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- Джордж Мартин
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Renly
glanced
about
him
.
"
Brienne
.
"
"
Your
Grace
?
"
She
was
still
armored
in
her
blue
steel
,
though
she
had
taken
off
her
helm
.
The
crowded
tent
was
hot
,
and
sweat
plastered
limp
yellow
hair
to
her
broad
,
homely
face
.
"
My
place
is
at
your
side
.
I
am
your
sworn
shield
.
.
.
"
"
One
of
seven
,
"
the
king
reminded
her
.
"
Never
fear
,
four
of
your
fellows
will
be
with
me
in
the
fight
.
"
Brienne
dropped
to
her
knees
.
"
If
I
must
part
from
Your
Grace
,
grant
me
the
honor
of
arming
you
for
battle
.
"
Catelyn
heard
someone
snigger
behind
her
.
She
loves
him
,
poor
thing
,
she
thought
sadly
.
She
’
d
play
his
squire
just
to
touch
him
,
and
never
care
how
great
a
fool
they
think
her
.
"
Granted
,
"
Renly
said
.
"
Now
leave
me
,
all
of
you
.
Even
kings
must
rest
before
a
battle
.
"
"
My
lord
,
"
Catelyn
said
,
"
there
was
a
small
sept
in
the
last
village
we
passed
.
If
you
will
not
permit
me
to
depart
for
Riverrun
,
grant
me
leave
to
go
there
and
pray
.
"
"
As
you
will
.
Ser
Robar
,
give
Lady
Stark
safe
escort
to
this
sept
.
.
.
but
see
that
she
returns
to
us
by
dawn
.
"
"
You
might
do
well
to
pray
yourself
,
"
Catelyn
added
.
