Daniel
The wind had a way of finding the seams in a man's clothing, no matter how tightly he wrapped himself. Daniel pulled his cloak tighter as he climbed the last rung of the icy ladder, boots scraping against rime‑slick wood. The cold bit at his cheeks, sharp enough to make his eyes water, but it wasn't the weather that had driven him from his bed.
Sleep had been a shallow, restless thing these past nights. The yard below had felt wrong — too still, as if the stones themselves were holding their breath. He'd lain awake listening to the faint groan of timbers in the wind, the occasional clink of chain from the gatehouse, and somewhere beyond that, the low, steady hum of the forest. It was that hum — that sense of something vast and waiting — that had finally pushed him up the Wall before dawn.
The top was a world unto itself. The air was thinner, sharper, and the view… endless. To the south, the land fell away in rolling white, the faint line of the Kingsroad vanishing into the horizon. To the north, the Haunted Forest stretched in a black‑green mass, its edges blurred by drifting snow.
A watchman stood near the winch, hunched against the wind, his breath pluming in the half‑light. He glanced over as Daniel approached, eyes narrowing slightly.
"Didn't think you were on the roster," the man said, voice muffled by his scarf.
"I'm not," Daniel replied. "Couldn't sleep."
The watchman grunted, turning back to the forest. "Not much to see. Not much you'd want to, anyway."
Daniel stepped to the edge, resting his gloved hands on the frost‑rimmed stone. The forest looked still, but not dead. It was the stillness of a predator before the pounce.
"They say," the watchman went on, "that when the trees go quiet like this, it's because something's moving through them. Something the birds don't like to sing about."
Daniel didn't answer. He'd learned that in places like this, superstition was just another way of telling the truth.
The wind shifted, carrying with it a faint scent — not woodsmoke, not pine. Something colder. Older. He closed his eyes for a moment, whispering a prayer under his breath. Not for safety. For clarity.
Somewhere below, a door banged open, and boots crunched on snow. A runner appeared at the base of the ladder, cupping his hands to shout up.
"Lord Commander wants you, Daniel!"
The watchman gave him a sidelong look. "Guess you're on the roster after all."
Daniel turned from the forest, but not before casting one last glance north. The trees hadn't moved. The stillness hadn't broken. But the feeling in his gut told him it would.
The descent from the Wall was slower than the climb. Frost had crept into the ladder's rungs overnight, turning each step into a careful negotiation. By the time Daniel's boots hit the packed snow of the yard, the wind had worked its way through his cloak and into his bones.
The runner — a wiry boy with a mop of wind‑tangled hair — was waiting, shifting from foot to foot.
"Lord Commander's chambers," he said, as if the words themselves were urgent cargo.
Daniel followed him across the yard. The place was stirring now: the clang of steel from the training square, the low rumble of voices from the stables, the faint smell of porridge drifting from the kitchens. But beneath it all was that same undercurrent he'd felt on the Wall — a tension that made men speak in half‑sentences and glance north without meaning to.
The Lord Commander's tower loomed ahead, its stone dark with age, the narrow windows catching the pale light. Inside, the air was warmer but carried the scent of smoke and damp wool. The runner led him up a tight spiral stair and rapped once on a heavy oak door before slipping away.
"Enter," came the voice from within.
The chamber was lit by a single brazier and the glow of a candle‑cluttered table. Lord Commander Mormont sat behind it, broad‑shouldered and still in his furs, as if the cold were something he preferred to keep close. To his right stood Ser Alliser Thorne, arms folded, his expression carved from disdain. Maester Aemon sat near the fire, his blind eyes turned toward the sound of Daniel's steps. Two other senior brothers lingered in the shadows, their faces unreadable.
"Daniel," Mormont said, gesturing him forward. "You were in the yard when the horse came in yesterday."
"Yes, my lord."
"Describe it."
Daniel did — the lathered flanks, the blood‑crusted strap, the wildness in its eyes, and the cold that seemed to cling to it like a second hide. He kept his voice steady, but he didn't soften the details.
When he finished, Alliser snorted. "A tired horse and a nervous outsider. We're wasting time."
"It wasn't just the horse," Daniel said, meeting his gaze. "The air changed. Like it did in the forest that night."
Alliser's lip curled. "And what would you know of the forest?"
"Enough to know when it's watching back," Daniel replied.
A silence settled. Mormont's eyes narrowed slightly, but it was Aemon who spoke next, his voice soft but carrying.
