I didn't tell it to do any of that. How-

Immediately, I noted the fact that, while the Undead Bear was still connected to me, something actively interfered with that connection while I wasn't looking and essentially took the controls away from me. However, because – in a sense – it was still my house and it was still my game, wrenching the controller back was as easy as thinking about it. And, honestly, what it was that'd taken over my undead bear didn't seem at all invested in completely taking over, letting go the moment I actually noticed. I shuddered at the thought, because there were very few entities in planetos that had any sort of power over the dead and none of them were particularly friendly. The Others, for instance, were the ones I'd place the blame on immediately, but – as far as I'm aware – those guys can only reanimate corpses that are close to them or are within touching distance. So, I guess I could kind of rule them out for now; the only other candidate for the blame game was the Great Other, their god.

Ah man.

I'd been afraid of gaining the attention of the Targaryens, inbred firebreathing lizard lovers that they were, I'd completely forgotten about the attention of the various gods that apparently existed on this planet. And, at the moment, I just caught the attention of the one god that has been implied, since book fucking one, to be the big bad main enemy of the entire setting, the puppeteer who pulled all the strings and had all the Others in its pocket, the Great fucking Other.

Oh boy. Gaining that entity's attention definitely hadn't been on my bucket list. In fact, I actually kind of forgot it even existed, until just now. But, in hindsight, considering that I was essentially a living conduit of Necromancy, I should've known that, at the very least, a god that actively practiced Necromancy would take notice.

But... you know what? Fuck it. I'll deal with it if it ever came up again, but it seems – at least, for now – the Great Other didn't seem too interested in doing anything else. If I had to guess, it was probably curious about the Necromancy that was going on and decided to investigate and saw that I wasn't concentrating enough in controlling my minions, which was definitely something I aimed to fix, since one of the worst possible scenarios involved the Others taking control of my damn undead.

But, at least, for now, I didn't have too much to worry about just yet. After all, I had, what, three undead units under my control? As long as I kept them within viewing distance, then I figured there was little to worry about. I'd also have to keep my mind sharp and focused at all times, which was the harder part, but I survived law school with only two brain cells; so, this couldn't be that hard, right?

With a simple mental command, my cute little undead bear stopped brutalizing the corpses and slowly walked towards me, its massive paws leaving deep prints on the soil. I stared at it for a moment, before concluding that, yep, it was now a part of me once again and, this time, I wasn't letting anything else take the reins from me. With that in mind, I moved forward. There was still a battle raging and I wasn't going to just stand here while the villagers defended themselves. It wasn't a siege or a contest of attrition; at some point, the villagers and their defenses would fall and the Wildlings would swoop in and overwhelm them with sheer numbers and raw barbarism.

Where the fuck was the local lord, anyway? Surely, they should've already sent a force of defenders? That was, of course, unless they were also held up by another force of Wildlings, coming from the other side of the island. Shit.

Alright, fuck any form of subtlety. I had to assume that the lord wasn't coming and that the fate of this lonely little village was now firmly in my hands. And that meant I had to pull out all the stops and all the tricks I could muster. I still wasn't quite confident enough in my knowledge of Necromancy to start using higher-level spells, but I didn't need them just yet. Cantrips worked just fine. No, it was my mindset that needed some reorienting. If I was going to save these people, then I had to get comfortable with the idea of killing. And, as my dad used to say, 'there ain't a better way of teaching a scared child how to swim than by throwing them into the open water.'

A band of Wildlings rushed at me. Ten of them, each one wielding a polearm or a club. A simple mental command and my undead charged them back – two human zombies and a single bear. The Wildlings stood no chance. The bear alone weighed close to a metric ton. All that muscle and bone tore right through their ranks and ripped them apart with ease. My two other zombies did a good-enough job of attacking with teeth and nail, enough to be a nuisance. I then used [Chill Touch] on each of them, touching their necks one by one. Those who died first were lucky. They didn't have to suffer the pain of being torn apart by my minions. But, at the end of the day, their pain was measured in the seconds; after all, getting bitten in half by a rampaging undead bear was probably painful, but you'd also die in like three seconds.

Ten Wildlings died in less than fifteen seconds and at least four of them died when my bear got to them. I also definitely did not puke as we stepped forward and continued towards the main force of Wildlings. There shouldn't be too many of them left now. I was pretty sure I'd killed off a lot of them when I sunk their ships. This was likely meant to be a pincer attack, after all. As I moved forward and made my way through a few houses, my ears perked up at a low, pained groan – a familiar voice too.

