Игра престолов

Tyrion

           Thewretchedboyhadstartedit,lookingdownonhimfromathroneofcarvedweirwoodbeneaththemoon-and-falconbannersofHouseArryn.TyrionLannisterhadbeenlookeddownonallhislife,butseldombyrheumy-eyedsix-year-oldswhoneededtostufffatcushionsundertheircheekstoliftthemtotheheightofaman."Ishethebadman?"theboyhadasked,clutchinghisdoll.

           "Heis,"theLadyLysahadsaidfromthelesserthronebesidehim.Shewasallinblue,powderedandperfumedforthesuitorswhofilledhercourt.

           "He’ssosmall,"theLordoftheEyriesaid,giggling.

           "ThisisTyriontheImp,ofHouseLannister,whomurderedyourfather."SheraisedhervoicesoitcarrieddownthelengthofHighHalloftheEyrie,ringingoffthemilk-whitewallsandtheslenderpillars,soeverymancouldhearit."HeslewtheHandoftheKing!"

           "Oh,didIkillhimtoo?"Tyrionhadsaid,likeafool.

           Thatwouldhavebeenaverygoodtimetohavekepthismouthclosedandhisheadbowed.Hecouldseethatnow;sevenhells,hehadseenitthen.TheHighHalloftheArrynswaslongandaustere,withaforbiddingcoldnesstoitswallsofblue-veinedwhitemarble,butthefacesaroundhimhadbeencolderbyfar.ThepowerofCasterlyRockwasfaraway,andtherewerenofriendsoftheLannistersintheValeofArryn.Submissionandsilencewouldhavebeenhisbestdefenses.

           ButTyrion’smoodhadbeentoofoulforsense.

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