"So you are saying Quentyn Ball is betraying the crown?" Brynden asked, his voice deceptively smooth, smooth as polished obsidian over a hidden edge.
"Certainly, from Garse's description, it looks to be him," Valarr said, holding his breath, carefully measuring his breathing so as not to betray the nervous tension tightening his throat.
Valarr possessed a dangerous secret: knowledge of the future. He knew the precise sequence of events—how Ser Quentyn, the fiery knight nicknamed Fireball, would turn his cloak against House Targaryen. He knew Fireball would orchestrate the daring rescue of Daemon Blackfyre, snatching the charismatic bastard from the heavy iron jaws of arrest and igniting a war that would split the realm in two.
"Ser Quentyn is the Master-at-Arms of the Red Keep," Brynden replied, his lone pale eye fixed upon Valarr with a gaze that was chillingly calm. "He trained your father, your uncles, and me. He knows the weight of a sword and the weight of an oath. His loyalty to the crown runs deep. Garse must have lied to you, boy."
Valarr stared at the man known across the Seven Kingdoms as Bloodraven. A cold, prickling jolt of realization pierced his chest. Brynden Rivers missed nothing; his thousand eyes and one saw every whisper in the dark, every shadow flitting through the corridors of the Red Keep. He had to know. Yet here he sat, hands folded loosely, dismissing a threat to the realm with deliberate apathy.
He knows, Valarr realized, his pulse hammering like a trapped bird against his ribs. He knows what is coming, and he is sitting back to let the trap spring anyway. It can only mean two things: his terrifying obsession with prophecy, and a ruthless, uncompromising conviction to let his visions play out—even if House Targaryen must burn to ash to fulfill them.
Refusing to back down entirely under that icy, albino stare, Valarr pushed forward. "Still... you should put a spy on him. Just to be certain. A single shadow behind him costs nothing."
"Don't worry, boy. I know my job," Brynden said. His tone shifted—darker, heavier, dropping an octave into an implicit warning that signaled this audience was definitively over. "You may leave."
Valarr knew better than to push a ruthless sorcerer into a corner. He bowed stiffly, keeping his expression a neutral mask, and retreated from the gloomy sanctuary. His boots echoed sharply down the cold stone corridors of the Red Keep, passing silent guards until he reached the heavy oak door of his private chambers. Slipping inside, he threw the heavy iron latch into place and finally let a long, ragged breath escape his lungs.
Brynden won't lift a finger, he thought, pacing the length of the hearth, his shadow stretching long against the tapestries. He knows the future, but so do I. And I refuse to be a passive piece on his chessboard. I won't stand by and watch history repeat itself in blood and fire.
He stopped before a tall, silvered glass mirror resting against the stone wall. A small, youthful face stared back at him—fragile, smooth-featured, easily dismissed by men of war, and utterly lacking the martial authority needed to command armies or challenge grand seigneurs.
Valarr tightened his fists until his knuckles turned white against his skin. "For now, keeping my head down is better than catching the eye of hostile forces. I'll bide my time, build my strength, and strike when they least expect it."
(A/N: Hey guys now and I am going to do a time skip as Valarr is just a child and many of would not want to see a child of his age to do exceptional things. Also it is important part for the story. I hope you enjoyed this chapter.)