy heap.
   Ser Mandon Moore went to take his place under the throne beside two of his fellows of the Kingsguard. Sansa hovered by the door, for once unguarded. The queen had given her freedom of the castle as a reward for being good, yet even so, she was escorted everywhere she went. “Honor guards for my daughter-to-be,” the queen called them, but they did not make Sansa feel honored.
   “Freedom of the castle” meant that she could go wherever she chose within the Red Keep so long as she promised not to go beyond the walls, a promise Sansa had been more than willing to give. She couldn’t have gone beyond the walls anyway. The gates were watched day and night by Janos Slynt’s gold cloaks, and Lannister house guards were always about as well. Besides, even if she could leave the castle, where would she go? It was enough that she could walk in the yard, pick flowers in Myrcella’s garden, and visit the sept to pray for her father. Sometimes she prayed in the godswood as well, since the Starks kept the old gods.
   This was the first court session of Joffrey’s reign, so Sansa looked about nervously. A line of Lannister house guards stood beneath the western windows, a line of gold-cloaked City Watchmen beneath the east. Of smallfolk and commoners, she saw no sign, but under the gallery a cluster of lords great and small milled restlessly. There were no more than twenty, where a hundred had been accustomed to wait upon King Robert.
   Sansa slipped in among them, murmuring greetings as she worked her way toward the front. She recognized black-skinned Jalabhar Xho, gloomy Ser Aron Santagar, the Redwyne twins Horror and Slobber?.?.?.?only none of them seemed to recognize her. Or if they did, they shied away as if she had the grey plague. Sickly Lord Gyles covered his face at her approach and feigned a fit of coughing, and when funny drunken Ser Dontos started to hail her, Ser Balon Swann whispered in his ear and he turned away.
   And so many others were missing. Where had the rest of them gone? Sansa wondered. Vainly, she searched for friendly faces. Not one of them would meet her eyes. It was as if she had become a ghost, dead before her time.
   Grand Maester Pycelle was seated alone at the council table, seemingly asleep, his hands clasped together atop his beard. She saw Lord Varys hurry into the hall, his feet making no sound. A moment later Lord Baelish entered through the tall doors in the rear, smiling. He chatted amiably with Ser Balon and Ser Dontos as he made his way to the front. Butterflies fluttered nervously in Sansa’s stomach. I shouldn’t be afraid, she told herself. I have nothing to be afraid of, it will all come out well, Joff loves me and the queen does too, she said so.
   A herald’s voice rang out. “All hail His Grace, Joffrey of the Houses Baratheon and Lannister, the First of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. All hail his lady mother, Cersei of House Lannister, Queen Regent, Light of the West, and Protector of the Realm.”
   Ser Barristan Selmy, resplendent in white plate, led them in. Ser Arys Oakheart escorted the queen, while Ser Boros Blount walked beside Joffrey, so six of the Kingsguard were now in the hall, all the White Swords save Jaime Lannister alone. Her prince, no, her king now!, took the steps of the Iron Throne two at a time, while his mother was seated with the council. Joff wore plush black velvets slashed with crimson, a shimmering cloth-of-gold cape with a high collar, and on his head a golden crown crusted with rubies and black diamonds.
   When Joffrey turned to look out over the hall, his eye caught Sansa’s. He smiled, seated himself, and spoke. “It is a king’s duty to punish the disloyal and reward those who are true. Grand Maester Pycelle, I command you to read my decrees.”
   Pycelle pushed himself to his feet. He was clad in a magnificent robe of thick red velvet, with an ermine collar and shiny gold fastenings. From a drooping sleeve, heavy with gilded scrollwork, he drew a parchment, unrolled it, and began to read a long list of names, commanding each in the name of king and council to present themselves and swear their fealty to Joffrey. Failing that, they would be adjudged traitors, their lands and titles forfeit to the throne.
   The names he read made Sansa hold her breath. Lord Stannis Baratheon, his lady wife, his daughter. Lord Renly Baratheon. Both Lord Royces and their sons. Ser Loras Tyrell. Lord Mace Tyrell, his brothers, uncles, sons. The red priest, Thoros of Myr. Lord Beric Dondarrion. Lady Lysa Arryn and her son, the little Lord Robert. Lord Hoster Tully, his brother Ser Brynden, his son Ser Edmure. Lord Jason Mallister. Lord Bryce Caron of the Marches. Lord Tytos Blackwood. Lord Walder Frey and his heir Ser Stevron. Lord Karyl Vance. Lord Jonos Bracken. Lady Sheila Whent. Doran Martell, Prince of Dorne, and all his sons. So many, she thought as Pycelle read on and on, it will take a whole flock of ravens to send out these commands.
   And at the end, near last, came the names Sansa had been dreading. Lady Catelyn Stark. Robb Stark. Brandon Stark, Rickon Stark, Arya Stark. Sansa stifled a gasp. Arya. They wanted Arya to present herself and swear an oath?.?.?.?it must mean her sister had fled on the galley, she must be safe at Winterfell by now?.?.?.?
   Grand Maester Pycelle rolled up the list, tucked it up his left sleeve, and pulled another parchment from his right. He cleared his throat and resumed. “In the place of the traitor Eddard Stark, it is the wish of His Grace that Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West, take up the office of Hand of the King, to speak with his voice, lead his armies against his enemies, and carry out his royal will. So the king has decreed. The small council consents.
   “In the place of the traitor Stannis Baratheon, it is the wish of His Grace that his lady mother, the Queen Regent Cersei Lannister, who has ever been his staunchest support, be seated upon his small council, that she may help him rule wisely and with justice. So the king has decreed. The small council consents.”
   Sansa heard a soft murmuring from the lords around her, but it was quickly stilled. Pycelle continued.
   “It is also the wish of His Grace that his loyal servant, Janos Slynt, Commander of the City Watch of King’s Landing, be at once raised to the rank of lord and granted the ancient seat of Harrenhal with all its attendant lands and incomes, and that his sons and grandsons shall hold these honors after him until the end of time. It is moreover his command that Lord Slynt be seated immediately upon his small council, to assist in the governance of the realm. So the king has decreed. The small council consents.”
   Sansa glimpsed motion from the corner of her eye as Janos Slynt made his entrance. This time the muttering was louder and angrier. Proud lords whose houses went back thousands of years made way reluctantly for the balding, frog-faced commoner as he marched past. Golden scales had been sewn onto the black velvet of his doublet and rang together softly with each step. His cloak was checked black-and-gold satin. Two ugly boys who must have been his sons went before him, struggling with the weight of a heavy metal shield as tall as they were. For his sigil he had taken a bloody spear, gold on a night-black field. The sight of it raised goose prickles up and down Sansa’s arms.
   As Lord Slynt took his place, Grand Maester Pycelle resumed. “Lastly, in these times of treason and turmoil, with our beloved Robert so lately dead, it is the view of the council that the life and safety of King Joffrey is of paramount importance?.?.?.?” He looked to the queen.
   Cersei stood. “Ser Barristan Selmy, stand forth.”
   Ser Barristan had been standing at the foot of the Iron Throne, as still as any statue, but now he went to one knee and bowed his head. “Your Grace, I am yours to command.”
   “Rise, Ser Barristan,” Cersei Lannister said. “You may remove your helm.”
   “My lady?” Standing, the old knight took off his high white helm, though he did not seem to understand why.
   “You have served the realm long and faithfully, good ser, and every man and woman in the Seven Kingdoms owes you thanks. Yet now I fear your service is at an end. It is the wish of king and council that you lay down your heavy burden.”
   “My?.?.?.?burden? I fear I?.?.?.?I do not?.?.?.?”
   The new-made lord, Janos Slynt, spoke up, his voice heavy and blunt. “Her Grace is trying to tell you that you are relieved as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.”
   The tall, white-haired knight seemed to shrink as he stood there, scarcely breathing. “Your Grace,” he said at last. “The Kingsguard is a Sworn Brotherhood. Our vows are taken for life. Only death may relieve the Lord Commander of his sacred trust.”
   “Whose death, Ser Barristan?” The queen’s voice was soft as silk, but her words carried the whole length of the hall. “Yours, or your king’s?”
   “You let my father die,” Joffrey said accusingly from atop the Iron Throne. “You’re too old to protect anybody.”
   Sansa watched as the knight peered up at his new king. She had never seen him look his years before, yet now he did. “Your Grace,” he said. “I was chosen for the White Swords in my twenty-third year. It was all I had ever dreamed, from the moment I first took sword in hand. I gave up all claim to my ancestral keep. The girl I was to wed married my cousin in my place, I had no need of land or sons, my life would be lived for the realm. Ser Gerold Hightower himself heard my vows?.?.?.?to ward the king with all my strength?.?.?.?to give my blood for his?.?.?.?I fought beside the White Bull and Prince Lewyn of Dorne?.?.?.?beside Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. Before I served your father, I helped shield King Aerys, and his father Jaehaerys before him?.?.?.?three kings?.?.?.?”
   “And all of them dead,” Littlefinger pointed out.
   “Your time is done,” Cersei Lannister announced. “Joffrey requires men around him who are young and strong. The council has determined that Ser Jaime Lannister will take your place as the Lord Commander of Sworn Brothers of the White Swords.”
   “The Kingslayer,” Ser Barristan said, his voice hard with contempt. “The false knight who profaned his blade with the blood of the king he had sworn to defend.”
