DAVOS
Lord Alester looked up sharply. “Voices,” he said. “Do you hear, Davos? Someone is coming for us.”
“Lamprey,” said Davos. “It’s time for our supper, or near enough.” Last night Lamprey had brought them half a beef-and-bacon pie, and a flagon of mead as well. Just the thought of it made his belly start to rumble.
“No, there’s more than one.”
He’s right. Davos heard two voices at least, and footsteps, growing louder. He got to his feet and moved to the bars.
Lord Alester brushed the straw from his clothes. “The king has sent for me. Or the queen, yes, Selyse would never let me rot here, her own blood.”
Outside the cell, Lamprey appeared with a ring of keys in hand. Ser Axell Florent and four guardsmen followed close behind him. They waited beneath the torch while Lamprey searched for the correct key.
“Axell,” Lord Alester said. “Gods be good. Is it the king who sends for me, or the queen?”
“No one has sent for you, traitor,” Ser Axell said.
Lord Alester recoiled as if he’d been slapped. “No, I swear to you, I committed no treason. Why won’t you listen? If His Grace would only let me explain—”
Lamprey thrust a great iron key into the lock, turned it, and pulled open the cell. The rusted hinges screamed in protest. “You,” he said to Davos. “Come.”
“Where?” Davos looked to Ser Axell. “Tell me true, ser, do you mean to burn me?”
“You are sent for. Can you walk?”
“I can walk.” Davos stepped from the cell. Lord Alester gave a cry of dismay as Lamprey slammed the door shut once more.
“Take the torch,” Ser Axell commanded the gaoler. “Leave the traitor to the darkness.”
“No,” his brother said. “Axell, please, don’t take the light . . . gods have mercy . . . ”
“Gods? There is only R’hllor, and the Other.” Ser Axell gestured sharply, and one of his guardsmen pulled the torch from its sconce and led the way to the stair.
“Are you taking me to Melisandre?” Davos asked.
“She will be there,” Ser Axell said. “She is never far from the king. But it is His Grace himself who asked for you.”
Davos lifted his hand to his chest, where once his luck had hung in a leather bag on a thong. Gone now, he remembered, and the ends of four fingers as well. But his hands were still long enough to wrap about a woman’s throat, he thought, especially a slender throat like hers.
Up they went, climbing the turnpike stair in single file. The walls were rough dark stone, cool to the touch. The light of the torches went before them, and their shadows marched beside them on the walls. At the third turn they passed an iron gate that opened on blackness, and another at the fifth turn. Davos guessed that they were near the surface by then, perhaps even above it. The next door they came to was made of wood, but still they climbed. Now the walls were broken by arrow slits, but no shafts of sunlight pried their way through the thickness of the stone. It was night outside.
His legs were aching by the time Ser Axell thrust open a heavy door and gestured him through. Beyond, a high stone bridge arched over emptiness to the massive central tower called the Stone Drum. A sea wind blew restlessly through the arches that supported the roof, and Davos could smell the salt water as they crossed. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the clean cold air. Wind and water, give me strength, he prayed. A huge nightfire burned in the yard below, to keep the terrors of the dark at bay, and the queen’s men were gathered around it, singing praises to their new red god.
They were in the center of the bridge when Ser Axell stopped suddenly. He made a brusque gesture with his hand, and his men moved out of earshot. “Were it my choice, I would burn you with my brother Alester,” he told Davos. “You are both traitors.”
“Say what you will. I would never betray King Stannis.”
“You would. You will. I see it in your face. And I have seen it in the flames as well. R’hllor has blessed me with that gift. Like Lady Melisandre, he shows me the future in the fire. Stannis Baratheon will sit the Iron Throne. I have seen it. And I know what must be done. His Grace must make me his Hand, in place of my traitor brother. And you will tell him so.”
Will I? Davos said nothing.
“The queen has urged my appointment,” Ser Axell went on. “Even your old friend from Lys, the pirate Saan, he says the same. We have made a plan together, him and me. Yet His Grace does not act. The defeat gnaws inside him, a black worm in his soul. It is up to us who love him to show him what to do. If you are as devoted to his cause as you claim, smuggler, you will join your voice to ours. Tell him that I am the only Hand he needs. Tell him, and when we sail I shall see that you have a new ship.”
A ship. Davos studied the other man’s face. Ser Axell had big Florent ears, much like the queen’s. Coarse hair grew from them, as from his nostrils; more sprouted in tufts and patches beneath his double chin. His nose was broad, his brow beetled, his eyes close-set and hostile. He would sooner give me a pyre than a ship, he said as much, but if I do him this favor . . .
“if you think to betray me,” Ser Axell said, “pray remember that I have been castellan of Dragonstone a good long time. The garrison is mine. Perhaps I cannot burn you without the king’s consent, but who is to say you might not suffer a fall.” He laid a meaty hand on the back of Davos’s neck and shoved him bodily against the waist-high side of the bridge, then shoved a little harder to force his face out over the yard. “Do you hear me?”
“I hear,” said Davos. And you dare name me traitor?
Ser Axell released him. “Good.” He smiled. “His Grace awaits. Best we do not keep him.”
At the very top of Stone Drum, within the great round room called the Chamber of the Painted Table, they found Stannis Baratheon standing behind the artifact that gave the hall its name, a massive slab of wood carved and painted in the shape of Westeros as it had been in the time of Aegon the Conqueror. An iron brazier stood beside the king, its coals glowing a ruddy orange. Four tall pointed windows looked out to north, south, east, and west. Beyond was the night and the starry sky. Davos could hear the wind moving, and fainter, the sounds of the sea.
“Your Grace,” Ser Axell said, “as it please you, I have brought the onion knight.”
“So I see.” Stannis wore a grey wool tunic, a dark red mantle, and a plain black leather belt from which his sword and dagger hung. A red-gold crown with flame-shaped points encircled his brows. The look of him was a shock. He seemed ten years older than the man that Davos had left at Storm’s End when he set sail for the Blackwater and the battle that would be their undoing. The king’s close-cropped beard was spiderwebbed with grey hairs, and he had dropped two stone or more of weight. He had never been a fleshy man, but now the bones moved beneath his skin like spears, fighting to cut free. Even his crown seemed too large for his head. His eyes were blue pits lost in deep hollows, and the shape of a skull could be seen beneath his face.
Yet when he saw Davos, a faint smile brushed his lips. “So the sea has returned me my knight of the fish and onions.”
“It did, Your Grace.” Does he know that he had me in his dungeon? Davos went to one knee.
“Rise, Ser Davos,” Stannis commanded. “I have missed you, ser. I have need of good counsel, and you never gave me less. So tell me true—what is the penalty for treason?”
The word hung in the air. A frightful word, thought Davos. Was he being asked to condemn his cellmate? Or himself, perchance? Kings know the penalty for treason better than any man. “Treason?” he finally managed, weakly.
“What else would you call it, to deny your king and seek to steal his rightful throne. I ask you again—what is the penalty for treason under the law?”
Davos had no choice but to answer. “Death,” he said. “The penalty is death, Your Grace.”
“It has always been so. I am not . . . I am not a cruel man, Ser Davos. You know me. Have known me long. This is not my decree. It has always been so, since Aegon’s day and before. Daemon Blackfyre, the brothers Toyne, the Vulture King, Grand Maester Hareth . . . traitors have always paid with their lives . . . even Rhaenyra Targaryen. She was daughter to one king and mother to two more, yet she died a traitor’s death for trying to usurp her brother’s crown. It is law. Law, Davos. Not cruelty.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” He does not speak of me. Davos felt a moment’s pity for his cellmate down in the dark. He knew he should keep silent, but he was tired and sick of heart, and he heard himself say, “Sire, Lord Florent meant no treason.”
“Do smugglers have another name for it? I made him Hand, and he would have sold my rights for a bowl of pease porridge. He would even have given them Shireen. Mine only child, he would have wed to a bastard born of incest.” The king’s voice was thick with anger. “My brother had a gift for inspiring loyalty. Even in his foes. At Summerhall he won three battles in a single day, and brought Lords Grandison and Cafferen back to Storm’s End as prisoners. He hung their banners in the hall as trophies. Cafferen’s white fawns were spotted with blood and Grandison’s sleeping lion was torn near in two. Yet they would sit beneath those banners of a night, drinking and feasting with Robert. He even took them hunting. ‘These men meant to deliver you to Aerys to be burned’ I told him after I saw them throwing axes in the yard. ‘You should not be putting axes in their hands.’ Robert only laughed. I would have thrown Grandison and Cafferen into a dungeon, but he turned them into friends. Lord Cafferen died at Ashford Castle, cut down by Randyll Tarly whilst fighting for Robert. Lord Grandison was wounded on the Trident and died of it a year after. My brother made them love him, but it would seem that I inspire only betrayal. Even in mine own blood and kin. Brother, grandfather, cousins, good uncle . . . ”
“Your Grace,” said Ser Axell, “I beg you, give me the chance to prove to you that not all Florents are so feeble.”
“Ser Axell would have me resume the war,” King Stannis told Davos. “The Lannisters think I am done and beaten, and my sworn lords have forsaken me, near every one. Even Lord Estermont, my own mother’s father, has bent his knee to Joffrey. The few loyal men who remain to me are losing heart. They waste their days drinking and gambling, and lick their wounds like beaten curs.”
“Battle will set their hearts ablaze once more, Your Grace,” Ser Axell said. “Defeat is a disease, and victory is the cure.”
“Victory.” The king’s mouth twisted. “There are victories and victories, ser. But tell your plan to Ser Davos. I would hear his views on what you propose.”
Ser Axell turned to Davos, with a look on his face much like the look that proud Lord Belgrave must have worn, the day King Baelor the Blessed had commanded him to wash the beggar’s ulcerous feet. Nonetheless, he obeyed.
The plan Ser Axell had devised with Salladhor Saan was simple. A few hours’ sail from Dragonstone lay Claw Isle, ancient sea-girt seat of House Celtigar. Lord Ardrian Celtigar had fought beneath the flery heart on the Blackwater, but once taken, he had wasted no time in going over to Joffrey. He remained in King’s Landing even now. “Too frightened of His Grace’s wrath to come near Dragonstone, no doubt,” Ser Axell declared. “And wisely so. The man has betrayed his rightful king.”
Ser Axell proposed to use Salladhor Saan’s fleet and the men who had escaped the Blackwater—Stannis still had some fifteen hundred on Dragonstone, more than half of them Florents—to exact retribution for Lord Celtigar’s defection. Claw Isle was but lightly garrisoned, its castle reputedly stuffed with Myrish carpets, Volantene glass, gold and silver plate, jeweled cups, magnificent hawks, an axe of Valyrian steel, a horn that could summon monsters from the deep, chests of rubies, and more wines than a man could drink in a hundred years. Though Celtigar had shown the world a niggardly face, he had never stinted on his own comforts. “Put his castle to the torch and his people to the sword, I say,” Ser Axell concluded. “Leave Claw Isle a desolation of ash and bone, fit only for carrion crows, so the realm might see the fate of those who bed with Lannisters.”
Stannis listened to Ser Axell’s recitation in silence, grinding his jaw slowly from side to side. When it was done, he said, “It could be done, I believe. The risk is small. Joffrey has no strength at sea until Lord Redwyne sets sail from the Arbor. The plunder might serve to keep that Lysene pirate Salladhor Saan loyal for a time. By itself Claw Isle is worthless, but its fall would serve notice to Lord Tywin that my cause is not yet done.” The king turned back to Davos. “Speak truly, ser. What do you make of Ser Axell’s proposal?”
Speak truly, ser. Davos remembered the dark cell he had shared with Lord Alester, remembered Lamprey and Porridge. He thought of the promises that Ser Axell had made on the bridge above the yard. A ship or a shove, what shall it be? But this was Stannis asking. “Your Grace,” he said slowly, “I make it folly . . . aye, and cowardice.”
“Cowardice?” Ser Axell all but shouted. “No man calls me craven before my king!”
“Silence,” Stannis commanded. “Ser Davos, speak on, I would hear your reasons.”
Davos turned to face Ser Axell. “You say we ought show the realm we are not done. Strike a blow. Make war, aye . . . but on what enemy? You will find no Lannisters on Claw Isle.”
“We will find traitors,” said Ser Axell, “though it may be I could find some closer to home. Even in this very room.”
Davos ignored the jibe. “I don’t doubt Lord Celtigar bent the knee to the boy Joffrey. He is an old done man, who wants no more than to end his days in his castle, drinking his fine wine out of his jeweled cups.” He turned back to Stannis. “Yet he came when you called, sire. Came, with his ships and swords. He stood by you at Storm’s End when Lord Renly came down on us, and his ships sailed up the Blackwater. His men fought for you, killed for you, burned for you. Claw Isle is weakly held, yes. Held by women and children and old men. And why is that? Because their husbands and sons and fathers died on the Blackwater, that’s why. Died at their oars, or with swords in their hands, fighting beneath our banners. Yet Ser Axell proposes we swoop down on the homes they left behind, to rape their widows and put their children to the sword. These smallfolk are no traitors . . . ”
“They are,” insisted Ser Axell. “Not all of Celtigar’s men were slain on the Blackwater. Hundreds were taken with their lord, and bent the knee when he did.”
“When he did,” Davos repeated. “They were his men. His sworn men. What choice were they given?”
“Every man has choices. They might have refused to kneel. Some did, and died for it. Yet they died true men, and loyal.”
“Some men are stronger than others.” It was a feeble answer, and Davos knew it. Stannis Baratheon was a man of iron will who neither understood nor forgave weakness in others. I am losing, he thought, despairing.
“It is every man’s duty to remain loyal to his rightful king, even if the lord he serves proves false,” Stannis declared in a tone that brooked no argument.
A desperate folly took hold of Davos, a recklessness akin to madness. “As you remained loyal to King Aerys when your brother raised his banners?” he blurted.
Shocked silence followed, until Ser Axell cried, “Treason!” and snatched his dagger from its sheath. “Your Grace, he speaks his infamy to your face!”
Davos could hear Stannis grinding his teeth. A vein bulged, blue and swollen, in the king’s brow. Their eyes met. “Put up your knife, Ser Axell. And leave us.”
“As it please Your Grace—”
“It would please me for you to leave,” said Stannis. “Take yourself from my presence, and send me Melisandre.”
“As you command.” Ser Axell slid the knife away, bowed, and hurried toward the door. His boots rang against the floor, angry.
“You have always presumed on my forbearance,” Stannis warned Davos when they were alone. “I can shorten your tongue as easy as I did your fingers, smuggler.”
“I am your man, Your Grace. So it is your tongue, to do with as you please.”
“It is,” he said, calmer. “And I would have it speak the truth. Though the truth is a bitter draught at times. Aerys? If you only knew . . . that was a hard choosing. My blood or my liege. My brother or my king.” He grimaced. “Have you ever seen the Iron Throne? The barbs along the back, the ribbons of twisted steel, the jagged ends of swords and knives all tangled up and melted? It is not a comfortable seat, ser. Aerys cut himself so often men took to calling him King Scab, and Maegor the Cruel was murdered in that chair. By that chair, to hear some tell it. It is not a seat where a man can rest at ease. Ofttimes I wonder why my brothers wanted it so desperately.”
“Why would you want it, then?” Davos asked him.
“It is not a question of wanting. The throne is mine, as Robert’s heir. That is law. After me, it must pass to my daughter, unless Selyse should finally give me a son.” He ran three fingers lightly down the table, over the layers of smooth hard varnish, dark with age. “I am king. Wants do not enter into it. I have a duty to my daughter. To the realm. Even to Robert. He loved me but little, I know, yet he was my brother. The Lannister woman gave him horns and made a motley fool of him. She may have murdered him as well, as she murdered Jon Arryn and Ned Stark. For such crimes there must be justice. Starting with Cersei and her abominations. But only starting. I mean to scour that court clean. As Robert should have done, after the Trident. Ser Barristan once told me that the rot in King Aerys’s reign began with Varys. The eunuch should never have been pardoned. No more than the Kingslayer. At the least, Robert should have stripped the white cloak from Jaime and sent him to the Wall, as Lord Stark urged. He listened to Jon Arryn instead. I was still at Storm’s End, under siege and unconsulted.” He turned abruptly, to give Davos a hard shrewd look. “The truth, now. Why did you wish to murder Lady Melisandre?”
So he does know. Davos could not lie to him. “Four of my sons burned on the Blackwater. She gave them to the flames.”
“You wrong her. Those fires were no work of hers. Curse the Imp, curse the pyromancers, curse that fool of Florent who sailed my fleet into the jaws of a trap. Or curse me for my stubborn pride, for sending her away when I needed her most. But not Melisandre. She remains my faithful servant.”
“Maester Cressen was your faithful servant. She slew him, as she killed Ser Cortnay Penrose and your brother Renly.”
“Now you sound a fool,” the king complained. “She saw Renly’s end in the flames, yes, but she had no more part in it than I did. The priestess was with me. Your Devan would tell you so. Ask him, if you doubt me. She would have spared Renly if she could. It was Melisandre who urged me to meet with him, and give him one last chance to amend his treason. And it was Melisandre who told me to send for you when Ser Axell wished to give you to R’hllor.” He smiled thinly. “Does that surprise you?”
“Yes. She knows I am no friend to her or her red god.”
“But you are a friend to me. She knows that as well.” He beckoned Davos closer. “The boy is sick. Maester Pylos has been leeching him.”
“The boy?” His thoughts went to his Devan, the king’s squire. “My son, sire?”
“Devan? A good boy. He has much of you in him. It is Robert’s bastard who is sick, the boy we took at Storm’s End.”
Edric Storm. “I spoke with him in Aegon’s Garden.”
“As she wished. As she saw.” Stannis sighed. “Did the boy charm you? He has that gift. He got it from his father, with the blood. He knows he is a king’s son, but chooses to forget that he is bastard-born. And he worships Robert, as Renly did when he was young. My royal brother played the fond father on his visits to Storm’s End, and there were gifts . . . swords and ponies and fur-trimmed cloaks. The eunuch’s work, every one. The boy would write the Red Keep full of thanks, and Robert would laugh and ask Varys what he’d sent this year. Renly was no better. He left the boy’s upbringing to castellans and maesters, and every one fell victim to his charm. Penrose chose to die rather than give him up.” The king ground his teeth together. “It still angers me. How could he think I would hurt the boy? I chose Robert, did I not? When that hard day came. I chose blood over honor.”
He does not use the boy’s name. That made Davos very uneasy. “I hope young Edric will recover soon.”
Stannis waved a hand, dismissing his concern. “It is a chill, no more. He coughs, he shivers, he has a fever. Maester Pylos will soon set him right. By himself the boy is nought, you understand, but in his veins flows my brother’s blood. There is power in a king’s blood, she says.”
Davos did not have to ask who she was.
Stannis touched the Painted Table. “Look at it, onion knight. My realm, by rights. My Westeros.” He swept a hand across it. “This talk of Seven Kingdoms is a folly. Aegon saw that three hundred years ago when he stood where we are standing. They painted this table at his command. Rivers and bays they painted, hills and mountains, castles and cities and market towns, lakes and swamps and forests . . . but no borders. It is all one. One realm, for one king to rule alone.”
“One king,” agreed Davos. “One king means peace.”
“I shall bring justice to Westeros. A thing Ser Axell understands as little as he does war. Claw Isle would gain me naught . . . and it was evil, just as you said. Celtigar must pay the traitor’s price himself, in his own person. And when I come into my kingdom, he shall. Every man shall reap what he has sown, from the highest lord to the lowest gutter rat. And some will lose more than the tips off their fingers, I promise you. They have made my kingdom bleed, and I do not forget that.” King Stannis turned from the table. “On your knees, Onion Knight.”
“Your Grace?”
“For your onions and fish, I made you a knight once. For this, I am of a mind to raise you to lord.”
This? Davos was lost. “I am content to be your knight, Your Grace. I would not know how to begin being lordly.”
“Good. To be lordly is to be false. I have learned that lesson hard. Now, kneel. Your king commands.”
Davos knelt, and Stannis drew his longsword. Lightbringer, Melisandre had named it; the red sword of heroes, drawn from the fires where the seven gods were consumed. The room seemed to grow brighter as the blade slid from its scabbard. The steel had a glow to it; now orange, now yellow, now red. The air shimmered around it, and no jewel had ever sparkled so brilliantly. But when Stannis touched it to Davos’s shoulder, it felt no different than any other longsword. “Ser Davos of House Seaworth,” the king said, “are you my true and honest liege man, now and forever?”
“I am, Your Grace.”
“And do you swear to serve me loyally all your days, to give me honest counsel and swift obedience, to defend my rights and my realm against all foes in battles great and small, to protect my people and punish my enemies?”
“I do, Your Grace.”
“Then rise again, Davos Seaworth, and rise as Lord of the Rainwood, Admiral of the Narrow Sea, and Hand of the King.”
For a moment Davos was too stunned to move. I woke this morning in his dungeon. “Your Grace, you cannot . . . I am no fit man to be a King’s Hand.”
“There is no man fitter.” Stannis sheathed Lightbringer, gave Davos his hand, and pulled him to his feet.
“I am lowborn,” Davos reminded him. “An upjumped smuggler. Your lords will never obey me.”
“Then we will make new lords.”
“But . . . I cannot read . . . nor write . . . ”
“Maester Pylos can read for you. As to writing, my last Hand wrote the head off his shoulders. All I ask of you are the things you’ve always given me. Honesty. Loyalty. Service.”
“Surely there is someone better . . . some great lord . . . ”
Stannis snorted. “Bar Emmon, that boy? My faithless grandfather? Celtigar has abandoned me, the new Velaryon is six years old, and the new Sunglass sailed for Volantis after I burned his brother.” He made an angry gesture. “A few good men remain, it’s true. Ser Gilbert Farring holds Storm’s End for me still, with two hundred loyal men. Lord Morrigen, the Bastard of Nightsong, young Chyttering, my cousin Andrew . . . but I trust none of them as I trust you, my lord of Rainwood. You will be my Hand. It is you I want beside me for the battle.”
Another battle will be the end of all of us, thought Davos. Lord Alester saw that much true enough. “Your Grace asked for honest counsel. In honesty then . . . we lack the strength for another battle against the Lannisters.”
“It is the great battle His Grace is speaking of,” said a woman’s voice, rich with the accents of the east. Melisandre stood at the door in her red silks and shimmering satins, holding a covered silver dish in her hands. “These little wars are no more than a scuffle of children before what is to come. The one whose name may not be spoken is marshaling his power, Davos Seaworth, a power fell and evil and strong beyond measure. Soon comes the cold, and the night that never ends.” She placed the silver dish on the Painted Table. “Unless true men find the courage to fight it. Men whose hearts are fire.”
Stannis stared at the silver dish. “She has shown it to me, Lord Davos. In the flames.”
“You saw it, sire?” It was not like Stannis Baratheon to lie about such a thing.
“With mine own eyes. After the battle, when I was lost to despair, the Lady Melisandre bid me gaze into the hearthfire. The chimney was drawing strongly, and bits of ash were rising from the fire. I stared at them, feeling half a fool, but she bid me look deeper, and . . . the ashes were white, rising in the updraft, yet all at once it seemed as if they were falling. Snow, I thought. Then the sparks in the air seemed to circle, to become a ring of torches, and I was looking through the fire down on some high hill in a forest. The cinders had become men in black behind the torches, and there were shapes moving through the snow. For all the heat of the fire, I felt a cold so terrible I shivered, and when I did the sight was gone, the fire but a fire once again. But what I saw was real, I’d stake my kingdom on it.”
“And have,” said Melisandre.
The conviction in the king’s voice frightened Davos to the core. “A hill in a forest . . . shapes in the snow . . . I don’t . . . ”
“It means that the battle is begun,” said Melisandre. “The sand is running through the glass more quickly now, and man’s hour on earth is almost done. We must act boldly, or all hope is lost. Westeros must unite beneath her one true king, the prince that was promised, Lord of Dragonstone and chosen of R’hllor.”
“R’hllor chooses queerly, then.” The king grimaced, as if he’d tasted something foul. “Why me, and not my brothers? Renly and his peach. In my dreams I see the juice running from his mouth, the blood from his throat. If he had done his duty by his brother, we would have smashed Lord Tywin. A victory even Robert could be proud of. Robert . . . ” His teeth ground side to side. “He is in my dreams as well. Laughing. Drinking. Boasting. Those were the things he was best at. Those, and fighting. I never bested him at anything. The Lord of Light should have made Robert his champion. Why me?”
“Because you are a righteous man,” said Melisandre.
“A righteous man.” Stannis touched the covered silver platter with a finger. “With leeches.”
“Yes,” said Melisandre, “but I must tell you once more, this is not the way.”
“You swore it would work.” The king looked angry.
“It will . . . and it will not.”
“Which?”
“Both.”
“Speak sense to me, woman.”
“When the fires speak more plainly, so shall I. There is truth in the flames, but it is not always easy to see.” The great ruby at her throat drank fire from the glow of the brazier. “Give me the boy, Your Grace. It is the surer way. The better way. Give me the boy and I shall wake the stone dragon.”
“I have told you, no.”
“He is only one baseborn boy, against all the boys of Westeros, and all the girls as well. Against all the children that might ever be born, in all the kingdoms of the world.”
“The boy is innocent.”
“The boy defiled your marriage bed, else you would surely have sons of your own. He shamed you.”
“Robert did that. Not the boy. My daughter has grown fond of him. And he is mine own blood.”
“Your brother’s blood,” Melisandre said. “A king’s blood. Only a king’s blood can wake the stone dragon.”
Stannis ground his teeth. “I’ll hear no more of this. The dragons are done. The Targaryens tried to bring them back half a dozen times. And made fools of themselves, or corpses. Patchface is the only fool we need on this godsforsaken rock. You have the leeches. Do your work.”
Melisandre bowed her head stiffly, and said, “As my king commands.” Reaching up her left sleeve with her right hand, she flung a handful of powder into the brazier. The coals roared. As pale flames writhed atop them, the red woman retrieved the silver dish and brought it to the king. Davos watched her lift the lid. Beneath were three large black leeches, fat with blood.
The boy’s blood, Davos knew. A king’s blood.
Stannis stretched forth a hand, and his fingers closed around one of the leeches.
“Say the name,” Melisandre commanded.
The leech was twisting in the king’s grip, trying to attach itself to one of his fingers. “The usurper,” he said. “Joffrey Baratheon.” When he tossed the leech into the fire, it curled up like an autumn leaf amidst the coals, and burned.
Stannis grasped the second. “The usurper,” he declared, louder this time. “Balon Greyjoy.” He flipped it lightly onto the brazier, and its flesh split and cracked. The blood burst from it, hissing and smoking.
The last was in the king’s hand. This one he studied a moment as it writhed between his fingers. “The usurper,” he said at last. “Robb Stark.” And he threw it on the flames.
JAIME
Harrenhal’s bathhouse was a dim, steamy, low-ceilinged room filled with great stone tubs. When they led Jaime in, they found Brienne seated in one of them, scrubbing her arm almost angrily.
“Not so hard, wench,” he called. “You’ll scrub the skin off.” She dropped her brush and covered her teats with hands as big as Gregor Clegane’s. The pointy little buds she was so intent on hiding would have looked more natural on some ten-year-old than they did on her thick muscular chest.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded.
“Lord Bolton insists I sup with him, but he neglected to invite my fleas.” Jaime tugged at his guard with his left hand. “Help me out of these stinking rags.” One-handed, he could not so much as unlace his breeches. The man obeyed grudgingly, but he obeyed. “Now leave us,” Jaime said when his clothes lay in a pile on the wet stone floor. “My lady of Tarth doesn’t want the likes of you scum gaping at her teats.” He pointed his stump at the hatchet-faced woman attending Brienne. “You too. Wait without. There’s only the one door, and the wench is too big to try and shinny up a chimney.”
The habit of obedience went deep. The woman followed his guard out, leaving the bathhouse to the two of them. The tubs were large enough to hold six or seven, after the fashion of the Free Cities, so Jaime climbed in with the wench, awkward and slow. Both his eyes were open, though the right remained somewhat swollen, despite Qyburn’s leeches. Jaime felt a hundred and nine years old, which was a deal better than he had been feeling when he came to Harrenhal.
Brienne shrunk away from him. “There are other tubs.”
“This one suits me well enough.” Gingerly, he immersed himself up to the chin in the steaming water. “Have no fear, wench. Your thighs are purple and green, and I’m not interested in what you’ve got between them.” He had to rest his right arm on the rim, since Qyburn had warned him to keep the linen dry. He could feel the tension drain from his legs, but his head spun. “If I faint, pull me out. No Lannister has ever drowned in his bath and I don’t mean to be the first.”
“Why should I care how you die?”
“You swore a solemn vow.” He smiled as a red flush crept up the thick white column of her neck. She turned her back to him. “Still the shy maiden? What is it that you think I haven’t seen?” He groped for the brush she had dropped, caught it with his fingers, and began to scrub himself desultorily. Even that was difficult, awkward. My left hand is good for nothing.
Still, the water darkened as the caked dirt dissolved off his skin. The wench kept her back to him, the muscles in her great shoulders hunched and hard.
“Does the sight of my stump distress you so?” Jaime asked. “You ought to be pleased. I’ve lost the hand I killed the king with. The hand that flung the Stark boy from that tower. The hand I’d slide between my sister’s thighs to make her wet.” He thrust his stump at her face. “No wonder Renly died, with you guarding him.”
She jerked to her feet as if he’d struck her, sending a wash of hot water across the tub. Jaime caught a glimpse of the thick blonde bush at the juncture of her thighs as she climbed out. She was much hairier than his sister. Absurdly, he felt his cock stir beneath the bathwater. Now I know I have been too long away from Cersei. He averted his eyes, troubled by his body’s response. “That was unworthy,” he mumbled. “I’m a maimed man, and bitter. Forgive me, wench. You protected me as well as any man could have, and better than most.”
She wrapped her nakedness in a towel. “Do you mock me?”
That pricked him back to anger. “Are you as thick as a castle wall? That was an apology. I am tired of fighting with you. What say we make a truce?”
“Truces are built on trust. Would you have me trust—”
“The Kingslayer, yes. The oathbreaker who murdered poor sad Aerys Targaryen.” Jaime snorted. “It’s not Aerys I rue, it’s Robert. ‘I hear they’ve named you Kingslayer’ he said to me at his coronation feast. ‘Just don’t think to make it a habit.’ And he laughed. Why is it that no one names Robert oathbreaker? He tore the realm apart, yet I am the one with shit for honor.”
“Robert did all he did for love.” Water ran down Brienne’s legs and pooled beneath her feet.
“Robert did all he did for pride, a cunt, and a pretty face.” He made a fist . . . or would have, if he’d had a hand. Pain lanced up his arm, cruel as laughter.
“He rode to save the realm,” she insisted.
To save the realm. “Did you know that my brother set the Blackwater Rush afire? Wildfire will burn on water. Aerys would have bathed in it if he’d dared. The Targaryens were all mad for fire.” Jaime felt lightheaded. It is the heat in here, the poison in my blood, the last of my fever. I am not myself. He eased himself down until the water reached his chin. “Soiled my white cloak . . . I wore my gold armor that day, but . . . ”
“Gold armor?” Her voice sounded far off, faint.
He floated in heat, in memory. “After dancing griffins lost the Battle of the Bells, Aerys exiled him.” Why am I telling this absurd ugly child? “He had finally realized that Robert was no mere outlaw lord to be crushed at whim, but the greatest threat House Targaryen had faced since Daemon Blackfyre. The king reminded Lewyn Martell gracelessly that he held Elia and sent him to take command of the ten thousand Dornishmen coming up the kingsroad. Jon Darry and Barristan Selmy rode to Stoney Sept to rally what they could of griffins’ men, and Prince Rhaegar returned from the south and persuaded his father to swallow his pride and summon my father. But no raven returned from Casterly Rock, and that made the king even more afraid. He saw traitors everywhere, and Varys was always there to point out any he might have missed. So His Grace commanded his alchemists to place caches of wildfire all over King’s Landing. Beneath Baelor’s Sept and the hovels of Flea Bottom, under stables and storehouses, at all seven gates, even in the cellars of the Red Keep itself.
“Everything was done in the utmost secrecy by a handful of master pyromancers. They did not even trust their own acolytes to help. The queen’s eyes had been closed for years, and Rhaegar was busy marshaling an army. But Aerys’s new mace-and-dagger Hand was not utterly stupid, and with Rossart, Belis, and Garigus coming and going night and day, he became suspicious. Chelsted, that was his name, Lord Chelsted.” It had come back to him suddenly, with the telling. “I’d thought the man craven, but the day he confronted Aerys he found some courage somewhere. He did all he could to dissuade him. He reasoned, he jested, he threatened, and finally he begged. When that failed he took off his chain of office and flung it down on the floor. Aerys burnt him alive for that, and hung his chain about the neck of Rossart, his favorite pyromancer. The man who had cooked Lord Rickard Stark in his own armor. And all the time, I stood by the foot of the Iron Throne in my white plate, still as a corpse, guarding my liege and all his sweet secrets.
“My Sworn Brothers were all away, you see, but Aerys liked to keep me close. I was my father’s son, so he did not trust me. He wanted me where Varys could watch me, day and night. So I heard it all.” He remembered how Rossart’s eyes would shine when he unrolled his maps to show where the substance must be placed. Garigus and Belis were the same. “Rhaegar met Robert on the Trident, and you know what happened there. When the word reached court, Aerys packed the queen off to Dragonstone with Prince Viserys. Princess Elia would have gone as well, but he forbade it. Somehow he had gotten it in his head that Prince Lewyn must have betrayed Rhaegar on the Trident, but he thought he could keep Dorne loyal so long as he kept Elia and Aegon by his side. The traitors want my city, I heard him tell Rossart, but I’ll give them naught but ashes. Let Robert be king over charred bones and cooked meat. The Targaryens never bury their dead, they burn them. Aerys meant to have the greatest funeral pyre of them all. Though if truth be told, I do not believe he truly expected to die. Like Aerion Brightfire before him, Aerys thought the fire would transform him . . . that he would rise again, reborn as a dragon, and turn all his enemies to ash.
“Ned Stark was racing south with Robert’s van, but my father’s forces reached the city first. Pycelle convinced the king that his Warden of the West had come to defend him, so he opened the gates. The one time he should have heeded Varys, and he ignored him. My father had held back from the war, brooding on all the wrongs Aerys had done him and determined that House Lannister should be on the winning side. The Trident decided him.
“It fell to me to hold the Red Keep, but I knew we were lost. I sent to Aerys asking his leave to make terms. My man came back with a royal command. ‘Bring me your father’s head, if you are no traitor.’ Aerys would have no yielding. Lord Rossart was with him, my messenger said. I knew what that meant.
“When I came on Rossart, he was dressed as a common man-at-arms, hurrying to a postern gate. I slew him first. Then I slew Aerys, before he could find someone else to carry his message to the pyromancers. Days later, I hunted down the others and slew them as well. Belis offered me gold, and Garigus wept for mercy. Well, a sword’s more merciful than fire, but I don’t think Garigus much appreciated the kindness I showed him.”
The water had grown cool. When Jaime opened his eyes, he found himself staring at the stump of his sword hand. The hand that made me Kingslayer. The goat had robbed him of his glory and his shame, both at once. Leaving what? Who am I now?
The wench looked ridiculous, clutching her towel to her meager teats with her thick white legs sticking out beneath. “Has my tale turned you speechless? Come, curse me or kiss me or call me a liar. Something.”
“If this is true, how is it no one knows?”
“The knights of the Kingsguard are sworn to keep the king’s secrets. Would you have me break my oath?” Jaime laughed. “Do you think the noble Lord of Winterfell wanted to hear my feeble explanations? Such an honorable man. He only had to look at me to judge me guilty.” Jaime lurched to his feet, the water running cold down his chest. “By what right does the wolf judge the lion? By what right?” A violent shiver took him, and he smashed his stump against the rim of the tub as he tried to climb out.
Pain shuddered through him . . . and suddenly the bathhouse was spinning. Brienne caught him before he could fall. Her arm was all gooseflesh, clammy and chilled, but she was strong, and gentler than he would have thought. Gentler than Cersei, he thought as she helped him from the tub, his legs wobbly as a limp cock. “Guards!” he heard the wench shout. “The Kingslayer!”
Jaime, he thought, my name is Jaime.
The next he knew, he was lying on the damp floor with the guards and the wench and Qyburn all standing over him looking concerned. Brienne was naked, but she seemed to have forgotten that for the moment. “The heat of the tubs will do it,” Maester Qyburn was telling them. No, he’s not a maester, they took his chain. “There’s still poison in his blood as well, and he’s malnourished. What have you been feeding him?”
“Worms and piss and grey vomit,” offered Jaime.
“Hardbread and water and oat porridge,” insisted the guard. “He don’t hardly eat it, though. What should we do with him?”
“Scrub him and dress him and carry him to Kingspyre, if need be,” Qyburn said. “Lord Bolton insists he will sup with him tonight. The time is growing short.”
“Bring me clean garb for him,” Brienne said, “I’ll see that he’s washed and dressed.”
The others were all too glad to give her the task. They lifted him to his feet and sat him on a stone bench by the wall. Brienne went away to retrieve her towel, and returned with a stiff brush to finish scrubbing him. One of the guards gave her a razor to trim his beard. Qyburn returned with roughspun smallclothes, clean black woolen breeches, a loose green tunic, and a leather jerkin that laced up the front. Jaime was feeling less dizzy by then, though no less clumsy. With the wench’s help he managed to dress himself. “Now all I need is a silver looking glass.”
The Bloody Maester had brought fresh clothing for Brienne as well; a stained pink satin gown and a linen undertunic. “I am sorry, my lady. These were the only women’s garments in Harrenhal large enough to fit you.”
It was obvious at once that the gown had been cut for someone with slimmer arms, shorter legs, and much fuller breasts. The fine Myrish lace did little to conceal the bruising that mottled Brienne’s skin. All in all, the garb made the wench look ludicrous. She has thicker shoulders than I do, and a bigger neck, Jaime thought. Small wonder she prefers to dress in mail. Pink was not a kind color for her either. A dozen cruel japes leaped into his head, but for once he kept them there. Best not to make her angry; he was no match for her one-handed.
Qyburn had brought a flask as well. “What is it?” Jaime demanded when the chainless maester pressed him to drink.
“Licorice steeped in vinegar, with honey and cloves. It will give you some strength and clear your head.”
“Bring me the potion that grows new hands,” said Jaime. “That’s the one I want.”
“Drink it,” Brienne said, unsmiling, and he did.
It was half an hour before he felt strong enough to stand. After the dim wet warmth of the bathhouse, the air outside was a slap across the face. “M’lord will be looking for him by now,” a guard told Qyburn. “Her too. Do I need to carry him?”
“I can still walk. Brienne, give me your arm.”
Clutching her, Jaime let them herd him across the yard to a vast draughty hall, larger even than the throne room in King’s Landing. Huge hearths lined the walls, one every ten feet or so, more than he could count, but no fires had been lit, so the chill between the walls went bone-deep. A dozen spearmen in fur cloaks guarded the doors and the steps that led up to the two galleries above. And in the center of that immense emptiness, at a trestle table surrounded by what seemed like acres of smooth slate floor, the Lord of the Dreadfort waited, attended only by a cupbearer.
“My lord,” said Brienne, when they stood before him.
Roose Bolton’s eyes were paler than stone, darker than milk, and his voice was spider soft. “I am pleased that you are strong enough to attend me, ser. My lady, do be seated.” He gestured at the spread of cheese, bread, cold meat, and fruit that covered the table. “Will you drink red or white? Of indifferent vintage, I fear. Ser Amory drained Lady Whent’s cellars nearly dry.”
“I trust you killed him for it.” Jaime slid into the offered seat quickly, so Bolton could not see how weak he was. “White is for Starks. I’ll drink red like a good Lannister.”
“I would prefer water,” said Brienne.
“Elmar, the red for Ser Jaime, water for the Lady Brienne, and hippocras for myself.” Bolton waved a hand at their escort, dismissing them, and the men beat a silent retreat.
Habit made Jaime reach for his wine with his right hand. His stump rocked the goblet, spattering his clean linen bandages with bright red spots and forcing him to catch the cup with his left hand before it fell, but Bolton pretended not to notice his clumsiness. The northman helped himself to a prune and ate it with small sharp bites. “Do try these, Ser Jaime. They are most sweet, and help move the bowels as well. Lord Vargo took them from an inn before he burnt it.”
“My bowels move fine, that goat’s no lord, and your prunes don’t interest me half so much as your intentions.”
“Regarding you?” A faint smile touched Roose Bolton’s lips. “You are a perilous prize, ser. You sow dissension wherever you go. Even here, in my happy house of Harrenhal.” His voice was a whisker above a whisper. “And in Riverrun as well, it seems. Do you know, Edmure Tully has offered a thousand golden dragons for your recapture?”
Is that all? “My sister will pay ten times as much.”
“Will she?” That smile again, there for an instant, gone as quick. “Ten thousand dragons is a formidable sum. Of course, there is Lord Karstark’s offer to consider as well. He promises the hand of his daughter to the man who brings him your head.”
“Leave it to your goat to get it backward,” said Jaime.
Bolton gave a soft chuckle. “Harrion Karstark was captive here when we took the castle, did you know? I gave him all the Karhold men still with me and sent him off with Glover. I do hope nothing ill befell him at Duskendale . . . else Alys Karstark would be all that remains of Lord Rickard’s progeny.” He chose another prune. “Fortunately for you, I have no need of a wife. I wed the Lady Walda Frey whilst I was at the Twins.”
“Fair Walda?” Awkwardly, Jaime tried to hold the bread with his stump while tearing it with his left hand.
“Fat Walda. My lord of Frey offered me my bride’s weight in silver for a dowry, so I chose accordingly. Elmar, break off some bread for Ser Jaime.”
The boy tore a fist-sized chunk off one end of the loaf and handed it to Jaime. Brienne tore her own bread. “Lord Bolton,” she asked, “it’s said you mean to give Harrenhal to Vargo Hoat.”
“That was his price,” Lord Bolton said. “The Lannisters are not the only men who pay their debts. I must take my leave soon in any case. Edmure Tully is to wed the Lady Roslin Frey at the Twins, and my king commands my attendance.”
“Edmure weds?” said Jaime. “Not Robb Stark?”
“His Grace King Robb is wed.” Bolton spit a prune pit into his hand and put it aside. “To a Westerling of the Crag. I am told her name is Jeyne. No doubt you know her, ser. Her father is your father’s bannerman.”
“My father has a good many bannermen, and most of them have daughters.” Jaime groped one-handed for his goblet, trying to recall this Jeyne. The Westerlings were an old house, with more pride than power.
“This cannot be true,” Brienne said stubbornly. “King Robb was sworn to wed a Frey. He would never break faith, he—”
“His Grace is a boy of sixteen,” said Roose Bolton mildly. “And I would thank you not to question my word, my lady.”
Jaime felt almost sorry for Robb Stark. He won the war on the battlefield and lost it in a bedchamber, poor fool. “How does Lord Walder relish dining on trout in place of wolf?” he asked.
“Oh, trout makes for a tasty supper.” Bolton lifted a pale finger toward his cupbearer. “Though my poor Elmar is bereft. He was to wed Arya Stark, but my good father of Frey had no choice but to break the betrothal when King Robb betrayed him.”
“Is there word of Arya Stark?” Brienne leaned forward. “Lady Catelyn had feared that . . . is the girl still alive?”
“Oh, yes,” said the Lord of the Dreadfort.
“You have certain knowledge of that, my lord?”
Roose Bolton shrugged. “Arya Stark was lost for a time, it was true, but now she has been found. I mean to see her returned safely to the north.”
“Her and her sister both,” said Brienne. “Tyrion Lannister has promised us both girls for his brother.”
That seemed to amuse the Lord of the Dreadfort. “My lady, has no one told you? Lannisters lie.”
“Is that a slight on the honor of my House?” Jaime picked up the cheese knife with his good hand. “A rounded point, and dull,” he said, sliding his thumb along the edge of the blade, “but it will go through your eye all the same.” Sweat beaded his brow. He could only hope he did not look as feeble as he felt.
Lord Bolton’s little smile paid another visit to his lips. “You speak boldly for a man who needs help to break his bread. My guards are all around us, I remind you.”
“All around us, and half a league away.” Jaime glanced down the vast length of the hall. “By the time they reach us, you’ll be as dead as Aerys.”
“’Tis scarcely chivalrous to threaten your host over his own cheese and olives,” the Lord of the Dreadfort scolded. “In the north, we hold the laws of hospitality sacred still.”
“I’m a captive here, not a guest. Your goat cut off my hand. If you think some prunes will make me overlook that, you’re bloody well mistaken.”
That took Roose Bolton aback. “Perhaps I am. Perhaps I ought to make a wedding gift of you to Edmure Tully . . . or strike your head off, as your sister did for Eddard Stark.”
“I would not advise it. Casterly Rock has a long memory.”
“A thousand leagues of mountain, sea, and bog lie between my walls and your rock. Lannister enmity means little to Bolton.”
“Lannister friendship could mean much.” Jaime thought he knew the game they were playing now. But does the wench know as well? He dare not look to see.
“I am not certain you are the sort of friends a wise man would want.” Roose Bolton beckoned to the boy. “Elmar, carve our guests a slice off the roast.”
Brienne was served first, but made no move to eat. “My lord,” she said, “Ser Jaime is to be exchanged for Lady Catelyn’s daughters. You must free us to continue on our way.”
“The raven that came from Riverrun told of an escape, not an exchange. And if you helped this captive slip his bonds, you are guilty of treason, my lady.”
The big wench rose to her feet. “I serve Lady Stark.”
“And I the King in the North. Or the King Who Lost the North, as some now call him. Who never wished to trade Ser Jaime back to the Lannisters.”
“Sit down and eat, Brienne,” Jaime urged, as Elmar placed a slice of roast before him, dark and bloody. “If Bolton meant to kill us, he wouldn’t be wasting his precious prunes on us, at such peril to his bowels.” He stared at the meat and realized there was no way to cut it, one-handed. I am worth less than a girl now, he thought. The goat’s evened the trade, though I doubt Lady Catelyn will thank him when Cersei returns her whelps in like condition. The thought made him grimace. I will get the blame for that as well, I’ll wager.
Roose Bolton cut his meat methodically, the blood running across his plate. “Lady Brienne, will you sit if I tell you that I hope to send Ser Jaime on, just as you and Lady Stark desire?”
“I . . . you’d send us on?” The wench sounded wary, but she sat. “That is good, my lord.”
“It is. However, Lord Vargo has created me one small . . . difficulty.” He turned his pale eyes on Jaime. “Do you know why Hoat cut off your hand?”
“He enjoys cutting off hands.” The linen that covered Jaime’s stump was spotted with blood and wine. “He enjoys cutting off feet as well. He doesn’t seem to need a reason.”
“Nonetheless, he had one. Hoat is more cunning than he appears. No man commands a company such as the Brave Companions for long unless he has some wits about him.” Bolton stabbed a chunk of meat with the point of his dagger, put it in his mouth, chewed thoughtfully, swallowed. “Lord Vargo abandoned House Lannister because I offered him Harrenhal, a reward a thousand times greater than any he could hope to have from Lord Tywin. As a stranger to Westeros, he did not know the prize was poisoned.”
“The curse of Harren the Black?” mocked Jaime.
“The curse of Tywin Lannister.” Bolton held out his goblet and Elmar refilled it silently. “Our goat should have consulted the Tarbecks or the Reynes. They might have warned him how your lord father deals with betrayal.”
“There are no Tarbecks or Reynes,” said Jaime.
“My point precisely. Lord Vargo doubtless hoped that Lord Stannis would triumph at King’s Landing, and thence confirm him in his possession of this castle in gratitude for his small part in the downfall of House Lannister.” He gave a dry chuckle. “He knows little of Stannis Baratheon either, I fear. That one might have given him Harrenhal for his service . . . but he would have given him a noose for his crimes as well.”
“A noose is kinder than what he’ll get from my father.”
“By now he has come to the same realization. With Stannis broken and Renly dead, only a Stark victory can save him from Lord Tywin’s vengeance, but the chances of that grow perishingly slim.”
“King Robb has won every battle,” Brienne said stoutly, as stubbornly loyal of speech as she was of deed.
“Won every battle, while losing the Freys, the Karstarks, Winterfell, and the north. A pity the wolf is so young. Boys of sixteen always believe they are immortal and invincible. An older man would bend the knee, I’d think. After a war there is always a peace, and with peace there are pardons . . . for the Robb Starks, at least. Not for the likes of Vargo Hoat.” Bolton gave him a small smile. “Both sides have made use of him, but neither will shed a tear at his passing. The Brave Companions did not fight in the Battle of the Blackwater, yet they died there all the same.”
“You’ll forgive me if I don’t mourn?”
“You have no pity for our wretched doomed goat? Ah, but the gods must . . . else why deliver you into his hands?” Bolton chewed another chunk of meat. “Karhold is smaller and meaner than Harrenhal, but it lies well beyond the reach of the lion’s claws. Once wed to Alys Karstark, Hoat might be a lord in truth. If he could collect some gold from your father so much the better, but he would have delivered you to Lord Rickard no matter how much Lord Tywin paid. His price would be the maid, and safe refuge.
“But to sell you he must keep you, and the riverlands are full of those who would gladly steal you away. Glover and Tallhart were broken at Duskendale, but remnants of their host are still abroad, with the Mountain slaughtering the stragglers. A thousand Karstarks prowl the lands south and east of Riverrun, hunting you. Elsewhere are Darry men left lordless and lawless, packs of four-footed wolves, and the lightning lord’s outlaw bands. Dondarrion would gladly hang you and the goat together from the same tree.” The Lord of the Dreadfort sopped up some of the blood with a chunk of bread. “Harrenhal was the only place Lord Vargo could hope to hold you safe, but here his Brave Companions are much outnumbered by my own men, and by Ser Aenys and his Freys. No doubt he feared I might return you to Ser Edmure at Riverrun . . . or worse, send you on to your father.
“By maiming you, he meant to remove your sword as a threat, gain himself a grisly token to send to your father, and diminish your value to me. For he is my man, as I am King Robb’s man. Thus his crime is mine, or may seem so in your father’s eyes. And therein lies my . . . small difficulty.” He gazed at Jaime, his pale eyes unblinking, expectant, chill.
I see. “You want me to absolve you of blame. To tell my father that this stump is no work of yours.” Jaime laughed. “My lord, send me to Cersei, and I’ll sing as sweet a song as you could want, of how gently you treated me.” Any other answer, he knew, and Bolton would give him back to the goat. “Had I a hand, I’d write it out. How I was maimed by the sellsword my own father brought to Westeros, and saved by the noble Lord Bolton.”
“I will trust to your word, ser.”
There’s something I don’t often hear. “How soon might we be permitted to leave? And how do you mean to get me past all these wolves and brigands and Karstarks?”
“You will leave when Qyburn says you are strong enough, with a strong escort of picked men under the command of my captain, Walton. Steelshanks, he is called. A soldier of iron loyalty. Walton will see you safe and whole to King’s Landing.”
“Provided Lady Catelyn’s daughters are delivered safe and whole as well,” said the wench. “My lord, your man Walton’s protection is welcome, but the girls are my charge.”
The Lord of the Dreadfort gave her an uninterested glance. “The girls need not concern you any further, my lady. The Lady Sansa is the dwarf’s wife, only the gods can part them now.”
“His wife?” Brienne said, appalled. “The Imp? But . . . he swore, before the whole court, in sight of gods and men . . . ”
She is such an innocent. Jaime was almost as surprised, if truth be told, but he hid it better. Sansa Stark, that ought to put a smile on Tyrion’s face. He remembered how happy his brother had been with his little crofter’s daughter . . . for a fortnight.
“What the Imp did or did nor swear scarcely matters now,” said Lord Bolton. “Least of all to you.” The wench looked almost wounded. Perhaps she finally felt the steel jaws of the trap when Roose Bolton beckoned to his guards. “Ser Jaime will continue on to King’s Landing. I said nothing about you, I fear. It would be unconscionable of me to deprive Lord Vargo of both his prizes.” The Lord of the Dreadfort reached out to pick another prune. “Were I you, my lady, I should worry less about Starks and rather more about sapphires.”

