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Celestial Smith Chapter 63
🕑 Added 2025-06-05 14:11:09 +0000 UTCCelestial Smith Chapter 63: Beyond The wall
The cold bit at Owen's face as he stepped out onto the courtyard of Castle Black. Dawn was just beginning to break, painting the sky in hues of purple and orange. The massive Wall loomed above, its ice gleaming with the first rays of sunlight. Anastasia padded silently beside him, her white fur almost luminous against the dark stones of the courtyard.
Lord Commander Mormont stood waiting, his black cloak billowing in the morning breeze. His face was grim, the lines etched deeper by worry and the harsh northern climate.
"Lord Longshore," Jeor greeted, extending a rolled parchment. "The maps you requested. I've marked the last known locations of the larger wildling tribes." He paused, correcting himself. "The Free Folk, as you call them."
Owen accepted the maps with a nod. "Thank you, Lord Commander. And yes, Free Folk is better. We'll need to start thinking of them as potential allies rather than enemies soon enough."
Jeor's bushy eyebrows furrowed. "Hard to change the thinking of men who've been fighting each other for thousands of years."
"The dead don't care about our ancient grudges," Owen replied, tucking the maps into his enchanted satchel. "Neither should we."
Anastasia growled softly, seeming to sense something in the distance beyond the Wall. Owen placed a calming hand on her massive head, feeling the powerful muscles beneath her fur.
"She's been restless all these days since we arrived," Owen explained. "She can sense them, I think. The Others. Even from this distance."
Jeor's raven flapped down from a nearby beam, landing on his shoulder. "Snow," it croaked. "Snow, snow, snow."
"Bloody bird," Jeor muttered. "Been saying that for weeks now."
"Perhaps it's not referring to the weather," Owen suggested curiously, "but to my brother by marriage."
Benjen Stark approached, his Ranger's blacks blending with the pre-dawn shadows. His face, so reminiscent of Jon's, was solemn as always, but there was a hint of something else there—concern, perhaps even fear.
"The extra ranging parties we sent out have been finding less and less," Benjen said without preamble. "It's as if the Free Folk are vanishing into the air itself."
"Or being added to another army entirely," Owen replied grimly.
Benjen nodded, then reached into his cloak. "I want you to have this." He produced a dagger, its blade obsidian black, its hilt wrapped in leather that had been worn smooth by generations of handling. "Dragonglass. Been in the Stark family for centuries."
Owen examined the blade, feeling its ancient power. "This is a family heirloom, Benjen. I can't take this."
"You're family now," Benjen insisted. "And you're the one going out there."
Owen considered the dagger for a moment, then handed it back. "I have a better idea."
He took the blade carefully between his palms. Closing his eyes, Owen began to murmur words in a language neither Jeor nor Benjen recognized. The air around them grew heavy with power, and the dragonglass began to glow with a blue-white light that seemed to pulse in rhythm with Owen's heartbeat.
When he opened his eyes, they glowed with the same ethereal light. The runes on his skin—normally hidden beneath his robes—were now visible through the fabric, pulsing with magic.
"Fuck me," Jeor whispered, taking an involuntary step back.
The light faded, and Owen handed the dagger back to Benjen. The blade now bore intricate runes along its length, and the edge seemed impossibly sharp, almost too perfect to be real.
"The enchantment will make it deadlier against the dead and the Others should you ever face them," Owen explained. "You'll need it more than I will, Benjen. The ranging parties are our eyes and ears beyond the Wall."
Benjen accepted the transformed weapon with reverence. "I've never seen magic like this."
"Few have," Owen acknowledged. "Now, I should finish my preparations."
Owen knelt beside Anastasia, placing his hands on either side of her massive head. Again, he began to chant, and the direwolf's eyes glowed with the same blue-white light. Runes appeared in her fur, shimmering before fading from sight, though Owen knew they remained, invisible but potent.
"What did you do to her?" Jeor asked.
"Protection," Owen replied, standing. "She's already enhanced beyond any normal direwolf, but where we're going, we need every advantage."
He adjusted the rings on his fingers, each one pulsing with different colored light as he touched them. The emerald at the center of his staff flared briefly, responding to his magic, and Death Dealer seemed to drink in the shadows around it.
"My robes are woven with protective enchantments," Owen explained, seeing the curiosity in their eyes. "The rings each serve a different purpose—healing, strength, protection, fire, and ice. The necklace prevents scrying and mental intrusion. But against the walkers and perhaps their Night King..." He shook his head. "I'm not taking any chances Braavos taught me that lesson."
"The Night King," Jeor repeated, tasting the unfamiliar name. "You speak as if you know him."
"I've seen him," Owen said simply, making up the lie. "In visions. In nightmares. He's ancient, powerful, and utterly without mercy." Truthfully, Owen didn't know if the Night King would look the same as the one form the TV show.
A horn blew, signaling the changing of the watch. The courtyard began to fill with black brothers, many casting curious glances at Owen and his magnificent direwolf.
"It's time," Owen said.
Jeor nodded. "I'll have them open the gate."
As they walked toward the tunnel that ran beneath the Wall, Jeor kept pace beside Owen. "You truly believe you can convince the Free Folk to come south?"
"I have to try," Owen replied. "Every man, woman, and child left north of the Wall is one more soldier in the Night King's army."
"And if they refuse?"
Owen's expression hardened. "Then I'll have to be very persuasive."
The tunnel loomed before them, a dark maw in the base of the Wall. The temperature dropped noticeably as they approached, the ancient ice exhaling its cold breath upon them.
"Good luck, Lord Longshore," Jeor said, extending his arm. "The Old Gods watch over you."
Owen clasped his forearm firmly. "Keep the Wall strong, Lord Commander. I'll return as soon as I can."
As Owen and Anastasia entered the tunnel, he could feel the ancient magic pulsing around them. The ice seemed to sing with power—old power, wild and untamed, but weakening. He placed his hand against the wall, feeling the magic flow through him.
"This won't do," he murmured. He had spent three days adding to the defenses along their side of the wall but it seemed more work was needed.
Owen pressed both palms against the ice and began to chant once more. The runes on his skin flared to life, and similar markings began to appear on the tunnel walls—glowing blue sigils that spread outward from his touch like frost on a window pane.
The magic surged through the ice, reinforcing the ancient spells woven into the very structure of the Wall itself. Owen could feel the defenses growing stronger, the barrier between the realms of the living and the dead becoming more impenetrable.
Slowly, the glowing runes faded from sight, but Owen knew they remained, invisible but potent. The Wall hummed with renewed strength, its magic bolstered by his own.
"That should help," he said to Anastasia, who watched him with intelligent eyes. "But it won't hold forever."
They continued through the tunnel, the cold growing more intense with each step. Finally, they reached the northern gate—a massive structure of hardened ebony.
