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- Джордж Мартин
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Jon
remembered
a
spray
of
red
blood
on
white
snow
,
and
the
way
Theon
Greyjoy
had
kicked
the
dead
man
’
s
head
.
The
man
was
a
deserter
.
On
the
way
back
to
Winterfell
,
Jon
and
Robb
had
raced
,
and
found
six
direwolf
pups
in
the
snow
.
A
thousand
years
ago
.
"
When
Ser
Waymar
left
you
,
where
was
he
bound
?
"
Craster
gave
a
shrug
.
"
Happens
I
have
better
things
to
do
than
tend
to
the
comings
and
goings
of
crows
.
"
He
drank
a
pull
of
beer
and
set
the
cup
aside
.
"
Had
no
good
southron
wine
up
here
for
a
bear
’
s
night
.
I
could
use
me
some
wine
,
and
a
new
axe
.
Mine
’
s
lost
its
bite
,
can
’
t
have
that
,
I
got
me
women
to
protect
.
"
He
gazed
around
at
his
scurrying
wives
.
"
You
are
few
here
,
and
isolated
,
"
Mormont
said
.
"
If
you
like
,
I
’
ll
detail
some
men
to
escort
you
south
to
the
Wall
.
"
The
raven
seemed
to
like
the
notion
.
"
Wall
,
"
it
screamed
,
spreading
black
wings
like
a
high
collar
behind
Mormont
’
s
head
.
Their
host
gave
a
nasty
smile
,
showing
a
mouthful
of
broken
brown
teeth
.
"
And
what
would
we
do
there
,
serve
you
at
supper
?
We
’
re
free
folk
here
.
Craster
serves
no
man
.
"
"
These
are
bad
times
to
dwell
alone
in
the
wild
.
The
cold
winds
are
rising
.
"
"
Let
them
rise
.
My
roots
are
sunk
deep
.
"
Craster
grabbed
a
passing
woman
by
the
wrist
.
"
Tell
him
,
wife
.
Tell
the
Lord
Crow
how
well
content
we
are
.
"
The
woman
licked
at
thin
lips
.
"
This
is
our
place
.
Craster
keeps
us
safe
.
Better
to
die
free
than
live
a
slave
.
"
