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Year 299 AC/8 ABY
Oldtown, The Reach
Luke stood in the Hightower's courtyard as dawn painted the sky in shades of copper and rose. Servants loaded the last of their supplies into Lord Leyton's elaborate carriage with books wrapped in oilcloth, the dragonglass samples, and other supplies though he decided to keep the holocron hidden with him.
Amidala prowled the courtyard's edge, her massive paws leaving prints in the morning dew. The white direwolf's amber eyes tracked every servant, every movement, but her attention kept pulling back to Luke.
She's worse than R2 when I'd leave him behind for missions, Luke thought, recognizing the telltale signs. The way her breathing quickened whenever distance grew between them, how her tail drooped despite Ghost's playful nips at her haunches.
When Amidala padded close enough, her wet nose brushing his palm, Luke crouched and worked his fingers through the thick fur behind her ears. The direwolf's whole body seemed to exhale, tension bleeding out as she leaned her considerable weight against his leg. Her contentment rippled through the Force like warm honey.
"You're coming with us," he murmured, finding that spot at the base of her skull that made her back leg twitch. "No need to worry."
Ghost abandoned his game to investigate, jealously shoving his head under Luke's other hand. The younger wolf's red eyes held none of his mother's anxiety—just pure demand for equal attention.
Jon emerged from the inn making Ghost run at him with Sam trailing behind him with an armload of volumes that threatened to spill with each step. The young Tarly's face glowed with exhaustion and excitement in equal measure. Days in the archives had transformed him from a nervous recruit into something approaching a scholar, though his Night's Watch blacks still hung awkwardly on his soft frame.
"Master Luke." Marwyn's gravelly voice cut through the morning bustle. The archmaester approached with purpose, his rod and mask chain catching the early light. "A word before you depart."
Luke sensed the urgency beneath Marwyn's calm exterior. The Force whispered of desperate hope mixed with professional jealousy. "Of course, Archmaester."
Marwyn glanced at the servants, then lowered his voice. "In the few days you have been here, you've shown me more about the nature of reality than decades studying what the Citadel calls 'the higher mysteries.'" His weathered hands clenched. "The maesters hoard knowledge like dragons hoard gold. They decide what the realm should know, what truths are too dangerous for common minds."
"Knowledge without wisdom can be dangerous," Luke said carefully.
"So can ignorance." Marwyn's eyes blazed with conviction. "You speak of other worlds, of a power that connects all living things. The Citadel would lock such knowledge in their deepest vaults, accessible only to those they deem worthy. But if this threat from the North is real..."
"It is," Jon interrupted, approaching with Sam. Ghost padded silently beside him, the direwolf's red eyes fixed on Marwyn.
Marwyn nodded slowly. "Then we need every advantage. Every scrap of understanding." He turned back to Luke. "Take me with you. Let me learn about this Force, about the worlds beyond our own. I've spent my life seeking truth in dusty tomes and glass candles. You offer truth itself."
Before Luke could respond, footsteps echoed on cobblestones. Alleras appeared, bow slung across her back, dressed for travel rather than study. Luke felt her determination through the Force, bright and sharp as a blade.
"If Marwyn goes, I go as well," she announced. "The Citadel will never chain a woman, so I've chained myself pretending to be what I'm not. You knew immediately what I was, Master Luke. Your Force sees through deceptions. And I can provide… let's say political help."
"Alleras speaks six languages fluently," Marwyn added quickly. "She's the best archer in Oldtown, and her mind is sharper than most maesters twice her age."
Luke's eyes narrowed, studying the woman who called herself Alleras. "Political help is valuable," he said slowly, "but if we're to travel together, we should know who we're traveling with. Like your real name?"
A smile curved her lips though not defensive, but almost playful. She shifted her weight, bow creaking against her shoulder. "Sarella Sand." A accent emerged now, no longer hidden beneath Oldtown's educated tones.
Luke glanced at Jon, whose face remained blank. No flicker of recognition crossed his features but surprise she was a bastard too. Amidala yawned, showing rows of sharp teeth, equally unimpressed by her name.
"Sand," Sam breathed, clutching his books tighter. "You're—"
"Just one of many bastards from Dorne," Sarella cut him off, though not unkindly. "One that has friends in high places." She met Luke's gaze directly.
