Checks date of last upload 12/24/22. DAMN!
"Leave! Leave! Leave!" the strange three-eyed crow repeated. "Die! Die! Die!"
Eddard felt the sharp claws dig into his back as the crow carried him into the air. He eyed the jagged spikes below, as well as the bodies that had broken upon them, before the bird let go of him. Eddard felt the rush of air as he fell toward the ground, an artificial fear gripping his heart like a vice.
Eddard sighed, and he stopped falling. By now, he had grown almost bored of the annoying bird assaulting his dreams and trying to dash his body against the rocks.
The world around him shifted as he wrested control from the crow. The broken bodies disappeared, as did the tower and the spikes. The open air was replaced by the carved grey stone of the College of Winterhold. The chamber was large and circular, built in the old Imperial style favored by the college's architects. At one end of the grand hall stood a throne carved from stone, its surface inlaid with runes and enchantments. Eddard took his seat upon the throne, though he did not feel the surge of power the actual seat at the college provided him.
It was here, in this grand hall, that Eddard had held court—first as Arch-Mage of the college, and later as Jarl of Winterhold. An appointment he had taken to heart, dedicating himself to rebuilding the ruined city of Winterhold. He had transformed it into a grand home not only for the Nords who lived there but also for refugees displaced from other parts of Skyrim. Most controversially, he had opened its doors to the other races of humans and non-humans whom the Nords of Skyrim held in such low regard. That had been a policy that sparked resentment, which Eddard sometimes suppressed with force and other times mitigated through careful compromises and diplomacy. After eighteen years as Jarl, Winterhold had become the envy of not only Skyrim but much of northern Tamriel, even rivaling the grandeur of Cyrodiil.
It was the city ruled and protected by the Dragonborn, and people came from across the continent to petition him or discuss matters of magic. In recent years, however, Eddard had spent only a few months of each year in Winterhold, leaving regents to rule the city in his stead. Now that he had returned to Westeros—likely never to return to Nirn for any significant length of time—the council of headmen and the assembly of citizens would likely rule in his place. A new Jarl, appointed by the High Queen, would be little more than a figurehead to be indulged and placated. Winterhold had become far too powerful and autonomous to ever be ruled so directly again—even by him, during the later part of his reign.
Eddard preferred it that way. Skyrim, and most of Tamriel for that matter, was not governed in the same way as the lordships of Westeros.
The dream shifted again, the grand hall of Winterhold dissolving into a murky haze. Eddard felt the familiar tug at the edges of his consciousness, the crow's presence clawing at his mind like a persistent itch just out of reach.
He sighed, his patience wearing thin. For three nights now, as he slept on the ship taking him north, this same pattern had repeated itself. The same dream, the same visitor. The crow's attempts to wrest control, the artificial fear it tried to impose, and the inevitable stalemate. It was all so... repetitive.
"Enough," Eddard spoke firmly, his voice echoing in the void. His eyes locked not on the crow but on the faint shadow it projected. "If you're so eager to confront me, show yourself. Stop hiding behind your familiar."
The crow cawed, its voice sharp and mocking, but it did not respond.
Eddard's irritation flared, and with a thought, he wove a barrier of pure magic around the dreamscape. The air shimmered as the barrier solidified, trapping the intruder within. The crow screeched, its form twisting and writhing as it struggled against the unseen force.
Then, with a burst of dark feathers, the crow transformed. In its place stood a man—tall and gaunt, with pale skin and a shock of white hair. A jagged scar ran across one of his eyes, now forever closed from the wound. The man's other eye was a startling blood-red color, glaring at Eddard with pure hatred.
Something seemed off about the appearance, and a little more application of magic revealed the man's most striking feature: a third eye embedded in his forehead, glowing faintly with an otherworldly light. Eddard studied the figure, a faint suspicion stirring in the back of his mind. His instincts told him there was something else there, something his honed senses weren't quite detecting.
Eddard subtly probed the creature's mind, and there was little doubt that what stood before him was more creature than man. He first looked for a name.
"Brynden Rivers," Eddard said quietly, keeping his voice calm.
The creature—Brynden—stiffened, their expression shifting from anger to shock. "How...?" Then the itching in Eddard's mind grew more annoying as the crow tried to invade his thoughts.
Eddard snorted aloud, rebuffing the attempt with the same ease he would push aside a child. It was no great feat when Eddard had long since endured worse scrutiny from whatever Daedra of the week decided to be mischievous.
Brynden's shock turned to fury, their third eye glowing brighter. "You dare mock me?" they spat. "You, who hoard this power for yourself? Since when have the Starks held such power in your lineage?! Since the conquest? Since the Long Night? And yet you would keep it all to yourselves?!"
