Game Of Thrones : The Shield Of Conquest And Domination

236 AC.

Beyond the Wall.

The frozen land stretched out as far as the eye could see, covered in a thick blanket of snow that shimmered under the pale moonlight. The ground crunched beneath every step, hard and icy, while the biting cold stung any exposed skin and left the taste of winter on the tongue.

Bitter winds whistled through the barren trees, their leafless branches reaching up like skeletal fingers against the dark, starless sky.

Growl!

The distant howls of wolves resonated across the icy expanse, adding to the haunting stillness and painting a picture of isolation, desolation, and pure despair.

In every aspect, this land is a place of chilling cruelty and horror.

And thus,  this is life beyond the Wall.

Though only God knows the precise location, it was close to one of the largest snow-covered mountains where the free folk are buried.

Here...

If one had the vision to see through the violent wind and snowflakes constantly bombarding the land, one would see:

A muscular yet handsome figure trapped in ice stands out against the cold.

He wore an old-fashioned suit and held a round shield, appearing as if he had been interrupted during a crucial moment and frozen by the cold. His expression was calm, eyes closed, yet his stance conveyed readiness for battle. This sight sparked curiosity about his circumstances and how long he had remained trapped in the ice.

But before one could wonder...

The frigid statue began to break apart with a haunting sound, like footsteps echoing through the halls of an abandoned castle, glass shattering in a silent room, or perhaps like the chilling wail of winds sweeping over a frozen horizon.

In a similar way...

Cracks spiderwebbed across the figure's face, originating from the eyes and spreading outward. With a sharp and final crack, the ice statue shattered, revealing a man in an unusual outfit that seemed entirely out of place in this world.

Even though the ice around his eyes had broken away, his eyes remained closed, and he stayed unconscious.

Hours later...

Time had slipped away through the night, and the sun was rising after a long stretch of freezing darkness.

As the sunlight touched his face, the figure's eyes blinked open, struggling to adjust to the harsh light and unfamiliar surroundings.

He took in his surroundings with wide-eyed disbelief, breathing heavily as he fought to regain control of his body. The ice that had encased him began to melt away, and the world around him slowly came into focus.

"What the hell is this place?"

he whispered hoarsely, his voice raspy from disuse.

"And How long have I been here...who am I"

He reached up to touch his face, feeling the remnants of ice that clung to his lips and skin dissolve under his touch. His hand brushed against his round shield, still within reach.

He stared blankly at its blue and red pattern, the shield providing him with a sense of stability amidst the chaos of waking from his long slumber.

As he surveyed the strange, frozen landscape, his eyes darted from one sight to another, trying to make sense of where he had ended up.

The surroundings felt foreign, yet there was a faint familiarity, as if he had known this place long ago.

Worst of all, he had no other memories. No matter how he tried, he couldn't seem to remember anything about himself except the fact that he was a warrior.

And his name is Steve Rogers.

Soon....

Steve stood up, his breath hanging in the frigid air as he tried to gather his thoughts. The cold nipped at his exposed skin, despite the suit he wore. Although his body had been tempered to resist icy atmospheres and was somewhat protected, the cold was still irritating.

The next second...

His stomach churned with insatiable hunger, gnawing at him like a wild animal trapped within.

He felt a weakness like never before, suddenly collapsing onto the icy ground, clutching his stomach in pain.

At this time, his eyes fell upon dismembered, half-burned bodies nearby, the gruesome sight searing itself into his mind.

The stench of death and decay was overpowering, yet overshadowed by his intense hunger. His thoughts raced as he failed to find anything edible.

For the first time, dark, demonic thoughts clouded his mind.

He wanted to eat their flesh.

"Haah... what kind of place is this? The cold, the death... Have I stepped into a nightmare? Who burned these people and why?"

He dragged himself closer to the charred remains, his resolve faltering as his body screamed for nourishment. The scent of blood and burned flesh overwhelmed him. In normal circumstances, he would have felt disgusted, but now he fought the urge to give in.

"One bite... just a bite... just a taste... maybe it will make the hunger go away..."

His hand gripped his shield for support as his legs threatened to give way. His head throbbed, his vision blurred. The hunger gnawed at him, each pang stronger than the last.

"Stay strong, you bastard," he reminded himself. "This can't be the end of me. I may not completely remember who I am, but I know I'm better than this. I have to be strong."

But the hunger was relentless. His knees buckled as he staggered forward, unable to resist the urge any longer.

"Just one bite... I can't stand it... just enough to keep going... no one is looking at me... they are already dead, so it won't be troublesome."

In this moment, even though he felt despair, he couldn't cross the line between humanity and animals.

He couldn't do it because he has a heart.

This truth made his eyes watery, and the tears streamed down his cheeks only to freeze in the cold reality.

He knew what was wrong and what was right.

He understands the difference.

Thus, in a last-ditch attempt to hold onto his humanity, he violently bit his own lip, tasting the metallic tang of his own blood.

The shock of pain cleared his mind momentarily, but it wasn't enough. Alas, his body weakened, and he crumpled to the ground, surrendering to the cold and darkness.

As his consciousness faded, he whispered one last thought:

"I should have taken a bite..."

And with that, he passed out.

Meanwhile...

A small group of wildlings approached the desolate area, equipped with makeshift weapons and wrapped in heavy fur cloaks for warmth. Sinister looks were evident on their faces.

"Another day of burning bodies," one wildling muttered as they glanced at the charred remains of the pyre from a distance.

"Yeah, doing this at the start of the day is annoying. Let's get this done quickly," another replied, casting an uneasy gaze at the scene.

"Bob, I heard Cadra turned you down," one wildling teased.

"That fucking bitch only likes to ride the tribal chief," Bob replied with frustration.

"That's for sure ... even I only succeeded in holding her boobs, nothing more...sigh... Now let's burn them."

As they drew closer, one wildling noticed something unusual and signaled for the others to stop.

"Hold on. That one over there isn't dead," he pointed toward Steve Rogers, who lay unconscious on the ground.

The wildlings gathered around Steve, their expressions wary and intrigued.

"He's still breathing," one of them confirmed, watching the rise and fall of Steve's chest.

"What's he doing here dressed like that? His body is sturdy," another said, examining Steve's unusual attire.

The group leader, Deron, looked at Steve strangely, as if examining his resistance to the snow. He wondered how Steve was still alive but soon cleared his mind and declared,

"Luck is on our side. His outfit resembles that of a southern clown, which can only mean one thing."

Another spoke, "He'll make a good slave."