Beyond the Wall, the land was shrouded in an eerie silence, broken only by the occasional gust of frigid wind. The desolation stretched as far as the eye could see, a barren landscape of snow and ice.
Here, far from the kingdoms of Westeros, a mysterious ritual had taken place, altering the course of destiny.
Amidst the swirling snowflakes, a figure lay motionless, buried beneath a thick layer of ice and snow. A sense of otherworldly power emanated from this figure, hidden beneath the frozen cocoon. In an instant, the ice shattered, and the figure emerged, gasping for breath.
He was no ordinary being.
As the figure's consciousness slowly returned, he became aware of their new existence. His eyes, now icy blue, scanned the desolate landscape, taking in the endless expanse of snow that stretched as far as the eye could see to the north.
The memory of the ritual, fragmented and enigmatic, danced at the edge of his mind, a puzzle waiting to be unraveled. "The... the hell is going on here...?" He muttered, looking down at his hands, which were too pale, a contrast to the healthy tan he was used to seeing.
The young man stood up, his body both familiar and foreign. He was human in form, but the chill of the ice ran through their veins. "Is this a dream...?" He muttered, trying and failing to process the situation.
"I really ought to stop drinking too much beofre bed..." He muttered , looking down at his body and realizing he was clad in a strangely familiar black armor. As he began to move, he realized he had never felt so good in his entire life.
He was as healthy as they came, having maintained his shape, but somehow he felt even better now, as if his body was overflowing with power. However, he didn't get to overthink his situation, nor appreciate the sensation of power for long as a loud roar echoed in the distance.
Alarmed, he turned to investigate, his heart pounding in his chest. His eyes widened at the sight of a bear, its fur matted with snow, angrily charging toward him.
Panicking, he tried to back away, but his feet betrayed him, and he tripped, landing flat on his back. "Shit!" He exclaimed, raising his hand out of reflex to defend himself as the bear lunged at him.
Fear coursed through him as he braced for the inevitable pain that would hopefully jolt him awake from this nightmare.
But the pain never came.
Instead, he felt a cold sensation in his outstretched hand, and a warm liquid slowly dripping on his face. His eyes snapped open, and he realized that his hand, now surrounded by a shimmering field of ice, had intercepted the bear's attack.
The creature's jaws were mere inches from his face, teeth locked in a futile attempt to pierce the icy barrier.
He held his breath, muscles strained as he fought to maintain the frozen shield. The bear's roars turned to frustrated growls, and its thrashing became weaker with each passing moment.
In that frozen tableau of desperation, he understood that something extraordinary had happened to him, something far beyond the realm of dreams.
Though the icy barrier gave him some reprieve, the young man still had no idea how to deal with the raging bear desperately trying to penetrate his defenses. The bear, clearly starved and driven by primal instinct, clawed and gnashed at the shimmering field of ice, its breath forming frosty clouds in the cold air.
But the sounds of clapping hoofs announced the arrival of his savior. Riding atop a black steed, a man clad in black armor and fur came galloping from the distance. Without hesitation, the man swung his blade, a gleaming steel arc through the air, and sent the bear's head flying.
The young man sighed in relief as the bear's lifeless body crumpled to the ground. "Thank god. Man, if it weren't for you..." he began to say, attempting to get up, only to pause as he realized the tip of the rider's blade was pointed at his neck. His eyes widened, and he froze in place.
"You're not like any wildling I know of... and that magic..." The rider's voice was cold, wary. He watched the icy barrier, which had once protected the young man, turn to blue particles and dissipate into the frigid air. "Who are you...?" He asked, his grip on the sword unwavering.
The young man couldn't help but frown. "Wildling...?" he muttered, the word ringing a bell within his head. Puzzled, he stared at the rider, taking in his black armor and steed, and the icy surroundings.
A ridiculous notion started forming in his head. "You... you wouldn't happen to be with the Night's Watch, would you...?" he asked, not quite believing such words could come out of his mouth.
The rider couldn't help but give him a puzzled look in return. "Of course, I'm with the Night's Watch. Who else would be roaming these godforsaken lands...?" he declared, his voice tinged with frustration.
"Now tell me who you are before I lose my patience!" He added, pushing the tip of his blade closer to the young man's neck.
The young man couldn't believe what he just heard, but with the threat of the sharp sword so close to his neck, he had no choice but to swallow his confusion for now. "Eh, sure I'm..." he said, his voice trailing off as an expression of bewilderment appeared on his face.
