A Wayward Wizard receives a Revelation
A.N: Happy Birthday to me, guess who's going to join the Navy?
"Why are your eyes like that?" A youthful (and oddly chipper; opined my modern mindset) voice piped up from beside me.
'I was sort of expecting a 'How are you so clean after killing so many people?' observation' I mused. Half of it was an inherent property of my 'physiology', and the other half was an enchantment on my attire that ensured that they never remained sullied. Though I supposed the black and red color scheme I had going on prevented any bloodstains that I acquired from standing out.
I gave a short glance to my left, where a recently blooded lordling rode on a short, shaggy horse, or garron as they were known here, alongside the cart that I was shadowing vigilantly. Even perched on a modest, unadorned leather saddle, he sat barely at my height as I walked the sandy dirt path with the rest of the warriors' column heading back to Bear Claw Bay, named so for the four long rents in the land that made it vaguely shaped as such, or so it had been reluctantly explained to me by a huntsman who had participated in this morning's defense when I inquired. This bay was also where the main settlement of the island was based, containing the vast majority of its population.
In the column were a number of those two wheeled flatbed carts that weren't quite wagons but so large that they had to be pulled by animal muscle, a la those anemic looking, furry garrons; requiring two of them to be harnessed per cart. As you can imagine, the pace that the column was setting was agonizingly slow by my admittedly high standards. If there was an emergency and the column had to rush for any given reason, I suppose they could beat feet. But after winning a frenzied skirmish by Free Folk raiders, I'm sure they were just taking it easy as they returned home after a hard fought victory, and with fewer casualties than was the norm from what was murmured. I garnered more looks of suspicion and wariness from my newfound acquaintances, but there were a few of gratitude and respect mixed in intermittently.
The prisoners we had taken and bound were being forced to march to their inevitable executions on foot, each getting rough shoves from disgruntled Bear Islanders whenever they were lagging. Several of those men and women who had been moderately wounded in action during the skirmish (though it was likely a battle in their eyes) between Free Folk raiders and Bear Islanders had been loaded onto the carts, nursing their injuries while being fussed over by whoever passed for healers here, while the one I was trailing aside was for the dead. I reckon I should have considered it bad juju that my unconscious captive slash responsibility for the duration of her stay on the island was in that cart as well, but I wasn't that kind of superstitious. Speaking of, the lass looked almost tranquil in her purposefully-prolonged-with-magic sleep. I couldn't have her waking up surrounded by perceived foemen and freaking out violently, thus ruining any chances of keeping her alive and my credibility as her responsible captor in the same breath. I was not chomping at the bit to do an in-depth analysis of her warging abilities, as that would necessitate us being removed from prying eyes anyhow.
A man stealing away with a young girl in the night, yeah, that wouldn't be misconstrued as anything untoward at all here.
The cart bumped into a rock in the dirt path, dislodging a deceased Bear Islander with a hole in his neck from a spear thrust (Ironically… or perhaps it was queerly fitting, as this was one of her kills). He slumped against the redhead, getting dark crimson fluid all over her, and ruining my peaceful mental picture of her forever. Scowling, I promptly, albeit respectfully, moved the corpse back to its original position. I did not fail to notice the angered stares I got from tailing grizzled warriors for showing such consideration towards a person they rightfully saw as their enemy, or why I lingered neared her in case somebody got any funny ideas. Some of those dirty looks were hostile in a different manner, like I was defending a claim. As if my captive were a piece of meat for later consumption, which was totally untrue. Why they would draw a line at rape and apply it even to their enemy was yet to be revealed though. But it wasn't such a stretch to imagine that the people here had suffered all kinds of abuse from raiders.
Perchance that was why the great corpse of the polar bear, or Snow Bear, as they were named here, was being carted on its own behind us, as both a trophy and an insult to its still breathing rider. Normally I would have grit my teeth at such a blatant attempt at making my task as a babysitter harder, but they had no idea how easily such traumas were remedied by a feather light application of telepathic magic. Even brushing against her mind brought forth a deluge of vicarious memories laced with negative emotions. The girl had a hard life… that much was obvious from what I could tell without making the spell too invasive and leaving an imprint of my investigative 'perusing', which I refrained from. There was an unhealthy mix of fear, anger, resentment, and most worryingly of all… apathy. Whatever this girl had endured, it had left her stuck in the doldrums of a severely negative mindset.
I don't think she cared about the outcome of the raid or how she fared, one way or the other.
I had already surreptitiously healed the bruises and contusions that the girl had suffered well before the raid today, albeit I left the discoloration on the skin alone, as I needed to question her on that later. It was a curious thing, really. Why would a girl who clearly had control over a fearsome polar bear, if you will pardon the pun, bear such minor injuries on her person? I believed it had something to do with what I gleaned from her noggin. I made sure to put that on the list of inquiries I had for her when I allowed her to wake… once she was safe and secure in an area of my choosing. Lord Mormont was loathe to have a 'wildling waif' in his home, and he told me as such, so I would have to find a space of my own to keep her during my sojourn.
But back to the conversation at hand.
"Why are my eyes like what?" I replied, even though I had a good idea as to what the lad meant.
"They're so… red, like freshly leaked sap from our Heart Tree. The color of them is just strange, is all" The lordling commented, "I have never met a man with eyes like that"
"Variety is the seasoning that gives life flavor" I waxed philosophic, "I woke up like that one day" I then said to him truthfully, "Before then, they were just like yours, a warm shade of brown"
What feels like a lifetime and some change ago to me, now.
"Truly? You just… woke up like that?" He subtly prompted for the implied tale behind my words with that childlike fervor I'd seen in the eyes of the Mana Mark Maidens back when they were smaller rabble-rousers. Amazing, how a boy could be blooded in battle and yet retain some innocence, though, I hadn't actually witnessed him killing any of the raiders, so maybe that was why he seemed so unaffected.
"It's a bit of a story" I dismissed his muffled enthusiasm, "We would arrive at your home well before I could finish in the telling of it. But for now, how about you tell me of yourself, and your family? Yours is the ruling House on this island?" I subtly shifted subjects.
Almost predictably, that perked him up straightaway, "Aye. My family have been the protectors of Bear Island ever since King Rodrik Stark won it from a son of Loron Greyjoy in a wrestling match!" He happily boasted, as if he had witnessed the feat himself.
