Trapped in places of death, with dreams and dark omens…
Bran
"We shouldn't be here," Bran whispered, tentative, afraid to break the silence.
The Nightfort was an abandoned, silent ruin of a castle. The silence was a darkness of its own, as thick and calm and heavy as any fog. A horrible place, thick with the residue of old, forgotten crimes.
"We don't have anywhere else to go," Jojen replied, his legs crossed and his eyes closed.
"That doesn't mean we should stay here," Bran hissed. The ten-year-old lay on the cold kitchen floor, covered in rags of blankets. "This isn't where we're supposed to be."
"I'm not so sure about that," Jojen replied in his solemn voice, as if that was the end of it.
Bran grimaced, but it was impossible to argue with Jojen. The other boy didn't argue at all really; Jojen just always knew he was right. Bran wished Meera was here, not that it would really help. Meera would probably agree with Bran, but she wouldn't argue with Jojen.
They had been at the Nightfort for four days now, and Bran hadn't yet gotten a good night's sleep. For a deserted castle, it was never truly quiet. The walls had a way of creaking, the wind would sometimes groan, whispering through the corridors.
More than once, Bran had been scared awake by the sound of footsteps moving just around the corner. Meera didn't believe him, but Bran knew he had heard them.
There were ghosts in this place. Old, long forgotten ghosts that lingered in the shadows. Bran could feel them.
They made camp in the kitchen, sleeping on the floor near the bottomless well. The kitchens were huge, looming rooms of stone and decaying fireplaces that once might have served a small army. It was one of the few rooms that hadn't completely broken into complete disrepair, and could still give some shelter from the wind. A weirwood tree grew through a hole in the kitchen's ceiling, breaking through the stones. They had set up camp in a corner of the room, taking shelter in the cavernous indent of what used to be a giant stone fireplace.
They weren't meant to stay here so long. The three-eyed crow was waiting for Bran beyond the Wall, but they couldn't even get through it. Jojen had promised them a way through - he said he saw it in his dreams - but the gate was sealed and the Wall loomed over them.
Meera could have probably climbed down the Wall by now, he thought. Meera was agile and strong, and resourceful enough to do so. Maybe Bran could have joined her, once, back when he had been whole.
As it was, there was no way that Bran the cripple or Hodor the simple-minded stable boy could survive that descent.
Meera was gone now - she left the previous morning to scout out the surroundings, and to hunt for game. Bran already missed her. Jojen was poor company, while Hodor seemed uneasy and terrified in the looming, constant gloom of the Nightfort.
The made an odd company. One crippled lord, one swamp boy, one dim-witted giant, and a direwolf all camping in the ruins of a haunted castle.
It was a long, miserable night. They slept on the floor of the kitchen, alongside the rats. Bran thought constantly about the Rat's Cook, Mad Axe, and all the other stories Old Nan had ever told him.
Later that night, Bran glimpsed faint torchlight at the top of Wall. Men of the Night's Watch patrolling the Wall. For a moment, Bran was severely tempted to signal them. He remembered the men hunting them after Winterfell, though, and he didn't.
Finally, Bran did fall asleep. He dreamt of snow storms, raging winds and howling, and flickering shadows. The dreams caused him to wake up, gasping.
"How much longer do we have to stay here?" Bran asked later, in the morning. The dawn was still cold, and the shadows always lingered.
The crannogman paused. "I don't know," Jojen admitted. "I had a green dream last night. A vivid one. I saw a black figure waiting for us on the other side of the Wall, but he couldn't reach us and we can't reach him. I think the three-eyed crow knows that we are here, but he's searching for someone to let us pass."
"How?"
"I don't know," Jojen said again. It was rare for him to ever sound so unsure. "All we can do is wait. The three-eyed crow will open the way for us as soon as he can."
It was a miserable answer. Bran was left lying on the kitchen floor, a cripple. It was only Summer that stopped him from going insane.
The direwolf barely even reacted as Bran reached out and slipped into his skin. It was so easy now, like pulling on a well-worn, comfortable cloak. Summer was soft and warm and calming. Bran could feel the direwolf around him, even as his vision blurred and reshaped until he was staring out at the world from the wolf's eyes.
