ASOIAF/GOT: The King in Black

The wind had changed.

Daniel didn't know how to explain it, but he could feel it. The air was colder, sharper. It cut through his cloak, seeping into his bones like it was trying to burrow inside him.

They had been traveling north for over a week now, further than most rangers had ever dared. The mountains in the distance loomed closer, their jagged peaks hidden beneath thick clouds.

And still, the feeling didn't leave him.

Something was watching.

Something was waiting.

---

That evening, they reached Craster's Keep.

Daniel had known this was coming. He had read about this place, seen it on-screen. But standing before it, seeing the sagging wooden walls, the smoke curling from the makeshift chimney—it felt different.

Craster himself stood at the entrance, his eyes cold and calculating as he studied the gathered men. A wildling in name, but not one of the Free Folk.

Daniel could see it in the way the others spoke about him. The rangers didn't respect him, but they feared him. Not because of his strength, but because of what he represented.

A necessary evil.

Mormont rode forward, dismounting as he approached the gate. "Craster."

The wildling grunted, spitting into the snow. "Lord Crow. You bring a lot of mouths to feed."

Mormont didn't react. "We need shelter for the night."

Craster exhaled through his nose, glancing at the men behind Mormont. His gaze lingered on Jon, then on Sam.

Then, finally, on Daniel.

Daniel met his eyes without flinching.

Craster smirked. "A quiet one, eh? Good. I don't like talkative guests."

He turned, motioning for the gate to be opened. "Fine. But you keep your men in line, crow. I don't want none of them sniffing around my wives."

Daniel followed the others inside, his eyes scanning the camp. Women moved between the huts, their faces downcast, their steps quick.

Craster's daughters. His wives.

Daniel forced his expression to remain neutral. He already knew what happened here.

The others didn't.

Not yet.

---

The inside of Craster's keep was dimly lit, the air thick with the smell of unwashed bodies, damp wood, and something sour—fermented, rotting. The fire in the hearth crackled weakly, casting flickering shadows across the dirt floor. Women moved about silently, their eyes downcast, avoiding the men in black who sat uncomfortably on benches and stools.

Daniel sat near the edge of the room, keeping his back to the wall. He wasn't alone—Jon sat nearby, his expression tense. Sam was beside him, looking more uncomfortable than ever.

Craster lounged on his makeshift throne, a crude chair of rough-hewn wood and furs, his belly full, his cup never empty. He drank deeply, smacking his lips, before setting his gaze on Mormont.

"You crows always come crawling back," he muttered. "Thinking you're better than us, with your black cloaks and your steel." He took another sip. "But you need me."

Mormont didn't rise to the bait. "The First Ranger—Benjen Stark," Mormont said, watching Craster closely. "What have you seen of him?"

Craster grunted, shifting in his seat. "Haven't seen him. Not for three years." He took another drink, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. "And I don't miss him, neither. Too proud for my taste. Always poking his nose where it don't belong."

The room was silent for a beat, the tension thick between the Night's Watch men and their reluctant host.

Daniel exhaled slowly. 'That much, I already knew.'

Craster smirked, lifting his cup again. "You southerners make good wine, I'll give you that."

Jon Snow, sitting stiffly beside Mormont, bristled at the remark. His hands curled into fists on his knees. "We're not southerners."

Craster let out a sharp, mocking laugh. "Oh? Who's this little lord, now?"

Jon stiffened but didn't look away. "Jon Snow."

Craster smirked, tilting his head. "Snow. Listen to me, bastard. All you lot from south of the Wall, you're southerners. You might not see it, but we do."

Jon's glare hardened, his jaw tightening.

Craster sneered and spat onto the dirt floor before eyeing Jon up and down with a twisted grin.

"You're prettier than half my daughters. Got a nice wet twat between your legs?"

Jon bristled, fists clenching at his sides. A muscle twitched in his jaw as anger flared in his chest, but before he could snap back, Mormont's voice cut through the tension, calm but firm.

"You'll have to forgive him. He forgets himself."

Craster scoffed but didn't argue. Instead, he pointed a thick, calloused finger at Jon. "You keep that tongue of yours still, bastard. And you keep your eyes off my wives." His expression darkened. "Else I'll scoop 'em right out of your skull."

Jon's hands curled into fists, but Mormont didn't give him the chance to respond.

"You have my word," Mormont said, his voice carrying weight. "As long as we are guests under your roof, your rules will be followed." He shot Jon a pointed look. "Sit down, Snow. And keep quiet."

