The rain had stopped. Daniel Mercer knelt on the worn wooden floor, his Bible open before him. His prayer was not for wealth, nor safety, nor even for his own life — but for the strength to serve wherever God willed.
The light came without warning — warm, living, all-encompassing. It was not the cold glare of a bulb, nor the distant shimmer of the sun. It was presence
"Daniel, My servant," the voice said — not from above, but from everywhere. "You will go to a land of swords and shadows, where the sick are left to die and the strong devour the weak. I give you two gifts for the work ahead." The light shifted, and Daniel felt something like fire and water pour through his hands. His palms burned, then cooled, leaving a strange tingling in his fingertips
"With these hands, you will heal the broken, bind the wounded, and restore the dying — not for your glory, but for Mine."
Then the warmth moved to his shoulders, his arms, his stance. In an instant, his body remembered movements he had never learned — the weight of a blade, the rhythm of parry and strike, the discipline of a seasoned swordsman. "With this skill, you will defend the helpless, stand against the violent, and guard the path of the righteous. But remember — the sword is for protection, not for pride."
The light pulsed once more. "Go now. Speak My Word. Live it. And when the darkness comes, stand."
The world dissolved into snow and wind.
XXX
Daniel woke to the sound of wind.
It was not the gentle sigh of a winter breeze, but a deep, howling roar that seemed to scrape the marrow from his bones. His eyes flew open to a sky the color of iron, snow whipping across his face.
He was lying on his back in a drift, his clothes soaked through. Not the jeans and flannel he'd worn at his table — these were rough-spun wool and leather, heavy and unfamiliar. A cloak of thick fur lay half-buried beside him.
He sat up, teeth chattering, and looked around.
Forest. Endless forest, black pines heavy with snow. The ground was uneven, littered with rocks and roots. No road, no houses, no sign of human life.
His breath came in clouds. He pulled the fur cloak around his shoulders and tried to think.
The light. The voice. The mission.
This wasn't a dream. The cold was too real, the ache in his fingers too sharp.
Somewhere in the distance, a branch snapped.
Daniel turned. Through the trees, he caught a flicker of movement — low, fast, and silent.
They stepped into view.
Men — tall, broad-shouldered, wrapped in furs and leathers. Faces painted in streaks of ash and blood, hair matted with frost. Each carried a crude spear or axe.
Wildlings.
One barked something in a guttural tongue. Another pointed at him with his spear.
Daniel raised his hands slowly. "I don't want trouble."
They advanced.
The leader — a bearded man with a necklace of teeth — stepped forward and jabbed his spear toward Daniel's chest.
Daniel's body moved before his mind caught up. His hand swept the spear aside, his other arm catching the man's wrist. The movement was fluid, instinctive — the gift in his muscles guiding him.
The wildling snarled and swung his axe. Daniel ducked, stepped in, and with a twist sent the man sprawling into the snow. He didn't press the attack.
Another came at him from the side. Daniel sidestepped, grabbed the haft of the spear, and wrenched it free. He held it low, defensive, not striking unless forced.
The wildlings circled, wary now.
Then — a sound.
Hoofbeats.
The wildlings froze, heads snapping toward the trees. A moment later, riders burst into the clearing — black-clad men on shaggy horses, swords drawn.
The wildlings cursed and scattered, vanishing into the forest.
One rider dismounted, his breath steaming in the cold. He was young, dark-haired, with a face both stern and curious.
"You're lucky we were ranging this far," he said. "Another minute and they'd have gutted you."
Daniel stared at him. "Who… are you?"
"Jon Snow. Of the Night's Watch. And you?"
"Daniel Mercer."
Jon's eyes narrowed. "You're not from any village I know. And you're dressed… strangely."
Daniel pulled the cloak tighter. "I'm… far from home."
Jon studied him for a long moment, then jerked his head toward the horses. "Come on. You'll freeze out here."
XXX
As they rode, Daniel noticed one of the other riders slumped in his saddle, blood soaking the black wool at his side.
