ASOIAF/GOT: The King in Black

The wind carried the scent of damp earth and pine as the caravan pressed forward at dawn. Daniel moved with the rest of the prisoners, keeping his head down, his legs heavy from another night of poor sleep. The bindings around his wrists had loosened just enough to allow a slight range of movement, though not enough to slip free yet. He didn't push it. There was no point in rushing.

The Wall was still days away, and the closer they got, the fewer opportunities he'd have to escape. Once he was inside Castle Black, under the watch of seasoned veterans, his chances would drop to almost nothing. No, if he was going to run, it had to be before they reached the gates.

But running blindly wasn't an option. He had no food, no weapon, and no idea how close the next village was. He needed something to tip the odds in his favor.

His gaze flicked toward the guards.

Most of them had settled into a routine—march, complain, drink from their flasks, and keep just enough attention on the prisoners to prevent outright rebellion. The older ones carried themselves with experience, their weapons held in casual readiness, but the younger ones... they were different.

One in particular.

The boy, the teen he had scanned earlier, rode a few paces ahead of the group. His armor didn't fit quite right, and the way he adjusted his gloves every few minutes told Daniel that he was nervous. Maybe not used to traveling with convicts. Maybe not used to seeing men broken down like this.

More importantly, he had a dagger strapped to his belt.

Not a sword, not a spear. A dagger. Small. Light.

Easy to steal.

Daniel didn't let his eyes linger too long. Never look directly at what you want to take. That was one of the first things he had learned in his old life. People felt it when they were being watched.

He adjusted his pace, testing the movement of his arms. The ropes had been rough against his skin, but now they were pliable. One good pull and they might come loose.

Not yet.

He would wait until nightfall.

---

By midday, the caravan stopped near a dry riverbed.

The prisoners were given a brief reprieve, allowed to drink from a small stream that cut through the dirt. The water was cold but clear, and Daniel took slow sips, his mind already working through the next step.

The boy had dismounted, stretching his legs near one of the wagons.

Daniel counted the guards nearby. Two within earshot. Three others within sight, but distracted. Not bad. Not perfect, but not bad.

He let his gaze drop to the dirt, moving just enough to adjust the tension in his bindings. The fibers had stretched overnight, and with a careful twist of his wrists, he felt one of the knots shift.

His pulse quickened.

One more night. That was all he needed.

"Keep moving," a guard snapped, kicking one of the prisoners near him.

Daniel didn't flinch. He rose to his feet and stepped back in line, his shoulders rolling as he shifted his posture. Nothing suspicious. Nothing worth noticing.

The boy with the dagger walked past him, only half-paying attention. His movements were easy to track.

Daniel exhaled slowly.

Tonight.

---

The fire burned low, casting shadows against the wagons. The camp was quieter than the night before, the prisoners too exhausted to stir much beyond the occasional restless shifting. The guards were more relaxed as well, their conversations dropping into low murmurs.

Daniel lay on his side, his wrists positioned carefully beneath him.

He had spent the last few hours working his bindings loose, pulling at the knots little by little, careful not to strain too hard in case someone noticed.

The fibers had weakened.

Now, all he had to do was pull.

He exhaled slowly.

A slow twist of his wrist. A careful flex of his fingers.

The knot slipped.

He didn't move immediately. Rushing was a mistake. Instead, he kept his breathing steady, shifting his hands slightly to make sure he had full mobility.

Good.

Slowly, carefully, he rolled onto his back, keeping his movements measured.

The guard on the far side of the fire had nodded off, his head drooping forward. Another leaned against a wagon, his attention flickering toward the darkened treeline rather than the prisoners.

Daniel shifted his weight onto his elbows, keeping his body low.

Across the camp, the boy's dagger gleamed faintly in the firelight.

---

The hardest part wasn't moving. It was waiting.

He didn't rush. Didn't lunge forward like some desperate fool trying to make a break for it.

