Jon Snow glanced up at the Wall, towering over them like a cliff of ice. A hundred leagues from end to end, and seven hundred feet high. The strength of the Wall was its height; the length of the Wall was its weakness. Jon remembered something his father had said once. A wall is only as strong as the men who stand behind it. The men of the Night's Watch were brave enough, but they were far too few for the task that confronted them.
(A Dance with Dragons, Chapter 7, Jon II)
Chapter 14
As soon as Brandon Stark passed through the tunnel in the Wall to enter Castle Black, he knew he'd made a terrible mistake.
He watched as Meera dragged her feet for the last few steps, refusing anyone's help, and he kept watching as the new Lord Commander, Edd Tollett, said a few words to men he considered trustworthy to watch over her.
When Bran thought Meera was safe, he retreated into his thoughts and tried to focus them. Ever since he'd fully entered the weirwood, it had become so much harder to pretend to be himself. He was no longer just Brandon Stark – he was a murder of crows, flying over the Wall and deeper North, he was somehow watching a dragon fly over King's Landing, he was watching Mad King Aerys threaten to burn them all, whoever they were, he was falling falling falling from the Broken Tower-
"Lord Stark? Lord Stark!"
Bran looked around him. He was in a large room with a roaring fire at one end, and a desk at the other. He almost felt that he'd been in this room, at this desk, when Olly came in and told him that – but who was Olly?
Bran wasn't sure how long the Lord Commander had been calling him. He wasn't even sure he was Bran, anymore.
"I'm not Lord Stark, Lord Commander Tollett." Bran tried to put some emotion in his voice, he really did. Was this how he'd done it in the past? It had been so easy then. The Night King's mark on his wrist burned and itched.
"I'm not the Lord Commander, not really," Tollett insisted, and Bran managed to raise an eyebrow.
"Well, you're wearing his cloak," Bran commented, and the grin on Tollett's face told him that he'd said the right thing.
"Who are you, then, if you're not Lord Stark?" Tollett asked.
Bran wanted to answer that he was the three-eyed raven, or the three-eyed crow, but was he, really? He saw things, to be sure, and perhaps he was a greenseer or a warg. The thought of Summer's last moments of life caused a wave of pain so acute that it insisted he was still human. The ease with which he pushed it aside convinced him that he wasn't. He blinked a couple of times, and looked up at the worried face of Edd Tollett.
"Just call me Bran, for now."
"What were you doing beyond the Wall, if I may ask . . . Bran?" Tollett was making an obvious effort to be informal with him, Bran could tell.
"I was learning to become the three-eyed raven," Bran answered, and stopped. Why had he said that? He found himself still talking, even though he tried to stop. "It means I can see events from the past and perhaps even the future. I saw you, Edd, fighting the Others at the Fist of the First Men."
Edd looked up, and then rubbed his eyes. "Really? Did you see me run from them, almost pissing meself?"
Bran managed to bite his tongue before he said, 'almost'? This new habit of saying whatever he saw, or saw, had to stop. He just blinked, instead.
There was a knock at the door, and some men of the Night's Watch came in, carrying a bowl of hot food and drink, and clothes of some kind. Bran flushed. He was glad of the food, but he hadn't been able to dress himself in years. Even in Bloodraven's cave there had been Hodor to help him, he thought. Remembering was like crashing into a brick wall. Once again, he was paralysed by an intense wave of agony. He was the one who'd done that to Hodor. It had been him, all along. He focused again on Edd, who looked like he sensed his conflict.
"Here, you can have something to eat and drink, but first you need to get into some dry clothes," Edd said, his tone both gruff and kind, somehow. "Don't worry . . . Bran, I cared for my mother at the end. I can help you."
Bran looked down, his sense of humiliation warring with the overall feeling of numbness which wanted to take him over. No, he tried to yell, feeling the irrationality of arguing with himself. I need this, he insisted, silently, biting his lip. Making an effort, he raised his head, meeting Edd's eyes. The kindness in them made him hate Edd, for a moment.
"Thank you . . . Edd."
