However, the children of the forest had a unique way of sustaining themselves that set them apart. Unlike the humans, they didn't need meat to survive. Their diet consisted of plants and roots, a revelation that brought a profound sense of relief to Rick and his companions, especially Ygritte. The thought of not needing to spend endless hours hunting for food was a small comfort, particularly since Freyja had been helpful, though it had made Ygritte feel a bit inadequate at times. Her skills with a bow were her pride, and yet the absence of meat in their shared meals seemed to suggest there was little need for her hunting skills anymore. It was a strange feeling, one that she had yet to get used to.
Freyja, the Mother of the North, was almost always in her direwolf form during their travels. The massive creature was a sight to behold, her white fur shimmering in the sunlight as they moved across the land. The transformation was seamless, as though the woman was merely shedding a skin and becoming something far older, far more primal. Only when they stopped for the night did she return to her human form, her transformation always leaving a sense of awe in its wake. It was during these moments that she would train Rick, teaching him how to warg.
His first attempt had been with a squirrel, a tiny creature with far more energy than he had anticipated. When he slipped into the animal's mind, the world shifted. Suddenly, everything was faster, smaller, and far more frantic. The squirrel scurried up and down trees, darting through the underbrush, foraging for food, and Rick was helpless to control the frantic energy. The animal's instincts bled into his own thoughts—hunger, fear, and the raw desire to find shelter and sustenance. For the first time, Rick had felt his consciousness merge with something that wasn't human, and it was an unsettling experience. He could feel the animal's urgency, its desire to scurry, to find food, to survive. It was an odd sensation, one that made him question the depth of his connection to the animal world.
Freyja had warned him about the dangers of warging, and it made Rick pause in his training. "You mustn't stay too long in a creature's mind," she had cautioned, her tone firm yet patient. "You can lose yourself to it. Your mind becomes tangled with the beast's, and the longer you stay, the more you become part of it. Over time, your consciousness will erode, and you will forget your true self."
Her warning had chilled him, and for the first time, Rick had truly understood the weight of what he was attempting. But Freyja assured him that the stronger his magic and will, the longer he could control the warging. And while a beast like a squirrel was simple enough, the more intelligent and sentient the creature, the more difficult it would be to maintain control. She explained that larger animals, like a mammoth, despite their immense size, weren't as challenging to warg into. Mammoths had limited intelligence, and their minds were more easily influenced. But a direwolf? That was a different matter entirely.
Rick's thoughts drifted back to Freyja herself. She was one of the most difficult creatures to warg into, he realized. It was a point of pride for her—this ancient, powerful being was nearly impossible to control. Her mind was too sharp, too strong, for anyone to truly take hold of. It made Rick curious. As he looked at the majestic form of Freyja, a thought began to solidify in his mind and he asked the question on the tips on his tongue about what she truly was.
"I'm no beast. At least, not in that sense," Freyja said, her voice a low growl laced with the authority of ages. Her gaze hardened, and the weight of her words hung heavy in the air. "If anyone were foolish enough to try warging into me, I would crush their mind. Leave their body an empty shell. It's not as though they wouldn't deserve it; they would break one of the most sacred taboos of the Wargs."
Rick's eyes narrowed. "Taking possession of someone else's body. Like the Three-Eyed Raven?"
Freyja nodded solemnly, her expression darkening. "Yes. You did well to kill it. The Old Gods had left the Raven alone for so long, letting it drift through time like a silent observer. It caused no harm, simply watching the threads of fate unravel. But the Raven's last host—Brynden Rivers—was a different matter. His will was far too strong. The Raven could suppress his ego, could twist his mind, but it could never extinguish his thirst for power. The Raven's influence seeped into him like poison, and slowly, his desires began to take form."
She paused, as though reliving the tragedy in her mind. "It began to manipulate events, bending people to its will, using them as pawns to achieve a single goal: control. The Raven's final ambition was nothing less than the throne of the Seven Kingdoms. It sought to become King. And you..." Her eyes locked onto Rick's. "You would have been its puppet. It would have used you to do its dirty work, then—once it had no further use for you—it would have taken over your body, made it its own."
Rick felt a chill crawl up his spine. The weight of her words hit him harder than he expected. He had known there was more to the Raven's existence, but this? This was a true horror.
"Was I… a result of…?" Rick's voice faltered, unsure, the question hanging in the air like a dark cloud.
Freyja's gaze softened, but there was a weight to her words as she answered. "No. You're the result of your parents' decisions. Nothing more, nothing less. True, your birth was prophesied, but those prophecies are never as clear-cut as people think. They never specify who, where, or how the savior would come to be. Even the last one who predicted that the Prince that Was Promised would be born from the line of Aerys and Rhaella Targaryen couldn't say exactly who it would be. Had they not been forced to marry each other... maybe their descendants would have wed, and the prince might have come from that union. But fate, it seems, had other plans."
Rick's brow furrowed, disbelief still clouding his mind. "I still can't believe it. Nor can I accept it. That I'm supposed to be… that person. And the prophecy? It doesn't make sense. It says that amidst smoke and salt, when the red star bleeds, Azor Ahai would be reborn. I was born in Dorne, at the Tower of Joy. There was no smoke, no salt, no bleeding red star."
