Chapter Text
They sat in silence, save for the steady drip of water from the dark wooden planks that made up the cabin roof, each drop striking the metal plate laid before Bloodraven. Aerion watched his uncle with a critical eye. Brynden was asleep, or more likely only feigning to be, and Aerion was taking this brief reprieve to truly study the man before him. His gaze lingered over the blood-red birthmark splashed across the lower right side of his uncle’s face, and the empty eye socket, for once hidden beneath a covering of delicate milk-white skin. Bloodraven’s single red eye, and the usual shrewdness that lived within it, was concealed as well.
It was not only his appearance that marked Bloodraven as strange. There was something unsettling in his very manner, as though he were privy to secrets a man did not know even of himself, much less dared confess. For the most part, Aerion had left his uncle to himself during the voyage north. They had been at sea for twelve days now, and the captain had assured him it would not be much longer before they reached Eastwatch. Aerion knew he would not enjoy the same freedom to question Brynden once they were amongst the men of the Watch. Maekar had gone to great lengths to insist that Bloodraven’s true crimes remain unknown. Officially, Brynden was only a man who had chosen to serve the realm in another fashion, willingly taking the black to defend the Wall for the remainder of his days.
Aerion resisted the urge to kick his uncle sharply in the shin. The man before him plainly held answers, yet Aerion was not certain he was ready to hear them.
“You know,” Bloodraven said suddenly, his voice languid and his eyes remaining closed, “you think terribly loudly.”
Aerion went utterly still. His eyes narrowed to slits as he studied Brynden with renewed wariness.
At last he said, “I do not think you are in any position to cast judgement, uncle.”
“Perhaps not.” Brynden gave a careless shrug. “But I must tell you, you are no longer quite so adept at hiding your feelings.”
Aerion drew one knee up against his chest and rested his chin upon it. “What do you mean?”
Only then did Bloodraven open his eyes, his single red eye fixing upon his nephew. “Before that woman cracked open your heart, you were very difficult to read. You knew when to bow and when to smile, and so avoided suspicion. I knew, of course, that behind your dutiful courtly mask, you were dangerous indeed. A wolf in sheep’s clothing, or perhaps, more fittingly, a dragon.”
Aerion gave a short snort. “Did you set Shiera to watch me, then, so you might see how I behaved once beyond my father’s reach?”
Brynden laughed, it was a cold thing, lacking any real sense of warmth or humour, but Aerion could see the amusement in his uncle’s eye. Mocking him in its coolness.
“I had no need to resort to such tricks,” Bloodraven said. “You may have been skilled at concealing your feelings, but that is not the same as being difficult to understand. Men like you rarely are.”
Aerion’s hand flexed where it rested against the damp wooden floor. “Then tell me, uncle. What sort of man am I?”
“You were full of pride. Too concerned with how others saw you, and determined that they should see you in one particular way — as superior to them. You have won the right to bear Dawn, and that truly does set you apart in a way few men could claim. Much as you once believed your ancestors’ gift for commanding dragons made them singular. And somehow your sense of pride that once ruled you, has been blunted.“
Bloodraven glanced idly at his left hand, then looked back up at Aerion. There was a strange glimmer in his eye, something curious and unreadable, though Aerion could not quite name it.
“You stand upon the edge of greatness, Aerion,” he said softly. “You need only reach out and take hold of it.”
Aerion bit the inside of his cheek, refusing to let the words carry him away. “And what part did you play in bringing me to it? Did you prune our family, as a man might prune a tree, to ensure it grew tall and straight to your liking?”
Brynden was silent for a moment, lifting one pale hand to sweep his white hair back behind his ears. He had been born of Aegon the Unworthy’s sixth mistress, Lady Melissa Blackwood, who had been said to be beautiful. Yet Aerion thought there was little of her in the son now seated before him. Bloodraven was not handsome, even had he possessed both eyes and borne a lesser mark upon his face. There was none of Valyria’s effortless beauty in him. His coldness was not softened by the Targaryens’ natural majesty; instead there was something severe and almost cruel in his forbidding aspect. And the man had often seemed to delight in the unease he stirred in others. He knew he would never sit the Iron Throne himself, yet he was more than content to use whatever influence and power he possessed to bend other men towards his will. His attachment to Shiera had always been unsettling to behold — not because they were half-siblings, for such things were still tolerated among the Targaryens, even if the loss of dragons had long since stripped away any true need for preserving blood purity. No, what disturbed was the way they were forever in each others pockets, bound by something uncanny and wholly unnatural. Darkness and sorcery seemed to cling to them both, and no one had ever truly known where either of their loyalties lay, save perhaps with each other.
Brynden reached for his cup and took a small sip. Setting it back upon the floor, he fixed his nephew with a measured, appraising look.
“What do you know of King Viserys?”
Aerion frowned. “That he brought about the ruin of our House.”
“You sound very certain of it.” Bloodraven tilted his head to one side, as though trying to understand the shape of Aerion’s thoughts.
“If he had been a stronger king, and had possessed the courage of his convictions, there would have been no civil war. We would not have lost our dragons.” Aerion let out a slow breath. “But what has this to do with anything?”
