Chilling Presence #17

The flames cast an eerie dance of shadows across everyone's faces as they sat beside the bonfire.

Gale couldn't help but cast a sidelong glance at Qhorin. "I couldn't help but notice we're heading deeper into the Haunted Forest instead of making our way toward the Frostfangs," he remarked, his voice laced with curiosity as he continued to nibble on a piece of stale bread. 

"And here I thought your time was too valuable to be wasted on a wild goose chase," he added with a meaningful look.

"I said it, and I stand by it," Qhorin responded, a bemused glint in his eyes. "The most likely place for Mance Rayder to rally the wildlings would be the Frostfangs, but Hardhome is a far superior stronghold," he explained. 

"Though wildlings say it's cursed and avoid it like the greyscale, we can't be sure till we get the lay of the land," he added. "And if we happen to find your Three-Eyed Raven along the way, then so be it," he concluded, his tone casual.

At these words, Gale suppressed a smile. The wildlings avoided Hardhome like the plague due to the mysterious and horrifying circumstances in which its inhabitants had suddenly disappeared. 

They wouldn't even consider fortifying themselves there under any circumstances.

The detour, decided by Qhorin himself, might have been the old ranger's way of looking into the matter to dismiss any and all doubts about the existence of the Three-Eyed Raven. Steadfast as he might be, Qhorin Halfhand was a human at the end of the day, susceptible to doubts as any other. 

Or perhaps it was simply a matter of complying with the Lord Commander's orders, however ridiculous they might have seemed to Qhorin. Then again, maybe he was telling the truth, and the detour was merely to scout Hardhome. 

Regardless of the reasons behind it, Gale didn't particularly care. As long as he had the opportunity to find the Three-Eyed Raven and ask about the baffling events he had experienced, he didn't mind the hows and whys of their journey.

Ultimately, Gale decided not to voice his thoughts. "Feel free to get some rest. I'll take the first shift," he said, turning the firewood with a stick.

"Alright. Keep your eyes peeled," Qhorin replied, getting up and heading from his sleeping bag. Halfway through, he stopped. "And lad..." he said, causing Gale to pause and turn toward him. 

"Benjen and the Lord Commander seem to have a great deal of trust in you, so I'm obliged to give you the benefit of the doubt," he continued as he resumed walking. "Don't make me regret it," he concluded.

Gale simply smiled at those words but chose to remain silent.

...

Inside the dimly lit log hall of Craster's Keep, the wildling woman winced in pain as one of Craster's wives gently tended to her wounded thigh.

"You do realize what you've brought upon us, don't you?" Morag, the eldest of Craster's wives, remarked with a mix of concern and frustration as she meticulously wrapped clean bandages around the woman's injured leg. 

"Craster beat us at every chance he got. He was a cruel, wretched man. He was also the only thing standing between us and the horrors of these lands," she continued. "And now he is gone..." 

A faint smile touched the woman's lips. "I don't mean to leave you to your deaths," she replied, gritting her teeth against the pain. "I have a duty to fulfill, one that will take me to the Fist of the First Men. Once it's completed, I'll return for all of you," she assured them.

Morag's eyes filled with uncertainty. "And then what?" she inquired.

"I can guide you to my clan," The wildling woman answered. "I'm sure we can find good lads, proper husbands for you and the others to marry and settle down..." She added, causing a concerned frown to appear on Morag's face. 

Realizing how her earlier words might have sounded to Morag, the wildling woman cleared her throat and quickly offered a more detailed explanation. "No one will force you to do anything. You'd be free to make your own decision without any fear," she clarified. 

The frown that had creased Morag's face began to ease, although she remained silent as she contemplated the woman's proposal.

After a brief, contemplative silence, Morag finally nodded. "Fine, but we won't wait here," she declared resolutely. "We will go with you," she added, displaying a determination that wasn't easily swayed.

The woman's initial reaction was to dismiss Morag's decision, as the journey would be perilous and her wound was far from healed, making her unable to take care of anyone besides herself, never mind eight helpless women. 

However, recognizing the unyielding stubbornness in Morag's eyes, the wildling woman understood that nothing she could say or do would sway her from this decision. She let out a resigned sigh. "Fine..." she replied.

She glanced around the log hall, pondering their next course of action. "What about the keep?" she inquired.

Morag didn't hesitate with her response. "We burn it to the ground alongside Craster's foul hide," she declared, her voice laced with a fierce resolve.

The woman couldn't help but chuckle, albeit wincing due to the pain from her injured leg. "Well, I hope you're not in a hurry to burn the place down... I still need a day or two to recover," she admitted, a note of wry humor in her voice. 

...

As the group ventured deeper into the Haunted Forest, Gale couldn't help but marvel at the unusual sight of a heart tree. 

It stood alone, a weirwood tree with a face intricately carved into its bark, supposedly the work of the children of the forest. As they moved further east into the forest, the icy ground grew thinner, and the trees' leaves became denser.

This marked Gale's first encounter with a heart tree, and he found himself gawking at the peculiar sight. The tree's crimson leaves and the face etched into its trunk, from which red sap oozed like tears, drew his attention like a moth to a flame.

Observing Gale's reaction, Qhorin shook his head with a faint grin. "It's just a heart tree, lad... we'll come across many more from this point onward," he explained.

Standing beside them, Benjen couldn't help but smile, the sight of the heart tree evidently stirring feelings of nostalgia. "I've visited this part of the Haunted Forest several times, but its beauty never ceases to amaze me," he confessed, his voice tinged with fondness. 

The heart tree reminded him of the godswood back at Winterfell.

Qhorin raised an eyebrow. "Is the first ranger feeling homesick?" He remarked with a chuckle that filled the crisp forest air, adding a touch of warmth to their surroundings.

Benjen responded to Qhorin with a playful wry look. "You make it sound like something to be ashamed of..." He defended his sentiment.

Qhorin shook his head, his grin intact. "Not at all. I'm just—" He attempted to continue his response but was abruptly halted as Gale's alarmed expression caught his attention.

The smile vanished from Qhorin's face as Gale suddenly stopped in his tracks, and his head snapped to the south. It was as though a shiver ran down their spines simultaneously, the air growing noticeably colder.

Gale's voice quivered with distress. "This isn't good..." he muttered. "Something is heading our way... something unbearably cold," he added, his hand instinctively reaching for his sword.

Dolorous Edd's already gloomy expression sank even further at those ominous words. "That sounds like a barrel of laughs," he muttered, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he swiftly unsheathed his sword. 

It wasn't lost on the group that Gale's resilience to the cold made his warning particularly concerning. For someone like Gale to describe something as "unbearably cold" was an alarming sign.

Qhorin and Benjen exchanged swift, grim looks. Without hesitation, they followed suit, drawing their own blades in preparation for whatever was approaching.

Within moments, the forest filled with the unnerving sound of rapid, numerous footsteps, like a horde of charging creatures. The tension was palpable as everyone braced themselves. 

And then, a spine-tingling, ear-splitting shriek pierced the frigid air. From the depths of the forest emerged a nightmarish sight: humanoid figures resembling rotting corpses more than living beings, racing towards them with unnatural speed.

"We're so fucked..." Edd said, his mouth agape at the outlandish sight of the undead creatures. "Fucked, I tell you..." He parroted for good measure as another shriek echoed from within the ranks of the stampeding undead. 

...

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