《冰与火之歌卷Ⅲ：冰雨的风暴》（A Storm of Sword）（9.8更新至55L）_English Corner

楼主 2016-03-30

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

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

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

[ 此帖被回到夏末之初在2016-09-08 12:07重新编辑 ]

本帖最近评分记录：共 3 条评分派派币 +275

Sadistic_2016-09-09+242 派派币: 版规已更改√，Novel分类补分√

Sadistic_2016-09-03+30 派派币: ——update 29L

Sadistic_2016-03-31+3 派派币: Thanks for your sharing.O(∩_∩)O

倒序阅读只看楼主

回到夏末之初(内阁元老)

沙发 2016-03-30

序曲
PROLOGUE
The day was grey and bitter cold, and the dogs would not take the scent.
The big black bitch had taken one sniff at the bear tracks, backed off, and skulked back to the pack with her tail between her legs. The dogs huddled together miserably on the riverbank as the wind snapped at them. Chett felt it too, biting through his layers of black wool and boiled leather. It was too bloody cold for man or beast, but here they were. His mouth twisted, and he could almost feel the boils that covered his cheeks and neck growing red and angry. I should be safe back at the Wall, tending the bloody ravens and making fires for old Maester Aemon. It was the bastard Jon Snow who had taken that from him, him and his fat friend Sam Tarly. It was their fault he was here, freezing his bloody balls off with a pack of hounds deep in the haunted forest.
“Seven hells.” He gave the leashes a hard yank to get the dogs’ attention. “Track, you bastards. That’s a bear print. You want some meat or no? Find!” But the hounds only huddled closer, whining. Chett snapped his short lash above their heads, and the black bitch snarled at him. “Dog meat would taste as good as bear,” he warned her, his breath frosting with every word.
Lark the Sisterman stood with his arms crossed over his chest and his hands tucked up into his armpits. He wore black wool gloves, but he was always complaining how his fingers were frozen. “It’s too bloody cold to hunt,” he said. “Bugger this bear, he’s not worth freezing over.”
“We can’t go back emptyhand, Lark,” rumbled Small Paul through the brown whiskers that covered most of his face. “The Lord Commander wouldn’t like that.” There was ice under the big man’s squashed pug nose, where his snot had frozen. A huge hand in a thick fur glove clenched tight around the shaft of a spear.
“Bugger that Old Bear too,” said the Sisterman, a thin man with sharp features and nervous eyes. “Mormont will be dead before daybreak, remember? Who cares what he likes?”
Small Paul blinked his black little eyes. Maybe he had forgotten, Chett thought; he was stupid enough to forget most anything. “Why do we have to kill the Old Bear? Why don’t we just go off and let him be?”
“You think he’ll let us be?” said Lark. “He’ll hunt us down. You want to be hunted, you great muttonhead?”
“No,” said Small Paul. “I don’t want that. I don’t.”
“So you’ll kill him?” said Lark.
“Yes.” The huge man stamped the butt of his spear on the frozen riverbank. “I will. He shouldn’t hunt us.”
The Sisterman took his hands from his armpits and turned to Chett. “We need to kill all the officers, I say.”
Chett was sick of hearing it. “We been over this. The Old Bear dies, and Blane from the Shadow Tower. Grubbs and Aethan as well, their ill luck for drawing the watch, Dywen and Barmen for their tracking, and Ser Piggy for the ravens. That’s all. We kill them quiet, while they sleep. One scream and we’re wormfood, every one of us.” His boils were red with rage. “Just do your bit and see that your cousins do theirs. And Paul, try and remember, it’s third watch, not second.”
“Third watch,” the big man said, through hair and frozen snot. “Me and Softfoot. I remember, Chett.”
The moon would be black tonight, and they had jiggered the watches so as to have eight of their own standing sentry, with two more guarding the horses. It wasn’t going to get much riper than that. Besides, the wildlings could be upon them any day now. Chett meant to be well away from here before that happened. He meant to live.
Three hundred sworn brothers of the Night’s Watch had ridden north, two hundred from Castle Black and another hundred from the Shadow Tower. It was the biggest ranging in living memory, near a third of the Watch’s strength. They meant to find Ben Stark, Ser Waymar Royce, and the other rangers who’d gone missing, and discover why the wildlings were leaving their villages. Well, they were no closer to Stark and Royce than when they’d left the Wall, but they’d learned where all the wildlings had gone—up into the icy heights of the godsforsaken Frostfangs. They could squat up there till the end of time and it wouldn’t prick Chett’s boils none.
But no. They were coming down. Down the Milkwater.
Chett raised his eyes and there it was. The river’s stony banks were bearded by ice, its pale milky waters flowing endlessly down out of the Frostfangs. And now Mance Rayder and his wildlings were flowing down the same way. Thoren Smallwood had returned in a lather three days past. While he was telling the Old Bear what his scouts had seen, his man Kedge Whiteye told the rest of them. “They’re still well up the foothills, but they’re coming,” Kedge said, warming his hands over the fire. “Harma the Dogshead has the van, the poxy bitch. Goady crept up on her camp and saw her plain by the fire. That fool Tumberjon wanted to pick her off with an arrow, but Smallwood had better sense.”
Chett spat. “How many were there, could you tell?”
“Many and more. Twenty, thirty thousand, we didn’t stay to count. Harma had five hundred in the van, every one ahorse.”
The men around the fire exchanged uneasy looks. It was a rare thing to find even a dozen mounted wildlings, and five hundred . . .
“Smallwood sent Bannen and me wide around the van to catch a peek at the main body,” Kedge went on. “There was no end of them. They’re moving slow as a frozen river, four, five miles a day, but they don’t look like they mean to go back to their villages neither. More’n half were women and children, and they were driving their animals before them, goats, sheep, even aurochs dragging sledges. They’d loaded up with bales of fur and sides of meat, cages of chickens, butter churns and spinning wheels, every damn thing they own. The mules and garrons was so heavy laden you’d think their backs would break. The women as well.”
“And they follow the Milkwater?” Lark the Sisterman asked.
“I said so, didn’t I?”
The Milkwater would take them past the Fist of the First Men, the ancient ringfort where the Night’s Watch had made its camp. Any man with a thimble of sense could see that it was time to pull up stakes and fall back on the Wall. The Old Bear had strengthened the Fist with spikes and pits and caltrops, but against such a host all that was pointless. If they stayed here, they would be engulfed and overwhelmed.
And Thoren Smallwood wanted to attack. Sweet Donnel Hill was squire to Ser Mallador Locke, and the night before last Smallwood had come to Locke’s tent. Ser Mallador had been of the same mind as old Ser Ottyn Wythers, urging a retreat on the Wall, but Smallwood wanted to convince him otherwise. “This King-beyond-the-Wall will never look for us so far north,” Sweet Donnel reported him saying. “And this great host of his is a shambling horde, full of useless mouths who won’t know what end of a sword to hold. One blow will take all the fight out of them and send them howling back to their hovels for another fifty years.”
Three hundred against thirty thousand. Chett called that rank madness, and what was madder still was that Ser Mallador had been persuaded, and the two of them together were on the point of persuading the Old Bear. “If we wait too long this chance may be lost, never to come again,” Smallwood was saying to anyone who would listen. Against that, Ser Ottyn Wythers said, “We are the shield that guards the realms of men. You do not throw away your shield for no good purpose,” but to that Thoren Smallwood said, “In a swordfight, a man’s surest defense is the swift stroke that slays his foe, not cringing behind a shield.”
Neither Smallwood nor Wythers had the command, though. Lord Mormont did, and Mormont was waiting for his other scouts, for Jarman Buckwell and the men who’d climbed the Giant’s Stair, and for Qhorin Halfhand and Jon Snow, who’d gone to probe the Skirling Pass. Buckwell and the Halfhand were late in returning, though. Dead, most like. Chett pictured Jon Snow lying blue and frozen on some bleak mountaintop with a wildling spear up his bastard’s arse. The thought made him smile. I hope they killed his bloody wolf as well.
“There’s no bear here,” he decided abruptly. “Just an old print, that’s all. Back to the Fist.” The dogs almost yanked him off his feet, as eager to get back as he was. Maybe they thought they were going to get fed. Chett had to laugh. He hadn’t fed them for three days now, to turn them mean and hungry. Tonight, before slipping off into the dark, he’d turn them loose among the horse lines, after Sweet Donnel Hill and Clubfoot Karl cut the tethers. They’ll have snarling hounds and panicked horses all over the Fist, running through fires, jumping the ringwall, and trampling down tents. With all the confusion, it might be hours before anyone noticed that fourteen brothers were missing.
Lark had wanted to bring in twice that number, but what could you expect from some stupid fishbreath Sisterman? Whisper a word in the wrong ear and before you knew it you’d be short a head. No, fourteen was a good number, enough to do what needed doing but not so many that they couldn’t keep the secret. Chett had recruited most of them himself. Small Paul was one of his; the strongest man on the Wall, even if he was slower than a dead snail. He’d once broken a wildling’s back with a hug. They had Dirk as well, named for his favorite weapon, and the little grey man the brothers called Softfoot, who’d raped a hundred women in his youth, and liked to boast how none had never seen nor heard him until he shoved it up inside them.
The plan was Chett’s. He was the clever one; he’d been steward to old Maester Aemon for four good years before that bastard Jon Snow had done him out so his job could be handed to his fat pig of a friend. When he killed Sam Tarly tonight, he planned to whisper, “Give my love to Lord Snow,” right in his ear before he sliced Ser Piggy’s throat open to let the blood come bubbling out through all those layers of suet. Chett knew the ravens, so he wouldn’t have no trouble there, no more than he would with Tarly. One touch of the knife and that craven would piss his pants and start blubbering for his life. Let him beg, it won’t do him no good. After he opened his throat, he’d open the cages and shoo the birds away, so no messages reached the Wall. Softfoot and Small Paul would kill the Old Bear, Dirk would do Blane, and Lark and his cousins would silence Bannen and old Dywen, to keep them from sniffing after their trail. They’d been caching food for a fortnight, and Sweet Donnel and Clubfoot Karl would have the horses ready. With Mormont dead, command would pass to Ser Ottyn Wythers, an old done man, and failing. He’ll be running for the Wall before sundown, and he won’t waste no men sending them after us neither.
The dogs pulled at him as they made their way through the trees. Chett could see the Fist punching its way up through the green. The day was so dark that the Old Bear had the torches lit, a great circle of them burning all along the ringwall that crowned the top of the steep stony hill. The three of them waded across a brook. The water was icy cold, and patches of ice were spreading across its surface. “I’m going to make for the coast,” Lark the Sisterman confided. “Me and my cousins. We’ll build us a boat, sail back home to the Sisters.”
And at home they’ll know you for deserters and lop off your fool heads, thought Chett. There was no leaving the Night’s Watch, once you said your words. Anywhere in the Seven Kingdoms, they’d take you and kill you.
Ollo Lophand now, he was talking about sailing back to Tyrosh, where he claimed men didn’t lose their hands for a bit of honest thievery, nor get sent off to freeze their life away for being found in bed with some knight’s wife. Chett had weighed going with him, but he didn’t speak their wet girly tongue. And what could he do in Tyrosh? He had no trade to speak of, growing up in Hag’s Mire. His father had spent his life grubbing in other men’s fields and collecting leeches. He’d strip down bare but for a thick leather clout, and go wading in the murky waters. When he climbed out he’d be covered from nipple to ankle. Sometimes he made Chett help pull the leeches off. One had attached itself to his palm once, and he’d smashed it against a wall in revulsion. His father beat him bloody for that. The maesters bought the leeches at twelve-for-a-penny.
Lark could go home if he liked, and the damn Tyroshi too, but not Chett. If he never saw Hag’s Mire again, it would be too bloody soon. He had liked the look of Craster’s Keep, himself. Craster lived high as a lord there, so why shouldn’t he do the same? That would be a laugh. Chett the leechman’s son, a lord with a keep. His banner could be a dozen leeches on a field of pink. But why stop at lord? Maybe he should be a king. Mance Rayder started out a crow. I could be a king same as him, and have me some wives. Craster had nineteen, not even counting the young ones, the daughters he hadn’t gotten around to bedding yet. Half them wives were as old and ugly as Craster, but that didn’t matter. The old ones Chett could put to work cooking and cleaning for him, pulling carrots and slopping pigs, while the young ones warmed his bed and bore his children. Craster wouldn’t object, not once Small Paul gave him a hug.
The only women Chett had ever known were the whores he’d bought in Mole’s Town. When he’d been younger, the village girls took one look at his face, with its boils and its wen, and turned away sickened. The worst was that slattern Bessa. She’d spread her legs for every boy in Hag’s Mire so he’d figured why not him too? He even spent a morning picking wildflowers when he heard she liked them, but she’d just laughed in his face and told him she’d crawl in a bed with his father’s leeches before she’d crawl in one with him. She stopped laughing when he put his knife in her. That was sweet, the look on her face, so he pulled the knife out and put it in her again. When they caught him down near Sevenstreams, old Lord Walder Frey hadn’t even bothered to come himself to do the judging. He’d sent one of his bastards, that Walder Rivers, and the next thing Chett had known he was walking to the Wall with that foul-smelling black devil Yoren. To pay for his one sweet moment, they took his whole life.
But now he meant to take it back, and Craster’s women too. That twisted old wildling has the right of it. If you want a woman to wife you take her, and none of this giving her flowers so that maybe she don’t notice your bloody boils. Chett didn’t mean to make that mistake again.
It would work, he promised himself for the hundredth time. So long as we get away clean. Ser Ottyn would strike south for the Shadow Tower, the shortest way to the Wall. He won’t bother with us, not Wythers, all he’ll want is to get back whole. Thoren Smallwood now, he’d want to press on with the attack, but Ser Ottyn’s caution ran too deep, and he was senior. It won’t matter anyhow. Once we’re gone, Smallwood can attack anyone he likes. What do we care? If none of them ever returns to the Wall, no one will ever come looking for us, they’ll think we died with the rest. That was a new thought, and for a moment it tempted him. But they would need to kill Ser Ottyn and Ser Mallador Locke as well to give Smallwood the command, and both of them were well-attended day and night . . . No, the risk was too great.
“Chett,” said Small Paul as they trudged along a stony game trail through sentinels and soldier pines, “what about the bird?”
“What bloody bird?” The last thing he needed now was some muttonhead going on about a bird.
“The Old Bear’s raven,” Small Paul said. “if we kill him, who’s going to feed his bird?”
“Who bloody well cares? Kill the bird too if you like.”
“I don’t want to hurt no bird,” the big man said. “But that’s a talking bird. What if it tells what we did?”
Lark the Sisterman laughed. “Small Paul, thick as a castle wall,” he mocked.
“You shut up with that,” said Small Paul dangerously.
“Paul,” said Chett, before the big man got too angry, “when they find the old man lying in a pool of blood with his throat slit, they won’t need no bird to tell them someone killed him.”
Small Paul chewed on that a moment. “That’s true,” he allowed. “Can I keep the bird, then? I like that bird.”
“He’s yours,” said Chett, just to shut him up.
“We can always eat him if we get hungry,” offered Lark.
Small Paul clouded up again. “Best not try and eat my bird, Lark. Best not.”
Chett could hear voices drifting through the trees. “Close your bloody mouths, both of you. We’re almost to the Fist.”
They emerged near the west face of the hill, and walked around south where the slope was gentler. Near the edge of the forest a dozen men were taking archery practice. They had carved outlines on the trunks of trees, and were loosing shafts at them. “Look,” said Lark. “A pig with a bow.”
Sure enough, the nearest bowman was Ser Piggy himself, the fat boy who had stolen his place with Maester Aemon. Just the sight of Samwell Tarly filled him with anger. Stewarding for Maester Aemon had been as good a life as he’d ever known. The old blind man was undemanding, and Clydas had taken care of most of his wants anyway. Chett’s duties were easy: cleaning the rookery, a few fires to build, a few meals to fetch . . . And Aemon never once hit him. Thinks he can just walk in and shove me out, on account of being highborn and knowing how to read. Might be I’ll ask him to read my knife before I open his throat with it. “You go on,” he told the others, “I want to watch this.” The dogs were pulling, anxious to go with them, to the food they thought would be waiting at the top. Chett kicked the bitch with the toe of his boot, and that settled them down some.
He watched from the trees as the fat boy wrestled with a longbow as tall as he was, his red moon face screwed up with concentration. Three arrows stood in the ground before him. Tarly nocked and drew, held the draw a long moment as he tried to aim, and let fly. The shaft vanished into the greenery. Chett laughed loudly, a snort of sweet disgust.
“We’ll never find that one, and I’ll be blamed,” announced Edd Tollett, the dour grey-haired squire everyone called Dolorous Edd. “Nothing ever goes missing that they don’t look at me, ever since that time I lost my horse. As if that could be helped. He was white and it was snowing, what did they expect?”
“The wind took that one,” said Grenn, another friend of Lord Snow’s. “Try to hold the bow steady, Sam.”
“It’s heavy,” the fat boy complained, but he pulled the second arrow all the same. This one went high, sailing through the branches ten feet above the target.
“I believe you knocked a leaf off that tree,” said Dolorous Edd. “Fall is falling fast enough, there’s no need to help it.” He sighed. “And we all know what follows fall. Gods, but I am cold. Shoot the last arrow, Samwell, I believe my tongue is freezing to the roof of my mouth.”
Ser Piggy lowered the bow, and Chett thought he was going to start bawling. “It’s too hard.”
“Notch, draw, and loose,” said Grenn. “Go on.”
Dutifully, the fat boy plucked his final arrow from the earth, notched it to his longbow, drew, and released. He did it quickly, without squinting along the shaft painstakingly as he had the first two times. The arrow struck the charcoal outline low in the chest and hung quivering. “I hit him.” Ser Piggy sounded shocked. “Grenn, did you see? Edd, look, I hit him!”
“Put it between his ribs, I’d say,” said Grenn.
“Did I kill him?” the fat boy wanted to know.
Tollett shrugged. “Might have punctured a lung, if he had a lung. Most trees don’t, as a rule.” He took the bow from Sam’s hand. “I’ve seen worse shots, though. Aye, and made a few.”
Ser Piggy was beaming. To look at him you’d think he’d actually done something. But when he saw Chett and the dogs, his smile curled up and died squeaking.
“You hit a tree,” Chett said. “Let’s see how you shoot when it’s Mance Rayder’s lads. They won’t stand there with their arms out and their leaves rustling, oh no. They’ll come right at you, screaming in your face, and I bet you’ll piss those breeches. One o’ them will plant his axe right between those little pig eyes. The last thing you’ll hear will be the thunk it makes when it bites into your skull.”
The fat boy was shaking. Dolorous Edd put a hand on his shoulder. “Brother,” he said solemnly, “just because it happened that way for you doesn’t mean Samwell will suffer the same.”
“What are you talking about, Tollett?”
“The axe that split your skull. Is it true that half your wits leaked out on the ground and your dogs ate them?”
The big lout Grenn laughed, and even Samwell Tarly managed a weak little smile. Chett kicked the nearest dog, yanked on their leashes, and started up the hill. Smile all you want, Ser Piggy. We’ll see who laughs tonight. He only wished he had time to kill Tollett as well. Gloomy horsefaced fool, that’s what he is.
The climb was steep, even on this side of the Fist, which had the gentlest slope. Partway up the dogs started barking and pulling at him, figuring that they’d get fed soon. He gave them a taste of his boot instead, and a crack of the whip for the big ugly one that snapped at him. Once they were tied up, he went to report. “The prints were there like Giant said, but the dogs wouldn’t track,” he told Mormont in front of his big black tent. “Down by the river like that, could be old prints.”
“A pity.” Lord Commander Mormont had a bald head and a great shaggy grey beard, and sounded as tired as he looked. “We might all have been better for a bit of fresh meat.” The raven on his shoulder bobbed its head and echoed, “Meat. Meat. Meat.”
We could cook the bloody dogs, Chett thought, but he kept his mouth shut until the Old Bear sent him on his way. And that’s the last time I’ll need to bow my head to that one, he thought to himself with satisfaction. It seemed to him that it was growing even colder, which he would have swom. Wasn’t possible. The dogs huddled together miserably in the hard frozen mud, and Chett was half tempted to crawl in with them. Instead he wrapped a black wool scarf round the lower part of his face, leaving a slit for his mouth between the winds. It was warmer if he kept moving, he found, so he made a slow circuit of the perimeter with a wad of sourleaf, sharing a chew or two with the black brothers on guard and hearing what they had to say. None of the men on the day watch were part of his scheme; even so, he figured it was good to have some sense of what they were thinking.
Mostly what they were thinking was that it was bloody cold.
The wind was rising as the shadows lengthened. It made a high thin sound as it shivered through the stones of the ringwall. “I hate that sound,” little Giant said. “It sounds like a babe in the brush, wailing away for milk.”
When he finished the circuit and returned to the dogs, he found Lark waiting for him. “The officers are in the Old Bear’s tent again, talking something fierce.”
“That’s what they do,” said Chett. “They’re highborn, all but Blane, they get drunk on words instead of wine.”
Lark sidled closer. “Cheese-for-wits keeps going on about the bird,” he warned, glancing about to make certain no one was close. “Now he’s asking if we cached any seed for the damn thing.”
“It’s a raven,” said Chett. “It eats corpses.”
Lark grinned. “His, might be?”
Or yours. It seemed to Chett that they needed the big man more than they needed Lark. “Stop fretting about Small Paul. You do your part, he’ll do his.”
Twilight was creeping through the woods by the time he rid himself of the Sisterman and sat down to edge his sword. It was bloody hard work with his gloves on, but he wasn’t about to take them off. Cold as it was, any fool that touched steel with a bare hand was going to lose a patch of skin.
The dogs whimpered when the sun went down. He gave them water and curses. “Half a night more, and you can find your own feast.” By then he could smell supper.
Dywen was holding forth at the cookfire as Chett got his heel of hardbread and a bowl of bean and bacon soup from Hake the cook. “The wood’s too silent,” the old forester was saying. “No frogs near that river, no owls in the dark. I never heard no deader wood than this.”
“Them teeth of yours sound pretty dead,” said Hake.
Dywen clacked his wooden teeth. “No wolves neither. There was, before, but no more. Where’d they go, you figure?”
“Someplace warm,” said Chett.
Of the dozen odd brothers who sat by the fire, four were his. He gave each one a hard squinty look as he ate, to see if any showed signs of breaking. Dirk seemed calm enough, sitting silent and sharpening his blade, the way he did every night. And Sweet Donnel Hill was all easy japes. He had white teeth and fat red lips and yellow locks that he wore in an artful tumble about his shoulders, and he claimed to be the bastard of some Lannister. Maybe he was at that. Chett had no use for pretty boys, nor for bastards neither, but Sweet Donnel seemed like to hold his own.
He was less certain about the forester the brothers called Sawwood, more for his snoring than for anything to do with trees. Just now he looked so restless he might never snore again. And Maslyn was worse. Chett could see sweat trickling down his face, despite the frigid wind. The beads of moisture sparkled in the firelight, like so many little wet jewels. Maslyn wasn’t eating neither, only staring at his soup as if the smell of it was about to make him sick. I’ll need to watch that one, Chett thought.
“Assemble!” The shout came suddenly, from a dozen throats, and quickly spread to every part of the hilltop camp. “Men of the Night’s Watch! Assemble at the central fire!”
Frowning, Chett finished his soup and followed the rest.
The Old Bear stood before the fire with Smallwood, Locke, Wythers, and Blane ranged behind him in a row. Mormont wore a cloak of thick black fur, and his raven perched upon his shoulder, preening its black feathers. This can’t be good. Chett squeezed between Brown Bernarr and some Shadow Tower men. When everyone was gathered, save for the watchers in the woods and the guards on the ringwall, Mormont cleared his throat and spat. The spittle was frozen before it hit the ground. “Brothers,” he said, “men of the Night’s Watch.”
“Men!” his raven screamed. “Men! Men!”
“The wildlings are on the march, following the course of the Milkwater down out of the mountains. Thoren believes their van will be upon us ten days hence. Their most seasoned raiders will be with Harma Dogshead in that van. The rest will likely form a rearguard, or ride in close company with Mance Rayder himself. Elsewhere their fighters will be spread thin along the line of march. They have oxen, mules, horses . . . But few enough. Most will be afoot, and ill-armed and untrained. Such weapons as they carry are more like to be stone and bone than steel. They are burdened with women, children, herds of sheep and goats, and all their worldly goods besides. In short, though they are numerous, they are vulnerable . . . And they do not know that we are here. Or so we must pray.”
They know, thought Chett. You bloody old pus bag, they know, certain as sunrise. Qhorin Halfhand hasn’t come back, has he? Nor Jarman Buckwell. If any of them got caught, you know damned well the wildlings will have wrung a song or two out of them by now.
Smallwood stepped forward. “Mance Rayder means to break the Wall and bring red war to the Seven Kingdoms. Well, that’s a game two can play. On the morrow we’ll bring the war to him.”
“We ride at dawn with all our strength,” the Old Bear said as a murmur went through the assembly. “We will ride north, and loop around to the west. Harma’s van will be well past the Fist by the time we turn. The foothills of the Frostfangs are full of narrow winding valleys made for ambush. Their line of march will stretch for many miles. We shall fall on them in several places at once, and make them swear we were three thousand, not three hundred.”
“We’ll hit hard and be away before their horsemen can form up to face us,” Thoren Smallwood said. “If they pursue, we’ll lead them a merry chase, then wheel and hit again farther down the column. We’ll burn their wagons, scatter their herds, and slay as many as we can. Mance Rayder himself, if we find him. If they break and return to their hovels, we’ve won. If not, we’ll harry them all the way to the Wall, and see to it that they leave a trail of corpses to mark their progress.”
“There are thousands,” someone called from behind Chett.
“We’ll die.” That was Maslyn’s voice, green with fear.
“Die,” screamed Mormont’s raven, flapping its black wings. “Die, die, die.”
“Many of us,” the Old Bear said. “Mayhaps even all of us. But as another Lord Commander said a thousand years ago, that is why they dress us in black. Remember your words, brothers. For we are the swords in the darkness, the watchers on the walls . . . ”
“The fire that burns against the cold.” Ser Mallador Locke drew his longsword.
“The light that brings the dawn,” others answered, and more swords were pulled from scabbards.
Then all of them were drawing, and it was near three hundred upraised swords and as many voices crying, “The horn that wakes the sleepers! The shield that guards the realms of men!” Chett had no choice but to join his voice to the others. The air was misty with their breath, and firelight glinted off the steel. He was pleased to see Lark and Softfoot and Sweet Donnel Hill joining in, as if they were as big fools as the rest. That was good. No sense to draw attention, when their hour was so close.
When the shouting died away, once more he heard the sound of the wind picking at the ringwall. The flames swirled and shivered, as if they too were cold, and in the sudden quiet the Old Bear’s raven cawed loudly and once again said, “Die.”
Clever bird, thought Chett as the officers dismissed them, warning everyone to get a good meal and a long rest tonight. Chett crawled under his furs near the dogs, his head full of things that could go wrong. What if that bloody oath gave one of his a change of heart? Or Small Paul forgot and tried to kill Mormont during the second watch in place of the third? Or Maslyn lost his courage, or someone turned informer, or . . .
He found himself listening to the night. The wind did sound like a wailing child, and from time to time he could hear men’s voices, a horse’s whinny, a log spitting in the fire. But nothing else. So quiet.
He could see Bessa’s face floating before him. It wasn’t the knife I wanted to put in you, he wanted to tell her. I picked you flowers, wild roses and tansy and goldencups, it took me all morning. His heart was thumping like a drum, so loud he feared it might wake the camp. Ice caked his beard all around his mouth. Where did that come from, with Bessa? Whenever he’d thought of her before, it had only been to remember the way she’d looked, dying. What was wrong with him? He could hardly breathe. Had he gone to sleep? He got to his knees, and something wet and cold touched his nose. Chett looked up.
Snow was falling.
He could feel tears freezing to his cheeks. It isn’t fair, he wanted to scream. Snow would ruin everything he’d worked for, all his careful plans. It was a heavy fall, thick white flakes coming down all about him. How would they find their food caches in the snow, or the game trail they meant to follow east? They won’t need Dywen nor Bannen to hunt us down neither, not if we’re tracking through fresh snow. And snow hid the shape of the ground, especially by night. A horse could stumble over a root, break a leg on a stone. We’re done, he realized. Done before we began. We’re lost. There’d be no lord’s life for the leechman’s son, no keep to call his own, no wives nor crowns. Only a wildling’s sword in his belly, and then an unmarked grave. The snow’s taken it all from me . . . the bloody snow . . .
Snow had ruined him once before. Snow and his pet pig.
Chett got to his feet. His legs were stiff, and the falling snowflakes turned the distant torches to vague orange glows. He felt as though he were being attacked by a cloud of pale cold bugs. They settled on his shoulders, on his head, they flew at his nose and his eyes. Cursing, he brushed them off. Samwell Tarly, he remembered. I can still deal with Ser Piggy. He wrapped his scarf around his face, pulled up his hood, and went striding through the camp to where the coward slept.
The snow was falling so heavily that he got lost among the tents, but finally he spotted the snug little windbreak the fat boy had made for himself between a rock and the raven cages. Tarly was buried beneath a mound of black wool blankets and shaggy furs. The snow was drifting in to cover him. He looked like some kind of soft round mountain. Steel whispered on leather faint as hope as Chett eased his dagger from its sheath. One of the ravens quorked. “Snow,” another muttered, peering through the bars with black eyes. The first added a “Snow” of its own. He edged past them, placing each foot carefully. He would clap his left hand down over the fat boy’s mouth to muffle his cries, and then . . .
Uuuuuuuhoooooooooo.
He stopped midstep, swallowing his curse as the sound of the horn shuddered through the camp, faint and far, yet unmistakable. Not now Gods be damned, not NOW! The Old Bear had hidden far-eyes in a ring of trees around the Fist, to give warning of any approach. Jarman Buckwell’s back from the Giant’s Stair, Chett figured, or Qhorin Halfhand from the Skirling Pass. A single blast of the horn meant brothers returning. If it was the Halfhand, Jon Snow might be with him, alive.
Sam Tarly sat up puffy-eyed and stared at the snow in confusion. The ravens were cawing noisily, and Chett could hear his dogs baying. Half the bloody camp’s awake. His gloved fingers clenched around the dagger’s hilt as he waited for the sound to die away. But no sooner had it gone than it came again, louder and longer.
Uuuuuuuuuuuuhooooooooooooooo.
“Gods,” he heard Sam Tarly whimper. The fat boy lurched to his knees, his feet tangled in his cloak and blankets. He kicked them away and reached for a chainmail hauberk he’d hung on the rock nearby. As he slipped the huge tent of a garment down over his head and wriggled into it, he spied Chett standing there. “Was it two?” he asked. “I dreamed I heard two blasts . . . ”
“No dream,” said Chett. “Two blasts to call the Watch to arms. Two blasts for foes approaching. There’s an axe out there with Piggy writ on it, fat boy. Two blasts means wildlings.” The fear on that big moon face made him want to laugh. “Bugger them all to seven hells. Bloody Harma. Bloody Mance Rayder. Bloody Smallwood, he said they wouldn’t be on us for another—”
Uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuhooooooooooooooooooooooooo.
The sound went on and on and on, until it seemed it would never die. The ravens were flapping and screaming, flying about their cages and banging off the bars, and all about the camp the brothers of the Night’s Watch were rising, donning their armor, buckling on swordbelts, reaching for battleaxes and bows. Samwell Tarly stood shaking, his face the same color as the snow that swirled down all around them. “Three,” he squeaked to Chett, “that was three, I heard three. They never blow three. Not for hundreds and thousands of years. Three means—”
“—Others.” Chett made a sound that was half a laugh and half a sob, and suddenly his smallclothes were wet, and he could feel the piss running down his leg, see steam rising off the front of his breeches.

　　天灰灰的，冷得怕人，狗闻不到气味。
　　黑色的大母狗嗅嗅熊的踪迹，缩了回去，夹着尾巴躲进狗群里。这群狗凄惨地蜷缩在河岸边，任凭寒风抽打。风钻过层层羊毛和皮衣，齐特也觉得冷，该死的寒气对人对狗都一样，可他却不得不待在原地。想到这里，他的嘴扭成一团，满脸疖子因恼怒而发红。我本该安安全全留在长城，照料那群臭乌鸦，为伊蒙老师傅生火才对。琼恩·雪诺这狗杂种为安插他的胖子朋友山姆·塔利，抢了我的位子，才害我落到这步田地！妈的，跟这群猎狗一块儿呆在鬼影森林深处，卵蛋都快冻掉了。

　　“七层地狱！”他猛地拽住狗的缰绳，“闻啊，杂种！这是熊的痕迹，还想不想吃肉？快闻！”狗们却缩得更紧，并发出哀鸣。齐特用短鞭在它们头上虚劈，惹得那头黑母狗对他咆哮。“狗肉不比熊肉差，”他警告她，吐息出口，立即结霜。

　　姐妹男拉克环抱胳膊，手掌插在腋窝，尽管戴着厚厚的黑羊毛手套，还在不停抱怨指头冻得厉害。“该死，冷得要命，怎么打猎啊？”他说，“去他妈的熊，不值得我们冻坏身子。”

　　“俺不能空手回去，拉克，”一脸棕色摞腮胡的小保罗低吼，“司令大人会不高兴的。”壮汉的鼻涕在扁扁的狮子鼻下结冰，穿大皮手套的巨手紧攥着一根长矛。

　　“熊老也去他妈的，”身材消瘦，眼神游离不定的姐妹男应道，“记得吗，莫尔蒙明天就完蛋了，谁关心他高不高兴？”

　　小保罗眨眨小小的黑眼珠。或许他又健忘了，齐特心想，这人蠢得什么都记不清。“俺为啥要杀熊老？为啥不把他扔下不管，俺自己跑掉？”

　　“你以为他会扔下我们不管？”拉克道，“他会追捕我们到死！想被抓吗，大呆瓜？”

　　“不，”小保罗说，“俺不要，俺不要。”

　　“所以你会动手？”拉克问。

　　“对的。”巨汉用长矛在结冰的河岸上一顿。“俺懂。他不能来抓俺。”

　　姐妹男从腋窝下抽出手掌，望向齐特，“依我看，为保险，干脆把当官的全宰掉。”

　　齐特受够了他的建议。“完全没必要。我们的目标只是熊老，影子塔的副指挥班恩，葛鲁布和阿桑——他们懂绘图，真不走运——以及两个追踪能手戴文与巴棱，嗯，外加管乌鸦的猪头爵士。这就够了。趁他们睡着时，悄悄干，千万不能出声，否则死定了。我们都死定了。”他的疖子因恼怒而发光。“把自个儿份内的事做好，你和你表哥们千万不能失误。保罗，一定记清楚，是第三哨，不是第二哨。”

　　“第三哨，”喘着霜气的摞腮胡大汉应道，“俺和软足一起动手。俺记得到，齐特。”

　　今晚没有月光，经过精心设计，他们这伙人中有八个在第三哨站卫兵，还有两个照料马。这是最好的机会。野人们就要到了。齐特希望在他们到来前逃得远远的。他要活下去。

　　三百名守夜人弟兄骑行向北，其中两百来自黑城堡，另一百来自影子塔。这是几代人中规模最大的一次巡逻，几乎动用了守夜人军团三分之一的兵力。出发时，原本是为找寻班扬·史塔克、威玛·罗伊斯及其他失踪游骑兵的下落，并侦察野人们迁离村子的原因。现在可好，他们和出发时一样对史塔克和罗伊斯的去向毫无所知，倒是明白了野人们的所在——他们爬上高耸的雪山，那遭天谴的霜雪之牙。他们在那儿待到世界末日也不干齐特的事。

　　但事与愿违。他们来了。顺着乳河下来了。

　　齐特抬眼望着眼前的河流。石岸结了冰，乳白色的水长年不歇地从霜雪之牙上流淌而下。曼斯·雷德和他的野人大军正顺着这条河流往下走。三天前，索伦·斯莫伍德快马加鞭地赶回来，向熊老报告侦查结果，他手下的白眼肯基则把消息透漏给其他人。“大队人马还没出山，但已经在途中。”肯基边用篝火暖手边说，“前锋是‘狗头’哈犸，麻脸婊子。刺棒爬到营地边的树上，透过火光看见了她，筋斗琼这傻瓜想直接放箭去射，幸亏斯莫伍德头脑清醒。”

　　齐特啐了口唾沫，“他们有多少，算过吗？”

　　“很多很多。或许两万，或许三万，来不及仔细计算。哈犸的前锋有五百人，全都有马。”

　　篝火旁的人们交换着不安的眼神。从前，看到一打骑马的野人都是件稀罕事，五百……

　　“斯莫伍德派巴棱和我抄远路绕开敌人前锋，前去打探主力，”肯基续道，“他们的队伍无边无际，移动时像结冻的河流，十分缓慢，一天只走四、五里，但决不像要返回村子的样子。人群里一半多是女人和小孩，牲口吆喝在前面，有山羊、绵羊、拖雪橇的野牛等等。他们赶着大车，推着小车，装满大捆毛皮、大片的肉、成笼的鸡、块块黄油，总而言之，带上了每件该死的家什。骡子和马驮得那么多，教你看了都为动物心痛。女人们背得也一样多。”

　　“他们顺着乳河走？”姐妹男拉克问。

　　“我觉得不会错，不对吗？”

　　乳河会带他们经过先民拳峰，经过这座上古时代的环形堡垒，经过守夜人的营地。稍有理智的人都明白应该立刻拔营，退回长城，熊老却报之以更多的尖桩、陷坑和蒺藜。对一支大军而言，管什么用呢？如果赖着不走，迟早全军覆没。

　　索伦·斯莫伍德居然还想主动出击，仿佛是嫌死得不够快！“美女”唐纳·希山是马拉多·洛克爵士的侍从，他说前天晚上斯莫伍德去了洛克的帐篷。马拉多从前和奥廷·威勒斯老爵士想法一致，力主退兵，但斯莫伍德竭力游说。“塞外之王不知我们的方位如此靠北，”美女唐纳复述，“他的队伍固然庞大，但不过是些乌合之众，只好浪费粮食，许多人连长剑握哪头都不知道。一次突袭就足以让他们嚎叫着滚回茅屋里，再待个五十年。”

　　三百对三万，齐特只能称其为疯狂，更疯狂的是马拉多爵士居然动了心，还随斯莫伍德一起晋见熊老，同声附和。“若我们犹豫不决，机会就随之而逝，再也等不到了，”斯莫伍德对每个人反复解释。为反驳他，奥廷·威勒斯声称，“我们是守护王国的坚盾，不能盲目地扔下盾牌。”索伦·斯莫伍德则回击，“最好的防守是迅捷地干掉敌人，而非缩在盾牌后面。”

　　但无论斯莫伍德还是威勒斯都没有决定权，决定权属于总司令，莫尔蒙要等其他两队斥候返回后再作决定，其中包括攀登巨人梯的贾曼·布克威尔，以及侦查风声峡的断掌科林和琼恩·雪诺。毫无疑问，布克威尔和科林都遇到了麻烦，多半是死了。齐特在脑海中描绘出一幅图画：琼恩·雪诺孤零零地冻在荒凉的山头上，一支野人的长矛穿透了杂种的屁股。想到这里，他笑了。希望他们把那头该死的狼也宰掉。

　　“这里没熊，”他突然下了结论，“不过是条过时痕迹，没意思。我们回去。”狗们慌不可奈地拉拽，想走的心情比他还急，或许以为回去就会开饭吧，齐特又忍不住笑了。他已把猎狗饿了三天，目的就是要让它们因饥饿而疯狂。今晚，遁入黑暗之前，他将在马群前把它们放掉，而美女唐纳·希山和畸足卡尔会砍断马缰。整个拳峰将布满咆哮的猎狗和恐慌的坐骑，冲撞营火，跳跃环墙，踏平营帐。在混乱的掩护下，十四个兄弟的失踪要很久才能发现。

　　拉克想将密谋集团扩大一倍——你能指望这个浑身臭鱼味的傻瓜有什么好主意？找错一个人，没弄明白怎么回事就脑袋搬家了。不，十四是个好数字，既保证人手充足，又保证守秘。其中大多数人由齐特亲自挑选招募，小保罗就是成果之一——他身为长城上最壮的人，虽然动作比僵死的蜗牛还慢，却能活生生抱碎野人的脊梁。短刃也加入进来，他得名于自己拿手的武器。还有被弟兄们称作软足的灰色小个子，年轻时干过上百个女人，常吹嘘说在那话儿插进去之前她们根本没发觉他的到来。

　　计划由齐特制订，这是聪明人的差事。他在老师傅伊蒙身边干过整整四年呢，之后才被杂种琼恩·雪诺用他的肥猪朋友顶掉。今夜，宰掉山姆威尔·塔利以前，他打算在猪头爵士耳边低语一句：“替我向雪诺大人致意，”跟着才割他的喉咙，让血从层层脂肪里喷出。齐特熟悉乌鸦，不会惹出不必要的麻烦，他也了解塔利，只须匕首轻轻一捅，这胆小鬼就会尿湿裤子哭着求饶。让他求饶，没用。割了他喉咙，再打开笼子放走乌鸦，确保讯息不会送回长城。与此同时，软足和小保罗合力对付熊老，短刃负责班恩，拉克和他表哥们的目标是巴棱和戴文，以杜绝可能的追踪。密谋者们在山下储备了两周的食物，而美女唐纳·希山与畸足卡尔会带走足够的马匹。莫尔蒙死后，指挥权交到奥廷·威勒斯爵士手中，这没用的老头，胆小如鼠。他将在日落前逃回长城，不会浪费一个人用于追捕。

　　三人穿越树林，狗们迫不及待。拳峰渐渐在绿丛中露出头来。天色阴暗，熊老下令燃起火把，插在包围陡峭多石的山峰顶端的环墙上，形成巨型火环。一行人涉过小溪，溪水寒冷彻骨，表面是块块浮冰。“我要去海边，”姐妹男拉克吐露，“和表哥们一起去。我们打算造条船，航回三姐妹群岛的家里。”

　　回家，他们会把你当逃兵，砍掉你的蠢头颅，齐特心想。一旦发誓，便永不能脱离守夜人军团，否则无论躲到七国何处，都会遭遇捕杀。

　　独臂奥罗打算航往泰洛西，他说在那儿做点小偷小摸不会冒被斩手的危险，跟骑士的老婆上床也不会被送来冻掉一生。齐特想跟他走，问题是自己对潮湿夸张的自由贸易城邦口语一窍不通。再说不会做生意，待在泰洛西干啥？齐特生于女巫沼泽，他父亲终其一生都在别人田地里翻掘搜寻水蛭，工作前先脱个精光，跨下围一块厚皮革涉进污水烂泥，等爬回来时，从脚踝到乳头都会吸满水蛭。通常，他让齐特负责把虫子弄掉。记得有一回，一条虫子牢牢吸在男孩手掌上，齐特极端厌恶地压扁了它，因此被父亲打个半死——一打水蛭可以在学士哪儿换一个铜板呢。

　　拉克高兴的话就回家去吧，该死的泰洛西人也一样，齐特哪儿也不去。如果这辈子不用见到女巫沼泽，就真他妈的该谢天谢地。他中意的是卡斯特的堡垒。卡斯特住在那里，俨然是个领主老爷，为啥不能学他的样？真有趣，水蛭人的儿子齐特，有朝一日成为住城堡的领主大人，他的纹章将是粉红底色上的一打水蛭。为啥只当领主？也许某天还可以当国王呢。曼斯·雷德不也是从乌鸦开始发迹的？我可以当个他那样的王，拥有无数妻妾。卡斯特有十九个老婆，还不算那些没睡过的小女儿。这群女人中虽有一半像卡斯特一样又老又丑，但没关系，可以让老的去做饭打扫、拔萝卜和喂猪，让年轻的替我暖被子生小孩。卡斯特？哼，他有意见，我就让小保罗给他来次拥抱！

　　齐特唯一上过的女人是鼹鼠镇的妓女。年轻时，村里的少女们只消看见他的脸，看见那些疖子和粉瘤，立马就会作呕地跑开。最过分的是邋遢的贝莎，她能为女巫沼泽中每个男孩张开大腿，他以为自己也行。那天，他化了整整一上午去摘野花，因为她喜欢花儿。结果呢，结果她一个劲儿嘲笑他的脸，还说宁愿爬进一个装满他父亲捉的水蛭的被窝也不和他睡。匕首插进胸膛时，她的笑容凝固了，多甜美的表情啊，所以他把匕首抽出来又捅了一次。后来他在七泉附近被捕，老侯爵瓦德·佛雷不屑出席审判，只派来私生子瓦德·河文。齐特记得的下一件事就是被一身臭气的黑衣恶魔尤伦押往长城，为那甜美的片刻，他们夺走了他的一生。

　　现在他要把一切夺回来，包括卡斯特的女人。那个凶蛮的老野人做得对：想要哪个女人就动手，决不要忸扭捏捏送什么花，好让她关注你的疖子！齐特决心不犯同样的错误。

　　我能成功，他向自己保证过上百遍。只要干净利落地逃掉，就赢了一大半。奥廷爵士将朝南直奔影子塔，那是返回长城最短的路径。他不会来抓我们，威勒斯不会，他只会逃命。索伦·斯莫伍德呢，大概会继续鼓吹出击，可奥廷爵士出了名的谨慎，而他才是头。其实说穿了，只要我们逃掉，这些又有什么打紧，斯莫伍德想打就打，关我屁事？全部送命最好，那样别人多半会认为我们也一块儿牺牲了。这是个新点子，很有吸引力。要让斯莫伍德获得指挥权……就得同时干掉奥廷爵士和马拉多·洛克爵士，但这两人日夜有侍卫守护……不行，风险太大。

　　“齐特，”他们在哨兵树和士卒松下的石头小径艰难行进，小保罗开口道，“鸟儿怎么办？”

　　“该死，什么鸟儿？”这呆瓜居然关心什么鸟儿。

　　“熊老的乌鸦，”小保罗说，“俺杀了他，以后谁喂他的鸟儿呢？”

　　“他妈的谁管这破烂事？你高兴连它一起宰了便是。”

　　“俺不是不敢杀鸟儿，”大汉道，“可那是只会说话的鸟儿，好希奇哟。但要不杀它，它说出俺做的事儿咋办呢？”

　　姐妹男拉克笑出声来。“小保罗，脸皮比城墙还厚，”他嘲弄。

　　“你闭嘴，”小保罗凶狠地吼道。

　　“保罗，”大汉发怒前，齐特发了话，“看到躺在血泊中、喉咙敞开的老头子，不需鸟儿说话，谁都明白这是谋杀。”

　　小保罗思考了一阵齐特的话。“对的，”他承认，“可俺能留下那只鸟儿吗？俺喜欢它。”

　　“它是你的了，”齐特赶紧宣布，为了让他闭嘴。

　　“很好，咱们哪天没饭吃了，还有个东西应急咧，”拉克评论。

　　小保罗的声调又阴沉下来，“最好别来吃我的鸟儿，拉克，最好别来。”

　　齐特听到丛林那头的声音。“你两个都给我闭嘴，快到拳峰了。”

　　走出树林时，他们位于山峰西麓，于是绕路往南寻找更便利的上山途径。林边有十来个守夜人练习弓箭。人们在树干上绘着靶子，瞄准它们射击。

　　“看哪，”拉克说，“一头拿弓箭的肥猪。”

　　没错，离他们最近的射手正是猪头爵士本人，这个窃取了他在伊蒙学士身边职位的胖子。只消看到山姆威尔·塔利，他就气不打一处来。在他眼中，侍侯伊蒙学士是世上最便宜的工作。老盲人很和善，而克莱达斯总是抢着做工，因此齐特的任务十分简单：清扫鸦巢、生起炉火、准备便餐……伊蒙又从不打他。死胖子，凭什么把我排挤出去？凭你出身高贵，懂得认字儿？妈的，杀他之前，得让他好好瞧瞧我的匕首。“你们先走，”他告诉两名同伴，“我去瞧瞧。”狗们还在拽，盼望赶紧回去，盼望山顶的食物。齐特抬起靴尖给了母狗一脚，让它们平静了些。

　　他躲在林子里看胖子摆弄一根和他一般高的长弓，那张红通通的圆脸因专注而扭曲。塔利身前的地上插着三枝箭。他搭箭拉弓，用了好长时间瞄准后才发射。箭只在绿丛中不见踪影。齐特纵声大笑，直笑得干呕。

　　“这枝是一定找不到了，又会怪到我头上的。”艾迪森·托勒特宣布，这位郁郁寡欢的灰发侍从人称忧郁的艾迪。“自打我弄丢了马，什么东西不见了他们都要找上门来，似乎这之间有什么联系似的。它是白的雪也是白的，还要我怎么说呢？”

　　“风吹走了那枝箭，”葛兰道，这是雪诺大人另一位朋友，“握紧弓把，山姆。”

　　“它好重，”胖子抱怨，不过还是取出第二枝箭。这次射得很高，穿过了目标上方十尺处的树冠。

　　“我确信你打掉了一片叶子，”忧郁的艾迪说，“树叶已经落得够快了，没必要帮忙，”他叹道，“大家都明白落叶后面紧跟着什么。诸神在上，这里好冷。试试最后那枝，山姆，我的舌头快冻在口腔顶上了。”

　　猪头爵士放低长弓，看样子马上就得痛哭流涕。“太难了。”

　　“搭箭，拉弓，放，”葛兰说，“继续。”

　　胖子忠实地拔出最后那枝箭，搭在长弓上，拉起，发射。这次他完成得很迅速，不像前两次那么眯着眼睛痛苦地瞄准。箭矢击中炭笔勾勒的人形胸膛下方，颤动不休。“我打中他了！”猪头爵士惊讶地喊，“葛兰，看到了吗？艾迪，看哪，我打中他了！”

　　“对，穿过了肋骨。”葛兰说。

　　“我杀了他？”胖子想弄清楚。

　　托勒特耸耸肩，“也许戳穿了肺，如果他有肺的话。基本上，树木是没有，这是自然规律。”他从山姆手中接过长弓，“我见过更糟的射击，是的，噢，自己也出过嗅。”

　　猪头爵士一脸喜色。你还以为他真干出了什么大事！不过当他瞧见齐特和他的狗，笑容却立即收敛，并很快消失了。

　　“你打中了一棵树，”齐特说，“若换作曼斯·雷德的手下呢？他们不会呆站着，伸出枝叶沙沙作响，噢，不会的。他们会扑过来，在你耳边尖叫，让你尿裤子，我敢打赌！他们会用斧子砍进这对小小的猪眼睛之间，你这辈子最后听到的声音将是头骨破碎的轰鸣。”

　　胖子浑身发抖。忧郁的艾迪把手放在他肩上。“兄弟，”他庄重地说，“你发生的事不意味着山姆威尔会重演。”

　　“什么，托勒特？”

　　“砍碎你头骨的斧子，你的脑浆难道不是有一半流到地上教狗吃了？”

　　大蠢材葛兰乐了，连山姆威尔都挤出一点微弱的笑容。齐特踢着最近的狗，拉起绳子，调头去爬山。尽管笑，猪头爵士，到晚上看谁笑到最后。他想把托勒特也干掉。阴沉的马脸蠢货，没你好果子吃。

　　即使从拳峰这头，踏在最平缓的山坡上，攀登依旧艰辛。刚到山腰，狗们又开始咆哮拖拉，大概以为终于要开饭了。他让它们尝了尝靴子的滋味，还给那头又丑又大居然敢反咬他的狗一顿鞭子。栓好它们，他立即跑去报告。“痕迹正如巨人报告的那样，可狗闻不到什么，”他在莫尔蒙的黑色大帐篷前对总司令说，“或许给河流冲刷过，也或许只是过时的痕迹。”

　　“遗憾，”秃顶的莫尔蒙司令满脸杂乱的灰胡子，声音跟神情一样疲惫，“吃点鲜肉可以改善大家的生活。”他肩上的乌鸦边点头边复诵，“鲜肉，鲜肉。鲜肉。”

　　咱们可以把那些该死的狗烤了，齐特心想，幸好在熊老遣散之前管住了嘴巴。这是我最后一次向这家伙低头，他满意地认定。回来的路上越来越冷，狗们在坚实的冻土上凄楚地挤作一团，齐特有些渴望爬进它们中间。他压下念头，找来一块羊毛围巾裹脸，只在嘴边留出一道小缝。不断走动似乎会好过点，于是他嚼上一片酸叶子，绕着环墙缓缓踱步，不时和站岗的弟兄分两口，倾听他们说话。白天站哨的没一个参加他的密谋，虽然如此，多听听别人的想法总没错。

　　绝大多数人的想法就是天真他妈的冷。

　　人影变长，寒风渐强。风钻过环墙的石缝，发出高亢尖细的声响。“我讨厌这声音，”小个子巨人说，“让我想起哭闹着要奶喝的婴儿。”

　　他踱回狗群旁，拉克正等他。“当官的又被召进熊老帐篷里，似乎在激烈争论。”

　　“那是他们的事，”齐特说，“他们出身高贵——班恩除外——可以用言语代替美酒沉醉其中。”

　　拉克神秘兮兮地凑过来。“大呆瓜在盘算那只鸟，”他告诫，四下斜倪确保没人靠近，“刚才还问能不能为这臭东西预备些玉米。”

　　“乌鸦，”齐特说，“可以吃尸体。”

　　拉克咧嘴一笑，“也许，他的？”

　　或是你的。照齐特看，大汉比拉克更有用。“别再惹小保罗。你干你的，他干他的。”

　　等他终于摆脱姐妹男，坐下来磨剑时，树间只剩最后几缕阳光。戴着手套工作真他妈不容易，可又不能摘下来。天这么冷，那个蠢才敢赤手空拳触摸钢铁立即就会失去一片皮肤。

　　太阳终于沉没，狗们呜咽不止。他给了它们清水和又一阵咒骂，“再等半晚，你们就可以开野餐去了。”这时他闻到饭香。

　　齐特从厨子哈克那里领到自己那份硬面包、蚕豆和培根汤。戴文也在篝火边，“林子里太安静，”老林务官说，“河边没有青蛙，树上没有猫头鹰，没见过这么死气沉沉的森林。”

　　“你这牙齿的声音才死气沉沉咧。”哈克道。

　　戴文的木假牙劈啪作响，“连狼也找不到，以前是有的，现在却没了。依你看，它们会上哪儿去？”

　　“比这儿暖和的地方，”齐特说。

　　篝火旁坐着一打兄弟，其中有四个参加了他的密谋。他边吃边眯眼依次打量每个家伙，看看有没有谁露出马脚。短刃十分平静，默默坐着磨剑，一如既往；亲爱的唐纳·希山继续说他的低级玩笑。他有白洁的牙齿，肥厚的红嘴唇，黄头发梳成时髦的样式披在肩膀。他爱宣称自己是兰尼斯特家的私生子，说不定真是，但齐特看中的并非面貌或出身，选唐纳·希山是因为他靠得住。

　　对林务官索伍德他可没那么有信心，此人的鼾声本来比干的活儿出名，可现在他表现得如此焦躁，让人觉得他是再也不会打呼噜了。马斯林更糟，寒风在呼啸，齐特却能看到他脸上不断淌下汗水，火光下汗珠闪烁，活像潮湿的小钻石。他也不吃东西，只呆呆瞪着汤碗，仿佛饭香让人作呕似的。我得看紧这家伙，齐特心想。

　　“集合！”十几个声音同时叫喊，顿时传遍山顶营地的每个角落，“守夜人军团的汉子们！到中央营火边集合！”

　　齐特皱紧眉头，几口灌下菜汤，加入其他人的行列。

　　熊老挺立在火堆前，在他身后，斯莫伍德、洛克、威勒斯和班恩站成一列。莫尔蒙身披厚实的黑毛皮斗篷，乌鸦栖息在肩上，整理着黑羽毛。不会是好事。齐特挤在黄伯纳和某个来自影子塔的弟兄之间。除开森林里的哨兵和围墙上的守卫外所有人都到齐之后，莫尔蒙清清喉咙，吐了口唾沫，水星子还没到地面就结了冰。“弟兄们，”他说，“守夜人军团的汉子们！”

　　“汉子！”他的乌鸦尖叫，“汉子！汉子！”

　　“野人们出发了，正顺着乳河走出山区，索伦确信敌军前锋将于十天后抵达这里。他们中最有经验的掠袭者在狗头哈犸的率领下组成先锋部队，剩下的要么作后卫，要么护卫曼斯·雷德本人，要么就是为保卫漫长的队伍而分散开来。敌人赶着牛、骡子、马……但牲口不够，多数人只能步行，没有武装，未经训练，就连拥有的武器也多半是兽骨、石器，并非钢铁。此外，他们还拖带着妇女、儿童、成群的山羊和绵羊……一切一切所拥有的东西。总而言之，虽然敌人为数众多，却易受打击……他们甚至不知我们的存在——至少我们如此祈祷。”

　　他们不知才怪！齐特心想，你这该死、愚昧的老白痴，他们当然知道，这跟太阳会升起一样明显！断掌科林没回来，不是吗？贾曼·布克威尔也没回来，不是吗？只要他们两队人中任一个给野人逮住，妈的，我们早暴露了。

　　斯莫伍德迈步向前。“曼斯·雷德打算冲破长城，将血腥的战争带给七大王国，很好，我们以其人之道还治其人之身，明天就把战争带给他。”

　　“黎明时分，我们全力进发。”人群开始窃窃私语，熊老续道。“先向北，接着转向西，绕个大弯。等回头时，哈犸的前锋早该越过了拳峰。霜雪之牙脚下有很多可供埋伏的曲折小峡谷。敌人的队伍绵延无数里，咱们就从多个方向同时袭击，让他们以为我们有三千人，而不只三百。”

　　“毕其功于一役，在敌人骑兵返回前撤退，”索伦·斯莫伍德说，“他们要追，就让他们追个痛快，我们正好绕回去攻击队伍另一头。烧掉车子，驱散牲口，尽可能屠杀他们的人。如果办得到的话，最好干掉曼斯·雷德本人。只要能逼他们各自逃命，滚回茅屋山洞去，就算大功告成：即便事有不顺，咱们也可以在去长城的途中不断骚扰对方，让他们用无数尸首作路标。”

　　“可他们人多势众，”齐特身后的某人说。

　　“我们是去送死。”这是马斯林的声音，虚弱而恐慌。

　　“送死，”莫尔蒙的乌鸦一边尖叫，一边拍打黑色的翅膀，“送死，送死，送死。”

　　“我们中许多人会死，”莫尔蒙道，“也许集体殉职。可正如一千年前另一位总司令所说，这不正是人们要我们披上黑衣的原因吗？牢记你们的誓言，弟兄们。我们是黑暗中的利剑，长城上的守卫……”

　　“抵御寒冷的烈焰。”马拉多·洛克爵士拔出长剑。

　　“破晓时分的光线，”其他人回应，又有几把长剑出鞘。

　　接着所有人都拔剑而出。将近三百柄长剑高举在空中，三百个嗓音在高喊：“唤醒眠者的号角！守护王国的坚盾！”齐特别无选择，只能跟着一起喊。空气因为人们的吐息而迷雾腾腾，钢铁辉映着火光。他欣慰地发现拉克、畸足以及美女唐纳·希山都参加进来，假装自己也是大笨蛋们中的一员。太好了。计划就要进行，没有招来多余的关注。

　　喊声停歇时，他又一次听到刺穿环墙的寒风呼啸。火炬摇摆不定，似乎连它们也觉得冷，在突来的死寂中，乌鸦一遍一遍地呱呱高叫：“送死。”

回到夏末之初(内阁元老)

板凳 2016-03-30

JAIME

JAIME
An east wind blew through his tangled hair, as soft and fragrant as Cersei’s fingers. He could hear birds singing, and feel the river moving beneath the boat as the sweep of the oars sent them toward the pale pink dawn. After so long in darkness, the world was so sweet that Jaime Lannister felt dizzy. I am alive, and drunk on sunlight. A laugh burst from his lips, sudden as a quail flushed from cover.
“Quiet,” the wench grumbled, scowling. Scowls suited her broad homely face better than a smile. Not that Jaime had ever seen her smiling. He amused himself by picturing her in one of Cersei’s silken gowns in place of her studded leather jerkin. As well dress a cow in silk as this one.
But the cow could row. Beneath her roughspun brown breeches were calves like cords of wood, and the long muscles of her arms stretched and tightened with each stroke of the oars. Even after rowing half the night, she showed no signs of tiring, which was more than could be said for his cousin Ser Cleos, laboring on the other oar. A big strong peasant wench to look at her, yet she speaks like one highborn and wears longsword and dagger. Ah, but can she use them? Jaime meant to find out, as soon as he rid himself of these fetters.
He wore iron manacles on his wrists and a matching pair about his ankles, joined by a length of heavy chain no more than a foot long. “You’d think my word as a Lannister was not good enough,” he’d japed as they bound him. He’d been very drunk by then, thanks to Catelyn Stark. Of their escape from Riverrun, he recalled only bits and pieces. There had been some trouble with the gaoler, but the big wench had overcome him.
After that they had climbed an endless stair, around and around. His legs were weak as grass, and he’d stumbled twice or thrice, until the wench lent him an arm to lean on. At some point he was bundled into a traveler’s cloak and shoved into the bottom of a skiff. He remembered listening to Lady Catelyn command someone to raise the portcullis on the Water Gate. She was sending Ser Cleos Frey back to King’s Landing with new terms for the queen, she’d declared in a tone that brooked no argument.
He must have drifted off then. The wine had made him sleepy, and it felt good to stretch, a luxury his chains had not permitted him in the cell. Jaime had long ago learned to snatch sleep in the saddle during a march. This was no harder. Tyrion is going to laugh himself sick when he hears how I slept through my own escape. He was awake now, though, and the fetters were irksome. “My lady,” he called out, “if you’ll strike off these chains, I’ll spell you at those oars.”
She scowled again, her face all horse teeth and glowering suspicion. “You’ll wear your chains, Kingslayer.”
“You figure to row all the way to King’s Landing, wench?”
“You will call me Brienne. Not wench.”
“My name is Ser Jaime. Not Kingslayer.”
“Do you deny that you slew a king?”
“No. Do you deny your sex? If so, unlace those breeches and show me.” He gave her an innocent smile. “I’d ask you to open your bodice, but from the look of you that wouldn’t prove much.”
Ser Cleos fretted. “Cousin, remember your courtesies.”
The Lannister blood runs thin in this one. Cleos was his Aunt Genna’s son by that dullard Emmon Frey, who had lived in terror of Lord Tywin Lannister since the day he wed his sister. When Lord Walder Frey had brought the Twins into the war on the side of Riverrun, Ser Emmon had chosen his wife’s allegiance over his father’s. Casterly Rock got the worst of that bargain, Jaime reflected. Ser Cleos looked like a weasel, fought like a goose, and had the courage of an especially brave ewe. Lady Stark had promised him release if he delivered her message to Tyrion, and Ser Cleos had solemnly vowed to do so.
They’d all done a deal of vowing back in that cell, Jaime most of all. That was Lady Catelyn’s price for loosing him. She had laid the point of the big wench’s sword against his heart and said, “Swear that you will never again take up arms against Stark nor Tully. Swear that you will compel your brother to honor his pledge to return my daughters safe and unharmed. Swear on your honor as a knight, on your honor as a Lannister, on your honor as a Sworn Brother of the Kingsguard. Swear it by your sister’s life, and your father’s, and your son’s, by the old gods and the new, and I’ll send you back to your sister. Refuse, and I will have your blood.” He remembered the prick of the steel through his rags as she twisted the point of the sword.
I wonder what the High Septon would have to say about the sanctity of oaths sworn while dead drunk, chained to a wall, with a sword pressed to your chest? Not that Jaime was truly concerned about that fat fraud, or the gods he claimed to serve. He remembered the pail Lady Catelyn had kicked over in his cell. A strange woman, to trust her girls to a man with shit for honor. Though she was trusting him as little as she dared. She is putting her hope in Tyrion, not in me. “Perhaps she is not so stupid after all,” he said aloud.
His captor took it wrong. “I am not stupid. Nor deaf.”
He was gentle with her; mocking this one would be so easy there would be no sport to it. “I was speaking to myself, and not of you. It’s an easy habit to slip into in a cell.”
She frowned at him, pushing the oars forward, pulling them back, pushing them forward, saying nothing.
As glib of tongue as she is fair of face. “By your speech, I’d judge you nobly born.”
“My father is Selwyn of Tarth, by the grace of the gods Lord of Evenfall.” Even that was given grudgingly.
“Tarth,” Jaime said. “A ghastly large rock in the narrow sea, as I recall. And Evenfall is sworn to Storm’s End. How is it that you serve Robb of Winterfell? “
“It is Lady Catelyn I serve. And she commanded me to deliver you safe to your brother Tyrion at King’s Landing, not to bandy words with you. Be silent.”
“I’ve had a bellyful of silence, woman.”
“Talk with Ser Cleos then. I have no words for monsters.”
Jaime hooted. “Are there monsters hereabouts? Hiding beneath the water, perhaps? In that thick of willows? And me without my sword!”
“A man who would violate his own sister, murder his king, and fling an innocent child to his death deserves no other name.”
Innocent? The wretched boy was spying on us. All Jaime had wanted was an hour alone with Cersei. Their journey north had been one long torment; seeing her every day, unable to touch her, knowing that Robert stumbled drunkenly into her bed every night in that great creaking wheelhouse. Tyrion had done his best to keep him in a good humor, but it had not been enough. “You will be courteous as concerns Cersei, wench,” he warned her.
“My name is Brienne, not wench.”
“What do you care what a monster calls you?”
“My name is Brienne,” she repeated, dogged as a hound.
“Lady Brienne?” She looked so uncomfortable that Jaime sensed a weakness. “Or would Ser Brienne be more to your taste?” He laughed. “No, I fear not. You can trick out a milk cow in crupper, crinet, and chamfron, and bard her all in silk, but that doesn’t mean you can ride her into battle.”
“Cousin Jaime, please, you ought not speak so roughly.” Under his cloak, Ser Cleos wore a surcoat quartered with the twin towers of House Frey and the golden lion of Lannister. “We have far to go, we should not quarrel amongst ourselves.”
“When I quarrel I do it with a sword, coz. I was speaking to the lady. Tell me, wench, are all the women on Tarth as homely as you? I pity the men, if so. Perhaps they do not know what real women look like, living on a dreary mountain in the sea.”
“Tarth is beautiful, “ the wench grunted between strokes. “The Sapphire Isle, it’s called. Be quiet, monster, unless you mean to make me gag you.”
“She’s rude as well, isn’t she, coz?” Jaime asked Ser Cleos. “Though she has steel in her spine, I’ll grant you. Not many men dare name me monster to my face.” Though behind my back they speak freely enough, I have no doubt.
Ser Cleos coughed nervously. “Lady Brienne had those lies from Catelyn Stark, no doubt. The Starks cannot hope to defeat you with swords, ser, so now they make war with poisoned words.”
They did defeat me with swords, you chinless cretin. Jaime smiled knowingly. Men will read all sorts of things into a knowing smile, if you let them. Has cousin Cleos truly swallowed this kettle of dung, or is he striving to ingratiate himself? What do we have here, an honest muttonhead or a lickspittle?
Ser Cleos prattled blithely on. “Any man who’d believe that a Sworn Brother of the Kingsguard would harm a child does not know the meaning of honor.”
Lickspittle. If truth be told, Jaime had come to rue heaving Brandon Stark out that window. Cersei had given him no end of grief afterward, when the boy refused to die. “He was seven, Jaime,” she’d berated him. “Even if he understood what he saw, we should have been able to frighten him into silence.”
“I didn’t think you’d want—”
“You never think. If the boy should wake and tell his father what he saw—”
“If if if.” He had pulled her into his lap. “if he wakes we’ll say he was dreaming, we’ll call him a liar, and should worse come to worst I’ll kill Ned Stark.”
“And then what do you imagine Robert will do?”
“Let Robert do as he pleases. I’ll go to war with him if I must. The War for Cersei’s Cunt, the singers will call it.”
“Jaime, let go of me!” she raged, struggling to rise.
Instead he had kissed her. For a moment she resisted, but then her mouth opened under his. He remembered the taste of wine and cloves on her tongue. She gave a shudder. His hand went to her bodice and yanked, tearing the silk so her breasts spilled free, and for a time the Stark boy had been forgotten.
Had Cersei remembered him afterward and hired this man Lady Catelyn spoke of, to make sure the boy never woke? If she wanted him dead she would have sent me. And it is not like her to chose a catspaw who would make such a royal botch of the killing.
Downriver, the rising sun shimmered against the wind-whipped surface of the river. The south shore was red clay, smooth as any road. Smaller streams fed into the greater, and the rotting trunks of drowned trees clung to the banks. The north shore was wilder. High rocky bluffs rose twenty feet above them, crowned by stands of beech, oak, and chestnut. Jaime spied a watchtower on the heights ahead, growing taller with every stroke of the oars. Long before they were upon it, he knew that it stood abandoned, its weathered stones overgrown with climbing roses.
When the wind shifted, Ser Cleos helped the big wench run up the sail, a stiff triangle of striped red-and-blue canvas. Tully colors, sure to cause them grief if they encountered any Lannister forces on the river, but it was the only sail they had. Brienne took the rudder. Jaime threw out the leeboard, his chains rattling as he moved. After that, they made better speed, with wind and current both favoring their flight. “We could save a deal of traveling if you delivered me to my father instead of my brother,” he pointed out.
“Lady Catelyn’s daughters are in King’s Landing. I will return with the girls or not at all.”
Jaime turned to Ser Cleos. “Cousin, lend me your knife.”
“No.” The woman tensed. “I will not have you armed.” Her voice was as unyielding as stone.
She fears me, even in irons. “Cleos, it seems I must ask you to shave me. Leave the beard, but take the hair off my head.”
“You’d be shaved bald?” asked Cleos Frey.
“The realm knows Jaime Larmister as a beardless knight with long golden hair. A bald man with a filthy yellow beard may pass unnoticed. I’d sooner not be recognized while I’m in irons.”
The dagger was not as sharp as it might have been. Cleos hacked away manfully, sawing and ripping his way through the mats and tossing the hair over the side. The golden curls floated on the surface of the water, gradually falling astern. As the tangles vanished, a louse went crawling down his neck. Jaime caught it and crushed it against his thumbnail. Ser Cleos picked others from his scalp and flicked them into the water. Jaime doused his head and made Ser Cleos whet the blade before he let him scrape away the last inch of yellow stubble. When that was done, they trimmed back his beard as well.
The reflection in the water was a man he did not know. Not only was he bald, but he looked as though he had aged five years in that dungeon; his face was thinner, with hollows under his eyes and lines he did not remember. I don’t look as much like Cersei this way. She’ll hate that.
By midday, Ser Cleos had fallen asleep. His snores sounded like ducks mating. Jaime stretched out to watch the world flow past; after the dark cell, every rock and tree was a wonder.
A few one-room shacks came and went, perched on tall poles that made them look like cranes. Of the folk who lived there they saw no sign. Birds flew overhead, or cried out from the trees along the shore, and Jaime glimpsed silvery fish knifing through the water. Tully trout, there’s a bad omen, he thought, until he saw a worse—one of the floating logs they passed turned out to be a dead man, bloodless and swollen. His cloak was tangled in the roots of a fallen tree, its color unmistakably Lannister crimson. He wondered if the corpse had been someone he knew.
The forks of the Trident were the easiest way to move goods or men across the riverlands. In times of peace, they would have encountered fisherfolk in their skiffs, grain barges being poled downstream, merchants selling needles and bolts of cloth from floating shops, perhaps even a gaily painted mummer’s boat with quilted sails of half a hundred colors, making its way upriver from village to village and castle to castle.
But the war had taken its toll. They sailed past villages, but saw no villagers. An empty net, slashed and torn and hanging from some trees, was the only sign of fisherfolk. A young girl watering her horse rode off as soon as she glimpsed their sail. Later they passed a dozen peasants digging in a field beneath the shell of a burnt towerhouse. The men gazed at them with dull eyes, and went back to their labors once they decided the skiff was no threat.
The Red Fork was wide and slow, a meandering river of loops and bends dotted with tiny wooded islets and frequently choked by sandbars and snags that lurked just below the water’s surface. Brienne seemed to have a keen eye for the dangers, though, and always seemed to find the channel. When Jaime complimented her on her knowledge of the river, she looked at him suspiciously and said, “I do not know the river. Tarth is an island. I learned to manage oars and sail before I ever sat a horse.”
Ser Cleos sat up and rubbed at his eyes. “Gods, my arms are sore. I hope the wind lasts.” He sniffed at it. “I smell rain.”
Jaime would welcome a good rain. The dungeons of Riverrun were not the cleanest place in the Seven Kingdoms. By now he must smell like an overripe cheese.
Cleos squinted downriver. “Smoke.”
A thin grey finger crooked them on. It was rising from the south bank several miles on, twisting and curling. Below, Jaime made out the smouldering remains of a large building, and a live oak full of dead women.
The crows had scarcely started on their corpses. The thin ropes cut deeply into the soft flesh of their throats, and when the wind blew they twisted and swayed. “This was not chivalrously done,” said Brienne when they were close enough to see it clearly. “No true knight would condone such wanton butchery.”
“True knights see worse every time they ride to war, wench,” said Jaime. “And do worse, yes.”
Brienne turned the rudder toward the shore. “I’ll leave no innocents to be food for crows.”
“A heartless wench. Crows need to eat as well. Stay to the river and leave the dead alone, woman.”
They landed upstream of where the great oak leaned out over the water. As Brienne lowered the sail, Jaime climbed out, clumsy in his chains. The Red Fork filled his boots and soaked through the ragged breeches. Laughing, he dropped to his knees, plunged his head under the water, and came up drenched and dripping. His hands were caked with dirt, and when he rubbed them clean in the current they seemed thinner and paler than he remembered. His legs were stiff as well, and unsteady when he put his weight upon them. I was too bloody long in Hoster Tully’s dungeon.
Brienne and Cleos dragged the skiff onto the bank. The corpses hung above their heads, ripening in death like foul fruit. “One of us will need to cut them down,” the wench said.
“I’ll climb.” Jaime waded ashore, clanking. “Just get these chains off.”
The wench was staring up at one of the dead women. Jaime shuffled closer with small stutter steps, the only kind the foot-long chain permitted. When he saw the crude sign hung about the neck of the highest corpse, he smiled. “They Lay With Lions,” he read. “Oh, yes, woman, this was most unchivalrously done . . . But by your side, not mine. I wonder who they were, these women?”
“Tavern wenches,” said Ser Cleos Frey. “This was an inn, I remember it now. Some men of my escort spent the night here when we last returned to Riverrun.” Nothing remained of the building but the stone foundation and a tangle of collapsed beams, charred black. Smoke still rose from the ashes.
Jaime left brothels and whores to his brother Tyrion; Cersei was the only woman he had ever wanted. “The girls pleasured some of my lord father’s soldiers, it would seem. Perhaps served them food and drink. That’s how they earned their traitors’ collars, with a kiss and a cup of ale.” He glanced up and down the river, to make certain they were quite alone. “This is Bracken land. Lord Jonos might have ordered them killed. My father burned his castle, I fear he loves us not.”
“It might be Marq Piper’s work,” said Ser Cleos. “Or that wisp o’ the wood Beric Dondarrion, though I’d heard he kills only soldiers. Perhaps a band of Roose Bolton’s northmen?”
“Bolton was defeated by my father on the Green Fork.”
“But not broken,” said Ser Cleos. “He came south again when Lord Tywin marched against the fords. The word at Riverrun was that he’d taken Harrenhal from Ser Amory Lorch.”
Jaime liked the sound of that not at all. “Brienne,” he said, granting her the courtesy of the name in the hopes that she might listen, “if Lord Bolton holds Harrenhal, both the Trident and the kingsroad are likely watched.”
He thought he saw a touch of uncertainty in her big blue eyes. “You are under my protection. They’d need to kill me.”
“I shouldn’t think that would trouble them.”
“I am as good a fighter as you,” she said defensively. “I was one of King Renly’s chosen seven. With his own hands, he cloaked me with the striped silk of the Rainbow Guard.”
“The Rainbow Guard? You and six other girls, was it? A singer once said that all maids are fair in silk . . . But he never met you, did he?”
The woman turned red. “We have graves to dig.” She went to climb the tree.
The lower limbs of the oak were big enough for her to stand upon once she’d gotten up the trunk. She walked amongst the leaves, dagger in hand, cutting down the corpses. Flies swarmed around the bodies as they fell, and the stench grew worse with each one she dropped. “This is a deal of trouble to take for whores,” Ser Cleos complained. “What are we supposed to dig with? We have no spades, and I will not use my sword, I—”
Brienne gave a shout. She jumped down rather than climbing. “To the boat. Be quick. There’s a sail.”
They made what haste they could, though Jaime could hardly run, and had to be pulled back up into the skiff by his cousin. Brienne shoved off with an oar and raised sail hurriedly. “Ser Cleos, I’ll need you to row as well.”
He did as she bid. The skiff began to cut the water a bit faster; current, wind, and oars all worked for them. Jaime sat chained, peering upriver. Only the top of the other sail was visible. With the way the Red Fork looped, it looked to be across the fields, moving north behind a screen of trees while they moved south, but he knew that was deceptive. He lifted both hands to shade his eyes. “Mud red and watery blue,” he announced.
Brienne’s big mouth worked soundlessly, giving her the look of a cow chewing its cud. “Faster, ser.”
The inn soon vanished behind them, and they lost sight of the top of the sail as well, but that meant nothing. Once the pursuers swung around the loop they would become visible again. “We can hope the noble Tullys will stop to bury the dead whores, I suppose.” The prospect of returning to his cell did not appeal to Jaime. Tyrion could think of something clever now, but all that occurs to me is to go at them with a sword.
For the good part of an hour they played peek-and-seek with the pursuers, sweeping around bends and between small wooded isles. Just when they were starting to hope that somehow they might have left behind the pursuit, the distant sail became visible again. Ser Cleos paused in his stroke. “The Others take them.” He wiped sweat from his brow.
“Row!” Brienne said.
“That is a river galley coming after us,” Jaime announced after he’d watched for a while. With every stroke, it seemed to grow a little larger. “Nine oars on each side, which means eighteen men. More, if they crowded on fighters as well as rowers. And larger sails than ours. We cannot outrun her.”
Ser Cleos froze at his oars. “Eighteen, you said?”
“Six for each of us. I’d want eight, but these bracelets hinder me somewhat.” Jaime held up his wrists. “Unless the Lady Brienne would be so kind as to unshackle me?”
She ignored him, putting all her effort into her stroke.
“We had half a night’s start on them,” Jaime said. “They’ve been rowing since dawn, resting two oars at a time. They’ll be exhausted. Just now the sight of our sail has given them a burst of strength, but that will not last. We ought to be able to kill a good many of them.”
Ser Cleos gaped. “But . . . There are eighteen.”
“At the least. More likely twenty or twenty-five.”
His cousin groaned. “We can’t hope to defeat eighteen.”
“Did I say we could? The best we can hope for is to die with swords in our hands.” He was perfectly sincere. Jaime Lannister had never been afraid of death.
Brienne broke off rowing. Sweat had stuck strands of her flax-colored hair to her forehead, and her grimace made her look homelier than ever. “You are under my protection,” she said, her voice so thick with anger that it was almost a growl.
He had to laugh at such fierceness. She’s the Hound with teats, he thought. Or would be, if she had any teats to speak of. “Then protect me, wench. Or free me to protect myself.”
The galley was skimming downriver, a great wooden dragonfly. The water around her was churned white by the furious action of her oars. She was gaining visibly, the men on her deck crowding forward as she came on. Metal glinted in their hands, and Jaime could see bows as well. Archers. He hated archers.
At the prow of the onrushing galley stood a stocky man with a bald head, bushy grey eyebrows, and brawny arms. Over his mail he wore a soiled white surcoat with a weeping willow embroidered in pale green, but his cloak was fastened with a silver trout. Riverrun’s captain of guards. In his day Ser Robin Ryger had been a notably tenacious fighter, but his day was done; he was of an age with Hoster Tully, and had grown old with his lord.
When the boats were fifty yards apart, Jaime cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted back over the water. “Come to wish me godspeed, Ser Robin?”
“Come to take you back, Kingslayer,” Ser Robin Ryger bellowed. “How is it that you’ve lost your golden hair?”
“I hope to blind my enemies with the sheen off my head. It’s worked well enough for you.”
Ser Robin was unamused. The distance between skiff and galley had shrunk to forty yards. “Throw your oars and your weapons into the river, and no one need be harmed.”
Ser Cleos twisted around. “Jaime, tell him we were freed by Lady Catelyn . . . An exchange of captives, lawful . . . ”
Jaime told him, for all the good it did. “Catelyn Stark does not rule in Riverrun,” Ser Robin shouted back. Four archers crowded into position on either side of him, two standing and two kneeling. “Cast your swords into the water.”
“I have no sword,” he returned, “but if I did, I’d stick it through your belly and hack the balls off those four cravens.”
A flight of arrows answered him. One thudded into the mast, two pierced the sail, and the fourth missed Jaime by a foot.
Another of the Red Fork’s broad loops loomed before them. Brienne angled the skiff across the bend. The yard swung as they turned, their sail cracking as it filled with wind. Ahead a large island sat in midstream. The main channel flowed right. To the left a cutoff ran between the island and the high bluffs of the north shore. Brienne moved the tiller and the skiff sheared left, sail rippling. Jaime watched her eyes. Pretty eyes, he thought, and calm. He knew how to read a man’s eyes. He knew what fear looked like. She is determined, not desperate.
Thirty yards behind, the galley was entering the bend. “Ser Cleos, take the tiller,” the wench commanded. “Kingslayer, take an oar and keep us off the rocks.”
“As my lady commands.” An oar was not a sword, but the blade could break a man’s face if well swung, and the shaft could be used to parry.
Ser Cleos shoved the oar into Jaime’s hand and scrambled aft. They crossed the head of the island and turned sharply down the cutoff, sending a wash of water against the face of the bluff as the boat tilted. The island was densely wooded, a tangle of willows, oaks, and tall pines that cast deep shadows across the rushing water, hiding snags and the rotted trunks of drowned trees. To their left the bluff rose sheer and rocky, and at its foot the river foamed whitely around broken boulders and tumbles of rock fallen from the cliff face.
They passed from sunlight into shadow, hidden from the galley’s view between the green wall of the trees and the stony grey-brown bluff. A few moments’ respite from the arrows, Jaime thought, pushing them off a half-submerged boulder.
The skiff rocked. He heard a soft splash, and when he glanced around, Brienne was gone. A moment later he spied her again, pulling herself from the water at the base of the bluff. She waded through a shallow pool, scrambled over some rocks, and began to climb. Ser Cleos goggled, mouth open. Fool, thought Jaime. “Ignore the wench,” he snapped at his cousin. “Steer.”
They could see the sail moving behind the trees. The river galley came into full view at the top of the cutoff, twenty-five yards behind. Her bow swung hard as she came around, and a half-dozen arrows took flight, but all went well wide. The motion of the two boats was giving the archers difficulty, but Jaime knew they’d soon enough learn to compensate. Brienne was halfway up the cliff face, pulling herself from handhold to handhold. Ryger’s sure to see her, and once he does he’ll have those bowmen bring her down. Jaime decided to see if the old man’s pride would make him stupid. “Ser Robin,” he shouted, “hear me for a moment.”
Ser Robin raised a hand, and his archers lowered their bows. “Say what you will, Kingslayer, but say it quickly.”
The skiff swung through a litter of broken stones as Jaime called out, “I know a better way to settle this—single combat. You and I.”
“I was not born this morning, Lannister.”
“No, but you’re like to die this afternoon.” Jaime raised his hands so the other could see the manacles. “I’ll fight you in chains. What could you fear?”
“Not you, ser. If the choice were mine, I’d like nothing better, but I am commanded to bring you back alive if possible. Bowmen.” He signaled them on. “Notch. Draw Loo—”
The range was less than twenty yards. The archers could scarcely have missed, but as they pulled on their longbows a rain of pebbles cascaded down around them. Small stones rattled on their deck, bounced off their helms, and made splashes on both sides of the bow. Those who had wits enough to understand raised their eyes just as a boulder the size of a cow detached itself from the top of the bluff. Ser Robin shouted in dismay. The stone tumbled through the air, struck the face of the cliff, cracked in two, and smashed down on them. The larger piece snapped the mast, tore through the sail, sent two of the archers flying into the river, and crushed the leg of a rower as he bent over his oar. The rapidity with which the galley began to fill with water suggested that the smaller fragment had punched right through her hull. The oarsman’s screams echoed off the bluff while the archers flailed wildly in the current. From the way they were splashing, neither man could swim. Jaime laughed.
By the time they emerged from the cutoff, the galley was foundering amongst pools, eddies, and snags, and Jaime Lannister had decided that the gods were good. Ser Robin and his thrice-damned archers would have a long wet walk back to Riverrun, and he was rid of the big homely wench as well. I could not have planned it better myself. Once I’m free of these irons . . .
Ser Cleos raised a shout. When Jaime looked up, Brienne was lumbering along the clifftop, well ahead of them, having cut across a finger of land while they were following the bend in the river. She threw herself off the rock, and looked almost graceful as she folded into a dive. It would have been ungracious to hope that she would smash her head on a stone. Ser Cleos turned the skiff toward her. Thankfully, Jaime still had his oar. One good swing when she comes paddling up and I’ll be free of her.
Instead he found himself stretching the oar out over the water. Brienne grabbed hold, and Jaime pulled her in. As he helped her into the skiff, water ran from her hair and dripped from her sodden clothing to pool on the deck. She’s even uglier wet. Who would have thought it possible? “You’re a bloody stupid wench,” he told her. “We could have sailed on without you. I suppose you expect me to thank you?”
“I want none of your thanks, Kingslayer. I swore an oath to bring you safe to King’s Landing.”
“And you actually mean to keep it?” Jaime gave her his brightest smile. “Now there’s a wonder.”

