George RR Martin - Ice and Fire 0.6 - The Sworn Sword

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A SONG OFICE ANDFIRE
GEORGE R. R. MARTIN
A GAME OFTHRONES(1996)
A CLASH OFKINGS(1998)
A STORM OFSWORDS(2000)
A FEAST FORCROWS(forthcoming)
A DANCE WITHDRAGONS(forthcoming)
THEWINDS OFWINTER(forthcoming)
A Song of Ice and Firebegan life as a trilogy, and has since expanded to six books. As J. R. R. Tolkien
once said, the tale grew in the telling.
The setting for the books is the great continent of Westeros, in a world both like and unlike our own,
where the seasons last for years and sometimes decades. Standing hard against the sunset sea at the
western edge of the known world, Westeros stretches from the red sands of Dorne in the south to the icy
mountains and frozen fields of the north, where snow falls even during the long summers.
The children of the forest were the first known inhabitants of Westeros, during the Dawn of Days: a race
small of stature who made their homes in the greenwood, and carved strange faces in the bone-white
weirwood trees. Then came the First Men, who crossed a land bridge from the larger continent to the
east with their bronze swords and horses, and warred against the children for centuries before finally
making peace with the older race and adopting their nameless, ancient gods. The Compact marked the
beginning of the Age of Heroes, when the First Men and the children shared Westeros, and a hundred
petty kingdoms rose and fell.
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Other invaders came in turn. The Andals crossed the narrow sea in ships, and with iron and fire they
swept across the kingdoms of the First Men, and drove the children from their forests, putting many of
the weirwoods to the ax. They brought their own faith, worshiping a god with seven aspects whose
symbol was a seven-pointed star. Only in the far north did the First Men, led by the Starks of Winterfell,
throw back the newcomers. Elsewhere the Andals triumphed, and raised kingdoms of their own. The
children of the forest dwindled and disappeared, while the First Men intermarried with their conquerors.
The Rhoynar arrived some thousands of years after the Andals, and came not as invaders but as
refugees, crossing the seas in ten thousand ships to escape the growing might of the Freehold of Valyria.
The lords freeholder of Valyria ruled the greater part of the known world; they were sorcerers, great in
lore, and alone of all the races of man they had learned to breed dragons and bend them to their will.
Four hundred years before the opening ofA Song of Ice and Fire , however, the Doom descended on
Valyria, destroying the city in a single night. Thereafter the great Valyrian empire disintegrated into
dissension, barbarism, and war.
Westeros, across the narrow sea, was spared the worst of the chaos that followed. By that time only
seven kingdoms remained where once there had been hundreds—but they would not stand for much
longer. A scion of lost Valyria named Aegon Targaryen landed at the mouth of the Blackwater with a
small army, his two sisters (who were also his wives), and three great dragons. Riding on dragonback,
Aegon and his sisters won battle after battle, and subdued six of the seven Westerosi kingdoms by fire,
sword, and treaty. The conqueror collected the melted, twisted blades of his fallen foes, and used them to
make a monstrous, towering barbed seat: the Iron Throne, from which he ruled henceforth as Aegon, the
First of His Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, and Lord of the Seven
Kingdoms.
The dynasty founded by Aegon and his sisters endured for most of three hundred years. Another
Targaryen king, Daeron the Second, later brought Dorne into the realm, uniting all of Westeros under a
single ruler. He did so by marriage, not conquest, for the last of the dragons had died half a century
before.The Hedge Knight, published in the firstLegends , takes place in the last days of Good King
Daeron’s reign, about a hundred years before the opening of the first of theIce and Fire novels, with the
realm at peace and the Targaryen dynasty at its height. It tells the story of the first meeting between
Dunk, a hedge knight’s squire, and Egg, a boy who is rather more than he seems, and of the great
tourney at Ashford Meadow.The Sworn Sword, the tale that follows, picks up their story a year or so
later.
THE SWORN SWORD
A Tale of the Seven Kingdoms
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GEORGE R. R. MARTIN
In an iron cage at the crossroads, two dead men were rotting in the summer sun.
