Chapter 13: The Unmentionable Bloodraven
"Your Graces, Your Highnesses, and honored lords and ladies," Grand Maester Pycelle said with a deep bow, his voice humble yet carefully measured. "I beg forgiveness for my tardiness. I remained with Lord Ormund Baratheon longer than expected, consulting the most ancient medical texts to ensure his recovery proceeds without peril."
His excuse was flawless.
The Grand Maester was plump, his figure rounded by comfort rather than age. His hair, though thinning, had not yet retreated, and his beard was neatly combed. Around his neck hung the heavy chain of his office, forged of many metals—black iron, lead, red gold, silver, copper, electrum, and others rarer still—each link representing knowledge earned at the Citadel.
To most eyes, the chain was a symbol of wisdom.
To those who understood court politics, it was merely a badge of survival.
By invoking Lord Ormund's condition, Pycelle ensured gratitude rather than resentment. The Hand of the King lay grievously wounded; any man who tended him diligently would be forgiven almost anything.
Pycelle's face was gentle, even kindly—unlike the stern, book-bound maesters most were accustomed to. He looked approachable, harmless, almost fatherly.
Such men, Rhaegar knew, were the most dangerous of all.
He will outlive kings, Rhaegar thought calmly.
Indeed, Pycelle would endure for decades, becoming one of the most entrenched figures in the politics of King's Landing. He had not survived by brilliance, nor by courage, but by understanding one simple truth:
Power must be flattered before it can be served.
Only Prince Rhaegar Targaryen continued to observe him closely. Pycelle was older than many in the hall, older even than the King himself, yet he played the part of a frail servant with remarkable discipline. Every movement was calculated; every word chosen.
Rhaegar saw past the act.
Grand Maester Pycelle was a man of duplicity. He bent rules when convenient, feigned ignorance when it served him, and whispered where open speech would be dangerous. He was loyal to no banner, no king, no realm—only to power itself.
And power, Rhaegar thought, can always be redirected.
In years to come, Pycelle would submit completely to Lord Tywin Lannister, cowed by iron authority and ruthless efficiency. Such submission was inevitable. Men like Pycelle did not admire virtue; they admired strength.
Perhaps, Rhaegar mused, he could be made useful.
The chime echoed softly within his mind.
Achievement Unlocked: Game of Thrones (Minor Player)
You have observed political duplicity and gained insight.
Rhaegar dismissed the vision.
"Your Grace," Pycelle continued, producing several finely bound volumes from within his robes, "I have taken the liberty of preparing a few illustrated histories for Prince Rhaegar, in hopes that they might delight him."
The books were exquisitely made—tales of Brandon the Builder, Garth Greenhand, and Aegon the Conqueror astride Balerion the Black Dread. The illustrations were vivid, painstakingly detailed, clearly commissioned rather than casually acquired.
"The Grand Maester is most thoughtful," King Jaehaerys II Targaryen said warmly.
Murmurs of approval followed. The court preferred a maester who pleased rather than lectured. The Citadel's habit of sending ancient, half-dead scholars had long frustrated the Crown. This time, they had chosen differently.
After presenting his gifts, Pycelle stepped aside, hands folded, posture deferential.
The feast swelled toward its peak.
"Let us toast," called a noblewoman, rising with her cup, "to King Jaehaerys II, true dragon of House Targaryen, who has led us to victory in the Fifth Blackfyre Rebellion!"
"Long live the King!"
"Long live King Jaehaerys!"
Wine flowed freely. Music rose. Even the King himself appeared briefly unburdened. Since his accession, his reign had been marked by war, sickness, and the shadow of Summerhall. Now, at last, peace seemed within reach.
"To the Seven," King Jaehaerys II proclaimed, lifting his cup, "to the strength of our ancestors—King Daeron II, King Aerys I, King Maekar I, King Aegon V—and to the valor of those who have defended the realm. Ser Duncan the Tall, Lord Ormund Baratheon, Ser Barristan Selmy, and countless others whose names history will remember."
Cheers erupted.
Rhaegar drank—but his thoughts were elsewhere.
One name had not been spoken.
The greatest architect of victory in the Blackfyre wars remained unmentioned, as he always was.
Brynden Rivers.
Bloodraven.
In the first three Blackfyre Rebellions, none had been more instrumental. Spymaster, sorcerer, Hand of the King—Bloodraven had done what knights and lords could not. He had crushed rebellion with shadow and steel, sacrificing honor to preserve the realm.
And for that, he had been feared.
Despised.
Hated.
Bloodraven had accepted every sin so others might sleep peacefully. Kinslaying. Deception. Broken vows. He bore it all willingly.
In return, he earned only silence.
Even now, decades later, his name was avoided. The court preferred heroes who shone, not guardians who lurked in darkness. Though he had been trusted absolutely by King Daeron II, relied upon by King Aerys I, and leaned upon by King Maekar I, history had reduced him to a whisper.
Rhaegar understood why.
Bloodraven reminded men of uncomfortable truths—that peace often required monsters.
He vanished beyond the Wall, Rhaegar thought. But he did not die.
The singers claimed Lord Brynden Rivers disappeared into legend. The Night's Watch believed him lost.
Rhaegar knew better.
And if he still watches…
His gaze drifted instinctively toward the shadows of the Red Keep.
What traces of him remain here?
What secrets did the Three-Eyed Lord leave behind?
The feast continued, oblivious.
But history, Rhaegar knew, never truly slept.-
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