The Wall loomed high over Castle Black, an unyielding mass of ice and shadow, stretching endlessly into the cold sky. The biting wind howled through the courtyard, rattling the wooden palisades and sending loose snow drifting across the stone pathways. Dawn was still an hour away, but the Watch was already awake.
Preparations had begun.
Wylis Manderly stood beside Jon Snow, both men wrapped in thick furs, watching as supplies were loaded onto packhorses and sleds. The Night's Watch did not have the luxury of wagons beyond the Wall—only what could be carried by men, beasts, or dragged behind them.
"You're sure about this?" Jon asked, his breath misting in the frigid air.
Wylis exhaled slowly, his gloved fingers tightening around the pommel of his sword. "Yes."
Jon shook his head. "Even if Craster truly is dealing with the White Walkers, this is a gamble. We may not survive."
Wylis turned to face him. "If we do nothing, we will definitely not survive."
Jon's mouth tightened, but he did not argue.
The truth was, this mission was madness. But it was necessary madness.
The Final Arrangements
By midmorning, the rangers had gathered in the yard.
Ser Jaremy Rykker stood near the stables, speaking in hushed tones with Dywen and Qhorin Halfhand. Samwell Tarly shuffled nervously near the armory, his face pale as he checked their provisions one last time.
Wylis had chosen their company carefully.
The Expedition:
Jeor Mormont had granted them forty rangers—more than most scouting parties.
Qhorin Halfhand led the most seasoned warriors, their faces grim and hardened.
Dolorous Edd, ever the pessimist, muttered about how they were marching toward certain death.
Grenn and Pyp, along with other newer recruits, were eager but nervous.
Ghost, Jon's direwolf, stood at his side, watching the men with bright red eyes.
Their mission was simple in description but deadly in execution:
Reach Craster's Keep without alerting the Free Folk or the Others.
Set the trap—prevent Craster from making his usual offering.
Wait for the White Walkers to come looking.
Fight and capture an undead as proof.
Simple on paper. But in practice?
It would be hell.
The Heaviest Burden
Jon stood by Sam as the nervous steward checked over the last of their supplies.
"We have enough food for two moons," Sam said. "If we ration carefully."
Jon nodded. "And the weapons?"
Sam hesitated before pulling open a small wooden chest near his feet. Inside, wrapped carefully in oiled cloth, were several dragonglass daggers.
"It's not much," Sam admitted. "I wish we had more."
Jon reached down, picking up one of the blades. The black glass gleamed in the dim light, its edges razor-sharp.
"It's enough," Jon said.
Sam still looked uncertain. "How can you be sure?"
Jon glanced toward Wylis, who was speaking quietly with Qhorin Halfhand.
"Because Wylis knows things we don't," Jon murmured. "And I trust him."
The Night Before Departure
That night, the men gathered in the common hall for a final meal.
It was not a feast—Castle Black did not have such luxuries—but it was warm, and there was ale, which was good enough. The men ate in near silence, the weight of what was to come pressing down upon them.
Wylis sat across from Jeor Mormont, the old man nursing a cup of mulled wine.
"I still don't like this plan," Mormont admitted.
Wylis took a slow sip of ale. "Neither do I."
Mormont huffed. "Then why are we doing it?"
Wylis met his gaze. "Because we must."
Mormont grunted but said nothing more.
Nearby, Jon and Sam sat with Grenn and Pyp, their conversation quiet. Even Dolorous Edd, usually quick with a grim joke, was uncharacteristically silent.
The night stretched long, and one by one, the men retired to their chambers.
Tomorrow, they would march into the dark.
The Departure
The sun had barely crested the horizon when the gates of Castle Black groaned open.
The expedition set forth, forty men wrapped in black furs, their breath curling into the frozen air. Horses trudged forward, their hooves crunching over hardened snow. Sleds dragged behind them, laden with supplies.
Jon rode near the front, Ghost padding silently beside him. Wylis rode just behind, his gaze fixed on the endless white wilderness before them.
They were heading into the unknown.
And Wylis knew—this was only the beginning.