112 AC, Winterfell
"WE MEAN YOU NO HARM, SON OF STORM AND SEA," said Lord Stark. Yet though the words came from his throat, it was not Stark who spoke to Laenor. That much he understood at once—by the look on Stark's face and the strange resonance in his voice. The sound was not of one man but of many things: a chilling breeze, the rustle of leaves, the burble of a brook, and notes Laenor could name and others he could not. Not to mention the kind look that Laenor never believed he would see on Rickon Stark's face in his whole life.
"THE THREE WHO HAVE WRONGED YOU STAND BEFORE US. THEY HAVE BROKEN THE LAWS, AND THEY SHALL BE PUNISHED FOR IT. BUT THEY ARE ALSO YOUR WRONGDOERS. THE STORM, THE DIVINE PARENT OF YOURS, HAS ASKED OF US TO HEAR YOUR PART BEFORE WE JUDGE THE THREE. THAT IS WHY WE ATTEMPTED TO SEE THROUGH YOUR EYES—BUT YOU RESISTED US AND OUR WILL," the last words carried something strange. Surprise. Laenor was baffled that he could even sense it in their tone.
"First, I would like to know who I am speaking to," Laenor said. He already knew these were the Old Gods of the North, but he wished to hear how they would name themselves.
"WE CANNOT CONVERSE LONG, FOR IT DAMAGES THE MORTAL COIL OF OUR DESCENDANTS. BUT WE SHALL INTRODUCE OURSELVES. IN RETURN, WE HOPE YOU WILL COME TO OUR WOODS TO SPEAK AND RETELL YOUR PART."
As Lord Stark's mouth closed, a pressure bore down on Laenor. He knew at once it was no divine weight, but a magical one, which was relief to say the least. Moments later, he recognized it—the power of an oath, binding itself if he agreed to their terms.
Laenor weighed the pros and cons. An oath could mean death or worse—being merged with a weirwood, if he broke it. But he saw no reason to do that. All they wanted was for him to speak, to recount his tale, which would help them judge the childish, arrogant family of three, that Laenor is all too happy to hear is being judged. All gain, no loss. Still, there was one thing to set straight.
"I will retell my part verbally only. I will not allow any kind of mental intrusion. And I want your word that I will not be harmed in any way—physically or mentally—during my time in your domain."
A knock at the door shattered the silence and the thick tension in the solar. Laenor remembered then that someone was outside. Whoever it was, he owed them thanks—they had saved him from being mentally violated.
"WE AGREE, ON CONDITION THAT YOU DO NOT HARM OUR WOODS IN ANY WAY."
The pressure solidified into something like a chain around him. Laenor tried to sense if Stark's body bore the same weight, but the presence of these beings veiled him from feeling it.
"SOMEONE OF YOUR BLOOD WAITS FOR YOU. SO WE SHALL BE BRIEF. LET US INTRODUCE OURSELVES. WE ARE THE GOD OF FOREST, TREES, RIVERS, STONES, …"
Laenor thought an hour had passed before they finished, though it was only minutes. Still, he was astonished that one could be the god of so many things.
"… THOUGH OUR CHILDREN CALL US THE OLD GODS. WE ARE NOT THE OLD. THAT TITLE BELONGS TO OUR ELDEST SIBLINGS. WE COME AFTER THEM, AND THEY CALL US NATURE. CALL US THAT, IF YOU WILL. OUR PACT IS UPHELD. NOW WE MUST LEAVE. WE WOULD AWAIT YOUR PRESENCE IN OUR WOODS, SON OF STORM AND SEA. WE IMPLORE YOU TO LEAVE QUICKLY. WE SHALL ALTER OUR DESCENDANTS' MEMORY. HE WILL REMEMBER NONE OF THIS, AND YOU MUST NOT SPEAK TO HIM OF IT."
Laenor nodded. He had no intention of revealing the truth of the gods—not yet. Turning toward the black doors, he opened them and stepped out.
Aurane stood there, eyes shifting from the two Stark guards, who stared blankly at the ceiling, to Laenor himself. His confusion and surprise sharpened into realization, and then into disappointment, though he masked it quickly.
Laenor arched a brow but said nothing. He stepped past, closing the door behind him, and made his way down the corridor toward the outer yard. There, in the cold, frigid air, he meant to cool his mind.