"Open the gate!" came the call from behind them, echoing through the tunnel.
With a groan of ancient hinges, the gate began to rise. Cold wind rushed in, carrying with it the wild scent of the true North—pine and snow and something else, something ancient and unknowable.
As the gate reached its full height, Owen and Anastasia stood at the threshold between the worlds of men and the vast wilderness beyond. Before them stretched an endless expanse of snow and forest, beautiful and deadly in equal measure.
"Ready, girl?" Owen asked, scratching behind Anastasia's ear.
The direwolf huffed, her breath forming a cloud in the frigid air.
Owen took a deep breath and stepped forward, Anastasia at his side. The gate closed behind them with a finality that sent a shiver down Owen's spine—or perhaps it was just the cold.
He turned to look back at the Wall, its massive bulk stretching east and west as far as the eye could see, disappearing into the morning mist. For eight thousand years, it had stood as mankind's bulwark against the darkness.
"Let's hope it stands for a while longer," Owen murmured.
With that, he turned north, and man and direwolf began their journey into the wild, leaving nothing but footprints in the virgin snow—footprints that were quickly covered by the gently falling snowflakes as the wilderness reclaimed its own.
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The wind howled through the Haunted Forest, bending the ancient pines and sending snow swirling around Owen and Anastasia as they trudged deeper into the wilderness. Three days had passed since they'd left the relative safety of Castle Black, and with each passing hour, Owen felt an increasing sense of wrongness in the air.
"Notice anything strange, girl?" Owen asked, his voice oddly loud in the stillness.
Anastasia's ears twitched, her ice-blue eyes scanning the forest. She let out a soft whine, pressing closer to Owen's side.
"I know. It's too quiet."
The silence was unnatural, oppressive. No birds sang. No small creatures rustled in the underbrush. Even the wind seemed to carry no sound but its own mournful keening. Benjen's ranging parties hadn't reported such eerie silence in this part of the forest, which meant the situation had deteriorated rapidly in just the past few days.
Owen paused, kneeling to examine tracks in the snow—human footprints overlapping, heading northward in haste. He frowned, brushing his fingers over the impressions. They were several days old, already partially filled with fresh snow.
"Someone left in a hurry," he murmured.
They continued on, following the tracks until they came upon the first abandoned camp. Tents still stood, though many had collapsed under the weight of fresh snow. Cooking fires had died, leaving blackened circles in the white landscape. Possessions were scattered about—furs, tools, weapons—things the Free Folk would never willingly leave behind.
"They didn't just leave," Owen observed, picking up a child's doll carved from weirwood. "They fled."
Anastasia growled, hackles rising as she sniffed the air.
"I know, girl. I feel it too."
They found four more abandoned camps that day, each telling the same story of hasty departure. But the fifth camp was different. There were no signs of panic, no scattered belongings. It was as if the inhabitants had simply... vanished.
A pot of stew still hung over the cold remnants of a fire, frozen solid. Spears leaned against tent poles, undisturbed. Bedrolls lay open, as if their occupants had just stepped away for a moment.
Owen felt rage building inside him, a cold fury that matched the landscape around him. He could imagine the scene all too clearly—the silent approach of the dead, the brief struggle, the terror in the eyes of the living as they were overwhelmed. And then, the rising again, with eyes of cold blue.
"They didn't even have a chance," he whispered, his breath fogging in the frigid air.
Anastasia suddenly tensed, her massive head swinging toward the north. A low growl rumbled in her chest, but it wasn't her hunting growl—it was a warning.
"What is it?" Owen asked, his hand moving to Death Dealer's hilt.
The direwolf's ears pricked forward, her nostrils flaring as she scented the air. Then, unexpectedly, she relaxed slightly, though remained alert.
"Not the dead, then," Owen concluded. "Someone's alive out there."
He closed his eyes, extending his magical senses outward. Yes—heartbeats, not many, but strong and quick with fear. Living hearts.
"Let's go, girl. Carefully."
They moved through the trees, Owen's staff glowing faintly to light their way as darkness fell. The emerald at its tip cast an eerie green glow over the snow. Anastasia led, her enhanced senses guiding them toward the survivors.
They found them in a small clearing—a group of perhaps twenty Freefolk huddled around a meager fire, weapons at the ready. The moment Owen and Anastasia emerged from the treeline, they leapt to their feet, spears and axes raised.
A massive man with a wild red beard stepped forward, a huge double-bladed axe gripped in his hands. His fierce blue eyes narrowed as he took in Owen's appearance.
"Southern clothes," he growled. "Crow spy?"
"Not a crow," Owen replied calmly, keeping his hands visible. "Though I came through Castle Black. My name is Owen Longshore, Lord of Ice Crest in the North."
The redheaded man spat. "Lords. Kneelers. What business brings a kneeler lord beyond the Wall?"
"The same thing that has you looking over your shoulder, I'd wager," Owen said. "The dead are rising. I've come to help."
A ripple of murmurs went through the group. The red-bearded man studied Owen, then his gaze shifted to Anastasia. His eyes widened slightly.
"That's no ordinary wolf."
"Her name is Anastasia. She won't harm you unless I command it, or you threaten me."
The man barked a laugh. "Bold words from one man facing twenty."
"I'm not just one man," Owen said quietly.
Before anyone could react, Owen raised his staff. The emerald crystal flared with brilliant light, and he spoke a single word of power. The snow around the clearing rose into the air, swirling into complex patterns before settling back down, completely cleared from a perfect circle around the Freefolk camp.
Gasps and exclamations of shock rippled through the group. Some raised their weapons higher, while others took a step back.
"Sorcery," someone hissed.
"Magic," Owen corrected. "The old powers are returning to the world. The same powers that drive the White Walkers."
The red-bearded man lowered his axe slightly. "You know of the walkers?"
"I do. And I know they're amassing an army of the dead. That's why I'm here—to warn the Free Folk and offer sanctuary south of the Wall."
Laughter erupted from several of the Freefolk, though it held more bitterness than humor.
"South of the Wall?" a woman scoffed. "Where your crows would cut us down?"
"Not under my protection," Owen said firmly. "Things are changing in the North. The old hatreds must be set aside if any of us are to survive the coming winter."
The red-bearded man studied Owen for a long moment, then planted his axe in the snow.
"I'm Tormund Giantsbane," he declared. "These are my people—what's left of them."
Owen nodded respectfully. "May I approach? I have food and supplies to share."
Tormund hesitated, then nodded. "Come, but the wolf stays where she is."
Owen glanced at Anastasia. "Stay, girl. Guard."
The direwolf settled onto her haunches, alert but obedient. Owen approached the fire alone, keeping his movements slow and deliberate.
As he drew closer, he could see the state of Tormund's group more clearly. They were haggard, exhausted. Some bore wounds—not just recent injuries, but older ones festering with infection. An elderly woman sat huddled in furs, her eyes clouded with blindness. A man missing a hand cradled the bandaged stump against his chest, his face gray with pain.
