2017年06月22日

trained together


he explained. “I was the monster. It’s a childish game but my cousin likes it. Do you have a name?” “Ser Davos Seaworth.” The boy looked him up and down dubiously. “Are you certain? You don’t look very knightly.” “I am the knight of the onions, my lord.” The blue eyes blinked. “The one with the black ship?” “You know that tale?” “You brought my uncle Stannis fish to eat before I was born, when Lord Tyrell had him under siege.” The boy drew himself up tall. “I am Edric Storm,” he announced. “King Robert’s son.” “Of course you are.” Davos had known that almost at once .
The lad had the prominent ears of a Florent, but the hair, the eyes, the jaw, the cheekbones, those were all Baratheon. “Did you know my father?” Edric Storm demanded. “I saw him many a time while calling on your uncle at court, but we never spoke.” “My father taught me to fight,” the boy said proudly. “He came to see me almost every year, and sometimes we . On my last name day he sent me a warhammer just like his, only smaller. They made me leave it at Storm’s End, though. Is it true my uncle Stannis cut off your fingers?” “Only the last joint. I still have fingers, only shorter.” “Show me.” Davos peeled his glove off. The boy studied his hand carefully. “He did not shorten your thumb?” “No.” Davos coughed. “No, he left me that.” “He should not have chopped any of your fingers,” the lad decided. “That was ill done.” “I was a smuggler.” “Yes, but you smuggled him fish and onions.” “Lord Stannis knighted me for the onions, and took my fingers for the smuggling.” He pulled his glove back on. “My father would not have chopped your fingers.” “As you say, my lord.” Robert was a different man than Stannis, true enough. The boy is like him. Aye, and like Renly as well. That thought made him anxious. The boy was about to say something more when they heard steps. Davos turned. Ser Axell Florent was coming down the garden path with a dozen guards in quilted jerkins. On their breasts they wore the fiery heart of the Lord of Light. Queen’s men, Davos thought .
A cough came on him suddenly. Ser Axell was short and muscular, with a barrel chest, thick arms, bandy legs, and hair growing from his ears. The queen’s uncle, he had served as castellan of Dragonstone for a decade, and had always treated Davos courteously, knowing he enjoyed the favor of Lord Stannis. But there was neither courtesy nor warmth in his tone as he said, “Ser Davos, and undrowned. How can that be?” “Onions float, ser. Have you come to take me to the king?” “I have come to take you to the dungeon.” Ser Axell waved his men forward. “Seize him, and take his dirk. He means to use it on our lady.”
JAIME
Jaime was the first to spy the inn. The main building hugged the south shore where the river bent, its long low wings outstretched along the water as if to embrace travelers sailing downstream. The lower story was grey stone, the upper whitewashed wood, the roof slate. He could see stables as well, and an arbor heavy with vines. “No smoke from the chimneys,” he pointed out as they approached. “Nor lights in the windows.” “The inn was still open when last I passed this way,” said Ser Cleos Frey. “They brewed a fine ale. Perhaps there is still some to be had in the cellars.” “There may be people,” Brienne said. “Hiding. Or dead.” “Frightened of a few corpses, wench?” Jaime said. She glared at him reenex. “My name is -”  


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2017年06月06日

met himafterwards


elf would be popular were hewriting now for the first time - not because of his freedom,but because the public taste has altered. No present age canpredict immortality for the works of its day; yet to say thatwhat is intrinsically good is good for all time is but atruism . The misfortune is that much of the best inliterature shares the fate of the best of ancient monumentsand noble cities; the cumulative rubbish of ages buries theirsplendours, till we know not where to find them. The day maycome when the most valuable service of the man of letterswill be to unearth the lost treasures and display them,rather than add his grain of dust to the ever-increasingmiddens.
Is Carlyle forgotten yet, I wonder? How much did mycontemporaries owe to him in their youth? How readily wefollowed a leader so sure of himself, so certain of his ownevangel. What an aid to strength to be assured that the truehero is the morally strong man. One does not criticise whatone loves; one didn't look too closely into the doctrinethat, might is right, for somehow he managed to persuade usthat right makes the might - that the strong man is the manwho, for the most part, does act rightly. He is not over-patient with human frailty, to be sure, and is apt, asHerbert Spencer found, to fling about his scorn ratherrecklessly. One fancies sometimes that he has more respectfor a genuine bad man than for a sham good one. In fact, his'Eternal Verities' come pretty much to the same as Darwin's'Law of the advancement of all organic bodies'; 'let thestrong live, and the weakest die.' He had no objection toseeing 'the young cuckoo ejecting its foster-brothers, orants making slaves.' But he atones for all this by hishatred of cant and hypocrisy. It is for his manliness thatwe love him, for his honesty, for his indifference to anymortal's approval save that of Thomas Carlyle. He convincesus that right thinking is good, but that right doing is muchbetter. And so it is that he does honour to men of actionlike his beloved Oliver, and Fritz, - neither of themparagons of wisdom or of goodness, but men of doughty deeds.
Just about this time I narrowly missed a longed-for chance ofmeeting this hero of my PENATES. Lady Ashburton - Carlyle'sLady Ashburton - knowing my admiration, kindly invited me toThe Grange, while he was there. The house was full - mainlyof ministers or ex-ministers, - Cornewall Lewis, Sir CharlesWood, Sir James Graham, Albany Fonblanque, Mr. Ellice, andCharles Buller - Carlyle's only pupil; but the great manhimself had left an hour before I got there . I often , but never to make his acquaintance. Of course, Iknew nothing of his special friendship for Lady Ashburton,which we are told was not altogether shared by Mrs. Carlyle;but I well remember the interest which Lady Ashburton seemedto take in his praise, how my enthusiasm seemed to pleaseher, and how Carlyle and his works were topics she was nevertired of discussing.
The South Western line to Alresford was not then made, and Ihad to post part of the way from London to The Grange. Mychaise companion was a man very well known in 'Society'; andthough not remarkably popular, was not altogetherundistinguished, as the following little tale will attest.
Frederick Byng, one of the Torrington branch of the Byngs,was chiefly famous for his sobriquet 'The Poodle'; this heowed to no special merit of his own, but simply to theaccident of his thick curly head of hair. Some, who spokefeelingly of the man, used to declare that he had fulfilledthe promises of his youth. What happened to him then mayperhaps justify the opinion .  


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