   “Have a care for your words, ser,” the queen warned. “You are speaking of our beloved brother, your king’s own blood.”
   Lord Varys spoke, gentler than the others. “We are not unmindful of your service, good ser. Lord Tywin Lannister has generously agreed to grant you a handsome tract of land north of Lannisport, beside the sea, with gold and men sufficient to build you a stout keep, and servants to see to your every need.”
   Ser Barristan looked up sharply. “A hall to die in, and men to bury me. I thank you, my lords?.?.?.?but I spit upon your pity.” He reached up and undid the clasps that held his cloak in place, and the heavy white garment slithered from his shoulders to fall in a heap on the floor. His helmet dropped with a clang. “I am a knight,” he told them. He opened the silver fastenings of his breastplate and let that fall as well. “I shall die a knight.”
   “A naked knight, it would seem,” quipped Littlefinger.
   They all laughed then, Joffrey on his throne, and the lords standing attendance, Janos Slynt and Queen Cersei and Sandor Clegane and even the other men of the Kingsguard, the five who had been his brothers until a moment ago. Surely that must have hurt the most, Sansa thought. Her heart went out to the gallant old man as he stood shamed and red-faced, too angry to speak. Finally he drew his sword.
   Sansa heard someone gasp. Ser Boros and Ser Meryn moved forward to confront him, but Ser Barristan froze them in place with a look that dripped contempt. “Have no fear, sers, your king is safe?.?.?.?no thanks to you. Even now, I could cut through the five of you as easy as a dagger cuts cheese. If you would serve under the Kingslayer, not a one of you is fit to wear the white.” He flung his sword at the foot of the Iron Throne. “Here, boy. Melt it down and add it to the others, if you like. It will do you more good than the swords in the hands of these five. Perhaps Lord Stannis will chance to sit on it when he takes your throne.”
   He took the long way out, his steps ringing loud against the floor and echoing off the bare stone walls. Lords and ladies parted to let him pass. Not until the pages had closed the great oak-and-bronze doors behind him did Sansa hear sounds again: soft voices, uneasy stirrings, the shuffle of papers from the council table. “He called me boy,” Joffrey said peevishly, sounding younger than his years. “He talked about my uncle Stannis too.”
   “Idle talk,” said Varys the eunuch. “Without meaning?.?.?.?”
   “He could be making plots with my uncles. I want him seized and questioned.” No one moved. Joffrey raised his voice. “I said, I want him seized!”
   Janos Slynt rose from the council table. “My gold cloaks will see to it, Your Grace.”
   “Good,” said King Joffrey. Lord Janos strode from the hall, his ugly sons double-stepping to keep up as they lugged the great metal shield with the arms of House Slynt.
   “Your Grace,” Littlefinger reminded the king. “If we might resume, the seven are now six. We find ourselves in need of a new sword for your Kingsguard.”
   Joffrey smiled. “Tell them, Mother.”
   “The king and council have determined that no man in the Seven Kingdoms is more fit to guard and protect His Grace than his sworn shield, Sandor Clegane.”
   “How do you like that, dog?” King Joffrey asked.
   The Hound’s scarred face was hard to read. He took a long moment to consider. “Why not? I have no lands nor wife to forsake, and who’d care if I did?” The burned side of his mouth twisted. “But I warn you, I’ll say no knight’s vows.”
   “The Sworn Brothers of the Kingsguard have always been knights,” Ser Boros said firmly.
   “Until now,” the Hound said in his deep rasp, and Ser Boros fell silent.
   When the king’s herald moved forward, Sansa realized the moment was almost at hand. She smoothed down the cloth of her skirt nervously. She was dressed in mourning, as a sign of respect for the dead king, but she had taken special care to make herself beautiful. Her gown was the ivory silk that the queen had given her, the one Arya had ruined, but she’d had them dye it black and you couldn’t see the stain at all. She had fretted over her jewelry for hours and finally decided upon the elegant simplicity of a plain silver chain.
   The herald’s voice boomed out. “If any man in this hall has other matters to set before His Grace, let him speak now or go forth and hold his silence.”
   Sansa quailed. Now, she told herself, I must do it now. Gods give me courage. She took one step, then another. Lords and knights stepped aside silently to let her pass, and she felt the weight of their eyes on her. I must be as strong as my lady mother. “Your Grace,” she called out in a soft, tremulous voice.
   The height of the Iron Throne gave Joffrey a better vantage point than anyone else in the hall. He was the first to see her. “Come forward, my lady,” he called out, smiling.
   His smile emboldened her, made her feel beautiful and strong. He does love me, he does. Sansa lifted her head and walked toward him, not too slow and not too fast. She must not let them see how nervous she was.
   “The Lady Sansa, of House Stark,” the herald cried.
   She stopped under the throne, at the spot where Ser Barristan’s white cloak lay puddled on the floor beside his helm and breastplate. “Do you have some business for king and council, Sansa?” the queen asked from the council table.
   “I do.” She knelt on the cloak, so as not to spoil her gown, and looked up at her prince on his fearsome black throne. “As it please Your Grace, I ask mercy for my father, Lord Eddard Stark, who was the Hand of the King.” She had practiced the words a hundred times.
   The queen sighed. “Sansa, you disappoint me. What did I tell you about traitor’s blood?”
   “Your father has committed grave and terrible crimes, my lady,” Grand Maester Pycelle intoned.
   “Ah, poor sad thing,” sighed Varys. “She is only a babe, my lords, she does not know what she asks.”
   Sansa had eyes only for Joffrey. He must listen to me, he must, she thought. The king shifted on his seat, “Let her speak,” he commanded. “I want to hear what she says.”
   “Thank you, Your Grace.” Sansa smiled, a shy secret smile, just for him. He was listening. She knew he would.
   “Treason is a noxious weed,” Pycelle declared solemnly. “It must be torn up, root and stem and seed, lest new traitors sprout from every roadside.”
   “Do you deny your father’s crime?” Lord Baelish asked.
   “No, my lords.” Sansa knew better than that. “I know he must be punished. All I ask is mercy. I know my lord father must regret what he did. He was King Robert’s friend and he loved him, you all know he loved him. He never wanted to be Hand until the king asked him. They must have lied to him. Lord Renly or Lord Stannis or?.?.?.?or somebody, they must have lied, otherwise?.?.?.?”
   King Joffrey leaned forward, hands grasping the arms of the throne. Broken sword points fanned out between his fingers. “He said I wasn’t the king. Why did he say that?”
   “His leg was broken,” Sansa replied eagerly. “It hurt ever so much, Maester Pycelle was giving him milk of the poppy, and they say that milk of the poppy fills your head with clouds. Otherwise he would never have said it.”
   Varys said, “A child’s faith?.?.?.?such sweet innocence?.?.?.?and yet, they say wisdom oft comes from the mouths of babes.”
   “Treason is treason,” Pycelle replied at once.
   Joffrey rocked restlessly on the throne. “Mother?”
   Cersei Lannister considered Sansa thoughtfully. “If Lord Eddard were to confess his crime,” she said at last, “we would know he had repented his folly.”
   Joffrey pushed himself to his feet. Please, Sansa thought, please, please, be the king I know you are, good and kind and noble, please. “Do you have any more to say?” he asked her.
   “Only?.?.?.?that as you love me, you do me this kindness, my prince,” Sansa said.
   King Joffrey looked her up and down. “Your sweet words have moved me,” he said gallantly, nodding, as if to say all would be well. “I shall do as you ask?.?.?.?but first your father has to confess. He has to confess and say that I’m the king, or there will be no mercy for him.”
   “He will,” Sansa said, heart soaring. “Oh, I know he will.”