Laenor had almost forgotten about Aurane walking behind him, his cousin's boots tapping loudly at the stone below, until Aurane finally opened his mouth and broke the silence. "Was it needed?" Aurane asked in a tone laden with sadness. "They had families, you know. The one on the right—Finn—even had a newborn daughter only a few days ago."
Laenor furrowed his brows, truly confused, and turned back to look at Aurane's face. "What are you talking about? What do you mean by 'was it needed'?" he asked, his voice carrying genuine bewilderment.
"Turning the Stark guards into simpletons, I mean," Aurane said, his tone sharpening into something close to accusation.
Laenor released a long sigh as understanding dawned on him. So that was how Aurane had chosen to interpret the sight of the two Stark guards. "You are far too quick to lay the blame at my feet for every unnatural thing that occurs around me," Laenor said with weary irritation. "And for your kind information, I was not responsible for their current state. Nor are you correct in thinking that they were turned into simpletons. Their state was only temporary, nothing more, and they will soon return to their proper senses. In fact, if you doubt my words, you may visit them later to confirm this with your own eyes." His voice was calm, but his eyes flicked toward Aurane with a sharpness that warned against further foolish assumptions.
By then, the two of them had stepped into the outer yard. It was entirely empty, the broad expanse buried under thick snow, the flakes falling so heavily that visibility itself seemed narrowed to a white curtain. No one was sparring or training in such weather, for even the hardiest Northman knew there was little sense in practice when Nature itself wished to break a man.
Laenor heard Aurane murmur an apology, subdued and hesitant, but he hardly acknowledged it. His thoughts had already returned to the weight of what had just transpired. The Old Gods—no, the Nature as they are called—are not the oldest. They had elder siblings, gods older than them, whom they respected greatly by their tones. And then there was the matter of his so-called divine parentage, something Laenor had never known he had in this world. Considering that there is no Poseidon. One of the two Storm Gods of this world had proclaimed him a son, and it does not take genius to know which one, as one of the storm deities in Westeros had tried to kill him, and entering another one's domain had given him warmth, even a strange sense of love. Still, how other gods believed him to be the son of the Storm was a mystery. Given what Laenor could control more expertly.
More questions piled within his mind—questions about gods, their laws, the mysterious Veil, and even the court that judged gods themselves. With no one to answer these endless questions of his. Then a thought occurred to Laenor. Perhaps the Nature would answer them, but Laenor quashed that thought the moment it rose. Gods never gave freely; they demanded something in return. His so-called divine parent might offer truth or aid, but not the Nature, not any others. They were too old, too powerful, too steeped in their own unknowable rules. Even their introduction had cost him something.
He clenched his jaw. No—better to give them what they asked for, the retelling of his part, and then leave the Godswood, leave the North entirely. His first encounter with those three at the Bite had been enough of a lesson. By mortal standards, he was powerful, yes, but to pit himself against gods was madness. He could not win. Not yet.
Laenor's grim reflections were interrupted when he noticed Aurane staring at him again. Irritation pricked through his composure. "What is it, Aurane?" he asked sharply.
Aurane flinched a little at his tone but spoke nonetheless. "What troubles you, my lord? I called for you so many times just now, yet not once did you answer me. You looked… lost, like your mind was elsewhere. Is it about what happened at the Bite? Now that I think of it, you've behaved strangely ever since that day…" His cousin's words trailed off into a mutter, his thoughts spilling aloud as if he could not stop himself.
Laenor stared at him exasperatedly. At least he had the decency to keep his own inner turmoil confined to his mind. Aurane, on the other hand, babbled freely, muttering for the whole world to hear.
"Stop that," Laenor said firmly, his voice carrying the weight of command. Aurane's mouth snapped shut, and he lowered his head, chastened. Laenor shook his head and muttered, "I swear, you are close to making me regret bringing you here with me."
The words struck like a whip. Aurane's face twisted in surprise, then sank into hurt, shame, and silence. Laenor did not dwell on it, though. He had other matters pressing. "Now—before I forget again," he said, steadying his tone, "why were you knocking on Lord Stark's solar in the first place?" He intended, at some point, to thank whoever had saved him with that timely knock. But given Aurane's antics, perhaps that gratitude could wait.
"That is what I was trying to tell you," Aurane said quietly, his voice low. "Princess Rhaenyra was asking for you. She waited for over an hour before she sent me to remind you—you promised her you would accompany her to see Syrax."
Laenor clicked his tongue in annoyance. He had almost forgotten entirely about that, lost amidst the ordeal in the solar and the unwanted conversation with gods.
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