Sixth Moon of 284 AC - Riverrun Courtyard
General pov
The sky had turned the color of burnt orange when the horns finally sounded from atop the walls. Lords and Ladies emerged from their chambers and halls in curious anticipation, cloaks billowing in the evening chill. The sun had just dipped behind the western hills, casting long shadows across the stone courtyard as Stark guards swung open the gates.
"It's nearly night," Lord Yohn Royce muttered, furrowing his brow. "Wouldn't visibility be better at noon?"
"You'd think," replied Lady Olenna Tyrell, arms folded, eyes sharp.
But no answer was given before the gates opened fully, revealing the arrival of the long-expected party. At the head of the procession rode a young man not yet a man grown — Benjen Stark, lean and cold-eyed despite being just ten and six. At his side, tall and silent as the shadows, rode Ser Arthur Dayne, his silver cloak ruffling like a banner behind him. Stark guards followed, guiding massive wooden crates on carts into the courtyard.
All gathered began to murmur.
Benjen dismounted with the confidence of someone twice his age. He strode before the gathered crowd and gave a curt nod of greeting.
"I greet you, your Graces, Lords and Ladies. I will not hold you long with speeches — best to show you what now stalks the Lands Beyond the Wall." He turned to two guards, "Flinn. Edwyle. Destroy the boxes."
The guards obeyed at once, each hefting an axe and bringing it down in solid, heavy strokes. Wood splintered and cracked. Gasps escaped the mouths of more than one noble as the shattered crates fell away to reveal two horrors chained within.
A withered corpse with green-tinted skin and tattered rags shuffled forward, groaning softly, eyes empty. Beside it, a skeletal figure took rigid, unnatural steps, bones creaking as it moved.
Chains clinked taut as the monsters reached their limits. The undead halted, arms outstretched, reaching toward the crowd.
A stunned silence gripped the courtyard.
"And these… things are now inhabiting the Lands beyond the Wall?" asked Lord Yohn Royce, his voice heavy with disbelief.
"That is the case, my lord," Ser Arthur confirmed.
"They don't seem very dangerous," commented Queen Cersei from her seat beside Robert, drawing nods of agreement from several gathered nobles.
Benjen's expression remained stony. "The green undead — the zombies, we call them — are not much of a threat alone. But they appear in numbers. Many. They rise at night. Only the wildlings' habit of always carrying weapons has kept them from being overwhelmed." He gestured toward the skeleton. "These are more dangerous. Their arrows are poor at long range, but they can swarm in dozens if not more. Still, these are only the least of what we have seen."
Arthur nodded grimly. "The real dangers cannot be caged."
Benjen continued, tone sharper now. "There are the green beasts with four legs and no arms. They approach slowly. But come too close, and they detonate with a force strong enough to tear a man apart. Worse are the tall, dark creatures — black as night, with glowing indigo eyes. They are twice the height of a man, and while they are usually not hostile, when they do attack, they are relentless, and kill with ease. They seem to target certain individuals… for reasons we don't yet understand. Worse still, they vanish and reappear seemingly at will — making them almost impossible to predict."
"You've seen them?" asked Lord Manderly.
"Aye, from a distance" Benjen replied. "We call them Slendermen."
A ripple of dread passed through the crowd. The implications were sinking in. For the lords in their high castles, these monsters were little more than curiosities. But for the smallfolk who toiled in the fields, traveled the roads, and slept in huts of wood and thatch… these creatures were a nightmare made real.
"Then I think it is time for all of us to pay more attention to the Wall," declared Lord Tarth, folding his arms. "We must send weapons, coin… whatever the Night's Watch needs."
"I have one question, though," Lord Jason Mallister spoke next, stepping forward. His eyes gleamed with something more than concern — ambition, perhaps. "Is there any truth to the… rumour that some of these monsters appear not only armed and armored, but wearing armor made of pure gold?"
The entire courtyard seemed to still. All eyes turned to Benjen.
Arthur opened his mouth to intercept, but Benjen spoke first.
"Aye," he said plainly. "Rare, but real. Some monsters appear in armor — even golden armor. We've recovered pieces. So yes, though it happens."
Arthur exhaled and rubbed his forehead. "Seven save us," he muttered. "The Lands beyond the Wall will never be the same."
The Lords and Ladies returned to their castles in the following days, but the tale did not remain contained within Riverrun's walls.
By the end of the month, the story had spread like wildfire.
Strange creatures roamed the frozen north. Some were easy to slay — but there were whispers of creatures who wore armor, weapons in hand, and even rarer still, of monsters clad in gold.
In a realm where gold was worth more than blood, such tales drew attention.