Freyja's expression darkened, her eyes distant as she spoke. "Prophecies are dangerous things, Rick. They're never as simple as they seem. They can be interpreted in many ways, most of which are wrong. And those who misinterpret them, well… they often act on them with disastrous consequences. Your father is living proof of that."
"Rhaegar?" Rick asked, his voice barely above a whisper, the name feeling like a weight upon his chest.
Freyja nodded, her tone grave. "Yes. At first, Rhaegar truly believed himself to be the Prince that Was Promised. He was the firstborn son of Aerys and Rhaella Targaryen, born amidst the tragedy of Summerhall. A place of smoke and flame. But he didn't fit, not in the way he thought."
Rick's mind churned. "There was smoke, yes. But no salt. No red bleeding star. And most importantly, he was pure fire."
"Exactly," Freyja replied, her voice thick with the knowledge of a thousand years. "Rhaegar mistook the prophecy. He was convinced that the 'three heads of the dragon' meant the return of the conqueror and his sister-wives. That's what he saw when he looked at his children—Rhaenys, Aegon, and Visenya.
Rick's mind flickered with the image of Rhaegar's children, the names echoing in his head. "That's why he named them Rhaenys, Aegon, and Visenya. It wasn't to insult Dorne after all?"
"No," Freyja said softly, a trace of sorrow in her voice. "It wasn't about that. He was simply lost in his own mind, driven mad by the prophecy. His obsession with the idea of the three-headed dragon consumed him. He started to believe Aegon was the promised prince, but again, the signs didn't align. Aegon, like Rhaegar, was pure fire. No salt. No smoke. No bleeding red star. But…" she trailed off, her eyes meeting Rick's with a grave understanding. "Ironically, Rhaegar had the right idea, though he couldn't see it. He did marry his second wife, and through that union, a child of ice and fire would eventually be born. Yet, he was so enthralled by the glory of the dragon, by the legacy of his ancestors, that he couldn't see the truth when it was right in front of him."
Rick's heart raced as the weight of Freyja's words sank in. "He overlooked me... because I was born a boy."
Freyja didn't respond immediately, but the deep sadness in her eyes spoke volumes. "Yes. That's the cruel irony of it. He couldn't see the prophecy for what it truly was. The child of ice and fire wasn't supposed to be a myth of glory—it was supposed to be the balance between two forces, and he failed to see that." She paused, her voice thick with emotion. "Rhaegar's tragedy wasn't in his birth or his bloodline. It was in his blindness, his inability to understand what the prophecy truly meant."
"So, he didn't marry the second queen out of love?" Rick asked, his words detached as he referred to the woman who birthed him as the second queen rather than his mother. It felt more natural to him now, as if the distance between them was something he had come to accept, even if only in his own mind.
Freyja's gaze softened, though she could sense the underlying bitterness in his tone. "He did," she replied, her voice steady, "but his interest in her wasn't love—not at first. His heart was bound to other things, to his ambitions. Love came later, after he realized there was more to her than what he had once thought."
Rick's brow furrowed. "How do you know all that?" His question wasn't one of disbelief, but rather a curiosity he could not quite suppress. The intricacies of his father's choices, his mother's role—it all felt so far removed from what he had known. Could Freyja really understand it all?
Freyja met his gaze, her eyes calm but piercing, as if she saw through the layers of his confusion. "The Old Gods showed me," she answered simply, as though the matter was as ordinary as breathing. "They see things in the hearts of men, things that even the men themselves cannot see. Their vision stretches across time and place, beyond the veil of mortality. It's not always a clear picture, but they showed me the truth of it."
Rick didn't respond immediately. He let her words sink in, but there was something in him—something deep—that resisted accepting the reality of it all. His father, a man of such ambition, had only married the second queen because of fate and duty. Was that really the foundation of his birth? Was it the truth of the rebellion? That everyone put the blame on his shoulders? Born from his sire's ambition?
'What a cunt. It was his ambition that started everything and he accused me of being responsible, as if It wasn't his fault.'
"I see... I… If… What's this about a dragon with three heads when I'm alone?" Rick's voice faltered, the uncertainty hanging in the air like a shadow. The words of prophecy that had followed him since his birth gnawed at his mind, but he still couldn't make sense of them.
Freyja's expression grew thoughtful, her gaze distant as she weighed her words carefully. "I don't know," she said quietly, her tone carrying the weight of the unknown. "Neither do the Old Gods. Your father, he chose to believe the three heads referred to three different people. But that's not the only way to interpret it. A head... it's not just a physical thing. It can represent names, identities, personalities… even your role in the world." She paused, watching his reaction.
Rick looked away, trying to wrap his mind around it. "I don't see how that applies to me," he muttered, more to himself than to her. He had always been someone in between, never fully fitting into any mold, and this prophecy felt like another cruel reminder of that fact.
Freyja's gaze softened, her voice gentle but firm. "Well, you had three different names during your life. Three distinct identities that shaped who you are."
"Three?" Rick echoed, his brow furrowing as he tried to grasp the meaning behind her words.
"Yes." She nodded, her eyes steady on him. "When you were born, your mother called you Jon. But then your name was changed, to Aemon—more fitting for a Targaryen, she thought. And now, you've chosen to call yourself Rick. Three names, three heads. If the heads of the dragon refer to names, then you've already fulfilled that part."
