Part 14 — Tracks in the Snow
Summary:
Aeryon and Rodrik continue south on the Kingsroad. The greenseer child shadows them, and Rodrik begins to sense that something is wrong—forcing Aeryon to navigate suspicion, danger, and the creature's growing interest without exposing his powers.
---
The Kingsroad straightens as the morning brightens.
Sunlight glints off ice-coated branches, and the snow begins to melt just enough to drip in slow, rhythmic taps from the trees.
Quiet's hooves squelch through patches of thawing frost where the sun has already kissed the ground.
Rodrik rides ahead, hunched slightly against the cold but steady as stone.
Aeryon brings Quiet up alongside him.
The UI hums softly.
[OBSERVER: MEDIUM RANGE — ABOVE, LEFT TREELINE]
He doesn't look.
Not sharply.
Just enough to confirm a flutter of white between the branches, too smooth to be a bird and too quick to be wind.
The greenseer child is still there.
Rodrik clears his throat.
"You've been lookin' at the trees every ten minutes."
Aeryon keeps his tone even.
"Habit."
Rodrik's eyes flick in his direction.
"You a hunter before your… accident?"
Aeryon shrugs.
"Maybe."
Rodrik grunts, unconvinced.
They ride in silence for a while. Wind slips through the pines, rustling branches and carrying the distant crack of shifting ice.
Rodrik slows suddenly.
His horse stamps the ground, uneasy.
Aeryon's eyes track Rodrik's line of sight.
Footprints.
Fresh ones.
Rodrik dismounts, crouching beside them.
"Not deer," he mutters.
Aeryon joins him beside the prints.
They're small. Barefoot. Toes splayed slightly. Light but deep enough to show weight from someone who knows how to move silently.
Human-shaped.
But wrong.
Rodrik's hand moves to the hilt of his sword.
"That's a child's foot," he says slowly. "But there's no village near for miles."
Aeryon keeps his expression calm, neutral.
"They're fresh. Within the hour."
Rodrik stands, scanning the trees.
"You hear anythin' last night? In your sleep?"
Aeryon shakes his head.
Rodrik's jaw tightens.
"We may have a lost one out here. A wildling child, maybe."
He pauses.
"But wildlings wear boots. Even the little ones."
Aeryon says nothing.
Because the greenseer child is perched in a pine overhead, watching.
The UI flares.
[OBSERVER: CLOSE — ABOVE YOU]
Aeryon doesn't look up.
Rodrik takes a few steps toward the forest.
Then—
A soft clatter of snow drops onto Aeryon's shoulder.
Rodrik's head snaps toward the source.
Aeryon forces the most natural motion possible—brushing it off with a casual palm.
Rodrik narrows his eyes.
"You're jumpy."
"You're armed," Aeryon replies.
Rodrik snorts once.
"Fair."
He returns to the tracks.
"We follow them south. If there's a child out here, alone, we can't leave them to wolves."
Aeryon nods, mounting Quiet again.
Rodrik swings onto his own horse and clicks his tongue, setting their pace to a cautious trot.
The greenseer child moves in the branches above them, ghosting from tree to tree—never making a sound.
Aeryon keeps his voice low.
"You said there are no villages nearby?"
Rodrik nods without looking over.
"Nearest is two days north. Other direction."
"So what's a child doing out here alone?"
Rodrik's lips press tight beneath his beard.
"There are stories," he says. "Old ones. Before the Andals came. Before the Starks even."
Aeryon listens.
Rodrik continues, voice rougher than usual.
"My grandfather used to warn us. Said some children were born… wrong. Born listenin' to the trees. Eyes too pale. Ears too sharp. Minds touched by the old gods."
Aeryon glances at him.
"Greenseers."
Rodrik gives a reluctant nod.
"Aye. But north of the Wall, they say. Not here."
He pauses.
"There were rumors once. Long ago. Babies bein' taken. Others left in their place."
His jaw locks.
"My father said it was nonsense. 'Tales to frighten boys.' But he warned me—if I ever saw eyes like moonlight in a face too small…"
He shakes his head.