Eddard raised an eyebrow, his amusement growing. "And what power would that be? The power to endure your endless prattling?"
Brynden's face twisted in rage. "Do not play the fool, Stark! You twisted that storm to your command with but a few words. And now that I have thought to look, you possess as much power as the kings and heroes of old!"
How would this creature know what powers the kings and heroes of old could have had? Eddard gave some small thought to the implications of being able to scry into the past unhindered. In his long study of magic, Eddard's few attempts to do such a thing had been met with a rather undignified teleportation into the realm of whatever Daedra he had managed to anger with his efforts.
"The songs, the promises!"
Eddard blinked as he realized Brynden was still talking. The creature was pacing now, raving about how Eddard had apparently ruined all of his carefully laid plans for the future. And then something else about his visions.
Some kind of future scrying, from what Eddard gathered from the half-coherent rant, as Brynden continued what he belatedly realized was a full-on breakdown. He half-wondered if he should release the creature and come back to talk to them when they were more composed and self-possessed.
"The Last Greenseer was meant to have been born of your line, a child who would wield the power to save us all. Now all of it is folly! When you wield all this power yourself."
Eddard's amusement faded, replaced by a cold feeling in his chest. He subtly wove a thread of magic into the air, encouraging Brynden's anger, coaxing more information from him. The man's ranting continued, his voice rising with each accusation.
"The prophecy was clear!" Brynden shouted. "A child of your line and the blood of the Tullys, who are affected by the Curse of Harren, born with the gift of greenseeing. He would have been the Last Greenseer, and the most powerful of us all!"
Eddard sharply interrupted. "My line, with that of the Tullys? But I was never meant for a marriage to Riverrun; that had been Brandon's duty."
Brynden froze, their mouth snapping shut. For a moment, the dreamscape was silent, the tension thick enough to cut with a blade. Then, slowly, Eddard's eyes narrowed.
"Did you arrange it?" Eddard asked, his voice still calm. "Did you orchestrate the deaths of my father and brother to force this... prophecy?"
It would not have been beyond the creature's abilities. Not with the ability to scry past events and visit men in their dreams.
Brynden's silence was answer enough.
Eddard should have been furious. Should have raged and destroyed the wretched creature before him. But the pain was numb by now, with twenty years of separation. Eddard could hardly recall the faces of family members anymore, much less muster the kind of rage this situation would have normally summoned.
Instead, he found himself remembering a long-ago childhood in Winterfell and the Eyrie, where the maesters had taught them to discard all talks of magic and sorcery. They would prescribe a dose of sweetsleep even to children who complained of strange or unclear dreams that lingered long after they had awoken. It made Eddard wonder if such traditions had been purposefully developed over the centuries to counter those with abilities like Brynden's.
"You have nothing to say?" Brynden said, seeming to grow angry again. "It was so easy to get that idiot brother of yours killed. Not when he had been so willing to charge headlong into the jaws of the dragons!"
Eddard considered the creature before him again. There had been something clawing at his instincts since the beginning of this meeting. A more forceful inquiry into the creature's mind revealed the truth.
"I was wrong," Eddard admitted wistfully. "It seems that crow of yours was no familiar after all. Instead, it was Brynden Rivers who had become the familiar of the three-eyed crow."
The creature in front of him froze again, their new tirade completely forgotten.
"Or am I wrong?" Eddard asked rhetorically.
"You are wrong—this is—" Brynden tried to say, only to be cut off as their body reformed into the crow.
From the very beginning, the magic Eddard had been sensing was astronomically older than Brynden's mere century of collected power. From there, it wasn't hard to figure out that Brynden had simply run afoul of something far more powerful than he was.
Eddard had even expected some kind of reaction when he called the creature out. He had been anticipating some other trick, something the creature would have picked up over its long lifespan.
Instead, the creature simply transformed back into a crow and flew straight toward him. The same thing it had done before. It was just going to try the one thing that it knew would never work.
Eddard resigned himself as the world turned back into the halls of Winterhold.
"Die. Die. Die."
Eddard had finally had enough. The barrier closed in, collapsing in on itself and sealing the creature within. The three-eyed crow tried to fight back, using what power it had to escape. Eddard had really expected the thing to fight back more, to try again to assert control over the dreamscape. But nothing of the sort happened, and Eddard watched dispassionately as the creature was crushed into nothing.
Eddard gave a long sigh. He wasn't even awake yet, and he was already this exhausted.
And then, he awoke on board a ship that had just finished docking in White Harbor.