The 3-Eyed Raven looked through the eyes of its host at the humans bickering about brothels and ships. “And what of the dragon?” asked the 3-Eyed Raven.
The Raven was not overly concerned with the dragon. It’s mother was dead and the other Targaryon a broken-spirited
exile who would, this time, cling to his oath to father no children. Still, the dragon was a loose end.
The Raven had secured his position as absolute ruler of Westeros, absent the nominally independent tundra ruled by his ‘sister.’ By the time she returned to Raven’s Landing (as he would rename the seat of his empire), she would be old, the mother of four children of her own, and would be the first of any consequence to speak out loud a diagnosis of the great deception. She would go to Tyrion, the weary drunkard Hand, and cry out ‘Bran has not aged a day! Yet he is King for as long as he lives!’. Tyrion, that most useful fool, would calm her with reason and appeals to her better nature. Sansa would know better, but by then it would be too late.
It was already too late. The 3-Eyed Raven had fulfilled his plan. He had managed to destroy The Wall. In the end, it had been easier than he could have hoped — the humans ridiculous plan to capture a single wight had been entirely their own. All the Raven had to do was have his puppet direct them towards the center of the Night King’s army. They never thought to ask ‘Bran’ for aerial scouting to aid their task. The Raven had watched it all from the comfort of his chair.
Giving the Night King a dragon had been a risk, of course, but it was the only way to get him South. After that, the humans acted with the predictableness
of an elaborate clockwork model. Their castles and cities nothing but wooden toys, their machinations as clear to the Raven soaring overhead as a three minute and forty-five second montage set to soaring music.
The Night King was the only true threat to the Raven, but just as predictable as the humans. The Raven had put his pieces in place, sat beneath the Weirwood tree, it’s face stained with weeping sap in witness to the Raven’s final victory over the humans, and trusted that an arrow, loosed just so, would fly true. Arya. Another potential threat now gone forever, convinced of her own ‘free will.’
The functionaries of the Small Council offered some banalities about the dragon. They suspected nothing, even when the Raven had, in his moment of triumph, let slip that he had come all this way knowing that he would be crowned their leader.
The dragon was unimportant. If they had bred, that might have been a problem, but it had been easy enough for the Raven to guide Euron to intercept the Targaryon girl. One dragon could not make more. The Raven dwelled on that certainty. There were lizards in the Emerald Isles that could lay eggs with no males present. Parthenogenesis
, the maesters called it. The Raven did not like the thought.
“Perhaps I shall find him,” he had his puppet voice.
Inside, Bran screamed. But then, he was always screaming.
🔁 Repost from Larry O'Brien: