A warning before you read this chapter in part 3 we have a lemon scene between species so I'll warn you in advance.
PART 1: THE TANNER OF WHITE HARBOR
The biting wind of the North whispered through the cracks of Elian's new home – a wooden cabin with a thatched roof on the outskirts of the village near White Harbor. Two months had passed since he and his daughters had crossed the border, and each day still brought the strangeness of the new and the weight of the past.
"Father, Lady Alayne is coming!" announced Anya, her voice lighter than it had been since they lost their mother.
Elian felt an inexplicable tightness in his chest upon seeing the widow approach. Alayne moved with the peculiar grace of the Northern folk, her simple wool cloak seeming more elegant than any southern silk. Like everyone in the North, she possessed an austere beauty – hair as dark as a winter night and eyes that held untold stories.
"Elian," she greeted, and her smile made something inside him clench – a painful mix of hope and guilt.
"Alayne," he replied, wiping his hands on his leather apron more out of nervousness than necessity. "The girls are excited for the ceremony today."
"And you?" her ice-colored eyes studied his face. "Are you getting used to the North?"
He avoided her gaze, pretending to adjust one of the drying pelts. "It's... different. At the border, the officers asked me things no southern guard would ever ask. They wanted to know not just my trade, but why I chose the North, what I hoped to find here..."
Alayne stepped closer, and the faint scent of northern herbs she carried reminded Elian of things he tried to forget. "And what did you tell them?"
"That I wanted a place where my daughters could grow up safe," he said, the truth coming out softer than he intended. "Where a man's work was valued for what he does, not who he was born."
She lightly touched the leather he was working on, her rune-adorned fingers tracing the material's contours. "You speak as if you're still justifying yourself to the border officers." Her gaze met his. "You passed the evaluation, Elian. You were accepted. Perhaps it's time you started accepting yourself too."
The silence that followed was heavy with everything left unsaid. Elian could feel the presence of Lysa, his late wife, like a ghost between them. And in Alayne's eyes, he saw that she carried her own grief – the shadow of a husband lost the previous winter.
"Lyra turned fifteen last moon cycle," Alayne said, breaking the moment gently. "She will receive her runes today. It would be good for you to come – to better understand our people." A subtle pause. "To better understand us."
THE CEREMONY AND THE HEARTS
In the main square of White Harbor, under the pale light of the winter sun, Elian felt both out of place and fascinated. As he watched the teenagers receiving their runes, Alayne remained by his side, their arms occasionally touching through their thick clothes. Each casual contact felt like a spark.
"The Runic Skeleton is the foundation of everything," she explained, her voice a whisper near his ear. "Invisible, but essential – like the foundations of a house, or the intentions in a man's heart."
Elian looked at her, and for the first time allowed himself to truly see Alayne – not as the Northern widow, but as a woman who, like him, knew the loneliness that comes after loss.
When Lyra received her Artisan runes, the pale blue marks shining on her hands, Elian felt his eyes moisten. Alayne touched his arm in comfort, and her hand remained there a moment longer than necessary.
"She has her mother's talents," Elian whispered, the ancient pain mixing with new pride.
"And her father's heart," Alayne replied softly. "Lysa would be proud of you both."
It was the first time she had mentioned his deceased wife's name, and the gesture made something in Elian unravel. In the South, people avoided speaking of the dead, as if mentioning them brought bad luck. Here, in the North, the dead seemed to walk beside the living.
On the way back home, with the girls walking ahead, Alayne and Elian walked in a charged silence.
"Winter is long in the North," she finally said, stopping before his cabin. "It's easy for the heart to freeze with memories." Her eyes met his. "But spring always comes, Elian. For the land and for the hearts."
He opened his mouth to respond, but the words didn't come. How could he explain that every smile from her made him feel both alive and like a traitor? How could he admit that the runes on her hands seemed more beautiful to him than any southern jewel?
"Perhaps you would like to come for dinner tomorrow," she offered, her face illuminated by the silvery light of the rising moon. "The girls liked my venison stew last time."
Anya, overhearing the conversation, turned with pleading eyes. "Please, father?"
