Lord's Solar, Riverrun — Early Spring, 270 AC
The firelight flickered across the heavy beams of the solar, casting long shadows on the tapestries that lined the stone walls—depictions of the Trident, the Red Fork, and the ancient silver trout leaping forever skyward. Outside, the castle hummed with quiet nighttime activity. Within, all was still—save for the rhythmic sound of Ser Brynden Tully removing his gauntlets with the slow weariness of a man returning from the edge of civility.
"You're just back, and you didn't even wash before coming up," Lord Hoster said without looking up from his ledger. "Must be serious."
Brynden dropped the gauntlets on a low table with a soft clunk and moved to the hearth. His hair was wind-tossed, streaked with grey at the temples, and his eyes, though clear, were lined with fatigue.
"Bandits don't wait for courtesies," he said plainly. "And neither should we."
Hoster set down his quill, giving his brother his full attention now.
"Well?"
Brynden's jaw tightened. "A half-dozen attacks reported across the eastern stretches of the Red Fork. Two hamlets near Lord Harroway's Town stripped bare. Smallfolk taken or killed. No sigils. No banners. Just men with spears and hunger."
Hoster folded his hands. "How many did you face?"
"Not enough to make it a war band," Brynden said, "but more than ragged deserters. Some of them knew formation. They melted into the forests when we pressed them—too quick, too clever for mere outlaws."
Hoster nodded grimly. "The Riverlands are too large, too scattered. Every lord defends his own fields, but there's no unity in response."
"And the smallfolk pay the price," Brynden said.
He turned to face his brother. "That's why I came up, not just to report. I've been thinking of taking Tristifer with me on my next sweep."
Hoster blinked. "To the marches?"
"To observe," Brynden said calmly. "Not to fight. Not yet. But he's ten, Hoster. Too old to pretend the world is made of stories and well-fed septons. He needs to see the land he'll inherit. He needs to understand the weight of it."
Hoster gave a long exhale, standing now, and moving to pour wine from the carafe on the sideboard. "He sees more than you think. Tristifer's no fool."
"No, he's not," Brynden agreed. "But his cleverness is... unshaped. He questions everything. Thinks a good heart and a sharp mind will be enough to change the world."
Hoster gave a short laugh. "Is that so terrible?"
"It is, when he hasn't seen what a scorched field smells like. Or heard a widow beg for food with her dead husband's ring still warm in her hand."
Brynden's voice was flat, even, but it carried a weariness that went beyond words. "He trains in the yard. Reads histories. Speaks like a man twice his age. But he's still here, behind stone walls, watched by guards, doted on by his mother. If he's to lead these people someday, he must know what they suffer. See the edges of the world, not just the center."
Hoster turned to him slowly, cradling the wine in his hand. "You think it's time."
"I think it's past time," Brynden said.
The fire crackled between them. Hoster sipped, silent for a long moment.
"You always were the one who ran toward danger," Hoster said at last. "You see a fire and walk into it. But he's different from us, Brynden. He's… thoughtful. Quiet. Not just a lord's son, but something—else. There's a tenderness in him. One I fear the world might not leave intact."
Brynden stepped closer. "Then we must teach him how to guard it, not hide it away. He can't defend the people if he doesn't know them. And he can't know them through ledgers or scrolls."
"He's still a boy."
"So take him before he becomes something softer than he can afford to be," Brynden said. "Let him see the faces of the folk he'll be lord to. Let him understand the value of peace not just from books, but from seeing what happens when peace fails."
Hoster looked into the wine as though the answer lay at the bottom of the cup.
Hoster finally nodded, slowly. "Very well. He'll ride with you. But he does not fight. He does not charge. He observes."
Brynden placed a hand over his chest. "I swear it. I'll guard him as I would my own."
"You'd make a terrible father," Hoster said dryly.
Brynden grinned. "Fortunately, I make a decent uncle."
Hoster raised his goblet in salute. "Maker watch over you both."