"A wrestling match, you say?" I partially feigned disbelief, "That's quite an assertion. And this son of Greyjoy just gave up ownership of the island?"
"No, the honorless craven tried to kill the King in the North afterwards" He spat in the sand, an action that other Bear Islanders eavesdropping on our conversation copied, "But King Rodrik suspected that his faithless foe wouldn't let it go without a fight, and so he had Greyjoy and his men killed and his ships set alight with their corpses upon them. My ancestor, Joram Mormont, aided him in that battle, and was rewarded with Lordship over this island along with his sons, from then on, till the end of days. He also gifted us with the Greyjoy's personal raiding ship as a token of his thanks" The boy added as an afterthought before scowling, "Though the wood has long since rotted to uselessness"
"What King does your family owe their allegiance to now?" I gently pried for information. An older person with sense would recognize my fishing for what it was, but the lad was all too happy to oblige me.
"Why, the Stark in Winterfell, King Torrhen Stark!" He chirped, smiling like he wasn't just in a fight for his life mere hours ago, "We feasted him at our hall once, when I reached my tenth year. He told me that I would grow up to be wise and strong, just like my father!" He was all but beaming like a spotlight.
I only half heard his enthusiasm, instead rolling the name over in my head. It had been a while since I had read about this world and its vast history, so the memory of that name's familiarity was coming to me as slowly as this column was moving. Plus, with noble families that went back thousands of years, and with House Stark being among the oldest of the lot, there was bound to be a crapton of Torrhen Starks. All I knew was that I had arrived most likely before there was Targaryen dominion over Westeros… or was I after it? The book series made it abundantly clear that the unity of the so called Seven Kingdoms was fracturing heavily due to matters of succession, multiple claims of varying legitimacy to the planet's spikiest chair, and everyone and their brother wanting to be the absolute King or Queen over the rest of the wretched pile.
The majority of them blissfully ignorant of the world rending threat looming over the horizon.
But that couldn't be right either, since we had just fought the Free Folk, and all of them had to migrate south in droves to avoid the Others hounding them endlessly. Even if this age was well after that fiasco, why would any of them go back beyond the Wall? Because they would not kneel to any Monarch? No, this had to be the far past. But what did that mean for me?
"-member his natural brother, Brandon Snow" Joran was reminiscing, lost in his own memories, "He showed me that one of the best ways to finish a man off was to hamstring him, disarm him, and then slash his throat" He patted at the pommel of the short iron sword sheathed at his hip, "After today, I'm like to believe him" He murmured a with a hint of solemnity. So he did have his first kill this day.
That got my attention, "Your King has a natural brother?" That answered it then, this had to be before the Conquest, but how far?
Joran seemed to take insult at my innocently phrased words, "Do you take issue with bastards? Brandon Snow is as much a Stark as our King, in deed, thought, and action… even if he was born on the wrong side of the sheets"
I was somewhat touched at how quick Joran was to leap to the defense of his liege's half brother. It spoke well about his overall character.
"Not at all" I was just as quick to appease him, "I don't believe that bastardy alone determines a man's inherent worth, it simply makes him unable to inherit the same as his brethren" Unless he is elevated by the King, so why did Torrhen never do so? Did showing favor to a bastard reflect poorly on a King, even in the North?
"Aye, so it is" He was satisfied with this response, "My mother would have liked you. You have an open mind for a foreigner" His features sagged a bit at the mention of his mother, before he shook it off, "Are all people as accepting of bastards as you where you come from?"
"There are no bastards where I'm from" I told him matter of factly.
'Bastards at heart, however…' Trueborn people can be just as evil as anybody else… and conversely as goodhearted as well.
That surprised him, and even our burgeoning number of eavesdroppers were staring at me strangely, as though I had polka dotted skin. I checked myself for that just in case. The Princess of the Night did that to me once, as part of the evergoing prank war between Loony, her big sister, and myself. I got her back by replacing her special, exfoliating shampoo with a visually indistinct container of water resistant glue. I almost chuckled to myself. I had never seen stellar clusters so tightly packed before.
"Truly? N-none at all?" He stuttered, not certain of this averment.
"Truly" I affirmed, "Where I'm from, there's a law that requires the father of a child to be married to the mother, whether he means to or not" But most of them mean to, and those that are not, are aware of contraceptives… or they get exiled to a lesser level of Tartarus for their philandering.
I wish I could say that I was joking, but Princess Celestia took a very dim view of deadbeat dads. It was a wonder that Blueblood didn't find himself in cold caverns, given the careless promiscuity of his carefree youth.
"It's a law I happen to agree with" I expressed with sincerity, "Every child should be reared by both parents"
"B-but, wouldn't that mean that a man would have multiple wives if he sowed his seed wherever he liked?" He questioned, catching on to the implications of that.
I had to hand it to him, he was a sharp lad, and not so innocent as I would have guessed had I been dealing with a youth from my world. Then again, I learned about these things myself well before my parents would have cared for.
"Indeed, they can and often do" I replied mildly. They kind of have to, seeing as the ladies outnumber the men by a five to one ratio… likely a tad higher than that since the end of the Dissonance conflict.
I dedicated a moment of silence to honor the innumerable fallen. Too many had died that shouldn't have… too many.
Naturally, he extended this knowledge to myself, "Are you married to several women, Lord Zenith?"
I subconsciously began to thumb at the wedding band on my ring finger, "I am. And I love each and every one of them with all my heart" God, how I missed them already… and it was an ache that would only grow keener with time. I knew this from experience.
The boy seemed as if he wanted to speak more, but then the redheaded girl in the cart moaned and shifted in her sleep, as if she were struggling to awaken from a nightmare. I would help her with that, but engaging in dreamwalking in plain sight of people who already suspected me of being different would be counterproductive to my aims. So I immediately calmed her with another covert application of magic that broke down the amount of cortisol in her blood and decreased wakeful brain activity. It wouldn't matter how badly she wanted to wake in her head, her body would tell her no. I was a shade relieved that she could resist the spell keeping her asleep, as it bespoke of a strong Will. Gradually though, she stopped squirming and slid back into the world that never was, as some of the Cervidians call dreamland.