Quicker than he'd expected, Bran was dry and warm, trying to restrain himself from wolfing down a bowl of stew. In between gulps, he realised that he hadn't asked after Meera. But as soon as he raised his head, Edd seemed to sense what he was going to ask before he asked it.
"She's in the Maester's quarters, the lady Reed, is it?" and continued when Bran nodded. "Truth to tell, once she saw the library, it was like she fell into a trance," Edd said, his voice full of amusement. "We had to remind her to eat and change into dry clothing – we didn't have any women's clothes here," he added hastily, "but the Night's Watch had many more men, and boys, in the past. Some young boys' clothes will fit her well enough."
Bran finished the stew and drank some of the hot spiced wine. He remembered what he'd read about the Wall and Castle Black – that it had an immense library – and hoped that Meera was really that fascinated by all the books there. He had an inkling that they would be staying there for a while.
As he sat there, in this room which he suspected was the Lord Commander's, he found his eyes blinking slower and slower, until they started to close, and gentle hands took the cup away from him. No, he wanted to protest, there was no time for sleep, he needed to find Jon . . . Jon was the key to everything . . . his was the song of . . .
But even in sleep, Bran found no rest. He flew over an enormous battlefield in which a man on a grey horse rode wildly towards rows of archers, in which a giant batted horses and riders aside as though they were toys, in which men died in their thousands. He was in the godswood at Winterfell and watched Sansa (an older Sansa who he barely recognised) argue with a lord who was unknown to him. He flew away from Winterfell, the shouts of "King in the North" following him as he was buffeted around by three enormous dragons, no, two enormous dragons, but where was the third?
All through these dreams, the one he wanted to see was hidden from him. Even in his sleep, the Night King's mark burned so violently that his entire arm ached, but he never saw the White Walkers, or their armies. Where were they? He could not shake the feeling that they had breached the Wall, but where . . . and how?
Bran woke up, and he was still asking himself the same question. Where were they? He and Meera had been pursued relentlessly until they'd ben rescued by Uncle Benjen, but now . . . nothing.
He stared sightlessly ahead as he was dressed, as the brothers of the Night's Watch brought him a breakfast which he ignored. A timid knock at the door roused him from his stupor, and he called for whoever it was to come in. It was Meera, dressed as one of the Night's Watch, and he had to smile. She grinned back, clearly relieved that he was reacting to something.
"I know, but it's all they had!" she said, gesturing to herself. Then she looked at his uneaten breakfast and frowned. "Bran, you need to eat."
He sighed. It was some kind of porridge, with a dried plum, and spiced ale. He took a few spoonfuls, then found himself emptying the entire bowl.
"Meera, I'm so sorry," he started, and she looked up at him, puzzled, from her seat in front of the fireplace. "I don't think we can leave Castle Black for now."
She just looked pained. "I had thought as much," she answered, and continued when she saw his enquiring look. "I've been up on the Wall," she said, "and all the storms are brewing southwards, closer to Winterfell."
Bran leaned back in his chair. "I think he's come through the Wall, Meera." He stared into the fire. "I think it's my fault, just like Summer. Just like Hodor." The last words were a whisper, but she heard him.
"Bran . . . don't!"
He looked up in surprise at her fierce tone.
"The Night King was on his way before we were even born, Bran! Jojen started having greendreams when he was still a little boy, telling him to come to Winterfell, to free the chained wolf and bring him North of the Wall." Her hands twisted together as she spoke, and Bran realised how much it pained her to think of her brother. "It's Bloodraven I blame, not you. He should have told you more – or maybe it was his plan, all along."
Bran worked on this thought. "You mean, everything was planned . . . he was just manipulating me – into going off on my own, into a greendream?"
Meera shrugged. "He always managed to keep you under his control before – what changed? The board was set. The pieces had to move."
Like a game of cyvasse, Bran thought, and felt a chill go down his spine in spite of the warmth of the fire. So now what? Did he work on the mystery of how the Night King had gone through the Wall, or was there something else he had to do? His yawn took him by surprise and he flushed, embarrassed.
