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Jon

           Thebundleturned,anditscontentsspilledoutontotheground,glitteringdarkandbright.Hesawadozenknives,leaf-shapedspearheads,numerousarrowheads.Jonpickedupadaggerblade,feather-lightandshinyblack,hiltless.Torchlightranalongitsedge,athinorangelinethatspokeofrazorsharpness.Dragonglass.Whatthemaesterscallobsidian.HadGhostuncoveredsomeancientcacheofthechildrenoftheforest,buriedhereforthousandsofyears?TheFistoftheFirstMenwasanoldplace,only...

           Beneaththedragonglasswasanoldwarhorn,madefromanauroch’shornandbandedinbronze.Jonshookthedirtfrominsideit,andastreamofarrowheadsfellout.Heletthemfall,andpulledupacornerofthecloththeweaponshadbeenwrappedin,rubbingitbetweenhisfingers.Goodwool,thick,adoubleweave,dampbutnotrotted.Itcouldnothavebeenlongintheground.Anditwasdark.Heseizedahandfulandpulleditclosetothetorch.Notdark.Black.

           EvenbeforeJonstoodandshookitout,heknewwhathehad:theblackcloakofaSwornBrotheroftheNight’sWatch.

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