Bloodraven – Beyond the Wall – 259 AC
The abomination was eight namedays old when it finally left Storm's End and the magical protection the fortress provided.
Trodding up the Kingsroad with its father, its brother, a gaggle of Stormlords, and a company of guards, it seemed the picture of a perfect child. It nodded dutifully along to war stories, laughed when appropriate, and indulged in mischief that was charming rather than vexing.
To any casual observer, there was nothing amiss. Yet a closer look revealed the truth of the monstrosity's nature.
An unnatural intelligence shone behind its Baratheon-blue eyes. It cavorted and discussed complex topics no child should know with half-maesters and other learned and lettered men, though it kept well away from the maesters themselves.
Its illusion of childhood fractured entirely when one witnessed its discipline—something no child should possess.
It ran for hours in heavy training armor. It wrestled and traded fisticuffs with youths several years older than the body it inhabited. It trained with a shortbow until its fingers were raw, even practicing ahorse. It practiced with sword, hammer, and dagger, relentlessly pestering seasoned warriors for instruction. With dogged persistence, it drilled its off hand as well.
It all but begged to be squired under Ser Barristan Selmy, as if knowing of the currently young and untested tourney knight's future. Due to its tender age, it was taken in only as a page, but it listened so intently to his advice that it discomforted the bold knight, until he accepted it as the thing's eccentricities and taught his diligent student all he knew of footwork, positioning, armor weak points, and more.
It subjected its small—though large for a child—frame to endless bodily exertions as well: squatting, pushing, pulling, driving itself until its limbs trembled and sweat poured down its face.
All of it formed a grueling routine that lasted for hours, one few of even the most diligent knights would willingly endure. Yet the thing wearing the skin of an eight-nameday-old boy repeated it nearly every day, clinging to the regimen with desperate zeal, like a sailor grasping driftwood in a hostile sea.
The man of many names—Kinslayer, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, Hand of the King, Bloodraven, the Three-Eyed Crow—Brynden Rivers leaned forward in spirit, molding and projecting his thoughts into the abomination's mind. The distance between them, compounded by the Wall's ancient magic, forced him to exert himself in a way he had not for many years.
Free from Storm's End's fortress at last, his effort bore fruit—or rather, planted a seed.
Through dreams, a small, quiet desire was placed within the thing's mind: a yearning to see the godswood of the Red Keep, for all of Bloodraven's power, attempting possession or even a true meeting of minds would be too great a risk without a proper connection.
The faintest brush against the creature's mind sent shivers crawling down Brynden's spine, just as they had on the night of its birth—a day he remembered like few others.
Like most days in the Stormlands, it had been raining heavily, thunder and lightning crackling within dark, gathered clouds. His distant kin, Rhaelle Targaryen, labored for hours while her husband, Ormund Baratheon, went out to hunt. Steffon Baratheon, still a child, was kept busy by the maester so as not to disturb his parents.
All in all, it was little different from any other birth, save for one glaring issue: Brynden did not dream of it.
While small details still slipped past his mortal gaze, he would certainly remember the birth of the son of a Lord Paramount and a Targaryen princess—especially if that princess died giving birth to a second son.
But there were no dreams—past, present, or future—of the boy.
Only a pitch-black void, like a tear into the realm of greenseers itself. The boy's soul was shrouded in a darkness so absolute it seemed to blind those who looked upon it, obscuring his destiny from Brynden's sight.
If that were not enough to reveal the thing's true nature, it shattered the world with its first scream.
Plans thousands of years in the making were undone. The Song of Ice and Fire, once clear to greenseers, priests, and woodwitches alike, became discordant and twisted with every breath the babe took.
Then it snapped.
From Lonely Light to Asshai, all those knowledgeable in the arcane felt it like a sword thrust through their unguarded backs. Brynden felt it far more keenly than most. He cried as all his sacrifice and machinations turned to dust, for the Song of Ice and Fire was broken. There was now no path to guide humanity—only darkness.
He had decided then and there that he would meet the thing responsible, no matter what, and determine whether it required preparation or punishment for its role in the Long Night.
Though those might be one and the same, Brynden grimly mused, his red, ruby-filled eye glinting menacingly from the weirwood-tree-ridden husk his body had become.
