The howling wind had subsided to a mournful sigh, and the snow, which had been a suffocering blanket, now lay in pristine, unbroken drifts, sparkling under the nascent sun. Benjen Stark, his breath pluming white in the frigid air, urged his weary destrier onward. The blizzard had been a beast, one he had weathered many times before, but this one had felt… different. An unsettling stillness had followed its abatement, a silence that pressed in on him, heavier than the snow. His ranging mission, a routine patrol beyond the Wall, had taken an unexpected turn when the storm had descended with such uncharacteristic ferocity, forcing him to seek shelter and then, to deviate from his planned route. Now, the snow-laden landscape stretched before him, a canvas of blinding white, broken only by the dark silhouettes of ancient, skeletal trees.
He was miles beyond the familiar markers, deep in territory rarely traversed even by the most seasoned rangers. The Wall, a colossal guardian against the wild, felt a world away. He scanned the horizon, his eyes, sharp and accustomed to discerning the subtlest signs in this harsh environment, searching for any indication of the wildling tribes that sometimes ventured south of their usual haunts. But there was nothing, no tracks, no smoke, only the endless, undulating snow. It was then that he noticed it – a disturbance in the otherwise immaculate expanse. A patch of snow, unnaturally disturbed, as if something immense had landed or passed through, leaving behind a subtle, yet undeniable anomaly.
Intrigued, and ever cautious, Benjen dismounted, his heavy boots crunching on the frozen crust. He approached the area slowly, his hand resting on the pommel of his longsword. The snow here was churned, not by wind or animal, but by something deliberate. He knelt, his gloved fingers brushing away the surface layer. Beneath, the snow wasn't merely disturbed; it seemed to shimmer, retaining a faint, almost imperceptible warmth that defied the biting cold. It was a sensation that prickled at his senses, an anomaly he couldn't readily explain. He had seen much in his years with the Night's Watch – the savagery of the wildlings, the chilling presence of wights, the sheer, brutal indifference of nature itself. But this was… new.
As he examined the ground more closely, his gaze drifted upwards, towards the sky. The storm had passed, leaving behind a crystalline clarity, but even now, as the sun climbed higher, a faint, almost ghostly pattern of light seemed to linger in the atmosphere. It wasn't the harsh glare of the sun, nor the ephemeral dance of the aurora borealis, but something else entirely. It pulsed with a gentle, rhythmic luminescence, a celestial calligraphy that seemed to be fading even as he watched. He had heard the old tales, the whispers of gods and spirits that roamed the heavens, but he had always dismissed them as the fanciful ramblings of old women or the desperate hopes of men facing the inevitable. Yet, standing here, feeling the strange warmth beneath his fingertips and seeing the fading celestial artistry above, a seed of doubt began to sprout in his pragmatic mind.
His gaze fell upon a small cluster of figures huddled near a cluster of ancient pines, their forms draped in furs, their faces obscured by the hoods. Wildlings. They were gathered around something on the ground, their posture one of quiet solemnity, not the usual raucousness or aggression he associated with them. As he approached, their heads turned, and he saw their faces – not hostile, but etched with a profound sense of awe. And then he saw what they were looking at.
The child. Small, swaddled in furs, lying still upon the snow. But it was the light emanating from the child, a soft, warm glow that seemed to push back the encroaching chill, that truly arrested Benjen's attention. It was a light he had never witnessed before, a luminescence that seemed to emanate from within the very being of the child, a stark contrast to the pallor of death that had begun to creep onto its tiny features. The wildlings around the child were not crying, but their faces held a sorrow so deep it was almost palpable. Then, one of them, an elder woman with eyes that held the wisdom of countless winters, looked up at Benjen. Her expression was not one of fear, but of a profound, almost reverent curiosity.
He saw it then, the disturbance he had initially noted. It was the imprint of something vast, something that had rested here, leaving behind not just a physical mark, but an ethereal one. The faint warmth, the lingering celestial patterns, the unnatural stillness in the air – it all coalesced into a baffling enigma. He was a man of the Night's Watch, trained to be rational, to observe, to report. But what was there to report here? That he had found a group of wildlings tending to a child who was being bathed in an otherworldly light? It sounded like madness.
