[ GOT / ASOIAF : Magic Network ] Chapter 86 - 90

Chapter 86: The Feast at Storm's End

"Long live King Renly, First of His Name!" The assembled lords and knights raised their goblets high, their voices rising in a thunderous chorus of acclamation that echoed off the ancient stone walls of Storm's End.

"To victory!" King Renly proclaimed, the golden stag crown resting upon his dark hair catching the torchlight as he raised his golden cup and drained it in a single swallow. His eyes sparkled with merriment as his smile encouraged the feasting nobles—the very image of Robert Baratheon in his prime.

Many of the older lords could still recall those heady days of rebellion with perfect clarity. Duke Robert, who had won three victories in a single day at Summerhall. How his booming laughter and bear-like embraces had won the hearts of the Storm Lords, carrying him onward to overthrow Aerys the Mad King and establish the Baratheon dynasty of the crowned stag.

Now, the Lord of Storm's End, Robert's only surviving brother, Renly Baratheon, had been formally crowned and anointed as the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms.

As one, they emptied their cups to the last drop, wine spilling down beards and onto fine doublets, none caring for the stains.

"To victory!" The cry was taken up again, rolling through the hall like summer thunder.

King Renly observed the proceedings from his elevated seat upon the dais, satisfaction evident in the curve of his lips. The great hall of Storm's End, built to withstand both storm and siege, was spacious enough to accommodate all his bannermen and honored guests. In the center of the hall, jesters tumbled and capered, their antics drawing appreciative laughter. Musicians and singers positioned in the galleries above provided melodies both martial and merry, while servants wove between the trestle tables bearing platters of steaming food and flagons of the finest vintages.

Everywhere was laughter—for His Grace Renly, for the extravagant feast, and for the victory that all believed was soon to come.

Beside him, Lord Eldon Estermont, white-bearded and solemn, raised his cup in a private toast. "Congratulations, Your Grace. Your marriage to Lady Margaery will forge the strongest bond our alliance could hope for. If the Lannisters possess any wisdom at all, they should retreat to their stone castles in the Westerlands without delay and surrender the Iron Throne with what little dignity remains to them."

Renly acknowledged the toast with a nod and a smile.

The Lord of Greenstone had contributed eight hundred soldiers when he crossed the narrow strait from Estermont—not an overwhelming force, but Renly's deceased mother had been Eldon's sister, and so the old man could not be slighted, neither by reason nor by the bonds of blood.

"I think not," Lord Bryce Caron interjected, his voice carrying the rough edge of the marches. "The Lannisters will never surrender so easily."

Renly and the lords seated at the high table turned their attention to the Lord of Nightsong.

House Caron was powerful and proud, their ancestral lands guarding the Dornish Marches where the Stormlands bordered the harsh deserts of Dorne. They were a martial house, bred to war across generations.

For this campaign, Lord Bryce had brought two hundred knights under his personal command, while two thousand cavalry and three thousand infantry were even now gathering at his holdings, expected to reach Storm's End by the first week of August.

"We shall need to bloody the lions' noses in a few fierce battles before they will bend the knee!" Lord Caron declared, punctuating his words with a clenched fist.

At this feast, at least, the boy king Joffrey who sat the Iron Throne could only be regarded as a Lannister lion, regardless of the name he bore.

As for the truth of his parentage? Few could claim certainty, and fewer still truly cared. The Storm Lords heeded the call of their liege, as they had always done.

Lord Arstan Selmy, cousin to the famed knight Barristan the Bold, leaned forward. "Your Grace, perhaps there is no pressing need to shed blood. As all men know, half the bread that feeds King's Landing comes from the Reach. If Lord Tyrell were to withhold those shipments, hunger would topple the false king more swiftly than any army."

Renly regarded him with evident approval. "A sound strategy. For Lady Margaery's sake, I trust that Lady Olenna and Lord Mace will not refuse such a request."

Ser Cortnay Penrose, castellan of Storm's End and devoted to duty above all else, frowned. "The Riverlands in the north are also abundant in grain and livestock. King's Landing might be provisioned from those lands for some considerable time. I fear such measures alone may prove insufficient."

"That is the situation now," Lord Caron responded, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial level that nonetheless carried to every ear at the high table. "But what if the mouths to feed in King's Landing were suddenly to double?"

Eyes widened around the table. What could he mean?

Lord Caron elaborated, satisfaction evident in his tone. "We might dispatch agents into the Crownlands to quietly persuade the smallfolk in villages and towns to seek refuge within King's Landing. And then..."

His words hung in the air like smoke. Some lords appeared confused, while others immediately grasped the cruel cunning of the plan. A few curled their lips in contempt, while still others leaned forward eagerly, relishing the elegant simplicity of the strategy.

