Celestial Smith Chapter 65

The Celestial Smith Chapter 65: Paradise

(Sorry for the wait)

Leaf turned toward the dark opening beneath the massive weirwood, beckoning Owen and Val to follow. Anastasia hesitated at the entrance, hackles rising slightly before Owen laid a reassuring hand on her flank. The direwolf reluctantly padded after them as they descended into the earth.

The tunnel sloped gently downward, illuminated by a soft phosphorescence that emanated from strange fungi clinging to the walls. As they ventured deeper, the passage narrowed, forcing Owen to duck his head beneath massive weirwood roots that burst through the stone like pale, twisting serpents.

Val ran her fingers along one of the roots, then pulled her hand back quickly. "These passages... they feel like they're breathing."

"In a way, they are," Leaf replied, her musical voice echoing softly against the stone. "The roots of the weirwood connect all things—past, present, and what may come."

The air grew warmer as they descended, heavy with the scent of damp earth and something else—something ancient and unknowable. Owen felt the weight of ages pressing down upon him, the accumulated wisdom of countless years seeping from the very walls.

"How much farther?" he asked, ducking under a particularly low-hanging root that seemed to reach for him as he passed.

Leaf glanced back, her amber eyes gleaming in the dim light. "Not far now. The heart of our sanctuary lies just ahead."

They rounded a bend in the passage, and suddenly the narrow confines gave way to a vast chamber that stole Owen's breath. The ceiling soared overhead, pierced through with thousands of weirwood roots that hung like pale stalactites, each one glowing with a faint blue luminescence that cast the entire chamber in ethereal light.

The floor of the cave was a tangled mass of roots, woven together like an intricate carpet. In places, the roots parted to reveal small pools of black water, still as glass and reflecting the glowing tendrils above like stars in a midnight sky.

At the center of this underground cathedral, the roots formed a natural throne, cradling the withered form of an ancient man. His skin was paper-thin, stretched taut over bone, and roots had grown through his body, emerging from his empty eye socket and piercing his limbs, binding him permanently to the weirwood.

Two other Children of the Forest knelt beside the throne, their hands hovering over the old man's form as they sang in voices like wind through ancient trees, a language so old it predated human memory.

"Bloodraven," Owen murmured, approaching, "or what's left of him."

The old man's chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, but there was no awareness in his remaining eye, which stared sightlessly at the ceiling. He was alive, but empty—a vessel without its occupant.

Leaf nodded, her expression solemn. "His body remains, but his mind is gone. You saw to that when you cast him into the white void."

Owen winced slightly, remembering the white void and the terrible entity he had left Bloodraven with as punishment. "I hope the old gods don't mind what I did."

To his surprise, Leaf's expression shifted to something resembling approval. "Quite the contrary. Brynden Rivers had been growing... unruly. He was interfering with things he shouldn't have, attempting to escape his punishment for killing the last Three-Eyed Raven."

Val stepped forward, her brow furrowed in confusion. "Three-Eyed what?"

"The greenseer who came before him," Leaf explained patiently. "Brynden killed him to take his power, breaking sacred oaths."

Owen's eyes narrowed as he studied the withered form. "So the old gods couldn't stop him when he was trying to make Bran his vessel? Or trying to take Jon's life away?"

Leaf's gaze turned distant, as if seeing across vast stretches of time. "They had no power to do so after magic failed from the world. The last punishment they gave Brynden Rivers before their influence fully disappeared was to make sure that he took the three-eyed raven's place but could not leave, acting as an anchor against the White Walkers' approach, an invisible wall they could not pass." Her amber eyes refocused on Owen. "But with your coming and your works returning magic and mystery to the world, they could finally act in defense of the realm."

"I brought magic back?" Owen asked, the weight of this revelation settling on his shoulders.

"Not brought back," Leaf corrected, "but awakened what slumbered. Magic never truly left this world—it merely grew dormant, like seeds beneath winter snow. Your presence was the first warm breath of spring."