"Maybe that's what you're meant to do," Meera said, as if she'd been reading his thoughts.
"What, yawn?" Bran asked, annoyed at himself. He'd just spent a whole night asleep, he couldn't possibly be tired again.
"No!" she answered, smiling at him. "You need to dream. You'll find the answers there, I'm sure of it."
Bran wished he could be as sure, but all he could think about was the sound of Summer dying, and all he saw was poor young Wyllas, his mind destroyed through Bran's careless actions.
She got up, putting a hand on his shoulder and squeezing. "Bran, try to rest. You've been through so much."
As though her words were magic, he found his eyes closing, no matter how hard he tried to keep them open. "What will you do?" he mumbled.
"I wish you could see the library here, Bran! It's enormous! Also, there's the ravens to look after, and I thought I'd try to send a message home. I don't think I can tell Father about Jojen yet, but at least I can . . . "
Meera's voice faded away as Bran drifted, at first into sleep and everyday dreams. He was back at Winterfell, and it was the last harvest feast before everything changed, before the King came to visit. Everything that was edible had been eaten, and he was playing with Rickon, tickling him as he giggled helplessly.
Bran tried to ignore it at first, but he knew there was someone at the door – not the main door to the Great Hall, but one of the smaller side doors, leading to the servants' passage. He disregarded it until he couldn't, but eventually he looked up, and Jojen's green eyes glowed in the smoky firelight of the hall. Bran sighed and got up. Rickon tried to hold on to him, crying, but Bran knew he had to go. When he looked back, one last time, all the members of his family were watching him. He wanted nothing more than to stay there, with them, forever if need be. But he walked through the door, and everything changed.
He was beyond the Wall, flying over the trees, and watching a battle between wights and what looked like Wildlings, along with one member of the Night's Watch. He managed to catch a few words which flew his way during the battle: blood magic. His confusion threw him out of the greendream, if that was truly what it had been, and for a while he flew aimlessly over the North, here seeing a red-haired girl riding to Winterfell on a grey horse, there seeing a white dragon fly overhead, and finally another battle. This time it was between a red-cloaked army and undead wights, but these were the swamps of the Neck. How, he asked himself, had they progressed so far South?
As though that final image woke him out of a greendream, Bran flew straight through a window into a memory of his own room, at Winterfell, with Old Nan telling him a story.
"The monsters cannot pass so long as the Wall stands and the men of the Night's Watch stay true!"
Bran asked himself what staying true really meant, and as though the old gods heard his question, he was dragged from his childhood bedroom and thrown at the Wall, many years in the past. This was the Wall in its infancy, and the Night's Watch at its strongest, with so many black clad figures scurrying about that it could have been the greatest army in all seven kingdoms, if the vows hadn't set it apart. The vows . . . the vows!
Bran was shocked awake. He understood what had to be done. At least for now. The problem would be explaining it all to Edd Tollett.
Some hours later, he found out that he was right. Tollett had started out by listening to him, and then got up, walked to the window and stared out, rubbing his chin reflexively.
"Once I told your half-brother that gods and dogs alike delight to piss on me. It seems I should have added whatever you say you are . . . a crow with three eyes? Never seen one of them."
Bran said nothing. He was getting used to this Dolorous Edd, as the men called him. Often, when he talked to you, he was really talking to himself.
"So, how is this thing going to be organised? Have you thoughts about that?"
Bran's mouth dropped open. "You'll do it?"
"It seems as good a way as any to keep our sworn oaths – to defend the realms of men. Aye, and women too," he said, smiling at Meera, who'd joined them at some point in the last hour.
"I don't understand, Bran," Meera said, not looking puzzled at all. When she noticed his eyes on her, she gave Edd a sideways look. Perhaps Bran hadn't said as much as he could have. After all, this was no small thing he was asking Lord Tollett to organise.
"My nurse always used to tell us that the Wall will protect us, as long as the Night's Watch holds true. But she never told us what that really meant. In one of my visions I think I saw the true oath-taking ceremony, the one which really wove the magic into the Wall. It's something that has to be renewed, over and over, but it was forgotten long ago." Maybe even on purpose, Bran thought, remembering the tale of the thirteenth Lord Commander of the Night's Watch.
