GOT : FROM FREEMAN TO EMPEROR

The Nightwatch once stood as a revered and noble order, born in the ancient days after the Long Night, when darkness nearly consumed the world.

In those times, they were honored in both the North and the South, seen as protectors of all Westeros, their black cloaks symbolizing duty and sacrifice.

Great lords and noble sons proudly joined their ranks, serving not for glory but to guard the Wall and keep watch over the frozen wilderness beyond.

They swore oaths to forsake land, titles, and kin, to never bed with women, devoting their lives to defending the realms of men from wildlings, monsters, and the forgotten terrors hidden in the cold.

They were the sword in the darkness, the watchers on the Wall --- or at least, that was the image they held in the minds of Westeros.

"Should've seen her face when I stuffed snow in her mouth choked on it like a whore biting a silk gag."

"She pissed herself when I took her from behind—thought she'd faint, but the squeal was sweeter than rabbit meat."

"Fucking hell, my brother died to those animals, and you lot sit here laughing, bragging about fucking some low-born wildling bitch."

"Damn bastard? You fucked a goat last frostbite, and you cried when it bit you—don't act noble now."

But ancient times were ancient times, and the Nightwatch of today was little more than a pit for the realm's filth: rapists, murderers, bastards, the scum no lord wanted, no jail could hold.

They weren't chosen for their honor, nor did they have any; they were the garbage of society dumped here like rotten meat left in the snow, wrapped in black and told to stand guard at the edge of the world.

Currently, they were on a mission to find the deserters of the Night's Watch, approved by the commander in chief himself.

They came here for the head of a traitors, only to find a few wildlings trying to sneak toward the Wall. For the sake of the future of northern peace, they killed the man and abducted the women to this safe place.

It was a cramped, open wooden camp—if it could be called that—just a patch of churned snow, blood, and smoke-stained cloth.

Branches hung with crusted cloaks, and ashes drifted in the wind like dead moths.

The fire crackled low and red, more a heatless glow than warmth, and around it lounged the dregs of the Night's Watch, fingering weapons they never cleaned, stinking of old sweat and newer sins.

Crack!

Ser Jakson Stone stepped into the firelight with the kind of walk that told everyone he didn't fear a single god in the sky or man on the ground.

He was tightening his belt, his trousers still stained from what he'd done. Behind him lay two wildling women, middle-aged, naked, black hair matted with snow, each with a knife stabbed in a cross through their throats.

"Get up, you sacks of shit. What's the delay? Bury these bitches—unless you want another round while they're still warm."

"Aye, Captain," said one man who hadn't gotten his chance. He stood up rapidly, dragging a boot across the snow toward the wooden tent.

"Haha! Would you look at that bastard?"

The captain, amused by the sight of his man not even sparing the dead women, laughed loudly.

"Aye, Captain, he should've carved a hole in the snow if he's that desperate."

Jakson Stone was a bastard of House Redwyne, or so the rumors went, sent to the Wall not out of honor but to disappear, a stain even a rich vineyard couldn't wash away easily, one only the Night's Watch could cover.

But here, beyond the Wall, with a black cloak on his back and a sword at his hip, he was a god—or so he thought.

The weak looked away when he walked past; the loud fell silent. Men twice his size stepped aside when his eyes met theirs. Every sneer, every bowed head, every woman who couldn't fight back fed his power.

To him, the bastard whose surname was Stone, this was a new life he was living to the fullest.

Tory, the number one dogleg of Ser Jackson, brought two glasses of cheap booze. Tory was the man who'd followed him from the South to the Wall.

"Ser Jackson, drink this. It'll get your stamina up so you can do more."

"Tory, you bastard, when did I ever run out of stamina?"

"Apologies, ser."

"Haha, forget it. Fill the glass, boy."

Tory handed off the booze without a word, and Jackson snatched it with a grin that didn't belong to a soldier.

Ser Jackson, party captain, who'd just raped two mature wildling women, was brimming with cruel joy. At the Wall, he'd choked on musky scents and rusty men, ordered about like a dog, but here in the wild, king among his men, he'd fucked those bitches in a hole and demanded a celebration.

In such a place, where adults were laughing and joking about how they'd ruined two women, no one noticed the girl tied to the tree.

