Clark
The cold air outside Craster's Keep seemed to bite deeper now, as if the very land itself resented what was happening here. Clark stood tall, his fists clenched at his sides. The women's words had haunted him, their fear, their resignation, gnawing at him in a way that felt far too familiar. It reminded him of the helplessness that many people on Earth had felt when they were under the thumb of tyrants, those who used their power and influence to break others, to dominate, to enslave.
Craster was no different.
But Clark knew he had the means to stop him. The real question was how to do it without making things worse, without causing even more harm to the people in this forsaken place. He couldn't rush into this blindly; the stakes were too high. There was too much at risk.
Clark's eyes flickered back to the small building where the women had gathered, their fearful gazes still fresh in his mind. He had to protect them, to give them a chance at freedom. And if that meant taking down Craster—then that was what he would do.
But he knew that to truly make a difference, to end this cycle of cruelty, he needed to understand more about Craster's operations. Who supported him? Who turned a blind eye to the atrocities taking place right under their noses?
He needed answers.
---
Tormund
Tormund had spent the last several hours searching the keep for any sign of Clark. He had known something was wrong from the moment the man had disappeared into the night. The more Tormund thought about it, the more he realized how much of an outsider Clark really was. He didn't belong here. He wasn't like the wildlings, and though Tormund could appreciate the man's strength and resilience, he couldn't help but wonder if Clark was more of a danger to them than he let on.
"Where the hell is he?" Tormund muttered under his breath as he paced through the corridors of the keep.
The place was even more oppressive by day than it had been at night. The flickering torchlight did little to push back the shadows, and the low murmur of the keep's residents seemed to crawl along the stone walls like a slow-moving poison. Tormund's suspicions were growing by the minute. Something about this place was off—Craster was more than just a cruel man. He was a ruler who had entrenched himself in a system of terror, and now his influence was woven through every stone of this desolate place.
The people here were afraid, and it showed in every action they took. They avoided eye contact, stayed close to the fire, and murmured in low voices when they thought no one was listening. It was a place full of secrets, dark ones that only Craster seemed to control.
Tormund's thoughts were interrupted when he saw Ygritte enter the room, her expression tense, her hand on her bow.
"Any sign of Clark?" she asked, her voice low but urgent.
"No," Tormund growled. "I'm starting to worry. This place is... it's worse than I thought."
Ygritte nodded, her eyes narrowing. "I don't trust Craster. Or anyone here, for that matter. We need to find him. If he's out there on his own—"
Tormund cut her off, his voice hard. "He can take care of himself. But this is bigger than just Clark. We need to know what's really going on here. What Craster's up to."
Ygritte shot him a sharp look. "And how do you intend to find that out?"
Tormund hesitated, his eyes flicking to the other wildlings who moved around the keep, seemingly oblivious to the undercurrents of tension that had taken root. "I'll talk to the others. The ones who don't seem completely scared out of their wits. Someone here must know something."
Ygritte didn't reply. Instead, she turned and made her way toward the door. "I'll go check the women's quarters. They're the ones who know the most."
Tormund watched her go, his brow furrowing. They didn't have time to waste. Craster's secrets would come to light—one way or another.
---
Clark
The air inside the small building was stifling, thick with the scent of damp earth and decay. Clark could barely hear his own thoughts over the sound of his breathing, his heart pounding as he considered his next move.
The women were silent, each one seemingly lost in her own misery, their eyes darting nervously to the door at every sound. One of them, an older woman with graying hair, stepped forward. She looked at him with a mixture of fear and desperation.
"What are you planning to do?" she asked, her voice shaky. "Do you think you can stop him? Do you think anyone can?"
Clark's gaze softened, but his resolve only hardened. "I have to try. No one deserves to live like this. No one should be forced to—" He broke off, his words too heavy for him to finish. "Craster is the cause of all this. I can end it. But I need you to trust me."