第一章詹姆

　　东风拂过纠结的头发，温柔而芳香，一如瑟曦的指尖。他倾听着鸟儿的欢唱，感觉到河流的脉动，小船正随木桨划动，驶向天际渐渐出现的白幕。在黑暗中呆了这么久，詹姆感觉世界是如此甜美，他几乎就要晕过去。我活了下来，沐浴着阳光。猛然间，他哈哈大笑，突兀尤如惊起的飞鸟。
　　“安静，”妞儿皱眉抱怨。皱眉比微笑更适合那张丑陋的宽脸——当然詹姆也还没见她笑过。他自顾自的地想象让她脱下镶钉皮甲穿上瑟曦的丝裙服是什么样。和穿丝衣的母牛没两样。

　　但这头母牛会划船。粗糙的棕色马裤下，她确有牛一般的腿，硬木一样粗，而手臂上长长的肌键随着每次击浆而伸缩。即使划了大半夜，她也没有疲劳的迹象，划另一支桨的表弟克里奥爵士可差远了。她看起来真像个高大强壮的乡下妞儿，口气却又透出高贵，身上带着长剑和匕首。噢，她会用吗？詹姆想试试，一旦摆脱镣铐马上就试。

　　他手戴铁铐，脚上也有，脚踝间连着的沉重铁环还不到一尺。“我以身为兰尼斯特的荣誉发誓还不够？”他们绑他时，他咯咯笑道。凯特琳·史塔克将他灌得酩酊大醉，对逃出奔流城的过程，詹姆一片模糊。似乎狱卒找了些麻烦，但这强壮妞儿几下便将其制服。

　　随后穿越无穷无尽的楼梯，转来转去，他的腿软得象草，三两次绊倒在地，最终被妞儿架着走。走到某处，他们将他裹进一件行者斗篷，猛推入小船底。他记得听到凯特琳夫人令人打开水门的吊闸，随后一字一句、用不容争议的语调将新条件复述给克里奥爵士，要他带回君临禀报。

　　接着便是乘船。虽然药酒让他昏昏沉沉，但心情不错，舒展身体的感觉……在黑牢里时受制于铁链，是得不到这种享受的。很久以来，詹姆已习惯了行军途中于马上小寐，并不难。提利昂知道我逃亡途中竟睡过去的一定会笑得前仰后合。醒醒吧，铁镣声还真让人厌烦。“小姐，”他喊，“行行好，把这些铁玩意儿砸开，咱们轮着划如何？”

　　她又皱眉了，露出马牙和那种怒冲冲的怀疑。“你得好好戴着镣铐。弑君者。”

　　“你打算自个儿划我们去君临呀，妞儿？”

　　“我叫布蕾妮，不叫妞儿。”

　　“我叫詹姆·兰尼斯特，不叫弑君者。”

　　“国王不是你杀的？”

　　“女人不是你当的？噢，别不承认，要不解开裤衩给我瞧瞧？”他无辜地笑笑，“可不能怪我呢，你的外表实在不能证明什么。”

　　克里奥爵士苦恼地说：“表哥，注意礼貌。”

　　这家伙身上兰尼斯特的血液相当稀薄。克里奥是吉娜姑妈和那愚钝的艾蒙·佛雷的长子，那呆子自打和泰温·兰尼斯特公爵的妹妹结婚起就生活在对泰温大人的恐惧中。。当初瓦德·佛雷侯爵率孪河城加入奔流城一方时，艾蒙爵士吓得只敢站在妻子这边。凯岩城多了个帮倒忙的蠢猪。克里奥爵士模样像头鼬，打起来像只鹅，勇气相当于比较勇敢的绵羊。凯特琳夫人答应把信带给提利昂就释放他，克里奥爵士便庄严起誓。

　　其实在黑牢里，他们都发了一堆誓，詹姆发的最多，这是凯特琳夫人为释放他们而索取的代价。她用那大块头妞儿的剑指着他的心窝：“发誓，你再不会拿起武器反对史塔克家族或徒利家族；发誓，你会迫使你弟弟兑现诺言，平安无恙地释放我的女儿们。以你身为骑士的荣誉，以你身为兰尼斯特的荣誉，以你身为御林铁卫的荣誉起誓。以你姐姐、你父亲、你儿子的性命，向新旧诸神起誓，然后我放你回你姐姐身边去。若不答应，休怪我白刀子进，红刀子出。”她转动长剑，锋利的尖头穿透褴褛衣衫，刺痛感至今记忆犹新。

　　总主教该如何评价一个喝得烂醉、被绑在墙上、用长剑指着胸膛的人所发下的誓言呢？詹姆并不真正关心那肥胖的骗子，或他所宣称服务的神灵，他想到的是凯特琳夫人在黑牢里踢翻的那个桶。奇怪的女人，肯将女儿的性命信托给把荣誉当狗屎的我？当然啦，其实她的希望是寄托在提利昂身上。“也许，说到底她不苯，”他大声道。

　　押他的人听错了，“我不是苯蛋。更不是聋子。”

　　他来了兴致，嘲弄她太容易，反正闲着也是闲着。“我自言自语呢，没说你，很抱歉，黑牢里容易养成坏习惯。”

　　她对他皱皱眉，推桨向前去，拉回来，再推向前，什么也没说。

　　她的嘴上工夫就同脸上的花容月貌一样。“以言谈判断，我认为你定有个高贵的出身。”

　　“我父亲是塔斯家的塞尔温，受神祝福的夜临城伯爵。”她勉强答道。

　　“塔斯，”詹姆复诵，“想起来了，狭海中一块荒凉的岩礁……说来，夜临城从属于风息堡，你怎投到临冬城的罗柏帐下去了呢？”

　　“我为凯特琳夫人效劳。她命我将你平安送到君临城里你弟弟提利昂那儿，不是和你斗嘴。给我安静一些。”

　　“哎哟，行行好，我受够了安静的滋味，小姐。”

　　“那就和克里奥爵士说去，我与怪物之间无话可谈。”

　　詹姆大叫大嚷：“怪物？在水下面？柳林里？啧啧，可我没带剑呀！”

　　“我指的是那个亵渎亲姐、杀害国王、并将无辜儿童扔下高塔的男人。”

　　无辜？那坏小子在偷窥我们。詹姆只想和瑟曦好好独处一个钟头。北地之行是场折磨：天天看到她，却不能碰她，每晚都见酩酊大醉的劳勃跌跌撞撞地走向吱吱作响的大轮宫，爬到她床上。提利昂尽全力逗他，但那远远不够。

　　“提到瑟曦礼貌点，妞儿。”他警告她。

　　“我叫布蕾妮，不叫妞儿。”

　　“哈，还关心怪物怎么称呼你呀？”

　　“我叫布蕾妮。”她像猎狗一样顽固地回答。

　　“布蕾妮小姐？”对方的不自在令詹姆好笑，“布蕾妮爵士？”他乐了。“不，我不那么想。你可以用皮带、织物把一头母牛从头到尾打扮好，还给她穿上好的丝衣当铠甲，但并不意味着可以骑她上战场哪。”

　　“詹姆表哥，求求你，别这么粗鲁。”斗篷下，克里奥爵士穿了件罩袍，上绣佛雷家的双塔和兰尼斯特家的雄狮的四分纹章。“路还很长，我们不能自相争吵。”

　　“想吵的时候我只用剑，老表，我和夫人聊天呢。告诉我，妞儿，你们塔斯的女人长得都跟你一样逊吗？我真为那边的男人遗憾，在海中央沉闷的岩石上居住，或许一辈子都不认得真正的女人。”

　　“塔斯是个美丽的岛屿，”妞儿边用力划水边咕哝，“蓝宝石之岛。给我安静，怪物，否则我塞住你的嘴巴。”

　　“瞧，她可够粗鲁，不是吗，老表？”詹姆问克里奥爵士。“我看她还有钢筋铁骨，事实上，没人敢当面叫我怪物。”尽管在背后都那样说，我毫不怀疑。

　　克里奥爵士不安地咳嗽二声。“布蕾妮小姐无疑听了很多关于凯岩城的流言。史塔克家不能在战场上打败你，爵士，所以散播恶语放冷箭。”

　　他们在战场上打败过我，你这没下巴的笨蛋。詹姆会意的笑了，人们可以从这样的虚伪笑容中体会出不同的含义。表弟克里奥爵士是真正吞下了那些狗屎，还是在竭力讨取欢心？他究竟是个怎样的人，诚实的笨蛋还是无耻的马屁精？

　　克里奥爵士欢快地续道，“有人竟相信御林铁卫会出手伤害孩子，根本就不明白荣誉的含义。”

　　马屁精。说真的，他后悔将布兰登·史塔克扔出窗户。那孩子奄奄一息时，瑟曦向詹姆沒完沒了地抱怨。“他才七岁，詹姆，”她痛斥他，“就算明白看到的事情，我们也可以吓吓他，让他闭嘴。”

　　“我不知道你想——”

　　“你从不用脑子。如果那孩子醒来告诉他父亲——”

　　“如果！如果！如果！”他拉她坐到膝盖上，“如果他醒了我们就说他在发梦，在骗人，倘若情况不妙，我宰了艾德·史塔克便是。”

　　“宰了艾德·史塔克？你有没想过劳勃会怎样？”

　　“劳勃想怎样就怎样，我又不怕他，连他一起杀，歌手说不定会写首名叫“瑟曦的阴道之战”的歌呢。”

　　“噢！滚开，詹姆！”她暴跳如雷，挣扎着想站起来。

　　他反而吻了她。起初她试图反抗，接着便将嘴巴顺从地张开。他记得她舌尖美酒和丁香的味道。她颤抖着。他扯开她的裙服，撕裂丝绸，露出乳房，再没人去管史塔克家的孩子……

　　事后瑟曦还惦记着那小孩，然后雇了凯特琳夫人说的那个人去保证他一睡不醒？不，想让他死，她一定会叫我去，至少不会雇如此拙劣的杀手。

　　下游，初升太阳的光芒照耀在清风吹拂的河面上。南岸都是丰润的红土，如道路般平整。条条小溪汇入大河，被浸没的腐败枝干还靠在岸边。北岸是一片荒野，耸立的山崖足有二十英尺高，上面长满桦树、栎树和栗树。詹姆发现前方高地上有座了望塔，正随船浆的划动而变高变大。但在到达之前，他就明白那儿已经荒废，塔身历经风吹日晒的石头上爬满了玫瑰花。

　　风向改变时，克里奥爵士帮那肥妞儿升帆。这是块红蓝条纹的硬三角布，徒利家的色彩，若遇上兰尼斯特家的部队肯定招惹麻烦，但这是他们仅有的帆。布蕾妮掌舵。詹姆扔出下风板，移动时铁镣嗒嗒作响。之后，行船速度快多了，风向和潮流都顺着他们。“你何不把我交给我父亲？大家乐得节省路程，”他指出。

　　“凯特琳夫人的女儿人在君临，我誓死也要带回她们。”

　　詹姆转向克里奥爵士，“表弟，匕首给我。”

　　“不行，”女人紧张起来，“决不给你武器。”她的口气如磐石般毫不妥协。

　　她怕我，即便是戴铁镣的我。“克里奥，看来不得不请你为我修面了。别动胡子，把头发剃掉。”

　　“剃成光头？”克里奥·佛雷诧异地问。

　　“全国上下众人皆知詹姆·兰尼斯特是个无须的金发骑士，一位留着肮脏黄胡子的秃头也许不会引人注目。当我戴着铁镣时，宁可不被认出。”

　　这匕首并不具备应有的锋利。克里奥拿它狠狠劈砍，裾开纠结的头发，将其扔到一旁。毫奢的金色卷发在水面飘荡，向船尾缓缓流去。乱发落下，一个虱子爬到他颈上，詹姆反手捉住，用拇指捏碎了它。克里奥爵士从头皮上捻起其他虱子，轻弹入河中。詹姆弄湿头颅，指点克里奥爵士磨利匕首，再把剩下的黄毛残株全刮去。完成之后，他们又认真修剪胡须。

　　倒影在水中的男人他根本不认识。不只秃头，黑牢的岁月使他看上去至少老了五岁：脸变消瘦，眼窝凹陷，外加从未有过的皱纹。我不再和瑟曦一模一样了。她会恨我的。

　　正午时分，克里奥爵士进入梦乡，发出的鼾声活象一对交配的野鸭。詹姆探头望向船尾渐渐消逝的世界。离开黑牢之后，每块岩石、每棵树都是奇境。

　　沿途不断越过许多简陋的单人木屋，它们由长长的细杆子支撑，看上去活象水鹤。没有居住的迹象，只有鸟儿在头顶飞来飞去，或于岸边的树枝上怪叫，詹姆还瞥见银鱼划过水面。徒利的鳟鱼，坏兆头，他心想，直到看见更糟的——好几根漂流的原木其中一根原来是苍白肿胀的尸体，身披的斗篷无疑为兰尼斯特的绯红。他思索这是否是他认识的人。

　　三叉戟河的支流为人、物穿行河间地提供了方便。和平年代，河上满是渔民小艇、运粮大船以及出买衣服和缝衣针的商人的浮船，甚至有涂得五颜六色、极其花哨的戏船——它们的风帆用超过半百不同颜色的布料缝成——向上游行驶，路过一个个村庄城堡。

　　战争带走了一切。他们经过村庄，却没看到村民。被砍破撕裂的空渔网挂在树上，算是渔人居住的唯一迹象。一个在河边饮马的小女孩瞥见风帆就全速逃走。嗣后他们经过一座被烧焦的塔楼，十来个农民在塔楼躯壳下的田地里掘土，用无神的眼光打量着小船，确定来者不是威胁后，便回到劳作中。

　　红叉河既宽且慢，蜿蜒的河道处处回环弯曲，缀满树木茂密的小岛和阻隔航道的沙洲，而水面以下暗礁点点。布蕾妮似乎极为敏锐，常能预知危险，发现通道。詹姆赞她江河知识丰富，她怀疑地看着他，“我不熟悉河流。但塔斯是个海岛，我学会骑马以前就懂得如何操桨弄帆。”

　　克里奥爵士坐起来，揉揉眼睛。“诸神在上，手臂好酸，风没停吧？”他嗅了嗅，“我闻到雨的气息。”

　　詹姆希望下场大雨。奔流城的黑牢可不是七国最干净的地方，现在的他闻起来定像块酸败的奶酪。

　　克里奥眯着眼望向下游，“烟。”

　　一根纤细的灰色手指弯弯曲曲地升起。烟柱在许多里外的南岸，盘旋升腾。在它下方，詹姆隐约看到一座大房子，旁边有棵挂满死女人的槲树。

　　这些尸体乌鸦还没开动，细细的绳索深深地勒进她们咽喉下柔软的皮肤，清风吹得她们转动摇摆。“这不是骑士风范的行为，”驶近看清之后，布蕾妮说，“真正的骑士决不会饶恕这般无耻的屠杀。”

　　“真正的骑士每次上战场都做得更糟糕，妞儿，”詹姆道，“这不过是小菜一碟。”

　　布蕾妮转舵朝岸驶去，“我不会让无辜的人被乌鸦吞噬。”

　　“好个没心肝的妞儿！乌鸦不是活神仙，也需要食物裹腹。走我们的路，留下这帮死鬼，傻女人。”

　　他们在那棵斜伸出水面的大栎树上方着陆。布蕾妮降下风帆，詹姆爬出去，镣铐让行动显得十分笨拙，红叉河水浸满他的鞋子，湿透他褴褛的马裤。他笑着跪下，把头深埋进水里，湿辘辘地甩荡。胳膊上都是结块的污泥，等仔细擦干净，这双手终于变回白皙纤细的模样。可他的腿僵得要命，几乎站不稳。妈的，我在霍斯特·徒利的黑牢里呆得太久了。

　　布蕾妮和克里奥把船拖上岸。尸体就挂在他们头上，散发出腐烂水果的气息。“得有人去把绳索砍断，”妞儿说。

　　“我来爬树，”詹姆叮叮当当地跋涉上岸，“先请你把镣铐去了。”

　　妞儿不理他，只目不转睛地凝视一具女尸。詹姆的脚镣才一尺长，只能迈着小碎步凑过去。当他看到悬得最高的那具尸体颈项上挂的粗牌子时，不由得哈哈大笑。“贱人与狮子同床。”他读道，“啊哈，是的，这完全不是骑士风范的行为……但是你们这边干的，不是我们的人。可怜的女人，到底造了什么孽唷？”

　　“她们是旅店小妹，”克里奥爵士说，“记得这儿曾是个旅店，我上回来奔流城，还带着队伍在此过夜。”如今这栋建筑除了石地基、倒塌的房梁及一些烧得焦黑的灰烬以外什么也没留下。轻烟从瓦砾堆中冒出来。

　　很久以前，詹姆就把妓女和情妇都留给提利昂去关心，他只有瑟曦一个女人。“看起来这些女孩取悦了我父亲大人的士兵们，也许给他们送过吃喝，所以得到了叛徒的颈圈——就为一个吻和一杯麦酒。”他向河的四周来回巡视，确定附近没人。“这里是布雷肯家的地盘，也许是杰诺斯大人亲自下的令。我父亲烧了他的城堡，恐怕他怀恨在心。”

　　“也可能是马柯·派柏所为，”克里奥爵士说，“或那个在森林里躲躲藏藏的贝里·唐德利恩，不过我听说他只杀士兵，不害平民。再或许是卢斯·波顿手下的北方人干的？”

　　“波顿在绿叉河上被我父亲打败了。”

　　“但没被消灭。”克里奥爵士道，“泰温大人向渡口进军时，他再度南下，若奔流城中的消息属实，他已从亚摩利·洛奇爵士手中夺取了赫伦堡。”

　　詹姆不喜欢这个消息，“布蕾妮，”他说，希望礼貌一点可以让她听听他的话，“如果波顿大人占领了赫伦堡，三叉戟河和国王大道都将遭到封锁。”

　　那双蓝色的大眼睛里似乎出现了一丝不确定。“你受我的保护，除非杀了我，否则谁也不能碰你。”

　　“我不认为这对他们能造成什么困扰。”

　　“我的武艺和你相当，”她防备地说，“我是蓝礼国王选中的七卫之一，他亲手将彩虹护卫的七色丝披风系在我的肩膀。”

　　“彩虹护卫？想必是个七仙女骑士团啰？有位歌手曾说穿丝袍的女人个个美丽……但他和你没照过面，对吧？”

　　女人脸红了。“我们还得掘墓。”她开始爬树。

　　她爬上树干，这棵槲树的下部分支大得可以让人站立。她手握匕首，穿行在树叶丛中，砍落尸首。躯体落下时，苍蝇一下子围过来，落下的尸体越多，臭气也越来越重。“正派人干嘛帮妓女埋尸呀？”克里奥爵士抱怨，“再说，也没工具掘土，瞧，没有铲子，我可不会用我的剑，我——”

　　布蕾妮惊叫一声，飞跳下树，“上船，快，远处有帆。”

　　他们全速撤退。詹姆跑不起来，只能由表弟拽回小船上。

　　布蕾妮推桨开船，匆忙升帆。“克里奥爵士，你和我一起划。”

　　表弟点头称是。这回小船比以前驶得更快，水流、风向和整齐的划动都帮着他们。带镣的詹姆无所事事，便竭力了望上游。风帆的尖头出现在视野里，红叉河回环时，隔着一片树林，它看起来就像在田野上向北方移动，而他们却在往南，但这只是假象。他手搭凉蓬，“褐红与水蓝。”。

　　布蕾妮的大嘴无声地蠕了蠕，活像头反刍的乳牛，“快，爵士。”

　　旅馆很快在身后消失，帆的尖头也不见了，但这并不意味着什么。一旦追踪者们越过回环，风帆会再度出现。“看来，咱们只能希望高贵的徒利家族停下来埋葬横死的妓女啰。”詹姆不敢想象被送回监牢的前景。如果提利昂在场，定有许多好计谋，而我惟一的念头就是操家伙和他们打。

　　此后大半个钟头，他们都在不安地探望追踪者，同时于不断出现的弯道和杂木丛生的小沙洲间潜行。正当以为或已摆脱了追赶的时候，远处的帆却终于出现。克里奥爵士停止划桨，“异鬼抓走他们！”他擦擦额头的汗珠。

　　“快！”布蕾妮催促。

　　“追兵是艘河上战船。”詹姆仔细观察后宣布，来船随着每次击桨，越变越大。“每边九支桨——十八个人。若甲板上还有士兵，就更麻烦。它的帆也比我们大，追上来只是时间问题。”

　　克里奥爵士僵住了。“十八个？”

　　“对，一人得料理六个。其实，八个对我而言都不成问题，只要没这些铁玩意儿妨碍。”詹姆举起手腕。“好心的布蕾妮小姐愿不愿放我呢？”

　　她没理他，把全副精力用在划船上。

　　“我们早出发半晚，”詹姆说，“他们天亮后才开始行动。就算中途收桨节约体力，划了这么长，也该精疲力尽，只是看着我们的帆带来动力而已，不会持续很久。我们可以干掉很多人。”

　　克里奥爵士张口结舌，“可……可他们有十八个。”

　　“不止，我猜有二十甚至二十五人。”

　　表弟呻吟起来，“我们毫无希望……”

　　“我说过有希望吗？我的意思是，最好结局就是手握长剑战死沙场。”没错，詹姆·兰尼斯特从来不怕死。

　　布蕾妮停止划船。汗水将她亚麻色的头发凝成一股一股，搭在前额，她更难看了。“你受我的保护，”她说，粗重的声音饱含怒火，几乎就是咆哮。

　　他为她的顽固而好笑。她真是只带乳头的猎狗——如果她那乳头也算乳头的话。“保护我啊，妞儿；或者放了我，让我自己保护自己。”

　　战船飞快驶向下游，如腾飞的巨大木蜻蜓。在木桨的疯狂击打下，周围的水成了乳白色。来船景象变得清晰，甲板上簇拥着人群，他们手中有金属的反光，詹姆还发现弓箭手的踪影。他恨弓箭手。

　　这横冲直撞的战船船头站有一位矮壮的秃顶男子，浓密的灰眉毛，强健的手臂。他在铠甲外穿了件白色旧罩袍，上绣一根淡绿垂柳，但斗篷是用徒利家的银鱼纹章扣系住的。罗宾·莱格爵士是奔流城的侍卫队长，年轻时出了名的强悍，但他的时代已然过去——他与霍斯特·徒利同年，外貌看起来却比主人更苍老。

　　两船相隔不到五十码时，詹姆围住嘴巴叫道：“来为我送行吗，罗宾爵士？”

　　“来送你回去，弑君者，”罗宾·莱格爵士大吼，“你的头发呢？”

　　“我希望自己多件法宝，靠头上的灿烂光芒影响敌人。瞧，这对你起作用了。”

　　罗宾爵士没被逗乐。小艇和大船之间的距离缩小到四十码。“把桨和武器扔到水里，我不会伤害任何人。”

　　克里奥爵士扭动起来。“詹姆，告诉他，是凯特琳夫人放了我们……交换俘虏，这是合法的……”

　　詹姆照实说明所有情况。“凯特琳·史塔克不是奔流城的统治者，”罗宾爵士吼回去。四个弓箭手挤到他旁边，两人站，两人跪，“把剑扔进河里。”

　　“我没有剑，”他答道，“如果有的话，我会捅穿你的肚子，再割下那四个胆小鬼的卵蛋。”

　　回应他的是一阵箭雨。其中一支猛扎在船桅上，另两支刺穿风帆，第四支差一尺射中詹姆。

　　红叉河的又一个大转弯就在眼前，布蕾妮把小艇转向弯道的方向。转弯时，甲板剧烈摇晃，撑满的帆劈啪作响。一个大沙洲矗立在河中央，主河道向右，而它和北岸的悬崖间只有一条狭窄的小道。布蕾妮掌舵向左驶去，帆布现着涟漪。詹姆望进她的眼睛。好漂亮的眼睛，他心想，充满镇静。他知道如何阅读男人的眼睛，如何发现其中的恐惧。而她充满了决心，丝毫没有绝望。

　　只剩三十码，大船也进入弯道。“克里奥爵士，掌舵，”妞儿命令，“弑君者，操桨，帮我们撑开岩石。”

　　“乐意为小姐效劳。”木桨虽不比铁剑，好歹可以打烂敌人的脸，还能挡开攻击。

　　克里奥爵士把桨塞到詹姆手中，爬向娓部。他们越过沙洲前端，向那小道剧烈转向，小艇倾斜时，激起的水柱击打在崖壁上。沙洲树木茂密，成群的柳树、栎树和高大的松树在激流中洒下长长的阴影，掩盖了暗礁和被淹没的腐败树干。左边的悬崖陡峭而凹凸，碎石和断屑从岩壁上不断下落，让底部的河流翻滚着白色泡沫。

　　他们从艳阳下进入黑影中，在这道树木组成的绿墙和灰棕色的石岩间，战船发现不了他们。不过是箭雨间的小小喘息，詹姆一边想，一边将船从半淹的巨石旁推开。

　　小艇突然摇晃。他听到轻柔的溅水声，回身扫视，布蕾妮已然消失。隔了半晌，他发现她正努力从悬崖下的水流中浮起来，涉过一个浅水池，爬过岩石，开始攀登。克里奥爵士目瞪口呆。蠢货，詹姆暗想。“别管那妞儿，”他厉声对表弟喝道，“掌好舵。”

　　他们看见树丛后的帆，河上战船完全驶进了小道入口，离他们还有二十五码。对方的船头挣扎摇晃，半打箭矢射出，每支都差得甚远。两船的晃动让弓箭手很难瞄准，但詹姆知道他们很快就能找回平衡。布蕾妮爬到了岩壁中间，正努力寻找落脚点，竭力登顶。罗格会发现她的，而一旦被他发现，她就将被弓箭手们射下来。詹姆希望老人的矜持会蒙蔽他的眼睛。“罗宾爵士，”他高喊，“我有话说。”

　　罗宾爵士举起一支手，弓箭手们放低长弓，“快说，弑君者，我没工夫浪费时间。”

　　詹姆呼喊时，小艇触到一大窝碎石，剧烈摇晃。“我提议一个更具建设意义的解决办法——一对一决斗，就你和我。”

　　“你以为我是刚出生的儿童，兰尼斯特？”

　　“不，我以为你是快呜呼的老鬼。”詹姆举起胳膊让其他人看见他的手铐，“我可以戴镣跟你打，你怕什么？”

　　“不怕你！爵士，如果我能选择，这方式再好不过，但给我的命令是尽可能将你生擒。弓箭手！”他发出信号，“搭箭，拉弓，放——”

　　距离不满二十码。弓箭手不会失手，不过当他们拉开长弓时，一阵鹅卵石的瀑布落在周围。小石块砸在甲板和舵上，弹入水中。懂得抬头的聪明人发现一块母牛般大的巨石从悬崖顶落了下来。罗宾爵士惊惶地呼喊。岩石坠入空中，撞上岩壁，裂成两半，猛冲而下。大的那块折断船桅，撕裂风帆，把两个弓箭手抛入水中，压碎了那些收起桨的桨手们的大腿。战船迅速进水，看来小的那块穿透了船体。岩壁反射着桨手们的惨叫，而弓箭手们在水流中狂乱地击打。依姿势看，没一个会游泳。詹姆笑了。

　　他们通过了小道，战船则沉入水里，旋转着搁在暗礁上。詹姆·兰尼斯特暗自感谢诸神保佑。罗宾爵士和这帮该死的弓箭手们得湿辘辘地走上好长一段返回奔流城了，而且他也同时摆脱了那个丑陋的肥妞儿。妙极了。等松开这些铁玩意儿……

　　克里奥爵士发出一声叫喊，詹姆抬头，看见布蕾妮站在前方远处的悬崖上。小船越过弯道进入河流时，她也走上边缘突出的石头，跳下岩壁，翻腾的动作真有几分优雅。这时候希望她脑袋撞上礁石实在煞风景。克里奥爵士把小船划过去。谢天谢地，我还留着木桨，等她游过来，当头一敲就永远摆脱掣肘。

　　他发现自己却把桨向水面伸了出去。布蕾妮紧紧抓住，詹姆把她拉上来，帮她爬进小艇，水从她头发和湿衣服上流下，在甲板上形成一个小水池。湿透的她更丑了。谁能猜到我会这样做呢？“该死的蠢妞，”他告诉她，“我们可以自己走的。你以为我会感激你？”

　　“我才不那么以为，弑君者。我只相信神圣的誓言，要把你平安带到君临去。”

　　“真的？”詹姆给了她最灿烂的笑容，“真是奇人一个。”

回到夏末之初(内阁元老)

地板 2016-03-30

CATELYN

CATELYN
Ser Desmond Grell had served House Tully all his life. He had been a squire when Catelyn was born, a knight when she learned to walk and ride and swim, master-at-arms by the day that she was wed. He had seen Lord Hoster’s little Cat become a young woman, a great lord’s lady, mother to a king. And now he has seen me become a traitor as well.
Her brother Edmure had named Ser Desmond castellan of Riverrun when he rode off to battle, so it fell to him to deal with her crime. To ease his discomfort he brought her father’s steward with him, dour Utherydes Wayn. The two men stood and looked at her; Ser Desmond stout, red-faced, embarrassed, Utherydes grave, gaunt, melancholy. Each waited for the other to speak. They have given their lives to my father’s service, and I have repaid them with disgrace, Catelyn thought wearily.
“Your sons,” Ser Desmond said at last. “Maester Vyman told us. The poor lads. Terrible. Terrible. But . . . ”
“We share your grief, my lady,” said Utherydes Wayn. “All Riverrun mourns with you, but . . . ”
“The news must have driven you mad,” Ser Desmond broke in, “a madness of grief, a mother’s madness, men will understand. You did not know . . . ”
“I did,” Catelyn said firmly. “I understood what I was doing and knew it was treasonous. If you fail to punish me, men will believe that we connived together to free Jaime Lannister. It was mine own act and mine alone, and I alone must answer for it. Put me in the Kingslayer’s empty irons, and I will wear them proudly, if that is how it must be.”
“Fetters?” The very word seemed to shock poor Ser Desmond. “For the king’s mother, my lord’s own daughter? Impossible.”
“Mayhaps,” said the steward Utherydes Wayn, “my lady would consent to be confined to her chambers until Ser Edmure returns. A time alone, to pray for her murdered sons?”
“Confined, aye,” Ser Desmond said. “Confined to a tower cell, that would serve.”
“If I am to be confined, let it be in my father’s chambers, so I might comfort him in his last days.”
Ser Desmond considered a moment. “Very well. You shall lack no comfort nor courtesy, but freedom of the castle is denied you. Visit the sept as you need, but elsewise remain in Lord Hoster’s chambers until Lord Edmure returns.”
“As you wish.” Her brother was no lord while their father lived, but Catelyn did not correct him. “Set a guard on me if you must, but I give you my pledge that I shall attempt no escape.”
Ser Desmond nodded, plainly glad to be done with his distasteful task, but sad-eyed Utherydes Wayn lingered a moment after the castellan took his leave. “It was a grave thing you did, my lady, but for naught. Ser Desmond has sent Ser Robin Ryger after them, to bring back the Kingslayer . . . Or failing that, his head.”
Catelyn had expected no less. May the Warrior give strength to your sword arm, Brienne, she prayed. She had done all she could; nothing remained but to hope.
Her things were moved into her father’s bedchamber, dominated by the great canopied bed she had been born in, its pillars carved in the shapes of leaping trout. Her father himself had been moved half a turn down the stair, his sickbed placed to face the triangular balcony that opened off his solar, from whence he could see the rivers that he had always loved so well.
Lord Hoster was sleeping when Catelyn entered. She went out to the balcony and stood with one hand on the rough stone balustrade. Beyond the point of the castle the swift Tumblestone joined the placid Red Fork, and she could see a long way downriver. If a striped sail comes from the east, it will be Ser Robin returning. For the moment the surface of the waters was empty. She thanked the gods for that, and went back inside to sit with her father.
Catelyn could not say if Lord Hoster knew that she was there, or if her presence brought him any comfort, but it gave her solace to be with him. What would you say if you knew my crime, Father? she wondered. Would you have done as I did, if it were Lysa and me in the hands of our enemies? Or would you condemn me too, and call it mother’s madness?
There was a smell of death about that room; a heavy smell, sweet and foul, clinging. It reminded her of the sons that she had lost, her sweet Bran and her little Rickon, slain at the hand of Theon Greyjoy, who had been Ned’s ward. She still grieved for Ned, she would always grieve for Ned, but to have her babies taken as well . . . ”It is a monstrous cruel thing to lose a child,” she whispered softly, more to herself than to her father.
Lord Hoster’s eyes opened. “Tansy,” he husked in a voice thick with pain.
He does not know me. Catelyn had grown accustomed to him taking her for her mother or her sister Lysa, but Tansy was a name strange to her. “It’s Catelyn,” she said. “It’s Cat, Father.”
“Forgive me . . . the blood . . . oh, please . . . Tansy . . . ”
Could there have been another woman in her father’s life? Some village maiden he had wronged when he was young, perhaps? Could he have found comfort in some serving wench’s arms after Mother died? It was a queer thought, unsettling. Suddenly she felt as though she had not known her father at all. “Who is Tansy, my lord? Do you want me to send for her, Father? Where would I find the woman? Does she still live?”
Lord Hoster groaned. “Dead.” His hand groped for hers. “You’ll have others . . . Sweet babes, and trueborn.”
Others? Catelyn thought. Has he forgotten that Ned is gone? Is he still talking to Tansy, or is it me now, or Lysa, or Mother?
When he coughed, the sputum came up bloody. He clutched her fingers. “. . Be a good wife and the gods will bless you . . . sons . . . trueborn sons . . . aaahhh.” The sudden spasm of pain made Lord Hoster’s hand tighten. His nails dug into her hand, and he gave a muffled scream.
Maester Vyman came quickly, to mix another dose of milk of the poppy and help his lord swallow it down. Soon enough, Lord Hoster Tully had fallen back into a heavy sleep.
“He was asking after a woman,” said Cat. “Tansy.”
“Tansy?” The maester looked at her blankly.
“You know no one by that name? A serving girl, a woman from some nearby village? Perhaps someone from years past?” Catelyn had been gone from Riverrun for a very long time.
“No, my lady. I can make inquiries, if you like. Utherydes Wayn would surely know if any such person ever served at Riverrun. Tansy, did you say? The smallfolk often name their daughters after flowers and herbs.” The maester looked thoughtful. “There was a widow, I recall, she used to come to the castle looking for old shoes in need of new soles. Her name was Tansy, now that I think on it. Or was it Pansy? Some such. But she has not come for many years . . . ”
“Her name was Violet,” said Catelyn, who remembered the old woman very well.
“Was it?” The maester looked apologetic. “My pardons, Lady Catelyn, but I may not stay. Ser Desmond has decreed that we are to speak to you only so far as our duties require.”
“Then you must do as he commands.” Catelyn could not blame Ser Desmond; she had given him small reason to trust her, and no doubt he feared that she might use the loyalty that many of the folk of Riverrun would still feel toward their lord’s daughter to work some further mischief. I am free of the war, at least, she told herself, if only for a little while.
After the maester had gone, she donned a woolen cloak and stepped out onto the balcony once more. Sunlight shimmered on the rivers, gilding the surface of the waters as they rolled past the castle. Catelyn shaded her eyes against the glare, searching for a distant sail, dreading the sight of one. But there was nothing, and nothing meant that her hopes were still alive.
All that day she watched, and well into the night, until her legs ached from the standing. A raven came to the castle in late afternoon, flapping down on great black wings to the rookery. Dark wings, dark words, she thought, remembering the last bird that had come and the horror it had brought.
Maester Vyman returned at evenfall to minister to Lord Tully and bring Catelyn a modest supper of bread, cheese, and boiled beef with horseradish. “I spoke to Utherydes Wayn, my lady. He is quite certain that no woman by the name of Tansy has ever been at Riverrun during his service.”
“There was a raven today, I saw. Has Jaime been taken again?” Or slain, gods forbid?
“No, my lady, we’ve had no word of the Kingslayer.”
“Is it another battle, then? is Edmure in difficulty? Or Robb? Please, be kind, put my fears at rest.”
“My lady, I should not . . . ” Vyman glanced about, as if to make certain no one else was in the room. “Lord Tywin has left the riverlands. All’s quiet on the fords.”
“Whence came the raven, then?”
“From the west,” he answered, busying himself with Lord Hoster’s bedclothes and avoiding her eyes.
“Was it news of Robb?”
He hesitated. “Yes, my lady.”
“Something is wrong.” She knew it from his manner. He was hiding something from her. “Tell me. Is it Robb? Is he hurt?” Not dead, gods be good, please do not tell me that he is dead.
“His Grace took a wound storming the Crag,” Maester Vyman said, still evasive, “but writes that it is no cause for concern, and that he hopes to return soon.”
“A wound? What sort of wound? How serious?”
“No cause for concern, he writes.”
“All wounds concern me. Is he being cared for?”
“I am certain of it. The maester at the Crag will tend to him, I have no doubt.”
“Where was he wounded?”
“My lady, I am commanded not to speak with you. I am sorry.” Gathering up his potions, Vyman made a hurried exit, and once again Catelyn was left alone with her father. The milk of the poppy had done its work, and Lord Hoster was sunk in heavy sleep. A thin line of spittle ran down from one corner of his open mouth to dampen his pillow. Catelyn took a square of linen and wiped it away gently. When she touched him, Lord Hoster moaned. “Forgive me,” he said, so softly she could scarcely hear the words. “Tansy . . . blood . . . the blood . . . gods be kind . . . ”
His words disturbed her more than she could say, though she could make no sense of them. Blood, she thought. Must it all come back to blood? Father, who was this woman, and what did you do to her that needs so much forgiveness?
That night Catelyn slept fitfully, haunted by formless dreams of her children, the lost and the dead. Well before the break of day, she woke with her father’s words echoing in her ears. Sweet babes, and trueborn . . . why would he say that, unless . . . could he have fathered a bastard on this woman Tansy? She could not believe it. Her brother Edmure, yes; it would not have surprised her to learn that Edmure had a dozen natural children. But not her father, not Lord Hoster Tully, never.
Could Tansy be some pet name he called Lysa, the way he called me Cat? Lord Hoster had mistaken her for her sister before. You’ll have others, he said. Sweet babes, and trueborn. Lysa had miscarried five times, twice in the Eyrie, thrice at King’s Landing . . . but never at Riverrun, where Lord Hoster would have been at hand to comfort her. Never, unless . . . unless she was with child, that first time . . .
She and her sister had been married on the same day, and left in their father’s care when their new husbands had ridden off to rejoin Robert’s rebellion. Afterward, when their moon blood did not come at the accustomed time, Lysa had gushed happily of the sons she was certain they carried. “Your son will be heir to Winterfell and mine to the Eyrie. Oh, they’ll be the best of friends, like your Ned and Lord Robert. They’ll be more brothers than cousins, truly, I just know it.” She was so happy.
But Lysa’s blood had come not long after, and all the joy had gone out of her. Catelyn had always thought that Lysa had simply been a little late, but if she had been with child . . .
She remembered the first time she gave her sister Robb to hold; small, red-faced, and squalling, but strong even then, full of life. No sooner had Catelyn placed the babe in her sister’s arms than Lysa’s face dissolved into tears. Hurriedly she had thrust the baby back at Catelyn and fled.
If she had lost a child before, that might explain Father’s words, and much else besides . . . Lysa’s match with Lord Arryn had been hastily arranged, and Jon was an old man even then, older than their father. An old man without an heir. His first two wives had left him childless, his brother’s son had been murdered with Brandon Stark in King’s Landing, his gallant cousin had died in the Battle of the Bells. He needed a young wife if House Arryn was to continue . . . a young wife known to be fertile.
Catelyn rose, threw on a robe, and descended the steps to the darkened solar to stand over her father. A sense of helpless dread filled her. “Father,” she said, “Father, I know what you did.” She was no longer an innocent bride with a head full of dreams. She was a widow, a traitor, a grieving mother, and wise, wise in the ways of the world. “You made him take her,” she whispered. “Lysa was the price Jon Arryn had to pay for the swords and spears of House Tully.”
Small wonder her sister’s marriage had been so loveless. The Arryns were proud, and prickly of their honor. Lord Jon might wed Lysa to bind the Tullys to the cause of the rebellion, and in hopes of a son, but it would have been hard for him to love a woman who came to his bed soiled and unwilling. He would have been kind, no doubt; dutiful, yes; but Lysa needed warmth.
The next day, as she broke her fast, Catelyn asked for quill and paper and began a letter to her sister in the Vale of Arryn. She told Lysa of Bran and Rickon, struggling with the words, but mostly she wrote of their father. His thoughts are all of the wrong he did you, now that his time grows short. Maester Vyman says he dare not make the milk of the poppy any stronger. It is time for Father to lay down his sword and shield. It is time for him to rest. Yet he fights on grimly, will not yield. It is for your sake, I think. He needs your forgiveness. The war has made the road from the Eyrie to Riverrun dangerous to travel, I know, but surely a strong force of knights could see you safely through the Mountains of the Moon? A hundred men, or a thousand? And if you cannot come, will you not write him at least? A few words of love, so he might die in peace? Write what you will, and I shall read it to him, and ease his way.
Even as she set the quill aside and asked for sealing wax, Catelyn sensed that the letter was like to be too little and too late. Maester Vyman did not believe Lord Hoster would linger long enough for a raven to reach the Eyrie and return. Though he has said much the same before . . . Tully men did not surrender easily, no matter the odds. After she entrusted the parchment to the maester’s care, Catelyn went to the sept and lit a candle to the Father Above for her own father’s sake, a second to the Crone, who had let the first raven into the world when she peered through the door of death, and a third to the Mother, for Lysa and all the children they had both lost.
Later that day, as she sat at Lord Hoster’s bedside with a book, reading the same passage over and over, she heard the sound of loud voices and a trumpet’s blare. Ser Robin, she thought at once, flinching. She went to the balcony, but there was nothing to be seen out on the rivers, but she could hear the voices more clearly from outside, the sound of many horses, the clink of armor, and here and there a cheer. Catelyn made her way up the winding stairs to the roof of the keep. Ser Desmond did not forbid me the roof, she told herself as she climbed.
The sounds were coming from the far side of the castle, by the main gate. A knot of men stood before the portcullis as it rose in jerks and starts, and in the fields beyond, outside the castle, were several hundred riders. When the wind blew, it lifted their banners, and she trembled in relief at the sight of the leaping trout of Riverrun. Edmure.
It was two hours before he saw fit to come to her. By then the castle rang to the sound of noisy reunions as men embraced the women and children they had left behind. Three ravens had risen from the rookery, black wings beating at the air as they took flight. Catelyn watched them from her father’s balcony. She had washed her hair, changed her clothing, and prepared herself for her brother’s reproaches . . . but even so, the waiting was hard.
When at last she heard sounds outside her door, she sat and folded her hands in her lap. Dried red mud spattered Edmure’s boots, greaves, and surcoat. To look at him, you would never know he had won his battle. He was thin and drawn, with pale cheeks, unkempt beard, and too-bright eyes.
“Edmure,” Catelyn said, worried, “you look unwell. Has something happened? Have the Lannisters crossed the river?”
“I threw them back. Lord Tywin, Gregor Clegane, Addam Marbrand, I turned them away. Stannis, though . . . ” He grimaced.
“Stannis? What of Stannis?”
“He lost the battle at King’s Landing,” Edmure said unhappily. “His fleet was burned, his army routed.”
A Lannister victory was ill tidings, but Catelyn could not share her brother’s obvious dismay. She still had nightmares about the shadow she had seen slide across Renly’s tent and the way the blood had come flowing out through the steel of his gorget. “Stannis was no more a friend than Lord Tywin.”
“You do not understand. Highgarden has declared for Joffrey. Dorne as well. All the south.” His mouth tightened. “And you see fit to loose the Kingslayer. You had no right.”
“I had a mother’s right.” Her voice was calm, though the news about Highgarden was a savage blow to Robb’s hopes. She could not think about that now, though.
“No right,” Edmure repeated. “He was Robb’s captive, your king’s captive, and Robb charged me to keep him safe.”
“Brienne will keep him safe. She swore it on her sword.”
“That woman?”
“She will deliver Jaime to King’s Landing, and bring Arya and Sansa back to us safely.”
“Cersei will never give them up.”
“Not Cersei. Tyrion. He swore it, in open court. And the Kingslayer swore it as well.”
“Jaime’s word is worthless. As for the Imp, it’s said he took an axe in the head during the battle. He’ll be dead before your Brienne reaches King’s Landing, if she ever does.”
“Dead?” Could the gods truly be so merciless? She had made Jaime swear a hundred oaths, but it was his brother’s promise she had pinned her hopes on.
Edmure was blind to her distress. “Jaime was my charge, and I mean to have him back. I’ve sent ravens—”
“Ravens to whom? How many?”
“Three,” he said, “so the message will be certain to reach Lord Bolton. By river or road, the way from Riverrun to King’s Landing must needs take them close by Harrenhal.”
“Harrenhal.” The very word seemed to darken the room. Horror thickened her voice as she said, “Edmure, do you know what you have done?”
“Have no fear, I left your part out. I wrote that Jaime had escaped, and offered a thousand dragons for his recapture.”
Worse and worse, Catelyn thought in despair. My brother is a fool. Unbidden, unwanted, tears filled her eyes. “If this was an escape,” she said softly, “and not an exchange of hostages, why should the Lannisters give my daughters to Brienne?”
“It will never come to that. The Kingslayer will be returned to us, I have made certain of it.”
“All you have made certain is that I shall never see my daughters again. Brienne might have gotten him to King’s Landing safely . . . so long as no one was hunting for them. But now . . . ” Catelyn could not go on. “Leave me, Edmure.” She had no right to command him, here in the castle that would soon be his, yet her tone would brook no argument. “Leave me to Father and my grief, I have no more to say to you. Go. Go.” All she wanted was to lie down, to close her eyes and sleep, and pray no dreams would come.

第二章凯特琳

　　戴斯蒙·格瑞尔爵士终其一生都在侍奉徒利家族。凯特琳诞生时，他只是个侍从；在她学会走路、骑马和游泳时，他当上骑士；在凯特琳出嫁那年，他成为教头。他看着霍斯特公爵的小凯特长成少女，当上大领主的夫人，变作国王的母亲。然而现在，他却目睹她成为叛徒。
　　弟弟艾德慕出征前任命戴斯蒙爵士为奔流城代理城主，所以他不得不前来处理她的罪行。为减轻不安，老骑士特地带上她父亲的总管，不善言谈的乌瑟莱斯·韦恩。两个大男人站在她面前，胖胖的戴斯蒙爵士涨红了脸、窘迫万分，瘦瘦的乌瑟莱斯则面色暗淡、眼神忧郁。两人都想等对方先开口。

　　他们把一生都献给了我父亲，而我带给他们的却是耻辱，凯特琳疲惫地想。

　　“您的孩子，”最后戴斯蒙爵士终于开口，“韦曼学士把情况都对我们说了。可怜的孩子，多悲惨，多悲惨，但是……”

　　“我们与您同感悲伤，夫人，”乌瑟莱斯·韦恩说，“奔流城内所有人都一样，但是……”

　　“这消息一定让您发了疯，”戴斯蒙爵士接着道，“为悲伤而疯狂，这是母亲的疯狂，男人们会理解的。可您不明白……”

　　“我什么都明白，”凯特琳坚定地说，“我明白我做过什么，我明白那是叛逆大罪。如果你不肯惩罚我，人们将会认为我们串通一气放走了詹姆·兰尼斯特。这事是我干的、我一个人干的，由我自己承担。给我戴上弑君者留下的镣铐吧，如果是那样，我会自豪地戴着它们.”

　　“镣铐？”这个词让可怜的戴斯蒙爵士震惊，“给国王的母亲，我们公爵大人的亲生女儿？不可能。”

　　“也许，”管家乌瑟莱斯·韦恩说，“夫人可以禁闭自己，直到艾德慕爵士归来。您可否独处一段时间，以为自己被谋害的孩子们祈祷？”

　　“禁闭，是的，”戴斯蒙爵士赶紧道，“住在塔顶房间，我们为您安排。”

　　“如果要禁闭我，请准我待在父亲的卧室，好让我在他最后的日子里给他些许安慰。”

　　戴斯蒙爵士考虑了一会，“很好。您会受到礼遇，住得舒适，但不得在城堡内自由活动。如果您想要，可以去圣堂，但在艾德慕公爵返回之前别的地方都不能去。”

　　“如你所愿。”弟弟在父亲归天以前根本不是什么公爵，凯特琳懒得去纠正他，“你可以派守卫看守我，但我向你承诺，我决不会逃跑。”

　　戴斯蒙爵士点点头，为能完成这尴尬的任务而形喜于色。眼神沉痛的乌瑟莱斯·韦恩在代理城主离开后多呆了一会，“您干了一件非常可怕的事，夫人，可这件事毫无意义。戴斯蒙爵士已命罗宾·莱格爵士前去追赶，要活捉弑君者……倘若不行，就把他人头带回。”

　　这点凯特琳早已料到。战士啊，请赐予她力量，布蕾妮，希望你别辜负我，她如此祈祷。她已经做了力所能及的一切，除了期望，再没什么能做的了。

　　人们把她的物品搬到父亲的卧室，卧室中有一张带巨遮罩的大床——她便是在这出生的——床柱被雕成跳跃鳟鱼的形状。早先父亲将床移下一半台阶，面对着卧室外的三角阳台，以便观看他一辈子钟爱的河流。

　　凯特琳进门时，霍斯特公爵正在熟睡。于是她走到外面的阳台，一只手放在粗糙的石栏杆上。城堡夹角处，迅猛的腾石河注入宁静的红叉河，越过交汇点，她可以眺望很远的下游。若有条纹风帆的船从东方出现，定是罗宾·莱格爵士无疑。但暂时水面什么也没有，她为此感谢诸神，然后回到父亲身旁坐下。

　　凯特琳不知霍斯特公爵是否明白她的存在，或者能否带给他安慰，她只知道陪伴他能予自己以慰籍。如果你知道我刚犯下的罪过，会怎么说呢，父亲？她思索，如果我和莱莎落在敌人手中，你会做出一样的行为吗？你会谴责我，称其为母亲的疯狂吗？

　　房间里充斥着死亡的气息，浓重、甜腻而腐败，附在空气里。这让她想到失去的孩子，她的甜心布兰和小瑞肯，他们都被奈德的养子席恩·葛雷乔伊给杀了。她一直沉浸在失去奈德的悲伤中，从来都无法摆脱，而今又加上两个宝贝……“失去孩子，是多么可怕而残忍的事啊。”她轻声呢喃，更像是自言自语，而不是说给父亲听。

　　霍斯特公爵的眼睛却陡然张开。“艾菊，”他嘶哑的声音中带着深深的苦痛。

　　他没认出我。凯特琳已经开始习惯被他当做她母亲或妹妹莱莎，但“艾菊”对她而言还是个陌生名字。“我是凯特琳，”她说，“凯特啊，父亲。”

　　“原谅我……那鲜血……噢，求你……艾菊……”

　　难道父亲生命中还有另一个女人？他年轻时候对不起某位乡下少女？还是母亲死后他在某个女仆怀中找到过慰藉？这些想法十分奇怪，让人不安，突然间她觉得自己并不真正了解父亲。“谁是艾菊，大人？你想让我把她找来吗，爸爸？我该上哪儿去找她？她还活着吗？”

　　霍斯特公爵呻吟，“死了。”他的手摸索过来，“但没有关系，你会再怀上的……怀上一群乖宝宝，嫡生的宝宝。”

　　再怀上？凯特琳心想，什么意思？莫非他忘了奈德已死？他是一直在和“艾菊”对话，还是在对我说，再或者对象是莱莎或妈妈？

　　他咳嗽起来，血沫飞溅，手指却握得更紧。“……当个好妻子，诸神会保佑你……会有孩子……嫡生的孩子……啊啊啊赫赫赫，”突发地、伴随着痛苦的痉挛让霍斯特公爵手臂绷紧，他的指甲抠进她手掌，他发出一声窒息的尖叫。

　　韦曼师傅立即进门，调好另一剂罂粟花奶，帮他的领主灌下去。片刻之后，霍斯特·徒利公爵重新陷入沉眠。

　　“他在呼唤一个女人，”凯特说，“一个叫艾菊的女人。”

　　“艾菊？”学士茫然地盯着她。

　　“连你也不知道？我猜是某个女仆，或者附近村庄里的姑娘，再或许是某位故人？”凯特琳已经离开奔流城很久很久了。

　　“不，我不记得，夫人，如果您想要的话，我可以去调查一下。乌瑟莱斯·韦恩清楚在奔流城当过奴仆的每个人的底细。艾菊，是这个名字？老百姓喜欢用鲜花或草药的名字来为女儿命名，”学士沉呤半晌，“曾有个寡妇，我想起来了，常到城堡来回收需换鞋底的旧鞋。她似乎叫艾菊，让我再想想看，也许叫兰花？就是这类名字。但她已有多年没来过了呀……”

　　“她叫紫罗兰，”凯特琳说，对这女人她有记忆。

　　“是吗？”学士有些抱歉。“请原谅，凯特琳夫人，我不能待在这儿。戴斯蒙爵士向我们明确宣布，除非与职责相关，否则不能和你说话。”

　　“那你应该遵令行事。”她无法指责戴斯蒙爵士，一切都是她自作自受，毫无疑问，代理城主担心她利用奔流城中众人对领主之女的忠诚去继续干蠢事。至少我摆脱了战争，她告诉自己，尽管只有一小会儿。

　　学士离开后，她披上一件羊毛斗篷，再度踱回阳台。阳光洒在河面上，河水奔腾流过城堡，灿灿生辉。她用手遮档光线，极目眺望远处的风帆，深深地畏惧着可能看到的的景象。但什么也没有，什么也没有代表着希望依旧存在。

　　她望了一天，一直站到夜晚，直到双腿酸痛得无法直立。下午晚些时候，有只乌鸦飞回城堡，拍打着巨大的黑翅膀进入鸦巢。黑色的翅膀、带来黑色的消息，她心想，一边回忆起上只乌鸦所带来的恐怖。

　　夜幕降临时，韦曼学士进房为徒利公爵作护理，同时给凯特琳捎来一顿简朴的晚餐，包括面包、奶酪和山葵煮的牛肉。“我跟乌瑟莱斯·韦恩谈过了，夫人。他十分确定在他为奔流城服务期间，绝对没有一个叫艾菊的女仆。”

　　“我看见今天有只乌鸦返回。抓到詹姆了吗？”难道他已被杀了？噢，诸神慈悲。

　　“不，夫人，我们没有收到关于弑君者的消息。”

　　“那是别的战斗？艾德慕有麻烦？或是罗柏？求求你，发发慈悲，不要让我如此恐慌。”

　　“夫人，我不能……”韦曼四下扫视，好似在确认没有旁人监视。“是这样，泰温公爵离开了河间地，所有渡口都恢复平静。”

　　“请问：乌鸦从哪边来？”

　　“西边，”他答道，一边手忙脚乱地打理霍斯特公爵的睡衣以避开她的目光。

　　“是关于罗柏的消息？”

　　他犹豫了一下，“是，夫人。”

　　“他有麻烦，”从对方的表情和行动中，她明白他在刻意隐瞒什么。“快告诉我！罗柏出事了吗？他受伤了吗？”千万别死啊，诸神在上，求求你们，千万别告诉我他已经死了。

　　“陛下攻打峭岩城时负了伤。”韦曼师傅说，仍旧回避着凯特琳的眼睛，“他信中说是小伤，不值得牵挂，很快就要班师回来。”

　　“受伤？什么伤？有多严重？”

　　“他说是不值得牵挂的小伤。”

　　“胡说！所有的伤我都非常牵挂。他得到精心照料了吗？”

　　“请您放心，卡格城的师傅会照顾他，这毫无疑问。”

　　“他伤在那儿？”

　　“夫人，我奉命不得和您谈话，很抱歉。”收拾好药瓶后，韦曼匆匆离去，凯特琳再度和父亲独处。罂粟花奶发挥了效用，霍斯特公爵沉浸在酣睡中。一条薄薄的唾沫从张开的嘴角里流出来，弄湿了枕头。凯特琳折好一块麻布，将唾沫轻柔地擦掉，当她碰他时，霍斯特公爵又开始呻吟。“原谅我，”他说，声音轻得让她几乎无法分辨字句，“艾菊……鲜血……那鲜血……诸神在上……”

　　尽管她并不明白他究竟在说什么，但他的话语令她意外地困扰。鲜血，她心想，所有一切都归结于鲜血？父亲，这女人是谁，你对她做了什么，以至到现在都还祈求她的原谅？

　　当晚，凯特琳睡得时断时续，不断作着关于她孩子们的梦，失去的孩子和死掉的孩子，各种各样的噩梦。破晓之前很久，她突然为父亲的话所惊醒。乖宝宝，嫡生的宝宝……他为何那样说，除非……除非他和这叫艾菊的女人有了私生子？她不相信。若是弟弟艾德慕，一打私生子她都不奇怪。但父亲不会，霍斯特公爵不会，绝对不会。

　　难道艾菊是他对莱莎的某种昵称，正如他叫我凯特？我从南方返回奔流城那次，他就把我和妹妹弄混了。你会再怀上的……怀上一群乖宝宝，嫡生的宝宝。莱莎流产过五次，其中在鹰巢城两次，君临三次……但在奔流城从来没有，怎么可能？这儿霍斯特公爵可以亲自照顾她。除非……除非她怀过孩子，在她的初次……

　　她和妹妹于同一天结婚，但她们的丈夫新婚燕尔就抛下妻子前去参加劳勃的叛军，把她们留给父亲照料。当她们的月经不再定时到来，莱莎认定她俩都怀了孩子，并为此陷入无比的喜悦中。“你的儿子会是临冬城继承人，而我的呢，会是鹰巢城公爵。噢，他们会成为最好的朋友，就象你的奈德和劳勃大人，真的，他们会比亲兄弟更紧密，我就是知道。”当年的她好开心啊。

　　但莱莎的经血不久又回来了，她所有的欢乐也随之而逝。凯特琳一直认为莱莎只是那次月经来得有点迟，如果她真怀过孩子……

　　她还记得头一次将宝宝放到妹妹怀中的情景，当时的罗柏好小啊，虽然红着脸，号哭个不停，却强壮，充满生命和活力。看到他，莱莎脸上爬满泪痕。她匆忙将孩子推回凯特琳怀中，飞奔而去。

　　如果在此之前她失去过一个孩子，就足以解释父亲的言语，以及其他一些事……莱莎和艾林公爵的婚姻安排得非常匆忙，当年的琼恩就已是老人了，比她们父亲的年纪还大。但他是一个没有继承人的老人。他前两任妻子都没给他留下子嗣，他的外甥和布兰登·史塔克一起死在君临，他英勇的表兄在“鸣钟之役”中阵亡。若要延续艾林家族，他需要一个年轻妻子……一个确能生产的年轻妻子。

　　凯特琳起身脱掉长袍，走上台阶，没入黑暗之中，暂时远离父亲。无边恐怖充斥在她心底。“父亲，”她说，“父亲，我明白了。”她已不再是那个满脑子白日梦的纯洁新娘，她成了寡妇、成了叛徒、成了悲伤的母亲，但也更加懂事，对这个世界的世态炎凉瞧得一清二楚。“你逼他娶了她，”她低语道，“莱莎就是琼恩·艾林为获得徒利家族的军队所必须付出的代价。”

　　难怪妹妹的婚姻如此乏味。艾林家族素来骄傲，非常珍惜自己的荣誉。琼恩公爵或能为促成徒利家族加入叛乱事业而迎娶莱莎，同时也期望彼此产下子嗣，但要他爱上一个被玷污过、而且是不情愿地和他上床的女人实在太难。他心地善良，富有责任感，这些都毫无疑问，可莱莎需要的是温暖。

　　第二天早餐时，凯特琳要来鹅毛笔和纸，开始给身处艾林谷的妹妹写信。虽然字字都难以下笔，她还是把布兰和瑞肯的事原原本本地告诉了莱莎，但说的最多的还是她们的父亲。他满脑子想的都是对你干下的错事，而他的时间已经不多。韦曼师傅告诉我，他不敢再调更高剂量的罂粟花奶。是父亲与他的剑和盾长眠在一起的时候了，是他休息的时候了。可他还竭力斗争，不愿倒下，我想，这都是因为你，因为他渴望你的原谅。战火纷飞，鹰巢城和奔流城之间十分危险，对此我很明白，但你可否让一大队骑士护卫着穿越明月山脉呢？带上一百个骑士，一千个骑士，行不行？假如你真的不能来，至少给他写封信，好吗？写几句爱恋的话语，让他平静的死去？你总可以随便写写，我会亲自读给他听，让他安详地离开。

　　甚至在搁笔封蜡时，凯特琳就已经感到这封信太渺小也太迟了。韦曼学士认为霍斯特公爵撑不过乌鸦往返鹰巢城的时间。尽管父亲以前常说……不论机会多么渺茫，徒利家的人从不轻易屈服。把羊皮纸托付给学士之后，凯特琳去了圣堂，在天父面前为父亲点上一根蜡烛，另一根献给老妪，是她透过生死之门向世界窥视时把第一只乌鸦送到人间，第三根给了圣母，为的是莱莎和她们所失去的孩子们。

　　当天晚些时候，当她坐在霍斯特公爵床边翻来覆去地看同一本书的同一页时，远处有喧哗传来，伴随着“嘟嘟”的喇叭声。罗宾爵士回来了，她立即想到，心中无比恐惧。她奔向阳台，只见河面依旧空无一物，而远方的声音却越来越清晰，那是无数马匹的嘶鸣，铠甲的叮当以及此起彼伏的欢呼。凯特琳赶紧登上弯曲的楼梯，来到堡顶观察。戴斯蒙爵士并没有禁止我上堡顶，她边爬边告诉自己。

　　声音发源于城堡远端的正门处。一大群人站在闸门前，等着它颠簸上升，城外的旷野里，大约聚集了数百名骑士。朔风吹起，旗帜飘扬，看到奔流城跳跃鳟鱼的徽记，她颤抖的心才得到平息。原来是艾德慕。

　　两小时后，他才过来见她。这期间，城堡里回荡着团聚的欢笑，男人和女人拥抱，父亲和孩子拥抱。三只乌鸦从鸦巢中放出，舞动着黑色的翅膀，腾空而去。凯特琳站在父亲的阳台上望着它们。她重新梳洗过头发，换好干净衣服，准备接受弟弟的责备……即便如此，等待依旧难熬。

　　终于，门外传来声响，她连忙坐下，把手放在膝盖上。干涸的褐泥溅满艾德慕的靴子、护胫和罩袍。看着他的样子，你难以想象他是得胜归来的将军。他变瘦了，精神憔悴，面颊苍白，边幅不整，眼窝深陷。

　　“艾德慕，”凯特琳担忧地问道，“你看来很不舒服。发生了什么事？兰尼斯特军过河了吗？”

　　“我把他们赶了回去。泰温大人，格雷果·克里冈、亚当·马尔布兰……统统都打不过我。可，可是，史坦尼斯他……”他的脸皱成一团。

　　“史坦尼斯？史坦尼斯怎么了？”

　　“他在君临一败涂地。”艾德慕闷闷不乐地说，“舰艇被焚毁，军队溃散覆灭。”

　　兰尼斯特的胜利是坏消息，但凯特琳不若弟弟那么失望。她忘不了那些关于影子的噩梦，忘不了影子潜入蓝礼的帐篷，在钢铁闪耀的那一刹那，他的血从护喉甲里涌出。“史坦尼斯和泰温公爵一样，不是我们的朋友。”

　　“你根本不懂。高庭已宣誓效忠乔佛里，多恩也一样，整个南方都一样。”他的嘴紧抿在一起。“而你竟然放走了弑君者！你没这个权利。”

　　“作为母亲，我为什么没这个权利？”她语调平静。其实她心中明白高庭的倒戈对罗柏的事业是个沉重的打击，但眼下不能分心。

　　“你没这个权利，”艾德慕重复，“他是罗柏的俘虏，你的国王的俘虏，罗柏让我保证他的安全。”

　　“布蕾妮会保护他，她用她的剑向我发了誓。”

　　“就凭那个女人？”

　　“她会将詹姆送到君临，然后把艾莉亚和珊莎平安地带回来。”

　　“你以为瑟曦是傻瓜？”

　　“我没有指望瑟曦，我想到的是提利昂。他在朝堂上发过誓，弑君者同样对我发了誓。”

　　“詹姆的话一钱不值。至于小恶魔，据说他头上挨了一斧，多半在你的布蕾妮赶到君临以前就得死掉——如果她到得了的话。”

　　“死掉？”诸神真的如此残酷？她逼詹姆发了上百道誓言，但真正的希望其实寄托在他弟弟身上。

　　艾德慕无视她的痛苦，“看守詹姆是我的职责，我会把他抓回来。我已送出乌鸦——”

　　“给谁？送了几只？”

　　“送了三只，”他说，“以确保消息传达到波顿大人那边。无论走陆路还是水路，去君临都必须接近赫伦堡。”

　　“赫伦堡，”这个词让房间刹时黯淡下来。恐惧让她的声音变得粗浊了许多，“艾德慕，你知道自己干了什么吗？”

　　“别害怕，我把你排除在外。在信中，我只说詹姆业已自行潜逃，并悬赏一千金龙以捕获他。”

　　错上加错，凯特琳绝望地想，我弟弟是个白痴。她的泪水不争气地盈满眼眶。“如果他是私自脱逃，”她轻声说，“而不是作为被交换的俘虏，兰尼斯特家怎可能把我的女儿们交给布蕾妮？”

　　“这你不用担心，因为根本走不到那一步。就凭撒下的天罗地网，我可以保证，弑君者休想逃脱。”

　　“你可以保证我永远见不到我的女儿！布蕾妮本来也许能把他安全带到君临……只要无人搜捕，可现在……”凯特琳说不下去了，“走开，艾德慕。”她没有命令他的权力，而这座城堡过不多久就将彻底属于他，但此刻她的语调不容争议，“把我留给父亲和悲伤，我再没什么同你说的了。走开，走开。”她只想立刻躺下，闭上眼睛，陷入沉睡，祈祷噩梦不要到来。

回到夏末之初(内阁元老)