Rick's lips parted in surprise, but Freyja wasn't done. "There's more. Another interpretation of the three heads lies in your station, in who you are in the world. You lived your life as a bastard, despite being born a prince. And now... now you live as a commoner, just another man among many."
Rick's heart skipped a beat. The weight of her words sank in, and the future that had seemed so distant now felt close, tangible. "And one day... I may be king," he said, almost to himself, the thought of it both terrifying and strangely exhilarating.
Freyja's voice was steady, carrying the weight of wisdom and experience. "Yes. You can see it from a different angle. Once, you were a prisoner, bound by the rules of others, shackled by your station and the expectations that came with it. But now…" Her gaze softened, the faintest trace of a smile playing on her lips. "Now, you're a free man. No longer subject to anyone's commands or whims. You stand on your own, able to shape your own destiny. And one day…"
Rick's words came almost automatically, the thought pressing against his chest like a heavy stone. "If I'm king, I would make the rules."
Freyja's eyes sparkled with a mixture of pride and caution. "Yes, you would. But don't let that idea consume you. Don't dwell too much on it." Her voice dropped to a more thoughtful tone. "The prophecy... it can be interpreted in many ways, Rick. You could see it as the journey of a child, then a boy, and then a man. The stages of your life are marked, yes, but the meaning isn't as clear-cut as you might hope. There's no certainty in prophecy. No single truth. So, don't waste your energy trying to force it to fit into something specific."
Freyja's voice softened, filled with a quiet strength as she spoke, her words wrapping around Rick like a comforting embrace. "Just be yourself, Rick," she said, her smile warm and full of understanding. "Just like you've done your whole life. Don't change who you are to fit someone else's idea of what you should be. You've come this far by being true to yourself. Everything will unfold as it's meant to. Trust that."
Rick hesitated for a moment, his mind still tangled in the weight of prophecy, the uncertainty that gnawed at him. "I'm… a bit scared about the reborn part," he admitted, his voice quieter now. "Somehow, I get this feeling that the prophecy means I'll have to die and come back to life."
His words hung in the air, heavy with fear and doubt. The idea of death and rebirth loomed over him, as if it was a shadow he couldn't shake off, no matter how much he tried to push it away.
Freyja's expression softened even further, her gaze gentle and understanding, as though she had walked this path herself, long before he had even understood the meaning of the prophecy. "Do not burden yourself with such thoughts, Rick," she said, her tone soothing, like a balm to his troubled mind. "The weight of prophecy can be a dangerous thing. It has driven many to madness, those who thought too much, who tried too hard to control what was never theirs to control." She paused, letting her words settle in. "You don't need to carry that burden. Let it unfold naturally. Life... destiny... it will reveal itself in its own time."
Rick took a deep breath, feeling the tightness in his chest ease just a little, as if her words had unlocked something within him. The fear, while not gone, was softened by her presence and her wisdom.
"You're right," he said quietly, the weight on his shoulders lifting ever so slightly. "What happens, happens."
Freyja nodded, her smile returning with a sense of pride. "Exactly. You cannot control everything, Rick. Just live, just be. That's all anyone can ever do. And when the time comes, you'll be ready."
Their lesson resumed after a brief pause, the quiet hum of the world around them a stark contrast to the quiet tension in Rick's mind. After some time, they stopped for a meal, and Rick ate in silence, his mind still buzzing from the teachings of the past days. As the warmth of the fire settled into his bones, Rick went to sleep, the lingering calm of Freyja's words—full of ancient wisdom and reassurance—enfolding him like a blanket. But it wasn't just her words that soothed him. The soft, warm, and undeniably comforting fur of the Mother of the North, who had returned to her direwolf form, wrapped around him like a protective shield. As he lay against her, the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest seemed to match the slow and steady beating of his own heart, and sleep claimed him swiftly.
The next few days unfolded much like the ones before. Their journey carried on, unhurried yet purposeful, and the steady repetition of their travels gave Rick time to settle into the rhythms of both his physical surroundings and his burgeoning powers. Each day, his ability to warg grew stronger, sharper. He could feel it inside himself—an almost tangible shift in the way his mind reached out and touched the essence of the animals around him. His control, too, deepened. He was becoming more attuned to the animals he entered, more seamless in his merging with them. Even Freyja, with all her vast experience, noticed his progress with a mix of wonder and concern. She had never witnessed such rapid growth in anyone. His pace, unmatched, both excited and alarmed her. If Rick could master his abilities to this degree, if he could control the magic that flowed within him, then there was hope—real hope—that the Others could be defeated for good. The thought brought a quiet strength to her heart.
As they approached the wildling camp, the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the world into twilight. The shadows stretched long as the sky deepened into hues of purple and blue. Tormund and Ygritte moved ahead, taking the lead as they prepared to navigate the camp. Rick watched them with a quiet awareness, knowing that the tension of their arrival was still palpable. After a brief, animated exchange with one of the Freefolk guards, Tormund made his way deeper into the camp, while Ygritte returned to the group. She offered a brief, pointed message: their friend, Tormund, was on his way to see Mance and would be back soon.
