Life Weaver chapter 44
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LW 44
The northern host did not advance further that day.
At Alaric's command, the army made camp at a measured distance from the caldera and the entrance. Far enough to avoid appearing as an immediate threat, close enough to show intent and let their hosts know they were here.
Tents rose in ordered lines. Fires were lit. Scouts spread outward in careful arcs.
But looming above them, the great stone ring of Weirstad was in everyone minds. All the gossip and whispers around the camp was about how wildings had an unassailable fortress and how they got it in the first place.
By nightfall, the camp had settled into a wary calm.
The next morning, Alaric stood near the central fire with Rogar Karstark, Osmond Manderly, and Lord Commander Tristan Mudd when movement stirred at the edge of the camp.
A small group approached.
Not an army. Not even a warband.
An envoy from Weirstad. And what a unique sight it was.
Six men came riding elks bigger than horses. All wore emerald green scale armor with darkened edges.The armor was unique in design as the all the scales seemed to be tied in intricate knots and the design clearly emphasized mobility and functionality over protection. Their helmets were also similar with a face plate mask with a fierce expression. All carried glaives , short swords, a shield and bows with extra set of quivers on their mounts.
Perhaps the most normal thing about was the banner being held by one of them. It was obviously their sigil as it was a red and white heart tree in a black circle that had zig zag points like a mountain.
They came without and visibly drawn weapons, their pace unhurried, their posture calm. At their center rode another dressed similarly apart from a having a red plume atop his helmet probably signifying rank.
The guards shifted, hands near hilts.
"Hold," Alaric said quietly to his men.
The envoy stopped a respectful distance away and bowed his head.
"King Alaric Stark! I bring greetings from Weirstad," he said. "And from our leader Erik Lifeweaver."
A brief pause.
Then he stepped forward, raising a small tray.
Upon it sat bread… and salt.
A ripple passed through the gathered northerners.
Even Tristan Mudd straightened slightly.
"Guest right," Rogar muttered under his breath. "Good"
The envoy spoke clearly, his voice carrying just enough.
"You stand at the threshold of our home," he said. "Eat and be welcomed. Enter, and be safe. By bread and salt, no harm shall come to you within our walls."
Silence followed.
Heavy.
Ancient.
Alaric stepped forward.
He studied the bread… the salt… then the envoy.
"Your master understands our customs well," he said.
The envoy inclined his head slightly. "He understands their importance."
For a moment longer, Alaric held his gaze.
Then, without hesitation, he reached out.
He took the bread.
Dipped it in salt.
And ate.
A quiet breath seemed to pass through the gathered men.
The pact was made.
Alaric turned slightly, glancing at his companions and signaled them away from the envoy to have a private bit of discussion.
"Well," he said calmly to his advisors and generals "it would be poor manners to refuse an invitation now."
Rogar stepped forward immediately.
"My king…."
Alaric raised a hand, stopping him.
"No," he said.
Rogar's jaw tightened. "This is not wise."
"Perhaps," Alaric replied. "But this is how it must de"
Tristan stepped closer as well, his voice lower.
"With respect… we don't know this man. Or what waits inside those walls."
"We know enough" Alaric said glancing at Osmond Manderly
Osmond Manderly spoke then, more measured.
"He honored guest right," he said. "That carries weight. Lord Erik is a wise and pragmatic man. He is obviously willing to talk"
Rogar glanced at him sharply. "It carries risk."
Alaric turned to face them fully now.
"I am not sending envoys," he said. "I am in going myself."
That drew immediate protest.
"My king…." Rogar began again.
Alaric cut him off, his tone firm but not harsh.
"I am old, Rogar."
The words landed heavier than any command.
"I need to assess the situation myself and get a measure of Erik Life Weaver. I can't do that from here" he explained "and even if something happens to me, I have sons. Grandsons. My line does not end with me and I have prepared them well to take over"
Rogar's expression darkened. "That is not the point."
"It is part of it," Alaric Stark said. "If there is risk, it will be mine."
He stepped closer, lowering his voice slightly.
"And if this Erik Lifeweaver is what the visions claim… then he will not break guest right."
Tristan frowned. "You place a great deal of faith in that. He's a wilding!"
Alaric met his gaze steadily.
