Rayder immediately understood the Green Prophet's true intention.
The old creature had spoken in riddles on purpose — offering direction but no real guidance. It was a clever move, one that let him avoid offending Rayder while keeping the gods' wrath at bay.
Rayder smirked. A sly old fox. Brilliant, but gutless.
Still, he knew pressing further was useless. The Prophet had said all he dared.
"Alright, you can go," Rayder said at last, waving a dismissive hand.
Then he paused. A thought surfaced — the witch.
She'd wanted him to leave the Land of Eternal Winter. That would never happen. Not now. Not when he stood so close to unlocking true power.
"Tell your witch friend to stop wasting her time," Rayder added coldly. "I'm not leaving."
The Green Prophet looked troubled. "I will only tell her your location. What happens after… has nothing to do with me."
Rayder nodded. "Fair enough. You've answered my questions. As long as you and your kind don't provoke me again, I'll make sure none of you lose even a hair."
The Green Prophet bowed slightly — a gesture that felt both ancient and relieved — before his consciousness dissolved into mist, vanishing into the cold wind.
Rayder exhaled and immediately began dismantling his camp. The Ghostwood's seers and the Red Priestess were both closing in. It was time to move.
He packed his tent into his system space and gazed northward, toward the endless white.
The Snowy Ice Plains.
It was the Cold God's domain — silent, dangerous, and vast. But compared to waiting around for divine hunters, plunging deeper into enemy territory almost seemed safer.
Besides, he had wounded the Night King once, severing his arm and forcing him to retreat. If the Cold God hadn't struck him down then, it meant the deity either couldn't — or wouldn't — act directly.
"As long as I don't destroy the Altar or kill the Night King outright," Rayder muttered, "I should be fine."
He stepped forward into the storm.
---
The Snowy Ice Plains stretched endlessly, blanketed in glacial silence. The air itself felt alive — heavy with divine cold.
Rayder searched the wasteland for the wight army, hoping to "farm" their essence again. But the plains were empty. Not even the groan of the dead echoed here.
"The bastard's hiding them…" Rayder muttered, narrowing his eyes.
Finally, he decided to use his old trick — baiting new wights and tracking them.
Before long, several of them appeared at the horizon, staggering across the snow. Rayder grinned — until he saw their direction.
They were heading straight toward the Seven-Cornered Profound Ice Altar.
He followed, maintaining his distance, until the altar came into view — that massive, crystalline structure glimmering under the ghostly aurora.
The wights walked right through the invisible barrier that had rejected him before. Not even a flicker of resistance.
Rayder reached the barrier again, pressing his palm against it. The surface rippled faintly — cold and unyielding.
He tried circling it, but no matter how far he moved, the barrier extended infinitely, enclosing the altar like an invisible sea.
"Damn it…" he growled.
No crack, no weakness. Just divine mockery.
He watched the last wight vanish through the barrier and clenched his jaw. "So, the dead can pass… but not the living."
That thought sparked another — a dangerous one.
Perhaps he could use the power of the dead himself.
He ordered Yigen and Im to hold position at the mountain edge, then returned to his tent. On the table before him lay the Night King's severed arm, encased in frost yet pulsing faintly with dark blue light.
Rayder stared at it, remembering the Green Prophet's words.
"All divine power comes from belief."
But what was resurrection, if not faith made flesh? The Cold God's entire dominion was built on it.
"Then I'll steal that faith for myself."
He sat cross-legged, closing his eyes. He reached inward, channeling his magic through his veins, and guided it toward the severed arm.
A deep chill filled the air. The arm trembled, then began to pulse with faint blue veins of light.
The corpses he had gathered nearby — frozen wildlings left behind after tribal skirmishes — started to stir.
Their eyelids snapped open, revealing icy blue eyes.
One by one, they rose.
The dead stood.
Rayder exhaled sharply, his pulse racing. It had worked.
The Night King's gift — or curse — was his to command.
For a fleeting moment, pride filled him. He had done what even gods forbade.
But deep within the Land of Eternal Winter, in the black heart of the Cold God's realm, a shadow stirred.
The Night King, sitting upon a throne of frozen bone, suddenly opened his eyes. The blue flame within them flared violently.
Someone was using his power.
A guttural sound escaped his throat — not anger, but wrath beyond mortal comprehension.
Through the bond of death, he reached across the icy plains and seized control.
Rayder's reanimated wights suddenly froze. Their heads jerked toward him in unison.
Then, they charged.
---
Ãdvåñçé çhàptêr àvàilàble óñ pàtreøn (Gk31)