𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐁𝐎𝐘

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴇɪɢʜᴛ

𝟛

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The ground was littered with pine needles and blown leaves, a carpet of green and brown still damp from the recent rains. It squished beneath their feet. Huge bare oaks, tall sentinels, and hosts of soldier pines stood all around them. On a hill above them was another round tower, ancient and empty, thick green moss crawling up its side almost to the summit. "Is that a palace?" Torsten heard one of the wildlings gasp.

"It's a windmill." Torsten said, holding back his laughter.

"Windmill. Who built that, all of stone like that?" Tormund asked him. "Some king?"

"No. Just the men who used to live here." Torsten answered, giving the older a side eye.

"What happened to them?" He asked.

"They died or went away." Brandon's gift had been farmed for thousands of years, but as the Watch dwindled there were fewer hands to plow the fields, tend the bees, and plant the orchards, so the wild had reclaimed many a field and hall. In the New Gift there had been villages and holdfasts whose taxes, rendered in goods and labour, helped feed and clothe the black brothers. But those were largely gone as well.

"They must've been great builders, stacking stones so high." Said Tormund.

"Jon says, Winterfell has towers three times that size." He looked as if he thought Torsten was making that up.

"How could men build so high, with no giants to lift the stones?" In legend, Brandon the Builder had used giants to help raise Winterfell, Torsten had read all about it, but he did not want to confuse the issue.

"Men can build a lot higher than this. In Oldtown there's a tower taller than the Wall." He could tell Tormund did not believe him. If he could show them Winterfell, with Jon... he'd feast them in the Great Hall he'd heard so much about, show them the stone kings on their thrones. They could even bathe in the hot pools. The dream was sweet... but the two were bastards, oathbreakers and turncloaks. The Watch had once talked about raising new lords and settling them in the abandoned holdfasts as a shield against wildings. The plan would have required the Watch to yield back a large part of the Gift, but Benjen believed the Lord Commander could be won around, so long as the new lordlings paid taxes to Castle Black rather than Winterfell.

They had descended the south face of the Wall at Greyguard, abandoned for two hundred years. A section of the huge stone steps had collapsed a century before, but even so the descent was a good deal easier than the climb. From there Tormund Giantsbane marched them deep into the Gift, to avoid the Watch's customary patrols. Grigg the Goat led them past the few inhabited villages that remained in these lands. Aside from a few scattered round towers poking the sky like stone fingers, they saw no sign of man. Through cold wet hills and windy plains they marched, unwatched, unseen.
You must not balk, whatever is asked of you, the Halfhand had said. Ride with them, eat with them, fight with them, for as long as it takes. He'd ridden many leagues and walked for  more, had shared their bread and salt, but still they did not trust him. Day and night the Wildlings watched him, alert for any signs of betrayal. He could not get away, and soon it would be too late.

By the afternoon, the trees had begun to thin, and they marched east over gently rolling pains. Grass rose waist high around them, and stands of wild wheat swayed gently when the wind came gusting, but for the most part the day was warm and bright. Toward sunset, however, clouds began to threaten in the west. They soon engulfed the orange sun, and Lenn foretold a bad storm coming. His mother was a wood witch, so all the raiders agreed he had a gift for foretelling the whether. "There's a village close." Grigg the Goat told Orell. "Two miles, three. We could shelter there." Tormund agreed.
It was well past dark and the storm was raging by the time they reached the place. The village sat beside a lake, and had been so long abandoned that most of the houses had collapsed. Even the small timber inn that must once have been a welcome sight for travellers stood half fallen and roofless. We will find scant shelter here, Torsten thought gloomily. Whenever the lightening flashed he could see a stone round tower rising from an island out in the lake, but without boats they had no way to reach it.
A small group had crept ahead to scout the ruins, but they were almost back at once. Orell halted the column and sent a dozen of the Thenns trotting forward, spears in hand. By then Torsten had seen it too, the glimmer of a fire, reddening the chimney of the farm. We are not alone. Dread coiled inside him like a snake. He heard horses neigh.

"Only one old man and eight good horses." Orell relayed the information to Tormund.

"What's one old man doing with eight horses?" Tormund asked, with beady bright eyes staring at Torsten.

"He breeds them for the Watch." Torsten swiftly answered.

"How's he keep folks from stealing them?" Tormund continued to question.

"The Watch protects him." Torsten answered truthfully.

"Not today they don't. He's selling horses, he's got some gold in there." Orell's words made Torsten's fists scrunch and his stomach drop, a sour taste passed through his tongue.

"And proper steel." Tormund agreed.

"Let's carve him up." The wicked smile on Orell's lips made Torsten grimace.

"We just take the horses and go. The old man's no threat." Torsten chirped up.

"I keep telling you." Orell's words were dry and his eyes were worse.

"He's an old man. A spear through the heart's a better way to die than coughing up your last with no one but your horses to hear." Tormund explained.

"The Watch might send a few men looking for a horse thief. They'll send a lot more to hunt down murderers. This land belongs to the Watch." Torsten said. Tormund's nostrils flared. "Your raiders drove them off."

"They were cowards, then. If they wanted the land they should have stayed and fought."

"Maybe they were tired of fighting. Tired of barring their doors every night and wondering if Rattleshirt or someone like him would break them down to carry off their wives. Tired of having their harvest stolen, and any valuables they might have. It's easier to move beyond the reach of raiders." But if the Wall should fail, all the north will lie within the reach of raiders.

"You know nothing, boy. Daughters are taken, not wives. You're the ones who steal. You took the whole world, and built the Wall t'keep the free folk out." Tormund argued back.

"Did we?" Sometimes Torsten forgot how wild he was, and then he would remind him. "How did that happen?"

"The gods made the earth for all men t' share. Only when the kings come with their crowns and steel swords, they claimed it was all theirs. My trees, they said, you can't eat them apples. My stream, you can't fish here. My wood, you're not t' hunt. My earth, my water, my castle, my daughter, keep your hands away or I'll chop 'em off, but maybe if you kneel t' me I'll let you have a sniff. You call us thieves, boy, but at least a thief has t' be brave and clever and quick. A kneeler only has t' kneel." Torsten couldn't help the shaking of his head.

"Haram and the Bag of Bones don't come raiding for fish and apples. They steal swords and axes. Spices, silks and furs. They grab every coin and ring and jewelled cup they can find, casks of wine in summer and casks of beef in winter, and they take women in any season and carry them off beyond the Wall." Torsten reminded.

"And what if they do? If it was me, I'd sooner be stolen by a strong man than be given t' some weakling by my father... killing crows in their castle is tough. Killing them out here in the open, that's what we do. Spread out. Surround the hut and move in." Tormund shouted commands in the Old Tongue and a score of Wildlings spread out to establish a perimeter around the village, whilst others went prowling through the house to make certain no one else was hiding amongst the weeds and tumbled stones. The rest crowded into the roofless farm, jostling each other to get closer to the hearth. The broken branches the old man had been burning seemed to generate more smoke than heat, but any warmth was welcome on such a wild rainy night. Two of the Wildlings had thrown the man to the ground and were going through his things. Another held his horse, while three more looted his saddlebag, he'd tried to escape, but he hadn't gotten far.
Torsten walked away. A rotten apple squished beneath his heel. Tormund will kill him, Orell had said as much at Greyguard, any kneelers they met were to be put to death at once, to make certain they could not raise the alarm. Ride with them, eat with them, fight with them. Did that mean he must stand mute and helpless while they slit an old man's throat?
Wildlings fought like heroes or demons, depending on who you talked to, but it came down to the same thing in the end. They fight with reckless courage, every man out for glory.

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