Garamun knew not who was fool enough to light a fire in the middle of the Haunted Forest. He cared not either. Fire meant food, and fire also meant a fool.

In the True North, fires needed to be carefully controlled. From young, it was taught to only light a fire when in the company of your clan, or when in the comfort of a cave. Caves masked the smoke and drowned out the crackle, leaving little trail for scavengers such as Garamun.

To be a scavenger beyond the Wall was often a life that was short to last. Garamun was one of the few that lasted. Truly, the only reason he'd been able to live this long was due to Hund, a snow bear he'd warged into whilst a cub. Hund had carried his sorry arse over the three years they'd been bound and found food enough for him to live. And it was by way of Hund that Garamun knew the fire was not owned by a wandering clan. The scent on the smoke spoke of a single soul, a soul that would soon join the Old Gods, whose supplies would nourish the scavenger skinchanger.

Creeping low, furs matching the pale blue sheen of ice and snow, mudded and dirtied to blend with the bark of ironwood trees, they made their way towards the camp. Truly, this man was a fool. He'd sat himself against the flush of a weirwood, his legs buried below its roots. A curious type of shelter, and also halting. The man would not move fast enough to struggle through his end.

This suited Garamun just fine. Not only would his need be easier to meet, but the man was of a larger sort. Garamun was small all his own, standing only a hair over five feet, and this man seemed plenty bigger. Might be he could give Tormund Giantsbane a challenge.

Hund snorted by his side, intent on feasting. Garamun had never entered the bears skin when men were to be the meal, and he'd no intention to. That way lay too close to the Thenns for his liking.

Patting the bears flank, Garamun gave a single clap that let Hund know it was time. The bear charged, roaring loudly, and the man's eyes opened quickly. Grey eyes met the quickening approach of Hund, and yet, there was no panic.

"Fus…" What? "RO DAH!"

From his lips, a concussive blast of something came forth, sending Hund flying ass-backwards into the branches of a tree some fifty feet behind. Garamun, while not in line of the attack, was staggered still, knocked onto his side.

What?!

As Garamun struggled to catch his footing, the man did stand. He was indeed big, over six feet, though Garamun did not know by what margin.

He approached and Garamun scrambled away, falling onto the snow once more. He crawled backwards, the man's approach not stopping, and stopped only when his balding head met the root of an ironwood.

The man crouched in front of Garamun some two feet away, a knife of rippling metal in his hand, grey eyes hard. "Now, what was that all about? Speak truly, else you'll not be able to speak another lie." He spoke with the accent of a southerner, his voice gravelly and his threat true.

Gulping, Garamun stuttered his words. "T-there was a-a fire! Nobody's f-fo-ool 'nough t' light one h-here! Not without a cla-n. I th-thought you was a fr-ree meal."

The man hummed, weighing Garamun's words. Then he nodded shortly and twirled his knife casually. "Fine. How'd you get the bear to listen to you?"

"I'm a- skinchanger. I-I can see through H-unds eyes." And feel him. Hund was regaining his equilibrium. He'd soon be upon this man once more. Whatever he did, he must have channeled the power of the Old Gods through him. But he was no longer attached to that weirwood. It shouldn't work twice.

It could have been seen as sacrilege to attack somebody that embodied the power of the gods. But Garamun was desperate, and more than that he cared little for the gods. All that mattered was surviving, and weirwood trees did little of that for him. He could not use their branches for firewood, and their faces pierced his soul. He liked them none.

"Skinchanger, mm?" He looked intrigued. Good, maybe Garamun could use that. "Tell me, have you ever heard the name Hircine before?"

He'd not. But something about the word seemed to resonate with him, the name both fond and foreign in his mind. There was a natural wildness in that name that held his interest, and yet Garamun felt dirty for even thinking on it. Like he was not worthy. How strange.

"No? Well, I suppose that makes sense. He's not the type to offer gifts to just anybody. How'd you become a skinchanger? Is it a learned skill?"

Garamun shook his head, feeling a tad more confident now that he spoke on a topic he knew. "Skinchangers 'r born, not learned. I was born with it, same as me ma. Shows up in folk at random, bein' truthful. Me brother wasn't one."

"Ah, that makes sense. Like how lycanthropy can be passed down to children…" He hummed, nodding. "And how does skinchanging work?"

His confidence shot even higher as he felt Hund approach. "Like this." His eyes rolled into his skull, and from the darkness that was his body, he could see.