第三十一章 詹姆



　　断肢火辣辣地痛。
　　痛，痛，即便他们用火炬烧封了伤口，但日日夜夜，他仍感到焰苗舔噬手臂，感到指头在烈火中枯萎，那些不再属于他的指头。

　　他经常受伤，但从未有过如此的屈辱，从未品尝这般的疼痛。这些天来，他的嘴唇经常无法抑制地背诵起幼稚的祷词，那些他孩童时代学习却从不在意的祷词，那些他和瑟曦并肩跪在凯岩城圣堂里念诵的祷词。他哭了又哭，直到听见血戏子们的笑声，便不再悲伤。他风干眼睛，铁石心肠，希望高烧能带走眼泪。我终于明白了提利昂的感受，一辈子都有人嘲笑他。

　　自打他第二次落马后，他们便把他紧紧捆在塔斯的布蕾妮身上，让两人再度共骑。有一天，血戏子们不再将他俩背靠背地绑，而是脸对脸地捆。“一对甜蜜的情人，”夏格维大声赞叹，“多伟大的爱情，怎能将英勇的骑士和高贵的夫人分开呀？”他用高亢的声调尖声长笑，“噢，可谁是骑士，谁又是夫人呢？”

　　如果我的手还在，你就会明白的，詹姆心想。因为长期捆绑，四肢全部麻木，但一切都没关系了，他的世界只剩下那只幻影手传来的疼痛，以及布蕾妮压在身上的重量。至少她很温暖，他宽慰自己，虽然呼吸和我的一样扑鼻难闻。

　　他的手还在，就在两人中间。乌斯威克将它套着绳子，挂在他脖子上，马儿行进，詹姆恍恍惚惚，手便在胸前摇摆，抓挠布蕾妮的乳房。他的右眼肿得睁不开，先前打斗中布蕾妮伤他的地方发了炎，但最痛的是手。断肢不断渗出血液和浓汁，马儿踏一步，幻影手便抽搐一下。

　　咽喉干燥，无法进食，他只喝他们给的酒和清水。曾有一回，“勇士们”给他一杯水，他颤抖着一饮而尽，引来周围哄堂大笑，格外刺耳。“这是马尿，弑君者，”罗尔杰告诉他。詹姆太口渴，因此没注意，但随后倔强地吐了出来。于是他们让布蕾妮替他清理胡须，平时他在马鞍上流屎流尿他们也总逼她清理。

　　某个阴冷的清晨，他感觉有点力气了，顿时被一股疯狂所攫住。他用左手抓住多恩人的剑柄，笨拙地拔出来。让他们杀了我，他心想，我要手执武器，死在战斗中。没用。夏格维单脚跳来跳去，詹姆就是砍不中，最后失去平衡，跌跌撞撞地向前猛扑。小丑绕了几圈，躲闪开来，血戏子们哄笑着观看骑士与小丑的表演。他绊住石头，跪倒在地，小丑跳过来，在他额头印上一个潮湿的吻。

　　罗尔杰最后上前教训他，并从他虚弱的指头中踢走长剑。“狠有趣，四君者，”瓦格·赫特说，“但下不为里，否责我再砍你一只手，或责一只脚。”

　　詹姆躺下，看着夜晚的晴空，试图不去在意右臂无时不在的疼痛。夜，奇特地美，优雅的新月，前所未见的满天繁星。王冠座在天顶，旁边有骏马座和天鹅座，松树枝头，羞答答的月女座半遮半掩。夜，怎可如此地美？他扪心自问，星星竟舍得为我洒下光辉？

　　“詹姆，”布蕾妮低语呼唤，轻得让詹姆以为在做梦，“詹姆，你在做什么？”

　　“等死，”他轻声回答。

　　“不，”她说，“不，你必须活下去。”

　　他试着挤出一点笑容，“行了，别再指挥我了，妞儿，我想死就死吧。”

　　“你是懦夫？”

　　这个词让他震惊。他是詹姆·兰尼斯特，他是御林铁卫的骑士，他是弑君者。没人可以叫他懦夫，其他的称号——背誓者、骗子、杀人犯、屠夫、叛徒、莽汉等等都无所谓，就不能容忍懦夫。“我除了死，还能做什么呢？”

　　“活下去，”妞儿道，“活着，战斗，复仇。”她说得太大声，正巧给罗尔杰听见，尽管没听清楚，但还是过来踢她，要她闭上臭嘴，否则就割舌头。

　　懦夫，詹姆一边听布蕾妮的闷哼，一边想。我成了懦夫？就为他们砍了我用剑的手？莫非我的生命就只是一只用剑的手？诸神在上，难道是这样？

　　妞儿说得没错，我不能死，瑟曦在等我，她需要我，还有提利昂，我的小弟弟，那个为了谎言而爱我的弟弟。敌人们也等着我，在呓语森林屠杀我部下的少狼主，将我绑上镣铐、关在黑牢中的艾德慕·徒利，还有勇士团。

　　第二天黎明，他强迫自己吃东西，他们给他些许麦糊，马的食物，但他一匙一匙咽下去。傍晚时又吃了，第二天早上也吃。活下去，每当麦糊哽在喉头，他便严厉地告诫自己，为了瑟曦，为了提利昂，为了复仇，活下去。兰尼斯特有债必还。幻影手抽搐、灼痛和发臭。等我回到君临，会打造一只新手，一只金手，总有一天，要用它撕开山羊的喉咙。

　　在无边的疼痛中，日夜模糊不清。白天昏睡在马鞍上，靠住布蕾妮的身子，闻着手掌腐烂的恶臭；晚上清醒地躺在硬泥地里，因噩梦而难以入眠。他虽虚弱，但血戏子们仍不敢大意，始终将他绑在树上。想到敌人如此怕他，他不由得感到一丝冰冷的慰籍。

　　布蕾妮通常捆在他旁边，五花大绑躺着的她，好似大母牛的尸体，一点动静也没有。而在她心中，有一座城堡，他想，他们或许能强暴她，但永远别想翻越她为自己构筑的深墙。可惜詹姆的城郭已然垮塌，他们砍了他的手，砍了他用剑的手，没有这个，他什么也不是。剩下一只无用的手。从他会走路的那天开始，左手就只配执盾，除此之外，一无是处。是右手让他当上骑士，成为男人。

　　后来有一天，他无意中听乌斯威克提到赫伦堡，心知这是目的地，不由哈哈大笑，惹得提蒙用细长鞭抽他的脸。血流如注，但与手上的疼痛相比，无足轻重。“你笑什么？”当晚，妞儿轻声问。

　　“我是在赫伦堡得到白袍的，”他轻声回答，“在河安大人举办的比武大会上。他想向全国贵族炫耀他的城池和子孙，我也想向他们炫耀我的武艺。当年我才十五岁，却无人能敌，可惜伊里斯不给我炫耀的机会，”他又笑了，“我赶到的当天便被他遣走，直到如今才终于回来。”

　　笑声被他们听到，于是当晚换詹姆承受拳打脚踢。他毫无反应，直到罗尔杰一脚踢在断肢上。他晕死过去。

　　第二天夜里，他们终于来了，三个最大的恶棍：夏格维、没鼻子的罗尔杰和多斯拉克胖子佐罗——正是他砍了他的手。佐罗和罗尔杰边走边争论谁先上，夏格维似乎自甘最后。小丑见他俩争执不下，便提议两人一起，一人上前面，一人上后面。佐罗和罗尔杰表示同意，随后又开始争执谁上前面而谁上后面。

　　他们会毁了她心中的城堡，把她变成和我一样的残废。“妞儿，”趁佐罗和罗尔杰互相喝骂的当口，他低声说，“让他们做，什么也别想。心思走得远远的，他们享受不到乐趣，很快就停了。”

　　“他们别想从我这里得到一丁点乐趣。”她坚定地低声回答。

　　你这愚蠢、顽固、勇敢的婊子，会被杀的，他心想，唉，我穷担心什么？若非她这猪脑袋，我的手还在。他听见自己低语道：“让他们做，躲进内心，别去想它。”他就是这么做的，当目睹史塔克父子惨死在眼前，全副盔甲的瑞卡德公爵遭烧烤、他儿子布兰登为救父被生生扼死的时候。“想想蓝礼，如果你真的爱他；想想塔斯，山峦和大海，泉池与瀑布，蓝宝石之岛；想想……”

　　这时罗尔杰赢得了争论。“你是我这辈子见过最丑的女人，”他告诉布蕾妮，“但别以为我不能让你变得更丑。我的鼻子如何？你敢动一根指头，我就让你学我的样。还有，两只眼睛对你而言太丰富了，敢叫一声，我就抠一颗出来，喂你吃下去，然后把你操他妈的牙齿一颗颗拔出来。“

　　“噢，妙啊，罗尔杰，”夏格维赞叹，“拔了牙齿，她就跟我亲爱的老妈妈没两样了。”他咯咯笑道，“我以前常想操妈妈的屁股呢。”

　　詹姆跟着笑，“哎哟，多可爱的小丑。我也给你猜个谜语，夏格维，你为什么不能碰她呢？噢，噢，我知道。”他提高声量，竭尽所有力气喊道：“蓝宝石！”

　　罗尔杰骂了一句，又一脚踢到他的断肢上。詹姆厉声嚎叫。世上竟有这般的疼痛，这是他失去意识前最后的想法。不知昏迷了多久，但当他回到疼痛中时，乌斯威克来了，瓦格·赫特也在。“不准捧她，”山羊叫道，喷了佐罗一脸口水，“必须保住她的真操，你这个杀瓜！我要用她换一口袋懒宝石！”从此，山羊每晚都加派守卫，以防自己的手下作怪。

　　之后两晚上，妞儿都没说话，到第三夜方才鼓起勇气，“詹姆？你干嘛那么叫唤？”

　　“啊，你问我为何叫唤‘蓝宝石’？动下脑子嘛，难道我叫‘强奸’这些杂种会来管么？”

　　“你不该出声的。”

　　“那可不，你有鼻子时已经够丑了，再说，我想听山羊念‘懒宝石’。”他轻笑道，“你说得对，我只会撒谎，一个重荣誉的人决不会隐瞒蓝宝石之岛的真相。”

　　“不管怎样，”她说，“谢谢你，爵士先生。”

　　幻影手抽搐起来，他咬紧牙关：“兰尼斯特有债必还，这是为了河上的战斗，为了你倒在罗宾·莱格头上的石头。”

　　山羊想对全城人炫耀战利品，所以詹姆被迫在赫伦堡城门一里之外下马。他们将一根绳子套在他腰间，另一根捆住布蕾妮的手腕，两者末端都系于瓦格·赫特的坐骑前鞍。他俩一左一右、跌跌撞撞地走在科霍尔人的黑白斑纹马后面。

　　詹姆用愤怒驱使自己前进。包裹断肢的亚麻布因脓汁而发灰变臭，每走一步，幻影手便痛一次。我比你们想象的更强大，他告诉自己，我是兰尼斯特，我是御林铁卫的骑士，我能到达赫伦堡，我能到达君临城，我能活下去。然后，我要你们还债。

　　黑心赫伦的巨城如山崖般陡峭的墙垒逐渐变大，布蕾妮挤挤他胳膊：“城堡掌握在波顿大人手里，他是史塔克家的封臣。”

　　“嗯，据说波顿家族喜欢剥人皮，”这是詹姆对这个北境望族惟一的印象。提利昂肯定了解恐怖堡伯爵的方方面面，但他远在千里之外，和瑟曦在一起。对，瑟曦还活着，我不能死，他反复强调，我们同年同月同日生，也要同年同月同日死。

　　城外小镇被烧成灰烬和焦石，湖岸边有大队人马驻扎过的痕迹，这就是“错误的春天”那一年，河安大人召开比武大会的地方。詹姆走过饱受蹂躏的土地，一丝苦涩的微笑爬上嘴唇，有人于他当年跪在国王面前宣誓的地方挖了一道便池。少年的喜乐早已化为苦味，当初伊里斯连一晚也不让我停留。他为了侮辱而赐予我荣誉。

　　“你看那旗帜，”布蕾妮急切地说，“剥皮人和双塔，看到了么？他们是罗柏国王的属下。在那儿，城门楼上，你看，白底灰色，冰原狼旗。”

　　詹姆扭头朝上看。“没错，是你家的嗜血冰原狼，”他赞同，“瞧，左右都有人头嘛。”

　　士兵、仆人和营妓都出来围观。有只斑点母狗一路尾随，吠叫不休，最后被血戏班的里斯人用他的长熗一熗刺穿。他跑到队伍前面，将死狗放在詹姆头上摇晃，一边大喊大叫：“我是弑君者的掌旗官！”

　　赫伦堡的城墙如此之厚，穿越它，竟像穿越岩石隧道。先前瓦格·赫特派两个多斯拉克人当先通报波顿伯爵，所以外庭挤满了好事者。詹姆蹒跚走过，人们缓缓让路，而只要他稍微停留，腰间的绳子就被狠狠拉扯。“我捉住了四君者，”瓦格·赫特口齿不清地宣布。一只长矛猛戳他的背。要他爬。

　　摔倒时，他本能地伸手去扶，断肢与地面相触，痛得麻木。但他不知打哪儿生出一股力量，单膝跪了起来。前方，一段宽阔的石阶梯通向赫伦堡的某座巨型圆塔，五个骑士与一个北方人正在台阶上看他。淡白眼珠的人穿裘皮斗篷和皮衣，五个面目不善的骑士则全身盔甲，外套上有双塔纹章。“佛雷家的弟兄们，”詹姆叫喊，“丹威尔爵士，伊尼斯爵士，霍斯丁爵士，”他认得几个瓦德侯爵的子孙，再怎么说，毕竟自己姑妈嫁到了他们家，“向你们致以我的哀悼。”

　　“怎么回事，爵士？”丹威尔·佛雷爵士问。

　　“你侄儿，克里奥爵士出事了，”詹姆道。“他与我们结伴同行，途中不幸被土匪射杀。乌斯威克和他那帮手下偷了他的东西，把人留给野狼吃。”

　　“大人们！”布蕾妮摆脱群众，奔上前去。“我看到了您们的旗帜，以您们发下的誓言之名，请听听我的话！”

　　“你是谁？”伊尼斯·佛雷爵士问。

　　“她是烂尼斯特的奶妈。”

　　“我是塔斯的布蕾妮，‘暮之星’塞尔温伯爵的女儿，和您们一样，效忠于史塔克家族。”

　　伊尼斯爵士“呸”地一口吐在她脚边。“去你妈的狗屁，我们信赖这个罗柏·史塔克，他回报我们的却是背叛！”

　　有趣极了。詹姆扭过头去，想看看布蕾妮怎么反应，可惜这妞儿像上了嚼子的骡一般顽固。“背叛什么的我不清楚，”她摩擦着手腕上的绳索，“但我乃受凯特琳夫人的差遣，将兰尼斯特送往君临城他弟弟——”

　　“被我们发现时，她正要淹死他，”虔诚的乌斯威克道。

　　她脸一红，“我一时生气，作出越轨的事，但并非真的要杀。如果他死了，夫人的女儿会遭殃。”

　　伊尼斯爵士不为所动，“这和我们有何关系？”

　　“我看，就拿他跟奔流城讨笔赎金，”丹威尔爵士建议。

　　“凯岩城金子更多，”他的一位兄弟反对。

　　“杀了他！”他另一位兄弟说，“为奈德·史塔克报仇！”

　　小丑夏格维今天穿灰粉色小丑装，他在台阶底部边翻筋斗边唱：“从前有只狮子和黑熊跳舞，噢耶，噢耶——”

　　“比嘴，笑丑。”瓦格·赫特制止他，“四君者不能喂熊，他是我底。”

　　“他死了就没用了。”卢斯·波顿平静地说，声音轻得让大家都停下来倾听。“还有，瓦格大人，请你记住，我北上之前，这里还是我当家。”

　　高烧让詹姆头昏眼花，也让他胆子壮起来。“您就是恐怖堡伯爵？听说您前次被我父亲打得夹着尾巴逃窜，是也不是？大人您总算不逃了？”

　　波顿的沉默比瓦格·赫特唾沫横飞的威胁可怕一百倍，他的眼珠淡白如同晨雾，隐藏了所有思绪。詹姆不喜欢那对眼珠，它们让他想起当年奈德·史塔克看他坐在王位上时的神情。恐怖堡伯爵最后轻启嘴唇：“你少了一只手。”

　　“错，”詹姆说，“它在我脖子上。”

　　卢斯·波顿伸手下来，兜起他颈上的绳子，将烂手扔给山羊。“快拿开，这东西有损于我的健康。”

　　“我要把它送给他的浮亲大人，索要十万金聋币，否责，就把四君者砍成碎片还回去。等手到他的钱，我再把詹姆爵士交给卡史他克大人，多赚一个没女！”“勇士们”齐声欢呼赞同。

　　“好打算，”卢斯·波顿道，那语调好似在餐桌上轻描淡写地赞一句：好酒，“只可惜卡史塔克伯爵给不了女儿了，罗柏国王以谋杀和叛乱的罪名砍了他的头。至于泰温公爵，他人还在君临，新年之前都不会离开，那是他孙子和高庭之女成婚的大喜日子。”

　　“不对，是临冬城之女，”布蕾妮说，“大人，您弄错了吧，与乔佛里国王订婚的是珊莎·史塔克。”

　　“他们的婚约已经废除。黑水河一战，玫瑰与狮子联合，大败史坦尼斯·拜拉席恩，烧光了他的舰队。”

　　我不是警告过你么，乌斯威克，詹姆心想，还有你，山羊。与狮子作对，没好果子吃！“有我老姐的消息吗？”他问，

　　“她很好，你的……外甥也很好。”波顿顿了一下。看来他知道。“你弟弟在战斗中受了重伤，但性命无忧。”他朝身边一位穿镶钉铠甲、面色阴沉的北方人招招手。“送詹姆爵士去见科本学士，并替这位女士松绑。”待布蕾妮手腕间的绳索砍成两截后，他续道，“请原谅，小姐，眼下兵荒马乱，仓促之间难免误伤。”

　　她揉着被麻绳磨破的血肉。“大人，这些人想强暴我。”

　　“是吗？”波顿伯爵淡白的眼睛望向瓦格·赫特。“这可不行，这事儿，和詹姆爵士的手的事儿，都做得不对。”

　　院子里的北方人是勇士团的五倍，还有同等数目的佛雷家丁。山羊再苯，也知道闭嘴。

　　“他们拿走了我的剑，”布蕾妮道，“还有我的盔甲……”

　　“小姐，在我的城堡作客您无需盔甲，”波顿伯爵告诉她，“您受我的保护。埃玛贝尔太太，替布蕾妮小姐准备一间舒适客房。沃顿，詹姆爵士交给你了。”他不待回答，径自转身上阶梯，裘皮斗篷在身后卷动。与布蕾妮分开之前，詹姆只来得及和她交换一个短促的眼神。

　　学士的房间在鸦巢下。这位一头灰发、面目慈祥的人名叫科本，他打开包裹断肢的亚麻布，鼻子凑上去嗅了嗅。

　　“有这么糟糕？我会死吗？”

　　科本伸出一个指头拨拨伤口，涌出的脓血让他皱起鼻子。“不会，只是过不多久……”他切开詹姆的衣袖，“……腐疮会扩散，您发现了吗？附近的血肉都已变质，必须切除。最周全的办法是把手臂整个截掉。”

　　“我看你活得不耐烦了，”詹姆承诺，“清洗伤口，把手缝回去，让我碰碰运气。”

　　科本皱紧眉头，“我可以保住您的上臂，从肘部开始截，但……”

　　“你敢！除非把另一只手也截了，否则我掐死你。”

　　科本注视着他的眼睛，不管看到了什么，总之令他踌躇。“那好吧，爵士，我只把腐疮挖掉，别的都不动。先用沸酒处理，然后敷荨麻膏、芥菜籽和面包霉，或许管用，但其间利弊您可要考虑清楚。我这就去拿罂粟花奶——”

　　“不要。”詹姆不敢睡，生怕一觉醒来自己的手就真没了。

　　科本坚持：“这会很痛。”

　　“我会尖叫。”

　　“这会非常非常地痛。”

　　“我会大声大声尖叫。”

　　“您至少喝点葡萄酒行么？”

　　“总主教真的每天祷告吗？”

　　“这我不清楚。我拿酒去，爵士，您先躺下，得把手绑上。”

　　科本准备好一把利刃和一个碗，动手清洗。他边做，詹姆边大口喝酒，酒浆洒了一身。左手真没用，连嘴巴都找不着。葡萄酒浸湿胡须，掩盖了脓汁的恶臭。

　　当真的动刀挖掘腐疮时，酒精完全不管用，詹姆大声尖叫，用完好的手拼命锤桌子，一次，一次，又一次。科本将沸酒倒在挖剩的断肢上，他再度尖叫。不管如何赌咒发誓，不管心中多么恐惧，他仍旧晕厥过去。醒来时，学士正用针和羊肠线缝手掌。“我留了一点皮肤，刚好连接腕关节。”

　　“这话儿，你挺熟的嘛，”詹姆虚弱地嘀咕。他咬到舌头，嘴里全是血。

　　“在瓦格·赫特手下，处理断肢是家常便饭，他走到哪里，哪里的人就缺胳膊断腿。”

　　科本倒挺面善，詹姆心想，他身材高瘦，语气柔和，一双褐眼透着暖意。“你身为学士，干嘛和勇士团混在一起？”

　　“学城剥夺了我的颈链。”科本放下针线，“您眼睛上方的伤也要处理，发炎得很厉害。”

　　詹姆闭上眼睛，任科本用酒进行治疗。“把战争经过告诉我，”科本既管理赫伦堡的乌鸦，自对消息一清二楚。

　　“史坦尼斯大人遭遇火攻和您父亲的偷袭，一败涂地。据说小恶魔让整条大江都烧了起来。”

　　詹姆仿佛亲眼目睹绿焰爬上晴空，高过最雄伟的塔楼，街市上着火的群众在惨叫。我先前不是梦见了这番场景么？真有趣，但他笑不出来。

　　“请试着睁眼。”科本用温水浸湿麻布，轻揩眼脸上干结的血块，肿没有消，但詹姆发现右眼总算能支开一半了。学士凑过来，“这伤怎么来的？”他问。

　　“某位妞儿的礼物。”

　　“一次失败的求爱，大人？”

　　“这位妞儿身材比我壮，长得比你丑。你快帮她治治，她腿上还有打斗中我刺的伤。”

　　“我会照料她，她是您什么人？”

　　“我的保护人。”詹姆荒诞得想笑。

　　“我留给您一些草药，混进酒里，以止住高烧。明天再用水蛭吸干眼脸上的淤血。”

　　“水蛭，可爱的动物。”

　　“波顿大人最喜欢水蛭，”科本谨慎地说。

　　“对，”詹姆道，“看得出来。”

CATELYN
Let the kings of winter have their cold crypt under the earth, Catelyn thought. The Tullys drew their strength from the river, and it was to the river they returned when their lives had run their course.
They laid Lord Hoster in a slender wooden boat, clad in shining silver armor, plate-and-mail. His cloak was spread beneath him, rippling blue and red. His surcoat was divided blue-and-red as well. A trout, scaled in silver and bronze, crowned the crest of the greathelm they placed beside his head. On his chest they placed a painted wooden sword, his fingers curled about its hilt. Mail gauntlets hid his wasted hands, and made him look almost strong again. His massive oak-and-iron shield was set by his left side, his hunting horn to his right. The rest of the boat was filled with driftwood and kindling and scraps of parchment, and stones to make it heavy in the water. His banner flew from the prow, the leaping trout of Riverrun.
Seven were chosen to push the funereal boat to the water, in honor of the seven faces of god. Robb was one, Lord Hoster’s liege lord. With him were the Lords Bracken, Blackwood, Vance, and Mallister, Ser Marq Piper . . . and Lame Lothar Frey, who had come down from the Twins with the answer they had awaited. Forty soldiers rode in his escort, commanded by Walder Rivers, the eldest of Lord Walder’s bastard brood, a stern, grey-haired man with a formidable reputation as a warrior. Their arrival, coming within hours of Lord Hoster’s passing, had sent Edmure into a rage. “Walder Frey should be flayed and quartered!” he’d shouted. “He sends a cripple and a bastard to treat with us, tell me there is no insult meant by that.”
“I have no doubt that Lord Walder chose his envoys with care,” she replied. “It was a peevish thing to do, a petty sort of revenge, but remember who we are dealing with. The Late Lord Frey, Father used to call him. The man is ill-tempered, envious, and above all prideful.”
Blessedly, her son had shown better sense than her brother. Robb had greeted the Freys with every courtesy, found barracks space for the escort, and quietly asked Ser Desmond Grell to stand aside so Lothar might have the honor of helping to send Lord Hoster on his last voyage. He has learned a rough wisdom beyond his years, my son. House Frey might have abandoned the King in the North, but the Lord of the Crossing remained the most powerful of Riverrun’s bannermen, and Lothar was here in his stead.
The seven launched Lord Hoster from the water stair, wading down the steps as the portcullis was winched upward. Lothar Frey, a soft-bodied portly man, was breathing heavily as they shoved the boat out into the current. Jason Mallister and Tytos Blackwood, at the prow, stood chest deep in the river to guide it on its way.
Catelyn watched from the battlements, waiting and watching as she had waited and watched so many times before. Beneath her, the swift wild Tumblestone plunged like a spear into the side of the broad Red Fork, its blue-white current churning the muddy red-brown flow of the greater river. A morning mist hung over the water, as thin as gossamer and the wisps of memory.
Bran and Rickon will be waiting for him, Catelyn thought sadly, as once I used to wait.
The slim boat drifted out from under the red stone arch of the Water Gate, picking up speed as it was caught in the headlong rush of the Tumblestone and pushed out into the tumult where the waters met. As the boat emerged from beneath the high sheltering walls of the castle, its square sail filled with wind, and Catelyn saw sunlight flashing on her father’s helm. Lord Hoster Tully’s rudder held true, and he sailed serenely down the center of the channel, into the rising sun.
“Now,” her uncle urged. Beside him, her brother Edmure—Lord Edmure now in truth, and how long would that take to grow used to?—nocked an arrow to his bowstring. His squire held a brand to its point. Edmure waited until the flame caught, then lifted the great bow, drew the string to his ear, and let fly. With a deep thrum, the arrow sped upward. Catelyn followed its flight with her eyes and heart, until it plunged into the water with a soft hiss, well astern of Lord Hoster’s boat.
Edmure cursed softly. “The wind,” he said, pulling a second arrow. “Again.” The brand kissed the oil-soaked rag behind the arrowhead, the flames went licking up, Edmure lifted, pulled, and released. High and far the arrow flew. Too far. It vanished in the river a dozen yards beyond the boat, its fire winking out in an instant. A flush was creeping up Edmure’s neck, red as his beard. “Once more,” he commanded, taking a third arrow from the quiver. He is as tight as his bowstring, Catelyn thought.
Ser Brynden must have seen the same thing. “Let me, my lord,” he offered.
“I can do it,” Edmure insisted. He let them light the arrow, jerked the bow up, took a deep breath, drew back the arrow. For a long moment he seemed to hesitate while the fire crept up the shaft, crackling. Finally he released. The arrow flashed up and up, and finally curved down again, falling, falling . . . and hissing past the billowing sail.
A narrow miss, no more than a handspan, and yet a miss. “The Others take it!” her brother swore. The boat was almost out of range, drifting in and out among the river mists. Wordless, Edmure thrust the bow at his uncle.
“Swiftly,” Ser Brynden said, He nocked an arrow, held it steady for the brand, drew and released before Catelyn was quite sure that the fire had caught . . . but as the shot rose, she saw the flames trailing through the air, a pale orange pennon. The boat had vanished in the mists. Falling, the flaming arrow was swallowed up as well . . . but only for a heartbeat. Then, sudden as hope, they saw the red bloom flower. The sails took fire, and the fog glowed pink and orange. For a moment Catelyn saw the outline of the boat clearly, wreathed in leaping flames.
Watch for me, little cat, she could hear him whisper.
Catelyn reached out blindly, groping for her brother’s hand, but Edmure had moved away, to stand alone on the highest point of the battlements. Her uncle Brynden took her hand instead, twining his strong fingers through hers. Together they watched the little fire grow smaller as the burning boat receded in the distance.
And then it was gone . . . drifting downriver still, perhaps, or broken up and sinking. The weight of his armor would carry Lord Hoster down to rest in the soft mud of the riverbed, in the watery halls where the Tullys held eternal court, with schools of fish their last attendants.
No sooner had the burning boat vanished from their sight than Edmure walked off. Catelyn would have liked to embrace him, if only for a moment; to sit for an hour or a night or the turn of a moon to speak of the dead and mourn. Yet she knew as well as he that this was not the time; he was Lord of Riverrun now, and his knights were falling in around him, murmuring condolences and promises of fealty, walling him off from something as small as a sister’s grief. Edmure listened, hearing none of the words.
“It is no disgrace to miss your shot,” her uncle told her quietly. “Edmure should hear that. The day my own lord father went downriver, Hoster missed as well.”
“With his first shaft.” Catelyn had been too young to remember, but Lord Hoster had often told the tale. “His second found the sail.” She sighed. Edmure was not as strong as he seemed. Their father’s death had been a mercy when it came at last, but even so her brother had taken it hard.
Last night in his cups he had broken down and wept, full of regrets for things undone and words unsaid. He ought never to have ridden off to fight his battle on the fords, he told her tearfully; he should have stayed at their father’s bedside. “I should have been with him, as you were,” he said. “Did he speak of me at the end? Tell me true, Cat. Did he ask for me?”
Lord Hoster’s last word had been “Tansy,” but Catelyn could not bring herself to tell him that. “He whispered your name,” she lied, and her brother had nodded gratefully and kissed her hand. If he had not tried to drown his grief and guilt, he might have been able to bend a bow, she thought to herself, sighing, but that was something else she dare not say.
The Blackfish escorted her down from the battlements to where Robb stood among his bannermen, his young queen at his side. When he saw her, her son took her silently in his arms.
“Lord Hoster looked as noble as a king, my lady,” murmured Jeyne. “Would that I had been given the chance to know him.”
“And I to know him better,” added Robb.
“He would have wished that too,” said Catelyn. “There were too many leagues between Riverrun and Winterfell.” And too many mountains and rivers and armies between Riverrun and the Eyrie, it would seem. Lysa had made no reply to her letter.
And from King’s Landing came only silence as well. By now she had hoped that Brienne and Ser Cleos would have reached the city with their captive. It might even be that Brienne was on her way back, and the girls with her. Ser Cleos swore he would make the Imp send a raven once the trade was made. He swore it! Ravens did not always win through. Some bowman could have brought the bird down and roasted him for supper. The letter that would have set her heart at ease might even now be lying by the ashes of some campfire beside a pile of raven bones.
Others were waiting to offer Robb their consolations, so Catelyn stood aside patiently while Lord Jason Mallister, the Greatjon, and Ser Rolph Spicer spoke to him each in turn. But when Lothar Frey approached, she gave his sleeve a tug. Robb turned, and waited to hear what Lothar would say.
“Your Grace.” A plump man in his middle thirties, Lothar Frey had close-set eyes, a pointed beard, and dark hair that fell to his shoulders in ringlets. A leg twisted at birth had earned him the name Lame Lothar. He had served as his father’s steward for the past dozen years. “We are loath to intrude upon your grief, but perhaps you might grant us audience tonight?”
“It would be my pleasure,” said Robb. “It was never my wish to sow enmity between us.”
“Nor mine to be the cause of it,” said Queen Jeyne.
Lothar Frey smiled. “I understand, as does my lord father. He instructed me to say that he was young once, and well remembers what it is like to lose one’s heart to beauty.”
Catelyn doubted very much that Lord Walder had said any such thing, or that he had ever lost his heart to beauty. The Lord of the Crossing had outlived seven wives and was now wed to his eighth, but he spoke of them only as bedwarmers and brood mares. Still, the words were fairly spoken, and she could scarce object to the compliment. Nor did Robb. “Your father is most gracious,” he said. “I shall look forward to our talk.”
Lothar bowed, kissed the queen’s hand, and withdrew. By then a dozen others had gathered for a word. Robb spoke with them each, giving a thanks here, a smile there, as needed. Only when the last of them was done did he turn back to Catelyn. “There is something we must speak of. Will you walk with me?”
“As you command, Your Grace.”
“That wasn’t a command, Mother.”
“It will be my pleasure, then.” Her son had treated her kindly enough since returning to Riverrun, yet he seldom sought her out. If he was more comfortable with his young queen, she could scarcely blame him. Jeyne makes him smile, and I have nothing to share with him but grief. He seemed to enjoy the company of his bride’s brothers, as well; young Rollam his squire and Ser Raynald his standard-bearer. They are standing in the boots of those he’s lost, Catelyn realized when she watched them together. Rollam has taken Bran’s place, and Raynald is part Theon and part Jon Snow. Only with the Westerlings did she see Robb smile, or hear him laugh like the boy he was. To the others he was always the King in the North, head bowed beneath the weight of the crown even when his brows were bare.
Robb kissed his wife gently, promised to see her in their chambers, and went off with his lady mother. His steps led them toward the godswood. “Lothar seemed amiable, that’s a hopeful sign. We need the Freys.”
“That does not mean we shall have them.”
He nodded, and there was glumness to his face and a slope to his shoulders that made her heart go out to him. The crown is crushing him, she thought. He wants so much to be a good king, to be brave and honorable and clever, but the weight is too much for a boy to bear. Robb was doing all he could, yet still the blows kept falling, one after the other, relentless. When they brought him word of the battle at Duskendale, where Lord Randyll Tarly had shattered Robett Glover and Ser Helman Tallhart, he might have been expected to rage. Instead he’d stared in dumb disbelief and said, “Duskendale, on the narrow sea? Why would they go to Duskendale?” He’d shook his head, bewildered. “A third of my foot, lost for Duskendale?”
“The ironmen have my castle and now the Lannisters hold my brother,” Galbart Glover said, in a voice thick with despair. Robett Glover had survived the battle, but had been captured near the kingsroad not long after.
“Not for long,” her son promised. “I will offer them Martyn Lannister in exchange. Lord Tywin will have to accept, for his brother’s sake.” Martyn was Ser Kevan’s son, a twin to the Willem that Lord Karstark had butchered. Those murders still haunted her son, Catelyn knew. He had tripled the guard around Martyn, but still feared for his safety.
“I should have traded the Kingslayer for Sansa when you first urged it,” Robb said as they walked the gallery. “If I’d offered to wed her to the Knight of Flowers, the Tyrells might be ours instead of Joffrey’s. I should have thought of that.”
“Your mind was on your battles, and rightly so. Even a king cannot think of everything.”
“Battles,” muttered Robb as he led her out beneath the trees. “I have won every battle, yet somehow I’m losing the war.” He looked up, as if the answer might be written on the sky. “The ironmen hold Winterfell, and Moat Cailin too. Father’s dead, and Bran and Rickon, maybe Arya. And now your father too.”
She could not let him despair. She knew the taste of that draught too well herself. “My father has been dying for a long time. You could not have changed that. You have made mistakes, Robb, but what king has not? Ned would have been proud of you.”
“Mother, there is something you must know.”
Catelyn’s heart skipped a beat. This is something he hates. Something he dreads to tell me. All she could think of was Brienne and her mission. “Is it the Kingslayer?”
“No. It’s Sansa.”
She’s dead, Catelyn thought at once. Brienne failed, Jaime is dead, and Cersei has killed my sweet girl in retribution. For a moment she could barely speak. “Is . . . is she gone, Robb?”
“Gone?” He looked startled. “Dead? Oh, Mother, no, not that, they haven’t harmed her, not that way, only . . . a bird came last night, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell you, not until your father was sent to his rest.” Robb took her hand. “They married her to Tyrion Lannister.”
Catelyn’s fingers clutched at his. “The Imp.”
“Yes.”
“He swore to trade her for his brother,” she said numbly. “Sansa and Arya both. We would have them back if we returned his precious Jaime, he swore it before the whole court. How could he marry her, after saying that in sight of gods and men?”
“He’s the Kingslayer’s brother. Oathbreaking runs in their blood.” Robb’s fingers brushed the pommel of his sword. “If I could I’d take his ugly head off. Sansa would be a widow then, and free. There’s no other way that I can see. They made her speak the vows before a septon and don a crimson cloak.”
Catelyn remembered the twisted little man she had seized at the crossroads inn and carried all the way to the Eyrie. “I should have let Lysa push him out her Moon Door. My poor sweet Sansa . . . why would anyone do this to her?”
“For Winterfell,” Robb said at once. “With Bran and Rickon dead, Sansa is my heir. If anything should happen to me . . . ”
She clutched tight at his hand. “Nothing will happen to you. Nothing. I could not stand it. They took Ned, and your sweet brothers. Sansa is married, Arya is lost, my father’s dead . . . if anything befell you, I would go mad, Robb. You are all I have left. You are all the north has left.”
“I am not dead yet, Mother.”
Suddenly Catelyn was full of dread. “Wars need not be fought until the last drop of blood.” Even she could hear the desperation in her voice. “You would not be the first king to bend the knee, nor even the first Stark.”
His mouth tightened. “No. Never.”
“There is no shame in it. Balon Greyjoy bent the knee to Robert when his rebellion failed. Torrhen Stark bent the knee to Aegon the Conqueror rather than see his army face the fires.”
“Did Aegon kill King Torrhen’s father?” He pulled his hand from hers. “Never, I said.”
He is playing the boy now, not the king. “The Lannisters do not need the north. They will require homage and hostages, no more . . . and the Imp will keep Sansa no matter what we do, so they have their hostage. The ironmen will prove a more implacable enemy, I promise you. To have any hope of holding the north, the Greyjoys must leave no single sprig of House Stark alive to dispute their right. Theon’s murdered Bran and Rickon, so now all they need do is kill you . . . and Jeyne, yes. Do you think Lord Balon can afford to let her live to bear you heirs?”
Robb’s face was cold. “Is that why you freed the Kingslayer? To make a peace with the Lannisters?”
“I freed Jaime for Sansa’s sake . . . and Arya’s, if she still lives. You know that. But if I nurtured some hope of buying peace as well, was that so ill?”
“Yes,” he said. “The Lannisters killed my father.”
“Do you think I have forgotten that?”
“I don’t know. Have you?”
Catelyn had never struck her children in anger, but she almost struck Robb then. It was an effort to remind herself how frightened and alone he must feel. “You are King in the North, the choice is yours. I only ask that you think on what I’ve said. The singers make much of kings who die valiantly in battle, but your life is worth more than a song. To me at least, who gave it to you.” She lowered her head. “Do I have your leave to go?”
“Yes.” He turned away and drew his sword. What he meant to do with it, she could not say. There was no enemy there, no one to fight. Only her and him, amongst tall trees and fallen leaves. There are fights no sword can win, Catelyn wanted to tell him, but she feared the king was deaf to such words.
Hours later, she was sewing in her bedchamber when young Rollam Westerling came running with the summons to supper. Good, Catelyn thought, relieved. She had not been certain that her son would want her there, after their quarrel. “A dutiful squire,” she said to Rollam gravely. Bran would have been the same.
If Robb seemed cool at table and Edmure surly, Lame Lothar made up for them both. He was the model of courtesy, reminiscing warmly about Lord Hoster, offering Catelyn gentle condolences on the loss of Bran and Rickon, praising Edmure for the victory at Stone Mill, and thanking Robb for the “swift sure justice” he had meted out to Rickard Karstark. Lothar’s bastard brother Walder Rivers was another matter; a harsh sour man with old Lord Walder’s suspicious face, he spoke but seldom and devoted most of his attention to the meat and mead that was set before him.
When all the empty words were said, the queen and the other Westerlings excused themselves, the remains of the meal were cleared away, and Lothar Frey cleared his throat. “Before we turn to the business that brings us here, there is another matter,” he said solemnly. “A grave matter, I fear. I had hoped it would not fall to me to bring you these tidings, but it seems I must. My lord father has had a letter from his grandsons.”
Catelyn had been so lost in grief for her own that she had almost forgotten the two Freys she had agreed to foster. No more, she thought. Mother have mercy, how many more blows can we bear? Somehow she knew the next words she heard would plunge yet another blade into her heart. “The grandsons at Winterfell?” she made herself ask. “My wards?”
“Walder and Walder, yes. But they are presently at the Dreadfort, my lady. I grieve to tell you this, but there has been a battle. Winterfell is burned.”
“Burned?” Robb’s voice was incredulous.
“Your northern lords tried to retake it from the ironmen. When Theon Greyjoy saw that his prize was lost, he put the castle to the torch.”
“We have heard naught of any battle,” said Ser Brynden.
“My nephews are young, I grant you, but they were there. Big Walder wrote the letter, though his cousin signed as well. It was a bloody bit of business, by their account. Your castellan was slain. Ser Rodrik, was that his name?”
“Ser Rodrik Cassel,” said Catelyn numbly. That dear brave loyal old soul. She could almost see him, tugging on his fierce white whiskers. “What of our other people?”
“The ironmen put many of them to the sword, I fear.”
Wordless with rage, Robb slammed a fist down on the table and turned his face away, so the Freys would not see his tears.
But his mother saw them. The world grows a little darker every day. Catelyn’s thoughts went to Ser Rodrik’s little daughter Beth, to tireless Maester Luwin and cheerful Septon Chayle, Mikken at the forge, Farlen and Palla in the kennels, Old Nan and simple Hodor. Her heart was sick. “Please, not all.”
“No,” said Lame Lothar. “The women and children hid, my nephews Walder and Walder among them. With Winterfell in ruins, the survivors were carried back to the Dreadfort by this son of Lord Bolton’s.”
“Bolton’s son?” Robb’s voice was strained.
Walder Rivers spoke up. “A bastard son, I believe.”
“Not Ramsay Snow? Does Lord Roose have another bastard?” Robb scowled. “This Ramsay was a monster and a murderer, and he died a coward. Or so I was told.”
“I cannot speak to that. There is much confusion in any war. Many false reports. All I can tell you is that my nephews claim it was this bastard son of Bolton’s who saved the women of Winterfell, and the little ones. They are safe at the Dreadfort now, all those who remain.”
“Theon,” Robb said suddenly. “What happened to Theon Greyjoy? Was he slain?”
Lame Lothar spread his hands. “That I cannot say, Your Grace. Walder and Walder made no mention of his fate. Perhaps Lord Bolton might know, if he has had word from this son of his.”
Ser Brynden said, “We will be certain to ask him.”
“You are all distraught, I see. I am sorry to have brought you such fresh grief. Perhaps we should adjourn until the morrow. Our business can wait until you have composed yourselves . . . ”
“No,” said Robb, “I want the matter settled.”
Her brother Edmure nodded. “Me as well. Do you have an answer to our offer, my lord?”
“I do.” Lothar smiled. “My lord father bids me tell Your Grace that he will agree to this new marriage alliance between our houses and renew his fealty to the King in the North, upon the condition that the King’s Grace apologize for the insult done to House Frey, in his royal person, face to face.”
An apology was a small enough price to pay, but Catelyn misliked this petty condition of Lord Walder’s at once.
“I am pleased,” Robb said cautiously. “It was never my wish to cause this rift between us, Lothar. The Freys have fought valiantly for my cause. I would have them at my side once more.”
“You are too kind, Your Grace. As you accept these terms, I am then instructed to offer Lord Tully the hand of my sister, the Lady Roslin, a maid of sixteen years. Roslin is my lord father’s youngest daughter by Lady Bethany of House Rosby, his sixth wife. She has a gentle nature and a gift for music.”
Edmure shifted in his seat. “Might not it be better if I first met—”
“You’ll meet when you’re wed,” said Walder Rivers curtly. “Unless Lord Tully feels a need to count her teeth first?”
Edmure kept his temper. “I will take your word so far as her teeth are concerned, but it would be pleasant if I might gaze upon her face before I espoused her.”
“You must accept her now, my lord,” said Walder Rivers. “Else my father’s offer is withdrawn.”
Lame Lothar spread his hands. “My brother has a soldier’s bluntness, but what he says is true. It is my lord father’s wish that this marriage take place at once.”
“At once?” Edmure sounded so unhappy that Catelyn had the unworthy thought that perhaps he had been entertaining notions of breaking the betrothal after the fighting was done.
“Has Lord Walder forgotten that we are fighting a war?” Brynden Blackfish asked sharply.
“Scarcely,” said Lothar. “That is why he insists that the marriage take place now, ser. Men die in war, even men who are young and strong. What would become of our alliance should Lord Edmure fall before he took Roslin to bride? And there is my father’s age to consider as well. He is past ninety and not like to see the end of this struggle. It would put his noble heart at peace if he could see his dear Roslin safely wed before the gods take him, so he might die with the knowledge that the girl had a strong husband to cherish and protect her.”
We all want Lord Walder to die happy. Catelyn was growing less and less comfortable with this arrangement. “My brother has just lost his own father. He needs time to mourn.”
“Roslin is a cheerful girl,” said Lothar. “She may be the very thing Lord Edmure needs to help him through his grief.”
“And my grandfather has come to mislike lengthy betrothals,” the bastard Walder Rivers added. “I cannot imagine why.”
Robb gave him a chilly look. “I take your meaning, Rivers. Pray excuse us.”
“As Your Grace commands.” Lame Lothar rose, and his bastard brother helped him hobble from the room.
Edmure was seething. “They’re as much as saying that my promise is worthless. Why should I let that old weasel choose my bride? Lord Walder has other daughters besides this Roslin. Granddaughters as well. I should be offered the same choice you were. I’m his liege lord, he should be overjoyed that I’m willing to wed any of them.”
“He is a proud man, and we’ve wounded him,” said Catelyn.
“The Others take his pride! I will not be shamed in my own hall. My answer is no.”
Robb gave him a weary look. “I will not command you. Not in this. But if you refuse, Lord Frey will take it for another slight, and any hope of putting this arights will be gone.”
“You cannot know that,” Edmure insisted. “Frey has wanted me for one of his daughters since the day I was born. He will not let a chance like this slip between those grasping fingers of his. When Lothar brings him our answer, he’ll come wheedling back and accept a betrothal . . . and to a daughter of my choosing.”
“Perhaps, in time,” said Brynden Blackfish. “But can we wait, while Lothar rides back and forth with offers and counters?”
Robb’s hands curled into fists. “I must get back to the north. My brothers dead, Winterfell burned, my smallfolk put to the sword . . . the gods only know what this bastard of Bolton’s is about, or whether Theon is still alive and on the loose. I can’t sit here waiting for a wedding that might or might not happen.”
“It must happen,” said Catelyn, though not gladly. “I have no more wish to suffer Walder Frey’s insults and complaints than you do, Brother, but I see little choice here. Without this wedding, Robb’s cause is lost. Edmure, we must accept.”
“We must accept?” he echoed peevishly. “I don’t see you offering to become the ninth Lady Frey, Cat.”
“The eighth Lady Frey is still alive and well, so far as I know,” she replied. Thankfully. Otherwise it might well have come to that, knowing Lord Walder.
The Blackfish said, “I am the last man in the Seven Kingdoms to tell anyone who they must wed, Nephew. Nonetheless, you did say something of making amends for your Battle of the Fords.”
“I had in mind a different sort of amends. Single combat with the Kingslayer. Seven years of penace as a begging brother. Swimming the sunset sea with my legs tied.” When he saw that no one was smiling, Edmure threw up his hands. “The Others take you all! Very well, I’ll wed the wench. As amends.”

