The chill wind whipped at his face, sharp and mean. It blew smoke and ash into his nose, throat, eyes - rasping and grating it raw. The disgusting smell of burned flesh wafted through the winter air, filling his mouth with sour spit.

The village was a slaughter ground, strewn with all the filth of battle, wrapped up by the ruined remains of what once had been a place for people to work, eat, live. The corpses did little of that, now. Fire had grown from the barn, stacked with dry hay, and swept across, reducing buildings to black husks, trees to ashen claws and grass to crumbling grey.

Crag’s eyes moved tiredly from corpse to corpse, one burned to less than the other. Crispy and sweating, some still smoking. He sighed bitterly.

“We found some salted meat in one of the houses. Two barrels of the stuff, although one’s half is burned badly.” Came a gruff voice from the right, rough and dry - dry as the air that clawed at their lungs.

“Aye, so what does that stack up to?” Crag asked as he tried wiping some blood from the blade of his axe. But the cloth was already stained beyond help, the brown smears only stretched out. His reflection was spotted with filth.

“Nothing much, chief.” The man gave something between a sigh and a growl. “If only they had fuckin’ listened. They would still be milling about in their cozy homes, and we’d be of with some of their food. No one worse for it!” Red Hawk grumbled, patting some soot from his pants, finding a new tear in it, cursing.

“Well, can hardly blame ‘em. The storm had hit ‘em, too. Reckon they had little left themselves.” Said Swift Hare, coming from an empty shell of a farm. Always the realist, that one.

“Got plenty left now, don’t they?” Red Hawk snarled, he stretched out his arms, making a spin round. “All the peace in the world, they’ve got! Back to the green, the lot of ‘em!” Always been the dark one, Red Hawk. Dark as his right eye, all swollen and purple.

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Crag frowned, this was supposed to have gone differently. Roll in, him and his band of men. Bargain with whoever saw himself fit to do so. And leave with whatever they could get, no harm done.

His frown grew deeper. He’d even warned them. Said he was Grizzled Crag, from the deep green. Said they either gave some of their food, or he’d take it himself.

Arguing, shouting, cursing. One farmer threw a rock. A small one, barely larger than a pebble. Hit Red Hawk right in his eye, the stone did. And that was that. One had a torch, panicked, dropped it in the hay, and off it went. Fire. The great humbler of men. Roared with ire and rage. All to ash.

He blinked, some of it had flown into his eye. He rubbed it with his hand, damp with blood. Another smear on his greasy face.

“Fuck!” he growled, his mood only growing worse. Crag saw some men cutting grasping fingers, taking clutching rings. He shook his head. ‘em silver and copper would be worth naught when the snow starts falling, and yer children start starving. But he could hardly blame ‘em. They were Iron’s men. Lived by different rules, other standards.

And as if it came from his command, fat flakes of snow came twirling down from the grey sky above, mingling with the greyer ash and red blood pooling the trampled earth. Crag reckoned the snow wouldn’t be leaving anytime soon. Their time was running out, fast.

“Not enough.” Crag said to no one in particular. He peered south, to the somber horizon of dying land in winter’s unforgiving grasp. He could return now with the meagre winnings they had gathered, but his village would suffer severe losses to hunger none the less. To him it was simple. If it took another town, drowned in bloodshed, to aid even the tiniest bit in the survival of their people, then that was a simple price to pay. And one he would gladly atone for.

“We’ll continue.” He said with iron to his voice. There was no room for debate. He was Grizzled Crag from the Deep Green, and would not allow for anyone to disobey his will.

“Aye,” Red Hawk growled in agreement, walking off to fetch the others, still busy with their pointless scourge for trinkets and treasures. There was shouting and cursing, but only a fool would fight Red. Always the violent one, Hawk that is.

“They’ve been alone for three-quarter moons, now,” Hare said carefully, “leaving them for even longer… I believe reminding you is unnecessary?” He passed Crag by with wary strides, treading on the fresh snow, leaving crimson prints in his wake.

“I know,” whispered the grizzled chief, “I know all too well.” Only a fool would argue with Swift. Always the cautious one, Hare that is.