(Beyond the Wall: 9/28/298 AC) Viserys I

"Viserys! You bloody lunatic!" he heard Ser Waymar, shout out, through the snowy gale. "Where in the seven hells do you think you are going?! Gared and Will are in that direction!"

"Are you are tracker now, Royce!?" he replied, as the wind whipped his longish hair into his face, cutting into him like blades. The only form he could make out from the whiteness, was the heavily coated form of Ser Waymar, stumbling but two feet in front of him. 'Where in the blazes, did this storm come from?'

"No, but I still retain my senses!" The wind howled, like an angry wolf, nearly muting Ser Waymar's angry voice. "It's too fucking cold, for this madness, Viserys! Damn you Gared! Wherever you are!" he saw the knight lift his fist in the air, shaking it in anger. "You hear me!? Damn you to the seven pits for indulging this," Royce turned back to point at him, "white haired fool!"

"I know what I saw, Royce! You loud mouth braggart!" The bitter wind threatened to freeze his tongue in place as he spoke. 'It was a child! I know it was a child!'

"Nonsense! No blasted wildings have been…Ahhhh!" Viserys saw Waymar's black form fall forwards to the sound of shifting rocks and snow, before ending in a loud grunt.

"Waymar!" he shouted, dredging through the thick snow, as the winds grew stronger.

"Down here! Mind your step!" Waymar replied, sounding more like a lost child in the face of the beating wind. As he grew closer to the edge, he heard Waymar add, "Wait! Don't mind your step! Fall down here and mar your pretty face for getting me in this mess!"

'Well he seems to be alright,' he thought, shielding his eyes from the blinding snow, as he inched forward until his toes began to dip down over a sharp edge. The way down was not as far he had thought, barely the height of nearly three standing men, from what he could tell. A gust of wind threw snow up the side of the small drop, blanketing his face in the miserable substance. Numbness began creeping into his face and he bundled up as much as he could. Breathing warm air into his gloves, a brief thought entered his mind as he looked at them, 'these are from Dragonstone.' The thought passed as quickly as it came, and he shouted down, "Can you find anything to grab on to?"

Ser Waymar felt around, never moving much out of his own limited sight. "Not a thing! The side is sheer!"

"Go further down!" He shouted, cupping his hand near his mouth. The crushing sound of snow came from beneath his feet, as he edged closer, pointing around the side of Ser Waymar. "There may be an opening, or ledge to grasp!"

"Or I could fall into a deeper pit!" Waymar shouted, looking up towards him. "No! Walk the edge, and find a way out. I will remain here, and shout for Will and Gared. Should they come this way, I will have Gared sound the horn to alert you!"

"Are you certain?" he asked, unused to leaving men behind. 'I do not like leaving men like this, but so be it. I know to follow the edge to find him again.'

"Yes! No sense in both of us going deeper into the snow when we both know Will and Gared are back that way!" Waymar gestured back into the direction they had come.

"Have it your way!" he replied. "Keep calling out for Gared and Will! I will return!"

"Aye! And you best not leave me Viserys! You still owe me a sparring match!" Waymar shouted back through the whistling wind.

"Desperate to lose again?!" he couldn't help but retort, even though their dire situation called for discipline. 'Ah, the prince and princess fighting amongst themselves again?' he heard Ser Allister's voice reverberate in his mind.

"The longer you take to find me a way out, the faster you will lose our match when we get back! Now go!"

He hesitated for a bit, staring at his black brother, before he headed further down, following the edge of the pit. At his back, he heard Waymar begin calling out.

"Will?!" The first shout came strongly, and clearly. "Gared?!" came the second, the howling wind already having a muddled effect on Waymar's calls.

As he trekked through the thick snow, he also began shouting, while keeping an eye on his footing. "Will!?" He swept his feet ahead of him, to gauge the surface of the snow. Cupping his hands, he shouted, "Gared!?" 'Where had it all gone wrong? Where had the child come from? How long had it followed them?'

These questions kept stirring in his mind, preventing him from focusing, which was dangerous in this weather. 'Never lose sight of the path. The snow can grow thick, in an instant, and you will lose your way,' he remembered the First Ranger warning them. 'I led them into this. We were just to do a simple ranging, like the one before. Quick, and easy,' he thought. Something struck his face, as he had been staring down into the pit, seeking an easier way out of it, for Waymar. The object was small, hard, and brittle, nearly crumbling in his glove as he moved to identify it. 'A leaf?' As if waiting for his thought, the five-pointed, blood-red leaf, turned to dust and was swept away by the frigid winds.

