Jon

           ItwasdarkintheSkirlingPass.Thegreatstoneflanksofthemountainshidthesunformostoftheday,sotheyrodeinshadow,thebreathofmanandhorsesteaminginthecoldair.Icyfingersofwatertrickleddownfromthesnowpackaboveintosmallfrozenpoolsthatcrackedandbrokebeneaththehoovesoftheirgarrons.Sometimestheywouldseeafewweedsstrugglingfromsomecrackintherockorasplotchofpalelichen,buttherewasnograss,andtheywereabovethetreesnow.

           Thetrackwasassteepasitwasnarrow,wendingitswayeverupward.Wherethepasswassoconstrictedthatrangershadtogosingle-file,SquireDalbridgewouldtakethelead,scanningtheheightsashewent,hislongboweverclosetohand.ItwassaidhehadthekeenesteyesintheNight’sWatch.

           GhostpaddedrestlesslybyJon’sside.Fromtimetotimehewouldstopandturn,hisearspricked,asifheheardsomethingbehindthem.Jondidnotthinktheshadowcatswouldattacklivingmen,notunlesstheywerestarving,butheloosenedLongclawinitsscabbardevenso.

           Awind-carvedarchofgreystonemarkedthehighestpointofthepass.HerethewaybroadenedasitbeganitslongdescenttowardthevalleyoftheMilkwater.Qhorindecreedthattheywouldresthereuntiltheshadowsbegantogrowagain."Shadowsarefriendstomeninblack,"hesaid.

           Jonsawthesenseofthat.

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