Val moved closer to the withered body, studying it with wary fascination. "What happens to him now? If his mind is gone but his body lives?"

"His body must remain," one of the other Children said without looking up from their vigil. "It maintains the barrier that helps keep the Others at bay."

Owen circled the throne of roots, noting how they seemed to pulse with a subtle rhythm, like a heartbeat. "The Night King is moving his forces south. The barrier isn't holding anymore."

Leaf nodded gravely. "It hold but a while longer but yes. The balance has shifted. The Others grow stronger as the long night approaches. The old gods have been preparing for this moment for thousands of years, but now the song has changed." She fixed Owen with her unsettling gaze. "Because of you."

"And is that a good thing or a bad thing?" Owen asked.

"It simply is," Leaf replied. "The old gods do not judge as humans do. They see patterns where mortals see chaos. But they recognize that you may be the key to saving what remains."

The Children finished their song, and the blue glow of the roots intensified momentarily before settling back to its steady luminescence. One of them approached Owen, studying him with eyes that seemed to see through flesh to the very core of his being.

"The greenseer's vessel is empty," the Child said, "but the power remains. The old gods would speak with you now, Owen Longshore. But first, please eat."

The Children brought forth wooden platters laden with strange foods—fruits that seemed to glow with an inner light, mushrooms larger than Owen's fist, and what appeared to be roasted fish, though its silvery skin shimmered with an iridescence no normal fish possessed.

Owen hesitated only briefly before taking a seat on the cave floor. Anastasia settled beside him, sniffing the offerings with interest but waiting for his approval. Val followed his lead, though she eyed the food with open suspicion.

"It's safe," Leaf assured them, taking a glowing blue fruit and biting into it. Juice like liquid moonlight trickled down her chin.

Val picked up a similar fruit, turning it over in her hands. "My grandmother told stories of the Children, but I never thought..." She took a tentative bite, and her eyes widened in surprise. "It tastes like summer!"

Owen tried the fruit himself and was struck by the explosion of flavors—honey and sunshine and something indescribable that reminded him of his first kiss with Sansa. The sensation was so vivid it momentarily took his breath away.

"We are few now," Leaf said with a small smile, watching their reactions, "but once we filled these lands."

Val reached for one of the mushrooms, her initial wariness replaced by curiosity. "Did you really help build the Wall with Brandon the Builder?" she asked, breaking off a piece that released a puff of glowing spores.

"We did," Leaf confirmed, settling cross-legged across from them. "Our magic and his vision created the barrier that has held for thousands of years."

"And the giants? Did they help too?" Val's questions tumbled out with childlike eagerness, a stark contrast to her usual guarded demeanor.

Leaf nodded, her amber eyes distant with memory. "They carried stones larger than mammoths. The three races worked as one in those days."

Owen sampled the roasted fish, finding it delicate and sweet, unlike anything he'd tasted before. The food seemed to restore not just his physical energy but something deeper—his magical reserves felt replenished, vibrant with potential.

"The balance was different then," one of the other Children added, speaking for the first time. "Humans were fewer, and they remembered to honor the pact."

"What pact?" Owen asked, wiping his hands on his breeches.

"The one that ended the war between the First Men and the Children," Leaf explained. "We gave them the open lands to farm and build upon, while we kept the deep forests. They promised to leave the weirwoods standing and to honor the old gods."

Val's expression grew somber. "The Free Folk still honor that pact. We never cut down weirwoods."

"Yes," Leaf agreed. "The Free Folk remember the old ways better than most. But then came the Andals with their seven gods and their iron swords, cutting down our heart trees and hunting our people." She gestured to the withered form of Bloodraven. "Some of us survived by retreating further north, while others married among the houses of the North, diluting our blood but preserving our knowledge."

