Nerd In The North II-21

II-21: Blood on Snow III

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Her breath came in ragged gasps, misting briefly in the frigid air before dissipating into the dark as Gwenna rushed through the depths of the forest. Fear, raw and biting, clawed at her insides and fueled her feet as she darted between gnarled trees and thick underbrush. 

The snow beneath her boots betrayed her with each step, crunching loud enough to wake the old gods themselves. They’ll hear me. They’ll find me. Her legs burned from the effort, muscles screaming in protest as she pushed herself harder, deeper into the ancient woods.

Branches whipped across her face with cruel persistence, leaving thin, stinging welts that brought tears to her eyes. She ducked under a low-hanging limb, heart sinking as she heard a bark pierce the darkness, closer now than before. No, please, no. The sound echoed through the trees, bouncing off the thick trunks until she couldn’t tell which direction it had come from. 

Her heart hammered against her ribs like a smith’s hammer on steel, each beat a desperate prayer to gods she wasn’t sure were listening. The cold dread that gripped her matched the bitter wind that cut through her cloak, leaving her shivering despite her frantic pace. Fresh snow fell in gentle swirls, beautiful and treacherous, obscuring landmarks she might have used to guide her way. Which way is north? Which way is home? But home wasn’t home anymore, not after what she’d seen.

Through the undergrowth she stumbled, her mind unwillingly dragging her back to the horrors she’d witnessed mere hours before. The memories came unbidden, as sharp as the icy air in her lungs. Her village had been small but proud, a collection of stubborn souls who’d carved out a life so far north that summer was just a fleeting dream between endless winters. They’d survived wolves and wildlings, bears and blizzards, but they hadn’t been prepared for what came through their gates that morning.

The monstrous hound had been the first sign something was wrong – a beast too large to be natural, with eyes that gleamed with an almost human malice. Lord Bolton’s beast, her father had named it, spitting the words like poison. She’d never seen her father afraid before that moment, not even during the worst winter storms. But there had been fear in his eyes then, mixed with a hatred that made her blood run cold.

The chaos that followed played out in her mind with horrible clarity: the beast tearing through their guards like they were made of parchment, the clash of steel ringing out across the yard, and then those awful wet sounds – sounds no person should ever have to hear. She remembered the screams most of all, how they’d started as shouts of defiance and ended in desperate, animal whimpers.

Gwenna’s legs trembled traitorously as Lorn’s ruined face flashed through her mind. Her new husband, wed not a month past, had been simple and kind, if not the stuff of maiden’s songs. She’d married him to please her father, to quell his fears about her mooning over the missing lordling who’d spent only a month in Frostfall before her father had sent him on his way. I never even got to know him proper, she thought, the grief threatening to overwhelm her. Lorn had deserved better than to die with fear in his eyes and half his face between a monster’s jaws.

Her father’s end had come soon after, his last act one of desperate rebellion against the cruel lord who’d brought such horror to their door. She’d watched, frozen in terror, as his sword arm was wrenched from his body, painting the pristine snow with great arcs of crimson. Like the weirwood’s leaves, she thought numbly, the comparison coming unbidden to her mind.

She hadn’t loved Lorn, not truly, not like in the songs. But in those final, terrible moments, she’d realized that she had cared for him deeply, in her own way. Now he was gone, and her father with him, both claimed by the same savage violence that seemed as much a part of the North as the very frost itself.

Tears threatened to blur her vision, but she blinked them back fiercely, gritting her teeth until her jaw ached as she continued pushing further into the darkness. Crying won’t save you now, you stupid girl. The old gods themselves wouldn’t waste their time with her tears, not here in these cursed woods, not with death snapping at her heels.

The sound of barking grew louder, echoing through the twisted branches like the screams of the damned, snapping Gwenna back to the grim present. They were hunting her like a common stag, and she knew with a sinking heart that the dogs would be relentless – they had the scent of fear and weakness about them. She could almost feel the thick, hot breath of the monstrous beast on her neck, smell the metallic stench of blood and death that clung to its maw like a second skin. 

A violent shiver wracked her body, born not just from the biting cold but from the raw terror that clawed at her insides like a trapped animal. Father, Lorne, m’lord… anyone… Her hushed prayers disappeared into the darkness, swallowed by the howling wind.

Her foot caught on a hidden root, treacherous beneath its blanket of fresh snow, and she barely caught herself before plunging face-first into the frozen ground. Her palms stung fiercely where they’d scraped against the rough bark, the bite of the frost making them feel like they’d been plunged into burning coals. Forcing herself up, she pushed her protesting legs onward. Survival hung before her like a thread of spider’s silk, fragile and nearly invisible in the growing dark, but it was all she had left to cling to. Every part of her ached deeply, from her burning lungs to her frost-nipped fingers that had long since lost all feeling, but stopping meant death—or worse, if the stories were true.

