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Her first memory was of Dalla. Val was five then, and it was still winter, the snow taller than she was, the winds so strong they blew grown men over. She was not allowed out of the shack they shared with a dozen other Free Folk, and Dalla made certain she was always bundled in the thickest furs they had. There was something wrong with their mother; her coughing kept Val up all night, the sick crackling of her chest signaling something was truly wrong. She was scared by the way their mother seemed to be wasting away, and she started cry, her whimpers soft and pathetic in the night. And then Dalla was there, wrapping her arms tightly around her small, quivering body, gathering Val tightly to her chest.
“Don't cry, Val. Everything will be fine.”
Their mother died before winter was over, her coughing stopping abruptly one night. A year later, their father would die as well, attacked by a bear during a hunt. Val remembered their uncle coming back, giving Dalla their father's knife and clasping her on the shoulder. That night, when everyone slept, Dalla bundled Val in her warmest clothing and furs and urged her out of the shack.
“Where are we going?” Val asked as the wind howled around them, one hand clinging to the pack on Dalla's back.
“Keep up,” was all Dalla said in reply.
It would be years before Val realized no bear killed their father and longer still to understand the way their uncle looked at Dalla.
They were wandering through the snow, down to the last of the tough jerky Dalla stole, the tip of Dalla's smallest finger starting to turn black when Tormund found them.
At first Val thought him to be a giant, huge and broad, his beard stretching down his chest. He had a half-dozen men with him, and Val ducked behind Dalla, who brandished their father's knife before her. The giant held up his hands, gold cuffs gleaming around his wrists, and he said, “I mean you no harm, girl. Do you two need help?”
Val peeked around Dalla's body as she growled, “You'll not be stealing us.”
“Steal you?”
Another person moved forward then. It was not until the hood of the fur was pushed back Val saw the person was a woman, a pretty one with bright red hair. “No one will be stealing you while I'm here. Put the knife down, girl. That your sister?” When Dalla said nothing, she continued, “Bet she could use a warm meal and a warmer bed.”
It was only then Dalla tucked away the knife, wrapping a protective arm around Val's shoulders. Exhausted and weakened from hunger, Val collapsed halfway to their camp, and it was only after a fair amount of arguing Dalla allowed Tormund to sweep Val into his arms. He was strong, his hands surprisingly gentle as he carried her towards a makeshift village. She was lulled by the warmth of his body and the movement, her eyes drooping shut.
When she awoke, a little girl with a full head of red hair was watching her. All Val cared about was finding Dalla. Her sister sat with Tormund and some other men, looking so much older than her twelve years, but it was the first time since their father died that Dalla did not look tired and scared.
“We're going to stay with them,” Dalla told her later, carefully weaving Val's thick hair into a braid.
“Will they take care of us?”
“I take care of us.”
Val nodded as if she understood, simply happy to be warm and well-fed.
The first time a man tried to steal her, she was not quite eleven. At first, Val was not certain what was happening; she was half-asleep, stumbling through the morning routine of melting down snow for drink when someone grabbed her around the waist; she thought it was one of Tormund's sons, Dryn perhaps, but when she twisted to dig her elbow into his ribs, she found it was a man.
She did not know him. There were always knew people coming and going now that it was summer, passing through and whatnot; so long as they were peaceful, Tormund let them stay, and most of them were stragglers anyway, half-starved from winter and fearful of the Others. This one was an ugly man, stringy haired with breath which reeked of death, and Val instantly began to struggle, opening her mouth to shout for help. The crash of the back of his hand against her face split her lip, and the taste of iron on her tongue made Val fight harder as he ripped her shirts, fumbling for the ties of her pants. She sank her teeth into the flesh of his palm as he attempted to cover her mouth, and, as he hissed in pain, Val stretched, finding the handle of a paring knife.
The spray of his blood against her face was hot, painting her crimson. He made a gurgling noise from his ruined throat, a gap in the flesh allowing his life to trickle from him. It was a deep cut, one made with surprising accuracy; Toregg had taught her how to end a stag after it was felled, and Val hysterically thought it wasn't so different, killing a man. The weight of him dying against her chest was heavy enough to make breathing uncomfortable; she braced her hands against his chest and shoved, wriggling her body free. She stumbled out of the tent, the glare of the sun on snow temporarily blinding her, but Val could hear the shocked gasps. The world seemed askew for a moment, and, when it came back into view, someone was wrapping a fur around her; she dimly recognized she was cold, her shirts ripped clean in half, and then someone else was wiping the blood of her face.