"You've been through much," Owen observed, setting down his pack.
"Lost half our number three nights ago," Tormund said grimly. "The dead came without warning. No horns, no screams from the scouts. Just... there, suddenly, all around us."
Owen nodded. "I've seen what they can do."
He opened his enchanted bag, reaching deep inside to pull out packages of dried meat, hard bread, and skins of wine. The Freefolk watched in amazement as his arm disappeared up to the shoulder in a bag that should have been far too small to contain what he was retrieving.
"More southern magic?" Tormund asked, eyebrows raised.
"Something like that," Owen replied with a small smile. "Please, eat. Share among yourselves."
As they all cautiously accepted the food, Owen turned his attention to the injured.
"I can help with those wounds," he offered. "If you'll allow it."
Tormund exchanged glances with his people, then shrugged. "If you can ease their suffering, I won't stop you. But no tricks, lord. My axe is still sharp."
"No tricks," Owen promised.
He approached the man with the missing hand first, kneeling beside him. "May I?" he asked, gesturing to the bandaged stump.
The man nodded warily. Owen gently unwrapped the crude bandages, revealing a poorly healed amputation, angry with infection. The flesh was blackened in places, oozing in others.
"This would have killed you soon," Owen said quietly.
"Thought as much," the man grunted.
Owen placed his right hand over the stump, the ring on his middle finger—a band of silver set with a pale blue stone—beginning to glow. He closed his eyes, channeling healing energy into the wound.
The Freefolk gasped as the infection visibly receded, the blackened flesh becoming pink and healthy. The ragged edges of the stump smoothed, new skin growing to cover the exposed bone.
When Owen removed his hand, the wound was completely healed, leaving only a smooth, rounded stump where the hand had been.
"By the old gods," the man whispered, staring at his arm in disbelief.
Owen moved to the blind woman next. He placed his thumbs gently over her clouded eyes, the ring glowing brighter. When he removed his hands, her cataracts had dissolved, leaving her eyes clear and bright. She blinked, then let out a cry of joy as she saw the faces of her companions for the first time in years.
One by one, Owen healed the injured and sick among Tormund's band. A child's broken leg, straightened and mended. An old man's wheezing cough, cleared from his lungs. A young woman's infected arrow wound, closed and healed without a scar.
By the time he finished, they were all staring at him with a mixture of awe, gratitude, and fear. Even Tormund seemed stunned into silence.
"Are you a god?" a young boy finally asked, breaking the silence.
Owen shook his head, smiling gently. "No. Just a man with gifts that I use to help others."
"Why would you help us?" Tormund asked, suspicion returning to his voice. "We're your enemies."
"Not mine," Owen said firmly. "We have a common enemy now. The Night King and his army of the dead don't care if you're Free Folk or Northerner. To them, we're all just meat for their army."
He stood, looking around at the gathered Freefolk. "I came beyond the Wall to find Mance Rayder. To warn him and offer sanctuary to all the Free Folk willing to come south."
Tormund's eyebrows shot up. "You know of Mance?"
"I know he's united the Free Folk tribes. I know he's planning to march on the Wall—a plan that will fail and leave thousands of your people dead, then raised to fight for the Night King."
"You speak as if you've seen it happen," Tormund said, narrowing his eyes.
Owen met his gaze steadily. "The Old Gods have shown me visions of what may come. I'm here to change that fate, if I can."
Tormund considered this, then nodded slowly. "Mance camps in the Frostfangs with the main host. But there was talk of moving to Hardhome if the dead pressed too close. He's sending out parties to gather any survivors still scattered across the north."
"Then I need to find him, quickly," Owen said. "Before the Night King's army grows any larger."
"You really think the crows will let us through the Wall?" a woman asked skeptically.
"The Lord Commander has already agreed to it, conditionally," Owen replied. "And my word carries weight in the North. You'll be given lands to settle, away from the Gift. There will be peace between our peoples."
Murmurs of disbelief and hope mingled among the Freefolk. Tormund watched Owen thoughtfully.
"Why would a southern lord risk his life for "wildlings"?" he asked, hate dripping on the name they had been given.
"Because every person left north of the Wall is one more soldier in the Night King's army," Owen answered honestly. "And because it's the right thing to do. No one deserves to face what's coming."
Tormund was silent for a long moment, then he extended his hand. "The Frostfangs are a seven-day journey northwest from here, following the Milkwater. Mance has sentries posted along the way—they'll find you before you find them."
Owen clasped Tormund's forearm in the warrior's grip. "Thank you, Tormund Giantsbane."
"Don't thank me yet, Lord Longshore," Tormund replied with a grim smile. "Convincing Mance will be harder than convincing me. And even Mance doesn't speak for all the Free Folk."
"I'll cross that bridge when I come to it," Owen said. "What about your group? Will you head for the Frostfangs as well?"
Tormund shook his head. "We'll make for Hardhome. It's closer, and my people need rest before another long journey back to mance."
Owen nodded. "Then take these." He reached into his bag again, pulling out several bundles wrapped in oilcloth. "Weapons that will serve against the dead. Dragonglass daggers. Fire will work too, but these are more reliable."
Tormund accepted the bundles with reverence, unwrapping one to reveal a gleaming obsidian blade. "Black glass," he murmured. "The old stories speak of such weapons."
"The old stories are true," Owen said. "And there's one more thing." He produced a small crystal on a leather cord. "If you're in danger, break this. I'll know, and I'll come if I can."
Tormund hung the crystal around his neck, tucking it beneath his furs. "You're a strange southerner, Owen Longshore."
"So I've been told," Owen replied with a smile.
As Owen prepared to depart, the Freefolk he had healed approached one by one, offering thanks in their own ways. The formerly blind woman pressed a small carved bone charm into his hand. The man with the healed stump clasped his shoulder firmly. The child with the mended leg hugged his knees.
"The gods sent you," the old woman said, her newly clear eyes bright with gratitude. "The old gods watch over you, Owen Longshore."
"May your fires burn bright and your blades stay sharp," another called.
"The Longshore will bring the tide that drowns the dead!" someone else shouted, and others took up the cry.
Owen felt a lump in his throat at their unexpected blessing. He had come prepared for hostility, for battle even. This gratitude, this trust—it was more precious than they could know.
"Stay safe," he told them as he rejoined Anastasia at the edge of the clearing. "We'll meet again, at the Fangs or at Hardhome."
Tormund raised his axe in salute. "Hunt well, crow-friend. The dead won't know what hit them."
With a final nod to Tormund, Owen and Anastasia turned northwest, toward the distant Frostfangs and the Freefolk king who held the fate of thousands in his hands.