This, perhaps, would mark the first blood drawn in the war to come—not from knights and men-at-arms, but from the bellies of starving children.

Renly sighed almost imperceptibly. "See to it, then."

"I shall not disappoint Your Grace," Lord Caron declared, accepting the commission with evident enthusiasm. This was a task worthy of his talents.

Several lords fixed Lord Caron with pointed stares until he acknowledged each in turn with the slightest nod of his head, their gazes retreating only after receiving assurance of inclusion in the scheme.

At that moment, a servant approached bearing a golden-brown roasted suckling pig, its skin crackling and glistening with fat. The rich aroma wafted across the dais, causing more than one lord to unconsciously lick his lips in anticipation.

His Grace Renly took up knife and fork, piercing the crisp skin to carve away a succulent morsel of steaming meat. "Who else brings counsel? Speak now—the first cut shall be the reward for wisdom freely given."

In the heartbeat that followed, several voices rose simultaneously.

"The Riverlands and the Vale are worth contesting, Your Grace. Joffrey is not the true king—perhaps Lord Stark might be persuaded to abandon darkness and turn toward the light."

"The Greyjoys of the Iron Islands will never remain peacefully in their corners. Let them loose upon the Westerlands and the North. Lannisport could be reduced to smoking ruins, a blow even Tywin Lannister would struggle to bear."

"Mercenary companies from across the Narrow Sea could be recruited to bolster our numbers."

"Seek support from the Iron Bank of Braavos! We could repay any debt with gold from the Westerlands after our victory. Their coffers are bottomless!"

"Dorne harbors a hatred for the Lannisters that burns hotter than their desert sun."

"..."

Renly nodded and smiled at each suggestion in turn. Some he had already set in motion; others he judged impractical or ill-conceived.

Regardless of merit, willingness to speak marked these men as his own. He carved many more portions of the succulent pork, rewarding each lord who had offered counsel, their laughter rising anew with each gift of favor.

"Your Grace," came a hesitant voice, "should we not proceed with greater caution?"

Ser Donnel Swann, who had remained silent throughout the meal, seemed reluctant to continue. "Reports filtering back from King's Landing speak of... strange occurrences. Giants appearing at the coronation, divine grace bestowed upon the faithful, and other such marvels. These tales... they cannot possibly be true, can they?"

The table erupted in raucous laughter.

"You would credit such nonsense? Donnel, surely you jest!"

"These are fabrications a child might concoct! You dare trouble His Grace with such foolishness?"

Renly studied Ser Donnel from beneath hooded eyes.

This was the heir to Lord Gulian Swann, who lay ill and bedridden at Stonehelm. Behind Donnel stood three thousand fighting men whose loyalty might prove less than absolute.

Renly was also well aware that Balon Swann had accepted a white cloak from Joffrey, joining the Kingsguard. House Swann's allegiance was divided, their commitment suspect.

Donnel Swann offered a sheepish smile, passing a hand over his brow before lapsing into prudent silence.

"What matters truth or falsehood in such tales?" Ser Cortnay declared loudly. "My lords, victory on the battlefield shall decide all, rendering every other consideration trivial by comparison."

"The knights of the Stormlands and the Reach shall crush all who stand against the true king!"

None present dared challenge this assertion.

Every eye turned expectantly toward His Grace Renly, hungry for confirmation of what they already believed to be true.

Though the marriage ceremony had not yet been performed, the signed contract binding Renly to Lady Margaery Tyrell was proof enough of Highgarden's commitment. The alliance was forged, unbreakable by any force save death itself.

Within a fortnight, twenty thousand men would be gathered beneath Renly's banners in the Stormlands, joined by sixty thousand more from the fertile fields of the Reach.

By that time, King's Landing would likely command fewer than ten thousand defenders.

Though the Redwyne twins remained hostage in the Red Keep, preventing the Redwyne fleet from sailing against the capital, the overwhelming advantage on land seemed sufficient to ensure victory.

When would they march?

Renly rose from his seat, and in the space of a few heartbeats, the great hall fell utterly silent.

A sea of eyes fixed upon the King.

His Grace's voice rang clear and confident through the hushed chamber. "We break camp on the fifth day of August and make haste for Bitterbridge, there to join with the Highgarden host before September dawns. Then shall we strike directly for King's Landing and claim victory in a single decisive battle!"

The assembled lords surged to their feet, raising fists and cups alike. "To victory!"

A soldier in Baratheon livery entered through a side door and leaned close to whisper in His Grace Renly's ear.

His Grace's smile broadened. "My lords! Continue your revelry, for I bring glad tidings—the Velaryon fleet patrolling our eastern shores has withdrawn northward!"

"Long live Your Grace!"