His brows furrowed, and he blinked in consternation. "My name is..." he went on, an awkward expression taking over his features as he realized he couldn't remember his own name.
The rider couldn't help but frown impatiently. "Out with it," he said, his tone growing more curt by the moment. His grip on the blade remained unwavering, a constant reminder of the perilous situation.
The young man couldn't help but chuckle nervously. "I can't seem to remember my name for some reason..." he said as he scratched his head in puzzlement. He felt an odd mix of frustration and embarrassment at his own memory lapse.
"Then tell me, what are you doing here? And what was that magic?" The rider asked, his gaze narrowing as he studied the bewildered young man.
The young man shook his head.
"I really have no idea. My first memory in this world is emerging from within the ice and snow over there... then the bear came and you showed up next..." He said, gesturing toward the cocoon of ice behind him. The recollection of his strange awakening still sent shivers down his spine.
The rider stared at him for a moment, his expression a blend of suspicion and curiosity. He sighed, his grip on the sword's hilt loosening slightly. "Strangely enough... I don't detect lies in your words," he admitted, though his blade remained aimed at the young man.
The young man smiled sheepishly and gestured at the rider's blade. "Then maybe you'd be so generous as to stop pointing this thing at me... it's making me antsy..." he said, his tone light-hearted despite the dire circumstances.
The rider's response was immediate and unwavering. "No," he replied in a deadpan tone, his eyes never leaving the young man's face. "In fact, I ought to kill you. There's foul sorcery at play here, and nothing good comes from such things," he added, his voice a stark reminder of the harsh reality of the world beyond the Wall.
The young man inwardly panicked, his heart pounding like a drum, but he exerted every ounce of his willpower to remain outwardly calm. He met the rider's gaze, unwavering, as if his very life depended on it.
"You could do that... but you'll be staining your hands with the blood of an innocent..." He said, raising his hands in surrender. The palms of his hands were smooth, as unblemished as a newborn's, and he held them out for the rider to see.
"I'm as baffled by the situation as you are... All I know is that I'm here and that I have an extraordinary power, which I can't even control..." he added, displaying his hands with a sense of vulnerability. "Just look at me. I don't even know where I am and where I came from." He implored, his voice tinged with desperation.
The rider's brow furrowed as he scrutinized the young man's hands. The smoothness of his skin did indeed seem at odds with the notion of a malevolent sorcerer or a hardened killer.
"And the strange barrier? That's no ordinary magic..." he pointed out, his skepticism still evident.
The young man shrugged, his shoulders carrying the weight of his own confusion and uncertainty. "As I've said, I don't understand it myself. All I know is that it kept me alive long enough for you to come along and save the day..." he explained, his voice tinged with sincerity.
The rider finally relented, lowering his sword slightly. "I still detect no liers in your words, but your story is too convenient..." He said, his tone hesitant.
"I'm only asking you to trust me for now," the young man replied, slowly rising to his feet. "If you think I'm a threat, it won't be too late to cut me down later. Just... just let me figure this out before you make a decision..."
The rider gave the young man a reluctant nod, sheathing his blade. "Very well. For now, I won't kill you..." he conceded. "But you'll come with me to Castle Black, and you'll be under constant watch until we understand what's happening..."
...
Kneeling beside the shore of a frozen lake, the young man scooped a handful of icy water and washed his face, the water slipping between his fingers and dripping back into the lake. The water was freezing, and the atmosphere was chilling, yet the young man felt strangely at home in this unforgiving environment.
Even the reflection of his face, which stared back at him on the lake's surface, rippling with the movement of the water, seemed to meld with the surroundings.
His eyes had an eerie blue glow, like glacial ice illuminated by moonlight, and his skin was pale, almost sickly pale, resembling the stark winter landscape. His long, black hair cascaded down his back. It had a graying shade as it framed his face, adding to his strange appearance.
In this desolate wilderness beyond the Wall, he seemed to fit perfectly. Yet, despite the strangeness of his existence, he had a certain grace about him as he knelt there, his presence harmonizing with the frozen atmosphere.
As he turned to face the rider, who was huddled near the fire, his body shaking slightly due to the cold, the uniqueness of his existence was further emphasized. The young man scratched his head and hesitated momentarily before approaching his travel companion.
"So... I still didn't get your name..." He said as he settled near the bonfire, the flames casting flickering shadows on his pale, almost ethereal skin. He frowned slightly, finding the warm presence of the fire discomforting.