As they disappeared into the trees, Owen heard Tormund's voice behind him:
"If all southerners were like that one, we might never have needed the Wall in the first place."
Owen smiled to himself, scratching Anastasia behind the ears as they walked. "One battle won," he murmured to the direwolf. "Now for the harder one."
The direwolf huffed in agreement, her breath clouding in the cold air as they made their way deeper into the wild, haunted north.
The wind grew fiercer as Owen and Anastasia pushed northward. The direwolf moved effortlessly through the knee-deep snow, but even with Owen's enhanced strength and stamina, the journey was demanding. They covered ground at an extraordinary pace, moving faster than any normal man and beast could manage, yet the Frostfangs remained distant, their jagged peaks barely visible through the swirling snow.
"We're making good time," Owen said to Anastasia, reaching down to stroke her massive head. "But not good enough. The Night King is moving faster than I expected."
The direwolf huffed in agreement, her breath forming clouds in the frigid air. Her ice-blue eyes scanned the horizon constantly, alert for any sign of danger.
As the weak northern sun began to sink below the horizon, painting the snow-covered landscape in hues of orange and pink, Owen decided to make camp. He found a small clearing sheltered by ancient pines, their branches heavy with snow.
"This will do," he murmured, surveying the area.
Owen planted his staff firmly in the center of the clearing. The emerald crystal at its tip began to glow with an eerie green light. He traced a wide circle in the snow around them, chanting softly in a language long forgotten in this world. As his words echoed in the still air, the snow within the circle melted away, revealing bare ground that steamed slightly.
"Ignis circulum," Owen commanded, touching the tip of his staff to the edge of the circle.
Immediately, a ring of blue-white flames sprang up along the perimeter he had traced. The flames gave off heat but consumed no fuel, casting dancing shadows across the clearing. Within moments, the temperature inside the circle rose dramatically, creating a pocket of warmth in the frigid wilderness.
"There," Owen said with satisfaction. "That should keep us safe and warm for the night."
He knelt beside Anastasia, running his hands through her thick white fur. "Not that you need the protection, but I prefer not to take chances."
The direwolf nuzzled his hand affectionately, then settled down on the now-dry ground, her massive body relaxed but her eyes still watchful.
Owen removed his enchanted satchel and produced a small bundle of dried meat for Anastasia. The direwolf accepted the offering gratefully, tearing into it with powerful jaws. For himself, Owen took out a flask of a strange, glowing blue liquid.
"No need for a real meal tonight," he said, taking a small sip of the potion. It tasted of lightning and winter berries, sending a surge of energy through his body. "This will sustain me."
He didn't truly need food anymore—not since his transformation in the Temple of Solomon. His enhanced body could draw sustenance from the ambient magic in the world around him, and the runes inscribed on his skin regulated his temperature, making him immune to the bitter cold of the far north. The potion was merely a supplement, a boost to his magical reserves.
Owen settled himself cross-legged in the center of the circle, beside his staff which continued to emit its soft green glow. He closed his eyes, extending his magical senses outward, feeling for any disturbances in the natural flow of energy around them.
"Nothing yet," he murmured to Anastasia. "But they're out there. I can feel it."
The direwolf whined softly in response, her ears twitching.
"Get some rest, girl," Owen said, scratching behind her ears. "I'll take first watch."
As the night deepened, the northern lights began to dance across the sky—curtains of green and blue and purple shifting and flowing like silk in the wind. Owen watched them with appreciation, knowing that on any other night, in any other circumstance, the display would be breathtakingly beautiful.
Tonight, however, the lights seemed ominous, as if they were watching him, tracking his movements through the wilderness.
Hours passed. Owen maintained his meditative state, conserving his energy while remaining alert. Occasionally, he would add more power to the circle of flames, ensuring their protection held strong.
It was well past midnight when Anastasia suddenly sat up, her hackles rising. A low growl rumbled in her chest, barely audible but filled with menace.
Owen's eyes snapped open. "What is it, girl?"
The direwolf was on her feet now, facing north, her body tense and ready to spring. The growl deepened, becoming a snarl that revealed gleaming white fangs.
Owen rose smoothly to his feet, grasping his staff. He extended his senses once more, pushing them further this time, straining to detect what had alarmed Anastasia.
And then he felt it—a wrongness in the fabric of reality, a cold emptiness where life should be. Not just in one place, but all around them, encircling their camp.
"They found us," Owen whispered.
He raised his staff, and the emerald crystal flared brighter, illuminating the clearing and the trees beyond. In that expanded circle of green light, Owen saw them—figures standing motionless among the trees, watching with eyes that glowed an unnatural blue.
Wights. Dozens of them visible, but Owen's magical senses told him there were more—many more—hidden in the darkness beyond.
"Stay close, Anastasia," Owen commanded, his voice steady despite the surge of adrenaline.
The direwolf moved to his side, her massive body pressed against his leg, ready to defend or attack as needed.
For a long moment, nothing moved. The wights stood silent and still, their dead eyes fixed on the magical circle of protection. Then, as if responding to some unheard command, they began to advance.
They shambled forward, emerging from between the trees—men, women, and children, some freshly dead, others little more than skeletons held together by sinew and dark magic. Many wore the furs and leathers of the Free Folk, while others were clad in the tattered black of the Night's Watch. All moved with the jerky, uncoordinated gait of puppets controlled by an unskilled master.
"Hundreds," Owen murmured, counting quickly. "If not thousands."
The front line of wights reached the circle of flames and stopped, their dead eyes reflecting the blue-white fire. For a heartbeat, Owen thought the barrier might hold them back.
Then one lurched forward, stepping through the flames without hesitation. Its furs caught fire, but it showed no reaction to the pain, no awareness of its burning flesh. It simply continued forward, reaching for Owen with blackened hands.
"So much for that," Owen muttered, raising his staff.
The emerald crystal pulsed, and a wave of force erupted outward, sending the burning wight flying backward into its companions. But more were already pushing through the flames, ignoring the fire that consumed their rotting flesh.
"Anastasia, guard my back!" Owen shouted, drawing Death Dealer with his free hand.
The black blade seemed to drink in the light around it, becoming a slice of absolute darkness in Owen's grip. Runes inscribed along its length began to glow with an eerie purple light as it tasted the presence of the undead.
The first wight to reach him was once a freefolk woman, her face half-gone, exposing a grinning skull beneath. Owen's blade swept through her neck in a fluid motion, separating head from body. The wight collapsed instantly, the dark magic animating it severed along with its spine.
But there was no time to celebrate the small victory. More wights poured through the failing circle of flames, their numbers seemingly endless.
Owen spun and danced among them, Death Dealer slicing through rotting flesh and ancient bone with equal ease. Each stroke of the enchanted blade sent another wight crumbling to the ground, never to rise again. His staff became a blur of motion in his other hand, the emerald crystal leaving trails of green light as it smashed into undead skulls and torsos.
