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- Джордж Мартин
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Catelyn
listened
to
girlish
laughter
,
and
the
excited
chatter
of
the
green
boys
her
brother
had
left
her
for
a
garrison
.
Good
sounds
.
.
.
and
yet
they
did
not
touch
her
.
She
could
not
share
their
happiness
.
In
her
father
’
s
solar
she
found
a
heavy
leather
-
bound
book
of
maps
and
opened
it
to
the
riverlands
.
Her
eyes
found
the
path
of
the
Red
Fork
and
traced
it
by
flickering
candlelight
.
Marching
to
the
southeast
,
she
thought
.
By
now
they
had
likely
reached
the
headwaters
of
the
Blackwater
Rush
,
she
decided
.
She
closed
the
book
even
more
uneasy
than
before
.
The
gods
had
granted
them
victory
after
victory
.
At
Stone
Mill
,
at
Oxcross
,
in
the
Battle
of
the
Camps
,
at
the
Whispering
Wood
.
.
.
But
if
we
are
winning
,
why
am
I
so
afraid
?
The
sound
was
the
faintest
of
clinks
,
a
scraping
of
steel
over
stone
.
He
lifted
his
head
from
his
paws
,
listening
,
sniffing
at
the
night
.
The
evening
’
s
rain
had
woken
a
hundred
sleeping
smells
and
made
them
ripe
and
strong
again
.
Grass
and
thorns
,
blackberries
broken
on
the
ground
,
mud
,
worms
,
rotting
leaves
,
a
rat
creeping
through
the
bush
.
He
caught
the
shaggy
black
scent
of
his
brother
’
s
coat
and
the
sharp
coppery
tang
of
blood
from
the
squirrel
he
’
d
killed
.
Other
squirrels
moved
through
the
branches
above
,
smelling
of
wet
fur
and
fear
,
their
little
claws
scratching
at
the
bark
.
The
noise
had
sounded
something
like
that
.
And
he
heard
it
again
,
clink
and
scrape
.
It
brought
him
to
his
feet
.
His
ears
pricked
and
his
tail
rose
.
He
howled
,
a
long
deep
shivery
cry
,
a
howl
to
wake
the
sleepers
,
but
the
piles
of
man
-
rock
were
dark
and
dead
.
A
still
wet
night
,
a
night
to
drive
men
into
their
holes
.
The
rain
had
stopped
,
but
the
men
still
hid
from
the
damp
,
huddled
by
the
fires
in
their
caves
of
piled
stone
.
His
brother
came
sliding
through
the
trees
,
moving
almost
as
quiet
as
another
brother
he
remembered
dimly
from
long
ago
,
the
white
one
with
the
eyes
of
blood
.
This
brother
’
s
eyes
were
pools
of
shadow
,
but
the
fur
on
the
back
of
his
neck
was
bristling
.
He
had
heard
the
sounds
as
well
,
and
known
they
meant
danger
.
This
time
the
clink
and
scrape
were
followed
by
a
slithering
and
the
soft
swift
patter
of
skinfeet
on
stone
.
The
wind
brought
the
faintest
whiff
of
a
man
-
smell
he
did
not
know
.
Stranger
.
Danger
.
Death
.
