Chapter 1338 - 5

It was freezing.

That was the first thing John noticed as he clawed his way toward consciousness, sluggish and disoriented. The cold.

Not the brisk, nose-tingling kind that painted cheeks red and fingers blue, but a deep, biting chill that burrowed into his bones and made him feel like he'll never know warmth again.

He wasn't dressed for this weather; he could feel it in his health bar.

Sure enough, a familiar ping cut through the fog in his mind, and as he cracked open crusted-over eyes, a blinking text confirmed his suspicion:

"Chilly attire: -10% max health! Should've dressed for the occasion."

Fantastic.

Behind the floating message, the world came into focus. Snow. Trees, huge, gnarled things that loomed in the distance, their twisted branches casting pools of darkness over the ground.

Wait. Snow?

It had been a nice spring morning when he stepped outside, no hint of an approaching storm, and anyway it was much too late in the season. The only time the weather shifted this dramatically was when a wandering mage got experimental nearby, but even then, this felt wrong.

There was no birdsong, no buzzing insects, no fruiting bushes ready to fill his satchel. Just an eerie, unnatural stillness undercut by gusty wind.

And the most damning evidence? When he tried to open his map, it was blank, with only a tiny marker to indicate his current location. The rest stretched out as a vast, uncharted void of mysterious nothing.

Great. He had the situational awareness of a toddler.

John scrubbed a hand down his face, searching his memory and also flicking ice crystals off his neatly trimmed beard. No falling through a portal. No sudden cultist ambush. No cryptic vision from a forgotten god announcing him as the Chosen One, here's your quest. And yet—he was somewhere else.

Which meant it was time to deal with it.

First priority: Inventory check.

Thankfully, today had been a foraging day, so his satchel and bandolier belt were both strapped on, giving him a decent 300 inventory slots. Some were already occupied:

Food: Four fruit pies, two loaves of bread, a 20-stack of stew, and two water skins. Not great, not terrible. The stew was a lucky break—if he'd actually remembered to take it out earlier, he'd be in much worse shape.Forgeables: A handful of mushrooms, some berries, a yellow butterfly, and five blue mountain flowers.Equipment: An ironwood bow in his right-hand slot, 40 iron arrows, 53 stone ones, his good steel knife, and a flintstone.

The bad news? He hadn't been planning on mining or woodcutting today, so his pickaxe and axe were sitting safely back home, alongside his sword.

Rummaging through the snow, he gathered a few loose sticks and stones, quickly fashioning makeshift stone tools. Not steel, but they'd do—at least until he found a village to trade with.

That left one pressing issue.

He needed to get rid of that freezing debuff, and fast.

—---

Brakk stomped through the snow, foul-tempered and sick of the Gods-damned forest. His boots, worn thin at the soles, sank through with every step, sending little puffs of powder flying. His breath curled in the air like smoke.

Behind him, Skjarn and Vargan bickered like crows over a carcass, their voices grating against his already frayed patience.

"Three days," he growled under his breath. "Three fucking days."

Three days of tracking that spearwife, and for what? A piss-poor trail leading to an abandoned camp. Supplies running low. An empty beer horn. Not even a decent bit of game to fill their bellies. Just the cold, empty wilderness stretching on.

Brakk was just about ready to call the whole thing a waste when movement flickered up ahead. He stopped dead, lifting a hand to silence the two behind him. His sharp eyes scanned the clearing.

A man.

Not a big one, not small either. Looked well-fed, like he ate good meat and worked his muscles right. But his clothes—what in all the frozen hells was he thinking? Boiled leather over cloth, no furs to speak of. His hair, dark blond and down to his shoulders, sat uncovered, his short beard catching the frost. He was crouched near a fire, fussing with something, a pair of skinned hares speared on a spit behind him.

A southern kneeler, out here in the true north? No crow's blacks, either.

Brakk's lips twisted into a cruel grin. Maybe their luck was turning after all.

He didn't bother staying quiet. Three against one? It was no contest. Especially not against some soft-handed idiot dressed like he'd wandered straight out of a noble's hall.

The man looked up at their approach, handsome face splitting into an easy smile.

"Hello, friends!" he called out, his accent strange but clear enough. "I sure am happy to see you. I seem to have gotten lost. Any chance you could point me to the nearest settlement?"

Brakk stepped closer, his grin widening. "Aye, we could."

But something shifted. The kneeler's smile vanished like smoke in the wind, and before Brakk could blink, the man had a bow in hand, arrow notched and aimed dead at them.

Brakk stumbled to a stop, his gut twisting in shock. Where in the fuck had that bow come from? He hadn't seen it. Hadn't seen the man move to grab it. It was just—suddenly there.

"Not a step closer, if you will."

Brakk's blood boiled at the audacity. His grip tightened on his axe, lips peeling back in a snarl.

"Fucking kneeler." He waved the axe in the air, signaling the others to move in before charging. "I'll gut you like a fish!"

"His bow is mine!" Vargan shouted, footsteps pounding behind him—before an arrow whistled past Brakk's shoulder and slid straight into Vargan's eye with a wet thwack. The big man hit the ground like a felled tree, dead before he could do more than scream.

Brakk howled in fury. He twisted, barely dodging another arrow, not fast enough—pain seared his cheek as the tip sliced deep. And then he was on the kneeler, Skjarn flanking from the side with a knife.

The bow was gone. Just gone.

Now the man held a knife—fine steel, sharp as dragonglass—but he gripped it wrong, like he'd never seen real combat. Two against one, and Brakk was already swinging.

Iron bit flesh. An axe crunched down to bone. Blood sprayed hot into the cold air. The kneeler's blade found its mark too, carving deep, but he should've dropped in seconds.

He didn't.

Brakk could feel it—something was wrong. Even through the bloodlust, the thought crept in.

The man should've been down. No one took hits like that and kept fighting. His gut was sliced open, shoulder cleaved near to useless, but he moved like he barely felt it.

A demon?

The thought made Brakk falter, just for a breath. But a breath was enough.

Pain lanced through his side.

And then—the world stopped.

Not just him. Not just Skjarn. Everything. The fire. The wind. The falling snow. Frozen.

Everything except the man.

Brakk strained, muscles locked in invisible chains, and watched in horror as the kneeler moved freely, untouched by whatever had cursed them.

Then the impossible happened.

Bread appeared in the man's hand. He took a bite. It vanished. Appeared again. Vanished. Then a steaming bowl of stew replaced it, materializing and disappearing as he ate.

And his wounds—his wounds were closing.

Skin knitting together. Blood slipping back into his veins. Even his slashed clothes wove themselves whole again.

Brakk couldn't move. Couldn't speak. Could only watch.

The world jolted back into motion.

And Brakk, too shocked and terrified to react, died.

—---

"Nice work! Your knife skills have leveled up to 3."

John blinked the message away, wrinkling his nose at the three corpses staining the snow.

Well, that was a mess.

One minute, he was minding his own business, getting ready to cook his hares and maybe craft himself some warm gear—a hood and gloves, since two pelts weren't enough for a cloak. He'd need to find a bear or a wolf for that. The next, three bandits decided he was an easy mark.

To be fair, they weren't wrong.

If they'd had the sense to patch themselves up before, stop in the middle to eat some grub or drink a health potion, he'd be the corpse in the snow. But no, they just charged in, with less than full health and frothing at the mouth, while he frantically scarfed down enough food to offset his tanking health bar. Good thing he already had that spit ready for the fire—he was fresh out of bread and down to 10 stew.

Stupid mistake on their part.

He tried to be friendly. He really could've used the help, considering he was stranded in the middle of nowhere. But the second the combat music kicked in, he knew talking wasn't an option, and, well, he always aimed to be the last one standing.

With a sigh, he crouched and rifled through their belongings. They didn't look well-off—filthy, ragged, reeking of old sweat and desperation—but loot was loot.

By the time he was done, he had:

3 fur cloaks, each somehow worse than the last1 stone axe (and he just made one, too)1 rusty iron knife (better than nothing)A few pieces of unidentifiable dried meat (questionable, but food was food)2 empty drinking horns1 drinking horn, half-full of weak, watery aleSome dried applesA roughly carved horn amulet on a leather stringA few pouches filled with random junkThe clothes and shoes? He left those right where they were. Even he had his limits.

Maybe he could stitch the cloaks together into something decent. And hey—he'd gotten a knife combat level out of it. Not a total loss.

Whistling, he turned back to the fire.

**************

Trying to get back into writing after several years out of the game. I've been wanting to play around in the ASOIAF sandbox for a while now but didn't have the right plot bunny until now.

Why I'm calling this an RPG NPC and not an SI is that an SI knows that game mechanics are unusual. This guy comes from a world where game mechanics just are. Of course everyone has an invisible inventory they can put a whole horse in. Isn't everyone able to stop in the middle of a fight and eat 10 pies to grow back that arm? What do you mean you eat when you're hungry? Foraging is easy, just look for the plants that glow a bit, and come back in 3 days for more.