Ten minutes later, a small but significant group emerged from the heart of the camp, with Tormund at the forefront. Rick felt his gaze shift automatically to the leader—Mance Rayder. It wasn't just the way he walked that gave him away. No, it was more than that. The man exuded a quiet authority, an innate power that made it clear to Rick that this was a man others naturally followed. The careful deliberation in Mance's gaze, the subtle flicker of surprise as it passed over him—everything about the man said "king." For a split second, Rick could have sworn Mance's eyes twitched, the faintest of frowns forming, but it was gone almost as quickly as it appeared, replaced by the same calculated poise.
Rick's attention then shifted to the entourage around Mance. Most were faces he would forget easily, their presences unremarkable in the grand scheme of things. But one man, standing at the back of the group, caught his attention. There was something unsettling about him, something that made the hairs on the back of Rick's neck stand on end. It wasn't just the way he looked at Freyja—with a hunger that was unmistakable—it was the subtle, predatory gleam in his eyes. Rick's instincts flared. The man's demeanor screamed "danger," and the wolves by his side, the eagle perched on his shoulder, only confirmed what Rick already suspected. This man was a Warg.
Rick's jaw tightened. He knew this kind of man—someone who would think himself capable of manipulating the minds of others, of taking control. But Freyja, the Mother of the North, was not so easily bent. Rick had no doubt that if the Warg tried anything, Freyja would shatter his mind completely. A small, dark part of Rick's mind almost looked forward to that moment, a twisted curiosity blooming in his chest. To see someone so arrogantly sure of their power reduced to nothing... It was a thought that brought him a brief, grim sense of satisfaction.
But that was a thought for later. For now, Rick kept his focus on the group, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, ready for whatever came next.
Mance Rayder locked eyes with him and for a moment nobody moved or even made a sound. Both trying to read the intentions of the other by simply looking into their eyes. The idiom that they are the mirror of one's soul was not just an idiom. There was some truth to it. Finally, the king-beyond-the-wall walked forward and stopped just out of range of a sword attack.
Mance Rayder's eyes met Rick's, and for a heartbeat, the world seemed to hold its breath. Neither man moved, nor did a sound break the stillness between them. It was as if time itself had paused, the air heavy with the weight of their unspoken thoughts. Their gazes locked, each trying to unravel the other's intentions, to discern something deeper than what words could express. The idiom that eyes are the mirror of one's soul was not just a figure of speech. In this moment, Rick could feel it, the weight of Mance's gaze stripping away the barriers, searching for truth—and perhaps, Rick thought, searching for weakness.
Rick held steady. His expression was calm, unreadable, but his mind was sharp, parsing every flicker of emotion in Mance's eyes, every subtle shift in his posture. He was no stranger to staring down a man of power, but there was something undeniably commanding about the king-beyond-the-wall. Finally, Mance broke the silence, his voice a low rumble that seemed to carry the weight of a thousand unspoken thoughts.
"Tormund told me quite a tale about you."
Rick's lips curled slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching into a wry smile. "And Tormund, being Tormund, you took it with skepticism," he replied, the words dripping with a quiet amusement. He had heard countless tales from the wildling—a good portion of them so outlandish that even children would laugh them off as fantasy. But Tormund had always been good for a laugh, and more often than not, there was some grain of truth buried within the ridiculousness.
"Aye," Mance said, his gaze never leaving Rick's. There was a glimmer of something—respect, perhaps?—flickering in his eyes.
Rick stepped forward, his posture straight, his words firm but fair. "bread and salt, and I'll talk as much as you want. Guess rights for the children too," he added, offering a fair trade—a gesture of peace and mutual understanding. He didn't blink, not once, through the entirety of their exchange. His steady gaze told Mance that he was serious.
Thinking for a moment, Mance's gaze held Rick's for another heartbeat before he gave a slight nod, a subtle signal that Rick recognized as an unspoken decision. The air seemed to shift with the quiet motion, and Mance raised his hand in a fluid gesture, commanding attention. It wasn't flashy or grandiose, but there was an authority in it, the kind that made you instinctively respect the man standing before you.
"I accept your offer," Mance said, his voice steady, a hint of something like approval in his eyes, though it was still difficult to read the king-beyond-the-wall completely. "Welcome to the Free Folk host."
He extended his hand in a gesture of mutual respect, and Rick took it without hesitation. Their handshake was firm, neither man willing to show weakness. There was no need for words beyond those exchanged. The simple act of shaking hands spoke volumes, a sign of the tentative trust being forged in the heat of this moment.
"Well met," Rick replied, his tone just as resolute. The words felt heavy, a promise of what was to come, but also an acknowledgment of the road they would now walk together.
Before either man could speak further, a woman moved swiftly through the crowd of men and women who had accompanied Mance. She weaved between them with purpose, her pace steady and sure as she approached Rick. She carried a simple wooden bowl, steam rising from it in a comforting cloud. The scent of it hit Rick's nose before the bowl was even close—something earthy, rich, and hearty, likely a stew or soup meant to nourish the weary traveler. It was nothing extravagant, but the care in the presentation was unmistakable.
The woman's face was marked by a quiet strength, her features sharp but not unkind, her movements graceful as she placed the bowl before Rick. Her eyes flicked briefly to Freyja, but when the direwolf showed no sign of alarm or irritation, the woman seemed to relax. With a small nod, she stepped back, leaving Rick to his meal.
