Chapter 69 - The Task and The Bond

Ulf Pov

"What do you know about the Corpse Queen?" he asked, his voice growing colder and more calculating by the moment.

I couldn't help but feel a sense of unease. Why was he probing into this ancient legend? Nevertheless, I responded with the knowledge I possessed. "The Corpse Queen was the legendary consort of Night's King from the Age of Heroes," I explained, my words laden with the weight of history. "Their tale speaks of a white-skinned woman whom Night's King pursued and loved after an encounter atop the Wall. He brought her to the Nightfort, and following their unholy union, he crowned himself king, with her as his queen."

The man's response was curt, acknowledging my familiarity with the legend. "At least you know about her," he grumbled, as if confirming some unspoken suspicion.

But then, the world shifted around me, and I found myself standing atop the Wall, overlooking the vast expanse of the North. The greenseer's voice broke through the scene, weaving images of the distant past into my consciousness.

"He was a fearless warrior who served as the thirteenth Lord Commander of the Night's Watch," the voice narrated, the words echoing through the freezing winds. "After a fateful encounter, he became enamored with a white-skinned woman beyond the Wall. Night's King brought her back to the Nightfort, and following their unholy union, he claimed dominion as king, with her as his queen."

The tale unfolded before my eyes, a dark chapter in the annals of history. "Night's King ruled the Nightfort as his own castle for thirteen long years," the voice continued, painting a picture of a reign marked by darkness and horror. "Horrific atrocities were committed during that time, and their echoes still resonate in the North."

My heart grew heavy as I absorbed the grim details of this ancient saga. "And it was not until Brandon the Breaker, the King of Winter, and Joramun, the King-Beyond-the-Wall, joined forces that Night's King was brought down," the voice intoned, revealing the moment of reckoning. "After his fall, it was revealed that Night's King had been making sacrifices to the Others. As punishment, all records of him were destroyed, and his very name was forbidden and forgotten."

The weight of that revelation hung heavily upon me, leaving me with a profound sense of foreboding.

"The Night King was defeated, but what happened to the Corpse Queen?" I inquired, my curiosity burning brightly.

"She still lives," he replied, and my eyes widened in astonishment. The revelation that the Corpse Queen had endured the ages was a chilling revelation.

But his next words sent a shiver down my spine, and I felt a profound sense of foreboding. "She knows the song has changed and will try to weave her own song," he declared, his voice carrying an ominous weight.

"I have a task for you," he continued, his piercing gaze locking onto mine. The gravity of his request hung heavily in the air, an unspoken urgency underscoring his words. I found myself drawn into his enigmatic plan, captivated by the solemnity of the moment.

"Go to the Nightfort," he instructed, his voice resonating with a profound sense of purpose. "There, you will find a child of the forest who awaits you with this." With a flourish, he conjured a seed in his hand, its presence an ethereal embodiment of ancient magic.

"It's a weirwood seed," he revealed, his voice dropping to a hushed reverence that sent shivers down my spine. "And I want you to plant it at Ravenhall, where the blood of Valyria and the First Men can mingle and awaken its dormant power," he commanded.

The weight of his words pressed upon me, leaving me with questions that begged for answers. "But why me?" I finally inquired, my voice laced with uncertainty.

He met my question with a stoic silence, his expression betraying no emotion. Suddenly, with a swift motion, he raised his hand, and I found myself plummeting into a deep pit of darkness.

My descent into the abyss was swift and disorienting, a maelstrom of sensations and thoughts. And then, as abruptly as it had begun, I was jolted awake from my fall, my body drenched in sweat, back in the world I knew.

The pain that seared through my body was an unrelenting reminder of the ordeal I had endured. As I slowly opened my eyes, I found myself in a dimly lit chamber, the soft flickering of candlelight casting eerie shadows across the stone walls. The air was thick with the scent of herbs and ointments, a testament to the efforts made to mend my battered form.

With great effort, I tried to sit up, but a sharp, stabbing pain shot through my side, forcing me back down onto the cold, unforgiving surface beneath me. It was then that I noticed the bandages, tightly wrapped around my torso, binding my wounds and holding me together.

I couldn't help but wince as I gingerly touched the bandages, feeling the tenderness of my injuries beneath them. Each movement sent a jolt of pain through my body, a stark reminder of my fight with Bennard and his sons.

