A Song of Light and Shadow

I hope you guys like this. Don't worry, I will explain everything that is going on a bit later.

Disclaimer: If I were G.R.R. Martin, would I be writing fanfiction?

Prologue

Seven and three. That is how many times he saw it. The horror. It haunted his dreams, he could see them when a closed his eyes, when he was lost in thought. His father was right: Winter Is Coming. Bran never felt so cold in his life thinking about them. For three long, horrible weeks he looked into the deepest and darkest pasts of the world. Old Nan…. He should have listened better to Old Nan. Though he did listen more than the other Stark children.

By the Old Gods, if only he had heeded Osha's warning and begged Robb to not go south. But not even twenty thousand men could stop the horror that was coming for the Realm. This much he knew, and that struck him harder than the truth that Winter was coming for everyone and everything. What could a cripple do against the darkness? Seven Hells, he was as lost now as he was after he fell from the tall tower of Winterfell, if more! He then felt a small hand on his right shoulder that brought his eyes and mind out of the bottomless darkness he stared into for hours when seeing the visions of the Others.

"Are you alright, young one?" the small humanoid creature asked.

"I'm fine, Leaf," Bran answered, "I have just been thinking."

Leaf look at Bran with her timeless eyes, studying him. She knew, or at least she guessed, as to what he was thinking of, but she did not pursue him in the thought. Such things would be spoken of soon enough. She had seen two hundred years of the world, but she feared that the knowledge of the Children would not be enough to hold the darkness at bay. It used to be that they could hold it at bay a very long time ago, but that was when the Children and Men lived in harmony and even before Men came to the lands they called Westeros. Those times, however, were long gone, and the Children were reduced to numbers that were a laughable shadow of the glory they once were.

The glory of the Children, however, was neither in wealth, nor in structures, but was in their great knowledge. Even though they still knew more than the race of Men, they were still dying and their knowledge and wisdom with them. Their secrets were disappearing from the world like light would disappear during the Long Night. Leaf shuddered at the thought of the world enduring another Long Night.

"What happened to him?" Bran asked, sensing Leaf's thoughts.

"To whom?" Leaf answered.

"The last hero," Bran said, staring further into the darkness, "I heard a story from a kindly old woman I knew as 'Old Nan.' She told me that when mankind was on the very brink of defeat, he went looking for the Children. I know that he found them, but I always wanted to know what happened to him."

Leaf looked at Bran. She thought for a moment. The tale only grew sadder, darker... and darker. What madness drove him to do as he did she did not understand. The gods spoke to Men differently than to the Children. Gods answered differently. A prince born to be a warrior: a leader, a hero. A prince that must sacrifice everything he loves in order to protect all the world from the gather darkness. 'He was the sword in the darkness. The shield that guarded the realms of Men.' A light against the shadow. The fire that shields from the ice. She knew there was a song about him, but she could not remember what it was. Of all the songs she knew, she remember that was the song that struck her the deepest. Why could she not remember it?

"He died, Bran," Leaf answered, "after his task was complete. After the War was won."

Bran looked still looked into the darkness, but there was a fire in his eyes, now. And that fire filled her with wonder. Sometimes there was a human that surprised her in the greatest of ways. A human that she knew was different from all other Men. Someone who retained the honor of the Old Ways. Bran was one of these Men; that much she knew. And it filled her with hope that there were some that Men were not weak.

"Brynden wants to see you, Bran," Leaf remembered, feeling ashamed that she forgot.

That did get Brans attention, and he finally snapped away from his thoughts fully. He looked at Leaf and nodded. Calling for Hodor, he was brought back to the old Three-eyed Crow. He found Brynden in his Weirdwood throne. The roots seemed to covering him more and more every day. He has also grown paler as the days went on. Bran wondered how long before the old crow would pass.

"Brandon Stark," Brynden said slowly, "you come back to me at last. The hour is very late, later than we think. It is almost upon us. You already know. You have seen it."

Bran could only nod as he waited for the crow to continue. Brynden, or the Three-eyed Crow, knew much and lived far longer than any mere mortal. Bran could have only guessed that Brynden was a dragon taken on human flesh, or that his magic might have made him live longer, he didn't know.

"I do not have long, Brandon," he said quietly, "and neither do you. War is coming. It is already here. Your Westeros has fought against itself for too long. There is disunity. And that disunity will be the world's undoing. Always has the Realm been divided, though. Seven against Three."

Bran wondered at that. He seemed to think that was important somehow, but Bran was never able to figure it out. Seven against Three. He waited for Brynden to continue, though, the old man seemed lost in thought.

"Seven against Three," the Crow repeated, "It should be Seven with Three. There must be Three, but I only count Two. One is still far off to the east, and the other… I cannot see him, he is in darkness. There must be Seven, I only count Three. You are one the Seven, another is to the South: a Huntsman with a Golden Rose is hat and a crow on his shoulder. Yet, he carries none of the gear of a huntsman. He carries books and a chain. The Third of the Seven is in the east as well. A small Lion that looks fully grown. He has bowed before one of the Three in the east. There is one who claims to be the Third of the Three, but he is not a clear image, and he wears a mummer's mask."

Bran looked closely at the old man. A single tear rolled down his check. For what, Bran did not know. Yet, he was silent, waiting for Brynden to gather himself. The old master was failing, and Bran knew that he wouldn't last long.

"Brandon," Brynden said, "you must survive. You must. Winter is coming, and you rally the North behind you. You are the key to the Seven and the Three. If you fail, the world fails with you. If the Three fail, the Seven will fall soon after them. And if the Seven do not unite, the Three will not have the power to aid us against the Long Night. You must make sure the Three unite the Seven. You must."

Bran nodded and tried to keep tears from falling himself. The old man looked like he was expecting this moment for a long time. Like he wanted death to finally give him the rest he so very much wanted.

"I will, m'lord," Bran said softly, "You have my word."

Brynden chuckled. He couldn't remember the last time he heard the words "m'lord." He couldn't say he was overly fond to hear them again, but to hear the voice of his pupil was comforting.

"Brandon," he struggled to say, "take care of her for me, when she comes. You will know her when you see her. Because she will give you hope. Take care of her. Give her your wisdom and council."

"I will, m'lord," Bran said again.

"Good," Brynden chuckled as he looked upwards from his throne and muttered to himself, "I am coming home, my love."

Bran then heard his last breath, and wondered if hope really was going to come.