"Your man's hurt," Daniel said.
Jon glanced back. "Took a spear in the ribs. We'll see to him at Castle Black."
"He won't make it that far," Daniel said quietly.
Jon frowned. "And what do you suggest?"
Daniel urged his horse closer. "Let me help."
Jon hesitated, then nodded.
Daniel dismounted, pulling the injured man gently down into the snow. He pressed his hands over the wound. Warmth surged through his palms — the same fire-water sensation from the light — and the bleeding slowed, then stopped. The man's breathing eased.
The rangers stared.
Jon's eyes narrowed, suspicion and curiosity warring in his expression. "What… are you?"
Daniel met his gaze. "A servant of the One True God."
Jon said nothing, but the way he looked at Daniel told him this was only the beginning.
The ride to the Wall was long and bitter. The wind cut through fur and wool like knives, and the snow never stopped falling. Daniel kept his head low, watching the black-clad riders around him.
The injured ranger he had healed rode upright now, pale but steady. Every so often, he glanced at Daniel with a look that was equal parts gratitude and unease.
Jon Snow rode ahead, silent for most of the journey. When Daniel caught his eye, there was no warmth there — only the guarded curiosity of a man who had seen too much to take anything at face value.
It rose out of the white like the edge of the world — a sheer cliff of ice, impossibly high, stretching farther than the eye could see in either direction. The Wall.
Daniel reined in his horse, staring up at it. Even from here, he could feel the cold radiating off it, a presence as ancient as the land itself.
Jon noticed his gaze. "Seven hundred feet of ice," he said. "Built to keep the things beyond from coming south."
Daniel's mind flickered back to the voice in the light. Stand against the darkness that comes.
The gates groaned open, and they rode into the yard. Men in black moved about their duties — sharpening blades, hauling firewood, tending to the ravens. The air smelled of smoke, sweat, and the faint tang of the latrines.
A tall man with a lined face and a streak of grey in his beard strode toward them.
"Benjen Stark," Jon said quietly. "First Ranger."
Benjen's eyes swept over Daniel. "This him?"
Jon nodded. "Found him beyond the Wall. Wildlings had him surrounded. He can fight. And… he did something to heal Bowen."
Benjen's brow furrowed. "We'll talk inside."
The hall was dim, lit by a few guttering torches. Benjen poured two cups of steaming ale and slid one toward Daniel.
"You're not from the North," Benjen said.
"No," Daniel replied.
"Not from the South either. Your accent's wrong. And you speak of a god I've never heard of."
Daniel met his gaze. "The One True God. Maker of all things. Lord over life and death."
Benjen leaned back. "We've got the Old Gods here. The Seven down south. And a dozen other names in between. You're saying they're all wrong?"
Daniel's voice was calm. "I'm saying there is only one truth. And it's not mine to change to suit men's comfort."
Benjen studied him for a long moment. "You'll find that kind of talk makes enemies fast in Westeros."
Later, in the yard, Jon tossed Daniel a practice sword. "Let's see what you can do."
Daniel caught it easily. The weight felt natural in his hand, as though he'd trained for years.
They circled. Jon struck first — quick, precise. Daniel parried, the clash of steel ringing in the cold air. He moved with economy, no wasted motion, every block and counter measured.
Jon pressed harder, but Daniel's defense held. Then, with a single step and twist, Daniel disarmed him.
The yard went quiet.
Jon picked up his sword, breathing hard. "You're no green boy."
Daniel shook his head. "I'm no knight either. The sword is for protection, not pride."
By nightfall, word had spread through Castle Black: the stranger who could heal wounds and match Jon Snow in the yard. Some called him a blessing. Others whispered darker things — sorcery, wildling tricks, even kinship with the Others.
Daniel sat alone in the mess hall, eating stew from a wooden bowl. He could feel the eyes on him.
He bowed his head over the food. Lord, give me wisdom. Let them see You, not me.
