The torchlight washes across their faces, revealing beards crusted with frost, cloaks heavy with snow, and eyes sharp from too many nights spent watching for danger.
The tallest of them—broad shoulders, thick beard tangled down to mid-chest—steps forward first. His torchlight casts his face in deep orange shadows.
"Didn't expect t'find anyone out 'ere," the man growls, boots crunching louder as he approaches. "Not in this cold. You look half-frozen."
Aeryon holds his ground, fingers resting lightly on his sword hilt but not gripping tight enough to look hostile.
The men fan out slightly, the other two approaching at angles—wary but not immediately aggressive.
The broad man squints at him.
"Where's your camp?" he asks, eyes narrowing. "And what in the Seven Hells are you doin' wanderin' out here alone at this hour?"
Aeryon forces a breath—slow, calm—and keeps his posture relaxed.
"Got separated from my group," he says, tone a blend of truth and easy confidence. "They were headed south. I ended up… very lost."
One of the thinner men snorts.
"South? There ain't nothin' south but more bloody trees."
Aeryon gives a helpless shrug, letting his breath show in the cold air.
"Then I'm even more lost than I thought."
The third man—the youngest, face flushed from either cold or nerves—circles halfway around Aeryon, gaze flicking over his clothes, his satchel, his boots.
"Your gear looks new," the young one mutters.
Suspicion hangs in his voice like smoke.
"Too new."
Aeryon feels the tension spike, sharp and quick.
He smiles lightly, the kind of smile that says I know you're suspicious, and I would be too.
"Lucky break," he says. "My horse wasn't as lucky."
The bearded leader grunts.
"Where's the carcass? Wolves take it?"
"Wouldn't surprise me," Aeryon replies. "They circled me not long ago."
The three men exchange glances—short, meaningful ones.
"Wolves've been bold lately," the leader mutters, lowering his torch a little. "Folk near Last Hearth say they're gatherin' in packs big as a bloody warband."
The young one shivers at the mention.
"Right grim sign, that."
Aeryon tilts his head slightly.
"Is there a village nearby?"
The broad man nods once.
"Aye. A bit north o' here. We're from there."
He jerks a thumb behind him.
"Birchwatch."
Aeryon blinks.
Birchwatch. Not a show location—must be one of the dozens of unnamed little settlements scattered around the North.
"Come with us," the broad one says, voice shifting from suspicion to something closer to stern hospitality. "Frost'll take you quick if you stay out 'ere alone."
Aeryon hesitates—just long enough to seem human, not plotting.
Then he nods.
"I'd appreciate that."
The leader gestures for him to fall in line, and the four of them start walking—Aeryon between the broad man and the younger one, torchlight flickering over the trunks as they move.
For a moment, no one speaks.
Snow drifts lazily from the canopy above. The river's sound fades behind them. Their boots crunch in oddly syncopated rhythm.
Eventually, the young one glances sideways at Aeryon, curiosity wearing down his suspicion.
"What's your name?"
Aeryon breathes out, letting a plume of fog curl upward.
"…Aeryon," he answers softly, testing how the name feels when spoken aloud.
It fits.
It feels like a mantle settling onto his shoulders.
The young man nods.
"I'm Bram," he says.
The thin, nervous one behind him lifts his chin.
"Thomer."
And the leader grunts, torch shifting.
"Garrick."
Aeryon offers a polite smile.
"Good to meet you."
They walk another stretch through the clearing, tree shadows dancing along their path.
Garrick keeps scanning the dark as though expecting something to leap out.
Eventually, Thomer clears his throat.
"Where'd you say you were travelin' from?"
Aeryon keeps his pace steady.
"I didn't," he says lightly.
Thomer frowns.
"Right… well… where then?"
Aeryon lets a beat of silence pass—just long enough for tension, not long enough for suspicion.
"Farther north than I should've been."
Garrick grunts something that might be agreement.
Aeryon's pulse stays steady. His expression stays calm.
Inside, though?
He's watching everything—every branch, every rustle, every shift in the men's posture.
If they decide he's dangerous, he could end this entire situation with a single block of obsidian.
Or drop them into a pit six blocks deep.
