He was not a tall man, Tormin Jainesbane, but the gods had given him a broad chest and massive belly.

Mansorader had named him Tormin, hornblower, for the power of his lungs, and was wont to say that Tormin could laughblower for the power of his lungs and was want to say that

torment could laugh the snow off mountaintops. In his Roth his bellows

reminded John of a mammoth trumpeting. That day Tormin bellowed often and

loudly he roared he shouted he slammed his face. That day, Torman bellowed often and loudly.

He roared, he shouted, he slammed his fist against the table so hard that a flagon of water overturned and spilled.

A horn of mead was never far from his hand, so the spittle he sprayed when making threats was sweet with

honey. He called John Snow a craven, a liar, a turn cloak, cursed him for a black-hearted

buggering kneeler, cursed him for a black-hearted buggering kneeler, a robber, and a carrion crow, accused

him of wanting to fuck the free folk up the arse.

Twice he flung his drinking horn in John's head, though only after he had emptied it.

Torman was not the sort of man to waste good mead.

John let it all wash over him.

He never raised his own voice nor answered threat with threat, but neither did

he give more ground than he had come prepared to give.

Finally, as the shadows of the afternoon grew long outside the tent, tormin giant Spain, tall talker, hornblower, and breaker of ice,

tormin thunderfist, husband to bears, mead king of ready hall,

speaker to gods and father of hosts thrust out his hand.

Done then, and may the gods forgive me.

There's a hundred mothers never will, I know.

Don clasped the offered hand.

The words of his oath rang through his head. I am the sword in the darkness. Let's try it again.

...