Dragonstone

Sleep is no easy feat when the dreams are full of fire and fury.

Ever since waking up six days ago, Stannis dared not to sleep again. The dreams, the nightmares, the fires he encountered there are unlike anything he had ever seen. But Maester Pylos, in misguided kindness, always administered him a concoction of nightshade to relax his body and force him into a routine slumber. Slumber that he came to fear.

He only remembers pieces and fragments of his dreams, but those are enough to paint a sure picture. Towers of black iron spikes topped with screaming bodies, a sun that shined so bright the shadows turn into blades, a sea of blood stretching as far as the eye could see, and golden chains wrapping around the black sky like a slave's collar. There are no doubts in his mind of what he saw.

Hell.

Are the dreams visions of the eventual fate as ordained by the Seven he had wronged? Or is it a hell made by R'hllor for he had blasphemed and cursed against His name and priestess?

Those who could answer his questions are in no state of doing so: he had thrown the septon into the dungeons, a maester have his mind doubtful of magic, and Melisandre is…

But today's dream is different. There's no burning fires here, no sun, no blood, no black spikes. Only an endless expanse of night sky, a darkness only broken by the twinkling of stars. The air is cold, and he can see his breath as he floats along in the emptiness.

Then he sees something fall, a star winding and turning into a six-pointed snowflake, its crystals ever so intricate and delicate. He reaches out, to grab it, to touch it, to melt it in his hand. But the flake cuts through his hand and arm, blood flowing freely from-

Stannis wakes in a start, clutching his chest and finding his heart beating. A sigh of relief; he's still alive. Nothing more than a dream.

A sharp pain on his left arm. Wait, where is he? Where is-

Calm down, he breathes in deeply. I'm in my room. It's clearly nighttime now, the room only lit by a single candle on his desk. He wonders who left that there since he's had enough of fires in both his dream and reality. He grabs his pillow, so soft with a hint of lavender, and throws it off the bed; there's no comfort to be found in slumber. Not for him.

Autumn chill is in the air, blowing in from the open windows. His blanket is on the floor. Must have tossed it off in my sleep. And outside, where the sky is still dark, he can only see the dim red glow of the red comet, out of sight from his bed. Damn the cold. "Guards," he calls out, his voice still so weak from all this time confined to his bed. "Guards, enter my-"

…

That pain again.

Three weeks he has been in this room, and only six days of it awake. His right hand has burn marks along its back and palm. He caresses his face, so rough and stiff, stinging with every touch. His left- His left arm is gone. Nothing more than a blackened bandaged stump. "Damn it!" he slams his fist into the mattress, causing down feathers to fly out the seams. That's right, that damn pyre. The pyre of his own making that consumed his family and army. "What happened while I was asleep?"

He remembers now, Ser Axell Florent. The man had been Castellan during Stannis' time in the Small Council, and so he might be in the position due to his condition. And in fragments of half-lucid conversations, he may have heard Ser Axell swearing against Melisandre. And that worries him to no end. Ser Axell may be able to protect a castle and keep it in working order, but to root out Melisandre's creatures…

"Guards!" he shouts again. "Wake Ser Axell and Davos! Bring them here!"

He drags himself to sit up and sees the simple sleepwear he's in, put on by Maester Pylos to ease his healing perhaps. While he may put more trust into Davos' views in discerning the men of Dragonstone, no one would follow him for being a mere knight lifted from Flea Bottom. I must do it myself then. "Guards! What is taking you so damn long!?"

…

Are they asleep? No they shouldn 't be; the night guards should still be wide awake by now, especially near my quarters. Have they gotten lax in my absence, or…

He pulls his bandaged legs over the side of the side, flinching once they touch the cold floor. The maester may berate him for moving so much, and his chest still stings from the fall, but he's a Baratheon. Just like Robert, his brother and King, a stag is not stopped by mere burns and a missing limb. Taking a deep breath, he steels himself. I've walked through mud and arrows during the Greyjoy's Rebellion. If I'm unable to do this, then I'm not even fit to take the Iron Throne.

