𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐁𝐎𝐘

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ꜰɪꜰᴛᴇᴇɴ

𝟚

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Torsten had hoped that the arrival of men from the Shadow Tower would lift the spirits in the camp. Only last night, he was coming back through the dark from a piss when he heard five or six men talking in low voices around the embers of a fire. When he heard Chett muttering that it was past time they turned back, Torsten stopped to listen. "It's an old man' folly, this ranging." He heard. "We'll find nothing but our graves in them mountains."

"There's giants in the Frostfangs, and wargs, and worse things." Said Lark the Sisterman. "I'll not be going there, I promise you."

"The Old Bear's not like to give you a choice." Delcared one of the men.

"Might be we won't give him one." Said Chett. Just then one of the dogs had raised his head and growled, and he had to move away quickly, before he was seen. Torsten considered taking the tale to Mormont, but he could not bring himself to inform on his brothers, even brothers such as Chett and the Sisterman. It was just empty talk, he told himself.
It was hard waiting, perched on the stony summit above the snowy mountain, wondering what the morrow might bring.
Torsten slid his new dagger from its sheath and studied the flames as they played against the shiny black glass. He had fashioned the wooden hilt himself, and wound hempen twine around it to make a grip. Ugly, but it served. Dolorous Edd opined the glass knives were about as useful as nipples on a knight's breastplate, but Torsten was not so certain. The dragonglass blade was sharper than steel, albeit far more brittle. It must have been buried for a reason.
Edd cut three thick slices off a stale round of oat bread, stacked them on a wooden platter, covered them with bacon and bacon drippings, and filled a bowl with hard cooked eggs. Torsten took the bowl in one hand and the platter in the other, while Jon grabbed Mormont a horn of ale with lemon and Qhorin a cup of boiled water.
Qhorin was seated cross legged on the floor, his spine as straight as a spear. Candlelight flickered against the hard flat planes of his cheeks as he spoke. The Old Bear unrolled a map, frowned at it, tossed it aside and opened another. He was pondering where the hammer would fall, Torsten could see it. The Watch had once manned seventeen castles along the hundred leagues of the Wall, but they had been abandoned one by one as the brotherhood dwindled. Only three were now garrisoned, a fact that Mance Rayder knew as well as they did.
Mormont's raven lifted its head and screamed. The sound was sharp as a knife in the closeness of the tent. Torsten could hear the wind outside. It made a high thin sound as it shivered through the stones of the ringwall and tugged at the tent ropes. Mormont rubbed his mouth thoughtfully. Lord Commander Mormont sighed deep in his chest.

"I see no other choice." He conceded. "But if you don not return..."

"Someone will come down out of the Frostfangs, my lord." The ranger said. "If us, all well and good. If not, it will be Mance Rayder, and you sit square in his path. He cannot march outh and leave you behind, to follow and carry his rear. He must attack. This is a strong place." Qhorin concluded.

"Not that strong." Said Mormont.

"Belike we shall all die then. But our dying will buy time for our brothers on the Wall. Time to garrison the empty castles and freeze shut the gates, time to summon lords and kings to their aid, time to hone their axes and repair their catapults. Our lives will be coin well spent." The raven began muttering, pacing along Mormont's shoulders. The Old Bear sat slumped and silent, as if the burden of speech had grown too heavy for him to bear.

"May the gods forgive me. Choose your men." Mormont at last said. Qhorin Halfhand turned his head. His eyes met Torsten's then Jon's, and held them for a long moment.

"Commander, Jon and I would like to join Lord Qhorin." Torsten finally spoke. Both the Old Bear and Qhorin stilled.

"I've been called many of things, but that might be my first, Lord Qhorin." His laugh boomed around the small tent. Torsten's head ducked, his body full of embarrassment. "Very well, I'll take the both of you." Mormont blinked.

"They're hardly more than boys. And my stewards besides. Not even rangers." Mormont argued against it.

"Tollett can care for you as well, same as Tarly, my lord." Qhorin lifted his maimed, two fingered hand. "The old gods are still strong beyond the Wall. The gods of the First Men... and the Starks." Mormont looked at Jon and then Torsten.

"Well, I hope you boys make better rangers, than you do stewards. Go on." The old man smiled sadly. Dawn had broken when Torsten and Jon stepped from the tent beside Qhorin Halfhand. The wind swirled around them, stirring their black cloaks and sending a scatter of red cinders flying from the fire.

"We ride at noon." The ranger told them. "Best find that wolf of yours."

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