Riverrun Godswood — Mid Spring, 270 AC
The godswood of Riverrun was a place of quiet breath and old secrets. Willow trees wept into the ponds like mourners at a vigil, and the thick canopy above made the daylight dappled, softened, as though filtered through old green glass. At the heart of it all stood the weirwood tree, pale as bone, with its red eyes carved long before House Tully had raised stone walls or drawn maps.
Tristifer Tully sat cross-legged before it, his back straight, fingers resting lightly on his knees in imitation of the focus exercises he remembered from a past life. His raven, Edgar, perched on a nearby root, staring at him with one eye half-lidded and unimpressed.
"You're not helping," Tristifer muttered to the bird. "You're supposed to be mysterious and cooperative."
Edgar blinked once and gave a disdainful kraawk in reply.
Tristifer exhaled slowly and tried again.
He focused—not on the world around him, but on the edges of it, that peculiar place where self dissolved and sensation became impression. He reached with his mind—not physically, not with magic exactly, but with that same strange awareness he'd felt in his dreams. The place where he was the bird. Soaring, seeing.
He caught a glimpse—just a flicker—of wind and wings, and his heartbeat quickened.
Then—
"KRAK!"
Edgar snapped his beak and fluttered his wings indignantly, hopping away.
Tristifer flinched, blinking as the tether between them dissolved. He groaned and collapsed backward onto the mossy ground.
"Too strong that time. Or you're just dramatic."
The raven flapped to a low-hanging branch and began preening.
Nearby, a soft laugh interrupted the sacred quiet.
"I think he likes you," Catelyn said brightly, walking hand-in-hand with Lysa, who toddled beside her holding a stick like it was a scepter.
"I'm not sure the feeling's mutual," Tristifer said, rubbing his temple. "I think he thinks I'm stupid."
"Well, you are talking to a bird," Catelyn teased, sticking out her tongue.
"Says the girl holding a math lesson in the dirt," he retorted with a smirk.
Indeed, Catelyn had cleared a patch of mossy earth and was patiently drawing numbers and letters with her finger. Lysa sat on a tree stump, tongue sticking out in deep concentration as she repeated the symbols with her stick, half-writing, half-poking the soil.
"What letter is this?" Catelyn asked, drawing a very wobbly "B".
"Buh!" Lysa declared. "For bird!"
Catelyn beamed. "And this one?"
"Three!" Lysa shouted.
"That's a 'D', sweetling," Catelyn corrected gently, though she gave Tristifer a proud glance.
He smiled back.
Catelyn had taken well to his teaching over the past few years. He'd started with her when she was barely Lysa's age—letters, numbers, simple maps, and stories. Now she passed it on like it was the most natural thing in the world. She even used some of the games he'd invented from memories of Sesame Street and picture books.
"You're a better teacher than me," Tristifer said. "She listens to you."
"That's because I give her treats," Catelyn whispered conspiratorially. "She thinks learning means more lemon cakes."
From her stump, Lysa gave a victorious cheer. "CAKE!"
"I said the word, not that you get it," Catelyn groaned.
Edgar squawked from above, and Lysa looked up, delighted. "BIRDY!"
Tristifer chuckled. "That's Edgar. He's my familiar."
"He looks mean," Lysa declared.
"He's just misunderstood," Tristifer said with mock-seriousness. "We're working on our spiritual bond."
Catelyn gave him a raised eyebrow. "Is this the part where you say you're going to tame an army of ravens and squirrels and become a forest king?"
Tristifer raised a solemn hand. "That was the plan, yes."
Lysa immediately turned to Catelyn. "I wanna be forest queen!"
"You can be queen of the squirrels," Catelyn offered magnanimously.
"SQUIRRELS!" Lysa shouted with joy and bolted off toward a nearby bush, stick in hand like a royal sceptre of nonsense.
The older two sat quietly for a moment, letting her chase imaginary squirrel courtiers.