Behind him, Anastasia was a whirlwind of white fur and flashing fangs. Her massive jaws closed around a wight's head, crushing it like an overripe fruit. Her enhanced strength and speed made her virtually untouchable—even as the wights surrounded her, not one managed to land a blow on the direwolf. She leapt and twisted with impossible agility, her claws ripping through rotting flesh, her teeth tearing limbs from bodies.
For all their ferocity, however, Owen could see they were being overwhelmed by sheer numbers. For every wight they destroyed, three more shambled forward to take its place.
"Time to turn up the heat," Owen growled.
He slammed Death Dealer back into its sheath and raised both hands above his head. The ring on his index finger—a band of gold set with a ruby—began to glow with an intense red light. Owen's voice rose in a chant that seemed to make the very air vibrate with power.
"Ignis infernum!"
A ball of sickly green flame appeared between his palms, growing rapidly until it was the size of a large melon. With a shout, Owen hurled it into the mass of wights approaching from the north. The fireball exploded on impact, sending cursed flames spreading in all directions. Unlike normal fire, this magical conflagration sought out the dark magic animating the wights, consuming it along with their physical forms.
Dozens of wights collapsed as the green fire engulfed them, their blue eyes going dark as the spell that bound them to unlife was broken. But still more came.
Owen didn't wait to see the full effect of his first attack. He was already summoning another fireball, this one tinged with blue at its edges. He sent it flying to the east, where another wave of wights was approaching. Again, the explosion of cursed fire consumed scores of the undead, leaving nothing but ash and blackened bone in its wake.
A third fireball, then a fourth—each one targeted at a different group of advancing wights, each one leaving destruction in its path. The air grew thick with the stench of burning flesh and the strange, cold smell of the magic that animated the dead.
Yet they kept coming.
"Enough of this," Owen snarled, his patience wearing thin.
He planted his feet firmly on the ground, spreading his arms wide. All five rings on his fingers began to glow simultaneously, their different colored lights blending into a blinding white radiance. The runes on Owen's skin burned through his clothing, bathing him in eldritch light.
"Anastasia, to me!" he commanded.
The direwolf bounded to his side, her fur spattered with the black ichor that passed for blood in the wights' veins.
"Ignis spiralis maximalis!"
From Owen's outstretched hands, twin spirals of green fire erupted, spinning outward in an expanding circle. The cursed flames rose higher and higher, forming a wall of fire that swept through the surrounding forest like a tidal wave. Every wight it touched ignited instantly, consumed by the magical flames that burned hotter than any natural fire.
The undead made no sound as they burned—no screams, no cries of pain. They simply collapsed as the dark magic animating them was consumed by Owen's spell. Within moments, hundreds of wights had fallen, their remains still burning with eerie green flames that cast twisted shadows through the trees.
As the last of the wights crumbled to ash, Owen lowered his hands, his breath coming in heavy pants. The spell had taken more out of him than he'd expected. He leaned on his staff, surveying the destruction around them.
The clearing was littered with the remains of the wights that had made it through his circle of protection. Beyond, the forest floor was covered with ash and blackened bones where his cursed fire had swept through the undead horde.
"That should buy us some time," Owen muttered, wiping sweat from his brow despite the freezing temperature.
Anastasia padded around the clearing, sniffing at the remains of the wights, her hackles still raised. She seemed uninjured despite the ferocity of the battle, a testament to the magical enhancements Owen had bestowed upon her.
"Good girl," Owen said, patting her head. "Not even a scratch on you, I see."
The direwolf huffed, as if to say the outcome had never been in doubt.
Owen knelt beside one of the wights that had fallen near the center of the clearing. This one had been a man of the Night's Watch, judging by the tattered remains of his black cloak. Unlike many of the others, this wight was relatively intact, having been felled by Death Dealer rather than consumed by fire.
Owen examined the corpse carefully, noting the advanced state of decay. The flesh was gray and withered, pulling tight against the bone beneath. Yet something about it seemed wrong.
"This man hasn't been dead long," Owen murmured, examining the wound that had likely killed him—a deep gash across the throat. "Days, not weeks or months."
He had expected the recently turned wights to show less decomposition, but this corpse looked as if it had been dead for years rather than days. Something was accelerating the decay process.
Looking closer, Owen noticed something strange in the wound—tiny crystals of ice, glittering in the green light of his staff. They weren't melting despite the heat still radiating from the cursed fire nearby.
"Interesting," Owen said, carefully collecting some of the crystals in a small vial from his satchel.
He moved to another corpse, this one a Freefolk by the look of his furs. The same advanced decay, the same ice crystals in the fatal wound. Owen collected more samples, his brow furrowed in concentration.
"This isn't natural," he told Anastasia, who watched him curiously. "The White Walkers aren't just reanimating the dead—they're transforming them somehow. Making them more durable, perhaps? Or preparing them for something else entirely?"
The direwolf had no answer, but her intelligent eyes followed Owen's movements as he continued his examination of the fallen wights.
After collecting all the samples he needed, Owen stood, brushing snow from his knees. "Time to clean up," he said grimly.
He raised his staff once more, and the emerald crystal flared with renewed brightness. "Ignis purgatorium."
A wave of normal orange-yellow flame swept outward from where he stood, consuming the remains of the wights within the clearing. Unlike the cursed green fire he had used in battle, this was a cleansing flame, designed to ensure the bodies could never be reanimated again.
As the flames died down, leaving nothing but ash, Owen turned to Anastasia. "That was no random encounter," he said, his voice hard. "The Night King knows we're here. He sent these wights specifically to eliminate us."
The direwolf growled softly in agreement.
"The question is, how did he know where to find us? And why commit so many of his forces to attacking just the two of us?"
Owen paced the clearing, thinking aloud. "He must see us as a threat. Though how he tracked us in anyone guess."
Owen stared at the ash-covered clearing, his mind racing. "We need to move. If the Night King sent this many wights after us, he might send more."
Anastasia nudged his hand with her muzzle, as if urging him to action. The direwolf's ice-blue eyes held an almost human understanding of their predicament.
"You're right, girl. No time to waste."
They set off through the darkened forest, leaving the smoldering remains behind. The cursed fire had cleared a path through the deep snow, making their initial progress easier. Owen kept his senses extended, alert for any hint of the unnatural cold that signaled the presence of wights or White Walkers.
After an hour of careful travel, they came upon a small structure nestled between ancient pines—a hunter's hut, long abandoned by the look of it. The roof sagged under the weight of snow, and one wall had partially collapsed, but it would provide some shelter.
"Better than nothing," Owen muttered, approaching cautiously.
He extended his staff, the emerald crystal casting its green glow into the darkened interior. The hut was empty save for a crude wooden table, a three-legged stool, and the remains of a hearth.