"But you've said, Lord Commander, that White Walkers and wights have already been seen south of the Wall." Meera was doing this on purpose, Bran realized. She was bringing Edd's doubts out into the open, so that Bran could argue against them without arguing with the man himself. He gave her a grateful look and she blushed, looking down.
"They've come through somewhere, yes," Bran said, adding "because the magic has been weakened so much it only took one last strain to shatter it completely." Yes, he thought, such as an idiot with the Night King's mark on him going through it. "But there are so many unmanned castles on the Wall . . . and anyway, that's not important. The spells need to be woven once more, in such a way as to keep any of the Others who have not passed through inside, and to prevent the Night King's retreat."
Edd was nodding – this was a strategy he could understand. But he wouldn't like the next part.
"The true ceremony involves blood magic." Bran knew he needed to be as clear as possible. There could be no ambiguity here. Still, Meera was the one who looked shocked, while Edd's phlegmatic expression did not change. As the shadows lengthened and Meera rose to light the candles, Bran explained the ceremony he'd watched in his vision. Edd never disagreed, and in the end, Bran felt he had to ask the question that had been nagging at him for a while.
"Your men . . . the brothers of the Night's Watch: will they agree? I have heard of mutinies, in the past . . . Meera and I, we were captured by mutineers, and they almost-"
Bran stopped. He'd caught a glimpse of Meera's face, and realised that he couldn't say more.
Edd gave him a knowing look. "Say no more, my lord," he started, and then smirked when Bran winced. "Did you know that there was another mutiny recently, against Jon Snow?"
Bran remembered a vision of a snow-covered courtyard filled with black clad figures, and one lone man on his knees. "I thought that was just a nightmare," he whispered.
"No, it happened," Edd said, scratching his neck. "They butchered him. But he came back, or was brought back, I'm not sure. And we hanged the officers who betrayed him. So no-one's up for rebellion anymore."
Meera was looking at both of them like they'd lost their minds. Bran couldn't blame her.
"You're saying that Jon Snow was brought back from the dead? Your half-brother?"
With a guilty start, Bran realised that he hadn't told her of the vision he'd had, of the Tower of Joy, and Aunt Lyanna asking his father to watch over her baby – Jon. Though he realised that if he simply answered that Jon wasn't his brother, she'd throw something at him. But Edd spoke before he could.
"There was a priestess here, a follower of Rrr – Rhr – of the Lord of Light; she said a bunch of prayers, trimmed his hair, and a few minutes later up he came, same miserable bastard as he always was."
Bran had to smile. Edd noticed, and looked away, pretending to a stoic nature, while he cleared his throat.
"So, what's this new ceremony all about then?"
A few hours later, Bran listened at the window while Edd gave the men their instructions.
"Now, I'll say it again – I will put you in pairs, and each pair will ride to the fort I'll assign you! Don't founder the bloody horses, because you'll get none more! On sunset of the fifth day, the horn will sound along the Wall for rangers returning, and that's when you'll take your oaths! Is that clear?"
The men must have looked blank, because Edd continued.
"You take your dagger in your right hand, and you make a cut on your left hand, like so! Then, you place your hand against the Wall and you recite your oath, both of you, together- yes, what is it? What's your name?"
Bran looked down into the courtyard – a man had raised his hand, and Bran remembered that there were some new Night's Watchmen, some knights of the Vale who had taken the black rather than be executed by Jon.
"I am Ser Hugh," the man said. "Is that not . . . well . . . blood magic?"
"Yes, it is!" Edd glared around him. "Most of you here have seen what we face – the Others, or White Walkers, or whatever you want to call them! You've seen your own brothers cut down, and brought to life again to murder you! This is what we have to do to fight them, and I won't hear any more argument about it!"
Bran had told Edd that he would be warging into crows to watch them, but Edd had decided against telling his men that.
