BRANDON
"Have you seen Jojen?" Meera's voice came out of the darkness.
She emerged soon after, her eyes like sour lemons which grew on a pale face that looked dead. A spear appeared in her hand, and her hand was shivering. A brown lock of her hair got stuck in the roots.
"You are sick," Brandon closed his eyes, feeling through the roots her heart beating faintly, a mad frenzy on her mind. Yet he could not see. He wanted to see in her, to care for her and show her that he loved her, but whenever he tried to look his heart beat faster and everything was a blur.
"Ow," Meera groaned as she tugged her hair free, and Brandon opened his eyes. Meera's crannogman eyes stared at Brandon, an angry gleam upon them,"Where is Jojen?"
Bits of the weirwood paste were stuck in Brandon's teeth, and he wondered where the wise-spoken boy was. He swallowed the last of the paste down his throat, and he swore that he had seen Jojen only a day before. He had seen his face, crested with roots and proud.
"Hodor," a pain exploded in Brandon's body as the giant lifted him up and away from the roots.
"Put me down," Brandon cried,"Put me down. Put me down." He pushed himself into Hodor's simple mind, and at once he was taller and could walk. The boy's little body was in his hand, and he felt a rushing urge to carry it away. Brandon got the best of him in the end, and Brandon set the boy down upon the roots which curled around the boy's arms, legs, and chest when they touched him. When Brandon opened his eyes as the boy again, he felt no longer the pain. Only the peace of someone who could fly.
Meera had taken several steps back, her spear trembling even more,"Where is Jojen?"
"Here," Brandon searched and knew the answer, as certain as death,"He is in me now."
Meera took one hesitant step forward, then another, then another. Her free hand rose up and touched Brandon's lips. When her hand came away, Brandon saw a bright red speck on her finger. He knew what that was. It was the paste, that food the Children made for him that he had found so sour before but now found so sweet. The three-eyed crow gave him fewer today, saying that they were on their last until they could find more.
Brandon saw Meera put her finger to her nose, and she dropped her spear with a muffled thunk on the roots. As the spear hit the roots, Brandon felt a jolt of pain. Meera picked up her spear and knelt before Brandon,"Bran, we need to get out of this cave. That old man in the roots and these Children-they killed Jojen. It's not the Others we need to worry about. It's them. They are the dead. Come with me, please."
"Hodor," Hodor again tried to lift Brandon from his painless seat, but Brandon thrust himself into his mind again and had him set the boy down. When Brandon returned to his body, he left a bit of himself behind, bading Hodor to remain still.
"I am not leaving," Brandon said to Meera,"This is my home."
"Please, Bran," tears were rushing down Meera's cheeks, and she smashed her spear into the roots.
Brandon was jolted alight, but he soon found his peace yet again as the roots healed themselves from Meera's blow.
"Can't you see?" Brandon snapped,"This is where I am supposed to be. My dreams led me here. It is my destiny. Now and forever, until the world ends and begins again."
Meera shook her head, her tears flying onto Brandon's face. She rushed forward and wrapped Brandon in a hug he could not feel, whispering in his ear,"Bran. I'm so sorry I brought you here. Stay if you must, and fight him. But I need to go away."
Away. Brandon felt the waters on his cheek, the words echoing like a raven's cry, Away. Away. She was going away, leaving him here along with Hodor and Summer and Coldhands. Her, whose kind, warm, and pretty touch he would never bear again.
"No," Brandon said,"Stay. Stay with me."
"I want to," Meera lifted her head away,"but I can't. He'll kill me."
"STAY," Brandon shouted, and mustered all his strength to go into her. He would make her stay. He found himself surrounded by a blur. He did not know what to find in this storm. He saw the face of a stubby man calling for him to come home, Jojen's worried voice telling her to not come north because he dreamed of a wolf that licked her face, and a dead man lifting down his hood to reveal a burnt face and deep purple eyes, offering up his sword. Distantly, Brandon heard screams, a girl screeching: "Get out. GET OUT!"
A sudden force slammed into him, and Brandon found himself in the boy again, staring at Meera convulsing on the ground, red streaks flowing down her eyes and across her cheeks. He thought that looked familiar. He had seen it before when he had shown his sister what she must know.
His eyes rose above Meera to see a hulking mass standing above her. Its golden eyes gleamed as it snarled at him.
