They continued up the twisted road into the mountains, and all was the same every day - the still-icy cold and the breathtaking sights, the sparse food and saddle sores, Jorah Mormont's rude remarks and sullen silences. It was diverting, however, when one night Torgud had tried to crawl under Elma's furs, and earned himself a brilliant black eye, just as the one he had given Mormont. The wildling man became more careful after that, and made his compliments and flattery to Elma from a respectful distance. The spearwife, though probably not out of any particular virtue, was proving immune to his charms.
Although no one bothered to inform Tyrion as to the expected duration of their journey, he realized they must be getting close to their destination. The wildlings looked around as if seeing familiar places, and spurred the horses to cover greater distances every day, with the unmistakable air of people hurrying home. When he shared these observations with Mormont, however, he received no word of encouragement.
"We might be getting closer to wherever it is that they're taking us, Imp," said the Lord Commander, "but who told you that is a good thing?"
The wildlings weren't quite so threatening once they realized he and Mormont have given up the hope to try and escape. There simply wouldn't be much sense in that. Even if they had two horses, good weapons and armor and proper supplies, they would never have lasted in this strange and hostile land, teeming with treacherous bogs and wild beasts, without maps or any knowledge of the surroundings. Now Tyrion's biggest fear was that their captors would simply abandon them in the middle of nowhere as soon as they were done with them... whatever done would mean.
Strangely enough, he soon realized that Jorah Mormont was more afraid of the wildlings than himself. Tyrion was able to look through the scars and spears and roughly-sewn skins, and see people not unlike himself. Perhaps that was his previous experience with the wild tribes of the Vale. Granted, he did not get exactly friendly with their captors, but that might have been due to the fact that no one but Torgud spoke the Common Tongue. With the young black-haired warrior he did have a talk or two. In particular the wildling asked whether all of Tyrion's kin were as little-sized as him, and was quite surprised when he heard that it doesn't always work this way.
"What, you don't have dwarfs on your side of the Wall?" asked Tyrion.
"Might be we have. But the weak and deformed, we give to the gods. Kinder for them. Kinder for all."
Is that so? Tyrion mused wryly. In that case, I should be grateful for not being born to a wildling woman. I would have made a very ugly little sacrifice.
One day, when the air was beginning to thin in Tyrion's lungs, they rode out on a cliff and Torgud gestured forward.
"Look," he said, "you ask, where we go. Here."
A valley stretched below them, narrow and long, and in it was the largest nomadic camp Tyrion had ever seen. He could notice smoke rising through holes in some of the tents, and there were cooking fires spread here and there. Herds of sheep and cattle walked around, grazing on the first blades of spring grass, and voices of talk and laughter and song rose high and far in the cold clear air.
"Big Spring Gathering," explained Torgud. Jorah Mormont snorted, breaking his determined silence.
"You call this spring? Snow is still six inches thick where we are."
"Ice on Milkwater cracks, we call it spring," grinned the wildling man, "and we make merry. You will see."
The slope down which they descended was so steep Tyrion feared their horse would break its leg and send him and Mormont crashing down, but all went more smoothly than he expected. When their party was down at the valley and began to approach the camp, a call rose and several men rode forward to meet them. Upon seeing them, Torgud's face split in a wide grin and he waved and yelled something in the Old Tongue.
The man who rode up to them in front of everyone could only be Torgud's brother; the resemblance between the two was striking, although this man was a few years older, and more somber. And far more dangerous, Tyrion thought. The man wore a cloak sewn of white wolf pelts, and on his back hung two crossed battle-axes of good steel seldom seen beyond the Wall. Bright and shiny, they caught the rays of the pale sun.
"What do you bring up, Torgud?" asked the man with the axes after they embraced. Although he spoke in the Old Tongue, Tyrion understood. He began to remember and pick up more of the language in the past days, although his captors had no reason to know that.
"Little man," Torgud turned towards him cheerfully, "here before you stands my brother, Torneg Two-Axe. You be careful around him, he uses these axes well."
"I shall remember that," said Tyrion. Jorah Mormont scowled.
"We took those two not far from the Wall," Torgud told his brother, and then added a few more words Tyrion was unable to make out.
"You are no crow," Torneg Two-Axe turned towards Tyrion. He spoke the Common Tongue better than his brother. "What would a little man like you do with a patrol of the Night's Watch?"
