"Third watch," the big man said, through hair and frozen snot. "Me and Softfoot. I remember, Chett." the moon would be black tonight, and they had jiggered the watches so as to have eight of their own standing sentry, with two more guarding the horses. It wasn´t going to get much riper than that. besides, the wildlings could be upon them any day now. Chett meant to be well away from here before that happened. He meant to live.
Three hundred  sworn brothers of the Night´s Watch had ridden north, two hundred from Castle Black and another undred from the Shadow Tower. It was the biggest ranging in livivng memory, near a thrid of the Watch´s strength.  They meant to find Ben Stark, Ser Waymar Royce, and the other rangers who´d gone missing, and discover why the wildlings were leaving their villages. Well, they were no closer to Stark and Royce than when they´d left the Wall but they´d learned where all the wildling had gone - up into the icy heights of the godsforsaken Frosfangs. They could squat up there till the end of time and it wouldn´t prick Chett´s boils none.

"Bugger that Old Bear too," said the Sisterman, a thin man with sharp features and nervous eyes. "Mormont will be dead before daybreak, remember? Who cares what he likes!
Small Paul blinked his black little eyes. Maybe he had forgotten. Chett thought, he was stupid enough to forget most anything. "why do we have to kill the Old Bear? Why don´t we just go off and let him be?
"You think he´ll let us be?" said Lark. "he´ll hunt us down. You want to be hunted, you great muttonhead?"
"No," said Small Paul. "I don´t want that. I don´t."
"So you´ll kill him?" said Lark.
"Yes." The huge man stamped the butt of his spear on the frozen riverbank. "I will. He shouldn´t hunt us."
The sisterman took his hands  from his armpits and turned to Chett. "We need to kill all the officers, I say".
Chet was sick of hearing it. "We been over this. The Old Bear dies, and Blane from the Shadow Tower. Grubs and Aethan as well, their ill luck for drawing the watch , Dywen and Bannen  for their tracking, and Ser Piggy for the ravens. That´s all. We kill them quiet, while they sleep.One scream and we´re wormfood, every one uf us." His boils were red with rage. "just do your bit and see that your cousins do theirs. And Paul, try and remember, it´s third watch, not second."

"Seven hells." He gave the leashes a hard yank to get the dogs´ attention. "Track, you bastards. That´s a bear print. You want some meat or no? Find!"  But the hounds only huddle closer, whining. Chett snapped his short lash above their heads, and the black bitch snarled at him. "Dog meat would taste as good as bear," he warned her, his breath frosting with every word.

Lark the Sisterman stood with his arms crossed over his chest and his hands tucked up into his armpits. He wore black wool gloves, but he was always complaining how his fingers were frozen. "It´s too bloddy cold to hunt," he said. "Bugger his bear, he´s not worth freezing over."
"We can´t go back emptyhand, Lark," Rumbled Small Paul through the brown whiskers that covered most of his face. "The Lord Commander wouldn´t like that." There was ice under the big man´s squashed pug nose, where his snot had frozen. A huge hand in a thick fur glove clenched tight around the shaft of a spear.

The day was grey and bitter cold, and the dog would not take the scent. The big black bitch had taken one sniff at the bear tracks, baked off, and skulked back to the pack with her tail between her legs. The dogs huddled together miserably on the riverbank as the wind snapped at them. Chett felt it too, biting through his layers of black wool and boiled leather. It was too bloody cold for man or beast, but here they were. His mouth twisted, and he could almost feel the boils that covered his cheeks and neck growing red and angry. I should be safe back at the Wall, tending the bloddy ravens and making fires for old Maester Aemon. It was the bastard Jon Snow who had taken that from him, him and his fat friend Sam Tarly. It was their fault he was here, freezing his bloddy balls off with a pack of hounds deep in the haunted forest.

I was named after a swimming pool. Quite peculiar considering my parents never took to water. One of my father´s earliers business contacts was Francis Adirubasamy. He became a good friend of the family. I called him Mamaji, mama being the Tamil word for uncle and ji being a suffix used in India to indicate respect and affection. When he was a young man, long before I was born, mamaji was a champion competitive swimmer, the champion of all South India. He looked the part his whole life. My brother Ravi once told me that when Mamaji was born he didn´t want to give up on breathing water and so the doctor, to save his life, had to take him by the feet and swing him above his head round and round.
"It did the trick!" said Ravi, wildly apinning his hand above his head. "He caughed out water started breathing air, but it forced all his flesh and blood no his upper body. that´s why his chest is so thinck and his legs are so skynny."
I believed him. (Ravi was a merciless teaser. the first time he called Mamaji "Mr. fish" to my face I left a banana peel in his bed.) Even in his sixties when he was a little stooped and a lifetime of counter obstetric gravity had begun to nudge his flesh down wards, Mamaji swam thirty lengths every morning at the pool of the Aurobindo Ashram.