"Targaryen!" a sudden voice, high and sweet, with a musical tone, and a deep sadness, echoed out from within the wailing blizzard. He drew his sword, the surprise overtaking him.

He scanned what little he could from his pure white surroundings. The speaker had sounded, near him, yet afar. Peering over the edge of the shallow pit, he spied a small form, in the snow. The diminutive creature stared at him, large gold-green eyes standing out against the white. "You are late, Viserys Targaryen! Come!" It beckoned towards him, with its free hand, while the other held what appeared to be a small spear. The snowstorm seemed to die down around him, though he could see nothing but raging whiteness just a few paces beyond. The edge of the pit, below him, seemed to have melted away and revealed a small stony path he could traverse.

Mesmerized as he was, he nearly forgot. "My brothers!? They…"

"Are safe, within the cave," the small form stated.

His sword still drawn he slowly came down the path, growing closer to the child. The child had light brown skin, with pale deer spots, large ears, and messy gold-brown hair that reminded him of autumn. The eyes, he recognized as looking vaguely cat-like. The child held on to its weapon as tightly as he did his. "Are you the child I saw earlier?"

"Not a child, but men called us as such," the child seemed to grow sad. "You saw one of my sisters. She helped draw them away from you and yours."

"Them?" he asked, all the while thinking. 'A Child of the Forest? No! Impossible!'

"Not here, Targaryen. They may find us," the child warned, gazing through her surroundings with what he assumed were keen eyes. "Come. The three-eyed crow wishes to speak with you. He will answer your questions."

The child scurried up another rocky path, the storm ceased for an instant, briefly revealing several large wierwood trees, before the snow reclaimed them. As he rounded the base of the wooded hill that held the ancient trees, he saw the child disappear behind a large root, several paces ahead. His approach found him faced with a cleft in a hillside, between some weirwood trees. The entrance to the small cave held several other children, who stood guard, watching him. They whispered to one another in a strange language, but his ear caught one word that was unmistakable, 'Dragon.'

As the biting wind swept behind him, he stood there, still stubbornly unbelieving of the creatures that stood before him. Tales from ages long past. 'The Children of the Forest,' he found his lips word silently. He had been unable to tell which one had ushered him in here, they all wore the same leafy garb, bore the same messy hair. It was then, that the soft glow of torch light heralded the presence of another child that emerged from around a fork in the cave. This one bore a cloak of leaves, with withered flowers woven through its hair.

"Come," the cloaked child ordered, the small torch remained lit in seemingly frail hands.

"My brothers, where are they?" he asked again, unwilling to proceed without a definitive answer.

"They are near the crow. Away from the cold," it replied tersely.

He could feel the eyes gaining the measure of him, staring through him. The figure turned and set forth deeper into the cave. He trekked through the dark, surprisingly damp, passage, following the soft glow ahead. As he and his companion marched through the caves, he found twigs, and what appeared to be small bones, snapping underfoot. On more than one occasion, he had found himself nearly bumping his head against the thick roots that arced downwards from above him. The caves seemed to grow ever more cramped, with twisting, jutting, roots coursing through the walls of the caves. Within the darkness, he saw glowing, slitted eyes, watching him. "What is this place?" he blurted, staring at the winding passages.

"Forgotten," the figure said. "Forgotten by those who should remember, and remembered by those who should have forgotten."

His hunger to know more grew. "But…"

"No more, questions, Targaryen!" the child admonished him, the lyrical tone of its voice growing heavier, as she turned with torch in hand. "The secrets of this place are not for you. You are here to receive a message, and deliver it to the one whom it belongs. Nothing more. You do not possess the gift that he requires." With that, the child spun on her heels and pressed forward.

He frowned, he had so many questions, but the child would not answer. 'I hope this 'three-eyed crow' has enough strength to speak the words of a thousand men because no less will satiate my curiosity.'

They walked, silently, for what seemed like hours, until they reached a large echoing cavern. A black chasm greeted them, with the soft light of the torch utterly unable to illuminate more than arms breadth of space around them. Far below, he could hear the sounds of rushing water, resonating down there, in the dark. Stretching across the black abyss was a small, natural bridge, which the child had begun walking towards. He followed its slight form, until it stopped at the end of the bridge, holding up the torch for him to take.

"Go," it said. "He is waiting."

