Chapter Text
Ser Waymar Royce rode through the Haunted Forest as though it were a tourney ground. The sable cloak draped across his shoulders stirred softly with each gust of wind, its fur finer than anything the old ranger Gared had ever touched, and his sword hung at his hip like it belonged to a knight of songs. He was but ten and eight though he bore himself with the confidence of a seasoned lord. Grey-eyed and graceful, slender as a sword blade, Ser Waymar had never known hardship, nor truly earned the black he wore. His armor gleamed with polish still; his gloves were stitched from soft leather, untouched by sap or blood.
He had commanded this ranging with the arrogance of birthright, nevermind Gared’s grumbles or Will’s wary silence. When the camp of the wildlings lay deserted and cold, he had scoffed at their fear.
“Do the dead frighten you?” he had asked, his tone touched with mockery, as if the North’s chill had dulled their wits.
But now, the hush of the forest was not so easily dismissed.
The air was wrong, too still, too quiet. Snow fell in fine flakes, ghosting down from a sky the color of old bones. Trees stood like sentinels, unmoving, their branches heavy with frost. And then, from the darkness between them, something stepped forward.
Waymar saw a figure - tall and gaunt, its flesh pale as fresh milk. Ice-blue eyes blazed from its face, bright and unblinking. It did not speak, nor did it raise its weapon in salute or threat. It simply watched him, with the patience of something that did not need to hurry.
Then came another. And a third. Shadows among snow. They circled.
Waymar drew his sword.
“Come, dance with me then,” he said. His voice held the shape of courage, but it cracked like a boy’s, high and thin.
The circle of watchers closed.
Waymar shifted into a fighting stance, Falcon’s Wing, he thought, recalling the name from his training. He could almost hear his master-at-arms at Runestone barking instruction behind him. He would show these cold phantoms the strength of the Vale.
He struck.
The Other’s blade met his, and Waymar’s sword shattered like glass. Steel, real steel, came apart with the sound of breaking ice. Shards clattered to the forest floor. The cold grew sharper, no longer of wind or snow, but of death made manifest.
The Others moved as one.
They did not charge. They did not speak. They simply advanced—silent, inevitable.
Ser Waymar turned, striking with what remained of his weapon, but it was no use. A white blade pierced through his breastplate with impossible ease. Another blow dropped him to his knees. One final stroke shattered his helm and the bone beneath.
He fell face-first into the snow, his sable cloak fanned around him like spilled ink.
Above him, the Others lingered. One knelt.
And far above, from his perch in the trees, Will watched with wide, unblinking eyes as death was about to claim the knight.
But Ser Waymar Royce story was not yet done.
A flash of bright emerald light, so bright that Will had to shut his eyes tight at the intensity as he felt a heat so intense he was sure he had died and was sent straight to the pits of the seven hells for his sullied life choices. An impossible development - just as the dead walking - he clung desperately to the rough, wet and chill beaten limb that he held on to as the heat wavered against the ice winds that the Others rode with, its intensity so potent that it made him break out in sweat in his leathers and furs.
Moments later, as the inferno dissipated, Will nervously opened his eyes only to see the spot where Waymar fell was empty - no trace of his lifeblood - only thing remained was ash and the distinct smell of burnt flesh. His eyes making out no traces of the Others nor the origin of the emerald flame. Taking his chance he ran as far as his legs took him - further South - oath forgotten in light of crippling fear as the North wasn't longer safe for the likes of men as darkness has awaken with the coming of winter.
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When Ser Waymar Royce opened his one eye, the world was wrong.
He remembered the bone chilling cold he ignored as it stung him though his fine leathers furs, not at all suited for the far north as it did in the Vale as his Lord Commander, Jeor Mormont, mentioned too many times for the young noble to take heed as he was too proud to part with his finer belongings for that of the worn down gear his newfound brothers wore.
They had been tasked with a simple range within the Haunted Forest in search of wilding raiders which he automatically assumed command of due to his noble standing. A decision Lord Commander Mormont made was more likely as to not offend his Lord Father, Yohn Royce - both his companions he noticed were not particularly fond of his command over their expedition.
