Chapter Thirty-One: Omen
The rain was soft, light and gentle as it brushed Harrold's face, as light as a lover's gentle kisses and pooled on his cheeks. He had always loved the rain, Harrold did, despite many believing it an ill-omen. It reminded him of spring, of rebirth; of early mornings when the northern sun bathed the moors in its iridescence.
'Twas magic, those golden dawns. When the gods of old left the heavens and walked the realm of men, touching the earth with their fingertips. Most importantly, the rain reminded Harrold of his wife, Una, dead now these past five years, gods rest her soul.
The soft bleating of the spotted pygmy goat at his left caused the grizzled man to smile briefly. Abigail would be ready to milk soon, her udders were swollen and enlarged. Harrold smiled again, this time it reached his eyes, the possibility and anticipation of having cream with his porridge elating him. Times were difficult now, arduous, despite the summer years.
What with the civil war looming south of the Wall between the great Northern houses, and the Wildlings becoming restless, their raids more coordinated and frequent. Times were uncertain, unpredictable and turbulent. One had to grasp such simple pleasure whenever he could. He had seen bountiful years and lean years, aye, but there had been stability. Now, there was naught save chaos and discord.
Harrold shook his head. For two score years, he had been a farmer, breeding and selling horses to the Night's Watch in exchange for protection against any encroaching Wildling attacks. For nine and ten of those years, Benjen Stark had been faithful in his promise of protection as First Ranger, guarding the realms of men from those beastly and savaged wildmen. Yet, with the abduction of his niece, Sansa Stark, the first of the Night's Watchmen had been remiss in his duties, now treating with the girl's intended in her return.
A cold, tremulous jolt ran down Harrold's back as he thought on the younger Bolton lord. Although leagues beyond the Wall and as true North as one could venture and still reside within its realm of protection, Harrold knew of the depravities and horrors lurking within the fortified walls of the Dreadfort, and it's bastard's proclivity for cruelty. It was wrong, to force Winterfell's daughter to pay for her father's transgressions and folly. To force the prize of the North to that living, breathing demon was akin to a crow being forced on to a dove . An egregious act, almost as blasphemous as Tywin Lannister's extirpation of House Reyne.
Harrold was angry now, a righteous, all-consuming indignation. The gods in their sovereignty had not been so kind as to bless him with sons and daughters, for Una had been barren. Out of the enumerable disillusions and disappointments life had dealt him, that perhaps had been the hardest blow. For it had always been a secret dream-to become a father-to hold a babe warm in his arms. Had he been blessed with children, Harrold would oft vehemently swear, he would do all he could to protect them from the whims and schemes of men, to love them so fervently and deliriously. They would be protected, never having to pay for another man's error, or be a pawn to be maneuvered within an ever-changing game.
'Twas cruel-all of it. The gods were capricious, mercurial and shifting in their benevolence and righteous judgement. Wherever the lost wolf had gone, Harrold hoped the lass was same and out of harm's way. Far away from Ramsay Bolton's talon grasp, at least. Run, little wolf. Run away and never look back…
A horse nickered in the distance, a warning. Harrold quickened his steps a sense of trepidation overwhelming him. A shadow cat? A bear? Marauding Wildlings intent on an ambush?
A man alone and defenseless upon the exposed moors, half a league from the Wall and Castle Black. He could not win, he knew this. His bones would be picked clean by the crows before anyone thought to look in on him. There was a hunter's blade sheathed to the leg of his pants, the Wildlings were renown for their barbarity and proclivity for boiling their captives alive. He would be damned if he was taken alive, prey to be toyed and played with. Nay, this time, he would be given choice, one of the few the gods had afforded him in his lifetime.
As Harrold neared the outpost, all fear and trepidation escaped him, for he was now at a loss. It was not a raiding party or a feral beast that faced him, no, but a girl. A girl of middle teenage years, pale and caked in mud, but nonetheless radiant of face despite looking to be on the threshold between life and death. Oh gods! It was the lost wolf, he was certain of it. A babe alone in the woods, away from her pack.
The rain began to abate, now a drizzling mist, the sun beginning to peak among the clouds. Many thought the rains were a harbinger of doom, an omen of impending ill-fortune and black luck. Yet, when looking on the sleeping she-wolf, resplendent and peaceful in repose, Harrold immediately thought on his wife, Una, of the children that had never been. The gods had answered his prayers at long last. He would finally become a father, for a time, at least. Until the she-wolf was nursed back to full health.
Aye, Harrold had always loved the rain, for not only did it wash away the ugliness and shit of yesterday, but yielded promise and new beginnings, of a hope that burned brighter than the morning sun.
XXXXXXXXXXXXX
The rains had become a deluge, the downpour so heavy and thick that it became a blanket, masking the moors in darkness and obscurity. The rain had always unnerved him, making Mance uneasy, nervous. It was said that such heavy floods were ominous, yielding misfortune and horror. Mance's thoughts automatically reverted to Lyanna, remembering. She had died on a night just like this, the rains a torrential avalanche. A calamitous barrage.
