The Stranger #38

Gale's grip tightened around the ice blade, his resolve unwavering as he took another step toward Tormund, who stood closest to him, prepared to unleash his anger. The tension in the air was palpable, and a violent clash appeared imminent.

However, before the young man could make his first move, an unexpected interruption occurred. He was struck in the face by a large snowball. The seemingly harmless projectile landed with a soft thud, instantly quenching his rage as he traced it back to its source, the giant. 

The giant returned his gaze with an unfazed, blank expression before turning away, resuming his silent vigil of the horizon.

Gale felt a mixture of shock and exasperation at the bizarre interruption. He glanced at Tormund and Threya, who appeared equally taken aback by the giant's perplexing behavior.

Ultimately, Gale let go of the ice blade, causing it to disintegrate into shimmering blue particles. He let out a sigh, his anger dissipating.

"Just forget it," he conceded, his voice laced with frustration. "As much satisfaction as cutting you down would bring me, I won't let your idiocy undo all my work." His words conveyed his reluctance to let the situation escalate further.

"Let's get this over with so I can return to civilization and never have to interact with you savages again," he added, a scowl on his face. 

Tormund couldn't help but taunt Gale further, his grin growing broader as he goaded the young man. "Eager to return to your kneeling ways, are you?" he jeered, his playful tone contrasting with Gale's frustration.

"I'd wager his knees are getting itchy after standing upright for too long," Threya chimed in with a scoff, sheathing her short swords. "Fuckin' southerner cunt," she muttered with disdain, her scorn evident as she spat on the ground to emphasize her point.

"I never kneeled to anyone, and I don't intend to do so in the future," Gale retorted, his voice laced with pride. He wasn't about to let the Wildlings belittle him.

"Self-respect isn't exclusive to you goat fuckers," he added dismissively, waving his hand to dispel the insult. "Let's get on with the journey before I change my mind," he concluded, his desire to expedite the mission now stronger than ever.

"Spoken like a true goat fucker..." Tormund said with a chuckle. 

The tension that had momentarily gripped them seemed to have subsided, and the group readied themselves to continue, albeit with lingering unease between them.

...

As Ser Barristan and Tyrion, accompanied by their escort of soldiers, continued their journey along the King's Road, they found themselves drawing closer to Winterfell. Their journey had been challenging yet surprisingly uneventful. 

The road had presented them with relatively few obstacles, except for the abrupt changes in temperature as they passed the Twins and the marshy bogs they encountered beyond.

Now, before them, the imposing silhouette of Moat Cailin loomed on the horizon. This ancient stronghold of the First Men rested on the northern edge of the vast swamp known as the Neck, situated in the southern reaches of the North. 

In ages past, Moat Cailin had served as a formidable natural choke point, protecting the North from potential invasions by the South for thousands of years.

However, as they approached, it became evident that the once-mighty fortress had fallen into a state of disrepair. Its walls had crumbled, and its watchtowers stood barely intact, evidence of the passage of time and the gradual decay of its defenses.

Tyrion rode atop his own horse despite Ser Barristan's earlier offer to arrange a carriage for him at the start of their journey. His eyes roved over the decaying ruins of Moat Cailin, and he couldn't help but voice his observations.

"So, this is Moat Cailin," Tyrion remarked, his tone betraying an undercurrent of disappointment as he calmly steered his horse forward. "It doesn't appear to be—" he began, only to be cut off mid-sentence by Ser Barristan.

"Luxurious enough to host a Lannister lord such as yourself?" Ser Barristan quipped, offering a good-natured jest as he guided his own mount forward.

Tyrion flashed a wry smile in response to the knight's jest. "I was going to say 'formidable,' but yes. I suppose I've had the pleasure of better accommodations," he replied with a chuckle, his sharp wit ever at the ready.

Ser Barristan remained unfazed, his expression one of calm resolve. "Well, I'm afraid you'll have to make do," he calmly responded. "There aren't any inns or towns we can reach before sunset," he explained to Tyrion, and then turned his attention to the soldiers marching in their wake.

