Scrying the past I

"Brynden…" Maekar called out, his voice carrying across the empty space. He found himself in the dreamscape once more, green plains stretching out before him under a dull, gray sky. This place was different from the usual settings Brynden chose—there were no weirwoods, no dense forests. Just an endless expanse of grassland.

He called out again, but there was no immediate response, only the sound of the wind rustling through the grass.

Finally, Brynden Bloodraven—or the Three-Eyed Crow, as he was now known—turned towards Maekar, his single red eye locking onto him with unsettling intensity.

"I heard you… The dragon can wait," Brynden finally replied, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. "First, I must show you some important matters."

Maekar glanced around at the barren landscape, his brow furrowing in confusion. "I suppose where we are has something to do with it?" he asked, trying to make sense of their surroundings.

"Yes," Brynden confirmed, turning away and beginning to walk ahead. Maekar followed, his curiosity piqued.

"To combat the threat that comes for us in the future, you must have proper knowledge of the past," Brynden continued, his voice carrying an ominous weight. "The past is written in blood and darkness, in alliances and betrayals, and in the rise and fall of powers long forgotten by men. But the weirwoods remember, and through them, so shall you."

They walked in silence for some time until Maekar noticed a large column of men and women in the distance, all moving in the same direction they were. As they drew closer, he could see that these people looked primitive, their armor made of copper and bronze, their weapons simple swords and spears. The people spoke in harsh, guttural tones, their language unfamiliar to his ears.

"Where are we?" Maekar asked, his eyes narrowing as he observed the strange scene.

"This is what is now known as the Stepstones, previously called the Arm of Dorne," Brynden replied without turning around. "Or, as the Children of the Forest called it, the Green Bridge."

Maekar's eyes widened as realization struck him. "These are the First Men," he said, his voice tinged with awe. "You've brought me to witness their migration to Westeros."

"Indeed," Brynden said, his tone almost reverent. "Westeros, as the First Men would come to call it. But to the Children of the Forest and the giants that inhabited these lands, it was known as the Great Woods. They had their own names for the major regions of the continent—the North was called the Dark Woods, the Vale the High Grove, the Reach the Verdant Fields, and the lands in the West the Golden Hills."

"But it would all soon change," Brynden continued, his voice tinged with a note of sorrow. "With the coming of the First Men, they brought with them conflict—a conflict that would last for millennia, shaping the very fate of this land."

The dreamscape shifted suddenly, and Maekar found himself in the midst of a fierce battle. The scene before him was chaotic and brutal. He saw the First Men cutting down weirwoods, their bronze axes biting into the ancient trees with each powerful swing. It was a sight that would be considered sacrilege in the present day, but here, it was a declaration of war. The First Men, clad in rudimentary armor, charged into the deep forests with their bronze swords raised high, only to be met by a barrage of deadly arrows from the Children of the Forest, who fought fiercely to defend their sacred groves.

The Children, much smaller and frailer than the First Men, wielded a different kind of power—magic that was older than the trees themselves. They called upon the very forces of nature to aid them in battle. Maekar watched in awe as the ground beneath the First Men split open, swallowing them whole, and ancient beasts, long thought extinct, emerged from the depths of the earth to fight alongside the Children. The air crackled with energy as lightning struck down from the skies, guided by the Children's will.

"They tried their best," Brynden's voice echoed in Maekar's mind as they observed the battle unfold. "But the First Men were relentless, their will to conquer unyielding. The war dragged on for centuries, with neither side gaining a decisive victory. The land itself bore the scars of their conflict."

The dreamscape shifted again, and Maekar found himself back on the plains. This time, his attention was drawn to the horizon, where a massive tidal wave, larger than anything he had ever seen, came crashing from the north.

"What the—Brynden, take us away!" Maekar shouted, panic rising in his chest as he watched the enormous wave approach, threatening to engulf everything in its path.

Brynden, with a faint smile, waved his hand, and the scene changed once more. They were back in a familiar place—the Isle of Faces. The air was still, the waters around the isle calm, and the weirwoods stood tall and silent, their red leaves rustling gently in the breeze.

