"George R. R. Martin - Ice and Fire 2 - A Clash of Kings" - читать интересную книгу автора (Martin George R R)

their lords. Past the sprawl of the camp, the anchorage was crowded with
ships. No craft that had come within sight of Dragonstone this past half year
had been allowed to leave again. Lord Stannis's Fury, a triple-decked war
galley of three hundred oars, looked almost small beside some of the big-
bellied carracks and cogs that surrounded her.
The guardsmen outside the Stone Drum knew the maesters by sight, and passed
them through. "Wait here," Cressen told Pylos, within. "It's best I see him
alone."
"It is a long climb, Maester."
Cressen smiled. "You think I have forgotten? I have climbed these steps so
often I know each one by name."
Halfway up, he regretted his decision. He had stopped to catch his breath and
ease the pain in his hip when he heard the scuff of boots on stone, and came
face-to-face with Ser Davos Seaworth, descending.
Davos was a slight man, his low birth written plain upon a common face. A
well-worn green cloak, stained by salt and spray and faded from the sun,
draped his thin shoulders, over brown doublet and breeches that matched brown
eyes and hair. About his neck a pouch of worn leather hung from a thong. His
small beard was well peppered with grey, and he
wore a leather glove on his maimed left hand. When he saw Cressen, he checked
his descent.
"Ser Davos," the maester said. "When did you return?"
"In the black of morning. My favorite time." It was said that no one had ever
handled a ship by night half so well as Davos Shorthand. Before Lord Stannis
had knighted him, he had been the most notorious and elusive smuggler in all
the Seven Kingdoms.
"And?"
The man shook his head. "It is as you warned him. They will not rise, Maester.
Not for him. They do not love him."
No, Cressen thought. Nor will they ever. He is strong, able, just . . . aye,
just past the point of wisdom . . . yet it is not enough. It has never been
enough. "You spoke to them all?"
"All? No. Only those that would see me. They do not love me either, these
highborns. To them I'll always be the Onion Knight." His left hand closed,
stubby fingers locking into a fist; Stannis had hacked the ends off at the
last joint, all but the thumb. "I broke bread with Gulian Swann and old
Penrose, and the Tarths consented to a midnight meeting in a grove. The
others-well, Beric Dondarrion is gone missing, some say dead, and Lord Caron
is with Renly. Bryce the Orange, of the Rainbow Guard."
"The Rainbow Guard?"
"Renly's made his own Kingsguard," the onetime smuggler explained, "but these
seven don't wear white. Each one has his own color. Loras Tyrell's their Lord
Commander."
It was just the sort of notion that would appeal to Renly Baratheon; a
splendid new order of knighthood, with gorgeous new raiment to proclaim it.
Even as a boy, Renly had loved bright colors and rich fabrics, and he had
loved his games as well. "Look at me!" he would shout as he ran laughing
through the halls of Storm's End. "Look at me, I'm a dragon," or "Look at me,
I'm a wizard," or "Look at me, look at me, I'm the rain god."
The bold little boy with wild black hair and laughing eyes was a man grown