Still he continued as he ignored their less than subtle forms of resistance which they masked through jest towards his age and birth right.
The crunch of the heavy fallen snow under his boots as they descended deeper in the forest, he crept closer to the wildings camp site, spotting their bodies long frozen over. Gared and Will opted for them to turn back musing of other things stirring in the night as the winds got colder, But he didn't care as he ignored their warnings - faking bravado - too proud of a noble ready to prove his competence against the warnings of his two experienced companions who spent more time at the wall than himself.
A hard lesson he soon learns.
The weight of his sword, heavy with the promise of a duel he had been too green to win. He remembered the dark shape gliding between the trees and the first shock of cold terror that had seeped into his bones as something dead and wrong moved in the haunted forest. Soon he was surrounded but he was no coward and baited them to come after him.
He was out numbered and severely out classed as his sword shattered on impact with their own of glowing ice - magic he thought recalling Will and Gared's tales plus that of maester Edric, his warnings of old powers that still lingered far north before he departed from the safety of his father's lands, recalling his teachings of legends from the first Age of Heroes.
All naysay, Waymar once thought.
Until now.
And then there had been pain as he remembered his eye being struck as his head suffered a powerful blow. A flash of steel, a crack of bone. The breath leaving his chest as though it had been ripped away by invisible fingers.
But here - here there was warmth similar to that of mid summer along the shores of his home.
The stone ceiling above him bore no mark of Castle Black or the long abandoned Nightfort that was shrouded on ghost tales even some of the bravest of his watch brothers was weary of, no soot-stained beams, no signs of the Watch’s familiar decay. Instead, the ceiling was high and vaulted, its beams carved smooth by meticulous hands probably long gone. Warm light flickered along the walls, golden and soft, the kind of firelight that reminded him of home before the vows, before duty. Before his death?
Well...that last thought was still pending as he now discovered himself alive as he was somehow saved from his grizzly end by a shadow of sorts.
He moved to sit upright, and instead a sharp pain lanced through his chest. A hand, firm but gentle, pressed him back into the bed.
“Not yet.”
The voice was firm yet soft, accented in a way Waymar couldn’t place. When he turned his head, he saw a man.
"Glad to see you are awake." The stranger continued as he checked him over.
The stranger sat beside the bed, cloaked in deep green and black tunic, he had long dark hair falling loose over his broad shoulders. His features were sharp, almost Valyrian based on the tales he's heard as a boy from his mother recalling the beauty that was "The last dragon", Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, before he was cut down at the Trident by now King Robert's furious anger over the kidnapping of Lyanna Stark, his betrothed.
This strangers beauty reflected that of stories of valiant princes that maidens would swoon after from the shape of his lips to the way his body moved gracefully despite his great form. Waymar was almost certain the man was a head taller and more muscled than him as he watched him move around the well lit room, decently decorated which shows signs of noble tastes as he retrieved a set of bandages to now crouch over him as he silently asked permission to inspect his injured eye.
Though his skin was sun-warmed in a way even for a man this far in the north, however impossible that was as he could still hear the howling wind against the stone walls, ever thankful for the warmth that was unfazed by the cruel winds of winter fast approaching.
A crucial detail he was in dire need to relay back to his brothers and the realm at large, wondering if Gared or Will managed to get back to their Lord Commander in time as he remembered facing more than one of those monstrosities only to be undone by the shattering of his sword against their sword of ice - definitely magic - suffering near fatal wounds and now partial blindness.
A price he paid dearly for his pridefulness.
He mentally snorted at his own past ignorance. A Vale knight with his only experience of friction being tourneys hosted by his Lord Father, with no titles, no land to inherit but eagerly sought glory. So he looked elsewhere. A way to honour his house and so decided to play at being a Night's brother to overcompensate for the fact of being a spare son with nothing to gain from his father. Remembering the man's curt almost delighted response to him choosing the Black.
'Good riddence' he must have thought. Waymar continued to bitterly muse, better to have a son bound by the oaths of the Night's Watch than one who would be trouble for his golden brother's inheritance - or bring untimely shame to their house in the long run.
