Snow‑choked forest, south of the Fist of the First Men — Daniel's POV
The order to move came with no shout, no flourish — only Mormont's voice, low and iron‑hard, carrying through the brittle air. Men stirred from where they'd huddled in the lee of the trees, rising stiffly, their breath hanging in the dim light like smoke from dying fires. The snow had crusted overnight, a thin shell that cracked underfoot with each step, the sound sharp in the hush.
Daniel moved among them, not as an officer but as a tether — a hand on a shoulder here, a murmured word there. He tightened the bandage on Harker's thigh before the man could protest, the wound hot under his fingers despite the cold. The forest pressed close on either side, black trunks rising like pillars in some frozen cathedral. Every so often a gust shook loose a drift from the branches, the snow falling in soft, soundless sheets. Men flinched at each one. After the Fist, even the forest's sighs felt like the breath of the dead.
The cold was a living thing now, creeping into joints and marrow, gnawing at the edges of thought. Daniel's scarf was stiff with frost, his breath rasping in his throat. He kept his pace steady, matching the slow grind of the column. The wounded were in the middle, flanked by the stronger men, and he drifted there often — eyes scanning for the first stumble, the first sign of collapse.
Somewhere ahead, Ghost's pale shape flickered between the trees, a shard of moonlight in the gloom. Jon was out there with him, scouting the way. The rest of them were trespassers here, and the land knew it.
They reached a frozen stream, the surface groaning under their weight. Daniel helped a limping brother across, his arm firm around the man's waist. The man's breath came in ragged bursts, each one clouding the air. Daniel didn't let go until they were both on solid ground.
The march ground on. Boots crunched in the snow, leather creaked, and somewhere behind them a man coughed — a wet, rattling sound that made Daniel glance back. He caught the man's eye, gave a small nod, and turned forward again. The smoke on the horizon was faint but real, curling into the sky like a beckoning finger.
The wind shifted, carrying with it the smell of pine and something else — faint, sour, almost human. Daniel's jaw tightened. Craster's Keep was close.
The column wound its way between the trees like a dark thread through white cloth, the line bending and straightening as the land rose and fell. Daniel kept to the middle, where the wounded moved in silence, their faces set in masks of endurance. The air was so cold it seemed to scrape the inside of his nose, each breath a small act of will.
He passed a man whose lips were cracked and bleeding, the skin around them raw. Daniel pressed a strip of cloth into his hand without slowing. "Wrap it," he said, and the man nodded once, too tired for words.
The snow deepened as they climbed a low ridge, the drifts swallowing boots to the ankle. Daniel's thighs burned, but he kept his pace steady. The sound of the march was a rhythm now — crunch, creak, crunch — broken only by the occasional cough or the muffled clink of steel.
At the crest, the wind hit them full in the face, sharp enough to make his eyes water. He blinked against it, scanning the land ahead. The forest stretched on, a sea of black trunks and white ground, but there — faint and far — was the crooked line of a palisade. Smoke curled above it, thin and grey.
They descended into a hollow where the snow lay untouched, smooth as glass. A man went down halfway across, his legs folding under him. Daniel was there in three strides, hauling him up. The man's breath came in ragged bursts, his eyes glassy.
"One step," Daniel said, his voice low but firm. "Then another."
They moved together until the man's weight began to shift back to his own legs. Daniel let go only when he was sure the man wouldn't fall again.
The hollow gave way to a narrow track between the pines. The snow was thinner here, but the ground was treacherous with hidden roots. Daniel's boots caught once, sending a jolt up his leg, but he kept moving. The smell of smoke was stronger now, threaded with something sour that made his stomach tighten.
They passed a fallen tree, its trunk split and blackened as if by fire. Daniel ran his gloved hand over the charred wood as he passed, the texture rough under the leather. He didn't like the feel of it.
The track widened, and the palisade came into view — tall, crooked, its timbers dark with age. The smoke rose from within, curling into the pale sky.
Mormont called a halt. The men stood in silence, their breath clouding the air. Daniel could feel the tension ripple through the column. They all knew Craster's name.
XXX
Craster's Keep
The halt was brief. Mormont gave no speech, only a glance down the line and a curt nod to keep moving. The men obeyed, boots crunching back into rhythm, the column bending toward the crooked palisade in the distance.
Daniel adjusted the strap of his satchel, the leather stiff with cold. Inside, the last of his clean cloth was folded tight, alongside a dwindling pouch of dried herbs. He'd been rationing them since the Fist, saving what he could for wounds that might still come. Out here, there was always another wound waiting.
