I pressed the tip of the blade against the base of Craster's neck and began to drag it down slowly. The steel opened a thin, precise line, and blood began to well up in a narrow stream that ran down his dirty, pale skin. I continued the motion down his chest until I reached the arm that still remained. There, I turned the blade flat, holding it firm against his flesh, forcing him to feel every second, every pressure, every movement. The cold wind cut through the clearing, lifting small clouds of snow that mixed with the vivid red of the blood, and he remained motionless, his eyes locked on the blade as if any gesture might pierce him for good.
"Tell me, Craster, what's this story about giving your sons to the Cold Gods?" I asked, my voice low, steady.
He swallowed hard, breathing unevenly. His whole body trembled, and his eyes did not leave the blade, fixed on the cold steel and the inevitability of what was to come.
"When a boy was born… I'd take him and leave him in the forest," he began, his lips trembling. "At first, I just left him there. But then I noticed they disappeared. I got curious, so I waited."
He took a deep breath, his shoulders shaking, and continued: "I saw him… he was tall and thin, his skin pale as milk. His eyes… they were blue. Not like ours. A cold blue… that burned, shone like stars."
His body trembled more, and his breathing grew more ragged. He continued, almost whispering, as if speaking might cost him his life: "His blood… was pale blue. His bones… shone like milky glass. He wore delicate armor, it reflected the light and camouflaged itself, changing color with every step."
The wind cut through the silence, carrying the metallic smell of blood. Craster looked small, diminished before the memory that terrified him.
"I saw him take the boy," he said, his voice now almost a whimper. "He touched a finger to his forehead, and the boy's eyes, which had been brown, turned that same blue. It could only be a god."
A shiver ran down my spine, but I did not retreat. He still needed to speak more, needed to confess.
"So I gave them the boys that were born, and they left me alone," he murmured.
The words came out with a resigned weight, as if that were the most natural explanation in the world. To him, giving away his sons was a fair price, an act of survival.
I tilted my head, analyzing every detail of the scene: the cold blood in the snow, his still-tense body, the way his hands trembled even with nothing to hold. The wind stirred the clearing, lifting small spirals of snow, but time seemed suspended there between us.
"Left you alone," I repeated, letting the phrase hang in the air.
I pulled the blade back a few inches, not enough to free him, only to show that I still controlled the situation. His eyes followed every movement, glassy, not understanding that the gesture meant no mercy.
"You call that peace," I said, not looking away. "Giving away your own children and continuing to breathe as if it were just another arrangement."
He tried to answer but could not. His breath came uneven, every word an effort.
"You don't understand… you didn't see them…"
"I've seen enough," I answered, firm.
The silence returned, shorter this time, but still dense. Behind me, I heard wood creak and muffled steps inside the hut, but I did not move. I did not need to. Everything was there, in the clearing.
"Where exactly in the woods does this happen?" I asked.
He blinked, confused, trying to organize his thoughts amidst the pain and fear.
"Past the fence… among the twisted trees… there's an open space. Always there. I leave and go."
I nodded slightly, absorbing every detail. I stored the information, knowing it would be useful, but none of it erased the monstrosity of what I had just heard.
The silence settled again, dense and palpable. I straightened, releasing the pressure of the blade. Craster blinked rapidly, an almost childlike reaction of relief that lasted only a moment before he understood his mistake.
Before he could react, my hand reached for the hilt of Truth, which was planted in the ground, and with a quick motion of my arm, I cut off his head.
His head fell a few feet away from the impact. His body collapsed heavily into the snow, raising small white clouds and staining the already bloodied ground even more. The wind carried the metallic smell and spread the feeling of absolute silence throughout the place.
I stood still for a few seconds, looking at what remained. Then I raised my eyes to the dark line of trees beyond the palisade. The forest remained still, distant, as if waiting.
"The forest," I murmured to myself, feeling the weight of what was to come, knowing this was not over yet.
"Burn the body," I said, grabbing the severed head by the hair and heading toward the place he had mentioned.
When I reached the spot, I found a flat stone in the center of the clearing. With my senses stretched to their fullest, I felt the same miasma and corruption I had felt when I crossed the Wall, only stronger, more potent.
"Damn necromancy," I muttered.
I went to the central stone, brushed away the layer of snow on top, drew the Valyrian steel dagger again, and began to carve into the stone at the center. The blade cut through the stone with relative ease, such was the quality of Valyrian steel. With each pass of the dagger, a mark appeared in the rock, and in the end, several ancient runes emerged: the inverted Algiz ᛉ, Eihwaz ᛇ, Odal ᛟ. Those who knew how to read would understand the meaning.
"Here, profane magic is revoked, life is reaffirmed over death, and this territory is reclaimed by the Old Gods."
I placed Craster's head atop the symbols. Blood began to flow over them, filling every gap and crevice. I felt the miasma weaken, like shadow fleeing from light.
Then I turned and left.
When I returned to Craster's keep, his body was already burning. Kevin looked at me and made a joke, trying to lighten the mood. I laughed and went inside, where the women were.
When I entered, they were talking with Astrid. Their faces were calmer, lighter. Some were even crying, but from their expressions, not from sadness — from relief.
"It's done," I said.
All faces turned to me.
"Is he dead?" asked the oldest.
"He is."
