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- Джордж Мартин
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Yoren
was
chewing
sourleaf
.
"
Told
you
,
no
one
here
but
us
.
You
got
my
word
on
that
.
"
The
knight
in
the
spiked
helm
laughed
.
"
The
crow
gives
us
his
word
.
"
"
You
lost
,
old
man
?
"
mocked
one
of
the
spearmen
.
"
The
Wall
’
s
a
long
way
north
o
’
here
.
"
"
I
command
you
once
more
,
in
King
Joffrey
’
s
name
,
to
prove
the
loyalty
you
profess
and
open
these
gates
,
"
said
Ser
Amory
.
For
a
long
moment
Yoren
considered
,
chewing
.
Then
he
spat
.
"
Don
’
t
think
I
will
.
"
"
So
be
it
.
You
defy
the
king
’
s
command
,
and
so
proclaim
yourselves
rebels
,
black
cloaks
or
no
.
"
"
Got
me
young
boys
in
here
,
"
Yoren
shouted
down
.
"
Young
boys
and
old
men
die
the
same
.
"
Ser
Amory
raised
a
languid
fist
,
and
a
spear
came
hurtling
from
the
fire
-
bright
shadows
behind
.
Yoren
must
have
been
the
target
,
but
it
was
Woth
beside
him
who
was
hit
.
The
spearhead
went
in
his
throat
and
exploded
out
the
back
of
his
neck
,
dark
and
wet
.
Woth
grabbed
at
the
shaft
,
and
fell
boneless
from
the
walk
.
"
Storm
the
walls
and
kill
them
all
,
"
Ser
Amory
said
in
a
bored
voice
.
More
spears
flew
.
Arya
yanked
down
Hot
Pie
by
the
back
of
his
tunic
.
From
outside
came
the
rattle
of
armor
,
the
scrape
of
swords
on
scabbards
,
the
banging
of
spears
on
shields
,
mingled
with
curses
and
the
hoofbeats
of
racing
horses
.
A
torch
sailed
spinning
above
their
heads
,
trailing
fingers
of
fire
as
it
thumped
down
in
the
dirt
of
the
yard
.
"
Blades
!
"
Yoren
shouted
.
"
Spread
apart
,
defend
the
wall
wherever
they
hit
.
Koss
,
Urreg
,
hold
the
postern
.
Lommy
,
pull
that
spear
out
of
Woth
and
get
up
where
he
was
.
"
