Crackclaw Point – Golden Port
Osha and the fifty-two wildling women under her command followed Maester Moore, escorted by ten silent, imposing "Tyrant" wights. They crossed the noisy streets of Golden Port's western district and stepped into the brand-new northern quarter.
The second they laid eyes on the place, every one of those women who'd survived the frozen hell beyond the Wall forgot how to breathe.
The buildings in front of them were nothing like the low, smoky, animal-stinking wooden huts and stone dens they remembered. These were row after row of perfectly straight houses, built from some glossy black stone with razor-sharp edges that caught the sunlight and threw back a calm, rock-solid shine.
Even more jaw-dropping were the rooflines and window frames painted with bright golden dye. Against the black walls it looked like every building wore a crown of pure wealth—strange, foreign, and absolutely magnificent.
None of the wildling women could have guessed that Pierce had shipped that exotic dye all the way from the Summer Isles. But it gave this whole new district a look that went way beyond anything Westeros had ever seen.
"This is where you'll be living from now on," Maester Moore said, stopping in front of a three-story black-stone building. His voice was flat, almost bored. "Six to a room. Sort it out yourselves. Osha, you're in charge of them. Any problems come straight to me."
Osha just nodded, still staring up at the towering structure like it might vanish.
Three stories. Back beyond the Wall, a single windproof wooden hut was considered a miracle. Here they had stone buildings three floors high.
The windows were fitted with real glass—clear as ice. To them it looked like pure magic, something only the Children of the Forest or the richest southern lords could possibly own.
Still half-dazed, the women followed Maester Moore inside. The hallways were wide enough to drive a wagon through. The floors were smoother than frozen river ice, and the walls were pure white.
The rooms they were given weren't huge, but they were clean, bright, and dry. Three sets of bunk beds lined one wall, already made up with rough but spotless linen. A simple wooden table and stools sat in the middle. In the corner was a small door leading to a private privy—complete with a flushing squat toilet and a wooden bucket. Maester Moore gave a quick demonstration and warned them about keeping it clean. The women let out a chorus of stunned whispers.
"This… this is where we shit?" one young wildling girl muttered. "It's cleaner than our chieftain's sleeping spot…"
Maester Moore ignored the muttering. He gathered everyone in the open space in front of the building and raised his voice through a wooden speaking horn.
"Listen up!" The words carried clear and sharp. "You're citizens of Golden Port now—not free folk from beyond the Wall. We have rules here."
He pointed at a small pile of black stones nearby. "That's coal. Use it for heating and hot water. Someone will show you how later. Only burn it when the fire's already roaring, or you'll poison yourselves. Firewood's in the storage room downstairs."
"Tomorrow morning you're all heading to the silkworm sheds by the artificial lake north of here. They'll tell you what to do when you get there."
"This afternoon, when you hear the harbor bell tower ring nonstop, that's dinner. Everyone meets at the central mess hall. I'll be waiting. For now, settle in, change into the clothes the quartermaster gave you, and get familiar with the place."
With that, Maester Moore turned and left, the Tyrant wights marching behind him in perfect lockstep.
The second he was gone the women swarmed around Osha, all talking at once.
"What the hell do they want us to do? Silkworms? What even is that?"
"They gave us houses this nice? Has to be a trap! I heard southern lords love snatching women for—"
"Yeah, probably drag us off to bed tonight!"
"Or they'll marry us off to some stinking men! I'd rather eat bark back home!"
Osha raised her hands. "Quiet!"
She looked around at the tough sisters who'd fought the cold and the Others right alongside her. Her voice was steady.
"Lord Pierce said if we work, we get food and shelter. Well, look around—the houses are better than anything we ever dreamed of beyond the Wall. That means he wasn't lying."
She let that sink in. "As for sleeping with men? Take a good look at Lady Melara who's always at his side. Then look at us—rough skin, wind-burned faces, calloused hands. You really think a lord like him would bother with the likes of us? If he just wanted to hand us out like prizes, why build us fancy houses and teach us rules? He could've tossed us in a pen and been done with it."
Her words hit like cold water. The women glanced at the spotless buildings, the gleaming streets they'd walked through, and thought about Melara's moon-pale beauty. They had to admit Osha was right.
"Enough talk," Osha said, clapping once. "Let's pick rooms, change clothes, and settle in. These furs stand out too much here."
