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She's got fire in her veins, smoke on her lips, and blood staining her fists. But her mind is wrapped in chains, and scars mark her hips; sometimes she forgets she even exists.
Her shoulder burned as she tugged on a thick shirt made of animal fur and then a heavy jacket and pants made of rough animal hide, the lining consisting of random fur. Her short hair didn't help warm her face as she stepped back out of the hut, thanking Hanna. Clay turned to her with his arms folded and a stern look on his face. He was tall, a good few inches than her. It was strange, because even though Jon was taller than her, he wasn't as tall as Clay. She had to crane her head upward to look at him.
"Come with me," he said in a gruff voice while binding her hands together. She rolled her eyes at his statement. She had no choice but to obey him. She felt weak as she was behind Clay, the eyes of the Wildlings burning holes into her skin. The way the rope tugged and scratched at her skin caused her dignity to plummet.
They walked until they reached another hut, this one of medium size. Tree branches and hides covered the top for protection of the harsh wintry snow and brittle air of the North. Clay pulled her inside and made her sit down on a padded log, one of many that surrounded a blazing pit of fire. After hours of braving the cold, she welcomed the warmth. She scooted closer to its smokey wild arms and leaned in close enough so that her face was captured in a glow of heat. She let slip a small sigh as her body regained its strength. Her nimble fingers that were slowly turning blue burned as she put them closer to the fire.
Off to the side, Clay was fumbling with something. He pulled out a couple of rabbits and started skinning them, yanking the intestines from its body and throwing them into a bucket that made an uncomfortable slushing sound every time an organ met another. It was silent besides the low snapping of the fire that produced a woodsy scent.
Wren watched Clay warily. The way he used the knife he had, making quick sufficient lines in the animals' fur coat and flesh, had her feeling uneasy. He was skilled at what he did and was sure that if he had killed her he would've made her death quick and painless; if he had wanted it to be. And yet, he didn't kill her, much to Balik's dismay. Why? She questioned him. Surely he had killed women before, he was a ruthless Wildling. She remembered the stories Old Nan would tell them about the men of the far North and the man-eating creatures that lived there. But those were stories, they shouldn't be real. Yet here she was, sitting in a Wildling camp waiting to be fed by a Wildling.
It was moments like this that she yearned for someone to come save her, anyone. For a knight in shining armor to come down the top of a hill on a brilliant steed, a sword as sharp as ice waving in the air, prepared to cut down anyone who stood in their way. She dreamed like a princess stuck in chains. She dreamed that someone would save her, but as her eyes adjusted back to the room she was sitting in, she realized no one was coming. Not a knight with a horse and sword, not even a stranger traveling on their own. It was unlikely.
