Late April, 300 AC

It was strange, to be surrounded by men.

Gilly knew every single one of her sisters and nieces and mothers and aunts. Barren Freltha slept with her chisel and hammer, the tools as precious to her as if they were her babes. Ferny smelt of flour, her arms corded with muscle from years of kneading dough. Birra was always out picking herbs, one of Morag's women at her side to keep her safe. Sometimes Birra would bring back flowers for the younger ones, and teach them to braid them into crowns.

Gilly did not know these crows, nor the southron men, nor their southron king. His crown was made of red gold, with points shaped like flames. Gilly had only seen King Stannis once or twice in the yard, surrounded by southron men in steel and crows in black. The king was a tall man with sunken eyes and a mouth hard as stone. Were all kings so stiff and stern? No, they couldn't be; Mance Rayder was a singer, even Craster's wives knew that. Lord Snow's brother was a king too, and he was the same age as Lord Snow.

Lord Snow confused Gilly. Since awakening from his sickbed he spent all his time with a sword in his hand, as though he was trying to get sick again. He barely spoke to her, unless she asked him to look after Sam.

Castle Black was big, far too big for Gilly. She had grown up in a daub-and-wattle longhall, one room with loft above and cellar below. The crows' timber halls could hold a dozen Craster's Keeps and still feel empty. There were as many great stone towers as she had fingers, surrounded by buildings of timber and stone. The underground vaults were so huge she had only set foot in them once before she fled, sobbing.

It had taken days for her to work up the courage to venture from the maester's chambers in search of Sam. While his friend was sick Sam spent most of his time tending the maester or watching over Lord Snow's sickbed.

Gilly liked the maester's rooms. They were nearly the size of Craster's Keep, but instead of women they were packed full of books and scrolls, colored glass jars and milkglass vials, bundles of dried herbs and rows of glittering crystals. The hearth was always kept warm for the maester, and Sam had pulled up a chair by the fire so she could nurse while talking to the old man.

Sam had forgotten about her now that he had the books in the vaults. Gilly had asked the old maester to teach her letters so she could help him. The crows didn't take wives, or so Sam had told her a dozen times, but Gilly had never known a man without a wife, or a daughter without a husband. Sometimes the younger sisters asked about spearwives, those strange women who had spears instead of husbands, only to be hushed by those who knew better. Gilly couldn't use a spear, but maybe if she learned to read, she could be a bookwife.

The maester was one of the few men Gilly could stand to be around. He was so old, so thin and wrinkled, he almost reminded her of a babe. Maester Aemon's sightless eyes didn't linger on her teats; his creaky voice didn't taunt her with cruel japes or talk of her swollen breasts.

Sometimes Lord Snow sent her a crow, when Sam refused to leave his books. To keep her company, he said, as if she was a stupid little girl who didn't know any better. No, he sent her a crow to guard her from the other crows, lest they peck her with the beaks between their legs.

Three days ago he'd sent the scrawny boy with the enormous ears. Pyp liked to talk to the baby, but Gilly found it unnerving for one boy to have so many different voices. Two days ago had been the big one with the shaggy beard. His name was Grenn, but for some reason the crows always called him aurochs. He barely talked at all, and the way he loomed made Gilly feel as helpless as a mouse.

The only one she half-trusted was the one who came yesterday, Satin. He was pretty as a girl, and Maester Aemon said he had been a whore in Oldtown, far to the south.

"For ladies and queens?" Gilly asked. Gilly was no lady or queen, and she had no coin to pay him; surely he would not try to lay hands on her.

"No," the old man said, a thin smile twitching at his lips. "For men, Gilly. Some men prefer lying with other men."

That confused her even more, but if Satin lay with men, she should be safe with him. The babe liked him, anyway. Satin would make faces and blow raspberries while the babe grabbed at his curly hair. My babe should have nineteen mothers and one father, Gilly thought sadly. Instead he has one mother and no father at all.

