A Warmth in the Snow (ASOIAF x LOTM)

His breath came out in painful, white puffs, each intake of air feeling like swallowing shards of ice. Wyr ran. His lungs burned with a frozen fire, and the muscles in his legs screamed in protest, a symphony of agony muted only by the rush of blood in his ears. But he had to keep running. To stop meant death, and after death, came something far worse. Behind him, among the shadows of the gnarled weirwood trees, the wights moved. They didn't run; they didn't need to. They just kept coming, tireless, an inevitable tide of silence and cold.


Pain, Wyr's whole body ached from the wounds that were everywhere.


The night was utterly silent, a silence that could only be found in the heart of the deepest winter north of the Wall. There was no blizzard to hide his tracks, no howling wind to drown out the sound of his desperate footsteps. Only an endless expanse of white under a cold, indifferent, star-strewn sky. The snow covered everything like a clean, cruel white shroud, hiding the rocks and roots ready to twist his ankle. This was the land of the Thenns, or at least what used to be their land. Now, it was just another graveyard marked by silence.


Wyr had watched his village perish, swallowed by a winter that came with blue eyes and frozen hands. He saw Orick, the hunter with the crooked spear who boasted he could take down a mammoth alone, torn apart by the very children he had helped birth. He saw Lara, the girl who braided her hair with raven feathers, rise from her death, her skin bruised blue like ice, and the eyes that were once full of laughter now two chips of vacant sapphire. They looked at him, not with hatred, but with a horrifying absence, a cold emptiness that invited Wyr to join their silent ranks. That gaze would be forever seared into his mind, a ghost that would haunt him even in his final moments.


And now, he was alone. The last free man of his clan.


A root, hidden like a snake beneath the snow, caught his foot. The world turned upside down in a painful vortex of white and black. Wyr tumbled down a steep slope, his body bouncing off ice-covered rocks and frozen tree stumps. Pain exploded in his shoulder, followed by a wet crack that made him nauseous. He finally came to a stop at the bottom of a small hollow, lying face down in a deep snowdrift. The air was forced out of his bruised lungs. He tried to move, tried to scream, but his body refused to obey. All that came out was a weak groan that froze on his lips.


From here, lying helpless, he could hear them. The sound, that soft scrape of dry bone on snow, the rustle of frozen leather clothes. And beneath it, a bone-chilling hum, the cold breath of a hundred corpses that no longer needed air. They were getting closer.


With the last vestiges of his strength, Wyr turned onto his back, gasping from the sharp pain in his ribs. He stared up at the stars, the same constellations his mother had looked at when she told him tales of legends. Is this the end? he thought, a cold despair creeping into his heart, colder than the snow soaking his back. He remembered his mother's face, wrinkled with laughter and hardened by hardship, smelling of woodsmoke and frozen berries. He remembered his friends, sharing game around a fire, their laughter echoing in the cold night. They were all gone. Dead, or worse than dead. And he could do nothing. He could only run.


As the first shadow fell over him, Wyr closed his eyes. He could feel their cold, an aura of frozen decay that made the hair on his arms stand on end. Only a few steps away now. His heart hammered against his broken rib cage, a frantic war drum against the encroaching silence. He wasn't ready to die. A hot tear escaped from the corner of his eye, freezing on his temple in an instant.


A figure stood over him, blocking out the starlight. Wyr felt a piercing cold seep through his skin as a hand made of ice and bone reached for his face.


Then, something changed.


Warmth.


It started as a strange, almost unreal sensation. A gentle warmth touched his frozen cheek, like the first ray of morning sun after a long winter's night. The warmth grew, becoming stronger, pushing back the deathly chill. It was a living warmth, like sitting by a hearth, like embracing a living body. It was a warmth that could melt snow.


Then there was a scream.


Not a human scream. It was a high-pitched shriek that tore through the night's silence, the sound of nails scraping on a tombstone, the sound of a glacier shattering into a million pieces. It was a painful sound, one that made Wyr's ears ring and his teeth chatter.


Wyr opened his eyes.


There, standing a few paces from him, was a person. His clothes were strange, unlike anything Wyr had ever seen. Not the thick hides or layered furs worn by the Free Folk. It was neatly cut cloth, dark in color, perhaps more suited for a southerner who knelt before a king. A strange hat sat on his head, and over his eyes, a thin, transparent object glinted like a shard of ice in the starlight, held by a thin chain.


And in front of Wyr, where the wight had been about to touch him, the stranger was raising his right hand. Light. A blinding, pure light erupted from his palm, drowning all shadows. The small hollow was bathed in a light so bright that night turned into a blinding day. The snow around the stranger hissed and evaporated into mist.


With eyes wide with horror and awe, Wyr watched the Others, the Others burn. They didn't burn like wood or flesh. They burned from the inside out. A holy, golden fire consumed them, and their screams reached a crescendo. The first head exploded into a cloud of glowing ash that swirled in a sudden wind. Then the arms, torso, and legs followed, disintegrating into glittering particles of dust before they could touch the ground. Their blue eyes, which had shone with a frozen malice, flickered and went out like dying stars.


In a matter of seconds, it was all over. Their luminous ash danced in the air for a moment, like fireflies in a long-forgotten summer, before fading into nothingness.


Nothing was left. Not even a blackened bone or the smell of burnt flesh. Only silence, the fading warmth, and the stranger standing motionless in the middle of it all.


Wyr could only stare, his breath caught in his sore throat, his mind blank with the wonder and horror of what he had just witnessed.


The blinding light receded, drawing back into its source like a tide pulling away from the shore. The darkness of night returned, but it felt less menacing now, as if the power just unleashed had cleansed the air of its evil chill. For a moment, Wyr could see the source of the light clearly: a brooch pinned to the man's leather glove, shaped like an intricate sun. It shimmered with residual light, warm and golden, before vanishing. It didn't fall, nor was it put away. It simply seemed to be carried away by the wind and disappeared.


