This beast is almost 11k words long… I'm not even sorry anymore…*laughs hysterically*
A cavil on chronology (yes, I make those too, lol): I'm bending the alleged events chronology in Bran's arc a bit for ease of reading and narrative plausibility. Since in A Wreath of Thorns several months pass between the Battle of the Bastards and Jon's decision to go beyond the Wall to try and rescue Bran, I'm realigning the most recent events in Bran's arc so that they're more or less happening at the same time with JON I. In other words, this chapter begins only a few days after Bran's last vision in ep. 6x10, as it would be a little bit far-fetched and ridiculous to think about poor Bran and Meera stuck for months under that weirwood tree, after Benjen has left!
Due to length, I usually don't use the Author's Note space to answer to anonymous/not logged reviews, but let me make an exception for user Rubix44: if you're reading this, thank you sooo much for your words, it's probably one of the sweetest review/comment I've received (even if you're really overestimating my writing skills)! You're way too kind!
That being said, my heartfelt thanks go also to the ones who have left a review/follow/favorite! I hope you'll like this chapter too!
THE RAVEN
The black, hooded shadow ran siftly through the forest's trees, leaping over thick roots jutting out from the sticky mud, only barely dodging the cutting kiss of the lower twigs of spruces and alders; he bolted, as nimble as a cat, across sharp-edged rocks covered with silver moss and small, gurgling streams, pushing further, further, paying no heed to the biting pain the thorny shrubs of purple barberries and night-blooming winter roses were leaving all over legs and hands and stopping only when a pained, strangled yelp rose to his back. The shadow whipped around and took a few steps in the direction of the noise, breathing heavily through the brown scarf which hid a good portion of his face.
Lying there with his hands clutching his left foot trapped in a protruding white root, there was another dark figure, a short young man with a heavy bundle wrapped around his shoulders.
"Don't worry about me, keep going!" he shouted to the shadow, struggling to free himself. "They're on our tails, you must reach the lake!"
The shadow's grey eyes darted undecided from the small man, in fact only a little older than a boy, to the dark trail vanishing across the soldier pines: the torches' light flickered through the trees' trunks and even the voices and the barking of the dogs were closing in, now.
Perched atop the branches of a tall ash tree, the Raven watched the two fugitives with wise, golden eyes. He had been following them ever since they fled from the large castle with the gigantic curtain walls and the grim clouds of bats flying in circles around the tops of its burned towers, as silent as ghosts. They had failed to throw the King's hounds off their scent, and now the Raven sensed the shadow's dismay and rage at being hunted down like common criminals.
"No! No! Don't help me! Run!" the young man on the ground pleaded hopelessly, as his companion knelt and reached out to him. Despite the protection of the night, the Raven's eyes recognised the likeness to both Meera and Jojen Reed in the lad's open, stubborn face.
"They're chasing us like animals. I won't leave you to their mercies," the mysterious stranger spoke in a breathless, iron voice, but his hands were gentle and careful when he helped the friend to disentangle his injured foot from the treacherous root.
The ankle was definitely sprained, but didn't look broken.
"You should leave me here, I will only slow you down," the boy gritted his teeth, limping and leaning heavily on the other's shoulder, the round burden on his back hindering their movements even more.
The hooded shadow tilted his head back and looked up to the ash tree where the Raven had taken shelter, patiently watching the scene unfold without being seen, and asked in a resolved voice: "Can you climb?"
The crannogman nodded.
One by one, they grabbed the ash's lowest branches, their feet searching for cracks and sturdy gnarls in the trunk for better leverage, and hoisted themselves up, until the tree's thick canopy was effectively hiding them from view just as, on the ground below, came running three men.
One was wearing a white cloak and armour, and to his hips was strapped a greatsword that, the Raven knew, would be as bright and refulgent as a fallen star when unsheathed; two griffins danced and battled over the breastplate of the second man, a proud, gruffly-looking fellow with red hair as fiery as his appearance; but it was the third that caught the Raven's full attention. He wore no armour, only a blood-red cloak barely shielding him from the breezy night, but he had a regal look to him, a bold, blazing fierceness curiously mixed with a melancholic solemnity that made him stood out taller and more handsome than his companions.
"I don't understand… They can't have disappeared into thin air," his red-haired friend stomped around the small clearing, impatiently hitting with his sword the bushes of blue roses sprouting on the path's side.
The pensive man quietly looked around himself, a deep frown of disappointment troubling his otherwise placid face. Moonbeams caught in his long hair, making it shine like molten quicksilver. He skimmed a hand over the tree's trunk, studying its texture and the spots here and there where the bark had been freshly stripped away. Drops of fragrant, sticky resin poured slowly from the wounds and cracks like liquid golden tears. He crouched down to get a better look at the disturbed carpet of red and green leaves around the base of the tree.
"They can't have gone far," the white knight said approaching him. "Do you want me to call back Ser Richard with the hounds?"
The silver man silently shook his head and stood up.
"My cousin Robert would be with him, and I don't have the patience to deal with that boisterous, drunken fool just now."
Atop the ash, the two hidden figures held their breaths, flattening themselves against the rough, damp bark at their backs. The boy's small frame fit perfectly into a fortuitous hollow carved on the side of the tree, but his friend was struggling to keep still; the Raven, roosted on their same branch only a few inches apart, saw his legs slipping on the dewy crust. In the attempt of gaining more footing, the hooded shadow shifted his weight, but realised a second too late that this was a very bad decision. A horribly loud creaking sound which seemed to hail directly from the deep heart of the tree made the branch shake and bend. The shadow was thrust forward, and his eyes met the Raven's. The bird cocked his head. Can you see me?, he seemed to ask. But before the grey eyes – eyes of steel, wolf's eyes, the Raven thought – could answer, the tree's limb screeched and swung dangerously, snapping in half with a deafening crack and falling right on the silver head of the quiet man below.
In the chaos that followed, several things happened at once: the white knight caught the young crannogman by the scruff of the neck, and the heavy bundle he was protecting was dropped on the ground with a metallic thud. The shadow, who fell from the sky right into the man's lap, promptly leapt up and would've certainly bolted back into the forest only to disappear again with the complicity of the night, if it weren't for the red griffin, who efficiently blocked his retreat circling him tightly with his sturdy arms.
While the silver man gingerly rose again to his feet, a little stunned and disoriented for the blow to his head, perhaps, but very much alive and intrigued nonetheless, the shadow baulked and kicked like an untamed horse, rendered wilder still by the woeful cries of his friend, who was trying to fight off the iron grip of the taller and way stronger Kingsguard.
"Let me go! Let me go!"
The shadow savagely sank his teeth into the tender flesh of his captor's hand and stomped down on the man's right foot. Hard. The griffin let out a cry of surprised pain, followed right away by an exceptionally gross string of swear words. The stranger pressed his momentary advantage to wiggle out of the man's loosened grip and seize the handle of the short dagger dangling from his belt. But as he spun around, the griffin grabbed the scarf and cloak which hid his face and body and tore them off.
