Warmth is the first thing he feels.
Not the sharp, biting warmth of a torch in a snowstorm—this is deeper, gentler. The kind of warmth that soaks into bone. The fire in Tressa's hearth has burned down to glowing embers, their orange light pulsing faintly in the dim morning.
Aeryon opens his eyes slowly.
The hut is quiet.
Still.
Smelling of old wood, dried herbs, and simmered stew.
Tressa snores softly in her corner—despite her stern warning the night before.
It sounds like someone dragging a bucket through gravel.
Aeryon sits up carefully, cloak sliding off his shoulders with a whisper of fur. His sword lies exactly where he placed it, untouched. The UI flickers awake as soon as he blinks—quiet, obedient, hovering faintly behind his vision.
[GOOD MORNING, AERYON]
[STATUS: WARM / FED / RESTED]
He mentally taps it off.
He can't afford glowing menus floating around when other people are awake.
A deep breath fills his lungs.
Warm, smoky air.
Outside, faint voices drift through the shutters—men carrying firewood, women calling to children, the low grunt of someone wrestling with livestock. The quiet bustle of a small Northern village starting its day.
He stands, pulling on his boots and adjusting his cloak.
Behind him, the old woman stirs.
Her voice rasps across the room without her even opening her eyes.
"Don't touch my herbs."
Aeryon freezes. "…I wasn't planning on it."
"Mhm."
She shifts under her blanket, still not looking at him.
"If you break somethin', I'll break you."
"Understood."
"Good."
She lifts one bony finger, pointing vaguely at the back door.
"Goats."
Right.
His "repayment."
Aeryon grabs his satchel and sword, slipping them over his shoulder. When he opens the door, cold air rushes in—crisp, fresh, biting enough to sting his lungs after the warm night indoors.
The sun hasn't fully risen yet; the sky is blue-gray, the light soft, almost timid.
Birchwatch is awake.
Smoke drifts from chimneys. Snow crunches under boots. A cluster of children chase each other near the central fire, laughing in short bursts before their mothers yell at them to put on gloves.
Aeryon steps outside.
A few villagers glance at him—some curious, some cautious, none openly hostile. Overnight, he seems to have shifted categories from "strange outsider" to "strange outsider being watched."
He moves toward the small wooden shed behind Tressa's hut—the goat pen. The smell hits him before he even opens the gate.
He winces.
"…Fantastic."
Inside the pen, two goats stare at him blankly. One chews a clump of hay with malicious slowness. The other looks offended by his existence.
Aeryon glances toward the village.
No one is paying attention.
He opens the UI just a crack—just enough to summon something harmless.
[SPAWN: SHOVEL (WOODEN)]
A simple wooden shovel materializes in his hand.
He gives the goats a long-suffering look.
"Let's get this over with."
He begins mucking out the pen. It's messy, smelly, unpleasant work—but he does it manually. No magic shortcuts. No levitating farm waste. No instantaneous block deletion.
He needs to stay normal here.
Thirty minutes later, he finishes.
The goats remain unimpressed.
Aeryon wipes his forehead with his sleeve, breath fogging lightly.
"Next time," he mutters to the smaller goat, "I'm spawning a self-cleaning barn."
The goat bleats at him like it understands—and disapproves.
A voice rises behind him.
"Well, you're actually doin' it."
Aeryon turns.
Bram stands a few paces away, arms crossed, face red from the cold. He looks both surprised and faintly amused.
"Most wanderers vanish before dawn," Bram says. "Figured you might try the same."
"I said I'd repay the old woman," Aeryon replies. "I keep my word."
Bram snorts.
"She'll like that. She pretends she doesn't like anything, but she'll like that."
Aeryon steps out of the pen, closing the gate behind him.
Bram looks him over again—evaluating, the suspicion from yesterday dimmed to curiosity.
"You plan on stayin' long?" Bram asks.
"Just long enough to get my bearings and head toward the Kingsroad."
"That so? You goin' south, then?"
Aeryon nods.
"I have business there."
"Family?"
Aeryon meets Bram's eyes evenly.
"…In a manner of speaking."
Bram hesitates, then nods like he understands even if he doesn't.
"Come on," he says. "Folk are gatherin' near the fire. Garrick wants to speak t'ye."
