Bloodraven – Theoden's Mindscape – 259 AC
So it's back to vomiting again, Brynden Rivers thought, ignoring the harrowing, intermingled sounds of Theoden Baratheon's wracked sobs, wretched screams, and explosive retching.
Theoden's comportment had been admirable enough these past few months, but Brynden had always known this break was inevitable. Seeing the Rape of the Three Sisters unsettled even him, and Brynden was long past squeamishness.
The sights of the past that were now fully displayed before the last greenseer, and the consciousness he had forcibly dragged along for the ride, were bleak beyond words.
Children cooked alive in pots. Disemboweled men, their entrails draped across spits. The bloody execution of three thousand captured warriors in a single day. Belthasar Bolton's so-called Pink Pavilion, woven from the flayed skins of a hundred Sistermen. And, of course, the countless rapes that had given the atrocity its name.
The tragedy played again and again on endless repeat, Brynden hauling Theoden's floating consciousness behind him, forcing him to witness every angle of the slaughter.
He dragged the boy from one corner of the carnage to the next until, at last, Theoden could stare upon the horrors before him and react no more than a man faced with an unpleasant meal or an irritating fly.
Then the vision shattered.
The world reshaped itself into Brynden's preferred mental landscape, the Realm Above. The entirety of Westeros sprawled beneath them, vast and living, like a map breathed into existence.
The sky and earth trembled briefly as Theoden struggled to break free. As with every attempt before, it earned him nothing but a bleeding nose, a splitting headache, and deeper exhaustion.
Theoden glared at Brynden with naked loathing. It changed nothing.
Distantly, Brynden felt sweat coursing down his true body, bound in the weirwoods beyond the Wall. His strength was waning and his time was growing short.
It hasn't been nearly enough training, he thought grimly.
But he knew it would have to suffice for when he let Theoden's mind go he knew it would be impossible to latch onto again, for a prepared mind that knew its foe was near impossible to enter.
Outside the mindscape, Theoden's body had lain in a coma for about one week. Within his mind, however, over three years had passed since their first meeting.
When Brynden had first torn the thing's mind from its body to confront it, he had realized at once that it was not an it at all, but a human.
After switching through multiple forms—one how the Baratheon boy's body currently looked, another a completely different looking grown man, and the last an amalgamation of the two--- Bryden forcibly settled the boy down into how his body looked.
Its soul was not the twisted, devouring darkness he had sensed at birth. It was ordinary.
Mostly.
Queer, certainly. The soul felt far older than the boy's body suggested, and stranger still, it shielded the boy's mind and past, present, and future from all attempts at scrying. No matter how Brynden strained Theoden remained hidden.
Brynden had met souls older than their bodies many times, he himself was such a creature, but never one so utterly ignorant of the arcane and yet protected in a way he had never felt before.
He had demanded answers countless times throughout their brutal tutelage. Each time, he received the same infuriating non-answer, evidently false from the way it was always delivered with either a broad smirk or a mockingly solemn expression:
"It's a trick I picked up from some Tibetan monks."
After recognizing the boy's humanity, Brynden revisited his earlier choice, preparation or punishment.
Yet with Theoden refusing to speak of the Song of Ice and Fire, of how his birth had shattered it, insisting that he would explain nothing "while being held hostage and having his mind raped," Brynden had resorted to a mixture of the two.
A heavy-handed mixture.
He had trained the boy on his terms and his terms alone. For who else was better suited to know how to protect the realms of men? Had he not been Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, Hand of the King, the last greenseer—one who knew the past and future alike?
He steadfastly ignored the fact that gnawed at him: he did not know of Theoden.
Brynden's methods consisted of hurling the boy's mind through the full breadth of Westerosi history—its greatest battles, its most horrific sacks, the shadowed corridors of ancient political treachery and maneuvering.
The boy lived through all of the Hungry Wolf's many many wars, hundreds of sea battles, most between the Ironborn and the noble houses that littered the western coast of Westeros. He had observed Otto Hightower's machinations throughout the Dance and the actions of a hundred Hands and a hundred Kings, some good, some great, many bad.
The boy was shown much and more besides.
He had realized early on that for all Theoden's bravado and frankly insane intelligence, or rather more aptly put knowledge, his soul was soft and his mind fragile.
When shown truly gruesome sights, the boy cycled through emotions in violent succession—retching, raging, weeping, despairing—before forcing himself to endure. Sometimes with Brynden's aid. More often, especially later, on his own.
