"So where'd all your other nicknames come from?" Lynn asked. "Mine have real stories behind them. Yours better too."
The question stopped Tormund cold. The big man thought it over, then grinned like he'd just remembered he was right.
"Stars really do make people nosy as hell, huh?"
He took a long pull from his wineskin and launched into one of his favorite boasts.
"Fine. Here's how it went.
It was another winter—colder than the one I spent inside that giantess. Snow came down day and night, flakes the size of that fancy helmet of yours. Not this light shit we're getting now.
Whole village was half-buried. I was holed up in my Red Hall with nothing but a barrel of mead for company. Drank and drank until all I could think about was this woman who lived nearby. Strong, beautiful, tits like fucking melons. Bad temper, sure—but in the dead of winter a man needs heat, and she had plenty.
The more I drank, the harder I got thinking about her. Finally I couldn't take it anymore. I wrapped myself head to toe in furs and charged out into the blizzard. Couldn't see a damn thing, wind cutting straight through me, but I found her. She was wrapped in furs too.
Her temper was every bit as nasty as they said. I grabbed her, she fought like a wildcat, but I hauled her all the way back to the hall anyway. Tore those furs off her…
Gods, the heat that came off her. We went at it hard, then passed out. Next morning the snow had stopped. Sun was out. But I woke up covered in bites and scratches, half my cock missing, and a she-bear's pelt lying on the floor.
Later the Free Folk started whispering about a bald bear wandering the woods with two weird-looking cubs trailing behind her. Ha!"
Tormund slapped his thick thigh and roared with laughter.
"Still hope I find her again someday. Wouldn't mind another go with that she-bear. No woman ever fought me harder—or gave me sons this strong."
Lynn chuckled. "What would you do if you found her? She already bit half your cock off."
"Only half! Mine's twice as long as any other man's anyway."
Tormund snorted and took another swig.
That night the column camped in the lee of a mountain where the supply crews had left tents standing. The Free Folk had never done anything like it before—leave shelters for the people coming behind instead of tearing them down. It cut the load on the sleds and sped everyone up. They thought it was genius.
The giants didn't need tents. Their shaggy hair and the body heat of their woolly mammoths were enough. These were the biggest of the bunch, every one at least twelve feet tall. Mag himself was pushing fourteen.
When Lynn stepped out of his tent the next morning, the snow had turned the giants and mammoths into low, moving hills.
The column formed up with the Thenns in front, giants bringing up the rear, and Harma's raiders still ranging ahead.
They marched all day. When Tormund told Lynn they were almost at the Fist of the First Men, a clear voice rose on the right side of the column.
"Aaaaaaah… I am the last of the giants…"
It was Ygritte, still riding beside Jon as his guard.
Tormund's deep voice joined in at once.
"The last of the giants, from the mountains we came…"
His song rolled across the snow like thunder.
Longspear Ryk picked it up next—he and Ygritte were from the same village and had ridden with the Bone Lord until Jon changed things.
"They stole the forests, they stole the hills, they stole the rivers and the rills…"
Ygritte and Tormund traded lines in booming harmony. Tormund's sons Toregg and Doregg added their low rumble, then most of the column joined in. Only Lynn, Qhorin, Jon, and Kuna stayed quiet.
Spears and axes beat time against leather shields as they marched and sang:
They built their walls in the valleys,
they lit their fires in the stone halls,
they forged their sharp spears…
and I wander the mountains alone,
with only my tears for company.
By day the hounds chase me,
by night the torches burn.
For as long as a giant still walks in the sun,
the little folk will never rest.
Aaaaaaah… I am the last of the giants…
Remember my song.
One day I will be gone…
When the last note faded, tears shone on Ygritte's cheeks. Even Tormund wiped the corner of one eye.
"Why are you crying?" Jon asked, bewildered. "It's only a song. There are still hundreds of giants. I saw them in camp."
"Hundreds!" Ygritte snapped, voice thick. "You know nothing, Jon Snow. You—"
A sudden beat of gray-blue wings cut her off.
Talons slammed into Jon's face. The eagle's screech filled his ears as wings battered his head. He caught a flash of a hooked beak before pain exploded across his cheek and eye.
He yanked his feet from the stirrups. The horse bolted. Jon toppled backward, crashing into the snow with the eagle still locked onto his face, clawing and pecking.
Shouts erupted. He tasted blood and dirt.
When the world stopped spinning he was face-down. Ygritte knelt over him, bone dagger in her fist. The eagle was gone.
"My eye—" Jon gasped, pawing at his face.
"It's just blood," she said. "He tore the skin above it. Your eye's fine."
Jon wiped the blood from his left eye with his right and looked up. Tormund was roaring from horseback. Hooves thundered. Bones rattled.
"Rattleshirt!" Tormund bellowed. "Call off your fucking bird!"
"My bird's right here!" the Bone Lord snarled, pointing at Jon. "Lying in the mud like a traitorous dog, bleeding!"
Orell's eagle flapped down and perched on the shattered giant skull the Bone Lord wore as a helmet.
"I want him."
"Then come and take him," Tormund growled. "Better bring steel, because I'll have mine out. I'll boil your bones and piss in your skull. Ha!"
"Save the boasting, Giantsbane. If you want to keep your balls, stand aside. Mance wants the crow—now."
Ygritte stood up.
"Mance sent for him?"
"That's what I said. Get the black-hearted bastard on his feet."
Tormund looked down at Jon, frowning.
"If Mance wants you, best not keep him waiting, lad."