"News has arrived from Winterfell," Joffrey announced, his voice measured and clear in the stillness of the godswood. "Your eight tribesmen have safely crossed the Wall. Lady Catelyn personally dispatched a troop of cavalry to protect them on their journey south. Barring any misfortune on the road, we should welcome them before the month's end."
Leaf could not suppress the smile that crept across her ancient features upon hearing these tidings.
Including these eight, there were now eleven Children of the Forest who had made the perilous journey to the lands of men. Even if conditions beyond the Wall grew more dire, at least the final embers of her people would be preserved here, under the protection of the Iron Throne.
This was already the limit of what could be achieved in so short a time.
"This is all thanks to your wisdom," Leaf said, her golden eyes reflecting dappled sunlight. "If the leaders of mankind had possessed such broad vision in the days of old, I believe Westeros would be a far gentler realm today." Her voice carried the weight of millennia as she gazed into the distant past.
Joffrey smiled but offered no response.
If the Children's tribes had spread across the entire continent, how could humans not see them as the gravest threat? he thought. Even the most enlightened ruler must yield to the tides of history.
Sansa's voice broke the silence, soft and poised, every syllable shaped by years of careful instruction in courtly graces. "Lady Leaf, with your ancient wisdom and the protection of the throne, surely the Children of the Forest will flourish once more, as in the days before the First Men."
Leaf rubbed her small, three-fingered hands together. "I am grateful for your kind words, Lady Stark."
Joffrey shifted his weight, drawing attention back to himself. "The raven from the North mentioned other movements beyond the Wall. Mance Rayder, styling himself 'King-Beyond-the-Wall,' has gathered tens of thousands of wildlings under his banner. To escape both the deepening cold and the Others pressing from the true north, they may attempt to breach the Wall at any moment."
Sansa, Bran, and Arya exchanged alarmed glances, their eyes widening. This was news to all of them, tales more frightening than Old Nan's stories by the hearth.
Joffrey had intended precisely this effect, ensuring all present would hear and understand the gravity of the threat.
"After careful consideration," he continued, "rather than having the men of the North march all the way south to bleed for my crown, it would be wiser to send them north instead—to reinforce the Wall and safeguard the ancient home of all mankind."
His voice grew solemn. "The Others beyond the Wall are enemies to all living things. We must never allow them to cross into the Seven Kingdoms."
Leaf's expression darkened with concern for her own kind. In her mind's eye, she could see the Haunted Forest becoming ever more perilous with each passing day. She wondered if the ancient spells woven into the network of caves would continue to hold back the cold gods' icy claws in the days to come.
"Leaf," Joffrey said gently, looking directly into her large, gold-green eyes. "Your responsibility is greater than you know. The Greenseer and the few dozen Singers who remain beyond the Wall are our closest watchers, our most vulnerable eyes observing both the wildlings and the Others. How might we better protect and communicate with them?"
Leaf waited, sensing there was more.
"Leaf, you must become the new Greenseer ."
Her eyes fell in disappointment; such a thing seemed beyond possibility.
Greenseer s were the wisest elders of her tribe, exceedingly rare even in the days when her people thrived in great numbers. Now, with so few remaining, the chances of one emerging among them seemed as remote as summer snows in Dorne.
But Joffrey was not merely indulging in wishful thinking.
Through the power of bloodline runes, he had already integrated the Regression Rune into Leaf's ancient lineage. Her latent talent in this domain now surely matched or exceeded young Bran's own gift.
If Bran could succeed in that other tale, Joffrey reasoned to himself, then Leaf should not fail. It was time to offer Bloodraven an unexpected surprise.
Leaf, however, remained unaware of the potential now slumbering within her.
Joffrey leaned closer, his voice soft but persuasive. "Think of your people, Leaf. They face the relentless cold and monsters from the deep north. Without question, they require more assistance than ever—the guidance that only a Greenseer can provide."
Greenseer . The title echoed in Leaf's mind as she thought of the ancient man upon the weirwood throne, and of the Greenseer s from her own tribe's long history.
If she could somehow harness such power, she might yet save more of her dwindling race.
The young king spoke with absolute conviction. "Leave everything to me. By this time tomorrow, you shall be the new Greenseer of your people."
In the face of such certainty, Leaf found she could no longer refuse.
A day later, the godswood had grown more crowded with invited guests.
Qyburn, representing the royal research institute, along with two stone-faced assistants, carefully examined the newly transplanted weirwood sapling. Its bone-white bark gleamed in the dappled sunlight, its blood-red leaves rustling softly in the breeze.
Bran and Arya waited quietly to one side with their direwolves, eager to witness the momentous occasion soon to unfold.
