Bran
Bran sat in the back of a carriage for the two and half weeks it took to get to Winterfell, only ever leaving it when they stopped to sleep for the night. Meera had sat next to the driver. It wasn't the most comfortable way to travel, but he kept himself wrapped up in a thick cloak & blanket. Winter was here and he didn't mean to freeze to death before getting back home. Once they reached Winterfell, Bran knew his safety would be secure as it could be. He also held onto the sword that Meera had brought with her from the Three-Eyed Raven's cave: it was valyrian steel and named 'Dark Sister.' Another weapon effective against the army of the dead.
Since connecting with the Weirwood tree just after Uncle Benjen had left him and Meera, Bran's mind had been a mess of infinite images. He knew to achievely any sort of clarity in the mess, he'd need to be next to a Weirwood tree. Luckily, there was one waiting for him at Winterfell. Every so often Bran would pull up his sleeve and a look at the icy, blue mark that the Night King had left on him. He knew by coming to this side of the Wall, he was risking the White Walkers being able to follow him. Benjen had said the Wall was enchanted with spells that wouldn't allow the Walkers to pass. If the mark had allowed the Walkers to enter the Raven's cave, there was a good chance it would mean they could now get past the Wall.
Edd, the dour-faced Night's Watchman who'd met them on the far side of the Wall, had travelled with them down to Winterfell. Every time they'd stopped for rest and food, he'd told Bran & Meera of everything that had happened to Jon during his time at the Wall: the wildling army, becoming Lord Commander, what happened at Hardhome and Jon's death only to be brought back by a red priestess. Bran had a hard time believing it at first but knew it had to be true; Edd had no reason to lie to him. He had also told Bran of Sansa's coming to the Wall – seeking help from her brother to retake Winterfell from the Bolton's – and then reaffirming that Jon had been named King in the North. Bran resisted the urge to correct Edd: Jon was – Bran knew now – his & Sansa's cousin.
When Winterfell was finally in sight, Meera turned round in her seat. "Bran, look," she said, a joy filling her voice. "It's your home." Bran did his best to roll himself over so he'd be looking in the direction the carriage was travelling. Seeing Winterfell again filled him with a happiness he doubted he'd ever felt before then. His face grew into a massive smile. The last time he'd seen it in person, smoke had been rising from its towers – a complete ruin. Now it stood, just as strong as it ever did. The towers seemed to have work men rebuilding the rooves to have steeper tops. The thing best was, inside those towers, his cousin & sister were waiting for him.
When closing in on the northern gate, a horn sent out a single blast for the castle to hear. Other work men were planting posts at regular intervals around the castle and Bran could only guess that Jon had set them to work, preparing defences for when the Walkers got here. The gates opened. Edd and another black cloak went through first, followed by the carriage. Two more horsemen followed the carriage.
As the carriage came to a stop in the courtyard, Bran heard a voice yell, "Move!" It was accompained by two sets of running footsteps. Soon, Jon & Sanas came running into the coutryard; Ghost following behind them. Somehow Bran's face grew into a bigger smile than when he'd seen Winterfell. Jon dropped the sword, cloak and crown he was holding as Bran began to push himself to the end of the carriage. His cousin & sister reached the rear of the carriage as Bran reached it himself. He felt two pairs of arms wrap around him as he lost his seat and fell forward onto the two of them.
Jon & Sansa fell flat on their backs with Bran on top: all three of them laughing; a pack once again. For that moment, nothing mattered. Not the army of the dead. Not the bystanders watching the reunuion. The three of them laughed, lying in the snow, wrapped in each other arms. Tears ran down their faces. Bran moved and placed a kiss on both of their foreheads. Footsteps came from round the other end of the carriage and Edd's voice said, "So this is how you're acting now that you're King." Jon took Bran into his arms and stood. After placing Bran back on the carriage, Jon pulled Sansa up from the floor.
"I hope you've left the Wall in good hands," Jon said to Edd.
"Don't worry. Its in the hands of Kedge Whiteye who I named the first ranger once you'd left."
Bran grabbed Jon by the shoulder and his cousin responded by hugging him again. Looking at Jon, Bran thought, I can't tell him. Not yet.
"Last I heard, you'd gone beyond the Wall," Jon said.
"Now I'm back and you're King," Bran replied.
"You're a prince," Jon told him. The smile on Jon's face faded and suddenly he looked very grave. "Bran, Rickon's dead."
Tears pricked the corners of his eyes. "No. Osha said she was taking him to the Umbers."
"And the Umbers gave him to the Boltons."
Bran instinctively wrapped his arms around Jon. Sansa came to do it as well. Guilt filled his being. "I sent him away. I sent him away."
"You didn't hand him to the Boltons," Sansa told him. "It wasn't you who put an arrow through him."
Once Jon backed away, Sansa came to hug Bran herself. "We can take you to see him," Jon said. "He's buried with father. We also have a stone mason working on a statue for Robb."
Bran's eyes got redder. "Robb's gone as well?" His voice was weak.