Lavish dark-brown hair cascaded down over the stranger's shoulders and back, framing a long face, full red lips and high cheekbones, flushed in equal measure for the running, the fight and the indignation.
It was most definitely not a shadow; it was a very real, very angry she-wolf, dishevelled and dirty, but not lacking a certain stormy, raw beauty.
If he had had a mouth, the Raven would have indubitably smiled at the three men's shocked reaction.
The silver lord was the most astonished of all. His lips parted and closed a couple of times, as though he wanted to say something, but not word came out. He stifled an awkward laugh and addressed the griffin instead, his purple eyes never leaving the wild young woman in front of him.
"My dear Jon, you've just let a girl disarm you!"
"A girl?!" cried out the griffin, holding out his bleeding hand. "More like a rabid beast!"
She set her jaw in a headstrong expression the Raven had observed a million times before on his sister Arya's face, and answered by raising the dagger to the man's chin.
"Drop the blade, lass," the Kingsguard warned at her back. "That's the Crown Prince you're threatening."
"Prince or not, if you or one of your men lay even a finger on me, my brothers will end you."
The griffin moved to unsheathe his sword, but Rhaegar Targaryen held out a hand with an almost imperceptible shake of his head. He approached her warily, like he would do with a frightened deer.
"And pray tell, who are your brothers, my lady? Despite the present appearances, you don't sound lowborn." He raked his eyes over her, furrowing his brows, his interest definitely piqued. "You look oddly familiar… Have we met?… What's your name?"
The girl blushed, but kept her ground, her eyes burning proud and fearless.
"My friend did nothing wrong. Unhand him, at once!" she commanded, and the prince's eyes came alive with amusement and admiration.
"Sorry, I can't do that. My father the King ordered me to find the mysterious horseman people are calling the Knight of the Laughing Tree. That – he pointed a finger some feet from her, to the dented shield which had popped out of its sack in the fall – looks like a laughing tree to me."
The unexpected turn of events rendered her speechless for a moment. The point of the dagger she was holding shook.
"You think he is the Knight of the Laughing Tree?" she scowled, her voice thick with incredulity.
"My lady, no!" Howland Reed implored from behind her.
"I am the Knight of the Laughing Tree!" Lyanna Stark declared, and the vision flickered and twirled in a blur and the Raven took flight again.
He flew, across space and time, as the seasons turned and the days followed the nights thousands of times, year after year, and the lands below changed from snowy white, to lush green, to golden fields burnt by the sun, to sand and sea, and back again, over and over, until he was home and could finally rest his wings on a branch of the heart tree in Winterfell's godswood: below him, Sansa was bathing in the dark pond, a mysterious smile tugging at her lips as she thought about him, wondering if he was still alive, and he was almost tempted to shout I'm here! I'm flying back home, sister!, but he flapped his wings once more and soared across the training yard, where Arya was sparring with a dark, scarred man he remembered from another life, when he could still walk, when he could still climb.
Well, I'm flying, now, he though, smug and exhilarated, and I can see everything.
And he saw with a mix of delight and brotherly jealousy his sister blush, distracted from her sparring by a young burly man intent on his work at the nearby forge, and when the lad raised his blue eyes to her, smiling with a little wave, she was promptly kicked on the floor.
"Get your fuckin' eyes back on your enemy's sword, girl, and not on the pretty lad in the smithy, or next time I will use the edge instead of the flat!"
The vision changed again, and now the Raven was in the middle of an immense expanse of ice, and a gigantic woman circled around herself, her striking blue eyes searching for unknown enemies lurking in the night, and her sword was a wonder of burning red ripples, the only warmth in the dark winter…
But there were other swords forming in his mind, hundreds of them, twisted, deformed, bent and melted together by a breathing fire, their edges still razor-sharp… and the Mad King stabbed himself on their pointy ends, again and again, and pointed a bloodstained finger against a knight not much older than the Raven himself, as he spat words of hate and death: "Your father is at gates! What are you doing still here? You have your orders. Bring me his head, you bloody traitor, or burn with the rest of them!"
The knight unsheathed his sword: golden was his hair, and golden his armour, but his eyes were as hard and cruel as wildfire... And then he found himself back at the feet of the Broken Tower in Winterfell, and Summer was next to him, a pup still, watching with unfathomable amber eyes, and his legs were pushing him up, spurring him on, saying "Climb! Climb!", but his heart was screaming to stop and run away.
But up he went.
Like the squirrel his lady mother always dubbed him to be.
I never fall.
And, this time, he didn't.
He hoisted himself up, across the windowsill and he was in another tower, in another time, and his aunt Lyanna was dead in a bed of blood and dried out blue roses, and his father was screaming and sobbing like a wounded animal, holding her as though his own warmth and love and tears could bring her back. Other hands, gentle, trembling hands were trying to disentangle him from the cold embrace.
"Ned, come on! Let her go. You can't help her anymore! We need to leave."
Keen like a knife, dawn pierced through the open windows and flooded the small room and the lifeless body lying on the bed; under the golden light, her face beamed, gaining in death a peaceful softness which she probably never had in life. The hurt and fear and pain were gone, and Bran realised that her still serenity was a last token of love, a silent absolution for the sins of the world, for the lies honourable men would have to say on her behalf. He averted his eyes, feeling like somehow intruding on a moment too private and intimate to share. Something else caught his attention: the wood-and-iron shield hung on the stone wall opposite to the windows, and the sunrays were illuminating the chipped paint of the blazon, a heart tree with a face carved on it, smiling mysteriously.
The sound of weeping, from both man and child, filled the tower. His father had slumped down on the wooden floorboards, crushed under the weight of a pain too big to feel anything else.
In the arms of the midwife, the baby was fussing, wanting his mother's breast, and Bran was reminded of those pups his brother found in the wolfswood, a lifetime ago, their soft muzzles pressing against their mother's empty womb, their mouths hopelessly latching to her cold udders.
The small man's hands shook as he reached out for the baby and there were tears in his eyes and his voice when he spoke again.
"Ned…get up. Get up and look at him. Look at him. She left us with a gift. We must protect him."
His father raised his reddened eyes on Howland Reed, the baby in his arms now cooing peacefully.