To warg was to be human and beast all the same, and yet separate. Garamun was not strong enough to handle multiple skins, but Hund was a fine catch still. They shared their feelings with one another, knew how to best help one another. Though Hund could not take his skin, he'd gained habits from Garamun. He knew how to gather firewood and understand the language of men and could differentiate between rotted foods and clean ones, unlike unattached snow bears. For Hund, being partner to Garamun was useful. It let him live longer.

And to Garamun, being partner to Hund was survival.

He took the form of his bear and barreled through. In this skin, he was larger than the man by half, twice as quick too. It was jarring to see him threatening his body, but that threat would soon end.

The threat did end. Not in the way Garamun would have wished.

The man craned his neck, noting the bear advancing, and buried his dagger into the skull of Garamun's true body. Garamun felt his mind sear, his soul thrashing as man and beast become one and the same, for there was nothing to separate them now. Rage overtook rationality. There was no point in vengeance, only survival. That had always been Garamun's creed.

But he'd never died before. Few could ever claim to have felt it, and all were madder than a hungry Thenn. Garamun was no exception, for he understood. The large man standing over his corpse was his true enemy, and nothing would stop Garamun from killing him.

"Gol… Hah Dov!" Shouted the man, a yellow-green energy sifting from his mouth, enveloping Garamun.

It mattered little. Nothing would stop Garamun from ending his enemy-

…Ene-…

En-…

…

…Master.

What a fool Garamun was. This man could never be his enemy, not when he owed him so much. Master sheltered Garamun as a child, gave him food and water and home. He'd helped him tame Hund in the first place! It was only natural for master to give Garamun the chance to be stronger than ever. Hund was his truest chance to be powerful, to escape the weakness of his human form, and master offered him his salvation.

Master approached, and Garamun bowed, awaiting orders.

No orders came. Master walked towards the weirwood he'd rested upon and gathered his things, returning to Garamun's furred flank. He mounted Garamun's back, pulling at the fur on his scalp, positioning him northward.

Garamun happily made his way into the unknown, content in knowing that he was of aid to his master.

Winterfell was dreary as of late.

Catelyn oft found this to be a common. The North was a dreary place all its own, with plains too large and peoples too spread out, halted by harsh weather and forests aplenty. To combat the drear of the North meant much to its peoples, and so they stuck to one another boldly, forming kinships readily. The bond of a Northman was greater than that of the south, that much was known well.

To Catelyn, the best way to beat back Northern drear was not to make merry with strangers, but to keep family close, to keep her blood and their smiles all in one space. It filled her with a warmth she'd not ever truly known, not when she was a Tully at Riverrun certainly. Motherhood was a blessing, she learned. It brought about the best in her.

But the drear of the North had a sullen tang to it this past week, her husband and children and servants sorrowful. She knew why, everybody knew why.

Catelyn just could not meet the energy to care that the bastard decided to galivanting beyond the Wall, hunting for Dark Sister, the Valyrian steel sword of the Targaryen's. A fanciful dream that was like to not be fulfilled. Why in the seven hells would she care? He was her shame, the shame of her husband. Better he be gone, far from Winterfell where he might usurp Robb. Whether he was beyond the Wall, the marches of Dorne, the reaches of Essos, it did not matter. He was gone and she was content with it.

Motherhood brought about the best in Catelyn. It also brought about her worst.

She never liked Jon Snow, all knew this. He was the child born between her husband and another woman. That he'd been born was not her reason to dislike him; bastards were commonbred during war, and Ned wed her for an army. Theirs was not a union of love but of duty, a duty that love was formed from later on. But Ned cared fiercely for this unnamed woman, fierce enough to raise the bastard among his own trueborn children.

Catelyn tried to have the boy go away many-a-time. He was a large, strong child, he'd do well with a fostering. Catelyn would have rather Jon Snow not be given such a station, but better he leave than stay. Ned was not of the same mind. He is my blood, he would say. The pack stays together. Ned didn't understand. The bastard was reckless, dangerous.

She remembered well the many times he'd nearly gotten her children killed. At ten, he took Robb hunting in the dead of night. At eight, he'd tried to show Sansa how to use a knife, somehow convincing the girl to keep one strapped her thigh. At twelve, he'd stolen Arya away for three days, returning only because they'd run out of supplies. On and on, from cheering Bran's climbing to throwing Rickon higher and higher like a sack of potatoes, barely catching him, to showing all Catelyn's children the flames of the forge- Jon Snow was a danger to her children, and yet…

Yet, they loved him.

Robb, her firstborn boy, who once was filled with so much life, seemed lost to the world. He went about his tasks and did as bade, but there was no fight in him, no enthusiasm. Jon Snow was his counter, and Robb did not know how to act without him.

