As Gale and his group approached the wildling encampment near the Frostfangs, a sigh of relief escaped Gale's lips. In their absence, the camp had noticeably expanded, and it buzzed with even more wildlings moving to and fro within the encampments.
These free folk were adorned in an array of unique garments, each symbolizing the diverse clans that had pledged allegiance to Mance Rayder's banner.
Upon their entry, they found themselves the subject of numerous curious glances and hushed conversations among the wildlings. Some showed amazement at their return from the frigid Land of Always Winter, while others couldn't help but comment on the peculiar iceblade strapped to Gale's back, a weapon that had never before graced their eyes.
"It appears your fellow free folk didn't hold out much hope for our return," Gale remarked, casting a sidelong glance at Tormund and Threya.
Tormund let out a hearty chuckle. "Aye, it's true. No one's ventured back from the Lands of Always Winter in living memory. Not many are foolish enough to journey that far north in the first place," he said, shaking his head. "But then you came along, and Rayder had us accompany you," he added with a wry grin.
Gale let out a scoff, his tone laced with irritation. "I certainly didn't have a burning desire to embark on a journey to that frozen hellhole, especially not just to prove that dragon glass works," he said with a mocking tone.
"Truth be told, I wouldn't have taken one step beyond the camp if it weren't for your 'glorious' King Beyond the Wall demanding evidence," he added, shaking his head in exasperation.
Threya regarded Gale with a bemused expression. "Well, now you understand why we're so desperate to march south," she calmly explained.
"Conditions here have grown dire, and with winter fast approaching, we're left with no other choice but to cross the Wall, even if it means we have to slaughter every man guarding it," she continued. "Bear that in mind when you speak to Rayder."
Gale let out a chuckle, his irritation momentarily giving way to a sense of understanding. "I sympathize with your people- you two make it very difficult, but I do," he admitted, shifting his gaze between Tormund and Threya.
"I wouldn't want to see tens of thousands of people get slaughtered and turned into walking corpses. But it will all come down to Rayder and his ability to convince the various wildling tribes," he mused with a sigh.
Amidst their conversation, a loud thud interrupted their banter, causing Gale to pivot around. He beheld the giant, seated on the snowy ground, once again lost in its reverie, gazing blankly into the endless horizon.
A wry smile crept upon Gale's lips as he addressed the massive creature. "Among our little group, you do hold the title for the most tolerable," he quipped, a chuckle escaping him. "Best of luck with whatever it is you're doing," he added with a playful shake of his head before turning to continue his journey.
Their path led them to Mance Rayder's tent, encircled by a gathering of wildling warriors from different clans. Upon spotting Gale and his group, the assembled wildlings couldn't conceal their astonishment at their return as they made way for Gale's party to pass.
Yet, among the onlookers, the Thenns stood out, emanating unmistakable hostility as they glared daggers at Gale. He glanced at Tormund, his expression blank. "Let me guess, they also took a liking to me?" Gale quipped with a nod towards the Thenns.
Tormund chuckled heartily in response. "Unlike to free folk women, the Thenn are simple creatures. Everyone detests the Thenn for a good reason, and they despise everyone because they can," he explained with a grin. "You, my friend, have given them plenty of reason to despise you."
The trio proceeded to enter Mance Rayder's tent, discovering several men and women present, each representing their clans, engaged in a discussion that appeared to be in full swing.
...
In the heart of Winterfell, the discussion carried on. After listening to Lord Stark's explanation, Ser Barristan furrowed his brows with a thoughtful expression. "I understand the wildlings have amassed a sizable force beyond the Wall. However, I fail to see the necessity of having a royal representative involved in these dealings." he began, his voice edged with curiosity.
"Even if the wildlings boast greater numbers, they are an undisciplined rabble, while you command the Wall, which you can fortify with a force of well-trained and armed northern soldiers," he pointed out.
A nod from Lord Stark signaled his understanding. "True, it's a valid point," he agreed. "Yet, it appears that there are other forces at play beyond the Wall," he continued, prompting a deepening of the frown on Ser Barristan's face.
"Other forces? What kind of forces are you referring to?" The grizzled knight inquired, his voice tinged with confusion.
Lord Stark shook his head with an air of uncertainty. "I'm not entirely sure," he admitted. "Lord Commander Mormont has been rather vague regarding finer details, but he suggested that there is a great threat capable of endangering the entirety of Westeros," he added.