The hall erupted in renewed celebration, the news taken as an auspicious sign. Surely the gods themselves favored Renly's cause.

Yet as Renly resumed his seat, he silently contemplated the second half of the report, which he had chosen to withhold.

The Velaryon ships had taken with them Brienne of Tarth, the only daughter and heir of Lord Selwyn Tarth of Evenfall Hall.

Tarth Island would not be sending troops to his cause.

In war, you win some and lose some, Renly reflected, reaching for his wine. But in the game of thrones, you win or you die.

Chapter 87: An Elf Under the Heart Tree

Sansa walked through the dense godswood, her arm entwined with her betrothed's, feeling as though the sound of every leaf crunching beneath her slippers was somehow sweeter than any music played at court, as if the very forest laughed with delight at her presence.

Everything about the Red Keep had surpassed her most extravagant childhood dreams.

The dazzling gowns and doublets of courtiers, the endless procession of delicacies that graced the high table each night, the lords and ladies with their elegant manners, and the castle itself—a beautiful, gorgeous dream made stone. It was everything the songs promised, and more.

People told her with their eyes, with whispered words, and with countless meticulous courtesies what her future held: You will become the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, the mistress of the Red Keep itself.

With each passing day, Sansa found herself longing for her wedding with ever-growing anticipation.

"This forest is so peaceful," she said softly, "as quiet as a mirror-still lake, with fish swimming silently beneath the surface while people on the shore gaze in wonder." She looked up at Joffrey through her lashes. "If we could hold our wedding in a place such as this, wouldn't it be beautiful beyond compare?"

Joffrey's smile was slight but reassuring. "Why should we not? For my lovely queen, what harm would there be in holding ten weddings, or even a hundred?"

"It would be perfect to have the Children of the Forest as our officiants," Sansa continued, warming to the fantasy. "A truly unique ceremony, like none ever seen before."

She pouted then, prettily. "But we still must wait so very long. Three years, four years, five years—what terrifying numbers those are."

Joffrey, for his part, desired nothing more than to wed her sooner, to bind House Stark irrevocably to his chariot of state. Yet every expression that had crossed Lord Eddard's stern Northern face of late made it abundantly clear that he would not consent to such an arrangement, not while his daughter remained so young.

Thus far, every minister and noble in the Red Keep had accepted implantation of the Grace core, even Duke Tywin Lannister, whose mere glance could strike terror into the bravest of men.

All save the Regent and Hand of the King, Eddard Stark.

Are direwolves truly such stubborn creatures? Joffrey wondered silently. He could only place his hopes in the passage of time.

With luck, the growing transformation of King's Landing in all aspects would eventually persuade Lord Eddard to recognize the changing tides.

Sansa noted her betrothed's distraction with mounting displeasure. The King's thoughts had clearly wandered far from her, and this would not do. Not at all.

Who occupies his mind? she wondered, and almost instantly, a small figure materialized in her imagination—Daenerys, with her silver hair and violet eyes like something from the age of heroes.

He must be thinking of that woman!

Sansa shot him a glare that would have withered summer roses.

Ever since she had first glimpsed the former Targaryen princess within the Red Keep, Sansa had experienced an inexplicable sense of foreboding, a premonition that the two of them would eventually become rivals, perhaps even enemies.

In the days that followed, scattered fragments of overheard conversations had only deepened Sansa's suspicion.

Daenerys possessed not only the extraordinary beauty that came with pure Valyrian blood, but a political value that might prove greater still.

If the king were to marry her instead, he could reconcile with nobles and smallfolk alike who secretly yearned for the return of Targaryen rule. The Seven Kingdoms would know a stability that marriage to a Stark could never provide.

Sansa had no way of knowing whether these whispers contained truth or falsehood.

Is Daenerys truly so important?

She dared not ask her father or any other adults directly, leaving her no choice but to gather information through more circumspect means.

In matters of dress, needlework, and courtly etiquette, Sansa knew herself to be far superior to this former princess.

There was no reason she should lose the king's favor.

Sansa stole another glance at her betrothed's handsome face.

In a moment of reverie, that kiss shared at Winterfell seemed to have happened only moments ago, making it impossible to doubt the depth of his love for her.

That's right, she reminded herself. I am to be the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

Sansa's anger melted away, replaced by a radiant smile. "Where is the heart tree? I can scarcely wait to greet the officiant of our wedding."

Joffrey led her deeper into the forest, the sunlight filtering through the canopy in dappled patterns across their path.

In the center of the godswood, beneath a massive oak tree whose branches were draped with smokeberry vines like a maiden's dress adorned with rubies, three Children of the Forest rested in peaceful contemplation. Nearby, Bran and Arya played with obvious delight, their laughter carrying through the trees.