"She has the Black Tongue, I know it. How else could she have a Snow Bear as a mount?" Joran hissed with nigh superstitious fervor as he looked on her with hatred, and some fear, "Bears have pride. They wouldn't allow themselves to be dominated unless it was by foul means. Skinchangers aren't natural, else the Old Gods would have us all be like them"
"One of the astounding arrogances of man, is to presume to know the Will of the Divine" I quoted an old, immortal man I knew once, a curmudgeonly Cervidian with a rare gift… and rarer lifespan. A Farseer, they called him, and yet I found him to be rather arrogant himself in a lot of respects. He respected Celestia, despised Luna, and was ambivalent to me. Succinctly put, he was the type of person to notice when you didn't bring flowers, only a male.
A story for another day.
Before he could respond to that, his father had circled about from the head of the column and called out to him, "Joran! Leave our mysterious guest in peace. I'm sure that your ceaseless questioning is beginning to wear on him"
"But father!" Joran protested.
Lord Jorgan would have none of it, "Now, my son"
The bear cub groaned and went, sulking in his saddle all the while, his lordly father sparing me a wary glance and a distrusting one towards my 'ward' before snorting to himself (not unlike his ursine sigil) and trotting back to the head of the column. I was sort of miffed about how presumptuous Lord Jorgan had been in dismissing him for me, seeing as I actually encouraged kids with inquisitive minds to always seek the truth of the world around them… and in this unparalleled case, the worlds beyond them. I could read between the lines though. He might have a type of truce with me, but he was being cautious with his son and heir being around an unknown variable. Mormont was in a bit of a pickle over how to treat with me. He owed me for saving his life, as well as aiding his people against the raiders, disapproved of how I claimed guardianship over the girl that had tried to kill him, and likely knew that using his lordly authority to command me to do anything was a risk not worth taking.
Oh well, at least I had some peace and quiet to myself.
"So, what's stoppin' your wives from fightin' each other over who gets their turn with yah in the bed chamber?" A gruff fellow shouldering a bloodstained axe decided to take the lordling's place as inquisitor.
I sighed long-sufferingly. Explaining intra-harem dynamics to an armsman of House Mormont was not something I saw myself doing when I had awoken that day.
⁂
We trekked many miles and for many hours (they didn't have a numerical clock system for gauging the time, instead naming each hour from the start of sunrise for an animal, like the hour of the lark; though the hour of the ghost is an exception) before we were in sight of Bear Claw Bay. It was partway through the hour of the Pike (the fish, not the weapon), and the sun was close to dipping beneath the horizon, casting orange-gold rays across a leaden gray sky. It was relatively nippy in the air and snow still occasionally crunched underneath our feet, but I was beginning to believe that it was the outset of summer, which lasted for years in this world. It was a challenging concept to wrap one's mind around, but easier to comprehend than everlasting night, or everlasting day… both would render the world near lifeless if it persisted for years. Wherever they stored food away for wintertime must've been massive for places with higher population… or perhaps lazier Lords let their peasantry tough it out and wound up with reduced population by winter's end.
From what I could tell of this island based on peering into human life signatures with my 'special insight', there were scarcely greater than three and a half thousand people dwelling upon it, with two thirds of that population being focused in Bear Claw Bay and the rest scattered along the beaches of Bear Island in small coastal villages like the one I had helped defend against the raiders. It was curious how Jorgan and his men were already lying in wait for their enemy when they were, but the warriors told me their Lord was just making his rounds with his armed retinue as usual, and that a hiking woodsman and his son spotted them from afar and sounded the alarm. Had they not been there, then it was likely that the fishing village would have been a burnt out, depopulated husk within the hour. In spite of their shared wariness of me, the men and women begrudgingly thanked me for my intervention in their battle, citing how only one of the carts was filled with their dead when it could have patently been two or three.
I frowned at that, my inner problem solver cooking up plots and plans to deprive future raiders of the critical element of surprise, which was the one reason, I was informed, that their raids were such a pervasive issue here. There were decent vantage points on this rock, with others higher up requiring a taming of the dense forest growth. Semaphore towers didn't rely on chance, and with some additional time to prepare on the inhabitants' part, timely interventions on my part would be largely unnecessary. Though on a sparsely peopled island with a medieval level of infrastructure, this would be a challenging pitch to sell after I had securely established firm relations with the Mormonts. Food for thought, I guess.
Despite it now being the summer, as confirmed by my unkempt but decently agreeable companions when I inquired about it, the average temperature on Bear Island stubbornly remained in the low fifties in Fahrenheit degrees, and I imagined that it dropped sharply below zero during the winter. Even now, powdery sheets of snow blanketed the ground and turned into a slurry mush as both feet and cartwheel mashed it into the earth, impeding any dreams of swift movement. This island was in desperate need of weather resistant roads. Coupled with hostile neighbors to the north and a fair distance from the mainland, it was a small wonder why this island was barely inhabited by man.
As we entered the main village, I was instantly struck by how incredibly similar it was to a Norse styled village by the sea. An overwhelming majority of the buildings were made with wooden logs with crossed timber beams carved in the shape of bears for well to do families, or were primitive wattle and daub huts with the thatch roofs for the others. There were a smattering of houses built with sturdy stone blocks mortared with mud and covered over with natural sod roofing, but they were built into the hills leading inland and were exceedingly few. There were one or two open hut smithies in play, but the equipment being used there was rudimentary, like dried earth kilns or stone and clay bloomery furnaces. Heck, it was difficult to imagine they had much iron ore to work with in the first place, though most all of Lord Mormont's warriors had iron weapons and bits and pieces of armor. Quays made of aging wooded planks jutted into the watery 'claws' of the bay. Small fishing boats with tattered sails moored to them clanked against each other steadily as they bobbed on the water's inky black surface, though there were half a dozen Knarr longship style boats for speedy transport or warfare.
As for the populace; dirty children played with sticks and flung mud at each other while their mothers shouted after them to be careful when they were not stirring outdoor communal cooking pots brimming with fish stew. Goats or livestock as hardy as their owners bleated and nibbled at feed troughs of hay or were being milked by bored looking tweens. Old men (some of them were missing fingers, limbs, or wearing eye patches) sat on benches talking boisterously or watching the day's happenings terminate before they noticed the procession of warriors trailing on by. The grizzled coots spat on the ground when they saw that we brought back wildling prisoners that they must have regularly contended with when they were of fighting age themselves. Word spread like wildfire (heh) of the unwelcome arrivals and the children were recalled by their protective mothers and dragged indoors. Adults emerged and jeered and hurled insults or pelleted goat shit at the captives, with the wildlings cursing them back in their foreign, primitive sounding old tongue. Their guards did not prevent the harassment of their prisoners, but they did discourage anyone from getting too close, in case they had the idea of taking justice into their own hands.