After the miracle ended, the man looked at him.


Those eyes were as deep and cold as the snow, a dark brown color, while his straight black hair framed an expressionless face. There was no relief in his eyes, no pity, just a calm, sharp assessment that made Wyr feel as though his soul was being laid bare. Then, the man made a small gesture with his now-empty hand. From thin air, from nothingness itself, a wooden staff appeared in his grasp. The staff looked ordinary, made of smooth wood with no carvings or adornments, but its sudden appearance was another miracle that made Wyr gasp in horror. With a newfound burst of energy, he tried to crawl backward in the snow, his breath catching in his throat. After being saved, will I be killed? The thought flashed through his mind, a bitter, ironic fear. The old gods were often cruel in their jests.


However, the man showed no malicious intent. He stepped closer, his strange, thin shoes barely leaving a mark on the snow. With a gentle, deliberate motion, he tapped the tip of the wooden staff on Wyr's injured shoulder. Wyr flinched, anticipating pain or a deadly blow. Instead, a wave of soothing warmth flowed from the point of contact, spreading through his body like warm water. The sharp pain in his shoulder subsided to a dull throb, then vanished completely.


Wyr watched in amazement as he felt his broken bone shift and knit back together with a soft crack. He raised a trembling hand to his face, where he knew there was a deep, bleeding gash. Beneath his fingertips, he could feel the skin knitting together, closing on its own, leaving behind a smooth surface as if the wound had never been there.


"Are you all right?" the man asked. His voice was flat, devoid of emotion, and the words were spoken with a strange, crisp accent, unlike the rough growls of the Free Folk. As he spoke, the staff in his hand began to fade, turning transparent before disappearing completely, dissolving back into the nothingness from which it came.


"Yes... yes! Yes!" Wyr managed to reply, his voice hoarse with disbelief. He pushed himself to his feet, his legs feeling steady beneath him, his body whole and strong. He was still dazed, his mind reeling as it tried to comprehend the impossible chain of events.


"We should get out of here," the man said. It wasn't a request; it was a command spoken with a quiet, undeniable authority. "You lead the way."


Without thinking, Wyr nodded. He started walking, leading the way from the bloodless massacre, his feet moving automatically while his mind raced. Where to? He didn't know where he wanted to go. His village was gone. His clan was wiped out. He was a ghost in his own land. As they walked in silence, Wyr glanced at the man beside him. His clothes, thin and form-fitting trousers, were clothes for a southern summer, not for surviving the endless winter north of the Wall. Yet, the man seemed to feel no cold at all. No vapor escaped his lips, and he didn't shiver. It was as if winter itself was afraid to touch him.


And his power... Wyr didn't even know what to call it. Magic? The word felt thin and inadequate. Wyr had met a warg once, but they certainly couldn't do this.


This was more like the whispers around a campfire, a blinding light that could turn the undead to dust. Wyr's world was made of real things: steel, stone, flesh, and blood. What he had just seen did not belong in that world. He had never heard of the southerners, the kneelers, being able to do this; they were known for their great cities and their kings. Not for men who could command light and heal broken bones with the wave of a stick.


They finally reached a crevice in the side of a rocky hill, a shallow cave Wyr had found a few days ago when he first fled. It was pitch black inside, a thick, oppressive darkness. Wyr stopped at the entrance, unsure how they would make a fire without tinder. But once again, the man showed his magic. He raised his hand, and a bronze lantern appeared from thin air, hanging from his fingers. A small flame flickered within it, and with a blink, it flared to life, casting a steady, warm light that illuminated the entire cave.


Wyr could only stare, his shadow dancing on the stone wall behind him, as he tried to comprehend the nature of his savior, a man who brought daylight and summer into the heart of the coldest, darkest night.


Silence settled over them, heavy and filled with unspoken questions. Wyr, his body still thrumming with the afterglow of the healing magic, swallowed hard. In the face of such power, silence felt more dangerous than the howl of a snow-wolf. He was a Free Folk; they didn't bow, nor did they beg. They took what they wanted and fought what they hated. Yet, this man before him had turned wights to dust with a wave of his hand and set his broken bones with a touch. The old rules felt invalid.


"Thank you for saving me... sorry," Wyr said, the words feeling foreign and clumsy on his tongue, like small stones being forced from his throat. But before this man, something primal in him, a sense of fear, of respect, or perhaps both, demanded civility. "But who are you?"


The man just looked at him, and the cave seemed to shrink under the intensity of his gaze. His dark brown eyes didn't reflect the lantern's light; instead, they seemed to absorb it, drawing Wyr into a quiet, unfathomable darkness. It felt as if a whole night passed in that silence. Wyr felt the hair on his arms stand up, but not from the cold.


Finally, the man spoke, his voice breaking the silence like ice cracking on a frozen lake. "Gehrman Sparrow. Why were you out there alone? Where are the others?"


Gehrman Sparrow. The name lacked the rhythm or growl of Free Folk names. It sounded smooth and sharp, like a southerner's name. Wyr nodded in his mind, trying to commit the name to his shaken memory. He took a deep breath. "I wasn't really alone," he answered, his voice trembling slightly as the memory returned with full force. A flash of his friend Orick's empty blue eyes crossed his mind. "The ones with me... they're part of the Others now." He paused, letting the weight of the words hang between them. "The rest moved south, days ago. They were going to join Mance Rayder."


"Mance Rayder?" Gehrman Sparrow repeated the name, not as an inquisitive question, but more like a scholar encountering a new term to be classified.


"He's the King-Beyond-the-Wall," Wyr explained. "He's leading many clans now. Because the Others are coming, we all have to unite. Move south, past the Wall, before it's too late." He looked at Gehrman sharply, his desperate curiosity finally overcoming his fear. "But I was left behind. And you, who are you, Gehrman Sparrow? You're not one of the usual kneelers."


