ASOIAF/Game Of Thrones: Ruler of Batannia

The heat from Melisandre’s ritual still lingered in the stones when Arthur left the Wall.

Behind him, Stannis was carried into the keep, breath shallow, face grey, body emptied by a victory that would likely appear cleaner in songs than it had been in flesh. Melisandre had also been taken away, aged and barely breathing. Beyond the Wall, the remains of the blue towers smoked and steamed in the snowfield, while the wights shrieked without order. The Night King was not dead. His army was not broken. The Wall had been bought time, not salvation.

Time was still valuable.

It was also always too expensive.

Arthur crossed the courtyard alone. Men called to him. He did not answer. The tug in his chest had become stronger, an invisible thread pulling him toward the old gods’ grove behind Castle Black. The faint green shimmer at the edge of his vision returned with each step. So did the whispering.

The godswood was small compared to Winterfell’s, but older in feeling.

Wind and snow eased beneath its branches. The air smelled of cold earth, decaying leaves, sap, and something clear enough to make breathing feel less like work. The weirwood stood at the center, roots gnarled beneath snow, bark white as bone, leaves dark red where winter had not stripped them. Its carved face stared outward with half-open eyes. Or perhaps inward. Trees had the advantage of being vague without sounding foolish.

Arthur walked to the trunk.

The face looked more weathered than Winterfell’s heart tree. There was something almost compassionate in it. Non-human, perhaps. Compassion without human softness. A dangerous kind.

He raised one hand and touched the bark.

The world broke open.

Not with pain.

With depth.

The cold air, snow, wind, and distant shouting receded as if drawn behind a curtain. Arthur stood inside a pale green void, vast and breathing. Images flowed around him too quickly to count.

Casterly Rock under sunset, not with lions flying from its battlements but green banners marked by trees and branching signs.

Endless camps beneath stars. Warriors in rough leather and furs, faces painted with old marks, gathered around a tall figure crowned with antlers and woven branches.

Battlefields where ancient men fought dragons, armored knights, and white things made of ice.

Forests growing, burning, growing again. Rivers changing course. Mountains watching. Oathsworns sworn under trees and broken under iron. Heroes rising, falling, and becoming songs that forgot their faces.

Then the images gathered into one.

Arthur saw himself.

Not as he stood now, Lord of Casterly Rock, commander of armies, reluctant participant in the world’s collection of disasters. Another Arthur stood on a high altar under a sky full of unfamiliar stars. Below him knelt countless people: men, women, small delicate beings with old eyes, tall bark-skinned creatures, and others stranger still. He wore armor marked with runes and green gems. On his head rested a crown of living branches, star-metal, and pale stone. In his hand was a sword whose blade looked like emerald light caught in steel.

The other Arthur looked at him.

Across time, memory, dream, or whatever insulting category magic had chosen, their eyes met.

A voice spoke inside his mind.

It was ancient, gentle, and too heavy with years to be comforting.

“The call of blood, traveler across the sea of mists. The strings tremble. You stand at the turning of an age.”

Arthur could not speak. Thought itself felt exposed.

“You have seen the cold from the North. It seeks to freeze time and silence all songs. You have seen the fire from the South. It seeks to burn the past and forge chains anew. Between them, iron, blood, ambition, and betrayal gnaw at the living. The green pulse weakens.”

Images returned.

The Wall breaking under blue towers. The dead flowing south in white waves. Winterfell, Casterly Rock, King’s Landing, Highgarden, all buried in cold silence.

Then fire.

Three dragons blotting the sky, cities burning, armies charging through flame, people screaming beneath banners that promised dawn while delivering ash.

Support creative writers by reading their stories on NovelPhoenix, not stolen versions.

In both visions, forests withered. Rivers dried or froze. Ancient trees cracked. The small hidden lives of the world faded first, then the loud ones. Men always noticed the loud losses last and congratulated themselves for their awareness.

“The old gods are silent,” the voice said. “The new gods clamor. Mortal rulers drown in power, prophecy, fear, and pride. Few listen to the earth. Few guard the roots of continuance.”

Arthur found his voice in thought, if not in mouth.

“What are you?”

“The Greenseer. The last keeper of this echo. My eyes move through the roots of Westeros. My ears hear the whispers of leaf, stream, stone, and beast. I witnessed your arrival. I saw you meet death in the Wolfswood. I saw your oath at the Twins, your rise in the Westerlands and Riverlands, your march north, and the hearts gathered at the Wall.”

Arthur’s mind tightened.

The voice continued.

“I have seen the broken tool within your soul.”

The system.

Of course the tree ghost knew. Why would privacy exist in a world where dead men walked and trees apparently kept records? That would have been too merciful.

“No need for fear, traveler. Your system is a relic, a broken instrument from an age that sought to bind nature in rules and numbers. It chose you by chance, by will, or by the pull of an echo not yet dead. Now it resonates with this land. With the green pulse. With the old oath beneath the name you carried as a game and now bear as a people.”

“Battania,” Arthur thought.