A part of him questioned the insanity of all this. 'Perhaps I am out in the snow, dying to the cold, and this was all some elaborate death dream?' Even as the thoughts crossed his mind, he found his feet moving of their own volition, and before he knew it, he was halfway across the narrow bridge. The torch in his hand failed to illuminate either end of the narrow bridge, and for a brief moment, he considered turning back before a voice called out to him from further ahead. "Come! Viserys Targaryen! Come realize your part in a destiny you had not been chosen for," it repeated mysteriously throughout the large cavern.

The doubt in his heart vanished, and he continued forward. The torch flickered at his side, caused by some unknown source of wind. As he neared the opposite end of the bridge, three forms began to emerge from the darkness, slowly being illuminated by his low burning torch. A wall of numerous, gnarled roots lay off to the side, rising up, into blackness. His three brothers of the watch; Will, Gared, and Waymar's, prone bodies rested atop a small bed of roots. Their bodies still rose and fell, holding steady breaths. He rushed to his brothers' sides, checking their conditions, and attempting to wake them.

"They have been given a sleeping draught," a voice called out from the direction of the contorted roots he had seen earlier. "They will wake in several hours," it continued.

After it spoke a second time, he identified the source. At first, appearing as a twisted mass of roots, the voice had made a man melt into the fore, emerging from the tangled mess. He could not help but reach for his sword, his grip on the torch tightening ever so slightly.

"There is no need for that Viserys Targaryen," the tree-man spoke. "Leaf told you that you were here to receive a message, did she not?"

"She did," he answered, looking back towards his brothers, before stepping forward. He brought the light to bear, illuminating the man within the roots. 'His face seems familiar,' he thought, trying to remember back to his youth. "Was she?"

"A child of the forest?" the tree-man answered instantly. "Yes, yes she is."

The confirmation nearly made him accept that he was going mad, but only just. "Who are you?"

"A former crow, once Lord Commander," the tree-man responded.

Then it hit him, a spark in his mind. In an instant, he recalled all the times he would read with Ser Willem.

'"How many eyes does Lord Bloodraven have?"' Ser Willem would ask.

'"A thousand eyes, and one," he heard his young voice call out.

He felt a slight smile creep into his mouth before he heard her. 'Destroy it!' the woman's words flashed, the image of a burning ship threatened to smother his thoughts. Shutting his memories aside, he continued, "Brynden Rivers? The Bloodraven!?" He exclaimed. "But how? You would be…"

"Old. Very old," the former Lord Commander stated, hands resting on the roots tangled around his chest. "I need no reminder of my age. It is something I am keenly aware of."

His mind became a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. 'Children of the Forest? An extremely aged, tree-bound, Bloodraven? What next? Giants? Others!?' He took a slow breath, to calm his nerves. "Why did you bring me here? Were you responsible for the sudden storm?"

"No, dear boy," the Bloodraven's face grew stern in the shadows. "Others are responsible for the storm. I sent for you before they found you out."

"Who?" He asked, unwilling to accept the alternative meaning of 'Others.'

"Others," he warned. "You were fortunate, that the Ironborn landed to the west when they did. It distracted them, long enough for your first ranging to go unmolested. But alas, you had been too far the first time, and my reaction had been too slow."

He knew the doubt on his face would show, even in the gloom, and he did not care.

"After seeing everything you have, you still doubt?" the Bloodraven chided. "And I know you have seen far more than just the children. You have seen the woman, you have seen the power she and her people posess?"

'You saw nothing,' he remembered how her golden eyes had focused on him, threatened him, as the storm raged around them. Lightning had left her fingertips, and he was too young and too scared to do anything, but pay heed to her warning. Her voice had sounded like velvet, yet it had rung like steel. After years of living on the Wall, he had eventually come to believe that it had been only his childish imagination. That the flashing lightning, and the dark skies that had hovered above them, had tricked his eyes into seeing what he had thought he had seen all those years ago. But now? The Bloodraven spoke to him of it, as if it had been no secret, bringing it out into the light, and suddenly it did not seem so fanciful.

"I have," he answered.

"Hmmm," Bloodraven replied. "You must go to where she resides. Dragonstone or King's Landing, it matters not. Warn her. Tell her that her people should not be entering that place where the gods roam. Already, their meddling has alerted the Great Other. It is learning from them, moving in ways I can no longer accurately predict. You must tell her."

