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- Джордж Мартин
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- Битва королей
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- Стр. 662/853
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Once
his
foot
slipped
as
he
put
his
weight
on
it
and
his
heart
stopped
in
his
chest
,
but
the
gods
were
good
and
he
did
not
fall
.
He
could
feel
the
cold
seeping
off
the
rock
into
his
fingers
,
but
he
dared
not
don
his
gloves
;
gloves
would
slip
,
no
matter
how
tight
they
seemed
,
cloth
and
fur
moving
between
skin
and
stone
,
and
up
here
that
could
kill
him
.
His
burned
hand
was
stiffening
up
on
him
,
and
soon
it
began
to
ache
.
Then
he
ripped
open
his
thumbnail
somehow
,
and
after
that
he
left
smears
of
blood
wherever
he
put
his
hand
.
He
hoped
he
still
had
all
his
fingers
by
the
end
of
the
climb
.
Up
they
went
,
and
up
,
and
up
,
black
shadows
creeping
across
the
moonlit
wall
of
rock
.
Anyone
down
on
the
floor
of
the
pass
could
have
seen
them
easily
,
but
the
mountain
hid
them
from
the
view
of
the
wildlings
by
their
fire
.
They
were
close
now
,
though
.
Jon
could
sense
it
.
Even
so
,
he
did
not
think
of
the
foes
who
were
waiting
for
him
,
all
unknowing
,
but
of
his
brother
at
Winterfell
.
Bran
used
to
love
to
climb
.
I
wish
I
had
a
tenth
part
of
his
courage
.
The
wall
was
broken
two
-
thirds
of
the
way
up
by
a
crooked
fissure
of
icy
stone
.
Stonesnake
reached
down
a
hand
to
help
him
up
.
He
had
donned
his
gloves
again
,
so
Jon
did
the
same
.
The
ranger
moved
his
head
to
the
left
,
and
the
two
of
them
crawled
along
the
shelf
three
hundred
yards
or
more
,
until
they
could
see
the
dull
orange
glow
beyond
the
lip
of
the
cliff
.
The
wildlings
had
built
their
watchfire
in
a
shallow
depression
above
the
narrowest
part
of
the
pass
,
with
a
sheer
drop
below
and
rock
behind
to
shelter
them
from
the
worst
of
the
wind
.
That
same
windbreak
allowed
the
black
brothers
to
crawl
within
a
few
feet
of
them
,
creeping
along
on
their
bellies
until
they
were
looking
down
on
the
men
they
must
kill
.
One
was
asleep
,
curled
up
tight
and
buried
beneath
a
great
mound
of
skins
.
Jon
could
see
nothing
of
him
but
his
hair
,
bright
red
in
the
firelight
.
The
second
sat
close
to
the
flames
,
feeding
them
twigs
and
branches
and
complaining
of
the
wind
in
a
querulous
tone
.
The
third
watched
the
pass
,
though
there
was
little
to
see
,
only
a
vast
bowl
of
darkness
ringed
by
the
snowy
shoulders
of
the
mountains
.
It
was
the
watcher
who
wore
the
horn
.
Three
.
For
a
moment
Jon
was
uncertain
.
There
was
only
supposed
to
be
two
.
One
was
asleep
,
though
.
And
whether
there
was
two
or
three
or
twenty
,
he
still
must
do
what
he
had
come
to
do
.
Stonesnake
touched
his
arm
,
pointed
at
the
wildling
with
the
horn
.
Jon
nodded
toward
the
one
by
the
fire
.
It
felt
queer
,
picking
a
man
to
kill
.
Half
the
days
of
his
life
had
been
spent
with
sword
and
shield
,
training
for
this
moment
.
Did
Robb
feel
this
way
before
his
first
battle
?
he
wondered
,
but
there
was
no
time
to
ponder
the
question
.
Stonesnake
moved
as
fast
as
his
namesake
,
leaping
down
on
the
wildlings
in
a
rain
of
pebbles
.
Jon
slid
Longclaw
from
its
sheath
and
followed
.
It
all
seemed
to
happen
in
a
heartbeat
.
Afterward
Jon
could
admire
the
courage
of
the
wildling
who
reached
first
for
his
horn
instead
of
his
blade
.
He
got
it
to
his
lips
,
but
before
he
could
sound
it
Stonesnake
knocked
the
horn
aside
with
a
swipe
of
his
shortsword
.
Jon
’
s
man
leapt
to
his
feet
,
thrusting
at
his
face
with
a
burning
brand
.
He
could
feel
the
heat
of
the
flames
as
he
flinched
back
.
Out
of
the
corner
of
his
eye
,
he
saw
the
sleeper
stirring
,
and
knew
he
must
finish
his
man
quick
.
When
the
brand
swung
again
,
he
bulled
into
it
,
swinging
the
bastard
sword
with
both
hands
.
The
Valyrian
steel
sheared
through
leather
,
fur
,
wool
,
and
flesh
,
but
when
the
wildling
fell
he
twisted
,
ripping
the
sword
from
Jon
’
s
grasp
.
On
the
ground
the
sleeper
sat
up
beneath
his
furs
.
Jon
slid
his
dirk
free
,
grabbing
the
man
by
the
hair
and
jamming
the
point
of
the
knife
up
under
his
chin
as
he
reached
for
his
—
no
,
her
—
His
hand
froze
.
"
A
girl
.
"
"
A
watcher
,
"
said
Stonesnake
.
"
A
wildling
.
Finish
her
.
"
