Chapter 37: The Weirwood's Call, A Harvest of Ancient Souls

Chapter 37: The Weirwood's Call, A Harvest of Ancient Souls

The lore of Winterfell's ancient library, for all its dusty wisdom, had provided mere breadcrumbs. It spoke of the Children of the Forest in hushed, mythic tones, their locations vague, their continued existence uncertain. But Rico Moretti possessed a map far more precise, etched not on crumbling parchment, but in the indelible memories of a life lived in another world, a world where the sagas of Westeros were but stories. He recalled with chilling clarity the tales of Bran Stark, of the perilous journey beyond the Wall, of a three-eyed raven, and of a sacred weirwood grove that sheltered the last remnants of this ancient, magical race. That was his true north.

He stood before Alaric in the heart of Volcārys, the volcanic fortress on Skagos now a testament to decades of his iron will and arcane engineering. His five dragons – the colossal obsidian alpha Obsidius, the fierce green-bronze Viridiax, the swift shadow Nocturne, the sapphire-eyed Nymeria, and the ethereal ice dragon Glacian – were magnificent, terrifying creatures, their roars echoing through the mountain peaks, a symphony of his burgeoning power. Rico himself, now more dragon than man, his lifespan stretching into centuries, his senses and strength far beyond mortal ken, radiated an aura of primal, elemental force.

"The Winterfell texts hint at the Wolfswood, perhaps the Isle of Faces, Maester," Rico rumbled, his voice a low, resonant baritone that seemed to carry the weight of mountains. His golden-silver eyes, now rarely betraying any hint of their once-human blue, fixed on Alaric. "But these are but whispers, echoes. I have… a clearer vision. A certainty that burns like dragonfire within me. The true heart of their remaining power, their deepest sanctuary, lies far to the north. Beyond the Wall."

Alaric, now ancient himself, his skin like dried parchment but his intellect still razor-sharp, blanched. "Beyond the Wall, My Lord Dragon? That is the land of endless winter, of wildling savages, of… of Others, if the oldest legends hold true! To venture there…"

"Is to claim the final key to my ascension, Alaric," Rico interrupted, his voice devoid of doubt. "The Children possess a magic tied to the very essence of this world, a lifespan that makes even a dragon's seem fleeting. Their jēdar… it will grant me true immortality, a power over nature itself. It is the next, necessary step towards godhood." He did not explain the source of his certainty; Alaric had long since learned not to question the more inexplicable aspects of his master's knowledge, attributing them to his unique draconic insight or some profound Valyrian precognition.

The preparations for this expedition into the frozen abyss were meticulous, reflecting the terrifying stakes. This was not a mere raid or a political gambit; it was a hunt for the souls of an ancient race, a sacrilegious quest for divine power.

His team was lean, utterly loyal, and terrifyingly effective. Shiv, his movements now so fluid and silent he seemed more shadow than man, would be their scout and assassin. Vorian, his pragmatic mind and martial skill honed by decades of service, their tactician. Jax and Grok, their aging frames now hardened like ancient oaks, their strength still prodigious (perhaps even subtly enhanced by proximity to Rico's aura and Lyra's elixirs), would be their unbreakable shield wall. Alaric, despite his age, insisted on accompanying them, armed with Valyrian scrolls, warding amulets, and a lifetime of arcane knowledge, to analyze and advise on the unique magic of the Children. Lyra provided them with specialized alchemical concoctions: potent fire-starters, elixirs to ward off extreme cold, concentrated rations that could sustain a man for days, and, at Rico's specific request, a powerful but non-lethal soporific gas designed to incapacitate without killing – for he intended to bring back living trophies.

And he would take a dragon. Not Obsidius, whose size and fiery nature would be a beacon in the frozen wastes. He chose Glacian, his magnificent ice dragon. Glacian's ethereal white scales would provide natural camouflage amidst the snow and ice, his frost breath a potent weapon against unknown threats, his very presence resonating with the cold, elemental magic of the far north. The telepathic bond between Rico and Glacian was unique, a silent communion of ice and shadow.

The other four dragons would remain to guard Volcārys, their combined might sufficient to incinerate any conceivable threat to Skagos. Harl, now a weathered, wise old man, his connection to the beasts almost spiritual, would be their keeper, his loyalty to Rico absolute.

Their departure from Skagos was a secret spectacle. Glacian, vast and shimmering under the cold northern moon, carried Rico and his chosen few in specially constructed, fur-lined howdahs strapped to his broad back. They flew north, a silent, ghostly procession, leaving behind their hidden kingdom of stone and fire, venturing into a realm of myth and legend.

Bypassing the Wall was a triviality for a creature like Glacian, who soared above its ancient, ice-caked battlements with contemptuous ease, the Night's Watch garrisons (now even more depleted and forgotten than in Rico's GoT lore) oblivious to the demigod passing overhead. They landed deep within the Haunted Forest, a realm of gnarled, ancient trees and unnerving silence.

