274 AC, Beyond the Wall
"Gather the corpses in one place," I said impassively.
Howland just nodded. Willam was already moving. Wendel mumbled something, probably to himself, but didn't stop for a moment. Harrion turned without a word and went to help.
The wildlings, some looked at each other, but none protested.
After half an hour, all the bodies were lying in one pile.
I took a torch and moved towards the pile. Fenrir walked beside me, silently, step by step, like a shadow that decided to take the shape of a wolf.
I stopped right in front of the piles.
"Let it burn," I said, throwing the torch onto the pile. "Let's hope getting rid of the bodies will help us avoid predators."
The flame did not ignite immediately. First, there was a hiss. Then a few cracks. Then a flash that turned into a full, loud tongue of fire, climbing up the wood and bodies as if it knew the way.
For a moment, no one spoke. No one moved. Everyone was watching.
"We're moving," I said, not taking my eyes off the fire. "We're going back to Hardhome."
Howland began issuing orders without a word. Harrion, standing a few steps away, said nothing, did not move immediately, but patiently observed the rear of the column, as if deliberately waiting for the last ones who were hesitating, to be able to silently look at the burning piles for a few quiet moments, where the fire consumed not only bodies but also memories of the fight, dirt, and screams.
The wildlings, who had recently looked at us with distance, sometimes with fear, sometimes with a mixture of distrust and quiet hope — no longer asked any questions. They walked in silence, as if what they had just seen had silenced everything that had previously pushed them to fight or resist.
Two days later, after a long but calm march — without even a single incident, without losses, without even one injured leg or broken morale — we returned to Hardhome. Our ranks had increased by two hundred and nineteen wildlings, people tired but not broken, people who did not ask a single question, did not try to escape, did not bargain about conditions. They simply... walked.
After a short rest, a meal, and checking the resources, I sat by the fire on a stone that had already served as a chair for all commanders who had something important to say.
"Howland," I said finally. "Gather the people. Commanders, wargs, guard captains. And that wildling. The one who spoke about the cannibals' movements."
Howland nodded and left without a word. He already had the list. He knew who was supposed to appear.
Howland returned in less than ten minutes. Not alone. Behind him came: Willam, Wendel, Harrion, and several others — three captains from my camp, two experienced scouts, and that wildling who knows something about cannibals.
I looked at everyone.
"Good, since everyone is here, we'll establish a plan of action for the future."
"We'll start with what we know," I said. "We've explored the entire area up to the Haunted Forest. There are no other groups of wildlings besides the one we've already dealt with."
Howland nodded.
"Additionally, we learned that the cannibals have started moving. Not chaotically. Not like a pack of desperate wildlings. Systematically. Like an army that knows the direction but does not reveal the goal."
I turned my head to the wildling and looked at him intensely, without a word. He held my gaze longer than I expected.
"You said they started moving three months ago."
"Yes," he confirmed. "At first, they attacked us in small groups. And then... they started appearing by the hundreds," the wildling replied calmly.
"And what did you do then?" Willam asked, with a hint of irony, as if he knew the answer.
The wildling looked at him, not offended, just tired.
"First we fought, and then we ran," he answered without hesitation. "The tribes that remained disappeared. They left only bones behind."
"From which side did they come?" I asked, still looking directly at the wildling. My tone was calm, but something was already starting to take shape inside me.
The wildling raised his head.
"They always attacked from the north and west," he replied immediately, as if repeating something he had said many times before. His shoulders were tense. Not from fear — from memory.
"Why didn't you go further to Hardhome?" I asked.
For a moment, he was silent. He swallowed. He looked first at the flames, then at us — one by one, as if weighing whether it was worth saying more. And then he spoke more slowly, more quietly:
"Because for years, people said this place was dead. That it had burned down and was only cursed. None of ours wanted to go where ghosts sleep in the ashes."
Wendel frowned. "Hardhome is just ruins."
"Not only," the wildling replied calmly, but his voice was lower, as if he was telling something that even to him seemed out of place. "People tried to settle here again before. But they always... disappeared."
I frowned. Not because of his words, but because of their tone. He spoke without drama, like someone who does not spin legends, but reports something he has seen or heard too often to be surprised anymore.
"Disappeared?" Willam repeated slowly, squinting.
The wildling nodded.
"There were those who thought it was a good place. Fish, forest, close to the sea. They would set up huts. Light fires. Sometimes even start building something. But after a while, they would disappear."
Wendel cleared his throat quietly, shifting from one foot to the other. Howland looked at me — without words, but with a question in his eyes.
"Did anyone look for them?" I asked.
"Sometimes," he said after a moment. "But they also disappeared."
He paused. For a fraction of a second, he looked towards the forest — unconsciously, reflexively, as if even now he expected something to emerge from there.
"Then no one wanted to come here," he added calmly."