April-December, 302 AC
Bran mounted up, the motion as familiar as breathing. Dancer was well-used to him by now, to carrying his spirit rather than his body. The chestnut filly did not pause for a moment, but kept carefully picking her way through the uneven stones that lay upon the banks of the stream. A leaf drifted past her nose, one of many falling from the canopy overhead, but she did not look up. When she bent to drink, Bran left her, flying into the trees on the wings of a passing wren.
Colors burst across his eyes like sparks of flame. Horses saw only dull browns and blues, greens and yellows, but birds were another matter. They knew autumn in all her glory as she painted the leaves in brilliant shades of crimson and cranberry, orange and ginger, gold and honey and amber. It was a sight Bran could not resist, a brief reprieve from the dark cavern and his scattered lessons with the last greenseer.
The fourth moon of the year waxed and waned, then the fifth. Leaves fell, blanketing the forest in soft litter that crunched beneath Dancer's hooves. Sixth moon brought cold rains that turned the leaves slick and dark; seventh moon brought Bran's twelfth nameday; eighth moon brought first sleet, then snow. Ice covered the stream in thick panes of glass, and drifts of snow turned the curved banks to jagged teeth.
By eleventh moon whiteness covered the world, leaving no trace of color but for the black shadows of trees. Even the sky turned grey and dim, as though some terrible sorcery had stolen all the blue away. Clouds covered both moon and sun, rare glimpses of their light did no more than shade the snow silver-blue or golden-pink. Bran would have thought the world dead, were it not for the lives he felt slumbering in the dark.
Bran was the forest, and the forest was him. He was the slow, steady heartbeats of the bats sleeping on the ceiling of the cavern, the dormice sleeping in hidden beds of woven grass, the hedgehogs sleeping among the brambles in nests of leaves. He was a lone bushy-tailed squirrel curled in a tree trunk, awaiting the warmth of the noonday sun; he was a family of coarse-furred badgers emerging from the tunnels of their sett to forage. He was a young reindeer buck, scraping his antlers against an aspen until they came loose, dropping to the ground with a soft thud. Pleased, the buck began stripping twigs from the branches, so intent on filling his belly that he barely noticed Bran.
Bran shuddered as a gust of wind ruffled the reindeer's shaggy fur. This was nothing like the summer snows he recalled from Winterfell. Those lasted only three, perhaps four moons, at the end of the old year and the beginning of the new, when the days grew short and dark. His father Lord Eddard had said that plants, animals, and the earth needed time to rest, just as men did.
True winter, though... true winter felt wrong. This was no time of rest, no peaceful slumber for the weary earth. Frost and ice bound the trees in a hostile embrace, the branches trembling beneath the weight of their unwanted armor. The sap froze in their veins, and their songs went silent. Old trees stretched out deep roots in a futile attempt to lend their strength to the saplings as bitter winds assailed them, first snapping their slim branches, then bending their trunks, then breaking them in half. Bran could have sworn he heard a mocking laugh upon the wind, some eerie voice that cut through him like a knife, delving beneath skin and flesh until his very bones seemed numb.
Then the buck stumbled into a pit, and pain set his nerves afire. Frantically the buck struggled to rise, his hooves scrabbling uselessly against the floor of the pit as his shattered legs collapsed beneath him. No, not this, no, no, NO!
Bran fled with a silent scream. Some instinct drove him away from the cavern where his own skin waited; he found himself rising up, up, up, until he found a golden eagle soaring high above the forest. For a moment the eagle tried to shove Bran out, but Bran's will was strong and the eagle was tired. All day he'd searched for food, and found neither prey nor carrion to soothe his hunger.
A plume of dark grey smoke rose into the pale grey sky. Wary, the eagle glided around it in wide circles, keen eyes taking in the great flames that lit the small clearing, the scarlet shadow, the circle of two-leggers in dull metal armor. Their horses were ragged, scrawny things, steam puffing from their noses as they whickered their dismay at the stench of roasting flesh rising from the fire.
A flicker of movement drew the eagle's eye. At the furthest edge of the clearing, in the shadows beyond the firelight, a mare yanked at her picket. She stomped her hooves and arched her neck, her eyes rolled back in her head. Danger was here, she knew it, just as she knew the cold smell of the dead two-leggers whose bloated bodies had fed the pyre.