The man showed no change in expression. His face was a mask of calm porcelain. "I am a missionary of a God," he said, each word spoken with cold precision. "'He' is The Fool, the mysterious ruler above the gray fog."


"A G-god?" Wyr stammered. The word itself was startling enough. He knew of the old gods, the nameless spirits that resided in the weirwood trees and the frozen streams. He had heard of the Seven gods the southerners worshipped, gods with names and faces. But this... this was different. Remembering the devastating light and the healing touch, Wyr couldn't just dismiss it. It was possible this man was indeed speaking the truth. But the name... "The Fool"? It sounded like a jest, a name a child would give a dog.


"Were you sent by him to save us, Gehrman?" Wyr asked, his voice little more than a whisper. He was trying to understand, trying to find a sliver of hope in the darkness his life had become. "But, sorry, I've never heard his name."


Gehrman looked at him again, and this time Wyr felt as if the man could see the doubt and confusion churning inside him. "Of course you've never heard of him," he said with a small, almost imperceptible nod. "I come from a land very, very far away. And my Lord has only just awakened from his long slumber. 'He' sent me here because he knew something evil was stirring in this land."


Something evil. The Others. Wyr's heart felt as heavy as a millstone. So many had died. Villages vanished under the snow, proud clans wiped out overnight. Fire was the only answer they had, and often, it wasn't enough. Now, before him stood someone who was the fire itself.


A sudden impulse, born of desperation and a newfound flicker of hope, seized Wyr. He had to do something. He couldn't just be a victim to be saved. "Do you need my help, Gehrman?" He looked the man deep in the eyes, trying to convey his earnestness and his strength, the only things he had left. "Maybe there's something I can do, however small."


For the first time, Wyr saw a flicker of interest in those dark eyes. Gehrman nodded. "You can be my guide. I'm new to this land and don't know much."


A smile, the first in what felt like a lifetime, stretched Wyr's chapped lips. "I'll do it." And he meant it. He would lead this strange man through every pass and peak in his land if it meant having a chance to avenge his fallen friends. He would be his eyes and ears, show him where the wights were hiding, and then he would watch as Gehrman Sparrow burned them all from this world.


As his silent oath hardened in his heart, his stomach betrayed him.


Grrrrrrrwl.


The sound was deafeningly loud in the quiet cave, an embarrassing rumble from his empty innards. Wyr felt heat creep up his neck and burn his cheeks. He quickly ducked his head, hoping the shadows could hide his shame. Gehrman might have healed his wounds and restored his strength, but his magic hadn't filled his empty stomach. It had been more than a day since he'd had a bite of dried meat.


"What would you like to eat?"


The question was so unexpected, so normal, that Wyr looked up in surprise. Gehrman's expression hadn't changed a bit. He asked about food with the same detached calm he had discussed gods and monsters.


"Huh?" Wyr stared, bewildered. Gehrman carried no pack, no provision bag, nothing. But then he remembered the staff and the lantern that had appeared from thin air. The old rules didn't apply.


"May I?" Wyr asked hesitantly, feeling like a child asking for a treat. He tried to think of the best meal he had ever eaten, an impossible luxury. "I'd like meat. Hot, roasted meat. Warm water. And... some fruit, if possible."


Gehrman nodded as if the request were the simplest thing in the world. "Your wish is granted."


He then snapped his fingers.


The sound of the snap was sharp and dry in the cave air. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, right before Wyr's eyes, the air in the center of the cave shimmered and blurred, like the air above a bonfire. From that shimmer, a solid object emerged. First its legs, made of dark wood carved with strange patterns Wyr had never seen, then its smooth, gleaming surface. A table. A beautiful table, finer than anything he had ever imagined existed in the world.


Before Wyr could even process the table's appearance, other objects began to materialize on it. Plates made of clean white ceramic, not rough wood. Gleaming silver goblets. And in the center, on the largest platter, was a massive cut of roasted meat, its skin crisp and golden brown, still sizzling and steaming. Beside it was a bowl of brightly colored fruits—red apples, purple berries, and yellow pears, looking so fresh they might have just been picked from a tree. A large pitcher gave off a fragrant steam, promising warm water.


The aroma of it all hit Wyr like a tidal wave. The savory smell of roasted meat, the sweet scent of fruit, the clean smell of steam. It was the scent of life, of abundance, of safety. His mouth instantly filled with saliva, and he swallowed hard, his eyes fixed on the impossible feast before him.

Warmth was a strange, forgotten thing. For Wyr, it was a long-lost luxury, an echo of a distant childhood when he would huddle by the fire in the hut, safe from the raging night winds. But the warmth he felt after devouring that impossible feast was different. It wasn't just the warmth of a full stomach; it was a warmth that seeped into his bones, chasing out the long-settled chill, the chill of fear, grief, and relentless hunger. He slept soundly in a corner of the cave, a deep and restorative dreamless sleep, the first he'd had since his village was lost.

When he awoke, the cave was dim. The magical lantern had vanished, but the pale grey light of dawn snuck in through the cracks in the rocks. Gehrman Sparrow was already standing at the cave entrance, looking out at the silent, snow-covered landscape. He stood as still as a statue, unaffected by the biting cold that made Wyr's own breath crystallize into a thick cloud in the air. Wyr pulled his worn leather cloak tighter, the familiar chill returning to envelop him, but now there was a fortress of warmth inside him that resisted it.

"We should move," Gehrman said without turning. "There may be others left behind. Other villages." It was a statement of purpose, the next step in a mission Wyr couldn't begin to comprehend.

Wyr followed him out into the all-white world. The snow was falling gently, large, wet flakes that clung to his hair and shoulders. But beside Gehrman, the world felt less threatening. The man's steps were steady and purposeful, each movement possessing a quiet efficiency that contrasted sharply with Wyr's own constant, restless vigilance. Walking beside him, Wyr felt some of that calm transfer to him, a strange, baseless courage beginning to grow in his once-despairing chest.