'Man, I used to think that Magiville had an ol'timey vibe, but at least it had a quaint, countryside charm to it' I thought to myself. I doubted the roofs here were nearly as waterproofed, or snowproofed either.
Lord Mormont notified his people about the morning's victory over the Wildlings (to the cheers of many) and gave the order for the majority of the column to disperse and return to their loved ones, many of whom were already in the process of fussing over them, or quietly mourning when they spotted someone they knew in the cart of the dead. The absence of wailing or cries of dismay further illustrated how emotionally resilient these people were, for all the pain and rage in their eyes. I was glad of it. The screams of despair when my countrywomen learned of their husbands' deaths in the great struggle still occasionally plagued my dreams now and then. I shook my head, and before my ward and I became crowded by emotionally distressed Bear Islanders, proactively slung the girl over my shoulder and applied a harmless Don't-Mind-Me charm to her that acted as a perception filter. Nobody in the village besides those who knew of her would pay prolonged attention to the only wildling that was not bound and guarded zealously. I noted that Lord Mormont had not explicitly told his people about his unspoken 'deal' with me, and probably had no qualms with testing me with my safekeeping skills.
More fool him. I could do this without magic if I felt like it.
"Milord Zenith?" One of Mormont's main retinue of warriors approached me, pausing only to cast a vaguely confused glance towards my still slumbering cargo, "Lord Mormont requests that you accompany us to the Keep. It will be time to dispense the lord's justice in the Godswood, ere the hour of the Raven"
Must be sometime in the next thirty minutes then, I ventured. Said soon-to-be-recipients of the lord's justice had been wrangled through the hissing crowds and on to the Lord's Keep.
I resisted an aggrieved sigh, "I am not a lord… but lead on"
The man gave me a respectful nod (must be one of the warriors grateful for my assistance) and did so, the villagers making way for one of their own. I stayed close on his heels, ignoring the men and women gawking at my elaborate and deceptively showy robes. We joined a group of men shadowing the Lord of Bear Island and his heir, both of whom had dismounted and handed the reins to their attendant stable boys. Mormont's household guard numbered less than sixty, but each of those warriors left little question as to their ability to protect their lord (his near mauling by Snow Bear notwithstanding), being armed and armored to the highest degree by local standards. The gruff man wearily motioned for the man shepherding me through the gaggle to bring me to him as we climbed an incline leading to the Mormont Keep, which I could tell from this distance was not a castle, hardly even a motte really. The Mormonts may not have been the wealthiest of Noble families, but they should at least have a truly defensible home. I could aid them with renovations, but I wouldn't want to play my full hand too soon.
As we got closer, further details made themselves known to me. The placement of the Keep was not far from the harbor where the longships were moored. Its barebones defenses included circular earthen mounds and a wooden palisade wall (which looked like it had seen better days) that enclosed it and would withstand… maybe a few hours of a serious siege from manpower alone. I espied no fewer than a dozen weakpoints that could be exploited to raze this place sooner than that. In spite of this, for what it lacked in adequate defenses, it made up for in charm. The fine graven image of a northern woman clad in a bearskin with a newborn babe suckling at her bared breast in one arm while clutching a one handed battleaxe in the other was an apt artistic description of how both the men and women of this island defended their abode while continuing to live life.
"And what do you think of my humble home, Zenith?" Asked Lord Mormont, who noticed my critical eye absorbing information and processing it.
"Humble as you say," I demurred from insulting my host's pitiful domicile, "but a home regardless"
He snorted, seeing through my deflective courtesy, "No doubt you've visited majestic holdfasts that make ours seem like the hovel it is" There was self deprecation there, but it was plain that the man was being jocose.
'You have no idea' I thought wryly.
"I have" I affirmed neutrally, and the conversation ceased from there.
The lookouts on the rudimentary battlements signaled from the wall walks for the gate to be opened, revealing a smoky wooden longhouse, which was the biggest manmade structure on the island and composed of huge logs. It had three stories, was two hundred and fifty feet long and thirty feet wide or thereabouts, had intersecting A frames carved into snarling bear heads, and had three slits in the roof that acted as chimneys, which was evidenced by a triad of thick smoke streams. The Godswood was to the rear of the Keep's perimeter, and barely larger than a bunch of trees if it could fit within the palisade wall, though those trees that were present were all impressively vibrant and tall. My higher senses were picking up on something faint there however, which I deduced to be the Weirwood the prisoners were so keen on dying at the roots of.
"My son and I would pray before we deal with our captives" Lord Mormont announced to his men when we halted in the 'courtyard', "Those who wish to join us may do so"
Only a trio of men opted not to, choosing to see to their wounded friends in the outer village or relate news of the battle to kith and kin now that their lord had effectively dismissed them. The rest of us had ambled over to the Keep's sacred site, our ill mannered guests not as ornery as usual once they spotted the crimson red leaves of the Weirwood they held sacrosanct. I had been right about the Godswood being tiny, as it was around the same size as the copse of trees used as the waypoint for Pickett's Charge at Gettysburg. Pine trees towered around the squat Weirwood like disciples standing before a sitting soothsayer at a respectful distance. That sensation tugging at the periphery of my higher senses shot up once I focused my total attention on the otherwise unassuming, bone white (whiter than any Birch) tree, its stern face constantly vigilant.
It had resonance.
Explaining what resonance was and how it related to magic and the practice of thaumaturgy was no elementary task. I was no scholar of the Arcane, but in how I understood it, an object with thaumatic resonance was much more conducive to facilitating the flow and operation of magic than an item without resonance, and this difference was extremely distinct in low magic worlds or those with 'complicated' leylines, like this one. That only covered about ten percent of what it meant to have resonance, but it sufficed for your average layman. I would have to get into contact with this specimen to ascertain the complete extent of it, but I could extrapolate from my book knowledge that each living Weirwood was connected to one another through the leylines in some kind of vast network, with each Weirwood tree acting as a server for collecting and storing data in their wooden body, ready to be accessed via the roots by those that knew how to. Like the enigmatic Children of the Forest.
Simply put, it was naturally occurring cloud storage.
I was tempted to call it the Weir-Net.
