The day was grey, damp, overcast, the sort of day that made you wish for rain. He swept a gloved hand over the high, wind-carved crags that surrounded them. You might send young Snow. Like the snowfall on the barrowlands, it seemed the tears would never end.
He's coming home. The best way was to start from the godswood, shinny up the tall sentinel, and cross over the armory and the guards hall, leaping roof to roof, barefoot so the guards wouldn't hear you overhead. Start a fire. By the time he burst into the presence of the Lord Commander, his boots were soaked and Jon was wild-eyed and panting.
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