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Jon

           ThedoortoCraster’sKeepwasmadeoftwoflapsofdeerhide.Jonshovedbetweenthem,stoopingtopassunderthelowlintel.Twodozenofthechiefrangershadprecededhim,andwerestandingaroundthefire-pitinthecenterofthedirtfloorwhilepuddlescollectedabouttheirboots.Thehallstankofsoot,dung,andwetdog.Theairwasheavywithsmoke,yetsomehowstilldamp.Rainleakedthroughthesmokeholeintheroof.Itwasallasingleroom,withasleepingloftabovereachedbyapairofsplinteryladders.

           Jonrememberedhowhe’dfeltthedaytheyhadlefttheWall:nervousasamaiden,buteagertoglimpsethemysteriesandwondersbeyondeachnewhorizon.Well,here’soneofthewonders,hetoldhimself,gazingaboutthesqualid,foul-smellinghall.Theacridsmokewasmakinghiseyeswater.ApitythatPypandToadcan’tseeallthey’remissing.

           Crastersatabovethefire,theonlymantoenjoyhisownchair.EvenLordCommanderMormontmustseathimselfonthecommonbench,withhisravenmutteringonhisshoulder.JarmanBuckwellstoodbehind,drippingfrompatchedmailandshinywetleather,besideThorenSmallwoodinthelateSerJaremy’sheavybreastplateandsable-trimmedcloak.

           Craster’ssheepskinjerkinandcloakofsewnskinsmadeashabbycontrast,butaroundonethickwristwasaheavyringthathadtheglintofgold.Helookedtobeapowerfulman,thoughwellintothewinterofhisdaysnow,hismaneofhairgreygoingtowhite.

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