Today she was alone with her son. The babe gurgled, flailing his plump little arms. Gilly held her finger steady, waiting. The babe's toothless mouth spread wide in a grin as he stared. With a babble and a laugh he grabbed her finger tight in a tiny fist.

"There, aren't you clever?" Gilly cooed, pressing a kiss to his brow.

The triplets hadn't begun grasping fingers until they were past their sixth moon, and her son hadn't even reached his fifth moon yet. He flailed his chubby little fist, his smile fading as his mouth began to suckle at the air. The babe was screwing his face up to shriek when Gilly slipped her nipple in his mouth.

She hissed with pain as he latched on. Between the cold dry air and regular nursing her nipples were cracked and sore. Back at Craster's Keep, Birra made an oil from sheep fat to soothe the ache. Dorsten had gone through almost all of it while nursing her triplets.

A tear dripped down Gilly's nose. Dalwen, Dalya, and Disrine would never be Craster's wives, but what would happen to them now, with father dead and the crows come to roost? Sometimes in her nightmares Gilly still heard the table rocking back and forth, the crow grunting as Hilsa sobbed. Had Morag and her women killed the men who slew Craster? Or had they left them for the cold gods?

Gilly shuddered. Her mother had said the cold ones were coming, and her mother was never wrong. Had they been satisfied to slaughter the crows? Somehow she did not think that would be enough. Nothing was enough, father said. The day would come when the cold gods would take their due. Winter would follow them, and they would slay the ungodly men and take them as thralls.

Father relished that part the most, the thought of the cave dwellers and Hornfoots and cannibal clans cast down, the black crows slaughtered like chickens for a feast.

"Then," Craster said, "the cold gods will shatter the Wall, and conquer all them that lie in their path."

"What about us?" The youngest daughter would ask, the only one who had not heard the tale a dozen times or more.

"I am a godly man," father said. "All the land shall be winter, save the land o' those who are blessed. For us it shall always be summer, and the cold gods shall give us rich soil to till and fat beasts to raise."

Morag believed every word of it, as did the half dozen who shared her fervor. The rest...

No one ever gave us anything, Gilly thought. Not the crows who came for a roof, and paid father with gifts. Not the wildlings, who tried to steal our sheep and pigs. Not the cold gods, who took son after son and never spoke a word or gave us a single rabbit.

Fear trickled up her spine. There might be no endless summer, but the cold gods were coming. Mance Rayder's man said there were hundreds of them, perhaps as many as a thousand.

"We can't fight the Others," the rider said. "The giants haven't been able to stand against 'em, nor the Thenns, the ice river clans, the Hornfoots. Them that didn't flee are wights now, thousands o' them. All must join together if we're to cross the Wall. Mance Rayder offers friendship, despite..."

That was all the rider had time to say before Craster took his tongue. When it was done and the man was crumpled on the floor, bleeding on the rushes, Craster laughed.

"I'm a godly man, and free. Mance Rayder is no king o' mine."

Mance Rayder was no one's king, not anymore. The southron king and the crows had seen to that. The once-mighty host was scattered and broken. The fire witch had burned the dead from the battle at Castle Black, but what about all the rest? How long before the Others made them their thralls? There were hundreds of crows, yet far fewer than Castle Black could hold. Many buildings stood empty, even with the southron king and his men. The cold gods would break their Wall, they'd come for her babe.

"Sam promised to take us somewhere warm," Gilly whispered into the soft fuzz that covered the babe's head.

The boy's old black cloak hung about her shoulders, sheltering her from the worst of the chill. The Wall was south of Craster's Keep, but it wasn't warm. Autumn would not last forever; already the nights were full of frost. Is anywhere still warm? Sam had told her that he had no coin, no way to take her south or send her south.

"If we had a Lord Commander, I could ask him," Sam said miserably. "But the choosing is paused until the ranging returns from- from- Craster's Keep. If I leave the Wall they'll say I deserted, and hang me for an oathbreaker."

Soon, Gilly prayed. Let them return soon. Then she would know what had befallen her family. Then the crows would choose a Lord Crow who might send her south.