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Chapter 158: The Death of Craster
🕑 Added 2025-02-18 12:20:18 +0000 UTCAfter spending the night at Whitetree Village, the two groups of ranger patrols from Castle Black and Eastwatch-by-the-Sea continued their journey north toward their next stronghold.
Although Lynd had revealed his true intentions for coming Beyond the Wall the night before, neither Benjen Stark nor Mance Rayder took his words seriously.
Because the snow in the forest was too deep, the group avoided traveling directly through it. Instead, they moved north for about half a day until they reached the banks of the The Haunted Fork River.
Compared to the thick, soft snow within the forest, the snow along the riverbank was noticeably firmer. Walking on it, they did not sink as deeply, though they had to watch their step to avoid small pits hidden beneath the snow.
Traveling west along the river, they passed several abandoned wildling camps. However, unlike the camp of the cannibalistic wildling tribes they had encountered earlier, these deserted camps were strangely intact. The treehouses remained standing, and various household items, weapons, and food were still in place, as if the inhabitants had suddenly and inexplicably abandoned everything.
The eerie sight unsettled the rangers, making them more cautious. Conversation dwindled, and they pressed on in silence, keeping a vigilant eye on their surroundings.
Since the terrain was easier to traverse, they moved at a quicker pace and reached Craster's Keep before nightfall.
Despite its name, the "fortress" was little more than a crude hut built from branches and mud. Perched on a small hill and encircled by an earthen wall, it was so rudimentary that it paled in comparison to even the humblest farmer’s home in The Reach.
"Crow, there are too many of you to all fit inside!" Craster called out as they approached the entrance to the walled compound, his expression dour.
Craster, with his stark white hair, had a fierce presence. His broad frame and powerful arms made it clear that he was still a formidable fighter, one neither Benjen nor Mance could easily best.
Despite Craster’s gruff demeanor, he was one of the few wildlings north of the Wall who could be considered an ally of the Night’s Watch. Because of this, Benjen and Mance tolerated his attitude and agreed to his terms—only a few of them would enter the house, while the rest would set up camp in the courtyard.
As Craster eyed the group Benjen had selected, his gaze lingered on Lynd. His expression froze momentarily—Lynd’s attire was entirely different from the black-cloaked rangers around him, making him stand out.
"Who is he?" Craster asked in a low voice, pointing at Lynd. "He's not one of your crows. Who is he?"
"This is Lord Lynd Tarran, the Lord of Summerhall," Benjen replied curtly. "He has come Beyond the Wall on business, but his purpose is not for us to know."
Craster’s eyes flickered with envy, though his tone remained laced with scorn. "A lord from the South? How rare! Walking Beyond the Wall in steel armor and still breathing. You must be—"
"Craster, shut your shitmouth!" a voice snapped from the group. A devout follower of the Seven Gods glared at him. "Lord Lynd is not someone you can insult with impunity!"
Other rangers, who believed Lynd to be the incarnation of the Seven Gods, also shot Craster furious looks.
Craster hesitated, caught off guard by their reaction. He shot another glance at Lynd before letting out a stubborn huff. "This is my land—I’ll say whatever the hell I please."
Without another word, he turned and strode back into the house. Meanwhile, Benjen and Mance signaled their men to begin setting up a temporary camp in the courtyard while the selected few entered the house.
Upon entering, the men picked up the bread placed near the entrance, dipped it in a little salt, and ate. Craster’s wives also carried bread and salt outside to share with the rangers, except for Lynd, who did not partake.
Neither Benjen nor Mance reacted to this. The bread Craster provided was barely edible—a crude lump of ground wood shavings bound together—and the salt had a bitter taste. They assumed Lynd had simply refused to eat because of the poor quality, which seemed fitting for a nobleman who, just the day before, had produced a box of spice powder worth its weight in gold.
Craster did not comment either. In his mind, as long as the majority of the group had accepted the bread and salt, their guest rights were established. It mattered little if one among them did not eat. After all, there had been times in the past when members of the Night’s Watch had refused the bread and salt, yet nothing had come of it. As far as he was concerned, unless he made the first move, the Night’s Watch would never strike against him—guest rights or not.
Inside, the house was noticeably warmer than the frigid air outside. A stone-built fireplace stood in the center of the hall, filled with neatly stacked wooden stakes. The flames crackled, sending waves of heat through the space until it was almost uncomfortably hot.
Craster sat in the only chair in the hall, eating the food brought to him by his wives, paying no attention to the others.
The rangers were accustomed to his behavior and said nothing. They pulled out their own provisions, warming them over the fire.
Some leftover venison from the previous day was placed in a pot to stew. Soon, the rich aroma of the spice powder mingled with the simmering meat, filling the room. Craster, unfamiliar with such a fragrance, paused mid-bite. His eyes drifted toward the pot, and he swallowed involuntarily.
His wives, too, craned their necks toward the enticing scent.
One of the very young girls couldn't help but step forward and ask, "What's in here?"
"This is spice from Across the Narrow Sea, more precious than gold," replied a young ranger before scooping a spoonful of the soup with meat from the pot and pouring it into the girl's wooden bowl.
Before she could taste the fragrant soup, Craster's voice rang out harshly. "Stupid woman, what are you doing standing there? Bring it to me."
Fear gripped her, making her body tremble involuntarily. Lowering her head, she obediently handed the wooden bowl to Craster.
The young ranger frowned but said nothing.
Craster took the bowl without a word of thanks and sipped the soup. His face immediately showed surprise at the unfamiliar taste. Without hesitation, he dumped the soup and meat into his own bowl, mixing it with the food he had already been eating.
As he continued eating, he turned his gaze to the young ranger and said, "Kid, you'd better behave yourself and keep your hands off my things. Otherwise, I'll cut off your head and hang it from a tree outside so everyone knows that Craster’s things are not to be touched."