He didn't realise how lost in his self pity he was as he felt the mild sting of the concoction that was used to treat his wound followed by the too warm touch of his rescuers hands on his bare chest as he checked over his smaller cuts and applied a salve that smelled of herbs and spices. Its effect instant as it soothed the dull ache he felt in his chest secured in place with now clean bandages.
Waymar being this close to the other man was able to look closely at the others features taking in his powerful build, muscles rippling beneath the deceptively thin layers of leather and silk the man was wearing that spoke of some form of nobility - obviously not bothered by the Northern atmosphere or was a native of these parts such as himself if he had to guess nor was he a wildling based on his decorum recalling the stories of those the night watch deem as savages not having much time to truly witness them form himself.
His gaze still accessing the stranger he wondered if he was a long time deserter of the nights watch or some unlucky traveller to end up this far North where the undead were now stirring.
And his eyes - Old God's save him - his eyes were the green of summer leaves, more brighter than that of House Lannister. The infamous tales regarding Queen Cersei or her twin brother's own paled in comparison. The stranger’s own were bright and alive in a way that made Waymar forget the weight in his chest.
“You…” Waymar’s voice cracked from disuse. “The undead - Will - Gared - they - ” He coughed mildly between each uttering, his throat raw from disuse. The stranger’s hand was at his back in an instant, easing him upright gently, a cup of cool water placed at his chapped lips which the strangerguided him to take small sips.
“You are safe,” the man said after a moment, steady and calm once the coughing git settled so did Waymar's enquiry. “You fought well, but you were wounded. You’ve been asleep for 10 days.”
Ten days? His mind spun. “How…?”
The stranger’s lips curved into the faintest of smiles. “It wasn't your time yet.”
Waymar, obviously puzzled by the strangers' reply, brows were knitted as he processed the words he just heard."What do you mean by not my time yet...? He may have been teased by his brothers for being a bit slow in the head but the stranger's words and their implications were not lost to him that
Words that implied only one thing which waymar sure he wasn't missing the meaning of
The stranger looked at him not out of pity but fair understanding as he smiled to himself like he was in on some inside joke and spoke clearly in that laced accent he still couldn't place.
"It means Ser that when I found you after dispatching those creatures is that you were too far gone to be saved by regular means. The magic that the Others use to resurrect was almost in effect before I intervened."
Waymar's thoughts swirled as he processed what he was hearing.
Magic? Despite his failed encounter with the old northern tale come reality, an ancient threat in waiting, he was still in denial of magic itself. The teachings of maester Edric ringing loudly in his ear as House Royce still kept to the old gods instead of worshipping the seven as did most of the Vale, plus the infamous tradition his own ancestors practiced in the form of carving magical runes in their armour of bronze was still alive recallinghis father'sand brothers own armours with the ancient inscriptions. Though that particular magic seemed to be lost over time despite them being directly descended from the blood of the First Men as currently most still died in battle while wearing the plates. However, how can he deny it's existence as his recent memories serve to be his proof plus his current state of being.
The fact he died and somehow resurrected by the very man who's emerald stare drew him in made him a bit fearful, but no less eager to know more. He needed answers now. He sat up so quickly that he felt a sharp pain shoot throughout his entire top half only for the stranger - he really should get the other man's name since he saved him from death it seemed but how?
"Rest." was all he heard as he felt slightly callous hands press gently on his bare chest, his eyes suddenly heavy as his mind and body easily replied to the command given, much to his chagrin.
Chapter Text
When Hadrian Potter-Black was greeted by Death on a bleak night devoid of life, when his former world had quite literally gone to ruin, the primordial being offered him a chance at renewal and purpose. A chance to leave behind his crumbling reality and fulfill his destiny at Death’s side. Hadrian, completely done with that pitiful excuse of an existence, welcomed the unknown Death promised.
After all, the entire mess had begun after his defeat of Voldemort, when he chose not to follow the expectations of the Wizarding World or his so-called friends. That decision caused quite the stir. Soon, old friends turned bitter rivals, while old enemies, like Draco Malfoy, became unexpected refuges from the smear campaign waged by his former allies and family.