Tyrion raised an eyebrow in skepticism. "Surely you don't mean to suggest this involves the old tales of the undead?" he asked incredulously. "I've heard of Lord Mormont, and he doesn't strike me as one who'd place faith in superstitions," he commented.
Lord Stark regarded Tyrion with an amused yet patient expression. "It's a simple matter for southerners to dismiss the stories of the long winter as mere superstition," he explained. "But the North differs vastly from the rest of Westeros. What you deem as superstition, we regard as wisdom passed down through the ages by our ancestors," he asserted.
Tyrion couldn't help but wince inwardly. "I didn't intend to cause offense, Lord Stark... but the undead, giants, and the children of the forest..." he began, trailing off before he continued, "Even if such beings existed, they have seemingly vanished from the world, leaving no trace of their existence for countless years."
Lord Stark leaned forward slightly, his eyes filled with uncertainty. "Maybe we simply didn't search hard enough for these traces," he mused, his voice tinged with frustration. "The lands beyond the Wall stretch far and are exceedingly harsh. No one can tell what goes on there," he explained.
"Nonetheless, it's not the time to indulge in speculation. There's no necessity for it," Lord Stark asserted asserted. "I'm confident that Lord Commander Mormont will provide an explanation upon our meeting. As I am sure that he'll back his claims with evidence, no matter the nature of his claims," he concluded.
...
The atmosphere in Lord Arryn's private chambers was somber, heavy with the weight of uncertainty and impending loss. Kingsguard stood sentinel, their gleaming armor contrasting the dimly lit room. Various nobles and officials had gathered, their hushed conversations echoing off the walls.
In a shadowy corner stood Lord Petyr Baelish, commonly known as Littlefinger, the kingdom's master of coin. His expression remained unreadable, veiling his thoughts behind a composed facade. Cersei Lannister, the Queen and Robert Baratheon's wife, shared the same inscrutable demeanor.
Yet, there was a subtle glint of dark satisfaction and hidden glee in her eyes as she fixed her gaze on Lord Arryn during what appeared to be his final moments.
Varys, the enigmatic spymaster, lingered in the chamber, observing the scene with his usual detached demeanor while King Robert Baratheon, a massive figure beside the frail Lord Arryn's bedside, cast a worried glance at his old friend.
Lord Arryn lay on his deathbed, his once-vigorous body now a frail shell of its former self. King Robert, his dear friend, knelt by his side, holding the old lord's feeble hand. Distress etched deep lines on the king's face as he implored, "Who did this to you? Tell me who it is, and I'll make sure they hang alongside their entire family."
Struggling against the weakening grip of life, Lord Arryn turned his gaze to Robert, his voice a fragile whisper as he spoke, "The... the seed is... the seed is strong..."
With those cryptic words, his body went limp, his chest rising one last time before stilling. It was his final attempt to convey a message, one that bore weighty significance.
Cersei, at the foot of the bed, couldn't conceal her reaction to Lord Arryn's last words. Her expression shifted, a momentary glimpse of unease flickering across her features. She swiftly composed herself, her face a mask of sorrow, attempting to hide the turmoil beneath the surface.
She believed her reaction had gone unnoticed by those around her, unaware that one keen observer had seen through her facade.
Lord Petyr Baelish, known as Littlefinger, observed Cersei's reaction with a sly, knowing smirk.
Entering Mance Rayder's tent, Gale noticed the leader's welcoming smile tinged with relief. "At last, you've returned," Rayder greeted them. "The constant questions from the clan leaders about the damned crow and what he's doing in our midst were becoming tiresome."
Gale heaved a sigh, his frustration evident. "So, you haven't told them yet?" he asked, running a hand wearily across his forehead, casting a glance at the murmuring wildling clan leaders.
Mance Rayder shrugged. "I thought it best for them to hear it from you," he explained. "But let's not get ahead of ourselves. Before we delve into that matter, tell me you succeded in the mission." He went, turning his gaze to Tormund, waiting for confirmation.
Before Tormund could respond, Gale took the lead. "Oh, we succeeded, all right," he declared, withdrawing the iceblade from his back. "I even brought back proof- a white walker's iceblade," He added, and with a sense of accomplishment, he rested the blade on the table, where its icy presence caused the wooden surface to freeze.
Mance Rayder's eyes widened in astonishment at the sight of the iceblade, a tangible symbol of their success. He quickly shifted his gaze back to Tormund, seeking confirmation.
