In the black of night, there were no stars to light the world.
In the greenwood, he could hear a storm. It was coming, creeping, crawling. Closer, closer, colder. The man in crow skin was there once more. "Come, brother," he laughed. "Follow, follow."
He thought it foolish, but the shadow was growing. The beast was coming. Watching, with eyes of blue horror.
He chased him far past the weeping willows with tears of black ice, past the sad sentinels with wounds in black garb, past the raging blizzard where ashfall fell in gentle touch. Past all the northern fields and seas of snow to an old castle, burned and brittle.
A stone guardian waited by its crumbled gate. A bird had stolen her eyes and her name. "I want to go home," she wept. "Will you help me?" She handed him a parchment drawing of a snow castle. But the man did not know it, and passed her by.
Beyond the gates was a graveyard. All the ghosts had risen, hand-in-hand, almost human again, waiting before a white bark platform. Little faces were drawn with red ruin all across it, and lodged in its heart was a blade of ice. One by one the ghosts of glee waited by the block with spikes in hand as a headless headsman beckoned them in lordly wear. Soon, the crowman's turn had come, kneeling with a sad face, with a cloak woven by blind men.
Up and up the blade rose. But he never saw it fall. The beast of three eyes came for him first, screaming as it swallowed the world.
A steady hand grasped his shoulder with "My lord?" as Jory eyed him wearily. Ned thanked the man quietly and recovered his senses, mind still groggy with walking dream as he shook off the grey blurs of his night terror. I have become an addled fool, he cursed.
Before him burned a dwindling black pyre upon an ash-ridden road. The rangers dotted the snow around, burying the black bones across a mile with dark looks and dark muttering. Stonesnake had died as he lived, loyal to his black cloak. A fine ranger with the finest eyes. They had closed them in death, as not to see the horror swirling deep within them. When the fire burned, Ser Jaremy Rykker could not meet his gaze, Ser Ottyn had hunched into a ball, while Qhorin Halfhand matched his stare blankly.
Mormont's raven circled them above. "Dead, dead, dead," it cried, taunting them with blame. Ned wondered if ravens kept their master's secrets, or spoke with their master's tongues. If so, how many more did the Old Bear keep?
They had ridden northeast of the Milkwater far beyond the comfort of any man. But the crows had sewn their beaks shut. If there was protest, they wore it in silent exhaustion. Drizzles of cold tears followed them from the sky, but faded the further from the storm that refused to pass the Frostfangs, waiting with snarls in unnatural swirls. Ned was glad to be free of its stare. Half the men had near soiled themselves from Stonesnake's word alone. Ser Wythers had even fainted at its sight, babbling about retreat as if it were his mother's name.
In the lord's guard, Greatjon Umber's rage had returned. Ser Jaremy still wore the bruises of its reawakening. "Are you touched?" he had bellowed, sword-half drawn for any crow who thought to hide. Even Lord Jorah was not exempt, bear against giant for his father's soiled honour. Ned had calmed them with a word, careful to control his own frozen rage. "Secret," the rangers claimed. "Mormont's secret," the Halfhand admitted. "He swore them to silence, but I took no such oath. To the north you will find an ally. A savage who dwells in the forest, aye. But with blood half as black ours. Craster."
Craster. Ned fumed at the thought of their deception. Not a crow had let it slip. Even the maps were inked with lies. Even Benjen did not speak of it, dead but alive in writings cold.
Now they spoke this wilding's name as if a curse.
He rode ahead with the lords bar Bolton, who watched the rearguard closely for the few who thought to flee. The world darkened as the forest canopies entwined, snow grimmer with only pale light for the path ahead.
Shallow mists warmed the Greatjon's face as his knuckles creased loudly against the reigns. "They say he weds his daughters," he spat quietly.
Ned had heard the same. "A half day's ride, Jon. Then we will have truth of it." The truth of it. Nan had spun a thousand grim tales of the savage wilding. The enemy that stole your women and bathed in the blood of babes. But the stories never spoke of the same savage breaking bread with brothers in black, or his brother of blood.
