Chapter 2
The Georgia sun was not a sun; it was a constant, searing assault.
For someone born and raised in the perpetual shadows of the Frostfangs, where the concept of "heat" was limited to the glow of a meager fire or the heavy breath of an ox in a stable, this climate was physical torture. The air did not flow; it was a thick, humid, heavy mass that clung to the lungs like hot oil, forcing one to struggle for every breath of oxygen. It was a heat that didn't just burn the skin but seemed intent on melting the will from within, turning determination into rancid exhaustion.
I stopped at the edge of the forest and observed my host. The hundred Free Folk were emerging from the anomaly like castaways from a world of ice thrown into an ocean of fire. It was a grotesque and fascinating sight. Warriors who had laughed in the face of death in the snow—men who had hunted shadows in the darkness of the North—were now on their knees in the tall grass. Their eyes were bloodshot from the blinding glare of the sky, and they tore off their heavy bearskin cloaks with animal desperation, as if their own clothes were burning cages.
Sweat—a phenomenon many of them had rarely experienced in such quantities—ran down their torsos in dark rivulets, washing away war paint made of soot and seal grease. It left behind pale, flushed faces, congested and terrified by the immensity of a blue sky that promised nothing but more heat.
"Off with the furs!" I roared.
My voice did not need volume; the authority that now ran through my veins—that invisible weight of my Majesty—made the sound vibrate directly in their chests, silencing the murmur of panic beginning to spread through the ranks.
"Drop the leather or the heat will kill you before any enemy does! Seek the shade of the trees and do not look directly into the eye of the sky!"
Torgad was the first to react, as always. His body, now dense and optimized by my intervention, shone under the direct light as if carved from oiled bronze. He stripped off his thick leather tunic with a violent motion, leaving him in only coarse linen breeches that revealed musculature that seemed forged by hammer blows. His skin, white as Northern milk, began to turn an alarming red almost instantly under the punishment of the ultraviolet rays.
"Valthor…" Torgad panted, looking at the sky with genuine hatred, shielding his eyes with his hand. "The eye of this world does not blink. I feel my blood boiling inside my veins. Is this the magic of the southern gods? Have we fallen into their forge?"
"It is called the sun, Torgad. And it is not magic; it is the nature of this place," I replied, walking among them without a single drop of sweat staining my brow. My body processed the environment perfectly, adapting to the temperature without effort. "Here, the earth is not dead beneath eternal ice. Here, if you plant something, it grows with a strength you could not imagine in your most fevered dreams. But the price of that life is this fire. Get used to it, for this is your new home, and there is no turning back to the cold."
I closed my eyes and activated my Vision. The energy grid of this world was radically different from that of Westeros. There, the threads of magic were ancient, sharp, and awakening from a centuries-long lethargy. Here, the energy felt stagnant, heavy with a miasma of putrefaction that floated over the fallen civilization like an invisible mist. It was the metaphysics of entropy. I could "see" the particles of infection in the air—a low, persistent vibration that claimed everything that had once been alive. But beneath that layer of death, the Georgia soil remained fertile, vibrant with an organic life that the outbreak had not managed to fully extinguish.
I focused on my Internal Kingdom. I could feel my Sanctuary—that cool, silent wooden cabin existing in its own dimension but tethered to my soul. I needed to begin "anchoring" my domain to this physical reality if I wanted my people to survive in the long term. It wasn't enough to occupy the space; I had to possess the land, forcing the reality of this world to merge with my own.
"Jarl."
The young warrior appeared at my side in a heartbeat. It wasn't an ostentatious magic trick; it was pure physical speed. His movements were so fluid the human eye could barely catch his steps through the brush; he seemed to glide between the frames of reality. Jarl had stripped off almost everything, wearing only a loincloth and carrying his stone axe, looking like an alert and lethal predator.
