Southern trail from Craster's Keep — Daniel's POV
The gate shut behind them with a dull, final thud. Daniel didn't look back. The stench of the place clung to his cloak — smoke, rot, and something sourer still — and the cold air felt cleaner for all its bite.
The column moved in silence at first, boots crunching in the crusted snow. The wounded were in the middle, the Old Bear riding just ahead of them, his black cloak stirring in the wind.
Jon fell in beside Daniel, Ghost padding silent at his heel.
"Sam's falling behind," Jon said quietly.
Daniel glanced back. Sam was trudging with his head down, breath clouding in ragged bursts.
"I'll take him," Daniel said.
They slowed until Sam caught up. His cheeks were raw from the wind.
"Cold's worse than the Fist," Sam muttered.
Daniel adjusted the strap of Sam's pack. "The Fist was quick. This is slow work."
Ahead, Mormont's voice carried back over the wind. "Keep moving! We make camp before dark."
Jon's eyes flicked toward the Old Bear. "He's pushing them hard."
Daniel kept his voice low. "He knows what happens if we stop too long."
The wind shifted, bringing with it the faint sound of men talking up ahead — not the easy talk of brothers, but the low, sharp murmur of complaint. Daniel caught snatches as they passed:
"…Craster eats while we starve…"
"…Old Bear's blind…"
Mormont turned in the saddle, his gaze sweeping the line. The murmurs died.
"Any man who thinks he can do better," the Old Bear said, voice like gravel, "can take my place at the head. Until then, you march."
No one answered. The only sound was the snow underfoot.
Jon leaned closer to Daniel. "They're close to breaking."
Daniel's jaw tightened. "Then we hold the line until we can't."
They crossed a frozen stream, the ice groaning under their weight. Sam stumbled, and Daniel caught his arm.
"One step at a time," Daniel said.
Sam gave a weak smile. "You sound like Maester Aemon."
"Then he's a wise man," Daniel replied, letting him go.
The trail bent south, the trees thinning. Somewhere beyond the next ridge lay the Wall — but between here and there was only the road, the cold, and the men behind them, carrying hunger like a knife in their hearts.
XXX
Craster's Keep — Daniel's POV
The hall was close with heat and smoke, but it did nothing to warm the men. The fire spat and cracked, throwing shadows across faces drawn thin by hunger. Craster sat at the head, tearing meat from a bone with yellowed teeth, grease shining on his beard.
Daniel sat near the Old Bear, Jon on the other side, Sam further down the bench. The smell of the food was thick, but the bowls passed to the brothers held only thin stew, more water than meat.
Mormont's voice was steady when he spoke. "You'll have our thanks for your hospitality, Craster."
Craster snorted. "Thanks don't fill a man's belly. You've eaten. That's more than most get."
A murmur rippled through the benches — low, bitter. Daniel caught fragments:
"…his wives eat better…"
"…we're dying out there…"
Jon's eyes flicked toward the sound, then to Daniel. Both of them knew the tone — the kind that could turn.
Mormont's jaw tightened. "We'll be gone at first light."
Craster leaned back, grinning. "Aye, and good riddance. You're more trouble than you're worth."
The murmur grew louder. A bench scraped. One of the men rose, voice sharp. "We're freezing and starving while you sit warm with a full belly—"
"Sit down," Mormont barked, the command ringing off the rafters.
But the man didn't sit. Another voice joined in, then another. The air thickened, the fire's crackle drowned by the rising growl of discontent.
Daniel's hand went to the hilt at his side. Jon's did the same. Sam's eyes were wide, darting between them.
Craster's grin twisted. "You think you can take what's mine? You're no better than wildlings."
The first blow came fast — a shove, a curse, the crash of a bench tipping. Then steel flashed in the firelight.
"Hold!" Mormont roared, surging to his feet. "In the name of the Night's Watch—"
The words were cut short by the glint of a blade and the wet sound of it finding flesh. The Old Bear staggered, blood blooming dark against his black cloak.
Daniel was moving before he thought, catching Mormont under the arm as he fell. Jon was there too, Ghost snarling, the hall erupting into chaos — shouting, steel, the shriek of women.
"Get him out!" Daniel shouted to Jon over the din.
But there was nowhere to go. The hall was a trap, the mutiny spilling like fire through dry grass.
Mormont's breath was ragged, his weight heavy in Daniel's arms. "Don't… let them…" The rest was lost in the roar.
The hall was a storm. Shouts, steel, the crash of benches — the air thick with smoke and the copper tang of blood.
Daniel had Mormont under one arm, dragging him back from the press. Jon was on the other side, Longclaw already in his hand, the pale stone wolf's head catching the firelight. Ghost prowled ahead, teeth bared, a low, murderous growl in his throat.
A man lunged at them through the chaos — Daniel saw the flash of a rust‑flecked blade — and Jon met him with a single, brutal stroke. Longclaw bit deep, the Valyrian steel sliding through leather and flesh as if it were nothing. The man crumpled, and Jon didn't look back.
