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- Джордж Мартин
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There
was
nothing
to
be
done
but
trust
in
Ser
Colen
’
s
honor
,
and
Lord
Renly
’
s
.
They
saw
the
smoke
of
the
camp
’
s
fires
when
they
were
still
an
hour
from
the
river
.
Then
the
sound
came
drifting
across
farm
and
field
and
rolling
plain
,
indistinct
as
the
murmur
of
some
distant
sea
,
but
swelling
as
they
rode
closer
.
By
the
time
they
caught
sight
of
the
Mander
’
s
muddy
waters
glinting
in
the
sun
,
they
could
make
out
the
voices
of
men
,
the
clatter
of
steel
,
the
whinny
of
horses
.
Yet
neither
sound
nor
smoke
prepared
them
for
the
host
itself
.
Thousands
of
cookfires
filled
the
air
with
a
pale
smoky
haze
.
The
horse
lines
alone
stretched
out
over
leagues
.
A
forest
had
surely
been
felled
to
make
the
tall
staffs
that
held
the
banners
.
Great
siege
engines
lined
the
grassy
verge
of
the
roseroad
,
mangonels
and
trebuchets
and
rolling
rams
mounted
on
wheels
taller
than
a
man
on
horseback
.
The
steel
points
of
pikes
flamed
red
with
sunlight
,
as
if
already
blooded
,
while
the
pavilions
of
the
knights
and
high
lords
sprouted
from
the
grass
like
silken
mushrooms
.
She
saw
men
with
spears
and
men
with
swords
,
men
in
steel
caps
and
mail
shirts
,
camp
followers
strutting
their
charms
,
archers
fletching
arrows
,
teamsters
driving
wagons
,
swineherds
driving
pigs
,
pages
running
messages
,
squires
honing
swords
,
knights
riding
palfreys
,
grooms
leading
ill
-
tempered
destriers
.
"
This
is
a
fearsome
lot
of
men
,
"
Ser
Wendel
Manderly
observed
as
they
crossed
the
ancient
stone
span
from
which
Bitterbridge
took
its
name
.
"
That
it
is
,
"
Catelyn
agreed
.
Near
all
the
chivalry
of
the
south
had
come
to
Renly
’
s
call
,
it
seemed
.
The
golden
rose
of
Highgarden
was
seen
everywhere
:
sewn
on
the
right
breast
of
armsmen
and
servants
,
flapping
and
fluttering
from
the
green
silk
banners
that
adorned
lance
and
pike
,
painted
upon
the
shields
hung
outside
the
pavilions
of
the
sons
and
brothers
and
cousins
and
uncles
of
House
Tyrell
.
As
well
Catelyn
spied
the
fox
-
and
-
flowers
of
House
Florent
,
Fossoway
apples
red
and
green
,
Lord
Tarly
’
s
striding
huntsman
,
oak
leaves
for
Oakheart
,
cranes
for
Crane
,
a
cloud
of
black
-
and
-
orange
butterflies
for
the
Mullendores
.
Across
the
Mander
,
the
storm
lords
had
raised
their
standards
—
Renly
’
s
own
bannermen
,
sworn
to
House
Baratheon
and
Storm
’
s
End
.
Catelyn
recognized
Bryce
Caron
’
s
nightingales
,
the
Penrose
quills
,
and
Lord
Estermont
’
s
sea
turtle
,
green
on
green
.
Yet
for
every
shield
she
knew
,
there
were
a
dozen
strange
to
her
,
borne
by
the
small
lords
sworn
to
the
bannermen
,
and
by
hedge
knights
and
freeriders
,
who
had
come
swarming
to
make
Renly
Baratheon
a
king
in
fact
as
well
as
name
.
Renly
’
s
own
standard
flew
high
over
all
.
From
the
top
of
his
tallest
siege
tower
,
a
wheeled
oaken
immensity
covered
with
rawhides
,
streamed
the
largest
war
banner
that
Catelyn
had
ever
seen
—
a
cloth
big
enough
to
carpet
many
a
hall
,
shimmering
gold
,
with
the
crowned
stag
of
Baratheon
black
upon
it
,
prancing
proud
and
tall
.
"
My
lady
,
do
you
hear
that
noise
?
"
asked
Hallis
Mollen
,
trotting
close
.
"
What
is
that
?
"
She
listened
.
Shouts
,
and
horses
screaming
,
and
the
clash
of
steel
,
and
.
.
.
"
Cheering
,
"
she
said
.
They
had
been
riding
up
a
gentle
slope
toward
a
line
of
brightly
colored
pavilions
on
the
height
.
As
they
passed
between
them
,
the
press
of
men
grew
thicker
,
the
sounds
louder
.
And
then
she
saw
.
Below
,
beneath
the
stone
-
and
-
timber
battlements
of
a
small
castle
,
a
melee
was
in
progress
.