"Summer," Brandon said,"Get away from us."
The wolf only snarled back.
"Get away," Brandon shouted,"You are mine."
His eyes bore into the wolf's, pushing himself in. Brandon felt the animal fight like he had never had before, but he gripped the roots and felt a surge of ancient magic flow through him. He was a wizard, just like the three-eyed crow in his tree. Summer would be a part of Brandon, now and forever. He heard a howl, and opened his eyes to the beautiful girl below him. He licked the blood off her face, and gazed into her bloodshot green eyes. They were very pretty. Brandon was as old as Summer as he wore the wolf's skin, old enough to know his desire which began to build beneath Summer's bowels. The girl's clothes came away in pieces beneath his paws, and she screamed. A spear lodged itself in his side, but he could not feel it. His desire uncurled itself, and the girl looked very sweet. Brandon knew he was in love with her. He thrust himself in and out. In and out. In and out. Her screams grew louder and fainter in Brandon's ears.
A blow of lightning struck him in the skull, its blinding pain lancing through every part of his body. He opened his eyes to find himself the boy again, except he felt that he had died and lived again. The bitter taste of death lingered in his head, and he knew it would linger there forever. He gripped the roots and looked up to see a man bringing down a sword on what was left of the wolf's neck, severing it in that second blow. Summer's head rolled to Brandon, its golden eyes staring up at him.
The man pulled the wolf's corpse off Meera, and swept his cloak about the girl whose face was frozen. Brandon looked at him. He had never seen Coldhands without a hood before. He remembered that man with purple eyes in Meera's head. That was him.
"Jon," Brandon said without thinking.
"Who is Jon, you monster boy?" Coldhands asked.
"You look like my brother," Brandon said.
"I am not your brother," Coldhands looked down at Meera in his arms,"and I will never be."
He turned to leave, but Brandon would not let him. Brandon tried to push himself into that man, telling him that he could not leave. Not with Meera. The man laughed,"You monster boy. My nephew should have told you that wargs could only ensnare the living. To control the dead in an art he has not taught you."
Brandon could only watch as the man led Meera into the darkness. Another sting rankled Brandon's mind, and he felt his hand burn on the roots.
"Hodor," Hodor said, and Brandon found that he could no longer tell Hodor where to go. His own head was a blur, and he did not want to enter the simple stableboy's head again. Hodor disappeared after the others.
No, Brandon was the other, the one they left behind.
He saw a shadow in the doorway. It emerged to be one of those green Children.
"You let them go," Brandon said.
"The three-eyed crow let them go," she answered in that high voice of a woman.
"It is best to let some things go," the three-eyed crow's voice sounded from within the tree,"rather than let their ghosts haunt you forever."
He emerged from the roots, one still running through his eye.
"Leaf," he bade the Child,"Bring the child the last of the paste. He is ready."
"Where will we fly today?" Brandon asked as he felt the sweet fluid run through his mouth again.
"You will fly to me," the three-eyed crow said, and the world disappeared.
The first thing Brandon saw was that he was not looking from a heart tree. The sun shone high and bright, the air stifled his bones, and before him was a wall of red stone.
Thunk, he heard behind him, then a long pause. Thunk. A long pause. Thunk.
Brandon turned, to look upon a silver-haired boy with a scar on his face loosing arrows at a target. The scar was the same bloody blotch Brandon saw on the three-eyed crow's cheek, and he remembered that the crow's name was once Brynden. Brandon looked at the target, and saw that all of the arrows veered far from the black eye at its centre.
"You still cannot make it, Bryn?" an older boy as tall as Robb appeared at the boy's side, patting his shoulder.
"Daem, I promise you that I had," the boy said,"I made it every time last evening. It is just that when you are here, I cannot."
The older boy did not answer, instead taking another arrow out of the boy's quiver and placing it in his hand.
"Do not hesitate," the man said,"You will never get to hesitate on a battlefield, brother."
The boy drew and loosed his bow. It hit the black centre. Chips of dark wood scattered across the air like dragonglass.
A song washed the boy's stoic face away.
"From the hills unto the waters," a harp was trilling through a brightly lit room in the night,"
through the snows and through the flowers.
All the world has become me,
same in soul as all my brothers."