Sansa immediately assumed the air of a dignified elder sister. "Bran, Arya, you mustn't play so wildly! Have you no concern for disturbing our guests?"

Bran's smile diminished by half in an instant.

Arya, who had never found common ground with her sister, promptly gathered a handful of acorns and hurled them at Sansa. The elder Stark girl dodged in panic, much to Bran's renewed amusement.

The Child of the Forest known as "Leaf" approached Joffrey and the Stark sisters, her movements as fluid as water over stone. "Your Grace, Lady Sansa, please be at ease. We delight in the presence of these children. Their laughter is the most precious gift that life bestows."

Arya darted over, quick as a cat. "That's right, that's right! We've been the best of friends for ages. It's only because you didn't bother to come here, Sansa, that you know nothing of it."

Bran offered Joffrey a knight's salute executed with remarkable precision for one so young. "Good day to you, Your Grace."

Joffrey placed a hand upon Bran's shoulder with genuine warmth. The boy had reclaimed some of his youthful spirit since arriving at the Red Keep, no longer spending his days inhabiting the bodies of animals to spy on the secrets of others. He had rediscovered his love for climbing and adventure, and had even helped to map the labyrinthine secret passages that honeycomb the ancient fortress.

"Bran," Joffrey began, "I had planned to speak with you in a few days' time, but since you are here now, I may as well share my thoughts and hear what you think of them."

Bran, Sansa, and Arya all fixed him with curious stares.

Joffrey paced slowly before seating himself beneath the great oak. "I presume you all know that my dear uncle Renly has declared war against us. Within a few months, the conflict will engulf the realm completely."

Sansa's face filled with worry, while Arya and Bran displayed a complex mixture of fear and excitement at the prospect.

"We shall be victorious, without question!" Arya declared proudly. "Father won't merely stand aside. The warriors of the North fear no man—each is worth ten Southron knights."

Joffrey nodded in apparent agreement. "Who could say otherwise?"

In truth, Lord Eddard's support had proven less substantial than Joffrey had envisioned mere months ago.

Thus far, Robb remained at Winterfell, making no move to march south. Only half of the North's principal bannermen had answered the call to arms, and the assembled forces numbered fewer than ten thousand spears.

The Riverlands, with their notoriously tenuous cohesion, and the Vale, paralyzed by isolationist tendencies, were proving even less reliable.

By Joffrey's calculation, when Renly's army completed its muster and marched on King's Landing, it would be a blessing from the Seven if the North, Riverlands, and Vale combined could field twenty thousand fighting men.

Sansa spoke gentle words of reassurance, her voice as sweet as summer wine. "You are the King of the Seven Kingdoms. Renly commands only Storm's End and its vassals."

Joffrey harbored confidence in his ultimate victory, yet he knew the Seven Kingdoms did not share his certainty.

The Iron Islands were poised to strike, though which coastline they meant to raid remained unknown. Meanwhile, twenty thousand troops from the Reach had already taken position at Old Oak, prepared to advance northward along the Ocean Road—a maneuver that could bring them to the heart of the Westerlands, to Casterly Rock itself, within a week.

This looming threat had forced Duke Tywin to keep his main force stationed at Lannisport, sending only ten thousand cavalry to reinforce King's Landing.

While Highgarden continued to train fresh levies behind the bulwark of Old Oak, the sixty-thousand-strong Reach host east of Highgarden now approached King's Landing via the Rose Road. By all estimates, the combined armies of the Stormlands and Reach would complete their union within two months.

The arithmetic was simple enough: King's Landing itself had trained twenty thousand new troops, bolstered by ten thousand from the Westerlands and twenty thousand from the North, for a total of fifty thousand defenders.

Against them, Renly would lead no fewer than eighty thousand battle-hardened warriors to claim the throne.

Already, lords throughout the Seven Kingdoms prepared to abandon their oaths of fealty to the crown.

Joffrey observed these developments with cold calculation.

The more these traitors reveal themselves, he thought, the easier they make our task when the time comes to cleanse the realm.

"Bran," Joffrey beckoned the boy to sit beside him, "as king, both responsibility and honor require that I stand firm. I shall ride to the battlefield personally, to fight alongside my soldiers."

Bran's eyes shone with undisguised admiration.

Joffrey sighed theatrically. "Time waits for no man. We must all grow into our destined roles without delay."

He continued, his voice measured and reasonable. "The business of war is demanding. I intend to add several clever attendants to my personal retinue—to carry messages, dispatch orders, and, when necessary, to wield steel in my name. Should they prove worthy, I shall knight them with my own hand when victory is secured."

"What say you to that?"

Bran's imagination ignited instantly. A nine-year-old knight? What glory that would bring, a tale to rival any sung of legendary heroes!

"Your Grace," he replied, barely containing his excitement, "I beg you, take me with you!"

