Daniel
The gate's iron teeth clanged home, the sound swallowed by the cold. Men moved quickly, heads down, boots crunching over snow as they led the black horse toward the stables. Its breath steamed in the dim light, each exhale a slow ghost in the air. The sodden cloak still hung from the saddle, dragging through the frost, leaving that same broken trail Daniel had seen in the yard — a trail that led nowhere.
He stood rooted, the cold in his ribs coiling tighter, as if the thing that had come back with the horse had not stopped at the gate. It was here, unseen, standing just beyond the edge of sight.
Jon Snow crossed the yard toward him, his dark hair whipped by the wind. "Inside," he said, voice low but carrying. "We'll speak in the hall."
Daniel's gaze flicked to the Wall's looming silhouette. The forest beyond it was hidden now, swallowed by the pale haze of morning — but the feeling remained. The Wall had not kept it out.
He fell in beside Jon, boots crunching over the thin trail the cloak had left. The sound of the raven's cry still rang in his ears, sharp and jarring, as if it had been meant for him alone.
The hall was warmer than the yard, but only just. A fire burned low in the hearth, its light throwing long shadows across the stone floor. The smell of smoke and wet wool hung heavy in the air. Men were already gathered — the Lord Commander at the head of the table, Ser Alliser Thorne stiff‑backed beside him, a few senior rangers leaning in close.
Jon took his place at the Commander's right. Daniel remained standing, the frost still clinging to his cloak.
The Lord Commander's eyes were on the sodden garment now laid across the table. "Found on the saddle?" he asked.
"Aye," Jon said. "No rider. No tracks beyond the Wall."
Daniel stepped closer, studying the cloak. The fabric was stiff with ice, the edges frayed. A faint, dark stain marred the lining — not fresh, but not old enough to fade. He reached out, fingers brushing the frozen wool. The cold bit through his gloves.
"It's not just a cloak," Daniel said quietly. "It's a message."
Thorne scoffed. "From who? The trees?"
Daniel didn't look at him. His eyes stayed on the broken trail in his mind, the way it had ended in nothing. "From whatever brought it back."
The hall's heavy door groaned shut behind them, muting the wind but not the cold. The fire in the hearth was little more than embers, their glow swallowed by the shadows clinging to the rafters. The smell of damp wool and smoke hung thick in the air.
Men were already gathered around the long table — the Lord Commander at its head, Ser Alliser Thorne stiff‑backed beside him, Bowen Marsh with his hands folded like a man bracing for bad news. A few senior rangers leaned in close, their faces drawn tight.
Jon took his place at the Commander's right. Daniel remained standing, frost still clinging to his cloak, the cold in his ribs refusing to ease.
On the table lay the sodden cloak, spread out like a body. Ice crystals clung to the frayed edges. The dark stain along the lining had deepened in the warmer air, blooming like a bruise.
"Found on the saddle?" the Lord Commander asked, his voice deep enough to carry without effort.
"Aye," Jon said. "No rider. No tracks beyond the Wall."
Daniel stepped closer, eyes tracing the torn hem. "It's not just a cloak," he said quietly. "It's a message."
Thorne's mouth twisted. "From who? The trees?"
Daniel didn't look at him. "From whatever brought it back."
A murmur rippled through the room. Bowen Marsh shifted in his seat. "If it came from beyond the Wall, we should burn it. Now."
Jon's gaze flicked to Daniel. "You think it's a warning?"
Daniel's jaw tightened. "I think it's an invitation."
The Lord Commander's eyes narrowed. "Then we ride at first light."
The council broke with the scrape of benches and the low murmur of orders passed from man to man. Outside, the wind had sharpened, carrying fine needles of snow that stung the skin.
Daniel stepped into it without flinching. The cold was a familiar adversary — one he'd learned to meet with steady breath and a quiet prayer. Lord, keep my hands steady and my heart clean. The words were silent, but they steadied him as surely as the sword at his hip.
Jon fell into step beside him as they crossed the yard toward the armory. Neither spoke at first. The only sounds were the crunch of their boots and the distant groan of the Wall's ice under its own weight.
"You've ridden in worse," Jon said at last, his tone more statement than question.
Daniel adjusted the strap of his cloak. "Worse weather, maybe. Not worse omens."
Jon's mouth tightened, but he didn't argue.
Inside the armory, the air was thick with the smell of oiled leather and cold iron. Racks of spears stood in neat rows, shields stacked like coins. Daniel moved with practiced efficiency — checking the edge of his sword, the balance of his dagger, the fit of his gauntlets. He took a moment to run a whetstone along the blade, the rasping sound steady and deliberate.
A young steward approached with a bundle of furs. "For the march, ser." His voice cracked slightly, eyes darting to the sword in Daniel's hands.