Bran could hear the faint echo of another voice, a woman's, calling out to him, pleading with him… Bran! Bran, wake up! Please! Please, wake up!... and other voices, a thousand voices, joined her… the Children, singing their sad, forgotten songs, and the earth had a voice, and the rocks had a voice, and another voice had the trees and the sunburnt bushes, but he ignored them. There was somewhere else he needed to be, so the Raven spread his wings and let his thousand eyes guide him deep into the North again… the weirwood tree below him was almost identical to the one waiting for him in Winterfell's godswood, except for the spiral pattern of stones scattered around like an enormous sleeping three-headed beast, the weirwood at the centre of it like a warm, beating heart… and right into the heart of winter he was floating now, across a brutal land beaten by the wind, past the white curtain of the mountains and the merciless expanses of ice, beyond a frozen waterfall all the way to an altar of ice surrounded by high crystal-like pillars half-buried in the snow…and over the altar a baby had been lain down, a child screaming for cold and fear, and his eyes turned blue, and Jon was that child…
His real eyes opened again and stared up at the red canopy of the weirwood tree where uncle Benjen had left them five days ago. Meera's face swum into view as he adjusted to the dim light of the campfire, her warm brown eyes wide and worried.
"You've been gone for so long, I thought…" she trailed off, pursing her chapped lips as she checked his furs absent-mindedly, tucking him close as a mother would do. The thought annoyed him. He pushed away her hand as politely as he could.
Her eyes hardened. He watched as she grabbed the pile of intertwined twigs and sticks she was crafting in replacement for the sledge they had to leave in the forest, when they were attacked by the wights, and resumed her work. In a few days – she would say with a steadfast glint in her eyes – a new handmade sledge would be ready, and they would be able to reach Castle Black on their own. The Wall wasn't that far: three miles, maybe four as the crows fly. And, if her calculations were right, the Castle was right in front of them. Bran had told her more than once to run alone to the gate and come back with help, but Meera was adamant: there was no way she would ever leave him behind. They would reach the Castle together or they wouldn't reach it at all. After a while, Bran dropped the issue altogether. It wouldn't do to squabble against each other. They needed to save their strength, if they wanted to survive a little longer.
Since the cave, the woods had grown awfully quiet, almost too quiet, as though the trees were collectively holding their breath, waiting for something to happen. The dead hadn't bothered them again, but Bran felt restless.
They survived drinking melted ice and eating weirwood paste mixed with smashed acorns, moss and the mushrooms Meera had retrieved from the cave; at night they would light fires all around the makeshift hut made of moss, leaves and twigs, and Meera would snuggle up against him under the furs, propriety long forgotten, and he would often fall into a mercifully dreamless slumber with her breath on his face and her warmth shielding him from his nightmares, but it was a small consolation.
She was tired beyond words and hurt, Bran didn't need the greensight to realise it. He couldn't find the right words to comfort her, though. They both had lost so much during their journey. The Three-Eyed Raven was gone, and so were the Children… and Jojen and Summer and Hodor… the wound in his heart was still fresh and bleeding, and his mind struggled to make sense of it: he went a hundred of times back into that cave, the memories overwhelming and threatening to push him over the brink of sanity… Meera's desperate cries for help, the confusion on Wylis' mild face as he got trapped between the overlapping layers of past and future time, bending, crumpling like autumn leaves, folding back on themselves like the dark ripples of a Valyrian steel under the strong hammer of the most skilful master armourer.… Did he know he was going to die? Did he experience his future self's pain? And in his adult life, did he recognise Meera's voice, when they met the Reeds for the first time, on the road to Castle Black? Bran's soul ached and grieved at the possibility: if it were so, then Hodor chose willingly to protect him and follow him north of the Wall, knowing all along he was also going to meet his very end.
That single word, repeated for all of Hodor's life, almost like an incantation, a grim premonition of his own death, was now a stark reminder of the costs of knowledge and of Bran's own impulsive stupidity.
The past couldn't be tampered with, those were the Three-Eyed Raven's teachings. The past remains the past. We can learn from it, but we cannot change it.
The ink is dry.
Then how had it been possible? What was the meaning of this? What of his other visions?
In some tiny, deep part of his heart, Bran deluded himself into thinking that maybe, maybe, Summer and Hodor had survived, somehow. Wounded, perhaps. Lost, like him and Meera. But still alive, or living a good imitation of life, just like his uncle Benjen was, against all odds. He had tried countless times to slip into Summer's skin, forcing himself to dream wolf's dreams when he closed his eyes, but every time his mind painfully smashed against an insurmountable barrier of coldness, numbing and bitter, like a bird against a glass wall, and all he could do was to give up: there was nothing there; only shivery darkness.
I never wanted this. I never wanted anyone to die for me. I just wanted to learn to fly.
It's not your fault, Bran, Meera had said, afterwards, he fought bravely and died to save us.
But she didn't know.
He couldn't confess any of this to her. The burden must be his, and his alone to carry.
"You shouldn't do that after sunset."
Roused from his thoughts, he gave a little start at the sound of her voice; she was perched on a log a few feet from him, weaving relentlessly. After three days her deft hands wore all the signs of near exhaustion: the fingers and palms were swollen with blisters and bleeding cuts for the effort.
"Using your powers, I mean…" she murmured, then added with an edgy sigh: "Sometimes I fear you might not wake up anymore…"
"I'm sorry. I lose track of time when I'm away, you know that."
Meera's eyes silently rose to meet his, her scowl all too telling: you never go away, not really, it reproached him. His body was still confined here, under the tree, laying on the frozen ground, unable to move, exposed to frostbites, starvation and their enemies.
But Meera wouldn't understand: his soul was free, though, soaring up, on the wings of time, still learning with a thousand eyes, a hundred skins, and the longer he stayed inside the weirwood, the less he felt like belonging to the outer world. The Three-Eyed Raved had warned him: it is beautiful beneath the sea, but if you'll stay too long you'll drown. But in spite of the risks, the visions were coming to him more easily, now; they were not like the blurred memories of a long-forgotten dream anymore, but they felt more real than reality, their details more vivid and long-lasting, to the point that sometimes it seemed to him he could even taste the smells or feel the sun's warmth on his face. His powers were growing stronger with each passing day, as though the harrowing experience in the cave had unlocked some previously hidden ability, but what good would it make if he weren't able to control them, to choose what to see, or when? This vexed him; Bran felt himself teetering, grasping at invisible tendrils of smoke, groping uselessly in the dark, when instead his eyes should be finally wide open and all-knowing.
It was frustrating to realise he still didn't know enough: the pieces of the puzzle were scattered in front of him, but there were too many still missing for him to get a clear understanding of the greater picture.
"What did you see?" Meera asked softly.
"I'm not sure," Bran frowned, self-conscious all at once. "It was a vision from the past."
His reticence had nothing to do with Meera. He trusted her more than he did himself, but the revelations brought forth by his weirwood dreams puzzled him still.
The baby Aunt Lyanna gave birth to… that baby could only be Jon…. And that could only mean one thing: the father was Rhaegar Targaryen.
Jon is the bastard son, the only surviving son, of the last dragon… turning the phrase in his mind again and again wasn't making the truth of it sound less disturbingly absurd.
How could it be?