Elian looked from his daughter to Alayne, and for the first time allowed hope to overcome grief. "We would like that very much," he said, and the runes on Alayne's hands seemed to shine a little brighter.
As night fell over White Harbor, Elian realized that perhaps the most important runes weren't those visible on the skin, but the invisible marks that two wounded hearts were beginning to trace upon each other – slowly, carefully, like the spring thaw after a long winter.
PART 2: THE FROZEN STEEL AND THE AGREEMENTS
The Winter Hall in Winterfell was as silent as a frozen tomb, save for the gentle crackling of fire in the monumental fireplace. Theon Stark stood motionless before the flames, his rune-less hands crossed behind his back as he listened to the report from Alys, his personal assistant. The woman, whose red hair shone like fire in the dim light, had administrative runes glittering in golden patterns along her temples as she read from a parchment that appeared made of translucent ice.
"...and the girl Aerea was found wandering the courtyards of Dragonstone, Your Grace," Alys said, her contralto voice echoing softly in the empty hall. "The maesters report she bears burn marks so terrible that... well, that even they don't understand how she still lives. And Balerion returned with scars that no known battle could have caused."
Theon didn't turn, but his eyes reflected the flames as if they burned within him. "Valyria," he said, the word coming out like a condemnation. "The dragon took her to the Lands of the Long Night. Only the flames of a cursed empire could mark a Targaryen and her beast in such a manner."
Alys noted on her ice parchment, her agile fingers making the writing appear as soon as she touched the surface. Her red hair seemed like a living flame against the cold environment. "The envoys from the Iron Bank will arrive before sunset, Your Grace. They insist on witnessing the manufacturing process personally."
"Prepare my chambers in the Ice Tower," ordered Theon, finally turning. His ice crown formed spontaneously on his head, the red gem pulsing softly. "And tell Edric Stark that he will receive the envoys in my place. My brother's blood must learn to deal with financial vultures."
THE RUNIC FORGE
In the special forge built deep beneath Winterfell, the heat was uncharacteristic for the North. Edric Stark, Brandon's grandson, watched with his twenty winters as the runic smiths worked. They were not ordinary smiths - each possessed fire and metal runes that glowed on their bare arms, channeling magic directly into the steel they shaped.
The Iron Bank envoys, three serious-faced men dressed in simple gray wool clothing, watched every movement with eyes that missed no detail.
"The process involves no blood sacrifice?" asked the lead envoy, a man named Vargo. His Braavosi accent cut through the air like a blade.
Edric, whose administrative runes glowed on his wrists, gestured toward the smiths. "See for yourselves, gentlemen. Frozen Steel is forged with runes, not blood. Each blade is carved with glyphs while the steel is still hot, and the smiths channel the very cold of winter through their marks."
The envoys approached, their eyes fixed on the runes being carefully carved into the incandescent blades. As the glyphs were completed, the steel changed from red-hot to an icy blue, emitting a cold mist that contrasted brutally with the forge's heat.
"We hate everything that reminds us of Valyria," whispered Vargo, his eyes reflecting the frozen blue of the blades. "Our ancestors were slaves in the fire mines of the dragonlords. If your process is as pure as you claim, the Iron Bank will be honored to finance your production."
THE AGREEMENT AND THE DEPARTURE
Later, in the meeting room where maps of the North covered the stone walls, Theon Stark finally met with the envoys. Alys remained at his side, her red hair like a beacon of warmth in the cold room, her golden runes recording every word spoken.
"Twenty percent commission on each sale," said Theon, his voice leaving no room for negotiation. "And another thirty percent if the buyer comes North for additional runes. The Bank handles the sale and distribution; the North handles production and enhancement."
Vargo studied a Frozen Steel dagger, testing its balance. "The blades are as light as Valyrian steel, but the cold it emanates... that is new. We accept your terms, Your Grace."
When the envoys withdrew, Theon turned to Alys. "Prepare my journey to the Wall. It is time to meet with the Children of the Forest."
Alys inclined her head, her red hair forming a crimson curtain for a moment. "The preparations are already made, Your Grace. The three-eyed ravens have sent their messages. The Children await your arrival."