"Why, I lent them my bold sword and wise counsel," said Tyrion, but Torneg was obviously devoid of a sense of humour, because his only reply was a look reminiscent of Tywin Lannister.
"You, on the other hand..." Torneg looked at Jorah Mormont, and his eyes widened in recognition and unpleasant surprise. "Why, you are the Bear of the Wall, the one who leads the Night's Watch."
"I have that honor," Mormont replied with icy courtesy. Torneg rounded on his brother with a furious look.
"Why did you bring him? You were told not to touch the crows!"
"He fought," Torgud said defensively, "I had to either take him along, or kill him."
"You would have done better to slit his throat, Torgud. What are we to do with him now that he saw our camp?"
"No one said he will be allowed to leave," Torgud pointed out.
"True," agreed Torneg. Jorah Mormont, unable to comprehend a word of what the wildlings were saying, stared blankly from one to the other.
"Well," said Two-Axe in the Common Tongue again, "it so happens that our king asked that every man who has crossed the Wall and does not wear a black cloak be brought before him. I am sure he will be interested in seeing the two of you."
"King?" There it is, Tyrion thought. My ears did not deceive me after all. But as far as he knew, no one styled himself King-beyond-the-Wall since Mance Rayder. "Which king?" he asked.
"One who will be greater than them all," replied Torneg Two-Axe with a dark smile. "Unbind their hands," he told his brother, switching to the Old Tongue again. The wildling's knife cut through the ropes that bound his wrists, and Tyrion let out a groan of relief as he massaged the angry red patches of chaffed skin. Beside him, Mormont was stretching and flexing his arms.
"Beware," said Torneg, "you are in our camp now, and every eye will be upon you. If you set so much as a toe out of the boundaries of these tents, you will be killed. Neither would I try to escape if I were you. The land is wide and wild, and you will never find your way back to the Wall alone. You will end up as a shadowcat's supper, or else you will get sucked into a salty marsh and drown, or simply lose your way and perish of hunger and cold."
"You make it all sound so daunting," said Tyrion, "and yet, what awaits us here? What do you intend to do with us?"
"That," said Torgud, "is for the king to decide. We will take you to him now."
Tyrion and Jorah were led through the camp. Torgud, Torneg and Elma remained to flank them, whereas the other members of their group scattered in various directions. People threw curious glances at them as they waked by; some of the children dropped whatever they were doing and tried to follow them, but where shooed away by Torgud's barked command. Jorah Mormont seemed to be extremely displeased to be the subject of such attentions.
"They are staring at us as though we were part of a traveling circus," he said under his breath.
Tyrion let out a short, bitter laugh. "People have been staring at me this way since I was born, no matter where I went. I'm glad you have a chance to have your share of the experience, my lord."
Finally they were led to a tent that was larger than others, made of sealskins sewn together and stretched over long poles to form a conical shape. Torneg bade them to wait outside with Torgud and Elma, flapped open the skin that covered the tent's entrance, and ducked his head as he entered. A brief exchange of phrases could be heard, following which the wildling man went back out and said:
"The king will see you ow. Torgud, Elma, lead them in."
They entered. The inside of the tent was lit by braziers, and it took a while for Tyrion's eyes to get used to the dim, smoky space. He blinked several times. There were a few men in the tent, guards by the look of them, and in the center, on a pile of furs, sat a boy.
Tyrion's heart missed a beat, and then began to thump very fast. He couldn't take his eyes off the boy's face, and was only dimly aware of Torneg's voice saying,
"Kneel before the Son of Winter, the rightful king of both sides of the Wall!"
Dazed, Tyrion went to kne knee. Next to him, Jorah Mormont grunted in disapproval, but the butt of someone's spear sent him down to his knees all the same.
"Who are these men, Torneg?" asked the boy. His voice was not unfriendly. He could not be more than nine or ten. He had auburn hair and blue eyes - Tully eyes, just like...
"Southerners," said Torneg, "though I imagine they would speak better for themselves, and tell their own tale."
"Come forward," the boy told them, "I should like a better look at you."
They got up from their knees and took a few steps.
"My lord," said Tyrion in an awed voice.
"Your Grace," Torneg corrected him sharply, "isn't that what you call your kings down south?"
"Your Grace," Tyrion didn't argue, "do you know who you are?"
The question seemed to puzzle the boy. "Of course I do. Do you know who I am?"
Tyrion took a deep breath. He could not be mistaken. "Rickon Stark," he said, "of Winterfell."