The Force sang truth in her words. Luke felt the genuine hunger for understanding that drove her, the frustration of brilliant minds confined by arbitrary rules. He'd known that feeling once, trapped on a moisture farm while the galaxy spun beyond his reach.
"And Sam should come too," Jon said, surprising everyone. "He knows more about the Long Night than anyone we've met. He reads High Valyrian, the Old Tongue, even some Ghiscari. More importantly..." Jon glanced at his new friend. "He's on a mission from Maester Aemon. The same mission we're on."
Sam's round face flushed. "Lord Commander Mormont sent me to research the Others, the Last Hero, anything that might help the Watch." He clutched his books tighter. "Everything I've found points to the same conclusion. The Long Night is coming again."
"Master Luke," Sam ventured, his voice barely above a whisper. "When you activated that glass candle, when you showed us the holocron... I felt something. Like the world became larger and smaller at the same time. Like I could almost touch something I've been reaching for my whole life."
"The Force," Luke said simply. "You have a connection to it, Sam. Weak, but present."
Sam's eyes widened. "Is that why I remember everything I read? Why I sometimes know things before I learn them?"
"Possibly." Luke considered the three before him. Each represented a risk as more people who knew their secrets, more variables in an already complex situation. But they were in too deep already. "What you learn will challenge everything you believe. Your understanding of the world, of reality itself, will shatter."
"It already has," Marwyn said firmly. "The moment you made that pitcher float in Lord Hightower's solar, my worldview crumbled. I prefer truth to comfortable lies."
"As do I," Alleras added. "The Citadel teaches that magic died with the last dragon. Yet here you stand, wielding power that makes their deepest mysteries look like parlor tricks."
Luke looked to Jon, who gave a subtle nod. The boy had grown in their time together, learning to trust his instincts. If Jon believed these three could help...
"Very well," Luke decided. "You may accompany us to Highgarden. But understand, this is not merely academic curiosity you're indulging. We face a real threat, an ancient enemy that commands forces you can barely imagine. What you learn may help save this world, or it may doom you."
"I'm already doomed if I return to Castle Black without help," Sam said with unexpected steel in his voice. "At least this doom has purpose."
Marwyn produced a leather-wrapped journal from his robes, handling it with unusual care. "Lord Leyton asked me to give you this. For Lady Olenna, though he said only Lord Snow is permitted hold on to it and if he wants to, can read it."
Jon accepted the journal, and Luke felt the Force pulse around it. Something in those pages called to the boy, and Jon's fingers tightened on the leather, his jaw clenching as he resisted the urge to open it immediately.
"He said it would help in your negotiations," Marwyn continued. "Lord Leyton believes Lady Olenna will find its contents... illuminating."
Jon tucked the journal into his pack with deliberate care. "If it's meant for Lady Olenna, then she'll receive it unopened. Lord Hightower trusted me with this. I won't betray that trust."
Marwyn's bushy eyebrows rose. "Most young lords would tear it open the moment they were out of sight."
"I'm not most young lords," Jon said quietly. Then, with subtle emphasis that Luke caught: "I am a Stark."
The way he said it—not defiant, not proud, but as simple fact—told Luke everything. Jon had made his choice. Whatever his blood, whatever his true name, he would face the world as Ned Stark's son. The Force hummed approval around him.
"We should go," Jory called from the carriage. "Lord Leyton's men grow restless."
As they loaded into the carriage, Luke noticed how Jon kept touching his pack where the journal rested. The boy's curiosity burned bright in the Force, but his honor burned brighter. It was, Luke reflected, very like his uncle. Or father, depending on how one counted such things.
The carriage lurched into motion, wheels clattering on cobblestones. Through the window, Luke watched the Citadel recede, that great bastion of knowledge that hoarded its treasures so carefully.
Luke caught Falia's voice rising, her words tumbling over each other like water over stones. "Oh, it's wonderful having another woman along! And another bastard too, I am sure we have much to speak about, don't we?"
Sarella's laugh came low and rich, carrying that particular note of someone who'd just discovered something amusing. "Another bastard?" Her voice sharpened with interest. "How many of us has Master Luke collected, exactly?"
"Well, there's Jon—" Falia started counting on her fingers, the gesture visible through Luke's peripheral vision. "And now you, and me of course—"
"Three bastards in one carriage," Sarella mused, and Luke could hear the smile in her voice. "Either Master Luke has peculiar taste in traveling companions, or the gods have a sense of humor."