Tens of thousands of desperate men — landless sons, sellswords out of work, petty criminals seeking redemption — began the long journey north. Some walked through the Neck and made their way to Castle Black, while others took ships from Gulltown, White Harbor, or Maidenpool bound for Eastwatch-by-the-Sea.
Gold, after all, was the greatest motivator in the Seven Kingdoms. And the Far North had just become a frontier of myth, danger… and riches.
**Scene Break**
Ninth Moon of 284 AC, North of Moat Cailin
pov Bronn
Bronn had heard the rumour in more taverns than he could count.
"Golden armor, aye. Monsters wearin' it like knights of old."
"They say you can take it right off their corpses — if you live."
"One man brought back a helmet. Solid gold, so heavy it near snapped his mule's spine!"
At first, Bronn had rolled his eyes and laughed it off. Tall tales to sell more ale. The kind of rubbish passed between drunk hedge knights and desperate sellswords. But somewhere between Maidenpool and Harrenhal, it stopped being a joke.
Too many travelers heading north. Too many stories told with the same shape — not identical, no — but close enough to sting of truth.
By the time he passed through Moat Cailin, his scepticism had worn thin.
It was there, in a sodden village just north of the Neck, that Bronn met them: a drunkard in red robes and a woman with eyes like embers. Thoros of Myr and a red priestess called Lemara. She was quiet, reserved. Thoros was anything but.
"You're heading to the Wall too, then?" Thoros had slurred over a mug of watered wine, swinging an arm around Bronn's shoulder like they were old friends.
Bronn had shrugged. "If the bastards up there are givin' out gold for monster heads, why not?"
Thoros chuckled. "A practical man! I like that." He clinked his mug against Bronn's. "We go not for gold, but for truth. Lemara has seen fire. I have seen smoke. And both of us have seen shadows."
"He means to say," Lemara finally spoke, "that Rhllor has sent us visions. Of darkness creeping. Of death marching."
Bronn turned to Thoros with a raised eyebrow, "What are you two blabbering about again?"
Thoros sighed, appearing slightly more sober, "We're talkin' about the Long Night"
Lemara nodded solemnly. "It has already begun."
He didn't argue. Mostly because he didn't care. Talk of gods and omens was for fools or rich men with too much time. But Thoros was good company, and the woman wasn't hard on the eyes, so he let them talk of shadows and prophecy while he watched the road for bandits and fools.
**Scene Break**
Castle Black – Two Weeks Later
The wind howled over the frozen courtyard, whipping snow into their faces as they trudged through the gates. Bronn counted a dozen travelers with them: all lean, hungry men some with wild looks, others with haunted ones. A few others were like him, their eyes gleaming with ambition and greed.
But Castle Black was no welcoming sight.
A few black brothers met them beyond the gate — sullen, silent men who looked more like grave-diggers than soldiers. One of them, a grizzled watchman with half an ear and a sour frown, eyed the newcomers like rats in a larder.
Thoros stepped forward, stamping snow from his boots. "Is this truly Castle Black, or the world's most miserable septry?"
The old watchman snorted. "You're not the first to make that joke, priest. Nor the last."
"We've come to see if the tales are true," Thoros pressed, "of the monsters — the golden armor. Of what lies beyond."
The watchman sighed, arms folded. "Aye, and so have hundreds of others. Ever since the Starks showed those monsters at Riverrun and Benjen Stark let slip that some of 'em wear gold armor, we've had near a thousand pass through the gate."
"A thousand?" Lemara asked, quietly horrified.
"Maybe more. Half of 'em come back. Some with loot — padded leather, a rusted sword, maybe chainmail if they're lucky. Sell it for a few coins in Mole's Town and drink themselves into the snow. The rest? Lost. Dead. We don't keep records."
"What of the gold?" Bronn asked bluntly.
The man's eyes narrowed. "That's what you're really here for, isn't it? There is gold. But not much. And not often. The ones that wear it — if they exist — are rare, and sometimes only found deep in the Far North, where even we don't go unless we must. We send rangings every few nights — ten, twenty men. We've seen monsters, aye, but most ain't gold-clad kings. They're walking corpses and bones with bow and arrow. And don't even get me talking about those slendermen, the ones that blow up or the slimy cubes that have been spotted from afar"
Thoros frowned. "You've seen them?"
The watchman nodded. "Too many times. You'll see too, if you live long enough."
Bronn said nothing. He glanced to Thoros, who looked pensive. Lemara's expression was unreadable — a mask carved of calm and fire.
Bronn, though, made his decision before they even passed the threshold.
He'd come this far. He was a better fighter than most. He could handle himself, even if the monsters out there wore piss-soaked wool and not shining gold.
"I've come all this way," he muttered to no one in particular. "Would be a bloody waste not to try my luck."