"Valthor, I have seen the black stone road to the south," Jarl said, pointing to where the vegetation opened up. "There are metal carriages that do not breathe. They sit still, like the skeletons of giant beasts. They smell of burnt oil and old death. And there are men, Valthor. Others who are alive."
"Go," I ordered, placing a hand on his shoulder. I felt the vibration of his muscles, taut as bowstrings. "Follow that black stone road. See if there are large groups moving toward this farm. Do not let yourself be seen. I need to know what weapons they carry. If you see those metal tubes you described before—the ones that spit fire and thunder—stay away. Only observe and return."
Jarl nodded with martial brevity and vanished into the trees with the agility of a lynx, heading back toward Interstate 85 to fulfill his scouting mission.
While Jarl explored the surroundings, we began the march toward the farm my Vision had already located. It was not a stealthy infiltration; it was the march of a sovereign tribe claiming its place in the world. A hundred savages—men and women hardened by a thousand winters and war scars—walking through the high-grass fields of Georgia.
For my followers, every step was both a revelation and a threat. They paused to touch the green grass, amazed that it didn't crunch like glass beneath their feet. They looked at wildflowers with suspicion, as if they were colorful traps. The smell of damp earth and decaying vegetation was so strong that some covered their noses, accustomed to the aseptic, clean air of the North. It was a massive sensory shock that kept them in a state of constant alert, their stone axes and bone spears ready for anything.
A few miles away, Jarl reached the edge of the highway. He crouched behind a rusted metal fence, observing the massive jam of abandoned vehicles with his heightened senses. To him, these were not "cars"; they were metal cages of a fallen civilization of giants who had become trapped in their own flight. The heat radiating from the asphalt created mirages, making the vehicles appear to shimmer in the distance.
Suddenly, a noise broke the silence of the road: Clang. Clang.
A small group of men—three of them—were rummaging through the trunks of abandoned cars. They did not look like warriors; they looked like frightened rats, wearing muted colors and synthetic fabrics Jarl did not recognize. They argued loudly about supplies, a total lack of discipline that made Jarl scowl with contempt. They were noisy, and in this world, noise was a death sentence.
Jarl watched from the shadows as a pair of staggering figures began to emerge from the brush, drawn by the commotion. They were the dead. They moved clumsily, dragging their feet with a rhythmic heaviness. They lacked the superhuman strength and gelid elegance of the wights that had besieged the Lands of Always Winter. They were… pathetic.
However, when one of the scavengers was caught from behind and his scream of pure terror filled the air while the dead man's teeth sought his neck, Jarl finally understood Valthor's warning. He saw how the flesh tore with terrifying ease and how the man fell to the ground, pleading.
One of his companions pulled a short object from his waist. There was a roar like thunder that shook the air, a flash of light, and the dead man fell with his head shattered. Jarl tensed, gripping the handle of his axe. That wasn't magic; it was something mechanical. A tool that spat death from a distance with a noise that could be heard for miles. He had seen enough. He turned and vanished into the woods to report that the living in this world possessed "controlled thunder."
At the Greene farm, Herschel Greene was wiping an old cloth over the lens of his binoculars, sitting on the wooden porch. Beside him, Otis adjusted his belt, looking with growing concern toward the northern edge of the property, where the pine forest grew thick and dark.
"See anything interesting out there, Herschel?" Otis asked, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.
"Nothing, Otis. Nothing but birds and this infernal heat that looks like it's going to melt the fences. God is testing us with all this, but as long as we stay on our land, tending to our own and praying for those in the barn, we'll be safe. He will provide a way out when the time is right."
Herschel lived in a bubble of faith and denial. To him, the dead he kept under lock and key were not flesh-eating monsters, but family and neighbors afflicted by a terrible sickness that science—or heaven—would eventually cure. It was a pious lie that kept him sane, but he was about to see that bubble burst before his eyes.
Otis frowned and pointed toward the tree line, where the tall grass began to ripple.
"Herschel… look at that. I don't think those are birds."