"Out!" Jon shouted over the din. "We have to get him out!"
But the way to the door was a knot of bodies — mutineers and loyal brothers locked in a vicious tangle. Somewhere in the crush, Sam's voice was calling Daniel's name, high and panicked.
Mormont's weight was heavy, his breath ragged. "Leave me," the Old Bear rasped.
"Not happening," Daniel said, tightening his grip.
Another mutineer came at them, swinging wild. Daniel shoved Mormont toward Jon and stepped in, catching the man's wrist, twisting until the knife clattered to the floor. Jon was there in an instant, Longclaw flashing again — clean, efficient, final.
They pushed forward, Ghost snapping at any who came too close. The door was only a few strides away now, but the hall felt like it was closing in — heat, noise, the stink of fear and blood.
A thrown mug shattered against the wall beside Daniel's head. Someone screamed. Someone else laughed — high, ugly, unhinged.
Jon's voice cut through it: "Now!"
They surged together — Daniel half‑carrying, half‑dragging Mormont, Jon clearing the way with Longclaw's deadly arc, Ghost a white shadow at their heels. The cold night air hit them like a slap as they burst through the door into the snow.
Behind them, the hall roared on, the mutiny devouring itself. Ahead, the dark trees waited.
Daniel glanced at Jon — the younger man's face was pale, jaw set, Longclaw still dripping in the moonlight.
"We run," Daniel said.
Jon nodded once. "We run."
XXX
The Haunted Forest — Daniel's POV
The night swallowed them whole. One heartbeat they were in the fire‑lit madness of the hall, the next in the black mouth of the forest, snow crunching underfoot, breath tearing in their lungs.
Daniel had Mormont's arm over his shoulders, the Old Bear's weight dragging heavier with every step. Jon was on the other side, Longclaw still in his grip, the pale wolf's head pommel catching the moonlight in flashes as they ran. Ghost ranged ahead, a white blur against the dark, his growl low and constant.
Behind them, the Keep was a hive of noise — shouts, screams, the crash of wood. Somewhere in that din, steel was still finding flesh.
"Faster," Jon said, voice tight.
Daniel's boots slipped on a patch of ice, and he tightened his hold on Mormont. "He's fading."
"I'm not—" Mormont began, but the words broke into a cough that sprayed red across the snow.
They pushed on, weaving between the trees. The cold bit deep, but sweat still ran down Daniel's spine. Every shadow felt like a man waiting with a blade.
A shape burst from the dark to their right — one of the mutineers, breath steaming, knife in hand. Jon pivoted, Longclaw coming up in a smooth, deadly arc. The Valyrian steel caught the moonlight, then the man's throat, and he went down without a sound.
Jon didn't slow. "Keep moving."
The forest thickened, branches clawing at their cloaks. Sam stumbled into view ahead, wide‑eyed and gasping. "This way!" he wheezed, pointing toward a narrow deer track.
They followed, the snow muffling their steps now, the Keep's noise fading behind them. Mormont's head lolled against Daniel's shoulder, his breath shallow.
Daniel glanced at Jon. "We need to stop—"
Jon shook his head. "Not here. Not yet."
They broke into a small clearing, the moon spilling silver over the snow. Ghost circled once, ears pricked, then padded to the far edge, waiting.
Daniel eased Mormont down against the trunk of a pine. The Old Bear's eyes found his, still sharp despite the pain. "Listen… both of you…" His voice was a rasp, but the command in it was undimmed. "The Watch… must endure. Whatever comes."
Jon knelt beside him, Longclaw's tip resting in the snow. "We'll get you back to the Wall."
Mormont's gaze shifted to the sword, then to Jon. "You'll need that… more than I will."
Daniel felt the weight of the words settle in the cold air. The forest was silent now, save for the Old Bear's labored breathing and the distant crack of ice in the trees.
Jon knelt opposite, Longclaw's tip resting in the snow, his breath clouding in the cold. Ghost stood guard at the treeline, ears pricked, a low rumble in his chest.
Daniel's hands were already at the wound, pressing hard, feeling the hot pulse of blood through his fingers. He closed his eyes for a heartbeat, reaching for that quiet place inside where the gift stirred — the same place he'd drawn from to knit flesh, to still fever, to call life back from the edge.
Nothing answered.
The wound was too deep, the steel having torn through lung and vessel both. Every breath Mormont took rattled wetly, the sound of a man drowning from the inside. Daniel knew the truth before he spoke it.
"I can't stop it," he said, voice low. "It's too far gone. The blade… it's taken what I can't give back."
Mormont's eyes opened, sharp even through the pain. "Then don't waste your strength."
Jon's jaw tightened. "There must be something—"
"There is," Mormont cut in, his voice a rasp but still carrying command. His gaze shifted to Jon, then to the sword between them. "Longclaw. My father's sword. It's yours now."
Jon shook his head. "I can't—"
"You can. You will." Mormont's breath hitched, but his eyes didn't waver. "The Watch needs a sword in the dark. And a man to wield it."
