The wooden bowl and spoon, both carved from the pale flesh of weirwood, bore human faces within and without—countless visages frozen in expressions of rapture, sorrow, rage, and serenity. White wood and red faces, like miniature heart trees carried in one's palm.
Within the bowl rested a large clump of crushed weirwood seeds. The dense, pale white paste was streaked with blood-red juice that resembled nothing so much as freshly spilled gore. It was a thoroughly unappetizing mixture, foul enough to turn the strongest stomach.
Joffrey found himself wondering how such a repellent concoction could possibly awaken the dormant talents of a Greenseer. Try as he might, he could divine no answer.
"Leaf," he said, his voice soft yet resonant in the hush of the godswood, "the revival of the Children of the Forest begins in this moment, with you."
He extended the wooden bowl toward those small, three-fingered hands.
Leaf accepted it with surprising steadiness, taking up the carved spoon and consuming the paste one measured mouthful at a time. Her expression betrayed nothing as she chewed and swallowed, as if she were partaking of nothing more substantial than air itself.
This ritual was well known to her. In the days before her people's decline, countless weirwood trees had stood in their ancestral homeland, and any member of the tribe could have easily performed this ceremony. Yet all had understood, bone-deep, that they lacked the necessary gift. None had bothered to try.
Do I truly possess the talent now? Leaf wondered silently.
She offered wordless prayers to the nameless gods of forest and earth, beseeching them to grant success to this desperate ritual. If they answered, she might see her scattered tribesmen once more, might guide them through the dark days to come.
Leaf swallowed the final spoonful of the paste, her eyes never leaving the human faces carved into the wooden bowl. They seemed to stare back at her, as if imparting some ancient message, or perhaps bestowing a blessing older than words.
Bran and Arya watched wide-eyed, stretching their necks to better observe the small figure seated beneath the weirwood sapling. Even the three direwolves—Summer, Nymeria, and Lady—lay quietly upon the lush grass, panting softly with pink tongues lolling. Did they sense something beyond human perception?
Lord Eddard Stark, despite his many preoccupations, found his gaze drawn inexorably to the scene before him. Even a man who had seen war and death and the bitter snows of countless winters could not ignore the weight of the moment.
Yet Joffrey's inner doubts remained unresolved. From beginning to end, he detected no visible change in Leaf or her surroundings. Had the ritual failed?
He approached her side, careful to keep his voice neutral. "How do you feel? Does the weirwood call to you?"
Leaf shook her head, bewilderment evident in her ancient eyes. "I feel nothing unusual. Perhaps I truly lack the gift of a Greenseer. I am sorry to have disappointed you, Your Grace."
A soft, childish sigh of disappointment drifted from where Bran and Arya stood watching.
"Do not surrender hope so swiftly," Joffrey counseled. With practiced ease, he separated a portion of his spirit and directed it into Leaf's form, a technique he had mastered through his study of the runes. "Enter the weirwood tree and make the attempt."
Leaf turned her head awkwardly, trying to ignore the foreign consciousness now sharing her body. "Very well," she agreed.
She closed her eyes and allowed her limbs to relax, leaning back against the slender trunk of the weirwood sapling. Her awareness expanded outward, feeling every inch of the tree's smooth skin and inner flesh, sensing each breath it drew.
For it was breathing.
Every member of the Children knew that weirwood trees never ceased their silent respiration, from the moment they thrust their first roots into the soil until the unimaginable future. Always watching, always listening.
The oldest weirwoods had witnessed pasts more ancient than the Dawn Age itself—had seen the First Men and the Children meet for the first time, had observed the spilling of the first blood between their races.
They had borne silent witness as immeasurable seas had swallowed the Arm of Dorne, transforming it into a string of broken stepping stones. Yet even this had not deterred the First Men from the east, who continued to cross the Narrow Sea with their horses, bronze blades, and leather armor in an endless tide.
They had observed the covenant between the First Men and the Children. The newcomers had claimed the plains, grasslands, mountains, and coastlines for their own, while the ancient forests remained the domain of the Children.
In time, the First Men had abandoned their nameless gods, kneeling instead before the old gods of forest and earth.
The weirwoods had endured through the coming of the Long Night, when endless cold and impenetrable darkness had swept across the world, devouring all life in its path. The Children and the First Men had united then, and heroes had arisen to drive back the Others.
They had watched as the Wall of ice rose high against the northern sky. Ancient and potent magics had transformed that barrier into the Others' greatest dread—what a magnificent achievement that had been.
