Owen drifted in and out of consciousness, the warmth of Sansa's body pressed against his side a comforting anchor. His mind wandered through the day's events, settling on the aftermath of the meeting with the southern lords.
The news had spread through Winterfell like wildfire. Servants whispered in corners, guards exchanged meaningful glances, and the northern lords' reactions had been swift and fierce. Owen recalled Lord Glover's face turning purple with rage when he'd heard of Tywin's presumption.
"The gall of that golden-haired bastard," Galbart had thundered in the great hall during the evening meal, loud enough for half the castle to hear. "Trying to wed that ponce of a prince to the she wolf?"
Owen shifted slightly, careful not to wake Sansa. He remembered how the other northern lords had rallied around their liege lord's decision. Even the usually reserved Lord Manderly had spoken up, his multiple chins quivering with indignation.
"The South forgets," Wyman had declared over his fourth helping of lamprey pie, "that we are not their servants to command. The North remembers, and we remember well how southern marriages have served our people in the past. That is not at all."
The most satisfying reaction, Owen mused, had come from Greatjon Umber. The giant lord had laughed so hard at the news that wine had sprayed from his nose, before declaring that "any southern prince trying to tame the she-wolf would lose his manhood faster than he could say 'winter is coming.'"
Sansa stirred beside him, murmuring something in her sleep about lemon cakes. Owen smiled, remembering how she'd handled the situation with perfect political grace. While the other ladies had gossiped and speculated about how the meeting had gone, Sansa had maintained a dignified silence, though Owen hadn't missed the proud gleam in her eye when her father's refusal became public knowledge.
The best part had been watching Tywin Lannister's carefully maintained facade crack just slightly when he realized how thoroughly he'd miscalculated. The Old Lion had clearly expected the North to jump at the chance for a royal marriage. Instead, he'd managed to unite the northern lords even more firmly behind House Stark, while simultaneously making himself appear grasping and presumptuous.
Owen felt sleep tugging at his consciousness, but his mind refused to quiet. The politics of the day kept spinning through his thoughts, particularly the upcoming meetings that Lord Stark could no longer avoid. After giving concessions to the Crown, refusing to meet with other major houses would be seen as a slight that could create unnecessary enemies.
Prince Oberyn had been particularly persistent that evening, appearing at odd moments throughout Winterfell with casual questions about the North's innovations. His dark eyes held a predatory gleam whenever he encountered Owen, like a viper sizing up its prey.
Then there was Lady Olenna. The Queen of Thorns had taken to walking the glass gardens each morning the week before the meeting, making pointed comments about the remarkable similarities between Highgarden's centuries-old structures and these new Northern versions. Her barbed observations always reached Lord Stark's ears within hours, delivered by an ever-growing network of servants and courtiers who seemed to multiply with each passing day.
After a week of artfully dodging these encounters and then going through the meeting, Lord Stark had finally conceded, knowing there was no polite way to deny them any longer. "We'll meet with them tomorrow," he'd told Owen earlier that evening, his voice heavy with resignation. "Better to hear what they want directly than let them scheme in the shadows."
Owen sighed and shifted closer to Sansa, drawing comfort from her steady breathing and the subtle scent of lavender in her hair. The silk sheets whispered against his skin as he settled into a more comfortable position, his body finally beginning to relax after the day's tensions.
His wife's warmth seeped into his muscles, easing the knots of stress that had built up during the negotiations. The magical transformation they'd undergone in Solomon's pool had left them both with an otherworldly beauty, but it hadn't changed the simple comfort they found in each other's presence.
As sleep began to claim him, Owen's thoughts drifted lazily to the meetings ahead. Oberyn's serpentine smile and Olenna's shrewd gaze floated through his mind, but even these concerns seemed distant now, muted by exhaustion and the peaceful sanctuary of their bed.
Owen opened his eyes to find himself lying on soft grass instead of his bed. The warmth of Sansa's body was gone, replaced by muted sunlight filtering through a canopy of leaves above. He pushed himself up, his movements oddly weightless as he took in his surroundings.
This wasn't the godswood of Winterfell, nor any forest he recognized from his travels. The trees stretched impossibly tall, their trunks wider than castle towers. Their bark shimmered with an iridescent quality that shifted between deep brown and subtle gold. Leaves of silver-green rustled in a wind he couldn't feel against his skin.
"A dream," Owen murmured, his voice echoing strangely in the ethereal space. "Or a vision."
He'd experienced enough magical phenomena through the Celestial Forge to recognize when reality had shifted sideways. The air held that same electric quality he felt in the Temple of Solomon, but different - older somehow, more primal. The ground beneath his feet seemed to pulse with ancient power.