Herschel raised the binoculars. At first, he thought his eyes were deceiving him due to exhaustion or heatstroke. But the image snapped into focus with a clarity that chilled his blood despite the hundred-degree heat.
A man walked at the head of the formation. He didn't look like the survivors who had been passing by the road weeks ago; he didn't look haggard or desperate. In fact, he looked like someone who had just stepped out of a high-level meeting or a luxury bunker, but there was something profoundly wrong with him. His black clothes were too impeccable for this broken world. He wasn't sweating. He showed no signs of fatigue. He walked with a gelid confidence, as if the Georgia fields had belonged to him since before he was born.
At his side, a half-naked colossus with a beard reaching his chest and the musculature of a pre-outbreak bodybuilder carried a real battle-axe—a piece of metal and wood that didn't look like a decorative replica.
And behind them, a visual nightmare. A hundred people who looked like they had stepped out of an extremist commune or a lost tribe. Men and women with deep scars, dressed in scraps of leather and carrying weapons that looked like they belonged in a prehistory museum, but with a very real violence in their stride. They didn't run in panic; they walked in a loose but disciplined formation.
"Get the rifle, Otis!" Herschel shouted, his voice losing all its calm. "Maggie! Beth! Get in the house and lock the doors right now! Don't look out the windows!"
Herschel climbed down the porch steps, his legs trembling. Otis returned from inside with a hunting shotgun, his sweaty hands slipping over the metal as he jammed shells into the chamber. To Herschel, the man in black didn't look like a "king" of legend; he looked like the leader of a dangerous paramilitary cult—a charismatic fanatic who had managed to gather a horde of armed lunatics to claim what was left of the world.
"Are they walkers, Herschel?" Otis asked, aiming the shotgun, though his aim was erratic with fear.
"No," Herschel whispered, watching as the man in black raised a hand, signaling his host to halt just at the edge of the pastures. "Walkers don't have that look in their eyes. Those guys are a militia, or something much more dangerous. They're organized."
I stopped in front of the farm's white fence. It was a weak, almost ornamental structure that symbolized the fragility of the civilization that had built it to separate its small illusion of security from the chaos outside. I looked at the house: wood painted an immaculate white, glass windows reflecting the merciless sun, a porch that spoke of quiet afternoons and a peace that no longer existed in any corner of the planet.
"Valthor…" Torgad whispered as he stepped up to my shoulder, his eyes moving warily. "That house… who lives in a place so smooth and bright? I have never seen wood that looks like white stone. Is it a palace?"
"A palace of wood and lies, Torgad. It is the home of a man who believes his fence still means something in a world of the dead."
I observed Herschel and Otis. I could smell their sour fear from here; it was the scent of someone who knows their comfort zone has been invaded by a force they cannot comprehend. I activated my Majesty, letting my authority saturate the heavy afternoon air. It wasn't a direct attack, but a statement of fact: I was the apex of the food chain in this place.
I walked alone toward the gate, leaving Torgad and the rest behind as a latent but controlled threat. The metallic click of Otis's shotgun cocking rang out in the silent afternoon air with startling clarity.
"Not another step!" Herschel shouted from the porch, trying to project a firmness his eyes betrayed. "This is private property! Identify yourself or we will fire! We don't want trouble, but we will defend what's ours!"
I stopped two meters from the fence. Herschel didn't see a sovereign; he saw a man more frightening than the dead because he seemed to have absolute control over the chaos. His eyes searched my face for any sign of madness or mercy, and found neither.
"My name is Valthor," I said, and my voice seemed to vibrate in the very wood of his house. "I come from a place your maps do not know. My people are thirsty, the sun is killing them, and we have not eaten in days. We need water, food, and a place to set our camp in the shade."
Herschel pressed his lips together, his knuckles white around the porch railing.
"We have nothing for a group that size, stranger. There's a town a few miles away if you follow the road. Go there. There is no room for you or your… people here."
