A truce.

painted table.

Black moleskin gloves covered his hands; the right because it was burned, the left because a man felt half a fool wearing only one glove. (Jon I, ACOK)

The haunted forest, Jon thought ruefully. The drowned forest, more like it. (Jon III, ACOK)

“Does this mud look like shit to you? Could it be that this whole hill is made of Craster’s shit?” Jon smiled. “Well, I hear he’s been here a long time.” “You cheer me not. Go see the Old Bear.” (Jon III, ACOK)

Jon remembered Old Nan’s tales of the savage folk who drank blood from human skulls. Craster seemed to be drinking a thin yellow beer from a chipped stone cup. Perhaps he had not heard the stories. (Jon III, ACOK)

The clouds would hide moon and stars and Mormont’s Torch, turning the woods black as pitch. Every piss would be an adventure, if not quite of the sort Jon Snow had once envisioned. (Jon III, ACOK)

STAVOS

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