医院偷拍一幕！79岁老爷爷一个动作，暖哭所有人……

嫁给爱情是什么样子？

大概就是

牵手一人，相伴白首

近日，有网友在微博上

发了一组照片

在杭州余杭第一人民医院的病房里

一位爷爷正佝偻着腰

给生病的老伴梳头发

▼

这张照片是10号早上

在病房里偶然拍到的

当时老爷子正拿着梳子给奶奶扎头发

那熟练的架势

一下子把所有人的注意力

都吸引了过去

对着镜头

今年84岁的奶奶

羞涩得仿佛一个情窦初开的少女一般

而一旁79岁的爷爷则默默地梳头

这波“狗粮”也让网友们

忍不住纷纷留言

@小芸：这才是真正的好男人，祝二老身体健康长命百岁！

@辣椒酱：这就是爱情！

@俩宝的麻麻：真好，世间最真的感情就是如此，平平淡淡相伴到老，祝福

@鱼鹰：两个人就得有一个迁就对方的。一个吵，一个笑，才能一辈子

@沐沐妈：好幸福！

巧的是，微博发出没多久

爷爷奶奶的孙女就给微博留了言

“是我爷爷奶奶，我爷爷宠了我奶奶一辈子”

孙女小高说

爷爷宠了奶奶一辈子

不止住院时把奶奶照顾得妥妥帖帖

平日里也是把奶奶当小公主般捧在手心

小高还曾在短视频平台

上传过一段爷爷为奶奶梳头的视频

获得了305000个点赞，1814条评论

有12000人分享了这段日常

尽管奶奶白发婆娑

但能看得出来一头银发

是被人精心呵护着的

蓬松又顺滑

平日里一般人都碰不得高奶奶的头发

奶奶说除了爷爷俞金洪

没人能梳得好自己的头

原来，在2015年

高奶奶不小心摔了一跤

手摔坏之后没法自己打理头发了

而奶奶美了一辈子

每天都要编起一条长长的麻花辫

即便是自己不能梳头了

也要让她美美的

于是俞爷爷就主动地

承担起了梳头的重任

并且这一梳就是4年

这一次高奶奶因为胆结石发炎

疼得吃不下饭

只要一吃饭就会吐

家人就把她从运河五杭送到了医院

在住院的这几天里

俞爷爷天天陪在奶奶身旁

甚至到了夜里也不愿离开

只有守在高奶奶边上他才安心

孙女小高说，从自己懂事起

爷爷就没有骂过奶奶一句

反倒是奶奶偶尔耍起“小脾气”来

会对爷爷呼来喝去

年轻的时候家里有6个孩子

一大家子的开销可想而知

俞爷爷一个人打好几份工

扛起了这一整个家

这些事高奶奶看在眼里记在心里

每当爷爷出门

无论多晚她都要守在家门口

看着他回来才肯上床睡觉

这个习惯也就这么一直保持了下来

小高说爷爷以前的单位

经常带退休职工出去旅游

爷爷早上出门早，晚上要七八点才回家

高奶奶也坚持等爷爷回来才肯睡

去年夏天爷爷帮奶奶梳头

岁月熬白了双鬓

却没有冲淡彼此的感情

曾经为柴米油盐发愁

如今已苦尽甘来

往后的日子里

我们一起从清晨到日暮

从天光乍破到暮雪白头

一起看着孩子们笑

老一辈人的爱情很简单

没有车子房子作保

没有钻石鲜花铺垫

但牵了手就是一辈子

柴米油盐、一蔬一饭

才是最长情的告白

最简单的浪漫

就是陪伴

最动听的誓言

就是遇见你

走到底

【闽姐姐小互动】

除了“陪伴”二字

你还能想到什么词来形容"爱情"呢？

在留言板留下你心中对

真爱的理解与期待吧

没准能在留言区找到

志同道合的那个Ta哦！

猜你喜欢：

喜欢就点个“好看”

