The Raven

The table of the Small Council chamber of the Red Keep was exquisite, made of ironwoods from the North and crafted from the hand of a Qohorik smith called by Aegon the Dragon himself, the servants whispered—though he knew that it had been commissioned by Aenys, the gentle dragon. He had heard the delighted laugh of princes when he searched the past to escape the future. Which princes were they though? He could not recall. His mind had been sharper than the Valyrian blade he carried once, but the Crow's burden was not to think but to be. Or so the earth-forsaken Children wanted them to believe, while they spread their ambitions like a Frey spread his seed. The once-bastard was no stranger to rebelling, keeping his wits focused on the plan hundreds of greenseers had crafted alongside him.

It was perhaps not as known as the Painted Table of Dragonstone, but then few pieces of furniture could boast of the infamy possessed by the table around which Aegon's Conquest was decided. It had been the last thing Maegor had seen, the room from which a king was meant to rule, before he climbed his father's throne for the last time. The first blood in the Dance of Dragons was shed here, when the Kingmaker slit the throat of a man loyal to the dead. He had decided to call for another Great Council, the first for more than a hundred years, sitting at the very chair at the head of the table. What would have the realm been like under the second Maegor? He had seen that vision, not as what his past self had foreseen, but still enough to know the realm would burn again. "Too many sons grow up with the past's burdens," he thought out loud, knowing that only ones who could hear him were entombed in the rocks of time. Alys Arryn had been as hungry as a falcon to crown her grandson, a less learned but wiser Alicent Hightower. But that had been another age, and this was a court run by bastards. The fate of the realm was decided in Jaehaerys' favourite room as often as it was decreed in Aegon's.

What the council chamber certainly hadn't seen in three centuries was a king drooling over the table. Robert Baratheon was not a man to be easily cowed but the presence of six young children, all of whom had the bloodline and lungs of kings, did have an impact of people. Daeron's children were much the same, Brynden remembered his goodsister teasing. Queen Mariah was called many names but he saw how much her sons revered her even after earning their spurs. He shook his head—his mind was more akin to an assembly of Riverlanders and Ironborn than the weapon Shiera had loved, you couldn't say a word without twelve thoughts springing from them like arrows cast in conflicting directions—or at least tried to, and his efforts attracted the attention of an older mind in the stones. The oldborn, a woman delivered on the same day as Rhaenyra Targaryen, spoke in a voice reminiscent of her chosen form—that of an owl. "You are wasting precious time, boy, dwelling on those of your first water," she chastised, voice cracking like a whip. "Tell me, why do we call them as such?"

The three-eyed raven remained silent until the oldborn owl spoke again. "We name them as such because you lived your first life with them, drank all you could from the wellspring of time. But there are more lives to live and regrettably, you are the one to sever the rot. How fares your little wolf?"

Brynden Rivers would have seethed to hear the contempt but he would have grown used to it. Bloodraven would have had her tongue, as an example for the others. The raven merely answered her. "All I can see bodes well. There is much that obscures even my sight, the bonds laid on us are too accursed. The Baratheon boy, the bastard, the Targaryens….none of them were meant to be."

"You pay too much attention to those games, you always have. There are more important notes to be sung. We can ask nothing from the Isle, Daenerys' Pyre will not be the last one lit…."

"Perhaps you should be the one to sing them, an owl wouldn't be too misplaced in the night," he retorted.

He could feel her slipping away, attention directed to deceiving the foe again. "Your attempts to bring it farther away from their plan has ended in ashes and madness before, youngborn. We all feel the corruption spreading. If it weren't for you—"

"None of us would know this travesty at all," he finished for her but the oldborn was gone. Basking for a moment in the restful silence from the others, he soon returned to the bygone days. His city attracted most of his interest, as it should. He saw through Robert's thoughts, the ones he had moulded like clay to some extent or more. The others in the weirweb would no longer be able to speak to him, not for a time, but he could show them the progress he'd made. It would not do to have dissent leak into their minds. They were sage enough to know his way was the only way but a good leader could always give reminders.

He did not bother to make it coherent, most of the raven's companions did not even know of Aegon and his conquest, let alone the state of the seven kingdoms now. They would be able to sense the change though and so would the Horned Ones, or what remained of them.

"I suppose I ought to thank the Prince of Dragonstone. He's made it clear to all the realm that the future lady of Storm's End is the fairest in the land," he had said that day. The recollection was bitter on Robert's tongue and he drank to forget it. He still remembered how, at Lyanna's behest, he and Brandon barely contained their rage when Rhaegar crowned her. I should've caved in his chest right there, as if he was the bastard of a thief and a back-alley whore. If I had, Lyanna would still be mine. Ned's father and brother would've lived. Alas, he was born to those inbred lunatics and the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms on top of that. Ha, as if the Crown Prince's corpse wasn't covered in the same mud and shit that coated his dead comrades. Another's thoughts were always too forceful for a greenseer to be comfortable and the Baratheon boomed to show Elenei's blood still flowed strong. Bloodraven considered that to be the last true thought Robert had had for that decade, until the disaster near Pentos forced him to stray his hand.