Leaf stood nearby, patiently teaching two of her tribesmen who had only recently begun to grasp a few words in the Common Tongue.
Joffrey conversed amiably with Lord Eddard, their voices low but carrying in the hushed atmosphere of the sacred grove.
"Your Grace, do you truly intend to transfer all Northern troops to the Wall?" Had Sansa and Bran not vouched for this plan with such conviction, Eddard would have dismissed it as mere rumor or court intrigue.
Joffrey's laughter was light, almost musical. "Indeed I do."
Even Eddard's commitment to the southern cause had been tepid at best—what then of the other Northern lords? Far better to let these proud, stubborn men face a threat they understood, while allowing the Others and wildlings to weaken each other beyond the Wall.
"If you are willing, Lord Stark, you might return to your homeland and command these legions as Warden of the North, standing firm against whatever threats may emerge from beyond the Wall."
With Duke Tywin already returned to Lannisport to assume command of the Westerlands forces, most of the true power in King's Landing now rested firmly in the hands of the throne and its loyal servants. Eddard's role as "Lord Regent" in maintaining political balance had become largely ceremonial, a fact not lost on either man.
Joffrey's face was a mask of sincere concern. "Please, speak your mind freely."
Eddard studied the young king closely. Which words in the Red Keep could be trusted? Which courtiers spoke truth rather than convenient lies? Eddard could not tell with certainty; he could only choose to follow the dictates of his own honor, as he always had.
"Your Grace," he said with measured formality, "House Stark has always been loyal to the Iron Throne. Any position I might hold exists solely to serve the realm."
"Even Lord Eddard has learned to speak the pretty words of court," Joffrey observed with the faintest hint of a smile.
He turned to Sansa, standing silently at his side. "Lady Sansa, I would ask you to consider carefully on your father's behalf. What is Lord Eddard's true desire? To remain here in the Red Keep? To march against Renly? Or to return to the North, to the land of his fathers?"
Sansa's lips parted and closed again, her eyes seeking encouragement from her betrothed. "Perhaps... does Father miss Winterfell most of all?"
Joffrey regarded Lord Eddard and noted the unwavering steadiness in his gaze—as solid and unyielding as the Wall itself. "It seems we have our answer. Lord Stark, do you concur?"
Eddard's expression remained carefully neutral. Without ceremony, he removed the hand-shaped badge that marked his office as Hand of the King and extended it toward Joffrey. "I am prepared to guard the North in Your Grace's name."
Joffrey accepted the badge, releasing a long, deliberate sigh. "The Night's Watch, the wildlings, and the Children of the Forest all speak of the Others with growing alarm. We can no longer afford the luxury of doubt. They have awakened from their long slumber, and soon they will turn their cold gaze southward."
"Winter is coming," Eddard intoned solemnly, the words of his House never more fitting than now.
Joffrey gestured toward the south. "This conflict brewing in the south is but a minor distraction, a mere skirmish compared to what lies ahead. The gods have made their will known. Mankind's true test awaits in the North, beyond the Wall. Your burden shall be great indeed."
The gods. Eddard lowered his gaze slightly.
He harbored no particular reverence for this so-called divine grace. Beyond the obvious powers of flame and healing, most such "blessings" appeared more like chains than gifts to his Northern sensibilities.
To his surprise, the familiar badge reappeared before him, held in Joffrey's outstretched hand. Eddard could not help but search the king's face, looking for any sign of mockery or deceit.
The young king's smile seemed genuinely warm. "My Hand. My father journeyed so far to place this badge in your keeping—how could I possibly reclaim it?"
"I pray this symbol of office will aid you in the vital task you now undertake."
The weight of the badge in his palm felt both familiar and strange. Eddard's mind churned with uncertainty. Could it truly be that the crisis in the North was the reason he had been summoned south? Was there no other purpose behind Robert's long journey?
Joffrey suspected the direction of Eddard's thoughts.
This proud Northman clung stubbornly to his principles and harbored little fondness for the political machinations of southern courts—a distrust that likely extended to Joffrey himself, whom many still regarded as impulsive and willful.
While relations between them remained civil, if cool, it seemed wisest to send this proud direwolf back to the frozen lands he called home.
Qyburn approached quietly, his face betraying nothing of his thoughts.
"Your Grace," he murmured, "the weirwood sapling appears to be in excellent condition. We may begin whenever you wish."
Joffrey accepted a carved wooden bowl from Qyburn's outstretched hands.
He could not deny his curiosity.
How was it possible for weirwood trees separated by thousands of leagues to become the eyes and ears of a Greenseer ? What secrets of the Old Gods might lie hidden within their pale bark and blood-red leaves?
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