Brandon

After what had been either moments or months of naught but silence and darkness, a light began to shine; great shafts of light hit the cold stone floors of the room he inhabited, and Brandon suddenly knew where he was.

Of all places, he was in Ned's childhood room. Of course, he'd been the Lord of Winterfell for the past few decade and so would've had the Lord's chambers, and even before Harrenhal had been given a larger room that the one Brandon was currently in, but he still remembered it all the same—Ned would have a nightmare and come over to Brandon's room looking for reassurance, and wouldn't be able to go back to sleep unless his brother stayed by his side.

Aye, it had been decades since he'd been there, but he remembered it like it was yesterday; the way the wind whistled as it hit the stones of the tower, the thin beam of light growing ever wider as the moon strode through the sky, the way Ned's face would be illuminated as he drifted back to sleep.

Ned!

Brandon spun around, the pain in his leg gone—what had caused it in the first place, he didn't remember, but it was now as good as new so it didn't quite matter—just to see a grown man stood there, his gaze fixed on the wall. He appeared familiar yet no name came to mind, as though Brandon had met him before a heavy night of drinking before he vanished with the morning sun. Familiar as he might seem, however, he was in his little brother's room and Brandon was ready to fight him.

'Who the fuck are you?'

The man didn't even spare him a glance. 'They told me it couldn't be done.'

What in the name of the gods was this man talking about? 'I asked you a question, ser. Who are you, and what are you doing here?'

His eyes flickered over to Brandon for a moment before they fixed once again on the wall. 'That's two questions, boy.' He put a palm flat against the wall, as though he was drawing strength from the cold granite. 'Aye, they thought me a madman when I told them of what I'd seen—the gods, the King in the High North, a fortress that would weather the storm and last the ages.' A smile seemed to play at his lips, his craggy face appearing paternal for a moment. 'Still, it…it's not enough. Not this time.'

'What the fuck are you talking about? I'll ask you one more time—who are you, and what are you doing in my little brother's room!?'

'I'm not in your brother's room, you dolt. You are! After you turned your back on that weasel in the courtyard and he poisoned you, you've been unconscious here since.'

Of course. Baelish, the trial by combat, that seething pain in his leg and Oberyn rushing over. Rodrik had drilled it into him time after time—never turn your back on an enemy until his breath stills for the last time—but with the blood rushing in his ears and his heart beating out of his chest as the battle-lust raged within, all prior lessons had vanished.

'So then, uh…what are you doing here? And not to repeat myself, but might you tell me who you are?'

'How can I put this? You…you've been reaching out since you fell, but no-one's been listening—well, until now, I suppose.'

As far as Brandon was concerned, none of this made sense. 'And why is that? How can I be reaching out if I don't even know how I'm doing it, or even what it is?'

'Instinct, my boy,' the man responded, his mouth again twitching into a smile.

'I'm sorry?'

'Have you ever heard the phrase "wolf's blood"? The wildness, the rage, the need for freedom above all else?'

'Of course,' Brandon replied. 'My father said that my sister and I were both lousy with it, but I always assumed it was a figure of speech, annoyance at how terrible we used to be.'

'It is, I suppose. But not only that. It's a connection, I suppose you could call it—an awareness, an unconscious ability to bond with the North. As we speak, I am at a weirwood tree far beyond my wall, allowing your mind a place to safely anchor as your body recovers.'

Brandon was, frankly, puzzled. 'But if you're not here, how is it I can hear you?'

The man smiled at him in an annoyingly patronising manner. 'You are in Winterfell—the place with the strongest connections to the gods in the world, not to mention one of the oldest weirwoods still to exist, even in your time. I am the first man with a thousand eyes, whose words and mind travel on the darkest of wings. A better question would be, Stark to Stark, how you would not be able to hear me?'

He's a Stark? And what did he mean by 'My time'?

The words 'my wall' rang through Bran's mind and it all made sense.

'You're him. Brandon the Builder!' It was said as a question, with his mind filled with certainty, but the man—Brandon, he now knew—nodded sagely.

'So that is my legacy. Aye, I built much—Winterfell, Storm's End, the Man's Wall—but destroyed nearly as much through my pride. Mankind almost fell due to the actions of Brandon Stark, believing that only he could bring the dawn. I offer you this wisdom, son of House Stark—ice runs through your veins alongside the blood of the First Men, for you are of the North. Never forget. Politics and cunning are games of the past, with the only remaining goal being to see the sun rise. Gold will not keep the beats at bay and power will not keep you warm at night. The four corners of the world must unite to defeat the Night King, and you have precious little time in which to do so.'

'But I'm just one man, and a crippled one at that—how am I supposed to unite anyone?'

'You do not listen!' Brandon shouted, his eyes suddenly filled with rage. 'You cannot unite the world any more than you could pull together the continents—no, all men must unite, and one man can only do so much. North and South, East and West, life and death, fire and ice. All must come together for any hope to weather the oncoming storm. Spread this message, Brandon. Should you do that, and should people listen, we may see the dawn come once more.'

'I understand…I think,' Brandon said uncertainly. 'As important a role as those who returned will play, we are not—and never will be—enough. Not alone. Thank you, Brandon, it...it's been an honour.'

The old Stark's breathing calmed, and he gave Bran a look that wasn't unkind. 'The honour is mine, Brandon. To see our house, still so strong after all these years, leading the charge toward the dawn, it…it makes it all worth it, in a funny kind of way. Now, I believe you have some work to do.'