Tormund ordered the man's body burned. As the flames swallowed her attacker, Tormund knelt before Val, pressing the paring knife she ended the man with into her palm. “Best start keeping that on you, alright?”
When Dalla returned to camp, she was furious. She did not let Val out of her sight for weeks after, ranting about men who would dare try to steal a girl who had not even flowered yet and how she wished she could have killed the man herself. It was not until later, after Dalla's temper cooled, that she petted Val's hair and apologized for not protecting her better.
“It was not your fault,” Val objected.
“I should have warned you at least.” Her face becoming even more serious, Dalla sighed with exhaustion. “You're such a pretty thing, Val. And men...More will come for you, try to steal you. It is the way of the world.”
“So I'll stick them too.”
Dalla chuckled sadly, kissing her forehead as she drew Val's head against her breast, tugging their sleeping skins higher around them. “My little spearwife,” she teased affectionately.
Dalla was right. That man was the first to try to steal her, but he would certainly not be the last.
The first time Val saw a member of the Night's Watch was also the first time she realized the crows were not the monsters from Dalla's stories.
It was pure accident. She was four-and-ten that year, recently flowered and constantly at odds with Dalla who thought she was becoming defiant. They were quarreling just that morning when Tormund, sick of hearing them bicker, ordered Val to fetch more wood for the fires. It was not far to the godswood, and, wanting to prolong her return to camp, she decided to continue on even with her arms burdened with kindling. She set down the wood, taking a knee before the heart tree, closing her eyes to say a prayer to the gods for her parents and for more patience with Dalla.
He came out of nowhere, a tall, thin man with sharp features. Val's head jerked up at the sound of his footsteps, and the man froze at the sight of her, his blue eyes wide in surprise. She quickly got to her feet, grabbing the wood, but the man remained still, simply looking at her. There was a sword upon his hip but he did not reach for it; he was nothing more than a man, this stranger in black, and Val could protect herself against a man.
Men's voices became audible as a party approached, and the crow looked over his shoulder as a voice called, “Where did you get to, Stark?”
Val quickly ran across the snow, hurrying back towards camp as quickly as she could to warn about the approaching crows. The fight with Dalla was forgotten as they quickly packed up camp and disappeared before the rangers could find them.
Fear was rarely an emotion Val allowed herself to feel, but she could scarcely breathe the first time she saw a wight. She did not recognize the person it once was; there was a wound on its face and its eyes seemed to glow blue. There were a half-dozen on them descending upon camp, and Val fumbled her knife at the sight as Dalla ordered her to help gather the children.
They lost three men that night, burning their bodies along with those of the wights; the smell turned her stomach, and Val vomited into the snow, her body aching with the force of each heave. Dalla caught her hair, holding it back over her shoulders and afterward brewed her tea to settle her stomach.
“Do not ever let me become that,” she requested, her hands wrapped tightly around the cup, trying to will warmth into her frozen hands.
Dalla nodded. “Of course.”
Val stared down at her tea before murmuring, “There are no wights beyond the Wall, are there?”
Dalla shook her head.
It was at that moment Val decided some day she'd live where the Others could not reach her.
Tormund told them they were going to treat with Mance Rayder. Val had heard of the man they called the King-Beyond-the-Wall, but there were many self-styled kings here. As they trekked across the snow to where Mance and his people were camped, Val wondered if they would stay long with him. The few times Tormund tried to ally them with others had not always gone so well, and Val hated when he tried; there was always some man who would try to steal her and Val was sick of fighting off so many fools.
He was not very impressive looking. Lean with hair gone mostly silver, Mance Rayder did not look near as intimidating as Tormund or the Magnar of Thenn, who had also come to treat. He sang as they supped, and, when Val leaned towards Dalla to laugh at a man who seemed so utterly strange, she saw there was interest burning in Dalla's eyes, her face soft as Mance turned his eyes upon her, his fingers plucking out the notes of a song Val did not know. In the flickering firelight, Dalla looked so young, younger than she had in years, and Val felt a sickening ache twist in her gut.