让我的心怦怦跳

带我去你朋友圈吧～

---

来源/新华社、天天看余杭（ttkyh2014）

编辑/刘晶晶

校对/常斯雅

编审/许松青

hinted at the end of summer. They set forth at daybreak to see a man beheaded, twenty in all, and Bran rode among them, nervous with excitement. This was the first time he had been deemed old enough to go with his lord father and his brothers to see the king’s justice done. It was the ninth year of summer, and the seventh of Bran’s life.The man had been taken outside a small holdfast in the hills. Robb thought he was a wildling, his sword sworn to Mance Rayder, the King-beyond-the-Wall. It made Bran’s skin prickle to think of it. He remembered the hearth tales Old Nan told them. The wildlings were cruel men, she said, slavers and slayers and thieves. They consorted with giants and ghouls, stole girl children in the dead of night, and drank blood from polished horns. And their women lay with the Others in the Long Night to sire terrible half-human children.But the man they found bound hand and foot to the holdfast wall awaiting the king’s justice was old and scrawny, not much taller than Robb. He had lost both ears and a finger to frostbite, and he dressed all in black, the same as a brother of the Night’s Watch, except that his furs were ragged and greasy.The breath of man and horse mingled, steaming, in the cold morning air as his lord father had the man cut down from the wall and dragged before them. Robb and Jon sat tall and still on their horses, with Bran between them on his pony, trying to seem older than seven, trying to pretend that he’d seen all this before. A faint wind blew through the holdfast gate. Over their heads flapped the banner of the Starks of Winterfell: a grey direwolf racing across an ice-white field.Bran’s father sat solemnly on his horse, long brown hair stirring in the wind. His closely trimmed beard was shot with white, making him look older than his thirty-five years. He had a grim cast to his grey eyes this day, and he seemed not at all the man who would sit before the fire in the evening and talk softly of the age of heroes and the children of the forest. He had taken off Father’s face, Bran thought, and donned the face of Lord Stark of Winterfell.There were questions asked and answers given there in the chill of morning, but afterward Bran could not recall much of what had been said. Finally his lord father gave a command, and two of his guardsmen dragged the ragged man to the ironwood stump in the center of the square. They forced his head down onto the hard black wood. Lord Eddard Stark dismounted and his ward Theon Greyjoy brought forth the sword. “Ice,” that sword was called. It was as wide across as a man’s hand, and taller even than Robb. The blade was Valyrian steel, spell-forged and dark as smoke. Nothing held an edge like Valyrian steel.His father peeled off his gloves and handed them to Jory Cassel, the captain of his household guard. He took hold of Ice with both hands and said, “In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, by the word of Eddard of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, I do sentence you to die.” He lifted the greatsword high above his head.Bran’s bastard brother Jon Snow moved closer. “Keep the pony well in hand,” he whispered. “And don’t look away. Father will know if you do.”Bran kept his pony well in hand, and did not look away.His father took off the man’s head with a single sure stroke. Blood sprayed out across the snow, as red as surnmerwine. One of the horses reared and had to be restrained to keep from bolting. Bran could not take his eyes off the blood. The snows around the stump drank it eagerly, reddening as he watched.The head bounced off a thick root and rolled. It came up near Greyjoy’s feet. Theon was a lean, dark youth of nineteen who found everything amusing. He laughed, put his boot on the head, and kicked it away.“Ass,” Jon muttered, low enough so Greyjoy did not hear. He put a hand on Bran’s shoulder, and Bran looked over at his bastard brother. “You did well,” Jon told him solemnly. Jon was fourteen, an old hand at justice.It seemed colder on the long ride back to Winterfell, though the wind had died by then and the sun was higher in the sky. Bran rode with his brothers, well ahead of the main party, his pony struggling hard to keep up with their horses.“The deserter died bravely,” Robb said. He was big and broad and growing every day, with his mother’s coloring, the fair skin, red-brown hair, and blue eyes of the Tullys of Riverrun. “He had courage, at the least.”“No,” Jon Snow said quietly. “It was not courage. This one was dead of fear. You could see it in his eyes, Stark.” Jon’s eyes were a grey so dark they seemed almost black, but there was little they did not see. He was of an age with Robb, but they did not look alike. Jon was slender where Robb was muscular, dark where Robb was fair, graceful and quick where his half brother was strong and fast.Robb was not impressed. “The Others take his eyes,” he swore. “He died well. Race you to the bridge?”“Done,” Jon said, kicking his horse forward. Robb cursed and followed, and they galloped off down the trail, Robb laughing and hooting, Jon silent and intent. The hooves of their horses kicked up showers of snow as they went.Bran did not try to follow. His pony could not keep up. He had seen the ragged man’s eyes, and he was thinking of them now. After a while, the sound of Robb’s laughter receded, and the woods grew silent again.So deep in thought was he that he never heard the rest of the party until his father moved up to ride beside him. “Are you well, Bran?” he asked, not unkindly.