As soon as Harald's hand pressed against the weirwood, his senses were pulled away. He no longer stood upon the Isle of Faces but within a vast forest where only white-barked weirwoods stretched as far as the eye could see. Their blood-red leaves moved without wind, and the sky above mirrored that same crimson hue, bathing everything in an eerie glow.
Beside him stood Wren, the small, antler-crowned child of the forest, her golden eyes wide with awe.
"The realm of the gods…" she said, her voice no more than a whisper.
Harald glanced at her, then back to the endless pale trees. "So it would seem."
Harald knew better than to think of this as a divine realm in the sense most men did. This was not a plane in Oblivion, where the Daedric Princes each ruled their own domain. This was different: this was a network, a simulation, a mindscape. His consciousness had been uploaded into the weirnet, the vast lattice of roots, trees, and blood-bound memory that bound together every greenseer who had ever lived. Thousands of souls, thousands of minds all living on, merged into a single collective that men worshipped as the "Old Gods."
Wren's ears twitched nervously. "Where are they, the gods? I thought…"
Harald kept his eyes on the swaying red canopy. "Let's wait and see. Tell me what did they tell you of my arrival?"
The child replied softly. "Many of us were sent visions. We were told to bring you here, before the gods themselves."
Harald nodded. He was not one to bow to any power, be it mortal or divine. He had come to either forge an accord or to take what he needed by force, because he knew what few in this world did: if the Daedra beings like Molag Bal or Hermaeus Mora ever found a way to corrupt the weirnet, then all of Westeros, perhaps the entire world, would fall under their dominion.
And Harald needed answers as well. He needed to know what catastrophe had scarred this world so deeply that its magic was dwindling. He could feel it everywhere: a weakening, a hollow echo of power where once a tide had flowed. Something had happened long ago, and he would uncover it.
Harald began walking, Wren following quietly at his side. The forest stretched endlessly a world of white trunks and crimson leaves but in the distance Harald saw it: a towering weirwood, the largest of them all. It rose impossibly tall, its pale bark gleaming like bone, its leaves bleeding into the air as though the tree itself wept into the realm around it.
They walked in silence until Wren finally broke it, her yellow eyes fixed on him.
"What are you, really? I have never seen a man like you before."
Harald glanced down, lips curling with faint amusement. "I am a dragon in human form."
Wren's eyes went wide, her antlered head tilting in awe. "Truly?"
Harald chuckled. "Yes. Truly."
The child's voice grew hushed. "I have heard tales of the olden times, when dragons roamed the world in great numbers, dragons of ice, dragons of fire."
Harald's brows lifted. "Yes… I believe there are some on Dragonstone."
Wren shook her head sharply. "Ha. Those are no true dragons. Pale imitations only made by human sorcery so dark and twisted it cursed the very land they were birthed from."
That made Harald pause. "What do you mean?"
"True dragons," Wren said softly, her voice almost reverent, "were noble creatures the greatest of all living things. Some even allied with man. Together, they forged the great empire of men and dragons… but after the Long Night, they were gone. All of them."
The Great Empire of the Dawn. Harald's thoughts flickered to his long discussions with Loebald, who had once mentioned a great empire that existed in the east long before humans ever set foot in Westeros.
They pressed onward until at last they stood before the massive weirwood. They lingered in silence for some time, Harald observing the great tree.
Then a voice broke the stillness neither male nor female, but both at once echoing from every direction.
"So… you have come."
Harald straightened. "I have."
The red leaves scattered across the ground began to rise. One by one, thousands lifted into the air as though caught in an unseen current. They whirled, spun, and then began to coalesce. Slowly, impossibly, they wove themselves into a humanoid figure twenty feet tall.
Harald tilted his head, smiling. "Nice trick."
The Old Gods loomed above Harald in a humanoid form woven from red weirwood leaves. Wren was already kneeling, not daring to look up.
"So you are the one the one who calls himself our servant, the one who brought the interlopers into this world."
Harald folded his arms. "I am not your servant. I claimed to be one to become king—yes. But I bow to no one."
The towering form bent forward.
"We do not know what you are… but we know what you bring. We want you gone."
"No."
The forest roared with the answer. "No? You would deny us? We are older than the mountains, older than the seas. We are the very roots of this world, the memory of all things that live and die. We are every song sung in the dark, every secret whispered to the trees. We endured when dragons burned the skies, when ice devoured the world. We endured, for we are eternal."
Harald only smirked faintly at the grand speech.
"That is very impressive, truly. But I am not here to kneel. I am here for an alliance. You need me more than I need you."
The gods' form shuddered, its voice splitting with anger. "We are gods."
Harald's eyes sharpened. "No. You are not."
Wren gasped, her small body going rigid with fear.
"You dare…" the voice bellowed, the forest trembling.
Harald's tone stayed calm, cutting through the storm. "I know what you are. You're not gods you're an amalgamation of greenseers. They gave their minds to the weirwoods. A hive of minds. I have seen gods, and you are not one."
The air darkened, and the red figure leaned closer. "You are in our realm, Harald Stormcrown. Be careful with your words."
Wren clutched his sleeve, eyes wide. "What are you doing?"
Harald laid a hand on her head, steadying her. "Do not worry." Then he turned back to the massive form. "I only wish to protect you. I seek an alliance. This world is corrupted and broken, and I mean to heal it. There are many threats coming—"
The gods' reply was cold. "Threats brought here… by you."