"Maybe both," Jon said quietly from his corner, not looking up from the window.
Falia giggled and the sound was so unexpected after their tense departure that even Jory glanced back from his position beside the driver. "Father always said bastards are made for each other. We know what it's like to fight for everything."
"Your father sounds enlightened," Sarella's tone carried layers Luke couldn't quite parse. "Most lords prefer their bastards invisible."
"Oh, he hated me," Falia said cheerfully, as if discussing the weather. "But he was right about that much."
These three young people, each carrying the weight of their birth like armor and wound both, had found themselves thrown together by chance. Or perhaps not chance at all.
"Master Luke does seem to have a talent for finding us," Sarella observed, her dark eyes finding his. "One might wonder if it's intentional."
"Master Luke," Sam asked hesitantly as Oldtown's walls passed by, "do you truly believe we can stop the Long Night?"
Luke thought of Yoda's warning, of Brandon Stark's incomplete message, of the enemy that commanded ice and shadow. He thought of the children he'd trained at Winterfell, each burning with potential. He thought of Jon beside him, wrestling with destiny and identity in equal measure.
"I believe we have to try," Luke said finally. "The Force brought me here for a reason."
"Destiny," Sarella murmured, her voice carrying a note of wonder.
"Or chance," Marwyn countered, though his tone suggested he didn't believe it.
Jon said nothing, but his hand found the journal again, fingers tracing its edges through the fabric of his pack. Whatever secrets it held, whatever Lord Leyton knew or suspected, would wait. Honor demanded it.
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White Harbor, The North
Ned studied the map spread across Lord Wyman's solar, tracing the route from White Harbor to King's Landing with one finger while his other hand held a goblet of Arbor gold. The wine tasted of summer peaches and distant warmth, a stark contrast to the chill seeping through the stone walls. Two days in White Harbor had given him time to think, to plan, but not enough to quiet the unease coiling in his gut.
"Your granddaughters have been most gracious hosts," Ned said, glancing up at Wyman. The massive lord sat across from him, his bulk making the reinforced chair creak with each subtle movement. "Princess Daenerys speaks highly of them."
Wyman's face softened, flesh folding into genuine pleasure. "Wynafryd and Wylla are the pride of House Manderly. They've taken to the Targaryen girl like sisters."
The word triggered memory of last night's private dinner in the Merman's Court. Ned had watched Daenerys seated between the Manderly girls, her silver hair catching candlelight as she laughed at something Wylla whispered. Such a different creature from the frightened girl who'd emerged from that burning tavern clutching newborn dragons.
"Your castle is beautiful," Daenerys had said to Wylla, violet eyes bright with genuine interest. "So different from Pentos. The way the moonlight reflects off the water in your harbor... it reminds me of dreams I've had."
"Dreams?" Wynafryd had leaned forward, green silk rustling. "What sort of dreams?"
The conversation had flowed easily between them as talk of gowns and songs, of places they'd seen or hoped to see. Asher Forrester had watched from his place beside Beskha, occasionally offering dry observations that made the women laugh. Even Jorah Mormont, temporarily pardoned but still bearing the weight of his crimes in his weathered face, had seemed to relax slightly.
Andar Royce had spent most of the evening discussing the threat beyond the Wall with Wylis Manderly, their voices low and urgent. But Ned had found his attention drawn repeatedly to Daenerys and the Manderly girls. The Targaryen princess needed companions her own age, needed to remember she was more than just the mother of dragons.
"They do you credit," Ned said now, pulling himself back to the present. "Both of them."
Wyman accepted the compliment with a gracious nod, though his small eyes remained sharp. "And yet you still mean to go to King's Landing?"
The question brought him back to he current predicament. Ned set down his goblet, the metal base clicking against oak. "Robert needs to know what's coming from beyond the Wall. And these taxes..." He shook his head. "The North cannot bear them. Not with winter coming."
"The taxes are one matter." Wyman shifted forward, chair groaning protest. "But what of the girl?"
Ned knew what Wyman meant to say. Daenerys.
"Our departure from Braavos was... noticed," Wyman continued, fingers drumming against his substantial thigh. "The burning tavern, the dragons hatching in full view of dozens. The Spider has birds in every Free City. Word will reach King's Landing, if it hasn't already."
The wine turned sour in Ned's mouth. He could see it too clearly—Robert's face purpling with rage, spittle flying as he roared about dragonspawn.