Dalla did not come to their sleeping skins that night. In the morning, Val saw her with Mance, his hand on Dalla's hip, her body tucked into his; anger flared in her chest, bright and quick, and Val pointedly ignored her, taking a seat beside Munda and keeping her back to her sister.
“You are acting like a child,” Dalla chastised before supper. “Why can you not be happy for me?”
“Happy you've been stolen?”
“Nobody stole me, Val. I want to be with him. Is that so hard to understand?”
Val threw down the furs in her arms, furious. “Yes! You barely let me out of your sight, refuse to let me so much as look at a man for fear I'll be stolen, but you decide to just go with him without so much as consulting me? What happens when we take the Wall and Tormund leaves?”
Dalla appeared thrown for a moment. “You would stay with me, with Mance - “
“They are as much my family as you,” Val argued, crossing her arms across her chest. “We owe Tormund a bit more loyalty, don't you think?”
She seemed to sag beneath Val's words before admitting, her voice soft and pained, “I want something for myself. Haven't I earned it?”
The words nearly knocked Val back as the meaning of the words truly sank in. After a long pause, Val managed, “If this is what you want, then I shall be happy for you.”
It was a lie. She would never care much for Mance Rayder and care even less for the way Dalla poured attention upon him, but she could fake it for Dalla's sake.
She stole Jarl out of anger.
Dalla announced she was three moons gone with a babe, the second pregnancy in a year; the first ended in miscarriage, her sister nearly bleeding to death. The midwife said Dalla should not try to carry another for, at least, a year, but here she was, happily celebrating the news while Mance sang. As Val stewed in her anger, the men began to drink, grabbing women to dance with them around the fire. She saw Jarl sitting apart from the revelry, silently drinking from a mug, waving off offers to dance.
It took surprisingly little effort to steal him. Jarl stepped away to piss, and, as he set about retying his laces, Val stepped behind him, pressing the edge of her blade against the soft flesh of his throat. “You're mine now,” she hissed into his ear, and Jarl simply said, “Yes.”
He was not the first man she took to bed nor the handsomest; his hands were rough and his mouth, always dry. But he was kind and treated her with respect, and that was more than most wildling women could say.
It was not love, but Val figured it was safer that way. She had never heard of any love story ending happily.
The crow who killed the Halfhand was a pretty thing. She could see why Ygritte liked him even if he was so obviously green. Ygritte told them that the boy stole her, but Val could not imagine him so much as raising his voice, let alone stealing a free woman.
“He looks like the sort who would blush like a maid if you touch his cock,” Dalla laughed as Val poured warm water over her head, helping to wash her hair now that the heavy swell of her stomach made it difficult to do simple tasks.
“Oh, I'm sure Ygritte has showed him how it goes.”
“Mance thinks him to be a good man. Of course, I think he chooses to see what he wants.”
“You don't think Jon Snow is a good man?” Val asked, sifting her fingers through Dalla's hair to massage her scalp the way she liked.
“I think Mance wants there to be more men like him.”
“Why?”
“Because then he will not feel quite so alone.” Dalla smiled as Val rubbed her hair dry, her careful fingers untangling knots. “You know how sensitive men can be.”
She didn't. Jarl did not confide in her the way Mance did in Dalla. He was not secretive, answering any questions Val posed, but it was not his nature to share his thoughts and feelings. Val could not fault him for it; it was not her nature either.
“Oh, I cannot wait for this little monster to come,” Dalla groaned as Val helped her back onto her sleeping skins, her hands rubbing over the expanse of her belly. “My back aches so terribly.”
Val lied down beside her, her hands rubbing the knots from Dalla's lower back. As Dalla moaned in relief, Val could not help but kiss the back of her head, silently saying a prayer to the gods to keep Dalla safe as she neared the birthing bed.
Dalla died mere moments after the baby boy slipped from her body.
