Chapter 41: A Show of Force?
Fine snow drifted from the sky, carried sideways by the howling wind, leaving behind a biting, relentless chill.
"In weather like this, what prey would be foolish enough to wander out?" Saelen muttered, rubbing his numb cheeks with stiff fingers and exhaling a plume of white mist.
Beside him, Val spoke calmly, her tone steady despite the cold.
"Hunting in this kind of weather requires patience."
The snow underfoot was thick enough to swallow their ankles. Each step Saelen took sank deep, producing a sharp crunch, crunch that echoed through the silent forest.
"Unfortunately," Saelen said, scanning the endless silver-white woods around them, "patience is the one thing I don't have."
The world had turned into a frozen sea of white. Even with his masterful archery, there was nothing to shoot. Without prey, skill meant nothing.
It had been ten days since they left the Fist of the First Men. The snowfall had begun only a few days into their march, drastically slowing their progress. Supplies were running low. Saelen had hoped to hunt and supplement their rations with fresh meat—but the heavens clearly had other plans.
Abandoning the effort, he led Val back to their temporary camp.
Benjen and Qhorin sat by the fire, faces grave and drawn, the flames barely pushing back the creeping cold.
"This cursed weather won't give us any game," Saelen called out before he even reached them. "We're almost out of food. We need to reach Craster's Keep as soon as possible. Hunger and frost will kill us just as surely as any enemy."
Othell approached him with an uneasy expression.
"My lord… there's something you need to see."
The tension in the men's faces made Saelen's stomach tighten. A cold unease spread through him—colder than the wind.
He nodded. "Lead the way."
They followed Othell up a shallow slope.
At the top, ten spears had been planted into the frozen earth.
And upon each spearpoint—
A severed head.
Most of the severed heads were badly decomposed, their features rotted beyond recognition. Only the one in the center remained relatively intact.
Saelen stepped closer. A flicker of familiarity struck him—then realization hit like a blade to the gut.
"Tarly?" he breathed, eyes widening in shock.
"My lord," Othell said carefully, stepping forward, "our scouts discovered them nearby."
Saelen crouched and examined the neck. The cut was clean and smooth—taken off in a single stroke. He already knew who was capable of such precision. He only needed confirmation.
"They were near the Wall. How did their heads end up here?" he asked coldly. "Did you find the bodies?"
Qhorin shook his head. "We searched the entire area. Nothing. No corpses. Not even signs of a struggle. It looks more like they were brought here from somewhere else."
"Who would do something like this?" Robb asked, troubled.
"Could it be the wildlings?" Theon suggested.
Val immediately shook her head. "Don't blame everything on the free folk. This isn't our doing. If free folk kill, we burn the bodies. No one would go to the trouble of displaying heads like this."
"Then there's only one answer," Saelen said quietly, his voice hardening. "The Others."
He lifted his gaze to the line of impaled heads.
"This is a warning."
Tarly had followed him for years. A loyal man. And now he ended here—head mounted like a trophy.
I'll avenge you, Saelen swore silently.
"My lord," Othell added, "I counted. One body is missing. He may have escaped."
"Let's hope he reached the Wall in time," Saelen said grimly. "They need to know the Others are moving."
He straightened.
"Othell. Gather what remains. Burn them. They deserve better than this."
"Yes, my lord."
---
Two days later, exhausted and half-frozen, Saelen's party reached Craster's Keep.
After surrendering two more wineskins of Arbor gold, Craster grudgingly allowed them inside to rest—but refused to provide food. Saelen didn't argue. He had other plans.
"Benjen," Craster suddenly called out from beside the fire, swigging deeply from the wine, "find your King-Beyond-the-Wall yet?"
Benjen merely shook his head.
Craster smacked his lips appreciatively. "You southrons may be good at forging steel, but I'll grant you this—you brew a fine drink."
His gaze drifted toward Val, lingering in open appraisal.
"So," he sneered, "have the crows changed their vows? Did you march all this way just to drag home a wildling whore?"
Val's brows knitted in anger, but she held her tongue. They were guests—barely tolerated ones.
Craster laughed and drank again, unconcerned. The hall grew heavy with tension.
Unable to bear it, Robb rose and stepped outside.
The icy air cleared his head. Snow fell softly around him as he wandered aimlessly—until he heard it.
A baby crying.
Curious, Robb approached a small hut nearby. Inside, a young woman cradled a newborn, nursing him.
Startled, Robb immediately turned away. "Forgive me—I didn't know—"
"Please, my lord—wait."
Her voice trembled.
Robb paused. "Yes?"
The woman gathered her courage, clutching the infant as she hurried forward—and suddenly knelt before him.
"My lord, please save my child. He's only a few days old. Look—he's beautiful."
She lifted the baby gently. The boy waved tiny hands and gurgled, unaware of the world's cruelty.
Robb couldn't help but smile faintly.
"He looks healthy," he said softly. "What danger is he in?"
Tears spilled down her cheeks.
"He is healthy. But he is a boy."
Robb frowned.
"And that means?"
"Have you not noticed?" she whispered desperately. "There are no boys here. No grown sons. No male children—only Craster."
Robb's heart sank.
"Why?"
"Because every newborn son… Craster sacrifices them. He offers them to a god. In exchange for protection."
Robb stiffened. "A god?"
"I don't know its name," she said, shaking. "Only that it has blue eyes and skin pale as snow. Whenever it comes, the wind howls. The cold deepens. Ice forms upon the ground."
Robb's blood ran cold.
"My lord," she sobbed, clutching the baby tightly, "please. Take us with you when you leave. I can cook, clean, tend pigs and sheep—anything. Just save my son."
Robb stared at the child, then at the trembling mother.
"The Others…" he whispered.
Craster wasn't merely surviving beyond the Wall.
He was feeding them.