For some time, they walked in silence, the only sound the crunch of their footwear on the deep snow. The silence gave Wyr time to think. The feast last night, the healing, the devastating light, all of it swirled in his mind like a blizzard. This was beyond anything he had ever heard, even in the wildest tales of the clan storytellers. This was the power of a god, and he was walking beside its messenger. The fear was still there, of course, but now it was mixed with something else: a burning curiosity so strong it seared through his apprehension.

"So, tell me, Gehrman," Wyr ventured, his voice sounding a little hoarse in the cold air. "What are the people like where you're from? Do they have the same abilities as you?" His curiosity proved greater than the trepidation he felt whenever he met the man's cold, dark brown gaze.

Gehrman continued walking, his eyes scanning the horizon as if searching for something only he could see. "Some," he replied, his voice flat and uninformative.

The curt answer only fueled Wyr's curiosity. "So they can pull things out of thin air like you too?" His breath came out in a thick puff of frost. He imagined a land where everyone could conjure food and weapons at will. Such a land would never know hunger or fear.

"You could say that, but also no." Gehrman finally turned his head slightly toward him, though his eyes remained focused on the distance. "We have different abilities. The paths we take shape us in unique ways. My ability focuses on changing the order of the world."

Wyr nodded slowly, though the last words flew over his head like an eagle in the sky. Changing the order of the world? To Wyr, the order of the world was the endless winter, the struggle for food, the Wall to the south, and the Walkers coming from the north. How could one man change all that? The thought was so immense, so foreign, that he couldn't grasp it. But he believed it. After seeing what Gehrman had done, he felt this man could do anything.

"What else can they do?" Wyr asked again, his voice softer now, almost a whisper.

Gehrman was silent for a moment, his pace never faltering. The wind picked up, blowing sharp flakes of snow against Wyr's face, but Gehrman didn't seem to notice. "Something you wouldn't want to know, I'm sure."

Those words landed with a thud in Wyr's stomach. Something he wouldn't want to know? What could be more horrifying than seeing his friends rise from the dead with glowing blue eyes, their arms and legs broken and twisted, moved by a cold hatred? Wyr's imagination, usually limited to real dangers like snow bears, ice cliffs, and rival clans, tried to grapple with the concept. Perhaps there were powers that could corrupt the mind, not just the body. Perhaps there were things in this world that made the undead seem like a simple threat.

Wyr fell silent after that. He didn't dare ask more. A new, deeper fear settled over him. It wasn't the sharp, hot fear he felt when running from the Walkers. It was a cold, creeping fear, a fear of the unknown. But strangely, that fear was mixed with a profound respect. In the world of the Free Folk, strength was revered above all else. The strength to hunt, the strength to fight, the strength to survive. Gehrman Sparrow possessed a strength that surpassed all of that. Maybe it was magic, maybe it was the will of his new god, but whatever it was, it was real. It had saved his life. And Wyr never forgot a debt, especially a debt of blood and life. He would follow this man to the ends of the earth if that was what was asked.

They walked for hours, across snow-covered plains and through forests of silent, ice-laden pine trees. The world around them was an endless sea of white and grey, monotonous and unforgiving. Wyr began to wonder if they were the only two humans left under the vast, grey sky. The hope that had ignited within him began to dim, replaced by a familiar despair.

Then, as they crested a low hill, Gehrman stopped. Wyr stopped beside him, following his gaze. In the small valley below them, huddled among the rocks for shelter from the wind, was a cluster of tents. A thin, pathetic wisp of smoke rose from a central fire, barely visible against the grey sky. It was a camp, perhaps a dozen tents made of worn and tattered animal hides, hastily erected. It was a miserable sight, a pocket of life besieged by death and despair.

As Wyr and Gehrman began their descent, their movement was spotted. Figures rose from around the fire, reaching for weapons—bone-tipped spears, stone axes, crudely made bows. They moved with the lethargy of hunger and cold, but there was a fierce, desperate glint in their eyes.

One of them, the tallest and largest, stepped forward. He was like a giant, clad in thick layers of animal hide, his matted beard filled with ice. He gripped a long spear tipped with a sharp piece of obsidian, holding it as if it were an extension of his own arm. His small, hard eyes narrowed as they approached.

"Halt if you be men!" his voice boomed across the valley, hoarse from disuse and from an anger born of fear. It was both a challenge and a threat, a demand to prove they were not monsters in disguise.

Wyr stopped, feeling the tension in the air. He raised his empty hands to show he was unarmed. Beside him, Gehrman remained still and calm, his presence like a rock in a rushing river.

"We are men!" Wyr shouted back, his voice carrying an echo of ancient tradition, words used to distinguish the living from the walking dead. "From skin to bone! And still of cold mind!" Perhaps it would be more fitting if I replaced that with 'warm,' Wyr thought.

"Come forward slowly!" the man commanded, his small, wary eyes never leaving them. "And don't draw any weapons!"

He's very paranoid, Wyr thought, but the thought was without judgment. No one could blame the man. In a world now inhabited by walking corpses and the madness born of starvation, paranoia was a shield. Wyr could understand it because he used the same shield, though his now felt much lighter with Gehrman's presence at his side. Gehrman's presence was an anchor in the storm, a quiet certainty in a world that had lost all certainty.

They walked forward, their steps deliberate and slow, down the slope towards the wretched camp. As they got closer, Wyr could see the details of the desperation that gripped the place. The tents were more holes than hides, patched with dirty scraps of cloth and tied with frayed rope. The fire in the center was just a sad pile of embers, producing more smoke than warmth. The people gathered around it were gaunt, their faces hollow and pale from malnutrition, their eyes large and empty in dark sockets. This was not a proud band of warriors; these were remnants, ghosts waiting to join the winter.

And the ghosts were watching them. As Wyr and Gehrman entered the sparse circle of tents, whispers began to ripple through the crowd like a dry wind through dead leaves. Eyes followed their every step, filled with a mixture of fear and hostility. Their attention was not on Wyr, whose tattered appearance was all too familiar to them. All eyes were on Gehrman.