This smell was worse, much worse. The foul aroma stung at her nostrils and curdled her blood. She tried to stamp her hooves, to warm herself against the chill, but her limbs were stiff and heavy, too heavy to move. The roar of the fire drowned out the sound of her panicked breaths; alone, unnoticed, she could do nothing but wait for her doom, her heartbeat racing in her ears.
It seemed an eternity before the pale shadow of the Other emerged from the dark shadows of the trees. It did not shoulder through the drifts like the dead two-leggers, or ride through them like the living ones. No, it walked atop the snow, leaving neither trace nor track to mark its abhorrent presence. Closer the spirit drew, hatred in its heart and a scornful smile on its lips-
The golden eagle folded his wings, shrieking defiance as he plummeted toward the ground This was the eagle's territory, and fury overwhelmed his fear. Burning blue eyes glanced up, and something yanked at Bran's navel, ripping him away from the eagle, away from the clearing.
Long leagues flashed before his eyes; for a moment he thought he saw green vines bathed in golden light. He blinked; no, it was only the last rays of the dying sun. He saw a huntress dragging a reindeer carcass toward the entrance of a cave, a direwolf standing guard at the mouth of a chamber, and last he saw himself, a scrawny boy whose pale wan face hid behind tangles of red-brown hair.
Bran cursed his weakness as his spirit returned to its cage of flesh. It must have been the awful gnawing at his belly that brought him back. Lord Brynden did not suffer the pangs of hunger; he could fly as long as he pleased, as far as he pleased. He was no boy, forced to drink and eat; the corpse lord drew his strength from the weirwood roots that twined about his gaunt frame and crept through the tattered remnants of flesh and skin.
Sometimes Bran wondered if he might do the same. He loved flying, just as he loved the terrible beauty of the weirwoods and the wondrous visions stored within the field of stars, better than any story. Closing his eyes against the dark walls of the cavern, Bran wandered through halls of ancient memory. He crossed continents, oceans, and centuries as easily as a raven flitting from one branch to another. Meat and mead were nothing, nothing at all, not when there were countless mysteries to excite and endless labyrinths to explore. Yet the thought of roots crawling over his skin, burrowing into his flesh, confining him in an everlasting embrace... he could not help giving a violent shudder.
"Thank the gods, you're back."
Bran opened his eyes, confused by the sight of Meera crouching over the fire. How had she butchered the reindeer so quickly? "Are you cold?" Her voice was oddly soft, almost strained; her eyes fixed on him rather than on the fresh meat she was turning on a spit. "Should I build up the fire?"
"No."
Drips of fat slid down the haunch of reindeer and fell into the flames, the rich scent making Bran's mouth water. With a grunt he pulled himself up, grasping hold of the trestle that sat beside him. At Winterfell he'd once seen an old man who'd lost his legs move about using such a trestle, a rough thing made of planks held together by nails. Bran might be a prince, but his trestle was nothing more than a sturdy fallen branch, two feet long, with a pair of slimmer branches at each end to form sloping legs. As they had no nails, Meera had tied the legs in place with lengths of rawhide.
Bran hated and loved the trestle in equal measure. The thing was crude and clumsy; it dug into his hands and left them callused and sore, even after he wrapped tattered furs around it. But with it he could drag himself across the cave, so much faster than he could when the jagged stone floor bit at his fingers and the palms of his hands. It took almost no time at all to pull himself to the fire, though the effort made his arms ache. Meera had made him do press ups this morning, before she left to hunt, counting each one as sweat slid down Bran's face.
"Did you see anything?"
Jojen's voice was faint, his mossy green eyes dull. On the journey north the little grandfather had been their leader, keeping a close eye over their dwindling cache of supplies, telling Meera which paths to take, giving Bran things he must do when he slipped inside Summer. But of late Jojen spent most of his time sleeping, or staring into the fire, or wandering alone through the caverns. No matter what he did, he wore the same somber look upon his face, as though he were some poor shade haunting his own tomb.
Melancholy, Meera called it, her eyes glittering with unshed tears. Neither of them knew what to do. Bran was bewildered; Meera was angry and sad by turns. Sometimes Jojen would realize they were watching him, and he would rally for a minute, an hour, a day, donning a mask of hollow laughs and smiles that never reached his eyes. Bran dreaded those ghastly smiles, perhaps more than he dreaded the murderous presence whose memory made him shiver. No, Jojen didn't need to know about that.
