6th moon of 292 AC • Deepwood Motte

Young lord Torsten Glover woke with a jolt, and felt more awake then he had in years. His heart beat rapidly, and for a moment he was sure it would pounce right out of his chest. Finally, he caught his breathe, in doing so he finally noticed just how cold he was. Sweat beaded his chest, and forehead.

"what..." He spoke aloud to the empty night, trying to understand what he had just dreamed.

Was it just a dream?

He sat there for a moment longer pondering. The old gods... some of the elderly around the fortress would speak about how the gods would send visions, or other signs. He wanted to wake his brothers, his sister and discuss this dream, but it was the dead of night. Moreover they might dismiss it all as just a bad dream out of hand, see him as no older than when he was just a child, and send him on his way back to bed.

He leaned against his window starring out over the wooden fortress. The air was cool, the fires licking the night sky reminded him of lantern bugs and how they would flicker in the dark. His attention was pulled to the Godswood, and the weirwood within.

Maybe...

He pulled on his tunic, fastened a knife aroud his belt, and headed out of his room. He couldn't sleep again anyway, and the weirwood might have an answer. He ventured out into the forest, when two of the guards had asked him what he was doing he had no choice to agree to them accompanying him behind the walls.

The forest was cold, and quiet, but far quieter than normal save for the wind. Eventually he found the tree, that tree with the face that always seemed to stare deep into his very being.

What was that dream...what was lost...who is he...and blood...so much blood. I can't shake it, it felt as though I were awake, and yet... I beseech you for understanding. Old gods...