It was a mistake.

Of course you couldn't say no to Lord Bloodraven, but it was still a mistake to come.

It was a mistake to talk to him.

Even more of a mistake to let him get you drunk.

The wine isn't poisoned, thankfully, but the only one actually getting drunk is you. Rivers started the talk of state affairs, of politics, economics, the uneasy situation in Westeros, little by little he poured you fine Arbor Red, and he may have shared a cup or two at first, to appease your worry, but now Bloodraven is still sober, while you are blissfully tipsy. Suddenly the red eye of the bastard-lord stopped sending shivers down your spine, the red birthmark on his cheek seized its usual ominosity, and the half-snarl-half-smirk of Brynden Rivers started appear to you... humorous.

There is nothing humorous about it. Bloodraven wants something from you, and you, drunk, will more likely than not say yes to whatever it is.

Lord Rivers watches you, observes the red flush on your cheeks, the giddy smile tugging on your lips however you try to hide it, it is still there. You can't hide it.

How many eyes does Lord Bloodraven have? A thousand and one.