The forest stretched endlessly, silent but for the crunch of snow beneath boot and claw. Rayder moved without hesitation, cloak trailing behind him, and Ghidorah padded at his side like a living shadow, its three heads scanning the darkness with unblinking golden eyes.
The small figure—Rowan, the Child of the Forest—led them through the trees. For a time, only the wind spoke, whistling through the skeletal branches. Then the trees parted, revealing something that made even Rayder pause.
Before them stood a massive weirwood, its pale bark gleaming ghostlike in the dark, its carved face watching with solemn, unblinking eyes of crimson sap. The roots coiled outward like frozen veins, drinking deeply from the earth.
Rowan stopped before it and gestured. "Touch the tree," the child said softly. "Only then can you see the Seer."
Rayder's eyes narrowed. Even with all his arrogance, the weirwood unsettled him. It radiated something ancient, older than kingdoms, older than men. A bridge to powers he did not trust.
For a moment, he hesitated.
But then he remembered who he was. A man with a system, a bloodline no prophecy could touch, and a dragon feared even by gods. What could an old tree truly do to him?
With deliberate calm, he stepped forward and pressed his palm to the rough bark.
The instant he touched it, the world shifted.
A pale figure flickered within the heartwood—white and spectral, like a shadow trapped inside. An aged voice whispered in his ear, solemn but tinged with weariness.
> "I am sorry we meet so hastily."
Rayder's expression hardened. He had no patience for theatrics. "Spare me the riddles, old man. Why are you watching me? What do you want?"
The Green Seer's voice came gently, without anger.
> "Because of you, the prophecies of Westeros bend and break. I sought you out to warn you, and perhaps guide you toward the right path."
Rayder let out a humorless laugh. "Guide me? That's the best you can come up with? Do you take me for some wide-eyed fool in a bard's tale?" He rolled his eyes openly. "I don't care about your prophecies, and I don't do charity. If you want to talk, make it worth my time."
The Seer's face did not change. He seemed to have expected this.
> "All of this is fate's arrangement."
Rayder's lips curled in irritation. "Enough of that." He turned slightly, pointing his hand toward Rowan, who stood silently by the tree. His voice was cold as ice. "If you value this one's life, then teach me magic. Now."
Rowan froze. Ghidorah shifted eagerly, three mouths opening with anticipation.
The Seer's voice deepened.
> "Magic is not stolen knowledge—it is born of faith. Do you have faith, Rayder?"
The tone carried faint disdain, as though doubting him.
Rayder's temper snapped. "Faith? Don't insult me. The Valyrians ruled the world with magic and dragons, and you think they prayed for it? Don't make me laugh." His voice rose, sharp as a whip. "They didn't worship. They took. So tell me—how do I take it?"
The Seer hesitated, then answered with quiet weight.
> "The Dragonlords drew their strength from the gods… by stealing it."
Rayder's eyes widened, a predatory grin cutting across his face. "Good. Then teach me how to steal from the gods."
For the first time, the Seer's expression faltered. He fell silent. To reveal such secrets was to invite calamity; history had already borne witness to two great catastrophes born of stolen power.
Rayder leaned closer, eyes flashing with impatience. "Teach me, or he dies." His finger jabbed at Rowan again, cruel and unyielding.
Still, the Seer refused. His face grew grave.
> "You chase shadows, Rayder. Magic without purpose leads only to ruin. What you need is guidance, not theft."
Rayder's expression darkened. He had heard enough.
"Kidora," he ordered coldly, "tear him apart."
The dragon obeyed without hesitation. With a roar that shook the trees, Ghidorah lunged. Three jaws struck like thunderbolts, closing around Rowan's frail body. The Child of the Forest screamed, but the sound was short-lived. Flesh and bone were ripped apart, crimson staining the snow.
Rayder did not look away. He felt no triumph, no regret—only mild disappointment that the encounter had yielded nothing useful.
The Seer's voice, distant now, trembled with sorrow.
> "The gods are watching you."
Then the phantom dissolved into the wood, leaving the weirwood silent once more.
Rayder pulled his hand away and drew his sword. Without hesitation, he swung, hacking deep into the trunk. The blade bit into the white bark, crimson sap flowing like blood.
"The gods can watch all they want," Rayder muttered flatly. "I lived my last life under constant cameras. Unless they come down here themselves, I don't care."
He turned, storing the corpses of the Icefield Wolves into his system space. The energy points gained were so pitiful he did not even bother to check.
Sleep—that was worth more than anything else.
When he was gone, silence returned to the clearing. Only Rowan's broken body remained in the snow.
Much later, a massive shadow stirred among the trees. A giant snow bear lumbered forward, eyes fixed on the corpse. It sniffed the air, then carefully, almost reverently, gathered the remains into its great paws and carried them into the dark.
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