【读你所爱，呵护你的心灵；掌握英语，打开你的第三只眼】
【“你为什么那么喜欢读书呀？”
…我对自己的优势与劣势是有很现实的认识的。我的头脑就是我的武器。我哥哥的武器是他的剑，Robert国王的武器是他的战锤，而我的武器就是我的头脑……要想让宝剑保持锋利的话，你需要有磨刀石，要想让你的头脑保持敏锐的话，你就需要书籍。”
“Why do you read so much?”
…I have a realistic grasp of my own strengths and weaknesses. My mind is my weapon. My brother has his sword, King Robert has his warhammer, and I have my mind . . . and a mind needs books as a sword needs a whetstone, if it is to keep its edge.”】
【英语阅读浅谈】
有个朋友跟我说，以前他曾经试过看《冰与火之歌》的原著，但是只看了几页就看不下去了，觉得看不懂。但是，看了几遍双语之后，他突然发现，原来的英文文本其实挺简单的。读者可以自己感受一下。
成人外语学习从理解内容开始。当你了解了内容，你会发现英语只是用我们不熟悉的方式表达了我们理解的内容。但是，当你对内容不太了解的时候，你会纠结于三个问题：弄清楚单词，表达语法和内容。你的直观感受是原著难读。
如果你能从双语阅读入手，熟悉《火与冰》中的每一个角色和他们的故事，你就能在不久的将来的某个时间，用英语自由地进入原著的世界，独立地探索你喜欢的《火与冰》中角色的跌宕起伏。
我们每个人，从父母带领我们读第一本书到开始独立阅读，其实也就是一到两年的时间。
当你进入英文原版书的阅读世界，也许你就会明白为什么英美国家的人放学后仍然喜欢阅读。也许，你也会喜欢阅读。
【本节导读】
在这一节，我们有机会了解更多关于提利昂和他的世界。某种程度上，提利昂是个英雄。他的英雄是他生在地狱，却靠自己的力量走出了地狱。
我们会意识到提利昂是如何把他的弱点变成盔甲，让别人无法伤害他。他的方法是把别人的嘲笑变成自嘲。我们还会看到提利昂对当代问题“你为什么要学习”的有趣回答我们的父母常常煞费苦心地教育孩子“为什么要读书”，但在实践中父母通常会给孩子一个完全相反的答案。提利昂的父母也不喜欢读书，但他自己找到了读书的答案。
在这一章中，我们还将通过提利昂的阅读了解坦格利安家族龙的历史。
【刘博士译文】
火与冰第一部：权力的游戏
提利昂
北方没有尽头。
提利昂兰尼斯特和其他人一样熟悉地图。然而，在这条荒野之路，也是国王之路上走了两个星期后，他明白了这个道理：地图是一回事，而行走在路上则是另外一回事。.
他们和国王同一天离开临冬城城堡。国王的出发队伍庞大，人们在嘈杂的人群中骑马走出城堡，伴随着运货马车的隆隆声和女王乘坐的巨大房车的吱嘎声，而周围的小雪已经在打转。国王大道位于城堡及其城镇的边缘。上了国王大道后，旗帜、马车、一群群骑士和江湖骑手带着他们的喧闹声转向南方，而提利昂、班扬史塔克和他的侄子转向北方。
从那以后，这条路变得越来越冷，越来越安静。
道路西侧是一座灰色崎岖的石山，山顶上点缀着高大的瞭望塔。路的东侧，地势较低，地面平坦地向外延伸，形成起伏的平原，一直延伸到视线的尽头。路上有一些石桥横跨在湍急狭窄的溪流上，路边还能看到一些小农场。农场的田地围绕着用木头和石头建造的农舍延伸，形成一个圆圈。这段路是行人常用的路，路边有一些简陋的客栈，供行人休息过夜。
然而，从临冬城出发的第三天之后，路边的农田开始被茂密的树林取代，国王大道变得越来越冷清。越往北走，路边的石山就越高越荒凉。
到了第五天的时候，山丘变成了巨大的山脉，它们就像是冷冷的灰蓝色巨人一般耸立在那里，它们的头顶是嶙峋的山峰，山肩上覆盖着积雪。当北风吹来时，会从高处的山峰上吹来一阵阵的冰晶，冰晶形成的长长烟雾就如同许多旗帜在飘扬。山脉如同一堵巨大的墙耸立在道路西侧。道路蜿蜒地伸向东北方，然后钻进了这片树林。这是一片长满了橡树、四季常绿植物，以及黑荆棘灌木的森林，它比Tyrion所见过的任何森林都显得古老而阴暗。Benjen Stark把这片森林称为“狼之林”，的确，到了晚上，森林里就会响起从遥远的狼群传来的狼嚎声，有些嚎叫声似乎并不那么遥远。Jon Snow的那条浑身雪白的巨狼每每听到夜里的狼嚎时，就会竖起它的耳朵，但它却从来没有嚎叫着回应过。Tyrion觉得，这只动物身上有一种让人心里发毛的东西。
他们一行人走到这里的时候，如果不算那只巨狼的话，已有八个人了。与Tyrion同行的还有他的两个随从，这样才配得上他作为Lannister家人的身份 。Benjen Stark只带了他的侄子，此外，他还为黑夜守护营带了一些新的马匹。不过，当他们在狼之林边上的一处简易哨所的木头墙边过夜时，他们又遇见了另外一个叫Yoren的黑夜守护营的兄弟。Yoren是一个驼背，他给人一种恶人的感觉，他的五官似乎都被他脸上那与他黑衣一样黑的胡子给遮住了。不过，他似乎还是像老树根一样硬朗，像石头一般结实。与他同行的是两个来自Fingers岛的衣衫破烂的农家孩子。“他们是强奸犯，”Yoren一边说，一边用冷冷的目光看着他手下的这两个孩子。Tyrion立刻就明白怎么回事了。虽说长墙上的生活很艰苦，可那肯定要比被阉割的惩罚要好得多。