Harald's voice did not waver. "Yes. It is my fault. You believe that if I left, everything would return to what it was before but no. The beings that have come to prey on your world will not stop. You need me."
The towering figure rumbled, "We do not need help."
Then another voice, softer, spoke behind him.
"Yes, we do."
Harald turned. A smaller humanoid shape was forming from drifting red leaves, no taller than himself.
Harald pointed to the smaller figure with a grin.
"Let me guess you are part of the consensus that agrees with me."
The figure of drifting red leaves nodded. "Yes."
"And what would it take for you to convince the others?" Harald pressed.
"I fear it is not possible. They are quite set in their ways."
Harald's grin deepened. "What if I were to… soften their way of thinking? Could you take over?"
"I… do not understand."
"Oh, you will soon."
From above, the great twenty-foot figure thundered, "It is time for you to leave."
Harald's expression hardened. "It is a shame it had to come to this."
Wren clutched at his arm, her yellow eyes wide. "What are you doing, Harald?"
He patted her hand softly. "Don't worry. This is for their own good."
"GOL!" he shouted.
The Thu'um flew through the air, striking the colossal figure. It reeled back as a thousand screams of men and women echoed from all around.
"No! No! Stop! What are you doing?" Wren cried in horror.
"Do not worry, child. He is doing what is best for us," the smaller figure said, comforting the distressed Wren.
"GOL!" Harald shouted again. The towering form collapsed to its knees, crimson leaves scattering on the wind.
Harald's eyes narrowed. One more will do, he thought.
He drew in his breath and unleashed the final blow. "GOL HAH!"
The shout hit the gods. The ground trembled; the blood-red sky itself seemed to shake. The gods shuddered, the giant figure of leaves breaking apart.
"That will do," Harald said coldly, turning to the smaller figure. "You know what to do."
It bowed, its body dissolving into floating red leaves. They drifted upward, merging into the broken giant. Slowly, the immense form steadied, its shape shifting.
"What is happening? What did you do?" Wren asked.
"Just a small reset," Harald said with a grin, as the consensus that agreed with him took control of the vast hive mind.
"It is done," the gods boomed.
"So you agree, then? With my terms?"
"Yes," the gods answered. "We will ally."
Harald strode forward until he stood before the largest weirwood in the grove. Placing his palm upon its pale bark, he smiled. "Then hear me, and know this: from this day forth, you are under the protection of the last Dragonborn, the son of Akatosh. None shall harm you while I draw breath."
The tree shivered at his touch. Its crimson leaves began to glow with radiant white light, brighter and brighter, until the entire realm dissolved into blinding brilliance.
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Winterfell
King Torrhen Stark sat alone in Winterfell's godswood. The chill bit at his hands as he cleaned his family's ancestral blade, Ice.
His thoughts these last few moons had been on the new kingdom rising in the south, The North's new neighbor. He had sent his son, Barthogan, and his own bastard brother, Brandon Snow, as envoys. The last missive he received from them came from the Twins, bearing tales of a new religion spreading through the realm and of magical crops that grew in only a month.
Madness, Torrhen thought. What kind of madness was happening in the south?
Suddenly, the great weirwood before him stirred. Torrhen looked up in shock as its leaves glowed faintly, a pale red turning almost white, as if lit from within.
Then he heard it a whisper threading through the air, through the rustling leaves, through his very bones:
"Dragonborn… Dragonborn…"
Torrhen's breath misted before him, his heart hammering. Dragonborn that was one of the titles King Harald of the Heartlands carried. Was this a warning from his gods, or a sign of their blessing upon King Harald? A thousand questions swirled in his mind.
He thought of his son, Barthogan, and his brother, Brandon. They would have all the answers soon…
The world, it seemed, was shifting moving into strange and perilous days. Times that promised to be interesting and interesting times were seldom good.
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The Vale
Drums pounded with a primal rhythm; voices rose in wild song as the First Men of the Vale knelt before the many weirwoods they guarded in their mountain home. The weirwoods' leaves glowed, a sign that their gods had blessed them.
Chieftain Harlon, son of Brann, stood upon a boulder. His breath misted in the chill air, his wolfskin cloak snapping in the gale. The gods were here. He could feel them in his bones, in the very earth beneath his feet, humming with a power not felt since before the Andals came with their steel and their false gods.
The Old Gods have answered, he thought, his heart hammering like the drums below. For years he had led raids only to keep his people fed, retreating to the high valleys while the lords of the Vale cursed them from their castles. But now, with the trees blazing with holy light, he knew what this was: a call to arms.
He raised his hand, and silence fell. A thousand eyes fixed upon him. He saw the same fire that burned in his chest reflected in theirs.
"The gods call on us!" he thundered, his voice echoing across the peaks. "No longer shall we cower in the shadows of the Andals. No longer shall we hide away in these mountains. It is time, my brothers, my sisters, to take back what was stolen!"
The clans roared.
"The Griffin King shall rise once more!" Harlon bellowed, thrusting his axe skyward. "The blood of the First Men runs in our veins, and with it we will break the Andal yoke. The Vale shall be ours again!"
The people howled, stamping their feet, beating shields, and brandishing weapons. The drums resumed louder, faster until it seemed the mountains themselves trembled. Harlon looked to the glowing weirwood, its pale light pulsing in rhythm with the clans' fury, and he swore he would not fail.
The Vale would be theirs once more.