Chapter 33: Craster's Secret
"Ah… ahhh—!"
The woman's screams from the loft suddenly rose, sharp and piercing, mixed with the quiet sobbing of other women.
"Push—harder! Just a little more!"
A steady female voice urged her on.
"Come on, push! The child is almost out!"
The sudden cries shattered the heavy silence in the hall.
Craster snarled up toward the loft, his voice thick with irritation.
"Tell that woman to shut her mouth! It's just giving birth—what's there to scream about?"
His hand moved away from the axe at his side, and he calmly went back to gnawing on his leg of mutton, as if nothing were happening.
Before long, the woman's agonized screams faded into dull, muffled whimpers, barely audible beneath the howling wind outside.
Jon sat nearby, witnessing it all. His brows knitted, discomfort and pity flickering across his face. He was about to rise—
—but Benjen caught him in time.
Benjen pressed a firm hand to Jon's shoulder and shook his head slightly. His eyes were hard, unyielding, warning him not to interfere.
Benjen then broke the oppressive silence.
"Craster," he said evenly,
"do you know where Mance Rayder and his people are now?"
Craster snorted.
"Mance Rayder? Who knows where those bastards are? Best if they're dead. I only heard he's gathering wildlings somewhere."
"Where are they gathering?" Benjen pressed.
"How should I know?" Craster replied irritably.
"But if you want to try your luck, check Frostfang Ridge or the upper reaches of the Milkwater."
With that, he drained the last of his wine, turned, and climbed up into the loft.
Silence fell again.
After a moment, Robb spoke quietly, breaking it.
"Should we go check those two places?"
Saelen answered without hesitation.
"Yes," he said simply.
"Why wouldn't we?"
Qhorin unrolled a map and spread it out before them, pointing at two marked locations.
"This is the upper reaches of the Milkwater," he said, then shifted his finger.
"And this is the Frostfangs. Both lie deep beyond the Wall. We can follow the Milkwater north. Once we reach First Men's Fist, we can establish a temporary camp there and decide which direction to investigate next."
Everyone nodded, agreeing with Qhorin's plan.
After assigning the night watch, the group dispersed to rest.
---
Just before dawn, Craster descended from the loft, a newborn swaddled tightly in his arms. Without a word, he strode out of the hall and vanished into the howling wind.
Saelen opened his eyes and watched Craster's retreating figure. Then, without hesitation, he closed his eyes and shifted his consciousness into a hawk, following silently from above.
Craster moved deep into the forest and stopped at a secluded clearing. He glanced down at the infant in his arms—the newborn was far too small, its eyes still unopened, its tiny fingers curled at its mouth as it breathed softly.
Craster scanned the darkness warily, as if searching for something unseen. He tightened the furs around the child, then—after a moment of hesitation—set the infant down in the snow.
Without looking back, he turned and left.
Saelen guided the hawk to a nearby tree and remained hidden, watching the abandoned child intently.
Not long after, the wind began to howl. Snow swirled violently, the temperature plummeted, and a layer of frost spread rapidly across the ground.
Then, through the storm, a figure emerged.
Blue eyes.
Armor of living ice.
A great sword of crystal frost strapped to its back.
Mounted upon a dead horse.
Saelen did not need to think twice—this was a White Walker.
The creature approached the infant, bent down, and lifted the child effortlessly into its arms. Without pause, it turned and disappeared into the blizzard.
Saelen urged the hawk forward to follow.
But the instant he entered the storm, a flash of silver-white light exploded before his eyes.
The hawk let out a piercing shriek.
Pain tore through Saelen's body.
Then—darkness.
---
Saelen gasped as his consciousness snapped back into his own body. He instinctively touched his chest and felt a lingering ache.
His brows furrowed.
How did it detect me?
He had been watching Craster carefully from the moment the women went into labor. Everything had unfolded exactly as he suspected. His original plan had been to trail the White Walker and discover where it operated—or, if possible, witness firsthand how infants were transformed.
Instead, he had gained nothing.
And lost a hawk.
Craster was unquestionably hiding something. Why were only his sons taken? What kind of pact did he have with the White Walkers?
The more Saelen thought about it, the darker it became.
For a moment, killing intent surged within him. He considered seizing Craster immediately and forcing answers out of him.
But he restrained himself.
The Night King was too unpredictable. If Saelen acted rashly and alerted him, there was no telling whether a horde of wights would descend upon them in retaliation.
His priority remained clear: find Mance Rayder and attempt to unite the wildlings against the White Walkers.
Craster could live—for now.
After weighing the risks, Saelen suppressed his murderous thoughts. If Craster was to die, it would be later, with preparation and certainty.
For now, the best course was patience.
He closed his eyes and returned to rest.
---
Far away, in the council chamber of Castle Black, the Night's Watch was once again in uproar.
The reason: several ranger patrols sent beyond the Wall had vanished.
Two entire units had disappeared without a trace—no bodies, no signs of battle—just like Benjen Stark's patrol before them.
Recognizing the gravity of the situation, Lord Commander Mormont ordered every available ranger to search the Haunted Forest near the Wall. Every route the missing patrols might have taken was combed again and again.
Nothing.
No tracks.
No blood.
No corpses.
As if the men had simply evaporated.
Worse still, when the rangers finally regrouped and counted their numbers, four or five men were missing—members of a small unit who had failed to return for reasons unknown.
Whether they had met the same fate as the others or been delayed by something unseen, no one could say.
With no other choice, Mormont summoned all the brothers to the council chamber to debate their next move.
But the meeting dissolved into chaos—voices clashing, accusations flying, tempers flaring.
No conclusions were reached.
And no answers found.