"Ride ahead and secure the place. We'll make camp in Moat Cailin for the day," he instructed, decisively outlining their plan for the immediate future.

...

As they pressed forward in their relentless pursuit of a White Walker, Gale and his group had covered significant ground. Their journey had led them to the very northernmost fringes of the Haunted Forest, leaving the territories of the Thenns far behind and now encroaching upon the lands of Always Winter. 

The biting cold winds clawed at them, a constant reminder of the perilous region they were venturing into.

Gale's frustration was palpable, casting a dark shadow over the group as they huddled around the warmth of a bonfire. Resting on the ground, he had a sullen expression, his eyes fixed on the tip of an obsidian dagger that he used to sharpen a stick. 

The meticulous scraping of the wood against the dagger's edge was a manifestation of his intense boredom and irritation. Every stroke of the blade seemed to convey his readiness to snap and unleash his anger on anyone or anything that would give him an excuse. 

Tormund, typically the bearer of humor and tall tales, was not in his usual boisterous mood. He, too, had lost his usual smirk, his usually lively eyes tinged with fatigue. He even stopped recounting his countless tales of exploits, which had been his chosen method of bothering Gale at the start of the journey.

Even Threya, who had once harbored an unreasonable aggression toward Gale, had succumbed to the exhaustion and frustration that now hung like a heavy shroud over their quest. She sat there, her aggressive tendencies momentarily subdued.

Amidst this air of discontent and weariness, the giant remained a constant and enigmatic presence. Silent as ever, he followed the group whenever they moved and would come to a halt when they did. 

His gaze was unfocused as he gazed into the horizon, his thoughts as impenetrable as the icy landscape they traversed, if there were any thoughts behind his eyes. 

The tranquility of their camp was shattered by the arrival of an unexpected presence. 

The crisp, deliberate footsteps cutting through the snow signaled an intruder's approach. Everyone, except for the giant who remained unperturbed, reacted swiftly. Threya and Tormund drew their weapons, their eyes alert, while Gale summoned an ice blade into his hand. 

As one, they rose from their sitting positions and converged on the mysterious robed figure who had appeared seemingly out of nowhere, standing at a distance from their bonfire.

"The Lord's blessing this far north... now, that's something I haven't seen in a long while," the stranger remarked, his gaze unwaveringly fixed on the flickering flames. 

Slowly, he shifted his attention to Gale and his companions.

"The lands of Always Winter are no place for the living, especially the young. Turn back and return from whence you came," he advised in a calm and measured tone. 

His words were delivered with an air of wisdom and a quiet confidence, as though he carried secrets of these icy realms.

Gale's frustration found a target in the mysterious stranger, and he shot back with a scowl. "And I suppose you're the only talking wight on this side of the Wall, eh?" he jeered, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

The robed man responded with a hearty chuckle, shaking his head. "I'm no wight, nor am I a white walker, young man," he clarified, his words carrying an air of authority. "Though I have tasted death once... these lands are my home, as they are the home of the Night King himself," he explained cryptically. 

With a deliberate motion, he lowered the hood that concealed his features, unveiling a visage aking to a rotting corpse and giving the group an expectant look, almost like he was waiting for something.

The sudden revelation drove Tormund to an immediate, instinctive reaction. He lunged at the stranger, brandishing his blade, and shouted with a mix of anger and aggression, "Bloody undead! Kill it!"

The stranger appeared taken aback by Tormund's swift attack. He sidestepped with surprising agility, his movements graceful for someone who had professed to have once died. 

With a well-timed maneuver, he tripped Tormund, causing the Free Folk warrior to tumble face-first into the snow. 

A wry look crossed the stranger's face as he glanced at the fallen Tormund and turned his attention back to Gale and the others, who remained poised and ready to spring into action.

"I must confess... I'm unsure how to proceed from here," the stranger admitted, his voice marked by a tinge of puzzlement. 

He stroked his chin thoughtfully, his face marred by hesitation. "Revealing my face is usually enough to send everyone running back to the Haunted Forest," he added, acknowledging the rare situation he now found himself in.

...

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