Or summon a wall of diamond blocks.
But he doesn't want that.
He wants something far more powerful:
A normal introduction to the world.
They approach a small ridge. Torchlight spills onto the slope, illuminating rough wooden stakes hammered into the ground ahead—crude palisades half-buried in snow.
"Birchwatch," Garrick grunts, stomping up the incline. "Not much, but it's home."
Aeryon is halfway up the slope when he hears it—
The soft click of metal.
Bram's hand dropping to the hilt of his belt-knife.
Aeryon turns his head slightly—just enough to spot the movement from the corner of his eye.
Bram's voice is quiet, almost apologetic.
"Just makin' sure you're not somethin'… strange."
Garrick stops walking.
Thomer stops too.
Aeryon stands behind them, one step lower on the snowy incline, torchlight flickering between the four of them.
The air goes still.
Cold.
Heavy.
Snowflakes drift silently around them.
Garrick finally turns, looking Aeryon dead in the eyes.
"Last question," the big man says, voice low, deep, and edged with threat.
"If we let you into our village…
are we bringin' in a man?"
He steps forward.
"Or trouble?"
Aeryon holds Garrick's stare, snow settling on his shoulders, cloak rustling in the wind—
torch burning bright in his hand.
He doesn't reach for his sword.
Doesn't shift his stance.
He simply breathes once, slow.
Then meets Garrick's gaze with steady calm.
"You're bringing in someone who just wants a warm fire and a direction south," he says softly.
"And nothing more."
The wind cuts between them.
Garrick holds his stare—
one breath
two
three—
Then lowers his torch.
"Then welcome t'Birchwatch."
Garrick's torch dips forward as he leads the way up the rest of the slope. Thomer and Bram follow close, boots crunching in slow, steady rhythm. Aeryon walks last, keeping his posture relaxed, his grip on the iron sword loose but natural.
The palisade looms ahead—thick, uneven logs sharpened to points at the top, most leaning slightly from age or rough construction. Gaps between them spill slivers of warm yellow light into the snow. Smoke rises from somewhere beyond, thin trails drifting into the night sky.
Birchwatch is small.
But alive.
Two figures stand guard just inside the open gate—one with a spear, the other with a woodcutter's axe held like he isn't sure whether he's defending the village or splitting firewood. Both stare as the group approaches.
Garrick grunts a greeting.
"Found this one downstream," he says, jerking a thumb at Aeryon. "Lost. Near frozen. Wolves sniffin' about."
The spearman eyes Aeryon up and down—boots, cloak, satchel, sword. His brows knit slightly, like he's trying to decide whether Aeryon looks more like a runaway or a thief.
"Not from 'round here," the guard mutters.
"No," Aeryon agrees easily. "Not lately."
Garrick snorts at the answer, and without waiting for permission, pushes past the guards. They step aside reluctantly, letting the group through.
Aeryon enters Birchwatch.
The village feels like a pocket of warmth carved out of deep winter. Huts clustered tightly around a central fire pit. Slanted roofs heavy with snow. Smoke drifting from chimneys. Torches burning along posts. A stray dog trots past, sniffing the air as if trying to decide whether Aeryon smells edible.
Figures move among the huts—women carrying baskets of chopped wood, old men closing shutters against the wind, a boy struggling to drag a goat that clearly does not want to cooperate.
The smells hit him all at once:
Wood smoke.
Boiled oats.
Wet fur.
Damp wool.
Frozen earth thawing near the fire.
He forces himself not to smile.
This is exactly what the North should feel like.
Bram walks beside him, gesturing with a quick jerk of his chin.
"Don't wander," he mutters. "Folk here don't take kindly to strangers pokin' into things."
Aeryon nods. "I'll keep my hands to myself."
"See that you do."
They cross toward the center of the village. A few villagers pause their work to stare. Aeryon feels their eyes lingering on him longer than is comfortable—not hostile, not curious, but… measuring.
Garrick stops near the fire pit, turning to face Aeryon fully.
"You'll stay here for the night," he says, pointing toward a hut set slightly apart from the others. Smoke curls from its chimney, and a faint, warm glow leaks through the shutters. "Old Nan Tressa keeps spare blankets. She'll set you up."