Arya was far worse. Her wild, wolfblooded girl cried a constant stream, hiccupping and sad and unwilling to show any level of decorum. It had always been difficult to get her to do her stitches, now it was a nightmare.

Bran did not keep to his lessons either. He would climb the tallest of Winterfell's towers, stay up there all day, looking for his half-brother from high up. He'd made a habit of stealing Maester Luwin's spyglass of late, hoping to see Jon from afar.

Rickon was too young to truly understand, a boy of only four, but he picked up on the mood of Winterfell and liked it little.

And Sansa… she was not as Catelyn had expected. Sansa was her double, a girl that looked her mother reborn. There was little of Ned in her. Sansa was to be a southron lady, mayhap a queen. But Jon Snow had treated her boldly, bolder than even her father did, and over time Sansa had grown to keep his council. Without him, without his barbs and japes and habit of hauling her over the shoulder on an adventure of some kind, Sansa was quiet. Quieter than she'd ever been. She did not talk to Jeyne Poole or Septa Mordane or Arya or even Catelyn herself. It was in her silence that Sansa's resemblance to her father bled through, and Catelyn found little pleasure in it. Ned's quietness was among his least likeable habits.

Ned was perhaps the worst of them.

Eddard Stark was rare to show emotion. He was a wall of ice, stern when needed and fair when felt. The perfect Warden of the North. And yet, upon receiving the letter from Castle Black, words penned by Lord Commander Jeor Mormont, telling tale of a note left to Maester Aemon, a note that said the bastard made to find Dark Sister from beyond the Wall, Eddard broke.

He shook bodily and palmed his eyes to hide their wetness. He did his duty, as he always did, but spent his personal time within the Winterfell crypt, demanding none disturb him. She did not follow, but she stayed close, and could hear well the echo of his wails, his asking for forgiveness for breaking a promise.

It had been a week and Catelyn was tired of it all. Tired of the sadness, of the tears, of the rage. Jon Snow was gone, as she'd always wished he would be. And with his leaving, her family was hanging by a ledge. Her blood was here, yet their smiles gone.

She knew not what to do.

She could only hope that time would bring her family back together. That their smiles would return, without the bastard to bring them.

And should they not…

For perhaps the first time in her life, Catelyn wished Jon Snow to return to Winterfell.

Jon's throat hurt.

There was little need to wonder on why that was. He knew that his use of the Thu'um was still immature, and yet he'd used two taxing shouts all the same. Better he be alive with a pained throat than dead though. He'd no clue what would happen to him should he die. Would he return to Evergloam? Or would he be prey to the machinations of the other Princes? It begged not to think on it, not until his end was truly in sight.

The use of Unrelenting Force was instinctual more than anything. Though it'd been fifteen years since he'd lived as Istind Hearthome, the mannerisms of his old life bled through. Istind did not handle being startled well, neither did Jon.

Being awoken by a bear intent on running him through meant the use of Unrelenting Force was well earned. It was lucky he was a light sleeper, else he might have actually died. Bears were nothing to scoff at.

The usage of Bend Will was a whim more than anything. The only reason he'd been in that original state, resting within the roots of a tree as he had, was because he'd been greedy. He'd thought to hunt his way through the Haunted Forest and hunt he did. To the point that his stomach bulged and with it a tiredness came upon him. He'd thought he was made of stronger stuff, but his body was still young and able to overcome his mind. Without meaning to, he'd fallen asleep whilst digging for sap. Weirwood sap had a pain reliving property to it – used effectively meant he'd be able to ignore his need for sleep for a time.

Jon knew he'd need more than a few sleepless nights to reach Brynden Rivers. Lessons to be relearned, he'd not ever forget a third time. A bear that he could use as a mount, that would also loyally stay awake to the point of death, was well worth the strain on his throat.

It still hurt.

But his hurt was leaving. Three days it had been since he'd dominated Garamun's will, and they were nearing his quarry. His mind was clear on his path. A great heart tree stood over a caved hill, sat in the midst of an empty clearing. That was his goal. Ironwood trees were becoming scarcer as he rode, as were weirwoods. They were close. Perhaps only an hour or two out.

But night was upon them, as was a snowstorm. Blizzards in the True North were not to be trifled with. Jon was uncertain that even Lok Vah Kor would be able to keep it at bay. Garamun knew of a nearby cave to take refuge in, and Jon felt inclined to follow his mount's wisdom.

It was still a strange feeling, Garamun. Bend Will, when used on animals, allowed Jon to gain glimpses of their thoughts. When used on a man, Jon could order them fully. But Garamun was an animal with the mind of a man. This led to a newness, an animal that Jon could fully read and order. A perfect combination. It made his journey easy, and he'd not felt a lick of shame about it. Garamun meant to kill him. Now he'd die in Jon's service.