4楼 2016-03-30

ARYA
The sky was as black as the walls of Harrenhal behind them, and the rain fell soft and steady, muffling the sound of their horses’ hooves and running down their faces.
They rode north, away from the lake, following a rutted farm road across the torn fields and into the woods and streams. Arya took the lead, kicking her stolen horse to a brisk heedless trot until the trees closed in around her. Hot Pie and Gendry followed as best they could. Wolves howled off in the distance, and she could hear Hot Pie’s heavy breathing. No one spoke. From time to time Arya glanced over her shoulder, to make sure the two boys had not fallen too far behind, and to see if they were being pursued.
They would be, she knew. She had stolen three horses from the stables and a map and a dagger from Roose Bolton’s own solar, and killed a guard on the postern gate, slitting his throat when he knelt to pick up the worn iron coin that Jaqen H’ghar had given her. Someone would find him lying dead in his own blood, and then the hue and cry would go up. They would wake Lord Bolton and search Harrenhal from crenel to cellar, and when they did they would find the map and the dagger missing, along with some swords from the armory, bread and cheese from the kitchens, a baker boy, a ’prentice smith, and a cupbearer called Nan . . . or Weasel, or Arry, depending on who you asked.
The Lord of the Dreadfort would not come after them himself. Roose Bolton would stay abed, his pasty flesh dotted with leeches, giving commands in his whispery soft voice. His man Walton might lead the hunt, the one they called Steelshanks for the greaves he always wore on his long legs. Or perhaps it would be slobbery Vargo Hoat and his sellswords, who named themselves the Brave Companions. Others called them Bloody Mummers (though never to their faces), and sometimes the Footmen, for Lord Vargo’s habit of cutting off the hands and feet of men who displeased him.
If they catch us, he’ll cut off our hands and feet, Arya thought, and then Roose Bolton will peel the skin off us. She was still dressed in her page’s garb, and on the breast over her heart was sewn Lord Bolton’s sigil, the flayed man of the Dreadfort.
Every time she looked back, she half expected to see a blaze of torches pouring out the distant gates of Harrenhal or rushing along the tops of its huge high walls, but there was nothing. Harrenhal slept on, until it was lost in darkness and hidden behind the trees.
When they crossed the first stream, Arya turned her horse aside and led them off the road, following the twisting course of the water for a quarter-mile before finally scrambling out and up a stony bank. If the hunters brought dogs, that might throw them off the scent, she hoped. They could not stay on the road. There is death on the road, she told herself, death on all the roads.
Gendry and Hot Pie did not question her choice. She had the map, after all, and Hot Pie seemed almost as terrified of her as of the men who might be coming after them. He had seen the guard she’d killed. It’s better if he’s scared of me, she told herself. That way he’ll do like I say, instead of something stupid.
She should be more frightened herself, she knew. She was only ten, a skinny girl on a stolen horse with a dark forest ahead of her and men behind who would gladly cut off her feet. Yet somehow she felt calmer than she ever had in Harrenhal. The rain had washed the guard’s blood off her fingers, she wore a sword across her back, wolves were prowling through the dark like lean grey shadows, and Arya Stark was unafraid. Fear cuts deeper than swords, she whispered under her breath, the words that Syrio Forel had taught her, and Jaqen’s words too, valar morghulis.
The rain stopped and started again and stopped once more and started, but they had good cloaks to keep the water off. Arya kept them moving at a slow steady pace. It was too black beneath the trees to ride any faster; the boys were no horsemen, neither one, and the soft broken ground was treacherous with half-buried roots and hidden stones. They crossed another road, its deep ruts filled with runoff, but Arya shunned it. Up and down the rolling hills she took them, through brambles and briars and tangles of underbrush, along the bottoms of narrow gullies where branches heavy with wet leaves slapped at their faces as they passed.
Gendry’s mare lost her footing in the mud once, going down hard on her hindquarters and spilling him from the saddle, but neither horse nor rider was hurt, and Gendry got that stubborn look on his face and mounted right up again. Not long after, they came upon three wolves devouring the corpse of a fawn. When Hot Pie’s horse caught the scent, he shied and bolted. Two of the wolves fled as well, but the third raised his head and bared his teeth, prepared to defend his kill. “Back off,” Arya told Gendry. “Slow, so you don’t spook him.” They edged their mounts away, until the wolf and his feast were no longer in sight. Only then did she swing about to ride after Hot Pie, who was clinging desperately to the saddle as he crashed through the trees.
Later they passed through a burned village, threading their way carefully between the shells of blackened hovels and past the bones of a dozen dead men hanging from a row of apple trees. When Hot Pie saw them he began to pray, a thin whispered plea for the Mother’s mercy, repeated over and over. Arya looked up at the fleshless dead in their wet rotting clothes and said her own prayer. Ser Gregor, it went, Dunsen, Polliver, Raff the Sweetling. The Tickler and the Hound. Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn, King Joffrey, Queen Cersei. She ended it with valar morghulis, touched Jaqen’s coin where it nestled under her belt, and then reached up and plucked an apple from among the dead men as she rode beneath them. It was mushy and overripe, but she ate it worms and all.
That was the day without a dawn. Slowly the sky lightened around them, but they never saw the sun. Black turned to grey, and colors crept timidly back into the world. The soldier pines were dressed in somber greens, the broadleafs in russets and faded golds already beginning to brown. They stopped long enough to water the horses and eat a cold, quick breakfast, ripping apart a loaf of the bread that Hot Pie had stolen from the kitchens and passing chunks of hard yellow cheese from hand to hand.
“Do you know where we’re going?” Gendry asked her.
“North,” said Arya.
Hot Pie peered around uncertainly. “Which way is north?”
She used her cheese to point. “That way.”
“But there’s no sun. How do you know?”
“From the moss. See how it grows mostly on one side of the trees? That’s south.”
“What do we want with the north?” Gendry wanted to know.
“The Trident.” Arya unrolled the stolen map to show them. “See? Once we reach the Trident, all we need to do is follow it upstream till we come to Riverrun, here.” Her finger traced the path. “It’s a long way, but we can’t get lost so long as we keep to the river.”
Hot Pie blinked at the map. “Which one is Riverrun?”
Riverrun was painted as a castle tower, in the fork between the flowing blue lines of two rivers, the Tumblestone and the Red Fork. “There.” She touched it. “Riverrun, it reads.”
“You can read writing?” he said to her, wonderingly, as if she’d said she could walk on water.
She nodded. “We’ll be safe once we reach Riverrun.”
“We will? Why?”
Because Riverrun is my grandfather’s castle, and my brother Robb will be there, she wanted to say. She bit her lip and rolled up the map. “We just will. But only if we get there.” She was the first one back in the saddle. It made her feel bad to hide the truth from Hot Pie, but she did not trust him with her secret. Gendry knew, but that was different. Gendry had his own secret, though even he didn’t seem to know what it was.
That day Arya quickened their pace, keeping the horses to a trot as long as she dared, and sometimes spurring to a gallop when she spied a flat stretch of fleld before them. That was seldom enough, though; the ground was growing hillier as they went. The hills were not high, nor especially steep, but there seemed to be no end of them, and they soon grew tired of climbing up one and down the other, and found themselves following the lay of the land, along streambeds and through a maze of shallow wooded valleys where the trees made a solid canopy overhead.
From time to time she sent Hot Pie and Gendry on while she doubled back to try to confuse their trail, listening all the while for the first sign of pursuit. Too slow, she thought to herself, chewing her lip, we’re going too slow, they’ll catch us for certain. Once, from the crest of a ridge, she spied dark shapes crossing a stream in the valley behind them, and for half a heartbeat she feared that Roose Bolton’s riders were on them, but when she looked again she realized they were only a pack of wolves. She cupped her hands around her mouth and howled down at them, “Ahooooooooo, ahooooooooo.” When the largest of the wolves lifted its head and howled back, the sound made Arya shiver.
By midday Hot Pie had begun to complain. His arse was sore, he told them, and the saddle was rubbing him raw inside his legs, and besides he had to get some sleep. “I’m so tired I’m going to fall off the horse.”
Arya looked at Gendry. “If he falls off, who do you think will find him first, the wolves or the Mummers?”
“The wolves,” said Gendry. “Better noses.”
Hot Pie opened his mouth and closed it. He did not fall off his horse. The rain began again a short time later. They still had not seen so much as a glimpse of the sun. It was growing colder, and pale white mists were threading between the pines and blowing across the bare burned flelds.
Gendry was having almost as bad a time of it as Hot Pie, though he was too stubborn to complain. He sat awkwardly in the saddle, a determined look on his face beneath his shaggy black hair, but Arya could tell he was no horseman. I should have remembered, she thought to herself. She had been riding as long as she could remember, ponies when she was little and later horses, but Gendry and Hot Pie were city-born, and in the city smallfolk walked. Yoren had given them mounts when he took them from King’s Landing, but sitting on a donkey and plodding up the kingsroad behind a wagon was one thing. Guiding a hunting horse through wild woods and burned fields was something else.
She would make much better time on her own, Arya knew, but she could not leave them. They were her pack, her friends, the only living friends that remained to her, and if not for her they would still be safe at Harrenhal, Gendry sweating at his forge and Hot Pie in the kitchens. If the Mummers catch us, I’ll tell them that I’m Ned Stark’s daughter and sister to the King in the North. I’ll command them to take me to my brother, and to do no harm to Hot Pie and Gendry. They might not believe her, though, and even if they did . . . Lord Bolton was her brother’s bannerman, but he frightened her all the same. I won’t let them take us, she vowed silently, reaching back over her shoulder to touch the hilt of the sword that Gendry had stolen for her. I won’t.
Late that afternoon, they emerged from beneath the trees and found themselves on the banks of a river. Hot Pie gave a whoop of delight. “The Trident! Now all we have to do is go upstream, like you said. We’re almost there!”
Arya chewed her lip. “I don’t think this is the Trident.” The river was swollen by the rain, but even so it couldn’t be much more than thirty feet across. She remembered the Trident as being much wider. “It’s too little to be the Trident,” she told them, “and we didn’t come far enough.”
“Yes we did,” Hot Pie insisted. “We rode all day, and hardly stopped at all. We must have come a long way.”
“Let’s have a look at that map again,” said Gendry.
Arya dismounted, took out the map, unrolled it. The rain pattered against the sheepskin and ran off in rivulets. “We’re someplace here, I think,” she said, pointing, as the boys peered over her shoulders.
“But,” said Hot Pie, “that’s hardly any ways at all. See, Harrenhal’s there by your finger, you’re almost touching it. And we rode all day!”
“There’s miles and miles before we reach the Trident,” she said. “We won’t be there for days. This must be some different river, one of these, see.” She showed him some of the thinner blue lines the mapmaker had painted in, each with a name painted in flne script beneath it. “The Darry, the Greenapple, the Maiden . . . here, this one, the Little Willow, it might be that.”
Hot Pie looked from the line to the river. “It doesn’t look so little to me.”
Gendry was frowning as well. “The one you’re pointing at runs into that other one, see.”
“The Big Willow,” she read.
“The Big Willow, then. See, and the Big Willow runs into the Trident, so we could follow the one to the other, but we’d need to go downstream, not up. Only if this river isn’t the Little Willow, if it’s this other one here . . . ”
“Rippledown Rill,” Arya read.
“See, it loops around and flows down toward the lake, back to Harrenhal.” He traced the line with a finger.
Hot Pie’s eyes grew wide. “No! They’ll kill us for sure.”
“We have to know which river this is,” declared Gendry, in his stubbornest voice. “We have to know.”
“Well, we don’t.” The map might have names written beside the blue lines, but no one had written a name on the riverbank. “We won’t go up or downstream,” she decided, rolling up the map. “We’ll cross and keep going north, like we were.”
“Can horses swim?” asked Hot Pie. “It looks deep, Arry. What if there are snakes?”
“Are you sure we’re going north?” asked Gendry. “All these hills . . . if we got turned around . . . ”
“The moss on the trees—”
He pointed to a nearby tree. “That tree’s got moss on three sides, and that next one has no moss at all. We could be lost, just riding around in a circle.”
“We could be,” said Arya, “but I’m going to cross the river anyway. You can come or you can stay here.” She climbed back into the saddle, ignoring the both of them. If they didn’t want to follow, they could find Riverrun on their own, though more likely the Mummers would just find them.
She had to ride a good half mile along the bank before she finally found a place where it looked as though it might be safe to cross, and even then her mare was reluctant to enter the water. The river, whatever its name, was running brown and fast, and the deep part in the middle came up past the horse’s belly. Water filled her boots, but she pressed in her heels all the same and climbed out on the far bank. From behind she heard splashing, and a mare’s nervous whinny. They followed, then. Good. She turned to watch as the boys struggled across and emerged dripping beside her. “It wasn’t the Trident,” she told them. “It wasn’t.”
The next river was shallower and easier to ford. That one wasn’t the Trident either, and no one argued with her when she told them they would cross it.
Dusk was settling as they stopped to rest the horses once more and share another meal of bread and cheese. “I’m cold and wet,” Hot Pie complained. “We’re a long way from Harrenhal now, for sure. We could have us a fire—”
“NO!” Arya and Gendry both said, at the exact same instant. Hot Pie quailed a little. Arya gave Gendry a sideways look. He said it with me, like Jon used to do, back in Winterfell. She missed Jon Snow the most of all her brothers.
“Could we sleep at least?” Hot Pie asked. “I’m so tired, Arry, and my arse is sore. I think I’ve got blisters.”
“You’ll have more than that if you’re caught,” she said. “We’ve got to keep going. We’ve got to.”
“But it’s almost dark, and you can’t even see the moon.”
“Get back on your horse.”
Plodding along at a slow walking pace as the light faded around them, Arya found her own exhaustion weighing heavy on her. She needed sleep as much as Hot Pie, but they dare not. If they slept, they might open their eyes to find Vargo Hoat standing over them with Shagwell the Fool and Faithful Urswyck and Rorge and Biter and Septon Utt and all his other monsters.
Yet after a while the motion of her horse became as soothing as the rocking of a cradle, and Arya found her eyes growing heavy. She let them close, just for an instant, then snapped them wide again. I can’t go to sleep, she screamed at herself silently, I can’t, I can’t. She knuckled at her eye and rubbed it hard to keep it open, clutching the reins tightly and kicking her mount to a canter. But neither she nor the horse could sustain the pace, and it was only a few moments before they fell back to a walk again, and a few more until her eyes closed a second time. This time they did not open quite so quickly.
When they did, she found that her horse had come to a stop and was nibbling at a tuft of grass, while Gendry was shaking her arm. “You fell asleep,” he told her.
“I was just resting my eyes.”
“You were resting them a long while, then. Your horse was wandering in a circle, but it wasn’t till she stopped that I realized you were sleeping. Hot Pie’s just as bad, he rode into a tree limb and got knocked off, you should have heard him yell. Even that didn’t wake you up. You need to stop and sleep.”
“I can keep going as long as you can.” She yawned.
“Liar,” he said. “You keep going if you want to be stupid, but I’m stopping. I’ll take the first watch. You sleep.”
“What about Hot Pie?”
Gendry pointed. Hot Pie was already on the ground, curled up beneath his cloak on a bed of damp leaves and snoring softly. He had a big wedge of cheese in one fist, but it looked as though he had fallen asleep between bites.
It was no good arguing, Arya realized; Gendry had the right of it. The Mummers will need to sleep too, she told herself, hoping it was true. She was so weary it was a struggle even to get down from the saddle, but she remembered to hobble her horse before finding a place beneath a beech tree. The ground was hard and damp. She wondered how long it would be before she slept in a bed again, with hot food and a fire to warm her. The last thing she did before closing her eyes was unsheathe her sword and lay it down beside her. “Ser Gregor,” she whispered, yawning. “Dunsen, Polliver, Raff the Sweetling. The Tickler and . . . the Tickler . . . the Hound . . . ”
Her dreams were red and savage. The Mummers were in them, four at least, a pale Lyseni and a dark brutal axeman from Ib, the scarred Dothraki horse lord called Iggo and a Dornishman whose name she never knew. On and on they came, riding through the rain in rusting mail and wet leather, swords and axe clanking against their saddles. They thought they were hunting her, she knew with all the strange sharp certainty of dreams, but they were wrong. She was hunting them.
She was no little girl in the dream; she was a wolf, huge and powerful, and when she emerged from beneath the trees in front of them and bared her teeth in a low rumbling growl, she could smell the rank stench of fear from horse and man alike. The Lyseni’s mount reared and screamed in terror, and the others shouted at one another in mantalk, but before they could act the other wolves came hurtling from the darkness and the rain, a great pack of them, gaunt and wet and silent.
The fight was short but bloody. The hairy man went down as he unslung his axe, the dark one died stringing an arrow, and the pale man from Lys tried to bolt. Her brothers and sisters ran him down, turning him again and again, coming at him from all sides, snapping at the legs of his horse and tearing the throat from the rider when he came crashing to the earth.
Only the belled man stood his ground. His horse kicked in the head of one of her sisters, and he cut another almost in half with his curved silvery claw as his hair tinkled softly.
Filled with rage, she leapt onto his back, knocking him head-first from his saddle. Her jaws locked on his arm as they fell, her teeth sinking through the leather and wool and soft flesh. When they landed she gave a savage jerk with her head and ripped the limb loose from his shoulder. Exulting, she shook it back and forth in her mouth, scattering the warm red droplets amidst the cold black rain.

第三章艾莉亚

　　天空同他们逃离的赫伦堡的城墙一样乌黑，细雨下个不停，淹没了马蹄的声音，模糊了他们的脸庞。
　　他们向北跑，远离大湖，在荒芜的田野里跟随一条勉强能辨认出车辙的乡村道路，进入布满溪流的森林。艾莉亚带头，猛踢着偷来的马，马儿迈着轻快的步子，没多久稠密的树木就包围了他们。热派和詹德利竭力跟上她的步伐。远处不断传来狼嗥，她听到热派粗浊的喘息。无人说话。艾莉亚不时回头，确认两个男孩没落得太远，确认没有人追赶。

　　他们会来的，她对此确信无疑。她不仅从马厩偷了三匹马，从卢斯·波顿本人的书房里拿走了地图和一把匕首，还在边门杀了一个守卫，那守卫蹲下去捡贾昆·赫加尔给她的旧硬币，却被她割了喉咙。血泊中的死者迟早会给人发现，接着便是大叫大嚷。他们会叫醒波顿大人，然后把赫伦堡从城垛到酒窖搜个遍，他们会发现失踪的地图和匕首，以及铁匠房里消失的几把长剑，厨房里不见的面包和奶酪。最后就会找上一个面包小弟、一个铁匠学徒、还有一个叫娜娜……或者黄鼠狼，或者阿利的侍酒。

　　恐怖堡伯爵不会亲自追来。卢斯·波顿会躺在床上发号施令，光着身子，苍白的皮肤上挂满水蛭，用特有的轻言细语布置追捕。追兵多半由他手下的队长沃顿率领，此人的长腿上一直带着铁护胫，因而得了个外号叫“铁腿”；再或许来追赶他们的将是唾沫横飞的瓦戈·赫特及他手下的佣兵，这些人自称勇士团，别人称他们为血戏班（当然没人敢当面这样说），或猎足者，因为赫特大人有把对头的手脚剁下来的习惯。

　　如果被他们抓住，艾莉亚心想，手脚就都没有了，卢斯·波顿还会剥掉我们的皮。她仍旧穿着侍酒的制服，胸口在心脏部位绣有波顿伯爵的家徽：恐怖堡的剥皮人。

　　每次回头，她都等着远方的赫伦堡城门涌出一片火炬，或是巨大的高墙上人头簇拥，但最终什么也没发生。赫伦堡仍旧沉睡，直到消失于黑暗中，隐没树后，无从得见。

　　到达第一条小溪时，艾莉亚调转马头，离开道路。他们在曲折的河道中走了四分之一里，方才爬上一处石岸。如果追踪者们带着猎狗，这会让我们的气味无从分辨，她如此期望。我们不能走道路。道路只会带来死亡，她告诉自己，所有的道路都会。

　　詹德利和热派没有质疑她的决定。毕竟她有地图，而热派看来同害怕追捕者一样怕她。他亲眼目睹过被她杀掉的守卫。算了，他怕我未必不好，她提醒自己，如此一来，就会乖乖听话，而不是自己干出些蠢笨事。

　　其实我应该更胆小的，她心想，她才十岁，瘦骨伶仃，骑在一匹偷来的马上，前面是黑黑的森林，后方是想剁下她脚的追兵。但不知为什么，她觉得自己比从前在赫伦堡时镇静多了。雨水洗掉指间卫兵的鲜血，背上的长剑在风中摇荡，无数野狼如灰色阴影，狂奔于暗夜，而她艾莉亚·史塔克一往无前，无所畏惧。恐惧比利剑更伤人，她低声复诵着西利欧的教诲，还有贾昆的话语，valarmorghulis.

　　雨停了又下，下了又停，还好斗篷足以遮蔽风雨。艾莉亚驱使他们保持稳定的速度前进。大树底下漆黑一片，地面松软，布满裂缝，到处是半掩埋的树根和隐藏的石块，男孩们都不善骑术，无法高速前进。很快，他们越过又一条道路，路上深深的车辙印里盛满了雨水。艾莉亚再次远离道路，带着男孩们在起伏的丘陵中穿梭，越过荆棘、石蓝和纠缠的灌木，深入狭窄山沟的底部，沉重的树枝夹着潮湿的树叶，一次又一次抽打着他们的脸。

　　忽然，詹德利的母马绊倒在泥潭中，后腿跪倒，将他掀出马鞍，幸而人马都平安无恙。詹德利还是那副固执样，迅速翻身上马，继续前进，什么也没说。没过多久，他们目睹三匹野狼在吞食一只小鹿的尸体。热派的马闻到血腥味，惊恐地人立起来，随后亡命奔跑。两匹狼见状逃之夭夭，但第三匹抬起头，露出牙齿，准备保卫自己的猎获。“往后退，”艾莉亚告诉詹德利，“慢慢走，别吓着它。”他们骑马缓缓绕开此地，直到再看不见野狼和它的美餐，这时她才拍马追赶热派，只见男孩绝望地抓着马鞍，他的马在森林里乱撞。

　　再后来，他们经过一个焚毁的村落，小心翼翼地踏过那些被烧成黑炭的小屋空壳途中，发现一排苹果树上吊死了十来个人，尸体业已腐烂到骨。热派为他们祈祷，恳求圣母的慈悲，他轻声低语，一次又一次地重复。艾莉亚盯着这些披着湿透的褴褛衣杉的无肉躯体，说的是自己的祷词：克雷果爵士，邓森、波利佛、“甜嘴”拉夫，记事本和猎狗，伊林爵士，马林爵士，乔佛里国王，瑟曦太后。她碰了碰藏在腰带下的贾昆给的硬币，以valarmorghulis结束了名单。接着她骑到死人身下，伸手摘下一个苹果。苹果熟透，烂成了糊，她连着蠕虫一起吞吃。

　　那是没有黎明的一天，天空缓缓放亮，但看不到太阳。漆黑变成灰暗，色泽犹犹豫豫地重现人间，哨兵树呈现出暗绿的色彩，黄褐和淡金色的阔叶几乎成了棕色。他们停下来喂马喝水，同时吃了一顿冰凉的方便早餐，有热派从厨房偷出来的面包，还有黄色的硬奶酪。

　　“你有明确的目标吗？”詹德利问她。

　　“我们去北方，”艾莉亚说。

　　热派茫然地四处打量，“哪条路通向北方？”

　　她用奶酪一指，“那条。”

　　“连太阳都没有，你怎么知道走那条？”

　　“笨蛋，看苔藓啦，你瞧，在树的一面它们长得特别茂盛，那就是南边。”

　　“我们去北方做什么？”詹德利想知道。

　　“北方有条三叉戟河，”艾莉亚展开偷来的地图，“看到没？一旦我们到达三叉戟河，就可以沿河向上走，直到奔流城。就这样。”她用手指描绘路径，“路虽长，但跟着河走决不会迷路。”

　　热派对着地图不断眨眼。“哪儿是奔流城？”

　　奔流城被标示为一座塔楼，绘制在两条蓝线的交汇处，那想必是腾石河与红叉河。“这儿，”她指着地图，“奔流城，下面有文字。”

　　“阿利，你识字呀？”他万分惊奇，好像她刚才声称自己能在水上走路。

　　她点点头。“到了奔流城，我们就安全了。”

　　“会吗？为啥？”

　　因为奔流城是我外公的城堡，而我哥哥罗柏在那里，艾莉亚几乎冲口而出。但她咬紧嘴唇，叠好地图，“我们只能这样希望。先到了再说吧。”说罢，她翻身上马。向热派隐瞒真相，她心里挺不舒服，但这是没办法的事，她无法信任他。詹德利是知道的，但他情况不同。詹德利有自己的秘密，虽然这秘密究竟是什么，连他自己也很迷惑。

　　出发之后，艾莉亚让他们加快速度，要马儿以尽可能大的步幅前进。有好几次，当她看到面前出现大块平地时，便用马刺猛地扎马，飞奔起来。不过，她心知速度仍远远不够。路越来越颠簸，这些丘陵不高，也不很陡，但似乎无穷无尽，他们很快便厌倦了无休止地爬上爬下，情愿跟着地势走。顺着小河床，穿行在错综复杂的小峡谷中，周围满是树木，为他们罩上一顶巨大的华盖。

　　不时，她让热派和詹德利先行，自己循原路返回去掩盖足迹。自始自终，她都竖起耳朵，等待追兵的出现。太慢了，她咬着嘴唇，提醒自己，我们走得太慢，一定会被追上的。有一回，走在山脊上时，她发现有些黑影正穿越他们身后那道峡谷里的小溪，半晌之间，她惶恐地认定卢斯·波顿的骑兵已经赶上，可仔细一看，那不过是一群狼。于是她用手围住嘴巴，朝狼群吼叫：“啊呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜，啊呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜。”狼群里最大那匹狼抬起头，跟着她吼，声音让艾莉亚不禁浑身颤抖。

　　正午时分，热派开始抱怨。他告诉他们，屁股酸痛得不得了，马鞍还把他大腿内侧的皮给擦破了，最重要的是，他想睡觉。“我太累了，会从马上摔下来的。”

　　艾莉亚望向詹德利，“如果他摔下来，你认为什么会先找上门，野狼还是血戏子？”

　　“大概是狼吧，”詹德利说，“鼻子更好使。”

　　热派的嘴巴张了又合。他继续跟进，终于没有摔下来。雨重新下。自始自终，除了偶然的间歇，从没见到太阳。温度越来越低，苍白的迷雾于松木间穿行，涌动在被烧焦的光秃原野上。

　　詹德利的脸色和热派一样糟，但他固执地不肯抱怨。他骑马的姿势很笨拙，那头黑色的乱发下，神情虽然坚定，可艾莉亚认定他根本就是在苦撑。我早该料到，她自顾自地思索。她从懂事开始就在骑马，小时候骑小矮马，大一点骑真正的骏马，可詹德利和热派都是城里人，在城里平民都得走路。尤伦把他们带出君临时给过他们坐骑，可骑驴子或坐马车在国王大道上缓缓旅行是一回事，而驱策骏马在原始森林和烧焦原野间游荡又是另一回事。

　　单独走也许更快，艾莉亚对此心知肚明，可她不能抛下他们。再怎么说，他们也是她的伙伴、她的朋友、她唯一活着的朋友，况且如果不是为了她，他俩都还好端端待在赫伦堡里呢，一个打铁一个做饭。倘若教血戏子们抓住，我就告诉他们我是艾德·史塔克的女儿、北境之王的妹妹。我要命令他们带我去见我哥，并不得伤害热派与詹德利。可他们不会相信我，就算他们相信……恐怖的波顿大人怎么办呢？他虽是哥哥的封臣，但她十分怕他。我决不会让他们抓住我们，她静静发誓，手举过肩，握紧詹德利为她偷来的长剑，我决不会。

　　当天下午晚些时候，他们走出了森林，前方是一道堤岸。热派欢快地呐喊：“三叉戟河！现在只需往上游走，就象你说的。我们终于到了！”

　　艾莉亚咬紧嘴唇。“我不认为这里是三叉戟河，”眼前的河道因雨水而变宽，即使如此，仍不满三十尺。她记忆中的三叉戟河比这儿宽得多。“这河太小啦，不可能是三叉戟河，”她告诉他们，“而且我们并没走多远。”

　　“我们明明就到了，”热派坚持，“我们骑了一整天的马，几乎没停过，肯定走了很长很长的路。”

　　“让我们再看看地图。”詹德利说。

　　艾莉亚下马，取出地图，并将其展开。雨点急速地敲打在羊皮纸上，很快聚成细流。“据我估计，我们的位置在这附近，”她边说边指，男孩们将头伸过她肩膀仔细瞧看。

　　“可是，”热派道，“照你这么说，我们几乎就没动。瞧，你指着这里说这是赫伦堡，而你现在几乎还指在这儿！可我们都骑了一整天了！”

　　“赫伦堡离三叉戟河有很长的距离，”她说，“不走上好多天是不可能到的。前面一定是另外的河，这些河中的一条，瞧。”她指点着地图所标示的若干细蓝线，每条线下都注释着名称。“戴瑞河，绿苹果江，少女河……这里，这条河，小柳江，应该是这条。”

　　热派瞪着那细线，再瞧瞧面前的河流，“可我觉得它并不小呀。”

　　詹德利同样皱起眉头，“你指的这条河将注入另一条河里，呶。”

　　“大柳江，”她念道。

　　“照图看来，这条大柳江会注入三叉戟河，所以我们可跟着小柳江，走到大柳江，再到三叉戟河，但方向得往下游，不能往上。不过，如果这河不是小柳江，而是旁边那条……”

　　“碧波溪，”艾莉亚读道。

　　“看，它弯弯曲曲，最后流进湖里，回到了赫伦堡。”男孩用手指追溯着细线。

　　热派的眼睛瞪得象灯笼。“不！我们一定会被杀的！”

　　“我们得先弄明白这究竟是哪条河，”詹德利宣布，用的是他最顽固的声调，“必须弄明白。”

　　“不，没这个必要。”地图的蓝线旁注有名字，河堤边却不会写标语。“我们既无需往上游走，也没必要向下游，”她下定决心，卷起了地图，“我们越过它，继续往北，就跟开始一样。”

　　“这马能游过去吗？”热派疑惑地问，“看上去很深耶，阿利，里面有蛇怎么办？”

　　“关键不是这个问题，问题是你能否确定我们一直在往北走？”詹德利不肯让步，“瞧瞧周围的丘陵……搞不好我们一直在原地打转……”

　　“树下的苔藓……”

　　他指着最近那棵树，“这树三面都长着苔藓，而那边那棵一点苔藓都没有。我们很可能已经迷路了。”

　　“也许罢，”艾莉亚说，“但无论如何，我都要跨过这条河，你不愿跟上就待在这儿吧。”她重新爬上马背，不再搭理两个男孩。就算他们不跟我走，或许也能找到奔流城，只是多半会被血戏子们先抓住。

　　她沿着河堤骑，走了大半里，才找到一个似乎可以过河的地方，即便在这儿，她的母马也不情愿下水。甭管河的名称到底是什么，反正它又浑又急，河道中央的水直漫到马腹。鞋子浸透了，但她夹紧马蹬，爬上对岸。这时，身后传来“扑通”声，以及母马紧张的嘶鸣。他们终于还是来了，真不错。她调过马头，目睹男孩们挣扎着渡河，最后湿漉漉地站在她身边。“这里不是三叉戟河，”她告诉他们，“这里不是。”

　　接下来的第二条河没那么深，也更容易通过。这也不是三叉戟河。没有人提出争议。

　　再次休息时，天色已渐渐变暗，他们放开马，拿出面包和奶酪。“又湿又冷，”热派抱怨，“我们离赫伦堡够远了，肯定很远了，应该把火——”

　　“不行！”艾莉亚和詹德利异口同声地喊，热派吓得缩了回去。艾莉亚斜眼瞟瞟詹德利。他和我异口同声，像琼恩以前那样。她想起在临冬城的岁月，在众兄弟之中她最思念的无疑是琼恩·雪诺。

　　“至少睡个觉？”热派继续求告，“我真的很累，阿利，屁股痛得要命咧，我想一定起水泡了。”

　　“被抓着的话，你会更惨的，”艾莉亚道，“我们别无选择，只能继续前进。”

　　“可天已快黑了，今晚连月亮都没有……”

　　“少罗嗦，上马吧！”

　　光线逐渐消失，他们缓慢前行，艾莉亚惊觉身体越来越沉。她明白自己像热派一样需要休息，可她哪敢呀？如果睡着了，也许等睁开眼，就会看到瓦戈·赫特站在面前，身旁是小丑夏格维、“虔诚的”乌斯威克、罗尔杰、尖牙、厄特修士这些怪物们。

　　没过多久，她的马象风中的蜡烛一样摇晃起来，眼皮逐渐加重。有那么一会儿，她闭上了眼睛，接着又猛然睁开。我不能打瞌睡，她对着自己无声地呐喊，我不能。于是她用手指狠揉眼睛，把它撑开，然后抓紧缰绳，踢马慢跑。可无论人马都不能保持速度，走出几步，又回到漫步中。然后她的眼睛又闭上了。这次再也不能立即睁开。

　　当她再次睁眼时，马儿已经不走了，而是低头啃着一丛清草。詹德利摇着她的胳膊。“你睡着了，”他告诉她。

　　“没有，我不过休息一下眼睛。”

　　“胡说，哪有休息眼睛这么长的？你的马在原地打转，还没等它停下咧，我就知道你睡着了。瞧，热派和你一样困得不行，他刚刚撞上树枝，被打落马下，你应该听得到他的喊叫。哦，这么大声音都没唤醒你。行了，你必须停下来休息。”

　　“我能走，像你一样继续走，”她打着呵欠。

　　“骗人，”他说，“你想当个笨蛋那就继续走吧，可我得停下。别多说了，我值第一班岗，你快睡。”

　　“热派呢？”

　　詹德利指了指。热派早已躺在地上，裹着斗篷，睡在潮湿的落叶堆中，发出轻微的鼾声。他手中握有一大轮奶酪，似乎只咬了几口就睡着了。

　　唉，没什么可争的了，艾莉亚心想，詹德利说得没错。血戏子们也需要休息罢，她告诉自己。由于周身无力，她几乎无法从马背上下来，不过躺倒在一棵桦树下前，总算还记得先把坐骑栓好。地面又硬又湿。她不知自己有多久没在正式的床上睡过了，有多久没享受热腾腾的饭菜和熊熊的炉火。阖眼之前，她做的最后一件事是拔出长剑，放在身旁。“克雷果爵士，”她一边呢喃一边打呵欠，“邓森，波利佛，‘甜嘴’拉夫，记事本和……记事本……猎狗……”

　　她做了个血红而狂野的梦。血戏子们出现在梦中，一行四人，白皮肤的里斯人和一个伊班港来的、黑皮肤的野蛮斧手，满是伤疤的多斯拉克马王羿戈和不知名的多恩人。他们没完没了地骑马，冲过层层雨帘，身穿生锈的铁甲和淋湿的皮甲，长剑与战斧在马鞍上叮当作响。他们以为自己在捕捉我，她清清楚楚地明了这奇怪的梦，但他们错了，是她在捕捉他们。

　　在梦中她不再是小女孩，而是匹狼，硕大而强壮。她从他们面前的大树下走出来，展露利牙，发出一声隆隆的低吼。她可以闻到人和马身上散发出的强烈的恐惧气息。里斯人的马人立起来，恐慌地尖啸，其他人则用人类的语言互相喊叫，但还没等他们做出反应，其他的狼也从黑暗和细雨中猛扑而出。它们共同组成庞大的团队，消瘦、潮湿而沉默。

　　战斗短暂而血腥。浑身长毛的男子还没拔出斧头就被拖下马来，黑人在弯弓搭箭时也死掉了。里斯的白人想跑，但她的兄弟姐妹们紧追不舍，逼他不断转弯。最后，狼从四面八方扑上去，撕咬马腿，他一落地，喉咙也被同时撕掉。

　　只有满头铃铛的男人坚守阵地。他的马踢掉了她一个姐妹的头颅，他自己则把她另一个姐妹几乎砍成两半。弯曲的银色爪子迅捷舞动，应和着发梢铃铛的轻响。

　　带着全身的怒气，她跳到他背上，把他头上脚下地撞下马鞍。坠落时，她用嘴紧锁住对方的胳膊，牙齿穿过皮革、羊毛和柔软的血肉。落地后，她狂野地一甩头，把他的上肢从肩膀上生生扯了下来。她满心喜悦，用嘴巴来来回回地晃动肢体，喷洒出温暖的血雾，散发在寒冷漆黑的雨幕中。

回到夏末之初(内阁元老)

5楼 2016-03-30

TYRION

He woke to the creak of old iron hinges.
“Who?” he croaked. At least he had his voice back, raw and hoarse though it was. The fever was still on him, and Tyrion had no notion of the hour. How long had he slept this time? He was so weak, so damnably weak. “Who?” he called again, more loudly. Torchlight spilled through the open door, but within the chamber the only light came from the stub of a candle beside his bed.
When he saw a shape moving toward him, Tyrion shivered. Here in Maegor’s Holdfast, every servant was in the queen’s pay, so any visitor might be another of Cersei’s catspaws, sent to finish the work Ser Mandon had begun.
Then the man stepped into the candlelight, got a good look at the dwarf’s pale face, and chortled. “Cut yourself shaving, did you?”
Tyrion’s fingers went to the great gash that ran from above one eye down to his jaw, across what remained of his nose. The proud flesh was still raw and warm to the touch. “With a fearful big razor, yes.”
Bronn’s coal-black hair was freshly washed and brushed straight back from the hard lines of his face, and he was dressed in high boots of soft, tooled leather, a wide belt studded with nuggets of silver, and a cloak of pale green silk. Across the dark grey wool of his doublet, a burning chain was embroidered diagonally in bright green thread.
“Where have you been?” Tyrion demanded of him. “I sent for you . . . it must have been a fortnight ago.”
“Four days ago, more like,” the sellsword said, “and I’ve been here twice, and found you dead to the world.”
“Not dead. Though my sweet sister did try.” Perhaps he should not have said that aloud, but Tyrion was past caring. Cersei was behind Ser Mandon’s attempt to kill him, he knew that in his gut. “What’s that ugly thing on your chest?”
Bronn grinned. “My knightly sigil. A flaming chain, green, on a smoke-grey field. By your lord father’s command, I’m Ser Bronn of the Blackwater now, Imp. See you don’t forget it.”
Tyrion put his hands on the featherbed and squirmed back a few inches, against the pillows. “I was the one who promised you knighthood, remember? “ He had liked that “by your lord father’s command” not at all. Lord Tywin had wasted little time. Moving his son from the Tower of the Hand to claim it for himself was a message anyone could read, and this was another. “I lose half my nose and you gain a knighthood. The gods have a deal to answer for.” His voice was sour. “Did my father dub you himself?”
“No. Them of us as survived the fight at the winch towers got ourselves dabbed by the High Septon and dubbed by the Kingsguard. Took half the bloody day, with only three of the White Swords left to do the honors.”
“I knew Ser Mandon died in the battle.” Shoved into the river by Pod, half a heartbeat before the treacherous bastard could drive his sword through my heart. “Who else was lost?”
“The Hound,” said Bronn. “Not dead, only gone. The gold cloaks say he turned craven and you led a sortie in his place.”
Not one of my better notions. Tyrion could feel the scar tissue pull tight when he frowned. He waved Bronn toward a chair. “My sister has mistaken me for a mushroom. She keeps me in the dark and feeds me shit. Pod’s a good lad, but the knot in his tongue is the size of Casterly Rock, and I don’t trust half of what he tells me. I sent him to bring Ser Jacelyn and he came back and told me he’s dead.”
“Him, and thousands more.” Bronn sat.
“How?” Tyrion demanded, feeling that much sicker.
“During the battle. Your sister sent the Kettleblacks to fetch the king back to the Red Keep, the way I hear it. When the gold cloaks saw him leavin’ half of them decided they’d leave with him. Ironhand put himself in their path and tried to order them back to the walls. They say Bywater was blistering them good and almost had ’em ready to turn when someone put an arrow through his neck. He didn’t seem so fearsome then, so they dragged him off his horse and killed him.”
Another debt to lay at Cersei’s door. “My nephew,” he said, “Joffrey. Was he in any danger?”
“No more’n some, and less than most.”
“Had he suffered any harm? Taken a wound? Mussed his hair, stubbed his toe, cracked a nail?”
“Not as I heard.”
“I warned Cersei what would happen. Who commands the gold cloaks now?”
“Your lord father’s given them to one of his westermen, some knight named Addam Marbrand.”
In most cases the gold cloaks would have resented having an outsider placed over them, but Ser Addam Marbrand was a shrewd choice. Like Jaime, he was the sort of man other men liked to follow. I have lost the City Watch. “I sent Pod looking for Shagga, but he’s had no luck.”
“The Stone Crows are still in the kingswood. Shagga seems to have taken a fancy to the place. Timett led the Burned Men home, with all the plunder they took from Stannis’s camp after the fighting. Chella turned up with a dozen Black Ears at the River Gate one morning, but your father’s red cloaks chased them off while the Kingslanders threw dung and cheered.”
Ingrates. The Black Ears died for them. Whilst Tyrion lay drugged and dreaming, his own blood had pulled his claws out, one by one. “I want you to go to my sister. Her precious son made it through the battle unscathed, so Cersei has no more need of a hostage. She swore to free Alayaya once—”
“She did. Eight, nine days ago, after the whipping.”
Tyrion shoved himself up higher, ignoring the sudden stab of pain through his shoulder. “Whipping?”
“They tied her to a post in the yard and scourged her, then shoved her out the gate naked and bloody.”
She was learning to read, Tyrion thought, absurdly. Across his face the scar stretched tight, and for a moment it felt as though his head would burst with rage. Alayaya was a whore, true enough, but a sweeter, braver, more innocent girl he had seldom met. Tyrion had never touched her; she had been no more than a veil, to hide Shae. In his carelessness, he had never thought what the role might cost her. “I promised my sister I would treat Tommen as she treated Alayaya,” he remembered aloud. He felt as though he might retch. “How can I scourge an eight-year-old boy?” But if I don’t, Cersei wins.
“You don’t have Tommen,” Bronn said bluntly. “Once she learned that Ironhand was dead, the queen sent the Kettleblacks after him, and no one at Rosby had the balls to say them nay.”
Another blow; yet a relief as well, he must admit it. He was fond of Tommen. “The Kettleblacks were supposed to be ours,” he reminded Bronn with more than a touch of irritation.
“They were, so long as I could give them two of your pennies for every one they had from the queen, but now she’s raised the stakes. Osney and Osfryd were made knights after the battle, same as me. Gods know what for, no one saw them do any fighting.”
My hirelings betray me, my friends are scourged and shamed, and I lie here rotting, Tyrion thought. I thought I won the bloody battle. Is this what triumph tastes like? “Is it true that Stannis was put to rout by Renly’s ghost?”
Bronn smiled thinly. “From the winch towers, all we saw was banners in the mud and men throwing down their spears to run, but there’s hundreds in the pot shops and brothels who’ll tell you how they saw Lord Renly kill this one or that one. Most of Stannis’s host had been Renly’s to start, and they went right back over at the sight of him in that shiny green armor.”
After all his planning, after the sortie and the bridge of ships, after getting his face slashed in two, Tyrion had been eclipsed by a dead man. If indeed Renly is dead. Something else he would need to look into. “How did Stannis escape?”
“His Lyseni kept their galleys out in the bay, beyond your chain. When the battle turned bad, they put in along the bay shore and took off as many as they could. Men were killing each other to get aboard, toward the end.”
“What of Robb Stark, what has he been doing?”
“There’s some of his wolves burning their way down toward Duskendale. Your father’s sending this Lord Tarly to sort them out. I’d half a mind to join him. It’s said he’s a good soldier, and openhanded with the plunder.”
The thought of losing Bronn was the final straw. “No. Your place is here. You’re the captain of the Hand’s guard.”
“You’re not the Hand,” Bronn reminded him sharply. “Your father is, and he’s got his own bloody guard.”
“What happened to all the men you hired for me?”
“Some died at the winch towers. That uncle of yours, Ser Kevan, he paid the rest of us and tossed us out.”
“How good of him,” Tyrion said acidly. “Does that mean you’ve lost your taste for gold?”
“Not bloody likely.”
“Good,” said Tyrion, “because as it happens, I still have need of you. What do you know of Ser Mandon Moore?”
Bronn laughed. “I know he’s bloody well drowned.”
“I owe him a great debt, but how to pay it?” He touched his face, feeling the scar. “I know precious little of the man, if truth be told.”
“He had eyes like a fish and he wore a white cloak. What else do you need to know?”
“Everything,” said Tyrion, “for a start.” What he wanted was proof that Ser Mandon had been Cersei’s, but he dare not say so aloud. In the Red Keep a man did best to hold his tongue. There were rats in the walls, and little birds who talked too much, and spiders. “Help me up,” he said, struggling with the bedclothes. “It’s time I paid a call on my father, and past time I let myself be seen again.”
“Such a pretty sight,” mocked Bronn.
“What’s half a nose, on a face like mine? But speaking of pretty, is Margaery Tyrell in King’s Landing yet?”
“No. She’s coming, though, and the city’s mad with love for her. The Tyrells have been carting food up from Highgarden and giving it away in her name. Hundreds of wayns each day. There’s thousands of Tyrell men swaggering about with little golden roses sewn on their doublets, and not a one is buying his own wine. Wife, widow, or whore, the women are all giving up their virtue to every peach-fuzz boy with a gold rose on his teat.”
They spit on me, and buy drinks for the Tyrells. Tyrion slid from the bed to the floor. His legs turned wobbly beneath him, the room spun, and he had to grasp Bronn’s arm to keep from pitching headlong into the rushes. “Pod!” he shouted. “Podrick Payne! Where in the seven hells are you?” Pain gnawed at him like a toothless dog. Tyrion hated weakness, especially his own. It shamed him, and shame made him angry. “Pod, get in here!”
The boy came running. When he saw Tyrion standing and clutching Bronn’s arm, he gaped at them. “My lord. You stood. Is that . . . do you . . . do you need wine? Dreamwine? Should I get the maester? He said you must stay. Abed, I mean.”
“I have stayed abed too long. Bring me some clean garb.”
“Garb?”
How the boy could be so clearheaded and resourceful in battle and so confused at all other times Tyrion could never comprehend. “Clothing,” he repeated. “Tunic, doublet, breeches, hose. For me. To dress in. So I can leave this bloody cell.”
It took all three of them to clothe him. Hideous though his face might be, the worst of his wounds was the one at the juncture of shoulder and arm, where his own mail had been driven back into his armpit by an arrow. Pus and blood still seeped from the discolored flesh whenever Maester Frenken changed his dressing, and any movement sent a stab of agony through him.
In the end, Tyrion settled for a pair of breeches and an oversized bed robe that hung loosely about his shoulders. Bronn yanked his boots onto his feet while Pod went in search of a stick for him to lean on. He drank a cup of dreamwine to fortify himself. The wine was sweetened with honey, with just enough of the poppy to make his wounds bearable for a time.
Even so, he was dizzy by the time he turned the latch, and the descent down the twisting stone steps made his legs tremble. He walked with the stick in one hand and the other on Pod’s shoulder. A serving girl was coming up as they were going down. She stared at them with wide white eyes, as if she were looking at a ghost. The dwarf has risen from the dead, Tyrion thought. And look, he’s uglier than ever, run tell your friends.
Maegor’s Holdfast was the strongest place in the Red Keep, a castle within the castle, surrounded by a deep dry moat lined with spikes. The drawbridge was up for the night when they reached the door. Ser Meryn Trant stood before it in his pale armor and white cloak. “Lower the bridge,” Tyrion commanded him.
“The queen’s orders are to raise the bridge at night.” Ser Meryn had always been Cersei’s creature.
“The queen’s asleep, and I have business with my father.”
There was magic in the name of Lord Tywin Lannister. Grumbling, Ser Meryn Trant gave the command, and the drawbridge was lowered. A second Kingsguard knight stood sentry across the moat. Ser Osmund Kettleblack managed a smile when he saw Tyrion waddling toward him. “Feeling stronger, m’lord?”
“Much. When’s the next battle? I can scarcely wait.”
When Pod and he reached the serpentine steps, however, Tyrion could only gape at them in dismay. I will never climb those by myself, he confessed to himself. Swallowing his dignity, he asked Bronn to carry him, hoping against hope that at this hour there would be no one to see and smile, no one to tell the tale of the dwarf being carried up the steps like a babe in arms.
The outer ward was crowded with tents and pavilions, dozens of them. “Tyrell men,” Podrick Payne explained as they threaded their way through a maze of silk and canvas. “Lord Rowan’s too, and Lord Redwyne’s. There wasn’t room enough for all. In the castle, I mean. Some took rooms. Rooms in the city. In inns and all. They’re here for the wedding. The king’s wedding, King Joffrey’s. Will you be strong enough to attend, my lord?”
“Ravening weasels could not keep me away.” There was this to be said for weddings over battles, at least; it was less likely that someone would cut off your nose.
Lights still burned dimly behind shuttered windows in the Tower of the Hand. The men on the door wore the crimson cloaks and lion-crested helms of his father’s household guard. Tyrion knew them both, and they admitted him on sight . . . though neither could bear to look long at his face, he noted.
Within they came upon Ser Addam Marbrand, descending the turnpike stair in the ornate black breastplate and cloth-of-gold cloak of an officer in the City Watch. “My lord,” he said, “how good to see you on your feet. I’d heard—”
“—rumors of a small grave being dug? Me too. Under the circumstances it seemed best to get up. I hear you’re commander of the City Watch. Shall I offer congratulations or condolences?”
“Both, I fear.” Ser Addam smiled. “Death and desertion have left me with some forty-four hundred. Only the gods and Littlefinger know how we are to go on paying wages for so many, but your sister forbids me to dismiss any.”
Still anxious, Cersei? The battle’s done, the gold cloaks won’t help you now. “Do you come from my father?” he asked.
“Aye. I fear I did not leave him in the best of moods. Lord Tywin feels forty-four hundred guardsmen more than sufficient to find one lost squire, but your cousin Tyrek remains missing.”
Tyrek was the son of his late Uncle Tygett, a boy of thirteen. He had vanished in the riot, not long after wedding the Lady Ermesande, a suckling babe who happened to be the last surviving heir of House Hayford. And likely the first bride in the history of the Seven Kingdoms to be widowed before she was weaned. “I couldn’t find him either,” confessed Tyrion.
“He’s feeding worms,” said Bronn with his usual tact. “Ironhand looked for him, and the eunuch rattled a nice fat purse. They had no more luck than we did. Give it up, ser.”
Ser Addam gazed at the sellsword with distaste. “Lord Tywin is stubborn where his blood is concerned. He will have the lad, alive or dead, and I mean to oblige him.” He looked back to Tyrion. “You will find your father in his solar.”
My solar, thought Tyrion. “I believe I know the way.”
The way was up more steps, but this time he climbed under his own power, with one hand on Pod’s shoulder. Bronn opened the door for him. Lord Tywin Lannister was seated beneath the window, writing by the glow of an oil lamp. He raised his eyes at the sound of the latch. “Tyrion.” Calmly, he laid his quill aside.
“I’m pleased you remember me, my lord.” Tyrion released his grip on Pod, leaned his weight on the stick, and waddled closer. Something is wrong, he knew at once.
“Ser Bronn,” Lord Tywin said, “Podrick. Perhaps you had best wait without until we are done.”
The look Bronn gave the Hand was little less than insolent; nonetheless, he bowed and withdrew, with Pod on his heels. The heavy door swung shut behind them, and Tyrion Lannister was alone with his father. Even with the windows of the solar shuttered against the night, the chill in the room was palpable. What sort of lies has Cersei been telling him?
The Lord of Casterly Rock was as lean as a man twenty years younger, even handsome in his austere way. Stiff blond whiskers covered his cheeks, framing a stern face, a bald head, a hard mouth. About his throat he wore a chain of golden hands, the fingers of each clasping the wrist of the next. “That’s a handsome chain,” Tyrion said. Though it looked better on me.
Lord Tywin ignored the sally. “You had best be seated. Is it wise for you to be out of your sickbed?”
“I am sick of my sickbed.” Tyrion knew how much his father despised weakness. He claimed the nearest chair. “Such pleasant chambers you have. Would you believe it, while I was dying, someone moved me to a dark little cell in Maegor’s?”
“The Red Keep is overcrowded with wedding guests. Once they depart, we will find you more suitable accommodations.”
“I rather liked these accommodations. Have you set a date for this great wedding?”
“Joffrey and Margaery shall marry on the first day of the new year, which as it happens is also the first day of the new century. The ceremony will herald the dawn of a new era.”
A new Lannister era, thought Tyrion. “Oh, bother, I fear I’ve made other plans for that day.”
“Did you come here just to complain of your bedchamber and make your lame japes? I have important letters to finish.”
“Important letters. To be sure.”
“Some battles are won with swords and spears, others with quills and ravens. Spare me these coy reproaches, Tyrion. I visited your sickbed as often as Maester Ballabar would allow it, when you seemed like to die.” He steepled his fingers under his chin. “Why did you dismiss Ballabar?”
Tyrion shrugged. “Maester Frenken is not so determined to keep me insensate.”
“Ballabar came to the city in Lord Redwyne’s retinue. A gifted healer, it’s said. It was kind of Cersei to ask him to look after you. She feared for your life.”
Feared that I might keep it, you mean. “Doubtless that’s why she’s never once left my bedside.”
“Don’t be impertinent. Cersei has a royal wedding to plan, I am waging a war, and you have been out of danger for at least a fortnight.” Lord Tywin studied his son’s disfigured face, his pale green eyes unflinching. “Though the wound is ghastly enough, I’ll grant you. What madness possessed you?”
“The foe was at the gates with a battering ram. If Jaime had led the sortie, you’d call it valor.”
“Jaime would never be so foolish as to remove his helm in battle. I trust you killed the man who cut you?”
“Oh, the wretch is dead enough.” Though it had been Podrick Payne who’d killed Ser Mandon, shoving him into the river to drown beneath the weight of his armor. “A dead enemy is a joy forever,” Tyrion said blithely, though Ser Mandon was not his true enemy. The man had no reason to want him dead. He was only a catspaw, and I believe I know the cat. She told him to make certain I did not survive the battle. But without proof Lord Tywin would never listen to such a charge. “Why are you here in the city, Father?” he asked. “Shouldn’t you be off fighting Lord Stannis or Robb Stark or someone?” And the sooner the better.
“Until Lord Redwyne brings his fleet up, we lack the ships to assail Dragonstone. It makes no matter. Stannis Baratheon’s sun set on the Blackwater. As for Stark, the boy is still in the west, but a large force of northmen under Helman Tallhart and Robett Glover are descending toward Duskendale. I’ve sent Lord Tarly to meet them, while Ser Gregor drives up the kingsroad to cut off their retreat. Tallhart and Glover will be caught between them, with a third of Stark’s strength.”
“Duskendale?” There was nothing at Duskendale worth such a risk. Had the Young Wolf finally blundered?
“It’s nothing you need trouble yourself with. Your face is pale as death, and there’s blood seeping through your dressings. Say what you want and take yourself back to bed.”
“What I want . . . ” His throat felt raw and tight. What did he want? More than you can ever give me, Father. “Pod tells me that Littlefinger’s been made Lord of Harrenhal.”
“An empty title, so long as Roose Bolton holds the castle for Robb Stark, yet Lord Baelish was desirous of the honor. He did us good service in the matter of the Tyrell marriage. A Lannister pays his debts.”
The Tyrell marriage had been Tyrion’s notion, in point of fact, but it would seem churlish to try to claim that now. “That title may not be as empty as you think,” he warned. “Littlefinger does nothing without good reason. But be that as it may. You said something about paying debts, I believe?”
“And you want your own reward, is that it? Very well. What is it you would have of me? Lands, castle, some office?”
“A little bloody gratitude would make a nice start.”
Lord Tywin stared at him, unblinking. “Mummers and monkeys require applause. So did Aerys, for that matter. You did as you were commanded, and I am sure it was to the best of your ability. No one denies the part you played.”
“The part I played?” What nostrils Tyrion had left must surely have flared. “I saved your bloody city, it seems to me.”
“Most people seem to feel that it was my attack on Lord Stannis’s flank that turned the tide of battle. Lords Tyrell, Rowan, Redwyne, and Tarly fought nobly as well, and I’m told it was your sister Cersei who set the pyromancers to making the wildfire that destroyed the Baratheon fleet.”
“While all I did was get my nosehairs trimmed, is that it?” Tyrion could not keep the bitterness out of his voice.
“Your chain was a clever stroke, and crucial to our victory. Is that what you wanted to hear? I am told we have you to thank for our Dornish alliance as well. You may be pleased to learn that Myrcella has arrived safely at Sunspear. Ser Arys Oakheart writes that she has taken a great liking to Princess Arianne, and that Prince Trystane is enchanted with her. I mislike giving House Martell a hostage, but I suppose that could not be helped.”
“We’ll have our own hostage,” Tyrion said. “A council seat was also part of the bargain. Unless Prince Doran brings an army when he comes to claim it, he’ll be putting himself in our power.”
“Would that a council seat were all Martell came to claim,” Lord Tywin said. “You promised him vengeance as well.”
“I promised him justice.”
“Call it what you will. It still comes down to blood.”
“Not an item in short supply, surely? I splashed through lakes of it during the battle.” Tyrion saw no reason not to cut to the heart of the matter. “Or have you grown so fond of Gregor Clegane that you cannot bear to part with him?”
“Ser Gregor has his uses, as did his brother. Every lord has need of a beast from time to time . . . a lesson you seem to have learned, judging from Ser Bronn and those clansmen of yours.”
Tyrion thought of Timett’s burned eye, Shagga with his axe, Chella in her necklace of dried ears. And Bronn. Bronn most of all. “The woods are full of beasts,” he reminded his father. “The alleyways as well.”
“True. Perhaps other dogs would hunt as well. I shall think on it. If there is nothing else . . . ”
“You have important letters, yes.” Tyrion rose on unsteady legs, closed his eyes for an instant as a wave of dizziness washed over him, and took a shaky step toward the door. Later, he would reflect that he should have taken a second, and then a third. Instead he turned. “What do I want, you ask? I’ll tell you what I want. I want what is mine by rights. I want Casterly Rock.”
His father’s mouth grew hard. “Your brother’s birthright?”
“The knights of the Kingsguard are forbidden to marry, to father children, and to hold land, you know that as well as I. The day Jaime put on that white cloak, he gave up his claim to Casterly Rock, but never once have you acknowledged it. It’s past time. I want you to stand up before the realm and proclaim that I am your son and your lawful heir.”
Lord Tywin’s eyes were a pale green flecked with gold, as luminous as they were merciless. “Casterly Rock,” he declared in a flat cold dead tone. And then, “Never.”
The word hung between them, huge, sharp, poisoned.
I knew the answer before I asked, Tyrion thought. Eighteen years since Jaime joined the Kingsguard, and I never once raised the issue. I must have known. I must always have known. “Why?” he made himself ask, though he knew he would rue the question.
“You ask that? You, who killed your mother to come into the world? You are an ill-made, devious, disobedient, spiteful little creature full of envy, lust, and low cunning. Men’s laws give you the right to bear my name and display my colors, since I cannot prove that you are not mine. To teach me humility, the gods have condemned me to watch you waddle about wearing that proud lion that was my father’s sigil and his father’s before him. But neither gods nor men shall ever compel me to let you turn Casterly Rock into your whorehouse.”
“My whorehouse?” The dawn broke; Tyrion understood all at once where this bile had come from. He ground his teeth together and said, “Cersei told you about Alayaya.”
“Is that her name? I confess, I cannot remember the names of all your whores. Who was the one you married as a boy?”
“Tysha.” He spat out the answer, defiant.
“And that camp follower on the Green Fork?”
“Why do you care?” he asked, unwilling even to speak Shae’s name in his presence.
“I don’t. No more than I care if they live or die.”
“It was you who had Yaya whipped.” It was not a question.
“Your sister told me of your threats against my grandsons.” Lord Tywin’s voice was colder than ice. “Did she lie?”
Tyrion would not deny it. “I made threats, yes. To keep Alayaya safe. So the Kettleblacks would not misuse her.”
“To save a whore’s virtue, you threatened your own House, your own kin? Is that the way of it?”
“You were the one who taught me that a good threat is often more telling than a blow. Not that Joffrey hasn’t tempted me sore a few hundred times. If you’re so anxious to whip people, start with him. But Tommen . . . why would I harm Tommen? He’s a good lad, and mine own blood.”
“As was your mother.” Lord Tywin rose abruptly, to tower over his dwarf son. “Go back to your bed, Tyrion, and speak to me no more of your rights to Casterly Rock. You shall have your reward, but it shall be one I deem appropriate to your service and station. And make no mistake—this was the last time I will suffer you to bring shame onto House Lannister. You are done with whores. The next one I find in your bed, I’ll hang.”

第四章提利昂

　　“谁？”他嘶声叫道。虽然声音生硬而嘶哑，但至少能说话了。提利昂仍旧发着高烧，完全失去了时间概念。睡了多久？他太虚弱，虚弱得不象话。“谁？”他再次叫喊，试图大声一些。火炬的光芒从敞开的大门外溢入，但在卧室里，唯一的光源只是床边一根快燃尽的蜡烛。
　　一团黑影缓缓向他走来，他不禁浑身颤抖。这里是梅葛楼，每个下人都是太后的爪牙，这名来访者多半是瑟曦派出，前来完成曼登爵士未竟的事业。

　　对方踱进烛光范围内，饶有兴味地打量着侏儒苍白的脸庞，咯咯笑道：“刮胡子不专心，对吧？”

　　提利昂摸向那道巨大的伤痕，从左眼直到下巴，穿过残缺的鼻子。没长好皮的肉翻在外面，手感暖暖的，“好一把可怕的大剃刀，真的。”

　　波隆炭黑的头发刚刚洗过，笔直地梳在脑后。他穿着柔软的高筒靴、埕亮的皮衣、镶小银片的宽腰带和淡绿丝绒斗篷，暗灰色羊毛上装上用亮绿丝线绣着一条燃烧的锁链。

　　“你上哪儿去了？”提利昂质问对方，“从我送信给你到现在……多半有两个星期了。”

　　“只有四天，”佣兵道，“况且我来过两次，你睡得跟死猪一样。”

　　“我才没死，没那么容易屈从于我亲爱的老姐。”也许不该说得这样大声，但提利昂懒得在意，他打心眼里清楚瑟曦是操纵曼登爵士的幕后黑手。“你胸前的破玩意儿是什么？”

　　波隆咧嘴一笑，“是什么？我的骑士纹章呗。烟灰底色上一条着火的绿锁链。蒙你父亲大人所赐，我如今成了黑水的波隆爵士，小恶魔，你可别忘了我的身份。”

　　提利昂用手撑着羽毛绒床垫，向后蠕动几寸，把头枕起来，“你才不要忘了，骑士身份是谁许下的！”他一点也不喜欢“蒙你父亲大人所赐”这句话。泰温公爵没有浪费一点时间，前脚把自己儿子从首相塔里扔出来，后脚便颁布册封，这是给所有人看的信息。“我丢了半个鼻子，你却当上骑士，诸神啊，这到底是怎么回事？”他酸酸地感叹，“我父亲亲自册封你的？”

　　“那怎么可能？我们这些从绞盘塔幸存的人被交给总主教和御林铁卫们去打点，先抹油，后拍肩。妈的，只有三个白骑士活下来主持仪式，花了整整半天。”

　　“我只知道曼登爵士阵亡。”实际上，这可恶的杂种正打算割我喉咙，却被波德推进了河里。“还有谁死了？”

　　“猎狗，”波隆说，“他其实没死，逃了。听金袍子说，他临阵脱逃，而你代他率队出击。”

　　这可不算我的好主意。皱眉时，结疤的组织紧紧的，他招手示意波隆找椅子坐下。“亲爱的老姐把我当蘑菇，扔在这漆黑的地方喂我狗屎吃。波德倒是个好孩子，可他舌头能打的结比凯岩城还大，况且我对他说的情况一半都不信。我叫他去找杰斯林爵士，他竟回报说他死了！”

　　“死的哪里只他一个咧，守军少说也折了几千，”波隆坐下来。

　　“他怎么死的？”提利昂忙问，突然恶心起来。

　　“战斗正酣时，你姐姐忽命凯特布莱克们把国王接回红堡——反正我是这样听说的。金袍军看到国王离去，认为自己已遭抛弃，这时铁手挡在他们前面，命令他们返回岗位。大家都承认拜瓦特做得很好，他们几乎就要在他的激励下回头了，不料斜刺里飞来一箭，正中铁手颈项。中箭后的他看起来不那么可怕，所以被人们从马上拖下来，当场格杀。”

　　瑟曦欠我的又一笔债。“我外甥，”他说，“乔佛里，他可有遇险？”

　　“不比别人多，其实比大多数人都少。”

　　“他受到什么伤害没有？带过战伤？弄脏头发？撞到脚趾？裂开指甲？”

　　“毫发无伤。”

　　“那瑟曦怎能这么干？我明明警告过她，一旦国王离开便会出现这种状况。告诉我，现在金袍军由谁指挥？”

　　“你父亲大人把职位赏给了手下某位西境人，一个叫亚当·马尔布兰的骑士。”

　　多数情形下，金袍子们都会抵制外地人的领导，但亚当·马尔布兰爵士真是个英明的选择。和詹姆一样，他是那种人们愿意心甘情愿追随的人。我失去了都城守备队。“我派波德去找过夏嘎，可他就是找不着。”

　　“怪不得他，御林有那么大，其实石鸦部还在林子里，夏嘎似乎喜欢上了那儿。提魅率灼人部回家了，满载着战后从史坦尼斯大营中抢到的东西。倒是齐拉带着十来个黑耳部民在某天早上返回了临河门，却被你父亲手下的红袍卫士赶走，城里的人在旁欢呼着向他们泼屎。”

　　忘恩负义。黑耳部曾为了他们浴血奋战。看来当我吃了药，无助地躺在床上发梦时，我的血亲骨肉们把我的爪牙一根一根地拔了下来。“我叫你来，首先是想让你去找我老姐。既然她的宝贝儿子在战斗中平安无事，那她就不需要人质了。她发过誓，会放了爱拉雅雅——”

　　“不用劳烦我，她已经放人了。八，九天以前放的，在鞭打之后。”

　　提利昂用力提提身子，无视那突若其来的肩膀刺痛，“鞭打？”

　　“他们把她栓在庭院中央的柱子上折磨，然后把血淋林的裸女推出堡门。”

　　好啊，瑟曦，你等着瞧！提利昂疯狂地想。横贯脸颊的伤疤越绷越紧，他脑海里则是关不住的狂怒。没错，爱拉雅雅只是个妓女，但她甜美而勇敢，比他见过的所有贵妇人都更心地纯洁。提利昂没碰过她，她只是雪伊的伪装，可由于他考虑不周，竟让她为扮演角色付出了惨重代价。“我向老姐保证过，爱拉雅雅发生的任何事都会在托曼身上重演，”他大声回忆道，觉得自己快要吐了，“我该如何来报复一个年仅八岁的男孩？”可我不做的话，瑟曦就是赢家。

　　“托曼并不在你手里，”波隆直率地说，“得知铁手丧命后，太后立刻派出凯特布莱克们去讨回托曼，罗斯比那儿的人没一个有胆说不。”

　　又一次打击，不过也算一点安慰，必须承认，他喜欢托曼。“这些凯特布莱克怎么回事？按理说该是我们的人，”他烦躁不安地提醒波隆。

　　“从前是，当时我能付给他们等同于太后方面的酬劳。如今她涨价了，大战后，和我一样，奥斯尼和奥斯佛利都当上骑士。诸神才明白这是为什么，没人见他们上过战场。”

　　我的雇工背叛了我，我的朋友蒙受着灾难和耻辱，而我却一动不动地烂在这儿，提利昂心想，我以为自己赢得了这场该死的战争，胜利的滋味就是这样的吗？“听说蓝礼的鬼魂显灵，打败了史坦尼斯，有这么回事？”

　　波隆浅浅一笑，“在绞盘塔上，我只看见旗帜散落战场，敌人纷纷弃械逃亡，可那些待在食堂或妓院没出门的家伙却活灵活现地吹嘘着蓝礼公爵杀了这个打败那个。其实事实本身不难理解，史坦尼斯麾下军队中大部分人从前追随蓝礼，所以一当看见他身穿熟悉的亮绿铠甲出现时便纷纷倒戈。”

　　他的一切苦苦经营、惊心动魄的出击、船桥上的血战、连脸也被砍成两半，到头来，竟为一个死人所埋没——如果蓝礼真死了的话。他还想知道别的事，“史坦尼斯如何逃走的？”

　　“他手下的里斯舰队泊在海湾内，在你的铁索后面。眼见战事不妙，他们便靠到岸边，尽可能地装走士兵。据说，到最后敌人互相践踏、格杀着抢夺上船位置。”

　　“罗柏·史塔克呢？在这期间，他有何举动？”

　　“他手下的狼仔烧杀抢掠，一路打到暮谷城。前阵子，你父亲刚分兵给塔利伯爵，命他北上平叛。我本想跟着去，据说他不仅作战英勇，分配战利品也十分慷慨。”

　　失去波隆的思虑成了最后一根稻草。“不。你必须留下来，这是你职责所在，你是首相的侍卫队长。”

　　“你不是首相了，”波隆尖刻地提醒他，“你父亲才是，妈的，他有自己的卫队。”

　　“你为我雇的那些人呢？”

　　“其中有很多在绞盘塔战死；剩下的人和你叔叔凯冯爵士结帐之后，便被赶了出去。”

　　“他可真好心，临走还记得还钱，”提利昂酸酸地说，“这么说来，你对金子也没兴趣啰？”

　　“不他妈的像。”

　　“好，”提利昂说，“很好，我这儿还需要你。你有曼登·穆尔爵士的消息吗？”

　　波隆笑道：“他妈的给活活淹死了。”

　　“我欠他一笔巨债，不知该怎么偿还。”他摸摸脸上的伤疤，“说真的，我对此人了解不多。”

　　“他是个死鱼眼，穿白袍。除此之外，你还想知道什么？”

　　“他的底细，”提利昂道，“从头到尾。”其实他想要的是曼登爵士为瑟曦效力的证据，但不敢直接说出来。在红堡里，人人都得学会管住嘴巴，因为墙里面不仅有老鼠、还有会说话的小小鸟和蜘蛛。“扶我起来，”他说，一边竭力撑着，“该去见父亲了，再不露面可不行。”

　　“他铁定会夸你变漂亮了，”波隆嘲弄道。

　　“算啦，我的脸本就这样，如今还掉了半个鼻子……我们还是说说漂亮人儿吧，玛格丽·提利尔抵达君临了没？”

　　“没有，还在途中，但整个城市业已为她而陷入了疯狂。你知道吗？提利尔家从高庭运来整车整车的食物，以她的名义散发给人民。每天都有数百辆马车进城。君临的大街小巷里，提利尔的人招摇过市，只要胸前缝着细小的金玫瑰，就不用为喝酒买单。有丈夫的女人、没丈夫的寡妇、还有妓女，所有的女性都为这些绣着金玫瑰的黄毛小子而迷乱。”

　　他们向我吐唾沫，却给提利尔们送酒喝。提利昂从床上滑下来，腿脚摇晃，天旋地转，他慌忙抓住波隆的手臂，差点跌个狗吃屎。“波德！”他叫道，“波德瑞克·派恩！七层地狱，你在哪儿？”疼痛象只无牙的狗噬咬着他。提利昂痛恨虚弱，尤其痛恨自己的虚弱。这让他感到羞耻，羞耻让他愤怒。“波德，滚到这里来！”

　　男孩飞奔而至。他看见提利昂紧倚着波隆的胳膊站了起来，顿时张口结舌。“大人。您起来了。是否……您是……您是要酒吗？安眠酒？要我去叫学士？他说您必须待在这儿。我的意思是，待在床上。”

　　“我已经在床上待得太久，把干净衣服给我。”

　　“衣服？”

　　为啥这孩子在战斗中头脑清醒、手脚灵活，可其他时间总是一团糟，提利昂无法理解。“衣服是用来穿的东西，”他解释，“外套，上衣，马裤，袜子。拿给我。替我穿上。我才能离开这该死的牢房。”

　　合三个人之力，他才穿好衣服。虽然脸上的伤十分可怕，但伤筋动骨的是肩臂结合部那一击，有一只箭曾插进腋窝里。平日，只要法兰肯学士为他更衣，血和脓就从褪色的血肉中渗出，稍微移动就牵起一阵贯穿全身的刺痛。

　　穿好上衣后，提利昂笼上一条马裤，松垮地披了一件大睡袍。波隆提起他的脚，为他穿鞋，波德则为他找来一根拐棍。出门之前，他特地喝下一杯安眠酒，酒里不仅加了蜂蜜，还有适量的罂粟花奶。

　　即使如此，他仍感到眩晕，走在弯曲的石阶上，腿不住发抖，只能一手拄拐杖一手靠着波德的肩膀。途中碰到一个侍女，她瞪着大大的白眼睛，盯住他们，活象看到了幽灵。我是坟墓中爬出的侏儒，提利昂心想，看吧，想看就看个够吧，我比以前更丑了，快跑去告诉你的伙伴们吧。

　　梅葛楼是红堡中最坚固的地方，一座城中之城，四周围着一圈干涸而极深的护城河，河床上钉满尖刺。出门时，已是晚上，吊桥升了起来，马林·特兰爵士穿着白甲白袍守在桥前。“放下吊桥，”提利昂命令他。

　　“太后有令，日落后不得放下吊桥。”马林爵士一直是瑟曦的走狗。

　　“太后正在休息，而我找父亲有事。”

　　泰温·兰尼斯特公爵的名字产生了魔力。马林·特兰爵士一边咕哝，一边下达指示，跟着吊桥就放了下来。另一位御林铁卫在河对面站岗。奥斯蒙·凯特布莱克爵士看到提利昂蹒跚着走来，满脸堆笑，“感觉好点了，大人？”

　　“好多了。什么时候再打仗？我简直不能等了。”

　　波德带他走到螺旋梯前，但提利昂只能沮丧地张口呆望。我爬不上去，他对自己承认。他只好咽下所有的自尊，让波隆抱上去，心中只盼望晚上没人出没、没人看见、没人嘲笑，没人去传播这个侏儒像婴儿般被提上台阶的故事。

　　外院里，营帐到处滋生。“这些是提利尔家的人，”他们在丝绸和帆布的迷宫中穿梭，波德瑞克·派恩一边解释，“还有罗宛大人和雷德温大人的部下。这里空间不够。我的意思是，整个城堡都装不下。很多人得自己找地方住。在城里住。旅馆和其他地方。他们都是来参加婚礼的。国王的婚礼，乔佛里国王的婚礼。您能好起来参加婚礼吗，大人？”

　　“怎么，我可不怕人。”至少，他们是来参加婚礼而不是来打仗的，不大可能会有人割你的鼻子。

　　灯光还隐隐约约地在首相塔的窄窗内浮现。门卫穿红袍戴狮盔，乃是父亲的亲信。提利昂认得他们俩，他们俩也认出了他……但没人敢看他第二眼，这点他注意到了。

　　走进大门，迎面遇见的是亚当·马尔布兰爵士，他身穿华丽的黑漆胸甲，披着代表都城守备队司令身份的金缕披风，正走下台阶。“大人，”他说，“看到你起来我真高兴，我听说——”

　　“——关于一个小小的坟墓已经挖好了的谣言？我也听说了。你看，这种情形下我还真非起床不可。据说你当上了都城守备队的长官，我是该恭喜你呢，还是该同情你？”

　　“恐怕是两者兼而有之吧，”亚当爵士哈哈大笑。“除去战死和开小差的，我手下还有四千四百人，只有诸神和小指头才知道该怎么来支付这帮家伙的工资，而你姐姐还命令我一个都不准遣散。”

　　还那么急切干嘛，瑟曦？仗已经打完，金袍军对你用处不大了。“你刚和我父亲会面？”他问。

　　“是啊，恐怕我没带给他好心情。照泰温大人的观点，四千四百个守卫远及不一名走失的侍从重要，而我们始终找不到你表弟提瑞克。”

　　提瑞克是他过世的二叔提盖特爵士之子，仅仅只有十三岁，却在先前的君临暴动中失了踪，当时他刚和艾弥珊德伯爵夫人成婚。这位夫人是哈佛家族最后的传人，还没断奶咧，该不会成了七国历史上最年轻的寡妇吧。“我当时也没找着他，”提利昂承认。

　　“他早成蛆虫的养料啦，”波隆用惯有的傲慢腔调插了一句。“铁手搜过，太监还悬赏一大笔，他们都找不到，更别说你。算了吧，爵士。”

　　亚当爵士厌恶地瞪着佣兵。“身关血亲，泰温大人的态度非常坚定：不论死活，都要找到这小子。放心，我不会辜负他。”他转向提利昂，“你可以到你父亲的书房去见他。”

　　那是我的书房，提利昂心想，“好的，我记得路。”

　　上楼的台阶更多，但这回他只搭着波德的肩，靠自己的力量爬了上去。波隆为他开门。泰温·兰尼斯特公爵坐在窗下，就着油灯书写信件，听到门闩的声音，才抬了抬眼。“提利昂，”他平静地说，一边放下手中的鹅毛笔。

　　“真是荣幸，您居然还认得我，大人，”提利昂松开波德，把身体靠住拐棍，蹒跚着走上前。什么事情不对劲，他突然意识到。

　　“波隆爵士，”泰温公爵说，“波德瑞克。在我们谈话期间，你们最好在外面等。”

　　波隆望向首相的眼神很难说不是傲慢，但最后他鞠个躬，退了出去，波德跟着他。沉重的大门在他们身后紧紧关闭，剩下提利昂·兰尼斯特独自面对他的父亲，现在是夜晚，就连窄窗也全部关上，但屋内的寒气依旧十分逼人。瑟曦给他灌输了些什么谎话？

　　凯岩城公爵和比他年轻二十岁的人一样硬朗，那严峻的神情中，甚至还透出几分英气。结实的金色胡须掩盖了他的下颚，衬托出一张严厉的脸、一个秃头和一张紧闭的嘴巴。金手组成的项链挂在他脖子上，每根手指都扣住另一只手的手腕。“好漂亮的项链，”提利昂说。它更应该戴在我身上。

　　泰温公爵不理他话中带刺，“你给我坐下。这么着急地离开病床，明智吗？”

　　“我受够了那张病床，”提利昂知道父亲有多鄙视虚弱。他走向最近的椅子，“瞧，您的房间多好。说出来都没人相信，当我奄奄一息时，他们居然把我扔到梅葛楼下的小黑牢里。”

　　“红堡里挤满了来参加婚礼的客人，等他们离开后，我们自然会给你换个舒服的地方。”

　　“哦？非常感谢。大婚的日子定了吗？”

　　“乔佛里和玛格丽将在新年的第一天完婚，那也是新世纪的第一天，而典礼将宣告一个新时代的到来。”

　　一个兰尼斯特的新时代，提利昂心想。“好吧，父亲，看来那天我只好推掉其他约会啰，”

　　“你来这儿就为着抱怨卧室和开些蹩脚玩笑？省省吧，我有几封重要信件要写。”

　　“重要信件。当然。当然。”

　　“有的胜利靠宝剑和长矛赢取，有的胜利则要靠纸笔和乌鸦。好啦，你是来责备我的吧，别遮遮掩掩，提利昂。我在巴拉拔学士允许的范围内多次到病床前看望过你，当时你跟死人没两样。”泰温公爵十指交叉，顶着下巴，“你为何赶走巴拉拔？”

　　提利昂耸耸肩，“法兰肯学士不会让我继续沉睡。”

　　“巴拉拔学士是雷德温大人的随员，他的医术，众人有口皆碑。瑟曦想得周到，特意推荐他来照顾你，她很为你的性命担忧。”

　　只怕她担忧的是我保住小命吧。“那当然，所以她才一直守在我床前啰。”

　　“你这样讲，实在很不恰当。瑟曦要操办国王的婚礼，我则要统辖战争，而至少两周前你就脱离了生命危险。”泰温大人审视着儿子丑陋的面孔，淡绿的眼睛毫不退缩，“的确，好可怕的伤，你当时究竟在发什么疯？”

　　“敌军带着攻城锤冲向大门。若是詹姆率队出击，您会称之为英勇。”

　　“詹姆不会蠢到在战斗中脱下头盔。我相信，你已经把伤你的人给杀了？”

　　“不错，那可怜虫死透了。”其实曼登爵士是教波德瑞克·派恩干掉，他被推进河里，铠甲的重量使他再也没有浮上来。“死去的对手就是我的欢乐，”提利昂甜甜地说。不过曼登爵士并非他真正的对手，他没有杀他的理由。他只是猫的爪子，而我知道猫是谁，是她，想确保我上战场一去不回。但他没有证据，泰温公爵是不会接受这样的指控的。“您怎么还留在城里，父亲？”他问，“您不去对付史坦尼斯大人或者罗柏·史塔克再或者其他什么人吗？”而且越早越好。

　　“在雷德温大人的舰队赶到之前，我们无法攻打龙石岛。没关系，史坦尼斯·拜拉席恩的太阳已经在黑水河沉没，再也不可能升起。至于史塔克，那小子人还在西境，但另一支由赫曼·陶哈和罗贝特·葛洛佛指挥的北方大军正攻向暮谷城，我派塔利伯爵正面迎敌，同时让格雷果爵士沿国王大道进发，以切断他们的后路。陶哈和葛洛佛将被夹在中间，史塔克军三分之一的战力已经注定要被勾销掉。”

　　“暮谷城？”暮谷城毫无战略意义，少狼主干嘛急着拿下它？

　　“这些你都不需要关心。你的脸苍白得跟死人一样，竟还有血从衣服里渗出来。想要什么就快说，然后给我回床上去。”

　　“我想要……”他的喉咙干燥而紧张。我想要什么？比你打算给我的多，父亲。“波德告诉我，小指头当上了赫伦堡公爵。”

　　“不过是空头衔。眼下卢斯·波顿为罗柏·史塔克守着赫伦堡，培提尔大人又极渴望光耀门楣。怎么说，他毕竟在达成提利尔的婚约一事上为我们作了很大贡献。兰尼斯特有债必还。”

　　事实上，和提利尔的婚约是提利昂的主意，可现在说出来也太斤斤计较。“这头衔并不像您想象的那么空洞，”他警告，“除非有利可图，否则小指头决不出手。当然，事情已经公布，也只好暂时作罢。您提到还债的事？”

　　“而你想要自己的奖赏，对吧？很好，你想从我这儿得到什么？领地？城堡？官位？”

　　“一点该死的感激会是一个不错的开始。”

　　泰温公爵目不转睛瞪着他，“猴子和戏子才需要喝彩，还有伊里斯。你指挥得很好，我承认这点，无人否定你所扮演的角色。”

　　“我所扮演的角色？”提利昂残余的鼻孔几乎要喷出火来，“照我看来，正是我一人拯救了这个该死的城市。”

　　“不对，大家公认是我对史坦尼斯大人的突袭扭转了局面。提利尔大人，罗宛、雷德温和塔利，他们打得都很出色，别人还告诉我，那摧毁拜拉席恩舰队的野火也是你姐姐瑟曦让炼金术士们提供的。”

　　“而我做的只是修剪鼻毛，对吗？”提利昂无法压抑愤懑的声调。

　　“拦江铁索是个好主意，它替我们锁定了胜局，你就想听我说这个？当然，我还应当感谢你为我们达成与多恩领的联盟。弥塞拉已安全抵达阳戢城，你该高兴才是。亚历斯·奥克赫特爵士信中说，她喜欢上了亚莲恩公主，而崔斯丹王子为她着迷。但说到底，我厌恶送给马泰尔家人质，毫无必要的举措。”

　　“我们也将得到人质，”提利昂说，“我允诺道朗亲王御前会议中的重臣席位，除非他带着大军前来，否则在这儿便会任我们摆布。”

　　“但愿重臣席位是马泰尔家要求的一切，”泰温公爵说，“你还许诺为他复仇。”

　　“我许诺还他正义。”

　　“随你怎么说。关键这事需要流血。”

　　“血，肯定不是件紧俏东西，对吧？打仗的时候，我就在血泊中奔波呢。”提利昂不想兜圈子，“莫非您喜欢上了格雷果·克里冈，以至于无法放弃他？”

　　“和他弟弟一样，格雷果爵士有他的用处。想要在权力的游戏中胜出的人，身边都需要野兽……从波隆爵士和那些原住民看来，你已经学会了这一课。”

　　提利昂想起提魅烧烂的眼睛，夏嘎的战斧，齐拉的人耳项链，还有波隆。尤其是波隆。“林子里到处都找得到野兽，”他提醒父亲，“小巷中也有。”

　　“不错，也许可以换只狗，我会仔细考虑。那么，如果没别的事……”

　　“你有几封重要信件要写，是的。”提利昂用摇晃的腿撑起身子，眩晕的浪涛从头到脚地掠过，他闭了会儿眼，稳定心神，才颤动着向大门迈了一步。他以为自己会走第二步，接下来是第三步，但相反，他回过了头。“您刚才问我想要什么？那好，我就告诉你，我要的只是照权利属于我的东西。我要凯岩城。”

　　父亲的嘴闭得更紧，“那你哥哥怎么办？”

　　“御林铁卫的骑士不准结婚，不得生子，不能据地，你同我一样对此心知肚明，别再自欺欺人了。詹姆从披上白袍那天起，就自动放弃了对凯岩城的继承权，只是你从不肯承认。过去的事我们不提，现在我想要你当着全国诸侯的面宣布我是你的儿子和法定继承人。”

　　泰温公爵淡绿眼睛里的金黄瞳仁就像融化一般发出光芒，却不带丝毫情感。“凯岩城，”他用平板、冷淡、死寂的语气念道，然后加上一句，“决不。”

　　这个词悬在父子之间，庞大，锋利，充满毒素。

　　开口之前我就知道了答案，提利昂心想，詹姆加入御林铁卫已经十八年，我却从不敢提出这个话题。我早就知道。我早就心知肚明。“为什么？”他强迫自己问，明知自己不会喜欢父亲的回答。

　　“你居然还问我这个？你，你这个害死母亲而出世的人？你是个怪胎、畸形、不听话的主；在你心中装满妒忌、充斥着恶意；你淫欲缠身，尽耍小聪明。世人的律法让你冠我的姓氏、穿我的衣服，因为我无法证明你不是我的种。为了教导我谦逊之道，诸神迫使我目睹你佩着雄狮纹章四处蹒跚招摇，那可是我父亲的纹章，我祖父的纹章，兰尼斯特家族的纹章！但无论诸神还是世人都不能强迫我把凯岩城交给你，让它变成你的妓院。”

　　“我的妓院？”云散天开了，提利昂一下子明白他的怒气从何而来。他咬紧牙关，“瑟曦拿爱拉雅雅的事向你告状。”

　　“她叫这个名字？抱歉，我可记不住你那堆妓女。比如，你小时候娶的那个叫什么？”

　　“泰莎。”他吐出这回答，摆好挑战的姿势。

　　“红叉河畔那个营妓呢？”

　　“你为什么关心？”他答道，不愿在父亲面前提起雪伊的名字。

　　“我才不关心。她们死活都不干我事。”

　　“原来是你下令鞭打雅雅的。”这不是提问。

　　“你姐姐把你对我孙子的威胁告诉了我，”泰温公爵的声调赛过寒冰，“她说谎了吗？”

　　提利昂无法否认，“是的，我那样说过，但只是为了保证爱拉雅雅的安全，让凯特布莱克们不至于虐待她。”

　　“为一个妓女的安全，你居然威胁自己的家族，自己的亲属？这就是你的行事之道？”

　　“是你教导我，成功的威胁比直接的打击更有效。我在君临主政期间，若非如此施为，只怕乔佛里早就把家给败光了！你想鞭打人，应该从他开始。但托曼不一样……我怎会伤害托曼？他不仅是个好孩子，还是我自己的血亲。”

　　“就象你母亲一样？”泰温公爵突然站起来，高高俯瞰着侏儒儿子。“回去，提利昂，再也休提凯岩城的继承权。你会得到奖赏，但那将是适合你的服务和位置的那份。千万别搞错——这是我最后一次容忍你使兰尼斯特家族蒙羞。再也不得跟妓女鬼混。下次教我在你床上发现，我就吊死她。”

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xijuangulin(热心会员)

6楼 2016-05-28

其实这部热剧我还没开始追

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兔兔兔兔兔ッ(文学之神)

7楼 2016-05-31

Title seems to be missing a ‘s',but maybe it does not matter.
I haven't seen the season three, but seems the comment is not very good...