So with a strong push, he stands on his bandaged legs-

"AAARGH!"

-and collapses onto the floor, tears streaming down his pained face. It's back again, the burning pain covering his body. His stump itches, his face itches, and the black floor of Dragonstone provides no relief from the heat, And the smell… Like singed hair and charred flesh and the pyre and the sword and his wife and his daughter and-

"CAW!"

He's still here, in his room in Dragonstone, lying in a heap on the stone cold floor with fingernails scratching the tiles. The smell of lavender is still on his clothes. "Get a grip, you craven," he chides himself. "What are you, a boy with his first kill?" Lifting his face off the floor, he sees a large raven perched on his seat with a message tied to its leg. Stannis sees his own reflection in its beady eyes, face half-burnt like the Lannister bastard's hound. "Have you come to eat me, bird? You're fifty years too early and three weeks too late. I'm alive!"

"Caw," says the raven before it opens its message tube and lays the paper out on his desk. "Caw!" it says, hopping from one feet to another.

"A smart bird, yet you've come to the wrong room. Do you see any of your brethren here?"

"Caw?" it tilts its head.

"Fine, I'll have you in a cage by morning." There's not much strength in his legs, nor does his knees feel up to the task. And so, he settles on an undignified crawl across the floor and towards the door. But as he approaches it, his hand lands on a wet patch near the door. Red.

Blood.

More seeps from under the door, but even injured he's still quick to action. He's been to a siege before. Quickly now, he shuffles towards a curtain and pulls off its golden-yellow ropes, before bringing it bact to the door and lashing it so that it'll hold.

"That's not enough," he realises. Brute force can still break the door, and frankly he has no strength nor mobility to move his dresser. So he lends his ear to hear of the commotion. No talking, no footsteps, but a distant ringing of metal. There's still fighting, but someone is already dead by my door.

He knows that a Lord wouldn't be left alone here. There must be his or the enemy's guards stationed near him at all times, or they would be killed as soon as the enemy take the castle. But fools know better than to invade my fortress. After all, even with all the damages he still commands a large number of ships. So this must be someone from the inside. At best Ser Axell is leading a purge of Melisandre's men, but at worst… What will happen to my wife? Shireen?

"If my doom is soon," he speaks to no one, "then I must leave nothing unsaid."

Now he dares to crawl on his knees, each step sending a jolt of pain through his body. By the time he reaches the desk, blood have stained the bandages red. First is parchment. Next is quill. He glares at the crow: "Stay put." The bird caws in response, ruffling its feathers. "Smart."

On the other side of the castle, somewhere in the dark, torches go to right and left. People are running, but for his cause or the enemy's? The crashing waves mask the chaos, but he knows it's coming here.

I am Stannis Baratheon, Lord of Dragonstone, Master of Ships, and brother to King Robert Baratheon, First of His Name. To whoever reads this, I may be long gone and my castle fallen.

The commotion is getting closer, clashing of steel and blood-soaked screams. His fingers ache as they write.

Selyse Florent is my wife and Shireen Baratheon is my daughter. They are to be my heirs when I am dead. Traitors who caused my castle 's fall shall be put to the King's Justice. Melisandre shall be put to the King's Justice.

The last scrapings of steel is gone; the battle is won and lost. They're coming to his room.

The Crown Prince and his siblings are Lannister bastards, spawns of Cersei. Jon Arryn knows. Eddard Stark knows. Varys the Spider knows. Check my brother 's own bastards.

Boots echo from behind the door. They're close, but duty drives him. Fear and duty.

Protect my wife. Protect my daughter. May the Gods have mercy on my soul and yours.

The door rattles, but the rope keeps it from opening. A voice calls for him but he ignores it. King's blood is precious, Stannis remembers the Red Priestess' saying. A small part of him wishes that it's true. He flips the paper over before putting a hand onto his bloody bandage; a bloody hand print shall do for a seal.

The door is being kicked, but luckily the rope keeps its strength. "Come here, bird!" It follows his command before he stuffs the paper into its tube. "Now fly! I don't care where you go but fly with my words!"