"Yes he is a wilding. But he also claims to be the chosen champion of the Old Gods and If he is the champion of the Old Gods," he said, "then that law binds him more tightly than it binds us."
A pause.
Then, more quietly he continued.
"And if he is not what the visions claim him to be…"
He let the thought hang.
Rogar exhaled sharply, frustrated.
"And if you're wrong?"
Alaric's expression did not change.
"Then ten thousand men will still be out here," he said. "With you in command. It is a leverage that cannot be ignored"
Rogar held his gaze for a long moment… then looked away with a tight nod.
"…aye."
Alaric placed a hand briefly on his shoulder.
"Hold the camp," he said. "Keep them ready, but calm. No provocation."
Rogar nodded again, more firmly this time.
"It will be done."
Alaric turned then.
"Osmond," he said.
The Manderly lord straightened. "My king."
"You've walked their streets before."
"I have."
"Then you'll walk them again with me as one of my escorts" Alaric said.
Osmond inclined his head. "It would be my honor your majesty"
Tristan stepped forward once more.
"And me?"
Alaric considered him briefly… then shook his head.
"You will come as well," he said. "The Watch also needs to be well aware of their newest neighbors."
Tristan merely nodded in agreement
They turned and walked back toward the Weirstad envoy.
"I will enter Weirstad," he said. "With a small escort."
The envoy inclined his head once more.
"You will be welcomed."
Alaric glanced once more at the looming caldera, its vast stone walls catching the last light of the setting sun.
"A mountain that cannot be taken," he murmured.
Then, more firmly
"So, we walk through its gates instead." He said "After all conflict is a result of failure of diplomacy."
He looked back to his men one last time.
"Trust," he said. "For now."
And with that, the King in the North along his advisors and guards got on their horses and trotted forward to meet the path that would lead him into Weirstad not as a conquerors or vanquishers…
…but as guests hoping to get what they'd come here for.
-----
They were led to a forties entrance into the Caldera. It was nothing impressive or stunning. Just stone wall fortifications blocking a tunnel with an heavy wooden doors reinforced with steel, vertical sliding portcullises, and a drawbridge.
'What is stunning is they have this level of building capacity north of the wall' King Alaric thought grimly 'what happened to the savage nomads who lived in tents and fought with bone and bronze?'
The gates of Weirstad did not creak open like those of a fortress.
They parted.
Silently.
As if the mountain itself had chosen to allow them passage.
King Alaric Stark rode forward at a measured pace, Osmond Manderly at his side, a small escort following behind. The path wound through the caldera walls, wide enough for wagons, yet flanked on either side by sheer stone that rose like a living barrier.
For a time, there was only rock… and shadows formed by glowing fungus of all things.
'What in the name of the Old gods are these lights' he thought in shock 'It clearly looks like a fungus but it glows with an eerie green light. Is this sorcery or some power of the champion'
They travelled for a few minutes. Then the tunnel opened and they came out of another fortied door like the one they'd entered first.
And Weirstad revealed itself in all it magnificent glory.
Alaric slowed his horse without realizing it.
Fields.
Green.
Thriving.
Inside a mountain.
In he middle of a tundra wasteland.
Terraced farmland climbed the inner slopes of the caldera, lined with irrigation channels that glimmered in the light. Livestock moved in controlled pastures. Fantastical mighty beasts moved about being ridden by humans. Smoke rose from orderly settlements with wide and clean paved streets. And beyond it all, rising at the center like the heart of it all, stood the a humungous weirwood heart tree that vast, pale, and unmistakably unnatural in its construction. Its canopy shaded half the settlement.
Osmond exhaled quietly beside him.
"Impressive," he murmured.
Alaric said nothing.
But his eyes missed nothing.
They had not been made to wait.
As they advanced, the city came alive around them, not in chaos, but in preparation.
People lined the main approach, not packed or unruly, but arranged. They stood watching. curious and respectful.
Then came the procession.
Men and women in fine attire stepped forward, banners unfurling, strange symbols woven alongside the familiar shapes of weirwood leaves. Musicians began to play, the sound carried cleanly through the open air. Not overwhelming… but definitely nice even if it was extremely unexpected.
This was no wild settlement.
It felt like visiting another proper kingdom where he was being given a welcome worthy of a King.
