Sixth moon of 269
ACHour of the Torch (8 p.m)
Lord Rickard Stark's solar was a refuge of stone and shadows, where the heat from Winterfell's hearths struggled against the chill that always seemed to seep through the crevices. Upon the heavy oak table, beeswax candles burned unevenly, their flickering flames casting amber light over maps and parchments, desperately trying to hold the night's darkness at bay.
Behind the desk, Rickard Stark looked like a man who had already lived two lifetimes. Though he was only thirty-three years of age, the weight of the North was etched implacably upon his face. Deep dark circles, like stains of chronic fatigue, framed his grey eyes. His forehead was a map of permanent wrinkles, furrowed by years of difficult decisions, and the crow's feet at the corners of his eyes spoke not of past laughter, but of decades of accumulated tension. He was a young man on paper, but the stress of ruling a realm the size of the other six combined had aged him by an extra ten years.
In his hands, he held a letter from the Night's Watch. The words of the 995th Lord Commander were a grim echo of previous messages: the wildlings beyond the Wall were becoming bolder and more organized. Reports of rangers vanishing on routine expeditions were now commonplace, and large raiding parties were testing the defenses with alarming frequency. The request was the usual: more men, more steel, more resources.
Rickard let out a heavy sigh, the paper crinkling between his fingers. He felt a corrosive frustration; sending resources to the Wall felt increasingly like trying to fill a bottomless hole. No matter how much he sent, the North never seemed safer, and the Crying Gorge never seemed less hungry.
With a weary motion, he deposited the letter onto one of the many piles accumulating on the desk. Just beneath it lay a report from Wintertown detailing more frustrated attempts by the populace to enter Winterfell and reach the godswood. Everyone wanted to see if the rumors were true—that the godswood's Weirwood Heart Tree offered a stronger connection to the Old Gods than the common Heart Tree in the village. This was especially prevalent after what had happened two years ago, when a peasant managed to bypass the guards and enter Winterfell's godswood, later claiming to have successfully communed with the Old Gods. What were once isolated attempts had become a worrying trend; the people, driven by religious fervor or simple desperation, repeatedly tried to trespass on the sacred site to seek answers from the face of the heart tree.
Other missives dealt with matters more dynastic, yet no less exhausting. Marriage proposals for his heir, Brandon, were expected, but now offers were beginning to pour in for his second son, Eddard, and even for his daughter Lyanna, who had not even turned three. Only little Benjen, born last year, was free from these intrigues, in a gesture of respect to the memory of his late wife.
Rickard felt the Gordian knot of politics tightening. It was becoming exhausting to invent excuses for the Northern houses—the Umbers, the Karstarks, the Manderlys—without revealing that his eyes were turned South. Hidden beneath other papers were discreet correspondences with Lord Jon Arryn and Lord Hoster Tully. He sought alliances the North had never seen before, ambitions that reached beyond the Neck, but the secrecy was an additional burden upon his already slumped shoulders.
However, the letter weighing heaviest on his mind at that moment was the one from Bear Island. Delivered in haste by Maester Walys, the message from House Mormont warned of the approach of three warships from House Blacktyde, with a possible total crew of over a hundred ironmen. Jeor Mormont's instructions had been clear and grim: if a second letter did not arrive by the following morning confirming the island's safety, Rickard should assume the worst and call the banners to retake Bear Island.
Rickard ran a hand through his dark hair, feeling the coarseness of the strands. He picked up a quill and began drafting a reply to the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch.
'I cannot give what I do not have. The North withers before the harvest.'
He wrote that the Watch would have to wait until the fields were ready for harvest to receive more supplies. As for the lack of men, Rickard admitted it was a problem he could not solve alone. He would have to appeal to the Southern houses, perhaps sending emissaries to request that Southern nobles spare the lives of their prisoners and criminals, allowing them to head North to take the black instead of facing the gallows.
As the quill scratched against the parchment, the solar door was thrown open abruptly. Rickard looked up, his hand instinctively moving toward the hilt of his dagger before recognizing Maester Walys.
The Maester entered panting, his face flushed from the exertion of the quick climb. He was an ordinary-looking man, wearing the dull grey of his order, but his chain was anything but ordinary. While most maesters in the North carried only a few links, perhaps 15 to 30, Walys's chain was composed of many more, making it much heavier. There was a link of every metal known to the Citadel, a testament to a vast and diverse knowledge rarely seen outside of King's Landing or Oldtown itself.
"Another letter... from Lord Jeor Mormont... my lord," Walys managed to say between short breaths, extending the parchment with the bear seal.
Rickard frowned, surprised. "That was fast. Two letters in the same day."
As the Lord of Winterfell broke the green wax seal, Walys caught his breath. "This one must have been sent only an hour or two after the first, my lord. The conflict... must have already been resolved one way or another."
Rickard read in silence. His eyebrows shot up, then knitted together. His nostrils flared, and an even deeper crease appeared between his eyes. The silence in the room was broken only by the crackling of the candles. Finally, he lowered the paper and placed it on the table with an expression of restrained incredulity.