The raven looks back at him, and he wonders if all that sleep and nightmares have made him mad. But the bird answers: "Caw!" before flying out of the window. Dark wings dark words, but not this-

A sudden heat and bright lights assault his eyes. He looks at the door and sees the rope burning in orange flames. His heart sinks; there's only one person he knows that's capable of this feat.

Melisandre.

A golden letter opener engraved with the image of the Baratheon stag is all that he has to fight. His head throbs and his legs feel like burning. The stretched skin on his hand is torn as well, blood dripping down his arm. But he must fight.

Finally, the door is kicked open and knights rush inside. "So you've all betrayed me!" he shouts at the offending soldiers, freezing them in their place. Their shadows look so small against his own. "You've betrayed me and my household and took her as your leader!?"

"Y-Your grace, you're awake!" says one of the soldiers, lifting up his visor to reveal none other than his squire, Bryen Farring. "I-I thought you were-"

"Asleep? I was, turncloak, and I thought you've sworn loyalty to my name as well." He eyes the younger boy next to him. "And you, Devan Seaworth. Have you no shame betraying your father's liege Lord!?"

"M-My father," the boy stutters, "he-"

"Stannis!" a woman's voice calls out for him, wrought with worry and delight. For a moment he thinks that his daughter have come for him, or his wife. But neither would sound so happy. A flurry of red silk and hair soon answer his worry. "You should not have gotten out of your bed," says the Red Priestess, the touch of her fingers hotter than the flames of the pyre. "Pylos, come and-"

Stannis thrusts the letter opener to her breast, to end it once and for all. But for either his weakened body or her sorceries, the blade does not pierce her flesh. "Die!" he growls for another stab. "DIE!"

But his two squires soon restrain him as other soldiers carefully lift him up to his bed, kicking and struggling all the while. And with Maester Pylos' quick thinking and medicines, he soon falls into an uneasy slumber.

Winterfell

Snow is falling again on Winterfell, a bit heavier than when Robb was here but not enough to build a snowman. It's a bit of a habit for Bran to run around and play with Rickon in the snow, pranking the guards and throw snowballs at each other. Jon would try and drown them in snow while Arya would be a bit more vicious in his play. And with Summer by his side, it would be so much more fun!

But times have changed. Jon left for the Wall, his sisters for King's Landing, and he can no longer walk.

And the seasons have grown colder.

Bran sits with Maester Luwin in the Lord's solar, learning the finer details of farming and agriculture in the North. It's not the first time he's seated at his father's chair, but he's always surprised by how big it is. And that soon, he'll be the one taking its place.

When his brother march South with the Northern bannermen, he'll take the title of Lord of Winterfell in his stead. His mother is in the Riverlands after all, in the clutches of those Lannisters and the Kingslayer.

And he doesn't like that one bit.

Hodor waits by the burning hearth, asleep with the occasional mutterings of "Hodor." Not that Bran can blame him, the lesson having taken most of the afternoon and that he considers it to be one of the most boring ones. He nods and jots things down as the maester continues his explanation, though sometimes the boy is lost in his own thoughts. Like now for example, he looks out the window and sees Rickon playing with Shaggydog, Grey Wind, and Summer. A part of him wants to join in on the fun, but he knows that this lesson he's learning now is quite important.

"I think that's enough for today," Maester Luwin closes the open book before coughing into his hand.

"Really?" He didn't expect the lesson to end so soon.

"If you want. After all, it's hard to teach a boy when he spends all that time staring out the window," the maester chuckles as Bran feels heat rising to his face. "My voice must be quite the lullaby."

"Ugh, sorry…"

"We can continue this lesson at a later time; the ink are already dry after all. But, if you're still willing to learn, may I give you a proposition?"

"Proposition?"

"An offer. As soon you'll take the role of Lord of Winterfell, there won't be much time for you to learn from books, rather from direct experience instead. So instead," he gestures to all the books present at the shelves, "rather than being bored at the growth of wheat, why don't you tell me what you want to learn? I have many links upon my neck, so I'm sure I'll be able to sate your curiosity."

