This all seemed to be a mockery from the gods themselves, or whatever higher deity found pleasure in tormenting him. Brynden knew his visions were not always clear pictures of the future, but mere metaphors or symbolic events that needed interpretation. This vision, however, seemed far too achingly real. Too straightforward. There was nothing to decipher, not when it was laid out bare and exposed before him.

The voice which formed the screams Brynden had heard were all too recognizable. Hers. They belonged to his lover, his heart. There had been a squalling babe, skin just as pale and hair just as silver as his own. A child. His child. Theirs.

You would have a babe, born of the fruits of the love that Brynden had shared with you, when nights grew quiet and there was nothing but the two of you tangled beneath the sheets, skin against skin as your hearts beat as one. It was a beautiful thing — your love and the babe, but the cost was not worth it. He saw the blood that stained his sight, and could almost feel the coldness that swept over your skin. The rise and fall of your chest had ceased. Your babe would be born, but you would not live past childbirth. A life for a life.

Brynden did not wish it to be true.

Of course, he could avoid touching you for all of eternity, therefore the vision would never come to light and he would never have to face the reality of a world without you in it. But an aching, grim possibility lingered in there. What if there was already a quickening within your womb? What if his seed has already taken, and his child grew inside of you?

Brynden's stone-cold gaze was fixated past the horizon. There was a haunted look in his eye, one that felt foreign. His features were still set firmly, sharp jaw clenched. The moon was hanging high in the sky, full and white like a bowl of milk set out for a kitten. The dark skies were littered with sprinkling of stars, painting the night with constellations. From his view, the lights danced across the distant sea, the waters still and languid in the late hours.

The sheer curtains of the window fluttered with the wind. Everything felt more intense. The breeze that caught in his silver tresses, the scent of the candle he had lit, the distant murmurs of King’s Landing— the city that never slept.

Brynden could hear the rustles of furs and silken sheets as you rose from his bed, the soft padding of your bare feet trailing against the stone floor. The sound got closer and closer until it halted just behind him. Your arms looped around him from behind, enveloping him in the warmth of your sleepy embrace. He placed a cold hand upon one of your forearms, but that was the most he offered. He could feel his skin burn against yours. Your touch was so devastatingly soft, a horrid reminder of what was to come. A part of him yearned to tell you, to question you about the last time you bled, if you felt strange, anything. But he did not. The last thing Lord Bloodraven wished for was to scare his lady love.

“You should go back to bed,” Brynden suggested, “I shall join you soon, my dearest.”

His head ached. His heart ached.