“Yes, Father,” Bran told him. He looked up. Wrapped in his furs and leathers, mounted on his great warhorse, his lord father loomed over him like a giant. “Robb says the man died bravely, but Jon says he was afraid.”“What do you think?” his father asked.Bran thought about it. “Can a man still be brave if he’s afraid?”“That is the only time a man can be brave,” his father told him. “Do you understand why I did it?”“He was a wildling,” Bran said. “They carry off women and sell them to the Others.”His lord father smiled. “Old Nan has been telling you stories again. In truth, the man was an oathbreaker, a deserter from the Night’s Watch. No man is more dangerous. The deserter knows his life is forfeit if he is taken, so he will not flinch from any crime, no matter how vile. But you mistake me. The question was not why the man had to die, but why I must do it.”Bran had no answer for that. “King Robert has a headsman,” he said, uncertainly.“He does,” his father admitted. “As did the Targaryen kings before him. Yet our way is the older way. The blood of the First Men still flows in the veins of the Starks, and we hold to the belief that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. If you would take a man’s life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. And if you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die.“One day, Bran, you will be Robb’s bannerman, holding a keep of your own for your brother and your king, and justice will fall to you. When that day comes, you must take no pleasure in the task, but neither must you look away. A ruler who hides behind paid executioners soon forgets what death is.”That was when Jon reappeared on the crest of the hill before them. He waved and shouted down at them. “Father, Bran, come quickly, see what Robb has found!” Then he was gone again.Jory rode up beside them. “Trouble, my lord?”“Beyond a doubt,” his lord father said. “Come, let us see what mischief my sons have rooted out now.” He sent his horse into a trot. Jory and Bran and the rest came after.They found Robb on the riverbank north of the bridge, with Jon still mounted beside him. The late summer snows had been heavy this moonturn. Robb stood knee-deep in white, his hood pulled back so the sun shone in his hair. He was cradling something in his arm, while the boys talked in hushed, excited voices.The riders picked their way carefully through the drifts, groping for solid footing on the hidden, uneven ground. Jory Cassel and Theon Greyjoy were the first to reach the boys. Greyjoy was laughing and joking as he rode. Bran heard the breath go out of him. “Gods!” he exclaimed, struggling to keep control of his horse as he reached for his sword.Jory’s sword was already out. “Robb, get away from it!” he called as his horse reared under him.Robb grinned and looked up from the bundle in his arms. “She can’t hurt you,” he said. “She’s dead, Jory.”Bran was afire with curiosity by then. He would have spurred the pony faster, but his father made them dismount beside the bridge and approach on foot. Bran jumped off and ran.By then Jon, Jory, and Theon Greyjoy had all dismounted as well. “What in the seven hells is it?” Greyjoy was saying.“A wolf,” Robb told him.“A freak,” Greyjoy said. “Look at the size of it.”Bran’s heart was thumping in his chest as he pushed through a waist-high drift to his brothers’ side.Half-buried in bloodstained snow, a huge dark shape slumped in death. Ice had formed in its shaggy grey fur, and the faint smell of corruption clung to it like a woman’s perfume. Bran glimpsed blind eyes crawling with maggots, a wide mouth full of yellowed teeth. But it was the size of it that made him gasp. It was bigger than his pony, twice the size of the largest hound in his father’s kennel.“It’s no freak,” Jon said calmly. “That’s a direwolf. They grow larger than the other kind.”Theon Greyjoy said, “There’s not been a direwolf sighted south of the Wall in two hundred years.”“I see one now,” Jon replied.Bran tore his eyes away from the monster. That was when he noticed the bundle in Robb’s arms. He gave a cry of delight and moved closer. The pup was a tiny ball of grey-black fur, its eyes still closed. It nuzzled blindly against Robb’s chest as he cradled it, searching for milk among his leathers, making a sad little whimpery sound. Bran reached out hesitantly. “Go on,” Robb told him. “You can touch him.”Bran gave the pup a quick nervous stroke, then turned as Jon said, “Here you go.” His half brother put a second pup into his arms. “There are five of them.” Bran sat down in the snow and hugged the wolf pup to his face. Its fur was soft and warm against his cheek.“Direwolves loose in the realm, after so many years,” muttered Hullen, the master of horse. “I like it not.”“It is a sign,” Jory said.Father frowned. “This is only a dead animal, Jory,” he said. Yet he seemed troubled. Snow crunched under his boots as he moved around the body. “Do we know what killed her?”“There’s something in the throat,” Robb told him, proud to have found the answer before his father even asked. “There, just under the jaw.”His father knelt and groped under the beast’s head with his hand. He gave a yank and held it up for all to see. A foot of shattered antler, tines snapped off, all wet with blood.A sudden silence descended over the party. The men looked at the antler uneasily, and no one dared to speak. Even Bran could sense their fear, though he did not understand.His father tossed the antler to the side and cleansed his hands in the snow. “I’m surprised she lived long enough to whelp,” he said. His voice broke the spell.