Jafer's right wrist ended in the ruin of torn flesh and splintered bone left by Ghost's jaws. His right hand was floating in a jar of vinegar back in Maester Aemon's tower. His left hand, still at the end of his arm, was as black as his cloak.
Gods have mercy, the Old Bear muttered. He swung down from his garron, handing his reins to Jon. The morning was unnaturally warm; beads of sweat dotted the Lord Commander's broad forehead like dew on a melon. His horse was nervous, rolling her eyes, backing away from the dead men as far as her lead would allow. Jon led her off a few paces, fighting to keep her from bolting. The horses did not like the feel of this place. For that matter, neither did Jon.
The dogs liked it least of all. Ghost had led the party here; the pack of hounds had been useless. When Bass the kennelmaster had tried to get them to take the scent from the severed hand, they had gone wild, yowling and barking, fighting to get away. Even now they were snarling and whimpering by turns, pulling at their leashes while Chett cursed them for curs.
It is only a wood, Jon told himself, and they're only dead men. He had seen dead men before...
Last night he had dreamt the Winterfell dream again.