“Robert’s beard was black. Mine is gold.”
“Gold? Or silver?” Cersei plucked a hair from beneath his chin and held it up. It was grey. “All the color is draining out of you, brother. You’ve become a ghost of what you were, a pale crippled thing. And so bloodless, always in white.” She flicked2 the hair away. “I prefer you garbed3 in crimson4 and gold.”
I prefer you dappled in sunlight, with water beading on your naked skin. He wanted to kiss her, carry her to her bedchamber, throw her on the bed. . . . she’s been fucking Lancel and Osmund Kettleblack and Moon Boy . . . “I will make a bargain with you. Relieve me of this duty, and my razor is yours to command.”
Her mouth tightened6. She had been drinking hot spiced wine and smelled of nutmeg. “You presume to dicker with me? Need I remind you, you are sworn to obey.”
“I am sworn to protect the king. My place is at his side.”
“Your place is wherever he sends you.”
“Tommen puts his seal on every paper that you put in front of him. This is your doing, and it’s folly7. Why name Daven your Warden8 of the West if you have no faith in him?”
Cersei took a seat beneath the window. Behind her Jaime could see the blackened ruin of the Tower of the Hand. “Why so reluctant, ser? Did you lose your courage with your hand?”
“I swore an oath to Lady Stark9, never again to take up arms against the Starks or Tullys.”
“A drunken promise made with a sword at your throat.”
“How can I defend Tommen if I am not with him?”
“By defeating his enemies. Father always said that a swift sword stroke is a better defense10 than any shield. Admittedly, most sword strokes require a hand. Still, even a crippled lion may inspire fear. I want Riverrun. I want Brynden Tully chained or dead. And someone needs to set Harrenhal to rights. We have urgent need of Wylis Manderly, assuming he is still alive and captive, but the garrison11 has not replied to any of our ravens12.”
“Those are Gregor’s men at Harrenhal,” Jaime reminded her. “The Mountain liked them cruel and stupid. Most like they ate your ravens, messages and all.”
“That’s why I’m sending you. They may eat you as well, brave brother, but I trust you’ll give them indigestion.” Cersei smoothed her skirt. “I want Ser Osmund to command the Kingsguard in your absence.”
. . . she’s been fucking Lancel and Osmund Kettleblack and Moon Boy for all I know . . . “That’s not your choice. If I must go, Ser Loras will command here in my stead.”
“Is that a jape? You know how I feel about Ser Loras.”
“If you had not sent Balon Swann to Dorne—”
“I need him there. These Dornishmen cannot be trusted. That red snake championed Tyrion, have you forgotten that? I will not leave my daughter to their mercy. And I will not have Loras Tyrell commanding the Kingsguard.”
“Ser Loras is thrice the man Ser Osmund is.”
“Your notions of manhood have changed somewhat, brother.”
Jaime felt his anger rising. “True, Loras does not leer at your teats the way Ser Osmund does, but I hardly think—”
“Think about this.” Cersei slapped his face.
Jaime made no attempt to block the blow. “I see I need a thicker beard, to cushion me against my queen’s caresses15.” He wanted to rip her gown off and turn her blows to kisses. He’d done it before, back when he had two good hands.
The queen’s eyes were green ice. “You had best go, ser.”
. . . Lancel, Osmund Kettleblack, and Moon Boy . . .
“Are you deaf as well as maimed? You’ll find the door behind you, ser.”
“As you command.” Jaime turned on his heel and left her.
Somewhere the gods were laughing. Cersei had never taken kindly16 to being balked17, he knew that. Softer words might have swayed her, yet of late the very sight of her made him angry.
Part of him would be glad to put King’s Landing behind him. He had no taste for the company of the lickspittles and fools who surrounded Cersei. “The smallest council,” they were calling them in Flea18 Bottom, according to Addam Marbrand. And Qyburn . . . he might have saved Jaime’s life, but he was still a Bloody19 Mummer. “Qyburn stinks20 of secrets,” he warned Cersei. That only made her laugh. “We all have secrets, brother,” she replied.
. . . she’s been fucking Lancel and Osmund Kettleblack and Moon Boy for all I know . . .
Forty knights21 and as many esquires awaited him outside the Red Keep’s stables. Half were westermen sworn to House Lannister, the others recent foes26 turned doubtful friends. Ser Dermot of the Rainwood would carry Tommen’s standard, Red Ronnet Connington the white banner of the Kingsguard. A Paege, a Piper, and a Peckledon would share the honor of squiring for the Lord Commander. “Keep friends at your back and foes where you can see them,” Sumner Crakehall had once counseled him. Or had that been Father?
His palfrey was a blood bay, his destrier a magnificent grey stallion. It had been long years since Jaime had named any of his horses; he had seen too many die in battle, and that was harder when you named them. But when the Piper boy started calling them Honor and Glory, he laughed and let the names stand. Glory wore trappings of Lannister crimson; Honor was barded in Kingsguard white. Josmyn Peckledon held the palfrey’s reins27 as Ser Jaime mounted. The squire23 was skinny as a spear, with long arms and legs, greasy28 mouse-brown hair, and cheeks soft with peach fuzz. His cloak was Lannister crimson, but his surcoat showed the ten purple mullets of his own House arrayed upon a yellow field. “My lord,” the lad asked, “will you be wanting your new hand?”
“Wear it, Jaime,” urged Ser Kennos of Kayce. “Wave at the smallfolk and give them a tale to tell their children.”
“I think not.” Jaime would not show the crowds a golden lie. Let them see the stump30. Let them see the cripple. “But feel free to make up for my lack, Ser Kennos. Wave with both hands, and waggle your feet if it please you.” He gathered the reins in his left hand and wheeled his horse around. “Payne,” he called as the rest were forming up, “you’ll ride be- side me.”
Ser Ilyn Payne made his way to Jaime’s side, looking like the beggar at the ball. His ringmail was old and rusted14, worn over a stained jack31 of boiled leather. Neither the man nor his mount showed any heraldry; his shield was so hacked32 and battered33 it was hard to say what color paint might once have covered it. With his grim face and deep-sunk hollow eyes, Ser Ilyn might have passed for death himself . . . as he had, for years.
