𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐁𝐎𝐘

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴇʟᴇᴠᴇɴ

𝟚

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Torsten took his accustomed position at Mormont's side as the Night's Watch streamed out past the skulls on Craster's gate. They stuck off north and west along a crooked game trail. Melting ice dripped down all about them, a slower sort of rain with its own soft music.
North of the compound, the brook was in full spate, choked with leaves and bits of wood, but the scouts had found where the ford lay and the column was able to splash across. The water ran as high as a horse's belly. Ghost swam, emerging on the bank with his white fur dripping brown. When he shook, spraying mud and water in all directions, Mormont said nothing, but on his shoulder the raven screeched. "My Lord." Torsten said quietly as the wood closed in around them once more. "Craster has no sheep. Nor any sons." Mormont made no answer.

"At Winterfell one of the serving women told us stories." Jon began. "She used to say that there were Wildlings who would lay with the Others to birth half human children." Torsten stilled at Jon's words.

"Hearth tales. Does Craster seem less than human to you?" Mormont asked. In half a hundred ways, thought Torsten. "He gives his sons to the wood." A long silence followed. Torsten's lips pulled back. Mormont's raven sat atop his shoulder and muttered, strutting.

"You knew?" Torsten asked eyes slowly lifting to meet Mormont's own.

"Smallwood told me. Long ago. All the rangers know, though few will talk of it." Torsten couldn't help but wonder if Benjen knew.

"Did my uncle know?" Jon suddenly asked.

"All the rangers." Mormont repeated. "You think I 'ought to stop him. Kill him if need be." The Old Bear sighed. "Were it only that he wished to rid himself of some mouths, I'd gladly send Yoren or Conwys to collect the boys. We could raise them to the black and the Watch would be that much the stronger. But the Wildlings serve crueller gods than you or I. These boys are Craster's offerings. His prayers, if you will." His wives must offer different prayers, Torsten thought. "How is it you came to know this?" The Old Bear asked the two. "From one of Craster's wives?" Torsten nodded stiffly.

"Aye, my lord." Torsten confessed. "I would sooner not tell you which. She was frightened and wanted help."

"The wide world is full of people wanting help, Torsten. Would that some could find the courage to help themselves. Craster sprawls in his loft even now, stinking of wine and lost to sense. On his board below lies a sharp new axe. Were it me, I'd name it Answered Prayers and make an end." Torsten thought of Gilly and her sisters. They were nineteen, and Craster was one.

"It would be an ill day for us if Craster died. Benjen used to tell me of the times Craster's Keep made the difference between life and death for our rangers." Torsten said and the Old Bear nodded.

"My father..." Jon hesitated.

"Go on, Jon. Say what you would say." Mormont encouraged.

"My father once told me that some men are not worth having." Jon finished. "A bannerman who is brutal or unjust dishonours his liege lord as well as himself." At Jon's words Torsten shook his head.

"Aye, but Craster is his own man." Torsten shrugged, adjusting the reins in his hands. "He has sworn us no vows. Nor is he subject to our laws." Torsten said.

"Both your hearts are noble, boys, but learn a lesson here. We cannot set the world to rights. That is not our purpose. The Night's Watch has other wars to fight." Lord Mormont said.

"Jarman Buckwell said I might have need of my sword soon." Jon looked up to meet Mormont's eyes.

"Did he?" Mormont did not seem pleased. "Craster said much and more last night, and confirmed enough of my fears to condemn me to a sleepless night on his floor. Mance Rayder is gathering his people together in the Frostfangs. That's why the villages are empty. It is the same tale that Ser Denys Mallister had from the Wildling his men captured in the Gorge, but Craster has added the where, and that makes all the difference." Torsten craned his head at Mormont's words.

"Is he making a city, or an army?" He asked.

"Now, that is the question. How many Wildlings are there? How many men of fighting age? No one knows with certainty. The Frostfangs are cruel, inhospitable, a wilderness of stone and ice. They will not long sustain any great number of people. I can see only one purpose in this gathering. Mance Rayder means to strike south, into the Seven Kingdoms." Mormont answered.

"Wildlings have invaded the realm before." Torsten had heard the tales from his brothers back at the Black, while Jon had also heard the storied back at Winterfell.

"Aye, but the Night's Watch is only a shadow of what we were, and who remains to oppose the Wildlings beside us? The Lord of Winterfell is dead, and his heir has marched his strength south to fight the Lannisters. The Wildlings may never again have such a chance as this. I knew Mance Rayder, boys. He is an oath breaker, yes... but he has eyes to see, and no man has ever dared to name him faintheart." Said Mormont.

"What will we do?" Asked Torsten.

"Find him." Said Mormont. "Fight him. Stop him." Three hundred, against the fury of the wild. His fingers opened and closed.

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