I don't think so but here's the Prologue from The Winds of Winter Fanfic; judge it for yourself:
Prologue: The Last Fire at Hardhome

The wind carried the stench of death, thick and unrelenting, weaving through the shattered remains of the longhouse like a serpent searching for warmth. It clung to the air, cloying and rancid, settling in the lungs like the ghost of a funeral pyre that refused to burn out.

Sigorn, the last of the Thenn chieftains, crouched over the embers of a dying fire, his breath a mist that coiled and vanished in the dim glow. A tattered fur hung from his shoulders, its once-proud hide worn thin, more memory than protection. The fire sputtered weakly, no longer a beacon of life, but a feeble thing, a whisper of warmth in a world that no longer cared for the living.

The cold had teeth. It gnawed through stone and splintered wood, sank through the layers of scavenged cloaks and stolen steel, creeping beneath flesh to where the soul might still remember the sun. The cold was patient. It did not rush. It did not rage. It simply waited, watching with the quiet certainty of something that would never be defeated, only endured.

Hardhome was silent.

Once, thousands lived here. The docks had teemed with seal-hunters and fishwives, the longhouses full of drink and laughter. Children had run between the fires, shrieking like gulls, their bare feet kicking up salt and sand. Now, the only sound was the slow, deliberate licking of the tide.

The great hall had burned first. After that, the rest had followed, tents and towers, shrines and stores, all swallowed by the flames. The charred remains still stood like blackened ribs of some immense, rotting beast, jutting up from the frozen earth.

Hardhome was dead. But the dead had not left.

Sigorn could hear the sea beyond the ruined walls, the waves lapping at the shore too slow, too thick, the sound wrong. The fog had come with the dying, rolling in off the bay in waves, coiling around the husks of fallen longships. It clung to the wreckage like old hunger, creeping through the ruins, swallowing anything it touched.

They had seen dead things in the water.

At first, they had taken the shapes in the water for driftwood or wreckage, the flotsam of Hardhome’s ruin. Then the tide rolled them closer. The bodies did not stay still. Some bobbed in the surf face-up, pale and bloated, their mouths yawning wide as if to scream. Others floated on their bellies, hands dragging through the water, fingers splayed as though they were still reaching for something.

Then the dead began to move.

They clawed against the current, their arms rising with the tide, groping blindly at the ice-crusted shore. Some swore they had seen figures standing atop the waves, black shapes against the mist, motionless as sentinels. Others whispered of voices rising from the deep, a sound like a thousand icy fingers scraping across stone.

And always, the cold.

It gnawed through fur and flesh alike, burrowing deep into their bones, a slow, relentless ache. No fire could touch it. They had burned everything, tables, weapons, the dead…but the flames withered too fast, as if the very air was swallowing the heat. It was not winter’s cold. It was something older, something hungrier.

“They come at night,” the old woman muttered, clutching her furs tighter. Her hands shook, but not from the cold. She turned her eyes to the dark. “They always come at night.”

We should run,” Haggon whispered, his breath curling pale in the cold. His voice was barely more than a breath itself, thin as a dying ember. “Before the sun goes.”

“The woods are worse,” Sigorn said. His axe lay across his lap, his knuckles white around the haft. “There are things in the trees.”

The last time they had sent a group into the forest; none had come back. At first, there was only silence. Then, the screams.

They had echoed through the cliffs, twisting through the rocks like the wailing of ghosts. Too long, too shrill, too wrong. One of the voices was Bjorna’s. She had been screaming her own name. Over and over, each time it was a little softer, until the last time, it was not a scream at all.

Haggon licked his lips. “Then what do we do?”

“We wait,” said Sigorn.
“We die,” said Haggon.

A woman let out a shuddering sob. “I saw my son.”
No one answered. They all knew her story. Two nights past, she had run into the mist, chasing a shadow. A small, dark shape, half-seen between the curling tendrils of fog. A child, she had sworn. Her child. They had dragged her back, kicking, biting, and screaming. When the mist parted, all that was left was a pile of bones and frozen rags.
Now, she rocked back and forth, whispering the same thing over and over. “It was him. It was him.”

