Mother Nature, to indulge in metaphor, isn't some kindly nursemaid, tenderly caressing lost little lambs into her matronly bosom – she's a pockmarked gutter slut, sucking off johns behind dumpsters, and stubbing out cigarettes on her children's foreheads.
Well, maybe not so trashy, but you get the point.
Rather than warm, or sympathetic, or compassionate, she's harsh, uncaring, malicious. She plays no favorites, shows no restraint, grants no succor; her sole commandment is survival, however base or underhanded the means.
While far from a proper embodiment, incarnation, whatever of nature – no matter how widely and persistently the Northerners worshiped their "old gods," and insisted they comprised an actual pantheon – the weirwood network was still a part of nature, an extremity, guided and informed by her. The network arose from nature, played by nature's rules, and, in a very real way, served as nature's memory: a living archive of millions of years of struggle and toil and change.
And it was dying.
Compared to the countless minor divinities that had perished in the wake of the Long Night, or the horrid abominations that had since embraced the spreading decay (looking at you, Drowned God), the network was holding out rather impressively – though its best could only delay the inevitable. Even by the time the Andals started chopping, the proverbial termites had already devoured the foundation. Someday soon, the last few beams would finally snap, and the whole rotten structure would come crashing down.
But that didn't mean it'd just bare its belly to the sword: like a besieged redoubt, its walls battered and garrison bloodied, the network stood firm against the virulent corruption, spiteful and defiant in the face of oblivion. It had crossed every line, pared every superfluity, squeezed water from every stone in the hopes of prolonging its lifespan, even if by just one more day.
And if all that effort proved for naught, its aura all but screamed, if Bloodraven's plan was going to fail and death would swallow the living, then it would burn as bright and hot as it could, and bring as much as it can down with it.
R'hllor, at least, admired the sentiment (or, more accurately, the shade of him clinging to Thoros radiated something like approval) – whatever the hell his true agenda was.
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The cave was a fucking ossuary.
Sure, the upper tunnels were lively enough, humid and warm, stuffed with goats and greenery and plenty of those godawful children of the forest – with their big bug eyes and slitted pupils and spindly three-fingered hands, I can see why the Westerosi tried so hard to exterminate them – but the deeper we progressed, the more bones crunched beneath our feet, until we were wading through the damn things.
And while skulls leered from their niches along the walls, and the crows glared a hateful crimson, the children prowled at our heels, their movement unnaturally, uncannily graceful, eyeing us with what, in their alien minds, must've passed as curiosity.
"Is there a name I can call you?"
Almond skin dappled with spots and wilted flowers braided through her hair, the child who'd taken it upon herself to guide us through the catacombs gently dipped her bulbous head. "Men know this one as Leaf."
I hummed, eyeing the roost's worth of bat skeletons that dangled from the ceiling. "Get many visitors?"
"When needed." Beneath the chimes and twinkles and melodious cadence, her tone dripped with somber nostalgia "Few are willing."
The decor being what it was, I'm not sure why I expected anything different.
It took us a couple hours of trudging through the dark – the exact figure eludes me – to reach the end of the tunnel: a steep-angled shaft, plunging down into an abyss, echoing with the roar of rushing water.
Crossing my arms under my chest, and ignoring how intensely I wanted to take a shower, I shot my hangers-on a questioning glance.
"You two can hold the fort, yeah?"
Thoros, sword half-unsheathed as his eyes warily darted about, took a sharp step forward.
"Your Grace – "
I shushed him with a raised hand and pointed look.
He opened his mouth to interject, yet his arguments died on his lips; after a few moments of wincing and grimacing, he barely squeezed out a slow, begrudging nod.
A firm nod of my own. "Good." I approached the shaft. "Play nice."
Forehead wrinkled in consternation, the priest looked a second from discarding my order, but Ed – more irritated than anything else – leaned over, parked a hand on his shoulder, and stopped him with a subtle shake of his head.
Meanwhile, the children of the corn just kept on staring – honestly, it's like they were designed in a lab to give people the heebie-jeebies.
Knees bent and arms tucked against my sides, I then slid down the passageway; winding and twisting, cluttered with dirt and pebbles and shards of bone, it spat me out into an enormous cavern, and onto the narrow, rough-worn natural bridge that spanned its vastness, bestride the subterranean river that seethed some six hundred feet below.
A lattice of weirwood roots pierced through the solid rock and weaved across the ceiling – and at the center of the cave, atop a stone column, where the roots twined thickest and the network's streams converged, they curled and matted and fuzed to form a gnarled throne, upon which limply stooped Bloodraven's desiccated carcass.