No longer, though. Ser Ilyn had been half of Jaime’s price, for swallowing his boy king’s command like a good little Lord Commander. The other half had been Ser Addam Marbrand. “I need them,” he had told his sister, and Cersei had not put up a fight. Most like she’s pleased to rid herself of them. Ser Addam was a boyhood friend of Jaime’s, and the silent headsman had belonged to their father, if he belonged to anyone. Payne had been the captain of the Hand’s guard when he had been heard boasting that it was Lord Tywin who ruled the Seven Kingdoms and told King Aerys what to do. Aerys Targaryen took his tongue for that.
“Open the gates,” said Jaime, and Strongboar, in his booming voice, called out, “OPEN THE GATES!”
When Mace34 Tyrell had marched out through the Mud Gate to the sound of drums and fiddles35, thousands lined the streets to cheer him off. Little boys had joined the march, striding along beside the Tyrell soldiers with heads held high and legs pumping, whilst their sisters threw down kisses from the windows.
Not so today. A few whores called out invitations as they passed, and a meat pie man cried his wares36. In Cobbler’s Square two threadbare sparrows were haranguing37 several hundred smallfolk, crying doom38 upon the heads of godless men and demon39 worshipers. The crowd parted for the column. Sparrows and cobblers alike looked on with dull eyes. “They like the smell of roses but have no love for lions,” Jaime observed. “My sister would be wise to take note of that.” Ser Ilyn made no reply. The perfect companion for a long ride. I will enjoy his conversation.
The greater part of his command awaited him beyond the city walls; Ser Addam Marbrand with his outriders, Ser Steffon Swyft and the baggage train, the Holy Hundred of old Ser Bonifer the Good, Sarsfield’s mounted archers40, Maester Gulian with four cages full of ravens, two hundred heavy horse under Ser Flement Brax. Not a great host, all in all; fewer than a thousand men in total. Numbers were the last thing needed at Riverrun. A Lannister army already invested the castle, and an even larger force of Freys; the last bird they’d received suggested that the besiegers were having difficulty keeping themselves fed. Brynden Tully had scoured41 the land clean before retiring behind his walls.
Not that it required much scouring42. From what Jaime had seen of the riverlands, scarce a field remained unburnt, a town unsacked, a maiden43 undespoiled. And now my sweet sister sends me to finish the work that Amory Lorch and Gregor Clegane began. It left a bitter taste in his mouth.
This near to King’s Landing, the kingsroad was as safe as any road could be in such times, yet Jaime sent Marbrand and his outriders ahead to scout44. “Robb Stark took me unawares in the Whispering Wood,” he said. “That will never happen again.”
“You have my word on it.” Marbrand seemed visibly relieved to be ahorse again, wearing the smoke-grey cloak of his own House instead of the gold wool of the City Watch. “If any foe25 should come within a dozen leagues, you will know of them beforehand.”
Jaime had given stern commands that no man was to depart the column without his leave. Elsewise, he knew he would have bored young lordlings racing45 through the fields, scattering46 livestock47 and trampling48 down the crops. There were still cows and sheep to be seen near the city; apples on the trees and berries in the brush, stands of barleycorn and oats and winter wheat, wayns and oxcarts on the road. Farther afield, things would not be so rosy49.
Riding at the front of the host with Ser Ilyn silent by his side, Jaime felt almost content. The sun was warm on his back and the wind riffled through his hair like a woman’s fingers. When Little Lew Piper came galloping50 up with a helm full of blackberries, Jaime ate a handful and told the boy to share the rest with his fellow squires24 and Ser Ilyn Payne.
Payne seemed as comfortable in his silence as in his rusted ringmail and boiled leather. The clop of his gelding’s hooves and the rattle51 of sword in scabbard whenever he shifted his seat were the only sounds he made. Though his pox-scarred face was grim and his eyes as cold as ice on a winter lake, Jaime sensed that he was glad he’d come. I gave the man a choice, he reminded himself. He could have refused me and remained King’s Justice.
Ser Ilyn’s appointment had been a wedding gift from Robert Baratheon to the father of his bride, a sinecure52 to compensate53 Payne for the tongue he’d lost in the service of House Lannister. He made a splendid headsman. He had never botched an execution, and seldom required as much as a second stroke. And there was something about his silence that inspired terror. Seldom had a King’s Justice seemed so well fitted for his office.
When Jaime decided54 to take him, he had sought out Ser Ilyn’s chambers55 at the end of Traitor’s Walk. The upper floor of the squat56, half-round tower was divided into cells for prisoners who required some measure of comfort, captive knights or lordlings awaiting ransom57 or exchange. The entrance to the dungeons59 proper was at ground level, behind a door of hammered iron and a second of splintery grey wood. On the floors between were rooms set aside for the use of the Chief Gaoler, the Lord Confessor, and the King’s Justice. The Justice was a headsman, but by tradition he also had charge of the dungeons and the men who kept them.
And for that task, Ser Ilyn Payne was singularly ill suited. As he could neither read, nor write, nor speak, Ser Ilyn had left the running of the dungeons to his underlings, such as they were. The realm had not had a Lord Confessor since the second Daeron, however, and the last Chief Gaoler had been a cloth merchant who purchased the office from Littlefinger during Robert’s reign60. No doubt he’d had good profit from it for a few years, until he made the error of conspiring61 with some other rich fools to give the Iron Throne to Stannis. They called themselves “Antler Men,” so Joff had nailed antlers to their heads before flinging them over the city walls. So it had been left to Rennifer Longwaters, the head undergaoler with the twisted back who claimed at tedious length to have a “drop of dragon” in him, to unlock the dungeon58 doors for Jaime and conduct him up the narrow steps inside the walls to the place where Ilyn Payne had lived for fifteen years.
The chambers stank62 of rotted food, and the rushes were crawling with vermin. As Jaime entered, he almost trod upon a rat. Payne’s greatsword rested on a trestle table, beside a whetstone and a greasy oilcloth. The steel was immaculate, the edge glimmering63 blue in the pale light, but elsewhere piles of soiled clothing were strewn about the floors, and the bits of mail and armor scattered64 here and there were red with rust13. Jaime could not count the broken wine jars. The man cares for naught65 but killing66, he thought, as Ser Ilyn emerged from a bedchamber that reeked67 of overflowing68 chamber5 pots. “His Grace bids me win back his riverlands,” Jaime told him. “I would have you with me . . . if you can bear to give up all of this.”