Owen finished his meal, setting aside the empty platter. The strange food had left him feeling more alert and focused than he'd been in days. "Why have you brought us here, Leaf? What do the old gods want with me?"

Leaf rose to her feet in a fluid motion, her expression becoming grave. "The old gods wish to speak with you, Owen Longshore. They have watched your journey since you first arrived in this world."

Owen felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cave's temperature. "They know about... where I came from?"

Leaf nodded solemnly. "Touch this root," she said, indicating a pale, gnarled weirwood root that pulsed with a gentle blue light. "It will carry your consciousness to where they wait."

Val stepped closer to Owen, concern etched on her features. "Is it dangerous?"

"Not for him," Leaf assured her. "His magic will protect him."

Owen glanced at Anastasia, who whined softly but made no move to stop him. Taking a deep breath, he reached out and placed his palm against the pulsing root.

The moment his skin made contact, the world around him dissolved. There was no disorientation, no sense of movement—one instant he was in the cave, and the next he stood in a swirling veil of snow.

Though surrounded by whirling snowflakes, Owen felt no cold. The snow didn't settle on his clothes or skin but passed through him as if he were made of smoke. Each flake shimmered with an inner light, like tiny stars dancing around him.

"Where am I?" he murmured, his voice neither muffled nor echoing in this strange place.

As if in response to his question, the veil of snow began to part, revealing a breathtaking landscape that stretched out before him. Lush northern forests carpeted rolling hills, their leaves a vibrant green that spoke of eternal summer. Fertile fields stretched to the horizon, golden with grain that swayed in a gentle breeze. And dotting this paradise were castles—not the stark, practical fortresses of modern Westeros, but beautiful structures that seemed to grow from the land itself, their towers and spires reaching toward the sky like the branches of great trees.

Owen felt a tug, gentle but insistent, pulling him forward. An invisible hand seemed to guide him toward one particularly magnificent castle that stood at the center of this impossible realm. Unlike the others, this castle was built entirely of weirwood—pale as bone, with blood-red leaves adorning every branch and tower. It was both organic and architectural, as if the trees had grown themselves into the shape of a fortress.

Owen approached the massive doors of weirwood, each panel twice his height and emblazoned with an intricate carving of the Stark direwolf sigil. The beast seemed almost alive, its eyes following him as he drew closer. Unlike the somber, snarling direwolf he knew from Winterfell's banners, this creature appeared majestic and protective, its posture noble rather than threatening.

As he reached out to touch the carved wood, the doors swung inward of their own accord, opening without a sound despite their enormous weight. A wave of warmth, light, and sound washed over him.

The Great Hall beyond stretched impossibly far, larger than any structure Owen had seen in Westeros. Hundreds of people filled the space, engaged in every manner of celebration. Some feasted at long tables laden with food and drink, others dueled with blunted practice swords in open spaces between the tables, laughing as they fought. Musicians played lively northern tunes while couples danced in wild, spinning circles. Children darted between the tables, playing games of chase.

Owen stood transfixed at the threshold. Most of the hall's occupants had the unmistakable Stark look—long faces, dark hair, and gray eyes—though he spotted others with more southern features scattered throughout. Men and women alike wore a mixture of fine clothing and practical northern garb, with no clear distinction of rank among them.

As Owen stepped into the hall, the revelry ceased abruptly. Conversations died mid-sentence, music faded to silence, and every eye turned toward him. The sudden quiet was unnerving, hundreds of faces studying him with intense curiosity.

Then, as one, the hall erupted in a thunderous cheer. Every person rose to their feet, raising cups, horns, and goblets high.

"HAIL, OWEN LONGSHORE! HAIL, THE NORTH'S CHAMPION!" they roared in perfect unison, their voices blending into a sound like rolling thunder.

Before Owen could respond, he found himself surrounded. Men and women pressed forward, embracing him like a long-lost relative, clapping him on the back, and offering drinks. They spoke over one another, their words blending together in an overwhelming chorus of welcome.