“Maybe she didn’t,” Jory said. “I’ve heard tales?.?.?.?maybe the bitch was already dead when the pups came.”“Born with the dead,” another man put in. “Worse luck.”“No matter,” said Hullen. “They be dead soon enough too.”Bran gave a wordless cry of dismay.“The sooner the better,” Theon Greyjoy agreed. He drew his sword. “Give the beast here, Bran.”The little thing squirmed against him, as if it heard and understood. “No!” Bran cried out fiercely. “It’s mine.”“Put away your sword, Greyjoy,” Robb said. For a moment he sounded as commanding as their father, like the lord he would someday be. “We will keep these pups.”“You cannot do that, boy,” said Harwin, who was Hullen’s son.“It be a mercy to kill them,” Hullen said.Bran looked to his lord father for rescue, but got only a frown, a furrowed brow. “Hullen speaks truly, son. Better a swift death than a hard one from cold and starvation.”“No!” He could feel tears welling in his eyes, and he looked away. He did not want to cry in front of his father.Robb resisted stubbornly. “Ser Rodrik’s red bitch whelped again last week,” he said. “It was a small litter, only two live pups. She’ll have milk enough.”“She’ll rip them apart when they try to nurse.”“Lord Stark,” Jon said. It was strange to hear him call Father that, so formal. Bran looked at him with desperate hope. “There are five pups,” he told Father. “Three male, two female.”“What of it, Jon?”“You have five trueborn children,” Jon said. “Three sons, two daughters. The direwolf is the sigil of your House. Your children were meant to have these pups, my lord.”Bran saw his father’s face change, saw the other men exchange glances. He loved Jon with all his heart at that moment. Even at seven, Bran understood what his brother had done. The count had come right only because Jon had omitted himself. He had included the girls, included even Rickon, the baby, but not the bastard who bore the surname Snow, the name that custom decreed be given to all those in the north unlucky enough to be born with no name of their own.Their father understood as well. “You want no pup for yourself, Jon?” he asked softly.“The direwolf graces the banners of House Stark,” Jon pointed out. “I am no Stark, Father.”Their lord father regarded Jon thoughtfully. Robb rushed into the silence he left. “I will nurse him myself, Father,” he promised. “I will soak a towel with warm milk, and give him suck from that.”“Me too!” Bran echoed.The lord weighed his sons long and carefully with his eyes. “Easy to say, and harder to do. I will not have you wasting the servants’ time with this. If you want these pups, you will feed them yourselves. Is that understood?”Bran nodded eagerly. The pup squirmed in his grasp, licked at his face with a warm tongue.“You must train them as well,” their father said. “You must train them. The kennelmaster will have nothing to do with these monsters, I promise you that. And the gods help you if you neglect them, or brutalize them, or train them badly. These are not dogs to beg for treats and slink off at a kick. A direwolf will rip a man’s arm off his shoulder as easily as a dog will kill a rat. Are you sure you want this?”“Yes, Father,” Bran said.“Yes,” Robb agreed.“The pups may die anyway, despite all you do.”“They won’t die,” Robb said. “We won’t let them die.”“Keep them, then. Jory, Desmond, gather up the other pups. It’s time we were back to Winterfell.”It was not until they were mounted and on their way that Bran allowed himself to taste the sweet air of victory. By then, his pup was snuggled inside his leathers, warm against him, safe for the long ride home. Bran was wondering what to name him.Halfway across the bridge, Jon pulled up suddenly.“What is it, Jon?” their lord father asked.“Can’t you hear it?”Bran could hear the wind in the trees, the clatter of their hooves on the ironwood planks, the whimpering of his hungry pup, but Jon was listening to something else.“There,” Jon said. He swung his horse around and galloped back across the bridge. They watched him dismount where the direwolf lay dead in the snow, watched him kneel. A moment later he was riding back to them, smiling.“He must have crawled away from the others,” Jon said.“Or been driven away,” their father said, looking at the sixth pup. His fur was white, where the rest of the litter was grey. His eyes were as red as the blood of the ragged man who had died that morning. Bran thought it curious that this pup alone would have opened his eyes while the others were still blind.“An albino,” Theon Greyjoy said with wry amusement. “This one will die even faster than the others.”Jon Snow gave his father’s ward a long, chilling look. “I think not, Greyjoy,” he said. “This one belongs to me.”2．