The ravens quorked as Sam fed them; a meagre meal of dried corn and seeds, but they were on strict rations. The men of the Night's Watch were, too, as Sam's growling stomach often reminded him. Even though they had since stopped to rest at Craster's Keep on their way further North, Craster was stingy with his food and only grudgingly offered them shelter. He would say that it was out of the kindness of his heart that he let the Night's Watch share his hall, but Sam reckoned that his heart was as black as the thick fur cloak on Sam's shoulders. How he treated his daughter-wives was proof enough of that; they cowered in fear when he approached them, Sam saw, like rabbits before a wolf. And Craster was certainly wolfish.
'D'you think any other free man would let you lot share his mead and meat, and sleep beneath his roof? No, they wouldn't. I'm a better man than most, and generous, too,' Craster had told them loudly the night before, as Sam and his brothers had eaten a thin gruel that might have contained a bit of hare. His brothers had looked over their cups murderously, and Sam feared that one of them might say something to enrage Craster. But Lord Commander Mormont had given them a stern look, and the men had returned to their supper.
Sam had been hungry before eating, and he was, if possible, even hungrier after. As he sat watching the fire in the middle of Craster's hall, he thought again how he shouldn't be there. He was a man of the Night's Watch, true; but only because he had said the vows. He was a craven; a big, fat craven, who couldn't fight. He was miserable at Craster's Keep, but once they began to travel farther North, he knew he'd be unhappier still. He didn't like the cold; at Horn Hill, where he'd been raised during the Long Summer, it had been warm almost always. Here, the wind was bitterly cold and you could never seem to keep warm, no matter how many layers you wore, or, as the others liked to say, no matter how fat he was. And worse still, there were wildlings further North; not wildlings like Craster, who was nasty but unwilling to kill men of the Night's Watch if there was benefit to him. No, the wildlings waiting for them were hard men and women, with a deep and furious hate of the men who wore black and patrolled the Wall. Sam had read about some of them; the Thenns, who kept Lords not unlike Southern folk, and the people of the Hornfoot clan, who had feet as tough as old leather boots. Sam had heard of more frightening tribes, too; some were said to be vicious cannibals. Sam shivered, despite the radiating warmth of the fire. In the back of his mind, a voice seemed to be whispering to him, calling to mind memories of a man who had risen after death and tried to kill the Lord Commander. Three blasts for Others, Sam thought, then, no, no, I can't think of that, not here, not now. Others were worse than wildlings, even cannibals; much, much worse. No, Sam thought, I can't think of that. If he started to imagine what they might find farther North, he would start to shake, or even cry, and then he would shame the Night's Watch in front of Craster. He was such a coward, just like his father had always said. And so cold.
He pulled his cloak tighter around him. All the men had finished their meagre supper, it seemed, and Craster's daughter-wives were moving around collecting the bowls. They didn't dare get too close to the men, Sam noticed; they kept their heads bowed, sometimes glancing at Craster as if to reassure him that they were his. Craster had his wolfish grin on his face. There was a bitter taste at the back of Sam's throat. How can a man wed his daughters? He thought. And keep them so afraid? If the Night's Watch didn't need Craster as a friend- no, he's not a friend, a grudging ally, maybe- Lord Commander Mormont would never go near his hall. Craster was a proud and cruel man, and the Lord Commander, though ever courteous and noble, bore his mistrust of Craster in every line of his weathered face. Craster is a man to be used when needed, but never trusted.
That was when Sam noticed Gilly for the first time, although he didn't know her name then. She took his bowl, gently, moving slowly because of her big belly. She's pregnant, Sam thought, and nearly due. She was wrapped in a big cloak, ratty and threadbare. She kept her head bowed, as Craster's other daughter-wives did, but Sam could see she was very pretty. Her hair was unwashed and her face was streaked with soot from tending the fires, but she had pale, clear skin and round brown eyes. She has eyes like a doe, Sam thought. She's the deer, and Craster's the wolf.
Gilly raised her head for a moment, and her eyes met Sam's. They widened in fear, and she turned away quickly, moving to the next man to collect his bowl. Sam's heart thudded in fear as he turned to Craster, to see if he'd seen Sam looking at Gilly, but he was laughing loudly at something the Lord Commander had said. The Lord Commander was not smiling. One of Craster's other daughter-wives filled Craster's cup with wine and slunk away, to stand silently in the shadows until she was needed. Sam moved his gaze carefully, slowly, to Gilly, who had started to wash the bowls she had collected with one of her sisters. Her hands were small and pale, Sam saw. They were dirty and rough-skinned, but gentle. How old is she? Sam wondered. She can't be more than sixteen. And married to Craster, about to have his child.
A thought began to form in Sam's mind, then; it grew, worming its way to the surface of his thoughts. Why are there no male children? Surely, with all his wives, Craster must have had some male children, but there were none in the hall that Sam could see. The bitter taste at the back of Sam's throat filled his mouth. Craster's not a man to tolerate competition, he thought. He guards his wives jealously, like a hound with a bone. Perhaps his sons were sent to live with other wildlings, or maybe he sent them to live on their own once they were old enough. Perhaps he kills them, Sam thought suddenly, but he pushed the idea away. No, not even Craster could be so cruel. Even Craster wouldn't kill his own sons, surely? But the idea pulled at him, would not leave him alone, and when he fell asleep that night on the hard floor of Craster's Keep, he dreamed of screaming babies and Gilly's face, streaked with tears. He woke up breathing heavily, before he remembered that he had to feed the ravens and was probably already late to rise. He couldn't even wake up properly. He thought miserably of his featherbed at Horn Hill, and of rising and breaking his fast with his mother in her solar, as the warm sun shined through the windows. It's never warm here, he thought, shrugging on his thick cloak and shivering.