"Well met, brother!"

"The stories they tell of you!"

"Here, drink! The mead here never runs dry!"

"My grandson says you've given the North steel giants!"

A burly man with a thick beard thrust a drinking horn into Owen's hands, filled with honey-colored mead that smelled of summer wildflowers. "Drink deep, Longshore! No man goes thirsty in this hall!"

Owen took a cautious sip, finding the mead impossibly sweet and refreshing. It warmed him from within, filling him with a sense of belonging he hadn't expected.

"Make way! Make way for our guest!" A commanding voice cut through the crowd, and the press of bodies parted.

A tall, broad-shouldered man with a weathered face strode toward Owen. His features were strikingly familiar—the same long face, strong jaw, and gray eyes as Eddard Stark, though this man carried himself with an easy confidence that Ned rarely displayed. At his side walked a buxom blonde woman dressed in wildling furs, her hand resting comfortably in the crook of his arm.

"Come, friend," the man said, gesturing toward the high table at the far end of the hall. "You'll find better conversation there than in this crush."

The crowd parted respectfully as Owen followed the pair to a raised dais where a high table stood. Unlike the formal seating arrangements of Winterfell's Great Hall, this table was arranged in a semicircle, with no seat more prominent than others.

As they reached the table, Owen studied the man more carefully. The resemblance to Ned was uncanny, though this man seemed more at ease with himself, his eyes crinkling at the corners with good humor.

"Brandon?" Owen asked, stunned by the realization. "Brandon the Builder?"

The man threw back his head and laughed heartily, sharing an amused glance with the blonde woman beside him. His laughter was infectious, warm and genuine.

"Close, but not quite," he said, offering Owen a seat. "I am Brandon Stark, yes, but the Builder is my father, not me. I'm merely the son who followed his path, though with considerably less fame."

Owen settled into the offered chair, his mind racing. "Then this is... what exactly? The afterlife?"

Brandon nodded, pouring wine from a silver pitcher. "In a manner of speaking. My father is with the old gods now—has been for thousands of years. He is part of them fully."

The blonde woman leaned forward, her blue eyes bright with interest. "We've been watching you, Owen Longshore. You've brought quite the storm to our quiet North."

Owen looked around the vast hall, taking in the hundreds of souls feasting and celebrating. "So this is the paradise for those who worship the old gods?"

"Not only for the faithful," Brandon said, nodding, "but for any who stood beside the North and House Stark. See there?" He pointed to a group laughing by one of the massive hearths. "Cooks, smiths, warriors, smallfolk—all are here. No lords in this hall. We are united as brothers and sisters."

Owen spotted a blacksmith demonstrating his technique to an appreciative audience, his movements reminding him of his father. Nearby, a woman who could have been a cook or a farmer's wife told an animated story that had her listeners clutching their sides with laughter.

"The Andals believe in seven heavens and seven hells," Owen said, his voice barely above a whisper as he took in the magnificent hall around him. "But this seems... different." The weight of realization pressed against his chest, a mixture of awe and disbelief washing over him as he tried to comprehend the vastness of what he was experiencing.

"The Andals brought their gods with them," Brandon replied with a dismissive wave of his hand, the corner of his mouth quirking upward. "Who knows what happens to that dreary lot after they die with all their rules and looking down on others." He shrugged, the wine in his cup catching the light from the nearby hearth. "The old gods were here long before, and will remain long after. Different faiths, different rewards." His words hung in the air, heavy with ancient knowledge.

Owen's gaze drifted to the walls, where he noticed weirwood faces carved into the pale wood. Unlike the tortured, weeping expressions often seen in the godswoods of Westeros, these faces appeared serene, almost welcoming. He could feel their eyes following him, not with judgment but with curious recognition. A shiver ran down his spine—not of fear, but of profound connection.