Confronted with Bran's shining eyes, how could Joffrey possibly refuse such earnest enthusiasm?

"Provided your lord father grants his permission," he conceded.

Bran's face split into a wide grin.

He knew from long experience that if he persisted with sufficient determination, his father would eventually yield to his wishes.

Joffrey turned his attention to Leaf, his expression brightening. "I bring good tidings."

Chapter 88: News from the North

"News has arrived from Winterfell," Joffrey announced, his voice measured and clear in the stillness of the godswood. "Your eight tribesmen have safely crossed the Wall. Lady Catelyn personally dispatched a troop of cavalry to protect them on their journey south. Barring any misfortune on the road, we should welcome them before the month's end."

Leaf could not suppress the smile that crept across her ancient features upon hearing these tidings.

Including these eight, there were now eleven Children of the Forest who had made the perilous journey to the lands of men. Even if conditions beyond the Wall grew more dire, at least the final embers of her people would be preserved here, under the protection of the Iron Throne.

This was already the limit of what could be achieved in so short a time.

"This is all thanks to your wisdom," Leaf said, her golden eyes reflecting dappled sunlight. "If the leaders of mankind had possessed such broad vision in the days of old, I believe Westeros would be a far gentler realm today." Her voice carried the weight of millennia as she gazed into the distant past.

Joffrey smiled but offered no response.

If the Children's tribes had spread across the entire continent, how could humans not see them as the gravest threat? he thought. Even the most enlightened ruler must yield to the tides of history.

Sansa's voice broke the silence, soft and poised, every syllable shaped by years of careful instruction in courtly graces. "Lady Leaf, with your ancient wisdom and the protection of the throne, surely the Children of the Forest will flourish once more, as in the days before the First Men."

Leaf rubbed her small, three-fingered hands together. "I am grateful for your kind words, Lady Stark."

Joffrey shifted his weight, drawing attention back to himself. "The raven from the North mentioned other movements beyond the Wall. Mance Rayder, styling himself 'King-Beyond-the-Wall,' has gathered tens of thousands of wildlings under his banner. To escape both the deepening cold and the Others pressing from the true north, they may attempt to breach the Wall at any moment."

Sansa, Bran, and Arya exchanged alarmed glances, their eyes widening. This was news to all of them, tales more frightening than Old Nan's stories by the hearth.

Joffrey had intended precisely this effect, ensuring all present would hear and understand the gravity of the threat.

"After careful consideration," he continued, "rather than having the men of the North march all the way south to bleed for my crown, it would be wiser to send them north instead—to reinforce the Wall and safeguard the ancient home of all mankind."

His voice grew solemn. "The Others beyond the Wall are enemies to all living things. We must never allow them to cross into the Seven Kingdoms."

Leaf's expression darkened with concern for her own kind. In her mind's eye, she could see the Haunted Forest becoming ever more perilous with each passing day. She wondered if the ancient spells woven into the network of caves would continue to hold back the cold gods' icy claws in the days to come.

"Leaf," Joffrey said gently, looking directly into her large, gold-green eyes. "Your responsibility is greater than you know. The Greenseer and the few dozen Singers who remain beyond the Wall are our closest watchers, our most vulnerable eyes observing both the wildlings and the Others. How might we better protect and communicate with them?"

Leaf waited, sensing there was more.

"Leaf, you must become the new Greenseer ."

Her eyes fell in disappointment; such a thing seemed beyond possibility.

Greenseer s were the wisest elders of her tribe, exceedingly rare even in the days when her people thrived in great numbers. Now, with so few remaining, the chances of one emerging among them seemed as remote as summer snows in Dorne.

But Joffrey was not merely indulging in wishful thinking.

Through the power of bloodline runes, he had already integrated the Regression Rune into Leaf's ancient lineage. Her latent talent in this domain now surely matched or exceeded young Bran's own gift.

If Bran could succeed in that other tale, Joffrey reasoned to himself, then Leaf should not fail. It was time to offer Bloodraven an unexpected surprise.

Leaf, however, remained unaware of the potential now slumbering within her.

Joffrey leaned closer, his voice soft but persuasive. "Think of your people, Leaf. They face the relentless cold and monsters from the deep north. Without question, they require more assistance than ever—the guidance that only a Greenseer can provide."

Greenseer . The title echoed in Leaf's mind as she thought of the ancient man upon the weirwood throne, and of the Greenseer s from her own tribe's long history.

If she could somehow harness such power, she might yet save more of her dwindling race.

The young king spoke with absolute conviction. "Leave everything to me. By this time tomorrow, you shall be the new Greenseer of your people."

In the face of such certainty, Leaf found she could no longer refuse.

A day later, the godswood had grown more crowded with invited guests.