"Anything?"

"Anything," the maester nods. "Within my abilities of course, though I'm sure I can get a few books that are less sleep-inducing."

Bran drums his fingers on the table, wide awake and excited at this new opportunity. So many things he could ask, like for example trying to explain the strange dreams he's been having. Like the three-eyed crow and prophecies and the dreams of him flying. Wait! "I want to fly!"

Maester Luwin is taken aback by the answer. "You want to… Fly?"

"Yeah, like Lady Momiji and Robb! It's hard for me to ride horses and I can't… I can't become a knight. But Lady Momiji can fly without wings! You've seen them yesterday, right?"

"Yes, I saw them yesterday. So did everyone in Winterfell," he grumbles. "But I must shatter that dream, Bran. I can't teach you how to fly."

"Oh…" Why didn't that thought arrive to him earlier? Of course Maester Luwin can't fly, or else he wouldn't be complaining about the number of steps on Winterfell's towers. Bran sinks into his blankets, dejected and hiding from the chill coming from the open windows. But that's when he realises: "I can ask Lady Momiji to-"

"No." The maester's answer is sharp. "You will not be speaking of flight to the warg. That matter is final."

"What? Why? Robb can fly with her so why can't I?"

"I need you to listen- no, learn my words," the maester turns sterns, standing to Bran's side and shadowing him. "Your mother told you once to stop climbing the towers. I showed you then what happens to a clay boy when falling from that height. But you kept on climbing, and climbing, and climbing… And here you are. Yes, you can sneak away on Hodor. Yes, you can ask the warg to teach you magic. But the clouds are as tall as mountians. And when you fall from that high… " he shakes his head. "No amount of sorcery can put you together."

"I under-"

"Bran," the maester grabs his hand. "Look into my eyes, Bran. I may be your maester, but I've known you since the day you were born. I've seen how your mother wept for many days and nights after your fall, staying awake and refusing her meals and water. The fall from the broken tower… The Gods, Old or new, helped you. But I don't know if they'll do the same. I'm sure you don't want to make your family mourn, do you?"

He was in a coma then, stuck in his dreams of crows and flight. But the thought of his mother, her face wrought in tears and sadness… "No," Bran sniffles, wiping his eyes. "I don't want that."

"I know you don't, Bran. That's why I'm warning you of this," Maester Luwin pats his hand. "Magic… Is a dangerous thing," he begins, tugging the chains around his neck. "I may only have a single Valyrian steel link on my chain, but it taught me enough to know of that. They're real enough, as shown by that warg, but they're simply glass blades and swords without hilt, cutting its wielder as it does the enemy."

"Osha said that many people Beyond-the-Wall use magic, like wargs and wizards. And that Lady Momiji's friends could do things with the wind and water as well."

"And perhaps they're telling the truth. There's still so much more to the world that the citadel never told us… But as Septon Barth once said, 'some doors ought to be left closed.' All magic have a price."

Bran looks confused at the maester. "But, Lady Momiji looks fine."

"Fine," the maester lets out a dry chuckle. "The woman has wolf ears and tails, and a bite to accompany it as well. It is my theory that she sacrificed her human roots to achieve that sort of sorcery, and no doubt in my mind that she intends to do the same to you. But you're not a Wildling, are you?"

"No, I'm a Stark."

"And soon to be Lord of Winterfell. While your emblem be that of a direwolf, the most beastly I've seen you is when you ate a piece of chicken that fell from the table." The two laugh at that sweet memory, back when Bran could still walk on his own. "Later, when your Uncle or Jon comes to visit, you can ask them all about those lot. I'm sure they have interesting stories to tell."

More interesting than Old Nan's, Bran hopes. Unable to move without help, he'd been relegated to a tower with Old Nan and her stories. Repeating stories, ones he heard so much about that he's becoming quite sick of it. But he has no heart to stop her since it's pretty much all she has left. "Maester Luwin, can I go play with Summer?"