Brandon Stark opened his eyes.

It was no longer dark, as it had been moments ago, and a very real chill hung through the air. His stomach rumbled and he could feel his ribs as he put a hand to his stomach. Still, food could wait—he'd been given a job to do, or rather a message to spread, and he had to act with haste. With that, he used his weak arms to push himself off the bed, but in his haste to move had forgotten about his leg-or rather, its absence. He crashed to the floor and felt blood beginning to pool around his nose.

Well, maybe first he'd have to get used to walking with one leg and build his strength up.

And then, since he wasn't in such a rush, surely a spot of food couldn't hurt?

The Greenhand

He knew that if he moaned about how much he hated the bloody cold to either of his companions, Lann would laugh and Bran would glower (as always) and then absolutely nothing would change—he'd still be stuck in this wasteland, surrounded by nothing by league after league of fucking snow as his arse became ever more numb.

As it was however, with he and Lann sat in silence for hours on end and Bran kneeling at the weirwood and muttered under his breath, Garth was certain that he'd never hated the cold as much as he did just at this moment.

Bran's eyes snapped open and he gasped, collapsing onto his back. Lann ran over to him and Garth followed suit, kneeling into the broken snow beside his friend.

'Brandon,' Lann said. 'Are you alright? What happened?'

'I'm fine,' he replied gruffly. 'I made contact at last. I saw Winterfell. It still stands, after all these years, bigger and stronger than ever.' Had he said this to any others, Brandon's voice would've seemed perfectly neutral, his inflection not changing and his face remaining impassive. To his oldest friends, however, it was a different story—his eyes shone with pride, and the slightest rise in pitch showed more emotion than an hour of laughter would've for any other man.

Garth chuckled. 'Oh, Bran. You and your bleeding heart.' He shot his companions a grin before he remembered why Brandon had reached out and turned serious. 'How's it looking—the others who came back? Do you suppose we stand a chance?'

'I…I think we may,' Brandon responded, and Garth could see Lann let out a breath. 'We still have much to do, however, and precious little time to do it in.'

Lann shot him a look, his eyebrows turned down as weeks of bubbling resentment boiled over. 'And just what is it, Bran? Hmm? As we traipse our way through the snow, following you for no reason other than because you told us we'd one day have to a few thousand bloody years ago, you still haven't seen fit to tell us just what we're doing!'

'Peace, gentlemen,' Garth said. By the gods, why did Lann always have such a stick up his arse when he was hungry, tired, or cold—a combination that had been ever present since they'd returned. 'Lann, I understand your annoyance, but please try to understand Bran's point of view. Neither of us can fully comprehend what he's seen in his visions, and he has the weight of the world on his shoulders. So please, give him a chance.'

Lann stared at him for a minute before letting out a deep sigh. 'Sorry Brandon. I don't mean to snap, it's just…when are you going to tell us what we're doing?'

'He's got a point, Brandon,' Garth said. 'We don't have a bloody clue what we're supposed to be doing, even after all this time. I don't suppose you could tell us now?'

The Builder remained silent for a moment, his eyes fixed on the weirwood that towered before them, the weeping red eyes sending a shiver up Garth's spine. He then shifted his weight and turned to his comrades. 'When I talked to Brandon—the young Stark I visited through the heart tree—I gave him a message. I told him that mankind must unite in order to defeat the coming enemy.'

'And what,' Lann asked, 'does that have to do with us? I doubt we'll be able to unite anyone from up here. Even the guard you left here are gone now, and they'd do precious little to fight off the Night King.'

'As I was saying,' Brandon continued, 'Even if they have the numbers we ultimately need, they'll still be fighting an enemy that hasn't been seen in millennia. Their motives, their tactics, their methods—all have been long forgotten, and so our goal will be to gather all intelligence possible in the hopes that it will provide some kind of aid to the armies of man.'

'But, uh…Bran?' Garth interrupted. 'As much as I hate to point out the flaws in your no doubt masterful plans, but how are we supposed to gather any kind of intelligence when we're in the arsehole of nowhere, hundreds of leagues from the nearest people?'

Brandon smirked at him, and Garth was suddenly unnerved.

It's never a good sign when Brandon smiles. Gods, Garth, what have you gotten yourself into?

'It's simple, my friend. We're going to see the one man who's been keeping an eye on everything since we've been gone. Or rather, a few thousand eyes.'

Above them, a raven crowed.

Many miles away, an old man opened his eyes—one milky and clear, one a faded shade of violet—and smiled.

Hi guys! Here's another chapter at last-again, sorry for the wait, but university, personal life, and the generally shit state of the world always somehow ends up getting in the way. Feel free to follow, favourite, and review, and as always thanks to those of you who've already done so.

I know it's not the longest chapter, but if all goes to plan the next one will be both longer, and be updated sooner.

I'd also like to say cheers for 200 followers. As someone that writes for a hobby, the idea of people actually enjoying my work is a great one, so thanks agaon for that.

Stay safe and all,

-Kinginthenorth1

kingmanaena: Thank you!

Guest: Brandon was introduced a while ago, but I've expanded on his character a bit more in this chapter. As for Theon Stark, I'm not too familiar with his character so he may have to sit this one out, and as much as I agree that Torrhen Stark was a king that did what was best for his house and people, he wouldn't particularly be worth bringing back for a war against the dead.

ZenJack: Thank you! Really glad you're enjoying it, and hope you're looking forward to your allergies (hopefully, as long as I do my job correctly) acting up in the future.