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lengzichen(派派版主)

8楼 2016-06-02

I didn't read this novel or watch TV about this drama, but the picture remind me of the lord of the rings.
It seems the same about the things the story want to say.
If I have time I will read it. Thank you for sharing.

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clhgril(禁止发言)

9楼 2016-06-04

Title seems to be missing a ‘s',but maybe it does not matter.
I haven't seen the season three, but seems the comment is not very good...

回到夏末之初(内阁元老)

10楼 2016-06-30

DAVOS

He watched the sail grow for a long time, trying to decide whether he would sooner live or die.
Dying would be easier, he knew. All he had to do was crawl inside his cave and let the ship pass by, and death would find him. For days now the fever had been burning through him, turning his bowels to brown water and making him shiver in his restless sleep. Each morning found him weaker. It will not be much longer, he had taken to telling himself.
If the fever did not kill him, thirst surely would. He had no fresh water here, but for the occasional rainfall that pooled in hollows on the rock. Only three days past (or had it been four? On his rock, it was hard to tell the days apart) his pools had been dry as old bone, and the sight of the bay rippling green and grey all around him had been almost more than he could bear. Once he began to drink seawater the end would come swiftly, he knew, but all the same he had almost taken that first swallow, so parched was his throat. A sudden squall had saved him. He had grown so feeble by then that it was all he could do to lie in the rain with his eyes closed and his mouth open, and let the water splash down on his cracked lips and swollen tongue. But afterward he felt a little stronger, and the island’s pools and cracks and crevices once more had brimmed with life.
But that had been three days ago (or maybe four), and most of the water was gone now. Some had evaporated, and he had sucked up the rest. By the morrow he would be tasting the mud again, and licking the damp cold stones at the bottom of the depressions.
And if not thirst or fever, starvation would kill him. His island was no more than a barren spire jutting up out of the immensity of Blackwater Bay. When the tide was low, he could sometimes find tiny crabs along the stony strand where he had washed ashore after the battle. They nipped his fingers painfully before he smashed them apart on the rocks to suck the meat from their claws and the guts from their shells.
But the strand vanished whenever the tide came rushing in, and Davos had to scramble up the rock to keep from being swept out into the bay once more. The point of the spire was fifteen feet above the water at high tide, but when the bay grew rough the spray went even higher, so there was no way to keep dry, even in his cave (which was really no more than a hollow in the rock beneath an overhang). Nothing grew on the rock but lichen, and even the seabirds shunned the place. Now and again some gulls would land atop the spire and Davos would try to catch one, but they were too quick for him to get close. He took to flinging stones at them, but he was too weak to throw with much force, so even when his stones hit the gulls would only scream at him in annoyance and then take to the air.
There were other rocks visible from his refuge, distant stony spires taller than his own. The nearest stood a good forty feet above the water, he guessed, though it was hard to be sure at this distance. A cloud of gulls swirled about it constantly, and often Davos thought of crossing over to raid their nests. But the water was cold here, the currents strong and treacherous, and he knew he did not have the strength for such a swim. That would kill him as sure as drinking seawater.
Autumn in the narrow sea could often be wet and rainy, he remembered from years past. The days were not bad so long as the sun was shining, but the nights were growing colder and sometimes the wind would come gusting across the bay, driving a line of whitecaps before it, and before long Davos would be soaked and shivering. Fever and chills assaulted him in turn, and of late he had developed a persistent racking cough.
His cave was all the shelter he had, and that was little enough. Driftwood and bits of charred debris would wash up on the strand during low tide, but he had no way to strike a spark or start a fire. Once, in desperation, he had tried rubbing two pieces of driftwood against each other, but the wood was rotted, and his efforts earned him only blisters. His clothes were sodden as well, and he had lost one of his boots somewhere in the bay before he washed up here.
Thirst; hunger; exposure. They were his companions, with him every hour of every day, and in time he had come to think of them as his friends. Soon enough, one or the other of his friends would take pity on him and free him from this endless misery. Or perhaps he would simply walk into the water one day, and strike out for the shore that he knew lay somewhere to the north, beyond his sight. It was too far to swim, as weak as he was, but that did not matter. Davos had always been a sailor; he was meant to die at sea. The gods beneath the waters have been waiting for me, he told himself. It’s past time I went to them.
But now there was a sail; only a speck on the horizon, but growing larger. A ship where no ship should be. He knew where his rock lay, more or less; it was one of a series of sea monts that rose from the floor of Blackwater Bay. The tallest of them jutted a hundred feet above the tide, and a dozen lesser monts stood thirty to sixty feet high. Sailors called them spears of the merling king, and knew that for every one that broke the surface, a dozen lurked treacherously just below it. Any captain with sense kept his course well away from them.
Davos watched the sail swell through pale red-rimmed eyes, and tried to hear the sound of the wind caught in the canvas. She is coming this way. Unless she changed course soon, she would pass within hailing distance of his meager refuge. It might mean life. If he wanted it. He was not sure he did.
Why should I live? he thought as tears blurred his vision. Gods be good, why? My sons are dead, Dale and Allard, Maric and Matthos, perhaps Devan as well. How can a father outlive so many strong young sons? How would I go on? I am a hollow shell, the crab’s died, there’s nothing left inside. Don’t they know that?
They had sailed up the Blackwater Rush flying the fiery heart of the Lord of Light. Davos and Black Betha had been in the second line of battle, between Dale’s Wraith and Allard on Lady Marya. Maric his thirdborn was oarmaster on Fury, at the center of the first line, while Matthos served as his father’s second. Beneath the walls of the Red Keep Stannis Baratheon’s galleys had joined in battle with the boy king Joffrey’s smaller fleet, and for a few moments the river had rung to the thrum of bowstrings and the crash of iron rams shattering oars and hulls alike.
And then some vast beast had let out a roar, and green flames were all around them: wildfire, pyromancer’s piss, the jade demon. Matthos had been standing at his elbow on the deck of Black Betha when the ship seemed to lift from the water. Davos found himself in the river, flailing as the current took him and spun him around and around. Upstream, the flames had ripped at the sky, fifty feet high. He had seen Black Betha afire, and Fury, and a dozen other ships, had seen burning men leaping into the water to drown. Wraith and Lady Marya were gone, sunk or shattered or vanished behind a veil of wildfire, and there was no time to look for them, because the mouth of the river was almost upon him, and across the mouth of the river the Lannisters had raised a great iron chain. From bank to bank there was nothing but burning ships and wildfire. The sight of it seemed to stop his heart for a moment, and he could still remember the sound of it, the crackle of flames, the hiss of steam, the shrieks of dying men, and the beat of that terrible heat against his face as the current swept him down toward hell.
All he needed to do was nothing. A few moments more, and he would be with his sons now, resting in the cool green mud on the bottom of the bay, with fish nibbling at his face.
Instead he sucked in a great gulp of air and dove, kicking for the bottom of the river. His only hope was to pass under the chain and the burning ships and the wildfire that floated on the surface of the water, to swim hard for the safety of the bay beyond. Davos had always been a strong swimmer, and he’d worn no steel that day, but for the helm he’d lost when he’d lost Black Betha. As he knifed through the green murk, he saw other men struggling beneath the water, pulled down to drown beneath the weight of plate and mail. Davos swam past them, kicking with all the strength left in his legs, giving himself up to the current, the water filling his eyes. Deeper he went, and deeper, and deeper still. With every stroke it grew harder to hold his breath. He remembered seeing the bottom, soft and dim, as a stream of bubbles burst from his lips. Something touched his leg . . . a snag or a fish or a drowning man, he could not tell.
He needed air by then, but he was afraid. Was he past the chain yet, was he out in the bay? If he came up under a ship he would drown, and if he surfaced amidst the floating patches of wildfire his first breath would sear his lungs to ash. He twisted in the water to look up, but there was nothing to see but green darkness and then he spun too far and suddenly he could no longer tell up from down. Panic took hold of him. His hands flailed against the bottom of the river and sent up a cloud of mud that blinded him. His chest was growing tighter by the instant. He clawed at the water, kicking, pushing himself, turning, his lungs screaming for air, kicking, kicking, lost now in the river murk, kicking, kicking, kicking until he could kick no longer. When he opened his mouth to scream, the water came rushing in, tasting of salt, and Davos Seaworth knew that he was drowning.
The next he knew the sun was up, and he lay upon a stony strand beneath a spire of naked stone, with the empty bay all around and a broken mast, a burned sail, and a swollen corpse beside him. The mast, the sail, and the dead man vanished with the next high tide, leaving Davos alone on his rock amidst the spears of the merling king.
His long years as a smuggler had made the waters around King’s Landing more familiar to him than any home he’d ever had, and he knew his refuge was no more than a speck on the charts, in a place that honest sailors steered away from, not toward . . . though Davos himself had come by it once or twice in his smuggling days, the better to stay unseen. When they find me dead here, if ever they do, perhaps they will name the rock for me, he thought. Onion Rock, they’ll call it; it will be my tombstone and my legacy. He deserved no more. The Father protects his children, the septons taught, but Davos had led his boys into the fire. Dale would never give his wife the child they had prayed for, and Allard, with his girl in Oldtown and his girl in King’s Landing and his girl in Braavos, they would all be weeping soon. Matthos would never captain his own ship, as he’d dreamed. Maric would never have his knighthood.
How can I live when they are dead? So many brave knights and mighty lords have died, better men than me, and highborn. Crawl inside your cave, Davos. Crawl inside and shrink up small and the ship will go away, and no one will trouble you ever again. Sleep on your stone pillow, and let the gulls peck out your eyes while the crabs feast on your flesh. You’ve feasted on enough of them, you owe them. Hide, smuggler. Hide, and be quiet, and die.
The sail was almost on him. A few moments more, and the ship would be safely past, and he could die in peace.
His hand reached for his throat, fumbling for the small leather pouch he always wore about his neck. Inside he kept the bones of the four fingers his king had shortened for him, on the day he made Davos a knight. My luck. His shortened fingers patted at his chest, groping, finding nothing. The pouch was gone, and the fingerbones with them. Stannis could never understand why he’d kept the bones. “To remind me of my king’s justice,” he whispered through cracked lips. But now they were gone. The fire took my luck as well as my sons. In his dreams the river was still aflame and demons danced upon the waters with fiery whips in their hands, while men blackened and burned beneath the lash. “Mother, have mercy,” Davos prayed. “Save me, gentle Mother, save us all. My luck is gone, and my sons.” He was weeping freely now, salt tears streaming down his cheeks. “The fire took it all . . . the fire . . . ”
Perhaps it was only wind blowing against the rock, or the sound of the sea on the shore, but for an instant Davos Seaworth heard her answer. “You called the fire,” she whispered, her voice as faint as the sound of waves in a seashell, sad and soft. “You burned us . . . burned us . . . burrrned usssssss.”
“It was her!” Davos cried. “Mother, don’t forsake us. It was her who burned you, the red woman, Melisandre, her!” He could see her; the heart-shaped face, the red eyes, the long coppery hair, her red gowns moving like flames as she walked, a swirl of silk and satin. She had come from Asshai in the east, she had come to Dragonstone and won Selyse and her queen’s men for her alien god, and then the king, Stannis Baratheon himself. He had gone so far as to put the fiery heart on his banners, the fiery heart of R’hllor, Lord of Light and God of Flame and Shadow. At Melisandre’s urging, he had dragged the Seven from their sept at Dragonstone and burned them before the castle gates, and later he had burned the godswood at Storm’s End as well, even the heart tree, a huge white weirwood with a solemn face.
“It was her work,” Davos said again, more weakly. Her work, and yours, onion knight. You rowed her into Storm’s End in the black of night, so she might loose her shadow child. You are not guiltless, no. You rode beneath her banner and flew it from your mast. You watched the Seven burn at Dragonstone, and did nothing. She gave the Father’s justice to the fire, and the Mother’s mercy, and the wisdom of the Crone. Smith and Stranger, Maid and Warrior, she burnt them all to the glory of her cruel god, and you stood and held your tongue. Even when she killed old Maester Cressen, even then, you did nothing.
The sail was a hundred yards away and moving fast across the bay. In a few more moments it would be past him, and dwindling.
Ser Davos Seaworth began to climb his rock.
He pulled himself up with trembling hands, his head swimming with fever. Twice his maimed fingers slipped on the damp stone and he almost fell, but somehow he managed to cling to his perch. If he fell he was dead, and he had to live. For a little while more, at least. There was something he had to do.
The top of the rock was too small to stand on safely, as weak as he was, so he crouched and waved his fleshless arms. “Ship,” he screamed into the wind. “Ship, here, here!” From up here, he could see her more clearly; the lean striped hull, the bronze figurehead, the billowing sail. There was a name painted on her hull, but Davos had never learned to read. “Ship,” he called again, “help me, HELP ME!”
A crewman on her forecastle saw him and pointed. He watched as other sailors moved to the gunwale to gape at him. A short while later the galley’s sail came down, her oars slid out, and she swept around toward his refuge. She was too big to approach the rock closely, but thirty yards away she launched a small boat. Davos clung to his rock and watched it creep toward him. Four men were rowing, while a fifth sat in the prow. “You,” the fifth man called out when they were only a few feet from his island, “you up on the rock. Who are you?”
A smuggler who rose above himself, thought Davos, a fool who loved his king too much, and forgot his gods. His throat was parched, and he had forgotten how to talk. The words felt strange on his tongue and sounded stranger in his ears. “I was in the battle. I was . . . a captain, a . . . a knight, I was a knight.”
“Aye, ser,” the man said, “and serving which king?”
The galley might be Joffrey’s, he realized suddenly. If he spoke the wrong name now, she would abandon him to his fate. But no, her hull was striped. She was Lysene, she was Salladhor Saan’s. The Mother sent her here, the Mother in her mercy. She had a task for him. Stannis lives, he knew then. I have a king still. And sons, I have other sons, and a wife loyal and loving. How could he have forgotten? The Mother was merciful indeed.
“Stannis,” he shouted back at the Lyseni. “Gods be good, I serve King Stannis.”
“Aye,” said the man in the boat, “and so do we.”

第五章戴佛斯

　　他久久凝视着那张越变越大的帆，不知自己究竟想死还是想活。
　　等死很容易。只需爬回洞穴，任凭船只驶过，死亡很快就会来到。高烧多日不退，几乎蒸发了他，浑黄的毒水在肚肠里翻滚，烦乱的睡眠中颤抖从未停止。每个清晨他都更加虚弱。很快我就不会再受折磨了，他告诉自己。

　　即便高烧不能夺走他的生命，他也会渴死。这里没有淡水，只有偶尔的降雨，积存在岩石缝隙中。三天以前（还是四天？躺在这块石礁上，要分清天日是不可能的）他的小水池就干掉了，干得象块老骨头，而四周却是无边无际、起着涟漪的灰绿汪洋，让他无法承受。饮用海水就意味着末日的来临，他对此十分明白，可当时实在忍受不住，喉咙烧得像火。是一阵突来的暴雨拯救了他，当时他好虚弱，以至于只能躺在雨中，闭上眼睛，张开嘴巴，一任雨点打在干裂的嘴唇和肿胀的舌头上。不管怎样，接下来总算有了点力气，而石礁上的水池、小沟和裂缝都暂时注满生气。

　　但这是三天（或四天？）前的事了，而今水已消失殆尽。有些被蒸发，剩下的他吮了个干净，等到明天，又得吮吸污泥，以及从洼穴底部挖到的潮湿冷硬的石头。

　　退一万步讲，就算没有高烧和干渴，饥饿同样会要命。他所在之地不过是辽阔的黑水湾中一块突出的荒石。潮落之时，会有细小的螃蟹吸附在石滩上——他在战斗过后也是被冲刷到这里来的。他在岩石上撞碎它们，吮吸爪子里的肉和壳里的内脏。螃蟹们总把他的手夹得生痛。

　　潮起之时，石滩会消失，戴佛斯不得不慌忙爬上岩石，以免再次被冲进海湾。满潮时分，岩石顶端比海平面高出十五尺，但海湾里的浪很高，因而无法保持身上干燥，就算躲进洞里也没用（说真的，所谓的洞不过是岩石中的大窟窿）。石礁上除了青苔之外什么也不长，海鸥也不来这儿。时而有些幼鸟会停在尖顶上，戴佛斯不断尝试抓它们的方法，可每当他靠拢，它们便飞快地离开。他扔石子，却虚弱得发不上力，即便击中目标，也只能惹得海鸟对他恼怒尖叫，接着拍拍翅膀远走高飞。

　　从他的避难所，可以望见其他石礁，有的似乎比他这块要高。别的不说，虽然目测可能出现误差，但他认为最近那块至少比海平面高出四十尺。更诱人的是，那儿常盘旋着一大群海鸥，戴佛斯幻想游过去侵夺它们的巢穴。可海水冰凉，潮流多变而剧烈，自己又没力气。如此的举动和喝海水无异，同样会要命。

　　多年的海上生涯使他明白狭海的秋季总是潮湿而多雨。因为日照转弱，白天倒不太难过，可夜里却越来越冷。海风不时刮过海湾，卷起道道白色的浪涛，湿透了戴佛斯，让他浑身颤抖。在高烧和寒冷的轮番攻击下，很快他便开始持续而痛苦的咳嗽。

　　洞穴是他唯一的遮蔽所，却远远不够。退潮之际，漂流的木头和烧焦的残骸不时被冲刷到石滩上来，可它们无法打出火花。曾有一次，在绝望中，他试着摩擦两片浮木，但木头业已彻底腐朽，他的努力只换回几大块水疱。衣服没有干过，而来此之前一只鞋就已在海湾中遗失。

　　口渴，饥饿，暴露，三个伙计，陪伴他度过每一天的每个时辰，最终成为了他的朋友。但愿不久之后，他的某个朋友会怜悯他，为他解脱无尽的折磨。也许应当直接走进海里，奋力向北游，他知道海岸就在北方的某处，但眼睛看不见。距离太远，身体虚弱，游不过去，可这没关系。戴佛斯打小便是名水手，他希望死在海里。水下的神灵在等着我，他告诉自己，是我去见他们的时侯了。

　　偏偏这时，远方却出现了那只帆，起初还只是地平线上一个斑点，而今却越变越大。这里不该有船的。他知道石礁的位置，此地乃黑水湾中一系列海底山脉突出的地方，称为美人鱼礁。其中最高的比海面高出一百尺，还有十来个高出三十至六十尺的小型尖顶，水手们呼作“人鱼王之矛”。这里每块尖顶都有详细记录，水手们更互相警告潜藏于水下、范围更广的暗礁，总而言之，任何有理智的船长都会远远避开。

　　戴佛斯用苍白红肿的双眼打量着渐渐鼓起的船帆，试图分辨海风吹刮帆布的声响。她正对着我驶来，除非立刻改变航向，否则很快就近得能听到我从这小小避难所发出的呼喊。我活了。如果我想活的话。对此，他却不能确定。

　　我该怎么活？他心想，一任泪水模糊了视线。诸神在上，我该怎么活？我的孩子们死了，戴尔和阿拉德，马利克和马索斯，也许连戴冯也……作父亲的怎有脸在失去如此多的强壮孩儿之后苟活下去？我该怎么活下去？我是一具空壳，一只死去的螃蟹，内里什么都没有。他们为什么还要来救我，难道他们不明白吗？

　　想当初阵容壮盛地进军黑水河，舰队上空飘扬着光之王的烈焰红心。戴佛斯和他的黑贝丝号位于第二战列，两边是戴尔的海灵号和阿拉德的玛瑞亚夫人号。他的三子马利克是怒火号的桨官，位于第一战列正中，马索斯则是父亲船上的大副。在红堡的高墙下，史坦尼斯·拜拉席恩的战船与小鬼国王乔佛里的“玩具”展开交锋，刹时间，河面布满漫天的弩箭，钢铁的撞锤不断击碎船桨和木壳。

　　然后几头巨兽开始咆哮，四周全是绿的火焰——这是野火，炼金术士的屎尿，绿火恶魔。黑贝丝号一下子被掀离水面，当时马索斯就站在父亲身旁。戴佛斯坠入河中，绝望地拍打挣扎，急流围住了他，迫使他不断打旋、打旋。上游，烟火撕裂天空，火柱冲起五十尺高。黑贝丝号，怒火号，还有十几艘其他船只同时燃烧，浑身是火的人跳入水中，却再也没有浮起。海灵号和玛瑞亚夫人号遍寻不着，想必已在漫天野火中沉没、粉碎或是消失，根本无从找寻儿子们，流水带着他直往河口冲。横亘在前的是兰尼斯特的巨型铁索，从北岸到南岸，河口处除了燃烧的野火和战船之外什么也没有。看到这番景象，他几乎停止了呼吸，但恐怖的声响仍源源不断地从耳朵里灌进：烈焰的劈啪、流水蒸发的嘶嘶声、垂死士兵的尖叫，还有潮流带他涌向地狱时那可怕的热浪在脸上的拍击。

　　他只需袖手旁观，不消片刻，就能和孩子们团聚，沉睡在海湾底部清冷的绿色泥土里，任凭小鱼噬咬脸庞。

　　但不知为什么，他却深吸口气，潜入水下，向着河底猛扎。惟一的希望是从铁索、燃烧的战船及水面四散漂流的野火底下穿过去，拼命地游，一直游到后方安全的海湾。戴佛斯是个游泳好手，而且那天没穿盔甲，惟一戴着的圆盔也于坠海时丢失。他在绿色的水帘里穿梭，见到无数挣扎摸索的人，沉重的铠甲和锁甲正把他们慢慢拽进底部。戴佛斯游过他们，用尽腿上每一分气力蹬开躯体，追随潮流的方向。海水很快灌进他的眼睛。他越游越深，越游越深，越游越深，随着每一次击打，逐渐难以屏住呼吸。记得自己望见了河底，透过嘴巴喷出的气泡瞧去，这儿柔软而昏暗。什么东西碰到腿，一块石头？一只鱼？一个淹死的士兵？他不知道。

　　他需要空气，却不敢上浮。越过铁索了吗？在海湾内了吗？如果浮上去触到船只，必定要憋死；倘若出现在飘浮的野火中，第一口呼吸就会将肺烧成灰烬。他在水中扭着身子往上瞧，除了暗绿的黑影，什么也看不到，而他动作太剧烈，突然间便无从分辨河流的走向。恐慌攫住了他。他拼命拍打，手拂过河底，制造出团团污泥，彻底遮蔽了视线。胸膛愈来愈紧，他四处乱抓、踢打、推搡、不断翻动，肺部呐喊着要呼吸空气。踢啊，踢啊，在漆黑的水底迷路了，踢啊，踢啊，踢到再也踢不动为止。他张口号叫，海水猛灌而进，味道像盐巴，戴佛斯·席渥斯明白自己就快淹死了。

　　恢复知觉时，太阳已然升起，他躺在一块裸露石礁下方的滩头，四面是空荡荡的海湾，身旁有一根破碎的桅杆、一面烧焦的帆布和一具肿胀的尸体。涨潮的时候，桅杆、帆布和尸体全都消失，只把戴佛斯孤零零地扔在“人鱼王之矛”的岩石上。

　　经历了漫长的走私者生涯，戴佛斯对君临附近海域的了解比他拥有过的任何家园都要深，他很清楚他的避难所不过是海图上的一个小点，况且这个小点正是诚实水手应当回避的地方，而不是靠近……他自己倒来过美人鱼礁几次，只为躲避侦查。等有一天，我的尸体在这块岩石上被人发现，他们或许会用我的名字为它命名，他心想，就叫“洋葱之岩”吧，这就是我的墓志铭。他别无所求。父亲保护孩子，修士们如此教诲，可他戴佛斯偏偏把自己的孩子们带进烈火之中。戴尔再不可能使他的妻子怀上他们一直祈求的孩儿了；而阿拉德，他在旧镇、在君临、在布拉佛斯都有情人，她们很快便要陷入哀泣之中；马索斯甚至不及完成自己的梦想，没能当上船长，拥有自己的船；而马利克再也不能成为骑士。

　　他们都死了，我该怎么活？无数英勇的骑士，伟大的领主，比我优秀的人，比我高贵的人，纷纷捐躯，只有我……爬进洞穴里去，戴佛斯，爬进去，缩成一团，船就会离开，没有人会再来打扰你。睡在石头上，让海鸥琢出眼珠，让螃蟹享用血肉，你享用过它们，你欠它们的情。躲起来，走私者，躲起来，别出声，然后死去。

　　风帆几乎近在眼前。再过一会儿，船就会平静地离开，他也将平静地死去。

　　他的手伸向咽喉，摸索着一直戴在颈项上的小皮袋，里面保留着他的国王册封他为骑士当天，削下的四根指节。我的幸运符。短指在胸前拍打、摸索，什么也没找到。袋子不见了，连同里面的指骨一起。史坦尼斯一直不理解他为何要留着这些骨头。“提醒我谨记吾王的公正，”他用破裂的嘴唇低语。而今连它们也不见了，大火像带走我的孩子们一样带走了我的幸运符。在梦中，河上的火焰从未熄灭，手持火鞭的魔鬼在水面舞蹈，活人在抽打下燃烧，化为焦炭。“圣母啊，发发慈悲吧，”戴佛斯祈求，“救救我，温柔的圣母，救救我们大家。我的幸运符丢了，我的孩子们死了。”他无法抑制地嚎啕大哭，咸咸的泪水在面颊积成小溪。“火带走了一切……火……”

　　也许只是一阵刮过岩石的海风，也许只是一阵拍打滩头的浪潮，但在那一瞬间，戴佛斯·席渥斯听到了她的回应。“是你招来火焰，”她低语道，声音像隔着贝壳听潮一般微弱轻柔，充满忧伤，“是你烧了我们……烧了我们……烧了我们们们们们们们。”

　　“是她干的！”戴佛斯哭喊，“圣母啊，请不要将我们抛弃。是她干的，那红袍女，梅丽珊卓，是她！”她仿佛出现在眼前：心形的脸蛋、红色的眼睛、红铜的长发，她穿着红色的长礼服，由丝绸和缎子所制，走起路来有如火焰在移动。她来自东方的亚夏，在龙石岛上，用异乡的神灵俘获了赛丽丝和王后门下的贵族，接着又俘获了国王史坦尼斯·拜拉席恩的心。国王走得太远，竟把烈焰红心当成自己的旗帜，侍侯光之王拉赫洛，圣焰之心，影子与烈火的真主。在梅丽珊卓的力促下，他把龙石岛圣堂里的七神神像全拖出来，在城门口焚烧；后来还烧毁了风息堡的神木林，甚至那棵刻着庄重面容的巨大白色鱼梁木也没能逃脱厄运。

　　“是她干的，”戴佛斯重复，只觉言语加倍地无力。是她干的，可你是帮凶，洋葱骑士。在那个漆黑的夜晚，是你载她潜进风息堡，放出阴影之子。你不是无辜，你怎么可能无辜？你在她的旗帜下骑行，在她的旗帜下航海，你眼睁睁看着七神在龙石岛被焚烧，什么也没做。公正的天父、慈悲的圣母、睿智的老妪，铁匠和陌客，少女与战士，统统被她奉献给那残酷的神灵，而你只是静静地站着，闭上嘴巴。即便她杀害了克礼森老师傅，即便目睹了如此暴行，你仍旧什么也没做。

　　风帆就在一百码外，飞速穿越海湾。很快，它就会经过这里，逐渐消失。

　　戴佛斯爵士开始往上爬。

　　他用发抖的手牵引自己，思维因发烧而模糊。伤残的手指两次在潮湿的岩石上打滑，他几乎跌落下去，用尽全力方才抓紧。掉下去就死定了，而他必须活着。至少要再活一会儿，有使命必须完成。

　　顶端很窄，而且和他一样脆弱，根本无法安全站立，他只好蹲在上面，挥舞着骨瘦如柴的手臂。“船，”他在风中呼喊，“船，这里！这里！”从高处，他可以更清楚的打量她；细瘦的彩绘条纹船壳，青铜的船首像，翻腾着的风帆。船壳上有名字，可戴佛斯不识字。“船，”他再次叫道，“救救我，救救我！！！！！！”

　　艏楼上一名水手发现了他，指指点点。他看见其他船员奔向船舷，目瞪口呆地打量他。帆降下来，桨也收起，她开始朝他的避难所转舵。来船很大，不可能靠近，于是在三十码的距离外，她放出一艘小艇。戴佛斯趴在岩石上，盯着小艇靠拢。四个人在划，第五个人站在船首。“你，”当小艇离石礁只剩几尺时，对方发话道，“岩石上的这个人。你是谁？”

　　一个飞黄腾达的走私者，戴佛斯心想，一个愚忠君王、以至于忘记神灵的蠢货。他的喉咙干得要命，不知该如何吐词，所以话说出来，连自己也觉得陌生。“我是黑水河一战的幸存者。我是……一个船长，一个……一个骑士，我是一个骑士。”

　　“是嘛，爵士先生，”对方说，“那您为那位国王服务？”

　　来船很可能属于乔佛里，他突然意思到，假如说错话，就会被遗弃，扔在这里听天由命。不，不会，她有彩绘船壳。这是里斯人的船，萨拉多·桑恩的船，圣母派来的船！圣母慈悲啊，她把使命托付给了我。史坦尼斯还活着，他明白了，我的国王还活着，我还有别的孩子，我还有一个忠诚而深情的妻子。我怎能忘记呢？圣母是真正慈悲的。

　　“史坦尼斯，”他朝里斯人吼回去，“诸神在上，我为史坦尼斯国王效劳。”

　　“啊，”船上的男人说，“我们也一样。”

回到夏末之初(内阁元老)

11楼 2016-06-30

SANSA

The invitation seemed innocent enough, but every time Sansa read it her tummy tightened into a knot. She’s to be queen now, she’s beautiful and rich and everyone loves her, why would she want to sup with a traitor’s daughter? It could be curiosity, she supposed; perhaps Margaery Tyrell wanted to get the measure of the rival she’d displaced. Does she resent me, I wonder? Does she think I bear her ill will . . .
Sansa had watched from the castle walls as Margaery Tyrell and her escort made their way up Aegon’s High Hill. Joffrey had met his new bride-to-be at the King’s Gate to welcome her to the city, and they rode side by side through cheering crowds, Joff glittering in gilded armor and the Tyrell girl splendid in green with a cloak of autumn flowers blowing from her shoulders. She was sixteen, brown-haired and brown-eyed, slender and beautiful. The people called out her name as she passed, held up their children for her blessing, and scattered flowers under the hooves of her horse. Her mother and grandmother followed close behind, riding in a tall wheelhouse whose sides were carved into the shape of a hundred twining roses, every one gilded and shining. The smallfolk cheered them as well.
The same smallfolk who pulled me from my horse and would have killed me, if not for the Hound. Sansa had done nothing to make the commons hate her, no more than Margaery Tyrell had done to win their love. Does she want me to love her too? She studied the invitation, which looked to be written in Margaery’s own hand. Does she want my blessing? Sansa wondered if Joffrey knew of this supper. For all she knew, it might be his doing. That thought made her fearful. If Joff was behind the invitation, he would have some cruel jape planned to shame her in the older girl’s eyes. Would he command his Kingsguard to strip her naked once again? The last time he had done that his uncle Tyrion had stopped him, but the Imp could not save her now.
No one can save me but my Florian. Ser Dontos had promised he would help her escape, but not until the night of Joffrey’s wedding. The plans had been well laid, her dear devoted knight-turned-fool assured her; there was nothing to do until then but endure, and count the days.
And sup with my replacement . . .
Perhaps she was doing Margaery Tyrell an injustice. Perhaps the invitation was no more than a simple kindness, an act of courtesy. It might be just a supper. But this was the Red Keep, this was King’s Landing, this was the court of King Joffrey Baratheon, the First of His Name, and if there was one thing that Sansa Stark had learned here, it was mistrust.
Even so, she must accept. She was nothing now, the discarded daughter of a traitor and disgraced sister of a rebel lord. She could scarcely refuse Joffrey’s queen-to-be.
I wish the Hound were here. The night of the battle, Sandor Clegane had come to her chambers to take her from the city, but Sansa had refused. Sometimes she lay awake at night, wondering if she’d been wise. She had his stained white cloak hidden in a cedar chest beneath her summer silks. She could not say why she’d kept it. The Hound had turned craven, she heard it said; at the height of the battle, he got so drunk the Imp had to take his men. But Sansa understood. She knew the secret of his burned face. It was only the fire he feared. That night, the wildfire had set the river itself ablaze, and filled the very air with green flame. Even in the castle, Sansa had been afraid. Outside . . . she could scarcely imagine it.
Sighing, she got out quill and ink, and wrote Margaery Tyrell a gracious note of acceptance.
When the appointed night arrived, another of the Kingsguard came for her, a man as different from Sandor Clegane as . . . well, as a flower from a dog. The sight of Ser Loras Tyrell standing on her threshold made Sansa’s heart beat a little faster. This was the first time she had been so close to him since he had returned to King’s Landing, leading the vanguard of his father’s host. For a moment she did not know what to say. “Ser Loras,” she finally managed, “you . . . you look so lovely.”
He gave her a puzzled smile. “My lady is too kind. And beautiful besides. My sister awaits you eagerly.”
“I have so looked forward to our supper.”
“As has Margaery, and my lady grandmother as well.” He took her arm and led her toward the steps.
“Your grandmother?” Sansa was finding it hard to walk and talk and think all at the same time, with Ser Loras touching her arm. She could feel the warmth of his hand through the silk.
“Lady Olenna. She is to sup with you as well.”
“Oh,” said Sansa. I am talking to him, and he’s touching me, he’s holding my arm and touching me. “The Queen of Thorns, she’s called. Isn’t that right?”
“It is.” Ser Loras laughed. He has the warmest laugh, she thought as he went on, “You’d best not use that name in her presence, though, or you’re like to get pricked.”
Sansa reddened. Any fool would have realized that no woman would be happy about being called “the Queen of Thorns.” Maybe I truly am as stupid as Cersei Lannister says. Desperately she tried to think of something clever and charming to say to him, but her wits had deserted her. She almost told him how beautiful he was, until she remembered that she’d already done that.
He was beautiful, though. He seemed taller than he’d been when she’d first met him, but still so lithe and graceful, and Sansa had never seen another boy with such wonderful eyes. He’s no boy, though, he’s a man grown, a knight of the Kingsguard. She thought he looked even finer in white than in the greens and golds of House Tyrell. The only spot of color on him now was the brooch that clasped his cloak; the rose of Highgarden wrought in soft yellow gold, nestled in a bed of delicate green jade leaves.
Ser Balon Swann held the door of Maegor’s for them to pass. He was all in white as well, though he did not wear it half so well as Ser Loras. Beyond the spiked moat, two dozen men were taking their practice with sword and shield. With the castle so crowded, the outer ward had been given over to guests to raise their tents and pavilions, leaving only the smaller inner yards for training. One of the Redwyne twins was being driven backward by Ser Tallad, with the eyes on his shield. Chunky Ser Kennos of Kayce, who chuffed and puffed every time he raised his longsword, seemed to be holding his own against Osney Kettleblack, but Osney’s brother Ser Osfryd was savagely punishing the frog-faced squire Morros Slynt. Blunted swords or no, Slynt would have a rich crop of bruises by the morrow. It made Sansa wince just to watch. They have scarcely finished burying the dead from the last battle, and already they are practicing for the next one.
On the edge of the yard, a lone knight with a pair of golden roses on his shield was holding off three foes. Even as they watched, he caught one of them alongside the head, knocking him senseless. “Is that your brother?” Sansa asked.
“It is, my lady,” said Ser Loras. “Garlan often trains against three men, or even four. In battle it is seldom one against one, he says, so he likes to be prepared.”
“He must be very brave.”
“He is a great knight,” Ser Loras replied. “A better sword than me, in truth, though I’m the better lance.”
“I remember,” said Sansa. “You ride wonderfully, ser.”
“My lady is gracious to say so. When has she seen me ride?”
“At the Hand’s tourney, don’t you remember? You rode a white courser, and your armor was a hundred different kinds of flowers. You gave me a rose. A red rose. You threw white roses to the other girls that day.” It made her flush to speak of it. “You said no victory was half as beautiful as me.”
Ser Loras gave her a modest smile. “I spoke only a simple truth, that any man with eyes could see.”
He doesn’t remember, Sansa realized, startled. He is only being kind to me, he doesn’t remember me or the rose or any of it. She had been so certain that it meant something, that it meant everything. A red rose, not a white. “It was after you unhorsed Ser Robar Royce,” she said, desperately.
He took his hand from her arm. “I slew Robar at Storm’s End, my lady.” It was not a boast; he sounded sad.
Him, and another of King Renly’s Rainbow Guard as well, yes. Sansa had heard the women talking of it round the well, but for a moment she’d forgotten. “That was when Lord Renly was killed, wasn’t it? How terrible for your poor sister.”
“For Margaery?” His voice was tight. “To be sure. She was at Bitterbridge, though. She did not see.”
“Even so, when she heard . . . ”
Ser Loras brushed the hilt of his sword lightly with his hand. Its grip was white leather, its pommel a rose in alabaster. “Renly is dead. Robar as well. What use to speak of them?”
The sharpness in his tone took her aback. “I . . . my lord, I . . . I did not mean to give offense, ser.”
“Nor could you, Lady Sansa,” Ser Loras replied, but all the warmth had gone from his voice. Nor did he take her arm again.
They ascended the serpentine steps in a deepening silence.
Oh, why did I have to mention Ser Robar? Sansa thought. I’ve ruined everything. He is angry with me now. She tried to think of something she might say to make amends, but all the words that came to her were lame and weak. Be quiet, or you will only make it worse, she told herself.
Lord Mace Tyrell and his entourage had been housed behind the royal sept, in the long slate-roofed keep that had been called the Maidenvault since King Baelor the Blessed had confined his sisters therein, so the sight of them might not tempt him into carnal thoughts. Outside its tall carved doors stood two guards in gilded halfhelms and green cloaks edged in gold satin, the golden rose of Highgarden sewn on their breasts. Both were seven-footers, wide of shoulder and narrow of waist, magnificently muscled. When Sansa got close enough to see their faces, she could not tell one from the other. They had the same strong jaws, the same deep blue eyes, the same thick red mustaches. “Who are they?” she asked Ser Loras, her discomfit forgotten for a moment.
“My grandmother’s personal guard,” he told her. “Their mother named them Erryk and Arryk, but Grandmother can’t tell them apart, so she calls them Left and Right.”
Left and Right opened the doors, and Margaery Tyrell herself emerged and swept down the short flight of steps to greet them. “Lady Sansa,” she called, “I’m so pleased you came. Be welcome.”
Sansa knelt at the feet of her future queen. “You do me great honor, Your Grace.”
“Won’t you call me Margaery? Please, rise. Loras, help the Lady Sansa to her feet. Might I call you Sansa?”
“If it please you.” Ser Loras helped her up.
Margaery dismissed him with a sisterly kiss, and took Sansa by the hand. “Come, my grandmother awaits, and she is not the most patient of ladies.”
A fire was crackling in the hearth, and sweet-swelling rushes had been scattered on the floor. Around the long trestle table a dozen women were seated.
Sansa recognized only Lord Tyrell’s tall, dignified wife, Lady Alerie, whose long silvery braid was bound with jeweled rings. Margaery performed the other introductions. There were three Tyrell cousins, Megga and Alla and Elinor, all close to Sansa’s age. Buxom Lady Janna was Lord Tyrell’s sister, and wed to one of the green-apple Fossoways; dainty, bright-eyed Lady Leonette was a Fossoway as well, and wed to Ser Garlan. Septa Nysterica had a homely pox-scarred face but seemed jolly. Pale, elegant Lady Graceford was with child, and Lady Bulwer was a child, no more than eight. And “Merry” was what she was to call boisterous plump Meredyth Crane, but most definitely not Lady Merryweather, a sultry black-eyed Myrish beauty.
Last of all, Margaery brought her before the wizened white-haired doll of a woman at the head of the table. “I am honored to present my grandmother the Lady Olenna, widow to the late Luthor Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden, whose memory is a comfort to us all.”
The old woman smelled of rosewater. Why, she’s just the littlest bit of a thing. There was nothing the least bit thorny about her. “Kiss me, child,” Lady Olenna said, tugging at Sansa’s wrist with a soft spotted hand. “It is so kind of you to sup with me and my foolish flock of hens.”
Dutifully, Sansa kissed the old woman on the cheek. “It is kind of you to have me, my lady.”
“I knew your grandfather, Lord Rickard, though not well.”
“He died before I was born.”
“I am aware of that, child. It’s said that your Tully grandfather is dying too. Lord Hoster, surely they told you? An old man, though not so old as me. Still, night falls for all of us in the end, and too soon for some. You would know that more than most, poor child. You’ve had your share of grief, I know. We are sorry for your losses.”
Sansa glanced at Margaery. “I was saddened when I heard of Lord Renly’s death, Your Grace. He was very gallant.”
“You are kind to say so,” answered Margaery.
Her grandmother snorted. “Gallant, yes, and charming, and very clean. He knew how to dress and he knew how to smile and he knew how to bathe, and somehow he got the notion that this made him fit to be king. The Baratheons have always had some queer notions, to be sure. It comes from their Targaryen blood, I should think.” She sniffed. “They tried to marry me to a Targaryen once, but I soon put an end to that.”
“Renly was brave and gentle, Grandmother,” said Margaery. “Father liked him as well, and so did Loras.”
“Loras is young,” Lady Olenna said crisply, “and very good at knocking men off horses with a stick. That does not make him wise. As to your father, would that I’d been born a peasant woman with a big wooden spoon, I might have been able to beat some sense into his fat head.”
“Mother,” Lady Alerie scolded.
“Hush, Alerie, don’t take that tone with me. And don’t call me Mother. If I’d given birth to you, I’m sure I’d remember. I’m only to blame for your husband, the lord oaf of Highgarden.”
“Grandmother,” Margaery said, “mind your words, or what will Sansa think of us? “
“She might think we have some wits about us. One of us, at any rate.” The old woman turned back to Sansa. “It’s treason, I warned them, Robert has two sons, and Renly has an older brother, how can he possibly have any claim to that ugly iron chair? Tut-tut, says my son, don’t you want your sweetling to be queen? You Starks were kings once, the Arryns and the Lannisters as well, and even the Baratheons through the female line, but the Tyrells were no more than stewards until Aegon the Dragon came along and cooked the rightful King of the Reach on the Field of Fire. If truth be told, even our claim to Highgarden is a bit dodgy, just as those dreadful Florents are always whining. ‘What does it matter?’ you ask, and of course it doesn’t, except to oafs like my son. The thought that one day he may see his grandson with his arse on the Iron Throne makes Mace puff up like . . . now, what do you call it? Margaery, you’re clever, be a dear and tell your poor old half-daft grandmother the name of that queer fish from the Summer Isles that puffs up to ten times its own size when you poke it.”
“They call them puff fish, Grandmother.”
“Of course they do. Summer Islanders have no imagination. My son ought to take the puff fish for his sigil, if truth be told. He could put a crown on it, the way the Baratheons do their stag, mayhap that would make him happy. We should have stayed well out of all this bloody foolishness if you ask me, but once the cow’s been milked there’s no squirting the cream back up her udder. After Lord Puff Fish put that crown on Renly’s head, we were into the pudding up to our knees, so here we are to see things through. And what do you say to that, Sansa?”
Sansa’s mouth opened and closed. She felt very like a puff fish herself. “The Tyrells can trace their descent back to Garth Greenhand,” was the best she could manage at short notice.
The Queen of Thorns snorted. “So can the Florents, the Rowans, the Oakhearts, and half the other noble houses of the south. Garth liked to plant his seed in fertile ground, they say. I shouldn’t wonder that more than his hands were green.”
“Sansa,” Lady Alerie broke in, “you must be very hungry. Shall we have a bite of boar together, and some lemon cakes?”
“Lemon cakes are my favorite,” Sansa admitted.
“So we have been told,” declared Lady Olenna, who obviously had no intention of being hushed. “That Varys creature seemed to think we should be grateful for the information. I’ve never been quite sure what the point of a eunuch is, if truth be told. It seems to me they’re only men with the useful bits cut off. Alerie, will you have them bring the food, or do you mean to starve me to death? Here, Sansa, sit here next to me, I’m much less boring than these others. I hope that you’re fond of fools.”
Sansa smoothed down her skirts and sat. “I think . . . fools, my lady? You mean . . . the sort in motley?”
“Feathers, in this case. What did you imagine I was speaking of? My son? Or these lovely ladies? No, don’t blush, with your hair it makes you look like a pomegranate. All men are fools, if truth be told, but the ones in motley are more amusing than ones with crowns. Margaery, child, summon Butterbumps, let us see if we can’t make Lady Sansa smile. The rest of you be seated, do I have to tell you everything? Sansa must think that my granddaughter is attended by a flock of sheep.”
Butterbumps arrived before the food, dressed in a jester’s suit of green and yellow feathers with a floppy coxcomb. An immense round fat man, as big as three Moon Boys, he came cartwheeling into the hall, vaulted onto the table, and laid a gigantic egg right in front of Sansa. “Break it, my lady,” he commanded. When she did, a dozen yellow chicks escaped and began running in all directions. “Catch them!” Butterbumps exclaimed. Little Lady Bulwer snagged one and handed it to him, whereby he tilted back his head, popped it into his huge rubbery mouth, and seemed to swallow it whole. When he belched, tiny yellow feathers flew out his nose. Lady Bulwer began to wail in distress, but her tears turned into a sudden squeal of delight when the chick came squirming out of the sleeve of her gown and ran down her arm.
As the servants brought out a broth of leeks and mushrooms, Butterbumps began to juggle and Lady Olenna pushed herself forward to rest her elbows on the table. “Do you know my son, Sansa? Lord Puff Fish of Highgarden?”
“A great lord,” Sansa answered politely.
“A great oaf,” said the Queen of Thorns. “His father was an oaf as well. My husband, the late Lord Luthor. Oh, I loved him well enough, don’t mistake me. A kind man, and not unskilled in the bedchamber, but an appalling oaf all the same. He managed to ride off a cliff whilst hawking. They say he was looking up at the sky and paying no mind to where his horse was taking him.
“And now my oaf son is doing the same, only he’s riding a lion instead of a palfrey. It is easy to mount a lion and not so easy to get off, I warned him, but he only chuckles. Should you ever have a son, Sansa, beat him frequently so he learns to mind you. I only had the one boy and I hardly beat him at all, so now he pays more heed to Butterbumps than he does to me. A lion is not a lap cat, I told him, and he gives me a ‘tut-tut-Mother.’ There is entirely too much tut-tutting in this realm, if you ask me. All these kings would do a deal better if they would put down their swords and listen to their mothers.”
Sansa realized that her mouth was open again. She filled it with a spoon of broth while Lady Alerie and the other women were giggling at the spectacle of Butterbumps bouncing oranges off his head, his elbows, and his ample rump.
“I want you to tell me the truth about this royal boy,” said Lady Olenna abruptly. “This Joffrey.”
Sansa’s fingers tightened round her spoon. The truth? I can’t. Don’t ask it, please, I can’t. “I . . . I . . . I . . . ”
“You, yes. Who would know better? The lad seems kingly enough, I’ll grant you. A bit full of himself, but that would be his Lannister blood. We have heard some troubling tales, however. Is there any truth to them? Has this boy mistreated you?”
Sansa glanced about nervously. Butterbumps popped a whole orange into his mouth, chewed and swallowed, slapped his cheek, and blew seeds out of his nose. The women giggled and laughed. Servants were coming and going, and the Maidenvault echoed to the clatter of spoons and plates. One of the chicks hopped back onto the table and ran through Lady Graceford’s broth. No one seemed to be paying them any mind, but even so, she was frightened.
Lady Olenna was growing impatient. “Why are you gaping at Butterbumps? I asked a question, I expect an answer. Have the Lannisters stolen your tongue, child?”
Ser Dontos had warned her to speak freely only in the godswood. “Joff . . . King Joffrey, he’s . . . His Grace is very fair and handsome, and . . . and as brave as a lion.”
“Yes, all the Lannisters are lions, and when a Tyrell breaks wind it smells just like a rose,” the old woman snapped. “But how kind is he? How clever? Has he a good heart, a gentle hand? Is he chivalrous as befits a king? Will he cherish Margaery and treat her tenderly, protect her honor as he would his own?”
“He will,” Sansa lied. “He is very . . . very comely.”
“You said that. You know, child, some say that you are as big a fool as Butterbumps here, and I am starting to believe them. Comely? I have taught my Margaery what comely is worth, I hope. Somewhat less than a mummer’s fart. Aerion Brightfire was comely enough, but a monster all the same. The question is, what is Joffrey?” She reached to snag a passing servant. “I am not fond of leeks. Take this broth away, and bring me some cheese.”
“The cheese will be served after the cakes, my lady.”
“The cheese will be served when I want it served, and I want it served now.” The old woman turned back to Sansa. “Are you frightened, child? No need for that, we’re only women here. Tell me the truth, no harm will come to you.”
“My father always told the truth.” Sansa spoke quietly, but even so, it was hard to get the words out.
“Lord Eddard, yes, he had that reputation, but they named him traitor and took his head off even so.” The old woman’s eyes bore into her, sharp and bright as the points of swords.
“Joffrey,” Sansa said. “Joffrey did that. He promised me he would be merciful, and cut my father’s head off. He said that was mercy, and he took me up on the walls and made me look at it. The head. He wanted me to weep, but . . . ” She stopped abruptly, and covered her mouth. I’ve said too much, oh gods be good, they’ll know, they’ll hear, someone will tell on me.
“Go on.” It was Margaery who urged. Joffrey’s own queen-to-be. Sansa did not know how much she had heard.
“I can’t.” What if she tells him, what if she tells? He’ll kill me for certain then, or give me to Ser Ilyn. “I never meant . . . my father was a traitor, my brother as well, I have the traitor’s blood, please, don’t make me say more.”
“Calm yourself, child,” the Queen of Thorns commanded.
“She’s terrified, Grandmother, just look at her.”
The old woman called to Butterbumps. “Fool! Give us a song. A long one, I should think. ‘The Bear and the Maiden Fair’ will do nicely.”
“It will!” the huge jester replied. “It will do nicely indeed! Shall I sing it standing on my head, my lady?”
“Will that make it sound better?”
“No.”
“Stand on your feet, then. We wouldn’t want your hat to fall off. As I recall, you never wash your hair.”
“As my lady commands.” Butterbumps bowed low, let loose of an enormous belch, then straightened, threw out his belly, and bellowed. “A bear there was, a bear, a BEAR! All black and brown, and covered with hair . . . ”
Lady Olenna squirmed forward. “Even when I was a girl younger than you, it was well known that in the Red Keep the very walls have ears. Well, they will be the better for a song, and meanwhile we girls shall speak freely.”
“But,” Sansa said, “Varys . . . he knows, he always . . . ”
“Sing louder!” the Queen of Thorns shouted at Butterbumps. “These old ears are almost deaf, you know. Are you whispering at me, you fat fool? I don’t pay you for whispers. Sing!”
“ . . . THE BEAR!” thundered Butterbumps, his great deep voice echoing off the rafters. “OH, COME, THEY SAID, OH COME TO THE FAIR! THE FAIR? SAID HE, BUT I’M A BEAR! ALL BLACK AND BROWN, AND COVERED WITH HAIR!”
The wrinkled old lady smiled. “At Highgarden we have many spiders amongst the flowers. So long as they keep to themselves we let them spin their little webs, but if they get underfoot we step on them.” She patted Sansa on the back of the hand. “Now, child, the truth. What sort of man is this Joffrey, who calls himself Baratheon but looks so very Lannister? “
“AND DOWN THE ROAD FROM HERE TO THERE. FROM HERE! TO THERE! THREE BOYS, A GOAT, AND A DANCING BEAR!”
Sansa felt as though her heart had lodged in her throat. The Queen of Thorns was so close she could smell the old woman’s sour breath. Her gaunt thin fingers were pinching her wrist. To her other side, Margaery was listening as well. A shiver went through her. “A monster,” she whispered, so tremulously she could scarcely hear her own voice. “Joffrey is a monster. He lied about the butcher’s boy and made Father kill my wolf. When I displease him, he has the Kingsguard beat me. He’s evil and cruel, my lady, it’s so. And the queen as well.”
Lady Olenna Tyrell and her granddaughter exchanged a look. “Ah,” said the old woman, “that’s a pity.”
Oh, gods, thought Sansa, horrified. If Margaery won’t marry him, Joff will know that I’m to blame. “Please,” she blurted, “don’t stop the wedding . . . ”
“Have no fear, Lord Puff Fish is determined that Margaery shall be queen. And the word of a Tyrell is worth more than all the gold in Casterly Rock. At least it was in my day. Even so, we thank you for the truth, child.”
“ . . . DANCED AND SPUN, ALL THE WAY TO THE FAIR! THE FAIR! THE FAIR!” Butterbumps hopped and roared and stomped his feet.
“Sansa, would you like to visit Highgarden?” When Margaery Tyrell smiled, she looked very like her brother Loras. “All the autumn flowers are in bloom just now, and there are groves and fountains, shady courtyards, marble colonnades. My lord father always keeps singers at court, sweeter ones than Butters here, and pipers and fiddlers and harpers as well. We have the best horses, and pleasure boats to sail along the Mander. Do you hawk, Sansa?”
“A little,” she admitted.
“OH, SWEET SHE WAS, AND PURE, AND FAIR! THE MAID WITH HONEY IN HER HAIR!”
“You will love Highgarden as I do, I know it.” Margaery brushed back a loose strand of Sansa’s hair. “Once you see it, you’ll never want to leave. And perhaps you won’t have to.”
“HER HAIR! HER HAIR! THE MAID WITH HONEY IN HER HAIR!”
“Shush, child,” the Queen of Thorns said sharply. “Sansa hasn’t even told us that she would like to come for a visit.”
“Oh, but I would,” Sansa said. Highgarden sounded like the place she had always dreamed of, like the beautiful magical court she had once hoped to find at King’s Landing.
“ . . . SMELLED THE SCENT ON THE SUMMER AIR. THE BEAR! THE BEAR! ALL BLACK AND BROWN AND COVERED WITH HAIR.”
“But the queen,” Sansa went on, “she won’t let me go . . . ”
“She will. Without Highgarden, the Lannisters have no hope of keeping Joffrey on his throne. If my son the lord oaf asks, she will have no choice but to grant his request.”
“Will he?” asked Sansa. “Will he ask?”
Lady Olenna frowned. “I see no need to give him a choice. Of course, he has no hint of our true purpose.”
“HE SMELLED THE SCENT ON THE SUMMER AIR!”
Sansa wrinkled her brow. “Our true purpose, my lady?”
“HE SNIFFED AND ROARED AND SMELLED IT THERE! HONEY ON THE SUMMER AIR!”
“To see you safely wed, child,” the old woman said, as Butterbumps bellowed out the old, old song, “to my grandson.”
Wed to Ser Loras, oh . . . Sansa’s breath caught in her throat. She remembered Ser Loras in his sparkling sapphire armor, tossing her a rose. Ser Loras in white silk, so pure, innocent, beautiful. The dimples at the corner of his mouth when he smiled. The sweetness of his laugh, the warmth of his hand. She could only imagine what it would be like to pull up his tunic and caress the smooth skin underneath, to stand on her toes and kiss him, to run her fingers through those thick brown curls and drown in his deep brown eyes. A flush crept up her neck.
“OH, I’M A MAID, AND I’M PURE AND FAIR! I’LL NEVER DANCE WITH A HAIRY BEAR! A BEAR! A BEAR! I’LL NEVER DANCE WITH A HAIRY BEAR!”
“Would you like that, Sansa?” asked Margaery. “I’ve never had a sister, only brothers. Oh, please say yes, please say that you will consent to marry my brother.”
The words came tumbling out of her. “Yes. I will. I would like that more than anything. To wed Ser Loras, to love him . . . ”
“Loras?” Lady Olenna sounded annoyed. “Don’t be foolish, child. Kingsguard never wed. Didn’t they teach you anything in Winterfell? We were speaking of my grandson Willas. He is a bit old for you, to be sure, but a dear boy for all that. Not the least bit oafish, and heir to Highgarden besides.”
Sansa felt dizzy; one instant her head was full of dreams of Loras, and the next they had all been snatched away. Willas? Willas? “I,” she said stupidly. Courtesy is a lady’s armor. You must not offend them, be careful what you say. “I do not know Ser Willas. I have never had the pleasure, my lady. Is he . . . is he as great a knight as his brothers?”
“ . . . LIFTED HER HIGH INTO THE AIR! THE BEAR! THE BEAR!”
“No,” Margaery said. “He has never taken vows.”
Her grandmother frowned. “Tell the girl the truth. The poor lad is crippled, and that’s the way of it.”
“He was hurt as a squire, riding in his first tourney,” Margaery confided. “His horse fell and crushed his leg.”
“That snake of a Dornishman was to blame, that Oberyn Martell. And his maester as well.”
“I CALLED FOR A KNIGHT, BUT YOU’RE A BEAR! A BEAR! A BEAR! ALL BLACK AND BROWN AND COVERED WITH HAIR!”
“Willas has a bad leg but a good heart,” said Margaery. “He used to read to me when I was a little girl, and draw me pictures of the stars. You will love him as much as we do, Sansa.”
“SHE KICKED AND WAILED, THE MAID SO FAIR, BUT HE LICKED THE HONEY FROM HER HAIR. HER HAIR! HER HAIR! HE LICKED THE HONEY FROM HER HAIR!”
“When might I meet him?” asked Sansa, hesitantly.
“Soon,” promised Margaery. “When you come to Highgarden, after Joffrey and I are wed. My grandmother will take you.”
“I will,” said the old woman, patting Sansa’s hand and smiling a soft wrinkly smile. “I will indeed.”
“THEN SHE SIGHED AND SQUEALED AND KICKED THE AIR! MY BEAR! SHE SANG. MY BEAR SO FAIR! AND OFF THEY WENT, FROM HERE TO THERE, THE BEAR, THE BEAR, AND THE MAIDEN FAIR.” Butterbumps roared the last line, leapt into the air, and came down on both feet with a crash that shook the wine cups on the table. The women laughed and clapped.
“I thought that dreadful song would never end,” said the Queen of Thorns. “But look, here comes my cheese.”