"It's still Autumn," the maester laughs. "Of course you can. Just tell Hodor to be careful when throwing snowballs."

"I don't have him throw snowballs."

"You were always good at climbing, but never at lying. Go now before I read you another book about wheat."

They wake Hodor up by yelling and slamming books on the table; he have always been a deep sleeper. After strapping Bran onto his back, the two bid goodbye to Maester Luwin as they leave the solar.

Mixed feelings run through Bran as Hodor trek through the halls of Winterfell. He's worried about his eventual title of Lord of Winterfell, and how all will see him as some broken boy rather than his hard and proud-looking brother. Added with the fact that it may have well been his own making… "Hodor, do you think I'll be a good Lord of Winterfell?"

"Hodor," says Hodor.

"Right," he sighs. There's no use talking to the simple man as his answer is always the same. But he remembers that the man's name isn't always Hodor; Old Nan said that he's named Walder. "Hodor, do you want to be called Hodor or Walder?"

"Hodor."

"Hodor it is."

"Hodor," he replies, leaning down so that Bran doesn't hit the doorway.

Exiting the great keep and onto the courtyard, they're hit by a cold gust. Hodor shivers as Bran close his cloak and blankets; it's not uncommon for boys his age to perish from the North's cold. Being the son of a Lord, he's a lucky one. Some of the guards and stableboys bow their head to him, at at this height he can't help but feel delighted. He was never a particularly tall child like his brother, but being on Hodor makes him see the world in a strange new light. For example, the guard Alebelly has a bald spot on-

"OW! Hodor, watch the posts!"

"Hodor Hodor."

Bran rubs his head. There's some downsides over being tall, after all. But that's because I can't control where I go. Like Maester Luwin said, you can't lead a man like-

A snowball hits his face and Hodor as well. Wiping off the muddy snow, he sees the Winterfell ward Theon Greyjoy standing in the courtyard. "Oh, it's just you."

"It's already snowing, no need to be so cold," Theon chuckles before throwing another snowball.

Bran blocks it. "I never took you for a person to play with snowballs."

"Damn boy kept running around outside of my watch," Theon spits. He must be referring to Rickon. "Him and the direwolves as well, even threatening me to sic the black one on me. So," he gathers another snowball, "I'm going to teach him a lesson."

"I saw him on the wall not long ago," Bran replies. "I need to get Summer too."

"On the wall, is he? Well, come along with me then."

As they get up on the wall, they spot a few guards here and there. However, no direwolf nor boy. "Damn it!" Theon kicks a snow pile. "Must have caught wind of us."

Bran looks over the wall and out to his father's land. Winter Town to the East, Wolfswood to the South, and a wide snowy expanse to the North. If he could fly, how small would all of it look? Houses for sparrows, castles for ants… I could fly to King's Landing and see my father and sisters, he realises. Or surprise Jon at the Wall or meet my Aunt at the Eyrie. I can climb mountains by f- "Ow!" he rubs the side of his head, wet with snow. "What gives?"

"You look like you've been daydreaming," says Theon. "Have your nightmares come to haunt the afternoon?"

"No… I just want to fly."

"Fly? You can't walk but now you yearn for wings."

"I know but…" Hodor sits on a nearby box, sensing they'll be here for a bit. "Lady Momiji and Robb can fly and they don't need wings or legs. But Maester Luwin forbade me from asking her help since he's scared that I fall. I… Kinda feel scared too."

"You should be," Theon replies. "Kinda sympathise with the old coot since you did fall and cause all that ruckus. Besides, a bird still needs legs to land. Not to be harsh but yours…"

"Hodor."

"Thanks," Bran sighs. "But I want to see father and Arya and Sansa again. Mother is gone now too, and Robb is going away as well… I worry," he confesses, holding back the tears in his eyes. "I-I dreamt of strange things, Theon. Of ravens and flying wolves and the cold. I saw Robb getting struck by an iron bolt, and father sleeping in the crypts. They all felt so real."