The snow underfoot changed as they drew closer — less deep, more compacted, as if others had passed this way not long ago. The prints were half‑filled with fresh snow, but the edges still held shape. Daniel studied them in passing: boot‑heels, narrow and worn; smaller prints too, bare feet, the toes splayed. He didn't like the thought of those.
The wind shifted again, bringing the smell stronger now — woodsmoke, yes, but threaded with something sour, human and unwashed. It clung to the back of his throat, made him want to swallow against it.
They passed a stand of pines where the snow thinned to a crust over frozen earth. The trees here were scarred, bark stripped in long vertical wounds. Daniel brushed his glove over one as he passed; the wood beneath was pale and raw. He wondered if it had been taken for firewood, or something else.
A voice muttered behind him — one of the younger brothers, too low for the words to carry. Another answered with a short, bitter laugh. Daniel didn't turn. He knew the tone: men talking about Craster, about the stories they'd heard.
The palisade loomed larger now, its timbers leaning at odd angles, patched in places with whatever wood had been at hand. The gate was little more than two heavy planks bound with iron, one hanging slightly askew.
Mormont raised a hand and the column slowed. The men bunched together, breath steaming in the cold. Daniel could feel the unease ripple through them — not fear, exactly, but the wariness of men stepping into a place they'd rather skirt.
The Old Bear rode forward alone, his black cloak stirring in the wind. He stopped a few paces from the gate and called out, his voice carrying clear over the snow.
"Craster! It's Mormont of the Night's Watch. We'd have words with you."
For a long moment, there was only the creak of the palisade in the wind. Then a figure appeared above the gate — broad‑shouldered, bearded, eyes narrowed against the light.
Daniel had never met Craster, but he knew him at once. There was a kind of ownership in the way the man stood, as if the land itself bent to him.
"You've brought a crowd," Craster called down, his voice rough as gravel. "What's your business?"
"Shelter," Mormont said. "A place to rest. We'll trade for it."
Craster's gaze swept over the column, lingering on the wounded, the weary. His mouth curled, not quite a smile. "Trade, is it? We'll see."
The gate creaked open just enough for a man to pass through. Mormont gestured, and the column began to move again, slow and wary. Daniel fell in behind the wounded, his eyes on the narrow gap ahead.
The smell hit him first — stronger now, thick with smoke, sweat, and something else he couldn't name. Inside, the ground was churned mud frozen hard, the buildings low and crooked. Women moved between them, heads down, their hair long and unkempt.
Daniel's healer's eye caught the details without meaning to: the hollows under their eyes, the bruises half‑hidden by sleeves, the way they flinched from the men's gaze. He felt Jon's presence somewhere behind him, a taut wire of anger he didn't need to see to feel.
Mormont was speaking with Craster now, their voices low. Daniel turned away, guiding one of the limping brothers toward a spot near the firepit. The flames there were small, the wood green, but the heat was real enough.
He crouched beside the man, unwrapping the bandage to check the wound. The skin was angry and red, the edges seeping. He cleaned it with what little he had left, his hands steady despite the cold. Around them, the Keep went on — the creak of wood, the murmur of women's voices, the low rumble of Craster's laugh.
Daniel kept his head down, but his mind was already turning. This was no sanctuary. It was only the next place the cold would follow them.
The gate closed behind them with a groan of wood and iron, the sound settling in Daniel's bones like a verdict. The wind was cut off, but the air inside was no warmer — only thicker, heavy with the smell of smoke, unwashed bodies, and something sour that clung to the back of his throat.
The yard was a churn of frozen mud, pocked with old footprints and the dark stains of things long spilled. Low buildings leaned against one another like drunks, their roofs sagging under the weight of snow. Smoke curled from a central firepit, the flames small and struggling, fed with green wood that hissed and spat.
Women moved between the huts, their heads bowed, hair hanging in long, unkempt curtains. They carried buckets, armloads of wood, baskets of something that steamed faintly in the cold. None met the men's eyes for long. Daniel's healer's gaze caught the details without meaning to: the hollows under their cheeks, the bruises half‑hidden by sleeves, the way their shoulders hunched as if to make themselves smaller.
He guided a limping brother toward the firepit, lowering him onto a rough‑hewn bench. The man's face was pale, his lips tinged blue. Daniel unwrapped the bandage on his leg, the cloth stiff with dried blood. The wound was angry and red, the edges seeping. He cleaned it with what little he had left, the herbs crushed between his fingers releasing a faint, bitter scent.
Around them, the Keep went on. Craster stood with Mormont near the gate, their voices low but carrying in the stillness. Daniel caught fragments — "trade," "shelter," "no trouble" — but not enough to piece together the whole. Craster's laugh came once, rough and short, like a shovel biting into frozen ground.
