Gasi

Interlude: Gwenna

Gwenna's boots crunched through the thin layer of frost that coated the ground, her breath misting in the crisp afternoon air. The village of Frostfall bustled around her, a cacophony of familiar sounds that had been the backdrop of her life for as long as she could remember. The clanging of the blacksmith's hammer, the lowing of cattle, the chatter of villagers as they went about their daily tasks—it was a symphony she knew by heart, as comforting as a mother's lullaby.

Old Edda said this Winter would be a bad one, she thought, pulling her woolen cloak tighter around her shoulders. Old Gods be good, she'll be wrong. The rough fabric scratched against her neck, the homespun cloth a far cry from the soft silks and velvets she'd heard the southron ladies wore. But it was warm and sturdy, and that was what mattered

As she walked, Gwenna's hand drifted to the small wooden charm that hung from a leather cord around her neck. It was a habit she'd developed whenever she was lost in thought, her fingers tracing the intricate carved lines of the weirwood face. Her father had given it to her on her last nameday, a fallen piece of weirwood.

To keep the old gods close, he'd told her when she put it on.

And we'll be needin' them close, if this Winter is half as bad as Edda says,Gwenna mused, a small frown tugging at her lips. Da had made clear that Winter was nothing she had ever seen before, as she had only been barely more than a babe when Summer started but the longer the Summer, the worse the Winter was something he repeated often. As this Summer had stretched for so long, they were due for a harsh one, and the thought sent a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with the chill in the air.

Shaking off the gloomy thoughts, Gwenna quickened her pace, her nose twitching as the scent of freshly baked bread wafted from Alin the baker's shop. Her stomach growled in response, reminding her that she hadn't eaten since breaking her fast that morning. She'd been too busy helping her father with village matters.

Or at least trying to.

Da says village work is for the chief, she thought with a huff, her arms crossing over her chest as she recalled the way he'd shooed her off, like she was still a babe clinging to her mother's skirts. I'm four and ten, old enough to help. I'll be runnin' this village myself someday.

"Gwenna!" A booming voice jolted her from her thoughts, and she looked up to see Alin himself standing in the doorway of his shop, his ruddy face split in a wide grin. "'Ad a taste of that fresh berry tart yet?"

Gwenna shook her head, a small smile tugging at her own lips in response. "Not yet, Alin," she called back, "but I will be trying it soon!" If there's time between all the chores, she added silently.

"Aye, well, don't ye be waitin' too long," Alin chuckled, his accent thick with the Northern brogue. "Berries won't last forever, what with th' cold comin' on so quick-like."

"I'll be sure to remember that," Gwenna promised, her smile widening a fraction.

As she continued on her way, more villagers called out to her, their greetings and small talk as much a part of the daily rhythm of Frostfall as anything else.

"Mornin', Gwenna! Off to help yer da again?"

"Aye, and he'll be lucky to have her, with that head for figures she's got!"

"Gwenna, tell yer ma I'll have that new batch o' candles ready by week's end, will ye?"

She answered each in turn, the warmth of the exchanges chasing away the last of the chill from her bones. This was what she loved about Frostfall, this sense of community, of everyone looking out for everyone else. As much as she felt a bit of envy toward the stories of the wealthy South, the tales of their spite and malice also tempered her thoughts just as much.

Lost in the comfort of the familiar, Gwenna almost didn't notice when she reached the village gates. But the sight of Edric standing guard, his youthful face set in a serious expression that always made her want to laugh, quickly brought her back to the present.

He's comely enough, she supposed, eyeing the young man speculatively, but about as exciting as watching paint dry on a fence post. Still, a bit of harmless talk never hurt anyone, and it might just brighten up her day.

"Afternoon, Edric," she called out as she approached, a coy smile playing about her lips. "Lovely day for some fresh air beyond the walls, don't you think? I was hoping to pick some wildflowers. The meadow is just blooming."