Silence was his answer, and a long, unblinking stare. But just as he was about to turn and take his leave, Payne had given him a nod. And here he rides. Jaime glanced at his companion. Perhaps there is yet hope for the both of us.
That night they made camp beneath the hilltop castle of the Hayfords. As the sun went down, a hundred tents sprouted69 beneath the hill, along the banks of the stream that ran beside it. Jaime set the sentries70 himself. He did not expect trouble this close to the city, but his uncle Stafford had once thought himself safe on the Oxcross too. It was best to take no chances.
When the invitation came down from the castle for him to sup with Lady Hayford’s castellan, Jaime took Ser Ilyn with him, along with Ser Addam Marbrand, Ser Bonifer Hasty, Red Ronnet Connington, Strongboar, and a dozen other knights and lordlings. “I suppose I ought to wear the hand,” he said to Peck before making his ascent71.
The lad fetched it straightaway. The hand was wrought72 of gold, very lifelike, with inlaid nails of mother-of-pearl, its fingers and thumb half closed so as to slip around a goblet73’s stem. I cannot fight, but I can drink, Jaime reflected as the lad was tightening74 the straps75 that bound it to his stump. “Men shall name you Goldenhand from this day forth76, my lord,” the armorer had assured him the first time he’d fitted it onto Jaime’s wrist. He was wrong. I shall be the Kingslayer till I die.
The golden hand was the occasion for much admiring comment over supper, at least until Jaime knocked over a goblet of wine. Then his temper got the best of him. “If you admire the bloody thing so much, lop off your own sword hand and you can have it,” he told Flement Brax. After that there was no more talk about his hand, and he managed to drink some wine in peace.
The lady of the castle was a Lannister by marriage, a plump toddler who had been wed29 to his cousin Tyrek before she was a year old. Lady Ermesande was duly trotted77 out for their approval, all trussed up in a little gown of cloth-of-gold, with the green fretty and green pale wavy78 of House Hayford rendered in tiny beads79 of jade. But soon enough the girl began to squall, whereupon she was promptly80 whisked off to bed by her wet nurse.
“Has there been no word of our Lord Tyrek?” her castellan asked as a course of trout81 was served.
“None.” Tyrek Lannister had vanished during the riots in King’s Landing whilst Jaime himself was still captive at Riverrun. The boy would be fourteen by now, assuming he was still alive.
“I led a search myself, at Lord Tywin’s command,” offered Addam Marbrand as he boned his fish, “but I found no more than Bywater had before me. The boy was last seen ahorse, when the press of the mob broke the line of gold cloaks. Afterward82 . . . well, his palfrey was found, but not the rider. Most like they pulled him down and slew83 him. But if that’s so, where is his body? The mob let the other corpses84 lie, why not his?”
“He would be of more value alive,” suggested Strongboar. “Any Lannister would bring a hefty ransom.”
“No doubt,” Marbrand agreed, “yet no ransom demand was ever made. The boy is simply gone.”
“The boy is dead.” Jaime had drunk three cups of wine, and his golden hand seemed to be growing heavier and clumsier by the moment. A hook would serve me just as well. “If they realized whom they’d killed, no doubt they threw him in the river for fear of my father’s wrath85. They know the taste of that in King’s Landing. Lord Tywin always paid his debts.”
“Always,” Strongboar agreed, and that was the end of that.
Yet afterward, alone in the tower room he had been offered for the night, Jaime found himself wondering. Tyrek had served King Robert as a squire, side by side with Lancel. Knowledge could be more valuable than gold, more deadly than a dagger86. It was Varys he thought of then, smiling and smelling of lavender. The eunuch had agents and informers all over the city. It would have been a simple matter for him to arrange to have Tyrek snatched during the confusion . . . provided he knew beforehand that the mob was like to riot. And Varys knew all, or so he would have us believe. Yet he gave Cersei no warning of that riot. Nor did he ride down to the ships to see Myrcella off.
He opened the tters. The night was growing cold, and a horned moon rode the sky. His hand shone dully in its light. No good for throttling87 eunuchs, but heavy enough to smash that slimy smile into a fine red ruin. He wanted to hit someone.
Jaime found Ser Ilyn honing his greatsword. “It’s time,” he told the man. The headsman rose and followed, his cracked leather boots scraping against the steep stone steps as they went down the stair. A small courtyard opened off the armory88. Jaime found two shields there, two halfhelms, and a pair of blunted tourney swords. He offered one to Payne and took the other in his left hand as he slid his right through the loops of the shield. His golden fingers were curved enough to hook, but could not grasp, so his hold upon the shield was loose. “You were a knight22 once, ser,” Jaime said. “So was I. Let us see what we are now.”
Ser Ilyn raised his blade in reply, and Jaime moved at once to the attack. Payne was as rusty89 as his ringmail, and not so strong as Brienne, yet he met every cut with his own blade, or interposed his shield. They danced beneath the horned moon as the blunted swords sang their steely song. The silent knight was content to let Jaime lead the dance for a while, but finally he began to answer stroke for stroke. Once he shifted to the attack, he caught Jaime on the thigh90, on the shoulder, on the forearm. Thrice he made his head ring with cuts to the helm. One slash91 ripped the shield off his right arm, and almost burst the straps that bound his golden hand to his stump. By the time they lowered their swords he was bruised92 and battered, but the wine had burned away and his head was clear. “We will dance again,” he promised Ser Ilyn. “On the morrow, and the morrow. Every day we’ll dance, till I am as good with my left hand as ever I was with the right.”
Ser Ilyn opened his mouth and made a clacking sound. A laugh, Jaime realized. Something twisted in his gut93.
Come morning, none of the others was so bold as to make mention of his bruises94. Not one of them had heard the sound of swordplay in the night, it would seem. Yet when they climbed back down to camp, Little Lew Piper voiced the question the knights and lordlings dared not ask. Jaime grinned at him. “They have lusty wenches in House Hayford. These are love bites, lad.”