Instead, he let the sounds of the camp settle. The shifting of boots. The crackling of embers. The slow, rhythmic breathing of men who thought they were safe.

He rose in small, incremental movements. His muscles were stiff from the cold, but he ignored the discomfort.

The boy was near the supply wagon, adjusting the saddle on his horse.

Daniel took a step forward.

Then another.

The night air was sharp, but it carried the sounds of the camp well. A misplaced footstep would be suicide.

His fingers curled slightly, flexing.

The boy reached for his flask, tilting his head back to take a drink.

Daniel moved.

Not fast. Not aggressive. Just deliberate.

He walked past like he had a purpose. Not sneaking, not skulking. Just moving, like a man with a task.

He reached for the dagger.

The leather strap holding it in place wasn't fastened properly. The blade slipped free without a sound.

He kept walking.

The boy didn't notice.

Daniel reached the shadows behind the wagon and let out a slow breath.

No one had seen.

No one had felt him take it.

The weight of the dagger was solid in his palm, the cool steel familiar.

Step one was complete.

Now came the hard part.

---

Back in the prisoners' area, he moved carefully. His heart was still pounding, but he kept his breathing even. No celebration. No relief.

The scarred brute was watching him again.

Daniel met his eyes briefly, then lowered himself back to the ground.

The man smirked.

He knew.

Not a threat, though.

Not yet.

Daniel slipped the dagger under his sleeve, pressing it tight against his wrist. The shape of it was a comfort. A tool, not just a weapon.

He didn't plan on fighting his way out.

No, that would be stupid. He was outnumbered, outarmed, and surrounded. A fight would only get him killed.

But a dagger could cut rope.

A dagger could threaten a guard into silence.

A dagger could tip the odds in his favor.

He closed his eyes, listening to the night.

Tomorrow.

He would be free tomorrow.

—

Daniel kept his breathing steady, his back pressed against the hard ground. The weight of the dagger was a solid comfort against his wrist, the handle tucked neatly beneath the frayed fabric of his sleeve. He could feel the edge of the blade even through the cloth, cool against his skin.

He didn't sleep.

His body screamed for rest, but his mind refused to slow. Every instinct told him this was his only chance—his one window before they reached the Wall, where the opportunity to escape would vanish under the watchful eyes of seasoned veterans. He couldn't afford hesitation.

But he also couldn't afford stupidity.

Escaping in the dead of night was too risky. The guards weren't sharp, but they weren't blind. The fire was still burning, and the men standing watch were still awake. The camp wasn't deep enough in the woods to allow him to disappear the moment he ran. If he made a break for it now, they'd hear him. They'd see him. And he had no illusions about what happened to prisoners who tried to escape.

He needed a distraction. Something to shift their attention—something to make them focus on something other than the prisoners.

His mind worked through the options.

The supplies. No. If anything caught fire, they'd be on high alert, and he didn't need them awake and paranoid for the rest of the trip.

The horses. Maybe. If he could spook them, it might be enough to cause chaos.

Or…

His gaze flicked to the other prisoners.

The scarred brute lay a few feet away, arms folded, his body relaxed but not asleep. The man had been watching him since the moment they arrived in camp.

Daniel hadn't decided yet if that was a problem or an opportunity.

He made the choice before he could second-guess himself.

Moving slow, careful not to draw attention, he turned onto his side, edging just close enough to the man that his voice wouldn't carry past their immediate space.

"You want out?" Daniel murmured, barely above a whisper.

The scarred brute didn't react at first. Didn't shift. Didn't blink. Then, after a long pause, he turned his head just slightly, his dark eyes meeting Daniel's.

A slow, measured glance, as if weighing something in his mind. Then, just as quietly—

"Depends. You got a plan?"

Daniel exhaled softly. That was the answer he'd been hoping for.

---

They spoke in short, whispered sentences, keeping their voices low, careful not to let the others overhear.

