Jon couldn't sleep. The cold night air was heavy and silent, but his mind was restless. He quietly slipped out of the small room where he and Sam were staying and began walking around Craster's rough camp, hoping to clear his thoughts. The flickering shadows of firelight danced on the wooden walls and snow-covered ground.
Perhaps it was the danger of this place, or the worry gnawing at him about Bran—either way, he hadn't had much sleep lately.
"Where are you, Bran..." That was the only question he kept asking himself. How was he? Was he safe? Was he even alive? He wanted to be angry at Sandor, but knowing that Bran might have gone with him willingly, he couldn't hold onto that anger.
As he wandered, a faint sound caught his attention—a soft, frightened woman's voice, barely more than a whisper. Was it a scream or a moan? Jon had no idea. He had never been with a woman, so he couldn't tell the difference. He carefully followed the voice, moving quietly through the dark. The closer he got, the clearer the sound became—it definitely wasn't pleasure. His instincts screamed something was wrong.
He crept around a corner and froze. Before him stood Craster, the foul man himself, holding one of his daughters against her will.
It was night, but it wasn't hard to recognize the man by his size and voice. There were only three men in this place anyway, and that certainly wasn't Sam—Jon could spot his fat friend from a mile away. Even from atop the Wall, anyone could spot Sam before spotting a charging White Walker.
The girl's tears streamed down her face as Craster held her cruelly. Jon's blood ran cold as he realized what was happening. It didn't feel like a struggle—there was no resistance, but Craster was clearly abusing her. He forced her down like she was some animal, his full weight pressing on her. One of his feet crushed her face into the ground while he took her from behind with vile aggression.
Frozen at first, Jon's horror turned to rage when Craster raised his hand and struck the girl harshly. He treated her less like a person and more like livestock to satisfy his lust. Jon had seen the world's cruelty, but this? His own daughter?
The girl's voice sounded young—only now did Jon realize how young she was.
"You bitch think you can escape, eh? I'll fuck you 'til morning, then hang your naked ass for the beasts to take you," Craster growled, giving Jon an idea of what might have happened.
Without thinking, Jon charged forward. His body moved on its own. He had no sword—he'd left it behind—but Craster was unarmed too.
Craster didn't know what hit him before he was knocked down—pants literally around his ankles.
"Get out of here!" Jon shouted to the girl, who was stunned and gasping for air.
"You black bastard! I'll kill you!" Craster roared, trying to rise, but Jon was faster. He rushed the man and tackled him to the ground.
The two men clashed in a brutal fight, fists pounding and legs kicking. The cold night air echoed with grunts, thuds, and harsh breathing.
Craster was strong and ruthless, landing heavy blows that bruised Jon's body. But Jon was younger, more agile. Craster's movements were hampered by his half-removed pants. Jon fought with desperation and fury, driven by the injustice he'd just seen.
The fight was loud enough to wake everyone.
The scuffle rolled onto the snowy ground. Craster's daughters came out but didn't intervene. They knew, no matter the outcome, they were doomed.
If Craster lived, they returned to their caged existence. If he died, they had nowhere to go.
Summoning his last strength, Jon struck Craster hard on the side of the head. The man stumbled back. Jon was about to press the attack when the same girl appeared, wielding a large rock. With all her might, she brought it down on Craster's head.
Craster didn't even react in time. The girl—his daughter, his victim—hit him again and again, smashing his skull until it was cracked and bleeding. His face became a mangled mess. He couldn't have been more dead.
"Bastard... bastard... cunt... die. Die... Die..."
Jon stood over him, chest heaving, watching the girl pummel the lifeless body like she was exorcising her every demon.
He slowly approached and gently caught her hands. "Stop... It's done. He's dead."
The girl's face was broken, tear-streaked—and lifeless.
That night, Jon learned the terrible truth about Craster: he was no mere wildling, but a monster hiding in the cold.
---
[Thor POV]
"Are all men like you beyond the Wall?" Osha asked as we made our way toward the Wildlings—sorry, the Free Folk. That's what they call themselves.
"Men are the same no matter which side of the Wall they're on. It's we who build walls, divide lands, name them, plant flags, and claim ownership," I said with a shrug. Ironic, coming from a man whose father conquered planets and did just that.
But hey, I'm not saying it's wrong—just that it's the truth.
"First time I've heard a Southerner admit that," Osha said with a hint of disbelief.
"Have you met many Southerners?" I raised an eyebrow.
"No... just Crows."
"And how many of them did you talk to before killing them?"
"One," she answered after a pause.
"What did you talk about?"
"How he'd like to die."
"And then we wonder why there are always wars." I rolled my eyes.
"And no, there's no one like me. And for the record, I'm from the south—but not from Westeros."
"Then why come here? There's nothing but death in this land."
"You could say I'm looking for death." I shrugged. This woman asks too many questions.
"Too pretty to die on a bed of flowers back where you came from, oh lord of mine?" Osha mocked.
"Who said I'm here to die? I'm here to kill death itself, you foolish woman." I smirked as we walked.
This had been our routine for a while—jabs at each other, and multiple escape attempts by her. I caught her every time. Never bothered to tie her up. Even let her carry weapons. Eventually, she gave up.
It took me a while to remember her—she was Tonks from Harry Potter... Just kidding. But she looked exactly like the actress who played Osha in the TV series. Some people here looked like their Game of Thrones counterparts; some didn't. She was a near-exact match.
I had her lead me to Mance Rayder's camp. She refused at first, so I dragged her through the frozen wastelands until she gave in.
"Why do you want to see Mance Rayder?" Osha asked for the hundredth time. My answer was always the same.
"To take the Free Folk south of the Wall so they can survive death."
At first, she didn't believe I knew about the wights. But the more we talked, the more convinced she became.
"What do you think Mance has been trying to do? It's not that easy. Marching on the Wall would cost thousands of lives. Many Free Folk would die."
"Not if I have anything to say about it. If the Night's Watch doesn't open the gate, I'll break it open."
"And you can do that?"
"Yes."
"With what army? You think Mance will lend you his? That the Free Folk will follow you?"
"I don't do armies. I don't need one. Not yet."
"Huh, you're right—men are the same everywhere. Fools to the core." Osha snorted, and I smiled.
"And I told you—there are no men like me."
She snorted again before finally saying, "You're making a grave mistake. You shouldn't have come here."
"I make grave mistakes all the time. Everything works out just fine in the end..."
xxx
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