His strange, well-fitting clothes, his straight black hair, and above all, his calm, unbothered demeanor in the middle of a snowstorm, all marked him as an outsider, a stranger. Here, north of the Wall, there were only two kinds of outsiders: the Crows from Castle Black, and the kneelers from the south. Both were enemies.

"A Southerner," Wyr heard a woman whisper, pulling her thin child closer.

"A kneeler," growled another man, his hand gripping the handle of his stone axe.

Wyr almost snorted. If only it were that simple. If Gehrman were just a lost southern lord, he would have frozen to death days ago. These people had no idea what they were looking at. They saw an old enemy, not an impossible savior.

The large, bearded man, who was clearly their leader, stepped forward to meet them, the tip of his spear just inches from Gehrman's chest. Up close, he was even more intimidating, looming over Wyr like an old oak tree. The smell of stale smoke, sweat, and blood clung to him. "You're a kneeler!" he bellowed, spittle flying from his lips. "What are you doing here?!"

Gehrman simply looked at him, his calm unshaken. It was the same look he had given Wyr in the cave, cold, analytical, and utterly unintimidated. "I am a missionary of a God," he said, his flat, emotionless voice cutting through the howling wind. "I've come to help."

The man sneered, an ugly sight of broken, yellowed teeth. "Help?" he echoed the word as if it were a dirty foreign tongue. "What can your God do to help?! Don't be ridiculous!" His anger was real, born of endless suffering. "The old gods have abandoned us! Your Seven have no power here! They're all equally useless!"

Seeing the leader's anger escalate, Wyr felt a wave of panic. He couldn't let this turn into a bloodbath. Not after everything he'd been through. Spurred by his newfound conviction, he stepped forward, placing himself between the spear tip and Gehrman. "Gehrman is truly a messenger of a God!" he cried, his voice louder and stronger than he expected. "He... he can perform miracles!"

"Miracles?" The man laughed, a harsh, cynical sound that made Wyr shudder. The crowd joined in, the weak, humorless laughter of people who had long forgotten what hope was. "The last miracle I saw was watching the Walkers burn! Can you do that, kneeler?" He glared at Gehrman, then turned his disdainful gaze back to Wyr. "Can he do that?"

"Yes," Wyr said. A single word, spoken with such absolute conviction that the laughter died down to an uncertain murmur. The bearded man raised his bushy eyebrows. Seeing their doubt, Wyr felt his courage swell. This was his chance. "Gehrman doesn't just burn them!" he continued, his voice trembling. "He-he, he can bring forth sunlight right from his hand! Oh, if only you had seen it," he turned to the now-silent crowd, his eyes pleading for them to understand. "It was warm, so blinding, and brought the breath of life!"

Wyr spread his arms wide, trying to mimic the explosion of light that had saved him. "When the Walkers were hit by that light, they immediately turned to ash! Not pieces to be burned again, but ash! Then carried away by the wind until nothing remained!" He pushed up his tattered sleeve, revealing his arm. "Then, he can heal! Look!" He showed them his smooth, pale skin. "There's no way a man my age has skin this smooth without any scars, right? Fights, hunts, falls... we all have scars! But my scars are gone!" He pointed at Gehrman, his eyes blazing. "He has a staff that can cure any illness!"

"Enough!" roared the bearded man, clearly shaken by Wyr's fervor. People had started to crowd around them, their desperate faces now filled with a dangerous curiosity. Thin children with old eyes, women whose skin was weathered by the wind, warriors whose bodies were covered in scars, all leaned closer. "Don't speak any more lies, boy," the leader said, his voice quieter now, but laced with a threat. "You don't know what you're doing with that. False hope is a worse poison than frost."

"Lies? I'm not lying!" Wyr shot back angrily. Frustration made him reckless. "You'll see for yourselves!" He turned and looked at Gehrman desperately, then his eyes scanned the crowd and stopped on an old woman whose cough was loud and dry. Wyr pointed at her. "Gehrman, c-can you heal that old woman there?" He knew he had no right to command, but he also knew that words wouldn't be enough. The Free Folk didn't believe in stories; they believed in strength. This leader's arrogant nature would only anger Gehrman if left unchecked. They needed to see proof before the situation became more chaotic. Besides, Gehrman himself had said they wanted to gather the people left behind. To do that, he had to show them why they should follow him.

Gehrman said nothing. He just looked at the crowd with his cold, unreadable gaze. Then, he did something so unexpected, so bizarre, that Wyr's breath caught in his throat. Gehrman waved his hand casually into the empty space beside him.

The air shimmered. There was a deep sound, the sound of stone grinding against stone, that seemed to come from the very bowels of the earth. Before everyone's eyes, from the swirling snow, a chair began to form. Not a simple wooden chair, but a massive throne made of grey stone, large enough for a giant to sit on. The chair materialized from nothingness, particles of ice and air coalescing and hardening into solid stone. The event was so sudden, so impossible, that the crowd staggered back in unison, a collective gasp escaping their chapped lips.

The bearded man stared at the stone chair, his eyes wide with disbelief and horror. He gripped his spear so tightly his knuckles turned white. "A sorcerer!" he whispered, the word filled with ancient fear.

"A sorcerer!" echoed the crowd, the word spreading from one person to another like a disease, turning their curiosity into terror.

Gehrman coolly looked at the frightened faces around him, his extraordinary calm making their fear seem like a child's tantrum. "To confirm a few things," he said, his quiet voice somehow audible above the wind. "First, I am not a southerner, a kneeler, or anything else you've mentioned. I come from a land very, very far away that you could never imagine exists."

He paused, letting his words sink in. "Second, I am a missionary of a God, 'He' is 'The Fool'."

"Third," he continued, his eyes sweeping over the crowd. "If any of you are injured or sick, please bring them here and I will heal them."