At Winterfell he had heard the stories about the start of Robert's Rebellion, even if Lord Stark had forbidden the household to ever speak about it… but every now and then Maester Luwin or Old Nan would let something slip, lamenting the heart-wrenching fate of their young, dearest Lyanna with words full of sorrow and regret whispered at their bedsides, when they thought the children were already fast asleep… the abduction, the rape…
Was Jon truly born from such a violence? Sired by the monstrous man everyone believed Rhaegar to be? The cruel, resentful Prince mad with lust who spirited away Winterfell's most beautiful winter rose from the love and safety of her family and her intrepid betrothed… Somehow the more colourful, accepted version of the facts wasn't so compelling anymore.
From the brief glimpses he got of the silver prince, Rhaegar Targaryen didn't strike him as the kind of man who would force himself on a woman.
But looks and first impressions could be deceiving.
He suddenly remembered one afternoon spent in the godswood, near the pond… Rickon wasn't even born yet… Robb and Jon re-enacted the Battle of the Trident for their little brother's own amusement, and Jon had wanted to play Rhaegar's part. When the stag had pushed the dragon in the pool, Bran had thrown into the water ripe raspberries in place of the Prince's rubies: how they all laughed at that!
Jon would always choose to play Targaryen princes, in our sparring games, Bran reminisced. The daring Young Dragon, conqueror of Dorne, Aemon the Dragonknight wielding Dark Sister to guard kings way less worthy than him… and Robb would then pull at his curly black hair, teasing him: 'You'd never pass for a Targaryen, Snow! You have Stark colours!'
None of us could have had the slightest inkling.
Everything he and his siblings thought they knew about their family turned out to be a deception, and he honestly didn't know how he felt about it.
The shock following the discovery of Jon's true identity and lineage was only matched by the filial relief he had felt in learning that his father had never been unfaithful to his lady mother, and that, 'til his dying day, he had kept up an elaborate ruse with the only purpose of protecting this innocent child's life. A lie that had tarnished his honour and must have brought undoubtable strain over his marriage, but a lie said for love nonetheless. Bran didn't know if he felt more jarred for his father's reputation, besmirched without cause, or proud for the courage and toughness of spirit he had shown for the best part of his adult life.
But for all the doubts and confusion muddling Bran's mind, one thing was clear: Jon must needs know, as soon as possible.
The weirwood dreams had showed him as he clashed against a White Walker in a bloody battle fought on a steep, frozen cliff and a grey, snowy shore, where hundreds of wildlings had risen again to do the Others' bidding. Was it a vision of the past or the future? Was his brother – his cousin – even still alive?
Bran couldn't say.
We need to reach Castle Black, as fast as we can.
His fists clenched powerlessly over his broken legs. He felt weak and helpless: what was the point of knowing all these secrets if he was unable to act upon them?
Meera laid aside her intertwined twigs to put on the fire a copper cup full of fresh snow, red berries and moss; she looked sad and deep in thought, and Bran instinctively knew she was thinking of home.
"I also saw your father," he blurted out, trying to distract himself, and her, from his growing agitation and her fears.
Meera's whole face lit up in surprised wonder and curiosity. The flames made the specks in her hazel eyes shine green and golden.
"You did?"
He nodded with a small smile, relieved. That much he could tell her, at least. "He went to the Tourney at Harrenhal, the year of the false spring."
Meera tilted her head back, a bout of delighted laughter escaping her lips and getting lost through the rustling of the wind. It was good to hear that.
"Oh, that bloody tourney… He wouldn't stop prattling about it… Jojen loved to listen to the story of the Knight of the Laughing Tree… did you know our fathers met there for the first time and befriended one another right away?"
"I do now," he hissed, sounding more harsh and exasperated than he meant.
Her forehead crinkled into a perplexed frown.
"Your father never told you?..."
"Harrenhal was a sour topic," Bran admitted, but, detecting her disappointment, he added without hesitation: "But he did tell me that Howland Reed was his staunchest friend. At the Tower of Joy Arthur Dayne would've killed my father, if it weren't for him."
Meera winced as she gulped down a sip of the hot concoction before handing the cup to him. He did the same. The taste was a disgusting mix of sickly sweetness and muddy sourness, but the warmth spreading to his chest and extremities was a welcoming shield against the night.
"I've heard that tale too, but Father didn't like to talk about that fight," she contemplated further and put another log in the fire. "It made him bitter, for some reason. He only said that the Sword of the Morning and the White Bull were the finest knights of their generation, and that they didn't deserve to die the way they did."
He wasn't surprised to hear that: Arthur Dayne and Gerold Hightower had pledged themselves to Rhaegar till the end, protecting the secrets of their liege with their lives, despite being outnumbered three to one. The circumstances of their demise were less than fair and he didn't want to stain Howland's honour, or the idea she, his only daughter, might have of him, by telling her how he had stabbed Arthur Dayne in the back before his own father finished him off.
"Did Lord Reed ever talk about my aunt?"
She furrowed her brows. "Lady Lyanna? Not really. He told us he was with her when she died. I believe it pained him greatly to think about her, so we never urged him for details. Why?"
She looked up at him over the rim of the cup with an expression so openly innocent and trustworthy that for a moment Bran was tempted to tell her everything, right then and there. But the secret was not his to reveal, not until he informed Jon first, anyway.
"I can't tell you yet," he said gravely, looking down at his hands. The log crackled deafeningly in the silence stretching between them. She stood and cuddled up next to him on the furs. Her eyes held an unwavering tenderness that reminded Bran acutely of Lyanna.
"Then I won't ask."
An overwhelming surge of gratitude and affection swept over him like a warm tidal wave. He closed his arms about her waist and pulled her closer. Her fingers curled around his of their own accord.
"How's your arm?" she inquired after a while.
"Fine," Bran mumbled, soon half-asleep, but her body was already leaving the comfortable nest of his arms to sit back.
"Let me see," she fumbled with his sleeve, ignoring his surly protestations, and inspected his skin.
"Does it still hurt?"
He lied and shook his head.
She had dressed the wound as best as she could with the red moss growing on the bark of the weirwood tree and he found that the plant provided a good amount of relief from the pain, which had subsided from searing to a dull, throbbing ache, a mild discomfort slowly creeping from his hand to his shoulders and chest.
The Night King's mark was still there, though, clearly visible: the blistered bruise stood out against his pale skin, like a cold burn, the sign of the five bony claws slashing his forearm like the stripes left by a whip of ice. The area around it was numb, swollen and purple in the spot where blood had clotted and congealed: it looked like a frostbite, but they both knew it was more than that.
"What do you think it means?" Meera mused aloud, while she changed the dressing. But Bran knew her real question was: 'Do you think this will also affect the Wall's magic?'
His heart gave a wrench: if the Night King could see and touch him through his visions, if he could make the thousand-years-old cave's wards crumble down like a snow castle, where would that leave him, Bran wondered? Was he becoming a liability? A puppet controlled by a force more powerful and darker than even the Three-Eyed Raven had envisaged?
