Ygritte had been locked up here for ten days.
It wasn't some dank, terrifying dungeon—but a converted residence wasn't much different from a cell once you'd finished "improving" it.
The old wooden doors had been replaced with iron bars. Anything that involved metal had been cleared out of the room. All that remained were a few beds and bedding.
Still, it was far more comfortable than beyond the Wall—no endless blizzards, no knife-edged winds.
She wasn't alone in here, either. The others were all people who had once been the King-Beyond-the-Wall's trusted hands.
Tormund Giantsbane, "Rattle-shirt" Harma, the "six-skins" Varamyr, the Thenn Magnar Styr… and their former King-Beyond-the-Wall himself—Mance Rayder.
Everyone who mattered was here.
More than half a month ago, it had been this same group, in much the same situation—only back then they'd been in a tent that still smelled of freedom, and they weren't prisoners. They were conquerors.
"Gods, how long are the nobles going to keep us caged up like this?" Tormund Giantsbane bellowed. "I haven't slept with a woman in days!"
It was Tormund. His attempt to ambush Domeric had failed, and he'd been badly wounded. Now he was wrapped in white bandages like some newly unearthed mummy.
He lay on his bed groaning. When the pain got too sharp, he'd start bragging about the time he'd supposedly bedded a she-bear…
"A woman?" Styr of the Thenn snorted. "There're a few right here. Look—there's one beside you."
He pointed at Harma, the infamous raider woman who had a sick hatred for dogs.
"You looking to die?" Harma's face darkened. Her huge mouth opened, cords standing out in her neck.
"I'm only telling the truth," Styr said lazily. "We're all prisoners now. None of us is too high to hear it."
"I'd rather fuck a dog than touch that woman!" Tormund roared, not caring that Harma was right there.
"Then you're looking to die," Harma snarled.
She stalked over and grabbed Tormund. Her fist clenched, ready to smash down. Poor Tormund was injured—he couldn't fight back. One more beating and he'd be finished.
"Stop, Harma," Ygritte stepped in and pressed Harma's fist down. "Do you want the guards coming? If we start tearing into each other, we're just giving the nobles a show. We used to be comrades, didn't we?"
Ygritte had given her a way out. Harma couldn't very well beat Tormund half to death now—if the guards came, none of them would walk away clean.
"Pah!" Harma spat in Tormund's face. "If you can't keep that dog mouth shut, I'll slit your throat in the night."
Life mattered more than pride. Tormund grunted and fell silent.
"Heh," Styr chuckled—no fun left to watch.
The scuffle ended, but Ygritte couldn't help sighing.
Comrades who had once sworn to live and die together were ready to tear each other apart over a few stupid words. It made her stomach turn.
And Mance Rayder—the King-Beyond-the-Wall—should have been the one to stop it.
But ever since they'd been brought from Castle Black to the Lonely Mountain, Mance had been like a madman. He ate and drank with his face pressed to the ground, pissed and shat wherever he pleased, bit at anyone who came close, babbled nonsense, drool spilling down his chin.
The sharp, clever "King-Beyond-the-Wall" who had vowed to lead the free folk south…
…was a lunatic now.
What happened?
Gods above—have you truly abandoned us?
Ygritte felt the question clawing at her from the inside.
"Which one of you is Ygritte?" A shout cracked like thunder.
A tall, fat, bald knight—Wendel, the new castellan—strode up and threw open the barred door.
"If you don't want to die, get out. Now."
"It's me." Ygritte rose with a weary exhale. Under the looks of pity, sympathy, and gloating from the others, she lifted a hand in a quick, careless wave—and walked out.
"What about us?" Varamyr the six-skins lurched to the doorway, but guards leveled spears and forced him back.
Wendel glanced over his shoulder and smiled, cold as iron. "Don't worry. Your turn's coming soon enough."
After Wendel led Ygritte away, Varamyr couldn't hold it in anymore. He asked one of the guards:
"What's your lord taking Ygritte for?"
He craned toward the doorway, his small body trembling. A thin thread of hope still clung to him—maybe this lord wasn't cruel. Maybe he'd spare them.
"Skinning, of course," the guard replied matter-of-factly. "Our lord's the heir to the Dreadfort. Family craft—can't let it die out."
"What?" Varamyr went white. His lips worked soundlessly. The last of his hope collapsed, and his face went slack. "You're going to flay Ygritte?"
"What else would it be?" The guard laughed. "What—did you think you lot were getting mercy? You wildlings are filthy with sin!"
…
Ygritte did her best to keep up behind Wendel, but she was small, her stride short, and the shackles on her ankles made it worse.
She didn't see a raised stone in time and tripped.
A young knight moved fast, stepping in to catch her before she hit the ground.
"Th… thanks," Ygritte rasped. Her throat felt dry as sand.
"No trouble," the young knight said, voice calm and steady. Something about it eased the tight knot in her chest.
"You can't walk properly like that. I'll take the shackles off."
"You're not afraid I'll run?" Ygritte blinked at him, curious. "I'm a wildling."
The young knight shook his head. "Lord Domeric said it himself—wildling or not, if you live here, you're his smallfolk."
"Is that so…" Ygritte studied him.
Lean build, long face, brown hair, gray eyes—eyes that looked like they were hiding something interesting.
"Oi," Wendel barked, loud and crude. "Jon—don't go getting handsy with a wildling girl. Next month's your knighting. Remember who you are."
"Yes, Ser Wendel," Jon said quickly.
He unlocked Ygritte's shackles, then stepped back from her, putting distance between them.
So his name is Jon, Ygritte thought.
Then, like she'd known him forever, she started talking as they walked. "Where are you taking me?"
"To see Lord Domeric."
"And that Bolton noble—he's taking my skin off?" Ygritte shrugged as if she couldn't care less.
Jon gave her a strange look, but he didn't answer.
Before they entered the administrative hall, Ygritte was searched.
Thoroughly.
From head to toe, every place a weapon could be hidden was checked—right down to the soles of her feet.
The one doing the search was that young knight—Jon.
Judging by how red he got, how his hands fumbled, how his breath kept catching, Ygritte suddenly found it funny.
What a strange man.
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🏰🩸 GAME OF THRONES: SECRETS BENEATH THE DREADFORT 🩸🏰
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📢 DARK SECRETS RISE IN THE NORTH! 📢
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Beneath the Dreadfort, old horrors stir.
Power, bloodlines, betrayal, northern cruelty, and buried secrets wait beneath one of the most feared castles in Westeros.
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🩸 And some secrets should have stayed buried.
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