Chapter 1: Osha the Wildling
Northeast of the Wolfswood, in the lands of the North.
Under a leaden sky, fine snow drifted down like floating down feathers. The air was crisp—biting cold, yet clean. A cavalry detachment of more than fifty riders stood silently within the forest. They wore mail beneath layered lamellar armor, longswords at their waists, short spears in hand, bows slung across their backs. Towering sentinel trees rose around them, their thick trunks and interwoven branches perfectly concealing the unit's presence.
High above, a hunting falcon circled soundlessly. Its sharp eyes swept the forest below, missing nothing—no rustle of leaves, no tremor of movement could escape its gaze.
At the border where the Wolfswood met the open plains, several birds suddenly took flight. The falcon noticed at once. A trace of human-like contemplation flashed in its bright eyes. Then its pupils clouded white. Its body fell weightlessly for several seconds before it spread its wings again and glided toward the place where the birds had been startled.
At the head of the cavalry rode a young man in his twenties. He had short, dark-brown hair, ash-gray eyes, a long face with a neatly trimmed beard, and features hardened by discipline and resolve.
His eyes were closed as he sat astride his horse at the front of the formation. Behind him, the rest of the riders waited in absolute silence.
Moments later, the young man's body trembled slightly as he opened his eyes. Calm and composed, he issued his orders.
"Jon. Kesso. Each of you take fifteen riders and circle around from the left and right flanks. After the time it takes to eat a meal, I'll advance with the remaining men and close in from the center."
(Note: Different Jon.)
"Maintain silence while moving. Don't alert the prey prematurely. Leave an opening toward the plains—tighten the net in all other directions. When you hear the falcon's cry, we charge together."
"No wildling escapes."
"Yes, Lord Saelen."
The two riders urged their horses forward a few steps and answered respectfully. Each then led his detachment away, slipping into the forest on opposite sides. After waiting in silence for a while longer, the remaining cavalry spread out, advancing in a fan-shaped formation toward the center.
…
Osha lifted her gaze to the sky.
Through gaps in the branches, she spotted a falcon circling overhead, endlessly tracing wide arcs above them. She watched it for a time, her expression slowly hardening.
If her eyes hadn't deceived her, that bird had been following them for quite a while now.
The thought made her recall the skinchangers under Mance Rayder's command—those Free Folk who could see through the eyes of beasts.
Now, a troubling suspicion took root in her mind.
Could there be skinchangers in the North as well?
Because both the Northmen and the Free Folk worshipped the Old Gods, the same blood of the First Men flowed in their veins. And with the population of the North vastly outnumbering that of the Free Folk, the likelihood of skinchangers appearing there was naturally far greater.
The thought sent a chill through Osha's heart.
If that was true, then their group had likely been discovered long ago—tracked and watched by the northern lords.
She instinctively wanted to warn her companions. But when she turned, the words caught in her throat.
Several of the male Free Folk were clustered around the two peasant girls they had abducted. Two of them were still moving atop the girls' bodies, pale flesh writhing obscenely—an appalling sight, like grotesque, oversized maggots squirming in filth.
Unconcealed disgust crossed Osha's face.
These were the same Free Folk who had been hunted by the northern lords like stray dogs. North of the Wall, their band had once numbered in the hundreds. Now only a dozen remained. Not a single elder or child had survived. As for women—she alone was left.
They had finally shaken off a pursuing cavalry unit and stopped here to rest. Yet even while fleeing for their lives, these men had dragged along stolen peasant girls to satisfy their lust. In fear and despair, they squandered what little strength they had regained on women's bodies.
Men really do think with their lower halves, Osha thought bitterly.
At the same time, she abandoned the idea of warning them.
Their behavior had grown increasingly reckless, bordering on madness. Hoping to reach the south by following these men was nothing but a fool's dream. Worse still—once they finished breaking the two girls, Osha, as the only remaining woman, dared not imagine what would become of her.
For the first time, the thought of leaving the group took root in her mind.
A man with a head of red hair and a thick, unkempt beard noticed Osha's gaze. A lewd grin spread across his face as he mocked her loudly.
"Hey, woman—why don't you come join us?"
He burst into laughter, prompting a chorus of crude laughter from the others.
The leader of the group, flanked by two companions, began to move slowly toward her.
Osha immediately rose to her feet, gripping her crude wooden spear. Her eyes turned vicious as she stared them down.
"I may be a woman," she said coldly, "but before I die, I can still drag one or two of you to hell with me."
"If you don't believe me," she continued softly, locking eyes with the man in front, "take one more step. I promise that before you die, I'll crush the thing between your legs."
The three men stopped.
They glanced at one another—but none dared be the first to advance. The air grew heavy, tense enough to choke.
Then—
"SCREEE—!"
A sharp, piercing falcon's cry tore through the air overhead.
A heartbeat later came the thunder of hooves, rolling in from all directions.
"Enemy attack! Northern cavalry—they've caught up to us!"
The small makeshift camp erupted into chaos. The Free Folk panicked, scattering like headless flies, terror written across their faces.
Osha forced herself to calm down. She pointed sharply toward the one direction untouched by hoofbeats and shouted:
"There! No horses that way—run!"
Without waiting for a response, she bolted in that direction. The others followed instinctively, surging after her.
Once she saw that everyone had committed to the escape, Osha deliberately caught her foot on a branch and fell hard to the ground. Stretching out her hand toward the fleeing figures, she cried out desperately:
"Help! Please—my ankle's twisted! Don't leave me!"
No one even looked back.
One man spat on her head as he ran past. Then they vanished into the forest.
Osha did not feel angry.
The moment they disappeared, she sprang to her feet and rushed to a nearby sentinel tree. Climbing swiftly, she concealed herself among the dense branches.
Below, only the two girls remained—collapsed on the ground, eyes vacant, staring lifelessly at the sky.
Not long after, Saelen arrived with the northern cavalry, closing in from three directions. He reined in his horse beside the girls. Taking in their miserable state, a trace of cold fury crossed his hardened features.
"The wildlings have fled toward the plains," he said flatly. "Open ground—perfect terrain for cavalry. They won't escape."
"Jon. Kesso. Take your men and spread out in a straight line. Hunt them down from this direction."
"Remember—no prisoners. Bring back only their heads."
"Yes, Lord Saelen. We won't fail you."
The two squad leaders answered in unison, cruel smiles forming on their faces. They immediately directed their riders into a line formation and swept off toward the fleeing wildlings, leaving only a dozen cavalrymen behind with Saelen.
"Worrel," Saelen said, "check on the girls."
A young rider answered from the rear and dismounted quickly, moving to examine them. He was one of the field medics personally trained by Saelen—capable of basic treatment, bandaging, cleaning wounds, and stopping bleeding. Beyond that, survival depended on fate.
"Lord Saelen," Worrel reported after checking them carefully, "aside from multiple blunt-force injuries, there are no fatal wounds. Their lives are not in immediate danger."
"Hm." Saelen gave a brief nod. "Then you're responsible for them. We'll take them back to Castle Edd."
"Yes, my lord."