第三十章 琼恩



　　野人们牵马出洞时，白灵已经不见。他找得到黑城堡吗？琼恩吸吸晨间清爽的空气，留给自己一线希望。东方的天空，地平线处是粉红，以上渐化为浅灰。拂晓神剑仍悬于南，剑柄那颗明亮的白星如黎明的钻石一般闪耀，下方阴暗的黑灰森林慢慢呈现出绿、金黄、红、褐等各种色彩。在士卒松、橡树、岑树、哨兵树和鱼梁木上方，矗立着绝境长城，班驳的尘土与污垢之下是闪光的白色冰墙。
　　马格拿派十几个人骑马往东，十几个人往西，爬上能找到的最高点，以观察树林里和高墙上是否藏有游骑兵。一旦发现守夜人出没，瑟恩人就会吹响镶青铜的战号示警。其余野人随贾尔行动，琼恩和耶哥蕊特也包括在内。这将是年轻掠袭者的荣耀时刻。

　　人们常说长城足有七百尺高，但贾尔选的地点可谓既高且低。在他们面前，冰墙自林间笔直升起，仿如无垠峭壁，顶上是风蚀的城垛，粗看上去离头顶得有八百尺，甚至九百尺。随着逐渐靠近，琼恩意识到其中的欺骗性：当年筑城者布兰登将巨大的基石依山设置，能放哪里就放哪里，而此处峰峦起伏，高度不一。

　　班扬叔叔说，长城在黑城堡以东是一把剑，以西则是一条蛇。果真如此。只见冰墙掠过一座巨山峰，接着沉入谷底，然后爬上一道匕首般锋利、绵延一里格多的花岗岩悬崖，沿参差不齐的山顶前进，随后又沉入更深的谷沟，接着再度爬升，目力所及，可见它从一山跃向另一山，深入西方腹地。

　　贾尔企图袭击沿着山脊的一段冰墙。此处尽管墙顶高耸，离森林有八百尺，但其中三分之一强是泥土岩石而非冰雪，坡度对马匹来说太陡，比先民拳峰还难爬，但相对于完全垂直的墙面，人登上去还是相对容易的。况且山脊上布满树木，提供了很好的遮蔽。从前，黑衣兄弟们每天提斧出去砍伐越界的林木，决不让森林延伸到长城以北半里之内，但如今人手匮乏，这儿的树直长到冰墙底部。

　　今天将是潮湿而寒冷的一天，而在长城成吨的坚冰下则更加潮湿，更加寒冷。越是接近，队伍中的瑟恩人越是踌躇。他们从没见过长城，连马格拿都没见过，琼恩意识到，它的庞大令他们惊恐。在七大王国，人们说长城是世界的尽头。对他们而言又何尝不是？只不过说法取决于所处的位置罢了。

　　我呢？我究竟处在哪边？琼恩不知道。要跟耶哥蕊特厮守，就得全心全意当野人；如果丢下她不管，继续履行职责，也许会连累对方被马格拿掏心；而若把她带走……假设她愿意走，这点尚远不能确定……也不可能带回黑城堡，跟弟兄们一起生活。在七大王国，逃兵和野人走到哪里都不受欢迎。早知道我们当初就去找詹德尔的子孙。但他们更可能吃了我们……

　　长城丝毫没有吓倒贾尔的部下。他们每人都曾亲手越过长城。大家在山脊底部下马，贾尔喊了若干名字，便有十一人出列聚在周围。他们都很年轻，最大的不超过二十五岁，有两人甚至比琼恩还小。但个个精瘦结实，强健的模样让他想起石蛇——遭遇叮当衫穷追时，断掌派他徒步离开，不知这位弟兄此刻身在何方呢？

　　在长城的阴影里，野人们作好准备，将卷卷粗麻绳绕在一侧肩头，斜挎过胸，然后绑上奇特的软鹿皮靴，靴子顶端有突出的尖刺——贾尔和另两人的是铁制，有一些是铜制，但多数是参差不齐的骨头。小石锤挂在臀间，一个装满铁钉、骨钉乃至兽角钉的皮袋悬于另一侧，冰斧则拿在手上，它是把磨尖鹿角用兽皮绑在木柄上制成。十一名攀登者分成三组，每组四人，贾尔本人亲自上阵，凑足十二个。“曼斯答应给爬上去的第一组每人一把新剑，”他告诉他们，呼吸在冷气中结霜，“那可是南方人的城堡里铸的钢剑。他还会把你们的名字编入歌谣。一个自由民还能要求什么呢？来吧，往上爬呀，让异鬼带走落在最后的懦夫！”

　　让异鬼把你们全带走，琼恩心想。他看他们爬上山脊顶端的陡坡，消失在树下。这不是野人第一次攀登长城，甚至不是一百零一次。一年里，巡逻队总有两三回无意中撞上攀爬者，发现坠落的残破尸体就更常见了。沿东海岸，掠袭者们建造小船，偷溜过东海望，进入海豹湾。在西方群山，他们潜入阴暗的大峡谷深处，绕过影子塔。但在中间，逾越长城的惟一方法是翻墙，许多掠袭者都曾干过。活着回来的却很少，他带着一丝阴郁的骄傲想。攀登之前，掠袭者们必将座骑抛下，他们中许多缺乏经验的新手过去后就立刻抢夺马匹，引发争执，消息传出，守夜人军团往往在他们来不及带着战利品和偷的女人回去之前，就将其逮捕绞首正法。贾尔不会犯这种错误，琼恩知道，但斯迪就说不准了。马格拿是君主，不是掠袭者。他不懂游戏规则。

　　“瞧，他们在那儿，”耶哥蕊特说。琼恩抬眼，看到第一个攀登者出现在树梢之上。是贾尔。他找到一棵斜倚长城的哨兵树，便带组员顺势而上。一个不错的开局。我们不该让树延伸到此。他们已登了三百尺，却还根本没碰到冰墙呢。

　　他注视着那精悍的野人小心翼翼地从树顶移向城墙，用冰斧短促有力地劈出一个供手抓握的口子，然后荡过去。他腰上的绳索连着第二个人，那人仍在缓缓地往树顶爬。贾尔一步步向高处前进，找不到落脚点时，就用尖刺靴踢出一个来。等他到达哨兵树上方十尺，便在一个狭窄的冰台停下，把斧子挂到腰带，取出锤子，将一根铁钉敲入一道裂缝中。第二个人也移到了城墙上，同时，第三个人正爬上树顶。

　　另两组没有位置合适的树木助阵，等不耐烦的瑟恩人很快就开始怀疑，认为他们迷路了。当他们的领头人出现在视野中时，贾尔那组已爬了八十尺。各组间相隔二十码。贾尔的四个人居中，右边那组由山羊格里格带领，他长长的金发辫极易辨认，左边那组的领头人非常瘦，名叫埃洛克。

　　“太慢了，”马格拿一边看他们缓缓往上爬，一边大声抱怨，“他忘记那些乌鸦了吗？爬快点，否则我们会被发现的。”

　　琼恩强迫自己保持沉默。他对风声峡仍记忆忧新，月光下跟石蛇一起攀爬的经历让他至今心有余悸。那天晚上，他的心好几次提到了嗓子眼，到最后，手腿齐疼，指头几乎冻僵了。那还是石头，不是冰。石头是固体，而冰再怎么也不可信赖。今天的长城在“哭泣”，也许攀登者手上的热量就足以融化冰墙。巨大冰块内部也许冻得跟石头无异，但表面滑溜，丝丝绢流滴淌而下，寒风更吹出无数小孔。不管野人们其他方面如何，他们的确勇敢。

　　但他心中仍暗暗希望斯迪的担忧是正确的。若诸神慈悲，一支正好经过的巡逻队就能制止这一切。“再坚固的墙也不能保证高枕无忧，”从前在临冬城上散步时，父亲曾教诲他，“关键取决于人。”野人也许有一百二十个，但四个卫兵就足以打发他们，若干箭失，一桶石头，这次袭击就得划上句号。

　　但卫兵没有出现，别说四人，连一个都没有。太阳向天空爬，野人们往墙上登。到得中午，贾尔那组仍遥遥领先，但他们碰上一片很糟糕的冰。贾尔将绳子绕在风蚀而成的突起上，利用它来支撑重量，不料整个突出部分却突然崩溃，带他一起坠落。人头大的冰块向下面三个人砸来，他们死命抓牢，而那些钉子也撑住了。贾尔在半空中停顿，悬于绳子尽头。

　　等他们从这次灾难中恢复，山羊格里格已几乎赶上。埃洛克的四个人仍远远落在后面。他们攀爬的那部分，表面看上去平整光滑，毫无杂质，覆着一层融化的冰，阳光到处湿乎乎的闪耀光芒。格里格的那部分看起来颜色更深，有较多明显的纹理；冰与冰互相重叠时，若接合不完美，就会产生长而狭窄的平台，及各种裂纹瑕隙，甚至还有竖直的管道，经由风水侵蚀，里面的空间大得足以躲进一个人。

　　贾尔很快让他的人继续前进，他和格里格的组几乎并肩而行，埃洛克那组则落后五十尺。在鹿角斧的劈砍之下，阵阵闪烁的冰晶瀑布倾泻到下面树林里。石锤将铁钉深敲入冰里，作为绳子的支撑点，但爬了一半不到，铁钉就用完了，之后改用角钉和磨尖的骨头。人们一次一次又一次用尖刺靴去踢坚硬牢固的冰，以凿出落脚点来。到第四个钟头，琼恩估计他们的腿已经麻痹了。还能支持多久呢？他跟马格拿一样，一边不安地注视，一边焦急地聆听远处是否有瑟恩人的号角吹响。号角一直沉默，没有守夜人的踪影。

　　爬到第六个钟头，贾尔又超到山羊格里格前面，他的人正将差距拉开。“曼斯的宠物迫不及待想要剑咧，”马格拿遮着眼睛说。太阳高悬在空中，从下往上观之，冰墙上部三分之一是水晶般的蓝，反光如此绚烂，刺得眼睛发疼。贾尔和格里格手下的八人都位于耀眼的光芒中，看不真切，只有埃洛克的那组仍在阴影下。他们在五百尺的高度不再往上爬，而是一点一点横移，向一根竖直管道前进。正当琼恩注视着他们缓缓挪移时，突然传来一阵响动——如天崩地裂，似乎冰墙在抖，然后一声惊呼。空中满是冰晶、尖叫和坠落的人体，一块一尺厚五十尺见方的冰从墙面上脱落，一路翻滚、碎裂、轰鸣，抹去前方的一切，直落到山脚下。冰块旋转着掠过树林，滚下山坡。琼恩忙抓住耶哥蕊特，将她拉倒，用身体掩护。一个瑟恩人脸上被一块冰砸中，断了鼻子。

　　等他们再度抬头，贾尔那组已不见踪影。人，绳索，钉子全没了，六百尺以上一片空旷。就在攀登者们片刻之前附着的地方，墙面上有个疤痕，内层的冰平滑洁白，像抛光的大理石般在阳光下闪耀。下方很远处，有滩淡淡的红色污渍，那是被摔碎的人。

　　长城会保护自己，琼恩一边想，一边将耶哥蕊特拉起来。

　　他们在一棵树上发现了贾尔，他被断裂的树枝刺穿，身上的绳索仍连着其他三人——皆浑身骨头碎裂，躺在他下方。其中一个仍活着，但腿、脊椎和大部分肋骨都不能用了。“慈悲，”看见他们，他说。一个瑟恩人用大石锤砸扁了他的脑袋。马格拿发号施令，他的人开始搭建柴堆。

　　山羊格里格到达墙顶时，死者已开始焚烧。等埃洛克四人跟他们汇合，贾尔和他的组员只剩骨头和灰烬。

　　此时太阳已开始下降，攀登者们没有浪费时间。他们解开缠绕在胸前的长麻绳，将其系到一起，把末端扔下。想到要沿绳子爬上五百尺，琼恩满心恐惧，好在曼斯计划周全。贾尔留下的掠袭者们取出一个巨型梯子，作横挡的麻绳有人胳膊那么粗，他们把梯子系在攀登者扔下的绳子上，埃洛克、格里格和他们的部下闷哼着使劲将它拉上去，固定在墙顶，然后再次放下绳索，拉起第二个梯子。一共有五个。

　　等梯子全部就位，马格拿操起古语粗暴地一声喝令，五个瑟恩人便同时出发。即使有梯子，攀爬也不容易。耶哥蕊特看他们挣扎了好长一阵。“我恨长城，”她用生气的语调轻声说，“你能感觉到它有多冷吗？”

　　“它是冰做的嘛，”琼恩指出。

　　“你什么都不懂，琼恩·雪诺，这墙是血筑的。”

　　它没有喝够。日落时分，两个瑟恩人从梯子上摔下去死了，这是今天最后一批牺牲品。琼恩到达墙顶时，已近午夜，群星又出来了，耶哥蕊特浑身颤抖。“我差点掉下去，”她眼含泪水，“两三次……冰墙想把我甩下去，我感觉得到。”一颗泪滴涌出来，顺着她的脸颊缓缓流淌。

　　“没事了，没事了，”琼恩装出确信的样子，“别怕。”他伸出一条胳膊搂她。

　　耶哥蕊特用掌根使劲打他胸口，隔着锁甲、熟皮革和层层羊毛衣，他仍感到疼。“我不怕！你什么都不懂，琼恩·雪诺。”

　　“那你为什么哭？”

　　“不是因为恐惧！”她蛮横地踢腿，撬出一块冰来。“我哭是因为我们没有找到冬之号角。我们打开好几十座坟墓，将无数阴影释放到阳间，却没有找到乔曼那只能让这冷东西倒塌的号角！”

SAMWELL
Up in the loft a woman was giving birth noisily, while below a man lay dying by the fire. Samwell Tarly could not say which frightened him more.
They’d covered poor Bannen with a pile of furs and stoked the fire high, yet all he could say was, “I’m cold. Please. I’m so cold.” Sam was trying to feed him onion broth, but he could not swallow. The broth dribbled over his lips and down his chin as fast as Sam could spoon it in.
“That one’s dead.” Craster eyed the man with indifference as he worried at a sausage. “Be kinder to stick a knife in his chest than that spoon down his throat, you ask me.”
“I don’t recall as we did.” Giant was no more than five feet tall—his true name was Bedwyck—but a fierce little man for all that. “Slayer, did you ask Craster for his counsel?”
Sam cringed at the name, but shook his head. He filled another spoon, brought it to Bannen’s mouth, and tried to ease it between his lips.
“Food and fire,” Giant was saying, “that was all we asked of you. And you grudge us the food.”
“Be glad I didn’t grudge you fire too.” Craster was a thick man made thicker by the ragged smelly sheepskins he wore day and night. He had a broad flat nose, a mouth that drooped to one side, and a missing ear. And though his matted hair and tangled beard might be grey going white, his hard knuckly hands still looked strong enough to hurt. “I fed you what I could, but you crows are always hungry. I’m a godly man, else I would have chased you off. You think I need the likes of him, dying on my floor? You think I need all your mouths, little man?” The wildling spat. “Crows. When did a black bird ever bring good to a man’s hall, I ask you? Never. Never.”
More broth ran from the corner of Bannen’s mouth. Sam dabbed it away with a corner of his sleeve. The ranger’s eyes were open but unseeing. “I’m cold,” he said again, so faintly. A maester might have known how to save him, but they had no maester. Kedge Whiteye had taken Bannen’s mangled foot off nine days past, in a gout of pus and blood that made Sam sick, but it was too little, too late. “I’m so cold,” the pale lips repeated.
About the hall, a ragged score of black brothers squatted on the floor or sat on rough-hewn benches, drinking cups of the same thin onion broth and gnawing on chunks of hardbread. A couple were wounded worse than Bannen, to look at them. Fornio had been delirious for days, and Ser Byam’s shoulder was oozing a foul yellow pus. When they’d left Castle Black, Brown Bernarr had been carrying bags of Myrish fire, mustard salve, ground garlic, tansy, poppy, kingscopper, and other healing herbs. Even sweetsleep, which gave the gift of painless death. But Brown Bernarr had died on the Fist and no one had thought to search for Maester Aemon’s medicines. Hake had known some herblore as well, being a cook, but Hake was also lost. So it was left to the surviving stewards to do what they could for the wounded, which was little enough. At least they are dry here, with a fire to warm them. They need more food, though.
They all needed more food. The men had been grumbling for days. Clubfoot Karl kept saying how Craster had to have a hidden larder, and Garth of Oldtown had begun to echo him, when he was out of the Lord Commander’s hearing. Sam had thought of begging for something more nourishing for the wounded men at least, but he did not have the courage. Craster’s eyes were cold and mean, and whenever the wildling looked his way his hands twitched a little, as if they wanted to curl up into fists. Does he know I spoke to Gilly, the last time we were here? he wondered. Did she tell him I said we’d take her? Did he beat it out of her?
“I’m cold,” said Bannen. “Please. I’m cold.”
For all the heat and smoke in Craster’s hall, Sam felt cold himself. And tired, so tired. He needed sleep, but whenever he closed his eyes he dreamed of blowing snow and dead men shambling toward him with black hands and bright blue eyes.
Up in the loft, Gilly let out a shuddering sob that echoed down the long low windowless hall. “Push,” he heard one of Craster’s older wives tell her. “Harder. Harder. Scream if it helps.” She did, so loud it made Sam wince.
Craster turned his head to glare. “I’ve had a bellyful o’ that shrieking,” he shouted up. “Give her a rag to bite down on, or I’ll come up there and give her a taste o’ my hand.”
He would too, Sam knew. Craster had nineteen wives, but none who’d dare interfere once he started up that ladder. No more than the black brothers had two nights past, when he was beating one of the younger girls. There had been mutterings, to be sure. “He’s killing her,” Garth of Greenaway had said, and Clubfoot Karl laughed and said, “If he don’t want the little sweetmeat he could give her to me.” Black Bernarr cursed in a low angry voice, and Alan of Rosby got up and went outside so he wouldn’t have to hear. “His roof, his rule,” the ranger Ronnel Harclay had reminded them. “Craster’s a friend to the Watch.”
A friend, thought Sam, as he listened to Gilly’s muffled shrieks. Craster was a brutal man who ruled his wives and daughters with an iron hand, but his keep was a refuge all the same. “Frozen crows,” Craster sneered when they straggled in, those few who had survived the snow, the wights, and the bitter cold. “And not so big a flock as went north, neither.” Yet he had given them space on his floor, a roof to keep the snow off, a fire to dry them out, and his wives had brought them cups of hot wine to put some warmth in their bellies. “Bloody crows,” he called them, but he’d fed them too, meager though the fare might be.
We are guests, Sam reminded himself. Gilly is his. His daughter, his wife. His roof, his rule.
The first time he’d seen Craster’s Keep, Gilly had come begging for help, and Sam had lent her his black cloak to conceal her belly when she went to find Jon Snow. Knights are supposed to defend women and children. Only a few of the black brothers were knights, but even so . . . We all say the words, Sam thought. I am the shield that guards the realms of men. A woman was a woman, even a wildling woman. We should help her. We should. It was her child Gilly feared for; she was frightened that it might be a boy. Craster raised up his daughters to be his wives, but there were neither men nor boys to be seen about his compound. Gilly had told Jon that Craster gave his sons to the gods. If the gods are good, they will send her a daughter, Sam prayed.
Up in the loft, Gilly choked back a scream. “That’s it,” a woman said. “Another push, now. Oh, I see his head.”
Hers, Sam thought miserably. Her head, hers.
“Cold,” said Bannen, weakly. “Please. I’m so cold.” Sam put the bowl and spoon aside, tossed another fur across the dying man, put another stick on the fire. Gilly gave a shriek, and began to pant. Craster gnawed on his hard black sausage. He had sausages for himself and his wives, he said, but none for the Watch. “Women,” he complained. “The way they wail . . . I had me a fat sow once birthed a litter of eight with no more’n a grunt.” Chewing, he turned his head to squint contemptuously at Sam. “She was near as fat as you, boy. Slayer.” He laughed.
It was more than Sam could stand. He stumbled away from the firepit, stepping awkwardly over and around the men sleeping and squatting and dying upon the hard-packed earthen floor. The smoke and screams and moans were making him feel faint. Bending his head, he pushed through the hanging deerhide flaps that served Craster for a door and stepped out into the afternoon.
The day was cloudy, but still bright enough to blind him after the gloom of the hall. Some patches of snow weighed down the limbs of surrounding trees and blanketed the gold and russet hills, but fewer than there had been. The storm had passed on, and the days at Craster’s Keep had been . . . well, not warm perhaps, but not so bitter cold. Sam could hear the soft drip-drip-drip of water melting off the icicles that bearded the edge of the thick sod roof. He took a deep shuddering breath and looked around.
To the west Ollo Lophand and Tim Stone were moving through the horselines, feeding and watering the remaining garrons.
Downwind, other brothers were skinning and butchering the animals deemed too weak to go on. Spearmen and archers walked sentry behind the earthen dikes that were Craster’s only defense against whatever hid in the wood beyond, while a dozen firepits sent up thick fingers of blue-grey smoke. Sam could hear the distant echoes of axes at work in the forest, where a work detail was harvesting enough wood to keep the blazes burning all through the night. Nights were the bad time. When it got dark. And cold.
There had been no attacks while they had been at Craster’s, neither wights nor Others. Nor would there be, Craster said. “A godly man got no cause to fear such. I said as much to that Mance Rayder once, when he come sniffing round. He never listened, no more’n you crows with your swords and your bloody fires. That won’t help you none when the white cold comes. Only the gods will help you then. You best get right with the gods.”
Gilly had spoken of the white cold as well, and she’d told them what sort of offerings Craster made to his gods. Sam had wanted to kill him when he heard. There are no laws beyond the Wall, he reminded himself, and Craster’s a friend to the Watch.
A ragged shout went up from behind the daub-and-wattle hall. Sam went to take a look. The ground beneath his feet was a slush of melting snow and soft mud that Dolorous Edd insisted was made of Craster’s shit. It was thicker than shit, though; it sucked at Sam’s boots so hard he felt one pull loose.
Back of a vegetable garden and empty sheepfold, a dozen black brothers were loosing arrows at a butt they’d built of hay and straw. The slender blond steward they called Sweet Donnel had laid a shaft just off the bull’s eye at fifty yards. “Best that, old man,” he said.
“Aye. I will.” Ulmer, stooped and grey-bearded and loose of skin and limb, stepped to the mark and pulled an arrow from the quiver at his waist. In his youth he had been an outlaw, a member of the infamous Kingswood Brotherhood. He claimed he’d once put an arrow through the hand of the White Bull of the Kingsguard to steal a kiss from the lips of a Dornish princess. He had stolen her jewels too, and a chest of golden dragons, but it was the kiss he liked to boast of in his cups.
He notched and drew, all smooth as summer silk, then let fly. His shaft struck the butt an inch inside of Donnel Hill’s. “Will that do, lad?” he asked, stepping back.
“Well enough,” said the younger man, grudgingly. “The crosswind helped you. It blew more strongly when I loosed.”
“You ought to have allowed for it, then. You have a good eye and a steady hand, but you’ll need a deal more to best a man of the kingswood. Fletcher Dick it was who showed me how to bend the bow, and no finer archer ever lived. Have I told you about old Dick, now?”
“Only three hundred times.” Every man at Castle Black had heard Ulmer’s tales of the great outlaw band of yore; of Simon Toyne and the Smiling Knight, Oswyn Longneck the Thrice-Hanged, Wenda the White Fawn, Fletcher Dick, Big Belly Ben, and all the rest. Searching for escape, Sweet Donnel looked about and spied Sam standing in the muck. “Slayer,” he called. “Come, show us how you slew the Other.” He held out the tall yew longbow.
Sam turned red. “It wasn’t an arrow, it was a dagger, dragonglass . . . ” He knew what would happen if he took the bow. He would miss the butt and send the arrow sailing over the dike off into the trees. Then he’d hear the laughter.
“No matter,” said Alan of Rosby, another fine bowman. “We’re all keen to see the Slayer shoot. Aren’t we, lads?”
He could not face them; the mocking smiles, the mean little jests, the contempt in their eyes. Sam turned to go back the way he’d come, but his right foot sank deep in the muck, and when he tried to pull it out his boot came off. He had to kneel to wrench it free, laughter ringing in his ears. Despite all his socks, the snowmelt had soaked through to his toes by the time he made his escape. Useless, he thought miserably. My father saw me true. I have no right to be alive when so many brave men are dead.
Grenn was tending the firepit south of the compound gate, stripped to the waist as he split logs. His face was red with exertion, the sweat steaming off his skin. But he grinned as Sam came chuffing up. “The Others get your boot, Slayer?”
Him too? “It was the mud. Please don’t call me that.”
“Why not?” Grenn sounded honestly puzzled. “It’s a good name, and you came by it fairly.”
Pyp always teased Grenn about being thick as a castle wall, so Sam explained patiently. “It’s just a different way of calling me a coward,” he said, standing on his left leg and wriggling back into his muddy boot. “They’re mocking me, the same way they mock Bedwyck by calling him ‘Giant’.”
“He’s not a giant, though,” said Grenn, “and Paul was never small. Well, maybe when he was a babe at the breast, but not after. You did slay the Other, though, so it’s not the same.”
“I just . . . I never . . . I was scared!”
“No more than me. It’s only Pyp who says I’m too dumb to be frightened. I get as frightened as anyone.” Grenn bent to scoop up a split log, and tossed it into the fire. “I used to be scared of Jon, whenever I had to fight him. He was so quick, and he fought like he meant to kill me.” The green damp wood sat in the flames, smoking before it took fire. “I never said, though. Sometimes I think everyone is just pretending to be brave, and none of us really are. Maybe pretending is how you get brave, I don’t know. Let them call you Slayer, who cares?”
“You never liked Ser Alliser to call you Aurochs.”
“He was saying I was big and stupid.” Grenn scratched at his beard. “If Pyp wanted to call me Aurochs, though, he could. Or you, or Jon. An aurochs is a fierce strong beast, so that’s not so bad, and I am big, and getting bigger. Wouldn’t you rather be Sam the Slayer than Ser Piggy?”
“Why can’t I just be Samwell Tarly?” He sat down heavily on a wet log that Grenn had yet to split. “It was the dragonglass that slew it. Not me, the dragonglass.”
He had told them. He had told them all. Some of them didn’t believe him, he knew. Dirk had shown Sam his dirk and said, “I got iron, what do I want with glass?” Black Bernarr and the three Garths made it plain that they doubted his whole story, and Rolley of Sisterton came right out and said, “More like you stabbed some rustling bushes and it turned out to be Small Paul taking a shit, so you came up with a lie.”
But Dywen listened, and Dolorous Edd, and they made Sam and Grenn tell the Lord Commander. Mormont frowned all through the tale and asked pointed questions, but he was too cautious a man to shun any possible advantage. He asked Sam for all the dragonglass in his pack, though that was little enough. Whenever Sam thought of the cache Jon had found buried beneath the Fist, it made him want to cry. There’d been dagger blades and spearheads, and two or three hundred arrowheads at least. Jon had made daggers for himself, Sam, and Lord Commander Mormont, and he’d given Sam a spearhead, an old broken horn, and some arrowheads. Grenn had taken a handful of arrowheads as well, but that was all.
So now all they had was Mormont’s dagger and the one Sam had given Grenn, plus nineteen arrows and a tall hardwood spear with a black dragonglass head. The sentries passed the spear along from watch to watch, while Mormont had divided the arrows among his best bowmen. Muttering Bill, Garth Greyfeather, Ronnel Harclay, Sweet Donnel Hill, and Alan of Rosby had three apiece, and Ulmer had four. But even if they made every shaft tell, they’d soon be down to fire arrows like all the rest. They had loosed hundreds of fire arrows on the Fist, yet still the wights kept coming.
It will not be enough, Sam thought. Craster’s sloping palisades of mud and melting snow would hardly slow the wights, who’d climbed the much steeper slopes of the Fist to swarm over the ringwall. And instead of three hundred brothers drawn up in disciplined ranks to meet them, the wights would find forty-one ragged survivors, nine too badly hurt to fight. Forty-four had come straggling into Craster’s out of the storm, out of the sixty-odd who’d cut their way free of the Fist, but three of those had died of their wounds, and Bannen would soon make four.
“Do you think the wights are gone?” Sam asked Grenn. “Why don’t they come finish us?”
“They only come when it’s cold.”
“Yes,” said Sam, “but is it the cold that brings the wights, or the wights that bring the cold?”
“Who cares?” Grenn’s axe sent wood chips flying. “They come together, that’s what matters. Hey, now that we know that dragonglass kills them, maybe they won’t come at all. Maybe they’re frightened of us now!”
Sam wished he could believe that, but it seemed to him that when you were dead, fear had no more meaning than pain or love or duty. He wrapped his hands around his legs, sweating under his layers of wool and leather and fur. The dragonglass dagger had melted the pale thing in the woods, true . . . but Grenn was talking like it would do the same to the wights. We don’t know that, he thought. We don’t know anything, really. I wish Jon was here. He liked Grenn, but he couldn’t talk to him the same way. Jon wouldn’t call me Slayer, I know. And I could talk to him about Gilly’s baby. Jon had ridden off with Qhorin Halfhand, though, and they’d had no word of him since. He had a dragonglass dagger too, but did he think to use it? Is he lying dead and frozen in some ravine . . . or worse, is he dead and walking?
He could not understand why the gods would want to take Jon Snow and Bannen and leave him, craven and clumsy as he was. He should have died on the Fist, where he’d pissed himself three times and lost his sword besides. And he would have died in the woods if Small Paul had not come along to carry him. I wish it was all a dream. Then I could wake up. How flne that would be, to wake back on the Fist of the First Men with all his brothers still around him, even Jon and Ghost. Or even better, to wake in Castle Black behind the Wall and go to the common room for a bowl of Three-Finger Hobb’s thick cream of wheat, with a big spoon of butter melting in the middle and a dollop of honey besides. Just the thought of it made his empty stomach rumble.
“Snow.”
Sam glanced up at the sound. Lord Commander Mormont’s raven was circling the fire, beating the air with wide black wings.
“Snow,” the bird cawed. “Snow, snow.”
Wherever the raven went, Mormont soon followed. The Lord Commander emerged from beneath the trees, mounted on his garron between old Dywen and the fox-faced ranger Ronnel Harclay, who’d been raised to Thoren Smallwood’s place. The spearmen at the gate shouted a challenge, and the Old Bear returned a gruff, “Who in seven hells do you think goes there? Did the Others take your eyes?” He rode between the gateposts, one bearing a ram’s skull and the other the skull of a bear, then reined up, raised a fist, and whistled. The raven came flapping down at his call.
“My lord,” Sam heard Ronnel Harclay say, “we have only twenty-two mounts, and I doubt half will reach the Wall.”
“I know that,” Mormont grumbled. “We must go all the same. Craster’s made that plain.” He glanced to the west, where a bank of dark clouds hid the sun. “The gods gave us a respite, but for how long?” Mormont swung down from the saddle, jolting his raven back into the air. He saw Sam then, and bellowed, “Tarly!”
“Me?” Sam got awkwardly to his feet.
“Me?” The raven landed on the old man’s head. “Me?”
“Is your name Tarly? Do you have a brother hereabouts? Yes, you. Close your mouth and come with me.”
“With you?” The words tumbled out in a squeak.
Lord Commander Mormont gave him a withering look. “You are a man of the Night’s Watch. Try not to soil your smallclothes every time I look at you. Come, I said.” His boots made squishing sounds in the mud, and Sam had to hurry to keep up. “I’ve been thinking about this dragonglass of yours.”
“It’s not mine,” Sam said.
“Jon Snow’s dragonglass, then. If dragonglass daggers are what we need, why do we have only two of them? Every man on the Wall should be armed with one the day he says his words.”
“We never knew . . . ”
“We never knew! But we must have known once. The Night’s Watch has forgotten its true purpose, Tarly. You don’t build a wall seven hundred feet high to keep savages in skins from stealing women. The Wall was made to guard the realms of men . . . and not against other men, which is all the wildlings are when you come right down to it. Too many years, Tarly, too many hundreds and thousands of years. We lost sight of the true enemy. And now he’s here, but we don’t know how to fight him. Is dragonglass made by dragons, as the smallfolk like to say?”
“The m-maesters think not,” Sam stammered. “The maesters say it comes from the fires of the earth. They call it obsidian.”
Mormont snorted. “They can call it lemon pie for all I care. If it kills as you claim, I want more of it.”
Sam stumbled. “Jon found more, on the Fist. Hundreds of arrowheads, spearheads as well . . . ”
“So you said. Small good it does us there. To reach the Fist again we’d need to be armed with the weapons we won’t have until we reach the bloody Fist. And there are still the wildlings to deal with. We need to find dragonglass someplace else.”
Sam had almost forgotten about the wildlings, so much had happened since. “The children of the forest used dragonglass blades,” he said. “They’d know where to find obsidian.”
“The children of the forest are all dead,” said Mormont. “The First Men killed half of them with bronze blades, and the Andals finished the job with iron. Why a glass dagger should—”
The Old Bear broke off as Craster emerged from between the deerhide flaps of his door. The wildling smiled, revealing a mouth of brown rotten teeth. “I have a son.”
“Son,” cawed Mormont’s raven. “Son, son, son.”
The Lord Commander’s face was stiff. “I’m glad for you.”
“Are you, now? Me, I’ll be glad when you and yours are gone. Past time, I’m thinking.”
“As soon as our wounded are strong enough . . . ”
“They’re strong as they’re like to get, old crow, and both of us know it. Them that’s dying, you know them too, cut their bloody throats and be done with it. Or leave them, if you don’t have the stomach, and I’ll sort them out myself.”
Lord Commander Mormont bristled. “Thoren Smallwood claimed you were a friend to the Watch—”
“Aye,” said Craster. “I gave you all I could spare, but winter’s coming on, and now the girl’s stuck me with another squalling mouth to feed.”
“We could take him,” someone squeaked.
Craster’s head turned. His eyes narrowed. He spat on Sam’s foot. “What did you say, Slayer?”
Sam opened and closed his mouth. “I . . . I . . . I only meant . . . if you didn’t want him . . . his mouth to feed . . . with winter coming on, we . . . we could take him, and . . . ”
“My son. My blood. You think I’d give him to you crows?”
“I only thought . . . ” You have no sons, you expose them, Gilly said as much, you leave them in the woods, that’s why you have only wives here, and daughters who grow up to be wives.
“Be quiet, Sam,” said Lord Commander Mormont. “You’ve said enough. Too much. Inside.”
“M-my lord—”
“Inside!”
Red-faced, Sam pushed through the deerhides, back into the gloom of the hall. Mormont followed. “How great a fool are you?” the old man said within, his voice choked and angry. “Even if Craster gave us the child, he’d be dead before we reached the Wall. We need a newborn babe to care for near as much as we need more snow. Do you have milk to feed him in those big teats of yours? Or did you mean to take the mother too?”
“She wants to come,” Sam said. “She begged me . . . ”
Mormont raised a hand. “I will hear no more of this, Tarly. You’ve been told and told to stay well away from Craster’s wives.”
“She’s his daughter,” Sam said feebly.
“Go see to Bannen. Now. Before you make me wroth.”
“Yes, my lord.” Sam hurried off quivering.
But when he reached the fire, it was only to find Giant pulling a fur cloak up over Bannen’s head. “He said he was cold,” the small man said. “I hope he’s gone someplace warm, I do.”
“His wound . . . ” said Sam.
“Bugger his wound.” Dirk prodded the corpse with his foot. “His foot was hurt. I knew a man back in my village lost a foot. He lived to nine-and-forty.”
“The cold,” said Sam. “He was never warm.”
“He was never fed,” said Dirk. “Not proper. That bastard Craster starved him dead.”
Sam looked around anxiously, but Craster had not returned to the hall. If he had, things might have grown ugly. The wildling hated bastards, though the rangers said he was baseborn himself, fathered on a wildling woman by some long-dead crow.
“Craster’s got his own to feed,” said Giant. “All these women. He’s given us what he can.”
“Don’t you bloody believe it. The day we leave, he’ll tap a keg o’ mead and sit down to feast on ham and honey. And laugh at us, out starving in the snow. He’s a bloody wildling, is all he is. There’s none o’ them friends of the Watch.” He kicked at Bannen’s corpse. “Ask him if you don’t believe me.”
They burned the ranger’s corpse at sunset, in the fire that Grenn had been feeding earlier that day. Tim Stone and Garth of Oldtown carried out the naked corpse and swung him twice between them before heaving him into the flames. The surviving brothers divided up his clothes, his weapons, his armor, and everything else he owned. At Castle Black, the Night’s Watch buried its dead with all due ceremony. They were not at Castle Black, though. And bones do not come back as wights.
“His name was Bannen,” Lord Commander Mormont said, as the flames took him. “He was a brave man, a good ranger. He came to us from . . . where did he come from?”
“Down White Harbor way,” someone called out.
Mormont nodded. “He came to us from White Harbor, and never failed in his duty. He kept his vows as best he could, rode far, fought fiercely. We shall never see his like again.”
“And now his watch is ended,” the black brothers said, in solemn chant.
“And now his watch is ended,” Mormont echoed.
“Ended,” cried his raven. “Ended.”
Sam was red-eyed and sick from the smoke. When he looked at the fire, he thought he saw Bannen sitting up, his hands coiling into fists as if to fight off the flames that were consuming him, but it was only for an instant, before the swirling smoke hid all. The worst thing was the smell, though. If it had been a foul unpleasant smell he might have stood it, but his burning brother smelled so much like roast pork that Sam’s mouth began to water, and that was so horrible that as soon as the bird squawked “Ended” he ran behind the hall to throw up in the ditch.
He was there on his knees in the mud when Dolorous Edd came up. “Digging for worms, Sam? Or are you just sick?”
“Sick,” said Sam weakly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “The smell . . . ”
“Never knew Bannen could smell so good.” Edd’s tone was as morose as ever. “I had half a mind to carve a slice off him. If we had some applesauce, I might have done it. Pork’s always best with applesauce, I find.” Edd undid his laces and pulled out his cock. “You best not die, Sam, or I fear I might succumb. There’s bound to be more crackling on you than Bannen ever had, and I never could resist a bit of crackling.” He sighed as his piss arced out, yellow and steaming. “We ride at first light, did you hear? Sun or snow, the Old Bear tells me.”
Sun or snow. Sam glanced up anxiously at the sky. “Snow?” he squeaked. “We . . . ride? All of us?”
“Well, no, some will need to walk.” He shook himself. “Dywen now, he says we need to learn to ride dead horses, like the Others do. He claims it would save on feed. How much could a dead horse eat?” Edd laced himself back up. “Can’t say I fancy the notion. Once they figure a way to work a dead horse, we’ll be next. Likely I’ll be the first too. ‘Edd’ they’ll say, ‘dying’s no excuse for lying down no more, so get on up and take this spear, you’ve got the watch tonight.’ Well, I shouldn’t be so gloomy. Might be I’ll die before they work it out.”
Might be we’ll all die, and sooner than we’d like, Sam thought, as he climbed awkwardly to his feet.
When Craster learned that his unwanted guests would be departing on the morrow, the wildling became almost amiable, or as close to amiable as Craster ever got. “Past time,” he said, “you don’t belong here, I told you that. All the same, I’ll see you off proper, with a feast. Well, a feed. My wives can roast them horses you slaughtered, and I’ll find some beer and bread.” He smiled his brown smile. “Nothing better than beer and horsemeat. If you can’t ride ’em, eat ’em, that’s what I say.”
His wives and daughters dragged out the benches and the long log tables, and cooked and served as well. Except for Gilly, Sam could hardly tell the women apart. Some were old and some were young and some were only girls, but a lot of them were Craster’s daughters as well as his wives, and they all looked sort of alike. As they went about their work, they spoke in soft voices to each other, but never to the men in black.
Craster owned but one chair. He sat in it, clad in a sleeveless sheepskin jerkin. His thick arms were covered with white hair, and about one wrist was a twisted ring of gold. Lord Commander Mormont took the place at the top of the bench to his right, while the brothers crowded in knee to knee; a dozen remained outside to guard the gate and tend the fires.
Sam found a place between Grenn and Orphan Oss, his stomach rumbling. The charred horsemeat dripped with grease as Craster’s wives turned the spits above the firepit, and the smell of it set his mouth to watering again, but that reminded him of Bannen. Hungry as he was, Sam knew he would retch if he so much as tried a bite. How could they eat the poor faithful garrons who had carried them so far? When Craster’s wives brought onions, he seized one eagerly. One side was black with rot, but he cut that part off with his dagger and ate the good half raw. There was bread as well, but only two loaves. When Ulmer asked for more, the woman only shook her head. That was when the trouble started.
“Two loaves?” Clubfoot Karl complained from down the bench. “How stupid are you women? We need more bread than this!”
Lord Commander Mormont gave him a hard look. “Take what you’re given, and be thankful. Would you sooner be out in the storm eating snow?”
“We’ll be there soon enough.” Clubfoot Karl did not flinch from the Old Bear’s wrath. “I’d sooner eat what Craster’s hiding, my lord.”
Craster narrowed his eyes. “I gave you crows enough. I got me women to feed.”
Dirk speared a chunk of horsemeat. “Aye. So you admit you got a secret larder. How else to make it through a winter?”
“I’m a godly man . . . ” Craster started.
“You’re a niggardly man,” said Karl, “and a liar.”
“Hams,” Garth of Oldtown said, in a reverent voice. “There were pigs, last time we come. I bet he’s got hams hid someplace. Smoked and salted hams, and bacon too.”
“Sausage,” said Dirk. “Them long black ones, they’re like rocks, they keep for years. I bet he’s got a hundred hanging in some cellar.”
“Oats,” suggested Ollo Lophand. “Corn. Barley.”
“Corn,” said Mormont’s raven, with a flap of the wings. “Corn, corn, corn, corn, corn.”
“Enough,” said Lord Commander Mormont over the bird’s raucous calls. “Be quiet, all of you. This is folly.”
“Apples,” said Garth of Greenaway. “Barrels and barrels of crisp autumn apples. There are apple trees out there, I saw ’em.”
“Dried berries. Cabbages. Pine nuts.”
“Corn. Corn. Corn.”
“Salt mutton. There’s a sheepfold. He’s got casks and casks of mutton laid by, you know he does.”
Craster looked fit to spit them all by then. Lord Commander Mormont rose. “Silence. I’ll hear no more such talk.”
“Then stuff bread in your cars, old man.” Clubfoot Karl pushed back from the table. “Or did you swallow your bloody crumb already?”
Sam saw the Old Bear’s face go red. “Have you forgotten who I am? Sit, eat, and be silent. That is a command.”
No one spoke. No one moved. All eyes were on the Lord Commander and the big clubfooted ranger, as the two of them stared at each other across the table. It seemed to Sam that Karl broke first, and was about to sit, though sullenly . . .
. . . but Craster stood, and his axe was in his hand. The big black steel axe that Mormont had given him as a guest gift. “No,” he growled. “You’ll not sit. No one who calls me niggard will sleep beneath my roof nor eat at my board. Out with you, cripple. And you and you and you.” He jabbed the head of the axe toward Dirk and Garth and Garth in turn. “Go sleep in the cold with empty bellies, the lot o’ you, or . . . ”
“Bloody bastard!” Sam heard one of the Garths curse. He never saw which one.
“Who calls me bastard?” Craster roared, sweeping platter and meat and wine cups from the table with his left hand while lifting the axe with his right.
“It’s no more than all men know,” Karl answered.
Craster moved quicker than Sam would have believed possible, vaulting across the table with axe in hand. A woman screamed, Garth Greenaway and Orphan Oss drew knives, Karl stumbled back and tripped over Ser Byam lying wounded on the floor. One instant Craster was coming after him spitting curses. The next he was spitting blood. Dirk had grabbed him by the hair, yanked his head back, and opened his throat ear to ear with one long slash. Then he gave him a rough shove, and the wildling fell forward, crashing face first across Ser Byam. Byam screamed in agony as Craster drowned in his own blood, the axe slipping from his fingers. Two of Craster’s wives were wailing, a third cursed, a fourth flew at Sweet Donnel and tried to scratch his eyes out. He knocked her to the floor. The Lord Commander stood over Craster’s corpse, dark with anger. “The gods will curse us,” he cried. “There is no crime so foul as for a guest to bring murder into a man’s hall. By all the laws of the hearth, we—”
“There are no laws beyond the Wall, old man. Remember?” Dirk grabbed one of Craster’s wives by the arm, and shoved the point of his bloody dirk up under her chin. “Show us where he keeps the food, or you’ll get the same as he did, woman.”
“Unhand her.” Mormont took a step. “I’ll have your head for this, you—” Garth of Greenaway blocked his path, and Ollo Lophand yanked him back. They both had blades in hand. “Hold your tongue,” Ollo warned. Instead the Lord Commander grabbed for his dagger. Ollo had only one hand, but that was quick. He twisted free of the old man’s grasp, shoved the knife into Mormont’s belly, and yanked it out again, all red. And then the world went mad.
Later, much later, Sam found himself sitting crosslegged on the floor, with Mormont’s head in his lap. He did not remember how they’d gotten there, or much of anything else that had happened after the Old Bear was stabbed. Garth of Greenaway had killed Garth of Oldtown, he recalled, but not why. Rolley of Sisterton had fallen from the loft and broken his neck after climbing the ladder to have a taste of Craster’s wives. Grenn . . .
Grenn had shouted and slapped him, and then he’d run away with Giant and Dolorous Edd and some others. Craster still sprawled across Ser Byam, but the wounded knight no longer moaned. Four men in black sat on the bench eating chunks of burned horsemeat while Ollo coupled with a weeping woman on the table.
“Tarly.” When he tried to speak, the blood dribbled from the Old Bear’s mouth down into his beard. “Tarly, go. Go.”
“Where, my lord?” His voice was flat and lifeless. I am not afraid. It was a queer feeling. “There’s no place to go.”
“The Wall. Make for the Wall. Now.”
“Now,” squawked the raven. “Now. Now.” The bird walked up the old man’s arm to his chest, and plucked a hair from his beard.
“You must. Must tell them.”
“Tell them what, my lord?” Sam asked politely.
“All. The Fist. The wildlings. Dragonglass. This. All.” His breathing was very shallow now, his voice a whisper. “Tell my son. Jorah. Tell him, take the black. My wish. Dying wish.”
“Wish?” The raven cocked its head, beady black eyes shining. “Corn?” the bird asked.
“No corn,” said Mormont feebly. “Tell Jorah. Forgive him. My son. Please. Go.”
“It’s too far,” said Sam. “I’ll never reach the Wall, my lord.” He was so very tired. All he wanted was to sleep, to sleep and sleep and never wake, and he knew that if he just stayed here soon enough Dirk or Ollo Lophand or Clubfoot Karl would get angry with him and grant his wish, just to see him die. “I’d sooner stay with you. See, I’m not frightened anymore. Of you, or . . . of anything.”
“You should be,” said a woman’s voice.
Three of Craster’s wives were standing over them. Two were haggard old women he did not know, but Gilly was between them, all bundled up in skins and cradling a bundle of brown and white fur that must have held her baby. “We’re not supposed to talk to Craster’s wives,” Sam told them. “We have orders.”
“That’s done now,” said the old woman on the right.
“The blackest crows are down in the cellar, gorging,” said the old woman on the left, “or up in the loft with the young ones. They’ll be back soon, though. Best you be gone when they do. The horses run off, but Dyah’s caught two.”
“You said you’d help me,” Gilly reminded him.
“I said Jon would help you. Jon’s brave, and he’s a good fighter, but I think he’s dead now. I’m a craven. And fat. Look how fat I am. Besides, Lord Mormont’s hurt. Can’t you see? I couldn’t leave the Lord Commander.”
“Child,” said the other old woman, “that old crow’s gone before you. Look.”
Mormont’s head was still in his lap, but his eyes were open and staring and his lips no longer moved. The raven cocked its head and squawked, then looked up at Sam. “Corn?”
“No corn. He has no corn.” Sam closed the Old Bear’s eyes and tried to think of a prayer, but all that came to mind was, “Mother have mercy. Mother have mercy. Mother have mercy.”
“Your mother can’t help you none,” said the old woman on the left. “That dead old man can’t neither. You take his sword and you take that big warm far cloak o’ his and you take his horse if you can find him. And you go.”
“The girl don’t lie,” the old woman on the right said. “She’s my girl, and I beat the lying out of her early on. You said you’d help her. Do what Ferny says, boy. Take the girl and be quick about it.”
“Quick,” the raven said. “Quick quick quick.”
“Where?” asked Sam, puzzled. “Where should I take her?”
“Someplace warm,” the two old women said as one.
Gilly was crying. “Me and the babe. Please. I’ll be your wife, like I was Craster’s. Please, ser crow. He’s a boy, just like Nella said he’d be. If you don’t take him, they will.”
“They?” said Sam, and the raven cocked its black head and echoed, “They. They. They.”
“The boy’s brothers,” said the old woman on the left. “Craster’s sons. The white cold’s rising out there, crow. I can feel it in my bones. These poor old bones don’t lie. They’ll be here soon, the sons.”
ARYA
Her eyes had grown accustomed to blackness. When Harwin pulled the hood off her head, the ruddy glare inside the hollow hill made Arya blink like some stupid owl.
A huge firepit had been dug in the center of the earthen floor, and its flames rose swirling and crackling toward the smoke-stained ceiling. The walls were equal parts stone and soil, with huge white roots twisting through them like a thousand slow pale snakes. People were emerging from between those roots as she watched; edging out from the shadows for a look at the captives, stepping from the mouths of pitch-black tunnels, popping out of crannies and crevices on all sides. In one place on the far side of the fire, the roots formed a kind of stairway up to a hollow in the earth where a man sat almost lost in the tangle of weirwood.
Lem unhooded Gendry. “What is this place?” he asked.
“An old place, deep and secret. A refuge where neither wolves nor lions come prowling.”
Neither wolves nor lions. Arya’s skin prickled. She remembered the dream she’d had, and the taste of blood when she tore the man’s arm from his shoulder.
Big as the fire was, the cave was bigger; it was hard to tell where it began and where it ended. The tunnel mouths might have been two feet deep or gone on two miles. Arya saw men and women and little children, all of them watching her warily.
Greenbeard said, “Here’s the wizard, skinny squirrel. You’ll get your answers now.” He pointed toward the fire, where Tom Sevenstrings stood talking to a tall thin man with oddments of old armor buckled on over his ratty pink robes. That can’t be Thoros of Myr. Arya remembered the red priest as fat, with a smooth face and a shiny bald head. This man had a droopy face and a full head of shaggy grey hair. Something Tom said made him look at her, and Arya thought he was about to come over to her. Only then the Mad Huntsman appeared, shoving his captive down into the light, and she and Gendry were forgotten.
The Huntsman had turned out to be a stocky man in patched tan leathers, balding and weak-chinned and quarrelsome. At Stoney Sept she had thought that Lem and Greenbeard might be torn to pieces when they faced him at the crow cages to claim his captive for the lightning lord. The hounds had been all around them, sniffing and snarling. But Tom o’ Sevens soothed them with his playing, Tansy marched across the square with her apron full of bones and fatty mutton, and Lem pointed out Anguy in the brothel window, standing with an arrow notched. The Mad Huntsman had cursed them all for lickspittles, but finally he had agreed to take his prize to Lord Beric for judgment.
They had bound his wrists with hempen rope, strung a noose around his neck, and pulled a sack down over his head, but even so there was danger in the man. Arya could feel it across the cave. Thoros—if that was Thoros—met captor and captive halfway to the fire. “How did you take him?” the priest asked.
“The dogs caught the scent. He was sleeping off a drunk under a willow tree, if you believe it.”
“Betrayed by his own kind.” Thoros turned to the prisoner and yanked his hood off. “Welcome to our humble hall, dog. It is not so grand as Robert’s throne room, but the company is better.”
The shifting flames painted Sandor Clegane’s burned face with orange shadows, so he looked even more terrible than he did in daylight. When he pulled at the rope that bound his wrists, flakes of dry blood fell off. The Hound’s mouth twitched. “I know you,” he said to Thoros.
“You did. In mêlées, you’d curse my flaming sword, though thrice I overthrew you with it.”
“Thoros of Myr. You used to shave your head.”
“To betoken a humble heart, but in truth my heart was vain. Besides, I lost my razor in the woods.” The priest slapped his belly. “I am less than I was, but more. A year in the wild will melt the flesh off a man. Would that I could find a tailor to take in my skin. I might look young again, and pretty maids would shower me with kisses.”
“Only the blind ones, priest.”
The outlaws hooted, none so loud as Thoros. “Just so. Yet I am not the false priest you knew. The Lord of Light has woken in my heart. Many powers long asleep are waking, and there are forces moving in the land. I have seen them in my flames.”
The Hound was unimpressed. “Bugger your flames. And you as well.” He looked around at the others. “You keep queer company for a holy man.”
“These are my brothers,” Thoros said simply.
Lem Lemoncloak pushed forward. He and Greenbeard were the only men there tall enough to look the Hound in the eye. “Be careful how you bark, dog. We hold your life in our hands.”
“Best wipe the shit off your fingers, then.” The Hound laughed. “How long have you been hiding in this hole?”
Anguy the Archer bristled at the suggestion of cowardice. “Ask the goat if we’ve hidden, Hound. Ask your brother. Ask the lord of leeches. We’ve bloodied them all.”
“You lot? Don’t make me laugh. You look more swineherds than soldiers.”
“Some of us was swineherds,” said a short man Arya did not know. “And some was tanners or singers or masons. But that was before the war come.”
“When we left King’s Landing we were men of Winterfell and men of Darry and men of Blackhaven, Mallery men and Wylde men. We were knights and squires and men-at-arms, lords and commoners, bound together only by our purpose.” The voice came from the man seated amongst the weirwood roots halfway up the wall. “Six score of us set out to bring the king’s justice to your brother.” The speaker was descending the tangle of steps toward the floor. “Six score brave men and true, led by a fool in a starry cloak.” A scarecrow of a man, he wore a ragged black cloak speckled with stars and an iron breastplate dinted by a hundred battles. A thicket of red-gold hair hid most of his face, save for a bald spot above his left ear where his head had been smashed in. “More than eighty of our company are dead now, but others have taken up the swords that fell from their hands.” When he reached the floor, the outlaws moved aside to let him pass. One of his eyes was gone, Arya saw, the flesh about the socket scarred and puckered, and he had a dark black ring all around his neck. “With their help, we fight on as best we can, for Robert and the realm.”
“Robert?” rasped Sandor Clegane, incredulous.
“Ned Stark sent us out,” said pothelmed Jack-Be-Lucky, “but he was sitting the Iron Throne when he gave us our commands, so we were never truly his men, but Robert’s.”
“Robert is the king of the worms now. Is that why you’re down in the earth, to keep his court for him?”
“The king is dead,” the scarecrow knight admitted, “but we are still king’s men, though the royal banner we bore was lost at the Mummer’s Ford when your brother’s butchers fell upon us.” He touched his breast with a fist. “Robert is slain, but his realm remains. And we defend her.”
“Her?” The Hound snorted. “Is she your mother, Dondarrion? Or your whore?”
Dondarrion? Beric Dondarrion had been handsome; Sansa’s friend Jeyne had fallen in love with him. Even Jeyne Poole was not so blind as to think this man was fair. Yet when Arya looked at him again, she saw it; the remains of a forked purple lightning bolt on the cracked enamel of his breastplate.
“Rocks and trees and rivers, that’s what your realm is made of,” the Hound was saying. “Do the rocks need defending? Robert wouldn’t have thought so. If he couldn’t fuck it, fight it, or drink it, it bored him, and so would you . . . you brave companions.”
Outrage swept the hollow hill. “Call us that name again, dog, and you’ll swallow that tongue.” Lem drew his longsword.
The Hound stared at the blade with contempt. “Here’s a brave man, baring steel on a bound captive. Untie me, why don’t you? We’ll see how brave you are then.” He glanced at the Mad Huntsman behind him. “How about you? Or did you leave all your courage in your kennels?”
“No, but I should have left you in a crow cage.” The Huntsman drew a knife. “I might still.”
The Hound laughed in his face.
“We are brothers here,” Thoros of Myr declared. “Holy brothers, sworn to the realm, to our god, and to each other.”
“The brotherhood without banners.” Tom Sevenstrings plucked a string. “The knights of the hollow hill.”
“Knights?” Clegane made the word a sneer. “Dondarrion’s a knight, but the rest of you are the sorriest lot of outlaws and broken men I’ve ever seen. I shit better men than you.”
“Any knight can make a knight,” said the scarecrow that was Beric Dondarrion, “and every man you see before you has felt a sword upon his shoulder. We are the forgotten fellowship.”
“Send me on my way and I’ll forget you too,” Clegane rasped. “But if you mean to murder me, then bloody well get on with it. You took my sword, my horse, and my gold, so take my life and be done with it . . . but spare me this pious bleating.”
“You will die soon enough, dog,” promised Thoros, “but it shan’t be murder, only justice.”
“Aye,” said the Mad Huntsman, “and a kinder fate than you deserve for all your kind have done. Lions, you call yourselves. At Sherrer and the Mummer’s Ford, girls of six and seven years were raped, and babes still on the breast were cut in two while their mothers watched. No lion ever killed so cruel.”
“I was not at Sherrer, nor the Mummer’s Ford,” the Hound told him. “Lay your dead children at some other door.”
Thoros answered him. “Do you deny that House Clegane was built upon dead children? I saw them lay Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys before the Iron Throne. By rights your arms should bear two bloody infants in place of those ugly dogs.”
The Hound’s mouth twitched. “Do you take me for my brother? Is being born Clegane a crime?”
“Murder is a crime.”
“Who did I murder?”
“Lord Lothar Mallery and Ser Gladden Wylde,” said Harwin.
“My brothers Lister and Lennocks,” declared Jack-Be-Lucky.
“Goodman Beck and Mudge the miller’s son, from Donnelwood,” an old woman called from the shadows.
“Merriman’s widow, who loved so sweet,” added Greenbeard.
“Them septons at Sludgy Pond.”
“Ser Andrey Charlton. His squire Lucas Roote. Every man, woman, and child in Fieldstone and Mousedown Mill.”
“Lord and Lady Deddings, that was so rich.”
Tom Sevenstrings took up the count. “Alyn of Winterfell, Joth Quickbow, Little Matt and his sister Randa, Anvil Ryn. Ser Ormond. Ser Dudley. Pate of Mory, Pate of Lancewood, Old Pate, and Pate of Shermer’s Grove. Blind Wyl the Whittler. Goodwife Maerie. Maerie the Whore. Becca the Baker. Ser Raymun Darry, Lord Darry, young Lord Darry. The Bastard of Bracken. Fletcher Will. Harsley. Goodwife Nolla—”
“Enough.” The Hound’s face was tight with anger. “You’re making noise. These names mean nothing. Who were they?”
“People,” said Lord Beric. “People great and small, young and old. Good people and bad people, who died on the points of Lannister spears or saw their bellies opened by Lannister swords.”
“It wasn’t my sword in their bellies. Any man who says it was is a bloody liar.”
“You serve the Lannisters of Casterly Rock,” said Thoros.
“Once. Me and thousands more. Is each of us guilty of the crimes of the others?” Clegane spat. “Might be you are knights after all. You lie like knights, maybe you murder like knights.”
Lem and Jack-Be-Lucky began to shout at him, but Dondarrion raised a hand for silence. “Say what you mean, Clegane.”
“A knight’s a sword with a horse. The rest, the vows and the sacred oils and the lady’s favors, they’re silk ribbons tied round the sword. Maybe the sword’s prettier with ribbons hanging off it, but it will kill you just as dead. Well, bugger your ribbons, and shove your swords up your arses. I’m the same as you. The only difference is, I don’t lie about what I am. So kill me, but don’t call me a murderer while you stand there telling each other that your shit don’t stink. You hear me?”
Arya squirted past Greenbeard so fast he never saw her. “You are a murderer!” she screamed. “You killed Mycah, don’t say you never did. You murdered him!”
The Hound stared at her with no flicker of recognition. “And who was this Mycah, boy?”
“I’m not a boy! But Mycah was. He was a butcher’s boy and you killed him. Jory said you cut him near in half, and he never even had a sword.” She could feel them looking at her now, the women and the children and the men who called themselves the knights of the hollow hill. “Who’s this now?” someone asked.
The Hound answered. “Seven hells. The little sister. The brat who tossed Joff’s pretty sword in the river.” He gave a bark of laughter. “Don’t you know you’re dead?”
“No, you’re dead,” she threw back at him.
Harwin took her arm to draw her back as Lord Beric said, “The girl has named you a murderer. Do you deny killing this butcher’s boy, Mycah?”
The big man shrugged. “I was Joffrey’s sworn shield. The butcher’s boy attacked a prince of the blood.”
“That’s a lie!” Arya squirmed in Harwin’s grip. “It was me. I hit Joffrey and threw Lion’s Paw in the river. Mycah just ran away, like I told him.”
“Did you see the boy attack Prince Joffrey?” Lord Beric Dondarrion asked the Hound.
“I heard it from the royal lips. It’s not my place to question princes.” Clegane jerked his hands toward Arya. “This one’s own sister told the same tale when she stood before your precious Robert.”
“Sansa’s just a liar,” Arya said, furious at her sister all over again. “It wasn’t like she said. It wasn’t.”
Thoros drew Lord Beric aside. The two men stood talking in low whispers while Arya seethed. They have to kill him. I prayed for him to die, hundreds and hundreds of times.
Beric Dondarrion turned back to the Hound. “You stand accused of murder, but no one here knows the truth or falsehood of the charge, so it is not for us to judge you. Only the Lord of Light may do that now. I sentence you to trial by battle.”
The Hound frowned suspiciously, as if he did not trust his ears. “Are you a fool or a madman?”
“Neither. I am a just lord. Prove your innocence with a blade, and you shall be free to go.”
“No,” Arya cried, before Harwin covered her mouth. No, they can’t, he’ll go free. The Hound was deadly with a sword, everyone knew that. He’ll laugh at them, she thought.
And so he did, a long rasping laugh that echoed off the cave walls, a laugh choking with contempt. “So who will it be?” He looked at Lem Lemoncloak. “The brave man in the piss-yellow cloak? No? How about you, Huntsman? You’ve kicked dogs before, try me.” He saw Greenbeard. “You’re big enough, Tyrosh, step forward. Or do you mean to make the little girl fight me herself?” He laughed again. “Come on, who wants to die?
“It’s me you’ll face,” said Lord Beric Dondarrion.
Arya remembered all the tales. He can’t be killed, she thought, hoping against hope. The Mad Huntsman sliced apart the ropes that bound Sandor Clegane’s hands together. “I’ll need sword and armor.” The Hound rubbed a torn wrist.
“Your sword you shall have,” declared Lord Beric, “but your innocence must be your armor.”
Clegane’s mouth twitched. “My innocence against your breastplate, is that the way of it?”
“Ned, help me remove my breastplate.”
Arya got goosebumps when Lord Beric said her father’s name, but this Ned was only a boy, a fair-haired squire no more than ten or twelve. He stepped up quickly to undo the clasps that fastened the battered steel about the Marcher lord. The quilting beneath was rotten with age and sweat, and fell away when the metal was pulled loose. Gendry sucked in his breath. “Mother have mercy.”
Lord Beric’s ribs were outlined starkly beneath his skin. A puckered crater scarred his breast just above his left nipple, and when he turned to call for sword and shield, Arya saw a matching scar upon his back. The lance went through him. The Hound had seen it too. Is he scared? Arya wanted him to be scared before he died, as scared as Mycah must have been.
Ned fetched Lord Beric his swordbelt and a long black surcoat. It was meant to be worn over armor, so it draped his body loosely, but across it crackled the forked purple lightning of his House. He unsheathed his sword and gave the belt back to his squire.
Thoros brought the Hound his swordbelt. “Does a dog have honor?” the priest asked. “Lest you think to cut your way free of here, or seize some child for a hostage . . . Anguy, Dennet, Kyle, feather him at the first sign of treachery.” Only when the three bowmen had notched their shafts did Thoros hand Clegane the belt.
The Hound ripped the sword free and threw away the scabbard. The Mad Huntsman gave him his oaken shield, all studded with iron and painted yellow, the three black dogs of Clegane emblazoned upon it. The boy Ned helped Lord Beric with his own shield, so hacked and battered that the purple lightning and the scatter of stars upon it had almost been obliterated.
But when the Hound made to step toward his foe, Thoros of Myr stopped him. “First we pray.” He turned toward the fire and lifted his arms. “Lord of Light, look down upon us.”
All around the cave, the brotherhood without banners lifted their own voices in response. “Lord of Light, defend us.”
“Lord of Light, protect us in the darkness.”
“Lord of Light, shine your face upon us.”
“Light your flame among us, R’hllor,” said the red priest. “Show us the truth or falseness of this man. Strike him down if he is guilty, and give strength to his sword if he is true. Lord of Light, give us wisdom.”
“For the night is dark,” the others chanted, Harwin and Anguy loud as all the rest, “and full of terrors.”
“This cave is dark too,” said the Hound, “but I’m the terror here. I hope your god’s a sweet one, Dondarrion. You’re going to meet him shortly.”
Unsmiling, Lord Beric laid the edge of his longsword against the palm of his left hand, and drew it slowly down. Blood ran dark from the gash he made, and washed over the steel.
And then the sword took fire.
Arya heard Gendry whisper a prayer.
“Burn in seven hells,” the Hound cursed. “You, and Thoros too.” He threw a glance at the red priest. “When I’m done with him you’ll be next, Myr.”
“Every word you say proclaims your guilt, dog,” answered Thoros, while Lem and Greenbeard and Jack-Be-Lucky shouted threats and curses. Lord Beric himself waited silent, calm as still water, his shield on his left arm and his sword burning in his right hand. Kill him, Arya thought, please, you have to kill him. Lit from below, his face was a death mask, his missing eye a red and angry wound. The sword was aflame from point to crossguard, but Dondarrion seemed not to feel the heat. He stood so still he might have been carved of stone.
But when the Hound charged him, he moved fast enough.
The flaming sword leapt up to meet the cold one, long streamers of fire trailing in its wake like the ribbons the Hound had spoken of. Steel rang on steel. No sooner was his first slash blocked than Clegane made another, but this time Lord Beric’s shield got in the way, and wood chips flew from the force of the blow. Hard and fast the cuts came, from low and high, from right and left, and each one Dondarrion blocked. The flames swirled about his sword and left red and yellow ghosts to mark its passage. Each move Lord Beric made fanned them and made them burn the brighter, until it seemed as though the lightning lord stood within a cage of fire. “Is it wildfire?” Arya asked Gendry.
“No. This is different. This is . . . ”
“ . . . magic?” she finished as the Hound edged back. Now it was Lord Beric attacking, filling the air with ropes of fire, driving the bigger man back on his heels. Clegane caught one blow high on his shield, and a painted dog lost a head. He countercut, and Dondarrion interposed his own shield and launched a fiery backslash. The outlaw brotherhood shouted on their leader. “He’s yours!” Arya heard, and “At him! At him! At him!” The Hound parried a cut at his head, grimacing as the heat of the flames beat against his face. He grunted and cursed and reeled away.
Lord Beric gave him no respite. Hard on the big man’s heels he followed, his arm never still. The swords clashed and sprang apart and clashed again, splinters flew from the lightning shield while swirling flames kissed the dogs once, and twice, and thrice. The Hound moved to his right, but Dondarrion blocked him with a quick sidestep and drove him back the other way . . . toward the sullen red blaze of the firepit. Clegane gave ground until he felt the heat at his back. A quick glance over his shoulder showed him what was behind him, and almost cost him his head when Lord Beric attacked anew.
Arya could see the whites of Sandor Clegane’s eyes as he bulled his way forward again. Three steps up and two back, a move to the left that Lord Beric blocked, two more forward and one back, clang and clang, and the big oaken shields took blow after blow after blow. The Hound’s lank dark hair was plastered to his brow in a sheen of sweat. Wine sweat, Arya thought, remembering that he’d been taken drunk. She thought she could see the beginnings of fear wake in his eyes. He’s going to lose, she told herself, exulting, as Lord Beric’s flaming sword whirled and slashed. In one wild flurry, the lightning lord took back all the ground the Hound had gained, sending Clegane staggering to the very edge of the firepit once more. He is, he is, he’s going to die. She stood on her toes for a better look.
“Bloody bastard!” the Hound screamed as he felt the fire licking against the back of his thighs. He charged, swinging the heavy sword harder and harder, trying to smash the smaller man down with brute force, to break blade or shield or arm. But the flames of Dondarrion’s parries snapped at his eyes, and when the Hound jerked away from them, his foot went out from under him and he staggered to one knee. At once Lord Beric closed, his downcut screaming through the air trailing pennons of fire. Panting from exertion, Clegane jerked his shield up over his head just in time, and the cave rang with the loud crack of splintering oak.
“His shield is afire,” Gendry said in a hushed voice. Arya saw it in the same instant. The flames had spread across the chipped yellow paint, and the three black dogs were engulfed.
Sandor Clegane had fought his way back to his feet with a reckless counterattack. Not until Lord Beric retreated a pace did the Hound seem to realize that the fire that roared so near his face was his own shield, burning. With a shout of revulsion, he hacked down savagely on the broken oak, completing its destruction. The shield shattered, one piece of it spinning away, still afire, while the other clung stubbornly to his forearm. His efforts to free himself only fanned the flames. His sleeve caught, and now his whole left arm was ablaze. “Finish him!” Greenbeard urged Lord Beric, and other voices took up the chant of “Guilty!” Arya shouted with the rest. “Guilty, guilty, kill him, guilty!”
Smooth as summer silk, Lord Beric slid close to make an end of the man before him. The Hound gave a rasping scream, raised his sword in both hands and brought it crashing down with all his strength. Lord Beric blocked the cut easily . . .
“Noooooo,” Arya shrieked.
. . . but the burning sword snapped in two, and the Hound’s cold steel plowed into Lord Beric’s flesh where his shoulder joined his neck and clove him clean down to the breastbone. The blood came rushing out in a hot black gush.
Sandor Clegane jerked backward, still burning. He ripped the remnants of his shield off and flung them away with a curse, then rolled in the dirt to smother the fire running along his arm.
Lord Beric’s knees folded slowly, as if for prayer. When his mouth opened only blood came out. The Hound’s sword was still in him as he toppled face forward. The dirt drank his blood. Beneath the hollow hill there was no sound but the soft crackling of flames and the whimper the Hound made when he tried to rise. Arya could only think of Mycah and all the stupid prayers she’d prayed for the Hound to die. If there were gods, why didn’t Lord Beric win? She knew the Hound was guilty.
“Please,” Sandor Clegane rasped, cradling his arm. “I’m burned. Help me. Someone. Help me.” He was crying. “Please.”
Arya looked at him in astonishment. He’s crying like a little baby, she thought.
“Melly, see to his burns,” said Thoros. “Lem, Jack, help me with Lord Beric. Ned, you’d best come too.” The red priest wrenched the Hound’s sword from the body of his fallen lord and thrust the point of it down in the blood-soaked earth. Lem slid his big hands under Dondarrion’s arms, while Jack-Be-Lucky took his feet. They carried him around the firepit, into the darkness of one of the tunnels. Thoros and the boy Ned followed after.
The Mad Huntsman spat. “I say we take him back to Stoney Sept and put him in a crow cage.”
“Yes,” Arya said. “He murdered Mycah. He did.”
“Such an angry squirrel,” murmured Greenbeard.
Harwin sighed. “R’hllor has judged him innocent.”
“Who’s Rulore?” She couldn’t even say it.
“The Lord of Light. Thoros has taught us—”
She didn’t care what Thoros had taught them. She yanked Greenbeard’s dagger from its sheath and spun away before he could catch her. Gendry made a grab for her as well, but she had always been too fast for Gendry.
Tom Sevenstrings and some woman were helping the Hound to his feet. The sight of his arm shocked her speechless. There was a strip of pink where the leather strap had clung, but above and below the flesh was cracked and red and bleeding from elbow to wrist. When his eyes met hers, his mouth twitched. “You want me dead that bad? Then do it, wolf girl. Shove it in. It’s cleaner than fire.” Clegane tried to stand, but as he moved a piece of burned flesh sloughed right off his arm, and his knees went out from under him. Tom caught him by his good arm and held him up.
His arm, Arya thought, and his face. But he was the Hound. He deserved to burn in a fiery hell. The knife felt heavy in her hand. She gripped it tighter. “You killed Mycah,” she said once more, daring him to deny it. “Tell them. You did. You did.”
“I did.” His whole face twisted. “I rode him down and cut him in half, and laughed. I watched them beat your sister bloody too, watched them cut your father’s head off.”
Lem grabbed her wrist and twisted, wrenching the dagger away. She kicked at him, but he would not give it back. “You go to hell, Hound,” she screamed at Sandor Clegane in helpless empty-handed rage. “You just go to hell!”
“He has,” said a voice scarce stronger than a whisper.
When Arya turned, Lord Beric Dondarrion was standing behind her, his bloody hand clutching Thoros by the shoulder.