Another bright and blustery day was followed by a cloudy one, then three days of rain. Wind and water made no matter. The column kept its pace, north along the kingsroad, and each night Jaime found some private place to win himself more love bites. They fought inside a stable as a one-eyed mule95 looked on, and in the cellar of an inn amongst the casks of wine and ale. They fought in the blackened shell of a big stone barn, on a wooded island in a shallow stream, and in an open field as the rain pattered softly against their helms and shields.
Jaime made excuses for his nightly forays, but he was not so foolish as to think that they were believed. Addam Marbrand knew what he was about, surely, and some of his other captains must have suspected. But no one spoke96 of it in his hearing . . . and since the only witness lacked a tongue, he need not fear anyone learning just how inept97 a swordsman the Kingslayer had become.
Soon the signs of war could be seen on every hand. Weeds and thorns and brushy trees grew high as a horse’s head in fields where autumn wheat should be ripening98, the kingsroad was bereft99 of travelers, and wolves ruled the weary world from dusk till dawn. Most of the animals were wary100 enough to keep their distance, but one of Marbrand’s outriders had his horse run off and killed when he dismounted for a piss. “No beast would be so bold,” declared Ser Bonifer the Good, of the stern sad face. “These are demons101 in the skins of wolves, sent to chastise102 us for our sins.”
“This must have been an uncommonly103 sinful horse,” Jaime said, standing104 over what remained of the poor animal. He gave orders for the rest of the carcass to be cut apart and salted down; it might be they would need the meat.
At a place called Sow’s Horn they found a tough old knight named Ser Roger Hogg squatting105 stubbornly in his towerhouse with six men-at-arms, four crossbowmen, and a score of peasants. Ser Roger was as big and bristly as his name and Ser Kennos suggested that he might be some lost Crakehall, since their sigil was a brindled106 boar. Strongboar seemed to believe it and spent an earnest hour questioning Ser Roger about his ancestors.
Jaime was more interested in what Hogg had to say of wolves. “We had some trouble with a band of them white star wolves,” the old knight told him. “They come round sniffing107 after you, my lord, but we saw them off, and buried three down by the turnips108. Before them there was a pack of bloody lions, begging your pardon. The one who led them had a manticore on his shield.”
“Ser Amory Lorch,” Jaime offered. “My lord father commanded him to harry109 the riverlands.”
“Which we’re no part of,” Ser Roger Hogg said stoutly110. “My fealty111’s owed to House Hayford, and Lady Ermesande bends her little knee at King’s Landing, or will when she’s old enough to walk. I told him that, but this Lorch wasn’t much for listening. He slaughtered112 half my sheep and three good milk goats, and tried to roast me in my tower. My walls are solid stone and eight feet thick, though, so after his fire burned out he rode off bored. The wolves come later, the ones on four legs. They ate the sheep the manticore left me. I got a few good pelts113 in recompense, but fur don’t fill your belly114. What should we do, my lord?”
“Plant,” said Jaime, “and pray for one last harvest.” It was not a hopeful answer, but it was the only one he had.
The next day, the column crossed the stream that formed the boundary between the lands that did fealty to King’s Landing and those beholden to Riverrun. Maester Gulian consulted a map and announced that these hills were held by the brothers Wode, a pair of landed knights sworn to Harrenhal . . . but their halls had been earth and timber, and only blackened beams remained of them.
No Wodes appeared, nor any of their smallfolk, though some outlaws115 had taken shelter in the root cellar beneath the second brother’s keep. One of them wore the ruins of a crimson cloak, but Jaime hanged him with the rest. It felt good. This was justice. Make a habit of it, Lannister, and one day men might call you Goldenhand after all. Goldenhand the Just.
The world grew ever greyer as they drew near to Harrenhal. They rode beneath slate116 skies, beside waters that shone old and cold as a sheet of beaten steel. Jaime found himself wondering if Brienne might have passed this way before him. If she thought that Sansa Stark had made for Riverrun . . . Had they encountered other travelers, he might have stopped to ask if any of them had chance to see a pretty maid with auburn hair, or a big ugly one with a face that would curdle117 milk. But there was no one on the roads but wolves, and their howling held no answers.
Across the pewter waters of the lake the towers of Black Harren’s folly appeared at last, five twisted fingers of black, misshapen stone grasping for the sky. Though Littlefinger had been named the Lord of Harrenhal, he seemed in no great haste to occupy his new seat, so it had fallen to Jaime Lannister to “sort out” Harrenhal on his way to Riverrun.
That it needed sorting out he did not doubt. Gregor Clegane had wrested118 the immense, gloomy castle away from the Bloody Mummers before Cersei recalled him to King’s Landing. No doubt the Mountain’s men were still rattling119 around inside like so many dried peas in a suit of plate, but they were not ideally suited to restore the king’s peace to the Trident. The only peace Ser Gregor’s lot had ever given anyone was the peace of the grave.
Ser Addam’s outriders had reported that the gates of Harrenhal were closed and barred. Jaime drew his men up before them and commanded Ser Kennos of Kayce to sound the Horn of Herrock, black and twisted and banded in old gold.
When three blasts had echoed off the walls, they heard the groan120 of iron hinges and the gates swung slowly open. So thick were the walls of Black Harren’s folly that Jaime passed beneath a dozen murder holes before emerging into sudden sunlight in the yard where he’d bid farewell to the Bloody Mummers, not so long ago. Weeds were sprouting121 from the hard-packed earth, and flies buzzed about the carcass of a horse.
A handful of Ser Gregor’s men emerged from the towers to watch him dismount; hard-eyed, hard-mouthed men, the lot of them. They would have to be, to ride beside the Mountain. About the best that could be said for Gregor’s men was that they were not quite as vile122 and violent a bunch as the Brave Companions. “Fuck me, Jaime Lannister,” blurted123 one grey and grizzled man-at-arms. “It’s the bleeding Kingslayer, boys. Fuck me with a spear!”
“Who might you be?” Jaime asked.
“Ser used to call me Shitmouth, if it please m’lord.” He spit in his hands and wiped his cheeks with them, as if that would somehow make him more presentable.
“Charming. Do you command here?”
“Me? Shit, no. M’lord. Bugger me with a bloody spear.” Shitmouth had enough crumbs124 in his beard to feed the garrison. Jaime had to laugh. The man took that for encouragement. “Bugger me with a bloody spear,” he said again, and started laughing too.
