Nevertheless, I did not relent, meeting Bloodraven's gaze head-on, stern.
Brynden's scorn seemed to waver for a second, but quickly resolidified on his face. "You truly are a child," he spat. "Or else a desperate, addled fool."
...
I let the anger leak from my breast with a long-suffering sigh, though the physical sense of heightened anxiety did not leave me. "Maybe," I shrugged, slightly dizzy, my head now pounding.
"Probably. But isn't it worth a try? Isn't it worth looking beyond the Long Night at what could be? You may think me a fool for it, but I don't agree. I'm no fool. I don't think the world will ever be perfect, but I do think it could be better. If you've been observing me for any length of time you'll know I am no stranger to the cynical games of power.
I don't mind assassinations, manipulations, plots or any other such things. But I refuse to play those games purely for myself. Self-interest is surely a part of it, but it is not all. If it was I would have run off with a good chunk of the treasury to greener pastures a long while ago."
Bloodraven stared at me for a long moment, silent. Nothing moved, even as the pain in my head grew more intense, my concentration wavering. "What you are," he finally seemed to decide, "is another complication. Like the Red Woman lingering at the Wall, or the like the One-Eyed Crow setting off from his islands in the west, or like the shadowbinder Quaithe in the east. For a long while your presence in the south set the world into a state of flux.
Certainties became mere possibilities, and the strands of fate tangled and untangled and obscured themselves from inspection. Even now you seem to me to hide yourself behind a cloak of shadows."
"Yet unlike the One-Eyed Crow," I retorted, "you and I don't have to work at cross-purposes. Fundamentally, we both want mankind to survive and thrive. Euron doesn't. You say my presence has disrupted the strength of prophecy, fate. Well enough. But with the uncertainty this creates comes the chance for something better."
Bloodraven laughed a bitter, cynical laugh. "Everyone seems to think they are the prophesied one. Without exception. The one fated to save the world. Or perhaps the one fated to destroy it and build anew in their own image."
"I don't," I retorted, though internally I suspected that Brynden may have been more correct than I was willing to admit. "I want to be great, I won't deny it, but I don't think I'm Azor Ahai or any such rot. I'm no saviour. I'm no champion. In my old world I was nobody special. And, frankly, I don't really want to be special.
Bearing the weight of the world on my shoulders sounds dreadful. But to make good changes I don't need to be a saviour. I merely need to align the interests of others towards a common goal. And in that, I think you will agree, I have been doing well."
"So not a saviour but a schemer," Bloodraven surmised.
"Much like yourself," I agreed, now feeling faint. The pain was intense, the sensations confused. Pain, pleasure, fear. "There have always been Targaryens who dreamed of things to come, since long before the conquest. But Targaryens aren't the only ones who can have dreams."
"Hmm," Bloodraven said. "Well enough. I will accept you are not my enemy, though I know not whether you ought to be an ally. I would like to stay and discuss things further. Yet your mind... It's not like any other I've felt. Alien. Strange. Clearly of another world. Strained by this simple act of talking. Yet it is also malleable. Subject to change. Perhaps to improvement. So begone, stranger, before your mind breaks and all that potential is lost. We will speak again in future."
And, just like that, the real world returned. Every muted sensation I had experienced in the dreamscape exploded into reality with a stifled scream. My vision blurred and unblurred, my nerves alight with a haze of sensations. Yet the sounds, smells and sights were undeniably those of sex. I found myself atop my wife, who was flat on her back, her wrists pinned tightly to the bed by my hands, her bare breasts heaving and slick with blood, her face contorted with terror, whimpering, her body simultaneously frozen stiff and trembling.
I felt my face twist with revulsion almost as soon as I came to awareness. I withdrew, lifted my hands off her wrists and dismounted her. "Gods." I blinked in shock, eerily calm. A quick once-over seemed to suggest that the blood was not hers. The only visible injury I could see was the hand-shaped bruising around her wrists where I had pinned her. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"
Margaery seemed on the verge of tears. She opened her mouth, but failed to produce any words. "Your Grace..." she finally managed, her voice marked by a tremor.