第六章珊莎

　　这份请柬看来如此单纯，可珊莎每读一次就觉得肚子紧了几分。她快当上王后了，又漂亮又富有，人人都喜欢，为何偏要急着与叛徒之女共进晚餐？不合情理，她心想，也许玛格丽？提利尔想试探一下失势的竞争者？她是不是恨我？认为我暗地里诅咒她……

　　前几天她带着庞大的队伍踏上伊耿高丘时，珊莎就在城堡长墙上观看。为欢迎未婚妻前来都城完婚，乔佛里亲自去国王门迎接，两人在欢呼的群众中并驾齐驱。小乔穿着闪亮的金甲，而提利尔家的女孩穿一件由秋天的花朵编织而成的斗篷，斗篷随风飘扬，内里则是绿衣，显得格外迷人。她年方十六，棕头发，棕眼睛，苗条而美丽。当她经过时，人民高呼她的名字，举着孩子让她赐福，在她的马蹄周围散下无数花瓣。她的母亲和祖母跟在后面，坐在一座侧面雕刻着一百朵纠结玫瑰的大轮宫里，每朵玫瑰都镀了金、闪闪发光。老百姓也向她们欢呼致敬。

　　他们把我从马上拖下来，若非猎狗来救，肯定一命呜呼。珊莎没做过对不起平民们的事，相反，赢得他们爱戴的玛格丽·提利尔连都城都没来过。她希望我也喜欢上她吗？珊莎注视着请贴，默默地想。似乎这确由玛格丽亲笔手书。她希望得到我的祝福吗？不知乔佛里是否知道这次晚宴的事。她觉得，整件事的幕后黑手也许正是他，想到这，便不寒而栗。如果乔佛里是始作俑者，他一定备下不少残酷的玩笑，用来在那年长的女孩面前羞辱她。他会再次命令御林铁卫脱她的衣服吗？上回，他舅舅提利昂制止了他，现今小恶魔大伤初愈，显然不可能来救她。

　　除了我的佛罗理安，没人会来救我。唐托斯爵士许诺送她回家，但得等到乔佛里的新婚之夜。一切都安排好了，她亲爱的、忠诚的弄臣骑士保证，现在只需耐心，默默计算时日……

　　看来我不得不默默地参加晚宴……

　　或许我错怪了玛格丽·提利尔；或许这份请柬是礼貌的表示，一点单纯的心意；或许这只是一顿普通的晚宴。可这里是红堡，这里是君临城，这里是国王乔佛里·拜拉席恩一世的宫廷，如果说珊莎在这里还学会了什么的话，那就是谁也不能信任。

　　但不管心里怎么想，她都必须接受。她没有地位，只是一位遭到抛弃的叛徒之女，叛军首领的妹妹。她无法拒绝乔佛里的未婚妻。

　　真希望猎狗在我身旁。激战正酣的那个晚上，桑铎·克里冈来到她的卧室，想带她逃出城去，却被珊莎拒绝。近来，她常在深夜里醒来，思索自己的决定是否明智。她把他那身污染的白袍藏在装夏季丝绸衣衫的雪松木箱里，却不知为何要这样做。人们都说猎狗是懦夫，战斗进行到最高潮时，他喝得大醉，只能由小恶魔代他率军出击。珊莎理解他，她知道他那半边烧烂脸庞的秘密。他只怕火。那一晚，野火让长河自己似乎都燃烧起来，空中满是绿色烈焰。身处城堡以内，珊莎尚且感到无比恐惧，在外面……简直不堪设想。

　　她长叹一声，取出鹅毛笔和墨水，给玛格丽·提利尔写了一封和蔼亲切的回函，表示接受邀请。

　　当约定的夜晚来临时，另一位御林铁卫来到她的房间，这名男子和桑铎·克里冈的差别就像……没错，就像鲜花和野狗的差别。望着挺立在门槛外的洛拉斯·提利尔爵士，珊莎的心跳不断加速。自他率领他父亲的前锋部队杀回君临以来，这是她头一回和他如此接近。刹时间，她不知该说什么好。“洛拉斯爵士，”她勉强应道，“您……您看上去真俊。”

　　他迷惑地微笑，“小姐过誉，您才真是漂亮。来，舍妹正急切盼望您大驾光临呢。”

　　“我也是这般急切地盼望着。”

　　“不仅玛格丽，我的祖母大人也在等您。”他挽起她的手，带她下楼梯。

　　“您的祖母？”当洛拉斯爵士触碰着她的手，她几乎无法走路、说话和思考。透过丝衣，她感觉到他手上的温度。

　　“奥莲娜夫人，她也会参加晚宴。”

　　“噢，”珊莎道。他在和我说话耶，他靠近我，挽着我，触摸我。“我知道了，她人称“荆棘女王”，是吗？”

　　“是的，”洛拉斯爵士笑了。那是全天下最温馨的笑容，她心想。“当然啦，可别当面这样讲，否则会给刺到哦。”

　　珊莎脸红了。傻瓜都知道没有女人会喜欢“荆棘女王”这种外号。也许瑟曦·兰尼斯特说得没错，我确实是个苯女孩。她努力搜寻机智或有趣的事来和他攀谈，可一切风趣都离她远去。她想称赞他的帅气，却意识到自己已经说过了。

　　可他真的好漂亮。自打上次见面以来，他似乎长高了，但柔和与优雅丝毫不减，珊莎没见别的男孩子有他那对绝妙的眼瞳。不，他不是男孩子，是大人了，是御林铁卫的一员。她觉得他穿白袍比穿提利尔家族绿色和金色的服装还要好看许多。全身上下，惟一的异色来自于扣住披风的胸针，那是一朵柔金制成、黄澄澄的高庭玫瑰，配有精致的绿宝石树叶。

　　今天把守梅葛楼大门的是巴隆·史文爵士。他同样一身雪白，却没洛拉斯爵士一半好看。走过钉满尖刺的护城河，二十多个男人正在院子里练武。近来城堡十分拥挤，外院早已让给宾客们搭建营帐，只剩狭小的内庭用于训练。雷德温家双胞胎中的一个被塔拉德爵士打得节节败退，雇佣骑士的盾牌上有眼睛的徽章。凯切镇的肯洛斯爵士生得矮胖，尽管每次提剑都气喘吁吁，却能勉力抵挡奥斯尼·凯特布莱克，与之相对，奥斯尼的兄弟奥斯佛利把青蛙脸的侍从莫洛斯·史林特一顿好揍，不管用的是不是钝剑，反正史林特看起来全身青肿。珊莎瞧见不禁一缩。他们还没埋葬上场战争的尸体，就已在为下场战争做准备了。

　　广场边缘，有一个盾牌上绣一对金玫瑰的骑士独自抵挡三个人的攻击。就在他们注目之时，他击中那三人其中一位的头部，敲得他失去知觉。“那是你哥吗？”珊莎问。

　　“是的，小姐，”洛拉斯爵士道。“加兰通常和三人一起练，甚至四个。他说战场上鲜有一对一的机会，因此得早作准备。”

　　“他一定非常勇敢。”

　　“他是个伟大的骑士，”洛拉斯爵士回答，“真的，他使剑比我强，我只有长熗胜他半筹。”

　　“是啊，我记得的！”珊莎忙道，“我记得您骑马挺熗的英姿，爵士先生。”

　　“小姐您真体贴，可您是何时见我骑马的呢？”

　　“在首相的比武大会上，您不记得了吗？当时你骑一匹雪白的坐骑，铠甲上有千束不同的花朵。你给了我一朵玫瑰，一朵红玫瑰，抛给其他女孩的却是白玫瑰，”谈到这个她便脸红了，“您说：再伟大的胜利也不及我一半美丽。”

　　他温和地笑笑，“我不过是实话实说，相信每个有眼光的男人都会认同。”

　　他真的不记得了，珊莎吃惊地意识到，他只是随口奉承，根本不记得我或者玫瑰或者别的事情。一朵红玫瑰，不是白玫瑰。她一直以为那意味着什么，那意味着一切啊！“当时你刚把罗拨·罗伊斯爵士打落下马，”她绝望地补充。

　　他突然抽离手臂。“我在风息堡杀了罗拨，小姐。”年轻骑士没有自吹自擂，语调中是深深的悲哀。

　　你不仅杀了他，还杀了蓝礼国王另一名彩虹护卫。珊莎曾听井边的洗衣妇谈起过，如今竟然忘了。“当时蓝礼大人刚过世，对吧？对您可怜的妹妹而言，这多么可怕啊。”

　　“对玛格丽？”他的声音有些不自然，“……她倒没关系。她人在苦桥，根本没有目睹。”

　　“即便如此，当她听到……”

　　洛拉斯爵士的手轻轻掠过剑柄，握把由白皮革制成，圆头则是雪花石膏做的玫瑰。“蓝礼死了。罗拨也死了。再说他们有什么用！？”

　　他尖锐的声调吓得她踉跄后退，“我……大人，我……我无意冒犯，爵士先生。”

　　“你的话也冒犯不了我，珊莎小姐，”洛拉斯回答。所有的善意烟消云散，他也不再挽她的手了。

　　他们在深沉的静默中攀登蜿蜒的螺旋梯。

　　唉，为什么要提起罗拨爵士？珊莎心想，我把一切都搞砸了，他在生我的气。她竭力想说些什么来赔罪，可能想到的一切话语都那么蹩脚虚弱。闭嘴，你只会搞得更糟，她告诉自己。

　　梅斯·提利尔公爵和他的队伍住在王家圣堂背后那座长长的板岩顶堡垒里，此地名为“处女居”，前朝国王“受神祝福的”贝勒便于此幽禁他的姐妹们。因为他认为，看不见自己的姐妹们，就不会被引诱而陷入肉欲中。高大精雕的木门外，站着两位戴镀金半盔、披金线滚边绿袍的卫士，胸前绣有高庭的金玫瑰，两人均七尺身高，宽肩细腰，浑身肌肉。珊莎走近来观察，发现自己无法将对方分辨开。他俩有同样强健的下颚，同样深邃的蓝眼睛，同样稠密的红胡须。“他们是谁呀？”她询问洛拉斯爵士，不由得抛却了刚才的不快。

　　“我祖母的私人护卫，”他告诉她，“双胞胎，一个叫艾里克，一个叫阿里克，由于难以分辨，祖母干脆称他们为左手和右手。”

　　左手和右手打开大门，玛格丽·提利尔亲自奔下短短的阶梯，前来迎接。“珊莎小姐，”她喊道，“你能前来我真是太高兴了。欢迎你，欢迎你。”

　　珊莎在未来的王后陛下脚前跪下，“您给了我莫大的荣耀，陛下。”

　　“为何不叫我玛格丽？快，快起来。洛拉斯，快扶珊莎小姐。对了，能叫你珊莎吗？”

　　“如果您高兴的话。”洛拉斯爵士扶她起来。

　　玛格丽用一个兄妹间的吻打发走骑士，挽起珊莎的手臂，“来吧，我的祖母在等你呢，她的耐性可不是太好唷。”

　　壁炉里，炉火劈啪燃烧，甜美的香草撒在地板上。长长的搁板桌边，坐了十来个贵妇人。

　　珊莎只认得提利尔公爵高大而威严的妻子，艾勒莉夫人，她长长的银色发辫上绑着珠宝环。玛格丽为她引见其他人：首先是她的三位表妹，梅歌、雅兰和埃箩，年龄均与珊莎相仿；丰满的洁娜夫人是提利尔公爵的妹妹，嫁到绿苹果佛索威家中；秀丽、长着一对明亮眼珠的莱昂妮夫人也是佛索威家的人，她嫁给了加兰爵士；娜丝特瑞卡修女有一张单调而长满痘子的脸，但她似乎兴高采烈；白皙、优雅的格雷佛德夫人怀着孩子，而布尔威伯爵夫人自己都还是个小孩，尚不满八岁；玛格丽称喧闹肥胖的梅内狄斯·克连恩为“欢乐的玛瑞”，她开始还以为这是玛瑞魏斯夫人的昵称呢，后者是一名性格开放的黑眼睛密尔美女。

　　最后，玛格丽把她领到长桌首位那个白发的干枯老妇人面前，“我很荣幸地向你介绍我的祖母奥莲娜夫人，前任高庭公爵罗斯·提利尔大人的遗孀——他的音容笑貌是我们共同的慰籍。”

　　老妇人身上散发出玫瑰香水味。她看起来好小啊，怎可能有刺呢？“吻我，孩子，”奥莲娜夫人边说，边用斑驳柔滑的手拉住珊莎手腕，“你真好心，肯来和我及我这群蠢母鸡们共进晚餐。”

　　珊莎恭敬地吻了老妇人的面颊，“不，是我该感谢的您好意，夫人。”

　　“我认识你祖父，瑞卡德公爵，虽然彼此了解不深。”

　　“他在我出生前就死了。”

　　“是的，我想起来了，孩子。据说你的徒利外公也快死了，霍斯特公爵，他们告诉你了吧？他是个老头，虽然没我岁数大，但黑夜终究会降临到每个人头上，只是对某些人而言快一点。你比大多数人更能体会这点，可怜的孩子。我明白，你很悲伤，我们都为你逝去的亲人们感到遗憾。”

　　珊莎瞟瞟玛格丽，“当我听说蓝礼大人的死讯时，的确十分悲伤。陛下，他是多么堂皇的人儿啊。”

　　“你真好心。”玛格丽道。

　　她祖母则嗤之以鼻，“没错，他堂皇，有魅力，澡也洗得干净。他知道如何打扮、如何微笑、如何沐浴，从而得出结论自己该当国王！毫无疑问，拜拉席恩家的人总有些荒唐念头，我觉得，这都是从他们的坦格利安血统中继承的。”她擤擤鼻子。“他们曾想让我嫁给坦格利安家的人，我可不依。”

　　“蓝礼既勇敢又温柔，祖母大人，”玛格丽说，“父亲很喜欢他，洛拉斯更是尤有过之。”

　　“洛拉斯还小，”奥莲娜夫人直截了当地说，“善于用木棒把别人敲下马来，但这种运动不能让他变聪明。至于你父亲，我有时候觉得自己要是个乡下农妇就好了，才好拿大木勺敲他，把各种思量灌进那颗肥脑袋里。”

　　“母亲！”艾勒莉夫人申诉。

　　“闭嘴，艾勒莉，少来这种语气。还有，别叫我母亲，如果生过你，我会记得的。总而言之，我又没说你，只是责备我儿子，痴呆的高庭公爵。”

　　“祖母，”玛格丽说，“注意一下言辞嘛，不然珊莎小姐会以为我们是一群怪人呢。”

　　“她会以为我们是一群风趣的人，不管怎么说，至少我们中有一员是这样。”老妇人转回珊莎的方向，“那是叛逆，我警告过他，劳勃有两个儿子，蓝礼还有位兄长，他怎么能要求那张丑陋的铁椅子呢？啧-啧，我儿子告诉我，您就不想让您的甜心当上王后吗？你们史塔克家族曾经世代为王，艾林家族和兰尼斯特家族也是，即便拜拉席恩家，从母系计算也是古代的王族，只有提利尔家在龙王伊耿于‘怒火燎原’一役中烧掉正统的河湾王以前不过是总管地位。如果照实说，正如讨厌的佛罗伦家经常哀号的那样，我们家对高庭的权利确实有点站不住脚。‘这有什么关系？’你问，无疑这没关系，除非是碰上我儿子这样的呆瓜。将来可能看见孙子坐上铁王座的前景让他自我膨胀，就像个……得，你们怎么称呼那个？玛格丽，你最聪明，行行好，告诉你可怜、半聋的老祖母，那种产自盛夏群岛、一戳就膨胀十倍的怪鱼叫什么名字？”

　　“他们叫它充气鱼，祖母。”

　　“它就是那样，盛夏群岛人可没夸大其词。如果照实说，我儿子该拿充气鱼当纹章，最好还弄顶王冠戴在鱼头上，就像拜拉席恩家在他们的雄鹿上弄的一样，这样该心满意足了。如果你问我，我得说我们本应和这状该死的愚行保持距离，挤下的乳汁可不能注回乳房去。充气鱼大人给蓝礼公爵戴上王冠以后，我们家就只好没完没了地下跪，还被别人牵着鼻子走。你对此怎么看，珊莎？”

　　珊莎的嘴张了又合，她觉得自己就象条充气鱼。“提利尔家的血统可以追溯到青手加尔斯，”这是仓促间她能找出的最佳答案。

　　荆棘女王不以为然，“有什么用？佛罗伦家、罗宛家、奥克赫特家……一半的南方贵族都一样。都说加尔斯善于播种，使万物欣欣向荣，依我看，他用来播种的可不只手而已。”

　　“珊莎，”艾勒莉夫人打断谈话，“你一定饿坏了，就让我们一起享用烤野猪和柠檬蛋糕吧？”

　　“我最喜欢柠檬蛋糕，”珊莎承认。

　　“行了，我们都知道，”奥莲娜夫人宣布，她显然不打算住嘴。“瓦里斯那家伙似乎以为我们该为这点情报感谢他，如果照实说，我不太了解太监的思维模式，在我看来，他作为男人最有用的部位都给切掉了。艾勒莉，你叫上菜了吗，还是想活活饿死我啊？这儿，珊莎，坐我旁边，我可不像她们那么讨厌。你喜欢看小丑表演，对吧？”

　　珊莎扶平裙子，然后坐下，“呃……小丑，夫人？您的意思是……穿杂色衣服的那种？”

　　“今天他穿的是羽毛衣。你以为我在说谁？我儿子？这些可爱的女士？不，别脸红，配上头发你看起来活像个大石榴。如果照实说，所有人都是小丑，而穿杂色衣服的比戴王冠的更有趣。玛格丽，好孩子，召‘黄油饼’进来，让我们看看珊莎小姐的笑容。你们其他人都坐下，我先前没交代吗？瞧你们的样子，珊莎一定以为我孙女身边是群绵羊呢。”

　　黄油饼先于饭菜到来，此人穿着绿黄羽毛做的小丑套装，头插一根绵软的鸡冠花。他非常肥胖，圆滚身材，有三个月童那么大。他翻滚着进入大厅，跳上桌子，把一颗硕大的鸡蛋恰好放在珊莎面前。“请敲碎它，小姐，”他指示。于是她敲碎蛋壳，十来个黄色的小鸡从里面冒出来，四下乱跑。“抓住它们！”黄油饼呼喊。年幼的布尔威伯爵夫人拦住一只，并把它交给黄油饼，只见他昂头将小鸡塞进自己肥肿的大嘴里，似乎一口便吞了下去。当他打嗝时，细小的黄羽毛从鼻子里飞出。布尔威伯爵夫人伤心得号啕大哭，可当她看见小鸡从自己的裙服袖子里蠕动而出、爬到手臂上时，眼泪又立刻化为喜悦的尖叫。

　　仆人们送上韭葱和蘑菇炖的肉汤，黄油饼玩起杂耍，奥莲娜夫人把身子向前噌了噌，手肘靠在桌子上。“你了解我儿子吗，珊莎？你了解高庭的充气鱼大人吗？”

　　“他是一个伟大的领主，”珊莎很有礼貌地回答。

　　“他是一个伟大的白痴。”荆棘女王纠正，“他父亲同样是个白痴。我指的是我丈夫，前任公爵罗斯。啊，千万别误会，我很爱他，他心地善良，在床上也不无能，可脑筋就是转不过弯来！你知道吗？猎鹰时，他竟从悬崖上掉了下去。他们说，他一直盯着天空，根本没注意马。”

　　“而现在呢，我的白痴儿子也在干同样的蠢事，只是他骑的换成了狮子而不是马。骑狮容易下狮难啊，我警告过他，可他只会傻笑。如果你有了孩子，珊莎，记得常常责打，他才会听你的话。我只有这一个儿子而我舍不得，所以他现在对黄油饼的兴趣都比对我的大。我告诉他，狮子可不是随便能打发走的猫咪，而他把我当做‘唠叨的母亲。’如果你问我，我得说在这个国家里唠叨的人的确很多，而所有这些国王若肯先放下剑，听听他们母亲的话无疑会干得出色许多。”

　　珊莎意识到自己又张大了嘴巴。一旁，艾勒莉夫人和其他贵妇正被黄油饼的表演——用头、肘和宽大的臀部颠橘子——逗得大笑，她赶紧往嘴里塞了一勺肉汤。

　　“关于那个小鬼国王，我希望你说实话，”奥莲娜夫人突然道，“我指的是乔佛里。”

　　珊莎握紧汤勺。实话？我不能。别问这个，求求你，我不能说出来。“我……我……我……”

　　“是的，我在问你，有谁比你更了解呢？我承认，那小子看起来确有王者风范。嗯，显得有些傲慢自大，这也应当归结于他的兰尼斯特血统。然而，我们听说了许多令人困扰的谣言。这些谣言有没有真实的成分？那小子虐待过你吗？”

　　珊莎神经质地四处张望。黄油饼把一整个橘子放进口中，咀嚼、吞咽，边用手掌拍打脸颊，边用鼻子将种子一颗颗吹出来。女人们咯咯发笑，仆人则进进出出，处女居中回荡着盘子和汤勺的碰撞声。一只小鸡跳上桌子，走进格雷佛德夫人的肉汤里面。看样子，无人关注她，即便如此，她仍旧害怕。

　　奥莲娜夫人不耐烦起来，“你傻盯着黄油饼作甚？我在问你问题，等待你的回答。你的舌头教兰尼斯特家拔了吗，孩子？”

　　唐托斯爵士警告过她，只有在神木林里，才能放心说话。“小乔……乔佛里国王，他……陛下他英俊又潇洒，而且……而且像雄狮一样勇敢。”

　　“是啊，兰尼斯特家的人都是狮子，而提利尔放屁都有玫瑰的香味，”老妇人厉声喝道，“我问的是他究竟怎么样！聪明吗？有没有颗好心肠？能不能关心人？具备国王必须的骑士风度吗？他会钟爱玛格丽、深情地待她，并像保护自己的荣誉一样保护她的荣誉吗？”

　　“他会的，”珊莎撒谎，“他非常……非常帅气。”

　　“见鬼，孩子，你可知道，别人都说你是个像黄油饼一样的大傻瓜，从前我还不肯相信呢。帅气？起码我教导过玛格丽‘帅气’的价值，那东西全是狗屁！‘明焰’伊利昂够帅气，你瞧他是个什么样的怪物。我把问题再清楚地说一遍：乔佛里到底是个怎样的人？”她伸手抓住一名路过的仆人。“我不喜欢韭葱，把肉汤端开，上干酪。”

　　“蛋糕之后才上干酪，夫人。”

　　“我想什么时候上就什么时候上，立刻把干酪给我端来。”老妇人转向珊莎。“你在害怕，孩子？别怕，在场的都是女人，只管说实话，没人会伤害你。”

　　“我父亲总是说实话。”珊莎静静地说，她发觉自己无法抛开疑虑。

　　“艾德公爵，是的，是的，他有那样的好名声，却被他们当作叛徒，砍了脑袋。”老妇人直勾勾地瞪着她，目光锋利而明亮，犹如利剑的尖头。

　　“乔佛里，”珊莎说，“是乔佛里干的。他答应过我会手下留情，可依然砍了父亲的头。他说这就是手下留情，然后带我到城墙上，强迫我看，看那头颅。他想让我哭，可是……”她忽然停下来，遮住嘴巴。我怎么回事？诸神在上啊，竟然在他们面前说这些，如今覆水难收，早晚会有人告诉小乔……

　　“继续，”催促的人变成了玛格丽。她是乔佛里的未婚妻，珊莎不知她刚才听到多少。

　　“我不能说，”如果她把我的话告诉他，如果她说出去？他一定会杀了我，或把我送给伊林爵士。“我……我父亲是叛徒，我哥哥也是，我只是个叛徒之女，求求您们，别再让我说了。”

　　“镇静，镇静！孩子。”荆棘女王命令。

　　“她吓坏了，祖母，你看看她。”

　　老妇人朝黄油饼大喊，“小丑！来，给我们唱个歌，唱个长点的，让让我想想……‘狗熊和美少女’很合适。”

　　“好！”肥大的小丑应道，“说唱就唱！我可以倒立着唱吗，夫人？”

　　“这样会唱得好些？”

　　“不会。”

　　“那就给我好好站着唱。我可不想你把帽子掉下来，就我所知，你从不洗头！”

　　“如您所愿，”黄油饼深深鞠躬，打了一个响嗝，然后立正站好，腹部吸气，吼叫起来：“这只狗熊，狗熊，狗熊！全身黑棕，罩着毛绒……”

　　奥莲娜夫人向前蠕动，“我比你还小的时候就知道，红堡里的石墙都是长耳朵的。好，他们爱听就听，让他们去欣赏歌谣，我们好好谈谈。”

　　“可是，”珊莎说，“瓦里斯……他知道，他总是……”

　　“唱大声点！”荆棘女王朝黄油饼叫嚷，“没吃饭是吧？我这对老耳朵都快聋了，你还说什么悄悄话？肥小丑，我付钱可不是来听你说悄悄话的！给我唱！”

　　“……狗熊！”黄油饼大喝，宏伟的低音震动屋檐。“噢，人们都在说，快来见美人！美人？他懂，可我是狗熊！全身黑棕，罩着毛绒！”

　　满脸皱纹的老妇人笑道：“高庭的花丛里，同样有不少蜘蛛。只要遵守规矩，我就放它们一马；若敢碍事，立即踩死。”她拍拍珊莎的手背。“好啦，孩子，现在可以说实话了。乔佛里到底是个怎样的人？为何他冠着拜拉席恩的姓氏，做起事来却包含了兰尼斯特所有的劣根性？”

　　“沿着大路这头到那弄。这头！那弄！男孩，山羊，跳舞的熊！”

　　珊莎觉得心脏提到了嗓子眼。荆棘女王靠得如此之近，她能闻到老妇人酸败的呼吸，对方消瘦而纤细的手指更捏痛了她的手腕；另一边，玛格丽也在关注。她不禁浑身颤抖。“他是个怪物，”她低声说，声调颤巍，以至于连自己都听不清，“乔佛里是个怪物。他在屠夫小弟的事情上撒谎，逼得我父亲杀掉了我的小狼；当我惹他不高兴时，他会叫御林铁卫打我。夫人，他既邪恶又残忍，真的，太后也和他一样。”

　　奥莲娜夫人和她孙女交换了个眼神。“啊，”老妇人说，“这真遗憾。”

　　不妙，诸神在上，珊莎恐惧地想，如果玛格丽不肯嫁给他了，小乔会怪罪我的。“求求您，”她脱口而出，“千万别耽误婚礼……”

　　“别害怕，充气鱼大人下定决心要让玛格丽当上王后，而提利尔的承诺比凯岩城所有金子加起来还值价，至少在我活着的时候是这样。不管怎么说，我们感激你的实话，孩子。”

　　“……边跳边转，慢慢走向美人！美人！美人！”黄油饼跳着、吼着、跺着脚。

　　“珊莎，有兴趣去高庭拜访吗？”玛格丽·提利尔微笑时，像极了她哥哥洛拉斯，“秋天的花朵正在那边到处盛开，果树丛和喷泉，阴凉的庭院，大理石柱廊。我父亲大人的城堡里聘请了很多歌手，他们唱得可比这黄油饼好多了，除此之外，我们还请来笛手、提琴家和竖琴手。高庭有最好的骏马，有可供你沿曼德河游玩的花船。对了，你会玩猎鹰吗，珊莎？”

　　“会一点，”她承认。

　　“噢，她好甜，纯洁，美容！蜂蜜在少女发丛！”

　　“你会像我一样爱上高庭的，我就是知道，”玛格丽拂过珊莎额头一髻松开的头发，“等你到了那儿，就不会想离开了。而且……你也不必离开。”

　　“发丛！发丛！蜂蜜在少女发丛！”

　　“嘘，孩子，”荆棘女王尖刻地说，“珊莎还没告诉我们，是否愿意作此旅行呢。”

　　“啊，我当然愿意，”珊莎道。高庭听起来就像她梦中的殿堂，那个她曾期盼过的，美丽动人、充满魔力的君临宫廷。

　　“……跟随夏日里的气涌。狗熊！狗熊！全身黑棕，罩着毛绒。”

　　“可是太后，”珊莎突然想到，“她不会准许我……”

　　“她会准许的。兰尼斯特家靠高庭的支持才能保住乔佛里的王位，只要我的白痴儿子提出要求，她除了答应别无选择。”

　　“他会吗？”珊莎问，“他会提出要求吗？”

　　奥莲娜夫人皱起眉，“这事包在我身上，当然，暂时不会把真正的打算告诉他。”

　　“他跟随夏日里的气涌！”

　　珊莎跟着皱眉，“真正的打算，夫人？”

　　“笑着喊香味在这弄！蜂蜜在空中！”

　　“让你平安地举行婚礼，孩子，”黄油饼吼着那首非常古老的歌谣，老妇人轻声说，“和我的孙子。”

　　和洛拉斯爵士结婚，噢……刹那间，珊莎几乎无法呼吸。她想起洛拉斯爵士穿着闪亮的宝石铠甲，扔给她那朵红玫瑰；她想起洛拉斯爵士披上白袍，无暇、纯洁而迷人；她想起他欢喜时嘴角的小酒窝；她想起他悦耳的浅笑声和手上的温度。接下来，她无法抑制地想象如何脱掉他的外衣，如何爱抚他光滑的皮肤，如何掂着脚尖亲吻，如何将手指深深埋进那稠密的棕色卷发里，如何盯着他那双深沉的棕色眼眸，神魂颠倒，如痴如醉。一阵红晕爬上她的颈项。

　　“噢，我是女孩，纯洁而美容！跳舞不跟毛狗熊！狗熊！狗熊！跳舞不跟毛狗熊！”

　　“这样子你喜欢吗，珊莎？”玛格丽问，“我没有姐妹，只有哥哥。噢，求求你同意吧，求求你答应嫁给我哥哥吧。”

　　她跌跌撞撞地挤出言语：“是的，我愿意，比做什么都乐意。我会嫁给洛拉斯爵士，好好爱他……”

　　“洛拉斯？”奥莲娜夫人恼火起来，“别傻了，孩子，御林铁卫是不能结婚的。你在临冬城没有老师吗？够了，我们谈论的是我孙子维拉斯。毫无疑问，他比你大一点，但非常可爱。怎么说，在我们家里，他是最不像白痴的一个，也是高庭的继承人。”

　　珊莎头晕目眩，前一刻脑袋里还装满对洛拉斯的幻想，转眼间就被她们夺走了。维拉斯？维拉斯？“我，”她迟钝地说。礼貌是贵妇人的盔甲，注意言行，你不能冒犯她们。“我还没那个荣幸认识维拉斯爵士呢，夫人。他是……他是个像他弟弟一样伟大的骑士吗？”

　　“……把她举在空中！狗熊！狗熊！”

　　“不，”玛格丽说，“他没发过誓。”

　　她的祖母又皱起眉，“告诉这女孩实话。那可怜的小伙子跛了腿，这就是实情。”

　　“他是在侍从时代残废的，在他的第一次比武会上，”玛格丽透露，“他的马踩碎了他的腿。”

　　“冬恩的红毒蛇应该对此负责，我指的是奥柏伦·马泰尔和他手下的学士。”

　　“我呼唤骑士，可你是狗熊！狗熊！狗熊！全身黑棕，罩着毛绒！”

　　“维拉斯虽然断了腿，可他心肠好，”玛格丽说，“小时候，他常为我读书，还给我画星星的图案。你会像我们大家一样爱上他的，珊莎。”

　　“边踢边喊，少女惊恐，可他舔蜂蜜的发丛，发丛！发丛！他舔蜂蜜的发丛！”

　　“我什么时候可以见到他？”珊莎犹豫地问。

　　“很快，”玛格丽承诺，“我和乔佛里成婚以后，我祖母就带你去高庭。”

　　“是的。”老妇人道，边拍拍珊莎的手臂，边给她一个柔和、起皱的笑容，“这是我的心愿。”

　　“叹息尖叫然后踢向空中！狗熊！她唱，美丽狗熊！我们一同，海角天空，狗熊，狗熊，少女美容。”黄油饼吼出最后一个音节，跳到半空，然后双脚重重撞地，震得桌子上的酒杯乱晃。女人们笑着拍手。

　　“我还以为这恐怖的歌曲没个完呢，”荆棘女王说，“看哪，我的干酪终于来了。”

回到夏末之初(内阁元老)

12楼 2016-06-30

JON

The world was grey darkness, smelling of pine and moss and cold. Pale mists rose from the black earth as the riders threaded their way through the scatter of stones and scraggly trees, down toward the welcoming fires strewn like jewels across the floor of the river valley below. There were more fires than Jon Snow could count, hundreds of fires, thousands, a second river of flickery lights along the banks of the icy white Milkwater. The fingers of his sword hand opened and closed.
They descended the ridge without banners or trumpets, the quiet broken only by the distant murmur of the river, the clop of hooves, and the clacking of Rattleshirt’s bone armor. Somewhere above an eagle soared on great blue-grey wings, while below came men and dogs and horses and one white direwolf.
A stone bounced down the slope, disturbed by a passing hoof, and Jon saw Ghost turn his head at the sudden sound. He had followed the riders at a distance all day, as was his custom, but when the moon rose over the soldier pines he’d come bounding up, red eyes aglow. Rattleshirt’s dogs greeted him with a chorus of snarls and growls and wild barking, as ever, but the direwolf paid them no mind. Six days ago, the largest hound had attacked him from behind as the wildlings camped for the night, but Ghost had turned and lunged, sending the dog fleeing with a bloody haunch. The rest of the pack maintained a healthy distance after that.
Jon Snow’s garron whickered softly, but a touch and a soft word soon quieted the animal. Would that his own fears could be calmed so easily. He was all in black, the black of the Night’s Watch, but the enemy rode before and behind. Wildlings, and I am with them. Ygritte wore the cloak of Qhorin Halfhand. Lenyl had his hauberk, the big spearwife Ragwyle his gloves, one of the bowmen his boots. Qhorin’s helm had been won by the short homely man called Longspear Ryk, but it fit poorly on his narrow head, so he’d given that to Ygritte as well. And Rattleshirt had Qhorin’s bones in his bag, along with the bloody head of Ebben, who set out with Jon to scout the Skirling Pass. Dead, all dead but me, and I am dead to the world.
Ygritte rode just behind him. In front was Longspear Ryk. The Lord of Bones had made the two of them his guards. “If the crow flies, I’ll boil your bones as well,” he warned them when they had set out, smiling through the crooked teeth of the giant’s skull he wore for a helm.
Ygritte hooted at him. “You want to guard him? If you want us to do it, leave us be and we’ll do it.”
These are a free folk indeed, Jon saw. Rattleshirt might lead them, but none of them were shy in talking back to him.
The wildling leader fixed him with an unfriendly stare. “Might be you fooled these others, crow, but don’t think you’ll be fooling Mance. He’ll take one look a’ you and know you’re false. And when he does, I’ll make a cloak o’ your wolf there, and open your soft boy’s belly and sew a weasel up inside.”
Jon’s sword hand opened and closed, flexing the burned fingers beneath the glove, but Longspear Ryk only laughed. “And where would you find a weasel in the snow?”
That first night, after a long day ahorse, they made camp in a shallow stone bowl atop a nameless mountain, huddling close to the fire while the snow began to fall. Jon watched the flakes melt as they drifted over the flames. Despite his layers of wool and fur and leather, he’d felt cold to the bone. Ygritte sat beside him after she had eaten, her hood pulled up and her hands tucked into her sleeves for warmth. “When Mance hears how you did for Halfhand, he’ll take you quick enough,” she told him.
“Take me for what?”
The girl laughed scornfully. “For one o’ us. D’ya think you’re the first crow ever flew down off the Wall? In your hearts you all want to fly free.”
“And when I’m free,” he said slowly, “will I be free to go?”
“Sure you will.” She had a warm smile, despite her crooked teeth. “And we’ll be free to kill you. It’s dangerous being free, but most come to like the taste o’ it.” She put her gloved hand on his leg, just above the knee. “You’ll see.”
I will, thought Jon. I will see, and hear, and learn, and when I have I will carry the word back to the Wall. The wildlings had taken him for an oathbreaker, but in his heart he was still a man of the Night’s Watch, doing the last duty that Qhorin Halfhand had laid on him. Before I killed him.
At the bottom of the slope they came upon a little stream flowing down from the foothills to join the Milkwater. It looked all stones and glass, though they could hear the sound of water running beneath the frozen surface. Rattleshirt led them across, shattering the thin crust of ice.
Mance Rayder’s outriders closed in as they emerged. Jon took their measure with a glance: eight riders, men and women both, clad in fur and boiled leather, with here and there a helm or bit of mail. They were armed with spears and fire-hardened lances, all but their leader, a fleshy blond man with watery eyes who bore a great curved scythe of sharpened steel. The Weeper, he knew at once. The black brothers told tales of this one. Like Rattleshirt and Harma Dogshead and Alfyn Crowkiller, he was a known raider.
“The Lord o’ Bones,” the Weeper said when he saw them. He eyed Jon and his wolf. “Who’s this, then?”
“A crow come over,” said Rattleshirt, who preferred to be called the Lord of Bones, for the clattering armor he wore. “He was afraid I’d take his bones as well as Halfhand’s.” He shook his sack of trophies at the other wildlings.
“He slew Qhorin Halfhand,” said Longspear Ryk. “Him and that wolf o’ his.”
“And did for Orell too,” said Rattleshirt.
“The lad’s a warg, or close enough,” put in Ragwyle, the big spearwife. “His wolf took a piece o’ Halfhand’s leg.”
The Weeper’s red rheumy eyes gave Jon another look. “Aye? Well, he has a wolfish cast to him, now as I look close. Bring him to Mance, might be he’ll keep him.” He wheeled his horse around and galloped off, his riders hard behind him.
The wind was blowing wet and heavy as they crossed the valley of the Milkwater and rode singlefile through the river camp. Ghost kept close to Jon, but the scent of him went before them like a herald, and soon there were wildling dogs all around them, growling and barking. Lenyl screamed at them to be quiet, but they paid him no heed. “They don’t much care for that beast o’ yours,” Longspear Ryk said to Jon.
“They’re dogs and he’s a wolf,” said Jon. “They know he’s not their kind.” No more than I am yours. But he had his duty to be mindful of, the task Qhorin Halfhand had laid upon him as they shared that final fire—to play the part of turncloak, and find whatever it was that the wildlings had been seeking in the bleak cold wilderness of the Frostfangs. “Some power,” Qhorin had named it to the Old Bear, but he had died before learning what it was, or whether Mance Rayder had found it with his digging.
There were cookfires all along the river, amongst wayns and carts and sleds. Many of the wildlings had thrown up tents, of hide and skin and felted wool. Others sheltered behind rocks in crude lean-tos, or slept beneath their wagons. At one fire Jon saw a man hardening the points of long wooden spears and tossing them in a pile. Elsewhere two bearded youths in boiled leather were sparring with staffs, leaping at each other over the flames, grunting each time one landed a blow. A dozen women sat nearby in a circle, fletching arrows.
Arrows for my brothers, Jon thought. Arrows for my father’s folk, for the people of Winterfell and Deepwood Motte and the Last Hearth. Arrows for the north.
But not all he saw was warlike. He saw women dancing as well, and heard a baby crying, and a little boy ran in front of his garron, all bundled up in fur and breathless from play. Sheep and goats wandered freely, while oxen plodded along the riverbank in search of grass. The smell of roast mutton drifted from one cookflre, and at another he saw a boar turning on a wooden spit.
In an open space surrounded by tall green soldier pines, Rattleshirt dismounted. “We’ll make camp here,” he told Lenyl and Ragwyle and the others. “Feed the horses, then the dogs, then yourself. Ygritte, Longspear, bring the crow so Mance can have his look. We’ll gut him after.”
They walked the rest of the way, past more cookflres and more tents, with Ghost following at their heels. Jon had never seen so many wildlings. He wondered if anyone ever had. The camp goes on forever, he reflected, but it’s more a hundred camps than one, and each more vulnerable than the last. Stretched out over long leagues, the wildlings had no defenses to speak of, no pits nor sharpened stakes, only small groups of outriders patrolling their perimeters. Each group or clan or village had simply stopped where they wanted, as soon as they saw others stopping or found a likely spot. The free folk. If his brothers were to catch them in such disarray, many of them would pay for that freedom with their life’s blood. They had numbers, but the Night’s Watch had discipline, and in battle discipline beats numbers nine times of every ten, his father had once told him.
There was no doubting which tent was the king’s. It was thrice the size of the next largest he’d seen, and he could hear music drifting from within. Like many of the lesser tents it was made of sewn hides with the fur still on, but Mance Rayder’s hides were the shaggy white pelts of snow bears. The peaked roof was crowned with a huge set of antlers from one of the giant elks that had once roamed freely throughout the Seven Kingdoms, in the times of the First Men.
Here at least they found defenders; two guards at the flap of the tent, leaning on tall spears with round leather shields strapped to their arms. When they caught sight of Ghost, one of them lowered his spearpoint and said, “That beast stays here.”
“Ghost, stay,” Jon commanded. The direwolf sat.
“Longspear, watch the beast.” Rattleshirt yanked open the tent and gestured Jon and Ygritte inside.
The tent was hot and smoky. Baskets of burning peat stood in all four corners, filling the air with a dim reddish light. More skins carpeted the ground. Jon felt utterly alone as he stood there in his blacks, awaiting the pleasure of the turncloak who called himself King-beyond-the-Wall. When his eyes had adjusted to the smoky red gloom, he saw six people, none of whom paid him any mind. A dark young man and a pretty blonde woman were sharing a horn of mead. A pregnant woman stood over a brazier cooking a brace of hens, while a grey-haired man in a tattered cloak of black and red sat crosslegged on a pillow, playing a lute and singing:
The Dornishman’s wife was as fair as the sun,
and her kisses were warmer than spring.
But the Dornishman’s blade was made of black steel,
and its kiss was a terrible thing.
Jon knew the song, though it was strange to hear it here, in a shaggy hide tent beyond the Wall, ten thousand leagues from the red mountains and warm winds of Dorne.
Rattleshirt took off his yellowed helm as he waited for the song to end. Beneath his bone-and-leather armor he was a small man, and the face under the giant’s skull was ordinary, with a knobby chin, thin mustache, and sallow, pinched cheeks. His eyes were close-set, one eyebrow creeping all the way across his forehead, dark hair thinning back from a sharp widow’s peak.
The Dornishman’s wife would sing as she bathed,
in a voice that was sweet as a peach,
But the Dornishman’s blade had a song of its own,
and a bite sharp and cold as a leech.
Beside the brazier, a short but immensely broad man sat on a stool, eating a hen off a skewer. Hot grease was running down his chin and into his snow-white beard, but he smiled happily all the same. Thick gold bands graven with runes bound his massive arms, and he wore a heavy shirt of black ringmail that could only have come from a dead ranger. A few feet away, a taller, leaner man in a leather shirt sewn with bronze scales stood frowning over a map, a two-handed greatsword slung across his back in a leather sheath. He was straight as a spear, all long wiry muscle, clean-shaved, bald, with a strong straight nose and deepset grey eyes. He might even have been comely if he’d had ears, but he had lost both along the way, whether to frostbite or some enemy’s knife Jon could not tell. Their lack made the man’s head seem narrow and pointed.
Both the white-bearded man and the bald one were warriors, that was plain to Jon at a glance. These two are more dangerous than Rattleshirt by far. He wondered which was Mance Rayder.
As he lay on the ground with the darkness around,
and the taste of his blood on his tongue,
His brothers knelt by him and prayed him a prayer,
and he smiled and he laughed and he sung,
“Brothers, oh brothers, my days here are done,
the Dornishman’s taken my life,
But what does it matter, for all men must die,
and I’ve tasted the Dornishman’s wife!”
As the last strains of “The Dornishman’s Wife” faded, the bald earless man glanced up from his map and scowled ferociously at Rattleshirt and Ygritte, with Jon between them. “What’s this?” he said. “A crow?”
“The black bastard what gutted Orell,” said Rattleshirt, “and a bloody warg as well.”
“You were to kill them all.”
“This one come over,” explained Ygritte. “He slew Qhorin Halfhand with his own hand.”
“This boy?” The earless man was angered by the news. “The Halfhand should have been mine. Do you have a name, crow?”
“Jon Snow, Your Grace.” He wondered whether he was expected to bend the knee as well.
“Your Grace?” The earless man looked at the big white-bearded one. “You see. He takes me for a king.”
The bearded man laughed so hard he sprayed bits of chicken everywhere. He rubbed the grease from his mouth with the back of a huge hand. “A blind boy, must be. Who ever heard of a king without ears? Why, his crown would fall straight down to his neck! Har!” He grinned at Jon, wiping his fingers clean on his breeches. “Close your beak, crow. Spin yourself around, might be you’d find who you’re looking for.”
Jon turned.
The singer rose to his feet. “I’m Mance Rayder,” he said as he put aside the lute. “And you are Ned Stark’s bastard, the Snow of Winterfell. “
Stunned, Jon stood speechless for a moment, before he recovered enough to say, “How . . . how could you know . . . ”
“That’s a tale for later,” said Mance Rayder. “How did you like the song, lad?”
“Well enough. I’d heard it before.”
“But what does it matter, for all men must die,” the King-beyond-the-Wall said lightly, “and I’ve tasted the Dornishman’s wife. Tell me, does my Lord of Bones speak truly? Did you slay my old friend the Halffiand?”
“I did.” Though it was his doing more than mine.
“The Shadow Tower will never again seem as fearsome,” the king said with sadness in his voice. “Qhorin was my enemy. But also my brother, once. So . . . shall I thank you for killing him, Jon Snow? Or curse you?” He gave Jon a mocking smile.
The King-beyond-the-Wall looked nothing like a king, nor even much a wildling. He was of middling height, slender, sharp-faced, with shrewd brown eyes and long brown hair that had gone mostly to grey. There was no crown on his head, no gold rings on his arms, no jewels at his throat, not even a gleam of silver. He wore wool and leather, and his only garment of note was his ragged black wool cloak, its long tears patched with faded red silk.
“You ought to thank me for killing your enemy,” Jon said finally, “and curse me for killing your friend.”
“Har!” boomed the white-bearded man. “Well answered!”
“Agreed.” Mance Rayder beckoned Jon closer. “If you would join us, you’d best know us. The man you took for me is Styr, Magnar of Thenn. Magnar means ‘lord’ in the Old Tongue.” The earless man stared at Jon coldly as Mance turned to the white-bearded one. “Our ferocious chicken-eater here is my loyal Tormund. The woman—”
Tormund rose to his feet. “Hold. You gave Styr his style, give me mine.”
Mance Rayder laughed. “As you wish. Jon Snow, before you stands Tormund Giantsbane, Tall-talker, Horn-blower, and Breaker of Ice. And here also Tormund Thunderfist, Husband to Bears, the Mead-king of Ruddy Hall, Speaker to Gods and Father of Hosts.”
“That sounds more like me,” said Tormund. “Well met, Jon Snow. I am fond o’ wargs, as it happens, though not o’ Starks.”
“The good woman at the brazier,” Mance Rayder went on, “is Dalla.” The pregnant woman smiled shyly. “Treat her like you would any queen, she is carrying my child.” He turned to the last two. “This beauty is her sister Val. Young Jarl beside her is her latest pet.”
“I am no man’s pet,” said Jarl, dark and fierce.
“And Val’s no man,” white-bearded Tormund snorted. “You ought to have noticed that by now, lad.”
“So there you have us, Jon Snow,” said Mance Rayder. “The King-beyond-the-Wall and his court, such as it is. And now some words from you, I think. Where did you come from?”
“Winterfell,” he said, “by way of Castle Black.”
“And what brings you up the Milkwater, so far from the fires of home?” He did not wait for Jon’s answer, but looked at once to Rattleshirt. “How many were they?”
“Five. Three’s dead and the boy’s here. T’other went up a mountainside where no horse could follow.”
Rayder’s eyes met Jon’s again. “Was it only the five of you? Or are more of your brothers skulking about?”
“We were four and the Halfhand. Qhorin was worth twenty common men.”
The King-beyond-the-Wall smiled at that. “Some thought so. Still . . . a boy from Castle Black with rangers from the Shadow Tower? How did that come to be?”
Jon had his lie all ready. “The Lord Commander sent me to the Halfhand for seasoning, so he took me on his ranging.”
Styr the Magnar frowned at that. “Ranging, you call it . . . why would crows come ranging up the Skirling Pass?”
“The villages were deserted,” Jon said, truthfully. “It was as if all the free folk had vanished.”
“Vanished, aye,” said Mance Rayder. “And not just the free folk. Who told you where we were, Jon Snow?”
Tormund snorted. “It were Craster, or I’m a blushing maid. I told you, Mance, that creature needs to be shorter by a head.”
The king gave the older man an irritated look. “Tormund, some day try thinking before you speak. I know it was Craster. I asked Jon to see if he would tell it true.”
“Har.” Tormund spat. “Well, I stepped in that!” He grinned at Jon. “See, lad, that’s why he’s king and I’m not. I can outdrink, outfight, and outsing him, and my member’s thrice the size o’ his, but Mance has cunning. He was raised a crow, you know, and the crow’s a tricksy bird.”
“I would speak with the lad alone, my Lord of Bones,” Mance Rayder said to Rattleshirt. “Leave us, all of you.”
“What, me as well?” said Tormund.
“No, you especially,” said Mance.
“I eat in no hall where I’m not welcome.” Tormund got to his feet. “Me and the hens are leaving.” He snatched another chicken off the brazier, shoved it into a pocket sewn in the lining of his cloak, said “Har,” and left licking his fingers. The others followed him out, all but the woman Dalla.
“Sit, if you like,” Rayder said when they were gone. “Are you hungry? Tormund left us two birds at least.”
“I would be pleased to eat, Your Grace. And thank you.”
“Your Grace?” The king smiled. “That’s not a style one often hears from the lips of free folk. I’m Mance to most, The Mance to some. Will you take a horn of mead?”
“Gladly,” said Jon.
The king poured himself as Dalla cut the well-crisped hens apart and brought them each a half. Jon peeled off his gloves and ate with his fingers, sucking every morsel of meat off the bones.
“Tormund spoke truly,” said Mance Rayder as he ripped apart a loaf of bread. “The black crow is a tricksy bird, that’s so . . . but I was a crow when you were no bigger than the babe in Dalla’s belly, Jon Snow. So take care not to play tricksy with me.”
“As you say, Your—Mance.”
The king laughed. “Your Mance! Why not? I promised you a tale before, of how I knew you. Have you puzzled it out yet?”
Jon shook his head. “Did Rattleshirt send word ahead?”
“By wing? We have no trained ravens. No, I knew your face. I’ve seen it before. Twice.”
It made no sense at first, but as Jon turned it over in his mind, dawn broke. “When you were a brother of the Watch . . . ”
“Very good! Yes, that was the first time. You were just a boy, and I was all in black, one of a dozen riding escort to old Lord Commander Qorgyle when he came down to see your father at Winterfell. I was walking the wall around the yard when I came on you and your brother Robb. It had snowed the night before, and the two of you had built a great mountain above the gate and were waiting for someone likely to pass underneath.”
“I remember,” said Jon with a startled laugh. A young black brother on the wallwalk, yes . . . “You swore not to tell.”
“And kept my vow. That one, at least.”
“We dumped the snow on Fat Tom. He was Father’s slowest guardsman.” Tom had chased them around the yard afterward, until all three were red as autumn apples. “But you said you saw me twice. When was the other time?”
“When King Robert came to Winterfell to make your father Hand,” the King-beyond-the-Wall said lightly.
Jon’s eyes widened in disbelief. “That can’t be so.”
“It was. When your father learned the king was coming, he sent word to his brother Benjen on the Wall, so he might come down for the feast. There is more commerce between the black brothers and the free folk than you know, and soon enough word came to my ears as well. It was too choice a chance to resist. Your uncle did not know me by sight, so I had no fear from that quarter, and I did not think your father was like to remember a young crow he’d met briefly years before. I wanted to see this Robert with my own eyes, king to king, and get the measure of your uncle Benjen as well. He was First Ranger by then, and the bane of all my people. So I saddled my fleetest horse, and rode.”
“But,” Jon objected, “the Wall . . . ”
“The Wall can stop an army, but not a man alone. I took a lute and a bag of silver, scaled the ice near Long Barrow, walked a few leagues south of the New Gift, and bought a horse. All in all I made much better time than Robert, who was traveling with a ponderous great wheelhouse to keep his queen in comfort. A day south of Winterfell I came up on him and fell in with his company. Freeriders and hedge knights are always attaching themselves to royal processions, in hopes of finding service with the king, and my lute gained me easy acceptance.” He laughed. “I know every bawdy song that’s ever been made, north or south of the Wall. So there you are. The night your father feasted Robert, I sat in the back of his hall on a bench with the other freeriders, listening to Orland of Oldtown play the high harp and sing of dead kings beneath the sea. I betook of your lord father’s meat and mead, had a look at Kingslayer and Imp . . . and made passing note of Lord Eddard’s children and the wolf pups that ran at their heels.”
“Bael the Bard,” said Jon, remembering the tale that Ygritte had told him in the Frostfangs, the night he’d almost killed her.
“Would that I were. I will not deny that Bael’s exploit inspired mine own . . . but I did not steal either of your sisters that I recall. Bael wrote his own songs, and lived them. I only sing the songs that better men have made. More mead?”
“No,” said Jon. “if you had been discovered . . . taken . . . ”
“Your father would have had my head off.” The king gave a shrug. “Though once I had eaten at his board I was protected by guest right. The laws of hospitality are as old as the First Men, and sacred as a heart tree.” He gestured at the board between them, the broken bread and chicken bones. “Here you are the guest, and safe from harm at my hands . . . this night, at least. So tell me truly, Jon Snow. Are you a craven who turned your cloak from fear, or is there another reason that brings you to my tent?”
Guest right or no, Jon Snow knew he walked on rotten ice here. One false step and he might plunge through, into water cold enough to stop his heart. Weigh every word before you speak it, he told himself. He took a long draught of mead to buy time for his answer. When he set the horn aside he said, “Tell me why you turned your cloak, and I’ll tell you why I turned mine.”
Mance Rayder smiled, as Jon had hoped he would. The king was plainly a man who liked the sound of his own voice. “You will have heard stories of my desertion, I have no doubt.”
“Some say it was for a crown. Some say for a woman. Others that you had the wildling blood.”
“The wildling blood is the blood of the First Men, the same blood that flows in the veins of the Starks. As to a crown, do you see one?”
“I see a woman.” He glanced at Dalla.
Mance took her by the hand and pulled her close. “My lady is blameless. I met her on my return from your father’s castle. The Halfhand was carved of old oak, but I am made of flesh, and I have a great fondness for the charms of women . . . which makes me no different from three-quarters of the Watch. There are men still wearing black who have had ten times as many women as this poor king. You must guess again, Jon Snow.”
Jon considered a moment. “The Halfhand said you had a passion for wildling music.”
“I did. I do. That’s closer to the mark, yes. But not a hit.” Mance Rayder rose, unfastened the clasp that held his cloak, and swept it over the bench. “It was for this.”
“A cloak?”
“The black wool cloak of a Sworn Brother of the Night’s Watch,” said the King-beyond-the-Wall. “One day on a ranging we brought down a fine big elk. We were skinning it when the smell of blood drew a shadowcat out of its lair. I drove it off, but not before it shredded my cloak to ribbons. Do you see? Here, here, and here?” He chuckled. “It shredded my arm and back as well, and I bled worse than the elk. My brothers feared I might die before they got me back to Maester Mullin at the Shadow Tower, so they carried me to a wildling village where we knew an old wisewoman did some healing. She was dead, as it happened, but her daughter saw to me. Cleaned my wounds, sewed me up, and fed me porridge and potions until I was strong enough to ride again. And she sewed up the rents in my cloak as well, with some scarlet silk from Asshai that her grandmother had pulled from the wreck of a cog washed up on the Frozen Shore. It was the greatest treasure she had, and her gift to me.” He swept the cloak back over his shoulders. “But at the Shadow Tower, I was given a new wool cloak from stores, black and black, and trimmed with black, to go with my black breeches and black boots, my black doublet and black mail. The new cloak had no frays nor rips nor tears . . . and most of all, no red. The men of the Night’s Watch dressed in black, Ser Denys Mallister reminded me sternly, as if I had forgotten. My old cloak was fit for burning now, he said.
“I left the next morning . . . for a place where a kiss was not a crime, and a man could wear any cloak he chose.” He closed the clasp and sat back down again. “And you, Jon Snow?”
Jon took another swallow of mead. There is only one tale that he might believe. “You say you were at Winterfell, the night my father feasted King Robert.”
“I did say it, for I was.”
“Then you saw us all. Prince Joffrey and Prince Tommen, Princess Myrcella, my brothers Robb and Bran and Rickon, my sisters Arya and Sansa. You saw them walk the center aisle with every eye upon them and take their seats at the table just below the dais where the king and queen were seated.”
“I remember.”
“And did you see where I was seated, Mance?” He leaned forward. “Did you see where they put the bastard?”
Mance Rayder looked at Jon’s face for a long moment. “I think we had best find you a new cloak,” the king said, holding out his hand.

第七章琼恩

　　世界一片灰暗，松木和苔藓的味道和着一丝寒意，飘荡在风中。黑土地上升起苍白的迷雾，骑手们在碎石和乱木中费力地穿行，直下河谷，朝如珍珠般散落的温暖火堆奔去。火堆很多，多得让琼恩无法计算，数百数千的篝火组成一条摇曳的光带，伴随着冰冻的白色乳河，看起来就成了两条河。此情此景，让他右手五指不自禁地开开合合。
　　他们骑下山脊，没有举旗也没有吹奏，一片死寂中，只听远方河水的潺潺流动，马蹄的得得声，以及叮当衫身上骨甲的碰撞。头顶某处，老鹰展开灰蓝的巨翅，俯瞰着下方的人、狗、马和白色冰原狼。

　　马蹄踢动碎石，石块滚下斜坡，琼恩看见白灵扭头过去搜寻这突兀的声响。他一整天都远远跟着他们，这是他的习惯，而当月亮在哨兵树梢升起时，他就会睁大血红的眼睛跑开了。一如既往，叮当衫的猎狗们朝他齐声哮吼狂吠，但冰原狼漠不关心。六天前的晚上，他们扎营后，最大的那条猎狗试图从后方偷袭他，不料白灵比它更快，打得那狗满身伤痕、落荒而逃。从此以后，狗群始终和他保持距离。

　　琼恩·雪诺的马轻声嘶鸣起来，但抚摩和软语很快让它恢复了平静。我自己的恐惧能这么轻易地平复就好了。他一身漆黑，这是守夜人军团的黑衣，可他却骑行在敌人之中。我跟着他们，跟着这些野人。耶哥蕊特穿着“断掌”科林的斗篷，朗尔要了他的锁甲，他的手套被大个子矛妇芮温勒拿走，而某个弓箭手得到了他的靴子。相貌平庸的矮个子“长矛”里克赢得了科林的头盔，但这头盔并不适合他那颗窄头颅，所以他把它送给耶哥蕊特。叮当衫将科林的骨头装进口袋里，放在伊本那颗血迹斑斑的头旁边，琼恩正是跟随这几位游骑兵来到风声峡的。死了，他们都死了，而全世界都知道我也完了。

　　耶哥蕊特骑行在他身后，他前面的是长矛里克。骸骨之王让这两人看住他。“如果让乌鸦飞走，我就把你们的骨头给煮了，”出发时他告诫两名守卫，透过用作头盔的巨人头骨，歪曲的牙齿下露出得意的笑。

　　耶哥蕊特斥骂他：“你到底要不要这个人？如果要，就少废话，我们自己知道怎么做。”

　　他们是真正的自由民，琼恩发现，叮当衫可以领导他们，却无法凌驾于他们之上。

　　野人头目转而恶狠狠地瞪着他，“乌鸦，你骗得了其他人，骗不了曼斯。他一眼就能拆穿你的伪装。然后呢，我会把你那只狼的皮拿来做斗篷，接着划开你柔软的肚腹，缝只黄鼠狼进去。”

　　琼恩用剑的手开开合合，手套下灼烧的指头蠢蠢欲动。长矛里克在旁笑道：“这么大雪，你上那儿去找黄鼠狼呀？”

　　头天晚上，经过整日骑行之后，他们在一座无名的高山顶上找到一处碗状的浅石滩，就地扎营。雪花飘飞，人们蜷缩在火堆旁，琼恩看着吹雪降落到篝火上空，迅速融化消解。尽管他穿着层层羊毛衣、毛皮和皮甲，仍旧感觉寒冷彻骨。用餐以后，耶哥蕊特一直坐在他身旁，她拉起风帽，手掌缩进袖子里以求温暖，“等曼斯听到你对断掌的所为，会立刻接受你的。”

　　“接受我？”

　　女孩轻笑道：“接受你成为我们中的一员。你以为自己是头一个飞离长城的乌鸦？我知道，你从心底渴望自由飞翔。”

　　“我可以自由加入，”他缓缓地说，“也可以自由离开吗？”

　　“当然可以，”她的笑很温馨，惟独牙齿有些歪斜，“而我们也有猎杀你的自由。自由是危险的事物，但人人都渴求它的滋味。”她把罩着袖子的手掌放在他膝盖上。“你什么都不懂。”

　　是的，我还不懂，琼恩心想，但我会去看、去听、去学，探明底细就奔回长城。野人们把他当背誓者，可他在心底仍是守夜人的汉子，执行着断掌科林交给他的最后使命。在我杀他之前，他的最后托付。

　　他们下到斜坡底部，面前是一条流下山峦注入乳河的小溪，看似纹丝不动，反射光芒，但坚冰下传来水流的响声。叮当衫带他们渡过溪流，踏碎水面的薄冰。

　　接近营地时，曼斯·雷德的斥候靠过来。琼恩瞥了他们一眼：八个骑兵，有男有女，全穿着毛皮和皮衣，手执长矛或用火淬过的熗，但只装备了几顶头盔和几幅破烂的盔甲。对方首领有些特别，胖呼呼的，水汪汪的眼睛，满头金发，提一柄巨大而锋利的钢铁镰刀。这是哭泣者，他立时反应过来。黑衣兄弟们经常谈论他。和叮当衫、“狗头”哈犸和“猎鸦”阿夫因一样，他是出了名的掠袭者。

　　“骸骨之王，”哭泣者招呼道，一边打量着琼恩和他的狼，“那是谁，就那个？”

　　“一只逃来的乌鸦，”叮当衫说，他喜欢被人称为骸骨之王，那件叮当作响的骨甲是他的骄傲，“他怕我像趴断掌的骨头一样趴了他。”他提起那袋战利品，在野人斥候们面前摇晃。

　　“是这小子杀了断掌科林，”长矛里克说，“他和他的狼。”

　　“他把欧瑞尔干掉了，”叮当衫说。

　　“这小子是个狼灵。”大个子矛妇芮温勒插进来，“他的狼咬下断掌一截小腿呢。”

　　哭泣者用那对红润潮湿的眼睛又瞄了琼恩一眼，“是吗？哦，他有狼的特质，我瞧见了。带他到曼斯那儿去！由他发落。”他调转马头，决尘而去，他的手下紧跟着他。

　　他们排成单列，在乳河河谷的营地里穿行，寒风又湿又重。白灵紧随琼恩，他的气味如同传令官，宣告了他们的到来。不一会儿，野人们的狗全部聚集而至，咆哮、吠叫。朗尔嚷着让它们安静，但不起作用。“他们不喜欢你的伙伴呢，”长矛里克对琼恩说。

　　“一边是狗，一边是狼，”琼恩说，“它们不是同类。”就像我不是你们的同类。但我必须暂时抛开这些，去履行责任，最后一次和断掌分享营火时科林交给他的责任——伪装成背誓者，去找出野人们在阴冷荒芜的霜雪之牙挖掘的秘密。“某种力量，”断掌科林对熊老断言，可他在找出真相之前就死了，甚至不知道曼斯·雷德是否挖到了“它”。

　　沿河都是篝火，点缀在板车、推车和雪橇旁。野人们用兽皮和羊毡匆匆搭起无数帐篷，也有些人就着大岩石建个窝，或睡在车子下面。琼恩看见男人在火堆旁淬着长木矛的尖头，一边还掷矛试手；另两位穿皮甲留胡须的少年用棍棒互相击打，跳过篝火追逐对方，口中呼喝不断；十来个女人坐成圆圈，给弓箭上羽毛。

　　这是为我的弟兄们准备的箭，琼恩心想，为我父亲的人民准备的箭，为临冬城、深林堡和最后壁炉城准备的箭，为北境而准备的箭。

　　可眼前并不都是战争气象。他也看见跳舞的姑娘，听到婴孩的哭闹，一个裹着毛皮的小男孩从马前跑过，因为嬉闹而气喘吁吁。绵羊和山羊自由漫步，牛群在河岸边搜寻青草，羊肉的香味自营火处四溢开来，一整头公猪串在木叉上熏烤。

　　骑到一处由高大葱绿的士卒松围成的空地时，叮当衫下了马。“就在这儿扎营，”他告诉朗尔、芮温勒和其他人，“将马、狗、还有你们自己都喂饱。耶哥蕊特、长矛，把乌鸦带走，让曼斯好好瞧瞧，接着我们来剥他。”

　　剩下的路他们步行，经过更多的篝火和更多的帐篷，白灵依然在后紧跟。琼恩没见过这么多野人。他甚至怀疑是否有人曾见过这么多野人。这片营地无边无际，不，不是一片营地，而是上百处，每一处都易受攻击。由于分散在好几里格的空间里，因此根本谈不上防备，没有陷坑，没有削尖木桩，只有几小队斥候在四周巡逻。各个团队、氏族和村落看中什么地方，就直接扎营下来，丝毫不管别人。这就是自由民。如果他的弟兄们抓住机会，这里的很多人就得为自由而付出生命的代价。他们虽人多势众，可缺乏守夜人军团的纪律。纪律严明，十战九胜，父亲曾教导过他。

　　国王的帐篷十分醒目，比他刚才所见最大的帐篷还要大出两倍，音乐声从帐内传出。它虽和别的帐篷一样是用兽皮缝制，但材料是雪熊的纯白毛绒。帐篷顶围一圈巨鹿角，想必是从先民时代曾奔放于七大王国的巨驼鹿头上采到的。

　　直走到这里，他们才碰到守卫；两名卫兵站在帐篷门口，拄着长矛，手臂上捆了圆皮盾。看到白灵，其中一名守卫放低长矛，“野兽不能进。”

　　“白灵，停下，”琼恩命令。冰原狼听话坐下来。

　　“长矛，看好这家伙。”叮当衫掀开帐门，打手势让琼恩和耶哥蕊特进去。

　　帐内酷热，充满烟雾。四角都搁着装烧炭的篮子，放射出暗淡的红光，地面则铺了厚厚的兽皮作地毯。一身黑衣的来此地，静待那个自称塞外之王的变色龙处置自己，琼恩感到无比孤单。眼睛适应这团弥漫的红色烟雾后，他发现里面共有六人，但没人关注他。一个黝黑的青年男子正与一位漂亮的金发女郎分享一角蜜酒；一个怀孕的女人站在火盆旁烧烤一串小鸡；一位穿着褴褛的红黑斗篷的灰发男子盘腿坐在枕垫上，边弹竖琴边唱：

　　多恩人的妻子像艳阳一样美丽，

　　她的亲吻比阳春还暖意；

　　多恩人的刀剑却是由黑铁制成，

　　它们的亲吻则恐怖无比。

　　琼恩听过这首歌谣，不过在这里——在长城以外的兽皮帐篷中，在离赤红山峦和温暖煦风的多恩十万八千里的地方——听着它有些异样。

　　叮当衫拉下发黄的头骨盔，等待歌唱结束。脱掉骨甲和皮甲之后，他其实很瘦小，容貌平凡，下巴多节，短胡须，面颊扁平而灰黄，眼睛则是一条细线，眉毛横贯前额，尖的秃头上有几丛稀薄的黑发。

　　多恩人的妻子洗浴之际会唱歌，

　　像蜜桃一样甜美的声调；

　　多恩人的刀剑却有自己的歌谣，

　　如水蛭一般锋利和冷傲。

　　火盆边的凳子上坐了一个矮小却非常粗胖的男人，正津津有味地吃着一串烤鸡。热腾腾的油脂流过下巴，淌进雪白的胡子里，而他欢快地嘻笑着。他粗壮的胳膊上，带着雕刻符文的厚重金箍，身上穿的则是沉重的黑色环甲——那只能得自于死去的游骑兵。几尺之外，另一名高瘦男子正对着地图皱眉，穿着缝青铜鳞片的皮衫，背上横跨一把皮制剑鞘的双手巨剑。此人像矛一样笔直，长条的肌腱，胡子刮得很干净，头却秃了，有硬朗的直鼻子和深陷的灰色眼眸。若有耳朵的话他的样子算得上潇洒，可惜他一只也没有。琼恩不知是霜冻还是战争造成的，总而言之，缺了它们，男人的头有些失衡，显得又窄又尖。

　　白胡子和秃头都是战士，琼恩只消一眼就清楚，而且都比叮当衫厉害得多。他不知他们中谁是曼斯·雷德。

　　他倒在地上黑暗在回荡，

　　鲜血的滋味舌头品尝。

　　他的兄弟跪下为他而祈祷，

　　而他笑着笑着放声歌唱：

　　“兄弟啊，兄弟，我的末日临降，

　　多恩人夺走了我的身子，

　　没有关系，凡人终有一死亡，

　　我却尝过多恩人的妻子！”

　　当《多恩人的妻子》的最后一个曲调缓缓消逝后，秃顶无耳的男子从地图上抬起头来，恶狠狠地瞪着叮当衫、耶哥蕊特及夹在他们中间的琼恩。“这是谁？”他说，“一只乌鸦？”

　　“没错，这杂种杀了欧瑞尔，”叮当衫说，“他还是个该死的狼灵。”

　　“那你带来做什么？砍了就是。”

　　“他已经倒戈了，”耶哥蕊特解释，“他亲手宰了断掌科林。”

　　“就凭这小子？”听罢此言，无耳的男人有些恼怒，“断掌是我的猎物。乌鸦，你有名字吗？”

　　“我叫琼恩·雪诺，陛下。”不知该不该在“塞外之王”面前跪下。

　　“陛下？”无耳的男人望向粗胖的白胡子，“你瞧，他以为我是国王咧。”

　　满脸胡子的胖子哈哈大笑，笑得鸡块到处飞溅，他用那只巨手擦擦嘴。“他肯定是个不长眼睛的小子！难道有缺耳朵的国王吗？见鬼，那样王冠会直直地掉进脖子里！哈哈！”他边朝琼恩咧嘴大笑，边在马裤上擦拭手指。“闭上臭嘴，乌鸦。转过头去，你要找的人在后面。”

　　琼恩转过头去。

　　歌手站起身来。“我是曼斯·雷德，”他边说边放下竖琴，“而你是奈德·史塔克的私生子，临冬城的雪诺。”

　　琼恩惊得半晌说不出话，良久之后方才勉强恢复镇静：“您……您怎么知道……”

　　“这个故事待会儿再讲，”曼斯·雷德说，“你喜欢我唱的歌吗，小子？”

　　“您唱得很不错。此外，这首歌我以前也听过。”

　　“‘没有关系，凡人终有一死亡’，”塞外之王轻声道，“‘我却尝过多恩人的妻子’。告诉我，我们的骸骨之王说的可是实话？你杀了我的老朋友断掌？”

　　“是的。”虽然不是由我独自完成。

　　“影子塔不会再如以前那般可畏了，”国王语带悲伤，“科林虽为我的对手，但也曾是我的弟兄，因此……我应该感激你呢，琼恩·雪诺？还是应该诅咒你？”他给了琼恩一个嘲弄的笑。

　　塞外之王没有国王的样子，甚至不像个野人。他中等身材，苗条，尖脸，一双精明的棕色眼睛，还有棕色长发——只不过此时已经泰半灰白了。他头顶没有王冠，手臂没有金环，颈项没有宝链，总而言之，一点装饰也无。他穿的是羊毛衫和皮衣，全身上下惟一引人注目是褴褛的黑羊毛斗篷，其上有几个长长的裂口被褪色的红丝线缝补起来。

　　“你应该感激我除掉了你的对手，”最后琼恩说，“同时诅咒我害死了你的朋友。”

　　“哈哈！”白胡子的男子叫道，“说得好！”

　　“同意。”曼斯·雷德示意琼恩靠近，“你想加入，就得先了解我们。那个你误以为是我的人叫斯迪，为瑟恩的马格拿——马格拿在古语中意思是‘领主大人’”曼斯转向白胡子，无耳的男人冷冷地瞪着琼恩，“这位凶猛的小鸡吞食者是我忠诚的托蒙德，那位女人——”

　　托蒙德不依，“等等，你报了斯迪的头衔，也该说说我的。”

　　曼斯·雷德微笑。“如你所愿。琼恩·雪诺，在你面前是巨人克星托蒙德，吹牛大王，吹号者，以及破冰人。他也是雷拳托蒙德，雪熊之夫，红厅的蜜酒之王，生灵之父和诸神的代言人。”

　　“这还差不多。”托蒙德道，“幸会，琼恩·雪诺，我虽瞧不起什么史塔克，却对狼灵感兴趣。”

　　“火盆边那位好女人，”曼斯·雷德续道，“是妲娜。”怀孕的女人羞涩地笑笑。“你务必像待王后一般地待她，她怀着我的孩子。”他转向剩下的两人。“这位美人是她妹妹瓦迩，瓦迩身边的年青人贾尔则是她的新宠物。”

　　“我不是别人的宠物，”贾尔凶猛而阴沉地说。

　　“瓦迩又不是男人（注一），”白胡子托蒙德嗤之以鼻，“你给我搞清楚，小子，曼斯可没说错。”

　　“你已经认识我们了，琼恩·雪诺，”曼斯·雷德道，“这就是塞外之王和他的宫廷。现在轮到你说。你从哪儿来？”

　　“我来自临冬城，”他说，“这次是从黑城堡出发。”

　　“你为何背井离乡，来到乳河上游？”他不待琼恩回答，望向叮当衫，“他们有多少人？”

　　“五个。宰了三个，抓到这小子，还有一个上了山，骑马无法追踪。”

　　雷德的目光再次与琼恩交汇。“你们只有五个？藏了没的人没有？”

　　“不，我们是四个加上断掌，科林一个能顶二十个。”

　　塞外之王哈哈大笑，“不错，大家都这么说。还有一个问题……黑城堡里的新手跟着一群影子塔的游骑兵，这又是为何？”

　　琼恩早就备妥说辞：“司令大人把我派到断掌手下锻炼，因此我参加了巡逻。”

　　斯迪马格拿皱眉道，“你是说，巡逻……乌鸦会到风声峡来巡逻？”

　　“村庄纷纷被遗弃，”琼恩实话实说，“好象所有的自由民都突然消失了。”

　　“啊……消失了，”曼斯·雷德道，“消失的可不止是自由民而已。谁告诉你我们在这儿，琼恩·雪诺？”

　　托蒙德喷喷鼻息，“那还用问，肯定是卡斯特呗，否则就当我是腼腆少女好了。我跟你说过，曼斯，该砍下那东西的脑袋。”

　　国王生气地扫了这位长者一眼。“托蒙德，总有一天你得学会在说话前动动脑子。我当然知道是卡斯特。我的目的是考察琼恩。”

　　“哈哈，”托蒙德吐口唾沫，“好，我闭嘴！”他朝琼恩咧嘴笑道，“看啊，小子，这就是为啥他能当国王而我不行。我喝得多，打仗强，歌也比他唱得响，块头更是他的三倍，可曼斯比我狡猾。你知道，他从前是个乌鸦，哈哈，诡计多端的鸟儿。”

　　“我想和这小子单独谈谈，骸骨之王，”曼斯·雷德对叮当衫说，“还有其他人，都走吧。”

　　“什么，我也要走？”托蒙德道。

　　“不，你例外。”曼斯说。

　　“才怪！我才不会在不受欢迎的地方吃东西咧，”托蒙德站起身，“我和我的小鸡还是离开吧。”他抓起另一串鸡肉，塞进斗篷衬里缝的口袋，说一声“哈！”算是道别，然后舔着手指走出帐门。大家跟着他离开，除了女人妲娜。

　　“随便坐。”等人们离开后雷德说，“饿吗？托蒙德还留了两只鸟。”

　　“我很荣幸能吃您的东西，陛下，谢谢您。”

　　“陛下？”国王笑了，“没人能从自由民嘴里听到这个头衔。他们多半直接叫我曼斯，少数人称我为曼斯头领。来角蜜酒？”

　　“乐意之至。”琼恩说。

　　妲娜切割着烤脆的小鸡，给了他俩一人一半，国王则豪饮蜜酒。琼恩摘下手套，用手指帮助进食，他饿得厉害，吮吸着骨头上每片肉丁。

　　“托蒙德说得没错，”曼斯·雷德边撕面包边讲，“黑乌鸦确实是种诡计多端的鸟儿……而我在你出生之前就是乌鸦了，琼恩·雪诺，所以当心哟，千万别对我耍花招。”

　　“如您所说，陛——曼斯。”

　　国王忍俊不禁，“曼斯陛下！有何不可？好啦，我答应要讲故事，讲讲我为什么认识你。你想明白了吗？”

　　琼恩摇摇头，“叮当衫预先通报过？”

　　“用鸟？我们没有训练有素的乌鸦。不，我记得你的脸，因为以前见过。见过两次。”

　　这没道理。琼恩使劲想想，终于弄明白了。“当您还是守夜人的兄弟时……”

　　“非常正确！是的，那是第一次。当年的你还是个小孩，我则全身黑衣，作为前任司令官科格尔的十二名护卫之一，护送他前来临冬城拜访你父亲。我在庭院周围的内城墙上漫步，撞见你和你哥哥罗柏。前天夜里下过雪，你俩个在城门上堆了一大堆，等着某个倒霉鬼从下面经过。”

　　“我记起来了！”琼恩带着惊讶的笑容说。一个在城墙上漫步的年轻黑衣兄弟，是的……“你发誓不会暴露我们的。”

　　“而我守住了誓言。至少，守住了这个。”

　　“我们把雪倒在胖汤姆头上，他是我父亲手下最迟钝的侍卫。”后来他俩被汤姆追得满院子跑，直到三人的脸颊都变得像熟透的苹果一般红。“可你说见过我两次，另一次是什么时候呢？”

　　“当劳勃国王前来临冬城任命你父亲为御前首相的时候，”塞外之王轻声道。

　　琼恩的眼睛由于难以置信而瞪得老大，“那怎么可能？”

　　“那是事实。你父亲知道国王已在途中后，便给长城上的弟弟班扬写信，让他赶来参加宴会。黑衣兄弟和自由民之间的交易来往比你所了解的要深得多，所以消息很快也传到了我耳中。这个诱惑我无法抗拒。你叔叔没见过我，所以我不担心他，我也不认为你父亲会记得多年以前匆匆飞过的一只小乌鸦。我打算亲眼看看劳勃，国王对国王，同时也想多了解一下你叔叔班扬。那时他是首席游骑兵，是我子民的灾星。所以我骑上最快的马，说走就走。”

　　“可是，”琼恩提出异议，“长城……”

　　“长城能够阻止军队，却不能挡住独身的汉子。我带上琵琶和一包银鹿，在长车楼附近攀过冰墙，越过新赠地，再南行数里格后买马。我日夜兼程，而劳勃带着沉重的大轮宫以便他的王后能舒服地旅行，因此在临冬城以南约一天骑程的地方终于被我赶上，我随即加入到王家队伍中。你知道，自由骑手和雇佣骑士常凑到王族身边，希望能留在御前服务，而我的琵琶使我很容易被接纳，”他笑意不减，“我会长城内外所有淫曲小调咧。晚宴时你也在，当晚你父亲招待劳勃，我在大厅末端的长凳上和一帮自由骑手对饮，边听旧镇的奥兰多弹长竖琴，歌唱长眠于海底的君王，边吃你父亲的烤肉和蜜酒。我好好瞧了瞧弑君者和小恶魔……也瞄到过艾德公爵的孩子们和他们脚边的小狼。”

　　“您就像呤游诗人贝尔，”琼恩说，他忆起耶哥蕊特在霜雪之牙上给他讲的故事，那天晚上他差点杀了她。

　　“我像他就好了。啊，贝尔的事绩很让人激动……我却没胆子偷走你某位妹妹。贝尔写下自己的歌谣，并永世流传，而我只会翻唱比我出色的人编的曲子。还要蜜酒吗？”

　　“不了，”琼恩说，“假如您被发现……被抓住……”

　　“你父亲不会砍我的头，”国王耸耸肩，“因为我在他的厅堂吃饭，受宾客权利的保护。有关宾客的法则同先民一样古老，如心树一般神圣。”他朝布满碎面包渣和鸡骨头的桌板比了比，“所以啰，在这里你也是宾客，有我的保护，不会受伤害……至少，今夜如此。说实话，琼恩·雪诺，你是个因恐惧而变节的懦夫呢，还是别有原因？”

　　不管有没有宾客权利，琼恩·雪诺知道自己正如履薄冰，稍有失足，便会万劫不复，死无葬身之地。每个词都得仔细掂量，他告诫自己，一边喝下一大口蜜酒拖延摊牌时间。放下角杯时，他道：“您先告诉我您的理由，然后我就说。”

　　正如琼恩所预期，曼斯·雷德笑了，这位国王很明显是个自信满满的人。“我会告诉你我弃职的经过，我会的。”

　　“有人说您为顶王冠，有人说您为个女人，还有人说您天生有野人的血统。”

　　“野人的血统是先民的血统，先民的血统也就是史塔克家的血统。至于王冠，你在这儿看到了吗？”

　　“我看到了一个女人。”他瞥向妲娜。

　　曼斯抱拢她，“不，我夫人是清白的。从你父亲的城堡回归途中，我遇见了她，断掌是朽木做的雕塑，我可是有血有肉的人，着迷于女性的魅力……和四分之三的黑衣兄弟一样。说真的，黑衣人中有的家伙干过的女人是那可怜国王的十倍。你得再猜，琼恩*雪诺。”

　　琼恩考虑了一会，“断掌说您喜欢野人的音乐。”

　　“这没错，已经接近答案了，但还不准确。”曼斯·雷德站起来，松开斗篷的搭扣，将其铺在桌面上。“我是为这个。”

　　“为一顶斗篷？”

　　“一顶誓言效命的守夜人兄弟的黑羊毛斗篷，”塞外之王说。“有一次，我们出巡逻时打死了一只美丽的巨鹿，正忙着剥皮呢，不料血腥味引来了附近巢穴里的影子山猫。是我把它赶走的，可斗篷在打斗中被撕成了碎条。你看到了吗？这里，这里，还有这里？”他咯咯笑道，“那畜生还撕烂了我的手臂和脊背，我比那头鹿流的血还要多。弟兄们害怕我在返回影子塔让穆林学士诊治以前就死掉，所以把我抬到一个野人村庄，因为据说那里有个老女巫懂些医术。不巧的是，她已经死了，只留下一个女儿。是她，替我清洗伤痕，缝好创口，还喂我粥和药水，直到我康复。她用亚夏产的鲜红丝线缝好我破碎的斗篷，丝线是她祖母从一只被冲到冰封海岸的遇难小船上发现的。这是她最大的财宝，是她给我的礼物。”他把斗篷披回肩上。“回到影子塔，他们从仓库里给了我一件新的羊毛斗篷，一件全黑的斗篷，整洁清爽，配上黑色的马裤和黑色的靴子，黑色的上衣和黑色的锁甲。这件新斗篷没有磨损、没有划痕、没有裂口……也没有红色。守夜人必须穿着黑衣，丹尼斯·梅利斯特爵士严厉地提醒我，当我是健忘者。他还说，你的旧斗篷可以烧掉了。”

　　“第二天早上我就离开……去了一个亲吻不再是罪恶，人们可以自由选择斗篷的地方。”他扣紧搭扣，重新坐下。“你呢，琼恩·雪诺？”

　　琼恩又吮下一口蜜酒。看来，只有一个说法能让他信服。“您说您去过临冬城，参加过我父亲招待劳勃国王的晚宴。”

　　“是的，我的确在那里。”

　　“那您应当一清二楚才对。乔佛里王子和托曼王子，弥塞菈公主，我兄弟罗柏、布兰和瑞肯，我妹妹艾莉亚与珊莎，他们走过中央的通道，万众瞩目，而落座的地方也仅比国王和公爵的高台低一席。”

　　“如何？”