"To be heroes, we can sing," the voice echoed with each word, until the air itself was shivering,"
a lord, a prince, a humble king.
Black or red, we shall know only
of the beast who's high and mighty."
"Summer swords and winter dreams," the winds seemed to join the song,"
see the flames that we shall bring.
May the worthy win the banners
From a realm that's lost in tatters."
"What is life but to be free," Brandon saw the singer's face, the same boy who had shot the arrows with that same scar on his cheek,"
from the silence of our terrors,
for the beast now still bears three,
one is true to slay the monsters.
Breathing life and breathing wonders,
calls the true from their dark wanders,
to the light and to the feast,
where our souls are weighed in deeds."
"From the ashes, we'll be free," Brandon heard the harp again,"
a song of ice, a song of peace.
At last now I can be
under the sea."
Not long after the singer's voice faded, booming steps began to ring outside the door. They grew louder and louder until the door slammed open. A thin man entered with kind eyes knitted in worry. He wore a decorated cloak of black and red silks. Two other others followed behind him, knights clad all in white.
"Daeron," the singer was surprised.
"Brother," the thin man answered,"Ser Benjen. Ser Rickard. Break the harp."
The singer stood up, but backed away when the thin man approached him.
"How could you be so foolish, Brynden?" the thin man said,"Singing that kind of traitor's song. Father's becoming more paranoid as he grows ever iller. He would not sleep in the night unless he has seen the head of someone he thinks is a traitor. Today it was Tarly's wife. I do not want for tomorrow to be you."
"Please," the singer pleaded, the light shining on his eyes for Brandon to see how young he still was. He did not look older than Brandon.
"Father will not know," the thin man spoke softly and kindly,"No one will know. I had the boy who told me of your song thrown off the roof of the Red Keep. Ser Benjen and Ser Rickard here are mutes, their tongues having been removed by Father long ago. My spiders will have the castle know that the song they heard was of the remaining sycophants to the rebel Toynes."
"Do you want to know a secret?" the thin man crouched before the boy,"Father will be dead soon, but I want you to live. You know what you must do, Brynden."
The thin man rose, but the singer knelt. "Long live the king," the boy chanted.
"Remember that," the thin man raised Brynden to his feet,"Remember to follow your duty and not your heart, for love is the death of duty. That is the only way you will survive, my brother."
Behind them, Brandon saw the white-cloaked men throw the broken harp out of the balcony.
"Did Daemon make that traitor's song?" the thin man asked.
"No, Your Grace," the boy answered quickly, and it was clear he was lying,"It was not Daem. It was me."
"Then you can make your own choice," the thin man said in his silky voice,"I trust you to make the right one."
The thin man and his men left, and Brandon heard the boy whisper:
"To the light and to the feast,
where our souls are weighed in cruelty."
It was not long after that the door opened to another man.
"Are you alright, Bryn?" the man rushed forward and hugged the boy,"Did Daeron hurt you?"
"No, Daem," the boy answered.
"Where's the harp I gave you for your nameday?" the man asked.
"I'm sorry," the boy weeped into his chest,"I'm so sorry."
The winds washed the room away.
Brandon opened his eyes to an empty sky above and a field of deep red below.
A silver-haired man with a scar on his face nocked an arrow to his bow, and a host of crimson-cloaked warriors did the same behind him.
"Is it Daemon down there?" the silver-haired man asked another beside him.
"It is, Lord Bloodraven," the other man answered,"There rides the traitor and his two sons."
"Do you know what I heard then?" the three-eyed crow appeared suddenly behind Brandon,"It was my brother's voice. Do not hesitate. You never get to hesitate on a battlefield." The silver-haired man loosed his arrow, and where he shot all his men followed.
"Why?" Brandon turned back to the three-eyed crow, the world starting to wilt around them.
"I asked myself why a thousand times after," the three-eyed crow answered,"and each time I answered with the same words: I had to remember my duty and not my heart. My brother had trusted me to make the right choice."
"Is there an end to the sad stories?" Brandon asked, feeling the familiar darkness of the roots begin to form around them.
"You already know the answer, my dear child," the three-eyed crow said.
"No," Brandon answered,"There is no end to the sad stories, but I must know them if I am to fly."
