Chapter 288: Weirwood Altar

A full moon hung high in the sky, casting a silvery glow over the landscape. It was bright enough that the group could make out even the smallest details—the leaves on the trees, the branches swaying gently in the night breeze. Craster's Keep, however, was a far cry from picturesque. The structure was crude, its walls made of mud and branches haphazardly plastered together. It resembled a hastily built shelter in a beginner's game of Minecraft, though with a slightly higher resolution.

Despite its rough appearance, the keep was large, capable of housing 30 to 50 people. A second floor, where most of Craster's women resided, jutted awkwardly above the main structure.

Alliser Thorne, standing watch nearby, could clearly hear the woman's cries of labor echoing through the night. For nearly a full day, her agonized wails had pierced the air, leaving Alliser and his men uneasy, and now—powerless. The cries, once strong and desperate, had grown hoarse, now little more than a whisper of pain. Everyone understood what that likely meant.

In times like these, a difficult labor often ended in death.

Sure enough, after what seemed like an eternity, the woman's cries ceased. A tense silence settled over Craster's Keep, broken only by the sounds of a commotion from within.

An hour later, Craster emerged from the large house, a burlap sack slung over his shoulder. He trudged toward the vegetable garden behind the keep, grunting as he dug a shallow pit. Inside the sack was the lifeless body of the woman who had died in childbirth.

But one question gnawed at Alliser's mind: Where was the baby?

Over the years, those who had observed Craster knew something wasn't right. His women had given birth many times, yet there had never been a second male in his house. The guards could piece together what was happening, though few dared to speak of it.

"Could it be that this time it was a girl?" one of the men muttered under his breath as they watched Craster bury the woman.

Moments later, Craster reappeared from the house, this time cradling a newborn in his arms. Without a word, he began walking toward the dense forest northeast of the keep.

"Follow him," Alliser ordered, his voice low but firm. He wasn't worried—Craster was no threat. In Alliser's mind, he could defeat the old man with one hand tied behind his back.

Accompanied by a skilled ranger, Alliser and the others slipped into the shadows, trailing Craster through the dark forest. Before long, they arrived at a clearing. Craster stood there, the baby still crying in his arms.

The clearing itself was unsettling. No trees grew in this patch of land, making it look like a bald spot on the forest floor. At the center stood a low, gnarled weirwood tree, its pale, twisted branches forming what resembled a natural table. But the atmosphere around it was eerie—far more sinister than anything natural. The place felt like an altar, bathed in the cold light of the moon that filtered through the tree canopy above.

Moonlight struck Craster, casting him in an unnatural glow, his face pale and almost spectral. For the first time, Alliser noticed something strange: Craster's expression held a disturbing sense of piety. He wasn't just carrying out some grim duty—he was performing a ritual.

"A believer in the Old Gods? Which of the Old Gods demands living sacrifices?" Alliser's mind raced with doubts, but he didn't dwell on them. Craster had claimed he was praying, and whether he was dancing or performing some strange ritual didn't much matter.

Viserys's instructions were clear: "If anyone else shows up, keep them occupied."

At that moment, Craster suddenly began to dance—a strange, jerky movement, his limbs twisting and flailing as if they were controlled by some unseen force. He moved like a puppet with rusted joints, his dance awkward and unsettling. For five long minutes, the grotesque display continued, until Craster finally stopped, gasping for breath.

Whether it was an illusion or not, the watchers noticed that Craster's energy seemed renewed, as if the dance had invigorated him. Once he left the clearing, Alliser and the others allowed themselves to stretch their stiff, frozen limbs. The cold had begun to numb their fingers and toes, but they remained silent—these were Rangers of the Night's Watch, after all, trained to move without sound.

But it was the sight of the newborn—the so-called "Dead Child"—crying atop the weirwood altar that disturbed them most.

The baby's cries grew louder after Craster disappeared, echoing through the eerie clearing. Bathed in the pale glow of the moon, the infant's body gleamed, but its eyes and mouth were swallowed by shadows, appearing as dark, empty holes. The sight unsettled even the seasoned Rangers, men long accustomed to witnessing death and despair.

Suddenly, a cold wind swept through the clearing, biting at their skin like icy claws. The wind carried with it a strange white mist, swirling like smoke. As the mist engulfed the weirwood altar, a figure materialized.

At first, Alliser and the others thought their eyes were playing tricks on them. But the figure remained. It wore a tattered, off-white cloak, its hood drawn low over a gaunt, shadowy face. The figure moved with purpose, approaching the crying infant on the altar. Without hesitation, it pushed back the baby's swaddling clothes, exposing the child to the biting cold.

As if inspecting the newborn, the figure methodically moved the baby's arms and legs, checking its body for any sign of weakness or deformity. The baby's cries intensified, piercing the silence of the night as the figure continued its grim examination.

Just as the hooded figure was about to pick up the child and leave, Alliser moved. He unsheathed his brand-new steel sword—the one Viserys had given him recently. Though Viserys had also sent an obsidian spear, when it came to a fight, everyone instinctively reached for their steel blades.

The sharp sound of the sword leaving its scabbard caught the figure's attention.

"Hey—you! I don't care who you are, put the child down and turn around! You're coming back with me!" Alliser called out. Seeing that the figure had noticed him, he decided there was no point in hiding and stepped forward, sword raised.

But what happened next chilled the entire group to their core. It felt as if someone had poured a vat of icy water straight into their veins. Alliser's blood seemed to freeze as he took in the sight before him.

The figure turned slightly, revealing a pale, shriveled face—inhuman and deathly. Its skin was as cold and cracked as frost-covered glass.

"Is this a White Walker?" Alliser's grip on his sword faltered for a moment, his hand going numb with fear. But then he glanced at the men beside him. There were more of them—they had the numbers. Summoning what courage he could, he barked again, though his voice was hoarse, nearly cracking. "Put the child down, you monster!"

The creature's lips curled into a contemptuous smile. Slowly, it turned and placed the infant back on the weirwood altar. Then, its mouth opened, and from within came a sound unlike anything they had ever heard—a noise like ice shattering and glass cracking, echoing in the cold night air. The strange sound had a rhythm to it, like some twisted form of speech. Alliser realized with a chill that it was speaking.

Suddenly, a fierce gust of wind whipped through the clearing, stinging their eyes and forcing them to raise their swords defensively. The cold felt like razors against their skin. As they braced for an attack, one of the Rangers standing next to Alliser let out a blood-curdling scream.

Without anyone noticing, an ice-blue sword had pierced through his chest, glinting in the moonlight. The Ranger collapsed, his body hitting the ground with a dull thud, as the group stared in horror at the deadly, frozen blade.