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- Джордж Мартин
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Game of thrones
"
We
should
start
back
,
"
Gared
urged
as
the
woods
began
to
grow
dark
around
them
.
"
The
wildlings
are
dead
.
"
"
Do
the
dead
frighten
you
?
"
Ser
Waymar
Royce
asked
with
just
the
hint
of
a
smile
.
Gared
did
not
rise
to
the
bait
.
He
was
an
old
man
,
past
fifty
,
and
he
had
seen
the
lordlings
come
and
go
.
"
Dead
is
dead
,
"
he
said
.
"
We
have
no
business
with
the
dead
.
"
"
Are
they
dead
?
"
Royce
asked
softly
.
"
What
proof
have
we
?
"
"
Will
saw
them
,
"
Gared
said
.
"
If
he
says
they
are
dead
,
that
's
proof
enough
for
me
.
"
Will
had
known
they
would
drag
him
into
the
quarrel
sooner
or
later
.
He
wished
it
had
been
later
rather
than
sooner
.
"
My
mother
told
me
that
dead
men
sing
no
songs
,
"
he
put
in
.
"
My
wet
nurse
said
the
same
thing
,
Will
,
"
Royce
replied
.
"
Never
believe
anything
you
hear
at
a
woman
's
tit
.
There
are
things
to
be
learned
even
from
the
dead
.
"
His
voice
echoed
,
too
loud
in
the
twilit
forest
.
"
We
have
a
long
ride
before
us
,
"
Gared
pointed
out
.
"
Eight
days
,
maybe
nine
.
And
night
is
falling
.
"
Ser
Waymar
Royce
glanced
at
the
sky
with
disinterest
.
"
It
does
that
every
day
about
this
time
.
Are
you
unmanned
by
the
dark
,
Gared
?
"
Will
could
see
the
tightness
around
Gared
's
mouth
,
the
barely
suppressed
anger
in
his
eyes
under
the
thick
black
hood
of
his
cloak
.
Gared
had
spent
forty
years
in
the
Night
's
Watch
,
man
and
boy
,
and
he
was
not
accustomed
to
being
made
light
of
.
Yet
it
was
more
than
that
.
Under
the
wounded
pride
,
Will
could
sense
something
else
in
the
older
man
.
You
could
taste
it
;
a
nervous
tension
that
came
perilous
close
to
fear
.
