Despite the position of this chapter, you should be aware that it takes place earlier in the narrative than some of the more recent events, about a week after Chapter 2 (Theon).

When reading this chapter, you may want to zoom in your browser window a bit. It will probably make it easier to keep track of where you are. Or - at the risk of sounding patronising - you may want to read it aloud.

Everything is meant to be read exactly as it appears on the page.


BRAN

The sky was golden, blazing in the light of the newborn sun that shone loud and angry from the east. The spindly, needled branches of the trees turned the same colour, and the pools of melting snow on the ground turned to liquid gold. Leaves lay on the snow, corpse-red turning corpse-grey and bleeding sap through the layers of hard-set frost.

He could hear the wind howling, too, through the grove of pale-limbed trees at the crest of the hill. Only there was no wind. It was screaming he heard. Some were the screams of the living, some of the dead; it was impossible to tell, when you weren't quite sure what you were yourself.

He ought to be dead. The lacerations and wounds on his body, bleeding sap and blood into the cold winter night beneath Winterfell's heart tree, proved that. And yet… if he was dead, then what was this?

There was only one explanation for things and he knew it to be completely true. It had to be. He was the three-eyed crow now, and, like Lord Bloodraven beneath the hill, he had never really died on that night in Winterfell. His physical form, his earth-body, his lungs and heart, had died, to be sure, but he was much more than that.

The more he thought about it, the clearer it became to him. He'd never felt the knives, because they'd never stabbed him. They'd only stabbed the boy he had been, the vessel that had held his essence for the first sixteen years of his life, and they had left it a husk, drained of blood and life. But even as the boy's eyes closed to the world, the crow's eyes had opened, and the stabbing had been nothing more than a formality to ensure his escape.

He wasn't sure where he was now. Theon Greyjoy had brought his body out from the crypts in a covered cart, weeping all the way, and Summer had taken it from there, dragging the cart through miles of snow into the deepest depths of the wolfswood. But he was not there either, not really. The three-eyed crow was not constrained by mere mortal things of flesh and blood. No longer was he the Prince of Winterfell, the Warden of the North. His kingdom was not the kingdom of gods and men. His was the kingdom of earth and open sky.

Sometimes, on rare occassions, he still remembered that his name was Brandon Stark. Or had been. His mother had called him Bran. He would say it to himself, over and over, "Bran, Bran, Bran." And in the forests and the mountains and the hills, the earth would hear him, and it would echo; it would say Bran, Bran, Bran.

Once upon a time there was Brandon Stark and Brandon Stark and Brandon Stark. And why not? It seemed as good a name as any, as Brandon Stark's mothers and wives and daughters told themselves. After all their brothers and husbands and fathers had all been called Brandon, so what better name was there to remember them? And the cycle accomodated for greatness too: in Winterfell's crypts – or, now, out of them – were Brandon the Builder and Brandon the Shipwright and Brandon the Burner and Brandon the Breaker and Brandon the Daughterless and a dozen other Brandons who had all been sons of Winterfell. He was just one of them, and yet, at the same time, he was all of them. There had been bad Brandon Starks, too. The Night's King, who had been Lord Commander of the Night's Watch had been he, Brandon Stark. And after his would-be-wife allured him he became less of a man and more of something else. When he gave her his seed he gave her his soul too and we called them the Others, for what do Men fear more than that which they do not know? Or so the story went he wondered if his love for Meera had made him a crannogman much as his earlier love for Her had made him into an Other. Probably not his love for Meera was bounded by the things he had seen in his visions his love for his Other bride had been all encompassing a love song not of man and woman but of more. Woman known under many names. Avarice gluttony love is the bane of honour the death of duty. And he should know that because she'd nearly ensnared him too. But down he called them from the Mountains, giants and clansmen of all kinds, and Starks from Winterfell, the greatest army the North had ever seen. And there from sea to shining sea, they built the barrier that would keep her folk out.

The Wall.

