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Jon

           Whenthesnowsdriftedfortyandfiftyfeethighandtheicewindscamehowlingoutofthenorth,thetunnelswereallthatheldCastleBlacktogether.

           Soon,Jonthoughtastheyclimbed.He’dseentheharbingerthathadcometoMaesterAemonwithwordofsummer’send,thegreatravenoftheCitadel,whiteandsilentasGhost.Hehadseenawinteronce,whenhewasveryyoung,buteveryoneagreedthatithadbeenashortone,andmild.Thisonewouldbedifferent.Hecouldfeelitinhisbones.

           ThesteepstonestepshadSampuffinglikeablacksmith’sbellowsbythetimetheyreachedthesurface.TheyemergedintoabriskwindthatmadeJon’scloakswirlandsnap.Ghostwasstretchedoutasleepbeneaththewattle-and-daubwallofthegranary,buthewokewhenJonappeared,bushywhitetailheldstifflyuprightashetrottedtothem.

           SamsquintedupattheWall.Itloomedabovethem,anicycliffsevenhundredfeethigh.SometimesitseemedtoJonalmostalivingthing,withmoodsofitsown.Thecoloroftheicewaswonttochangewitheveryshiftofthelight.Nowitwasthedeepblueoffrozenrivers,nowthedirtywhiteofoldsnow,andwhenacloudpassedbeforethesunitdarkenedtothepalegreyofpittedstone.TheWallstretchedeastandwestasfarastheeyecouldsee,sohugethatitshrunkthetimberedkeepsandstonetowersofthecastletoinsignificance.Itwastheendoftheworld.

           Andwearegoingbeyondit.

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