Nearly five decades passed. In that time, the truth of magic was exposed, and the ramifications were catastrophic. Mass world wars erupted between muggles and the magical. In the end, all was lost.
Magic, once boundless, began to wither and die, driven to extinction by the loss of its children.
Only Harry remained untouched by its decline, condemned to watch as everything he once loved faded in slow, agonizing death.
Once vast oceans dried into dust-choked deserts. Soothing rains turned to burning acid, corroding what little greenery survived. Soon, the dead began to rise, grotesque mockeries of life, like the Inferi he once battled, forcing the remnants of humanity to band together. But it was in vain. As the world burned and froze and rotted all at once, as irony would have it, it wasn't the walking dead that was the worst of this calamity but mankind’s depravity. Clinging to an already doomed existence, refusing to learn, adapt, or evolve.
In such a time, Hadrian hardened. He became judge, jury, and executioner, hunting those who preyed on the fragile remnants of innocence. The Wizarding World had long since destroyed itself through sheer ignorance and cowardice. The silence that followed humanity’s end echoed louder than any scream.
Their own stupidity and hatred ensured their demise. The few who survived did so on borrowed time, caught in the slow, cruel death of a world drained of magic. Hadrian tried to save them. He used time-turners, invoked ancient powers, even tried to reverse the revelation of magic itself. But the war was unwinnable for it was fated.
He alone remained. Immune to magic’s fading, immune to the virus that turned corpses into monsters. It perplexed him little. He had long accepted his connection to Death. After all, he had possessed all three Hallows. And the legends were true, it seemed as if he could not age, nor could he stay dead for long (although he wished that part was not so at times).
He was tired. So very tired. Everyone he loved was gone. And he was beyond restless. So when Death appeared, this time in the form of a tall figure clad in obsidian robes, with stars shimmering in the folds. Hadrian welcomed the meeting. Death offered him a new purpose: to become his companion, his enforcer, his ‘Master’. To travel the Omniverse and maintain balance, or, when needed, to bring timely destruction to dying worlds. With nothing left to lose, Hadrian Black accepted.
For millennia, he served with a zeal that caused other Primordials to watch in awe - or fear. Death’s once-reluctant champion had become its most loyal blade.
Then Fate intervened. As sister to Death, she saw a particular reality - one of Ice and Fire, sliding toward ruin. Destiny and Lady Magic both opposites came to a mutual agreement. The death toll alone would reach thousands, and the cause? The ceaseless, selfish struggle for a blood-soaked throne. It poisoned the hearts of kings, queens, knights, and fools alike.
They would not let this reality fall. Not without intervention. But they needed a vessel - someone tied to Lady Magic, someone who understood loss, duty, and justice. Someone who could love fiercely, who still yearned for family despite centuries of solitude.
Hadrian Black was the only choice.
Lady Magic, who still called him her favorite, pleaded on his behalf. She wanted him to have the life he deserved. Death, after much consideration, agreed to their sister’s plan.
Only one question remained: Would Hadrian?
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"You're late, Master," said Death lazily, his voice a baritone that rivaled the cold wind howling through the desolate air. Snow drifted heavily from an iron-grey sky, and the bitter wind bit at Hadrian’s skin like the teeth of a wolf. His long raven hair whipped across his face as he squinted through the snow to see Death standing before him.
With a wave of his hand, Hadrian conjured a translucent dome of magic to ward off the elements. The snow hissed as it hit the barrier, melting into nothing. Around them stretched a vast, lifeless tundra of ice and rock, where the wind carved eerie howls through frost-slick cliffs and jagged stone. The rugged mountains in the distance stood like sentinels, tall and bare, their slopes creaking under thick coats of ice. Among them Hadrian could sense the presence of beings stirring, giant ice spiders crept silently amongst the ice and rock as it scurried further away from the heat that radiated off Hadrian's dome upon its intrusion, unable to see but feel the shift nonetheless.