This was the type of presentation he'd heard the southerners perform.
"A joyous entry," Osmond muttered under his breath.
Alaric inclined his head slightly.
"Yes," he said. "And very well done."
They were met at the inner gate by a formal delegation, well-dressed figures, clearly of status within the city. They bowed briefly, offered words of welcome, presented gifts and guided the King and his lordly retinue forward.
No one rushed him.
No one crowded him.
But everything… flowed around him.
They were being shown something.
The power they had.
The discipline and order they could implement.
The abundance of resources available to them.
'They're better than many small kingdoms in the south' he thought warily ' Kingdom that are centuries old pale to this city that is less than a decade old. All because of this Erik Lifeweaver'
As they moved deeper into the city, Alaric noted the details. Guards that were disciplined and well-equipped. Structures that were solid and built purposefully and smartly. People that were happy, friendly and well-fed.
That, more than anything else, stood out.
No savagery. No hunger.
Not here.
By the time they reached the gigantic carved face at the bottom trunk of the Heart tree, the sun had begun its descent, casting long light across the white bark and red leaves of the massive weirwood structure.
They all dismounted and were led into the open maw of the humungous face that was at the ground level of the trunk of the heart tree. As they went in deeper, they discovered it was a massive cavern that served as the entrance to the palace with spiraling stairs going higher.
A palace inside a ridiculously huge heart tree that was the size of a large castle.
'How?' his asked himself 'Never have I seen a tree that can house a small town in it. And not just any tree but a weirwood tree with a carved face making it a heart tree which just so happens to be what we pray to as its the symbol of the Old Gods'
'He has to be their champion' he thought as his doubt lessened significantly.
The doors opened before he could even take a step.
Inside, the warmth was immediate, not just from fires, but from life. Light, movement, the subtle hum of a place that did not fear the coming night.
They were led into a great hall.
And there… the true display began.
Tables stretched long, filled with food in abundance like roasted meats, fresh breads, fruits, preserved goods. More than any northern hall could reasonably afford to waste in a single evening.
It was not excess for indulgence.
It was excess for message.
We have more than what we need and can hold such lavish feasts easily.
At the far end, a raised dais awaited.
And upon it…
A seat.
At the right hand of the host.
Alaric's gaze lingered there for a moment before he moved forward.
Erik Lifeweaver stood to receive him.
No crown.
No ostentatious armor.
Yet the man had a presence of a leader. His glowing eyes and glowing tattoos gave him an otherworldly look.
Alaric approached, his posture straight, his expression calm.
"Your city makes a strong first impression," he said bowing briefly acknowledging him as a Monarch in his own right "Your Grace"
Erik inclined his head slightly.
"I thought it best not to disappoint a king," he replied. "Especially a just and wise king that is the favorite of the Old Gods"
A faint hint of a smile passed between them that was polite, measured, acknowledging.
Erik Lifeweaver then turned towards Osmund Manderly and greeted him politely and asked about his Lord father's health.
Then Erik gestured toward the dais.
"Come," he said. "You honor us with your presence. Tonight, you are our guest."
Alaric ascended the steps.
He took the seat at Erik's right.
A place of highest honor.
Not missed by anyone in the hall.
As the feast began, servants moved with practiced efficiency. Dishes were brought not only to the high table, but sent down deliberately to Alaric's escort, to Osmond, to the men who had ridden with them.
Fine dishes.
A quiet but unmistakable gesture of respect.
Wine was poured. Music resumed. Conversation began to rise in controlled waves.
And then came the gifts.
They were presented not all at once, but with timing. Fine-crafted items like worked metals, rare materials, even animal pelts of impressive quality. Each chosen not merely for value, but for meaning.
Strength.
Skill.
Wealth.
Alaric accepted them with the dignity expected of him, though his attention remained fixed where it mattered most.
On Erik. The champion of the Old Gods and the leader of this city.
Because beneath the hospitality… beneath the display… beneath the posturing…
This was still negotiation.
Still necessity.
Alaric leaned slightly toward him as the noise of the hall carried on around them.
"You've shown me your strength," he said quietly.
His eyes flicked briefly to the overflowing tables.
"And your abundance."
Then back to Erik.
