Free A Dance with Dragons: A Song of Ice and Fire: Book Five by George R. R. Martin Page B

remained … and one the white wolf could no longer sense.
    “Snow,” the moon insisted.
    The white wolf ran from it, racing toward the cave of night where the sun had hidden, his breath frosting in the air. On starless nights the great cliff was as black as stone, a darkness towering high above the wide world, but when the moon came out it shimmered pale and icy as a frozen stream. The wolf’s pelt was thick and shaggy, but when the wind blew along the ice no fur could keep the chill out. On the other side the windwas colder still, the wolf sensed. That was where his brother was, the grey brother who smelled of summer.
    “Snow.” An icicle tumbled from a branch. The white wolf turned and bared his teeth.
“Snow!”
His fur rose bristling, as the woods dissolved around him.
“Snow, snow, snow!”
He heard the beat of wings. Through the gloom a raven flew.
    It landed on Jon Snow’s chest with a
thump
and a scrabbling of claws.
“SNOW!”
it screamed into his face.
    “I hear you.” The room was dim, his pallet hard. Grey light leaked through the shutters, promising another bleak cold day. “Is this how you woke Mormont? Get your feathers out of my face.” Jon wriggled an arm out from under his blankets to shoo the raven off. It was a big bird, old and bold and scruffy, utterly without fear.
“Snow,”
it cried, flapping to his bedpost.
“Snow, snow.”
Jon filled his fist with a pillow and let fly, but the bird took to the air. The pillow struck the wall and burst, scattering stuffing everywhere just as Dolorous Edd Tollett poked his head through the door. “Beg pardon,” he said, ignoring the flurry of feathers, “shall I fetch m’lord some breakfast?”
    “Corn,”
cried the raven.
“Corn, corn.”
    “Roast raven,” Jon suggested. “And half a pint of ale.” Having a steward fetch and serve for him still felt strange; not long ago, it would have been him fetching breakfast for Lord Commander Mormont.
    “Three corns and one roast raven,” said Dolorous Edd. “Very good, m’lord, only Hobb’s made boiled eggs, black sausage, and apples stewed with prunes. The apples stewed with prunes are excellent, except for the prunes. I won’t eat prunes myself. Well, there was one time when Hobb chopped them up with chestnuts and carrots and hid them in a hen. Never trust a cook, my lord. They’ll prune you when you least expect it.”
    “Later.” Breakfast could wait; Stannis could not. “Any trouble from the stockades last night?”
    “Not since you put guards on the guards, m’lord.”
    “Good.” A thousand wildlings had been penned up beyond the Wall, the captives Stannis Baratheon had taken when his knights had smashed Mance Rayder’s patchwork host. Many of the prisoners were women, and some of the guards had been sneaking them out to warm their beds. King’s men, queen’s men, it did not seem to matter; a few black brothers had tried the same thing. Men were men, and these were the only women for a thousand leagues.
    “Two more wildlings turned up to surrender,” Edd went on. “A motherwith a girl clinging to her skirts. She had a boy babe too, all swaddled up in fur, but he was dead.”
    “Dead,”
said the raven. It was one of the bird’s favorite words.
“Dead, dead, dead.”
    They had free folk drifting in most every night, starved half-frozen creatures who had run from the battle beneath the Wall only to crawl back when they realized there was no safe place to run to. “Was the mother questioned?” Jon asked. Stannis Baratheon had smashed Mance Rayder’s host and made the King-Beyond-the-Wall his captive … but the wildlings were still out there, the Weeper and Tormund Giantsbane and thousands more.
    “Aye, m’lord,” said Edd, “but all she knows is that she ran off during the battle and hid in the woods after. We filled her full of porridge, sent her to the pens, and burned the babe.”
    Burning dead children had ceased to trouble Jon Snow; live ones were another