Hearing the threat, the ranger's face darkened with anger, and he was about to stand up and respond, but Mance held him back.
Noticing Mance’s restraint, Craster smirked smugly, as if he had won a great victory.
Lynd paid no attention to the dispute in front of him. Instead, after entering the house, his gaze landed on the baby cradled in one of Craster's wives' arms. The woman did not look happy about the birth of her child—on the contrary, she appeared miserable, as if she were mourning the child’s inevitable fate.
The sight reminded Lynd of one thing: Craster sacrificed each of his sons to the White Walkers, and the offering usually took place during a snowstorm.
With this thought, Lynd glanced outside. Though only a cold wind was blowing for now, the darkening sky and the strengthening gusts suggested a snowstorm was approaching that night.
Late at night, as expected, the storm arrived. However, the rangers had prepared in advance, clearing the leeward side of the yard and building a large bonfire that kept them warm despite the howling wind and heavy snow.
Inside the house, it was much warmer than outside, but Lynd and the others chose not to stay indoors. After the storm hit, one of Craster's wives began crying uncontrollably, her sobs echoing through the small space. Though the other wives tried to comfort her, she would not be consoled. Craster, as if accustomed to such scenes, sat by the campfire drinking wine, paying no attention to his weeping wife.
The ceaseless crying made the atmosphere inside unbearably tense. Benjen and Mance, unwilling to interfere in another man’s family affairs, could do nothing. Yet, the noise made it difficult to rest, and ultimately, they decided to leave, preferring the howling wind over the wailing woman.
By early morning, all the rangers were asleep, except for the two on guard, who remained by the bonfire, occasionally adding firewood. The others' snores were quickly swallowed by the cold wind.
Lynd sat leaning against the house, appearing to be asleep, but in reality, he was listening for any sounds from within the walls.
Inside, the baby's mother had cried herself unconscious, and Craster's other wives were tending to her. A little girl, no older than five or six, sat beside the fire, holding her infant brother in her small arms, not knowing what to do.
Then, Craster, who had been drinking by the fire all night, finally stood up. Wrapping his cloak around himself, he silently walked over to the child, took the baby from her hands without a word, lifted the deerskin curtain, and stepped out into the storm.
Upon leaving the house, Craster cast a glance toward where the rangers lay resting. Instead of using the front entrance, he made his way to the short wall surrounding the compound and climbed over it. Though old, his movements were swift and agile, making no sound as he disappeared into the darkness. The night watchmen on duty did not notice anything unusual.
As Craster slipped into the forest with the infant in his arms, Lynd also rose to his feet and quietly followed.
The watchman assumed Lynd was merely going to relieve himself and paid no attention. Besides, to them, Lynd was strong enough to handle himself in the woods.
Once within the trees, Lynd channeled the power of the frozen dragon rune into his feet, instantly freezing the loose, powdery snow beneath him. This allowed him to walk atop the snow as if on solid ground, moving soundlessly.
If needed, he could even create an icy layer beneath his soles, forming a kind of gliding surface that let him move swiftly without leaving tracks. Such techniques were the tricks of the Banished Knight, honed through years of survival in ice and snow.
However, knowing he might soon face an opponent, he chose to conserve his Dragon Rune Magic, using only the bare minimum necessary while reserving his strength for emergencies.
As he advanced, Glory emerged from the shadows of the trees, silently falling into step behind him. Together, the man and beast trailed Craster from a distance, crossing the frozen The Haunted Fork River and vanishing into the forest beyond.
After about ten minutes, they arrived at a clearing deep in the woods.
At its center stood a withered Weirwood tree, its upper branches broken and skeletal. The main trunk, though still intact, was deeply cracked—some of the fissures running so deep they seemed to split the tree from the inside.
The carved face on the Weirwood remained well-preserved, but crimson sap seeped from its eyes and mouth, as though the tree itself was bleeding. Anyone who beheld the sight would think the Weirwood had suffered great torment before its death.
In front of the tree stood a simple stone altar, its surface engraved with runes of the First Men. At each corner of the altar rested a candle.
Craster approached and placed the infant upon the altar. Then, one by one, he lit the four candles.
Despite the raging storm, the flames remained steady, unaffected by the wind—a clear sign that the candles were made from something unnatural.
As soon as the last candle was lit, Craster turned abruptly and hurried away.
Lynd, watching from the shadows, signaled Glory to scout the area while he himself stepped forward.
He walked toward the altar, eyes scanning the ancient runes and the helpless infant left behind.
Just then, footsteps crunched against the snow behind him.
Turning slightly, Lynd saw Craster emerging from the forest once more—this time, wielding an axe.
The old man’s face was twisted in fury. "Noble boy from the South, you shouldn't be so curious," he growled. "You should’ve stayed by the campfire. But it's alright. It'll be over soon. The Lord will like you as a sacrifice..."
Before Craster could finish, a blur of movement flashed behind him.
Glory struck without hesitation, clamping its powerful jaws around Craster’s neck and snapping it in a single motion.
The beast then vanished back into the darkness, leaving the lifeless body crumpled in the snow.
From the moment Lynd arrived at Craster’s Keep, he had never intended to let the old man live. If not for the need to track him to the altar and use him to lure out the White Walkers, he would have killed Craster the moment he set eyes on him.
Craster had simply accelerated his own demise by foolishly returning.
Lynd did not dispose of the corpse—he still had use for it.
At that moment, the infant, chilled by the icy air, let out a sharp cry.
A faint glow flickered across the altar’s ancient runes. The flames atop the four candles shifted from red to a shimmering silvery blue.
The White Walkers had arrived.
Comments
maher king
Wow, nice chapter!
