Chapter 57: Re-entering Winterfell

"Ugh... retch... urgh..."

Tyrion Lannister clung to the rough bark of a northern pine, his small body convulsing as sour bile spilled onto the frost-hardened ground beneath. His mismatched eyes watered from the effort.

Joffrey patted his uncle's back with uncharacteristic gentleness. "Take heart, Uncle. Only half a day's journey remains. Winterfell lies just ahead, where we can all enjoy proper rest in a proper bed."

"Half a day?!" Tyrion groaned, his face pale as milk. "You might as well slide a blade between my ribs and be done with it!"

He embraced the tree trunk as though it were a lover, refusing to relinquish his hold. "I'll not take another step this day, nephew. Not a single one."

This marked the third day since their departure from Castle Black.

Joffrey, Osha, and the Children of the Forest had been riding upon Rain, the massive lion, while Tyrion, Jon Snow, and Ghost traveled atop Snowball, the enormous snow bear.

The two great beasts had traveled for more than ten hours each day, covering a distance exceeding a thousand leagues. The incessant jolting and swaying had proven too much for Tyrion's diminutive frame.

"Good nephew," Tyrion pleaded, "I acknowledge your magic's potency—enabling these beasts to move faster and with greater endurance than ravens themselves. But tell me truly, why such desperate haste?"

Joffrey regarded him with a slight, enigmatic smile.

"By my calculations, Father has likely entered the Riverlands by now. Would you not agree?"

Tyrion paused, then released his grip on the tree, allowing himself to collapse onto the ground with a soft groan.

He understood the deeper implications of Joffrey's words.

Indeed, a king dying upon the Iron Throne would inevitably precipitate bloodshed throughout the realm. Such an outcome could not be permitted.

The Riverlands were situated at the perfect distance—neither too remote nor too proximate. Just right.

Tyrion recognized that their pace could not be slackened. "At the very least," he bargained, "teach me the magic that grants such speed and endurance to Rain and Snowball."

He began rolling dramatically upon the frozen earth, suggesting he would not surrender until his demand was met.

Joffrey glared at him with mild annoyance. It seemed these three rune energies could not be conserved after all. "Rise, and I shall grant your request."

Tyrion sprang to his feet with surprising agility, executing a perfect backward somersault that belied his earlier distress.

Joffrey extended his hand and transferred a recovery rune mirror image to his uncle's consciousness.

After a brief respite, the company resumed their journey northward.

Upon the lion's broad back, Joffrey removed several leaves from a small pouch and channeled his rune energy through them.

These leaves had been taken from the three Children of the Forest whom they had released, enabling him to monitor their movements at will.

Whether Bloodraven truly lacked concern for them or simply possessed insufficient power to intervene, the three Children had safely returned to their tribal home the previous day.

At present, the Children of the Forest were gathering within the cave that housed their leader's weirwood throne.

"Leaf," Joffrey requested, "please translate once more for me."

He shared the visions and sounds from the distant homeland with Leaf, who in turn rendered the conversation into Common Tongue for Joffrey's benefit.

Together they observed the unfolding scene.

Deep within the mountain, dim cave walls stood draped with pale, ancient weirwood roots that resembled white serpents or the limbs of pallid corpses.

The weirwood presence was not alone in that sacred space.

Various beasts lay quietly at the entrances to the numerous passages that connected to the central cavern, while smaller creatures and birds moved freely within, seemingly untroubled by the perpetual gloom.

The assembled Children of the Forest watched them in reverent silence.

A portion of the deceased Children of the Forest continued their existence within these animals—they were both companions and kin: brothers, sisters, fathers, and mothers reborn in different forms.

At length, the Children began to speak, their voices melodious yet solemn.

"Three of our people have departed from our protection."

"We should never have abandoned our final homeland. The South is no longer our rightful dwelling place—it brims with danger and deception."

"Indeed. The oaths of humans hold less substance than morning mist."

"I have no desire to venture forth."

"The last Greenseer resides here with us. Where else might we seek refuge? This represents our final sanctuary."

The assembled voices uniformly expressed resistance and apprehension regarding the South and the prospect of leaving their ancestral territory.

Bloodraven, perched upon his weirwood throne, quietly closed his single red eye.

Leaf observed that all sixty-three singers of the tribe had gathered—something that had not occurred in living memory.

Joffrey displayed no disappointment at the proceedings.

Fewer than half of the singers had voiced their opinions aloud; the remainder either nodded in silent agreement or lowered their gazes to the earthen floor.

He awaited the inevitable dissenting voice.

A female singer with eyes of mingled red and gold rose to her feet. "I must express a different view," she announced.

All eyes turned toward her.

Her tone carried a mournful quality. "My kindred, look around you—observe what remains of our once-great tribe. What weapons do we possess to withstand the cold god of the North?"

Bloodraven slowly opened his eye at her words.