"My tale will be your last, my child," the three-eyed crow said as the cave around them solidified,"You have seen the tales of your house, you have seen the tales of your desire, and you have seen the tales of me. If you can look upon the tales of the ones you love and not utter a word, you can look upon the tales of all the world. You are ready."
"What is Coldhands's tale?" Brandon asked, even though he did not love him.
"His tale I showed you that very first time you tasted the weirwood paste. The first son of wolf and dragon, the first song of ice and fire. He could have saved the world, but he chose not to."
"Was he to save the world from the dead?" Brandon asked.
"Men should never fear the dead," the three-eyed crow said,"They are silent, and without wish for this world. What a man need fear is the living, and the only thing man needs to be saved from is from itself."
"Meera was right," Brandon felt the roots imbuing him with some great ancient power,"The dead are yours."
"A foolish tool," the three-eyed crow said,"forged by the most wayward of the Children against the First Men. To drive them from their lands, and a greater peace may emerge. And so the first of the name Brandon who you name the Builder raised the great ice Wall against us imbued with the last enchantments of the false Children who had gone over to him. We could not pass, and a Child enchanted itself as a babe to never strike against a fellow Child. But we never forgot that the Starks were our champions before they turned, and through the Builder and his house flowed the ice blood of his father and father's father when they bedded ice girls in the snow."
"That was the Night's King," Brandon said,"Old Nan told me this story."
"He was not the first," the three-eyed crow said,"but he was the last. The Starks tried to bury their blood, hiding it behind the enchanted walls and magic springs of Winterfell. For they knew that with the ice blood in their veins, they were ours. And they were. For each time they set foot outside Winterfell, they were ours. The dead still had one use, even though they were no use south of the Wall if we could not pass. To drive those Beyond the Wall into the south. For each man who fought the King of Winter, ten more would join him in order to live. The Kings Beyond the Wall marched south-Joramun, Gendel and Gorne, and the Horned Lord and all the others-and they only added to the strength of Brandon the Breaker, Edrick Snowbeard, and Theon Stark and all the other Kings in the North. The Starks grew to lord the kingdom that was the size of the other six combined. And they were our men as we willed. It was never our wish in the end to rule over a realm of the dead."
"But to rule the living," Brandon felt a surge of anger rising in him,"and we failed, again and again. The Andals landed in the south, and we could do nothing."
"That was the time when we thought there to be a doomed cycle," the three-eyed crow said,"when the Andals cut down all the heart trees and north and south stood by for thousands of years. We were resigned to it, until the dragons came. When one of the dragon princes rode north two centuries ago and bedded a girl with ice blood, the mixing of ice and fire meant that we could tap into the power that had tamed the Seven Kingdoms. Yet their son Coldhands chose not to save the world. The man who would become the dead man you see today held a quest of vengeance to slay the remaining dragons of his time, and when he slew the last on Skagos with his last arrow, he was gravely wounded. Ours were there to slay him, but his potent blood will never die, burning with that fiery passion in a vessel of ice."
"He was older than you," Brandon said,"He called you his nephew."
"He was Brynden Bloodraven's uncle," the three-eyed crow smiled,"but I am not Brynden Bloodraven alone. I am him, and Harwar Hoare who came before me, and all the greenseers since the Age of Men when we were created by the Children to tame the beasts of the earth."
"But the song of ice and fire has come again," the three-eyed crow said, drawing closer to Brandon,"You know who it is."
"My brother," Brandon remembered those three white cloaks stained with blood.
"Feel through the roots," the three-eyed crow said,"Do you see him?"
Brandon did, and like a bird from the sky he flew over the Wall. No, he was on the Wall, looking at an endless host that marched down below.
"Lord Snow," a snow-bearded man said beside Brandon," 'Tis the last from Hardhome. I cannot thank you enough."
Brandon was silent.
"Answer him, Satin," a silky voice whispered in Brandon's ear, and Brandon turned to find a beautiful woman with flaming red hair.
Brandon turned again, and knew the words,"Think nothing of it. It is my duty, Tormund, to shield those who have sworn themselves to me."
Snows fell about him, though he did not feel cold.
"For thousands of years," the three-eyed crow brought Brandon back to the cave,"We crept upon those Starks who dreamed of kingship. We were them, and they were us. Your brother will be us, and he could save the realm. He will die in a hundred years, but we will have his sons after him and his sons' sons after. We thought we had to wait another hundred years for another like your brother when he fell in the snow, but we looked again and his soul was yet alive. Your desired was not right. We are not the dead, my dear child. We are the living, who will live forever."