Egg stopped below to have a look at them. “Who do you think they were, ser?” His mule Maester,
grateful for the respite, began to crop the dry brown devilgrass along the verges, heedless of the two
huge wine casks on his back.
“Robbers,” Dunk said. Mounted atop Thunder, he was much closer to the dead men. “Rapers.
Murderers.” Dark circles stained his old green tunic under both arms. The sky was blue and the sun was
blazing hot, and he had sweated gallons since breaking camp this morning.
Egg took off his wide-brimmed floppy straw hat. Beneath, his head was bald and shiny. He used the hat
to fan away the flies. There were hundreds crawling on the dead men, and more drifting lazily through
the still, hot air. “It must have been something bad, for them to be left to die inside a crow cage.”
Sometimes Egg could be as wise as any maester, but other times he was still a boy of ten. “There are
lords and lords,” Dunk said. “Some don’t need much reason to put a man to death.”
The iron cage was barely big enough to hold one man, yet two had been forced inside it. They stood face
to face, with their arms and legs in a tangle and their backs against the hot black iron of the bars. One
had tried to eat the other, gnawing at his neck and shoulder. The crows had been at both of them. When
Dunk and Egg had come around the hill, the birds had risen like a black cloud, so thick that Maester
spooked.
“Whoever they were, they look half starved,” Dunk said.Skeletons in skin, and the skin is green and
rotting. “Might be they stole some bread, or poached a deer in some lord’s wood.” With the drought
entering its second year, most lords had become less tolerant of poaching, and they hadn’t been very
tolerant to begin with.
“It could be they were in some outlaw band.” At Dosk, they’d heard a harper sing “The Day They
Hanged Black Robin.” Ever since, Egg had been seeing gallant outlaws behind every bush.
Dunk had met a few outlaws while squiring for the old man. He was in no hurry to meet any more. None
of the ones he’d known had been especially gallant. He remembered one outlaw Ser Arlan had helped
hang, who’d been fond of stealing rings. He would cut off a man’s fingers to get at them, but with
women he preferred to bite. There were no songs about him that Dunk knew.Outlaws or poachers,
makes no matter. Dead men make poor company. He walked Thunder slowly around the cage. The
empty eyes seemed to follow him. One of the dead men had his head down and his mouth gaping open.
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He has no tongue, Dunk observed. He supposed the crows might have eaten it. Crows always pecked a
corpse’s eyes out first, he had heard, but maybe the tongue went second.Or maybe a lord had it torn out,
for something that he said.
Dunk pushed his fingers through his mop of sun-streaked hair. The dead were beyond his help, and they
had casks of wine to get to Standfast. “Which way did we come?” he asked, looking from one road to
the other. “I’m turned around.”
“Standfast is that way, ser.” Egg pointed.
“That’s for us, then. We could be back by evenfall, but not if we sit here all day counting flies.” He
touched Thunder with his heels and turned the big destrier toward the left-hand fork. Egg put his floppy
hat back on and tugged sharply at Maester’s lead. The mule left off cropping at the devilgrass and came
along without an argument for once.He’s hot as well, Dunk thought,and those wine casks must be heavy.
The summer sun had baked the road as hard as brick. Its ruts were deep enough to break a horse’s leg, so
Dunk was careful to keep Thunder to the higher ground between them. He had twisted his own ankle the
day they left Dosk, walking in the black of night when it was cooler. A knight had to learn to live with
aches and pains, the old man used to say.Aye, lad, and with broken bones and scars. They’re as much a
part of knighthood as your swords and shields. If Thunder was to break a leg, though . . . well, a knight
without a horse was no knight at all.
Egg followed five yards behind him, with Maester and the wine casks. The boy was walking with one
bare foot in a rut and one out, so he rose and fell with every step. His dagger was sheathed on one hip,
his boots slung over his backpack, his ragged brown tunic rolled up and knotted around his waist.
Beneath his wide-brimmed straw hat, his face was smudged and dirty, his eyes large and dark. He was
ten, not quite five feet tall. Of late he had been sprouting fast, though he had a long long way to grow
before he’d be catching up to Dunk. He looked just like the stableboy he wasn’t, and not at all like who
he really was.
