"Cregan, Cregan! Make haste, brother. Ned will arrive at the gates at any moment now." Benjen shouted while standing beside a room inside the Great Keep of Winterfell.
When Benjen received no response, he shouted again, his voice growing more urgent. Failing to elicit a reply, he resorted to knocking forcefully on the door, which swung open to reveal an empty and abandoned chamber.
"Where in the name of the Old Gods has he gone at this hour?" Benjen sighed, rubbing his forehead in slight annoyance. He had noticed a significant change in Cregan's behavior over the past moon or so. After recovering from his illness and fever, the nine-year-old had become increasingly strange and reserved. Unlike before, Cregan now kept to himself and disappeared for extended periods every single day, leaving Benjen both perplexed and concerned.
Descending the stone steps of the keep, Benjen sought out the guards stationed at its entrance. With a furrowed brow, he inquired about Cregan's whereabouts.
"M'lord," the young guard continued, "we didn't see him ourselves, as he woke up quite early before our shift began, and he ventured outside. The guards who were on night vigil reported seeing him walking toward the Godswood today."
"Godswood? You arrived here at the break of dawn, correct? Did he venture into the Godswood even before that?" Benjen inquired, his astonishment deepening.
"Yes, m'lord," the young guard confirmed. "At the hour of the nightingale, to be specific. In fact, for the past few days, young Lord Cregan has been waking up unusually early and visiting the Godswood quite frequently," the guard disclosed to the acting Lord of Winterfell.
Benjen was astounded by this revelation. Even he, didn't rise at such an early hour. Yet, for the past couple of weeks, Cregan had been doing so regularly. Despite the waning of winter a few moons ago, the nights remained bitterly cold in the North. With a sense of urgency, Benjen made his way swiftly toward the Godswood.
The Godswood of Winterfell, surrounded by towering walls, offered access through a main iron gate and smaller wooden entrances. The primary Ironwood Gate remained shut, only opened during celebratory events like weddings. Benjen, seeking entrance, chose the smaller wooden gate.
Within the ancient Godswood, untouched for ten thousand years, a dense canopy of close-knit trees sprawled over three acres of packed earth. Winterfell's castle was constructed around this sacred grove. At its heart, an ancient weirwood tree stood sentinel, its bark etched with a face, overseeing a pool of black water.
Approaching Cregan, Benjen spoke, "Last night, I explicitly mentioned that our brother would be arriving today, and it was your duty to join me at the gates to welcome him and our dear sister," Benjen emphasized, his tone a blend of exasperation and worry.
Cregan sat cross-legged on a wooden stump, his back turned to the Heart Tree. His eyes were closed, hands joined in a mysterious gesture, and lips moved slowly, as if chanting words inaudible to Benjen.
"Cregan?" Benjen furrowed his brow and called out to his brother once more.
However, the boy remained unresponsive, engrossed in his ritual as if deaf to the world around him.
"Cregan!!" Benjen's voice echoed, this time a loud and urgent cry.
The shouting finally broke Cregan's trance, causing him to jolt and snap his eyes open. Those same grey eyes, famous among the Starks, now displayed irritation at the abrupt interruption.
"Please, do explain why you're sitting here all alone in the Godswood," Benjen inquired, his concern evident in his voice.
"And what, pray tell, were you doing just now?" Benjen probed further, his curiosity piqued by Cregan's peculiar behavior.
Cregan remained silent for a moment, then slowly turned to face Benjen. He extended his hand to touch the weirwood tree's bleeding face. The face, etched onto the ancient tree, was undeniably familiar to Benjen. Yet, as he looked upon it this time, a subtle shift in its expression left him with an inexplicable sense of unease.
'What in the... The face! It's smiling!' Benjen's astonishment was palpable. The countenance, believed to be carved by the Children of the Forest on the weirwood tree, now bore the warmth of a benevolent elder. It was a sight that shook Benjen to his core. As he observed more closely, he couldn't deny that the entire weirwood seemed to exude a vibrancy, as though it were filled with a peculiar, almost jubilant energy.
Benjen's thoughts were in disarray. 'What in the world...'
Cregan, now looking at his brother with an innocent gaze, spoke up, breaking the silence. "Brother, I was meditating and thanking the Old Gods for aiding in my recovery."
"What?" Benjen exclaimed, utterly perplexed.
Cregan replied matter-of-factly, "You inquired about my presence here, and I told you. I was meditating and expressing gratitude to the Old Gods for restoring my health. I've also been communicating with them." His words flowed effortlessly, leaving Benjen even more bewildered.
'Communicating with the Old Gods, he says...' Benjen wrestled with his thoughts. While the notion of meditation and gratitude toward the gods seemed reasonable, the idea of communicating with the Heart tree appeared preposterous. Nevertheless, an inexplicable inkling told Benjen that there might be some truth in Cregan's claims.
