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- Джордж Мартин
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"
Belike
we
need
to
flush
the
crows
,
"
Rattleshirt
bellowed
over
the
clamor
.
"
Feather
them
!
"
"
No
!
"
The
word
burst
from
Jon
’
s
lips
before
the
bowmen
could
loose
.
He
took
two
quick
steps
forward
.
"
We
yield
!
"
"
They
warned
me
bastard
blood
was
craven
,
"
he
heard
Qhorin
Halfhand
say
coldly
behind
him
.
"
I
see
it
is
so
.
Run
to
your
new
masters
,
coward
.
"
Face
reddening
,
Jon
descended
the
slope
to
where
Rattleshirt
sat
his
horse
.
The
wildling
stared
at
him
through
the
eyeholes
of
his
helm
,
and
said
,
"
The
free
folk
have
no
need
of
cravens
.
"
"
He
is
no
craven
.
"
One
of
the
archers
pulled
off
her
sewn
sheepskin
helm
and
shook
out
a
head
of
shaggy
red
hair
.
"
This
is
the
Bastard
o
’
Winterfell
,
who
spared
me
.
Let
him
live
.
"
Jon
met
Ygritte
’
s
eyes
,
and
had
no
words
.
"
Let
him
die
,
"
insisted
the
Lord
of
Bones
.
"
The
black
crow
is
a
tricksy
bird
.
I
trust
him
not
.
"
On
a
rock
above
them
,
the
eagle
flapped
its
wings
and
split
the
air
with
a
scream
of
fury
.
"
The
bird
hates
you
,
Jon
Snow
,
"
said
Ygritte
.
"
And
well
he
might
.
He
was
a
man
,
before
you
killed
him
.
"