Bryden did not relent and like a smith purifying steel he used these horrible visions from history like a hammer to purify Theoden's soul from weakness, from his paragon like and quite frankly asinine morality, from his fears be they battle, death, the pox, and the seemingly endless other things he feared.
And it worked.
He had called the boy 'boy' not because of his age, for though his years could not match up to his own Theoden was clearly grown, but because he had not earned it for though he was a male in Bryden's eyes he was not a man.
But slowly but surely the boy became a man. Hard-eyed in battle, grim faced in justice, and unshakable no matter what was shown even if it was literally a continent shattering, like during the Hammer of the Waters. It was almost enough to make Bryden smile. Almost.
Then all the progress came crashing down when Bryden pushed too far.
Wanting to correct one of the boy's more dangerous assumptions—that the Others numbered only in the tens and their wight army perhaps in the high tens or low hundreds of thousands, and that a mere Faceless Man could kill them—Bryden showed Theoden the far worse reality.
It had not been a true memory—no sane greenseer willingly placed their consciousness near the Others—but a conjured image. A small difference to one without arcane knowledge.
Arrayed for Theoden to see, though difficult to count, were the near a thousand Others, horrible in sight and with eldritch power wafting off of them, and the more than three million wights—remnants of ancient First Men hosts, free folk, members of the Night's Watch, giants, direwolves, mammoths, ice spiders, and countless other beasts. All preserved by the cold, dark sorcery of the Others and the cold of Lands of Always Winter.
After that Theoden fell into a dark, somber stillness. His mood stood in stark contrast to his usual relentless japing and insults, even if that was clearly an effort to distract himself from the carnage he routinely witnessed.
He became catatonic for a week doing nothing and saying nothing.
Brynden did not regret showing the sight for it showed the truth of their predicament and what he was preparing Theoden to face. He also knew that he had shown it, at least in part, to demonstrate to Theoden just how catastrophically his birth had unraveled the Song of Ice and Fire and therefore the world as well.
A corner of his heart whispered that he had shown it to also justify his actions to Theoden.
To prove the necessity of his cruelty and relentless ruthlessness, for hardened though his heart was by decades of killing, kinslaying, and the weight of forbidden knowledge, it still pricked him to see his distant kin despise him so utterly.
And despise him Theoden Baratheon did, insulting him day in and day out.
A darker corner of his heart whispered he had shown him the sight as a punishment .
Especially for the insult that threatened to break the stoic resolve built up from decades of solitude: Cuck-raven.
It had taken showing him the best of history instead of the worst to bring him back from the darkness he had entered. Theoden was shown the most pure of love, both familial and romantic, the bravery and sacrifice of man, the beauty of nature, and much more.
Theoden had cried for an hour when shown his father, Ormund, and his brother, Steffon, labouring over his comatose body, feeding and cleaning it gently, and the many smallfolk he helped praying for him earnestly.
And when Bryden whispered four words he knew that not only was Theoden back but that he was back stronger than ever.
"Do it for them".
– – –
Theoden tried to swing his conjured hammer up into the jaw of the conjured King Tristifer IV Mudd, also known as the Hammer of Justice and the man who won ninety-nine battles and killed hundreds with his hammer.
Seeing his last strike be dodged Theoden lowered his head and utilized his small physique and the gap left from Tristifer's wide counterstrike to brutally chop at its knee. It shattered with the conjured image falling upon the broken knee. The fake pain shown on its face quickly faded as it was smashed into nothingness when Theoden's hammer met its head.
Bryden nodded in appreciation. Theoden's form was a world's difference smoother and better than when he first started, and he started off quite well.
If matched against each other again and again, due to strength and height differences Bryden would give two out of ten fights to Theoden, though ten out of ten if Theoden was fully grown unlike now.
After six minds-time years of non-stop learning from the best First Men fighters, Andal knights, and Rhoynish warriors Theoden's fighting style became a deadly amalgamation made for dealing death and dealing death fast.
Mentally wiping away the fatigue usually placed upon Theoden when he fought to stimulate a real fight Bryden spoke.
"It's time."
Theoden simply raised an eyebrow at that, the rest of his visage as smooth and unreadable as stone, before replying.
"It's time for what exactly? To teach me warging or let me free?"
"Both."
Theoden scowled at that.
"You know the enemy I face. You know I need every advantage I can and you deny me the proper time to teach me how to warg," he said his voice crackling with restrained fury, "Why? Is it because you fear what I will do to you when I learn it?"