Daniel sat back, blood on his hands, the cold already creeping into Mormont's skin. He felt the weight of failure pressing in — not the failure of skill, but of the limits no gift could cross.
Mormont's gaze found him. "You've a different charge, healer. Keep him alive. Keep the Watch alive."
The Old Bear's breath came once more, shallow and slow, then stilled.
For a long moment, the forest was silent. Then Jon reached down, fingers closing around Longclaw's hilt. The pale wolf's head caught the moonlight as he rose.
Daniel wiped his hands on the snow, the red blooming against the white. "We move," he said.
Jon nodded once, the sword in his hand, Ghost at his side. Together, they turned toward the dark line of trees, leaving the Old Bear to the quiet he'd earned.
The forest closed around them like a fist. The moonlight barely touched the ground here, only silvering the highest branches. Every breath steamed in the cold, every step crunched too loud in Daniel's ears.
Jon moved ahead, Longclaw in his hand, the pale wolf's head glinting whenever the blade caught a stray shaft of light. Ghost padded at his side, silent but for the soft thud of paws in snow. Sam stumbled behind Daniel, his breath ragged, eyes darting to every shadow.
No one spoke. The only sound was the wind through the pines — and, once, far behind them, the faint crack of a branch.
Daniel's hand went to the hilt at his hip. "We're not alone," he murmured.
Jon didn't look back. "I know."
They angled off the deer track, weaving between thick trunks, letting the snow swallow their trail. Daniel kept glancing over his shoulder, half‑expecting to see torchlight weaving through the dark.
Sam tripped on a root and went down hard. Daniel hauled him up, whispering, "Quiet."
"I'm trying," Sam panted. "Seven save us, I'm trying."
Jon slowed, scanning the trees. "We keep moving until dawn. If they're following, we can lose them in the light."
Daniel's gaze flicked to Longclaw — the sword looked almost alive in Jon's grip, the steel dark where blood had dried along the edge. It was more than a weapon now; it was the Old Bear's last command made flesh.
A sound broke the stillness — faint, but close. The crunch of snow under more than one set of boots.
Jon's head turned sharply. "Go," he said.
They ran. Branches whipped at Daniel's face, snow spraying underfoot. Ghost darted ahead, then back, herding them like a shepherd with his flock. The cold burned in Daniel's lungs, but he didn't slow.
Behind them, the sounds grew louder — shouts now, the unmistakable ring of steel on steel as the mutineers clashed with whatever loyal brothers still fought. Or perhaps they were coming for them.
They broke into another clearing, moonlight spilling over the snow. Jon turned, Longclaw raised, scanning the treeline. Daniel drew his own blade, the weight familiar, grounding.
Nothing moved. The forest was still again.
Jon's voice was low, certain. "They'll come. But not tonight."
Daniel nodded, though his grip didn't ease. "Then we keep moving. The Wall's still a long way."
They slipped back into the trees, the clearing vanishing behind them, the night swallowing their tracks.
They moved through the night like shadows, the cold gnawing at every joint. The forest was a maze of black trunks and white drifts, the moonlight barely enough to see the next step.
Jon led, Longclaw in his hand, the pale wolf's head glinting whenever the blade caught a sliver of light. Ghost ranged ahead, silent but for the soft thud of paws in snow. Sam stumbled behind Daniel, his breath ragged, his face pale with cold and fear.
No one spoke. The only sounds were the wind through the pines and the crunch of their boots. Every so often, Daniel would glance back, half‑expecting to see torchlight weaving through the dark.
By dawn, the cold had seeped into their bones. They found a hollow beneath a fallen pine and huddled there, cloaks drawn tight. Daniel passed Sam a strip of dried meat — the last of it.
Sam chewed slowly, eyes down. "Feels like we've been walking for years."
Jon's voice was quiet but firm. "We keep moving. The Wall's still days away."
Daniel didn't say what they were all thinking — that days could be a lifetime out here.
They slept in turns, Ghost keeping watch. When Daniel woke, the light was thin and grey, the kind that made the forest feel endless. They set off again, following the faint line of a frozen stream southward.
The days blurred together — walking, resting, walking again. Hunger hollowed them out, and the cold made every movement an effort. Once, they heard voices behind them, faint but real. They left the stream and cut through thicker woods, moving until their legs shook.
On the fourth day, the trees began to thin. The air felt different — sharper, cleaner. Daniel crested a low rise and stopped.
There, far to the south, the Wall rose against the horizon — a sheer, glittering cliff of ice, catching the pale winter sun.
Sam let out a sound halfway between a sob and a laugh. Jon just stood there, Longclaw in his hand, staring at it.
Daniel felt the weight in his chest ease, just a fraction. "We're not there yet," he said, "but we will be."
They started down the slope, the Wall growing with every step. Behind them, the forest loomed — dark, silent, and full of ghosts. Ahead, the black line of Castle Black waited, and with it, the reckoning for what had happened at Craster's Keep.