After feeding the ravens, Sam helped gather wood and pig dung for the fires. Grenn had thick, muscular shoulders and arms, and easily carried piles of logs into the hall; but Sam was so fat and weak that he could only carry a few at a time, and soon had to rest, sweat running down his face. He could hear his father's voice, soft and cruel; once, Randyll Tarly had told Sam to carry wood from the woodpile to the blacksmith's hut, and Sam had collapsed on the ground, puffing and exhausted. Randyll Tarly had made Sam get up and carry all the wood to the hut, watching him all the while with eyes as cold and hard as ice. When Sam had finally finished, the blisters on his hand had made him sob all the way up the steps to his chambers. He knew he shouldn't have cried; his father's wrath had been terrible to behold, but he had been so tired, and his hands had been terribly sore. His mother had come to his chambers after, and had bound his hands with linen and kissed his forehead. He had stopped crying then. 'You have to be strong, Sam,' she had told him. 'You have to be brave, at least in front of your father.' Sam had wailed and told her that he couldn't, he wasn't brave, not at all; he was a craven. But his mother had only smiled sadly and stroked his hair. 'You are braver than you know, Sam,' she had told him. She had been wrong; Sam was a coward, he knew it, but her words had comforted him all the same.
'Hello?' A timid voice asked behind Sam, making him jump. He turned, and saw Gilly, standing in her ragged cloak, one hand held protectively over her belly. 'I- I'm Gilly. For the gillyflower,' she said, and Sam could see she was frightened; he was, too. He shouldn't be talking to her. Craster had warned all the men against even looking at his wives; he had threatened to take their hands.
'I can't- I can't speak to you, I can't, you're one of Craster's wives,' Sam mumbled feebly. Gilly swallowed and took his hand, leading him behind the raven cage, out of sight of anyone who might be nearby. 'G-Gilly, please,' Sam pleaded.
'Please, I need your help. I wouldn't talk to you, but... I need help,' she said, searching his face, her eyes desperate. 'You looked kind, last night at supper, you had kind eyes,' she said, trying to explain. Sam wanted to run; to get as far from her as possible, before Craster found them and punished them both. But his hand tingled where she had grabbed it, and despite himself, he stayed.
'I- how can I help you? I don't have any food, or spare clothing,' he replied. He didn't understand what she could want; Craster was helping them, he didn't have anything to give her. She glanced quickly back over her shoulder before speaking.
'I'm to have a baby, and soon,' she said, her brown eyes wide. 'If- if it's a girl, then she can stay, and I'll raise her and Craster will take her to wife as soon as she's old enough. But, if it's a boy, if I have a son, then...' Her eyes filled suddenly with tears. 'If I have a son, then Craster will take him from me. He'll take him from my breast and into the forest, and... And...' Tears fell onto her cheeks, and Sam could see she was fighting to keep from sobbing.
'And what, Gilly?' He asked, gently. His heart was pounding in his chest, and the bitter taste had come back into his mouth. He feared what she would say; he wished again that he could run, and pretend she had never spoken to him. But she opened her mouth again and began to speak.
'He'll take him from me, and give him to them. He'll give him to the dead things, and they'll kill him,' she finished, her voice little more than a whisper. Sam grew cold. This was worse than he had feared, much worse. His heart had ceased pounding, had ceased beating altogether, it seemed. He closed his eyes and images formed unbidden in his head; the dead man, not really dead but waiting, his eyes blue and cold and his hands black. He imagined more of them, in the forest, waiting, their black hands ready to stretch out and- and... He whimpered. His dreams from the night before returned to him, his dreams of screaming babies and Gilly's tears, but now there were faces, too; white faces with blue eyes and wolfish grins, like Craster.
He felt Gilly's hand on his shoulder, and he forced himself to breath, and look at her instead of the dead things dwelling on the inside of his eyelids. 'Are you alright?' She asked him, softly, and he hated that she had to ask him, when she was the one carrying a child that might be taken from her and killed. She was so brave. You're braver than you know, Sam thought, taking comfort in the memory of his mother. He would help her. He had to. He might be a craven, but he couldn't allow Craster to kill an innocent child, he couldn't.
'Will you help me?' Gilly asked him, and in her eyes he saw desperation and fear and courage. He saw warmth, and he thought of his mother's warm eyes, and how she thought he could be more than a coward. She was wrong, Sam thought, I am a coward. But instead of running, instead of turning away from her and leaving Craster's Keep behind him forever, he took a deep breath.
'I'll help you, Gilly,' he said. 'I'll keep you and your baby safe.' The relief that flooded her face made Sam want to cry; she was so young, and so brave.
'Thank you, oh, thank you!' She whispered, and more tears fell onto her cheeks. She smiled at him, and that smile was so tender and sad and frightened that Sam gave her a weak smile in return. She turned and walked away, clutching her cloak tightly to her and her child, the child that Sam knew she would do anything to protect.
That night, as he laid down once again on Craster's cold, hard floor, Sam thought about Gilly. He was so sick with fear, with the impossible thing he had promised her, that he had only managed half of his bowl of gruel at suppertime. He had told himself half a dozen times that day that he would break his promise; he had to, he was a man of the Night's Watch, and a craven besides. He couldn't rescue Gilly like some hero in the stories he had heard growing up at Horn Hill. But every time he had started to walk towards her, to tell her that he couldn't do it, that she would have to find someone else, someone braver, he had thought of the dead things with their pale eyes and black hands. As frightened as he was, he knew that he couldn't leave Gilly and her babe to the mercy of Craster and the wights in the woods.
As he fell asleep, Sam thought of Gilly's round, dark eyes and shy smile. He was sick with fear and hunger, but for the first time since leaving Horn Hill, Samwell Tarly felt warm.