Snow whispered against the stone walls of Winterfell. The moonlight cast the godswood in a silver shroud, every branch trembling under the quiet weight of winter.
Elias Stark stood beneath the heart tree, the carved face staring down at him with eyes that seemed far older than the land itself. His breath came in soft clouds, his small hands curled into fists inside his fur mittens. He didn't know why he had come here in the middle of the night only that something had called him.
It wasn't the kind of call you could hear. It was in the roots, in the cold, in the slow, heavy beat of the earth.
The wind stilled. The godswood went silent. And when Elias blinked, he was no longer in Winterfell.
He stood in a forest where every tree was pale as bone, their branches bare, their roots twisting like frozen veins across the ground. The air was heavy, thick, and each breath tasted of blood and frost.
"Elias Stark," came a voice, old and dry as dead leaves.
From the shadows stepped a man or something like one. His body was thin, almost brittle, wrapped in black feathers. His hair was white, his skin stretched thin over sharp bones. And where his left eye should have been was a hollow socket, the right one a milky white orb that still somehow saw.
The Three-Eyed Raven.
"You were never meant to be born," the Raven said, his voice rustling like a crow's wings. "The Old Gods have chosen you, but they cannot see the danger in what you will become. I can."
Elias took a step back. The forest seemed to close in around him, the roots twitching and curling. "Who are you?"
"I am the watcher in the wood, the one who sees beyond the wall of years. And I will not allow your path to shape this world."
The roots moved faster, snaking up from the ground and wrapping around Elias's ankles. He tried to pull free, but the cold bit deep, freezing his flesh where they touched. The roots climbed higher, around his legs, his waist, his chest, pressing against his ribs until he could barely breathe.
The Raven stepped closer, raising a hand of gnarled fingers. "I will bind your soul here, in silence, where it can do no harm."
Then the forest screamed.
From between the pale trees came shapes of red and shadow wolves with eyes like molten coals, elk with antlers of burning gold, shadow-stags that seemed carved from midnight. They descended upon the Raven with a fury Elias could feel in his bones. Teeth tore into black feathers; antlers pierced brittle flesh. The Raven's scream was high and ragged, his form tearing apart like smoke in the wind.
The roots loosened. Elias fell to his knees, gasping. The heart tree loomed before him now, its red eyes staring into his soul. In the carved mouth, he swore he saw the faintest curl of a smile.
A small hand touched his shoulder. He turned, and there she was, a Child of the Forest. Skin the color of moss and sunlight, hair woven with leaves, eyes deep and gold as autumn. She didn't speak. She only watched him, and then glanced at the space where the Raven had been.
"They guard you now," she whispered at last, her voice barely louder than the wind. "You are theirs."
The forest dissolved.
Elias woke in his bed, sweat cold on his skin, a trickle of blood running from his nose. Outside, the godswood swayed under the moonlight, silent but watchful.
And deep down, even at five years old, Elias Stark understood one truth:The Old Gods had saved him tonight. And one day, he would repay them.