"I saw Meera capture a reindeer," he answered instead, trying to forget the buck's agony. It had taken months of work for her to carve a rough spade, and weeks to dig out a natural hollow until it was deep enough to trap one of the deer, elk, reindeer, or moose that cautiously roamed the forest. Jojen had tried to help, but the vicious winds and harsh cold soon forced him back into the cavern with Bran.
"The first of many," Meera said grimly as she turned the spit. Again Bran wondered why after a year of hospitality she suddenly refused the blood stew of the singers, why she insisted that they eat no meat unless Meera slew it herself. And she'd taken to wandering the cavern, scratching out maps on the wall as though she was searching for something. "The fur will make the start of a fine blanket, aye, one fit for a prince of winter."
"Fit for a king of winter, surely," Bran replied, hoping the praise might make her smile.
"Winter knows no king," Jojen rasped.
Not another word passed his lips; he would not even try the meat, though Bran gave him the lord's portion, rare and tender. Days passed, and still Jojen did not eat, though he shivered constantly, his breath coming in short pants, his dark brown curls coming out in clumps when Meera carded her fingers through his hair.
"He's dying," Bran fretted when Leaf and the other singers next brought him to Lord Brynden. "You have to help Jojen, please." His voice cracked, shaming him.
"The boy will not die." The corpse lord said, amused; his red eye twinkled in the dark. "Even as we speak his sister forces broth down his throat and smears honey on his lips, and the last of his resolve withers like autumn leaves. No, the boy will not escape his fate, no more than the girl will find what she seeks. But enough of these petty concerns; they do not understand the burdens we share, the hard paths we must walk alone in the dark. Now, I must go into the weirwoods, to make sure all is ready for your lesson."
With that the red eye turned white, leaving Bran alone in the silent dark. Lord Brynden was right, they wouldn't understand, they couldn't. They didn't know what it was like, losing a part of yourself, whether it be an eye or a pair of legs. They didn't know what it was like, dwelling in the shadow of a kingly brother, but the greenseer understood. He listened to Bran's fears, and shared his own secrets, and never pestered Bran about strengthening his arms or tormented him with doubts. He didn't even make him learn about the Others.
"A tale for another time," he'd said, the first time he summoned Bran after the terrible vision of the black comet.
"But I have to learn," Bran pleaded, trying not to tremble with fear. He was a prince, and princes were supposed to be brave. "I have to, and then we can warn Robb and Jon, and they'll raise the North and the Night's Watch..."
"Will they?" Lord Brynden's red eye gleamed. "A lost prince returning from beyond the Wall to warn of the enemy is a pretty story for a wet nurse to tell her charges. The truth would be much uglier. Even if you survived the journey—" he paused, glancing over Bran's scrawny frame and wasted legs. "Well. A crippled boy of ten surviving the wild is strange enough; no doubt they'd take talk of the Others as the delirious raving of a starving child."
"They would believe me," Bran insisted. His voice cracked, and shame coiled in his belly as the corpse lord sighed.
"Long years have passed since I found my way here. I met the singers face to face, I joined with the weirwoods, and still I struggled with the knowledge they revealed to me. Your brothers are not like us; they would condemn you as mad, and through their folly bring doom upon us all."
Bran thought of his brothers playing with their wolf pups, of his old dreams of Robb and Grey Wind running together through the night, of Jon Snow and Ghost curled up together in a small cold bed. Then he thought of Robb smiling when Bran asked if the Deep Ones were real, of Jon ruffling his hair when Bran asked if they could get Rickon a unicorn for his name day. His shoulders sank, weighed down as if they had turned to lead.
"I can't fight the Others alone."
"Nor shall you," the last greenseer promised. "We shall fight them together, you and I, but you must be prepared for the heavy burden before you may seek to carry it."
Bran wasn't quite sure what that meant. Seven moons had passed since then, but he did not feel better prepared. Lord Brynden showed him many visions, each one longer than the one before. He'd spent almost a week in the field of stars watching a war between Clarence Crabb and the squishers.
"Clarence was a half-giant," he'd told Meera when she practically forced the singers to carry him back to their chamber. It felt very strange, being back in his body. His skin felt unfamiliar, as though it was a leather glove someone else had tried on, stretching it out of shape. "He rode on an aurochs, and carried a massive club."
He wanted to keep speaking, to tell her about the squishers with their teeth like needles and webbed hands and feet, but he couldn't. His mouth was dry as dust, his belly swollen and hollow. Now Bran's belly was full of meat, and he could still taste the sweet water he'd drunk before Leaf and the singers came to fetch him.
