These ancient woods were not a place for men. Shuffling slowly from one snow-covered log to the next, he had come to realize that he'd die in this place, a place as unlike Braavos, the city of his birth, as possible. Unless his reckoning was out (likely) he had gone almost two weeks without seeing another person. Not just a man of the Night's Watch, anyone. No wildlings, no one. And he knew the reason why. The first sign that something was wrong was that he could feel the gashes in his arm, almost smell the blood coming off him. Yet no wolves had come to finish him off. No 'cats, no bears. He could have sworn he saw a single owl roosting in a tree, but the next second, it was gone. Perhaps he was going mad. (From the hunger? The cold? Both?) Of course, he had a few strips of horsemeat with him, but that would only last another day, if the old gods saw fit to drag out his end. In truth, he actually hoped he'd freeze before he starved. Or at least starved. He bent over, and squeezed his eyes shut, shuddering from the cramps. After the fit had passed, he lay there, in a half-bow, weeping frozen tears- for a mother he half-remembered, for a home he couldn't at all. After some time, the pains dulled and he found himself able to breathe easily again- for about a minute. He opened his eyes, and knew something was in the trees behind him. The boy in black slowly turned to face the new arrival.
When the other recruits talked of the Others, back at Castle Black, they painted pictures of what were basically pale, near-naked wildlings, sometimes accompanied with the wighted bodies of the dead. Also, depending on the maester you asked, they also had what were called "ice spiders", used as hunting dogs- and mounts. One of the green boys, some fool from the Vale, said all you needed to do was wave your cock at one, say the names of the first three girls you bedded, and it would vanish in a puff of powder snow. Another swore they were made entirely of frozen sugar, like the moon. The tired, hungry boy had laughed with the rest, until he saw a captured wildling younger than he was, staring at them. He was not laughing then. The boy was not laughing now.
The figure not fifteen feet from him was definitely not a wildling. It looked nothing like a wildling. It was taller than some men, shorter than others, thinner than most. It did not wear a sheepskin cloak, or wear anything to protect it from the cold. Waist-length white hair blew in front of the legendary blue eyes, and down onto a queer sort of crystal armor, infused with different hues of blue, black, and white. The Other made no sound, but raised a sword- made of the same alien substance- in each hand. The boy nearly fainted trying to stand upright, resolving to face his opponent with his head up- not that he could do much. He'd had some training in the art of Braavosi water dancing, but the fools at Castle Black called him the Bugger Dancer instead. Not that you could water-dance without a sword. The boy had lost his long before. Staring resolutely at the Other, the boy waited for an end to winter, and the sight of his mother's face again. The Other flicked its right wrist, and the crystal sword landed next to the brother, point-down. He gingerly grabbed the smooth handle with his left hand, and swung it around in the Westerosi brute fashion. Instantly, he felt the perfect balance of the sword, and resolved to die as a water dancer, not some buffoon knight. He stepped foward, pointing the blade at his opponent. The Other mirrored him. The boy cried out his mother's name, and leapt at the pale figure.
Whatever the thing was, be it demon, warped human, or some ancient race beyond the knowledge of Oldtown, the Other knew its weapon. The boy could tell that with its slight frame, the figure was made for water dancing, and would easily disarm him. Hoping not to triumph, but to explore, the boy put his enemy through its paces. Parry, riposte, it could do them all. The Other had the same basic fencing moves he did, but the more complicated classical Braavosi manuevers seemed to puzzle it. Unfortunately, the Other's sword moved easily twice as fast, and in such bafflingly complex patterns that the boy did all he could to hold onto his own freezing blade. The black brother continued his use of the ancient bravo ways, forgetting utterly about the laughably savage nature of Westerosi swordplay. For the first time since before he left Essos, the boy felt that his water dancing was appreciated, even in as dire and bizarre circumstances as these.
The blood pumped into his arms and legs again, and he began to nimbly hop from foot to foot. The Other easily matched his rise in intensity, and soon the boy realized that the figure would have effortlessly defeated any and all of the bravos he could name. Not put off, the boy dueled with his winter dancer for some time, until he sensed their tango was near its climax. Suddenly, the Other brought its sword down in a brutal downward slash, and the boy blocked it just in time- however, the borrowed blade hattered, leaving nothing but a broken hilt, with a little tooth of crystal where the magnificent edge had been. Staring at his hand, he only just realized that it was covered in a sheen of ice, freezing it to the useless hilt. He looked up defiantly at his vanquisher. The Other made no move to kill him, but gave a long, eerie whistle that sent the hairs on the boy's neck on edge. An elegant mass of legs holding up a central body cantered into the clearing. The eyes were huge and blue, pupiless, staring around. The Other glided over to the riding spider making no sound, got on, and rode away. Baffled, the brother collapsed.
He woke in his bed at Castle Black. "Oy! The Bugger's woke!" cried one of the older men. He ran out the door, hollering to other black brothers. The maester leaned foward. "By rights, you should be dead. You were so cold to the touch, one of the other rangers swears he lost a bit of skin trying to get his hand off you. What happened?" The boy blinked. "I danced a water-winter dance." he whispered.