Ⅰ 权力的游戏 Chapter58 珊莎
　　王座厅里，劳勃国王生前最喜爱的挂毯织锦通通被扯了下来，杂乱无章地堆在角落，如今四壁萧然。
　　曼登·穆尔爵士前去守在王座底，与他另外两名御林铁卫弟兄一道站岗，所以暂时无人看管在门边徘徊的珊莎。太后赐给她在城堡里自由来去的权利，作为她表现良好的奖赏。但即便如此，不论她走到何处，身旁依旧有人紧随。“这是给我准媳妇的荣誉护卫。”太后这么称呼他们，然而珊莎却一点也不觉得受尊重。
　　所谓“在城堡里自由来去”，指的是她可以在红堡里任意行动，只要她答应不走出城墙以外。这个要求珊莎倒是很乐于配合，一来城门日夜有杰诺斯·史林特的金袍卫士或兰尼斯特家的武士看守，她本来就不可能出去；二来，就算她真的离开城堡，又能去什么地方呢？只要能在广场里散散步，到弥赛拉的花园采几朵花，或是造访圣堂，为父亲祈祷，她便心满意足了。有时候她也会在神木林祷告，因为史塔克家族是信奉古老诸神的。
　　今天，是乔佛里登基后首次上朝听政，珊莎很紧张地四处张望。西窗下站了一排兰尼斯特卫士，东窗下则是身穿金色披风的都城守卫队。她没见着任何平民百姓，旁听席上也只有一小群贵族焦躁不安地来回走动。他们为数不过二十，从前劳勃国王的时代，出席者动辄百人以上。
　　珊莎走进旁听席，一边穿梭着往前排移动，一边喃喃向人们问好。她认出黑皮肤的贾拉巴·梭尔，神情郁闷的艾伦·桑塔加爵士，以及雷德温家的双胞胎恐怖爵士和流口水爵士……可他们却似乎都不认得她。或者他们认得，却把她当瘟疫般避之惟恐不及。憔悴的盖尔斯伯爵一见她走近，便遮住脸，假装剧烈咳嗽；而喝得醉醺醺，人又顶滑稽的唐托斯爵士正要向她打招呼，只见巴隆·史文爵士在他耳边低语了几句，他便转开头去。
　　还有好多好多人都不见了。其他人到哪里去了？珊莎纳闷。她徒劳无功地搜索友善的脸孔，然而谁都不愿正眼瞧她。她仿佛成了幽魂，还未寿终正寝，便已宣告死亡。
　　派席尔大学士独自坐在议事桌边，两手撑在胡子下，那样子像是睡着了。接着，她看见瓦里斯伯爵匆匆忙忙地进入大厅，走路没有半点声音。过了一会儿，贝里席伯爵也笑盈盈地从大门走进来，一边和蔼可亲地与巴隆爵士和唐托斯爵士闲话家常，一边朝大厅前方移动。珊莎的肚子绞成一团，好似有成群蝴蝶飞舞。我不该害怕的，她告诉自己，我没什么好怕的，一切都会圆满收场，因为小乔爱我，太后也爱我，她亲口说的。
　　司仪的声音响起：“恭迎安达尔人、洛伊拿人和先民的国王，七国统治者，拜拉席恩家族与兰尼斯特家族的乔佛里一世陛下。恭迎陛下的母亲大人，西境之光，全境守护者，摄政太后，兰尼斯特家族的瑟曦陛下。”
　　一身灿烂白甲的巴利斯坦·赛尔弥爵士带领他们走进来，亚历斯·奥克赫特爵士护送太后，柏洛斯·布劳恩爵士则走在乔佛里旁边。眼下六名御林铁卫都在大厅，众白骑士齐聚一堂，只有詹姆·兰尼斯特缺席。她的白马王子——不对，是她的国王了！——三步并作两步地爬上铁王座的阶梯，他的母后则和重臣们坐在一起。小乔身穿绣红线的黑天鹅绒外衣，肩披闪闪发光的高领金缕披风，头戴镶嵌红玉黑钻石的黄金宝冠。
　　乔佛里转头环顾大厅，与珊莎四目相交，他面露微笑，缓缓坐下，然后开口道：“惩治叛徒，奖励忠臣，此乃国王职责所在。派席尔大学士，我命你宣读我的判决。”
　　派席尔站起来，他衣着华丽，身穿厚重的红天鹅绒长袍，貂皮衣领，亮金饰带，衣袖低垂，上面满是镀金涡形装饰。他从袖子里抽出一卷羊皮纸，展开之后，开始宣读一长串的名单，并以国王和重臣之名，命令他们即刻上朝宣誓效忠，倘若不从，将被视作叛徒，其领地和封号均由王室收回。
　　他念出的名字令珊莎屏住了呼吸：史坦尼斯·拜拉席恩公爵夫妇和他们的女儿，蓝礼公爵，罗伊斯伯爵兄弟和他们的儿子，洛拉斯·提利尔爵士，梅斯·提利尔公爵及其兄弟、叔父和儿子，密尔的红袍僧索罗斯，贝里·唐德利恩伯爵，莱沙·艾林夫人和她的儿子小劳勃，霍斯特·徒利公爵及其弟布林登爵士、其子艾德慕爵士，杰森·梅利斯特伯爵，边疆地的布莱斯·卡伦伯爵，泰陀斯·布莱伍德伯爵，瓦德·佛雷侯爵和他的继承人史提夫伦爵士，卡列尔·凡斯伯爵，裘诺·布雷肯伯爵，希拉·河安伯爵夫人，多恩亲王道朗·马泰尔及其所有子嗣。好多人啊，她一边听派席尔念个不休，心里一边想，光把这些命令送出去，就得用上一整群的渡鸦。
　　最后，接近末尾时，珊莎害怕已久的名字终于出现：凯特琳·史塔克夫人，罗柏·史塔克，布兰登·史塔克，瑞肯·史塔克，艾莉亚·史塔克。珊莎差点没叫出声。艾莉亚？他们竟然要艾莉亚上朝宣誓效忠……这么说来妹妹肯定已经乘船逃走，安全地回到临冬城了……
　　派席尔大学士卷起名单，塞进左手袖子，然后从右边袖子抽出另一张羊皮纸。他清清喉咙，继续念道：“为取代叛徒艾德·史塔克，遵照国王陛下的意愿，由凯岩城公爵暨西境守护泰温·兰尼斯特接任国王之手一职，以国王之名统理政事，率军讨平乱党，传达其意旨。陛下有令，重臣赞同。”
　　“为取代叛徒史坦尼斯·拜拉席恩，遵照国王陛下的意愿，由摄政太后瑟曦·兰尼斯特接任其朝廷重臣一职，以始终如一之可靠支持，协助其治国以睿智，判决以正义。陛下有令，重臣赞同。”
　　珊莎听见四周的贵族窃窃私语，然而耳语声很快平息下来。派席尔继续念诵：“对于尽忠职守之君临都城守卫队长杰诺斯·史林特，国王陛下亦希望将其立刻擢升为贵族之列，并赐予历史悠久之赫伦堡及其所有封地税赋。其子嗣将世代继承此等荣耀，万世不辍。由是，陛下有令，史林特伯爵即刻成为朝廷重臣，助其统御国事。陛下有令，重臣赞同。”
　　珊莎的眼角余光瞥见杰诺斯·史林特走了进来。这回议论声更大，且夹杂了愤怒的话音。许多拥有几千年族史的高傲领主很不情愿让到两旁，好让这头顶渐秃，面目如蛙的平民过去。他的黑天鹅绒长衫上镶了纯金鳞片，每走一步就丁当轻响，肩头则是黑金相间的锦缎格子披风。两名相貌丑陋的男孩走在他前面，步履踉跄地举着与他们等高的金属重盾，这必定是他的儿子无疑。他为自己选择的家徽是一根金色的染血长熗，底面漆黑如夜。珊莎见了不禁手上起了鸡皮疙瘩。
　　等史林特伯爵就位后，派席尔国师继续念：“最后，于此密谋四起、动乱不堪的危殆之际，吾人备受爱戴的劳勃国王新近驾崩，吾等重臣认为乔佛里国王之生命安危实乃首要之急……”他望向太后。
　　瑟曦站起来。“巴利斯坦·赛尔弥爵士听命。”
　　巴利斯坦爵士原本站在铁王座底，有如雕像般纹丝不动，此刻他单膝跪下，低头道：“太后陛下，微臣听候您的差遣。”
　　“请起，巴利斯坦爵士。”瑟曦·兰尼斯特道，“您可以卸下头盔。”
　　“陛下？”老骑士起身，摘下他的高顶白盔，却有些不知所措。
　　“爵士先生，长久以来您为国效命，尽忠职守，七大王国中每位善男信女皆对您心怀感激。然而，恐怕您的服务现在必须告一段落，国王和吾等重臣都希望您能卸下您的沉重负担。”
　　“我的……负担？恐怕我……我不……”
　　这时新科贵族杰诺斯·史林特开了口，语气沉重，直截了当：“太后陛下的意思是，您御林铁卫队长的职务已被解除了。”
　　高大的白发骑士站在原地，整个人仿佛顿时小了一圈，喘不过气来，“陛下，”最后他终于开口，“御林铁卫乃宣誓效命的兄弟，立下誓言，即为终身，惟死方能解除铁卫队长所负之神圣使命。”
　　“巴利斯坦爵士，敢问是谁的死？”太后的声音虽轻柔如丝，话中所言却震慑全场。“是你，还是你的国王？”
　　“你保护不了我父亲，”铁王座上的乔佛里语带指控地说，“你年纪太大，谁都保护不了了。”
　　珊莎看着骑士抬眼凝望他的新国王，过去她从不觉得他年事已高，如今他却老态毕露。“陛下，”他说，“我二十三岁那年被选为白骑士。而自我初次掌剑以来，那便是我惟一所求。我放弃了家族古堡的继承权，原本要与我成婚的女孩嫁给我堂弟，我不需封地，无能子嗣，终我一生，惟有为国奉献。我宣誓时杰洛·海塔尔爵士为见证人……我宣誓尽我所能保护国王……为他抛头颅、洒热血……我曾与白牛和多恩领的勒文亲王……以及“拂晓神剑”亚瑟·戴恩爵士并肩作战。在我为您父王效命之前，我守护过伊里斯国王，以及他的父亲杰赫里斯……我曾为三个国王效力……”
　　“结果他们通通都死了。”小指头指出。
　　“你的职务到此为止，”瑟曦·兰尼斯特宣布，“乔佛里身边需要年轻力壮的人。御前会议已经决定，由詹姆·兰尼斯特爵士接任你的职务，担任白骑士弟兄们的队长。”
　　“弑君者？”巴利斯坦爵士口气严厉，语带轻蔑。“就那个以他誓言守护的国王的鲜血来玷污自己宝剑的虚伪骑士吗？”
　　“爵士先生，请注意您的措辞。”太后警告他，“此人乃是我挚爱的弟弟，当今国王的亲舅。”