"Where exactly are we?" the wizard asked, his voice edged with suspicion and slight awe, still taking in the visage of more ice-like beings that emerged as they sensed the intrusion in their land but cannot percieve it much to their king's bafflement. Whipping his head back to Death whose hollow eyes met his.
"Westeros, Master," the being replied. "More specifically, the Land of Always Winter, as the locals call it. My sisters - Fate and Lady Magic - alongside the deities of this realm, the Old Gods and the Fourteen Flames, for they are the only true gods that preside over the affairs of this world, as the others hold no sway here, though the Faceless Men of Braavos do worship myself - have requested your presence. This world teeters on the edge of a fate not unlike your old one."
Hadrian’s brow furrowed. He clenched his jaw, already irritated by Fate’s meddling. And now Lady Magic too was involved with her games? Yet again, the fate of this world being in peril got his attention as well. What can he say he was a little bored as who knew Death had so much bloody paperwork to deal with. Nonetheless, still he didn't take kindly to having Fate or Lady Magic meddle in his life, once was enough - thank you.
"I understand your frustration, young Master," Death said, sensing his disquiet. "But this reality is on the brink. The balance must be maintained. The needless deaths that await will shatter what remains of the cosmic order." Thus more paper work for you was implied.
Hadrian just rolled his emerald orbs at the thinly veiled implication.
Death simply lifted a skeletal hand and gently raised its master's chin. Their eyes locked.
"Let me show you what is at stake."
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So in short he was no longer "the man who conquered" or "the boy who lived" he was now primarily Death's Master alongside whatever moniker he was given throughout his long, weary life. The wizard let out a shallow sigh as he continued watch over the young stranger he rescued, laid lax against the soft black-grey furs and silk bedding in a deep sleep that he coexed him into as to not agitate his still healing wounds - plus it was a timely cop-out as to not answer the man's many burning questions about his revival.
Yet.
The truth is the vision Death showed him was one where Hadrian got a full run down of this entire epoch - similar to that of the medieval era of his former world - major difference is they've been somewhat stagnant for thousands of years it seems; not one technological advancement in sight, plus the seasons that lasted generations was another factor as well.
This realm, Westeros, is on the brink of utter destruction starting with the second coming of the Others via a long winter that this world will not survive since they're all too busy fighting among themselves for control over a bloody throne that was cursed since its inception.
Banishing the bloodied bandages of Ser Waymar, a knight of noble standing he concurred from his memories. Now don't give him too much heat; he's lived for over a millenia hereby he was not going to have potential threats linger unexamined.
Besides he only peaked at the knight's surface memories of recent events not willing to violate the man's autonomy in any other way.
Pulling for his potions kit he uncorked a vial of Skele-Gro, visibly gagging at the pungent smell as it hit his nostrils, after all these years he will never truly get used to the nasty smell same as its taste. Careful as he eased the potion to the other's chapped lips, watching as it was ingested fully, observing even in a magically induced deep sleep the very taste of it made the knight wince, eyelids flutter then soon visibly relax back into his slumber.
He wasn't lying when he said the man was asleep for a number of days, or the fact he was practically dead upon arrival too - in the condition he found him in it was a miracle in itself he was able to save him from an untimely end. He then retrieved another vial of Blood Replenisher - another foul tasting concoction - as all potions really - which the other man ingested with relative ease, still deep in his slumber.
The magic the Others used was old necromancy that was native to their kind - as they are sentient creatures of cold and darkness since the Great Dawn with a particular hard-on for world destruction it seems based on Death's information overload. Their necromancy worked parasitically, in a way that it twists its victim's soul leaving only a shell of their former self which is then controlled completely by a singular will. The creatures haven't been seen since the last Age of Heroes and the insurrection of the Wall by Bran the Builder who along with the Children of the Forest and a select few of the First Men that defeated them over eight thousand years prior - until now.
As the White Walker’s magic was linked to Death itself and being its master he was able to counter its effects from taking over Waymar's mind, body and soul.