The forest floor was carpeted with grass that glowed faintly with each step he took, leaving luminescent footprints that slowly faded behind him. Scattered among the massive trees were crystalline formations that caught the filtered sunlight and split it into rainbow patterns that danced across the ground. The entire scene had an otherworldly beauty that made his enhanced senses tingle with awareness.
Owen reached out to touch one of the massive tree trunks. His fingers passed through the bark like it was made of mist, sending ripples of golden light spreading outward from the point of contact. The sensation wasn't unpleasant, but it confirmed his suspicion - this was no ordinary dream.
Owen turned his head toward the deeper parts of the forest where the sound of whispers originated. The sounds weren't quite words - more like the suggestion of speech, carried on nonexistent wind through the ethereal trees. They tugged at his consciousness, a mix of seductive promises and urgent demands.
"Come," they seemed to say. "Come see. Come learn. Come know."
The whispers grew more insistent, wrapping around him like invisible threads trying to pull him forward. They spoke of power, of knowledge, of secrets that could reshape the world. The voices multiplied, becoming a chorus of ethereal beckoning.
Owen crossed his arms and planted his feet firmly on the glowing grass.
"Oh, fuck off," he growled into the mysterious forest. "I've got enough voices in my head with the Forge in my soul. I don't need whatever cryptic bullshit you're selling."
The whispers faltered for a moment, as if shocked by his crude dismissal.
"You don't even know what we offer," they tried again, their tone growing more desperate.
"Don't care," Owen replied flatly. "I'm trying to get some actual sleep here. Go bother someone else with your mysterious forest quest garbage."
He turned his back on the deeper woods, deliberately sitting down on the luminescent grass. The whispers continued their attempts to entice him, but Owen simply pulled out a piece of imaginary cloth from his dream-pocket and started polishing an equally imaginary dagger, pointedly ignoring them.
After a few minutes of Owen's pointed disinterest, the whispers began to fade, eventually transforming into what sounded distinctly like an exasperated sigh. The ethereal forest seemed to dim slightly, as if reflecting the spirits' frustration with their uncooperative visitor.
A flutter of wings broke the silence. From the depths of the mysterious woods, a large black raven emerged, its wingspan casting strange shadows through the filtered light. The bird settled on a nearby branch, and Owen immediately noticed its most striking feature - three eyes, all fixed intently upon him.
Owen let out an amused snort, setting aside his imaginary polishing cloth.
"Well, well, well, if it isn't Brynden Rivers," Owen said, meeting the raven's triple gaze with a raised eyebrow.
The three-eyed raven tilted its head, regarding Owen with an unsettling intelligence. Its third eye, centered in its forehead, seemed to glow with an inner light that matched the luminescence of the forest floor.
Owen watched with mild interest as the raven's form blurred and stretched from the tree, darkness pooling like spilled ink until it coalesced into the shape of a man. Brynden Rivers stood before him, looking every bit as ancient and worn as the legends described. His white hair hung long and unkempt, while his single red eye gleamed with otherworldly power. The empty socket where his other eye should have been seemed to absorb the ethereal light around them.
"Trespasser," Brynden declared, his voice carrying the weight of centuries.
Owen maintained his deliberately bored expression, absently twirling his imaginary dagger between his fingers. He'd faced down Tywin Lannister earlier that day - an ancient greenseer wasn't going to rattle him, no matter how dramatic his entrance.
"That's rich, coming from the guy who's been trying to peek through my wards for the past four years," Owen replied dryly. "Oh yeah, i could feel you poking around like some bug. How's that working out for you, by the way? Must be frustrating, not being able to spy on everything happening in the North anymore."
The former Hand of the King drew himself up, his black cloak rustling without wind. The birthmark that had earned him the name Bloodraven stood out starkly against his pale skin, dark as fresh blood in the strange light of the dream-forest.
"You speak as if you know me," Brynden said, his voice carrying equal measures of curiosity and irritation.
"I know enough," Owen shrugged, still maintaining his air of casual disinterest. "Former Hand of the King, exiled to the Night's Watch, became Lord Commander, disappeared beyond the Wall to become a tree. Though I have to say, the whole 'mysterious forest spirit' routine needs work. Maybe try adding some thunder next time, really sell the atmosphere."
Owen watched as Brynden Rivers' composure cracked slightly, the ancient greenseer's pale features twisting with frustration.