　　这时，瓦里斯伯爵开口了，口气比其他人都要轻柔。“爵士先生，对于您过去的贡献，我们并非不知感恩。泰温·兰尼斯特大人已经慷慨地同意拨出兰尼斯港北部一大块土地作为您的封疆，那里不但靠海，而且矿藏丰富，人力充足，足够修筑坚固堡垒，供应满足您一切需要的仆人。”
　　巴利斯坦爵士目光锐利地往上看去。“给我一个安享晚年的地方，以及为我送终的人，是吗？诸位大人，好意我心领了……但我唾弃你们的同情。”他伸手解开肩上的扣子，那件雪白披风随即落下，在地上堆成一团。紧接着“铿！”地一声，他的头盔落在地上。“我既生为骑士，”他告诉他们，一边解开胸甲的环扣，让铠甲也掉落在地。“也要死得像个骑士。”
　　“像个没穿衣服的骑士，您说是吧？”小指头插话。
　　众人哄笑一团，不论王座上的乔佛里、上朝听令的贵族、杰诺斯·史林特、瑟曦太后、桑铎·克里冈，甚至御林铁卫们——那五位几分钟前还与他同生共死的弟兄——他们都笑了。他们的笑，一定是最伤人的吧，珊莎心想。她眼看着这名英勇的老人面红耳赤地站在原地，满脸羞愧神色，气得说不出话来。最后，他抽出佩剑。
　　珊莎听见在场惊声四起，柏洛斯爵士和马林爵士连忙上前与之对峙，然而巴利斯坦爵士只一个极轻蔑的眼神，便令他们两人冻结在地。“两位爵士先生，毋需害怕，你们的国王是安全的……但这可不是因为你们护驾有功。即便现在，我依旧可以像切乳酪一样把你们五个通通砍倒。假如你们打算服侍弑君者，那么你们通通不配穿这身白袍。”他把剑朝铁王座底一掷。“小鬼，拿去罢。要不要熔了这把剑，让王座上再多一把，随你高兴。那样的话，对你的助益还要强过这五人手中的剑。而等史坦尼斯大人拿下你的王位后，或许也能坐在这把上面。”
　　他绕远路离开，脚步踩在地板上，声响宏亮，回音在光秃秃的石墙间回荡。贵族男女站开让他通过，直等侍从关上了那两扇巨大的橡木青铜门，珊莎才又听见话音：有轻声细语，有不安地脚步，还有议事桌上纸张的挪动。“他竟然叫我‘小鬼’，”乔佛里愤恨地说，听起来比他的实际年龄更显孩子气。“他还说了我叔叔史坦尼斯的事。”
　　“随口说说罢了，”太监瓦里斯道，“不是认真的……”
　　“他搞不好和我两个叔叔串通谋反。我要把他抓起来，好好审问。”无人动作。乔佛里提高声音，“我说了，我要把他抓起来！”
　　杰诺斯·史林特从议事桌边站起来。“陛下，此事就交给我手下的金袍卫士去办。”
　　“很好。”乔佛里国王道。杰诺斯伯爵走出大厅，他的两个丑儿子急忙跟上，一边拖着刻了史林特家徽的金属巨盾。
　　“陛下，”小指头提醒国王。“我们可以继续议程。原本的七铁卫如今只剩六人，我们需要为御林铁卫再添一名生力军。”
　　乔佛里面露微笑。“母亲，告诉他们吧。”
　　“国王陛下和御前会议认为，放眼七大王国，无人能比宣誓守护陛下的贴身侍卫——桑铎·克里冈更适合担任此一职务。”
　　“好狗，你觉得怎么样啊？”乔佛里国王问。
　　猎狗满是伤疤的脸瞧不出任何表情，他思考了很长一段时间。“有何不可？我无需抛弃封地或老婆，因为我根本就没有。就算我有，又有谁会在乎呢？”他被灼伤的半边嘴唇抽搐了一下。“但我警告你，我可不来骑士宣誓那一套。”
　　“御林铁卫的弟兄向来由骑士担任。”柏洛斯爵士口气坚定地说。
　　“从今天起，不再是了。”猎狗用一贯的喑哑声音道，柏洛斯爵士便不再作声。
　　当司仪向前走去时，珊莎明白时机就快到了。她紧张地整整裙子。她虽穿着丧服，以表示对死去国王的敬意，但还是特别打扮过。她的礼服是太后送她的象牙色丝衣，就是被艾莉亚弄脏的那件，但她将之染成黑色，已经看不出上面的污渍。至于该配戴何种珠宝，她可是害怕地思索良久，最后才决定选择式样简单却不失优雅的银项链。
　　司仪声音宏亮：“陛下倾听在场诸位的请愿，有事禀报，无事退朝。”
　　珊莎害怕得浑身发抖。就是现在，她告诉自己，我必须现在去做，愿天上诸神赐予我勇气。她跨出一步，再跨一步。贵族和骑士静静地为她让路，她感觉到众人的视线在自己身上的重量。我必须像母亲大人一样坚强。“国王陛下。”她用细微的、颤抖的声音喊。
　　由于铁王座高出地面许多，所以乔佛里的视线较在场其他人清楚，他最先看到她。“小姐，请您上前来。”他面带微笑地召唤。
　　他的微笑给了她勇气，令她觉得自己美丽而坚强。他真的爱我，真的。珊莎抬起头，不疾不徐地朝他走去，她绝不能让他们察觉自己有多紧张。
　　“史塔克家族的珊莎小姐。”司仪高唱。
　　她在王座下方停住脚步，正好站在巴利斯坦爵士的白披风、头盔和胸甲堆放的地方。“珊莎，你有事禀报国王陛下和御前会议？”议事桌边的太后问。
　　“是。”她跪在披风上，如此才不至于弄脏礼服。然后她抬头看着端坐恐怖黑王座上的白马王子。“启禀陛下，我要为家父，亦即前首相艾德·史塔克大人请愿，求您慈悲为怀、法外开恩。”这句话她已经练习过几百遍了。
　　太后叹道：“珊莎，你太令我失望了。我是怎么跟你说叛国者的血统来着？”
　　“小姐，您的父亲可是犯下了滔天大罪啊。”派席尔大学士沉吟道。
　　“唉，可怜的小东西。”瓦里斯也跟着叹气，“诸位大人，她不过是个孩子，根本不知道自己要求的是什么。”
　　但珊莎只把目光放在乔佛里身上。他一定要听我说完，一定要啊，她心想。国王在宝座上动了动身子。“让她说吧，”他下令，“我要听听她的话。”
　　“感谢您，陛下。”珊莎露出微笑。那是个羞怯的、私密的、只给他看的微笑。他真的愿意听，她就知道他会。
　　“叛国大罪好似带毒的野草，”派席尔庄严地宣布，“必须连根拔除、斩尽杀绝，否则叛徒便会四处蔓生。”
　　“令尊所犯之罪行，你可否认？”贝里席伯爵问。
　　“诸位大人，我不否认。”珊莎有更好的办法。“我很清楚他必须接受制裁。我要求的只是网开一面，放他一条生路。家父必定已对其所作所为懊悔不已，他是劳勃国王生前密友，他是真心敬爱国王的，相信在座各位都很明白。他从未有过成为御前首相的念头，直到国王开口。他必定是被蓝礼大人、史坦尼斯大人或……或某些人蛊惑，否则不会……”
　　乔佛里国王倾身向前，双手按紧王座扶手，断剑自他指缝根根穿出，有如铁扇。“他说我不是国王，他为什么要那样说？”
　　“他有腿伤在身，”珊莎急切地应道，“疼痛异常，派席尔大学士给他服用了罂粟花奶，而罂粟花奶会让人神智不清，否则他是绝不会这样说的。”
　　瓦里斯道：“这是孩子对父亲的信心所致……多么单纯而天真……可是呢，人们不是常说智慧往往来自孩童口中么？”
　　“但叛国就是叛国。”派席尔立刻回应。
　　乔佛里不安地在王位上动来动去。“母亲，您的意思呢？”
　　瑟曦·兰尼斯特满腹思量地审视珊莎。“倘若艾德大人愿意坦承罪行，”良久，她终于开口，“我们便可确知他已有悔悟之心。”
　　乔佛里站了起来。求求您，珊莎心想，求求您，求求您，您是我心中的国王，是那个仁慈高贵又好心肠的国王，求求您啊。“你还有什么要说的吗？”他问她。
　　“请您……请您看在您爱我的份上，成全我这个心愿吧，我的王子。”珊莎说。
　　乔佛里国王上上下下地打量着她。“你的一番肺腑之言感动了我，”他英勇地点头道，仿佛在说一切都会没事。“我就成全你……但你父亲必须先俯首认罪，承认我是他的国王，不然我无法手下留情。”
　　“他会的，”珊莎说，整颗心都飞了起来。“嗯，我知道他会的。”
[ 此帖被挽墨在2015-09-03 00:13重新编辑 ]
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Chapter 58
EDDARD
   The straw on the floor stank of urine. There was no window, no bed, not even a slop bucket. He remembered walls of pale red stone festooned with patches of nitre, a grey door of splintered wood, four inches thick and studded with iron. He had seen them, briefly, a quick glimpse as they shoved him inside. Once the door had slammed shut, he had seen no more. The dark was absolute. He had as well been blind.
