Night comes fast in the Wolfswood.
One moment the forest is dim; the next it swallows every trace of light. The trees grow impossibly tall and black, blotting out the dying sky.
Aeryon and Rodrik guide their horses into a clearing barely big enough for a campfire—an old hollow with a ring of boulders and a fallen oak in its center.
Rodrik dismounts with shaky legs.
"We sleep in shifts," he mutters. "If that thing comes near us—"
"It already did," Aeryon reminds him.
Rodrik shoots him a murderous glare.
"Aye, and I didn't sleep a finger-width since."
Aeryon takes out flint and steel, kneeling beside the logs Rodrik drops to the ground.
Rodrik keeps glancing at the trees.
"Don't know why you're strikin' a fire. Shouldn't draw attention—"
"It's already watching us," Aeryon says. "Fire may keep it from getting too close."
Rodrik freezes mid-step.
"…Too close?"
Aeryon strikes the flint. Sparks catch. Flame curls upward.
Rodrik whispers, "You talk like you understand the damn thing."
Aeryon doesn't answer.
---
The fire crackles to life.
Warmth spreads in small pulses, pushing back the cold just enough to feel human again. Rodrik sits with his sword laid across his lap, staring at the dark.
Aeryon takes out the dried bread Rodrik bought in Birchwatch.
They eat in silence.
The forest does not.
Crackling branches.
Faint rustles.
Whispers of wind moving between the pines.
Rodrik tenses at every sound.
Every shift in shadow.
Aeryon remains still, but the UI pulses behind his eyes.
[OBSERVER: CLOSE — BEHIND THE OAK LOG]
He glances at the hollowed-out trunk.
Something crouches behind it.
Rodrik follows his gaze—and his breath stops.
A small, pale hand curls over the edge of the log.
Then another.
The greenseer child pulls itself up like a spider climbing from a crevice—slow, deliberate.
Rodrik's hand flies to his sword.
Aeryon grabs his wrist.
Firm.
"No."
Rodrik's voice shakes.
"It's right THERE."
The child crouches atop the fallen oak, knees tucked, head cocked at an unnatural angle as it studies them in the firelight.
No fear.
No blinking.
Just interest.
Slowly, it lowers itself into a sitting position, legs crossing like it's mimicking how Aeryon sits.
Rodrik whispers:
"Why's it doin' that? Why's it COPYING you?"
Aeryon keeps his gaze level.
"Curiosity."
Rodrik shakes his head.
"No child mimics like that."
"It's not a child."
Rodrik swallows hard but doesn't argue.
The greenseer child crawls forward an inch.
Then another.
Aeryon lifts a hand and shakes his head once.
The child freezes.
Rodrik's heart thuds loud enough for Aeryon to hear.
"Gods… it's listenin' to you."
Aeryon watches it closely.
"It recognizes intent," he says quietly. "Not commands."
The child exhales, long and shaky, like a shivering animal.
Its eyes reflect the firelight—silver and sharp, like ice under torchlight.
It speaks.
Or tries to.
"…Aeh…yon…"
Rodrik nearly drops his sword.
The creature leans forward again.
But this time—
not toward Aeryon.
Its head snaps toward Rodrik, nostrils flaring.
It smells fear.
Rodrik stiffens.
The child's fingers curl.
Its spine arches.
Its lips part with a low, guttural hiss—
like ice cracking under pressure.
Aeryon moves instantly.
He steps between Rodrik and the creature.
Quiet.
Deliberate.
Controlled.
The greenseer child freezes mid-hiss.
Its eyes flick up to his.
Recognition.
Confusion.
Then something like… regret.
It stops hissing.
Rodrik's whisper is barely audible:
"…Why did it stop?"
Aeryon answers softly.
"Because I stepped in its way."
Rodrik looks sick to his stomach.
"You're tellin' me that thing sees you… as what? A parent?"
Aeryon shakes his head.
"No. Something else."
The creature shifts again—
not threatening now—
but trembling.
As if it wants to go closer to the fire but is afraid of the heat.
It lifts one hand toward Aeryon.
Not touching him.
Just hovering.
Waiting.
Rodrik's fingers twitch on his sword.
"Don't you dare let it touch you…"
Aeryon remains still.
The child inches closer—
but then—
A snap of branches far behind them.
Loud.
Heavy.
Rodrik jerks around.
"Wolves?"
Aeryon looks too.
The child reacts instantly—
It leaps backward, curling into a crouch behind the log, staring toward the darkness not with curiosity—
but terror.
Rodrik trembles.
"I've never seen somethin' move that fast."
The UI pulses again.
[OBSERVER: FAR — LOSING LINE OF SIGHT]
The child isn't watching them anymore.
It's watching the forest.
Something out there frightened it.
That thought chills Aeryon more than anything yet.
If that thing is scared—
what else is moving out here?
Rodrik whispers:
"…Aeryon? Why's it hidin'? What scared it?"
