𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐁𝐎𝐘

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴛᴡᴇʟᴠᴇ

𝟚

❆ ❆ ❆

The hill jutted above the dense tangle of snow, raising solitary and sudden, its windswept heights visible from miles off. The Wildlings called it the First of the First Men, rangers said. It did look like a first, Torsten Snow thought, punching up through the earth and snow, its bare white slopes knuckled with stone.
He walked to the top with Lord Mormont and the officers. The direwolf had run off three times as they climbed, twice returning reluctantly to Jon's whistle. The third time, the Lord Commander lost patience and snapped. "Let him go, boy. I want to reach the crest before dusk. Find the wolf later." The way up was steep and stony, the summit crowned by a chest high wall of tumbled rocks. They had to circle some distance west before they found a gap large enough to admit the horses. "This is good ground, Thoren." The Old Bear proclaimed, when at last they attained the top.
We could scarce hope for better. We'll make out camp here to wait Halfhand." The Lord Commander dislodged the raven from his shoulder. Complaining loudly, the bird took to the air.
The views atop the hill were bracing, yet it was the ringwall that drew Torsten's eye, the weathered grey stones with their white patches of lichen, their beards of snow. It was said that the Fist had been a ringfort of the First Men in the Dawn Age. Mormont's raven screamed, as it flapped noisy circles about their heads. "Quiet." Mormont growled up at the bird. The Old Bear was too proud to admit to weakness, but Torsten was not deceived. The strain of keeping up with younger men was taking its toll.

"These heights will be easy to defend, if need be." Thoren pointed out as he walked along the ring of stones, his sable trimmed cloak stirring in the wind.

"Yes, this place will do." The Old Bear lifted a hand to the wind, and the raven landed on his forearm, claws scabbling against his black ringmail. "Halfhand hasn't seen us yet, he would've blown the horn." Mormont confirmed.

"When will he come?" Jon wondered.

"The Halfhand does things in his own time." Mormont began his old eyes hastily looked over the snow covered horizon.

"My uncle told me stories about him." Said Jon.

"Most of them are true." Lord Mormont said.

"I heard the Halfhand spent half of last winter beyond the Wall." Said Torsten, looking between the Lord Commander and Jon.

"Aye, the whole winter. He was north of the skirling pass when the snows came. He had to wait for the thaw." The Old Bear added.

"So it's possible for someone to survive out here on their own." Torsten claimed.

"Well, possible for Halfhand." Snow fell from the Old Bears cloak as he turned to Thoren. "We're not like to find another place as strong. We'll carry water, and make certain we are well supplied." The command was given, and the brothers of the Night's Watch raised their camp behind the stone ring of the First Men had made.
Black tents sprouted like mushrooms after a rain, and blankets and bedrolls covered the bare ground. Stewards tethered the garrons in long lines, and saw them fed and watered. A score of builders set to clearing snow and digging latrines, and untying their bundles of fire hardened stakes.
The 'ought to be safe here. The hill offered commanding views, and the slopes were precipitous ti the north and west and only slightly more gentle to the east. Yet as the dusk deepened and darkness seeped into the hollows, Torsten's sense of foreboding grew.

"Beautiful isn't it. Gilly would love it here." Samwell spoke from behind Torsten, making the boy look back at him in disgust. Samwell hadn't once stopped talking about the girl since they left Craster's Keep.

"There's nothing more sickening than a man in love." Edd grumbled. Clambering atop the piled rocks, Torsten gazed off toward the setting sun. On the horizon stood the mountains like a great shadow, range of them receding into the blue grey distance, their jagged peaks sheathed eternally in snow. Even from afar they looked cold and inhospitable.