CATELYNCatelyn had never liked this godswood.She had been born a Tully, at Riverrun far to the south, on the Red Fork of the Trident. The godswood there was a garden, bright and airy, where tall redwoods spread dappled shadows across tinkling streams, birds sang from hidden nests, and the air was spicy with the scent of flowers.The gods of Winterfell kept a different sort of wood. It was a dark, primal place, three acres of old forest untouched for ten thousand years as the gloomy castle rose around it. It smelled of moist earth and decay. No redwoods grew here. This was a wood of stubborn sentinel trees armored in grey-green needles, of mighty oaks, of ironwoods as old as the realm itself. Here thick black trunks crowded close together while twisted branches wove a dense canopy overhead and misshappen roots wrestled beneath the soil. This was a place of deep silence and brooding shadows, and the gods who lived here had no names.But she knew she would find her husband here tonight. Whenever he took a man’s life, afterward he would seek the quiet of the godswood.Catelyn had been anointed with the seven oils and named in the rainbow of light that filled the sept of Riverrun. She was of the Faith, like her father and grandfather and his father before him. Her gods had names, and their faces were as familiar as the faces of her parents. Worship was a septon with a censer, the smell of incense, a seven-sided crystal alive with light, voices raised in song. The Tullys kept a godswood, as all the great houses did, but it was only a place to walk or read or lie in the sun. Worship was for the sept.For her sake, Ned had built a small sept where she might sing to the seven faces of god, but the blood of the First Men still flowed in the veins of the Starks, and his own gods were the old ones, the nameless, faceless gods of the greenwood they shared with the vanished children of the forest.At the center of the grove an ancient weirwood brooded over a small pool where the waters were black and cold. “The heart tree,” Ned called it. The weirwood’s bark was white as bone, its leaves dark red, like a thousand bloodstained hands. A face had been carved in the trunk of the great tree, its features long and melancholy, the deep-cut eyes red with dried sap and strangely watchful. They were old, those eyes; older than Winterfell itself. They had seen Brandon the Builder set the first stone, if the tales were true; they had watched the castle’s granite walls rise around them. It was said that the children of the forest had carved the faces in the trees during the dawn centuries before the coming of the First Men across the narrow sea.In the south the last weirwoods had been cut down or burned out a thousand years ago, except on the Isle of Faces where the green men kept their silent watch. Up here it was different. Here every castle had its godswood, and every godswood had its heart tree, and every heart tree its face.Catelyn found her husband beneath the weirwood, seated on a moss-covered stone. The greatsword Ice was across his lap, and he was cleaning the blade in those waters black as night. A thousand years of humus lay thick upon the godswood floor, swallowing the sound of her feet, but the red eyes of the weirwood seemed to follow her as she came. “Ned,” she called softly.He lifted his head to look at her. “Catelyn,” he said. His voice was distant and formal. “Where are the children?”He would always ask her that. “In the kitchen, arguing about names for the wolf pups.” She spread her cloak on the forest floor and sat beside the pool, her back to the weirwood. She could feel the eyes watching her, but she did her best to ignore them. “Arya is already in love, and Sansa is charmed and gracious, but Rickon is not quite sure.”“Is he afraid?” Ned asked.“A little,” she admitted. “He is only three.”Ned frowned. “He must learn to face his fears. He will not be three forever. And winter is coming.”“Yes,” Catelyn agreed. The words gave her a chill, as they always did. The Stark words. Every noble house had its words. Family mottoes, touchstones, prayers of sorts, they boasted of honor and glory, promised loyalty and truth, swore faith and courage. All but the Starks. Winter is coming, said the Stark words. Not for the first time, she reflected on what a strange people these northerners were.“The man died well, I’ll give him that,” Ned said. He had a swatch of oiled leather in one hand. He ran it lightly up the greatsword as he spoke, polishing the metal to a dark glow. “I was glad for Bran’s sake. You would have been proud of Bran.”“I am always proud of Bran,” Catelyn replied, watching the sword as he stroked it. She could see the rippling deep within the steel, where the metal had been folded back on itself a hundred times in the forging. Catelyn had no love for swords, but she could not deny that Ice had its own beauty. It had been forged in Valyria, before the Doom had come to the old Freehold, when the ironsmiths had worked their metal with spells as well as hammers. Four hundred years old it was, and as sharp as the day it was forged. The name it bore was older still, a legacy from the age of heroes, when the Starks were Kings in the North.“He was the fourth this year,” Ned said grimly. “The poor man was half-mad. Something had put a fear in him so deep that my words could not reach him.” He sighed. “Ben writes that the strength of the Night’s Watch is down below a thousand. It’s not only desertions. They are losing men on rangings as well.”“Is it the wildlings?” she asked.“Who else?” Ned lifted Ice, looked down the cool steel length of it. “And it will only grow worse. The day may come when I will have no choice but to call the banners and ride north to deal with this King-beyond-the-Wall for good and all.”“Beyond the Wall?” The thought made Catelyn shudder.Ned saw the dread on her face. “Mance Rayder is nothing for us to fear.”