Steffon Baratheon – King's Landing – 259 AC
Remembering his father's words to comport himself well, Steffon Baratheon held back his excitement at seeing his friends again soon. He valiantly resisted the urge to push his horse into a faster pace as the procession slowly made its way toward the Red Keep.
It had been moons since he had last walked its halls, his fostering with Tywin Lannister and Prince Aerys Targaryen interrupted by his brother's nameday and an extended stay at Storm's End with their father.
The Kingsroad narrowed into the city streets, and the noise swelled around them. The sides of the road were packed shoulder to shoulder with smallfolk pouring out of homes and shops alike, craning their necks to gawk at the passing Stormlords and Baratheon banners snapping in the wind.
The smell hit him next—shit and sweat, tanneries and too many people packed too tightly together—but Steffon had long since learned to ignore it.
A sudden cheer erupted behind him, loud enough to cut through the ever-present hum of the city.
Steffon whipped his head around, already knowing what he would see. His younger brother by five namedays, Theoden, rode with an easy grin, utterly unfazed by the stench wafting thick through the air.
He laughed as he tossed handfuls of copper stars into the crowd, every so often mixing in a silver stag. Children scrambled in the dirt, grown men shouted blessings, and women waved as if the boy were a conquering hero returned from war.
Smirking despite himself, Steffon tugged gently on the reins and slowed his horse until he pulled up beside his brother.
"Really, Theoden," he said, pitching his voice low enough that only the two of them could hear. "If you keep giving out your coins like water, you'll soon find none left for yourself—assuming you're not robbed first."
Theoden glanced back at him, still smiling.
It was the first genuine smile he had worn since their father had ordered him to attend court. He had been sullen and sharp-tongued ever since Ormund Baratheon had announced they were going to King's Landing. Theoden had dismissed the city as "a cesspool of shit, people and streets both," and announced no desire to step foot in it.
Their father had barked out a hearty laugh at that, right before grabbing Theoden by the scruff of the neck and threatening to tan his hide like the child he was if he disobeyed.
Steffon's own smile faltered as another memory surfaced—one of the true reasons Theoden had resisted the journey so fiercely. For reasons Steffon had never fully understood, his brother believed Prince Aerys to be some sort of lurking degenerate monster.
He had insulted the prince outright, mocking Steffon's choice of companions and calling him idiotic.
The argument had ended with days of stony silence between them, broken only when their father dragged them both into the yard and beat them purple until they were forced to work together just to stay on their feet. Reconciliation had followed.
Steffon could admit that Aerys Targaryen was far from the ideal prince—vain, callous, and lecherous—but he was also clever, generous, the heir's heir to the Iron Throne, and their blood cousin besides. More importantly, he had been a loyal friend.
Steffon had never understood Theoden's discomfort around him, and if he was honest, it unsettled him.
In truth, he was closer to the prince than he was to his own blood brother. Childhood resentment—blaming him for their mother's death in childbirth—followed by a fostering in King's Landing when Steffon was old enough to know better, had seen to an amiable but nevertheless distant and cool relationship between them.
Theoden finished handing out coins, waved a final farewell to the crowd, and turned his attention fully on his elder brother.
"It costs me little," Theoden said lightly, "and the smallfolk's good favor is never a bad thing to have."
Steffon shook his head, as he so often did where his strange little brother was concerned.
It was true that the amount Theoden had passed out was nothing to him, for besides his sizable allowance, he also drew a substantial income from his paper shop, inns, and gods knew what other businesses.
While Father was discomfited by a noble son acting like a merchant and counting coppers, Theoden's martial efforts in the yard, coupled with his delegation of the day-to-day management of those businesses to others, eased his mind.
Steffon glanced ahead, and his gaze caught on Ormund Baratheon.
Their father rode tall and broad-backed, the wind tugging at his cloak. His stormy eyes were fixed on Theoden, and something in them made Steffon's chest tighten. It was a look he recognized well—but one rarely directed at him.
Pride.
A lump formed in Steffon's throat. Deliberately, he forced down the surge of jealousy that threatened to rise and poison the moment. He told himself it was foolish. There was more than enough pride to go around.
Soon they passed through the Red Keep's gates themselves. The servants and most of the guards parted as the grooms led away their horses. Father beckoned Steffon and Theoden to fall in at his sides, and together they made their way toward the throne room.
With nary a creak, the well-oiled doors swung open, and the herald's loud voice boomed.