Theon listens to all of this, closing his eyes and nodding along. After Bran is finished, he snaps his fingers. "I think I know your problem."

"You do?" Bran sniffles.

"You've been stuck in the castle for far too long," Theon answers, pacing around as he picks up more snow for snowballs. "The Wildling woman and Old Nan's stories been messing with your head, even while asleep. You should ask Maester Luwin to move you elsewhere, maybe back to your old one."

Bran feels like Theon simply ignored his woes, but it's more than what Maester Luwin said of his nightmares. "I'll take your advice then."

"Heed them," Theon smirks. "I'm more experienced than Robb in more ways than one, so I'm the best person to ask. Actually, tell you what, if you can convince the she-wolf to give me back my coins, I'll sneak you past Maester Luwin and the guards."

"You will?"

"If you get the coins, I'll help," he reiterates. "Maester Luwin is smart, but too cautious for his own good. That and he holds grudges. You weren't there, but Lady Momiji called him a rat that lives under the floorboards. Didn't take kindly to that one," he chuckles.

"Wait, she did!?"

"Oh yes she did. Maester Luwin never liked her, but the insult was the final straw. Her being a she-wolf is simply an addition; though I agree seeing her as inhuman, I wouldn't go so far as to call her an abomination," Theon leans on the wall's crenelations. "Every time I see those ears and tail of hers, I just want to pet them!"

"I think she'll bite off your fingers if she hears that," Bran jests.

"Not the first girl I have my fingers in," Theon lets out a sly smile, the meaning of which is lost on Bran. "Ah wait, you're too young for that."

"Hodor," Hodor nods.

"We have a few days before the first Lords from House Cerwyn arrive, so plenty of time to learn how to fly. And to get you out of that stuffy tower, how about coming with me to hunt again in the Wolfswood? Bring the Wildling woman as well; I'm eager to see if my skill matches up with her."

Riding on Dancer again… That'll surely lift his spirits up. "Tomorrow then."

"Good. Now, let's find your brother."

With Hodor's help, the three manage to gather a frightening amount of snowball before tracking down Rickon. Thankfully, the direwolves with him left quite a track for Theon to follow. Soon, they find him terrorising a poor stableboy with the wolves, barking along like a feral dog. He'd always been a wild one.

Theon is the first to launch snow, then Bran with his high vantage point. But rather than supplying the two with more snow, Hodor shouts and throws all the gathered snow at once in a huge pile, burying the poor stableboy. Rickon sticks his tongue at them and rides away on Shaggydog. "Hodor," Hodor huffs.

"Oh come one, you damn lackwit!" Theon slaps Hodor's back. "You missed!"

"My brother could have been buried!" Bran slaps his head.

"Hodor!" he cheers, raising his hands into the air. "Hodor."

"Tch, of course," Theon spits into the snow. "Have to chase after him again… At least your wolf stayed put," he points at Summer, the direwolf's tail wagging. "Should have chained the little monster to his bed. Right, see you later then."

Bran says goodbye before whistling at Summer to follow him. "Come on boy, it's getting cold out."

They find Maester Luwin talking with the Winterfell's master-at-arms, Ser Rodrik Cassel, near the armoury. Bran's reasoning for moving to a different room is accepted by the maester, and with the help of servants his clothes and other affects are carried back to his normal room. Old Nan is sad to hear him leave, but he much prefers the more open space of his new dwellings.

By the time all of it is done, Bran is ready for dinner. A simple one of roasted lamb and onions, mainly due to Robb being away. It's Autumn as well, meaning it's best to be frugal in what they eat lest their supplies run out. What is Robb and Lady Momiji eating though? he wonders, slicing apart some lamb chops. Maybe they're staying in a castle and eating lavishly.

Soon enough, a moonless night welcomes him to sleep. His lack of leg use makes him strangely lethargic by the end of the day. After Maester Luwin's initial check-up, he bids the man farewell and sinks into his warm and furry blankets.

And he's falling again.