Qyburn, representing the royal research institute, along with two stone-faced assistants, carefully examined the newly transplanted weirwood sapling. Its bone-white bark gleamed in the dappled sunlight, its blood-red leaves rustling softly in the breeze.

Bran and Arya waited quietly to one side with their direwolves, eager to witness the momentous occasion soon to unfold.

Leaf stood nearby, patiently teaching two of her tribesmen who had only recently begun to grasp a few words in the Common Tongue.

Joffrey conversed amiably with Lord Eddard, their voices low but carrying in the hushed atmosphere of the sacred grove.

"Your Grace, do you truly intend to transfer all Northern troops to the Wall?" Had Sansa and Bran not vouched for this plan with such conviction, Eddard would have dismissed it as mere rumor or court intrigue.

Joffrey's laughter was light, almost musical. "Indeed I do."

Even Eddard's commitment to the southern cause had been tepid at best—what then of the other Northern lords? Far better to let these proud, stubborn men face a threat they understood, while allowing the Others and wildlings to weaken each other beyond the Wall.

"If you are willing, Lord Stark, you might return to your homeland and command these legions as Warden of the North, standing firm against whatever threats may emerge from beyond the Wall."

With Duke Tywin already returned to Lannisport to assume command of the Westerlands forces, most of the true power in King's Landing now rested firmly in the hands of the throne and its loyal servants. Eddard's role as "Lord Regent" in maintaining political balance had become largely ceremonial, a fact not lost on either man.

Joffrey's face was a mask of sincere concern. "Please, speak your mind freely."

Eddard studied the young king closely. Which words in the Red Keep could be trusted? Which courtiers spoke truth rather than convenient lies? Eddard could not tell with certainty; he could only choose to follow the dictates of his own honor, as he always had.

"Your Grace," he said with measured formality, "House Stark has always been loyal to the Iron Throne. Any position I might hold exists solely to serve the realm."

"Even Lord Eddard has learned to speak the pretty words of court," Joffrey observed with the faintest hint of a smile.

He turned to Sansa, standing silently at his side. "Lady Sansa, I would ask you to consider carefully on your father's behalf. What is Lord Eddard's true desire? To remain here in the Red Keep? To march against Renly? Or to return to the North, to the land of his fathers?"

Sansa's lips parted and closed again, her eyes seeking encouragement from her betrothed. "Perhaps... does Father miss Winterfell most of all?"

Joffrey regarded Lord Eddard and noted the unwavering steadiness in his gaze—as solid and unyielding as the Wall itself. "It seems we have our answer. Lord Stark, do you concur?"

Eddard's expression remained carefully neutral. Without ceremony, he removed the hand-shaped badge that marked his office as Hand of the King and extended it toward Joffrey. "I am prepared to guard the North in Your Grace's name."

Joffrey accepted the badge, releasing a long, deliberate sigh. "The Night's Watch, the wildlings, and the Children of the Forest all speak of the Others with growing alarm. We can no longer afford the luxury of doubt. They have awakened from their long slumber, and soon they will turn their cold gaze southward."

"Winter is coming," Eddard intoned solemnly, the words of his House never more fitting than now.

Joffrey gestured toward the south. "This conflict brewing in the south is but a minor distraction, a mere skirmish compared to what lies ahead. The gods have made their will known. Mankind's true test awaits in the North, beyond the Wall. Your burden shall be great indeed."

The gods. Eddard lowered his gaze slightly.

He harbored no particular reverence for this so-called divine grace. Beyond the obvious powers of flame and healing, most such "blessings" appeared more like chains than gifts to his Northern sensibilities.

To his surprise, the familiar badge reappeared before him, held in Joffrey's outstretched hand. Eddard could not help but search the king's face, looking for any sign of mockery or deceit.

The young king's smile seemed genuinely warm. "My Hand. My father journeyed so far to place this badge in your keeping—how could I possibly reclaim it?"

"I pray this symbol of office will aid you in the vital task you now undertake."

The weight of the badge in his palm felt both familiar and strange. Eddard's mind churned with uncertainty. Could it truly be that the crisis in the North was the reason he had been summoned south? Was there no other purpose behind Robert's long journey?

Joffrey suspected the direction of Eddard's thoughts.

This proud Northman clung stubbornly to his principles and harbored little fondness for the political machinations of southern courts—a distrust that likely extended to Joffrey himself, whom many still regarded as impulsive and willful.

While relations between them remained civil, if cool, it seemed wisest to send this proud direwolf back to the frozen lands he called home.

Qyburn approached quietly, his face betraying nothing of his thoughts.

"Your Grace," he murmured, "the weirwood sapling appears to be in excellent condition. We may begin whenever you wish."

Joffrey accepted a carved wooden bowl from Qyburn's outstretched hands.