　　“您看见我坐哪儿了吗，曼斯？”他向前靠了靠，“您看见他们把私生子扔哪儿了吗？”

　　曼斯·雷德长久审视着琼恩的脸孔。“我想该为你找件新斗篷，”国王边说，边伸出手。

　　注一：此处是双关。英语用man来带指人，上句是“I　am　no　man’spet”，而托蒙德将这句话故意屈解为男人，答道“And　Val’s　no　man”。

回到夏末之初(内阁元老)

13楼 2016-06-30

DAENERYS
Across the still blue water came the slow steady beat of drums and the soft swish of oars from the galleys. The great cog groaned in their wake, the heavy lines stretched taut between. Balerion’s sails hung limp, drooping forlorn from the masts. Yet even so, as she stood upon the forecastle watching her dragons chase each other across a cloudless blue sky, Daenerys Targaryen was as happy as she could ever remember being.
Her Dothraki called the sea the poison water, distrusting any liquid that their horses could not drink. On the day the three ships had lifted anchor at Qarth, you would have thought they were sailing to hell instead of Pentos. Her brave young bloodriders had stared off at the dwindling coastline with huge white eyes, each of the three determined to show no fear before the other two, while her handmaids Irri and Jhiqui clutched the rail desperately and retched over the side at every little swell. The rest of Dany’s tiny khalasar remained below decks, preferring the company of their nervous horses to the terrifying landless world about the ships. When a sudden squall had enveloped them six days into the voyage, she heard them through the hatches; the horses kicking and screaming, the riders praying in thin quavery voices each time Balerion heaved or swayed.
No squall could frighten Dany, though. Daenerys Stormborn, she was called, for she had come howling into the world on distant Dragonstone as the greatest storm in the memory of Westeros howled outside, a storm so fierce that it ripped gargoyles from the castle walls and smashed her father’s fleet to kindling.
The narrow sea was often stormy, and Dany had crossed it half a hundred times as a girl, running from one Free City to the next half a step ahead of the Usurper’s hired knives. She loved the sea. She liked the sharp salty smell of the air, and the vastness of horizons bounded only by a vault of azure sky above. It made her feel small, but free as well. She liked the dolphins that sometimes swam along beside Balerion, slicing through the waves like silvery spears, and the flying fish they glimpsed now and again. She even liked the sailors, with all their songs and stories. Once on a voyage to Braavos, as she’d watched the crew wrestle down a great green sail in a rising gale, she had even thought how fine it would be to be a sailor. But when she told her brother, Viserys had twisted her hair until she cried. “You are blood of the dragon,” he had screamed at her. “A dragon, not some smelly fish.”
He was a fool about that, and so much else, Dany thought. If he had been wiser and more patient, it would be him sailing west to take the throne that was his by rights. Viserys had been stupid and vicious, she had come to realize, yet sometimes she missed him all the same. Not the cruel weak man he had become by the end, but the brother who had sometimes let her creep into his bed, the boy who told her tales of the Seven Kingdoms, and talked of how much better their lives would be once he claimed his crown.
The captain appeared at her elbow. “Would that this Balerion could soar as her namesake did, Your Grace,” he said in bastard Valyrian heavily flavored with accents of Pentos. “Then we should not need to row, nor tow, nor pray for wind.”
“Just so, Captain,” she answered with a smile, pleased to have won the man over. Captain Groleo was an old Pentoshi like his master, Illyrio Mopatis, and he had been nervous as a maiden about carrying three dragons on his ship. Half a hundred buckets of seawater still hung from the gunwales, in case of fires. At first Groleo had wanted the dragons caged and Dany had consented to put his fears at ease, but their misery was so palpable that she soon changed her mind and insisted they be freed.
Even Captain Groleo was glad of that, now. There had been one small fire, easily extinguished; against that, Balerion suddenly seemed to have far fewer rats than she’d had before, when she sailed under the name Saduleon. And her crew, once as fearful as they were curious, had begun to take a queer fierce pride in “their” dragons. Every man of them, from captain to cook’s boy, loved to watch the three fly . . . though none so much as Dany.
They are my children, she told herself, and if the maegi spoke truly, they are the only children I am ever like to have.
Viserion’s scales were the color of fresh cream, his horns, wing bones, and spinal crest a dark gold that flashed bright as metal in the sun. Rhaegal was made of the green of summer and the bronze of fall. They soared above the ships in wide circles, higher and higher, each trying to climb above the other.
Dragons always preferred to attack from above, Dany had learned. Should either get between the other and the sun, he would fold his wings and dive screaming, and they would tumble from the sky locked together in a tangled scaly ball, jaws snapping and tails lashing. The first time they had done it, she feared that they meant to kill each other, but it was only sport. No sooner would they splash into the sea than they would break apart and rise again, shrieking and hissing, the salt water steaming off them as their wings clawed at the air. Drogon was aloft as well, though not in sight; he would be miles ahead, or miles behind, hunting.
He was always hungry, her Drogon. Hungry and growing fast. Another year, or perhaps two, and he may be large enough to ride. Then I shall have no need of ships to cross the great salt sea.
But that time was not yet come. Rhaegal and Viserion were the size of small dogs, Drogon only a little larger, and any dog would have outweighed them; they were all wings and neck and tail, lighter than they looked. And so Daenerys Targaryen must rely on wood and wind and canvas to bear her home.
The wood and the canvas had served her well enough so far, but the fickle wind had turned traitor. For six days and six nights they had been becalmed, and now a seventh day had come, and still no breath of air to fill their sails. Fortunately, two of the ships that Magister Illyrio had sent after her were trading galleys, with two hundred oars apiece and crews of strong-armed oarsmen to row them. But the great cog Balerion was a song of a different key; a ponderous broad-beamed sow of a ship with immense holds and huge sails, but helpless in a calm. Vhagar and Meraxes had let out lines to tow her, but it made for painfully slow going. All three ships were crowded, and heavily laden.
“I cannot see Drogon,” said Ser Jorah Mormont as he joined her on the forecastle. “Is he lost again?”
“We are the ones who are lost, ser. Drogon has no taste for this wet creeping, no more than I do.” Bolder than the other two, her black dragon had been the first to try his wings above the water, the first to flutter from ship to ship, the first to lose himself in a passing cloud . . . and the first to kill. The flying fish no sooner broke the surface of the water than they were enveloped in a lance of flame, snatched up, and swallowed. “How big will he grow?” Dany asked curiously. “Do you know?”
“In the Seven Kingdoms, there are tales of dragons who grew so huge that they could pluck giant krakens from the seas.”
Dany laughed. “That would be a wondrous sight to see.”
“It is only a tale, Khaleesi,” said her exile knight. “They talk of wise old dragons living a thousand years as well.”
“Well, how long does a dragon live?” She looked up as Viserion swooped low over the ship, his wings beating slowly and stirring the limp sails.
Ser Jorah shrugged. “A dragon’s natural span of days is many times as long as a man’s, or so the songs would have us believe . . . but the dragons the Seven Kingdoms knew best were those of House Targaryen. They were bred for war, and in war they died. It is no easy thing to slay a dragon, but it can be done.”
The squire Whitebeard, standing by the figurehead with one lean hand curled about his tall hardwood staff, turned toward them and said, “Balerion the Black Dread was two hundred years old when he died during the reign of Jaehaerys the Conciliator. He was so large he could swallow an aurochs whole. A dragon never stops growing, Your Grace, so long as he has food and freedom.” His name was Arstan, but Strong Belwas had named him Whitebeard for his pale whiskers, and most everyone called him that now. He was taller than Ser Jorah, though not so muscular; his eyes were a pale blue, his long beard as white as snow and as flne as silk.
“Freedom?” asked Dany, curious. “What do you mean?”
“In King’s Landing, your ancestors raised an immense domed castle for their dragons. The Dragonpit, it is called. It still stands atop the Hill of Rhaenys, though all in ruins now. That was where the royal dragons dwelt in days of yore, and a cavernous dwelling it was, with iron doors so wide that thirty knights could ride through them abreast. Yet even so, it was noted that none of the pit dragons ever reached the size of their ancestors. The maesters say it was because of the walls around them, and the great dome above their heads.”
“If walls could keep us small, peasants would all be tiny and kings as large as giants,” said Ser Jorah. “I’ve seen huge men born in hovels, and dwarfs who dwelt in castles.”
“Men are men,” Whitebeard replied. “Dragons are dragons.”
Ser Jorah snorted his disdain. “How profound.” The exile knight had no love for the old man, he’d made that plain from the first. “What do you know of dragons, anyway?”
“Little enough, that’s true. Yet I served for a time in King’s Landing in the days when King Aerys sat the Iron Throne, and walked beneath the dragonskulls that looked down from the walls of his throne room.”
“Viserys talked of those skulls,” said Dany. “The Usurper took them down and hid them away. He could not bear them looking down on him upon his stolen throne.” She beckoned Whitebeard closer. “Did you ever meet my royal father?” King Aerys II had died before his daughter was born.
“I had that great honor, Your Grace.”
“Did you find him good and gentle?”
Whitebeard did his best to hide his feelings, but they were there, plain on his face. “His Grace was . . . often pleasant.”
“Often?” Dany smiled. “But not always?”
“He could be very harsh to those he thought his enemies.”
“A wise man never makes an enemy of a king,” said Dany. “Did you know my brother Rhaegar as well?”
“It was said that no man ever knew Prince Rhaegar, truly. I had the privilege of seeing him in tourney, though, and often heard him play his harp with its silver strings.”
Ser Jorah snorted. “Along with a thousand others at some harvest feast. Next you’ll claim you squired for him.”
“I make no such claim, ser. Myles Mooton was Prince Rhaegar’s squire, and Richard Lonmouth after him. When they won their spurs, he knighted them himself, and they remained his close companions. Young Lord Connington was dear to the prince as well, but his oldest friend was Arthur Dayne.”
“The Sword of the Morning!” said Dany, delighted. “Viserys used to talk about his wondrous white blade. He said Ser Arthur was the only knight in the realm who was our brother’s peer.”
Whitebeard bowed his head. “It is not my place to question the words of Prince Viserys.”
“King,” Dany corrected. “He was a king, though he never reigned. Viserys, the Third of His Name. But what do you mean?” His answer had not been one that she’d expected. “Ser Jorah named Rhaegar the last dragon once. He had to have been a peerless warrior to be called that, surely?”
“Your Grace,” said Whitebeard, “the Prince of Dragonstone was a most puissant warrior, but . . . ”
“Go on,” she urged. “You may speak freely to me.”
“As you command.” The old man leaned upon his hardwood staff, his brow furrowed. “A warrior without peer . . . those are fine words, Your Grace, but words win no battles.”
“Swords win battles,” Ser Jorah said bluntly. “And Prince Rhaegar knew how to use one.”
“He did, ser, but . . . I have seen a hundred tournaments and more wars than I would wish, and however strong or fast or skilled a knight may be, there are others who can match him. A man will win one tourney, and fall quickly in the next. A slick spot in the grass may mean defeat, or what you ate for supper the night before. A change in the wind may bring the gift of victory.” He glanced at Ser Jorah. “Or a lady’s favor knotted round an arm.”
Mormont’s face darkened. “Be careful what you say, old man.”
Arstan had seen Ser Jorah fight at Lannisport, Dany knew, in the tourney Mormont had won with a lady’s favor knotted round his arm. He had won the lady too; Lynesse of House Hightower, his second wife, highborn and beautiful . . . but she had ruined him, and abandoned him, and the memory of her was bitter to him now. “Be gentle, my knight.” She put a hand on Jorah’s arm. “Arstan had no wish to give offense, I’m certain.”
“As you say, Khaleesi.” Ser Jorah’s voice was grudging.
Dany turned back to the squire. “I know little of Rhaegar. Only the tales Viserys told, and he was a little boy when our brother died. What was he truly like?”
The old man considered a moment. “Able. That above all. Determined, deliberate, dutiful, single-minded. There is a tale told of him . . . but doubtless Ser Jorah knows it as well.”
“I would hear it from you.”
“As you wish,” said Whitebeard. “As a young boy, the Prince of Dragonstone was bookish to a fault. He was reading so early that men said Queen Rhaella must have swallowed some books and a candle whilst he was in her womb. Rhaegar took no interest in the play of other children. The maesters were awed by his wits, but his father’s knights would jest sourly that Baelor the Blessed had been born again. Until one day Prince Rhaegar found something in his scrolls that changed him. No one knows what it might have been, only that the boy suddenly appeared early one morning in the yard as the knights were donning their steel. He walked up to Ser Willem Darry, the master-at-arms, and said, ‘I will require sword and armor. It seems I must be a warrior.’ ”
“And he was!” said Dany, delighted.
“He was indeed.” Whitebeard bowed. “My pardons, Your Grace. We speak of warriors, and I see that Strong Belwas has arisen. I must attend him.”
Dany glanced aft. The eunuch was climbing through the hold amidships, nimble for all his size. Belwas was squat but broad, a good fifteen stone of fat and muscle, his great brown gut crisscrossed by faded white scars. He wore baggy pants, a yellow silk bellyband, and an absurdly tiny leather vest dotted with iron studs. “Strong Belwas is hungry!” he roared at everyone and no one in particular. “Strong Belwas will eat now!” Turning, he spied Arstan on the forecastle. “Whitebeard! You will bring food for Strong Belwas!”
“You may go,” Dany told the squire. He bowed again, and moved off to tend the needs of the man he served.
Ser Jorah watched with a frown on his blunt honest face. Mormont was big and burly, strong of jaw and thick of shoulder. Not a handsome man by any means, but as true a friend as Dany had ever known. “You would be wise to take that old man’s words well salted,” he told her when Whitebeard was out of earshot.
“A queen must listen to all,” she reminded him. “The highborn and the low, the strong and the weak, the noble and the venal. One voice may speak you false, but in many there is always truth to be found.” She had read that in a book.
“Hear my voice then, Your Grace,” the exile said. “This Arstan Whitebeard is playing you false. He is too old to be a squire, and too well spoken to be serving that oaf of a eunuch.”
That does seem queer, Dany had to admit. Strong Belwas was an ex-slave, bred and trained in the fighting pits of Meereen. Magister Illyrio had sent him to guard her, or so Belwas claimed, and it was true that she needed guarding. The Usurper on his Iron Throne had offered land and lordship to any man who killed her. One attempt had been made already, with a cup of poisoned wine. The closer she came to Westeros, the more likely another attack became. Back in Qarth, the warlock Pyat Pree had sent a Sorrowful Man after her to avenge the Undying she’d burned in their House of Dust. Warlocks never forgot a wrong, it was said, and the Sorrowful Men never failed to kill. Most of the Dothraki would be against her as well. Khal Drogo’s kos led khalasars of their own now, and none of them would hesitate to attack her own little band on sight, to slay and slave her people and drag Dany herself back to Vaes Dothrak to take her proper place among the withered crones of the dosh khaleen. She hoped that Xaro Xhoan Daxos was not an enemy, but the Qartheen merchant had coveted her dragons. And there was Quaithe of the Shadow, that strange woman in the red lacquer mask with all her cryptic counsel. Was she an enemy too, or only a dangerous friend? Dany could not say.
Ser Jorah saved me from the poisoner, and Arstan Whitebeard from the manticore. Perhaps Strong Belwas will save me from the next. He was huge enough, with arms like small trees and a great curved arakh so sharp he might have shaved with it, in the unlikely event of hair sprouting on those smooth brown cheeks. Yet he was childlike as well. As a protector, he leaves much to be desired. Thankfully, I have Ser Jorah and my bloodriders. And my dragons, never forget. In time, the dragons would be her most formidable guardians, just as they had been for Aegon the Conqueror and his sisters three hundred years ago. Just now, though, they brought her more danger than protection. In all the world there were but three living dragons, and those were hers; they were a wonder, and a terror, and beyond price.
She was pondering her next words when she felt a cool breath on the back of her neck, and a loose strand of her silver-gold hair stirred against her brow. Above, the canvas creaked and moved, and suddenly a great cry went up from all over Balerion. “Wind!” the sailors shouted. “The wind returns, the wind!”
Dany looked up to where the great cog’s sails rippled and belled as the lines thrummed and tightened and sang the sweet song they had missed so for six long days. Captain Groleo rushed aft, shouting commands. The Pentoshi were scrambling up the masts, those that were not cheering. Even Strong Belwas let out a great bellow and did a little dance. “The gods are good!” Dany said. “You see, Jorah? We are on our way once more.”
“Yes,” he said, “but to what, my queen?”
All day the wind blew, steady from the east at first, and then in wild gusts. The sun set in a blaze of red. I am still half a world from Westeros, Dany reminded herself, but every hour brings me closer. She tried to imagine what it would feel like, when she first caught sight of the land she was born to rule. It will be as fair a shore as I have ever seen, I know it. How could it be otherwise?
But later that night, as Balerion plunged onward through the dark and Dany sat crosslegged on her bunk in the captain’s cabin, feeding her dragons—“Even upon the sea,” Groleo had said, so graciously, “queens take precedence over captains”—a sharp knock came upon the door.
Irri had been sleeping at the foot of her bunk (it was too narrow for three, and tonight was Jhiqui’s turn to share the soft featherbed with her khaleesi), but the handmaid roused at the knock and went to the door. Dany pulled up a coverlet and tucked it in under her arms. She was naked, and had not expected a caller at this hour. “Come,” she said when she saw Ser Jorah standing without, beneath a swaying lantern.
The exile knight ducked his head as he entered. “Your Grace. I am sorry to disturb your sleep.”
“I was not sleeping, ser. Come and watch.” She took a chunk of salt pork out of the bowl in her lap and held it up for her dragons to see. All three of them eyed it hungrily. Rhaegal spread green wings and stirred the air, and Viserion’s neck swayed back and forth like a long pale snake’s as he followed the movement of her hand. “Drogon,” Dany said softly, “dracarys.” And she tossed the pork in the air.
Drogon moved quicker than a striking cobra. Flame roared from his mouth, orange and scarlet and black, searing the meat before it began to fall. As his sharp black teeth snapped shut around it, Rhaegal’s head darted close, as if to steal the prize from his brother’s jaws, but Drogon swallowed and screamed, and the smaller green dragon could only hiss in frustration.
“Stop that, Rhaegal,” Dany said in annoyance, giving his head a swat. “You had the last one. I’ll have no greedy dragons.” She smiled at Ser Jorah. “I won’t need to char their meat over a brazier any longer.”
“So I see. Dracarys?”
All three dragons turned their heads at the sound of that word and Viserion let loose with a blast of pale gold flame that made Ser Jorah take a hasty step backward. Dany giggled. “Be careful with that word, ser, or they’re like to singe your beard off. It means ‘dragonfire’ in High Valyrian. I wanted to choose a command that no one was like to utter by chance.”
Mormont nodded. “Your Grace,” he said, “I wonder if I might have a few private words?”
“Of course. Irri, leave us for a bit.” She put a hand on Jhiqui’s bare shoulder and shook the other handmaid awake. “You as well, sweetling. Ser Jorah needs to talk to me.”
“Yes, Khaleesi.” Jhiqui tumbled from the bunk, naked and yawning, her thick black hair tumbled about her head. She dressed quickly and left with Irri, closing the door behind them.
Dany gave the dragons the rest of the salt pork to squabble over, and patted the bed beside her. “Sit, goodser, and tell me what is troubling you.”
“Three things.” Ser Jorah sat. “Strong Belwas. This Arstan Whitebeard. And Illyrio Mopatis, who sent them.”
Again? Dany pulled the coverlet higher and tugged one end over her shoulder. “And why is that?”
“The warlocks in Qarth told you that you would be betrayed three times,” the exile knight reminded her, as Viserion and Rhaegal began to snap and claw at each other.
“Once for blood and once for gold and once for love.” Dany was not like to forget. “Mirri Maz Duur was the first.”
“Which means two traitors yet remain . . . and now these two appear. I find that troubling, yes. Never forget, Robert offered a lordship to the man who slays you.”
Dany leaned forward and yanked Viserion’s tail, to pull him off his green brother. Her blanket fell away from her chest as she moved. She grabbed it hastily and covered herself again. “The Usurper is dead,” she said.
“But his son rules in his place.” Ser Jorah lifted his gaze, and his dark eyes met her own. “A dutiful son pays his father’s debts. Even blood debts.”
“This boy Joffrey might want me dead . . . if he recalls that I’m alive. What has that to do with Belwas and Arstan Whitebeard? The old man does not even wear a sword. You’ve seen that.”
“Aye. And I have seen how deftly he handles that staff of his. Recall how he killed that manticore in Qarth? It might as easily have been your throat he crushed.”
“Might have been, but was not,” she pointed out. “It was a stinging manticore meant to slay me. He saved my life.”
“Khaleesi, has it occurred to you that Whitebeard and Belwas might have been in league with the assassin? It might all have been a ploy to win your trust.”
Her sudden laughter made Drogon hiss, and sent Viserion flapping to his perch above the porthole. “The ploy worked well.”
The exile knight did not return her smile. “These are Illyrio’s ships, Illyrio’s captains, Illyrio’s sailors . . . and Strong Belwas and Arstan are his men as well, not yours.”
“Magister Illyrio has protected me in the past. Strong Belwas says that he wept when he heard my brother was dead.”
“Yes,” said Mormont, “but did he weep for Viserys, or for the plans he had made with him?”
“His plans need not change. Magister Illyrio is a friend to House Targaryen, and wealthy . . . ”
“He was not born wealthy. In the world as I have seen it, no man grows rich by kindness. The warlocks said the second treason would be for gold. What does Illyrio Mopatis love more than gold?”
“His skin.” Across the cabin Drogon stirred restlessly, steam rising from his snout. “Mirri Maz Duur betrayed me. I burned her for it.”
“Mirri Maz Duur was in your power. In Pentos, you shall be in Illyrio’s power. It is not the same. I know the magister as well as you. He is a devious man, and clever—”
“I need clever men about me if I am to win the Iron Throne.”
Ser Jorah snorted. “That wineseller who tried to poison you was a clever man as well. Clever men hatch ambitious schemes.”
Dany drew her legs up beneath the blanket. “You will protect me. You, and my bloodriders.”
“Four men? Khaleesi, you believe you know Illyrio Mopatis, very well. Yet you insist on surrounding yourself with men you do not know, like this puffed-up eunuch and the world’s oldest squire. Take a lesson from Pyat Pree and Xaro Xhoan Daxos.”
He means well, Dany reminded herself. He does all he does for love. “It seems to me that a queen who trusts no one is as foolish as a queen who trusts everyone. Every man I take into my service is a risk, I understand that, but how am I to win the Seven Kingdoms without such risks? Am I to conquer Westeros with one exile knight and three Dothraki bloodriders?”
His jaw set stubbornly. “Your path is dangerous, I will not deny that. But if you blindly trust in every liar and schemer who crosses it, you will end as your brothers did.”
His obstinacy made her angry. He treats me like some child. “Strong Belwas could not scheme his way to breakfast. And what lies has Arstan Whitebeard told me?”
“He is not what he pretends to be. He speaks to you more boldly than any squire would dare.”
“He spoke frankly at my command. He knew my brother.”
“A great many men knew your brother. Your Grace, in Westeros the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard sits on the small council, and serves the king with his wits as well as his steel. If I am the first of your Queensguard, I pray you, hear me out. I have a plan to put to you.”
“What plan? Tell me.”
“Illyrio Mopatis wants you back in Pentos, under his roof. Very well, go to him . . . but in your own time, and not alone. Let us see how loyal and obedient these new subjects of yours truly are. Command Groleo to change course for Slaver’s Bay.”
Dany was not certain she liked the sound of that at all. Everything she’d ever heard of the flesh marts in the great slave cities of Yunkai, Meereen, and Astapor was dire and frightening. “What is there for me in Slaver’s Bay?”
“An army,” said Ser Jorah. “If Strong Belwas is so much to your liking you can buy hundreds more like him out of the fighting pits of Meereen . . . but it is Astapor I’d set my sails for. In Astapor you can buy Unsullied.”
“The slaves in the spiked bronze hats?” Dany had seen Unsullied guards in the Free Cities, posted at the gates of magisters, archons, and dynasts. “Why should I want Unsullied? They don’t even ride horses, and most of them are fat.”
“The Unsullied you may have seen in Pentos and Myr were household guards. That’s soft service, and eunuchs tend to plumpness in any case. Food is the only vice allowed them. To judge all Unsullied by a few old household slaves is like judging all squires by Arstan Whitebeard, Your Grace. Do you know the tale of the Three Thousand of Qohor?”
“No.” The coverlet slipped off Dany’s shoulder, and she tugged it back into place.
“It was four hundred years ago or more, when the Dothraki first rode out of the east, sacking and burning every town and city in their path. The khal who led them was named Temmo. His khalasar was not so big as Drogo’s, but it was big enough. Fifty thousand, at the least. Half of them braided warriors with bells ringing in their hair.
“The Qohorik knew he was coming. They strengthened their walls, doubled the size of their own guard, and hired two free companies besides, the Bright Banners and the Second Sons. And almost as an afterthought, they sent a man to Astapor to buy three thousand Unsullied. It was a long march back to Qohor, however, and as they approached they saw the smoke and dust and heard the distant din of battle.
“By the time the Unsullied reached the city the sun had set. Crows and wolves were feasting beneath the walls on what remained of the Qohorik heavy horse. The Bright Banners and Second Sons had fled, as sellswords are wont to do in the face of hopeless odds. With dark falling, the Dothraki had retired to their own camps to drink and dance and feast, but none doubted that they would return on the morrow to smash the city gates, storm the walls, and rape, loot, and slave as they pleased.
“But when dawn broke and Temmo and his bloodriders led their khalasar out of camp, they found three thousand Unsullied drawn up before the gates with the Black Goat standard flying over their heads. So small a force could easily have been flanked, but you know Dothraki. These were men on foot, and men on foot are fit only to be ridden down.
“The Dothraki charged. The Unsullied locked their shields, lowered their spears, and stood firm. Against twenty thousand screamers with bells in their hair, they stood firm.
“Eighteen times the Dothraki charged, and broke themselves on those shields and spears like waves on a rocky shore. Thrice Temmo sent his archers wheeling past and arrows fell like rain upon the Three Thousand, but the Unsullied merely lifted their shields above their heads until the squall had passed. In the end only six hundred of them remained . . . but more than twelve thousand Dothraki lay dead upon that field, including Khal Temmo, his bloodriders, his kos, and all his sons. On the morning of the fourth day, the new khal led the survivors past the city gates in a stately procession. One by one, each man cut off his braid and threw it down before the feet of the Three Thousand.
“Since that day, the city guard of Qohor has been made up solely of Unsullied, every one of whom carries a tall spear from which hangs a braid of human hair.
“That is what you will find in Astapor, Your Grace. Put ashore there, and continue on to Pentos overland. It will take longer, yes . . . but when you break bread with Magister Illyrio, you will have a thousand swords behind you, not just four.”
There is wisdom in this, yes, Dany thought, but . . . ”How am I to buy a thousand slave soldiers? All I have of value is the crown the Tourmaline Brotherhood gave me.”
“Dragons will be as great a wonder in Astapor as they were in Qarth. It may be that the slavers will shower you with gifts, as the Qartheen did. If not . . . these ships carry more than your Dothraki and their horses. They took on trade goods at Qarth, I’ve been through the holds and seen for myself. Bolts of silk and bales of tiger skin, amber and jade carvings, saffron, myrrh . . . slaves are cheap, Your Grace. Tiger skins are costly.”
“Those are Illyrio’s tiger skins,” she objected.
“And Illyrio is a friend to House Targaryen.”
“All the more reason not to steal his goods.”
“What use are wealthy friends if they will not put their wealth at your disposal, my queen? If Magister Illyrio would deny you, he is only Xaro Xhoan Daxos with four chins. And if he is sincere in his devotion to your cause, he will not begrudge you three shiploads of trade goods. What better use for his tiger skins than to buy you the beginnings of an army?”
That’s true. Dany felt a rising excitement. “There will be dangers on such a long march . . . ”
“There are dangers at sea as well. Corsairs and pirates hunt the southern route, and north of Valyria the Smoking Sea is demon-haunted. The next storm could sink or scatter us, a kraken could pull us under . . . or we might find ourselves becalmed again, and die of thirst as we wait for the wind to rise. A march will have different dangers, my queen, but none greater.”
“What if Captain Groleo refuses to change course, though? And Arstan, Strong Belwas, what will they do?”
Ser Jorah stood. “Perhaps it’s time you found that out.”
“Yes,” she decided. “I’ll do it!” Dany threw back the coverlets and hopped from the bunk. “I’ll see the captain at once, command him to set course for Astapor.” She bent over her chest, threw open the lid, and seized the first garment to hand, a pair of loose sandsilk trousers. “Hand me my medallion belt,” she commanded Jorah as she pulled the sandsilk up over her hips. “And my vest—” she started to say, turning.
Ser Jorah slid his arms around her.
“Oh,” was all Dany had time to say as he pulled her close and pressed his lips down on hers. He smelled of sweat and salt and leather, and the iron studs on his jerkin dug into her naked breasts as he crushed her hard against him. One hand held her by the shoulder while the other slid down her spine to the small of her back, and her mouth opened for his tongue, though she never told it to. His beard is scratchy, she thought, but his mouth is sweet. The Dothraki wore no beards, only long mustaches, and only Khal Drogo had ever kissed her before. He should not be doing this. I am his queen, not his woman.
It was a long kiss, though how long Dany could not have said. When it ended, Ser Jorah let go of her, and she took a quick step backward. “You . . . you should not have . . . ”
“I should not have waited so Iong, “ he finished for her. “I should have kissed you in Qarth, in Vaes Tolorru. I should have kissed you in the red waste, every night and every day. You were made to be kissed, often and well.” His eyes were on her breasts.
Dany covered them with her hands, before her nipples could betray her. “I . . . that was not fitting. I am your queen.”
“My queen,” he said, “and the bravest, sweetest, and most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Daenerys—”
“Your Grace!”
“Your Grace,” he conceded, “the dragon has three heads, remember? You have wondered at that, ever since you heard it from the warlocks in the House of Dust. Well, here’s your meaning: Balerion, Meraxes, and Vhagar, ridden by Aegon, Rhaenys, and Visenya. The three-headed dragon of House Targaryen—three dragons, and three riders.”
“Yes,” said Dany, “but my brothers are dead.”
“Rhaenys and Visenya were Aegon’s wives as well as his sisters. You have no brothers, but you can take husbands. And I tell you truly, Daenerys, there is no man in all the world who will ever be half so true to you as me.”

第八章丹妮莉丝

　　蔚蓝的海面十分平静，只听见缓慢沉稳的鼓点，以及木桨柔和的划动。大商船贝勒里恩号呻吟着，粗重的牵引绳紧紧绷起，风帆则可怜地从桅杆上悬垂下来，纹丝不动。即便如此，当她站在前甲板上看着她的龙在湛蓝的晴空中互相追逐时，丹妮莉丝？坦格利安依然感到前所未有的快乐。
　　她的多斯拉克人把海洋称为毒水，只要马不能喝的液体就是不洁的东西。三艘船从魁尔斯起锚的那天，他们脸上的表情仿佛是在走向地狱，而不是驶往潘托斯。她年轻而勇敢的血盟卫们注视着逐渐缩小的海岸线，眼睛瞪得又大又白，但每个人都决心不在其他两人面前显露惧怕，她的女仆伊丽和姬琪则没有这番顾忌，她们死命抓住栏杆，即便再小的颠簸，都呕吐不止。丹妮的小卡拉萨的其余部众全待在甲板下面，宁可与紧张不安的马匹为伍，也不愿瞧见这个没有陆地的可怕世界。航行六天后，偶遇一场突来的风暴，当时她透过舱盖听到甲板下的声音：马儿蹬踢嘶鸣，骑手们则以轻微而颤抖的声音不住祈祷。

　　但没有风暴可以吓倒丹妮，她的称号便是“风暴降生”。当年，她在遥远的龙石岛哭号着出世时，维斯特洛历史上最大的一场暴风雨也于同时在海上呼啸。风暴如此狂烈，甚至刮裂城墙上的石像鬼，并将她父亲的舰队摧毁殆尽。

　　狭海上时有风暴，丹妮在孩童时代便穿越过几十次，从一个自由贸易城邦逃到另一个自由贸易城邦，仅仅领先篡夺者的刺客一步之遥。在这个过程中，她喜欢上了海洋。她喜欢空气里刺鼻的咸味，喜欢苍穹覆盖下的无垠海面。这虽然让她自觉渺小，却也感到自由。她喜欢此刻跟着贝勒里恩号游泳的海豚，如银色标熗一般穿透波浪，她还喜欢不时瞥见的飞鱼。她甚至喜欢水手，喜欢他们的歌谣与故事。有一回，在航向布拉佛斯途中，当她注视着船员们顶风使劲拽下一面巨大的绿色船帆时，竟突发奇想地认为，成为一名水手该有多好。她把想法告诉哥哥，却被韦赛里斯狠狠揪住头发，大哭一场。“你是真龙血脉，”他朝她嘶喊，“真龙，不是臭烘烘的鱼。”

　　他是个傻瓜，大傻瓜，丹妮心想，如果他更理智，更有耐心，那么此刻航向西方以取回王座的应该是他而不是我。虽然她明白韦赛里斯既愚蠢又恶毒，但有时候，还是忍不住想念他——不是想念那个残酷而软弱的牺牲品，而是想念那个童年时代准她爬上他床的哥哥，那个常给她讲述七大王国故事的男孩，那个为她描绘登上王位以后美好生活的国王。

　　船长走到她身边，“若是贝勒里恩号能象与她同名的龙一样腾空飞翔，陛下，”他用杂着浓重潘托斯口音的瓦雷利亚语说，“我们就无需划桨，无需牵引，也无需祈祷起风了。”

　　“就是这样，船长，”丹妮微笑作答。她很高兴在短时间内把这个人争取了过来。格罗莱船长和他的主子伊利里欧？摩帕提斯一样，是个老潘托斯，用自己的船搭三头龙令他紧张得像个少女——就连现在船舷外仍挂着数十桶海水，以防万一着火。起初，格罗莱想把龙关进笼子，为安抚他，丹妮答应下来，但龙的可怜模样让她很快改变了主意，坚持放他们自由。

　　格罗莱船长从这个安排中得到了好处，虽然有过一场微不足道的小火，但比起从前以赛杜里昂号之名航行的时代，贝勒里恩号上突然少了许多老鼠。她的船员们曾经既好奇又害怕，而今却开始对“他们”的龙油然生出古怪而强烈的骄傲，从船长到帮厨小弟，都喜欢看他们三个飞翔……尽管没有丹妮那么强烈。

　　他们是我的孩子，她告诉自己，若巫魔女所言非虚，他们还将是我惟一的孩子。

　　韦赛利昂的鳞片是新鲜的乳白色，他的角、翅骨和脊骨则是暗金色，好似阳光下闪亮的金属。雷哥则由夏天的碧绿和秋天的青铜色构成。他俩在船队上方翱翔，一圈一圈地盘旋，越升越高，竞相攀比。

　　龙喜欢从高处攻击，丹妮已经知道，爬到对手与太阳之间，就会折起翅膀，尖啸着俯冲而下。接着他俩会互相扣住，纠缠成一团鳞甲的球，一边自天空翻滚下落，一边舞爪甩尾。他们第一次争斗时，她好怕会伤到彼此，结果证明这对他们而言只算活动筋骨。等降到海面，两条龙即刻分离，咝咝尖叫着再度升起，舞动翅膀挥开蒸腾的海水。卓耿也在飞，但早已飞出她的视线范围。他常到远方去捕猎，离船有好多里。

　　她的卓耿一直很饿，成长也最为迅速。再过一两年，也许就大到可以骑了，到时候我无需用船就可渡过咸水汪洋。

　　但那个时候还没有到来。再说，雷哥和韦赛利昂还只有小狗的体型，卓耿虽比他们大一些，但任何一条狗都比他们重——因为龙的身躯基本由颈项、尾巴和翅膀组成，比看上去要轻。丹妮莉丝？坦格利安要回家还得靠木头、帆布和风。

　　迄今为止，前两者均为她提供了优良服务，变幻无常的风却成为叛徒。六天六夜，海面波澜不惊，而今已是第七天，依然没有好转的迹象。惟一值得庆幸的是，伊利里欧总督派给她的船中有两艘是划桨商船，各有两百支桨，并配备了精壮水手。难在大商船贝勒里恩号，她象肥母猪般笨重宽阔，体积大，帆也大，可没桨，无风的时候半点动弹不了。瓦格哈尔号和米拉西斯号放出绳索拖拽，她缓慢而痛苦地前进着，三艘船上都挤满人和各种商品。

　　“我看不到卓耿，”乔拉？莫尔蒙爵士来到前甲板上，站到她身旁，“他又迷路了吗？”

　　“迷路的是我们，爵士先生。卓耿不喜欢如婴儿般蠕动爬行，我也不喜欢。”黑龙比其他两条胆大，他第一个在水面上展翅试飞，第一个在船只间翱翔穿越，第一个冲入浮云消失无踪……也是第一个开始捕猎杀戮。想当初那条飞鱼刚破出水面，便被一道火焰紧紧包裹，接着卓耿将其一口吞掉。“他能长多大？”丹妮好奇地问，“你清楚吗？”

　　“传说在七大王国，有的龙能擒出海里的巨海怪。”

　　丹妮微笑：“令人惊叹。”

　　“这只是传说而已，卡丽熙，”被放逐的骑士说，“传说中，有些睿智的老龙甚至能活一千年呢。”

　　“那龙究竟能活多久？”她抬起头，只见韦赛利昂低低地掠过商船，翅膀缓缓拍打，扇起疲软的风帆。

　　乔拉爵士耸耸肩，“龙的天然寿命比人长得多，至少歌谣里这么讲……七大王国的人民最熟悉的龙是坦格利安家族的龙。他们为战争而繁殖，也在战争中死去。屠龙很难，但并非不可企及。”

　　那个侍从白胡子起初站在精雕的船首像边上，用消瘦的手拄着长长的硬木拐杖，此刻转过身来，“黑死神贝勒里恩在仲裁者杰赫里斯一世统治时期方才死去，共活了两百岁。他大得出奇，可一口吞下整只野牛。陛下，龙是不会停止生长的，只要拥有食物和自由。”他本名阿斯坦，因为满脸白胡须，所以被壮汉贝沃斯起了个绰号叫白胡子，这个绰号也很快被大家所接受。他虽不及乔拉爵士肌肉结实，却比后者高大，眼睛是浅蓝色，长长的雪白胡子如丝绸一样顺滑。

　　“自由？”丹妮略感不解，“什么意思？”

　　“在君临，您的先祖为他们的龙盖了一栋圆顶巨堡，称为‘龙穴’，迄今仍矗立在雷尼丝丘陵顶，只是早成废墟。昔日，王室的龙就在那居住，好像一个大洞穴，外面有非常宽阔的铁门，里面可容三十个骑士骑马并肩通过。即便如此，龙穴里的龙却从没长到他们祖先的大小。学士们都说，这是墙和圆顶的关系。”

　　“见鬼，假如墙能限制体积，那农民该像侏儒，而国王该像巨人，”乔拉爵士说，“事实恰恰相反，茅屋里往往生出大个子，城堡中住的却是矮子。”

　　“人是人，”白胡子回答，“龙是龙。”

　　乔拉爵士哼了一声以示轻蔑，“还真把自己当那么回事。”被放逐的骑士不喜欢这个老人，打一开始就表现得很明显。“那有劳你给我们介绍一下龙的知识，怎么样呢？”

　　“不，我也不甚了解。但好歹我当初在君临生活期间，铁王座上坐的是伊里斯国王，有幸见过悬挂在王座厅墙上的巨龙头骨。”

　　“韦赛里斯对我提起过那些头骨，”丹妮道，“据说篡夺者把它们取下来收藏，因为不堪忍受它们日日俯瞰他坐着偷来的王座。”她招手示意白胡子靠近。“你见过我的父王吗？”国王伊里斯二世在他女儿出生前就死了。

　　“我很荣幸地见过他，女王陛下。”

　　“他是否善良温和？”

　　白胡子尽力掩饰自己的感受，但那些感受其实清清楚楚地写在他的脸上。“陛下他……通常很和善。”

　　“通常？”丹妮微笑，“不是一直？”

　　“对于心目中的敌手，他会非常残酷。”

　　“明智的人决不会成为国王的敌手，”丹妮说，“那么，你也了解我哥哥雷加吗？”

　　“据说没有人真正了解雷加王子。我只在比武会上见过他，也听他弹过银弦竖琴。”

　　乔拉爵士嗤之以鼻，“只怕是和成千人一起参加丰收宴会时听的吧，亏你还没宣称自己是他的侍从。”

　　“我当然不敢如此夸口，爵士。雷加王子的第一任侍从是米斯？慕顿，接下来是瑞卡德？隆莫斯。他俩后来都被他亲手册封为骑士，并成为他终身的伙伴。除此之外，王太子殿下还有许多密友，包括年轻的克林顿伯爵，以及老朋友亚瑟？戴恩。”

　　“拂晓神剑！”丹妮愉快地喊道，“韦赛里斯跟我说过那把不同寻常的白剑，他还说亚瑟爵士是全国上下惟一可与我哥匹敌的骑士。”

　　白胡子低头，“我没资格质疑韦赛里斯王子的话。”

　　“他是国王，”丹妮纠正，“虽未经加冕，但依旧是七国之君，韦赛里斯三世。好啦，你刚才什么意思？”他的回答并不如她预期。“乔拉爵士曾说我哥雷加是最后的真龙传人，我以为他定是个非常厉害的战士，对吧？”

　　“陛下，”白胡子道，“龙石岛亲王的确很厉害，但……”

　　“说，”她催促，“尽管直说。”

　　“遵命。”老人斜倚在硬木拐杖上，皱起眉头。“无可匹敌的战士……好动听的评价，可是女王陛下，您知道吗？评价往往不能决定胜负。”

　　“刀剑能决定胜负，”乔拉爵士生硬地说，“而雷加王子精于刀剑。”

　　“不错，爵士，他确实武艺高强，可……我目睹过上百次的比武和比我愿意见到的多得多的战争，无论哪个骑士，无论他如何强壮、如何迅捷、如何精准，只要他是人，终归有极限。他可以赢得一次艰难的比武，也可能输掉一场简单的斗争。草地中的小小污点，晚餐时吃的脏东西，或许就意味着失败。而一阵突然的风向改变却会赐予你胜利，”他瞥了乔拉爵士一眼，“或者手臂上女士赠予的信物。”

　　莫尔蒙脸色一沉，“小心你的舌头，老头子。”

　　阿斯坦见过兰尼斯港外那场比武会，当时莫尔蒙手缠女士赠予的信物，赢得了长熗比试，也赢得了那位女士——海塔尔家族的琳妮丝——的心，她是他的第二任妻子，高贵而美丽……但她毁了他，抛弃了他，如今对他而言，关于她的记忆是一种折磨。“别生气，我的好骑士，”她将手搭在乔拉胳膊上，“阿斯坦无意冒犯。”

　　“遵命，卡丽熙。”乔拉爵士的声音很不情愿。

　　丹妮回身面对侍从，“除了韦赛里斯的故事，我其实不大了解雷加，而长兄去世时，他只是个小男孩。说说看，他究竟是个怎样的人？”

　　老人考虑了一会儿，“首先，他很有才干。他坚定、沉着、忠实、诚恳。关于他有个著名的故事……无疑乔拉爵士也知道。”

　　“我想听你说。”

　　“如您所愿。”白胡子说，“龙石岛亲王小时候好学得有点过分，他比别的小孩早得多就能识字读书，以致于人们常说蕾拉王后怀他时一定吞了书本和蜡烛。雷加对孩童的玩耍没兴趣，他的智慧令学士们惊奇，而他父亲手下的骑士们则酸溜溜地开玩笑说，圣贝勒又回来了……直到有一天，雷加王子从卷轴里发现了某些东西，突然改变了性格。没人清楚究竟怎么回事，只知道某天一大早，那孩子出现在较场上，正穿戴盔甲的骑士们惊讶地望着他直走向教头威廉？戴瑞爵士，说：‘给我长剑和铠甲，我必须成为战士。’”

　　“他真的是个战士！”丹妮高兴地说。

　　“是的，”白胡子鞠了一躬。“请原谅，陛下。说到战士，壮汉贝沃斯起来了，我必须去服侍他。”

　　丹妮回头扫了一眼。太监正通过船中间的扶手爬上甲板，他体格虽庞大，动作却极灵敏。贝沃斯人不高，但胸膛宽阔，估计体重超过十五石，厚实的棕色肚子上横七竖八地满是淡白的旧疤痕。他穿着松垮的短裤，系一条黄丝肚兜，镶铁钉的皮背心则小得有些可笑。“壮汉贝沃斯饿了！”他朝所有人吼叫，“壮汉贝沃斯要吃东西！”他转身发现前甲板上的阿斯坦，“白胡子！你给壮汉贝沃斯拿吃的来！”

　　“你去吧，”丹妮告诉侍从。对方又鞠了一躬，然后离开，前去服侍他的主人。

　　乔拉爵士注视着他的身影，那张生硬而坦诚的脸皱成一团。莫尔蒙高大健壮，有强硬的下颚和厚厚的肩膀，虽谈不上英俊，却是丹妮此刻最真诚的朋友。“这老头说话添油加醋，希望您明查，”白胡子走远后，他告诉她。

　　“女王须要聆听所有人的话，”她提醒他，“尊贵的人与低贱的人，强壮的人与弱小的人，高尚的人与堕落的人。一个人的声音也许会欺骗你，但综合许多人的意见才能得到真相。”这是她从书中读来的。

　　“那么请听听我的话，陛下，”被放逐的骑士说，“这个白胡子阿斯坦在欺骗您！您不觉得作为侍从，他太老了吗？况且他若真的侍奉一个呆头呆脑的太监，怎会如此善于言谈？”

　　确实古怪，丹妮不得不承认。壮汉贝沃斯从前是个奴隶，在弥林的斗技场中长大受训。他声称伊利里欧总督派他来保护她，而她也确实需要保护。铁王座上的篡夺者用领地和爵位来招募杀手，有一次暗杀就在她眼皮底下发生。而今她越接近维斯特洛，想必遭到攻击的可能性将越来越大。另一方面，不待离开魁尔斯，男巫俳雅·菩厉便派出遗憾客，来为尘埃之殿中被她烧毁的不朽之人复仇，据说，男巫有仇必报，而遗憾客决不失手。此外，大多数多斯拉克人也与她对立。昔日卓戈卡奥的寇们都有了自己的卡拉萨，一旦发现她这小队人马，必定会毫不犹豫地加以攻击，屠杀和奴役她的子民，并把丹妮本人带回维斯·多斯拉克，逼她加入多希卡林的枯瘦老妪们。札罗·赞旺·达梭斯帮过她，但魁尔斯巨商的目的只是她的龙。还有阴影之地的魁晰，戴红漆面具的神秘女子，以及她深奥莫测的忠告。她也是敌人吗？还是危险的朋友？丹妮说不上来。

　　乔拉爵士把我从施毒者手中救出，白胡子阿斯坦替我挡住蝎尾兽，也许下一次就轮到壮汉贝沃斯。他体格宽阔，手臂粗如小树干，而随身携带的那把极长的亚拉克弯刀锋利得可以用来刮胡子——虽然他光滑的棕色脸颊长不出胡子。他脾气跟小孩似的，作为保护者，还缺乏很多素质。谢天谢地，我有乔拉爵士和血盟卫，以及——我的龙。总有一天，魔龙将成为她最好的护卫，正如三百年前，他们守护征服者伊耿和他的妹妹们一样。然而目前，他们给她带来的危险多过于保护。全世界只有三头活龙，三头属于她的活龙，他们不仅是重生于世的奇迹与恐怖，更是无价之宝。

　　她满腹思量，突然感到后颈一阵凉气，一缕银金色的头发披散下来，在额头飘荡。上方，风帆动了起来，嚯嚯作响，欢呼声响彻贝勒里恩号。“风！”水手们大喊，“风来了！风！”

　　丹妮抬头，只见大商船的帆鼓胀波动，帆绳紧紧绷起，来回敲打，弹奏出这漫长的六天来他们一直期盼的甜美乐章。格罗莱船长冲到船尾，高叫着发号施令，潘托斯人兴高采烈地爬上桅杆，开始工作。连壮汉贝沃斯也袒露出大肚子，跳了一会儿舞。“诸神保佑！”丹妮说，“你看到了吗，乔拉？我们又上路了！”

　　“对，”他说，“但我们上哪儿去呢，女王陛下？”

　　风吹了一整天，开始从东方，接着是狂乱的阵风。太阳在红晕之中落下。我离维斯特洛仍有半个世界那么远，丹妮提醒自己，但每一小时，每一分钟，都更加接近。她试图想象第一眼看到那片她注定要统治的土地时，会是什么感受。那是世上最美的海岸，我知道的，怎可能不是呢？

　　那天深夜，当贝勒里恩号在黑暗中穿梭，丹妮盘腿坐在船长室中的床铺上——“即便在海上，”格罗莱非常客气地宣布，“女王仍然优先于船长”——喂龙时，传来一阵急促的敲门声。

　　伊丽已在床铺下睡着了（三人同睡太挤，今晚轮到姬琪跟她的卡丽熙共享柔软的羽毛床），但听见敲门声，尽职的女仆还是起身走向门口。丹妮拉起床单，夹在腋下，她裸着身子，根本没料到这个时刻会有访客。“进来，”她说。一盏摇曳的灯下，站着乔拉爵士。

　　被放逐的骑士低头走进来，“陛下，很抱歉打扰您休息。”

　　“我还没休息呢，爵士先生。来，过来看。”她从膝上的小碗里取出一块咸肉，举起来让她的龙看见。他们三个都饥渴地盯着。雷哥展开绿色的翅膀，搅动空气，而韦赛利昂的脖子跟随她手的移动前后伸缩，仿佛一条乳白的长蛇。“卓耿，”丹妮轻柔地说，“dracarys，”随后将肉抛到空中。

　　卓耿的动作比眼镜蛇还快。他吼叫着喷出火焰，鲜红、橙色和黑色掺杂在一起，肉未坠落，已被烤焦。他用尖利的黑牙猛地咬住，雷哥的头也飞快地伸过来，仿佛要从哥哥嘴里偷取战利品，但卓耿一口把肉吞下，抬头尖声喊叫，较小的绿龙只能发出沮丧的咝咝声。

　　“别这样，雷哥，”丹妮恼火地说，一边在他头上拍了一下，“上次是你吃到的，别太贪嘴嘛。”她朝乔拉爵士微笑。“瞧，我无需用火盆为他们烤肉了。”

　　“是，我看到了。dracarys？”

　　听到这个词，三头龙同时转过头来，韦赛利昂喷出一道淡金色火焰，逼得乔拉爵士急速后退一步。丹妮咯咯笑道：“小心哟，别说这个词，爵士先生，否则休怪他们把你胡子烧掉。在高等瓦雷利亚语中，这是“龙焰”的意思。我在训练他们，得选择无人会碰巧说出来的口令。”

　　莫尔蒙点点头。“陛下，”他说，“能否私下讲几句？”

　　“没问题。伊丽，请先离开。”她把手放在姬琪裸露的肩膀上，将另一个女仆摇醒。“你也一样，亲爱的，乔拉爵士有话跟我说。”

　　“是，卡丽熙。”姬琪从铺位翻身而起，裸着打了个哈欠，浓密的黑发披散下来。她迅速穿上衣服，跟伊丽一起离开，并关上舱门。

　　丹妮把剩余的咸肉尽数给了龙，让他们去抢，然后拍拍身边的床铺。“坐吧，好骑士，你想说什么？”

　　“三件事，”乔拉爵士道，“关于壮汉贝沃斯，白胡子阿斯坦和派他们来的人——伊利里欧？莫帕提斯。”

　　你怎么又来了？丹妮把床单拉高，搭到肩膀上。“怎么回事？”

　　“魁尔斯的男巫们警告过您：命中注定您将经历三次背叛，”被放逐的骑士提醒她，韦赛利昂和雷哥在一旁又抓又咬。

　　“一次为血，一次为财，一次为爱。”丹妮忘不了不朽之人的话。“弥丽·马兹·笃尔是第一次。”

　　“意味着还有两个叛徒……现在他们同时出现了。是的，我就担心这个，不要忘记，劳勃许诺只要有人能杀了你，即可受领封地成为贵族。”

　　丹妮倾身向前，抓住韦赛利昂的尾巴，将他拖离绿色的兄弟身边。移动时，床单自胸前掉落，她连忙抓紧，重新盖住自己。“篡夺者已死，”她说。

　　“他儿子接替他继续统治。”乔拉爵士抬起头，深色的眼睛对上她的目光。“一个忠实的儿子会为父亲讨债。即便是血债。”

　　“这个男孩乔佛里或许会想致我于死地……如果他还记得我的话。不管怎么说，这跟贝沃斯或白胡子阿斯坦有何关系？那老人甚至连剑都没有，你亲眼看到的。”

　　“我当然看见了，我看见他如何熟练地使用那根拐杖。还记得他在魁尔斯杀死蝎尾兽的事吗？他要敲碎您的喉咙也一样容易。”

　　“没错，可他没有下手。”她指出，“要害我的是那蛰人的蝎尾兽，他则救了我的命。”

　　“卡丽熙，您不觉得白胡子和贝沃斯跟杀手是串通好的吗？这多半是为了骗取您的信任而布下的陷阱。”

　　她朗声大笑，吓得卓耿咝咝叫起来，而韦赛利昂拍拍翅膀跃到舷窗上，“好厉害的陷阱。”

　　被放逐的骑士却没有笑，“这是伊利里欧的船，伊利里欧的船长，伊利里欧的水手……壮汉贝沃斯和阿斯坦也是他的人，不是您的。”

　　“伊利里欧总督庇护过我。壮汉贝沃斯还说，听到我哥死的消息时，他哭了。”

　　“是啊，”莫尔蒙道，“但他是为韦赛里斯而哭呢，还是为自己落空的计划掉泪？”

　　“他的计划没有落空！伊利里欧总督一直是坦格利安家族的朋友，他非常富有……”

　　“他的钱不是天上掉下来的，据我所知，这个世界上没有人因为慈善而发财致富。男巫们预言第二次背叛是为了钱，而除了钱，伊利里欧？莫帕提斯还有什么看重的东西呢？”

　　“他的性命。”房间另一头，卓耿不安地挪动着，蒸汽从他嘴里升起。“弥丽·马兹·笃尔因为背叛而被我烧死。”

　　“弥丽·马兹·笃尔是您的奴隶，而在潘托斯，伊利里欧将是您的主人，情况不一样的。请相信我，我不仅了解你，也了解总督。他精于算计，聪明无——”

　　“为赢得铁王座，我正需要聪明人。”

　　乔拉爵士哼了一声，“那个下毒的酒商也很聪明。聪明人往往不怀好意。”

　　丹妮不由自主地把腿收到床单下面，“可你会保护我，还有我的血盟卫。”

　　“就凭四个人？很好，卡丽熙，看来您信得过伊利里欧？莫帕提斯，坚持让自己被不了解的人所包围，比如臃肿的太监和全世界最老的侍从。我只是求求您，从俳雅·菩厉和札罗·赞旺·达梭斯那儿吸取教训。”

　　他本意是好的，丹妮提醒自己，一切皆源于对我的敬爱。“在我看来，不信任任何人的女王跟信任所有人的女王一样愚蠢。我很明白，每接纳一个人都是一次冒险，但不冒风险又怎能赢得七大王国？难道靠一个被放逐的骑士和三个多斯拉克血盟卫去征服维斯特洛吗？”

　　他顽固地咬紧下巴，“我不否认，您的道路需要冒险，但遇到骗子或阴谋家还加以接纳，结局将和您哥哥一样。”

　　他的固执令她恼怒。他还把我当小孩子看待。“壮汉贝沃斯连早餐都得靠别人安排，好个阴谋家！而白胡子阿斯坦撒过谎吗？”

　　“他是假扮的！你瞧他今天说话莽撞，哪里有侍从的样子？”

　　“是我命令他直说，我想了解我大哥呀。”

　　“陛下啊陛下，了解你大哥的人不止他一个。好吧，在维斯特洛，御林铁卫的队长在御前会议上拥有席位，不仅用武力，同时也以智慧为国王效劳。您说我是女王铁卫的首席骑士，那我请求您，好好听我说，我有个计划。”

　　“计划？快告诉我。”

　　“伊利里欧？莫帕提斯要您回潘托斯，寄居于他的屋檐下。很好，去就去……但时间由您决定，而且不是孤身一人。就让我们看看他的人究竟有多忠诚、多顺从。请命令格罗莱船长，改变航线，前往奴隶湾。”

　　丹妮有些不安，听说渊凯、弥林和阿斯塔波这些奴隶制大城邦里的人肉市场如脓包般滋生，相关的故事让人心惊胆战。“我去奴隶湾做什么？”

　　“招募军队，”乔拉爵士道，“既然你喜欢壮汉贝沃斯，满可以从弥林的斗技场里再买几百个……但我建议驶往阿斯塔波，在阿斯塔波，您能购买无垢者。”

　　“戴青铜尖刺盔的奴隶？”丹妮在自由贸易城邦见过无垢者，他们往往替总督、大君和执政官当卫兵，“我要他们来做什么？无垢者不会骑马，通常还是很胖。”

　　“您在潘托斯或密尔见过的无垢者都是些护卫，完全不能发挥长处。他们无所事事，而太监本容易发胖，因为是食物是他们仅存的欲望。陛下，通过几个老迈的家族奴兵来判断所有无垢者就跟通过白胡子阿斯坦来判断所有侍从一样。对了，您听过三千勇士保卫科霍尔的故事吗？”

　　“没听过，”床单从丹妮肩头滑落，她将之拉回原位。

　　“四百多年前，多斯拉克人首度从东方骑马出现，沿途洗劫焚烧每个城镇。领导他们的卡奥叫特莫，他的卡拉萨不若卓戈的那么大，但也不小，至少有五万人，其中一半是辫绑铃铛的战士。”

　　“科霍尔人知道他来临的消息后，便着手加固城墙，增加一倍士兵，并雇来两个佣兵团——亮帜团和次子团。由于传来的情况越来越不妙，他们赶紧从阿斯塔波补买三千无垢者，但几乎已来不及了。无垢者们长途行军赶往科霍尔，远远便看见烟雾和尘埃，听到战斗的喧嚣。”

　　“等他们抵达城下，太阳已经落山，乌鸦和野狼享用着科霍尔重骑兵们的遗体，而亮帜团和次子团早早卷旗逃匿，佣兵一旦面对强弱悬殊、毫无希望的情况就会这样做。夜幕降临，多斯拉克人没有再战，他们撤回营地彻夜饮酒、跳舞和狂欢，准备第二天攻破城门，肆意奸淫虏掠。”

　　“但到破晓时分，当特莫和他的血盟卫们领着卡拉萨走出营地，却发现三千名无垢者已在城门前排好阵型，头顶飘扬着科霍尔的黑山羊旗。您若了解多斯拉克人的战术，就会明白，他们根本不会把这支小队伍放在眼里。阵型不宽，易被包抄；人是徒步，将遭骑兵践踏。”

　　“于是多斯拉克人发起攻击，而无垢者们紧握盾牌，压低长矛，纹丝不动。面对两万铃铛作响的哮吼武士的决死冲锋，他们毫无惧色。”

　　“多斯拉克人一共冲锋了十八次，但在那片盾牌和长矛前，好比浪涛拍打岩石一样溃散。特莫卡奥三次派出骑射手，围着对手轮番射击，弓箭如雨般撒向这三千勇士，但无垢者只是举起盾牌，挡在头上，不肯让步。到最后，他们只剩下六百人……但有超过一万二千名多斯拉克战士倒在战场上，包括特莫卡奥，他的三名血盟卫，他所有的寇和所有的儿子。三天之后的清晨，新卡奥率领幸存者们列队庄严地来到城门前，一个接一个，每人都割断自己的发辫，扔到那三千勇士脚下。”

　　“从那天起，科霍尔的守备队便全由无垢者组成，每人举着的长矛上都挂有一束人类的发辫。”

　　“这就是您将在阿斯塔波找到的东西，女王陛下，请在那儿上岸，完成交易后，再由陆路继续前往潘托斯。没错，这会花费很多时间……但未来，当您跟伊利里欧总督一起用餐时，将有一千把剑为你撑腰，而不仅仅只是四把。”

　　他的确为我贡献了智慧，丹妮心想，但是……“怎么买得下一千名奴隶战士？我的财产只剩碧玺兄弟会送的王冠而已。”

　　“真龙对阿斯塔波人和对魁尔斯人而言，都意味着重生于世的伟大奇迹，想必奴隶商人们会和魁尔斯的巨商一样，送您大量礼物。假如不够……您忘了吗？这三条船上不止有您的多斯拉克人和他们的马，还有从魁尔斯购买的大批货物。我清点过货舱，亲眼看到无数丝绸、虎皮、琥珀、翡翠雕刻，藏红花、没药……奴隶便宜，陛下，虎皮却很昂贵。”

　　“那些是伊利里欧的东西，”她抗议。

　　“而伊利里欧是坦格利安家族的朋友。”

　　“那就更不应该窃取他的货物。”

　　“如果有钱的朋友不愿出钱，那他有什么用，女王陛下？假如伊利里欧总督拒绝你，只能证明他不过有四重下巴的札罗·赞旺·达梭斯而已。如果他真诚地支持您，就不会舍不得三船货物，您想想看，他的虎皮哪有比替您买来军队更好的用途呢？”

　　是的，是的。丹妮激动起来。“可路途遥远，会有危险……”

　　“走海路同样有危险。海盗船在南方航线徘徊，瓦雷利亚以北的烟海则有魔鬼出没，下一次风暴没准令我们船毁人忙，夏日之海的巨海怪也许会将商船拖进海底……再或船队因无风而再度停滞，在等待中活活渴死。陆地行军有危险，女王陛下，但海洋不见得更安全。”

　　“若格罗莱船长拒绝怎么办？阿斯坦，壮汉贝沃斯，他们又会怎么做呢？”

　　乔拉爵士站起身，“或许是该您亲自去发现的时候了。”

　　“是的，”她下定决心，“是的！”丹妮将床单往后一扔，从床铺上跳起来。“我要立即去见船长，命他驶向阿斯塔波。”她弯腰打开箱子，抓起最上面的外套和一条宽松的纱丝长裤。“把我的勋章腰带给我，”她一边命令乔拉，一边把纱丝长裤拉过臀部，“还有我的背心——”她转身道。

　　乔拉爵士搂住了她。

　　“噢，”她只来得及说出这一个字，便被他抱紧，两对唇压在一起。他浑身上下散发出汗、盐和皮革的味道。他将她紧紧压向自己，短上衣的铁扣嵌入她赤裸的乳房。他用一只手抓住她的肩膀，另一只手顺着她的脊椎滑至细小的后腰。她的嘴不由自主地张开来，任他的舌头伸入探索。他的胡子虽然扎人，她心想，但嘴里很甜美。除了嘴角的长髯，多斯拉克人不留络腮胡，而在此之前，只有卓耿卡奥吻过她。他不能这么做，我是他的女王，不是他的女人。

　　长长的一吻，丹妮说不准究竟有多久。结束后，乔拉爵士放开她，她快速回退一步。“你……你不该……”

　　“我不该等这么久，”他替她说完，“早在魁尔斯，我就该吻你，不，在枯骨之城，在红土荒原，我就该吻你，每日每夜，我都该吻你。你那么美丽温柔，天生就是用来亲吻的尤物。”他的眼睛看着她的乳房。

　　丹妮在乳头出卖自己之前用手盖住，“我……你这是逾越！我是你的女王。”

　　“您是我的女王，”他说，“也是我这辈子见过最勇敢、最甜蜜和最美丽的女人。丹妮莉丝——”

　　“陛下！”

　　“陛下，”他让步了，“龙有三个头，记得这句话吧？从尘埃之殿中听来之后，你一直深感疑惑。好吧，我告诉你：从前有贝勒里恩，米拉西斯和瓦格哈尔三条巨龙，分别由伊耿，雷妮丝和维桑尼亚骑乘。坦格利安家族的纹章是三头龙——实际上，是三条龙，三个骑手。”

　　“我想也是，”丹妮说，“可我的哥哥们都死了。”

　　“雷妮丝和维桑尼亚不仅是伊耿的妹妹，还是他的妻子。你没了哥哥，但可以有丈夫。让我明确地告诉你，丹妮莉丝，在这个世界上再没有人及得上我对你一半的真诚。”

回到夏末之初(内阁元老)

14楼 2016-06-30

BRAN

The ridge slanted sharply from the earth, a long fold of stone and soil shaped like a claw. Trees clung to its lower slopes, pines and hawthorn and ash, but higher up the ground was bare, the ridgeline stark against the cloudy sky.
He could feel the high stone calling him. Up he went, loping easy at first, then faster and higher, his strong legs eating up the incline. Birds burst from the branches overhead as he raced by, clawing and flapping their way into the sky. He could hear the wind sighing up amongst the leaves, the squirrels chittering to one another, even the sound a pinecone made as it tumbled to the forest floor. The smells were a song around him, a song that filled the good green world.
Gravel flew from beneath his paws as he gained the last few feet to stand upon the crest. The sun hung above the tall pines huge and red, and below him the trees and hills went on and on as far as he could see or smell. A kite was circling far above, dark against the pink sky.
Prince. The man-sound came into his head suddenly, yet he could feel the rightness of it. Prince of the green, prince of the wolfswood. He was strong and swift and fierce, and all that lived in the good green world went in fear of him.
Far below, at the base of the woods, something moved amongst the trees. A flash of grey, quick-glimpsed and gone again, but it was enough to make his ears prick up. Down there beside a swift green brook, another form slipped by, running. Wolves, he knew. His little cousins, chasing down some prey. Now the prince could see more of them, shadows on fleet grey paws. A pack.
He had a pack as well, once. Five they had been, and a sixth who stood aside. Somewhere down inside him were the sounds the men had given them to tell one from the other, but it was not by their sounds he knew them. He remembered their scents, his brothers and his sisters. They all had smelled alike, had smelled of pack, but each was different too.
His angry brother with the hot green eyes was near, the prince felt, though he had not seen him for many hunts. Yet with every sun that set he grew more distant, and he had been the last. The others were far scattered, like leaves blown by the wild wind.
Sometimes he could sense them, though, as if they were still with him, only hidden from his sight by a boulder or a stand of trees. He could not smell them, nor hear their howls by night, yet he felt their presence at his back . . . all but the sister they had lost. His tail drooped when he remembered her. Four now, not five. Four and one more, the white who has no voice.
These woods belonged to them, the snowy slopes and stony hills, the great green pines and the golden leaf oaks, the rushing streams and blue lakes fringed with fingers of white frost. But his sister had left the wilds, to walk in the halls of man-rock where other hunters ruled, and once within those halls it was hard to find the path back out. The wolf prince remembered.
The wind shifted suddenly.
Deer, and fear, and blood. The scent of prey woke the hunger in him. The prince sniffed the air again, turning, and then he was off, bounding along the ridgetop with jaws half-parted. The far side of the ridge was steeper than the one he’d come up, but he flew surefoot over stones and roots and rotting leaves, down the slope and through the trees, long strides eating up the ground. The scent pulled him onward, ever faster.
The deer was down and dying when he reached her, ringed by eight of his small grey cousins. The heads of the pack had begun to feed, the male first and then his female, taking turns tearing flesh from the red underbelly of their prey. The others waited patiently, all but the tail, who paced in a wary circle a few strides from the rest, his own tail tucked low. He would eat the last of all, whatever his brothers left him.
The prince was downwind, so they did not sense him until he leapt up upon a fallen log six strides from where they fed. The tail saw him first, gave a piteous whine, and slunk away. His pack brothers turned at the sound and bared their teeth, snarling, all but the head male and female.
The direwolf answered the snarls with a low warning growl and showed them his own teeth. He was bigger than his cousins, twice the size of the scrawny tail, half again as large as the two pack heads. He leapt down into their midst, and three of them broke, melting away into the brush. Another came at him, teeth snapping. He met the attack head on, caught the wolf’s leg in his jaws when they met, and flung him aside yelping and limping.
And then there was only the head wolf to face, the great grey male with his bloody muzzle fresh from the prey’s soft belly. There was white on his muzzle as well, to mark him as an old wolf, but when his mouth opened, red slaver ran from his teeth.
He has no fear, the prince thought, no more than me. It would be a good fight. They went for each other.
Long they fought, rolling together over roots and stones and fallen leaves and the scattered entrails of the prey, tearing at each other with tooth and claw, breaking apart, circling each round the other, and bolting in to fight again. The prince was larger, and much the stronger, but his cousin had a pack. The female prowled around them closely, snuffing and snarling, and would interpose herself whenever her mate broke off bloodied. From time to time the other wolves would dart in as well, to snap at a leg or an ear when the prince was turned the other way. One angered him so much that he whirled in a black fury and tore out the attacker’s throat. After that the others kept their distance.
And as the last red light was filtering through green boughs and golden, the old wolf lay down weary in the dirt, and rolled over to expose his throat and belly. It was submission.
The prince sniffed at him and licked the blood from fur and torn flesh. When the old wolf gave a soft whimper, the direwolf turned away. He was very hungry now, and the prey was his.
“Hodor.”
The sudden sound made him stop and snarl. The wolves regarded him with green and yellow eyes, bright with the last light of day. None of them had heard it. It was a queer wind that blew only in his ears. He buried his jaws in the deer’s belly and tore off a mouthful of flesh.
“Hodor, hodor.”
No, he thought. No, I won’t. It was a boy’s thought, not a direwolf’s. The woods were darkening all about him, until only the shadows of the trees remained, and the glow of his cousins’ eyes. And through those and behind those eyes, he saw a big man’s grinning face, and a stone vault whose walls were spotted with niter. The rich warm taste of blood faded on his tongue. No, don’t, don’t, I want to eat, I want to, I want . . .
“Hodor, hodor, hodor, hodor, hodor,” Hodor chanted as he shook him softly by the shoulders, back and forth and back and forth. He was trying to be gentle, he always tried, but Hodor was seven feet tall and stronger than he knew, and his huge hands rattled Bran’s teeth together. “NO!” he shouted angrily. “Hodor, leave off, I’m here, I’m here.”
Hodor stopped, looking abashed. “Hodor?”
The woods and wolves were gone. Bran was back again, down in the damp vault of some ancient watchtower that must have been abandoned thousands of years before. It wasn’t much of a tower now. Even the tumbled stones were so overgrown with moss and ivy that you could hardly see them until you were right on top of them. “Tumbledown Tower”, Bran had named the place; it was Meera who found the way down into the vault, however.
“You were gone too long.” Jojen Reed was thirteen, only four years older than Bran. Jojen wasn’t much bigger either, no more than two inches or maybe three, but he had a solemn way of talking that made him seem older and wiser than he really was. At Winterfell, Old Nan had dubbed him “little grandfather.”
Bran frowned at him. “I wanted to eat.”
“Meera will be back soon with supper.”
“I’m sick of frogs.” Meera was a frogeater from the Neck, so Bran couldn’t really blame her for catching so many frogs, he supposed, but even so . . . “I wanted to eat the deer.” For a moment he remembered the taste of it, the blood and the raw rich meat, and his mouth watered. I won the fight for it. I won.
“Did you mark the trees?”
Bran flushed. Jojen was always telling him to do things when he opened his third eye and put on Summer’s skin. To claw the bark of a tree, to catch a rabbit and bring it back in his jaws uneaten, to push some rocks in a line. Stupid things. “I forgot,” he said.
“You always forget.”
It was true. He meant to do the things that Jojen asked, but once he was a wolf they never seemed important. There were always things to see and things to smell, a whole green world to hunt. And he could run! There was nothing better than running, unless it was running after prey. “I was a prince, Jojen,” he told the older boy. “I was the prince of the woods.”
“You are a prince,” Jojen reminded him softly. “You remember, don’t you? Tell me who you are.”
“You know.” Jojen was his friend and his teacher, but sometimes Bran just wanted to hit him.
“I want you to say the words. Tell me who you are.”
“Bran,” he said sullenly. Bran the Broken. “Brandon Stark.” The cripple boy. “The Prince of Winterfell.” Of Winterfell burned and tumbled, its people scattered and slain. The glass gardens were smashed, and hot water gushed from the cracked walls to steam beneath the sun. How can you be the prince of someplace you might never see again?
“And who is Summer?” Jojen prompted.
“My direwolf.” He smiled. “Prince of the green.”
“Bran the boy and Summer the wolf. You are two, then?”
“Two,” he sighed, “and one.” He hated Jojen when he got stupid like this. At Winterfell he wanted me to dream my wolf dreams, and now that I know how he’s always calling me back.
“Remember that, Bran. Remember yourself, or the wolf will consume you. When you join, it is not enough to run and hunt and howl in Summer’s skin.”
It is for me, Bran thought. He liked Summer’s skin better than his own. What good is it to be a skinchanger if you can’t wear the skin you like?
“Will you remember? And next time, mark the tree. Any tree, it doesn’t matter, so long as you do it.”
“I will. I’ll remember. I could go back and do it now, if you like. I won’t forget this time.” But I’ll eat my deer first, and fight with those little wolves some more.
Jojen shook his head. “No. Best stay, and eat. With your own mouth. A warg cannot live on what his beast consumes.”
How would you know? Bran thought resentfully. You’ve never been a warg, you don’t know what it’s like.
Hodor jerked suddenly to his feet, almost hitting his head on the barrel-vaulted ceiling. “HODOR!” he shouted, rushing to the door. Meera pushed it open just before he reached it, and stepped through into their refuge. “Hodor, hodor,” the huge stableboy said, grinning.
Meera Reed was sixteen, a woman grown, but she stood no higher than her brother. All the crannogmen were small, she told Bran once when he asked why she wasn’t taller. Brown-haired, green-eyed, and flat as a boy, she walked with a supple grace that Bran could only watch and envy. Meera wore a long sharp dagger, but her favorite way to fight was with a slender three-pronged frog spear in one hand and a woven net in the other.
“Who’s hungry?” she asked, holding up her catch: two small silvery trout and six fat green frogs.
“I am,” said Bran. But not for frogs. Back at Winterfell before all the bad things had happened, the Walders used to say that eating frogs would turn your teeth green and make moss grow under your arms. He wondered if the Walders were dead. He hadn’t seen their corpses at Winterfell . . . but there had been a lot of corpses, and they hadn’t looked inside the buildings.
“We’ll just have to feed you, then. Will you help me clean the catch, Bran?”
He nodded. It was hard to sulk with Meera. She was much more cheerful than her brother, and always seemed to know how to make him smile. Nothing ever scared her or made her angry. Well, except Jojen, sometimes . . . Jojen Reed could scare most anyone. He dressed all in green, his eyes were murky as moss, and he had green dreams. What Jojen dreamed came true. Except he dreamed me dead, and I’m not. Only he was, in a way.
Jojen sent Hodor out for wood and built them a small fire while Bran and Meera were cleaning the fish and frogs. They used Meera’s helm for a cooking pot, chopping up the catch into little cubes and tossing in some water and some wild onions Hodor had found to make a froggy stew. It wasn’t as good as deer, but it wasn’t bad either, Bran decided as he ate. “Thank you, Meera,” he said. “My lady.”
“You are most welcome, Your Grace.”
“Come the morrow,” Jojen announced, “we had best move on.”
Bran could see Meera tense. “Have you had a green dream?”
“No,” he admitted.
“Why leave, then?” his sister demanded. “Tumbledown Tower’s a good place for us. No villages near, the woods are full of game, there’s fish and frogs in the streams and lakes . . . and who is ever going to find us here?”
“This is not the place we are meant to be.”
“It is safe, though.”
“It seems safe, I know,” said Jojen, “but for how long? There was a battle at Winterfell, we saw the dead. Battles mean wars. If some army should take us unawares . . . ”
“It might be Robb’s army,” said Bran. “Robb will come back from the south soon, I know he will. He’ll come back with all his banners and chase the ironmen away.”
“Your maester said naught of Robb when he lay dying,” Jojen reminded him. “Ironmen on the Stony Shore, he said, and, east, the Bastard of Bolton. Moat Cailin and Deepwood Motte fallen, the heir to Cerwyn dead, and the castellan of Torrhen’s Square. War everywhere, he said, each man against his neighbor.”
“We have plowed this field before,” his sister said. “You want to make for the Wall, and your three-eyed crow. That’s well and good, but the Wall is a very long way and Bran has no legs but Hodor. If we were mounted . . . ”
“If we were eagles we might fly,” said Jojen sharply, “but we have no wings, no more than we have horses.”
“There are horses to be had,” said Meera. “Even in the deep of the wolfswood there are foresters, crofters, hunters. Some will have horses.”
“And if they do, should we steal them? Are we thieves? The last thing we need is men hunting us.”
“We could buy them,” she said. “Trade for them.”
“Look at us, Meera. A crippled boy with a direwolf, a simpleminded giant, and two crannogmen a thousand leagues from the Neck. We will be known. And word will spread. So long as Bran remains dead, he is safe. Alive, he becomes prey for those who want him dead for good and true.” Jojen went to the fire to prod the embers with a stick. “Somewhere to the north, the three-eyed crow awaits us. Bran has need of a teacher wiser than me.”
“How, Jojen?” his sister asked. “How?”
“Afoot,” he answered. “A step at a time.”
“The road from Greywater to Winterfell went on forever, and we were mounted then. You want us to travel a longer road on foot, without even knowing where it ends. Beyond the Wall, you say. I haven’t been there, no more than you, but I know that Beyond the Wall’s a big place, Jojen. Are there many three-eyed crows, or only one? How do we find him?”
“Perhaps he will find us.”
Before Meera could find a reply to that, they heard the sound; the distant howl of a wolf, drifting through the night. “Summer?” asked Jojen, listening.
“No.” Bran knew the voice of his direwolf.
“Are you certain?” said the little grandfather.
“Certain.” Summer had wandered far afield today, and would not be back till dawn. Maybe Jojen dreams green, but he can’t tell a wolf from a direwolf. He wondered why they all listened to Jojen so much. He was not a prince like Bran, nor big and strong like Hodor, nor as good a hunter as Meera, yet somehow it was always Jojen telling them what to do. “We should steal horses like Meera wants,” Bran said, “and ride to the Umbers up at Last Hearth.” He thought a moment. “Or we could steal a boat and sail down the White Knife to White Harbor town. That fat Lord Manderly rules there, he was friendly at the harvest feast. He wanted to build ships. Maybe he built some, and we could sail to Riverrun and bring Robb home with all his army. Then it wouldn’t matter who knew I was alive. Robb wouldn’t let anyone hurt us.”
“Hodor!” burped Hodor. “Hodor, hodor.”
He was the only one who liked Bran’s plan, though. Meera just smiled at him and Jojen frowned. They never listened to what he wanted, even though Bran was a Stark and a prince besides, and the Reeds of the Neck were Stark bannermen.
“Hoooodor,” said Hodor, swaying. “Hooooooodor, hoooooodor, hoDOR, hoDOR, hoDOR.” Sometimes he liked to do this, just saying his name different ways, over and over and over. Other times, he would stay so quiet you forgot he was there. There was never any knowing with Hodor. “HODOR, HODOR, HODOR!” he shouted.
He is not going to stop, Bran realized. “Hodor,” he said, “why don’t you go outside and train with your sword?”
The stableboy had forgotten about his sword, but now he remembered. “Hodor!” he burped. He went for his blade. They had three tomb swords taken from the crypts of Winterfell where Bran and his brother Rickon had hidden from Theon Greyjoy’s ironmen. Bran claimed his uncle Brandon’s sword, Meera the one she found upon the knees of his grandfather Lord Rickard. Hodor’s blade was much older, a huge heavy piece of iron, dull from centuries of neglect and well spotted with rust. He could swing it for hours at a time. There was a rotted tree near the tumbled stones that he had hacked half to pieces.
Even when he went outside they could hear him through the walls, bellowing “HODOR!” as he cut and slashed at his tree. Thankfully the wolfswood was huge, and there was not like to be anyone else around to hear.
“Jojen, what did you mean about a teacher?” Bran asked. “You’re my teacher. I know I never marked the tree, but I will the next time. My third eye is open like you wanted . . . ”
“So wide open that I fear you may fall through it, and live all the rest of your days as a wolf of the woods.”
“I won’t, I promise.”
“The boy promises. Will the wolf remember? You run with Summer, you hunt with him, kill with him . . . but you bend to his will more than him to yours.”
“I just forget,” Bran complained. “I’m only nine. I’ll be better when I’m older. Even Florian the Fool and Prince Aemon the Dragonknight weren’t great knights when they were nine.”
“That is true,” said Jojen, “and a wise thing to say, if the days were still growing longer . . . but they aren’t. You are a summer child, I know. Tell me the words of House Stark.”
“Winter is coming.” Just saying it made Bran feel cold.
Jojen gave a solemn nod. “I dreamed of a winged wolf bound to earth by chains of stone, and came to Winterfell to free him. The chains are off you now, yet still you do not fly.”
“Then you teach me.” Bran still feared the three-eyed crow who haunted his dreams sometimes, pecking endlessly at the skin between his eyes and telling him to fly. “You’re a greenseer.”
“No,” said Jojen, “only a boy who dreams. The greenseers were more than that. They were wargs as well, as you are, and the greatest of them could wear the skins of any beast that flies or swims or crawls, and could look through the eyes of the weirwoods as well, and see the truth that lies beneath the world.
“The gods give many gifts, Bran. My sister is a hunter. It is given to her to run swiftly, and stand so still she seems to vanish. She has sharp ears, keen eyes, a steady hand with net and spear. She can breathe mud and fly through trees. I could not do these things, no more than you could. To me the gods gave the green dreams, and to you . . . you could be more than me, Bran. You are the winged wolf, and there is no saying how far and high you might fly . . . if you had someone to teach you. How can I help you master a gift I do not understand? We remember the First Men in the Neck, and the children of the forest who were their friends . . . but so much is forgotten, and so much we never knew.”
Meera took Bran by the hand. “If we stay here, troubling no one, you’ll be safe until the war ends. You will not learn, though, except what my brother can teach you, and you’ve heard what he says. If we leave this place to seek refuge at Last Hearth or beyond the Wall, we risk being taken. You are only a boy, I know, but you are our prince as well, our lord’s son and our king’s true heir. We have sworn you our faith by earth and water, bronze and iron, ice and fire. The risk is yours, Bran, as is the gift. The choice should be yours too, I think. We are your servants to command.” She grinned. “At least in this.”
“You mean,” Bran said, “you’ll do what I say? Truly?”
“Truly, my prince,” the girl replied, “so consider well.”
Bran tried to think it through, the way his father might have. The Greatjon’s uncles Hother Whoresbane and Mors Crowfood were fierce men, but he thought they would be loyal. And the Karstarks, them too. Karhold was a strong castle, Father always said. We would be safe with the Umbers or the Karstarks.
Or they could go south to fat Lord Manderly. At Winterfell, he’d laughed a lot, and never seemed to look at Bran with so much pity as the other lords. Castle Cerwyn was closer than White Harbor, but Maester Luwin had said that Cley Cerwyn was dead. The Umbers and the Karstarks and the Manderlys may all be dead as well, he realized. As he would be, if he was caught by the ironmen or the Bastard of Bolton.
If they stayed here, hidden down beneath Tumbledown Tower, no one would find them. He would stay alive. And crippled.
Bran realized he was crying. Stupid baby, he thought at himself. No matter where he went, to Karhold or White Harbor or Greywater Watch, he’d be a cripple when he got there. He balled his hands into fists. “I want to fly,” he told them. “Please. Take me to the crow.”