Val could hear the fighting outside, the arrival of the one Jon Snow called Stannis Baratheon, but her attentions were solely for her sister. She scooped the crying babe up, severing its navel cord and holding him up so Dalla could see; her skin was as white as the snow, her eyes unfocused, but Val saw the corners of her lips quirk upward before the life left her. Jon Snow gave her a clean piece of linen and a shadowcat pelt, his face twisted with regret and sadness, and Val wanted to hate him so much as she swaddled Dalla's son.
But when the men in armor came into the tent, grabbing at her and the babe, it was Jon who stepped forward, ordering them to leave her be. As they marched her away with the rest of her people, Val looked back at Jon Snow, at the shell which was once her sister, and cried, desperation in her voice, “You have to burn her! Please, you have to burn her!”
The last thing Val saw before the Baratheon men took her away was Jon Snow's nod of agreement.
She did not like Stannis Baratheon or his Red Woman. They kept her locked in a tower and called her “the wildling princess,” which only proved to Val how truly stupid they all were. This king was nothing like Mance; he was sour and inflexible, and Val suspected the Red Woman was the reason he had any power at all. There was no charisma to this man, just steel.
There were rumors this king of the kneelers offered her to Jon Snow, a bride to go with Winterfell. It angered Val, the idea this supposed king would think to trade her like a common animal, but she knew there was no risk of it; Jon Snow was many things, but Val knew he would not take an unwilling woman. Even if he wanted her, wanted his father's seat, he would not break his vows again, too desperate to prove he was a good man.
There was too much honor and not enough sense in that head of his.
When they made him Lord Commander, Jon made certain she could have Dalla's son with her. He was not nearly as quiet as he was in the beginning, wailing night and day, but Val did not much mind the noise; Dalla was dead, Mance was dead, but Monster still lived. Val had never thought of having a child of her own, but she knew raising Monster would fall to her. It was what Dalla would want, for him to be raised in the way of the Free Folk.
The Red Woman made them burn branches from the weirwoods, casting off the Old Gods and embracing her false red one. It sickened her, cold fury filling her limbs, and it was not until later, when she saw Jon Snow, she knew he did not like it either.
Their blood was the blood of the North, the blood of the Children of the Forest and the First Men, and Val knew they were not so different.
It took an extraordinary amount of trust for Jon Snow to ask her to seek out Tormund; Val understood this. She also knew there was no reason for him to believe she would return, and she could see the distrustful gazes of the other crows and king's men. But Val remembered the wights, knew the Others were approaching, and the idea of leaving Tormund and the remainder of her people to them did not sit well with her.
She went to the godswood first, kneeling before the heart tree, needing to honor her gods after so many weeks trapped with that wretched priestess. From there it was easy enough to find Tormund, who greeted her with a hearty embrace and ruffled her hair as if she was still a child.
“It is too high of a price to pay,” he objected when Val gave him Lord Snow's terms.
“Don't speak to me of high prices,” she scoffed. “I have paid just as heartily as you, and I've been a prisoner besides. But we both know what is coming, and there was a reason you tried to take the Wall. Jon will let us walk through the gate - “
“For all our riches and a first son! You think that's a way to live?”
“I think it is better than dying and rising again!” Val huffed impatiently, tucking a golden curl behind her ear. “There will be no Free Folk left if you do not do this.”
“And you think we'll be still be free with the kneelers? Jon Snow betrayed us.”
“Aye, but wouldn't you pretend to be a crow if it meant protecting what you thought was right?” Val reached forward, clasping one of Tormund's large hands with both of hers. “You have known me since I was a child. If you cannot trust Jon Snow, you must trust me.”
Tormund stared at her for a moment before nodding reluctantly.
When she rode back to the Wall and saw Jon Snow, she could see the pride in his eyes, and, for a moment, Val felt desire warm her before quickly smothering it in her breast.
Val did not believe in indulging impossible wants.
She cared for Selyse Baratheon even less than her husband. The queen was an ugly woman who made no secret she did not approve of Val or her people. Jon asked her to please keep the queen company, but the woman was insipid and downright unbearable. She tried not to touch the princess much; she was a sweet enough girl, Val supposed, but she had known children who bore the same marks as Shireen and they never survived. Val worried the girl would want to touch Monster, but she spent her days with that damned, riddle speaking fool.