Groaning in mild frustration as he still wasn't keen on what surprise effects his meddling may have on the knight as he ran out of theories on how exactly the Other's magic worked in tandem with the collision of his magic which gave the knight his second breath of life. To add, thankfully - the man's blood was magically receptive, as Hadrian had come to realise as his dormant magic easily latched on to his own healing magic plus that of the potions that eased his worse injuries. The wizard chalked it up to being descended from the First Men same as the Starks or most northerners was the only explanation he had for now.
His mind immediately went back to the threat of the Others and their army amassing deep within the Land of Always Winter, though it seems they were not fire proof, thank Death. As he was able to cast a well contained Fiendfyre that devoured each of the Wights, reducing them to just ash in seconds. Instantly deducing that fire based magic was key in defeating them, the irony not lost to him as the whole ice vs fire bit, akin to the likes of Yin and Yang - an eternal balance that must be maintained.
What also surprised him though was the colour of the flames of his spell as it was no longer its burning red-orange but that of emerald green which made him look into his core to realise it has expanded more so than before he came to this realm.
The magic of Westeros was wild and indeed suppressed in some ways as it was begging to be used as it overpowered even his simplest of spells/charms.
The gods of this world were insistent in trying to use him for something more...but what?
Suddenly the air in the room went still as a familiar chill crept up his spine, the soft firelight flickered as shadows pooled from each corner of the room to form into an imposing being that stood behind Hadrian as he continued to look over his patient's condition.
"Why aren't you the dramatic, old friend." Hadrian simply said with a touch of amusement in his voice as he addressed the being that stood behind him.
He was a little surprised to see his friend in this manner as the last time they've had a face to face chat - the latter told him that he was needed by the gods and Destiny itself to keep this world from falling apart, not to mention being bound to the North for over the last week or so since he came to this world as he was told to simply "wait".
A command he didn't quite understand at the time - but now - as his fingers gently graze across the unscarred right of the young knight's face, banishing the potions kit back to his trunk, turning his face to address his long time companion as he took a seat near-by the window.
He could still hear it, that distant, spectral call of the Others, their ice-born sorcery riding the northern winds that clawed and howled against his keep. It was a fortress wrought of Death’s own hand, conjured by Hadrian's will and shaped from the memory of a place that had never existed, yet felt all too ancient. Towering spires of white-ash stone rose like fingers into the frozen sky, its gates carved with runes that whispered in languages long forgotten. It stood northwest of the Haunted Forest, just beyond the Antler River - isolated, foreboding, eternal.
This, for now, was his home. And yet, it was never meant to be a sanctuary, only a station, a crucible, a place to wait. Death had bid him to remain here, though Hadrian had not understood the why until now as his gaze wavered to Waymar sensing him shift in his sleep then to Death who looked at him all pleased like a cat who got its prey cornered. Hadrian merely rolled his eyes, as he pretended he didn't see his old friends barely concealed amusement.
“Well, I am the true end of all things,” the primordial being drawled, voice smooth as grave-dust and sharp as shattered bone, watching his master and the young knight he saved with a knowing look. “I deserve to be a touch dramatic.”
The scythe it bore gleamed with a sickle moon’s chill, and with it, the entity gestured toward the young man, Waymar - still lying motionless, adrift in a dreamless slumber born of their Master's magic. The lad’s wounds, though no longer mortal, had demanded care beyond the ken of maesters. Silk sheets and soft furs cushioned his repose, but his skin remained pale, his breath shallow.
Hadrian sat cross-legged in a high-backed chair of carved weirwood, the flames in the hearth casting flickering shadows across his noble-boned face. His eyes, dark and fathomless, lingered on the boy with a curious sort of longing, though he would never name it such aloud.
“It has begun,” Death said, “as we foresaw. But now, with the return of this one... the wheel turns differently.”
A frown ghosted across Hadrian’s lips. “Speak plainly.”
“This knight, young Ser Waymar,” Death began, “was meant to pass into my halls after his first meeting with the Others. His fate - unlike the many you have seen, was a fixed point. Until you intervened.”
Hadrian exhaled through his nose, sharp and irritated. “So I should’ve let him die?” he quipped harshly. “You tell me to act, then scold me when my methods displease your precious tapestry.”