That will of course reflect in his attitude towards killing, nobility etc. In RPGs you can pretty much kill bandits and sometimes even NPCs with no repercussions, and also nobodies can be elevated to nobility and even kingship if they're strong enough and no one blinks. Also, almost no one pays taxes - what do you mean I can't just build this nice little house in the woods if there's room?

The game mechanics here will be a combination of different RPG games, but mostly Skyrim, with a bit of Dwarf Fortress, Rimworld and Runescape thrown in.

It's a bit of a cracky premise, but obviously can also be a bit of a horror show to anyone not using game mechanics, which will be everyone else but the MC, basically.

I'm not really sure where I'm taking the plot yet - as I said, I'm starting this to dust off my writing skills. I'm super open to what readers want to see in terms of plot and direction. Obviously he landed beyond the wall, but this can go anywhere from here - it can be a freefolk uplift plot, he can go past the wall and get involved in Westerosi politics, he can go to Essos and become a merchant prince. The world is his oyster. I do know I want to feature crafting heavily in the story, just because I love crafting mechanics in games.

One thing I do want reader opinion on is the timeline. Pre Robert's rebellion? Just after? Maybe just before the main plot of the books? If he stays beyond the wall that will mostly impact encounters with white walkers (or lack thereof) and whether characters like Ygritte, Tormund etc. will be around. If he moves to Westeros obviously it will impact the plot a bit more.

An hour later, John was the proud owner of a rabbit-fur hood and gloves, as well as a patchwork fur robe that looked like something a particularly untalented cave troll might have thrown together. Ugly as one, too, but at least it was warm.

With a satisfied click, he equipped the new gear into his wardrobe slots and watched the debuff vanish, his health bar refilling completely. Finally.

He packed the roasted meat into his inventory—paltry rations, but better than nothing—then kicked snow over the fire until the last embers hissed out.

Now what?

The bandits had come from the northeast. If he backtracked their steps, he might find a road, maybe even a village; such types did love menacing travelers, after all. Then again, if their camp was nearby, he'd be walking straight into a world of trouble. They also could've been heading somewhere—a settlement, maybe?—which would make going the opposite direction the smarter choice.

Or he could just pick a direction and go. He had an empty map, and walking was the only way to fill it. If he still hit nothing but trees after a day or two, he could always adjust course.

Settling on the bandits' trail for now, John moved out.

The path was easy enough to follow—deep footprints in the snow, a snapped branch here and there. He kept an eye out for foragables, but the landscape was truly bleak. Back home, he would've had half his inventory slots filled by now. Here? A sad handful of acorns, a knobby tuber, and some brittle-looking herbs.

At least the air was crisp and fresh.

Just as he was about to succumb to boredom, maybe start singing an inadvisable tune or two, movement caught his eye up ahead.

A six-point buck stepped from between the trees. It wasn't the biggest he'd ever seen, but the winter coat was thick, and meat was meat.

John's fingers moved before he even thought about it. Arrow. Nock. Draw.

He exhaled slowly. Smiled. And let it fly.

—----

The snow was stained dark where John worked, steam misting in faint curls as he butchered the buck with quick, practiced moves. The raw meat and hide went into his inventory—he'd deal with those the next time he made camp.

The antlers, though…

He paused, running a gloved hand over the bone. His brief fight with the bandits had made one thing painfully clear: At a distance, he could hold his own. In close quarters, his knife wasn't nearly enough. It let them get in way too close, move way too fast—and even against idiots, that was a problem.

What he needed was reach.

A nearby tangle of tree roots made for a serviceable seat as he got to work, stripping a long branch of knots and bark with smooth, confident strokes. The first antler was next, carved down until a sharp, jagged point emerged. He lashed it to the shaft with strips of sinew, twisting them tight. A crude spear, sure—but a spear nonetheless.

He turned it in his hands, testing the weight, then gave it a practice thrust.

John's spear combat skill stood at 1.5. Not great. But forced to use it, he'd level up quickly enough—or die trying, if his next opponent actually had the sense to leverage their own inventory.

Then he hesitated, looking at the remaining antler in his hands.

Could just toss it in his inventory for later. Waste not, want not. But he still had no clue what passed for currency in this place. Meat and hide were probably safe bets—people had to eat, after all, and this was a sparse, cold country—but sometimes trinkets held unexpected value. His bone-carving skill was nearly on par with his woodcarving, and even if he didn't end up trading them, it would be good to focus on something other than survival for a while.

The knife flicked out again.

As the sky darkened to evening, he carved. A bear figurine, rounded and smooth, its weight pleasant in his palm. Two bangles—one with twisting vines and flowers, the other with knotted patterns. And finally, the smallest scrap of antler became an amulet, an oval disc textured with simple wave-like ridges, a hole bored at the top for a string or chain.

He had no metal to decorate with. No gemstones, either. But judging by the quality—or lack thereof—of the bandits' gear, maybe this was good enough.

—---

By the afternoon of the second day, John caught something—a faint, almost imperceptible trail. A barely-there boot print, half-buried beneath a bush. A dried drop of blood on dark tree bark. Someone injured had passed through recently.

He had split from the bandits' trail hours ago, seeing no point in following it further. Instead, he let the land guide him downward, hoping to find a river or stream. Now, though, this new trail took priority. The signs were faint at first, but as he tracked, they became more frequent. Whoever they belonged to was moving slower, slipping up, leaving more of themselves behind.

John shook his head. Did no one in this place have the common sense to take care of their wounds?

The sun dipped lower. As dusk settled over the trees, he finally spotted a shape in the next clearing. Small. Curled up behind a tangle of bushes, outline barely visible in the fading light.

A kid? No, maybe just a smaller adult. Hunched against the cold, or the pain.

He made his footsteps loud on purpose, crunching through the snow. "Hello?"

The figure twitched. Just barely.

"I don't want to hurt you." He kept his distance, circling wide. Injured or not, people were still dangerous when cornered. "I can help."

As he rounded the thicket, the figure came into full view. Tucked small and mostly hidden under the foliage, it was a young woman, bundled in furs. Not wanting to pull out a torch and frighten her, John could just about make up wide, frightened eyes, their whites glinting, and dark hair spilling over her shoulders.

"Don't—don't come no closer!" she rasped. She had a spear, iron-tipped, but the way she held it told him everything—her grip was weak, the tip wavering, barely missing the tangled branches in front of her.

John didn't move closer. "I'm not looking for a fight, lass." His gaze flicked over her, noting the way she hunched, how shallow her breathing was. "You ran out of food, didn't you?"

A rookie mistake. He didn't know what got her—bad luck, bad planning, or just plain inexperience—but he'd made his own share of stupid calls before. Hells, the only reason he survived his recent bandit ambush was because he happened to be overstocked.

She probably crawled under the bushes for a bit of a sleep; but her health bar was still dangerously low.

"I've got food," he offered, voice even. "How about I start a fire, and you come out?"

—--

Yrga glared at the man blocking her path to freedom.

Not one of the freefolk—she could tell that much at a glance. His beard was too neat, his skin too smooth, teeth too straight and white even in the dim light. The furs he wore were of strange make, and over them a stranger contraption, a wide leather strip with many little hide containers attached to it. No weapons in sight, yet he stood hale and strong. Healthier than any man she'd ever seen.

What in the cold hells was a kneeler lord doing out here, alone in the true north?

And he wanted her to come out? Fat chance.

"Fuck off," she rasped, jabbing her spear toward him. The movement sent white-hot agony stabbing through her side. Her vision swam, and for a moment, she thought she might black out entirely.

She hadn't dared look at the wound since that first desperate stop. Hadn't let herself. It was deep—she knew that much. She'd bound it as best she could with ice-thorn moss before staggering on, but the heat pulsing under her clothes told her the worst. It was festering.

Was this how she met her end? Escaped those ugly fuckers only to die at a kneeler's hands?

But he didn't come closer. Didn't press her. Just raised his hands and backed away, slow and steady. He didn't turn his back, though—good. Even half-dead, she was still dangerous. She was no weak-blooded southern woman. She was a spearwife.

He settled on the other side of the clearing, half-hidden in the gloom. Yrga tried to keep her eyes on him, but her body betrayed her. The exhaustion was too much. The cold, the pain—it pulled at her, dragging her down.

The next time she startled awake, the clearing was filled with orange light.

A fire crackled merrily, casting flickering shadows over the snow. And the smell—gods, the smell. Meat and vegetables roasting, sizzling as they dripped fat into the flames. Her stomach twisted, aching with hunger.

The kneeler sat beside the fire, a branch in his hands. He turned it slow, watching as the food crisped over the heat. More spits were staked in the ground beside him, awaiting their turn.