就这样，五个大人，三个孩子，还有一只巨狼，二十匹马，以及Luwin博士交给Benjen Stark带上的一笼子信鸦，就组成了他们这一行队伍。无疑，这样的一行人马走在国王大道上，或是走在任何一条路上，都会让人心中生疑的。
Tyrion注意到，Jon Snow一直在打量着Yoren和他那两个郁郁寡欢的同伴，Jon的脸上有一种奇怪的神情，像是因为诧异而产生的不自在感。Yoren的一个肩膀是扭曲的，他的身上还散发出难闻的味道来，他的头发和胡须也乱糟糟地黏在一块，油乎乎的，还长满了虱子；他身上的黑衣又旧又破，打着补丁，看起来也很少洗过。他新招募的两个年轻人身上更是难闻，而且看起来既愚蠢又残暴。
很显然，Jon这个孩子以前一直错误地以为，黑夜守护营里的人都是像他叔叔那样的人。如果他这么以为的话，Yoren和他同伴的出现对于Jon来说是一个残酷的打击。Tyrion开始同情起Jon这个孩子来。他选择了一条艰难的生活道路……或者也可以说，大人们为他选择了一条艰难的生活道路。
Tyrion对于Jon的叔叔可没有多少同情可言。Benjen Stark似乎和他的弟弟Eddard一样厌恶Lannister家的人，当Tyrion早先告诉他自己的打算时，他很不高兴，“我要警告你，Lannister，长墙那个地方可是没有酒馆的。”他一脸鄙视地低头看着他说道。
“不过，你肯定能找到一个容得下我的地方，”Tyrion这样回答他，“你也许已经看出来了，我的个头很小的。”
当然了，没有人会拒绝王后弟弟提出的要求的，因此，事情就这样决定了。但是Benjen Stark对此很不高兴，他只是简短地说了一句，“我向你保证，你是不会喜欢这趟旅行的。”而且，从他们出发那一刻起，他就想方设法来兑现他的诺言。
他们出发仅过了一个星期，Tyrion的大腿就因为骑马赶路而被磨破了皮，他的双腿也严重抽筋，他还被冻得透心凉。他没有一句抱怨。他才不会让Benjen Stark看他的笑话呢。
不过，他在一件旅行毛披风的事情上进行了一个小小的报复。那件披风是一张又破又旧，满是霉味的熊皮。Benjen出于黑夜守护营兄弟的英勇举动，主动将这件披风借给Tyrion，他肯定以为Tyrion会婉言拒绝的。可是Tyrion却不客气地笑着接受了下来。当他们从Winterfell出发的时候，Tyrion把他最厚最暖和的衣服都带上了，不过他很快就发现，这些衣服是根本没法让他暖和起来的。北方本来就很冷，而现在是一天比一天更冷。夜里的温度已经远远低于冰点以下了，而刮风的时候，风就像是一把刀子，一下子就穿透了他最厚实的毛外套。现在，Benjen Stark一定对自己当初的英勇冲动后悔不已。也许他也学到了一个教训。Lannister家族的人是从来不会拒绝的，既不会婉言拒绝也不会用其他方式拒绝。Lannister家族向来是来者通吃的。
随着他们一刻不停地朝着北方赶路，沿途的农场和简易哨所也越来越少，也越来越小；等到他们深深地穿行在狼之林的黑暗之中时，他们已经找不到任何屋子可以为他们提供庇护了，他们现在得完全依靠自己了。
Tyrion无论是在安营扎寨还是拆除帐篷方面从来就帮不上什么忙。他个子太小，腿脚又不灵活，总是碍事。因此，当Stark、Yoren和其他人开始搭建简易帐篷、照顾马匹，或是生火的时候，他已经习惯于带上他的毛披风和酒袋，走到一边去读一会书。
这是他们在路上的第十八个晚上了，Tyrion的这袋酒是来自夏季岛（Summer Isles）的一种稀有甜酒，它有着琥珀般的颜色。这袋酒是他从Casterly Rock一路带到北方来的。他读的书是一本有关龙的历史和特征方面的研究书籍。Tyrion还得到了Eddard Stark大人的允许，从Winterfell城堡的图书馆借了几本稀有的古籍，他在去北方长墙的路上也随身带上了这几本书。
Tyrion在一个听不见营地喧闹的地方找了一个舒适之处，它的旁边是一条湍急的小溪，溪水清澈，但寒冷刺骨。一棵奇形怪状的老橡树为他提供了躲避寒风的庇护之地。Tyrion用毛披风将自己包裹得舒舒服服，然后背靠树干坐下，他先喝了一小口酒，接着开始读起书中有关龙骨特性的部分来。书中写道，龙骨的颜色是黑色的，因为它含有很高的铁的成分。它像钢一样坚硬，但却更轻更有弹性，当然了，它还完全不惧怕火烧。Dothrak民族对于用龙骨做成的弓极为看重，这也毫不奇怪。使用这种弓的箭手射箭能比所有木制的弓都要射得更远。
Tyrion对龙有一种近乎病态的痴迷。当他第一次来到王城参加他姐姐与国王Robert Baratheon的婚礼时，他专门去寻找那些曾经挂在Targaryen王朝宝殿墙上的龙头骨。Robert国王现在已用旗帜和壁毯代替了这些龙头骨，但是Tyrion毫不放弃，直到他在一个潮湿的地窖里找到了储藏在这里的龙头骨。