"After this feast," he said, voice calm but firm, "I would like to speak of why I have come. Privately"
Erik smiled and nodded in agreement
"Then after the feast it shall be" Erik agreed "until then let's have a wonderful feast together. Pleasure first, business afterwards"
The feast continued.
-----
The noise of the great hall faded behind thick wooden doors of the conference room.
Inside the conference chamber, the mood shifted but not into tension.
If anything, it became… easier. More casual and at ease.
A fire crackled low in the hearth. Cups of wine were refilled without urgency. Plates of fruit and small dishes lingered on the table, more out of habit than hunger. Men who had ridden through cold and uncertainty now sat back in carved chairs, their posture relaxed, their expressions open.
King Alaric Stark leaned slightly into his seat, one hand resting around his cup. Beside him sat Osmond Manderly and a handful of northern lords. Across from them, Erik Lifeweaver sat with his own advisors.
For a time, there was only light conversation.
Then, as naturally as breath, the reason for their meeting surfaced.
King Alaric set his cup down first.
"We'll not waste time circling it," he said. "We came for more than curiosity."
A few of the northern lords nodded.
Alaric glanced at him briefly, then back at Erik.
"The visions I myself and all the nobles received have brought us here" the king said. "That much is true."
A pause.
"But we are not men who march armies on dreams alone."
A faint murmur of agreement followed.
One of the lords spoke next.
"We've heard what you've done," he said. "What you've built. Not just here… but what you shared with House Manderly."
Osmond gave a small nod.
"The preservation methods," he added. "The storage systems. The plasteek tunnels. The yields."
Another lord leaned forward slightly.
"And the food," he said plainly. "Let's not pretend otherwise. We've seen your tables."
A faint, humorless smile touched his lips.
"The North does not waste food on display. Not like that."
Erik listened without interruption, his expression calm.
Alaric continued.
"The dreams showed us something rare," he said. "A place where winter is not feared the same way. Where food does not run dry after a year or two."
His gaze hardened slightly not in hostility, but in truth.
"That is why we are here."
A quiet stillness settled in the room.
Then Erik spoke.
"And the other reason?" he asked. "The one wrapped in those visions."
Alaric's eyes met his.
"You," he said simply.
A faint shift of attention passed through the room.
Erik tilted his head slightly.
"And now that you've seen me?" he asked. "Do you believe it? That I am what they claim… the champion of the Old Gods?"
There was no mockery in his tone.
Only curiosity.
Alaric did not answer immediately.
He studied Erik for a moment, truly studied him.
Then he leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose.
"It becomes harder to deny," he said at last.
A few of the lords exchanged glances.
Alaric continued.
"I have ruled long enough to know what men can do," he said. "And what they cannot."
His gaze flicked briefly toward the direction of the caldera outside.
"Mountains do not rise in a few years," he said. "Cities do not grow like this without famine or fracture. And food…" his eyes returned to Erik "food does not appear in such abundance without cost."
A pause.
"And yet here it is."
Silence held for a heartbeat.
"Either you are the most extraordinary man I have ever met," Alaric said calmly, "or the gods have placed their hand upon you."
A faint, almost dry note entered his voice.
"Possibly both."
A few quiet chuckles broke the tension.
Erik allowed himself a small smile.
"I'll take that as a cautious endorsement."
"You should, "King Alaric replied.
Then the warmth in his expression faded slightly, replaced by something more serious.
"The North is at the end of a long summer," he said. "You know what that means."
Erik nodded once.
"Winter."
"A long one," Alaric said. "If the patterns hold, as they always have… we are looking at seven or eight years. Maybe more."
The room grew quieter.
"Our stores will not last," one of the lords admitted bluntly. "Not all of them. Not without… measures."
No one needed to ask what that meant.
Alaric spoke again, his voice steady but heavier now.
"My people will struggle," he said. "Many will not survive if things remain as they are."
He leaned forward slightly, his gaze fixed on Erik.
"That is the truth we rode here with."
No pride.
No pretense.
Just reality.
"And so," Alaric continued, "we have come to see if the visions were not just truth… but opportunity."
"We have come to ask if what you have built here… can help the North endure what is coming."
The fire crackled softly in the silence that followed.
All eyes turned to Erik.
Because now…
It was his turn to answer.
