A shuddering gasp tore through Brynden Rivers. His body, a skeletal thing of pale skin and blue lips, jerked against the woven roots of the weirwood that held him. For a moment, his hollow eyes darted through the cavern, as if searching for a dream already torn away. But it had not been a dream. The weirwood had shown him. The Heart tree had whispered of something shifting, something breaking.
He pressed his bony hands against the damp roots, feeling them pulse as if alive. The ancient wood that had been his prison and yet his sustenance for a hundred years that now tightened around him, as though to wring him dry.
A noise escaped his throat, low and rasping. "Come. Come to me."
Soft feet padded against stone. The shadows at the edge of the cavern rippled, and from them came the children of the forest, their golden eyes glimmering in the faint torchlight. Leaf was among them, her small face solemn and ageless constant for millennia.
Brynden, famously known in Westeros as Bloodraven, crooked a finger, his voice trembling. "Help me, please. Loosen the roots. I… I can feel them… suffocating. I need more time."
Leaf's expression did not change. "More time? For what, kinslayer?" Her voice was soft, but each word landed like arrows. "The gods gave you time already. They plucked you from death's grasp. They set you in root and snow, bound to their song. Yet you betrayed them."
The other children whispered in their tongue, a chorus like rustling leaves. Brynden's withered lips trembled. "No. I did not betray. I only… I only chose another path. I saw the boy, the Stark. I thought Bran would be one who could stand as king, who could unite what must be united. The North. The realm. The…"
Leaf's voice cut through him. "The bargain was clear. You were spared not to crown kings. You were spared to serve the Prince That Was Promised, to guide him in the war for the dawn. Yet you meddled. You twisted visions. You sought to shape futures that were not yours to command."
Brynden's breath rattled in his chest. "I can still serve. I can still help him. The prince Jo... Aemon. I see him now, clearer than before. I will aid him, help him with the wars to come, I swear it."
The children moved closer, small as children but old as these ancient trees themselves. Leaf shook her head slowly, strands of dark hair brushing her narrow shoulders.
"We know your nature, Brynden Rivers. You swore oaths before, and broke them. You were spared once. You will not be spared again."
His mouth worked soundlessly, fury and desperation twisting his ruined face. "You cannot! I am the last greenseer, the last of your hope. Without me, you are nothing but whispers in hollow trees…"
The roots shuddered, groaned. The cavern's air grew thick, heavy, humming with unseen power. The weirwood tightened, a slow, merciless embrace. Brynden let out a cry feeling his ribs crushing his heart and lungs, thin arms straining against the wood.
The children sang then—low, mournful, in the tongue of First Men, the Old Tongue long forgotten. Their voices were not cruel, but relentless as river. Brynden Rivers, albino bastard of Aegon IV, kinslayer and sorcerer, screamed as the roots pierced deeper, drinking what little life remained. His body convulsed, his eyes rolled white, and at last, the cavern fell still. Only the weeping of the tree roots could be heard, a slow and wet.
Leaf bowed her head. "The gods take back their gift."
In a cold cave upon a forgotten island, far to the north, beneath a jagged isle, the earth began to shudder. A low, deep rumble rolled through the dark, splitting ancient stones apart. A massive shape stirred in the dark, scales grinding against stone. She was a dragon, long forgotten in history, and as she opened her eyes, she drew a breath and for the first time since her birth, she felt something new, a sensation that brought elation to her very bones.
A bond with Someone, her once-dull gaze now gleaming with fire.
Her old skin began to shed, scales cracking and peeling away like dried clay. Beneath, new armor gleamed in hues unseen before, not gold nor bronze, but a deep, iridescent crimson laced with streaks of white silver. She stretched her wings, tearing loose stone from the cavern roof, and let out a roar that shook the seas. It was not a cry of hunger or wrath, but of pure and deep joy.
Her fire would now belong to him.
Far from Westeros, in the a room of smoke and shadow, a woman sat in front of the mirror, black candles burning by the stand. The room shelves filled with ancient tomes and parchments and the air heavy with the stench of strange herbs. On her face was a smooth wooden mask lacquered red as blood. She lifted it slowly from her face, revealing a heart shaped stunning face and hair that shimmered silver in the dim light.
Her head turned, as though she had felt something carried by the wind across oceans, something only she could sense. Her lips curved into a slow, knowing smile.
"Welcome, my king," she whispered, her voice sweet as Arbor gold.
The flames and shadow before her danced, as though in answer.