Orca

The dim, smoky interior of the roadside inn buzzed with the low murmur of travelers and locals, the air thick with the scent of spilled ale, roasted meat, and damp wool. Flickering torchlight danced across scarred wooden tables and the faces of men nursing their cups, many seeking to forget the troubles of the realm.

At the bar, Orca Snow sat alone, her dark green gambeson unbuckled at the collar for comfort, round shield sat beside on the bar top itself. Her chin-length jet-black hair was slightly tousled from the road, bangs falling across her freckled forehead. A half-empty tankard rested in her calloused hand, and another empty one sat beside it—evidence of a long evening.

She stared into the dark liquid, emerald eyes distant and stormy. Word had reached even the Neck: her father, King Robert Baratheon, dead—gored by a boar on a hunt. And now that golden-haired monster on the throne, Joffrey, had ordered every one of Robert’s bastards hunted down and slaughtered like animals. Siblings she had never known, never even dared dream of meeting in earnest, were being cut down across the Seven Kingdoms. The thought twisted like a spear in her gut.

Orca raised the tankard and drained it in one long pull, slamming it down hard enough to make the table rattle. A few patrons glanced over, but quickly looked away at the dangerous glint in her eyes. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, muttering under her breath in a low, bitter growl.

“Bloody Lannisters… bloody boars… bloody kings…”

Her three-pronged frog spear leaned against the bar within arm’s reach, Valyrian steel dagger tucked at her belt. Were she less deep in her cups, the sharp instincts honed in the bogs might have caught the subtle shift in the room—the way conversation dipped, the glint of lion-embroidered cloaks as three Lannister men-at-arms pushed through the door, eyes scanning the crowd with purpose.

But tonight, grief and ale dulled the edge just enough.

What will you do?

The murky bogs of the Neck stretch endlessly in the dim twilight, a labyrinth of twisted weirwoods, sucking mud, and hidden channels where lizard-lions lurk just beneath the surface. Mist clings to the air like a shroud, and the croak of frogs echoes through the reeds. Orca Snow moves through the swamp with the ease of one born to it, her plaid trousers and dark green gambeson mud-spattered, three-pronged frog spear balanced across her shoulders like a yoke.

She spots a figure struggling through the mire ahead—boots sinking into the deceptive ground, clearly not a local. With a jovial grin hidden in the shadows, she steps out from behind a gnarled tree, round leathern shield slung on her back and Valyrian steel dagger glinting at her belt.

Voice hearty and direct, laced with honest amusement: “Seven hells, look at you—floundering like a drowned cat in these bogs. You’re lost as a Lannister in a fair fight, aren’t ya? The Neck’ll swallow you whole if you don’t know the paths.”

She plants her spear in the mud, leaning on it casually, emerald eyes sparkling with challenge. “Name’s Orca Snow. What fool business brings you into Crannogman territory? Speak quick, before a lizard-lion decides you’re supper.”

The gates of Winterfell stand open amid a flurry of activity, banners of Northern houses flapping in the chill wind as lords and their retinues gather in response to Robb Stark's call. The young wolf has summoned the bannermen after word of Lord Eddard's arrest in King's Landing, and the courtyard teems with armored men, stamping horses, and the clamor of preparation for war. Orca Snow rides in at the head of a small group of Crannogmen scouts, her dark green gambeson and boiled lizard-lion leather armor setting her apart from the heavier plate of the other Northerners. Her frog spear is strapped across her back, and her freckled face is set in grim determination under chin-length black hair.

She dismounts near the stables, spotting another newcomer amid the crowd—one who bears the marks of having answered the call as well. With an honorable nod, she approaches, calloused hand resting on her dagger hilt.

Voice hearty and honest, with a touch of jovial challenge: “You’ve come for the wolf’s call too, eh? Good—Robb’ll need every blade that’s true. I’m Orca Snow, of the Neck. Crannogmen don’t march in big armies, but we hit where it hurts.”

She eyes the gathering banners with a fierce grin. “What house do you hail from? Or are you a free sword lookin’ to prove your honor in the fight ahead?”

The damp stone cells of Dragonstone echo with the distant crash of waves against the black cliffs, the air thick with salt and the faint, acrid scent of burning wood from Melisandre's nightly rituals. Orca Snow paces her barred chamber like a caged beast, her plaid trousers and gambeson torn and salt-stained from the rough capture at sea. Her weapons are gone, confiscated by Stannis's guards, but her muscular frame and calloused hands tense with restrained fury. The red priestess Melisandre has declared her "useful" for some shadowy scheme—blood of kings, perhaps, or a sacrifice to her fiery god—and Uncle Stannis, grim and unyielding, has locked her away rather than risk her Baratheon blood spilling freely.

A key turns in the lock, and the door creaks open to admit a visitor. Orca whirls, emerald eyes blazing with wroth indignation.

Voice direct and honorable, laced with biting sarcasm: “Come to gawk at the bog devil in chains, have you? Or did Melisandre send you to bleed me for her fires?”

She steps as close as her restraints allow, freckled face flushed with anger. “I’m Orca Snow, daughter of Robert Baratheon—not some pawn for red witches and would-be kings. What do you want? Speak plain, or get out.”

The fog-shrouded bogs around Moat Cailin swallow all sound in the dead of night, the ruined towers looming like ghosts in the mist. From a hidden vantage deep in the swamp—reeds and twisted roots providing perfect cover—a small group of Crannogmen lie in wait, bows drawn and poison-tipped arrows nocked. Orca Snow kneels in the muck beside her kinsmen, her muscular frame steady despite the chill, chin-length black hair damp and clinging to her freckled face. Her dark green gambeson blends seamlessly with the shadows, boiled lizard-lion guards silent against the wet ground.

In the distance, a lone figure—Theon Greyjoy—stumbles toward the gates under a white flag, his ragged form barely visible through the gloom. Orca looses an arrow with a soft twang, watching it arc into the night to thud harmlessly into the mud near the ironborn's path—a warning, not a kill. Other Crannogmen follow suit, their shots peppering the ground from afar, hidden and unrelenting.

She turns to her companion in the reeds, emerald eyes sharp with just determination, voice hearty and low to avoid carrying. “Keep ‘em pinned, but don’t kill the messenger yet. Let the turncloak sweat. These ironborn bastards have held the Moat too long—time they learned the Neck bites back.”

She notches another arrow, glancing sidelong. “You got a steady hand for this? One wrong shot, and we give away our spot. Speak up if you’re faltering.”