Quick Note: Eira is pronounced like Eye-Rah.
There's a brief POV change in this chapter, I'll try not to make a habit of it I know it's annoying.
Chapter 1: The Raid.
As the threat of winter creeped over Westeros it was only a matter of time before the Wildings crawled their way from their icy land to raid the most vulnerable Northern towns and villages for food, wine, and women. Eira barely bat an eye when she heard the warning bells calling from about a mile down the road, where the mere dozen guards "protected" her village. Patrons of the tavern evacuated immediately, all still carrying their flagons to Eira's dismay, father was going to be livid If he survived the night.
Screaming and thundering footsteps sounded much closer than Eira anticipated, running upstairs to the measly loft she shared with her father was probably a waste of time, he'd probably already locked the door the second the bells rang. Vaulting over the bar, Eira ran down into the cellar where some wine barrels had been put upright from the trader that passed through the village every year or so. The lids had already been wrenched off for inspection by father who'd then haphazardly shoved them back on after chugging half a barrel in one sitting. As the doors to the tavern were kicked down, Eira gave one last prayer to her God and a large gasp of air, then plunged herself into the bloody abyss of the nearest barrel, securing the lid just as boots could be heard stumbling down the stairs.
All sound escaped her whilst submerged in the wine, but Eira was sure she could hear a pleased grunt as what seemed to be a lone raider explored the cellar. The seconds seemed to stretch for an age as her lungs seized up from lack of air. Just go, grab your prize and g-
The ground beneath her disappeared, the wine sloshed around her ears and eyes, tipping forward, higher and higher, the lid wasn't secured, she was going to fall out, she was going to die.
Tormund
The lid burst open, a tidal wave of wine knocking Tormund off his feet, a lot heavier than one would expect a barrel to be. The wine also appeared to have hands, and skirts that were soaked blood red, staining his trousers and furs as a tiny woman lay atop of him, wet and stinking of fermentation and berries. Time seemed to stop, the raid outside long forgotten, he had been drawn to the tavern in search of some barrels to cart home under a long forgotten tunnel underneath The Wall. The journey would be longer, but they deserved it, He deserved it. And here he was, in a cellar stocked full, ready for the taking, and a tiny, lovely, little woman, produced from the wine itself to add to his prize.
"My my… the Gods have truly blessed me tonight. Not only will I have my fill of wine, but a wife crafted from it, to keep my company".
There must have been wine clogging her ears, her brain. There was no chance that the giant beast had just uttered that word. Wife? Wildlings didn't steal wives, they took girls, used them then left them abandoned in desecrated villages, far away woods, or on the sides of roads, to limp their way back home to a life of shame, any prospect of marriage gone.
She was limp like a babes toy as the Giant lifted her off him and stood up, a paw firmly wrapped around her wet shoulders as another, barrel shaped arm, lifted one of the closed, more aged, barrels to rest on his shoulder. He marched them out of the tavern, chaos seemed to avoid his path, raiders and their prey parted as if a king was marching through the village, not this bristly creature, with too-big limbs and eyes like ice. They marched to the edge of the village, where the beast's pack awaited. No other prey in sight. They eyed her suspiciously, but clearly her captor was too important, or too vicious, to be questioned. The barrel was added to the numerous prizes to be pulled by several of the beasts, and they made their way into the night, with just the dwindling fires of the destroyed village to light the way.
The group didn't stay on the road for long, moving towards the woods and passing through the shadows for hours. The pack was silent at first, but her captor had eventually broken the tension with some joke. Eira wasn't paying attention, once it was made clear that she was coming along she had been tied with rope and attached to the cart, being pulled along like a stubborn cow behind the rest of the pack.
She was first spoken to near the dead of night, as a mist of rain broke over the woods, the kind that would soak you to your bones, make you feel like you would never be warm and dry again. Well, not Eira, she didn't have that problem anymore. Little did these idiots know.