"What happens when Robert learns you're harboring a Targaryen?" Wyman pressed. "Not just any Targaryen, but one with three dragons?"
Memory crashed over Ned like a wave of the throne room, twenty years past. Small bodies wrapped in Lannister cloaks, red spreading beneath. Robert's laughter echoing off stone as he called them dragonspawn, as he said they deserved it. Princess Elia's blood mixing with her children's on the floor.
Ned's hand tightened on the goblet until his knuckles went white. He stared at the wine's surface, seeing blood instead of gold.
"My lord?" Wyman's voice came from very far away.
Ned forced himself to breathe, to push the images back into their cage. When he looked up, Wyman was watching him with an expression that might have been sympathy on a less calculating face.
"What would you have me do?" Ned asked quietly.
Wyman's fingers stilled their drumming. "Support her claim."
The words dropped into silence like stones into deep water. Ned stared at the lord of White Harbor, certain he'd misheard.
"The dragons will only grow larger," Wyman said, leaning back until his chair creaked ominously. "They're already the size of cats after mere days. In a year? Two? And your own children..." He spread his hands. "Lord Robb summoned a mug to his hand before half the North. Whatever power this Luke Skywalker has taught them, it's real."
"You're suggesting war against Robert."
"I'm suggesting we consider alternatives." Wyman's voice remained maddeningly calm. "The Riverlands would follow you seeing Lady Catelyn's father would never stand against her. The Vale loves you well, and Lord Arryn's death has left them rudderless. With dragons and these... abilities your children possess..."
"The realm would never accept a queen." The words came out harsher than Ned intended. "Not after the Dance. Not after Rhaenyra."
But even as he spoke, another thought whispered: But they'd accept a king. They'd accept Daemon.
Jon's face flashed in his mind—those grey eyes that were so like Lyanna's, now knowing the truth of his birth. His sister's son, Rhaegar's last heir. The rightful king, if one believed in such things.
"Robert is my friend," Ned said, though the words felt like ash. "I won't raise arms against him. There must be another way."
"Then how do you propose to hide a girl with three dragons?" Wyman asked. "How do you explain her presence when Robert's spies report back? Because they will, my lord. They always do."
Before Ned could answer, the door burst open. Wylis Manderly stood there, face flushed from running, a small scroll clutched in his meaty fist.
"Father," he gasped. "From our friend in King's Landing. Most urgent."
Wyman took the message, breaking the seal with surprising delicacy for such thick fingers. His eyes moved across the parchment, and Ned watched the color drain from his face until he looked like old tallow.
"What is it?" Ned demanded.
Wyman's voice came out strangled: "King Robert is dead."
The goblet slipped from Ned's nerveless fingers, wine spreading across the floor like blood.
"There's more," Wyman continued, each word dropping like a hammer blow. "You've been accused of hiring assassins to kill him."
"What?" The word tore from Ned's throat. "That's madness—"
"And Renly Baratheon has proclaimed Cersei's children bastards born of incest. He's declared himself king."
The room spun. Ned gripped the table's edge, wood biting into his palms. Robert dead. His friend, his brother in all but blood—dead. And they blamed him for it?
"This makes no sense," he heard himself say. "Renly? Not Stannis?"
"The message says Renly has the Tyrells behind him since he recently wed Margaery Tyrell, it seems."
"What of Stannis?" Ned's voice came out raw, scraped hollow by grief. "Have your spies heard anything?"
Wyman's jowls quivered as he shook his massive head. "Nothing, Ned. Not a whisper." He paused, thick fingers drumming against his thigh. "Though he did sail from King's Landing with the entire royal fleet. Every warship, every galley—cleaned out the harbor like a thief in the night."
"When?"
"The very morning King Robert rode north, if my sources speak true."
The wine pooling at Ned's feet had begun to seep into the rushes, filling the air with its sour-sweet stench. He stared at the spreading stain, mind racing. Stannis taking the fleet before Robert even left the capital...
"Then perhaps there's truth to Renly's claims." The words tasted like ash. "About the children."
"Ned?" Wylis leaned forward, sweat still beading his florid face.
"Nothing." Ned pressed his palms flat against the table, feeling the grain bite into his skin. "Stannis would never abandon his duty without cause. He knows something. Knew something, even then."
Wyman's eyes narrowed to slits in his doughy face. "If Lord Stannis suspected the Queen's children were bastards, why not tell the King? Why flee?"