第二十九章 艾莉亚



　　石堂镇是艾莉亚离开君临之后见过最大的市镇，哈尔温说，她父亲曾在此取得一场著名的胜利。
　　“当年疯王的部队追赶劳勃，试图在他跟你父亲会合之前逮住他，”向城门骑去时，他告诉艾莉亚。“年轻的风息堡公爵受了伤，由当地一些朋友照料，而首相克林顿伯爵亲率大军攻取了这座市镇，开始挨家挨户搜查。在他们找到之前，艾德公爵和你外公及时赶到，攻破城防，与克林顿伯爵展开激烈巷战。双方在每条街道中战斗，甚至在房顶上战斗，所有圣堂都鸣响钟声，警告百姓们锁好门窗。当钟声响起时，劳勃从藏身之处冲出来参战，据说他那天杀了六个敌人，其中之一是著名的骑士米斯·慕顿，曾为雷加王子的侍从。他本想把首相也杀掉的，可惜混战当中两人没有交手的机会。然而克林顿重伤你徒利外公，杀死谷地的宠儿丹尼斯·艾林爵士，但当意识到战局终归无望，逃得跟自己纹章上的狮鹫一般快。后人称此战为‘鸣钟之役’。劳勃常说，这是你父亲的胜利，不是他的。”

　　依所见的景象推断，艾莉亚认为此处最近也发生过战斗。城门由新原木制成，墙外一堆焦黑的木板诉说着老城门的命运。

　　石堂镇守卫紧严，但当城门队长看清他们是谁，便打开突击口。“你们打哪儿弄吃的去？”进入时，汤姆好奇地问。

　　“我们这边情况还不算太糟。‘疯猎人’赶来一群羊，黑水河上有交易，而且万幸的是河南边的庄稼没被烧。妈的，许多不要脸的家伙来抢我们。狼仔来过，血戏班来过，要吃的、要财物、要小妞，还要找该死的弑君者。据说他从艾德慕公爵指缝间溜走了。”

　　“艾德慕公爵？”柠檬皱起眉头，“霍斯特公爵死了？”

　　“死了，快死了。你觉得兰尼斯特会不会朝黑水河跑？‘疯猎人’认定这是到君临最快的路。”队长没等他们答话。“他带狗到处去搜，如果詹姆爵士过来，一定会被找到。瞧，我亲眼见过这群狗撕碎熊的景象，不知它们喜不喜欢狮子的味道？”

　　“一具啃烂的尸体对谁都没用，”柠檬说，“‘疯猎人’这傻瓜应该很清楚才对。”

　　“西方人打过来的时候，操了猎人的老婆和妹妹，烧他的庄稼，吃掉他一半的羊，又故意宰死另一半，还杀了六条狗，尸体丢进他家井里。我敢说，一具啃烂的尸体正合他意——也合我意。”

　　“他是个蠢蛋，”柠檬道，“我只能这么说。你呢，你比他更蠢。”

　　土匪们沿着她父亲战斗过的街道前进，艾莉亚在哈尔温和安盖中间骑行。她看到山丘上的圣堂，下面连着一座矮小坚固的灰石庄园，相对市镇而言，显得有些小。其余房屋有三分之一成了焦黑空壳，半个人影都没有。“镇民死光了？”

　　“哪儿啊，只是害羞而已。”安盖指指房顶上两名十字弓手和几个蜷缩在酒馆废墟中、满脸黑灰的男孩。前方有个面包师打开百叶窗，朝柠檬大声喊叫。话音让更多人从藏身处走出来，石堂镇慢慢恢复了生气。

　　市镇中央的集市广场里耸立着一座喷泉，呈跃出的鳟鱼状，水源源不断自它嘴里流入浅池。妇女们在那儿用提桶和水壶汲水。数尺之外，十来个铁笼子挂在吱嘎作响的木桩上。鸦笼，艾莉亚知道这种刑法——乌鸦在笼外，拍打着栏杆；人在里面，至死方休。柠檬皱眉勒住缰绳，“怎么回事？”

　　“正义的制裁，”水池边的妇人回答。

　　“哦，你们的麻绳不够用了？”

　　“威尔伯特爵士下的令？”汤姆问。

　　一个男人苦涩地笑道：“威尔伯特爵士一年前就给狮子宰啦。他儿子们追随少狼主，去西境养得肥肥的，怎会在乎我们这帮贱民？抓住狼仔的是‘疯猎人’。”

　　狼。艾莉亚一阵冰凉。是罗柏的人，我父亲的人。她不由自主地骑向这排笼子。栅栏里的空间如此狭小，被囚禁的人既不能坐下，也不能转身，只能光着身子站立，暴露于阳光和雨露之下。头三个笼子里的人已经死了，食腐乌鸦吃掉了他们的眼睛，空空的眼眶注视着她。第四个人在她经过时动了起来。他嘴边长满凌乱的胡须，其中都是血和苍蝇。当他开口说话，苍蝇便一下子飞散开来，围着他的脑袋嗡嗡作响。“水，”嘶哑的声音说，“求求你……水……”

　　隔壁笼子里的人听见声音，也睁开眼睛。“这儿，”他道，“这儿，我，给水。”他是个老人，灰色的胡须，秃顶上布满斑斑点点的棕色老人斑。

　　老人后面又有一个死者，红色的大胡子，一条褴褛的灰绷带缠在右耳和太阳穴上，最可怕的是两腿之间只剩一个结了棕色硬痂的洞，里面爬满蛆虫。再往后是个胖子，鸦笼如此之小，无法想象当初他们是如何将他弄进去的。栅栏痛苦地压进他的肚子，皮肉则从铁条间鼓出来，终日曝晒使他从头到脚都灼成了鲜艳的红。当他移动时，笼子一边摇晃，一边吱嘎作响。艾莉亚看到他皮肤上苍白的条纹，那是被铁条遮挡住阳光的地方。

　　“你们是谁的手下？”她问他们。

　　听见她问话，胖子睁开眼睛。眼睛周围的皮肤红得如此厉害，以至于艾莉亚联想到漂浮在一碟鲜血之上白煮蛋。“水……喝水……”

　　“谁的？”她又问。

　　“别管他们，小子，”镇民告诉她，“不关你的事。你走你的路。”

　　“他们干了些什么？”她问他。

　　“他们在翻斗瀑砍死八个人，”他解释，“说是要找弑君者，找不到，就开始强暴和谋杀。”他用大拇指比比那具本该是命根子的地方却爬满蛆虫的尸体。“那家伙肆意下流，罪有应得。好啦，快走吧。”

　　“一口，”胖子朝下面喊，“行行好，孩子，就一口。”老人抬起胳膊抓住栏杆，他的笼子剧烈摇晃起来。“水，”胡子里满是苍蝇的人喘着气说。

　　她看着他们肮脏的头发、凌乱的胡须和通红的眼睛，看着他们因干渴而开裂出血的嘴唇。他们是狼，她心想，和我一样。这就是她的族群吗？他们怎可能是罗柏的手下？她想揍他们，狠狠地揍他们；她也想哭喊。所有的北方人——不论死活——似乎都期盼地瞧着她。老人从铁栅杆间挤出三根指头，“水，”他说，“水。”

　　艾莉亚从马上一跃而下。他们伤害不了我，他们都快死了。她取出铺盖卷里的杯子，向喷泉走去。“想干吗，小子？”镇民叫道，“不关你的事。”她浑不理会，将杯子举到鱼嘴边。水溅到手指和衣袖上，但艾莉亚没有动，直到杯子灌满。当她返身走向笼子时，镇民过来阻止，“离他们远点，小子——”

　　“她是个女孩，”哈尔温说，“别碰她。”

　　“没错，”柠檬说，“贝里伯爵不会赞成把人关在笼子里，活活渴死。你们干嘛不学正派人的样，送他们上吊呢？”

　　“他们在翻斗瀑做的，可不是什么正派人的事！”镇民冲他吼。

　　栅栏之间的空隙太窄，无法把杯子递进去，好在哈尔温和詹德利过来帮忙。她踩在哈尔温并拢的双手上，跃至詹德利肩头，然后抓住笼顶栅栏。胖子仰脸贴紧铁条，艾莉亚把水浇下去。他急切地吮吸，清水顺着脑袋、面庞和双手流下，他又去舔潮湿的栅栏。若不是艾莉亚赶忙抽手，他还要舔她的手指。接着她用同样的方式给另外两人喂水，一大群人聚过来看。“这事‘疯猎人’会知道的！”一个男人威胁，“他不会喜欢。是的，他不会喜欢！”

　　“那他更不喜欢这个。”安盖给长弓上弦，并从箭袋里抽出一支箭，引弓而射。羽箭自下而上，正穿胖子下颚，他抖动一下，便死了，但笼子使他无法倒下。射手又放两箭，了结另两个北方人。一时间，集市广场里只剩水花溅落声和苍蝇的嗡嗡响。

　　valarmorghulis。艾莉亚默念。

　　集市广场东面矗立着一座朴素的客栈，石灰粉刷的墙，碎裂的窗户，半边屋顶被烧，但洞给补上了。门上悬有一块木招牌，画一只咬了一大口的蜜桃。他们在客栈角落的马厩边下马，绿胡子大声呼喊马夫。

　　丰满的红发店家一看到他们便愉快地大声吆喝，开起嘲弄的玩笑。“哈哈，你是绿胡子？灰胡子？圣母慈悲，你啥时候变得这般老了？柠檬，是你吗？还穿着这件破斗篷，对吧？我知道你从来不洗，我知道，你怕上面的尿被清掉之后，我们发现你原来是个逃跑的御林铁卫！七弦汤姆，好色的老山羊！来看儿子啦？来晚了来晚了，他骑马跟那该死的猎人走了。喏，别说他不是你儿子！”

　　“他没有我的嗓子，”汤姆虚弱地抗议。

　　“但他有你的鼻子。没错，听姑娘们说，其余部分也和你差不多。”此时她发现了詹德利，便在他脸上捏了一把。“瞧瞧，多棒的小公牛。这胳膊，等着艾丽斯来瞧吧。哎哟，他还像女孩子一样脸红。好咧，艾丽斯会帮你改改的，小子，她不会才怪。”

　　艾莉亚从没见过詹德利脸红。“艾菊，别碰大牛，他是个好孩子，”七弦汤姆道，“我们只需要床，舒服地睡一晚。”

　　“这话只能代表你自己的意见，我的好歌手。”安盖伸手搂住一位健壮的年轻女仆，她脸上的雀斑跟他一样多。

　　“床当然有，”红发的艾菊说，“蜜桃客栈从不缺床。但你们得先进澡盆，上次来老娘屋檐下过夜，把跳蚤全留下了。”她戳戳绿胡子的胸膛。“你身上的还是绿色！要不要吃东西？”

　　“你有的话，当然却之不恭，”汤姆确认。

　　“你啥时候说过不要呢，汤姆？”女人呵斥。“喏，我会给你的朋友们烤头羊，给你一只干瘪瘪的老耗子。呸，连这你都不配，除非给老娘哼三两支曲儿，或许我就心软了。唉，没办法，谁叫我喜欢同情人呢。好啦，来吧，来吧。卡丝，拉娜，烧几壶水。吉欣，帮我脱他们的衣服，它们也得煮一煮。”

　　她的威胁一一兑现。艾莉亚拼命分辨：不到两周前才在橡果厅洗了两次，但红发女人毫不理会。两个女仆一边将她硬生生架上楼梯，一边争论她到底是男是女。叫海丽的女仆赢了，因此另一个不得不提来热水，用刚毛刷替她使劲搓背，几乎搓掉一层皮。她们拿走斯莫伍德夫人给她的衣服，替她换上带花边的亚麻布衣，把她打扮得像珊莎的玩具娃娃。好在她饿了，无暇顾及这么多，等她们弄完后连忙下楼吃东西。

　　艾莉亚穿着笨乎乎的女孩衣服坐到大厅时，记起西利欧·佛瑞尔的教诲，要她“洞察真相”。她发现这里的女侍比任何一家客栈都多，而且大多年轻标致。从黄昏时分起，蜜桃客栈就有许多男人进进出出，但他们都不在厅内逗留，甚至当汤姆拿出木竖琴，唱起“六女同池”，也没有吸引什么关注。木制楼梯老旧高耸，男人带女孩上楼，踩出剧烈的吱嘎声。“我打赌，这是一间妓院，”她低声对詹德利说。

　　“你根本不知道什么叫妓院。”

　　“我知道，”她坚持，“就是有许多女孩的客栈。”

　　他又涨红了脸。“那你在这儿干吗？”他问，“该死，贵族小姐不该来妓院，大家都知道。”

　　一个女孩坐到他对面的凳子上。“谁是贵族小姐？那个瘦瘦的？”她看看艾莉亚，咧嘴大笑。“我是国王的女儿呢。”

　　艾莉亚知道自己受了嘲弄。“你才不是。”

　　“啊，那可说不定哦。”女孩耸耸肩，一侧外衣滑落下来。“他们说劳勃国王躲这儿的时候跟我妈上过床，然后才去打仗。虽然所有女人他都上过，但勒斯林说他最喜欢我妈。”

　　这女孩确实有国王的头发，艾莉亚心想，浓厚稠密的炭黑头发。这不能说明任何问题。詹德利也有。许多人都有黑头发。

　　“我妈为我取名钟儿，”女孩告诉詹德利，“以纪念那场战役。好啦，我打赌我可以敲响你的钟，你想不想要啊？”

　　“不想，”他生硬地说。

　　“才怪，我打赌你想。”她一只手顺着他的胳膊滑过。“索罗斯和闪电大王的朋友我不收费。”

　　“不想，我说了不想。”詹德利猛然起身，离开桌子，走进外面的夜色之中。

　　钟儿转向艾莉亚，“他不喜欢女孩子？”

　　艾莉亚耸耸肩。“他不过是笨啦，就喜欢打磨头盔，用锤子敲剑。”

　　“哦，”钟儿将外衣拉回肩头，找幸运杰克说话去了。不一会儿，她就坐上他膝盖，一边咯咯笑，一边喝他杯里的酒。绿胡子要来两个女孩，两边膝盖各坐一个。安盖跟那雀斑脸的姑娘一起消失，柠檬也不见了。七弦汤姆坐在壁炉边唱“春天绽放的春花”。艾莉亚边听，边啜饮红发女人准她喝的掺水葡萄酒。广场上，死人在鸦笼里腐烂，但蜜桃客栈中的每个人都兴高采烈，只是有些人笑得太夸张，似乎想遮掩什么。

　　现在正是溜出去偷马的好时机，但艾莉亚看不到这样做的好处。她顶多骑到城门口。那个队长绝不会放我过去，即使他让我过去，哈尔温也会追来，或者那个带狗的‘疯猎人’。她希望自己有张地图，知道石堂镇离奔流城究竟有多远就好了。

　　不知不觉间，艾莉亚的杯子空了，她打起哈欠。詹德利还没回来。七弦汤姆唱起“两颗跳动如一的心”，唱一句吻一个姑娘。窗边角落里，柠檬和哈尔温在跟红发的艾菊低声交谈。“……在詹姆的牢房里待了一夜，”她听见女人说，“她和另一个女的，杀蓝礼的那个。他们三人待在一起，到第二天早上，凯特琳夫人便为爱情放了他。”她从喉咙深处发出一声冷笑。

　　这不是真的，艾莉亚心想，母亲决不会。她突然觉得既悲伤、又愤怒、又孤独。

　　一个老头在她边上坐下。“哎哟，这不是个美丽的小桃子吗？”他的呼吸跟笼子里的死人一样臭，小小的猪眼睛上上下下打量她，“我可爱的蜜桃姑娘叫什么名儿啊？”

　　半晌间，她不知该怎么伪装。她不是什么蜜桃姑娘，但在这里，在这个臭烘烘的陌生醉汉面前，也不可以做艾莉亚·史塔克。“我是……”

　　“她是我妹妹。”詹德利的手沉重地搭在老头肩上，使劲捏了一把。“别碰她。”

　　那人转过来，想要争执，看到詹德利的身材，又缩了回去。“她是你妹子，啊？那你算哪门子哥哥？我才不会把老妹带来蜜桃客栈咧，嘿，决不会。”他从凳子上起立，咕哝着走开，去找别的伴。

　　“你干嘛这么说？”艾莉亚跳将起来，“你又不是我哥。”

　　“没错，”他生气地道，“我出生低贱，做不了大小姐的亲戚。”

　　艾莉亚被他的怒气吓了一跳。“我不是那个意思。”

　　“你就是那个意思。”他一屁股坐到凳子上，捧起一杯酒。“走开。我想安安静静地喝酒，然后也许去找那个黑发女孩，让她敲响我的钟。”

　　“但是……”

　　“我说了，走开。小姐。”

　　艾莉亚转身离开，将他抛下。顽固呆笨的杂种小子，就这副德行。他爱敲多少钟就敲多少，不关她事。

　　他们的卧室被安排在楼梯顶端，位于屋檐之下。蜜桃客栈也许不缺床，但为这群土匪，就只提供了一张。然而那是一张大床，差不多填满整间屋子，而茅草褥子虽然发了霉，却足以应付所有人。此刻整张床由她一人独享。她的衣服挂在墙头钩子上，在詹德利和柠檬的东西中间。于是艾莉亚脱下花边布衣，将自己的短装从头上套进，爬上床，钻进毯子底下。“瑟曦太后，”她低声对枕头说，“乔佛里国王，伊林爵士，马林爵士。邓森，拉夫，波利佛。记事本，猎狗，魔山格雷果爵士。”她有时候喜欢打乱顺序，有助于记清名字和他们所做的事。他们中有的或许已经死了，她心想，或许被关在某处的铁笼子里，任乌鸦啄出眼珠。

　　她合上眼就睡着了。那晚，她梦到自己又成了一匹狼，在潮湿的树林里穿行，空气中满是雨水，腐肉和鲜血的味道。在梦中，这些都很美好，艾莉亚知道自己没什么好怕。她强壮、敏捷而凶猛，而她的族群、她的兄弟姐妹们，全都跟着她。他们合力捕到一匹受惊的马，撕裂它的喉咙，享用大餐。月亮冲破乌云，她仰天长啸。

　　黎明来临的时候，她被一阵狗吠吵醒。

　　艾莉亚呵欠着坐起来。詹德利在她左边挪了挪，柠檬斗篷则在右边大打呼噜，呼噜声几乎被外面的狗吠所淹没。一定有好几十条狗。她爬出毯子，跃过柠檬、汤姆和幸运杰克，来到窗边。掀开百叶窗，寒风与湿气一起涌进，天色灰暗阴沉。下面的广场里，狗们一边吠叫一边打转，不停呼嗥咆哮。这群狗中包括黑色巨獒犬、精瘦的狼犬、黑白相间的牧羊犬，还有艾莉亚不认识的品种——长着黄色长牙、毛发浓密杂乱的斑纹猛兽。旅馆和喷泉之间，十来个骑手跨在马上，监督镇民们打开胖子的铁笼，使劲拽他胳膊，将肿胀的尸体扯出来，扔到地上。狗们见状一拥而前，将块块血肉从骨头上撕下。

　　艾莉亚听见一个骑手的笑声。“这就是你的新城堡，该死的兰尼斯特混蛋，”他说，“对你来说有点小，但别担心，会想法子把你塞进去的。”他身边有个沉默的囚犯，圈圈麻绳捆住手腕，许多镇民拿屎泼他，但他躲也不躲。“你将在笼里腐烂，”俘虏他的人大声说，“乌鸦会啄出你的眼珠，而我们大把大把地花你的兰尼斯特臭钱！等乌鸦吃饱后，再把你剩下的部分送给你那该死的兄弟。不过我怀疑到时候他还认不认得你。”

　　吵闹声弄醒了蜜桃客栈里的许多客人。詹德利挤到艾莉亚边上，从窗户望出去，汤姆站在他们身后，像出生时一样一丝不挂。“妈的，喊什么喊？”柠檬在床上抱怨，“老子想好好睡一觉。”

　　“绿胡子在哪儿？”汤姆问他。

　　“在艾菊床上，”柠檬说，“怎么了？”

　　“把他和射手找到。‘疯猎人’回来了，要把人关进笼子。”

　　“兰尼斯特，”艾莉亚说，“我听见他喊‘兰尼斯特’。”

　　“抓住弑君者了？”詹德利想知道。

　　下面广场里，一块石头砸到俘虏脸颊上，打得他转过头来。不是弑君者，艾莉亚心想，但诸神毕竟听见了我的祈祷。

TYRION
Nothing remained beyond the King’s Gate but mud and ashes and bits of burned bone, yet already there were people living in the shadow of the city walls, and others selling fish from barrows and barrels. Tyrion felt their eyes on him as he rode past; chilly eyes, angry and unsympathetic. No one dared speak to him, or try to bar his way; not with Bronn beside him in oiled black mail. If I were alone, though, they would pull me down and smash my face in with a cobblestone, as they did for Preston Greenfield.
“They come back quicker than the rats,” he complained. “We burned them out once, you’d think they’d take that as a lesson.”
“Give me a few dozen gold cloaks and I’ll kill them all,” said Bronn. “Once they’re dead they don’t come back.”
“No, but others come in their places. Leave them be . . . but if they start throwing up hovels against the wall again, pull them down at once. The war’s not done yet, no matter what these fools may think.” He spied the Mud Gate up ahead. “I have seen enough for now. We’ll return on the morrow with the guild masters to go over their plans.” He sighed. Well, I burned most of this, I suppose it’s only just that I rebuild it.
That task was to have been his uncle’s, but solid, steady, tireless Ser Kevan Lannister had not been himself since the raven had come from Riverrun with word of his son’s murder. Willem’s twin Martyn had been taken captive by Robb Stark as well, and their elder brother Lancel was still abed, beset by an ulcerating wound that would not heal. With one son dead and two more in mortal danger, Ser Kevan was consumed by grief and fear. Lord Tywin had always relied on his brother, but now he had no choice but to turn again to his dwarf son.
The cost of rebuilding was going to be ruinous, but there was no help for that. King’s Landing was the realm’s principal harbor, rivaled only by Oldtown. The river had to be reopened, and the sooner the better. And where am I going to find the bloody coin? It was almost enough to make him miss Littlefinger, who had sailed north a fortnight past. While he beds Lysa Arryn and rules the Vale beside her, I get to clean up the mess he left behind him. Though at least his father was giving him significant work to do. He won’t name me heir to Casterly Rock, but he’ll make use of me wherever he can, Tyrion thought, as a captain of gold cloaks waved them through the Mud Gate.
The Three Whores still dominated the market square inside the gate, but they stood idle now, and the boulders and barrels of pitch had all been trundled away. There were children climbing the towering wooden structures, swarming up like monkeys in roughspun to perch on the throwing arms and hoot at each other.
“Remind me to tell Ser Addam to post some gold cloaks here,” Tyrion told Bronn as they rode between two of the trebuchets. “Some fool boy’s like to fall off and break his back.” There was a shout from above, and a clod of manure exploded on the ground a foot in front of them. Tyrion’s mare reared and almost threw him. “On second thoughts,” he said when he had the horse in hand, “let the poxy brats splatter on the cobbles like overripe melons.”
He was in a black mood, and not just because a few street urchins wanted to pelt him with dung. His marriage was a daily agony. Sansa Stark remained a maiden, and half the castle seemed to know it. When they had saddled up this morning, he’d heard two of the stableboys sniggering behind his back. He could almost imagine that the horses were sniggering as well. He’d risked his skin to avoid the bedding ritual, hoping to preserve the privacy of his bedchamber, but that hope had been dashed quick enough. Either Sansa had been stupid enough to confide in one of her bedmaids, every one of whom was a spy for Cersei, or Varys and his little birds were to blame.
What difference did it make? They were laughing at him all the same. The only person in the Red Keep who didn’t seem to find his marriage a source of amusement was his lady wife.
Sansa’s misery was deepening every day. Tyrion would gladly have broken through her courtesy to give her what solace he might, but it was no good. No words would ever make him fair in her eyes. Or any less a Lannister. This was the wife they had given him, for all the rest of his life, and she hated him.
And their nights together in the great bed were another source of torment. He could no longer bear to sleep naked, as had been his custom. His wife was too well trained ever to say an unkind word, but the revulsion in her eyes whenever she looked on his body was more than he could bear. Tyrion had commanded Sansa to wear a sleeping shift as well. I want her, he realized. I want Winterfell, yes, but I want her as well, child or woman or whatever she is. I want to comfort her. I want to hear her laugh. I want her to come to me willingly, to bring me her joys and her sorrows and her lust. His mouth twisted in a bitter smile. Yes, and I want to be tall as Jaime and as strong as Ser Gregor the Mountain too, for all the bloody good it does.
Unbidden, his thoughts went to Shae. Tyrion had not wanted her to hear the news from any lips but his own, so he had commanded Varys to bring her to him the night before his wedding. They met again in the eunuch’s chambers, and when Shae began to undo the laces of his jerkin, he’d caught her by the wrist and pushed her away. “Wait,” he said, “there is something you must hear. On the morrow I am to be wed . . .
“ . . . to Sansa Stark. I know.”
He was speechless for an instant. Even Sansa did not know, not then. “How could you know? Did Varys tell you?”
“Some page was telling Ser Tallad about it when I took Lollys to the sept. He had it from this serving girl who heard Ser Kevan talking to your father.” She wriggled free of his grasp and pulled her dress up over her head. As ever, she was naked underneath. “I don’t care. She’s only a little girl. You’ll give her a big belly and come back to me.”
Some part of him had hoped for less indifference. Had hoped, he jeered bitterly, but now you know better, dwarf. Shae is all the love you’re ever like to have.
Muddy Way was crowded, but soldiers and townfolk alike made way for the Imp and his escort. Hollow-eyed children swarmed underfoot, some looking up in silent appeal whilst others begged noisily. Tyrion pulled a big fistful of coppers from his purse and tossed them in the air, and the children went running for them, shoving and shouting. The lucky ones might be able to buy a heel of stale bread tonight. He had never seen markets so crowded, and for all the food the Tyrells were bringing in, prices remained shockingly high. Six coppers for a melon, a silver stag for a bushel of corn, a dragon for a side of beef or six skinny piglets. Yet there seemed no lack of buyers. Gaunt men and haggard women crowded around every wagon and stall, while others even more ragged looked on sullenly from the mouths of alleys.
“This way,” Bronn said, when they reached the foot of the Hook. “If you still mean to . . . ?”
“I do.” The riverfront had made a convenient excuse, but Tyrion had another purpose today. It was not a task he relished, but it must be done. They turned away from Aegon’s High Hill, into the maze of smaller streets that clustered around the foot of Visenya’s. Bronn led the way. Once or twice Tyrion glanced back over his shoulder to see if they were being followed, but there was nothing to be seen except the usual rabble: a carter beating his horse, an old woman throwing nightsoil from her window, two little boys fighting with sticks, three gold cloaks escorting a captive . . . they all looked innocent, but any one of them could be his undoing. Varys had informers everywhere.
They turned at a corner, and again at the next, and rode slowly through a crowd of women at a well. Bronn led him along a curving wynd, through an alley, under a broken archway. They cut through the rubble where a house had burned and walked their horses up a shallow flight of stone steps. The buildings were close and poor. Bronn halted at the mouth of a crooked alley, too narrow for two to ride abreast. “There’s two jags and then a dead end. The sink is in the cellar of the last building.”
Tyrion swung down off his horse. “See that no one enters or leaves till I return. This won’t take long.” His hand went into his cloak, to make certain the gold was still there in the hidden pocket. Thirty dragons. A bloody fortune, for a man like him. He waddled up the alley quickly, anxious to be done with this.
The wine sink was a dismal place, dark and damp, walls pale with niter, the ceiling so low that Bronn would have had to duck to keep from hitting his head on the beams. Tyrion Lannister had no such problem. At this hour, the front room was empty but for a dead-eyed woman who sat on a stool behind a rough plank bar. She handed him a cup of sour wine and said, “In the back.”
The back room was even darker. A flickering candle burned on a low table, beside a flagon of wine. The man behind it scarce looked a danger; a short man—though all men were tall to Tyrion—with thinning brown hair, pink cheeks, and a little pot pushing at the bone buttons of his doeskin jerkin. In his soft hands he held a twelve-stringed woodharp more deadly than a longsword.
Tyrion sat across from him. “Symon Silver Tongue.”
The man inclined his head. He was bald on top. “My lord Hand,” he said.
“You mistake me. My father is the King’s Hand. I am no longer even a finger, I fear.”
“You shall rise again, I am sure. A man like you. My sweet lady Shae tells me you are newly wed. Would that you had sent for me earlier. I should have been honored to sing at your feast.”
“The last thing my wife needs is more songs,” said Tyrion. “As for Shae, we both know she is no lady, and I would thank you never to speak her name aloud.”
“As the Hand commands,” Symon said.
The last time Tyrion had seen the man, a sharp word had been enough to set him sweating, but it seemed the singer had found some courage somewhere. Most like in that flagon. Or perhaps Tyrion himself was to blame for this new boldness. I threatened him, but nothing ever came of the threat, so now he believes me toothless. He sighed. “I am told you are a very gifted singer.”
“You are most kind to say so, my lord.”
Tyrion gave him a smile. “I think it is time you brought your music to the Free Cities. They are great lovers of song in Braavos and Pentos and Lys, and generous with those who please them.” He took a sip of wine. It was foul stuff, but strong. “A tour of all nine cities would be best. You wouldn’t want to deny anyone the joy of hearing you sing. A year in each should suffice.” He reached inside his cloak, to where the gold was hidden. “With the port closed, you will need to go to Duskendale to take ship, but my man Bronn will find a horse for you, and I would be honored if you would let me pay your passage . . . ”
“But my lord,” the man objected, “you have never heard me sing. Pray listen a moment.” His fingers moved deftly over the strings of the woodharp, and soft music filled the cellar. Symon began to sing.
He rode through the streets of the city,
down from his hill on high,
O’er the wynds and the steps and the cobbles,
he rode to a woman’s sigh.
For she was his secret treasure,
she was his shame and his bliss.
And a chain and a keep are nothing,
compared to a woman’s kiss.
“There’s more,” the man said as he broke off, “Oh, a good deal more. The refrain is especially nice, I think. For hands of gold are always cold, but a woman’s hands are warm . . . ”
“Enough.” Tyrion slid his fingers from his cloak, empty. “That’s not a song I would care to hear again. Ever.”
“No?” Symon Silver Tongue put his harp aside and took a sip of wine. “A pity. Still, each man has his song, as my old master used to say when he was teaching me to play. Others might like my tune better. The queen, perhaps. Or your lord father.”
Tyrion rubbed the scar over his nose, and said, “My father has no time for singers, and my sister is not as generous as one might think. A wise man could earn more from silence than from song.” He could not put it much plainer than that.
Symon seemed to take his meaning quick enough. “You will find my price modest, my lord.”
“That’s good to know.” This would not be a matter of thirty golden dragons, Tyrion feared. “Tell me.”
“At King Joffrey’s wedding feast,” the man said, “there is to be a tournament of singers.”
“And jugglers, and jesters, and dancing bears.”
“Only one dancing bear, my lord,” said Symon, who had plainly attended Cersei’s arrangements with far more interest than Tyrion had, “but seven singers. Galyeon of Cuy, Bethany Fair-fingers, Aemon Costayne, Alaric of Eysen, Hamish the Harper, Collio Quaynis, and Orland of Oldtown will compete for a gilded lute with silver strings . . . yet unaccountably, no invitation has been forthcoming for one who is master of them all.”
“Let me guess. Symon Silver Tongue?”
Symon smiled modestly. “I am prepared to prove the truth of my boast before king and court. Hamish is old, and oft forgets what he is singing. And Collio, with that absurd Tyroshi accent! if you understand one word in three, count yourself fortunate.”
“My sweet sister has arranged the feast. Even if I could secure you this invitation, it might look queer. Seven kingdoms, seven vows, seven challenges, seventy-seven dishes . . . but eight singers? What would the High Septon think?”
“You did not strike me as a pious man, my lord.”
“Piety is not the point. Certain forms must be observed.”
Symon took a sip of wine. “Still . . . a singer’s life is not without peril. We ply our trade in alehouses and wine sinks, before unruly drunkards. If one of your sister’s seven should suffer some mishap, I hope you might consider me to fill his place.” He smiled slyly, inordinately pleased with himself.
“Six singers would be as unfortunate as eight, to be sure. I will inquire after the health of Cersei’s seven. If any of them should be indisposed, my man Bronn will find you.”
“Very good, my lord.” Symon might have left it at that, but flushed with triumph, he added, “I shall sing the night of King Joffrey’s wedding. Should it happen that I am called to court, why, I will want to offer the king my very best compositions, songs I have sung a thousand times that are certain to please. If I should find myself singing in some dreary winesink, though . . . well, that would be an apt occasion to try my new song. For hands of gold are always cold, but a woman’s hands are warm.”
“That will not be necessary,” said Tyrion. “You have my word as a Lannister, Bronn will call upon you soon.”
“Very good, my lord.” The balding kettle-bellied singer took up his woodharp again.
Bronn was waiting with the horses at the mouth of the alley. He helped Tyrion into his saddle. “When do I take the man to Duskendale?”
“You don’t.” Tyrion turned his horse. “Give him three days, then inform him that Hamish the Harper has broken his arm. Tell him that his clothes will never serve for court, so he must be fitted for new garb at once. He’ll come with you quick enough.” He grimaced. “You may want his tongue, I understand it’s made of silver. The rest of him should never be found.”
Bronn grinned. “There’s a pot shop I know in Flea Bottom makes a savory bowl of brown. All kinds of meat in it, I hear.”
“Make certain I never eat there.” Tyrion spurred to a trot. He wanted a bath, and the hotter the better.
Even that modest pleasure was denied him, however; no sooner had he returned to his chambers than Podrick Payne informed him that he had been summoned to the Tower of the Hand. “His lordship wants to see you. The Hand. Lord Tywin.”
“I recall who the Hand is, Pod,” Tyrion said. “I lost my nose, not my wits.”
Bronn laughed. “Don’t bite the boy’s head off now.”
“Why not? He never uses it.” Tyrion wondered what he’d done now. Or more like, what I have failed to do. A summons from Lord Tywin always had teeth; his father never sent for him just to share a meal or a cup of wine, that was for certain.
As he entered his lord father’s solar a few moments later, he heard a voice saying, “ . . . cherrywood for the scabbards, bound in red leather and ornamented with a row of lion’s-head studs in pure gold. Perhaps with garnets for the eyes . . . ”
“Rubies,” Lord Tywin said. “Garnets lack the fire.”
Tyrion cleared his throat. “My lord. You sent for me?”
His father glanced up. “I did. Come have a look at this.” A bundle of oilcloth lay on the table between them, and Lord Tywin had a longsword in his hand. “A wedding gift for Joffrey,” he told Tyrion. The light streaming through the diamond-shaped panes of glass made the blade shimmer black and red as Lord Tywin turned it to inspect the edge, while the pommel and crossguard flamed gold. “With this fool’s jabber of Stannis and his magic sword, it seemed to me that we had best give Joffrey something extraordinary as well. A king should bear a kingly weapon.”
“That’s much too much sword for Joff,” Tyrion said.
“He will grow into it. Here, feel the weight of it.” He offered the weapon hilt first.
The sword was much lighter than he had expected. As he turned it in his hand he saw why. Only one metal could be beaten so thin and still have strength enough to fight with, and there was no mistaking those ripples, the mark of steel that has been folded back on itself many thousands of times. “Valyrian steel?”
“Yes,” Lord Tywin said, in a tone of deep satisfaction.
At long last, Father? Valyrian steel blades were scarce and costly, yet thousands remained in the world, perhaps two hundred in the Seven Kingdoms alone. It had always irked his father that none belonged to House Lannister. The old Kings of the Rock had owned such a weapon, but the greatsword Brightroar had been lost when the second King Tommen carried it back to Valyria on his fool’s quest. He had never returned; nor had Uncle Gery, the youngest and most reckless of his father’s brothers, who had gone seeking after the lost sword some eight years past.
Thrice at least Lord Tywin had offered to buy Valyrian longswords from impoverished lesser houses, but his advances had always been firmly rebuffed. The little lordlings would gladly part with their daughters should a Lannister come asking, but they cherished their old family swords.
Tyrion wondered where the metal for this one had come from. A few master armorers could rework old Valyrian steel, but the secrets of its making had been lost when the Doom came to old Valyria. “The colors are strange,” he commented as he turned the blade in the sunlight. Most Valyrian steel was a grey so dark it looked almost black, as was true here as well. But blended into the folds was a red as deep as the grey. The two colors lapped over one another without ever touching, each ripple distinct, like waves of night and blood upon some steely shore. “How did you get this patterning? I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Nor I, my lord,” said the armorer. “I confess, these colors were not what I intended, and I do not know that I could duplicate them. Your lord father had asked for the crimson of your House, and it was that color I set out to infuse into the metal. But Valyrian steel is stubborn. These old swords remember, it is said, and they do not change easily. I worked half a hundred spells and brightened the red time and time again, but always the color would darken, as if the blade was drinking the sun from it. And some folds would not take the red at all, as you can see. If my lords of Lannister are displeased, I will of course try again, as many times as you should require, but—”
“No need,” Lord Tywin said. “This will serve.”
“A crimson sword might flash prettily in the sun, but if truth be told I like these colors better,” said Tyrion. “They have an ominous beauty . . . and they make this blade unique. There is no other sword like it in all the world, I should think.”
“There is one.” The armorer bent over the table and unfolded the bundle of oilcloth, to reveal a second longsword.
Tyrion put down Joffrey’s sword and took up the other. If not twins, the two were at least close cousins. This one was thicker and heavier, a half-inch wider and three inches longer, but they shared the same fine clean lines and the same distinctive color, the ripples of blood and night. Three fullers, deeply incised, ran down the second blade from hilt to point; the king’s sword had only two. Joff’s hilt was a good deal more ornate, the arms of its crossguard done as lions’ paws with ruby claws unsheathed, but both swords had grips of finely tooled red leather and gold lions’ heads for pommels.
“Magnificent.” Even in hands as unskilled as Tyrion’s, the blade felt alive. “I have never felt better balance.”
“It is meant for my son.”
No need to ask which son. Tyrion placed Jaime’s sword back on the table beside Joffrey’s, wondering if Robb Stark would let his brother live long enough to wield it. Our father must surely think so, else why have this blade forged?
“You have done good work, Master Mott,” Lord Tywin told the armorer. “My steward will see to your payment. And remember, rubies for the scabbards.”
“I shall, my lord. You are most generous.” The man folded the swords up in the oilcloth, tucked the bundle under one arm, and went to his knee. “It is an honor to serve the King’s Hand. I shall deliver the swords the day before the wedding.”
“See that you do.”
When the guards had seen the armorer out, Tyrion clambered up onto a chair. “So . . . a sword for Joff, a sword for Jaime, and not even a dagger for the dwarf. Is that the way of it, Father?”
“The steel was sufficient for two blades, not three. If you have need of a dagger, take one from the armory. Robert left a hundred when he died. Gerion gave him a gilded dagger with an ivory grip and a sapphire pommel for a wedding gift, and half the envoys who came to court tried to curry favor by presenting His Grace with jewel-encrusted knives and silver inlay swords.”
Tyrion smiled. “They’d have pleased him more if they’d presented him with their daughters.”
“No doubt. The only blade he ever used was the hunting knife he had from Jon Arryn, when he was a boy.” Lord Tywin waved a hand, dismissing King Robert and all his knives. “What did you find at the riverfront?”
“Mud,” said Tyrion, “and a few dead things no one’s bothered to bury. Before we can open the port again, the Blackwater’s going to have to be dredged, the sunken ships broken up or raised. Three-quarters of the quays need repair, and some may have to be torn down and rebuilt. The entire fish market is gone, and both the River Gate and the King’s Gate are splintered from the battering Stannis gave them and should be replaced. I shudder to think of the cost.” If you do shit gold, Father, find a privy and get busy, he wanted to say, but he knew better.
“You will find whatever gold is required.”
“Will I? Where? The treasury is empty, I’ve told you that. We’re not done paying the alchemists for all that wildfire, or the smiths for my chain, and Cersei’s pledged the crown to pay half the costs of Joff’s wedding—seventy-seven bloody courses, a thousand guests, a pie full of doves, singers, jugglers . . . ”
“Extravagance has its uses. We must demonstrate the power and wealth of Casterly Rock for all the realm to see.”
“Then perhaps Casterly Rock should pay.”
“Why? I have seen Littlefinger’s accounts. Crown incomes are ten times higher than they were under Aerys.”
“As are the crown’s expenses. Robert was as generous with his coin as he was with his cock. Littlefinger borrowed heavily. From you, amongst others. Yes, the incomes are considerable, but they are barely sufficient to cover the usury on Littlefinger’s loans. Will you forgive the throne’s debt to House Lannister?”
“Don’t be absurd.”
“Then perhaps seven courses would suffice. Three hundred guests instead of a thousand. I understand that a marriage can be just as binding without a dancing bear.”
“The Tyrells would think us niggardly. I will have the wedding and the waterfront. If you cannot pay for them, say so, and I shall find a master of coin who can.”
The disgrace of being dismissed after so short a time was not something Tyrion cared to suffer. “I will find your money.”
“You will,” his father promised, “and while you are about it, see if you can find your wife’s bed as well.”
So the talk has reached even him. “I have, thank you. It’s that piece of furniture between the window and the hearth, with the velvet canopy and the mattress stuffed with goose down.”
“I am pleased you know of it. Now perhaps you ought to try and know the woman who shares it with you.”
Woman? Child, you mean. “Has a spider been whispering in your ear, or do I have my sweet sister to thank?” Considering the things that went on beneath Cersei’s blankets, you would think she’d have the decency to keep her nose out of his. “Tell me, why is it that all of Sansa’s maids arc women in Cersei’s service? I am sick of being spied upon in my own chambers.”
“If you mislike your wife’s servants, dismiss them and hire ones more to your liking. That is your right. It is your wife’s maidenhood that concerns me, not her maids. This . . . delicacy puzzles me. You seem to have no difficulty bedding whores. Is the Stark girl made differently?”
“Why do you take so much bloody interest in where I put my cock?” Tyrion demanded. “Sansa is too young.”
“She is old enough to be Lady of Winterfell once her brother is dead. Claim her maidenhood and you will be one step closer to claiming the north. Get her with child, and the prize is all but won. Do I need to remind you that a marriage that has not been consummated can be set aside?”
“By the High Septon or a Council of Faith. Our present High Septon is a trained seal who barks prettily on command. Moon Boy is more like to annul my marriage than he is.”
“Perhaps I should have married Sansa Stark to Moon Boy. He might have known what to do with her.”
Tyrion’s hands clenched on the arms of his chair. “I have heard all I mean to hear on the subject of my wife’s maidenhead. But so long as we are discussing marriage, why is it that I hear nothing of my sister’s impending nuptials? As I recall—”
Lord Tywin cut him off. “Mace Tyrell has refused my offer to marry Cersei to his heir Willas.”
“Refused our sweet Cersei?” That put Tyrion in a much better mood.
“When I first broached the match to him, Lord Tyrell seemed well enough disposed,” his father said. “A day later, all was changed. The old woman’s work. She hectors her son unmercifully. Varys claims she told him that your sister was too old and too used for this precious one-legged grandson of hers.”
“Cersei must have loved that.” He laughed.
Lord Tywin gave him a chilly look. “She does not know. Nor will she. It is better for all of us if the offer was never made. See that you remember that, Tyrion. The offer was never made.”
“What offer?” Tyrion rather suspected that Lord Tyrell might come to regret this rebuff.
“Your sister will be wed. The question is, to whom? I have several thoughts—” Before he could get to them, there was a rap at the door and a guardsman stuck in his head to announce Grand Maester Pycelle. “He may enter,” said Lord Tywin.
Pycelle tottered in on a cane, and stopped long enough to give Tyrion a look that would curdle milk. His once-magnificent white beard, which someone had unaccountably shaved off, was growing back sparse and wispy, leaving him with unsightly pink wattles to dangle beneath his neck. “My lord Hand,” the old man said, bowing as deeply as he could without falling, “there has been another bird from Castle Black. Mayhaps we could consult privily?”
“There’s no need for that.” Lord Tywin waved Grand Maester Pycelle to a seat. “Tyrion may stay.”
Oooooh, may I? He rubbed his nose, and waited.
Pycelle cleared his throat, which involved a deal of coughing and hawking. “The letter is from the same Bowen Marsh who sent the last. The castellan. He writes that Lord Mormont has sent word of wildlings moving south in vast numbers.”
“The lands beyond the Wall cannot support vast numbers,” said Lord Tywin firmly. “This warning is not new.”
“This last is, my lord. Mormont sent a bird from the haunted forest, to report that he was under attack. More ravens have returned since, but none with letters. This Bowen Marsh fears Lord Mormont slain, with all his strength.”
Tyrion had rather liked old Jeor Mormont, with his gruff manner and talking bird. “Is this certain?” he asked.
“It is not,” Pycelle admitted, “but none of Mormont’s men have returned as yet. Marsh fears the wildlings have killed them, and that the Wall itself may be attacked next.” He fumbled in his robe and found the paper. “Here is his letter, my lord, a plea to all five kings. He wants men, as many men as we can send him.”
“Five kings?” His father was annoyed. “There is one king in Westeros. Those fools in black might try and remember that if they wish His Grace to heed them. When you reply, tell him that Renly is dead and the others are traitors and pretenders.”
“No doubt they will be glad to learn it. The Wall is a world apart, and news oft reaches them late.” Pycelle bobbed his head up and down. “What shall I tell Marsh concerning the men he begs for? Shall we convene the council . . . ”
“There is no need. The Night’s Watch is a pack of thieves, killers, and baseborn churls, but it occurs to me that they could prove otherwise, given proper discipline. If Mormont is indeed dead, the black brothers must choose a new Lord Commander.”
Pycelle gave Tyrion a sly glance. “An excellent thought, my lord. I know the very man. Janos Slynt.”
Tyrion liked that notion not at all. “The black brothers choose their own commander,” he reminded them. “Lord Slynt is new to the Wall. I know, I sent him there. Why should they pick him over a dozen more senior men?”
“Because,” his father said, in a tone that suggested Tyrion was quite the simpleton, “if they do not vote as they are told, their Wall will melt before it sees another man.”
Yes, that would work. Tyrion hitched forward. “Janos Slynt is the wrong man, Father. We’d do better with the commander of the Shadow Tower. Or Eastwatch-by-the-Sea.”
“The commander of the Shadow Tower is a Mallister of Seagard. Eastwatch is held by an ironman.” Neither would serve his purposes, Lord Tywin’s tone said clear enough.
“Janos Slynt is a butcher’s son,” Tyrion reminded his father forcefully. “You yourself told me—”
“I recall what I told you. Castle Black is not Harrenhal, however. The Night’s Watch is not the king’s council. There is a tool for every task, and a task for every tool.”
Tyrion’s anger flashed. “Lord Janos is a hollow suit of armor who will sell himself to the highest bidder.”
“I count that a point in his favor. Who is like to bid higher than us?” He turned to Pycelle. “Send a raven. Write that King Joffrey was deeply saddened to hear of Lord Commander Mormont’s death, but regrets that he can spare no men just now, whilst so many rebels and usurpers remain in the field. Suggest that matters might be quite different once the throne is secure . . . provided the king has full confidence in the leadership of the Watch. In closing, ask Marsh to pass along His Grace’s fondest regards to his faithful friend and servant, Lord Janos Slynt.”
“Yes, my lord.” Pycelle bobbed his withered head once more. “I shall write as the Hand commands. With great pleasure.”
I should have trimmed his head, not his beard, Tyrion reflected. And Slynt should have gone for a swim with his dear friend Allar Deem. At least he had not made the same foolish mistake with Symon Silver Tongue. See there, Father? he wanted to shout. See how fast I learn my lessons?