Those words, though spoken softly, echoed in the valley with incredible power. It was an offer, a challenge, and a statement of power so absolute that it made the threats of spears and axes seem ridiculous.

The bearded man was the first to recover. "You... you think we'd hand one of our own over to you, you bastard?" he replied, his teeth clenched in anger and fear. "To be a subject for your magic experiments?"

"I'm giving you a chance," Gehrman replied indifferently. "It's up to you whether you take it or not."

A tense silence fell over the camp. The wind howled, and no one moved. It was a stalemate—the fear of the unknown against the certainty of suffering.

Then, from the back of the crowd, an old woman started to walk forward. She was bent with age, her face a map of wrinkles and sorrow. In her arms, she carried a small bundle wrapped in animal skins, a young boy, perhaps five or six years old. The crowd parted with a mixture of respect and fear, letting her pass.

"Osra, what are you doing?" the previous man growled, taking a step to block her.

The old woman, Osra, paid him no mind. Her eyes, almost completely white with cataracts, were fixed on Gehrman. "Tham, I don't care if he's a southerner, a crow, a sorcerer, or a messenger of a god," she said, her voice weak but trembling with steely strength. "All I know is my grandson won't live much longer. And I'd rather take a chance than none at all."

"You'll make the boy suffer!" Tham shouted.

"So?" Osra retorted bitterly. "He's been suffering since he was born. It makes no difference." She finally stopped in front of Gehrman, standing beside the impossible stone throne. With hands trembling from age, she gently lowered the child onto the snow.

Wyr held his breath. The child was a horrifying sight. His skin was a pale grey, stretched tight over his bones. His eyes were closed, and his breath was shallow and rattling in his small chest. Festering, inflamed sores covered his arms and legs, giving off a faint smell of sickness. He was the picture of a slow, walking death.

Osra knelt beside the child, then looked up at Gehrman. "Heal him," she whispered. "And I will give you my life."

A tremor went through the crowd. To offer one's life was the most sacred of oaths. It was an admission of total desperation.

"I need nothing from you," Gehrman said flatly. He dismissed Osra's offer as if it were meaningless. Instead, he raised his hand, and from thin air, the familiar pale wooden staff appeared in his grasp.

He stepped forward and gently tapped the tip of the staff on the boy's sweaty forehead.

Instantly, a miracle occurred.

A wave of color washed over the child's pale skin, turning it from grey to a warm pink in the blink of an eye. The festering sores closed, the inflamed skin calmed, and in a matter of seconds, they faded into new, unblemished skin, as if they had never been there. The boy's rattling chest now rose and fell with deep, regular breaths. Then, his eyelashes fluttered, and he opened his eyes. They were clear, alert, and filled with a child's confusion.

The entire camp held its breath. The sound of the wind seemed to have stopped. Tham stood frozen, his spear hanging limply in his hand, his mouth slightly open. Osra let out a sob, a sound filled with disbelief and overwhelming relief.

Hugging the child, Osra looked at Gehrman. At that moment Wyr knew that, Osra would have truly given her life if the man had asked.

The weeks passed in a haze of campfire smoke and relentless snow. The camp, once a collection of desperate souls on the brink of extinction, had transformed. To Wyr, the change was so palpable that sometimes he felt as though he had woken up in a strange dream. There were more tents now, dozens of them, forming a larger, more confident circle in the sheltered valleys they traversed. The fires no longer just smoldered; they blazed with wood gathered by organized foraging parties, their flames dancing defiantly in the freezing darkness. The laughter of children, a sound long absent from Wyr's world, now occasionally echoed between the tents—a cautious laughter still, but laughter nonetheless.





In the midst of this transformation, Wyr found himself in a role he had neither asked for nor imagined. He had become the 'intermediary,' an unofficial bridge between the unpredictable silence of Gehrman Sparrow and the endless needs and questions of the Free Folk. When Gehrman would stand for hours staring at the northern horizon, still as a stone statue, or spend hours in his simple tent doing whatever he did in his solitude, the people would come to Wyr.





The small children, their eyes now brighter, would tug on his leather cloak, asking him to retell the story of the sunlight that burned the Walkers. The old women, whose coughs had been soothed by the touch of Gehrman's staff, would press the best pieces of dried meat into his hands, their wrinkled eyes full of gratitude and a hunger to hear more about 'The Fool.' Wyr would tell his story again and again, each time with more conviction, his words weaving a new mythology around their campfires.





Of course, acceptance had not come easily. In the early days, after the first miracle of healing, fear gripped the camp tighter than belief. Magic was an untrustworthy thing, something associated with wild and dangerous powers. Some warriors, led by the bearded Tham, saw Gehrman not as a savior, but as a threat greater than the Walkers.





Wyr remembered that night vividly. Three shadows, including Tham, had tried to sneak into Gehrman's tent as a blizzard raged, bone daggers in their hands. They hadn't even made it to the entrance. Something unseen had stopped them in their tracks, freezing them in place as if they were trapped in ice. They stood there, trembling uncontrollably, their eyes wide with horror, until dawn broke. When Gehrman finally emerged from his tent, he just looked at them with his usual cold gaze. He spoke no spells, summoned no light. He simply waved his hand dismissively, and the invisible force released them. They collapsed into the snow, gasping and weeping.





"Fear breeds foolish actions," Gehrman had told them, his voice flat. "You are forgiven. Do not do it again."





That forgiveness, delivered from a position of absolute power, was more devastating than a death sentence. It shattered their pride, revealing the utter meaninglessness of their resistance. From that moment on, no one dared to openly question Gehrman's word or raise a hand against him.





As they traveled, they found other pockets of survivors. Small, starving groups, hiding in caves or in the ruins of abandoned villages. The pattern was always the same. First came disbelief and hostility. Then, Gehrman would demonstrate his power. Sometimes it was healing, but it was most effective when the Walkers drew near. Gehrman would stride out alone to meet them, and as the terrified Free Folk peeked from their hiding places, they would witness the same thing Wyr had: a blinding explosion of sunlight, the unnatural screams of the undead, and then silence as their most feared enemy became ash on the wind.





