Extracts from the diaries of:
Dryn Ramshore,
Circa 108 A.C.
Father's gone mad again. Another invitation to the Wildling Games, this time by Mors Heartwisper at Hulder Lake. A long trek by boat, then foot, all to watch Father prance about, swinging his axe like he's still Hoofcrag's champion. They’ll drink, fight, and boast while pretending it’s all in honor of their "Old Gods." Same roots, different leaves — theirs, ours, who cares? If they cared so much, they’d stop bashing each other’s skulls in for sport. At least Brother isn't coming this time. He’ll stay behind as regent, which means I’m spared his droning sermons about "true worship." Let the Wildlings mock us in peace.
On the trek, I found my courage — or maybe I just stopped caring. I told Father I want nothing to do with that Braavosi knife-dancer he betrothed me to. I told him I’d join the Kingsguard instead. His face twisted like he’d bitten a rotten apple. He yelled, of course. He threatened, as expected. But after much scowling and beard-tugging, he agreed to half of it. No Kingsguard, but I’m free to choose my bride. As far as victories go, I’ll take it. The idea of Skorionys taking me to her marriage bed chilled me to the marrow. That woman doesn’t want a husband — she wants a sparring partner.
I’ve already chosen, though I doubt the Old Gods had a say in it. She’s lowborn, older than me by nine years, but talented in ways that matter. Father just grinned when he met her, no words needed. If only Mother were so simple. She’ll no doubt see another threat in this one, like she always does. If she so much as lifts a finger against her, I swear on all the gods — hers, his, and theirs — I’ll do nothing. Because nothing is all they deserve.
The first game of the Wildling Games was, of course, that board game they love so much — the one with carved bits of bone and wooden tiles. Last time, Father spent the whole time glaring at it like it was a puzzle crafted by the Children of the Forest. This time, though, he actually learned the rules and decided to play. A man obsessed with winning will do strange things, I suppose.
Father’s first opponent was Chieftain Brogg Clawdiver — a man with more brawn than brains. When Father started to win, Brogg lost his temper and flipped the table like a child denied his turn. Bone pieces scattered, people gasped, and then Father did what Father does best — he knocked Brogg out with a single punch. The crowd erupted with cheers, as if justice had been served.
Next up was Lady Osha Brynbrand. Yes, a "lady" of the Wildlings, whatever that means. Surely she’d be more dignified than Brogg, right? Wrong. She didn’t flip the table, but she did try to cheat — slipping an extra tile into play like no one would notice. But Father noticed. Of course, he did. He's a man who sees weakness in every corner. The judge stepped in to correct it, and Lady Osha pouted like she’d been caught stealing bread. Turns out, Father didn’t just learn the rules — he learned to spot the cheats too.
The final opponent was High Chieftain Lenyl 'the Fat' Forester. No surprises there. I doubt anyone thought Lenyl would win, least of all Lenyl himself. Father crushed him with ease, and they crowned him the victor. His prize? A ring. A shiny little trinket for his effort. He sent it back to Brother as a gift. Brother, of course, took it as a sign of his own greatness. He’s been sending ravens daily with news of his glorious regency — taxes squeezed from loopholes, a hunting lodge here, a forestry there. I suppose Father should be proud to have one obedient son. I’m not sure if that makes me the bad one or the only honest one.
Next up were the duels — the only part of these Wildling Games anyone actually cares about. Father cared more than most. He came all this way just for this, eager to scrub away the "shame" of 104 AC when he flexed his arms and lost in front of half the Wildling chieftains. I barely remember it, but he remembers every grimace, every snicker. The Old Gods can judge us for our sins, but men will judge you for your pride. Father won't let them laugh twice.
His first opponent was Chieftain Harle Memberskinner. Now, with a name like Memberskinner, you'd expect a real monster with a blade. Instead, we got a man with all the grace of a headless chicken. Father swatted him around like a bored cat playing with a mouse. No showmanship, no thrill — just another step up the ladder. Everyone cheered, of course. People cheer for the winner, no matter how dull the victory.
Father’s second opponent was something else entirely — Chieftain Doloro 'the Mistblade' Tunathys. A Braavosi. Here. Beyond the Wall. I’ve seen many odd things, but a Braavosi duelist playing Wildling chieftain is near the top of the list. Unlike Memberskinner, Doloro actually had skill. His armor gleamed like polished steel, and his footwork was smooth as flowing water. Four times the fighter Memberskinner was — maybe five. Father had to switch styles, going to his old ambidextrous stance. The crowd quieted. Even I leaned forward. Every clash of steel was sharper, every swing tighter. It wasn’t luck or brute strength that won it this time. It was wit. Father feinted, feinted again, and finally caught the Braavosi off guard. One blow, one stumble, and it was over. The crowd roared like they’d seen a god strike down a mortal. For once, I didn’t roll my eyes. It was a good fight. Even I’ll admit that.