"You," Bloodraven spat, "have brought imbalance to everything. Your very presence has done irrevocable damage to the song of ice and fire. You are nothing but an upstart trespasser, meddling in affairs beyond your comprehension."
Owen rolled his eyes at the dramatic proclamation. He'd spent enough time dealing with mystical entities through the Celestial Forge to recognize when someone was trying to intimidate him with vague pronouncements of doom.
"Right, because everything was perfectly balanced before I showed up," Owen replied sarcastically. "The White Walkers building their army of the dead, the realm bleeding from constant wars, the Night's Watch falling apart - that was all part of your grand plan, was it?"
He stood up from his seated position, brushing imaginary grass off his dream-clothes. The luminescent forest around them seemed to pulse with tension as Owen faced the legendary greenseer.
"You know what I think?" Owen continued, meeting Brynden's mismatched gaze steadily. "I think you're just annoyed that someone came along and started fixing things without asking your permission first. Must be frustrating, being stuck in that tree while someone else actually makes meaningful changes to help people."
The former Hand's face darkened at Owen's words, the birthmark on his cheek seeming to writhe like a living thing. The ethereal forest dimmed around them, shadows deepening as Brynden Rivers' anger manifested in the dreamscape.
"You understand nothing," Bloodraven hissed. "The song must be preserved. The balance must be maintained. Your interference threatens everything."
Owen felt the weight of centuries of magical power pressing against him, but he stood his ground. The Celestial Forge hummed in his soul, a reminder that he had his own sources of power to draw upon.
"Tell me then," Owen challenged, spreading his arms wide. "What exactly have I damaged? The carefully maintained balance of misery and death? The grand plan that lets thousands freeze and starve while nobles play their game of thrones? Because from where I'm standing, the only thing I've threatened is the status quo of suffering you seem so keen to preserve."
Owen watched as Brynden Rivers spat on the ethereal ground, the gesture oddly mundane in their mystical surroundings. The spittle seemed to sizzle where it landed, leaving a dark mark on the luminescent grass.
"You fool," Bloodraven snarled, his pale features twisted with rage. "Years upon years of careful work, countless sacrifices and subtle manipulations - all of it, destroyed by your mere existence! I was preparing to save this world from the coming tide of ice and death. The song of ice and fire was finally, finally beginning to align. And then you were born, and everything began to unravel."
Owen couldn't help himself. He laughed. The sound echoed strangely through the dream-forest, bouncing off crystalline formations and reverberating through impossible spaces. It wasn't a kind laugh - it held all the derision and mockery he felt toward this self-important puppet master.
"Oh, that's rich," Owen said, wiping an imaginary tear from his eye. "Please, enlighten me about this master plan of yours. Was sending Jon to freeze his ass off at the Wall part of your brilliant strategy? Because I'd love to hear how that was supposed to work."
He adopted an exaggerated thinking pose, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "Let's see if I understand correctly - your grand plan to save the world involved taking one of the most capable young men in the North and shipping him off to a crumbling organization of thieves and rapists? That was your master stroke?"
Bloodraven's single red eye blazed with fury, but Owen wasn't finished. He was tired of cryptic manipulators who thought they alone knew what was best for the world.
"Tell me, how exactly was that supposed to play out? Jon takes the black, stands around on a wall for a few years, and somehow that saves humanity? Was there a specific amount of brooding required? A certain number of times he needed to feel sad about being a bastard before the White Walkers just gave up and went home?"
Owen's expression hardened as he pressed his attack, stepping closer to the ancient greenseer. "And what of the realm? Of Westeros?" He gestured broadly at the ethereal forest around them. "You didn't think to help fix that clusterfuck with King Robert and how his Lannister wife was making bastards with her brother, making the realm a melting pot for civil war?"
The accusation hung in the air between them, making the luminescent grass pulse with an angry red glow. Owen watched as Brynden Rivers' face tightened, the birthmark on his cheek darkening to an almost black shade.
"You sat in your tree, watching it all unfold," Owen continued, his voice dripping with contempt. "You saw Cersei and Jaime's incest. You knew what their children really are. You could have sent visions to Robert, to Jon Arryn, to anyone who could have prevented the realm from tearing itself apart in the future. But you did nothing."
The dream-forest seemed to contract around them, the massive trees groaning as if under great pressure. Bloodraven's single red eye blazed with an intensity that would have terrified most men, but Owen stood his ground, waiting for the ancient greenseer's response.
"Instead," Owen pressed, "you were ready to let thousands die in the wars that followed. All those innocent people, slaughtered because you decided the 'song' was more important than their lives. And you have the audacity to lecture me about balance?"