他原本以为龙骨会是非常壮观的，甚至还可能是让人恐惧的。他从来没有想到过，他看见的龙头骨会是美丽的。是的，它们非常漂亮。它们漆黑如黑玛瑙，圆润而光亮，在火把的照耀下，龙骨似乎还闪耀着微弱的光芒。龙骨喜欢火焰，Tyrion能够感觉出来。当他将火把伸入其中一个大一点的龙头骨的口中时，影子在他身后的墙上不断地跳跃和舞动。龙牙就如同用黑色的钻石做成的长而弯曲的匕首。火把的火焰对他们来说根本算不了什么；他们曾沐浴在更猛烈的大火之中。当Tyrion走开的时候，他简直可以发誓，那些龙的空洞洞的眼窝是目视着他离开的。
总共有十九个龙头骨。最古老的一个已有三千多年的历史，而最近的一个则只有一百五十年的时间。时间最近的龙头也是所有龙头中个头最小的一个；那是一对龙的头骨，它们并不比一只藏獒的个头大多少，而且呈现出怪异的畸形来。它们是在龙石岛（Dragonstone）上孵化出来的最后两只龙崽子的遗体。它们是Targaryen家族最后的两条龙，也许也是这个世界上最后的龙，而且它们也没能活多久。
从最小的龙头骨开始，按照尺寸从小到大排列，可以一直排到歌谣和传说中的三只魔鬼般的巨龙，它们是Aegon Targaryen国王和他的姐妹们放出来在古老的七国大地上肆虐的龙。游吟歌手们给它们起了神一样的名字：Belerion 龙，Meraxes龙以及Vhaghar龙。当Tyrion站在他们那张开的大嘴之间的时候，他目瞪口呆。你甚至可以骑在马上顺着Vhaghar龙的喉咙走进去，只是你却无法骑着马再走出来。Meraxes龙还要大一些。而最大的一只龙是Belerion龙，它也被称之为黑色恐怖。它能够将一只野牛整个地吞下去，甚至是能将一头传说中游荡在比Ibben港还要遥远的寒冷荒原上的猛犸象给吞下去。
Tyrion在潮湿的地窖里站了许久，他目不转睛地看着Balerion龙那巨大的、眼窝空空的头骨，直到他的火把即将燃尽。他使劲地猜想，这家伙在活着的时候该有多大，他想象着，当它展开它那巨大的黑色翅膀，喷着火焰横扫过天空的时候会是怎样一副情景。
Tyrion自己的祖上，也就是Casterly Rock的Loren王，曾与Reach国的Mern王联手反抗过Targaryen王朝的征服，他们也曾试图抵挡过龙的火焰。这大约是将近三百年前的事情了。那时候，七国是七个独立的王国，而不仅仅只是更大的帝国中的一个省份而已。当时，这两名国王的麾下飘扬着六百面家族的旗帜，他们率领着五千名骑士，还有十倍于骑士的自由骑手和武士们。根据历史家们的记载，Aegon王的龙族军队人数也许只有他们的五分之一，而且其中大多数都是Aegon王从他上一场战斗中所杀死的国王手下所征集的士兵，这些士兵的忠诚与否是难以预料的。
两军的部队是在Reach王国那广阔的平原上交锋的，战场是一片金色的麦田，麦子已经成熟，等待着人们来收割。当两位国王的联盟部队发起进攻的时候，Targaryen王的军队吓得浑身发抖，散成一团并开始逃跑。历史家们这样描述这段历史：只过了短短的一段时间，征服之战就结束了……而这短短的一段时间就是在Aegon Targaryen王和他的姐妹们加入战斗之前的那段时间。
这是唯一的一次，Vhaghar龙、Meraxes龙和Balerion龙三条龙被同时放了出来。游吟歌手们把这一段故事称之为“龙之火的田野”。
那一天，有近四千人被烧死，其中也包括了Reach王国的Mern国王。Loren国王侥幸逃脱，并因此活到了向Targaryen王朝投降并宣誓效忠。他后来还生了一个儿子，Tyrion为此对他非常感激。
“你为什么那么喜欢读书呀？”
Tyrion抬起头，顺着声音的方向看去。Jon Snow正站在不远处，好奇地打量着他。Tyrion用手指卡在阅读的那一页并合上了书，然后说道：“看着我，然后告诉我，你看见了什么。”
Jon Snow这个孩子用怀疑的神情看着他，说“这是在玩什么把戏吗？我看见你了呀，Tyrion Lannister。”
Tyrion叹了口气,“Snow，作为一个私生子来说，你真是太有礼貌了。你看见的就是一个侏儒。你多大了，有十二岁了？“
“十四岁，”Jon Snow说。
“你才十四岁，可我已经永远长不到你现在的身高了。我的腿又短又弯，走起路来都很费劲。我需要有一种特制的马鞍，这样我才不会从马背上掉下来。你要是感兴趣想知道的话，这种马鞍还是我自己设计的呢。要是没有这种马鞍的话，我就只能骑小马驹了。我的胳膊倒是足够强壮，可惜，它们也太短了。所以我永远成为不了一名剑手。要是我生在农民家里的话，他们很有可能早就把我赶出家门，让我自身自灭去了，或是把我卖给某个奴隶贩子，做他的小丑怪物。唉，可惜我出生在Casterly Rock城堡的Lannister家族，而那些小丑怪物是只有穷人才有资格当的。大家都对我抱有期望。我父亲曾做了二十年的国王的首相。可是，后来偏偏是我的哥哥把这个国王给杀掉的。生活就是这样充满了小小的讽刺。我的妹妹嫁给了新的国王，而我那讨厌的侄子有一天也会继承他的王位。所以，为了我家族的荣誉，我也必须尽我的责任才行，你说是不是？可是我怎么尽责任呢？哎，就我身体而言，我的双腿也许太短了，可是我的头又太大了，不过我倒情愿认为，它大得刚好能容得下我的头脑。我对自己的优势与劣势是有很现实的认识的。我的头脑就是我的武器。我哥哥的武器是他的剑，Robert国王的武器是他的战锤，而我的武器就是我的头脑……要想让宝剑保持锋利的话，你需要有磨刀石，要想让你的头脑保持敏锐的话，你就需要书籍。”Tyrion用手指敲了敲那本书的皮制封面，然后说道，“Jon Snow，这就是我为什么喜欢读书的原因。”