Jojen had his green dreams, yet Bran had Summer. Bran knew which he preferred.
Summer didn't like the Nightfort either. Still, lately the direwolf had started staying by Bran's side at night, standing over him protectively. A fierce wolf by his side to protect against the ghosts. Bran had never loved Summer more than he did then.
Through Summer, Bran roamed the castle. Through Summer, Bran felt whole.
The Nightfort was full of broken towers and a maze of tunnels connecting its vaults and dungeons. Bran spent the days searching it - sometimes on Hodor's back, sometimes in Summer - yet he could still constantly find new nooks and crannies. The tunnels, the wormwalks underneath the courtyard, all leading down to the dungeons were sprawling mazes twisting around each other.
Bran had once heard from Maester Aemon, or maybe from Benjen, that the Nightfort had been rebuilt many times over the passing of thousands of years. Only the stone vaults and lower levels remained from its original form.
Many of the entrances had collapsed with age. The walls were crumbling, but the foundations were solid. Tree roots twisted through the stone. Summer chased rats down through the decaying stone passages, but the direwolf had to squeeze through an overgrown root to fit into a breaking tunnel.
The wolf's nose sniffed at the air. It was dark place, but Bran pushed him onwards carefully. There was the smell of rats in the air, so Summer followed.
In the tunnel, the roots from the forest that had taken over the yard twisted down from the ceiling. The rocks were dusty - the entire tunnel untouched by man since whenever the castle was abandoned.
The wolf sniffed, shaking through cobwebs and dirt. Perhaps this was once a well-used tunnel under the main keep, before it collapsed into disrepair. Most of the doors had collapsed, but one of them stood ajar, the wooden door broken and rotten off its hinges. The large direwolf struggled to squeeze through. The smell of rot and age was thick.
Inside the room, there were broken objects and decayed furniture. It was probably a steward's quarters at once point - mostly likely an important steward, considering the size of the room. There was an old bed with a broken leg against the corner of the wall, the mattress long since devoured by bugs. There was a mirror turned black with time over a rotten vanity.
The strangest object was one sitting in the centre of the far wall, surrounded by decayed drapes. Summer sniffed at a wooden frame, and blackened fabric.
A cot, Bran realised suddenly. A baby's cot .
For some reason Bran couldn't quite explain, the thought sent shivers down his spine. Bran slipped out of Summer's skin and returned to his own.
Jojen was cooking breakfast. Hodor helped carry Bran towards the campfire while the crannogman gently sizzled fish.
"You were in Summer again," Jojen said. It wasn't a question.
Bran nodded. "Yes. We were exploring the lower tunnels."
Jojen just nodded, thoughtfully. "This castle is a strange place," he said. "It's not a place I'd be comfortable staying for a long time, but… there's a strange fascination here too. I see the shadows in my dreams, but I can't figure out what they mean."
"What do you see?"
"Very little in focus. Mostly just shadows; I see shadowy figures moving in the darkness, but they can say nothing because they have no tongues. I don't think they're hostile, though, they're just…" His voice trailed off. Jojen frowned and shook his head. "Sometimes I feel like they're trying to tell me something, but… I can't figure out what they want. The green dreams haven't been making much sense recently."
"How many green dreams do you have?" Bran asked.
"More than ever, actually." Jojen looked at him curiously. "Can you feel it? It's like everything is so much stronger? The greensight has never felt so vivid."
Bran didn't reply. Jojen had been sleeping or meditating a lot recently - withdrawing back into himself. The little grandfather leaned forward, cradling his head on his hands, looking so much older than he truly was.
"Perhaps it's just this place," Jojen murmured, so quiet Bran could barely understand him. "But I can feel the trees rippling, and the wind… Can't you feel it? There's something in the wind that wasn't there a week ago… It's like the world is waking up, something has changed."
Bran didn't know how to reply to that. Later that night, Bran was wide awake, staring upwards at the weirwood tree growing through the floor.
He spent a long time staring upwards, listening to the leaves rustle. The sound of distant cawing of ravens echoed around the castle.