Jon hesitated, his pride warring with his orders, but in the end, he obeyed, dropping onto a stool near the fire.

Craster grunted in satisfaction and leaned back in his chair. "Now. You bring any wine, crow?"

Mormont nodded. "We did."

Craster tapped his fingers against the wooden table. "Then I'll have some. A fair price for my generosity."

Mormont motioned to one of the rangers. "Fetch him a cask of Dornish red."

As the man left to retrieve it, Jon's eyes flickered upward, toward the darkened loft above.

Daniel followed his gaze.

Craster's wives—his daughters—watched in silence from the upper level of the hall. Some clung to the wooden beams, their faces half-hidden in the shadows. Others stood quietly, their expressions unreadable.

But none of them spoke.

And none of them looked happy.

Daniel exhaled slowly, forcing himself to remain neutral. He already knew what happened here.

The others didn't.

Not yet.

—

Craster leaned back, sipping from his cup, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "You lot don't need to worry about finding wildlings out here, Lord Crow."

Mormont studied him. "Oh?"

Craster grinned. "Ain't none left to find. They're all gone—off to join your old friend, Mance Rayder."

Mormont's expression darkened. "Mance Rayder stopped being a brother of the Night's Watch the day he broke his vows."

Craster snorted. "That so? He was one of yours once, wasn't he? A crow like the rest of you, 'til he had the sense to fly away." He took another drink before shaking his head. "Now look at him. King-Beyond-the-Wall, bold as you like."

Mormont didn't react. "Mance has called himself a king for years. But what does he rule?"

Craster grinned, holding up a thick, calloused finger. "He rules the free folk. And soon enough, he'll rule more than that."

Before Mormont could reply, Craster's gaze flicked to one of the rangers standing nearby. His eyes narrowed. "That axe. Give it here."

The man hesitated, glancing toward Mormont.

The Lord Commander gave a slight nod. "Give it to him. We'll take it back when we return to Castle Black."

The ranger handed over the weapon, and Craster tested its weight in his hands. Slowly, deliberately, he brought it down against the wooden floor with a solid thunk, splitting the wood beneath his feet.

A smirk played at his lips. "Fine steel. You crows never bring gifts like this."

Mormont ignored the remark. "You said Mance is gathering an army."

Craster nodded, running a finger over the axe's handle. "Aye. Bigger than you've ever seen. Every last wildling that can walk is marching south. Men, women, children. Thousands of 'em." He chuckled, shaking his head. "You think your Wall's gonna stop 'em?"

Mormont's voice remained steady. "It's a bad time to live alone in the wild."

Craster's smirk widened. "The cold winds are rising."

A heavy silence settled over the room.

Daniel exhaled slowly. He already knew the truth.

Mance wasn't gathering an army to conquer the Seven Kingdoms.

He was running.

Because the dead were coming.

And they were coming fast.

—

Craster's smirk didn't fade. He set the axe aside and turned toward one of the women standing near the shadows. A girl, young but gaunt, with hollow cheeks and wide, wary eyes. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her forward.

"Tell the Lord Crow how good you got it here, Gilly."

The girl flinched but didn't resist. She cast a quick glance at Mormont before lowering her gaze to the floor.

"We're safe here," she murmured. "Protected."

Craster squeezed her wrist. "Louder now."

Gilly swallowed. "It's better to live free than die a slave."

Mormont's face remained unreadable.

Craster let go of Gilly and spread his arms. "See? My wives don't go wanting for nothing." He turned back to Mormont, his grin widening. "What's the matter, Lord Crow? Jealous?"

Mormont barely reacted. "We chose different paths."

Craster chuckled. "Aye. And yours only has boys on it."

Daniel saw Jon's expression darken, his fists clenching. He was barely keeping his anger in check.

Craster stood, stretching his arms over his head. "Now, if you crows want to stay, you're welcome to. But touch one of my wives, and I'll take your hand."

His eyes flicked to Jon, and his smirk faded. "And you, pretty boy—if you so much as look at them, I'll gouge your bloody eyes out."

Jon held his gaze, silent.

Craster waited a beat, then barked a laugh and clapped his hands. "Good! Now, drink up, crows. Winter ain't getting any warmer."

---

The night was colder than usual.

Daniel lay awake, staring at the rafters above, listening to the shifting bodies around him. Most of the men were asleep, their snores blending with the crackling of the fire. But something felt off.

Ghost stirred, his ears twitching.