I am the Raven, now, he wanted to scream, shouldn't I simply know this?
He raised his eyes to the red canopy above his head, listening to the chilly wind murmuring through the leaves, and sent a silent prayer for guidance.
Give me a sign.
And, as though on cue, a murder of crows took flight all at once.
Meera had already jerked to her feet before he could realise that the crows hadn't been scared off by his prayers, but by the menacing rustling coming from the hawthorn bushes a few feet from their campfire, where the trees grew thicker and darker.
She grabbed her net and stepped in front of him, spear raised and pointing at the trees, expecting blue-eyed enemies and not a cloud of white, soft fur, perfectly camouflaged in the snow. Except for two red eyes glowing in the dark like embers.
"Ghost!" he cried out, astonished. "Meera, it's Ghost! It's Jon's direwolf!"
The albino wolf padded warily to her; when Meera stuck her spear into the frozen ground and slowly fell on her knees, raising a hand, Ghost gave her a trusting sniff and licked her fingers.
Bran let out a burst of hoarse guffaws and patted his legs.
"Ghost! To me, boy!"
The direwolf raised his ears and eagerly jumped on top of him, laving his face, silent as usual but for the tail whipping madly against the ground and raising frozen snowflakes in the air.
Bran grabbed the smooth, slightly moist fur around his neck and fixed his eyes into his red ones: "Ghost, is Jon here? Go! Bring him to me!"
But Ghost did not leave them; instead, he raised his muzzle to the dark, moonless sky and did something Bran never heard him do: he let out a long, mournful AHOOO. The howl carried through the woods, its echo lingering in the biting air, until, after a few seconds, another one answered, just as fierce and high-pitched.
"It doesn't sound very far," Meera breathed out, her sharp eyes darting across the front line of the sentinel trees. Bran's heart jumped in his throat when, a few moments later, they saw the torches' light blinking hopeful through the snow. A direwolf with golden eyes who could only be Nymeria leapt out from the bushes, then Uncle Benjen was there, and then, right behind him, Jon.
The small clearing suddenly teemed with other people, black wraiths moving like blurs through Bran's clouded vision, and he could faintly hear Meera shaking his arm and talking to him in rather excited tones… He wasn't paying attention to any of this: was it a dream? Was his mind playing cruel tricks on him? But then Jon crashed into him and pulled him into a fierce embrace, and he knew it was real.
"I found you. Gods, I found you!" he kept repeating, his voice hitching on a sob, as though he didn't quite believe it himself.
Bran burrowed his own tears into the crook of his neck, feeling more relieved and tired than he ever did. Jon smelled of leather, sweat and fire. He smelled like home.
When they broke apart to look at each other, Jon cracked a small laugh through the tears, poking at Bran's long hair, clutching his shoulders and arms, checking his face for signs of injury.
Bran gently touched his bearded chin; there were a lot more scars on his face too; he recognised the marks where the eagle had attacked him at Queenscrown, when he had watched from afar, safe inside Summer's skin. Other, more invisible, scars, he could feel them too, but there would be time to talk about those later.
For some reason, he wasn't dressed in the black of the Night's Watch: Bran found it odd, but he pushed back his concerns. The simple grey fur-and-leather cloak with the direwolf sigil sewn in the crossed straps was a familiar sight, and his wild curls, tied down in the same way Father used to do, gave him a powerful air of gravity which made him look older.
To the untrained eye, it was no wonder he could pass as Ned Stark's bastard son; he bore such a striking resemblance to Father it was almost physically painful to stare at him, but now that Bran knew where to look, the likeness to aunt Lyanna was so obvious that it was a small miracle the elders among the household had never noticed or inquired about it.
Her same iron-willed eyes. Her same lips and hair. Her same assertive way to set the jaw.
Now he understood why Father had been so eager to send him away to the Wall, at the end of the world, where nobody would pry with troublesome questions.
His eyes shifted to their uncle, talking in hushed tones with Meera, and a doubt arose in his mind.
Did he know, when he agreed to take Jon with him?
"You all right?" Jon asked.
Bran lifted his eyes back to him and just nodded, not trusting his voice.
"There are so many things I have to tell you, little brother!"
Brother.
The word was a knife twisting in his gut.
"There's things I must tell you, too. Jon, listen…"
He made a move to grab his cousin's cloak, but Jon was already standing up, heedless of the urgency in his voice, and marched briskly to the small group carrying the torches.
"Plenty 'o time for you to chitchat once we'll all be on the right side o' the Wall, little lord," said a bulky man with a mane of red hair who crouched down next to him. A wildling, by the state of his furs.
"We need to move, now. Me name is Tormund, anyway," he said genially, showing a chipped tooth behind his cheerful smile.
"Where's Hodor?" Jon suddenly asked, looking around.
Nymeria seemed to frantically search for her brother, too, sniffing the trees' trunks in pursuit of a trace, letting out sorrowful, little whines as she grew more and more restless.
"I'm sorry, Nymeria…"
Summer is gone too, he wanted to say, but the thick lump stuck in his throat choked his words.
Meera talked for him.
"We were attacked by the Walkers, a few days ago. I've killed one with a dragonglass-pointed spear, but there were too many wights. The Children of the Forest covered our retreat, but Hodor and Summer…"
Words failed her. She shut her eyes, grief-stricken.
"Meera lost her brother Jojen, too," uncle Benjen said. "She showed exceptional courage where more seasoned men, more seasoned knights would have run in terror. Bran is alive because of her."
I'm alive because she was strong and brave, and because better people gave up their lives for mine, Bran thought. He felt Jon's stare on him, but could not meet his eyes.
He'd know. One look at me and he'd know it's my fault.
But Jon went completely still and quiet, and there, in the snow surrounded by darkness, he knelt before Meera.
"Lady Reed," he started and Bran saw her fidgeting a little, as though she was no longer accustomed to her own title. "Your brother's sacrifice won't be forgotten. You protected Bran when I couldn't. My family owes you an immense debt which I fear I won't ever be able to repay in full. For now, I beg you to accept my gratitude: Winterfell will be your home, too, for as long as you wish."
Her eyes shone with tears.
"There's no debt, my lord," she assured matter-of-factly, smiling fondly down at him. "He's my Prince."
Jon gave her a curt nod and rose again.
"Tormund will be carrying you," he said to him, as the rowdy wildling wrapped around his dead legs and torso a harness of ropes and leather belts which Bran supposed would help to fasten him on his back.
"Don't worry, lad, I won't let you fall: His Grace here would 'ave me hide!" he said cocking his head in Jon's direction. Bran's jaw slacked.
Next to him, Meera drew in a sharp, astonished breath: "You're King…"
Jon let out a heavy sigh and threw a dirty look at his oblivious wildling friend.