Jon这个孩子默默地将这一切记在心里。要不是他的名字叫Snow的话，他还真长着一张Stark家族的脸：那是一张长长的，严肃的，充满警惕的脸，一张不露声色的脸。不管他的母亲是谁，她并没有在她儿子的身上留下多少自己的痕迹。“你在读什么书呢？”Jon Snow又问。
“有关龙的书，”Tyrion告诉他。
“那有什么用处？再也不会有龙啦，”Jon带着年轻人的轻松与自信说道。
“大家都这么说，”Tyrion回答道，“很可惜，是不是？当我在你这个年龄的时候，我还曾梦想过拥有一条属于我自己的龙呢。”
“是吗？”Jon将信将疑地问道。也许他以为Tyrion是在取笑他呢。
“哦，当然啦。即使是一个发育不良、畸形、丑陋的小孩子，当他骑在龙背上的时候，他也是可以俯瞰这个世界的。”Tyrion把熊皮披风掀到一边，爬着站了起来。“我以前的时候，常常会在Casterly Rock城堡的火炉里生一堆火，然后盯着火焰看上几个小时，假装它们就是龙喷出来的火焰。有时候，我还会想象我的父亲在火焰中燃烧。还有些时候，是我的妹妹在火中燃烧。”Jon Snow盯着Tyrion，一副既恐惧又痴迷的模样。Tyrion怪笑起来，“别这样看着我，私生子。我知道你的秘密。你也做过同样的梦。”
“没有，”Jon Snow说，他吓坏了，“我才不会……”
“没有？从来没有？”Tyrion眉毛一扬，“好吧，Stark家里的人肯定是对你宠爱有加的。我敢肯定，Stark夫人对待你就像她对待自己的亲生孩子一样。还有你的哥哥Robb，他也一直对你很好，为什么不呢？他现在得到了Winterfell城，而你却得到了长墙。还有你的父亲……他打发你去加入黑夜守护营一定也是有非常好的理由的。”
“住嘴，”Jon Snow说道，他气得脸色发青，“黑夜守护营是一个崇高的职位！”
Tyrion笑出了声来，“你不会聪明到连这也相信吧。黑夜守护营就是帝国中所有被抛弃的人的废物堆。我见到你看着Yoren和他那帮孩子时的表情了。这些人才是你的新兄弟，Jon Snow，你觉得你会喜欢他们吗？愁眉苦脸的农民、欠债不还的人、偷猎者、强奸犯、小偷，还有像你一样的私生子，最终你们都聚到了长墙上，来防御那些妖魔鬼怪，还有你的奶妈给你讲过的所有其他的怪物。好消息是，世界上并没有什么妖魔鬼怪，所以你们的工作实际上并没有什么危险；坏消息是，你会把你的老二给冻掉的，不过，反正你们也不能生儿育女，所以我觉得这也无所谓啦。”
“住嘴！”Jon Snow尖叫起来。他往前迈了一步，他的双手握成了拳头，他几乎就要哭了。
Tyrion突然感到一阵连他自己也觉得不可思议的内疚感。他也向前走了一步，打算拍拍Jon Snow的肩膀，或是随便说些道歉的话。
他根本没有看到那只狼，他不知道它在什么地方，也不知道它是如何向他扑过来的。在前一刻，他正朝着Jon Snow走去，而在下一刻，他已经背朝下地躺在了坚硬的石头地面上，他的书在他摔倒的时候从他的手中飞了出去。这突如其来的摔倒在地让他一时喘不过气来，他的嘴里满是泥土、鲜血还有腐叶。他试着想站起来，却感到背上一阵疼痛的抽搐。他一定是在摔倒的时候把背给扭伤了。他沮丧地咬紧牙关，抓住一根树根，把自己拉着坐起来。“帮我一下，”他一边对Snow说，一边伸出了一只手。
突然间，那只狼又挡在了他们中间。它没有咆哮。这个该死的家伙从不发出一点声音。它只是用它那双鲜红的眼睛看着Tyrion，同时露出它的牙齿来。这就已经足够了。Tyrion又瘫倒在地上，一边嘟囔着，“得，别帮我了。我就呆在这里，等你们离开我再起来。”
Jon Snow抚摸着Ghost身上那厚厚的白毛，他的脸上又露出了笑容，“客客气气地求我帮你。”
Tyrion Lannister感觉到心中升起一团怒火，他使劲地将这股愤怒压了下去。这并不是他这一生中第一次受人羞辱，也不会是最后一次。而且这一次他也许是自作自受呢。“Jon，如果你能好心地帮我一下的话，我会非常感激你的，”Tyrion用柔和的声音说道。
“坐下，Ghost，”Jon 说。巨狼坐在了它的后腿上，但它那双红眼睛却一刻也没有离开过Tyrion。Jon走到Tyrion身后，把双手放在他的腋下，轻松地就把他扶着站了起来。然后Jon又把书捡了起来，把它交还给了Tyrion。
“它为什么要袭击我？”Tyrion一边问，一边瞥了一眼巨狼。他用手背擦去嘴角的血和泥土。
“也许它以为你是个妖怪呢。”