Daniel sat up slightly, frowning. The direwolf was staring toward the door, muscles tense.

And then—Jon was gone.

Daniel exhaled, closing his eyes. 'Idiot.'

He didn't need to guess where Jon had gone. There was only one thing in this place that could still push him into action.

Craster.

---

Beyond the walls, the night was deathly still.

Jon moved carefully through the trees, keeping low, his breath coming out in thin, misty plumes.

He had followed Craster from a distance, moving as silently as he could across the frozen ground.

And now, he saw it.

Craster stood in a small clearing, his breath heavy, arms curled protectively around the wailing infant in his hands.

Jon watched, his stomach twisting.

The baby was fresh-born, skin flushed red against the cold. It kicked feebly in Craster's grasp, screaming against the silence of the forest.

But Craster didn't hesitate.

With a grunt, he knelt and placed the infant onto the frozen earth.

The wailing grew louder.

Craster stood, dusting the snow from his furs, and without another word, he turned and walked back toward the keep.

Jon barely breathed. His hands curled into fists, the rage boiling inside him.

And then—the wind changed.

The trees groaned under the weight of the cold, the branches above bending as if something unseen was moving through them.

Jon stayed perfectly still.

And then, he saw it.

A shape moved through the trees, tall, thin, wrong.

Its limbs were too long, its form barely human. The frost itself seemed to shift around it, as if the cold followed in its wake.

It stepped into the clearing, its movement too smooth, too silent.

And then—it turned its head.

Jon saw its eyes.

Blue. Bright. Endless.

A cold unlike anything he had ever felt wrapped around his chest, squeezing the air from his lungs.

The White Walker lowered itself to the ground, its clawed hand reaching toward the crying child.

Jon moved before he could think.

His boots crunched in the snow.

The Walker's head snapped up.

Jon grabbed for his sword—

Pain exploded in the side of his skull.

The world tilted. Darkness swallowed him whole.

---

Jon awoke to pain.

His wrists were bound. His face throbbed. He could feel the warmth of blood drying on his skin.

He was being dragged.

Craster's thick fingers dug into his collar as he pulled him across the frozen dirt, cursing under his breath.

The keep loomed ahead, torches flickering in the dark.

"You meddlesome little shit," Craster growled, kicking him hard in the ribs.

Jon grunted but didn't cry out.

Craster shoved open the door, hauling Jon inside and tossing him onto the ground like a sack of grain.

The fire flared, casting deep shadows over the gathered men.

Mormont sat up immediately, eyes narrowing. "What's this?"

Craster spread his arms. "Your boy here don't know how to mind his own business!"

The room stirred. A few rangers sat up, murmuring amongst themselves. Craster's wives watched from the rafters, their eyes hollow.

Jon shifted, spitting blood onto the floor. "He's giving them to the Walkers."

Silence.

Mormont's expression didn't change. "I know."

Jon's breath hitched. "You knew?"

Mormont exhaled. "And what would you have me do, Snow?" He gestured toward Craster. "Strike him down? Take this place by force?"

Jon didn't answer.

Mormont leaned forward. "Do you think I like it? Do you think I don't know what he is?" His voice was low but sharp, cutting through the room. "Craster is a bastard. A murderer. But he is also the only thing keeping us alive past the Wall. He gives us shelter. He gives us information."

Jon swallowed hard. "At what cost?"

Mormont's gaze was cold. "At the cost of knowing we have bigger wars to fight."

Jon didn't move.

Daniel, watching from the side, already knew how this would end.

Because this was what the Night's Watch was.

It wasn't about good men fighting for honor.

It was about survival. At any cost.

Mormont turned to Craster. "You have my apologies. It won't happen again."

Craster grunted, crossing his arms. "Damn right it won't." He glanced down at Jon and spat on the ground beside him. "You're lucky your Lord Crow's got a soft spot for his little crows."

Mormont held out his hand.

Craster scowled but reached into his belt, pulling free Jon's sword.

Longclaw.

Mormont took it, turning it over in his grip before tossing it toward Jon. The sword clattered against the ground in front of him.

"Don't lose it again," Mormont said.

Jon hesitated, then picked up the weapon, his grip tight around the hilt.

Mormont exhaled. "We leave at dawn."

Craster said nothing.

But as Jon rose, Daniel caught the way his hands still shook.

Jon was silent for a long time. Then, finally, he nodded stiffly and turned away.

Daniel met his gaze as he walked past.

Jon didn't say anything.

He didn't have to.

Daniel already knew.