"A bastard," Jon said with a laugh. "You can say it, Sam. I've heard the word before." He put the spurs to his surefooted little garron. "I need to hunt down Ser Ottyn. Be careful around Craster's women." As if Samwell Tarly needed warning on that score. "We'll talk later, after we've made camp."
“杂种，”琼恩笑道，“只管直说就是，山姆，我以前又不是没听过。”他踢踢马刺，驱策胯下那匹结实的矮马前进。“我得去找奥廷爵士。对了，不可招惹卡斯特的女人哦，”好像山姆威尔还需要提醒似的，“扎营以后，我们再聊。”
Jon carried the word back to Ser Ottyn Wythers, plodding along with the rear guard. A small prune-faced man of an age with Mormont, Ser Ottyn always looked tired, even at Castle Black, and the rain had beaten him down unmercifully. "Welcome tidings," he said. "This wet has soaked my bones, and even my saddle sores complain of saddle sores."
找到奥廷·威勒斯爵士时，他正率领后卫部队一路缓行。奥廷爵士和莫尔蒙年纪相当，矮短身材，尖尖的脸，模样总那么疲惫(从前在黑城堡时也一样)。大雨无情地冲刷着他。“好消息，”他说，“这里的湿气都浸进我骨头里去了，瞧，只怕连鞍子都在抗议哩，痛得很哪。”

On his way back, Jon swung wide of the column's line of march and took a shorter path through the thick of the wood. The sounds of man and horse diminished, swallowed up by the wet green wild, and soon enough he could hear only the steady wash of rain against leaf and tree and rock. It was midafternoon, yet the forest seemed as dark as dusk. Jon wove a path between rocks and puddles, past great oaks, grey-green sentinels, and black-barked ironwoods. In places the branches wove a canopy overhead and he was given a moment's respite from the drumming of the rain against his head. As he rode past a lightning-blasted chestnut tree overgrown with wild white roses, he heard something rustling in the underbrush. "Ghost," he called out. "Ghost, to me."
回程路上，琼恩远远避开拉长的队列，转而在浓密的森林中选择捷径。人马的声音渐渐降低，吞没在润湿的绿荒中，不一会儿，耳中只剩瓢泼大雨击打叶子、树木和岩石的声响。天色刚入下午，森林里却黑如黄昏。琼恩在岩石和水坑之间寻找道路，穿过大橡树，灰绿的哨兵树和黑皮铁树。浓密的树枝为他搭起天篷，使他暂时摆脱雨点的敲打。骑经一棵被闪电击中，爬满野生白玫瑰的栗树时，他听见草丛里沙沙作响。“白灵，”他唤道，“白灵，过来。”