For a moment the air smelt of lightning, and then the red eye looked at him once more. "All is ready," the corpse lord said, a hint of displeasure beneath his rasping voice. "Today's lesson shall be a long one; the singers shall ensure that we are not disturbed."
Some strange tension hung upon the air. Neither Leaf nor the other singers twitched, but their eyes were hard as they bowed their heads to the last greenseer. He could have sworn he saw a flash of white as Black Knife bared her teeth, the shimmer of dark claws as Scales clenched his fists.
"We were made to share this burden," the corpse lord said, heedless of the singers. "Why, we even share our names. In the Old Tongue we would both be called Brandinydd. From that the northmen made Brandon, and the rivermen Brynden. It is almost as if we were the same person, born many years apart."
"Almost," Leaf echoed softly, her gold-green eyes glimmering in the dark. The corpse lord did not hear her, but Bran did, and Bran wondered. So when the corpse lord entered the roots, Bran paused a moment before he followed.
"Why did you say that?" He asked, not knowing why he whispered.
"Because it is true. No two men share the same soul, no matter how similar they are in mind or body." Her hand tightened about the rushlight she bore. "Do not forget."
"I won't," Bran grumbled, and slipped his skin.
The midnight sky within the roots was darker than the blue-grey star recalled, but for glimpses of icy blue light that came and went out of the corner of his eye. He turned, looking for the blue star from whence they came, yet there was nothing, nothing but a dark gash, a gaping mouth that breathed cold winds. The grey star could feel them pulling at him, like the waters of a whirlpool seeking to drown a passing ship. Then came a burst of red light, and the pull was gone.
Winter was not always as it is now, the red star began. Had it always been so large, so bright? A smaller star began to glow, and the grey star looked down upon a snowy meadow beside a forest. Spring came, and green leaves sprouted from beneath the snow, stretching up to the sun. Flowers blossomed, opened their petals, then shriveled away, replaced by tiny hard peaches. Summer came, and the peaches swelled and softened, their skins green, then yellow, then rosy pink. Then it was autumn, and the leaves turned gold and fell, and then it was winter, and the cycle began again.
How many times did the moon turn?
The grey star hesitated. He had not noticed the moon.
Twelve moons waxed and waned, said the gold-green star, saving him. One year, split into four seasons. So it was for countless ages of the world, and so shall be again, if the gods ever hear our prayers.
Why isn't it that way now?
The gold-green star dimmed; he could almost taste her shame and anger. Because of men, she hissed. Because of greed, and slaughter, and the desperate folly of my forebears.
The singers were divided, you see, the red star said, in a mild tone. Some welcomed the First Men, and shared their knowledge freely, save for what they knew of magic, for their songs of power were theirs alone. Some hid from the First Men, fearing their sharp bronze knives, and disappeared into the wildest of places. And finally, some assailed them, seeking to protect their people, their lands, and their weirwood trees, for men chopped down every tree with a face, and many without.
For centuries the First Men journeyed across the arm of Dorne, their numbers swelling by the thousands. At last the singers could no longer ignore the threat, and their greenseers brought down the hammer of the waters and shattered it to splinters.
Too late, the gold-green star said bitterly.
Indeed, the red star pulsed. The First Men bred quickly, and the fighting continued. Year followed year; treaties were made and broken, wars waged and ended. Some men kept the peace, for they saw the benefits of friendship with the singers. They treated the weirwoods with reverence, and made sacrifices to the old gods, even planted saplings. Other men were less amiable. They knew the strength of their arms and their numbers, and despised the singers for daring to deny them even a single scrap of land.
Another star flickered, its light clouded, hazy. As if through a mist the grey star watched as the sun rose over a deep blue lake in the shape of a tear drop. Along the shores of the lake rose hundreds of homes, dome-shaped houses carefully woven from slim poles, their frames artfully carved with the shapes of fish or leaves. As dawn broke singers emerged from the houses. Some tended cook fires, some readied fishing boats, some watched as little children played with wooden toys, using their sharp claws to etch clumsy designs.
The singers didn't build towns! Bran protested, confused. Old Nan spoke of secret cities, but that was silly. The singers all lived in trees, or in caves like this one, that was what Maester Luwin and Osha said.
We built, the gold-green star said bitterly. But our cities were made of leaf and branch, of skin and hide, and they returned to the earth when we were gone. Or sooner, thanks to your kind. This place was a refuge, for those fleeing men. For over two centuries it stood, until...
