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- Джордж Мартин
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"
It
isn
’
t
.
I
’
m
not
a
wolf
.
"
Yet
he
’
d
howled
with
them
in
the
night
,
and
tasted
blood
in
his
wolf
dreams
.
"
Part
of
you
is
Summer
,
and
part
of
Summer
is
you
.
You
know
that
,
Bran
.
"
Summer
rushed
forward
,
but
Meera
blocked
him
,
jabbing
with
the
three
-
pronged
spear
.
The
wolf
twisted
aside
,
circling
,
stalking
.
Meera
turned
to
face
him
.
"
Call
him
back
,
Bran
.
"
"
Summer
!
"
Bran
shouted
.
"
To
me
,
Summer
!
"
He
slapped
an
open
palm
down
on
the
meat
of
his
thigh
.
His
hand
tingled
,
though
his
dead
leg
felt
nothing
.
The
direwolf
lunged
again
,
and
again
Meera
’
s
spear
darted
out
.
Summer
dodged
,
circled
back
.
The
bushes
rustled
,
and
a
lean
black
shape
came
padding
from
behind
the
weirwood
,
teeth
bared
.
The
scent
was
strong
;
his
brother
had
smelled
his
rage
.
Bran
felt
hairs
rise
on
the
back
of
his
neck
.
Meera
stood
beside
her
brother
,
with
wolves
to
either
side
.
"
Bran
,
call
them
off
.
"
"
I
can
’
t
!
"
"
Jojen
,
up
the
tree
.
"
"
There
’
s
no
need
.
Today
is
not
the
day
I
die
.
"
"
Do
it
!
"
she
screamed
,
and
her
brother
scrambled
up
the
trunk
of
the
weirwood
,
using
the
face
for
his
handholds
.
The
direwolves
closed
.
Meera
abandoned
spear
and
net
,
jumped
up
,
and
grabbed
the
branch
above
her
head
.
Shaggy
’
s
jaws
snapped
shut
beneath
her
ankle
as
she
swung
up
and
over
the
limb
.
Summer
sat
back
on
his
haunches
and
howled
,
while
Shaggydog
worried
the
net
,
shaking
it
in
his
teeth
.
Only
then
did
Bran
remember
that
they
were
not
alone
.
He
cupped
hands
around
his
mouth
.
"
Hodor
!
"
he
shouted
.
"
Hodor
!
Hodor
!
"
He
was
badly
frightened
and
somehow
ashamed
.
"
They
won
’
t
hurt
Hodor
,
"
he
assured
his
treed
friends
.