“There are darker things beyond the Wall.” She glanced behind her at the heart tree, the pale bark and red eyes, watching, listening, thinking its long slow thoughts.His smile was gentle. “You listen to too many of Old Nan’s stories. The Others are as dead as the children of the forest, gone eight thousand years. Maester Luwin will tell you they never lived at all. No living man has ever seen one.”“Until this morning, no living man had ever seen a direwolf either,” Catelyn reminded him.“I ought to know better than to argue with a Tully,” he said with a rueful smile. He slid Ice back into its sheath. “You did not come here to tell me crib tales. I know how little you like this place. What is it, my lady?”Catelyn took her husband’s hand. “There was grievous news today, my lord. I did not wish to trouble you until you had cleansed yourself.” There was no way to soften the blow, so she told him straight. “I am so sorry, my love. Jon Arryn is dead.”His eyes found hers, and she could see how hard it took him, as she had known it would. In his youth, Ned had fostered at the Eyrie, and the childless Lord Arryn had become a second father to him and his fellow ward, Robert Baratheon. When the Mad King Aerys II Targaryen had demanded their heads, the Lord of the Eyrie had raised his moon-and-falcon banners in revolt rather than give up those he had pledged to protect.And one day fifteen years ago, this second father had become a brother as well, as he and Ned stood together in the sept at Riverrun to wed two sisters, the daughters of Lord Hoster Tully.“Jon?.?.?.?” he said. “Is this news certain?”“It was the king’s seal, and the letter is in Robert’s own hand. I saved it for you. He said Lord Arryn was taken quickly. Even Maester Pycelle was helpless, but he brought the milk of the poppy, so Jon did not linger long in pain.”“That is some small mercy, I suppose,” he said. She could see the grief on his face, but even then he thought first of her. “Your sister,” he said. “And Jon’s boy. What word of them?”“The message said only that they were well, and had returned to the Eyrie,” Catelyn said. “I wish they had gone to Riverrun instead. The Eyrie is high and lonely, and it was ever her husband’s place, not hers. Lord Jon’s memory will haunt each stone. I know my sister. She needs the comfort of family and friends around her.”“Your uncle waits in the Vale, does he not? Jon named him Knight of the Gate, I’d heard.”Catelyn nodded. “Brynden will do what he can for her, and for the boy. That is some comfort, but still?.?.?.?”“Go to her,” Ned urged. “Take the children. Fill her halls with noise and shouts and laughter. That boy of hers needs other children about him, and Lysa should not be alone in her grief.”“Would that I could,” Catelyn said. “The letter had other tidings. The king is riding to Winterfell to seek you out.”It took Ned a moment to comprehend her words, but when the understanding came, the darkness left his eyes. “Robert is coming here?” When she nodded, a smile broke across his face.Catelyn wished she could share his joy. But she had heard the talk in the yards; a direwolf dead in the snow, a broken antler in its throat. Dread coiled within her like a snake, but she forced herself to smile at this man she loved, this man who put no faith in signs. “I knew that would please you,” she said. “We should send word to your brother on the Wall.”“Yes, of course,” he agreed. “Ben will want to be here. I shall tell Maester Luwin to send his swiftest bird.” Ned rose and pulled her to her feet. “Damnation, how many years has it been? And he gives us no more notice than this? How many in his party, did the message say?”“I should think a hundred knights, at the least, with all their retainers, and half again as many freeriders. Cersei and the children travel with them.”“Robert will keep an easy pace for their sakes,” he said. “It is just as well. That will give us more time to prepare.”“The queen’s brothers are also in the party,” she told him.Ned grimaced at that. There was small love between him and the queen’s family, Catelyn knew. The Lannisters of Casterly Rock had come late to Robert’s cause, when victory was all but certain, and he had never forgiven them. “Well, if the price for Robert’s company is an infestation of Lannisters, so be it. It sounds as though Robert is bringing half his court.”“Where the king goes, the realm follows,” she said.“It will be good to see the children. The youngest was still sucking at the Lannister woman’s teat the last time I saw him. He must be, what, five by now?”“Prince Tommen is seven,” she told him. “The same age as Bran. Please, Ned, guard your tongue. The Lannister woman is our queen, and her pride is said to grow with every passing year.”Ned squeezed her hand. “There must be a feast, of course, with singers, and Robert will want to hunt. I shall send Jory south with an honor guard to meet them on the kingsroad and escort them back. Gods, how are we going to feed them all? On his way already, you said? Damn the man. Damn his royal hide.”3．DAENERYSHer brother held the gown up for her inspection. “This is beauty. Touch it. Go on. Caress the fabric.”Dany touched it. The cloth was so smooth that it seemed to run through her fingers like water. She could not remember ever wearing anything so soft. It frightened her. She pulled her hand away. “Is it really mine?”