As for why the Weirwood would need a face? Well, that is where the general weirdness of magic came into play. Concepts, symbols, conventions, and appellations have power, especially where magic is considered. Many of the organs for sensory perception for bipedal species were located where the head would be. Eyes, ears, nose, mouth… many of these features would display prominently on a face. As nonhuman as the Children of the Forest were, they weren't that alien by most standards. By carving faces into the Weirwoods with the belief that the Weirwoods would do their surveillance for them, they funneled the trees' resonance into that purpose. To those who were not so inclined, the inherent resonance of the Weirwood would manifest itself as a 'hairs prickling on the back of your neck, we are being watched' apprehension that was not far from the truth. When one factored this into the religion involving the Old Gods, it made sense. These people revered the Weirwoods, seeing the face of their deities whenever they peered into those eerie carvings. They performed their weddings in front of them, swore solemn oaths under the weight of their gaze, and prayed at their roots like their countless ancestors had in the past.
Just as the Mormonts, their men, and the prisoners were doing now. Blood of the First Men… all of them.
I deposited the girl I had been lugging in a crook between two pines and obscured her from unwanted scrutiny with a whispered veiling incantation of 'Umbra', before I waited patiently for the people to finish their heathen worship. And no, I was not being biased or bigoted by thinking that. These people really were revering a tree, a magical tree granted, but a tree none the less. I maintained close working relationships with beings that could pass for Old Gods given form in this world, and they would be mystified by this behavior. Well, Gaia might approve of it, but only because she would rather have people honoring the greenery of the world than burning it.
Mormont's men were not stupid, despite their prayers and the prayers of their prisoners, there were always one or two guardsmen prudently ensuring that their eyes were fixed upon them for any sudden movements. It need not have mattered, as the prisoners themselves were as docile as newborn lambs, murmuring quietly to themselves with their heads bowed low. A serene series of minutes passed like that. Lordling Joran seemed to have gotten his prayers over with early, and his body was showing signs of bored tension as his elders showed no signs of stopping, which brought a grin to my face. I used to be just the same, keeping my prayers short, sweet, and simple… whereas my parents and grandparents composed prayers of gratitude, supplication, and well wishing that could fill some movie scripts with their length, so I knew exactly how the young bear cub felt. I'd offer a concise prayer myself, but I didn't want these Northmen to get the wrong ideas about me.
"It is time" Lord Mormont announced, as he rose from his kneeling position and turned about to address his people, "Men of the North, my Kinsmen. As you well know, it is the Lord's duty to keep the peace in his lands, hear the petitions of his folk, and administer justice in the name of the King where justice requires it" He paused as he looked at his prisoners, his face as stonily stern as that of the Weirwood's. Likewise, the dirty, foul smelling prisoners looked back, their expressions vacant of emotion. They were either at peace with their impending deaths after communing with their gods, or were hiding it masterfully. Even the scrawny bearded man who had manically requested that they be executed before the Weirwood was as calm as could be.
They had seemingly consigned themselves to death.
"Engrom" One of his men snapped to attention, "Fetch me the block"
With an uttered 'Milord', the seasoned man did so, bringing a better suited headsman's block, along with a bearded axe. It was a professional one, with smooth, relatively clean wood and an indention shaped like a half bowl to lay one's head and give the headsman an indicator of where to swing, instead of being a repurposed, bloody tree stump. Although… the sight of it brought with it unpleasant memories of my time in Gryphondria with it. I had seen and caused enough death to last me several lifetimes, and I doubted that unfortunate necessity would cease anytime soon. The roots of the Weirwood were as thick as a man's arm and pervasive besides, so finding a spot to insert the block proved to be a bit of a challenge for Engrom, but after some fumbling about, he managed. The group formed a half circle about the chosen position while Jorgan balanced himself at the base of his Keep's Sacred Tree.
Lord Mormont motioned for me to come closer, and I obliged, "The condemned are six, a fortunate number for my purposes" He spoke low to me, as if he were confiding in me. I stood by for him to elaborate, "One day my son will be the Lord of Bear Island, and if it had not been for you, he would be already. I would be a poor lord and father indeed to neglect teaching him how he is to perform his future duties, which is why he will be a part of carrying out the executions. I shall begin with the first two, you the next, and Joran will be after you"
'Must suppress… urge to criticize' I policed my impulses. Children had to grow up faster in this backwater world, and lordly brats were no exception.
I arched a brow, "You're including your son in this?" Lord Mormont nodded, "Can he wield that axe deftly? Any execution that mandates another stroke is bad form" Not to mention messy and gruesome for the executed.
"I'll admit that he's a finer hand with a sword than an axe," Mormont confessed, "but he's not so strong as to claim a head with sword edge alone yet. The axe will have to do" This time he arched a brow, "Unless you would volunteer that fancy sword of yours?" He probed.
"Its name is Dichotomy" I informed him coolly, "And it's done shedding blood for the day"
He did not seem surprised by that, "All of the memorable weapons have names, though I know not the meaning of yours"
"Why not use Longclaw?" I temporized, diverting the subject from my Mage-blade, "Surely Valyrian Steel is the superior option to an iron axe?"
He shook his head and snorted, "My ancestors never sullied our House's one treasure with mundane functions such as executions, and nor will I. You must understand that exceedingly few Northern Houses have Valyrian Steel in their possession, so they are not to be used lightly. A scion from my line earned it during honorable service in Essos and used it to defend his House centuries ago… and House Mormont has valued it since"
"Alright. Why discuss this with me without your son present for it?" I frowned, "In fact, why are you making me party to this at all? It is not that I am incapable. I'm merely curious, is all"
"I already spoke with Joran about his role here on the return journey" He answered, "As for the other question…" He gathered his thoughts, "As you may know, you have made quite the impression on my people, Zenith. Word is doubtlessly spreading like a hungry flame among the village as of now. Many will speak of your prowess as a warrior, and how I owe my life to you as a testament to it" He gave me a thankful nod, "But there are also those who will speak to how I granted you the life of that wildling girl as a boon, which many here will not approve of. Wildlings and Ironborn both have plagued the people of this island for innumerable years, with the frigid Winter being our only respite from that, and a niggardly, fickle one at that. By extending you a role in the Lord's duty of dispensing justice to the other wildling prisoners, I am assuring my people that you are not in favor of their enemy, and that I welcome you among my people as a guest, instead of a foreigner to mistrust"
I could accept that at face value. There were worse reactions to my intervention in the places the Mirror sent me to.