Aeryon's stomach tightens—not with fear, but caution.
"About what?"
"Directions. News from travelers. Maybe a guide if someone's headin' that way."
Perfect.
Exactly what he wants.
He follows Bram toward the center of the village.
The fire pit crackles with fresh logs. Garrick stands beside it, arms folded, talking to a few other men. When he notices Aeryon approaching, he lifts his chin.
"Good," Garrick says. "You're up. Wasn't sure if you'd run off."
"Not in this cold," Aeryon replies lightly.
Garrick grunts, almost approving.
One of the other men—older, balding, wrapped in a thick wolf-pelt cloak—steps closer.
"Heard you're lookin' for the Kingsroad," the man says. His voice is deep, steady, practiced. "Name's Halmar. I'm leavin' Birchwatch tomorrow. Headin' south with a cart of salted meats."
Aeryon meets his gaze, steady and calm.
"That could work."
Halmar studies him for a long moment.
"You carry yourself like a man who knows how to use a blade," Halmar says. "You got business with the Night's Watch? Or debt collectors? Or worse?"
Aeryon doesn't flinch.
"No."
Halmar's eyes narrow.
"You sure?"
"Yes."
The older man grunts.
"That's good. I don't travel with men runnin' from the wrong sort."
Before Aeryon can answer, another voice cuts through the morning air:
"Every stranger's runnin' from somethin'."
Aeryon turns.
Tressa is standing at the edge of the cluster—wrapped in three shawls, leaning heavily on a crooked cane, looking like a winter spirit that crawled out of a storybook to judge everyone personally.
"And if he's runnin'," she adds, glaring up at Aeryon, "he's polite enough not to bring his troubles here. That's more than I can say for half o' this village."
The others shift uncomfortably.
Aeryon nearly chokes on a laugh.
Tressa hobbles closer, pokes him in the hip with her cane, and grumbles:
"Go eat somethin'. You're too skinny."
He nods.
"Yes, ma'am."
As he turns toward Garrick's longhouse—where food is already being ladled into bowls—something catches his eye.
A rider.
Far down the main path.
Approaching the village at a steady pace.
The guards stiffen.
Garrick's voice rises.
People turn, faces tight with surprise and uncertainty.
Visitors are rare in Birchwatch.
Aeryon steps slightly to the side, cloak brushing the snow, hand resting casually—casually—on the hilt of his sword.
The rider draws closer.
A raven-feather cloak.
A black horse.
Snow-dusted armor.
And a sigil just barely visible on his chest.
A direwolf.
Aeryon's breath catches.
Someone from House Stark.
The horse slows as it reaches the edge of Birchwatch, hooves crunching rhythmically in the snow. The air feels tighter somehow—colder, sharper—as if the village itself is holding its breath.
Aeryon straightens subtly, cloak brushing against his legs.
Not tense.
Not ready for a fight.
Just… prepared.
The rider pulls back his hood.
A hard-lined Northern face. Weathered. Salt-and-ice beard. Eyes like steel hammered in winter.
"Seven hells," Garrick mutters under his breath. "A Stark man this far north? Why?"
Halmar shifts uneasily beside Aeryon.
"They don't ride out here unless there's trouble."
The rider reins in his horse near the central fire. Smoke curls around the horse's chest as it exhales in short, frosty bursts.
Then the man's voice cuts through the cold:
"Birchwatch!"
A few villagers flinch at the sheer volume. Someone drops a bucket. A dog yelps.
Garrick steps forward.
"I'm Garrick, village elder. State your business."
The rider dismounts with practiced ease, boots sinking into the snow. He walks toward the fire, pulling off his glove to reveal the unmistakable wolf-head ring of House Stark.
"My name is Rodrik."
He pauses, eye sweeping the crowd.
"Sworn man to Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell."
A ripple of whispers moves through the villagers.
Aeryon stays silent, still as frost.
A Stark retainer.
A message from Winterfell.
This could complicate many things—or open useful doors.
Rodrik plants himself beside the fire, warming his hands briefly.
"Storm hit the road south of Last Hearth," he says. "A small patrol we sent out didn't return. We're trackin' their route."
His gaze sweeps the crowd again, sharp and searching.