Aeryon nods.
"Thank you."
Garrick doesn't immediately move. He watches Aeryon another second—testing, weighing—then finally says,
"Tomorrow, you tell us where you're headed. And we'll see if there's someone passin' through who can take you farther south."
"That sounds fair."
Garrick grunts again—either approval or skepticism, it's impossible to tell—and trudges off toward the longhouse.
Thomer follows him, but Bram lingers.
The younger man shifts awkwardly, then clears his throat.
"You, uh…"
He gestures vaguely at Aeryon's satchel.
"You handle yourself well for a man walkin' alone in the cold."
Aeryon gives a half-shrug. "Luck, mostly."
Bram doesn't look convinced.
But he nods anyway.
"Folk'll be calmer if you stay by the fire tonight. Don't go wanderin'. Don't go near the livestock pens. And… don't tell anyone you're carryin' coin unless you want half the village on your back."
Aeryon gives him a wry, grateful smile.
"Good advice."
Bram grunts and turns away, joining Thomer near the fire pit.
Aeryon watches them go.
Only once they're fully out of earshot does he exhale—long, quiet, steady—and feel the tension bleed from his shoulders.
He's in.
A foothold.
A normal first impression.
No suspicion.
No panic.
No glowing diamond blocks ruining the immersion.
He glances around Birchwatch once more, taking in the small wooden homes, the smoke, the torchlight reflecting off snow, the distant sound of someone chopping wood.
A simple village.
The perfect place to gather information.
And the perfect place to begin setting the world on a path that ends with him standing beside Daenerys Targaryen.
He steps toward the hut Garrick pointed out, boots sinking quietly into the snow—
—and a door creaks open just ahead.
A hunched, wrinkled woman peers out, candlelight flickering behind her.
Her eyes lock onto Aeryon's with surprising sharpness.
"So," she rasps, voice thin but piercing, "you're the stray they dragged in from the trees."
Aeryon stops mid-step.
The wind howls between the huts.
The old woman lifts her candle slightly, flame trembling.
"Well? Don't just stand there freezin'. Come on, then."
Her eyes narrow.
"I won't have you dyin' on my doorstep."
The old woman's candle flickers wildly as the wind cuts between the huts, whipping at Aeryon's cloak. Her eyes—sharp, watery blue beneath a drooping brow—never leave his face.
"Well?" she snaps, voice thin as cracked ice. "Are you comin' in, or are you plannin' t'freeze your feet off right there?"
Aeryon steps forward quickly, both out of politeness and because his toes genuinely are starting to ache from the cold. As he nears her, she shuffles backward into the hut, leaving the door half-open for him.
Inside, the warmth hits him like a soft punch to the chest.
Firelight spills across the floorboards. A small stone hearth crackles at the center of the room, filling the air with the scents of boiling herbs and burning pine. Wooden shelves line the walls, cluttered with dried roots, jars of powders, and bundles of cloth. A narrow bed sits in the corner, draped in furs.
Aeryon steps inside, lowering his head slightly to avoid the low beam overhead. The door thuds shut behind him as Tressa nudges it closed with her hip.
She shuffles past him, candle still trembling in her gnarled hand.
"Boots off," she commands. "Don't drag snow all over my floor. I just scrubbed it this mornin'."
Aeryon nods and steps toward the hearth, warmth soaking instantly into his face. He pulls off his boots, setting them by the wall.
Tressa hovers near the fire, poking at a pot with a wooden spoon.
"You look warmer already," she mutters. "Garrick said you were half-dead when they found you."
"I'm better now," Aeryon says. "Thank you for taking me in."
"Mhm." She taps the spoon twice against the pot, then eyes him up and down. "Stray men don't survive long in these woods. Not without steel or a horse. And you had both? Or neither?"
Aeryon answers smoothly.
"Neither."
"Then someone up there must like you."
She jerks her head toward the ceiling. "Or hate you and wants you to suffer longer."
Aeryon manages a small laugh.
"Hard to tell some days."
Tressa huffs and hands him a steaming wooden cup.
"Drink."
He takes the cup carefully—hot, fragrant, smelling vaguely of mint and something bitter.