As Bran watched, the brothers of the Night's Watch got on their horses and rode away. When he'd asked why Edd had made them go in pairs, Edd had answered, "To keep them honest." Edd's frank manner was something Bran was getting used to. He quite enjoyed it.
As the days passed, Bran started preparing himself for warging, or greenseeing, or whatever it was that he was now capable of doing. Because that was the horrifying and amazing thing – he was capable of this. He could do this and more. He would use anything and everything as his eyes, and oh, he would fly!
When the fifth evening arrived, and the horn started blowing from Eastwatch by the Sea until the Shadow Tower, Bran leaned back and was gone from his broken body, onwards and outwards.
He was a crow at the Long Barrow and another crow at the Nightfort; at Woodswatch by the Pool he wasn't sure whether he had wings or branches, and at Greyguard he had such wolfish thoughts, he almost believed Summer had come back to him. It went on and on, until he reached Westwatch, and then he followed the Vow back again along the Wall, through many eyes.
At Westwatch by the Bridge, the two men there were Jaremy Rykker and one of the new Night's Watch recruits. They heard the horn sounding rangers returning from the Shadow Tower, and approached the Wall. Bran waited, or rather, his crow bodies waited, and he sensed that the men were unsure of the use of what they were about to do. Nevertheless, they exchanged grim looks, took out daggers, and slashed their left palms, putting their bleeding hands against the Wall.
Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death.
The two Night's Watch men at Stonedoor had been there a while before they started, it seemed. Their horses were rested and had nosebags around their necks.
I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory.
The Nightfort was as terrifying as it had always been. The men assigned there had begged Edd to let them leave as soon as they'd recited the oath.
I shall live and die at my post. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls.
At Castle Black, Edd and the rest of the men there were reciting the oath, and Bran couldn't resist a sly caw as he flew past.
I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men.
So it went, castle after castle, the one man declaiming loudly, the other stammering and stuttering his way through the oath. But they all did their duty, all successful, until Bran tried to open his eyes in Eastwatch by the Sea and found he couldn't. Every time he tried, it was as though an unknown force was pushing him back. Finally, he slipped inside a horse and opened his eyes onto a battle.
The White Walker standing there, not even bothering to attack the two men, was one Bran had seen before, in his vision of the Night King. Even though it was just observing, its undead soldiers were not. They were gaining the upper hand, against the two brothers of the Night's Watch. If they didn't succeed, the White Walker would finish the job. Bran didn't have time to think about it – one moment he was still inside the horse, which was very close to panic, the next he was in the wights. All of them.
It was horrible. He was dead, and knew he was dead, but he moved and fought. He was angry and hungry, so hungry for hot flowing blood, he wanted to stab and bite and rend and tear.
Bran used all his strength to stop the wights, to pull them back, sending them screaming at the White Walker, who cut them down without a thought. Bran had held back the least-rotted wight, the one who still had vocal cords, and turned to the two Night's Watch men, who were gasping for breath, glad of the momentary respite from a losing battle.
Bran tried to say the word clearly, but the body he was in had not spoken in a very long time. It came out as a long hiss. "Dragonglass . . ."
The two men looked at each other, puzzled. Bran tried again, making the rotted jaws open, urging the tongue to move. "DRAGONGLASS!"
He knew they'd been given dragonglass daggers – had they forgotten? Through dead eyes, Bran saw the knowledge dawn on their faces, but there was something else, too. The men exchanged a look and a nod. Then, one pulled out a dagger with a black, jagged blade, while the other turned to the White Walker, who was now stalking towards them, and charged at the creature, sword upraised.
What was he doing? Bran wondered, even the White Walker raised his own ice weapon with a lack of urgency that signalled a bottomless contempt for the human warriors facing him. But it was a ruse, Bran realised – the one with the sword simply distracted the Other, while the one with the dragonglass knife circled behind it. As the man with the sword was run through, the other Night's Watch man stabbed the White Walker in the back of the neck, watching, mouth open, as it screamed and shattered into a million icy fragments.
The Night's Watch man dropped to his knees and vomited. It was Ser Hugh, Bran realised, no longer of the Vale. He was a true brother of the Night's Watch, now.