The dead men soon disappeared behind them, but Dunk found himself thinking about them all the same.
The realm was full of lawless men these days. The drought showed no signs of ending, and smallfolk by
the thousands had taken to the roads, looking for someplace where the rains still fell. Lord Bloodraven
had commanded them to return to their own lands and lords, but few obeyed. Many blamed Bloodraven
and King Aerys for the drought. It was a judgment from the gods, they said, for the kinslayer is
accursed. If they were wise, though, they did not say it loudly.How many eyes does Lord Bloodraven
have? ran the riddle Egg had heard in Oldtown.A thousand eyes, and one.
Six years ago in King’s Landing, Dunk had seen him with his own two eyes, as he rode a pale horse up
the Street of Steel with fifty Raven’s Teeth behind him. That was before King Aerys had ascended to the
Iron Throne and made him the Hand, but even so he cut a striking figure, garbed in smoke and scarlet
with Dark Sister on his hip. His pallid skin and bone-white hair made him look a living corpse. Across
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his cheek and chin spread a wine-stain birthmark that was supposed to resemble a red raven, though
Dunk only saw an odd-shaped blotch of discolored skin. He stared so hard that Bloodraven felt it. The
king’s sorcerer had turned to study him as he went by. He had one eye, and that one red. The other was
an empty socket, the gift Bittersteel had given him upon the Redgrass Field. Yet it seemed to Dunk that
both eyes had looked right through his skin, down to his very soul.
Despite the heat, the memory made him shiver. “Ser?” Egg called. “Are you unwell?”
“No,” said Dunk. “I’m as hot and thirsty as them.” He pointed toward the field beyond the road, where
rows of melons were shriveling on the vines. Along the verges goatheads and tufts of devilgrass still
clung to life, but the crops were not faring near as well. Dunk knew just how the melons felt. Ser Arlan
used to say that no hedge knight need ever go thirsty. “Not so long as he has a helm to catch the rain in.
Rainwater is the best drink there is, lad.” The old man never saw a summer like this one, though. Dunk
had left his helm at Standfast. It was too hot and heavy to wear, and there had been precious little rain to
catch in it.What’s a hedge knight do when even the hedges are brown and parched and dying?
Maybe when they reached the stream he’d have a soak. He smiled, thinking how good that would feel, to
jump right in and come up sopping wet and grinning, with water cascading down his cheeks and through
his tangled hair and his tunic clinging sodden to his skin. Egg might want a soak as well, though the boy
looked cool and dry, more dusty than sweaty. He never sweated much. He liked the heat. In Dorne he
went about bare-chested, and turned brown as a Dornishman.It is his dragon blood, Dunk told himself.
Whoever heard of a sweaty dragon? He would gladly have pulled his own tunic off, but it would not be
fitting. A hedge knight could ride bare naked if he chose; he had no one to shame but himself. It was
different when your sword was sworn.When you accept a lord’s meat and mead, all you do reflects on
him, Ser Arlan used to say.Always do more than he expects of you, never less. Never flinch at any task or
hardship. And above all, never shame the lord you serve. At Standfast, “meat and mead” meant chicken
and ale, but Ser Eustace ate the same plain fare himself.
Dunk kept his tunic on, and sweltered.
Ser Bennis of the Brown Shield was waiting at the old plank bridge. “So you come back,” he called out.
“You were gone so long I thought you run off with the old man’s silver.” Bennis was sitting on his
shaggy garron, chewing a wad of sourleaf that made it look as if his mouth were full of blood.
“We had to go all the way to Dosk to find some wine,” Dunk told him. “The krakens raided Little Dosk.
They carried off the wealth and women and burned half of what they did not take.”
“That Dagon Greyjoy wants for hanging,” Bennis said. “Aye, but who’s to hang him? You see old
Pinchbottom Pate?”
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“They told us he was dead. The ironmen killed him when he tried to stop them taking off his daughter.”