He could not deny his curiosity.

How was it possible for weirwood trees separated by thousands of leagues to become the eyes and ears of a Greenseer ? What secrets of the Old Gods might lie hidden within their pale bark and blood-red leaves?

Chapter 89: The Rebirth of the Greenseer

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...

Chapter 90: A Precious Gift

Joffrey remained utterly confounded by what he had witnessed.

The ritual had appeared entirely ordinary—seeds consumed, words spoken—yet Leaf's consciousness had entered the weirwood network with an ease that defied explanation, as natural as a skinchanger slipping into the mind of a familiar beast. Like drawing breath.

His own mental presence had accompanied Leaf into the weirwood tree, experiencing the plant's singular perception of the world around it.

One could not help but admire how the weirwood served as the perfect recorder of history, never embellishing facts with opinion or judgment—far more reliable than the most diligent of human scholars, with their inevitable biases and imperfections.

But how had she accomplished it? How had Leaf traversed countless weirwood trees across vast distances, seemingly from nothing?

Retrospective magic could indeed alter the temporal viewpoint of historical observation, yet throughout Leaf's journey from one weirwood to another, Joffrey had detected no discernible trace of any magical working.

Does the flaw lie in my perception? he wondered. Or is the world inherently structured thus—a formless, imperceptible law that underlies all things?

He hoped fervently for the former explanation.

Joffrey knew his ability to perceive such powers continued to develop steadily. In recent months, the light emitted by magical energies had grown increasingly clear and brilliant to his eyes. He could now discern faint patterns within dense concentrations of magical energy, distinguishing individual particles as fine as motes of dust in a sunbeam.

Perhaps one day he would breach that final threshold, allowing his awareness to penetrate deeper into the world's mysteries—perhaps even to interfere with the runes themselves.

That would constitute true divine power.

Yet it remained possible that the Old Gods had employed some exceedingly advanced power to establish this fundamental law: that those born with the gift might, upon consuming weirwood seeds, become one with all weirwood trees across the realm.

Did the Old Gods truly possess such unfathomable power?

If so, how had They been consigned to the shadows of history? Were They merely dormant, awaiting some appointed hour?

Did the Old Gods yet live?

Joffrey had no answers, but one thing seemed increasingly clear—the weirwood network could not provide sufficient security for his purposes.

He reached a decision. The weirwood trees in the southern kingdoms must remain carefully restricted, and the Greenseers' abilities should be bestowed exclusively upon the Children of the Forest. Let the red eyes of the weirwood trees watch eternally northward, vigilant for the advance of the Others.

After all, winter was coming.

"To the Hand of the King, Warden of the North, Governor of the North, Lord Eddard Stark!" Tyrion Lannister proclaimed, lifting his goblet high, wine sloshing perilously close to the rim. "May his journey be safe and his mission fruitful!"

Beautiful music drifted through the grand ballroom of the Red Keep. Pairs of dancers moved gracefully across the polished floor, hands clasped firmly together as they gazed upward at the classical murals adorning the domed ceiling, spinning in elegant, practiced circles.

"Winter is coming," the assembled guests responded in unison, adopting House Stark's ancestral words for their toast. The irony was not lost on any present.

The laughter that followed held genuine mirth rather than mere courtly politeness.

Though Prime Minister Eddard had served but briefly in his office, it had been time enough to demonstrate his fundamental incompatibility with the intricacies of southern politics.

This direwolf, while perhaps not as ferocious as others who had ventured south in times past, proved equally unyielding—regarding with thinly veiled contempt any custom or practice that failed to align with his rigid northern sensibilities.

Fortunately, like all direwolves who had strayed too far south, this one too would soon return to his frozen homeland.

Winter is coming. What a perfect farewell indeed.

Lord Eddard stood in a secluded corridor adjacent to the main hall, acknowledging the assembled nobility with stiff courtesy.

The guests, satisfied with this brief acknowledgment, returned their attention to the festivities. Prime Minister Stark remained unchanged—a man suited only for the harsh simplicity of the North.

Eddard remained oblivious to their thoughts. Winter is coming, he reflected. That much, at least, was true.

He had no choice but to believe it. Having seen the Children of the Forest with his own eyes, having witnessed supernatural powers beyond mortal understanding, and with the disturbing reports from beyond the Wall, the threat from the far north could not be dismissed as mere fancy.

If the Others had not truly stirred from their ancient slumber, why would the King permit all Northern troops to march north rather than south to defend his contested throne?

On this point, at least, Eddard found himself satisfied with the young king's judgment. Joffrey still recognized the North's unique concerns, even if only to the extent of returning Northern warriors to their own lands.

