Westeros's Angel

The snow crunched under Arrax's heavy boots, each step a dull thud against the frozen ground, while the wind tore at his armored frame like it was pissed off. Torren trudged beside him, dragging the unconscious redhead through the drifts, the man's snores rasping out in uneven bursts. Frost clung to his beard, making it a brittle mess, but neither Arrax nor Torren gave him much thought. They were headed for the Wall, a looming shadow in Arrax's head, and the silence between them was starting to itch.

Arrax broke it first, his voice scraping out rough and low. "This Wall—what's it like up close?"

Torren didn't look up, just kept hauling his load, snow squeaking under his worn boots. After a beat, he grunted, "Big. Tall as the damn sky, cold as death. Ice and stone stacked up like it's telling you to piss off."

A dry snort escaped Arrax,"Sounds like a sight. Who put it there? Your people?"

That pulled a sharp laugh from Torren, cutting through the wind like a blade. "Us? Nah, we're the ones it's meant to keep out. Some old fools from way back—crows in black, they call 'em. Been there forever, I reckon."

"Crows?" Arrax tilted his head, the armor creaking faintly.

"Night's Watch," Torren said, flicking his eyes toward Arrax for the first time. His face was half-hidden under a hood, dark eyes peering out like slits. "Sad bastards who swear off women and freeze their arses off guarding it. Call 'em crows 'cause they strut around up top like they own the place."

Arrax nodded slow, chewing on that. Night's Watch—something tugged at him, a faded scrap from that book he'd clung to in the slums. THE SONG OF ICE AND FIRE, Shit was lining up too damn neat, and it freaked him out, cold or no cold.

"What's beyond it, then?" he asked, kicking a clump of snow into a spray. "More wildlings like you? Or worse?"

Torren went quiet, his jaw working like he was chewing the question to bits. The wind howled past, tugging at his hood, and when he spoke, his voice was low. "Us, aye. Free folk—wildlings, if you buy the kneeler's shit. But there's… things out there, I don't want to talk about." he said, catching his breath. 

The questions were piling up, ones he didn't want to touch, but one look at Arrax—his giant frame, that heavy blue armor, the memory of him slicing a wolf clean in half with one swing—sent a shiver through him, faint but there.

"…..i have some information..," he said, spilling what he had. "Bunch of rich bastards scrapping over a crown. Seven Kingdoms—more like seven pissing matches. Castles, knights, all that polished garbage. Starks are still around, though. Kids are grown now, tough as iron."

"Starks," Arrax echoed, a tightness creeping into his chest. Names from that book again, smacking him like ghosts. "The wolf people?"

"Right," Torren said, kicking at the snow where the redhead lay. "Direwolves—big fuckers, like those you carved up. Starks keep 'em close, like kin."

Arrax pictured those wolves he'd gutted—snarling, massive—and saw them trailing hard-faced northerners. Felt right, somehow. "They're still together, then? The kids?"

"Far as word gets up here," Torren replied, hauling the redhead back up. "Slow news, but yeah—Starks don't scatter easy. Not like the rest down south, clawing each other to bits."

Arrax let that sit, boots crunching through fresh drifts. The wind picked up, whistling through the trees like it was laughing at them, and the air bit sharp with a storm brewing. His head was a snarl—Warhammer's blood and fire crashing into this icy stubbornness, and him stuck in the middle, an old man in a stolen skin asking shit that didn't fit. Torren's words lit something, though—a restless spark he couldn't shake.

"You ever think of heading south?" he asked, half under his breath, like it slipped.

Torren glanced over, snow flecking his hood, mouth quirking into something shy of a grin. "What, to bow to some bloated king? Nah, I'd rather freeze out here where I can breathe free."

"Fair," Arrax said, meaning it. Kneeling wasn't his game either—not to gods, not to emperors, not to anyone. Maybe that's why he was here, slogging through this frozen nowhere with a wildling who barely trusted him and a mind full of half-remembered stories.

They pressed on, the Wall waiting somewhere ahead, a silent promise in the distance. What it held, Arrax didn't know—but he wasn't scared to find out.

Days turned to weeks, the snow stretching out endless under a sky too stubborn to decide—more white or just gray glare. Arrax's boots thudded steady, cutting through drifts, though his head ached with old cripple years still rattling around. Torren kept pace, quieter now, hood low against the wind that wouldn't quit. Then the redhead—Ryk, he'd mumbled when he woke—stumbled up, shaking off snow like a wet mutt, and his mouth hadn't stopped since.

