The Lonely Hills.
Wildling training camp.
Ygritte opened her eyes, and an unfamiliar ceiling filled her view.
Wooden beams draped in cobwebs. A gray stone ceiling. An oil lamp whose fuel had long since dried up.
The blur sharpened into focus until every detail stood clear.
Not a cold rock cave.
Not a cramped skin tent reeking of beasts.
Only then did Ygritte remember—this wasn't beyond the Wall.
After the wildlings' failed push south, she'd been captured and brought to this land. Now she served Lord Domeric.
She drew a deep breath. The air here wasn't as crisp and biting as the true north, but the warmth inside the room was comforting all the same.
A soft wool blanket—scrubbed clean of stink—wrapped her body. Several layers of padding lay beneath her, so the bed dipped slightly under her weight.
Even if she stretched as far as she could, the unusually long middle toe on her right foot still wouldn't poke out…
The urge to stay in bed made the famously disciplined Ygritte feel oddly… unsteady.
She'd been here less than two months, and yet she'd found a kind of safety she hadn't felt in years.
A feeling she'd only known back when her mother was still alive.
Here, no matter how late she rose, no one disturbed her.
Like now—she turned her head toward the window. The gray-white sky was faintly harsh on the eyes. It had to be morning already.
Back beyond the Wall, peaceful sleep was rare.
The slightest sound could tear her from a dream—enemy, beast, or one of those cannibal clans.
Before dawn, she'd already be thinking about food for the day. When you went hunting, no one could promise you'd come back alive, so every meal was eaten to bursting—until there was no room left.
And now… living like this, lazing in warmth…
Ygritte found she couldn't bring herself to reject it.
If anything, she was starting to sink into it.
No. She couldn't keep rotting like this.
She slapped her cheeks and forced herself out of bed.
Her mother had always said: the gods don't bless the lazy.
Her thoughts suddenly drifted to that knight—Jon Snow—and she nearly laughed.
She'd once told him the tale of Brandon the Daughterless… and he'd shouted that it was nonsense. She'd never seen anyone take a story so seriously. Straight as an arrow, that one.
She pulled on clean, new clothes—she hadn't even gotten to her shoes—
When rapid knocking sounded at the door.
"Come in."
Jon Snow pushed the door open. "You're still not up?"
"Do you need something?" Ygritte asked lazily.
"As your watcher, it's my duty to remind you—"
"To get out of bed? Is that really necessary?" Ygritte gave him a strange look. "By the way… I heard you're the Lord of Winterfell's son?"
"Bastard," Jon corrected.
"How nice," Ygritte sighed. "To have a father. My memories of mine are empty… like all I've ever had since I was little was my mother. No father."
"No need to be sad," Jon said. "Maybe every wildling's like that."
"Then you're luckier than me."
"Not as lucky as you think," Jon said, then went quiet. "Not if your father's wife was like Lady Catelyn…"
"Oh." Ygritte nodded, as if she understood.
"Today's the special training day," Jon said. "You didn't forget, did you?"
"Of course." Ygritte knew exactly what he meant. Today was the day she showed the lord what her training had produced.
And it was the day her fate could turn.
If Lord Domeric approved of her, she'd be pardoned—she could live like anyone else.
No more living like a starving dog beyond the Wall.
What was strange was that Jon Snow looked like he cared even more than she did.
Was he… worried about her?
But Jon Snow was a noble knight.
And she was only a wildling.
On the training field—
Thirty-odd short, wiry wildlings stood in front of her.
They were the members of Ygritte's recon squad.
She'd chosen them carefully from among the captured wildlings—picked people built like her.
They had no special talents, but they were quick and nimble—like rabbits on the moor. Blink, and they vanished.
Each wore a gray fur cloak, the same shade as the nearby mountains and stone.
It helped them melt into the land—harder to spot.
If they went into deep woods, they'd switch to cloaks smeared with green dye…
Today's mission: reach a camp ten miles away and gather "enemy" intelligence—without being detected.
Enemy banners. Numbers. Weapons and gear. Food stores… real, usable information.
"Begin!" A horn sounded, and Jon—acting as overseer—called out loudly.
The wildlings all looked to their commander: Ygritte.
She spoke calmly, her voice steady and firm.
"Then we move."
…
The special training was a success.
Ygritte's squad completed the mission with minimal losses.
Afterward she was summoned to see Lord Domeric. He praised her, then said her past crimes would be forgiven—she would become a true soldier of House Bolton…
He said a lot.
But Ygritte didn't really listen.
All she could think about was what she'd be eating tonight.
…
At last, dinner.
Ygritte went to the wildling camp's mess hall.
It was a feast: hot bread, butter, honey, blackberry jam—bacon and boiled eggs, cheese, and a pot of mint tea.
But what she wanted most was a huge braised pig trotter, steaming and drenched in gravy. They said it was a new dish Lord Domeric had invented.
She took a savage bite.
In that moment, Ygritte felt she could die without regrets.
As she ate, familiar faces passed nearby—former comrades.
Tormund Giantsbane.
Harma Doghead.
Styr, Magnar of Thenn.
Varamyr Sixskins.
…
If they weren't all wearing the sigil of the flayed man on pale pink, Ygritte might have thought she'd slipped back into the old days beyond the Wall—when Mance had led them south.
Now Tormund was a captain of a sword-and-shield infantry unit. Lord Domeric said he had to lead ten charges in battle before his crimes would be pardoned.
Styr commanded a spear unit.
Harma led nearly all the wildling women soldiers.
And Varamyr was now an instructor at the beast-handling camp—training hawks, hounds… even rats.
…
Everything had changed.
And yet—somehow—nothing had.
Full at last, Ygritte belched a few times and fell into thought.
But the former "King-Beyond-the-Wall," Mance, was still half-mad—worse, if anything. Spitting at people, even pissing at them, smearing strange filth onto faces… no one wanted to go near him.
The men who'd once sworn to him drifted away.
Only his wife, Dalla—belly heavy with child—cared for him with tireless patience, like she was tending a grown child.
Ygritte had heard Lord Domeric visited him once. When he left, he said only:
"Convincing act."
So was Mance's madness… fake?
And if it was—why?
Ygritte didn't know.
But after that day, Mance Rayder only seemed to go even madder.
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GAME OF THRONES: SECRETS BENEATH THE DREADFORT
🏰🩸 GAME OF THRONES: SECRETS BENEATH THE DREADFORT 🩸🏰
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📢 DARK SECRETS RISE IN THE NORTH! 📢
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Beneath the Dreadfort, old horrors stir.
Power, bloodlines, betrayal, northern cruelty, and buried secrets wait beneath one of the most feared castles in Westeros.
❄️ The North remembers.🏰 The Dreadfort hides.🩸 And some secrets should have stayed buried.
Uncover what lies beneath before anyone else does.
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