“A gift from the Magister Illyrio,” Viserys said, smiling. Her brother was in a high mood tonight. “The color will bring out the violet in your eyes. And you shall have gold as well, and jewels of all sorts. Illyrio has promised. Tonight you must look like a princess.”A princess, Dany thought. She had forgotten what that was like. Perhaps she had never really known. “Why does he give us so much?” she asked. “What does he want from us?” For nigh on half a year, they had lived in the magister’s house, eating his food, pampered by his servants. Dany was thirteen, old enough to know that such gifts seldom come without their price, here in the free city of Pentos.“Illyrio is no fool,” Viserys said. He was a gaunt young man with nervous hands and a feverish look in his pale lilac eyes. “The magister knows that I will not forget my friends when I come into my throne.”Dany said nothing. Magister Illyrio was a dealer in spices, gemstones, dragonbone, and other, less savory things. He had friends in all of the Nine Free Cities, it was said, and even beyond, in Vaes Dothrak and the fabled lands beside the Jade Sea. It was also said that he’d never had a friend he wouldn’t cheerfully sell for the right price. Dany listened to the talk in the streets, and she heard these things, but she knew better than to question her brother when he wove his webs of dream. His anger was a terrible thing when roused. Viserys called it “waking the dragon.”Her brother hung the gown beside the door. “Illyrio will send the slaves to bathe you. Be sure you wash off the stink of the stables. Khal Drogo has a thousand horses, tonight he looks for a different sort of mount.” He studied her critically. “You still slouch. Straighten yourself” He pushed back her shoulders with his hands. “Let them see that you have a woman’s shape now.” His fingers brushed lightly over her budding breasts and tightened on a nipple. “You will not fail me tonight. If you do, it will go hard for you. You don’t want to wake the dragon, do you?” His fingers twisted her, the pinch cruelly hard through the rough fabric of her tunic. “Do you?” he repeated.“No,” Dany said meekly.Her brother smiled. “Good.” He touched her hair, almost with affection. “When they write the history of my reign, sweet sister, they will say that it began tonight.”When he was gone, Dany went to her window and looked out wistfully on the waters of the bay. The square brick towers of Pentos were black silhouettes outlined against the setting sun. Dany could hear the singing of the red priests as they lit their night fires and the shouts of ragged children playing games beyond the walls of the estate. For a moment she wished she could be out there with them, barefoot and breathless and dressed in tatters, with no past and no future and no feast to attend at Khal Drogo’s manse.Somewhere beyond the sunset, across the narrow sea, lay a land of green hills and flowered plains and great rushing rivers, where towers of dark stone rose amidst magnificent blue-grey mountains, and armored knights rode to battle beneath the banners of their lords. The Dothraki called that land Rhaesh Andahli, the land of the Andals. In the Free Cities, they talked of Westeros and the Sunset Kingdoms. Her brother had a simpler name. “Our land,” he called it. The words were like a prayer with him. If he said them enough, the gods were sure to hear. “Ours by blood right, taken from us by treachery, but ours still, ours forever. You do not steal from the dragon, oh, no. The dragon remembers.”And perhaps the dragon did remember, but Dany could not. She had never seen this land her brother said was theirs, this realm beyond the narrow sea. These places he talked of, Casterly Rock and the Eyrie, Highgarden and the Vale of Arryn, Dorne and the Isle of Faces, they were just words to her. Viserys had been a boy of eight when they fled King’s Landing to escape the advancing armies of the Usurper, but Daenerys had been only a quickening in their mother’s womb.Yet sometimes Dany would picture the way it had been, so often had her brother told her the stories. The midnight flight to Dragonstone, moonlight shimmering on the ship’s black sails. Her brother Rhaegar battling the Usurper in the bloody waters of the Trident and dying for the woman he loved. The sack of King’s Landing by the ones Viserys called the Usurper’s dogs, the lords Lannister and Stark. Princess Elia of Dorne pleading for mercy as Rhaegar’s heir was ripped from her breast and murdered before her eyes. The polished skulls of the last dragons staring down sightlessly from the walls of the throne room while the Kingslayer opened Father’s throat with a golden sword.She had been born on Dragonstone nine moons after their flight, while a raging summer storm threatened to rip the island fastness apart. They said that storm was terrible. The Targaryen fleet was smashed while it lay at anchor, and huge stone blocks were ripped from the parapets and sent hurtling into the wild waters of the narrow sea. Her mother had died birthing her, and for that her brother Viserys had never forgiven her.She did not remember Dragonstone either. They had run again, just before the Usurper’s brother set sail with his new-built fleet. By then only Dragonstone itself, the ancient seat of their House, had remained of the Seven Kingdoms that had once been theirs. It would not remain for long. The garrison had been prepared to sell them to the Usurper, but one night Ser Willem Darry and four loyal men had broken into the nursery and stolen them both, along with her wet nurse, and set sail under cover of darkness