"The immediate danger has passed, but the problem is not entirely resolved," Rickard said, his voice sounding raspier than usual. "They repelled the ironmen. The storm did half of Lord Mormont's work, destroying part of the House Blacktyde fleet and their siege weapons, and taking over three hundred men and Lord Urrigon himself to the bottom of the sea."
He drummed his fingers on the oak.
"But Lord Mormont is concerned. He believes the invasion was motivated by blind religious fanaticism and that Lord Quellon Greyjoy, despite knowing Urrigon's intentions, did nothing to stop him or warn us. Lord Mormont fears that if this fanaticism has spread to other houses of the Iron Islands—something he believes Blacktyde has done—Quellon might simply turn a blind eye again."
Rickard looked at Walys, the weight of the new responsibility reflected in his tired eyes.
"He asks for temporary reinforcements. Men of House Stark to garrison Bear Island until he is certain the Greyjoys will keep 'their dogs on a leash'."
The Hour of the Torch was well underway, and the castle's silence was interrupted only by the scratching of the quill against the rough paper. Rickard, with heavy eyes and an overburdened mind, quickly began writing three different letters. After a few minutes, he handed the new missives to Maester Walys.
"Send a raven to Bear Island immediately," Rickard ordered, his voice carrying a weary authority. "Tell Lord Jeor we will not leave him at the mercy of the sea. I will send reinforcements of five hundred men. The North does not forget its own, and House Mormont shall have the steel of Winterfell by its side."
He paused, looking at the second parchment. "The second letter must go to Lord Glover. Advise him that House Stark will pass through his lands with a small army. Tell him we may require shelter and provisions at Deepwood Motte."
Finally, he handed over the third missive, the most dangerous of all. "This one goes to King's Landing. I demand that King Aerys be informed of House Blacktyde's transgression and House Greyjoy's blatant negligence. With the death of Lord Urrigon, Lord Quellon must be held accountable. Demand reparations for the men and resources lost on Bear Island. And make it clear to the Targaryens: Houses Greyjoy and Blacktyde will also have to compensate House Stark. Expending resources to move five hundred men to the west is not a cost I will bear alone because of a liege lord's failure to control his own vassals."
Walys gathered the papers, his multi-linked chain clinking softly. He looked at the Lord of Winterfell with a cocked eyebrow, an expression of restrained concern. "Understood, my lord. But... I must ask: who will lead these forces? Five hundred men is a considerable contingent to be left under the command of just any captain."
Rickard Stark leaned back in his oak chair, letting out a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the entire castle. His eyes wandered to the darkness beyond the window. "I will lead them myself, Walys," he replied, exhaustion bleeding through every syllable. "The North needs to see that the Wolf still has teeth."
Walys bowed his head slightly, the links of his chain brushing against one another. "My lord, I beg pardon for my boldness, but would it not be more prudent to send an emissary? A trusted captain or even a distant cousin? Bear Island is remote and the sea is treacherous. Your presence in Winterfell is vital for the stability of the North."
Rickard Stark narrowed his eyes, the candlelight casting deep shadows across his stern face. "Walys, you have served this house for years, but I see you still have much to learn about the North and those who inhabit it."
"A Stark does not send his men to bleed without one of us there to see it. It is our way. If I ask for the lives of five hundred Northmen, they must know the Wolf is leading the pack. Since I am the only Stark available at the moment, the task falls to my shoulders."
Rickard rolled the maps firmly, finishing with a tone that brook no argument. "Furthermore, there is the politics of King's Landing. A raven sent by a liege lord is one thing, but the news that Lord Stark himself marched to war due to Greyjoy negligence... that will give King Aerys the urgency he usually ignores. He will see that I am not merely asking for reparations; I am demanding justice."
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The Hour of the Eel (11 p.m.)
Meanwhile, hundreds of leagues away, Bear Island was plunged into an oppressive darkness, broken only by the pale glow of the moon over the frigid waters of Ice Bay. In the island's interior, the Godswood seemed to pulse with an ancient, indescribable life. The woods at night were not merely a place of prayer; they were a supernatural sanctuary where the veil between the real and the mystical felt as if it were about to tear.
Kneeling on the cold earth, Alaric Mormont was surrounded by wounded Northmen. They were burly men, now reduced to sitting figures, clad only in breeches, their torsos covered in stained bandages. However, the atmosphere was different from the bloody hours that followed the battle. These men were no longer hovering between life and death; they were alert, their eyes fixed on Alaric with a mixture of anxiety and an almost childlike hope. They had heard the whispers of the other wounded—stories of miracles and green lights—and were waiting for their turn to be touched by the strange power of Jeor's son.
Alaric began the ritual. His arms moved in rhythmic patterns, cutting through the cold air with a precision that seemed choreographed. From his throat came sounds that mimicked the rustling of leaves in the wind and the whisper of water over stones. As he performed the somatic and verbal components of the Healing Spirit spell, the air around him began to vibrate.
