The Forest’s Chosen

Kael's days blurred together in the still rhythm of the forest, the rise and fall of snow, the steady breath of Vale beside him each morning. Time no longer passed in weeks or months—only in notches, each carved into the stone wall of his hidden cave with the white-tipped stick he'd found during his first year. It left a pale trail where he scratched, a record only he understood.

He had spent the last two hundred and twelve notches—over seven months—trying to hone his control over his warging. At first, it had only been brief flickers of awareness through Vale's eyes, the sensation of cold air whistling past as the direwolf bounded ahead, the dizzying feeling of speed, the rush of scent so intense it overwhelmed him. He could only stay connected for seconds at a time. Anything more left him gasping and disoriented.

Still, he kept practicing. Each day he sat in silence with Vale, reaching gently for that connection. The bond between them made it easier—Vale was patient and curious, and more than once had nudged Kael with his nose when Kael collapsed into the snow from the mental strain.

Over time, Kael pushed further. First a minute, then two, then five. He learned to move while inside Vale—slowly at first, directing his steps or raising his head. By the time he'd marked his three hundredth notch, he was able to remain in Vale's body for nearly half an hour. He didn't attempt more yet. The further he pushed, the harder the recovery.

His success with Vale emboldened him to try other animals. A curious hare that ventured too close to his camp became his second experiment. Unlike Vale, the hare had no bond with him, no familiarity. The first attempts failed entirely—Kael's mind couldn't hold the shape, couldn't grasp its simplicity. But he observed, waited, studied its movements. When the connection finally took, it lasted only seconds. Still, it was a breakthrough.

He learned to ride the minds of small forest animals: squirrels, weasels, even a curious owl who nested nearby. The owl became his third major focus—useful not just for practice, but for scouting. Once he'd managed to control it for more than a minute, he began to map the terrain around the forest, slowly building a mental picture of the world beyond.

Between his training, he lived a quiet but rich life. His body had long since adjusted to the size and strength of his younger form, but his senses had sharpened beyond even what they were before. After years living in the wild, Kael could hear snow falling off distant branches. He could smell the shift in the wind before a storm. His eyes adjusted instantly between shadows and moonlight.

He and Vale spent hours playing—bounding through the snow, mock-wrestling until Vale knocked him down with a growl that always ended in a tail wag. Kael would laugh, push back, covered in snow. It wasn't a life of luxury, but it was a life he'd claimed as his own.

He'd tried once to reach the weirwoods again, placing his hands against their carved white trunks, hoping to stir another vision. But the sensation he received was quiet, almost maternal—a silent patience. Not yet, it seemed to say. Not until you are ready.

And so, he focused on what he could control.

Then, one crisp morning—marked on his wall as the 1,162nd day since his arrival—Kael stood before the heart tree again.

He laid his hand on the rough bark.

This time, it answered.

It was not like before.

The air vanished around him, replaced by movement, cold and fast and vast. He was no longer standing. He was flying.

His heart raced as he soared across snow-covered trees, over rivers frozen into stillness, the Wall—immense and pale and terrifying—rising in the distance. Then the vision veered, rushing toward a sprawling castle of grey stone and banners fluttering with the direwolf sigil.

Winterfell.

In the godswood, he saw the great weirwood. Before it, a woman screamed. Servants bustled. There was blood and crying.

A baby was born.

A name whispered in the wind—Bran.

And just like that, he knew.

He knew where he was.

And he knew when.

The vision tore away from him as quickly as it had come, and Kael collapsed in the snow, blood running from his nose. His limbs trembled uncontrollably. He couldn't catch his breath.

Vale whined, rushing to his side, nudging his shoulder. Kael tried to stand, but his legs gave out beneath him.

"Too far," he mumbled. "It was too far."

The vision had taken everything from him. The distance, the magic, the strain—it overwhelmed his still-developing strength.

Vale lowered himself beside Kael, letting the boy lean into his thick fur. Slowly, painstakingly, they made their way back to the cave.

Kael burned with fever that night, and the next, and the next. He drifted in and out of sleep, sometimes shivering, sometimes sweating, while Vale never left his side. But by the fifth day, the fever broke.

His body was weak, but he was alive.

And now, he understood.

He was in Westeros. The Westeros of stories and war and ice and fire.

He was not born here. But he had been chosen.

And whatever came next, he would meet it with eyes wide open, and strength born not from prophecy, but from hard-won skill.

A second life.

A second chance.

And this time, he would make it his.