He was a handsome youth of eighteen, grey-eyed and graceful and slender as a knife. Ser Waymar Royce was the youngest son of an ancient house with too many heirs. Especially not a commander like this one. Will wanted nothing so much as to ride hellbent for the safety of the Wall, but that was not a feeling to share with your commander. All day, Will had felt as though something were watching him, something cold and implacable that loved him not. A cold wind was blowing out of the north, and it made the trees rustle like living things. Each day had been worse than the day that had come before it. Nine days they had been riding, north and northwest and then north again, farther and farther from the Wall, hard on the track of a band of wildling raiders. There was an edge to this darkness that made his hackles rise. He was a veteran of a hundred rangings by now, and the endless dark wilderness that the southron called the haunted forest had no more terrors for him. The first time he had been sent beyond, all the old stories had come rushing back, and his bowels had turned to water. You could taste it a nervous tension that came perilous close to fear. Under the wounded pride, Will could sense something else in the older man. Gared had spent forty years in the Night’s Watch, man and boy, and he was not accustomed to being made light of. Are you unmanned by the dark, Gared? ” Will could see the tightness around Gared’s mouth, the barely suppressed anger in his eyes under the thick black hood of his cloak. And night is falling.” Ser Waymar Royce glanced at the sky with disinterest. “We have a long ride before us,” Gared pointed out. There are things to be learned even from the dead.” His voice echoed, too loud in the twilit forest. “ Never believe anything you hear at a woman’s tit. “My wet nurse said the same thing, Will,” Royce replied.
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