The rider turned to him and removed the cloth covering his face and nose, followed by the hood covering his head. His face was pale from the cold, and his long, dark hair framed his weathered features. A thick beard covered his jawline.
"The name's Benjen Stark, lad. First ranger of the Night's Watch," Benjen introduced himself, his voice carrying the weight of his position.
The young man's eyes widened in recognition for a fleeting moment, having watched Game of Thrones and knowing the significance of the name Stark. But he quickly regained his calm demeanor.
"And may I ask what the First Ranger is doing so deep beyond the Wall all on his own...?" He cautiously inquired.
Benjen shrugged, his expression grim. "We received reports of White Walker sightings. The Lord Commander sent me to investigate alongside two veteran rangers..." He paused, the unspoken words hanging heavily in the air. "They didn't make it," he added with a heavy sigh.
"White Walkers?" The young man inquired, though he was already aware of their existence from his knowledge of Game of Thrones.
He asked, hoping Benjen might reveal information that could indicate the current timeline or something relating to his surprising circumstances if nothing else.
"Humanoids with eyes as blue as the ice, skins pale as snow, capable of calling forth blizzards and raising the dead to serve them, or so the legend says..." Benjen said, his gaze unwavering as he looked straight into the young man's icy blue eyes.
The young man's already pale face seemed to grow even paler at those words. He couldn't deny the unsettling familiarity of the description. "That... that sounds awfully familiar..." he said, his voice tinged with unease.
Benjen mustered up a weary smile. "You're no White Walker, lad. This, I know for certain, though what you truly are—I don't know," he admitted, shaking his head. "Our meeting can't have been a coincidence—it must be the Old Gods at work," he added, his tone holding a hint of reverence.
"Gods, huh...?" The young man said with a sigh, his breath visible in the frigid air. He had not been a man of faith in his past life, though he had always strived to do good whenever possible.
However, he was now in a world where dragons, undead, and magic existed, and the gods had a tangible presence. Even he had to admit that his circumstances couldn't have been borne from something that science could explain.
"In any case, we've wasted enough time dallying about..." Benjen said as he covered his face with his scarf, obscuring his features against the biting cold, and stood up. "Castle Black is still a long way away. We need to keep moving," he added, his boots crunching in the snow as he began kicking snow into the dying bonfire.
The young man nodded in agreement, his breath forming frosty clouds in the frigid air. "Alright..." he replied as he followed suit, helping to extinguish the fire.
"Right behind you..." he added, his gaze fixed on Benjen as the First Ranger took the reins of his horse and started walking away, his footsteps producing crisp thuds as he traversed the snowy landscape.
...
It had been two days of nonstop traveling, and though the journey had taken its toll on Benjen, the young man remained as energetic as ever despite eating and sleeping less than the First Ranger.
The frigid atmosphere seemed to invigorate him, granting him the strength to continue their trek toward Castle Black without displaying any signs of fatigue.
As the two of them traversed an open snowy expanse, the young man's gaze was captivated by a formidable mountain range in the distance. Its icy peaks rose majestically against the gray sky, a vision of both beauty and danger.
Benjen followed the young man's gaze and quickly issued a solemn warning. "Those are the Frostfang Mountains. Every ranger knows to steer clear of them unless they want to encounter the Thenn..." His voice carried the weight of experience.
The young man's brow furrowed as he found the name, Thenn, ringing a distant bell in his memory. "The Thenn?" he inquired, curiosity tingeing his voice.
Benjen nodded, his gaze never wavering as he continued walking. "A tribe of Wildlings—unlike the other groups, they're disciplined, and they know how to smith bronze," he explained, his words hinting at the Thenn's formidable capabilities.
"What's more, they've developed a taste for human flesh, so even other Wildlings avoid them unless absolutely necessary..." He added, his tone carrying a note of caution.
"Steer clear of the mountain and the cannibals—got it," the young man said with a nod. Climbing a mountain and encountering a tribe of cannibalistic tribal savages was the last thing he wanted to do.
"Good lad, now let's keep moving. The Haunted Forest is just ahead," Benjen said, his voice carrying a sense of urgency. "The Wildlings there are on the reasonable side, so we should be able to get some supplies before we completely run out..." he added, his gaze fixed on their path ahead.
The young man couldn't help but smile warily at the name. "It's not really haunted, is it?" he asked, a hint of skepticism in his voice.