The journey overland was brutal, a relentless assault of biting winds, blinding blizzards, and treacherous ice fields. But Rico's party was more than human. His own fire immunity (now so potent he could generate a shimmering aura of heat around himself at will) kept the worst of the cold at bay. His draconic senses guided them, piercing the blizzards, sniffing out hidden game trails, sensing the faint, almost imperceptible ley lines of ancient magic that crisscrossed this frozen wasteland. Glacian moved through the icy terrain with an eerie grace, his frost breath carving paths through snowdrifts, his presence a terrifying deterrent to the few wildling hunting parties they encountered (who fled screaming of ice demons and winter gods).

Rico's meta-knowledge guided their path. He sought not random clearings, but a specific convergence of geographical markers he recalled from Bran Stark's odyssey: a ring of sentinel peaks, a hidden valley, and at its heart, a colossal weirwood tree, its carved face ancient beyond reckoning.

After weeks of relentless travel, navigating by the pale winter sun and the cold, indifferent stars, they found it. A hidden valley, sheltered from the worst of the winds, and in its center, a weirwood grove of breathtaking antiquity. The trees were vast, their white bark like bone, their blood-red leaves rustling with unheard whispers. And at the heart of the grove, a cave mouth, like a silent scream in the mountainside, its entrance framed by the gnarled roots of the largest weirwood Rico had ever seen, its carved face weeping tears of crimson sap, its ancient eyes seeming to follow their approach with an unnerving, sentient awareness.

This was it. The sanctuary of the Children of the Forest.

Alaric gasped, clutching a warding amulet. "The magic here… it is old, My Lord Dragon… older than Valyria, older than man. It is the very breath of the earth."

Rico felt it too, a deep, resonant thrum that resonated with the draconic and Valyrian power within him, yet was utterly different – cooler, wilder, more deeply rooted in the natural world.

They dismounted from Glacian, who let out a low, guttural hiss, his icy breath misting in the frigid air, his senses clearly detecting the alien presence within. Rico ordered him to remain hidden, a silent guardian among the snow-laden peaks, ready to be called.

Rico, Shiv, Vorian, Jax, and Grok, with Alaric and Lyra slightly behind, approached the cave mouth. As they did, small figures emerged from the shadows, as if coalescing from the ancient trees themselves.

The Children of the Forest.

They were small, slender, their skin dappled like a forest floor in sunlight and shadow, their large eyes – gold, green, or the deep brown of wet earth – luminous and unsettlingly wise. They wore simple garments of woven leaves and cured hides, and carried weapons of dragonglass – obsidian spearheads, daggers, arrowheads. There were perhaps two dozen of them, their expressions wary, sorrowful, yet imbued with an unyielding, ancient dignity.

One, who seemed older, his skin like wrinkled bark, his eyes like chips of amber, stepped forward. He carried a staff of living weirwood. "Why do you come to this sacred place, Fire-Made?" The voice was not spoken aloud, but echoed directly in Rico's mind, a chorus of rustling leaves, flowing water, and ancient, sibilant whispers. They were greenseers, all of them, their consciousnesses intertwined with the weirwood net.

Rico felt a jolt. Fire-Made. They sensed his draconic nature, his Valyrian power. Deception would be difficult, perhaps impossible.

He projected his own thoughts, his will a focused beam of cold, irresistible force. "I come for your knowledge. Your longevity. Your essence."

A wave of sorrow, of ancient weariness, emanated from the Children. "You come to steal what little remains of the First Song. You are like the First Men, who drove us into shadow. Like the Andals, who burned our sacred groves."

"I am beyond Men," Rico projected back, his mental voice now carrying the full weight of his draconic and Targaryen might, an aura of terrifying power rolling off him in palpable waves. "I am the fire that will reforge this world. Your song is ending. Mine is about to begin. Yield your essence, your young, and your passing will be swift. Resist, and it will be… unpleasant."

The Children did not flinch. The elder raised his staff. "We are the Forest. We do not yield. We endure."

Illusions flickered at the edges of Rico's vision – snarling shadow-wolves, grasping thorny vines, the very ground seeming to writhe beneath his feet. The air grew heavy, filled with the buzzing of unseen insects, the whisper of a thousand angry spirits. Their nature magic, though subtle, was potent, designed to confuse, to terrify, to drive intruders mad.

But Rico was no mere human. His draconic senses burned through the illusions. His Valyrian will, amplified by six dragon souls, shattered the psychic assault. Anādrag leaped into his hand, its dark blade seeming to drink the very shadows.

"Then you will be broken," his thought-voice thundered.