Then, softly, Catelyn said, "Do you think Mama's still tired?"
Tristifer glanced at her. "She's still healing. The maester said she needs more rest after Lysa."
"I don't remember her being so quiet after me."
"She was younger then," Tristifer said. "And you didn't scream quite so much."
"I was a perfect baby," Catelyn declared.
"And you haven't stopped reminding us," he replied with a wink.
But inside, Tristifer had been worried. Minisa had looked pale in the weeks after Lysa's birth. Tired in a way that sleep didn't seem to touch. He remembered complications being common in medieval births, and even though she was being watched carefully, there was a weight in his chest he hadn't been able to shake.
Maybe that's why he was out here, pushing his mind beyond its limits, trying to do more than just be a smart boy with secret memories. Trying to be more.
Edgar fluttered down onto his shoulder and pecked gently at his hair.
Tristifer smiled. "I take that as approval."
"I think you're weird," Catelyn said, grinning. "But it's good-weird."
"I'll take it."
A burst of laughter rang through the woods as Lysa chased a butterfly with the triumphant zeal of a conquering general.
In that moment, beneath the red eyes of the old gods and the new warmth of family, Tristifer felt something like peace.
A fragile thing.
But his all the same.
Riverrun Training Yard — Morning, 270 AC
The clatter of steel rang bright and clean in the crisp spring air. The training yard was alive with motion—squires and armsmen drilling under the watchful eye of Master-at-Arms Ser Desmond Grell. Morning light glinted off mail and helms, catching motes of dust in the sunbeams like fireflies dancing midair.
In the far corner, Tristifer Tully moved through the forms with his training sword, sweat darkening his tunic. He struck, parried, stepped back, and pivoted with the kind of precision that only came from obsession. He moved less like a child mimicking a knight, and more like a scholar translating a foreign language with exactitude. The sword was still a little awkward in his hands—he was ten, after all—but there was grace in his effort, and a certain sharpness behind his eyes.
He didn't notice the man watching from the covered arcade at the yard's edge.
Ser Brynden Tully, weathered and silent as a granite carving, stood with arms folded across his chest, his cloak of black and river-blue brushing the ground. He watched a full cycle of Tristifer's practice—six cuts and three guards—before speaking.
"You're holding your breath," he said.
Tristifer froze mid-motion, then turned, cheeks flushed more from surprise than fatigue.
"I thought you weren't back until midday."
"I said I'd be back today," Brynden replied, stepping forward. "You assumed I'd sleep in like a lazy knight after supper wine."
Tristifer grinned sheepishly. "I forget you're immune to comfort."
Brynden gave him a rare smirk. "Comfort softens the edge, boy. And you'll need your edge sharp."
He gestured to the nearby bench where a long, narrow bundle wrapped in oiled cloth rested. Tristifer glanced at it, then back to his uncle with a flicker of excitement—and unease.
Brynden stepped beside it and unwrapped the cloth slowly. Within lay a finely-forged shortsword, its blade polished to a moon-pale sheen, the hilt wrapped in dark leather. The crossguard was shaped like twin fish curling inward—House Tully's sigil subtly worked into the steel.
Tristifer took a breath.
"I had it made two years ago," Brynden said quietly. "I wasn't sure if you'd grow into it, or if you'd turn out a milk-drinker who preferred scrolls to steel."
"I still prefer scrolls," Tristifer admitted. "They don't try to stab back."
Brynden barked a laugh. "Well, now you'll have both."
He lifted the blade and held it out to Tristifer, handle-first.
Tristifer reached for it with both hands, fingers closing around the grip like it was a living thing. The weight surprised him—not heavy, exactly, but solid. Real. He stared down at the blade, running his thumb over the edge.
"It's sharp," he murmured.
"Aye. A training sword teaches balance. But a real one teaches caution."
