112 AC, Winterfell
Laenor and Aurane made their way to the Great Hall of Winterfell after Aurane told him that Rhaenyra was waiting there. And she certainly was waiting, as Laenor saw when they entered the hall: the crown princess of the realm paced up and down beside the high table, looking both impatient and angry. Laenor's eyes found another person sitting at the high table, bored out of his mind as his grey eyes tracked Rhaenyra's movements. It was impossible not to recognize the four-year-old heir of the keep Laenor was guesting in.
It was Cregan who spotted them first and sighed in relief. His reaction was enough to stop Rhaenyra's pacing, and she turned to see what had caught the boy's attention. Her eyes flared with irritation when she saw Laenor, and she was on him in moments, her stride sharp and quick, while Laenor and Aurane stood at the center of the Great Hall as though they were on trial—which, in a way, was true.
"Where were you? You said it would take an hour at most for you to return. I've waited here for the Seven know how long? …"
Laenor wasn't sure how much time passed before Rhaenyra's breath finally gave out and her frustration drained away. He only stood there, watching her face, looking suitably sorry and attentive, though in truth he hadn't heard half of what she said. His mind was still fixed on the impending meeting.
"Anyway," Rhaenyra said at last, "let's go before Syrax's mood worsens too much. She doesn't like to be out in the snow for too long."
With that, she turned toward the doors that led outside to the outer yard, the same way Laenor and Aurane had come.
Laenor noticed that both Aurane and Cregan chose to remain behind rather than follow them. He only shrugged and fell in step beside Rhaenyra. It had been her idea to show off Syrax, whom Laenor had not seen in years. Though he would not deny he had his own reasons as well—dragons, even after he had gained power enough to call forth tsunamis and bend magic to his will, still filled him with the same awe and wonder as they had before.
"Why were you late?" Rhaenyra's voice broke into his musings.
Laenor raised a brow at the question but answered all the same. "It was for trade and agreements. I had gone to Lord Stark, Rhaenyra. Did you expect it would all be done in an hour? Still, I apologise for not keeping to my word."
"I just dislike waiting."
"Patience is a virtue, you know," Laenor remarked.
"The one I lack."
"The one you should try to learn. If you intend to be a monarch as great as your great-grandsire, the Old King, you'll need to be wise, patient, just, merciful—or heavy-handed—depending on the situation," Laenor advised as they passed Arnolf Karstark, brother-in-law to Bennard Stark. The man made no effort to hide his displeasure at their presence in the North.
"What troubles him?" Rhaenyra muttered. "At first I thought all the Northern lords were displeased with my presence, but I was wrong. Most are indifferent once they learn I don't plan to strip them of their lands for the Night's Watch. And after these weeks, some Northern ladies have even warmed up to me. At first, I thought this one in particular simply held a grudge against me. But as far as I recall, I've never even met him, so it must be my house he resents—or maybe there is something else. He has the look of a schemer, like Otto, and Otto only shows his displeasure when someone interrupts schemes he has cooked up."
Her face took on the same thoughtful look she'd worn as a child when puzzling out a riddle or mystery. Only now it was more beautiful than cute. At least Arnolf's hostility distracted her enough to keep her from pouting along the way. And about Arnolf and the reason behind his resentment, Laenor gives two fuck about what that weak man and his weak house think of him or his family. A dragon does not ponder why sheep hate him; the reason is as obvious as it can be.
The rest of the walk passed in silence, Rhaenyra deep in thought while Laenor mentally hummed to steady his restless mind. He had learned that humming, whether aloud or inwardly, helped ease his habit of overthinking unlikely scenarios. So he did just that—until the sight before him stole his breath.
Laenor and Aurane had been here only minutes earlier, but now the outer courtyard of Winterfell, blanketed in its sheet of snow, seemed even more beautiful. And standing in the midst of it, Rhaenyra's she-dragon multiplied that beauty tenfold. Syrax's hide shimmered yellow that was nearer to gold than to true yellow, her presence magnificent against the white snow and grey sky.
Perhaps it had been the right choice to agree with Rhaenyra. Now, if only Syrax wasn't too annoyed. Laenor realized what he truly needed after seeing the she-dragon, and that was a ride across the snow-falling skies of the North—something to clear his mind completely before he made his way to the godswood of the keep.
Beyond the Veil, The Council
Time had no meaning for the divine who had slept for thousands of years, so the three who stood on trial remained as they were, as though the passing of days in the mortal plane beyond the veil had not touched them at all. All the Gods were present as well, though not all chose to manifest their physical form. And of those who did, none were easy on mortal eyes. If any worshipper of the Seven were ever to witness their god's true form, however devout they might be, they would surely recoil in disgust at the monstrosities they worship.
The Old Gods of the North—the Nature, as they were addressed in the council—stood closest to the Three, one another present beside the Nature, their head resembling that of a giant black dragon, crowned with great horns and reptilian eyes. The council had only seen the dragon's head but assumed that the rest of its form was similar, resembling the abominations of other deities whose shapes were grotesque amalgamations. Only the Old Ones were said to have bodies of some beauty, not horrors spliced together.
"THE STORM, WE ADDRESS YOU. WE HAVE HEARD YOUR SON'S ACCOUNT, AND IT DIFFERS GREATLY FROM THE TALE THESE THREE HAVE SPOKEN. THERE WAS NO PROVOCATION FROM THE SON OF THE STORM. THESE THREE BROKE THE LAWS WITHOUT CAUSE, AND IN DOING SO THEY TANGLED THE THREADS OF FAITH, ALMOST DRAGGING US INTO A WAR WE ARE NOT READY TO FIGHT," spoke the Nature.
The guilty did not deny their crimes. They knew that the one speaking their charges could rip open their minds and bare the truth before all. Only the laws—those laid down long ago by the Two, the Old Ones who had since never returned—prevented such proof from being forced upon them.
"Throw them in the Pit. Their crime is grave enough to earn that punishment," thundered the Storm, his words punctuated by a crack of thunder that shook the council hall. Yet the Three Sisters ignored the sound. Instead, they turned desperate eyes to the Nature, pleading silently for mercy.
The Pit was a fate even gods feared. It was torment without end: death after death, each more agonizing than the last, repeating in endless loops until the Council remembered them—or found a need for them. Many deities had torn themselves apart in madness within that black hole, devouring themselves in acts of unthinkable cannibalism, seeking an end that never came. As you can not die in the Pit, you can only suffer. The Three knew the council would agree to the Storm's judgment. Only if the Nature showed mercy might they be spared. And so they begged, until the sound of stone shattering like thunder boomed across the land.
"ENOUGH," roared the Nature. "WE HAVE DECIDED—"
But the words died.
An endless head, its face formed of shifting leaves, bowed in reverence. Then the air thickened with two vast presences—beings who had never involved themselves in this council since the forging of its laws. Every god lowered their gaze; the weaker ones collapsed to a knee, not from choice but from the crushing weight of power. None could lift their eyes.
Two beacons stood before them: one so dark it devoured shadow, and one so radiant it could outshine a thousand suns without faltering. Night and Light stood together, side by side, as they gazed upon the humbled assembly of gods.
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