Ten, perhaps eleven, she stood barefoot against the tree, knees bruised purple by the frost, her dress,a mere ripped fur shawl, caked with filth and dried blood, lips cracked, hair frozen in knots clinging to her face, but her eyes, no longer a child's, held too much horror, too much fury, like embers glowing in a ruined soul.

"I'll kill you all! I'll destroy you all! Kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill!"

No wind beyond the Wall could scare her, not when her mother's voice drowned out any storm, but now, with her only hope gone, her soft soul muttered words it was never meant to carry, curses spilling like blood from a wound.

"May the snow freeze your seed, may your balls blacken and drop like dead berries, may your bones split in your sleep and wolves piss on your corpses…"

Someone finally noticed her, tied to the tree because they hadn't decided her fate, her small frame no draw for these predators, though they wavered between killing her or raping her like her mother.

Tory, Jackson's loyal dog, laughed, gulping free booze he had scrounged while kissing up to his boss.

"She's praying, Captain, Old Gods, tree cocks, whatever they worship."

"Nah, she's cursing us, bitch thinks her gods'll save her."

"Should carve her tongue out before it hexes me."

The rule was clear: Jackson got first taste, then the rest could feast, but their eyes still burned with sick hunger, thoughts as filthy as the snow under their boots.

"May your eyes rot to mush… may your heads turn blue and drop like spoiled meat… may your mothers shit maggots for mourning you…"

Wildling-born, she'd grown up on hunger, not law, surrounded by crooked men. Cursing came as easy as breathing, each word a knife carved from her pain.

"Enough, little shit's got her whore mother's mouth, somebody kill her off before I do it myself."

A clay mug of booze shattered against the tree beside her, shards grazing her cheek. She flinched but kept on, seeing only two paths ahead: death after being raped or death before. She chose the latter. The fiercer her curses were, the sooner this wretched life would end.

"But Captain, you haven't bedded her yet."

"Did I fucking ask you, Tory?"

Ser Jackson rose from the fire, boots crunching snow, his drunk scowl twisting as he signaled one of his men.

"Aye, Captain, let's see what noise tree-worshippers make when their throats open."

A man in his thirties, bent nose, yellowed teeth, greasy braid tucked in a dark cloak, stood fast, his name not worth mentioning, the lowest of the pack, eyes gleaming with a desperate hunger to please his superior.

"May your fingers rot to worms, may your mother fuck your neighbor, may your heart burst when you sleep…"

"Hear that, little witch wants to curse me, hope your gods are watching, bitch."

He strutted like a rooster, blade swinging in his fingers, grinning as he brushed the tip across her cheek, but she looked him dead in the eye, unflinching, even with her life seconds from the underworld, determined to haunt their minds as she died.

"Spirit of the forest...God of the mountain..I curse you to die, kill him, kill him, kill him!"

"Die! bitch!"

He raised his long knife to plunge into her throat....

But..

CRACK!

A wet, sick sound broke the air like snapping branches, the man froze, eyes rolling up, head twisting too far, spine wrenching the wrong way, and he crumpled like wet paper, knees folding, knife falling from twitching fingers, his body standing a second before it fell, head limp, dead.

Silence fell for a heartbeat, the wind beyond the Wall dropping to a new low, snowflakes hanging in the air as if the world held its breath.

"Did she just kill him without even moving? No, it can't be. It's impossible. It must be some strange disease."

"But didn't you hear? She's been muttering nonsense for minutes now. You heard her, right? Church said there was no magic in the North, let alone curses."

"Whatever. As long as we split her head like her bitch mother's, everything will be fine."

"Then how about you go first? I-I don't kill children, so…"

Men stood frozen, boots sunk in slush, breath steaming in the frost, eyes flicking from the corpse to her, tied to the gnarled tree, its bark scraping her back like stone.

Truth be told, she was as confused as they were. She wasn't doing this. Her words were just fury, with no power to snap necks. The possibility that it was the work of gods was even less likely because if the old gods truly existed than her mother wouldn't have died humiliated and abused.

But even so, the fear in their eyes was clear, looking at her as if she were a vessel for an evil soul, terrified to their core. She liked that look from the tormentors of her kin. She wanted to scare them more. If she had to die, at least that much was owed.