Tyrion用尖利的眼光看了他一眼，然后，他大笑起来，同时，他的鼻子里像是情不自禁地打了一个可笑的喷嚏。“哦，天哪，”Tyrion笑得连气都喘不上来。他摇着头说道，“我想我看起来还真是像一个妖怪呢。他要是遇见了妖精又会怎么做？”
“你还是不知道为好。”Jon又捡起酒袋，把它递给了Tyrion。
Tyrion拔出酒袋的瓶塞，仰着头，往嘴里挤了一大口酒。酒顺着他的喉咙流到肚子里，就像是一股温凉的火焰，让他的身体暖和起来。他把酒袋递给Jon Snow，“想喝点吗？”
Jon拿过酒囊，小心翼翼地尝了一口。Jon把酒咽了下去，然后问道，“你说的都是真的吗，那些关于黑夜守护营的事情。”
Tyrion点了点头。
Jon Snow的嘴巴抿成一条直线，看起来很严肃， “如果真是这样的话，那也只能这样了。”
Tyrion咧着嘴笑了。“好样的，混小子。大多数的人宁愿否认这一明摆着的事实也不愿意去面对它。”
“大多数人是这样，”Jon Snow说，“可是你不是这样的。”
“是的，”Tyrion承认道，“我不是这样的。我现在甚至已经很少梦见龙了。现在已经没有龙了。”Tyrion把落在地上的熊皮披风抱了起来。“走吧，我们该回营地了，要不然你的叔叔会带人来救你的。”
回营地的路并不远，但是地面崎岖不平。当他们回到营地的时候，Tyrion的腿已经抽筋得很厉害了。Jon Snow伸出手来，想扶着他走过一片树根纠缠的地方。但是Tyrion甩开了他的手。他会走他自己的路，就像他一生中都在走自己的路一样。不过，当看见营地的时候，他还是很高兴的。在一座早已被废弃的简易哨所的一面坍塌的墙边，已经搭起了一座帐篷来，一个可以遮风挡雨的地方。马都已经喂好了食，火堆也已生了起来。Yoren坐在一块石头上，正在给一只松鼠剥皮。Tyrion的鼻子闻到了炖菜的香味。他拖着沉重的脚步走到他的手下Morrec正在炖菜的地方。Morrec一言不发地把勺子递给他。Tyrion尝了一口，然后把勺子递了回去。“再加点胡椒，”他说道。
Benjen Stark从那他与侄子合住的帐篷里走了出来。“你在这儿呢，Jon，见鬼，别老是一个人瞎跑。我还以为异族把你给抓走了呢。”
“是妖怪把他抓走了，”Tyrion对Benjen说道，然后大笑起来。Jon Snow 也笑了。Benjen莫名其妙地看着Yoren。老头只是咕哝了一声，耸了耸肩，然后又继续干他那给松鼠剥皮的血腥工作去了。
炖菜里有了松鼠肉，才成为了名副其实的炖肉。那天晚上，他们围坐在火堆旁，用黑面包和硬奶酪就着炖菜吃了晚餐。Tyrion把他的那一袋酒也拿出来和大家一起喝，最后，连Yoren也喝得醉醺醺的。一行人一个个地回到他们的帐篷里休息，最后，只剩下Jon Snow一个人，他抽签抽到了当晚的第一班岗。
和以往一样，Tyrion是最后一个回帐篷休息的。当他走回他的随从为他搭建的帐篷时，他停顿了一下，回头看着Jon Snow。这个孩子就站在火堆旁，他的表情平静而坚强，他的目光深深地凝视着燃烧的火焰。
Tyrion Lannister苦笑了一下，然后就进帐篷睡觉去了。
【英语原文】
A Song of Ice and Fire Book One: Game of Thrones
Tyrion
The north went on forever.
Tyrion Lannister knew the maps as well as anyone, but a fortnight on the wild track that passed for the kingsroad up here had brought home the lesson that the map was one thing and the land quite another.
They had left Winterfell on the same day as the king, amidst all the commotion of the royal departure, riding out to the sound of men shouting and horses snorting, to the rattle of wagons and the groaning of the queen’s huge wheelhouse, as a light snow flurried about them. The kingsroad was just beyond the sprawl of castle and town. There the banners and the wagons and the columns of knights and freeriders turned south, taking the tumult with them, while Tyrion turned north with Benjen Stark and his nephew.
It had grown colder after that, and far more quiet.
