George R.R. Martin - Winds Of Winter.pdf - ♡ 1-NOWOŚCI (niesklasyfikowane) - jacho66

George R. R. Martin - The Winds Of Winter

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Theon

The king's voice was choked with anger. "You are a worse pirate than

Salladhor Saan."

Theon Greyjoy opened his eyes. His shoulders were on fire and he could

not move his hands.

For half a heartbeat he feared he was back in his old cell under the

Dreadfort, that the jumble of

memories inside his head was no more than the residue of some fever

dream. I was asleep, he

realized. That, or passed out from the pain. When he tried to move, he

swung from side to side, his

back scraping against stone. He was hanging from a wall inside a tower,

his wrists chained to a pair

of rusted iron rings.

The air reeked of burning peat. The floor was hard-packed dirt. Wooden

steps spiraled up inside

the walls to the roof. He saw no windows. The tower was dank, dark, and

comfortless, its only

furnishings a high-backed chair and a scarred table resting on three

trestles. No privy was in

evidence, though Theon saw a champerpot in one shadowed alcove. The

only light came from the

candles on the table. His feet dangled six feet off the floor.

"My brother's debts," the king was muttering. "Joffrey's too, though that

baseborn abomination

was no kin to me." Theon twisted in his chains. He knew that voice.

Stannis.

Theon Greyjoy chortled. A stab of pain went up his arms, from his

shoulders to his wrists. All

he had done, all he had suffered, Moat Cailin and Barrowton and

Winterfell, Abel and his

washerwomen, Crowfood and his Umbers, the trek through the snows, all

of it had only served to

exchange one tormentor for another.

"Your Grace," a second voice said softly. "Pardon, but your ink has

frozen." The Braavosi,

Theon knew. What was his name? Tycho... Tycho something... "Perhaps a

bit of heat... ?"

"I know a quicker way." Stannis drew his dagger. For an instant Theon

thought that he meant to

stab the banker. You will never get a drop of blood from that one, my lord,

he might have told him.

The king laid the blade of the knife against the ball of his left thumb, and

slashed. "There. I will

"If it please Your Grace, it will please the Iron Bank."

Stannis dipped a quill in the blood welling from his thumb and scratched

his name across the

piece of parchment. "You will depart today. Lord Bolton may be on us

soon. I will not have you

caught up in the fighting."

"That would be my preference as well." The Braavosi slipped the roll of

parchment inside a

wooden tube. "I hope to have the honor of calling on Your Grace again

when you are seated on

your Iron Throne."

"You hope to have your gold, you mean. Save your pleasantries. It is coin I

need from Braavos,

not empty courtesy. Tell the guard outside I have need of Justin Massey."

"It would be my pleasure. The Iron Bank is always glad to be of service."

The banker bowed.

As he left, another entered; a knight. The king's knights had been coming

and going all night,

Theon recalled dimly. This one seemed to be the king's familiar. Lean,

dark-haired, hard-eyed, his

face marred by pockmarks and old scars, he wore a faded surcoat

embroidered with three moths.

"Sire," he announced, "the maester is without. And Lord Arnolf sends

word that he would be most

pleased to break his fast with you."

"The son as well?"

"And the grandsons. Lord Wull seeks audience as well. He wants — "

"I know what he wants." The king indicated Theon. "Him. Wull wants him

dead. Flint,

Norrey... all of them will want him dead. For the boys he slew. Vengeance

for their precious Ned."

"Will you oblige them?"

"Just now, the turncloak is more use to me alive. He has knowledge we

may need. Bring in this

maester." The king plucked a parchment off the table and squinted over it.

A letter, Theon knew.

Its broken seal was black wax, hard and shiny. I know what that says, he

thought, giggling.

Stannis looked up. "The turncloak stirs."

"Theon. My name is Theon." He had to remember his name.

"I know your name. I know what you did."

"I saved her." The outer wall of Winterfell was eighty feet high, but

beneath the spot where he

had jumped the snows had piled up to a depth of more than forty. A cold

white pillow. The girl had

taken the worst of it. Jeyne, her name is Jeyne, but she will never tell them.

Theon had landed on

top of her, and broken some of her ribs. "I saved the girl," he said. "We

flew."

Stannis snorted. "You fell. Umber saved her. If Mors Crowfood and his

men had not been

outside the castle, Bolton would have had the both of you back in

moments."

Crowfood. Theon remembered. An old man, huge and powerful, with a

ruddy face and a

shaggy white beard. He had been seated on a garron, clad in the pelt of a

gigantic snow bear, its

head his hood. Under it he wore a stained white leather eye patch that

reminded Theon of his uncle

Euron. He'd wanted to rip it off Umber's face, to make certain that

underneath was only an empty

socket, not a black eye shining with malice. Instead he had whimpered

through his broken teeth

and said, "I am — "

" — a turncloak and a kinslayer," Crowfood had finished. "You will hold

that lying tongue, or

lose it."

But Umber had looked at the girl closely, squinting down with his one

good eye. "You are the

younger daughter?"

And Jeyne had nodded. "Arya. My name is Arya."

"Arya of Winterfell, aye. When last I was inside those walls, your cook

served us a steak and

kidney pie. Made with ale, I think, best I ever tasted. What was his name,

that cook?"

"Gage," Jeyne said at once. "He was a good cook. He would make

lemoncakes for Sansa

whenever we had lemons."

Crowfood had fingered his beard. "Dead now, I suppose. That smith of

yours as well. A man

who knew his steel. What was his name?"

Jeyne had hesitated. Mikken, Theon thought. His name was Mikken. The

castle blacksmith had

never made any lemoncakes for Sansa, which made him far less important

than the castle cook in

the sweet little world she had shared with her friend Jeyne Poole.

Remember, damn you. Your

father was the steward, he had charge of the whole household. The smith's

name was Mikken,

Mikken, Mikken. I had him put to death before me!

"Mikken," Jeyne said.

Mors Umber had grunted. "Aye." What he might have said or done next

Theon never learned,

for that was when the boy ran up, clutching a spear and shouting that the

portcullis on Winterfell's

main gate was rising. And how Crowfood had grinned at that.

Theon twisted in his chains, and blinked down at the king. "Crowfood

found us, yes, he sent us

here to you, but it was me who saved her. Ask her yourself." She would

tell him. "You saved me,"

Jeyne had whispered, as he was carrying her through the snow. She was

pale with pain, but she had

brushed one hand across his cheek and smiled. "I saved Lady Arya,"

Theon whispered back at her.

And then all at once Mors Umber's spears were all around them. "Is this

my thanks?" he asked

Stannis, kicking feebly against the wall. His shoulders were in agony. His

own weight was tearing

them from their sockets. How long had he been hanging here? Was it still

George R.R. Martin - Winds Of Winter.pdf

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