Yrga met his eyes, and he raised an eyebrow in silent question. Another drop of fat hissed into the fire.

Fuck it.

She could die cold under a bush, or she could take a chance and maybe die warm, with her belly full of something good. And besides—if he meant to kill her, he could've dragged her from the bush already.

Gritting her teeth, she moved. Every shift sent fresh waves of pain through her ribs, but she didn't stop, didn't let herself hesitate. Slowly, she dragged herself through the snow, collapsing on the other side of the fire.

The kneeler said nothing. Didn't offer to help, just watched patiently.

Then he handed her the branch.

Venison, browned and glistening with fat, was skewered between whole mushrooms and charred pieces of wild parsnip. Yrga tore into it without hesitation, heedless of the juices running down her chin and soaking into her furs. It was better than any meat she'd ever eaten—so rich, so warm, she half wondered if he'd done something to it, or if she was simply that starving.

Before she could finish, he handed her another. Then a drinking horn.

She took a cautious sip, finding it half-full of decent ale. Weak, but smooth. She guzzled the rest in one go.

Only then did she notice—he wasn't eating. Just watching her, turning another stick above the fire with that same, unreadable patience.

When he finally spoke, his voice was even. Calm.

"Are you feeling any better?"

—---

She wasn't looking any better.

Now that she was out from under the bush and closer to the fire, John could see her clearly. A pretty enough face beneath the grime and scratches, dark eyes to match her dark hair, but even the warm glow of the flames couldn't hide the flush of fever creeping up her cheeks.

That wasn't right.

A meal like that should've at least started her on the road to recovery. Instead, her health bar was barely moving. No—worse. Squinting, he realized it had dipped lower since the last time he checked.

She slowed her chewing, glanced behind her as if searching for something, then turned back with a questioning look.

"Do you have any health potions on you? Maybe you should drink one," he suggested, though he already knew the answer. If she had potions, she would've used them by now. Still, sometimes when a person got too low, they turned sluggish—didn't think straight.

"What now?" she asked, gesturing impatiently for another skewer. Well, at least her appetite was good.

"Health potions."

She gave him a long, unimpressed stare. "Is that some kneeler rot? What's a potion?"

John blinked. "What's a kneeler?"

The look she gave him was condescending. "You are."

He glanced down at himself, then shrugged. He'd have said he was sitting rather than kneeling, but he wasn't about to argue semantics with an injured stranger. Either way, it was safe to assume she had no potions on her. And food alone wasn't doing the trick.

Time for some experimentation.

Reaching into his inventory, he pulled out the handful of sad-looking herbs he'd gathered earlier.

Her reaction was instant.

"Where the fuck did you pull that out from!?"

John looked up to find her staring at him, wide-eyed, skewer forgotten in her grip.

"... My inventory?"

"What in all the gods' names is an inventory!?" She jabbed her stick at the herbs accusingly. "You was holding nothing, and then you was holding that!"

Poor thing. She really was addled from her injuries.

He ignored her and popped the first green into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. Bitter. Left a strange numbing sensation on his tongue. A message flashed in his vision: Weakness to Poison acquired. Fantastic.

The next two were more promising.

The serrated blue leaves left a cool aftertaste and revealed a Restore Stamina effect. Better. The dark green, needle-like leaves carried a stronger, earthier flavor, but this time, the message was what he wanted to see: Fortify Health.

Now there was just one problem.

"You wouldn't happen to have a pot or a fireproof bowl on you, would you?"

*******

Thanks to everyone who read and commented on the first chapter! Hope you enjoy this one as well. I'm trying to balance the game mechanics with the plot and worldbuilding, so please let me know if I'm striking a good balance or if I should correct more to one side.

John as an NPC is someone who lives in the woods and is pretty self sufficient, does a lot of foraging and hunting and making his own tools, and once in a while comes into a nearby town or village to trade. So he has a relatively high skill level (so like 8-10/20) in the bow, and in various relevant skills like tracking, foraging, wood and bone carving, etc., and a somewhat lower but still passable skill in working metal. Cooking is not a leveled skill, and his alchemy skill is very low - he can basically only make the weakest potions, but unlike food, those will actually work on people from Planetos. He has very low levels in all combat-related skills except the bow.

Still taking votes on both the direction of the story and the time period, so if you have a preference, drop me a comment.

She didn't have one.

John sighed, weighing his options. He'd just have to make do.

He ended up using one of the drinking horns. Balancing it over the fire took some creative problem-solving—he propped it up with a split branch, wedging it at an angle where the snow inside could melt without immediately scorching the horn itself. The smell of burning keratin was unavoidable, acrid and sharp in the cold night air, but the tea inside steeped into a weak yellow-green, carrying an earthy, slightly medicinal scent.

When he turned back to the girl, she was watching him with glassy suspicion, her dark eyes struggling to focus.

"You expecting me to drink that?" she muttered, though her voice lacked any real bite.

"Yes."

She hesitated, but he could tell she was too weak to argue properly. Maybe the food had earned him some trust, or maybe she was just too far gone to care anymore. Either way, when he pressed the drinking horn to her chapped lips, she drank—tentatively at first, then more eagerly.

He hoped it would help. At the very least, it wouldn't make things worse.

After draining the last drop, she sank back into her furs, blinking sluggishly at him. "You're not so bad… for a southern."

John exhaled a quiet laugh. "Go to sleep," he said, adjusting one of the logs on the fire. "I'll keep watch."

Her eyelids drooped. "What about—" a yawn swallowed the rest of her words.

"I'm fine," he said; he didn't need rest, he wasn't the one injured. But by the time the words left his mouth, she was already out, breathing deep and even, curled into her furs like some hibernating winter animal.

John watched her for a long moment, firelight flickering over her fevered face. He hoped she'd make it through the night. She seemed like a decent enough person, rough edges and all. But beyond that, she might finally be his best shot at finding civilization—or whatever passed for it out here.

One problem at a time.

He stretched, rolled his shoulders, and stood. The fire would need more fuel, and he could gather some extra supplies while she rested. Taking up his axe, he set out to find a likely tree.

—-

Yrga opened her eyes, much to her surprise.

She hadn't expected to wake.

Sleep had come with the heavy finality of being resigned to her fate. At least she'd gone out with a full belly, warmth at her side, and the taste of ale on her tongue, was her thought. But now, here she was—still breathing, still aching, but… a little less than before. The festering hadn't taken her in the night.

Her gaze drifted, searching for the southern. He stood at the clearing's edge, hammering the air above some logs with a stone hammer. Yrga frowned, confused—until the logs began fitting themselves together, piece by piece.

Her breath caught. Impossible.

She'd convinced herself she'd imagined last night, that the way herbs had just appeared in his hands was a fevered trick her eyes played. But this? This was real. She watched, wide-eyed, as the wood slotted into place with every tap, shaping itself into… a sled?

Her stomach turned. Witchcraft. She'd gotten herself tangled up with a witch.

Before she could react, he straightened, turning toward her with an easy grin. "Lass. Good to see you awake."

Yrga said nothing, still staring, gripping her furs tighter around her.

He squinted at her—not quite at her, she realized, but just above her head, as if seeing something in the empty air. His expression darkened slightly, but then he shook it off. "How are you feeling?"

She tried to work her tongue, and found it thick and dry. "…Better." It was true. Not well, not whole, but better than she should be.

"Good. But you need more than what I could scrounge up." He eyed her carefully. "You know anywhere nearby with a healer? Or an apothecary?" At her blank look, he added, "Even a priest would do, if they're the right kind."

Yrga only recognized one of those words.

Her village had a wise woman, but she wasn't sure she wanted to lead a witch—or whatever he was—back to her people, her family. And yet…

She should've been dead.

She was alive because of him. She owed him for that. And she needed more help than his herbs and warm meals could offer.

"…I might know a place," she admitted slowly. "A few days' walk away—were I at full strength."

"That's what I was hoping you'd say," the man said, entirely too cheerful for someone in their situation. He gestured at the sled.

She narrowed her eyes. Did he mean to drag her in that?

"Come on, then," he urged. "Time's wasting. Get in, and I'll even give you breakfast."

Her stomach gurgled. Well, she'd already decided to dance with the demons; might as well commit fully.

Gritting her teeth, Yrga limped over, easing herself into the sled with as much dignity as she could manage. The construction was solid—raised slightly so it would glide over the snow, sides built up enough that she wouldn't have to grip the edges to keep from tumbling out. She settled her furs around her, keeping her spear tucked close.

"You said something about breaking my fast?"

The words had barely left her lips before something appeared in his hands—a round, golden-brown thing reminiscent of bread, flaking at the edges. She only flinched a little this time.

He handed it to her, and the scent hit her immediately—warm, sweet, intoxicating. Yrga took a cautious bite, then a bigger one as the flavor exploded on her tongue. Buttery dough, rich fruit filling, something slightly spiced…

A sound escaped her before she could stop it, half-moan, half-growl.

