The wind howled across the Haunted Forest as the expedition trudged southward, leaving behind the haunted ruins of Craster's Keep. The trees stood like skeletal sentinels, branches clawing at the gray sky. The air was thick with the sharp scent of smoke, frost, and something else—something older. Death.
It had been two days since the battle. The undead, now tightly bound and double-wrapped in soaked canvas and iron cages, groaned and snarled with each lurch of the sleds that carried them. One of the black brothers had nearly lost a finger when he tried to tighten a rope—Craster's wight had snapped at him with jagged, frozen teeth, nearly severing the limb.
They had lashed the ice sword—now wrapped in layers of direwolf fur and stowed in a lead-lined chest—to one of the stronger mules. It emanated cold even still, biting into the flesh of any fool who tried to touch it without protection. Wylis had watched it warily since, knowing it was a gift of truth and a harbinger of what was coming.
He rode at the front of the line beside Jon and Jeor Mormont, his gaze scanning the woods constantly, his thoughts heavier than the snowfall.
"We're slower than I'd like," the Old Bear muttered, voice hoarse. "If another of those icy bastards is out there—"
"They won't strike again. Not yet," Wylis said.
"And how can you be so sure?" Mormont asked, narrowing his eyes beneath his thick brow.
"Because we've shown them we're not afraid. And we took one of their blades." Wylis's hand rested on the hilt of his own Valyrian steel sword. "That will make them cautious. For now."
Jon said nothing, but his thoughts were written plainly on his face. The fire in his eyes hadn't dimmed since the duel. He'd fought bravely, holding off one of the risen brothers on his own and helping cage Craster's corpse. Ghost trotted at his side now, muzzle still stained with dried black blood, but with his tail high and proud.
They set camp that evening at the base of a broken tower long since abandoned by the First Men. Fires were built high and tight, and the undead were staked down again with dragonglass shards piercing each limb—a precaution Wylis insisted on.
As men gathered around the fire, eating stale bread and stewed rabbit, Jeor Mormont summoned Wylis to his tent. The makeshift command post was little more than a woolen tarp and a weathered map spread on a crate, but it would do.
"You know I don't like being strong-armed," the Lord Commander said. "I gave you this mission because I had no choice. Your House feeds us. Arms us. Ships us black stone and grain like you're the bloody King of Winter."
"I'm not," Wylis replied calmly, removing his gloves. "But someone must act like one."
Mormont grunted. "You brought back the dead. You killed one of the Walkers. You've done more than any Lord Commander in the past thousand years."
"I'm not here for glory," Wylis said. "You know that."
"I do. Which is why I'm listening."
There was a pause. The only sound was the whistling wind and the hiss of the fire outside.
"They won't stop," Wylis said. "What we saw at Craster's Keep was just the edge of the blade. And you know what he was doing—what he gave to them."
Mormont's expression darkened. "Aye. Bastard children. His own."
"They've been building an army, Jeor. One we haven't prepared for." Wylis leaned forward. "The Seven Kingdoms bicker over crowns while death gathers in silence."
The Old Bear nodded slowly. "You'll have my ravens. All of them."
"And?"
"I'll summon every Lord left in the North, every ranger, every builder who can hold a spear." He looked up. "And I'll write to King's Landing."
Wylis's mouth tightened. "They won't believe us."
"They'll believe what I send," Jeor said. "And if they don't… may the gods help them."
By morning, three caged wights and the ice blade were loaded onto special sleds lined with dragonglass, iron, and ash. Six of the fastest ravens were selected—two each to Winterfell, White Harbor, and King's Landing. Wylis personally oversaw the writing of each letter.
He didn't name himself. He didn't demand recognition. He simply presented the truth.
"To all Lords and Kings of Westeros—
The Long Night is no longer myth. We have seen the dead rise, and we carry them in chains. The creatures you call White Walkers are real. One was slain by my hand with Valyrian steel. Another escaped.
We return to Castle Black with proof.
We request urgent audiences to present this evidence.
Prepare for war."
Jon penned the letter to Robb Stark himself, his script stiff but clear. He did not write to Catelyn. Wylis suspected Jon wasn't ready for that.
The ride to Castle Black was slower than they would've liked, as they had to take detours to avoid cliffs and buried trails. But no more walkers came.
The weather cleared, oddly calm, as if the forest itself was holding its breath.
When the Wall finally came into view—those massive sheets of ice and stone—some of the men wept openly. Castle Black had never looked so welcoming.
The gates opened at once. Horns sounded. Maesters rushed out with chains and scrolls, black brothers shouted orders. The sleds were brought inside, the undead still snarling and gnashing against their bonds.
One broke free for half a moment—just long enough to grab a steward's cloak. It nearly tore out his throat before Jon plunged his dragonglass dagger into the thing's skull. It crumpled in a pile of rot and smoke.
"Let that be proof enough," Jon muttered grimly.
Jeor Mormont stood atop the Wall that night, Wylis beside him. Below, black ravens took flight in every direction, letters bound to their legs with twine and wax.
The cold still lingered in the wind, but it no longer felt oppressive.
It felt like the beginning.