   Or dead. Buried with his king. “Ah, Robert,” he murmured as his groping hand touched a cold stone wall, his leg throbbing with every motion. He remembered the jest the king had shared in the crypts of Winterfell, as the Kings of Winter looked on with cold stone eyes. The king eats, Robert had said, and the Hand takes the shit. How he had laughed. Yet he had gotten it wrong. The king dies, Ned Stark thought, and the Hand is buried.
   The dungeon was under the Red Keep, deeper than he dared imagine. He remembered the old stories about Maegor the Cruel, who murdered all the masons who labored on his castle, so they might never reveal its secrets.
   He damned them all: Littlefinger, Janos Slynt and his gold cloaks, the queen, the Kingslayer, Pycelle and Varys and Ser Barristan, even Lord Renly, Robert’s own blood, who had run when he was needed most. Yet in the end he blamed himself. “Fool,” he cried to the darkness, “thrice-damned blind fool.”
   Cersei Lannister’s face seemed to float before him in the darkness. Her hair was full of sunlight, but there was mockery in her smile. “When you play the game of thrones, you win or you die,” she whispered. Ned had played and lost, and his men had paid the price of his folly with their life’s blood.
   When he thought of his daughters, he would have wept gladly, but the tears would not come. Even now, he was a Stark of Winterfell, and his grief and his rage froze hard inside him.
   When he kept very still, his leg did not hurt so much, so he did his best to lie unmoving. For how long he could not say. There was no sun and no moon. He could not see to mark the walls. Ned closed his eyes and opened them; it made no difference. He slept and woke and slept again. He did not know which was more painful, the waking or the sleeping. When he slept, he dreamed: dark disturbing dreams of blood and broken promises. When he woke, there was nothing to do but think, and his waking thoughts were worse than nightmares. The thought of Cat was as painful as a bed of nettles. He wondered where she was, what she was doing. He wondered whether he would ever see her again.
   Hours turned to days, or so it seemed. He could feel a dull ache in his shattered leg, an itch beneath the plaster. When he touched his thigh, the flesh was hot to his fingers. The only sound was his breathing. After a time, he began to talk aloud, just to hear a voice. He made plans to keep himself sane, built castles of hope in the dark. Robert’s brothers were out in the world, raising armies at Dragonstone and Storm’s End. Alyn and Harwin would return to King’s Landing with the rest of his household guard once they had dealt with Ser Gregor. Catelyn would raise the north when the word reached her, and the lords of river and mountain and Vale would join her.
   He found himself thinking of Robert more and more. He saw the king as he had been in the flower of his youth, tall and handsome, his great antlered helm on his head, his warhammer in hand, sitting his horse like a horned god. He heard his laughter in the dark, saw his eyes, blue and clear as mountain lakes. “Look at us, Ned,” Robert said. “Gods, how did we come to this? You here, and me killed by a pig. We won a throne together?.?.?.?”
   I failed you, Robert, Ned thought. He could not say the words. I lied to you, hid the truth. I let them kill you.
   The king heard him. “You stiff-necked fool,” he muttered, “too proud to listen. Can you eat pride, Stark? Will honor shield your children?” Cracks ran down his face, fissures opening in the flesh, and he reached up and ripped the mask away. It was not Robert at all; it was Littlefinger, grinning, mocking him. When he opened his mouth to speak, his lies turned to pale grey moths and took wing.
   Ned was half-asleep when the footsteps came down the hall. At first he thought he dreamt them; it had been so long since he had heard anything but the sound of his own voice. Ned was feverish by then, his leg a dull agony, his lips parched and cracked. When the heavy wooden door creaked open, the sudden light was painful to his eyes.
   A gaoler thrust a jug at him. The clay was cool and beaded with moisture. Ned grasped it with both hands and gulped eagerly. Water ran from his mouth and dripped down through his beard. He drank until he thought he would be sick. “How long?.?.?.??” he asked weakly when he could drink no more.
   The gaoler was a scarecrow of a man with a rat’s face and frayed beard, clad in a mail shirt and a leather half cape. “No talking,” he said as he wrenched the jug from Ned’s hands.
   “Please,” Ned said, “my daughters?.?.?.?” The door crashed shut. He blinked as the light vanished, lowered his head to his chest, and curled up on the straw. It no longer stank of urine and shit. It no longer smelled at all.
   He could no longer tell the difference between waking and sleeping. The memory came creeping upon him in the darkness, as vivid as a dream. It was the year of false spring, and he was eighteen again, down from the Eyrie to the tourney at Harrenhal. He could see the deep green of the grass, and smell the pollen on the wind. Warm days and cool nights and the sweet taste of wine. He remembered Brandon’s laughter, and Robert’s berserk valor in the melee, the way he laughed as he unhorsed men left and right. He remembered Jaime Lannister, a golden youth in scaled white armor, kneeling on the grass in front of the king’s pavilion and making his vows to protect and defend King Aerys. Afterward, Ser Oswell Whent helped Jaime to his feet, and the White Bull himself, Lord Commander Ser Gerold Hightower, fastened the snowy cloak of the Kingsguard about his shoulders. All six White Swords were there to welcome their newest brother.
   Yet when the jousting began, the day belonged to Rhaegar Targaryen. The crown prince wore the armor he would die in: gleaming black plate with the three-headed dragon of his House wrought in rubies on the breast. A plume of scarlet silk streamed behind him when he rode, and it seemed no lance could touch him. Brandon fell to him, and Bronze Yohn Royce, and even the splendid Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning.
   Robert had been jesting with Jon and old Lord Hunter as the prince circled the field after unhorsing Ser Barristan in the final tilt to claim the champion’s crown. Ned remembered the moment when all the smiles died, when Prince Rhaegar Targaryen urged his horse past his own wife, the Dornish princess Elia Martell, to lay the queen of beauty’s laurel in Lyanna’s lap. He could see it still: a crown of winter roses, blue as frost.
   Ned Stark reached out his hand to grasp the flowery crown, but beneath the pale blue petals the thorns lay hidden. He felt them clawing at his skin, sharp and cruel, saw the slow trickle of blood run down his fingers, and woke, trembling, in the dark.
   Promise me, Ned, his sister had whispered from her bed of blood. She had loved the scent of winter roses.
   “Gods save me,” Ned wept. “I am going mad.”
   The gods did not deign to answer.
   Each time the turnkey brought him water, he told himself another day had passed. At first he would beg the man for some word of his daughters and the world beyond his cell. Grunts and kicks were his only replies. Later, when the stomach cramps began, he begged for food instead. It made no matter; he was not fed. Perhaps the Lannisters meant for him to starve to death. “No,” he told himself. If Cersei had wanted him dead, he would have been cut down in the throne room with his men. She wanted him alive. Weak, desperate, yet alive. Catelyn held her brother; she dare not kill him or the Imp’s life would be forfeit as well.
   From outside his cell came the rattle of iron chains. As the door creaked open, Ned put a hand to the damp wall and pushed himself toward the light. The glare of a torch made him squint. “Food,” he croaked.
   “Wine,” a voice answered. It was not the rat-faced man; this gaoler was stouter, shorter, though he wore the same leather half cape and spiked steel cap. “Drink, Lord Eddard.” He thrust a wineskin into Ned’s hands.
   The voice was strangely familiar, yet it took Ned Stark a moment to place it. “Varys?” he said groggily when it came. He touched the man’s face. “I’m not?.?.?.?not dreaming this. You’re here.” The eunuch’s plump cheeks were covered with a dark stubble of beard. Ned felt the coarse hair with his fingers. Varys had transformed himself into a grizzled turnkey, reeking of sweat and sour wine. “How did you?.?.?.?what sort of magician are you?”
   “A thirsty one,” Varys said. “Drink, my lord.”
   Ned’s hands fumbled at the skin. “Is this the same poison they gave Robert?”
   “You wrong me,” Varys said sadly. “Truly, no one loves a eunuch. Give me the skin.” He drank, a trickle of red leaking from the corner of his plump mouth. “Not the equal of the vintage you offered me the night of the tourney, but no more poisonous than most,” he concluded, wiping his lips. “Here.”
   Ned tried a swallow. “Dregs.” He felt as though he were about to bring the wine back up.
   “All men must swallow the sour with the sweet. High lords and eunuchs alike. Your hour has come, my lord.”
   “My daughters?.?.?.?”
   “The younger girl escaped Ser Meryn and fled,” Varys told him. “I have not been able to find her. Nor have the Lannisters. A kindness, there. Our new king loves her not. Your older girl is still betrothed to Joffrey. Cersei keeps her close. She came to court a few days ago to plead that you be spared. A pity you couldn’t have been there, you would have been touched.” He leaned forward intently. “I trust you realize that you are a dead man, Lord Eddard?”
   “The queen will not kill me,” Ned said. His head swam; the wine was strong, and it had been too long since he’d eaten. “Cat?.?.?.?Cat holds her brother?.?.?.?”
   “The wrong brother,” Varys sighed. “And lost to her, in any case. She let the Imp slip through her fingers. I expect he is dead by now, somewhere in the Mountains of the Moon.”
   “If that is true, slit my throat and have done with it.” He was dizzy from the wine, tired and heartsick.
   “Your blood is the last thing I desire.”