Theon looked out the window toward the north, where the Wall rose invisible in the distance. "Winter is approaching, Alys. And this time, it will bring more than just ice."
The red-haired assistant remained silent, knowing that some truths were better kept in winter's heart - at least until her king was ready to reveal them.
PART 3: THE RITUAL OF COLLECTIVE TRANSFER
The biting wind beyond the Wall carried the weight of thousands of years of history as Theon Stark emerged from the icy mist that had transported him from Winterfell. His feet touched the frozen ground with the lightness of one who belonged to those ancient lands, his fine winter clothes and his crown of ice already pulsing in harmony with the magic of the place.
At the Black Gate, Lord Commander Harwyn Osmyth awaited him with a grave expression. The man, aged by eternal vigilance, bowed his head respectfully, but his eyes betrayed concern.
"Your Grace," he greeted, his voice hoarse like the creaking of stone. "The shadows move strangely under this moon. The wildlings report... unusual things."
Theon studied the man's weathered face. "Shadows always move, Lord Commander. But as long as I breathe, none shall cross the Wall."
"Men grow nervous," Harwyn insisted. "They say the trees whisper in forgotten tongues, that the ravens sing ancient songs."
"Let them whisper," Theon replied, his eyes already turned toward the northern forests. "They are only the Children preparing for the ritual. No danger will come to the Watch this night."
Harwyn seemed relieved but still hesitant. "Seventy years hearing these stories, and I still do not get used to them. Your ritual... what exactly happens out there, Your Grace?"
Theon allowed an almost imperceptible smile. "Just a renewal of ancient vows, old friend. Older than the Wall itself. Keep your men in the fortresses and all will be well."
THE MEETING WITH LEAF
Further ahead, in the clearing beneath the giant dam where the men of the Watch took their oaths, Leaf awaited him mounted on her shadow cat. The giant black wolf with green eyes stood by her side, larger than any warhorse Theon had ever seen, its fur shining under the silver light of the crescent moon.
"Theon Stark," her voice sounded like the rustling of autumn leaves. "Seven decades have passed, and you still arrive exactly when the moon reaches its peak."
He stroked the giant wolf before mounting. "Seventy winters may pass, little friend, but my pact remains as strong as on the first day. How is your people?"
Leaf guided her shadow cat to the wolf's side, her feline eyes studying him. "We have grown, thanks to your generosity. From thirty to eighty souls in seven decades. But the land still suffers, and our connection to it needs to be reinforced."
Theon nodded gravely. "Then this year's ritual is even more crucial."
"Yes," she confirmed, her voice laden with urgency. "The entire people await. Tonight, the transfer must be complete—each of the eighty lives needs your essence directly. We cannot risk some being left without what they need to survive the next decade."
He felt the weight of responsibility but also the honor of the privilege. "Eighty times, then. That is a lot, even for me."
Leaf touched his arm, her touch surprisingly warm. "The magic of the ritual will sustain you, Theon Stark. And the gratitude of an entire people will be your reward."
THE JOURNEY TO THE HEART-TREE
The journey through the forest was a dream of shadows and dancing lights. Trees that had existed since before the Wall's construction bent as they passed, as if recognizing the King of Winter. Nocturnal creatures watched them from the darkness—some with curiosity, others with reverence.
"I remember the first time we took this path," Theon said, breaking the silence. "You could barely look at me, and I didn't fully understand what I was doing."
Leaf emitted a soft sound that might have been a laugh. "You were so young, even by your standards. A newly crowned king, discovering powers you didn't even understand. And I... I was so afraid you would refuse our request."
"How could I refuse?" he replied, his eyes following the flight of a night raven. "It was the first time I met beings who understood me—who comprehended the burden of immortality."
"And tonight," Leaf said softly, "you will prove once again that trusting you was worth it."
THE ARRIVAL AT THE SANCTUARY
The Great Heart-Tree appeared before them like a living cathedral, so vast it could shelter all of Winterfell within its trunk. The air around trembled with ancestral energy, and the soft singing of the Children of the Forest could be heard even from outside.
Inside the central chamber, the air pulsed with ancient magic. The eighty Children of the Forest formed a perfect circle, their bodies painted with ritual glyphs that glowed softly in the dim light. Some were so young they could barely stand still, others so old they had witnessed the Wall's construction.