"Is this why the weirwoods are sacred?" he asked, his voice hushed with reverence. The scent of earth and sap seemed to fill his nostrils, though there were no living trees in the hall. "Why only branches can be cut?" In his mind, he recalled the strict taboos surrounding heart trees, understanding dawning on him like the first light of morning.

"Indeed," Brandon confirmed, his expression growing more serious, the lines around his eyes deepening. "Through the weirwoods, those who have gone before can hear the prayers of their descendants and pass them to the old gods, who do what they can to protect those left behind until their time comes." His voice carried the weight of millennia, of countless whispered prayers absorbed by ancient bark.

The blonde woman nodded, leaning closer. The scent of winter roses clung to her, impossibly fresh. "When you pray before a heart tree, you speak not only to the gods but to your ancestors," she said softly, her blue eyes reflecting the dancing flames of the hearth. "We hear. We remember." Her words resonated within Owen, stirring something primal and forgotten in his soul.

Owen leaned forward, hands clasped before him, feeling the tremor of anticipation in his fingertips. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat a drum of determination. "I want to speak with the old gods directly," he said, the words tumbling out before he could reconsider. His thoughts raced with questions unasked, mysteries unsolved. "At least I was told they wanted to speak to me, that is."

Brandon chuckled, sharing another amused glance with the woman. "They would no doubt like to speak with you as well. But even as near godlike to normal people as you are, speaking directly with a god isn't something you—or they—can just do."

"Then how—" Owen began.

"They usually or at least used to appear through avatars—spirits of nature—or they speak through others," Brandon interrupted. "As much as you've helped bring back their strength, they're not strong enough yet to appear as avatars. So they've given the task to me."

Brandon leaned forward, his weathered face taking on a solemn expression as the revelry of the hall seemed to fade into the background. "The old gods wish me to convey their gratitude, Owen Longshore. Your presence in this world has awakened powers long dormant, bringing magic back to the North in ways not seen for thousands of years."

Owen nodded, humbled by the gravity of Brandon's words.

"They bless your union with Sansa," Brandon continued, his voice carrying the weight of ancient authority, "and any other you will take, to have many children and prosperity."

Owen sputtered, nearly choking as mead caught in his throat. "Any other?" His voice cracked with indignation, face flushing hot. "I won't cheat on Sansa!" The very thought sent a ripple of discomfort through his chest, his fingers tightening around his cup until his knuckles whitened.

The reaction his words provoked was immediate and completely unexpected. Brandon burst into hearty, belly-deep laughter that seemed to shake his entire frame. His wife joined with a musical chuckle that rang through the hall like silver bells. The sound spread outward as many of the listening Starks erupted in similar amusement, their laughter echoing off the ancient stones. Owen's eyes darted around, noticing that some looked away with guilty expressions, their faces tinged with embarrassment—mayhap those borne during the age of lords and kings when such matters were viewed differently.

Brandon's wife dabbed at her eyes, wiping away tears of mirth that had gathered there. Her blonde hair cascaded around her shoulders, catching the dancing firelight as she shook her head. "Southern customs are strange indeed!" Her voice carried a hint of bewilderment mixed with amusement. "Let me guess, you are afraid of fathering..." she paused, searching for the right word, "...what did our grandson call them...ah yes, bastards." The word rolled off her tongue as if it were an unfamiliar, foreign concept.

"I swear we never had such things in my time," Brandon said, his chest still rumbling with lingering chuckles. His weathered hand rested on the table as he leaned forward. "Children born from a wife or another were raised together and took the family name. Winters were harsh and we had to pull together." His eyes softened with the wisdom of generations. "Every birth was a blessing." He gave Owen a knowing look, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Besides, that blonde spear wife you travel with may have something to say about that."

Owen felt heat rushing to his cheeks, the warmth spreading to his ears. His mind filled with unbidden images of Val—her fierce blue eyes, her proud stance, the way she moved like a predator through the snow. "Val and I are just—" he stammered, his thoughts a jumbled mess of denial and confusing emotions that twisted in his stomach.