"Onion? Tasty," Rick remarked with a light, playful smile, his tone casual but sincere. He handed the empty bowl back to the woman, his gaze lingering for just a moment as her eyes softened in response. She returned the smile, a brief flicker of appreciation before she turned and made her way back into the throng of people.
With a swift motion, Mance Rayder gestured for Rick to follow him. "Follow me. Just you. The children will be taken care of and offered guest rights too. They are well respected on this side of the Wall."
Rick's reply was immediate, his voice steady and firm, the kind that brooked no argument. "My companion comes with me."
Mance's sharp gaze flickered briefly, a glint of surprise crossing his features before he nodded, though his words carried an edge. "Suit yourself, but if it misbehaves, it will be put down."
Without a hint of hesitation, Rick met his gaze unwaveringly. "Freyja will defend me and herself. Otherwise, you and yours have nothing to fear." There was a quiet, unspoken assurance in his voice, the kind that only those who truly knew the power of their allies could carry. "Though, you should warn the warg with you. His intentions are clear, and they're not good."
Mance's eyes narrowed as he studied Rick for a long, drawn-out moment. The truth of the young prince's words settled into the air between them, tangible and sharp. The subtle twitch of his brow, the faint frown that tugged at the edges of his mouth—Rick could see that Mance had heard the threat, and it wasn't something to be ignored.
Looking back over his shoulder, Mance's gaze shifted to the warg among his group, whose eyes were sharp and calculating, lingering on Freyja with a predatory glint. Mance's lips pressed into a thin line, and he gave a quiet, almost imperceptible sigh. He wasn't a warg himself, but he understood the bond between wargs, and the unspoken rules that governed it. Warging into another warg's bonded companion was a grievous violation, one that could lead to catastrophic consequences.
"If he does," Mance said, his voice now tinged with a cold finality, "you're free to deal with him as you wish."
Rick nodded, his expression never faltering. "I will."
With that, Mance turned sharply, beginning the march toward their destination. Rick remained just a few paces behind, his gaze scanning the crowd, ever watchful. Tormund and Ygritte fell in beside him, neither of them speaking, but both radiating a quiet understanding of the situation unfolding.
"Well… I'm still alive, I guess the easy part is over and done..." Rick murmured, a wry smile flickering on his lips as he glanced at Tormund.
"Aye. Mance is interested in what I told him about you," Tormund replied, his tone gruff but thoughtful. "Though many believed it to be high tales or lies. A few wanted your blood in the snow."
Rick raised an eyebrow, his expression hardening slightly. "And he said no, and they followed." He nodded, his voice quieter now but with a trace of respect. "I understand why he's king-beyond-the-wall. He has… a presence."
Ygritte, walking alongside them, gave a short but agreeing grunt. "Aye, he does," she confirmed with a faint smile, though her eyes never left the path ahead. Her voice carried a quiet edge, as though the weight of Mance's power resonated with her too.
Together, they walked toward the largest tent at the heart of the camp, with Freyja trailing behind them, her massive form silent but imposing. The children had been taken in by a group of women, their attention now shifted to the camp's daily rhythms, leaving Rick to face the leadership of the Free Folk.
The interior of the tent was simple, stripped down, almost austere. A fire burned in the center, its crackling flames casting a warm, flickering glow on the rough-hewn logs that circled it. The heat from the fire was comforting, but the atmosphere inside the tent felt tense, as if each person present was attuned to the slightest change in the air. Most of Mance's people were seated, their eyes trained on Rick and his companions as they entered. The sharp stares made it clear that these were not men and women accustomed to strangers, especially not ones who had earned the wary interest of the king-beyond-the-wall himself.
But it was the two figures standing, unmoving, that drew Rick's attention the most.
The warg, his eyes sharp and calculating, watched Rick with an intensity that felt invasive, as though he could see right through him. And then there was the man wearing bones. Bone armor, bone mask—he looked like something pulled straight from the depths of death itself. His helmet, a human skull, made Rick's stomach twist in disgust, the eyes of the skull empty and hollow. The man's presence seemed to leech the warmth from the room, a coldness that clung to him like the stench of decay.
Rick's mouth tightened in a thin line, but he did his best not to show any outward sign of revulsion. He understood power and the strange ways of the Free Folk, but some things, like this man's grotesque armor, were difficult to ignore. The warg's glance shifted to Freyja, lingering for a moment, and Rick tensed, his hand unconsciously brushing the hilt of Dark Sister at his side.
Freyja, sensing his unease, remained still, her eyes flicking over the room with the same unblinking focus that always accompanied her. She was more than just a direwolf; she was an embodiment of strength and quiet authority, and Rick could feel that silent understanding between them, a tether stronger than words.
"Sit." Mance's voice was commanding, yet devoid of any unnecessary warmth. He settled himself down on the opposite side of the fire, his gaze never leaving Rick as he waited for him to comply.
Rick did, instinctively choosing a spot that faced the king-beyond-the-wall. He was used to sitting alone in tense situations, but this felt different—this felt like more than a mere council.
The fire crackled between them, the only sound that dared to fill the space, before Mance broke the silence.
