Lord Brandon Stark
The cold was nigh unbearable, men were dying from frostbite and from the blizzards that always stuck around for most of the night, or was it day, this far north it was hard to tell. The wildlings had been thrown back during their attempted assault on the wall, not by the northmen but by the darkness that lay beyond. The very thing that had driven them all south in the first place had come to kill them all. Death walked on two legs, with pale blue skin and ice cold eyes, the Ice Eyes come to life. White Walkers, the Others call them what you will but they were living death. With them they brought an army of the undead, wights, and all of that that was evil and fairytale.
The wildlings had not stood a chance, they had been butchered right where they were as they tried to retreat, horns were blown by the undead continued to march. The screams of the dying haunted Brandon's every waking moment, and still it continued going on, outside Castle Black, Eastwatch, the Shadow Tower all were becoming living pyres, the black brothers were trapped inside, otherwise the defences of the wall were useless, a black brother needed to be inside the castle, one of the three remaining castles otherwise the defences failed and butchery happened.
There were no more wildlings, or atleast none had survived the fog, those that had were now either fled to the passes or behind the wall fighting for survival alongside the crows. Something had to be done, they had spent a whole year walled up inside Castle Black before, a decision had been made. Another ranging, made up some small portion of crows, and much larger portions of Free Folk and Northmen would go ranging north of the wall to find out all they could about the White Walkers and the living death they brought.
So far their findings had been limited; the White Walkers were susceptible to Dragonglass, and Dragon Steel. Ice had sliced through many of those who had come to near it, as had Longclaw the sword wielded by Jorah Mormont Lord of Bear Island. The wights burned by fire, and never rose up again once torched. Fighting with flame in one hand had become second nature to the men now. There were other things, things Brandon could not remember, from the time he was a child. No ravens could be sent asking for this information though, the north was engulfed in Winter and the south in war.
Ser Allister Thorne had fallen to the White Walkers two moons into their ranging, sliced and diced by the biggest bastard of the lot that Brandon had ever seen, on and on their line of undead spread and only the swords of dragon steel had defended them though they had but two of the swords needed. They had been out on this ranging now for nearly a year, and no more news had come from the wall, not that any would have been able to find them. Hells even Benjen had no idea where they were, only that they were somewhere where no man had ever been before.
Caves, lots of caves dotted this part of the land, the snow covered land, caves, crows, shadowcats, direwolves and other things Brandon had always thought part of fable. One attack of White Walkers had occurred since they had entered this place, it was almost as if they were scared of venturing into it, they had melted when attacking Ned. Ned his little brother was injured, somewhere further back on the train, they were camped for now, or at least they had been. It was getting harder to keep track of time here, far too difficult when the sun rose for a minute and then set again, and the creatures of the dark arose and caused havoc and chaos.
"We need to enter that cave." Benjen said sounding weary and tired, and broken.
"Which one Ben? They all look the bloody same." Brandon grumbled.
"That one. The one with the direwolf standing in front of it. Where's Robb Brandon?" Benjen asked.
"He's sleeping Ben. Why?" Brandon asked.
"Leave him be but get his direwolf and bring him with us." Benjen replied and so Brandon complied, Greywind was a big beast now, bigger than his mother.
They trudged through the snow, tiredness making them drag their feet as Greywind continued bounding along, the direwolf guarding the cave sniffed Greywind briefly before moving into the cave. Cocking its head back it growled and then Greywind followed and so too did Brandon and Benjen. They walked through endless passageways which had the runes of the first men and words even more primitive engraved on them, a stench hung in the air as well. On they walked though, through it all and through the pain.
Eventually they came to an intersection, where the guardian direwolf looked at Benjen and then walked into one of the tunnels. Greywind looked at Brandon and then walked into another. "I suppose this is where we part then brother." Benjen said.
Brandon nodded. "Remember little brother, if anything happens blow your horn, and I will come." And with that they parted, through the tunnel Brandon walked, the cavernous darkness was maddening, someone could go mad in it and no one would ever know.
Eventually Greywind stopped walking and simply stood in front of a tree, a weirwood tree, a bloody big weirwood tree which had the weeping face and the blood red tears similar to the one back home in Winterfell. There were creatures gathered around its base, dwarves and snakes and shadowcats and all kinds of other things. And then the tree's eyes opened, and Brandon thought he might very well feint. "I have waited for you...Brandon Stark." The eyes seemed to say though no voice was heard aloud. And then the thing opened its mouth and actually spoke, its voice hoarse with disuse. "Brandon Stark the younger. My you have grown. It has been too long since I saw you last. But of course, I died did I not?"