Jon had been gone nigh a fortnight, their final words naught save angry exchanges, hurtful accusations, and denouncements. Mance was sorry for that now, contrite. He thought the releasing of the wolf maiden for the best, the only course of action to be made. The Kneeler forcing his hand. He liked the girl truly, and had fate been kinder, Mance would have gladly welcomed her as a daughter, for she was his son's match in every way-the omega to his alpha-yet it could not be. Could never be.
As King-Beyond-the-Wall, Mance had his people to think on, their safety paramount. And yet, he could not stifle or quell the regret that surged through him, pulsing and keen in its acerbity. Gods, but what had he done? What had he done?
The dogs began to howl in the distance, their cries sharp and lamenting, sorrowful and mournful. It was a warning, something evil was fast approaching. The rain was relentless now, the lightning flashing across the sky, illuminating the moors.
There were four of them, four riders. All save one wearing a strange and gruesome sigil of an upside-down man strapped to a cross. Mance was not a stupid man, for he immediately knew who this was, what it meant. Tormund was automatically by his side, his axe gripped tightly in his hand. Mance waved him off, quelling all protests. He would not allow another to suffer his mistakes.
"Are you lost, friend?" The leader, dressed in a brown, leather doublet, slowly dismounted from his charger, his gait immediately reminding Mance of a prowling beast. No doubt this was the bastard of Bolton, the North's Mad Dog. Although slight in stature with a mop of curly brown hair similar to Jon's, the man was dangerous, formidable. His cold eyes transfixed and staring.
He was smiling, bestowing a guise of benevolence and good will, yet Mance was not fooled by the subterfuge. He knew a demon when he saw one.
"Aye, I saw your campfires from a distance and thought my men and I could stay on and warm up. You do not mind, do you?"
Yes, I do mind. You are not welcomed here. The rebuke was sharp, just at the tip of his tongue, yet Mance remained silent. A ferreted man on the Bolton's right unsheathed his knife, running his fingers languidly over the blade. Tormund stiffened, a muttered curse escaping his lips. Mance quieted him with a look.
Don't, Tormund. Don't!
"You are not dressed for this weather and are far from home. Surely, there's more to this visit than simple fires." The Bolton blinked in surprise, no doubt unused to being so cavalierly dismissed. A low chuckled left him, his smile now feral. Dangerous.
"Not one to mince words, I see. I like that." The last rider dismounted from his horse, yet his features remained concealed by a dark cloak. It was rare that Mance felt fear, but he was unnerved all the same. Something was wrong-he could feel it in the depths of his soul. Something was amiss.
"I am looking for something that has been lost to me, friend. Something very important. I miss her terribly, you see, and a little bird of mine informed me that you may know of her whereabouts."
Mance smirked, a brie flash upon his grizzled face and chanced a look at the hooded figure just beyond. "A heavy thing, truly. Losing something you love. Mayhap your lost treasure preferred to remain lost. Mayhap, you weren't meant to keep her, seeing as you cannot get a handle on your woman. Either way, I wish you good fortune in your search. But alas, my friend, I cannot help you."
Had it been another time, Mance would have relished at the vanishing smirk from the young Bolton's lips, laughed at the barely tethered rage glittering behind his icy depths. Yet, it was not another time. It was now, and all Mance wanted was to be rid of these interlopers and have some respite.
Yet Ramsay was unperturbed. The smile reemerged on the Bolton's face, colder and uglier than before. "You have bigger balls than I give you credit for, Wildling, I'll give you that. But I wonder if those big balls of yours will serve you where it really counts?"
The cloaked figure at Ramsay's left removed its hood, and Mance stilled, his blood congealing at the sight. Tormund cursed, spitting the ground.
"Ygritte…"
All too focused upon the specter in front of him, Mance did not notice the arrow as it loosed from its bow. All he could remember was Tormund's shouts, now fading in the distance, and the pain. White-hot, searing, and acerbic. He tried to speak, but found that he could not, for the bolt had lodged itself deep into his throat, the coppery tang of blood pooling upon his tongue and mouth.
I'm dying, Mance thought faintly. Gods, I am dying. And yet there was no fear, the shock and pain starting to subside and dissipate. At that moment, Mance felt weightless, liberated, suspended between that liminal space between the living and the dead. As his spirit began to float, float upward, he could see Ramsay and his men, there were more of them now, descend upon the camp, like a deadly pestilence. Tents had been overturned and desecrated, weapons burned and destroyed. The remaining wildlings rounded up and subdued, shepherded into wooden stockades.
So much destruction, Mance wanted to weep at it all. Then, as he looked up, he was met with another face he had thought he would never again see. Smiling, radiant and exultant. Lyanna. She had kept her promise and had waited for him, as she had said she would all those years ago. She was calling for him now, beckoning him to join her to that faraway land of nothingness. And Mance followed after her, this time. He would never be parted from her again.