The thought of Benjen only irked him now. And beyond the forest he could feel it lurking.
Jarmen Buckwell rode to his side from the vanguard. "Dalbridge is yet to return. Ser Endrew says he is hardly late without word. And I have never known Harclay or Norridge to dawdle."
"He was to simply inform this Craster of our arrival. What could cause the delay?" Ned asked.
Buckwell shrugged. "Snow. A shadowcat. A fallen tree, a lost path. A dozen other things. But I'd name it a ranger's hunch. Dark things are lurking out here. Craster is one of them, but only one. And he himself I worry over. Craster has been indifferent at best. Difficult at times. But this is no ordinary ranging, and he has not seen our like for over a year. Who's to say he still remains."
Ned found that sour. "What says the First Ranger?"
"Patience and haste and little else."
He hummed deeply, glancing to the Greatjon who watched the exchange. "Tell Smallwood to quicken his pace. We will match."
The ranger nodded, but made it no further than a dozen feet before a single horn blast shook the trees. The vanguard stopped suddenly as they split for a lone garron, grumbles and a few stray shouts heard as the rider cantered towards Ned aimlessly. A limp ranger with brown curls sat atop it, bloodied and slumped against the mane. "Ronnel Harclay," the men uttered. The horn fell from his hand as his body crashed to the floor, red life staining the snow.
"Help him," a man cried. Buckwell and Eddison Tollett heaved him against a heavy log, cutting his garb open to find a spurting stab wedged deep into his stomach. "Water," the man begged, barely brushing his matted locks away. Ned gave him wine, holding him steady as his skin paled to a bleak grey, emerald eyes fading slowly. "Craster…" he muttered hoarsely. His last breath spat blood across Ned's face.
"The Watch's friend. With warm welcomes," Roose Bolton said. The lords were ready to carve flesh. The rangers only looked on in shame.
"Lord Stark—" started Ser Jaremy.
Ned was past courtesies. "We have no time for another pyre. Ride quickly, and carry his body beside you. Then you feel the weight of his life and pray his death was not needless."
Crimson washed the sky rolling clouds of dusk raged above them. The damp forest wept the colour of blood, the flesh of snow trampled beneath their ride. They were a wardrum of their own as they broke into a large clearing beneath a low hill. A bright daub-and-wattle hall stood tall with fires lit within it, the ring wall half torn down by sword slashes and snow falls. Bears and rams and shadowcat skins lined it with skulls of men long dead, but at the gate square in front of them, a pair of spikes stood fresh. The heads upon them dripped blood down the hill where bodies rested with black cloaks torn to tatters.
Squire Dalbridge's keen eyes had been slashed away. Edwin Norridge's quiet mouth had been sliced to a scream.
When they approached the keep swords drawn, an ugly bellow echoed past them. Greatjon Umber smashed the door down, jumping back as they found the direwolf battling a burly man. Around and around him it ran, taunting him as if it were a mummer, and the wildling a red-faced fool. The beast saw Ned and finished its game, snapping at the wilding with a grin before bolting past them all.
Slowly, they each lined the keep with swords pointed out. The wildling, Craster, looked closer to animal than man with his sickly stare and spitting snarl, baring Dalbridge's steel closely. His bearskin cloak was tangled with dry blood, jerkin cut away with a carpet of chest hair slick with sweat. "Crows!" he screamed breathless. "Why won't you bloody listen? 'Ow many will I skewer before you get it through your skulls? I won't have crows beneath my hall!" No, no!" Craster spotted the silver direwolf across Ned's surcoat, eyes-wide before he swore at Ned's feet. "Stark! I won't have you either. I told your damned brother as much when 'e came snooping. You won't be my guest here. Bugger off!"
"We don't come for your hall, wildling bastard," Greatjon spat.
