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Jon

           

           Thewildlingshadbuilttheirwatchfireinashallowdepressionabovethenarrowestpartofthepass,withasheerdropbelowandrockbehindtoshelterthemfromtheworstofthewind.Thatsamewindbreakallowedtheblackbrotherstocrawlwithinafewfeetofthem,creepingalongontheirbelliesuntiltheywerelookingdownonthementheymustkill.

           Onewasasleep,curleduptightandburiedbeneathagreatmoundofskins.Joncouldseenothingofhimbuthishair,brightredinthefirelight.Thesecondsatclosetotheflames,feedingthemtwigsandbranchesandcomplainingofthewindinaqueruloustone.Thethirdwatchedthepass,thoughtherewaslittletosee,onlyavastbowlofdarknessringedbythesnowyshouldersofthemountains.Itwasthewatcherwhoworethehorn.

           Three.ForamomentJonwasuncertain.Therewasonlysupposedtobetwo.Onewasasleep,though.Andwhethertherewastwoorthreeortwenty,hestillmustdowhathehadcometodo.Stonesnaketouchedhisarm,pointedatthewildlingwiththehorn.Jonnoddedtowardtheonebythefire.Itfeltqueer,pickingamantokill.Halfthedaysofhislifehadbeenspentwithswordandshield,trainingforthismoment.DidRobbfeelthiswaybeforehisfirstbattle?hewondered,buttherewasnotimetoponderthequestion.Stonesnakemovedasfastashisnamesake,leapingdownonthewildlingsinarainofpebbles.JonslidLongclawfromitssheathandfollowed.

           Itallseemedtohappeninaheartbeat.

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