Giantslayer

"Bloody knights always talk about the glory of battle. No one talks about the bloody clean-up." the Hound said, stepping around another pile of bodies.

Tormund, for his part, didn't know what knights would always talk about, but he very much agreed with the 'bloody clean-up'. The corpses were absolutely everywhere, forming piles and piles of bodies in the courtyard of Winterfell. One of those piles Tormund had found memories of, having climbed on top of it in an attempt to fight of the dead when they had gotten absolutely surrounded. But as much as he owed to that pile, it was starting to stink.

Getting all of these bodies out and burning them would take days. Almost everyone who had survived the battle and was in any condition was on the task and somehow Tormund had ended up with the Hound once again. Not that he minded. The burnt man was good company, if maybe a little sour. And a little more sullen than usual. Tormund guessed something had happened during the battle, but his companion – of course – refused to talk about it. At least it explained the Hound's enduring complaints: carrying away dead bodies over and over again didn't exactly improve one's mood, Tormund had to admit. Maybe they should have let the Night King march all of them back out before they killed him, he mused.

It was a good thing that most of the longer-dead didn't weigh much anymore, at least. With one glaring exception: the giants. It had pained Tormund to see just how many of them were laying in the fields outside of Winterfell. He'd known a few giants, and killed a few, too, and this wasn't a fate he'd wish upon them. He wondered who would bother to move them.

With all the dead, it took him and the Hound until the end of the first day before they even saw the one giant who had gotten inside the castle. Its remains were splayed out right beyond the gate; one of the first dead bodies there. Whoever had killed it had done a damn quick job of it.

Crushed in its hand they found the body of a child. A girl, wearing crumpled battle armour with a bear smybol. It was hard to say with all the blood, but she didn't look older than twelve.

"For fuck's sake!" cursed the Hound. "The children were supposed to be down in the crypts where they don't get in the way. Why was this one here?"

Tormund bent down towards the giant's head, a glint of black having caught his eye. With a sickening crunch, he wrenched a dragonglass shard from the dull eye socket of the wight and inspected it. Then he looked back towards the tiny body in the giant's fist. "To do this, I assume. Not bad."

A scoff. "Don't be ridiculous. Look at the size of this arsehole. She's what, ten?"

Tormund laughed. "Just about. That's not bad, not bad at all. Though I'd say this one's a bit smaller than mine." His laugh faded as he heaved the broken body onto his shoulders. She weighed almost nothing. "Shame. She must've had guts. Me and the big woman could have adapted her. That's what it's called, right? Adapted?"

"Seven Hells. Always knew you weren't right in the head." The Hound bent down to pick up another body. "Well, your little adaption is dead as a mouse, so what did the guts get her? Nothing, that's what. Bloody courage just gets you killed."

"She killed a giant." Tormund pointed out. "How many men have you met that can boast of that?"

"One." the other replied. "One mad fucker. 'Giantsbane'. Good story of yours, but I say it's all horse shit." He kicked the dead giant on the head as he walked past. "Must have taken a good dozen to bring this one down. I would have loved to see you try."

"So would I, my friend." Tormund sighed, shooting a mournful look at the big corpse. He would have loved to test his strength against such a brute force once more.

Alas, a child had beaten him to it. He might be growing old.

Tormund glanced at the dead girl in his arms again. Her face was caked in her own blood and mud, her fists still clenched. She looked like a little giant killer, alright. Tormund wondered why the Hound found it so difficult to believe. And if the rest of the southerners would react like him. Perhaps their children were really all as weak as the wildlings always taunted. Well; almost all of them.

Maybe those noble knights would deny it out of pride, too. Tormund scoffed. He'd hate it if the death of a giant were attributed to some highborn sod who'd probably never even seen one in his life. Really a shame this girl hadn't survived to boast of what she'd done.

He'd make sure she was properly burned, at least.