West of the road were flint hills, grey and rugged, with tall watchtowers on their stony summits. To the east the land was lower, the ground flattening to a rolling plain that stretched away as far as the eye could see. Stone bridges spanned swift, narrow rivers, while small farms spread in rings around holdfasts walled in wood and stone. The road was well trafficked, and at night for their comfort there were rude inns to be found.
Three days ride from Winterfell, however, the farmland gave way to dense wood, and the kingsroad grew lonely. The flint hills rose higher and wilder with each passing mile, until by the fifth day they had turned into mountains, cold blue-grey giants with jagged promontories and snow on their shoulders. When the wind blew from the north, long plumes of ice crystals flew from the high peaks like banners.
With the mountains a wall to the west, the road veered north by northeast through the wood, a forest of oak and evergreen and black brier that seemed older and darker than any Tyrion had ever seen. “The wolfswood,” Benjen Stark called it, and indeed their nights came alive with the howls of distant packs, and some not so distant. Jon Snow’s albino direwolf pricked up his ears at the nightly howling, but never raised his own voice in reply. There was something very unsettling about that animal, Tyrion thought.
There were eight in the party by then, not counting the wolf. Tyrion traveled with two of his own men, as befit a Lannister. Benjen Stark had only his bastard nephew and some fresh mounts for the Night’s Watch, but at the edge of the wolfswood they stayed a night behind the wooden walls of a forest holdfast, and there joined up with another of the black brothers, one Yoren. Yoren was stooped and sinister, his features hidden behind a beard as black as his clothing, but he seemed as tough as an old root and as hard as stone. With him were a pair of ragged peasant boys from the Fingers. “Rapers,” Yoren said with a cold look at his charges. Tyrion understood. Life on the Wall was said to be hard, but no doubt it was preferable to castration.
Five men, three boys, a direwolf, twenty horses, and a cage of ravens given over to Benjen Stark by Maester Luwin. No doubt they made a curious fellowship for the kingsroad, or any road.
Tyrion noticed Jon Snow watching Yoren and his sullen companions, with an odd cast to his face that looked uncomfortably like dismay. Yoren had a twisted shoulder and a sour smell, his hair and beard were matted and greasy and full of lice, his clothing old, patched, and seldom washed. His two young recruits smelled even worse, and seemed as stupid as they were cruel.
No doubt the boy had made the mistake of thinking that the Night’s Watch was made up of men like his uncle. If so, Yoren and his companions were a rude awakening. Tyrion felt sorry for the boy. He had chosen a hard life . . . or perhaps he should say that a hard life had been chosen for him.
He had rather less sympathy for the uncle. Benjen Stark seemed to share his brother’s distaste for Lannisters, and he had not been pleased when Tyrion had told him of his intentions. “I warn you, Lannister, you’ll find no inns at the Wall,” he had said, looking down on him.
“No doubt you’ll find some place to put me,” Tyrion had replied. “As you might have noticed, I’m small.”
One did not say no to the queen’s brother, of course, so that had settled the matter, but Stark had not been happy. “You will not like the ride, I promise you that,” he’d said curtly, and since the moment they set out, he had done all he could to live up to that promise.
By the end of the first week, Tyrion’s thighs were raw from hard riding, his legs were cramping badly, and he was chilled to the bone. He did not complain. He was damned if he would give Benjen Stark that satisfaction.
He took a small revenge in the matter of his riding fur, a tattered bearskin, old and musty-smelling. Stark had offered it to him in an excess of Night’s Watch gallantry, no doubt expecting him to graciously decline. Tyrion had accepted with a smile. He had brought his warmest clothing with him when they rode out of Winterfell, and soon discovered that it was nowhere near warm enough. It was cold up here, and growing colder. The nights were well below freezing now, and when the wind blew it was like a knife cutting right through his warmest woolens. By now Stark was no doubt regretting his chivalrous impulse. Perhaps he had learned a lesson. The Lannisters never declined, graciously or otherwise. The Lannisters took what was offered.
Farms and holdfasts grew scarcer and smaller as they pressed northward, ever deeper into the darkness of the wolfswood, until finally there were no more roofs to shelter under, and they were thrown back on their own resources.
Tyrion was never much use in making a camp or breaking one. Too small, too hobbled, too inthe-way. So while Stark and Yoren and the other men erected rude shelters, tended the horses, and built a fire, it became his custom to take his fur and a wineskin and go off by himself to read.
On the eighteenth night of their journey, the wine was a rare sweet amber from the Summer Isles that he had brought all the way north from Casterly Rock, and the book a rumination on the history and properties of dragons. With Lord Eddard Stark’s permission, Tyrion had borrowed a few rare volumes from the Winterfell library and packed them for the ride north.
He found a comfortable spot just beyond the noise of the camp, beside a swift-running stream with waters clear and cold as ice. A grotesquely ancient oak provided shelter from the biting wind. Tyrion curled up in his fur with his back against the trunk, took a sip of the wine, and began to read about the properties of dragonbone. Dragonbone is black because of its high iron content, the book told him. It is strong as steel, yet lighter and far more flexible, and of course utterly impervious to fire. Dragonbone bows are greatly prized by the Dothraki, and small wonder. An archer so armed can outrange any wooden bow.
Tyrion had a morbid fascination with dragons. When he had first come to King’s Landing for his sister’s wedding to Robert Baratheon, he had made it a point to seek out the dragon skulls that had hung on the walls of Targaryen’s throne room. King Robert had replaced them with banners and tapestries, but Tyrion had persisted until he found the skulls in the dank cellar where they had been stored.