The grey star looked back at the blue lake. All the singers were gathering at one end of the town, where a great weirwood grove raised white arms to the clear blue sky. One by one they knelt around the trees, forming circles within circles as they linked hands; even the babes and toddlers were included, elders holding their plump clawless hands in their gnarled fingers.
What are they doing? The grey star asked.
Our greenseers saw the Long Night approaching, and sent word to every realm, town, and village through the weirwoods. It was decided that all must join with the old gods, so that we might find a path through the coming dark.
Darkness seemed to be coming sooner than expected. Thunderclouds gathered overhead as the singers sat in peaceful silence, their eyes either closed or wide and white. Rain poured down, and not one singer opened their eyes. The sun set, and rose again, and still they kept their vigil, deaf and blind to the host of men marching upon the lake, bronze weapons clutched in their hands.
Why don't they wake? The grey star asked, his heart in his throat as the men lit torches and began setting fire to the pole-houses, led by a fierce warrior who wore golden rings upon his arms and a bronze crown upon his brow.
They were deep within the trees, too deep to feel the world beyond. And they thought themselves safe, for the chieftain of the nearest men swore eternal friendship with the singers.
The grey star looked at the warrior, now urging his men toward the weirwood grove with a bellow as harsh and brutal as a storm. He swore eternal friendship?
His grandsire swore. The grandson held his tongue before his chief, but spoke of war when the old man's back was turned. And when the grandsire died...
The warrior raised his sword and slashed it across a grey-haired singer's wrinkled throat. Hot red blood gushed over the warrior's hands as he raised his sword again, already moving to the next singer, a young girl. Screams of agony and terror echoed through the air as singers awoke to find themselves surrounded, and the screaming went on without end, even when they died, for their shades went wailing into the roots.
Make it stop, the grey star begged, but no one heard him. The warrior cut through a mother and her babe, his eyes intent on those closest to the trees, who wore woven crowns of weirwood leaves. They were the last to awaken, groggy and befuddled, and half of them were slain before the rest raised their voices in songs of power that fluttered like birds and thundered like waves against the shore.
The warrior raised his bloody blade, and slashed at empty air. His bellow of rage nearly shook the trees, and he shouted at his men until they brought great bronze axes. It was the warrior who struck the first blow against the weirwood, sap spilling forth like blood as the carved face wept. His men joined him, and the grey star watched, aghast, as they felled every last weirwood. The men did not even bother to keep the wood; they burned every branch, feeding the fire with the poor limp bodies of the singers.
The grey star shivered, bile rising in his throat. No more, please. He couldn't watch this, he couldn't.
You must watch, the red star flared. You must understand.
The vision blurred, then faded. Other stars flickered at him, showing singers circled around other weirwoods waking with tears in their eyes and fury in their hearts. A thousand villages held prayers for their slaughtered kin, burying fishing nets and woven mats and children's toys beneath the roots of their trees.
And beside a lake turned red with blood, a dozen greenseers waited for the host of men to leave before gathering around the stumps of their weirwoods. All were weak, their shoulders bent by sorrow, their bodies marred by wounds taken in their flight. They dragged themselves atop the stumps, and sat, calling to the roots which rose from the ground and wrapped around them.
What are they doing? The grey star asked.
Regaining their strength, said the gold-green star. And planning vengeance. Death was not enough for such as this. The greenseers felt every death, you see. From the eldest of elders to the youngest of babes, all perished whilst joined to the weirwoods, and as the greenseers awoke they felt the pain and fear and torment of their people. And so they began to devise a curse, a curse that would force the men to suffer as they had...
Seven times the moon waxed and waned, and then the black comet appeared overhead, shining for an instant before the entire world shook itself to pieces. The sun disappeared behind the endless clouds of ash and dust that choked the sky; shooting stars rained down from the heavens and set forests ablaze.
And still the greenseers kept vigil on their weirwood stumps. Vengeance is a powerful thing, the red star remarked as the grey star flickered in horror. The greenseers' dappled brown skin hung from their emaciated frames, their wounds had festered into rotten sores, yet still they lived, clinging to life through the weirwood roots. They hoped their kin would come to their aid, for they lacked the power for their curse. The comet delayed the other greenseers, for they cared more about tending the living of their villages rather than avenging the dead of Red Lake.
Grey snow fell from the grey skies, covering the land in a filthy shroud. The warrior and his host were fewer now, their arms weak and their faces wan. Now they did not march so much as trudge, slogging through the snowy wasteland as they made for the lake.
