[ Beyond the Wall, Cave of the Three-Eyed Crow, 278 AC ]
Leaf handed over the bowl the next morning. The rim had faces carved into the bark, the same agonized features engraved on the heart trees. The liquid was dark amber, almost black, and by the light of the torches, it turned blood-red without being blood.
"It is not the same mixture you used." Leaf held the bowl with her four-fingered hands.
'How? Did Brynden...'
"No one told me anything, child. From the moment you arrived, I felt the magic in your body and in your companions'. We use weirwood magic, do you think I wouldn't recognize it? But the one you produced is surprisingly powerful. Different from this one here. Only a greenseer can endure what is in this bowl intact. You will not be the successor of the last. Time has broken that line. But you will be a powerful warg."
Kevin, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, raised a finger. "So does he turn into an animal for good, or just sometimes?"
"Kevin." Astrid frowned and, without looking at him, elbowed the mercenary in the ribs.
*Ouch!*
"Aggressive woman." He brought his hand to his ribs, grimacing.
I brought the rim to my lips and drank. The bitterness of old root and earth hit my tongue immediately, clinging to the back of my throat without asking permission. Then, the flavor changed. Something clean and cold came, fresh-fallen snow and dark honey. Then pepper. Then cinnamon. The liquid seemed to know in what order to present each thing.
I drank it all down to the last drop, leaving only a few reddish stains in the hollows of the carved faces.
Leaf and the child of the forest that Kevin had named Snowylocks, for her white hair, extinguished the torches one by one. The darkness swallowed the chamber. My consciousness slipped into the roots before I even understood I was falling.
-------------------------------------------------
Winterfell materialized. The courtyard was covered in clean snow, without marks of use or carriage ruts. The low sun gave the granite a honeyed color. I recognized my father, Rickard Stark, a few years younger, with a smile that rarely appeared on his face and that softened the hard lines of the lordship. He waited on the steps of the great hall, looking toward the castle entrance.
The moment I laid eyes on the person stepping down from the carriage, I already knew who she was. All the rumors about her did not match reality. Jaenara Pendragon was even more stunning than any description. She was absurdly beautiful, with a natural quality that made the eye stop without permission. Her silver-white hair fell over her dark fur cloak with calm grace. She raised her eyes to Rickard and smiled. It was the smile of someone who makes the day lighter just by being present.
I wanted to stay there longer, just looking at her. But the vision shifted.
-------------------------------------------------
A slender girl stood on her tiptoes, kissing a knight with the towering height and brute width of Sigurd. The man's armor bore deep marks from old blades. Strapped to his back, a shield displayed a green shooting star above an elm tree at sunset. I recognized the coat of arms immediately. By his sheer wingspan and the emblem, it was Ser Duncan the Tall. The young Northern girl he was kissing was a mystery. I couldn't associate her face with any known name or lineage.
The vision shifted again.
-------------------------------------------------
A robust young man with brown hair was arguing in the courtyard. Beside him, a youth with eyes as grey as a winter storm, wearing furs with a direwolf embroidered on the chest. Near them, a woman with brown hair falling in dense curls and eyes that mixed dark grey with hints of blue. She wore fine fur garments cut to measure, analyzing the environment in silence.
Heavy carriages creaked over the snow. Red and black banners snapped in the wind. A colossal shadow swallowed the sun. Claws crushed the stone of the wall as the silver-scaled beast landed. The wind stalled beneath the dragon's weight.
The woman advanced through the courtyard with absolute calm. Her hood slipped back, revealing strands of pale silver and gold over her white ermine cloak. Amethyst eyes fixed on the steps of the great hall. High above, the lord of the castle waited. His dark beard and grey stone eyes carried the weight of a recent loss. The Stark's posture displayed the rigidity of an ancient oak, without retreating a single millimeter.
My consciousness slipped again.
-------------------------------------------------
The wind hit my feathers. I was inside a raven, the air beneath the wings turning into pure information about thermal currents. The scenery shrank and the smell of wet earth flooded my snout. I jumped into a pup, of what I supposed to be a large hound, its disproportionate legs scraping the ground, instinct focused on the urgency of the present. The transition accelerated into the self-sufficiency of a kitten, evaluating the distance of a jump with cold precision. Then another raven, more patient, burying its claws into a dry branch.
-------------------------------------------------
I opened my eyes. The smell of smoke and the dampness of the cave filled my lungs.
"Leaf was right, you are certainly a powerful greenseer, young Arthur. A pity you are not my successor, so that I could finally rest," Brynden's voice scraped from the back of the chamber. "Every animal that touched your consciousness will recognize it next time. The bond is forged. Distance will no longer matter. Congratulations, it seems you have gained new companions."