Owen watched as Brynden Rivers' face twisted into a sneer, his pale features taking on an almost ghostly quality in the ethereal light.
"You know nothing," Bloodraven spat. "Of the realm or Rhaegar's bastard. Jon Snow was to be a vital sacrifice in the coming war. His death would have sparked the chain of events needed to save Westeros - to save the world!"
The words had barely left Bloodraven's lips before Owen moved. In the dream-space, his enhanced body responded with supernatural speed, crossing the distance between them in less than a heartbeat. His hand closed around the ancient greenseer's throat, lifting him off his feet with contemptuous ease.
Brynden Rivers' eyes widened in shock and fear as he found himself helpless in Owen's grip. The legendary spymaster, the man who had manipulated kingdoms from the shadows, dangled like a puppet with cut strings.
Owen's eyes blazed with power, the magical energies of the Celestial Forge manifesting as golden fire in his gaze. When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of steel and thunder.
"Listen carefully, you manipulative old bastard," Owen growled, his fingers tightening just enough to make Bloodraven gasp. "If you ever refer to Jon as a sacrifice again, I will find whatever tree you're hiding in beyond the Wall. And when I do, I will use my magic to turn you into a rabbit and throw you into the nearest bonfire and make sure you burn for hours. Are we clear?"
Owen released his grip, letting Brynden Rivers fall unceremoniously to the luminescent forest floor. The ancient greenseer landed with an undignified thud on his ass, his black robes pooling around him like spilled ink.
"You know," Owen said conversationally, brushing off his hands as if touching Bloodraven had left some residue, " Even before your trying to prod around in the north or my dreams, I've been expecting you to show up eventually. Must have been really you a headache, not being able to see into the lives of everyone in the north."
He paced a few steps away, then turned back to face the fallen greenseer. The ethereal forest seemed to pulse with tension around them, the crystalline formations catching and splitting light in increasingly erratic patterns.
"Did you really think I wouldn't prepare for you? The moment I truly realized what you were - what you could do - I started working on defenses." Owen tapped his temple with two fingers. "My mind, Sansa's mind, all the Starks... they're protected now. Especially young Bran."
Bloodraven's single red eye narrowed at the mention of Brandon Stark.
"Oh yeah," Owen continued, his voice hardening. "I know exactly what you had planned for him. Turn him into your replacement, right? Feed him enough cryptic visions and half-truths until he loses himself in the weirwood network? Make him forget his humanity so he can become your perfect little puppet?"
Owen's lip curled in disgust as he looked down at the former Hand of the King. "Well, I've got news for you - that's not happening. I've warded Bran's mind specifically against your influence. He'll grow up as a normal boy, with his family, without you trying to turn him into your successor."
The ground beneath their feet trembled slightly as Brynden Rivers' anger manifested in the dreamscape, but Owen remained unmoved. He'd faced down far worse than an angry old man stuck in a tree.
"The wards I've placed around Winterfell, Ice Crest, and the other major holdings in the North - they're not just keeping out normal threats. They're keeping out you." Owen's voice carried the weight of absolute certainty. "No more spying through ravens, no more sending visions, no more trying to manipulate events from your frozen perch beyond the Wall. The North is closed to you now."
Owen watched as Brynden Rivers' face contorted with rage, the birthmark on his cheek seeming to pulse with dark energy. The ancient greenseer pushed himself up from the luminescent ground, drawing himself to his full height.
"You fool!" Bloodraven snarled, his voice echoing through the dream-forest. "Brandon Stark must be given to me for training. He must become the next Three-Eyed Raven! The defense of Westeros against the Night King depends on it!"
The ethereal trees around them trembled with the force of his proclamation, shadows dancing wildly across the crystalline formations. But Owen merely looked at the legendary spymaster with an expression of profound disappointment, as if watching a child throw a tantrum.
"How?" Owen asked simply.
The single word seemed to hang in the air between them, cutting through Bloodraven's dramatic display like a knife through butter. The ancient greenseer opened his mouth to respond, then closed it again.
"What?" Brynden Rivers asked, clearly thrown off by the straightforward question.
"How?" Owen repeated, enunciating clearly as if speaking to someone particularly slow. "How exactly would turning Bran into a tree-bound mystic help defend against the Night King? What's the actual plan here?"
Bloodraven's pale features twisted into a scowl, his red eye blazing with indignation. "That... that is a secret! Only a true servant of the Old Gods can know such things!"
Owen stared at him for a long moment, then pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a weary sigh. The response was exactly what he'd expected - more cryptic nonsense meant to obscure the fact that Bloodraven had no real answer.
