The stench hit them before the keep came into view.
Rotting meat, unwashed bodies, smoke, and something fouler still—the scent of arrogance, cruelty, and old blood. Craster's Keep was a miserable cluster of leaning timbers, half-collapsed pens, and a squat log hall surrounded by sharpened stakes. Black crows circled overhead, croaking their warning as if disgusted by the filth below.
Wylis Manderly stood at the edge of the trees, his face unreadable beneath his fur-lined hood. He had read reports of Craster before. The man was barely human, even by wildling standards.
But now that he was here, it was worse than he'd imagined.
"This is the man the Watch trades with?" Wylis murmured to Qhorin, who stood beside him.
Qhorin's jaw clenched. "He gives us meat, shelter. He hasn't killed one of our men… not openly. The Lord Commander says we must deal with the wildlings we have, not the ones we want."
Wylis glanced at the keep again. "He's no wildling. He's a leech. And his bloodline ends here."
Jon said nothing, but Ghost growled softly, red eyes locked on the stockade ahead.
An Audience with a Monster
Craster greeted them from his hall like a pig on a throne. Greasy hair, brown teeth, and eyes like muddy water. His many "wives"—all of them also his daughters—watched silently from corners, their eyes hollow.
"Mormont," Craster said with a crooked grin, "back to grace my halls with crows? Or has one of you come to drink the blood of my goats again?"
Jeor Mormont's voice was steady. "We'll need shelter for two nights, and food. And you'll give it, as you have before."
Craster spat. "Aye, I'll give it. But no wandering. No questions. You and your men stay where I say. That goes for your little lordling too." He leered toward Wylis, who met his gaze coldly.
Wylis stepped forward. "Craster," he said, voice even. "The Watch tolerates you. That is not the same as respect. Speak to me like that again and I'll have your tongue nailed to the wall."
The keep fell silent.
Craster opened his mouth, closed it, then chuckled. "Feisty southern boy. You'll be food for the cold things soon enough."
Wylis smiled. "We'll see."
Laying the Trap
That night, Wylis gathered Jeor Mormont, Jon, Qhorin Halfhand, and Ser Jaremy in the corner of the keep furthest from Craster's hall.
"We know the truth about Craster," Wylis began. "He's not just a coward and a monster—he's a servant."
Qhorin narrowed his eyes. "Servant of what?"
"Of the White Walkers," Wylis said. "He gives them his sons. They come for them, take them north, and in return… they leave him untouched."
The silence was thunderous.
Jeor finally said, "You're sure of this?"
"I am," Wylis replied. "I've studied the maps. The disappearances. The ranger patrols that vanished near this area. Craster's keep is a lighthouse for the dead. Tonight, we let them come."
Qhorin folded his arms. "And then what?"
Wylis's eyes gleamed. "We kill one. And we bring the others back. Proof—undeniable, impossible to ignore. We let the world know: the Long Night is not a tale."
Ser Jaremy looked uneasy. "And what if they come in force?"
Wylis smiled. "They won't. Not yet. They test. Scout. They'll send one or two, like they always do. That's when we strike."
Jeor looked to the others. Then he nodded. "We do this. For the realm."
The Cold Hour
The stillness of Craster's Keep shattered like glass.
The wind had shifted—cold, unnatural, almost sentient. The horses were restless, snorting and stamping, and even Ghost snarled low, ears pinned back. The men stirred uneasily, fingers tightening around weapons. Wylis Manderly stood in the half-frozen mud beside Jon Snow, eyes fixed on the treeline.
Then it appeared.
The White Walker moved with a terrible grace, tall and gaunt, its pale skin nearly glowing in the moonlight. Its armor shimmered with a hue like frozen starlight, and in its hand, it held a blade of ice that hummed with cold so deep it cracked the very ground it touched.
And behind it—three of the Night's Watch brothers, now risen wights, and Craster himself, his once-cruel eyes now lifeless, his mouth twisted into an inhuman grin. All of them silent. All of them wrong.
Wylis stepped forward.
"Stand back," he said, drawing his sword. The blade of Valyrian steel caught the firelight from the torches, glinting like black water. "This one is mine."
"Wylis—" Jon moved to stop him, but he was already walking toward the Walker.
The creature tilted its head, studying him. There was no malice in its eyes—only the cold, eternal judgment of something ancient and inhuman.
And then it moved.
The first clash of steel and ice echoed across the trees like thunder. Wylis ducked the icy blade, twisted, and brought his sword in a sweeping arc, sparks flying as the Valyrian steel connected with the Walker's armor. The impact shook Wylis's arm to the shoulder. The Walker didn't flinch.
It came again, faster now. The ice sword hissed as it cleaved a tree limb clean in two. Wylis rolled beneath it, slashing up and cutting deep into the Walker's leg. It let out a hiss like a thousand breaking icicles.
Around them, chaos reigned.
Jon, Edd, and the others fought the risen wights. Ghost lunged at Craster's undead form, tearing flesh from bone, but the creature kept coming. Torches burned blue, and the very air seemed to freeze with every breath. But no one dared interfere with the duel. They could only watch.
Wylis pressed the attack, raining down blows that would've broken men in half. The Walker blocked most, but Wylis had studied—trained with the sword not as a knight, but like a master tactician. He let the Walker overextend, baited its long strikes, and finally—
He ducked under a sweeping arc of the ice blade and drove his Valyrian steel up through the thing's ribs.
The scream it let out was like no sound of this world.
Its armor shattered, falling like shards of frozen glass. The Walker collapsed to its knees, staring at Wylis. Then it burst—exploding into cold mist, its blade clattering to the ground like a broken icicle.
Silence.
All eyes turned to the second White Walker—who had not joined the fight, but watched from the shadows near the treeline. For a moment, it did nothing.
Then it stepped back into the dark, vanishing with a sound like shattering frost, taking the cold with it.
But Craster and the wights still moved. Their master was dead, but the unholy magic that animated them still lingered.
"Don't kill them!" Wylis called. "We need them alive!"
Jon plunged the end of a spear through one of the wight's knees, pinning it. Edd and the others swarmed the rest, binding them in chains and wrapping their twitching limbs in thick canvas tarps soaked in pitch and ash.
It was done.
They stood in the ruins of Craster's Keep, surrounded by death and silence, and in their hands, they now held proof.
Wylis stared at the fallen ice blade, half-buried in frostbitten soil. It shimmered in the torchlight, humming with faint cold still. He bent, picked it up with gloved hands, and held it before him.
A weapon of the enemy. A blade of the Long Night. And proof that death was no longer the end.
Jeor Mormont stepped forward at last, his expression grave.
"You killed it," the Old Bear said, voice heavy with disbelief. "A White Walker. You slew it, Wylis."
"And we have their dead," Wylis said, quietly. "We send ravens once we return to Castle Black. Let all the kingdoms see what rises in the North."
Jon knelt beside the bound wight of Craster, its blackened tongue lolling from a frozen mouth. It hissed like a dying animal, but there was no fear in his eyes now—only grim resolve.
"What happens when they don't believe us?" he asked.
Wylis met his gaze. "Then we'll make them."