"I heard about you. The bastard prince."
Rick blinked, taken aback by the bluntness of the statement. He hadn't expected that to be the opening gambit. His station, a subject so distant and inconsequential in the wilds of the north, had no place here—at least, he hadn't thought it would.
"... Good for you, I suppose?" Rick replied, his tone dry. The words felt almost as strange as the notion itself—being called "the bastard prince" out here, where such titles didn't seem to matter.
Mance's lips curled into a thin smile, but there was no amusement in his eyes. He was testing Rick, watching for any sign of weakness, or perhaps waiting for him to reveal something more.
Rick let the silence stretch for a moment, letting the weight of it settle between them.
"… Can we talk about the Others, or do you want to hear my whole life inside the Red Keep? No, you want to know if I can help the Free Folk by reaching the king, to provide aid—without having to kneel to him." The idea seemed to come to him in a flash, a sudden clarity as if the question had been in his mind all along but had yet to form. His eyes met Mance's, and he could see that the king was listening carefully, waiting for the next words to fall.
"Yes." The answer came quickly, with no hesitation. Mance's tone was curt, but it rang with a truth that could not be ignored.
Rick leaned back slightly, crossing his arms as he thought through his words. "Forget it." He shook his head. "He doesn't even know I exist. Nobody does south of the Neck. But he believes the Others will return, yes. He knows that much. The real issue is that he believes his heir will be the one to defeat them. And considering Aegon Targaryen is more like the fourth than the first... it's unlikely. Rhaegar's another story. He's... mad. Not in the same way his father was, not destructive, but mad with prophecies and signs, obsessed with them. He might believe he's destined for something, but he won't be of any help, even if I had any kind of relationship with him."
Rick's words hung heavy in the air, the weight of a broken system, of leadership teetering on the edge of delusion, and the impossibility of relying on any of them to unite for what was to come.
Mance gave a small grunt, a dismissive sound that seemed to carry a strange mix of frustration and understanding. "Pity."
"What do you want to know next?" Rick asked, his voice calm but tinged with a hint of weariness from the weight of the conversation thus far.
"Tormund said you were the chosen of the Old Gods," Mance replied, his voice heavy with curiosity, yet there was an underlying wariness in his tone.
"Horseshit!" came a harsh, almost mocking voice from the back of the room. A man clad in boiled leather armor, decorated with bones and a grim skull helmet, scowled as he spoke, clearly dismissing the very notion. His arms were crossed, and his eyes narrowed suspiciously at Rick.
Rick raised an eyebrow but didn't flinch. "What your friend said," he muttered, then continued with more conviction, "I don't believe I'm any kind of chosen one. She thinks otherwise, but…" He trailed off, unsure if he should even entertain the thought further, but before he could finish, something happened.
"AAAAAAARGGGGGGHHHHHH!" A shrill scream cut through the air, raw and desperate. It came from the direction of the warg, the very same one who had looked at Freyja with ill intent earlier.
Mance and Rick both leapt to their feet simultaneously, their eyes locking onto the writhing figure on the floor. The warg was clutching his head in both hands, his body contorting violently as though something unseen were tearing at his very soul. His screams were inhuman, echoing around the tent with the sound of a man being torn apart from within. The pain on his face was agonizing to witness, as if he were being stretched beyond his limits, his mind being ripped asunder.
And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the warg fell silent. His body froze in mid-seizure, every muscle seizing up as if frozen in place. Foam began to form at his mouth, mixing with the bloodshot eyes now wide and lifeless. The air felt thick with an eerie tension.
Seconds passed in silence, and then Mance, ever the pragmatist, stepped forward. His face was grim as he regarded the dead man, a man whose power had clearly been no match for whatever had overtaken him.
Rick felt a chill run down his spine, but he stood still, watching the corpse with a mixture of curiosity and cold realization. It was clear what had happened. The warg had tried to reach into Freyja, likely to possess or control her in some way, but Freyja, as he had always known, was no ordinary creature.
Freyja's power—Rick didn't know if it was the Old Gods, her nature as a direwolf, or something else—had proven far too much for the man. The warg's death was swift, not from a battle of strength, but from something much deeper. Something Rick wasn't sure he fully understood yet.
For a long moment, the entire tent was still. Not a word was spoken as Mance studied the fallen warg with a look of cautious respect. Finally, Rick broke the silence, his voice steady, though the gravity of the situation hung over him like a storm cloud.
"I can't believe he didn't even wait the night to try that," Rick muttered aloud, his voice dripping with disbelief. The words hung in the air, the sharpness of his tone cutting through the tension in the room.
"What did you do?!" one of the chieftains yelled, his voice thick with accusation and anger.
"I'm going to kill you, fucker!" shouted another man, his hands gripping his weapon tightly as he took a step toward Rick, eyes filled with rage.
Rick didn't flinch. He didn't even bother to draw his sword. The weight of the moment, the absurdity of the situation, had drained any urgency from him. His stance remained calm, unwavering. But Tormund, ever vigilant, had his axe in hand. He moved to stand in front of Rick, his broad shoulders blocking the way, taking a defensive stance that made it clear he wasn't going to let anyone get close.