   Ned frowned. “When they slaughtered my guard, you stood beside the queen and watched, and said not a word.”
   “And would again. I seem to recall that I was unarmed, unarmored, and surrounded by Lannister swords.” The eunuch looked at him curiously, tilting his head. “When I was a young boy, before I was cut, I traveled with a troupe of mummers through the Free Cities. They taught me that each man has a role to play, in life as well as mummery. So it is at court. The King’s Justice must be fearsome, the master of coin must be frugal, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard must be valiant?.?.?.?and the master of whisperers must be sly and obsequious and without scruple. A courageous informer would be as useless as a cowardly knight.” He took the wineskin back and drank.
   Ned studied the eunuch’s face, searching for truth beneath the mummer’s scars and false stubble. He tried some more wine. This time it went down easier. “Can you free me from this pit?”
   “I could?.?.?.?but will I? No. Questions would be asked, and the answers would lead back to me.”
   Ned had expected no more. “You are blunt.”
   “A eunuch has no honor, and a spider does not enjoy the luxury of scruples, my lord.”
   “Would you at least consent to carry a message out for me?”
   “That would depend on the message. I will gladly provide you with paper and ink, if you like. And when you have written what you will, I will take the letter and read it, and deliver it or not, as best serves my own ends.”
   “Your own ends. What ends are those, Lord Varys?”
   “Peace,” Varys replied without hesitation. “If there was one soul in King’s Landing who was truly desperate to keep Robert Baratheon alive, it was me.” He sighed. “For fifteen years I protected him from his enemies, but I could not protect him from his friends. What strange fit of madness led you to tell the queen that you had learned the truth of Joffrey’s birth?”
   “The madness of mercy,” Ned admitted.
   “Ah,” said Varys. “To be sure. You are an honest and honorable man, Lord Eddard. Ofttimes I forget that. I have met so few of them in my life.” He glanced around the cell. “When I see what honesty and honor have won you, I understand why.”
   Ned Stark laid his head back against the damp stone wall and closed his eyes. His leg was throbbing. “The king’s wine?.?.?.?did you question Lancel?”
   “Oh, indeed. Cersei gave him the wineskins, and told him it was Robert’s favorite vintage.” The eunuch shrugged. “A hunter lives a perilous life. If the boar had not done for Robert, it would have been a fall from a horse, the bite of a wood adder, an arrow gone astray?.?.?.?the forest is the abbatoir of the gods. It was not wine that killed the king. It was your mercy.”
   Ned had feared as much. “Gods forgive me.”
   “If there are gods,” Varys said, “I expect they will. The queen would not have waited long in any case. Robert was becoming unruly, and she needed to be rid of him to free her hands to deal with his brothers. They are quite a pair, Stannis and Renly. The iron gauntlet and the silk glove.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You have been foolish, my lord. You ought to have heeded Littlefinger when he urged you to support Joffrey’s succession.”
   “How?.?.?.?how could you know of that?”
   Varys smiled. “I know, that’s all that need concern you. I also know that on the morrow the queen will pay you a visit.”
   Slowly Ned raised his eyes. “Why?”
   “Cersei is frightened of you, my lord?.?.?.?but she has other enemies she fears even more. Her beloved Jaime is fighting the river lords even now. Lysa Arryn sits in the Eyrie, ringed in stone and steel, and there is no love lost between her and the queen. In Dorne, the Martells still brood on the murder of Princess Elia and her babes. And now your son marches down the Neck with a northern host at his back.”
   “Robb is only a boy,” Ned said, aghast.
   “A boy with an army,” Varys said. “Yet only a boy, as you say. The king’s brothers are the ones giving Cersei sleepless nights?.?.?.?Lord Stannis in particular. His claim is the true one, he is known for his prowess as a battle commander, and he is utterly without mercy. There is no creature on earth half so terrifying as a truly just man. No one knows what Stannis has been doing on Dragonstone, but I will wager you that he’s gathered more swords than seashells. So here is Cersei’s nightmare: while her father and brother spend their power battling Starks and Tullys, Lord Stannis will land, proclaim himself king, and lop off her son’s curly blond head?.?.?.?and her own in the bargain, though I truly believe she cares more about the boy.”
   “Stannis Baratheon is Robert’s true heir,” Ned said. “The throne is his by rights. I would welcome his ascent.”
   Varys tsked. “Cersei will not want to hear that, I promise you. Stannis may win the throne, but only your rotting head will remain to cheer unless you guard that tongue of yours. Sansa begged so sweetly, it would be a shame if you threw it all away. You are being given your life back, if you’ll take it. Cersei is no fool. She knows a tame wolf is of more use than a dead one.”
   “You want me to serve the woman who murdered my king, butchered my men, and crippled my son?” Ned’s voice was thick with disbelief.
   “I want you to serve the realm,” Varys said. “Tell the queen that you will confess your vile treason, command your son to lay down his sword, and proclaim Joffrey as the true heir. Offer to denounce Stannis and Renly as faithless usurpers. Our green-eyed lioness knows you are a man of honor. If you will give her the peace she needs and the time to deal with Stannis, and pledge to carry her secret to your grave, I believe she will allow you to take the black and live out the rest of your days on the Wall, with your brother and that baseborn son of yours.”
   The thought of Jon filled Ned with a sense of shame, and a sorrow too deep for words. If only he could see the boy again, sit and talk with him?.?.?.?pain shot through his broken leg, beneath the filthy grey plaster of his cast. He winced, his fingers opening and closing helplessly. “Is this your own scheme,” he gasped out at Varys, “or are you in league with Littlefinger?”
   That seemed to amuse the eunuch. “I would sooner wed the Black Goat of Qohor. Littlefinger is the second most devious man in the Seven Kingdoms. Oh, I feed him choice whispers, sufficient so that he thinks I am his?.?.?.?just as I allow Cersei to believe I am hers.”
   “And just as you let me believe that you were mine. Tell me, Lord Varys, who do you truly serve?”
   Varys smiled thinly. “Why, the realm, my good lord, how ever could you doubt that? I swear it by my lost manhood. I serve the realm, and the realm needs peace.” He finished the last swallow of wine, and tossed the empty skin aside. “So what is your answer, Lord Eddard? Give me your word that you’ll tell the queen what she wants to hear when she comes calling.”
   “If I did, my word would be as hollow as an empty suit of armor. My life is not so precious to me as that.”
   “Pity.” The eunuch stood. “And your daughter’s life, my lord? How precious is that?”
   A chill pierced Ned’s heart. “My daughter?.?.?.?”
   “Surely you did not think I’d forgotten about your sweet innocent, my lord? The queen most certainly has not.”
   “No,” Ned pleaded, his voice cracking. “Varys, gods have mercy, do as you like with me, but leave my daughter out of your schemes. Sansa’s no more than a child.”
   “Rhaenys was a child too. Prince Rhaegar’s daughter. A precious little thing, younger than your girls. She had a small black kitten she called Balerion, did you know? I always wondered what happened to him. Rhaenys liked to pretend he was the true Balerion, the Black Dread of old, but I imagine the Lannisters taught her the difference between a kitten and a dragon quick enough, the day they broke down her door.” Varys gave a long weary sigh, the sigh of a man who carried all the sadness of the world in a sack upon his shoulders. “The High Septon once told me that as we sin, so do we suffer. If that’s true, Lord Eddard, tell me?.?.?.?why is it always the innocents who suffer most, when you high lords play your game of thrones? Ponder it, if you would, while you wait upon the queen. And spare a thought for this as well: The next visitor who calls on you could bring you bread and cheese and the milk of the poppy for your pain?.?.?.?or he could bring you Sansa’s head.
   “The choice, my dear lord Hand, is entirely yours.”