This time the greenseers sensed their coming. Frail voices called upon the winds, and the skies heard their plea. A girdle of clouds ringed the lake, dousing the land with ice and snow, as though the blizzard itself defended the singers. And under the howling of the wind murmured a song of power, a song of staying, a song that would ensnare the unwary and freeze their very soul within their body.
The warrior's men did not seem to hear the song. His outriders were the first to brave the storm, those few men lucky enough to mounted upon shaggy garrons. When they failed to return, the warrior drew his blade, pointing it as he shouted orders.
The grey star cried out when the men flung two captive singers at the warrior's feet. They were two, both male, one younger than the other. Both were skinnier than the men, their thin furs stained with blood and nightsoil. The warrior spoke to the singers, then shouted, but neither singer uttered a single word in reply.
Not until he began questioning the younger one sharply. Several of the men had no stomach for that, and turned away, their faces hard. The elder singer could not look away; he was forced to watch by a man who held the singer's eyes open as the warrior went to work with his bloody blade. As the torture went on some of the men retched; a few spoke against the warrior, raising their swords in anger before their fellows slew them where they stood.
The elder singer cried, he begged, he pleaded, and still the torture continued. Finally, he began to sing. Only then did the warrior make an end of the sobbing ruin that was once the young singer. With war horns and drums the men crudely imitated the song, and the warrior raised his bloody blade as he led them into the blizzard, stepping over the frozen bodies of his own men. On their weirwood stumps the greenseers sang, their voices beautiful and terrible, weaving harmonies that rose and fell like waves, that floated like the wind.
And the winds rose, and the snow thickened, and still the men walked onward.
One of the greenseers went limp, her shade going down into the roots of her stump. The rest sang louder, this time a song of yielding, a song of dreaming. The warrior hesitated, his will faltering, enthralled by the loveliness of the song. Then his face hardened, and he shouted a battle cry, and still the men walked onward.
The third song was a song of scorn. Hate and fear poured forth from every note, and in the wretched noise he heard the stirring of bees in their hives, of rats in their nests, even the rustling of leaves in the weirwood trees. But the war horns blew and the drums drummed, and when the tumult ended, it was the men who sat upon the weirwood stumps, cutting the roots away from the shrunken bodies.
A hollow victory, the red star said. The men built a fire beside the lake, turning spits that held small chunks of meat. The flames grew, and the winds fell, but still the men shivered. The warrior's smile was stiff as he waved his bloody blade and took the first bite of roasted flesh. Their stolen song was as clumsy as it was simple. To counter a song of staying one must sing a song of going, and they sang it poorly. They meant to push away the ice and cold; instead they pushed it deep within themselves, into the very marrow of their bones.
The warrior shivered harder, his whole body convulsing, and somehow the grey star felt the warrior's anguish as his insides burned, as freezing tongues lapped at the bones, turning them to icicles, as the blood coursing through his veins slowed and his heart ceased to beat.
The Other opened his eyes. All around him his men were shaking and screaming and dying, but the warrior paid them no heed. Instead he examined his pale flesh, flexing his hands, his arms, rising on steady legs from his seat atop the weirwood stump. Red light flared, and the vision ended.
Some of them regretted what they had done, the gold-green star said softly. If only a few. They believed they were cursed, and tried to slay themselves but knew not how. Then the Bloody Blade spoke. He was too proud to admit the guilt that festered in his heart, and so he claimed he had wrought this change, so that he and his men would be the mightier than their enemies, the rightful lords of all the earth. Now was their time to strike, he said, for the darkness and cold were their allies, and conquest their destiny.
And his men listened. The red star glimmered. The curse failed to bind the men together in suffering, but it did bind them together in thought.
That did not make sense to the grey star. Like when the singers go into the weirwoods?
Very like, agreed the red star. But unlike the singers, they cannot leave. At first this served to their advantage, for when the Bloody Blade set forth to conquer Westeros, he and his men could speak without the need for messengers nor ravens. Nor was that their only power. They could command ice and forge it into weapons, and they soon realized they could command the frozen bodies of the dead, for without a soul the body is but a hollow husk. Drunk on power, the Bloody Blade returned to his village, intending that they should share his fate.