The Mad King Aerys had never shown such understanding, believing that all things within the realm existed solely for his benefit. If Rhaegar had claimed the Iron Throne in those turbulent days, perhaps fewer lords would have raised their banners in rebellion, and the ending might have unfolded quite differently.

Unbidden, Lyanna's voice echoed through the corridors of his memory, as clear as the day she had spoken the words: Ned, promise me...

Eddard's thoughts turned to Jon, the child born of his sister and Rhaegar Targaryen. If Robert had ever learned the truth, he would have descended into murderous rage. Even if Joffrey were to discover Jon's true identity, the boy would find no acceptance from the young king.

How Eddard longed to bring his sister's son back to the North, to the safety of Winterfell—but what reason could he possibly give without revealing the dangerous truth?

Jon had already secured a position as an officer in the City Watch of King's Landing. His duty was to fight for the King, not to flee north with his supposed uncle.

Eddard had considered persuading him to resign his commission, but whenever he encountered Jon, that face—bearing such a haunting resemblance to Lyanna—shone with such earnest desire to distinguish himself that the words died in Eddard's throat.

Besides, winter approached relentlessly. Which offered greater safety—the North or the Red Keep? Which posed the graver threat—the Others or mere steel? Eddard could not say with certainty.

His thoughts drifted to his other children—Bran, Arya, and Sansa.

Sansa was betrothed to the King; her fate was sealed. She would remain in the Red Keep, perhaps never again to feel the bracing winds of the North upon her face.

Bran and Arya could have returned home with him. Yet when Eddard had sought their preferences, their responses had confounded him.

Bran yearned to become a knight of the Seven Kingdoms, to don the white armor and cloak of the Kingsguard; he had refused to depart.

Arya proved equally stubborn, reluctant to abandon Jon and Bran, and even more resistant to the prospect of returning North only to await some arranged marriage. She insisted on remaining in the Red Keep, declaring her ambition to become a warrior-woman like Queen Nymeria of old.

Eddard had not pressed the matter; he could not bring himself to shatter his children's dreams, no matter how impractical they might seem.

Yet concerns gnawed at him nonetheless.

How could he not worry? His children would remain in the Red Keep—that viper's nest of intrigue—without parental guidance, with only Cersei Lannister to watch over them.

Eddard's gaze drifted toward Queen Regent Cersei, seated upon the dais overlooking the ballroom.

At this moment, she appeared the very image of perfection—the benevolent mother of the Seven Kingdoms, gracious and dignified, utterly unlike the erratic, vindictive woman Robert had so often described in his cups.

Eddard harbored no illusions about which persona represented the truth. Most unfortunate of all, this woman served as Regent, wielding power in the young king's name.

Compared to Cersei, even the capricious Joffrey seemed more like a competent ruler.

"Lord Stark," came the King's voice from behind him.

"Your Grace," Eddard turned and offered a proper bow.

Joffrey approached with disarming warmth. "You are our guest of honor tonight. Why do you stand alone in shadow? Many of our guests fear you find the celebration wanting."

Not a flicker of a smile crossed Eddard's solemn features. "The banquet is more than adequate, Your Grace. My thoughts merely turn northward."

The King sighed with what appeared to be genuine regret. "The fault lies partly with me. I have focused too intently on the southern conflict, neglecting to provide the North with proper support. I pray this unfortunate war concludes swiftly."

"Rest assured, Your Grace," Eddard replied, though certainty eluded him. "While the North has little strength to spare, Lord Tywin and Houses Tully and Arryn will not remain idle. Renly's rebellion cannot succeed."

The King placed a hand upon his shoulder, the gesture almost paternal despite the disparity in their ages. "I must impose upon your good offices, Lord Stark. You maintain close ties with both Tully and Arryn."

Eddard seemed to grasp the king's meaning. "Your Grace, I shall certainly do all within my power. I believe—"

His words died mid-sentence as a peculiar sensation washed over him. Something fundamental had shifted within his perception.

The King slowly withdrew his right hand from Eddard's shoulder, a faint smile playing across his lips. "A pleasant feeling, is it not? This represents the highest manifestation of divine grace—a parting gift I bestow upon you."

A strange blue luminescence appeared within Eddard's field of vision, persisting despite his attempts to blink it away or shake his head clear.

So this is divine grace.

An intangible power stirred within his body, and he quickly realized that this force would maintain the blue curtain of light indefinitely.

Is that the extent of it?

The King's smile remained gentle, almost beatific. "Lord Stark, mind your health carefully. The gods have need of you, as does the world itself."

"Remember," he added, voice dropping to little more than a whisper, "light is eternal."

Eddard felt a profound weight settle into his heart—the sensation of tangible and intangible fetters closing around him.

Robert, Sansa, Bran, Arya, Jon, honor, duty, faith, oaths... and now this coldest of divine graces.