5 Chapters further in all my stories here:
patreon.com/NiflheimA
Chapter 50
Robb Stark
Months prior, in Bloodraven's Mindscape
"How goes the work in the lands of the northern north?" Robb asks.
Bloodraven's form was the same, yet his chalky skin had a tint of rosiness to it, some of his countless scars seemed to fade, and his body finally had some mass to it.
"The children of the forest are eager to follow my words, they see my renewed strength and my change in attitude as some sort of new hope, and have gathered swiftly." He explains. "I have also sent crows, messengers of mine to select giants with the necessary knowledge and ability to gather the rest, I have not managed to influence them toward unity, but I at least can gather them around for you to… do what it is you wish to do."
Robb hummed in agreement.
"And the free folk?"
"Their matter is much more complicated, you asked me to separate their structure in four factions, which I have endeavored to do." Even in his own dreams Brendyn loses his breath. "The violent ones, the ice-river clans, the weeper's followers and such are easy to rile up, a death here, a hallucination there… It was certainly easier than wrangling a kingdom."
His boast set aside, Robb still needed to enquire further. "And?"
"But the others are not so easy to influence, for all my powers beyond the wall's barrier, they cannot match the fear brought by an existential threat such as the Others, and Mance Rayder is a fine politician, his actions fight my influence every step of the way, even if unconsciously." He explains. "But with the time frame available to me, leveraging the violent chaff… I should be able to succeed, unless…"
Robb felt the urge to sigh. "The Night's Watch interfere, putting more external shoulders unto the free folk."
Bloodraven nods. "Indeed, if one threat cannot unite a people, then two might just do the trick."
Gears churned in Robb's mind, quickly thinking of a solution. "The Great Ranging will have to be delayed, I cannot let the Night's Watch interfere, let alone put themselves in such danger." He says. "I shall send a letter, informing Lord Commander Mormont to wait."
"The Night's Watch value their independence, they will not listen to you so simply."
"It is why I must dangle a carrot to their faces, I have many prisoners of common birth, which I shall send to the Night's Watch alongside supplies and material aid, of which the Lord Commander will be informed in said letter." He explains. "But you will provide the stick."
"How so?"
"My uncle Benjen is still investigating the free folk, isn't he?"
"Aye, I have kept an eye on him."
"You will send for a child of the forest, inform him of the threat of the others, and the reason of the wildlings unity." He says. "My uncle might be a blunt tool, but he can be shrewd when he wants to, he will know how to inform the Night's Watch to increase their caution."
Bloodraven nods. "A warning of imminent danger, alongside a promise of reinforcement, that should work beautifully." He answers. 'If that is all?"
Robb let the silence stay, giving the illusion of thought.
"I have sensed grave danger, further south." He finally says. "Can you tell me about it?"
Bloodraven's face stilled, his skin tone regressing to its whiter shade. "I-… There is nothing but misery there, only the remains of a horrible past that should be buried…" He croaks shakily. "I advise you not to investigate, we-… we have more pressing matters at hand."
Robb certainly disagreed, and it was clear what Brynden knew brought him fear, but their relationship was much too rocky to force his hand.
*-*-*
Present day, once again.
The silence was deafening, in its own way.
Once the barge slowly washed up on the shore of the island, Robb finally caught sight of the actual environment.
The shore, if you even called it that, was a thin strip of soft, pitch white sand that made way to greenery barely a couple of steps in.
And the greenery itself was peculiar in its own way, not so much green as it was a mixture of plants and shrubbery of different colors, and despite his expectations, the trees were mostly oaks, birch, or red maple, although he did glimpse the occasional weirwood tree here and there, certainly more than he did anywhere else.
But what was most striking about the isle of faces was the silence. Robb had spent time in forests, either back at home in the Wolfswood, or during this war, marching and travelling through different kinds of woodlands.
And from experience, you learn that forests are everything but silent, from the rustle of wings, the calls of distant birds, or the chirping of insects, ambient sound was a constant thing, and its absence actually suggested some sort of anomaly or danger.
Greywolf violently shook the moisture from his fur, the motion itself causing a small breeze to caress Robb's hair. And as he stood in front of him, he unleashed his teeth and growled to the forest, for he sensed the same thing as him.
The Isle of Faces is an estimate of five miles wide and seven miles long. Comparing it to a known island, it would be considered roughly ten times smaller than say, the island of Tarth.
A relatively healthy man might cross the whole length of the island in two hours.
Robb thought that with its reputation as a sacred land, and taking into account the notice-me-not field, that even if it was populated, it would be at most filled with a hundred men and women.
But his senses do not lie, for some unknown reason, this island was filled with people, hundreds. And for some reason, none of them carried the subtle presence of the force that was characteristic of non-force sensitives.
Robb idly stroked Greywinds back, sending emotions of safety and comfort through their link.
With a click of his tongue, Robb went forward into the forest, seemingly unperturbed as his direwolf marched before him.
The path toward the gathering of people was calm and peaceful, one could say, with no one close registering to his senses.
But Robb had enough self-awareness not to trust one's perception when handling an unknown, force users, no matter how primitive, always had some useful tricks on their sleeves.
And as they walked through the small forest, Robb stopped in his tracks, he was sensing someone coming to his direction.
Turning around, he grabbed a giant leaf that blocked his vision and pushed it out of the way, only to get the jump scare of his life.
It was a man, his mouth was twisted in a silent scream, eyes wide and hollow, with green grass and lichen creeping from his eye sockets. He stood stock still, his legs bent mid stride, arms pumping and shoulders twisted forward with desperation.
The man, or a green man, considering the small wooden antlers stuck to his scalp, was not alive. He was a wooden sculpture, frozen in time as his skin had turned into bark, and vines twisting around his limbs like binding rope.
Most peculiar, was the still shard made of a crimson solid substance surging out of his heart. Its color was dull and dead-looking. Robb momentarily felt a presence in the force surging off that object, yet the moment he did it stopped, as if escaping his senses.
Robb extended his hand toward it, yet a split moment before he touched it, his direwolf had turned and growled behind him.
It seemed their visitor finally arrived.
Robb turned around, finally looking at the person, much like the frozen man, the new man had wooden antlers growing out of his scalp, but while the dead man's were small and fragile, this one's were large and sturdy.
He wore a wooden mask that hid his face, roughly six feet tall, the man was garbed in a light armor that consists of bone, possible sourced from large animal remains or fabricated to resemble such.
The plating showed weathering and exposure, and is partially obscured by natural overgrowth: vines, moss, and lichen have taken root in cracks and seams. A green linen drape was wrapped around his chest, extending into a green cloak decorated with somehow live plants.
But staring into the small opening not hidden by the cloak, Robb glimpsed another crimson object attached to the man's chest, except it was bright and seemingly alive, pulsing with a dark presence both in reality and the force.
"Welcome to the Isle of Faces, stranger." The man spoke with a wizened voice, yet carried a tone that worryingly seemed as cold as Robb's.
"We are the Green Men."