XXX
The days at Castle Black settled into a rhythm of cold and labor. Daniel kept his head down, mending torn cloaks, hauling firewood, and tending to the sick in the infirmary.
The rangers still spoke in low voices about the day he'd stopped Bowen Marsh's bleeding in the snow. Some called it a blessing. Others muttered about sorcery.
Daniel ignored the whispers. He had work to do.
One evening, as the sun bled out behind the Wall, a black-clad steward found him in the yard.
"First Ranger wants a word," the man said, jerking his head toward the hall.
Inside, the air was warmer but heavy with the smell of wet wool and smoke. Benjen Stark stood at the long table with Bowen Marsh, the Lord Steward. Both men looked up as Daniel entered.
"Mercer," Benjen said, his voice even. "We ride north in two days. A ranging. Normally, I wouldn't take an outsider beyond the Wall — especially one who hasn't sworn the oath. But Bowen here thinks your… talent might be worth the risk."
Bowen's expression was skeptical. "Men die on rangings. If you can keep one alive long enough to get him back, that's worth something. But you'll follow orders. You're not a brother, and you don't speak for the Watch."
Daniel inclined his head. "Understood."
Benjen studied him. "Then why agree? You've no oath to us, no debt to pay."
Daniel's gaze didn't waver. "Because I was sent to stand where the darkness is. And I think it's waiting out there."
The two officers exchanged a look — part doubt, part curiosity.
"Be ready," Benjen said at last. "And remember — you're there to heal, not to play the hero."
Later that night, Jon Snow found Daniel sitting alone near the hearth in the mess hall, a wooden cup of watered ale in his hands.
"You didn't have to say yes," Jon said, sliding onto the bench across from him. "Most men avoid their first ranging as long as they can. It's dangerous. Cold. You might not come back."
Daniel set the cup down. "I didn't come here to be safe."
Jon studied him. "Then why? You could stay here, work in the kitchens, tend the wounded. You've already done more than most."
Daniel's eyes drifted to the flames. "Where I come from, there's a saying: The shepherd leaves the ninety-nine to find the one that's lost."
Jon frowned. "You think the wildlings are sheep?"
"I think there are people out there — beyond the Wall, in the cold and the dark — who've never heard the truth I carry. And there's something worse than wildlings moving in those woods. I can't stay behind knowing I might help."
Jon leaned back, arms crossed. "You talk like you've seen what's coming."
Daniel met his eyes. "I haven't seen it. But I've been told. And I believe it."
Before dawn the next day, Benjen found him in the yard, tightening the straps on a borrowed sword belt.
"You fight well," Benjen said. "And you've got a healer's hands. But out there, skill won't save you if you don't keep your head. The cold will kill you faster than a spear."
Daniel nodded. "I understand."
Benjen's gaze sharpened. "And one more thing — whatever god you pray to, keep it quiet. The men of the Watch are a mixed lot. Some will mock you. Others will think you're cursed. Neither will help you stay alive."
Daniel's voice was steady. "I can't deny the One who sent me. But I won't force my words on men who won't hear them."
Benjen gave a short nod. "Good enough. Saddle up tomorrow."
XXX
The gates of Castle Black groaned open at dawn, spilling the ranging party into the pale light. The Wall loomed behind them, a frozen cliff that seemed to watch them go. Ahead lay the haunted forest — endless, silent, waiting.
Daniel rode near the rear, the cold biting through his cloak. The snow muffled the sound of hooves, and the only voices were low orders from Benjen Stark.
The men around him were a hard mix — veterans with weathered faces, younger recruits still learning to hide their fear. A few glanced at him now and then, eyes lingering on the sword at his hip or the way he scanned the treeline.
By midday, the forest had swallowed them whole. The pines stood like black pillars, their branches heavy with frost. The air was still, too still.
Benjen called a halt. He crouched near a patch of churned snow, his gloved hand brushing over the ground.
"Tracks," he said. "Not deer. Not elk."