第二十八章 珊莎



　　今天早上，她的新裙服终于完工，女仆们用冒着蒸汽的热水注满浴盆，为她全身上下努力刷洗，直到皮肤变红。瑟曦派出自己的贴身侍女替她修剪指甲，理发梳洗，将她枣红的秀发做成轻柔的小卷儿搭在背上。这位侍女还带来太后最喜欢的十来种香精，珊莎从中选出一瓶甜腻浓烈的花露水，混合着一丝柠檬的味道。侍女把香水倒在指尖，在她双耳、下巴和乳头上各一轻触。
　　随后瑟曦带着女裁缝亲自到场，品评珊莎着装。内衣全是丝绸，裙服本身则由象牙色锦绣和银线编织，银色缎子镶边。当她放下胳膊，长袖快触到地板。这是成年女人的衣服，不是小姑娘家的，对此她很确定。紧身胸衣的V形开头几乎露到小腹，它由装饰繁复的密尔蕾丝织成，颜色是鸽子灰。裙子本身则又长又大，腰围极细，珊莎不得不屏住呼吸以便他们为她系紧缚带。她的新鞋子是浅灰色鹿皮拖鞋，缠在脚上，好似爱侣。“您真是太美了，小姐，”裁缝评论。

　　“是吗？是吗？”珊莎格格娇笑，一边旋身雀跃，裙裾飞舞婆娑。“噢，噢！”她简直等不及要让维拉斯看到了！他会爱上我的，会的，一定会的……他一定会忘了临冬城，爱上我这个人。噢！

　　瑟曦太后用批判的眼光仔细审视她。“我想，再加带珠宝比较合适。就用乔佛里送的月长石发网吧。”

　　“是，陛下，”太后的侍女回答。

　　看着发网挂在珊莎耳际，覆到脖子上，太后满意地点点头。“好，很好。诸神眷顾你呀，珊莎，将你造得这般美丽。把这么一位甜美纯真的女孩送给那个怪物，真叫人难以心安。”

　　“怪物？什么怪物？”珊莎不懂。她指维拉斯？她怎么知道？除了她自己、玛格丽和荆棘女王，没人知道呀……噢，还有唐托斯知道，可他只是个微不足道的小丑啊！

　　瑟曦·兰尼斯特没有回答。“把斗篷拿来，”她下令，女仆们便遵命行事——这是一件装饰着无数珍珠的白天鹅绒长斗篷，上面用银线绣有一只凶猛的冰原狼。珊莎只消看它一眼，便突然恐惧起来。“这是你家族的颜色，”瑟曦道，女仆们则用一根纤细的银链在她脖子上系紧斗篷。

　　新娘斗篷。珊莎不由自主地伸手到喉咙，只想把这东西扯下来扔掉。

　　“闭上嘴巴，你会更漂亮，珊莎，”瑟曦告诉她，“现在出发吧，修士正等着你呢，还有无数的婚礼嘉宾。”

　　“不，”珊莎冲口而出，“不！”

　　“为什么不？你寄养于王家，国王就是你的监护人。既然你哥哥犯上作乱，已被剥夺一切权利，陛下就有义务为你安排婚姻。你的丈夫是我弟弟提利昂。”

　　他们盘算的是你的继承权，她满心作呕地想。我的弄臣骑士到底不是傻瓜，他没有骗我。珊莎从太后身边退开一步，“我不去。”我要嫁给维拉斯，我要成为高庭的夫人，求求你……

　　“这难为了你，我很明白。想哭就哭吧，如果是我的话，非扯头发不可。他是个卑鄙、肮脏、恶心的小怪物，但你必须嫁给他。”

　　“您不能强迫我结婚！”

　　“我们当然能强迫你。你可以像个淑女一样，安静地去，念诵那些誓言；也可以挣扎、尖叫，成为马房小弟们的笑柄——最后结果都没差，你必须结婚，然后上床。”太后打开门，马林·特兰爵士和奥斯蒙·凯特布莱克爵士穿着御林铁卫的全身鳞甲，正等在外面，“护送珊莎小姐去圣堂，”她吩咐，“如果她反抗，就拖着走，但不准弄坏衣服，它花了不少钱。”

　　珊莎拔腿就跑，没出一码就被瑟曦的侍女抓住。马林·特兰爵士恨恨瞪了她一眼，让她不禁畏缩，凯特布莱克则轻轻碰了碰她，道：“照陛下说的做，小可爱，一切没那么坏。冰原狼应该勇敢，不是吗？”

　　勇敢。珊莎深吸一口气。是的，我是史塔克家的人，应该勇敢起来。人们全看着她，他们的表情和那天她在场子上被柏洛斯·布劳恩爵士剥衣服时的观众没两样。那天，正是小恶魔，正是这个她今天要嫁的男人救了她。至少，他没这帮人坏，她告诉自己。“我会安静地去。”

　　瑟曦微笑，“我就知道你会。”

　　她走了，但整个脑海模模糊糊，记不得如何离开房间，如何走下阶梯，如何穿过庭院，惟一的想法就是强迫自己一步、又一步。马林爵士和奥斯蒙爵士把她夹在中间，他们身上的披风和她的新娘斗篷一般惨白，只是没有珠宝和冰原狼家徽。乔佛里在城堡圣堂外的阶梯上等她，他戴着王冠，一身绯红和金色的打扮，颇为耀眼。“今天，我就是你的父亲，”他宣布。

　　“不可能，”她反击，“你永远也不是。”

　　他脸色一黑。“我当然是。作为你父亲的替身，我有权将你嫁给任何人。任何人！只需一句话，你就得和猪倌小弟拜堂，同他睡在猪圈里。”他的碧眼兴奋地闪光。“我也可以把你赏给伊林·派恩爵士，你觉得呢？”

　　她的心一紧。“求求您，陛下，”她哀告，“如果……如果您曾经对我还有那么一点点的爱意，请不要让我嫁给您的——”

　　“——舅舅？”提利昂·兰尼斯特穿过圣堂大门走出来。“陛下，”他对乔佛里说，“可否给我一点时间，让我和珊莎小姐单独谈谈？”

　　国王起初想拒绝，但他母亲狠狠瞪了他一眼，于是他退开几步。

　　提利昂穿一身装饰金色涡旋花纹的黑天鹅绒上衣，长靴为他增加了三寸身高，脖子系一条红宝石和狮子头的项链。但他脸上那道伤疤又红又可怕，鼻子更是丑陋不堪。“你真是太迷人了，珊莎，”他告诉她。

　　“谢谢您，大人。”她想不出别的话。我应该赞他英俊吗？如果我这样讲，他会把我看成骗子还是傻瓜？她垂下头，什么也没说。

　　“小姐，想到您被迫接受这次婚姻，如此突然，如此出乎意料，我感到非常遗憾。保守秘密是为了国家利益，这是我父亲大人的意思，为此他还不准我亲自前来迎接您，很抱歉。”他踱步过来。“我明白，这次婚姻不合你的意，我也不勉强。不愿意的话，尽可以拒绝我，选择我堂弟兰赛尔爵士。这样如何？他年纪与你相仿，长得也算不错。如果你觉得这样更好，只管开口，我决不阻拦。”

　　我不要嫁给任何兰尼斯特家的人，她想对他说，我要维拉斯，我要高庭，我要我们的小狗和花船，我要我的艾德、布兰登和瑞肯。但唐托斯的话又突然回荡在耳际：提利尔家的人和兰尼斯特完全是一丘之貉，毫无二致，他们盘算的是你的继承权。“您真是太好心了，大人，”她说，内心充满了绝望，“身为王家的被监护人，我的责任就是听从国王陛下的指示。”

　　他用那双大小不一的眼睛仔细审度她。“珊莎，我知道自己不是你们小姑娘家的梦中情人，”他轻柔地说，“但我也不是乔佛里。”

　　“您不是，”她回答，“您一直对我很好，我记得的。”

　　提利昂伸出一只指头短小的粗手。“那么，来吧，让我们履行我们的责任。”

　　于是他们双手交握，由他把她领到婚礼祭坛前。修士站在天父和圣母之间，等着见证一对新人的结合。她看见唐托斯爵士穿着小丑的杂色服装，用又圆又大的眼睛盯着她瞧。御林铁卫中，巴隆·史文爵士和柏洛斯·布劳恩爵士也在，但没有洛拉斯爵士的身影。提利尔家的人统统缺席，她猛然间意识到。但婚礼的宾客和见证人倒是不缺：太监瓦里斯、亚当·马尔布兰爵士、菲利普·福特爵士、波隆爵士、贾拉巴·梭尔，还有其他十来个显贵齐聚一堂。她看见咳嗽的盖尔斯伯爵，看见正在吸奶的艾弥珊德伯爵夫人，还看见坦妲伯爵夫人那个怀孕的女儿正在莫名其妙地哭泣。

　　她在哭啊，珊莎心想，等婚礼完毕，我就会和她一样了。

　　对珊莎而言，整个仪式犹如在梦中进行。她温顺地完成了所有的一切。祷告、宣誓和歌颂，一百根长蜡烛在燃烧，一百道跳动的光线由她朦胧的泪眼看来，竟成千万道花火飘摇。她裹着印有父亲纹章的衣服，没人注意到她在哭；又或者他们早看到了，只是假装不在意。在一片麻木中，换斗篷的时刻到了。

　　作为国王，乔佛里代替了父亲艾德·史塔克公爵的位置。当他的手摸到她的肩膀，朝斗篷的钩扣伸去时，她僵硬得像根长熗。一只手扫过乳房，在上面捏了一下，接着她的新娘斗篷便解开了，乔佛里将其优雅而夸张地扫下，露齿而笑。

　　他舅舅则没他这份从容。提利昂穿的新郎斗篷又厚又重，红天鹅绒上绣着无数狮子，边沿是金色缎子与红宝石。没人帮忙，没人搬来一把凳子，而新郎比新娘整整矮了一尺半。他走到她身后，珊莎感到他用力拉她的裙子。他要我跪下，想到这，她不禁面颊通红。事情不该这样的。她上千次梦见自己的婚礼，梦见自己的未婚夫强壮而挺拔，高高地站在面前，将自己的斗篷披在她肩膀，表示永远的守护。随后，他一边靠过来为她系钩扣，一边轻轻吻她。

　　她感到第二次的拉扯，这次更急迫。我才不跪呢！反正没人在乎我的的感受。

　　侏儒第三次拉她。而她顽固地撅起嘴巴，假装不去在意。身后，有人吃吃窃笑。是太后，她心想，不过是谁都没关系。到最后，所有人都笑了，其中乔佛里最为响亮。“唐托斯，你给我趴在地上，”国王命令，“我舅舅爬不到新娘子身上去呢。”

　　结果她的夫君大人得站在弄臣背上为她系好代表兰尼斯特家族的绯红斗篷。

　　珊莎转过身去，发现侏儒朝上瞪着她，嘴巴抿紧，脸庞就跟她身上的斗篷一般红。突然间，她为自己的顽固而羞愧，于是抚平裙子，跪在丈夫面前，让两人的头颅处于同一高度。“经由这一吻，献出我的爱，愿你成为我的夫君和依靠。”

　　“经由这一吻，献出我的爱，”侏儒嘶哑地念诵，“愿你成为我的妻子和连理。”他倾身向前，四片嘴唇在空中轻轻一触。

　　他好丑啊。当他靠近时，珊莎想。他简直比猎狗还丑。

　　修士将水晶高高举起，虹彩光芒照在他们脸上。“在此，在诸神和世人的见证下，”他朗声道，“我庄严宣布，兰尼斯特家族的提利昂与史塔克家族的珊莎结为夫妻，从今以后，他们就是一个躯体，一个心灵，一个魂魄，直到永远。任何干涉他们婚姻的人，将受到无情的诅咒。”

　　她咬紧嘴唇，才没有哭出来。

　　婚宴在首相塔里的小厅召开，参加者约有五十，其中除了婚礼的见证人，还有兰尼斯特家族的封臣和盟友等。提利尔家的成员终于现身。玛格丽忧伤地看了她一眼，荆棘女王由左手和右手扶持着进入，脸上的神情当她是具业已入土的死尸，而埃萝、雅兰和梅歌则装作不认识她。这就是我的朋友，珊莎苦涩地想。

　　她的丈夫喝得多，吃得少。当有人上来送菜或恭贺时，他简短地点点头，此外大部分时间里，阴沉得像岩石一样。婚宴似乎没个完，珊莎半点胃口都没有。她只盼这一切早早结束，却又害怕一切结束的时刻——因为那个时候，就要闹新房了。男人们会把她背向婚床，沿途脱个精光，大声喧哗粗鲁的玩笑，描述她今晚的遭遇；而女人们会对提利昂作同样的事。人们玩够后，就让他俩赤身裸体地抱在一起，退到新房外看热闹，隔门叫嚣各种淫秽的语言。这是维斯特洛的婚俗，从小她就觉得十分地好奇、兴奋和期待，如今却只感到恐惧。他们脱她衣服时她不会哭，可她明白一旦自己听到第一声淫荡的调笑，眼泪必定会不争气地流出来。

　　听到乐师开始演奏，她胆怯将手放在提利昂的手上，“大人，我们是不是带领大家跳舞呢？”

　　他嘴唇扭了扭，“我认为我们今天已经带给大家足够的娱乐了，你觉得呢？”

　　“遵命，大人。”她抽手回去。

　　于是，舞蹈改由乔佛里和玛格丽带领。这个怪物，怎能跳得如此优雅？珊莎忍不住想。她经常做白日梦，幻想自己如何在婚宴上雀跃跳舞，每双眼睛都注目她和她的白马王子。在梦中，人人脸上都洋溢着欢乐；而如今，竟连自己的丈夫也没有笑。

　　客人们纷纷加入国王和他的未婚妻的行列。埃萝和她年轻的侍从未婚夫跳舞，梅歌与托曼王子跳舞。黑头发、大黑眼睛的密尔美女玛瑞魏斯夫人舞动得如此煽情，吸引了厅内每个男人的目光。提利尔公爵夫妇跳得有条不紊。凯冯·兰尼斯特爵士邀请了提利尔公爵的的妹妹，洁娜·佛索威夫人。梅内狄斯·克连恩和被流放的王子贾拉巴·梭尔一起下场，王子穿着一身夸张的羽毛服饰。瑟曦·兰尼斯特太后先和雷德温伯爵跳舞，随后与罗宛伯爵，最后又找到自己的父亲，首相大人跳得流畅沉稳、不苟言笑。

　　珊莎静静坐着，手放于膝，目睹太后又跳又笑，甩动金色的发卷。她好迷人，珊莎迟钝地想，我好恨她。于是她别过头去，去看月童和唐托斯跳舞。

　　“珊莎夫人，”加兰·提利尔爵士走到高台下面，“能否有幸与您跳一曲？如果您夫君大人同意的话？”

　　小恶魔大小不一的眼睛往中间一挤。“我的夫人想和谁跳就和谁跳。”

　　或许应该留在丈夫身边，可她实在太想跳……而且，而且加兰爵士是玛格丽、维拉斯和百花骑士的兄弟。“爵士先生，看到您的容颜相貌，我才明白人们为何称您为‘勇武的’加兰。”她执起他的手，一边说。

　　“夫人过誉。其实，这外号是我哥维拉斯起的，目的是为了保护我。”

　　“保护您？”她不解地看着他。

　　加兰爵士笑道：“当年我是个胖胖的小男孩，而我们有个叔叔就叫‘粗胖的’加尔斯。为避免我将来和他一样，维拉斯替我取了这个外号。起初他还恶作剧地威胁我，要叫我‘贫血的’加兰，‘苦恼的’加兰和‘丑陋的’加兰呢。“

　　想到这些甜美的玩笑，珊莎不由得微笑。她忽然荒谬地开心起来，感到未来毕竟还有希望——即便希望不大。她笑着，任由音乐引导自己，迷失在舞步中，迷失在笛子、竖琴和风笛的吹奏中，迷失在鼓点的节律中……舞蹈让他们接近，她时而倒进加兰爵士怀里。“我夫人很关心您，”他悄悄地说。

　　“莱昂妮夫人真是太好心了。请告诉她，我一切都好。”

　　“一个出嫁的新娘应该不止是‘好’而已，”他语调温柔，“您看起来都快哭了。”

　　“这是欢乐的眼泪，爵士先生。”

　　“您的眼睛泄露了一切。”加兰爵士带她转了一圈，将她拉近。“夫人，我见过您看我弟弟的目光。洛拉斯既勇敢又英俊，是我们家里的骄傲……但您的小恶魔才是丈夫的料，请相信我，他比看上去要高大得多。”

　　珊莎还不及回答，音乐的变换便将两人分开。这一次的舞伴是红面孔、汗水淋漓的梅斯·提利尔，接着是玛瑞魏斯夫人，再下来是托曼王子。“我也想结婚，”胖胖的九岁小王子叫道，“我比我舅舅高呢！”

　　“是啊，小家伙，”分开前珊莎告诉他。后来，凯冯爵士赞她美丽，贾拉巴·梭尔用她听不懂的盛夏群岛语言唧咕了半天，雷德温伯爵则祝愿她的婚姻快乐长久，并生出许多胖小子。再次换舞伴时，轮到她和乔佛里面对面。

　　珊莎立时僵硬，但国王紧握住她的手，将她拉近。“不用这么悲伤，我舅舅的确又矮又丑，但你可以来陪我。”

　　“你要和玛格丽结婚的！”

　　“国王可以随心所欲。我父亲就和许多妓女睡过。从前有个伊耿国王也这么做——似乎是伊耿三世，或者四世——他有许多妓女和许多私生子。”他们随音乐旋转，乔佛里给了她湿湿的一吻。“只要我开口，我舅舅就会把你送到我床上。”

　　珊莎拼命摇头，“不，他不会的。”

　　“他当然会，否则我要他脑袋。从前那个伊耿国王就是这样，不管别人结没结婚，想要谁就要谁。”

　　谢天谢地，换舞伴的时间又到了。可她的脚僵成了木头，随后的罗宛伯爵、塔拉德爵士和埃萝的侍从未婚夫定然以为她是个特别蹩脚的舞伴。最后她重新轮到加兰爵士，幸运的是，舞蹈就在这时结束。

　　她的宽慰没有维持片刻，当乐声渐息，只听乔佛里大声嚷道：“闹新房的时间到了！让我们脱她的衣服，看看这头母狼怎么和我舅舅交配吧！”其他人纷纷高声附和。

　　她的侏儒丈夫将目光缓缓地从酒杯间抬起来。“我不要闹新房。”

　　乔佛里一把抓住珊莎的胳膊，“必须！这是我的命令！”

　　小恶魔将匕首猛然插进桌子，握柄不住颤动。“很好，那你自己闹新房时就得装个假鸡巴去了，我会阉了你，我发誓。”

　　一阵骇然的沉默。珊莎想从乔佛里身边离开，但他握住不放，撕裂了她的袖子。没人听见，没人在意。只见瑟曦太后转向她的父亲，“您听见他的话了么？”

　　泰温公爵站起身来，“闹新房的事，我们可以商量。但是，提利昂，我不许你口出狂言，涉及国王的人身安全。”

　　她看见丈夫脸上青筋暴突。“我失言了，”他最后说，“这是个差劲的玩笑，陛下。”

　　“你竟敢威胁要阉割我！”乔佛里尖叫。

　　“是啊，陛下，”提利昂说，“我好嫉妒您高贵的命根子，因为我自己的又短又小呢。”他邪恶地望着外甥，“噢，我又放肆了，请您别割了我舌头，否则我真不知该拿什么来满足您赐给我的娇妻哟。”

　　奥斯蒙·凯特布莱克爵士忍俊不禁，其他人也窃窃偷笑，只有乔佛里和泰温公爵没有表情。“陛下，”首相大人说，“您瞧瞧，我儿子醉得一塌糊涂。”

　　“是的，”小恶魔承认，“但没有醉到不能上床的地步。”他跳下高台，粗鲁地夺过珊莎的手。“来吧，老婆，该我撞开你的城门啰。今晚，让我们好好玩城堡游戏。”

　　珊莎羞红了脸，任侏儒带她走出小厅。我能有什么选择？提利昂走路的姿势简直就是古怪的蹒跚，尤其是像现在这般走得飞快的时候。诸神保佑，乔佛里或其他人没有跟上来。

　　由于他们是新婚夫妇，因此特别腾出首相塔高层一间大卧室供他们使用。进房后，提利昂一脚将门踢上。“珊莎，餐具柜里有一壶上好的青亭岛金色葡萄酒，请给我倒一杯，行么？”

　　“这样好吗，大人？”

　　“没有比这更好的了。你瞧，我其实没有醉，但我真的想喝醉。”

　　珊莎拿出两个杯子，一人倒满一杯。如果我也喝醉，会不会比较容易些？她坐在巨大的遮罩床边，狠狠吸了三口，喝掉半杯。酒是佳酿，但她紧张到品不出滋味，只觉头脑发晕。“您要我脱衣服吗，大人？”

　　“提利昂。”他抬起头。“我叫提利昂，珊莎。”

　　“提利昂。大人，您要我自己脱衣服，还是您帮我脱？”她又咽下一口酒。

　　小恶魔转头不看她，“我头一次结婚时，由一个喝醉酒的修士主持，一群猪作见证。我和我老婆就用我们的证人来操办婚宴。泰莎喂我骨头，我从她手上舔油脂，吃饱喝足后，我们笑闹着滚到床上……”

　　“您结过婚？抱歉，我……我忘了。”

　　“你什么也没忘，因为我从没给人讲过。”

　　“您夫人是谁，大人？”珊莎不由得好奇。

　　“我的泰莎夫人，”他嘴唇扭曲，“来自西维费斯家族（注：SILVERFIST，意为一把银币），他们家族的纹章是染血床单上的一百零一枚钱币——一百枚银币和一枚金币。我们的婚姻非常短暂……对一个侏儒而言，这大概就是报应吧。”

　　珊莎望着自己的手，什么也说不出来。

　　“你多大了，珊莎？”过了一会儿，提利昂问。

　　“十三岁，”她说，“还差半个月。”

　　“诸神慈悲，”侏儒又灌了一大口酒。“好吧，说话也不会让你长大。那么，夫人，我们可以继续么？你愿意么？”

　　“只要我丈夫开心，我什么都愿意。”

　　听到这话，他似乎很生气。“你把礼貌当城墙，将自己藏在后面。”

　　“礼貌是贵妇人的盔甲，”珊莎回答。这是茉丹修女经常的教诲。

　　“我是你的丈夫。你应该把盔甲脱掉。”

　　“您要我脱衣服吗？”

　　“没错，”他推开酒杯，“我的父亲大人明令我必须完成这桩婚事。”

　　她开始脱衣服，手不住颤抖，好象没有指头，只剩十根千疮百孔的木桩。最后她终于勉力解开扣子和衣带，任斗篷、裙服、腰带和衬裙滑到地上。接着脱内衣，手臂和大腿都起了鸡皮疙瘩。她望向地板，羞得不敢看丈夫，等脱光后才扫了一眼，发现他正目不转睛地瞪着她瞧。碧眼里闪动着饥渴，黑眼里则是怒火。珊莎说不准哪边更可怕。

　　“你还是个孩子，”丈夫道。

　　她用双手遮住乳房。“我有月事了。”

　　“你还是个孩子，”他重复，“但我想要你。你害怕吗，珊莎？”

　　“怕。”

　　“我也害怕。我知道我很丑——”

　　“不，我的夫君——”

　　他站起来，“不用说慌，珊莎，我明白自己是个畸形儿，长得可怕又丑陋，身材矮小得不成比例，可是……”她听见他吞了吞口水，“……可是，只要在床上，吹灭蜡烛，我就和其他男人一样强。吹灭蜡烛，我就是你的百花骑士。”他又灌下一口酒。“我很慷慨，对忠实于我的人，都会回报以忠实。你瞧，打起仗来我不是懦夫，用起脑子也不差——至少，这点小聪明应该得到肯定吧。再说，我这个人还算温柔，温柔可不是我们兰尼斯特家族的禀性呢，但我知道自己能做到。我可以……我可以当你的好丈夫。”

　　他和我一样害怕，珊莎终于明白。或许该对他好一点，但她实在做不到。在她心底，能感觉到的只有丝丝怜悯，而怜悯是欲望的毒药。他定定地望着她，期盼她说些什么，但她什么也说不出来。她只是浑身发抖地站着。

　　当他清楚她不会给他任何答案时，提利昂·兰尼斯特一口喝干了所有的酒。“我明白了，”他痛苦地说，“上床吧，珊莎。我们必须履行责任。”

　　她爬上羽床，觉察到他继续瞪着她。床边小桌上燃着一只加香料的蜂蜡烛，被单间撒了无数玫瑰花瓣。她牵起毯子，想盖住身体，只听丈夫道：“不。”

　　她觉得很冷，但还是顺从了，同时闭上眼睛，静静地等待。过了片刻，她听见丈夫脱下鞋子，随后是脱衣服的沙沙声。当他跳上床，将手放到她乳房上时，珊莎再次发起抖来。她紧紧闭上眼睛，每块肌肉都紧蹦，内心恐惧着即将发生的事。他会再摸她吗？会吻她么？我应该打开双腿吗？她不知该怎么做。

　　“珊莎，”丈夫的手放开了，“请你睁开眼睛。”

　　她必须顺从丈夫的，于是她睁开眼睛。只见对方裸着身子坐在她脚边，双腿交接的地方，又长又硬的男根从一丛粗厚的金毛丛中伸出来——那也是他全身上下惟一挺拔的地方。

　　“夫人，”提利昂开口，“别误会，你真的非常可爱，可我……我做不到。唉，我父亲真是个混蛋！没关系，我们可以等，一月，一年，一个季节，无论多久。等你了解我、相信我的时候再做吧。”他笑笑，似乎想让她安心，可没鼻子的脸却更可怕和古怪了。

　　看着他，珊莎告诉自己，看着自己的丈夫，好好了解他。茉丹修女说过，每个男人都有其可爱之处，去发现他的优点吧，努力观察。于是她瞧向丈夫矮短的双腿、浮胀的额头、一碧一黑的眼睛和满头满脸的金发金须。好丑哦，连他的男根也一样，又大又长，脉络突出，带一个涨成深紫色的头。不对，不对，他哪有一点美？我到底造了什么孽，上天要我嫁给他？

　　“以我身为兰尼斯特的荣誉，”小恶魔道，“我发誓，在你心甘情愿接受我之前，我决不碰你。”

　　她鼓起所有勇气，望向丈夫那对大小不一的眼睛，“大人，如果我说永远也不行呢？”

　　他嘴唇抽搐，好似她甩了他一巴掌。“永远也不行？”

　　她脖子僵硬，连自己也不明白到底点头了没有。

　　“原来如此，”他说，“原来如此，这就是诸神造妓女的原因罢。”他将粗短的指头握成拳，从床上爬了下去。

JAIME
His hand burned.
Still, still, long after they had snuffed out the torch they’d used to sear his bloody stump, days after, he could still feel the fire lancing up his arm, and his fingers twisting in the flames, the fingers he no longer had.
He had taken wounds before, but never like this. He had never known there could be such pain. Sometimes, unbidden, old prayers bubbled from his lips, prayers he learned as a child and never thought of since, prayers he had first prayed with Cersei kneeling beside him in the sept at Casterly Rock. Sometimes he even wept, until he heard the Mummers laughing. Then he made his eyes go dry and his heart go dead, and prayed for his fever to burn away his tears. Now I know how Tyrion has felt, all those times they laughed at him.
After the second time he fell from the saddle, they bound him tight to Brienne of Tarth and made them share a horse again. One day, instead of back to front, they bound them face-to-face. “The lovers,” Shagwell sighed loudly, “and what a lovely sight they are. ’Twould be cruel to separate the good knight and his lady.” Then he laughed that high shrill laugh of his, and said, “Ah, but which one is the knight and which one is the lady?”
If I had my hand, you’d learn that soon enough, Jaime thought. His arms ached and his legs were numb from the ropes, but after a while none of that mattered. His world shrunk to the throb of agony that was his phantom hand, and Brienne pressed against him. She’s warm, at least, he consoled himself, though the wench’s breath was as foul as his own.
His hand was always between them. Urswyck had hung it about his neck on a cord, so it dangled down against his chest, slapping Brienne’s breasts as Jaime slipped in and out of consciousness. His right eye was swollen shut, the wound inflamed where Brienne had cut him during their fight, but it was his hand that hurt the most. Blood and pus seeped from his stump, and the missing hand throbbed every time the horse took a step.
His throat was so raw that he could not eat, but he drank wine when they gave it to him, and water when that was all they offered. Once they handed him a cup and he quaffed it straight away, trembling, and the Brave Companions burst into laughter so loud and harsh it hurt his ears. “That’s horse piss you’re drinking, Kingslayer,” Rorge told him. Jaime was so thirsty he drank it anyway, but afterward he retched it all back up. They made Brienne wash the vomit out of his beard, just as they made her clean him up when he soiled himself in the saddle.
One damp cold morning when he was feeling slightly stronger, a madness took hold of him and he reached for the Dornishman’s sword with his left hand and wrenched it clumsily from its scabbard. Let them kill me, he thought, so long as I die fighting, a blade in hand. But it was no good. Shagwell came hopping from leg to leg, dancing nimbly aside when Jaime slashed at him. Unbalanced, he staggered forward, hacking wildly at the fool, but Shagwell spun and ducked and darted until all the Mummers were laughing at Jaime’s futile efforts to land a blow. When he tripped over a rock and stumbled to his knees, the fool leapt in and planted a wet kiss atop his head.
Rorge finally flung him aside and kicked the sword from Jaime’s feeble fingers as he tried to bring it up. “That wath amuthing, Kingthlayer,” said Vargo Hoat, “but if you try it again, I thall take your other hand, or perhapth a foot.”
Jaime lay on his back afterward, staring at the night sky, trying not to feel the pain that snaked up his right arm every time he moved it. The night was strangely beautiful. The moon was a graceful crescent, and it seemed as though he had never seen so many stars. The King’s Crown was at the zenith, and he could see the Stallion rearing, and there the Swan. The Moonmaid, shy as ever, was half-hidden behind a pine tree. How can such a night be beautiful? he asked himself. Why would the stars want to look down on such as me?
“Jaime,” Brienne whispered, so faintly he thought he was dreaming it. “Jaime, what are you doing?”
“Dying,” he whispered back.
“No,” she said, “no, you must live.”
He wanted to laugh. “Stop telling me what do, wench. I’ll die if it pleases me.”
“Are you so craven?”
The word shocked him. He was Jaime Lannister, a knight of the Kingsguard, he was the Kingslayer. No man had ever called him craven. Other things they called him, yes; oathbreaker, liar, murderer. They said he was cruel, treacherous, reckless. But never craven. “What else can I do, but die?”
“Live,” she said, “live, and fight, and take revenge.” But she spoke too loudly. Rorge heard her voice, if not her words, and came over to kick her, shouting at her to hold her bloody tongue if she wanted to keep it.
Craven, Jaime thought, as Brienne fought to stifle her moans. Can it be? They took my sword hand. Was that all I was, a sword hand? Gods be good, is it true?
The wench had the right of it. He could not die. Cersei was waiting for him. She would have need of him. And Tyrion, his little brother, who loved him for a lie. And his enemies were waiting too; the Young Wolf who had beaten him in the Whispering Wood and killed his men around him, Edmure Tully who had kept him in darkness and chains, these Brave Companions.
When morning came, he made himself eat. They fed him a mush of oats, horse food, but he forced down every spoon. He ate again at evenfall, and the next day. Live, he told himself harshly, when the mush was like to gag him, live for Cersei, live for Tyrion. Live for vengeance. A Lannister always pays his debts. His missing hand throbbed and burned and stank. When I reach King’s Landing I’ll have a new hand forged, a golden hand, and one day I’ll use it to rip out Vargo Hoat’s throat.
The days and the nights blurred together in a haze of pain. He would sleep in the saddle, pressed against Brienne, his nose full of the stink of his rotting hand, and then at night he would lie awake on the hard ground, caught in a waking nightmare. Weak as he was, they always bound him to a tree. It gave him some cold consolation to know that they feared him that much, even now.
Brienne was always bound beside him. She lay there in her bonds like a big dead cow, saying not a word. The wench has built a fortress inside herself. They will rape her soon enough, but behind her walls they cannot touch her. But Jaime’s walls were gone. They had taken his hand, they had taken his sword hand, and without it he was nothing. The other was no good to him. Since the time he could walk, his left arm had been his shield arm, no more. It was his right hand that made him a knight; his right arm that made him a man.
One day, he heard Urswyck say something about Harrenhal, and remembered that was to be their destination. That made him laugh aloud, and that made Timeon slash his face with a long thin whip. The cut bled, but beside his hand he scarcely felt it. “Why did you laugh?” the wench asked him that night, in a whisper.
“Harrenhal was where they gave me the white cloak,” he whispered back. “Whent’s great tourney. He wanted to show us all his big castle and his fine sons. I wanted to show them too. I was only fifteen, but no one could have beaten me that day. Aerys never let me joust.” He laughed again. “He sent me away. But now I’m coming back.”
They heard the laugh. That night it was Jaime who got the kicks and punches. He hardly felt them either, until Rorge slammed a boot into his stump, and then he fainted.
It was the next night when they finally came, three of the worst; Shagwell, noseless Rorge, and the fat Dothraki Zollo, the one who’d cut his hand off. Zollo and Rorge were arguing about who would go first as they approached; there seemed to be no question but that the fool would be going last. Shagwell suggested that they should both go first, and take her front and rear. Zollo and Rorge liked that notion, only then they began to fight about who would get the front and who the rear.
They will leave her a cripple too, but inside, where it does not show. “Wench,” he whispered as Zollo and Rorge were cursing one another, “let them have the meat, and you go far away. It will be over quicker, and they’ll get less pleasure from it.”
“They’ll get no pleasure from what I’ll give them,” she whispered back, defiant.
Stupid stubborn brave bitch. She was going to get herself good and killed, he knew it. And what do I care if she does? If she hadn’t been so pigheaded, I’d still have a hand. Yet he heard himself whisper, “Let them do it, and go away inside.” That was what he’d done, when the Starks had died before him, Lord Rickard cooking in his armor while his son Brandon strangled himself trying to save him. “Think of Renly, if you loved him. Think of Tarth, mountains and seas, pools, waterfalls, whatever you have on your Sapphire Isle, think . . . ”
But Rorge had won the argument by then. “You’re the ugliest woman I ever seen,” he told Brienne, “but don’t think I can’t make you uglier. You want a nose like mine? Fight me, and you’ll get one. And two eyes, that’s too many. One scream out o’ you, and I’ll pop one out and make you eat it, and then I’ll pull your fucking teeth out one by one.”
“Oh, do it, Rorge,” pleaded Shagwell. “Without her teeth, she’ll look just like my dear old mother.” He cackled. “And I always wanted to fuck my dear old mother up the arse.”
Jaime chuckled. “There’s a funny fool. I have a riddle for you, Shagwell. Why do you care if she screams? Oh, wait, I know.” He shouted, “SAPPHIRES,” as loudly as he could.
Cursing, Rorge kicked at his stump again. Jaime howled. I never knew there was such agony in the world, was the last thing he remembered thinking. It was hard to say how long he was gone, but when the pain spit him out, Urswyck was there, and Vargo Hoat himself. “Thee’th not to be touched,” the goat screamed, spraying spittle all over Zollo. “Thee hath to be a maid, you foolth! Thee’th worth a bag of thapphireth!” And from then on, every night Hoat put guards on them, to protect them from his own.
Two nights passed in silence before the wench finally found the courage to whisper, “Jaime? Why did you shout out?”
“Why did I shout ‘sapphires’, you mean? Use your wits, wench. Would this lot have cared if I shouted ‘rape’?
“You did not need to shout at all.”
“You’re hard enough to look at with a nose. Besides, I wanted to make the goat say ‘thapphireth’.” He chuckled. “A good thing for you I’m such a liar. An honorable man would have told the truth about the Sapphire Isle.”
“All the same,” she said. “I thank you, ser.”
His hand was throbbing again. He ground his teeth and said, “A Lannister pays his debts. That was for the river, and those rocks you dropped on Robin Ryger.”
The goat wanted to make a show of parading him in, so Jaime was made to dismount a mile from the gates of Harrenhal. A rope was looped around his waist, a second around Brienne’s wrists; the ends were tied to the pommel of Vargo Hoat’s saddle. They stumbled along side by side behind the Qohorik’s striped zorse.
Jaime’s rage kept him walking. The linen that covered the stump was grey and stinking with pus. His phantom fingers screamed with every step. I am stronger than they know, he told himself. I am still a Lannister. I am still a knight of the Kingsguard. He would reach Harrenhal, and then King’s Landing. He would live. And I will pay this debt with interest.
As they approached the clifflike walls of Black Harren’s monstrous castle, Brienne squeezed his arm. “Lord Bolton holds this castle. The Boltons are bannermen to the Starks.”
“The Boltons skin their enemies.” Jaime remembered that much about the northman. Tyrion would have known all there was to know about the Lord of the Dreadfort, but Tyrion was a thousand leagues away, with Cersei. I cannot die while Cersei lives, he told himself. We will die together as we were born together.
The castleton outside the walls had been burned to ash and blackened stone, and many men and horses had recently encamped beside the lakeshore, where Lord Whent had staged his great tourney in the year of the false spring. A bitter smile touched Jaime’s lips as they crossed that torn ground. Someone had dug a privy trench in the very spot where he’d once knelt before the king to say his vows. I never dreamed how quick the sweet would turn to sour. Aerys would not even let me savor that one night. He honored me, and then he spat on me.
“The banners,” Brienne observed. “Flayed man and twin towers, see. King Robb’s sworn men. There, above the gatehouse, grey on white. They fly the direwolf.”
Jaime twisted his head upward for a look. “That’s your bloody wolf, true enough,” he granted her. “And those are heads to either side of it.”
Soldiers, servants, and camp followers gathered to hoot at them. A spotted bitch followed them through the camps barking and growling until one of the Lyseni impaled her on a lance and galloped to the front of the column. “I am bearing Kingslayer’s banner,” he shouted, shaking the dead dog above Jaime’s head.
The walls of Harrenhal were so thick that passing beneath them was like passing through a stone tunnel. Vargo Hoat had sent two of his Dothraki ahead to inform Lord Bolton of their coming, so the outer ward was full of the curious. They gave way as Jaime staggered past, the rope around his waist jerking and pulling at him whenever he slowed. “I give you the Kingthlayer,” Vargo Hoat proclaimed in that thick slobbery voice of his. A spear jabbed at the small of Jaime’s back, sending him sprawling.
Instinct made him put out his hands to stop his fall. When his stump smashed against the ground the pain was blinding, yet somehow he managed to fight his way back to one knee. Before him, a flight of broad stone steps led up to the entrance of one of Harrenhal’s colossal round towers. Five knights and a northman stood looking down on him; the one pale-eyed in wool and fur, the five fierce in mail and plate, with the twin towers sigil on their surcoats. “A fury of Freys,” Jaime declared. “Ser Danwell, Ser Aenys, Ser Hosteen.” He knew Lord Walder’s sons by sight; his aunt had married one, after all. “You have my condolences.”
“For what, ser?” Ser Danwell Frey asked.
“Your brother’s son, Ser Cleos,” said Jaime. “He was with us until outlaws filled him full of arrows. Urswyck and this lot took his goods and left him for the wolves.”
“My lords!” Brienne wrenched herself free and pushed forward. “I saw your banners. Hear me for your oath!”
“Who speaks?” demanded Ser Aenys Frey.
“Lannither’th wet nurth.”
“I am Brienne of Tarth, daughter to Lord Selwyn the Evenstar, and sworn to House Stark even as you are.”
Ser Aenys spit at her feet. “That’s for your oaths. We trusted the word of Robb Stark, and he repaid our faith with betrayal.”
Now this is interesting. Jaime twisted to see how Brienne might take the accusation, but the wench was as singleminded as a mule with a bit between his teeth. “I know of no betrayal.” She chafed at the ropes around her wrists. “Lady Catelyn commanded me to deliver Lannister to his brother at King’s Landing—”
“She was trying to drown him when we found them,” said Urswyck the Faithful.
She reddened. “In anger I forgot myself, but I would never have killed him. If he dies the Lannisters will put my lady’s daughters to the sword.”
Ser Aenys was unmoved. “Why should that trouble us?”
“Ransom him back to Riverrun,” urged Ser Danwell.
“Casterly Rock has more gold,” one brother objected.
“Kill him!” said another. “His head for Ned Stark’s!”
Shagwell the Fool somersaulted to the foot of the steps in his grey and pink motley and began to sing. “There once was a lion who danced with a bear, oh my, oh my . . . ”
“Thilenth, fool.” Vargo Hoat cuffed the man. “The Kingthlayer ith not for the bear. He ith mine.”
“He is no one’s should he die.” Roose Bolton spoke so softly that men quieted to hear him. “And pray recall, my lord, you are not master of Harrenhal till I march north.”
Fever made Jaime as fearless as he was lightheaded. “Can this be the Lord of the Dreadfort? When last I heard, my father had sent you scampering off with your tail betwixt your legs. When did you stop running my lord?”
Bolton’s silence was a hundred times more threatening than Vargo Hoat’s slobbering malevolence. Pale as morning mist, his eyes concealed more than they told. Jaime misliked those eyes. They reminded him of the day at King’s Landing when Ned Stark had found him seated on the Iron Throne. The Lord of the Dreadfort finally pursed his lips and said, “You have lost a hand.”
“No,” said Jaime, “I have it here, hanging round my neck.”
Roose Bolton reached down, snapped the cord, and flung the hand at Hoat. “Take this away. The sight of it offends me.”
“I will thend it to hith lord father. I will tell him he muth pay one hundred thouthand dragonth, or we thall return the Kingthlayer to him pieth by pieth. And when we hath hith gold, we thall deliver Ther Jaime to Karthark, and collect a maiden too!” A roar of laughter went up from the Brave Companions.
“A fine plan,” said Roose Bolton, the same way he might say, “A fine wine,” to a dinner companion, “though Lord Karstark will not be giving you his daughter. King Robb has shortened him by a head, for treason and murder. As to Lord Tywin, he remains at King’s Landing, and there he will stay till the new year, when his grandson takes for bride a daughter of Highgarden.”
“Winterfell,” said Brienne. “You mean Winterfell. King Joffrey is betrothed to Sansa Stark.”
“No longer. The Battle of the Blackwater changed all. The rose and the lion joined there, to shatter Stannis Baratheon’s host and burn his fleet to ashes.”
I warned you, Urswyck, Jaime thought, and you, goat. When you bet against the lions, you lose more than your purse. “Is there word of my sister?” he asked.
“She is well. As is your . . . nephew.” Bolton paused before he said nephew, a pause that said I know. “Your brother also lives, though he took a wound in the battle.” He beckoned to a dour northman in a studded brigantine. “Escort Ser Jaime to Qyburn. And unbind this woman’s hands.” As the rope between Brienne’s wrists was slashed in two, he said, “Pray forgive us, my lady. In such troubled times it is hard to know friend from foe.”
Brienne rubbed inside her wrist where the hemp had scraped her skin bloody. “My lord, these men tried to rape me.”
“Did they?” Lord Bolton turned his pale eyes on Vargo Hoat. “I am displeased. By that, and this of Ser Jaime’s hand.”
There were five northmen and as many Freys in the yard for every Brave Companion. The goat might not be as clever as some, but he could count that high at least. He held his tongue.
“They took my sword,” Brienne said, “my armor . . . ”
“You shall have no need of armor here, my lady,” Lord Bolton told her. “In Harrenhal, you are under my protection. Amabel, find suitable rooms for the Lady Brienne. Walton, you will see to Ser Jaime at once.” He did not wait for an answer, but turned and climbed the steps, his fur-trimmed cloak swirling behind. Jaime had only enough time to exchange a quick look with Brienne before they were marched away, separately.
In the maester’s chambers beneath the rookery, a grey-haired, fatherly man named Qyburn sucked in his breath when he cut away the linen from the stump of Jaime’s hand.
“That bad? Will I die?”
Qyburn pushed at the wound with a finger, and wrinkled his nose at the gush of pus. “No. Though in a few more days . . . ” He sliced away Jaime’s sleeve. “The corruption has spread. See how tender the flesh is? I must cut it all away. The safest course would be to take the arm off.”
“Then you’ll die,” Jaime promised. “Clean the stump and sew it up. I’ll take my chances.”
Qyburn frowned. “I can leave you the upper arm, make the cut at your elbow, but . . . ”
“Take any part of my arm, and you’d best chop off the other one as well, or I’ll strangle you with it afterward.”
Qyburn looked in his eyes. Whatever he saw there gave him pause. “Very well. I will cut away the rotten flesh, no more. Try to burn out the corruption with boiling wine and a poultice of nettle, mustard seed, and bread mold. Mayhaps that will suffice. It is on your head. You will want milk of the poppy—”
“No.” Jaime dare not let himself be put to sleep; he might be short an arm when he woke, no matter what the man said.
Qyburn was taken aback. “There will be pain.”
“I’ll scream.”
“A great deal of pain.”
“I’ll scream very loudly.”
“Will you take some wine at least?”
“Does the High Septon ever pray?”
“Of that I am not certain. I shall bring the wine. Lie back, I must needs strap down your arm.”
With a bowl and a sharp blade, Qyburn cleaned the stump while Jaime gulped down strongwine, spilling it all over himself in the process. His left hand did not seem to know how to find his mouth, but there was something to be said for that. The smell of wine in his sodden beard helped disguise the stench of pus.
Nothing helped when the time came to pare away the rotten flesh. Jaime did scream then, and pounded his table with his good fist, over and over and over again. He screamed again when Qyburn poured boiling wine over what remained of his stump. Despite all his vows and all his fears, he lost consciousness for a time. When he woke, the maester was sewing at his arm with needle and catgut. “I left a flap of skin to fold back over your wrist.”
“You have done this before,” muttered Jaime, weakly. He could taste blood in his mouth where he’d bitten his tongue.
“No man who serves with Vargo Hoat is a stranger to stumps. He makes them wherever he goes.”
Qyburn did not look a monster, Jaime thought. He was spare and soft-spoken, with warm brown eyes. “How does a maester come to ride with the Brave Companions?”
“The Citadel took my chain.” Qyburn put away his needle. “I should do something about that wound above your eye as well. The flesh is badly inflamed.”
Jaime closed his eyes and let the wine and Qyburn do their work. “Tell me of the battle.” As keeper of Harrenhal’s ravens, Qyburn would have been the first to hear the news.
“Lord Stannis was caught between your father and the fire. It’s said the Imp set the river itself aflame.”
Jaime saw green flames reaching up into the sky higher than the tallest towers, as burning men screamed in the streets. I have dreamed this dream before. It was almost funny, but there was no one to share the joke.
“Open your eye.” Qyburn soaked a cloth in warm water and dabbed at the crust of dried blood. The eyelid was swollen, but Jaime found he could force it open halfway. Qyburn’s face loomed above. “How did you come by this one?” the maester asked.
“A wench’s gift.”
“Rough wooing, my lord?”
“This wench is bigger than me and uglier than you. You’d best see to her as well. She’s still limping on the leg I pricked when we fought.”
“I will ask after her. What is this woman to you?”
“My protector.” Jaime had to laugh, no matter how it hurt.
“I’ll grind some herbs you can mix with wine to bring down your fever. Come back on the morrow and I’ll put a leech on your eye to drain the bad blood.”
“A leech. Lovely.”
“Lord Bolton is very fond of leeches,” Qyburn said primly.
“Yes,” said Jaime. “He would be.”