“You heard the man,” Jaime said to Ilyn Payne. “Find a nice long spear, and shove it up his arse.”
Ser Ilyn did not have a spear, but Beardless Jon Bettley was glad to toss him one. Shitmouth’s drunken laughter stopped abruptly125. “You keep that bloody thing away from me.”
“Make up your mind,” said Jaime. “Who has the command here? Did Ser Gregor name a castellan?”
“Polliver,” another man said, “only the Hound killed him, m’lord. Him and the Tickler both, and that Sarsfield boy.”
The Hound again. “You know it was Sandor? You saw him?”
“Not us, m’lord. That innkeep told us.”
“It happened at the crossroads inn, my lord.” The speaker was a younger man with a mop of sandy hair. He wore the chain of coins that had once belonged to Vargo Hoat; coins from half a hundred distant cities, silver and gold, copper126 and bronze, square coins and round coins, triangles and rings and bits of bone. “The innkeep swore the man had one side of his face all burned. His whores told the same tale. Sandor had some boy with him, a ragged127 peasant lad. They hacked Polly and the Tickler to bloody bits and rode off down the Trident, we were told.”
“Did you send men after them?”
Shitmouth frowned, as if the thought were painful. “No, m’lord. Fuck us all, we never did.”
“When a dog goes mad you cut his throat.”
“Well,” the man said, rubbing his mouth, “I never much liked Polly, that shit, and the dog, he were Ser’s brother, so . . .”
“We’re bad, m’lord,” broke in the man who wore the coins, “but you’d need to be mad to face the Hound.”
Jaime looked him over. Bolder than the rest, and not as drunk as Shitmouth. “You were afraid of him.”
“I wouldn’t say afraid, m’lord. I’d say we was leaving him for our betters. Someone like Ser. Or you.”
Me, when I had two hands. Jaime did not delude128 himself. Sandor would make short work of him now. “You have a name?”
“Rafford, if it pleases. Most call me Raff.”
“Raff, gather the garrison together in the Hall of a Hundred Hearths129. Your captives as well. I’ll want to see them. Those whores from the crossroads too. Oh, and Hoat. I was distraught to hear that he had died. I’d like to look upon his head.”
When they brought it to him, he found that the Goat’s lips had been sliced off, along with his ears and most of his nose. The crows had supped upon his eyes. It was still recognizably Hoat, however. Jaime would have known his beard anywhere; an absurd rope of hair two feet long, dangling130 from a pointed131 chin. Elsewise, only a few leathery strips of flesh still clung to the Qohorik’s skull132. “Where is the rest of him?” he asked.
No one wanted to tell him. Finally, Shitmouth lowered his eyes, and muttered, “Rotted, ser. And et.”
“One of the captives was always begging food,” Rafford admitted, “so Ser said to give him roast goat. The Qohorik didn’t have much meat on him, though. Ser took his hands and feet first, then his arms and legs.”
“The fat bugger got most, m’lord,” Shitmouth offered, “but Ser, he said to see that all the captives had a taste. And Hoat too, his own self. That whoreson ’ud slobber when we fed him, and the grease’d run down into that skinny beard o’ his.”
Father, Jaime thought, your dogs have both gone mad. He found himself remembering tales he had first heard as a child at Casterly Rock, of mad Lady Lothston who bathed in tubs of blood and presided over feasts of human flesh within these very walls.
Somehow revenge had lost its savor133. “Take this and throw it in the lake.” Jaime tossed Hoat’s head to Peck, and turned to address the garrison. “Until such time as Lord Petyr arrives to claim his seat, Ser Bonifer Hasty shall hold Harrenhal in the name of the crown. Those of you who wish may join him, if he’ll have you. The rest will ride with me to Riverrun.”
The Mountain’s men looked at one another. “We’re owed,” said one. “Ser promised us. Rich rewards, he said.”
“His very words,” Shitmouth agreed. “Rich rewards, for them as rides with me.” A dozen others began to yammer their assent134.
Ser Bonifer raised a gloved hand. “Any man who remains135 with me shall have a hide of land to work, a second hide when he takes a wife, a third at the birth of his first child.”
“Land, ser?” Shitmouth spat136. “Piss on that. If we wanted to grub in the bloody dirt, we could have bloody well stayed home, begging your pardon, ser. Rich rewards, Ser said. Meaning gold.”
“If you have a grievance137, go to King’s Landing and take it up with my sweet sister.” Jaime turned to Rafford. “I’ll see those captives now. Starting with Ser Wylis Manderly.”
“He the fat one?” asked Rafford.
“I devoutly138 hope so. And tell me no sad stories of how he died, or the lot of you are apt to do the same.”
Any hopes he might have nursed of finding Shagwell, Pyg, or Zollo languishing139 in the dungeons were sadly disappointed. The Brave Companions had abandoned Vargo Hoat to a man, it would seem. Of Lady Whent’s people, only three remained—the cook who had opened the postern gate for Ser Gregor, a bent-back armorer called Ben Blackthumb, and a girl named Pia, who was not near as pretty as she had been when Jaime saw her last. Someone had broken her nose and knocked out half her teeth. The girl fell at Jaime’s feet when she saw him, sobbing140 and clinging to his leg with hysterical142 strength till Strongboar pulled her off. “No one will hurt you now,” he told her, but that only made her sob141 the louder.
The other captives had been better treated. Ser Wylis Manderly was amongst them, along with several other highborn northmen taken prisoner by the Mountain That Rides in the fighting at the fords of the Trident. Useful hostages, all worth a goodly ransom. They were ragged, filthy143, and shaggy to a man, and some had fresh bruises, cracked teeth, and missing fingers, but their wounds had been washed and bandaged, and none of them had gone hungry. Jaime wondered if they had any inkling what they’d been eating, and decided it was better not to inquire.
None had any defiance144 left; especially not Ser Wylis, a bushy-faced tub of suet with dull eyes and sallow, sagging145 jowls. When Jaime told him that he would be escorted to Maidenpool and there put on a ship for White Harbor, Ser Wylis collapsed146 into a puddle147 on the floor and sobbed148 longer and louder than Pia had. It took four men to lift him back onto his feet. Too much roast goat, Jaime reflected. Gods, but I hate this bloody castle. Harrenhal had seen more horror in its three hundred years than Casterly Rock had witnessed in three thousand.