It did not work, the gold-green star said bluntly. His ignorance was almost as vast as his arrogance, and thousands of years passed before they discovered how to share their curse. But now they were furious, and in their rage the Others slew their own folk and raised them as wights, for they would suffer no life unless it was cursed like theirs. Through the Long Night they hunted, sweeping over villages and holdfasts, unable to escape the rage and despair that haunted the secret places of their dead hearts.
Almost unstoppable, the red star said. But not quite. For the Bloody Blade's youngest son had escaped the slaughter of his village, and set out with a dozen companions in search of the singers so that he might make amends for the sins of his father.
The last hero! The grey star blurted.
Yes. Long years he searched, without success, for the singers feared being betrayed once more. Nor would they lift the hidden girdles of their realms, not when wights followed after him like shadows. On and on he wandered, pursued by wights, and his companions perished one by one. When he reached the shores of the God's Eye he was alone, and alone he braved the treacherous ice and veiling mists that concealed the isle within the eye.
And at last he found the one realm that would admit him, for upon the isle lived both men and singers and children born of love between them. They healed the last hero, and when he was strong a council of the wise bade him come before them. The wise harkened as he told of the horrors that stalked the world beyond their isle and their waters, and when he fell to his knees to beg for their aid they raised him to his feet.
But there was a price for their aid, said the gold-green star. They bade him seek out the greatest chiefs of men that yet lived and bring them to the isle, for the last hero was but one man, and had not the right to forge a solemn pact between their two peoples. And they girded the last hero with songs of summer, and armed him with dragonglass, and sent him forth.
A new vision stretched across the sky, of a hero riding through drifts of snow. Curtains of dark hair hung about his face, and warmth clung to him like a cloak; the snow melted beneath his horse's steady tread, and shoots of grass rose in his wake. From village to village he journeyed, showing the chiefs his sword of black glass, speaking to them late into the night. Some turned away, but many listened, and joined the last hero when he rode to the next holdfast.
The vision blurred, twisted, and the isle reappeared, its grove of weirwoods filled with singers garbed in leaves and men garbed in skins and furs. Together they carved faces upon every tree, the singers with claws, the men with bronze knives. And when each tree looked down upon them, singers and men alike cut their palms, clasped hands, and swore a blood oath of eternal friendship.
Then hosts of men poured forth from villages, assailing the wights and their masters with great torches bespelled by the singers. At first the Others were undaunted, for even as their thralls burned they raised new ones. Bloody Blade laughed when a youth broke through the choking horde of wights, and deigned to duel him. A dozen times he cut the youth with his crystal sword, and blood dripped down the icy blade. Then his lazy parry came too late, and there was a sound like the cracking of ice as the youth's spear slashed the Other's white face.
A shrill scream pierced the air. Pale blue blue gushed from the smoking wound; the bright blue eyes melted away, as did the flesh that held them until nothing remained but milkglass bones. Rusted bronze armor clattered to the ground, the bones dissolving into a steaming mist. The youth was still staring at the heap of bronze when a wight snapped his neck.
North the Others retreated. The clouds were thinner now, the sun brighter, and warm breezes danced upon the air. Past the swamps of the Neck they fled, past grasslands and forests and a long lake, past giants raising great blocks of ice as singers raised their voices in song, laying spells of power upon every inch of the rising Wall as the last hero stood watch, accompanied by men in black cloaks. And the grey star recoiled, for now he knew the last hero's name, just as he knew the name of his father, the monster of the bloody blade.
And so the way was shut, said the red star. Built by the giants, enchanted by the singers, and guarded by men, for only together could the three kindreds keep the evil at bay. For in the beginning the kindreds intended to gather their strength, pursue the Others beyond the Wall, and make an end. Yet it was not to be. The Long Night took a heavy toll. When the Wall was done, it was all the kindreds could do to rebuild their shattered realms, for though the darkness slowly lifted, the chill remained.
Years passed, yet the seasons did not come when they should. The moon waxed and waned a dozen times before the snow began to melt, yet only the moon turned only six times before fat snowflakes fell again. And in the deepest north, in the Land of Always Winter, great spires of ice rose into the air like daggers.
The Others began to build a realm of their own, the red star said as they watched the white shadows speak in a jagged tongue, their words conjuring frost that clothed them like silk and bitter winds that ran before them like faithful hounds. They were beings of pure magic now, shells of men overtaken by ice and cold and darkness. Yet the ice that consumed them also preserved them, and they neither aged nor perished. The hatred in their hearts festered and grew, for their minds were chained together, and the anger of one was felt by all. With nothing left to them but time and malice, they turned to studying magic.
