Chapter 1.7: A Strangers Skin
Jack Carter
I’d dodged this as long as I could—mumbling about other priorities, anything to avoid the blades weight—‘til the whispers forced my hand: . I couldn’t run from it anymore..
The execution yard was a grim patch near the keep—bare dirt, a stump scarred from old cuts, the air heavy with frost and silence. A handful of the castle’s servants watched, faces hard, breath fogging the cold air of dawn. Guards hauled the three out, their wrists bound, faces pale under grime. The first was a hulking brute—wild beard, slumped shoulders—one of the rapers, his crime whispered by a guard as they shoved him forward. The second man, a teenager really, gnawed at a chapped lip—rape again, eyes darting between me and the stump. The last was wiry, missing an ear—the deserter from the Watch—his gaze empty, like he’d checked out already. Victor stood beside me, his weathered face a mask of duty, holding a longsword—its plain steel catching the weak sun as he offered it over. I took it, fumbling the grip—I’d never swung anything heavier than a baseball bat—and stepped forward, my boots crunching on the frozen ground.
“You’ve been judged guilty of crimes against the North,” I said, my voice a rasp. My stomach churned, the scent of blood already thick in my nostrils—though none had spilled. Not yet. “Rape and desertion of your sacred oath.”
The youngest whimpered—a thin sound swallowed by the stillness. The brute shifted, shoulders hunching further; the deserter didn’t blink. I forced myself to meet their eyes—this was on me, every damn bit, intimate and personal as hell.
I drew a breath, the air sharp and cold in my lungs. The longsword dragged at my arm—different from a rifle, raw and real. “In the name of Maekar Targaryen, First of His Name, Protector of the Realm, I, Edwyle Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, hereby condemn you to die.”
The words felt thick, awkward—a mouthful of titles from a world I barely grasped. I raised the blade—a tremor ran through my arms, and I forced my grip tighter. No rifle scope, no safe distance—just me, steel, and the life in front of me. A moment of frozen silence, the world holding its breath—then I brought it down in a swift, brutal arc. The sound—flesh and bone cleaving—echoed in the sudden quiet. Blood sprayed hot and wet, spattering my gloves, my boots, my face—coppery tang thick and cloying, coating my tongue, clinging to my teeth.
The brute’s neck snapped like wet wood, the kid’s whimper cut off mid-breath, and the deserter’s hollow stare went dark—each head rolling light as a stone. Then it was over. Silence crashed back, heavier now—pregnant with ghosts. The stench of blood hung like a shroud—I wanted to scream, weep, and puke all at the same time.
I looked behind me and Victor’s grey eyes met mine, a slow nod—approval, maybe, or just relief.
I walked off with as much dignity as I could manage.Just as I made it to the Great Keep’s wall my stomach rebelled. Bile burned my throat, hot and sour, splattering against the cold stone. Heaving great shuddering breaths, I wiped the leftover vomit from my chin with a shaking hand. I gave myself a moment to pull myself together—then straightened. Westeros—the North especially—was no place for soft hearts, and I’d be no exception.
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I spent the next hour wandering aimlessly through the castle, my thoughts numb. The sound of three distinct thumps echoed through my head endlessly—each swing of that damn sword replaying like a stuck record. The scent of blood stayed with me, even after scrubbing my face and hands with a bar of Nan’s soap—gritty, grey, but no match for the copper tang stuck in my throat like a bad meal. I couldn’t shake the flickering images of three sets of vacant eyes—brute, kid, deserter—three bloody ghosts haunting my steps.
My wandering finally stopped me in front of a stone wall—worn smooth, stretching seven feet high—with a stout oak door set into it. Needing air, I pushed it open and stepped inside.
An ancient wood spread out before me—A Godswood I realized—muted greens and browns. It sat as a pocket of stillness cut off from the castle’s clamor. I knew of this place—hazy memories from the books I’d read as a kid—the North’s sacred spot, tied to their Old Gods somehow. My boots sank into a carpet of fallen needles and leaves, muffling every step. The air hung quiet, warm with a faint hint of spring—A lone raven croaked overhead, sharp against the quiet, leaves rustling in a whisper, like a believer murmuring prayers, these untamed woods their cathedral.
At its center loomed the weirwood—a gnarled giant, bark bone-white, leaves a deep blood-red that stood out sharp against the dull forest tones. Its trunk twisted thick and old—ancient, older than anything I’d ever seen—carved with a long, sad face, weeping eyes dripping red tears—I’d seen them before, in that damn dream.
It hit me hard—beautiful, eerie—something primal I couldn’t name.
A small, dark pool sat nearby—still and black—mirroring those red leaves like a window to another world. Moss and ferns fringed its edges, steam curling faint from the water’s warmth. I sank onto a weathered stone bench close by—the cool seat steadying me—and let the peace settle in. The stillness drowned out the thumps in my skull—eased the ghosts back—gave me room to breathe past the blood still clinging to my senses.
But nothing erased the weight in my chest.
I’d killed three men today—had to—and this place didn’t care. It just was—old, steady, peaceful—and that was enough.
I breathed deep for the first time all morning and stood, brushing dirt off the back of my hose—calmer now—ready to move again. Whatever came next, I’d face it—one step, one breath, one battle at a time.