"Have you seen travelers? Patrolmen? Crows? Strangers?"
The last word lands with weight.
Aeryon feels a dozen eyes flick toward him at once.
Tressa snorts loudly before anyone else can speak.
"He's no patrolman, Rodrik Starkson."
Rodrik turns toward her, one brow lifting.
"Tressa. Still alive, I see."
"Barely," she snaps.
"Now don't bully the lad. He's half-frozen and barely knows which way is south."
Rodrik's eyes land on Aeryon.
Not hostile.
Not suspicious.
Just… curious.
Aeryon holds his gaze calmly.
Rodrik steps toward him.
"You," he says. "Where are you from?"
Aeryon answers evenly.
"I woke in the woods north of here. I don't remember anything before that."
Not a lie—just selective truth.
Rodrik studies him for a long, quiet moment.
"You carry a real sword," he observes. "Know how to use it?"
"Yes."
"And you're alone?"
"For now."
Rodrik's jaw shifts slightly—thinking.
Calculating.
Aeryon returns the look, mind running multiple quiet threads.
Stark men are loyal. Honest. Predictable in certain ways. This one isn't a threat—unless Aeryon makes himself one.
Rodrik's shoulders relax the slightest fraction.
"We're not huntin' wanderers," he says. "Or men with no memory. We're lookin' for our own."
Aeryon nods once.
The villagers relax collectively—like a rope going slack.
Rodrik turns back to Garrick.
"Lord Stark needs all news travelin' these roads," he says. "Anything unusual. Anything out of place."
Garrick scratches his beard.
"We've had storms, wolves, and sick goats. Unless wolves learned to use spears, you won't find your patrol here."
Rodrik exhales through his nose.
"Then they likely perished in the storm."
The village falls into a respectful silence.
Rodrik adjusts the straps on his gauntlet.
"Any of you traveling south?" he asks.
Halmar raises a hand halfway.
"Leavin' tomorrow. Bound for the Kingsroad."
Rodrik nods firmly.
"Good. I'll ride with you as far as the split."
Halmar doesn't look thrilled but nods anyway.
Rodrik then looks at Aeryon again.
"You heading south as well?"
Aeryon meets his eyes.
"I am."
Rodrik's brows lift a little.
"Men who can swing a blade are useful on the road," he says. "Ride with us if you like. Safer in numbers."
Garrick seems relieved at the offer.
Halmar frowns but accepts it.
Tressa just grunts.
Aeryon considers it.
Traveling with a Stark retainer gives him three advantages:
A believable cover.
Updated information on the political situation.
And a safe, watched path to the Kingsroad—his gateway to Essos.
But it also means being closer to people who pay attention.
Very close.
He offers Rodrik a small, measured nod.
"I'll ride."
Rodrik nods back once—approval or acknowledgment, it's hard to tell.
"Good," he says. "We leave at first light."
He turns away, heading toward the northern edge of the village to stable his horse.
As he walks, the villagers begin dispersing. Halmar returns to his cart. Garrick speaks quietly with a few hunters. The children resume running around the fire, their small boots kicking up loose snow.
Aeryon watches Rodrik's figure grow smaller in the distance—dark cloak trailing behind him like a slice of moving shadow.
Then—
A sharp poke hits Aeryon in the ribs.
He turns.
Tressa stands there, leaning heavily on her cane, eyes narrowed.
"You keep your secrets close, boy," she mutters. "But keep'em closer when wolves are about."
Aeryon tilts his head slightly.
"You don't trust him?"
"I trust him just fine," she says. "But trust doesn't mean safe. Wolves bite even when they mean well."
Her gaze sharpens even more.
"And if you got somethin' strange followin' you…"
She taps his chest with her cane.
"…make sure it doesn't bite back."
Aeryon opens his mouth—
Then stops.
Because above her shoulder, near the treeline—
The faint translucent shimmer of his UI pulses.
Faint.
Subtle.
Only he can see it.
But glowing in warning red.
[DETECTION RISK: ELEVATED]
[NEARBY OBSERVER: UNKNOWN]
Aeryon doesn't move.
Doesn't breathe.
The trees at the edge of Birchwatch stand silent, swaying gently in the winter breeze.
Someone—or something—is watching.