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- Джордж Мартин
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Mormont
stroked
the
bird
’
s
black
feathers
,
and
stifled
a
sudden
yawn
with
the
back
of
his
hand
.
"
I
will
forsake
supper
,
I
believe
.
Rest
will
serve
me
better
.
Wake
me
at
first
light
.
"
"
Sleep
well
,
my
lord
.
"
Jon
gathered
up
the
empty
cups
and
stepped
outside
.
He
heard
distant
laughter
,
the
plaintive
sound
of
pipes
.
A
great
blaze
was
crackling
in
the
center
of
the
camp
,
and
he
could
smell
stew
cooking
.
The
Old
Bear
might
not
be
hungry
,
but
Jon
was
.
He
drifted
over
toward
the
fire
.
Dywen
was
holding
forth
,
spoon
in
hand
.
"
I
know
this
wood
as
well
as
any
man
alive
,
and
I
tell
you
,
I
wouldn
’
t
care
to
ride
through
it
alone
tonight
.
Can
’
t
you
smell
it
?
"
Grenn
was
staring
at
him
with
wide
eyes
,
but
Dolorous
Edd
said
,
"
All
I
smell
is
the
shit
of
two
hundred
horses
.
And
this
stew
.
Which
has
a
similar
aroma
,
now
that
I
come
to
sniff
it
.
"
"
I
’
ve
got
your
similar
aroma
right
here
.
"
Hake
patted
his
dirk
.
Grumbling
,
he
filled
Jon
’
s
bowl
from
the
kettle
.
The
stew
was
thick
with
barley
,
carrot
,
and
onion
,
with
here
and
there
a
ragged
shred
of
salt
beef
,
softened
in
the
cooking
.
"
What
is
it
you
smell
,
Dywen
?
"
asked
Grenn
.
The
forester
sucked
on
his
spoon
a
moment
.
He
had
taken
out
his
teeth
.
His
face
was
leathery
and
wrinkled
,
his
hands
gnarled
as
old
roots
.
"
Seems
to
me
like
it
smells
.
.
.
well
.
.
.
cold
.
"
"
Your
head
’
s
as
wooden
as
your
teeth
,
"
Hake
told
him
.
"
There
’
s
no
smell
to
cold
.
"