Jojen has always been sensitive to far more than anyone else, Bran thought. He hadn't seen the crannogman look so… distant, thoughtful before.
The next morning, Bran explored more of the castle through Summer's eyes. The Nightfort was a great lumbering castle, as large as Winterfell itself, but with so many more dark corners and crumbling ruins.
Summer paced through the bell tower, skirting over the collapsed floor to the library. The library was old, damp and rotten - the bookcases had long since rotten away, and any books had been removed. Summer sniffed at the wood, watching bugs and beetles skitter across the blackened wood. Summer caught one of them - a large black beetle - and ate it curiously. Bran felt the way the insect crunched beneath Summer's teeth.
In the library, though, there was a passageway leading downwards into the tunnels. Summer followed curiously. The direwolf's nose twitched, detecting a scent that he couldn't quite place.
The tunnels were a maze. During winter, when the snow was thick on the surface, and the courtyard became impassable, then these tunnels would have been the only way between the Nightfort's buildings. The walls were crumbling, but Summer sniffed across the floor, tracing stones that hadn't been stepped on for hundreds of years.
The passageway was eerie quiet and dark. The wolf headed downwards, towards the lower levels, where even more and more tunnels and vaults stretched outwards.
Layers upon layers, Bran thought. As big as the Nightfort was on the surface, there was even more in the vaults underneath.
Summer passed vaults and rotten storerooms, locked doors, broken walls, even what looked like rusted prison cells. Hundreds upon hundreds of rooms, scattered in the maze of tunnels underneath the Nightfort. Enough to store supplies for five thousand men to last all winter, or to imprison thousands of men.
The deeper down he went, the fewer storerooms and the more prison cells that appeared. The stone floors were half-flooded, breaking down into the sewers. There was water seeping down the sides from the nearby well. Summer was not afraid of the dark, but some of the tunnels were so black that even the wolf had to step gingerly through the gloom and damp.
The direwolf tried to avoid those tunnels, sticking to the ones where faint cracks let through small tendrils of light. Still the shadows were so thick at every turn.
Summer wouldn't be done here, if it weren't for Bran's gentle presence in his skin. Go forward, Bran pushed softly. Please . I want to see what's down here .
The direwolf whined, but obeyed. Bran was in Summer's body, moving the wolf's legs himself…
Near the flooded tunnels, Summer saw a row of cells with thick metal bars over them. Rows upon rows of iron cells; a prison wing. On one of cells, the metal had been bent out of shape - as if someone had bent the bars apart. Summer sniffed at the metal curiously, taking in the thick tang of rust and age.
The metal bars were three inches thick. No human could have ever bent metal apart like that.
Bran hesitated, feeling Summer whine uncomfortably in the dark. There were a lot of prisons cells.
The floor was blackened, and the old stone felt rough, charred. The edges of the stone bricks were deformed. It was as if hundreds, if not thousands, of years ago, somebody had tried to set this prison on fire. Perhaps they had poured oil over the floor, and tried to set the cells alight…
Something about the place sent shivers down the direwolf's spine, in a way Bran couldn't quite explain.
Like there were some acts that could stain a place for all time.
Bran's grip softened. Summer turned and sprinted out of the tunnels, soft paws racing over stone.
The tunnels were so winding that Summer emerged out of a different tunnel from the one he entered, up a blackened stairway and out through a rotten stairwell. It took the direwolf a while to find his bearings.
Summer emerged into the dungeons underneath one of the collapsed broken towers of the Nightfort. There was barely a tower left, just the ruins of decaying stone foundations. The entire dungeon was tilted to one side, collapsing and slowly drooping into the ground.
Summer had to scramble through the cracks in broken stones walls to get free. The direwolf was light and agile on his paws, but the stones still groaned slightly underfoot.
Still, the direwolf paused as his fur started to rise. Bran stared through the wolf's eyes as he saw an old rusted metal door, built into the far side of the room. The direwolf moaned quietly, but Bran was in its body, gently pushing his wolf forward.
Shadows in the darkness, Jojen had said. Bran was done being scared of this place; he wanted to see.