Owen began to weave magic between his fingers, letting the power flow through his magic circuits. Golden light danced across his palms, forming intricate patterns that cast strange shadows through the dream-forest. He noticed how Brynden watched the display warily, his single red eye tracking every movement with a mixture of caution and... was that envy?
"You know, I have a theory about you," Owen said casually, still playing with the magical energies. "Your mother was Melissa Blackwood, wasn't she?"
Bloodraven's face tightened at the mention of his mother's name, but he remained silent.
"House Blackwood - one of the few houses that still kept to the Old Ways despite living in the south, still remembered the ancient magics of the First Men." Owen continued, letting the golden light between his fingers grow brighter. "They were different from the other houses, weren't they? They remembered things that others had forgotten."
The luminescent forest seemed to pulse in time with Owen's words, the crystalline formations catching and refracting the light from his magical display.
"I think Melissa passed that knowledge to you," Owen said, his voice taking on a harder edge. "The old magics, the forgotten arts - she made sure you knew them all. And you used that knowledge, didn't you? When you were Hand of the King to your nephew Aerys, you weren't just playing political games. You were building power."
Brynden Rivers' pale features twisted into a grimace, but Owen could see the truth of his words reflected in the ancient greenseer's expression.
"But that wasn't enough for you, was it?" Owen pressed, closing his fist around the golden light. "No, you wanted more. The magic of the First Men wasn't enough - you needed something greater, something older."
The forest around them grew darker as Owen spoke, the shadows deepening with each word. Bloodraven's single red eye blazed in the growing darkness, but he couldn't hide the flicker of unease that crossed his face at Owen's accusations.
"So you used your magic for the Targaryen family, killing their enemies, helping put down the Blackfyres whenever they came," Owen said, his voice carrying through the ethereal forest. "But eventually you got sent to the Wall with Aemon, becoming Lord Commander and then disappearing beyond the Wall."
Owen took a step closer to Brynden Rivers, watching how the birthmark on his cheek seemed to pulse with suppressed emotion.
"But not really," Owen continued, his tone knowing. "You were exactly where you wanted to be. Perhaps being Hand of the King finally bored you, and that's why you actually murdered Aenys Blackfyre and made Aegon the Unlikely send you to the Wall."
Owen paused, studying Bloodraven's increasingly rigid posture and the way his single red eye blazed with barely contained fury.
"Am I getting close?" Owen asked, though Bloodraven kept quiet, his pale features locked in a mask of stony silence.
Owen watched as his words struck home, each observation landing like physical blows on the ancient greenseer. The luminescent forest around them seemed to dim and brighten with Bloodraven's fluctuating emotions, the crystalline formations casting ever-shifting shadows across his pale features.
"For months you travelled beyond the wall," Owen continued, his voice taking on an almost contemplative tone. "Searching for a place your mother had perhaps mentioned in your teachings. A place of complete power to the old gods."
Bloodraven's single red eye widened slightly, and Owen knew he'd hit upon something true. The birthmark on his cheek seemed to writhe more violently now, like a living thing trying to escape his skin.
"And then you found it," Owen pressed on, circling the former Hand of the King slowly. "And even the children of the forest maybe, and you thought to bargain with the old gods for power."
Owen paused directly in front of Brynden Rivers, meeting that burning red eye with his own steady gaze. "But the old gods knew what really lay in you, didn't they? They knew your heart. So instead of giving you magical knowledge, they gave you all the knowledge but tied you to that tree, didn't they?"
The ethereal forest grew darker still, the luminescent grass at their feet dimming to barely a glow. Owen could see his words were having an effect - Bloodraven's composed mask was cracking, revealing something raw and angry underneath.
"Or better yet," Owen said, his voice dropping to almost a whisper, "maybe you killed the last Three-Eyed Raven and your punishment was to replace them? Have all the knowledge of the world, see it, relive it as many times as you wanted but not be able to do anything about it."
The dreamscape trembled around them as Bloodraven's control slipped, the crystalline formations vibrating with discordant energy. Owen had struck at something deep and painful - he could see it in the way Brynden Rivers' pale features contorted with suppressed rage.
Owen turned to look at him fully, his eyes blazing with a cold fury that made even the ancient greenseer take an involuntary step back. The luminescent forest around them seemed to darken further, responding to the weight of Owen's growing anger and disgust.
"That's why you need Bran, isn't it?" Owen's voice cut through the ethereal silence like a blade of ice. "You want to take his body. Destroy his mind and use his body as yours, then see if you can warg into someone else..."