Daniel nodded his thanks, taking the furs and folding them over his arm. "Keep the hearths burning," he told the boy. "And keep watch for the weary. Even the strong stumble in this cold."
Back in the yard, the ranging party was assembling. Horses stamped and snorted, their breath pluming in the air. Men checked girths, adjusted saddlebags, and pulled hoods tight against the wind. The black horse from earlier stood apart, its saddle stripped, the place where the cloak had hung now bare.
Daniel's gaze lingered on it before he swung into his own saddle. Jon was already mounted, his eyes on the gate.
The Lord Commander's voice carried across the yard. "Open the gate."
The great chains groaned, the iron teeth parting to reveal the pale expanse beyond. The cold surged in, sharper, cleaner, carrying with it the scent of pine and something darker beneath.
Daniel breathed once, steadying himself. Though I walk through the valley… The rest of the verse stayed unspoken, but it burned steady in his chest as he nudged his horse forward, following Jon into the white.
XXX
The Haunted Forest, just past the Wall
Daniel
The world beyond the gate was white and endless, the snow unbroken save for the dark line of the ranging party cutting across it. The Wall loomed behind them, its shadow stretching long over the drifts, but with every step the ice‑blue monolith shrank, swallowed by the pale horizon.
Daniel rode near the front, the wind clawing at his hood. The cold here was different — sharper, cleaner, but carrying an undertone that made the skin between his shoulders itch. He kept his eyes moving: the treeline to the west, the frozen river glinting to the east, the low rise ahead where the land dipped out of sight.
The column moved in disciplined order: Jon at point, two scouts fanned wide, the rest in staggered pairs. Behind them, the supply sleds creaked, pulled by thick‑coated garrons whose breath steamed in the air.
Daniel's fingers brushed the worn leather of his reins. Guide my steps, Lord. Keep my eyes clear. The prayer was silent, but it steadied the rhythm of his breathing.
A muffled curse drifted from behind. One of the younger rangers had stumbled in the snow, his leg twisting under him. Daniel reined in, dismounting in a fluid motion. The man's face was pale, his teeth clenched against the pain.
"Easy," Daniel said, kneeling. He pressed gloved fingers to the man's calf, feeling the swelling beneath the wool. The cold had slowed the injury's bloom, but it would worsen if left untended.
From his satchel, Daniel drew a small flask of warmed salve, the faint scent of pine resin rising as he uncorked it. He worked quickly, massaging the ointment into the muscle, then binding it with a strip of cloth. The man's breathing eased, the tightness in his jaw loosening.
"You'll walk," Daniel said, meeting his eyes. "But stay near the sleds until the strength returns."
The ranger nodded, gratitude flickering in his gaze. Daniel rose, brushing snow from his knees, and swung back into the saddle.
Jon glanced over his shoulder as the column resumed its pace. "You didn't have to stop."
Daniel's answer was quiet. "I did."
The wind shifted, carrying with it the faint crackle of something distant — not fire, not ice, but a sound that made the hair at the nape of his neck stir. He scanned the horizon, but the land ahead lay still.
For now.
XXX
Rocky Overlook, edge of the valley
Dolorous Edd
The wind was sharper up here, knifing through the seams of my cloak as I crouched behind a jut of stone. From this height, the valley spread out below like a map — the frozen river a silver slash, the treeline a dark wall beyond it.
Movement caught my eye. Not the aimless sway of wind‑shaken branches, but shapes — dark, deliberate — slipping between the pines. Too far to count, but enough to know they weren't wandering.
I eased the spyglass from my belt, the brass cold against my cheek. Through the lens, the shapes resolved into men. Fur‑clad, armed, moving in a staggered line. They weren't rushing. They were placing themselves.
A thin column of smoke rose from somewhere deeper in the trees. Not campfire smoke. Too steady. Too controlled.
Below, Daniel sat his horse like a man carved from the same ice as the Wall. His hood was back, the wind in his dark hair, eyes fixed on the valley as if he could see what I saw without the glass. Jon Snow was beside him, speaking low, but Daniel didn't turn his head.
I'd seen men look like that before — not afraid, not eager, just… ready. And ready men usually meant trouble for someone.
Daniel
The scout's signal was a small thing — two fingers raised, then a slow sweep toward the treeline — but it was enough.
Jon's voice was quiet. "They're waiting for us."
Daniel's gaze stayed on the valley. Then let them wait. The thought came with a calm he didn't entirely trust. He breathed it into prayer. If this is the path, give me the strength to walk it without faltering.
The wind shifted, carrying the faint crackle of something distant. Not fire. Not ice. Something else.
He tightened his grip on the reins. "We move," he said.