They had seen the Andals and the Rhoynar arrive upon Westerosi shores. They had witnessed the ceaseless warring of human kings in the south, even as the Children vanished entirely from those lands.
Finally, they had lived to see the First Men, Andals, and Rhoynar united beneath a single crown.
The weirwood trees knew all of this.
They had endured alongside those ancient histories, and they would continue to faithfully record the distant future, silent and patient, without the slightest trace of judgment.
Leaf sighed gently, and the leaves of the weirwood rustled in response, as if stirred by some unfelt breeze.
She drew a long breath, and fresh air seemed to flow into her body through countless tiny pores in the leaves, bark, and roots of the tree. The sensation brought an indescribable vitality, the very essence of life itself. It was pure bliss.
I am the weirwood now, she thought with quiet contentment.
We are, came another melody, resonating from within the very wood.
The human king speaks; he is here as well. Leaf gradually regained focus on her surroundings.
Joffrey's consciousness rustled the leaves of the weirwood: All weirwoods are eyes. Think of the place you wish to see, the time you wish to witness.
Leaf yearned for her homeland.
Immediately, the air around her grew cold and dark. Faint echoes reverberated through a vast underground space, deep and quiet. This was her familiar homeland, yet not as she had known it.
Leaf beheld as many as a hundred of her people gathered below, praying with solemn devotion to the gods of wood and earth. Short spears and blades of dragonglass lay upon the ground beside them. The scene was at once familiar and strange to her eyes.
A wise one among the assembled Children, his eyes gleaming green as summer grass, raised his head as if perceiving her presence across the gulf of years.
Leaf desperately wished to communicate with him, to relate all the tribulations her people now faced, to beg for guidance. But this was merely an image from a distant past, as substantial as morning mist.
With awkward determination, Leaf manipulated the flow of time. The visions before her eyes flickered and changed, swift as a bird's wing and hazy as rising smoke. Yet through the blur of passing ages, she could discern the gradual decline of her people, their numbers dwindling season by season.
I have nearly reached the present day, she realized, both elated by her success and grieved by what she witnessed.
At last, a familiar face appeared before the weirwood—one-eyed Brynden Rivers, being led into the heart of their sanctuary by Leaf herself and several other Children.
She remembered that day with perfect clarity. The old human had successfully completed the ritual, becoming the last Greenseer of their dwindling kind.
Without warning, her surroundings plunged into darkness.
Leaf's consciousness detached from the sapling and merged with another presence deeper within the cave network she had glimpsed. She immediately sensed the difference—these roots were arranged in a specific pattern, forming a seat perfectly sized to accommodate a tall human form.
The throne of the Greenseer. Understanding blossomed within her.
She continued to struggle through the river of time, determined to locate the last Greenseer in the present moment.
At last, she reached the endpoint of her journey. The Greenseer's physical form remained seated upon the throne of roots, but his soul had delved deep into the vast memories contained within the weirwood network.
Joffrey's consciousness whispered to her: Wait here. He will return.
So it was that when Bloodraven's wandering spirit at last returned to the cave, he encountered an unexpected revelation. Two foreign souls had invaded his sacred throne! In alarm, he moved to reclaim his physical form.
Joffrey projected a soothing message: Greenseer, have no fear. We shared a most pleasant exchange in the Riverlands not long ago. Tell me, have you located Bloodraven?
It's him! Bloodraven calmed somewhat, then noted that the second consciousness belonged to one of the Children who had journeyed south.
Another message emanated from the throne: If you cannot find Bloodraven, then abandon the search. The lands beyond the Wall grow too perilous by the day. You should not sacrifice lives in vain—make preparations to return to the Wall while you still can.
Perhaps the attempt is worth making, the last Greenseer began to respond, but the two interlopers had already vanished from his throne.
He released a leisurely sigh and settled once more into his silent contemplation.
In that same instant, within the godswood of the Red Keep, Leaf's eyes fluttered open. Where once they had been a mottled gold-green, now they shone a pure, brilliant emerald—as green as summer leaves kissed by morning dew. The golden flecks had vanished entirely.
The unmistakable mark of a Greenseer.
The three direwolves raised their voices in unison, howling as if in celebration of this ancient rebirth.
Joffrey, who had accompanied Leaf throughout her remarkable journey, fell into profound contemplation.
The secrets of the Old Gods...
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