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- Джордж Мартин
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They
wrestled
and
rolled
and
clung
to
each
other
,
one
snarling
and
yapping
,
the
other
laughing
.
In
the
end
it
was
Bran
sprawled
on
top
,
the
mud
-
spattered
direwolf
under
him
.
"
Good
wolf
,
"
he
panted
.
Summer
licked
him
across
the
ear
.
Meera
shook
her
head
.
"
Does
he
never
grow
angry
?
"
"
Not
with
me
.
"
Bran
grabbed
the
wolf
by
his
ears
and
Summer
snapped
at
him
fiercely
,
but
it
was
all
in
play
.
"
Sometimes
he
tears
my
garb
but
he
’
s
never
drawn
blood
.
"
"
Your
blood
,
you
mean
.
If
he
’
d
gotten
past
my
net
.
.
.
"
"
He
wouldn
’
t
hurt
you
.
He
knows
I
like
you
.
"
All
of
the
other
lords
and
knights
had
departed
within
a
day
or
two
of
the
harvest
feast
,
but
the
Reeds
had
stayed
to
become
Bran
’
s
constant
companions
.
Jojen
was
so
solemn
that
Old
Nan
called
him
"
little
grandfather
,
"
but
Meera
reminded
Bran
of
his
sister
Arya
.
She
wasn
’
t
scared
to
get
dirty
,
and
she
could
run
and
fight
and
throw
as
good
as
a
boy
.
She
was
older
than
Arya
,
though
;
almost
sixteen
,
a
woman
grown
.
They
were
both
older
than
Bran
,
even
though
his
ninth
name
day
had
finally
come
and
gone
,
but
they
never
treated
him
like
a
child
.
"
I
wish
you
were
our
wards
instead
of
the
Walders
.
"
He
began
to
struggle
toward
the
nearest
tree
.
His
dragging
and
wriggling
was
unseemly
to
watch
,
but
when
Meera
moved
to
lift
him
he
said
,
"
No
,
don
’
t
help
me
.
"
He
rolled
clumsily
and
pushed
and
squirmed
backward
,
using
the
strength
of
his
arms
,
until
he
was
sitting
with
his
back
to
the
trunk
of
a
tall
ash
.
"
See
,
I
told
you
.
"
Summer
lay
down
with
his
head
in
Bran
’
s
lap
.
"
I
never
knew
anyone
who
fought
with
a
net
before
,
"
he
told
Meera
while
he
scratched
the
direwolf
between
the
ears
.
"
Did
your
master
-
at
-
arms
teach
you
net
-
fighting
?
"
"
My
father
taught
me
.
We
have
no
knights
at
Greywater
.
No
master
-
at
-
arms
,
and
no
maester
.
"
"
Who
keeps
your
ravens
?
"
She
smiled
.
"
Ravens
can
’
t
find
Greywater
Watch
,
no
more
than
our
enemies
can
.
"