"Check it out, girl," Owen commanded.
Anastasia slipped inside, her massive form barely fitting through the doorway. She sniffed carefully, circling the small space before returning to Owen with a soft huff.
"All clear? Good."
Owen ducked inside, immediately setting to work. He traced protective runes on the remaining walls, each one glowing briefly before fading into the wood. Unlike the flashy display of power he'd used against the wights, these spells were subtle—designed to divert attention rather than repel it. Any searching eyes would simply slide past the hut, their gaze drawn elsewhere.
"That should keep us hidden," he told Anastasia, who had settled by the cold hearth. "But let's not risk a fire tonight."
Instead, Owen placed his staff upright in the center of the hut. The emerald crystal dimmed to a faint glow, providing just enough light to see by while emitting a gentle warmth that took the edge off the bitter cold.
He sat cross-legged on the dirt floor, his back against the most intact wall, and pulled his enchanted satchel into his lap. From within, he produced the vials containing the ice crystals he'd collected from the wights.
"Let's see what we're dealing with," he murmured.
Owen held one vial up to the green light, studying the crystals within. They remained frozen despite the warmth of the hut, their structure unnaturally perfect. He removed the stopper and carefully tipped a few crystals onto his palm.
The moment they touched his skin, the runes etched there flared with golden light. The crystals hissed and evaporated, leaving tiny red marks on his palm that quickly faded.
"Fascinating," Owen whispered. "They react to living flesh."
Anastasia watched him curiously, her head tilted.
"It's like they're programmed to seek out life," Owen explained, as if the direwolf could understand his scientific analysis. "The wights aren't just reanimated corpses—they're being transformed on a cellular level."
He closed his eyes, extending his magical senses into the remaining crystals. What he found disturbed him deeply.
"There's consciousness in these," he said, his voice hushed with awe and horror. "Not individual awareness, but... a fragment of a greater mind. The Night King's."
Owen carefully stoppered the vial again, his expression grim. "He's not just raising an army—he's extending himself into each corpse. They're all connected to him, like a vast network."
He tucked the vials back into his satchel and leaned his head against the wall, suddenly exhausted. The battle and subsequent magical exertions had drained him more than he'd realized.
"We should rest while we can," he told Anastasia. "Tomorrow will be a long day."
The direwolf settled her massive body beside him, her warmth more comforting than any fire. Owen placed his hand on her thick white fur, drawing strength from her presence.
"We'll find Mance Rayder," he murmured, his eyes growing heavy. "We'll save as many as we can."
As sleep claimed him, Owen's last thought was of Sansa and little Lyanna, waiting for him at Ice Crest. For their sake, for the sake of all the living, he could not fail.
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Dawn broke reluctantly over the frozen landscape, the weak northern sun barely penetrating the heavy cloud cover. Owen woke instantly, his enhanced senses alerting him to the changing light before it was visible to normal eyes.
Anastasia was already awake, standing by the door, her ears pricked forward as she listened to the world outside.
"Anything?" Owen asked, rising smoothly to his feet.
The direwolf huffed softly, indicating all was clear.
"Good. Let's move."
They left the hut as they had found it, with no trace of their presence. The protective runes Owen had placed would fade by midday, leaving nothing for any pursuers to find.
Outside, fresh snow had fallen during the night, covering their tracks and transforming the landscape into a pristine white expanse. The temperature had dropped further, the air so cold it seemed to crystallize with each breath.
Owen consulted the maps Jeor Mormont had given him, orienting himself by the position of the hidden sun. "Northwest," he murmured. "Following the Milkwater toward the Frostfangs."
He looked at the imposing terrain before them—deep snowdrifts, treacherous ice, and jagged rocks hidden beneath the white blanket. No ordinary traveler could hope to navigate such conditions, especially not at the pace they needed to maintain.
Fortunately, Owen was far from ordinary.
He raised his staff, the emerald crystal flaring with green light. "Via aperta," he intoned, sweeping the staff in an arc before him.
The snow directly in their path compressed and hardened, forming a solid track that cut through the deep drifts. The spell extended for several hundred yards ahead, creating a pathway where before there had been only impassable snow.
"That's better," Owen said with satisfaction. "Ready, girl?"
Anastasia bounded forward, her massive paws finding easy purchase on the magically hardened snow. Owen followed, his enhanced strength and stamina allowing him to keep pace with the direwolf's loping gait.
As they traveled, Owen periodically renewed the spell, extending their path ever forward through the harsh wilderness. The landscape grew increasingly forbidding as they progressed—the trees thinning out, giving way to vast open spaces broken only by rocky outcroppings and frozen streams.
By midday, they had covered an astonishing distance, far more than any normal man could have managed in such conditions. The Frostfangs were now clearly visible on the horizon, their jagged peaks piercing the gray sky like the teeth of some enormous beast.
They paused briefly at the edge of a frozen lake. Owen knelt, breaking through the ice with the butt of his staff to reveal the dark water beneath. He dipped his fingers into the frigid liquid, closing his eyes as he extended his senses.
"No life," he murmured. "Not even bacteria. The water's dead."
Anastasia whined softly, pawing at the snow beside him.
"Yes, it's spreading," Owen agreed, as if understanding her perfectly. "The Night King's influence reaches further than I expected."
They crossed the lake cautiously, Owen using his magic to test the ice before them. In places where it was too thin, he reinforced it with spells, creating a safe passage across the treacherous surface.
On the far side, the terrain began to rise, the gentle slopes gradually giving way to steeper inclines as they approached the foothills of the Frostfangs. Here, Owen's path-clearing spell was even more valuable, carving a traversable route up slopes that would have been nearly impossible to climb otherwise.
As the weak sun began to sink toward the horizon, they reached a high ridge that offered a commanding view of the valley below. Owen paused, surveying the landscape with his enhanced vision.
"There," he said, pointing to a distant smudge of darkness against the white. "Smoke. Could be Mance's camp."
Anastasia growled suddenly, her hackles rising as she turned to face a cluster of boulders to their left.
"What is it, girl?" Owen asked, his hand moving to Death Dealer's hilt.
The answer came in a roar that shook snow from the nearby pines—a sound of primal fury that echoed across the ridge. From behind the boulders emerged an enormous snow bear, its white fur stained with patches of gray and black, its eyes gleaming with unnatural malice.
"Fuck Me," Owen breathed.
The bear was massive, standing nearly fifteen feet tall on its hind legs. Its jaws were lined with yellowed fangs, and its claws looked capable of disemboweling a man with a single swipe. But it was the creature's eyes that truly chilled Owen's blood—they glowed with a faint blue light, the same unnatural hue as the eyes of the wights.
"It's turning," Owen realized. "Not fully dead yet, but not fully alive either."