-------
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The northern host did not advance further that day.
At Alaric's command, the army made camp at a measured distance from the caldera and the entrance. Far enough to avoid appearing as an immediate threat, close enough to show intent and let their hosts know they were here.
Tents rose in ordered lines. Fires were lit. Scouts spread outward in careful arcs.
But looming above them, the great stone ring of Weirstad was in everyone minds. All the gossip and whispers around the camp was about how wildings had an unassailable fortress and how they got it in the first place.
By nightfall, the camp had settled into a wary calm.
The next morning, Alaric stood near the central fire with Rogar Karstark, Osmond Manderly, and Lord Commander Tristan Mudd when movement stirred at the edge of the camp.
A small group approached.
Not an army. Not even a warband.
An envoy from Weirstad. And what a unique sight it was.
Six men came riding elks bigger than horses. All wore emerald green scale armor with darkened edges.The armor was unique in design as the all the scales seemed to be tied in intricate knots and the design clearly emphasized mobility and functionality over protection. Their helmets were also similar with a face plate mask with a fierce expression. All carried glaives , short swords, a shield and bows with extra set of quivers on their mounts.
Perhaps the most normal thing about was the banner being held by one of them. It was obviously their sigil as it was a red and white heart tree in a black circle that had zig zag points like a mountain.
They came without and visibly drawn weapons, their pace unhurried, their posture calm. At their center rode another dressed similarly apart from a having a red plume atop his helmet probably signifying rank.
The guards shifted, hands near hilts.
"Hold," Alaric said quietly to his men.
The envoy stopped a respectful distance away and bowed his head.
"King Alaric Stark! I bring greetings from Weirstad," he said. "And from our leader Erik Lifeweaver."
A brief pause.
Then he stepped forward, raising a small tray.
Upon it sat bread… and salt.
A ripple passed through the gathered northerners.
Even Tristan Mudd straightened slightly.
"Guest right," Rogar muttered under his breath. "Good"
The envoy spoke clearly, his voice carrying just enough.
"You stand at the threshold of our home," he said. "Eat and be welcomed. Enter, and be safe. By bread and salt, no harm shall come to you within our walls."
Silence followed.
Heavy.
Ancient.
Alaric stepped forward.
He studied the bread… the salt… then the envoy.
"Your master understands our customs well," he said.
The envoy inclined his head slightly. "He understands their importance."
For a moment longer, Alaric held his gaze.
Then, without hesitation, he reached out.
He took the bread.
Dipped it in salt.
And ate.
A quiet breath seemed to pass through the gathered men.
The pact was made.
Alaric turned slightly, glancing at his companions and signaled them away from the envoy to have a private bit of discussion.
"Well," he said calmly to his advisors and generals "it would be poor manners to refuse an invitation now."
Rogar stepped forward immediately.
"My king…."
Alaric raised a hand, stopping him.
"No," he said.
Rogar's jaw tightened. "This is not wise."
"Perhaps," Alaric replied. "But this is how it must de"
Tristan stepped closer as well, his voice lower.
"With respect… we don't know this man. Or what waits inside those walls."
"We know enough" Alaric said glancing at Osmond Manderly
Osmond Manderly spoke then, more measured.
"He honored guest right," he said. "That carries weight. Lord Erik is a wise and pragmatic man. He is obviously willing to talk"
Rogar glanced at him sharply. "It carries risk."
Alaric turned to face them fully now.
"I am not sending envoys," he said. "I am in going myself."
That drew immediate protest.
"My king…." Rogar began again.
Alaric cut him off, his tone firm but not harsh.
"I am old, Rogar."
The words landed heavier than any command.
"I need to assess the situation myself and get a measure of Erik Life Weaver. I can't do that from here" he explained "and even if something happens to me, I have sons. Grandsons. My line does not end with me and I have prepared them well to take over"
Rogar's expression darkened. "That is not the point."
"It is part of it," Alaric Stark said. "If there is risk, it will be mine."
He stepped closer, lowering his voice slightly.
"And if this Erik Lifeweaver is what the visions claim… then he will not break guest right."
Tristan frowned. "You place a great deal of faith in that. He's a wilding!"
Alaric met his gaze steadily.