"…to walk the other way."
Aeryon exhales slowly, pretending to focus on the trail.
Rodrik glances back at him.
"You see somethin' last night," he says quietly.
Aeryon meets his stare.
Calm.
Controlled.
"Nothing clear."
Rodrik's fingers tighten around his reins.
"If there's a creature out here…"
He looks toward the trees, voice lowering.
"…born of somethin' not meant to be in this world, we'll have a problem."
Aeryon doesn't respond.
Because above them, crawling silently between branches, the greenseer child tracks their movements—head tilted, eyes locked on Aeryon.
The trail bends.
Rodrik slows, then halts.
A cluster of footprints circles a tree.
Barefoot.
Small.
Chaotic.
Then—
They vanish.
As if the child walked into the trunk and disappeared.
Rodrik exhales.
"That's… unnatural."
Aeryon keeps his voice steady.
"It climbed."
Rodrik lifts a brow.
"Barehanded? In the cold?"
He gestures to the tree bark.
"There's no sign. No hand marks. No disturbed snow."
Aeryon's pulse remains slow.
Rodrik steps back, scanning the canopy.
"We're bein' followed."
Aeryon doesn't deny it.
Rodrik pulls his horse's reins sharply.
"We ride fast. I don't like this."
Aeryon mounts Quiet again.
Rodrik urges his horse into a trot. Aeryon follows.
Above them—
Snow sprinkles down in a slow, uneven rhythm.
The greenseer child runs along the branches, pale fingers curling over frost, eyes glowing faintly through curtains of snow.
The Kingsroad narrows as noon approaches, the forest pressing closer on both sides. What had been open sky now becomes a canopy of clawed branches interlocking overhead like bony fingers.
Wind whistles through them in thin, wavering notes.
Rodrik's horse tosses its head again, ears twitching toward the treeline.
"She's spooked," Rodrik mutters, rubbing her neck. "She's never this unsettled, not even with wolves."
Aeryon rides slightly behind him, keeping his posture relaxed, reins loose in his hands.
Quiet breathes steadily beneath him, calm—
which means the greenseer child is watching him, not Rodrik.
The UI flickers softly.
[OBSERVER: CLOSE — ABOVE AND REAR]
Aeryon doesn't turn.
Rodrik glances back anyway.
"You're hearin' it too, aren't you? That feeling."
Aeryon chooses his words with care.
"It's like the air's heavier than it should be."
Rodrik nods sharply.
"That's the forest watchin'. I know the feeling. Been in the Wolfswood enough years to trust my instincts."
Aeryon hums. "And what do they tell you?"
"That we shouldn't stop." Rodrik glares at the winding road ahead. "But horses aren't meant to run all damn day."
Aeryon keeps his expression neutral.
Rodrik eventually slows their pace. "We'll rest soon. Water the horses. Eat. Not long."
The greenseer child moves overhead again—
a blur of pale skin and frost-bitten hair as it crawls along a thick branch, following them with a fluid motion no human child should be able to mimic.
Rodrik doesn't notice.
But the horses do.
Quiet's ears flick sharply toward the soundless movement.
Rodrik's mare snorts, stamping the ground.
Aeryon keeps his breathing steady.
The creature is becoming bolder.
---
They reach a small clearing.
Half-formed, really—just enough space for two horses to stand without brushing trees. Rodrik halts, dismounting with a grunt.
"Two minutes," he says. "Water and stretch. Then we keep movin'."
Aeryon dismounts quietly.
But before he even touches the ground fully—
The UI pulses.
Bright.
[OBSERVER: VERY CLOSE]
[TREE 2 METERS BEHIND YOU]
Aeryon resists the urge to look.
Instead, he kneels to adjust Quiet's saddle strap—an excuse to angle his eyes subtly toward the tree line.
And there—
At the base of an ancient birch, between exposed roots twisted like ribs—
the greenseer child crouches.
Closer than ever.
Eyes huge and unblinking, reflecting the light like ice under moonlight. One small hand grips the bark beside it, fingers white and stiff from cold.