“Seven bloody hells.” Bennis turned his head and spat. “I seen that daughter once. Not worth dying for,
you ask me. That fool Pate owed me half a silver.” The brown knight looked just as he had when they
left; worse, he smelled the same as well. He wore the same garb every day: brown breeches, a shapeless
roughspun tunic, horsehide boots. When armored he donned a loose brown surcoat over a shirt of rusted
mail. His swordbelt was a cord of boiled leather, and his seamed face might have been made of the same
thing.His head looks like one of those shriveled melons that we passed. Even his teeth were brown,
under the red stains left by the sourleaf he liked to chew. Amidst all that brownness, his eyes stood out;
they were a pale green, squinty small, close set, and shiny-bright with malice. “Only two casks,” he
observed. “Ser Useless wanted four.”
“We were lucky to find two,” said Dunk. “The drought reached the Arbor, too. We heard the grapes are
turning into raisins on the vines, and the ironmen have been pirating—”
“Ser?” Egg broke in. “The water’s gone.”
Dunk had been so intent on Bennis that he hadn’t noticed. Beneath the warped wooden planks of the
bridge only sand and stones remained.That’s queer. The stream was running low when we left, but it was
running.
Bennis laughed. He had two sorts of laughs. Sometimes he cackled like a chicken, and sometimes he
brayed louder than Egg’s mule. This was his chicken laugh. “Dried up while you was gone, I guess. A
drought’ll do that.”
Dunk was dismayed.Well, I won’t be soaking now. He swung down to the ground.What’s going to
happen to the crops? Half the wells in the Reach had gone dry, and all the rivers were running low, even
the Blackwater Rush and the mighty Mander.
“Nasty stuff, water,” Bennis said. “Drank some once, and it made me sick as a dog. Wine’s better.”
“Not for oats. Not for barleycorn. Not for carrots, onions, cabbages. Even grapes need water.” Dunk
shook his head. “How could it go dry so quick? We’ve only been six days.”
“Wasn’t much water in there to start with, Dunk. Time was, I could piss me bigger streams than this
one.”
“NotDunk ,” said Dunk. “I told you that.” He wondered why he bothered. Bennis was a mean-mouthed
man, and it pleased him to make mock. “I’m called Ser Duncan the Tall.”
“By who? Your bald pup?” He looked at Egg and laughed his chicken laugh. “You’re taller than when
you did for Pennytree, but you still look a properDunk to me.”
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Dunk rubbed the back of his neck and stared down at the rocks. “What should we do?”
“Fetch home the wines, and tell Ser Useless his stream’s gone dry. The Standfast well still draws, he
won’t go thirsty.”
“Don’t call him Useless.” Dunk was fond of the old knight. “You sleep beneath his roof, give him some
respect.”
“You respect him for the both o’ us, Dunk,” said Bennis. “I’ll call him what I will.”
The silvery gray planks creaked heavily as Dunk walked out onto the bridge, to frown down at the sand
and stones below. A few small brown pools glistened amongst the rocks, he saw, none larger than his
hand. “Dead fish, there and there, see?” The smell of them reminded him of the dead men at the
crossroads.
“I see them, ser,” said Egg.
Dunk hopped down to the streambed, squatted on his heels, and turned over a stone.Dry and warm on
top, moist and muddy underneath. “The water can’t have been gone long.” Standing, he flicked the stone
sidearm at the bank, where it crashed through a crumbling overhang in a puff of dry brown earth. “The
soil’s cracked along the banks, but soft and muddy in the middle. Those fish were alive yesterday.”
“Dunk the lunk, Pennytree used to call you. I recall.” Ser Bennis spat a wad of sourleaf onto the rocks. It
glistened red and slimy in the sunlight. “Lunks shouldn’t try and think, their heads is too bloody thick
for such.”
Dunk the lunk, thick as a castle wall.From Ser Arlan the words had been affectionate. He had been a
kindly man, even in his scolding. In the mouth of Ser Bennis of the Brown Shield, they sounded
different. “Ser Arlan’s two years dead,” Dunk said, “and I’m called Ser Duncan the Tall.” He was sorely
tempted to put his fist through the brown knight’s face and smash those red and rotten teeth to splinters.