Edric's brow furrowed, his grip tightening on his spear as he held the thing as firmly and as straight as his own back stood. "I'd agree on the weather, Gwenna, but you know your father's rules," he said, his tone firm but not unkind. "He's said it many a time, he has, there'll be no letting you out alone."

Gwenna felt a flicker of annoyance rise in her chest, her smile slipping a notch. I'm not some babe in swaddling clothes, she thought irritably, but kept her voice light as she responded. "Was back two moons ago he said that, I know it. Surely, the flowers can't be as dangerous as all that?"

"It's not the flowers I'm worried about, and you know that well enough," Edric replied, shaking his head. "I can't let you go, not without extra hands and eyes to keep you safe. There's been talk of Wildlings movin' south, and with winter comin' on..."

He trailed off, but Gwenna could fill in the rest. With winter coming, the Wildlings would be getting desperate, more likely to risk raids on northern villages like Frostfall in search of food and supplies. It was a tale as old as the North itself, and one that never ended well for anyone involved.

Still, I can take care of myself, she thought stubbornly. I've been practicing with a bow, and I'm getting good. I could help defend the village, if it came to it.

She opened her mouth to say as much, to argue her case, but the words died on her tongue as a sudden, sharp sound cut through the air. It was a noise she'd heard before, in the practice yard when the men were training, but never with such a sickening, meaty thunk at the end.

Time seemed to slow as Gwenna's eyes widened in horror, taking in the arrow that now protruded from Edric's neck. The young guard's hands flew up to clutch at the wound, but blood was already seeping through his fingers, bright red against his pale skin.

"Edric?" Gwenna's voice sounded small and far away to her own ears, as if it belonged to someone else entirely. This couldn't be happening. It had to be a dream, a nightmare. Any moment now she would wake up, safe in her bed, with the sounds of the village coming to life outside her window.

But she didn't wake up. And as Edric collapsed to the ground in front of her, his legs giving out like a puppet with its strings cut, the horrible reality of the situation came crashing down on her like a ton of stone.

The young guard tried to speak, but only a wet, gurgling noise escaped his lips.

"No, no, no..." Gwenna whispered, stumbling backward. Her heart was pounding so hard she thought it might burst from her chest, drumming in her ears and drowning out the sudden screams and shouts erupting around her. Her hands shook uncontrollably, and a cold fear washed over her, as icy as the winds that howled down from beyond the Wall.

"Edric!" The name tore from her throat, high and panicked.

The Old Gods protect us, she prayed silently, fervently. This can't be real, it can't be happening, not here, not to us…

But even as the desperate thoughts raced through her mind, the sounds of chaos erupted around her. Screams and shouts filled the air, mingling with the clash of metal on metal and the ominous crackle of flames. Smoke began to rise from the thatched roofs of the village buildings, carrying with it the acrid scent of destruction and death.

But it was real. All too real. Above it all, rising like a clarion call of doom, came the cry that confirmed her worst fears:

"Wildlings!" The voice rang out, sharp and terrified. "Wildlings at th' gates!"

Gwenna's mind raced, her father's lessons on what to do in case of an attack warring with her instinct to run and hide. She could smell smoke now, acrid and thick, as the first flames began to lick at the thatched roofs of the village buildings.

I have ta find Da, she thought desperately, forcing her legs to move. I have ta-

She ran.

Gwenna's heart hammered in her chest like a smithy's anvil, the rhythm so fierce she feared it might burst forth from her ribs, and the taste of fear, bitter as winter berries, coated her tongue.

Gwenna's legs moved of their own accord, carrying her through the maelstrom of panicked villagers and marauding wildlings. The guards were trying their best but they were few and scattered and the wildlings were as savage in battle as they were in their looks. The rough cobblestones beneath her feet were slick with blood and melting snow, threatening to upend her with each hurried step. She ducked behind an overturned cart, the splintered wood digging into her palms as she steadied herself.

From her hiding spot, Gwenna watched in horror as Betha Bones, the village midwife, was cut down by a wildling's rusty blade. The old woman's eyes, cloudy with cataracts, seemed to find the village girl in her final moments, silently pleading for help.

