Chapter 36: The Lord of Stone and Shadow, Whispers of the Ancient Wood

Chapter 36: The Lord of Stone and Shadow, Whispers of the Ancient Wood

Three score years had passed since the fires of the Dance of the Dragons had largely burned themselves out, leaving Westeros a realm scarred, depleted, and wary. On the isolated, storm-lashed shores of Skagos, however, a new power had taken root, unseen and unknown to the squabbling lords of the south. Rico Moretti, no, Lord Rico of House Volcārys – for he had long since shed the common name of his past life, choosing one that resonated with his fiery new domain and the Valyrian echoes in his soul – stood as the undisputed master of the Stone Isle. His fortress, Volcārys, carved into the heart of a dormant volcano, was a testament to his inhuman will and the arcane engineering Alaric had gleaned from the Valyrian scrolls.

His five dragons were magnificent, terrifying beasts. Obsidius, his firstborn, was a colossal titan of polished obsidian scales, his roar capable of shaking the very mountains, his golden eyes blazing with a fearsome intelligence that mirrored his master's. Viridiax, Nocturne, and Nymeria were formidable in their own right, a flight of shadow, jade, and sapphire fury. And finally, after years of patient, arcane nurturing in the geothermal heart of Volcārys, the pale white egg had hatched, revealing Glacian, an ethereal creature of ice and mist, his scales like frosted moonlight, his breath not fire, but a killing, crystalline frost – a true ice dragon, a legend made flesh, bound to Rico as surely as his fiery siblings. Alaric theorized that Glacian's unique nature had required the ambient cold of Skagos and a different Valyrian ritual, one focused on elemental ice rather than fire, which Rico, with his vastly expanded magical reserves and intuitive understanding, had successfully deciphered and performed.

Rico himself was a figure of awe and terror to his few chosen followers. His human form remained, but it was an increasingly thin veneer over the draconic demigod within. His lifespan, he knew, now stretched for centuries, the petty concerns of mortal men fading into insignificance. His strength could shatter boulders, his senses perceive the world with an almost divine clarity, his will could command dragons and, increasingly, the very elements around his volcanic lair. The six dragon essences, three Targaryen souls, and countless lesser jēdars within him had coalesced into a power that was terrifyingly unique, a new Valyria embodied in a single being.

But even this was not enough. His ultimate ambition, whispered to him by the most ancient and powerful of the draconic consciousnesses within (Vhagar's, perhaps, or even the collective echo of Old Valyria itself from the scrolls), was true apotheosis: to transcend even the long life of a dragon, to attain a power that would make him a god, eternal and absolute.

And for that, he needed the Children of the Forest.

His Game of Thrones lore spoke of their immense longevity, their deep connection to the old gods, their potent nature magic – greenseeing, warging, the ability to shape wood and stone. Alaric, after decades of painstaking research into the rarest texts Rico's Essosi network could procure (alongside what little Winterfell might offer), confirmed these whispers. The Children, though believed extinct or faded into myth by most of Westeros, were rumored to live for thousands, even tens of thousands of years. Their essence, Rico knew, would be the next great catalyst in his ascent.

"Winterfell," Rico announced one grim Skagosi morning, the wind howling like a hungry wolf outside the obsidian walls of Volcārys. His inner circle – an aged but still sharp Alaric, a grey-muzzled but no less lethal Jax, a timelessly silent Shiv, a weathered Vorian, a mature and deeply attuned Harl, a perpetually nervous but brilliant Mathis, and a Lyra whose beauty now held an unnerving, ageless quality thanks to her own alchemical pursuits (and perhaps, Rico's subtle draconic influence) – looked at him in surprise.

"The Starks, my Lord Dragon?" Alaric queried, his voice thin but steady. "They are… insular. And the North remembers slights, even imagined ones, against their sovereignty over islands like Skagos."

"Precisely, Maester," Rico said, a slow, predatory smile touching his lips. His eyes, now almost permanently flecked with gold and an icy silver that mirrored Glacian's scales, narrowed. "We are Lord Rico Volcārys, the first of a new House, master of a Skagos now… pacified… and willing to acknowledge the ancient fealty owed to the Wardens of the North. We seek recognition, trade, peaceful coexistence."

Jax snorted. "Peaceful? Since when do we do peaceful, boss… er, My Lord?"

"Since it serves as the perfect cloak for our true purpose, Jax," Rico replied. "Winterfell boasts one of the oldest and most extensive libraries in Westeros, second only perhaps to the Citadel, but far less… scrutinized. It is there, amidst their dusty chronicles of First Men and ancient kings, that we will find the true knowledge of the Children, their magic, their hidden enclaves."