It turned the wildling's face scarlet. "Let my walls taste your blood, damned clod. Barging in here, with that beast of yours. Fools who think they own the wood. No… not beneath this moon. The cold is here, and I paid my dues. I did right by the gods. You won't have me." He spat the Greatjon's feet, feinting a stab at the giant before slicing the blade in a vicious arc against Ned. But Ice was quicker, ringing with song as he locked their swords together, before twisting the dragonsteel's edge to sever Craster's fingers clean, cutting the wilding's knee as he fell back.
Craster's blood spurted against ends of Ned's cloak. "Half-mad," the rangers had told him. "But with good counsel."
Good counsel, Ned mused. He writhed and cursed on the ground while all the men watched in shame and pity.
"Seems though the Halfhand has kin, now," Cregan Karstark jested. No one laughed.
A rush of cold blood froze his skin with gooseprickles. Rage crept down his spine as a familiar scent invaded him. He could feel his fur battle the wind, and his teeth turn to fangs and hands to claws. "Restrain him," he managed to croak, barking another order he hardly heard before escaping outside. The Night's Watch filled the clearing, crows dotted across all the white like a forest of their own, fallen friends collected and left to mourn.
For a moment, Ned could hardly breathe, stumbling into a blood-soaked sheepfold.
The lambs had been gutted in the snow. A few feet away, his direwolf nuzzled its snout to the snow to wipe the red off. It matched his stare, sauntering past the weary men and squealing pigs down to the brook at the bottom of the slope. Ned could feel the water on his own lips, head throbbing with dark thoughts.
"My lord," called Jory, coming close to whisper in his ear, "Lord Umber has found the wilding's children."
The fire had puttered out in the main hall. Craster squirmed in the ranger's hands, and above them, small eyes and messy peaked through the shrouded loft above them. A girl. As they locked eyes, she vanished again, small sobs falling slowly behind her.
"You won't have them!" Craster swore. His hands still bled and his face had turned near as white as snow, spit bloody but rage still blazing. "Moon-eyed crows. You think I never saw 'em? That Old Bear? Eyeing my wives. I gave them board and counsel! What's mine is mine! Curse you, Stark! Curse you. It's my daughters you want you—" A gloved fist smacked him to the floor, three of his rotted brown teeth flying into the dead cookfire.
"Lord Jorah," Ned said cooly, "He is our prisoner. You will not redeem your father's honour with this man's blood."
"This creature follows no law nor loyalty. I will not have him besmirch my father's name," the Bear Islander spat.
Craster laughed cruelly, "Old Mormont gave me wine and slept cold beneath my roof wanting of warm teats. He—" Lord Jorah growled, stopped still by Ned's hand before he stormed off into the clearing.
"Ser Wendel, Lord Glover. Take him outside. Let no harm come to him." Craster screamed and squirmed as they dragged him by his bleeding knee. His complaints fell to silence as the embers finally faded. The hall fell to pale darkness, and a crushing shame enveloped every black cloak. It sounded like a little girl, weeping for her mother.
The ladders were splintered but strong enough to hold the Greatjon's weight. Atop the hall sat a damp loft. The thatch roof dripped with melted snow, the logs swelled with years of storm, and moonlight streamed through the many-blotched gaps. Spare wooden larders sat against the slanted walls with barrels of Night's Watch mead, stale bread loafs, oats, barley and even spare corn. But beside them were a dozen strawbeds with chittering bodies cornered atop them.
"Gods be good…" Greatjon muttered.
They sheathed their blades quickly. Near two dozen women huddled in the corner, cowed and crying. Half of them girls, the youngest still in swaddling clothes. The eldest shielded them with only a stick, skin weathered and old like the sags of Old Nan. Her knees were shaking, tears fresh and body impossibly thin. But she is brave, Ned thought. Braver than half the men we caravan.
"We will not harm you," he said, tossing his gloves away and approaching hands naked.
The elder hissed as she swung at them weakly, "There are words and there are truths. Menfolk hardly know one from t'other."
A little girl squeezed her hip from behind. "He cut Craster," she murmured, eyeing them with glossy brown fear.
