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Chapter 90 Wandering the Wilderness

After the Battle of Ice and Fire, with the Night King's death, the North finally returned to calm. Yet there was no celebration for the victory over the White Walkers—too many lives had been lost, too many had grieved for family and friends.

In the Wolfswood Keep of Winterfell, the alliance's leaders gathered in silence, sipping wine. Even Tyrion Lannister, ever the jester, said nothing.

Owen was not in the council hall. He was packing his gear: two Valyrian steel swords, a newly forged greatbow, and a quiver of arrows as thick as a man's thumb.

Before him lay two more Valyrian steel swords—gifts for House Manderly, and for Jon Strong, his loyal guard from Ram's Village.

When Owen finished preparing, he sent for Jon Strong and Lord Wyman Manderly. Under their astonished gazes, he handed over the swords. Then he mounted his magic-wreathed warhorse, slung his gear and a few personal trinkets over his shoulder, and set off alone on a new journey.

Guided by an inner instinct, Owen rode north. Along the way, he passed common folk and Free Folk heading back to their northern homes. Every one of them bowed respectfully at the sight of him.

Tales of Owen's heroism had spread across the entire North. All knew of the demigod who walked among men.

Owen traveled steadily north—riding slowly by day, camping in the wilds by night. He crossed the collapsed Wall, only to realize he had stumbled into a world unlike any he knew.

This land should have been endless ice, yet before him stretched an boundless wilderness. Here, Owen felt the lively traces of animal activity—and a strange lack of the world's earlier rejection.

He halted his horse at the foot of a hill to rest.

A falcon soared past overhead. Owen's eyes lit up; he sent his spiritual power surging toward the bird. In an instant, his vision shifted—once again, he felt the freedom of flying through the sky.

Curious, Owen guided the falcon south. He flew for what felt like hours, yet not a trace of the Wall came into view.

"What kind of world have I entered?" Owen murmured, recalling his consciousness as he directed the falcon to land beside his horse.

Night fell. Owen cupped his hands, conjuring a flame to light a campfire. He pulled out dried rations and jerky, tearing off a strip to feed the falcon before eating a simple meal and lying down on a fur pelt to rest.

From the wilderness came the howls of beasts—wolves, their cries louder and deeper than any Owen had heard before.

"That's not the howl of a normal wolf," he muttered, glancing toward the sound, his confusion growing. "What a strange journey. I rode north, but there's no Wall, no endless snowfields. Everything has changed."

After pondering for a long time without answers, Owen closed his eyes and slept.

The next morning, Owen was woken by the falcon's cry. His horse grazed on tender grass nearby, and the falcon—still under his subtle influence—circled high above, hunting for food.

"Chirp!" Suddenly, the falcon let out a shrill scream, as if terrified by something.

"Whoosh!" A sharp, whistling sound cut through the air, hurtling straight toward Owen.

Owen's ears pricked up. He twisted his body slightly, dodging the attack. Glancing back, he saw an arrow—black, filthy, its tip discolored by poison. Worse, the tip was barbed, a design that made even the boldest warrior's hair stand on end.

"Whoosh!" Another arrow flew at him. Owen dodged again, then grabbed his greatbow, nocked a thick arrow, and shot it toward the source of the attack.

Owen's arrow flew like lightning. In the blink of an eye, it struck down an enemy in the distance. Only then did Owen get a clear look at his foes.

A massive gray direwolf was charging toward him, its rider—now dead—slumped on its back. Behind it came more direwolves, each bearing a rider: orcs, their faces twisted in hatred.

Wielding curved blades of all shapes, the orc direwolf riders raced toward Owen like a storm.

Owen thought the riders looked familiar, but there was no time to dwell on it. He grabbed his weapons, ran to his horse, and swung himself into the saddle.

"Ha!" Owen shouted, kicking his horse's flanks. The magic-wreathed steed surged forward like a catapulted arrow, charging straight at the orc riders.

Owen drew his dual swords. In a single clash, he sliced through several direwolves and their orc riders, cutting them clean in two. As he passed, the remaining three orc riders—horrified by how easily Owen had slaughtered their comrades—spurred their direwolves to flee.

Not just the orcs, but the direwolves too were terrified. They tucked their tails between their legs, whimpering like lost puppies as they ran.

Owen had no intention of letting them escape. He rode after them, keeping a safe distance. Instead of killing the terrified orcs immediately, he hoped to follow them to a settlement—whether human or orcish.

They ran for half a day across the wilderness. The three direwolves panted heavily, foaming at the mouth. The orcs on their backs slouched, too exhausted to sit upright.

Owen and his horse, however, remained fresh and vigorous. They had traveled dozens of miles northeast—through forested wilderness, along a river, and finally to a bridge and ferry crossing. There, the direwolves skidded to a halt as if struck by fear, sliding tens of meters across the grass before stopping at the river's edge.

"Why stop running?" Owen slowed his horse, ambling forward casually. "Is there something ahead that scares you?" He continued toward the three orcs, speaking calmly.

"Grrr..." The orcs bared their teeth, trying to intimidate the human warrior who had terrified them, shouting unintelligibly.

Owen couldn't understand a word. His interest faded—after all, the bridge and ferry meant civilization was near. If he followed the river, he would find people eventually.

"Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!"

Six arrows sliced through the air from the other side of the bridge. In an instant, they struck down the posturing orcs and their direwolves.

Owen was startled. He had never seen such skill in Westeros—and by the sound, all six arrows had been shot by a single person. The archer's skill was nothing short of godlike, even surpassing his own.

Owen glanced at the finely crafted arrows, then drew his sword, tensing. He didn't know if the archer was friend or foe.

From the far side of the bridge came the sound of hooves. Owen looked up to see an elegant figure approaching, growing clearer as they neared the bridgehead.

The rider sat atop a pure white horse, wearing a green cloak embroidered with golden white poppies—the flowers of spring, blooming like a field of dawn. Their weapon was a delicate sword, decorated with wavy gold patterns; their shield bore the image of a radiating sun; and their bow was adorned with exquisite carvings.

It was an elf—a powerful one, at that.

"Greetings, strange human warrior," the elf said, not as haughty as Owen had expected. He nodded slightly. "This is the Ford of Bruinen. Beyond lies Rivendell. I am Glorfindel. Tell me, what is your name, stranger?"