Each of these demonstrations bound more people to him, his following swelling from a dozen to over a hundred. And with numbers, came something new and even stranger to Wyr: worship. People began to gather at night not just for warmth, but to speak of The Fool. They would ask Wyr, as the 'intermediary,' what this god was like. Wyr, knowing only what Gehrman had told him, would repeat the words: the mysterious ruler above the gray fog. That vague description, instead of causing confusion, sparked their imaginations. The Fool became their own god, a god of cold and mysterious places, a god who had seen their suffering and finally sent his aid.





Wyr was among the most devout. Gehrman had given him a list of commandments, inscribed in his mind with terrifying clarity, and Wyr had shared them with the others. The commands were so alien, so contrary to everything the Free Folk had ever been taught:





First commandment: Thou shalt not sacrifice unto me living human sacrifices.





Second Commandment: Thou shalt not use my name in vain.





Third Commandment: Thou shalt have no other gods before me.





Fourth Commandment: Honor thy father, thy mother, and thy children as you love me.





Fifth Commandment: Thou shalt not commit adultery.





Sixth Commandment: Thou shalt not kill the innocent.





Seventh Commandment: Thou shalt not bear false witness, frame, or violate contracts.





Eighth Commandment: Serve me with your heart, not with your offerings.





Ninth Commandment: Those who have committed lesser wrongdoings, first atone for your sins before seeking forgiveness.





Tenth Commandment: Honor my name by helping your compatriots and companions.





In the face of Gehrman's absolute power, few dared to protest these strange rules openly. Some did, of course. Stubborn dissenters who declared that these rules would make them weak, that they were chains designed to bind them like southern dogs. Gehrman didn't argue with them. He simply gave them a choice: accept the laws of The Fool and stay with the group, or leave on their own. Most chose to leave. A few of the most stubborn, who tried to incite rebellion, were told to face Gehrman themselves. None accepted the challenge. A man with any sense didn't try to fight a blizzard with his fists.





And so, their growing band of followers traveled on, now bound not just by the fear of the Walkers, but also by a strange new set of rules and an undeniable leader. They finally came to a wide valley near the banks of the Milkwater, one of the great rivers north of the Wall. Here, the wind was less harsh, and Wyr could see the tracks of deer and rabbits by the riverbank.





Gehrman stood on a rise, looking out over the valley. Wyr stood beside him, awaiting the next order. He assumed they would only rest for a short while before continuing their long journey south, towards the Wall. That had always been the goal, the only hope left for his people.





"We will settle here," Gehrman said, his quiet voice breaking the silence.





Wyr's mind froze. The words made no sense. What? Settle? Here? North of the Wall? It was suicide. It meant abandoning the one goal that had driven them all, to reach the safety of the south. It meant deviating completely from the plan.





"Aren't we going to cross the Wall, Gehrman?" Wyr managed to say, his voice filled with confusion. "Isn't that the goal? To join Mance Rayder? To escape the endless winter?"





Gehrman finally turned to look at him, his dark eyes showing no emotion. "Who said that?" he replied indifferently. "I only said we should gather those who were left behind. I never said where we were going." He turned his gaze back to the valley. "Mr. Fool has given a revelation. And this place is a suitable place to stay."





Wyr looked around with new eyes, trying to see what Gehrman saw. It was true, the place was better than most he had seen. The river provided water, though much of it was frozen. The trees on the surrounding slopes offered firewood and shelter. And the animal tracks promised a hunt. It was defensible. But it was still on the wrong side of the Wall. It was still in the land of the Others.





But... if it was the will of The Fool...





A brief, fierce struggle took place within Wyr. All his life, he had been taught to fight for freedom, to never bend the knee, to always move forward. Now he was being asked to stop, to stay, to trust the command of an unseen god delivered by an incomprehensible man.





"If that is what Mr. Fool commands," Wyr said, and he was surprised by how easily the words came. Sometime along the way, the will of this new god had replaced his own, and he didn't even know what 'Mister' meant. His belief in Gehrman was stronger than his fear of the winter. "But, that means we have to tell the people. They won't be happy."





"They will learn," Gehrman said simply. He nodded towards the camp being set up behind them. "Go. Gather the people in the center of the camp. I will make the announcement."





…





Wyr walked away from the rise, Gehrman's command echoing in his mind. The task was simple, gather the people, but the weight of the message they were about to hear felt heavy on his shoulders. He walked past the tents, his feet leaving deep tracks in the snow.





Near the central fire, he saw Osra. The old woman was combing her grandson, Gern's, hair with a worn bone comb. The boy, who weeks ago had been on the verge of death, now looked healthy and strong, his cheeks red from the cold, not from fever. When Gern saw Wyr, his clear eyes lit up with an admiration that made Wyr uncomfortable. To Gern, and many of the other children, Wyr wasn't just another man; he was the first to speak with the savior, the first prophet of their new god. Wyr never got used to that look; it felt like wearing a cloak that wasn't his.





"Any news?" Osra asked, her voice raspy but sharp, her wrinkled eyes missing nothing, including the shadow of worry on Wyr's face.





"The people must gather," Wyr replied, his voice flatter than he intended. "Gehrman commands it."





Osra stopped combing and stroked Gern's head gently. "Do you know why?"





Wyr shook his head. "You'll have to wait and hear it from Gehrman's own mouth. It won't be long now, be patient."





Osra chuckled softly, a sound like dry leaves rustling. "Patient? That's a strange word. The Free Folk aren't patient. We take what we need when we need it, and we run when we have to. Patience is a luxury for those with walls to hide behind." She looked at Wyr, her gaze piercing. "But, since I reached old age, I have learned much. And I will do that, especially for something this important." She paused, her eyes narrowing as she studied Wyr more closely. "I see your unease, boy. It must be surprising news." She patted Wyr's hand with her thin, strong one. "But, we should trust whatever the man says, shouldn't we?"