"One for the other. Menfolk always want," she said. She was a woman grown, garbed in brown sheepskins and cloaks too thin for the weather. A woman grown, yet she feared him like a child. Like prey did the hunter, did the beast.
Ned nodded slowly, fallen to a single knee. "I am Eddard Stark of Winterfell. I want… only your name."
She hesitated. "I don't want 'em near the girls. They want us the same way he does. Your name is Stark… like the First Ranger? Ned nodded with shame. Damn you, Benjen. What were you doing here? "He gave us quiet smiles and sad stares. But he shared Craster's fire and left anyway. All crows are liars."
He kneeled down close to her. She jumped back and stifled her squeal, but held the stick strong. "He will never hurt you again."
She saw his eyes and nodded, dropping the stick at his feet. "Ferny," she murmured, moving back to a large strawbed against the wall. A young girl lay upon the mismatched wool sheets in pale fever, blood by her womb and hands. Her dark hair flowed in a half-undone braid, eyes worn and wet. Bunches of tied flowers littered around her, and the sight of Ned only left her wailing.
"Roses," said the girl beside her. "Other flowers too. For the smell." She paused, glancing down. "Craster don't like the smell."
Roses, Ned mused. For a moment there was another girl in front of him. He picked a stray few from the ends of her strawbed, enclosing them in her hand as he entwined his own. She was cold, shivering to a deathly pale. "The child?"
Ferny's eyes were dry. She had given her tears to the little girls by her. "You're long late for that. He took Hilda's boy already. The cold is here now."
"The boys," Ned uttered in realisation. "Where does he take the boys?"
"Where do menfolk give blood, m'lord? In the forest. For the the gods. For the cold ones."
Hilda sat up weakly, "Will he… can he?"
Ferny settled her down. "What's done be done. Rest, gir—"
"I will," he said. Ferny gave him a disbelieving glance and a shaken head, but the girl's sliver of hope held tight to him with a thin thread.
"Bring him back. Please, please." Her grey eyes were pleading.
"I promise," he said, moving quicker than shadow.
The Haunted Forest encircled them like a black wall of its own. Drinking moonlight and snow and life with it. He mounted his garron, riding down the slopes, following the brook and the earthen dike for any semblance of an opening. "Search the wood. Spread out in groups and find the child!" Find the child. Save the boy.
On the northside clearing, blue eyes shon through the dark, and Ned knew. "Follow," he ordered Jon and Jory and the rangers beside him, galloping through the black wood. He followed the beast who knew its way, cutting through the dream-dense fog, through hills and down slopes and over fords to a small clearing, where a swollen moon stole the sky, leaving a weirwood stump glistening with white shine.
A babe in white fur shivered with eyes closed upon it, tears frozen with frost embracing his flushed skin, and beside it, the beast waited by it with eyes of knowing. Always knowing.
The Greatjon leapt from his horse, sword drawn as he fell to the stump. The fog hardened as the cold grew impossible, droplets of moist air frozen to glass shards. Ned unsheathed Ice as the Umberman nuzzled the babe close by his chest. "Alive. Barely, but alive," he whispered. Ned's heart jumped.
"Ned." Dark clouds stole the moon, and in the dark, Ice glowed like a sword of white flame. "Ned," called the Greatjon again.
The fog grew so thick you could not see the sky, and the cold wanted his skin. It wanted his bones and his flesh and his blood as it swallowed the forest. He had never felt a chill like it.
"Go," Ned uttered, "Quickly." The beast howled again, bolting back while Mormont's raven flew from branch to branch with "follow, follow, follow."
The babe woke as they rode, wailing and wailing even louder as a guttural horn screamed and Qhorin Halfhand marked their return. All the crows were faceless as he passed them, vanishing in quick blurs behind craven veils. A fire burned dimly in the hall, the women all huddled around it. Still the babe was wailing. Still his blood was freezing. Rageful. Like the winter blizzard that takes and takes.