Yet, his instincts, honed by years of survival in the harshest of lands, told him that something extraordinary had occurred. He had arrived after the event, a silent witness to its aftermath. The wildlings, usually so fierce and territorial, seemed to accept his presence, their attention solely focused on the child and the fading luminescence. Benjen, accustomed to being the active agent in such encounters, found himself an observer, a spectator to a scene that defied his understanding of the world.
The elder woman, sensing his bewilderment, gestured towards the child. Her lips moved, and though Benjen could not discern the words over the wind, the meaning was clear. She was sharing a story, a tale of a miracle. He watched as the child, still and pale, let out a tiny, almost inaudible sigh. And then, something shifted. The light, which had seemed to be fading, pulsed, a gentle ebb and flow, and with each pulse, the color returned to the child's cheeks. His small chest rose and fell with a slightly deeper breath. The wildlings around him collectively exhaled, a soft murmur of relief passing through them.
Benjen approached the child, his skepticism battling with a burgeoning sense of wonder. He saw the tiny hand twitch, a flicker of movement that spoke of returning life. He looked at the elder woman, her face a roadmap of hardship and resilience, and saw a glint of hope in her ancient eyes, a hope that had been rekindled by the phenomenon before them. He had always believed in the strength of men, in their ability to endure and to overcome. But this… this was something beyond human strength.
As he drew closer, he noticed a small, crudely carved wooden bird nestled beside the child, an offering, perhaps. And then, he saw something that made him freeze. Lying in the snow, near where the child had been, was a single feather. But it was no ordinary feather. It was woven from pure light, its barbs shimmering with an inner radiance, casting a faint, ethereal glow on the surrounding snow. It was impossibly delicate, yet strangely substantial, a tangible piece of the celestial spectacle he had glimpsed in the sky.
He reached out, his fingers hovering over the luminous feather. It felt warm to the touch, radiating a gentle energy that seemed to seep into his very bones. He knew, with a certainty that transcended logic, that this was proof. Proof of something extraordinary, something divine. The wildlings watched him, their silence a testament to the gravity of the moment. They had seen him, a man of the Night's Watch, a stranger from the world beyond their own, witness their miracle.
Benjen carefully picked up the feather, cradling it in his palm. It pulsed with a soft, consistent light, a silent testament to the power that had touched this desolate corner of the world. He looked at the wildlings, at their weathered faces and their simple, earnest expressions. They had witnessed a benevolent act, an intervention from a power far greater than any king or lord they knew. And they had, in their own way, acknowledged it. The elder woman met his gaze, and in her eyes, he saw not just gratitude, but a question, a silent plea for understanding.
He was Benjen Stark, a man of duty, a man of the Night's Watch, sworn to protect the realms of men. He dealt with the tangible, with the threats that could be met with steel and courage. But what was he to do with this? A feather of pure light? A child brought back from the brink by an unknown force? He knew that he had to report this, but how? How to describe the indescribable? How to convey the profound sense of awe and mystery that had settled upon him?
He secured the feather carefully within his tunic, a sacred relic that felt impossibly out of place against the rough wool. He then looked at the child, now stirring more actively, its eyes fluttering open, revealing a depth of innocence that tugged at his heart. The wildlings began to gather their belongings, their movements imbued with a renewed purpose. They were leaving, their ordeal seemingly at an end, their hope restored. As they prepared to depart, the elder woman approached him once more. She didn't speak, but she offered him a small, crudely carved wooden bird, the same one he had seen near the child. It was a gesture of shared experience, of a moment that had transcended their different worlds.
Benjen accepted the offering, his mind a whirl of unanswered questions. He had come seeking wildlings, potential threats to the Wall. Instead, he had stumbled upon the aftermath of a celestial encounter, a divine intervention that had touched the lives of these hardy people and, in doing so, had irrevocably altered his own perception of the world. He was a man of the North, a man of the Night's Watch, and he had just witnessed a miracle. He knew, as he watched the small band of wildlings disappear into the swirling snow, that his duty now extended beyond the mere defense of the Wall. He had seen a light that promised more than just warmth; it promised something far grander, something that had the potential to change everything. The North, he realized, was far more ancient and far more mysterious than he had ever imagined. And he, Benjen Stark, was now a witness to its deepest secrets. The feather, nestled close to his heart, was a constant reminder of the unknown that lay beyond the familiar, a beacon in the vast, unyielding wilderness. He remounted his horse, his gaze fixed on the horizon, a new purpose stirring within him, a silent vow to uncover the truth behind the Morning Star.