Particles of green light, bright as crushed emeralds, began to manifest in the air. They swirled in a gentle vortex until they condensed into a small, ethereal, and translucent figure. The spirit resembled a Child of the Forest, a creature of legend that many there believed had been extinct for millennia. The Northmen gasped in unison. It wasn't the shock of seeing the unexpected, but the impact of seeing a legend take shape before their eyes.
The tiny spirit moved with supernatural lightness, floating toward each man. Wherever it passed, the green particles—resembling magical fireflies—enveloped the wounded. Skin that was once pale from blood loss and trauma regained the rosy hue of health under the glow of the magic. Wounds that should have taken weeks to close simply ceased to exist beneath the bandages.
Alaric looked to his right. Maester Yves stood there, a statue of grey against the green of the magic. The young Mormont simply nodded. "It is done."
Yves approached the men with cautious steps. He crouched, his chain jingling as he removed the bandages from one of the warriors. Where there had once been deep gashes from iron axes, there was now only thin, pink skin—the mark of complete and instantaneous healing.
"You are free to go," the Maester said, his voice devoid of his former academic arrogance. He looked at Alaric. The surprise had passed, replaced by something more complex: a mixture of distrust, apprehension, and a curiosity bordering on madness. "I am leaving as well."
With the departure of the Maester and the men, Alaric was finally alone beneath the Weirwood Heart Tree. His mind dove into a recap of the exhausting day. This had been his tenth healing session. It had all started with Eddard, Torrhen, and Beren, but many others had come after he woke from his eight-hour sleep.
He had awakened during the Hour of the Hound (2 p.m.) with his capacities renewed. Strategically, before sleeping, he had changed his spell list, discarding all offensive spells; in their place, he prepared multiple instances of Goodberry at 1st level and Healing Spirit at 2nd level.
Upon leaving his quarters that afternoon, he had found Maester Yves already lurking. The man had been informed of Alaric's "tricks" and was ready to unmask him as a charlatan or an illusionist. Alaric, however, ignored the Maester's skepticism and began working in the hall. But since the amount of mistletoe branches he had stored wasn't enough, he had to send men into the forest to fetch more.
The final result was forty magical berries, each imbued with the power to restore vitality. Yves watched everything with a skeptical eye, muttering about ventriloquism capable of mimicking nature sounds and light shows. When Alaric tried to offer the berries to the wounded, the Maester—not knowing the effect of the unknown fruit—and the men's families—disliking the mention of magic—hesitated. It was only the sharp intervention of Jeor Mormont, who was closely observing the crowd's reaction, that allowed the experiment to continue.
To prove his point, Alaric chose a particularly debilitated man and ordered him to eat seven berries at once. The effect was immediate and devastating to Yves's skepticism. The man, who previously could barely sit up, stood with a vigor that defied his previous state, causing his family to burst into tears and embraces.
Following the success, he distributed the remaining berries to eight other men, each consuming four. This left only three men who hadn't consumed the berries, which prompted complaints from their families—creating an ironic contrast to before, where they had been fearful and hesitant, and were now fighting to receive a portion. Among those who didn't receive any were Eddard, Torrhen, and Beren; their families complained but were quickly silenced by the others, who pointed out they had already received healing hours prior.
Alaric managed to calm the families by stating he would take the remaining men to the Godswood, three at a time, and there he would perform another type of healing.
There, under the watch of the Weirwood Heart Tree, the families of the wounded, and Maester Yves, Alaric consolidated his magic as something far beyond a simple fairground trick. The initial fear of magic was replaced by silent veneration.
But Alaric, wanting to ensure no one doubted him, planned one last round of healings. He informed his father of the plan, asking him to gather more branches, went to his room, took a natural sedative to force another eight hours of sleep, and woke during the Hour of the Eel. Since it was impossible to know the exact time or if he was close to midnight—which is when the system would recognize the start of a new day and reset his spell slots, forcing him to spend the next day with only healing spells if he couldn't sleep for another eight hours—he quickly took the gathered branches and turned them into Goodberries. He gave them to those in need and took another six men to the woods to perform the final two healing sessions of the day.
Now, alone in the woods, he looked at the moon, waiting for time to pass. He had already swapped his spells back to his previous combination and only needed to wait for the next day to arrive. But suddenly, a sound made him freeze.
A branch snapped behind him, coming from the direction of the Weirwood Heart Tree. Alaric turned sharply. In the shadows cast by the white trunk of the Weirwood, he noticed a small silhouette that gave the impression of someone sitting.
"Who's there?" he asked, taking a cautious step back, his hand reaching for a weapon that wasn't there.
The figure moved forward, stepping out from the shadow of the red leaves. Alaric felt the air escape his lungs. It wasn't a sitting man. It was a small being, with skin reminiscent of tree bark and large eyes like a cat's, glowing with ancient wisdom. He recognized that appearance from his memories of his past life, but seeing it there, real and solid, was something else entirely.
The creature looked at him with infinite sadness and spoke, its voice sounding like the wind through the pines:
"You must leave Bear Island, Alaric Mormont. It is no longer safe."
Alaric paralyzed. Before him, under the moonlight, stood a Child of the Forest.
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