Memories began to flood back into my consciousness in disjointed fragments. The cryptic conversation in the godswood, the revelations about the Corpse Queen, and the ominous task I had been assigned—all swirled together in a confusing whirlwind.

As I lay there, my mind began to piece together the events that had transpired. The enigmatic greenseer had transported me to the Wall, sharing with me the history of Night's King and the Corpse Queen. The knowledge he had imparted was laden with foreboding, suggesting that the ancient evil of the Corpse Queen still lingered in the shadows.

But it was his command that weighed most heavily upon me. To journey to the Nightfort, where a child of the forest would await me with a weirwood seed, and to plant it at Ravenhall, mingling the blood of Valyria and the First Men to awaken its dormant power—this task held an air of destiny and peril that I could not ignore.

As I lay there, lost in contemplation, the chamber's door creaked open, and a figure stepped into the room. It was a maester, his robe adorned with the chained links of wisdom, a symbol of healing and knowledge.

"You're awake," he said, his voice gentle and reassuring. "You've been through quite an ordeal."

I nodded weakly, my throat dry and parched. The maester offered me a cup of water, and I gratefully sipped from it, the cool liquid soothing my parched throat.

"You've suffered some serious injuries," the maester explained as he inspected my bandages. "But you're fortunate to be alive. The wounds were deep, but I did our best to mend them."

"You have my thanks", I said.

The searing pain surged once more, a relentless reminder of the injuries that still held me in their grip. I winced and settled back onto the bed, the agony subsiding into a dull ache.

"How long have I been asleep?" I inquired, my voice tinged with curiosity and concern.

"It has been seven days," the man replied, his tone calm and measured. I nodded, taking in the gravity of the situation.

My next question was one that weighed heavily on my heart. "What about my companions?" I asked, my concern for their well-being taking precedence.

"They are recuperating as well, though their injuries were not as grievous as yours," the man reassured me, his words bringing a small but genuine smile to my face. Knowing that my comrades were safe was a balm to my soul.

Just then, a polite knock echoed through the chamber door, drawing our attention. The door slowly swung open, revealing a young man with jet-black hair and stormy grey eyes. An unmistakable bruise adorned his face, a testament to some recent altercation.

Upon seeing him, the maester immediately rose from his seat, a gesture of deep respect evident in his demeanor. "Lord Stark," he addressed the newcomer, his voice carrying a tone of deference.

I attempted to sit up in a show of respect, but the lingering pain in my body prevented me from doing so.

"You may leave, Maester," the man commanded, his voice cold and commanding. The elderly healer nodded and departed the room, shuffling away with bowed shoulders.

He settled into a chair beside me, his piercing grey eyes locking onto mine with unwavering intensity. But then, as if a veil had been lifted, the frigidness in his gaze transformed into a warm and genuine expression.

"You have my deepest thanks, White Knight," he spoke with a sincerity that resonated through his words, his voice filled with gratitude.

His next words caught me off guard, and my heart swelled with pride. "Sara told me about how you saved her in the godswood from my treacherous uncle," he continued, his tone carrying a sense of admiration for my actions.

"Ser Torrhen Manderly also spoke of your unwavering courage and determination, even in the face of insurmountable odds," he added, emphasizing the valor I had displayed.

"I, Cregan Stark," he declared, his voice resonating with pride and humility, "will forever be in your debt for what you've done for me, my sister and the North."

In that moment, I felt a profound sense of honor and purpose. To have earned the gratitude and respect of a Stark, the lord of Winterfell. It was a moment of pride, a reminder that even in the darkest of times, acts of bravery and selflessness could kindle the warmth of gratitude and forge bonds that transcended the boundaries of titles and nobility.

"Thank you, Lord Stark, for your kind words," I responded with humility, acknowledging his gratitude.

However, I couldn't help but gently correct him, a lighthearted smile playing on my lips. "Although you seem to be mistaken," I continued, watching as a hint of doubt crept across his face.

"My name is Ulf, not the White Knight," I clarified, raising my hand to emphasize the point.

To my surprise, he burst into laughter, a hearty and infectious sound that filled the chamber. His laughter was followed by a warm and genuine smile as he extended his hand toward me.

"Aye, Ulf," he agreed, his tone filled with camaraderie, "my name is Cregan."

With that simple exchange of names, a bond was forged between us.

I had earned the respect and friendship of the Lord of Winterfell, a man whose valor and resilience during the Dance of Dragons would, in the annals of history, earn him the well-deserved reputation of a certified badass.