Chapter Five
The Godswood Bloom
The godswood of Winterfell felt older than the castle itself.
Snow drifted silently between the skeletal trunks of ancient trees. The air smelled of pine and frost, carrying the faint, almost imperceptible tang of something older—something older than stone, older than the walls of Winterfell, older than men. At the center stood the weirwood, pale bark almost luminous against the white, its carved face silent, eternal. Crimson leaves clung stubbornly to lifeless branches, unmoving even in the gusting wind.
Elara approached at dawn.
Light spilled across the courtyard, pink and gray, touching the snow in thin, cold fingers. This was sacred ground.
Which meant what she was about to attempt bordered on arrogance.
She knelt.
Fingers pressing into frozen soil that resisted her touch. Cold bit through wool and leather. A shiver ran through her.
Eyes closed, she drew a breath.
In Stardew Valley, planting had been simple. Tilled earth. Seeds. Water. Days. Predictable cycles.
Here, it demanded more. Something raw and unquantifiable. Something older than numbers, older than mechanics.
Her stamina bar flickered faintly in the corner of her vision.
The cold grew sharper. Her cheeks burned. Fingers ached.
"This isn't your farm," she whispered.
Carefully. Gently. She released a thread of power she had never measured, never tested. Not abundance. Not spectacle. Not the fireworks of magic she could summon with a flick of inventory.
Just warmth.
The earth beneath her palm softened, subtle but undeniable. Its chill faded, giving way to dark, yielding soil.
A single green shoot pierced the snow.
Small. Fragile. Real.
Her breath caught.
Life.
Not conjured. Not infinite. Not cheat-born.
Footsteps crunched softly behind her.
"You're either very brave," Jon said, voice low and measured, "or very foolish."
She looked up. Snow caught in his dark lashes, frost clinging to black furs. The direwolf waited at his side, unmoving, red eyes calm as ever.
"Why not both?" she replied, and for the first time since the North, she allowed herself a small, wry smile.
He crouched beside her, gaze fixed on the tiny sprout.
"What is it?" he asked.
"Nothing impressive," she said. "Just barley."
"In winter," he noted, tone flat but curious.
"Yes," she said simply.
He leaned closer, studying it like one would a puzzle missing half its pieces. The frost rimmed her fingers where they touched soil, but she did not pull away.
"You could feed the North," he said quietly, almost reverently.
She met his eyes.
"And then?"
He didn't answer.
Because they both knew the truth.
Food meant loyalty. Loyalty meant power. Power meant fear.
The frost and snow of the godswood pressed around them, silent witnesses.
"I don't want to rule," she said softly.
"Good," he replied, voice barely more than a whisper.
Their hands hovered near each other in the soil, fingertips nearly touching.
Nearly.
Neither moved away.
In that moment, the seed of life between them seemed to pulse with something far older than either of them. Something not born from cheat codes or gold. Something real.
And for the first time since the world had torn open, Elara allowed herself to wonder if, in this place, she could learn what it meant to belong.