Chapter 69: Mishap #69
veral days later, in the open snowy expanse within the Haunted Forest, near the Fist of the First Men, Gale surveyed the desolate landscape, his expression etched with concern. The vast expanse of snow sprawled out across the horizon, eerily quiet and devoid of any signs of life.
"Are you certain this is the right place, Tormund?" Gale inquired, turning to the ginger-haired wildling at his side.
Tormund's characteristic grin had faded, replaced by a matching frown. "I've spent many years amongst the clans of the Haunted Forest, lad. I know these wilds as well as I know the back of me own hand-- This is the place," he affirmed adamantly, dismissing any suggestion of having led them astray.
Gale, visibly frustrated, rubbed his forehead. "Then where in seven hells is everyone?" He demanded, his displeasure evident in his voice.
"Could it be they haven't arrived yet? Moving such a large number of people from the Frostfangs to the Haunted Forest would surely take time," Gale speculated, attempting to rationalize the absence.
"Aye, moving tens of thousands of free folk ain't an easy feat," Tormund agreed with a solemn nod. "But Rayder wouldn't migrate everyone at once. He'd send a substantial force to secure the area before committing the entirety of his forces camp. A sizable contingent ought to be here by now," Tormund added, his own concern growing palpable.
Qhorin interjected, offering his perspective. "If the wildlings aren't here, there's only one explanation: they encountered trouble that caused a delay," he stated, his voice laced with concern. "The question is, what could have detained such a sizable force?" He pondered, his thoughts drifting into contemplation.
Gale's countenance darkened at the realization of another task thrust upon him, another obstacle diverting his attention. "I suppose we'll have to look into it, won't we?" he said with a heavy sigh. "We'll follow the path the wildling vanguard might have taken," he decided, glancing up at the sky as dusk began to settle.
"However, it'll have to wait until tomorrow. Let's make camp here for the day," he declared, swiftly dismounting from his horse and unfastening the saddlebags from its back.
The rest of the group exchanged looks, understanding that they had no other viable option. They followed Gale's lead, dismounting from their horses and setting about the task of making camp, resigned to the delay imposed by the unexpected turn of events.
...
The sky had darkened, and the group had already set up camp, pitching tents, arranging a bonfire, and establishing a space to tether their horses. Tormund, holding the last sip of mead he had brought for the journey, approached Qhorin, who stood warming himself by the crackling fire.
"What do you reckon he's thinking?" Tormund inquired, his eyes shifting towards Gale, who appeared lost in thought, gazing into the distance with a contemplative expression on his face.
"Who knows?" Qhorin responded with a slight shake of his head. "The lad tends to wear that brooding expression when things go awry... but every time, he ends up conjuring something audacious," he remarked, a chuckle escaping him.
Tormund's grin widened. "Aye, he's a peculiar one, that lad," he agreed. "He frets like a young pup, but when danger looms, he turns into someone else entirely. His head is brimming with all these peculiar notions and schemes," he added, an intrigued glint in his eyes.
"And then there's that peculiar magic coursing through him... sometimes I wonder if he's from the same world as us," Tormund mused, unknowingly touching upon a notion not too far from reality.
"Even Maester Aemon, the wisest among the Watch, was astounded by his peculiar thoughts, and it's no wonder..." Qhorin reflected, his gaze lingering on Gale. "He's from a different time; much has changed in the world, but he remained the same," he continued, his tone firm with conviction.
"Now then... I don't imagine you came to speak of our young friend. What is it you really want, Giantsbane?" he inquired, fixing Tormund with an expectant look.
Tormund offered a slow, deliberate nod, his bushy beard bobbing in accord. "I want to test the Halfhand's mettle," he confessed, a deep rumble of laughter accompanying his words. "You're the monster wildling mothers use to put their children to sleep, and I want to see what you're capable of," he explained, his gaze narrowing.
