Wolves and Hunters

The frail, pitiful, yet adorable little girl won the old rancher's heart almost instantly.

The burly men paid her little attention. Instead, they led their dogs around, noisily continuing their search for the sheep thief.

The rancher's wife led Ghost into the cottage and sat her down at a wide, battered table. The hardwood bench was so high that the old woman had to find a block of wood for her to rest her feet on.

A long time spent half-starved and malnourished had left Ghost painfully thin in both human and wolf form. It wasn't so obvious when she was a wolf, but as a human, she looked so small that no one would have believed she was eight.

She was far too thin, and her skin was as white as the first snow of winter. The veins beneath it stood out clearly, like slender, withered branches buried beneath the snow in the depths of winter.

The rancher's wife was heartbroken the moment she saw her and promptly laid out a whole tableful of food.

Ghost stared at it eagerly but didn't touch it. Instead, she turned to them and asked in a small, gentle voice:

"Excuse me, is this for me?"

The old woman immediately clutched her chest, then covered her face. "Of course it is, dear child. Go on, eat. It's all for you."

Ghost broke into a bright, happy smile. "Thank you, ma'am. You're such a good person."

The rancher couldn't help clutching his chest too. The couple were practically melting at how cute she was.

What a sweet, polite child! Could she be the daughter of a noble lord? They had no idea how she had ended up wandering in the wilderness. Poor thing.

Worried that the little girl might feel awkward, the couple went outside to continue their discussion.

The people they had called from town to help had already gone home, but the troublesome men outside with the dogs weren't so easily dismissed.

They would have to pay them quite a bit. Although they hadn't caught the thief, they had spent several days keeping watch outside the sheepfold. They certainly deserved to be paid for their trouble.

The two dogs kept barking furiously toward the inner room, spraying drool as they howled. The ropes around their necks were pulled so tight they were nearly cutting into their flesh. The dogs reared up as if they couldn't feel the pain.

The two men holding them struggled to keep their grip and were nearly dragged inside. They couldn't help cursing. "What the fuck is wrong with these dogs?"

"Damn it, did you forget to feed them again last night?"

"Seven above! I take more care of them than I do my own son."

The rancher and his wife brought out a filthy, tattered cloth bag and reluctantly, slowly handed it to the man carrying a longbow and quiver.

Ghost was sitting at an angle to the outer door. As she ate, she kept an eye on what was happening outside.

They were dressed in close-fitting clothes suited to hunting, with leather shirts and tight trousers. Heavy animal hides were wrapped around them.

Their gloves were also made of good leather with an oily sheen. The knuckles were well protected, while the material over the middle finger joints was thinner to allow greater flexibility.

The hunter who took the money had a sharp gaze. Besides the longbow nearly as tall as he was on his back, he carried a shortsword at his hip.

He didn't look young, and the skin of his face was drawn tight. His face was long and narrow, as though someone had shaved a slice off each cheek.

He had monolids and long, narrow eyes that were almost squinted shut, as if he were nearsighted. His nose had a high bridge and was slightly hooked, while the corners of his mouth and eyes drooped.

When he lowered his eyelids, he looked as though he were dozing.

Unlike the others, who had typically European features, he was rather unpleasant-looking. He wasn't particularly tall or broad, but he wore a huge, lifelike animal-head helmet.

Ghost could feel his gaze circling around her the whole time. It wasn't the way one looked at a person, but the way one looked at prey.

The man filled Ghost with dread, and wariness and disgust welled up from deep inside her.

"Master Harley, this is all the money we have. What do you say?"

Harley, nicknamed the Cunning Wolf, looked away from Ghost and weighed the bag in his hand without speaking.

The two men holding the dogs took the hint and immediately began shouting abuse.

"Old Bill, what's the meaning of this? Do you look down on us?"

"This little bit of money isn't even enough to buy us a drink. Look, I've got frostbite on my feet. I'll have to go into town and see a maester!"

As he spoke, he made a show of sticking out a foot clad in a thick-soled fur boot. The boot was brand-new and gleaming...

Harley tucked away the money bag and sighed. "Forget it. Things aren't easy for Old Bill either. We'll take sheep for the rest."

Ignoring the old couple's pleas, Harley shoved the door open and walked up to Ghost.

Ghost was panicking inside, but she didn't show it at all. She even gave Harley a sweet smile, a little piece of leafy vegetable caught between her teeth.

Harley gave her a smile that didn't reach his eyes, reached out and rubbed her head hard, then turned and walked out.

The barking of the hunting dogs and the hunters' shouts gradually faded into the distance, with the occasional faint bleat of a sheep mixed in.