Tormund nodded firmly in response to Rayder's unspoken inquiry.
"Aye, the lad indeed slew a White Walker- right before my eyes," Tormund confirmed with an air of casualness. "He used his strange magic sorcery, but it was dragon glass that finally put the frozen bugger down," he explained.
As Tormund finished, the murmurings among the clan leaders grew more intense, revealing their amazement and intrigue.
Rayder couldn't contain his delighted smile, relishing the opportunity to reveal why he had welcomed the "damned crow" into their camp. He addressed the assembly of clan leaders, fixing his gaze upon Gale.
"Now you understand the reason for our guest's presence," Rayder began, savoring the moment before continuing. "As for the purpose that brought him here in the first place..." He paused, letting curiosity build amongst the clan leaders. "You'll hear it directly from the young man himself," he concluded with a nonchalant shrug, his smug expression causing an irksome reaction from Gale.
Gale had the urge to slam his head into a hard surface upon hearing Rayder's words. He wondered whether banging his head on the table or against Mance Rayder's smug face would offer more satisfaction.
Nonetheless, he maintained his composure and began to explain their mission.
"I won't mince words... Winter is fast approaching, and the Night King marches south with an army of wights whose numbers we cannot fathom," Gale declared. "The Night's Watch is ill-prepared to face this impending winter, and as I see it, your people might not be ready either," he said, his tone steady.
"My purpose in coming here is to forge an alliance between your tribes and the Night's Watch, so together, we can stand against the Night King and his legions." He concluded his plea for cooperation.
One of the wildling leaders, a towering man dressed in ragged attire that seemed to blend with the hues of tree bark, stepped forward. He had a bow strapped to his shoulder, and his voice carried a note of defiance as he challenged Gale's proposal.
"Why should we join forces with the Night's Watch when we can simply break through the Wall on our own?" he scoffed.
"The Night's Watch has lost its former strength. There are hardly enough rangers left to defend the Wall, not bearly enough to stand in our way," he firmly asserted. "To begin with, we have no intention of fighting the Night King. We only seek shelter from the long winter behind the Wall."
Gale studied the wildling leader for a moment, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "You must be the leader of the White Tree clan, correct?" he asked, more a statement than a question.
The White Tree leader frowned, poised to offer a retort, but Gale continued speaking, preempting him.
"It doesn't really matter. I assume your belief that the Night's Watch has weakened is based on the reports your clan's scouts have gathered," Gale inquired, giving the clan leader an opportunity to confirm with a nod.
Gale leaned in, a wry grin on his face. "I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but those reports are very much outdated," he said, shaking his head. "It's been well over a year since your people abandoned your village near the Wall, and the Night's Watch got wind of your alliance back then."
He shrugged casually. "In response, the Lord Commander has tripled the recruitment efforts since that time. While we might not have gathered enough men to fend off such a large army head-on..." he explained with a confident smile as he trailed off.
"We still have sufficient forces to make any assault on the Wall a costly endeavor. You know the saying, every man defending a fortified wall is worth at least ten, or so they claim in the South," he concluded with a sense of assurance.
The White Tree leader's frown deepened as he struggled to find a response. The enmity between the wildlings and the Night's Watch ran deep, and bridging that gap would be no easy feat.
Gale, undeterred by the leader's silence, continued to press his case.
"Let's say you manage to cross the Wall without suffering crippling losses," he began, his tone even and matter-of-fact. "The Night King will still march south and cross the Wall behind you. But that should be the least of your worries."
He shook his head, his expression grim. "Lord Eddard Stark, the Warden of the North, would amass an army and crush the lot of you before you even reach the New Gift. And even if you miraculously manage to fend him off," Gale stated, a hint of skepticism in his voice.
"What will you do when the southern lords rally an even bigger army and come for your blood? A war against the seven kingdoms is a war you can not and will not win. Even if you did, the Night King would still come for you, no matter how far you run."
He concluded his argument, his words hanging in the air, underscoring the dire predicament the wildlings would face.
The leader of the Hornfoot clan, dressed in thick furs, stepped forward with a deep sigh. "We're well aware of the predicament," he admitted with a note of resignation. "If we stay, we fall prey to the wights and turn into mindless corpses. And if we choose to fight, the outcome remains the same."