The confrontation was brief, brutal, and utterly one-sided. The Children, for all their ancient magic, were not warriors. Their dragonglass weapons, deadly against the Others, shattered against Rico's shadow-steel armor or were plucked from the air by his inhuman reflexes. Shiv and Vorian moved like ghosts, their Tyroshi steel cutting down the few Children who offered physical resistance. Jax and Grok formed an unbreakable wall, their hammers crushing any animated roots or stones the Children desperately threw at them. Lyra unleashed her soporific gas, its effects less potent against the Children's unique physiology but still causing confusion and disorientation.

Rico himself moved through their ranks like an avatar of destruction, his speed and strength overwhelming. He targeted the elder greenseers first, those whose connection to the weirwood net was strongest. He didn't need to kill them with his blade, not initially. He simply laid his hands upon them, focusing his will, his insatiable hunger for jēdar.

The absorption of a Child of the Forest's essence was unlike anything he had experienced before. It was not the fiery torrent of a dragon, nor the complex tapestry of a human soul. It was like swallowing a living forest, an ancient river, a silent mountain. He felt millennia of memories, of seasons turning, of stars wheeling in unfamiliar skies. He gained an intuitive understanding of the Old Gods, of the intricate web of life that connected all things, of the deep, slow magic of the earth. Greenseeing, the ability to perceive past, present, and future through the eyes of the weirwoods, flooded his mind, a dizzying torrent of visions. The power to warg, to slip his consciousness into beasts, blossomed within him, as natural as breathing.

And their lifespan… he felt it anchor within him, a vast, almost incomprehensible extension of his already draconic longevity, stretching out not for mere centuries, but for millennia, for tens of thousands of years, an existence that bordered on true immortality.

He took three of the elders this way, their ancient bodies crumbling to dust as their life-essence was drawn into him. Each absorption deepened his connection to the natural world, expanded his magical reserves into new, uncharted territories of earth and nature magic, and solidified his near-eternal lifespan. The remaining adult Children, seeing the fate of their elders, their illusions shattered, their spirits broken, ceased their resistance, their large eyes filled with an unbearable, ancient sorrow.

Then came the darkest part of Rico's plan. "The young," he commanded his team, his voice now a chilling blend of human command and draconic growl, his thought-voice echoing with the rustle of dying leaves. "Find them. Bring them to me."

Shiv and Vorian, their faces impassive, moved through the deeper recesses of the cave system. They found them huddled together, a handful of young Children, their eyes wide with terror – perhaps five or six in number, their forms even smaller and more delicate than the adults.

Rico approached them. He did not absorb them. Their essence was still nascent, their knowledge limited. No, he had other plans for them. He would take them back to Skagos, to Volcārys. He would raise them, indoctrinate them, their unique connection to nature magic and the weirwood net a valuable tool for his burgeoning empire. They would be his personal greenseers, his spies in the rustling leaves and whispering winds, their loyalty forged in fear and absolute dependence. Alaric, with his scholarly patience, would be their… tutor.

They ransacked the cave, taking what few artifacts the Children possessed: intricately carved weirwood staffs, ancient obsidian blades, pouches of seeds from plants long vanished from the south, and a few crumbling scrolls written in the Children's own spidery, runic script.

As they prepared to depart, Rico turned to the remaining adult Children, now kneeling in despair amidst their desecrated sanctuary. His golden-silver eyes, burning with the cold fire of a winter star, held no pity.

"Your age is over," his thought-voice echoed through their minds. "A new power rises. You will be forgotten. Or you will serve. The choice is yours." He knew most would choose to fade with their dying weirwoods. But perhaps, one or two, broken and desperate, might choose servitude over oblivion. It mattered little to him.

They loaded their captives and their spoils onto Glacian, who had landed silently at the cave mouth, his icy presence a stark contrast to the ancient, earthy magic of the weirwood grove. The journey back to Skagos was swift, triumphant.

Rico Moretti, Lord of Volcārys, Dragonlord of the North, now possessed not only the fiery might of dragons and the arcane lore of Old Valyria, but the ancient, deep magic of the Children of the Forest and a lifespan that made him, for all intents and purposes, a god. He had five dragons, a clutch of young greenseer thralls, an unassailable fortress, an army, and wealth beyond measure.

He arrived back at Volcārys, his power a palpable, terrifying aura. His remaining human followers, and his Skagosi subjects, prostrated themselves before him, sensing the divine, monstrous transformation.

He looked out from his obsidian tower, his gaze sweeping south, towards the squabbling, bleeding realms of men. The Dance of the Dragons was a distant, fading drumbeat. The Long Night, the Others, the ancient prophecies of his GoT lore – they were all pieces on a gameboard he now felt uniquely positioned to master, or to shatter entirely.

His apotheosis was nearly complete. He was Rico, the boy from Earth. He was Moretti, the Don. He was Volcārys, the Dragonlord. He was the Fire-Made, the Soul-Drinker. And now, he was the Ancient One, touched by the timeless magic of the Children.

He was a god in the making. And his age was dawning upon the world, an age of shadow, fire, and ice.