"It seems as if the Stranger is looking straight into your soul," Crakehall shared his feelings, and I was involuntarily surprised that this man was capable of saying such things.
We didn't walk for long. After ten minutes, we reached our destination—a large, round clearing. Weirwoods, like a line of warriors, surrounded the place on all sides. Surprisingly green, silky grass grew here. In the center, atop a small hill, stood another weirwood tree—immense and majestic beyond words. Several moss-covered boulders jutted from the ground, and between two of them a small, transparent stream sprang forth and ran onward.
This weirwood also had a face—crafted with particular care and eerily resembling a living person. Skillfully carved eyes regarded us all with inhuman attentiveness and insight. A narrow, straight nose, deep wrinkles, and a beard with a mustache that disappeared into the bark created the illusion of someone truly alive. Or perhaps even a god. Under that gaze, everyone felt uneasy. Even the fierce Crakehall nervously crumpled his beard in his fist.
Directly beneath the face, in a hollow of the trunk, was something resembling a throne—a tangle of roots reinforced with several stones.
A thin, emaciated old man sat upon it. The hair on his head, beard, and mustache, though greenish in hue, was inexplicably associated with gray and bore a striking resemblance to the face carved into the tree. His eyes were closed, and his thin, gnarled fingers lay motionless upon the armrests of the throne. Atop his head rested something that could only be called a makeshift crown—an intricate weave of branches and leaves entwined with deer antlers.
Four people stood near the old man—two women and two men.
"Only the king may enter the clearing," our escort said calmly, as though stating something entirely ordinary, and Jaime frowned in displeasure.
"We are guests here," I said, turning to my father and the others. "Stay here."
I crossed the clearing, and with each step a strange thrill spread through my body. My boots sank ankle-deep into the soft, fragrant grass.
A few steps away, I stopped and once more looked at the imposing face of the seated old man.
"You have come," he said unexpectedly, without opening his eyes. His voice was soft, yet very clear and melodious. He might have been a remarkable bard. Still, he spoke with difficulty, as if he had not used words for a long time and was now relearning them. "You may call me the Elder. What do you wish to find here, king?"
"Wisdom," I replied quickly. Over the past few days, I had asked myself many times why I needed the Gods Eye. The answer came quite easily. Indeed, what else was there to seek here? Certainly not wealth or power.
"Good," it seemed to me, or perhaps there was genuine satisfaction in his voice. "Sit down. We have a long conversation ahead of us."
I looked around, saw nothing to sit on, shrugged, knelt, and settled back on my heels.
"Tell us," one of the women asked unexpectedly, "what kind of king are you?"
"I don't know," I answered honestly. "I haven't ruled for very long, so I can't say anything yet."
"That's not enough. We want to know you," one of the men added.
I sighed, gathered my thoughts, and told them a little about myself—or rather, about what I had already managed to accomplish and what I still intended to do.
"Do you like Westeros, guest from another world?" the Elder asked suddenly, and I nearly choked. Casting an involuntary glance over my shoulder at my companions, I coughed and replied:
"This world is unusual. Beautiful and cruel. Complex and simple. Ruthless and merciful."
"Is it better or worse than your world?"
"They cannot be compared."
"And the people?"
"I believe people themselves do not change. All their joys and sorrows, dreams and hopes remain the same—in the past, in the future, in Westeros, or anywhere else. Only the scenery changes."
The green people asked me several more questions—about my world, how I came here, and who had helped me.
Strangely enough, the fact that they already knew the most important thing about me—that I was from another world—loosened my tongue and allowed me to feel like myself.
For the first time since arriving in Westeros, I spoke calmly and openly. I knew that only the truth could interest and satisfy the green people. Moreover, I understood that they would immediately sense any omissions or lies.
And I had not come here to lie.
They accepted my story without surprise. If anything astonished them, they gave no sign of it. Although, observing the green people and reflecting on the strange nature of this place, I began to understand that the ancient weirwoods here had heard stories far stranger than this.
We spoke for a long time, without haste. It even seemed to me that the locals had an entirely different relationship with time—they were unhurried and lived in inner harmony.
The place itself set a particular mood. All our worries and anxieties were left behind, and now we were doing the only thing that mattered—talking.
"We have seen your intentions," the Elder finally said. "Now answer us—where do you see wisdom?"
"In striving to understand everything that is happening in Westeros. To grasp what magic truly is, what dragons are, the Wall, and the power that gathers beyond it…"
(End of Chapter)
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