Beyond the Wall, life had always been simple in its divisions. There were only two kinds of people who dared to roam these frozen lands.
The first were the free folk—wildlings who had called the untamed wilderness home for thousands of years. They dressed in heavy cloaks stitched together from pelts and scraps of fur, the seams often crooked, the fit imperfect. Warmth mattered more than style, and every scrap of hide had a story—taken from a hunt, a trade, or the carcass of an animal found half-buried in snow.
The second were the Crows—men of the Night's Watch—who ventured north on patrols to spy, raid, or kill. Clad in black from head to toe, their fur cloaks were uniform, their armor shaped and fitted by castle smiths. Their blades gleamed with the sharp discipline of iron kept oiled and clean, every edge meant for killing.
It was easy to tell them apart, even at a distance.
Their weapons betrayed them as much as their clothing. Crows carried steel swords, axes, and bows strung with strong cord—each one forged within the secure walls of a keep. The free folk made do with what they could: crude bows and arrows, stone maces bound with leather, wooden staves worn smooth by years of use. A few carried iron, but only those bold—or lucky—enough to take it from a dead Crow or someone raided the South.
But lately… things had changed.
Rumors whispered in the wind told of a third kind of traveler.
They came in small groups, their cloaks of fine make—white, brown, or pale grey—cut to fit like they belonged to southern lords, yet worn with the ease of men and women used to the cold. They carried iron weapons too, but moved nothing like the Crows. They spoke little, acted like the free folk in some ways, yet there was something… off.
"They're ghosts," one hunter muttered around a campfire. "I followed a band of 'em for half a day. One moment they were in sight, the next—they were gone."
"Fog swallowed them," another said grimly. "Fog where there wasn't any. I've seen it twice now."
Magic, some began to whisper. Not the half-forgotten charms of the woods, but something older, stronger.
A small warband of the Thenn had even tried to shadow these strangers, thinking to claim their weapons and cloaks. They never came back.
One evening, among a gathering of free folk clan, Hornfoot, a man named Rulgar spat into the snow and grunted. "Mark my words, those are not men of the Wall, nor are they wildlings. They walk with a purpose—and they don't want to be found."
Beside him, an old woman with braided white hair stirred her stew over the fire. "Then perhaps they're neither friend nor foe. But if they pass through our land without fear, they've got something that keeps the shadows off their backs."
A young boy, half-listening, spoke up timidly. "What if they're from south of the Wall… but not Crows?"
The fire crackled in the silence that followed.
Because that was the question no one wanted to answer.
The Hornfoot clan had been watching the strangers for some time now, crouched low on the snowy ridge.
Eight of them, all wearing heavy grey cloaks with hoods pulled up against the biting wind. The horned furs strapped to their boots made them look bulkier, but the way they carried themselves was different from most wildlings. Their movements were measured, their loads carefully packed. Each man had iron at his belt—axes, short swords, even a few finely made knives.
Goran, the Hornfoot leader, spat into the snow.
"No point in shadowin' 'em. We'll take 'em now—get answers after. Then… no more questions."
A murmur of agreement passed through his men.
These weren't Crows. They weren't exactly free folk either. And whatever they were, they carried enough iron and leather to make killing them worth the risk.
The quarry workers had no idea they were being stalked. They were recent recruits from the Frostfangs, hardened by the cold but softened a little by the last year under Narnian employ.
When they'd first arrived at the quarry, they had been half-starved, their clothes little more than patched rags. In exchange for labor, they had been given thick tents to live in, warm cloaks, sturdy boots, and steady meals. They had learned how to cut stone, to shape it with hammers and chisels, to load it into sledges for transport.
It had been hard work—back-breaking at times—but it paid in silver coins called Moondrops.
And those coins had opened the gates to a world none of them had imagined.
On their first trip east, their pay clinking in leather pouches, they had seen Gnome City—a jewel in the frost. Small, round stone cottages with chimneys puffing white smoke into the sky. The Potter Castle rising proud above the rooftops. Steam curling from the great bathhouse where warm water never ran out. The streets swept clean, the lamps glowing in the evening.
It had once been the Narnian capital, though now Telmar—far to the east, near the sea—had taken that crown. They'd heard Telmar was even grander, its harbor filled with ships from across the world.
But the quarry men hadn't needed Telmar. They'd bought stone cottages right there in Gnome City, the price cut low because so many families had moved south. Half their coins gone, but with a warm roof over their heads waiting for them when they weren't at the quarry.
Now they were heading back to work.
The Lord Griffindor himself had a plan—build a road from Gnome City to Telmar. That meant more stone, more work, more pay.
But there was another reason for their eagerness.
In Narnia, stealing women was forbidden—strictly so. But beyond its borders… well, the old ways still held. If a man could take a woman and bring her back, she was his wife.
It was dangerous, risky, and not entirely honorable—but for these eight men, the thought of a family in their new stone homes was worth it.
They had begun the journey with a massive group of quarry workers, their leader carrying a slab of marble no bigger than his hand. A gift from Lord Griffindor, the stone was enchanted; no one troubled a party who bore it openly.
But halfway to the quarry, temptation whispered.
