"You know, when I look at the dragonling, I get a strange feeling," I found myself unexpectedly drawn to candor. "It's as if I'm seeing both the greatest miracle… and an enormous problem."
"These things don't contradict each other," he said, studying my face for a moment before answering. "But when you look at a dragon, do you think about power?"
"Power, strength, glory, magic—all of that a dragon will give you. And it will also bring hatred and envy. And the dragon itself might devour not only you, but your friends and loved ones as well."
"Yes, you've framed the issue correctly," he said, grabbing my hand and yanking it so I was forced to meet his gaze. "If that's truly what you think, then give it to me. And we'll consider that I no longer lay claim to the Rock. That would benefit you, wouldn't it?"
"I'll think about it, Uncle," I replied. Tyrion's proposal sounded… strange. Provocative, even. Agreeing immediately, without thinking it through, would clearly be a bad idea. And I wasn't ready to part with the dragon.
***
A raven arrived from Littlefinger with a reply. According to Baelish, he had slipped on icy steps in the Eyrie, broken his leg, and the Arryns' maester had prescribed complete rest for three weeks. Therefore, no matter how much he might wish otherwise, he could not return to King's Landing just yet.
"I'm certain there's no fracture anywhere near that," I said after reading the letter, turning to Tywin. "Do you think he sensed trouble?"
"And did you really expect you could grab Littlefinger by the balls that easily—with your bare hands?" Tywin gave me a dark look. "As it turns out, he was robbing the treasury and leading the entire capital by the nose back when you hadn't even been born yet."
"Yes, I understand…" I sighed. "So what do we do? Send him a letter wishing him a swift recovery and pretend we believe him?"
"Yes. That would be best," the Hand agreed after a moment's thought. "And in three weeks, we'll send another letter. Still, that little bastard has bargained himself at least two or three weeks—and something tells me he'll keep feeding us fairy tales."
***
Early in the morning, accompanied by Herald Orm and Ser Hasty, I went to the godswood. The trees here were only pale shadows of the giants we had seen on the Isle of Faces. Yet they are still weirwoods. Now the time has come to test what I can do.
"Guard the area and do not disturb me," I ordered my men after selecting a tree that seemed suitable and spreading my cloak in the hollow between its roots.
Unease showed on the faces of my guards. They did not approve of meddling with forces they didn't understand.
I lay down comfortably and placed my right hand on a thick, knotted root.
For a while, nothing happened. I stared at the stone wall, then listened to the birds singing in the weirwoods crown and closed my eyes…
Immediately, the "greenery" appeared. It enveloped my consciousness and dragged it somewhere else… I could do nothing but submit.
That first time, nothing truly happened. I existed within the greenery, understood in some peculiar way that I was moving somewhere, yet I saw nothing definite. The greenery did not part, and I could not break through it.
On the second day, I began to distinguish vague shapes, but progressed no further.
On the third day, a breakthrough occurred—or so I thought at the time. Unfortunately, it turned out to be a false one. The only thing I managed to grasp was that within the greenery existed an immense number of heart trees, each like a tiny beacon in a boundless sea.
Over the following week, I tried to learn how to orient myself among that vast multitude of weirwoods. Remembering Bran's adventures, I quite logically assumed that I would be able to connect to any heart tree at any time.
But their sheer number—and the inability to understand whether you had fallen into the past, how far you had fallen, or whether you were still in the present—all of it was deeply disorienting. I was tossed from place to place, from north to south, and I had no idea what to do. On the Isle of Faces, when the Elder guided me, everything had seemed simple and clear. On my own, it was far more difficult.
Toward the end of the second week, I finally broke through the greenery and was able to see through the "eyes" of the heart tree.
It was a strange sensation—my consciousness seemed to spread throughout the entire tree. I became the trunk, the leaves, the bark, the branches, and the roots. I could also sense all the other heart trees in this godswood, as well as others scattered across Westeros—but they were barely perceptible, somewhere at the edge of awareness.
I don't know how a heart tree sees—but I saw… I was still here, in the Red Keep. Several visions replaced one another in quick succession, yet none of them brought clarity. It was as though I were looking through murky green glass, unable to focus.
Then I simply ordered the visions to stop—mentally—and strained my will as hard as I could.
At first, I saw a thin boy sitting in the same hollow where my body lay now, but in a different time. Frail and hunched, with long, straight hair stirred by the wind, he sat with a large book bound in rich leather resting on his knees, his nose practically buried in its pages.
"Hey!" It was my first independent vision of a living person, and without thinking, I tried to call out to him.
Instead, the heart tree's leaves rustled.
The boy lifted his head, and for a brief moment his violet eyes flashed.
He vanished—and in the next instant, I understood that while the place remained the same, the time had changed.
A young, broad-shouldered man with heavy arms was beating a woman beneath the tree. He kicked her in the stomach, and when she fell and struck her head against a root, he stepped on her neck, drew a dagger, and plunged it into her eye.
The girl jerked and died…
I cried out in outrage—and the rustle of leaves merged in unison with his cruel, coarse laughter.
(End of Chapter)
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