Jon

           Thecallcamedriftingthroughtheblackofnight.Jonpushedhimselfontoanelbow,hishandreachingforLongclawbyforceofhabitasthecampbegantostir.Thehornthatwakesthesleepers,hethought.

           Thelonglownotelingeredattheedgeofhearing.Thesentriesattheringwallstoodstillintheirfootsteps,breathfrostingandheadsturnedtowardthewest.Asthesoundofthehornfaded,eventhewindceasedtoblow.Menrolledfromtheirblanketsandreachedforspearsandswordbelts,movingquietly,listening.Ahorsewhickeredandwashushed.Foraheartbeatitseemedasifthewholeforestwereholdingitsbreath.ThebrothersoftheNight’sWatchwaitedforasecondblast,prayingtheyshouldnothearit,fearingthattheywould.

           Whenthesilencehadstretchedunbearablylongandthemenknewatlastthatthehornwouldnotwindagain,theygrinnedatoneanothersheepishly,asiftodenythattheyhadbeenanxious.JonSnowfedafewstickstothefire,buckledonhisswordbelt,pulledonhisboots,shookthedirtanddewfromthecloak,andfasteneditaroundhisshoulders.Theflamesblazedupbesidehim,welcomeheatbeatingagainsthisfaceashedressed.HecouldheartheLordCommandermovinginsidethetent.AfteramomentMormontliftedtheflap."Oneblast?"Onhisshoulder,hisravensatfluffedandsilent,lookingmiserable.

           "One,mylord,"Jonagreed."Brothersreturning."

           Mormontmovedtothefire."TheHalfhand.Andpasttime."

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