"What?"
"What?!"
Two voices rang out simultaneously, one filled with doubt, the other with shock.
Young Lord Royce shot a strange glance at Rynar, who looked like he'd just seen a ghost. "What did you see? Speak clearly, leave out nothing."
"The camp's about two miles away, just over a snowy ridge and next to a stream," Will replied.
"The fires were out, only a pile of embers still smoking. The wildlings were sprawled around the camp in no pattern at all.
I counted eight, same as we estimated, but no children. Not a single one of them moved, including one in the tree.
I got as close as I dared and watched for a long time. No blood. But no living person lies that still."
"No living person would let the fire die out either," Gared added. "It's gotten cold these past few nights. Maybe they weren't prepared and froze to death?"
"Maybe." Will shivered convincingly. "Ser, what do we do now?"
"If you're cold, put on more furs," Ser Waymar Royce snorted. "When we left nine days ago, the Wall was still melting ice.
We've had a bit of frost since then, and the occasional flurry, but it's not cold enough to freeze an entire group of wildlings to death.
Especially not ones wrapped in thick furs, sheltered from the wind, and sitting by a fire."
...
As the three brothers of the Night's Watch discussed the situation, Rynar felt the chill seep deeper into his bones, How could this be happening?
A hundred curses raced through his mind as he silently offered the Royce family's entire ancestral line a thorough verbal lashing.
No matter how bad his memory might be, the overwhelming deja vu of the moment finally made it click: he was reliving the opening scene of A Song of Ice and Fire.
That damned Waymar Royce, on his first ranging, was leading them straight into the path of the White Walkers. The only difference this time was, he was here too.
"If the wildlings are already dead," Gared said, frowning with unease, "we should head back."
"Are you frightened of the dead?" Waymar turned to him with a slight, mocking smile, repeating a line Rynar had heard before.
"It's not the dead I fear," Rynar said, realizing he could no longer stay silent. This was life or death now.
If they let Waymar lead them into that clearing, they'd walk straight into a massacre by White Walkers.
And Rynar had no illusion that adding one more man to the original trio would change the outcome against an ancient, near-mythical force of death.
"I fear whatever that killed them."
"If it could kill wildlings, that doesn't mean it can kill the Night's Watch," the young knight said confidently, though Rynar could tell he was surprised as Rynar rarely spoke up like this.
"And how do you know they're truly dead? Where's the proof?"
"Will might not be a warrior, but he doesn't lie," Gared said firmly, his face darkening.
"If he says he saw it, I believe him. The order was to investigate wildling activity. We've done that. They won't be bothering anyone anymore..."
"You think the Lord Commander won't ask what killed them?" Waymar cut the old ranger off without hesitation. "Mount up. Take me to the scene."
Gared scowled but didn't argue. He turned and walked toward his horse.
"I'm not going." Rynar couldn't just go along with them now. This was the moment that would decide if he lived or died.
"Call me a coward, a craven, I don't care. I'm scared out of my wits. I've felt something out here these past few days.
Something terrifying, filled with malice, watching us. Whatever killed those wildlings... we can't beat it."
"I felt it too," Will added quickly, emboldened by Rynar's defiance. He was never one to take a stand, but now he stammered out his agreement.
"It's getting dark," Gared muttered, glancing at Rynar in confusion. As a veteran ranger, Gared was used to butting heads with his officers when necessary, but this? This was different.
Rynar was usually quiet, not someone who challenged authority. Where was this courage coming from? "We can investigate tomorrow."
"How interesting. Night's Watch, afraid of the dark?" Waymar sneered.
Gared's defiance he could tolerate, but now all three men were standing against him? That was too much for the young knight's pride.
"I've made my decision. Mount up. We're heading there now. I won't say it again."
"No."
Rynar felt a sinking sense of futility, no words would convince this proud, stubborn knight to turn back.
Desperate, he made one final attempt, looking toward Gared for support.
The old ranger met his gaze for a moment, then silently shook his head, warning him not to press the issue.
"I have a strong feeling... If we go there, I'm probably going to die."
"I don't trust your feelings," Waymar said, eyes narrowing.
"If you refuse, then run. But hand over your weapons, and no horse. If you're confident you can make it back on foot, I won't stop you. Go on."
Rynar stared him down, saw Waymar's hand resting casually on his sword hilt. Their eyes locked for a tense moment, then Rynar looked away.
Run, and he'd be branded a deserter. There would be no place for him in Westeros. Besides, they were a hundred miles from Castle Black.
While ranger training included wilderness survival, theory and practice were two different things.
Even if the White Walkers and wild beasts left him alone, cold, hunger, and disorientation could easily finish him off.
And if he fought... Even if Will and Gared stood by, Rynar knew he wouldn't last a minute.
He had little combat experience, while Waymar, younger though he was, had trained with sword masters since childhood.
He had no choice. He'd just have to hope the little preparations he'd made for this day would be enough to keep him alive.
"Mount up. You and Will will ride in front," Waymar ordered once Rynar gave in. The knight pursed his lips in feigned disdain. "Don't get clever. I'll be watching you the whole time."
...
The four mounted up. Will led the way with Rynar beside him, both of them riding with nervous caution.
A thin snow had fallen overnight, leaving the ground soft and treacherous. Stones, roots, and puddles lay hidden beneath the snow, threatening to trip their horses.
Suppressing his fear, Rynar held the reins with one hand and reached into his pack with the other, fingers closing around the obsidian dagger he'd fought so hard to obtain.
Obsidian, also known as dragonglass. In Old Valyrian, it was called frozen fire. In truth, it was a natural volcanic glass formed by geological processes.
Back in the world Rynar had come from, it was nothing special.
But here, in a world where magic was real, perhaps the crystal had some unknown interaction with arcane forces, granting it unique properties.
The White Walkers had been gone for thousands of years. Now, this substance said to be fatal to them was traded like a low-grade gem.
Brittle and dull, it lacked the luster of sapphires or rubies and never fetched a good price. Few even bothered to deal in it.
That made it oddly difficult to acquire. Not rare, not expensive, but just uncommon enough to be hard to find.
Rynar had spent a long time arranging for it, asking a fellow recruit, newly assigned to Eastwatch by the Sea, to buy a piece from a foreign merchant who traded with the Black Brothers.
It had cost him months of wages.
When he first got it, it was a rough slab the thickness of his forearm. Over the next few weeks, he spent every spare moment from training whittling it down, shaping it into a rough dagger.
He wrapped the lower half in cloth, turning it into a crude talisman he kept on him at all times.
For that blade, he'd gone hungry more times than he could count. He'd been the butt of jokes for weeks, other brothers laughing at his empty plate.
But if that dagger saved his life tonight, then maybe the hardship had been worth it.
Death comes for all men, great or small.
Rynar wasn't some coward trembling at the thought of dying, but he refused to die here, in some forgotten corner of the far north, under a borrowed name the locals gave him, slain by a nightmare creature the world didn't even believe existed.