The roots had interred, strangled him; burrowed past his rusted hauberk and tattered black cloak, split limbs and subsumed organs, then jabbed back out through his rib cage and neck and empty left eye socket – the right harbored a sad, shriveled raisin of an eyeball, hard and dry and stained a pale, sickly red. Like brittle parchment, bleached and stiffened, his remaining skin strained over his gaunt form, yellowed bones peeking through the cracks, and his wilted white hair blanketed the mossy floor, with leaves and mushrooms sprouting from his exposed skullcap. At his rotted belt hung a slender longsword – although the hilt and pommel had over the years crumbled away, its pristine blade still boasted the tell-tale ripples of Valyrian steel.
With a flash of grace, I burnt the refuse from my skirt and wiped away the ashes – wouldn't do to look a scruff – then raised my voice over the crashing water.
"Lovely place you've got here!" I made a show of appraising my surroundings. "Very … rustic."
Bloodraven didn't respond – or, more accurately, refused to.
A glance over my shoulder, followed by a wry grin. "Between you and me, though, I could do without the neighbors. Little too, um … " I waggled my hand in thought " … out there for my taste."
Who says I can't be diplomatic?
His eye narrowed, and the crows perched about the throne bristled and cawed and hissed – never knew birds were physically capable of that last one.
"Come on, keep to the script. It's your turn to start bitching. You know, something indignant about how I've 'violated your sanctum,' or 'disrupted the balance.' Maybe even a sinister portent of impending doom, if you're feeling up to it."
From the way his countenance puckered, were he physically capable, I imagine he would've throttled me.
See, that's the trouble with utilitarian chessmaster 'pull the string' types – they're always so self-important. Take it from me, fussing about the supposed greater good, burdening yourself with some grandiose higher purpose, only gets tiresome after a while; before long, you'll find yourself jadedly plodding through endless plots and maneuvers and schemes, all in the name of some grand crusade that grows hollower and hollower with each passing day.
No, it's much more gratifying – and far less painful – to live for me, myself, and I alone, the world be damned.
"Silent treatment, eh? And here I thought we were friends!"
Looking back, I might've been a smidge too eager to gloat, and – if pressed – too fond by half of the sound of my own voice.
A few moments passed, the pause hanging heavy in the air, until the corpse forced a dry, rattling wheeze.
"Why?"
His speech was rustling leaves, whispering wind, harsh and slurred and croaky as it crept from his sluggish lips, then was telepathically amplified.
"Why what?" Tutting, I shook my head. "We've had this talk before, you need to be specific."
For a minute, he weighed what I'm sure was an exhaustive list of grievances – in the end, though, he opted for brevity, tugged on a common thread, and cut right to the heart of the matter.
"Why interfere?"
Better – not by much, mind, but better nonetheless.
"Entertainment."
His eye widened. I don't think Brynden – the last and greatest greenseer, the tree-worshiping bastard who'd clawed his way up to Hand of the King, the hard man making hard decisions – honestly believed I'd be quite so candid, or my motive to be quite so trivial.
"Suppose, hypothetically, you one day find yourself living in a storybook. You've read it, enjoyed it, and, while … gratuitous at parts, you know it ends happy, or at least bittersweet." A pause. "Would you sit on the sidelines, watch the characters muddle through their destined parts, or try and make things a little more interesting?"
The myriad implications spoke for themselves, as did the resultant existential dread – the 'hey, you're fictional' reveal never went over well.
"I, for one, choose to make the most of such a novel opportunity."
Rocking on my heels, I then started pacing, affecting all the gravitas of a eulogy.
"And make no mistake, it is a choice. Keeping a low profile, smothering the butterflies – that's easy. Had I the inclination, I'd just wander out into the middle of nowhere and conjure up a hermitage, then spend the next few decades sitting around on my arse. I'd probably do a damn good job of it, assuming some obnoxious contrivance doesn't just drag me onstage anyway."
My hobnailed sandals scraped against the rock as I planted myself before the throne, finger pointed for emphasis. "But that wouldn't be anywhere near as fun."
The corners of my mouth twitched in amusement, and the mask of faux solemnity crumbled, revealing the snickers underneath.
Conquest, evangelism, profiteering: those Bloodraven knew and understood, well enough to handle with some measure of expertise.
But this?
Muscles snapping and joints crackling, the carcass leaned forward with a pained grimace.
"If the end came tomorrow – if countless millions suddenly vanished into the blackness of the night … would you even care?"
The answer was automatic.
