“On your feet, Will,” Ser Waymar commanded. “There’s no one here. I won’t have you hiding under a bush.”
Reluctantly, Will obeyed.
Ser Waymar looked him over with open disapproval. “I am not going back to Castle Black a failure on my first ranging. We will find these men.” He glanced around. “Up the tree. Be quick about it. Look for a fire.” .
.
.
.
“Will, where are you?” Ser Waymar called up. “Can you see anything?” He was turning in a slow circle, suddenly wary, his sword in hand. He must have felt them, as Will felt them. There was nothing to see. “Answer me! Why is it so cold?”It was cold. Shivering, Will clung more tightly to his perch. His face pressed hard against the trunk of the sentinel. He could feel the sweet, sticky sap on his cheek.
Seu comandante, Waymar Royce, lutou contra os caminhantes brancos e morreu:
Royce went to his knees, shrieking, and covered his eyes. Blood welled between his fingers.
The watchers moved forward together, as if some signal had been given. Swords rose and fell, all in a deathly silence. It was cold butchery.
Quando ele finalmente desceu, Royce voltou para a "vida" e o matou.
Will rose. Ser Waymar Royce stood over him.
His fine clothes were a tatter, his face a ruin. A shard from his sword transfixed the blind white pupil of his left eye.
The right eye was open. The pupil burned blue. It saw.
The broken sword fell from nerveless fingers. Will closed his eyes to pray. Long, elegant hands brushed his cheek, then tightened around his throat. They were gloved in the finest moleskin and sticky with blood, yet the touch was icy cold.
O terceiro guarda-florestal, Gared, fugiu antes que os caminhantes brancos aparecessem e mais tarde fosse visto ao sul da muralha. O Starks não levou sua conversa sobre caminhantes brancos a sério e decapitou-o por abandonar a Patrulha da Noite.
Quanto a Sam, em Storm of Swords, capítulo 18 (primeiro capítulo de Sam, muito perto do fim), eles estão recuando do Punho dos Primeiros Homens e encontram um caminhante branco:
And then he was stumbling forward, falling more than running, really, closing his eyes and shoving the dagger blindly out before him with both hands. He heard a crack, like the sound ice makes when it breaks beneath a man's foot, and then a screech so shrill and sharp that he went staggering backward with his hands over his muffled ears, and fell hard on his arse.
When he opened his eyes the Other's armor was running down its legs in rivulets as pale blue blood hissed and steamed around the black dragonglass dagger in his throat. It reached down with two bone white hands to pull out the knife, but where its fingers touched the obsidian they smoked.