The preparations were meticulous. Perwyn, now an aged but still peerlessly skilled forger, crafted a new identity for Rico: Lord Volcārys of Skagos, a stern, reclusive, but undeniably civilized ruler of a new House, with a fabricated lineage stretching back to a (fictitious) Valyrian exile who had found refuge on the Stone Isle centuries ago. He created elaborate heraldry – a black volcano erupting with silver fire, on a field of icy blue. Gifts were prepared: rare Skagosi furs, obsidian carvings, even a small tribute of gold sourced from a newly discovered vein within their mountain fortress (Mathis overseeing its "legitimate" accounting).

His dragons would remain on Skagos, their existence still a fiercely guarded secret. Harl, his bond with the beasts second only to Rico's, would be their chief caretaker, aided by a cadre of Skagosi thralls now fanatically loyal to their Dragonlord. Obsidius, largest and most intelligent, would be acting alpha, his telepathic link with Rico strong enough to span considerable distances if needed, a silent reassurance of his master's power.

Rico's delegation to Winterfell was small but potent: Alaric, as his scholarly maester and advisor, his age and learning lending him an air of gravitas (he would need to feign more conventional maester-like knowledge); Shiv and Vorian, as his stoic, formidable household guard, their lethality hidden beneath plain Northern leathers; and a handful of Rico's most disciplined Skagosi warriors, cleaned up and presented as his "House Guard," their savage appearance intended to be both intimidating and a testament to his "civilizing" influence.

The journey from Skagos was made aboard a swift, dark-hulled ship of Rico's own design, forged in his volcanic lair, its sails bearing the new sigil of House Volcārys. They landed at a small, forgotten fishing village on the northern coast, then proceeded overland, a grim, silent procession moving through the vast, sparsely populated lands of the North. The air was cleaner here, colder, the landscape a stark tapestry of ancient forests, rolling hills, and distant, snow-capped peaks. Rico, his draconic senses drinking it all in, felt a primal connection to this ancient, untamed land, so different from the squalor of King's Landing or the volcanic desolation of his Skagosi home.

Winterfell, when they finally reached it, was a colossal, grey stone fortress, ancient and formidable, its very walls seeming to exude an aura of grim, unyielding strength. The current Lord Stark – a descendant of the legendary Cregan Stark, perhaps his grandson or great-grandson, a man named Jonnel, stern, wary, and deeply suspicious of any southerner, let alone a self-proclaimed Lord of Skagos – received them in the Great Hall, surrounded by his household knights and bannermen.

The presentation of Lord "Rico Volcārys" of Skagos was a masterpiece of calculated theatre. Rico, his draconic power carefully shielded beneath an aura of cold, aristocratic reserve, played the part of a stern, pragmatic ruler from a harsh land. He spoke of his (fictitious) ancestors, of his desire to bring Skagos into the fold of civilized Westeros, to pledge fealty to House Stark in exchange for recognition and peaceful trade. He offered his gifts, which were received with a grudging Northern courtesy.

Lord Jonnel Stark was a man of few words, his eyes like chips of winter ice. "Skagos has long been a thorn in the North's side, Lord Volcārys," he said, his voice a low rumble. "A den of savages and pirates. You claim to have tamed it? To have forged a House from its stones? These are bold words."

"The North values deeds, not words, Lord Stark," Rico replied, his gaze unwavering. "My deeds on Skagos speak for themselves. The Stone Men now bend the knee, or they are broken. I offer you their fealty, and my own, as your vassal."

The negotiations were tense, drawn out over several days. The Starks were suspicious, but also intrigued. Skagos, if truly pacified, could be a valuable asset, a northern bulwark. Rico, using the diplomatic cunning absorbed from countless courtiers and politicians (and the sheer force of his will, subtly projected), gradually wore down their resistance. He offered favorable trade agreements – rare Skagosi minerals and obsidian for Northern timber and grain. He even, as a show of "good faith," offered a contingent of his Skagosi warriors to help patrol the troubled regions near the Gift, a gesture that impressed the pragmatic Northerners.

While Rico engaged in this diplomatic dance, Alaric, under the guise of a frail scholar eager to study ancient Northern genealogies and histories, requested access to Winterfell's famed library. The Maester of Winterfell, a dour, suspicious man named Yorrick, granted it reluctantly, assigning a watchful acolyte to oversee Alaric's research.

The Winterfell library was a treasure trove, its shelves groaning under the weight of ancient, leather-bound tomes, crumbling scrolls, and forgotten chronicles. Alaric, guided by Rico's specific, telepathically communicated instructions, focused his search on the oldest, most obscure texts – those dealing with the First Men, the Old Gods, the age of myth before the coming of the Andals.

And there, hidden amidst tales of direwolves and giants, they found them: whispers of the Children of the Forest. Sīkudārys Jēdari – "Those of the Secret Essence," as one crumbling Valyrian fragment (likely brought north by some Targaryen bride centuries ago) referred to them. The texts spoke of their incredible longevity, measured not in years, but in the turning of seasons across millennia. They described their unique magic: the ability to speak with animals, to weave illusions from leaf and shadow, to see through the eyes of the weirwood trees (greenseeing), and, most tantalizingly, to warg, to project their consciousness into beasts, even, some whispered, into other men. Their connection to the natural world, to the very lifeblood of the earth, was said to be profound, almost divine.