He shook his head, his face reflecting the grim reality. "No matter how many warriors we amass, we can't hope to defeat the undead without a sufficient supply of dragon glass that's impossible to acquire, so an alliance with the Southerners seems futile," he continued. "Even if running only delays the inevitable... we have no other choice..."
Gale couldn't help but chuckle, though it only deepened the Hornfoot leader's frown. "Who said it's impossible?" Gale responded with a confident grin.
"There's an island in Blackwater Bay teeming with dragon glass, and it just so happens to be under the control of King Robert Baratheon's house," he explained.
"An alliance with the Seven Kingdoms gives you access to dragon glass and, by extension, the means to fight and defeat the undead. You needn't run," he assured them, offering a ray of hope in their dire situation.
Tormund, who had observed the discussion in silence until now, broke into a wide grin and finally decided to voice his thoughts. "You've certainly thought this through, lad... you've left us no excuse to keep running," he acknowledged. "But I can't help but wonder... will your southern friends be as willing as you to work with our people?" he inquired.
Gale shook his head, his expression unwavering. "No, I expect they'll be even more hesitant than you are... they don't don't need your people to survive the winter, or so they'll believe," he admitted. "But I'll convince them otherwise," he declared confidently.
Tormund's grin grew even wider, and his eyes bore into Gale's with intensity. "And if you fail...?" he probed.
Gale couldn't help but chuckle, the hint of a wry smile on his lips. "Then you all better pray to your gods that you don't run into me when you eventually march on the wall."
Auhtor's note: thank you to everyone who donated power stones yesterday.
If we can keep this up, and the story stays as high in the ranking as it is now for a week or two, more people will start reading, and even more power stones will come, meaning this will be the long and epic GOT fic that I want to write, and you want to read.
...
I continued to swing my sword in a rhythmic pattern, going through my practice routine. My thoughts, however, were far from my training as I inwardly sighed at the Thenns, who were shooting hostile glares in my direction.
The expressions on their faces seemed to suggest they harbored dark intentions, something along the lines of cutting me open and guzzling my entrails. And Knowing the Thenns, such thoughts didn't seem that far-fetched.
Nonetheless, I paid little heed to the cannibalistic goat fuckers.
The meeting with Mance Rayder and the wildling clan leaders had unfolded as smoothly as one could expect when dealing with a group of savages with sizable chips on their shoulders.
Each had objections to raise and an endless stream of questions and doubts. But I managed to silence them with my typical pessimism and irrefutable logic, a combination that was very much their kryptonite.
Rationality wasn't a common trait among wildlings- well, it wasn't that common anywhere in this world, but it was even more scarce beyond the Wall.
The outcome of the meeting had been a concession, with the wildlings needing more time to contemplate the idea of cooperation with the Night's Watch.
The delay was primarily due to Mance Rayder's ongoing efforts to unite all the wildling tribes. There were still some resistance from the clans dwelling near the Ice Rivers and the cave-dwellers, requiring further convincing.
I couldn't help but ponder whether my logical arguments and reasoning would be sufficient to bridge the chasm between the wildlings and the Night's Watch. But, for the time being, I had to exercise patience—something that had been in short supply since I woke up in this unfamiliar world.
From the moment I became aware of my situation, time had been my most pressing concern. In this world, there was a single looming threat I couldn't evade—the Night King and his relentless army of the undead so long as I wished to stay in Westeros. He was like the final boss in this twisted game of survival.
Though it wasn't a necessity for me to stay in Westeros, I could always hop on a ship and set sail to Essos after relieving some remote noble of their wealth. With my unique abilities, this was more than possible. Yet, I couldn't ignore the nagging question of what I'd do once my stolen gold dwindled away. The prospect of a lifetime as a common bandit wasn't my idea of a good time.
Despite my desire to stay as far away as possible from the so-called Game of Thrones and the chaos following Robert's death, I couldn't ignore the wealth of opportunities it presented. This predicament led me back to the overarching issue that had been plaguing me since my arrival in this world: time.
Why was time such an obsession for me, you might ask? The answer is disarmingly simple: I had no fucking clue how much of it I had before Robert's demise and the subsequent unraveling of the shitstorm I'd hoped to avoid, or at least delay until the Night King was dealt with.
Regrettably, I wasn't the kind of overly obsessive Game of Thrones fan who had scrutinized every episode, examined every book, and combed through countless Wikis. I'd watched the show up until the seventh or sixth season, and that was about it since a friend warned me that the following seasons were a dumpster fire.