But its body language is different now.
Leaning forward.
Studying.
Recognizing him.
The child inches a hand out—slowly—like testing the cold air between them.
Aeryon's breath clouds out.
The child's breath answers in smaller, quicker puffs.
Rodrik bends near his mare, filling a waterskin.
"Aeryon," he calls. "Grab yer own water—"
He stops.
Head tilting slightly.
He feels it.
Not sees.
Feels.
A stranger's eyes on them.
Rodrik straightens slowly, his hand drifting toward his sword hilt.
"What," he says quietly, "is in those trees?"
Aeryon stands up calmly—too calmly—and steps once to the side, positioning his body between Rodrik and the birch tree.
Rodrik notices.
"Move," he mutters.
"No," Aeryon says, voice low but steady. "Not yet."
Rodrik's brows knit together.
"Aeryon. Step aside."
Aeryon's pulse stays even.
But internally, he prepares options—
inventory tricks, invisible barriers, illusion blocks—things he can't reveal unless he's forced.
"I said not yet."
Rodrik's eyes narrow into slits.
And then—
A twig cracks.
Rodrik whirls toward the sound, drawing his sword halfway.
"SHOW YOURSELF!"
The greenseer child reacts instantly.
Not like a frightened child.
Like a cornered animal.
Its hands clamp down on the tree root. Its spine arches. Muscles coil as if preparing to leap—or attack—or flee.
But its eyes stay locked on Aeryon.
Not Rodrik.
Aeryon speaks quietly.
"It's okay."
The child's fingers loosen slightly—
but its body remains tense, ready to vanish.
Rodrik whispers harshly, "There's SOMETHIN' behind you—move aside—"
"No," Aeryon repeats.
Rodrik is now seconds from shoving him—
When the child suddenly blinks—
and the entire forest seems to hold its breath.
Aeryon sees it happen:
The child's pupils widen impossibly, like black ink bleeding outward. A wave of tension pulses through the air—the same kind of ripple he feels when his system activates.
The child is trying to understand him.
Trying to see him.
Trying to reach him.
And for the first time—
Aeryon feels something brushing against the edge of his consciousness, feather-light but cold enough to sting:
A question.
Not words.
A presence trying to understand what he is.
Rodrik takes a step forward.
And the child's head snaps toward him—
eyes narrowing—
hands curling like claws.
Aeryon steps between them again.
"No sudden moves," he murmurs.
Rodrik snarls under his breath.
"You're protectin' it?!"
"I'm protecting you," Aeryon says.
Rodrik freezes.
A breath passes.
The child studies Aeryon one last time—
blinking slow, thoughtful blinks—
then its body blurs into motion.
It darts up the birch tree—
faster than a squirrel, silent as snowfall—
reaching a high branch in three impossible movements.
Rodrik stumbles back, sword out fully now.
"What in all the old gods' names was THAT?!"
Aeryon looks up.
The greenseer child crouches on the highest branch, staring down—eyes bright, breath fogging in soft clouds.
Watching.
Always watching.
Aeryon answers Rodrik carefully.
"I don't know," he lies.
And the child blinks once.
He doesn't know if it understands the lie.
Rodrik keeps his sword out even after the creature disappears into the branches. Snow crunches under his boots as he backs toward his horse, his face drained of color beneath the beard.
"That wasn't a child," he mutters. "Don't you say it was."
Aeryon keeps his hands open, visible, calm.
"Get on your horse," he says quietly.
Rodrik rounds on him.
"Don't tell me what to—"
"Get. On. Your horse."
Rodrik's mouth snaps shut.
He watches the treeline like it's a row of loaded crossbows aimed at his spine, then hauls himself into the saddle. His knuckles go white around the reins.
Aeryon mounts Quiet in one smooth motion.
And above them—
A branch bows under a sudden new weight.
The greenseer child has moved again.
Still watching.
Always watching.
Rodrik's breath shudders out.
"We should ride south till dark. No stops. No food. No—"
"We ride slow," Aeryon interrupts.