Daniel dismounted and stepped closer. The prints were long, narrow, and deep — too deep for the weight they should carry.
One of the rangers muttered, "Could be wildlings."
Benjen shook his head. "Wildlings don't leave prints like this."
Daniel felt a prickle at the back of his neck. The voice from the light echoed in his memory: You will see the dead rise, and the living fall.
They pressed on, the air growing colder. The tracks led them to a small clearing where the snow was stained with blood. A dead horse lay half-buried, its eyes wide and glassy.
That was when the arrows came.
The first ranger went down with a cry, an arrow in his thigh. Another hit a horse, sending it rearing. Shadows moved at the treeline — wildlings, half a dozen at least, charging with spears and axes.
Daniel's sword was in his hand before he thought about it. A wildling came at him, roaring, axe raised. Daniel sidestepped, parried, and drove the man back with a quick riposte — not killing, but disabling with a slash to the arm.
Another came from the side. Daniel blocked, twisted, and sent him sprawling into the snow.
Around him, steel clashed and men shouted.
A cry cut through the chaos — one of the younger rangers was down, blood pouring from a gash in his neck. Daniel dropped to his knees beside him, pressing his hands to the wound.
Warmth surged through his palms, the same fire-water sensation as before. The bleeding slowed, then stopped. The ranger's breathing steadied, his eyes focusing.
The fight ended as quickly as it began. The surviving wildlings fled into the trees, leaving their dead and wounded behind.
Daniel stood, his hands still tingling. Several rangers were staring at him — not with gratitude, but with something harder to read.
Benjen approached, his eyes sharp. "You kept him alive," he said quietly. "But you'll need to explain how."
Daniel met his gaze. "I told you before. I serve the One True God."
Benjen's jaw tightened. "Out here, men believe in what they can see. And they just saw something they can't explain. Keep your head down, Mercer."
That night, they camped in a hollow sheltered from the wind. The fire crackled, but the cold still gnawed at their bones.
Daniel took first watch. The forest was silent, the snow reflecting the pale light of the moon.
Then he saw it — far off between the trees, a figure standing still. Too far to make out details, but its skin seemed pale as the snow, its eyes faintly glimmering blue.
When he blinked, it was gone.
He tightened his grip on his sword. The darkness was moving. And it had seen him.
XXX
The light was already dying when the trees began to close in.
Not the thin, wind‑gnawed pines near the Wall, but ancient, black‑barked sentinels that drank the last of the sun and gave nothing back. Snow muffled every step, but the forest had its own voice — the groan of ice‑weighted branches, the distant crack of something moving where no man walked.
Daniel kept to the middle of the column, the crunch of boots ahead and behind his only tether to the Watch. His breath steamed in the air, curling into the fur‑lined hood Benjen had tossed him earlier without a word. The cold here was different — not the honest bite of winter, but a slow, creeping thing that seemed to notice him.
Benjen called a halt at a narrow clearing, little more than a patch of trampled snow ringed by skeletal trees.
"Make camp," he said, voice low. "No fires higher than your knee. Light draws eyes."
The men moved with quiet efficiency — tents staked, bedrolls unrolled, sentries posted. Daniel crouched beside Benjen as the First Ranger struck flint to steel, coaxing a small flame into life beneath a blackened pot. The smell of broth was faint, but it carried, and for a moment it felt almost safe.
Almost.
Benjen's gaze stayed on the fire, but his words were meant for Daniel.
"You've seen things," he said, not as a question.
Daniel met his eyes across the low flames. "And you've seen enough to know some things aren't believed until they're standing in front of you."
A faint crease touched Benjen's brow. "Out here, belief won't save you. Steel might. Silence will."
A shout cut through the camp. One of the sentries was pointing into the treeline.
"Movement!"
Steel rasped from scabbards. Benjen was on his feet in an instant. "Hold the line!"
At first, Daniel saw nothing. Then — between two trees — a pale figure, still as carved ice. Not a man. Not entirely.
