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- Джордж Мартин
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- Стр. 315/853
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The
door
to
Craster
’
s
Keep
was
made
of
two
flaps
of
deerhide
.
Jon
shoved
between
them
,
stooping
to
pass
under
the
low
lintel
.
Two
dozen
of
the
chief
rangers
had
preceded
him
,
and
were
standing
around
the
fire
-
pit
in
the
center
of
the
dirt
floor
while
puddles
collected
about
their
boots
.
The
hall
stank
of
soot
,
dung
,
and
wet
dog
.
The
air
was
heavy
with
smoke
,
yet
somehow
still
damp
.
Rain
leaked
through
the
smoke
hole
in
the
roof
.
It
was
all
a
single
room
,
with
a
sleeping
loft
above
reached
by
a
pair
of
splintery
ladders
.
Jon
remembered
how
he
’
d
felt
the
day
they
had
left
the
Wall
:
nervous
as
a
maiden
,
but
eager
to
glimpse
the
mysteries
and
wonders
beyond
each
new
horizon
.
Well
,
here
’
s
one
of
the
wonders
,
he
told
himself
,
gazing
about
the
squalid
,
foul
-
smelling
hall
.
The
acrid
smoke
was
making
his
eyes
water
.
A
pity
that
Pyp
and
Toad
can
’
t
see
all
they
’
re
missing
.
Craster
sat
above
the
fire
,
the
only
man
to
enjoy
his
own
chair
.
Even
Lord
Commander
Mormont
must
seat
himself
on
the
common
bench
,
with
his
raven
muttering
on
his
shoulder
.
Jarman
Buckwell
stood
behind
,
dripping
from
patched
mail
and
shiny
wet
leather
,
beside
Thoren
Smallwood
in
the
late
Ser
Jaremy
’
s
heavy
breastplate
and
sable
-
trimmed
cloak
.
Craster
’
s
sheepskin
jerkin
and
cloak
of
sewn
skins
made
a
shabby
contrast
,
but
around
one
thick
wrist
was
a
heavy
ring
that
had
the
glint
of
gold
.
He
looked
to
be
a
powerful
man
,
though
well
into
the
winter
of
his
days
now
,
his
mane
of
hair
grey
going
to
white
.
A
flat
nose
and
a
drooping
mouth
gave
him
a
cruel
look
,
and
one
of
his
ears
was
missing
.
So
this
is
a
wildling
.
Jon
remembered
Old
Nan
’
s
tales
of
the
savage
folk
who
drank
blood
from
human
skulls
.
Craster
seemed
to
be
drinking
a
thin
yellow
beer
from
a
chipped
stone
cup
.
Perhaps
he
had
not
heard
the
stories
.
"
I
’
ve
not
seen
Benjen
Stark
for
three
years
,
"
he
was
telling
Mormont
.
"
And
if
truth
be
told
,
I
never
once
missed
him
.
"
A
half
-
dozen
black
puppies
and
the
odd
pig
or
two
skulked
among
the
benches
,
while
women
in
ragged
deerskins
passed
horns
of
beer
,
stirred
the
fire
,
and
chopped
carrots
and
onions
into
a
kettle
.
"
He
ought
to
have
passed
here
last
year
,
"
said
Thoren
Smallwood
.
A
dog
came
sniffing
round
his
leg
.
He
kicked
it
and
sent
it
off
yipping
.
Lord
Mormont
said
,
"
Ben
was
searching
for
Ser
Waymar
Royce
,
who
’
d
vanished
with
Gared
and
young
Will
.
"
"
Aye
,
those
three
I
recall
.
The
lordling
no
older
than
one
of
these
pups
.
Too
proud
to
sleep
under
my
roof
,
him
in
his
sable
cloak
and
black
steel
.
My
wives
give
him
big
cow
eyes
all
the
same
.
"
He
turned
his
squint
on
the
nearest
of
the
women
.
"
Gared
says
they
were
chasing
raiders
.
I
told
him
,
with
a
commander
that
green
,
best
not
catch
‘
em
.
Gared
wasn
’
t
half
-
bad
,
for
a
crow
.
Had
less
ears
than
me
,
that
one
.
The
‘
bite
took
‘
em
,
same
as
mine
.
"
Craster
laughed
.
"
Now
I
hear
he
got
no
head
neither
.
The
‘
bite
do
that
too
?
"