"Sometimes the air changes before a storm. Sometimes before worse."
Mormont leaned back in his chair. "Benjen Stark is still missing. That horse came back from somewhere, and it came back alone. If you notice anything — anything — you bring it to me. Directly."
Daniel inclined his head. "I will."
"You're dismissed."
XXX
The yard was alive now, though "alive" at Castle Black was a muted thing — no market cries or children's laughter, just the steady rhythm of work. Steel rang against steel in the training square, boots thudded on packed snow, and the low rumble of men's voices carried on the wind.
Daniel skirted the edge of the square, careful not to stray into the arc of a swinging practice sword. Jon Snow was in the ring with Grenn, both of them red‑cheeked from exertion, their breath steaming in the cold. Grenn's guard was high but sloppy; Jon's blade slipped past it with a sharp clack, tapping his opponent's shoulder.
"Again," Jon said, stepping back.
Grenn groaned but reset his stance.
Samwell Tarly stood nearby, bundled in so many layers he looked more like a haystack than a man. He spotted Daniel and waved him over.
"You missed breakfast," Sam said. "Porridge was… well, porridge."
Daniel smiled faintly. "I was summoned."
Sam's eyes widened. "To the Lord Commander?"
Daniel nodded. "He wanted to hear about the horse."
Sam glanced toward the Wall, his voice dropping. "They're saying it came from the north side of the Milkwater. That's… far. And dangerous."
"Dangerous how?" Daniel asked.
Sam hesitated, then leaned closer. "One of the rangers told me they found a wildling camp out there. Fires still burning. No people. No tracks leading away."
Daniel frowned. "No tracks?"
"None they could follow," Sam said, shivering — and not from the cold.
In the ring, Jon disarmed Grenn with a twist of his wrist. The wooden sword clattered to the ground.
"You're dead again," Jon said, though his tone was more weary than mocking.
Grenn muttered something under his breath and went to retrieve his weapon. Jon caught Daniel's eye over Grenn's shoulder.
"You hear anything in there?" he asked, nodding toward the Lord Commander's tower.
"Only that they're worried," Daniel said. "And that they don't agree on what to be worried about."
Jon's mouth tightened, but he didn't press. Instead, he glanced toward the Wall, his gaze lingering on the forest beyond.
The clang of steel, the crunch of boots, the hiss of breath in the cold — all of it went on as if nothing had changed. But Daniel could feel it, the way you feel the air shift before a storm. The Watch was bracing for something, even if they didn't yet know what it was.
XXX
Jon Snow
The mess hall smelled of smoke, boiled oats, and damp wool — the scents of a hundred mornings at Castle Black. Jon sat at the end of a long trestle table, his bowl of porridge cooling in front of him. Ghost lay at his feet, head resting on his paws, eyes half‑closed but ears twitching at every sound.
The hall was half‑full, men drifting in and out as their shifts changed. Conversation was low, broken into pockets. Jon wasn't listening for anything in particular, but certain words carried farther than others.
"…still no sign…"
"…horse came back alone…"
"…north of the Milkwater…"
He kept his head down, spoon moving slowly, but his mind was already turning. Benjen had been gone too long. Even in winter, even with the forest's dangers, his uncle knew how to move unseen and return on time.
Across the hall, two rangers sat close together, their voices pitched low. Jon caught only fragments: campfire still warm… no tracks… not even a bird in the trees.
The door banged open, letting in a gust of cold air and a flurry of snow. A black‑cloaked brother strode in, a leather‑wrapped cylinder in hand. He went straight to the Lord Commander's table at the far end, where Mormont was finishing his meal.
The raven tube was opened, the message read. Mormont's jaw tightened. He passed the scrap of parchment to Ser Alliser, who read it with a frown before tucking it away.
Jon's eyes followed the exchange. He didn't need to hear the words to know the news wasn't good.
When Mormont rose to leave, the hall's murmur dimmed. The Lord Commander's gaze swept the room once, briefly resting on Jon before moving on.
Ghost lifted his head, ears pricking toward the door. Jon felt it too — a faint shift in the air, as if the cold had deepened by a degree.
Later, in the yard, Jon caught up with Donal Noye, the one‑armed smith.
"Raven from the Shadow Tower," Noye said, unprompted. "Tracks in the snow. Big ones. Too big for a man."
Jon felt the words settle in his gut like a stone. "Bears?"
Noye shook his head. "Not unless bears walk on two legs now."