"What is this?" she demanded between bites, already licking the crumbs from her fingers. "And do you have more?"

The southern shot her a knowing smile as he took his place at the front of the sled. "Maybe," he said, far too pleased with himself. "If you're good. Now—tell me where I'm going."

She scowled, but rattled off the direction.

As he started to pull, the sled glided smoothly over the snow, barely jarring her wound. Yrga leaned back, watching his broad back, the strange belt slung across his furs, the careful strength in his movements.

Everyone knew not to give their name to a witch. Names had power. Names let them work dark things on you.

But he had saved her. And she wanted to tell him.

"…Yrga," she said at last, her voice quieter than she intended. "My name is Yrga."

He glanced over his shoulder, green eyes briefly widening with surprise. Then he smiled.

"Nice to meet you, Yrga." Her name sounded different in his mouth—softened by his lilting, southern accent. "I'm Jon."

She closed her eyes and let the sled carry her forward.

—-

Yrga, as it turned out, was surprisingly chatty.

Maybe it was to distract herself from the pain. Maybe it was boredom. Either way, as the sun climbed higher, she kept up a steady stream of conversation, tossing questions his way and—somewhat grudgingly—offering tidbits about herself in return.

She was nine and ten ("nineteen?" John mouthed to himself). She had a mother and a younger sister back in her village. She liked venison most of all meat. She really wanted more of that "pie" thing he'd given her for breakfast.

And she got injured when three men tried to steal her.

"Drove them away though, didn't I," she said with grim satisfaction.

John nearly missed a step. "Steal?"

She gave him a sidelong glance, as if gauging his reaction. "You don't steal your women in the south, do you?"

The look on her face told him exactly what he didn't want to know.

"Here," she continued, "if a man takes a fancy to a woman, he can try to steal her. I had no intention of being stolen by those ugly cunts, though." She adjusted her grip on her spear. "Gave as good as I got."

She didn't talk about the price she'd paid for it. She didn't have to.

John's grip tightened on the sled. He thought of the way he'd found her—alone, injured, half-buried in the snow. Thought of how easily those men could've taken her, if she'd been just a little slower, a little less skilled.

This place was brutal.

"Why do you keep calling me 'southern'?" he asked. "And kneeler." The bandits called him that too, come to think of it.

"'Cause you're southern," came the immediate reply.

He sighed, casting a glance over his shoulder. She wasn't saying it like an insult, though. She truly didn't seem to understand why it might be strange.

"What does being 'southern' mean?"

Yrga frowned, like he'd asked what color the sky was. "Means you've come from behind the Wall. From kneeler lands. Means you're not Free Folk or of the clans."

Every answer just raised more questions. "What's the Wall?"

Now she was looking at him like he'd grown another head. "The Wall is the Wall. How can you not know the Wall? It's hard to miss, being so big and tall and all."

She studied him, expression wary, but elaborated.

"The Wall separates the true north from the south, all across the land. It's guarded by the crows, but sometimes Free Folk scale it for raids, when times get hard."

A huge wall guarded by birds… sounded like something to see, though he could think of no reason for its existence; you didn't build something like that just to stop a few raids. Speaking of which…

"Raids?"

"Not me or mine," Yrga scoffed. "I'm the best hunter in my village—I don't need to risk my neck climbing the Wall. But some raid for food. Some for steel." Her lips curled slightly. "Some for women, if they can't steal themselves a real northern one."

John's jaw tightened. It wasn't unheard of back home, but those were outlaw acts. Criminals that were hunted down and punished. The fact that it was an accepted practice among her society made his stomach turn.

"I'm not southern," he said.

Yrga snorted. "You came from over the Wall, didn't you? Though gods know why you would."

"I didn't come from anywhere," he corrected. "At least not intentionally. Three days ago, I was home. Then I was in the snow in the middle of nowhere. No idea how I got here, no idea where 'here' even is. I've been trying to find civilization ever since—to see if someone can tell me how to get back." He hesitated. "A mage, maybe. Or a college."

He wasn't sure she believed him. She was watching him carefully, suspicion flickering behind her dark eyes.

Eventually, though, she shrugged. "Well, if you're not of this world, at least it would explain some things."

He couldn't agree more.

—---

The stars were bright and high by the time they reached the river, cold pinpricks in an endless black sky.

Yrga had to argue to make camp. Jon didn't want to stop. Claimed he could keep going all night.

Maybe he could. Maybe witches didn't need sleep or even rest. He certainly looked as fresh as he had that morning, like he hadn't just dragged her across half the frozen wilds.

But she was tired.

She was cold.

She needed a moment of privacy with a bush, and she was hungry—not starving, thanks to the haunch of hare Jon had given her earlier, juicy and hot despite there being no fire, no explanation. Just empty air one moment, the next, a meal. Impossible.

And yet.

When she returned from the bush, he had a fire crackling, golden light flickering across the frozen ground. She dropped down near it with a grunt, watching as he walked away and started digging through the silt at the water's edge.

Not digging, exactly. His hands barely even touched the dirt. He did something like this all day—touching bushes, trees, sometimes even the air, giving a thoughtful hum before moving on. He'd called it foraging, though what kind of foraging didn't need something to forage, she couldn't say.

She was about to ask again when he stood and—without a moment's hesitation, fully clothed—walked straight into the river.

The freezing, snowmelt-fed river.

She tensed, watching his head vanish beneath the water. Anyone else, she would've assumed was mad. Would've let them drown, said a few choice words over their foolish sad corpse, and moved on.

But Jon wasn't any man.

She still didn't know what he was, but he hadn't harmed her. Quite the opposite. She owed him her life.

So she stayed.

And a moment later, he strolled back out of the river, furs pristine, dry as a bone even, with that same easy, maddening smile.

"Caught a few nice fish for dinner," he said. Though, of course, he wasn't holding any fish. Instead, he sat next to her, produced a lump of clay from thin air, and started shaping it between his hands.

Within moments, he had a lidded pot, slightly uneven but perfectly functional. That went straight into the fire, and another lump of clay followed, forming into a smaller pot with a spout on the side.

Yrga swallowed against her dry throat. Shouldn't you let the clay dry first? she nearly asked. But what was the point? Nothing about him obeyed the natural order.

"Pottery's not my strongest skill," he said idly, dusting his hands off. They were clean. No clay, no dirt, as though he hadn't touched anything at all.

She didn't know what to say to that.

Minutes passed. Then, far too soon, he reached into the flames and pulled the pots free, perfectly fired, a deep reddish-brown. No one in her village would be ashamed to own such fine work, yet he had crafted them as easily as breathing.

Yrga tightened her hands into fists.

What was he?

She watched as he filled the smaller pot with snow and the same herbs from yesterday—frostmint and white heather, she recognized now, precious and well out of season.

Then into the larger pot went a whitefish, gutted but whole—except it wasn't whole, not anymore. Before her eyes, it broke into neat, even chunks, as if an invisible knife had carved it apart. The same happened with the potatoes, the wild carrots, the leeks, the handful of greens. Last came hulled acorns—unboiled and thus undoubtedly wholly bitter.

Jon gave the mix a slow stir, brow furrowed in concentration. Then, without warning, he handed her a steaming bowl.

She stared at it, then at the pot, barely touched by the fire. It shouldn't be ready.

But when she took a cautious bite, she couldn't help but sigh. It was delicious, as though cooked for hours.

She was halfway through her second bowl before she realized that Jon hadn't taken any for himself.

Come to think of it, she had never seen him eat. Not yesterday—though the fever might have been her excuse. Not today, when he had done all the work of dragging her through the snow.

She hesitated, then asked, "Won't you take some for yourself? You've been pulling me all day—you need your strength."

He waved off her concern. "I don't need any."

A small shiver crept down her spine. "Just like you don't need rest?"

He didn't deny it. Didn't even look surprised, which was answer enough.

Not a witch, she thought uneasily. Witches were human, they still had human needs. But Jon…

Nothing about him seemed wicked. He had saved her life, asked for nothing in return.

A spirit, then? A nature spirit given flesh?

She squared her shoulders. "I owe you a debt."

"Don't worry about it," he said easily.

But she did worry. Her honor demanded it. "When my injuries are healed, I'll do anything in my power to repay you."

Jon groaned. "Seriously, lass, don't sweat it. Just being able to talk to another person in this miserable frozen forest makes it worth it." He paused, then tilted his head, considering. "Although—how good are you with that spear of yours?"

A trade, then.

She nodded. "As soon as I'm back on my feet, I'll teach you." Though what use a spirit had for spear fighting, she couldn't guess.

Jon hummed, then held out his hands.

And they were full.

Antler carvings—beautiful ones. A smooth little bear, tiny features ferocious in their accuracy. A thick bracelet, impossibly detailed with flowers and leaves, so lifelike they seemed ready to bloom, and another one with intricate patterns. An amulet, simple but elegant.

