“You must. Must tell them.”
“Tell them what, my lord?” Sam asked politely.
“All. The Fist. The wildlings. Dragonglass. This. All.” His breathing was very shallow now, his voice a whisper. “Tell my son. Jorah. Tell him, take the black. My wish. Dying wish.”
” Wish? ” The raven cocked its head, beady black eyes shining. ” Corn? the bird asked.
“No corn,” said Mormont feebly. “Tell Jorah. Forgive him. My son. Please. Go.”