But even Tormund's imposing form didn't deter two of Mance's men. They moved forward, blades drawn, their intent clear. They didn't care about the host's rules or their king's presence.
What stopped them, though, was something none of them expected.
With a sudden, fluid movement, Freyja shifted. Her body rippled and grew, fur giving way to smooth skin as the massive direwolf before them became something else entirely—a woman. A strikingly beautiful, towering woman with eyes like deep blue ice and a presence that seemed to still the very air around them. She was a vision of power, strength, and ancient magic, a being of the wild whose very being commanded respect.
"You will not break guest rights in my presence," she snarled, her voice cutting through the room like a blade. The words weren't just spoken; they were laced with magic, cold and commanding, filled with a power that made everyone take at least one hesitant step back. It wasn't just the words—they were a force in themselves, imbued with the very essence of the Old Gods. The room seemed to chill, as if the air had thickened with the weight of her authority.
One of the women inside the tent, who had been silently watching the scene unfold, whispered in disbelief, "Mother."
The word slipped out with a quiet reverence, her eyes wide in awe. She looked as though she had seen a ghost—a spirit from the distant past come to life. Her voice was filled with a mix of wonder and something darker, as if she couldn't quite believe what she was seeing.
Freyja's gaze softened, her lips curling into a slight, pleased smile. "I'm glad that some humans remember me," she said, her voice warm, but still carrying that same underlying power. There was a note of pride in her words, as if she had waited for this moment, for someone to acknowledge her after all these centuries.
The room was silent for a moment, everyone staring in stunned disbelief at the figure before them. Mance Rayder, who had been watching with growing suspicion, now narrowed his eyes. This was something he hadn't expected—not from Tormund, not from anyone. The presence of this woman, this creature, was unlike anything he had ever encountered.
"Who are you?" he asked, his voice low and cautious.
Mance Rayder's gaze was sharp as it settled on Freyja, suspicion flickering behind his eyes. Tormund hadn't told him about this—the direwolf, yes, but the direwolf changing into a human woman? That was something new. For this reason, Tormund had kept quiet, wary of crossing a line he didn't fully understand. He didn't know if Freyja wanted her true identity known, and he certainly didn't want to provoke the wrath of the gods or risk bringing their fury down on his family. The silence between them was thick with unspoken questions.
Freyja, unfazed by the attention, broke the stillness with a voice as cold and commanding as the winds of the far north. "I'm the Mother of the North. The messenger of the Old Gods, Mance Rayder."
Mance's lips curled into a skeptical sneer. "She's a myth."
"So are the Others," she replied, her tone biting, "and yet here we are." Without waiting for a response, she seated herself on the log Rick had occupied a moment earlier, crossing one leg over the other. She looked every bit the ancient being she claimed to be, her very presence unsettling. "Oh, and if any warg among your people tries to warg into me again, I won't be nice this time."
A man near the dead warg, whose body still lay twisted on the ground, spoke up in a panic. "He's dead!"
"Exactly." Freyja's eyes glinted with cold amusement as her words hung in the air. She didn't need to raise her voice—there was an edge of ancient power in her very presence that made the entire room uncomfortable.
Her voice dropped into a deeper, more forceful tone, like a growl from the heart of the wilds. "That young man, he's the Old Gods' chosen. You want to defeat the Others, you want him as an ally."
"Allegedly. I still don't believe it." Rick's response was quick and disinterested, as though the weight of the conversation had long since been overshadowed by the overwhelming absurdity of it all. He sat down next to Tormund, not bothering to glance back at Freyja, his expression unreadable.
Freyja's gaze hardened as she continued, her voice like the bitter cold winds of the far north. "It matters not if you believe it or not. Only you can kill the Night King."
The name seemed to catch Mance off guard. His eyes narrowed with sudden interest as he leaned back, his previous skepticism giving way to something far more calculating. "The Night King?" He asked, his voice low, almost in awe.
"The very first Other," Freyja explained, her voice carrying the weight of ancient knowledge. "The one who created all others. His power is beyond comparison."
Mance leaned forward, curiosity etched across his face. "... Why him?" he asked, his voice sharp, but tinged with doubt. "What makes him so special?"
Before Freyja could answer, another voice interjected, a woman with a mask of white weirwood whose presence seemed to command respect. "Mance!" she hissed. Her voice cut through the tension in the room, her gaze fixed on the king. "You won't believe that—"
"Enough, Gerrick." The woman's voice rang out, the authority in it cutting through the air like a blade. It was the same woman who had recognized Freyja for what she was. "She's the Mother. If she says that kid is the Old Gods' chosen, then he is. It's not our place to doubt it."
Mance blinked at the woman, a flicker of disbelief in his eyes, but there was no argument to be had. The air in the tent grew heavier as Freyja's presence seemed to expand, like a dark cloud closing in on the room.
Freyja's smile was almost wistful as she looked at the woman who had spoken up. "Eight thousand years, and so few remember me. A shame." Her voice held an unmistakable note of lament, a soft sorrow for the lost memories of time gone by. "The gods are pleased you do, Morna White Mask."
Then, turning her attention to the man who had questioned her earlier, she added with a cold, amused smile, "You on the other hand, Gerrick Falseblood. They—"
"Kingsblood," Gerrick interjected quickly, his voice defensive.