"That means Robb is dead, isn't he?" Bran said blankly.
"Bran…"
"Isn't he? And my mother too."
His cousin furrowed his brow in consternation. "How do you…"
He had seen them… his mother's throat, slit from ear to ear, the tears on her hollow cheeks mixing with blood, and Robb, stabbed in the heart, falling on the floor, his eyes dead and void. Deep down he had hoped it was a dream, or a vision still to come, but now that he gazed into Jon's eyes, he knew it to be true. It had already happened.
The ink is dry.
He gritted his teeth.
"Who else?"
"This is not the right time, neither the right place to discuss this. Once we'll be back home, I promise –
"Who else?"
Jon swallowed.
"Rickon."
A strangled whimper ripped through him from within.
No, not Rickon… please, Gods, not my baby brother!
"He had sought shelter to the Last Hearth with some wildling girl," Jon was saying. "The Umbers betrayed us. They killed Shaggy and sold him to the Boltons."
His lungs, his mind, his very soul were on fire. He needed to fly away. He wished to shrink and cower into the frozen ground, to shed his own skin and forget all of this, to dream and never wake up again, so he grabbed hold of one of the weirwood's white roots and pushed, pushed, inside the tree… but the tree fended him off.
Why, oh why did the weirwood want him to feel such unbearable heartbreak?
He tried to go away inside his own head, to hold on to the bittersweet memory of that last embrace, Rickon's big blue eyes pleading with him, the feel of his blonde curls under his caress… 'I won't leave you. I have to protect you', but even that was starting to fade… he failed him, he failed each and every one of them: Hodor and Summer, Jojen, the Three-Eyed Raven, Osha, Leaf and the Children… all of these deaths came crashing on him, all at once, and he broke down, wailing and writhing.
"It's my fault!" he choked, helplessly bashing his head again and again on the tree's white bark at his back. "I told him he would be safe with the Umbers, I sent him there!"
Jon went to him in an instant, holding him, trying to breach through his sobs.
"Bran… Bran, listen to me," he firmly cradled his nape in his hands, whispering in his ear, his voice raw and cracking with tears. "You mustn't blame yourself for this. The Boltons and the Umbers have all been wiped off the face of the earth. I saw to that. For Robb, for Rickon. I promise you…"
He turned to face him, and the steel of the wolf blended into the fire of the dragon.
"No one will tear this family apart ever again. Not while I live."
His words drowned out Bran's cries and when he dropped a kiss on his forehead, the echo of a memory came back to him: a broken boy, lying still in a big bed of furs, dreaming away the last bits of summer, while his brother dared him to a walk beyond the Wall – 'if you're not afraid' – before bidding him goodbye.
"Let us go home," Jon said in earnest, hope and devotion in his voice.
Bran nodded and wiped his tears away with the heel of his hand, feeling a little ashamed that strangers had to witness this. But nobody said a word of jape or scolding, and when the imposing woman in the blue armour approached him, he saw that there were teardrops in her blue eyes, too.
"My Lord, Lady Meera," she addressed them, kneeling down, "I'm Brienne of Tarth, Lady Sansa's sworn sword."
Bran had recognised her straight away: the strong, knightly warrior-lady who in his visions was bravely fighting against the Others with a sword of fire.
She wasn't a beauty, for sure, but her eyes had such a breath-taking innocence to them that Bran knew he could trust her implicitly.
"Your sisters, both of them, are safe, back home, waiting for you. Sansa was so sure you were still alive that she asked me to give you this."
She produced a small bundle from inside her cloak. His spirit lifted when he saw its content.
"My father's gloves."
They were rather loose-fitting: his father had such big, strong hands, while Bran's had always been scrawny and nimble, more suited for climbing than swordplay. But they were warm and comfortable like one of his father's hugs.
"Thank you, my lady."
The sapphires in her eyes shimmered when she smiled; his attention was diverted to the golden lion-shaped hilt of her blade.
"The sword… can I see it?"
The lady knight hesitated only for a breath's space, then unsheathed her weapon for him.
Yes, it was definitely the same sword he saw in his vision: a wonderful work of craftsmanship, with incredible ripples and colours. A strange warmth came off from the steel; his fingertips had barely touched it that the mark on his right arm tingled and stung painfully. He flinched and retracted his hand.
"This is not a sword like any other, isn't it?"
He met her eyes.
Truly beautiful eyes. Soulful and gentle.
"It's called Oathkeeper. But it was Ice when your lord father wielded it."
Her thick lips curved into a knowing smirk at his surprised reaction.
"A part of Ice, anyway. The other part…"
She turned her head around and Bran felt himself spin and fall.
The frightful man, the golden man who had plagued his sleep all these years, was there…only he wasn't that golden anymore: he was grey, and scarred, and hurt, and older. Bran barely recognised him, if not for his green eyes… the dream he had dreamt thousands times before came back to him in a rush, only it wasn't a dream any longer… He was once again perched outside the Broken Tower, his ten-years-old hands grasping onto vines' roots and dented stones…and then the moans, the wet slapping of body against body, the golden curls cascading down the woman's shoulders and breast…'he saw us, he saw us!'… a remorseless voice whispering in the recesses of his mind…
The things I do for love.
He forced air in his lungs again and he was back in the forest, the weirwood tree a solid, reassuring presence at his back.
"I remember… I remember," he gasped.
Jaime Lannister was staring at him with wide, haunted eyes full of pain and shame, the only golden thing on him the fake appendance where once was the hand that pushed him through a window.
Dread and uneasiness gnawed at him. Why was he here? Was he following Jon? Why would he want to help him?
Bran didn't understand: he tried to catch Jon's eyes and tell him that he couldn't be trusted, but Tormund's hands were already lifting him up and, before he knew it, he found himself tied to the wildling's back, ready to set off.
"I shall follow you as far as the Wall's magic will allow, then I'll leave you," uncle Benjen said as he checked the straps and knots around his legs. "Don't worry about me, dear nephew," he added with a sad smile. "What has to happen, will happen. All of us have got a part to play, and it's time for you to get back to the land of the living."
It turned out Meera was, more or less, right: Castle Black was a mere five miles south-east from where they stood. Lady Brienne's squire, an awkward, shy young man named Podrick, was confident they would reach the gates before dawn. In the meantime, Meera was gathering as much information as she could about the events which took place on Westeros while they were lost north of the Wall.
From the former members of the Brotherhood Without Banners and Ser Bronn, a sellsword turned knight now at the service of Jaime Lannister, they learned about the end of the War of the Five Kings and the dire circumstances of the new Queen's coronation.
"There's another one," Bran pointedly said. "She has dragons with her."
Jon cast him a disconcerted look, but didn't ask him how he knew. The Red Priest's eyes, on the other side, peered at him with prudent interest and suspicion.