Her mind whirled with dark thoughts of what awaited her if the Bolton lord caught her, each more terrible than the last. Even in the hardened North, where men were no strangers to brutality and winter’s cruel mercies, the tales of Bolton cruelty were whispered only in hushed tones, as if speaking them too loudly might summon their attention. She had barely known Greg, the lordling her heart had supposedly pined for according to her father’s gruff accusations, but in that moment of pure terror, she wished desperately that he was with her. Not just the fantasy of him she’d built in her mind during those long winter nights to keep her thoughts from the grim realities of her life, but the real man, with steel in his hand and strength in his arm.

I have to keep going. I have to survive, she told herself, her breath forming thick white clouds that dissipated into the darkness like the ghosts of all those she’d left behind. For Lorn, for Father, for myself. The words became a rhythm in her mind, matching the desperate pounding of her heart.

As the sky darkened to the color of an old bruise and the snow fell more thickly around her, obscuring what little path she could see, Gwenna pressed on through the growing gloom. Her steps were uncertain but determined, each one taking her further from the horror behind her, even as the sounds of pursuit grew stronger, more certain. The baying of the hounds echoed through the trees like the horns of some ancient, terrible hunt.

She forced her legs to keep moving, every muscle screaming in protest as she plunged deeper into the snowy woods of Frostfall. Her breaths came in ragged gasps, visible puffs of steam that mingled with the cold air, fading as quickly as her hopes of escape. Every step was a battle against the numbness spreading through her fingers and toes, her limbs heavy and awkward as she stumbled through the underbrush.

Hidden patches of black ice lurked beneath the fresh snow like cruel japes from the gods, sending her sprawling repeatedly into winter’s merciless embrace. Each fall robbed her of precious warmth, leaving her clothes sodden and frozen against her skin. The thorny undergrowth proved just as treacherous, snagging at her skirts with greedy fingers, pulling threads and tearing fabric as she fought desperately to free herself. Behind her, tattered remnants of her dress marked her frantic path like breadcrumbs in an old child’s tale, only these would lead not to salvation but to her doom.

The sharp tang of fear rose in her throat as she realized her mistakes. Think, you fool, think. Desperate to throw off the pursuing hounds, she doubled back on her own trail, forcing her burning legs through a thickly wooded copse where branches grew so close together they seemed to form a wall. The dense growth might confuse the dogs’ scent, if the old hunters’ tales held any truth. Her boots crushed fallen pine needles with each step, their pungent aroma rising up like incense in a sept. 

Might be it’ll mask my scent. Her mind raced with every scrap of hunting knowledge she’d gleaned from listening to the men’s tales by the hearth, each memory now a thin thread of hope in the growing darkness.

The barks echoed through the woods with terrible clarity, closer now, filled with the eagerness of creatures that had caught the scent of prey. Men’s voices followed, harsh shouts that cut through the forest’s eerie silence like steel through flesh. Raw terror seized her then, an animal fear that made her breath catch in her throat. Too close. They’re too close.

Her eyes darted wildly about, searching and searching, until they fell upon a shallow depression, nearly hidden beneath a thick blanket of snow and dead vegetation. With trembling hands that felt more like claws, she cleared just enough space to squeeze her body into the hollow, dragging clusters of wet foliage over herself until she was completely covered. She curled into a tight ball, like a child hiding from thunder, her body wracked with violent shivering born of both cold and consuming terror.

Buried in her frozen sanctuary, Gwenna forced herself to take shallow, controlled breaths, though her lungs burned for air. She pressed her hand hard against her mouth, feeling the hammering of her heart all the way to her fingertips. The sounds of pursuit grew louder, then stopped altogether, leaving a silence more terrifying than all the noise that had come before. The snuffling of the dogs seemed to fill the whole world, their heated breaths visible in the frigid air as they cast about for her scent. The musky smell of unwashed men and leather armor drifted down to her hiding place, mixing with the earthy decay of the forest floor.

A massive shape appeared at the edge of her makeshift den, and Gwenna’s blood turned to ice in her veins. The hound’s eyes glowed like hot coals in the growing dark, its muzzle wet with ropes of saliva that dripped onto the pristine snow. Its growl started low in its massive chest, a sound that seemed to shake the very ground beneath her. Horror rooted her in place as those burning eyes fixed upon her hiding spot, seeing through her pitiful attempt at concealment as easily as sunlight through spring ice.

She made to scramble upright, panic lending strength to her frozen limbs, but her movement faltered at the sight that greeted her from the other direction. Lord Bolton stood there, his presence as cold and forbidding as the Wall itself. His eyes, pale as morning frost, held no more emotion than a winter sky, though his lips curved in a smile that spoke of unspeakable promises. The blood that stained his clothing appeared black in the failing light, a reminder of what he had already done to those she loved.

