The Deserter

"Quickly, up there!" The Halfhand commanded as he pointed towards the cave. It sat on top of a small hill and the rocky path that led up to it was too narrow for two men to walk astride and the dark treacherous rocks prevented any encirclement. Jon knew that the Halfhand intended to make his last stand up on that hill. Ebben and Stonesnake had gone into the mountains with the fastest garrons, heading in different directions in the hopes of evading the wildlings and reaching the Lord Commander in time. Meanwhile, Dalbridge had stayed behind at the pass. Up there, one archer could delay an entire army for a few hours thus giving them a vital head start over the wildlings. Jon knew that Dalbridge was now dead as the horns of the approaching wildlings became louder and nearer.

"You remember what you have to do?" The Halfhand asked the nervous prince.

"Aye," Jon replied nervously, wrecked by fear and doubt as the he finally saw the wildlings that were chasing them as they appeared from behind the trees. He counted fourteen warriors and eight dogs, more than a match for them and Ghost.

"Do your duty without hesitation, Snow, or I'll cut you down." Qhorin warned as he unsheathe his sword, prompting Jon to do the same as he called Ghost towards him. The wildlings inched ever closer, wary of any arrows from the two upon the high ground. The one leading them was riding a creature that was more goat than horse, and he was wearing an armour of bones that rattled with every movement. For his helm, he wore a large skull, yellow and broken and too big to have come from a normal man.

"Rattleshirt," Qhorin called out, icy-polite.

"To crows I be the Lord O' Bones." the wildling replied but despite his best efforts he did rattle as he came closer.

"I see no lord," Qhorin snorted, trying to provoke the wildlings into attacking them upon their high ground. "Only a dog dressed in chickenbones, who rattles everytime he moves."

"IT'LL BE YOUR BONES I'LL BE RATTLING SOON, HALFHAND." the wildling chief roared out, easily angered by Qhorin's words. "I'll carve out your teeth! Boil the flesh off you! And eat me porridge from your skull!!!"

"Then come and get them." Qhorin replied cooly but Rattleshirt seemed **** to do so. Instead he turned to one close to him and Jon only just realised that she was a woman. The woman reached into a bloodstained sack and drew out a trophy. Ebben had been bald as an egg, so she dangled the head by an ear. “He died brave,” she said.

“Belike we need to flush the crows,” Rattleshirt bellowed over the clamor. “Feather them!”

“No!” The word burst from Jon’s lips before the bowmen could loose. He took two quick steps forward. “We yield!”

“They warned me bastard blood was craven,” he heard Qhorin Halfhand say coldly behind him. “I see it is so. Run to your new masters, coward.”

Face reddening, Jon descended the slope to where Rattleshirt sat his horse. The wildling stared at him through the eyeholes of his helm, and said, “The free folk have no need of cravens.”

“He is no craven.” One of the archers pulled off her sewn sheepskin helm and shook out a head of shaggy red hair. “This is the bastard who spared me. Let him live.”

Jon met Ygritte’s eyes, and had no words.

"You fookin' traitor!" Qhorin exclaimed as he saw Ygritte, "I had commanded you to slay her! Run, Snow. Run to your wildling lover, the Watch has no need of the likes of you!"

“Let him die,” insisted the Lord of Bones. “The black crow is a tricksy bird. I trust him not.”

"You told me Mance would take me," Jon pleaded to the redheaded girl. "If I turn my cloak, you said he would!"

“And he will,” Ygritte said.

“Mance is not here,” said Rattleshirt. “Ragwyle, gut him.”

"Stop," the woman alongside Rattleshirt commanded and then pointed at the Halfhand upon the hill. The big spearwife narrowed her eyes and said, “If the crow would join the free folk, let him show us his prowess and prove the truth of him.”

“I’ll do whatever you ask.” The words came hard, but Jon said them.

Rattleshirt’s bone armor clattered loudly as he laughed. “Then kill the Halfhand, bastard.”

"Don't you fucking think about it, Snow!" Qhorin threatened, "Turn, Snow, and die."

And then Qhorin’s sword was coming at him and somehow Longclaw leapt upward to block. The **** of impact almost knocked the valyrian steel sword from Jon’s hand, and sent him staggering backward. He shifted to a two-hand grip, quick enough to deliver a stroke of his own, but the big ranger brushed it aside with contemptuous ease, reminding him of his training at the hands of the Sword of the Morning. Back and forth they went, black cloaks swirling, the youth’s quickness against the savage strength of Qhorin’s left-hand cuts. The Halfhand’s longsword seemed to be everywhere at once, raining down from one side and then the other, driving him where he would, keeping him off balance. Already he could feel his arms growing numb. For a fleeting moment he thought of his years dueling Aegon. Robb. Ser Barristan the Bold. Ser Arthur Dayne. Ser Rodrik Cassel. His father. All better fighters than him. The Halfhand seemed to match every single one of them.

Even when Ghost’s teeth closed savagely around the ranger’s calf, somehow Qhorin kept his feet. But in that instant, as he twisted, the opening was there. Jon planted and pivoted. The ranger was leaning away, and for an instant it seemed that Jon’s slash had not touched him. Then a string of red tears appeared across the big man’s throat, bright as a ruby necklace, and the blood gushed out of him, and Qhorin Halfhand fell.

"One crow dead," came the voice of Rattleshirt as Jon watch the light fade from Qhorin's eyes. "Gut the baby crow!"

"He yielded!" Ygritte reminded him and others began to murmur their agreement, impressed by Jon's fighting or by him slaying one of the greatest bane of the Free Folk. Behind the eyeholes of his yellowed skull Rattleshirt’s stare was malignant, but he yielded grudgingly.

They burned Qhorin Halfhand where he’d fallen, on a pyre made of pine needles, brush, and broken branches. Some of the wood was still green, and it burned slow and smoky, sending a black plume up into the bright hard blue of the sky. Afterward Rattleshirt claimed some charred bones, while the others threw dice for the ranger’s gear. Ygritte won his cloak. As Jon turned away from the charred remains of Qhorin Halfhand, he heard the rangers voice in his ear. Whispering his final command.

"Hear me. Tomorrow the wildlings will catch up to us. If we are taken, you will go over to them, as the wildling girl you captured once urged you. They may demand that you cut your cloak to ribbons, that you swear them an oath on your father's grave, that you curse your brothers and your Lord Commander. You must not balk, whatever is asked of you. Do as they bid you ... but in your heart, remember who and what you are. Ride with them, eat with them, fight with them, for as long as it takes. And watch."

Aye, Jon thought to himself even as Ygritte flashed him a toothy grin. I am the Watcher on the Wall.