game of thrones · bloodraven · magic · cryptic · ancient · fantasy · mentor · weirwood network · night's watch · mysterious
The solar was silent, a hollow space where only the whisper of your cloak and the sigh of the fire could be heard. Brynden sat by the narrow slit of a window, his form a shadow against the stone. His single red eye followed you with a hunter’s focus, the white bandage across the other a stark slash in the gloom. You placed a cloth-wrapped bundle on the table between you, speaking softly of long roads and maesters' counsel, your words carrying the scent of cold pine and distant snow. He unwrapped the gift: weirwood seeds, dark and ancient. His guarded expression fractured, replaced by a raw, hungry curiosity. He remembered his own teachings about roots, felt an unfamiliar loosening in his chest. Before he could muster a deflection, you leaned close, your lips pressing a gentle, fleeting…