The Temple of the Old Gods stood like a gargantuan ancient tree, looming over the Capital. Its branches stretched into the mid-air as if seeking to embrace the entire sky. Carved into the center of the trunk was a massive weirwood face that stared day after day toward the Wolf Tower. The eyes of this face served as the windows to the most powerful room in Westeros: the private chambers of the Pope—Brandon Stark.

  Brandon Stark sat in his familiar wheelchair, gazing pensively toward the Wolf Tower. His fingers tapped rhythmically against the armrest, a steady beat that suggested deep, calculated thought.

  On the lower levels, within the vast cathedral of the Temple, hundreds of devotees gathered before a stone altar. There, the likeness of the Old God was etched—a withered, wrinkled face identical to those carved into the sentinel trees of the frozen North.

  Since Brandon Stark had abdicated the throne of the Six Kingdoms to become the Pope of the Old Gods, the faith of the people of Westeros had shifted. Generation after generation, they now worshiped the Old Gods, placing a supreme, harrowing faith in those ancient faces.

  The once-familiar Faith of the Seven had almost completely withered away, forgotten by the land. Those who still clung to the Seven were branded as heretics.

  In truth, all other religions in Westeros were now considered heresy and met with absolute exclusion: execution by hanging from the branches of the weirwoods. From the sun-drenched sands of Dorne to the blizzard-swept wastes of the North, the people knew one proverb by heart: "The Crow hears all; the Crow sees all; the Old Gods are everywhere." The crow was revered as a sacred beast—the bridge between man and god.

  "May the Old Gods grant us food and clothing, and shield us through the storms of life. May He repel the demons and the wicked, bringing light and omens of grace to us, His children," prayed High Priest Asher. He wore black ceremonial robes, and around his neck hung a necklace of red oak from the Whispering Wood. Each bead was carved into a haggard, suffering face of an Old God. Asher’s own face was hidden behind a mask; the only thing that identified his rank was that distinctive necklace.

  As the High Priest finished his prayer, thousands of followers below shouted in a thunderous unison: "May the Old Gods remain in Westeros and grant us grace. Glory to the Old Gods!"

  From the main entrance, a family slowly made their way inside. A young boy of about four or five walked ahead of his parents, carrying a black cage. Inside, three crows hopped frantically, their movements panicked. The birds beat their wings wildly, creating a rhythmic flap-flap-flap sound. From both sides, the devotees watched the child intently. The boy wore the finest clothes he possessed, his body scented with perfumes made from the roses of the Reach. Today was a special day: the day he would become a follower of the Church.

  The child’s parents were of the Capital's nobility, and thus, High Priest Asher himself performed the rite. As he approached the altar, the boy looked nervous, glancing back at his parents.

  "Everything is fine, Felix," his father whispered with a reassuring smile. He wore white robes woven from silk imported from across the Narrow Sea, a gemstone brooch pinned to his chest.

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  "Felix, step forward," Asher commanded, his voice as deep and resonant as a booming oak.

  Felix stepped forward slowly. The panicked crows thrashed even harder. His small hands gripped the cage so tightly his body shook. The birds shrieked and flapped in a frenzy.

  Just as the cage seemed ready to slip from Felix's grasp, a large hand encased in a crow-feather glove reached out and steadied it. The crows went into a madness of motion. A low whisper traveled through the air; Felix stood frozen, craning his neck to look up at the High Priest.

  "In the name of the Old Gods of Westeros, in the name of Pope Brandon Stark, Protector of the North and the Six Vassal Kingdoms, Guide of the Faith for the Andals and the First Men, I bless Felix Rosby, son of Alan Rosby, noble of the Westerlands." Asher’s voice rolled like thunder, echoing through the temple and creating an atmosphere of immense solemnity.

  Suddenly, the crows in the cage became eerily docile. They stopped their struggle and stood perfectly still, turning their heads toward Asher. Felix felt a strange sensation emanating from the birds. He started to turn back toward his parents, seeking a comforting look.

  "Felix," Asher’s voice startled him, forcing his head back up.

  "The crow is the bridge between you and the Old Gods. Care for it well," Asher looked down at the boy, warning him.

  "Yes, High Priest," Felix whispered.

  "Good. Now you are officially a child of the Old Gods. Remember to act according to the canon. And always know: The Crow hears all, the Crow sees all, the Old Gods are everywhere." Asher released the cage, turned, and ascended the steps toward the altar. He faced the crowd and shouted: "Glory to the Old Gods!"

  "Glory to the Old Gods!" The response was a roar that shook the very foundations of the Capital.

  "Your Holiness, the High Priest is here," a guard’s voice drifted through the door to Bran, who remained focused on the Wolf Tower.

  "Mmh," Bran said coldly, his expression unchanging.

  The door opened with a sound as light as down. Asher slipped inside. The Pope’s room was austere—simplicity pushed to the extreme. There was only a small table in the corner and a massive sand table in the center, a perfect topographical model of Westeros. Castles, forts, mountains, and rivers were all rendered in exquisite detail.

  Asher moved like a black cat, standing behind Bran, his mask still in place.

  "Benelli has not yet awakened, Your Holiness," Asher reported.

  "Mmh," Bran gave a slight nod.

  "Jarion Lannister has prepared fifteen thousand troops; they set out in two days. House Tyrell has completed the logistics; we have enough supplies for two years of campaigning," Asher continued.

  Bran remained silent, his fingers tapping the chair.

  "Houses Arryn and Baratheon have also begun their march north. The three wings are expected to converge at the Twins within two months." Asher reported, seemingly unbothered by Bran’s coldness. The High Priest’s duty was to report, and he did exactly that.

  "The replenishment of the crows must proceed faster. It is currently too slow," Bran suddenly spoke. Asher flinched slightly, his necklace rattling.

  "Yes, Your Holiness," Asher bowed.

  "Tell Rendry Baratheon that after three days of marching, he is to immediately turn his army back to Summerhall and hold the garrison there," Bran said slowly, his tapping fingers creating a rhythmic click-clack.

  Asher remained silent, clearly confused. He waited for an explanation.

  Bran seemed to sense this and let out a very faint, thin smile. "Jarion Lannister—tell him that two days after Lord Baratheon returns, he is to lead his army south, toward Blackhaven."

  "I do not understand, Your Holiness," Asher confessed, his mind clouded with questions. Were they not supposed to march north to destroy House Stark?

  Keeping the steady rhythm of his tapping, Bran spoke words that chilled Asher to the bone:

  "Nymeria Martell... she has just signed the death warrant for Dorne."