No, he's not falling. He has wings and paws and fur. No longer a crippled boy secluded in Winterfell but a winged wolf, wings spread as he takes into the windy night. "Be careful boy," says a sharp voice to his side. The three-eyed crow. "You have yet to open your-"

But Bran quickly takes off, ignoring the bird's call. The pain he felt here was far too real, like his head actually splitting open with each strike of the bird's beak. No, he wants to see the world again, unchained by his legs and Winterfell.

He flies South, seeing the mountains and forests stretching before him. To the West, he sees… His eyes hurt when he tries to peer into the sea mist, so he ignores it. He passes by a towering castle writhing in darkness. In the mountains to the East, he sees crows and ravens dancing beneath a starry sky, accompanied by a cloudless storm. Even further South, lights unlike anything he has ever seen before dazzle the sky, as if wanting to clip his wings.

Then he takes off across the Narrow Sea, to see the strange lands of Essos. But the things he sees are terrible. A city burns in purple flames, its black walls melting as people dance madly in the chaos. A yellow pyramid stands drenched in blood and viscera, and red chains seems to sprout forth from its halls. And lastly he sees a terrible insect curled around a mountain range, a thousand legs and a thousand segments, devouring battalions of warriors and horses. "A dream," the winged wolf whimpers. "Only a dream."

"Not just a dream, boy," the raven catches up to him, its wings darker than its words. "Follow my guidance to see the truth. Now, you must-"

Bran dashes away again, this time heading even further east where lush jungles grow and a gloomy city resides. But before reaching it, he sees a dark line cross his vision. So thin yet unbelievably deep, like a crack in the world itself, that he can't help but to-

"NO!"

The moment his paw touches it, he falls in.

Black winds and dark tides rushes past his head as he falls deeper into the line. No matter how much he howls or flaps his wings, the line keeps on drawing him in. No more birds, no more lights, no more clouds; only darkness. He closes his eyes, waiting for all of it to end.

Then he comes to a sudden stop.

He's no longer in the skies of Essos or Westeros, but he can see a see of stars stretching all around him. Strange clouds of pink floats by, and between them a grid of purple. When he moves his paw, the grid shatters before reforming. And when he tries to bite into the cloud, it dissipates into a fine mist. At that moment, something reveals itself from behind the stars.

Bran whimpers. A demon clad in black and white floats into view, its red hat stretching into the blackness. A demon, yes, that's the only thing it could be. It bears a woman's figure and face, yet there's something wrong with its eyes. Far too deep and swirling, like what he saw on the crow's third eye. "Who are you?" he asks.

"I'm simply the one who dwells here," it answers, a gentle smile forming on its face. The demon's voice resounds itself over and over through the endless grid. "And you are Bran Stark, the winged wolf. Congratulations on being the fourth to come here."

"Fourth?" Have there been others?

"A squid, a crow, and a dragon," it counts, "but only two dared to speak to me. And now you. So what will it be? Would you like to peel back the curtains and see the truth? If so…" A book appears before the two, purple in colour and emblazoned with a golden emblem. "Open it."

Certain doors are best left unopened, Maester Luwin's voice whispers back to him. He flew too high in the sky. If he opens the book, then he'll surely fall back to the earth where no sorcerer can save him. He should have stayed where his feet is grounded. Yet curiosity is a dangerous thing. "I-"

"Stop it," says a familiar voice carried by black wings. "You've disobeyed me for far too long, boy. Let us leave this place for you still have much to learn. This nightmare have gone on long enough."

"But you opened the book, crow," the demon smiles smugly. "Why are you so scared of it now? There's a quicker path to see the truth and that is open the book, Bran. See between the words and beyond the pages. Open it."

Bran's paws reach out but are stopped by sharp talons clinging to his back. "No!" the crow shouts, holding tightly onto his wings and pelt. "Return at once and I can show you! It is too soon for you, boy. Too soon!"

Then his flesh tears open and out comes Bran, no more a wolf but a broken boy. And in no time, he grabs the book from the demon's hand and opens it.

That night, Winterfell is awoken by his screams.