Jaime commanded that fires be lit in the Hall of a Hundred Hearths and sent the cook hobbling back to the kitchens to prepare a hot meal for the men of his column. “Anything but goat.”
He took his own supper in Hunter’s Hall with Ser Bonifer Hasty, a solemn stork150 of a man prone151 to salting his speech with appeals to the Seven. “I want none of Ser Gregor’s followers,” he declared as he was cutting up a pear as withered152 as he was, so as to make certain that its nonexistent juice did not stain his pristine153 purple doublet, embroidered154 with the white bend cotised of his House. “I will not have such sinners in my service.”
“My septon used to say all men were sinners.”
“He was not wrong,” Ser Bonifer allowed, “but some sins are blacker than others, and fouler155 in the nostrils156 of the Seven.”
And you have no more nose than my little brother, or my own sins would have you choking on that pear. “Very well. I’ll take Gregor’s lot off your hands.” He could always find a use for fighters. If nothing else, he could send them up the ladders first, should he need to storm the walls of Riverrun.
“Take the whore as well,” Ser Bonifer urged. “You know the one. The girl from the dungeons.”
“Pia.” The last time he had been here, Qyburn had sent the girl to his bed, thinking that would please him. But the Pia they had brought up from the dungeons was a different creature from the sweet, simple, giggly157 creature who’d crawled beneath his blankets. She had made the mistake of speaking when Ser Gregor wanted quiet, so the Mountain had smashed her teeth to splinters with a mailed fist and broken her pretty little nose as well. He would have done worse, no doubt, if Cersei had not called him down to King’s Landing to face the Red Viper’s spear. Jaime would not mourn him. “Pia was born in this castle,” he told Ser Bonifer. “It is the only home she has ever known.”
“She is a font of corruption,” said Ser Bonifer. “I won’t have her near my men, flaunting158 her . . . parts.”
“I expect her flaunting days are done,” he said, “but if you find her that objectionable, I’ll take her.” He could make her a washerwoman, he supposed. His squires did not mind raising his tent, grooming159 his horse, or cleaning his armor, but the task of caring for his clothes struck them as unmanly. “Can you hold Harrenhal with just your Holy Hundred?” Jaime asked. They should actually be called the Holy Eighty-Six, having lost fourteen men upon the Blackwater, but no doubt Ser Bonifer would fill up his ranks again as soon as he found some sufficiently160 pious161 recruits.
“I anticipate no difficulty. The Crone will light our way, and the Warrior162 will give strength to our arms.”
Or else the Stranger will turn up for the whole holy lot of you. Jaime could not be certain who had convinced his sister that Ser Bonifer should be named castellan of Harrenhal, but the appointment smelled of Orton Merryweather. Hasty had once served Merryweather’s grandsire, he seemed to recall dimly. And the carrot-haired justiciar was just the sort of simpleminded fool to assume that someone called “the Good” was the very potion the riverlands required to heal the wounds left by Roose Bolton, Vargo Hoat, and Gregor Clegane.
But he might not be wrong. Hasty hailed from the stormlands, so had neither friends nor foes along the Trident; no blood feuds163, no debts to pay, no cronies to reward. He was sober, just, and dutiful, and his Holy Eighty-Six were as well disciplined as any soldiers in the Seven Kingdoms, and made a lovely sight as they wheeled and pranced164 their tall grey geldings. Littlefinger had once quipped that Ser Bonifer must have gelded the riders too, so spotless was their repute.
All the same, Jaime wondered about any soldiers who were better known for their lovely horses than for the foes they’d slain165. They pray well, I suppose, but can they fight? They had not disgraced themselves on the Blackwater, so far as he knew, but they had not distinguished166 themselves either. Ser Bonifer himself had been a promising167 knight in his youth, but something had happened to him, a defeat or a disgrace or a near brush with death, and afterward he had decided that jousting168 was an empty vanity and put away his lance for good and all.
Harrenhal must be held, though, and Baelor Butthole here is the man that Cersei chose to hold it. “This castle has an ill repute,” he warned him, “and one that’s well deserved. It’s said that Harren and his sons still walk the halls by night, afire. Those who look upon them burst into flame.”
“I fear no shade, ser. It is written in The Seven-Pointed Star that spirits, wights, and revenants cannot harm a pious man, so long as he is armored in his faith.”
“Then armor yourself in faith, by all means, but wear a suit of mail and plate as well. Every man who holds this castle seems to come to a bad end. The Mountain, the Goat, even my father . . .”
“If you will forgive my saying so, they were not godly men, as we are. The Warrior defends us, and help is always near, if some dread169 foe should threaten. Maester Gulian will be remaining with his ravens, Lord Lancel is nearby at Darry with his garrison, and Lord Randyll holds Maidenpool. Together we three shall hunt down and destroy whatever outlaws prowl these parts. Once that is done, the Seven will guide the goodfolk back to their villages to plow170 and plant and build anew.”
The ones the Goat didn’t kill, at least. Jaime hooked his golden fingers round the stem of his wine goblet. “If any of Hoat’s Brave Companions fall into your hands, send word to me at once.” The Stranger might have made off with the Goat before Jaime could get around to him, but fat Zollo was still out there, with Shagwell, Rorge, Faithful Urswyck, and the rest.
“So you can torture them and kill them?”
“I suppose you would forgive them, in my place?”
“If they made sincere repentance171 for their sins . . . yes, I would embrace them all as brothers and pray with them before I sent them to the block. Sins may be forgiven. Crimes require punishment.” Hasty folded his hands before him like a steeple, in a way that reminded Jaime uncomfortably of his father. “If it is Sandor Clegane that we encounter, what would you have me do?”
Pray hard, Jaime thought, and run. “Send him to join his beloved brother and be glad the gods made seven hells. One would never be enough to hold both of the Cleganes.” He pushed himself awkwardly to his feet. “Beric Dondarrion is a different matter. Should you capture him, hold him for my return. I’ll want to march him back to King’s Landing with a rope about his neck, and have Ser Ilyn take his head off where half the realm can see.”