And make no mistake… I would not be here if not for a reason or ten.
"Are you familiar with the ceremonies of formal executions? How are they conducted where you are from?" Mormont inquired of me.
"Intimately" I affirmed monotonously, "I must state their crimes, the fact that they were witnessed by several people as to be irrefutable, sentence them to death by invoking the name and authority of the local lord and the kingdom's ruler, hear their final words, and then off goes their head" That's how it went in Gryphondria… the civilized areas anyway.
"Similar to ours" Those discerning eyes of his fixed pointedly on me, "You've done this before?"
"I've witnessed it enough times to practically be an expert" I responded with a tired tone. If only I had known what was in store for me across the Sea of Tranquility.
Much could have been different.
He must've deduced that it was a sensitive topic for me and let it be, for he moved on, "I would not have my son spill a woman's blood unless there were no other choice. I shall lead with the skinny one who requested this penultimate honor, and the spearwife with the wine stain birthmark on her brow. You shall follow after with the reedy man and the woman with the wild eyes. My boy will have the rest for himself"
So it was agreed upon. The thin man whose frantic request led to this occasion was untied by his guards and came forward, willingly bending down and gripping his hands at the corners of the chopping block.
Lord Mormont peeled off his weathered, tattered gloves, handed them over to Engrom, took up the axe and hefted it over his shoulder as he stood over the soon to be departed, "In the name of King Torrhen Stark, the King of the North and the First Men, by word and authority of Jorgan of House Mormont, find you unequivocally guilty of the crime of raiding with the intent to cause harm to the people of Bear Island as was witnessed by myself and my warriors. I do hereby sentence you to death for this crime. Have you any last words?" He asked, sparing me a calculated glance.
Was he pandering to me by granting a dead man something for the world to remember him by?
The convicted angled his head to look Jorgan in the eyes, in a state of serenity with himself, "I shall go to the Gods a free man, Mormont. Will you be able to say the same when your time comes?"
"I suppose not" Mormont conceded, "But there is honor in serving a good King"
And with that he lopped the man's noggin off with a single stroke, the severed head bouncing to the feet of the prisoners, who stared at it with faces like carved stone. Blood issued forth in spurts, staining the bony roots of the Weirwood a winey red. The lifeblood soaked into the earth and absorbed rapidly… and a curious thing happened.
The Weirwood's resonance profile skyrocketed. Whereas before its magical 'luminosity' was like that of a two watt light bulb, which I would have only noticed in similar environment back home by focusing on it, now it was the magical equivalent of an LED light.
'So it is true then. Blood is a distinct locus for thaumatic output in this world, particularly blood that is divested in an act of sacrifice… and not solely the selfless kind' I hummed thoughtfully to myself.
The implications of this fact were… troublesome. While these people lacked the means to proactively use magic under their own abilities, blood magic (and this was undoubtedly a form of blood magic) had no such restrictions. All that was needed for the realization of a deliberate outcome though magic (called thaumaturgy) was intent, a means to fuel the realization, and a mould, or spell, (which could be composed in numerous ways) to shape that intent. From what I could determine though, the Weirwood already had the alpha and omega requirements going on. By drinking in the sacrificed blood, the tree's connection to the Weir-Net was strengthened considerably… and it was about to receive more as Mormont prepared to decapitate the woman with the wine stain birthmark. Preoccupied as I was with my ruminations, I had tuned out her valedictory words (there was embittered swearing involved, that I could recall) as the axe went 'snicker-snack!' and the Weirwood's resonance consequently got 'brighter' to my preternatural sight.
Lord Mormont wiped down the excess blood on the blade of the axe with a cloth before handing it off to me. A straw haired, lean, stick figure of a man hugged the chopping block with a muttered "Don' got no last words", either ignorant or uncaring that those were indeed his last words. I shrugged to myself, repeated Lord Mormont's pre-execution speech with minor modifications, namely the inclusion of myself into the wording. The man's head came free of his shoulders with less effort than it took to blink my eyelids. Curiously, the Weirwood's arcane luminosity grew no further, hinting at its maximum threshold. An Arcane Threshold was the capacity that denoted how potent a spell was. A high threshold indicated a spell that needed plenty of fuel, or mana as I preferred, to accomplish great feats, while a tiny threshold was usually the opposite.
Six liters of human blood was on the low end for a threshold (there's a reason why any notable blood magic is infamous on any world it exists in), so whatever spell that comprised the pre-established Weir-Net connection was either absurdly efficient, or it was so weak that additional blood at this point would only increase the spell's effective duration. It struck me then that the Northerners of old might have known that the Weirwoods were favorably receptive to adjacent exsanguination, and by extension the Children of the Forest who revered these trees possibly expressed gratitude for the 'donations' of blood magic by doing something favorable in the vicinity of the site, like arranging favorable crop yields and such. A Heart Tree was typically at the center of a godswood, and the godswood here was luxuriant, if a tad small. A lot of light was shed on the relationship these Northerners had with their Old Gods from these well reasoned suppositions as I mechanically recited lines, ignored the baleful eyes of the captive, doomed woman glaring up at me and spitting out curses, and ended yet another life with the same technique that a person would use to split wood. When one had the thew that I did, the motions themselves were for theatrics anyways.
What could have convinced the First Men to abandon the gods of their Essosi forefathers when they migrated to Westeros? Perhaps, unlike themselves, the Children of the Forest had power of their own through their nameless gods of stone, dirt, and tree, and by association, through their precious bone white Weirwoods. According to legend, when the First Men arrived on the continent and began building strongholds and farmlands to support themselves, they had also cut down and burned many of the Weirwoods, triggering a war between the two peoples. The Children of the Forest had powerful magic on their side; the First men had bronze weapons and sheer weight of numbers on theirs. In a war of attrition, any side that has to constantly shed blood to fuel spells that have limited effect is a losing proposition, so the Children and First Men settled for a truce known as the Pact. Peace never endures forever though, as evidenced by the fact that men held sway over Westeros, while the Children of the Forest were largely relegated to myth and stories used to frighten children at bedtime.
