Warning,
It is completely AI made.
## The Frozen Arsenal
The cold wasn't just cold; it was a living thing, gnawing through Jon Arlen's thin modern jacket, biting at his exposed face. One moment he'd been arguing over a lukewarm pizza delivery, the next… this. An endless expanse of snow and jagged ice under a bruised twilight sky. Westeros. The realization hit him like a physical blow, confirmed by the chilling, distant howl that sounded nothing like any wolf he'd ever heard. *Beyond the Wall.*
Panic surged. He scrambled back, foot catching on a hidden root. He threw out a hand instinctively to break his fall against a frost-covered boulder. Instead of shattered bones, his palm slammed into the rock with a *crack*, pulverizing the frozen surface. He stared, wide-eyed, at his unmarked hand. Strength. Unnatural, humming strength flowed through him. *Captain America.*
Then, another layer. Deeper. A vast, echoing space within his mind, filled not with glittering ancient treasures, but with cold, hard steel and terrifying potential. Images flickered: sleek handguns, bulky machine guns, rows of artillery, sleek missiles, and nestled in the conceptual distance, titanic shapes promising ultimate annihilation. *The Gate of Babylon… but only modern weapons?* A manic, disbelieving laugh escaped his chapped lips. Guns. Bombs. Enough firepower to level continents. Here. In Westeros. One year before the Dragon Queen sailed.
Excitement, raw and overwhelming, obliterated the lingering fear. He *had* to see. Focusing inward, he reached for the Gate. Not for the nukes – even he wasn't that reckless yet – but for volume. For proof.
The frozen air *ripped* apart. Not one or two, but *ten thousand* shimmering golden portals, intricate and impossible, blossomed like deadly flowers across the desolate landscape. From each, the brutal snout of an M61 Vulcan rotary cannon emerged. And towering above them, dwarfing the pines, the colossal barrel of a Schwerer Gustav railway cannon materialized, aimed squarely at a distant, snow-capped peak.
"Fire!" Jon yelled, the command echoing in the sudden silence.
The world dissolved into sound and fury. The Vulcans spun up, a deafening, continuous *BRRRRRRRRRT* that shook the very ground, spitting rivers of incandescent tracers that turned the twilight into a hellish noon. Snow vaporized instantly. Ancient pines shattered into toothpicks. Then, the Gustav spoke. The recoil slammed through Jon, rattling his teeth despite his enhanced physique. The projectile was a blur, a hypersonic hammer that struck the distant mountain peak.
The explosion wasn't just sound; it was a physical force. A plume of fire, rock, and snow erupted miles high. The peak disintegrated, collapsing inwards in a cataclysmic avalanche that roared for minutes. Jon stood amidst the maelstrom, the wind whipping his hair, the acrid stench of cordite and pulverized rock thick in the air. He watched, awestruck and exhilarated, as the last echoes died. Where a mountain had stood, there was only a jagged scar and a settling cloud of debris.
Then, the strangest thing. The spent brass casings, the massive Gustav shell casing – all the physical residue of the fired weapons – dissolved into shimmering golden motes the moment they hit the ground, vanishing completely. *No cleanup. Infinite ammo.* A savage grin spread across Jon's face. This wasn't just power; it was *dominance*.
The euphoria cooled as quickly as the gun barrels. *Westeros.* White Walkers. The Long Night. He looked north, the grin hardening into something colder, more determined. The books, the show… the sheer, unadulterated *waste* of human life. The casual cruelty of the Boltons flaying men alive. The Freys breaking sacred guest right. The Ironborn reaving and raping. The Mountain's monstrous acts. The Dothraki *khalasars* treating entire cities as playgrounds for slaughter and enslavement. The Masters of Slaver's Bay trading in human flesh. The Wildlings raiding south, killing farmers for a sack of grain. The bandits, the pirates… the whole rotten system propped up by people like Tywin Lannister, who saw human lives as coins.
A deep, burning hatred, simmered since his first reading of the Red Wedding, flared white-hot. They didn't deserve mercy. They deserved *erasure*. But not the smallfolk. Not the farmers, the blacksmiths, the children caught in the crossfire. His war wasn't against Westeros; it was against its cancers. Tyrion got a pass – the dwarf had tried, in his own broken way.