Because Robert wouldn't have listened. The thought struck with terrible clarity. Not to Stannis. Never to stern, rigid Stannis with his grinding jaw and talk of duty.
"Fear," Ned said instead. "Or wisdom. Perhaps both."
The Manderlys exchanged quick, furtive glances. "The realm, it seems, has made the decision for you." Wyman's voice carried a bitter edge as he lowered himself back into his chair, wood groaning beneath his weight. "Going to King's Landing means death."
"Perhaps that's for the best," Wylis offered, though his voice wavered. "With the Queen's children…"
"Bastards." The word dropped from Ned's lips like a stone into still water. "If Stannis knew... if he took the fleet before Robert even left..." His fingers found the table's edge again, gripping until his knuckles went white. "Gods, how long has this rot been festering?"
Wyman shifted, his bulk making the floorboards creak. "Long enough that Lord Stannis feared to speak it aloud, apparently."
"Or knew it would mean war." Ned's jaw tightened. "Taking the fleet, he's already chosen his side. Already begun."
Ned sank into his chair, covering his face with both hands. Robert's laugh echoed in his memory and not the bitter laugh from the throne room twenty years ago, but the bright, bold laugh from their youth. Gone now. All of it gone.
Through his fingers, he heard Wyman and Wylis speaking.
"If Renly's proclaimed himself King, he'd send ravens everywhere," Wylis was saying. "Why are we hearing this from spies instead of official messages?"
"Maester Theomore," Wyman said slowly. "Of House Lannister."
"A distant cousin to Lord Tywin, I believe."
"Then he's been intercepting the ravens. Hiding them or destroying them."
"We should arrest him immediately—"
"No." Ned's voice cut through their planning. He lowered his hands, and something in his face made both Manderlys step back. "Arrest him after he sends a raven to Winterfell. I need to reach Robb."
"My lord?" Wyman said carefully, "I thought..."
Ned's head snapped up. "What?"
"I thought you knew. Lord Robb rode for the Wall sennights past. My son Wendel went with him, along with some of your bannermen."
The words hit Ned like a physical blow. He shot to his feet, chair crashing backward.
"He went WHERE?"
The shout echoed off stone walls, and somewhere in the castle, a dragon's cry answered, high and sharp and full of fire.
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Craster's Keep, Beyond The Wall
The horses' hooves crunched through fresh snow as Robb's group crested the final hill. Below them sprawled Craster's Keep, if such a wretched collection of buildings deserved the name. A crude log palisade leaned at drunken angles, gaps stuffed with mud and straw. Inside, pigs rooted through the same yard where children played.
"Seven hells," Smalljon muttered. "Even our swineherd lives better than this."
Women paused in their work as the riders approached. Some clutched rough-spun shawls around swollen bellies. Others, barely past their flowering, carried infants on their hips. A girl who couldn't have seen more than four-and-ten namedays stood heavily pregnant near the well, her face gaunt despite her condition. She watched them with eyes that held too much knowledge for her years.
The Force pressed against Robb's consciousness like a physical weight. Fear rolled off these women in waves, mixed with a resignation so deep it felt like drowning. Beneath it all pulsed something worse, a hopelessness that had calcified into acceptance. His hands tightened on the reins until leather bit through his gloves.
"Steady, my lord," Qhorin said quietly. "We knew what we'd find here."
The door to the main hall banged open. Craster emerged, and Robb's first thought was that the man looked exactly like what he was—a creature that fed on misery. Thick-bodied and slope-shouldered, he wore furs that might have been fine once but now carried stains that spoke of years without proper cleaning. Gold rings glinted on his fingers, the only clean things about him. His beard, grey and greasy, hung to his chest.
But it was what Robb sensed through the Force that made his gorge rise. Corruption oozed from Craster like pus from a wound. Cruelty, yes, and a sick pleasure in power over the helpless. Yet underneath lurked something else, something that made Robb's skin crawl. A taint, dark and cold.
In through the nose, hold, out through the mouth. Master Luke's voice echoed in his memory. Anger clouds judgment. Let it pass through you like wind through leaves.
"Another Stark lordling!" Craster's voice boomed across the yard, thick with false welcome. "Your uncle passed through not two moons past. Couldn't shut up about honor and duty, that one."
