The frozen wilderness beyond the Wall stretched endlessly before Jon, a desolate expanse of snow and ice as far as the eye could see. The cold was bone-deep, an unforgiving chill that seemed to seep into his very soul, reminding him of the danger they faced. This was the land of the dead, and every step they took felt like a march toward the unknown.
Jon stood at the head of the small group that had ventured beyond the Wall. Tormund Giantsbane, Beric Dondarrion, Thoros of Myr, and a handful of others accompanied him, each of them bundled tightly in furs, their faces hardened against the bitter cold. They had set out from Eastwatch-by-the-Sea a few days prior, tracking the movements of the dead, hoping to find a wight they could capture and bring south to Dragonstone.
But it wasn't just the cold that weighed on Jon. It was the sheer madness of their mission. As they trudged through the snow, every breath a struggle against the freezing air, Jon couldn't help but wonder if they were all walking to their deaths. Capturing a single wight might convince Daenerys, but the risks were immense. They were venturing into the Night King's territory—where death itself reigned supreme.
Jon pulled his cloak tighter around him, glancing at Tormund, who walked beside him with his usual swagger, though even the wildling seemed to be feeling the strain of the cold.
"How much farther, do you think?" Jon asked, his voice muffled by the layers of fur wrapped around him.
Tormund grunted. "Hard to say. The dead move like ghosts out here. We'll know we're close when we feel it."
Jon nodded, though he knew exactly what Tormund meant. There was a feeling that came with being near the dead—a chill that went beyond the cold, a sense of wrongness that crept under your skin. He had felt it the first time he'd seen a White Walker, and he wasn't eager to feel it again.
Behind them, the others marched in silence, their faces grim. Beric Dondarrion's one good eye gleamed in the dim light, while Thoros of Myr stayed close, his flask of rum never far from his lips. Gendry, the youngest among them, was less experienced but eager to prove himself. Jon could see the tension in the young man's posture, the way his hands flexed nervously around the hammer he carried.
"We're going to need all the gods' luck to survive this," Gendry muttered, his breath visible in the freezing air.
"Luck?" Beric said, his voice calm but edged with the weariness of a man who had died too many times. "Out here, luck is as rare as summer in the North. We have to rely on ourselves."
Thoros chuckled, though the sound was hollow. "And a little fire doesn't hurt either."
Jon kept his focus on the path ahead, though his thoughts drifted south. The memory of his meeting with Daenerys lingered in his mind, her intense gaze, her presence on the throne, and the dragons that had moved like shadows in the hall. He had tried to make her understand the urgency of their situation, but words had only gone so far. If this mission succeeded, if they brought a wight to Dragonstone, there was a chance she would listen, a chance they could unite to fight the real enemy.
But there was also the possibility they wouldn't return at all.
The landscape around them shifted as they descended into a narrow valley, the walls of ice rising high on either side. The wind howled through the chasm, and the temperature seemed to drop even further. Jon's breath came in short, labored bursts, and he noticed the others struggling to keep pace. But they pressed on, knowing there was no turning back.
As they rounded a bend, Tormund held up a hand, signaling for them to stop. Jon's heart quickened as he saw what had caught the wildling's attention. In the distance, a faint movement—figures against the white of the snow, barely visible but unmistakable.
The dead.
"There," Tormund muttered, his voice low but sharp. "We've found them."
Jon squinted, trying to make out the shapes. A group of wights, perhaps a dozen or so, were moving slowly through the snow, their ragged forms barely more than shadows. But they were not alone. At their center was a White Walker, its ice-blue eyes glowing in the dim light. The Walker moved with eerie grace, leading its undead soldiers across the frozen expanse like a shepherd guiding a flock.
Jon felt a shiver run down his spine, not from the cold, but from the sight of the Walker. It was one thing to talk about the dead, to plan for their eventual arrival, but it was another thing entirely to face them. The Night King's minions were more than just a threat—they were an unstoppable force of death and darkness.
"We'll need to be careful," Beric said, his hand resting on the hilt of his flaming sword. "If the Walker sees us, we'll be overwhelmed."
Jon nodded, his mind racing. They needed to capture a wight, but without drawing the attention of the White Walker. One wrong move, and they would all be dead—or worse.
"Split into two groups," Jon said quietly. "We'll circle around and try to take one of the wights without alerting the Walker. Move quickly, but don't make any noise."
The others nodded in agreement, and they began to spread out, moving slowly through the snow, their movements careful and deliberate. Jon's heart pounded in his chest as he and Tormund took the lead, creeping closer to the group of undead. He kept his eyes on the Walker, watching for any sign that it had noticed them.
They were only a few dozen yards away now, close enough that Jon could see the dead more clearly. The wights were gaunt, their skin stretched tight over their bones, their eyes empty and hollow. Some of them were missing limbs, while others carried the remnants of weapons they had wielded in life.
Jon's grip tightened on Longclaw, the Valyrian steel sword that had saved his life so many times before. He glanced at Tormund, who gave him a quick nod, his hands resting on the hilt of his ax.
Now was the moment.
Jon raised his hand, signaling for the others to move in. Gendry and Beric were on the other side, ready to attack from the flank. Thoros, with his flaming sword already lit, waited just behind them.
In one swift motion, Jon and Tormund surged forward, attacking the nearest wight. Jon's sword flashed as it sliced cleanly through the creature's neck, sending its head tumbling into the snow. Tormund's ax struck another, severing its arm. The wights reacted immediately, their lifeless eyes turning toward the attackers with eerie, unfeeling precision.
"Now!" Jon shouted, and the others joined the fray.
Gendry swung his hammer, smashing a wight to the ground with a sickening crunch. Beric's flaming sword cut through another, the fire searing its flesh as it fell. Thoros fought with a wild fervor, his sword leaving a trail of fire in its wake.
But the White Walker had noticed them now.
Jon's eyes darted toward the icy figure as it turned its head slowly, its blue eyes locking onto him. The Walker moved forward with terrifying speed, its ice spear in hand. Jon barely had time to raise his sword before the Walker was upon him, striking with a force that nearly knocked Jon off his feet.
Longclaw clashed with the Walker's spear, the sound of ice and steel ringing through the air. Jon gritted his teeth, his muscles straining against the unnatural strength of the creature. He could feel the cold radiating from the Walker, a cold so intense it burned.
"Jon!" Tormund shouted as he swung his ax at another wight, cutting it down.
Jon barely heard him. His focus was entirely on the Walker now, their weapons locked in a deadly dance. The Walker swung again, but Jon ducked, bringing Longclaw up in a swift arc. The Valyrian steel sliced through the creature's icy armor, and for a brief moment, the Walker hesitated.
It was all Jon needed.
With a swift motion, Jon drove Longclaw deep into the Walker's chest. There was a flash of light, and the creature shattered into a thousand icy shards, its body collapsing into nothingness.
The remaining wights fell to the ground, lifeless once again.
Breathing heavily, Jon stood over the remains of the Walker, his heart pounding in his chest. Around him, the others were catching their breath, their faces pale with cold and exhaustion.
"We've got one," Tormund said, holding up a wight's severed arm. "We did it."
Jon nodded, though he knew their task was far from over. They had captured the wight, but now they had to get it back to Dragonstone. And the Night King would not let them go easily.
"Let's move," Jon said, his voice low but firm. "We have to get back before they come for us."
With the wight in tow, they began their long, dangerous journey back to Eastwatch.
But Jon knew the real battle was still to come.