All of this I pondered on the ramifications of as young Joran looked conflicted with himself as his turn came… either that or something he ate disagreed with him. It appeared that he had never participated in these bloody affairs in the past, given his reluctance. Ah, pure hearted medieval youth; so quick to smile at the prospect of earning glory and respect in honorable battle, less eager when it came to killing those that could not fight back, even when they were Free Folk raiders who likely had no qualms with doing the same. Struggling with these moral quandaries that could plague so many heroes that sometimes they even became their hamartia was nothing new. The remaining prisoners were as emotionally and physically subdued as could be. Heck, it was entirely juxtaposed to their executioner's inner conflict. Lord Mormont anticipated this, though from the mild scowl on his face, I imagine he was doing his damnedest to suppress his disapproval or disappointment.
"This… doesn't feel right, father" Joran muttered quietly, so that only his father and my enhanced hearing could detect it, "I know that they deserve death for what they did… but why must I be the one to kill them like this? Why cannot you or Lord Zenith do it?"
Jorgan Mormont placed a firm hand on his offspring's shoulder, "My son, one day you shall be the Lord of Bear Island, and that honor comes with responsibilities that cannot be shirked or shied away from. One of the traditions that make us different from our neighbors in the south is that we believe that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. If a Lord cannot bring himself to do so with those who have violated the laws of Gods and Men, then how can his people rely on him to safeguard them, or give them Justice?"
Joran wasn't all that reassured, but he composed himself, "I-… I understand, father. I'll do it"
I repeated the process of cleaning the axe blade with the cloth, thoroughly saturating it as I surreptitiously honed the tool's edge with a spell that I offset the mana cost of by supplementing it with trace amounts of leftover blood magic, "It's easier than it seems, young Mormont. Blade is so sharp it does most of the work for you. Just line it up with the neck and put your back into the swing" I offered my two cents.
"You had the look of a man in deep thought, Zenith, though it obviously did not affect the preciseness of your aim" Jorgan complimented me with a measuring appraisal on his gruff face.
"My strokes go where I mean them to" I replied, before presenting the long handle of the axe to the lordling, who eyed it like one would with a giant cobra, "See to it that yours goes where you mean it to" I advised the lad.
He yielded and took it with both hands, frowning at the weight and different balance of it. He gave it a few practice swings at an invisible target before he nodded to Engrom, who had the next prisoner, one with a scraggly face, stare at the ground. The axe had been wrought of low-ish quality iron, so I transmuted the metals about the edge into high carbon steel to better preserve its keenness. Joran could screw the pooch with his swing and it would still be sufficient to kill instantly. Speaking of, the lordling lined up his blade while simultaneously invoking both his King and Lordly Father's authority, when the scraggly man refused to speak his final words, Joran brought the axe down with a (sorta boyish) yell. He put a bit too much oomph into it, as the newly improved axe bit into the wood of the chopping block, neatly severing the second to last captive's head from his neck, the blood that wasn't sinking into the earth running in rivulets down the base of the Weirwood. The gathered men were suitably impressed as they chuckled in good humor, perchance thinking their future lord would be a brawny one.
Once the axe was freed with a bit of elbow grease, this was repeated and Bear Island was free of Free Folk save for one special exception. Lord Mormont gave a speech congratulating his men on their shared victory that morning and announced that the larders were to be opened for a hard won night of feasting and drinking in welcome to a guest that had made it possible with as few casualties as could be, much to the cheers of the men. One of them had the chutzpah to casually slap me on the back, grimacing to himself when the action upset his palm more than it did me. I was certain that this was Lord Mormont again demonstrating his political savvy. By hosting a feast in his ancestral hall to honor a man that had saved his life, he both rewarded his men for their efforts and made them amenable to my presence by loosening their leeriness with food and drink.
Not to mention that by extending their sacred tradition of Guest Right to me, he solidified peaceful relations between him and me.
Damn the man. He made it such that if I refused him, it would make me the bad guy in front of his people. From the renewed vigor of the men inside the keep's premises, events like feasts cannot have been a common occurrence, especially as winter had only recently concluded. I suppose I should have been flattered, but I had attended too many feasts that were hosted under false pretenses, not that I would believe these stiff yet honorable island Northerners to be willingly capable of such. Plus there was still the matter of how to keep my 'ward' safe in the meanwhile. I would not attend the feast without her in my direct sight, and alcohol had the tendency to make people do stupid, rash things that they otherwise would not normally do. Of course, anyone who tried anything would regret it immediately, but then there would be further friction between these people and myself, which was drama that I did not need. Not before I had a superior position from which to make decisions about my 'stay' here.
I was so preoccupied with fretting over the little things that I nearly forgot about the Weirwood. I dismissed Lord Mormont as he apologized about not being able to show me about his home, assigned Engrom (who was on track to be the succeeding Captain of the Household Guard) to be my tour guide slash minder, and promptly left to personally visit the families of those Bear Islanders who had perished in the raid to deliver his condolences. I respected him for that endmost part. Too often the families of the fallen lost their kin without even a notification offering apologies or a eulogy thanking them for their sacrifice. Albeit, I doubted that a Northern Lord of such a sparsely populated island could get away with that type of negligence, doubly so on one where everyone lived in close vicinity and knew everybody else.
There were people I still had not had the chance to visit yet regarding the loss of their loved ones in battle alone.
"My lord, Zenith?" Engrom broke me out of my reflecting, "I am at your service."
I regarded him disinterestedly for a second. Engrom was one of the older hands in Mormont's Guard, although mid forties was probably considered a full life in a world with medieval life expectancies. Like the majority of men on the island, he had a beard, though his was unique in that it had reddish, braided twin tails. His hair was unkempt and drooped to his shoulders, but given that he had been in battle earlier, it could have been messier than it was. He was clad in furs, some mail, and boiled leather armor plates worn over a padded green gambeson jacket with the Mormont sigil borne on the breast. Quite the setup for a northerner, even a future Captain. I had not personally seen him fight, but I retained no uncertainty that he knew how to wield the arming sword sheathed at his hip.
"I was not born a Noble" I sighed forbearingly, "Just address me as Zenith, if you please"
"I cannot, my lord" He declined, "T'would not be proper for a man of your stature to be treated as anything besides nobility"
I was unimpressed, "Did Lord Mormont tell you to be an obsequious flatterer to me? Because unlike the foppish 'southrons', titles mean little and less to me"
He laughed heartily, "No milord, he did not. Still, I would not have an errant guest of my Lord Mormont be seen as some vagabond, nor see the people of the North as being all uncultured savages"
"Men can be cultured and still behave like savages" I countered, knowing this from experience, "Still, I appreciate the kindly gesture"
"Of course, My Lord" He nodded, "What would you have of me?"