"Can you see the future in the trees?" Brandon asked,"Did we succeed?"
"We can only see the past in the trees," the three-eyed crow said,"but never the future. The future we must make."
"And the past?" Brandon wondered again.
"The ink is dry."
A root wrapped itself around Brandon's hand, giving him a long-awaited call. He knew what it was.
"The ink may be dry," Brandon said,"but it must be written in the first place."
He tasted no weirwood paste on his breath, but he did not need it now. He cast himself into the trees, flying through the darkness to find the godswood of Harrenhal seventeen years ago. He looked upon the woods from the tree.
From the doorway, Brandon saw a knight in cumbersome armour limp in on the shoulder of a tall burly man. "Thank you, Walder," a deep muffled voice sounded from within the helmet. Brandon wondered if he had come to the right place. The big man carried the knight all the way to the weirwood, and the knight threw down a shield before him. No, her. That was when Brandon knew that he was right. The sigil on the shield was that of a laughing tree.
The knight pulled her helmet off to reveal the brown hair of Brandon's aunt. His father's stories were not false, and his aunt Lyanna was as beautiful and fierce as he said her to be. Her hair flew in the wind, revealing a long, sweat-soaked face and shimmering grey eyes burning with the wolf blood. She pushed her helmet beneath the roots of the weirwood, then began to take off her armour-her overlarge cuirass and pauldrons, her mismatched gauntlets picked from different suits, her too-small greaves which she had to wrench off her feet, pushing them all beneath the weirwood where they would be hidden by the tree. Beneath, his aunt wore a tunic bearing the grey and white of House Stark.
Thunders of steps began to sound in the distance, and Brandon saw his aunt's eyes widen. She rolled beneath the roots of the weirwood, uttering a prayer to the Old Gods. Brandon saw the big man bend over the roots, asking his aunt what to do. She just told him to say he saw nothing.
The first man to enter the godswood was a red-haired man with griffins on his surcoat. He was followed by a brown-bearded man with skulls and lips on his cloak. After them came the man Brandon sought to find, that tall silver-haired man with deep purple eyes and his three white-cloaked men behind him.
All had their swords drawn.
"You should have sent one of us with the men in first to flush that fugitive out," the red-haired man said to the silver-haired man,"There is no need to risk yourself, my prince."
"Not so, Jon," the brown-bearded man answered,"That man frightened the king. He deserves to look upon the prince."
"Do not speak like that, Richard," the silver-haired man said,"My father will take those words as treason."
It was then that they saw the big man beneath the leaves, and turned their swords to him. The white cloaks surrounded the silver-haired man, while the others approached the big man who was frightened.
"Oi, you stableboy," the red-haired man called,"Have you seen a crooked knight with a laughing heart tree on his shield?"
"I think he has," the brown-bearded man said as the stableboy shook his head desperately. The man stepped near the weirwood and picked up the shield. The red-haired man trained his sword in an instant at the stableboy's throat,"Where is he?"
"He…he left his shield here and fled into the castle."
"Then we will go," the silver-haired man lowered the red-haired man's arm,"I do not want to find the knight anyway, as Father is going to kill him. The shield is enough."
"Here," Brandon called.
They all turned to the weirwood, hearing his voice. The silver-haired man stepped forward slowly to peer at the heart tree, his sword held high. One of the white cloaks tried to step in front of him, but he waved him aside. "No, Arthur," the silver-haired man said,"I should have known this was it. My destiny. I dreamt it."
A flash shimmered before Brandon, and he saw the silver-haired man step quickly aside to avoid the thrown knife. The man smiled a mad smile, a fiery gleam coming onto his eyes. "Of course," he whispered,"The prophecy lies here." He put his hand to stop his men who had rushed forward behind him, and looked the weirwood from trunk to branch until his eyes fell beneath the roots.
"Come out," the silver-haired man said,"You have fought valiantly at the tourney, and I swear to you on my honour as the Prince of Dragonstone that I will not take you to my father. I only wish to see your face."
Brandon's aunt rose from the roots, her grey-white tunic coated with dust and dirt. Her long hair fell behind her like a blizzard, its whirlwinds matted with dead logchips and crushed flowers.
