The sky was brittle with cold, and the wind carried the dry sting of deep snow. Vezdaryon flew silently, his wings slicing through the frozen air, each beat trailing vapor in long, slow plumes. Below him stretched a frozen land of shadows and ice vast, ancient, and hauntingly quiet.
He had left the mountains of the Frostfangs behind him, leaving only white plains and clusters of dense pine beneath his wings. He had flown for days, hunting when hunger stirred, landing only when exhaustion demanded. There was no rush, only the steady, instinctual pursuit of new territory of discovery.
The magic in the far north still hummed faintly along his scales, but it had begun to fade, like snow dissolving in fire. The wind was shifting. The land was beginning to change.
And then, in the distance, it came into view.
A wall.
A wall unlike anything he had ever seen.
It rose like a monolith, stretching across the horizon, impossibly high and pure in its scale. A cold slab of magic and ice, it stood as if the world itself had placed it there to divide what was and what should not be.
Vezdaryon banked, adjusting his flight, and descended slightly to observe.
From above, Castle Black was a scattering of structures huddled close to the base of the Wall, as if afraid of being swallowed by it. It looked unimpressive to his eyes no great citadel or fortified palace, just a gathering of timber and stone dwarfed by the icy giant behind it. Smoke drifted from chimneys. Tiny black shapes moved between buildings men.
He felt them before he heard or saw them.
Men with torches. Bowmen patrolling the ramparts. Sentinels along the tops of towers. They were too small, too slow to threaten him. But he saw them stop in their tracks and point to the sky, mouths opening with alarm as his silhouette cut across the moonlight.
Some ran. Others stood frozen.
He did not roar. He did not dive.
Vezdaryon merely flew a shadow across the stars.
The wind howled louder as he passed directly above the Wall, and the magic in the ice surged like a breath inhaled. He felt it ripple through his wings not pain, but pressure. Like being watched by something buried deep within the ancient stone. Something awake.
The Wall pulsed with old power, but it did not reject him.
He glided low across its surface, inspecting it. The Wall was not merely a wall. It was a barrier. He could feel the enchantments woven through every inch old, subtle, but very real. It wasn't just a defense against people. It was something more. A boundary to keep the unnatural at bay.
And for a moment, as he flew above it, he wondered which side of that boundary he truly belonged on.
The men below scattered as he passed. Horns sounded in the cold. Dogs barked. Arrows were nocked though none were loosed. Even now, they must have known how useless they would be.
He felt no hatred toward them. No curiosity either. They were simply there part of the landscape, like trees or hills or wind-carved rock. Their presence didn't matter.
What did was the world opening up beyond the Wall.
South.
He followed the line of the great structure for a while longer before veering to the right, wings catching the current with ease. Beneath him, the terrain shifted hills dusted in snow, forests tangled in frost, rivers frozen mid-current. And life.
He saw deer bounding across the tundra, hares darting through brush, an owl launching upward in sudden panic as he passed overhead. The smell of pines returned. The wind grew slightly warmer, tinged with the scent of earth and decay rather than endless frost.
A land of men.
Of cities.
Of fire.
The Wall faded behind him into the night, a pale line on the horizon.
He did not look back.
Vezdaryon flew on in silence, his great shadow sliding over the woods like a passing storm cloud. He had no destination, not in the way men thought of such things. He was pulled only by the invisible current of instinct, of memory, and of wonder.
South was no longer a direction. It was a feeling.
And whatever waited there be it war, fire, or legend he would face it as he always had.
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