“Not merely the Battania you remember. That was dust and reflection. Battania was once a promise: the oath of the Children of the Mountains, sworn with forest, stream, and star. To protect the diversity of life. To balance the forces that devour. To guide lost tribes. To preserve the spark when ages turn dark.”

The image of the crowned Arthur brightened.

“Arthur Greyoak,” the voice said, and the name struck deeper than any title. “Traveler beyond the sea of mists. Will you renew the broken Supreme Oath?”

Arthur felt the question settle over him.

Not pressure.

Weight.

“Will you bear the title and burden of Ard of the Bards? Not for rule, but protection. Not conquest, but balance. Not power, but the continuance of the green pulse.”

Images of Ena flickered.

Her eyes as she fell. Old Harth by the forge. Stannis burning. Jon Snow half-dead in the snow. Battanian Rangers singing and dying on the Wall. Daenerys and her dragons crossing the sea. The massive shadow beneath the ice. The Night King’s pale face in the storm.

“Will you lead those who still hold awe for nature, passion for life, and loyalty to oath, whether Northmen, Westerners, Riverlanders, Valemen, Children of the Forest, giant-kin, or lost tribes, against the silence of ice and the tyranny of fire? Will you seek balance in an age that will offer only extremes?”

Arthur almost laughed.

Not because it was funny.

Because the first quest he had received had been to unify Westeros. A ridiculous command given to a freezing man with no horse he could ride properly. Now a tree older than kingdoms was offering him responsibility for the balance of life itself. The escalation was offensive. The universe had no sense of reasonable promotion.

Could he refuse?

Yes.

That was the worst part.

He could step back. Let ice and fire tear at one another while he fought for castles, roads, gold, and a slightly larger tombstone in the ashes. He had spent so long surviving that survival itself had begun to feel like purpose.

But if the visions were true, survival without balance was only delay.

Arthur thought of Ena again. Of all the dead whose names had become reasons, levers, wounds, and debts.

He answered.

“I, Arthur Greyoak, traveler from beyond the sea of mists, swear by the true name I know and by the soul that still remembers another world. I will renew the broken oath.”

The green void stilled.

“I will bear the title and burden of Ard of the Bards for protection, balance, and continuance. I will lead those who still hold awe, life, and oath, whatever their blood or origin, against the end of ice and fire. I will seek hope for this land and all living things, and preserve the spark of civilization and nature.”

His next thought came harder.

“This oath I swear with earth and sky as witness, and the old gods as proof. Until death, I shall not betray it.”

The weirwood opened its eyes.

Green light poured from them, soft and bright, like liquid spring after endless winter. It ran down the trunk, into Arthur’s palm, through his hand, arm, chest, bones, and breath. There was no pain. That alone made it suspicious. Instead, warmth filled him, not fire’s heat, but the deep warmth of roots under snow.

He felt the earth beneath Castle Black.

He felt seeds asleep beneath frost. Injured men breathing in the keep. Horses restless in the stables. Ravens shifting on their perches. The deathly cold beyond the Wall. The wounded rage moving in the far north. The restless dragonfire approaching from the south. Rivers under ice. Trees dreaming slowly. Life, quiet and stubborn and everywhere.

Then the system panel appeared in his mind.

Not blue.

Green.

【Detected... fundamental law resonance...】

【Ancient covenant “Battania Oath” re-established...】

【Binder soul brand confirmed... Legacy of the Children of the Mountains activated...】

【Granted Authority: Child of Nature (Primary)】

【Unlocked: High Court Building Tree (Incomplete)】

【Unlocked: Natural Oathsworn System (Primary)】

【Unlocked: Ancient Knowledge Base (Fragment)】

【Unlocked: Ard of the Bards Exclusive Skill Tree (Initial)】

【Granted Title: Ard of the Bards (Temporary)】

【Task Updated: Ultimate Task — “Song of the Epoch” activated.】

【Phase One: Gather the Spark.】

【Additional data loading... Warning: insufficient energy. System core damaged. Several functions cannot be fully activated.】

The light receded.

Arthur stood in the godswood again, hand against the white bark, breath sharp in his chest. Snow fell softly around him. The weirwood face had returned to stillness, though its eyes seemed more open than before.

The Greenseer’s voice came once more, no longer inside him alone, but from the trees, the ground, the snow.

“The oath is made. The echo sounds again. Young Ard of the Bards, your path begins. Ice and fire draw near. Gather your spark. Listen to all things. Find balance where destruction offers only certainty. Your power comes from oath, trust, and the love that protects life from silence.”

The voice faded.

Arthur withdrew his hand.

On the back of it, for a brief moment, an emerald mark glowed: a simplified tree, or perhaps a crown of branches. It sank beneath his skin, leaving only a cool pulse.

He looked at the weirwood.

Nothing had changed.

Everything had.

Arthur turned and walked out of the godswood.

His steps were steadier than when he had entered. Behind him, the branches moved in the wind, whispering like the beginning of a song no man alive fully remembered.