Tristifer looked up. "Is this just for practice, or…"
Brynden nodded. "You and I ride out in a week. North and east, toward the Red Fork. There've been more reports. Burned wagons. A missing shepherd. We'll be riding light—no pageantry, no banners. Just steel, eyes, and readiness."
Tristifer swallowed.
"I'll watch. I'll listen."
"You'll do more than that," Brynden said, folding his arms. "You'll learn how to be with men who've seen blood. How to speak to the smallfolk without speaking down. And how to judge when your sword belongs in the sheath—and when it doesn't."
Tristifer nodded, solemn now. "I won't embarrass you."
"It's not about me," Brynden said. "You're the heir to Riverrun, not me. You embarrass yourself, you embarrass the people who'll one day swear to you. Keep your eyes open. Your heart steady. And your feet under you."
There was a pause, and something gentler flickered in Brynden's storm-grey eyes.
"You've got the mind of a maester," he said. "But a lord must also have the nerve of a commander. That only comes when your blood runs cold and you don't blink."
Tristifer sheathed the sword in the scabbard that had been laid beside it. It fit him well—high on his hip, light but not a toy.
"Will you be my teacher out there?" he asked, voice low.
Brynden smiled—just a touch.
"I'll be your shadow. But the road teaches best."
Tristifer nodded.
Then, surprising even himself, he stepped forward and embraced his uncle. Briefly, fiercely.
Brynden stiffened for a second, then clapped him on the back with one gloved hand.
"Gods save me, you are your mother's son."
Riverrun – Tristifer's Chambers, Late Evening, 270 AC
The hearthfire had burned low, but Tristifer's chamber was still alive with quiet purpose. Candlelight danced along the stone walls as he worked, sleeves rolled up, hands stained with crushed herbs and soot. He was no longer packing like a boy off to a hunting trip. No, this felt different—like planning for a trial, a test of wits and nerve.
The journey with Brynden loomed closer, and Tristifer had no illusions about the safety of the road ahead.
But Tristifer wasn't comfortable. He was curious, clever, and cautious. And thanks to dreams and memories he had no right to, he had ideas far beyond his ten years.
He knelt beside his travel bag, now much slimmer than the ambitious first version.
Only the essentials.
Tristifer Tully's Kit for a Cautious Foray
Needle and waxed thread: good for mending clothing, flesh, or dignity.
Small pouch of dried nettle, comfrey, and yarrow: for wounds, swelling, or steeped into a bitter tea.
Valerian and lemon balm: sleep and calm—also useful in distracting others with "herbal drafts."
Charcoal and chalk: one for fire, one for marking. Both discreet.
Sealed wax pouch of strong-smelling garlic oil and dried crushed onion:
Mixed and tossed into a fire, it produced acrid smoke—harmless, but painful to eyes and lungs. A crude imitation of the "tear gas" he once knew.
Pouch of soot, flour, and powdered pine resin:
When thrown into open flame or ember, it burst in a thick, fast smoke. No explosion—but enough to panic, distract, or cover a quick escape.
He smiled faintly as he tied it shut with a careful hand.
Not a knight's weapon, but it might save a life—or let us flee from a larger force.
He carefully wrapped these components in oiled linen and tucked them beneath his bedroll.
His sword—the short one gifted by Uncle Brynden—rested on the table nearby. He reached for it last, running his fingers down the fuller. The steel gleamed faintly in the candlelight.
"I'm not building bombs or black powder," he whispered, almost to reassure the walls. "Just mischief and breathing room."
He sat back on his heels and looked around. His pack was no heavier than a loaf of bread now, but it held every ounce of cunning he could conjure. He would let the men-at-arms carry swords, axes, and shields.
He would carry foresight.
A rustle came from his window, and Edgar fluttered down with an irritable croak. Tristifer glanced at the bird with a small grin.
"Don't worry," he said. "No mad inventions. Just old tricks remembered a little too early."
The raven pecked at the pouch of garlic oil, then thought better of it and retreated to the rafters.