"What now, are you all scared? Ice gods, stone gods, rip their hearts, burn their souls… let their corpses rot in hell!"

Ser Jackson, who had only recently sat down after signaling someone to kill the girl, rose again from his furs, the fire painting his face in shades of anger and disgust. His bloodshot eyes snapped toward her like a whip.

"The Old Gods ain't real! Magic is nonsense, you bastards. Something else killed that man, not her. Don't be cowards—kill that bitch now!"

A lean man, too eager and too stupid for his own good, stepped forward with a wolfish grin and a notched axe in hand. He kissed the blade for ceremony, unlike the first, this man had split countless wildling heads, his aim with an axe as precise as a skilled archer's with a bow.

He growled like a beast and threw the axe with full force, the blade spinning toward her skull, glinting in the dim light.

Everyone saw it. The axe didn't fall. Didn't curve. It just hung there, perfectly still, as if the snowflakes drifting around it had frozen it in place.

The man's grin fell, replaced by slow, wide-eyed horror that seemed to crawl up his spine and sink claws into his neck.

"Captain… what in the fuck…"

What happened next was expected: the axe split the man's skull from the center, cracking like dry wood, brains spraying, blood steaming, splattering the snow red. His body slumped, knees buckling as he dropped like dead weight, the axe passing him and embedding itself in the tree behind.

"Get back!"

"What in the seven bloody hells was that—"

"It's her—it's her—she's doing it, I knew it!"

"She's a fucking witch—"

Panic broke like a dam, but such moments weren't new to war-hardened men like them.

Another man, his face scarred, lunged at the girl, his spear's tip gleaming and aimed at her heart. Shockingly, it twisted, yanked by nothing, plunging into his own chest as ribs snapped and blood gushed, spilling over his hands and staining the snow. His body slumped, breath choking out.

Ser Jackson grabbed a man's furs nearby and shook him, spit flecking his lips as his sword scraped its sheath, half-drawn.

"Gut her, you shits!"

But the result was the same. The sword couldn't touch the girl. The man's head rolled to the side as his headless corpse dropped to the ground. That day, many of the Night's Watch died in ways that would haunt their souls—limbs torn, ribs split, intestines spilled, heads scattered on the ground, their corpses far from intact.

"Run… she's not something we can handle!"

"Get back, you bastards!"

Men shouted, some running as boots slipped in bloody slush, while others froze, clutching weapons with wide eyes. Horses tore free, one dragging a broken stake as wood scraped snow and hooves thundered, manes whipping in the rising wind.

Jackson, no matter how drunk, felt the crisis of imminent death for the first time in a while. If he fell here, who would protect the Wall? He called for Tory, who was hiding behind a wooden trunk.

"Tory, you bastard, get over here with that sword! We'll either leave together or die together!"

"Aye, Captain!"

Tory grabbed his sword, iron flashing as he ran, boots pounding snow, blade raised high. As long as the Captain was with him, they could take her down. But when he turned sideways, there was no Captain.

"Aye…"

His head flew, severed clean, blood spraying as his body lurched and knees slammed into the snow before her. The sword clattered, blood pooling and steaming, soaking her boots.

It was either evening, or the weather had worsened. The sky darkened as clouds swallowed the sun, and the wind howled through twisted pines, snow stinging like needles and piling on corpses.

The biggest weakness of invisibility was that it only worked in sunlight or where light was sufficient.

So naturally...

A shape appeared, half man, half white shadow, standing tall with eyes glinting like steel as snow crunched under his boots.

Jackson, deciding to run the moment he felt a flicker of sobriety, saw a golden, human-shaped figure appear from nothing. He scrambled onto his horse, furs flapping as he cursed and kicked the beast's flanks.

"She's got a fucking ghost! I ain't lost to a man, damn it!"

But just as Jackson thought he'd escaped and was about to laugh, a sword spun through the storm, slicing the air, impaling his arm. Blood sprayed, bone cracked, furs tore, and red soaked black.

"Who are you?"

The girl stared, lips cracked, eyes wide, at the strange figure before her.

Though vigilant, she could do nothing while tied.

Ander stepped forward, now fully visible, grabbing a cloak from a corpse as blood dripped from his hands and stained the snow.

"Well… hello, little bird. I'm Ander Skyler. Nice to meet you."