𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐁𝐎𝐘

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴏɴᴇ

𝟛

❆ ❆ ❆

The world was grey darkness, smelling of cold and dampness. Pale mists rose from the black earth as the riders threaded their way through the scatter of stones, down toward the welcoming fires strewn like jewels across the floor of the river valley below.
There were more fires than Torsten Snow could count, hundreds of fires, thousands, as well as a second river of flickery lights along the banks of the icy white Milkwater.
They descended the ridge without banners or trumpets, the quiet broken only by the distant murmur of the river, the clop of hooves, and the clacking of Rattleshirt's bone armour. Somewhere above, an eagle soared on great blue grey wings, while below came men and dogs and horses and one white direwolf.
A stone bounced down the slope, disturbed by a passing hoof, and Torsten saw Ghost turn his head at the sudden sound. He had followed the riders at a distance all day, as was his custom, but when the moon rose he'd come bounding up, red eyes aglow. Rattleshirt's dogs greeted him with a chorus of snarls and growls and wild barking, as ever, but the direwolf paid them no mind. Six days ago, the largest hound had attacked him from behind as the Wildling's camped for the night, but Ghost had turned and lunged, sending the dog fleeing with a bloody haunch. The rest of the pack maintained a healthy distance after that.
Torsten and Jon were all in black, the black of the Night's Watch, but the enemy rode before and behind. Wildlings, and they were with them. Rattleshirt had Qhorin's bones in his bag, along with the bloody head of Ebben, who set out with Torsten to scout the Skirling Pass. Ygritte walked just behind them. In front was Longspear Ryk. The Lord of Bones had made the two of them his guard. "If the crows fly, I'll boil your bones as well." He warned them when they had set out, smiling through the crooked teeth of the giant's skull he wore for a helm.

"You want to guard him? If you want us to do it, leave us be and we'll do it." Ygritte hooted at him. These are free folk indeed, Torsten saw. Rattleshirt might lead them, but none of them were shy in talking back to him.
The Wildling leader fixed him with an unfriendly stare, his eyes soon turned towards Jon.

"Might be you fooled these others, crow, but don't think you'll be fooling Mance. He'll take one look a' you and know you're false, you and the boy. And when he does, I'll make a cloak o' your wolf there, and open that soft boy's belly and sew a weasel up inside him, in front of yer and then it'll be you." Torsten's sword hand opened and closed, flexing the burned fingers beneath the glove, how he managed to get himself caught in this mess, he wasn't sure.

"And where would you find a weasel in the snow?" Torsten asked, Longspear Ryk only laughed.
Ygritte walked beside the two bastards, her hood pulled up and her hands tucked into her sleeves for warmth.

"When Mance hears how you did for Halfhand, he'll take you quick enough." She told Jon, but her eyes only stilled on Torsten for a moment.

"Take me for what?" Jon asked. The girl laughed scornfully.

"For one o' us. D'ya think you're the first crow ever flew down off the Wall? In your hearts you all want to fly free." Torsten had always wanted to be free, but not like this, not in this circumstance. This wasn't what he wanted. He'd somehow been left alive.

"And when we're free." Torsten said slowly. "Will we be free to go?" He asked.

"Sure you will." She had a warm smile, despite her crooked teeth. "And we'll be free to kill you. It's dangerous being free, but most come to like the taste o' it." She put her gloved hand on his shoulder, just below his neck. "In all honestly, we thought you were dead." She told him. "The fall was harsh, thought it killed yer." Torsten stilled at her touch, he'd never been touched by a women before, he didn't seem to like it very much. "What? Never been touched by a women before?" Ygritte laughed, the bastard only shrugged her hand away as his reply, while his face turned a color of beetroot.
The Wildlings had taken them for an oathbreaker, but in their hearts they were still men of the Night's Watch. Jon was doing the last duty that Qhorin Halfhand had laid on him, while Torsten was just doing his best to stay alive.
At the bottom of the slope they came upon a little stream flowing down the foothills to join the Milkwater. It looked all stones and glass, though they could hear the sound of water running beneath the frozen surface. Rattleshirt led them across, shattering the thin crust of ice.
The wind was blowing wet and heavy as they crossed the valley of the Milkwater and walked single file through the river camp. Ghost kept close to Jon and Torsten, but the scent of him went before them like a herald, and soon there were Wildling dogs all around them, growling and barking. Lenyl screamed at them to be quiet, but they paid him no heed.

"They don't much care for that beast o' yours." Longspear Ryk said.

"They're dogs and he's a wolf." Answered Jon.

"They know he's not their kind." The Wildling laughed.

"No more than we are yours." Torsten couldn't help the words roll from his tongue. There were cookfires all along the river, amongst wayns and carts and sleds. Many of the Wildlings had thrown up tents, of hide and skin and felted wool. Others sheltered behind rocks in crude lean-tos, or slept beneath their wagons. At one fire Torsten saw a man hardening the points of long wooden spears and tossing them in a pile. Elsewhere two bearded youths in boiled leather were sparring with staffs, leaping at each other over the flames, grunting each time one landed a blow. A dozen women sat nearby in a circle, fletching arrows.
But not all he saw was warlike. He saw women dancing as well, and heard a baby crying, and a little boy ran in front of him, all bundled up in fur and breathless from play. Sheep and goats wandered freely, while oxen plodded along the riverbank in search of food. The smell of roast mutton drifted from one cookfire, and at another he saw a boar turning on a wooden spit.
In an open space, Rattleshirt dismounted.

"We'll make camp here." He told Lenyl and Ragwyle and the others. "Feed the horses, then the dogs, then yourself. Ygritte, Longspear, bring the crows so Mance can have his look. We'll gut them after." They walked past more cookfires and more tents, with Ghost following at their heels. Torsten had never seen so many Wildlings. He wondered if anyone ever had. Stretched out over long leagues, the Wildlings had no defences to speak of, no pits nor sharpened stakes, only small groups of outriders patrolling their perimeters. Each group of clan or village had simply stopped where they wanted, as soon as they saw others stopping or found a likely spot.
The free folk.
If his brothers were to catch them in such disarray, many of them would pay for that freedom with their life's blood. They had numbers, but the Night's Watch had discipline, and in battle discipline beats numbers nine times of every ten, Mormont had once told him.

❆ ❆ ❆