He recieves the sign he asked for

The silence in the godswood deepened, wrapping around Jon like a shroud, broken only by the distant call of a raven high in the branches. He lingered on his knees, the damp earth soaking through his breeches, waiting for something—anything—to pierce the quiet veil of the Old Gods.

Doubt crept in; perhaps they truly ignored the pleas of bastards, or maybe his dream had been nothing more than a fevered fancy born of anxiety over the morrow's upheavals.

Then, without warning, the air grew heavy, charged with an unseen presence that prickled his scalp.

The weirwood's carved face seemed to shift, its red eyes gleaming brighter in the pre-dawn gloom, as if drawing breath.

Images flickered at the edges of Jon's mind, not sharp visions like the tales of greenseers, but fleeting whispers: a throne wreathed in swirling winds, words shaping shadows into form, leaves crumbling to dust only to bloom anew under an unspoken command.

No voices accompanied them, no clear prophecy—just fragments, like scattered puzzle pieces from a half-remembered song.

Jon blinked hard, steadying himself against the tree's gnarled root. His breath came in shallow bursts as he sifted through the impressions, piecing them together with growing unease.

The throne from his dream, that insidious voice granting a ‘gift’... could it be real?

A power to bend the world with mere words? The notion clawed at him, absurd and terrifying.

He shook his head, dismissing it as folly—the godswood playing tricks, or his weary mind weaving illusions from the rustling leaves.

Rising slowly, joints protesting the cold, he scanned the ground for distraction. A dried leaf caught his eye, curled and brittle at the pool's edge, its edges faded to a dull brown, stripped of autumn's fire by winter's approach. If there was truth to this madness, he thought with a scoff, prove it on something harmless.

"This Leaf will turn redder," he muttered under his breath, half-mocking himself, "and fresh as if newly fallen."

The leaf stirred, or so it seemed—a subtle shift in the dim light. Jon froze, staring as colour bled back into its veins, crimson hues deepening like blood seeping into snow, the edges uncurling with a faint crackle until it lay vibrant and supple, dew kissed as though plucked from a living branch.

His stomach lurched, a chill racing down his spine that had nothing to do with the morning frost. Hallucination, he told himself fiercely, rubbing his eyes again; the godswood's ancient magic toying with his senses, or perhaps the remnants of sleep clinging too tightly.

He snatched another leaf from nearby, this one even more withered, veins cracked like old parchment.

Holding it in his palm, he repeated the words, voice barely a whisper: "This Lead will turn redder, and fresh as if newly fallen."

Before his widening eyes, the transformation unfolded once more—the brown flaking away, replaced by a rich scarlet glow, the texture softening under his fingers until it flexed like living tissue, releasing a faint, earthy scent into the air.

Horror bloomed in his chest, hot and suffocating, as the reality crashed over him. This was no trick of the light, no fevered delusion.

The gift was real, woven into him by that dream-voice, a power that twisted the world at his command. Jon dropped the leaf as if burned, staggering back from the heart tree, his mind reeling with the implications.