The snow here was deeper, swallowing the hooves of the garrons to the fetlocks. The treeline loomed ahead, black and dense, the pines leaning together as if conspiring. The frozen river lay behind them now, its surface fractured where the sled runners had scraped across.
Jon raised a hand, and the column slowed. Dolorous Edd slipped back from his forward position, his face pale beneath the hood. "They're in there," he said, voice low. "Not moving much. Waiting."
Daniel's eyes scanned the shadows between the trunks. Nothing stirred, but the air felt… heavier. Lord, keep my eyes clear and my hands steady.
Jon's gaze flicked to him. "We'll advance in two lines. Shields up. No one breaks formation."
The order rippled down the column. Men shifted, shields coming forward, spears angled. Daniel moved to the left flank, his sword still sheathed but his grip firm on the hilt.
They advanced. The snow muffled their steps, the only sound the creak of leather and the faint jingle of harness. The treeline drew closer, the shadows deepening.
The first arrow came without warning. It hissed past Daniel's ear and buried itself in the snow behind him. A second struck a shield with a dull thud.
"Shields!" Jon's voice cut through the cold.
The line tightened. More arrows fell, some glancing off shields, others vanishing into the drifts. Daniel's eyes locked on a flicker of movement — a fur‑clad figure slipping between two pines.
"Left!" he called, and the flank shifted just as the first of the enemy broke from cover.
They came fast — not wildlings in disarray, but disciplined fighters, axes and short spears in hand. The clash was sudden and brutal.
Daniel drew his sword in a single motion, meeting the first attacker with a parry that jarred his arm to the shoulder. He stepped in, turning the man's momentum aside, and struck once — clean, efficient, the blade biting through fur and leather. The man fell without a sound.
Another came at him, spear thrust low. Daniel pivoted, the point skimming past his thigh, and brought his pommel down hard on the man's temple. He crumpled into the snow.
To his right, Jon's longsword flashed, his movements economical, his face set in grim focus. Edd fought with the weary precision of a man who'd rather be anywhere else, muttering under his breath even as he blocked and struck.
The fight was close, the air filled with the grunt of effort, the ring of steel, the muffled thud of bodies hitting snow. Daniel moved with purpose, each strike measured, each step placed. He fought not to kill, but to end the threat before it could harm the men beside him.
A cry went up from the right flank — one of their own down, an arrow in his side. Daniel broke formation long enough to reach him, dropping to one knee. The man's breath came in ragged bursts, blood dark against the snow.
"Hold on," Daniel said, pressing a hand to the wound. His other hand found the small flask of salve, the same pine‑scented balm he'd used earlier. He worked quickly, binding the wound tight. "You'll live. Stay low."
The man's eyes met his, fear giving way to something steadier. Daniel rose, sword in hand, and stepped back into the line.
The enemy began to fall back, melting into the trees as suddenly as they'd appeared. Jon held the line until the last shadow vanished, then gave the signal to halt.
Breath steamed in the cold. The snow was churned and stained, the silence that followed almost louder than the fight.
Daniel lowered his sword, the weight of it suddenly heavy in his hand. Thank You for the strength to stand.
The snow was churned and stained where the fight had been, the silence after the clash almost louder than the noise of it. Breath steamed in the cold, rising in ragged clouds from men and horses alike.
Jon gave the order to hold position. The line loosened, shields lowering, weapons sheathed with the slow, deliberate movements of men still listening for another attack.
Daniel moved among them, eyes scanning for the wounded. A ranger sat slumped against a tree, his face pale beneath the grime. An arrow had grazed his ribs, the cut shallow but bleeding freely.
Daniel knelt, pulling a strip of clean cloth from his satchel. "Hold still," he said, voice low but steady. He pressed the cloth to the wound, feeling the man flinch. "It's not deep. You'll keep your strength if you keep your breath slow."
The man nodded, jaw tight. Daniel worked quickly, binding the wound and checking the man's hands for signs of frostbite. Thank You for the skill to mend what I can, he prayed silently, and for the mercy that leaves him breathing.
Further down the line, Dolorous Edd was muttering as he cleaned his sword. "Always the trees. Never trust a tree. Looks at you funny, then tries to kill you."
Jon was speaking with two of the senior rangers, his voice low, his eyes flicking toward the treeline every few moments. When he caught Daniel's gaze, he gave a small nod — a silent acknowledgment that the fight was over, for now.
Daniel rose, brushing snow from his knees. The cold had settled deeper into his bones, but it wasn't the weather that weighed on him. It was the memory of the enemy's eyes — not wild, not desperate, but certain. They had come to test the Watch, and they had left knowing exactly what they faced.
He walked to the edge of the camp, looking out over the valley. The frozen river gleamed in the fading light, the treeline a black wall beyond it. Somewhere in there, the enemy was regrouping.
