"George R. R. Martin - Ice and Fire 0 - The Hedge Knight" - читать интересную книгу автора (Martin George R R)

george rr martin - thehedgeknight




The Hedge Knight

A Tale of the Seven Kingdoms


George R.R. Martin



The story offered here takes place about a hundred years prior to the events described in “A Game of
Thrones”




The spring rains had softened the ground, so Dunk had no trouble digging the grave. He chose a spot on
the western slope of a low hill, for the old man had always loved to watch the sunset. “Another day
done,” he would sigh, “and who knows what the morrow will bring us, eh, Dunk?”

Well, one morrow had brought rains that soaked them to the bones, and the one after had brought wet
gusty winds, and the next a chill. By the fourth day the old man was too weak to ride. And now he was
gone. Only a few days past, he had been singing as they rode, the old song about going to Gulltown to
see a fair maid, but instead of Gulltown he’d sung of Ashford. Off to Ashford to see the fair maid, heigh-
ho, heigh-ho, Dunk thought miserably as he dug.

When the hole was deep enough, he lifted the old man’s body in his arms and carried him there. He had
been a small man, and slim; stripped of hauberk, helm, and sword belt, he seemed to weigh no more than
a bag of leaves. Dunk was hugely tall for his age, a shambling, shaggy, big-boned boy of sixteen or
seventeen years (no one was quite certain which) who stood closer to seven feet than to six, and had
only just begun to fill out his frame. The old man had often praised his strength. He had always been
generous in his praise. It was all he had to give.

He laid him out in the bottom of the grave and stood over him for a time. The smell of rain was in the air
again, and he knew he ought to fill the hole before the rain broke, but it was hard to throw dirt down on
that tired old face. There ought to be a septon here, to say some prayers over him, but he only has me.
The old man had taught Dunk all he knew of swords and shields and lances, but had never been much
good at teaching him words.

“I’d leave your sword, but it would rust in the ground,” he said at last, apologetic. “The gods will give
you a new one, I guess. I wish you didn’t die, ser.” He paused, uncertain what else needed to be said. He
didn’t know any prayers, not all the way through; the old man had never been much for praying. “You
were a true knight, and you never beat me when I didn’t deserve it,” he finally managed, “except that

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