𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐁𝐎𝐘

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴛᴇɴ

𝟛

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The mare was blown, but Torsten could not let up on her. He had to reach the Wall before Tormund did. He could have slept in the saddle if he'd had one, lacking that, it was hard enough to stay ahorse while awake. He dare not rest long enough to let it heal. Instead he ripped it open anew each time he mounted up. When he crest a rise and saw the brown rutted Kingsroad before him, wending its way north through hill and pain, he patted the mare's neck. His leg had gone stiff as wood by then, and fever had made him so lightheaded that twice he found himself riding in the wrong direction. He pictured his friends drinking mulled wine in the common hall. Hobb would be with his kettles, Donal Noye at his forge, Pypar and Halder, Maester Aemon in his rooms beneath the rookery. And the Old Bear... Samwell, Grenn, Dolorous Edd, even Dywen with his wooden teeth. Torsten could only pray that some had escaped the Fist.
Jon was much in his thoughts as well. He remembered the look they gave each other upon parting ways. You were wrong to leave him behind, a voice in his head insisted. He'd left Jon for dead with the Wildlings.
Torsten almost rode through Mole's Town, so feverish that he did not know where he was. Most of the village was hidden underground, only a handful of small hovels to be seen by the light of the waning moon. The brothel was a shed no bigger than a privy, its red lantern creaking in the wind, a bloodshot eye peering through the blackness.
As the stars began to fade in the eastern sky, the Wall appeared before him, rising above the trees and the morning mists while the moonlight glimmered pale against the ice. He urged the gelding on, following the muddy slick road until he saw the stone towers and timbered halls of Castle Black huddled like broken toys beneath the great cliff of ice. By then the Wall glowed pink and purple with the first light of dawn.
No sentries challenged him as he rode past the outbuildlings. No one came forth to bar his way. Fingers of soot streaked the Lord Commander's Tower where the smoke had boiled from the windows. Mormont had moved to the King's Tower after the fire, but Torsten saw no lights either. From the ground he could not tell if there were sentries walking the Wall seven hundred feet above, but he saw no one on the huge switchback stair that climbed the south face of the ice like some great wooden thunderbolt. There was smoke rising from the chimney of the armoury, though, only a wisp almost invisible against the grey northern sky, but it was enough.
Torsten dismounted and limped towards it. Warmth poured out of the open door like the hot breath of summer. Inside, Jon was working at untying his leathers. He looked up at the noise. "Torsten." Jon spoke stunned to see the boy still alive.

"Am I dead?" Torsten asked, the wounded boy couldn't believe what he was seeing. Despite fever, exhaustion, his leg, Tormund, the old man... despite it all, Torsten smiled.

"Not yet." Jon laughed. It was good to be back, good to see Jon with pinned up sleeves and his jaw bristling with stubble. Jon released his grip on his woollens.

"Your face... it doesn't look any better." Torsten had almost forgotten about his face. "Your leg is drenched in blood." Torsten looked down dully. His wound had opened again.

"An arrow wound..." Torsten began.

"A wildling arrow." It was not a question. Jon slid his arm under Torsten to help support him. "You're white as milk, and burning hot. I'm taking you to Aemon." Jon told him matter of factly.

"There's no time. There are Wildlings south of the Wall, coming up from Queenscrown to open the gate." Torsten gushed trying to get as much information out as possible.

"How many?" Jon half carried Torsten out the door.

"They lost a couple climbing up the Wall, there's maybe a hundred and twenty, and well-armed for wildlings. Bronze armour, some bits of steel. How many men are left here." Torsten asked.

"Forty odd." Said Jon. "The crippled and infirm, and some green boys still in training." Jon informed.

"If Marsh is gone, who did he name as castellan?" Jon's laugh was dry.

"Ser Alliser is back." Torsten's blood ran cold at the thought of being faced with Ser Alliser Throne. They limped to Maester Aemon's door, in the long wooden keep beneath the rookery. Jon gave it a kick, then a yell. After a moment, a stooped, round shouldered little man in black peered out. His small pink eyes widened at the sight of Torsten.