Bloodraven's single red eye widened slightly, the first crack in his carefully maintained facade. The birthmark on his cheek writhed more violently now, pulsing with dark energy.
"Or perhaps," Owen continued, his voice dripping with contempt, "you planned to completely switch minds with someone, so they would be locked in your new body from Bran while..."
He paused, the pieces finally clicking into place. The full scope of Bloodraven's manipulation becoming crystal clear. Owen's face twisted with revulsion as he spoke the next words.
"Jon... you can see the future as well, or at least part of it. You know Jon would be stabbed to death by his Night's Watch brothers." Owen's hands clenched into fists at his sides, golden energy crackling around them. "And then you'd switch minds with him as soon as he was resurrected, destroying his very self and taking over."
The disgust in Owen's voice grew with each word, filling the dreamscape with waves of palpable revulsion.
Brynden Rivers lunged forward with supernatural speed, his ethereal form blurring through the dream-forest. But Owen was ready. He stretched out his hand, channeling power through his magic circuits. Golden light coalesced around his palm before erupting into a devastating storm of electricity.
The lightning struck Bloodraven dead center, lifting him off his feet. His skeletal form convulsed as electricity coursed through him, his single red eye wide with shock and pain. His scream echoed through the dreamscape, causing the crystalline formations around them to vibrate in sympathy.
Owen maintained the assault for a full minute, pouring more power into the spell. The lightning illuminated the ethereal forest in stark relief, casting wild shadows across the luminescent ground. The air crackled with ozone, and even in this dream-space, Owen could smell burning flesh.
When he finally released the spell, Brynden Rivers collapsed to his knees. Wisps of smoke rose from his black robes, and his pale skin bore angry red marks where the lightning had struck. His breathing came in ragged gasps, but his single red eye remained fixed on Owen with a mixture of hatred and... something else. Envy?
"Your magic..." Bloodraven wheezed, struggling to push himself up on shaking legs. "That was the power I sought. Power unending."
He managed to stand, though his legs trembled beneath him. The birthmark on his cheek seemed darker now, almost black against his pale skin.
"After all I did for the Targaryens, they were weak and so was Aegon," he spat, bitterness dripping from every word. "I dealt with their messes, I made the hard choices and for that I was sent to the wall."
Bloodraven spat on the luminescent ground. "And when I sought power from the last Three-Eyed Raven, I was denied, saying it was meant for only those chosen by the old gods..." His single red eye blazed with remembered fury. "So I killed him."
Owen watched the confession spill from Brynden Rivers' lips without surprise. The admission merely confirmed what some fans had thought as true yet here he was, telling it to him.
"I found him in his weirwood throne, spouting nonsense about destiny and the chosen ones," Bloodraven continued, his voice taking on a manic edge. "He had all that power, all that knowledge, and what did he do with it? Nothing! He just sat there, watching, waiting."
The birthmark on his cheek writhed more violently now, almost seeming to pulse in time with his growing agitation. "I had spent decades serving the realm, making the hard choices, keeping the peace. I deserved that power more than some tree-bound mystic who did nothing but observe!"
Owen's lip curled in disgust as he listened to Bloodraven's attempted justification. The man's true colors were finally showing - not a mysterious guardian of ancient powers, but a bitter, entitled creature who had murdered his way to power and still wasn't satisfied.
"So I took his knife - Valyrian steel, an ancient thing - and I opened his throat," Bloodraven's voice had taken on an almost dreamy quality now, lost in the memory. "But as he died, he laughed. He laughed and used his last breath to curse me, binding me to his throne with the power of the old gods. All the power I wanted, he said, but never the freedom to use it as I wished."
The luminescent grass at their feet dimmed further as Brynden Rivers' confession echoed through the dream-forest. The crystalline formations that had been catching and splitting light now seemed to absorb it instead, creating deep pools of shadow around them.
"And that's why you need Bran," Owen said quietly, his voice hard with controlled anger. "You think if you can take his body, you can break free of the curse. Use his Stark blood, his connection to the old gods, to finally get what you wanted all along."
Owen watched as a twisted smile spread across Bloodraven's face, the birthmark on his cheek writhing like a living thing.
"You think you're the only one who knows what's coming?" Bloodraven's voice took on a sing-song quality that made Owen's skin crawl. "I've seen it all as you said. Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell, bleeding out in the cold earth and frost. His own brothers in black, driving their daggers into him one by one. 'For the Watch,' they'll say as they murder him."
The ancient greenseer's single red eye gleamed with malicious delight. "And when that red priestess brings him back, when his eyes open again... it won't be Jon Snow who wakes. It will be me."