Tristifer returned to his map of the countryside—roughly sketched, updated nightly, ink still damp. He added a few dots along a trail north of Fairmarket.
Here, there were reports of smoke. Here, a hamlet attacked. And here… too quiet.
He drew a subtle mark—just a circle. Not a target. Not a plan for war. But a place to watch.
And as he sat back in his chair, the candles almost gone, the young lord of Riverrun whispered:
"I'm not a fighter yet. But I'll make a damned good scout."
Riverrun – The Courtyard, Morning, 270 AC
The morning air was crisp and kissed with dew, turning the stone courtyard of Riverrun silver in the rising sun. Banners stirred above the towers, casting long shadows over the assembled riders. Horses shifted, mail clinked, and the last of the packs were strapped tight.
Tristifer Tully stood beside his steed, hands steady even if his heart wasn't. He wore a boiled leather jerkin reinforced at the shoulders, his short sword belted snugly to his side. A modest pack was strapped across his back, filled with practical tools and careful hopes. His eyes scanned the party—ten men, plus himself and his uncle Brynden. All armed. All quiet.
Brynden stood a pace ahead, already mounted, his dark cloak fluttering. His gaze roamed the trees beyond the walls.
"No speeches, lad," he said over his shoulder. "I've no stomach for them. Get on the horse, and don't fall off until we're back."
Before Tristifer could swing into the saddle, a voice called behind him.
"Wait."
Minisa crossed the courtyard quickly, skirts gathered in one hand, the other already outstretched as she reached him. Her face bore the smile of a mother trying not to weep.
"You'll need this," she said, tucking a packet of dried herbs into his belt pouch. "For nerves. For sleep. And for me, because it eases my heart knowing you have it."
Tristifer gave her a lopsided smile. "You could always brew me a sleeping draught that lasts until I'm home."
"I'd rather you stay awake and come back with your limbs intact."
He hugged her tight, burying his face in her shoulder for a moment longer than he meant to. She smelled of lavender and warmth and the kitchens of Riverrun—of home.
"I promise," he said, quietly. "I'll be back."
"You'd best keep that promise," she said, her voice catching. "Because I will not forgive you otherwise."
Behind her, Hoster Tully stepped forward, arms folded over his chest, watching them with a grim expression. There was no mistaking the pride in his eyes, though it was buried beneath the furrow of a thousand worries.
He spoke when Tristifer turned to him.
"You'll keep your head, and listen to your uncle. If you don't—"
"I'll lose it," Tristifer finished, smiling faintly. "I've heard the speech before."
Hoster's mouth twitched. "You've grown clever. I hope it's not wasted on the road."
He stepped forward, placed a firm hand on his son's shoulder, and gave it a squeeze that said everything he couldn't. Then he leaned in close.
"You're a Tully," he murmured. "Remember what that means when trouble comes."
"I will," Tristifer said.
A loud wail split the air. Lysa, no more than a babe in arms, sobbed furiously from the nursemaid's grasp at the edge of the courtyard, kicking and flailing as though she could shake her brother free from his duty.
Not far from her stood Catelyn, blinking rapidly as she fought off tears. Her cheeks were flushed with worry, her hands balled into fists at her sides.
"You're not supposed to go," she said, her voice cracking. "You said you'd teach me numbers past a hundred."
"I still will," Tristifer said, kneeling beside her. "You'll just be better than me at it by the time I'm back."
Catelyn scowled and hugged him hard, trying to be brave, trying not to cry. She failed, of course, and Tristifer pretended not to notice the tear that soaked into his collar.
Brynden cleared his throat from atop his horse. "If the goodbyes stretch any longer, I'll age ten years before we make it out the gate."
Tristifer rose, gave one last look to his mother and father, then to his sisters, then turned and mounted.
He felt every eye in the courtyard on him as the gates creaked open, and the drawbridge fell with a heavy thunk onto the path beyond.