Bennis of the Brown Shield might be a nasty piece of work, but Dunk had a good foot and a half on him,
and four stone as well. He might be a lunk, but he was big. Sometimes it seemed as though he’d
thumped his head on half the doors in Westeros, not to mention every beam in every inn from Dorne up
to the Neck. Egg’s brother Aemon had measured him in Oldtown and found he lacked an inch of seven
feet, but that was half a year ago. He might have grown since. Growing was the one thing that Dunk did
really well, the old man used to say.
He went back to Thunder and mounted up again. “Egg, get on back to Standfast with the wine. I’m
going to see what’s happened to the water.”
“Streams dry up all the time,” said Bennis.
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“I just want to have a look—”
“Like how you looked under that rock? Shouldn’t go turning over rocks, Lunk. Never know what might
crawl out. We got us nice straw pallets back at Standfast. There’s eggs more days than not, and not
much to do but listen to Ser Useless go on about how great he used to be. Leave it be, I say. The stream
went dry, that’s all.”
Dunk was nothing if not stubborn. “Ser Eustace is waiting on his wine,” he told Egg. “Tell him where I
went.”
“I will, ser.” Egg gave a tug on Maester’s lead. The mule twitched his ears, but started off again at once.
He wants to get those wine casks off his back. Dunk could not blame him.
The stream flowed north and east when it was flowing, so he turned Thunder south and west. He had not
ridden a dozen yards before Bennis caught him. “I best come see you don’t get hanged.” He pushed a
fresh sourleaf into his mouth. “Past that clump o’ sandwillows, the whole right bank is spider land.”
“I’ll stay on our side.” Dunk wanted no trouble with the Lady of the Coldmoat. At Standfast you heard
ill things of her.The Red Widow, she was called, for the husbands she had put into the ground. Old Sam
Stoops said she was a witch, a poisoner, and worse. Two years ago she had sent her knights across the
stream to seize an Osgrey man for stealing sheep. “When m’lord rode to Coldmoat to demand him back,
he was told to look for him at the bottom of the moat,” Sam had said. “She’d sewn poor Dake in a bag o’
rocks and sunk him. ’Twas after that Ser Eustace took Ser Bennis into service, to keep them spiders off
his lands.”
Thunder kept a slow, steady pace beneath the broiling sun. The sky was blue and hard, with no hint of
cloud anywhere to be seen. The course of the stream meandered around rocky knolls and forlorn
willows, through bare brown hills and fields of dead and dying grain. An hour upstream from the bridge,
they found themselves riding on the edge of the small Osgrey forest called Wat’s Wood. The greenery
looked inviting from afar, and filled Dunk’s head with thoughts of shady glens and chuckling brooks,
but when they reached the trees they found them thin and scraggly, with drooping limbs. Some of the
great oaks were shedding leaves, and half the pines had turned as brown as Ser Bennis, with rings of
dead needles girdling their trunks.Worse and worse, thought Dunk.One spark, and this will all go up like
tinder.
For the moment, though, the tangled underbrush along the Chequy Water was still thick with thorny
vines, nettles, and tangles of briarwhite and young willow. Rather than fight through it, they crossed the
dry streambed to the Coldmoat side, where the trees had been cleared away for pasture. Amongst the
parched brown grasses and faded wildflowers, a few black-nosed sheep were grazing. “Never knew an
animal stupid as a sheep,” Ser Bennis commented. “Think they’re kin to you, lunk?” When Dunk did not
reply, he laughed his chicken laugh again.
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Half a league farther south, they came upon the dam.
It was not large as such things went, but it looked strong. Two stout wooden barricades had been thrown
across the stream from bank to bank, made from the trunks of trees with the bark still on. The space
between them was filled with rocks and earth and packed down hard. Behind the dam the flow was
creeping up the banks and spilling off into a ditch that had been cut through Lady Webber’s fields. Dunk
stood in his stirrups for a better look. The glint of sun on water betrayed a score of lesser channels,
running off in all directions like a spider’s web.They are stealing our stream. The sight filled him with
indignation, especially when it dawned on him that the trees must surely have been taken from Wat’s
Wood.