"Bet you're freezing Kneeler, maybe if you're lucky we can all take turns keep you nice and warm at camp". The creature that had tied her to the cart leered at her through strands of wiry hair, revealing a bright green, blood-shot eye. She knew she shouldn't have responded, to keep demure was to keep alive, that's what her sister had said before her wedding to some businessman father had struck a deal with. But, there was a reason Eira was not married off.
"I never get cold." She snapped, but all that followed was soft, crass laughter.
"That's because you've never experienced True Cold. Just wait and see Kneeler".
More silence followed, Eira felt silly to assume that Wildlings would be more outgoing and talkative than their civilised counterparts of Westeros.
They set up camp after several hours, the sun was not rising but the birds certainly were. She was once again made a toy, discarded to the side, as the Wildings set up a fire, tents, and began to prepare food. They had finished their meal quickly and descended into drunken chatter, swigging from odd looking flagons that shone in the moonlight. Bone.
Eventually, one of the younger looking creatures stumbled over, approaching her as if she was the dangerous one, and gently pulled the rope off the cart, forcing her to stumble after him towards the fire where everyone sat.
"Tormund.. Maybe your… wife should get out of those clothes?". All eyes locked onto Eira and she suddenly became aware of the heaviness of her skirts, how her bodice was plastered to her chest even more so than usual, how her hair still dripped a crimson that surely matched her cheeks. Her captor's gaze was the worst, he looked crazed with those ice eyes, too intense for someone who had been drinking Eira's weight in the stolen wine for the past hour.
"I'm fine." She snapped, without thinking. A laugh erupted from her left.
"Aye Tormund, this one insists she doesn't get cold, leave her in that frock to teach her a lesson about what cold really is."
The Giant leans forward, ice bores into the warmer waters of Eira's own eyes.
"Is this true aye? My wife of wine? You won't need your big strong husband to hide you from winter's chill?" His eyes were crinkled at the sides, mocking her. Eira felt silly again, she shouldn't share such important things with those who wouldn't understand. No Northerner would understand her gift, her God, why would these Wildmen?
Despite this, under the spotlight of the Giant's moonlit eyes, Eira felt like silence was not a choice. "Aye. I don't get cold."
A smirk appears, "And why so? Wife of mine."
"I'm not your… It's a gift from my God. The God of Fire. He keeps me warm."
The Giant considers her for a moment, you fool he will kill you, before suddenly lurching forward and stalking towards Eira like a well fed cat would approach a cornered mouse. Not to eat, but to play. He only stops when they are nearly toe to toe, her flimsy thin "dress shoes" vs his thick fur lined boots, the moonlight creates a halo around his wildfire hair, enhances the shadows under his eyes, and the lines of his face. Eira would bet good coin that he was at least ten years her elder.
"I think it's time for us to retire. Wife." The word comes out in a low grumble. The Giant suddenly lurches forward and stumbles towards her. Fear settled in her belly as a paw circled her arm, squeezing it as if to comfort her for what was ultimately going to happen next. She was pressed into his side and marched sluggishly towards the largest tent, furthest away from the fire. So us newly weds can have our privacy I suppose Eira thought with a stomach lurch, bile rose in her throat but she would not succumb to vomiting in front of these beasts, to show that she was that afraid of them.
He parted the tent curtains and gently shoved her in, where a modest bed mat and bucket of water were present. Thick furs and a pillow lay on the bed, Eira would have thought it to look cosy if she didn't know she was about to die, if not physically then internally. From behind, she could hear the Giant undress, having already removed his shoes outside. She heard the ring of a belt being pulled off quickly, clattering to the ground. A belch. Disgusting.
A paw gently moved her to the side, so the beast could meet her before the bed. This was it.
The Giant gracelessly collapsed onto the bed mat. A beat of silence. A snore.
Nice to know even the Wildmen cannot handle their drink. Eira thought with a rush of relief so intense it brought her to kneel. There she stayed, in the corner of the tent on the floor, keeping an eye on the fallen Giant in fear that it would awaken and demand its prize. It's "wife of wine".
Note: Updated to change the words Wild man/men to Wildman/men and to add horizontal page breaks of which there are way too many.