"A few minutes alone" I answered, "There is something I must meditate on"
Confusion crossed the man's expression for a split fraction of a second, but he nodded in assent, "Very well. I shall be at the gates when you are finished, my Lord. It will be some time before my Lord Mormont's Hall is prepared, so I hope you can hold your hunger for a few hours"
I made a noncommittal grunt and waved him off, turning my attentions to the Weirwood, which was faintly thrumming to my arcane senses now that the blood had been absorbed by the roots and distributed via the tree's natural xylem pipeline. A goodly deal of that magic was concentrated in the 'eyes' of the tree. Eyes that were undeniably observing me with great interest… and trepidation, with tears of dark red trailing earthward on the bone white bark of the tree. I smiled flippantly at it before stepping within arm's reach of the wood and placing my bare hand upon it as I 'interfaced' with the Weir-Net, utilizing my own unbelievably vast pool of mana to expand on the connection and perceive everything, and I do mean everything. Many of my conjectures were confirmed as I scanned and analyzed the Weirwood, cataloging and recording all that made them what they were in the span of milliseconds. My discoveries were… enlightening, to say the least.
Trees (the non-sentient ones that is) had an objective sense of time, with everything that happened in the tree's lifetime condensed into a single happening. What made magical trees like these Weirwoods different, was that they could perceive future events as well as those that had occurred in the past. The clarity of these events was partially dependent on proximity, with events happening in view of the Weirwood's 'face' being the clearest and most coherent. But line of sight was not the extent of their awareness. Incredibly, the Weirwoods could glean information from the planet's leylines themselves, which I have only known five other deciduous species of magical tree to be capable of this feat, and none were quite so dichromatic. This outlying information was stored in the 'cloud network' that connected Weirwoods to each other in the past, present, and future, while events seen from the tree's face were mainly stored in the duramen (or heartwood), branches, and roots.
Interestingly, there were symbiotic mycorrhizae permeating the tree's tissues and extending down into the roots and beyond, linking to all the other trees in the diminutive godswood. These crisscrossing lines of mycorrhizae acted like a microcosmic version of a country's road network, with nutrients being transported and shared like trade caravans with their goods. The Weirwood itself was not photosynthetic, hence the consistent crimson red shade of its leaves, but instead seemed to act as an intermediate between nearby plants. Its blood-like sap contained a somewhat concentrated mixture of sugar and other nutrients that its fellow trees needed. The thick cocktail was sent between pines, oaks, and other plant species as needed, providing health and seasonal longevity throughout the whole godswood. Blood magic aside, it was a mind-blowingly secular explanation for why these Weirwoods featured prominently as a godswood's Heart Tree. Supplements of nutrients via human sacrifice granted the tree additional nutrition as well as magical energies to support their linkage to the Weir-Net.
The Weir-Net itself, now that was a load of data that would take hundreds of minds thousands of years to pore over in depth. I was capable of accelerating the rate of processing, but it wasn't like I really cared about collating all of this mundane info right away, especially as I determined that I could access the Weir-Net whenever I wanted to peruse this stuff later. I 'narrowed' my search criteria to more recent events that could be of interest, anything that could provide useful context to base my decisions about what I should do in this world. The flash flood of images slowed to a steadier stream of recordings that kind of blended together; so repetitive was their nature. Conflict, winter, peace, conflict, winter, peace… on and on the cycle went throughout the continent. Not what I would deem as exciting or mission relevant stuff.
"WHOOO AREEE YOUUU?" A collection of echoing, wailing voices abruptly and metaphysically battered at me, attempting to brute force their way into my sphere of influence.
I disliked intruders, particularly the rude ones.
They were rebuffed with casual indifference. I have had far scarier entities in my head, and I gave as good as I got then, if not better.
"Not someone you should ever trifle with" I replied with a tone that promised severe consequences if they tried intruding on me again.
The presence (although it was clear that it was not a singular being that was speaking) discerned the hidden message there and retreated, though I got the sense that this 'tête-à-tête' would resume in the future.
The slideshow continued, showing me the same old story and I was tempted to cut the connection when (rather conveniently), the scenery changed. It was a rough transition, to that of a small fleet of galleys and carracks on choppy waters. Normally, this would not be anything special, save for the fact that there were flying creatures that were unmistakably draconic in form soaring overhead. The symbols on the sails of the ships were difficult to make out, but they were in order: a featureless black, a silver seahorse on aquamarine, and red crabs on white. All was not well in this scene, however, as a monumental storm was brewing in the skies with a frightening rapidity and sheer wrath that I had only seen occur in the ironically and yet aptly named Sea of Tranquility. Gale force winds ripped at the sailing vessels as waves grew taller and taller, and worse and worse. One unfortunate vessel was struck so hard by one that it capsized, throwing screaming men overboard into the drink.
It was not the last ship to suffer such a fate.
Lightning bolts shot from the clouds with such frequency and intensity that a superstitious Greek of the ancient world would posit that Zeus was throwing a legendary hissy fit if they could see this. The dragons in the air shrieked and flew erratically as they desperately zigzagged to avoid the instantaneous, lethal obstacles. It was for naught though, as a large, mean looking black one ended up getting grazed by one. It roared in pain and rage with such amplitude that it even cut through the muted haze that affected most scenes viewed from the Weir-Net. A shadowy figure, which I barely made out from my 'vantage point', detached itself from the wounded beast, falling hundreds of feet before being swallowed up by the ocean.
Another dragon, this one a rust colored creature, dove after the fallen figure and skimmed the surface, although this ultimately proved to be a futile gesture, and a potentially fatal one, as a megalithic wave inevitably slammed into it. The scaly creature screeched before the waters sweeping it away drowned the racket out. The black one, though injured from the brush with lightning, flew higher, disappearing into the clouds that were even darker than it. The tragic scene ended with the remaining silvery dragon despondently escorting the tattered remnants of the fleet through the sound and fury towards the landmass on the horizon… alone. It faded as I cut the connection I had with the Weir-Net, returning to the jarring serenity of the godswood.
Mayhaps fittingly, the Weirwood's face was 'bleeding' from every orifice now.
'Well… this definitely changes things' I opined dryly to myself.