At first he'd prisoned her in Winterfell, he Brandon the Builder, she ringed by stone Starks on stone thrones trapped in a prison of hot-blooded walls with swords of hated steel which threatened to melt her flesh. He still wasn't sure how she'd escaped and managed to seduce him at the Wall but eventually they'd bound her again and drag her back to the Winterfell crypts. He still remembered the last he'd seen of her smirking, knowing face twisted into the visage of his much-loved late wife as he bound her down there where she'd stayed silent for another few thousand years till the time when the wolf maid and the dragon sung their song till the Tower of Joy was pulled down by his brother and made into cairns by his father till the bones of the dead Lyanna had been carried north and entombed where they never should have been entombed. And there were other stories too. One day he went down into the crypts and she was there looking at him through her blue eyes through the door through his soul through the weirwood tree and he looked back at her and said Other under his breath all the while remembering the stories his great-grandmother had told him but that he'd never believed. Click, went her knitting needles, click, click, click and she said Oh, my sweet summer child, click, click, click, what do you know of fear? and he said his name because it would all be all right if you remembered his name his name was Walder. But now all he saw was the Other, Other, Other, Othor, Othor, Othor, Hothor, Hothor, Hothor, Hodor, Hodor, Hodor only now Hodor was dead, he remembered that yes Hodor had died holding the door in the entrance to the godswood, as he bled out on the ground and so the gentle giant's sacrifice had been worth nothing he had made it so yes he was dying right now.

And as he died he remembered his father standing in the godswood, cleaning Ice with an oily rag that dripped pearls of weirwood into the roots and he was in the roots he was the roots and he pictured his father saying you will be going to the Eyrie but next he was on his knees in the throne room and the Mad King whispered burn them all because one day just after Summerhall he'd heard it whispered to him in his sleep and the madman sees what he sees. But Father said the man who passes the sentence must swing the sword and he swung the sword and Father's lips moved speaking to the man in black, to the man in black he said Baelor and he nodded to the statue and the man in black said don't look and then he said who are you and the sword came down and crows and— She the girl said no one because she was, but that wasn't the truth she was his big sister or his little sister then as he mussed up her hair and he said stick em with the pointy end and there he was bleeding out in the snow. His blood the same colour as his mother's hair or maybe it was his cloak that was her hair hers black like his maybe or maybe it was Ghosts fur or maybe not he didn't know he had never known his mother he was a bastard and could: Never forget what you are, bastard, the rest of the world will not. Bastard boy bastard sword. He stabbed with the sword and then the world was on fire, the island burning, stone dragons rising from the depths and they were descending on the forces of Night, that was what he had to do – and then the vision was gone again. Or was it a vision at all? He didn't know didn't really remember much but a king must be brave he had said so a king must be brave, yes, my father was weak and now the rains weep o'er his halls with not a soul to hear.

The man who passes the sentence must swing the sword.

