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Jon

           

           Oncehisfootslippedasheputhisweightonitandhisheartstoppedinhischest,butthegodsweregoodandhedidnotfall.Hecouldfeelthecoldseepingofftherockintohisfingers,buthedarednotdonhisgloves;gloveswouldslip,nomatterhowtighttheyseemed,clothandfurmovingbetweenskinandstone,andupherethatcouldkillhim.Hisburnedhandwasstiffeninguponhim,andsoonitbegantoache.Thenherippedopenhisthumbnailsomehow,andafterthatheleftsmearsofbloodwhereverheputhishand.Hehopedhestillhadallhisfingersbytheendoftheclimb.

           Uptheywent,andup,andup,blackshadowscreepingacrossthemoonlitwallofrock.Anyonedownonthefloorofthepasscouldhaveseenthemeasily,butthemountainhidthemfromtheviewofthewildlingsbytheirfire.Theywereclosenow,though.Joncouldsenseit.Evenso,hedidnotthinkofthefoeswhowerewaitingforhim,allunknowing,butofhisbrotheratWinterfell.Branusedtolovetoclimb.IwishIhadatenthpartofhiscourage.

           Thewallwasbrokentwo-thirdsofthewayupbyacrookedfissureoficystone.Stonesnakereacheddownahandtohelphimup.Hehaddonnedhisglovesagain,soJondidthesame.Therangermovedhisheadtotheleft,andthetwoofthemcrawledalongtheshelfthreehundredyardsormore,untiltheycouldseethedullorangeglowbeyondthelipofthecliff.

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