Six years had passed since the night the pale child was born beneath the weirwood in the Weeping Grove.
In the Mountains of the Moon, time was not measured by calendars or maesters' records. It was measured by winters survived, hunts completed, and the number of enemies slain on the rocky passes above the High Road.
By those measures, Torren had grown quickly.
The boy moved through the Painted Dogs camp with the easy balance of someone born to the mountains. Bare feet gripped cold stone without hesitation, and his small frame had already begun to harden from climbing cliffs and chasing mountain goats through the jagged slopes that surrounded the clan's territory. A training axe hung from his belt, the haft worn smooth by constant use, though he was still too young to carry a true warrior's weapon.
But no one in the camp ever forgot what he was.
When Torren passed near the fires at night, some of the warriors would grow quiet without meaning to. Others simply watched him as he moved between the tents, their gazes lingering a little too long.
It was the eyes.
It was always the eyes.
Red.
Not the pale pink of a sickly animal, but a deeper shade, like the red leaves that hung from the weirwoods of the Weeping Grove. In the flickering light of the campfires, they sometimes seemed almost to glow.
Some called it a blessing.
Others whispered that the Old Gods sometimes marked their servants in strange ways.
Torren did not care what they whispered.
That evening the wind howled down from the higher peaks, dragging the smell of snow and pine through the narrow valley where the Painted Dogs had made camp. Fur tents and rough shelters formed an uneven circle around several low fires, and the warriors of the clan sat sharpening axes, repairing leather armor, or gnawing strips of dried meat.
Torren crouched beside the largest fire where his father sat.
Harrag was a broad and heavy man, his shoulders thick as stone and his beard braided with small bones taken from enemies who had died screaming on the mountain passes. Scars marked his forearms and neck, pale lines against weathered skin that told the story of a life spent fighting above the High Road.
Across the fire from them sat the Tree Speaker.
The old man seemed almost fragile beside the warriors of the Painted Dogs. His body was thin as a branch, and his cloak was made from raven feathers stitched together with strips of bark and leather cord. Pale ash covered his face, and thin lines of red dye ran downward from his eyes like tears of blood.
For a long moment the three of them simply watched the fire.
Wind pushed through the dark trees beyond the camp, making the branches groan and whisper to one another.
Finally the Tree Speaker's pale eyes shifted toward Torren.
"The boy grows strong," he said.
Harrag grunted quietly as he turned a strip of meat over the fire.
"He climbs too much," he replied. "Nearly broke his neck twice this winter."
"That is not what I meant."
The old man leaned forward slightly, studying the boy in silence for a moment before speaking again.
"The Old Gods marked him."
Torren stared into the fire as the words drifted across the flames.
He had heard them many times before.
His mother, who sat nearby mending a tear in a fur cloak, looked up when the Tree Speaker spoke.
"The grove marked him," she said softly. "We all saw it."
The old man nodded once.
"Yes. We did."
He reached into a small pouch hanging from his belt and withdrew a single red weirwood leaf. Slowly he turned it between his thin fingers while the firelight danced across its surface.
"That is why the time has come," he continued.
Harrag's thick brow furrowed.
"For what?"
"For him to begin learning."
The wind shifted through the camp again, carrying the smell of smoke and pine needles.
Harrag watched the Tree Speaker carefully now.
"Learning what?"
The old man lifted his gaze toward Torren.
"The ways of the trees."
Silence settled over the fire.
Torren felt his stomach tighten.
His mother was the first to speak.
"You mean…?"
The Tree Speaker inclined his head.
"When I die, the grove will need a voice. The trees will need someone who can hear them."
His pale eyes settled on the boy again.
"And the gods have already chosen one."
Torren's fingers tightened around the handle of his small axe.
Harrag shifted slightly beside him, his gaze moving between the old man and his son.
"It would be an honor," the Tree Speaker continued calmly. "Few are chosen so clearly."
Torren said nothing.
He watched the fire until the flames blurred together.
His mother reached out and rested a gentle hand on his shoulder.
"You would speak for the Old Gods," she said. "That is no small thing."
Torren pulled his shoulder away.
"I don't want it."
The words came out sharper than he meant.
The Tree Speaker did not seem angry. If anything, his expression grew more thoughtful.
"The mountains are not always kind to those chosen by the gods," the old man said quietly. "But the path is not ours to refuse."
Torren stood up abruptly.
"I'm not a tree speaker."
Without waiting for another word, he turned and walked away from the fire.
The wind swallowed the sounds of the camp as he climbed the rocky slope above the tents, moving until the voices below faded into the darkness behind him. Eventually he reached a jagged ridge overlooking the valley and sat down on a slab of cold stone.
From there he could see the scattered fires of the Painted Dogs far below, glowing faintly between the trees. Beyond the valley, through narrow breaks in the mountains, a pale line cut through the darkness like a scar.
The High Road.
Travelers would be moving along it even now — merchants, soldiers, knights wrapped in steel and banners. Torren watched the distant path for a long time while the wind tugged at the goat-fur cloak around his shoulders.
He hated the thought of becoming the Tree Speaker.
Tree Speakers did not fight. They did not hunt or raid the High Road with the warriors. They stayed in the grove whispering to trees and bones, speaking with gods no one else could hear.
His father fought.
The warriors fought.
That was what mountain men did.
Torren pulled his knees closer to his chest and stared out across the endless black shapes of the mountains.
Why me? he thought bitterly.
The question slipped through his mind without meaning to. It was only a thought, carried on frustration and the restless wind.
But the wind did not take it.
Something answered.
The voice did not come through the air. It was not a whisper carried by the wind or a sound spoken behind him. It appeared quietly inside his mind, calm and deliberate, as if it had always been there waiting.
Because your potential exceeds the expectations placed upon you.
Torren froze.
For a moment he did not breathe.
Slowly he turned his head, scanning the empty ridge behind him. There was nothing there but broken stone and the dark shapes of the mountains stretching endlessly beneath the night sky.
No footsteps.
No movement.
The Painted Dogs camp lay far below.
His heart began to pound harder as he stared into the darkness.
Carefully, uncertain whether he was imagining things, Torren formed another thought.
Who said that?
The wind rushed across the ridge again, tugging at his cloak and rattling loose stones down the slope. For a moment there was only silence, and Torren almost convinced himself the voice had been nothing more than a strange thought.
Then it returned.
Calm.
Patient.
Unmoved by the wind or the mountains.
I am here to assist you.
Torren's red eyes narrowed slightly as he looked out across the dark valley.
Somewhere deep inside his mind, something had awakened.
And whatever it was, it had been waiting for him.