A girl no older than fifteen passed by with a bucket of water, her bare feet red against the snow. Daniel's gaze followed her for a moment, then he forced it away. He knew the stories. He didn't need to see more to believe them.
The wounded man hissed as Daniel tightened the fresh bandage. "Better," Daniel said quietly. "Keep it clean as you can." The man nodded, eyes fixed on the fire.
Jon appeared at the edge of his vision, standing stiff‑shouldered near the gate. His gaze tracked the women, his jaw tight. Daniel caught his eye and gave the smallest shake of his head. Not here. Not now.
The fire popped, sending a spray of sparks into the air. Daniel sat back on his heels, flexing his fingers to bring the feeling back. The cold had a way of settling into the joints, making every movement deliberate.
A pot hung over the fire, something thick and grey bubbling inside. The smell was not unpleasant, but it was thin — the kind of food that filled the belly without giving much back. Daniel's stomach tightened, but he stayed where he was. The wounded came first.
He moved to the next man, checking the stitches along his side. They held, though the skin around them was swollen. He cleaned the area, his hands steady, his mind already counting what supplies he had left. Not enough. Never enough.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Craster glance their way, his expression unreadable. Daniel met his gaze for a heartbeat, then looked back to his work. There was nothing to be gained in that exchange.
The light outside was fading, the sky beyond the palisade turning the colour of old iron. The cold would deepen with the dark. Daniel finished with the last of the wounded, his knees stiff as he stood. The fire's heat clung to him for a moment before the air stole it away.
He found a place against the wall of one of the huts, where he could see both the fire and the gate. The men were settling in, some crouched near the flames, others leaning against the walls, their faces drawn. The women moved among them like shadows, silent and quick.
Daniel pulled his cloak tighter, his eyes on the fire. This was no sanctuary. It was a pause, nothing more — a place to gather breath before the cold and the dead found them again.
XXX
Inside Craster's Keep — Daniel's POV
The fire in the yard burned low, its light flickering over the churned mud and the faces gathered around it. Daniel sat with his back to the rough wall of a hut, knees drawn up, cloak pulled tight. The cold here was different from the forest — less biting, but heavier, as if it had seeped into the wood and earth and would not leave.
The wounded were settled as best they could be. He'd cleaned and bound what he could, given water where there was enough to spare. Now there was nothing to do but watch and wait.
The women moved between the huts, their steps quick, their eyes down. A few carried bowls of the thin stew from the pot over the fire; others brought armloads of wood or buckets of water. None lingered near the brothers longer than they had to. Daniel noticed how they kept to the edges of the light, slipping in and out of shadow like they'd learned to live there.
A bowl was pressed into his hands by a girl no older than sixteen. Her hair hung in a dark curtain, hiding most of her face. "Thank you," he said quietly, but she was already moving away.
The stew was hot, at least, though it was more water than meat. He ate slowly, letting the warmth spread through him. Around the fire, the men spoke in low voices, their words muffled by the crackle of the flames. He caught fragments — talk of the march, of the dead, of the Keep's master — but no one spoke too loud.
Craster's voice carried from somewhere near the gate, rough and amused. Mormont's was lower, steadier, the tone of a man who knew the bargain he was making and didn't like it. Daniel didn't need to hear the words to know the shape of them: shelter for silence, food for obedience.
A gust of wind rattled the palisade, and the fire guttered. Daniel pulled his cloak tighter, his eyes on the flames. The shadows around the yard seemed to shift with the wind, stretching and curling like living things.
One of the wounded stirred, a low groan escaping him. Daniel set his bowl aside and crossed to the man's side. The fever had risen; he could feel the heat through the man's skin even before he touched his brow. He murmured something meant to soothe, though he wasn't sure the man heard him.
He worked by the firelight, changing the bandage, cleaning the wound again with what little he had left. The herbs were nearly gone now, the pouch light in his hand. He'd have to make them last until they were back at the Wall — if they made it back.
When he was done, he sat again, his back to the wall, watching the yard. The women had vanished into the huts, the men huddled closer to the fire. Above them, the sky was a deep, starless black.
Somewhere in the dark, a wolf howled — long and low, the sound carrying over the palisade. Ghost, Daniel thought. Out there, still watching.
He closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the wind, the fire, the low murmur of voices. This was no sanctuary. It was a pause, nothing more — a place to gather breath before the cold and the dead found them again.
The night settled over the yard like a lid, sealing in the smoke and the sour air. The fire in the pit had burned down to a low bed of coals, their glow barely reaching the edges of the space. Most of the brothers had found places to rest — some slumped against the walls, others curled under cloaks on the frozen ground. The wounded lay where Daniel had settled them, their breathing uneven in the dark.