"Who are you?" Brandon asked though he was sure he knew the answer.
The mouth curved into a smile. "I am the last greenseer, the one whose power rests with the songs and the stars. I am the old gods incarnate. But to you I was known as Edwyle Stark."
"Grandfather?" Brandon asked astonished. "But how is that possible? Father said you died."
"Your father lied Brandon," Edwyle Stark said. "I asked him to though. Only he and your uncle needed to know where I had gone and why. Of course you have seen the darkness, and now you know why you are here."
"No I don't actually. And how am I to know you are who you say you are? For all I know this could be a trap and there are actually more dead things waiting to kill me and Benjen." Brandon fumed.
The tree laughed then, actually laughed. "Oh Brandon, always so quick to accuse and never to accept. Very well, if I must prove myself to you then I shall. When you were eight you rode a horse, a stallion that your father had told you not to ride, when the stallion threw a shoe later on during the day, your father asked all the stable boys what had happened and then asked you. You blamed someone named Terry and then helped Terry get away with a crime you committed."
Brandon was silent. And then said. "My father found that one out years ago."
The tree smiled then and then said. "You know about the journal and were sceptical about it at first but now you are sure that the ice is consuming all and only the builder's descendant can save the world."
Brandon was silent, stunned. "How would you know about that?"
"Because, the crow and the wolf danced once upon a time and the darkness was beaten. But the dragon and the false one are fighting now, and the wolf is all alone in the darkness." The tree replied. "If you need more proof I will be happy to provide Brandon. But we do not have much time."
"Why am I here and why has Benjen been led to a different tunnel?" Brandon asked then.
The tree sighed then. "Because you both need to know different things. You are the one who has been chosen to defend the realm from the darkness, and face the Great Other. And Benjen is the one who has another task."
"Where do the White Walkers come from? I thought they had all died out during the Age of Heroes?" Brandon stated.
"They did not die, that was something the maesters and septons wanted everyone to believe so as to quash the quest for magic that was why the Targaryen dragons are dead as well. The White Walkers come from the lands of always winter, but they do not inhabit all of the land as some think. They only exist in the border between their land and the lands of the free folk. The true threat is just about stirring, the Great Other, the king of death, the Night's King all the same thing the same being. The darkness of humanity, given shape and form. Wars and death have caused the being to re awaken, and only you can stop it."
"How can I stop it? I have no dragons, no giants. I am only one man, a tired man at that." Brandon replied.
"Think. The sword you wield is called Ice, forged in the flames of Valyria some four hundred years ago, but the original Ice was passed down from Stark to Stark from the days of Brandon the Builder. The sword makes no difference, the name does. Ice has protected the north from harm all these years just as Blackfyre and Dark Sister saved the Targaryens from the doom. They represent a power that was once long forgotten after the long night. For the Great Other to be defeated, Ice must become itself once more, the flames must be rekindled."
"What do you mean rekindled?" Brandon asked. "With what fire?"
"You already have that answer Brandon. You have the fire and the weapons for your men, but your fire must be personal. Go now, the time draws near. The dark one moves south." His grandfather replied.
Brandon found himself being dragged away by the various beasts that were present, "Wait!" he bellowed. "How will I know if I'm doing the right thing?"
There was no response and soon enough he found himself out of the cliff face and back facing his brother, who seemed scared and shell shocked. "Did you speak with the weirwood tree brother?" Benjen asked. Brandon nodded. "Well then, at least I know I'm not going crazy." With that his brother walked off and mounted his horse.
They rode in silence, some tension that had not been there before filling the gap between them. When they came back to their campsite, they found the place deserted, blood everywhere, and bodies strewn on the ground. "FATHER!" He heard a voice shout, he turned round and saw Robb staggering towards him drenched in blood and snow.
"Robb!" Brandon said grabbing his son before he fell. "What happened son? Where's Ned gone where have the men gone?"
"Gone... dead. Killed by White Walkers." Robb said, sobbing.
"All of them? When did they come? How many?" Brandon asked.
His son shook his head. "I don't know father, I am sorry, I failed."
"No my lad, you did fine now stay with Greywind and hold onto this dagger. Benjen light the fires." Brandon said, and so he and his brother worked with a pace unmatched before as they put the dragonglass weapons they had in a circle around them and then lit them all at once with a great torch. Brandon drew Ice from its sheath and Benjen drew a bow and some dragonglass arrows. "They will be attracted to the scent of the blood, when they come shoot them Ben." Brandon said.
