The yard was rimed with frost, the kind that clung to stone and leather alike, turning every breath into a ghost. Jon's sword arm ached from the morning drills, but he kept at it, the steady rhythm of strike and parry a comfort against the restless thoughts gnawing at him.
Across the yard, the ranging party had returned. No horns, no fanfare — just the slow, tired dismount of men who had seen something they didn't care to name. Benjen Stark moved among them, speaking low, his face unreadable.
And there — walking a step behind him — was the stranger.
Daniel.
Jon had heard the whispers before he saw him. Light in his hands. Brought a man back from the brink. Not natural. The words had spread through the castle like smoke, curling into every corner, changing shape with each telling.
Jon tried to watch without watching, his blade still moving in the drill. Daniel's eyes swept the yard once, taking in the stares, the half‑turned backs, the muttered words. He didn't flinch, but Jon caught the way his shoulders tightened beneath the borrowed cloak.
Pyp sidled up beside Jon between drills, grinning like a boy with a secret.
"They say he touched Cotter's wound and it closed right up. Like sewing a tear in cloth — only faster."
Grenn snorted. "They say a lot of things. I heard he's some kind of sorcerer."
Jon kept his voice flat. "You believe everything you hear?"
Pyp shrugged. "I believe what I see. And I'd like to see that."
Jon didn't answer. He'd seen enough in his short life to know that the truth was rarely the same as the telling — but he also knew the Watch had little patience for the strange. And if the stranger's gift was real, it would draw more than whispers.
Benjen's gaze swept the yard and landed on Jon for the briefest moment — a silent warning, or maybe an invitation. Then he turned, speaking to Daniel in a voice Jon couldn't hear, and led him toward the Lord Commander's Tower.
Jon's grip tightened on his sword's hilt. Whatever had happened beyond the Wall, it had followed them back. And it was only a matter of time before it reached him, too.
XXX
The mess hall was warm, but it wasn't welcoming.
The air was thick with the smell of boiled oats and woodsmoke, the scrape of spoons against bowls, the low murmur of men who had been awake since before dawn. Daniel stepped inside and the sound changed — not silence, but a subtle drop in pitch, like a song shifting key.
He took a tray from the stack, the wood worn smooth by years of use, and moved toward the line. Conversations bent around him, words clipped short when he passed.
At a table near the hearth, two younger recruits leaned close over their bowls.
"…said he just pressed his hands on Cotter's side and the bleeding stopped."
"That's not natural."
"Neither's freezing to death, but I'd take the choice if it's mine."
Daniel kept walking. He'd learned long ago that the truth rarely survived the telling — and that chasing it down in a room like this only made it run faster.
He was halfway to an empty bench when a voice cut across the hall, sharp as a drawn blade.
"Careful where you sit, stranger. Wouldn't want you to… accidentally work your magic on anyone's breakfast."
Alliser Thorne sat with his back straight, his eyes cold and assessing. The men at his table smirked, waiting for Daniel to rise to the bait.
Daniel set his tray down without looking at him. "I'll try to keep my hands to myself."
A few chuckles rippled through the room — not friendly, but not entirely against him either. Thorne's mouth tightened, but he said nothing more.
From the far end of the hall, Maester Aemon sat at his usual place, a steaming cup before him. His blind eyes were turned toward Daniel, his expression unreadable.
When Daniel finished eating, a steward approached. "The Maester would like a word, if you've the time."
Daniel glanced toward the old man. "I have the time."
The steward led him up the narrow, winding stairs of the rookery tower. The air grew warmer as they climbed, the scent of parchment and candle wax replacing the cold bite of the yard.
Maester Aemon's chamber was small but orderly — shelves lined with scrolls, a desk scattered with open letters, and the soft rustle of feathers from the ravens in the adjoining rookery. The old man sat at the desk, his milky eyes turned toward the sound of Daniel's boots on the stone.
"Come closer," Aemon said, his voice gentle but carrying the weight of command.
Daniel stepped forward until the desk was between them.
"I hear," Aemon began, "that you saved a man's life beyond the Wall."
Daniel hesitated. "I did what I could."
"And what you could," Aemon said, "was more than most."
The Maester's blind gaze seemed to look through him. "The Night's Watch has always been a refuge for the unwanted, the broken, the dangerous. Men here fear what they do not understand. Sometimes they fear it enough to destroy it."
Daniel said nothing.
"I will not ask you how you did it," Aemon continued. "But I will ask you this — will you use it again, if the need arises?"
Daniel met his gaze, though he knew the Maester could not see it. "If it means saving a life, yes."
A faint smile touched Aemon's lips. "Then you will have both friends and enemies before long. Choose each with care."
A raven croaked from the rookery, the sound harsh in the quiet room.
Aemon turned his head toward it. "The Wall keeps many things out, Daniel. But it also keeps many things in. Remember that."
The steward reappeared at the door. "The First Ranger is looking for you."
Daniel inclined his head to the Maester. "Thank you for your counsel."
"Counsel is only as good as the ear that hears it," Aemon said softly. "Go on. Benjen Stark is not a man who likes to be kept waiting."
XXX
The clang of steel on steel rang through the yard, sharp and steady as a blacksmith's hammer. Daniel stepped out into the pale light, the cold biting at his cheeks. The yard was alive with movement — recruits drilling under Ser Alliser's barked commands, the thud of practice swords striking shields, the grunt of effort as men strained to keep their footing on the frost‑slick ground.