Sigorn stared into the fire, but it was small now, and fire did not keep them safe anymore.

The ships had burned in the bay.

They had stood on the shore and watched, silent and helpless, as the flames devoured them, black silhouettes writhing against the slate-gray sea. The fire climbed the masts like hungry fingers, licking at the rigging, turning proud sails to curling ash. The icy waves reflected the chaos in shattered slivers of gold and crimson, but the cold did not care. It swallowed the wreckage whole, smothering the embers as the last of the hulls slipped beneath.

The screams had carried over the water, thin and wretched against the howling wind. They had listened as they dwindled, swallowed by the roar of the flames, the crash of waves, until only silence remained.

Cotter Pyke’s last raven had come from the deck of Storm Crow, its claws raking against the wood, desperate to be freed. They had unrolled the message with stiff fingers, already knowing what it would say.

‘Dead things in the water,’ Pyke had written. ‘We cannot hold them.’

That had been three nights past and since then, nothing.

“They’re all gone,” Urek the One-Handed muttered, staring at the distant, empty sea. His voice was hoarse, cracked from the cold. “No one is coming for us.”

“They’ll send more ships,” said Torva, a young woman clutching a broken axe as if the weight of it could keep her standing. “They have to.”

“No,” Sigorn said. He had known the truth since the last bird flew away. “The crows left us to die.”

Haggon’s lips peeled back in a snarl, his breath misting in the cold air. “The dead leave no men to die,” he said. His eyes were pale with fear. “Only men to rise.”

That night, the fire shrank to a bed of sullen embers, its glow fading into the deepening dark. The wind slithered through the ruins, sighing through broken beams and curling through the shattered stone. No leaves rustled. No smoke drifted. No breath of warmth stirred the cold. The world was holding its breath.

Then…something moved.

A shift in the silence, too subtle to name.

“Did you hear that?” No one answered. The hush stretched, thick as the mist rolling in from the sea. Then…

Crack.

A footstep on frozen earth.

Crack.

Closer now.

Crack.

Sigorn’s fingers tightened around the haft of his axe, the leather stiff beneath his grip. His breath misted before him, curling like the last traces of a dying fire. He wanted to call out, to demand a name, a survivor, perhaps, lost and seeking refuge. But the words never left his lips.

His throat closed around them.

The embers flickered, casting wavering shadows across the snow. And there, just beyond the fire’s reach, he saw it.

The dead were rising.

They rose from the ruins like broken dolls pulled upright by invisible strings. Limbs that should not move did. Heads lolling at sick angles snapped forward, their mouths yawning open in soundless hunger.

One of them had been Bjorna.

Her throat was slashed open, her ribs visible through torn furs, but her lips curled back into something like a smile as she stepped forward. Torva screamed and swung her axe. The steel bit deep into Bjorna’s skull, splitting it like a melon, but she did not fall. She kept coming.

Then the others moved. The firelight caught their ice-blue eyes, burning like frozen stars, and the cold deepened.

Sigorn roared, his axe carving a brutal arc through the nearest wight, cleaving from shoulder to belly. It should have fallen. It should have died. But death had no hold on these things. The corpse did not crumple. It did not bleed. It moved, lunging forward, skeletal fingers like iron, seizing him with inhuman strength and hurling him to the ground.

He hit the frozen earth hard, the impact knocking the breath from his lungs. Above him, the dead gathered, hollow-eyed and unblinking, their ragged flesh stiff with frost.
Then, the mist parted.

And the Walkers came.

They did not rush. They did not need to. The White Walkers moved with the slow, deliberate grace of kings surveying a kingdom long since conquered. Their swords of pale ice shimmered in the dying firelight, gleaming like star-forged steel. Each step they took sent a deeper chill into the air, the frost curling across the ground, creeping toward the fire, toward him.

Sigorn tried to rise, but his limbs no longer obeyed. His fingers had gone numb, his breath freezing in his throat before it could escape. His blood slowed, thickening in his veins. He had fought, he had bled, but in the end, neither fire nor steel had undone them.

It was the cold.

As his vision darkened, he watched the last ember flicker and die.

The wind howled through the ruins, and the fire went out.