"No, Falseblood," Freyja corrected him with a scornful twist of her lips. "You're no son of Redbeard. Just his brother's descendant."
Tormund, ever quick to laugh, let out a sharp bark of laughter. "Ah! I knew it!" He shook his head in mock disbelief, a grin on his face. "Fuckin' liar!"
The insult seemed to echo through the tent, and Freyja turned to give Tormund a deadpan look, her expression cold and unreadable. Rick and Freyja shared the same gaze, a look that suggested neither of them was in the mood for further games.
"Again," Mance said, his voice thick with frustration and curiosity. "Why him?" He pointed at Rick, his finger trembling slightly as he gestured toward the young man.
Freyja's voice was steady and sure. "Because in his blood is more magic than has ever been seen. Even the Last Hero, the man who defeated the Night King eight thousand years ago, didn't have even half the magic in his blood. He's the one who will wake dragons. Once again, they will roam the skies. He's needed to give you the tools to fight and win against the dead."
Rick leaned back against the log, an almost incredulous look on his face. "I'm just putting it out there... I have mostly no idea of what she's talking about."
"Mostly?" Mance's expression shifted to one of bemusement as he leaned forward, his curiosity piqued.
Rick didn't meet his gaze but instead looked at the ground, his mind turning over the weight of everything. "My sire is Targaryen, the cunt I come from is Stark. Fire and Ice. Both from a bloodline with the most magic in it, and I was conceived at the Isles of Faces, surrounded by numerous heartrees. Beyond that? I know nothing except the need to fight the Others and their thralls."
Freyja looked at him with a soft, knowing smile. "For now," she added, her gaze turning back to Mance. "I'm teaching him, and he's learning fast. He will be ready long before the Others make their last move."
Mance's eyes narrowed in thought. "And when is that?"
Freyja's smile deepened, but there was something foreboding in her voice as she answered, "Right now? Six to Seven years. Although, the gods say it can change."
The murmurs in the tents grew louder as the words settled in. Six to seven years. The realization hit hard. It wasn't a long time, not in the grand scheme of things. The Free Folk had been gathering for years, but the Wall still loomed, an insurmountable obstacle. The closer the host got to the Wall, the more dangerous it would become. Crossing it would require strength and cunning, and the path ahead was anything but easy. The thought weighed heavily on Mance's mind, but his expression betrayed nothing. His face remained as cold and unyielding as the frozen north, a block of ice carved to perfection.
"I think it's a lot of revelations for one evening," Mance said, his voice calm but firm, as though he had already put the matter to rest. "Tormund, find them a tent to rest. We'll talk more tomorrow."
"Aye, will do," Tormund replied with a sharp nod, his gaze flickering to Rick, then to Freyja, who was already retreating toward the entrance of the tent.
Tormund gestured for Rick to follow, his voice low and respectful. He didn't dare issue an order to Freyja, not after what had just transpired. As the direwolf shifted back into her towering human form, the air seemed to thrum with a palpable, eerie energy. She stepped gracefully out of the tent, and Tormund followed Rick without another word.
"Do you really believe that shite, Mance?" Gerrick's voice was tight with frustration, the words sharp like the edge of a dagger. He didn't take kindly to the revelation of his bloodline being laid bare in front of everyone. It had left him exposed, vulnerable, and he hated it.
Mance didn't answer right away. His focus remained on the door, his thoughts swirling like the winds outside. But then he spoke, his voice quieter, more contemplative. "Morna, I want to know everything about her."
Morna, the woman with the white weirwood mask, muttered under her breath, her tone laced with disdain. "Bloody heretics. Worshiping the Old Gods, but not knowing their history."
She sighed deeply, then sank into the now vacant log, her mask shifting slightly as her gaze fell to the ground, as though the weight of the conversation was finally sinking in. She shook her head as if tired of repeating ancient knowledge to those who refused to listen.
"The Mother is a being created by the Old Gods to act in their stead," Morna began, her voice steady but tinged with the bitterness of someone who had seen too many ignore what they didn't understand. "She's meant to protect and control the wildlife, guide the gods' children, giving them wisdom. She's the one who gave some the ability to warg or have green dreams. She's the very first direwolf, and all of them are her descendants. It is said that when the Long Night came upon the world, it lasted an entire generation. We survived because she used her magic to help us."
"Are you sure it's her?" Mance asked, skepticism creeping into his voice. "She'd be eight thousand years old at least."
"I'm sure, Mance," Morna answered with a certainty that only centuries of knowledge could bring. "As for why she's still alive… well, she was created by the gods, who knows what powers they gave her."
Mance leaned forward slightly, his brow furrowing. "Why didn't she act sooner? Why didn't she help?"
Morna's eyes hardened, her gaze distant as if she were trying to peer into the fog of history itself. "I don't know. That part of history isn't clear. You'd best ask the giants about that."
Mance was silent for a long moment, his thoughts lost in the thick mist of uncertainty that seemed to be swirling around them all. He wasn't one for questioning fate, but this—this was different. The knowledge he had just received threatened to shake everything he believed. He did his best not to sigh, but the weight of it all pressed down on him, and he couldn't help but let his mind wander.
The gods had never been kind to men, and yet here they were, their chosen ones walking among them, carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders.