That need not be the one I dreamed of.  Even so, Ebben would have loosed a shaft at it, but the squire stopped him. “The bird’s well out of bowshot.”  “I don’t like it watching us.”  The squire shrugged. “Nor me, but you won’t stop it. Only waste a good arrow.”  Qhorin sat in his saddle, studying the eagle for a long time. “We press on,” he finally said. The rangers resumed their descent.  Ghost, Jon wanted to shout, where are you?  He was about to follow Qhorin and the others when he glimpsed a flash of white between two boulders. A patch of old snow, he thought, until he saw it stir. He was off his horse at once. As he went to his knees,  Ghost lifted his head. His neck glistened wetly, but he made no sound when Jon peeled off a glove and touched him. The talons had torn a bloody path through fur and flesh, but the bird had not been able to snap his neck.  Qhorin Halfhand was standing over him. “How bad?”  As if in answer, Ghost struggled to his feet.  “The wolf is strong,” the ranger said. “Ebben, water. Stonesnake, your skin of wine. Hold him still, Jon.”  Together they washed the caked blood from the direwolf’s fur. Ghost struggled and bared his teeth when Qhorm poured the wine into the ragged red gashes the eagle had left him, but Jon wrapped his arms around him and murmured soothing words, and soon enough the wolf quieted.  By the time they’d ripped a strip from Jon’s cloak to wrap the wounds, full dark had settled. Only a dusting of stars set the black of sky apart from the black of stone. “Do we press on?” Stonesnake wanted to know.  Qhorin went to his garron. “Back, not on.”  “Back?” Jon was taken by surprise.  “Eagles have sharper eyes than men. We are seen. So now we run.” The Halfhand wound a long black scarf around his face and swung up into the saddle.  The other rangers exchanged a look, but no man thought to argu............