Craster spat a stream of brown juice into the snow. "But you're not here about him, are you? You're here about the King-beyond-the-Wall."
Lord Karstark shifted in his saddle. "You know where the parley is?"
"Course I know. Three days north, where the Milkwater bends. Mance'll be there, if he keeps his word." Craster's piggy eyes fixed on Robb. "Your uncle had better manners, boy. Knew how to properly greet a friend of the Watch."
Robb dismounted slowly, each movement deliberate. The snow crunched under his boots as he approached, stopping just outside arm's reach. "Lord Craster. We appreciate your... hospitality."
The words tasted like bile, but they needed information. Behind him, he heard Smalljon dismount with considerably less grace, muttering something about Northern justice that made Lord Glover cough in warning.
"That's more like it." Craster's grin revealed teeth like old cheese. "Guest right, that's what we have here. You eat my food, sleep under my roof, and we're all friends." His eyes glittered with something unpleasant. "Course, friendship goes both ways. A man gets lonely out here, could use some proper steel, maybe some wine..."
"We'll discuss terms after we've rested," Robb said, fighting to keep disgust from his voice.
Craster's expression soured. "Not much for talking, are you? Just like your uncle. All high and mighty until you need something." He turned to the pregnant girl by the well. "Gilly! Get these lordlings some food. Not the good stores, mind. The black bread and old mutton'll do for crows and their friends."
The girl bobbed her head and scurried toward what passed for a kitchen, her swollen belly making her waddle. Robb watched her go, noting how she kept her eyes down, how her shoulders hunched as if expecting a blow.
"Nineteen wives I got," Craster announced, following Robb's gaze. "That one's near her time."
"Where are your sons?" The question slipped out before Robb could stop it.
Craster's face went still as stone. Around them, every woman in sight froze. Even the children stopped playing. The silence stretched until Robb could hear his own heartbeat.
"The gods take what's theirs," Craster said finally, his voice flat and dangerous. "A man learns not to question the gods out here, boy. You'd do well to remember that."
Through the Force, Robb felt a spike of terror from the women. Not fear of Craster, though that was there too. This was different. Primal. The kind of fear that came from knowing exactly what happened to those sons, and knowing they could do nothing to stop it.
Lord Glover cleared his throat. "We've ridden hard, Craster. Perhaps we could settle our horses?"
"Aye, there's room in the pen. Your lordships can sleep in the hall with me. Your men..." Craster waved vaguely at a lean-to that looked ready to collapse. "They can make do there."
As they led their horses to the pen, Smalljon moved close to Robb. "Say the word, my lord, and I'll separate his head from his shoulders. Guest right be damned."
"No." Robb kept his voice low but firm. "We need to find Uncle Benjen. We need to know what Mance is planning. After that..." He let the sentence hang.
"The women," Lord Karstark said quietly. "Gods, Robb, they're his own daughters."
"I know." The words came out harder than Robb intended. Through the Force, he could feel each woman's suffering like individual notes in a symphony of misery. One of them, barely older than Arya, watched them from a doorway with eyes that had seen too much. "But not yet. Not until we have what we came for."
They settled the horses in silence, each man lost in his own dark thoughts. The wind picked up, driving snow against the palisade with a sound like fingernails on wood. Somewhere in the gathering dusk, a baby cried, thin and desperate.
Craster appeared in the doorway of his hall, silhouetted against the firelight within. "Food's ready, such as it is. Come and eat, friends of the Watch. We'll talk of your uncle and the King-beyond-the-Wall. Maybe I'll even tell you why the wildlings fear to raid my keep."
He disappeared inside, leaving them standing in the freezing yard. Through the Force, Robb felt that dark taint again, stronger now, like something rotten trying to crawl inside his mind.
"My lord," Qhorin said softly. "Whatever he is, whatever he's done, we need him. For now."
Robb nodded, though every instinct screamed at him to draw his sword. As they walked toward the hall, he noticed something that made his blood run cold. In the snow near the tree line, barely visible in the dying light, stood a figure in white. The proportions were wrong, the stillness too absolute.
When Robb blinked, it was gone.
But the feeling remained, crawling up his spine like ice. They were being watched. And whatever watched them had been here before, many times. The women's terror suddenly made perfect, horrible sense.
"Inside," he said quietly to his men. "Stay together. And keep your hands near your steel."
They entered Craster's hall, and the door swung shut behind them with a sound like a coffin closing.