“Nothing is broken, my Master. Only changed.” Death’s voice was a low thunder now, patient and ancient. “The threads still weave, though in patterns unforeseen. Your mercy threw a blade into Fate’s loom, and she's still fuming."
Much like that time their Master burned his world to ash to end its long suffering.
The being stepped forward, its shadow stretching long and thin across the stone floor like creeping death itself.
“Saving the boy has altered several threads. Some for the better. Others yet remain... inevitable. But your purpose, Master, has not changed. It was set into motion the moment you met him and drew breath into his failing lungs.”
Hadrian leaned forward, hands clasped, voice low. “What are you truly saying?”
“I am saying that his life is now bound to yours. As my Master, you wield my dominion. When you defied tge natural course of death on his behalf, he ceased to be mine. He is yours now - in life and in soul."
'Even perhaps in more ways yet to come' was left unsaid as Death knew of Lady Magic's plan. It was plain as day as they observed their master interacting with this man.
Hadrian blinked, the weight of it all settling like lead in his chest. His brows drew together in thought. Yes, he had long known he commanded aspects of Death’s domain, he had reaped, he had judged, he had destroyed - but this? This felt different. To change the natural order so thoroughly… it explained the strange growth of power within him since his arrival. Explained the raw, untamed magic that bled from the very stones of this world, and how it seemed to hum beneath his skin like wildfire barely contained.
There was more Death was not saying. That much was clear. But Hadrian did not press.
Yet.
And Death, ever attuned, felt no malice in the withholding. This was not some manipulation or cosmic trick. No, this was prophecy incarnate. Truth etched before the stars were born. Hadrian Black was not merely touched by fate; he was Fate’s reckoning. The Chosen - not a hero, nor villain, but the fulcrum upon which the balance of all realms now teetered. He was creation and destruction made flesh, an embodiment of life and death that prevailed across all of time. His magic had always been extraordinary; here, it was amplified by the wildness of this realm. And it was that very power that had purged the White Walker’s rot from Waymar’s body, turning what should have been a cursed wight into something new, something unbound.
“The Old Gods and I,” Death murmured, “would see you help unite this realm before winter devours it whole. Should you fail, all life here shall be lost, and this universe with it.”
Hadrian tilted his head, bemused. “And the prophecy?”
“Ah, yes. The prophecy of fire and ice. Of a prince who was promised.” Death's grin was like frostbite. “But, as you know Master, prophecy is a mirror - its truths distorted by the eyes that behold it.”
Hadrian just chuckled, the sound bitter. Trelawney and Dumbledore came to his mind instantly.
“This prophecy speaks not of a single child, but two. One born amidst salt and smoke. The other, a union of fire and ice. Both are needed. Both must be guided to save this realm.”
“By me.” Staed the wizard already knowing the inevitable answer.
“Yes.”
“And what then?” Hadrian asked, a touch wary of Death’s reply.
“If you succeed, the gods shall offer you a boon. As shall I.”
Hadrian snorted. “Forgive me if I don't trust gifts from divine beings. They tend to be laced with sweet poison.”
His gaze drifted once more to Waymar.
“And him?”
“He is yours to guide, Master. He may choose to return to his oaths, to the Wall, when he is whole again." However the real question is not whether he will leave. It is whether Hadrian will let him go.
Hadrian didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The way his gaze lingered on the man said enough.
“You said he and his companions were a catalyst.” The words came slow, thoughtful. Visions stirred within him - Waymar’s death, his turning, Gared’s burnt corpse, Will fleeing into the night.
“Then I’ll go with him,” Hadrian said at last. “If he returns to the Night’s Watch, I’ll stand beside him. Support his claims. Gods know they’ll scoff otherwise. I’ll say I’m a traveler from across the seas - lost after being knocked off course - shipwrecked upon the Shivering Sea. Let the rest unfold from there.”
“Very well, Master.” Death gave a small bow, more gesture than necessity. “Good luck.”
And then it was gone, fading like ash upon the wind, leaving Hadrian alone once more, his thoughts burdened not by the mission he was given by the cosmic forces but that of his heart.
And that troubled him.