Tilda POV
Tilda's hands still shook as she stared at the lifeless man next to her. Her clothes lay ripped and torn around her, the wind biting at her exposed body. Yet she could barely sense the cold.
Some of the blood had sprayed on her chest and legs, and she could feel its warmth on her skin. Her throat felt like it was closing up. She couldn't breathe. Couldn't think straight.
She knew well the fate of those who were captured and taken by the wildlings, especially the women. No woman who lived on Bear Island was ignorant of such things. They had been dealing with wildling raids for all living memory.
But things were a lot different when it happened to you. The first hours after the wildling men grabbed her from her village had been spent in full terror and crying at what future awaited her.
The only thing that kept her from jumping out of the boat into the frigid waters of the Bay of Ice were the children that had also been taken with them. She couldn't leave them alone, especially as the only other adult woman that had been captured caught a fever as soon as they left the Island.
She thought of fighting back that first night at the Frozen Shore, of clawing at their eyes or stealing a knife to cut their throats as they slept, but she was never much of a fighter, much to the chagrin of her mother. At sixteen, she was short and slim and not at all like the women of legend from the ruling house of Bear Island.
So she had accepted her fate of being used by horrible wildling men until her death. With luck, the best thing she had to hope for was one of them taking a liking to her and she wouldn't have to share her bed with more than a single man.
But despite being surrounded by almost a dozen men and that terrible woman with the scarred face, Mara, none of them tried to force themselves on her. Oh there was the occasional grope disguised as a rough push, but nothing like she feared.
And so, foolishly, she had believed that she was safe. That nothing would happen to her. That she could hope for a normal life as a free woman, even if it were to be amongst the savage people beyond the Wall.
Now, as she stared at the cooling corpse of the man who almost took her, that reality was shattered. She had simply been promised to another man and his sons already, and it clearly hadn't stopped Karl after a bit of provocation from Mara.
Too lost in her own thoughts, Tilda only looked up from the dead body when Mara spoke up.
"Who the feck are ye?" the woman asked with a sneer.
Confused, it took Tilda a moment to realize someone else had come into the clearing. She turned to where all the wildlings were looking only to find a man striding up to them. No, her tired mind thought, the man was walking up to her.
Terror gripped her again. Something about the man sent shivers worming down her back. She tried to crawl away, but she found her body sapped of energy. Her arms felt weak and frozen in shock.
Then, when he stood right next to her, and she thought she would have to relive her attack all over again, the man stopped. He turned to her, and she finally saw his face.
Her heart skipped. Beautiful. That was the first word that came into her mind. He was the most handsome man she'd ever seen. Even his eyes, mismatched and colored in a way that should not be possible, didn't take away from his otherworldly beauty.
Despite his black hair, he looked like what she imagined the famed rulers of Westeros looked. Her own Targaryen Prince, lost beyond the Wall, had come to save her.
The man's eyes shot down toward her and she froze like a deer in the face of a hunter.
"I asked ye a question, pretty boy," Mara said again.
Another wildling spoke up. "Start talking or you're getting an arrow to the face."
The man's red and purple eyes swivelled to the wildlings, but his face remained expressionless, as if he was a great snake looking down at maggots trying to threaten it. His mouth opened and he said something in a language Tilda had never heard.
Mara sneered. "The fuck are ye sayin'?"
"You from Essos or something, kneeler?" Skair asked, his sharp eyes evaluating the man. "There anymore of you around?"
"Tsk. Screw this." Without waiting for anything else to happen, the wildling with the horn-bow drew his arrow, pointed at the beautiful man, and shot.
The arrow whisked through the air, and Tilda's stomach clenched at the thought of another man dying right beside her. But before she could even gasp, the man's arm shot up and he caught the arrow dead from the air between two of his fingers like he was holding a smoking pipe.
Her jaw gaped, and she saw the wildlings react in disbelief at the man's show of skill. Skair's eyes widened, and Mara let out a low hiss like a pot leaking smoke.
"How in the gods name did he do that?" A club wielding man said, his voice shaky.
The wildling who shot the arrow didn't say anything, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.
The man brought the arrow closer to his face as if to inspect it, then he let out a scoff. He said something else again in that language of his, and Tilda couldn't help but notice how his voice sounded low and refined and unlike anyone she had ever heard before.
He threw the arrow up into the air as one would a stone, and before the arrow came back down into his hand, he took off his cloak and tossed it onto her exposed front in a single smooth movement.
Surprised, Tilda caught the cloak with both hands, gasping at how smooth it felt against her fingers. She had never touched something so fine. Tears came to her eyes, and she hugged the cloak close to her, wrapping around her body like it could protect her from all the ills of the world.
When she looked back up at the man, he had the arrow grasped in his hand again. He looked up at the wildling archer and a shadow of a smirk came to his face. She didn't know if the expression made him more terrifying or more handsome.
Then suddenly, in an explosion of movement, he swiped his arm across his body and hurled the arrow twice as fast back at the archer. The arrow cut through the air and found its home on the neck of its former owner. He died before he could make another sound.
"Shit!" The wildling with the stone-headed club said.
Skair reacted first. "Don't let him throw anything else," he yelled, then charged ahead toward the man.
With a loud roar, the other wildlings followed behind him.
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