Maekar's heart pounded in his chest as he struggled to calm himself. "That was… that was the sinking of the Arm of Dorne," he muttered, still shaken by the sight of the colossal wave.

"Yes," Brynden confirmed, his tone serious. "The Children of the Forest called upon the powers of the earth and sea to sever the Arm of Dorne, hoping to halt the First Men's advance. But even such a cataclysmic event could not end the war."

Brynden began walking deeper into the isle, and Maekar followed, still processing the enormity of what he had just witnessed. They reached a clearing where a great meeting was taking place—the turning point in the long and bloody conflict. The leaders of the First Men and the Children of the Forest stood beneath the ancient weirwoods, their faces weary and bloodied from centuries of war.

Maekar watched as the leaders of both races, their hands stained with the blood of countless battles, reached out to one another in a gesture of peace. The pact was sealed beneath the watchful eyes of the weirwoods, their red leaves swaying gently as if in approval.

"In exchange for the First Men's right to settle and cultivate the lands, they would cease their destruction of the forests and the sacred weirwoods," Brynden explained. "The First Men adopted the worship of the Old Gods, and the Children retreated into their forests, their role in the world diminished but not forgotten."

"So this is it?" Maekar asked as he surveyed the scene before him. "I have to admit, this is all quite impressive, but I already know all of this."

Brynden turned to him, his single red eye boring into Maekar. There was no anger in his gaze, only a deep, almost paternal fondness.

"I thought you were going to show me something that most people don't know," Maekar continued.

Brynden's expression softened, and a small, almost wistful smile touched his lips. "You remind me of my nephew, little Aegon, or 'Egg' as his brother called him," he said.

"Aegon the Fifth… Let's hope I don't end up like him," Maekar muttered.

"There is a lot to be learned from the mistakes of our ancestors, Maekar. You would be wise to do so," Brynden said.

"You wish to see something new, Maekar?" Brynden added, his tone shifting to one of solemnity. "Then I shall show you something the world has forgotten."

The world around them began to shift once more, the familiar landscape of the Isle of Faces fading away. Maekar felt a jolt as the dreamscape reformed, revealing a new scene.

Before him, he saw men with long beards and staves, their faces weathered. They were interacting with the Children of the Forest, their movements slow and deliberate, as if they were performing a sacred dance. The land around them was lush and green, with rolling hills and thick forests stretching as far as the eye could see.

"Where are we?" Maekar asked, his voice hushed with awe.

"Today, this would be considered beyond the Wall," Brynden replied, the revelation shocking Maekar to his core.

"But it's so green," Maekar muttered, his eyes wide as he took in the verdant landscape. The stark contrast to the icy wilderness he knew left him momentarily speechless.

"Yes, this is before the tragedy," Brynden said, his voice tinged with sadness.

Maekar watched as the men and Children worked together, their interactions harmonious. Their homes were crafted from living trees, shaped by ancient magics into structures that blended perfectly with the natural world. There were no palaces, no grand castles—only simple, beautiful abodes that spoke of a deep connection to the land.

"The people you see before you were known as the Old Kings," Brynden explained. "Their names have been lost to time, but they were an alliance of First Men kingdoms that stretched from the lands now known as the Gift, past the future site of the Wall, and into the icy wilderness beyond."

"Well, not so icy now," Brynden added, with a hint of irony.

Maekar was entranced by what he saw. These Old Kings were unlike any rulers he had known or read about. They were not conquerors or tyrants, but men deeply intertwined with the ancient magics of the land. The Children of the Forest had recognized their respect for the old

 ways and shared with them their knowledge of the earth, the spirits, and the powers that lay dormant in the North.

"The Old Kings were masters of ancient magic," Brynden continued, his voice low. "They could commune with the dead, harness the power of the weirwoods, and wield magics that have long since been forgotten."

Maekar's mind raced with possibilities. These Old Kings were, in a way, the Northern equivalent of the Valyrians, but instead of fire and dragons, they wielded the power of nature and the ancient knowledge of the Children.

