Proud Martyn Cassel, Jory’s father; faithful Theo Wull; Ethan Glover, who had been Brandon’s squire; Ser Mark Ryswell, soft of speech and gentle of heart; the crannogman, Howland Reed; Lord Dustin on his great red stallion.  骄傲的马丁·凯索、乔里的父亲，忠心耿耿的席奥·渥尔，本为布兰登侍从的伊森·葛洛佛，还有轻声细语、心地善良的马克·莱斯威尔爵士，泽地人霍兰·黎德，以及骑着红色骏马的达斯丁伯爵。

　　Ned had known their faces as well as he knew his own once, but the years leech at a man’s memories, even those he has vowed never to forget.  他们的面容，对奈德来说，曾如自己的脸庞一般熟悉，但岁月仿如水蛭，渐渐吸走了人们的记忆，即使是他一度发誓绝不忘记的部分也不例外。

　　In the dream they were only shadows, grey wraiths on horses made of mist. 在梦里他们只剩幻影，宛如灰色的幽灵，骑在浓雾聚成的马上。

　　They were seven, facing three.  他们一行七人，对方则是三个。

　　In the dream as it had been in life. Yet these were no ordinary three.  梦中如此，当年亦然。但这三人绝非平庸之辈。

　　They waited before the round tower, the red mountains of Dorne at their backs,their white cloaks blowing in the wind.  他们静待于圆形的高塔前，身后是多恩的赤红峰峦，肩上的雪白披风在风中飘荡。

　　And these were no shadows; their faces burned clear, even now.  而这三人并非幻影，他们的面容深深烙印，至今依旧清晰。

　　Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, had a sad smile on his lips. 拂晓神剑亚瑟·戴恩爵士嘴角挂着一抹哀伤的微笑，

　　The hilt of the greatsword Dawn poked up over his right shoulder.  巨剑黎明斜出右肩。

　　Ser Oswell Whent was on one knee, sharpening his blade with a whetstone.  奥斯威尔·河安爵士单膝跪地，正拿着磨刀石霍霍磨剑。

　　Across his white-enameled helm, the black bat of his House spread its wings.  他那顶白色瓷釉的头盔上，有着象征家徽的展翅黑蝙蝠。

　　Between them stood fierce old Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. 站在两人之间的是年迈的御林铁卫队长杰洛·海塔尔爵士，外号白牛。

　　I looked for you on the Trident, Ned said to them. 我在三叉戟河上没见到你们。奈德对他们说。

　　We were not there, Ser Gerold answered. 我们不在那里。杰洛爵土回答。

　　Woe to the Usurper if we had been, said Ser Oswell. 我们在的话，篡夺者就要倒霉了。奥斯威尔爵士道。