A blowing rain lashed¹ at Jon’s face as he spurred his horse across the swollen² stream. Beside him, Lord Commander Mormont gave the hood³ of his cloak a tug⁴, muttering curses on the weather. His raven⁵ sat on his shoulder, feathers ruffled⁶, as soaked and grumpy as the Old Bear himself. A gust⁷ of wind sent wet leaves flapping round them like a flock of dead birds. The haunted forest, Jon thought ruefully. The drowned forest, more like it.  He hoped Sam was holding up, back down the column. He was not a good rider even in fair weather, and six days of rain had made the ground treacherous⁸, all soft mud and hidden rocks. When the wind blew, it drove the water right into their eyes. The Wall would be flowing off to the south, the melting ice mingling⁹ with warm rain to wash down in sheets and rivers. Pyp and Toad¹⁰ would be sitting near the fire in the common room, drinking cups of mulled wine before their supper. Jon envied them. His wet wool clung to him sodden¹¹ and itching¹², his neck and shoulders ached fiercely from the weight of mail and sword, and he was sick of salt cod¹³, salt beef, and hard cheese.  Up ahead a hunting horn sounded a quavering note, half drowned beneath the constant patter of the rain. “Buckwell’s horn,” the Old Bear announced. “The gods are good; Craster’s still there.” His raven gave a single flap of his big wings,

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