The wind moved steadily across the ridge above the Painted Dogs camp.
Torren sat on the same flat stone where he had once crouched as a child, long before he understood what the voice in his mind truly was. The valley lay beneath him in darkness now, scattered with firelight and drifting smoke. From up here the camp looked small and quiet, as if the world below were something distant and unimportant.
For a long time he said nothing.
The vision from the weirwood still lingered in his thoughts with unsettling clarity. The burning forests. The iron-clad warriors. The mountains filled with painted men. And above them all, the great pale tree with blood-red sap running down its trunk.
Finally Torren spoke.
"When I was a child," he said quietly, "I used to come here because I thought you might not follow me beyond the camp. I thought maybe the voice would disappear if I climbed high enough."
He paused briefly.
"But you never did."
Inside his mind the calm presence responded.
Correct.
Torren looked toward the distant ridges.
"I suppose that means I must stop asking the wrong questions."
He leaned forward slightly.
"The tree showed me something tonight. Not the past. Not the wars between the First Men and the Andals that you explained to me before. This was something else."
He rubbed a hand slowly across the stone beside him.
"It felt… unfinished."
The voice answered carefully.
The event you experienced is classified as greensight.
Torren nodded slowly.
"I understand that much now. The Tree Speaker has spoken of it before, though he never explained it clearly." He looked down toward the Weeping Grove far below. "But what I saw tonight did not look like memory."
There was a moment of silence before the voice replied.
Correct. The vision was not a recorded event from the past. It was a possible future state.
Torren frowned slightly.
"Possible," he repeated. "Not certain."
Correct.
Torren let the word settle for a moment.
"That is an important difference."
He leaned back and stared up at the stars.
"If what I saw is only a possibility, then the vision is not a promise. It is something closer to a warning… or perhaps an opportunity."
The voice answered without hesitation.
Both interpretations are consistent with greensight events.
Torren was silent again for several breaths.
"The warriors in the vision," he said eventually. "There were far more of them than exist in the mountains now. I have lived here fifteen winters and I know the strength of the clans. Even if every Painted Dog, Stone Crow, Burned Man, Moon Brother, and the rest gathered in one place, they would not number what I saw."
Correct.
Torren nodded slowly.
"So either the vision shows the mountains many years from now… or something changes the balance of power between the clans."
The voice answered calmly.
Logical conclusion.
Torren rested his elbows on his knees and looked down into the darkness again.
"In the vision the warriors were kneeling," he continued.
He paused slightly before adding,
"That is the part that troubles me most."
The wind moved faintly through the rocks around him.
"Mountain clans do not kneel," he said quietly. "Not to kings, not to knights, not even to the lords of the Vale. The clans would rather die in the high passes than bend their knees."
The voice responded after a brief pause.
Correct.
Torren turned his head slightly.
"So if the vision is true, then the kneeling itself must mean something extraordinary has happened."
Yes.
Torren exhaled slowly.
"It means the clans are no longer what they are now."
The voice remained silent.
Torren continued thinking aloud.
"Either they were conquered… which seems unlikely… or they chose to follow someone."
Another pause.
Then the voice replied.
Second interpretation more consistent with observed conditions.
Torren nodded faintly.
"That was my conclusion as well."
He glanced down at his own hands, pale in the moonlight.
"In the vision there was a man standing beneath the great tree. A weirwood larger than the one in the grove below. The sap was running down its trunk like blood."
He looked up again.
"That man looked like me."
The voice answered simply.
Yes.
Torren studied the mountains.
"You are certain of that."
Probability extremely high.
Torren smiled faintly.
"You sound very confident for something that calls the rest of the vision uncertain."
The voice did not react to the remark.
Torren continued.
"In the vision I was older. Much older than I am now."
Estimated difference: twenty to thirty years.
Torren let out a slow breath.
"That means the vision is not about tomorrow or next winter."
Correct.
Torren rubbed the back of his neck.
"So whatever path leads there… it will take time."
He thought for another moment.
"The sap on the tree," he said finally. "It was flowing down the bark like blood."
He looked toward the grove again.
"I know the weirwoods bleed red sap when cut. But the way it flowed in the vision felt symbolic. As though it meant something more."
The voice responded after a short pause.
Symbolic interpretation: conflict.
Torren gave a small nod.
"That makes sense."
He glanced toward the distant road again.
"Mountains rarely change without blood."
For a few moments he simply watched the valley.
Then he spoke again.
"If the Old Gods showed me this vision, then they must believe it can happen."
The voice answered cautiously.
Possible.
Torren turned his head slightly.
"Possible is not the same as intended."
Correct.
Torren's gaze moved across the dark ridges.
"So the question becomes: why show it to me at all?"
He rested his chin briefly against his hand.
"There are thousands of men in these mountains. Hunters, raiders, warriors, chiefs. Yet the tree chose me."
The voice responded calmly.
You possess characteristics consistent with greenseer development.
Torren gave a quiet snort.
"That sounds like a very careful way of saying I am strange."
Accurate.
Torren laughed softly at that.
"Yes," he said. "That has been said before."
His expression slowly grew serious again.
"If the vision shows a future where the mountain clans kneel beneath the old trees… then something must unite them."
He looked out across the mountains.
"And right now they are more divided than ever."
He began counting quietly.
"The Burned Men have split from the Painted Dogs. The Stone Crows distrust the Moon Brothers. The Black Ears raid anything that moves. The clans fight each other almost as often as they raid the Vale."
He shook his head slightly.
"That does not look like the beginning of unity."
The voice responded evenly.
Correct.
Torren's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Then the vision shows something that has not yet begun."
Yes.
Torren sat quietly for a long moment.
Then he spoke again.
"Two riders escaped today."
Confirmed.
"They will reach the Vale."
High probability.
Torren nodded slowly.
"That means soldiers will eventually come looking for whoever attacked the Royce convoy."
The voice said nothing.
Torren's gaze remained fixed on the distant High Road.
"In other words," he continued, "the mountains may soon face something they have not faced in many years."
He picked up one of his axes and turned it slowly in his hands.
"A serious response from the Vale."
The voice answered calmly.
Correct.
Torren looked toward the peaks rising above the valley.
"That could force the clans into conflict with the lowlanders again."
Another pause.
Then the voice replied.
Yes.
Torren smiled faintly.
"That sounds like the beginning of something."
He stood slowly and walked closer to the edge of the ridge.
Below him the fires of the Painted Dogs camp flickered against the darkness.
"Mountains do not kneel easily," he said quietly.
The wind moved softly through the rocks.
Inside his mind the calm voice answered.
Agreed.
Torren rested the axe across his shoulder.
"But if the future I saw is real…"
He looked out across the endless dark ridges of the Mountains of the Moon.
"…then perhaps the mountains will kneel."
He paused briefly.
"…to one of their own."