𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐁𝐎𝐘

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴛᴡᴇʟᴠᴇ

𝟛

❆ ❆ ❆

Torsten woke to the smell of Mole's Town burning. Atop the King's Tower, Torsten Snow leaned on the padded crutch that Maester Aemon had given him and watched the grey plume rise. The Wildlings had lost all hope of taking Castle Black unawares when Torsten had escaped them, yet even so, he need not have warned of his approach so bluntly.
His leg still hurt like blazes when he put his weight on it. He'd needed Jon to help him don his fresh-washed blacks and lace up his boots that morning, and by the time they were done he'd wanted to drown himself from embarrassement, either in milk of the poppy for pain, or horse piss. Instead, he had settled for half a cup of dreamwine, a chew of willow bark, and the crutch. The beacon was burning, and the Night's Watch needed every man.
He could see the Kingsroad wending its way south through stony brown fields and over windswept hills. The Magnar would be coming up that road within the next couple of days, his Thenns marching behind him with axes and spears in their hands and their bronze and leather shields on their backs. The Wildlings had never been his friends, he had not allowed them to be his friends... but them... Tormund and Ygritte.

He could feel the throb of pain where the arrow had gone through the meat and muscle of his thigh. He remembered the old man's eyes too, and the black blood rushing from his throat as the storm cracked overhead.
Across the yard, one of the bowmen on the roof had unlaced his breeches and was pissing through a crenel. He knew who it was from the man's greasy orange hair. Men in black cloaks were visible on other roofs and tower tops as well, though nine of every ten happened to be made of straw. The straw soldiers had been Maester Aemon's notion. They had more breeches and jerkins and tunics in the storerooms than they'd had men to fill them, so why not stuff some with straw, drape a cloak around their shoulders, and set them to standing watches. Some were even clutching spears, or had crossbows cocked under their arms. The hope was that the Thenns would see them afar and decide that Castle Black was too well defended to attack. Torsten had six scarecrows sharing the roof of the King's Tower with him, along with two actual breathing brothers. Jon sat in a crenel, methodically cleaning and oiling the mechanism of a crossbow to make sure the wheel turned smoothly, while a new greenboy wandered restlessly around the parapets, fussing with the clothes on straw men. He'd claimed to be eighteen, but Torsten had thought the boy was much older than Jon, but he was green as summer grass for all that. Locke, they called him, even in the wool and mail and boiled leather of the Night's Watch, he still looked like a nobel, he was as pretty as a girl with his dark eyes, soft skin, and raven's ringlets. Half a year at Castle Black had toughened up his hands, however, he knew his way around a dagger, he picked up a sword pretty quickly too.
Torsten used the crutch to limp across the tower top. The King's Tower was not the castle's tallest, the high, slim, crumbling Lance held that honour, it'd been heard it might topple any day. But it was tall enough, strong enough, and well placed beside the Wall, overlooking the gate and the foot of the wooden stair.
Castle Black had a wall of sorts at last, a crescent-shaped barricade ten feet high made of stores, casks of nails and barrels of salt mutton, crates, bales of black broadcloth, stacked logs, sawn timbers, fire-hardening stakes and sacks upon sacks of grain. The crude rampart enclosed the two things most worth defending, the gate to the north, and the food of the great wooden switchback stair that clawed and climbed its way up the face of the Wall like a drunken thunderbolt, supported by wooden beams as big as tree trunks driven deep into the ice.
The last moles were still making the long climb, Torsten saw, urged on by his brothers. Samwell was comforting a little boy in his arms, while Pyp, two flights above, let an old man lean upon his shoulders. The oldest villagers still waited below for the cage to make its way back down to them. The brother's Bowen Marsh had left behind were old men, cripples, and green boys, just as Donald Noye had warned him. Along with the villagers who'd escaped from the Wildlings, just as old, just as useless. He could see some wrestling barrels up the steps, others on the barricade. A couple of them saw Torsten looking down from atop the King's Tower and waved up at him. Others turned away. They still thought him a turnclock. That was a bitter draft, but Torsten could not blame them. He was a no one, a bastard, after all. Everyone knew that bastards were wanton and treacherous by nature, having been born of lust and deceit. And he had made as many enemies as friends at Castle Black... Rast for one. Jon had once threatened to have Ghost rip his throat out unless he stopped tormenting Samwell and hurting Torsten, and Rast did not forget things like that. Rast had been lost with the rest of the deserters, camping out Craster's Keep, though he still had friends at Castle Black. "It's cold." Jon Snow stood with his hands tucked into his armpits under his cloak. His cheeks were bright red. Torsten smiled.