"Regardless," Brandon waved dismissively, cutting off Owen's flustered protest with a firm gesture. The humor drained from his face like water through sand. "There are more urgent matters to discuss." His expression sobered completely, the laughter fading from his eyes, replaced by a gravity that seemed to pull the very air from the room. "The White Walkers have grown desperate. They've sensed your power and how the North has advanced thanks to you."

The mood in the hall shifted perceptibly, the celebrating souls growing quiet as they listened.

"Usually, they would sleep another thousand years," Brandon continued, his voice dropping lower, "but the Great Other has spoken. The Night King marshals thousands upon thousands of dead, as well as any Free Folk they can capture, to launch an assault on the living."

Owen straightened, his hands instinctively moving to where his weapons would be if he were physically present. "I'm ready," he stated confidently. "I'll unleash a tide of metal and magic against them. I have been preparing the North for years for this."

Brandon shook his head, his expression grave. "It won't be enough," he said firmly. "You must unite Westeros as well. Bring the living to face the dead so all may have a part to play."

The implications of Brandon's words settled heavily on Owen's shoulders. Uniting the fractious kingdoms of Westeros would be a monumental task, especially with the current political climate after the slaver war and Roberts continuing rampage.

"What about the other gods awakening?" Owen asked, his mind racing through the potential complications. "Won't they be a hindrance? Will they send champions to defeat me or convert me, as the Black Goat tried?"

Brandon exchanged a knowing glance with his wife before answering. "After you defeated the Harpy's champion at Meereen's gates, the other deities will be wary of sending their champions against you directly." His lips curved into a slight smile. "Instead, they'll be busy trying to gain influence as they return, using their champions as prophets. Besides, they hate the Great Other just as much as we and the old gods do, so for now, they will leave you be."

Brandon's expression shifted, a hint of amusement returning to his weathered features. "Though knowing the Seven, they may just send a pompous champion forth you will have to teach a lesson."

Brandon rose from his seat, his weathered hand beckoning Owen to follow. "Come," he said, his voice carrying the weight of ages. "Let us walk a while. There's more to see than just this hall."

Owen followed, intrigued. They passed through the great weirwood doors, which opened silently before them. Outside, the landscape had transformed completely. Where daylight had illuminated lush fields and forests earlier, now a vast canopy of stars stretched overhead, more numerous and brilliant than Owen had ever seen in the living world.

"The night sky here is something to behold, isn't it?" Brandon remarked, noticing Owen's upturned gaze. "Every star a story, every constellation a memory."

"It's magnificent," Owen admitted, genuinely awed by the celestial display. The stars seemed to pulse with life, their light casting a silvery glow across the landscape. "Nothing like this exists in the world of the living."

They walked in companionable silence along a path that wound through ancient weirwood groves. The trees stood like pale sentinels, their red leaves rustling softly despite the absence of wind. Faces carved into their trunks watched their passage with serene expressions, so different from the tortured visages Owen was accustomed to seeing in the godswoods of the North.

"When you and Sansa finally leave the world to your children and grandchildren," Brandon said, breaking the silence, "the old gods will give you pride of place in this afterlife. The hall you've seen is but one small corner of our realm."

Owen's steps slowed as he considered Brandon's words. "That may not be for a very long time," he confessed, his voice quiet against the stillness of the night. "Perhaps not ever, in the traditional sense."

Brandon raised an eyebrow but continued walking. "Explain."

"The power I wield, that has allowed me to advance the north—the Celestial Forge—it grows with time," Owen said, choosing his words carefully. "Already it has granted me abilities beyond what most would consider possible. One day, it may offer immortality to me and those I love. Or godhood. Or even the power to walk between worlds."

He glanced sideways at Brandon, uncertain how this revelation would be received. To his surprise, the ancient Stark merely nodded, seemingly untroubled.