Leaf slid off her shadow cat and moved to the center where a ritual bed of mosses, night flowers, and sacred herbs had been prepared.
"Theon Stark," she said, extending her hands as she began to undress. "The pact requires that all essence be shared with each of us. We will start with me, but each of my sisters will receive your essence through my body. I will be the channel for all my people."
Theon understood the magnitude of what was to come. Eighty transfers, eighty times giving part of his immortality, all in a single ritual night.
THE BEGINNING OF THE RITUAL
When he knelt between Leaf's legs, the size difference seemed almost impossible. His member, already erect and impressively large, contrasted brutally with her smallness.
"For the first time in centuries," he whispered as he began to enter her with extreme caution, "I feel I should be afraid of hurting someone."
But Leaf's body, though small, was resilient as nature itself. She received him fully, her feline eyes closing in concentration, not pain. Theon moved with a ritual cadence, each movement calculated to maximize the energy transfer.
The pleasure he felt was different from any other—it was not only physical but deeply spiritual. He could feel his vital essence flowing into her, a torrent of power that made the invisible runes on his own body glow temporarily.
Leaf arched her back, her fingers digging into the moss. "Yes," she whispered, "the earth receives your gift."
When the first climax came, it was like a storm. Theon felt years of his life, drops of his immortality, pouring into her in a powerful wave. Leaf cried out softly, her body trembling with the intensity of the transfer.
THE CONTINUOUS CYCLE
Before he could even catch his breath, Leaf looked at him intensely. "The first is complete. Now, the second."
To his amazement, his body was already ready to continue. The magic of the ritual kept him in a state of constant potency. The second union was different from the first—a slower, more deliberate rhythm. When the second climax came, he felt another part of his essence transferred.
Thus it continued, in an unending cycle. Third, fourth, fifth union... Each orgasm represented one of the Children of the Forest. With each transfer, Leaf changed subtly—sometimes her skin patterns glowed more intensely, other times her voice sounded different, as if other voices blended with hers.
THE NIGHT OF TRANSFER
At the twentieth union, Theon lost track of time. His world shrank to the steady rhythm of the ritual, to the feeling of giving life through each climax. Leaf, though physically the same, seemed to embody a different Child each time—distinct ways of moving, breathing, receiving him.
At the fortieth union, he experienced a transcendental ecstasy. He no longer felt his body as separate from hers or from the Heart-Tree itself. Each orgasm was not exhaustion but renewal, as if the forest itself sustained him.
THE FINAL STRETCH
At the sixtieth union, the other Children began to sing softly, their voices echoing through Leaf. Theon could feel their presence not only as spectators but as active participants through their leader's body.
At the seventieth union, Leaf wept—not from pain, but from collective ecstasy. "They can feel," she whispered between breaths, "all can feel life returning."
THE FINAL CLIMAX
When they reached the eightieth and last union, the air in the chamber was charged with tangible magical energy. The last penetration was the slowest, the most deliberate of all. Theon moved with deep reverence, knowing this would be the final transfer.
When the eightieth orgasm came, it was like a sacred earthquake. All eighty Children cried out in unison, their bodies glowing intensely for a moment. Leaf arched violently, her fingers digging furrows in the moss.
For long minutes, they remained still, connected, as the energy stabilized. Theon could feel the eighty different essences now charged with his life force, ready to sustain the forest people for another decade.
THE DAWN
When the first ray of morning light filtered through the Heart-Tree, Leaf opened her eyes. They now held the wisdom of her entire people.
"It is complete," she whispered, her voice carrying eighty lives. "Eighty times you gave of yourself. Eighty lives will be sustained."
Theon rose, feeling a sacred fatigue. He had given more of himself this night than at any other moment in his long existence.
Leaf touched his face, her hand trembling slightly. "Until the next decade, King of Winter. The forest people will remember."
He nodded, knowing that each of those eighty unions had been worth it. Some pacts were more than obligations—they were privileges that transcended time itself.
Outside, Lord Commander Harwyn watched the sunrise, unaware that while he slept, the balance of the world had been renewed once again.