He had been born in the snow. She had been born in a storm. She said, I promise you, those who hurt you will die screaming, and they screamed back, they screamed Mhysa, Mhysa, Mhysa. Fire and blood: vengeance, justice, fire and blood, and now he is weeping over his son's corpse, and he knows that wisdom makes a good king. But there are things more important than that, he is closed away in his chambers in the dark and the boy climbs up outside his window and looks in and sees him and that cant be so he takes the boy by the neck and says How old are you boy? Ten? Ten. Well. The things I do for love. He gives him a short sharp shove. The boy, and the brother, and his wife stumble backwards, his her their feet slipping on the wet marble. For the longest time, there is no sound but the wind as they go down and down and down summer wind howling round them. Make the little man fly, the boy said. But not this little man. This little man is going home, and now he's flying on a dragon, he's flying over the island, the island is Dragonstone, and he's going to save them all he is. It must be. Someone wrote it in fire and blood so very long ago and a Lannister always pays his debts and the things we do for our loves like her. Like Cersei Lannister; she was a sweet girl – and so was his Dornish bride – but the voices told him he must do elsewise – the dragon has three heads, three heads, three heads has the dragon – and there had been three in the old days – in the beginning when the stones were still shifting – named Aegon and Rhaenys and Visenya. Only that was beginning, and this is ending cause the Stormlord's hammer never smashed Aegon Targaryen in his chest as it smashes him now, never knocks him from the seat of his horse, and the rubies go flying, red rippling pearls of fire and blood – BURN THEM ALL! the Mad King screams, and now his nails are as long and sharp and black as the Iron Throne, his smile as wicked. He slits his wrists on the Iron Throne and bleeds fire to BURN THEM ALL! he screams as the Kingslayer puts a sword in his back. BURN THEM ALL! and they never listen because they think he's mad, but he's right, but that's what they have to do because he was told it must be so. All the prophecies agree. Azor Ahai draws a burning sword from his wife's heart, and flames consume the blade. Lightbringer. Who will be his Nissa Nissa? And what will be his Lightbringer? He didn't really think about this, but he has infinity to think now, in the instant between the hammer hitting his body and him falling back into the river; the rubies are no longer bright blood-spots, they are weirwood sap, and he whispers a woman's name Lyanna and she lies in the tower under the dusty Dornish sun. They say and now it begins and he says no now it ends. They fight. They die. Lives. All so mortal they are. All things of dust and so easily burned. He sees Mother screaming and she says Daenerys Tyrion Jon oh Ned he mustnt know oh Tywin he is my son and yours oh Darry keep them safe they are the last of their house. She is giving birth to him weeping on her knees the tears running down her bloody haunted cheeks and her last words are no or so she thinks don't cut my hair. Ned loves my hair. She has no lips now she has no voice now she has nothing but her heart and it is stone and it is a blazing hot coal burning her up. He blinks and there is wildfire, rising above the castle towers and she says I choose violence and he screams BURN THEM ALL! And a million miles away as he falls into that ruby-strewn river an eternity of time across the world whispering Lyannas name and wondering if it means anything at all but knowing it must knowing they are coming that ice and fire together is needed to stop her Nights bride. She at his side as the Northern cavalry, accompanied by Joramun's howlers, descends upon Long Lake, cutting through his lines of men, enslaved men, it is no fault of their own, but the Night's King must be defeated: he has put all of House Stark at risk. In fact, he thinks, it would help if the Starks had more power in the land. I will build a great fleet. So he does. But now his father is dead, so he will burn the fleet which wasted all of his life and years. King Aegon has asked him to King's Landing. Aegon the Third, that is, the boy-king. For some strange reason, he has been made Hand of the King. He is the second to hold that position, after his ancestor Cregan Stark. Can you blame Robert, really? He needs a Hand, and I am the only friend he has. And Catelyn has told him that he must. But the truth is that he doesn't really know. Father had died, in Aerys's throne room, before he could teach him everything. He had forgotten to tell Ned, because Brandon is a fool, and bound to die: Ned is quite, meanwhile, and conscientious, but that isn't really what he thought, because he spent the whole time screaming as he was cooked alive in his armour. It was a good thing he knelt to Aegon before he burned them all; as he did for the Tyrells and the Lannisters on the Field of Fire. And now he is back to the battlefield. The men of the Night's Watch, ensnared by their Lord Commander, are dying. Part of him wants to cry. It isn't their fault. It isn't their fault. He was only ten. They should never have made him Lord Commander. Only a boy as scared as falling from a high tower. Only a boy falling falling falling but you must kill the boy kill the boy kill the boy kill the boy kill

The sky was golden, blazing in the light of the newborn sun that shone loud and bright from the east. Summer had brought his body out here to the grove for reasons he could not really understand. He was weak, but with every mealtime, he grew a little stronger. There was nothing the taste of blood in his mouth could not cure.

Days passed. He thought about Meera, and about Hodor, and about Jon, and more: in short, about everyone he had ever known. He knew, for example, that Jon was dead. Samwell Tarly was now the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch – Fat Sam, who he'd met at the Nightfort. Gods help him. It didn't make sense – Jon, the son of ice and fire, was supposed to save them – and yet, it did.

Bran sat up, sweating profusely, and leaned back against the trunk. His already pale skin had turned somewhat translucent now, giving off a slight ethereal hue. Under his heavy garments of furs and leaves his chest was a map of scars where the knives had gone in. There were places where the gouges were so deep, it made him sick to look at them, because he could almost see his own organs through them. The skin was healing, but very slowly.

"I am Brandon Stark of Winterfell," he said aloud to the silent night. "Second-born son of Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn." It was rare that he forgot who he was nowadays, but it did not hurt to remind himself. "I am the Lord of Winterfell, and I am supposed to be dead."

