The Stark Shadow

Winterfell was quiet in the aftermath of the tournament, its courtyards still echoing with the cheers of the crowds and the clamor of steel. Benjen Stark, however, found little peace. He wandered the training grounds alone, his thoughts tangled with uncertainty. The tournament had brought a surge of pride for his family—Ned's victory in the melee, Brandon's commanding presence, even Lyanna's fiery wit—but it had also deepened his own doubts. Where was his place in all of this? What path was his to walk? 

He found Talion standing at the edge of the yard, a solitary figure against the backdrop of the darkening sky. The ranger's gaze was distant, his posture relaxed but alert, as though he were always listening for the whispers of the world beyond. Benjen approached, his steps hesitant, and Talion turned to meet him with a faint smile. 

"Benjen," Talion said, his voice calm. "You're restless." 

Benjen nodded, his hands shoved into his pockets. "I can't stop thinking about it. The Wall, the Night's Watch… I feel like that's where I'm meant to be. But…" He hesitated, struggling to find the words. "What if I'm wrong? What if I'm just running away?" 

Talion studied the young Stark, his expression thoughtful. "You're not running away, Benjen. The path you're considering isn't an escape—it's a commitment. A choice to dedicate your life to something greater than yourself. It's a hard path, yes, but it's one of purpose." 

Benjen's gaze dropped to the frozen ground. "Ned has Winterfell, Brandon's the heir, and Lyanna… she's stronger than anyone gives her credit for. But me? I just feel like the spare. The one no one will miss if I go." 

Talion stepped closer, placing a firm hand on Benjen's shoulder. "You are more than a spare, Benjen. Your worth isn't measured by the title you hold or the lands you inherit. It's measured by the choices you make and the life you lead. If the Night's Watch is where you believe you can make a difference, then that's where you belong. Not because you're running, but because you're willing to stand where others will not." 

Benjen looked up, his eyes searching Talion's face. "You believe that? You think I can make a difference?" 

"I know you can," Talion said firmly. "The Wall is more than stone and ice, Benjen. It's a promise—a shield that guards the realms of men. And those who stand upon it are not forgotten. They are remembered as protectors, as heroes. If you choose this path, you'll be choosing to fight for something greater than yourself. That is never a mistake." 

A slow determination lit Benjen's eyes, and he nodded. "Thank you, Talion. I'll do it. I'll take the black. I just needed to hear it from someone who understands." 

Talion smiled, a rare warmth in his expression. "You'll do well, Benjen. I have no doubt of that." 

-- 

The icy wind howled across the endless expanse of the frozen wasteland, its chill biting and relentless. Far beyond the Wall, where even the most fearless wildlings dared not tread, a crimson light burned against the darkness. A forge, its flames unnaturally bright, stood alone in the desolation, a beacon of otherworldly power. 

The Night King approached the forge, his cold, unyielding presence casting a shadow that seemed to consume the light around him. His blue eyes reflected the fire as he reached into the flames, his skeletal hand unscathed by the heat. Slowly, he withdrew a ring—crafted entirely of ice, its surface glinting with an unnatural sheen. 

In his other hand, a hammer began to take shape, forming from the ice itself, its edges jagged and sharp. The Night King turned to an anvil of shimmering blue, its surface etched with runes that pulsed faintly in the dark. He placed the ring upon it, raising the hammer high. 

With each strike, the sound echoed across the frozen land, resonating with an eerie, unnatural power. Talion felt the reverberations of each strike, his own body trembling as if struck. The ring began to change, golden symbols glowing against the ice, curling into intricate patterns. They were not of any language known to Westeros; they were the Tengwar script of a world far removed. The ring pulsed with life, its power radiating out in waves that froze the very air around it. 

Satisfied, the Night King lifted the ring and turned to a lifeless figure lying on the frozen ground. The corpse, pale and frostbitten, was gaunt and hollow, a husk of what it had once been. The Night King slipped the ring onto its finger. 

The transformation was immediate. The body convulsed, its bones snapping and realigning, its form growing taller and more imposing. Dark armor, forged from ice and shadow, materialized around it, encasing the creature in a shell of menace. Its eyes snapped open, glowing an intense blue, and a spear of jagged ice appeared in its hand. 

The Night King stepped back, observing his creation with a calculating gaze. The creature stood motionless, its presence radiating cold, its very existence a testament to its master's power. 

Satisfied, the Night King turned and walked away, his figure disappearing into the icy void. Behind him, the newly risen being stood alone, its breath visible in the freezing air as it awaited its purpose. 

-- 

Talion awoke with a start, his breath coming in sharp gasps. The chill of the vision clung to him, seeping into his very bones. He sat up, his heart pounding as the images replayed in his mind the forge, the ring, the creature brought to life. 

And above all, he felt the presence behind it—a power so vast, so malevolent, that it sent a shiver down his spine. 

He whispered a name, his voice barely audible in the stillness of the room. "Sauron."