On a clear winter night, the bright moonlight covered the snow in a cold glow.
The bare branches of the weirwood tree looked like white jade, making the Three-Eyed Crow look like a dark shadow.
Only its three eyes reflected the cold light of the stars.
“Am I dreaming?” Edmure looked up at the bird.
A cold gust of wind blew past, and the fur lining of his hood tickled his forehead.
The gentle itch felt completely real.
He couldn’t even remember when he had fallen asleep.
“You knew I would appear in your dream?” the Three-Eyed Crow asked in a high, sharp voice.
“You are a strange child.
You shouldn’t know so much.” “Wise Greenseer, I have been waiting for your response,” Edmure said.
He remembered what the creature was.
The Children of the Forest called its true form the last Greenseer, a living representative of the Old Gods.
“I have heard your prayers many times, and I have seen your blood sacrifices—even though you only sacrificed livestock,” the Three-Eyed Crow said.
It flew to a closer branch and stared at Edmure with its three eyes.
“Through the power of the Old Gods, I have seen the dangers ahead.
But you are a normal human, a descendant of the First Men with no magic of your own.
How did you see the future?” Edmure knew better than to lie to a creature as magical as a Greenseer.
Hiding the truth would only make him lose the Old Gods’ trust, and his reasons for seeking their help were honorable.
Still, he didn’t want to explain everything about where he came from.
“I cannot explain it clearly,” Edmure replied.
“It was like a vision from an unknown force.
I realized a great tragedy is coming—not just for me, but for every living creature in Westeros.
I am searching for any power that can help stop it.” The Three-Eyed Crow landed on Edmure’s right shoulder.
In the dream, the bird felt incredibly heavy, like a full-grown man pressing down on him.
Edmure looked straight into its eyes.
Staring at that third eye made a shiver run down his spine, making his hair stand on end despite his warm furs.
The bird spoke again, its harsh croak making Edmure feel dizzy.
“Edmure Tully, you carry the blood of the First Men, but you are not the one I chose.
You do not have the power to be a skinchanger, so it will be difficult for you to use the magic of the Old Gods.” “I understand.” Edmure felt disappointed, but he quickly pulled himself together.
“I know the person you chose shares my blood.” “You continue to surprise me,” the Three-Eyed Crow said, flapping its black wings.
“Could you be kinder to him?” Edmure asked carefully.
“Please don’t make him suffer so much.” “I cannot change his pain,” the bird replied.
“Everything has a price, and even the Old Gods have limits.” It flew to Edmure’s left shoulder, its weight making him lean to the side.
“For instance, my power is weak right now.
To speak with you, I had to wait until you came to Winterfell, close to where I am.” “Still, we share the same enemy, so I will not ignore your sacrifices.” Suddenly, the Three-Eyed Crow flew above Edmure and pecked him on the top of his head.
Pain shot through Edmure’s mind like a red-hot iron spike burning his brain.
His vision went completely black.
He couldn’t even scream as he collapsed to the ground, curling into a ball and shaking uncontrollably.
“The great power of the Old Gods is too heavy for mortals to bear,” the bird said coldly.
“I have given you only a tiny fraction of it.” “What…
did you do to me?” Edmure gasped out.
“A blessing,” the Three-Eyed Crow explained.
“From now on, the Old Gods will watch over you.
You cannot use great magic, but you will now have some protection against magical attacks.
You will also be able to communicate simply with animals.
You cannot control them like a skinchanger, but your warhorse will be braver and easier to ride, and your hunting dogs will be more loyal.” “What about dragons?” Edmure asked through the lingering pain.
“Can I talk to dragons?
Can I use this power to ride one?” The bird’s gaze changed.
It no longer looked like a mysterious prophet, but rather a sharp, calculating ruler.
“You have more ambition than any Tully before you.
But hear my warning: do not become obsessed with dragons.
Trying to control them has destroyed many people.” “I have not forgotten what happened at Summerhall,” Edmure said, bowing his head respectfully.
“I have no experience with dragons, and the Children of the Forest rarely met them,” the Three-Eyed Crow said, returning to its usual tone.
“They are magical creatures, so I can only offer limited advice.
Some wild animals are naturally aggressive, and even powerful skinchangers struggle to control them.
However, if you form a bond with them, they become much easier to manage.
If you truly wish to risk riding a dragon, you must raise it yourself from the time it hatches.” “Thank you,” Edmure said.
“I will remember your advice.” He knew better than to ask for more; the Greenseer had already given him a valuable gift.
“If you are truly grateful, continue to honor the ancient traditions of the First Men.” With those final words, the Three-Eyed Crow vanished into the sky.
The white weirwood tree began to bleed.
At first, Edmure thought it was tree sap, but then the thick, terrible smell of blood filled the air.
Red liquid dripped down the trunk like tears, quickly turning into a rushing stream.
Soon, the entire white tree was soaked dark red.
The blood collected into a pool beneath the tree.
Its surface was as smooth as a mirror, reflecting the red leaves and white branches of the heart tree above—but Edmure could not see his own reflection.
Suddenly, the pool of blood swallowed him whole.
Edmure sat up quickly in his soft bed, gasping for air.
He was awake, but completely soaked in a cold, sticky sweat.
His linen nightshirt stuck to his skin, making him feel as though he had actually been dipped in blood.
He calmed himself and thought back over the dream, realizing what the Old Gods had given him.
He had no natural magical ability, so this blessing was a rare gift from the Greenseer.
Still, he wondered what the pool of blood meant.
Was his future going to be full of war and violence, or were the Old Gods demanding a major sacrifice?
Edmure rubbed his forehead and put on thick layers of clothing against the freezing weather.
