The Lands of Always Winter.
Here, the wind had no voice, and the snow held no warmth.
Lynn and his companions-no, perhaps they should have been called a silent army of the dead-walked across this white wasteland that even the gods had forsaken.
At the head walked Lynn and the Night's King.
Miranda followed close behind Lynn. The thick Bearskin Cloak she wore could do nothing against the chill seeping into her marrow.
This was not mere cold.
It was a deathly stillness born at the end of the world, an absolute zero that could drain the life from any living creature.
Even she, who had spent years living in the North, struggled to withstand it.
Every breath made her feel as though the ice crystals floating in the air would pierce her lungs.
Had the faint warmth radiating from Lynn not protected her, she had no doubt she would have frozen solid the moment she stepped onto this land!
Behind them stretched a sea of death with no end in sight.
Tens of thousands of wights followed with utterly disorderly strides, leaving a black trail that stretched to the horizon across the unchanging snowfield.
After walking for an unknown length of time, the Night's King stopped.
He did not turn around, merely raised an arm and pointed ahead.
Lynn looked in the direction he indicated.
A vast, bottomless rift lay across their path like a savage scar upon the earth.
It was miles wide and stretched farther than the eye could see, as though it would split the entire Lands of Always Winter in two.
An aura of death, so dense it seemed almost tangible, surged toward them from the depths.
It was so pure, so ancient, that even the army of wights behind Lynn stirred almost imperceptibly.
Miranda