𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐁𝐎𝐘

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ꜰᴏᴜʀᴛᴇᴇɴ

𝟚

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The call came drifting through the black of night. Torsten pushed himself onto his elbow, while Jon's hand reached for Longclaw by force of habit as the camp began to stir. The horn that wakes the sleepers.
The long low note lingered at the edge of hearing. The sentries at the ringwall stood still in their footsteps, breath frosting and heads turned toward the west. As the sound of the horn faded, even the wind ceased to blow. Men rolled from their blankets and reached for spears and swordbelts, moving quietly, listening. A horse whickered and was hushed. For a heartbeat it seemed as if the whole forest was holding its breath. The brothers of the Night's Watch waited for a second blast, praying they should not hear it, fearing that they would. When the silence had stretched unbearably long and the men knew at last that the horn would not wind again, they grinned at one another sheepishly, as if to deny that they had been anxious. Torsten Snow fed a few sticks to the fire, buckled on his swordbelt, pulled on his boots, shook the dirt and dew from the cloak, and fastened it around his shoulders. The flames blazed up beside him, welcome heat beating against his face as he dressed. He could hear the Lord Commander moving inside the tent. After a moment, Mormont lifted the flap. "One blast." On his shoulder, his raven sat fluffed and silent, looking miserable.

"Aye, one, my lord." Torsten agreed. "Brothers returning." Mormont moved to the fire.

"The Halfhand. And past time." He had grown more restive every day they waited, much longer and he would have been fit to whelp cubs. "See that there's hot food for the men and fodder for the horses. I'll see Qhorin at once." Mormont ordered.

"We'll bring him, my lord." The men from the Shadow Tower had been expected days ago. When they had not appeared, the brothers had begun to wonder. Torsten had heard gloomy mutterings around the cookfire, and not just from Dolorous Edd. Ser Ottyn Wythers was for retreating to Castle Black as soon as possible. Ser Mallador Locke would strike for the Shadow Tower, hoping to pick up Qhorin's trail and learn what had befallen him. And Thoren Smallwood wanted to push on into the mountains.
They had argued for many hour, and reached no agreement. The Old Bear was too stubborn to retreat, but neither would he rush headlong up the Milkwater, seeking battle. In the end, nothing had been decided but to wait a few more days for the men from the Shadow Tower, and talk again if they did not appear.
And now they had, which meant that the decision could be delayed no longer. Torsten was glad of that much, at least. If they must battle Mance Rayder, let it be soon.
He found Dolorous Edd at the fire, complaining about how difficult it was for him to sleep when people insisted on blowing horns through the snowy mountains. Torsten and Jon gave him something new to complain about. Together they woke Hake, who received the Lord Commander's orders with a stream of curses, but got up all the same and soon had a dozen brothers cutting roots for a soup.
Samwell came puffing up as Torsten and Jon crossed the camp together. Under the black hood his face was as pale and round as the moon.

"I heard the horn. Has your uncle come back?" He asked.

"It's only the men from the Shadow Tower." It was growing harder to cling to the hope of Benjen Stark's safe return. The cloak they had found beneath the Fist could well have belonged to Benjen or one of his men, even the Old Bear admitted as much, though why they would have buried it there, wrapped around the cache of dragonglass, no one could say.

"Sam, we have to go." At the ringwall, they found guards sliding spikes from the half frozen earth to make an opening. It was not long until the first of the brothers from the Shadow Tower began wending their way up the slope. All in leather and fur they were, with here and there a bit of steel or bronze, heavy beards covered hard lean faces, and made them look as shaggy as their garrons. Torsten was surprised to see some of them were riding two to a horse. When he looked more closely, it was plain that many of them were wounded. There has been trouble on the way.
Torsten knew Qhorin Halfhand the instant he saw him, though they had never met. The big ranger was half a legend in the Watch, a man of slow words and swift actions, tall and straight as a spear, long limbed and solemn. Unlike his men, he was clean shaven. His hair fell from beneath his helm in a heavy braid touched with hoarfrost, and the blacks he wore were so faded they might have been greys. Only thumb and forefinger remained on the hand that held the reins, the other fingers had been sheared off catching a Wildling's axe that would otherwise have split his skull. It was told that he had thrust his maimed fist into the face of the axeman so the blood spurted into his eyes, and slew him while he was blind. Since that day, the Wildlings beyond the Wall had known no foe more implacable. Torsten hailed him. "Lord Commander Mormont would see you at once. We'll show you to his tent." Qhorin swung down from his saddle.

"My men are hungry, and our horses require tending." Said Qhorin.

"They'll all be seen to." Jon nodded. The ranger gave his horse into the care of one of his men and followed.

"You are Jon Snow. You have your father's look." Qhorin observed.

"Did you know him, my lord?" Jon asked.

"I am no lordling. Only a brother of the Night's Watch. I knew Lord Eddard, yes. And his father before him." The two bastard's had to hurry his steps to keep up with Qhorin's long strides.

"Lord Rickard died before I was born." Jon informed.

"He was a friend to the Watch." Qhorin glanced behind. "It is said that a direwolf runs with you."

"Ghost should be back by dawn. He hunts at night." They found Dolorous Edd frying a rasher of bacon and boiling a dozen eggs in a kettle over the Old Bear's cookfire. Mormont sat in his wood and leather camp chair.

"I had begun to fear for you. Did you meet with trouble?" The raven on his shoulder squorked.

"We met with Alfyn Crowkiller. Mance had sent him to scout along the Wall, and we chanced on him returning." Qhorin remoed his helm. "Alfyn will trouble the realm no longer, but some of his company escaped us. We hunted down as many as we could, but it may be that a few will win back to the mountains." Mormont leaned forward.

"And the cost?" He asked.

"Four brothers dead. A dozen wounded. A third as many as the foe. And we took captives. One died quickly from his wounds, but the other lived long enough to be questioned." Qhorin recalled.

"Best talk of this inside. The boys will fetch you a horn of ale. Or would you prefer hot spiced wine?" The Old Bear offered.

"Boiled water will suffice. And an egg and a bite of bacon." Qhorin requested.

"As you wish." Mormont lifted the flap of the tent and Qhorin Halfhand stooped and stepped through. Edd stood over the kettle swishing the eggs about with a spoon.

"I envy those eggs." He said. "I could do with a bit of boiling about now. If the kettle were larger, I might jump in. Though I would sooner it were wine than water. There are worse ways to die than warm and drunk. I knew a brother drowned himself in wine once. It was a poor vintage, though, and his corpse did not improve it." Torsten's head peaked at Edd's words.

"You drank the wine?" He asked disgusted.

"It's an awful thing to find a brother dead. You'd have need of a drink as well, bastard." Edd stirred the kettle and added a pinch more nutmeg. Restless, Torsten squatted by the fire and poked at it with a stick. He could hear the Old Bear's voice inside the tent, punctuated by the raven's squawks and Qhorin Halfhand's quieter tones, but he could not make out the words.

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