Owen felt his magic circuits surge with anger, golden energy crackling around his clenched fists. But Bloodraven wasn't finished.
"With my knowledge and his body, I'll become the hero the realm needs," he continued, his voice growing more fervent. "I'll unite the kingdoms against the Others, save them all from the long night. And when Daenerys Targaryen arrives with her dragons..."
Bloodraven's pale features twisted into something approaching ecstasy. "She'll see in me everything she desires - a true Targaryen, a warrior-king worthy to rule beside her. Together, we'll forge a dynasty that will last a thousand years."
The dreamscape trembled with the force of his proclamation, the crystalline formations around them humming with discordant energy. But Owen could see past the grandiose words to the rot beneath - the desperate scheming of a bitter old man who would sacrifice anything and anyone to grasp at power.
"And what of Jon?" Owen asked, his voice hard with contempt. "What of his mind, his soul, when you destroy him to take his place?"
Bloodraven waved a dismissive hand. "A necessary sacrifice. The boy would die anyway - I'm simply making use of what would otherwise be wasted."
Owen's face twisted with disgust as Bloodraven's words hung in the ethereal air. The ancient greenseer's single red eye gleamed with malevolent hunger as he regarded Owen.
"If I cannot have Jon Snow or young Brandon," Bloodraven's voice dripped with dark promise, "then perhaps I shall settle for you instead, smith. Your power, your knowledge..." A cruel smile split his pale features. "And your lovely wife. I wonder how sweetly Sansa would scream beneath me once I wear your flesh?"
Rage exploded through Owen's magic circuits, golden light blazing from his skin as Bloodraven's words struck deep. The thought of this twisted creature anywhere near Sansa filled him with murderous fury.
"Your inventions, your influence over the North," Bloodraven continued, his voice taking on an almost fevered quality. "With your body and my knowledge, I could rule not just Westeros, but the entire world!"
The former Hand of the King surged to his feet, his ethereal form blurring as he launched himself at Owen. His skeletal hands reached out like claws, dark energy crackling around them as he attempted to seize Owen's mind and tear it from his body.
Owen had heard enough. The rage building within him wasn't hot - it was a cold, crystalline fury that made his magic circuits hum with deadly precision. With a casual snap of his fingers, Bloodraven's ethereal form froze mid-lunge, suspended in the luminescent dreamscape like an insect trapped in amber.
Only the ancient greenseer's single red eye could move, darting frantically as he realized his predicament. The birthmark on his cheek still writhed, but even that seemed muted now, as if sensing the deadly intent radiating from Owen.
"Your first mistake," Owen said, his voice carrying the weight of winter itself, "was threatening Jon and Bran. Two innocent people whose only crime was being useful to your schemes."
He circled Bloodraven's frozen form slowly, watching the panic grow in that single mobile eye. The crystalline formations around them began to dim, responding to Owen's dark mood.
"But your last mistake?" Owen's voice dropped to a whisper as he came face to face with the trapped greenseer. "Your last mistake was threatening to dare touch Sansa."
Another snap of Owen's fingers echoed through the dream-forest. The sound seemed to reverberate endlessly, building upon itself until it became a physical force. Bloodraven's body began to twist, bones cracking and snapping as his form was compressed into impossible angles.
The ancient greenseer's scream of agony tore through the dreamscape, causing the luminescent grass to wither and the crystalline formations to shatter. His skeletal form continued to contort, folding in on itself in ways that defied natural law. The single red eye that had once blazed with such malevolent power now bulged with terror and pain.
The birthmark on his cheek writhed frantically as Bloodraven's body was crushed and twisted, his flesh and bone reshaping themselves against his will. Each new configuration seemed more painful than the last, drawing fresh screams from the former Hand of the King's throat.
Owen snapped his fingers again, and the tortured screams of Brynden Rivers cut off abruptly as their surroundings shifted. The luminescent forest and crystalline formations dissolved, replaced by an endless expanse of white nothingness. No up, no down, no horizon - just pure, empty white stretching infinitely in all directions.
Bloodraven's ethereal form trembled, still wracked with the echoes of pain from Owen's punishment. His single red eye darted around frantically, trying to make sense of their new environment. The birthmark on his cheek had stilled, as if even it was cowed by what had just transpired.
"You see, Brynden," Owen's voice carried clearly through the void, "I've been studying about you before we even met. Learning about the magic that binds you to that weirwood throne beyond the Wall. The books i read from weren't exact of course, but they gave me a good enough idea of what you are. And I discovered something interesting."