The brute's name was Rask. No last name. No house. Just Rask.

He didn't seem interested in sharing his past, and Daniel didn't care enough to ask.

More importantly, he wasn't stupid.

He had already been thinking about escaping. Watching the guards, judging weaknesses, considering his own odds.

The difference was that he had muscle.

And Daniel had the dagger.

"We move at dawn," Daniel murmured. "Not before."

Rask raised an eyebrow. "Dawn?"

Daniel nodded. "They'll be tired from the night shift. Less alert. And it's cold. Their hands will be stiff. Slower reactions."

Rask grunted, seemingly satisfied with the answer.

Then, after a pause—

"How do we get past the riders?"

Daniel exhaled. "We spook the horses."

A slow smirk spread across Rask's scarred face.

"Now that," he said, "I can do."

---

The night crawled by, stretching endlessly in slow, aching minutes.

Daniel forced himself to remain still, his body tense with anticipation. His mind went through the plan over and over again, picking at weak spots, adjusting where needed.

If this failed, he would die.

But he wasn't going to fail.

He'd spent his entire life adapting. That was the one thing he had always been good at.

---

The first hints of dawn painted the sky in muted shades of gray.

Daniel's breath fogged in the air as he slowly, carefully shifted his weight. The guards had changed shifts a little over an hour ago, and the ones currently standing watch looked half-asleep, their movements sluggish.

Perfect.

Rask gave a barely perceptible nod.

Time to move.

Daniel's fingers curled around the hilt of the dagger beneath his sleeve.

One cut.

That's all it would take.

---

He slipped the blade between the ropes, feeling for the weakest part of the binding.

The fibers had already loosened from his earlier efforts. A careful twist of his wrist, a slow, steady pull—

The rope split.

His wrists tingled as the blood flow returned fully, a sharp, aching sensation. He didn't stop.

With slow, practiced movements, he reached down and sliced through the bindings around his ankles.

He glanced at Rask.

The man was already shifting, rolling his shoulders in anticipation.

Daniel moved next, reaching for the nearest prisoner and cutting him free.

Not all of them—only the ones who looked like they wouldn't slow them down.

A few of them stirred, eyes widening as they realized what was happening.

Rask shot them a sharp look, a silent warning to stay quiet.

The message was received.

Daniel turned toward the horses.

The boy from last night was still asleep near the supply wagon. His horse was tethered close by, shifting its weight, ears twitching.

Daniel crouched low, moving silently through the shadows, dagger still firm in his grip.

He reached the nearest horse.

The beast shifted slightly, exhaling a slow, heavy breath. Daniel moved with precision, working quickly to undo the strap of its saddle just enough that it would slip the moment someone tried to mount it.

Then, slowly, he slid the dagger across the flank of another horse. Not deep enough to wound—just enough to make it feel pain.

The reaction was immediate.

The horse reared back, hooves kicking, eyes rolling in panic.

The chain reaction followed.

One panicked horse was all it took.

The others caught the fear, thrashing, pulling against their reins. The sudden explosion of movement sent a wave of chaos through the camp.

Guards scrambled, shouting, some reaching for their weapons, others trying to calm the animals.

Daniel didn't wait to see the aftermath.

"Move," he hissed.

They ran.

---

The first few steps were the hardest.

Daniel's legs were stiff, his body protesting after so much forced stillness, but he pushed through.

They stayed low, moving in the confusion. The guards were still focused on the horses, yelling at one another over the commotion.

By the time one of them turned toward the prisoners—it was already too late.

They had reached the trees.

---

Branches tore at Daniel's arms as he sprinted through the underbrush, the damp earth uneven beneath his feet.

Rask was behind him, moving with the practiced ease of someone who had spent his life in the wild. The others followed, some fast, some slowing, but none stopping.

Daniel didn't look back.

They weren't safe yet.

Not by a long shot.

But they had done it.

They were free.