"Yes he is a wilding. But he also claims to be the chosen champion of the Old Gods and If he is the champion of the Old Gods," he said, "then that law binds him more tightly than it binds us."
A pause.
Then, more quietly he continued.
"And if he is not what the visions claim him to be…"
He let the thought hang.
Rogar exhaled sharply, frustrated.
"And if you're wrong?"
Alaric's expression did not change.
"Then ten thousand men will still be out here," he said. "With you in command. It is a leverage that cannot be ignored"
Rogar held his gaze for a long moment… then looked away with a tight nod.
"…aye."
Alaric placed a hand briefly on his shoulder.
"Hold the camp," he said. "Keep them ready, but calm. No provocation."
Rogar nodded again, more firmly this time.
"It will be done."
Alaric turned then.
"Osmond," he said.
The Manderly lord straightened. "My king."
"You've walked their streets before."
"I have."
"Then you'll walk them again with me as one of my escorts" Alaric said.
Osmond inclined his head. "It would be my honor your majesty"
Tristan stepped forward once more.
"And me?"
Alaric considered him briefly… then shook his head.
"You will come as well," he said. "The Watch also needs to be well aware of their newest neighbors."
Tristan merely nodded in agreement
They turned and walked back toward the Weirstad envoy.
"I will enter Weirstad," he said. "With a small escort."
The envoy inclined his head once more.
"You will be welcomed."
Alaric glanced once more at the looming caldera, its vast stone walls catching the last light of the setting sun.
"A mountain that cannot be taken," he murmured.
Then, more firmly
"So, we walk through its gates instead." He said "After all conflict is a result of failure of diplomacy."
He looked back to his men one last time.
"Trust," he said. "For now."
And with that, the King in the North along his advisors and guards got on their horses and trotted forward to meet the path that would lead him into Weirstad not as a conquerors or vanquishers…
…but as guests hoping to get what they'd come here for.
-----
They were led to a forties entrance into the Caldera. It was nothing impressive or stunning. Just stone wall fortifications blocking a tunnel with an heavy wooden doors reinforced with steel, vertical sliding portcullises, and a drawbridge.
'What is stunning is they have this level of building capacity north of the wall' King Alaric thought grimly 'what happened to the savage nomads who lived in tents and fought with bone and bronze?'
The gates of Weirstad did not creak open like those of a fortress.
They parted.
Silently.
As if the mountain itself had chosen to allow them passage.
King Alaric Stark rode forward at a measured pace, Osmond Manderly at his side, a small escort following behind. The path wound through the caldera walls, wide enough for wagons, yet flanked on either side by sheer stone that rose like a living barrier.
For a time, there was only rock… and shadows formed by glowing fungus of all things.
'What in the name of the Old gods are these lights' he thought in shock 'It clearly looks like a fungus but it glows with an eerie green light. Is this sorcery or some power of the champion'
They travelled for a few minutes. Then the tunnel opened and they came out of another fortied door like the one they'd entered first.
And Weirstad revealed itself in all it magnificent glory.
Alaric slowed his horse without realizing it.
Fields.
Green.
Thriving.
Inside a mountain.
In he middle of a tundra wasteland.
Terraced farmland climbed the inner slopes of the caldera, lined with irrigation channels that glimmered in the light. Livestock moved in controlled pastures. Fantastical mighty beasts moved about being ridden by humans. Smoke rose from orderly settlements with wide and clean paved streets. And beyond it all, rising at the center like the heart of it all, stood the a humungous weirwood heart tree that vast, pale, and unmistakably unnatural in its construction. Its canopy shaded half the settlement.
Osmond exhaled quietly beside him.
"Impressive," he murmured.
Alaric said nothing.
But his eyes missed nothing.
They had not been made to wait.
As they advanced, the city came alive around them, not in chaos, but in preparation.
People lined the main approach, not packed or unruly, but arranged. They stood watching. curious and respectful.
Then came the procession.
Men and women in fine attire stepped forward, banners unfurling, strange symbols woven alongside the familiar shapes of weirwood leaves. Musicians began to play, the sound carried cleanly through the open air. Not overwhelming… but definitely nice even if it was extremely unexpected.
This was no wild settlement.
It felt like visiting another proper kingdom where he was being given a welcome worthy of a King.
