Craster's Keep is its own trigger warning. All violence has been carefully written to avoid being gratuitous or graphic, but heads up :(
Chronologically this is around the same time as early Sansa I and Jaime II- early December 299.
"Hush, child," Ferny scolded. She rubbed Gilly's shoulders, her hands gentler than her tongue, and Gilly nodded, biting her lip.
The more her belly swelled, the more her back ached. Ferny made the best bread of any of Craster's wives, and she kneaded aching muscles as well as she kneaded dough. Her hands felt so good that Gilly had moaned aloud.
She had forgotten that father was below.
Footsteps approached, and Gilly's shoulders tensed. The hardpacked dirt floor made it hard to tell who was coming. Please, not father, not father. Father said he was their only protection from men who would carry them away and make them slaves, but sometimes Gilly wondered if all men were so rough with their wives. Her breasts were still sore and bruised from the last time he had taken her.
The splintered ladder shifted against the floor of the loft. Gilly breathed, trying to stop herself from trembling as Ferny stroked her hair. It was her duty, she was used to it, yet she could not stop shaking. Please no, please no, not again- a dark head appeared at the top of the ladder.
"You need to eat." Nella clambered down into the loft, a loaf of bread clutched in her hand. Steam rippled through the air as Nella sliced off a chunk and handed it to Gilly. For a moment Gilly held the bread, letting it warm her stiff fingers.
"Eat, child," Ferny said, and Gilly obeyed. Ferny was one of her mothers, after all.
Ferny took the loaf from Nella, slicing it before carrying slices to the others. The triplets had been napping in the loft, and they awoke slowly, eyes big in their skinny faces.
Craster had nineteen wives and seventeen daughters, and the triplets were the youngest. Born in the summer three years past, Dalwen, Dalya, and Disrine had been the only girls that year. Their mother, Dorsten, had wept with relief, while Buttercup, Hilsa, and Nella gave her hard looks. Buttercup was young and pretty, Hilsa a few years older, Nella older still.. but young or old, their babes had all been sons.
"Boys born in summer are the cruelest," Gilly's mother had said. Grindis was Craster's second wife and wise. In winter the cold gods came quickly for the babes. In summer, the mother might have months, perhaps a year or two to love her son before they must watch the cold ones take them, take them and... At least girl children grew to be wives.
Dorsten was the only other wife in the loft. She sat huddled in a corner, curled up like a wounded animal. Her oldest daughter had flowered in the night, and Craster had seen the blood before Dorsten could finish cleaning it up. They'd all awoken to Dorsten's screams, even Hilsa, who slept like a rock. One of Dorsten's teeth had hit Gilly in the cheek as it flew across the loft.
Ferny had to shake Dorsten by the shoulder before she took the bread. Her eyes were swollen shut, the skin mottled purple and black. Better bruised than given to the white shadows.
It had happened only once, but the grandmothers still shivered when they told the tale. She had been Craster's fifth wife, young and gentle, and her fate was so terrible that the grandmothers would not speak her name lest Craster hear.
Craster did not allow talk of the wife who had lain with a crow. Craster had caught them, of course he had, and his rage had been terrible. He had cut off the crow's wings one by one, then stuck his head on a stake.
Yet he'd laid not a finger on the trembling wife. No, he had waited for the white cold, and then he had taken all the wives and daughters into the haunted wood. The wives and daughters wore deerskins and sheepskins and furs, layered thick and close, yet the cold had crept into their blood all the same, their tongues frozen inside their mouths. All but the youngest wife. Craster had stripped her bare, and then... and then...
Dorsten was lucky to come away with only a few bruises. Still, a part of Gilly wished Dorsten had been able to hide the blood. Dyah was too young to be Craster's twentieth wife.
Gilly had been lucky. Her moonblood hadn't come until she was thirteen. Little Dyah was only eleven, a short, scrawny girl who was mad for animals, horses most of all. Every time crows came from the Wall, she'd creep down to see the beasts they rode. "Their noses are so soft," she'd told Gilly once, whispering so father would not hear. Dyah had cried for the rabbits almost as much as Gilly had.
Gilly shivered as she remembered the white direwolf. His eyes had gleamed as red as the blood that stained his jaws, her rabbit dangling limply from between those sharp teeth. Father had kicked her when she told him about the broken hutch, and set her to mending it with Freltha. But he hadn't beaten her. Craster was too happy about his fine new axe and southron wine.
Soon, the crows must return soon. They had been gone for nearly half a year, and the baby would come any day. Gilly could not run on her own. What if she died? Two wives had died in childbed since Gilly was small, one bleeding out after the babe got stuck, the other taken by fever. If that happened to Gilly, the cold ones would still take her baby, unless it was devoured by animals first.
A wolf howled in the distance. Could it be the crow's direwolf? Lord Snow, they called him. The boy had been handsome, just like the young ranger with the sable cloak.
