Castle Black, many long years after the ranging that claimed a thousand lives.
Snowflakes drifted past the high black walls. In the warmth of the maester's quarters, a fire crackled in a hearth of old stone. A boy sat on the wooden table, gritting his teeth as Maester Aemon dabbed at the wound on his forehead with a cloth soaked in vinegar.
"You'll live," the old man said softly, his voice like dry parchment.
The recruit, no more than fifteen, winced but nodded. "Yes, Maester."
"Good. You have the heart of the Watch already," Aemon said, tying the last of the bandage. "Steel sharpens steel, but bruises teach more than swords ever will."
From the doorway came a quiet knock. A tall boy entered, with dark wavy hair and a solemn expression.
"Maester Aemon," said Jon Snow.
Behind him, a softer figure appeared—rounded, red-faced, and shy. Samwell Tarly looked terrified just standing there.
"We brought your supper," Jon said, placing a tray of bread and stew beside him.
Aemon smiled with a weariness that had carried across centuries. "You are kind, Jon Snow. You remind me of someone I knew once. Many long years ago."
Jon blinked. "Who?"
The maester turned his pale, milky eyes toward the fire. "A man with a bastard's name and a king's heart. His name was Rivers, but he had more dragon in him than most with the name Targaryen. He was my friend, and my doom. And he became something… more than a man."
Jon and Sam exchanged glances but said nothing more.
The fire crackled louder, and Aemon leaned back in his chair, his thoughts drifting far and wide—to swords of shadow, to kings and queens long dead, to a man with one red eye and a thousand secrets.
King's Landing
Laughter echoed in the Red Keep. King Robert Baratheon, bloated with wine and meat, sprawled upon silken cushions, a wench in each arm, and a gold crown askew upon his brow.
"Pour me more wine!" he roared, "and let the past bury the dead!"
Lord Commander of The Kingsguard, Ser Barristan Selmy, stood watch outside the King's chamber.
Outside his chamber, lords schemed. The Iron Throne—once a dragon's seat—had become the seat of a stag. But the ghosts of kings still walked its halls.
Pentos, Essos
She stood on the balcony, the wind catching her silvery hair. Her eyes were violet—unnatural, piercing. Daenerys Targaryen, child of exile, dragon's daughter, watched the Narrow Sea with quiet intensity.
Her brother, Viserys, raged somewhere within the manse. But Daenerys stood still.
Somewhere across the sea was a home she had never seen, a throne she had never touched, and a history soaked in blood. She knew nothing of Bloodraven or his crimes, but his legacy flowed in her veins.
The North, Winterfell
The snow was falling again, softly tapping against the glass. Bran Stark, youngest son of Eddard Stark, dreamed.
In his dream, he flew.
He flew across mountains and rivers, above the Wall and the endless forest beyond. And then—he saw it.
A raven perched on his windowsill.
Not an ordinary raven—this one had three eyes. Its feathers were dark, but its third eye glowed red as coals in the hearth.
Bran sat up, heart thudding.
The raven tilted its head… and croaked.
And just beyond the raven's eyes—
The Last Greenseer. The Three Eyed Raven
In the haunted heart of the forest, where the trees whispered and time stood still, there was a cave. And in the cave, a throne of roots and bone, and upon it sat a man who was no longer wholly a man.
His flesh had withered like old parchment. His robes, once black, were rotted and frayed, devoured by time. His hair was long and white as snow. His skin was corpse-pale, save for the red blotch upon his cheek. One eye was gone, but the other still burned—a single red eye, as watchful as ever.
The roots had grown into him, wrapped around his arms and legs, burrowed through his body and his empty socket. He could not move. But he could see.
He saw through the trees, the leaves, the birds and beasts. He saw men and women, kings and queens, bastards and orphans. He saw snow falling upon Winterfell. He saw dragons stirring in the east. He saw death marching in the dark.
He had chased ghosts. He had chased death. And now death was coming.
But he would be ready.
He was the memory of the realm. The eye beneath the earth. The watcher on the roots. And through him, the world would remember.
And so ends the tale of Bloodraven, the sorcerer-knight, the lord of whispers, the shadow in black.
He is dead.
And yet he lives.