The texts also spoke of their decline, of their retreat into the deepest forests, into hidden cave systems, into the lands beyond the Wall, fleeing the iron and ambition of men. But there were hints, obscure clues, of enclaves that might still exist, particularly in the vast, unexplored Wolfswood, or on the mystical Isle of Faces in the Gods Eye (a place Rico knew well, and a shiver of resonance went through him as he recalled the ancient power he had felt there).

"They are not mere legend, My Lord Dragon," Alaric reported to Rico in one of their discreet, mind-to-mind communications, his scholarly excitement barely contained. "The evidence is fragmented, shrouded in myth, but it is there. They possessed, or perhaps still possess, a form of nature magic, a connection to life-essence, that is fundamentally different from the fire and blood magic of Valyria. Their lifespan… it seems tied to the very lifespan of the ancient weirwoods themselves, thousands upon thousands of years. To absorb such an essence…"

Rico's ambition, already a colossal, world-spanning thing, took on a new, even more terrifying dimension. The power of dragons, the knowledge of Valyria – these were potent, yes. But the longevity, the deep, primal earth magic of the Children… that was a path to true godhood, to an existence that would make even his draconic lifespan seem fleeting.

He pressed Alaric to find more: maps, specific locations, rituals of contact. Yorrick, the Winterfell Maester, grew increasingly suspicious of Alaric's obsessive focus on these "pagan fables," but Alaric, feigning dotage and harmless scholarly eccentricity, managed to deflect his concerns, while Perwyn (who had remained on Skagos but whose skills were invaluable even at a distance, via raven-carried instructions) forged convincing "ancient Northern runic charts" that Alaric could "discover" and present as justifications for his research direction.

During his stay in Winterfell, Rico himself subtly used his enhanced abilities to glean more information. His draconic senses picked up on hushed conversations amongst the Stark household, ancient superstitions, local legends of strange creatures seen in the depths of the Wolfswood. He even, during a formal feast, managed to make brief, almost imperceptible skin contact with Lord Jonnel Stark, absorbing a fleeting, surface-level essence of the man – nothing that would harm him, but enough to gain a deeper understanding of Stark stubbornness, their fierce honor, their deep connection to the North, and, crucially, their genuine ignorance of any living Children of the Forest. The Starks, for all their ancient lineage, were blind to the true magic that still slumbered in their lands.

Finally, after weeks of painstaking research, Alaric uncovered what they had been seeking: a series of interconnected passages in a near-forgotten chronicle penned by a mad Septon who had travelled extensively in the North centuries ago. The Septon spoke of a hidden weirwood grove, deep within the most ancient, unexplored part of the Wolfswood, a place where he claimed to have witnessed "small, dark-eyed folk who sang to the trees and commanded beasts with their thoughts." He provided crude, almost unintelligible directions, based on star alignments and natural landmarks. It was a flimsy lead, a madman's tale, but it was the most concrete clue they had.

Rico had achieved his objectives. Lord Jonnel Stark, after much deliberation and influenced by Rico's carefully crafted persona of a stern but honorable vassal, had grudgingly granted House Volcārys of Skagos official recognition, accepting their pledge of fealty and establishing formal (if limited) trade. The North now officially acknowledged a new, powerful, and utterly unknown entity on its northernmost fringe. And Rico had the information he needed to begin his next hunt.

As he and his retinue prepared to depart Winterfell, Lord Stark, in a rare moment of almost grudging respect, offered him a parting gift: a young, unweaned direwolf pup, found orphaned in the Wolfswood, its fur the color of shadow, its eyes like chips of ice. "A true beast of the North, Lord Volcārys," Stark had rumbled. "May it serve your new House well, as a symbol of its ties to the old ways."

Rico accepted the pup, its fierce, untamed spirit resonating with his own. He saw not just a beast, but a potential conduit, a link to the very nature magic he now sought.

They journeyed back to their ship, leaving behind a Winterfell that was both relieved and vaguely unsettled by its encounter with the enigmatic Lord of Skagos. The Starks had no inkling of the true nature of the power they had just formally acknowledged, no idea of the god-monster who now plotted to unearth their land's most ancient secrets.

Aboard The Shadowwing, sailing south along the coast before turning east towards the Shivering Sea and Skagos, Rico looked towards the vast, dark expanse of the Wolfswood. His five dragons awaited him, their power growing daily. His fortress of Volcārys was a beacon of his burgeoning empire. But his gaze, and his ambition, were now fixed on a new, even more ancient, and far more elusive prize.

The Children of the Forest. Their ten-thousand-year lifespan. Their communion with nature. Their deep, primal magic.

Rico Moretti, the Dragonlord of Skagos, smiled. The hunt for godhood had truly begun. The ancient wood whispered his name, and he was coming to claim its soul.