He stayed awake. Sleep here felt like an invitation to something he didn't want to meet. Instead, he kept his back to the hut wall, eyes half‑lidded, listening.
The Keep had its own language at night. The wind rattled the palisade in slow, uneven breaths. Somewhere in the dark, a door creaked open, then shut again. Footsteps padded over frozen earth — light, quick, unshod. A woman's voice murmured something too low to catch, answered by a man's grunt. Then silence.
Daniel's gaze drifted to the huts. A faint light glowed behind one of the warped shutters, flickering as if from a single candle. Shadows moved across it — one tall, one smaller — then vanished. He looked away.
A cough broke the quiet, wet and deep. He crossed to the sound, crouching beside one of the older brothers. The man's face was pale, his lips cracked. Daniel eased him upright, gave him a sip from his own water skin, then settled him back down. The man's hand caught his wrist for a moment — a silent thanks — before letting go.
When he returned to his place, the coals had sunk lower, their light dimming. The cold pressed in harder, creeping through the seams of his cloak. He flexed his fingers, feeling the stiffness in the joints.
From the far side of the yard came a low laugh — Craster's, unmistakable. It was followed by the sound of a door closing and the muffled thud of boots on wood. Daniel kept his eyes on the coals, but his ears tracked every step until it faded.
Time stretched. The stars were hidden behind a lid of cloud, the sky a uniform black. The only measure of the hours was the slow cooling of the air and the way the wounded shifted in their sleep.
At some point, a wolf howled beyond the palisade — long, low, and close enough to raise the hair on his arms. Ghost, he thought. Still out there, still watching. The sound faded into the wind, leaving the yard in silence again.
Daniel pulled his cloak tighter, his mind turning over the same thought it had since they'd stepped inside the gate: this was no sanctuary. It was a pause, nothing more — a place to gather breath before the cold and the dead found them again.
XXX
The night thinned by degrees, the black above the palisade paling to a dull iron grey. Daniel hadn't slept. He'd drifted in and out of a half‑doze, the kind where every sound still reached him — the shift of boots on frozen ground, the creak of a door, the muffled cough of a man trying not to wake the others.
The coals in the firepit were a faint red smear now, barely enough to see by. Frost had crept into the yard overnight, silvering the churned mud and the edges of the huts. His breath hung in the air, thicker now in the morning chill.
One by one, the brothers stirred. Cloaks were pulled tighter, boots stamped against the cold. The wounded woke slower, blinking against the light, their movements stiff with pain. Daniel moved among them, checking bandages, offering water where he could. His fingers were clumsy with cold, but the work steadied him.
From one of the huts came the smell of something cooking — thin porridge, by the scent. It was joined by the sound of wooden bowls clattering, the low murmur of women's voices. Daniel caught sight of them through the open door: moving quickly, heads down, their hands sure in the work.
Craster emerged from another hut, broad‑shouldered and scowling, his breath steaming in the cold. He spoke with Mormont near the gate, his voice carrying in short, sharp bursts. Daniel couldn't make out the words, but the tone was clear enough — a man setting terms. Mormont listened, his face unreadable, then gave a single nod.
The women began to bring out the food — bowls of porridge, a few hunks of coarse bread. They moved among the brothers without meeting their eyes, setting the bowls down and stepping back quickly. Daniel accepted his with a quiet thanks, though the girl who handed it to him was already turning away.
The porridge was hot, at least, though thin enough that the spoon scraped the bottom of the bowl with each bite. He ate slowly, letting the warmth spread through him. Around the fire, the men ate in silence, the only sounds the scrape of spoons and the hiss of the wind against the palisade.
When the bowls were empty, the women collected them just as quickly, vanishing back into the huts. Craster and Mormont spoke again, and this time Daniel caught a few words — "rest," "leave by midday," "no trouble."
Daniel rose, brushing the frost from his cloak. He checked the wounded one last time, tightening a bandage here, adjusting a sling there. The supplies in his satchel were nearly gone now, the pouch of herbs light as air.
The light had strengthened, though the sun was still hidden behind the clouds. The day would be no warmer than the night had been. Daniel looked toward the gate, the rough timbers rimed with frost, and felt the same thought he'd carried since they'd arrived settle in his chest again: this was no sanctuary. It was only a pause.
Somewhere beyond those walls, the cold and the dead were still waiting.
XXX
Inside Craster's Keep — Jon Snow's POV
The grey light of morning seeped over the palisade, turning the frost on the timbers to a dull shimmer. Jon stood near the gate, Ghost at his side, the wolf's breath steaming in the cold. The yard smelled of smoke and unwashed bodies, the air heavy with the sour tang of the night before.