Father had not liked Ser Waymar, nor how Gilly and her sisters looked at him. Gilly had been a daughter then, still dreading her flowering. The lordling had made her feel warm inside, strange little flutters dancing in her tummy. Then... then Ser Waymar had begun to speak.
Dyah had been giddy with excitement to bring Ser Waymar his great black horse when he left in the morning, his cloak damp from sleeping outside. Dyah was too young to know that the ranger would not return. Her father was a godly man, and the cold gods frowned on those who refused his roof.
Even the Stark had more courtesy with father when he came seeking Ser Waymar. That had been just after Craster took her to wife, when Gilly could barely walk for the pains in her hips and thighs and between her legs. The ranger had watched her, and when he looked at Craster his eyes were dark with hatred. But he had said nothing to her or any other wife, and he had slept beneath her father's roof all the same. But Sam, sweet, gentle, Sam... please, let him live. He swore he'd help.
Dyah shrieked.
"What have I said about mucking about with them horses?" Craster hissed, his face purple with rage. Gilly shrank against the wall, closing her eyes as he raised his hand again.
"You will obey me," Craster snarled.
A slap rang out, and Gilly cringed, wishing she could make herself smaller. When he was angry with one, all had to be careful. "Keep quiet, obey, and you'll be safe," the grandmothers said. They were still alive, so it must be true. But Dyah had not been quick enough to scurry back to her chores, and so...
When it was over, Gilly heard the crows mumbling below. Some of the voices were angry, but one was laughing. "If he don't want the little sweetmeat he could give her to me," the laughing one said. Across the loft Gilly saw Nella spit in disgust. The crow was lucky Craster's hearing had begun to weaken, or he'd join his brothers in death.
Almost all the crows had died on the place they called the Fist. The cold gods had taken their due, just like father said they would. The few crows who returned had staggered in half frozen and half starved. Gilly had been in the loft, her belly so swollen she could barely move. She was telling the young ones a story about a summer without end when they heard hooves clopping in the yard. The Lord Crow came in first and talked to father, his voice low. After a few minutes they heard the noise of men entering the keep. Dalwen crept to the edge of the loft, her eyes big as she watched the men below.
"Is there a fat one?" Gilly asked weakly.
"No," Dalwen whispered. Gilly's heart pounded, a dull, low throb that echoed in her ears.
"There's a big blonde one," Dalwen said.
Gilly turned away, despairing. Sam had black hair, black as his cloak. Dalya took her hand, her little face confused but sad. Disrine bit her lip, then crept down the ladder.
"There's a huge one outside," Disrine whispered when she returned. "A young one, with dark hair like mama."
As Dyah shrieked and cried Gilly thought of the fat crow with the gentle face. Sam promised, he came back, he's here below. He'll take me with him, and the babe will be safe.
The babe came two days later, thanks to Birra's herbs, and it was Gilly's turn to sob as Nella held her hand. It hurt, it hurt so much, like knives stabbing at her belly.
"Push," Nella told her. "Harder. Harder. Scream if it helps." She did, not caring that the triplets had all clapped their hands over their ears.
"I've had a bellyful o' that shrieking," Craster shouted from below. "Give her a rag to bite down on, or I'll come up there and give her a taste o' my hand." Quick as a cat Ferny obeyed, jamming a piece of deerskin in Gilly's mouth. Gilly bit down on it as she pushed, her muscles screaming.
"That's it," Hilsa said. "Another push, now. Oh, I see his head."
Her head, please, hers , Gilly begged. But when the pushing was done and the babe slipped out of her, the women all went silent.
"A boy," Nella said, her hand warm on Gilly's shoulder.
"A boy," Hilsa echoed, her hand soft on Gilly's knee.
"I'm sorry," her mother whispered in her ear, and Gilly knew no more.
She awoke to her mother shaking her shoulder.
"Wake up, girl," her mother hissed, dragging Gilly upright. The ache between her legs had dulled, and she had been washed and dressed as she slept. Ferny held the babe in her arms. Gilly's blood ran cold as a man in a black cloak came up the ladder behind her.
"You don't want this one," Gilly's mother said, her eyes hard. "She's loose and bloody." The crow spat and turned away, his eyes lighting on Buttercup.
"I shoved one o' them off the loft but there's too many, and all o' them with knives," Ferny muttered as Buttercup backed away in fear. Gilly stared, her mouth gaping in shock. Craster won't wait for the cold ones, he'll kill them all himself.
"Craster's dead," Ferny said. Had Gilly spoken her thought aloud? "Do as Grindis says. Down the ladder, quick."
While she slept the world had gone mad. The loft echoed with the sounds of slapping flesh; the hall below was filled with the groans of dying men. Four crows sat on the benches, stuffing themselves with horsemeat while Hilsa sobbed as a crow took her on the table. Men in black cloaks littered the floor like fallen leaves, splatters of red marking the wounds that killed them.