He had expected to find them impressive, perhaps even frightening. He had not thought to find them beautiful. Yet they were. As black as onyx, polished smooth, so the bone seemed to shimmer in the light of his torch. They liked the fire, he sensed. He’d thrust the torch into the mouth of one of the larger skulls and made the shadows leap and dance on the wall behind him. The teeth were long, curving knives of black diamond. The flame of the torch was nothing to them; they had bathed in the heat of far greater fires. When he had moved away, Tyrion could have sworn that the beast’s empty eye sockets had watched him go.
There were nineteen skulls. The oldest was more than three thousand years old; the youngest a mere century and a half. The most recent were also the smallest; a matched pair no bigger than mastiffs skulls, and oddly misshapen, all that remained of the last two hatchlings born on Dragonstone. They were the last of the Targaryen dragons, perhaps the last dragons anywhere, and they had not lived very long.
From there the skulls ranged upward in size to the three great monsters of song and story, the dragons that Aegon Targaryen and his sisters had unleashed on the Seven Kingdoms of old. The singers had given them the names of gods: Balerion, Meraxes, Vhaghar. Tyrion had stood between their gaping jaws, wordless and awed. You could have ridden a horse down Vhaghar’s gullet, although you would not have ridden it out again. Meraxes was even bigger. And the greatest of them, Balerion, the Black Dread, could have swallowed an aurochs whole, or even one of the hairy mammoths said to roam the cold wastes beyond the Port of Ibben.
Tyrion stood in that dank cellar for a long time, staring at Balerion’s huge, empty-eyed skull until his torch burned low, trying to grasp the size of the living animal, to imagine how it must have looked when it spread its great black wings and swept across the skies, breathing fire.
His own remote ancestor, King Loren of the Rock, had tried to stand against the fire when he joined with King Mern of the Reach to oppose the Targaryen conquest. That was close on three hundred years ago, when the Seven Kingdoms were kingdoms, and not mere provinces of a greater realm. Between them, the Two Kings had six hundred banners flying, five thousand mounted knights, and ten times as many freeriders and men-at-arms. Aegon Dragonlord had perhaps a fifth that number, the chroniclers said, and most of those were conscripts from the ranks of the last king he had slain, their loyalties uncertain.
The hosts met on the broad plains of the Reach, amidst golden fields of wheat ripe for harvest. When the Two Kings charged, the Targaryen army shivered and shattered and began to run. For a few moments, the chroniclers wrote, the conquest was at an end . . . but only for those few moments, before Aegon Targaryen and his sisters joined the battle.
It was the only time that Vhaghar, Meraxes, and Balerion were all unleashed at once. The singers called it the Field of Fire.
Near four thousand men had burned that day, among them King Mern of the Reach. King Loren had escaped, and lived long enough to surrender, pledge his fealty to the Targaryens, and beget a son, for which Tyrion was duly grateful.
“Why do you read so much?”
Tyrion looked up at the sound of the voice. Jon Snow was standing a few feet away, regarding him curiously. He closed the book on a finger and said, “Look at me and tell me what you see.”
The boy looked at him suspiciously. “Is this some kind of trick? I see you. Tyrion Lannister.”
Tyrion sighed. “You are remarkably polite for a bastard, Snow. What you see is a dwarf. You are what, twelve?”
“Fourteen,” the boy said.
“Fourteen, and you’re taller than I will ever be. My legs are short and twisted, and I walk with difficulty. I require a special saddle to keep from falling off my horse. A saddle of my own design, you may be interested to know. It was either that or ride a pony. My arms are strong enough, but again, too short. I will never make a swordsman. Had I been born a peasant, they might have left me out to die, or sold me to some slaver’s grotesquerie. Alas, I was born a Lannister of Casterly Rock, and the grotesqueries are all the poorer. Things are expected of me. My father was the Hand of the King for twenty years. My brother later killed that very same king, as it turns out, but life is full of these little ironies. My sister married the new king and my repulsive nephew will be king after him. I must do my part for the honor of my House, wouldn’t you agree? Yet how? Well, my legs may be too small for my body, but my head is too large, although I prefer to think it is just large enough for my mind. I have a realistic grasp of my own strengths and weaknesses. My mind is my weapon. My brother has his sword, King Robert has his warhammer, and I have my mind . . . and a mind needs books as a sword needs a whetstone, if it is to keep its edge.” Tyrion tapped the leather cover of the book. “That’s why I read so much, Jon Snow.”
The boy absorbed that all in silence. He had the Stark face if not the name: long, solemn, guarded, a face that gave nothing away. Whoever his mother had been, she had left little of herself in her son. “What are you reading about?” he asked.
“Dragons,” Tyrion told him.
“What good is that? There are no more dragons,” the boy said with the easy certainty of youth.
“So they say,” Tyrion replied. “Sad, isn’t it? When I was your age, used to dream of having a dragon of my own.”
“You did?” the boy said suspiciously. Perhaps he thought Tyrion was making fun of him.
“Oh, yes. Even a stunted, twisted, ugly little boy can look down over the world when he’s seated on a dragon’s back.” Tyrion pushed the bearskin aside and climbed to his feet. “I used to start fires in the bowels of Casterly Rock and stare at the flames for hours, pretending they were dragonfire. Sometimes I’d imagine my father burning. At other times, my sister.” Jon Snow was staring at him, a look equal parts horror and fascination. Tyrion guffawed. “Don’t look at me that way, bastard. I know your secret. You’ve dreamt the same kind of dreams.”