第九章布兰

　　山脊陡峭升起，岩石与土壤的长坡道形如利爪。斜坡的低处有树，松木、山楂和岑树，但较高处无植被覆盖，顶端突兀地耸立在多云的天空下。
　　山脊在呼唤他。他向上跑去，一开始是轻松漫步，随后越来越快，越跑越高，斜坡在他强健的腿下向后退去，鸟儿在他经过时从头顶树枝间飞散开来，一边挥舞爪子，一边扇动翅膀，逃往空中。他听见清风在树叶间叹息，听见松鼠唧唧喳喳地耳语，甚至还听见松果翻滚落地的声响。无数鲜活的气味则象一首歌谣，环绕着他，歌颂美好的绿色世界。

　　沙砾在爪下飞扬，他登上最后几尺，屹立于顶峰。太阳高挂在松树之上，硕大而鲜艳，在他身下，树林与山丘连绵不断，向远方延伸，直到视线和嗅觉的尽头。一只鸢在天空中盘旋，犹如粉红底板上的一个黑影。

　　我是王子。一个声音在脑海中回响，他可以感觉到其中的亲切。我是绿色世界的王子，狼林的王子。他强壮、敏捷、凶猛，生活在美好的绿色世界中的生物都怕他。

　　下方远处，林间有什么东西移动。只瞥见灰影一闪，然后又迅速消失，他不禁竖起耳朵。水流湍急的绿溪边，又一条身影掠过。是狼，他知道，是他的小个子远亲们，正在打猎。王子看到更多形体，敏捷的灰爪子影影绰绰。他们是一个族群。

　　他也有过一个族群，如今已找不到了。六狼一体，五狼残存，分割天涯，互不联络。在他内心残留着声音的印象，那是人类赋予他兄弟姐妹们的名字，但他不是通过声音来辨认他们的。他记得气味，他们有相似的气味，同一族群的气味，虽然每一个又各不相同。

　　王子身边只剩下暴躁的弟弟，那个眼里闪动绿火的弟弟，就连他也有许多次狩猎没见着了。随着每一次日落，弟弟走得越来越远，王子终于成了孤身一人。其他的兄弟姐妹更是散落人间，好比狂风卷走的叶子。

　　但他不时能感觉到他们，仿佛大家仍在一起，只不过被石头或树木阻挡了视线。他嗅不到他们的气味，听不到他们的嗥叫，但能感觉到他们的支持……除了那个逝去的姐姐。想起她来，他的尾巴默然低垂。只有五个，没有六个了。四个外加白色而沉默的那个。

　　他们属于森林，属于积雪的山坡和嶙峋的丘陵，属于巨大的绿松和金色叶子的橡树，属于湍急的溪流和镶着霜冻的湛蓝湖泊。可他的姐姐离开荒野，走进人类建造的石山孔洞中，那里由另一类猎人统治，能进不能出。这些往事，狼王子统统都记得。

　　风向忽然转变。

　　鹿，恐惧，血。猎物的气味激起他内在的饥饿。王子又嗅了嗅，便转过身，急速奔跑。他沿着山脊顶端跃驰，下颚半张。山脊另一头比他上来的地方要险峻，但他稳健地踏过岩石、树根和腐叶，冲下山坡，穿过树林，大步前进，被气息所牵引。愈行愈快。

　　鹿已倒下，濒临死亡，周围环绕着八个他的灰色小个子远亲。族群首领开始用餐，雄性先吃，接着是他的配偶，轮流从猎物鲜红的下腹部撕肉。其余的在耐心等待，只有那个小尾巴有些不宁，他在离其他狼几步远的地方焦躁地转圈，尾巴压得低低的。他将最后一个用餐，吃兄长们留下的剩饭。

　　王子处在下风，他们没有闻出来，直到他跳上坠落的圆木，离死鹿仅六步之遥。小尾巴头一个发现他，可怜地呜咽了一声，便悄悄溜走。除了领头的雄性和雌性，族群里的狼转身龇牙咆哮。

　　冰原狼报之以低吼，作为警告，同时也向他们展示自己的牙。他比远亲们体型大，是瘦骨嶙峋的小尾巴的两倍，比两个族群首领则大一半。他跳下来，跃入他们中间，三匹狼见状落荒而逃，消失在灌木丛中。另一匹朝他袭来，张嘴就咬。他迎头对抗攻击，两狼相撞，他用下颚咬住对方的腿，将其甩到一边。野狼一边吠叫，一边一瘸一拐地走开。

　　顷刻间，原地只留下那匹头狼，巨大的灰公狼，嘴上满是猎物柔软的腹部流出的鲜血。他鼻口有些白，表明老狼的身份，他张开嘴，红色的唾液从齿间滴落。

　　他没有恐惧，王子心想，和我一样。这将是一场恶斗。他们同时扑上。

　　他们斗了很久，在树根、岩石、落叶及散落的猎物内脏中翻滚，用牙齿和爪子互相撕扯。他们时而分开，绕着圈子，然后猛冲上去再次接战。王子个头比较大，也更强壮，但他的远亲拥有族群。母狼在附近巡游，边嗅边咆哮，一旦她的配偶受伤脱离战斗，就会挺身而出。其他的狼也不时冲进战团，趁着王子不备咬他的腿或耳朵。其中有一只令他恼火无比，王子便燃起杀气扑过去，撕开了对方的喉咙。从此以后，其他狼都保持距离。

　　当最后一丝红光从绿色和金色的树冠间透淅进来，老狼疲惫地倒在泥土里，仰面朝天，露出喉咙与腹部。他投降了。

　　王子吸吸鼻子，舔去对方皮毛和伤口中的血。老狼低声呜咽了一下。冰原狼回到猎物旁，他很饿，而猎物属于他了。

　　“阿多。”

　　突如其来的喊声令他停下来吼叫。狼群用绿色和黄色的眼睛注视他，在白昼的余光中闪亮。他们不知所措。一阵怪异的风在他耳边轻响，他把爪子埋进鹿腹，撕下满满一大块肉。

　　“阿多，阿多。”

　　不，他心想，不要，我不要去。那是男孩的思维，不属于冰原狼。四周的森林暗淡下来，只剩树木的阴影和闪烁的眼睛。透过那些眼睛，他看到一个咧嘴笑着的高大人类，以及墙上点缀硝石的石窖。舌尖已尝不到浓郁温暖的血味道。不，不要，不要，我要吃，我要吃，我要……

　　“阿多，阿多，阿多，阿多，阿多，”阿多一边念一边轻摇他的肩膀。他试着轻柔地摇，他一直在试，可他有七尺高，强壮得连他自己都不清楚，于是布兰被摇得牙齿哒哒作响。“别摇了！”他恼怒地喊道，“阿多，住手，我回来了，我回来了。”

　　阿多停下来，神情有些窘。“阿多？”

　　森林和野狼全部消失，布兰回来了，回到一座古代了望塔底的潮湿地窖里。这座塔被荒弃了数千年，甚至失去了塔的形状，翻倒的石头上长满苔藓和常春藤，除非走到近处，否则根本不明白这团纠结到底是什么。布兰为它取名“摇坠塔”，而梅拉找到了向下通往地窖的路。

　　“你去得太久，”玖健？黎德年方十三，仅比布兰大四岁，而且体格瘦小，身高也只多布兰两三寸，但他说话腔调严肃，使得他比实际年龄看起来更成熟、更有智慧。在临冬城，老奶妈称他为“小个子祖父”。

　　布兰朝他皱眉，“我要吃东西。”

　　“梅拉很快就会带晚餐回来。”

　　“我不想吃青蛙。”梅拉来自颈泽，习惯吃青蛙，布兰也不好责怪，可是……“我想吃鹿肉。”片刻间，他记起鹿的滋味，鲜血和肥美的肉，垂涎欲滴。为了它，我恶斗一场。我是赢家。

　　“你有没在树上留标记？”

　　布兰脸红了。玖健总要他在睁开第三只眼，变成夏天时做些事，比如扒树皮、逮兔子回来、或将石头推成直线等等。无聊的事。“我忘了，”他说。

　　“你每次都忘。”

　　没错，我每次都忘。其实心里是想做的，但一旦成为狼，这些事便不再重要。夏天有一整个世界可以看，一整个世界可以嗅，绿色的森林全供他打猎。他可以奔跑！没什么比奔跑更美好，没什么比得上追逐猎物。“我是王子，玖健，”他告诉年长的男孩，“我是森林的王子。”

　　“你的确是王子，”玖健轻声提醒他，“但其余部分却记错了，快，告诉我，你是谁。”

　　“你明明就知道。”玖健是他的朋友，也是他的老师，但有时候布兰就是想揍他。

　　“我要你自己说。告诉我，你是谁。”

　　“我是布兰，”他阴沉地道。残废的布兰。“布兰登？史塔克。”瘸腿的男孩。“临冬城的王子。”然而临冬城业已焚烧毁灭，它的人民被驱散、被屠杀。粉碎的玻璃花园，温泉水从墙壁裂口中涌出，在阳光下蒸腾。那个地方再也回不去了，你怎能成为那里的王子呢？

　　“谁是夏天？”玖健问。

　　“我的冰原狼。”他微笑着说。“绿色世界的王子。”

　　“男孩布兰和冰原狼夏天。你们是两种个体，对不对？”

　　“两种个体，”他叹道，“一个整体。”每当玖健变得象现在这样无聊，布兰就讨厌他。在临冬城，他要我做狼梦，现在又要我回来。

　　“请记得自己的身份，布兰，一定要记得，否则会被狼所吞没。当你们结合时，仅仅披着夏天的皮奔跑、狩猎和嗥叫是不够的。”

　　他是为我好，布兰心想，我喜欢夏天的形态更甚自己的本体。可身为易形者，好处不就是能选择喜欢的形态么？

　　“你会记住吗？下次一定要在树上做记号，哪棵树并没有关系，只要做了就行。”

　　“我会的。我会记住。你喜欢的话，我现在就回去，这次决不忘记。”但我会先饱餐鹿肉，并跟那些小狼再打一仗。

　　玖健摇摇头，“不。你得留下吃东西，用你自己的嘴吃。狼灵是不能靠他的动物吃的东西过活的。”

　　你怎么知道？布兰忿忿不平地想，你又不是狼灵，怎么知道我不行？

　　阿多猛然站起来，几乎把头撞到拱形的天花板上。“阿多！”他一边喊，一边向门冲去。梅拉推门而入，走进他们的避难所。“阿多，阿多，”大个子马童咧嘴笑道。

　　梅拉今年十六岁，已经是成人女子了，身高却和弟弟一样。布兰有一回问她为什么长不高，她告诉他，泽地人都是小个子。她有褐色的头发，绿色的眼睛，胸部跟男孩一样平，但走起路来优雅轻巧，布兰看了直羡慕。梅拉有一把长而锋利的青铜短刀，可她喜欢一手拿着细长的三叉捕蛙矛，一手拿着编织精巧的索网作战。

　　“有谁饿了吗？”她边问，边举起她的捕获：两尾银色的小鳟鱼和六只肥青蛙。

　　“我，”布兰说。但他不想吃青蛙。在临冬城，在所有的糟糕事情发生之前，瓦德兄弟俩曾说，吃青蛙会让牙齿变绿，腋下长青苔。他在临冬城没发现他俩的尸体……但那儿有许多尸体，根本看不过来，况且他们没搜查建筑物内部。

　　“我马上弄给你吃，愿意帮我清洗猎物吗，布兰？”

　　他点点头。要生梅拉的气可不容易，她远比她弟弟快活，总能逗他笑。没有东西可以吓住她或令她生气，噢，除了玖健，他有时候……其实玖健？黎德能吓住所有人。他一袭绿衣，眼睛是青苔的色彩，还会做绿色之梦——必定成真的梦。除了……他梦见我死在臭佬脚下，但我并没有死。当然，从某种意义上，‘我’又确实是死了。

　　玖健让阿多出去找木柴，趁布兰和梅拉清洗鳟鱼和青蛙的当口，升起一小堆火。他们用梅拉的大铁盔当锅，将猎物切成小丁，再加入水和阿多找到的野生洋葱。这锅炖青蛙虽不若鹿肉好吃，却也不错，布兰边吃边下结论。“谢谢你，”他说，“梅拉小姐。”

　　“乐意为您效劳，王子殿下。”

　　“明天出发，”玖健宣布，“继续上路。”

　　布兰看出梅拉的紧张。“你又做了绿色之梦？”

　　“没有，”他承认。

　　“那为何急着离开？”他姐姐质问，“‘摇坠塔’是个好地方。附近没有村庄，林中全是猎物，溪流湖泊中则有鱼和青蛙……谁会上这儿来找我们呢？”

　　“这里不是我们的目的地。”

　　“但这里很安全。”

　　“我明白，这里‘似乎’很安全，”玖健说，“但能维持多久？临冬城打了一场仗，死人我们都瞧见了。打仗意味着战争。如果有军队不知不觉地靠近……”

　　“也许那正是罗柏的军队，”布兰道，“我哥很快会从南方回来，我知道的。他会带着所有部队回来，赶走铁民。”

　　“你家学士临死前没提到罗柏，”玖健提醒他。“但他说过，铁民在磐石海岸，而波顿的私生子在东边。卡林湾和深林堡已告陷落，赛文家的继承人死了，托伦方城的代理城主也死了。四处都在打仗，人人攻击友邻。”

　　“行程艰难啊，”他姐姐说，“我知道你想去绝境长城，去找三眼乌鸦。主意虽好，但路途遥远，布兰又没有腿，只有阿多。假如我们有马，一切还好……”

　　“假如我们是老鹰，还可以飞呢，”玖健尖刻地道，“事实是，我们没有翅膀，正如我们没有马。”

　　“马找得到，”梅拉说，“狼林深处也有林务官、农人和猎人。有些会有马的。”

　　“就算他们有，又怎么办？去偷吗？当窃贼？眼下我们首先要避免的就是被人追捕！”

　　“我们可以买，”她道，“公平交易。”

　　“你看看我们，梅拉。一个残废的男孩，一头冰原狼，一个头脑简单的大个子和两位背井离乡的泽地人。这有多么明显。消息会传得沸沸扬扬。只要布兰被当成死人，他就很安全；假如他活着的消息传出去，立刻会成为猎物，被那些真正想要除掉他的人追捕。”玖健走到火堆边，拿棍子捅捅余烬。“在北方，三眼乌鸦正等着我们。布兰需要更贤明的老师。”

　　“那我们该怎么走，玖健？”他姐姐问，“该怎么走？”

　　“用脚走，”他回答，“一步一步地走。”

　　“从灰水望到临冬城我们走了多久？别忘了，那还是骑马。而今你要我们徒步穿越更长的路途，却连目的地究竟在哪儿也不清楚。你说要越过绝境长城，的确，我跟你一样，没去过那儿，但我很清楚长城之外是个很辽阔的地方。玖健，三眼乌鸦到底有几只？怎么才找得到？”

　　“或许是他找到我们。”

　　梅拉还不及回答，突然传来一个声音，那是飘过夜色的遥远狼嗥。“是夏天？”玖健边听边问。

　　“不是，”布兰认得出冰原狼的声音。

　　“你肯定？”小个子祖父继续问。

　　“我肯定。”夏天去了很远的地方，不到黎明不会回来。玖健能做绿色之梦，却无法区分野狼和冰原狼，他不禁奇怪大家为什么会听玖健的话。他不像布兰那样是王子，也没有阿多的高大强壮，甚至无法如梅拉一般捕猎，但不知何故，大家总服从他的指示。“我们应该像梅拉说的那样去偷马，”布兰忍不住道，“然后到最后壁炉城投奔安柏家。”他想了一会儿。“或者偷一条小船，沿白刃河南下，抵达白港。那里由胖胖的曼德勒大人统治，在丰收宴会上你们见过他的，我很喜欢他。先前他想造船，或许已经造好了，我们可以坐船到奔流城，带着罗柏和他所有的军队回家，到时候就不需要躲躲藏藏了，罗柏不会让任何人伤害我们。”

　　“阿多！”阿多打个嗝，“阿多，阿多。”

　　他是惟一赞同布兰的人。梅拉只是笑笑，玖健皱紧眉头。他们从不照他的话做，可他是史塔克家的人，临冬城的王子，而颈泽的黎德家毕竟只是臣属嘛。

　　“阿阿阿阿多，”阿多摇晃着说，“阿阿阿阿阿阿阿多，阿阿阿阿阿阿多，阿多—阿多——阿多—”有时候他就喜欢这样，用抑扬顿挫的方式说自己的名字，一遍，一遍，又一遍；而有时候，他又会非常安静，甚至能让你忘记他的存在。没有人知道“阿多”这个词究竟是什么意思。“阿多，阿多，阿多！”他高喊起来。

　　看来他不打算停下。“阿多，”他说，“你为什么不去练剑呢？”

　　马童已忘记了他的剑，听布兰提醒才记起来。“阿多！”他又打一个嗝，接着去取武器。他们一行有三把剑，都是从临冬城的墓窖里拿的，当时布兰和弟弟瑞肯在那儿躲避席恩？葛雷乔伊的追捕。布兰拿了布兰登叔叔的剑，梅拉拿了他祖父瑞卡德公爵膝盖上的那把，阿多取的则古老得多，一把巨大而沉重的铁家什，千百年来疏于打理，早已变钝，锈迹斑斑。可马童一次就能舞上几个钟头，乱石堆旁有棵枯萎的树，树的一面被他砍成碎片。

　　他出去后，隔着墙壁，他们仍能听到他一边劈树，一边吼着“阿多！”。幸亏狼林广大，周围又无人烟。

　　“玖健，你说老师是什么意思？”布兰问，“你就是我的老师啊。我没在树上做记号，是我的错，但我下次会的。就像你说的，我睁开了第三只眼……”

　　“睁得太大，我甚至害怕你掉进去，象狼一样渡过余生。”

　　“不会不会，我向你保证。”

　　“男孩布兰作了保证，冰原狼夏天会记得吗？你跟夏天一起奔跑，一起狩猎，一起杀戮……你更多地屈从于他的意志，而不是让他听命于你。”

　　“我不过忘了而已，”布兰抱怨，“我才九岁呢，长大后就会好了。即便傻子佛罗理安和龙骑士伊蒙王子，在九岁时也不厉害嘛。”

　　“没错，”玖健道，“说得有理，但你顺利成长的前提是白天变长，压制黑夜……而事实却刚好相反。你是夏天的孩子，布兰，请记得史塔克家族的箴言。”

　　“凛冬将至。”布兰浑身战栗。

　　玖健严肃地点点头，“我梦见一只长翅膀的奔狼被灰色石链束缚于地，便赶来临冬城释放他。而今锁链已然解开，你却依旧不能飞。”

　　“那你就教我。”布兰害怕梦中经常出现的三眼乌鸦，它无休止地啄他两眼间的皮肤，要他飞起来。“你是绿先知。”

　　“不，我不是，”玖健说，“我只是一个会做梦的男孩。绿先知的能力比我强得多。首先，他们是狼灵，和你一样，他们中最伟大者，可以披上任何鸟兽的形体，天上飞的、水里游的或陆上爬的概不例外，他们还能通过鱼梁木上的眼睛，看到表象下的真实。”

　　“诸神赐予人们众多天赋，布兰。你瞧，我姐姐是个猎人，她的天赋即是动则迅捷无双，静则纹丝不动，隐匿行藏。她耳朵灵敏，眼睛锐利，双手稳健。她能在泥沼下呼吸，在树叶上奔跑。这些事情，我做不到，你也做不到。与之相对，诸神赐予我绿色之梦的能力，而给你的……布兰，你可以超越我，你乃是长翅膀的狼，没人说得出你可以飞多高飞多远……但你需要指导，而我是无法帮助你掌握我所无法理解的天赋的。泽地人记得先民和他们的朋友森林之子……但是被遗忘的东西太多了，不知道的就更多。”

　　梅拉握住布兰的手。“如果我们留下，不去招惹是非，你或许会很安全，直到战争结束，但除了我弟弟能教的，什么也学不到，而他早已倾囊相授；如果我们离开，去最后壁炉城，或者去长城之外，则要冒被抓的危险。我很明白，你还是个孩子，但请相信，你也是我们的王子，是我们领主的后嗣，是国家的继承人。我们以大地与江河、青铜与钢铁、冰与火的名义向你宣誓效忠。离开，会冒风险，也能发掘天赋，一切由你作主，我们作为你的臣仆，听从你的命令。”她咧嘴笑笑。“至少在这件事上。”

　　“你的意思是，”布兰说，“无论我作何决定，你们都会照办？真的吗？”

　　“真的，王子殿下，”女孩回答，“请你好好考虑。”

　　布兰试图冷静思考，以得出结论，父亲就是这样子做的。大琼恩的叔父“鸦食”莫尔斯与“妓魇”霍瑟十分勇猛，他也相信他们的忠诚。还有卡史塔克家。父亲常说，卡霍城坚不可摧。和安柏家或卡史塔克家在一起，应该会很安全。

　　要么南下去找胖胖的曼德勒大人。在临冬城时，他总是笑口常开，而且从没像其他领主那样以鄙夷的眼神看待布兰。还有赛文城，那里比白港更近，但鲁温学士说过，克雷？赛文已死。他突然意识到，安柏家族，卡史塔克家族和曼德勒家族的人可能也死了。而如果被铁民或波顿家的私生子抓住，他也会死。

　　如果留在这儿，躲在摇坠塔下，就没人找得到。他会继续活下去，继续当个残废。

　　布兰意识到自己在哭。真是个傻孩子，他心想，不论走到哪里，卡霍城、白港、甚至灰水望，你仍然是残废。他握手成拳。“我要飞，”他告诉他们，“我要去见乌鸦。”

回到夏末之初(内阁元老)

15楼 2016-08-31

DAVOS
When he came up on deck, the long point of Driftmark was dwindling behind them while Dragonstone rose from the sea ahead. A pale grey wisp of smoke blew from the top of the mountain to mark where the island lay. Dragonmont is restless this morning, Davos thought, or else Melisandre is burning someone else.
Melisandre had been much in his thoughts as Shayala’s Dance made her way across Blackwater Bay and through the Gullet, tacking against perverse contrary winds. The great fire that burned atop the Sharp Point watchtower at the end of Massey’s Hook reminded him of the ruby she wore at her throat, and when the world turned red at dawn and sunset the drifting clouds turned the same color as the silks and satins of her rustling gowns.
She would be waiting on Dragonstone as well, waiting in all her beauty and all her power, with her god and her shadows and his king. The red priestess had always seemed loyal to Stannis, until now. She has broken him, as a man breaks a horse. She would ride him to power if she could, and for that she gave my sons to the fire. I will cut the living heart from her breast and see how it burns. He touched the hilt of the fine long Lysene dirk that the captain had given him.
The captain had been very kind to him. His name was Khorane Sathmantes, a Lyseni like Salladhor Saan, whose ship this was. He had the pale blue eyes you often saw on Lys, set in a bony weatherworn face, but he had spent many years trading in the Seven Kingdoms. When he learned that the man he had plucked from the sea was the celebrated onion knight, he gave him the use of his own cabin and his own clothes, and a pair of new boots that almost fit. He insisted that Davos share his provisions as well, though that turned out badly. His stomach could not tolerate the snails and lampreys and other rich food Captain Khorane so relished, and after his first meal at the captain’s table he spent the rest of the day with one end or the other dangling over the rail.
Dragonstone loomed larger with every stroke of the oars. Davos could see the shape of the mountain now, and on its side the great black citadel with its gargoyles and dragon towers. The bronze figurehead at the bow of Shayala’s Dance sent up wings of salt spray as it cut the waves. He leaned his weight against the rail, grateful for its support. His ordeal had weakened him. If he stood too long his legs shook, and sometimes he fell prey to uncontrollable fits of coughing and brought up gobs of bloody phlegm. It is nothing, he told himself. Surely the gods did not bring me safe through flre and sea only to kill me with a flux.
As he listened to the pounding of the oarmaster’s drum, the thrum of the sail, and the rhythmic swish and creak of the oars, he thought back to his younger days, when these same sounds woke dread in his heart on many a misty morn. They heralded the approach of old Ser Tristimun’s sea watch, and the sea watch was death to smugglers when Aerys Targaryen sat the Iron Throne.
But that was another lifetime, he thought. That was before the onion ship, before Storm’s End, before Stannis shortened my fingers. That was before the war or the red comet, before I was a Seaworth or a knight. I was a different man in those days, before Lord Stannis raised me high.
Captain Khorane had told him of the end of Stannis’s hopes, on the night the river burned. The Lannisters had taken him from the flank, and his fickle bannermen had abandoned him by the hundreds in the hour of his greatest need. “King Renly’s shade was seen as well,” the captain said, “slaying right and left as he led the lion lord’s van. It’s said his green armor took a ghostly glow from the wildfire, and his antlers ran with golden flames.”
Renly’s shade. Davos wondered if his sons would return as shades as well. He had seen too many queer things on the sea to say that ghosts did not exist. “Did none keep faith?” he asked.
“Some few,” the captain said. “The queen’s kin, them in chief. We took off many who wore the fox-and-flowers, though many more were left ashore, with all manner of badges. Lord Florent is the King’s Hand on Dragonstone now.”
The mountain grew taller, crowned all in pale smoke. The sail sang, the drum beat, the oars pulled smoothly, and before very long the mouth of the harbor opened before them. So empty, Davos thought, remembering how it had been before, with the ships crowding every quay and rocking at anchor off the breakwater. He could see Salladhor Saan’s flagship Valyrian moored at the quay where Fury and her sisters had once tied up. The ships on either side of her had striped Lysene hulls as well. In vain he looked for any sign of Lady Marya or Wraith.
They pulled down the sail as they entered the harbor, to dock on oars alone. The captain came to Davos as they were tying up. “My prince will wish to see you at once.”
A fit of coughing seized Davos as he tried to answer. He clutched the rail for support and spat over the side. “The king,” he wheezed. “I must go to the king.” For where the king is, I will find Melisandre.
“No one goes to the king,” Khorane Sathmantes replied firmly. “Salladhor Saan will tell you. Him first.”
Davos was too weak to defy him. He could only nod.
Salladhor Saan was not aboard his Valyrian. They found him at another quay a quarter mile distant, down in the hold of a big-bellied Pentoshi cog named Bountiful Harvest, counting cargo with two eunuchs. One held a lantern, the other a wax tablet and stylus. “Thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine,” the old rogue was saying when Davos and the captain came down the hatch. Today he wore a wine-colored tunic and high boots of bleached white leather inlaid with silver scrollwork. Pulling the stopper from a jar, he sniffed, sneezed, and said, “A coarse grind, and of the second quality, my nose declares. The bill of lading is saying forty-three jars. Where have the others gotten to, I am wondering? These Pentoshi, do they think I am not counting?” When he saw Davos he stopped suddenly. “Is it pepper stinging my eyes, or tears? Is this the knight of the onions who stands before me? No, how can it be, my dear friend Davos died on the burning river, all agree. Why has he come to haunt me?”
“I am no ghost, Salla.”
“What else? My onion knight was never so thin or so pale as you.” Salladhor Saan threaded his way between the jars of spice and bolts of cloth that filled the hold of the merchanter, wrapped Davos in a fierce embrace, then kissed him once on each cheek and a third time on his forehead. “You are still warm, ser, and I feel your heart thumpety-thumping. Can it be true? The sea that swallowed you has spit you up again.”
Davos was reminded of Patchface, Princess Shireen’s lackwit fool. He had gone into the sea as well, and when he came out he was mad. Am I mad as well? He coughed into a gloved hand and said, “I swam beneath the chain and washed ashore on a spear of the merling king. I would have died there, if Shayala’s Dance had not come upon me.”
Salladhor Saan threw an arm around the captain’s shoulders. “This was well done, Khorane. You will be having a fine reward, I am thinking. Meizo Mahr, be a good eunuch and take my friend Davos to the owner’s cabin. Fetch him some hot wine with cloves, I am misliking the sound of that cough. Squeeze some lime in it as well. And bring white cheese and a bowl of those cracked green olives we counted earlier! Davos, I will join you soon, once I have bespoken our good captain. You will be forgiving me, I know. Do not eat all the olives, or I must be cross with you!”
Davos let the elder of the two eunuchs escort him to a large and lavishly furnished cabin at the stem of the ship. The carpets were deep, the windows stained glass, and any of the great leather chairs would have seated three of Davos quite comfortably. The cheese and olives arrived shortly, and a cup of steaming hot red wine. He held it between his hands and sipped it gratefully. The warmth felt soothing as it spread through his chest.
Salladhor Saan appeared not long after. “You must be forgiving me for the wine, my friend. These Pentoshi would drink their own water if it were purple.”
“It will help my chest,” said Davos. “Hot wine is better than a compress, my mother used to say.”
“You shall be needing compresses as well, I am thinking. Sitting on a spear all this long time, oh my. How are you finding that excellent chair? He has fat cheeks, does he not?”
“Who?” asked Davos, between sips of hot wine.
“Illyrio Mopatis. A whale with whiskers, I am telling you truly. These chairs were built to his measure, though he is seldom bestirring himself from Pentos to sit in them. A fat man always sits comfortably, I am thinking, for he takes his pillow with him wherever he goes.”
“How is it you come by a Pentoshi ship?” asked Davos. “Have you gone pirate again, my lord?” He set his empty cup aside.
“Vile calumny. Who has suffered more from pirates than Salladhor Saan? I ask only what is due me. Much gold is owed, oh yes, but I am not without reason, so in place of coin I have taken a handsome parchment, very crisp. It bears the name and seal of Lord Alester Florent, the Hand of the King. I am made Lord of Blackwater Bay, and no vessel may be crossing my lordly waters without my lordly leave, no. And when these outlaws are trying to steal past me in the night to avoid my lawful duties and customs, why, they are no better than smugglers, so I am well within my rights to seize them.” The old pirate laughed. “I cut off no man’s fingers, though. What good are bits of fingers? The ships I am taking, the cargoes, a few ransoms, nothing unreasonable.” He gave Davos a sharp look. “You are unwell, my friend. That cough . . . and so thin, I am seeing your bones through your skin. And yet I am not seeing your little bag of fingerbones . . . ”
Old habit made Davos reach for the leather pouch that was no longer there. “I lost it in the river.” My luck.
“The river was terrible,” Salladhor Saan said solemnly. “Even from the bay, I was seeing, and shuddering.”
Davos coughed, spat, and coughed again. “I saw Black Betha burning, and Fury as well,” he finally managed, hoarsely. “Did none of our ships escape the fire?” Part of him still hoped.
“Lord Steffon, Ragged Jenna, Swift Sword, Laughing Lord, and some others were upstream of the pyromancers’pissing, yes. They did not burn, but with the chain raised, neither could they be flying. Some few were surrendering. Most rowed far up the Blackwater, away from the battling, and then were sunk by their crews so they would not be falling into Lannister hands. Ragged Jenna and Laughing Lord are still playing pirate on the river, I have heard, but who can say if it is so?”
“Lady Marya?” Davos asked. “Wraith?”
Salladhor Saan put a hand on Davos’s forearm and gave a squeeze. “No. Of them, no. I am sorry, my friend. They were good men, your Dale and Allard. But this comfort I can give you—your young Devan was among those we took off at the end. The brave boy never once left the king’s side, or so they say.”
For a moment he felt almost dizzy, his relief was so palpable. He had been afraid to ask about Devan. “The Mother is merciful. I must go to him, Salla. I must see him.”
“Yes,” said Salladhor Saan. “And you will be wanting to sail to Cape Wrath, I know, to see your wife and your two little ones. You must be having a new ship, I am thinking.”
“His Grace will give me a ship,” said Davos.
The Lyseni shook his head. “Of ships, His Grace has none, and Salladhor Saan has many. The king’s ships burned up on the river, but not mine. You shall have one, old friend. You will sail for me, yes? You will dance into Braavos and Myr and Volantis in the black of night, all unseen, and dance out again with silks and spices. We will be having fat purses, yes.”
“You are kind, Salla, but my duty’s to my king, not your purse. The war will go on. Stannis is still the rightful heir by all the laws of the Seven Kingdoms.”
“All the laws are not helping when all the ships burn up, I am thinking. And your king, well, you will be finding him changed, I am fearing. Since the battle, he sees no one, but broods in his Stone Drum. Queen Selyse keeps court for him with her uncle the Lord Alester, who is naming himself the Hand. The king’s seal she has given to this uncle, to fix to the letters he writes, even to my pretty parchment. But it is a little kingdom they are ruling, poor and rocky, yes. There is no gold, not even a little bit to pay faithful Salladhor Saan what is owed him, and only those knights that we took off at the end, and no ships but my little brave few.”
A sudden racking cough bent Davos over. Salladhor Saan moved to help him, but he waved him off, and after a moment he recovered. “No one?” he wheezed. “What do you mean, he sees no one?” His voice sounded wet and thick, even in his own ears, and for a moment the cabin swam dizzily around him.
“No one but her,” said Salladhor Saan, and Davos did not have to ask who he meant. “My friend, you tire yourself. It is a bed you are needing, not Salladhor Saan. A bed and many blankets, with a hot compress for your chest and more wine and cloves.”
Davos shook his head. “I will be fine. Tell me, Salla, I must know. No one but Melisandre?”
The Lyseni gave him a long doubtful look, and continued reluctantly. “The guards keep all others away, even his queen and his little daughter. Servants bring meals that no one eats.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Queer talking I have heard, of hungry fires within the mountain, and how Stannis and the red woman go down together to watch the flames. There are shafts, they say, and secret stairs down into the mountain’s heart, into hot places where only she may walk unburned. It is enough and more to give an old man such terrors that sometimes he can scarcely find the strength to eat.”
Melisandre. Davos shivered. “The red woman did this to him,” he said. “She sent the fire to consume us, to punish Stannis for setting her aside, to teach him that he could not hope to win without her sorceries.”
The Lyseni chose a plump olive from the bowl between them. “You are not the first to be saying this, my friend. But if I am you, I am not saying it so loudly. Dragonstone crawls with these queen’s men, oh yes, and they have sharp ears and sharper knives.” He popped the olive into his mouth.
“I have a knife myself. Captain Khorane made me a gift of it.” He pulled out the dirk and laid it on the table between them. “A knife to cut out Melisandre’s heart. If she has one.”
Salladhor Saan spit out an olive pit. “Davos, good Davos, you must not be saying such things, even in jest.”
“No jest. I mean to kill her.” If she can be killed by mortal weapons. Davos was not certain that she could. He had seen old Maester Cressen slip poison into her wine, with his own eyes he had seen it, but when they both drank from the poisoned cup it was the maester who died, not the red priestess. A knife in the heart, though . . . even demons can be killed by cold iron, the singers say.
“These are dangerous talkings, my friend,” Salladhor Saan warned him. “I am thinking you are still sick from the sea. The fever has cooked your wits, yes. Best you are taking to your bed for a long resting, until you are stronger.”
Until my resolve weakens, you mean. Davos got to his feet. He did feel feverish and a little dizzy, but it did not matter. “You are a treacherous old rogue, Salladhor Saan, but a good friend all the same.”
The Lyseni stroked his pointed silver beard. “So with this great friend you will be staying, yes?”
“No, I will be going.” He coughed.
“Go? Look at you! You cough, you tremble, you are thin and weak. Where will you be going?”
“To the castle. My bed is there, and my son.”
“And the red woman,” Salladhor Saan said suspiciously. “She is in the castle also.”
“Her too.” Davos slid the dirk back into its sheath.
“You are an onion smuggler, what do you know of skulkings and stabbings? And you are ill, you cannot even hold the dirk. Do you know what will be happening to you, if you are caught? While we were burning on the river, the queen was burning traitors. Servants of the dark, she named them, poor men, and the red woman sang as the fires were lit.”
Davos was unsurprised. I knew, he thought, I knew before he told me. “She took Lord Sunglass from the dungeons,” he guessed, “and Hubard Rambton’s sons.”
“Just so, and burned them, as she will burn you. If you kill the red woman, they will burn you for revenge, and if you fail to kill her, they will burn you for the trying. She will sing and you will scream, and then you will die. And you have only just come back to life!”
“And this is why,” said Davos. “To do this thing. To make an end of Melisandre of Asshai and all her works. Why else would the sea have spit me out? You know Blackwater Bay as well as I do, Salla. No sensible captain would ever take his ship through the spears of the merling king and risk ripping out his bottom. Shayala’s Dance should never have come near me.”
“A wind,” insisted Salladhor Saan loudly, “an ill wind, is all. A wind drove her too far to the south.”
“And who sent the wind? Salla, the Mother spoke to me.”
The old Lyseni blinked at him. “Your mother is dead . . . ”
“The Mother. She blessed me with seven sons, and yet I let them burn her. She spoke to me. We called the fire, she said. We called the shadows too. I rowed Melisandre into the bowels of Storm’s End and watched her birth a horror.” He saw it still in his nightmares, the gaunt black hands pushing against her thighs as it wriggled free of her swollen womb. “She killed Cressen and Lord Renly and a brave man named Cortnay Penrose, and she killed my sons as well. Now it is time someone killed her.”
“Someone,” said Salladhor Saan. “Yes, just so, someone. But not you. You are weak as a child, and no warrior. Stay, I beg you, we will talk more and you will eat, and perhaps we will sail to Braavos and hire a Faceless Man to do this thing, yes? But you, no, you must sit and eat.”
He is making this much harder, thought Davos wearily, and it was perishingly hard to begin with. “I have vengeance in my belly, Salla. It leaves no room for food. Let me go now. For our friendship, wish me luck and let me go.”
Salladhor Saan pushed himself to his feet. “You are no true friend, I am thinking. When you are dead, who will be bringing your ashes and bones back to your lady wife and telling her that she has lost a husband and four sons? Only sad old Salladhor Saan. But so be it, brave ser knight, go rushing to your grave. I will gather your bones in a sack and give them to the sons you leave behind, to wear in little bags around their necks.” He waved an angry hand, with rings on every finger. “Go, go, go, go, go.”
Davos did not want to leave like this. “Salla—”
“GO. Or stay, better, but if you are going, go.”
He went.
His walk up from the Bountiful Harvest to the gates of Dragonstone was long and lonely. The dockside streets where soldiers and sailors and smallfolk had thronged were empty and deserted. Where once he had stepped around squealing pigs and naked children, rats scurried. His legs felt like pudding beneath him, and thrice the coughing racked him so badly that he had to stop and rest. No one came to help him, nor even peered through a window to see what was the matter. The windows were shuttered, the doors barred, and more than half the houses displayed some mark of mourning. Thousands sailed up the Blackwater Rush, and hundreds came back, Davos reflected. My sons did not die alone. May the Mother have mercy on them all.
When he reached the castle gates, he found them shut as well. Davos pounded on the iron-studded wood with his fist. When there was no answer, he kicked at it, again and again. Finally a crossbowman appeared atop the barbican, peering down between two towering gargoyles. “Who goes there?”
He craned his head back and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Ser Davos Seaworth, to see His Grace.”
“Are you drunk? Go away and stop that pounding.”
Salladhor Saan had warned him. Davos tried a different tack. “Send for my son, then. Devan, the king’s squire.”
The guard frowned. “Who did you say you were?”
“Davos,” he shouted. “The onion knight.”
The head vanished, to return a moment later. “Be off with you. The onion knight died on the river. His ship burned.”
“His ship burned,” Davos agreed, “but he lived, and here he stands. Is Jate still captain of the gate?”
“Who?”
“Jate Blackberry. He knows me well enough.”
“I never heard of him. Most like he’s dead.”
“Lord Chyttering, then.”
“That one I know. He burned on the Blackwater.”
“Hookface Will? Hal the Hog?”
“Dead and dead,” the crossbowman said, but his face betrayed a sudden doubt. “You wait there.” He vanished again.
Davos waited. Gone, all gone, he thought dully, remembering how fat Hal’s white belly always showed beneath his grease-stained doublet, the long scar the fish hook had left across Will’s face, the way Jate always doffed his cap at the women, be they five or fifty, highborn or low. Drowned or burned, with my sons and a thousand others, gone to make a king in hell.
Suddenly the crossbowman was back. “Go round to the sally port and they’ll admit you.”
Davos did as he was bid. The guards who ushered him inside were strangers to him. They carried spears, and on their breasts they wore the fox-and-flowers sigil of House Florent. They escorted him not to the Stone Drum, as he’d expected, but under the arch of the Dragon’s Tail and down to Aegon’s Garden. “Wait here,” their sergeant told him.
“Does His Grace know that I’ve returned?” asked Davos.
“Bugger all if I know. Wait, I said.” The man left, taking his spearmen with him.
Aegon’s Garden had a pleasant piney smell to it, and tall dark trees rose on every side. There were wild roses as well, and towering thorny hedges, and a boggy spot where cranberries grew.
Why have they brought me here? Davos wondered.
Then he heard a faint ringing of bells, and a child’s giggle, and suddenly the fool Patchface popped from the bushes, shambling along as fast as he could go with the Princess Shireen hot on his heels. “You come back now,” she was shouting after him. “Patches, you come back.”
When the fool saw Davos, he jerked to a sudden halt, the bells on his antlered tin helmet going ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling. Hopping from one foot to the other, he sang, “Fool’s blood, king’s blood, blood on the maiden’s thigh, but chains for the guests and chains for the bridegroom, aye aye aye.” Shireen almost caught him then, but at the last instant he hopped over a patch of bracken and vanished among the trees. The princess was right behind him. The sight of them made Davos smile.
He had turned to cough into his gloved hand when another small shape crashed out of the hedge and bowled right into him, knocking him off his feet.
The boy went down as well, but he was up again almost at once. “What are you doing here?” he demanded as he brushed himself off. Jet-black hair fell to his collar, and his eyes were a startling blue. “You shouldn’t get in my way when I’m running.”
“No,” Davos agreed. “I shouldn’t.” Another fit of coughing seized him as he struggled to his knees.
“Are you unwell?” The boy took him by the arm and pulled him to his feet. “Should I summon the maester?”
Davos shook his head. “A cough. It will pass.”
The boy took him at his word. “We were playing monsters and maidens, “ he explained. “I was the monster. It’s a childish game but my cousin likes it. Do you have a name?”
“Ser Davos Seaworth.”
The boy looked him up and down dubiously. “Are you certain? You don’t look very knightly.”
“I am the knight of the onions, my lord.”
The blue eyes blinked. “The one with the black ship?”
“You know that tale?”
“You brought my uncle Stannis fish to eat before I was born, when Lord Tyrell had him under siege.” The boy drew himself up tall. “I am Edric Storm,” he announced. “King Robert’s son.”
“Of course you are.” Davos had known that almost at once. The lad had the prominent ears of a Florent, but the hair, the eyes, the jaw, the cheekbones, those were all Baratheon.
“Did you know my father?” Edric Storm demanded.
“I saw him many a time while calling on your uncle at court, but we never spoke.”
“My father taught me to fight,” the boy said proudly. “He came to see me almost every year, and sometimes we trained together. On my last name day he sent me a warhammer just like his, only smaller. They made me leave it at Storm’s End, though. Is it true my uncle Stannis cut off your fingers?”
“Only the last joint. I still have fingers, only shorter.”
“Show me.”
Davos peeled his glove off. The boy studied his hand carefully. “He did not shorten your thumb?”
“No.” Davos coughed. “No, he left me that.”
“He should not have chopped any of your fingers,” the lad decided. “That was ill done.”
“I was a smuggler.”
“Yes, but you smuggled him fish and onions.”
“Lord Stannis knighted me for the onions, and took my fingers for the smuggling.” He pulled his glove back on.
“My father would not have chopped your fingers.”
“As you say, my lord.” Robert was a different man than Stannis, true enough. The boy is like him. Aye, and like Renly as well. That thought made him anxious.
The boy was about to say something more when they heard steps. Davos turned. Ser Axell Florent was coming down the garden path with a dozen guards in quilted jerkins. On their breasts they wore the fiery heart of the Lord of Light. Queen’s men, Davos thought. A cough came on him suddenly.
Ser Axell was short and muscular, with a barrel chest, thick arms, bandy legs, and hair growing from his ears. The queen’s uncle, he had served as castellan of Dragonstone for a decade, and had always treated Davos courteously, knowing he enjoyed the favor of Lord Stannis. But there was neither courtesy nor warmth in his tone as he said, “Ser Davos, and undrowned. How can that be?”
“Onions float, ser. Have you come to take me to the king?”
“I have come to take you to the dungeon.” Ser Axell waved his men forward. “Seize him, and take his dirk. He means to use it on our lady.”

回到夏末之初(内阁元老)

16楼 2016-08-31

第十章戴佛斯

　　他来到甲板上，潮头岛在身后缩成长线，龙石岛则从前方海面升起。山顶飘荡着一缕灰白的烟，标明岛的所在。龙山今早又不安稳，戴佛斯心想，又或是梅丽珊卓在焚烧什么。
　　“莎亚拉之舞”号穿越黑水湾，通过喉道，逆风行驶，途中一直想着梅丽珊卓。巴尔艾蒙家的尖角城位于马赛岬顶端，它的了望塔上燃烧着熊熊烈火，让人忆起红袍女喉头的大红宝石。世界日升又日落，流云的颜色跟她婆娑的丝绸长袍相一致。

　　她正在龙石岛上等他，带着所有的美丽和力量。她拥有她的神、她的影子和他的国王，而他则一无所有。迄今为止，红袍女祭司似乎一直对史坦尼斯忠心耿耿。但实际上，正是她拖垮了他，就象人拖垮一匹马。为一己迷梦，她骑着他奔向权力，还将我的孩子们送进火里。我要把她的心活生生挖出来，用火来祭奠。他摸了摸船长送的那把精良的里斯长匕首。

　　船长待他很好。他名叫柯连恩？萨斯芒，跟这艘船的主人萨拉多？桑恩一样，来自于里斯，里斯人常见的淡蓝眼睛长在他饱经风霜的瘦脸上。此人在七大王国间进行贸易已有许多年。当他得知从海里捞起来的就是著名的洋葱骑士，立即把自己的舱室和衣服让给戴佛斯，还为他找来一双大小差不多合适的新靴子，并坚持要前走私者享用他的美味——只是效果不妙。戴佛斯的胃受不了蜗牛、鳗鱼及柯连恩船长钟爱的其他海产，用餐之后，一整天他都上吐下泻，摇摇晃晃地趴在栏杆上度过。

　　木桨划动，龙石岛越变越大。现在戴佛斯不仅能看出山的轮廓，也能看见拥有石像鬼和龙形塔楼的黑石巨堡。莎亚拉之舞号的青铜船首像劈开波浪，溅起的海水如张开的翅膀。他将重心靠在栏杆上，庆幸有东西支撑，之前经历的磨难使他十分虚弱，若站得太久，腿脚便会颤抖，有的时候，他无法抑制地咳嗽，甚至咳出带血的唾沫。这没关系，他告诉自己，诸神既然救我于水火之中，决不会用疾病来杀害我。

　　听着桨官沉重的鼓声，船帆的飘荡和木桨的律动吱嘎，不由得让他回到青年时代。在那许多个烟雾朦胧的清晨，同样的声音，曾激起他心中的恐惧——它们预示着老崔蒂蒙爵士麾下海上警卫队的到来，伊里斯？坦格利安二世对走私者毫不留情。

　　一切都仿如隔世。一切都发生在洋葱船之前，在围攻风息堡之前，在史坦尼斯削短我的手指之前；一切都发生在战争之前，在红色彗星出现之前，在我改名席渥斯、成为骑士之前。在史坦尼斯大人提拔我之前。是他造就了我。

　　柯连恩船长告诉他，史坦尼斯的希望已在黑水长河燃烧的当晚彻底破灭。前方是大火，兰尼斯特军则从侧面包抄，反复无常的臣属们在他最需要的时候成百上千地倒戈。“有人看见蓝礼国王的鬼魂，”船长道，“率领狮子的先锋左冲右杀，绿甲在野火映照下闪烁幽灵的光芒，他的鹿角盔上燃烧着金色的火焰。”

　　蓝礼的鬼魂。戴佛斯不知儿子们会不会也变成鬼魂回来。在海上讨生活见过太多诡异事情，鬼魂又有什么奇怪呢？“就无人尽忠职守啰？”他问。

　　“未变节的是少数，”船长说，“其中后党人士居多。我们把许多鲜花狐狸纹章的人载上船，当然，更多的人只得留在岸上。眼下，佛罗伦大人是御前首相。”

　　山越来越高，围绕着苍白的烟雾。船帆在歌唱，鼓点继续敲打，木桨则平滑划动，过了一阵，港口出现在面前。好空旷啊，戴佛斯心想，记得出发以前，每个码头都挤满了船，停泊在防波堤边摇曳。如今最好的泊位由萨拉多？桑恩的旗舰瓦雷利亚人号占据——那儿原先是怒火号与她的姐妹舰的地盘。该船周围也都是船身彩绘的里斯舰艇。他徒劳地寻找着玛瑞亚夫人号和海灵号的踪迹。

　　进港之前他们收了帆，仅凭划桨行进。系缆绳时，船长走向戴佛斯，“请你去会会我家亲王。”

　　戴佛斯试图回答，爆发出的却是一阵咳嗽，他赶紧抓住栏杆，朝外啐了一口。“国王，”他喘息着说，“我得去见国王。”找到国王，就能找到梅丽珊卓。

　　“没人能见国王，”柯连恩？萨斯芒坚定地说，“萨拉多？桑恩会向你解释。来，先去见他吧。”

　　戴佛斯实在太虚弱，无力表示异议。他只能点点头。

　　萨拉多？桑恩不在瓦雷利亚人号上。他们在四分之一里外的另一个码头上找到了他，他正带着两个太监在一艘大肚子潘托斯货船“丰收”号的货舱里清点货物。两个太监一人提灯，一人拿蜡板和铁笔。“三十七，三十八，三十九，”当戴佛斯和船长走下舱室时，老海盗数得聚精会神，今天他穿一件酒红色外衣，漂白高筒皮靴上嵌着银色蔓叶纹。他拔掉一个罐子的木塞，嗅了嗅，打个喷嚏，然后说，“粗颗粒，二流品质，我的鼻子不说慌。还有啊，清单上白纸黑字写着四十三罐，其他的跑哪儿去啦？这些潘托斯佬，当我不会数数吗？”他回头看见戴佛斯，骤然停顿下来，“噢，噢，等等，是胡椒还是泪水，使我双眼模糊？站在我面前的是洋葱骑士？不，这不可能，我亲爱的好朋友戴佛斯死在那条燃烧的河流里，大家都这么说。为何，为何他的鬼魂要来纠缠我？”

　　“我不是鬼魂，萨拉。”

　　“不是鬼魂？我的洋葱骑士从不像你这样瘦、这样苍白。”萨拉多？桑恩从香料罐和布匹中挤过来，热烈地拥抱戴佛斯，在他双颊各吻一下，然后又吻了额头。“很温热，很温热，亲爱的爵士先生，你的心脏还在跳动。这是真的吗？大海把你吞进去，却又吐了出来？”

　　戴佛斯想起补丁脸，希琳公主的弱智弄臣。他也曾沉入大海，回到岸上便疯了。我也疯了吗？他用戴手套的手遮住嘴巴咳嗽，“我从铁索下游过，被冲到人鱼王之矛上。若不是莎亚拉之舞号碰巧路过，只怕就得死在那儿了。”

　　萨拉多？桑恩单臂搂住船长的肩膀，“干得好，柯连恩，你会得到丰厚的奖赏。梅佐？马赫，好太监，把我的老友戴佛斯带去船长室，给他取些掺丁香的热葡萄酒，我可不喜欢他的咳嗽声。记得往里面挤酸柑汁，再拿白干酪和一碗我们刚清点过的裂口绿橄榄！戴佛斯，我处理完这位好船长就来找你，你能原谅我的吧？记住，别把橄榄吃光啰，我会生气的哟！”

　　两个太监中的长者将戴佛斯领进船中间一件宽大而奢华的舱室，里面地毯厚实，窗户镶嵌彩色玻璃，巨大的皮椅子能让三个戴佛斯舒舒服服地坐。干酪和橄榄很快送上，外加一杯冒热气的红葡萄酒。他双手捧住，满心感激地啜了一口，暖意在胸膛扩散，令人欣慰。

　　萨拉多？桑恩很快赶到，“酒你可得包涵点啰，我的老友，这帮不识货的潘托斯佬，就算把水染成紫色，他们也会信以为真。”

　　“好歹能暖暖胸口，”戴佛斯道，“我母亲常说，热酒比敷药管用。”

　　“依我之见，你还是敷点药吧。在一颗岩石上呆这么久，噢，我的天哪！对啦，你觉得这把漂亮椅子怎么样？瞧，他的屁股可真肥哟！”

　　“谁？”戴佛斯边饮热酒边问。

　　“伊利里欧？莫帕提斯，告诉你，他就象一条长胡子的鲸鱼，这些椅子正是按他的身材做的，尽管他很少离开潘托斯。其实啊，依我之见，胖子坐什么都舒服，因为他自个儿就带着垫子咧。”

　　“你搞到潘托斯船？”戴佛斯质问，“又做海盗啦，我的亲王？”他将空杯子放到一边。

　　“哎哟，回来就不说好话。干海盗有什么好？萨拉多？桑恩吃的苦头还不够呀？错啦错啦，我只是讨债而已。噢，理论上我已经发财了，没错，可实际上呢？哎，萨拉是个讲道理的人，他没要金币，只要了一张上等羊皮纸，薄薄地，上面有御前首相艾利斯特？佛罗伦爵爷的亲笔签名和国王的印章。嘿，我当上黑水湾总督了咧，未经我的恩准，谁也不能穿越属于我的领海，是的，不行！不法之徒甭想黑夜里悄悄溜过去，逃避合法的税收和检查，你瞧，这条船就算是走私啦，因此我完全有权将其没收，”老海盗嘻嘻笑道，“我啊，人就是好，可没砍别人的指头哦，嘎，几根指头管什么用？船只和货物才值钱嘛，人呢，人可以付赎金，不过分吧？”他锐利地瞥了戴佛斯一眼。“你身体不大好，我亲爱的朋友。你在咳嗽……人也瘦了，透过皮肤直能看见骨头咧。而且啊，你装指骨的小袋子……”

　　戴佛斯习惯性去摸那不复存在的皮袋子。“我在河里把它弄丢了。”我的幸运符。

　　“河上的战斗真可怕，”萨拉多？桑恩严肃起来，“即使在海湾内，看过去都直发怵。”

　　戴佛斯咳出几口痰，紧接着又咳。“黑贝丝号和怒火号首先起火，”他终于嘶哑地说出来，“难道所有的船都完了？”还抱有一点点希望。

　　“有些是没烧着啦，比如史蒂芬公爵号、珍娜号、快剑号和欢笑君王号等等，她们在上游，避开了炼金术士的屎尿。但链子升起来，照样跑不脱呀。最后嘛，有几条投降，大多数逆黑水河而上，脱离战场，然后被船员们自行凿沉，以免落入兰尼斯特之手。听说珍娜号和欢笑君王号还在河上做起了强盗，吓，谁说得准呢？”

　　“玛瑞亚夫人号呢？”戴佛斯忙问，“海灵号呢？”

　　萨拉多？桑恩伸手搭在戴佛斯前臂上，捏了一把，“不，不，很遗憾，我的朋友，戴尔和阿拉德，他们都是好汉子……有一件事可以让你欣慰——你的小戴冯被我们救走了。勇敢的孩子啊，都说他怎么也不肯离开国王身边。”

　　他感到晕眩，长出了一口气。之前一直不敢问起戴冯。“圣母慈悲，我必须去见他，萨拉，必须去见他！”

　　“是的，”萨拉多？桑恩说，“依我之见，你也该航往风怒角，去见见老婆和两个小家伙才对。总而言之，你得有艘新船。”

　　“陛下会给我船，”戴佛斯道。

　　里斯人摇摇头。“船，陛下半艘都没有，而萨拉多？桑恩多的是。国王的船都在河上烧光啦，而我却一艘都没损失哟。你会有新船的，我的老友，你也会替我航海，对吧？只需在漆黑的夜里悄悄摸进布拉佛斯、密尔或瓦兰提斯，神不知鬼不觉，再悄悄载着丝绸与香料出来。瞧，咱们都会发财的。”

　　“你对我很好，萨拉，但我效忠的对象乃是当今王上，不是你的钱包。战争还在继续，根据七大王国的律法，史坦尼斯仍旧是铁王座的法定继承人。”

　　“依我之见，既然船都烧光咧，那就什么律法都谈不上啰。再说，你那国王呢，嗯……恐怕你会发现他变了。惨败之后，他避不见人，自个儿窝在石鼓楼里。目前朝政由赛丽丝王后和她伯父艾利斯特伯爵共同打理，她把国王的印章交给伯父，这位爵爷便据此自封为首相，一天到晚迷上了盖章，瞧，我那张漂亮羊皮纸也在内哟！唉，表面是很堂皇啦，可说到底这只是一个小王国，潦倒又荒凉，最最关键的是，没钱，没钱！嘿嘿，连付给老实忠诚的萨拉多？桑恩一点点应得的报酬都做不到。咱们的王国还得靠我搭救出来的几位落汤鸡骑士和我手下勇敢的船员来保卫，好让人伤心哟。”

　　一阵痛苦的咳嗽迫使戴佛斯弯下腰来。萨拉多？桑恩上前帮忙，却被他挥手制止，过了好一会儿，他才恢复。“不见人？”他喘着气说，“什么意思，陛下他从不见人？”即使在自己耳中，声音也显得又粘又浊，舱室在周围旋转，令人晕眩。

　　“除了她之外，”萨拉多？桑恩说，戴佛斯不用问也知道他指的是谁。“我的朋友，你太难为自己了。我看哪，你现在需要的是床，不是萨拉多？桑恩。对，一张床，一堆毯子，一贴用在胸口的热敷药，以及更多的香料热酒。”

　　戴佛斯摇摇头。“我没事。告诉我，萨拉，这件事我必须了解。难道陛下除了梅丽珊卓，不见任何人？”

　　里斯人怀疑地盯了他许久，才不情不愿地说下去，“是的，卫兵会拦住所有人，甚至包括王后和他的小女儿，仆人们送去的食物也从未动过。”他倾身向前，压低声音。“我听到一些奇怪的说法，你瞧，山里面有熊熊大火，而史坦尼斯和那红袍女结伴走下去看，据说有井道和秘密楼梯通往山的内部，在那个炽热的地方，只有她能安然无恙。嗨，这些恐怖事情一天到晚都有人讲，我老喽，听了过后饭都吃不下。”

　　好个梅丽珊卓。戴佛斯不禁浑身颤抖。“一切都是红袍女的阴谋，”他说，“她用烈火吞噬我们，以惩罚史坦尼斯抛弃她的举动；她企图使国王以为，没有她的巫术就不能获得天下。”

　　里斯人从碗里挑了一颗饱满的橄榄。“这都是老生常谈啰，我的朋友，最近常有人这么说。如果我是你，决不会讲得这么大声，龙石岛上到处都是后党人士哦，噢，没错，他们耳朵尖，刀子更尖哟。”他将橄榄送入嘴里。

　　“我也有刀子，柯连恩船长送的礼物。”他拔出匕首，放在他们中间的桌子上。“我要用它剖出梅丽珊卓的心脏——如果她有心的话。”

　　萨拉多？桑恩一口吐出橄榄核。“戴佛斯，噢，好戴佛斯，这玩笑可开不得。”

　　“我没开玩笑。我就是要杀她。”但愿寻常武器能将她杀死。对此戴佛斯并不确定，他曾亲眼看见克礼森老师傅将毒药偷放入酒里，两人都喝了，结果学士一命呜呼，红袍女却安然无恙。然而匕首插入心脏……歌手们不是说，恶魔也能被冷兵器击杀吗？

　　“你简直不着边际，朋友。”萨拉多？桑恩警告他，“海里面待久喽，我瞧你还没康复吧，发烧把脑子也烧坏了。好啦，好啦，到床上多休息一段时间，等身子好些了再说。”

　　等决心削弱了再说？戴佛斯站起身来，的确有些发烧和晕眩，但没关系。“你是个反复无常的老滑头，萨拉多？桑恩，但另一方面，你也是我的好朋友。”

　　里斯人摸摸银白的尖胡子，“也就是说，你会陪着好朋友，对吗？”

　　“不，我要走。”他边咳边道。

　　“走？上哪儿去？你给我好好瞧瞧自己！又是咳嗽，又是发抖，弱不禁风的样子，上哪儿去啊？”

　　“回城堡。回我自己的房间。去见我儿子。”

　　“去见红袍女的吧？”萨拉多？桑恩满腹狐疑地说，“她也在城堡里。”

　　“对，还有她。”戴佛斯将匕首收回鞘中。

　　“你个买洋葱的走私贩，倒干起刺客来啦？生病，你在生病，连匕首都握不住，还逞什么强！知道被抓的话，会有什么后果吗？我告诉你，你们在河上被敌人烧，叛徒在岛上被王后烧。她称他们为‘暗之仆’，真可怜哪，火刑架前，红袍女却高唱赞歌。”

　　戴佛斯并不惊奇。我知道，他心想，他不说我也知道。“桑格拉斯大人，”他说，“赫柏？蓝布顿爵士的两个儿子。”

　　“就是这样，他们都被烧死了，你也会被烧死。杀得了她，将遭后党的人报复而烧死；杀不了她，则会被她亲自烧死。她会一边高声歌咏，一边看着你惨叫而亡。醒醒吧，你才刚死里逃生咧！”

　　“这正是我一刻也不能逗留的原因，”戴佛斯说，“我要立即终结亚夏的梅丽珊卓和她的一切作为。大海为何把我吐出来？萨拉，你跟我一样了解黑水湾，任何有理智的船长都不会冒着沉船的危险，来穿越人鱼王之矛的暗礁。莎亚拉之舞号本不该在那里。”

　　“是风的关系，”萨拉多？桑恩大声坚持，“一阵逆风，仅此而已。一阵逆风把她吹到了南面。”

　　“那是谁刮的风？萨拉，咳……母在对我说话。”

　　老里斯人眨眨眼，“你母亲已经死了……”

　　“是圣母！她给了我七个儿子，我却任她被他们焚烧，什么也没做。她在对我说话，她说：‘是我们招来火焰’。不，我还召来影子。在那个漆黑的夜晚，是我替梅丽珊卓划船，载她潜进风息堡，放出阴影。”它依旧时时在噩梦中出现，用枯瘦的黑手攫住血流不止的大腿，扭动着爬出鼓胀的肚子。“她杀死克礼森师傅和蓝礼大人，杀死勇敢的科塔奈·庞洛斯爵士，还有我的儿子们。该有人去找她算帐了。”

　　“有人会去，”萨拉多？桑恩说，“是的，就是这样，有人会去，但不是你。你虚弱得跟孩子似的，怎能打斗？留下来吧，我求求你了，来，咱哥俩聊几句家常，多吃点东西喽，然后咧，然后或许我们航向布拉佛斯，雇一个无面者来干，怎么样？但凭你呀，不行，不行，你必须坐下来吃东西。”

　　他怎么能这样？他让我好难办，戴佛斯疲惫地想，这件事本身就已经很难办了。“我的腹中盛满复仇的欲望，萨拉，无法再容纳别的东西。让我走吧，为了我们的友情，祝我好运，让我走。”

　　萨拉多？桑恩霍地起身，“依我之见，你不是我真正的朋友。你想想，当你死后，谁会把骨灰带给你老婆，并告诉她，她已经失去了老公和四个儿子？只有伤心的老萨拉多？桑恩！但是，你想怎样就怎样吧，勇敢的骑士先生，冲向你的坟墓吧！让我来收集你的遗骨，交给你剩下的孩子，好让他们放进小口袋，系在脖子上！”他气鼓鼓地挥舞着戴满戒指的手。“走，走，走，走，走。”

　　戴佛斯不想就这样离开。“萨拉——”

　　“走。或者留下。留下更好，但你想走就走吧，走。”

　　他走了。

　　丰收号通往城堡大门的路漫长而孤独。码头边的街道以前挤满士兵、水手和平民，如今一片空旷萧索；以前从嗷嗷叫的猪群和赤裸身体的孩子们中间穿过，如今只有窜来窜去的老鼠。腿象布丁一样绵软，咳嗽第三次把他折磨得弯腰，不得不停下来歇息。没人伸出援手，甚至没人在窗户后窥视。所有门窗统统紧闭，超过一半的屋子在致哀。啊，十人出征一人回，戴佛斯心想，牺牲的不止我儿子。愿圣母怜悯所有人。

　　城堡大门也紧紧关闭。戴佛斯用拳头敲打镶铁钉的木门。无人作答。他改用脚踢，一次又一次。终于，一个十字弓手出现在上方的堡楼，从两个高大的石像鬼间望下来，“谁？”

　　他把手拢在嘴边，仰头喊道：“戴佛斯？席渥斯爵士求见国王陛下。”

　　“喝醉了吗？走开，别烦了。”

　　萨拉多？桑恩警告过他。于是戴佛斯改变策略，“那么，请让我儿子出来。他名叫戴冯，是国王的侍从。”

　　守卫皱了皱眉。“你刚才说你是谁？”

　　“戴佛斯，”他喊，“洋葱骑士。”

　　那个脑袋消失了一会儿，然后又回来。“走开。洋葱骑士在河上阵亡，他的船被烧了。”

　　“他的船被烧了，”戴佛斯表示同意，“但人没死，就站在这里。城门守卫队长是杰特吗？”

　　“谁？”

　　“杰特？布莱伯利。我跟他很熟。”

　　“我没听过这个名字。很可能他已经没命了。”

　　“那么，齐特林大人呢？”

　　“这我倒知道，他在黑水河上给烧死了。”

　　“钩疤脸威尔呢？公猪哈尔呢？”

　　“死了，都死了，”十字弓手说，脸上突然浮现出怀疑。“等在这里，”说完他又一次消失。

　　戴佛斯耐心等待。死了，都死了，他郁闷地想，还记得哈尔油腻的上衣下白胖胖的肚皮，记得鱼钩在威尔脸上留下的长长疤痕，记得杰特向女士脱帽的姿势——不管面对五位还是五十位，不管出身高贵或者低贱，他都那样彬彬有礼地致敬。他们有的被淹死，有的被烧死，跟我的儿子们和成千上万其他人一起，到地狱里去守护国王了。

　　他正出神，弩兵突然回来，“绕到突击口去，我们放你进来。”

　　戴佛斯依令而行。领他的卫兵他都不认识，只见他们扛着长矛，胸前绣有佛罗伦家族的鲜花狐狸徽章。出乎意料地，他们没有送他到石鼓楼，却经由拱形的龙尾门，下到伊耿花园。“等在这儿，”他们的头目告诉他。

　　“陛下知道我回来的消息吗？”戴佛斯问。

　　“我怎知道？我讲了，等着。”说罢，那人带着他的长矛兵离开。

　　伊耿花园里充溢着愉悦的松木清香，高大的黑树从四周拔地而起。这里还有野玫瑰和耸立的刺棘丛，淤泥地中生长蔓越橘。

　　他们为何带我来这儿？戴佛斯不明白。

　　附近传来铃铛轻响和孩子的欢笑，弄臣补丁脸从灌木丛中跳将出来，摇摇晃晃，古怪横行，希琳公主则风风火火地紧跟在后。“站住，”她对他大喊，“阿丁，你给我站住。”

　　弄臣看见戴佛斯，竟真的猛然站住。他单脚跳来跳去，锡桶鹿角盔上的铃铛响个不停，叮，叮，他唱道：“弄臣血，国王血，处女大腿也流血，链子拴宾客啊，大人，链子拴新郎啊，我知道，我知道，噢噢噢！”希琳差点就赶上他了，但他唱完却立刻跳过蕨丛，消失在树林里，公主拔腿就追。此情此景，让戴佛斯不由得笑了。

　　他用手套遮着咳嗽，不料另一个小形体也从灌木丛中冲出来，正好撞在他身上，把他撞倒在地。

　　男孩也同时跌倒，但立刻翻身而起。“你在这儿干嘛？”他边拍尘土边问，这孩子漆黑的头发坠至领口，眼睛则蓝得令人吃惊，“我跑的时候，你不该挡道。”

　　“没错，”戴佛斯表示同意，“我不该挡道。”他挣扎着起身，不料又爆发出一阵咳嗽。

　　“不舒服？”男孩扶住他的手，将他拉起来，“要叫学士吗？”

　　戴佛斯摇摇头，“咳嗽而已，一会就好。”

　　男孩信了。“我们在玩美女与怪兽，”他解释，“我当怪兽。这是个幼稚的游戏，但我表妹喜欢。你叫什么名字？”

　　“戴佛斯？席渥斯爵士。”

　　男孩怀疑地上下打量，“没骗人吧？你看上去可不象骑士。”

　　“我是洋葱骑士呢，大人。”

　　蓝眼睛眨了眨，“驾驶黑船的？”

　　“你知道这个故事？”

　　“在我出生以前，你把鱼和洋葱送到风息堡给我史坦尼斯叔叔，缓解了提利尔公爵的围困。是的，我知道。”男孩挺直身子。“我是艾德瑞克？风暴，”他宣布，“劳勃国王之子。”

　　“是的，您当然是，”戴佛斯料到了。这孩子虽有佛罗伦家族著名的招风耳，但头发、眼睛、下颚和颊骨无一不打着拜拉席恩的印记。

　　“你认得我父亲？”艾德瑞克？风暴问。

　　“我入宫拜访您叔叔时见过他许多次，但没有对话。”

　　“父亲教我打仗，”男孩骄傲地说，“差不多每年都来看我，跟我一起比武。去年命名日，他送的礼物是一把战锤，跟他自己的一模一样喔！只是小一号，可惜他们不让我把它从风息堡带来。我史坦尼斯叔叔真的砍断了你的手指？”

　　“只有最后一个指节。手指还在，短一点罢了。”

　　“给我看。”

　　戴佛斯摘下手套，男孩仔细端详。“他没削掉你的大拇指？”

　　“没有。”戴佛斯边咳边说。“没有，他把大拇指留给了我。”