Little Hilda ran for her babe. She hugged Greatjon with a mother's strength, kissing the child's cold blue forehead and wailed and wailed with him. "He's alive," she sung, sweet and wailing, "Alive, my boy." The girl took Ned's arm and cried into his chest, while his hands rested inches from her back, before he held her in shivering embrace. Behind her found the old woman's eyes, steely and grateful but hurt beneath it all. This was the first that lived. No one said a word. No one lifted a finger.
"How many?" Ned asked, breathless. He was a coward for not wanting the answer.
She chuckled with an ancient sadness. A mother's sadness. "A dozen myself. But I was good, m'lord. A good woman. I knew how to care for the girls. I was even… gentle with his favourites. I swear it. So he kept me. I was worth the mouth to feed. I made sure. I made sure. Dyah there… she had two. She's mine Dyah. Her boys… Demon and Devil I named them. I thought…" she trailed off, biting her lip. "Munda had four. Hemma was his favourite. All boys. All doubles. Bera had girls, three girls. They never saw the sun. Craster didn't like that. One more chance he said. Yema… Yema had one. Morna, six. Ness, two. Nella gave three at once, two boys. Edda had eight. Strong girl. She may live for another. Willow wa—"
Ned stopped her. "Please," he muttered, eyes shut with simmering fury. In the winter blood, he found the beast. Waiting, waiting, fangs and claws with greed and hunger waiting.
"Will you be killing him, m'lord?" A small girl asked. Ned did not answer. "I want to watch," she said. Another woman held her back with admonishment. "Gilly," she cried as the girl bit her hand, squirming through their grasp to tug at Ned's cloak. "I have to," she whispered, crying. "How will I know he's gone?"
Only a few years older than Sansa. But in her eyes, she hated.
He stepped back with frozen skin, fists clenched so tight his palms bled. There, he saw them all, watching him with stares that dared to hope. Children with cruel stares. Maidens with dark hair. Mothers with grey eyes. Flowers clasped within their hands, winter roses dead and bloodied. Did you look upon their faces and think of her, brother? Did they serve you meals and smile, and beg for your help in the same breath? What did you tell them? Benjen had never written of them. All those stories, and never a word.
A grumble rose outside. Craster's screams echoed and echoed while Ned's mouth yearned for blood, for flesh. His shallow breath overwhelmed all sense. Step by step, his paws prowled into the open snow. The crows all watched, and his prey was blabbering, seething and spitting and snarling as if it would save him. "You can't!" it yelled, "I paid my dues, I paid my dues. I be a godly man, a true man. I paid my dues. All you piss-sodden crows. You'll have your coming. You'll have it, I swear it! I paid my dues!" Every word made Ned hunger.
The wild man fell silent as his shadow lumbered before him. Drip, drip, drip, fell the drool of its beastly death. The smell of piss and shit stunk as Craster writhed, and the men held him down with hesitant hands, fearful of the direwolf's bite.
Then it came. The beast opened its jaw.
Then it did not. Ned roared as he forced the direwolf back. It growled and snapped with dark look. But Ned was no fool, he was not a monster. I am a man, he knew, I will pass the sentence. I am not a butcher, who deals in ignoble death.
"No," he decided. And so the beast listened, and all the men watched, and all of Craster's wives stood in silent rows waiting from above.
One by one he found their faces. "Is this the honour of the Night's Watch? Naming women and children savages, while breaking bread with another? Hiding your shame behind broken maps as if it washed away the lives stolen by your blind eye? Where was your action? Are all crows so craven? Which of your vows was upheld here? Speak now so I may have the truth of it."
There was a damning silence before Ser Jaremy said, "The Night's Watch takes no part." His voice did not believe it, grasping for conviction.