“And this Myrish priest who runs with him? It is said he spreads his false faith everywhere.”
“Kill him, kiss him, or pray with him, as you please.”
“I have no wish to kiss the man, my lord.”
“No doubt he’d say the same of you.” Jaime’s smile turned into a yawn. “My pardons. I shall take my leave of you, if you have no objections.”
“None, my lord,” said Hasty. No doubt he wished to pray.
Jaime wished to fight. He took the steps two at a time, out to where the night air was cold and crisp. In the torchlit yard Strongboar and Ser Flement Brax were having at each other whilst a ring of men-at-arms cheered them on. Ser Lyle will have the best of that one, he knew. I need to find Ser Ilyn. His fingers had the itch149 again. His footsteps took him away from the noise and the light. He passed beneath the covered bridge and through the Flowstone Yard before he realized where he was headed.
As he neared the bear pit, he saw the glow of a lantern, its pale wintry light washing over the tiers of steep stone seats. Someone has come before me, it would seem. The pit would be a fine place to dance; perhaps Ser Ilyn had anticipated him.
But the knight standing over the pit was bigger; a husky, bearded man in a red-and-white surcoat adorned172 with griffins. Connington. What’s he doing here? Below, the carcass of the bear still sprawled173 upon the sands, though only bones and ragged fur remained, half-buried. Jaime felt a pang174 of pity for the beast. At least he died in battle. “Ser Ronnet,” he called, “have you lost your way? It is a large castle, I know.”
Red Ronnet raised his lantern. “I wished to see where the bear danced with the maiden not-so-fair.” His beard shone in the light as if it were afire. Jaime could smell wine on his breath. “Is it true the wench fought naked?”
“Naked? No.” He wondered how that wrinkle had been added to the story. “The Mummers put her in a pink silk gown and shoved a tourney sword into her hand. The Goat wanted her death to be amuthing. Elsewise . . .”
“. . . the sight of Brienne naked might have made the bear flee in terror.” Connington laughed.
Jaime did not. “You speak as if you know the lady.”
“I was betrothed175 to her.”
That took him by surprise. Brienne had never mentioned a betrothal176. “Her father made a match for her . . .”
“Thrice,” said Connington. “I was the second. My father’s notion. I had heard the wench was ugly, and I told him so, but he said all women were the same once you blew the candle out.”
“Your father.” Jaime eyed Red Ronnet’s surcoat, where two griffins faced each other on a field of red and white. Dancing griffins. “Our late Hand’s . . . brother, was he?”
“Cousin. Lord Jon had no brothers.”
“No.” It all came back to him. Jon Connington had been Prince Rhaegar’s friend. When Merryweather failed so dismally177 to contain Robert’s Rebellion and Prince Rhaegar could not be found, Aerys had turned to the next best thing, and raised Connington to the Handship. But the Mad King was always chopping off his Hands. He had chopped Lord Jon after the Battle of the Bells, stripping him of honors, lands, and wealth, and packing him off across the sea to die in exile, where he soon drank himself to death. The cousin, though—Red Ronnet’s father—had joined the rebellion and been rewarded with Griffin’s Roost after the Trident. He only got the castle, though; Robert kept the gold, and bestowed178 the greater part of the Connington lands on more fervent179 supporters.
Ser Ronnet was a landed knight, no more. For any such, the Maid of Tarth would have been a sweet plum indeed. “How is it that you did not wed?” Jaime asked him.
“Why, I went to Tarth and saw her. I had six years on her, yet the wench could look me in the eye. She was a sow in silk, though most sows have bigger teats. When she tried to talk she almost choked on her own tongue. I gave her a rose and told her it was all that she would ever have from me.” Connington glanced into the pit. “The bear was less hairy than that freak, I’ll—”
Jaime’s golden hand cracked him across the mouth so hard the other knight went stumbling down the steps. His lantern fell and smashed, and the oil spread out, burning. “You are speaking of a highborn lady, ser. Call her by her name. Call her Brienne.”
Connington edged away from the spreading flames on his hands and knees. “Brienne. If it please my lord.” He spat a glob of blood at Jaime’s foot. “Brienne the Beauty.”
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1
jade
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| n.玉石；碧玉；翡翠 | |
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flicked
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的过去式和过去分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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3
garbed
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| v.（尤指某类人穿的特定）服装，衣服，制服( garb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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4
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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5
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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warden
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| n.监察员，监狱长，看守人，监护人 | |
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stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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defense
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| n.防御，保卫；[pl.]防务工事；辩护，答辩 | |
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garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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ravens
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| n.低质煤；渡鸦( raven的名词复数 ) | |
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13
rust
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| n.锈；v.生锈；(脑子)衰退 | |
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rusted
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| v.（使）生锈( rust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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17
balked
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| v.畏缩不前，犹豫( balk的过去式和过去分词 )；（指马）不肯跑 | |
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18
flea
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| n.跳蚤 | |
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bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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stinks
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| v.散发出恶臭( stink的第三人称单数 )；发臭味；名声臭；糟透 | |
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21
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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squires
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| n.地主，乡绅( squire的名词复数 ) | |
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foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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foes
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| 敌人，仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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stump
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| n.残株，烟蒂，讲演台；v.砍断，蹒跚而走 | |
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31
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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hacked
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| 生气 | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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34
mace
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| n.狼牙棒，豆蔻干皮 | |
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fiddles
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| n.小提琴( fiddle的名词复数 )；欺诈；（需要运用手指功夫的）细巧活动；当第二把手v.伪造( fiddle的第三人称单数 )；篡改；骗取；修理或稍作改动 | |
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36
wares
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| n. 货物, 商品 | |
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haranguing
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| v.高谈阔论( harangue的现在分词 ) | |
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doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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40
archers
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| n.弓箭手，射箭运动员( archer的名词复数 ) | |
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41
scoured
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| 走遍（某地）搜寻（人或物）( scour的过去式和过去分词 )； （用力）刷； 擦净； 擦亮 | |
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scouring
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| 擦[洗]净，冲刷，洗涤 | |
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43
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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44
scout
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| n.童子军，侦察员；v.侦察，搜索 | |
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45
racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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46
scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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47
livestock
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| n.家畜，牲畜 | |
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48
trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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49
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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50
galloping
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| adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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51
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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52
sinecure
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| n.闲差事，挂名职务 | |
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53
compensate
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| vt.补偿，赔偿；酬报 vi.弥补；补偿；抵消 | |
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54
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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55
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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56
squat
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| v.蹲坐，蹲下；n.蹲下；adj.矮胖的，粗矮的 | |
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57
ransom
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| n.赎金，赎身；v.赎回，解救 | |
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58
dungeon
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| n.地牢，土牢 | |
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59
dungeons
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| n.地牢( dungeon的名词复数 ) | |
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60
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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61
conspiring
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| 密谋( conspire的现在分词 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
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62
stank
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| n. (英)坝，堰，池塘 动词stink的过去式 | |
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63
glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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64
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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65
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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66
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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67
reeked
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的过去式和过去分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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68
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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69
sprouted
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| v.发芽( sprout的过去式和过去分词 )；抽芽；出现；（使）涌现出 | |
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70
sentries
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| 哨兵，步兵( sentry的名词复数 ) | |
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71
ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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72
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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73
goblet
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| n.高脚酒杯 | |
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74
tightening
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| 上紧，固定，紧密 | |
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75
straps
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| n.带子( strap的名词复数 )；挎带；肩带；背带v.用皮带捆扎( strap的第三人称单数 )；用皮带抽打；包扎；给…打绷带 | |
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76
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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77
trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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78
wavy