　　“他不该削掉你任何一根手指，”男孩评判，“这是很糟糕的行为。”

　　“我是个走私者。”

　　“是的，但没有你为他走私鱼和洋葱，他活不下来。”

　　“史坦尼斯大人为了洋葱而授予我骑士称号，为了走私而削掉我的手指。”他把手套重新戴上。

　　“我父亲不会削掉你的手指。”

　　“您说得没错，王子殿下。”是的，劳勃跟史坦尼斯不同，这孩子像他，也像蓝礼。想到这里，他焦虑起来。

　　男孩刚要开口，突然传来脚步声。戴佛斯转身，只见亚赛尔？佛罗伦爵士带着十来个卫兵，沿着花园小径走来。卫兵们穿着加垫上衣，胸口绣有光之王的烈焰红心。后党人士，戴佛斯心想，突然又开始咳嗽。

　　亚赛尔爵士矮胖结实，酒桶一样的胸膛，双臂粗壮，腿脚弯曲，耳毛密集，身为王后的伯伯，担任龙石岛代理城主已有十年之久。他知戴佛斯深受史坦尼斯信赖，故而对他颇为礼遇，但这回开口时，语调却冰冷而无礼，“戴佛斯爵士，你竟没淹死，真是奇迹。”

　　“洋葱会浮起来的，爵士先生，请问您是来带我觐见国王的吗？”

　　“我是来带你去黑牢的。”亚赛尔爵士挥手示意他的人上前。“抓住他，取走匕首，他想刺杀我们尊贵的女士。”

回到夏末之初(内阁元老)

17楼 2016-08-31

JAIME
Jaime was the first to spy the inn. The main building hugged the south shore where the river bent, its long low wings outstretched along the water as if to embrace travelers sailing downstream. The lower story was grey stone, the upper whitewashed wood, the roof slate. He could see stables as well, and an arbor heavy with vines. “No smoke from the chimneys,” he pointed out as they approached. “Nor lights in the windows.”
“The inn was still open when last I passed this way,” said Ser Cleos Frey. “They brewed a fine ale. Perhaps there is still some to be had in the cellars.”
“There may be people,” Brienne said. “Hiding. Or dead.”
“Frightened of a few corpses, wench?” Jaime said.
She glared at him. “My name is—”
“—Brienne, yes. Wouldn’t you like to sleep in a bed for a night, Brienne? We’d be safer than on the open river, and it might be prudent to find what’s happened here.”
She gave no answer, but after a moment she pushed at the tiller to angle the skiff in toward the weathered wooden dock. Ser Cleos scrambled to take down the sail. When they bumped softly against the pier, he climbed out to tie them up. Jaime clambered after him, made awkward by his chains.
At the end of the dock, a flaking shingle swung from an iron post, painted with the likeness of a king upon his knees, his hands pressed together in the gesture of fealty. Jaime took one look and laughed aloud. “We could not have found a better inn.”
“Is this some special place?” the wench asked, suspicious.
Ser Cleos answered. “This is the Inn of the Kneeling Man, my lady. It stands upon the very spot where the last King in the North knelt before Aegon the Conqueror to offer his submission. That’s him on the sign, I suppose.”
“Torrhen had brought his power south after the fall of the two kings on the Field of Fire,” said Jaime, “but when he saw Aegon’s dragon and the size of his host, he chose the path of wisdom and bent his frozen knees.” He stopped at the sound of a horse’s whinny. “Horses in the stable. One at least.” And one is all I need to put the wench behind me. “Let’s see who’s home, shall we?” Without waiting for an answer, Jaime went clinking down the dock, put a shoulder to the door, shoved it open . . .
. . . and found himself eye to eye with a loaded crossbow. Standing behind it was a chunky boy of fifteen. “Lion, fish, or wolf?” the lad demanded.
“We were hoping for capon.” Jaime heard his companions entering behind him. “The crossbow is a coward’s weapon.”
“It’ll put a bolt through your heart all the same.”
“Perhaps. But before you can wind it again my cousin here will spill your entrails on the floor.”
“Don’t be scaring the lad, now,” Ser Cleos said.
“We mean no harm,” the wench said. “And we have coin to pay for food and drink.” She dug a silver piece from her pouch.
The boy looked suspiciously at the coin, and then at Jaime’s manacles. “Why’s this one in irons?”
“Killed some crossbowmen,” said Jaime. “Do you have ale?”
“Yes.” The boy lowered the crossbow an inch. “Undo your swordbelts and let them fall, and might be we’ll feed you.” He edged around to peer through the thick, diamond-shaped windowpanes and see if any more of them were outside. “That’s a Tully sail.”
“We come from Riverrun.” Brienne undid the clasp on her belt and let it clatter to the floor. Ser Cleos followed suit.
A sallow man with a pocked doughy face stepped through the cellar door, holding a butcher’s heavy cleaver. “Three, are you? We got horsemeat enough for three. The horse was old and tough, but the meat’s still fresh.”
“Is there bread?” asked Brienne.
“Hardbread and stale oatcakes.”
Jaime grinned. “Now there’s an honest innkeep. They’ll all serve you stale bread and stringy meat, but most don’t own up to it so freely.”
“I’m no innkeep. I buried him out back, with his women.”
“Did you kill them?”
“Would I tell you if I did?” The man spat. “Likely it were wolves’ work, or maybe lions, what’s the difference? The wife and I found them dead. The way we see it, the place is ours now.”
“Where is this wife of yours?” Ser Cleos asked.
The man gave him a suspicious squint. “And why would you be wanting to know that? She’s not here . . . no more’n you three will be, unless I like the taste of your silver.”
Brienne tossed the coin to him. He caught it in the air, bit it, and tucked it away.
“She’s got more,” the boy with the crossbow announced.
“So she does. Boy, go down and find me some onions.”
The lad raised the crossbow to his shoulder, gave them one last sullen look, and vanished into the cellar.
“Your son?” Ser Cleos asked.
“Just a boy the wife and me took in. We had two sons, but the lions killed one and the other died of the flux. The boy lost his mother to the Bloody Mummers. These days, a man needs someone to keep watch while he sleeps.” He waved the cleaver at the tables. “Might as well sit.”
The hearth was cold, but Jaime picked the chair nearest the ashes and stretched out his long legs under the table. The clink of his chains accompanied his every movement. An irritating sound. Before this is done, I’ll wrap these chains around the wench’s throat, see how she likes them then.
The man who wasn’t an innkeep charred three huge horse steaks and fried the onions in bacon grease, which almost made up for the stale oatcakes. Jaime and Cleos drank ale, Brienne a cup of cider. The boy kept his distance, perching atop the cider barrel with his crossbow across his knees, cocked and loaded. The cook drew a tankard of ale and sat with them. “What news from Riverrun?” he asked Ser Cleos, taking him for their leader.
Ser Cleos glanced at Brienne before answering. “Lord Hoster is failing, but his son holds the fords of the Red Fork against the Lannisters. There have been battles.”
“Battles everywhere. Where are you bound, ser?”
“King’s Landing.” Ser Cleos wiped grease off his lips.
Their host snorted. “Then you’re three fools. Last I heard, King Stannis was outside the city walls. They say he has a hundred thousand men and a magic sword.”
Jaime’s hands wrapped around the chain that bound his wrists, and he twisted it taut, wishing for the strength to snap it in two. Then I’d show Stannis where to sheathe his magic sword.
“I’d stay well clear of that kingsroad, if I were you,” the man went on. “it’s worse than bad, I hear. Wolves and lions both, and bands of broken men preying on anyone they can catch.”
“Vermin,” declared Ser Cleos with contempt. “Such would never dare to trouble armed men.”
“Begging your pardon, ser, but I see one armed man, traveling with a woman and a prisoner in chains.”
Brienne gave the cook a dark look. The wench does hate being reminded that she’s a wench, Jaime reflected, twisting at the chains again. The links were cold and hard against his flesh, the iron implacable. The manacles had chafed his wrists raw.
“I mean to follow the Trident to the sea,” the wench told their host. “We’ll find mounts at Maidenpool and ride by way of Duskendale and Rosby. That should keep us well away from the worst of the fighting.”
Their host shook his head. “You’ll never reach Maidenpool by river. Not thirty miles from here a couple boats burned and sank, and the channel’s been silting up around them. There’s a nest of outlaws there preying on anyone tries to come by, and more of the same downriver around the Skipping Stones and Red Deer Island. And the lightning lord’s been seen in these parts as well. He crosses the river wherever he likes, riding this way and that way, never still.”
“And who is this lightning lord?” demanded Ser Cleos Frey.
“Lord Beric, as it please you, ser. They call him that ’cause he strikes so sudden, like lightning from a clear sky. It’s said he cannot die.”
They all die when you shove a sword through them, Jaime thought. “Does Thoros of Myr still ride with him?”
“Aye. The red wizard. I’ve heard tell he has strange powers.”
Well, he had the power to match Robert Baratheon drink for drink, and there were few enough who could say that. Jaime had once heard Thoros tell the king that he became a red priest because the robes hid the winestains so well. Robert had laughed so hard he’d spit ale all over Cersei’s silken mantle. “Far be it from me to make objection,” he said, “but perhaps the Trident is not our safest course.”
“I’d say that’s so,” their cook agreed. “Even if you get past Red Deer island and don’t meet up with Lord Beric and the red wizard, there’s still the ruby ford before you. Last I heard, it was the Leech Lord’s wolves held the ford, but that was some time past. By now it could be lions again, or Lord Beric, or anyone.”
“Or no one,” Brienne suggested.
“If m’lady cares to wager her skin on that I won’t stop her . . . but if I was you, I’d leave this here river, cut overland. If you stay off the main roads and shelter under the trees of a night, hidden as it were . . . well, I still wouldn’t want to go with you, but you might stand a mummer’s chance.”
The big wench was looking doubtful. “We would need horses.”
“There are horses here,” Jaime pointed out. “I heard one in the stable.”
“Aye, there are,” said the innkeep, who wasn’t an innkeep. “Three of them, as it happens, but they’re not for sale.”
Jaime had to laugh. “Of course not. But you’ll show them to us anyway.”
Brienne scowled, but the man who wasn’t an innkeep met her eyes without blinking, and after a moment, reluctantly, she said, “Show me,” and they all rose from the table.
The stables had not been mucked out in a long while, from the smell of them. Hundreds of fat black flies swarmed amongst the straw, buzzing from stall to stall and crawling over the mounds of horse dung that lay everywhere, but there were only the three horses to be seen. They made an unlikely trio; a lumbering brown plow horse, an ancient white gelding blind in one eye, and a knight’s palfrey, dapple grey and spirited. “They’re not for sale at any price,” their alleged owner announced.
“How did you come by these horses?” Brienne wanted to know.
“The dray was stabled here when the wife and me come on the inn,” the man said, “along with the one you just ate. The gelding come wandering up one night, and the boy caught the palfrey running free, still saddled and bridled. Here, I’ll show you.”
The saddle he showed them was decorated with silver inlay. The saddlecloth had originally been checkered pink and black, but now it was mostly brown. Jaime did not recognize the original colors, but he recognized bloodstains easily enough. “Well, her owner won’t be coming to claim her anytime soon.” He examined the palfrey’s legs, counted the gelding’s teeth. “Give him a gold piece for the grey, if he’ll include the saddle,” he advised Brienne. “A silver for the plow horse. He ought to pay us for taking the white off his hands.”
“Don’t speak discourteously of your horse, ser.” The wench opened the purse Lady Catelyn had given her and took out three golden coins. “I will pay you a dragon for each.”
He blinked and reached for the gold, then hesitated and drew his hand back. “I don’t know. I can’t ride no golden dragon if I need to get away. Nor eat one if I’m hungry.”
“You can have our skiff as well,” she said. “Sail up the river or down, as you like.”
“Let me have a taste o’ that gold.” The man took one of the coins from her palm and bit it. “Hm. Real enough, I’d say. Three dragons and the skiff?”
“He’s robbing you blind, wench,” Jaime said amiably.
“I’ll want provisions too,” Brienne told their host, ignoring Jaime. “Whatever you have that you can spare.”
“There’s more oatcakes.” The man scooped the other two dragons from her palm and jingled them in his fist, smiling at the sound they made. “Aye, and smoked salt fish, but that will cost you silver. My beds will be costing as well. You’ll be wanting to stay the night.”
“No,” Brienne said at once.
The man frowned at her. “Woman, you don’t want to go riding at night through strange country on horses you don’t know. You’re like to blunder into some bog or break your horse’s leg.”
“The moon will be bright tonight,” Brienne said. “We’ll have no trouble finding our way.”
Their host chewed on that. “If you don’t have the silver, might be some coppers would buy you them beds, and a coverlet or two to keep you warm. It’s not like I’m turning travelers away, if you get my meaning.”
“That sounds more than fair,” said Ser Cleos.
“The coverlets is fresh washed, too. My wife saw to that before she had to go off. Not a flea to be found neither, you have my word on that.” He jingled the coins again, smiling.
Ser Cleos was plainly tempted. “A proper bed would do us all good, my lady,” he said to Brienne. “We’d make better time on the morrow once refreshed.” He looked to his cousin for support.
“No, coz, the wench is right. We have promises to keep, and long leagues before us. We ought ride on.”
“But,” said Cleos, “you said yourself—”
“Then.” When I thought the inn deserted. “Now I have a full belly, and a moonlight ride will be just the thing.” He smiled for the wench. “But unless you mean to throw me over the back of that plow horse like a sack of flour, someone had best do something about these irons. It’s difficult to ride with your ankles chained together.”
Brienne frowned at the chain. The man who wasn’t an innkeep rubbed his jaw. “There’s a smithy round back of the stable.”
“Show me,” Brienne said.
“Yes,” said Jaime, “and the sooner the better. There’s far too much horse shit about here for my taste. I would hate to step in it.” He gave the wench a sharp look, wondering if she was bright enough to take his meaning.
He hoped she might strike the irons off his wrists as well, but Brienne was still suspicious. She split the ankle chain in the center with a half-dozen sharp blows from the smith’s hammer delivered to the blunt end of a steel chisel. When he suggested that she break the wrist chain as well, she ignored him.
“Six miles downriver you’ll see a burned village,” their host said as he was helping them saddle the horses and load their packs. This time he directed his counsel at Brienne. “The road splits there. If you turn south, you’ll come on Ser Warren’s stone towerhouse. Ser Warren went off and died, so I couldn’t say who holds it now, but it’s a place best shunned. You’d do better to follow the track through the woods, south by east.”
“We shall,” she answered. “You have my thanks.”
More to the point, he has your gold. Jaime kept the thought to himself. He was tired of being disregarded by this huge ugly cow of a woman.
She took the plow horse for herself and assigned the palfrey to Ser Cleos. As threatened, Jaime drew the one-eyed gelding, which put an end to any thoughts he might have had of giving his horse a kick and leaving the wench in his dust.
The man and the boy came out to watch them leave. The man wished them luck and told them to come back in better times, while the lad stood silent, his crossbow under his arm. “Take up the spear or maul,” Jaime told him, “they’ll serve you better.” The boy stared at him distrustfully. So much for friendly advice. He shrugged, turned his horse, and never looked back.
Ser Cleos was all complaints as they rode out, still in mourning for his lost featherbed. They rode east, along the bank of the moonlit river. The Red Fork was very broad here, but shallow, its banks all mud and reeds. Jaime’s mount plodded along placidly, though the poor old thing had a tendency to want to drift off to the side of his good eye. It felt good to be mounted once more. He had not been on a horse since Robb Stark’s archers had killed his destrier under him in the Whispering Wood.
When they reached the burned village, a choice of equally unpromising roads confronted them; narrow tracks, deeply rutted by the carts of farmers hauling their grain to the river. One wandered off toward the southeast and soon vanished amidst the trees they could see in the distance, while the other, straighter and stonier, arrowed due south. Brienne considered them briefly, and then swung her horse onto the southern road. Jaime was pleasantly surprised; it was the same choice he would have made.
“But this is the road the innkeep warned us against,” Ser Cleos objected.
“He was no innkeep.” She hunched gracelessly in the saddle, but seemed to have a sure seat nonetheless. “The man took too great an interest in our choice of route, and those woods . . . such places are notorious haunts of outlaws. He may have been urging us into a trap.”
“Clever wench.” Jaime smiled at his cousin. “Our host has friends down that road, I would venture. The ones whose mounts gave that stable such a memorable aroma.”
“He may have been lying about the river as well, to put us on these horses,” the wench said, “but I could not take the risk. There will be soldiers at the ruby ford and the crossroads.”
Well, she may be ugly but she’s not entirely stupid. Jaime gave her a grudging smile.
The ruddy light from the upper windows of the stone towerhouse gave them warning of its presence a long way off, and Brienne led them off into the fields. Only when the stronghold was well to the rear did they angle back and find the road again.
Half the night passed before the wench allowed that it might be safe to stop. By then all three of them were drooping in their saddles. They sheltered in a small grove of oak and ash beside a sluggish stream. The wench would allow no fire, so they shared a midnight supper of stale oatcakes and salt fish. The night was strangely peaceful. The half-moon sat overhead in a black felt sky, surrounded by stars. Off in the distance, some wolves were howling. One of their horses whickered nervously. There was no other sound. The war has not touched this place, Jaime thought. He was glad to be here, glad to be alive, glad to be on his way back to Cersei.
“I’ll take the first watch,” Brienne told Ser Cleos, and Frey was soon snoring softly.
Jaime sat against the bole of an oak and wondered what Cersei and Tyrion were doing just now. “Do you have any siblings, my lady?” he asked.
Brienne squinted at him suspiciously. “No. I was my father’s only s—child.”
Jaime chuckled. “Son, you meant to say. Does he think of you as a son? You make a queer sort of daughter, to be sure.”
Wordless, she turned away from him, her knuckles tight on her sword hilt. What a wretched creature this one is. She reminded him of Tyrion in some queer way, though at first blush two people could scarcely be any more dissimilar. Perhaps it was that thought of his brother that made him say, “I did not intend to give offense, Brienne. Forgive me.”
“Your crimes are past forgiving, Kingslayer.”
“That name again.” Jaime twisted idly at his chains. “Why do I enrage you so? I’ve never done you harm that I know of.”
“You’ve harmed others. Those you were sworn to protect. The weak, the innocent . . . ”
“ . . . the king?” It always came back to Aerys. “Don’t presume to judge what you do not understand, wench.”
“My name is—”
“—Brienne, yes. Has anyone ever told you that you’re as tedious as you are ugly?”
“You will not provoke me to anger, Kingslayer.”
“Oh, I might, if I cared enough to try.”
“Why did you take the oath?” she demanded. “Why don the white cloak if you meant to betray all it stood for?”
Why? What could he say that she might possibly understand? “I was a boy. Fifteen. It was a great honor for one so young.”
“That is no answer,” she said scornfully.
You would not like the truth. He had joined the Kingsguard for love, of course.
Their father had summoned Cersei to court when she was twelve, hoping to make her a royal marriage. He refused every offer for her hand, preferring to keep her with him in the Tower of the Hand while she grew older and more womanly and ever more beautiful. No doubt he was waiting for Prince Viserys to mature, or perhaps for Rhaegar’s wife to die in childbed. Elia of Dorne was never the healthiest of women.
Jaime, meantime, had spent four years as squire to Ser Sumner Crakehall and earned his spurs against the Kingswood Brotherhood. But when he made a brief call at King’s Landing on his way back to Casterly Rock, chiefly to see his sister, Cersei took him aside and whispered that Lord Tywin meant to marry him to Lysa Tully, had gone so far as to invite Lord Hoster to the city to discuss dower. But if Jaime took the white, he could be near her always. Old Ser Harlan Grandison had died in his sleep, as was only appropriate for one whose sigil was a sleeping lion. Aerys would want a young man to take his place, so why not a roaring lion in place of a sleepy one?
“Father will never consent,” Jaime objected.
“The king won’t ask him. And once it’s done, Father can’t object, not openly. Aerys had Ser Ilyn Payne’s tongue torn out just for boasting that it was the Hand who truly ruled the Seven Kingdoms. The captain of the Hand’s guard, and yet Father dared not try and stop it! He won’t stop this, either.”
“But,” Jaime said, “there’s Casterly Rock . . . ”
“Is it a rock you want? Or me?”
He remembered that night as if it were yesterday. They spent it in an old inn on Eel Alley, well away from watchful eyes. Cersei had come to him dressed as a simple serving wench, which somehow excited him all the more. Jaime had never seen her more passionate. Every time he went to sleep, she woke him again. By morning Casterly Rock seemed a small price to pay to be near her always. He gave his consent, and Cersei promised to do the rest.
A moon’s turn later, a royal raven arrived at Casterly Rock to inform him that he had been chosen for the Kingsguard. He was commanded to present himself to the king during the great tourney at Harrenhal to say his vows and don his cloak.
Jaime’s investiture freed him from Lysa Tully. Elsewise, nothing went as planned. His father had never been more furious. He could not object openly—Cersei had judged that correctly—but he resigned the Handship on some thin pretext and returned to Casterly Rock, taking his daughter with him. Instead of being together, Cersei and Jaime just changed places, and he found himself alone at court, guarding a mad king while four lesser men took their turns dancing on knives in his father’s ill-fitting shoes. So swiftly did the Hands rise and fall that Jaime remembered their heraldry better than their faces. The horn-of-plenty Hand and the dancing griffins Hand had both been exiled, the mace-and-dagger Hand dipped in wildfire and burned alive. Lord Rossart had been the last. His sigil had been a burning torch; an unfortunate choice, given the fate of his predecessor, but the alchemist had been elevated largely because he shared the king’s passion for fire. I ought to have drowned Rossart instead of gutting him.
Brienne was still awaiting his answer. Jaime said, “You are not old enough to have known Aerys Targaryen . . . ”
She would not hear it. “Aerys was mad and cruel, no one has ever denied that. He was still king, crowned and anointed. And you had swom to protect him.”
“I know what I swore.”
“And what you did.” She loomed above him, six feet of freckled, frowning, horse-toothed disapproval.
“Yes, and what you did as well. We’re both kingslayers here, if what I’ve heard is true.”
“I never harmed Renly. I’ll kill the man who says I did.”
“Best start with Cleos, then. And you’ll have a deal of killing to do after that, the way he tells the tale.”
“Lies. Lady Catelyn was there when His Grace was murdered, she saw. There was a shadow. The candles guttered and the air grew cold, and there was blood—”
“Oh, very good.” Jaime laughed. “Your wits are quicker than mine, I confess it. When they found me standing over my dead king, I never thought to say, ‘No, no, it wasn’t me, it was a shadow, a terrible cold shadow.’ ” He laughed again. “Tell me true, one kingslayer to another—did the Starks pay you to slit his throat, or was it Stannis? Had Renly spurned you, was that the way of it? Or perhaps your moon’s blood was on you. Never give a wench a sword when she’s bleeding.”
For a moment Jaime thought Brienne might strike him. A step closer, and I’ll snatch that dagger from her sheath and bury it up her womb. He gathered a leg under him, ready to spring, but the wench did not move. “It is a rare and precious gift to be a knight,” she said, “and even more so a knight of the Kingsguard. It is a gift given to few, a gift you scorned and soiled.”
A gift you want desperately, wench, and can never have. “I earned my knighthood. Nothing was given to me. I won a tourney mêlée at thirteen, when I was yet a squire. At fifteen, I rode with Ser Arthur Dayne against the Kingswood Brotherhood, and he knighted me on the battlefield. It was that white cloak that soiled me, not the other way around. So spare me your envy. It was the gods who neglected to give you a cock, not me.”
The look Brienne gave him then was full of loathing. She would gladly hack me to pieces, but for her precious vow, he reflected. Good. I’ve had enough of feeble pieties and maidens’ judgments. The wench stalked off without saying a word. Jaime curled up beneath his cloak, hoping to dream of Cersei.
But when he closed his eyes, it was Aerys Targaryen he saw, pacing alone in his throne room, picking at his scabbed and bleeding hands. The fool was always cutting himself on the blades and barbs of the Iron Throne. Jaime had slipped in through the king’s door, clad in his golden armor, sword in hand. The golden armor, not the white, but no one ever remembers that. Would that I had taken off that damned cloak as well.
When Aerys saw the blood on his blade, he demanded to know if it was Lord Tywin’s. “I want him dead, the traitor. I want his head, you’ll bring me his head, or you’ll burn with all the rest. All the traitors. Rossart says they are inside the walls! He’s gone to make them a warm welcome. Whose blood? Whose?”
“Rossart’s,” answered Jaime.
Those purple eyes grew huge then, and the royal mouth drooped open in shock. He lost control of his bowels, turned, and ran for the Iron Throne. Beneath the empty eyes of the skulls on the walls, Jaime hauled the last dragonking bodily off the steps, squealing like a pig and smelling like a privy. A single slash across his throat was all it took to end it. So easy, he remembered thinking. A king should die harder than this. Rossart at least had tried to make a fight of it, though if truth be told he fought like an alchemist. Queer that they never ask who killed Rossart . . . but of course, he was no one, lowborn, Hand for a fortnight, just another mad fancy of the Mad King.
Ser Elys Westerling and Lord Crakehall and others of his father’s knights burst into the hall in time to see the last of it, so there was no way for Jaime to vanish and let some braggart steal the praise or blame. It would be blame, he knew at once when he saw the way they looked at him . . . though perhaps that was fear. Lannister or no, he was one of Aerys’s seven.
“The castle is ours, ser, and the city,” Roland Crakehall told him, which was half true. Targaryen loyalists were still dying on the serpentine steps and in the armory, Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch were scaling the walls of Maegor’s Holdfast, and Ned Stark was leading his northmen through the King’s Gate even then, but Crakehall could not have known that. He had not seemed surprised to find Aerys slain; Jaime had been Lord Tywin’s son long before he had been named to the Kingsguard.
“Tell them the Mad King is dead,” he commanded. “Spare all those who yield and hold them captive.”
“Shall I proclaim a new king as well?” Crakehall asked, and Jaime read the question plain: Shall it be your father, or Robert Baratheon, or do you mean to try to make a new dragonking? He thought for a moment of the boy Viserys, fled to Dragonstone, and of Rhaegar’s infant son Aegon, still in Maegor’s with his mother. A new Targaryen king, and my father as Hand. How the wolves will howl, and the storm lord choke with rage. For a moment he was tempted, until he glanced down again at the body on the floor, in its spreading pool of blood. His blood is in both of them, he thought. “Proclaim who you bloody well like,” he told Crakehall. Then he climbed the Iron Throne and seated himself with his sword across his knees, to see who would come to claim the kingdom. As it happened, it had been Eddard Stark.
You had no right to judge me either, Stark.
In his dreams the dead came burning, gowned in swirling green flames. Jaime danced around them with a golden sword, but for every one he struck down two more arose to take his place.
Brienne woke him with a boot in the ribs. The world was still black, and it had begun to rain. They broke their fast on oatcakes, salt fish, and some blackberries that Ser Cleos had found, and were back in the saddle before the sun came up.

回到夏末之初(内阁元老)

18楼 2016-08-31

第十一章詹姆

　　詹姆最先发现客栈。主建筑坐落在弯道南岸，又长又低的厢房伸展到河面上，好似要拥抱过往旅客。客栈底层由灰石砌成，上层用了石灰粉刷的木材，顶棚则铺上石板。它带有马厩，还有座爬满藤蔓的凉亭。“烟囱没烟，”接近后他提示，“窗户也没亮光。”
　　“上回经过时，客栈还开着，”克里奥·佛雷爵士道，“这地方的麦酒不错，或许我们可以去酒窖里找找。”

　　“不行，里面恐怕有人，”布蕾妮说，“要么躲起来，要么是死了。”

　　“几具尸体就吓着你了，妞儿？”詹姆道。

　　她朝他怒目而视。“我的名字是——”

　　“——布蕾妮。好啦，你就不想在床上睡一宿，布蕾妮？不管怎么说，总比待在开阔的河面上安全吧？依我之见，咱们先瞧瞧究竟怎么回事，再做打算不迟。”

　　她没回话，但不一会儿，却转舵朝老朽的木码头驶去。克里奥爵士赶紧手忙脚乱地收帆，待船轻轻地靠在墩子上，他又爬出去系绳子。詹姆跟随他行动，动作因铁镣而显得笨拙。

　　码头远端，一根铁柱上摇晃着一面脆弱的招牌，依稀看得出画了一位下跪的国王，双手合拢，以示臣服。詹姆一眼瞧去，不由得笑出声来，“妙，这客栈太妙了。”

　　“有何特别之处？”妞儿疑惑地问。

　　克里奥爵士作答：“小姐，这里便是‘屈膝之栈’，建在最后一位北境之王向征服者伊耿屈膝臣服的地方。我想，招牌上画的应该就是他。”

　　“当托伦带着大军南下时，河湾王和凯岩王已在怒火燎原之役中一败涂地，”詹姆道，“他亲眼目睹伊耿的巨龙和军队，于是便作出了明智的选择，弯下自己结冰的膝盖。”突然传来一匹马的嘶鸣。“哎，马厩里居然还有一匹马，真不简单。”一匹便足以让我远走高飞。“哈哈，让我们瞧瞧这是谁的家？”不等回答，詹姆便拖着叮当作响的镣铐冲下码头，肩膀靠在客栈门上，用力一推……

　　……正对着一把上好弹药的十字弓，一个约莫十五、又矮又胖的男孩端着它。“狮子，鱼，还是狼？”这小子盘问。

　　“我想要阉鸡呢。”同伴们走到詹姆身后。“我说，十字弓是懦夫的武器。”

　　“别动，否则我射死你！”

　　“来啊，你装不上第二发就得被我表弟捅个透心凉。”

　　“小心，别乱吓唬孩子啊。”克里奥爵士忙喊。

　　“我们不会伤害你，”妞儿说，“吃的喝的都会付钱。”她从口袋里掏出一个银币。

　　男孩怀疑地瞧着硬币，又打量詹姆的镣铐。“他干吗带着铁家伙？”

　　“这还用问？宰了几个放冷箭的呗，”詹姆道，“有麦酒吗？”

　　“有。”男孩把弩放底一寸。“把剑带解开，让它们自己掉下来，或许能为你们弄点吃的。”他小心翼翼地转圈，来到钻石形状的玻璃厚窗前窥探，大概想确认外面的状况。“船帆是徒利家的。”

　　“我们从奔流城来。”布蕾妮松开剑带的系扣，“哗啦”一声，它落在地上。克里奥爵士也照办。

　　一位形容憔悴、满脸麻子的男人从地窖里走出，手握一柄屠夫切肉用的大刀。“你们一伙就三个？三个还好，马肉够了，老马倔脾气，肉还算新鲜。”

　　“有面包吗？”布蕾妮问。

　　“有硬面包和放陈的燕麦饼。”

　　詹姆咧嘴笑道：“难得难得，今个居然碰上一位诚实店家。你瞧，上哪儿都给端些变质面包和生硬老肉，却从没听他们亲口承认过哟。”

　　“我不是店家。我在房子后面埋了他，连着他的女人。”

　　“这么说，他俩都是被你杀的啰？”

　　“妈的，杀了我会承认吗？”男人吐口唾沫。“算了，狼仔干的好事，又或是狮子干的，有什么区别？反正我和我老婆发现两具尸体，这地方就顺理成章归咱们喽。”

　　“你老婆在哪儿？”克里奥爵士问。

　　男人怀疑地瞅着他，“问这么清楚干嘛？她不在这儿……你们仨也不该在这儿，除非银钱的滋味能讨我喜欢。”

　　布蕾妮把硬币掷过去。他伸手接住，咬了咬，塞进兜里。

　　“她那儿还有，”端十字弓的小男孩宣布。

　　“她那儿是有。孩子，去，到下面拿些洋葱。”

　　这小子把十字弓放到肩膀，又愠怒地瞧了瞧他们，方才跑去地窖。

　　“你儿子？”克里奥爵士问。

　　“我和我老婆捡的小子。我们有过两个儿，一个让狮子杀掉，一个死于天花。这小子他娘被血戏班抓去了，如今的年月呀，睡觉时得有人照看才安心。”他舞动砍刀指指桌子。“你们先坐。”

　　壁炉已冷，詹姆挑了最靠近灰烬的位子坐下，把长腿伸展开，每动一下都伴随着铁镣的响声。真烦人。等事情完结，我要把这堆东西绞到妞儿的喉咙上，瞧她会不会喜欢。

　　不是店家的男人烤好三大块马肉，并用培根油炸洋葱，算是弥补那难吃的燕麦饼。詹姆和克里奥喝麦酒，布蕾妮则要了一杯果酒。小男孩坐在果酒桶子上，跟他们继续保持距离，蓄势待发的十字弓放于膝盖。他的养父倒是端着一大杯麦酒过来谈话。“奔流城那边有什么新闻？”他问克里奥爵士——很明显，他把佛雷当成了头。

　　克里奥爵士瞥了布蕾妮一眼方才回话。“霍斯特公爵不行了，但他儿子坚守红叉河的渡口，对抗兰尼斯特。两军多次交战。”

　　“嗨，到处都在交战。打算上哪儿去啊，爵士？”

　　“去君临。”克里奥爵士边说边揩嘴角的油脂。

　　他们的主人嗤之以鼻。“你们仨都是傻瓜不成。上次听人说，史坦尼斯国王已经兵临城下啦，带着十万大军，手持一把魔剑。”

　　詹姆握紧手铐，暗暗拧了拧，希望把它弄断。妈的，让我试试史坦尼斯的魔剑伎俩。

　　“如果我是你，会避开国王大道，”男人续道，“听说路上糟透了，不仅有成群的狼仔和狮子，还有无数游荡的‘残人’，照谁都抢。”

　　“寄生虫而已，”克里奥爵士蔑视地宣称，“不敢来打搅全副武装的正派人。”

　　“请原谅，爵士，可我只看见一位有武装的正派人，双拳难敌四手，况且他还要照顾女人和带铁镣的囚犯。”

　　布蕾妮阴沉地望着对方。妞儿害怕被人提醒是个妞儿，詹姆心想，一边再拧了拧手铐。铁环又冷又硬，毫不动摇，反倒把他手腕磨破了皮。

　　“我打算沿三叉戟河直到海边，”妞儿告诉他们的主人，“在女泉城买马，然后沿暮谷城、罗斯比一路南下，应该不会遭遇战争。”

　　他们的主人摇摇头。“你到不了女泉城，离这儿不到三十里，有两条船被烧掉后沉在水里，堵住了河道，有群强盗守在那儿打劫。再说，即便你过得了这关，下游的跳石滩和红鹿岛也是相同状况。还有闪电大王，他到处出没，随意穿越河流，一会这头一会那边，从不停止。”

　　“谁是闪电大王？”克里奥爵士询问。

　　“您不知道，爵士？就是贝里伯爵啊。他打起仗来迅雷不及掩耳，犹如晴空中的闪电，所以得了这个外号。人人都说他是不死之身。”

　　一剑下去，谁都会完蛋，詹姆心想。“密尔的索罗斯还跟着他？”

　　“是啊，红袍巫师本领高强呢。”

　　没错，能跟劳勃·拜拉席恩来个一醉方休的本领确实高强。詹姆曾听这个索罗斯向国王夸口，之所以选择当红袍僧全因这身袍子能隐藏葡萄酒的痕迹，劳勃听了轰然大笑，喝下去的麦酒全喷在瑟曦的银丝披风上。“或许我没资格反对，”他说，“但依我之见，走三叉戟河似乎不妥。”

　　“正是如此，”他们的主人附和，“就算过了红鹿岛，中间也没碰上贝里席伯爵和红袍巫师，前面可还有红宝石滩呢。听人说，那里由水蛭大人的狼仔把守，但那是很久以前的消息了。也许现在换成了狮子，或是贝里伯爵，或是其他人，谁知道呢。”

　　“或许没有人，”布蕾妮坚持。

　　“我不会把宝压在这上面，小姐……如果我是您，就从这里离开河流，穿越陆地，如果远离大道，躲在不见天日的树林中，小心隐藏……啊，我可不想跟你们一起走，但这样至少还有机会。”

　　肥妞儿露出怀疑的神色。“这么说，也得有马才行。”

　　“这里有马，”詹姆指出，“我听见马厩里的声音。”

　　“没错，这里有马，”不是店家的店家说，“正好有三匹，但它们是不卖的。”

　　詹姆没法忍笑，“那当然喽，但瞧瞧总可以吧。”

　　布蕾妮皱起眉头，而那位不是店家的男人目不转睛地望着她，过了一会儿，她勉强道，“去瞧瞧吧。”于是人们一起离开饭桌。

　　马厩很久未经清理，空气中全是粪便的味道，黑色的大苍蝇群聚在稻草堆边，嗡嗡响着飞来飞去，停靠在随处可见的马屎堆上。目光所及只有三匹马，组成一个不太协调的三重唱；一匹迟钝的棕毛犁马，一匹半瞎的老白马，还有一匹骑士的坐骑，深灰色斑纹，挺有精神头。“无论多高的价都不卖，”所谓的业主宣布。

　　“你打哪儿弄的？”布蕾妮想弄清楚。

　　“我和我老婆来客栈时那匹拉犁的就在这了，”男人说，“和你们刚才吃的那匹待在一起。白马是晚上自己游荡过来的，那匹快的则是被男孩逮到，上面的鞍子和缰绳都好好的呢。在这儿，我给你瞧。”

　　取出的鞍具上装饰着银钉，褥子的颜色原本是粉红与墨黑相间的方格，现在几乎成了褐黄。詹姆认不出是谁家花色，但能轻易发现褥子上的血迹，“好啊，总之不会有人来认领了。”他检查犁马的腿，然后掰开白马的嘴巴计算。“灰马给一块金币，若他肯附送马鞍的话，”他劝告布蕾妮，“犁马算一块银币。如果我们把那白畜生带走，他还该倒找钱咧。”

　　“别这么评论自己的坐骑，爵士。”妞儿从凯特琳夫人给的钱包里拿出三枚金币。“每匹一个金龙。”

　　男人眨眨眼，伸手去够金币，手到半空又犹豫起来，缩了回去。“我不知道……想走的时候，不能骑金币，饿的时候也不能吃。”

　　“我们的船也是你的，”她说，“走上游还是往下游，随你挑。”

　　“让我尝尝金子。”男人从她掌心攫过一块金币，咬了咬。“嗯，不错不错，十足真金。那么，三块金龙加上小船？”

　　“他敲你竹杠呢，妞儿。”詹姆亲切地说。

　　“我还要足够的食物，”布蕾妮不理詹姆，继续和主人攀谈，“有什么要什么。”

　　“我有燕麦饼。”男人把剩下的两枚金币一把捞过，捏在手中揉搓，陶醉在它们发出的声响里，“呃，还有熏腌鱼——这个得用银币付帐，床位也一样。你们该要住一宿吧？”

　　“不，”布蕾妮毫不含糊。

　　男人皱起眉头，“女人，你该不会想骑着一匹陌生的马，深夜在荒山野地游荡吧？那才傻咧，刚买的马要么陷进泥潭，要么就是摔断腿。”

　　“今晚月光足够，”布蕾妮说，“我们找得到路。”

　　主人仔细衡量她的话，“没银币的话，多给几个铜板也可以提供床铺，外加一两条毛毯暖身子。呃，如果您明白我的意思，我不想赶客人走。”

　　“这还差不多，”克里奥爵士道。

　　“真的，毛毯刚洗过，我老婆离开前专门弄的。绝对一只跳蚤都没有，我向您保证。”他又笑着揉揉钱币。

　　克里奥爵士动了心。“在床上睡一觉对我们有好处，小姐，”他劝告布蕾妮，“精力充沛，方能好好赶路。”他望向表哥，恳求帮助。

　　“不，老表，妞儿说得对。我们有诺言必须遵守，而路还长着呢，不应多做逗留。”

　　“可是，”克里奥张口结舌地道，“你自己刚才不是说——”

　　“刚才是刚才，现在是现在。”刚才我以为这是间废弃的客栈。“填饱肚皮之后，正需要骑行散步帮助消化。”他冲妞儿一笑。“看来，小姐你打算把我当面粉扔给犁马驮喽？脚踝连在一起，我还真不知该怎么骑。”

　　布蕾妮皱紧眉头，打量着铁链。不是店家的男人则摸摸下巴，“马厩后有个铁匠铺。”

　　“带我去，”布蕾妮道。

　　“快去吧，”詹姆说，“越快越好。这里马屎太多，不是人待的地儿。”他锐利地看了妞儿一眼，不知她明白不明白他的暗示。

　　他希望双手也能获得自由，但布蕾妮终究放心不下。她拿来铁匠的锤子和凿子，朝脚镣中央用力几敲，将其弄断。当他建议=手铐也照此办理时，她没理他。

　　“往下游六里，您会看见一个被烧毁的村庄。”主人一边帮他们整理鞍具、装载包裹，一边说话。这回他直接向布蕾妮提建议。“道路在那儿分叉。往南走会经过沃伦爵士的石塔楼，但爵士他出去打仗死掉了，所以我不知现今谁占住那儿，你们最好避开它。依我之见，应该跟着小道进森林，往东南方向走。”

　　“好的，”她回答，“我们感激你的帮助。”

　　感激个鬼，詹姆心想，我们被他大敲了一笔。但他没把话说出口，因为厌倦了被这头丑陋的肥母牛不搭不理。

　　她自骑犁马，把好马让给克里奥爵士，而在她威胁下，詹姆只得牵走一只眼的畜牲，盘算了半天的狠命一踢、决尘而去的念头统统落了空。

　　男人和孩子目送他们离去。男人祝他们好运，也祝好日子早早降临，欢迎他们再来作客。孩子则一言不发，胳膊夹着十字弓。“找根长矛或者棒槌，”詹姆告诉他，“对你来说更好。”男孩露出怀疑的神色。不识好人心，他耸耸肩，调过坐骑，再也没有回头。

　　克里奥爵士一路抱怨，不停哀叹错过的床铺。他们顺着月光照耀的流水，朝东南行去。红叉河在此已非常宽阔，不过很浅，岸边污泥中长满芦苇。詹姆的马沉重而平缓地前行，这可怜的老东西，行不了直线，走着走着就往好眼睛的那边偏。虽然如此，但重回马背的感觉实在不错，自从在呓语森林，被罗柏·史塔克的弓箭手射掉坐骑后，他就再没骑过。

　　经过焚毁的村庄，两条陌生的小道路摆在眼前，它们都很窄，不过是和平时期农民运收获到河边的途径，路面上印着深深的车撤。其中一条向东南方延伸，消失在远方的树丛里，另一条状况比较好的路笔直地朝向南方。布蕾妮稍作考虑，便策马向南而去。詹姆有些惊喜，这妞儿还不算太傻。

　　“店家明明警告过我们别走这条路。”克里奥爵士反对。

　　“他不是店家，”她骑马的姿势毫不优雅，却很稳健，“对于我们选择道路的事上过于热心。森林里……到处有强盗出没。我认为，他可能想骗我们踏进陷阱。”

　　“聪明妞儿。”詹姆冲表弟一笑。“我敢打赌，那条道上有我们主人的朋友，正是他们的马给马厩留下了难以磨灭的芳香。”

　　“关于河上的状况，他可能也在撒谎，为了让我们买马，”小妞道，“但我不敢冒险，红宝石滩和十字路口一定有士兵把守。”

　　很好，很好，她丑是丑，但没蠢透顶。詹姆不由自主地朝她笑笑。

　　石塔楼顶层的窗户发出朦胧的红光，警惕他们原离此地。布蕾妮领大家穿越田野，直到碉堡在身后消失无踪，方才拐回来，回到道路上。

　　他们马不停蹄地走了半夜，妞儿终于认定可以稍作歇息，这时三人早在马背上累散了架。他们在浅溪边找到一处橡树和芩树的小丛林，妞儿不许生火，所以夜宵只好吃硬燕麦饼和盐腌鱼。夜晚奇特地宁静，群星环绕着半个月亮，高挂在漆黑的天幕中。远方，隐约传来阵阵狼嗥，引得一匹马紧张踢打。除此之外，一点声音也无。战火没有触及这片土地，詹姆心想，待在这里是一种幸福，活下来是一种幸福，我马上就可以回到瑟曦身边。

　　“我值头班，”布蕾妮告诉克里奥爵士，不一会儿，佛雷便打起了鼾。

　　詹姆靠住一棵橡树，想着瑟曦与提利昂。“你有兄弟姐妹吗，小姐？”他问。

　　布蕾妮疑惑地扫视他，“没有。我是我父亲惟一的……孩子。”

　　詹姆吃吃笑道，“你想说‘惟一的儿子’，对吧？告诉我实话，他拿你当儿子看待？哎，女人做到你这份上真是绝了。”

　　她一言不发地别过头，指节抠紧剑柄。好可怜的家伙，一时间他竟莫名其妙地联想到了提利昂，尽管乍看上去他俩有天差地别，却又有说不出的相似。或许正是对弟弟的思念使他又开了口，“我没有冒犯的意思，布蕾妮，请你原谅。”

　　“你的罪恶不可原谅，弑君者！”

　　“又来了。”詹姆懒散地拧着铁镣。“你究竟哪里不对劲？假如我没健忘的话，我可不曾伤害过你呢。”

　　“你伤害过很多人，很多你誓言守护的人。弱者，无辜之人……”

　　“……以及国王？”没错，什么都会扯上伊里斯。“别对不了解的事妄下评判，妞儿。”

　　“我的名字是——”

　　“——布蕾妮，刚才说过，我不健忘。可你呢，就不肯好好审视？没发现自个儿既丑脾气又差吗？”

　　“你千万别把我惹火了，弑君者！”

　　“噢，我当然会，我想做什么就做什么。”

　　“为何你要起誓？”她突然问，“为何你明明对白袍所代表的意义不屑一顾，却还要穿上它？”

　　为何？我的遭遇，你这姑娘能懂吗？“当时我还小，才十五岁，年纪轻轻就成为御林铁卫是一份莫大的荣耀。”

　　“这不是答案，”她轻蔑地说。

　　真相你是不会喜欢的。没错，他穿上白袍全是为了爱。

　　父亲带瑟曦进宫里那年她才十二岁，他计划让她攀上一门王亲，为此拒绝了所有求婚，把她锁在首相塔里。在君临的宫廷，她长大了，变得更有女人味，也更加漂亮。虽然从前和雷加订婚的计划遭到失败，但父亲还有小王子韦赛里斯作目标，而且雷加的妻子——多恩的伊莉亚身体一直不好。

　　与此同时，詹姆身为侍从在萨姆纳·克雷赫伯爵手下干了四年，最后在剿灭御林兄弟会一役中因作战英勇而受封骑士。回凯岩城途中，他抽空去君临一趟，主要想见见姐姐。瑟曦把他拉出去，悄悄告诉他泰温公爵打算让他娶莱莎·徒利，事态已进展到邀请霍斯特公爵过来谈嫁妆的地步……但若詹姆穿上白袍，就可避开婚姻，还能时时见她。老迈的哈兰·格兰德森爵士在熟睡中去世，算是应证了自家的睡狮纹章。伊里斯想选位年轻人接替职位，既然如此，怒吼雄狮为何不能代替睡狮呢？

　　“父亲是不会同意的，”詹姆提出异议。

　　“国王不会征求他的意见，而等木已成舟，父亲要反对也来不及，至少不能公开反对。你瞧，伊林·派恩爵士就因无心说了一句‘首相大人才是真正的七国统治者’，就被伊里斯拔掉舌头。他可是首相卫队的队长啊，而父亲大人一句也不敢问！你这事儿，他就更无法干涉了。”

　　“可是，”詹姆道，“那么凯岩城……”

　　“你要岩石？还是要我？”

　　他时常想起那个夜晚，仿佛发生在昨天一般历历在目。他们在鳗鱼巷找了个破旅馆，远远避开监视的眼线，瑟曦照着酒馆招待打扮，让他兴奋无比。詹姆从未见过比那晚更热情的她。每当他想睡，她就会弄醒他，等到黎明，凯岩城已经微不足道。他亲口许下诺言，由她去完成手续。

　　一月之后，乌鸦飞到凯岩城，通知他他已被正式选为御林铁卫，应立即前往赫伦堡的比武大会，面见王上，立下誓言，穿上白袍。

　　詹姆的新职位使他摆脱了莱莎·徒利，除此之外，一切都同计划差之千里。父亲雷霆震怒，他不敢公开反对——这点瑟曦说对了——但以一堆微不足道的借口辞去了首相职位，回到凯岩城，并带走女儿。与梦想中的接近恰恰相反，瑟曦与詹姆只不过换了位置。

　　他孤身一人处在宫廷，守护着那位疯王。父亲走后，连着有四位短命的首相，来来去去，以至于詹姆记住了他们的纹章，却对他们的面孔毫无印象。巨号首相和狮鹫首相遭到流放，锤子与匕首阁下被浸进野火，活活烧死，最后一个是罗萨特伯爵，国王赐予他燃烧火炬的纹章，以暗示前任的命运。火术士是国王昏庸的根源之一。我该淹死罗萨特而非戳死这恶棍。

　　布蕾妮还在等待他的回答。詹姆缓缓地说：“当年你太小，不明白伊里斯·坦格利安……”

　　这不是她期待的答案。“伊利斯既疯狂又残暴，天下人人皆知。但他是你的君主，涂抹七圣油的国王，你发誓为他献身。”

　　“我记得自己发过的誓言。”

　　“你也记得自己做过什么？”她站起来，足有六尺高，满脸的雀斑、皱紧的眉头和暴露的马牙上都写满不屑。

　　“没错，我记得清清楚楚，我还记得你做过什么。如果传言非虚，这儿有两位弑君者。”

　　“蓝礼不是我害的。谁敢造谣，我就杀了谁！”

　　“请便，请从克里奥开始。接下来你的工作还很艰巨，依他的说法，知道这事的人数不胜数。”

　　“那是谎言！陛下遇害时凯特琳夫人在场，她亲眼看见一道阴影。蜡烛摇晃，空气变冷，然后是血——”

　　“噢，太棒了。”詹姆哈哈大笑。“不得不承认，你反应倒比我快。当他们发现我站在君主的尸体前面时，我可没说：‘不，不，这不是我干的，是一道阴影，一个可怕的冰冷的影子杀手。’”他长笑不止。“告诉我实话，弑君者之间不该有秘密，到底是史塔克家还是史坦尼斯收买你去割蓝礼的喉咙？莫非蓝礼拒绝你的求爱？还是你那个来了？千万别在女人腿上流血时把刀子塞给她呀。”

　　他以为妞儿就会动手。来啊，上来一步，让我抓住你腰带上的匕首，一刀结果你。他把一条腿收到身下，准备起跳，可妞儿终究没有动。“身为骑士是多么珍贵稀罕的荣誉，”她说，“御林铁卫的骑士更是犹有过之。世上只有很少人能被授予这份光荣，这份为你嘲笑和玷污的光荣。”

　　一份你想到心坎里，却又永远得不到的光荣，妞儿。“骑士称号我凭本事挣来，并非出自别人打赏授予。我十三岁那年，虽然刚当上侍从，却已成为团体比武的冠军；十五岁那年，随亚瑟·戴恩爵士讨伐御林兄弟会，被他亲手在战场上封为骑士。我老实告诉你，玷污我的正是这身白袍，别无他物。总而言之，省省你的嫉妒吧，是诸神不愿赏你一个鸡巴，不是我。”

　　布蕾妮的眼神里充满无比嫌恶。她想把我剁成碎片，却受那宝贝誓言的约束，詹姆心想，妙极，我也受够了她弱智的虔诚和天真的评论。等妞儿大步离开，他蜷进斗篷，渴望梦见瑟曦。

　　谁知闭上眼睛，见到的却是伊里斯·坦格利安。国王独自在王座厅内踱步，那双长满疙瘩、浸染鲜血的手不住绞动。这蠢货常被铁王座上的倒钩和尖刺弄得鲜血淋漓。詹姆静静地走进来，身穿黄金战甲，利剑在手。黄金战甲，不是白的，但从没有人想到过。我该把那可恨的袍子也脱掉。

　　伊里斯看见剑上的血，想知道那是不是泰温公爵的血。“我要他死，这叛徒。我要他的脑袋，你快把他的脑袋献上，否则我将你一起烧死！和所有的叛徒一起烧死！罗萨特说敌人进了城，他会好好招待他们的。说！这是谁的血？谁的！？”

　　“罗萨特的，”詹姆回答。

　　那对紫色的眼睛陡然睁大，那张高贵的嘴巴因震惊而张开。他完全发了疯，转过身去，奔向铁王座。在高墙上无数巨龙的空洞眼窟注视下，詹姆把末代龙王拖下台阶，听他像猪狗一般地尖叫，闻到屎尿齐流的恶臭，然后用黄金宝剑切开国王的喉咙。好简单啊，他时时忆起那一时刻，国王不该就这样死去吧？罗萨特虽是个无能的火术士，至少还想反抗呢。也真奇怪，他们从不问谁杀掉了罗萨特……唉，怎会有人关心呢？他出身低贱，仅当了两个星期的首相，不过是疯王的又一疯行罢了。

　　伊利·维斯特林爵士、克雷赫伯爵及父亲麾下其他骑士刚好在这时冲进大厅，所以詹姆既没办法消失，也没给牛皮大王们留下盗窃赞美或谴责的机会。只有谴责！看见他们的眼神，他立刻就明白了……还有恐惧。是啊，不管他姓不姓兰尼斯特，终究是伊里斯的七卫之一。

　　“城堡属于我们了，爵士，市区也一样，”罗兰德·克雷赫告诉他，但这并非完全属实。在螺旋梯上，军械库里，坦格利安的死党仍旧顽抗，格雷果·克里冈和亚摩利·洛奇正加紧攀登梅葛楼的墙垒，而奈德·史塔克和他的北方人正从国王门鱼贯而入。这些克雷赫都不清楚，他甚至对伊里斯的死也无动于衷：詹姆十多年来都是泰温公爵的儿子，身为御林铁卫才不过一载，有什么好奇怪的呢？

　　“告诉大家疯王已死，”他命令，“放下武器的，就饶过性命。”

　　“是否宣布新王诞生？”克雷赫问。詹姆懂他的暗示：是你父亲，是劳勃·拜拉席恩，还是另立新的龙王？他想到逃去龙石岛的小王子韦赛里斯，想到雷加的幼儿伊耿——这时还在梅葛楼他母亲怀中呢。一位新的坦格利安君主，重新当上首相的父亲。如此一来，狼仔们该如何嗥叫，而那风暴之王又该如何来咽下怒火啊。刹那间，他被迷住了，直到再度看见脚下的尸首，那泓血池正越变越大。“他”的血也流在他俩身上，詹姆心想。“你他妈爱怎么宣布就怎么宣布，”他告诉克雷赫，接着爬进铁王座，剑陈于膝，安坐高堂，要看看谁前来领走王国。最后，来了艾德·史塔克。

　　你也没资格评判我，史塔克。

　　在他梦中，死人在燃烧，缠绕着熊熊绿火。詹姆手握金剑在人群中穿梭，刚砍倒一个，立刻便有两人浮现，怎么也杀不完……

　　直到肋骨挨了布蕾妮一踢，他才从梦中醒来。四周一片漆黑，空中充满雨的气息。早餐仍是燕麦饼和腌鱼，好歹克里奥爵士找到一点黑莓。太阳升起之前，他们重新上路。

回到夏末之初(内阁元老)

19楼 2016-08-31

TYRION
The eunuch was humming tunelessly to himself as he came through the door, dressed in flowing robes of peach-colored silk and smelling of lemons. When he saw Tyrion seated by the hearth, he stopped and grew very still. “My lord Tyrion,” came out in a squeak, punctuated by a nervous giggle.
“So you do remember me? I had begun to wonder.”
“It is so very good to see you looking so strong and well.” Varys smiled his slimiest smile. “Though I confess, I had not thought to find you in mine own humble chambers.”
“They are humble. Excessively so, in truth.” Tyrion had waited until Varys was summoned by his father before slipping in to pay him a visit. The eunuch’s apartments were sparse and small, three snug windowless chambers under the north wall. “I’d hoped to discover bushel baskets of juicy secrets to while away the waiting, but there’s not a paper to be found.” He’d searched for hidden passages too, knowing the Spider must have ways of coming and going unseen, but those had proved equally elusive. “There was water in your flagon, gods have mercy,” he went on, “your sleeping cell is no wider than a coffin, and that bed . . . is it actually made of stone, or does it only feel that way?”
Varys closed the door and barred it. “I am plagued with backaches, my lord, and prefer to sleep upon a hard surface.”
“I would have taken you for a featherbed man.”
“I am full of surprises. Are you cross with me for abandoning you after the battle?”
“It made me think of you as one of my family.”
“It was not for want of love, my good lord. I have such a delicate disposition, and your scar is so dreadful to look upon . . . ” He gave an exaggerated shudder. “Your poor nose . . . ”
Tyrion rubbed irritably at the scab. “Perhaps I should have a new one made of gold. What sort of nose would you suggest, Varys? One like yours, to smell out secrets? Or should I tell the goldsmith that I want my father’s nose?” He smiled. “My noble father labors so diligently that I scarce see him anymore. Tell me, is it true that he’s restoring Grand Maester Pycelle to the small council?”
“It is, my lord.”
“Do I have my sweet sister to thank for that?” Pycelle had been his sister’s creature; Tyrion had stripped the man of office, beard, and dignity, and flung him down into a black cell.
“Not at all, my lord. Thank the archmaesters of Oldtown, those who wished to insist on Pycelle’s restoration on the grounds that only the Conclave may make or unmake a Grand Maester.”
Bloody fools, thought Tyrion. “I seem to recall that Maegor the Cruel’s headsman unmade three with his axe.”
“Quite true,” Varys said. “And the second Aegon fed Grand Maester Gerardys to his dragon.”
“Alas, I am quite dragonless. I suppose I could have dipped Pycelle in wildfire and set him ablaze. Would the Citadel have preferred that?”
“Well, it would have been more in keeping with tradition.” The eunuch tittered. “Thankfully, wiser heads prevailed, and the Conclave accepted the fact of Pycelle’s dismissal and set about choosing his successor. After giving due consideration to Maester Turquin the cordwainer’s son and Maester Erreck the hedge knight’s bastard, and thereby demonstrating to their own satisfaction that ability counts for more than birth in their order, the Conclave was on the verge of sending us Maester Gormon, a Tyrell of Highgarden. When I told your lord father, he acted at once.”
The Conclave met in Oldtown behind closed doors, Tyrion knew; its deliberations were supposedly a secret. So Varys has little birds in the Citadel too. “I see. So my father decided to nip the rose before it bloomed.” He had to chuckle. “Pycelle is a toad. But better a Lannister toad than a Tyrell toad, no?”
“Grand Maester Pycelle has always been a good friend to your House,” Varys said sweetly. “Perhaps it will console you to learn that Ser Boros Blount is also being restored.”
Cersei had stripped Ser Boros of his white cloak for failing to die in the defense of Prince Tommen when Bronn had seized the boy on the Rosby road. The man was no friend of Tyrion’s, but after that he likely hated Cersei almost as much. I suppose that’s something. “Blount is a blustering coward,” he said amiably.
“Is he? Oh dear. Still, the knights of the Kingsguard do serve for life, traditionally. Perhaps Ser Boros will prove braver in future. He will no doubt remain very loyal.”
“To my father,” said Tyrion pointedly.
“While we are on the subject of the Kingsguard . . . I wonder, could this delightfully unexpected visit of yours happen to concern Ser Boros’s fallen brother, the gallant Ser Mandon Moore?” The eunuch stroked a powdered cheek. “Your man Bronn seems most interested in him of late.”
Bronn had turned up all he could on Ser Mandon, but no doubt Varys knew a deal more . . . should he choose to share it. “The man seems to have been quite friendless,” Tyrion said carefully.
“Sadly,” said Varys, “oh, sadly. You might find some kin if you turned over enough stones back in the Vale, but here . . . Lord Arryn brought him to King’s Landing and Robert gave him his white cloak, but neither loved him much, I fear. Nor was he the sort the smallfolk cheer in tourneys, despite his undoubted prowess. Why, even his brothers of the Kingsguard never warmed to him. Ser Barristan was once heard to say that the man had no friend but his sword and no life but duty . . . but you know, I do not think Selmy meant it altogether as praise. Which is queer when you consider it, is it not? Those are the very qualities we seek in our Kingsguard, it could be said—men who live not for themselves, but for their king. By those lights, our brave Ser Mandon was the perfect white knight. And he died as a knight of the Kingsguard ought, with sword in hand, defending one of the king’s own blood.” The eunuch gave him a slimy smile and watched him sharply.
Trying to murder one of the king’s own blood, you mean. Tyrion wondered if Varys knew rather more than he was saying. Nothing he’d just heard was new to him; Bronn had brought back much the same reports. He needed a link to Cersei, some sign that Ser Mandon had been his sister’s catspaw. What we want is not always what we get, he reflected bitterly, which reminded him . . .
“It is not Ser Mandon who brings me here.”
“To be sure.” The eunuch crossed the room to his flagon of water. “May I serve you, my lord?” he asked as he filled a cup.
“Yes. But not with water.” He folded his hands together. “I want you to bring me Shae.”
Varys took a drink. “Is that wise, my lord? The dear sweet child. It would be such a shame if your father hanged her.”
It did not surprise him that Varys knew. “No, it’s not wise, it’s bloody madness. I want to see her one last time, before I send her away. I cannot abide having her so close.”
“I understand.”
How could you? Tyrion had seen her only yesterday, climbing the serpentine steps with a pail of water. He had watched as a young knight had offered to carry the heavy pail. The way she had touched his arm and smiled for him had tied Tyrion’s guts into knots. They passed within inches of each other, him descending and her climbing, so close that he could smell the clean fresh scent of her hair. “M’lord,” she’d said to him, with a little curtsy, and he wanted to reach out and grab her and kiss her right there, but all he could do was nod stiffly and waddle on past. “I have seen her several times,” he told Varys, “but I dare not speak to her. I suspect that all my movements are being watched.”
“You are wise to suspect so, my good lord.”
“Who?” He cocked his head.
“The Kettleblacks report frequently to your sweet sister.”
“When I think of how much coin I paid those wretched . . . do you think there’s any chance that more gold might win them away from Cersei?”
“There is always a chance, but I should not care to wager on the likelihood. They are knights now, all three, and your sister has promised them further advancement.” A wicked little titter burst from the eunuch’s lips. “And the eldest, Ser Osmund of the Kingsguard, dreams of certain other . . . favors . . . as well. You can match the queen coin for coin, I have no doubt, but she has a second purse that is quite inexhaustible.”
Seven hells, thought Tyrion. “Are you suggesting that Cersei’s fucking Osmund Kettleblack?”
“Oh, dear me, no, that would be dreadfully dangerous, don’t you think? No, the queen only hints . . . perhaps on the morrow, or when the wedding’s done . . . and then a smile, a whisper, a ribald jest . . . a breast brushing lightly against his sleeve as they pass . . . and yet it seems to serve. But what would a eunuch know of such things?” The tip of his tongue ran across his lower lip like a shy pink animal.
If I could somehow push them beyond sly fondling, arrange for Father to catch them abed together . . . Tyrion fingered the scab on his nose. He did not see how it could be done, but perhaps some plan would come to him later. “Are the Kettleblacks the only ones?”
“Would that were true, my lord. I fear there are many eyes upon you. You are . . . how shall we say? Conspicuous? And not well loved, it grieves me to tell you. Janos Slynt’s sons would gladly inform on you to avenge their father, and our sweet Lord Petyr has friends in half the brothels of King’s Landing. Should you be so unwise as to visit any of them, he will know at once, and your lord father soon thereafter.”
It’s even worse than I feared. “And my father? Who does he have spying on me?”
This time the eunuch laughed aloud. “Why, me, my lord.”
Tyrion laughed as well. He was not so great a fool as to trust Varys any further than he had to—but the eunuch already knew enough about Shae to get her well and thoroughly hanged. “You will bring Shae to me through the walls, hidden from all these eyes. As you have done before.”
Varys wrung his hands. “Oh, my lord, nothing would please me more, but . . . King Maegor wanted no rats in his own walls, if you take my meaning. He did require a means of secret egress, should he ever be trapped by his enemies, but that door does not connect with any other passages. I can steal your Shae away from Lady Lollys for a time, to be sure, but I have no way to bring her to your bedchamber without us being seen.”
“Then bring her somewhere else.”
“But where? There is no safe place.”
“There is.” Tyrion grinned. “Here. It’s time to put that rock-hard bed of yours to better use, I think.”
The eunuch’s mouth opened. Then he giggled. “Lollys tires easily these days. She is great with child. I imagine she will be safely asleep by moonrise.”
Tyrion hopped down from the chair. “Moonrise, then. See that you lay in some wine. And two clean cups.”
Varys bowed. “It shall be as my lord commands.”
The rest of the day seemed to creep by as slow as a worm in molasses. Tyrion climbed to the castle library and tried to distract himself with Beldecar’s History of the Rhoynish Wars, but he could hardly see the elephants for imagining Shae’s smile. Come the afternoon, he put the book aside and called for a bath. He scrubbed himself until the water grew cool, and then had Pod even out his whiskers. His beard was a trial to him; a tangle of yellow, white, and black hairs, patchy and coarse, it was seldom less than unsightly, but it did serve to conceal some of his face, and that was all to the good.
When he was as clean and pink and trimmed as he was like to get, Tyrion looked over his wardrobe, and chose a pair of tight satin breeches in Lannister crimson and his best doublet, the heavy black velvet with the lion’s head studs. He would have donned his chain of golden hands as well, if his father hadn’t stolen it while he lay dying. It was not until he was dressed that he realized the depths of his folly. Seven hells, dwarf, did you lose all your sense along with your nose? Anyone who sees you is going to wonder why you’ve put on your court clothes to visit the eunuch. Cursing, Tyrion stripped and dressed again, in simpler garb; black woolen breeches, an old white tunic, and a faded brown leather jerkin. It doesn’t matter, he told himself as he waited for moonrise. Whatever you wear, you’re still a dwarf. You’ll never be as tall as that knight on the steps, him with his long straight legs and hard stomach and wide manly shoulders.
The moon was peeping over the castle wall when he told Podrick Payne that he was going to pay a call on Varys. “Will you be long, my lord?” the boy asked.
“Oh, I hope so.”
With the Red Keep so crowded, Tyrion could not hope to go unnoticed. Ser Balon Swann stood guard on the door, and Ser Loras Tyrell on the drawbridge. He stopped to exchange pleasantries with both of them. It was strange to see the Knight of Flowers all in white when before he had always been as colorful as a rainbow. “How old are you, Ser Loras?” Tyrion asked him.
“Seventeen, my lord.”
Seventeen, and beautiful, and already a legend. Half the girls in the Seven Kingdoms want to bed him, and all the boys want to be him. “If you will pardon my asking, ser—why would anyone choose to join the Kingsguard at seventeen?”
“Prince Aemon the Dragonknight took his vows at seventeen,” Ser Loras said, “and your brother Jaime was younger still.”
“I know their reasons. What are yours? The honor of serving beside such paragons as Meryn Trant and Boros Blount?” He gave the boy a mocking grin. “To guard the king’s life, you surrender your own. You give up your lands and titles, give up hope of marriage, children . . . ”
“House Tyrell continues through my brothers,” Ser Loras said. “It is not necessary for a third son to wed, or breed.”
“Not necessary, but some find it pleasant. What of love?”
“When the sun has set, no candle can replace it.”
“Is that from a song?” Tyrion cocked his head, smiling. “Yes, you are seventeen, I see that now.”
Ser Loras tensed. “Do you mock me?”
A prickly lad. “No. If I’ve given offense, forgive me. I had my own love once, and we had a song as well.” I loved a maid as fair as summer, with sunlight in her hair. He bid Ser Loras a good evening and went on his way.
Near the kennels a group of men-at-arms were fighting a pair of dogs. Tyrion stopped long enough to see the smaller dog tear half the face off the larger one, and earned a few coarse laughs by observing that the loser now resembled Sandor Clegane. Then, hoping he had disarmed their suspicions, he proceeded to the north wall and down the short flight of steps to the eunuch’s meager abode. The door opened as he was lifting his hand to knock.
“Varys?” Tyrion slipped inside. “Are you there?” A single candle lit the gloom, spicing the air with the scent of jasmine.
“My lord.” A woman sidled into the light; plump, soft, matronly, with a round pink moon of a face and heavy dark curls. Tyrion recoiled. “Is something amiss?” she asked.
Varys, he realized with annoyance. “For one horrid moment I thought you’d brought me Lollys instead of Shae. Where is she?”
“Here, m’lord.” She put her hands over his eyes from behind. “Can you guess what I’m wearing?”
“Nothing?”
“Oh, you’re so smart,” she pouted, snatching her hands away. “How did you know?”
“You’re very beautiful in nothing.”
“Am I?” she said. “Am I truly?”
“Oh yes.”
“Then shouldn’t you be fucking me instead of talking?”
“We need to rid ourselves of Lady Varys first. I am not the sort of dwarf who likes an audience.”
“He’s gone,” Shae said.
Tyrion turned to look. It was true. The eunuch had vanished, skirts and all. The hidden doors are here somewhere, they have to be. That was as much as he had time to think, before Shae turned his head to kiss him. Her mouth was wet and hungry, and she did not even seem to see his scar, or the raw scab where his nose had been. Her skin was warm silk beneath his fingers. When his thumb brushed against her left nipple, it hardened at once. “Hurry,” she urged, between kisses, as his fingers went to his laces, “oh, hurry, hurry, I want you in me, in me, in me.” He did not even have time to undress properly. Shae pulled his cock out of his breeches, then pushed him down onto the floor and climbed atop him. She screamed as he pushed past her lips, and rode him wildly, moaning, “My giant, my giant, my giant,” every time she slammed down on him. Tyrion was so eager that he exploded on the fifth stroke, but Shae did not seem to mind. She smiled wickedly when she felt him spurting, and leaned forward to kiss the sweat from his brow. “My giant of Lannister,” she murmured. “Stay inside me, please. I like to feel you there.”
So Tyrion did not move, except to put his arms around her. It feels so good to hold her, and to be held, he thought. How can something this sweet be a crime worth hanging her for? “Shae,” he said, “sweetling, this must be our last time together. The danger is too great. If my lord father should find you . . . ”
“I like your scar.” She traced it with her finger. “It makes you look very fierce and strong.”
He laughed. “Very ugly, you mean.”
“M’lord will never be ugly in my eyes.” She kissed the scab that covered the ragged stub of his nose.
“It’s not my face that need concern you, it’s my father—”
“He does not frighten me. Will m’lord give me back my jewels and silks now? I asked Varys if I could have them when you were hurt in the battle, but he wouldn’t give them to me. What would have become of them if you’d died?”
“I didn’t die. Here I am.”
“I know.” Shae wriggled atop him, smiling. “Just where you belong.” Her mouth turned pouty. “But how long must I go on with Lollys, now that you’re well?”
“Have you been listening?” Tyrion said. “You can stay with Lollys if you like, but it would be best if you left the city.”
“I don’t want to leave. You promised you’d move me into a manse again after the battle.” Her cunt gave him a little squeeze, and he started to stiffen again inside her. “A Lannister always pays his debts, you said.”
“Shae, gods be damned, stop that. Listen to me. You have to go away. The city’s full of Tyrells just now, and I am closely watched. You don’t understand the dangers.”
“Can I come to the king’s wedding feast? Lollys won’t go. I told her no one’s like to rape her in the king’s own throne room, but she’s so stupid.” When Shae rolled off, his cock slid out of her with a soft wet sound. “Symon says there’s to be a singers’ tourney, and tumblers, even a fools’ joust.”
Tyrion had almost forgotten about Shae’s thrice-damned singer. “How is it you spoke to Symon?”
“I told Lady Tanda about him, and she hired him to play for Lollys. The music calms her when the baby starts to kick. Symon says there’s to be a dancing bear at the feast, and wines from the Arbor. I’ve never seen a bear dance.”
“They do it worse than I do.” It was the singer who concerned him, not the bear. One careless word in the wrong ear, and Shae would hang.
“Symon says there’s to be seventy-seven courses and a hundred doves baked into a great pie,” Shae gushed. “When the crust’s opened, they’ll all burst out and fly.”
“After which they will roost in the rafters and rain down birdshit on the guests.” Tyrion had suffered such wedding pies before. The doves liked to shit on him especially, or so he had always suspected.
“Couldn’t I dress in my silks and velvets and go as a lady instead of a maidservant? No one would know I wasn’t.”
Everyone would know you weren’t, thought Tyrion. “Lady Tanda might wonder where Lollys’s bedmaid found so many jewels.”
“There’s to be a thousand guests, Symon says. She’d never even see me. I’d find a place in some dark corner below the salt, but whenever you got up to go to the privy I could slip out and meet you.” She cupped his cock and stroked it gently. “I won’t wear any smallclothes under my gown, so m’lord won’t even need to unlace me.” Her fingers teased him, up and down. “Or if he liked, I could do this for him.” She took him in her mouth.
Tyrion was soon ready again. This time he lasted much longer. When he finished Shae crawled back up him and curled up naked under his arm. “You’ll let me come, won’t you?”
“Shae,” he groaned, “it is not safe.”
For a time she said nothing at all. Tyrion tried to speak of other things, but he met a wall of sullen courtesy as icy and unyielding as the Wall he’d once walked in the north. Gods be good, he thought wearily as he watched the candle burn down and begin to gutter, how could I let this happen again, after Tysha? Am I as great a fool as my father thinks? Gladly would he have given her the promise she wanted, and gladly walked her back to his own bedchamber on his arm to let her dress in the silks and velvets she loved so much. Had the choice been his, she could have sat beside him at Joffrey’s wedding feast, and danced with all the bears she liked. But he could not see her hang.
When the candle burned out, Tyrion disentangled himself and lit another. Then he made a round of the walls, tapping on each in turn, searching for the hidden door. Shae sat with her legs drawn up and her arms wrapped around them, watching him. Finally she said, “They’re under the bed. The secret steps.”
He looked at her, incredulous. “The bed? The bed is solid stone. It weighs half a ton.”
“There’s a place where Varys pushes, and it floats right up. I asked him how, and he said it was magic.”
“Yes.” Tyrion had to grin. “A counterweight spell.”
Shae stood. “I should go back. Sometimes the baby kicks and Lollys wakes and calls for me.”
“Varys should return shortly. He’s probably listening to every word we say.” Tyrion set the candle down. There was a wet spot on the front of his breeches but in the darkness it ought to go unnoticed. He told Shae to dress and wait for the eunuch.
“I will,” she promised. “You are my lion, aren’t you? My giant of Lannister?”
“I am,” he said. “And you’re—”
“—your whore.” She laid a finger to his lips. “I know. I’d be your lady, but I never can. Else you’d take me to the feast. It doesn’t matter. I like being a whore for you, Tyrion. Just keep me, my lion, and keep me safe.”
“I shall,” he promised. Fool, fool, the voice inside him screamed. Why did you say that? You came here to send her away! Instead he kissed her once more.
The walk back seemed long and lonely. Podrick Payne was asleep in his trundle bed at the foot of Tyrion’s, but he woke the boy. “Bronn,” he said.
“Ser Bronn?” Pod rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “Oh. Should I get him? My lord?”
“Why no, I woke you up so we could have a little chat about the way he dresses,” said Tyrion, but his sarcasm was wasted. Pod only gaped at him in confusion until he threw up his hands and said, “Yes, get him. Bring him. Now.”
The lad dressed hurriedly and all but ran from the room. Am I really so terrifying? Tyrion wondered, as he changed into a bedrobe and poured himself some wine.
He was on his third cup and half the night was gone before Pod finally returned, with the sellsword knight in tow. “I hope the boy had a damn good reason dragging me out of Chataya’s,” Bronn said as he seated himself.
“Chataya’s?” Tyrion said, annoyed.
“It’s good to be a knight. No more looking for the cheaper brothels down the street.” Bronn grinned. “Now it’s Alayaya and Marei in the same featherbed, with Ser Bronn in the middle.”
Tyrion had to bite back his annoyance. Bronn had as much right to bed Alayaya as any other man, but still . . . I never touched her, much as I wanted to, but Bronn could not know that. He should have kept his cock out of her. He dare not visit Chataya’s himself. If he did, Cersei would see that his father heard of it, and ’Yaya would suffer more than a whipping. He’d sent the girl a necklace of silver and jade and a pair of matching bracelets by way of apology, but other than that . . .
This is fruitless. “There is a singer who calls himself Symon Silver Tongue,” Tyrion said wearily, pushing his guilt aside. “He plays for Lady Tanda’s daughter sometimes.”
“What of him?”
Kill him, he might have said, but the man had done nothing but sing a few songs. And fill Shae’s sweet head with visions of doves and dancing bears. “Find him,” he said instead. “Find him before someone else does.”

[Novel] 《冰与火之歌卷Ⅲ：冰雨的风暴》（A Storm of Sword）（9.8更新至55L）