Aeryon looks into the forest.
Black. Silent. Endless.
"I don't know," he says quietly.
But the child trembles behind the log, eyes wide, breath shaking, whispering one word under its breath—
Not Aeryon's name.
Something older.
Something primal.
Something it fears
The fire cracks once, sharply—
and then it gutters low, as if something sucked the heat right out of it.
Rodrik notices immediately.
"Hells…" He moves closer to the flames. "Why'd it dim like that?"
Aeryon doesn't answer.
Because he feels it too.
A slow, creeping cold—
not carried by wind,
not rising from snow,
but sinking from everywhere at once.
The kind of cold that feels aware.
Behind the fallen oak, the greenseer child trembles.
Its wide eyes are locked on a stretch of forest twenty yards away where the darkness seems unnaturally thick.
Rodrik turns toward the same direction—and curses.
"That… that's not normal shadow."
He's right.
The dark gathers too quickly, too densely, settling like a heavy curtain over the branches. Aeryon watches his breath spill into the air—
not a misty puff,
but a heavy cloud that curls downward like smoke.
The UI flickers urgently.
[UNNATURAL TEMPERATURE DROP — SEVERE]
[UNKNOWN PRESENCE — DETECTED]
Rodrik grips his sword, voice cracking:
"Aeryon… what's out there?"
The greenseer child whispers again.
A sound thin as cracked ice:
"…cooold…"
Rodrik wheels toward it. "Did… did it say cold?!"
Aeryon keeps his eyes forward.
The forest stays silent.
Too silent.
No wind.
No branches shifting.
No wolf howling.
Nothing.
Just the cold.
The child presses itself back behind the log, arms wrapped around its thin ribs, rocking slightly. Not mimicking this time—
this is fear.
Raw and primal.
Rodrik whispers, "Aeryon, tell me straight—should we run?"
Aeryon answers with calm he absolutely does not feel:
"Yes."
Rodrik doesn't question it.
He grabs the horses' reins, fingers trembling.
The child peeks over the log again—
eyes wild, breath quick.
"Aeh…yon…" it whispers in warning.
It lifts one small hand and gestures—
Not beckoning.
Not mimicking.
Pointing.
Toward the darkness.
Toward what's coming.
Aeryon steps back, inching toward Quiet.
Rodrik is already in the saddle.
"Move, move—get on your horse, lad—whatever's out there ain't meant for mortal eyes—"
Aeryon swings into Quiet's saddle.
The air around them drops another ten degrees—
sharp enough to burn Aeryon's lungs.
The fire dims again, sputtering into a weak orange pulse.
And then—
from the darkness—
a sound.
Faint.
Thin.
Dragging.
Like ice cracking under something heavy.
Slow.
Measured.
Crunch.
Crunch.
Crunch.
Rodrik's eyes widen.
"No," he breathes. "No. That's not a wolf. That's not ANY animal."
Aeryon feels the forest watching.
Not the trees.
Not the child.
Something else.
Something ancient.
The greenseer child suddenly scrambles up the oak trunk in a frantic blur, climbing higher and higher until it vanishes into the thick branches above—
not looking back.
It abandons them.
Rodrik knows what that means.
"We go NOW!"
He digs in his heels and his mare lunges onto the Kingsroad.
Aeryon follows instantly, Quiet surging forward.
As they break into the road, the cold deepens once more—
a final pulse, thick and heavy, like the forest withholding breath.
Aeryon risks one look back.
There is nothing.
Just darkness.
But thicker than it should be.
Heavier.
Like something stood just at the edge of the firelight…
and stepped away.
The UI blinks:
[UNKNOWN PRESENCE LOST]
Rodrik doesn't slow.
They ride hard until the cold finally loosens its grip and the normal sounds of the forest return—the rustle of branches, distant owls, the soft wind.
Only then does Rodrik pull his horse up sharply, chest heaving.
He turns to Aeryon, face pale, voice shaking.
"What in all seven hells was that?"
Aeryon doesn't answer.
Because truthfully—
He doesn't want to say the name out loud.
Rodrik swallows.
"We're tellin' Eddard Stark the moment we reach Winterfell. I don't care if he throws us in the dungeon after—I ain't keepin' quiet about this."
Aeryon nods once.
Rodrik wipes a trembling hand across his beard.
"And that… thing in the trees? The white-eyed one?"
Aeryon looks toward the darkness behind them.
Its last whisper still echoes.
"…cold…"
"We leave it," Aeryon says quietly. "Whatever it is, whatever it wants… we leave it in the forest."
Rodrik nods shakily.
"Aye. We leave ALL of this in the forest."
They continue down the Kingsroad until the moon rises high and the cold finally fades.
But Aeryon knows this isn't the end of it.
Something old stepped south tonight.
Something that shouldn't be here.
And something else—
that pale creature with silver eyes—
knows exactly who Aeryon is.