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- Джордж Мартин
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Will
could
feel
it
.
Four
years
in
the
Night
's
Watch
,
and
he
had
never
been
so
afraid
.
What
was
it
?
"
Wind
.
Trees
rustling
.
A
wolf
.
Which
sound
is
it
that
unmans
you
so
,
Gared
?
"
When
Gared
did
not
answer
,
Royce
slid
gracefully
from
his
saddle
.
He
tied
the
destrier
securely
to
a
low-hanging
limb
,
well
away
from
the
other
horses
,
and
drew
his
longsword
from
its
sheath
.
Jewels
glittered
in
its
hilt
,
and
the
moonlight
ran
down
the
shining
steel
.
It
was
a
splendid
weapon
,
castle-forged
,
and
new-made
from
the
look
of
it
.
Will
doubted
it
had
ever
been
swung
in
anger
.
"
The
trees
press
close
here
,
"
Will
warned
.
"
That
sword
will
tangle
you
up
,
m
'
lord
.
Better
a
knife
.
"
"
If
I
need
instruction
,
I
will
ask
for
it
,
"
the
young
lord
said
.
"
Gared
,
stay
here
.
Guard
the
horses
.
"
Gared
dismounted
.
"
We
need
a
fire
.
I
'll
see
to
it
.
"
"
How
big
a
fool
are
you
,
old
man
?
If
there
are
enemies
in
this
wood
,
a
fire
is
the
last
thing
we
want
.
"
"
There
's
some
enemies
a
fire
will
keep
away
,
"
Gared
said
.
"
Bears
and
direwolves
and
...
and
other
things
...
"
Ser
Waymar
's
mouth
became
a
hard
line
.
"
No
fire
.
"
Gared
's
hood
shadowed
his
face
,
but
Will
could
see
the
hard
glitter
in
his
eyes
as
he
stared
at
the
knight
.
For
a
moment
,
he
was
afraid
the
older
man
would
go
for
his
sword
.
It
was
a
short
,
ugly
thing
,
its
grip
discolored
by
sweat
,
its
edge
nicked
from
hard
use
,
but
Will
would
not
have
given
an
iron
bob
for
the
lordling
's
life
if
Gared
pulled
it
from
its
scabbard
.