The final duel was against High Chieftain Alfyn Bridgediver. "High Chieftain" in title, but hardly in skill. Better than Memberskinner, sure, but nowhere near the Braavosi. If Father had any sense, he'd have treated this like trench work — quick, clean, and over before anyone noticed. For once, he did exactly that. No flexing, no taunting, no prideful nonsense. Just cold precision. One strike, two strikes, done. Bridgediver fell, and the crowd hollered as if they'd seen something grand. They’ll scream for anything if you swing hard enough.
The prize for the duels was another one of those winner's rings. Big, heavy, the kind that makes lesser men stare at your hands when you talk. But this time, Father didn’t keep it. He gave it to me. Just like that. No speech, no lesson. Just placed it in my palm and closed my fingers over it. I didn’t say thank you. If I’d opened my mouth, I think I would’ve cried like a babe, and there’s no coming back from that. No one forgets a weeping "Warborn." Father didn’t press me for words. He just nodded, and that nod said more than anything I could’ve managed.
For the rest of the games, it was all talk of Crittark Ramshore, the Southerner who came to the Wildlings’ own grounds and bested them all. They spun it into a story — a tale of southern blood, sharper steel, and the favor of the Old Gods. All I saw was a man winning a contest against men he had every advantage over. But people love a story. They need it, like mead on a cold night. South of the Wall, north of it — it’s all the same. The only difference is who’s doing the cheering. Let them cheer. Let them shout Crittark’s name. If they remember him, maybe they’ll remember me too.
The journey back was as dull as it was long. We took the land route halfway, passing the Dreadfort. A more miserable pile of stone and shadow I’ve never seen. It feels like the place itself hates you, like the walls are watching with narrow eyes. We didn’t stay long, and I’m thankful for it. From there, we made for White Harbor and took a ship the rest of the way. No bogs, no frozen rivers, no packs of starving wolves this time, thanks to Floris the Winterswan. She knows the North like an old crone knows her hearth, and it showed. No one got lost, no one froze. I guess that’s something worth noting.
It happened at the dock. No warning, no grand entrance. One second, I was talking to Father. The next, I was swinging my fists at shadows with knives. They came at us fast, but Father was faster. I saw him move like a stag spooked from the brush, quick and wild. He didn’t have his weapons on him, so he tore a plank from the side of the boat like it was driftwood. The first man who got close caught the flat of it to his face — his head snapped back like a kicked stone. Then Father was on them, grabbing a dead man’s sword and turning it into his own. I swung too — poorly, but I swung. If I did any good, it was thanks to that ring Father gave me. It cracked teeth when I punched, and that’s probably why I’m writing this at all.
By the time Warmaster Elly reached the ship, it was already over. Father stood there, still holding that stolen blade, breathing slow and steady like he’d just finished a walk. The old man didn’t say a word to me, didn’t scold me for getting in the way, didn’t praise me for surviving. He just glanced at my hands — at the ring on my finger — and gave me that nod of his. Not approval. Not pride. Just... acknowledgment. I think I prefer it that way. Let the dead have their cheers.
I sat with Judge Donnel and Father during the interrogations. Thought I’d be fine. Thought I’d seen enough blood and guts by now to stomach it. I was wrong. Somewhere between the man's screaming and Donnel's slow, methodical work, my insides turned over. Had to step out, empty my guts on the ground like a sick dog. I came back, of course. Can’t let Father think me weak. Weak boys don't become warborn. But even now, I can still hear the wet sounds of it all.
The Bellmore child. That's what Father calls him, but there’s nothing childlike about him now. Lord Edryn Belmore, 21, Lord of Strongsong, and apparently he despises everything Father is — a brute, an upstart, a savage, and worst of all, a heretic. I’d laugh if it wasn’t so tiresome. The Faithful always call us heretics, but this one’s got venom behind it. These assassins, these dock-cutthroats, they were sent by him. Turns out, Father’s “good friend” Luceon Hersy caught wind of it and tried to warn us. He paid for it with his life. Father didn’t shout. He didn’t curse. He sat still, eyes sharp as a whetted blade, and just breathed. I think that’s worse. Then Judge Donnel added more to the heap — apparently, Father was poisoned years ago but didn’t realize it. Thought it was just bad stew or a fever. Imagine that. A lord brought low by his own stubbornness, and he never even knew.
Of all the places for help to come from, it came from Lord Ondros. The same man Father once tried to kill and usurp, back when he still led the Hoofcrag Clan as a wild wolf, free of all these lordly chains. Strange, how enemies can become friends, but I suppose there’s sense in it. They’re both hated upstarts clawing their way into noble circles that don’t want them there. Misery loves company, or so they say. Ondros shared more than company, though. He taught Father how to "tighten his guard," as he called it. New eyes on the gates, new ears in the halls. Now the shadows of Ramshore shift differently, and the rats know they’re being watched. Maybe it’ll be enough to keep the knives away. Maybe. But I’ve seen enough to know there’s always another hand behind the blade.