Anastasia didn't wait for commands. The direwolf launched herself at the bear, her enhanced speed making her little more than a white blur. She slammed into the much larger creature with incredible force, her powerful jaws clamping down on the bear's foreleg.
The bear roared in pain and rage, swinging its massive paw at Anastasia. The direwolf released her grip and leapt away, narrowly avoiding the deadly claws. She circled the bear, looking for another opening, her ice-blue eyes calculating and focused.
Owen drew Death Dealer, the black blade humming with anticipation as it tasted the proximity of the undead. With his other hand, he raised his staff, the emerald crystal pulsing with green light.
"Ignis sagittae!" he shouted.
A bolt of green fire shot from the crystal, striking the bear in its shoulder. The creature bellowed as the magical flame burned through its thick hide, but it didn't fall. Instead, it turned its attention to Owen, charging with surprising speed for something so large.
Owen dove to the side, rolling through the snow as the bear's massive form thundered past him. He came up in a crouch, Death Dealer held at the ready.
"Anastasia, flank!" he commanded.
The direwolf responded instantly, darting in to slash at the bear's hind leg with her razor-sharp claws. The bear whirled with unexpected agility, catching Anastasia with a glancing blow that sent her tumbling through the snow.
"No!" Owen shouted, his voice thick with fury.
He charged forward, Death Dealer raised high. The black blade came down in a whistling arc, slicing deep into the bear's flank. The enchanted weapon cut through fur, flesh, and bone with equal ease, drawing a roar of pain from the massive creature.
But the bear was far from defeated. It rounded on Owen, its jaws snapping at his face. He barely managed to interpose his staff between them, the emerald crystal flaring brightly as it discharged a pulse of force directly into the bear's mouth.
The creature staggered back, shaking its massive head. Dark fluid that might once have been blood dripped from its jaws, steaming where it hit the snow.
Anastasia was on her feet again, apparently unharmed by the bear's blow. She circled warily, waiting for an opening. Owen met her gaze and nodded slightly, a silent communication passing between them.
As one, they attacked from opposite sides—Owen driving Death Dealer deep into the bear's side while Anastasia leapt for its throat, her powerful jaws closing on the thick fur and flesh.
The bear reared up, trying to dislodge the direwolf, but Anastasia held firm, her enhanced strength allowing her to maintain her grip even as the massive creature thrashed and roared. Owen withdrew his blade and struck again, aiming for the heart.
Death Dealer sank to the hilt in the bear's chest, its enchanted edge finding the still-beating heart within. The bear froze, a strange gurgling sound escaping its throat. Then, slowly, the blue light in its eyes began to fade.
The massive creature collapsed, nearly crushing Owen beneath its bulk. He leapt clear at the last moment, pulling Death Dealer free as the bear crashed to the ground.
Anastasia released her grip on the bear's throat and backed away, her muzzle stained with the same dark fluid that oozed from the creature's various wounds.
"Good girl," Owen said, patting her head. "Are you hurt?"
The direwolf shook herself, seeming none the worse for wear. Her enhanced durability had protected her from injury, just as Owen had intended when he bestowed his magical enhancements upon her.
Owen approached the fallen bear cautiously, Death Dealer still held at the ready. The creature wasn't moving, but he had learned to be thorough when dealing with the undead.
He examined the massive corpse, noting the patches of gray and black in the otherwise white fur. These discolored areas were cold to the touch, colder even than the surrounding air, and had the same waxy texture as the flesh of the wights they had fought earlier.
"It was in the process of turning," Owen confirmed, more to himself than to Anastasia. "The transformation wasn't complete, but it was well underway."
He cut away a section of the discolored fur and flesh, finding the same ice crystals he had observed in the wights. They were less numerous here, but their presence was unmistakable.
"The influence is spreading faster than I thought possible," Owen said grimly. "In the books and series, the White Walkers' power grew gradually, taking years to reach this far south of the Lands of Always Winter."
He stood, wiping Death Dealer clean before returning it to its sheath. "Something's accelerated their timetable. Perhaps my presence has changed things more than I realized."
Anastasia whined softly, nudging Owen's hand with her nose.
"Yes, we need to hurry," he agreed. "If the animals are turning, then the Free Folk are in even greater danger than I feared."
He cast one last look at the fallen bear, then raised his staff. "Ignis purgatorium."
The bear was burnt to nothing but ash in a minute.
Owen and Anastasia continued their journey, pushing northwest toward the Frostfangs with renewed urgency. The incident with the partially-turned bear weighed heavily on Owen's mind. If the Night King's influence was spreading to animals this far south, the situation was deteriorating faster than he had anticipated.
"We need to move faster," he murmured to Anastasia, who trotted alongside him, her ice-blue eyes constantly scanning their surroundings.
Owen extended his path-clearing spell further ahead, creating a solid track through the deepening snow. As they climbed higher into the foothills, the temperature dropped even further, the air becoming so cold it hurt to breathe. But neither Owen nor his enhanced direwolf companion felt the bite of the frigid air—his runes regulated his body temperature, while her magically enhanced physiology protected her from the elements.
By nightfall, they had reached a high pass between two jagged peaks. Owen paused at the summit, gazing down at the valley beyond. In the fading light, he could make out the first signs of habitation—small pinpricks of orange firelight scattered across the landscape below.
"We're close," he told Anastasia, scratching behind her ears. "But let's rest here tonight. I'd rather approach Mance's camp in daylight, when they can clearly see who—and what—we are."
They found shelter in a small cave, its entrance partially hidden by a snowdrift. Inside, Owen established the same subtle protections he had used at the hunter's hut—runes that would divert attention rather than repel it. He created a small, smokeless fire with a gesture, providing light and warmth without revealing their location to any watching eyes.
As Anastasia settled beside him, Owen pulled out Jeor Mormont's maps again, studying the terrain ahead. According to the Lord Commander's information and Tormund's own words, Mance Rayder's main camp should be in the valley directly below them—a gathering of all the Free Folk tribes unprecedented in living memory.
"Tens of thousands of them," Owen murmured, tracing the valley with his finger. "Men, women, children, even some giants, even... all fleeing the same enemy."
He folded the map and leaned back against the cave wall, staring into the magical flames. "The question is, will they listen? Or are they too proud to accept help from a 'kneeler'?"
Anastasia huffed softly, as if to say the answer was obvious.
Owen smiled, scratching under her chin. "You're right. We'll make them listen. We have to."
The night passed uneventfully, though Owen maintained a state of semi-awareness even in sleep, his magical senses extended to detect any approach. None came. Either the Night King's forces had not yet reached this far into the Frostfangs, or they were biding their time, gathering strength for a more devastating attack.
Dawn brought clearer skies and better visibility. From the mouth of their cave, Owen could now see the true extent of Mance Rayder's camp—a vast sea of tents, huts, and makeshift shelters spreading across the valley floor. Smoke from hundreds of cooking fires rose into the still air, creating a haze that hung over the encampment like a shroud.