Jon slowly nodded. "He and your mother were murdered by the Freys and the Boltons. Do you want to go down to the crypts?"
"No. I need to get to our heart tree," Bran said calmly, wiping the the tears from his eyes. After the embrace with Sansa, Bran got Jon to carry him through yard; Ghost following alongside him.
"Get Longclaw, my cloak and crown to my solar please," Jon asked of Sansa. She gave a small nod and went off.
"I was in the windmill when you ran from those wildlings," Bran said. Jon eyed him.
"I thought that wolf was Summer."
"And I was also at the place where you fought those Night's Watch deserters."
"Craster's? And you didn't call out to me." Jon gave Bran a disappointed look. "I could have protected you."
"If I did that you wouldn't have of let me go to find what I needed to."
"And what was that?"
"The Three-Eyed Raven." They walked under the arch that entered the Godswood when Meera grabbed Jon to stop him.
"Your Grace," she began. "My name's Meera Reed. I've been with Bran throughout all his time beyond the Wall.
"Then you have my thanks," Jon replied. "See Sansa, she'll have the housekeepers find you a room to stay in." Jon eyed the sword she was holding. "What's that?" Meera pulled the steel from its scabbard. Jon's eyes went wide when he saw it was valyrian steel.
"Its name is Dark Sister," she told him.
"Take it to my solar when you find Sansa. I'll want to look at it later." Meera curtsied then sheathed Dark Sister. She returned to the direction she came from. Jon entered the Godswood, walking through it to the Weirwood at its centre, snow crunching beneath is feet. The blood red leaves contrasted against the white surroundings.
"Where's Sam? He wasn't at the Wall."
"Down in Oldtown, training to be a maester."
"That's a shame, I would have liked to speak to him." Jon put Bran at the foot of the Weirwood tree where his Lord Father would sit and clean his greatsword. Jon knelt down next to him.
"What did this Three-Eyed Raven do for you?"
"He taught me to search the past. He taught me to view the present. He taught me to glimpse the future."
Jon's expression told Bran he only half believed it. "Can you look for something that might help us fight the Walkers?"
Bran gave him a nod. "I think that's the reason the Raven summmoned me." He smiled. "Do you want to know who else I met beyond the Wall?"
"Who?"
"Uncle Benjen. Half turned into a wight."
Jon gasped quietly. "He's alive."
"The closest thing to it."
A smile broke on Jon's face. "That's good to hear." He stood. "I'll leave you be. I've managed to convince Sansa into practicing swordplay."
"I wouldn't believe you before we left home all those years ago."
"Neither would I." Jon bent down to place a kiss on Bran's forehead. "We prepared your old chamber once we got word. If you need anything else, just say."
"Thank you Jon. Tell Meera to come here once she's finished settling in." Jon gave a nod and was off with Ghost by his side. As Bran watched his cousin, he took in a slow lungful of air through his nose. It smelt like home. He was home.
Bran slipped his hand onto a root sprouting from the ground and – all of a sudden – the infinite images flashing in the back of his mind slowed, coming to the forefront. He was lost in the past, trying desperately to slow down the speed he traversed it. For all Bran knew, hours could have pasted for others already. Time was incomprehensable as all the history of Westeros passed in front of him at incredible speed. He was unsure what to look for first. He would be able to see his brith, his parents' marriage, Robb training in the yard, Arya trying to do needle work, Rickon playing with Shaggydog, the meal Jon had eaten on his sixth name day or what dress Sansa had worn to her wedding.
To her second wedding.
Night fell and Bran was standing in the Godswood as Theon escorted Sansa toward the two men standing in front of the Weirwood: their names Roose & Ramsay. A sudden anger filled Bran for no reason in particular but then he was standing in a bedchamber. Sansa was tied to the bedposts by her wrists & ankles. Ramsay knelt over her with a knife in hand. Bran wanted to leave but couldn't. His eye grew wide and terror filled him as he was forced to see his sister so brutally treated. Sansa was gritting her teeth; her face in anguish.
"Not to worry," the bastard said. "It will only be a problem if we have twins."
Sansa let her scream release – it being the definition of suffering – as Ramsay pulled away a part of her body. Bran awoke from his venture into the past as if he'd fallen in the middle of a dream, his body jolting. He let out his own scream and breathed heavily. Meera knelt over him.
"Are you alright?" she asked, concerned.
Bran calmed his breathing. The Godswood was still bright with the morning sun but he had to be sure of how long he'd been gone. "Did we just arrive at Winterfell?" he asked Bran.
"Yes," Meera replied. "Jon said you wanted me here."
Bran nodded. "I did."
"What for?"
"You're the only person who understands what I can do, at least for now. I need you to stay with me."
Meera frowned. "Bran, its a sweet thing to ask but I need to get home. I haven't seen my parents since Jojen and I left to find you. They need to know Jojen is gone."
"Then send a raven to your father. Tell him that Prince Bran orders him to make for Winterfell to discuss an urgent matter."
"What urgent matter?"
"Jon is the son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targerygen. Your father is the last person alive who went to the Tower of Joy where my father was given Jon to look after."