"We don't know if the talking of dragons is real, my lord," Beric Dondarrion panted his way through the deep snow.
Denner Frostfinger brought them up to date with news from the Wall, next, but didn't elaborate on how Jon came to break his oaths to the Watch and to be crowned King in the North.
"Do you have news of my father?" Meera asked his cousin.
"Not of late, my lady. He wrote a letter to my sister Sansa several months ago, to reaffirm his pledge to House Stark, after we took Winterfell back from the Boltons. I'm sure he's fine, and eager to have you back home."
Bran was only half-listening; to his left side, the Kingslayer would throw, every now and then, fleeting, anguished glances racked by guilt at his useless legs.
Yes, take a good look at your outstanding work, he would've wanted to remark, but somehow his own resentment seemed pointless and hollow, right now.
He has a role to play, same as me, Bran realised with sudden clarity. The visions wanted me to see him as he slew his King. There was something there, nagging him. But he couldn't put his finger on it.
He was about to ask him what had happened to his sword hand, when the air around them grew colder.
Meera halted abruptly, her breath freezing before her. The torch she was holding wobbled and gutted out. Her frightened eyes found his.
The direwolves started to growl ferociously at the dark trees ahead, their bodies flat and ready to lunge. Jon drew his longsword from its scabbard and moved beside them.
"What is it?" Tormund asked edgily.
Bran's hand snatched his arm, the sound of his own breathing loud in his ears: "They're here."
The iced ground under their feet shook, cracked and split open. A rotten hand shattered the frozen surface and gripped Tormund's ankle. The world swayed before Bran's eyes, as the wildling struggled to keep his balance; he felt the ropes around his chest tightening and snapping and they fell to the ground.
All hell broke loose, then.
Meera yelped in pain as she sank in the snow, and two wights were instantly on top of her, their rusted blades and daggers gleaming in the night. Bran watched helplessly as Nymeria leapt to her defence: her jaws opened and closed on rotten flesh and black bones, tearing and breaking and mangling their already mutilated bodies.
He saw Brienne and the Kingslayer unsheathing their swords and charging at the horde of ghostly blue-eyed corpses rushing at them from the woods. He saw Podrick appearing at their back and smashing to smithereens a wight that most certainly would have plunged a dirk between the Kingslayer's shoulders.
A shower of fire-arrows found their targets and the wights burst into flames, but for one that fell three more rose, vomited out by the earth itself or appearing from the depth of the trees, silent and fast as death itself.
And soon the snow was turning dark with blood.
The dead don't bleed, Bran thought, stricken with horror.
In the blurred haze of the battle, Bran soon lost sight of Jon; he darted frantic glances around himself, searching for his cousin, terrified he might find the Night King and his generals instead, but it seemed the White Walkers hadn't joined the fray, yet: the forest spit up every kind of reanimated things… wildlings, still wearing their seal and bear pelts over their hollow ribcages, skeletons of ancient soldiers in iron scale armours, their flesh sloughed off their bones a long time ago, at the time of the first Long Night perhaps, riders on dead horses with their muzzles half-liquefied into a grey pulp, even children with hair matted with dried blood and mud, teeth and hands as their only weapons…
And then he saw them: two shadows, man and wolf united in death as they were in life, lunged at Podrick and Tormund… the sweet giant was missing an arm and half his face had been eaten up, to the point that the white skull within was showing. His clothes had been torn to pieces, too: Bran could see the still open wounds where daggers had sunk on his chest, again and again, and merciless claws and fingers had scratched through skin and muscles.
Here and there, chunks of flesh were missing.
"Hodor! Hodor!" Bran let out an anguished cry, hoping against hope to appeal to some deep part of his gentle soul that still remained and remembered.
Hodor turned, and his icy blue eyes were unfeeling pits of frozen hatred and they seemed to curse him: 'look! look what you did to me!'
Uncle Benjen was suddenly standing in front of him, shielding his view.
"I'm sorry, old friend!"
The flaming chain swung and swirled and Hodor was consumed by the flames. Benjen took a few steps toward him, but Summer dived and knocked him down: the direwolf snarled and his jaws snapped and closed unto his uncle's arm.
Blood, darker than Bran had ever seen, oozed from the gash, and just when Summer's teeth were about to close on Benjen's throat too, Nymeria and Ghost slammed on their brother's right side and shoved him away. Bran watched petrified as the wolves savagely wrestled on the snow, yelped, grunted, growled, sibling against sibling, tearing at each other's flesh, until only Summer's dismembered body parts lay on the ground. His jaws kept trying to gnaw at him.
Bran's stomach churned over with one violent contraction and he retched into the snow, his throat burning and throbbing.
I'm sorry! Gods, I'm so sorry!
His stinging eyes moved to Beric Dondarrion, his sword alight as it hacked through a small mob of wights, to Bronn, limping ostensibly from a leg wound, to Jon and Frostfinger, panting and cutting their ways through a group of dead children…
We're not going to make it.
"THEY'RE TOO MANY!" Anguy screamed, pulling back as he nocked another arrow and let fly once again.
Oathkeeper and its sister sword slashed and parried and thrust relentlessly, casting red sparkles like flint against steel, and Benjen's flaming chain smashed in one single neat spiral the skulls of three wights, but it was no use: the dead were closing in, until they were surrounded on every side.
In the dark, Meera's hand found his and Bran closed his eyes, waiting for the end.
The air sizzled and rumbled around him: he felt something strangely alike to a hot caress on his face, but when he ventured a look, an enormous white cloud, glittering golden in the night, swooped down on them.
No, not a white cloud…
The golden dragon thudded into the ground and spat a high column of blazing fire all over the place; the wights burned fast, like charred torches soaked in tar. The flames licked the forest and the nearest trees shrunk to crisp, burned-out cinders.
Wights were attacking its flanks, trying to climb it as if it were a hill, but their weapons seemed to barely tickle it. Its tail whipped sideways, striking with brutal force dead things and trees alike.
Next to Bran, his cousin burst to his feet, his face picturing his same overwhelming, terrified awe.
"The fuck you're doing?!" Tormund bellowed.
The creature's head turned, puffs of blistering smoke coming from its nostrils, and seemed to freeze on the spot as it saw Jon, standing there, still as stone, his shallow, rapid breaths a steaming cloud before him.
Time seemed to stretch endlessly.
Man and dragon studied each other, baffled and intrigued, then Jon's hand was rising and its muzzle was ever oh so slightly bending toward him.
Bran held his breath.
The dragon roused and lunged forward with an ear-piercing roar. Jon and Meera stumbled down and Bran shielded his head when the scaly body leapt over the three of them, spitting fire onto the enemies at their backs.
Its right wing wrapped itself around them and for a moment they were engulfed in a burning darkness, while outside the crackling noise of fire eating everything in its wake rose and thundered like a storm approaching.
