House of The Dragon - Greenseer

Aerion Rivers, a boy of four-and-ten with dark brown hair that fell down to his jaw, framing his pale face. The boy was surprisingly calm, his head bowed as he kneeled in front of a Weirwood tree. 

Wind whistled as it dived through the strewn branches of the large tree, the red leaves bristling. His aquiline nose twitched as the scent of the nearby castle kitchen washed over him. 

The godswood was long abandoned and neglected, the castle walls cracked and covered in moss and vine. The Weirwood stood in the centre of the chaos, its pale bark contrasting sharply with the blood red face carved into its front. 

House Bracken had long converted to the Faith of The Seven. Yet Aerion couldn't stop coming here, something drew him here, was it his first men's blood?

It was certainly not his Valyrian blood.

He sighed, frustration boiling within him as gently he stood. He didn't understand these urges, these impulses, he felt like a bystander within his own body at times.

The image of a white haired man, a red birthmark on his pale face. He'd been having dreams about this man though he had no clue who he was.

His dark eyes met with the weeping weirdwoods, a chill running down his spine, his fists clenching. But he tore his eyes away from the towering tree and turned, his eyes fixing on the approaching form of his uncle.

"Uncle" Aerion was soft spoken, he had always been. The large broad man looked over at him, stood at the entrance of the forgotten Godswood. 

"Training" his uncle said simply, as he turned and started to lumber towards the yard. Aerion couldn't help the small smile tugging at his lips. 

His thoughts and worries of the weirwood seemingly disappearing, yet he still saw hints of that infamous pale bark in the corner of his eyes. 

Quickly he caught up, his shorter, leaner form slowing to walk alongside the older man. The man had the same style of brown hair that fell to his scarred jaw, his skin weathered and tanned.

His uncle Garth was the commander of guardsmen, constantly out in the sun whether he be patrolling Stonebrook, the local town or simply in the training yard with his men.

Whereas Aerion was an upcoming house guard, his time mainly spent either training or in lessons. Lessons his uncle has got him into, something Aerion admitted he did appreciate.

Getting educated by a Maester was a privilege not many shared, especially not bastards but his uncle had—well Aerion didn't know what his uncle did, but he did something to make it happen.

Aerion eyed the training yard, a small group of off duty guardsmen relaxing nearby as they cleaned their blades. The yellow stallion of Bracken was inlaid on their armour.

His uncle grunted as he grabbed a nearby training blade, throwing it casually towards his nephew who caught the blunt weapon without hesitation.

Effortlessly he grabbed the bastard sword handle, twirling it dramatically while his uncle grabbed a training great sword with both hands.

"Don't" his uncle said gruffly, eyeing him twirling the sword. Aerion immediately stopped, the man had explained it dozens of times.

It builds bad habits. 

Aerion thought that was bollocks. 

Watching as his uncle got into position, Aerion approached hesitantly. He hated this part of the fight, he was a defensive fighter but so was his uncle so one of them had to start the spar.

His uncle had far more patience than he, so Aerion swung. His blade a blur as the metal swung towards his uncle, only to find thin air, his uncle had stepped back, his far larger blade now swinging down towards Aerion.

He stepped to the side avoiding the overhead strike that seemed to shake the ground. Aerions blade whipped towards the older man's gut only for the man to step back, his giant blade now swinging for Aerions head. 

Aerion casually smacked away the giant approaching sword with a swat of his own blade, the familiar clash of metal filling the yard. Taking an almost lazy step back to avoid the training blade, now aimed to cut him into two. 

Sometimes he wondered what would happen if he didn't step back? Would his uncle stop the strike, would he even have the time? The training blades may be blunt but it would most definitely break his ribs. 

Replying with a sudden flurry of strikes, the strikes either being deflected, or dodged entirely. His uncle was a great sword, likely the best in this castle, Aerion wouldn't be surprised if he was the best in the entire Riverlands. 

Certainly better than any Blackwood at least.

He felt a small grin tugging at his lips as his blood rushed through him, he quickly closed the gap between him and his uncle, his uncles two handed sword almost useless at this range.

He planted his front, right foot behind one of his uncle's ankles, planning to push the man and trip him.

The scheme being interrupted by a fist suddenly smashing against his cheek. Aerion lost his footing, stumbling to his right as his hand lost grip on his sword. 

His other hand clutching against the source of the stinging pain as his eyes involuntarily watered. Before he could recover the cold steel of a training blade poked his unguarded gut gently.

"Dead" his uncle said almost regretfully as he eyed his sprawled out nephew panting on all fours. The older man's breathing was steady and calm. 

Aerion groaned, slowly getting back to his feet slightly unsteadily as he used the training blade as a cane. 

"Really?" He asked his uncle, annoyance lacing his tone.

The man looked at him pityingly. "They'll do worse" he warned "Real battle is merciless" he said his brows furrowed as he eyed the younger boy. 

Aerion sighed "Uncle, I'll be different when I'm on a real battlefield" he softly said, raising his training sword into his guard once more. 

Garth simply snorted "That's what I said too, I was wrong" he raised his blade into his own guard. "Attack" he commanded.

—-

The hall was loud, his surrounding guardsmen laughing and japing about something they must have seen on patrol. 

Aerion sat at the back, eyeing the head table. His Uncle Garth sat at the table, near the far end. The centre of the table held Lord Humphrey Bracken and his wife and children.

His body ached, the training session had gone on for over an hour. He winced as he shifted, his body already pepper in bruises that stained his pale skin.

Aerion took a sip of the bitter ale and eyed the stew in front of him, his attention involuntarily wandering back to the head table. The bright yellow Bracken banners blowing in an unseen draft.