They were deep in it now, trees clawing through frost, branches snapping in gusts like brittle bones. The air stank of pine and ice, sour underneath like something rotting. Arrax was still gnawing on Torren's words—Night's Watch, wildlings, Starks—when Ryk's voice sliced through.

"Oi, big fella," Ryk said, red beard twitching with a grin full of teeth and trouble. "You ever kill a man with that fancy armor o' yours? Bet it'd squish 'im flat, like a bug under a boot."

Arrax didn't slow, just flicked a glance through the visor. "More'n I can count. Didn't squish 'em—cut 'em. Blood's messier."

Torren snorted low, but Ryk cackled like it was gold. "Ha! Shit, you're grim. What about—uh—a bear? Ever fight one o' them hairy bastards?"

"Bear?" Arrax raised an eyebrow under the helm. "No bears. Orcs, though. Big green fuckers with teeth like knives. Took one's head off once—damn near broke my arm."

Ryk blinked, grin faltering, then doubled down. "Orcs? What in the frozen hells are orcs? You pullin' my leg?"

"Nope," Arrax said, kicking a rock free. It skittered into a drift. "Ugly as sin, twice as mean. Where I'm from, they're everywhere."

Torren cut in, dry as the wind. "Sounds like giants with worse tempers. You'd fit right in beyond the Wall."

"Oi, speaking o' that," Ryk jumped back, nearly tripping as he waved an arm. "Torren says you're headed for the Wall—what's a fella like you want with that pile o' ice? Gonna climb it? Punch a hole?"

Arrax let it hang, boots crunching on. Truth was, he didn't fully know. It was in that book, *The Song of Ice and Fire*, a jagged piece he'd read 'til it frayed, and now it was real, out there somewhere. "Just wanna see it," he muttered. "Heard it's somethin' else."

"Somethin' else, alright," Torren said, tugging Ryk back before he fell into a ditch. "Blocks out the sky. Makes you feel small—smaller'n usual."

Ryk laughed, loud and sharp. "Small? Mate, you're eight bloody feet tall! What's small to you'd crush us!"

"Shut it," Torren snapped, but a twitch at his mouth said he didn't mind too much.

They kept at it—Ryk tossing wild questions, Arrax grunting back, Torren jabbing in—'til the days blurred into one cold slog. Ryk's chatter grated like a burr, but it drowned out the ache in Arrax's legs, the way this body still felt like a loaner. He'd catch Torren eyeing him, sharp under the hood, like he was waiting for a crack. Didn't come.

Then one morning, the air turned heavy, cold as a held breath. They crested a rise, snow crunching, and there it was: the Wall. It stretched across the horizon, a jagged line of ice glinting under a weak sun, so tall the trees looked like sticks. Arrax stopped, breath snagging. It was real—too damn real—a punch to the chest.

"Fuck me," Ryk whistled, dropping a stick he'd been twirling. "That's bigger'n I remember."

Torren stood there, hands in his coat, staring up like it was an old foe. "Told you," he said, soft.

Arrax couldn't peel his eyes off it. The book had sketched it—huge, cold, unyielding—but this was more, buzzing his bones with awe and dread. He stepped forward, then froze as wings fluttered overhead. A crow swooped down, landing on a gnarled stump nearby. Black feathers ruffled, but its eyes—three of 'em, wet and dark, the third smack in its forehead—stopped him cold.

"What the—" Ryk started, but Arrax moved fast, hand snapping out. The bird squawked, flapping, but he caught it gentle, pinning its wings. It twisted, that third eye staring up, unblinking.

Torren stepped close, brow creasing. "That ain't right."

"No shit," Arrax muttered, holding it up. Its feathers chilled his gloves, and that extra eye—it was like it saw through him, digging up who he'd been, who he was. His gut twisted, Warp chaos flickering—demons, that fall. Trick or sign?

Ryk leaned in, too close, breath puffing out. "Three eyes? Freaky bird. You gonna eat it, big man?"

Arrax shot him a glare that could've soured milk. "Not everything's food, idiot."

"Could be," Ryk grinned, unbothered. "Bet it tastes like bad luck."

Torren didn't laugh, just stared at the crow, fingers flexing like he itched for a weapon. Arrax held it a moment more, that third eye boring in, then let it go. It flapped off, croaking loud, vanishing over the Wall. They stood there, snow swirling round their legs, silence thick as ever.

Whatever that bird was, it stuck with Arrax, a weight he couldn't shake as he turned back to the Wall, its icy face staring down like it knew too much.

tweaks here?