Thoros grinned, raising a flask in salute. "To luck, then. And gold."
"Aye," Bronn muttered, tightening his grip on the hilt at his side. "And maybe a little fire."
**Scene Break**
North of the Wall
pov Bronn
The gates of Castle Black creaked open after sunrise with a moan, and fifty men and women trudged out into the frozen wild, boots crunching the snow-packed path. Bronn adjusted his grip on his sword belt and glanced sideways at Thoros and Lemara. The red priest looked unusually sober, and Lemara's eyes flicked constantly over the landscape.
They didn't remain a group for long.
After an hour's march, the large crowd splintered apart, driven by impatience, bravado, or stupidity — often all three. Bronn wasn't sure what drew their own dozen to the northeast — perhaps the mention of a place once called Craster's Keep, now claimed by a clan of wildlings who called themselves the Snowbunnies, of all things. Supposedly they'd fortified the old ruin, even begun raising timber halls and huts into a budding village.
"Sounds cozy," Thoros had quipped. "Maybe we'll find monster heads and a bed."
By late afternoon, they made camp on a rocky ridge with a clear view of the snowbound plain below. A ring of torches was planted around the clearing, their light flickering in the gathering dusk.
Bronn tested the edge of his blade absently. "We staying here for the night?"
"Not much choice," muttered one of the others. "Best hunting happens in the dark."
Bronn scoffed. "Aye. Because monsters only come out to play after supper."
The first shrieks echoed from the east — distant, inhuman.
Then came the figures. Gaunt silhouettes staggering across the snow, eyes glowing faint red, weapons clutched in some of those rotting hands. A half-dozen skeletons carrying bows and caches of arrows. A pair of zombies followed, one of them wearing a leather helmet and a chainmail breastplate.
"They're here," someone whispered.
The group split fast, each cluster moving in different directions, drawn by greed and half-baked plans. Bronn, Thoros, Lemara, and a dozen others headed north by northeast, following the rim of a frozen stream.
The first hour was a blur of brief skirmishes.
The monsters were slow and clumsy, easy to outmatch — one or two at a time.
Bronn felled a zombie in padded leather with a clean slash. Another creature wore battered chainmail and clutched a crude iron axe. Thoros incinerated a trio of skeletons with a sweep of fire, muttering a prayer to Rhllor under his breath. Lemara moved like a wraith herself, her curved dagger quick and efficient.
But the fights didn't stop.
Every twenty steps, more appeared. Every kill led to more footsteps in the snow.
And the loot? Paltry.
A few padded vests. Rusty mail. Weapons too poor for a sellsword's pride. Certainly no golden armor. No fortune.
By the time the stars wheeled above, Bronn's limbs ached and his breath came ragged.
"This is shite," he muttered, leaning on a boulder. "All this for rat-bitten armor and an iron shortsword."
"We need to fall back," Thoros said, wiping sweat from his brow.
They returned to camp just past midnight. The torches still burned — their flickering light keeping the monsters from creeping too close. But in the distance, in the dim starlight, they watched as some of the other groups scattered and flailed in the snow.
Figures were surrounded. Some hacked apart as they screamed. Others fled, only to vanish behind trees, never to emerge.
"No wonder few return after one night out here," Lemara murmured, voice tight. "These things simply don't stop coming. And they're relentless."
Bronn grunted, rubbing his eyes. "Yeah. Harmless one-on-one, but there's just too many of 'em. You stop swingin' for even a second and they swarm you. I say we hold out until dawn, sleep until noon, and march back. I like gold as much as the next man, but I ain't risking my life for this farce."
Thoros and Lemara exchanged a long glance before nodding.
"We've seen what we needed to see," Thoros said. "Enough blood and fire for one night."
"It is time I return to Braavos," Lemara added, her tone final. "I must report what we found."
**Scene Break**
The trio were extremely tired by the time they returned to the Wall, limping and half-frozen after an exhausting march.
The gatekeeper eyed them as they emerged from the white wilderness. "Huh. Back so early?"
"No gold worth dying for," Bronn muttered, shaking snow off his cloak.
Lemara turned toward the east. "I'll follow the Wall to Eastwatch. Safer, and faster by ship from there."
Thoros gave her a brief bow. "May the Lord of Light guide you."
"May he protect all of us," she answered, and then she was gone.
Bronn and Thoros stood in the cold a while longer, staring southward.
"You still want to see Winterfell?" Bronn asked.
"Aye," Thoros grinned, eyes lighting up again. "And after that… back to King's Landing. I've had my fill of red eyed corpses."
"Same," Bronn agreed. "Let the next poor sods chase their golden ghosts."
They started walking. The road was long, but at least it was warm on the other end.
**Scene Break**