She traced a finger along a carved vine, envy curling in her gut. She'd never seen anything half so nice.

Jon motioned toward her. "Choose one."

She startled, eyes snapping to his. "What?"

"As payment for training me."

Her gut clenched. It wasn't right to take something so fine when she already owed him so much.

He sighed, clearly exasperated. "I'm serious, Yrga. Choose one."

Almost against her will, her hand drifted to the bracelet with the flowers. It was heavy, cool—but warmed against her skin almost instantly.

"Do you accept this transaction?"

She frowned, unsure of what he meant, but distracted by the beauty of the bracelet, the thought that it was hers, she nodded.

Jon grinned. "Excellent."

And then, he said, utterly perplexingly—

"And now I'm level two. Pleasure doing business with you."

—--

The next night, they reached Yrga's village.

****

John's slowly making his way through the wilderness. Don't worry, he'll slowly - very slowly - start making his way to the wall at some point, but he still has some XP to collect as a newbie in the north.

Those readers that indicated a preference seemed to prefer this to be set pre Robert's rebellion, so that's what I'll do. Still thinking on how exactly that will unfold, but I have a few chapters still before I need to decide. As always, if you have a preference for how you'd want the story to go, let me know in a comment.

Now, I'm kind of debating between two mining mechanics. One is the Skyrim method of mining a vein out, and having to wait a few days until it respawns. Another is the Runescape gameplay, where you can just grind forever on the same stone and accumulate endless amounts of ore, or at least until the space in your inventory runs out. Both have potential for hilarity. What do you guys think?

On another note, I'm not sure I'll be able to upload another chapter before Thursday, I'm working late the next two nights. I'll try, but heads up.

When Yrga said "village," John had pictured something with at least thirty or forty houses, each with several rooms, perhaps a small garden, a few pigs or chickens scratching about. A blacksmith, a baker, a mill if they were near a river. A community hall of sorts for gatherings. Maybe even a tavern, if the village was wealthy.

He certainly hadn't expected this.

Eight squat huts huddled miserably next to the riverbank, their walls little more than stacked stone without mortar, their roofs half-dead sod. They looked like they had been placed there decades ago and left to fend for themselves, and they were losing the fight. Some had windows, but these were covered with hide rather than glass, and thin trails of smoke seeped from holes in the roofs, no chimneys to be seen. In the center of it all sat a crude stone pen with a woven branch gate, and two scraggly goats chewing on whatever scraps they could find.

"This is your village?" The words slipped out before he could stop them, thick with disbelief.

Yrga, still sitting on the sled, didn't seem to notice. Her gaze was locked on the huts, her teeth worrying at her lower lip.

"Jon," she said suddenly, voice low. "I ask that you do none of your… magic here. At least until I can explain."

He frowned. "My what?"

She exhaled sharply, frustration flickering across her face. "Your magic. Making things appear and disappear from thin air with this 'inventory' of yours. Cooking meals in mere moments. Sleds building themselves! I don't expect you to fake sleeping or eating, but at least—hide your unnaturalness. For my sake, if nothing else."

"Yrga," John said carefully, "I have no magic. I don't know what—"

She shushed him, struggling to rise from the sled. "They've seen us."

"But—"

Ignoring him, pushing stepped out, leaning on her spear. She was clearly trying to mask the extent of her injuries, but John could see the stiffness in her movements, the way she held herself with care.

A handful of people had already gathered between the huts, watching them with wary expressions. With a sigh, he let the matter drop and followed after her, dragging the now-empty sled behind him.

The Freefolk stood in a loose half-circle, their posture tense. At the center was a woman who could only be Yrga's mother—her features were sharper, more worn with age and hardship, and a long-healed scar stretched across her cheek, but she had something of the girl about her around the nose and the eyes. Her lighter brown hair was pulled back in a rough braid. Beside her stood a man and another woman, both clutching crude stone weapons.

"Daughter, it is good to see you returned," the woman's voice was steady, but her gaze flickered between her daughter and John, heavy with suspicion. "Why do you bring a kneeler here?"

Yrga stopped just shy of the gathered villagers. She stood straight, but John could see the tightness of her jaw, the strain at the corners of her eyes. She needed rest, and soon.

"He saved my life, Mother." Yrga's words carried beyond just the woman before her. She met the eyes of every villager gathered there. "Jon treated my wounds, kept me warm by the fire, and fed me from his own hunts. I will give him guest rights."

A shadow crossed her mother's face, but she didn't argue. Instead, she turned to John, her expression flinty.

"I thank you for my daughter's life, Jon. Be a guest beneath my roof." The words had the weight of ritual to them, for all she was displeased to say them.

John shot a quick glance at Yrga, but her face was unreadable. With nothing else to do, he followed them toward one of the huts.

The space inside was cramped and dim, the air thick. A low fire smoldered in the center of the packed dirt floor, its smoke curling up through the hole in the roof. Against one wall was a tangle of furs, and tucked within them was a dark-haired girl, perhaps eight or nine, watching him with curiosity rather than suspicion.

Yrga's mother knelt before a covered wicker basket, retrieving a strip of dried meat and a drinking horn. She stood and offered them to him.

Yrga's gaze was firm. Take it.

John hesitated only a moment before accepting the offering. He bit into the meat, chewed and swallowed, then took a drink. Only then did Yrga exhale, finally allowing herself to sink onto the furs beside the girl, who leaned into her, still staring at John silently.

"Your wounds, Yrga," said her mother, seemingly of a mind to ignore John now that his stay was decided.

"A knife stab in my side," Yrga grimaced. "It festered, but John gave me a remedy of herbs, and it has helped control the fever. It needs looking at still."

The older woman pursed her lips. "I will call Hilder." She turned, ducking under the low door to go outside, letting the hide covering fall closed behind her.

"Be at peace, John," Yrga said, gesturing toward a rickety stool. She patted her sister's hair. "This is Sifrid, my sister. She is two-and-ten. And my mother is Iseld."

"Hello, Sifrid lass," John said, taking a careful seat. He wasn't sure the stool would hold his weight.

The girl was thin, and older than he'd first thought. Clearly, even with Yrga's status as "the best hunter in the village," food was no guarantee for these people, not if they needed it like Yrga apparently did.

The silence stretched. Yrga sank lower into the furs, while her sister kept staring. John looked around for a distraction, but there was nothing—just bare walls, the threadbare furs, a few containers, and a lingering chill. A miserable hovel, not worthy of being called a home. He wouldn't have housed his livestock in conditions like these.

"…Should I make food?" he asked, mostly to break the silence.

Sifrid perked up, interest flickering across her face. Yrga's eyes snapped open.

"Not now, John," she said, her voice sharp in the small space.

They were spared further awkwardness when Iseld returned, an old and stooped woman following behind her.

Hilder's back was bowed, and her fingers knotted with age, but her eyes shone with keen intelligence as she peered at John before turning to her patient.

"Let me see it, girl," she rasped.

Yrga sighed but shifted, tugging at layers of furs to bare her side, jaw clenching at the pain. A piece of moss came into view, stiff with dried blood, and Hilder clicked her tongue, leaning in to inspect the wound more closely. "A clean blade, at least, but it festered deep." She sniffed. "No stench of rot. You said the southman gave you a remedy?"

"Frostmint and white heather, boiled in water."

Hilder grunted. "Fever's not claimed you, and I've seen wounds like this turn foul fast." She turned her head slightly, fixing John with an appraising look. "You know your plants, lad?"

John shrugged. "I know some."

The wound was an angry red gash, but clotted and not oozing, and the skin around it was not inflamed. "I'll brew something to help it along, and we'll need to wrap it fresh," Hilder said. "But you'll live, girl."

The healer's gaze flicked briefly to John again, then to Iseld. "Your daughter's luck, this one."

Iseld's face gave nothing away. She only nodded, stepping aside to let Hilder limp her way out.

Sifrid, who had been silent this whole time, suddenly tugged at John's sleeve. He glanced down to find her staring up at him with something between curiosity and calculation.

"Food?" she asked.

Yrga groaned. "Sifrid, no—"

John shot her a glance, harkening back to their earlier conversation but still confused. "Aye," he said. "I can make food."

"Jon," Yrga said again, more urgently, and then, "mother. We need to talk."

—-

"Jon has magic," Yrga blurted, unable to find a way to ease into it or soften the blow. "But it's good magic! I trust him."

Both her mother and Jon startled—though for different reasons. Her mother's face paled, while Jon frowned.

"Now wait just a moment, Yrga, I already told you—"

"I think he's a nature spirit of a sort," she cut him off.

"I am certainly not—"

"Jon, please," she begged, eyes fixed on her mother's tightening expression. "Mother, I swear I would never have brought him here—never risked Sifrid and you—if I didn't in truth believe him to be benevolent."