“See what you went and did, lunk,” said Bennis. “Couldn’t have it that the stream dried up, no. Might be
this starts with water, but it’ll end with blood. Yours and mine, most like.” The brown knight drew his
sword. “Well, no help for it now. There’s your thrice-damned diggers. Best we put some fear in them.”
He raked his garron with his spurs and galloped through the grass.
Dunk had no choice but to follow. Ser Arlan’s longsword rode his hip, a good straight piece of steel.If
these ditchdiggers have a lick of sense, they’ll run. Thunder’s hooves kicked up clods of dirt.
One man dropped his shovel at the sight of the oncoming knights, but that was all. There were a score of
the diggers, short and tall, old and young, all baked brown by the sun. They formed a ragged line as
Bennis slowed, clutching their spades and picks. “This is Coldmoat land,” one shouted.
“And that’s an Osgrey stream.” Bennis pointed with his longsword. “Who put that damned dam up?”
“Maester Cerrick made it,” said one young digger.
“No,” an older man insisted. “The gray pup pointed some and said do this and do that, but it were us
who made it.”
“Then you can bloody well unmake it.”
The diggers’ eyes were sullen and defiant. One wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand.
No one spoke.
“You lot don’t hear so good,” said Bennis. “Do I need to lop me off an ear or two? Who’s first?”
“This is Webber land.” The old digger was a scrawny fellow, stooped and stubborn. “You got no right to
be here. Lop off any ears and m’lady will drown you in a sack.”
Bennis rode closer. “Don’t see no ladies here, just some mouthy peasant.” He poked the digger’s bare
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brown chest with the point of his sword, just hard enough to draw a bead of blood.
He goes too far.“Put up your steel,” Dunk warned him. “This is not his doing. This maester set them to
the task.”
“It’s for the crops, ser,” a jug-eared digger said. “The wheat was dying, the maester said. The pear trees,
too.”
“Well, maybe them pear trees die, or maybe you do.”
“Your talk don’t frighten us,” said the old man.
“No?” Bennis made his longsword whistle, opening the old man’s cheek from ear to jaw. “I said, them
pear trees die, or you do.” The digger’s blood ran red down one side of his face.
He should not have done that.Dunk had to swallow his rage. Bennis was on his side in this. “Get away
from here,” he shouted at the diggers. “Go back to your lady’s castle.”
“Run,”Ser Bennis urged.
Three of them let go of their tools and did just that, sprinting through the grass. But another man,
sunburned and brawny, hefted a pick and said, “There’s only two of them.”
“Shovels against swords is a fool’s fight, Jorgen,” the old man said, holding his face. Blood trickled
through his fingers. “This won’t be the end of this. Don’t think it will.”
“One more word, and I might be the end o’ you.”
“We meant no harm to you,” Dunk said to the old man’s bloody face. “All we want is our water. Tell
your lady that.”
“Oh, we’ll tell her, ser,” promised the brawny man, still clutching his pick. “That we will.”
On the way home they cut through the heart of Wat’s Wood, grateful for the small measure of shade
provided by the trees. Even so, they cooked. Supposedly there were deer in the wood, but the only living
things they saw were flies. They buzzed about Dunk’s face as he rode, and crept round Thunder’s eyes,
irritating the big warhorse no end. The air was still, suffocating.At least in Dorne the days were dry, and
at night it grew so cold I shivered in my cloak. In the Reach the nights were hardly cooler than the days,
even this far north.
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LegendsIIASONGOFICEANDFIREGEORGER.R.MARTINAGAMEOFTHRONES(1996)ACLASHOFKINGS(1998)ASTORMOFSWORDS(2000)AFEASTFORCROWS(forthcoming)ADANCEWITHDRAGONS(forthcoming)THEWINDSOFWINTER(forthcoming)ASongofIceandFirebeganlifeasatrilogy,andhassinceexpandedtosixbooks.AsJ.R.R.Tolkienoncesaid,thetalegrewinthetelli...

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分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：78 页 大小：168.85KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-23

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