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Jon

           SlungacrosshisbackinablackleathershouldersheathwasLongclaw,thehand-and-a-halfbastardbladetheOldBearhadgivenhimforsavinghislife.Abastardswordforabastard,themenjoked.Thehilthadbeenfashionednewforhim,adornedwithawolf’s-headpommelinpalestone,butthebladeitselfwasValyriansteel,oldandlightanddeadly-sharp.

           Hekneltandreachedaglovedhanddownintothemaw.Theinsideofthehollowwasredwithdriedsapandblackenedbyfire.Beneaththeskullhesawanother,smaller,thejawbrokenoff.Itwashalf-buriedinashandbitsofbone.

           WhenhebroughttheskulltoMormont,theOldBearlifteditinbothhandsandstaredintotheemptysockets."Thewildlingsburntheirdead.We’vealwaysknownthat.NowIwishedI’daskedthemwhy,whentherewerestillafewaroundtoask."

           JonSnowrememberedthewightrising,itseyesshiningblueinthepaledeadface.Heknewwhy,hewascertain.

           "Wouldthatbonescouldtalk,"theOldBeargrumbled."Thisfellowcouldtellusmuch.Howhedied.Whoburnedhim,andwhy.Wherethewildlingshavegone."Hesighed."Thechildrenoftheforestcouldspeaktothedead,it’ssaid.ButIcan’t."Hetossedtheskullbackintothemouthofthetree,whereitlandedwithapuffoffineash."Gothroughallthesehouses.Giant,gettothetopofthistree,havealook.I’llhavethehoundsbroughtuptoo.Perchancethistimethetrailwillbefresher."

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