It seemed running the Seven Kingdoms- which were actually nine distinct regions- was like sleeping with nine different noble ladies, without the others noticing. Give favours to each, don't let any of them band together to fight the others, and pray they don't come for your head. He'd never tried anything as ambitious as that, certainly. Probably. Except he couldn't swear for the week he'd spent with Brandon and Ned in the Reach. As much as the three of them tried, they could never truly recall what happened after the lord of the castle opened his personal stored flagon of sweet reds from Lys. Bloodraven interrupted Robert's musings. At first, his suggestions had just left Robert reacting to them in a different way, instead of meekly following. Dreams were less tedious that being a spectator in another's mind but it was no use giving wisdom in the night when the world could not act upon the king's words.

Until he had learned that the Baratheon boy understood and relied on things he had experience of, much like the Targaryen girl he had taken a liking to. Winning over the people of King's Landing was like wooing a young maiden. Show them courtesy, kindness and give gifts in grand gestures and you'll find yourself in their bed soon enough. Robert would know. He'd slept with ladies and wenches alike using the tactic and it had never failed him.

Deliver good news yourself but use messengers to send bad news. He had sent Ned to countless handmaidens to break things off for him when he got bored of their tysts. Only the threat of him using his own tactic of 'flirting with another girl in front of her until she angrily breaks things off with him' made Ned do it. Seven bless his Arryn honour for wanting to spare the girls that. Not that he'd actually be heartless enough to make good on the threat. Not intentionally, at least. The raven had been proud of how well the plan thrived, wishing Shiera could appreciate the perfect strategy beside him. She would point out a factor he had never seen, though her ideas seemed more outlandish to their siblings. That want had roots deep within the raven but he did not strain against it. It was a comfort, a beacon that told him he had not fallen to the enemy.

"The throne is mine by blood. Not the blood flowing through my veins. The blood I have spilled for it, my own and that of my enemies," Robert told the Fat Flower and his men. That was enough for most of them and the raven gladly slunk out of the Baratheon's mind. He returned to council chamber, where that relentless boy was arguing with his brother and liege. A scene reminiscent of another time, he could almost imagine his lost Seastar saying. Though this younger brother is called more just.

"The Crownlands couldn't supply enough men to raid a pantry," Robert said when all his arguments of merging the Stormlands and Crownlands failed to convince his councillors.

"Fortunately for you," his foster father reminded him.

"I don't intend to lose a war the way Rhaegar did." Ah, that's what this is about. The raven had done nothing for this but it seemed fitting it would all tie in with that singing fool.

"You may have to fight one given how the Demon of the Trident is becoming the Demon of the Banquet Table," Stannis said, dissatisfied with his elder for quite some time. "It is your duty to rule the realm, a duty you're neglecting since Balon's folly—"

"I doubt flagons would offend the Seven Kingdoms as much as incest did," Robert defended, a strangely childlike quality to the brothers' argument.

"And flagons won't frighten the Seven Kingdoms as much as dragons did," Stannis replied.

The king who hadn't yet seen three decades cursed before stormed out and the raven followed.

"I am half-convinced 'Duty' is a girl's name, seeing how Stannis loves it more than life itself," Robert said to his squire, a boy who looked at him with wide eyes filled with veneration and more than a little fear.

The raven sighed and let the current flow faster while he remained as solid as the weirwoods. He couldn't hide from what had been troubling him as well and he sat glimpsing the flashes of the song.

Euron, his mind as fickle as his magic, bringing terror wherever the sound of waves could be heard. Oh, how the owl seethed to hear him call himself the Crow's Eye. The tiger even more so. He had warned them against trying to raise that boy up but it was his blood the others prized, not his judgement. Greyjoys had never lacked for audacity and this one was no exception.

Robert's son, who seemed to have appeared out of a song. He'd do well to find his way back into the Age of Heroes, Daeron would have said, wise even when he japed. Daemon would have liked the boy but Aegor would have said his head was too far up his arse. Then there were the last scions of Daeron's line. Rhaella, as broken as her dreams. Celaena with her loud laughs hiding her longing. Aenyra with as many faces as Bloodraven had eyes. Kaeron of a flame that suffocated breaths.

There would be many more pieces that would either bring the dawn or their doom but those were too intimate for magic to predict.

He would have to take care with the two boys with a friendship as fragile as Rhaenyra and Alicent's. One was born lucky while the other was lucky to be born.