Jon Snow was among them, moving with a precision that set him apart from the others. His strikes were clean, his guard tight, his eyes always watching. When he noticed Daniel, he didn't call out — just gave the smallest tilt of his head toward the rack of practice swords.
Daniel understood the invitation.
They faced each other in the center of the yard, the other recruits slowing their drills to watch. Jon's stance was measured, weight balanced, blade angled just so. Daniel mirrored him, his grip loose but ready.
The first clash was a test — Jon's blade coming in quick, probing for weakness. Daniel met it with a smooth parry, letting the force slide past rather than meeting it head‑on. Jon adjusted, feinted left, then struck right. Daniel caught it again, the wooden blades cracking together.
Jon's eyes narrowed, not in anger, but in focus.
The rhythm quickened. Jon pressed harder, his strikes sharper, his footwork precise. Daniel gave ground when he had to, but each retreat was calculated, drawing Jon in, letting him overcommit before turning the momentum back on him.
A final exchange ended with Daniel's blade resting lightly against Jon's shoulder. Not a victory shouted aloud — just a quiet acknowledgment between two fighters.
Jon stepped back, lowering his sword. "You've trained before."
Daniel gave a small nod. "A little."
Jon's mouth twitched — not quite a smile. "Maybe next time, I'll win."
From the edge of the yard, Ser Alliser Thorne stood with arms folded, his expression unreadable. Daniel could feel the weight of his gaze, the calculation behind it. Whatever Thorne thought of him, it wasn't over.
XXX
The yard was quieter than usual, the morning drills finished, the recruits scattered to their duties. Benjen's horse stood saddled near the gate, its breath steaming in the cold air. A small pack was lashed behind the saddle — light enough for speed, heavy enough for survival.
Daniel found him checking the straps, his gloved hands moving with practiced efficiency.
"You're riding out again," Daniel said. It wasn't a question.
Benjen glanced up, the faintest curve of a smile at the corner of his mouth. "The Watch doesn't keep itself."
Daniel stepped closer, lowering his voice. "You told me to choose who I trust. That sounds like a warning."
"It is," Benjen said simply. He straightened, meeting Daniel's eyes. "Out there, the cold isn't always from the snow. Remember that."
Daniel studied him, searching for more, but Benjen was already turning toward the gate.
"Benjen—" Daniel began, but the First Ranger swung into the saddle in one smooth motion.
"If I'm not back in a few days, don't come looking," Benjen said, his tone light but his eyes anything but. "The Wall has enough ghosts."
With a tug on the reins, he was gone — the sound of hooves fading into the white silence beyond the gate.
XXX
Jon Snow
The rookery tower loomed against the pale afternoon sky, its black stone streaked with frost. Jon was crossing the yard when the flutter of wings drew his eyes upward — a raven, black as pitch, circling once before dropping toward the tower's open window.
Moments later, a steward emerged at a near run, a sealed scrap of parchment clutched in his hand. He vanished into the Lord Commander's Tower without a word.
Jon slowed his pace, his breath clouding in the cold. Ravens meant news. News from the south was rare. News from the north was rarer still — and seldom good.
He was still watching the tower when Daniel stepped out of the mess hall, cloak drawn tight against the wind. Their eyes met briefly before the steward reappeared, this time beckoning to Benjen Stark.
Jon caught only pieces as Benjen passed — "…missing men… tracks in the snow… not ours…" — before the First Ranger's voice dropped too low to hear.
Daniel's gaze followed Benjen until he disappeared inside. There was no fear in his face, but there was something else — a stillness, as if he were listening for a sound no one else could hear.
The yard seemed quieter after that, the clang of steel from the training ring muted, the laughter from the recruits forced. Even Ghost, padding silently at Jon's side, lifted his head to sniff the wind.
Jon didn't know what message the raven had carried, but he knew the look on Benjen's face when he'd heard it. And he knew that whatever was coming, it would not stop at the Wall.
XXX
The day bled into evening under a sky the color of old iron. The yard was quieter than usual, the clang of steel replaced by the low murmur of men speaking in half‑sentences. Daniel felt it in the air — the same taut stillness he'd known in the forest before the wildlings struck.
By now, Benjen's party should have been back. No one said it aloud, but the absence was beginning to weigh on the Watch like a stone.
Daniel was crossing the yard when the shout came from the top of the Wall.
"Rider approaching!"
Men looked up, squinting into the pale light. The gate creaked open, the winch groaning, and through it came a black horse — lathered, wild‑eyed, its breath steaming in great clouds.
There was no rider.
The animal stumbled to a halt in the yard, sides heaving, flanks streaked with frost and something darker. A smear of blood crusted the saddle strap.
A murmur rippled through the brothers gathering around. Daniel stepped closer, the cold biting deeper with each step — not the honest chill of the wind, but that creeping, unnatural cold he had felt in the Haunted Forest.
The horse's eyes rolled white, nostrils flaring. It smelled of sweat, fear… and the forest.
Somewhere above, a raven croaked once, sharp and jarring in the silence.
The Lord Commander's voice cut through the murmurs, ordering the horse taken to the stables and the gate shut. No one asked where Benjen was. No one had to.
Daniel stood in the yard long after the others moved away, the cold still coiled around him like a living thing. He knew — as surely as he had known in the forest — that whatever had taken Benjen was not done yet.