Qhorin's lips curved into a wry smile. "All wildlings that crossed my path died, save for one. The Lord of Bones, I believe he fancied himself," he recounted. "Ask him if you want to know what I'm capable of," he added with a dismissive wave of his hand.
"I would ask him, but he should be nothing more than a blood smear on the ground before Rayder's tent," Tormund replied with a hearty laugh, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "The price of treason is a steep one," he added knowingly.
Qhorin leaned back, the crackling fire reflecting in his eyes as he spoke. "That man was nothing more than a rat, scurrying away when things got rough, leaving his men to face the fray alone," he remarked with a trace of contempt.
"Now, with him gone, what I'm capable of will remain hidden until it's needed most. I find solace in that," he added, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
Tormund raised an eyebrow, contemplating Qhorin's words for a moment before responding. "Even a rat can whisper wisdom if you lend an ear," he mused, a glint of respect shining through his gaze.
"Still... I'll never understand you Southerners. Why hide your strength and valor when you've got plenty of both to boast about?" he asked, genuine curiosity in his voice.
Qhorin exhaled softly, his breath visible in the cold air as he considered Tormund's question. "My strength and skills are but tools to safeguard the people, hidden or not," he explained, his tone carrying a sense of solemn duty.
"The people I protect may never know my name or that I'm freezing my balls in the cold for their sake, but they need protection regardless, and I've pledged to do just that," he continued, determination lacing his words.
"If keeping my oath means staying in shadows for the sake of their safety, then so be it..." he concluded, unwavering in his commitment.
"Aye, I can understand that sentiment," Tormund acknowledged, tipping back the last of his ale.
"But it's a path I don't reckon I could tread myself. I'd give much for my people, mayhaps even my life, but my glory? That's something you won't pry even from my cold, dead hands," he affirmed with a firm nod.
Qhorin let out a genuine chuckle at Tormund words. "I suppose that's why they call you Giantsbane, Thunder-Fist, and other such fearsome titles while I'm simply known as the Halfhand...." He said, raising his hand which had its fingers missing.
...
In the heart of the wildling encampment near the Frostfang Mountains, the expanse of Mance Rayder's tent was illuminated by the soft glow of flickering torches. Rayder leaned against the wooden table, his eyes intently scanning the map sprawled across it.
The wilderness north of the Wall seemed to hold his focus, contemplating the movements and strategies spread out before him. His reverie was interrupted by the entrance of a redheaded woman, Ygritte, her steps deliberate yet cautious as she approached the table.
"Any word about our force securing the Haunted Forest, Ygritte?" Rayder's voice was composed, a calm surface over an undercurrent of concern.
Ygritte, her expression troubled, shook her head in response. "None yet. They should have sent word back by now if all was well," she explained, her tone tinged with worry. "They've likely met a setback.... Could it be the work of the Weeper?" She glanced at Rayder, remembering the recent chaos caused by the enigmatic and elusive figure.
Rayder considered her words, his brow furrowing in contemplation. "No, the Weeper's not capable of halting such a significant force alone, even with the hundreds of turncoats he swiped from under my nose..." he replied, his frustration evident.
"I'm beginning to wonder if this supposed alliance with the Night's Watch is nothing but a ruse to thin our numbers," he muttered, rubbing the weariness from his eyes.
Ygritte, troubled by the notion, remained silent. She had seen little of Gale, but he seemed genuine in his desire to forge an alliance between the Night Watch and the free folk clans, and she sensed his earnestness.
Val's returned reports also hinted at mutual interest from leaders of the Night's Watch and the Warden of the North himself in forming such an alliance. However, the possibility of it being a clever scheme lingered uncomfortably in the air.
"In any case, speculating gets us nowhere," Rayder declared after a moment of contemplation, gathering himself.
"Send Harma Dogshead to investigate with double the numbers. We need answers," he instructed with a hint of urgency, the weight of uncertainty pressing upon him.
...
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