They slipped away from the main group. Their plan was simple: skirt through the smaller settlements beyond the Wall, find women willing—or unwilling—and join back with the main group with their women.
Unfortunately for them, the Hornfoot clan was already moving.
Hidden in the snow and rock, the Hornfoots fanned out silently.
Goran grinned, tightening his grip on his axe.
"Keep 'em alive long enough to talk. I want to know who gives men like that good iron and warm cloaks… then you can have your fun."
The free folk melted into the blizzard, closing the circle.
The wind was cutting and sharp that morning, carrying with it the scent of woodsmoke from some distant camp. Kalf's boots crunched over the snowpack, his breath forming thick clouds in the air.
Something wasn't right.
Kalf, the oldest of the eight, had learned to listen to that uneasy pull in his gut. He had worked the quarry the longest, seen enough winters to know when danger was near. His grey eyes scanned the jagged ridges and snow-laden pines, catching fleeting shadows where there shouldn't be any.
They were being watched.
Before he could even give a warning, figures began to emerge from all sides—men and women wrapped in crooked-stitched furs, their boots bound with horned wrappings, weapons in hand. The Hornfoot clan.
One of the Narnians—a young man with a wolf-pelt hood—whipped out his axe, knuckles whitening around the haft.
"Don't," Kalf's voice cut through the cold air. He lifted his hands slowly. "Put all your weapons down. On the ground."
The others hesitated, eyes darting to the encircling free folk. But the look in Kalf's face left no room for argument. One by one, iron and steel clinked into the snow—swords, axes, knives, even chisels from the quarry.
The Hornfoots looked… disappointed. They had come for a fight.
Grumbling, they swept in and began scooping up the weapons. But as soon as the first blade was taken, an argument broke out. Voices rose, hands grabbed, and soon two free folk were shoving each other over who deserved a fine Narnian axe.
Kalf couldn't help it—he started to laugh.
One of the Hornfoots snarled and stepped forward, slamming a fist into Kalf's stomach. He staggered back, doubled over… and still laughing.
The Hornfoot leader Goran narrowed his eyes. "What's so funny that you can't stop laughing?"
Kalf straightened slowly, rubbing his ribs, the ghost of a grin still on his face.
"We could have done many things in the past," he said, his voice calm despite the ache in his gut, "if we weren't so busy fighting over scraps. But sooner or later… change will come for everyone."
The leader scowled. The words meant nothing to him, but the tone… that he didn't like. There was something behind those eyes. Something he didn't understand.
"Bring them," he ordered. "All eight. To the tents."
The Hornfoots moved in, shoving the quarry men forward into the snow. The leader didn't know what game these grey-cloaked strangers were playing, but he intended to find out.
The Hornfoot leader sat cross-legged by the fire, eyes narrowed, listening to the captives speak. The flicker of flames threw shadows across the fur-lined walls of the tent. His warriors leaned in, silent but tense, as Kalf and the others recounted their story.
They spoke of a land near the Shivering Sea where the snow was cleared from the land, where stone houses built to fight the cold, and the air was filled with the ring of hammers and the laughter of children. They called it Narnia.
"You say you were free folk once," Goran said, his voice low, "yet you call yourselves Narnians and became kneelers?"
Kalf met his gaze without flinching. "We were free folk. We still are, in spirit. But Narnia… it gives us more than the cold and the hunt. We work, we earn, we live in warmth. We eat well and most of all we have a higher purpose in life."
The tent stirred with murmurs.
Another of the quarry men added, "Lord Griffindor rules there. He's built not one, but two great cities beyond the Wall. We've seen Gnome City with our own eyes. Telmar is said to be even grander—by the sea."
One Hornfoot scoffed. "And I suppose this lord feeds you on honey and mead too?"
Kalf's lips curved faintly. "He gives us silver. Food. Tools. Even homes. And there are… protections."
That was when the real whispers began.
They spoke of a massive fire-breathing beast—a dragon—that Lord Griffindor commanded. Of an army of giants standing guard over Narnia's borders. Of magic that kept enemies at bay. None of the captives had seen the dragon themselves, but the weight in their voices made the Hornfoot leader uneasy.
Finally, he sat back, running a calloused hand over his beard. "If even half of this is true, attacking them would be suicide. A wizard, giants, a dragon? No clan could break such walls."
From the far side of the tent, his daughter spoke. She was young, sharp-eyed, with a braid heavy with bone beads. "Then we must see it for ourselves."
The leader frowned. "And how do you plan to do that?"
"Simple," she said, stepping forward. "We go with them. Marry them. Eight men, eight brides. We walk into Narnia and see if their tales are lies."
Gasps and mutters rippled through the warriors, but the leader studied her face. She did not flinch.
Before dawn the next day, beneath the boughs of an ancient weirwood, eight quick marriages were made. The red leaves whispered overhead as vows were spoken in voices that carried more curiosity than love.
When the ceremony was done, the new couples set out eastward toward Gnome City. The Hornfoot women walked at their husbands' sides, cloaks drawn tight against the cold, eyes sharp for the first signs of this strange land.
Behind them, shadowing their steps, a small band of Hornfoot warriors followed—ready to intervene if the quarry men's stories proved to be nothing but traps.