“No,” Jon Snow said, horrified. “I wouldn’t . . .”
“No? Never?” Tyrion raised an eyebrow. “Well, no doubt the Starks have been terribly good to you. I’m certain Lady Stark treats you as if you were one of her own. And your brother Robb, he’s always been kind, and why not? He gets Winterfell and you get the Wall. And your father . . . he must have good reasons for packing you off to the Night’s Watch
“Stop it,” Jon Snow said, his face dark with anger. “The Night’s Watch is a noble calling!”
Tyrion laughed. “You’re too smart to believe that. The Night’s Watch is a midden heap for all the misfits of the realm. I’ve seen you looking at Yoren and his boys. Those are your new brothers, Jon Snow, how do you like them? Sullen peasants, debtors, poachers, rapers, thieves, and bastards like you all wind up on the Wall, watching for grumkins and snarks and all the other monsters your wet nurse warned you about. The good part is there are no grumkins or snarks, so it’s scarcely dangerous work. The bad part is you freeze your balls off, but since you’re not allowed to breed anyway, I don’t suppose that matters.”
“Stop it!” the boy screamed. He took a step forward, his hands coiling into fists, close to tears.
Suddenly, absurdly, Tyrion felt guilty. He took a step forward, intending to give the boy a reassuring pat on the shoulder or mutter some word of apology.
He never saw the wolf, where it was or how it came at him. One moment he was walking toward Snow and the next he was flat on his back on the hard rocky ground, the book spinning away from him as he fell, the breath going out of him at the sudden impact, his mouth full of dirt and blood and rotting leaves. As he tried to get up, his back spasmed painfully. He must have wrenched it in the fall. He ground his teeth in frustration, grabbed a root, and pulled himself back to a sitting position. “Help me,” he said to the boy, reaching up a hand.
And suddenly the wolf was between them. He did not growl. The damned thing never made a sound. He only looked at him with those bright red eyes, and showed him his teeth, and that was more than enough. Tyrion sagged back to the ground with a grunt. “Don’t help me, then. I’ll sit right here until you leave.”
Jon Snow stroked Ghost’s thick white fur, smiling now. “Ask me nicely.”
Tyrion Lannister felt the anger coiling inside him, and crushed it out with a will. It was not the first time in his life he had been humiliated, and it would not be the last. Perhaps he even deserved this. “I should be very grateful for your kind assistance, Jon,” he said mildly.
“Down, Ghost,” the boy said. The direwolf sat on his haunches. Those red eyes never left Tyrion. Jon came around behind him, slid his hands under his arms, and lifted him easily to his feet. Then he picked up the book and handed it back.
“Why did he attack me’?” Tyrion asked with a sidelong glance at the direwolf. He wiped blood and dirt from his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Maybe he thought you were a grumkin.”
Tyrion glanced at him sharply. Then he laughed, a raw snort of amusement that came bursting out through his nose entirely without his permission. “Oh, gods,” he said, choking on his laughter and shaking his head, “I suppose I do rather look like a grumkin. What does he do to snarks?”
“You don’t want to know.” Jon picked up the wineskin and handed it to Tyrion.
Tyrion pulled out the stopper, tilted his head, and squeezed a long stream into his mouth. The wine was cool fire as it trickled down his throat and warmed his belly. He held out the skin to Jon Snow. “Want some?”
The boy took the skin and tried a cautious swallow. “It’s true, isn’t it?” he said when he was done. “What you said about the Night’s Watch.”
Tyrion nodded.
Jon Snow set his mouth in a grim line. “If that’s what it is, that’s what it is.”
Tyrion grinned at him. “That’s good, bastard. Most men would rather deny a hard truth than face it.”
“Most men,” the boy said. “But not you.”
“No,” Tyrion admitted, “not me. I seldom even dream of dragons anymore. There are no dragons.” He scooped up the fallen bearskin. “Come, we had better return to camp before your uncle calls the banners.”
The walk was short, but the ground was rough underfoot and his legs were cramping badly by the time they got back. Jon Snow offered a hand to help him over a thick tangle of roots, but Tyrion shook him off. He would make his own way, as he had all his life. Still, the camp was a welcome sight. The shelters had been thrown up against the tumbledown wall of a long-abandoned holdfast, a shield against the wind. The horses had been fed and a fire had been laid. Yoren sat on a stone, skinning a squirrel. The savory smell of stew filled Tyrion’s nostrils. He dragged himself over to where his man Morrec was tending the stewpot. Wordlessly, Morrec handed him the ladle. Tyrion tasted and handed it back. “More pepper,” he said.
Benjen Stark emerged from the shelter he shared with his nephew. “There you are. Jon, damn it, don’t go off like that by yourself. I thought the Others had gotten you.”
“It was the grumkins,” Tyrion told him, laughing. Jon Snow smiled. Stark shot a baffled look at Yoren. The old man grunted, shrugged, and went back to his bloody work.
The squirrel gave some body to the stew, and they ate it with black bread and hard cheese that night around their fire. Tyrion shared around his skin of wine until even Yoren grew mellow. One by one the company drifted off to their shelters and to sleep, all but Jon Snow, who had drawn the night’s first watch.
Tyrion was the last to retire, as always. As he stepped into the shelter his men had built for him, he paused and looked back at Jon Snow. The boy stood near the fire, his face still and hard, looking deep into the flames.
Tyrion Lannister smiled sadly and went to bed.