Her mother's lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line. "Witchcraft is dangerous, daughter. You say you trust him, but how can I know he hasn't cast some dark spell on you to make you say so?"

Jon's stool clattered to the floor as he shot to his feet, making them all jump.

"I am not a mage," he ground out, his eyes alight with irritation as they locked onto Yrga's, then her mother's. "I don't know any spells, and I can't do magic. I've told you already, and I don't know why you insist otherwise—or why you're trying to convince your mother of it, when you clearly think magic is something wicked. If you don't want me here, just say so. No need to invent lies to justify it."

"I'm no liar!" Yrga's temper flared, hot and sharp. How dare he, after everything she had seen him do? "No one just makes things appear and disappear, no human goes without sleep or food, no human can submerge themselves in a river and come out dry!"

"That's not magic, that's just normal!" Jon's voice rose to match hers.

"In your world, maybe, but not in mine!"

"Stop shouting," Iseld cut in coldly. The quiet steel in her voice was enough to silence them both. Yrga turned to her, only now realizing how far she had let her temper slip.

"Do you want the whole village to hear you claim you've brought a witch into our home?" her mother asked.

"Not a witch," both she and Jon muttered at the same time. Their eyes met in brief surprise.

"I do not hold with witches," Iseld continued, her disappointment striking deeper than her anger ever could. "I thought I taught you better, Yrga. But I have given your southern witch guest rights, and I will not break the laws of hospitality. All I ask is that you do no witchcraft under my roof, and no harm to the village."

"I'm not a witch," Jon repeated, his voice starting to rise again. Yrga had never seen him like this, his anger raw, unguarded. Until now, he had been calm and controlled, even with her spear at his throat the day they met. She did not want him to leave.

"I would not have brought him here if I thought he meant harm," she insisted. "And if you forbid him from magic, you forbid him from helping us—as he has helped me."

—-

The tension between mother, daughter, and guest was broken by the fourth, momentarily forgotten occupant of the room.

Sifrid tugged at John's sleeve, her eyes bright with excitement. "Can you show me magic?"

The words landed like a stone in a bucket of water.

Yrga sucked in a sharp breath. Iseld's expression remained carefully neutral, but something cold settled in her eyes.

John barely had time to formulate a response—whether to deflect or deny, again—before the hide door pushed aside, and Hilder limped back in.

"Magic, is it?" she said, arching a brow. "Well, I've seen men claim to summon storms, and others say they can bring back the dead. In my experience, most tricks are clever hands—or men too eager to believe in them."

Yrga exhaled slowly, pressing a hand over her eyes. The old woman's gaze flicked between them, keen and weighing. She was not afraid, nor did she scoff. She was simply watching, waiting to see what manner of truth would reveal itself.

Sifrid turned back to John, expectant.

John shook his head sharply, bending down to pick up the stool he had knocked over earlier. "I told you," he said, his patience thinning, "I can't do magic." He met Hilder's eyes, willing her to understand. "I know how to hunt, track, and work with my hands. If that seems strange to you, it's only because we've lived different lives."

Hilder made a thoughtful sound but did not press him further. Instead, she turned back to Yrga, setting a bundle of dried moss and herbs beside her, along with a small clay vessel.

"This will keep the wound from souring," she said. "A draught to cool the fever and fresh moss to wrap it." She pushed aside Yrga's furs, inspecting the wound with practiced fingers.

"Decent enough work," she noted, giving John a small nod before straightening with a grunt. "I'll leave the rest to you, Iseld. Call me if it worsens, though it shouldn't."

She turned to go—but just before stepping outside, she paused.

Without looking back, she spoke again. "The world is old, lad, and full of strange things. But I have found that magic is often a matter of perception and familiarity, rather than wonders."

Then she was gone.

Silence settled thick and uneasy. Yrga rubbed a hand over her face. Iseld turned the clay vessel in her fingers, watching it idly.

Then Sifrid—utterly unbothered by the heavy atmosphere—leaned forward. "Can I have food now?"

John sighed, already reaching for his pack. "Aye, lass. I'll make food."

Yrga groaned. "Sifrid, I swear—"

But the girl was already grinning, watching as John neared the fire and pulled out his new pot.

"Magic!" she cheered. "Yrga, he really can do magic."

He was too tired to argue. Instead, he worked as he always did, throwing his two remaining fish into the pot. The tubers and herbs followed. Noting the lean faces of the women, he added the dried meat taken from the bandits.

"I have never known a fish to cut itself," Iseld said flatly.

John's irritation flared anew. "You're welcome to cook it your way instead."

When the stew was done, he handed out bowls. Sifrid dug in instantly, humming with happiness, while Yrga ate slower, watching their mother.

Iseld held the bowl for a long moment, staring into it as though searching for something unseen. Finally, she met John's eyes, her face unreadable.

"We have little, yet you make plenty."

John met her gaze, unflinching. He refused to apologize for knowing how to hunt or cook. "I make do."

Her lips pressed into a thin line, but after a moment, she looked away and began to eat. Her first spoonful was careful, almost wary. Then her eyes widened, just a fraction. The next bite was bigger.

Sifrid, having devoured her portion, tugged at John's sleeve again, holding out her empty bowl.

"Can I have more magic food?"

—--

John's hosts settled in for the night, huddled together beneath the bulk of their furs. Yrga made some half-hearted attempt to offer him a place to sleep, but he waved her off, and she didn't press the matter.

Instead, he stepped outside. The cramped space, the lingering scent of smoke and sweat, the quiet but ever-present weight of Iseld's wary gaze—it was stifling. The cold night air was a relief.

He wandered without thinking and found himself near the river again. This time, not to fish.

Magic is often just a matter of perception and familiarity.

Hilder's words gnawed at him. He had dismissed the idea earlier, but the longer he stood, listening to the gushing waters, the more a nagging doubt took hold.

Could I be unnatural here?

It was an unsettling thought.

John had always considered himself an ordinary man. He was no great warrior, no fearsome mage; that was the domain of heroes. He was just a man who knew how to survive, how to work with his hands, how to make a life for himself in the wilderness.

But here? The things he did without thinking—hunting, crafting, building—were met with suspicion. The way he prepared food, the way he could fix or make things, even the way he foraged… it wasn't normal to them.

He looked back toward the village, barely more than a scattering of hovels clinging to life against the cold. He could change that. It would be so simple to build something better—a real house, warm and solid, with proper rooms and glass windows. A forge to make tools. A garden for food. The kind of life that should have been obvious to anyone.

Yet they lived like this.

How do they stand it? The endless struggle just to eat, to stay warm, to keep breathing from one day to the next. It sounded like a miserable way to live.

And he didn't want to live like that.

What had started as an unwanted, inconvenient adventure had become something else entirely—something worse. A nightmare. He couldn't stay here, waiting for these people to turn against him, hoping against reason that the answers he needed would simply fall into his lap. And what if he became like them, somehow?

He needed to leave.

Not just this village. Not just the True North. This world.

Beyond the Wall.

Yrga had mentioned it before—the world beyond, where the southern people lived, where knowledge and civilization might exist. He didn't know if it would hold the answers he sought, but it was the only lead he had.

John exhaled, his breath curling into the cold night air.

He would find his way south, and then home.

One way or another.

*******

So.. shit hits the fan for John, and by shit I mean the realization that he really isn't in Kansas anymore, and that he might be a regular joe back home, but here he's super duper special - and that might not necessarily be a good thing.

But he's a practical guy. He'll have a little private freakout, and then next chapter he'll start planning his next moves.

Thanks for all the love you're showing to this story, dear readers. I really wasn't expecting this little idea of mine to catch so much interest.

Jon wasn't in the hut when Yrga opened her eyes.

Sifrid was still curled up beside her, small and warm, breathing deeply in sleep. The fire had burned low, and the air was chilled with fading smoke.

She wasn't surprised. Not needing sleep, there wasn't much else for him to do inside. But she still felt a twinge of unease. The evening had been tense, thick with unspoken words and suspicion. He had taken the cold reception of the villagers—her mother especially—stoically, but she knew it had made him uneasy. And their argument about his magic… She exhaled softly. He had been unsettled.

Trying not to disturb Sifrid, she dressed quietly and slipped outside.

The morning air bit at her skin, crisp and sharp, but she barely noticed it as her eyes swept over the village. Relief settled in her chest when she spotted Jon by the riverbank.

He stood facing the forest, arms crossed, staring at something unseen. Even from a distance, she could tell the villagers were giving him a wide berth. Thankfully, he wasn't trying any of his tricks—no stepping into the water, no strange preparations. The people were wary enough as it was.

She made her way over, letting her boots crunch in the frost.

"Jon."

He turned at her approach, expression closed off and eyes unreadable.

"Yrga," he greeted. "How are you feeling?"