Aerion just clenched his jaw in annoyance, eyeing the main table with a sense of shame building in him. He knew he shouldn't, but sometimes he hated them.

His mother was Lord Humpfreys younger sister. 

He hated the fact he barely knew them, he had spoken nary a word with his uncle Lord Humpfrey. He was sure his cousins wouldn't appreciate a bastard speaking to them either.

He dragged his eyes away from the torch lit table, dragging back down to the stew. Slowly he started to eat, his eyes down as his hair seemed to cover his face like a veil. 

A hand brushed his shoulder, his head quickly turning meeting eyes with a brown haired girl. A small smile came to his face easily as he shuffled slightly to the right. 

"Myrra" he said happily, the girl sitting down slowly, the tension in his form easing away. "You've got the time?" He asked, now curious.

The five-and-ten girl smiled "For you? Always" she teased, she was slender, her eyes glancing around the hall making sure no one important had noticed her slipping away from her duties.

Aerion felt blood rushing to his cheeks as his eyes dropped to his stew for a moment. He didn't know what to say, his mind racing as the brief silence seemed to stretch.

"How's your day been?" She asked gently as she turned her body to face his. His eyes meeting hers once more, relief she spoke running through him. 

"Good, I uh, visited the Godswood" he said, wincing slightly as he remembered who he was talking to.

"Again?" Myrra asked, her smile slightly dimmed, concern glinting in her warm eyes. He knew she didn't understand his visits, it seemed barbaric to those who were faithful to the Seven.

"Yes, it—it just seems to pull me in" he responded slightly defensive. The Godswood lingered in the corner of his mind, the tree's haunted weeping face haunting his restless nights. 

"You always were quite odd" she joked, though the concern remained "Just…be careful" she said almost hesitantly. 

"It's a tree" he always felt…defensive over the damn thing "What harm could it do?" He half joked as he tried to rid of the tension filling him.

She sighed, her fingers brushing against his lightly "People talk, they'll think you've turned Blackwood" she teased back, though Aerions mind was more focused on her fingers roaming gently over his. 

She leaned forward slightly, the hall suddenly losing all of its colour and sound as his eyes focused on her. Her slender fingers seeming to dance over his hand. 

She stood.

His heart beat furiously against his chest as he ran a hand through his hair, the sound of the hall rushing back through his ears.

Her fingers leaving him as the warmth surrounding him suddenly seemed to drain from the hall. His head turned, looking up at her in slight annoyance.

She had to get back to her duties.

She softly smiled down at him, "Just…be careful" she said seriously as she turned, quickly disappearing into the crowd.

He sighed, his mind focused on where she was stood, hints of warmth ran across his hand as he clenched his jaw.

He was suddenly bumped into by a stumbling guardsman, his reverie quickly broken with even more annoyance as the man clumsily steadied himself on the nearby cold stone walls.

Aerions eyes flicked up to the main table, his uncle smiling softly at a story Lord Bracken was telling. The Lord gesticulating wildly as he grinned widely.

Aerion stood, his half eaten stew left forgotten as he left the hall, the wide open doors leading to a dark courtyard, torches casting slithering orange light throughout the castle grounds.

The light of the full moon reflecting off a large bronze horse statue in the centre of the courtyard.

Aerion walked, striding past a few drunken guardsmen as he made his way to the Godswood. Briefly brushing past a tall stable hand locking up for the night. 

He eyed the stone archway that led into the Godswood, the sky dark as ever provided no real light into the place of worship. 

The pale bark of the Weirwood tree was barely even seen through the suffocating darkness. But he continued forward, his mind not focused on the dark, but instead on its contents.

He casually stomped over top the overgrown greenery, avoiding the unseen thorny bushes with practised ease. The blood red weeping face now seen as he approached closer, the moonlight barely  illuminating the red leaves above.

His vision seemed to blur at the edges, the wind stilling as he took another step closer to the red face. His body giving underneath him as he took another step closer, a shiver running through his body as he dropped to floor akin to a puppet with its strings cut.

He heavily panted on all floors, his dark eyes wide in confusion, panic and fear. With a heave pulling his body up to his knees, looking directly at the blood red face.

His hand almost desperately but slowly stretched forward towards the weeping face.

His fingers shook lightly as they approached the weirwood bark, he'd—he'd never felt so—so tempted, to simply touch.

His breath caught in his throat as his fingers brushed the pale rough bark, a sudden rush of images filling his clouded mind. A great river running with blood, a war hammer planted deep into the ground below the water rushing past it.

His fists clenched as the sound of screaming men filled his ears, the smell blood and shit invading the humid air.

A beautiful building burning, the blue spires reaching the clouds crashing to the ground as the fire cracked and roared, the sound of a wailing baby piercing through the chaos.

He felt his hands push against the ground, steadying his form carelessly as blood rushed to his head.

The image of a fierce black dragon fighting a smaller red one invaded his mind, the black dragon suddenly pierced through the neck with a weirwood arrow falling to the ground with an ear shattering crash.

Then with sinking finality he saw a golden, beautiful flying dragon, its scales reflecting the sun suddenly fall to the ground. Crashing into a large city below with an earth shaking crash.

'Blood of the first men, the dragons flame'

He heard a voice echo through his mind, sounding as if he was in an ocean, his mind racing as his hands desperately pushed against the cold ground below.

Then an image of a large city, Kingslanding he recognised. The redkeep piercing the skies above just like all the stories and tales said it did.

He felt a desperate longing—no, a need to see this keep, to visit, to delve into the city as a whole. His body, mind screaming with the need to go to this city.

He needed to go south.