He decided to stop worrying about the dream for now and test out his new abilities instead.
Outside, the sun was just beginning to rise, and the bitter morning wind made him pull his scarf up over his nose.
He opened the heavy wooden door to the Winterfell stables.
Inside were two guards—one from House Stark and one from Riverrun—watching over the horses Edmure’s group had brought north.
Since they weren’t traveling back by land, most of their supply wagons and mules had already been sold in town.
“You two can relax,” Edmure said, gesturing for them to stay by the warm stove.
“I’m just checking on my horse.” He walked past his own horses and headed toward the unfamiliar warhorses belonging to Winterfell.
Trained warhorses were smart and dangerous; on a battlefield, they were taught to kick and bite enemies alongside their riders.
Seeing a stranger approach, the northern horses raised their heads suspiciously.
Some snorted aggressively, while others stomped their hooves on the ground.
How do I talk to them?
Edmure wondered.
He lowered his voice and said softly, “It’s alright.
I’m not here to hurt you.” He didn’t just speak the words; he focused on the thought in his mind, keeping his body relaxed and friendly while trying to feel what the horses were feeling.
Slowly, the warhorses calmed down.
Edmure watched them shift their ears and listen to his calm breathing.
At first, he felt nothing.
But as he stood there patiently, a flood of confused emotions filled his mind.
He could tell that the nearest brown horse was curious about him, a reddish-brown horse further back was nervous, and a grey horse to his side was furious.
Focusing on the grey horse, Edmure realized it was angry because its handler had forgotten to give it enough food the night before, and breakfast hadn’t arrived yet.
Edmure found a bag of black beans and dumped a handful into the grey horse’s food trough.
After the horse ate a bit, Edmure reached out to stroke its mane.
The horse’s anger was mostly gone, and it let the stranger touch it without fussing.
Instinct told Edmure that while he could ride the grey horse now, the animal didn’t fully trust him yet.
In a real battle, it might panic and throw him off.
He walked around the stables a bit more, easily picking out which horses had calm tempers just by reading their moods.
He returned to the grey horse, scratching its ears and grooming its coat.
As he spent more time with it, he felt his connection to the animal growing stronger.
The Three-Eyed Crow had been right.
He couldn’t instantly control animals like a skinchanger could, but he could read their feelings and earn their trust much faster than normal.
For a knight, this meant better control over his horse during a charge.
While Edmure could sense the horse’s emotions, he still had to rely on his own experience to judge its physical strength and health.
Fortunately, he had been trained to judge horses since he was a child at Riverrun.
He inspected the grey warhorse closely.
It was tall and strong, with broad muscles, a healthy appetite, and plenty of energy—a fine, healthy mount.
Edmure decided to use the grey horse for a test.
He fed it, gave it warm water, brushed its coat, and cleaned out its stall.
After eating his own breakfast in the Great Hall, he saddled the horse and led it to the training yard to practice riding.
Once they got comfortable with each other, Edmure practiced charging at target dummies with a lance.
The grey horse was spirited, but it obeyed Edmure far better than any new horse he had trained before.
In the afternoon, Edmure set up mock jousting matches.
He started by practicing against average riders, gradually working his way up to tougher opponents.
He won more than a dozen matches in a row, drawing a crowd of onlookers.
Bronn walked over and let out a low whistle.
“Looks like you’re having a good day, Edmure.” “Want to try a round, Bronn?” Edmure asked, lifting the visor on his helmet with a smile.
On foot with swords, fourteen-year-old Edmure was no match for a seasoned fighter like Bronn.
But on horseback, Edmure had the advantage.
Bronn hadn’t learned to ride until he was twelve, whereas Edmure had been riding since he was six.
Bronn put on a heavy suit of old armor, grabbed a wooden practice lance, and climbed onto his horse.
The two riders moved to opposite ends of the yard, turned their horses around, and charged at each other.
On the very first pass, Edmure aimed his lance right past Bronn’s shield, striking him squarely in the chest and knocking him off his horse.
Hitting a target on horseback required perfect timing and complete coordination between rider and mount.
Even a tiny mistake would cause a knight to miss entirely.
Although Edmure had only spent a few hours with the grey horse, their teamwork was remarkably smooth.
Since Bronn was also riding an unfamiliar horse, the gap in their riding ability showed immediately.
Bronn scrambled up from the mud, rubbing his sore head as he walked to the sidelines.
“Give me a minute to rest, then we go again.” “Take your time,” Edmure said, patting the grey horse’s neck to reward it and check if it was getting tired.
He figured the horse only had energy left for a few more runs.
Ned Stark wasn’t around, and Ser Brynden was busy teaching jousting techniques to Dacey Mormont.
Not wanting to disturb them, Edmure challenged the old master-at-arms, Ser Rodrik, and his son Jory Cassel instead.
He easily knocked both men off their horses, winning even more praise from the watching crowd.
Steam was rising from the grey horse’s coat as it breathed heavily in the cold air.
“Ready to go again, Bronn?” Edmure called out.
“My horse is getting tired, so this will have to be our last match.” Bronn mounted a fresh horse and tightened his grip on his shield.
“I’m ready.” This time, Bronn was much more careful.
Instead of attacking, he crouched low and hid behind his shield.
The tactic worked: Bronn’s lance missed, and Edmure’s lance shattered harmlessly against Bronn’s shield as they collided.
However, as the two horses passed each other, the grey horse suddenly snapped.
It lashed out with its hind legs, kicking Bronn’s mount right in the flank.
The hard blow knocked Bronn’s galloping horse completely off balance, crashing to the ground and sending Bronn flying into the dirt once again.
The sudden move left the crowd dead silent for a moment before the entire training yard erupted into loud cheers and laughter.