129 AC
Luke POV
And now my Watch begins.
Luke Waters, formerly prince Lucerys Velaryon, heir to Driftmark and rider of Arrax, was a black brother for almost four years now. Relinquishing all titles, lands and crowns - not that he could claim any after the trial.
He made his vows half-heartedly. He thought about fleeing the desolate Wall many times. His entire life burned into ash within a sennight.
Or more accurately, it was a steady decline. A powerful and inevitable fall since that miserable night at his aunt's funeral.
They were foolish impulsive children. He had no idea why they thought they could confront whichever dangerous 'thief' had asserted his claim to Vhagar, the mount of Rhaena and Baela's recently deceased mother.
Jace took a knife. If they were armed with Blackfyre itself, an adult assailant would take them out quite easily.
But they were, as he said, children.
And when faced with an other child. An arrogant hostile one apparently drunk on his new power - like his brother was drunk on wine - things spiraled out of control.
It's only in the following days, when his mother praised him for defending his family, that Luke tried to put the matter behind him. Neither Aemond nor the Queen would accept an apology if he wanted to offer one.
His mother knew best. She can't attempt to assuage his fears if they were unfounded. If he were in truth the guilty party.
He thought the world of his mother then. But she never put much stock in his word when he or Jace told her that Daemon - who she reiterated they should address as father - was bizarre and definitely plotting something. His eyes were gleaming with some hidden desire when he looked at them. She assured them it was nothing.
This was their father's killer.
It wasn't nothing.
He barely remembers the last words he spoke to her after the hearing. They were to be shipped off the opposite ends of the country. Both exiled for life.
Jace never said goodbye to her when she left. He didn't want to speak to her. He spent time with Daeron instead. Already he had been seduced to their side.
So Lucerys thought. Years later, the wound of their severed brotherhood aches. But noting like the longing for his other half. He's even started to dream of him in his hope for reuniting.
He took his uncle's eye. And his dragon was taken in response.
I may have lost an eye. But I gained a dragon.
The words of a child of ten.
It's almost poetic. A karmic sacrifice.
**
The wind howled through the desolate landscape beyond the Wall, whipping through the furs and cloaks of the ranging party he led.
Half the group consisted of seasoned brothers of the Night's Watch, their faces weathered and marked by the hardships they had endured. They must have chafed at being under the orders of a lad of six and ten. Barely a man. Prince Waters they liked to jest behind his back.
His pride would get him nowhere in this place. He's lucky the Lord Commander took a liking to him - or pitied him - and made him his personal steward. He trained in the yard with more ferocity then he ever cared to at the Red Keep or Dragonstone. His merit alone would raise him up. He had no name.
The rangers trudged through the snow-covered terrain, their breaths visible in the freezing air as they pressed onward.
Lucerys was clad in the black garb of the Night's Watch, his steel sword Whitesmoke strapped to his side. He tried to exud an aura of command and resilience. Weakness would leave him a feast for the crows.
His eyes scanned the surroundings, ever watchful for any signs of danger lurking in the vast wilderness.
"Keep your wits about you," he called out to the men, his voice steady and commanding. "We're venturing into treacherous territory today. Wildlings could be lurking nearby, and we must be ready for anything."
No more than a few grumblings insued.
As they trudged deeper into the wilderness, the tension in the air grew palpable.
Suddenly, a low growl pierced the silence, followed by the sound of rustling bushes. He raised his hand, signaling the party to halt.
The men formed a defensive circle, their weapons at the ready, their eyes darting in search of the source of the disturbance.
No division can be allowed here. They were birds of the same black feathers. Survival trumped wounded ego.
Emerging from the underbrush, a massive direwolf appeared, its fur matted and its eyes gleaming with primal intelligence. It locked gazes with Lucerys, seemingly assessing him. A wave of recognition washed over him.
"Bjorn," he murmured, his voice filled with awe. "You've come to aid us, old friend."
The direwolf, the loyal companion of Lord Commander Karstark, had found his way to Lucerys and the Night's Watch.
He growled once more, as if acknowledging his purpose, and then started heading for their rear.
He's warning us to leave this place.
"We'll turn back. Something's not right."
"We haven't found any Wildings boy. If you want to flee, go ahead. I'm not afraid." It was Alec, a brother for the past two decades who refused to heed his command.
"You disobey me. You disobey the Lord Commander. Do you really want to be executed Alec?" He didn't blink delivering his ultimatum. Men of the Watch can smell fear as easily as breathing.
"Karstark ordered us to find a Wilding camp. You sure it's not you who's to meet the block, boy?" He emphasized his age to demean him. Render his account futile and insignificant.
He's not about to clutch his mother's skirt's this time.
Alec quickly found himself pushed off his horse, an angry black wolf roaring at his face. Luke barely understood their connection. But it was there.
"Lord Karstark's direwolf agrees with me. I'm sure you see my point as well, don't you Alec?"
The middle-aged stormlander nodded imperceptibly. Luke suppressed a grin and issued the command again.
He needs to explain that strange feeling.
***
Benjen POV
The Winterfell godswood had always possessed a palpable eeriness that hangs in the air, seeping into the very essence of the ancient trees and the surrounding atmosphere.
As one enters the godswood, a sense of foreboding settles upon them, as if the veil between the natural and supernatural worlds grows thin within its confines.