"Of course," Wyr said, his nod more of an affirmation for himself than for Osra. He turned and continued his mission, telling every tent leader, every hunting party, every mother soothing a crying child. Gather in the center. Gehrman will speak.





…





The air was filled with a frozen tension. The entire clan, more than a hundred souls, gathered in the open space in the center of the camp. They formed a ragged circle around Gehrman, their breaths creating a thick cloud of vapor in the cold air. Wyr stood beside Gehrman, slightly behind him, feeling the undeniable aura of authority that radiated from the man. It wasn't the authority of a chieftain, earned through strength of arm or fierce battle. It was something else, a heavy silence, an absolute certainty that made everyone around him seem small and uncertain.





Whispers rippled through the crowd. "Are the Walkers coming again?" "Maybe his god spoke to him…" "He's going to show another miracle!" "Shh, be quiet! He's about to start."





Gehrman raised a hand, and silence fell.





"We have been walking for weeks," his flat, emotionless voice carried clearly in the still air, as if everyone heard it directly inside their heads. "I have surveyed this entire plain and concluded that there are no more groups left behind from Mance Rayder's host."





Wyr frowned. When had Gehrman 'surveyed'? He never seemed to sleep, but he also rarely left the camp. Could he see vast distances with his eyes? Did he send his spirit out from his body? Wyr pushed the questions down. He just remained silent.





"I see you are weary," Gehrman continued, his eyes sweeping over the tired, thin faces before him. "The children are cold, and the warriors are frustrated. So, last night I received a revelation from Mr. Fool. 'He' commands us to settle here."





For a moment, the words just hung in the air, incomprehensible. Then, the reality of what he had said sank in, and the circle erupted in an uproar.





"Settle?!" a woman shrieked from the middle of the crowd, her thin face filled with panic. "How can we settle?! The Walkers are still hunting! They will find us!"





"She's right!" shouted another. "We must keep moving south! To the Wall!"





"Mance will show us the way! We can't give up now!"





But other voices rose to oppose them. A burly warrior with a scarred face, one of the men who had tried to kill Gehrman and been forgiven, pushed the woman aside. "Be quiet, you bitch! Show some respect!" he snarled. "Have you not seen that Gehrman eradicates them like they're nothing?! If the Walkers come, he will turn them to ash again!"





"And what if he's not here?!" the woman retorted. "What if he leaves, and we're trapped here when the winter comes?"





The bearded Tham stepped forward, his hand resting on the handle of his axe. "A good question," he said, his deep voice quieting the commotion. He looked at Gehrman without fear. "We owe you our lives, Sparrow. That's true. But the Free Folk don't settle. We don't build walls. We don't bow to winter. Our goal is the Wall. Are you asking us to abandon that goal?"





"Your goal is to survive," Gehrman replied calmly. "Not to throw yourselves on the spears of the Crows at your Wall."





"Silence."





A single word from Gehrman, spoken without raising his voice, yet it cut through the debate like a knife through thread. All voices died down. All eyes returned to him.





"Do you know what the Walkers are made of?" he asked into the silence.





No one answered. They all knew the answer, the answer passed down in terrifying campfire stories. It was magic. Dark magic from the Long Winter.





"Magic," Gehrman continued, as if they had answered. "Just like the endless winter that chokes this land. This is not an ordinary winter. It is a spell, a curse cast thousands of years ago. You are not running from bad weather. You are running from magic."





He began to walk, moving slowly through the crowd. People moved aside as he approached, creating a path for him. They followed him with their sheep-like eyes. He stopped in the middle of the circle, in the now-empty open space.





"You have tried to fight it with fire and iron. That is like trying to stop a flood with your bare hands."





From nothingness, he produced a staff. It was not the familiar pale wooden staff he used for healing. This staff was different. It was made of black wood polished to a shine like a starless night. It was slender and elegant, and at its top was set a jewel, a stone the size of an egg that pulsed with a pale blue light from within, beating gently like a sleeping heart. The staff was beautiful, terrifying, and clearly an object of immense power.





A collective gasp went through the crowd.





Gehrman raised the staff high above his head. "And to fight magic," he said, his voice now a resonant whisper that every single person could hear, "you just have to purify it."





The jewel at the tip of the staff flared to life.





It started as a soft blue glow, but then it grew rapidly to orange, becoming brighter and brighter, turning from orange to a brilliant white. The light exploded out from the staff, so bright, so powerful, it was almost blinding. Wyr raised a hand to shield his eyes, but he could still see that pure white light through his fingers.





And then came the warmth.





It wasn't the flickering warmth of a campfire. It was the deep, penetrating warmth of a spring sun, the warmth of life itself. Wyr felt it on his skin, melting the long-settled chill in his bones. He felt the snow beneath his feet soften, turning to water. There was a loud hissing sound throughout the valley as tons of snow evaporated in an instant.





Wyr lowered his hand, his eyes blinking against the fading light. The sight before him made him gasp. The snow was gone. As far as the eye could see in every direction, the endless white blanket had vanished, replaced by a carpet of lush green grass. Grass that Wyr had not seen in his entire life. Droplets of water shimmered on each blade like diamonds.





There was a loud rumbling sound as the ice on the Milkwater broke and shattered, its clear water sparkling in the new light. In the distance, the mountain peaks were still covered in snow, a stark contrast to the sudden green paradise at their feet. The air felt warm and humid, filled with the scent of wet earth and newly grown plants.





It was then, in the awestruck silence of more than a hundred stunned Free Folk, that Wyr heard it.





A sound so foreign, so magical, that it took him a moment to recognize it.





A bird chirped. Then another. It was the sound of life, singing in a land that was supposed to be dead.

---

They'll start a new civilization, lol. I'll tell it from a different POV in the next chapter.