Shock painted her face. "You've got to tell Jon."
"No. I need proof and your father is the closest thing I have to it. All the Lords of the North know how close our fathers were and they will trust your father's word if he tells them the truth. Please don't tell Jon. Don't tell Sansa. Don't even write in your raven scroll the truth. I need to speak to him about it in person."
"But Greywater Watch moves. No raven will be able to find it."
"Send the scroll to Moat Cailin, I'll warg it when it gets close."
"Alright." She went to leave but Bran grabbed her hand. Meera stopped and looked at him.
"Also write that I request his blessing to ask for his daughter's hand in marriage," Bran told her, his voice tender. "The marriage to take place shortly after my sixteenth name day." Meera stared at Bran, mouth ajar before curling into a smile. She placed kiss on the back of his hand.
"I'll see the Maester and be back here soon." She walked off. Leaving Bran alone again.
His hand returned to the Weirwood root, slipping himself into the past once more. And he returned to seeing his sister's breast being mutilated before slipping to a different image. It felt like when he would begin to slip into his slumber. An image thought of consciously that flows to a different one he wouldn't think was related: leading to an eventual labrynth of his mind. So many images flashed before him until he could find one he wanted to view.
He stood in the Godswood, seeing himself in front of the Weirwood; lost in the past. An inescapable urge to visit the crypts fell upon Bran. Leaving the Godswood, he saw Ghost: the white direwolf padding through the snow, avoiding people at work in the yard. The wolf came to a stop and looked toward him. Bran knew full well that it was impossible to be seen by anyone but the direwolf still seemed aware of him; maybe catching a peculiar scent from where Bran stood.
Regardless, Ghost continued through the courtyard, having inspected what he meant to. Bran moved in the direction of the crypts and descended into the depths of the castle. His urge brought him to the edge of the crypts that would be closest to the Godswood. A section of wall faded away to reveal a chamber adjacent to the burial chambers of the Stark dead. Inside the chamber was a great throne composed of Weirwood roots; similar to the one the Three-Eyed Raven had sat in. Looking at the chamber's roof revealed, it was transparent. Bran saw himself sitting by the Weirwood tree for the second time during this vision.
He was sitting back in the Godswood. Bran knew where he wanted to go. With the goal in mind, he began to crawl through the snow. The cold wasn't a bother. His will was pushing him to pull himself forward as fast as he could, one arm in front & then the other. Around the frozen lake and into the treeline; Bran left a trail of flattened snow that someone could follow to him.
No one else was in the Godswood and Meera was busy seeing to the raven scroll, so Bran was pulling himself along the floor until he passed under the arch connecting the Godswood & the northern courtyard. The guards manning the archway noticed him and immediately dropped their spears to hoist Bran up.
"Are you alright, My Lord?" said the one with the thick, black beard.
"I need to get down to the crypts. Bring a sledgehammer," Bran answered. "Don't worry about the King, I will explain it to him."
The pair of guards looked puzzled, but the one with the black beard gave a nod to the one with a clean face. He walked off to look for the named tool and the bearded guard took Bran to his desired destination. Luckly, the guard was reasonable muscled and didn't tire much from carrying Bran such a distance. Once at the bottom of the stairs, Bran pointed in the direction of the wall that had faded away during his vision. When they came to it, Bran told the guard, "Set me down."
The guard leaned Bran against the nearest pillar and they waited for the clean shaven guard to find them. He'd gotten two sledgehammers. Bran pointed to the wall. "Knock it down," he told them.
"But what will His Grace say?" the clean shaven one asked with concern.
"If he gets angry then he can betrate me not you," Bran assured them. The two guards gave each other looks before nodding. The solid iron went into the old stone and bricks broke loose from the mortar. The noise echoed through the crypts, certainly reaching the stairs to the exit. The noise must have been heard in the courtyard because, when the wall was half way knocked down, Jon was running toward them with some men-at-arms; swords drawn and expecting to fight vandals.
"STOP!" he ordered the two guards as he came to a stop. They did so and Jon looked to Bran with a hint of anger. "Why in seven hells have you got them to knock down that wall, Bran?"
"Let them finish and you'll see," Bran told him plainly. Jon's expression was that of confussion but he clearly trusted Bran's judgement and gave a nod to the two guards for them to continue.
The rest of the wall came down and bricks were moved to the side. Jon brought Bran's arm over his shoulder and walked into the newly opened chamber. One of the men-at-arms had pulled a torch from a sconce and walked in with them. The Weirwood throne was just as it had been in Bran's vision; made of bone white roots that dropped from the ceiling of soil and continued it the soil floor. Clearly the roots emerging from the ceiling kept the soil bound together and allowed it to remain structurely sound.
"Sit me down on it," Bran told Jon. His cousin complied. Approaching the throne gave off a great sense of intimidation. It would help Bran see the past, present and future with greater ease, he had no doubt. Jon placed him down in the clearly defined seat.
Taking a step back, he asked, "What is it?"
"A Weirwood throne," Bran answered. "And it will help me to find the Long Night in the past."