Lord, keep us ready. Keep us clean in purpose, even when the snow runs red.
Behind him, the camp began to take shape — small fires coaxed to life, wounded settled near the warmth, sentries posted at the perimeter. The smell of smoke rose into the cold air, mingling with the scent of pine and blood.
Jon joined him at the edge of the camp. "We'll move at first light," he said.
Daniel nodded. "They'll be waiting."
Jon's mouth tightened. "So will we."
XXX
Edge of the Haunted Forest, temporary camp
Daniel
The fires burned low, their light flickering against the snow‑packed trunks. Beyond the ring of warmth, the forest was a wall of black, the wind threading through the pines in long, hollow sighs. The air smelled of pine resin and woodsmoke, but beneath it lingered something sharper — the faint, metallic tang of frost on steel.
Daniel sat on the perimeter, his back to the fire, eyes on the dark. The cold gnawed at his fingers, but he kept them loose on the hilt of his sword. His breath plumed in slow, steady clouds, each one vanishing into the night. Watch and pray, he reminded himself. For the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.
Somewhere deeper in the forest, a branch cracked — not loud, but enough to make the men on the far side of the camp glance up. No one spoke. The sound died, swallowed by the wind.
Bootsteps crunched in the snow. Lord Commander Mormont emerged from the shadows, his great bear‑skin cloak heavy on his shoulders. He moved like a man who had walked this cold his whole life, the lines in his face carved deep by wind and war. His eyes, sharp and pale, swept the treeline before settling on Daniel.
"Quiet night," Mormont said, his voice low but carrying.
"For now," Daniel answered.
The old commander studied the dark for a long moment, as though listening to something only he could hear. "They're out there. Testing us. They'll come again."
Daniel nodded. "Then we'll be ready."
Mormont's gaze shifted to him. "Readiness isn't just steel and numbers. It's knowing why you stand. Men who forget that… they break."
Daniel met his eyes. "I know why I stand."
A faint smile ghosted across Mormont's face — not warmth, exactly, but approval. He clapped a gloved hand on Daniel's shoulder, the weight of it steadying, then moved on, making his slow circuit of the camp.
Daniel watched him go, the commander's silhouette passing between the fires, pausing to speak with sentries, to check the tethered horses, to glance at the sky as though reading omens in the stars. The men straightened when he approached, their voices quieter after he left.
The wind shifted, carrying with it a faint sound — not the creak of trees or the sigh of snow, but something sharper. A single, distant crack, like ice breaking under weight. Daniel's eyes narrowed, scanning the dark.
Nothing moved. But the cold in his ribs tightened, the same way it had in the yard at Castle Black, when the raven had come with news of the dead that would not stay dead.
He breathed a silent prayer. Lord, keep us through the night.
Somewhere behind him, a horse stamped and snorted, its breath steaming in the firelight. The forest gave nothing back
The wind had settled into a steady hiss through the pines, the kind that blurred the edges of sound and made distance hard to judge. Daniel's eyes traced the treeline again, slow and methodical, the way Ser Alliser had drilled into him years ago — don't look for what you expect, look for what doesn't belong.
Behind him, the camp was winding down. A few men hunched over the last of their broth, others rolled into their cloaks, boots still on. The horses had grown restless, shifting and tossing their heads, ears flicking toward the forest.
Then it came again — that sharp, distant crack. Louder this time. Not ice. Not wood. Something heavier.
Daniel rose to his feet, scanning the dark. His hand found the hilt of his sword without thought.
From the far side of camp, a sentry's voice cut through the wind. "Movement! North‑east!"
The camp stirred like a beast roused from sleep. Men scrambled up, fumbling for spears and bows. Shadows leapt across the snow as the fires flared with sudden stoking.
Lord Commander Mormont was already moving, his cloak sweeping behind him, his voice carrying over the rising noise. "Form the line! Shields to the front! Archers, ready!"
Daniel stepped into place beside Grenn, the younger man's breath coming fast in the cold. "See anything?" Grenn asked.
"Not yet," Daniel said, eyes fixed on the dark. "But it's coming."
The forest seemed to hold its breath. Then — a flicker. Pale shapes between the trees, too far to make out, but moving with purpose.
A raven's harsh cry split the night, and Daniel's stomach dropped. It wasn't the sound itself — it was the way it came from above the treeline, as if the bird had been startled into flight by something rising from the ground.
Mormont's voice was iron. "Hold. Hold."
The shapes drew closer, resolving into figures — tall, wrong in the way they moved, their steps too smooth for the uneven snow.
Daniel's grip tightened. His prayer this time was silent, not for himself, but for the men on either side of him.
The first figure broke the treeline. Its eyes caught the firelight — and burned.