This was the type of presentation he'd heard the southerners perform.
"A joyous entry," Osmond muttered under his breath.
Alaric inclined his head slightly.
"Yes," he said. "And very well done."
They were met at the inner gate by a formal delegation, well-dressed figures, clearly of status within the city. They bowed briefly, offered words of welcome, presented gifts and guided the King and his lordly retinue forward.
No one rushed him.
No one crowded him.
But everything… flowed around him.
They were being shown something.
The power they had.
The discipline and order they could implement.
The abundance of resources available to them.
'They're better than many small kingdoms in the south' he thought warily ' Kingdom that are centuries old pale to this city that is less than a decade old. All because of this Erik Lifeweaver'
As they moved deeper into the city, Alaric noted the details. Guards that were disciplined and well-equipped. Structures that were solid and built purposefully and smartly. People that were happy, friendly and well-fed.
That, more than anything else, stood out.
No savagery. No hunger.
Not here.
By the time they reached the gigantic carved face at the bottom trunk of the Heart tree, the sun had begun its descent, casting long light across the white bark and red leaves of the massive weirwood structure.
They all dismounted and were led into the open maw of the humungous face that was at the ground level of the trunk of the heart tree. As they went in deeper, they discovered it was a massive cavern that served as the entrance to the palace with spiraling stairs going higher.
A palace inside a ridiculously huge heart tree that was the size of a large castle.
'How?' his asked himself 'Never have I seen a tree that can house a small town in it. And not just any tree but a weirwood tree with a carved face making it a heart tree which just so happens to be what we pray to as its the symbol of the Old Gods'
'He has to be their champion' he thought as his doubt lessened significantly.
The doors opened before he could even take a step.
Inside, the warmth was immediate, not just from fires, but from life. Light, movement, the subtle hum of a place that did not fear the coming night.
They were led into a great hall.
And there… the true display began.
Tables stretched long, filled with food in abundance like roasted meats, fresh breads, fruits, preserved goods. More than any northern hall could reasonably afford to waste in a single evening.
It was not excess for indulgence.
It was excess for message.
We have more than what we need and can hold such lavish feasts easily.
At the far end, a raised dais awaited.
And upon it…
A seat.
At the right hand of the host.
Alaric's gaze lingered there for a moment before he moved forward.
Erik Lifeweaver stood to receive him.
No crown.
No ostentatious armor.
Yet the man had a presence of a leader. His glowing eyes and glowing tattoos gave him an otherworldly look.
Alaric approached, his posture straight, his expression calm.
"Your city makes a strong first impression," he said bowing briefly acknowledging him as a Monarch in his own right "Your Grace"
Erik inclined his head slightly.
"I thought it best not to disappoint a king," he replied. "Especially a just and wise king that is the favorite of the Old Gods"
A faint hint of a smile passed between them that was polite, measured, acknowledging.
Erik Lifeweaver then turned towards Osmund Manderly and greeted him politely and asked about his Lord father's health.
Then Erik gestured toward the dais.
"Come," he said. "You honor us with your presence. Tonight, you are our guest."
Alaric ascended the steps.
He took the seat at Erik's right.
A place of highest honor.
Not missed by anyone in the hall.
As the feast began, servants moved with practiced efficiency. Dishes were brought not only to the high table, but sent down deliberately to Alaric's escort, to Osmond, to the men who had ridden with them.
Fine dishes.
A quiet but unmistakable gesture of respect.
Wine was poured. Music resumed. Conversation began to rise in controlled waves.
And then came the gifts.
They were presented not all at once, but with timing. Fine-crafted items like worked metals, rare materials, even animal pelts of impressive quality. Each chosen not merely for value, but for meaning.
Strength.
Skill.
Wealth.
Alaric accepted them with the dignity expected of him, though his attention remained fixed where it mattered most.
On Erik. The champion of the Old Gods and the leader of this city.
Because beneath the hospitality… beneath the display… beneath the posturing…
This was still negotiation.
Still necessity.
Alaric leaned slightly toward him as the noise of the hall carried on around them.
"You've shown me your strength," he said quietly.
His eyes flicked briefly to the overflowing tables.
"And your abundance."
Then back to Erik.