Time lost its meaning in the following months.
Leaf taught the True Tongue, her species' native language. The language repudiated human biology, demanding the cracks of old wood, the rustle of leaves, and the hiss of water running over stones. I spat dark blood until my throat burned, forcing my vocal cords to replicate the sound of the earth. The pain burned at the base of my neck in a continuous ember.
She also taught the runes. The others tried to learn as well—not the True Tongue, for few would have the qualification for it, but runes and other types of magic, along with methods of using nature to their advantage. The foundation I had taught them, Leaf destroyed without ceremony.
"You use runes as dead tools," she said as Kevin tried to carve a rune into his knife. "A knife is a tool for cutting, but it is also the promise that the cut is possible. Runes are the promise. They are conversations, not commands. The consequence bleeds later."
"So basically all magic is a way of making contracts with the world," Kevin noted, without looking up from the blade.
"Yes. You must give to receive." Leaf fixed her golden eyes on him.
"Understood, professor." Kevin returned his gaze to the blade.
There were days when the teachings spilled over the edges. One afternoon, Leaf asked me to try projecting myself into a raven perched at the cave's entrance. I slipped out of my own body, spent a quarter of a second seeing the cave from above, and then the raven simply took flight, dragging my consciousness along for half a minute of pure aerial panic before I managed to snap back.
"I warned you he was going to fly," Leaf said, without looking away from what she was carving into the stone.
"You didn't warn me about anything," I replied, blowing my bloodied nose.
"I warned you in the True Tongue. You still don't understand everything."
"Technically, she's right," Kevin commented, leaning against the wall.
"The North holds more than ice." Brynden's red eye stared at the wall without focusing on anything. "Blind men march over fortunes while starving to death. Beneath the lands of the Umbers and the Karstarks, the ground hides reserves of coal and veins of iron. Sea Dragon Point harbors deposits of silver and copper." A pause. The roots around the throne creaked. "But none compare to the Bolton lands."
I remained quiet.
"The Dreadfort doesn't just sit atop extensive iron mines. The entire expanse of the Bolton domains hides riches that the other lords of the North cannot even imagine. Veins of gold in the hills near the Weeping Water. Coal in the caves beneath Gallows Hill."
"And the new lord," I said, weighing the information. "Eldric had to leave early because he received word that the former Lord Bolton had died in strange ways. Then he wrote to me saying that the new Lord Bolton, Roose, was someone who should be constantly watched. After that, I had no more information."
"Roose Bolton is ambitious and very dangerous." Brynden closed his red eye for a second. "Apathetic. He shows no emotion whatsoever, except perhaps with those disgusting leeches of his. The death of the former lord is suspicious because it was Roose himself who killed him. Make no mistake, he is pragmatic. He knows the downsides of generating constant fear, so he does his best to ensure there is no gossip. A peaceful land, a quiet people, is what he says."
The silence that followed carried a different weight. Brynden rarely hesitated to describe what he saw. When he did, the reason was never pleasant.
"It is the better path to try and frame him rather than assassinate him directly. With his father's recent death, another corpse in the family would be far too suspicious," Brynden said, the political sagacity of years at court slipping between the words.
"If you need motives, there are some. He still practices the First Night." The old man's voice came out drier than usual. "Not as a custom of old. As an exercise of power. He chooses his brides by whatever criteria suit him. Those who resist disappear. The families learn not to ask."
I did not answer immediately. I stared at the stone floor.
"And the flaying," Brynden continued, his voice devoid of warmth. "Not just as a punishment. As a demonstration. He chooses who to flay with the same criteria a butcher chooses a cut. Calm. Calculated. Sometimes he makes sure the family watches. Only to die right after."
"The old Red Kings ruled like that. Before Brandon the Breaker forced them to bend the knee," I commented.
"The problem isn't what he does now. It's what he's planning." A short pause. "From personal experience, one should never expect anything good from people like that. That type only waits for the right moment to drive a knife into your back."
"It seems Winter is coming for House Bolton." I raised my head, meeting his gaze. "When I return to the South, that lineage will be extirpated."
The fire crackled in the cave.
"But I cannot kill the Boltons and leave a void," I continued. "The richest lands in the North cannot be left without a guiding hand. When the time comes, there must be someone trustworthy at the Dreadfort. Someone who understands that those riches serve the North, not just one house."
Brynden did not answer. His expression said he knew the answer but was unwilling to speak it.