She grimaced. "It goes. It will go for a while yet." She studied him. "Have you been out here all night?"

He nodded, gaze shifting back toward the trees. "I needed to think."

Her heart sank. "Oh?"

He turned fully to face her, his arms still crossed as though to put space between them.

"I'm still not sure what's happening," he admitted, his voice quiet but firm. "But I can't stay here. This isn't my world. I need to find a way back home, and I won't find the answers I need in the north." His jaw tightened. "I'm going south beyond the Wall. If there's knowledge to be had, it'll be there."

Yrga stiffened.

"You're leaving?" The words left her before she could swallow them down.

His eyes met hers, steady, understanding. "Aye."

She knew this was coming. Of course, he wouldn't stay. He didn't belong here—that was clear from the start. But hearing it said aloud still left a hollow feeling in her chest.

Yet, she wouldn't argue. She wasn't a fool to take up lost causes. But she spoke, more as a caution than in the belief she could sway him.

"Life here is harsh, true," she said carefully, "but you won't find what you're looking for in the kneeler lands, Jon." She searched his face, trying to make him see. "They have their own kind of ugliness, just gilded in gold. Kings and lords who care nothing for their smallfolk. They don't fight for food or furs—they war for pride and sport. At least here, we are free. We live and die by our own choices."

He was unmoved.

"Be that as it may," he answered, "I have to try."

She understood. And even had she wanted to go with him, she couldn't—her life was here. Her mother, her sister. But…

"I will go with you," she said, lifting her chin. "To show you the way."

His brows rose. "Shouldn't I just head south until I reach the Wall?"

Yrga scoffed. "The Wall is weeks away. Even if you could handle a raiding party or a wild beast, the journey would be hard without a guide. And then what? Do you even know how to cross?"

He hesitated. "I thought I'd… climb? Isn't that what you said raiding parties do?"

She stared at him.

"You fool," she said flatly. "The Wall is as tall as a mountain and treacherous even for the best climbers. Many Free Folk have fallen to their deaths—or met their end at the sword of a crow at the top. There are other ways; the gorge, but the bridge of skulls has earned its name for a reason. It's best to go by boat across the Bay of Seals, but you will not know how to get there or what to do on your own."

John frowned. "I'm a pretty good climber."

She smirked. "Are you, now? And what will you do when the crows meet you at the top?"

He blinked. "Crows with swords? How does a bird hold a sword?"

Yrga huffed a laugh. "Not birds. The Night's Watch. The guards on the Wall. We call them crows because they dress in black and vow not to take a woman or sire children."

"...I see." He looked thoughtful. "And they wouldn't just let me through if I asked?"

She gave him a long, skeptical look. Even with his furs, he didn't look like a Freefolk.

"Maybe," she admitted. "But they'd want to know how you got past the Wall in the first place. Who you are. Where you came from." She arched her brow. "What will you tell them?"

His frown deepened.

"I see your point," he muttered. "Then it seems the Bay of Seals is my path. But how will you guide me? You're not well. And won't you want to stay with your mother and sister?"

Yrga nodded. "I'll need some weeks yet to heal," she said, then shot him a cheeky smile. "In the meantime, you will hunt enough to fill their stores until I return, won't you?"

John gave her a dry look. "Oh, will I?"

"Well," she gestured at the vast emptiness around them, snow and trees stretching endlessly toward the mountains. "What else will you do to amuse yourself?"

—--

And thus began John's next phase in this world. Initially, he considered building himself a small cottage in the woods to avoid imposing on Yrga or her frosty mother, but the sisters convinced him to stay—little Sifrid pouting at him with wide, pleading eyes until he relented.

Eager to escape both the villagers and the creeping boredom, he set off toward the mountains, away from the path they had taken to the village. Yrga wanted food, did she? Well, he'd get her her stockpile. And while he was at it, he might as well gather some valuables to trade when he reached the south.

He still had nearly two hundred pounds of venison from the buck he'd killed days prior, which he planned to give to Yrga and her family to smoke or dry. But that wouldn't be enough. If she was the village's primary hunter and currently unable to hunt—let alone when she left for weeks—then the others would need food as well.

The first two hours brought a hare and a grouse—only about three pounds of meat between them, but useful all the same, and he could make something nice with the fur. He also gathered a variety of herbs and vegetables: wild leeks, garlic, and onions; nettle leaves, wood sorrel, and mugwort; and even some young spruce tips, which would add a bright tang to a tisane.

His luck changed around noon when he spotted a young boar rooting through the underbrush. It never even had the chance to turn before his arrow struck true. Another hundred pounds of meat, and the ivory besides. With that secured, he decided to make for the river to see if he could pan for anything worthwhile.

By the time evening settled in and he began his trek back to the village, his haul was more than respectable:

Five nuggets of ironTwo nuggets of copperOne nugget of silverOne tiny piece of agate, opaque but a pleasant orange hueOne tiny amethyst, soft purple in colorOne small piece of muddy, included quartzOne small diamond, cloudy and grayishThe effort had been worth it—not just for the materials, but for the experience. He was now halfway to his fifth level in mining.

Lastly, he felled a birch tree. Some of it would go toward firewood, but most of it had a different purpose. He had no intention of spending another night in that cold, empty hovel as it was.

—----

The first stars were out by the time Yrga's southern guest returned, ducking his head under the low doorframe as he entered.

"Evening," he said, finding them all gathered around the fire.

To Iseld's displeasure, both her daughters perked up at the sight of him. She could admit he was a handsome man—smooth skin, even features, and the best teeth shed ever seen—but that was no reason for Yrga to lose her head over a kneeler, let alone one who practiced magic openly.

Even if he had saved her daughter's life.

He barely acknowledged Iseld beyond a brief glance, turning instead to Yrga. "I had some luck. How do you go about preserving meat? Smoking, drying?"

"Oh," Yrga frowned. "We usually just hang it to dry. How much did you get?"

Iseld glanced between them. What had her daughter sent him to fetch?

The southerner scratched at his short, neat beard. "I got a hare and a grouse—that can be dinner tonight. A boar, about a hundred pounds. And I still have around two hundred from that buck."

Iseld choked. He spoke so casually about so much food. Who was he? How did he just walk into the wilds for a few hours and return with such a haul? Even Yrga, a skilled hunter, might take days to bring back something that size—if she was lucky. More often than not, she returned with a hare or two, or nothing at all.

Yrga looked just as stunned. "We don't have room for all that. I guess we could distribute some among the other homes…"

"Don't worry about it," he said. "I'll build a smokehouse tomorrow. If you want me to keep bringing in meat, you'll need a way to process large amounts anyway. For tonight, it will keep."

Sifrid edged closer, utterly fearless, just a breath away from tucking herself under his arm as she did with Yrga and Iseld. "Magic dinner?"

He gave her a small smile, his hand lifting slightly as if to ruffle her hair before he thought better of it. "Aye, lass. Dinner."

Out came the magic pot again, set in the middle of the fire; in went the hare and grouse, along with more vegetables and greens than Iseld had ever seen in one meal, all perfectly chopped the instant they landed inside.

Moments later, the food was ready—again impossibly fast, again the most delicious thing she had ever eaten. Warm, rich, exploding with flavor and texture.

She looked across the fire at Sifrid, satiated to bursting for once in her life. At Yrga, who, for the first time, could lay the burden of survival on someone else's shoulders and trust that they would hold firm. And the stranger, who didn't eat what he cooked, only watched her daughters with an indulgent smile.

She hated him. She was desperately grateful to him. She wanted to shake her daughter and say, You swear by him, daughter. But if his hands can do this to meat and leeks, what else can they do?

But she said nothing.

—----

By the time the family tucked in for the night, the entire village had retreated indoors, unwilling to brave the biting cold. John, wrapped in his patchwork fur coat, barely felt it. If anything, he welcomed the solitude it brought. The cold kept the world still, allowed him to work uninterrupted—no wary stares, no hushed whispers, no questions he didn't care to answer.

The smokehouse went up quickly, its construction straightforward. He placed it a little ways from the village to prevent the smell from seeping into every home—though, with the way the fires burned inside those cramped dwellings, he doubted it would have made much difference.

The structure was simple yet efficient: A spacious main chamber lined with hooks and racks, a separate room for the fire pit, a chimney to funnel smoke from one space to another, and carefully cut vents to maintain airflow.

When it was done, he stepped back to survey his work. The smokehouse was well-built, far better than the village homes, if he was being honest. And that was telling. The people here were tough, resilient, but their living conditions were a slow sort of suffering, a battle waged against their own land as much as against hunger or winter's chill.

With that thought lingering, he turned to the task at hand. The boar and venison were arranged properly, hung in their places to begin the long process of curing. Soon, the fire crackled to life in its pit, curling tendrils of smoke creeping into the air. By the time it was done, his inventory three hundred pounds lighter, he was satisfied that the village would have enough meat to last weeks—perhaps longer, if they rationed well.