"After this feast," he said, voice calm but firm, "I would like to speak of why I have come. Privately"
Erik smiled and nodded in agreement
"Then after the feast it shall be" Erik agreed "until then let's have a wonderful feast together. Pleasure first, business afterwards"
The feast continued.
-----
The noise of the great hall faded behind thick wooden doors of the conference room.
Inside the conference chamber, the mood shifted but not into tension.
If anything, it became… easier. More casual and at ease.
A fire crackled low in the hearth. Cups of wine were refilled without urgency. Plates of fruit and small dishes lingered on the table, more out of habit than hunger. Men who had ridden through cold and uncertainty now sat back in carved chairs, their posture relaxed, their expressions open.
King Alaric Stark leaned slightly into his seat, one hand resting around his cup. Beside him sat Osmond Manderly and a handful of northern lords. Across from them, Erik Lifeweaver sat with his own advisors.
For a time, there was only light conversation.
Then, as naturally as breath, the reason for their meeting surfaced.
King Alaric set his cup down first.
"We'll not waste time circling it," he said. "We came for more than curiosity."
A few of the northern lords nodded.
Alaric glanced at him briefly, then back at Erik.
"The visions I myself and all the nobles received have brought us here" the king said. "That much is true."
A pause.
"But we are not men who march armies on dreams alone."
A faint murmur of agreement followed.
One of the lords spoke next.
"We've heard what you've done," he said. "What you've built. Not just here… but what you shared with House Manderly."
Osmond gave a small nod.
"The preservation methods," he added. "The storage systems. The plasteek tunnels. The yields."
Another lord leaned forward slightly.
"And the food," he said plainly. "Let's not pretend otherwise. We've seen your tables."
A faint, humorless smile touched his lips.
"The North does not waste food on display. Not like that."
Erik listened without interruption, his expression calm.
Alaric continued.
"The dreams showed us something rare," he said. "A place where winter is not feared the same way. Where food does not run dry after a year or two."
His gaze hardened slightly not in hostility, but in truth.
"That is why we are here."
A quiet stillness settled in the room.
Then Erik spoke.
"And the other reason?" he asked. "The one wrapped in those visions."
Alaric's eyes met his.
"You," he said simply.
A faint shift of attention passed through the room.
Erik tilted his head slightly.
"And now that you've seen me?" he asked. "Do you believe it? That I am what they claim… the champion of the Old Gods?"
There was no mockery in his tone.
Only curiosity.
Alaric did not answer immediately.
He studied Erik for a moment, truly studied him.
Then he leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose.
"It becomes harder to deny," he said at last.
A few of the lords exchanged glances.
Alaric continued.
"I have ruled long enough to know what men can do," he said. "And what they cannot."
His gaze flicked briefly toward the direction of the caldera outside.
"Mountains do not rise in a few years," he said. "Cities do not grow like this without famine or fracture. And food…" his eyes returned to Erik "food does not appear in such abundance without cost."
A pause.
"And yet here it is."
Silence held for a heartbeat.
"Either you are the most extraordinary man I have ever met," Alaric said calmly, "or the gods have placed their hand upon you."
A faint, almost dry note entered his voice.
"Possibly both."
A few quiet chuckles broke the tension.
Erik allowed himself a small smile.
"I'll take that as a cautious endorsement."
"You should, "King Alaric replied.
Then the warmth in his expression faded slightly, replaced by something more serious.
"The North is at the end of a long summer," he said. "You know what that means."
Erik nodded once.
"Winter."
"A long one," Alaric said. "If the patterns hold, as they always have… we are looking at seven or eight years. Maybe more."
The room grew quieter.
"Our stores will not last," one of the lords admitted bluntly. "Not all of them. Not without… measures."
No one needed to ask what that meant.
Alaric spoke again, his voice steady but heavier now.
"My people will struggle," he said. "Many will not survive if things remain as they are."
He leaned forward slightly, his gaze fixed on Erik.
"That is the truth we rode here with."
No pride.
No pretense.
Just reality.
"And so," Alaric continued, "we have come to see if the visions were not just truth… but opportunity."
"We have come to ask if what you have built here… can help the North endure what is coming."
The fire crackled softly in the silence that followed.
All eyes turned to Erik.
Because now…
It was his turn to answer.
-------
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