"One more thing. Call everyone here," Brynden ordered.
They all gathered before the root throne. Sigurd, Perseu, Kevin, Astrid, Leaf, Snowylocks, and a few of the Children of the Forest who were now learning to speak the Common Tongue: Ash, Black Knife, and Coal.
"We must plan what to do with the Free Folk. They are fragmented and marching toward death," Brynden decreed, his voice coming from everywhere at once. "Every corpse in the snow is an added soldier to the army of the Others. You must unify them before the final storm. By choice."
"We will start with the giants." I traced the map in the dirt with the pommel of my dagger. "An alliance with them changes the math for any smaller tribe. With the giants on our side, the lesser tribes will bend the knee out of pragmatism." I sheathed the dagger. "I have things to do in the North and beyond. I need someone to volunteer for this task."
Everyone looked at Sigurd.
The half-giant snorted. "I came south when I was a boy. To the clans, I'll just be a very large southerner. But I'm willing."
I placed my hands on Sigurd's broad shoulders, squeezed lightly, and nodded, sealing the choice.
After a few seconds of silence, Astrid took a step forward.
"I'll go with him," she decided. "You are too hot-headed. You'll end up dead before any negotiation. I'll keep you in line."
Sigurd's expression softened slightly. He had someone to help him carry the tactical burden.
"Thank you, Astrid," Sigurd said with a brief smile.
Snowylocks took a step forward. "I will accompany them. We are friends to the giants, I know how to deal with them. And the Free Folk are very superstitious. As soon as they see me, they'll be more submissive," she said, struggling slightly with the Common Tongue.
"Holy shit, you're almost a four-fingered goddess," Kevin raised an eyebrow.
And the most impressive part was that Snowylocks actually seemed to blush at the compliment.
The farewell came the next morning, emptying the cave of sound.
"Leaf," Brynden ordered from the throne. "Bring that."
The creature emerged with a bow carved from pale weirwood and a thick cloth bundle. She handed both to me without a word.
"I have one last favor to ask." Brynden's voice was weaker than usual, like wood nearly consumed by fire. "I brought this sword out of pure spite, and the time has come to right that wrong. Return the steel to its rightful owners. Your judgment is sharp. Give the blade to whoever truly deserves it. The bow is to compensate you for the service."
I unrolled the cloth.
The scabbard displayed stiff black leather, locked by matte steel rings. The crossguard jutted out in sharp angles like folded wings. The slender hilt had been forged to guarantee speed for a woman's hand.
The metal slid out with a clean hiss. The narrow blade bore rippling patterns, lead-grey melted with absolute black, the steel looking like petrified smoke that devoured the cave's light. The edge gleamed from base to tip.
"Can you feel it, can't you?" Brynden asked.
"Yes," I replied, feeling the weapon's balance.
"Dark Sister demands blood." The red eye fixed on me. "She always has. But it has been a long time since she tasted it."
I nodded to Brynden and extended my hand in a silent farewell.
"Thank you for everything, old man. Are you sure you don't want to come with us?"
"My destiny is here. I am already nearing the end of my journey, and I look forward to reuniting with my brothers and my beloved." Brynden paused. "But I will survive for a few more years. If you need to contact Sigurd, you know how to find me. I will pass the message to him."
"Be well. I'll give your sword to someone worthy," I affirmed.
Leaf accompanied the group to the exit, where the grey light touched the outermost roots. She stood at the threshold, her golden eyes on my face.
She spoke in the True Tongue. "Go ahead. My sisters and I will follow later."
The cold crushed us outside the cave. The wind howled through the black pines, heralding the imminent storm.
"I've been thinking about something since Rhoslyn gave us the coats with Yggdrasil carved into them," I let the words fill the silence between the whistling wind. "I thought of creating a sort of order. A group, or a family, whatever you want to call it. Just like in the stories I told you, Yggdrasil had nine realms. And since we are all part of the same tree, each of you will have your realm."
I nodded to Kevin. The mercenary slid silently behind Sigurd and kicked the giant hard in the back of the knee. The leg gave way with a dull thud, forcing the mountain of muscle down to his knees in the hard snow.
Before Sigurd could growl or try to get up, I drew Truth from its scabbard and rested the flat of the blade firmly on his left shoulder. The cold of the metal and the weight of the gesture kept him pinned in place.
"Your domain is Jotunheim." My voice cut through the wind. "The land of primordial ice, of unyielding rock and relentless fury. The realm of giants, forged to break what the world of men cannot withstand." I tightened my grip on Truth. "Before this tree and the brothers that surround you, do you swear to be our unbreakable vanguard? Do you swear to raise your axe without hesitation against any force that opposes us? Do you swear to be the living wall where the charge of our enemies will shatter, spilling your own blood before taking a single step back on the battlefield?"
