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- Джордж Мартин
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"
A
few
words
.
Three
of
them
can
say
snow
.
"
"
One
bird
croaking
my
name
was
bad
enough
,
"
said
Jon
,
"
and
snow
’
s
nothing
a
black
brother
wants
to
hear
about
.
"
Snow
often
meant
death
in
the
north
.
"
Was
there
anything
in
Whitetree
?
"
"
Bones
,
ashes
,
and
empty
houses
.
"
Jon
handed
Sam
the
roll
of
parchment
.
"
The
Old
Bear
wants
word
sent
back
to
Aemon
.
"
Sam
took
a
bird
from
one
of
the
cages
,
stroked
its
feathers
,
attached
the
message
,
and
said
,
"
Fly
home
now
,
brave
one
.
Home
.
"
The
raven
quorked
something
unintelligible
back
at
him
,
and
Sam
tossed
it
into
the
air
.
Flapping
,
it
beat
its
way
skyward
through
the
trees
.
"
I
wish
he
could
carry
me
with
him
.
"
"
Still
?
"
"
Well
,
"
said
Sam
,
"
yes
,
but
.
.
.
I
’
m
not
as
frightened
as
I
was
,
truly
.
The
first
night
,
every
time
I
heard
someone
getting
up
to
make
water
,
I
thought
it
was
wildlings
creeping
in
to
slit
my
throat
.
I
was
afraid
that
if
I
closed
my
eyes
,
I
might
never
open
them
again
,
only
.
.
.
well
.
.
.
dawn
came
after
all
.
"
He
managed
a
wan
smile
.
"
I
may
be
craven
,
but
I
’
m
not
stupid
.
I
’
m
sore
and
my
back
aches
from
riding
and
from
sleeping
on
the
ground
,
but
I
’
m
hardly
scared
at
all
.
Look
.
"
He
held
out
a
hand
for
Jon
to
see
how
steady
it
was
.
"
I
’
ve
been
working
on
my
maps
.
"
The
world
is
strange
,
Jon
thought
.
Two
hundred
brave
men
had
left
the
Wall
,
and
the
only
one
who
was
not
growing
more
fearful
was
Sam
,
the
self
-
confessed
coward
.
"
We
’
ll
make
a
ranger
of
you
yet
,
"
he
joked
.
"
Next
thing
,
you
’
ll
want
to
be
an
outrider
like
Grenn
.
Shall
I
speak
to
the
Old
Bear
?
"