"He gave his life for me," Ser Hugh said, in between gasps. "Why would he do that?"
Bran couldn't reassure or explain in this form. Instead, he pointed at Ser Hugh. "Oath . . ."
Later, he would think that was as good an explanation as any. The brothers of the Night's Watch had sworn an oath, to each other, as well.
Ser Hugh got up, stiffly, as if he were a hundred. He scrubbed his hand roughly over his eyes, took out his dagger, and cut his palm.
I pledge my life and honor to the Night's Watch, for this night and all the nights to come.
Bran felt it. He felt the magic return. Ser Hugh gasped and pulled his hand away from the Wall, staring at it as if he'd been bitten. It was done. Bran finally closed his eyes, feeling as though he could sleep forever. He knew that Meera was waiting for him to wake up, so he couldn't rest for long. Just an hour or two, he thought muzzily. I'm so tired . . .
Unfettered, he let himself be blown around by the winds in the North. There was a distant voice, a faint voice, a woman's voice, which sounded familiar, but he ignored it. As he flew, he observed, almost without wanting it, how ravens froze solid and hit the ground, their messages forever unread, how horsemen were attacked on the road by White Walkers and wights, how whole villages were being emptied by the dead and those who herded them. Even though he didn't want to keep going, the final discovery was tantalizingly near, always over the next ridge, past the next cloud. Until he saw . . . everything. He knew what the Night King planned, and where he was now. And unless Bran found Jon and spoke to him soon, all would be lost.
He had to go to Winterfell and speak to Jon in a dream, just like Bloodraven had once spoken to him, but would Jon listen? Jon wasn't a greenseer. Bran managed to use the roots of the weirwood tree in the godswood to get into Winterfell, and the keep itself. There was a great feast happening, and Bran felt wistful for the last harvest feast, with Maester Luwin and Rickon and Ser Rodrik – no! He could not be distracted!
A tall blond man in golden armor and with a golden hand snuck away from the festivities, dragging behind him the tallest woman Bran had ever seen. He knew the man, but not the woman. Still, the expression of intense joy and love on her face made him envy the man. No woman would ever look at Bran with that expression on her face.
A sudden pain on his forehead, very much like a raven's beak pecking at him, brought him back to his purpose. Jon, he had to find Jon, the king in the north, and much more besides. And with that he flew through the castle until he found himself in Jon's dream. For a moment he thought he'd made a terrible mistake, and had landed back in Castle Black.
But no, this was Jon's dream – Jon's nightmare – and Bran could only watch, transfixed, as Jon was stabbed and betrayed by those he trusted the most. When the last horrifying figure appeared, Bran knew he could watch no more, and finally spoke to Jon.
It was as though that moment made it even more difficult to stay in the dream than ever, as if an invisible rope was pulling him back towards Castle Black and his own broken body, a rope made up of a woman's voice, saying his name.
"Bran . . . wake up! Please, please, you must wake up! I can't lose you too . . ."
The last words were said in a whisper, full of such pain, that Bran could keep away no longer. Still, his eyelids felt as though they were made of lead, and his voice, when he tried to speak, was nothing more than a croak.
"The Horn of Joramun . . . " That was not really what Bran had intended to say, but somehow, those were the words which had come out of his mouth.
"Good morning to you too," a sardonic voice answered.
Bran finally managed to prise his eyes open, only to see Lord Commander Tollett at the foot of his bed, grinning at him. Shifting to the side, he glimpsed Meera, eyes swollen and red, still trying to smile through tears. What had happened? Surely it hadn't been more than a few hours, surely . . . His puzzlement must have been quite evident, he realised, when Meera answered his unspoken thought.
"Bran, you've been asleep for days! We couldn't wake you, no matter how hard we tried . . . I thought . . . " Meera looked down, and away from him.
Bran winced. He had to release her, as soon as it was safe to travel. He had nothing to offer to any woman, not just because he was crippled, though he felt, not quite crippled enough not to have any interest in . . . women. No, that was not the real problem. He was the three-eyed raven now, he was everyone, and everything. But he could not be a husband. He managed to squeeze Meera's hand in what he hoped was a reassuring manner and turned to Lord Tollett.
