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- Джордж Мартин
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Ghost
’
s
muzzle
was
dripping
red
,
but
only
the
point
of
the
bastard
blade
was
stained
,
the
last
half
inch
.
Jon
pulled
the
direwolf
away
and
knelt
with
one
arm
around
him
.
The
light
was
already
fading
in
Qhorin
’
s
eyes
.
"
.
.
.
sharp
,
"
he
said
,
lifting
his
maimed
fingers
.
Then
his
hand
fell
,
and
he
was
gone
.
He
knew
,
he
thought
numbly
.
He
knew
what
they
would
ask
of
me
.
He
thought
of
Samwell
Tarly
then
,
of
Grenn
and
Dolorous
Edd
,
of
Pyp
and
Toad
back
at
Castle
Black
.
Had
he
lost
them
all
,
as
he
had
lost
Bran
and
Rickon
and
Robb
?
Who
was
he
now
?
What
was
he
?
"
Get
him
up
.
"
Rough
hands
dragged
him
to
his
feet
.
Jon
did
not
resist
.
"
Do
you
have
a
name
?
"
Ygritte
answered
for
him
.
"
His
name
is
Jon
Snow
.
He
is
Eddard
Stark
’
s
blood
,
of
Winterfell
.
"
Ragwyle
laughed
.
"
Who
would
have
thought
it
?
Qhorin
Halfhand
slain
by
some
lordling
’
s
by
-
blow
.
"
"
Gut
him
.
"
That
was
Rattleshirt
,
still
ahorse
.
The
eagle
flew
to
him
and
perched
atop
his
bony
helm
,
screeching
.
"
He
yielded
,
"
Ygritte
reminded
them
.
"
Aye
,
and
slew
his
brother
,
"
said
a
short
homely
man
in
a
rust
-
eaten
iron
half
-
helm
.
Rattleshirt
rode
closer
,
bones
clattering
.
"
The
wolf
did
his
work
for
him
.
It
were
foully
done
.
The
Halfhand
’
s
death
was
mine
.
"