"Only by Wildlings, bears, wolves, the usual suspects..." Benjen replied with a chuckle, trying to ease the tension.
"That's actually reassuring..." the young man admitted with a wry grin as the two continued their journey deeper into the harsh and unforgiving North.
...
After another half day of relentless traveling, the duo found themselves finally within the confines of the Haunted Forest, with Castle Black still a distant goal on the horizon. The sky above was darkening rapidly as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows over the desolate landscape.
However, Benjen knew better than to traverse the lands beyond the Wall in the dead of night. He halted their progress, his eyes scanning the surroundings as he made a decision.
"This is as far as we go for the day... the Fist is nearby—we can make camp in its relative safety," he suggested, gesturing toward a rising hill ahead, surrounded by the eerie and dense Haunted Forest.
The hill offered commanding views of the landscape, with the slopes at a perilous angle to the north and west, and only slightly less treacherous to the east.
A ringwall of chest-high grey stone crowned the top of the steep, stony hill, providing a semblance of protection against potential threats. At the foot of the hill, a small brook trickled by, its waters offering a vital source of fresh water.
The young man nodded in agreement, assenting to Benjen's experience as he knew nothing about the lands beyond the wall. "You're the boss," He said as he started walking in the hill's direction.
The first ranger merely nodded at him as he started moving without delay, taking hold of his steed's reigns and followed behind the young man.
...
As they finally reached the summit of the Fist of the First Men, the young man couldn't help but release a relieved sigh. The grueling climb had taken its toll, and the feeling of reaching their destination was a welcome respite. Benjen, appearing even more fatigued than his companion, panted heavily for breath as he set about making camp.
With determined efficiency, the young man stepped forward, offering to help. He took the bags from Benjen's weary hands and began unloading their supplies from the horse's back.
Benjen nodded in appreciation, and together, they worked, their movements slow but steady as they set up their camp. Wooden stakes were driven into the frozen ground, and the horse was securely tethered to one of them.
As they worked, the young man rubbed the back of his neck and then settled beside the slowly kindling fire, its flames beginning to dance and crackle in the cold night air.
"Did we have to make camp here of all places? I'm not looking forward to the trip down..." he remarked, his voice laced with a touch of weariness but still carrying a hint of humor.
Benjen, seated nearby, mirrored his sentiment. "Me neither. But I wouldn't even get a good night's sleep if we stayed in the open," he explained, his tone resigned. "The Fist of the First Men has always served as a safe refuge for Night's Watch rangers..." he continued, his gaze distant as he recalled the history of this place.
"So long as we stay alert, you can be sure no one and nothing will sneak up on us," he added, reassured by their choice of campsite.
Benjen's words seemed to trigger a spark of realization within the young man. He rose from his seated position near the fire, his movements fueled by a newfound purpose, much to Benjen's confusion.
"So, this place has been frequented by the Night's Watch for a long time, right?" he inquired, his expression difficult to read.
"More or less..." Benjen replied with a quizzical look, unable to discern the reason for the young man's sudden interest in the Fist of the First Men's history.
The young man's lips curled into a knowing smile. "Mind if I borrow your sword for a while?" he requested, prompting an arch of Benjen's brow. "Er, the sheath will do—anything that's long and pointy, actually," he added, his hand scratching his head as he explained his unconventional request.
Benjen regarded him with bemusement before acquiescing. He reached for his sword, unsheathed it, and then casually tossed the sheath to the young man. "What do you intend to do with it, anyway?" Benjen inquired, a mixture of curiosity and amusement in his tone.
"Well, if rangers have been passing through here for many years, then some of them must have left something behind..." the young man explained, his eyes gleaming with determination. He then turned his attention back to the sheath he now held.
"And how does asking for my sheath relate to that?" Benjen asked, his puzzlement growing.
The young man grinned mischievously. "Well, just watch," he replied, and without further explanation, he began to walk around the campsite.
With each step, he plunged the sheath into the snow, as if probing the ground for hidden treasures or long-forgotten items left behind by generations of Night's Watch rangers.
As the young man continued his methodical search, Benjen's interest waned, and he shifted his focus to more immediate concerns. He retrieved a loaf of bread from their supplies and proceeded to munch on it. Crumbs fell to the ground, remnants of his meal.
"I take it you'll be taking the first shift, then," Benjen remarked casually, his voice muffled by a mouthful of bread. He finished half the loaf and placed the remaining portion near the warming fire. "Keep your eyes peeled, lad," he advised, his tone a mixture of instruction and caution.
