Maester Aemon had given him milk of the poppy, yet even so, the pain had been hideous. At first it had felt as if his hand were still aflame, burning day and night. Only plunging it into basins of snow and shaved ice gave any relief at all. Jon thanked the gods that no one but Ghost saw him writhing on his bed, whimpering from the pain. And when at last he did sleep, he dreamt, and that was even worse. In the dream, the corpse he fought had blue eyes, black hands, and his father's face, but he dared not tell Mormont that.
Dywen and Hake returned last night, the Old Bear said. "They found no sign of your uncle, no more than the others did."
I know. Jon had dragged himself to the common hall to sup with his friends, and the failure of the rangers' search had been all the men had been talking of.
You know, Mormont grumbled. "How is it that everyone knows everything around here?" He did not seem to expect an answer. "It would seem there were only the two of... of those creatures, whatever they were, I will not call them men. And thank the gods for that. Any more and... well, that doesn't bear thinking of. There will be more, though. I can feel it in these old bones of mine, and Maester Aemon agrees.