But first… the existential threat. The true enemy of *all* life. The Army of the Dead was out here, somewhere in this frozen hell. And Jon Arlen, with the strength of a super-soldier and an arsenal capable of reshaping the world, was uniquely equipped to deal with them. Permanently.
He started walking north, the deep snow no longer a hindrance to his enhanced legs. He moved with purpose now, scanning the desolate landscape. He kept the Gate simmering just below the surface, ready. Hours bled into each other, marked only by the deepening cold and the endless white. He tested his strength, leaping crevasses Captain America would envy, punching through ice walls with ease. He practiced summoning smaller weapons – an M4 carbine, a Glock 17 – feeling their weight, the mechanics familiar yet alien in this medieval world. The brass vanished every time.
He crested a ridge, the wind biting fiercer. Below, in a shallow valley choked with ice, movement. Not animal. Not human. A shambling, skeletal figure, flesh blue and withered, eyes burning with cold blue fire. A wight. Then another. And another. Dozens. Hundreds. And behind them, gliding silently on the ice, taller, impossibly graceful and terrible, a White Walker. Its icy armor gleamed faintly, its pale face expressionless as it surveyed its shambling legion.
Jon's breath caught, not in fear, but in grim satisfaction. *Found you.*
The Walker turned its head slowly, those ancient, icy eyes fixing on the lone figure atop the ridge. It raised a hand, and the wights nearest to it lurched forward, a ragged tide of death scrambling up the slope towards him.
Jon didn't hesitate. He didn't need portals for this initial wave. Captain America's instincts took over. He charged *down* the slope, meeting the first wight head-on. His fist, moving faster than thought, connected with its skull. Bone and frozen flesh exploded like rotten fruit. He grabbed the next one by its brittle arm, using its own momentum to hurl it into three others, shattering them like porcelain dolls. He moved through them like a whirlwind, enhanced strength and reflexes turning the undead into kindling. Every punch, every kick, shattered bone and froze-shattered flesh. It was brutal, efficient, and utterly necessary.
But there were hundreds. And the Walker watched, unmoved. Jon needed to send a message. To break their advance.
He stopped amidst the swirling melee of wights, planting his feet. He focused. Golden light erupted around him – not ten thousand this time, but a focused ring of fifty portals. From each, the heavy muzzle of a .50 caliber Browning M2 machine gun emerged.
The Walker's icy eyes widened, a flicker of something akin to surprise in that ancient gaze.
Jon's command was a snarl: **"Suppress."**
The Brownings opened fire. The sound was a continuous, earth-shaking thunder. Heavy slugs, capable of punching through engine blocks, tore through the ranks of wights. They didn't just fall; they *disintegrated*. Limbs were torn off, torsos exploded, skulls vaporized. The concentrated fire turned the slope into a churning maelstrom of ice, snow, and dismembered undead. The tide faltered, then broke, shredded under the relentless hail of lead. Spent brass rained down around Jon, vanishing in golden sparks before hitting the snow.
The White Walker shrieked, a sound like glaciers cracking. It raised its ice spear, the cold intensifying around it. Jon felt the bite even through his enhanced resilience. More Walkers shimmered into view behind the first, perhaps drawn by the noise or the disturbance. Five. Ten. Their presence made the air itself feel brittle.
Jon met the lead Walker's gaze. A slow, cold smile touched his lips. This was just the beginning. He had bigger guns. Much bigger. He had the power to scour this frozen nightmare clean. He had a world to conquer, cancers to burn out. But step one was right here. Step one was turning the Army of the Dead into a footnote in history, before they ever reached the Wall.
He raised his hand, not towards the approaching Walkers, but towards the sky. The golden portals shifted, retracting the Brownings. New shapes began to coalesce within the shimmering gates – longer, sleeker, bearing the ominous profiles of rocket artillery. The Walkers paused, their alien faces unreadable, but the sudden stillness spoke of primal caution.
"Let's see how you handle high explosives," Jon murmured, the wind whipping the words away. The frozen wastes of the Far North were about to become a proving ground. His conquest had begun.