Raising a brow, I decided to look for the source of the voice. As a Necromancer, healing was kind of beyond me, but I could stabilize someone who was on the brink of death, using [Spare the Dying]. And then, underneath a ruined and collapsed house, I found him, wounded and severely injured, covered in cuts and bruises and holes. It was the same kid, who'd aimed a spear at my face and yelled at me for using magic. Ah, how the turn tables.

He was conscious, but barely. His eyes turned to me as I stopped and crouched beside him. "Do you want to live?"

And I just realized how stupid that question must've been. Of course he wanted to live. And so, before he could answer, I reached out to him and used [Spare the Dying].

Now, I wasn't sure what I'd been expecting. It wasn't exactly a healing spell or anything of the sort, but its nature was one of healing, which was actually quite weird for a Necromancer to have, but whatever. And so, I looked on as some of his wounds closed, the most grievous of them, I figured, especially the ones that'd damaged his internal organs. A few other injuries did not close or disappear outright, but they did lessen, shrinking until they were no longer mortally dangerous.

By the end of it, he still looked like a bleeding sad sack of shit, but also no longer at death's door. So, I'd say he had about 1hp now – alive. The boy had fallen unconscious, however, which meant he'd probably end up dying anyway if I just left him out here.

I glanced around and found a nearby hovel that'd been emptied of everything inside, courtesy of the damn Wildlings. So, since his shoulders were fine, I had both of my human zombies grab him by his arms and drag him into said hovel. He'd be safe here, hopefully – or, safer. "Well, I hope you survive this, kid. I really do."

I also hoped that the other archers survived. It was hard to tell from all the corpses that dotted the village, but I hope they did. The time I'd spent fighting by their side was brief, true, but I couldn't rightly say that I didn't give a shit about them, like I did the Wildlings.

Because, I definitely didn't give a shit about these barbarians.

Now, time to look for more Wildlings to kill. I found their main force soon enough. There were... probably less than a hundred of them, actually. And a lot of them had died, riddled with arrows or poked full of holes by spears. But, the villagers weren't doing too good either, because a dozen or so of their warriors had already fallen and I was pretty sure that was a kid over there picking up her father's spear. Yeah, no. No more of that. A few of the Wildlings spotted me and I saw the fear in their eyes immediately, widening the moment they saw my undead minions.

"It's a fucking other!"

"Whitewalker!"

Close enough, but not quite.

"Hey there, you fucking barbarians!" I roared, loud enough for all of them to hear, though I only caught the attention of a few dozen of them. The others were too preoccupied with trying to break down the wall of wooden planks the villagers had erected. "Die to time!"

Ah, I messed up a cool line.

Without further ado, I ordered my minions to charge, with the undead bear moving far ahead of them. The Wildlings panicked immediately and I saw some of them running away. Their lines faltered and broke. No one, after all, wanted to be the first to be ripped apart by my cute little minion. And so, when my undead bear tore into their ranks, the Wildlings barely mustered any sort of defense. They fell into disarray almost immediately, with only a few dozen of them even bothering to try and fight back, to bring down the rampaging beast. My two other zombies just sort of charged in there and did their best, but I was pretty sure they weren't doing much.

I, on the other hand, pretty much spammed my [Chill Touch]. And, like a bunch of dominoes, the Wildlings fell, one by one. I touched their legs, necks, arms, or whatever else I could target. The effects were more or less the same; either they died immediately or they fell down, screaming as whatever part of them I touched withered and rotted away from Necrotic damage. Their screams grew dull in my ears. And, at some point, I figured I just went numb to the idea of killing people. As much as I hated it, this was the only way I could've done anything. It wasn't like the higher level spells were any less deadly.

Did I feel disgust at what I was doing? Maybe. I wasn't sure anymore. None of the Wildlings could even approach me as [Chill Hand] made short work of anyone who even had the guts to try. It was like waving an eraser across the air; anyone I happened to touch or graze just fell down, screaming or plain dead.

And, of course, that wasn't even taking into account the pure carnage unleashed by my undead bear. Each swipe of its massive claws sent two or three Wildlings to their deaths immediately, crushing bone and rending flesh with ease. Anyone unlucky enough to be within biting distance found themselves dying quickly, but brutally, mauled apart in gruesome showers of blood and gore, painting the ground crimson.

Those who bent down and fell to their knees were spared, because I'd honestly prefer not to take more lives than was absolutely necessary. Plus, based on the books, I knew it took a lot for a Wildling to actually get on their knees.

By the end of it, my soul was stained by the blood of hundreds. And I honestly wasn't sure if I still cared.