"The Night's Watch takes no part," Ned echoed. "Hiding behind your twisted word. The black does not hide the stain, ser. Every moment you sat in that hall, you dishonoured yourself, and the men you serve. You swore to stay true. You swore to guard the realms of men. You swore to pledge your honour. Did it ask you to sentence these women to a monster's will? To sentence their sons to the cold? Did they ask you, Ser Jaremy? Did they plead?" The man glanced to another, and another, and nodded. "If you had listened, and stayed true, you would have taken no lands, nor wife. Father no children, wear no crown nor win any glory. No vow was sullied. Why did you stay silent?" He had no answer. "Why did any of you?"
Thoren Smallwood stepped forward, scowling. "The Watch owes him a debt. He's saved our lives on many occasion."
"A debt," Ned repeated plainly.
"You've seen the blackwood, Lord Stark. The sky snows that bury you, or the slushes that drag you to doom. The wildings that wait to bury axes in our skulls and string us up like good meat. Or leave us to the crows so they may have their japes to tell. This keep was life where the wood was death."
"Your life." Look at what the cost was, you fool. He could still see her grey eyes. She blinked a thousand times, as if to convince Ned she was strong. That she would not cry.
"My life. That which I pledged to the Watch and the realm. I stayed true. Besides, his wives drink warm mead and eat hot meals and pass a smile if they liked the sight of you. A better life than half the peasants south and the savages north. Aye, my life. Might be they find the courage themselves then lay their plight at our feet. It's hard enough with so few allies. I'll turn my eye if it's life he gives me."
Craster squirmed and cursed as Smallwood said his piece. All the men watched the wildling. His snarl proved more than any word.
Ned turned to his lords, resolute and ready. "I have learned some men are not worth having. Better die with dignity, than live with blackguard villainy." Finally, he found the woman again. Their eyes were solemn. Above him, snow fell gently. "Aye, the Night's Watch plays no part. Turns its eye at the cost of its honour. But I've sworn no vow to the Wall. I do not wear the black garb, nor follow its black rules."
He unsheathed Ice. "Lord Umber, fetch me a block."
Craster's silent spell broke as he exploded in shouts and pleading cry. Ice burned in smoky ripples, steaming from the moist air as it awaited the taste of fresh blood.
Old words flooded him. Where had he heard them? In a dream? Perhaps he always knew. "I do this, not in the name of kings, but in the sight of gods and men. By earth and water. By bronze and iron. By ice and fire, I, Eddard of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell, sentence you to die."
In Craster's eyes, all the cruelty had washed away to dull fear. But beneath it, a flicker of mirth flashed. "I am a godly man," he said, calm and spitting. "Curse you, Stark. The gods will come. They always do."
The blade came down swiftly in one clean strike.
His blood trickled down like little rivers in the pale snow. Ice drank the rest greedily. As Ned took his shallow breaths, and muttered his quiet prayer, the world waited for him.
Craster's head froze in mouth agape. A pale horror lingered in his dead eyes. Them, them, them. "The cold ones…" Ned murmured. How many more lay with monsters and call themselves men? What of you, Benjen? What else did you watch? Did blind evil happen in your wake?
The women circled Craster, palm against his limp body. Perhaps they thought themselves dreaming. Finally, Ferny looked to Ned. "This was your home," he said.
She smiled sadly, "No. Never again."
He nodded. "Aye. We will not linger here. We move north, and I cannot see you to the Wall. But this land is yours, and I will see you to safety." Bolton's men had taken to the sheepfold. Greatjon was already mounted. The other lords waited by Ned, while the crows sought to sink away. "Damn the night. We will march. If you tire, remember your failure here. Remember your oath, and the cloak with it. Forage this place for any goods of worth. When it is stripped bare, burn it. Burn this Craster's body with it. Spread his ashes in the ruin of his folly and let his memory wither away."
They did not dawdle, every man glancing at his bleeding blade. For nigh an hour, he saw only mist and fire. When the kindling took, and giants of flame rose from sin, a small hand took his. It was the girl, dark of hair and pale of eye. "Thank you," was all she could muster. Ned squeezed back.
But in the distance, waiting in the shadow of the forest, the beast waited. It wore a dark grin, with blue eyes that seemed more man than beast, more monster than a man.