"The old gods have existed since before the First Men came to Westeros," Brandon replied. "They've seen powers rise and fall, watched civilizations bloom and wither. Your Celestial Forge is but another current in the river of existence. Something new, maybe dangerous, but accepted nonetheless."

They crested a small hill, revealing a panoramic view of the afterlife realm—endless forests, glittering lakes, and distant mountains, all bathed in starlight. Small lights twinkled throughout the landscape, marking the locations of other halls, other gatherings of the departed.

"So you're not... concerned?" Owen asked, still surprised by Brandon's acceptance.

Brandon laughed, the sound rich and full. "Why would we be? As long as you come back once in a while to tell us how you are doing." He clapped Owen on the shoulder. "You are family now. Through Sansa, you share our blood. Your little Lyanna carries both your strength and the wolf's blood of the Starks."

"She's remarkable," Owen said, a smile warming his face as he thought of his daughter. "Already trying to crawl after Anastasia. Sansa says she has my stubbornness."

"And she will be the first of many," Brandon said with certainty. "Sansa will bless you with many children after little Lyanna."

Owen's expression grew more serious. "The war that's coming—"

"Will be won," Brandon interrupted firmly. "The living will triumph over the dead, though not without cost. And afterward..." He gestured expansively at the starlit realm around them. "Afterward, you and Sansa and all the wives you will gather along your journey will have centuries, perhaps millennia, to explore, to build, to love."

Owen nearly stumbled. "All the—what did you say?"

Brandon's eyes twinkled with mischief. "The old gods see many paths, Owen Longshore. Some clearer than others. But in most, you do not walk alone. The spear wife who travels with you now is but the first of several who will join your house."

Owen felt heat rising to his cheeks once more. "Val and I are just—"

"Just beginning," Brandon finished for him, chuckling at Owen's discomfort. "Don't look so stricken, son. The old ways of the North were not always so rigid. Before the Andals came with their Seven and their notions of sin, a man of power often had multiple wives, especially in harsh winters when survival demanded it."

They walked in silence for a time, Owen processing this unexpected revelation. Finally, he spoke again.

"And when we're tired of adventuring? Of exploring other worlds? What then?"

Brandon's expression softened. "Then you will return here, to feast and share your stories and be merry till the end of time. For this place exists outside of time itself. The hall will always be waiting, the mead always flowing, the fires always burning bright to welcome you home."

The path had brought them full circle, back to the entrance of the great weirwood hall. Inside, the celebration continued unabated, laughter and song spilling out into the night.

Brandon turned to face Owen fully, placing his hands on the younger man's shoulders. His expression grew solemn, though kindness still shone in his eyes.

"Go now," he said, his voice resonating with authority. "Prepare your people. Know that the old gods are with you, Owen Longshore. The North remembers—and so do we."

Owen felt a strange tugging sensation, as if he were being pulled away from this peaceful realm. The hall and its inhabitants began to fade, like mist in morning sunlight.

"Winter is coming," Brandon's voice grew distant, echoing as if from a great distance. "But this time, the North will be ready."

With a gasp, Owen's consciousness slammed back into his body in the cave. He found himself still kneeling, his hand touching the weirwood root, which now glowed with a faint blue light that was already fading.

Val knelt beside him, her face etched with concern. "You were gone for hours!" she exclaimed. "Your body was here, but your eyes... they turned white, like milk."

Owen stood shakily, his legs stiff from kneeling so long. The cave felt smaller somehow, more confined after the vast expanse of the afterlife he had witnessed.

"I saw them—the ancestors of House Stark," he said, his voice hoarse. "I spoke with Brandon Stark."

Leaf approached, her amber eyes studying him intently. "What message do you bring back from the old gods?"

Owen's expression hardened with newfound determination, the weight of his responsibility settling firmly on his shoulders.

"All we already know. War is coming," he declared. "Not just for the North or the Free Folk—for all the living. We need to prepare."