"What happened to these people?" Maekar asked, unable to keep the curiosity from his voice.

"War," Brynden said ominously, his tone heavy with the weight of history. "But that is a tale for another day."

With that, the dreamscape began to shift once more, returning them to their usual meeting place—a quiet, secluded grove, surrounded by towering weirwoods.

"Wow, what a way to blue-ball me," Maekar muttered, unable to keep the frustration from his voice.

"Pardon?" Brynden asked, confusion evident in his tone.

"Nothing," Maekar quickly dismissed, a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I look forward to our next session."

Brynden's single red eye studied Maekar closely, as if trying to decipher his meaning. "You still haven't answered my question, Brynden," Maekar pressed.

"The dragon?" Brynden asked, his tone shifting to one of seriousness.

Maekar nodded, his interest piqued.

"You have partially bonded with it," Brynden informed him. "It is at Dragonstone, returned home after many years."

Maekar's eyes widened slightly.

"I have been keeping its sightings from being reported," Brynden continued. "You must travel to Dragonstone to complete the bond and claim it fully."

Maekar's mind raced with possibilities. A dragon—his dragon.

"Goodbye for now, Maekar," Brynden said, his voice fading as the dreamscape began to dissolve around them.

Maekar woke with a start, back in his chambers, the familiar surroundings of his room grounding him once more. The weight of Brynden's revelation settled heavily on him. "Dragonstone," he muttered to himself.

He knew he couldn't leave for Dragonstone immediately—there were too many pressing matters that required his attention here in King's Landing. But the knowledge that a dragon awaited him would be enough to fuel his ambitions.

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Aegon watched with narrowed eyes as Gerold Dayne, his sword, shield, and friend, fought two knights simultaneously in the training yard. Gerold moved with deadly grace, his blade flashing in the sunlight as he effortlessly parried and countered their attacks. The two knights, strong and skilled in their own right, were no match for Gerold's speed and precision. With a swift motion, he disarmed the first knight, sending his sword clattering to the ground. The second knight hesitated, just for a moment, but it was enough for Gerold to close the distance and deliver a powerful blow that knocked the man to the ground.

It was over in an instant, leaving both knights sprawled on the dirt, defeated and breathing heavily. Gerold stood over them, his expression as cold and unfeeling as the steel in his hand.

Aegon felt a grim satisfaction watching Gerold's display. His plans to court the Tyrells had gone well; he had secured an alliance with them, something his father should have done years ago. The thought of Margaery brought a small smile to his lips. Her presence had filled a void in his heart, a void he had carried for far too long. For the first time in what felt like forever, he felt a sense of happiness, a glimmer of hope for a future where he ruled with Margaery by his side.

But that future could never be fully realized as long as his brother Maekar lived.

From that day at Castle Hayford, Aegon had understood his brother's ambitions. Like all bastards, Maekar coveted what rightfully belonged to his trueborn siblings.

To combat his brother's ambitions, he had begun to gather allies—finding them in the Reach, the Riverlands, the Stormlands, and with Joffrey at his side, the West was all but guaranteed.

A part of him wanted Maekar to rebel, to finally expose his true intentions so Aegon could do what his father had always hesitated to do: destroy the old rebel houses and put an end to them once and for all.

"So you've finally come to your senses," Joffrey said, his voice dripping with smugness as he stood beside Aegon, watching the aftermath of Gerold's victory.

Aegon nodded, his expression unreadable.

"Are you sure that fool can do the deed?" Joffrey continued, his gaze fixed on Gerold. "He was already beaten once—beaten like it was nothing."

"We will need others," Aegon admitted, his mind already calculating the odds. "Others who will help Gerold at the tourney."

"That might help," Joffrey muttered, still unconvinced. "But still…"

"Maekar is not some unbeatable warrior, Joff," Aegon said firmly, turning his head to meet his friend's gaze. He could see the doubt in Joffrey's eyes.

Aegon's gaze drifted back to the training yard, where Gerold stood victorious. "Maekar's end will come at the tourney," Aegon said coldly, the words laced with a dark promise.

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