Kneelers were such strange folk.
The girl Jon called Alys arrived at the Wall, and it was obvious to Val the girl was more than willing to warm the Lord Commander's bed if he offered. More than once she heard Alys refer to Jon as “the last son of Eddard Stark,” and it intrigued Val.
“What happened to the other sons?” she asked Jon one evening when he came to visit her.
Jon stiffened instantly before gritting out, “I am a man of the Night's Watch. My only brothers are those who are sworn - “
“Yes, yes,” Val cut in with a dismissive wave of her hand, “but what about before? You were not born a crow. What of your brothers then?”
For a moment she thought he'd say nothing. He reached down, his fingers tangling a bit in Ghost's ruff before murmuring, “Robb was killed in the South. Bran and Rickon were murdered by Theon Greyjoy when he took Winterfell. There has been no word of my sister Sansa since she disappeared from King's Landing following the death of Joffrey. And Arya...”
There was something about the way his voice hitched on the name which tightened Val's throat a bit. “Tell me of her.”
As Jon Snow spoke of his little sister, pain shining in his grey eyes, Val knew she was not the only one mourning a loss.
The moment Val heard a man called Ramsay Bolton held Arya Stark, she knew Jon would not stand idly by, a suspicion which was all but confirmed when she noticed Holly, Rowan, Squirrel, Frenya, Myrtle, and Willow Witch-eye had suddenly disappeared. One of the knights confided to Val that the Boltons were known to flay their enemies, and the one at Winterfell, the one they called the Bastard, did unspeakable things to women. Val felt sickened for the little girl Jon told stories of and whatever horrors she was experiencing.
It didn't surprise her when Jon asked them to help rescue Arya. If anyone had taken Dalla, Val would have burned the world to the ground to get her back. Had it not been for Monster, she would march to Winterfell with him, remembering the way Jon remained with her and Dalla, the way he made certain Dalla would not rise.
Everything happened so quickly, Val scarcely recognized what was happening until it was too late. She saw the blades sinking into Jon's body, these men he called his brothers murdering him, and Val did not realize she was shouting until one of the crows stepped towards her, his hand drawing back to strike her.
Ghost came out of nowhere, driving the crow to the ground as his teeth sank savagely into his throat, killing him almost instantly. His snout was painted crimson, teeth bared as the other men looked upon him; the direwolf circled Val, clearly prepared to attack anyone who approached her, and it made her chest clench painfully. As the crows stepped back, Val watched as Tormund and a handful of others bent beside Jon's motionless body; when Tormund lifted his eyes towards her, she knew without question Jon was dead.
“Build a pyre,” Tormund ordered. One of the crows began to protest but as Wun Wun lumbered forward, roaring as he knelt beside Jon's body, his voice broke. The one Jon called Marsh, wiping tears from his cheeks, began to gather together some of the crows, leading them away while wood was gathered. Val moved forward, kneeling beside Jon's body as Ghost nudged his shoulder.
“We'll get Arya,” Val promised him softly, brushing dark hair off of his forehead. Remembering the tale Jon told her about the sword he gave his sister before they parted, Val wrestled the bastard sword with the wolf head from his back, holding it across her lap. “I'll give her this, and we'll keep her safe. I will protect her the way you protected Dalla.”
When the pyre was built, Wun Wun lifted Jon. Tormund made the giant pause, ripping the black cloak from his shoulders, throwing it to the ground, and spitting upon it; he removed the bear skin he wore, fastening it around Jon. Val knew what he was doing; they would not send Jon to the Old Gods as a crow. He was as much one of the Free Folk as they were, and it was they who were loyal to Jon Snow, they who would mourn him.
As Tormund lit the pyre, Ghost bumped the flat of his head against Val's hip. She reached down, her fingers tangling in his coat, her other hand tightly clutching Jon's sword. As the flames consumed his body, Val looked up into the night sky as the cold winds rose around her.
“Farewell, Lord Snow,” she whispered in the Old Tongue.
Val instinctively knew Ghost would not leave her side so long as she remained at Castle Black. As she returned to her room, Ghost curling up beside her in the bed, Val knew she would survive.
She always did.