He's protecting us, Bran marvelled, catching Jon's equally stunned eyes. The dragon recognised him.
The beast caught a handful of wights in its jaws and tore them apart with a flick of its neck.
"What are you waiting for, a written invitation?" yelled the man straddling the beast. "GET THE BOY UP HERE AND RUN TO THE WALL!"
Tyrion Lannister? Tyrion Lannister was riding a bloody dragon?
Before he could recover from the shock, someone's hands lifted him up and tossed him sideways on the dragon's neck, like a sack of corn. The dragon's back was scorching. His legs were a dead weight under him and he skidded to his side when the animal moved his neck. There was nothing to cling onto.
"What the hells are you doing?" he heard the Imp shout in surprise.
"He'll slip down if I don't hold him!" Jon howled above the dragon's roars and hastily positioned himself behind him. "Don't worry, brother, I've got you!"
He bent down and clasped the dragon's protruding spikes on Bran's sides, securing his hold as firmly as he could; they both lurched forward when the beast finally beat its wings and took off.
"GO!" Jon yelled to the people on the ground.
Its back to the Wall, the dragon hovered in the air, covering their retreat with destructive trails of fire. Wrapped up in flames, the wights blew to pieces as though hit by incendiary stones. What little remained of flesh and clothes was melted away: bones crackled and split, but the wights didn't utter a sound.
Bran dared a look underneath him: the landscape had completely changed in those few minutes.
The haunted forest was a blazing inferno, and the shattered throng of people ran toward the gates like a line of ants digging through the thawing snow.
He saw a man in black, his uncle, stop and turn around to face the few wights who hadn't been destroyed by the fire, and Beric Dondarrion bravely joined him for their last stand, heedless of his friends' shouts, his sword burning brighter.
The dragon soared higher and pivoted: the Wall, their salvation, was right there, half a league ahead.
"Hold on, we're almost there!" the Imp yelled, and Bran couldn't say if he was addressing him or Jon.
He could feel the air bending in blurred ripples, opening for them when they flew across the Wall's magical wards, but not a heartbeat later the mark on his arm burned white-hot, like thousands burning pokers piercing through his bones and skull.
He clutched his arm and screamed.
"What is it? Bran, what's going on?" Jon yelled.
"No! We need to turn around!" he tried to warn, but his voice sounded frail and far away even to his own ears.
The pain was blinding and burning. And then the cold came… a cold so bitter and cruel and wrathful as he never felt before…
The dragon swayed and bucked from under him, as though he wanted to throw them off.
"VISERION, NO! What's got into you!?"
The Imp pulled at his locks and gears, trying to steer and regain a direction, but the ground was getting closer and the beast spiralled down, completely out of control.
We'll crash down!, Bran panicked and shut his eyes.
Fly! FLY! A voice that sounded like the Raven screamed in his head and flooded his senses, until his eyes weren't his eyes anymore, and his heart was a roaring thunder beating against his enormous ribcage, pushing blood hot as fire throughout him, but despite this, his body, so huge, so powerful, so whole, was shivering, and his mind was a tumult of numb, shrieking agony.
No! NO! It's cold! Soo cold… Get him off me, PLEASE!, he cried, but only a booming roar full of pain echoed in the night. Muñus! Valonqis! Can you hear me?! The zoklītsos is hurting me! Āeksios Kēlios, I beg of you, let me go home! I'm so cold!
The Wall drew nearer, but they were flying too low.
Higher, HIGHER!, the boy's mind called, but the dragon's wings flailed and thrashed, as though they had forgotten how to fly altogether, and his body swivelled and spun in the air and then they were smashing hard into the ice, while the little humans in black were scuttling away from the edge, frightened like sheep, and the other humans on his back were also screaming, even the zaldrīzo ānogar. A wide, thick sheet of ice tore away from the Wall's face and exploded into his muzzle.
He rammed his claws into the sleek ice and tried to shun the bodies that fell screeching from the brink: a gaping crevasse opened from top to bottom and branched in spirals like a cobweb.
The first layers of the smooth surface were rapidly liquefying at the contact of his belly's warmth and his grip slipped with each push he tried to make.
The Wall was weakening and so was he.
He wouldn't hold out any longer with these frozen shards shoved into his mind.
With a prodigious effort, he threw his weight on the top and tumbled down on the other side, plummeting, scared, confused, cold, so cold, his wings useless at his sides… his claws scraped at the Wall's surface, trying to slow the fall, dragging down with him other big lumps of ice.
The Wall seemed to melt away, piece by piece, under him. Down, down, until, finally, the ground met them and the plummeting stopped into the snow and mud of the courtyard below.
The dragon snarled and snapped his jaws as he angrily pushed him out and Bran slipped back into his own scaleless skin: his limp body glided down the beast's neck, and gentle hands were laying him on the ground. He felt more than saw the dragon's rage, as he took flight again, this time alone and free of his chains.
Everyone was screaming, but the voices, for a change, weren't in his head any longer.
The Imp screamed for his dragon to come back, the men of the Night's Watch screamed to open the gates, his cousin screamed at him.
"Bran! BRAN! Answer me!"
But Bran couldn't scream back, nor open his eyes.
He was exhausted and his arm hurt so much that he found himself begging for someone to just cut the damn thing off and be done with it.
The cold was spreading from the mark to his heart and his throat, and he wanted to cry, but he found he didn't have enough strength even for that.
He desperately clung to the sweet memories of his childhood, to Winterfell and Father and Mother… to Jon…
He wondered feebly what would his sisters say when they would report to them he had flown with a dragon for a while.
Arya will be seething with envy, he thought.
And then darkness claimed him.
This is the first time I write a full, action-packed fighting sequence, and, although I've loved writing every bit of it, I'm also pretty nervous about the outcome: I've found out it's really difficult to keep the balance between the emotional aspects and the tension/suspense of the battle. I hope I succeeded! Let me know in the comments!
I've left for you a hidden clue in one of Bran's visions… something important concerning the White Walkers that, oddly enough, I haven't seen being addressed in any theory, yet, and that I hope will also come to fruition in the show: I'll expand on this bit of information in the following chapters, but it was crucial for me to mention it already in this chapter, before the start of Season 7, because I wanted to have a head start on the TV-show, in case they really mean to go there with the storyline.
The only thing I can say is: it's all connected!
Let's see if you find it!
I apologise for Hodor and Summer: this was uncharacteristically cruel even for me.
Yes, Bran is the Night King's secret horcrux! C'mon, that particular crossover is practically writing itself, right? *evil grins*
Will the Wall fall down or not?
Keep reading!
**Translations from High Valyrian:
Muñus = vocative declined form of muña (mother)
Valonqis = vocative plural of valonqar (I don't think I have to translate this, XD);
zoklītsos = little wolf
āeksios kēlios = vocative of āeksio kēlio (lord lion)
zaldrīzo ānogar = blood of the dragon