And in the middle of the horror, his eyes staring into nothing, was her savior. Crosslegged Sam sat on the floor, the Lord Crow's head in his lap.
"Please. Go," the dying man was saying.
"It's too far," Sam replied, his face pale. "I'll never reach the Wall, my lord. I'd sooner stay with you. See, I'm not frightened anymore. Of you, or … of anything."
"You should be," said Gilly's mother. Sam stared up at them, his mouth a round o of surprise.
"We're not supposed to talk to Craster's wives," Sam said. "We have orders."
"That's done now," Grindis answered.
"The blackest crows are down in the cellar, gorging," Ferny said. "Or up in the loft with the young ones. They'll be back soon, though. Best you be gone when they do. The horses run off, but Dyah's caught two."
"You said you'd help me," Gilly reminded him. He promised, he did.
"I said Jon would help you. Jon's brave, and he's a good fighter, but I think he's dead now. I'm a craven. And fat. Look how fat I am. Besides, Lord Mormont's hurt. Can't you see? I couldn't leave the Lord Commander."
"Child," said Ferny, "that old crow's gone before you. Look."
The old crow was still, his eyes staring. Gilly looked away. A pile of ragged sheepskins lay on the floor across one of the crows. The man inside them was thick and broad, yet he lay there like a doll made of straw. Then she saw the puddle of blood beneath the gaping wound in his throat, and a strange fire blazed inside Gilly. She almost felt warm.
When she finally tore her eyes from the fallen giant, Sam was stammering, his eyes full of fear. "Where should I take her?"
"Someplace warm," her mothers said as one. Suddenly tears were streaming down Gilly's face.
"Me and the babe. Please. I'll be your wife, like I was Craster's. Please, ser crow. He's a boy, just like Nella said he'd be." The cold gods would still come without their priest, Gilly knew it like she knew her own name. "If you don't take him, they will."
"They?" said Sam, and the raven cocked its black head and echoed, "They. They. They."
She could not face those eyes again, those eyes as cold and bright as stars. They would take her son in their icy hands, they would smile with their milkglass teeth, and then...
"The boy's brothers," said Ferny "Craster's sons. The white cold's rising out there, crow. I can feel it in my bones. These poor old bones don't lie. They'll be here soon, the sons."
And Hilsa sobbed and Buttercup screamed and the triplets wailed, but the cold wind howled louder than them all.
I've been struggling with how to tackle the Wall since posting the last chapter. This was supposed to be a Theon POV. Theon joining the watch is one of the big ripple effects from the change in Sansa and Robb's and Bran and Luwin's actions.
Then I was rereading the North of the wall chapters from Clash and Storm and got really mad at how GRRM treats the women of Craster's keep. 19 wives, ? daughters, and no one gets characterization but Gilly, and only 3 get named in passing. (Ferny, Dyah, and Nella) So I decided these women deserved better. The events aren't much different than canon, but we learn way more about the Others…
Also, I made a deliberate choice that the women name their daughters with the same letter as their own name. Grindis had Gilly; Dorsten had Dyah, Dalwen, Dalya, and Disrine, etc. Buttercup and Birra are sisters with the same mother. Freltha is Ferny's daughter. Just in case anyone was worried, the triplets are wailing from general fear; no crow has laid a finger on them.
MORAG- the first wife. A woman in her 60s. Loves Craster and believes in him and in the cold gods. Helps break and indoctrinate the other wives. Gilly avoids her. One of the grandmothers.
GRINDIS- in her late 50s. Wise woman; considered one of the grandmothers. Very strict because she wants the women and girls to survive. Gilly is her youngest and only surviving child. An outbreak of fever took her other daughters some years past. The second wife.
FERNY- in her late 50s. Baker, wise woman, the third wife.
FIFTH WIFE- slept with a crow and given to the Others by Craster. Her name was Clover. Grindis and Ferny remember her with guilt.
BRIWA- a woman in her late 40s. Mother of Birra and Buttercup
FRELTHA- a woman in her 40s. Ferny's daughter. Good with woodcraft and fixing things.
NELLA- a woman in her 30s. Has born 6 sons. Skilled at midwifery.
BIRRA- a woman in her 30s. Skilled with herbs. Briwa's daughter; Buttercup's sister.
DORSTEN- a woman in her 30s. Has born four living daughters and three sons given to the cold ones. Hates Morag.
HILSA- a woman in her 20s. Has born a son. Sleeps like a rock.
BUTTERCUP- a woman in her late teens. Has born a daughter and a son. Pretty. Briwa's youngest daughter.
DYAH- a girl of 11. Loves animals, especially horses. Dorsten's oldest daughter.
DALWEN- a girl of 3. Curious. One of Dorsten's triplets.
DALYA- a girl of 3. Shy. One of Dorsten's triplets.
DISRINE- a girl of 3. Brave. One of Dorsten's triplets.