The wildling women got to work with a mix of wonder and nerves—figuring out the bunk beds, poking at the flushing privy, and pulling on the plain gray linen tunics and trousers the quartermaster had issued. It all felt like stepping into another world. Scary. New. But for the first time in their lives, it also carried the faint, fragile taste of real hope.
…
…
That afternoon, when the deep, musical tolling of the harbor bells rolled across the city, Osha led her group out. They were wearing their new clothes—still a little awkward, but neat.
Stepping outside, they saw dozens of similar courtyards, all packed with new wildling arrivals—mostly women, children, and elders. The able-bodied men were nowhere in sight.
Curious but quiet, they followed the crowd toward the bells. More Tyrant wights stood like black iron pillars at every corner, watching everything in silence. Nobody felt like causing trouble.
Soon they spotted the men coming from another direction—faces and clothes covered in coal dust, shoulders slumped with exhaustion. But the old wildling fire in their eyes had been replaced by something quieter. Resignation.
Osha spotted a familiar face. "Dolf!"
"Pig-herder" Dolf lifted his head and gave a tired, crooked smile. "Osha… We've been hauling those black rocks all day. They call it coal. Heavy as a dead mammoth, but they say it burns longer than wood."
Finally they reached the mess hall—a huge, long black-stone building. A line had already formed outside. The air smelled of grain, hot oil, and spices none of them had ever known. Their empty stomachs growled loud enough to be heard.
Inside, long wooden tables and benches filled the hall. Several serving windows lined one wall, busy cooks ladling out food.
Maester Moore stood on a small platform at the front, watching coldly.
"Line up by courtyard—three columns!" he announced through the horn. "Anyone who did heavy labor today goes to the rightmost line. Better rations."
When the food hit their trays, half the wildlings froze.
Every plate held a thick slab of dark, hearty bread, a steaming bowl of fish-and-shellfish chowder, and a glistening length of spiced seafood sausage. The men who'd hauled coal got a foaming mug of ale on top of it all.
For people who'd spent their lives half-starved, fighting over scraps of game, this was a feast beyond imagining.
But not everyone behaved.
Two big male wildlings—maybe just hungry, maybe used to taking what they wanted—shoved through the line and stormed straight at the serving window.
"Out of the way! I eat first!"
Maester Moore's eyes went ice-cold. He didn't even raise his voice. He simply lifted one finger.
Two Tyrant wights moved like black lightning. Steel hands clamped around the troublemakers' throats, hoisted them off the ground like rag dolls, then slammed them into the floor with a double thud. Iron boots pinned them down.
The entire hall went dead silent except for the two men's choked groans.
Maester Moore walked to the front, picked up the speaking horn, and scanned every terrified face.
"Finish your meal. Then stay right where you are. I have something to say."
A lot of wildlings ate without tasting a bite.
When the trays were cleared, Maester Moore stepped back onto the platform with one Tyrant wight beside him.
"Some of you still don't understand the rules here." His voice stayed flat, but the chill in it raised every hair in the room. "Lord Pierce needs people who work and create value. Obey, and you eat well, stay warm, and live better than you ever did beyond the Wall. Disobey…"
He reached over, flipped open the Tyrant's visor.
Underneath wasn't a living face. It was gray, stiff, rotting in places, with two faint, icy blue lights glowing in empty sockets.
Screams ripped through the crowd. Women and children huddled together.
Maester Moore didn't stop. He drew a sharp dagger and drove it straight up through the wight's jaw, clear through the skull. The tip glinted out the top of the helmet.
The Tyrant barely swayed. It took a few steady steps when ordered, still perfectly obedient.
"See this?" Maester Moore pulled the blade free, a few dark drops sliding off. "This is what happens when you don't cooperate. Lord Pierce has a thousand ways to make you useful—alive… or dead."
His gaze swept the silent, shaking crowd, then settled on the two troublemakers now white as corpses and the big man who'd fainted from pure terror.
"Any questions?"
Dead silence. Only ragged breathing and a few muffled sobs.
"Good." Maester Moore nodded once. "Remember this meal. Remember these rules. Dismissed."
The wildlings practically fled the hall.
As Osha walked out with the others, she glanced back at the black-stone building. She understood now—the days of the free folk were over.
Here, only obedience and hard work bought you a future.
And for the first time, that future didn't look half bad.