"Not really." Brow furrowed and lips pursed, I propped a hand on my hip, before tilting my head in acquiescence. "Maybe a little. If your cat died, or hamster, you'd probably mourn it" – a dismissive wave of my hand – "for a couple hours, a day or so." I shrugged. "Then move on to the next one."
Brynden, dazed, leaned back in his throne, knobbly vertebrae scraping against the bark.
"Like a little girl, playing with her dolls … "
He wasn't wrong, per se, and had it come from most anyone else, I'd have probably felt it an apt comparison.
"We've all got our guilty pleasures."
As he pondered and agonized and wrung his hands (figuratively, that is – the roots had nailed his palms to the armrests), I checked for dirt under my fingernails.
"Your Grace."
I shot him a raised eyebrow; the corpse's shock had given way to determination, urgency, the hellbent resolve of a desperate gamble.
"Warrior, sorcerer, I've worn many hats – though I am foremost an observer." His lip curled in annoyance. "A voyeur, as you so eloquently put it. I won't bother pleading your benevolence, or invoking some abstract morality – I know the futility of sermons – and you've clearly no need for my sword, or guidance, as your capabilities far surpass my own."
"Instead, I offer you my attention." Chest creaking, he slowly exhaled. "Bring me with you – if this world's indeed a mummer's farce, then I may be your audience." 'And minimize the damage,' went left unsaid.
Struck by a powerful sense of déjà vu, I fought to limit my cackle to a chuckle. "Goodness me, how forward!" Tittering some more, I mockingly fanned my face. "Scandal, I say! See here, Lord Commander, I am a lady!" I turned up my nose. "Harumph!"
Schooling his irritation as best he could, Bloodraven waited for the laughter to run its course – when it ended with a breathy snort and tapering giggle, my grin returned in force.
"So that's your angle, eh? Tickling my vanity?"
A shallow nod, stifled by the rat's nest of tree limbs boring through his skull. "A spoonful of flattery, I've found, makes your sort that much more agreeable."
"And what is 'my sort'?"
"The haughty, the vain, the arrogant; those who puff themselves up with titles and gold."
I'll admit, loath as I am to give him any credit, his candor came as a welcome surprise. The actual substance, well, not my cup of tea – upon reflection, I might've gone a little big-headed over the years – but the thought of it, the general principle, was decidedly refreshing.
Reckon he'd make a good jester.
We stared each other down for a time – it was all very dramatic.
"Alright, sure."
Fingers twitched and grace surged and Brynden – barely having registered my assent – was torn from his throne, yanked across the bridge, and dangled midair some ten paces in front of me.
Head thrown back with a gurgle and moan, his chest heaved and buckled, while clotted brown blood dribbled from the gaping, sucking holes where the roots had been plucked.
I scratched my chin in consideration – 'useless without the greensight, network connection needs some jury-rigging, flesh too decrepit to use, best start over from scratch, search his memories for reference, or, maybe …' – then smirked into his trembling eye.
"Remember, you asked for this."
The grace renewed its assault, suffusing and penetrating and twisting his form, which crumpled under the force of the ensuing transformation; muscles rippled and skin bubbled, height bled and limbs narrowed, and his pained, quavering shrieks gradually rose in pitch.
Soon enough, the grace dissipated, and there on the ground, coughing and gasping for air, sprawled a little albino girl – no more than eight – in a sable black frock.
And so the monkey's paw curls.
Snow-white ringlets tickling a cute button nose, she gaped in horror at her pale, dainty hands. "What – " The new kittenlike voice only magnified her distress, and she reflexively clutched her throat. "What did you do to me?!"
"I think it's fairly obvious."
Like a bad cliché, she pat between her legs for confirmation, then somehow blanched. "C-change me back!"
"Now, why on earth would I do that? You'd hardly be of use to me a bedridden skeleton."
At this point, her pleas and whines devolved into tearful blubbering – disappointing, I thought the great Lord Rivers would be more composed.
Hormones, if I had to guess.
"I could always kill you."
That shut her up.
"Just think of this as a learning experience." What she'd learn was anyone's guess, but she'd certainly learn something. "Besides, it happened to me, and I turned out just fine."
Turning back around to face the passageway, and glancing at Brynden – need to think of a better name. Brandy? Brunhilde? – over my shoulder, I spurred her forward with a slap of my thigh. "Come along, now, be a good girl."
Her teeth grit and fists clenched, nails cutting bloody crescents into her palms – but, right at the last second, just before the tantrum began in earnest, she sharply inhaled, straightened her shoulders, and cobbled back together the remnants of her shattered dignity.
"You are, without a shadow of a doubt, the most unpleasant person I've ever met."
"I try."