Prologue

**Prologue**

General PoV

The dusk or dawn it was, no man can tell was shrouded in cloudy sky and an eerie stillness, broken only by the faint rustle of leaves and the distant hoot of an owl. The dense forest lay in deep silence, as if holding its breath, and within its heart, a circle of large stone pillars with an ancient weirwood tree in the middle. Here, the Children of the Forest, the mystical beings of Westeros, prepared for a ritual that would change the fate of the war against the first man and the world.

At the center of the circle, a figure bound to the weirwood tree. Mild sunlight filtered through the rustling leaves above, casting dappled shadows upon the man's form.

In another world, he had been a psychopath, a monster among men. Always relishing in suffering others, having chronic anger issues, wearing a mask presenting himself as a social person, being a model husband and father. But behind that facade was a serial killer, never caught due to his extraordinary intellect and emotional intelligence. He got the thrill out of torturing his victims to death, disgusted by his own race he referred as uncivilised barbarians, misquoting "Humans show their inner beast, when treated like a beast. Gutted, skinned, ravaged, eaten." Yes, he savoured in cannibalism, enjoying eating flesh, of so called 'beasts'. Being a resourceful humans he was in his previous life, gave him means to continue his crimes. He laughed like a madman when his victims screamed, he smiled like a doting father, when serving his child flesh of humans as breakfast, made love to his wife in that very bedroom where he killed first.

Many say God calls good people from earth early, and leaves its scum to rot of old age. But the twisted mind he was, saw his approaching old age as a weakness and unbecoming of 'one' such as him. choose to end his life. He remained an enigma to police and detectives who sought to uncover the reason behind the disappearance of 38 'known' high class individuals in New York alone in the last 4 decades, who knows how many homeless people who he despised as the lowest of animals, he cleansed the earth with.

There he was standing bound to a tree, with a gag in his mouth. In front of The Children of the Forest, whose eyes shimmering with a wisdom that transcended time, filled with magic moved with purpose. They chanted in an ancient tongue, their voices harmonizing with the gentle whisper of the wind. Their hands danced with grace as they weaved intricate patterns of magic around the fallen man.

Among them was Leaf, one of the eldest of her kind. Her eyes bore witness to centuries of war, peace, and the ever-turning wheel of fate. She had seen how the first man slaughtered their kind, burned their forests, she had seen cruelty of human at its peak and now she was here, orchestrating the rebirth of the ultimate weapon, which goes against the very nature of their being. But they must do it for their survival.

The psychopath's eyes remained closed, but his mind was far from dormant. He had once reveled in the darkness of humanity, finding joy in the suffering of others.

Now, in this strange world of ice and magic, he sensed something different—a force, a purpose, a call to power unlike anything he had known before.

The chanting grew louder, and the symbols carved into the weirwood trees glowed with an ethereal light. The man's body twitched, a shiver passing through him, as if the very essence of his being was being rewritten. The psychopath's consciousness fought against this transformation, resisting the pull of the magic, but it was futile.

With a final, resonating chord of magic, the man's eyes snapped open.

He was a being, he might have considered to be a child in his previous life, but he knew they looked anything but a human child, who came his way, with a red crystallised dagger in its hand. He tried to struggle to get his body free, but it was futile against the magic of the Children's. He hastily looked around the unfamiliar aired surroundings with whistling cold wind bearing down his naked chest, the pale tree branches griping him having blood red leaves, after his supposed death by poisoning he himself drank. He found this scene familiar….

Soon Leaf, reached him looking him dead in the eye, muttering in strange language, and pushing the dagger in his chest. First time in his memory, in that instance he felt fear, fear of pain to come next, as it was already unbearable. Leaf slowly pushed the dagger in his heart, as if enjoying his unearthly torment, which was unprecedented even in a magical standard world.

He squirmed, utterly revolted and disgusted by his own actions as he had seen this before. The begging, the mind calling for mercy. He has this emotion in his victims. In that moment he wished for a true end for the first time.

But pain only increased dulling his consciousness and senses, he thought it was, Death. Eternal rest. No

No. He realised where he was. Who he was about became. It was not death. He has become dead. He has become the Eternal Rest and Reckoning. For he will be called 'NIGHT KING'

...