Gwenna's eyes stung, tears cutting tracks through the grime on her cheeks, but she couldn't tell if they were from the billowing smoke or the sheer terror that gripped her soul. Around her, Frostfall crumbled, the village that had been her entire world reduced to blood and ash. The screams of the dying mingled with the cries of the living, a cacophony of suffering that made her heart ache.

Old Gods, hear me, Gwenna prayed silently, her fingers clutching the wooden charm at her throat like a drowning man grasping for a raft. Spare us from this unholy nightmare.

A thunderous crash drew her attention, and Gwenna's head snapped towards the east gate, the door not too far from where she stood. The smaller wooden barrier, meant more for traders and fisherfolk than defense, burst open in a spray of splinters. Through the gap strode a figure out of nightmares - a wildling, massive and menacing, his crude axe already stained with old blood.

Gods have mercy, Gwenna thought desperately, fear turning her limbs to lead as the raider started towards her. His strides were long and purposeful, a predator who had sighted his prey.

His eyes, wild and hungry as a starving direwolf, scanned the fracas until they locked onto Gwenna. The grin that split his face was something out of the deepest of nightmares.Yellowed teeth, more absent than present, gleamed in the firelight as he started towards her. Gwenna's breath caught in her throat, her limbs frozen in terror.

"Oi, what's this then?" the wildling called out, his voice rough as gravel and thick with a barbarous accent. "A pretty little kneeler, all alone?" He spat on the ground, the glob of phlegm landing inches from Edric's still form. Gwenna's stomach churned at the casual disrespect, bile rising in her throat. "Gonna have some fun with ye, I am."

Move! a voice in her head screamed, cutting through the fog of terror. Move or die, you fool!

Her body obeyed, but too late and too clumsy. As she scrambled backwards, her foot caught in the hem of her long skirts, sending her sprawling. The impact with the hard ground drove the air from her lungs, leaving her gasping like a landed trout.

Tears blurred her vision as she clawed at the blood-soaked earth, fingers scrabbling for purchase, for anything to drag herself away from the approaching nightmare. The rough wool of her dress scraped against her skin, a sudden, sharp counterpoint to the numbness of her terror.

"Ain't ye a lively one?" The wildling's voice was closer now, heavy with cruel amusement. His shadow fell over Gwenna, blocking out the sun. "Makes it more fun when they squirm."

Gwenna squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the killing blow. Regrets flooded through her - things unsaid, deeds undone. I'm sorry, Da. I'm sorry, Ma. I wasn't strong enough.

She waited for the bite of the axe, for the blinding pain that would herald the end of all she knew. But it never came. Instead, there was a wet, choked off gurgle, the sound of a man trying to breathe through a throat full of blood.

Gwenna's eyes snapped open, just in time to see the wildling's body, cleaved nearly in two, topple to the side in a fountain of scarlet. The spray of it was hot across her face, shockingly warm in the chill air. She gagged, the coppery taste overwhelming her senses.

For a moment, all she could do was stare, her mind struggling to make sense of the sudden, violent turn. It was only when a figure stepped into her field of vision, blocking out the grisly sight, that she blinked, awareness seeping back in.

It was a boy, she realized, not much older than herself. He was smiling down at her, but it was a shaky thing, more queasy than confident. In his hand, he held a strange sword, like none Gwenna had ever seen. It lacked a crossguard, seeming to be all one piece, and the metal gleamed with the pure, untouched white of fresh fallen snow.

Who in the hells? The thought flashed through Gwenna's mind, confusion momentarily overriding her fear. She'd thought she knew every face in Frostfall, but this boy was utterly foreign to her. His hair shone like burnished gold in the waning light, and his eyes, bluer than any sky Gwenna had ever seen, held a depth of concern she'd never found in the gaze of any of the village boys.

Before Gwenna could find her voice, the strange boy spoke and she saw bright teeth, whiter and cleaner than she'd ever seen in her life. His words were gentle, but his accent was unlike anything she'd ever heard in the North.

"Hey, girlie, you doing okay?"