"Have the men returned from their assignment?"
Edd's shrewd eyes hadn't missed anything, Bran saw, but the man still turned to the task at hand. "Aye, most of them. Ser lately from the Vale had an interesting tale to tell – of a dead man whose eyes turned white. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that?"
Bran met his eyes without flinching. "Nothing."
"Aye. Thought as much." Edd turned away, scratching at the back of his neck. "So, what was that about a horn?"
Bran closed his eyes momentarily, trying to recall the short glimpse he'd gotten. "When you went ranging beyond the Wall . . . Samwell Tarly and Grenn found an old warhorn . . . Samwell carried it all the way back here, even though it was heavy and he was tired . . ." His voice faded away, and nothing could be heard in the room except the crackling of the fire in the grate.
Edd rubbed his moustache. "Yes, I think I know where it is, but-"
There was a sound in the air, a sound so loud it battered at the ears. It was a sound that hadn't been heard at the Wall for hundreds of years. It was the screech of a dragon. Meera and Edd rushed to the window, while Bran closed his eyes. He'd forgotten to tell them about Jon.
When Bran was finally carried on a chair to the top of the stairs to the courtyard, the sight that greeted him was nothing like anything that he'd seen in any greendream.
Through the open gates of Castle Black he could see an enormous white and gold dragon, sat on the ground, its huge wings furled around it, surveying its surroundings with a certain imperious disdain. Men were circling it, exchanging admiring comments, and with every new compliment, the dragon's head climbed higher.
Jon was there too, and seemed to be telling one of the cooks what would be needed to feed it. Bran focused on Jon, first. He didn't really want to look at Jon's companion yet. He chided himself – wasn't he the one who had asked for the man's presence in the first place? Yes, but he didn't have to like it, Bran thought, aware of how peevish that sounded, even in his head.
Jon looked different, yet the same. He had more scars, and walked with more surety, but a happy grin made him once more into the boy he'd been, Bran's half-brother. Bran steeled himself, and turned to Jaime Lannister, only to find that the man was staring back at him.
Bran didn't flinch. He was proud that he didn't flinch. But he needed to focus on Jon, first. Everything rested on Jon. If Jon fell, or chose wrongly, they were all lost. As though he heard Bran's thoughts, Jon turned and looked straight up at him, an enormous grin on his face. He bounded up the stairs two at a time, and enveloped Bran in a huge hug.
They were finally settled in the Lord Commander's chamber – Bran, Jon, Jaime Lannister and Meera. Edd had gone off to look for something, he'd said, and Jaime was huddled over a cup of spiced wine, in recovery, it seemed, from his first dragonflight.
"So," Jon asked, choosing his words with care, "you know . . . about . . . " He made a gesture which looked to gather up the dragon asleep outside, as well as the one embossed on his gorget, facing a Stark direwolf.
"Yes, Jon," Bran answered, feeling some relief. That was the easiest of the questions to answer. "I had a vision of your birth. I know your true name; it's-"
But Jon raised a hand to stop him. "My name is Jon. That's all it can ever be. Do you understand why?"
Bran tried, he did try, but all this politicking seemed so petty to him now, like cocks scrabbling over a dunghill. It was about the throne, the Iron Throne. But soon it wouldn't even exist anymore, he thought, and it was on the tip of his tongue to tell Jon that. But then it was as though his words froze, sticking in his throat. He heard a voice tell him to be cautious, not to go any further than he needed, and gave in.
"Yes. I understand." The look of relief on Jon's face made Bran glad he'd chosen that road. He deliberately asked after Sansa and Arya, and let Jon talk for a while about Winterfell and its many changes. He didn't mention the terrible things that had happened to all of them since they'd left Winterfell, and Bran was glad of it, happy to lose himself in pleasant memories, if only for an hour or two.
They were interrupted by a sound at the door – half knock, half scratch – and Edd Tollett came in holding a battered old warhorn, the same one from Bran's vision.