第二十七章 丹妮莉丝



　　“全买下？”奴隶女孩难以置信地反问，“陛下，小人没听错吧？”
　　清爽的绿光滤过镶嵌在斜墙的钻石形玻璃彩窗照射而下，阵阵微风自外面的平台轻柔地吹拂进来，携入庭园的花果香味。“你没听错，”丹妮道，“我要把他们全买下。方便的话，请你转告善主大人们。”

　　今天她穿着魁尔斯长袍，深紫罗兰色的绸缎映衬紫色的眼睛，左边酥胸裸露出来。阿斯塔波的善主大人们在低声交谈，丹妮举起一只银色细高脚杯，啜饮酸柿酒。她听不清所有的话，但听得出其中的贪婪。

　　八名商人各由两三名贴身奴隶服侍……其中最老的格拉兹旦带了六人。为不被看作乞丐，丹妮也带来自己的仆人：穿沙丝长裤和彩绘背心的伊丽与姬琪、老人白胡子和壮汉贝沃斯、还有血盟卫。乔拉爵士站在她身后，穿着绣有人立黑熊的绿外套，散发出朴实的汗臭，与阿斯塔波人浑身浸透的香水形成鲜明对比。

　　“全部！？”克拉兹尼·莫·纳克罗兹低吼道，他今天闻上去是桃子的味道。奴隶女孩用维斯特洛通用语把这个词重复了一遍。“若以千为单位，就是八千。她全部都要？此外还有六百，等凑齐一千就是九千。这些她也要？”

　　“全部都要，”问题被翻译后，丹妮说，“八千，加六百……还有仍在训练中、没挣得尖刺盔的，全部都要。”

　　克拉兹尼又转向同伴们，再次商讨。翻译已把他们的名字告诉了丹妮，但她还记不精准。好像有四个格拉兹旦，想必是取自创世之初建立古吉斯帝国的“伟人”格拉兹旦。他们八个的长相都差不多：粗壮肥胖、琥珀色皮肤、宽鼻子、黑眼睛。直立的头发要么黑，要么暗红，要么就是红黑混杂——这是吉斯人的血统标志。他们都裹着托卡长袍，在阿斯塔波只有自由人才准穿这种服装。

　　据格罗莱船长所言，托卡长袍上的流苏代表各自的地位。来到这间位于金字塔顶的荫凉休憩厅的奴隶商人中，有两个穿的托卡长袍带银流苏，五个带金流苏，最老的格拉兹旦的流苏则是大颗白珍珠。当他在椅子上挪移或摆动手臂，它们便互相撞击，发出轻微的嗒嗒声。

　　“我们不能出售未完成训练的男孩，”一位银流苏的格拉兹旦对其他人说。

　　“当然可以卖，只要她出得起钱，”一位更胖的人说，他带着金流苏。

　　“他们没杀过婴儿，还不是无垢者，若将来在战场上表现不佳，必定损坏我们的名声。再说，即便我们明天就阉割五千男童，等他们适合出售还需要十年时间，怎么对下一位买家交代呢？”

　　“我们就告诉他必须等，”胖子道，“口袋里的金钱胜过将来的收入。”

　　丹妮任凭他们争论，自己啜饮酸柿酒，装作茫然无知。不管价钱多高，我都要全买下来，她告诉自己。这座城市有上百个奴隶商人，但此刻在她面前的八位最有影响力。售卖床上奴隶、农奴、文书、工匠或教师的时候，这些人是竞争对手，但在制造和出售无垢者方面，他们世世代代结成联盟。砖与血造就阿斯塔波，砖与血造就她的子民。

　　最后宣布决定的是克拉兹尼：“告诉她，只要有足够的钱，可以带走八千，外加那六百，如果她想要的话。告诉她，一年后回来，我们再卖给她两千。”

　　“一年后我就在维斯特洛了，”丹妮听完翻译后说，“我现在就要，全部都要。无垢者固然训练有素，即使如此，战斗仍会有伤亡。我需要那些男孩作为替补，随时准备取代他们的位置。”她把酒放到一边，俯身靠近奴隶女孩。“告诉善主大人们，我连那些还养着小狗的小家伙们也要；告诉他们，我为一个昨天才阉割的男孩付的价跟一个戴尖刺盔的无垢者相同。”

　　女孩把话转述。回答仍然是不。

　　丹妮恼怒地皱眉。“很好，告诉他们我付双倍价钱，只要能买下全部。”

　　“双倍？”带金流苏的胖商人差点流下口水。

　　“这小婊子是个傻瓜，真的，”克拉兹尼·莫·纳克罗兹说，“照我看，就要三倍价钱，她拼死也会付的。对，每个奴隶要十倍的价。”

　　留尖胡子的高个格拉兹旦用通用语讲话了，尽管不如奴隶女孩说得好。“陛下，”他翁声翁气地道，“维斯特洛是个富裕的国度，这点我们很清楚，但您现在并不是女王，或许永远也不会成为女王，而即使无垢者也可能在战斗中输给七大王国野蛮的钢铁骑士。容我提醒您一句，阿斯塔波的善主大人们不会拿奴隶来交换空口承诺。您想要所有太监，请问有没有足够的金钱或货物呢？”

　　“你比我更清楚这个问题的答案，善主大人，”丹妮回答，“你们的人已经仔细查过我的船，记下每一颗玛瑙、每一罐藏红花。告诉我，我有多少？”

　　“足够买一千个，”善主大人轻蔑地微笑，“然而您说要付双倍价钱，那么能买到五百。”

　　“你那顶漂亮的王冠可以再多换一百，”胖子用瓦雷利亚语说，“那顶三头龙的王冠。”

　　丹妮等他的话被翻译过来。“我的王冠决不出售。”韦赛里斯卖掉母亲的宝冠，从此便没有欢乐，只余愤恨与暴戾。“我也决不会奴役我的子民，连他们的货物和马匹也不卖。但你们可以拥有我的船，包括大商船贝勒里恩号、划桨船瓦格哈尔号和米拉西斯号。”她预先通告过格罗莱和其他船长，也许事情会演变至此，不顾他们激烈地抗议。“三艘好船应该抵得上不少卑微的太监。”

　　肥胖的格拉兹旦转向其他人。他们再次轻声讨论。“两千，”尖胡子的家伙回头道，“这已经太多了，但善主大人们很慷慨，愿意考虑您急迫的需求。”

　　两千人不能实行她的计划。我必须全买下来。此刻，丹妮明白自己该怎样做，但那滋味苦涩得连酸柿酒也无法将其冲刷干净。她曾努力思考了很久，却找不到其他办法。这是我唯一的选择。“全部都要，”她说，“我给你们一条龙。”

　　身边的姬琪倒抽一口气。克拉兹尼朝同伴们微笑，“我不是告诉过你们吗？她拼死也会付的。”

　　白胡子因震惊而瞪大了眼睛，抓拐杖的手在颤抖。“不！”他冲她单膝跪道，“陛下，我请求您，用巨龙来赢得王座，而不是靠奴隶。您不能这么做——”

　　“你不该冒昧地教训我。乔拉爵士，把白胡子带走。”

　　莫尔蒙粗暴地抓住老人的胳膊，将他拉起来，押送到外面的平台上。

　　“告诉善主大人们，我为这个插曲表示歉意，”丹妮对奴隶女孩说，“告诉他们，我等待着回答。”

　　然而她知道答案；她可以从他们烁烁放光的眼睛和竭力隐藏的笑容中看出来。阿斯塔波有数千名太监，还有更多等待阉割的奴隶男孩，但诺大的世界就只有三条活龙。而且吉斯人渴望着龙。他们怎会不渴望呢？创世之初，古吉斯帝国曾与瓦雷利亚五次大战，五次都以惨败告终。因为自由堡垒有龙，而吉斯帝国没有。

　　最年长的格拉兹旦在座位里不安地挪动，珠穗互相碰撞，发出轻轻的嗒嗒声。“任由我们选一条龙，”他用尖细而冷淡的声音说，“黑的那条最大、最健康。”

　　“他叫卓耿。”她点点头。

　　“我们准许你保留王冠和符合女王身份的服饰，除此之外，所有货物、三艘船和卓耿都归我们。”

　　“成交，”她用通用语说。

　　“成交，”老格拉兹旦用那含混的瓦雷利亚语回应。

　　其他人重复着珍珠流苏老头的话。“成交，”奴隶女孩翻译着，“成交，成交……八个成交。”

　　“无垢者很快就能学会你们原始的语言，”一切商定后，克拉兹尼·莫·纳克罗兹补充，“但需要你派奴隶去教。收下这一个作为我们的礼物吧，象征交易顺利。”

　　“很好，”丹妮说。

　　奴隶女孩替他们翻译彼此的话。假如对于被当作成交的信物送出去有什么感受的话，她也很谨慎地没有表露出来。

　　丹妮在平台上经过白胡子阿斯坦身边时，他没有作声，而是默默地随丹妮下阶梯，边走，边用硬木拐杖“嗒嗒”地敲击红砖。她没有责怪他的忿忿不平，因为她所做的事确实可悲。龙之母卖掉了她最强壮的孩子。只要想到这一点，她就很难过。

　　到得下面的骄傲广场，站在奴隶商人的金字塔与无垢者的军营之间灼热的红砖地上时，丹妮对老人发话了。“白胡子，”她说，“我需要你的谏言，你不必害怕真诚相谏……但只能在我们独处时说，在陌生人面前决不要和我争执，明白吗？”

　　“是，陛下，”他怏怏不快地道。

　　“记住，我不是孩子，”她告诉他，“我是你的女王。”

　　“女王也会犯错。阿斯塔波人骗了您，陛下，一条龙比千军万马更有价值。三百年前，伊耿在‘怒火燎原’之役中便证明了这点，。”

　　“我知道伊耿证明了什么，与之相对，我也打算证明些什么。”丹妮转身面对温顺地站在轿边的奴隶女孩。“你有名字吗，还是也得每天从木桶里抽一个新的？”

　　“只有无垢者才那样，”女孩说，随即意识到问题是用古瓦雷利亚语提的。她瞪大了眼睛，“噢。”

　　“你叫‘噢’？”

　　“不……陛下，请原谅小人的失礼。您的奴隶名叫弥桑黛，可……”

　　“弥桑黛不是奴隶了，从此刻起，我将你解放。过来一起坐轿吧，我有话说。”拉卡洛扶他们上轿，丹妮放下帘子，隔开灰尘与热气。“若你肯留下，可以作为我的女仆之一，”她边说，轿子边走，“像为克拉兹尼服务一样为我传话。但若你思念父母，盼回家照料双亲，随时可以离开，不再为我效力。”

　　“小人愿意留下，”女孩道，“小人……我……无处可去。小……我很乐意为您效力。”

　　“我可以给你自由，但不能给你安全，”丹妮警告，“我须横穿世界，去进行一场前途未知的战争。跟着我，你也许会挨饿、会得病、甚至被杀。”

　　“Valarmorghulis。”弥桑黛用古瓦雷利亚语说。

　　“凡人皆有一死，”丹妮赞同，“但我们可以努力拼搏，改变生活。”她往后斜靠在垫子上，执起女孩的手，“无垢者真的全无恐惧？”

　　“是的，陛下。”

　　“你现在为我效力了，别害怕，对我说实话。他们真的感觉不到痛苦？”

　　“勇气之酒消除了感觉。杀死婴儿之前，他们已经喝了许多年。”

　　“他们真的很顺从？”

　　“他们只知道顺从。若您不准他们呼吸，他们会觉得那比违背命令更容易。”

　　丹妮点点头，“等用不着的时候，我该拿他们怎么办呢？”

　　“陛下？”

　　“等我赢得战争的胜利，夺回父亲的王座，我的骑士们将收起武器，回到城堡里，回到妻儿和母亲身边……回到生活中去。但这些太监没有生活，到了无仗可打的时候，我该拿这八千个太监怎么办呢？”

　　“无垢者是优秀的卫兵和看守，陛下，”弥桑黛道，“再说，如此精良又经验丰富的部队，不难找买家。”

　　“他们说，在维斯特洛不能买卖人口。”

　　“不管以哪方面而论，陛下，无垢者都不是人。”

　　“若我真把他们卖掉，怎么知道他们不会被用来反对我呢？”丹妮尖锐地问，“他们会那么做吗？跟我作对，甚至伤害我？”

　　“只要主人下令，他们就不会问问题，陛下。任何怀疑都早已从他们身上剔除，他们只知道顺从。”她有点不安。“当您……您用不着他们的时候……陛下可以命令他们自刎。”

　　“即使如此，他们也会照办？”

　　“是的。”弥桑黛的声音轻下去。“陛下。”

　　丹妮捏捏她的手。“但你不希望我让他们这么做，对吗？这是为什么？你为什么如此在意？”

　　“小人不……我……陛下……”

　　“告诉我。”

　　女孩垂下眼睛。“他们中有三个是我的兄弟，陛下。”

　　希望你的兄弟像你一样聪明而坚强。丹妮往后靠回枕垫上，让轿子载她继续前进，最后一次回到拜勒里昂号，把一切安排妥当。也许是最后一次回到卓耿身边了，她阴郁地抿紧嘴唇。

　　当晚是个狂风呼啸的黑暗长夜。丹妮一如往常地喂她的龙，却发现自己没有胃口。她独坐在船长室里哭了一会儿，花了很长时间才擦干眼泪，准备好跟格罗莱再争论一番。“伊利里欧总督不在这里，”最后她不得不告诉他，“即使他在，也无法动摇我的决心。比起船只，我更需要无垢者，退下，不要再说了。”

　　如果我回头，一切就都完了。怒火焚毁了恐惧与悲哀，带给她片刻的坚强。她连忙召来血盟卫和乔拉爵士。他们是她唯一真正信任的人。

　　完事之后，她本打算睡觉，好好休息，为明天作准备，但在狭小窒闷的舱室内翻来覆去一个小时，却始终不能如愿。她走出门，发现阿戈正就着一盏摇晃的油灯为弓安上新弦，拉卡洛盘腿坐在他身边，用油石打磨亚拉克弯刀。丹妮让他俩继续，自己走到上层甲板去体味夜晚清凉的空气。船员们各自来回奔忙，没有理会她，但乔拉爵士须臾便出现在栏杆边。他从来都离得不远，丹妮心想，他太了解我的心情。

　　“卡丽熙，您该睡会儿。明天会很炎热，很辛苦，我向您保证，您需要体力。”

　　“记得埃萝叶吗？”她问他。

　　“那拉札林女孩？”

　　“他们要强暴她，是我阻止了他们，并把她置于我的保护之下。可当我的日和星死后，马戈又把他夺了回去，将她大骑特骑，最后割了喉咙。阿戈说那是她的命。”

　　“我记得，”乔拉说。

　　“我曾经十分孤独，无比寂寞，乔拉，除了哥哥就只有自己。我是如此一个担惊受怕的小东西，本该保护我的韦赛里斯，反而变本加厉地伤害我、恐吓我、甚至售卖我。他不该那么做。他不仅是我哥哥，还是我的国王。若非为保护弱者，诸神又怎么会指派国王和女王呢？”

　　“有些国王自己指派自己，比如劳勃。”

　　“他并非真正的君王，只是个篡夺者，”丹妮轻蔑地说，“毫无正义可言。正义……才是君王的追求。”

　　乔拉爵士没有回答。他只是微笑着抚摸她的头发，如此轻柔。这已足够。

　　那天晚上，她梦见自己就是雷加，正统帅大军前往三叉戟河。但她骑的是龙，不是马。她看到长河对面篡夺者的叛军穿着玄冰的盔甲，而她用龙焰沐浴他们，让他们像露水一样融化，使得三叉戟河如洪流般迸发。她内心的一小部分知道自己在做梦，其余的部分则欢欣雀跃。事情正该如此。现实乃是场恶梦，而我这才刚刚醒来。

　　她果然在黑暗的舱室中醒来，仍然带着胜利的激情。拜勒里昂号似乎跟她一起苏醒，她听见木头微弱的吱嘎声，流水击打船壳，头顶的甲板有脚步声，以及别的……

　　舱室内还有一个人。

　　“伊丽？姬琪？你们在哪儿？”女仆们没有应答。太黑了看不见，但她能听见她们的呼吸。“乔拉，是你吗？”

　　“他们睡了，”一个女人说，“都睡了。”这声音非常接近，“真龙也需要睡眠。”

　　她就站在我面前。“谁在那儿？”丹妮朝黑暗中望去，有一个影子，一个极其模糊的轮廓，“你要干什么？”

　　“记住：要去北方，你必须南行。要达西境，你必须往东。若要前进，你必须后退。若要光明，你必须通过阴影。”

　　“魁晰？”丹妮从床上一跃而起，猛地打开门。昏黄的灯光泻进船舱，伊丽和姬琪睡意朦胧地坐起来。“卡丽熙？”姬琪揉着眼睛喃喃地说。韦赛利昂也醒过来，张嘴喷出一团火焰，照亮了黑暗的角落。没有戴红漆面具女人的踪影。“卡丽熙，您不舒服？”姬琪问。

　　“一个梦。”丹妮摇摇头，“我做了一个梦，仅此而已。继续睡吧。我们都继续睡。”然而她试了又试，却再也没睡着。

　　如果我回头，一切就都完了。第二天早晨，丹妮经由港口城门进入阿斯塔波时，反复提醒自己。她不敢思考自己的随从是多么地少，多么地无足轻重，否则就会失去所有勇气。今天她骑在银马上，穿着马毛短裤和彩绘皮背心，一条青铜奖章带系于腰间，另两条交叉在胸前。伊丽和姬琪为她编好辫子，并挂上一个叮当作响的小银铃，代表在尘埃之殿中被她焚烧的魁尔斯不朽者。

　　今天早上，阿斯塔波的红砖街市几乎可算拥挤。奴隶和仆人排列在道路两边，奴隶商人和他们的女人则穿上托卡长袍，自阶梯形金字塔上俯视。说到底，他们跟魁尔斯人也没什么不同，她心想，不过是急切地想看看真龙，好告诉自己的孩子，以及孩子的孩子。她不由得略带悲哀地思及，不知其中多少人会有孩子。

　　阿戈握着巨大的双弧龙骨长弓走在前面，壮汗贝沃斯在母马右边步行，女孩弥桑黛在左侧，殿后的是身穿锁甲和外套的乔拉·莫尔蒙爵士，他朝任何敢靠近的人怒目而视。拉卡洛和乔戈护着轿子，丹妮已下令移除顶盖，把她的三头龙绑在平台上。伊丽和姬琪在轿旁骑行，努力让他们保持平静。此刻韦赛利昂的尾巴甩来甩去，烟雾从鼻孔里愤怒地升起；雷哥也觉得不大对劲，三次试图起飞，却被姬琪手里沉重的锁链牵制。卓耿则蜷成一团，翅膀和尾巴紧紧缩拢，惟眼睛没有沉睡。

　　后面跟着她的子民：格罗莱和另外两个船长、他们的船员及八十三名多斯拉克人——卓戈的卡拉萨曾有十万人驰骋，而今留在她身边的只有这些。她将老弱妇孺置于队列内侧，其中还包括哺乳或怀孕的女人、小女孩与头发尚不能编辫子的小男孩。其余的——她所谓的战士们——骑在外侧，赶着那可怜的小马群，这一百多憔悴的马匹是经历红色荒原和黑色咸海硕果仅存的牲畜。

　　我应该缝上一面旗帜，她边想边领着褴褛的队伍沿阿斯塔波蜿蜒的河流向上游前进。她合上眼睛，想象着它的样子：一块平滑的黑色丝绸，上绣坦格利安家族的红色三头巨龙，喷出金色的火焰。这是雷加的旗帜。岸边出奇的宁静。阿斯塔波人称这条河为蠕虫河。它弯曲宽广，流速缓慢，点缀着许多林木繁茂的小岛。她瞥到其中一座岛上有孩童玩耍，在精致的大理石雕像间穿梭。另一座岛上有两个恋人在高大绿树的阴影下接吻，丝毫不觉害羞，就跟多斯拉克人在婚礼上的表现一样。他们没穿衣服，不知是自由人还是奴隶。

　　装饰着巨大青铜鹰身女妖像的骄傲广场太小，无法容纳所有无垢者，因此集合地点改在惩罚广场，正对着阿斯塔波的主城门。一旦丹妮莉丝完成交易，便可直接带他们离开城市。这里没有青铜雕像，只有一个木制平台，反叛的奴隶就是在此被折磨、被剥皮、被绞杀。“善主大人们将它放在这儿，好让它成为新奴隶进城后看到的第一样东西，”来到广场时，弥桑黛告诉她。

　　乍看一眼，丹妮以为那上面的奴隶有跟鸠格斯奈的斑纹马一样的皮肤，随着银马骑近，才发现蠕动的黑斑纹下是鲜红的生肉。苍蝇。苍蝇和蛆虫。如削苹果似地，反叛奴隶的皮肤被长长卷曲、一缕缕地剥下。有个人一条胳膊从手指到肘部爬满黑色的苍蝇，底下则是红色与白色。丹妮在他下方勒住缰绳，“这人干了什么？”

　　“他抬起这只手反抗主人。”

　　丹妮的胃阵阵翻搅，连忙圈转银马，朝广场中央那支昂贵的军队奔去。他们一排一排又一排地站立着，个个都是没有人性的石头，是她的砖头太监。总共八千六百个经过完整训练、赢得尖刺盔的无垢者，外加五千多光着脑袋，装备长矛和短剑的受训者。她看到远方最后面的那些不过是孩子，但跟其他人一样站得笔直，纹丝不动。

　　克拉兹尼·莫·纳克罗兹和他的同伴们在此恭候。其他出生高贵的阿斯塔波人也一簇簇站在大奴隶商人们身后，从银色细高脚杯里啜饮红酒，奴隶在他们中间穿梭，捧着盘盘橄榄、樱桃和无花果。年长的格拉兹旦坐在轿子里，由四名古铜色皮肤的高大奴隶抬着。六个熗骑兵沿广场边缘巡逻，挡住围观的人群。他们的黄丝披风上缝有许多闪亮铜盘，反射出明亮炫目的阳光，但她注意到他们的紧张。他们怕龙。真龙不怕他们。

　　克拉兹尼让一名奴隶扶她下马，因为他自己一手固定住托卡长袍，另一只手抓着一根华丽的长鞭。“他们都在这儿，”他看着弥桑黛，“告诉她，他们属于她了……只要她能付帐。”

　　“她能，”女孩道。

　　乔拉爵士一声令下，货物带上前来：六捆虎皮，三百匹精纺丝绸，无数罐藏红花、没药、胡椒粉、咖喱和豆蔻，一张玛瑙面具，十二只翡翠猴子，若干桶红色、黑色和绿色的墨水，一箱珍贵的黑紫晶，一箱珍珠，一桶填有蠕虫的去核橄榄，十二桶腌穴鱼，一面大铜锣及其锤子，十七只象牙眼睛，一个巨箱子，里面装满用丹妮读不懂的语言书写的书籍。此外，还有许多许多别的东西。她的人将它们在奴隶商人们面前排成一堆。

　　交付过程中，克拉兹尼·莫·纳克罗兹最后一次嘱咐她如何约束部队。“他们还很嫩，”他通过弥桑黛说，“告诉维斯特洛婊子，聪明的话就先让他们获得一些作战经验。此去西方，路上有许多小城市，很适合洗劫，不管取得什么战利品，都可以全部收归己有，因为无垢者对金钱和珠宝没有欲望。抓获的俘虏，靠一队护卫就能押回阿斯塔波。我们会买下其中健康的，价格从优。谁知道呢？也许十年之后，她给我们送来的男孩会继而成为无垢者，形成良性循环。这样对大家都有好处。”

　　最后，没有更多东西加到货物堆上了。等她的多斯拉克人再次上马后，丹妮道：“这是我们可以搬来的全部东西。其余的在船上，包括大批琥珀，红酒和黑米。船也是你们的。那么剩下的只有……”

　　“……龙，”尖胡子的格拉兹旦用含混的通用语替她说完。

　　“他就在这儿。”乔拉爵士和贝沃斯随她走向轿子，卓耿和他的弟弟们正躺着晒太阳。姬琪松开锁链一端，递给她。她拉动链条，黑龙抬头，嘶叫起来，展开那如黑夜又猩红的翅膀。影子落在克拉兹尼·莫·纳克罗兹身上，他贪婪地微笑。

　　丹妮将锁链递给奴隶商人，他交给她鞭子作为回应。鞭柄是精雕细刻的黑龙骨，镶嵌黄金，连着九根细长皮条，每根顶端都有一个镀金爪子。手柄后的黄金球是个女人的头，口中有象牙做的利齿。克拉兹尼称这鞭为“鹰身女妖之指”。

　　丹妮将鞭子握在手中转动。轻若鸡犬的一件事物，却承受着比圣母山还大的重量。“成交了吗？他们属于我了吗？”

　　“成交了，”对方确认，同时猛地一拽锁链，想把卓耿从轿子上拽下来。

　　丹妮跨上银马。她的心在胸腔里砰砰直跳，她恐惧得要命。哥哥会这样吗？她不知雷加王子看到篡夺者的军团于三叉戟河对岸集结，旗帜尽在风中飘扬时，是否也如此不安。

　　她站在马镫上，把“鹰身女妖的手指”举过头顶，让所有无垢者都看见。“成交了！”她提足中气大喊，“你们是我的了！”她用脚踵一踢母马，沿着第一排飞奔，高举着长鞭。“你们是真龙的子民！你们被买下了，帐已付清！成交了！成交了！”

　　她瞥见老格拉兹旦突然转过灰色的脑袋。他听到我讲瓦雷利亚语了。其他奴隶商人没有在意，他们拥在克拉兹尼和龙的周围，彼此大声叫嚣。而尽管阿斯塔波人又拖又拽，卓耿就是不肯从轿子上移开。灰烟从张开的龙口中腾腾升起，他的长脖子一伸一缩，咬向奴隶商人的脸。

　　跨过三叉戟河的时刻到了，丹妮心想，她圈转银马，骑了回来，血盟卫们紧紧聚拢到身边。“你们有困难，”她评论。

　　“他不肯过来，”克拉兹尼说。

　　“那当然。真龙不是奴隶。”丹妮使尽全力用鞭抽向奴隶商人的脸。克拉兹尼尖叫着蹒跚着往后退去，鲜红的血从脸颊淌下，渗进洒了香水的胡子里。鹰身女妖之指将他的面目一下子撕成碎片，但她没有注足细看。“卓耿，”她亲切地大喊，忘记了所有恐惧，“dracarys！”

　　黑龙展翅咆哮。

　　一道黑色的火焰旋转着直扑向克拉兹尼的面门，熔化了眼睛，果冻般的一团滑下面庞，头发和胡子里的油猛烈燃烧，刹那间，奴隶商人好似戴上了一顶燃烧的冠冕，足有他脑袋两倍之高。焦臭肉味盖过香气，而他的嚎叫淹没了所有声响。

　　惩罚广场立刻陷入血腥与混乱之中。善主大人们一边尖叫，一边跌跌撞撞地互相推挤，匆忙中被托卡长袍的流苏绊倒。卓耿懒洋洋地拍打着黑翼朝克拉兹尼飞去，让那奴隶商人再度尝到火焰的滋味，同时，伊丽和姬琪解开韦赛利昂和雷哥的锁链，三头龙同时出现在空中。丹妮回头看去，那些梳着恶魔般犄角、骄傲的阿斯塔波贵族战士中有三分之一正竭力安抚受惊的坐骑，另外三分之一则开始四散逃窜，明晃晃的铜盘披风在身后闪耀着光辉。有个人稳住马儿，拔出剑来，却被乔戈的鞭子缠住颈项，截断了呼喊。另一个给拉卡洛的亚拉克弯刀砍掉一只手，鲜血飞溅，骑在马上摇摇晃晃地逃了。阿戈镇定地搭箭上弦，朝穿托卡长袍的商人发射。银的、金的、普通的，不管什么流苏，逮到就射。壮汉贝沃斯也拔出亚拉克弯刀，挥舞着发起冲锋。

　　“拿起长矛！”丹妮听见一个阿斯塔波人在喊。那是格拉兹旦，托卡长袍上有沉重白珠穗的老格拉兹旦。“无垢者！保护我们，阻止他们，保护你们的主人！拿起长矛！拿起短剑！”

　　拉卡洛一箭射入他嘴里，抬轿子的奴隶们便一哄而散，将他随便扔在地上。老头爬到第一排太监跟前，他的血在砖地上积成一滩，但无垢者们甚至没有低头。他们一排一排又一排地站立着……

　　……纹丝不动。诸神听见了我的祈祷。

　　“无垢者！”丹妮在他们面前奔驰，银金色的发辫于身后飞扬，每跑一步都伴着银铃轻响。“杀死善主，杀死士兵，杀死每一个穿托卡长袍或拿鞭子的人，但不要伤害十二岁以下的儿童，并砍断每一位奴隶的锁链。”她将鹰身女妖之指举在空中……狠狠丢掉。“自由！”她高呼，“dracarys！dracarys！”

　　“dracarys！”他们高声呼应，那是她所听过最为动听的词语。“dracarys！dracarys！”奴隶商人们在他们四周逃窜、哭泣、乞求和死亡，满是尘埃的空气中充斥着长矛与火焰。

JON
Ghost was gone when the wildlings led their horses from the cave. Did he understand about Castle Black? Jon took a breath of the crisp morning air and allowed himself to hope. The eastern sky was pink near the horizon and pale grey higher up. The Sword of the Morning still hung in the south, the bright white star in its hilt blazing like a diamond in the dawn, but the blacks and greys of the darkling forest were turning once again to greens and golds, reds and russets. And above the soldier pines and oaks and ash and sentinels stood the Wall, the ice pale and glimmering beneath the dust and dirt that pocked its surface.
The Magnar sent a dozen men riding west and a dozen more east, to climb the highest hills they could find and watch for any sign of rangers in the wood or riders on the high ice. The Thenns carried bronze-banded warhorns to give warning should the Watch be sighted. The other wildlings fell in behind Jarl, Jon and Ygritte with the rest. This was to be the young raider’s hour of glory.
The Wall was often said to stand seven hundred feet high, but Jarl had found a place where it was both higher and lower. Before them, the ice rose sheer from out of the trees like some immense cliff, crowned by wind-carved battlements that loomed at least eight hundred feet high, perhaps nine hundred in spots. But that was deceptive, Jon realized as they drew closer. Brandon the Builder had laid his huge foundation blocks along the heights wherever feasible, and hereabouts the hills rose wild and rugged.
He had once heard his uncle Benjen say that the Wall was a sword east of Castle Black, but a snake to the west. It was true. Sweeping in over one huge humped hill, the ice dipped down into a valley, climbed the knife edge of a long granite ridgeline for a league or more, ran along a jagged crest, dipped again into a valley deeper still, and then rose higher and higher, leaping from hill to hill as far as the eye could see, into the mountainous west.
Jarl had chosen to assault the stretch of ice along the ridge. Here, though the top of the Wall loomed eight hundred feet above the forest floor, a good third of that height was earth and stone rather than ice; the slope was too steep for their horses, almost as difficult a scramble as the Fist of the First Men, but still vastly easier to ascend than the sheer vertical face of the Wall itself. And the ridge was densely wooded as well, offering easy concealment. Once brothers in black had gone out every day with axes to cut back the encroaching trees, but those days were long past, and here the forest grew right up to the ice.
The day promised to be damp and cold, and damper and colder by the Wall, beneath those tons of ice. The closer they got, the more the Thenns held back. They have never seen the Wall before, not even the Magnar, Jon realized. It frightens them. In the Seven Kingdoms it was said that the Wall marked the end of the world. That is true for them as well. It was all in where you stood.
And where do I stand? Jon did not know. To stay with Ygritte, he would need to become a wildling heart and soul. If he abandoned her to return to his duty, the Magnar might cut her heart out. And if he took her with him . . . assuming she would go, which was far from certain . . . well, he could scarcely bring her back to Castle Black to live among the brothers. A deserter and a wildling could expect no welcome anywhere in the Seven Kingdoms. We could go look for Gendel’s children, I suppose. Though they’d be more like to eat us than to take us in.
The Wall did not awe Jarl’s raiders, Jon saw. They have done this before, every man of them. Jarl called out names when they dismounted beneath the ridge, and eleven gathered round him. All were young. The oldest could not have been more than five-and-twenty, and two of the ten were younger than Jon. Every one was lean and hard, though; they had a look of sinewy strength that reminded him of Stonesnake, the brother the Halfhand had sent off afoot when Rattleshirt was hunting them.
In the very shadow of the Wall the wildlings made ready, winding thick coils of hempen rope around one shoulder and down across their chests, and lacing on queer boots of supple doeskin. The boots had spikes jutting from the toes; iron, for Jarl and two others, bronze for some, but most often jagged bone. Small stone-headed hammers hung from one hip, a leathern bag of stakes from the other. Their ice axes were antlers with sharpened tines, bound to wooden hafts with strips of hide. The eleven climbers sorted themselves into three teams of four; Jarl himself made the twelfth man. “Mance promises swords for every man of the first team to reach the top,” he told them, his breath misting in the cold air. “Southron swords of castle-forged steel. And your name in the song he’ll make of this, that too. What more could a free man ask? Up, and the Others take the hindmost!”
The Others take them all, thought Jon, as he watched them scramble up the steep slope of the ridge and vanish beneath the trees. It would not be the first time wildlings had scaled the Wall, not even the hundred and first. The patrols stumbled on climbers two or three times a year, and rangers sometimes came on the broken corpses of those who had fallen. Along the east coast the raiders most often built boats to slip across the Bay of Seals. In the west they would descend into the black depths of the Gorge to make their way around the Shadow Tower. But in between the only way to defeat the Wall was to go over it, and many a raider had. Fewer come back, though, he thought with a certain grim pride. Climbers must of necessity leave their mounts behind, and many younger, greener raiders began by taking the first horses they found. Then a hue and cry would go up, ravens would fly, and as often as not the Night’s Watch would hunt them down and hang them before they could get back with their plunder and stolen women. Jarl would not make that mistake, Jon knew, but he wondered about Styr. The Magnar is a ruler, not a raider. He may not know how the game is played.
“There they are,” Ygritte said, and Jon glanced up to see the first climber emerge above the treetops. It was Jarl. He had found a sentinel tree that leaned against the Wall, and led his men up the trunk to get a quicker start. The wood should never have been allowed to creep so close. They’re three hundred feet up, and they haven’t touched the ice itself yet.
He watched the wildling move carefully from wood to Wall, hacking out a handhold with short sharp blows of his ice axe, then swinging over. The rope around his waist tied him to the second man in line, still edging up the tree. Step by slow step, Jarl moved higher, kicking out toeholds with his spiked boots when there were no natural ones to be found. When he was ten feet above the sentinel, he stopped upon a narrow icy ledge, slung his axe from his belt, took out his hammer, and drove an iron stake into a cleft. The second man moved onto the Wall behind him while the third was scrambling to the top of the tree.
The other two teams had no happily placed trees to give them a leg up, and before long the Thenns were wondering whether they had gotten lost climbing the ridge. Jarl’s party were all on the Wall and eighty feet up before the leading climbers from the other groups came into view. The teams were spaced a good twenty yards apart. Jarl’s four were in the center. To the right of them was a team headed up by Grigg the Goat, whose long blond braid made him easy to spot from below. To the left a very thin man named Errok led the climbers.
“So slow,” the Magnar complained loudly, as he watched them edge their way upward. “Has he forgotten the crows? He should climb faster, afore we are discovered.”
Jon had to hold his tongue. He remembered the Skirling Pass all too well, and the moonlight climb he’d made with Stonesnake. He had swallowed his heart a half-dozen times that night, and by the end his arms and legs had been aching and his fingers were half frozen. And that was stone, not ice. Stone was solid. Ice was treacherous stuff at the best of times, and on a day like this, when the Wall was weeping, the warmth of a climber’s hand might be enough to melt it. The huge blocks could be frozen rock-hard inside, but their outer surface would be slick, with runnels of water trickling down, and patches of rotten ice where the air had gotten in. Whatever else the wildlings are, they’re brave.
All the same, Jon found himself hoping that Styr’s fears proved well founded. If the gods are good, a patrol will chance by and put an end to this. “No wall can keep you safe,” his father had told him once, as they walked the walls of Winterfell. “A wall is only as strong as the men who defend it.” The wildlings might have a hundred and twenty men, but four defenders would be enough to see them off, with a few well-placed arrows and perhaps a pail of stones.
No defenders appeared, however; not four, not even one. The sun climbed the sky and the wildlings climbed the Wall. Jarl’s four remained well ahead till noon, when they hit a pitch of bad ice. Jarl had looped his rope around a wind-carved pinnace and was using it to support his weight when the whole jagged thing suddenly crumbled and came crashing down, and him with it. Chunks of ice as big as a man’s head bombarded the three below, but they clung to the handholds and the stakes held, and Jarl jerked to a sudden halt at the end of the rope.
By the time his team had recovered from that mischance, Grigg the Goat had almost drawn even with them. Errok’s four remained well behind. The face where they were climbing looked smooth and unpitted, covered with a sheet of icemelt that glistened wetly where the sun brushed it. Grigg’s section was darker to the eye, with more obvious features; long horizontal ledges where a block had been imperfectly positioned atop the block below, cracks and crevices, even chimneys along the vertical joins, where wind and water had eaten holes large enough for a man to hide in.
Jarl soon had his men edging upward again. His four and Grigg’s moved almost side by side, with Errok’s fifty feet below. Deerhorn axes chopped and hacked, sending showers of glittery shards cascading down onto the trees. Stone hammers pounded stakes deep into the ice to serve as anchors for the ropes; the iron stakes ran out before they were halfway up, and after that the climbers used horn and sharpened bone. And the men kicked, driving the spikes on their boots against the hard unyielding ice again and again and again and again to make one foothold. Their legs must be numb, Jon thought by the fourth hour. How long can they keep on with that? He watched as restless as the Magnar, listening for the distant moan of a Thenn warhorn. But the horns stayed silent, and there was no sign of the Night’s Watch.
By the sixth hour, Jarl had moved ahead of Grigg the Goat again, and his men were widening the gap. “The Mance’s pet must want a sword,” the Magnar said, shading his eyes. The sun was high in the sky, and the upper third of the Wall was a crystalline blue from below, reflecting so brilliantly that it hurt the eyes to look on it. Jarl’s four and Grigg’s were all but lost in the glare, though Errok’s team was still in shadow. Instead of moving upward they were edging their way sideways at about five hundred feet, making for a chimney. Jon was watching them inch along when he heard the sound—a sudden crack that seemed to roll along the ice, followed by a shout of alarm. And then the air was full of shards and shrieks and falling men, as a sheet of ice a foot thick and fifty feet square broke off from the Wall and came tumbling, crumbling, rumbling, sweeping all before it. Even down at the foot of the ridge, some chunks came spinning through the trees and rolling down the slope. Jon grabbed Ygritte and pulled her down to shield her, and one of the Thenns was struck in the face by a chunk that broke his nose.
And when they looked up Jarl and his team were gone. Men, ropes, stakes, all gone; nothing remained above six hundred feet. There was a wound in the Wall where the climbers had clung half a heartbeat before, the ice within as smooth and white as polished marble and shining in the sun. Far far below there was a faint red smear where someone had smashed against a frozen pinnace.
The Wall defends itself, Jon thought as he pulled Ygritte back to her feet.
They found Jarl in a tree, impaled upon a splintered branch and still roped to the three men who lay broken beneath him. One was still alive, but his legs and spine were shattered, and most of his ribs as well. “Mercy,” he said when they came upon him. One of the Thenns smashed his head in with a big stone mace. The Magnar gave orders, and his men began to gather fuel for a pyre.
The dead were burning when Grigg the Goat reached the top of the Wall. By the time Errok’s four had joined them, nothing remained of Jarl and his team but bone and ash.
The sun had begun to sink by then, so the climbers wasted little time. They unwound the long coils of hemp they’d had looped around their chests, tied them all together, and tossed down one end. The thought of trying to climb five hundred feet up that rope filled Jon with dread, but Mance had planned better than that. The raiders Jarl had left below uncasked a huge ladder, with rungs of woven hemp as thick as a man’s arm, and tied it to the climbers’ rope. Errok and Grigg and their men grunted and heaved, pulled it up, staked it to the top, then lowered the rope again to haul up a second ladder. There were five altogether.
When all of them were in place, the Magnar shouted a brusque command in the Old Tongue, and five of his Thenns started up together. Even with the ladders, it was no easy climb. Ygritte watched them struggle for a while. “I hate this Wall,” she said in a low angry voice. “Can you feel how cold it is?”
“It’s made of ice,” Jon pointed out.
“You know nothing, Jon Snow. This wall is made o’ blood.”
Nor had it drunk its fill. By sunset, two of the Thenns had fallen from the ladder to their deaths, but they were the last. It was near midnight before Jon reached the top. The stars were out again, and Ygritte was trembling from the climb. “I almost fell,” she said, with tears in her eyes. “Twice. Thrice. The Wall was trying t’ shake me off, I could feel it.” One of the tears broke free and trickled slowly down her cheek.
“The worst is behind us.” Jon tried to sound confident. “Don’t be frightened.” He tried to put an arm around her.
Ygritte slammed the heel of her hand into his chest, so hard it stung even through his layers of wool, mail, and boiled leather. “I wasn’t frightened. You know nothing, Jon Snow.”
“Why are you crying, then?”
“Not for fear!” She kicked savagely at the ice beneath her with a heel, chopping out a chunk. “I’m crying because we never found the Horn of Winter. We opened half a hundred graves and let all those shades loose in the world, and never found the Horn of Joramun to bring this cold thing down!”

