"George R. R. Martin - Ice and Fire 3 - A Storm of Swords" - читать интересную книгу автора (Martin George R R)

A Storm of Swords V1.0
Book Three of A Song of Ice and Fire
By George R.R. Martin
scanned 3/17/02 by sliph


A NOTE ON CHRONOLOGY
A Song of Ice and Fire is told through the eyes of characters who are
sometimes hundreds or even thousands of miles apart from one another. Some
chapters cover a day, some only an hour; others might span a fortnight, a
month, half a year. With such a structure, the narrative cannot be strictly
sequential; sometimes important things are happening simultaneously, a
thousand leagues apart.
In the case of the volume now in hand, the reader should realize that the
opening chapters of A Storm of Swords do not follow the closing chapters of A
Clash of Kings so much as overlap them. I open with a look at some of the
things that were happening on the Fist of the First Men, at Riverrun,
Harrenhal, and on the Trident while the Battle of the Blackwater was being
fought at King's Landing, and during its aftermath ...
GEORGE R. R. MARTIN

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 bloodyravens and making
fires for old MaesterAemon. 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