Half of his men formed a loose circle around him, each one etched in Gwenna’s mind’ the long-haired man absently toying with a cruel-looking whip, his expression as bored as if he were watching sheep graze; the thin one whose eyes held all the warmth of a frozen lake; and the round-faced man, giggling like a child at a feast as he brandished his blood-streaked sword.

The other half of his men were nowhere to be found. His other hounds too, their absence as unsettling as their master’s smile.

“That was short,” the lord’s voice dripped with disappointment, like poison from a blade. His pale eyes glittered with barely contained malice, chips of ice in a face flushed with the thrill of the hunt as he ran his tongue across his lips. “But not a poor hunt, all things considered.” 

Gwenna bit back a sob that threatened to tear from her throat. Don’t give him the satisfaction. Don’t let him see ye break. But her body betrayed her, trembling like a leaf in a storm.

“Very good, girl!” Lord Bolton’s voice rose with a terrible delight that made her stomach turn. He took a step closer, boots crunching in the fresh snow, his grin spreading wider across his face like a crack in winter ice. “Ye did try, didn’t ye? Put up a proper chase, just like they all do.” 

He leaned in close enough that she could smell the leather of his jerkin and something metallic beneath, his breath hot against her frozen cheek. “But it’s always the same in the end. Nobody runs forever. They all tire eventually.” A giggle escaped his lips, high and unsettling in the growing dark.

Frozen tears traced burning paths down her cheeks before the bitter cold claimed them. She raised her eyes to meet his gaze, knowing with crushing certainty that begging would prove as futile as her desperate flight had been. Like trying to bargain with winter itself.

He approached with the deliberate grace of a predator, satisfaction etched into every line of his face. “I do love a good chase,” he mused aloud, his eyes never leaving her face, unblinking as a snake’s. “The thrill of the hunt, the sound of prey crashin’ through the brush.” His grin widened further, showing too many teeth as the words rolled off his tongue like he was tasting something sweet. “But I find the ending… oh, the ending is the part I savor most.” 

Terror had stolen her voice, leaving her mute as a fish while she stared into those pale eyes, searching desperately for even a glimmer of mercy and finding only an endless winter. His smile spread slowly across his face, deliberate as a knife-cut, holding all the warmth of a grave. Her ragged breaths hung heavy in the frosty air as he advanced, the massive hound pacing at his side like death’s own shadow, muscles rippling beneath its dark hide, ready to spring at its master’s command.

Her legs, burning and leaden from her futile flight, finally betrayed her completely. She stumbled backward, her feet sinking deep into the soft, treacherous snow. But as he drew closer, his cruel smile suddenly froze, his head snapping to the side like a hound catching a scent.  The great beast beside him tensed as well, its ears pricking forward toward something unseen, a low growl building in its massive chest.

Gwenna, her heart hammering against her ribs hard enough to hurt, turned to follow their gaze.

Through the dimming light of dusk, a strange golden glow flickered between the ancient trees, dancing like wildfire. The lord’s pale eyes widened in genuine bewilderment, his thin lips parting slightly. “What in the bloody he-?”

Before he could finish his curse, the forest around them erupted into chaos.

A deafening roar filled the air, a hurried blend of motion and a chilling spray of ice and snow that transformed into water upon contact with the air. Gwenna flinched, her eyes squeezed shut for a moment as the unexpected assault of elements disoriented her.

The lord recoiled sharply, cursing under his breath as he staggered back, his composure shattered by the sudden onslaught. The once-menacing dog, caught off-guard, yelped as it was hurled through the air by the sudden blur of motion. It landed with a thud, tumbling gracelessly through the snow, and crashing hard against the ground.

She blinked, disbelieving, as the cause of the disturbance skidded to a halt in front of her. Her eyes, wide with shock, took in the sight—a boy, not much older than herself, with shaggy blond hair matted to his forehead. He was dressed in a fine blue shirt with delicate white embroidering and light brown breeches that were now damp with melted snow. A well-made brown bag clung to his back, looking out of place and hurriedly packed.

Blue eyes met hers, wide and rimmed with red, chest heaving. Steam rose from him in thick, curling plumes, more akin to smoke billowing from a chimney. Beneath his feet, the snow melted into small puddles, the heat emanating from his body creating a stark contrast with the frozen ground around them.

His skin was an alarming shade of red, veins dark and prominent beneath the surface, pulsing with an intense heat that seemed to radiate outward, warming the frigid air between them. She could feel the heat rolling off him in oppressive waves, almost as if he himself were a walking furnace.

As she stared, momentarily distracted from her fear of Ramsay, the girl blinked as recognition made her eyes widen.

“M’lord Greg?”