"Lay the lad down, I'll fetch the Maester." A fire was burning in the hearth, and the room was almost stuffy. The warmth made Torsten sleepy. As soon as Jon eased him down onto his back, he closed his eyes to stop the world from spinning. He could hear the ravens quorking and complaining in the rookery above. Maester Aemon was not long in coming. He moved slowly, one spotted hand on the stubby mans arm as he shuffled forward with careful steps. Around his thin neck his chin hung heavy, gold and silver links glinting amongst iron, lead, tin and other base metals.

"Torsten Snow." He said. "You must tell me all you've seen and done when you are stronger. Jon, put a kettle of wine on the fire, and my irons as well. I will want them redhot. Clydas, I shall need that good sharp knife of yours." The Maester was more than a hundred years old, shrunken, frail and blind. But though his milky eyes saw nothing, his wits were still sharp as they had ever been. Clydas ran a blade up the leg of his breeches, slicing the heavy black cloth, crusty with old blood and sodden with new. Maester Aemon gave Torsten's crude bandage a sniff when Clydas cut it away. Torsten winceed as the Maester's finger explored his wound, poking and prodding.

"Where's the Old Bear?" Torsten clenched his teeth.

"Torsten... it grieves me to say, but Lord Commander Mormont was murdered at Craster's Keep, at the hands of his Sworn Brothers." Aemon's words hurt a hundred times worse than his fingers, his face and his wounded leg.

"Our own men?" Torsten repeated, he remembered the Old Bear as last he'd seen him, standing before his tent with his raven on his arm croaking for corn. Mormont gone? He had feared it ever since he'd seen the aftermath of the battle on the Fist, yet it was so less a blow. "Who was it?" Torsten questioned.

"Garth of Oldtown, Ollo Lophand, Dirk... Rast... thieves, cowards and killers, the lot of them. We should have seen it coming. The Watch is not what it was. Too few honest men to keep the rogues in line." Jon turned the Maester's blades in the fire. "A dozen true men made it back." Clydas said. Only a dozen? Two hundred men had left Castle Black with Lord Commander Mormont, two hundred of the Watch's best.

"Does this mean Marsh is Lord Commander, then?" The Old Pomegranate was amiable, and a diligent First Steward, but he was woefully ill suited to face a Wildling host.

"For the nonce, until we can hold a choosing." Said Maester Aemon. "Clydas, bring me the flask." A choosing. With Qhorin Halfhand and Ser Jaremy Rykker both dead and Benjen Stark missing, who was there? Not Bowen Marsh or Ser Alliser Thorne, that was certain. A stab of pain reminded him of his own wounds. The Maester squeezed his hand. "Clydas is bringing milk of the poppy." Torsten tried to rise.

"I don't need..." He began.

"You do." Aemon said firmly. "This will hurt." Jon crossed the room and shoved Torsten back onto his back.

"Be still, or I'll tie you down." Jon handled him as if he were a child. Clydas returned with a green flask and a rounded stone cup. Maester Aemon poured it full.

"Drink this." Torsten had bitten his lip in his struggle. He could taste blood mingled with the thick, chalky potion. It was all he could do not to retch it back up. Clydas brought a basin of warm water, and Maester Aemon washed the pus and blood from his wound. Gentle as he was, even the lightest touch made Torsten want to scream. "Jon, the hot knife, if you please. I shall need you to hold him still." Aemon said. I will not scream, Torsten told himself when he saw the blade glowing red hot. But he broke that vow. Jon held him down, while Clydas helped guide Maester's hand. Torsten did not move, except to pound his fist against against the table, again and again and again. The pain was so huge he felt small and weak and helpless, inside a child whimpering in the dark. When the stench of burning flesh was in his nose and his own shriek echoing through the small keep, for half a heartbeat the agony started to ebb. But then the iron touched him once again, and he fainted.

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