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- Джордж Мартин
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"
Except
for
you
,
"
Arya
pointed
out
.
"
That
man
said
he
’
d
take
your
head
too
.
"
"
Well
,
as
to
that
,
"
Yoren
said
,
"
if
he
can
get
it
off
my
shoulders
,
he
’
s
welcome
to
it
.
"
"
Sam
?
"
Jon
called
softly
.
The
air
smelled
of
paper
and
dust
and
years
.
Before
him
,
tall
wooden
shelves
rose
up
into
dimness
,
crammed
with
leather
-
bound
books
and
bins
of
ancient
scrolls
.
A
faint
yellow
glow
filtered
through
the
stacks
from
some
hidden
lamp
.
Jon
blew
out
the
taper
he
carried
,
preferring
not
to
risk
an
open
flame
amidst
so
much
old
dry
paper
.
Instead
he
followed
the
light
,
wending
his
way
down
the
narrow
aisles
beneath
barrel
-
vaulted
ceilings
.
All
in
black
,
he
was
a
shadow
among
shadows
,
dark
of
hair
,
long
of
face
,
grey
of
eye
.
Black
moleskin
gloves
covered
his
hands
;
the
right
because
it
was
burned
,
the
left
because
a
man
felt
half
a
fool
wearing
only
one
glove
.
Samwell
Tarly
sat
hunched
over
a
table
in
a
niche
carved
into
the
stone
of
the
wall
.
The
glow
came
from
the
lamp
hung
over
his
head
.
He
looked
up
at
the
sound
of
Jon
’
s
steps
.
"
Have
you
been
here
all
night
?
"
"
Have
I
?
"
Sam
looked
startled
.
"
You
didn
’
t
break
your
fast
with
us
,
and
your
bed
hadn
’
t
been
slept
in
.
"
Rast
suggested
that
maybe
Sam
had
deserted
,
but
Jon
never
believed
it
.
Desertion
required
its
own
sort
of
courage
,
and
Sam
had
little
enough
of
that
.
"
Is
it
morning
?
Down
here
there
’
s
no
way
to
know
.
"
"
Sam
,
you
’
re
a
sweet
fool
,
"
Jon
said
.
"
You
’
ll
miss
that
bed
when
we
’
re
sleeping
on
the
cold
hard
ground
,
I
promise
you
.
"
