The Weirwood and the Archer

Two weeks had passed since Turin awoke in Raventree Hall. His leg still felt like it was full of splinters and hot iron, but he could walk now — barely. Each step was a knife to the thigh, but he gritted his teeth and bore it.

He wasn't one to lie in bed while the world moved on without him.

Raventree Hall was old and heavy with silence, its stone halls echoing the whispers of ages past. Turin limped through the corridors like a ghost, feeling smaller beneath the weight of all the history carved into the walls. The banners of House Blackwood hung above his head, red and black, the white weirwood tree always watching, always present.

Today, something pulled him outside.

He walked slowly, one hand on the wall for balance, until he reached the godswood.

The moment he stepped into the clearing, the world hushed.

Before him stood the weirwood tree.

But calling it a tree seemed almost insulting. It was massive — easily the size of a castle tower, its pale white trunk cracked and gnarled with age. Its limbs stretched wide and high, lifeless. Not a single red leaf remained on its branches. The tree was dead, or so it seemed.

But its presence was undeniable. It breathed in silence, watched without eyes.

And the ravens.

They were everywhere.

Dozens of them perched in its boughs and roots, croaking lowly, feathers ruffling in the breeze. Black birds on white wood.

Turin stared.

He stepped closer.

He didn't know why he reached out — only that something told him to.

When his fingers touched the bark, cold shot up his spine.

And then—

A flash. Not a dream. Not a memory.

A lake, dark and wide. Mist curling off its surface. And in its shallow waters, half-buried in mud and reeds, was a wooden chest.

His chest.

The one his father had left him. The one Elle had clung to.

He could see her—Elle—her tiny hands pushing it into the water, her tear-streaked face looking over her shoulder.

Then it was gone.

Turin gasped and staggered back, almost falling. The pain in his leg kept him upright, barely.

He stared up at the tree, heart thundering.

Was it a vision?

A gift?

The old gods had spoken to him.

They'd shown him something.

More than the Seven ever did, he thought bitterly. The Seven had let Ser Roderick and Ser Willam die. Let Elle be taken. But the old gods... maybe they still watch.

Behind him, someone cleared their throat.

Turin turned to see the black-haired girl from before — Melissa Blackwood.

Her arms were crossed, and she was frowning.

"You're not a worshipper of the old gods," she said. "Why are you touching the weirwood?"

Turin looked at her, still shaken. "They showed me something."

Melissa raised an eyebrow. "Haha nice joke."

"Do you think I'm joking."

She narrowed her eyes. "Yes now leave the godswood. You shouldn't be here."

Turin nodded. He didn't want a fight.

He limped away, glancing back once. The ravens hadn't moved. The tree watched.

---

He wandered the castle for a while, lost in his thoughts, until he heard the ring of steel and the thud of boots. The courtyard was alive with motion — knights sparring, pages running, squires fetching blades and shields.

He made his way to the training yard, keeping to the shadows, until he heard someone call his name.

"Turin! Come here, lad."

It was Lord Blackwood, standing on a raised platform near the practice rings.

Turin blinked, surprised, but limped over.

"I thought you'd like to see this. You ever been to a proper training yard?"

Turin shook his head. "Not like this."

The place was alive with action. Dozens of men fought and trained with sword and shield, and Turin's eyes were drawn to a tall man in his twenties, lean and broad-shouldered, cutting through his sparring partners like wheat.

"That's my son," Lord Blackwood said proudly. "Robert. My heir. The best sword in Raventree Hall."

Turin watched the man fight — fast, precise, deadly. He didn't smile. Didn't brag. He moved like it was duty, not glory.

"You must be proud," Turin said.

Lord Blackwood nodded, his expression unreadable. "I am. But Roderick wrote more about you than I ever expected. Said you were a better archer at thirteen than most men are at thirty."

Turin flushed.

"He said you had a gift. Said you could hit a rabbit's eye at fifty paces. You've fought in battle, bled for your people. That's more than most boys your age can say."

Turin looked down. "I haven't held a bow in weeks."

"Then it's time."

The lord gestured toward the far side of the yard, where a small crowd had gathered around a young man with golden-brown hair and a beautiful face. He was shooting arrows with perfect ease, each one sinking into the center of the target. Girls clustered around him, clapping and giggling.

"That's my second son, Royce. He's fifteen. Good with a bow — too good. Arrogant as a Lannister, though."

Turin watched Royce draw and shoot. Every arrow hit dead center.

"Easy shots," Turin muttered.

Lord Blackwood chuckled. "That's what I thought. So… care to humble him? He could use it."

Turin hesitated. "What if I lose?"

"You've bled in war. He's only bled from paper cuts. My coin's on you."

Turin stared at the targets.

Then he nodded.

"Get me a bow."

---

Royce was not pleased.

"Who is this?" he sneered, looking Turin up and down. "He can barely walk."

"He's your opponent," Lord Blackwood said calmly. "Unless you're afraid."

Robert Blackwood chuckled from the sidelines. "Go on, Royce. Show us you're not scared of a cripple."

That stung. Turin's jaw tightened.

Royce scoffed and stepped aside. "Fine. Let's get this over with."

Turin took the bow and tested the string. It was stiff but strong. The arrows were practice wood, blunt-tipped.

The duel began.

They shot ten paces apart. Both bullseye.

Then twenty. Bullseye again.

Thirty. Forty. Fifty.

Still bullseyes.

The crowd grew silent.

At seventy paces, Royce missed — barely. His arrow clipped the edge of the target and wobbled off.

Turin didn't.

His arrow struck the center like it had been moved by the gods themselves.

The crowd gasped. Even the girls fell silent.

Lord Blackwood smiled slightly.

Royce tossed down his bow and stormed off without a word. Turin approached him, but Royce walked faster, brushing past him with narrowed eyes.

Robert clapped him on the shoulder.

"Well done. Haven't seen anyone shoot like that in years."

Turin nodded, winded but satisfied.

He left the yard without saying another word and limped back to his room, his leg aching fiercely.

He lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling.

The chest is in the lake.

Elle might be gone. Or she might be waiting.

He would find out. He would recover. And he would return to that lake, whether the gods willed it or not.

Sleep took him soon after — not gentle, but deep and dreamless.