"Only through alliance with humans might our lineage continue," she insisted. "We cannot surrender hope, however faint it may appear. I am prepared to journey southward and attempt to forge bonds with mankind!"

She directed her luminous gaze toward the ancient figure upon the throne. "Greenseer, I implore you to permit my departure from our homeland. Our tribe requires human assistance if we are to endure."

The assembled singers exchanged uncertain glances before seven of their number slowly moved to stand beside her, awaiting the Greenseer's judgment.

Joffrey found himself curious as to how Bloodraven would respond.

Would he suppress this movement? Though born human, Bloodraven now faced more than sixty Children of the Forest. Did he possess sufficient authority to counter their will?

Would he reject their proposal? Such denial would breed discontent or even outright rebellion among the Children, potentially undermining Bloodraven's influence.

Or would he agree? This might preserve his standing temporarily, but would scatter the Children's power, effectively weakening a potential adversary.

Bloodraven closed his eye and maintained his silence.

This non-response constituted an answer in itself.

The female singer offered a leaf in tribute to the Greenseer, then led her seven followers into another, somewhat brighter cave passage—the route that would carry them to the surface world.

Joffrey terminated the magical connection.

Leaf seemed to regard the Greenseer with renewed trust. "Your Highness, the Greenseer appears to have abandoned any designs against you. Perhaps all living creatures might unite to confront the cold god."

Joffrey chuckled softly. "Perhaps."

Privately, he vowed that should this crow dare to interfere with his plans again, he would ensure its destruction even before confronting the White Walkers.

As evening approached, the towers of Winterfell appeared on the horizon.

Tyrion, no longer seeming perturbed by their journey, affected an injured tone. "I believe I comprehend your priorities at last—even the rain holds greater significance than my comfort! Had you imparted this magical knowledge earlier, we need not have wasted time stopping here tonight."

The dwarf had already experienced the remarkable effectiveness of the recovery rune energy.

Could it prove useful when bedding women to relieve subsequent fatigue? he wondered.

He resolved to conduct this experiment before the night was through.

That establishment in Winter Town had housed a particularly pleasing wench with fiery hair. What was her name? Ah yes, he remembered—Ros.

Joffrey urged the company forward once more. "Remember what I have instructed you all to say. We must convey an impression of great anxiety. Winterfell must be made to understand the peril it faces."

He fixed Leaf with a meaningful stare. "The gods have granted me a vision. To amass sufficient strength against the cold god without delay, I must set aside personal considerations and sacrifice for the greater good. Surely you understand this necessity?"

Leaf recognized that humans had a propensity for deception, but had not anticipated such brazen falsehood.

"You represent a crucial element in our design," Joffrey assured her earnestly. "Your performance may determine success or failure in this enterprise, influencing the fate of countless lives. You must prioritize our shared objective above all else."

Leaf silently beseeched the Nameless Gods for forgiveness.

Rain and Snowball carried them directly to Winter Town, which sprawled outside Winterfell's imposing walls.

The settlement served as a haven for smallfolk seeking shelter before winter's onset, capable of housing hundreds of thousands when fully occupied. Currently, less than one-fifth of its dwellings showed signs of habitation.

Tyrion wondered with bemusement what the Northmen considered winter, if the present landscape—blanketed entirely in ice and snow—represented summer in their estimation.

They approached the town's central square.

Following Joffrey's instructions, Leaf and her two companions made no effort to conceal their distinctive forms. This, combined with the terrifying dimensions of the lion and snow bear, ensured that Winter Town rapidly descended into chaos.

Screams and shouts rose like startled birds from a thicket.

"Monsters!"

"Flesh-eating goblins!"

Adults fearfully pulled their children into nearby houses, barring doors and shuttering windows. Only a handful of children, momentarily beyond parental supervision, regarded the strange procession with unconcealed fascination.

Thump, thump, thump.

The gates of Winterfell swung open, and armed men rode forth to confront the disturbance.

Joffrey recognized the elderly knight who led them—Ser Rodrik Cassel, master-at-arms of Winterfell, his great white whiskers unmistakable even at a distance.

Joffrey began to cultivate an expression of deep concern.

"Your Highness," the old knight began, his eyes widening at the sight of the Lannister prince atop a massive lion, "Winterfell welcomes you—"

Joffrey seized the knight's arm, cutting off his formal greeting. "We've no time for pleasantries, Ser Rodrik. A matter of grave urgency demands immediate attention. Take me to Lady Catelyn without delay!"

The aged knight noted the carefully crafted anxiety and panic in the Crown Prince's features.

His gaze shifted to the diminutive figures accompanying the royal visitor.

By the old gods and the new, he thought, the Children of the Forest walk among us once more.

...

==============================================

Support me at p@treon.com/goldengaruda and check out more chapter of this or more early access chapter of my other fanfic translation.

=============================================