"Was it you who rode so bravely today?" the silver-haired man lowered his sword.
Brandon's aunt made no answer, and there was silence until she gave a small nod.
"Where is your armour?" the silver-haired man drew closer. Brandon's aunt pointed beneath the roots, but the silver-haired man's eyes did not look there. His eyes remained on Brandon's aunt's face, searching there for his truth.
"Are you going to take me to your father?" Brandon's aunt asked,"To pay me with death?"
"No," the silver-haired man caressed her face,"I owe you a much greater due than that."
"Ser Richard," the man backed away, calling forth the knight wearing a cloak of skulls and lips,"Escort Lady Stark back to her tent. Wrap her in your cloak if you must, but let no one know it is her."
"Not to my tent," Brandon's aunt said,"To the Reeds."
Brandon knew his duty here was done, but a feeling in the trees bade him stay a little longer. "A pity," Brandon heard Ser Richard say in the distance,"I won't be able to tell your betrothed I won our game."
"Bran," he heard from far away,"Bran. BRAN." Brandon saw himself both in the godswood and flying above the cave in his own time. Outside in the snows he saw Coldhans and Hodor lift Meera onto Coldhands's elk, but Meera was struggling and shouting at the cave.
"BRAN," he heard her again,"I know it's not you. Get away from him. Please."
Deep down, Brandon knew that Meera wanted to stay with him. He wanted to stay with her. He would get her back. He reached through the roots, trying to reach. He felt the inside of the cave begin to move, his fingers emerging from the trees, corpses preserved in the folds of the heart tree's heart. He saw their eyes open, and they were a bright blue. He heard their feet land on the cave floor, marching to the door of the cave.
Outside, he saw that Hodor heard them as well, and the giant stumbled to the door, holding it with all his strength against Brandon's fingers. Brandon tried to push through, to reach Meera.
"Open it," Meera shouted,"It's Bran."
Brandon was about to reach her, the first arm of his host cracking through the door. Meera's face grew pale, and she urged Coldhands to go as she screamed at Hodor,"HOLD THE DOOR." Brandon wanted to reach her, and he pushed into Hodor's mind, commanding him to let go. All he heard was Meera's voice growing fainter as Coldhands's elk galloped away,"Hold the Door. Hold the Door."
In the godswood at Harrenhal, Brandon saw the big stableboy's eyes go white, collapsing onto the ground.
"Hold the door," he muttered,"Hold the door. Hold the door."
All the people in the godswood froze. They watched, silent like the bats, the boy convulsing on the ground muttering that one calling: "Hold the Door. Hold Door. Hodor."
He saw one of the white cloaks step forward,"Let me put him down, my prince. It would be a mercy."
The white cloak found his way barred by the red-haired man, who uttered in a stern voice: "No, Martell. You will not."
"You were the one who set a sword at his throat, Connington," the white cloak raised his blade.
"Yet I would have never thrust it in," the red-haired man answered,"He is an innocent. You are a man of the prince, sworn to defend them."
"Listen to Jon, Ser Lewyn," the silver-haired man said,"Let him go."
"Take him back to the Starks, Jon," he turned,"The rest of us must return. I must take the shield to Father."
It was time for Brandon to go, and he melted into the trees, leaving a call in the roots for one day when a root would wrap around the boy's hand. He opened his eyes in the cave again, feeling younger and older as ever. The roots dug deep into the earth, yet their branches grew forever into the world. Brandon was flying while sitting in the cave, watching the three-eyed crow's kind grandfather smile.
"Am I truly ready?" Brandon asked him.
"You have already answered yourself," he answered,"You are ready to become me and more."
Brandon reached into the roots, finding Brynden's soul and the souls of a thousand others stretching back to the first greenseer. He melded them into himself, making them his own, watching as the old wizard shriveled into a dry empty patch of skin that rooted away in the trees. His two eyes found the gnarled twisting branches, and his third eye opened onto the world.
From the darkness, he saw the Children emerge. Leaf, Coals, Ash, Black Knife, and Snowylocks. Their green skins turned white as snow, they grew as tall as a man, and when they opened their eyes they were blue. They were the last of them, and they knelt before the last greenseer. The first…
"Abomination," they chanted in song.
"Monster."
"Judge."
"Saviour."
"God."