第二十六章 琼恩



　　今晚一片漆黑，没有月光，但天空难得的晴朗。“我要上山去找白灵，”他告诉洞口的瑟恩人，他们哼了哼，放他通过。
　　好多星星啊，他边数，边沿着山坡跋涉，穿过松树、杉树和岑树。童年时代在临冬城，鲁温学士教过他星象：他知道天空十二宫的名字和每宫的主星；他知道与七神相应的七大流浪星座——冰龙座、影子山猫座、月女座和拂晓神剑座是老朋友，且可以和耶哥蕊特分享，有的却不行。我们抬头仰望同一片星空，看到的不尽相同。她把王冠座称为“摇篮座”，骏马座称为“长角王座”，而修士们口中对应铁匠的红色流浪星则被称为“盗贼星”。当盗贼星进入月女座，正是男人偷女人的吉时，耶哥蕊特如此坚持。“你偷我的那一夜，天上的盗贼星特别明亮。”

　　“我没打算偷你，”他说，“刀锋抵上喉咙之前，我根本不知道你是女的。”

　　“不管想不想杀人，只要动了手，结果都没差，”耶哥蕊特固执地说。琼恩没遇到过这么固执的人，也许小妹艾莉亚除外。它还是我妹妹吗？他疑惑地想，她曾是我妹妹吗？他从不是真正的史塔克家人，作为艾德公爵的私生子，有父无母，在临冬城里跟席恩·葛雷乔伊一样没有位置。即便这些他也都失去了，发下守夜人誓言时，他就放弃了原来的家庭，加入到一个新家，而今琼恩·雪诺又没有了那些新弟兄们。

　　不出所料，他在山顶找到白灵。这头白狼从来不叫，却不知怎地非常喜欢高处。此刻他后腿蹲坐，腾腾呼吸化成升起的白雾，红色双眸吸入群星的光芒。

　　“你也在给它们取名字吗？”琼恩边问，边单膝跪在冰原狼身旁，挠挠他脖子上厚厚的白毛，“野兔座？母鹿座？狼女座？”白灵转头舔他的脸，粗糙的舌头摩擦着琼恩脸颊上被鹰爪抓裂的血痂。那只鸟给我俩都留下了伤疤，他心想。“白灵，”他平静地说，“明天我们就要去了。那儿没有楼梯，没有起重机和铁笼子，没有方法可以让你越过。所以我们不得不分开，你明白吗？”

　　黑暗中，冰原狼的红眼睛回望着他。他拱拱琼恩的脖子，一如往常地安静，呼吸化为热气。野人们把琼恩称为狼灵，假如真是的话，他也是个没用的狼灵。他不懂如何进入狼的体内，像欧瑞尔和他的鹰。过去有一回，琼恩梦到自己就是白灵，俯视着乳河河谷，发现曼斯·雷德正在那里聚集人马，而这个梦最后成为了现实。可从此以后他不再做梦，只能靠嘴巴说。

　　“你不能再跟着我，”琼恩双手捧着冰原狼的脑袋，深深注视进那对红眼睛。“你得去黑城堡，明白吗？黑城堡。能找到吗？回家的路？只要顺着冰墙，往东往冬再往东，向着太阳的方向，你就会到的，到时候黑城堡的人也会认出你，并得到警告。”他曾想过写信，让白灵带着，但他没有墨水，没有羊皮纸，甚至没有鹅毛笔，而且被发现的危险太大。“我会在黑城堡跟你重逢，但你得自己先去。让我们暂时单独捕猎。单独行动。”

　　冰原狼挣脱琼恩的抓握，竖起耳朵，突然跳跃着跑开，大步穿越一丛杂乱的灌木，跃过一棵倒下的死树，奔下山坡，仿佛林间一道白影。他是去黑城堡？琼恩疑惑地想，还是去追野兔呢？他希望自己知道。恐怕到头来我做狼灵就跟当守夜人和间谍一样差劲。

　　寒风在树林中叹息，卷动着松针的气味，拉扯他褪色的黑衣。黑乎乎的长城高耸在南，如一巨大阴影，遮挡星星。由此处起伏不平的地形来看，他判断他们正在影子塔和黑城堡之间，可能更靠近前者。数日以来，队伍一直在深湖之间南行，这些湖泊像手指般细长，沿狭窄的山谷底部延伸，两侧是岩石山脊和松树覆盖、竞相攀比的山岗。这种地形会减慢速度，但对于想悄悄接近长城的人而言，提供了最好的遮蔽。

　　是的，对野人掠袭队而言，他心想。对他们。对我。

　　长城另一边就是七大王国，就是一切他要守护的东西。他发下誓言，立志献出生命与荣耀，理应在那边站岗放哨，理当吹起号角，提醒兄弟们武装起来。虽然他此刻没有号角，但从野人那儿偷一个并不难，可这有什么用呢？即使吹了，也没人听见，长城足有一百里格之长，而守夜人军团的规模小得令人悲哀。除开三座堡垒，其余部分都疏于防备，沿途四十里之内也许不会有一个弟兄。当然，有他琼恩，假如他还算一个的话……

　　我在先民拳峰上就该杀掉曼斯·雷德，纵然因此丢掉性命也无妨。换作断掌科林，定会当机立断，可惜我却犹豫不决，错失良机。那之后第二天，他便跟斯迪马格拿、贾尔及其他一百多名精选出的瑟恩人和掠袭者一起骑马出发。他安慰自己：我只是在等待时机，等机会到来，便偷偷溜走，骑去黑城堡。但机会一直没有到来。晚上，他们往往在野人废弃的村庄里歇息，斯迪总派出十来个他的瑟恩族人守卫马匹。贾尔则怀疑地监视着他。而最糟糕的是，不论白天黑夜，耶哥蕊特都在身旁。

　　两颗跳动如一的心，曼斯·雷德的话语在他脑海中苦涩地回响。琼恩少有如此困惑之时。我没有选择，当他头一次任她次钻进铺盖时，这么告诉自己，如果拒绝，她也会当我是变色龙。不管要你做什么，都不准违抗……我只是遵从断掌的吩咐，扮演一个角色罢了。

　　他的身体当然不曾违抗，反而热切地应和，嘴唇紧贴，手指滑进对方的鹿皮衬衣，找到乳房。当她抬起下体隔着衣服蹭他时，那话儿立刻硬起来。我的誓言，他企图聚集心神，回想发下誓词时的那个鱼梁木小丛林，九株白色大树环成一圈，九张脸向圆心凝视、聆听。但她的手指在解他的衣带，她的舌头在他嘴里，她的双手滑进他的裤子，将它拉了出来。他再也看不到鱼梁木，只能看见她。她咬他的脖子，他则拱她的脖子，将鼻子埋进浓密的红发中。幸运，他心想，火吻而生，乃是幸运的象征。“感觉好吗？”她一边低语，一边引导他进入。她下面湿透了，而且明显不是处女，但琼恩不在乎。他的誓言，她的贞操，都没关系，惟有热度，惟有她的嘴唇，惟有她夹着他乳头的手指。“感觉甜美吧？”她又问，“别那么快，哦，慢点，对，就这样。就是那儿，就是那儿，对，亲爱的，亲爱的。你什么都不懂，琼恩·雪诺，但我可以教你。现在用力一点。对——”

　　一个角色，事后他提醒自己，我只是扮演一个角色。必须干一次，以证明自己背弃了誓言，这样她才会信任我。不会再有第二次。我仍是守夜人的汉子，仍是艾德·史塔克的儿子。我只是履行职责，遵从首长的托付。

　　然而这过程如此甜蜜，让他难以释怀。耶哥蕊特在身边入睡，头枕在他胸口。甜蜜，危险的甜蜜。他又想起鱼梁木，以及在它们面前发下的誓言。一次而已，必须干一次。连父亲都犯过错，忘记了婚姻，生下私生子。琼恩向自己保证，决不会再发生了。

　　但那晚又发生了两次，早上当她醒来，发现他还硬着时，又发生了第四次。野人们已经起身准备，当然注意到了那堆毛皮底下的动静。贾尔催他们快点，否则就朝他们泼水。我们好像一对发情的狗，事后琼恩心想，我就成了这个样子？我是守夜人的汉子，一个细小的声音坚持说，但它每晚都变得更微弱，而当耶哥蕊特吻他耳朵或者咬他脖子时，他根本听不见那声音。父亲也是这样吗？他疑惑地想，当他玷污自己和母亲的荣誉时，也跟我一样软弱吗？

　　突然间，他意识到身后有东西上山，不可能是白灵，冰原狼不会这么吵。琼恩流利地拔出长爪，结果只是一个瑟恩人，身材魁梧，戴着青铜盔。“雪诺。”对方道，“来。马格拿要。”瑟恩族使用古语，对通用语所知不多。

　　琼恩不关心马格拿要什么，但跟一个几乎听不懂他说话的人争辩也没用，因此便随对方下山。

　　洞口是岩石间的裂隙，被一棵士卒松隐约遮掩，仅容匹马通过。它朝北开，因此即便刚巧今晚长城上有巡逻队经过，也看不到里面的火光，只能看见山峦与松林，冰冷的星光照耀在半冰的湖面上。曼斯·雷德将一切都策划周全。

　　进入岩缝，走下约二十尺的通道，便有一片如临冬城大厅般宽敞的空地。篝火在石柱间燃烧，烟雾熏黑了洞顶。马匹沿岩壁系着，靠在浅水池边。空地中央有一个孔，通往下面的洞穴，它也许比上面的空间更大，黑漆漆地说不准。琼恩能听见地下河轻微的水声。

　　贾尔跟马格拿在一起，曼斯让他们共同指挥。琼恩注意到，斯迪对此不太高兴。曼斯·雷德把那皮肤黝黑的青年称为瓦迩的“宠物”，而瓦迩是曼斯的王后妲娜之妹，所以按身份论，贾尔等于是塞外之王的兄弟，马格拿不情愿又不能不与他分享权力。但他带来一百个瑟恩人，是贾尔手下的五倍，而且通常单独行动。不管怎么说，琼恩知道，领他们翻越冰墙的将是那年轻人，贾尔尽管不满二十岁，但参加掠袭已有八年之久，不仅随猎鸦阿夫因、哭泣者等人越过长城十几次，最近又有了自己的小队。

　　马格拿直入要害，“贾尔警告我，会有乌鸦在上面巡逻，关于巡逻队，把你知道的情况都告诉我。”

　　告诉我，琼恩注意到，并非告诉我们，尽管贾尔就站在旁边。他很想拒绝这粗暴无礼的提问，但只要稍有不忠表现，就会被斯迪处死，还连累耶哥蕊特遭殃。“每支巡逻队有四人，两名游骑兵，两名工匠，”他说，“工匠负责修补沿途的裂缝，注意融化的迹象，游骑兵则侦察敌人的动静。他们骑骡子。”

　　“骡子？”无耳人皱起眉头，“骡子很慢。”

　　“慢是慢，但在冰上步子稳健。巡逻队通常在长城上骑行，而除了黑城堡周围，冰墙上的路已很多年没铺碎石了。骡子在东海望抚养长大，是专为这一任务而训练的。”

　　“通常在长城上骑行？不是每次？”

　　“不是。每四次巡逻中有一次沿基部走，以寻找裂缝或挖掘的迹象。”

　　马格拿点点头，“即便在遥远的瑟恩，我们也知道冰斧亚森的甬道。”

　　琼恩听过这故事。冰斧亚森挖穿了一半的冰墙，却在这时被长夜堡的游骑兵发现，他们没费神阻挠，而用冰雪和岩石封住了亚森的后路。忧郁的艾迪曾说，假如把耳朵贴住长城，至今还能听见里面的挖凿声呢。

　　“巡逻队什么时候出发？多久一次？”

　　琼恩耸耸肩。“一直在变。据说从前的科格尔总司令每三天派一队人由黑城堡去海边的东海望，每两天派一队人从黑城堡到影子塔，然而那时守夜人军团的人数较多，到莫尔蒙总司令的时代，巡逻次数和出发日期一直在变，教人难以捉摸。有时熊老甚至会派大部队去废弃的城堡居住两周到一个月。”这是叔叔的主意，琼恩知道，为了迷惑敌人。

　　“石门寨有人驻守吗？”贾尔问，“灰卫堡呢？”

　　我们就在这两者之间，对不对？琼恩尽力不露声色。“我离开长城时，只有东海望、黑城堡和影子塔有守军。我说不准此后波文·马尔锡和丹尼斯爵士有何举动。”

　　“城堡里剩下多少乌鸦？”斯迪道。

　　“黑城堡五百，影子塔两百，东海望也许三百。”琼恩将总数加了三百。真有这么多就好了……

　　贾尔没上当。“他在撒谎，”他告诉斯迪，“要不就是把死在先民拳峰上的乌鸦也算了进去。”

　　“乌鸦，”马格拿警告，“不要把我当曼斯·雷德，敢对我撒谎，就割了你舌头。”

　　“我不是乌鸦，也没有撒谎。”琼恩用剑的手开开合合。

　　瑟恩的马格拿用冰冷的灰色眼眸打量着琼恩。“我们很快就会知道确切数目，”过了一会儿，他说，“去吧。如果还有问题，我会派人叫你。”

　　琼恩僵硬地一低头，转身离开。若野人都像斯迪这样，那就好办了。瑟恩族跟其他自由民不同，他们自称为先民末裔，由马格拿实行铁腕统治。斯迪的领地狭窄，只是高山中的峡谷，隐于霜雪之牙极北处，周围有穴居人、硬足民、巨人及大冰川的食人部落。据耶哥蕊特说，瑟恩人是凶猛的战士，而马格拿对他们而言就等于神——这点琼恩毫不怀疑，与贾尔、哈玛或叮当衫的小队不同，斯迪的部下对他绝对服从，无疑这种钢铁纪律正是曼斯选择让他突击长城的原因。

　　他走过瑟恩人群，他们围在篝火旁，坐在各人的青铜圆盔上。耶哥蕊特跑哪儿去了？他发现她的行李跟自己的放在一起，但女孩本人不见踪影。“她拿支火炬往那边去了，”山羊格里格边说，边指指山洞后方。

　　琼恩顺着所指的方向行去，穿过如迷宫一般的石柱石笋，来到一个暗淡无光的洞穴。她不可能在这儿，他正想着，就听到了她的笑声。于是他朝声音传来的方向走，但十步之外是个死胡同，面前为一堵玫瑰色与白色的流石墙。他困惑地转身，沿路折回，走到中途才发现在一块突起而潮湿的石头底下有个黑洞。他跪下聆听，听到微弱的水声，“耶哥蕊特？”

　　“我在这儿，”她答应道，山洞里有微微的回音。

　　琼恩不得不爬了十几步，方才到达开阔的空间。等到再次站起，眼睛过了好一阵才适应。洞里只有耶哥蕊特带来的火炬，没有其他光源。她站在一个小瀑布边，水从岩石间的瑕隙流下来，注入宽阔的黑池子。橙色与黄色的火光在淡绿的水面上跳跃。

　　“你在这儿干吗？”他问她。

　　“我听到水声，就想看看山洞到底有多深。”她用火炬指指，“瞧，那儿有通道继续往下。我沿它走了一百步，然后折回来。”

　　“走到底了？”

　　“你什么都不懂，琼恩·雪诺。它一直往下延伸，延伸。这片山里有千百个洞穴，并且在底下全部连通，甚至通往你们的长城。你知道戈尼通道吧？”

　　“戈尼，”琼恩说，“戈尼曾是塞外之王。”

　　“是啊，”耶哥蕊特道，“三千年前，他跟兄弟詹德尔一起，率自由民穿过这些山洞，而守夜人对此一无所知。可惜出来的时候，却被临冬城的狼群袭击。”

　　“那是一场大战，”琼恩记起来，“戈尼杀了北境之王，但他儿子捡起父亲的旗帜，戴上父亲的王冠，反过来砍倒了戈尼。”

　　“刀剑声惊醒城堡里的乌鸦，他们披着黑衣骑马出发，夹攻自由民。”

　　“对，南有北境之王，东有安柏家的部队，北面是守夜人，詹德尔也战死了。”

　　“你什么都不懂，琼恩·雪诺，詹德尔并没有死，他从乌鸦群中杀了出去，率领人马折回北方，狼群嚎叫着紧跟在后，却没有追上。可惜詹德尔不像戈尼那样熟悉山洞，他转错了一个弯。”她前后晃动火炬，阴影也跟着跃动迁移。“结果越走越深，越走越深，想原路返回，眼前却始终是石头，看不到天空。很快火炬开始熄灭，一支接着一支，直到最后只剩黑暗。没人再见过詹德尔和他的部下，但在寂静的夜晚里，你可以听到他们的子孙后代在山底哭泣。他们仍在寻找回家的路。你听？听到了吗？”

　　琼恩只听到哗哗水声和火焰轻微的劈啪响。“通往长城的那条通道也从此找不到了？”

　　“有些人去搜索过，走得太深的遇到了詹德尔的子孙。他们总是很饿。”她微笑着将火炬插进石缝中，朝他走来。“黑暗中除了血肉，还有什么好吃的呢？”她低声说，一边咬他的脖子。

　　琼恩拱她的头发，鼻子里全是她的气味。“你听起来好像老奶妈，她给布兰讲怪兽故事时就是这样子。”

　　耶哥蕊特捶他肩膀，“你说我是老太婆？”

　　“你比我大。”

　　“对，而且更聪明。你什么都不懂，琼恩·雪诺。”她推开他，脱下兔皮背心。

　　“你干吗？”

　　“让你看看我究竟有多老。”她解开鹿皮衬衫，扔到旁边，然后一下子脱出三层羊毛汗衫。“我要你好好看着我。”

　　“我们不能——”

　　“我们可以！”她单腿站立，扯下一只靴子，任凭乳房弹跳着，然后又换到另一条腿，脱另一只靴子。她乳头周围是粉色的大圆圈。“楞着干嘛？脱啊，”耶哥蕊特拉下羊皮裤子时说，“你要看我，我也要看你。你什么都不懂，琼恩·雪诺。”

　　“我懂，我要你，”他听见自己说，所有的誓词，所有的荣誉都被遗忘。她赤裸地站在他面前，就和出生时一样，而他那话儿像周围的岩石般坚硬。他和她做过好几十次，但都在毛皮底下，因为周围有人。他没见过如此美丽的她。她的腿很瘦，但有肌肉，而两腿间红色的耻毛比头发的颜色更明亮。会更幸运吗？他将她拉近。“我爱你的味道。”他说，“爱你的红发，我爱你的嘴和你吻我的方式。我爱你的微笑，爱你的乳头。”他亲吻它们，一个，另一个。“我爱你纤细的腿和它们中间的东西。”他跪下去吻她私处，起初只轻轻吻那隆起部分，接着耶哥蕊特将腿分得更开，让他看到了粉红的内侧，他也亲吻那里，尝到她的滋味。她发出一声轻呼。“如果你那么爱我，为何还穿着衣服？”她轻声问，“你什么都不懂，琼恩·雪诺。什么——呃，噢，噢噢噢——”

　　事后，耶哥蕊特几乎有点害羞，或者这对她而言算是害羞。“你干的那个，”一起躺在衣服堆里时，她道，“用你的……嘴。”她犹豫半晌。“那个……南方的老爷跟夫人之间是那样的吗？”

　　“我觉得不是。”没人告诉过琼恩，老爷和他们的夫人之间干些什么。“我只是……想亲你那里，仅此而已。你似乎很喜欢。”

　　“是啊。我……我有点喜欢。没人教过你？”

　　“没人，”他承认，“我只有你。”

　　“处子，”她嘲笑，“你是个处子。”

　　他嬉戏般地轻捏离他近的那边乳头。“我原本是守夜人的汉子。”原本，他听见自己说。现在呢？现在是什么人？他不愿细想。“你是处女吗？”

　　耶哥蕊特单肘撑起来。“我十九岁了，是个火吻而生的矛妇。怎可能还是处女？”

　　“他是谁？”

　　“五年前宴会上遇到的男孩。他跟他的兄弟们过来做买卖，有着跟我一样火吻而生的红发，我认为这人会很幸运，不料却是个软蛋。他回来偷我时，被长矛弄断了胳膊，便再没有尝试过，一次也没有！”

　　“不是长矛就好。”琼恩松了口气。他喜欢长矛，里克相貌朴实，待他友善。

　　她捶了他一拳，“下流！你会不会跟自己姐妹上床？”

　　“长矛不是你哥哥。”

　　“他是我村里的人。你什么都不懂，琼恩·雪诺，真正的男子汉从远方偷女人，以增强部落的力量。跟兄弟、父亲或族亲上床的女人会受诅咒，生出体弱多病的孩子，甚至怪物。”

　　“卡斯特就娶自己的女儿，”琼恩指出。

　　她又打了他一拳。“卡斯特不像我们，更像你们。他父亲是只乌鸦，从白树村偷了个女人，但占有她之后又飞回了长城。她去黑城堡找过他一次，给那乌鸦看他的儿子，但黑衣弟兄们吹起号角，把她赶跑了。卡斯特身上流着黑血，背负着沉重的诅咒。”她的手指轻轻划过他肚皮。“我好怕你也会那样，飞回长城去，再也不回头。当初你偷了我之后，根本就不知道该怎么办。”

　　琼恩坐起来。“耶哥蕊特，我没有偷你。”

　　“你当然偷了我。你从山上跳下来，杀死欧瑞尔，我还没来得及拿起长柄斧，就被短刀抵在咽喉。我以为你会要我，或者杀我，或者两样都干，但你什么也没做。我告诉你吟游诗人贝尔的故事，告诉你他怎样从临冬城摘走冬雪玫瑰，以为你一定会懂，一定会来摘走我，但你没有。你什么都不懂，琼恩·雪诺。”她朝他腼腆地微笑。“但你也许正在学。”

　　良久，光线在她周围游移不定。琼恩四下环顾。“我们最好上去，火炬快燃尽了。”

　　“乌鸦这么害怕詹德尔的子孙吗？”她咧嘴笑道，“上去的路很短，而我跟你还没完呢，琼恩·雪诺。”她又将他推倒在衣服堆里，跨骑上去。“你能不能……”她犹豫地说。

　　“什么？”他问，火炬开始飘摇。

　　“再来一遍。”耶哥蕊特脱口而出。“用你的嘴……贵族老爷的吻，我……我知道，你也喜欢。”

　　火炬燃尽时，琼恩·雪诺已不再担忧。

　　但他的负罪感又回来了，虽然比以前弱得多。如果这是个错误，他疑惑地想，为何诸神让它如此美好？

　　完事之后，洞内漆黑一片。只有通往上面大山洞的通道传来一点暗淡的光，大山洞里有二十来堆火在燃烧。他们试图在黑暗中摸索着穿衣服，结果马上互相磕碰起来。耶哥蕊特跌进池子里，冰冷的水令她尖声喊叫。当琼恩哈哈大笑，她将他也拉了下来。他们在黑暗中扭打，溅起水花，然后她又到他的双臂之中，原来他们还没有结束。

　　“琼恩·雪诺，”他将种子撒在她体内时，她告诉他，“别动，亲爱的。我喜欢你在我里面，我喜欢这种感觉。我们不要回斯迪和贾尔那儿去了吧。我们继续往里走，去找詹德尔的子孙。不要离开这山洞，琼恩·雪诺，永远不离开。”

ARYA
Stoney Sept was the biggest town Arya had seen since King’s Landing, and Harwin said her father had won a famous battle here.
“The Mad King’s men had been hunting Robert, trying to catch him before he could rejoin your father,” he told her as they rode toward the gate. “He was wounded, being tended by some friends, when Lord Connington the Hand took the town with a mighty force and started searching house by house. Before they could find him, though, Lord Eddard and your grandfather came down on the town and stormed the walls. Lord Connington fought back fierce. They battled in the streets and alleys, even on the rooftops, and all the septons rang their bells so the smallfolk would know to lock their doors. Robert came out of hiding to join the fight when the bells began to ring. He slew six men that day, they say. One was Myles Mooton, a famous knight who’d been Prince Rhaegar’s squire. He would have slain the Hand too, but the battle never brought them together. Connington wounded your grandfather Tully sore, though, and killed Ser Denys Arryn, the darling of the Vale. But when he saw the day was lost, he flew off as fast as the griffins on his shield. The Battle of the Bells, they called it after. Robert always said your father won it, not him.”
More recent battles had been fought here as well, Arya thought from the look of the place. The town gates were made of raw new wood; outside the walls a pile of charred planks remained to tell what had happened to the old ones.
Stoney Sept was closed up tight, but when the captain of the gate saw who they were, he opened a sally port for them. “How you fixed for food?” Tom asked as they entered.
“Not so bad as we were. The Huntsman brought in a flock o’ sheep, and there’s been some trading across the Blackwater. The harvest wasn’t burned south o’ the river. Course, there’s plenty want to take what we got. Wolves one day, Mummers the next. Them that’s not looking for food are looking for plunder, or women to rape, and them that’s not out for gold or wenches are looking for the bloody Kingslayer. Talk is, he slipped right through Lord Edmure’s fingers.”
“Lord Edmure?” Lem frowned. “Is Lord Hoster dead, then?”
“Dead or dying. Think Lannister might be making for the Blackwater? It’s the quickest way to King’s Landing, the Huntsman swears.” The captain did not wait for an answer. “He took his dogs out for a sniff round. If Ser Jaime’s hereabouts, they’ll find him. I’ve seen them dogs rip bears apart. Think they’ll like the taste of lion blood?”
“A chewed-up corpse’s no good to no one,” said Lem. “The Huntsman bloody well knows that, too.”
“When the westermen came through they raped the Huntsman’s wife and sister, put his crops to the torch, ate half his sheep, and killed the other half for spite. Killed six dogs too, and threw the carcasses down his well. A chewed-up corpse would be plenty good enough for him, I’d say. Me as well.”
“He’d best not,” said Lem. “That’s all I got to say. He’d best not, and you’re a bloody fool.”
Arya rode between Harwin and Anguy as the outlaws moved down the streets where her father once had fought. She could see the sept on its hill, and below it a stout strong holdfast of grey stone that looked much too small for such a big town. But every third house they passed was a blackened shell, and she saw no people. “Are all the townfolk dead?”
“Only shy.” Anguy pointed out two bowmen on a roof, and some boys with sooty faces crouched in the rubble of an alehouse. Farther on, a baker threw open a shuttered window and shouted down to Lem. The sound of his voice brought more people out of hiding, and Stoney Sept slowly seemed to come to life around them.
In the market square at the town’s heart stood a fountain in the shape of a leaping trout, spouting water into a shallow pool. Women were filling pails and flagons there. A few feet away, a dozen iron cages hung from creaking wooden posts. Crow cages, Arya knew. The crows were mostly outside the cages, splashing in the water or perched atop the bars; inside were men. Lem reined up scowling. “What’s this, now?”
“Justice,” answered a woman at the fountain.
“What, did you run short o’ hempen rope?”
“Was this done at Ser Wilbert’s decree?” asked Tom.
A man laughed bitterly. “The lions killed Ser Wilbert a year ago. His sons are all off with the Young Wolf, getting fat in the west. You think they give a damn for the likes of us? It was the Mad Huntsman caught these wolves.”
Wolves. Arya went cold. Robb’s men, and my father’s. She felt drawn toward the cages. The bars allowed so little room that prisoners could neither sit nor turn; they stood naked, exposed to sun and wind and rain. The first three cages held dead men. Carrion crows had eaten out their eyes, yet the empty sockets seemed to follow her. The fourth man in the row stirred as she passed. Around his mouth his ragged beard was thick with blood and flies. They exploded when he spoke, buzzing around his head. “Water.” The word was a croak. “Please . . . water . . . ”
The man in the next cage opened his eyes at the sound. “Here,” he said. “Here, me.” An old man, he was; his beard was grey and his scalp was bald and mottled brown with age.
There was another dead man beyond the old one, a big red-bearded man with a rotting grey bandage covering his left ear and part of his temple. But the worst thing was between his legs, where nothing remained but a crusted brown hole crawling with maggots. Farther down was a fat man. The crow cage was so cruelly narrow it was hard to see how they’d ever gotten him inside. The iron dug painfully into his belly, squeezing bulges out between the bars. Long days baking in the sun had burned him a painful red from head to heel. When he shifted his weight, his cage creaked and swayed, and Arya could see pale white stripes where the bars had shielded his flesh from the sun.
“Whose men were you?” she asked them.
At the sound of her voice, the fat man opened his eyes. The skin around them was so red they looked like boiled eggs floating in a dish of blood. “Water . . . a drink . . . ”
“Whose?” she said again.
“Pay them no mind, boy,” the townsman told her. “They’re none o’ your concern. Ride on by.”
“What did they do?” she asked him.
“They put eight people to the sword at Tumbler’s Falls,” he said. “They wanted the Kingslayer, but he wasn’t there so they did some rape and murder.” He jerked a thumb toward the corpse with maggots where his manhood ought to be. “That one there did the raping. Now move along.”
“A swallow,” the fat one called down. “Ha’ mercy, boy, a swallow.” The old one slid an arm up to grasp the bars. The motion made his cage swing violently. “Water,” gasped the one with the flies in his beard.
She looked at their filthy hair and scraggly beards and reddened eyes, at their dry, cracked, bleeding lips. Wolves, she thought again. Like me. Was this her pack? How could they be Robb’s men? She wanted to hit them. She wanted to hurt them. She wanted to cry. They all seemed to be looking at her, the living and the dead alike. The old man had squeezed three fingers out between the bars. “Water,” he said, “water.”
Arya swung down from her horse. They can’t hurt me, they’re dying. She took her cup from her bedroll and went to the fountain. “What do you think you’re doing, boy?” the townsman snapped. “They’re no concern o’ yours.” She raised the cup to the fish’s mouth. The water splashed across her fingers and down her sleeve, but Arya did not move until the cup was brimming over. When she turned back toward the cages, the townsman moved to stop her. “You get away from them, boy—”
“She’s a girl,” said Harwin. “Leave her be.”
“Aye,” said Lem. “Lord Beric don’t hold with caging men to die of thirst. Why don’t you hang them decent?”
“There was nothing decent ’bout them things they did at Tumbler’s Falls,” the townsman growled right back at him.
The bars were too narrow to pass a cup through, but Harwin and Gendry offered her a leg up. She planted a foot in Harwin’s cupped hands, vaulted onto Gendry’s shoulders, and grabbed the bars on top of the cage. The fat man turned his face up and pressed his cheek to the iron, and Arya poured the water over him. He sucked at it eagerly and let it run down over his head and cheeks and hands, and then he licked the dampness off the bars. He would have licked Arya’s fingers if she hadn’t snatched them back. By the time she served the other two the same, a crowd had gathered to watch her. “The Mad Huntsman will hear of this,” a man threatened. “He won’t like it. No, he won’t.”
“He’ll like this even less, then.” Anguy strung his longbow, slid an arrow from his quiver, nocked, drew, loosed. The fat man shuddered as the shaft drove up between his chins, but the cage would not let him fall. Two more arrows ended the other two northmen. The only sound in the market square was the splash of falling water and the buzzing of flies.
Valar morghulis, Arya thought.
On the east side of the market square stood a modest inn with whitewashed walls and broken windows. Half its roof had burnt off recently, but the hole had been patched over. Above the door hung a wooden shingle painted as a peach, with a big bite taken out of it. They dismounted at the stables sitting catty-corner, and Greenbeard bellowed for grooms.
The buxom red-haired innkeep howled with pleasure at the sight of them, then promptly set to tweaking them. “Greenbeard, is it? Or Greybeard? Mother take mercy, when did you get so old? Lem, is that you? Still wearing the same ratty cloak, are you? I know why you never wash it, I do. You’re afraid all the piss will wash out and we’ll see you’re really a knight o’ the Kingsguard! And Tom o’ Sevens, you randy old goat! You come to see that son o’ yours? Well, you’re too late, he’s off riding with that bloody Huntsman. And don’t tell me he’s not yours!”
“He hasn’t got my voice,” Tom protested weakly.
“He’s got your nose, though. Aye, and t’other parts as well, to hear the girls talk.” She spied Gendry then, and pinched him on the check. “Look at this fine young ox. Wait till Alyce sees those arms. Oh, and he blushes like a maid, too. Well, Alyce will fix that for you, boy, see if she don’t.”
Arya had never seen Gendry turn so red. “Tansy, you leave the Bull alone, he’s a good lad,” said Tom Sevenstrings. “All we need from you is safe beds for a night.”
“Speak for yourself, singer.” Anguy slid his arm around a strapping young serving girl as freckly as he was.
“Beds we got,” said red-haired Tansy. “There’s never been no lack o’ beds at the Peach. But you’ll all climb in a tub first. Last time you lot stayed under my roof you left your fleas behind.” She poked Greenbeard in the chest. “And yours was green, too. You want food?”
“If you can spare it, we won’t say no,” Tom conceded.
“Now when did you ever say no to anything, Tom?” the woman hooted. “I’ll roast some mutton for your friends, and an old dry rat for you. It’s more than you deserve, but if you gargle me a song or three, might be I’ll weaken. I always pity the afflicted. Come on, come on. Cass, Lanna, put some kettles on. Jyzene, help me get the clothes off them, we’ll need to boil those too.”
She made good on all her threats. Arya tried to tell them that she’d been bathed twice at Acorn Hall, not a fortnight past, but the red-haired woman was having none of it. Two serving wenches carried her up the stairs bodily, arguing about whether she was a girl or a boy. The one called Helly won, so the other had to fetch the hot water and scrub Arya’s back with a stiff bristly brush that almost took her skin off. Then they stole all the clothes that Lady Smallwood had given her and dressed her up like one of Sansa’s dolls in linen and lace. But at least when they were done she got to go down and eat.
As she sat in the common room in her stupid girl clothes, Arya remembered what Syrio Forel had told her, the trick of looking and seeing what was there. When she looked, she saw more serving wenches than any inn could want, and most of them young and comely. And come evenfall, lots of men started coming and going at the Peach. They did not linger long in the common room, not even when Tom took out his woodharp and began to sing “Six Maids in a Pool.” The wooden steps were old and steep, and creaked something fierce whenever one of the men took a girl upstairs. “I bet this is a brothel,” she whispered to Gendry.
“You don’t even know what a brothel is.”
“I do so,” she insisted. “It’s like an inn, with girls.”
He was turning red again. “What are you doing here, then?” he demanded. “A brothel’s no fit place for no bloody highborn lady, everybody knows that.”
One of the girls sat down on the bench beside him. “Who’s a highborn lady? The little skinny one?” She looked at Arya and laughed. “I’m a king’s daughter myself.”
Arya knew she was being mocked. “You are not.”
“Well, I might be.” When the girl shrugged, her gown slipped off one shoulder. “They say King Robert fucked my mother when he hid here, back before the battle. Not that he didn’t have all the other girls too, but Leslyn says he liked my ma the best.”
The girl did have hair like the old king’s, Arya thought; a great thick mop of it, as black as coal. That doesn’t mean anything, though. Gendry has the same kind of hair too. Lots of people have black hair.
“I’m named Bella,” the girl told Gendry. “For the battle. I bet I could ring your bell, too. You want to?”
“No,” he said gruffly.
“I bet you do.” She ran a hand along his arm. “I don’t cost nothing to friends of Thoros and the lightning lord.”
“No, I said.” Gendry rose abruptly and stalked away from the table out into the night.
Bella turned to Arya. “Don’t he like girls?”
Arya shrugged. “He’s just stupid. He likes to polish helmets and beat on swords with hammers.”
“Oh.” Bella tugged her gown back over her shoulder and went to talk with Jack-Be-Lucky. Before long she was sitting in his lap, giggling and drinking wine from his cup. Greenbeard had two girls, one on each knee. Anguy had vanished with his freckle-faced wench, and Lem was gone as well. Tom Sevenstrings sat by the fire, singing, “The Maids that Bloom in Spring.” Arya sipped at the cup of watered wine the red-haired woman had allowed her, listening. Across the square the dead men were rotting in their crow cages, but inside the Peach everyone was jolly. Except it seemed to her that some of them were laughing too hard, somehow.
It would have been a good time to sneak away and steal a horse, but Arya couldn’t see how that would help her. She could only ride as far as the city gates. That captain would never let me pass, and if he did, Harwin would come after me, or that Huntsman with his dogs. She wished she had her map, so she could see how far Stoney Sept was from Riverrun.
By the time her cup was empty, Arya was yawning. Gendry hadn’t come back. Tom Sevenstrings was singing “Two Hearts that Beat as One,” and kissing a different girl at the end of every verse. In the corner by the window Lem and Harwin sat talking to red-haired Tansy in low voices. “ . . . spent the night in Jaime’s cell,” she heard the woman say. “Her and this other wench, the one who slew Renly. All three o’ them together, and come the morn Lady Catelyn cut him loose for love.” She gave a throaty chuckle.
It’s not true, Arya thought. She never would. She felt sad and angry and lonely, all at once.
An old man sat down beside her. “Well, aren’t you a pretty little peach?” His breath smelled near as foul as the dead men in the cages, and his little pig eyes were crawling up and down her. “Does my sweet peach have a name?”
For half a heartbeat she forgot who she was supposed to be. She wasn’t any peach, but she couldn’t be Arya Stark either, not here with some smelly drunk she did not know. “I’m . . . ”
“She’s my sister.” Gendry put a heavy hand on the old man’s shoulder, and squeezed. “Leave her be.”
The man turned, spoiling for a quarrel, but when he saw Gendry’s size he thought better of it. “Your sister, is she? What kind of brother are you? I’d never bring no sister of mine to the Peach, that I wouldn’t.” He got up from the bench and moved off muttering, in search of a new friend.
“Why did you say that?” Arya hopped to her feet. “You’re not my brother.”
“That’s right,” he said angrily. “I’m too bloody lowborn to be kin to m’lady high.”
Arya was taken aback by the fury in his voice. “That’s not the way I meant it.”
“Yes it is.” He sat down on the bench, cradling a cup of wine between his hands. “Go away. I want to drink this wine in peace. Then maybe I’ll go find that black-haired girl and ring her bell for her.”
“But . . . ”
“I said, go away. M’lady.”
Arya whirled and left him there. A stupid bullheaded bastard boy, that’s all he is. He could ring all the bells he wanted, it was nothing to her.
Their sleeping room was at the top of the stairs, under the eaves. Maybe the Peach had no lack of beds, but there was only one to spare for the likes of them. It was a big bed, though. It filled the whole room, just about, and the musty straw-stuffed mattress looked large enough for all of them. Just now, though, she had it to herself. Her real clothes were hanging from a peg on the wall, between Gendry’s stuff and Lem’s. Arya took off the linen and lace, pulled her tunic over her head, climbed up into the bed, and burrowed under the blankets. “Queen Cersei,” she whispered into the pillow. “King Joffrey, Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn. Dunsen, Raff, and Polliver. The Tickler, the Hound, and Ser Gregor the Mountain.” She liked to mix up the order of the names sometimes. It helped her remember who they were and what they’d done. Maybe some of them are dead, she thought. Maybe they’re in iron cages someplace, and the crows are picking out their eyes.
Sleep came as quick as she closed her eyes. She dreamed of wolves that night, stalking through a wet wood with the smell of rain and rot and blood thick in the air. Only they were good smells in the dream, and Arya knew she had nothing to fear. She was strong and swift and fierce, and her pack was all around her, her brothers and her sisters. They ran down a frightened horse together, tore its throat out, and feasted. And when the moon broke through the clouds, she threw back her head and howled.
But when the day came, she woke to the barking of dogs.
Arya sat up yawning. Gendry was stirring on her left and Lem Lemoncloak snoring loudly to her right, but the baying outside all but drowned him out. There must be half a hundred dogs out there. She crawled from under the blankets and hopped over Lem, Tom, and Jack-Be-Lucky to the window. When she opened the shutters wide, wind and wet and cold all came flooding in together. The day was grey and overcast. Down below, in the square, the dogs were barking, running in circles, growling and howling. There was a pack of them, great black mastiffs and lean wolfhounds and black-and-white sheepdogs and kinds Arya did not know, shaggy brindled beasts with long yellow teeth. Between the inn and the fountain, a dozen riders sat astride their horses, watching the townsmen open the fat man’s cage and tug his arm until his swollen corpse spilled out onto the ground. The dogs were at him at once, tearing chunks of flesh off his bones.
Arya heard one of the riders laugh. “Here’s your new castle, you bloody Lannister bastard,” he said. “A little snug for the likes o’ you, but we’ll squeeze you in, never fret.” Beside him a prisoner sat sullen, with coils of hempen rope tight around his wrists. Some of the townsmen were throwing dung at him, but he never flinched. “You’ll rot in them cages,” his captor was shouting. “The crows will be picking out your eyes while we’re spending all that good Lannister gold o’ yours! And when them crows are done, we’ll send what’s left o’ you to your bloody brother. Though I doubt he’ll know you.”
The noise had woken half the Peach. Gendry squeezed into the window beside Arya, and Tom stepped up behind them naked as his name day. “What’s all that bloody shouting?” Lem complained from bed. “A man’s trying to get some bloody sleep.”
“Where’s Greenbeard?” Tom asked him.
“Abed with Tansy,” Lem said. “Why?”
“Best find him. Archer too. The Mad Huntsman’s come back, with another man for the cages.”
“Lannister,” said Arya. “I heard him say Lannister.”
“Have they caught the Kingslayer?” Gendry wanted to know.
Down in the square, a thrown stone caught the captive on the cheek, turning his head. Not the Kingslayer, Arya thought, when she saw his face. The gods had heard her prayers after all.

第二十五章 戴佛斯



　　这是一间暖和的黑牢。
　　没错，它很黑。虽然走廊墙壁上的壁台里插着火炬，微弱而摇曳的橙光透过古老的铁栏杆照射进来，但牢房的后半部分仍沉浸在黑暗之中。它也很潮湿，龙石岛这样的地方，这是预料之中的事，毕竟大海近在咫尺。它里面还有老鼠，和任何黑牢一样，甚至还更多。

　　但戴佛斯无法抱怨寒冷。龙石岛下平整的岩石通道里通常很温暖，戴佛斯常听说，越往下就越热。他估计自己正在城堡底下，手掌按住黑牢墙壁，能感觉到点点温热。也许那些古老的传说是真的，龙石岛乃是由地狱的岩石所构成。

　　他们将他带来这里时，他正在生病。战争失败之后，咳嗽外加发烧就困扰着他，唇上都是破裂的血泡，黑牢的暖意也不能阻止颤抖。我将不久于人世，他记得自己曾这样想，我将很快死在黑暗之中。

　　不久，戴佛斯发现，跟其他许多事情一样，这次他又想错了。他依稀记得一手轻柔的手和一副坚定的嗓音，年轻的派洛斯学士俯视着他，喂他温热的大蒜汤和罂粟花奶，以消除疼痛与颤栗。罂粟让他沉睡，这期间，他们用水蛭给他放血，吸掉毒素——或者说根据醒来时手臂上的咬痕，他这么猜测。之后，咳嗽停止，血泡消失，他们提供鱼肉汤，里面还有胡萝卜和洋葱。终有一天，他意识到自己比当初黑贝莎号在脚下爆炸，并将他抛进长河时更为强壮。

　　接着，他被交给两名看守。一个又矮又壮，有宽阔的肩膀和强健的巨掌。他穿镶钉皮甲，每天给戴佛斯带来一碗燕麦粥，有时候会往里面掺一些蜂蜜或牛奶。另一个看守年纪较大，弯腰驼背，脸色发黄，长着油腻肮脏的头发和粗糙的皮肤。他穿一件白天鹅绒上衣，胸前用金线锈了一圈星星，但衣服很不合身，显得又短又宽，而且肮脏破旧。他会给戴佛斯带来一盘肉末或炖鱼，有回甚至拿来半份鳗鱼派。鳗鱼太腻，难以下咽，即便如此，这已是黑牢囚犯鲜有的待遇。

　　黑牢厚厚的石墙上没有窗户，自然毫无日月之光，只能根据看守换班来分辨昼夜更替。他俩都不跟他说话，但他知道他们不是哑巴，有时候，他听见换班时看守会粗率地交谈几句。他们甚至连名字也不告诉他，他只好替他们取外号，又矮又壮就叫“麦片粥”，而那驼背黄脸的叫“鳗鱼”——因为那半份鳗鱼派的关系。根据一日送来的两餐，根据牢房外壁台上火炬的更换，他简单地推断着日期。

　　在黑暗中，人会变得寂寞，渴望听见声音。因此每当看守们来到戴佛斯的牢房，不管送食物还是换便桶，他都试图跟他们讲话。他知道，申辩或恳求都不会有人理睬，因此他问问题，期望某天某位看守会开口。“战争有何进展？”他问，“国王还好吗？”除此之外，他还询问自己的儿子戴文，询问希琳公主，询问萨拉多·桑恩。“天气怎么样？”他问，“秋季风暴开始了吗？狭海上仍有船只航行吗？”

　　不管问什么，结果都一样，他们从不回答，尽管有时候“麦片粥”会看他一眼，让戴佛斯产生些许希望。“鳗鱼”则连这点也没有。在他眼中，我不是人，戴佛斯心想，只是一块会吃饭会说话会拉屎的石头。他觉得自己比较喜欢“麦片粥”，他至少还当他是个人，而且怀有一种古怪的仁慈。戴佛斯怀疑这满黑牢的老鼠正是他喂的。有一次，他听见那看守在跟老鼠讲话，仿佛当它们是孩子，又或许这只是又一个梦罢。

　　他们不要我死，他意识到，为某种目的，他们要我活下去。他不愿去想那是什么目的。桑格拉斯伯爵曾被关在龙石岛下的黑牢里，连同赫柏·蓝布顿的两个儿子——但他们最终都被活活烧死。我早该将自己交付给大海，戴佛斯边想，边凝视着栏杆外面的火炬，我早该任凭那艘船过去，死于礁石之上。喂螃蟹也好过葬身火焰。

　　然后有一天夜里，当戴佛斯快吃完晚饭时，突然感到一阵诡异的红晕朝他袭来。他抬起头，透过栏杆，看到她站在鲜红的光晕里，大红宝石戴在喉头，她红色的眼睛在火炬的光辉之中闪烁。“梅丽珊卓，”戴佛斯说，语气出乎意料地平静。

　　“洋葱骑士，”她也同样平静地答道，仿佛他俩正在宫殿或庭院里互致问候，“你还好吗？”

　　“比以前好了。”

　　“你还缺什么？”

　　“缺了我的国王。缺了我的儿子。”他推开碗，站起身来。“你是来烧死我的？”

　　她奇异而血红的眼睛透过栏杆打量他。“这是个糟糕的地方，对吗？黑暗而肮脏，没有艳阳普照，没有浩月当空。”她抬手指向壁台上的火炬。“在你和黑暗之间，洋葱骑士，只有它，只有这小小的火焰，拉赫洛的礼物。假如我把它熄灭……”

　　“不。”他走向栏杆，“不要。”他知道自己无法忍受独坐在纯粹的黑暗之中，和老鼠为伴。

　　红袍女的嘴唇向上一卷，露出微笑。“看来你开始喜欢火焰了。”

　　“我需要这火炬。”他的五指开开合合。我不会求她，决不会。

　　“我就好比这火炬，戴佛斯爵士。我俩都是拉赫洛的工具。我俩存在的目的只有一个——阻挡黑暗。你明白吗？”

　　“不明白。”也许该撒谎，也许该顺着她说，但他戴佛斯不是那样的人。“你就是黑暗的母亲，我在风息堡下亲眼见你制造黑暗。”

　　“英勇的洋葱骑士竟然害怕一个过往的影子？抬起头来吧，影子是光明的仆人、烈焰的子孙，然而国王的火焰烧得太过微弱，不敢再汲取半分，否则便会要了他的命。”梅丽珊卓靠近一步。“然而，如果有另一个人……一个火焰炽烈燃烧的人……如果你愿意为你的国王效力，请在夜晚造访我的房间。我会带给你前所未有的欢悦，并用你的生命之火，制造出……”

　　“……一个恐怖的怪物。”戴佛斯退离开去。“我不想与你、与你的神有任何瓜葛，女人，愿七神保护我。”

　　梅丽珊卓叹了口气，“他们没有保护冈瑟·桑格拉斯，尽管他每天祈祷三次，还拿七芒星当纹章，但在真主拉赫洛面前，他的祈祷变成惨叫，他的身躯化为灰烬。你为什么要敬拜这些虚伪的神？”

　　“我一生都敬拜他们。”

　　“一生？戴佛斯·席渥斯？那只是你悲哀的昨天啊。”她摇摇头，“你从不怕对国王实言相告，又为什么要骗自己呢？睁开你的眼睛吧，爵士先生。”

　　“你要我看什么？”

　　“明睹世间本质，真理环汝四周，诸物一目了然。长夜黑暗，处处险恶，白昼光明，勃勃兴旺。一黑，一白。一冰，一火。恨与爱，苦与甜，女与男，痛苦与欢乐，凛冬与盛夏，邪恶与正义。”她再跨近一步。“死或者生。对立从古到今，战争无处不在。”

　　“战争？”戴佛斯问。

　　“对，战争，”她确认。“两位真神之间的战争，洋葱骑士，非七，非一，非百，非千，惟有两位！你以为我穿越半个世界是为把又一个自负的国王扶上空洞的宝座？你错了，战争从世界之初开始，在审判到来之前，每个人都必须选择立场。一边乃真主拉赫洛，光之王，圣焰之心，影子与烈火的神；另一边乃凡人不可道也的远古异神，暗之神，玄冰之魂，黑夜与恐惧的神。我们的选择不是拜拉席恩或兰尼斯特，葛雷乔伊或史塔克。我们的选择是生与死，光明与黑暗。”她伸出纤细白皙的手指抓住牢房栏杆，喉头的大红宝石仿佛有节律地脉动着。“告诉我，戴佛斯·席渥斯爵士，诚实地告诉我——你的心是否随着拉赫洛的光明而燃烧？还是已经暗浊阴冷，蠕虫长满？”她的手越过栏杆，将三根手指放在他胸口，仿佛要透过血肉、羊毛和皮革感受他的思想。

　　“我的心中，”戴佛斯缓缓地说，“充满疑虑。”

　　梅丽珊卓叹了口气。“啊啊啊……戴佛斯，善良的好骑士，即使迷失于黑暗与混乱之中，也不改其诚实正直。很好，你没有骗我，没有让我失望。异神的仆人常将黑暗的心藏于华美的亮光之中，因此拉赫洛给予他的祭司们揭穿伪装的能力。”她稍稍退开。“你为什么想杀我？”

　　“我会说的，”戴佛斯道，“只要你告诉我是谁出卖了我。”只可能是萨拉多·桑恩，但他到此刻仍在祈祷并非如此。

　　红袍女哈哈大笑，“没人出卖你，洋葱骑士，我在圣火中预见了你的动向。”

　　圣火。“既然你能通过火焰看到未来，为何我们还会在黑水河上被人焚烧？是你，是你把我的儿子们送进火里……我的儿子，我的船，我的手下，全被烧毁了……”

　　梅丽珊卓摇摇头。“你误会了，洋葱骑士，那不是我所造成。正相反，假如我跟你们在一起，战斗将会有不同的结局。可惜陛下身边全是不信真主的人，而他的骄傲压过了信仰。如今惩罚来得沉重而痛苦，他已得到了教训。”

　　我儿子们的死就为给国王一个教训？戴佛斯的嘴唇绷得紧紧的。

　　“黑夜正降临在你们的七大王国，”红袍女续道，“但太阳不久将再度升起。战争仍在继续，戴佛斯·席渥斯，他们很快就会明白，即便灰尘中的余烬也能重新燃起熊熊烈火。老学士望着史坦尼斯，看到的只是一个凡人，你看到的则是你的国王。你们都错了。他是真主的选民，圣焰之子，光明的战士。我在圣火中目睹他统帅千军万马，抵抗恐怖的黑暗。圣火之中没有谎话，否则你就不会在这里了。亚夏古书预言，长夏之后，星辰泣血，亚梭尔·亚亥将在烟与盐之地重生，并唤醒石头中的魔龙。如今泣血之星已然出现，龙石岛乃是烟与盐之地，史坦尼斯·拜拉席恩正是亚梭尔·亚亥转世！”她的双目如浅红的燃烛一般炯炯发亮，仿佛望进他的灵魂。“你不相信我，你到现在仍怀疑拉赫洛的意旨……但你曾为他效过力，将来还会为他效力。请好好思考我的话。念着拉赫洛是一切善良之源，我给你留下火炬。”

　　她微笑了一下，旋起血红的裙裾转身离开，只有气味仍旧滞留。她的气味和火炬的气味。戴佛斯在牢房地板上坐下，双臂抱膝，摇曳的火光闪烁不定。梅丽珊卓的脚步声渐渐消失，剩下老鼠悉嗦抠爬的响动。冰与火，他心想，黑与白，邪恶与正义。戴佛斯无法否认她的神具有力量，因为他亲眼见到影子从梅丽珊卓的子宫里爬出，而这女祭司又确实知道一些本该无从知晓的事。她在圣火之中预见我的动向。知道萨拉没出卖他很不错，但一想到红袍女能通过火焰窥探秘密，他就感到一种无法形容的不安。你曾为他效过力，将来还会为他效力。这到底是什么意思？这种感觉他很不喜欢。

　　他抬眼凝视火炬，一眨不眨地看了很久，注视着它摇动变幻，试图穿过去，看到火幕之后……不管有什么……什么都没有，只有火，火，过了一会儿，眼睛开始流泪。

　　真主没有对他显灵，而他也确实疲倦，于是戴佛斯在稻草上蜷起身子，将自己托付给睡眠。

　　三天之后——其实“麦片粥”来过三次，“鳗鱼”只来了两次——戴佛斯听见牢房外有说话声。他立刻坐起来，背靠石头墙，聆听门外的挣扎。这是他一成不变的世界中天大的新闻。嘈杂声来自于左，那里的楼梯通往地面。他听见一个男人时而厉声叫嚣时而绝望乞求。

　　“……们疯了吗？”那人进入他视线范围时正在说。他被两个卫兵拖拽，卫兵胸口有烈焰红心。“麦片粥”走在前，拿着一串叮当作响的钥匙，亚赛尔·佛罗伦爵士跟在后。“亚赛尔，”囚犯声嘶力竭地道，“为了你对我的爱，快放了我！你们不能这么干，我不是叛徒。”他是位老人，又高又瘦，银灰色头发，尖胡子，尊贵的长脸因恐惧而扭曲。“赛丽丝，赛丽丝，王后在哪儿？我要见她。愿异鬼把你们统统抓走！快放了我！”

　　卫兵们对他的喊叫不予理睬。“这儿？”“麦片粥”站在戴佛斯的牢门前问。洋葱骑士跟着起立，片刻之间，他打算趁机冲出去，但那太愚蠢。他们人多势众，又有武器，连“麦片粥”也壮得像头牛，他很可能第一关都过不了。

　　亚赛尔爵士朝看守略一点头。“让叛徒们互相作伴去吧。”

　　“我不是叛徒！”囚犯嘶喊，但“麦片粥”浑不理会地开锁。这名老人虽衣着朴素，只穿了灰羊毛上衣和黑马裤，可说话的口吻明显是个大贵族。在龙石岛上，出生帮不了他，戴佛斯心想。

　　“麦片粥”将门拉开，亚赛尔爵士点点头，卫兵们便把犯人猛推进去。老人跌跌撞撞眼看就要摔倒，幸亏被戴佛斯抓住。他立刻挣脱，往门口冲去，但门轰然关闭，砸在他苍白富贵的脸上。“不，”他高喊，“不——”突然之间，所有的力量都屏弃了他，他滑到地上，手还抓着铁栏杆。亚赛尔爵士，“麦片粥”和卫兵们转身离开。“你们不能这么干，”囚犯朝着远去的背影叫喊，“我是御前首相啊！”

　　戴佛斯这才认出他来。“您是艾利斯特·佛罗伦。”

　　老人扭过头。“你是……？”

　　“戴佛斯·席渥斯爵士。”

　　艾利斯特伯爵眨眨眼睛。“席渥斯……洋葱骑士。你试图谋害梅丽珊卓。”

　　戴佛斯没有否认。“记得在风息堡，您穿着红金甲胄，胸甲上镶有天青石色的花。”他伸手扶老人站起。

　　艾利斯特伯爵拂去衣服上肮脏的稻草。“我……我必须为我的模样道歉，爵士先生。当兰尼斯特袭取我军营地时，我的箱子都遗失了，只穿一身锁甲，戴着手上的戒指逃出来。”

　　他竟还关心戒指，这位缺手指的戴佛斯心想。

　　“无疑某个厨房小厮或者马童此刻正穿着我的斜纹天鹅绒外衣和珠宝披风，在君临城内神气活现地跑来跑去，”艾利斯特伯爵自顾自地叹气。“大家都知道，战争有其可怖的一面，你也蒙受了沉重的损失。”

