In the white of the world,
Hope is a bird locked in his chest.
But its wings buffet his ribs, breaking his breath to pieces,
because how could the world right its wrongs?
How could Father come riding home from his long sleep
or his hearth raise itself from the ashes?
How could the sky mend its tatters?
. . .
The stories sing beneath his skin,
whisper in the voice of heroes:
Nothing unbroken will be healed;
not all those who wander are lost.
And how could he forget that
The Kings of Winter endure all things?
But, but, but -
those lines lie crooked where he laid them,
jarred and jostled from the Fall –
'Fly, broken boy,'
but Bran can only fall.
. . .
He makes every river stone a dragon-slayer,
given to the water and laid out in state beneath the tide
until the current becomes a grave-robber and steals their faces.
Only the bird-eyes above his heart, three and bright,
see him mourn his northern knights,
grey-eyed, grey-armored, great-hearted,
those sons of a just and noble land.
. . .
Bran cries river-water now, or wolf tears,
for the winds of Winter ring him round
and his deadened frame is all but past enduring.
. . .
But, but, but-
when the white of the world cracks in two
and a silver sun makes diamonds of the frost,
when he has found his father's trees
and their leaves braid round like red water,
then, then the smoke of his breath curls with raven feathers,
iridescent as the dawn.
. . .
The Kings of Winter endure all things,
hale beneath the frost.
Hope yet remains to their their broken son,
wheeling on bright wings.
So. Second-hand fandom disease has gotten me good. That's all I can say. I've never cracked a Book of Ice and Fire and I've certainly never seen a Game of Thrones episode, but my knowledge of canon is quite extensive. Certainly extensive enough to cause me a world of heartbreak. This verbal vomit is an attempt to deal with a portion of my House Stark feelings. I've poked and prodded it until I could make it no better, but constructive criticism is most welcome.
-Celt