The woman didn't respond immediately, but after a long pause, she finally nodded, her face pale. "It's not just Craster. It's the others. The wildlings here—they're all in on it. They won't stand against him. Not unless they see him for what he really is."
Clark's mind raced. "You're saying it's not just Craster? There are others who support him?"
She looked around at the other women, her expression conflicted. "There are men in this keep who turn a blind eye. And then there are those who... who benefit from the way things are. They turn their heads, pretend they don't see what he does. They're afraid of what will happen if they stop following him."
Clark's fists clenched. This was worse than he had imagined. It wasn't just Craster's cruelty that kept this cycle of terror going—it was the complicity of everyone around him.
"Where are these men?" Clark demanded. "Who can I talk to?"
The older woman hesitated. "They're the ones who come in and out of Craster's chamber. They're the ones who... do his bidding. You won't find them in the common areas. They stick to themselves."
Clark's gaze hardened. "I'll find them."
With one last look at the women, Clark left the building. The keep felt like a labyrinth now, the twisting corridors and rooms leading nowhere, but he wasn't going to stop until he found out who else was involved in Craster's atrocities.
---
Tormund
Tormund made his way deeper into the keep, moving cautiously through the hallways. His eyes flicked from one wildling to the next, sizing them up. Some of them were clearly loyal to Craster, their eyes narrowing as he passed by. Others seemed too worn down by the harshness of life in this forsaken place to care.
As he rounded a corner, he spotted a familiar face—one of the wildlings who had been working by the fire the night before. The man's expression was wary, but he didn't move when Tormund approached. Tormund knew this one wasn't the type to blindly follow orders. He was a survivor, and Tormund had learned long ago that survivors could be valuable allies.
"You got a minute?" Tormund asked, his voice low.
The wildling glanced around, then nodded, gesturing for Tormund to follow him to a quieter part of the keep. They walked in silence for a few moments, until they reached a small alcove behind a pile of crates.
"I know what Craster's up to," the man said, his voice barely above a whisper. "And I don't like it. But what can we do? He's too strong. He's got too many of us under his thumb."
Tormund's eyes narrowed. "You're not the first one to tell me that. I've heard the rumors. But it's not just about you and me. It's about everyone in this keep. It's about stopping what he's doing."
The wildling looked down, shaking his head. "You don't understand. Craster... he's got a hold on all of us. No one dares to cross him. Not if they want to stay alive."
Tormund's jaw tightened. "Then we'll make him cross us."
The wildling gave him a knowing look. "If you're serious about stopping Craster, you'll need help. The others will have to join you. But they'll only do that if they see Craster for who he really is. You'll have to expose him."
Tormund nodded. "We'll make it happen."
---
Clark
Clark moved silently through the keep, each step measured, each movement calculated. He had learned quickly that if he wanted to get answers, he had to approach this with care. He couldn't afford to tip off Craster or anyone else who might be involved.
As he reached the farthest part of the keep, he found what he had been searching for: a group of men gathered around a table, their voices low and tense. These were the men who had been working with Craster—the ones who had kept the women and children in line. The ones who had become complicit in his cruelty.
Clark's presence didn't go unnoticed. The men looked up, their eyes narrowing as they sized him up. But Clark didn't flinch. He stepped forward, his voice calm and forceful.
"I know what you've been doing," Clark said, his tone cold. "I know what Craster has made you do. But it's over now. You're going to stop."
The men exchanged glances, their faces hardening. One of them, a tall man with a scar running down his cheek, sneered at Clark.
"You don't know anything, stranger," he growled. "You're not welcome here. This is Craster's keep, and we follow his rules."
Clark's eyes blazed with intensity. "Not anymore. You're going to tell me everything. Now."
The man stepped forward, but before he could say another word, Clark raised a hand. "You've got two choices. You can either help me end this, or you can stand in my way. But if you do, I'll make sure you regret it."
For the first time, the men hesitated. It was clear that Clark's words were making an impact. They had seen the strength in his eyes, and they knew better than to underestimate him.
And that was all the opening Clark needed.