Hoster stood beside Minisa as the riders began to move.
"He's ready," Hoster said low.
"I know," Minisa whispered. "But I'm not."
As Riverrun disappeared behind him, Tristifer exhaled and reached into his pouch. He touched the herbs his mother had packed, felt the small comfort in their presence.
And beside him, Brynden muttered, "Keep your sword sheathed until you need it. Then make sure it counts."
"I will," Tristifer said, staring into the trees ahead. "Every strike."
And with that, the riders disappeared into the Riverlands, toward bandits, danger, and whatever truths waited in the wild.
Riverlands – Unknown, 270 AC
The fifth day on the road was kind. The Riverlands were still green in late summer, the air crisp with the scent of pine and damp soil. Tristifer rode near the middle of the column, his mount a dappled gelding he'd named Bramble after it bit him the first time he tried to saddle it. Uncle Brynden rode ahead as always, silent as a hawk, his eyes fixed on the horizon.
But the others? They were beginning to soften.
Coryn, the leathery-faced veteran with a wheezy laugh, had taken to calling him "my little squire," though no squiring had been requested. Ser Raynard, stiff and formal, still hadn't cracked a smile, but even he nodded now when Tristifer passed him rations at breakfast. The younger lads—Lance and Jonar—were eager for his attention and kept asking him how training at Riverrun compared to "real soldiering."
"It's mostly sweat," Tristifer told them, adjusting his saddle as they rode through a mossy glade. "And getting thwacked with wooden swords. Occasionally you get hit in the face with a practice shield and are told to 'learn from it.'"
"That sounds like real soldiering," Coryn muttered.
That night, the men camped near a narrow creek shaded by tall birches. The fire was modest—Brynden didn't believe in big fires this close to danger—and stew bubbled low in a dented iron pot. Tristifer had already helped gather kindling, spoken with nearly everyone in the party, and shared a few jokes with the younger riders.
Still, his mind itched with the quiet tug of something else.
He slipped away, murmuring to Brynden that he was going to "look for dry wood." Brynden grunted, waving a hand.
Edgar, his faithful raven, fluttered down from the branches the moment Tristifer reached the trees. The boy smiled as the bird settled on his shoulder, sharp eyes glinting like black glass.
"Ready?" he whispered.
The raven tilted its head. That was enough.
Tristifer sat cross-legged beneath the boughs, shut his eyes, and took a deep breath.
His awareness slipped sideways.
In an instant, he was flying—wings beating strong above the tree line, wind slicing past. Through Edgar, the forest was sharper, each movement below precise and meaningful. Squirrels darted, deer slinked, but deeper in the woods… smoke.
He banked hard, gliding toward the source.
A crude camp. Half a dozen men, maybe more. Tents of stitched hide, a fire covered to avoid smoke. Two lookouts. One man with a sword too fine for a common brigand. Bandits, without question. Armed and organized.
He jolted awake, blinking against the dusk.
His heart pounded as he made his way back toward camp. He paused once—thinking to stay quiet, to say nothing, and just hope they'd find the camp on their own. But that would risk lives. He couldn't afford to be a coward.
When he approached the fire, Brynden was chewing on a strip of dried meat and whittling a piece of wood into what might one day resemble a horse.
"I need to speak with you," Tristifer said, quietly.
Brynden gave him a sideways look. "If this is about Lance's snoring, I already plan to smother him."
"No. I… I found something. A camp. Bandits, half a dozen or more."
Brynden lowered the knife. "And how do you know that?"
"I saw it. Through Edgar."
Brynden paused. "You saw it?"
"I warged into him. I've been able to do it for some time. I didn't tell anyone."
A long silence.
"You're serious."
Tristifer nodded.
Brynden stood, brushing wood shavings from his knees. "Prove it."
They walked a short distance away, past the edge of firelight. Tristifer breathed deep, summoned Edgar down, and let his mind slip once more into the bird's.