Sigurd's jaw locked. His irritation at the trip disappeared. His eyes met mine with a loyal ferocity.
"I am the wall," Sigurd growled from deep in his throat, his voice sounding like crushing stones. "I do not retreat. I swear it."
I lifted Truth and brought the flat of the blade down on his right shoulder.
"Then may your arm be ruin and your chest be insurmountable. May fear march before you and death walk in your shadow. I consecrate you as Jotunheim. The primordial strength of our blood. Rise, brother."
Sigurd stood up, rubbing the back of his knee while casting a lethal glare at Kevin. The mercenary merely winked.
I turned to Astrid. She didn't wait for a signal. She took a step forward, unfastened her shield, planted the wooden base into the snow, and knelt gracefully on one leg. Her chin was held high, her eyes locked on mine, shining with icy intensity.
I raised Truth and rested the flat of the blade on her left shoulder.
"Your domain is Niflheim. The realm of impenetrable mist and absolute resilience. In the old stories, it was the valkyries who descended upon the carnage to decide who stood tall and who bled out. And Brynhildr was the greatest of them, the warrior who did not bend her spine for gods or kings." I pressed down lightly with the steel. "Before this tree and the blood that unites us, do you swear to be our shield and our clarity? Do you swear to hold the line intact when chaos dominates the battlefield? Do you swear to be the relentless winter that guards our flanks, refusing to break, no matter the size of the tide that comes against us?"
"Ice does not bend," Astrid replied, her voice as sharp as broken glass. "I hold the line. I do not break. I swear it."
I lifted Truth and brought the blade down on her right shoulder.
"Then may your guard be iron and your mind be winter itself. May our enemies freeze before your advance, and may your blade always be exact. I consecrate you as Niflheim. The unbreakable shield of our pack. Rise, sister."
She rose in a fluid motion. I sheathed Truth.
I took the pale weirwood bow and extended it toward Kevin.
The mercenary stopped chewing his dried meat. He wiped his hands on his leather pants with uncharacteristic slowness. When he took the weapon, his arrogance vanished. He tested the tension of the string. The hum was dry, lethal in the freezing air.
"Heart tree wood," Kevin murmured, testing the curve. "Not a single arrow will be wasted, Arthur. Not one."
Sigurd stopped in front of Kevin. He locked his eyes on the bow.
"Fine wood," Sigurd growled, his breath forming thick smoke in the cold. "If you miss a single shot while you're watching the boss's back, I swear I'll come down from the deep North just to break that bow over your skull."
"You know I don't miss, big guy. Just worry about not getting chewed up by something bigger than you up there." Kevin didn't back down. He smirked from the corner of his mouth.
Sigurd turned and stood before Perseu. He extended his hand, his grip swallowing the other man's forearm.
"Keep him alive." Sigurd's breath formed thick clouds. "If I come down south and find you dead, I'll kill the culprits and then go down to hell to collect from both of you."
"Try not to get trampled by a mammoth," Perseu replied, his jaw tight. "I'm not crossing the Wall to fetch your corpse."
Astrid struck her closed fist against Perseu's shoulder and nodded to Kevin.
"Keep the flank clear," she said. "We'll clear the front."
Then she walked up to me. She closed the distance and squeezed the side of my neck and shoulder with her gloved hand, the hard touch anchored in what she never put into words. Her eyes shone.
"We will bend the Free Folk." Her voice came out low, cutting through the wind. "When the storm truly hits, you will have them all. We will return."
I covered her hand with mine, squeezing the cold leather. "Keep Sigurd focused. And stay alive, Astrid. I need the whole pack."
She nodded. Swallowed hard. Stepped back and mounted in a fluid motion, securing her shield. Snowylocks sat behind her, wrapped in thick furs.
Sigurd stopped in front of me last. The giant looked at me with the respect of one who recognizes the leader of the hunt.
"We break the ice," Sigurd said, his voice sounding like dragged gravel. "You set up the rest of the board, Arthur. See you in the middle of the carnage."
"Make the clans kneel," I ordered.
Sigurd pulled the reins. He looked back once. Nodded.
They moved forward.
I stood in the snow with Kevin and Perseu, watching as the white mist of the Haunted Forest swallowed Sigurd's broad shoulders, Astrid's shield, and the small figure of Snowylocks. A metallic emptiness settled in my stomach. The silence left behind was suffocating.