House of The Dragon - Greenseer

Aerion Rivers, a boy of fourteen, knelt in front of the Weirwood tree, his dark hair brushing against his jaw as it framed his pale face.

The old tree loomed before him, its red leaves rustling in the wind, while the eerie silence of the neglected godswood amplified the isolation.

Despite the cracks in the castle walls and the vines choking the life out of the surrounding stones, the Weirwood stood untouched, its pale bark marked by the unmistakable blood-red face.

He inhaled deeply, the smell of the nearby kitchen drifting through the air, though it did little to distract him from the unsettling pull of the ancient tree.

House Bracken had long since abandoned the old gods, embracing the Faith of the Seven, but still, something within Aerion couldn't resist the Weirwood's quiet call.

Perhaps it was his First Men's blood, a whisper of ancestral ties that his Valyrian side could never quench.

Rising to his feet, he stared at the face carved into the tree, its weeping eyes seeming to watch his every move. He shuddered, tearing his gaze away as his uncle Garth approached from the edge of the godswood.

"Training," his uncle grunted, his voice as hard as ever.

Aerion offered a small smile, glad for the distraction. The pull of the Weirwood, the strange connection, faded as he followed Garth toward the training yard. Still, he couldn't shake the feeling that the tree's presence clung to him, like something lurking just beyond the edge of his awareness.

Garth, with his weathered face and broad frame, stood like a fortress, wielding his greatsword with the ease of a man who had seen countless battles. The man threw a training blade his way. Aerion caught it in midair, feeling the familiar weight in his hands. 

They squared off in the yard, the sound of the other guardsmen fading into the background as the two men began their dance of steel. 

Aerion's strikes were quick, precise, but always met with his uncle's iron defence. Each clang of their blades sent a jolt of excitement through Aerion, his grin widening as his blood raced.

But Garth was unyielding, and soon enough, Aerion's overconfidence got the better of him. One moment he was closing the gap, his foot poised to trip the larger man, and the next, his uncle's fist brutally smashed into his face. 

Aerion stumbled and fell onto his side with a pained gasp, his sword clattering to the ground, and before he could recover, the cold tip of a training blade touched his ribs.

"Dead," Garth muttered, his voice tinged with regret.

Aerion groaned, getting to his feet, rubbing his face where his uncle's fist had made contact. "Really?" he muttered, glaring at the older man.

"They'll do worse," Garth replied, his tone grim. "Real battle is merciless."

"I'll be different on the battlefield," Aerion countered, more to convince himself than his uncle.

Garth only snorted. "That's what I said too. I was wrong. Attack."

Later, the hall buzzed with noise, laughter, and the clatter of mugs as the guardsmen relaxed after a long day. Aerion sat at the back, watching from the shadows, his body still aching from training. He barely touched his stew, his thoughts lingering on the head table where his uncle sat, surrounded by Lord Humphrey Bracken and his family.

It always bothered him—being so close to the family yet feeling like a ghost in their presence. His mother had been Lord Humphrey's sister, but Aerion had barely exchanged words with any family other than his Uncle Garth, Lord Bracken's younger brother. 

He clenched his jaw, forcing down the bitter taste of resentment as he stared into his stew. But a soft touch on his shoulder startled him, and he turned to find Myrra standing beside him, her brown hair loose around her shoulders.

"Myrra," he said, a smile tugging at his lips despite the weight in his chest. She always had that effect on him. "You've got time?" He asked, eyeing the surrounding hall. 

She was a serving girl for the castle.

"For you? Always" she said with a smirk, glancing around the hall to make sure no one important noticed her slipping away from her duties.

Aerion flushed, breaking eye contact at her words before he slid over to make room for her.

They spoke in low voices, sharing quiet words amid the clamour of the hall. Myrra asked about his day, concern flickering in her eyes when he mentioned visiting the Godswood again. She didn't understand his pull to the old gods, but her teasing always had a hint of worry.

"People talk," she warned, her fingers brushing lightly over his hand. "They'll think you've turned Blackwood."

Aerion chuckled, though his thoughts remained heavy. "It's just a tree," he said, trying to shrug off the unease. "What harm could it do?"

But as she stood and slipped back into the crowd, her warmth left him, and the chill of the godswood crept back into his mind.

The night air was thick as Aerion walked alone through the courtyard, the moon casting long shadows that flickered in the torchlight. The towering Weirwood tree loomed in the distance, barely visible in the suffocating darkness of the Godswood.

Something pulled him there, as it always did.

He passed a few drunken guardsmen, their laughter distant and hollow, before stepping through the stone archway into the godswood. The overgrown greenery snagged at his boots as he made his way toward the tree, the blood-red face barely illuminated by the faint light of the moon.

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 carefully stomped over top the overgrown greenery, avoiding the unseen thorny bushes with practised ease. The blood red weeping face now visible as he approached closer, the moonlight gently 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 gasped, his eyes widening as he panted on all floors, his dark eyes wide in confusion, panic and fear. With a heave he pulled 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—

His breath caught 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 into it. 

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

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

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 eyed a golden, beautiful flying dragon in awe, its scales reflecting the sun suddenly falling to the ground. Crashing into a large city below with an earth shaking crash.

'Blood of the first men and the dragon's 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 beautiful 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 was screaming with the need to go to this city.

He needed to go south.