"What reason would she have to believe me?" he questioned, knowing going to her spouting insanity would get him thrown in a cell and sent back to the Wall, or worse.

"Tell her, that it wants her youngest," Bloodraven stated. "For what? I am uncertain, but tell her that it has made the attempt to acquire her, more than once. She will know of what you speak, for she has told no one but those closest to her power. And if you find yourself unable to convince her, convince her son. He will listen if all else fails."

He remained silent for a moment, taking in what the Bloodraven had just said. His mind began to conjure up many questions, bringing them up to his lips.

"You have many questions, Viserys Targaryen, this I can see. But those answers were not meant for you."

"But why? I need answers," he pleaded.

"Take solace, in the fact, that your future is no longer as grim as it should have been. The fate of your sister, however, remains in question," the roots seemed to shiver around the elderly Bloodraven, as he spoke.

"Sister?" he replied. 'My mother had never given birth to another child. She had been with child, but the last I had heard of her, she had disappeared somewhere in Essos.'

"Yes. At one time she would have been named Daenerys Targaryen, but now…" Bloodraven closed his eyes, "now she remains a victim of circumstance. Proof of the gods, and their cruel jokes."

"Where is she?" he asked, unsure of whether he had truly wished to know.

"Across the sea, in the clutches of a distasteful man. Hunted by Fire Lord, Ironborn, Mummers, and Serpents alike."

'Was it a trick?' he thought. 'What purpose would it have served?'

"Rest assured that you may see her again," the Bloodraven locked eyes with him. "If the warning is taken, and accepted. Particularly by the Fire Lord's son, and his Iron compatriot."

He understood, 'Tell the woman of the others, and her son of his sister.' He knew Steffon Baratheon had a recently acquired reputation for bravery and chivalry. 'So perhaps that would be enough?'

"Take that," Bloodraven glanced down, towards the tangled mass of roots and dried bones at his feet. In the clutter, he saw a small spear with a black spear tip. As he brought the torch closer, he saw the tip reflect the light like glass. 'Dragonglass,' he thought, remembering the Isle of Dragonstone being rich in the material. He lifted the weapon, which felt light in his hands. "If you encounter Others, on your trip back to the Wall, use it. It will hurt them. It will kill them."

He looked towards the tree-bound man, and then to his brothers, who still lay quietly to the side.

"When they awaken, the will have questions. Do not sound like a madman when you answer them," Bloodraven stared at him. "The children will help mask your exit. Do not seek this place out, and purge it from your memory forever."

He felt a pinch at the back of his neck, and the world faded into darkness.

"We are not going to die here, brat!" he heard a voice say, muffled by the pouring rain. He felt strong hands grasp him, shaking him.

"No! You can't!" he heard his young voice call out, struggling to free itself.

"That's it! That's the one!" he heard the traitor say, pointing to Ser Willem's ship. The small vessel rocked and shifted in the tumultuous waves, over the gusting wind and beating rain.

"Destroy it!" he heard her command, clutching her stomach in pain.

"We can't. The wind. The waves," someone said.

"Fine!" she shouted. She moved with grace, as blue energy began surrounding her pregnant form. Then, the lightning erupted from her fingers and engulfed the small ship.

"Ser Willem!" he felt the hands shake him.

"Viserys! Wake up princess," He heard Gared's old voice bellow in the haze.

"Urgh," he replied, reaching for his throbbing head. His surroundings indicated them to be in a small worn tent, which smelled heavily of bear dung. Sturdy, but old.

"What in the seven hells happened?" Will asked, looking towards Gared. "First we were tracking some lost wildling child, and then we woke up here."

"Viserys and I lost you both in the storm," Waymar replied. "Viserys set off to find me a way out of the pit I had fallen into, and then we," Waymar gesture to both he and himself, "woke up here."

"Viserys? What have you to say? Did you see anything?"

The question hung in the air, "No, nothing. I found a way down into the pit, but slipped. Must have bumped my head, for I woke up here as well."

"Well, whatever the case," Gared began, "there is a sled with food, and thick cloaks, waiting just outside this stinking tent." Gared stuck his head out of their small, smelly, shelter, "The weather seems to have cleared, somewhat, so we best get a move on back to the wall."

"Aye," they all replied, gathering their things.

Viserys felt something sharp, beneath his cloak. He felt around, and grasped his hands around a small spear shaft, tipped with a dragonglass head. Waymar whistled, "What else do you hide in that bloody cloak?"