"Yes," Bryden said simply for even as their relationship grew closer it was still taut like one would expect from captor and captive.
Elaborating Bryden continued, "You need not fear for warging should come easy to you. You know it exists and bear the blood of the gods through Elenei, the daughter of the sea god and the goddess of the wind. You bear the blood of First Men Kings through Durran Godsgrief as well. You also have the blood of countless Andal warlords and quite the amount of dragonsblood from House Targaryen most recently from your mother. There is power in blood and more power in king's blood. You have the blood and it is quite powerful evident from the fact you were able to shake my mindscape without any training. All that you are missing is acclaim."
"Acclaim," Theoden queried.
"Yes. A magic hating eunuch was more than right when he said power resides where men believe it does. Kings are nothing more than men acclaimed as such. As a person forges their path, the more noted—admired or despised—they become, the more their power grows, provided they know how to wield it. If one lacks acclaim, then they must sacrifice someone who has it, whose ancestor had it, or many others who do not as the Bloodbinders of Asshai do."
"And do you not fear that I will quickly gain acclaim when I'm free, no small part thanks to you?" Theoden asked.
"Nay. In fact, I hope for it," Brynden replied. "Without the power of blood and belief, one would be swiftly overwhelmed by the magic of the Others and quake in terror."
"I thank you for the explanation," Theoden said evenly, "but you and I both know the threat I face is unlike any other. No matter how powerful my blood is, or how much acclaim I gain, without arcane knowledge it will be useless. I also know this is the last day you can hold me. You offhandedly mentioned that the maximum time you could keep me was two weeks in the realm of men, and that time in the mind distorted from a week to three years. Today is the final day of the sixth year. Which means it's my final day."
Brynden waved a hand lazily, as if brushing aside all of Theoden's concerns.
"Even after all you have seen, your perception remains shallow," he said. "I will simply imprint my lessons on warging upon you through your dreams, alongside some of the better battles, enough to ensure you do not forget your purpose as a weapon against the Others, and that you do not rust."
Theoden's face was dark with rage and his fingers twitched at the mention that his dreams would be plagued by battle just as his life had been for the past six years. To Bryden he looked half a second from swearing a blood oath to end him.
"If you wish to rid yourself of the dreams," Brynden added calmly, and more quickly than he liked, "all you need do is gain acclaim and arcane knowledge. Quite simple."
"Yes. Quite simple," Theoden sarcastically drawled, though he looked far less agitated than before.
"It should be over quickly enough if you become a king," Brynden continued. "You are one brother and a handful of weak Targaryens away from the succession. Jaehaerys II is frail and will die soon. Aerys is unstable. Steffon too mild. Rhaegar is both mad and a babe besides. Aerys and Steffon will soon go to war, places well suited for accidents, and babes die all the time."
"There is no need for me to become a kinslayer like you," Theoden replied coldly. "I can forge my own path without stepping over a brother I quite like."
Brynden had not expected a different answer, but he smiled at the irony. Theoden called him kinslayer without even feigning outrage at the suggestion of Aerys's death, his own blood cousin.
"And where else will you find acclaim so quickly, young Theo?" Brynden asked.
Theoden scowled at the nickname, created without his leave, before answering with a single word that brought a savage smile to Brynden's lips.
"Astapor."
With a resounding clap that shook the very fabric of the mindscape, Brynden rose, floating above Theoden's form.
"Farewell, Theoden," he said. "Distant kinsman of mine. I hope your aversion to kinslaying extends to me as well—though I doubt it. And do not be surprised by the grey hairs that have accumulated from the horrors you've seen."
As his mind was pulled back toward his own body for the first time in what felt like an eternity, Theoden's face bore an expression of bliss. He broke it only to smirk up at Brynden.
"I have some surprising last words for you as well," he said. "Shiera Seastar is alive in the east. She must be lonely. I'll fix that for you."
Theoden roared with outrageous laughter, the first time he had done so since they met, at the gobsmacked expression Brynden must have worn. Burning with curiosity, Brynden tried to speak—
But the mindscape collapsed and they awoke in their bodies.
One in the lands beyond the Wall.
The other in the Red Keep.
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Next chapter will be a Barristain Selmy Pov going to war with Theoden to end the Ninepenny Kings.
To clarify, since I don't want to bait anyone, no the MC doesn't want to actually sleep with the blood witch Shiera just to get back at Bloodraven. He's just ragebating.
Comments make the author happy.