The world beyond the Wall was deathly silent.
Snow stretched as far as the eye could see, endless and undisturbed, save for the winding trail of hoofprints and sled tracks left by the expedition. The wind howled, sharp as a knife's edge, and the trees of the Haunted Forest stood like skeletal sentinels, their barren branches clawing at the sky.
Wylis pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders. Even through his layers of wool and fur, the cold bit deep, creeping into his bones like an illness. No matter how many years pass, he thought grimly, the North always reminds men that they are nothing against its might.
They had been marching for four days, and the journey had already tested them.
The Harsh March
Most of the men were experienced rangers—hardened, disciplined, used to the unforgiving terrain. But even they felt the weight of the journey.
The new recruits struggled the most. Grenn and Pyp kept pace, but their movements were sluggish.
Samwell Tarly, despite his best efforts, lagged behind, his breath labored, his cheeks red with cold.
Even Ghost, padding silently through the snow, seemed tense, sniffing the air every so often.
The true veterans—Qhorin Halfhand, Dolorous Edd, and Ser Jaremy Rykker—remained ever-watchful. They had ventured into the Frostfangs before, and they knew this land was not safe.
And Wylis knew that something was watching them.
Signs of the Supernatural
On the third night, they made camp in the ruins of an old First Men village—just stone foundations now, long abandoned. The fire crackled, casting flickering shadows on the frost-covered walls.
Jon crouched beside Wylis, feeding wood into the flames. "The men are on edge," he muttered.
Wylis was not surprised.
Strange things had begun happening.
The horses were restless, shying away from the treeline as if sensing something unseen.
Dywen, the old ranger, swore he heard whispers carried on the wind.
The cold had grown unnatural. Even with the fire, it felt wrong, biting into their flesh like hungry teeth.
"This far north," Wylis said softly, "we are in their domain."
Jon didn't need to ask who he meant.
The White Walkers were close.
The Dead Ranger
On the fourth day, the expedition stumbled upon their first real omen of death.
At the edge of a frozen river, they found a body—a Night's Watch ranger, slumped against a tree, his skin pale as snow, his lips black with frost.
Dolorous Edd was the first to step forward. "Oh, bloody hells," he muttered. "I was hoping it'd be a bear. At least we can eat a bear."
Jon knelt, brushing the frost from the dead man's cloak. "He's been dead for days."
Wylis narrowed his eyes. Something felt wrong.
The corpse wasn't fresh, but it had no wounds. No sign of an animal attack. No arrows, no swords. Just a man frozen in place, as if something had drained the life from him.
Mormont frowned. "We burn him."
No one argued.
They stacked wood and kindling, and when the fire caught, the flames flared blue for a moment before settling into orange.
No one spoke of it.
But they all knew.
Something unnatural was hunting them.
Drawing Close to Craster's Keep
By the time the fifth night came, they were nearing their destination.
Craster's Keep lay ahead, nestled deep in the woods. The vile man would not welcome them, but he had no choice—Castle Black was still his best customer for food and supplies.
The real question was whether they could set their trap in time.
As Wylis lay beneath his furs that night, listening to the wind whisper through the trees, he knew one thing for certain.
The White Walkers were coming.
And this time, they would not leave empty-handed.