Tomorrow, he could start gathering again. But before that, there was one last thing to do.

John exhaled, breath misting in the cold air, and turned his gaze back toward the village. That hovel he slept in was just four walls and a roof—barely even that, in truth. It was one thing to endure a spartan existence when he was on the road, but he would be staying here for a while. At the very least, he could make life a little more tolerable for himself, and for his hosts.

His thoughts drifted toward furniture. A table, some chairs. Storage would help, too. The idea settled in his mind, and with a nod to himself, he got to work.

—--

Yrga woke to her mother shaking her roughly.

"Mmm, what…?" she mumbled, cracking one eye open. Then she very quickly opened the other.

"What in the—?"

"Your kneeler has been busy," Iseld said, her voice caught somewhere between disbelief and satisfaction. Yrga knew that expression well.

Jon had been busy. A small wooden table now stood in the corner, surrounded by four sturdy stools. Shelves lined one wall—completely bare, since he hadn't touched what few belongings they had—and hooks were mounted near the door, perhaps for hanging clothes or tools. Most striking of all, the hide that had once covered the entrance was gone, neatly folded atop the rickety stool that had temporarily been John's. In its place stood a thick wooden door, smooth and fitted so perfectly that it put the rest of their home to shame.

"It's too much," Yrga muttered, caught between giddy amazement and sheer dread.

Her mother huffed. "How?"

Yrga could only shrug helplessly. "I told you. He just—makes things build themselves." Then a worse thought struck her. "Oh no. I hope he didn't—"

He had.

The smokehouse was impossible to miss, its wooden walls standing half again as tall as their homes. A small crowd had already gathered outside, murmuring and pointing between the new structure and their family's brand-new door.

"Oh, Jon…"

"Maybe that boy of yours has magic after all," Hilder's voice rasped as she limped up beside them, her lined face curled into a knowing smile.

Iseld shot the old woman a warning look, but Hilder ignored it with the irreverence of age.

"Saw your boy heading out again early this morning," she continued. "He'll see us well-stocked while you heal. I asked him to fetch a few things for me while he's at it—my stores are running low, and he seems to know his herbs well enough."

Yrga hesitated. "He agreed to help for a few weeks."

"Oh?" Hilder's sparse brow arched slightly. "A few weeks?"

Yrga sighed, tugging her furs tighter around herself. "He's leaving. Heading south, beyond the Wall."

Hilder clicked her tongue. "Has your wound addled you, girl?" She fixed Yrga with a sharp stare. "Steal him or let him steal you, but be done with it—a man like that comes around only once in a lifetime."

Yrga scowled. "He doesn't know our customs. He wouldn't understand. And besides, he's made up his mind. Nothing will sway him, not even me. He wants to go home."

Hilder spat onto the frozen ground. "Save me from the young and sentimental."

"Enough," Iseld snapped. "That's enough of you, Hilder."

"Bah," the old woman scoffed. "You of all people should know better, Iseld." And with that, she turned and walked away.

—----

John's second day in the woods netted him a white-furred fox—not much meat, and what little there was, not particularly tasty, but the fur would sell well. Alongside it, he caught a few squirrels, another hare, and a badger. As he moved through the terrain, he kept an eye out for the herbs Hilder had requested. Some he recognized by sight, others only by her description. When uncertain, he chewed a piece and waited for a buff or rebuff to clarify.

His search along the river yielded more copper, plus a nugget of lead, a few glossy black pieces of jet suitable for carving, and an opaque, mottled piece of nephrite ranging from a fatty cream to pale sepia. He also gathered a large handful of swan mussels, shells green and brown; with any luck, the nacre within would be high quality enough for use.

Returning to the village earlier this time, John again felt the weight of their stares, prickling against the back of his neck. He ignored them, slipping into the hut he knew to be Hilder's. Inside, she sat in the dim light, mixing something in a small stone mortar. Her home was just as bare as Yrga's, but the sheer number of clay pots and bowls, each sealed with hide or dried moss, made the space feel lived-in. Bunches of drying and dried herbs hung from the low ceiling, filling the air with their earthy, pungent scents.

"The witch returns," she greeted, amusement gleaming in her cloudy eyes.

John groaned. "Not you, too, Hilder."

She shrugged, setting aside her mortar and struggling to her feet. "I don't know, lad. That smokehouse of yours appearing overnight sure seems like magic. Might want to keep an eye on that, though you won't hear me complaining. Now, what have you brought me?"

He hesitated, recalling Yrga and her family's reaction to him taking things out of his inventory. But Hilder, impatient, huffed at his delay. With a mental sigh, he retrieved the herbs as usual.

Her brows shot up, her jaw slackening just enough to expose a few missing teeth. But she recovered quickly, giving him a calculating look before snatching the herbs from his hands.

"Good, very good," she praised, fingers brushing over the leaves with practiced ease. "You've done well, lad. Now look here, how did you find flowering tansy in this weather? It has many uses—"

A familiar ping interrupted her words.

Congratulations! You've unlocked the 'Healing' skill. You are now Level 3!

John blinked. Huh. He opened the skill window.

Healing (Level 3): You have gained proficiency in healing wounds and ailments using a variety of methods. You can identify and apply common herbs, craft basic healing potions, and tend to injuries with improved effectiveness. Your knowledge of medicinal plants allows for faster recovery, and your potions are more potent.

Skill Effects:

Wounds cost less HP, and minor wounds heal faster.Ability to craft basic healing salves and potions.Knowledge of common herbs like Frostmint, White Heather, Tansy, and Yarrow.Tip: Experiment with different herb combinations for more powerful remedies.

John stared at the screen, quietly enthused. I've never heard of this skill before. He tapped the notification away, mind already racing with possibilities. Seems like this world might have some things to offer yet. I wonder what else I can discover?

—--

Over the next few weeks, John settled into a steady rhythm. Each morning, long before the village stirred, he was already out in the woods, bow in hand, eyes sharp for movement. Hunting came easily—hares and squirrels were plentiful, and the occasional fox or lynx fell to his arrows. A badger here, a bird there. The larger kills, like deer or boar, were rarer but well worth the effort. The meat went into the smokehouse, supplemented by occasional fishing from the river. The bones and tendons became tools or trinkets, and the better furs he set aside for his own use or trade.

The hares and squirrels, though, while warm, were too common to be worth keeping. In the quiet hours of the night, while the village slept, he worked by firelight, working them into gloves and hoods and neck warmers. Yrga's were the first, given almost as an afterthought. Sifrid received hers next, eyes wide with delight as she ran her fingers over the plush pelt. After that, Hilder grumbled about the cold in a way that was clearly meant to be overheard, so he made some for her too, which she accepted magnanimously, with the air of a royal given her due.

Between hunts, John panned the rivers, sifting through sediment for ore and gems. Once, he took to the mountains, spending days trekking through rock and ice. Iron and copper veins ran plentiful, and he struck lucky with a small cache of silver. Tin was scarce, but he gathered where he found. His best finds were a scattering of gemstones of various color and quality—deep blue lapis lazuli, milky and greenish nephrite, and even a few garnets and sapphires.

The ores he smelted in a little smelter he built, stacking the ingots neatly in his inventory to wait for a forge. The stones, he polished till glittering or carved into cameos and beads and other pretties. He shaped bone and ivory as well, beads and bracelets, figurines, little charms of animals and twisting patterns. The chips from lapis and jet and nacre became colorful inlays in the little boxes he carved out of birch and willow and alder.

Not all his ventures were without risk. One early morning, deep in the forest, he found himself in a shadowcat's territory. The ambush was swift, a blur of roars and claws, and it was only his stocked inventory that saved him. Still, by the time the snow settled, his spear combat skill was flashing a quiet notification of progress, and the pelt, thick and luxurious, was a trophy in itself. Yrga had been awed when he brought it back, urging him to turn it into a cloak.

In between, he foraged for plants and roots and bark, mixing various tinctures and ointments and testing them on himself for the effects; enough the Hilder was impressed by him and took him under her wing as her student, though in truth there was not much she still had to teach him.

And then, one day, in part thanks to his own newly discovered skill, Yrga's wound was fully healed. The last of the scarring had faded, and she no longer limped when she walked. She could hunt and fight again, and with that, John's time in the village had reached its natural end. His work here was done, and the road south still stretched ahead of him.

It was time to go.

******

Author's notes

John's time in the village has come to an end, and he's starting to make his way south, though he still has to make the journey and the crossing. In the meantime he's stocking up on everything he can find to sell, but he may be underestimating how valuable many of his crafts, especially the higher quality ones, will be in a world that can't just create them in a few minutes.

The very big picture outline I have for the story so far is that John will get to White Harbor, and from there make his way to Oldtown because of the Citadel. From there, we'll see how the story evolves, but maybe the tourney at Harrenhal.