Its eyes burned blue in the gloom, and the cold deepened until his breath froze in his beard. The thing tilted its head, as if curious, and the forest seemed to lean closer.
The Watchmen shifted, muttering prayers under their breath.
Before steel could clear leather, the figure stepped back into shadow — gone as if it had never been.
Benjen's voice was steady, but his jaw was tight. "Double the watch. No one sleeps alone."
Daniel's hands were still trembling when he lay down that night, the fire's warmth already fading. He knew — with the same certainty he knew his own name — that this was no accident. The mission had begun.
XXX
The forest was a black wall beyond the camp's thin ring of firelight.
Daniel lay in his bedroll, eyes half‑closed, listening to the Watch's quiet shifts — the crunch of boots on snow, the low murmur of a sentry changing posts. The cold gnawed at him, but it wasn't what kept him awake. It was the sense — sharp and certain — that something was watching.
A branch cracked. Not the brittle snap of wind‑stressed wood, but the deliberate weight of a footstep.
Benjen was up instantly, sword in hand. "On your feet," he hissed, and Daniel obeyed, heart pounding.
The shadows moved.
A figure burst from the treeline — not the pale, silent thing from earlier, but a man, wild‑eyed and half‑frozen, swinging a rust‑spotted axe. His scream was raw, more animal than human. Behind him, more shapes emerged — wildlings, gaunt and desperate, their weapons crude but deadly.
Steel clashed. The camp erupted into chaos — men shouting, firelight flashing on blades. Daniel ducked as an axe whistled past his head, the air splitting with its force.
One of the Watchmen went down hard, a spear buried deep in his side. Blood steamed in the snow.
Daniel dropped to his knees beside the fallen man, hands pressing over the wound.
The world narrowed — the clash of steel, the shouts, the cold — all falling away until there was only the man's ragged breath and the hot pulse of blood beneath Daniel's palms.
Light — faint, golden — bled from his fingers into the torn flesh. The bleeding slowed. The man's breathing steadied.
When Daniel looked up, Benjen was staring at him, sword still in hand, eyes sharp with questions he didn't have time to ask.
A horn sounded — one long, low note from the treeline. The wildlings broke off, melting back into the dark as quickly as they'd come.
The camp was left in ragged silence, the snow churned and stained.
Benjen sheathed his sword. "We move at first light," he said, voice flat. His gaze lingered on Daniel for a heartbeat longer before he turned away.
Daniel sat back on his heels, the cold rushing in to replace the warmth of the healing. He knew the questions would come. And he knew the answers would matter.
XXX
The Wall rose out of the snow like a frozen cliff, its pale face catching the weak morning light. After days in the forest, its sheer size felt almost unnatural — a barrier not just of ice, but of silence.
The ranging party rode in through the gate without ceremony. The yard was half‑empty, the few black‑cloaked brothers present pausing in their work to watch them pass. Daniel felt their eyes linger — not on the rangers, but on him.
Word had traveled faster than their horses.
A stablehand took his reins without a word. Two men by the armory whispered behind gloved hands. Daniel caught fragments — wildlings… light in his hands… not natural.
Benjen dismounted, boots crunching on the frost‑hardened ground. "Get yourself warm," he said, voice low but firm. "And keep your head down."
Daniel fell into step beside him. "They've already decided what they saw."
"They'll decide a hundred more things before the day's out," Benjen replied. "Let them. Truth has a way of showing itself… eventually."
They stopped just short of the Lord Commander's Tower. Benjen's gaze swept the yard, then fixed on Daniel.
"I ride again before the week's end. South patrol, then back north. If I don't return…" He let the words hang in the cold air. "You'll need to decide who you trust. And who you don't."
Daniel searched his face for more, but Benjen was already turning away, his cloak snapping in the wind.
From the shadow of the archway, a figure stood watching — Jon Snow, arms folded, expression unreadable. He didn't speak, but his eyes followed Daniel until the door closed between them.