Ⅰ 权力的游戏 Chapter59 艾德
　　铺在地板的稻草充满尿臊昧。这里没有窗户，没有床，连个潲水桶都没有。他依稀记得墙壁是淡红色的，露出一片片硝石，有一扇碎木做的灰门，足有四尺厚，上面钉了铁钉。他被推进来时，短暂地看了屋内几眼，等门“轰”地一声关上，就什么也看不清了。这里没有一丝光线，他和瞎子无异。
　　或者说，和死人无异。他和他的国王一同被埋在地底了。“啊，劳勃。”他喃喃说，探出手去，摸到冰冷的石墙，每动一下，受伤的脚就抽痛一次。他回忆起当时在临冬城的地下墓窖里，在历代冬境之王雕像的冷冷石眼注视下，国王所说的笑话。国王吃席，劳勃这么说，首相拉屎。那时他笑得好不开心哪，只可惜他弄错了。应该是国王一死，奈德·史塔克心想，首相陪葬。
　　地牢位于红堡之下，到底有多深，他不敢去想。他想起与“残酷的”梅葛有关的那些故事，传说所有为他建筑城堡的工匠都遭他谋害，如此一来他们便永不能泄露其中秘密。
　　他诅咒他们每个人小指头、杰诺·史林特和他的金袍卫队、王后、弑君者、派席尔、瓦里斯和巴利斯坦爵士，甚至劳勃的亲弟弟蓝礼公爵，因为他在自己最需要他的时候逃之夭夭。然而到了最后，他责怪的是自己。“蠢才！”他对着黑暗大喊，“你这个天杀的蠢才！”
　　瑟曦·兰尼斯特的脸庞在黑暗中浮现眼前。她的秀发宛若阳光，微笑中带着嘲弄。“在权力的游戏之中，你不当赢家，就只有死路一条。”她悄声说。奈德输了这场游戏，他的部属以鲜血和生命为他的愚蠢付出了代价。
　　思及两个女儿，他只想放声痛哭一场，可眼泪却硬是掉不下来。纵然到了这步田地，他依旧是个临冬城的史塔克，他的悲伤和狂怒都冻结在体内。
　　假如他安静不动，伤腿便不至于痛得太厉害，于是他尽可能地躺着不动。究竟躺了多久，他说不准。这里没有日升月落，什么也看不见，连在墙上做记号都不行。睁眼还是闭眼，一切都无分别。他睡了又醒，醒了又睡，不知睡着和醒来哪一个比较痛苦。睡着的时候会做梦，黑暗的、扰人的梦，充斥着血光以及不能遵守的约定；醒来的时候，除了思考，无事可做，然而他心中所想却比噩梦还可怕。想起凯特，有如躺在荨麻编成的床上那般苦痛。他幻想着此时此刻她置身何处，正在做些什么，却不知此生是否还能与她重逢。
　　时间流逝，日子一天天过去，至少感觉起来是这样。石膏下的断腿隐隐作痛，开始发痒。他碰碰大腿，热得发烫。这里惟一的声音，是他的呼吸。时间一久，他开始大声说话，只为了能听见声音。他拟订计划，决心保持神智清醒，在黑暗中筑起希望的城堡。劳勃的两位弟弟安然无恙，此刻正在龙石岛和风息堡整军待发。埃林和哈尔温一旦解决格雷果爵士，便将率领他其余的卫士返回君临。而凯特琳一旦接获消息，便会号召北方诸侯揭竿而起，而三河流域和艾林谷的贵族都会与她并肩作战。
　　他发现自己不断想起劳勃，一次又一次。他看到青春年少的国王，高大英俊，头戴鹿盔，手持战锤，骑在马上宛如长角巨神。黑暗中他听见他的笑声，望着他那对碧蓝澄澈宛如山中湖泊的眼睛。“奈德，你看看我们，”劳勃说，“诸神在上，我们怎会落到这步田地？你被关在这儿，我死在一头猪脚下。当初我们可是一起打下江山，赢得王位……”
　　劳勃，我对不起你，奈德心想，但他实在说不出口，我欺骗了你，隐瞒了真相，让他们害死了你。
　　但国王还是听到了。“你这个硬脖子的蠢蛋，”他喃喃道，“心高气傲，就是不肯听话。史塔克，自尊心能拿来吃吗？荣誉感能保护你的孩子吗？”他的脸一块块剥落，皮肤出现裂口，接着他伸手扯下面具。原来那根本不是劳勃，而是嘿嘿直笑、嘲弄着他的小指头。他张口想说话，但他的谎言变成灰白的蛾，拍拍翅膀飞走了。
　　脚步声从走廊上传来时，奈德正在半睡半醒之间，起初还以为是自己作梦，因为除了自言自语，他已经太久没听见别的声音。他发着高烧，嘴唇干裂，腿伤隐隐作痛。沉重的木门“咿呀”一声打开时，突如其来的光线刺痛了他的眼睛。
　　一名狱卒丢了个罐子给他。陶罐很凉，表面密布水珠。奈德双手紧紧捧住，饥渴地大口吞咽。水从嘴角流下，滴进胡子里。他一直喝到不适方才停下。“过了多久……？”他虚弱地问。
　　狱卒瘦得像个稻草人，生着一张老鼠脸，胡子割得长短不齐。他穿了一件甲衣，外罩半身皮革斗篷。“不准说话。”说着他把水罐从奈德手里夺走。
　　“求求你，”奈德说，“我的女儿……”大门轰地关上，光线倏然消失。他眨眨眼，低下头，蜷缩在稻草上。稻草闻起来不再有尿水和粪便的味道，闻起来一点味道都没有了。
　　他再也分不出睡着与醒来的差别。黑暗中，回忆悄然袭上心头，栩栩如生宛如幻境。那一年是“错误的春天”，他又回到了十八岁，陪着琼恩和劳勃从鹰巢城下山，远赴赫伦堡参加比武大会。他见到绿草长青，闻到风中花粉。温暖的白昼，凉爽的夜晚，甜美的酒香。他记得布兰登的笑，记得劳勃在团体比武中的狂暴威猛，记得他一边左劈右砍，将对手一个个击落马下，一边哈哈大笑的模样。他也记得身穿白色鳞甲的金发少年詹姆·兰尼斯特，跪在国王帐前的草地上，宣誓守护伊里斯国王。宣誓完毕之后，奥斯威尔·河安爵士扶詹姆起身，铁卫队长“白牛”杰洛·海塔尔爵士亲自为他系上御林铁卫的雪白披风。六位白骑士通通到场，欢迎他们新加入的弟兄。
　　比武会持续了十日，但在关键的马上长熗比武中，只有雷加·坦格利安抢尽了风头。当年王太子身上所穿的盔甲与他日后战死那天无异：闪闪发光的黑铠，胸前是红宝石镶成的三头龙，正是他的家徽。他骑马奔驰，一条鲜红丝带在背后流动，没有长熗能碰他分毫。布兰登被他刺落马下，青铜约恩·罗伊斯亦然，就连“拂晓神剑”亚瑟·戴恩爵士也不例外。
　　当王太子在决胜战中击倒巴利斯坦爵士，绕场一周，准备接下优胜宝冠时，劳勃正与琼恩和老杭特伯爵作最后的拼斗。奈德记得雷加·坦格利安催马跑过自己的妻子——多恩领马泰尔家族的伊莉亚公主，将爱与美的皇后的桂冠放在莱安娜膝上。全场观众笑容消失的那一刻，至今依然历历在目，那是一顶冬雪玫瑰编织而成的皇冠，碧蓝如霜。
　　奈德·史塔克伸手去抓那项花冠，但浅蓝色的花瓣底下却暗藏着剌。尖利残酷的刺撕扯皮肤，他看着鲜血缓缓流下手指。骤然惊醒，四周一片黑暗。
　　奈德，答应我，躺卧血床的妹妹朝他低语。她生前最爱冬雪玫瑰的芳香。
　　“诸神救我，”奈德泣不成声。“我要疯了。”
　　天上诸神没有回应。
　　每当狱卒带水给他喝，他就告诉自己又过了一天。起初他还拜托来人，请他说说女儿的消息，以及外面发生了什么，但咕哝和脚踢是惟一的回答。几“天”后，他肚子抽筋，便改向狱卒求恳食物，结果还是相同，他依然没东西吃。或许兰尼斯特家打算把他生生饿死。“不对。”他对自己说。倘若瑟曦要置他于死地，他早就和部下一起被砍倒在王座厅了。她要他活着，不论如何虚弱，如何绝望，都要留下他一条命。凯特琳手上还握有她的弟弟；她若是杀他，那么小恶魔也会没命。
　　囚室外传来铁链碰撞的声音。门突然打开，奈德伸手撑住潮湿的墙壁，往光明的地方爬去。火炬的强光刺得他眯起眼睛。“食物，”他哑着嗓子说。
　　“我带了酒来，”一个声音应道。不是那个老鼠脸；这次的狱卒比较矮胖，但同样穿着半身皮斗篷，戴了有刺钢盔。“艾德大人，您快喝吧。”他将一个酒袋塞进奈德手里。
　　这声音出奇地熟悉，但奈德·史塔克过了一阵子才想起来。“瓦里斯？”他虚弱不堪地说，伸手摸摸对方的脸。“我……我不是在作梦。真的是你。”太监肥胖的脸颊上覆盖着粗短的黑胡茬，奈德的手指感觉到它们的粗糙。瓦里斯把自己变成了大胡子狱卒，浑身上下散发着汗臭和劣酒的气味。“你是怎么……你到底是个什么样的魔术师？”
　　“口很渴的魔术师。”瓦里斯道，“大人，快喝吧。”
　　奈德的手慌乱地捧着酒袋。“他们给劳勃喝的，就是这种毒药么？”
　　“您错怪我了，”瓦里斯哀伤地说，“果真是没人喜欢太监啊。酒袋给我。”他喝了几口，红色的酒液从他肥厚的嘴角流淌下来。“这虽然不能和比武大会当晚您请我喝的酒相提并论，但也绝非毒药。”他抹抹嘴下了结论。“来。”
　　奈德试着啜下一口。“这是酒糟。”他觉得自己快吐出来了。
　　“是啊，不管你是王公贵族还是太监走卒，酸的甜的都得学着吞。大人，您的时辰近了。”
　　“我女儿们……”