"And what will become of us?" Her voice trembled, her eyes moving from the other women to me, as if searching my face for something to hold onto. "The Cold Gods will kill us. If other tribes don't attack us first."
"Be at ease." I hesitated a second, choosing my words. "You're with me now."
Astonishment crossed their faces. That thing almost every free folk longed for, I was offering with a calm that seemed out of place in that moment.
"How?" whispered Nella.
"I am a Stark." I gave a small smile. "A bastard, but a Stark."
Hearing the name, they understood. The weight of the North. The blood of the Kings of Winter.
"You're going south of the Wall," I continued. "To lands where no one will ask you to give up your children."
Nella pressed her lips together. The others exchanged glances, but no one questioned it.
"Belzakar and Morghaz will take you to Whitetree. They'll wait for our return there. From there, we go south."
"Can't we wait for you here?" asked one of the younger girls, her voice too small for the fear she carried.
"It's not safe here." I shook my head. "What kept you safe was him giving away the boys."
The faces closed. Some lowered their eyes. They knew. They had always known.
"In Whitetree, you'll be under Fjorn and Tove's protection." My voice softened. "They're free folk like you. They'll welcome you."
Nella was quiet for a moment. Her eyes moved across the other women around her, as if making a silent count, weighing each face before answering.
"We'll trust you, Stark."
"One thing." I raised my hand. They stopped. "Don't use Stark. Say Pendragon."
Nella frowned.
"Pendragon?"
"My mother's name." I did not explain more than that. "For now, it's better if Stark isn't tied to what happened here."
She looked at me for a second. Then nodded slowly, like someone who understands more than was said.
"Pendragon," she repeated, as if testing the name on her tongue.
"Pendragon," I confirmed.
"Gather what you need to bring. Don't take long."
They moved with a contained urgency, the kind of movement of people who had learned to do things in silence so as not to draw attention. Few belongings, little worth carrying. But there was a lightness in their gestures that had not been there when we arrived.
I left the hut.
Outside, Craster's body was still burning. The smoke rose thick and dark, carried by the wind toward the trees. Perseu stood a few feet away, arms crossed, eyes on the flame with that closed expression that appeared when he was processing something he did not like having seen.
Sigurd was sharpening his axe on a nearby log, the rhythmic sound of stone against steel cutting through the silence. He had not looked at the pyre once since it was lit.
Kevin sat on a rotting fence, tossing a small stone from one hand to the other. When he saw me, he stopped.
"The women?" he asked.
"Ready soon."
He nodded. The stone began moving between his hands again.
"You know," he said after a moment, not looking at me, "I've seen ugly things. We've seen a lot of ugly things in these years." A pause. "But that inside there…"
He did not finish.
"I know."
"The man gave away his own children." Kevin's tone was different from his usual, without the irony that normally softened heavy things. "And then slept well."
"Slept well," I confirmed.
He threw the stone far, into the snow. Stared at where it landed.
"Good that he's dead."
There was nothing more to say about that.
Belzakar and Morghaz left before midday with the women. They walked among them with the posture of those who do not yet know exactly what it means to walk without fear of their own step.
Nella stopped before entering the tree line and turned.
She looked at me for a second.
Then inclined her head, short and direct, with a dignity that needed no words.
She turned and disappeared among the trees with the others. Belzakar and Morghaz followed close behind, silent, with that steady step that needed no hurry.
I watched until the last figure vanished.
"Let's go," I said.
The three-eyed raven sat on the highest branch of the nearest tree, still as always, its three eyes fixed on me.
When I mounted Sleipnir, it spread its wings and flew north.
We followed.
It was already night and we were looking for a place to set up camp.
The forest grew denser with every step. The trees thickened, twisted branches interlocking overhead like the fingers of hands that refused to let go. The snow here was different. Deeper. More compact.
Crack.
The branch broke beneath Sleipnir's hoof. The sound echoed among the trunks, lost in the white. No one spoke.
Kevin had put away his bow. He had his short sword in hand. That, coming from Kevin, said more than any words.
I stopped Sleipnir.
They were there.
Six figures in a semicircle. Motionless.
The snow beneath them did not move. The wind died before it reached them.
The one in the center was different from the others. Taller. Thinner. Armor that changed color with every shift of light, like ice that cannot decide what it wants to reflect. His blue eyes shone with that coldness of distant stars that Craster had described. That blue that is not sky-blue, but the blue of something that knows no warmth.
The other five stood around him. They wore no armor. They did not have that presence that made the air heavy. They were wights. Pieces of people who had once been alive, now dressed in frozen rags, their eyes the same cold blue, but without the intelligence that burned in the center. Just waiting. Just tools.
The Other looked at me. Not the wights. Only him.
When our eyes met, he raised his hand with a slowness that was not hesitation. Ceremony. There was no anger in that gaze. There was nothing I could call human emotion. Only recognition, the kind that needs no introduction because it already knows what it is seeing.
The silence lasted exactly as long as it took for all of us to understand that the situation had changed.
"Arthur," Perseu whispered beside me, his hand on his sword.
"I see it."
The Other lowered his hand.
And the five wights moved.
Kevin, even with his short sword already in hand, did not miss a beat.
"Anyone else think that hand-raising was a bit too dramatic?"
No one laughed. But for a second, the absurdity of that line in the frozen silence made the weight lessen, just a little.
Then the wights reached us, and no one had time for jokes anymore.