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77: The Son of Ice and Fire, Scrying the Past III pt.1
🕑 Added 2024-10-11 19:00:14 +0000 UTC"Why do you always pull me into this when I'm with a woman?" Maekar demanded, his voice sharp with annoyance as he found himself standing in the familiar dreamscape. He turned his gaze to the cloaked figure standing near the lake—Brynden Rivers, known to many as Bloodraven.
The one-eyed sorcerer turned to him, his narrow red eye seeming to pierce through Maekar.
"The Lannister?" Brynden's voice carried an edge, almost like an accusation.
Maekar let out an exasperated breath. "Are you trying to shame me?" he snapped, rolling his eyes.
Brynden shook his head, his expression cold and unreadable. "I only hope you know what you're doing," he replied. "And that it's not just your cock thinking for you."
Maekar snorted, barely containing his irritation. "I know exactly what I'm doing, old man. Cersei resents her father, and I’ve been fanning those flames since she arrived."
Brynden’s expression didn’t soften. His lone eye regarded Maekar with doubt. "And do you truly believe that your plan to kill her son will be the tipping point?" he asked, his voice low, almost a warning.
Maekar nodded, his expression hardening. "It must happen by Gerold’s hand, and I have my plans for how to make that happen."
Bloodraven’s single eye seemed to widen for a brief moment, flickering with something between surprise and fury. "That is forbidden," Brynden said, his voice cold and commanding.
"Forbidden?" Maekar's lips curled into a mocking smile. "Since when did you start having rules?"
For a long, tense moment, the two men stared at each other. The ghost of a man from long before, and his young apprentice.
Brynden's face twisted, and he said nothing, only turned his back to Maekar.
"Show me what you wanted me to see," Maekar finally said, frustration still bubbling in his tone. "Let me worry about everything else."
Brynden's head inclined slightly, and the dreamscape began to shift. The mist around them darkened, and the lake, the forest, and the distant mountains all blurred together, reforming into a new image.
Maekar blinked as the ground beneath his feet seemed to soften, and he realized he was standing in a grove of ancient weirwood trees.
The air was filled with the unmistakable moans of a woman. Maekar furrowed his brow in confusion. It was the unmistakable sound of... sex.
"The hell?" Maekar murmured, turning his head to locate the source. He turned in a circle, trying to see through the thick canopy of leaves. His eyes landed on a spot where the noise was growing louder, more frenzied.
"Look behind you," Brynden’s voice was calm.
Maekar turned around and spotted them.
A large, muscular man with long, wild dark hair lay on the ground beneath one of the weirwoods, his bare chest heaving with each breath. A woman straddled him, her pale skin almost luminescent in the dim light, her black hair cascading down her back, bouncing with each of her forceful movements. Her hands gripped his shoulders tightly, her fingers digging into his flesh as she rode him with wild abandon, her moans echoing through the air.
The man's muscular body flexed with each thrust, his powerful hips driving upward to meet her downward strokes. Maekar could see the glistening wetness coating his thick shaft as it slid in and out of her, stretching her tight cunt with each forceful stroke. The woman's ass was firm and round, her cheeks rippling with the impact of her movements, her pale skin contrasting sharply with the dark hair that brushed against her lower back.
The man's hands gripped her hips, guiding her movements, his fingers digging into her soft flesh as he urged her on. The woman's body arched against him, her breasts bouncing with each movement as she clung to him, her moans turning into cries of pleasure.
Maekar looked at the couple for a long, stunned moment. "Is this...?" He turned back to Brynden, an amused expression on his face. "Is this how you spy on me as well, you old pervert?" He barked a laugh.
Brynden's gaze remained flat. He rolled his one good eye. "Watch," he simply said, ignoring the jibe.
Maekar turned back, his expression shifting from amusement to curiosity. "Who are they?" he asked, eyes narrowing as he took in the scene before him. Something about the man seemed familiar, though Maekar couldn’t quite place it.
Brynden spoke slowly. "The man is Brandon, known as the Bloody Blade, youngest son of Garth Greenhand."
Maekar's eyes widened in shock. "That Brandon? As in... Brandon the Builder's father?" he muttered, looking back at the muscled figure with new interest.
Bloodraven nodded. "The very same."