Bloodraven gave a faint huff of laughter. “All things lead to others. Viserys did indeed set in motion the chain of events that weakened our House. That much is true. But in the course of it, something else was lost — something vital to the future of the realm.”
“Something more important than dragons?” Aerion asked, one brow lifting.
“No less important than dragons,” Brynden said after a pause. “Aegon the Conqueror had a dream, and what he took to be its meaning was carved upon a dagger. That knowledge was meant to pass from one ruler to the next, a reminder to every Targaryen king of the duty laid upon him.”
“And what was the message?” Aerion asked, his frown deepening.
“Upon a blade of Valyrian steel, the words would only appear when the metal was heated by fire, ‘From my blood shall come the prince that was promised, and his shall be the song of ice and fire.’” Bloodraven paused, then fixed Aerion with a heavy, knowing stare. “But you have heard such words before.”
Aerion chose to ignore that last remark. “If the blade was lost, presumably after the Dance, how did you come by this knowledge?”
Brynden smiled then. “You know my mother was a Blackwood?”
Aerion gave a curt nod.
“They are one of the few southron houses that still keep to the Old Gods,” Brynden said, his voice soft, though the words carried no less weight for it. “And among them, the greensight has lingered for generations.”
“This greensight,” Aerion said, leaning towards him, wonder and anger rising together in equal measure, “is that how you came by such knowledge?”
“Yes,” Brynden replied with a nod. “There is magic to be found in places the Andals never cared to look.”
“And it was because of that,” Aerion asked, his voice edged now with barely restrained fury, “that you chose to kill my brother?”
“I did not choose to kill him, Aerion,” Brynden said with a sigh. “I had foreseen what might come of your line. I could not afford to leave anything to chance.”
Aerion was on his feet at once. His voice was dangerously level as he fixed his uncle with a hard glare. “And did you play some part in my meeting Allyria?”
“Ah.” Bloodraven’s eye widened slightly in surprise. “No. That, at least, was left entirely in the hands of the gods. It was only after your union that I was granted glimpses of a different future.”
“Then speak plainly,” Aerion demanded. “What do you believe all your machinations were meant to achieve?”
“What have they not achieved?” Brynden replied, settling more comfortably against the wall behind him.
“The return of dragons?” Aerion asked, his voice softer now, though no less intent.
“Yes,” Bloodraven acknowledged. “Though I confess, the dragons’ return was not the first thing I foresaw.”
“What, then?”
“The prince that was promised,” Brynden whispered.
“And this prince,” Aerion said, crossing his arms over his chest as he began to pace, “what is he meant to do?”
“Ah,” Brynden said with a sharp, humourless smile, “that is the question.”
“Are they real?” Aerion stopped dead, fixing his uncle with his full attention. “Those creatures Beyond the Wall?”
For a long moment Brynden said nothing. Then a single word left his lips.
“Yes.”
“And the prince is meant to bring about their end?” Aerion’s voice had gone taut.
“One can only assume,” Brynden murmured.
“How?” Aerion demanded.
“That,” Bloodraven said, with one of his maddeningly enigmatic smiles, “I do not know. Though your new sword is a remarkable thing, is it not?”
“You think Dawn is the key?”
“Perhaps.” Brynden crossed one leg over the other, folded his hands behind his head, and closed his eye. “Tell me — is it strangely warm to the touch?”
“What has that to do with anything?” Aerion asked, his voice barely masking the frustration and anger seething beneath it.
Bloodraven offered no answer. Instead he remained still, as though sleep had claimed him without warning. Rolling his eyes and resisting the urge to kick something, Aerion turned on his heel and made for the deck above.
The cool spray of salt air struck him with quiet force, and in the face of the squally grey sea Aerion felt some measure of his temper begin to ebb. Looking towards the bow of the ship, he gripped the railing before him until his knuckles whitened with the strain.
He could not understand how Bloodraven had so willingly countenanced the deaths of his own kin. He had not pressed Brynden further, yet the circumstances surrounding the deaths of Rhaegel and his heir were strange beyond denial. It was as though every turn of misfortune that had befallen King Daeron’s children had cleared the way for Maekar, the fourth son, to rise. Had Brynden somehow shaped it all? Aerion bit the inside of his cheek. He could not allow himself to dwell too long on such questions; it would only stir his anger further.
All he could do was think of today, and perhaps the day after that. He was not about to anoint himself the long-promised prince, nor would he burden either of his children with a destiny so heavy they could scarcely lift their heads beneath it. Allyria had thought there might be something in the three of them together, but even that was nothing he could yet call certain. All he could do was gather as much knowledge as possible. He was heir to the Iron Throne, and he would see the realm made ready for whatever fight might lie ahead.
Then, as he gazed into the distance, his breath caught in his throat. There, thrusting up into the white sky, stood the Wall. It was a lonely, merciless thing to behold. Its edge fell sheer into the sea, so that there was no passing round it save by the rough, churning water. At its foot stood a modest garrison, and beyond it Aerion thought he could just make out the last of the Watch’s galleys moored in the harbour at the Bay of Seals. He shivered. His furs were still below deck.
The North already looked every bit as inhospitable as the stories claimed. Aerion suppressed another shudder. His heart lay to the South.
But his destiny — that was another matter entirely.