ASOIAF/GOT: The King in Black

Pain settled deep into his bones, like the slow spread of frostbite. He could feel it pressing against his temples, radiating from the back of his skull where a dull ache pulsed in time with his heartbeat. His tongue was thick and dry, his throat raw. The air around him was damp, filled with the stale scent of sweat, piss, and rotting wood.

'What the hell is this smell?'

His fingers twitched, brushing against something rough—splintered wood, damp from what he hoped was condensation and not something worse. The surface beneath him rocked, the movement steady but uneven, following the rhythm of creaking wheels.

He wasn't lying on a bed. Not even solid ground.

A wagon.

The realization sent a sharp spike of unease through his chest. His body jolted, muscles tensing, but when he tried to move, something bit into his wrists.

Rope. Tightly wound, rough, and thick enough to burn against his skin.

'No. No, no, no. What the fuck is this?'

His breath came quicker, uneven. The air was cold, the kind of cold that seeped under the skin, clung to the bones. Not freezing, but enough to make the damp air feel like a weight pressing against him.

Something stirred to his left. A groan, low and pained. Then another sound—a heavy exhale, followed by a wet cough.

He wasn't alone.

He forced his eyes open.

Darkness.

The kind that wasn't just the absence of light but something thick, smothering. His vision adjusted slowly, picking out vague shapes—hunched figures, the curve of wooden slats above him, gaps in the boards where thin streaks of moonlight spilled in.

A cart. A cage on wheels.

The shapes around him were people—men, slumped against one another, bound just like he was. The dim light revealed ragged clothes, filthy skin, hollow cheeks. The scent of unwashed bodies clung to the air.

His stomach twisted.

'No. This is—this is a dream. A nightmare.'

He swallowed hard, the dryness in his throat making it painful.

This wasn't right.

The last thing he remembered was… a city. Noise. Bright lights. The hum of electricity, the distant pulse of music, the presence of something modern.

This? This was medieval.

Something outside shifted, the sound of boots crunching against dirt. A muffled voice spoke in a thick, guttural accent—not English. But he understood it nonetheless. The words blurred together, rough and sharp, the kind of speech that belonged to someone who spent their life in taverns, battlefields, and open roads.

Then another voice, clearer but no less harsh:

"Oi! Wake up, filth! You lot are almost at the Wall."

The Wall.

His body locked up.

His breath, already uneven, nearly stopped.

'No. That's—that's impossible.'

The Wall. The Night's Watch.

That was Game of Thrones. That was a book. A show. A fictional fucking world.

And yet, the wooden cart beneath him was real. The ache in his body, the sting of the rope digging into his wrists, the foul taste in his mouth—all of it was real.

The men around him weren't actors, weren't NPCs in some game. They were real people. Breathing, suffering, alive.

A lump formed in his throat, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

'No, no. This is a dream. A hallucination. Maybe I got hit by a car. Maybe I'm in a coma, and my brain is making all this shit up.'

But it wasn't.

Because no dream had ever felt this visceral.

The cart lurched, wheels rolling over uneven terrain, and a dull clang echoed as the iron chains hanging from the ceiling rattled together. More movement outside—another voice, low and irritated. The unmistakable scent of burning wood and roasted meat filtered through the cracks, a stark contrast to the filth inside the wagon.

A camp.

He tried to shift his legs, only to feel the sharp bite of cold metal around his ankles. Shackles.

His breath left him in a shudder.

'This is happening. This is real.'

His stomach twisted, the truth settling in like a lead weight. He was in Westeros.

And worse?

He was on his way to the Wall.

The cart came to a stop. The voices outside grew louder, the sounds of boots shuffling, the clink of metal—swords, armor, the unmistakable weight of armed men.

Then, the creak of wooden hinges, followed by a harsh gust of cold air as the door to the cage was wrenched open.

Torchlight spilled in, blinding after so much darkness. The first thing he saw was a face—pale, pockmarked, covered in a sheen of sweat and grime. The guard's eyes were dull, heavy-lidded with boredom, but his grip on the hilt of his short sword was firm.

"Out," the man grunted. "Move."

Someone near him hesitated, and the guard drove his boot into the man's ribs, sending him sprawling.

"I said move."

Fingers clamped around his collar and hauled him forward. His feet dragged against the wooden planks before he hit the ground hard, knees slamming into dirt and frost. The impact rattled through his already aching body, but he barely had time to react before another prisoner was dumped beside him, then another.

He sucked in a breath.

The night air was crisp, heavy with the scent of pine and distant smoke. Above him, the sky stretched wide and endless—so many stars, untouched by city lights. The moon was nearly full, casting silver light over the rough wooden wagons and the circle of tents scattered around a dying campfire.

And the men around them?

Some wore armor—not the gleaming, polished kind from fantasy stories, but battered leather and rusted chainmail, held together by makeshift repairs. Others were draped in black cloaks, thick with fur, the kind meant for long winters.

One of them, still mounted on a dark horse, surveyed the new arrivals with an expression of practiced indifference.

Jeor Mormont.

The Lord Commander of the Night's Watch.

His stomach twisted.

'Shit. I really am in the prologue of this goddamn story.'

A guard stepped forward. "Kneel."

Some of the prisoners resisted, whether from pride or sheer exhaustion, he didn't know. One of them, a brute of a man with a scar down his cheek, sneered. "Go fuck yourself."

A fist crashed into his face. The man crumpled with a grunt.

The rest of them knelt.

He forced himself to do the same, his mind racing.