Brynden stood still as stone, watching the boy's body go slack, eyes milky white. He called out quietly: "Turn left. Now right. Over that rock."
Edgar obeyed every command, circling and dipping as instructed.
When Tristifer returned to himself, he swayed a little, catching himself on a tree.
"Well," Brynden said, after a moment. "Either I'm mad, or my nephew is a warg."
Tristifer looked up. "You're not mad."
Brynden didn't speak for a while. Instead, he sat back down, took another bite of meat, and stared into the fire.
"My mother," he said, slowly, "was a Blackwood. She used to tell tales—of skinchangers, greenseers, ravens that could speak more truth than maesters. I always thought it was just old forest nonsense."
"I think it's real," Tristifer said, settling next to him.
"Clearly. So what now?"
"There's a camp not two miles from here. I marked the trees in my mind. We could flank them at dawn."
Brynden nodded slowly. "Then that's what we'll do."
They sat in silence. The fire cracked. The wind sighed through the trees.
Finally, Brynden said, "Keep it close, lad. That kind of power… people don't forget it. Or forgive it. Especially not men with crowns."
"I will."
Brynden tossed the carved not-horse into the fire and gave a short bark of laughter.
"I knew there was something strange about you. Thought maybe you were just clever. Turns out, you're both."
They sat by the fire long after the others had bedded down. The wind rustled the leaves above, and the horses whickered softly nearby. Tristifer leaned forward, still flushed from his revelation and the effort of slipping into Edgar and back again.
Brynden remained quiet for a time, rubbing a whetstone across the blade of his belt knife, the rasping sound filling the space where words should be.
Finally, he said, "You know, my mother—your grandmother—was Serenna of House Blackwood. That blood of yours, it runs deeper than the Tully red. She used to say it was old as the roots of the godswoods, that it had memory."
He gave a dry laugh.
"Serenna was no lady of courtly airs. She kept a bow in her solar and a weirwood branch by her bedside. Spoke to the trees more than the septon. Said the old gods listened better."
Tristifer listened, wide-eyed. He'd always known the Blackwoods were steeped in the Old Ways, but it was something else hearing it from Brynden, the Blackfish, who rarely spoke of family.
"She told stories, too. About greenseers and skinchangers. Warned me that our line carried 'old blood'—said that somewhere along the winding roots of our family tree, we had more in common with ravens and wolves than with knights. I thought she was mad. Or lonely. Maybe both."
Brynden stopped sharpening and looked at him, more somber now.
"She feared it, that blood. But she respected it, too. Serenna wasn't the kind to shudder at ghost tales. She'd spit at them, light a fire, and demand they show themselves."
He shook his head fondly.
"And she spoke of Bloodraven. Called him a tragedy. A man who saw too much, too far. 'A crow with a thousand eyes and one' she'd say. 'He watched kings fall, and then became something more than a man—and less.'"
Tristifer stirred, looking into the embers.
"Do you think I'll end up like him?"
Brynden considered that. "I don't know. Bloodraven was a bastard prince and a sorcerer feared by lords and peasants alike. You're a boy. A clever, strange boy, but still a boy."
He leaned closer, voice softer now.
"But you've got something else. Serenna always said the blood would show again, one day. That a child would come who could speak to the old gods through bark and feather. She thought it would be one of her own."
Brynden gave a half-smile. "Maybe she wasn't wrong."
They sat together for a while longer, the fire crackling low.
"When we ride at dawn," Brynden said finally, "you stay close. I don't care how many birds you fly with—if steel's in the air, I want your feet on the ground. Understood?"
Tristifer nodded. "Understood."
"And tell no one else. Not yet. The world doesn't love the strange. Even when it owes them."
"I know."
Brynden rose, stretching his limbs.
"Get what sleep you can. We've got blood to spill come morning."
And with that, he turned and disappeared into the dark, leaving Tristifer alone with the fire—and the soft flutter of wings above.