They turned to studying poison, the gold-green star flickered, angry. The Others were chanting now, summoning heavy clouds and blustering winds that sent them south, ice and snow falling in blinding sheets. The Others lengthened the winters and flung the cycles of the earth out of balance. Root and vine, bird and beast, all would have perished had not my people thrown every scrap of our power against them. For thousands of years we have carried this burden, whilst the giants helped build the Wall higher and men shed their blood turning back the attacks of the Others.
Then, a thousand years ago, the attacks stopped. No more did hosts of Others and wights descend upon the Wall when the cruel winters came. The grey star watched as the giants ceased their labor and went away, returning to their homes in the Frostfangs. Once ten thousand men walked the Wall, but as winters came and went without onslaught, the Night's Watch began to dwindle, the purpose of their vigil forgotten.
My people alone did not forget, the gold-green star said, but we had other worries. The coming of the Andals saw many of us driven from our homes and slain, and the loss of thousands of weirwoods weakened us yet more. We built new refuges, humble shelters that would not remind us of our vanished realms. When the attacks ceased, we felt as though we could breathe for the first time in centuries, for though the Others still sent harsh winters, they were shorter, weaker, as though the Others had begun to die. Imagine, then, our confusion when our lives grew ever shorter, our children few and sickly, yet our healers could find no cause, no reason for our diminishing.
The Others were not dying, the red star said. They found a wiser strategy than flinging themselves at the Wall. Why fight both men and singers when they could deal with first one, then the other? They did not even need to find the singers in their hidden places, nor strive with them in songs of power. Instead they lay a subtle curse upon the weirwoods, one which did not harm the trees themselves, but slowly drained the life of those who entered the roots.
The grey star trembled, afraid. Am I cursed?
Laughter rang out as the sky flashed red. Not yet, my young shadow. Death in a year or two would have roused suspicion from the healers of the singers. Your body may be frail, but your spirit is hale and hearty, with all the vigor of your blood and your youth. No, it takes decades for the curse to weaken its victims.
That is why the singers required my help when they called me here, half a century ago. That is why I require your help to destroy these monsters once and for all. Fate, destiny, the gods, all have conspired to bring us together. And we must become as one, the red star gleamed, as doubt gnawed at the grey star's heart, for just as one Brandon wrought ruin with a bloody blade and another wrought the Wall, only another Brandon can write an end to this doom.
For those who missed it, A Drowning Grief, my oneshot on the fall of Castamere, went up at the end of September. It's not a happy read, but I think it's some of my best work, and an excellent choice if you're in need of a good cry or want to hate Tywin even more than usual.
NOTES
Up next:
Olyvar IV
Sansa IV
Jon V
Arya VI
Edythe II
1) Animal hibernation is neat. Some squirrels hibernate so deeply that you can juggle them.
2) Did you know that trees can sorta talk to each other?! And share resources?!
3) Did I end up researching medieval methods of reindeer hunting? ...yes, yes I did, because I'm a dork who loves learning how people lived hundreds of years ago. Digging pit-traps for elk and reindeer was an extremely effective method, to the point that in the 1600s the Norwegian government tried to restrict their use.
The Reeds may be crannogmen, but they're still nobles. There's no way they'd be making their own spades, hence Meera's struggles.
4) Medieval mobility aids existed! In canon we get Jon temporarily using a crutch, Doran's wheeled chair, and Bran's special saddle; I found there was also a mobility aid called "hand trestles", which were a sort of frame used to help someone crawl across the ground.
5) The pole-houses of the singers are based on wigwams built by various Native American peoples who lived in the Great Lakes. The Long Night is based upon an impact winter caused by an asteroid (comet is the wrong term, Bran doesn't know any better). The blizzard "girdle" protecting the greenseers is inspired by the girdle of Melian from The Silmarillion.
6) Timelines are an unholy bitch, especially since canon is purposefully vague. According to the wiki, events progressed roughly in this manner:
12,000 BC: Invasion of the First Men; COTF call down the Hammer of the Waters
10,000 BC: Pact signed on the Isle of Faces
8,000-6,000 BC: The Long Night; Brandon the Builder raises the Wall
6,000-2,000: The Andal invasion
I decided to place the Long Night before the Pact of the Isle of Faces. If the First Men and COTF were at war, that explains the Last Hero having to go beg for help. If the First Men and COTF were already at peace, him going on a quest to find the COTF makes less sense.