"What is it?"
"Tea."
A beat.
"With a bit of somethin' to keep you from shiverin' yourself to sleep."
Aeryon takes a cautious sip. Warmth floods down his throat, relaxing the tight muscles along his shoulders.
Tressa watches him silently, eyes glinting.
"You speak well," she says. "Not like most wanderers."
"I traveled a lot before ending up here."
"Hmm."
Her spoon scrapes the pot again.
"You lie well, too."
Aeryon's chest tightens a fraction—but he keeps his face relaxed, placing the cup down gently on a nearby table.
"What makes you think I'm lying?"
She shrugs, bones creaking with the motion.
"Everyone lies. Especially men who come from the woods with clean clothes and no frostbite."
His pulse jumps—just a little—but she continues stirring without looking at him.
"Don't fret," she mutters. "I lied plenty when I was young. Got me a husband that way."
Aeryon blinks.
"…That's one approach."
"Aye. Didn't keep him, though." She snorts. "Turns out lyin' doesn't make a man better at split tin'. Or bathin'."
Despite himself, Aeryon cracks a small smile.
Tressa points her spoon at him suddenly.
"But I'll tell you this—"
She steps closer, eyes narrowing.
"Folk here are suspicious. Not cruel, but wary. If they think you're somethin' strange, they'll toss you back into those woods quicker than you can say 'hot supper.' You understand?"
Aeryon nods.
"I do."
Her gaze sharpens a little more.
"So."
She folds her arms.
"You plan on bein' strange?"
He meets her stare steadily.
"No," he says softly. "Not tonight."
She grunts.
"A good answer. For tonight."
He sits near the hearth, letting the flames warm the numbness from his legs. Tressa shuffles around him, ladling thick stew into a bowl.
He takes it gratefully.
For a few moments, there's only the sound of firewood cracking and the wind howling faintly outside the shutters.
Then Aeryon asks, voice casual:
"How far is Birchwatch from the nearest major holdfast?"
Tressa snorts loudly.
"Thinkin' of leavin' already? That's quick even for a wanderer."
"I just need to get my bearings."
She scratches her cheek thoughtfully.
"Nearest holdfast is Last Hearth," she says. "Ride north two days, east half a night, and you'll see the smoke from the Umber kitchens before you see the towers."
Last Hearth.
Good.
That places him deep Northern territory—but not too far from roads that lead south.
"And south?" he asks.
She clicks her tongue.
"What's south but cold mud and wolves? You go south far enough, you'll hit the Kingsroad."
She waves her spoon vaguely.
"Two days' ride, more if the snow's thick."
Kingsroad.
Aeryon inhales slowly.
Perfect.
He stands—slowly, respectfully—setting the empty bowl on her table.
"You've helped me more than you know," he says.
"Good," she mutters. "Means you won't stay long."
He smiles slightly. "You want me gone?"
"I want folk t'stop bringin' strangers to my door. They eat my stew and don't repay me."
She points her spoon sharply at him.
"You repay me."
Aeryon blinks.
"…How?"
She squints at his face.
"You look like a man with strong arms."
She jabs the spoon toward the back door.
"My goats need muckin' in the mornin'."
Aeryon stares.
Almost laughs.
Almost.
"…Understood."
Tressa grunts her approval.
He moves toward the corner where she's laid out a pile of furs—a makeshift bed, warm, thick, surprisingly comfortable-looking.
Tressa snuffs her candle, plunging the hut into firelight alone.
"Sleep," she orders. "And don't snore. I'll thump you if you snore."
Aeryon nods, lowering himself onto the furs. The heat of the fire eases the tiredness out of his limbs. The furs smell faintly of grass, pine, and age.
His sword rests beside him, close but not drawn.
The hut creaks softly as the wind pushes against it.
Outside, somewhere across the snow-covered village, a wolf howls in the distance.
Tressa lies down on her own bed with a huff.
"Try not to die before mornin'," she mutters.
Aeryon closes his eyes, cloak wrapped around him, the fire crackling gently at his feet—
as the screen of his Minecraft UI pulses faintly behind his eyelids.
Quiet.
Patient.
Waiting.