'This isn't where I die.'

The cold had teeth. It gnawed through the thin fabric of his ragged tunic, dug into his skin, and settled deep into his bones. He kept his head down, hands still bound, knees pressing into the hard-packed dirt as the wind howled around them. The fire burning in the center of the camp did little to push back the creeping chill of the northern air.

His breath left him in a slow, controlled exhale. The pain in his wrists was distant now, overtaken by the deeper, more urgent pressure in his chest—the knowledge that he was well and truly trapped.

His mind refused to stop racing.

'Okay. Breathe. Think. Don't panic.'

He still wanted to believe this was a dream, or a fevered hallucination, or some elaborate trick his mind was playing on him before waking up in his own bed, drenched in sweat. But the more he focused on his surroundings, the more he could feel—really feel—the world around him.

The coarse texture of the dirt beneath his knees. The dampness in the air. The distant rustling of trees beyond the torchlight. The way his fingers ached from the cold, his skin stiff and dry.

A dream wouldn't get every detail right.

And a hallucination? No drug trip lasted this long, this vividly.

'This is real.'

That thought, more than anything else, threatened to crush him.

Because if this was real, then everything else was real too.

The Wall. The Night's Watch. The dead beyond the Wall. The wars. The betrayals. The sheer, unrelenting horror of what was to come.

'Fuck.'

His breath hitched, and he forced himself to focus on his immediate surroundings instead of spiraling into a panic he couldn't afford.

Around him, the other prisoners kept their heads down. Some trembled, whether from fear or cold, he wasn't sure. A few shifted restlessly, casting wary glances at the guards, who stood in a loose semi-circle, some armed with spears, others with short swords.

They weren't disciplined. Not really.

Their armor was mismatched—some wore pieces of boiled leather, others had rusty chainmail draped over thick wool. A few had helmets dented and ill-fitting, and the way they held their weapons suggested that they weren't soldiers by trade.

'Mercenaries. Sell-swords. The kind of men who followed coin rather than honor.'

Good. That was good. Men like that could be bribed. Manipulated. Broken.

But not yet.

First, he had to get through tonight.

A horse shifted nearby, hooves crunching against the dirt. Jeor Mormont sat atop his mount, his heavy black cloak draped over broad shoulders. His expression was unreadable—cold, assessing, but not cruel. He wasn't looking at them as worthless scum but as resources.

And that was the key difference between him and the guards.

"Men of the Night's Watch," Mormont finally spoke, his deep voice carrying easily over the wind. "That's what you'll become when we reach the Wall. If you live long enough to take your vows."

His tone was practical. Matter-of-fact.

"You were all sent here because the world cast you aside. Thieves, rapists, murderers…" He paused. "Or simply unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time."

His lips curled in something like dry amusement, though his eyes remained hard.

"Doesn't matter anymore. The moment you take the black, your past is gone. Your crimes forgotten." His gaze swept over them. "But if you think the Night's Watch is a refuge for weak men, you're wrong."

Silence followed his words, thick and heavy.

Then he turned to the guards. "Get them on their feet. We leave at first light."

The moment Mormont rode away, the spell broke. The guards wasted no time—grabbing, kicking, dragging prisoners upright. One man, a scrawny boy barely past his teens, made the mistake of hesitating too long. A guard backhanded him hard enough to split his lip.

Daniel moved before he could think.

He shifted his weight, standing slowly but without hesitation. It was a subtle thing, a small, deliberate act of defiance— not against the guards, but against the image of weakness they all expected from him.

He could feel eyes on him.

'Don't show fear.'

His knees were still weak, his head pounding from dehydration, but he forced his shoulders to square, forced his body to cooperate.

The scarred brute from earlier—the one who had sneered at him in the wagon—watched him closely, lips twisting into something unreadable. Not quite amusement, not quite irritation.

Daniel met his gaze. Held it.

A silent message.

'I am not prey.'

A slow smirk tugged at the edge of the man's mouth before he turned away.

Good.

The moment passed, but it had been noticed.

And that was all that mattered.

---

They didn't get food.

Not much, anyway. A piece of hard bread, a sliver of dried meat, and a small waterskin passed between them like they were starving dogs. Some fought for it, snapping and grabbing like desperate animals. Daniel, instead, waited. Watched.

The smarter ones knew not to draw attention.

When the waterskin finally reached him, he took a careful sip—just enough to wet his throat without wasting it.

'Always ration. Always think ahead.'

The night passed slowly, filled with shifting bodies and restless sleep. The cold made it impossible to rest properly, but exhaustion eventually won.

He drifted between wakefulness and fitful dreams, the crackling of the fire and the occasional murmur of voices lulling him into uneasy half-sleep.

When dawn broke, the world was painted in shades of blue and gray, mist curling over the frostbitten ground. The air was sharp, clean in a way that city air never was. The trees beyond the camp stretched high, their dark silhouettes cutting against the pale sky.

The Wall was still miles away, but he could feel it.

Looming. Waiting.

And in his mind, the plans had already begun forming.

---

Escape wouldn't be easy.

Not now. Not yet.

He had no weapons. No allies. No food. The Wall was in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by frozen wilderness and dangers far worse than the guards keeping watch over them.

If he tried to run now, they'd catch him or he'd starve before reaching civilization.

'So I don't run. Not yet.'

He needed leverage. A way to turn the situation to his advantage.

'Survive first. Gather information. Find weaknesses.'

And then, when the time was right—

He would be gone.