"Father. I see men coming from behind us." Robb said sounding small jsut as he had when he was a child.
Brandon turned round and saw men staggering towards them, not the undead, but wounded men, led by Ned. "Ned!" Brandon yelled. "Are you well?"
"Aye," his brother yelled back. "We lost some men on the way but we are well. Most of the White Walkers are done for Brandon; fire did for them, the wildfire. Some are still here though somewhere."
"Brandon, I can hear them coming. Ned needs to make a circle of fire and quickly." Benjen said warningly.
Brandon nodded and then yelled across at his brother. "Ned make a circle with whatever dragonglass weapons you have left and light a fire on them. The white walkers won't be able to cross and damage you then."
He kept Ice raised high as he watched his brother and his brother's men make the circle, praying that they would make it in time. As soon as Ned began limping and the cold set in though he knew they were in for trouble. He bellowed at his brother, but his voice caught in his throat, the darkness returned and then fighting began. You see fire can only do so much to hold back something that is already dead, and though the wights burnt to dust and remained that way, the bodies that were sent the northerners' way were far too great to count, once they burnt themselves on the flames of the circles, the white walkers sent in the cavalry. The undead giants that could crush a normal man, those not quick enough to get into the circles were killed and came back again as dead things.
The fighting lasted well into the night and the morning and the night again and on and on it went, flames were set, arrows fired, spears fired, swords thrown anything that would halt the advance of the White Walkers. By the third night, the men were exhausted and tired and without hope, the wights were all gone, the white walkers were less in number but seemed to be growing stronger, the arrows did nothing to them, and there were more and more dead men on the ground that for some reason did not rise up as dead men.
The fighting wore on and on and still there was no sign of the King of Death, men were slaughtered, and Brandon watched this all with a sense of horror and a sense of resignation, the Great Death was upon them soon enough the wall would fall and the death would enslave the world, an endless winter. And then on the seventh night of fighting, Benjen blew the horn that he had found in the pass, and the fighting stopped, and the ice began to melt. Then an earth shattering cry was heard, and the king of death made his appearance at last.
Brandon watched as death slayed his brother there and then not with a scythe or a sword but with his bare hands. Benjen Stark slumped to the ground and the fires died out, and the world came to a halt as the final battle began. It seemed like a lifetime as Brandon stood there watching death, and death watched him a crown and a smile on its face. And then the duel began. Swinging and slashing, each cut stung with cold, each block hurt and wounded him a little more, the rage was there though, the pure hot rage that he felt, it fuelled him and kept him going through the blood soaked agony that was this war.
A swing, a block, a swing, a block, a cut, a scream, a swing, a block that was Brandon's way of fighting the Great Other that thing that knows no bounds, that has been named death by those who had forgotten its true purpose. The fighting wore on and on, as others tried to interfere they were slain or wounded, and still the fighting wore on. Brandon gave as well as he got, wounding death several times and coming close to killing it on a occasion. But still Brandon felt as if he were dying, his wounds were bleeding, the silence was killing him more than anything.
A swing, a thrust, his knees gave way and he thanked them for it for he missed the killing blow. Had this been a normal opponent a boast would have come from forcing the legendary lord of Winterfell to his knees but nothing was said, for death has no voice and no words with which to speak. Only the pain and the pure agony conveyed anything that Death had to say to Brandon Stark. Still he thought onward, the pain pushing him on the grief as well, he knew not where his son or his sole remaining sibling were, but he fought for them as he fought for Cat and their other children safe in Winterfell.
From the tracks of his blood and tears came the fire that needed Ice to become what it symbolised the rule of the north by the Kings of Winter, Brandon Stark, the lord of a house so old in heritage that the maesters have forgotten where it comes from, found the strength he needed to continue through human emotion. Death cannot hold human emotion, and the screams that it gave when Ice pierced through its armour, the coldness and the heat and the pain and the love and all those wonderful emotions caused death itself to die, from blood and sweat and the tears, Brandon Stark did as his ancestor had done and won. The Ice and the Fire were found that day, and the light came back from the dark.
On the third day of the third moon of the 300th year after Aegon's Landing, Brandon Stark and his northmen returned to Castle Black to find the castle manned but covered in snow and blood. The battle had ended but the recovery was nowhere near from beginning.