He was close to death now, Jon hadn't allowed him must respite. He pushed the bear hard, harder than a horse certainly, and fed him little. And still, Garamun was loyal.

His bear brought him to the cave, more a crack nooked within the side of a hill. The cave was small but seemed endless, a winding tunnel of sleet and stone that burrowed deep in the earth. There were many caves such as this beyond the Wall, though this was different in a way. There had been no trees atop its hill, nothing for roots to burrow through, yet there were roots all the same within its confine, thicker than even Garamun was.

Curious, Jon had Garamun keep watch to the front whilst he continued through the path. He kept his eyes sharp and used his Daedrend, his Valyrian steel dagger, to mark the walls, so he'd not be lost through its winding halls. A stick lit by his Yol kept torchlight for him.

He'd searched for hours and hours, finding little but enjoying much. There was something about this type of exploration that had Jon jolly. The further Jon went, the more claustrophobic things got. That only served to have him search harder. Then, he'd found a small indentation in the hall of white roots curled around a hole, barely large enough for him to crawl. He palmed his dagger strictly, the white of his knuckles apparent through his pale skin, and made his way through the tunnel.

"Paar," he intoned, the darkness of the tunnel turning bright. Seek. A word of power that allowed Jon the ability to view the night as if it were day, the darkness as if it were light. As a counter, should he have used Paar in this manner under the light of the sun, the world would be blinding.

But now Jon could understand the winding path of the hole he travelled, the curve of the still thickening roots. They weaved a way of left and right, of ups and downs, never allowing Jon his respite. He did not want any, being truthful. Should it be needed, he could easily escape this tunnel, could destroy these rocks with but the tip of his tongue.

And yet, he did not. The tunnel grew wider, allowing him to stand, and a hall of human and animal bones, of stalactites and stalagmites, of carved symbols painted into stone sides became his to see. Ancient depictions of men and giant and child fighting against creatures of frozen evil were prevalent, stories of the elderly becoming trees, tales of a vast Wall being built with clasped hands.

"Rare is it, that we have guests. Rarer that we do not expect such." A high-pitched, accented voice said from the high corner of the hall, somehow coming off as male. Jon looked towards the voice. A being of nut-brown skin dappled with white spots like that of a deer was his to behold, his large furred ears further enforcing the deer comparison. Big gold-green eyes that were slitted like a cat's stared down pointedly, needle-like teeth bared as short black claws were held out in a defensive stance.

Jon knew this to be a Child of the Forest. And more than that, he knew this to be a different creature all-together, one thought extinct from the world of Nirn.

A Dwemer.

The Dwemer were a curiosity of Jon's. He'd visited many of their strongholds during his years as Dragonborn and gained much insight into their personage and culture as a result. Contrary to popular belief, they were not atheistic. They did indeed hold worship, but theirs was not the worship of the Aedra or Daedra or Numidium as many believed. The Dwemer worshipped Nirn itself, depicting the planet as a god in its own right. Their mechanical wonders were an attempt to match the splendor they held Nirn to, each failure bringing them further in awe of the planet they called home. The Children of the Forest did not hold the technical mastery that the Dwemer did, and Jon thought he knew why. Nocturnal said they'd taken samples from all the races of Nirn to place in this world, though she never said when.

The Children must have been taken before the Dwemer gained their mastery of Nirn. Before Azura ended their race to all but one.

"I did not mean to come by this path," Jon said. "I meant to arrive the next morn, at the cave beneath the heart tree."

"And how you know about such begs further question," the Child murmured, not moving from his position. "That is the main entrance to our home, but we've dug tunnels enough to get around, tunnels such as this. How do you know of our abode?"

"I saw it."

"You are a greenseer?" The Child gasped, hopping down to search Jon over. He was just under four feet tall, his clothes made of bone ivory and stitched plant vines.

"No, my magic is not of that sort. I search for a greenseer, though. Brynden."

The Child was on guard once more, his enthusiasm quickly gone. "The three eyed raven is not one to take guests. Nor are my kin. Should we have wanted you to come, you would know."

Jon sheathed his dagger, making to look unthreatening. "And yet, I am here, knowing where he resides."

"Which should not be," the Child stated. "Beyond the Wall, we see all. The forest is our sight and the wind our ears. How your intentions have not been made known eludes me."

"I do not know either," confessed Jon. The Children of the Forest should have been able to find him easily. He'd slept in a weirwood tree! "But it matters little. I am here to see Brynden."