"Entering, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, Lord Ormund Baratheon, and his two sons, Steffon and Theoden Baratheon."
The herald continued to announce the trailing Stormlords, names like Lord Barristan rolling off his tongue, but Steffon barely heard them. Even after so many visits, the throne room never failed to awe him.
The Iron Throne sat at the far end of the hall, jagged and imposing, with enormous dragon skulls displayed along the walls—reminders of the Targaryens' power.
Seated upon the throne was the commanding figure of King Aegon the Unlikely. Below him sat Queen Betha Blackwood, calm and observant, and at the King's side stood Ser Duncan the Tall, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, his golden armor gleaming.
Steffon felt that familiar mix of reverence and intimidation as he took them in.
Unfazed, Ormund Baratheon knelt to greet the King. The King japed that he had arrived just in time, for in a few days they were set to depart on a retreat to Summerhall. He quickly bade them rise and stepped them aside, promising to share luncheon with them to properly welcome them as family.
Theoden's face was curiously pale.
The King met his and Steffon's gaze, and his eyes grew a bit wet. Steffon knew what the King was thinking.
His grandsire, when he was in his cups, would oft lament about his daughter—Steffon's mother, Rhaelle. My only dutiful child, he would slur, and in return the most bitter and dead as well.
Glancing around the room, Steffon's mood fell when he learned from a courtier that both Tywin and Aerys were at Dragonstone and would not return for another week.
After hours of tedious petitions—from smallfolk, merchants, and whining nobles, which only Theoden and the King seemed interested in—the court was dismissed, and they were invited to join the King.
Theoden was unusually nervous and muttered about Summerhall of all things before he seemed to steel his resolve in preparation for something—then suddenly his neck snapped sharply to the right.
Theoden asked leave of Father to go to the privy. Father acquiesced but demanded he not be late.
Steffon knew the importance his father placed on that day's talks. Ormund meant to make King Aegon recognize the growing threat of Maelys Blackfyre and his allies, the Band of Nine, who were fattening themselves on conquest in the Disputed Lands—conquests that seemed preparation for Westeros. And if Westeros were invaded, it would be through the Stormlands first. Their lands.
Theoden walked away quickly—but not toward the privies.
No. He was heading toward the godswood.
Steffon followed at a distance, unsettled by his usually mature brother's uncharacteristic behavior.
Nothing could have prepared him for what he found.
Laid on his back at the base of the heart tree, Theoden was bleeding from every orifice on his face. Blood poured from his eyes, nose, and ears in steady streams, his eyes an eerie milky white, no pupil in sight.
Steffon screamed for help and rushed forward, flinching as he grasped his brother's hand.
Theoden was as cold as ice.
The Grand Maester arrived with Father and the King, but none could determine what was wrong, and no matter how Father raged, nothing could be done.
It was with Theoden still on his sickbed that the King and most of his family departed for Summerhall, while Steffon and Father remained behind with Jaehaerys II Targaryen and his wife ruling in the King's stead.
On the very same day a raven arrived bearing news of the Tragedy of Summerhall—Steffon mourning the family he had lost and the losses suffered by his friend Aerys—Theoden awoke, two weeks after first falling into his deathlike sleep.
Eyes bloodshot red, dark sunken circles beneath them, and more than a few abnormal gray hairs threaded through his coal-black Baratheon hair, Theoden stirred.
His eyes had always seemed unchildlike. Now they held a twisted intensity that unnerved everyone who met his gaze.
Father spoke with Theoden in private and emerged shaken and sad. He pulled Steffon aside.
"I've no idea what your brother saw while he slept," Ormund said quietly, "but it changed him. Changed him in a bad way. I've seen that look in a man's eyes many times before. It's the look of someone who's seen war—seen the worst of humanity. I don't know if it's childhood nightmares," he snorted at the word, for there was little childlike about Theoden, "or his mother's Targaryen blood manifesting itself—but you'd best be gentle. Look out for your brother."
Steffon nodded, then gasped as understanding struck him.
"You think Theoden's a dreamer?"
"Aye," Ormund said grimly.
He left to take up his new duties as Hand of the King and to prepare Westeros for war, for King Jaehaerys II seemed far more receptive to meeting the Blackfyres in the field.
Steffon was left behind with a whirl of thoughts.
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Next chapter we will see what Bloodraven got up to in our SI Theoden's head.
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