Maekar's eyes narrowed further, his gaze drifting to the woman. "And her? Who is she?"
"The daughter of the last of the Old Kings," Brynden said. His voice took on a strange, almost reverent note. "Unaffected by the curse of their fall."
Maekar's mind raced. "Wait. Are you saying... this woman is Brandon the Builder's mother?"
Bloodraven gave a small nod.
"The literal birth of House Stark..." Maekar muttered, his voice filled with awe. He looked back at Brynden, incredulous. "Are you telling me I’m watching the conception of Brandon the Builder?"
"Yes," Brynden answered, his tone devoid of any emotion. "You are."
"Well, this is certainly something..." Maekar said.
Brynden began to walk away and Maekar followed.
"Brandon, hearing stories of the wars with the Old Kings, came north seeking adventure. During his time here, he met and fell in love with the last daughter of the uncorrupted line of the Old Kings.”
Maekar raised an eyebrow, a hint of sarcasm coloring his tone. "Well, that's nice, I suppose. True love and all that."
Brynden, however, wasn't smiling. "And a betrayal," he said.
"Betrayal?" Maekar eyed Brynden, who was almost statuesque in his stillness. "What betrayal are you talking about?"
"The breaking of the Pact with the Others," Brynden said, his tone turning grave.
The scene before them changed and flickered into focus—an ancient battlefield, a place where mountains met endless snow-covered plains. The skies above were darkened, and the horizon was filled with unnatural lights. The Others, cold and deadly, moved among the fallen, their pale blue eyes glowing as they hunted. Men and women, with bronze and bone armor, fought against the icy forms.
"The daughter of the last Old King, bound by magic and ancient power, brokered a fragile peace. She brought hope for an end to centuries of bloodshed between her kin and the First Men. But her love for Brandon, son of Garth Greenhand, led to a betrayal—at least in the eyes of the Others. They saw it as an insult, as a mingling of their blood with that of their enemies."
Maekar watched as the battlefield seemed to stretch on forever, men and women battling the ice-wielding warriors in desperate defense. He could feel the cold air in his lungs, the biting wind cutting at his skin. He turned to Brynden, realization dawning in his eyes.
“What followed was not merely just a war…," Brynden said.
"The Long Night," Maekar said softly, watching the chaos unfold.
"Brandon and his wife had two children—a daughter and then a son," Brynden continued the story.
"A daughter?" Maekar looked surprised. "The Builder had a sister?"
"Yes," Brynden nodded, his expression thoughtful. "They grew up amidst the darkness of the war. And soon the conflict spread south."
Maekar watched Brandon the Builder, his hands guiding others as they constructed massive stone fortifications. Nearby, a blonde man with sharp eyes led daring raids, his cunning evident as he set traps and outwitted the Others.
"Lann the Clever," Brynden said.
He then saw another figure, a man with dark hair standing before the crashing waves, a defiant look on his face as the wind whipped at his cloak.
"Durran Godsgrief," Brynden added.
Maekar saw two more warriors, their swords glinting even in the dim, unnatural twilight, holding the line against the advancing Others.
"Uther Hightower and Arlan Dayne," Brynden said.
"But even all their valor, all their strength and cunning, wasn't enough," Brynden said, his tone darkening.
Maekar turned to Brynden. "This is where Azor Ahai comes in, isn't it?"
A faint smile appeared on Brynden's lips. "In a way, yes."
The dreamscape shifted once again. This time, Maekar found himself standing before two figures. One was unmistakably Brandon the Builder, older now. Beside him stood a young man with Valyrian features—silver-gold hair and piercing gray eyes that Maekar recognized instantly.
"Who is he?" Maekar asked, intrigued by the young man's presence.
"This is Eldric, Brandon's nephew," Brynden said.
Maekar blinked. The name rang in his mind like a bell. "Eldric... Eldric?" He frowned, confused. "Why does that name sound so familiar?"
Brynden gave a small smile, the lines on his ancient face deepening. "We shall return here soon, but first, there are other things you must see."
Maekar looked at him, curious.
Brynden's gaze became more serious, his expression somber. "The Long Night did not happen only here, in Westeros. It was a cataclysmic event that took place across the known world. The Great Other had champions—like the Old Kings he corrupted."
Brynden's eye met his, and he simply said, "The East awaits."