　　“您的小女儿从马林爵士手边逃脱了，”瓦里斯告诉他，“我到现在都没能找到她，兰尼斯特的人也找不到，这多少算是诸神慈悲罢，因为我们的新国王并不爱她。您的大女儿依然是乔佛里的未婚妻，瑟曦把她留在身边，她几天前刚上朝为您求情。只可惜您不在场，否则一定会大受感动。”他意图昭昭地往前靠。“艾德大人，想必您知道自己在劫难逃吧？”
　　“王后不会杀我，”奈德说。他开始头晕目眩；这酒太烈，他又太久没有进食。“凯特……凯特手里有她弟弟……”
　　“但不是她爱的弟弟，”瓦里斯叹道，“而且这会儿也跑了。显然是她让小恶魔从手里钻了出去。我看他现在多半已经死在明月山脉里某个不知名的地方了吧。”
　　“倘若真是这样，那快快割了我喉咙，做个了结。”酒劲上涌，他身心俱疲，头脑昏沉。
　　“我对您的血一点兴趣都没有。”
　　奈德皱眉：“当他们屠杀我的手下时，你可是站在王后身边袖手旁观，一声不吭。”
　　“换做是现在，我还是会那么做。我记得自己当时不但手无寸铁，没盔没甲，还被兰尼斯特的武士团团围住。”太监歪着头，好奇地打量他。“我小时候，还没被割之前，曾跟戏班子在自由贸易城邦巡回演出。他们教会我一件事，那就是每个人都有自己该扮演的角色，戏里戏外都一样。朝廷里也是如此，所以御前执法官必须模样凶神恶煞，财政大臣要勤俭成性，御林铁卫队长则需勇武过人……而情报总管呢，当然应该诡计多端、擅长逢迎拍捧、行事无孔不入。而一个勇气十足的情报头子，就和一个懦弱胆小的骑士一样没用。”
　　奈德审视着太监的脸，搜寻他的假疤痕和假胡子下的真相。他又试着喝了点酒，这回顺口多了。“你能把我从这地穴救出去吗？”
　　“我能……但我要不要这么做呢？当然不。到时候一定有人展开调查，而所有的线索都会指向我。”
　　奈德原本也不期望他答应。“你还真是实话实说。”
　　“大人，太监没有荣誉，蜘蛛也没有行事顾及自尊的福分。”
　　“那你可否至少替我送封信？”
　　“得视信的内容而定。您要的话，我很乐意提供纸笔。等你写好之后，我会把信拿来读一遍，至于要不要送出去，则要看信是否合乎我个人目的了。”
　　“你的目的？瓦里斯大人，敢问您的目的又是什么？”
　　“和平。”瓦里斯毫不迟疑地回答，“假如说君临城里有哪个灵魂真心诚意想保住劳勃·拜拉席恩的性命，那便是我。”他叹了口气。“十五年来，我尽心竭力保护他免遭敌人伤害，到头来却免不了他为朋友所害。您脑筋里究竟是有些什么疯狂念头，让您跑去告诉太后，说您知道乔佛里的真实身份？”
　　“仁慈的疯狂念头。”奈德坦承。
　　“啊，”瓦里斯道，“可不是么？艾德大人，您是个正直磊落的人，我常常忘记这点，因为我这辈子很少遇见您这样的人。”他环顾囚室四周。“当我见到诚实和荣誉给您带来何种下场之后，我终于明白这是为什么了。”
　　奈德·史塔克低头枕在潮湿的石墙上，闭上了眼睛。他的伤腿隐隐作痛。“国王喝的酒……你查问过蓝赛尔吗？”
　　“当然问了。酒袋是瑟曦给他的，还告诉他那是劳勃最喜欢的佳酿。”太监耸耸肩。“打猎本来就危险，纵使那头猪没杀死劳勃，他也会摔下马来，被毒蛇咬，或者是一枝射偏的箭……森林是天上诸神的屠宰场。但是，杀死国王的不是药酒，而是您的‘仁慈’。”
　　奈德就怕这个。“诸神饶恕我。”
　　“假如世间真有神灵存在，”瓦里斯道，“我想他们不会苛责您的。反正瑟曦也不会等太久。劳勃越来越难驾驭，她必须先除掉他，才能放手对付他两个弟弟。史坦尼斯和蓝礼两个还真是一对，一个铁甲拳，一个丝手套。”他用手背抹抹嘴。“大人，您太蠢了，当初您应该听从小指头的建议，拥护乔佛里登基。”
　　“你……你怎么知道？”
　　瓦里斯微微一笑。“您只要知道我知道这件事就够了。我还知道太后明天会来拜访您。”
　　奈德缓缓抬眼。“为什么？”
　　“大人，瑟曦虽然怕你……但她更怕别人。她亲爱的詹姆此刻正与河间贵族作战，莱莎·艾林高据鹰巢城，占有天险，兵力雄厚，而她和太后向来不睦。多恩领方面，马泰尔家族至今依旧对伊莉亚公主和她小婴儿的死怀恨在心。更何况这会儿令公子又带着北方诸侯大军越过颈泽往南来了。”
　　“罗柏只是个孩子。”奈德大惊失色。
　　“是个握有大军的孩子。”瓦里斯道，“不过如您所说，他毕竟只是个孩子。真正令瑟曦寝食难安的是国王的两个弟弟。……尤其是史坦尼斯大人。他的继承权名正言顺，本人又能征善战，而且绝不心软。这世上再没有谁比一个绝对刚正不阿的人更可怕。这段时间史坦尼斯在龙石岛做些什么，没有人知道，可我敢打赌，他是在招聚兵马，决非收集贝壳。所以啰，瑟曦怕的就是：当她的父亲和弟弟对付史塔克家和徒利家的时候，史坦尼斯趁机登陆，自立为王，并砍掉她儿子那个生了漂亮卷发的头……当然，她自己也难保性命，虽说我真的相信她比较在乎孩子。”
　　“史坦尼斯·拜拉席恩是劳勃真正的继承人，”奈德说，“王位本归他所有，我欢迎他登基为王。”
　　瓦里斯啐了一声。“我跟您保证，瑟曦可不想听到这句。史坦尼斯虽有可能夺得王位，但您要是不多管管自己的舌头，到时候恐怕就只剩一颗烂掉的头欢迎他了。珊莎那么努力地为您求情，若是不把握机会，实在太可惜。老实说，眼下只要您愿意，可以逃过一劫。瑟曦不笨，她知道驯服的狼比一条死狼有用得多。”
　　“这女人谋害我的国王，屠杀我的部下，还把我儿子摔成残废，你竟然要我为她效力？”奈德难以置信。
　　“我要你为国家效力，”瓦里斯道，“您只需对太后承诺愿意坦白邪恶的叛国罪行，命令你儿子放下武器，尊乔佛里为真正的国王，并指称史坦尼斯和蓝礼是忘恩负义的叛逆，这样就行了。我们的碧眼母狮子知道您是个言行一致的人，只要您给她时间和力气对付史坦尼斯，并保证死也不说出她的秘密，那么我相信她会同意您穿上黑衣，在长城和您弟弟，还有您那私生子一起度过余生。”
　　想到琼恩，奈德满怀羞耻，以及一种言词难以形容的深深哀恸。如果能再看看那孩子，坐下来和他好好谈心就好了……剧痛从断腿脏污的灰色石膏底下传来，他皱紧眉头，手指无助地又张又阖。“这是你的主意，”他喘着气对瓦里斯说，“还是你和小指头一起想出来的？”
　　这话似乎令太监甚觉有趣。“要我跟他同伙，那我宁可娶一只科霍尔的黑羊。小指头是七国上下第二狡猾的人。哎，我是会给他挑一些有用的消息，刚好足以让他‘以为’我是他的人……就好像我让瑟曦也如此相信。”
　　“就好像你让我也如此相信。瓦里斯大人，请您告诉我，您到底为谁效力？”
　　瓦里斯浅浅一笑。“唉，大人，这还用说吗？我当然是为国效力了。我以我失去的命根子发誓，我为国家效命，而国家需要的正是和平。”他喝完最后一口酒，把空酒袋丢到一边。“所以啰，艾德大人，您的回答是什么？请您向我保证，等太后到来时，您会说出她想听的话。”
　　“如果我作这种保证，那我的誓言与没人穿的空洞铠甲何异？我的命不至于珍贵到那种地步。”
　　“可惜。”太监起身。“那么大人，您女儿的性命呢？那又有多珍贵？”
　　一股寒意袭上奈德心头。“我女儿……”
　　“大人，您总不会以为我忘记了您纯真的乖女儿呢？太后她可是绝对不会忘记。”
　　“不要，”奈德哑着嗓子哀求。“瓦里斯，诸神慈悲，要杀要剐我任你处置，但别把我女儿牵扯进来。珊莎不过是个孩子。”
　　“雷加王子的女儿雷妮丝公主不也是个孩子？她是个讨人喜欢的小宝贝，年纪比您两个女儿都要小。您可知道，她养了一只小黑猫，名叫贝勒里恩？到现在我始终不知道那只猫的下落。雷妮丝老爱把它当作真正的黑死神贝勒里恩。不过呢，我想在兰尼斯特军撞开她房门那天，他们很快就让她知道小猫和飞龙之间的差异了罢。”瓦里斯疲倦地一声长叹，仿佛肩负着全世界的哀伤。“总主教大人曾对我说，因为我们有罪，所以我们受苦。假如这是真的，艾德大人，请告诉我……为何在你们这些王公贵族的权力游戏里面，永远是无辜的人受苦最多？您愿意的话，就在王后到来之前，好好想一想罢。除此之外，更请您想清楚：下一个来探访您的人可能带着面包乳酪，以及减轻痛苦的罂粟花奶……却也可能带着珊莎的项上人头。”
　　“要选哪一种呢，亲爱的首相大人，完完全全看您的决定了。”
[ 此帖被挽墨在2015-09-03 00:13重新编辑 ]
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