Битва королей

Jon

           Hewasashortwiryman,nearfiftyandgreyofbeardbutstrongerthanheseemed,andhehadthebestnighteyesofanyoneJonhadeverknown.Heneededthemtonight.Bydaythemountainswereblue-grey,brushedwithfrost,butoncethesunvanishedbehindthejaggedpeakstheyturnedblack.Nowtherisingmoonhadlimnedtheminwhiteandsilver.

           Theblackbrothersmovedthroughblackshadowsamidstblackrocks,workingtheirwayupasteep,twistingtrailastheirbreathfrostedintheblackair.Jonfeltalmostnakedwithouthismail,buthedidnotmissitsweight.Thiswashardgoing,andslow.Tohurryherewastoriskabrokenankleorworse.Stonesnakeseemedtoknowwheretoputhisfeetasifbyinstinct,butJonneededtobemorecarefulonthebroken,unevenground.

           TheSkirlingPasswasreallyaseriesofpasses,alongtwistingcoursethatwentuparoundasuccessionoficywind-carvedpeaksanddownthroughhiddenvalleysthatseldomsawthesun.Apartfromhiscompanions,Jonhadglimpsednolivingmansincethey’dleftthewoodbehindandbeguntomaketheirwayupward.TheFrostfangswereascruelasanyplacethegodshadmade,andasinimicaltomen.Thewindcutlikeaknifeuphere,andshrilledinthenightlikeamothermourningherslainchildren.Whatfewtreestheysawwerestunted,grotesquethingsgrowingsidewaysoutofcracksandfissures.Tumbledshelvesofrockoftenoverhungthetrail,fringedwithhangingiciclesthatlookedlikelongwhiteteethfromadistance.

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