Owen circled the shaking form of the former Hand, his steps making no sound in the endless white space. "The old gods need an anchor point for their power - a physical vessel to help maintain the barrier that keeps the Night King's forces from advancing. That's what your body provides, sitting there in that cave."
Bloodraven's eye widened as understanding began to dawn. Owen could see the first traces of real fear creeping into that red orb.
"But they don't need your mind," Owen continued, his voice taking on an almost contemplative tone. "Your consciousness, your thoughts, your schemes - none of that is necessary for the anchor to function. Just your physical form, preserved by the weirwood roots. Your life force as it were."
Owen gestured at the white void surrounding them. "This place exists outside of time and space. No way in, no way out. Just endless white emptiness stretching on forever." He fixed Bloodraven with a cold stare. "A perfect prison for a mind that's outlived its usefulness."
The former Hand of the King tried to speak, but no sound emerged. His ethereal form seemed to flicker and fade at the edges, as if the very substance of his being was having trouble maintaining cohesion in this impossible space.
"Your body will continue its vigil beyond the Wall, keeping the magical barriers intact," Owen explained. "But your mind will remain here, alone with your thoughts, until the end of time itself."
Owen smiled coldly, his eyes fixed on Bloodraven's trembling form. "But don't worry, you won't be alone."
He moved forward with deliberate slowness, watching the fear grow in that single red eye as he approached. Owen's finger pressed against Bloodraven's temple, channeling power through his magic circuits. The ancient greenseer's eye widened in horror as Owen forced an image directly into his mind.
Owen watched as Bloodraven recoiled from the horrific vision being forced into his mind. The creature's image burned itself into the ancient greenseer's consciousness - a towering, emaciated figure with skin as white as fresh-fallen snow. Its elongated limbs ended in wickedly sharp claws that seemed capable of tearing through flesh and bone with terrifying ease.
But it was the creature's face that truly captured the horror. Dead white eyes, devoid of pupils or iris, stared unblinkingly from sunken sockets. Those eyes held no warmth, no mercy, only a look of sobbing sadness. Its mouth, stretched impossibly wide, dripped with fresh blood that stood out in stark contrast against its pale flesh.
Bloodraven's single red eye widened in terror. Owen could feel the ancient greenseer's mind trying to retreat, to escape from both the vision and the knowledge of what awaited him in this endless white void. But there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide from what Owen had summoned.
In the distance of the white void, an otherworldly shriek shattered the silence. The sound echoed impossibly in the empty space, building upon itself until it seemed to come from every direction at once. Then came the footsteps - rapid, thumping sounds that spoke of something moving far too quickly.
"You see," Owen explained conversationally, as if discussing the weather, "this particular entity has a rather strong aversion to being seen. Anyone who glimpses its face tends to meet a rather... violent end. No matter where they hide or how fast they run." He paused, letting another shriek echo through the void. "Unfortunately for you, death isn't an option here. I've made quite sure of that."
Bloodraven's ethereal form trembled as the footsteps grew closer, his single eye darting frantically in every direction. Owen had carefully crafted this prison to prevent both death and insanity - there would be no escape into madness for the former Hand of the King.
"You'll retain your full mental faculties," Owen continued, "Every moment of awareness, every second of pain..." The skittering sounds were very close now. "Consider it payment for what you planned to do to Jon and Bran. And especially for what you dared suggest about Sansa."
The shriek echoed through the endless white void again, closer now, making Bloodraven's ethereal form shudder violently. Owen's smile held no warmth as he regarded the former Hand of the King, whose single red eye darted frantically between Owen and the approaching sounds of skittering movement.
"I would run if I were you," Owen said casually, as if suggesting a pleasant afternoon activity. "It'll only delay the inevitable, sure. But trust me, you wouldn't want to get caught by the shy guy coming your way."
With a simple snap of his fingers, Owen vanished from the prison dimension, leaving Bloodraven alone with the approaching horror. The last thing Owen saw was the ancient greenseer's form beginning to flee across the endless white expanse, the sound of inhuman shrieks pursuing him into eternity.
Owen's eyes opened to find darkness still cloaking their bedchamber. Sansa's warm form lay beside him, her steady breathing a comfort after the confrontation in the dream realm. He shifted closer to his wife, wrapping an arm around her waist and breathing in the familiar scent of her hair as he this time dreamed of holding their child in his arms in the future.
Its obviously not the real thing for those who know scp lore, just something to torture Brynden for eternity. If it was real it would have attacked Owen as well. See ya next chapter.