Jon

           AblowingrainlashedatJon’sfaceashespurredhishorseacrosstheswollenstream.Besidehim,LordCommanderMormontgavethehoodofhiscloakatug,mutteringcursesontheweather.Hisravensatonhisshoulder,feathersruffled,assoakedandgrumpyastheOldBearhimself.Agustofwindsentwetleavesflappingroundthemlikeaflockofdeadbirds.Thehauntedforest,Jonthoughtruefully.Thedrownedforest,morelikeit.

           HehopedSamwasholdingup,backdownthecolumn.Hewasnotagoodridereveninfairweather,andsixdaysofrainhadmadethegroundtreacherous,allsoftmudandhiddenrocks.Whenthewindblew,itdrovethewaterrightintotheireyes.TheWallwouldbeflowingofftothesouth,themeltingiceminglingwithwarmraintowashdowninsheetsandrivers.PypandToadwouldbesittingnearthefireinthecommonroom,drinkingcupsofmulledwinebeforetheirsupper.Jonenviedthem.Hiswetwoolclungtohimsoddenanditching,hisneckandshouldersachedfiercelyfromtheweightofmailandsword,andhewassickofsaltcod,saltbeef,andhardcheese.

           Upaheadahuntinghornsoundedaquaveringnote,half-drownedbeneaththeconstantpatteroftherain."Buckwell’shorn,"theOldBearannounced."Thegodsaregood;Craster’sstillthere."Hisravengaveasingleflapofhisbigwings,croaked"Corn,"andruffledhisfeathersupagain.

           JonhadoftenheardtheblackbrotherstelltalesofCrasterandhiskeep.Nowhewouldseeitwithhisowneyes.

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