'Is he truly conversing with them? No, that cannot be. He's just a child. It must be his imagination,' Benjen reasoned. However, the memory of the smiling face on the weirwood tree lingered, casting doubt on his skepticism.
"The face? Why is it smiling? It wasn't like that before," Benjen inquired with haste. He couldn't dismiss the sight before him as mere illusion. The smiling face on the weirwood tree was undeniable.
Cregan responded casually, as though it were an everyday occurrence, "Why are you surprised, Brother? They're smiling because they enjoyed the joke I shared with them."
Benjen was left speechless, his gaze shifting incredulously between his brother and the weirwood tree's animated face.
"You're not trying to jest with your brother, are you?" he finally managed to ask.
Cregan's response was earnest, "No, why would I do that? I'm merely stating the truth. Although, I would advise against sharing about my conversations with the Weirwood tree with anyone else," he added, a note of caution in his voice.
"I would prefer to keep it a secret between us," Cregan continued, now with a small smile on his face. "You see, the smallfolk and other nobles outside Winterfell might consider me either mad or a liar, or perhaps both," he added, acknowledging the potential disbelief and skepticism that would greet his remarkable claims.
Before Benjen could utter another word, Cregan glanced over his shoulder and remarked, "Oh, it seems our brother's entourage is about to arrive. Let's not waste any more time here; we should go and welcome them. Come on, don't dawdle. It wouldn't reflect well on us, Starks, if we're late!" With a playful pat on his bum, Cregan swiftly moved past Benjen and headed for the Godswood exit, leaving his older brother with a multitude of unanswered questions.
"That's what I should be saying, you little rascal," Benjen grumbled softly under his breath as he watched his younger brother's retreating figure. When he cast his gaze back toward the weirwood tree, the face carved into the ancient bark still wore a tranquil smile.
"Gods... could they truly be there?" Benjen wondered aloud, his thoughts drifting to the memory of his departed sister Lyanna, his father Rickard, and his elder brother Brandon.
"Why, if the Gods are real, did they take them away from us?" Benjen pondered with a heavy heart, the weight of loss and unanswered questions pressing upon him.
. . .
Cregan let out a sigh of relief when left he Benjen behind and exited the Godswood. If he was interrupted by anyone else, Cregan would have been highly mad and made his mission to make that person's life miserable for a whole month. But it had to be his brother Benjen to come and disturb him when he was trying to maintain a link with the weirwood tree and practice his magic as he had been doing for the past two weeks or sennight after waking up in this fantasy world of Goerge R. R. Martin.
Yes, you heard it right. Cregan or William as he was known in his previous life on Earth, had died at the age of sixty-nine while trying to help the police in catching a man running in his direction.
Being an ex-marine and ex-mercenary with mastery in Taekwondo, Judo, boxing, Jui-Jitsu and other martial arts, William had thought it would be easy to take down a man looking like he was about fall down due to exhaustion from running and he was right. It was easy, even for someone like him whose age and old injuries made it difficult to contest with younger men in strength, to take the man down. Just his leg was enough to trip the poor man into falling face-first on the ground.
William couldn't deny the satisfaction he felt in that moment for assisting the police in capturing what appeared to be a criminal – a thief, a robber, a murderer, or whatever this man may have been. However, that sense of accomplishment didn't last long, and for a distressing reason.
The man whom William had tripped turned to look at him with fiery, angry eyes, as if he regarded William as the worst possible offender, someone who had wronged him in the most despicable way. Possibly, like fucking his mother.
But then, it was as if the man had resigned himself to his fate. He glanced behind him, where the police were mere meters away, closing in on him. The man mumbled something under his breath, and with a swift movement to his pocket, a powerful blast erupted on the sidewalk they stood upon.
Poor William, who had envisioned a couple more decades of life filled with youthful adventures alongside young girls and Milfs, found himself at the receiving end of the blast. The explosion, though not substantial, proved sufficient to send William on a journey to the afterlife, along with the man responsible for the detonation.
But what was death really like? William had often believed that it would be akin to drifting off into a dreamless slumber, never to awaken. Oh, how wrong he had been, for just moments after the blast, he discovered himself inhabiting the body of a young boy, nestled on a bed within an unfamiliar room. It was akin to the blink of an eye, a transition as swift and bewildering as the flicker of light.
For a brief span of time, William, who had now assumed the identity of Cregan, remained utterly still. His mind was embroiled in a fierce battle, contending with the vivid recollections of his own death, interspersed with memories of a boy who felt both unfamiliar and strangely recognizable. This duality pertained to both his previous self and his newfound existence.
"Bugger me sideways! I'm a Stark of Winterfell," he exclaimed in a mix of astonishment and disbelief, finally coming to terms with the reality of his current situation.
OOO
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