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Sven Stormeye - On Storrold's Point, at the Eastern Edge of the Haunted Forest. Two days later.

“King Stormeye! King Stormeye!”

Sven sighed, and looked up from his nearly finished canoe. All he, Yin, and Val needed was to char the vessel to strengthen its hull, add support, and his work would be complete. Maybe he could even join the Lothbrok and the inner circle for the evening meal on time. The same could be said for the rest of the fleet, for they were finishing their work as the day drew to a close. The vessels which would carry their food and tents were complete first, followed by much of the personal canoes, those of hide and oak and pine. Many of the wildlings took to the frigid seas with relative haste, be it from curiosity or anxiety, or both. No man or woman had heard from the small group of free folk who had gone to find the wight horde, encouraging fear on the part of the normally stoic people of the wild north. Everyone knew that something had happened. That did not mean they wished to mention their fears, for even a false sense of security was a sense of security. Sven placed down his tools and squinted at the scraggly wildling in the evening light. 

“Telm? Ye’d better ‘ave a reason t’interrupt m’work,” he said to the warg, one of three his inner circle. Wargs were few and far between in the days of Mance, and even more so these days due to many unexperienced wargs forgetting the dangers of the creature you control dying. Some thought they could escape before the creature died. Some did. Graves in the frozen ground were the only remnant of those who didn’t. Even more so, some risked it all to defend the free folk, sending their creatures in on suicide missions to hold back the white walkers. Even a slim chance of living was better than none. He hated it, but he did agree with that mentality.

“Th’ scouts, Sven. They’ve returned. I seen ‘em, through Frost’s eyes.”

Sven got to his feet faster than he had in all of his 38 namedays. “Your owl. Where’d ye see them?”

“They’re comin’ back. Be back by th’ time we get there, after if we ‘urry.”

Sven nodded. “Yin, come with me,” he requested. Swiftly, his wife stood with him. Val attempted to join her parents, but Sven stopped her with a firm hand on her shoulder. “Not today, my flower. I don’t know what th’ west ‘as, but I fear none of it is safe.”

She nodded, slightly disappointed. “Aye, father. Be safe.”

He turned to Telm. “Let’s go.”

They ran the whole way to the western wall, sweating profusely and covered in mud by the time they got there.

“Telm. Send Frost t’get Lothbrok n’ the circle. They’ll need t’be ‘ere.”

“Aye.”  Telm sat cross legged and closed his eyes, all of the tension leaving his body. “’E’ll be back in a moment. Boy!” Sven shouted, looking for the lad he had seen but the other day. He was met with a small red face 10 feet above him, snug in the snow frosted tree.

“King Stormeye?”

“Ye see anything up there?”

“No, King Stormeye. Just snow and trees.”

Sven tsked, and forced the heavy wooden gate open.

“King Stormeye?” the boy asked nervously.

Sven rushed into the thick wilderness without a response, spear in hand. Telm had not said anything about there being white walkers behind the scouts, but it was always better to be safe than to be sorry. Yin cursed him and followed suit. The snow yielded beneath his every footstep, his feet sinking almost a foot below the icy crust with each stride. It was a taxing sprint, but he did not have to run for very long before he found the group.

He almost tripped over the first scout, who was partially obscured by a snowdrift. The man was barely breathing, and his skin was almost blue from the cold and frigid to the touch. He would not last long, even in the best turn of events. He could even turn. It did not seem he had yet, but one never knew what the future held. Sven whistled to the motley crew that had followed him in a disordered panic. 

“We’ve got a man ‘urt! Take care of ‘im!”

As Yin started to kneel at the side of the man, Sven started to hurtle off further into the woods, searching for a second member, if he could even find one. It did not take long before Sven found another, slumped against a tree. Although it was ragged, the man was breathing. He had not been turned, not yet.
“We got a second one!” Sven shouted to the wildlings behind him. 

“King,” a weak voice trembled, the voice of the scout he had found. “King.”

“What is it, lad?”

The man weakly turned his head to Sven, showing his face at last. He was covered in blood and filth, so much so that there was barely any bare skin showing. In his black beard were sanguine icicles, and in his eyes was a fear more potent than any Sven had seen in a long time. The look in his eyes was one he knew well. It was the look of one who had seen the blue eyes, the eyes of the white walkers.

“Th-they’re comin’,” the man said, trembling before he coughed, blood coming from his mouth with the rough hacks. 

“Aye, son, I know. Save yer breath, and ye might be able t’ cherish it later.”

“No,” the man coughed, staring into Sven’s eyes with a horrid fear. “They’re comin’.”

Sven felt all of the blood drain from his face. “Ye mean—How far?”

“They’ll be ‘ere soon. Day, at most.”

With speed that he hadn’t tapped into for years, Sven hoisted the scout onto his back and sprinted back to his wife, who was directing the crew of wildlings that had followed.

“We need t’ get back in th’ camp,” he said, muttering in his wife’s ear. “Th’ white walkers are on th’ way, and close.”

Yin grunted slightly. “Ye sure?”

“I’m not the one t’ ask, it’s th’ one on m’ back,” Sven whispered. “I’m not going t’ risk th’ chance.”

She nodded slightly.

“Fall back! These’re the only ones left!” He shouted, praying he was right. Quickly, the retreat began, each wildling picking up their feet from the snow and stomping them back in in a hurry. 

The gods were not pleased, Sven knew this. This was not good news. If the wights arrived before the wildling were ready, they would be doomed. The canoes were ready, yes. However, camp had not been broken down, their supplies were not ready, and the people themselves weren’t ready. They needed two more days, two more they likely didn’t have.

“Do ye know when?” Yin asked from his side.

“’E said less than a day. They’re like to be comin’ through the forest. I’d send out a second group, but we can’t lose any more men. We need all th’ wildlings workin’ to one goal. A few could make th’ difference b’tween life and death.”

Yin nodded. “Aye. What d’ye need me t’do, Sven?”

He pondered the question for a moment, letting the words roll around in his mind. “It’s likely we’ll need ye to help with th’ loading of th’ supplies.”

She shook her head. “Yer so dense. What d’ye need me t’do?”

Sven chuckled as he set down the wounded man inside the gate. “Make sure Val and Gelmund’re safe. Especially Gelmund, ye know how ‘e is. If ‘e ran off into th’ face of battle, I worry about what might ‘appen.”

“I can handle it,” Yin said, starting off into the camp before Sven grabbed her arm. For an instant, she looked at him with a wild look, a blazing inferno locked in her gaze. “Be safe. I’ll be bothered if I don’t see ye later.”

She simply smirked as she backed away from him, bouncing slightly with each step backwards. “I know. Ye too.”

Sven smiled gently at his wife’s back, then turned back to his men. There was a battle coming, and Sven knew that, if they did not win, they would not survive.
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"Lord of Bones? More like Lord of Shit."

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