for the safety of the Braavosian coast.She remembered Ser Willem dimly, a great grey bear of a man, half-blind, roaring and bellowing orders from his sickbed. The servants had lived in terror of him, but he had always been kind to Dany. He called her “Little Princess” and sometimes “My Lady,” and his hands were soft as old leather. He never left his bed, though, and the smell of sickness clung to him day and night, a hot, moist, sickly sweet odor. That was when they lived in Braavos, in the big house with the red door. Dany had her own room there, with a lemon tree outside her window. After Ser Willem had died, the servants had stolen what little money they had left, and soon after they had been put out of the big house. Dany had cried when the red door closed behind them forever.They had wandered since then, from Braavos to Myr, from Myr to Tyrosh, and on to Qohor and Volantis and Lys, never staying long in any one place. Her brother would not allow it. The Usurper’s hired knives were close behind them, he insisted, though Dany had never seen one.At first the magisters and archons and merchant princes were pleased to welcome the last Targaryens to their homes and tables, but as the years passed and the Usurper continued to sit upon the Iron Throne, doors closed and their lives grew meaner. Years past they had been forced to sell their last few treasures, and now even the coin they had gotten from Mother’s crown had gone. In the alleys and wine sinks of Pentos, they called her brother “the beggar king.” Dany did not want to know what they called her.“We will have it all back someday, sweet sister,” he would promise her. Sometimes his hands shook when he talked about it. “The jewels and the silks, Dragonstone and King’s Landing, the Iron Throne and the Seven Kingdoms, all they have taken from us, we will have it back.” Viserys lived for that day. All that Daenerys wanted back was the big house with the red door, the lemon tree outside her window, the childhood she had never known.There came a soft knock on her door. “Come,” Dany said, turning away from the window. Illyrio’s servants entered, bowed, and set about their business. They were slaves, a gift from one of the magister’s many Dothraki friends. There was no slavery in the free city of Pentos. Nonetheless, they were slaves. The old woman, small and grey as a mouse, never said a word, but the girl made up for it. She was Illyrio’s favorite, a fair-haired, blue-eyed wench of sixteen who chattered constantly as she worked.They filled her bath with hot water brought up from the kitchen and scented it with fragrant oils. The girl pulled the rough cotton tunic over Dany’s head and helped her into the tub. The water was scalding hot, but Daenerys did not flinch or cry out. She liked the heat. It made her feel clean. Besides, her brother had often told her that it was never too hot for a Targaryen. “Ours is the house of the dragon,” he would say. “The fire is in our blood.”The old woman washed her long, silver-pale hair and gently combed out the snags, all in silence. The girl scrubbed her back and her feet and told her how lucky she was. “Drogo is so rich that even his slaves wear golden collars. A hundred thousand men ride in his khalasar, and his palace in Vaes Dothrak has two hundred rooms and doors of solid silver.” There was more like that, so much more, what a handsome man the khal was, so tall and fierce, fearless in battle, the best rider ever to mount a horse, a demon archer. Daenerys said nothing. She had always assumed that she would wed Viserys when she came of age. For centuries the Targaryens had married brother to sister, since Aegon the Conqueror had taken his sisters to bride. The line must be kept pure, Viserys had told her a thousand times; theirs was the kingsblood, the golden blood of old Valyria, the blood of the dragon. Dragons did not mate with the beasts of the field, and Targaryens did not mingle their blood with that of 一支冲锋枪。一天，出发前，一位纳西族老乡搭我们的车去维西。那天路上积雪很大，雪下的路面坑洼不平，车子行驶一段就会被雪坞住。我们不得不经常下来推车。就在我们又一次下车推车的时候，一群褐黄色的东西慢慢向我们靠近。我们正惊疑、猜测时，纳西族老乡急喊：“快、快赶紧上车，是一群狼。”司机小王赶紧发动车，加大油门……但是很不幸，车轮只是在原地空转，根本无法前进。这时狼群已靠近汽车……大家看得清清楚楚——8只狼，个个都象小牛犊似的，肚子吊得老高。战士小吴抄起冲锋枪，纳西族老乡一手夺下小吴的抢。比较沉着地高声道：“不能开枪，枪一响，它们或钻到车底下或钻进树林，狼群会把车胎咬坏，把我们围起来，然后狼会嚎叫召集来更多的狼和我们拼命。”他接着说：“狼饿疯了，它们是在找吃的，车上可有吃的？”我们几乎同声回答：“有。”“那就扔下去给它们吃。”老乡像是下达命令。从来没有经历过这样的事，当时脑子里一片空白，除了紧张，大脑似乎已经不会思考问题。听老乡这样说，我们毫不犹豫，七手八脚把从丽江买的腊肉、火腿还有十分珍贵的鹿子干巴往下丢了一部分。狼群眼都红了，兴奋地大吼着扑向食物，大口的撕咬吞咽着，刚丢下去的东西一眨眼就被吃光了。老乡继续命令道：“再丢下去一些！”第二批大约50斤肉品又飞出了后车门，也就一袋烟的工夫，又被8只狼分食的干干净净。吃完后8只狼整齐地坐下，盯着后车门。这时，我们几人各个屏气息声，紧张的手心里都是冷汗，甚至能够清晰的听到自己心跳的声音……我们不知道能有什么办法令我们从狼群中突围出去。看到这样的情形，老乡又发话道：“还有吗？一点不留地丢下，想保命就别心疼这些东西了！”此时，除了紧张、害怕还有羞愤……！作为战士，我们是有责任保护好这些物资的，哪怕牺牲自己。但是现实情况是我们的车被坞到雪地里出不来，只能被困在车里。我们的子弹是极有限的，一旦有狼群被召唤来，我们会更加束手无策。我们几人相互看了一眼，迟疑片刻，谁也没有说什么，忍痛将车上所有的肉品，还有十几包饼干全都甩下车去！8只狼又是一顿大嚼。吃完了肉，它们还试探性的嗅了嗅那十几包饼干，但没有吃。这时我清楚地看到狼的肚子已经滚圆，先前暴戾凶恶的目光变得温顺。其中一只狼围着汽车转了两圈，其余7只狼没动。片刻，那只狼带着狼群朝树林钻去......不可思议的事情发生了……不一会儿，8只狼钻出松林，嘴里叼着树枝，分别放到汽车两个后轮下面。我们简直不敢相信自己的眼睛……这些狼的意思是想用树枝帮我们垫起轮胎，让我们的车开出雪窝。我激动地大笑起来……哈……哈……刚笑了两声，另外一个战士忙用手捂住了我的嘴，他怕这突兀的笑声惊毛了狼。接着，8只狼一齐钻到车底，但见汽车两侧积雪飞扬。我眼里滚动着泪花，大呼小王：“狼帮我们扒雪呢，赶快发动车，”车启动了，但是没走两步，又打滑了。狼再次重复刚才的动作：“先往车轮下垫树枝，然后扒雪……”。就这样，每重复一次，汽车就前进一段，大约重复了十来次。最后一次，汽车顺利地向前行了一里多地，接近了山顶。再向前就是下坡路了。这时，8只狼在车后一字排开坐着，其中一只比其他7只狼稍稍向前。老乡说：“靠前面的那只是头狼，主意都是他出的。”我们激动极了，一起给狼鼓掌，并用力地向它们挥手致意。但是这8只可爱的狼对我们的举动并没有什么反应，只是定定地望了望我们，然后，头狼在前，其余随后，缓缓朝山上走去，消失在松林中......看完不忍思考：凶猛的狼都懂得报恩，我们是否应该反思自身？自诩为“万物灵长”人类，我们是不是当让这个世界前两天，

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