Jon looked north, past the Wall's looming height, toward the forest he couldn't see from here. The wind carried no sound, no scent — just the cold. Ghost stood beside him, fur bristling, eyes fixed on the same horizon.
XXX
Daniel
The yard had emptied by the time the stablehand found him.
"Need a hand with the feed," the boy said, breath puffing in the lamplight. "For the night watch up top."
It wasn't glamorous work — hauling sacks of grain and bundles of kindling up the Wall's lift — but Daniel didn't mind. The climb gave him a reason to be where the air was thin and the world spread out in every direction.
The lift creaked and swayed as it rose, the ropes groaning under the weight. The lantern at his feet cast a small, trembling circle of light, the rest swallowed by the dark. Above, the Wall's edge was a jagged silhouette against a sky thick with slow‑falling snow.
When the platform shuddered to a stop, the cold hit him like a wall of its own. It was different up here at night — sharper, heavier, as if the air itself had been forged from ice. The watchmen took the supplies with murmured thanks, their faces half‑hidden in scarves and shadow.
Daniel lingered at the edge, looking north. The forest was a black mass beneath the snow‑blurred horizon. No wind stirred the trees. No sound carried from its depths.
Then — faint, almost swallowed by the stillness — came a noise.
Not a howl. Not the crack of a branch under snow.
It was a sound like ice breaking underfoot, deliberate and slow, as if something heavy was testing the ground.
He turned his head, trying to pinpoint it, but the dark was absolute beyond the torchlight. The Wall's torches guttered in the wind, their flames bowing low before flaring again.
One of the watchmen noticed his stillness. "Hear something?"
Daniel hesitated. "Maybe."
The man gave a short, humorless laugh. "Best not to listen too hard. The forest talks back."
Daniel stayed a moment longer, the cold coiling around him like a living thing. He could feel it in his teeth, in the marrow of his bones — not just the bite of winter, but something older, patient, and near.
The night had been long, the kind that seemed to stretch without hours, only shades of darkness. Daniel had stayed on the Wall until the cold began to gnaw at his joints, then descended to the yard, pacing between the shadowed buildings. Sleep never came.
By the time the sky began to pale, the world was hushed under a thin veil of snow. The flakes drifted slow and deliberate, each one catching the faint light before vanishing into the frost‑hardened ground.
That was when the shout came.
"Horse! Horse at the gate!"
It cut through the stillness like a blade. Heads turned. Doors opened. Men spilled into the yard, pulling cloaks tight, stamping the cold from their boots.
Daniel's pulse quickened as he crossed the yard toward the gatehouse. The great timbers groaned as the winch turned, chains rattling in the cold air. The gap widened, and through it came a black horse, moving at a weary, stumbling gait.
Its head hung low, nostrils flaring with each ragged breath. Steam rose from its body in uneven bursts, as if the warmth inside it was fighting to escape into the cold. Snow clung to its mane and tail in clumps, and its flanks were streaked with frost and something darker — a crusted smear along the saddle strap.
Then Daniel saw what dragged behind it.
At first it was just a dark shape, half‑buried in snow. The horse took another step, and the shape rolled enough to reveal black wool, stiff with frost, the torn edge of a cloak. The wind caught it, lifting it just enough to show the Night's Watch sigil, dulled and rimed with ice.
No body.
The horse shied when a stablehand approached, whites of its eyes flashing. Its hooves struck the packed snow with a hollow thunk, and it tossed its head, the reins jerking taut. The stablehand murmured to it, voice low and steady, but the animal flinched at every touch, as if expecting a blow.
The brothers gathered in a loose ring, their breath clouding the air. No one stepped forward to claim the cloak. No one asked whose it was. They didn't need to.
Daniel's gaze stayed fixed on the torn fabric. The frost had crept into every fold, turning it stiff and brittle. He imagined the weight of it on a man's shoulders, the warmth it should have held, and the empty space where that man should be.
The cold in the yard deepened, subtle but certain, as if the air itself had drawn closer. Daniel felt it coil around his ribs, settle into his bones.
Above, a raven croaked once — a harsh, jarring sound that made several men glance upward. Its wings beat against the pale sky before it vanished toward the rookery.
The Lord Commander's voice broke the silence, deep and commanding. "Get that horse to the stables. Shut the gate."
Men moved to obey, but Daniel barely heard them. His eyes were still on the cloak, on the way it dragged through the snow, leaving a thin, broken trail that led nowhere.
The forest beyond the Wall had reached out again.
And this time, it had brought something back.