The gnarled branches of the heart trees stand tall and imposing, their weathered bark whispering secrets of times long gone.
Their crimson leaves, even in the depths of winter, retain a faint, ethereal glow, casting eerie shadows that dance upon the ground.
Benjen had grown up hearing that the faces carved into the heart trees watch and listen. They were the windows to the realm of the Old Gods. Their silent gaze bearing witness to the events unfolding in Winterfell.
The religious heart of the North is a sanctuary of nature's raw power, where ancient magic thrums in every rustle of leaves and every gust of wind.
The godswood's magical presence is most potent during twilight, when shadows lengthen and the fading light casts an otherworldly glow upon the surroundings.
Strange occurrences have been known to happen within its sacred boundaries. Some claim to hear the distant howling of wolves, even when no pack is near, while others swear that they have glimpsed fleeting figures—ghostly apparitions that vanish as quickly as they appear.
He knows his brother Bran feels most at ease here. The pull of mystics call to him.
The memories of countless generations, their triumphs and tragedies etched into the very fabric of the grove.
It is a place where the living and the dead intermingle, where the veil between realms grows thin, and where the echoes of the past intertwine with the present.
And today that truth was going to be proven. Or, so he overheard.
"Don't look away. They will know if you do." In his left side, his mother stands tall holding his youngest sister Serena, barely four years old. It seems strange that he was ever that small. His twin Sara, on the right, narrows her eyes as if reading his mind.
At the base of the heart tree, his father and Cregan set up the two prisoners on the ground. Tossing their chained up bodies would be a more apt analogy.
He's never witnessed a sacrifice to the Gods. His mother told him they were rarely done. At most once a century in the harshest of winters to ask for deliverance.
But that was decidedly not the case now. The winter had barely begun and it was no different than summer. In the Northernmost kingdom at least. Below the Neck, they must chiver and curse at the slightest cold winds.
These offerings served a purpose no one had divulged, much to his annoyance. Only whispers and half-truths.
His cousin Cregan had seemed happier and more at ease since his return from King's Landing - which in itself was a miracle - but they were moments when Ben would question him about what happened in the Capital. Innocent inquiries like the wedding feast or the infamous Dragon's Gambit above the Blackwater. His expression would sour and he'd promise to speak of it later and changed the subject. Later never came.
Which is why he had the intention of asking the prince Aemond. The tall one-eyed dragon-rider had seemed aloof and respectful in his interactions, outside of his sister princess Helaena and her and Cregan's three old twins Rickon and Alicent.
But Ben had once warged into his Loki and kept his eyes on the Targaryen with Cregan and Ned. They were laughing and reminiscing with horns of ale in hand. So the Umber lordling was sure he could charm him as well.
"Our words are Fierce and fearless. I won't flinch from blood shed in the name of the Gods." He practiced those words daily. He's tired of being seen as a child. He's the blood of giants and northern kings.
"If all the Northmen were as brave as you, I pity the Others." Ned tussled his hair smiling in pride. He allowed it and didn't protest too much. Thankfully no one except their family was there. Even prince Aemond was kin to him as the princess Helaena was Lady Stark of Winterfell.
****
The ceremony has commenced with solemn prayers and invocations, calling upon the faceless gods for their blessings and guidance. The atmosphere was charged with a sense of reverence and anticipation.
When Bran and the dragon princess finally arrived, they pulled down their hooded mantles. Underneath were symbols and ornaments to streghtn their connection to the heart trees. Runes were carved into the bodies of the prisoners. They too had their faces hidden. Ben was unaware if he ever laid eyes on them before.
"We call upon the Gods of the winds and the. forest. Of bronze and water. Of ice and fire. Hear our prayers and accept our offering. Lead our kin from the shadows to the light. Embrace them with this gift of blood."
As the climax of the ritual approached, the chosen were led forward and unmasked.
They were a man and a woman. The latter had beautiful valyrian features, he almost mistook her for a Targaryen. The former had the look of the first men. And his left leg seemed to be lame. Benjen hoped he wasn't one of their innocent bannermen. The Gods were just. They can't ask for such an offering.
With a swift and skillful strike Bran pierced the man's heart, ensuring a quick and merciful death. The princess followed along suit at Cregan's encouraging nod.
Ben could almost sense the potency of the sacrifice. These were no ordinary people. They were blessed with the sight. Their vitality and strength passed from the tree to the gods.
At once, Cregan and Father collected the excess blood in bowls.
Bran started chanting again. He spoke with such fervor Ben felt a chill in his bones. The red leaves on the Heart tree fell like a swirling storm had erupted. The weirwoods all leaked crimson tears. Yells and screams invaded his senses.
The fabric of reality was shredding. He knew it was. Helaena drew strange markings on the soil with the offering's blood. Her eyes turned pale and milky.
As the earth itself shook around them, Ben was reminded that he was very much still a child. An eleven year old child who clutched his mother's hand in distress.
The hot pools rumbled as if hiding a terrible abomination that's desperately trying to eacape. To wreak havoc on the world of the living for tampering in the domain of the deities.
Then a hand reached out.
A human hand he identified. A girl climbed from the waters. She looked tired. Bruised, bloody and attempting to catch her breath.
Black raven heir. Stormy grey eyes. A long face. And a steely posture.
She looked like a Stark.
"What the fuck is going on?"