That still made no sense to him. He looked like a corpse, and his heart scarcely seemed to beat nowadays, and his veins ran with sap as much as they did with blood, but he was still alive, in a way, and his body, broken and tortured though he might be, still worked. More than that, it seemed to have healed. He recalled that, while he was dead, Euron Greyjoy had gouged out one of his eyes to send it in a box to Jon as proof of his conquering of Winterfell. Yet when he woke up on the hillside he had seen just fine. A new eye had inexplicably appeared in the socket from which the old one had been lost. It was not the same colour – his mother's Tully blue had been replaced by a frighteningly bright green that glowed even in the deepest darkness – but it worked the same. And there was more than that.

Just then he heard a sound of twigs breaking, about a mile off. Leaves trodden underfoot. The smell of blood. A few minutes passed, and then Summer emerged at the edge of the weirwood grove, dragging a bloody mess behind him. Bran watched him all the way, and reached out with a pale, bloodless hand to pet the wolf's soft fur. Then he turned to see what Summer had brought him today.

The meals had made him sick at first. But ever since he'd woken up in the grove, he'd found that only one thing would nourish him, and if they were ever to defeat the Others, they had to survive.

The man had been one of Euron's soldiers, once. He had the look of an Iron Islander. Bran wondered if he had still been enslaved at the point of his death, then decided it did not really matter. Summer tore off an arm, and brought it to him. Half-frozen blood dripped from the limb as Bran brought it close to his face.

After his meal, he leaned back against the tree once more, resting his eyes for a few moments. When he opened them again Summer was inches from his face, panting, almost playful. Bran smoothed down his fur again. "I think you're right," he said. "I'm getting nothing more than I was yesterday. Yes. The Great Barrow." Euron had stopped there on his way from the Iron Islands. If there were any more secrets worth knowing, they would be there.

Briefly he thought about searching out Arya again, or Davos Seaworth, or Princess Myrcella: anyone who might listen. But his efforts were never worth their exertions; every time he attempting to speak to one of them, he spent the better part of a day recovering. No. Tomorrow they would set out for Barrowton. And for that, he needed all his strength.

Summer had by now curled up beside the trunk, an inviting place for Bran to rest his head. But Bran had a more urgent bodily need: heroes do not piss themselves. He got up, walked over to their cesspit at the edge of the grove, unfastened the laces of his trousers, and pissed relaxedly into the pit. Then he walked back to the tree, lay down, and fell asleep almost at once.


Author's Note:

Right...

So what do you want first? The linguistic stuff or the plot?

We'll start with the plot. It should be easier.

As if this whole thing wasn't confusing enough, the bookends reveal that a) Bran is alive - well, sort of, and b) he can walk.

The extent to which he is "alive" is something I'll explain later (or in the comments), but it shouldn't come as too much of a surprise to you, considering that evidence of Bran's consciousness - he identifies previous interactions with Arya, Davos and Myrcella towards the end of this chapter.

Now onto the fact that he can walking, which, actually is easier to explain, but comes into the fact that he's not exactly alive. Again, I'll explain later, but you're welcome to make guesses / give your theories.

Also, he survives off an... erm... all-natural diet.

Now for my favourite bit. The style of this chapter is inspired by William Faulkner's novel emThe Sound and the Fury/em, which I found basically incomprehensible the first time I read it. It's stream-of-consciousness-esque, taking a bit more inspiration from James Joyce. Obviously it doesn't aspire to the lofty heights of either of those authors, but I thought those styles would be a good basis upon which to create a narrative that is, in fact, about a thousand different narratives occurring simultaneously. Bran visits the past, the future and alternate universes, all within four paragraphs.

The sentences may be horrible to read, and it's probable that only I'll ever know the meaning (or lack of meaning) of every word here (probably), but I hope you found it somewhat different and/or interesting. And congratulations on persevering through this one. It's a toughie, and probably unique within the story.

Once again, as on the last chapter, thank you all so very much for reading and staying with KNIGHTS OF THE NIGHTINGALE as we move into the next act of this story. Which is going to have big explosions and stuff.