"The city is a giant tomb, old man," I replied with a calm that chilled his blood despite the heat. "You know it as well as I do, though you try to ignore it behind your prayers. Your fields are at peace now because death has not yet concentrated here in enough numbers, but that is going to change very soon. I am not a looter come to burn your house. I offer a survival bargain: my people will work these lands with a strength you have never seen. We will protect them from the dead and from the living who will come for your supplies. In exchange, we will share what this land produces under my direction."
"And if I refuse to take a hundred armed strangers onto my property?" Herschel asked, his voice breaking under the pressure of my presence.
A piercing scream cut the air before I could answer.
From the tree line to the east, four walkers emerged. They had been drawn by the crowd and the scent of the host. They were fast by the standards of the dead, moving with that hungry inertia. Before Otis could even raise the shotgun or aim, a blur crossed the open field. It was Jarl.
He had returned from his scouting just in time. He didn't use his axe; he wanted to test the resistance of these beings of soft flesh. He leaped onto the first walker and, with strength optimized by my Majesty, ripped its head off with his bare hands in one sharp motion. Otis let out a cry of pure shock. Jarl shattered the chest of the second with a side kick that sent it flying fifteen feet, and decapitated the other two with his stone axe in a single fluid movement that barely left a trace of the weapon.
Jarl stood there, over the mangled remains, looking toward the porch with an expression of absolute contempt for the weakness of the dead. Then, he walked toward me and knelt in the grass, completely ignoring the armed men.
"Valthor, I have seen the men with the thunder tubes on the black road," Jarl said, his breath not even labored. "They are noisy, clumsy, and kill each other for scraps of metal. The dead are heading toward their noise by the thousands in the distance. This place is not the refuge this old man believes it to be."
I turned back to Herschel, who was now pale as wax. Otis had instinctively lowered the shotgun; he knew he wasn't fast enough to stop Jarl, let alone face whatever it was I represented.
"That is the reality, Herschel," I said, opening the gate and stepping onto his property without waiting for an invitation. "The dead you have locked in your barn are not sick. They are husks driven by a hunger that never dies. And if you don't let me organize the defense of this perimeter right now, those very 'relatives' of yours will be the ones to devour your daughters when the horde Jarl has seen reaches your gates, drawn by the noise of your firearms."
I entered the property, followed by Torgad and my people, who began to flow like a river of leather and bronze over the immaculate lawn. The savages dispersed with efficiency, amazed by the water hoses, the wells, and the mown grass they had never seen in their lives of rock and snow.
I felt my connection to this place—my Domain—begin to anchor deeply into the Georgia soil. Every step I took was not just a movement; it was a metaphysical claim on reality.
Valthor's Thoughts (Internal Monologue):
I observed the farm while my people began drawing water from the wells under the terrified gaze of Maggie and Beth, watching from behind the upstairs curtains.
It was time to analyze my position on this new chessboard. My gift of the Canvas was absorbing the concepts of this world at a breakneck pace. The chemistry of gunpowder, the molecular structure of asphalt, the degraded biology of the walkers… I could feel my mind processing how Otis's shotgun worked just by having seen it up close. Knowledge flowed into me, waiting to be refined and used to create weapons this world could not comprehend.
But most important was the Domain. By walking on this earth, my essence seeped into the ground. It wasn't just occupying physical space; it was claiming reality itself. If I could integrate this farm into my Internal Kingdom, the laws of physics would begin to change in our favor. The sun wouldn't burn my people so harshly. The water would be purer and more revitalizing. The defenses would become impenetrable.
I looked at Jarl. His report on the "thunder tubes" was vital. If there were armed men nearby, it meant civilization still had teeth, even if they were broken and rotten. I knew this world was full of desperate survivors who would do anything for a sack of grain. But none of them had what I possessed: the power to change the very nature of men.
I had to be careful. The savages were strong, but a bullet to the brain was still lethal if they didn't know how to take cover…