The Child narrowed his eyes further, looking contemplative and wild all the same. "He's not had a guest in… many years, human. What is it you seek?"

"Knowledge. History. Truth. And with those, I intend to wield his blade."

The Child did not appear happy, though he did not appear angered either. Decidedly neutral, the Child hummed a tune. "Your words ring true, if not complete. Fine, I shall be your guide and guard. Give me your arms. None visit our rest with such."

"…Very well. I am Jon Snow. You name?"

"The name you give is of the same. Ringing true, but not complete. My own name in the True Tongue is too long for the mouths of men. Give me your arms."

Jon did so, nonplussed. If the Child's name could not be stated, then he'd give him one. Twig, decided. The Child would be called Twig. Twig strapped Woe to his back and held Daedrend in his hand. Jon's other weaponry, a dirk of castleforged steel and Garamun's axe, were left behind.

The Child then moved, a quick skip that seemed patternless but held purpose, and Jon followed. Through tunnels they went, winding ways where bone and dust grew thicker, where roots were so great that their gnarls formed furniture their own. More Children came into sight as they travelled, curious but unwilling to do anything save look on.

Then, they arrived.

It was a curiously circular room, wide in its space though cluttered. Bones of giants and humans and the Children littered the floor, animal bones such as dire wolves and shadow cats doing the same. Along the walls where the roots were thinnest the Children did stare, whispering to one another in a sad, beautiful language that held a power its own. If Dovahzul was of the sky, then the True Tongue was of the earth.

And at the roots sat Brynden, Jon's quarry. He'd the look of an old man, as was expected. An albino, his snow-white skin and piercing red eyes were unnerving. Wrapped around the roots of the heart tree, only his arms and head visible, he was little threat. And yet, Jon was wary still. This was the territory of Brynden, where he was strongest, and Jon had given up his arms. Anything could happen.

Brynden held his gaze silently, only looking away when Twig approached, holding out Daedrend. The ripple of its metal brought out a glint of recognition in the greenseer, and he nodded his head shortly, his left hand flicking thrice against the bark. The Children scattered, leaving Jon and Brynden alone.

"Only once have I not been able to see a man since I took my place 'neath these roots," Brynden began. "Only once. And she were mine own lover."

"I known not who you speak," Jon noted. "And I certainly come not for that."

A wheezing laugh escaped the mouth of the elder. "I know that much, though we would be unable had you done so. This is the first I've seen your face, yet I know you still, Jon Snow. I've seen your family, seen what was meant to be. You were meant to take the black."

"Never." Jon swore. He'd only offered Jeor a possibility out of politeness. The Night's Watch was not in the cards for Jon Snow. He refused.

"Yes… I see that now," Brynden chortled. "I've seen much and little. And of that I've witnessed, the changes you've wrought to the future are the most visible. Mild these ripples are, yet you'll soon throw boulders into the waters I look upon should your path continue."

And then, Brynden grinned. "Wonderful. The future was bleak to look upon. Now I have much to hope for. We have much to hope for."

Jon did not know how to take such. He did not know what to say at all. And so, he kept his silence, unwilling to ruin the good will the greenseer seemed to hold.

"Allow me to introduce myself properly, Jon Snow. I am Brynden Rivers, the three eyed raven, the last greenseer. And yet, these titles matter little to you, for you know them well. Allow me one that you'd know clearer."

He hummed, and the roots encompassing his body opened, revealing a grotesque image to behold. There was no body 'neath his rib, his gut and legs and cock missing. Where they were meant to be, sat along the ridge of his spine, an orb of red pulsed, mist-like blood making up the contents of its glass.

"I am Brynden Rivers. Champion of Vaermina and Wielder of her Orb."

Not gonna lie, this bit about Brynden came to me as I was about to finish off the scene. And I was like, It's perfect! For those that don't know, Vaermina is the Daedric Prince of Dreams and Nightmares and the Orb of Vaermina allows its user to scry. The three eyed raven is the perfect person for her to name champion. And now, Jon has somebody that at least knows of the daedra to deal with. Hopefully it'll lead to some fun interactions.

That first scene was just a bit of fun. It didn't make sense that Jon just walk around, he needed a mount of some kind. Garamun was an easy target, and he earned no sympathy. Plus, I got to show how ruthless Jon can be. Not in the physical sense, but in his willingness to dominate others.

And we've got a Catelyn that is pissy about Jon leaving and doesn't like that she's pissy about the thing she's wanted all his life. Conflicting mindsets are her bread and butter.

Was genuinely surprised this was so easy to bust out. Took the better part of my morning. I guess I'm hyped for S8 of GoT. Well, y'all ain't gonna complain.

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