Blood dripped on the sheets below me. I lifted a hand to my face. My fingers came away wet with the stuff. My eyes, nose were bleeding profusely. Licking my lips revealed the tell-tale metallic taste. My face ached something fierce, as did my chest. My heartrate was only now beginning to settle, the effects of adrenaline only now beginning to abate. Muted sensations gradually grew in intensity. The white of the sheets had been stained red in many places. No wonder I felt faint. How much blood had I lost?
"What happened?" I asked her, my head spinning.
Margaery gathered some of the bedsheet up in her hands to guard her modesty, her hands trembling. "You... We had gone to bed, and then... It started nice enough, but then you seemed to lose control, Your Grace. You became stiff. It was unlike you - you're always so careful, considerate. Yet men have been known to succumb to the throes of lust before, or so I thought at first, but then..."
"Then I started bleeding," I filled in for her, wiping some of the blood off my cheeks.
"I couldn't see your eyes," she said, her voice shaky. "They'd gone all white by the time you started weeping blood. I thought about calling one of the guards, yet... The sight of you like that struck me dumb with shock. Had... it, lasted any longer I likely would have found my voice again."
I could only sigh and nod. So much for small mercies. If the guards had found me like that... Well, it probably would not have ended well for me.
Had Bloodraven tried to warg into me? Is that what had caused our meeting? Is that why my visions appeared to have started whilst I was still awake, instead of after I had gone to sleep as they usually did? Or had my exploration of the dreamworld merely intersected with his? The former seemed more likely than the latter, but I couldn't be sure. Certainly, none of my previous nightmares had led to such visible consequences. There was usually some sweating, some disorientation and some panic but until today no blood. And yet, even if that was the case, what could I do? I could only hope any future meetings we had would prove less... messy.
"Your Grace," Margaery ventured, hesitant, "you need to go see the Grandmaester."
"No," I quickly overrode her. "This stays between us. Nobody else is to know. This one was worse than the last ones, that's all. I'm sorry you had to see it, truly, but I cannot have you speaking of this."
"What... What is this?" Margaery asked.
"The gods dole out their curses and blessings how they please," I reluctantly said, summoning up a suitable explanation in my exhaustion. "Daenys Targaryen was gifted with foresight, and cursed with madness. Or perhaps the foresight was her curse, and the madness her blessing. Her escape from the horrible realities of prophecy. Nevertheless, I have a little of that same blood in my veins. Joffrey got the Targaryen madness, the penchant for cruelty. I got the dreams. The nightmares. The fits."
Margaery reached out to me, tentative, still trembling slightly, her face twisting with sympathy. "Your Grace..."
Suddenly, my mood changed at Margaery's refusal to simply let the matter drop. The mental exhaustion and blood-loss were getting to me. My mind felt frayed, as though someone had decided to stress-test it, simultaneously stretching and compressing every synapse. I needed to rest more than anything. To sleep. Irritation flooded my skull, coloured with impatience and indignation. Who was she to offer me pity? To look at me like I was some sort of stray kitten?
"Forget it," I snapped, my voice unnecessarily harsh. "None of this is your concern. You continue enjoying the privileges of being a queen. I've always dealt with such problems on my own. No need for that to change. Just don't tell anyone what you saw tonight."
Margaery reared back at my tone, as though I had just slapped her. Instantly, the irritation I felt was supplanted by guilt.
"I... I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spoken to you like that." I fell back onto my side of the bed, collapsing flat onto my back with a heavy sigh, feeling myself deflate. "My mind isn't quite right. The visions are often taxing. But don't worry, I just need to rest, to gather myself. Then I'll be all back to normal."
Margaery loomed overhead, uncertain, and I extended a little of the bedsheet for her to use to clean herself. A peace offering. These sheets would need to be disposed of. And discretely. I couldn't afford any inconvenient questions being asked by the wrong people. Margaery wiped her face with the sheet and eyed me cautiously. Much of the panic had left her by now, but there was still an underlying wariness about her. The distance of a just a few inches between us suddenly felt like a gaping chasm.
Still, to her credit, the girl nodded and lowered herself to lie uneasily beside me. "Of course, Your Grace."
...
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