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- Джордж Мартин
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the
last
of
Darry
’
s
ten
.
.
.
Brienne
paused
to
listen
for
a
moment
,
broad
shoulders
hunched
and
thick
arms
crossed
against
her
chest
.
A
mob
of
ragged
boys
raced
by
,
screeching
and
flailing
at
each
other
with
sticks
.
Why
do
boys
so
love
to
play
at
war
?
Catelyn
wondered
if
Rymund
was
the
answer
.
The
singer
’
s
voice
swelled
as
he
neared
the
end
of
his
song
.
And
red
the
grass
beneath
his
feet
,
and
red
his
banners
bright
,
and
red
the
glow
of
the
setting
sun
that
bathed
him
in
its
light
.
"
Come
on
,
come
on
,
"
the
great
lord
called
,
"
my
sword
is
hungry
still
.
"
And
with
a
cry
of
savage
rage
,
They
swarmed
across
the
rill
.
.
.