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| adj.有波浪的，多浪的，波浪状的，波动的，不稳定的 | |
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79
beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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80
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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81
trout
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| n.鳟鱼；鲑鱼(属) | |
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82
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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83
slew
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| v.（使）旋转；n.大量，许多 | |
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84
corpses
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| n.死尸，尸体( corpse的名词复数 ) | |
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85
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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86
dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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87
throttling
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| v.扼杀( throttle的现在分词 )；勒死；使窒息；压制 | |
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88
armory
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| n.纹章，兵工厂，军械库 | |
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89
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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90
thigh
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| n.大腿；股骨 | |
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91
slash
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| vi.大幅度削减；vt.猛砍，尖锐抨击，大幅减少；n.猛砍，斜线，长切口，衣衩 | |
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92
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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93
gut
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| n.[pl.]胆量；内脏；adj.本能的；vt.取出内脏 | |
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94
bruises
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| n.瘀伤，伤痕，擦伤( bruise的名词复数 ) | |
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95
mule
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| n.骡子，杂种，执拗的人 | |
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96
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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97
inept
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| adj.不恰当的，荒谬的，拙劣的 | |
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98
ripening
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的现在分词 )；熟化；熟成 | |
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99
bereft
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| adj.被剥夺的 | |
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100
wary
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| adj.谨慎的，机警的，小心的 | |
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101
demons
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| n.恶人( demon的名词复数 )；恶魔；精力过人的人；邪念 | |
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102
chastise
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| vt.责骂，严惩 | |
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103
uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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104
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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105
squatting
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的现在分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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106
brindled
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| adj.有斑纹的 | |
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107
sniffing
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| n.探查法v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的现在分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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108
turnips
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| 芜青( turnip的名词复数 )； 芜菁块根； 芜菁甘蓝块根； 怀表 | |
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109
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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110
stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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111
fealty
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| n.忠贞，忠节 | |
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112
slaughtered
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| v.屠杀，杀戮，屠宰( slaughter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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113
pelts
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| n. 皮毛，投掷, 疾行 vt. 剥去皮毛，（连续）投掷 vi. 猛击，大步走 | |
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114
belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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115
outlaws
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| 歹徒，亡命之徒( outlaw的名词复数 )； 逃犯 | |
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116
slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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117
curdle
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| v.使凝结，变稠 | |
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118
wrested
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| （用力）拧( wrest的过去式和过去分词 )； 费力取得； （从…）攫取； （ 从… ） 强行取去… | |
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119
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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120
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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121
sprouting
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| v.发芽( sprout的现在分词 )；抽芽；出现；（使）涌现出 | |
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122
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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123
blurted
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| v.突然说出，脱口而出( blurt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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124
crumbs
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| int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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125
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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126
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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127
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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128
delude
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| vt.欺骗；哄骗 | |
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129
hearths
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| 壁炉前的地板，炉床，壁炉边( hearth的名词复数 ) | |
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130
dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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131
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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132
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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133
savor
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| vt.品尝，欣赏；n.味道，风味；情趣，趣味 | |
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134
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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135
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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136
spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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137
grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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138
devoutly
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| adv.虔诚地，虔敬地，衷心地 | |
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139
languishing
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| a. 衰弱下去的 | |
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140
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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141
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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142
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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143
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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144
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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145
sagging
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| 下垂[沉，陷]，松垂，垂度 | |
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146
collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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147
puddle
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| n.(雨)水坑，泥潭 | |
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148
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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149
itch
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| n.痒，渴望，疥癣；vi.发痒，渴望 | |
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150
stork
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| n.鹳 | |
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151
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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152
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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153
pristine
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| adj.原来的，古时的，原始的，纯净的，无垢的 | |
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154
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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155
fouler
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| adj.恶劣的( foul的比较级 )；邪恶的；难闻的；下流的 | |
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156
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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157
giggly
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| adj.傻笑的，吃吃笑的 | |
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158
flaunting
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| adj.招摇的，扬扬得意的，夸耀的v.炫耀，夸耀( flaunt的现在分词 )；有什么能耐就施展出来 | |
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159
grooming
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| n. 修饰, 美容，（动物）梳理毛发 | |
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160
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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161
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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162
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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163
feuds
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| n.长期不和，世仇( feud的名词复数 ) | |
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164
pranced
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| v.（马）腾跃( prance的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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165
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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166
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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167
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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168
jousting
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| （骑士）骑马用长矛比武( joust的现在分词 ) | |
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169
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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170
plow
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| n.犁，耕地，犁过的地；v.犁，费力地前进[英]plough | |
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171
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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172
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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173
sprawled
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| v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的过去式和过去分词)；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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174
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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175
betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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176
betrothal
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| n. 婚约, 订婚 | |
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177
dismally
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| adv.阴暗地，沉闷地 | |
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178
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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179
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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