Rodrik nearly chokes.
"Slow?! That THING is followin' us!"
Aeryon turns Quiet toward the Kingsroad.
"Slow," he repeats evenly, "because if we run, it chases us. And if it chases us, it gets… excited."
Rodrik swallows.
"Excited how?"
Aeryon doesn't answer.
He just leans forward, clicking his tongue once. Quiet moves.
Rodrik hesitates, then rides beside him, jaw clenched so hard his teeth might crack.
---
The forest closes around them.
Dark trunks. Thick shadows. The branches above knit together so tightly they blot out patches of sky.
The wind dies.
Even the birds have gone silent.
Rodrik mutters under his breath.
"Gods… gods, what have we ridden into…"
Aeryon stays silent—because the UI pulses again.
[OBSERVER: VERY CLOSE — PARALLEL ABOVE]
He keeps his eyes forward.
Rodrik doesn't.
He glances up—
and freezes.
The greenseer child crawls along a thick branch overhead—
belly down, fingers gripping the bark, head hanging over the edge like a predator studying prey.
But when Rodrik looks at it—
the child tilts its head.
Slow.
Too slow.
Like a puppet mimicking a motion it doesn't understand.
Rodrik jerks his horse forward. "Seven hells—"
The child mirrors him.
Not the motion—
the panic.
It darts forward across the branches, matching their pace, moving in sudden, jarring bursts. Its limbs bend wrong, like joints bending twice where they shouldn't.
Rodrik whispers, voice cracking:
"Aeryon… we need to GET AWAY—"
Aeryon stops his horse.
Rodrik nearly screams. "ARE YOU MAD?!"
Aeryon lifts a hand.
"Wait."
The child stops too.
Dead still.
Perched on a branch with absolute silence, as if the world froze around it.
Rodrik grips his sword hilt again.
"Aeryon," he whispers, "it's copying us."
As Rodrik speaks—
the child's lips move.
Not sound.
Just the motion.
Repeating the shape of Rodrik's words as though tasting them.
Aeryon's pulse stays level, though the hair on the back of his neck rises.
The greenseer child's eyes shift from Rodrik back to him.
And then—
It mirrors his posture.
Exactly.
It changes from a crouch to a sitting position, legs folded beneath it in a posture too neat for the forest, hands resting on knees the way Aeryon is sitting on Quiet.
Rodrik sees it.
"By the old gods…"
He whispers this like a man near tears.
"It's learnin' you."
Aeryon keeps his breathing slow, steady.
The child leans forward, studying his face with eerie precision, as if mapping it.
And then—
Something shifts.
The child opens its mouth.
A sound escapes.
Not a word.
Not speech.
Just a tiny, rasping breath shaped like an echo of Aeryon's own exhale.
Rodrik recoils violently.
"That's it. I'm riding. I don't care if it chases us—I don't care if it kills us—AGAINST THE GODS, AERYON, THAT THING IS PUPPETIN' YOU!"
He tries to spur his horse into a gallop—
but Aeryon grabs the reins, stopping him.
Rodrik barks, "LET GO!"
"You run," Aeryon says sharply, "and it will follow you."
Rodrik's breath turns ragged.
Aeryon leans closer.
"And I don't think it follows things to ask questions."
Rodrik freezes.
Aeryon releases the reins.
For several long seconds, Rodrik just sits there, chest rising and falling hard, staring at nothing.
Finally, between clenched teeth:
"…Fine."
They begin moving again.
Slow.
Controlled.
And the greenseer child follows.
Always in the corner of Aeryon's vision.
Always matching them.
Always watching.
But now—
It watches Aeryon differently.
Less curiosity.
More certainty.
As if it has decided something about him.
As if it recognizes something in him that he hasn't shown.
Something no one else in this world should be able to see.
Rodrik whispers:
"When we get to Winterfell… the maester needs to hear of this."
Aeryon doesn't answer.
Because overhead, the greenseer child tilts its head again—
mirroring Rodrik's fear with a warped little tilt of its own.