　　“我的船，”戴佛斯说，“我的手下，我的四个儿子，全没了。”

　　“愿……愿光之王领他们穿越黑暗，到达幸福的彼岸，”他说。

　　愿天父给以他们公正地裁判，愿圣母赐予他们宽宏的慈悲，戴佛斯心想，但他把祈祷留在心里。龙石岛上没有七神的位置。

　　“我儿子在亮水城没事，”伯爵道，“但我侄儿却在怒火号上死了，伊姆瑞爵士是我弟弟莱安所生。”

　　正是伊姆瑞·佛罗伦爵士要他们降帆下桨，盲目地闯入黑水河，毫不在意河口的两座石塔。戴佛斯不会忘记他。“我儿马利克是您侄子船上的桨官，”他记得自己看见怒火号被野火吞没，“他们那艘船有无幸存者？”

　　“怒火号载着所有船员一起焚毁沉没，”伯爵大人道，“你的儿子、我的侄儿连同其他壮士一起牺牲。彻头彻尾的惨败啊，爵士。”

　　此人意气消沉，一厥不振。梅丽珊卓怎么说的？灰尘中的余烬也能重新燃起熊熊烈火。难怪把他发配来这里。“陛下绝不会投降，大人。”

　　“蠢，真蠢。”艾利斯特伯爵坐回地上，仿佛站着对他而言太费劲。“史坦尼斯·拜拉席恩永远也坐不上铁王座，事实摆在眼前，说出来就算背叛吗？话虽不好听，却是千真万确。除开里斯船，他没了舰队，而萨拉多·桑恩是个见到兰尼斯特的影子就会卷旗逃跑的老滑头。支持史坦尼斯的诸侯泰半倒向乔佛里，要么就是死了……”

　　“狭海诸侯也一样？连直属龙石岛的封臣都靠不住？”

　　艾利斯特伯爵无力地摆摆手。“赛提加伯爵被俘后屈膝投降，莫佛德·瓦列利安随座舰阵亡，桑格拉斯给红袍女烧死，巴尔艾蒙伯爵只有十五岁，是个虚胖的毛头小子——这些就是你口中的狭海诸侯。史坦尼斯只剩佛罗伦家的力量，却要对抗高庭、阳戟城和凯岩城的联盟，外加风息堡众多直属诸侯。我们只好期望通过谈判来保住一些成果，诸神保佑，怎能称这为‘背叛’呢？”

　　戴佛斯皱紧眉头。“大人，您做了什么？”

　　“我不是叛徒。绝对不是叛徒。我比任何人都更热爱陛下。我的亲侄女是他的王后，那些聪明人弃他于不顾，我却依然忠心耿耿。我是他的首相，我是国王之手，绝对不是叛徒！我只想挽救我们的性命……和荣誉……是的。”他舔舔嘴唇。“我写了一封信，萨拉多·桑恩发誓说可以运用关系把它带到君临，呈给泰温公爵。公爵大人他是个……理智的人，而我的条件……很公平……对我们……很有利。”

　　“您提出了什么条件，大人？”

　　“这里真脏，”艾利斯特伯爵突然说，“味道……什么味道？”

　　“便桶的味道，”戴佛斯边说边比划，“这儿没厕所。什么条件？”

　　伯爵大人惊恐地瞪着便桶。“史坦尼斯大人放弃对铁王座的要求，收回关于乔佛里出身的言论；与之相对，国王不再与我们作战，并确认大人对龙石岛和风息堡的权利。我个人会向国王宣誓效忠，然后收回亮水城及我家所有领地。我想……泰温公爵会赞赏这个合情合理的建议，毕竟他还要对付史塔克家和铁群岛。为使条约巩固，我还提议让希琳嫁给乔佛里的弟弟托曼，”他摇摇头。“这些条件……我们最多只能保住这些，连你也看得出，对不对？

　　“是的，”戴佛斯说，“连我也看得出。”除非史坦尼斯生个儿子，这样的婚姻意味着龙石岛和风息堡终有一天会落到托曼手上，无疑能让泰温公爵满意；同时，希琳将成为兰尼斯特家族的人质，以确保史坦尼斯不会再叛。“您向陛下提议时，他怎么说？”

　　“他一直跟红袍女在一起，恐怕……恐怕思维不大正常。关于石头龙的说法……疯了，我告诉你，完全是疯了。‘明焰’伊利昂、九大法师和炼金术士们难道不是教训吗？盛夏厅难道不是教训吗？成天梦想着龙是没有好结果的。我给亚赛尔分析过，应该稳妥地来，既然史坦尼斯把印章给了我，我就有统治的权力，身为首相，我可以代表国王。”

　　“这次不行。”戴佛斯并非廷臣，说话一贯直率。“以史坦尼斯的脾气，认准了的事，就决不会屈服。同样，他也不可能收回对乔佛里的揭发。至于婚约，既然托曼跟乔佛里皆出于乱伦，那陛下宁愿让希琳去死也不会让她嫁给他。”

　　佛罗伦前额青筋暴突，“可他没有选择！”

　　“您错了，大人，他可以选择身为国王而死。”

　　“我们呢？你也想死吗，洋葱骑士？”

　　“不想。但我是国王的人，没有他的准许，不会自作主张。”

　　艾利斯特绝望地注视他良久，然后啜泣起来。

SANSA
On the morning her new gown was to be ready, the serving girls filled Sansa’s tub with steaming hot water and scrubbed her head to toe until she glowed pink. Cersei’s own bedmaid trimmed her nails and brushed and curled her auburn hair so it fell down her back in soft ringlets. She brought a dozen of the queen’s favorite scents as well. Sansa chose a sharp sweet fragrance with a hint of lemon in it under the smell of flowers. The maid dabbed some on her finger and touched Sansa behind each ear, and under her chin, and then lightly on her nipples.
Cersei herself arrived with the seamstress, and watched as they dressed Sansa in her new clothes. The smallclothes were all silk, but the gown itself was ivory samite and cloth-of-silver, and lined with silvery satin. The points of the long dagged sleeves almost touched the ground when she lowered her arms. And it was a woman’s gown, not a little girl’s, there was no doubt of that. The bodice was slashed in front almost to her belly, the deep vee covered over with a panel of ornate Myrish lace in dove-grey. The skirts were long and full, the waist so tight that Sansa had to hold her breath as they laced her into it. They brought her new shoes as well, slippers of soft grey doeskin that hugged her feet like lovers. “You are very beautiful, my lady,” the seamstress said when she was dressed.
“I am, aren’t I?” Sansa giggled, and spun, her skirts swirling around her. “Oh, I am.” She could not wait for Willas to see her like this. He will love me, he will, he must . . . he will forget Winterfell when he sees me, I’ll see that he does.
Queen Cersei studied her critically. “A few gems, I think. The moonstones Joffrey gave her.”
“At once, Your Grace,” her maid replied.
When the moonstones hung from Sansa’s ears and about her neck, the queen nodded. “Yes. The gods have been kind to you, Sansa. You are a lovely girl. It seems almost obscene to squander such sweet innocence on that gargoyle.”
“What gargoyle?” Sansa did not understand. Did she mean Willas? How could she know? No one knew, but her and Margaery and the Queen of Thorns . . . oh, and Dontos, but he didn’t count.
Cersei Lannister ignored the question. “The cloak,” she commanded, and the women brought it out: a long cloak of white velvet heavy with pearls. A flerce direwolf was embroidered upon it in silver thread. Sansa looked at it with sudden dread. “Your father’s colors,” said Cersei, as they fastened it about her neck with a slender silver chain.
A maiden’s cloak. Sansa’s hand went to her throat. She would have torn the thing away if she had dared.
“You’re prettier with your mouth closed, Sansa,” Cersei told her. “Come along now, the septon is waiting. And the wedding guests as well.”
“No,” Sansa blurted. “No.”
“Yes. You are a ward of the crown. The king stands in your father’s place, since your brother is an attainted traitor. That means he has every right to dispose of your hand. You are to marry my brother Tyrion.”
My claim, she thought, sickened. Dontos the Fool was not so foolish after all; he had seen the truth of it. Sansa backed away from the queen. “I won’t.” I’m to marry Willas, I’m to be the lady of Highgarden, please . . .
“I understand your reluctance. Cry if you must. In your place, I would likely rip my hair out. He’s a loathsome little imp, no doubt of it, but marry him you shall.”
“You can’t make me.”
“Of course we can. You may come along quietly and say your vows as befits a lady, or you may struggle and scream and make a spectacle for the stableboys to titter over, but you will end up wedded and bedded all the same.” The queen opened the door. Ser Meryn Trant and Ser Osmund Kettleblack were waiting without, in the white scale armor of the Kingsguard. “Escort Lady Sansa to the sept,” she told them. “Carry her if you must, but try not to tear the gown, it was very costly.”
Sansa tried to run, but Cersei’s handmaid caught her before she’d gone a yard. Ser Meryn Trant gave her a look that made her cringe, but Kettleblack touched her almost gently and said, “Do as you’re told, sweetling, it won’t be so bad. Wolves are supposed to be brave, aren’t they?”
Brave. Sansa took a deep breath. I am a Stark, yes, I can be brave. They were all looking at her, the way they had looked at her that day in the yard when Ser Boros Blount had torn her clothes off. It had been the Imp who saved her from a beating that day, the same man who was waiting for her now. He is not so bad as the rest of them, she told herself. “I’ll go.”
Cersei smiled. “I knew you would.”
Afterward, she could not remember leaving the room or descending the steps or crossing the yard. It seemed to take all her attention just to put one foot down in front of the other. Ser Meryn and Ser Osmund walked beside her, in cloaks as pale as her own, lacking only the pearls and the direwolf that had been her father’s. Joffrey himself was waiting for her on the steps of the castle sept. The king was resplendent in crimson and gold, his crown on his head. “I’m your father today,” he announced.
“You’re not,” she flared. “You’ll never be.”
His face darkened. “I am. I’m your father, and I can marry you to whoever I like. To anyone. You’ll marry the pig boy if I say so, and bed down with him in the sty.” His green eyes glittered with amusement. “Or maybe I should give you to Ilyn Payne, would you like him better?”
Her heart lurched. “Please, Your Grace,” she begged. “If you ever loved me even a little bit, don’t make me marry your—”
“—uncle?” Tyrion Lannister stepped through the doors of the sept. “Your Grace,” he said to Joffrey. “Grant me a moment alone with Lady Sansa, if you would be so kind?”
The king was about to refuse, but his mother gave him a sharp look. They drew off a few feet.
Tyrion wore a doublet of black velvet covered with golden scrollwork, thigh-high boots that added three inches to his height, a chain of rubies and lions’ heads. But the gash across his face was raw and red, and his nose was a hideous scab. “You are very beautiful, Sansa,” he told her.
“It is good of you to say so, my lord.” She did not know what else to say. Should I tell him he is handsome? He’ll think me a fool or a liar. She lowered her gaze and held her tongue.
“My lady, this is no way to bring you to your wedding. I am sorry for that. And for making this so sudden, and so secret. My lord father felt it necessary, for reasons of state. Else I would have come to you sooner, as I wished.” He waddled closer. “You did not ask for this marriage, I know. No more than I did. If I had refused you, however, they would have wed you to my cousin Lancel. Perhaps you would prefer that. He is nearer your age, and fairer to look upon. If that is your wish, say so, and I will end this farce.”
I don’t want any Lannister, she wanted to say. I want Willas, I want Highgarden and the puppies and the barge, and sons named Eddard and Bran and Rickon. But then she remembered what Dontos had told her in the godswood. Tyrell or Lannister, it makes no matter, it’s not me they want, only my claim. “You are kind, my lord,” she said, defeated. “I am a ward of the throne and my duty is to marry as the king commands.”
He studied her with his mismatched eyes. “I know I am not the sort of husband young girls dream of, Sansa,” he said softly, “but neither am I Joffrey.”
“No,” she said. “You were kind to me. I remember.”
Tyrion offered her a thick, blunt-fingered hand. “Come, then. Let us do our duty.”
So she put her hand in his, and he led her to the marriage altar, where the septon waited between the Mother and the Father to join their lives together. She saw Dontos in his fool’s motley, looking at her with big round eyes. Ser Balon Swann and Ser Boros Blount were there in Kingsguard white, but not Ser Loras. None of the Tyrells are here, she realized suddenly. But there were other witnesses aplenty; the eunuch Varys, Ser Addam Marbrand, Lord Philip Foote, Ser Bronn, Jalabhar Xho, a dozen others. Lord Gyles was coughing, Lady Ermesande was at the breast, and Lady Tanda’s pregnant daughter was sobbing for no apparent reason. Let her sob, Sansa thought. Perhaps I shall do the same before this day is done.
The ceremony passed as in a dream. Sansa did all that was required of her. There were prayers and vows and singing, and tall candles burning, a hundred dancing lights that the tears in her eyes transformed into a thousand. Thankfully no one seemed to notice that she was crying as she stood there, wrapped in her father’s colors; or if they did, they pretended not to. In what seemed no time at all, they came to the changing of the cloaks.
As father of the realm, Joffrey took the place of Lord Eddard Stark. Sansa stood stiff as a lance as his hands came over her shoulders to fumble with the clasp of her cloak. One of them brushed her breast and lingered to give it a little squeeze. Then the clasp opened, and Joff swept her maiden’s cloak away with a kingly flourish and a grin.
His uncle’s part went less well. The bride’s cloak he held was huge and heavy, crimson velvet richly worked with lions and bordered with gold satin and rubies. No one had thought to bring a stool, however, and Tyrion stood a foot and a half shorter than his bride. As he moved behind her, Sansa felt a sharp tug on her skirt. He wants me to kneel, she realized, blushing. She was mortified. It was not supposed to be this way. She had dreamed of her wedding a thousand times, and always she had pictured how her betrothed would stand behind her tall and strong, sweep the cloak of his protection over her shoulders, and tenderly kiss her cheek as he leaned forward to fasten the clasp.
She felt another tug at her skirt, more insistent. I won’t. Why should I spare his feelings, when no one cares about mine?
The dwarf tugged at her a third time. Stubbornly she pressed her lips together and pretended not to notice. Someone behind them tittered. The queen, she thought, but it didn’t matter. They were all laughing by then, Joffrey the loudest. “Dontos, down on your hands and knees,” the king commanded. “My uncle needs a boost to climb his bride.”
And so it was that her lord husband cloaked her in the colors of House Lannister whilst standing on the back of a fool.
When Sansa turned, the little man was gazing up at her, his mouth tight, his face as red as her cloak. Suddenly she was ashamed of her stubbornness. She smoothed her skirts and knelt in front of him, so their heads were on the same level. “With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lord and husband.”
“With this kiss I pledge my love,” the dwarf replied hoarsely, “and take you for my lady and wife.” He leaned forward, and their lips touched briefly.
He is so ugly, Sansa thought when his face was close to hers. He is even uglier than the Hound.
The septon raised his crystal high, so the rainbow light fell down upon them. “Here in the sight of gods and men,” he said, “I do solemnly proclaim Tyrion of House Lannister and Sansa of House Stark to be man and wife, one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, and cursed be the one who comes between them.”
She had to bite her lip to keep from sobbing.
The wedding feast was held in the Small Hall. There were perhaps fifty guests; Lannister retainers and allies for the most part, joining those who had been at the wedding. And here Sansa found the Tyrells. Margaery gave her such a sad look, and when the Queen of Thorns tottered in between Left and Right, she never looked at her at all. Elinor, Alla, and Megga seemed determined not to know her. My friends, Sansa thought bitterly.
Her husband drank heavily and ate but little. He listened whenever someone rose to make a toast and sometimes nodded a curt acknowledgment, but otherwise his face might have been made of stone. The feast seemed to go on forever, though Sansa tasted none of the food. She wanted it to be done, and yet she dreaded its end. For after the feast would come the bedding. The men would carry her up to her wedding bed, undressing her on the way and making rude jokes about the fate that awaited her between the sheets, while the women did Tyrion the same honors. Only after they had been bundled naked into bed would they be left alone, and even then the guests would stand outside the bridal chamber, shouting ribald suggestions through the door. The bedding had seemed wonderfully wicked and exciting when Sansa was a girl, but now that the moment was upon her she felt only dread. She did not think she could bear for them to rip off her clothes, and she was certain she would burst into tears at the first randy jape.
When the musicians began to play, she timidly laid her hand on Tyrion’s and said, “My lord, should we lead the dance?”
His mouth twisted. “I think we have already given them sufficent amusement for one day, don’t you?”
“As you say, my lord.” She pulled her hand back.
Joffrey and Margaery led in their place. How can a monster dance so beautifully? Sansa wondered. She had often daydreamed of how she would dance at her wedding, with every eye upon her and her handsome lord. In her dreams they had all been smiling. Not even my husband is smiling.
Other guests soon joined the king and his betrothed on the floor. Elinor danced with her young squire, and Megga with Prince Tommen. Lady Merryweather, the Myrish beauty with the black hair and the big dark eyes, spun so provocatively that every man in the hall was soon watching her. Lord and Lady Tyrell moved more sedately. Ser Kevan Lannister begged the honor of Lady Janna Fossoway, Lord Tyrell’s sister. Merry Crane took the floor with the exile prince Jalabhar Xho, gorgeous in his feathered finery. Cersei Lannister partnered first Lord Redwyne, then Lord Rowan, and finally her own father, who danced with smooth unsmiling grace.
Sansa sat with her hands in her lap, watching how the queen moved and laughed and tossed her blonde curls. She charms them all, she thought dully. How I hate her. She looked away, to where Moon Boy danced with Dontos.
“Lady Sansa.” Ser Garlan Tyrell stood beside the dais. “Would you honor me? If your lord consents?”
The Imp’s mismatched eyes narrowed. “My lady can dance with whomever she pleases.”
Perhaps she ought to have remained beside her husband, but she wanted to dance so badly . . . and Ser Garlan was brother to Margaery, to Willas, to her Knight of Flowers. “I see why they name you Garlan the Gallant, ser,” she said, as she took his hand.
“My lady is gracious to say so. My brother Willas gave me that name, as it happens. To protect me.”
“To protect you?” She gave him a puzzled look.
Ser Garlan laughed. “I was a plump little boy, I fear, and we do have an uncle called Garth the Gross. So Willas struck first, though not before threatening me with Garlan the Greensick, Garlan the Galling, and Garlan the Gargoyle.”
It was so sweet and silly that Sansa had to laugh, despite everything. Afterward she was absurdly grateful. Somehow the laughter made her hopeful again, if only for a little while. Smiling, she let the music take her, losing herself in the steps, in the sound of flute and pipes and harp, in the rhythm of the drum . . . and from time to time in Ser Garlan’s arms, when the dance brought them together. “My lady wife is most concerned for you,” he said quietly, one such time.
“Lady Leonette is too sweet. Tell her I am well.”
“A bride at her wedding should be more than well.” His voice was not unkind. “You seemed close to tears.”
“Tears of joy, ser.”
“Your eyes give the lie to your tongue.” Ser Garlan turned her, drew her close to his side. “My lady, I have seen how you look at my brother. Loras is valiant and handsome, and we all love him dearly . . . but your Imp will make a better husband. He is a bigger man than he seems, I think.”
The music spun them apart before Sansa could think of a reply. It was Mace Tyrell opposite her, red-faced and sweaty, and then Lord Merryweather, and then Prince Tommen. “I want to be married too,” said the plump little princeling, who was all of nine. “I’m taller than my uncle!”
“I know you are,” said Sansa, before the partners changed again. Ser Kevan told her she was beautiful, Jalabhar Xho said something she did not understand in the Summer Tongue, and Lord Redwyne wished her many fat children and long years of joy. And then the dance brought her face-to-face with Joffrey.
Sansa stiffened as his hand touched hers, but the king tightened his grip and drew her closer. “You shouldn’t look so sad. My uncle is an ugly little thing, but you’ll still have me.”
“You’re to marry Margaery!”
“A king can have other women. Whores. My father did. One of the Aegons did too. The third one, or the fourth. He had lots of whores and lots of bastards.” As they whirled to the music, Joff gave her a moist kiss. “My uncle will bring you to my bed whenever I command it.”
Sansa shook her head. “He won’t.”
“He will, or I’ll have his head. That King Aegon, he had any woman he wanted, whether they were married or no.”
Thankfully, it was time to change again. Her legs had turned to wood, though, and Lord Rowan, Ser Tallad, and Elinor’s squire all must have thought her a very clumsy dancer. And then she was back with Ser Garlan once more, and soon, blessedly, the dance was over.
Her relief was short-lived. No sooner had the music died than she heard Joffrey say, “It’s time to bed them! Let’s get the clothes off her, and have a look at what the she-wolf’s got to give my uncle!” Other men took up the cry, loudly.
Her dwarf husband lifted his eyes slowly from his wine cup. “I’ll have no bedding.”
Joffrey seized Sansa’s arm. “You will if I command it.”
The Imp slammed his dagger down in the table, where it stood quivering. “Then you’ll service your own bride with a wooden prick. I’ll geld you, I swear it.”
A shocked silence fell. Sansa pulled away from Joffrey, but he had a grip on her, and her sleeve ripped. No one even seemed to hear. Queen Cersei turned to her father. “Did you hear him?”
Lord Tywin rose from his seat. “I believe we can dispense with the bedding. Tyrion, I am certain you did not mean to threaten the king’s royal person.”
Sansa saw a spasm of rage pass across her husband’s face. “I misspoke,” he said. “It was a bad jape, sire.”
“You threatened to geld me!” Joffrey said shrilly.
“I did, Your Grace,” said Tyrion, “but only because I envied your royal manhood. Mine own is so small and stunted.” His face twisted into a leer. “And if you take my tongue, you will leave me no way at all to pleasure this sweet wife you gave me.”
Laughter burst from the lips of Ser Osmund Kettleblack. Someone else sniggered. But Joff did not laugh, nor Lord Tywin. “Your Grace,” he said, “my son is drunk, you can see that.”
“I am,” the Imp confessed, “but not so drunk that I cannot attend to my own bedding.” He hopped down from the dais and grabbed Sansa roughly. “Come, wife, time to smash your portcullis. I want to play come-into-the-castle.”
Red-faced, Sansa went with him from the Small Hall. What choice do I have? Tyrion waddled when he walked, especially when he walked as quickly as he did now. The gods were merciful, and neither Joffrey nor any of the others moved to follow.
For their wedding night, they had been granted the use of an airy bedchamber high in the Tower of the Hand. Tyrion kicked the door shut behind them. “There is a flagon of good Arbor gold on the sideboard, Sansa. Will you be so kind as to pour me a cup?”
“Is that wise, my lord?”
“Nothing was ever wiser. I am not truly drunk, you see. But I mean to be.”
Sansa filled a goblet for each of them. It will be easier if I am drunk as well. She sat on the edge of the great curtained bed and drained half her cup in three long swallows. No doubt it was very flne wine, but she was too nervous to taste it. It made her head swim. “Would you have me undress, my lord?”
“Tyrion.” He cocked his head. “My name is Tyrion, Sansa.”
“Tyrion. My lord. Should I take off my gown, or do you want to undress me?” She took another swallow of wine.
The imp turned away from her. “The first time I wed, there was us and a drunken septon, and some pigs to bear witness. We ate one of our witnesses at our wedding feast. Tysha fed me crackling and I licked the grease off her fingers, and we were laughing when we fell into bed.”
“You were wed before? I . . . I had forgotten.”
“You did not forget. You never knew.”
“Who was she, my lord?” Sansa was curious despite herself.
“Lady Tysha.” His mouth twisted. “Of House Silverfist. Their arms have one gold coin and a hundred silver, upon a bloody sheet. Ours was a very short marriage . . . as befits a very short man, I suppose.”
Sansa stared down at her hands and said nothing.
“How old are you, Sansa?” asked Tyrion, after a moment.
“Thirteen,” she said, “when the moon turns.”
“Gods have mercy.” The dwarf took another swallow of wine. “Well, talk won’t make you older. Shall we get on with this, my lady? If it please you?”
“It will please me to please my lord husband.”
That seemed to anger him. “You hide behind courtesy as if it were a castle wall.”
“Courtesy is a lady’s armor,” Sansa said. Her septa had always told her that.
“I am your husband. You can take off your armor now.”
“And my clothing?”
“That too.” He waved his wine cup at her. “My lord father has commanded me to consummate this marriage.”
Her hands trembled as she began fumbling at her clothes. She had ten thumbs instead of fingers, and all of them were broken. Yet somehow she managed the laces and buttons, and her cloak and gown and girdle and undersilk slid to the floor, until finally she was stepping out of her smallclothes. Gooseprickles covered her arms and legs. She kept her eyes on the floor, too shy to look at him, but when she was done she glanced up and found him staring. There was hunger in his green eye, it seemed to her, and fury in the black. Sansa did not know which scared her more.
“You’re a child,” he said.
She covered her breasts with her hands. “I’ve flowered.”
“A child,” he repeated, “but I want you. Does that frighten you, Sansa?”
“Yes.”
“Me as well. I know I am ugly—”
“No, my—”
He pushed himself to his feet. “Don’t lie, Sansa. I am malformed, scarred, and small, but . . . ” she could see him groping “ . . . abed, when the candles are blown out, I am made no worse than other men. In the dark, I am the Knight of Flowers.” He took a draught of wine. “I am generous. Loyal to those who are loyal to me. I’ve proven I’m no craven. And I am cleverer than most, surely wits count for something. I can even be kind. Kindness is not a habit with us Lannisters, I fear, but I know I have some somewhere. I could be . . . I could be good to you.”
He is as frightened as I am, Sansa realized. Perhaps that should have made her feel more kindly toward him, but it did not. All she felt was pity, and pity was death to desire. He was looking at her, waiting for her to say something, but all her words had withered. She could only stand there trembling.
When he finally realized that she had no answer for him, Tyrion Lannister drained the last of his wine. “I understand,” he said bitterly. “Get in the bed, Sansa. We need to do our duty.”
She climbed onto the featherbed, conscious of his stare. A scented beeswax candle burned on the bedside table and rose petals had been strewn between the sheets. She had started to pull up a blanket to cover herself when she heard him say, “No.”
The cold made her shiver, but she obeyed. Her eyes closed, and she waited. After a moment she heard the sound of her husband pulling off his boots, and the rustle of clothing as he undressed himself. When he hopped up on the bed and put his hand on her breast, Sansa could not help but shudder. She lay with her eyes closed, every muscle tense, dreading what might come next. Would he touch her again? Kiss her? Should she open her legs for him now? She did not know what was expected of her.
“Sansa.” The hand was gone. “Open your eyes.”
She had promised to obey; she opened her eyes. He was sitting by her feet, naked. Where his legs joined, his man’s staff poked up stiff and hard from a thicket of coarse yellow hair, but it was the only thing about him that was straight.
“My lady,” Tyrion said, “you are lovely, make no mistake, but . . . I cannot do this. My father be damned. We will wait. The turn of a moon, a year, a season, however long it takes. Until you have come to know me better, and perhaps to trust me a little.” His smile might have been meant to be reassuring, but without a nose it only made him look more grotesque and sinister.
Look at him, Sansa told herself, look at your husband, at all of him, Septa Mordane said all men are beautiful, find his beauty, try. She stared at the stunted legs, the swollen brutish brow, the green eye and the black one, the raw stump of his nose and crooked pink scar, the coarse tangle of black and gold hair that passed for his beard. Even his manhood was ugly, thick and veined, with a bulbous purple head. This is not right, this is not fair, how have I sinned that the gods would do this to me, how?
“On my honor as a Lannister,” the Imp said, “I will not touch you until you want me to.”
It took all the courage that was in her to look in those mismatched eyes and say, “And if I never want you to, my lord?”
His mouth jerked as if she had slapped him. “Never?”
Her neck was so tight she could scarcely nod.
“Why,” he said, “that is why the gods made whores for imps like me.” He closed his short blunt fingers into a fist, and climbed down off the bed.

第二十四章 布兰



　　沿着蜿蜒的山谷行走，其中并没有道路。平静的湛蓝湖泊躺在灰朦的石峰之间，狭长而深邃，环绕着无穷无尽的墨绿色针叶林。离开狼林之后，他们在古老的石丘中攀爬，黄褐与金色的秋叶愈发稀少，而当丘陵成为山脉，就彻底消失了。现在，巨大的灰绿哨兵树耸立在头顶，还有云杉、冷衫和士卒松，数量众多，无穷无尽。下层植被却稀稀落落，地面铺着一层暗绿的针叶。
　　有那么一两次，当他们迷路时，只需等待晴朗的夜晚，抬头寻找冰龙座。正如欧莎所言，紧跟骑手之眼那颗蓝色的星，那就是北方。想到欧莎，布兰不禁疑惑她此刻身在何方。他想像她跟瑞肯和毛毛狗一起安全地待在白港，与曼德勒大人同桌享用鳗鲡、鲜鱼和热腾腾的螃蟹馅饼；又或者他们去了最后壁炉城，正在大琼恩的壁炉边取暖。布兰自己的生活成了阿多背上无穷无尽的寒冷岁月，坐在篮子里，于群山之间上上下下。

　　“上上下下，”梅拉边走边叹气，“下下上上。上下上下，下上下上。我讨厌你们家这些无聊的山，布兰王子。”

　　“可昨天你还说喜欢呢。”

　　“噢，我是说过。从前，我只在父亲大人的故事中见识过群山，现在才亲眼目睹，简直喜欢得无法形容。”

　　布兰朝她做个鬼脸，“但你刚才又说讨厌它们。”

　　“为何不可两者皆有？”梅拉伸手捏他鼻子。

　　“因为它们是不同的，”他坚持，“就像黑夜和白天，玄冰与烈火。”

　　“然而玄冰可以燃烧，”玖健用惯有的严肃腔调说，“爱恨能够结合。山脉和沼泽，大地是一个整体。”

　　“一个整体，”他姐姐赞同。“唉，这里实在太起伏不平了。”

　　深谷很少南北走向，为旅人提供便利，他们常在错误的方向上走了许多里，到头来不得不原路折回。“如果走国王大道，很可能已经到了长城，”布兰提醒黎德姐弟。我要去见乌鸦，我要飞。他会一连这么说上几十遍，直到梅拉笑着和他一起说。

　　“如果走国王大道，就不会忍饥挨饿了，”现在他开始这么提。在丘陵地带，他们并不缺食物。梅拉是个好猎手，更擅用三叉捕蛙矛抓鱼。布兰喜欢看她行动，暗暗羡慕她的敏捷。只见那矛闪电般出击，抽回来时，尖头上便会有一尾银光闪闪的鲑鱼翻腾扭动。他们也让夏天为他们捕猎。冰原狼每天傍晚消失，黎明前回来，多半嘴里叼着东西，一只松鼠或一只野兔。

　　但在群山之间，溪流不仅更细小，且往往覆冰，猎物也比较稀少。梅拉仍尽力打猎捕鱼，却效果不彰，有的晚上，甚至夏天也逮不到猎物。他们只好饿着肚子入睡。

　　玖健仍固执地远离道路。“有路的地方就有行人，”他以一贯的口吻说，“有行人就有眼睛，有嘴巴，会传播故事，他们会将一个残废男孩、一个巨人和一头冰原狼的故事到处传扬。”玖健是全天下最固执的人，因此他们继续在荒郊野外费力跋涉，每天都爬得更高，也朝北边挪动一点点。

　　有些日子下雨，有些日子刮风，有一次甚至遇上猛烈的冰雹，连阿多都惊慌地低吼起来。而若天气晴朗，他们又仿佛成了全世界惟一的活物。“这里没有居民吗？”绕过一块跟临冬城一样大的突起花岗岩时，梅拉·黎德发问。

　　“当然有啊，”布兰告诉她。“安柏家虽基本在国王大道以东活动，但夏季也会到高处的草地来放羊。山脉以西，沿寒冰湾住了渥尔家，我们后面的丘陵中有哈克莱家，而在这里的高地上，有诺特家、里德尔家、诺瑞家，甚至一些菲林特家的人。”他祖母的母亲就是群山中的菲林特。老奶妈曾说，布兰有她的血统，才喜欢像个傻瓜似的到处攀爬。然而在他出生之前许多许多年，她就已经死去，那时连他父亲都没出世呢。

　　“渥尔？”梅拉说，“玖健，当年打仗时是不是有个渥尔和父亲在一起？”

　　“对，席奥·渥尔。”玖健边爬边喘气，“外号‘木桶’。”

　　“哎，那其实是他们家族的纹章，”布兰道。“蓝底上三个棕色木桶，灰白相间的格子镶边。渥尔伯爵来过临冬城一次，向父亲输诚效忠，并促膝长谈，我就是在那时见过他的纹章。他不是真正的领主……呃，也许是，但他的手下只叫他‘渥尔’，诺特家、诺瑞家和里德尔家的领主也都这样。在临冬城我们尊称他们为伯爵，但他们自己的人不这样叫。”

　　玖健·黎德停下来喘口气。“你认为这些山地人知道我们的行踪吗？”

　　“知道。”布兰见过他们，不是通过自己的视觉，而是通过夏天更为敏锐的眼睛，那双绝少错过任何事物的眼睛。“但他们不会来打扰，只要我们别偷他们的山羊和马匹。”

　　他们没去偷，但后来却不期而遇地碰见了山地人。一阵突然而至的冰雨，迫使人们寻找遮蔽。夏天为大家找到一个，他在一株高大哨兵树的灰绿枝杈后嗅出一个浅浅的山洞，但当阿多在石梁底下弯腰，布兰却看见洞内有橙色的火光，意识到里面有人。“进来暖暖身子吧，”一个男人喊，“这儿的石头足够为我们大家挡雨。”

　　他与他们分享燕麦饼和血肠，还从随身携带的酒袋子里面倒出一点麦酒，但始终没有报上姓名，也没有打听他们的。布兰认为他是里德尔家的人。因为他的松鼠皮斗篷上的搭扣是黄金和青铜打制而成，呈松果形状，而里德尔家的徽章正是一半绿一半白，白的那半上有许多松果。

　　“这儿离长城远吗？”避雨期间，布兰问他。

　　“对会飞的乌鸦来说不太远，”里德尔家的人道——如果他真是的话，“要是没翅膀，就难走了。”

　　布兰评论，“我敢打赌，如果……”

　　“……走国王大道，我们已经到了，”梅拉笑着替他说完。

　　里德尔家的人取出匕首，削起一根棍子。“史塔克家在临冬城的时候，北地的姑娘家满可以穿着命名日的礼服沿国王大道旅行而不致受骚扰，庄园和客栈，处处的壁炉、面包和盐都对路人开放。现在不同啦，夜晚渐趋凄冷，门户也都关闭。狼林由乌贼占据，剥皮人沿国王大道盘问陌生人的消息。”

　　黎德姐弟交换了一个眼神。“剥皮人？”玖健问。

　　“私生子的部下。对，他本来死了，现在又没死。听说他出大笔银子换两张狼皮，而为某个活死人的消息，会付金币。”他边说边看布兰，以及在旁边伸懒腰的夏天。“至于长城，”那人续道，“我是不会往那边走的。熊老带着守夜人军团深入鬼影森林，回来的却只有乌鸦，而且是没携带任何信件的乌鸦。黑色的翅膀，带来黑色的消息，我母亲经常这样说，现在它们什么消息都没带来，我觉得更为黑暗。”他用棍子拨弄火堆。“史塔克家在临冬城的时候可不是这样。但老狼死了，小狼又去南边投身于权力的游戏，留给我们的只有鬼魂。”

　　“狼会回来的，”玖健严肃地说。

　　“你怎么知道，孩子？”

　　“我梦见了它。”

　　“有些个晚上，我梦见九年前亲手埋葬的母亲，”那人说，“但当我醒转，她并没有回来。”

　　“梦和梦之间是不同的，大人。”

　　“阿多，”阿多说。

　　当晚他们一起渡过，因为大雨片刻未停，直到深夜。只有夏天想离开山洞，等火堆燃至余烬，布兰便让他走了。冰原狼不像人那样害怕潮湿，而夜晚在呼唤着他。月光给湿辘的树木洒上一片深浅不一的银色，将灰朦朦的山峰染成洁白。猫头鹰在黑夜中啸叫，于松树之间静默飞翔，而苍白的山羊沿着山坡走动。布兰闭上眼睛，任凭自己坠入狼梦中，陷进午夜的气息与音响。

　　第二天早晨醒来，火已熄灭，里德尔家的人不见了，但他留下一根香肠和一打燕麦饼，整整齐齐地包裹在一块绿白相间的布料里。有的烤饼掺入了松子，有的掺入了黑莓。布兰各吃一个，却不能决定自己喜欢哪一种。有朝一日史塔克会回到临冬城，他告诉自己，到时候要百倍地报答里德尔家。

　　那天，他们走的小径比较平坦，到得中午，太阳钻出云层，布兰坐在阿多背上的篮子里，感到相当满足，还差点睡着了呢。篮子随着大个子马童的步伐轻轻摇晃，而他边走边哼，这些都让布兰昏昏欲睡。后来梅拉轻触他的手臂，将他唤醒。“看，”她用蛙矛指向天空，“一只鹰。”

　　布兰抬头看去，只见那鹰展开灰色的翅膀，一动不动地乘风滑翔。他盯着它盘旋升高，一边疑惑地想：不知如此翱翔是怎样的滋味。会比攀爬的感觉更棒吗？他试图进入那只鹰，离开这愚蠢的残废身体，升到空中与它结合，就像跟夏天结合那样。绿先知能办到。我也能办到。他试了又试，直到那只鹰消失在下午金色的薄雾之中。“它不见了，”他失望地说。

　　“我们还会见到其他的鹰，”梅拉安慰他，“这里是它们的地盘。”

　　“我想是的。”

　　“阿多，”阿多说。

　　“阿多，”布兰赞同。

　　玖健踢开一颗松果，“我觉得阿多喜欢你叫他的名字。”

　　“阿多不是他的本名，”布兰解释，“而是他惟一会说的词。老奶妈告诉我——她好像是他祖母的祖母——他本名瓦德。”提起老奶妈令他伤心。“你认为铁民有没有杀她？”他们在临冬城没见到她的尸体，回想起来，他不记得看到过任何女人的尸体。“她没伤害过任何人，对席恩也很好。她只是讲故事。席恩不会伤害她，对吗？”

　　“有的人伤害别人只为了炫耀权力，”玖健道。

　　“临冬城大屠杀的元凶不是席恩，”梅拉说，“因为许多死者正是他手下的铁民。”她将蛙矛换到另一只手。“记住老奶妈的故事，布兰，记住她讲故事的方式，记住她的嗓音。只要你记得，她的一部分就一直活在你心里。”

　　“我会的，”他承诺。然后他们继续攀爬，沿着弯弯曲曲的狩猎小径穿越两座石峰之间高高的鞍部，很长一段时间都没再说话。细瘦的士卒松攀附在周围山坡上，前方远处，一条结了薄冰的河流顺着山腰流淌而下。布兰只听见玖健的呼吸声和松针在阿多脚下的吱嘎响。“你们知道什么故事吗？”他突然问黎德姐弟。

　　梅拉笑道，“哈，知道一些。”

　　“知道一些，”她弟弟确认。

　　“阿多，”阿多哼哼着。

　　“讲个故事嘛，”布兰道，“边走边讲。阿多喜欢听骑士的故事。我也喜欢。”

　　“颈泽没有骑士，”玖健说。

　　“没有浮在水面上的骑士，”她姐姐纠正，“只有沼泽里的死人。”

　　“没错，”玖健说。“安达尔人、铁民、佛雷家族和其他傻瓜，所有妄图征服灰水望的狂徒，没一个找得到它。他们骑入颈泽，却再也出不来，迟早会撞入沼泽，被沉重的钢铁拖着沉下去，淹死在盔甲之中。”

　　一想到水下淹死的骑士，布兰不禁打了个冷战。但他并不害怕，他喜欢冷战的感觉。

　　“曾有一位骑士，”梅拉说，“他的故事发生在‘错误的春天’。人们称他为‘笑面树骑士’，他也许是个泽地人。”

　　“也许不是。”玖健脸上点缀着斑斑驳驳的绿影。“这故事布兰王子肯定听过一百遍了。”

　　“没有。”布兰说。“我没听过。就算听过也没关系。有时候老奶妈会反复讲以前说过的故事，如果那是个好故事，我们就不介意。她常说，老故事就像老朋友，得时不时拜访。”

　　“没错。”梅拉背着盾牌行走，偶尔用蛙矛拨开挡路的树枝。正当布兰以为她终究不会讲故事时，她开了口，“从前有个好奇的男孩，住在颈泽里，他像所有的泽地人一样矮小，也一样勇敢聪明而强壮。他自小打猎、捕鱼、爬树，学习族人所有的魔法。”

　　布兰差不多可以肯定自己没听过这个故事。“他做不做玖健那样的绿色之梦呢？”

　　“不做，”梅拉说。“但他能在泥沼下呼吸，在树叶上奔跑，只需低声轻语，就可以把土地变成水，把水变成土地。他能跟树木交谈，能隔空传话，能让城堡出现或者消失。”

　　“希望我也会，”布兰忧郁地说，“他什么时候遇到树骑士的？”

　　梅拉朝他扮个鬼脸。“如果某位王子肯安静的话，很快就遇到了。”

　　“我只问问而已。”

　　“这个男孩学会了泽地所有的魔法，”她续道，“但他还想学会更多。你知道，我们这个民族鲜少背井离乡，因为身材的关系，有些人会觉得我们古怪，对我们不大友善。但这男孩比多数人都胆大，有一天，当他长大成人的时候，他决定离开泽地，去造访千面屿。”

　　“没人去过千面屿，”布兰反驳，“那里有绿人守护。”

　　“他正是要找绿人。于是他和我一样，穿上缝青铜片的衬衫，带上皮革盾牌和一支三叉捕蛙矛，划一条小皮艇，顺绿叉河而下。”

　　布兰闭上眼睛，试图想像那个人如何乘小皮艇前进。在他脑海中，那泽地人看上去就像玖健，不过年纪更大，更强壮，而且穿着梅拉的衣服。

　　“他趁夜穿过孪河城，以避开佛雷家，等到达三叉戟河，便爬上岸来，把小艇顶在头上，开始步行。他走了好多天，才终于到达神眼湖，这时又把小艇放进湖里，朝千面屿驶去。”

　　“他遇到绿人了吗？”

　　“遇到了，”梅拉说，“但那是另一个故事，而且不该由我来讲。王子要听的是骑士嘛。”

　　“绿人也不错啊。”

　　“是的，”她承认，但没有再说他们的事。“整个冬天，那泽地人都留在岛上，但当春天到来，他听见广阔的世界在呼唤，知道是该离开的时候了。皮艇仍在老地方，于是他跟岛上的人们道别上路。他划了又划，直到看见远处湖岸边矗立的塔楼。越划越近，塔楼也越来越高大，最后他意识到这一定是全世界最大的城堡。”

　　“赫伦堡！”布兰立刻反应过来，“那是赫伦堡！”

　　梅拉微微一笑，“是吗？在它的城墙下面，他看到五彩缤纷的帐篷，鲜艳的旗帜在风中飞舞，全副武装的骑士们骑在披挂铠甲的马上。他闻到烤肉的香味，听到笑声和传令官嘹亮的喇叭。一场比武大会即将展开，全国各地的勇士们都来参与。国王带着儿子龙太子亲自莅临。白袍剑客们也都来了，以欢迎他们新加入的弟兄。风暴领主和玫瑰领主统统到场，统治岩山的大狮子跟国王起了争执，没有前往，但他的许多臣属还是来了。泽地人没见过如此华丽壮观的场景，他知道自己或许永远也不会再有这个机会。当时他一心只想成为这幅宏伟画面中的一分子。”

　　布兰很清楚这种感觉。他从小就梦想当骑士，直到坠楼失去了双腿。

　　“比武开始时，由大城堡主人的女儿担任爱与美的皇后。五位勇士发誓守护她的后冠，其中包括她的四个兄弟，还有她声名在外的叔叔，他是一名白袍剑客。”

　　“她是位美少女吗？”

　　“是的，”梅拉边说，边跳上一块岩石，“但还有比她更美的人。其中一位乃龙太子的夫人，身边有十几位贵妇作陪。骑士们纷纷乞求她们赐予信物，系于长熗之上。”

　　“这不是一个关于爱情的故事吧？”布兰怀疑地问，“阿多不太喜欢那种故事。”

　　“阿多，”阿多赞同。

　　“他喜欢骑士斗怪兽的故事。”

　　“有时候骑士就是怪兽，布兰。小个子泽地人在场地中穿行，享受着温暖的春光，没伤害任何人，不料却来了三个侍从，都不超过十五岁，但都比他高大。他们三个认为，这是他们的世界，而他无权呆在这里，所以夺走他的矛，还把他推倒在地，咒骂他是吃青蛙的。”

　　“他们是瓦德吗？”听上去像是小瓦德·佛雷会干的事。

　　“他们没报上名字，但他牢牢记住了他们的脸，以后才能报仇。他每次想起立，都被他们推倒，在地上蜷起身，他们就来踢他。正在这时，突然传来一声怒吼，‘你们敢踢我父亲的人！？’一头母狼喝道。”

　　“四条腿的狼还是两条腿的？”

　　“两条腿的，”梅拉说。“母狼用比武的钝剑攻击侍从们，把他们赶跑了。泽地人浑身都是瘀青与血痕，因此她将他带回巢穴清洗伤口，并用麻布包扎。在那里，他遇到了她族群中的兄弟们：狂野的头狼，沉默的二狼，以及最年轻的幼狼。”

　　“当晚，大城堡里有一场宴会，以为比武大会揭幕。母狼坚持要那男孩出席，她说他是贵族出生，有权跟其他人一样在长凳上占有一席之地。要拒绝这头母狼并不容易，因此他穿上幼狼给找的衣服，走进了那巨大的城堡。”

　　“在赫伦堡的屋檐下，他与狼群一起用餐，同席还有许多向狼群宣誓效忠的部属，包括驼鹿、黑熊和人鱼，还有的来自荒冢地。龙太子唱了一首悲歌，令母狼抽泣，她的幼狼弟弟嘲笑她哭鼻子，被她反手将酒泼在脑袋上。一名黑衣人起立发言，要求骑士们加入黑夜的军团。风暴领主斗酒击败了头骨与亲吻骑士。泽地人看到一位少女，她有一双会微笑的、紫罗兰色的眼眸，她跟白袍剑客跳舞，跟红色毒蛇跳舞，跟狮鹫大人跳舞，最后跟那沉默的狼……不过是在野狼替弟弟邀请之后，他弟弟太害羞，不曾离开座位。”

　　“在这一片欢愉中，小个子泽地人发现了那三个攻击他的侍从。一个侍奉草叉骑士，一个侍奉豪猪骑士，还有一个侍奉双塔骑士，这是所有泽地人最清楚的徽纹。”

　　“佛雷，”布兰说，“河渡口佛雷家族的坏蛋。”

　　“他们过去现在都很坏，”她赞同。“当时母狼也看到了，并指点给她的兄弟们。‘我可以给你找匹马，外加合适的盔甲，’幼狼提出。小个子泽地人向他道谢，但没有答应。他的心都碎了。泽地人比别人矮，但有骨气。那孩子不是骑士，他的族人没一个是骑士，他们坐船而不是骑马，他们划桨而不会用熗。尽管他很想复仇，但他知道这样做只会让自己出丑，给族人丢脸。那天晚上，沉默的狼邀他同住，入睡之前，他跪在湖岸边，面对湖水，望向千面屿所在的方向，向着北境和泽地的旧神祈祷……”

　　“你从没听父亲说过这个故事？”玖健问。

　　“讲故事的是老奶妈。梅拉，继续讲啊，你不能就这样停下。”

　　阿多一定也有相同的感觉。“阿多，”他不停地说，“阿多，阿多，阿多，阿多。”

　　“好吧，”梅拉说，“如果你想听剩下的……”

　　“我当然要听。快讲啊。”

　　“马上长熗比武计划进行五天，”她道，“同时进行的还有一场声势浩大的七方团体比武，以及弓箭比赛、掷斧比赛、赛马和歌手的竞技……”

　　“那些都不用管。”布兰焦急地在阿多背上的篮子里扭动，“就说长熗比武。”

　　“谨遵王子殿下命令。如前所述，大城堡主人的女儿是爱与美的皇后，由四个兄弟和一个叔叔守护，但在第一轮，她的兄弟就都被击败了。但胜利者也只是短暂地占据他们的位置，很快也纷纷落马。到第一天结束，恰巧豪猪骑士赢得了挑战者的地位，第二天早晨，草叉骑士和双塔骑士也获得胜利。就在这天下午黄昏，太阳西斜之时，一位神秘骑士出现在赛场上。”

　　布兰未卜先知地点点头。神秘骑士经常出现在竞技场上，用头盔掩盖面容，盾牌上要么是空白，要么就是大家都不认识的纹章。他们往往是由著名的勇士假扮的。龙骑士伊蒙曾以泪之骑士的身份赢得比武大会的胜利，以命名自己的妹妹为爱与美的皇后，取代国王的情妇。而无畏的巴利斯坦两度穿上神秘骑士的盔甲，第一次时才十岁。“这就是那小个子泽地人，我敢打赌。”

　　“没人知道，”梅拉说，“但那神秘骑士确实身材矮小，且穿着七拼八凑的盔甲，一点也不合体。他盾牌上画了一棵属于旧神的心树，那是一棵白色鱼梁木，上面有一张红色的笑脸。”

　　“也许他来自于千面屿，”布兰猜测，“他是绿色的吗？”在老奶妈的故事中，这些守护者们个个有暗绿的皮肤，树叶代替了头发，甚至会长角，但布兰不知道那神秘骑士如果有角的话，还怎么戴头盔。“我敢打赌他是旧神派来的。”

　　“也许是的。神秘骑士向国王行过礼，然后骑向比武场尽头，五名挑战者的帐篷就在那里。你知道他要向哪三个叫阵。”

　　“豪猪骑士，草叉骑士，还有双塔骑士。”布兰听过很多类似的情节，知道故事会如何发展。“他就是那小个子泽地人，我告诉过你的。”

　　“不管他是谁，旧神赐予他力量。豪猪骑士首先落马，接着是草叉骑士，最后是双塔骑士。他们都不受欢迎，因此当新的挑战者诞生时，围观的老百姓为这笑面树骑士热烈欢呼。他的手下败将们试图赎回马匹和盔甲，笑面树骑士透过头盔用洪亮的声音斥道：‘教你们的侍从懂得荣誉，把这当赎金就够了。’失败的骑士严惩了他们的侍从，马匹和盔甲便被交还。就这样，小个子泽地人的祈祷得到了回应……回应他的或许是绿人，或许是旧神，又或许是森林之子，谁说得准呢？”

　　这是个好故事，布兰思考了一会儿之后断定。“后来呢？笑面树骑士有没赢得比武的胜利，并娶到一位公主？”

　　“没有，”梅拉说，“当晚在大城堡里，风暴领主和头骨与亲吻骑士都发誓要挑开他的面甲，国王本人也鼓励人们向他挑战，他宣称藏在头盔后面的脸不会是他的朋友。但第二天早上，当传令官吹响号角，国王就座之后，只有两位挑战者出现。笑面树骑士竟消失了。国王异常愤怒，派他儿子龙太子去追，结果只找到一面挂在树上的彩绘盾牌。长熗比武继续进行，最后的赢家是龙太子。”

　　“哦。”布兰思考了一会儿，“这是个好故事。不过伤害他的应该是那三个坏骑士，而不是他们的侍从，这样小个子泽地人就可以把他们都杀死了。关于赎金那部分很无聊。神秘骑士应该赢得比武大会的胜利，击败每一位挑战者，最后命名母狼为爱与美的皇后。”

　　“她的确成为了爱与美的皇后，”梅拉说，“那是一个更加悲伤的故事。”

　　“你肯定以前没听过这个故事，布兰？”玖健问，“你父亲大人没告诉过你吗？”

　　布兰摇摇头。这时天色已晚，长长的影子爬下山坡，如黑色的手指一般穿过松林。既然小个子泽地人可以造访千面屿，或许我也行。看来所有的故事都有个共通点，那就是绿人确有神奇的魔力，他们也许能让我再次行走，甚至成为骑士呢。他们把小个子泽地人变成了骑士，即使只有一天，他心想，对我来说，一天就够了。