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- Джордж Мартин
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- Стр. 255/751
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He
stopped
suddenly
,
scowling
when
he
saw
Pyp
's
grin
and
realized
what
he
'd
just
said
.
His
thick
neck
flushed
a
dark
red
.
Jon
left
them
there
arguing
as
he
returned
to
the
armory
,
hung
up
his
sword
,
and
stripped
off
his
battered
armor
.
Life
at
Castle
Black
followed
certain
patterns
;
the
mornings
were
for
swordplay
,
the
afternoons
for
work
.
The
black
brothers
set
new
recruits
to
many
different
tasks
,
to
learn
where
their
skills
lay
.
Jon
cherished
the
rare
afternoons
when
he
was
sent
out
with
Ghost
ranging
at
his
side
to
bring
back
game
for
the
Lord
Commander
's
table
,
but
for
every
day
spent
hunting
,
he
gave
a
dozen
to
Donal
Noye
in
the
armory
,
spinning
the
whetstone
while
the
one-armed
smith
sharpened
axes
grown
dull
from
use
,
or
pumping
the
bellows
as
Noye
hammered
out
a
new
sword
.
Other
times
he
ran
messages
,
stood
at
guard
,
mucked
out
stables
,
fletched
arrows
,
assisted
Maester
Aemon
with
his
birds
or
Bowen
Marsh
with
his
counts
and
inventories
.
That
afternoon
,
the
watch
commander
sent
him
to
the
winch
cage
with
four
barrels
of
fresh-crushed
stone
,
to
scatter
gravel
over
the
icy
footpaths
atop
the
Wall
.
It
was
lonely
and
boring
work
,
even
with
Ghost
along
for
company
,
but
Jon
found
he
did
not
mind
.
On
a
clear
day
you
could
see
half
the
world
from
the
top
of
the
Wall
,
and
the
air
was
always
cold
and
bracing
.
He
could
think
here
,
and
he
found
himself
thinking
of
Samwell
Tarly
...
and
,
oddly
,
of
Tyrion
Lannister
.
He
wondered
what
Tyrion
would
have
made
of
the
fat
boy
.
Most
men
would
rather
deny
a
hard
truth
than
face
it
,
the
dwarf
had
told
him
,
grinning
.
The
world
was
full
of
cravens
who
pretended
to
be
heroes
;
it
took
a
queer
sort
of
courage
to
admit
to
cowardice
as
Samwell
Tarly
had
.
His
sore
shoulder
made
the
work
go
slowly
.
It
was
late
afternoon
before
Jon
finished
graveling
the
paths
.
He
lingered
on
high
to
watch
the
sun
go
down
,
turning
the
western
sky
the
color
of
blood
.
Finally
,
as
dusk
was
settling
over
the
north
,
Jon
rolled
the
empty
barrels
back
into
the
cage
and
signaled
the
winch
men
to
lower
him
.
The
evening
meal
was
almost
done
by
the
time
he
and
Ghost
reached
the
common
hall
.
A
group
of
the
black
brothers
were
dicing
over
mulled
wine
near
the
fire
.
His
friends
were
at
the
bench
nearest
the
west
wall
,
laughing
.
Pyp
was
in
the
middle
of
a
story
.
The
mummer
's
boy
with
the
big
ears
was
a
born
liar
with
a
hundred
different
voices
,
and
he
did
not
tell
his
tales
so
much
as
live
them
,
playing
all
the
parts
as
needed
,
a
king
one
moment
and
a
swineherd
the
next
.
When
he
turned
into
an
alehouse
girl
or
a
virgin
princess
,
he
used
a
high
falsetto
voice
that
reduced
them
all
to
tears
of
helpless
laughter
,
and
his
eunuchs
were
always
eerily
accurate
caricatures
of
Ser
Alliser
.
Jon
took
as
much
pleasure
from
Pyp
's
antics
as
anyone
...
yet
that
night
he
turned
away
and
went
instead
to
the
end
of
the
bench
,
where
Samwell
Tarly
sat
alone
,
as
far
from
the
others
as
he
could
get
.
He
was
finishing
the
last
of
the
pork
pie
the
cooks
had
served
up
for
supper
when
Jon
sat
down
across
from
him
.
The
fat
boy
's
eyes
widened
at
the
sight
of
Ghost
.
"
Is
that
a
wolf
?
"
"
A
direwolf
,
"
Jon
said
.
"
His
name
is
Ghost
.
The
direwolf
is
the
sigil
of
my
father
's
House
.
"
"
Ours
is
a
striding
huntsman
,
"
Samwell
Tarly
said
.
