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- Джордж Мартин
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"
We
might
camp
here
tonight
,
"
Smallwood
suggested
.
The
Old
Bear
glanced
up
,
searching
for
a
glimpse
of
sky
through
the
pale
limbs
and
red
leaves
of
the
weirwood
.
"
No
,
"
he
declared
.
"
Giant
,
how
much
daylight
remains
to
us
?
"
"
Three
hours
,
my
lord
.
"
"
We
’
ll
press
on
north
,
"
Mormont
decided
.
"
If
we
reach
this
lake
,
we
can
make
camp
by
the
shore
,
perchance
catch
a
few
fish
.
Jon
,
fetch
me
paper
,
it
’
s
past
time
I
wrote
Maester
Aemon
.
"
Jon
found
parchment
,
quill
,
and
ink
in
his
saddlebag
and
brought
them
to
the
Lord
Commander
.
At
Whitetree
,
Mormont
scrawled
.
The
fourth
village
.
All
empty
.
The
wildlings
are
gone
.
"
Find
Tarly
and
see
that
he
gets
this
on
its
way
,
"
he
said
as
he
handed
Jon
the
message
.
When
he
whistled
,
his
raven
came
flapping
down
to
land
on
his
horse
’
s
head
.
"
Corn
,
"
the
raven
suggested
,
bobbing
.
The
horse
whickered
.
Jon
mounted
his
garron
,
wheeled
him
about
,
and
trotted
off
.
Beyond
the
shade
of
the
great
weirwood
the
men
of
the
Night
’
s
Watch
stood
beneath
lesser
trees
,
tending
their
horses
,
chewing
strips
of
salt
beef
,
pissing
,
scratching
,
and
talking
.
When
the
command
was
given
to
move
out
again
,
the
talk
died
,
and
they
climbed
back
into
their
saddles
.
Jarman
Buckwell
’
s
scouts
rode
out
first
,
with
the
vanguard
under
Thoren
Smallwood
heading
the
column
proper
.
Then
came
the
Old
Bear
with
the
main
force
,
Ser
Mallador
Locke
with
the
baggage
train
and
packhorses
,
and
finally
Ser
Ottyn
Wythers
and
the
rear
guard
.
Two
hundred
men
all
told
,
with
half
again
as
many
mounts
.
By
day
they
followed
game
trails
and
streambeds
,
the
"
ranger
’
s
roads
"
that
led
them
ever
deeper
into
the
wilderness
of
leaf
and
root
.
At
night
they
camped
beneath
a
starry
sky
and
gazed
up
at
the
comet
.
The
black
brothers
had
left
Castle
Black
in
good
spirits
,
joking
and
trading
tales
,
but
of
late
the
brooding
silence
of
the
wood
seemed
to
have
sombered
them
all
.
Jests
had
grown
fewer
and
tempers
shorter
.
No
one
would
admit
to
being
afraid
—
they
were
men
of
the
Night
’
s
Watch
,
after
all
—
but
Jon
could
feel
the
unease
.
Four
empty
villages
,
no
wildlings
anywhere
,
even
the
game
seemingly
fled
.
The
haunted
forest
had
never
seemed
more
haunted
,
even
veteran
rangers
agreed
.
As
he
rode
,
Jon
peeled
off
his
glove
to
air
his
burned
fingers
.
Ugly
things
.
He
remembered
suddenly
how
he
used
to
muss
Arya
’
s
hair
.
His
little
stick
of
a
sister
.
He
wondered
how
she
was
faring
.
It
made
him
a
little
sad
to
think
that
he
might
never
muss
her
hair
again
.
He
began
to
flex
his
hand
,
opening
and
closing
the
fingers
.
If
he
let
his
sword
hand
stiffen
and
grow
clumsy
,
it
well
might
be
the
end
of
him
,
he
knew
.
A
man
needed
his
sword
beyond
the
Wall
.
Jon
found
Samwell
Tarly
with
the
other
stewards
,
watering
his
horses
.
He
had
three
to
tend
:
his
own
mount
,
and
two
packhorses
,
each
bearing
a
large
wire
-
and
-
wicker
cage
full
of
ravens
.
The
birds
flapped
their
wings
at
Jon
’
s
approach
and
screamed
at
him
through
the
bars
.
A
few
shrieks
sounded
suspiciously
like
words
.
"
Have
you
been
teaching
them
to
talk
?
"
he
asked
Sam
.