"So, is this the one you meant?" Edd asked, and Bran nodded.
Jon looked at each of them in turn, while Lannister and Meera simply looked puzzled. "That's the old warhorn Sam found at the Fist," Jon said, speaking slowly.
"Aye," Edd answered. "But your half-brother here – begging your pardon, your Grace – your cousin says that it's the Horn of Joramun, whatever that is."
"Will you stop calling me that?" Jon exclaimed, and then his ears seemed to catch up with Edd's words. "That old thing is the Horn of Winter? The one which wakes giants from the earth? But it's broken! Besides, all the giants are gone now."
All eyes turned to Bran, while he retreated into his skull. He was going to tell them all, he just had to get his facts in order first.
"What is the truth behind the story of Brandon the Breaker and Joramun, King Beyond the Wall? All the stories tell that they made an alliance to defeat the thirteenth Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, who had betrayed us all by marrying a strange lady from the land of Always Winter, and sacrificed his brothers to the Others."
Lannister looked like he'd never heard this story before, but the others just settled back into comfortable chairs as the afternoon drew on.
"But how did they do this? Legend says that Joramun blew the Horn of Winter, and woke giants from the earth. Later wildling legends grew out of this, saying that if the Horn of Winter was blown, the Wall would fall, but why would Brandon Stark, King in the North and Lord of Winterfell desire such a thing?"
Bran tried to make his story sound interesting, tried to remember the rhythms as Nan would have told it, and hoped his audience wasn't falling asleep.
"Of course, he wouldn't. And that wasn't what the Horn was for, anyway – it was for 'waking giants from the earth'. But the old legends never really say what they mean, everything is a code, a riddle to be unravelled. Our House words, for example – Winter is coming. Why would we, who live so close to the Wall, so deep in the North, need to be reminded of that simple fact? Unless, of course, Winter does not refer to the season . . . but him."
There was a collective shudder in the room. Bran hardly dared speak his name, for fear of calling his attention down upon them, now that Bran had seen what he was doing, where he was.
"And the same goes for the Horn of Winter. Why would those two, the Stark of Winterfell and the wildling king need giants – they had giants. But giants from the earth might mean something else. Perhaps it means giants among men . . . kings of old, who were larger than life in word and deed. The Kings of Winter."
There was silence in the room, except for the cracks of the wooden logs splitting in the fire.
"Joramun died after blowing the Horn," Meera said, and her voice broke the spell of silence that had descended on them.
"Yes," Bran said. "And I think Brandon broke the Horn, so that it could not be used again."
"But how can we use it then," Jon said, sounding frustrated. "And is it wise to use a Horn which might wake the dead? Don't we have enough problems with dead men coming to life?"
"Present company excepted, of course," Jaime Lannister murmured, barely audible, and Edd Tollett grinned at him.
Jon rolled his eyes.
"I think that the other part of the Horn is at Winterfell, hidden away, and needs to be joined to this in order to work. It needs . . . some kind of . . . " Bran hesitated, hardly daring continue. Yes, it needed magic. But what kind? Blood magic, again? What was he doing, dabbling in all this, even if it was to save them all? Was this what Bloodraven had meant him to do, or was he doing everything wrong?
Bran looked up to see the others all looking at him, expectantly. He flushed. "I think it's hidden in the crypts, at Winterfell, in the oldest part, the one with the collapsed wall. Perhaps if it can be found, we can find out how to use it. There will be an attack on Winterfell . . . soon." He looked at Jon, who was staring at the Horn as if it would give up his secrets if he glared hard enough. This would be the most difficult part of all.
"But not you, Jon. You must fight the Night King where he is now, or will be, shortly . . . " All eyes were on Bran, astounded. Hadn't that been what they were all talking about, their eyes asked him? Bran shook his head.
"He is in King's Landing."
.
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Notes
The reviews are still there, please keep ignoring them!
The theory about the Horn of Winter and the Crypts of Winterfell is from the amazing youtube channel, In Deep Geek.
The idea about the blood magic and the Wall is my own.