...Ghost patted her chest. That smile had been terrifying.

The rancher and his wife asked Ghost a few very simple questions: where had she come from, how old was she, did she like the food, and so on.

Then they said children needed plenty of sleep and took her to rest.

There was nowhere for her to sleep in their cottage, so they fixed up a spot for Ghost in the storage shed beside the sheepfold.

The old woman made Ghost a thick bed of straw and coarse cloth and told her to sleep cuddled up with the lambs if she got cold.

Ghost obediently acknowledged each instruction and thanked her, then politely wished her good night.

The old woman kissed her forehead with unrestrained delight, then blew out the oil lamp and went out.

"What an adorable little thing," the woman said, her voice gradually fading into the distance.

In the darkness, Ghost's eyes were wide open, reflecting two deep green glimmers.

The lambs were all afraid of her and huddled together in a pitiful heap in a distant corner.

Ghost held her breath and listened for a while. The surroundings were safe, so she slowly returned to her wolf form.

She couldn't stay in human form for too long.

It was like forcing herself into a cramped container. After a while, it became unbearable, and she might even suffocate.

Of course, it wasn't serious enough to kill her, but it was very uncomfortable, and her muscles and bones ached all over.

When she learned that she had caused the rancher losses and trouble, she felt very guilty.

She could tell that the couple were good people, and from what they had said while pleading for mercy, the flock didn't belong to them.

They tended the sheep for some noble lord.

The hunters had probably been hired by the couple to help, but they wouldn't have needed so many men to deal with a person, or brought two hunting dogs.

She must have given herself away somehow, and someone had noticed.

That Harley gave her a bad feeling. The wolf-head hat he wore, in particular, made her very uncomfortable.

Ghost had a feeling that the man called Harley would come back, and that he might turn out to be a lot of trouble.

The old couple next door were still whispering about this year's harvest, the noble lords' taxes, and the damned weather...

Only when they spoke of their son did their voices grow much more cheerful.

Apparently, their master was kind and had allowed Little Lao to learn riding and swordsmanship. He had also rewarded him with quite a few good things because he was diligent.

Every few sentences, they would add an appreciative remark-"The Stark lords are all good people..."

Ghost slowly closed her eyes, a strange feeling settling in her heart, as though the dust had finally settled.

The two Wildlings' faces slowly appeared before her eyes again. Snow-covered mountains, the North as green as jade...wolf packs roaming the mountains and wilderness like ghosts.

Winter is coming...

She had actually suspected it for a while, but now that it was confirmed, she was plunged into deep bewilderment.

Stark. Winter is coming. So what point in time was it now?

After leaving Old Bill's ranch, the hunters headed straight to the tavern to drink and make merry.

In the tavern at the Dreadfort, the men's coarse talk and the women's coquettish laughter rose and fell like waves, completely drowning out the faint sound of music.

The bard and musicians had to sing even louder, and the high, cracking notes drew loud jeers from the drunks.

Sweat-scented heat, wafts of pungent perfume, and cheap, sour, inferior wine made up the tavern's entire charm.

When he had no work, Harley the Cunning Wolf liked to pass the time here.

He was generous with the whores and liked to sweet-talk and tease them. Whenever he was here, he was surrounded by women.

But tonight, for once, there wasn't a woman at his side.

Everyone who came over to flirt with him, man or woman, was sent away.

Harley carefully pulled a few long strands of platinum hair from between the seams of his glove and held them up for a close look...

Then he brought the hair beneath his nose and sniffed hard...

Harley suddenly pitched forward, nearly snapping the long hairs in his hand. The drunk who had bumped into him got to his feet with a grin and raised his cup to him. "Ha, Harley, you son of a bitch..."

Harley sprang to his feet, clenched his fist, and turned to smash it hard into that ugly face.

The force sent the drunk flying. He smashed through two tables before rolling to a stop in the corner.

Everything around them suddenly went quiet, as though someone had pressed pause. Then the frenzy returned, with whistles and loud, coquettish laughter ringing out in a din.

Harley the Cunning Wolf took his time picking up his wolf-head hat and putting it on. He spat a thick gob of phlegm at the drunk, then walked out.

The uproar in the tavern rose again in a jumble, and the patrons whose tables had been smashed moved to another one as if nothing had happened.

No one paid any attention to the unconscious drunk...

Stepping from the warmth into the cold night air, Harley shivered involuntarily and breathed out a white cloud of frost.

Back in his room, Harley sat for a while. Then he took a ghastly white wolf fang as long as an index finger from a cupboard drawer.

He wound the platinum hair tightly around the wolf fang and tucked it into his clothing.