The young man tore his attention away from his treasure hunt long enough to respond with a respectful "Yes, sir." However, it was clear that his mind was still preoccupied with his exploration, Benjen's words entering one ear and swiftly departing from the other as he continued probing the snow for a certain hidden cache.
...
The rhythmic, dull thuds pierced the tranquility of the night, jolting Benjen from his slumber. His eyes shot wide open, and he moved with haste, his hand instinctively reaching for the handle of his sword as he scrambled to his feet. Expecting to confront a group of Wildlings or some horrifying creature from beyond the Wall encroaching on their camp, his heart raced.
However, what he witnessed upon emerging from his sleeping bag prompted a mixture of sighs, annoyance, and exasperation. Some distance away, the young man stood over a patch of snow, rapidly stabbing the sheath into the ground with each thrust producing a monotonous thud.
The young man's face was alight with an ear-to-ear grin, his eagerness palpable.
Before Benjen's eyes, the young man suddenly released his grip on the sheath, allowing it to drop to the ground. He then dropped to his knees and dug into the snow with his bare hands, a fervent enthusiasm in his actions that left Benjen utterly bewildered.
Realizing that sleep would not return to him anytime soon, Benjen emitted another weary sigh and approached the young man, curiosity tugging at him like a persistent itch. "What you got there, lad?" he inquired, positioning himself just behind the young man.
"We'll see soon enough," the young man replied cryptically, his tone a blend of excitement and mystery. He was well aware of what he sought—the possibility of unearthing a cache of Dragonglass weapons left behind by a ranger of old.
In his recollection from the show, Sam Tarly and two other members of the Night's Watch, whose names eluded him for the moment, had stumbled upon such a cache, eventually discovering that Dragonglass was a potent weapon against the White Walkers.
However, he had no intention of revealing his true intentions, aware that it might raise too many questions.
With single-minded determination, the young man continued his excavation efforts, parting the snow layer by layer until a stone slab emerged from beneath the frosty blanket.
On the surface of the slab, a strange circular symbol had been intricately carved, its contours filled with snow.
"Those look like the markings of the First Men," Benjen observed, his brows furrowing as he examined the intricate carvings etched into the surface of the stone slab. "See if you can pry it open," he suggested, lowering himself to kneel next to the young man and focusing his attention intently on the slab.
The young man nodded in agreement and began to gingerly explore the edges of the stone, his fingers digging beneath the snow until he located the slab's edge.
With a determined grunt, he exerted effort to lift the stone, revealing a hollow space concealed beneath it. His curiosity piqued, he reached into the cavity, his hand encountering something that felt like furr, and used his other hand to retrieve the concealed object.
"Look," the young man exclaimed, his voice tinged with exitment he held up a black fur cloak that appeared to be tightly wrapped around something concealed within.
"That looks like a Night's Watch cloak... and there's something inside it..." Benjen observed, his keen ears detecting the faint clinking of objects hidden within the cloak's folds.
"Let's see what's inside," the young man suggested, his eyes alight with anticipation. He carefully laid the fur cloak on the ground and proceeded to unfurl it, revealing a cache of numerous black-glass-like daggers nestled within the cloak's folds.
Alongside the obsidian blades rested an ornate drinking horn, its craftsmanship apparent even in the dim light of their camp.
"Daggers—made from dragon glass, or as some folk call it, obsidian..." Benjen remarked as he reached for one of the jagged black knives. He held it up to inspect it closely, turning it in his hand as he assessed its craftsmanship.
"But why would a ranger leave them here?" he mused aloud, a hint of confusion in his voice.
"For someone to find them, I reckon," the young man replied, his gaze focused on the cache of weapons. "Now, I'll have something to defend myself with, if nothing else," he remarked with a grin, plucking one of the obsidian daggers from the pile.
Benjen regarded him skeptically, raising an eyebrow. "Do you even know how to use those?" he inquired, his curiosity getting the better of him.
The young man responded with an unapologetic shrug. "No," he admitted matter-of-factly, his honesty clear in his tone. "But throwing them shouldn't be too difficult..." he added, a confident gleam in his eye as he raised the dagger and prepared to demonstrate his skills.
However, his bravado was short-lived, as the dagger promptly slipped from his grip and landed a mere inch away from his own foot. He let out a sheepish chuckle. "With some practice, of course," he conceded, his grin never wavering.
...
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