新年的第一文 來個從來沒寫過的翻譯 這是“冰與火之歌”第6集“The Winds of Winter凜冬寒風” 馬丁放出來的第一個試閱章節 至於要等到整本寫完……快則3年 慢則6年吧 馬丁是典型的慢功出細活
第5集“A Dance with Dragon與龍共舞”最出色的pov 並不是“三頭龍”丹妮莉絲 瓊恩和提利昂 而是消失2集的席恩 看看他7個pov的“名字”就知道 從一開始被奪去姓名的“Reek臭佬” 直到最後終於恢復了“席恩” “you must know your name你得知道你的名字” 看著這位妓院VIP卡持有者變成這個德性…… 感觸良多啊
某些沒那麼重要的傢伙 就直接用英文 不翻譯成中文名字了
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 sign in mine own blood. That ought to make your masters happy."
"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 night outside? The tower was windowless, he had no way to know.
"Unchain me, and I will serve you."
"As you served Roose Bolton and Robb Stark?" Stannis snorted. "I think not. We have a warmer end in mind for you, turncloak. But not until we're done with you."
He means to kill me. The thought was queerly comforting. Death did not frighten Theon Greyjoy. Death would mean an end to pain. "Be done with me, then," he urged the king. "Take off my head off and stick it on a spear. I slew Lord Eddard's sons, I ought to die. But do it quick. He is coming."
"Who is coming? Bolton?"
"Lord Ramsay," Theon hissed. "The son, not the father. You must not let him take him. Roose... Roose is safe within the walls of Winterfell with his fat new wife. Ramsay is coming."
"Ramsay Snow, you mean. The Bastard."
"Never call him that!" Spittle sprayed from Theon's lips. "Ramsay Bolton, not Ramsay Snow, never Snow, never, you have to remember his name, or he will hurt you."
"He is welcome to try. Whatever name he goes by."
The door opened with a gust of cold black wind and a swirl of snow. The knight of the moths had returned with the maester the king had sent for, his grey robes concealed beneath a heavy bearskin pelt. Behind them came two other knights, each carrying a raven in a cage. One was the man who'd been with Asha when the banker delivered him to her, a burly man with a winged pig on his surcoat. The other was taller, broad-shouldered and brawny. The big man's breastplate was silvered steel inlaid with niello; though scratched and dinted, it still shone in the candlelight. The cloak that he wore over it was fastened with a burning heart.
"Maester Tybald," announced the knight of the moths.
The maester sank to his knees. He was red-haired and round-shouldered, with close-set eyes that kept flicking toward Theon hanging on the wall. "Your Grace. How may I be of service?"
Stannis did not reply at once. He studied the man before him, his brow furrowed. "Get up." The maester rose. "You are maester at the Dreadfort. How is it you are here with us?"
"Lord Arnolf brought me to tend to his wounded."
"To his wounded? Or his ravens?"
"Both, Your Grace."
"Both." Stannis snapped the word out. "A maester's raven flies to one place, and one place only. Is that correct?"
The maester mopped sweat from his brow with his sleeve. "N-not entirely, Your Grace. Most, yes. Some few can be taught to fly between two castles. Such birds are greatly prized. And once in a very great while, we find a raven who can learn the names of three or four or five castles, and fly to each upon command. Birds as clever as that come along only once in a hundred years."
Stannis gestured at the black birds in the cages. "These two are not so clever, I presume."
"No, Your Grace. Would that it were so."
"Tell me, then. Where are these two trained to fly?"
Maester Tybald did not answer. Theon Greyjoy kicked his feet feebly, and laughed under his breath. Caught!
"Answer me. If we were to loose these birds, would they return to the Dreadfort?" The king leaned forward. "Or might they fly for Winterfell instead?"
Maester Tybald pissed his robes. Theon could not see the dark stain spreading from where he hung, but the smell of piss was sharp and strong.
"Maester Tybald has lost his tongue," Stannis observed to his knights. "Godry, how many cages did you find?"
"Three, Your Grace," said the big knight in the silvered breastplate. "One was empty."
"Y-your Grace, my order is sworn to serve, we... "
"I know all about your vows. What I want to know is what was in the letter that you sent to Winterfell. Did you perchance tell Lord Bolton where to find us?"
"S-sire." Round-shouldered Tybald drew himself up proudly.
"The rules of my order forbid me to divulge the contents of Lord Arnolf's letters."
"Your vows are stronger than your bladder, it would seem."
"Your Grace must understand — "
"Must I?" The king shrugged. "If you say so. You are a man of learning, after all. I had a maester on Dragonstone who was almost a father to me. I have great respect for your order and its vows. Ser Clayton does not share my feelings, though. He learned all he knows in the wynds of Flea Bottom. Were I to put you in his charge, he might strangle you with your own chain or scoop your eye out with a spoon."
"Only the one, Your Grace," volunteered the balding knight, him of the winged pig. "I'd leave t'other."
"How many eyes does a maester need to read a letter?" asked Stannis. "One should suffice, I'd think. I would not wish to leave you unable to fulfill your duties to your lord. Roose Bolton's men may well be on their way to attack us even now, however, so you must understand if I skimp on certain courtesies. I will ask you once again. What was in the message you sent to Winterfell?"
The maester quivered. "A m-map, Your Grace."
The king leaned back in his chair. "Get him out of here," he commanded. "Leave the ravens." A vein was throbbing in his neck. "Confine this grey wretch to one of the huts until I decide what is to be done with him."
"It will be done," the big knight declared. The maester vanished in another blast of cold and snow. Only the knight of the three moths remained.
“這會辦妥。” 大個子騎士表示， 學士消失在另一陣冷與雪當中，只有三隻蛾騎士還留下。
Stannis glowered up at Theon where he hung. "You are not the only turncloak here, it would seem. Would that all the lords in the Seven Kingdoms had but a single neck... " He turned to his knight. "Ser Richard, whilst I am breaking fast with Lord Arnolf, you are to disarm his men and take them into custody. Most will be asleep. Do them no harm, unless they resist. It may be they did not know. Question some upon that point... but sweetly. If they had no knowledge of this treachery, they shall have the chance to prove their loyalty." He snapped a hand in dismissal. "Send in Justin Massey."
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