𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐁𝐎𝐘

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴛᴡᴏ

𝟛

❆ ❆ ❆

There was no doubting which tent was the kings. It was thrice the size of the next largest Torsten had seen, and he could hear music drifting from within. Like many of the lesser tents it was made of sewn hides with the fur still on, but Mance Rayder's hides were the shaggy white pelts of snow bears. The peaked roof was crowned with a huge set of antlers from one of the giant elks that had once roamed freely throughout the Seven Kingdoms, in the times of the First Men.
Here at least they found defenders, two guards at the flap of the tent, leaning on tall spears with round leather shields strapped to their arms. When they caught sight of Ghost, one of them lowered his spearpoint. "That beast stays here." He spoke.

"Ghost, stay." Jon commanded. The direwolf sat.

"Longspear, watch the beast." Rattleshirt yanked open the tent and gestured Torsten and Jon inside. Ygritte followed them in.
The tent was hot and smoky. Baskets of burning peat stood in all four corners, filling the air with a dim reddish light. More skins carpeted the ground. Torsten felt utterly alone as he stood there in his blacks, though Jon was at his side, he felt totally out of place. They were waiting the pleasure of the turn cloak who called himself, King beyond the Wall. When his eyes had adjusted to the smoky red gloom, he saw six people, none of whom paid him any mind. A dark young man and a pretty blonde women were sharing a horn of mead. A pregnant woman stood over a brazier cooking a brace of hens, while a grey-haired man in a tattered cloak of black and red sat cross legged on a pillow, playing a lute and singing.
Rattleshirt took off his yellowed helm as he waited for the song to end. Beneath his bone and leather armor he was a small man, and the face under the giant's skull was ordinary, with a knobby chin, thin moustache, and sallow, pinched cheeks. His eyes were close-set, one eyebrow creeping all the way across his forehead, dark hair thinning back from a sharp widow's peak.
Beside the brazier, a tall and immensely broad man sat on a stool, eating a hen off a skewer. Hot grease was running down his chin and into his bright red beard, but he smiled happily all the same. Thick gold bands graven with runes bound his massive arms, and he wore a heavy shirt of black ring mail that could only have come from a dead ranger.
Both the red bearded man and the almost balding one were warriors, that was plain to Torsten at a glance. These two were more dangerous than Rattlehshirt by far. Torsten wondered which was Mance Rayder. The man with the red beard glanced up from his food and scowled ferociously at Rattleshirt and Ygritte, with Torsten and Jon between them.

"I smell some crows." He said. "You were to kill them all." He spoke more calmly than Torsten was expecting.

"Thought you could question them." Rattleshirt replied.

"What do we want with a couple o' baby crows?" The man dared not look towards them, and it terrified Torsten.

"This one come over." Explained Ygritte. "He slew Qhorin Halfhand with his own hand." Torsten watched as the tall man stood, his eyes fell onto Jon.

"That Halfhand cunt killed friends of mine. Friends twice your size." Jon's eyes never left the man's not even once.

"My father told me big men fall just as quick as little ones, if you put a sword through their hearts." Torsten was surprised by Jon. He knew Jon was never one to back down, which was dangerous.

"Plenty of little men tried to put their swords through my heart, and there's plenty of little skeletons buried in the woods." The man towered over both boys, Torsten barely made it to the man's elbow. "The Halfhand should have been mine. Do you have a name, crow?" He asked.

"Jon Snow, Your Grace." Torsten wondered whether Jon was going to bend the knee as well, and he did.

"Your Grace?" The man looked towards the balding one, behind him. "You hear that? From now on, you'd better kneel when I fart." The bearded man laughed so hard he sprayed bits of chicken everywhere. He rubbed the grease from his mouth with the back of a huge hand. He grinned at Jon, wiping his fingers clean on his breeches.