The Raid

You huddle in the shadows of a storage cellar, clutching a child close to your chest, the sharp scent of smoke already curling through the wooden slats above. Around you, the frightened whispers of other women and children mix with distant screams and the unmistakable clang of steel meeting steel. The Greenhorns are here—just as the elders feared. No amount of hiding could have spared you from this.

The defenders of your village fought bravely, but they were no match for the Viking horde. The earth trembled with the weight of war, and now silence hangs over the scorched remains of your home. When the cellar door is finally yanked open, blinding light spills in, and rough hands seize you before you can even scream.

You’re forced into the square with the other captives. The men lie broken and bloodied—some still gasping in pain, others already dead. The older women and children are dragged to one side, herded like livestock. You, along with the other younger women, are tied at the wrists and thrown into open wagons, your fate sealed before your tears even fall.

You sit tethered to a wooden rail, the coarse rope biting into your skin. The chaos feels unreal, distant, as if you’re watching it from someone else’s eyes. Around you, the air buzzes with the sound of Viking laughter—coarse, guttural, victorious. The iron scent of blood is replaced by the musky, raw odor of sweat and smoke. The wagons begin to move.

“We’re doomed,” Tonya whispers beside you, her voice cracking under the weight of helplessness. Her eyes glisten as she wipes away silent tears.

Another woman, Lydia, grits her teeth, the rope around her wrists taut with tension. “I’d rather die than be touched by one of those barbarians,” she spits, though her voice trembles.

Willow doesn’t speak at first. She stares into the distance, her lips barely moving. “Our village… our men… all gone. And now us,” she finally says, her voice hollow, like something inside her has already broken.

Your heart pounds in your chest, each thud echoing in your ears. You try to steady your breath, but the fear coils tighter with every bump of the wagon. You’ve heard the stories—everyone has. The Greenhorns don’t take prisoners; they take property. To them, you are spoils, claimed by right of conquest. Wives in name only, breeders and playthings in truth. There’s no comfort to be found in denial. The truth is already here, and it’s driving you deeper into unknown territory.

Hours pass in grim silence before the wagons crest a hill and the village of the Greenhorns comes into view. Nestled in a frozen valley between jagged cliffs, it looks more fortress than home. Timber palisades tower high, ringed with watchtowers and sharpened stakes. Smoke rises from the great hall at its center, where war banners whip in the wind—black and green, emblazoned with the sigil of a horned wolf.

As the gates creak open, cheers erupt from within. Warriors line the road, some already drunk on mead and triumph, eyeing the wagons with anticipation. You can feel their stares crawl over your skin, their grins wolfish and hungry.

The wagons slow as you pass into their world—a place where power rules and your name, your past, your life, are about to be stripped away.

The wagons jolt to a stop inside a large open square flanked by longhouses and looming watchtowers. The Greenhorn warriors swarm forward like wolves to a fresh kill. They laugh, jeer, slap one another on the back as they surround the wagons, their boots crunching through frozen earth. Some are still bloodstained from battle. Others wear furs and leather armor, and every single one of them carries the same look: hunger.

You flinch as rough hands begin pulling girls down from the wagons one by one. The warriors aren’t gentle. Tonya is yanked out first, her cries barely audible beneath the roar of the crowd. Lydia follows, kicking once before a strike across the face silences her. You see Willow’s pale face vanish into the crowd, her eyes wide and empty.

Then it’s your turn.

A hand grabs your arm, wrenching you upright. The ropes around your wrists chafe harder as you’re hauled out and dropped into the mud, your legs buckling beneath you. A cheer erupts from somewhere nearby—at your stumble, at your helplessness. One man whistles. Another calls out in a language you don’t understand, but the tone needs no translation.

The women are herded into two lines—youthful captives on one side, older women and children on the other. You’re shoved into the first group, pressed shoulder-to-shoulder with the rest. Some sob. Some shake in silence. One girl beside you stares ahead blankly, lips moving in prayer no gods seem to be listening to.

Across the square, a raised platform looms. Warriors begin ascending it, led by one towering figure with long dark hair and a fur cloak stitched with gold thread. Perrin Vak. His presence draws immediate silence. The warlord raises a hand, and just like that, the chaos stills.

“They are ours now,” he announces in his native tongue, the words translated slowly by a lower-ranking warrior standing nearby. “Their bodies, their wombs, their loyalty—all belong to the sons of the north.”

The warriors howl in response.

You watch, numb, as the sorting begins.

One by one, girls are pushed forward and claimed. Warriors step up, selecting their spoils with a nod or a grip to the chin, inspecting like livestock. Some laugh. Others drag their chosen off immediately, eager to seal their claim. Resistance is met with force—sharp backhands, harsh words, or simply being hoisted over a shoulder like a sack of grain.

You feel your turn approaching. Each second is a lifetime. Your breath comes shallow, your heart a drumbeat in your ears. You want to disappear, to vanish into the frost-covered ground.

But you’re still here.

And soon, someone will step forward for you.