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- Джордж Мартин
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"
I
did
not
know
,
"
said
Jon
truthfully
,
trying
to
remember
the
face
of
the
man
he
had
slain
in
the
pass
.
"
You
told
me
Mance
would
take
me
.
"
"
And
he
will
,
"
Ygritte
said
.
"
Mance
is
not
here
,
"
said
Rattleshirt
.
"
Ragwyle
,
gut
him
.
"
The
big
spearwife
narrowed
her
eyes
and
said
,
"
If
the
crow
would
join
the
free
folk
,
let
him
show
us
his
prowess
and
prove
the
truth
of
him
.
"
"
I
’
ll
do
whatever
you
ask
.
"
The
words
came
hard
,
but
Jon
said
them
.
Rattleshirt
’
s
bone
armor
clattered
loudly
as
he
laughed
.
"
Then
kill
the
Halfhand
,
bastard
.
"
"
As
if
he
could
,
"
said
Qhorin
.
"
Turn
,
Snow
,
and
die
.
"
And
then
Qhorin
’
s
sword
was
coming
at
him
and
somehow
Longclaw
leapt
upward
to
block
.
The
force
of
impact
almost
knocked
the
bastard
blade
from
Jon
’
s
hand
,
and
sent
him
staggering
backward
.
You
must
not
balk
,
whatever
is
asked
of
you
.
He
shifted
to
a
two
-
hand
grip
,
quick
enough
to
deliver
a
stroke
of
his
own
,
but
the
big
ranger
brushed
it
aside
with
contemptuous
ease
.
Back
and
forth
they
went
,
black
cloaks
swirling
,
the
youth
’
s
quickness
against
the
savage
strength
of
Qhorin
’
s
left
-
hand
cuts
.
The
Halfhand
’
s
longsword
seemed
to
be
everywhere
at
once
,
raining
down
from
one
side
and
then
the
other
,
driving
him
where
he
would
,
keeping
him
off
balance
.
Already
he
could
feel
his
arms
growing
numb
.
Even
when
Ghost
’
s
teeth
closed
savagely
around
the
ranger
’
s
calf
,
somehow
Qhorin
kept
his
feet
.
But
in
that
instant
,
as
he
twisted
,
the
opening
was
there
.
Jon
planted
and
pivoted
.
The
ranger
was
leaning
away
,
and
for
an
instant
it
seemed
that
Jon
’
s
slash
had
not
touched
him
.
Then
a
string
of
red
tears
appeared
across
the
big
man
’
s
throat
,
bright
as
a
ruby
necklace
,
and
the
blood
gushed
out
of
him
,
and
Qhorin
Halfhand
fell
.