He'd slept little. The sounds of the Keep had kept him half‑awake — the muffled voices, the creak of doors, the quick, bare‑footed steps in the dark. Ghost had paced the yard more than once, pausing to stare at the huts as if he could see through their walls.
Now the brothers were stirring, gathering near the firepit where the women moved with bowls of thin porridge. Jon watched them — the way they kept their eyes down, the way they flinched from Craster's voice when it carried across the yard. He'd heard the stories before, but seeing them here, breathing the same cold air, made the telling feel tame.
Craster stood with Mormont near the gate, his bulk blocking part of the light. Jon couldn't hear all the words, but the tone was clear enough: Craster setting his terms, Mormont weighing them against the needs of the Watch. Shelter for silence. Food for obedience.
Ghost's ears twitched. The wolf's gaze fixed on a hut at the far end of the yard, his body going still. Jon followed his eyes but saw only a shadow moving behind the warped shutters. He laid a hand on Ghost's neck, feeling the tension there.
A woman passed close by, a girl really, no older than Arya. She carried a bucket of water, her bare feet red against the frost. Jon's jaw tightened. He wanted to speak, to ask her name, but she kept her head down and was gone before the words could form.
The porridge was hot but thin, the bread coarse and hard at the edges. Jon ate standing, Ghost at his feet, his eyes never leaving the yard. The men spoke in low voices, their words muffled by the wind. No one laughed.
When the bowls were collected, Craster clapped Mormont on the shoulder, the sound loud in the stillness. "You'll be gone by midday," he said, his voice carrying. "No trouble, and you'll leave with your skins intact."
Jon's hand tightened on the rim of his empty bowl. Ghost's head lifted, ears pricked, as if he too had heard something in the man's tone.
The Old Bear only nodded. "We'll be gone."
Jon looked at the women again, at the bruises half‑hidden by sleeves, at the way they moved like shadows in their own home. He thought of the dead in the forest, of the cold that waited beyond the gate, and wondered which was worse — the danger outside, or the bargain they'd made to be here.
The porridge sat heavy in Jon's stomach, more from the taste of the place than the food itself. Ghost had eaten nothing, pacing the yard with his head low, pausing now and again to sniff at the frozen ground. The wolf's unease was a mirror of his own.
The brothers moved with the slow purpose of men who knew the road ahead would be no kinder than the one behind. Cloaks were shaken free of frost, straps tightened, packs hoisted. The wounded were readied for travel — some leaning on makeshift crutches, others supported between two men. Daniel was among them, his hands steady as he adjusted a sling, his breath clouding in the cold.
Jon kept his eyes on Craster. The man stood near the gate, arms folded, watching the Watchmen prepare to leave as if counting them in and out. One of the women approached him with a bundle of firewood; he took it without thanks, his gaze never leaving the yard.
Mormont joined him, their heads bent together in low conversation. Jon caught only a few words — "White Walkers," "north," "safe enough" — before the wind swallowed the rest. The Old Bear's face was carved from stone, but Jon knew that look: the one he wore when he'd made a choice he didn't like but would stand by.
A shout went up from the far side of the yard — one of the brothers had slipped on the frozen mud, his pack spilling open. Jon crossed quickly, helping him to his feet, gathering the scattered contents. Ghost stood nearby, ears pricked, eyes fixed on a hut at the edge of the yard.
The door to that hut opened just a crack, and a girl's face appeared — pale, framed by dark hair. She couldn't have been more than fourteen. Her eyes met Jon's for the briefest moment before she pulled the door shut again.
He straightened slowly, the weight of that look settling in his chest. He wanted to go to her, to ask her name, to tell her she didn't have to live like this. But he knew the truth: here, she did.
The gate creaked open. Craster stepped aside, gesturing with a jerk of his head. "Best be on your way," he said. "Daylight's wasting."
Mormont gave a curt nod and signalled the column forward. The brothers began to file out, boots crunching on the frozen ground. Jon fell in near the front, Ghost at his side. As he passed Craster, the man's eyes met his — a flat, measuring look, as if weighing him and finding him wanting.
Jon held the gaze for a heartbeat, then stepped through the gate into the cold beyond. The wind hit him full in the face, sharp and clean after the air inside the Keep. Behind him, the gate closed with a heavy thud.
They were moving again, south toward the Wall, but Jon knew the Keep would follow him in memory — the smell of it, the silence of the women, the bargain struck in the cold. Out here, the dead were a danger you could see coming. In there, the danger wore a man's face and smiled.