So, while I had a fairly good grasp of what would eventually transpire in this world, I remained in the dark about the precise timetable of these events and their exact dates. It was, in some ways, even more excruciating than knowing that time was running out.
For someone who had a penchant for overthinking and needlessly complicating matters like me, this situation was the stuff of nightmares, I tell you.
Worse than even the Thenn, who had nearly gouged my eye out over a year ago. Don't get me wrong, I still had nightmares about that bastard for weeks since he scared the shit out of me at the time, but I'd managed to get over it.
However, pondering and speculating how much time I had left had never failed to torment my sleepless nights.
Fortunately, I didn't require much sleep, thanks to my half-white walker physiology—or what some might call a failed one, depending on one's perspective.
...
In King's Landing, Varys acted with haste, approaching King Robert only moments after Lord Arryn's passing. He addressed the pressing matter at hand with a mixture of respect and urgency.
"Your grace," Varys began, offering a sympathetic nod, "I extend my condolences for your loss. However, we must consider who will assume Lord Arryn's responsibilities as soon as possible."
King Robert, still reeling from the shock of his friend's death, reacted with immediate anger. "Lord Arryn has barely taken his last breath, and you're already plotting to fill his shoes! Was this your doing?!" he exclaimed, his gaze shooting daggers at the spymaster.
Unfazed, Varys maintained his composed demeanor. "I have no desire to step into Lord Arryn's shoes, your grace. I am content with my current role, where I can serve the realm to the best of my abilities," he calmly reassured. "In fact, I would willingly accept my own execution should I ever vye for Lord Arryn's position," he added, managing to ease some of Robert's immediate anger.
Nonetheless, Varys swiftly returned to the primary issue. "Nevertheless, we cannot afford a void in Lord Arryn's responsibilities. Chaos will soon ensue unless we find a suitable replacement," he advised, subtly prompting the king to consider the challenges ahead.
With a begrudging sigh, King Robert acquiesced, "Very well... We shall discuss finding a replacement after we have paid our respects to Lord Arryn and laid him to rest properly."
As he turned his gaze back to his departed friend, he seemed to find some solace in the thought of honoring his memory.
...
In Winterfell, Lord Eddard Stark remained blissfully ignorant of the unfolding events in King's Landing.
Clad in his sturdy armor with his trusty sword secured at his side, he approached Ser Barristan and Tyrion, who were diligently preparing their horses for the upcoming journey.
"Are you both prepared to set forth?" he inquired, his gaze alternating between the two men.
Ser Barristan responded with a solemn nod. "Aye... we might as well get this over with.
Tyrion managed a wistful smile amid his disappointment. "As ready as one can be, though it's a shame that Lord Reed couldn't accompany us," Tyrion remarked, his head shaking in rueful contemplation. "I had many more questions about his people, you see," he added, genuine curiosity lacing his voice.
Lord Stark returned the smile, his thoughts momentarily drifting to their absent host. "Regrettably, Lord Reed's pressing duties necessitated his absence," he explained.
"Nevertheless, it's quite clear that he took a liking to you, Tyrion. I'm confident he'll be happy to recieve you as a guest in the future and satisfy your curiosity," Lord Stark assured.
"For now, we ride for the Wall..."
...
Back in the wildling camp, Gale had spent well over an hour honing his sword skills and reflecting on his journey. His blade sliced through the frosty air with precision, each swing a testament to his determination. However, he halted his practice when the sound of approaching footsteps reached his ears.
Turning swiftly, he discovered Mance Rayder making his way towards him.
Raising an inquisitive eyebrow, Gale couldn't resist a touch of sarcasm. "A king of your stature come to fine me me personally instead of sending one of your royal subjects to fethch me, your grace? It must be a matter of dire import to warrant such an honor," he quipped, his tone laced with mockery.
Rayder chuckled. "It seems that even amidst my people, your inclination to bend the knee remains strong. As expected of a Southerner, I should say," he remarked, a wry grin touching his lips. "But you're correct. I do have a matter of grave consequence to discuss with you."
Rolling his eyes in mock exasperation, Gale retorted, "Very well, Your Royal Highness, let's not keep the world-shattering news waiting. What is it this time?"
Rayder's countenance turned earnest as he uttered his declaration. "It is time for you to return to the Night's Watch," he proclaimed, his voice carrying a weight of significance.
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