"Well Damn!," Owen breathed. "There must be over a hundred thousand of them….maybe more."
He had known the numbers intellectually, from his memories of the books and show, but seeing the reality before him was something else entirely. This wasn't just an army—it was an entire people on the move, with all their possessions, their livestock, their children and elders. A desperate migration unlike anything seen in thousands of years.
"Let's go," Owen said, gathering his staff and adjusting Death Dealer at his hip. "Remember, girl—no aggression unless I command it. We're here as friends, even if they don't know it yet."
Anastasia snorted, as if insulted by the implication that she might behave improperly.
They descended from the pass, following a winding trail that led down toward the valley. The path was well-trodden, suggesting regular use by the Free Folk, perhaps as a lookout point or signal station.
As they neared the outskirts of the camp, Owen deliberately stopped using his path-clearing spell. Better to approach on foot, like any normal traveler, than to display his magical abilities too soon. He wanted to reach Mance Rayder before causing a stir among the general population.
They had barely covered half the remaining distance when Owen sensed movement in the rocks around them. His hand instinctively moved to Death Dealer's hilt, but he forced himself to relax, keeping his posture open and non-threatening.
"We're surrounded," he murmured to Anastasia. "At least a dozen of them."
The direwolf's ears pricked forward, but she remained calm at his side, following his lead.
A moment later, figures emerged from behind rocks and snowdrifts—freefolk clad in furs and leather, their faces weathered by the harsh climate, their eyes hard and suspicious. They carried spears, bone-tipped arrows nocked in crude bows, stone axes, and other primitive weapons.
One man stepped forward, taller than the others, with a thick beard streaked with gray and a face crisscrossed with old scars. A necklace of bear claws hung around his neck, marking him as a warrior of some renown.
"That's far enough, southerner," he called, his voice as rough as the landscape around them. "State your business or die where you stand."
Owen raised his empty hands, showing he meant no harm. "I've come to speak with Mance Rayder," he replied calmly. "My name is Owen Longshore, Lord of Ice Crest in the North."
Murmurs ran through the gathered Freefolk. The name Longshore clearly meant something to them.
"Longshore?" the leader repeated, his eyes narrowing. "The witch-lord who healed Tormund's band?"
Owen nodded. "Tormund Giantsbane and I met three days ago. His people were fleeing from the dead. I gave them dragonglass weapons and healing for their wounded."
The Freefolk leader studied Owen for a long moment, then his gaze shifted to Anastasia. His eyes widened slightly, the first crack in his hard demeanor.
"And what manner of beast is that?" he asked, gesturing toward the direwolf with his spear. "No natural wolf grows so large."
"Her name is Anastasia," Owen said. "She's a direwolf. She won't harm anyone unless they threaten me."
More murmurs, these tinged with awe and fear. Direwolves were rare enough beyond the Wall, but one of Anastasia's size was unheard of.
The leader seemed to come to a decision. "I am Jarl," he announced. "I will take you to Mance. But your weapons stay with you, and the wolf comes too." He grinned, showing several missing teeth. "I want to see the King-Beyond-the-Wall's face when he lays eyes on that beast."
Owen inclined his head in acceptance. "Lead the way, Jarl."
The Freefolk formed a loose circle around Owen and Anastasia, more an escort than a capture party. As they approached the outskirts of the camp, people stopped what they were doing to stare at the strange procession—a man in foreign garb, carrying a staff with a glowing crystal, accompanied by a direwolf the size of a small horse.
Children pointed and whispered. Women clutched their babies closer. Men reached for weapons, though none made any move to attack. The presence of Jarl and his scouts seemed to assure them that the stranger was being brought under control.
As they moved deeper into the camp, Owen took in the details around him. The Free Folk were a diverse people—he saw the fur-clad hunters of the Frozen Shore, the cave dwellers with their painted faces, the Hornfoots with their hardened bare feet, and many other tribes he couldn't immediately identify. All had been brought together by a common enemy and a common leader.
They passed a group of giants tending to mammoths at the edge of a frozen lake. The enormous creatures regarded Owen and Anastasia with curious eyes, but made no threatening moves. Owen nodded respectfully to them, earning surprised looks from his escort.
Finally, they reached the center of the camp, where a large tent of animal hides stood surrounded by banners of various Free Folk tribes. Guards stood at the entrance, their weapons and demeanor marking them as elite warriors.
"Wait here," Jarl instructed, before ducking into the tent.
Owen stood patiently, aware of the hundreds of eyes now fixed upon him and Anastasia. The direwolf remained calm at his side, though her ears constantly swiveled, tracking every sound in the bustling camp.
After several minutes, Jarl emerged from the tent. "Mance will see you," he announced. "The wolf too."
Owen nodded his thanks and followed Jarl into the tent, Anastasia padding silently behind him.
The interior was warmer than Owen had expected, heated by several braziers placed strategically around the space. Furs covered the ground, and more hung from the walls, providing both insulation and decoration. Maps and strange artifacts were scattered on rough wooden tables, evidence of planning and preparation.
At the center of the tent stood a group of people—the leaders of the Free Folk, gathered in council. They turned as one to face the newcomers, their expressions ranging from curiosity to outright hostility.
And at their center stood Mance Rayder himself.
He was not what Owen had expected. In place of the weathered, grim warrior he had imagined, Mance was a man of middle years with sharp, intelligent eyes and an almost scholarly demeanor. He wore simple furs without adornment, indistinguishable from any other Freefolk save for the quiet authority he exuded.
Beside him stood a fierce-looking woman with red hair, her hand resting on the hilt of a bone knife at her belt. Dalla, Mance's wife, heavily pregnant with their child. On Mance's other side loomed Tormund Giantsbane, whose face broke into a wide grin when he saw Owen.
"The Sorcerer!" Tormund boomed. "I told you he was real, Mance!"
Mance Rayder raised a hand, silencing Tormund without taking his eyes off Owen. He studied the newcomer carefully, his gaze taking in every detail of Owen's appearance, from his strange staff to the rings on his fingers to the runes visible on his skin where his sleeves had pulled back.
Then his attention shifted to Anastasia, and something like wonder flickered across his face.
"Since when," Mance said finally, his voice soft yet carrying to every corner of the tent, "has the south begun giving birth to skinwalkers with giant direwolves? Should i name you a Demon of the Southlands…" His lips curved in a small, knowing smile. "Or should I simply call you Lord Longshore, Great inventor and sorcerer of the North?"
All Owen did was shrug and smile. "Guilty as charged."
Comments
travis btmb
Tftc
travis btmb
you say the gates were replaced with ones made from ebony then you turn around and say when he leaves through the northern gate its made of steel and ironwood you need to check your work thoroughly before you post overall you do a good job but you have made small mistakes consistently throughout your work