The door was locked, and rusted shut besides, but the stone walls were crumbling. Even when the tower above had been pulled down, this dungeon remained, nestled in to the broken foundations. Summer had to squeeze through a gap in the bricks. Yellow eyes blinked, trying to adjust for the darkness.
The shadows fluttered. Summer jumped, a sharp growl bursting from his throat. Bats, Bran thought softly, trying to reassure his friend. There must be bats nesting in ruins .
It was so dark in the room - a darkness that might not have seen the light in hundreds of years. Summer stepped forward cautiously. The direwolf could smell metal, dust, and so, so much age.
In the centre of the room, there was a figure. At first glance, Summer jumped so hard that Bran nearly lost his grip, but the figure wasn't moving. It stood as still as stone, standing upright. The figure was wearing metal.
An armour stand, Bran realised with quiet awe. Summer sniffed at black metal breastplate. It was a fine set, and Bran stared between the pauldrons and vambraces, stiff barbed gauntlets and greeves, a solid thick cuirass, complete with rondels, couters, tassets and gorget. All of it dull black metal; unadorned but with a presence that made him shiver.
A full suit of armour, so old that it was probably fused to stand by now.
Bran stared with quiet fascination - he had rarely seen armour like it, not even when the king came to Winterfell. The finest knights would wear sparkling sets designed for jousting more than war, so extravagant they bordered on impractical, but this armour had a simple, dull sleekness and quality to it that seemed to belong on battlefield.
Even his father only used to have a coat of a chainmail and steel cuirass, but Lord Stark preferred light mail and hard leathers rather than full steel. His father had had always said that wearing full plate armour was too easily like wearing a coffin into battle.
But still… solid plate armour. That was something that a knight would wear…
Full plate armour is very expensive, Bran thought quietly. High quality plate armour even more so. Why would anyone ever leave a suit of armour like this behind?
Summer glanced upwards, at the full metal greathelm atop the armour. The black helm was pronged, like a crown.
In darkness, the shadows were still rustling. Summer barked, turning to leave.
Bran gasped as he returned to his body. With a jolt, he realised that he it was already nearly dusk.
I've been in Summer the whole day . Bran blinked, staring at his hands like they were unfamiliar. For a moment, he expected to see paws.
There were footsteps approaching him. Jojen sat down on the floor, handing Bran a dish of fish-leftover stew.
"Eat," Jojen insisted. "You missed dinner. I didn't want to wake you."
Bran took a deep breath. His hands were shaking. He hadn't spent so long in the warg before. Warging was always difficult - it felt merging yourself with something else.
Still, this time had felt different. It felt like there had been more of Bran in the wolf. Perhaps I am getting stronger? The warg is stronger, I'm keeping more of my identity.
"Why not?" Bran asked, his hands still shaking. "Why didn't you wake me?"
"You looked like you were in too deep," Jojen admitted. "I wasn't sure what would happen if I tried to force you out of it."
He stared. "Is that a danger?"
"Maybe. I don't know. Sometimes in the green dreams - the really, really intense green dreams - I become… disconnected. My father always said it was better to let the dreams run their course, and that trying to force someone awake can sever the link even more. I suspect that your warg works a similar way."
Bran didn't reply. His stomach was rumbling. The fish stew was cold, but the fire had already burnt out. "Be careful with this power of yours," Jojen warned. "Your third eye is wide open, but I fear you might fall through it. Do not get lost in another body, Bran."
What if I like my other body more than I like this one? Bran thought quietly, but he didn't reply, staring at the floor. His broken legs were wrapped up in old socks and worn boots. It had been weeks since he washed. His toes might be rotting on his feet, for all Bran knew. They were nothing more than dead weights hanging from his hip.
"If I learn to control it," Bran said. "Then what will happen? What will I be able to do?"
Jojen paused, sitting down opposite him. The dusty kitchen was quiet. "I don't know," he replied. "I have the green dreams, but I'm not a skinchanger, Bran. That is why we need the three-eyed crow."
The three-eyed crow promised that I could fly . "But will I be ever able stand again?"
"There are different ways of standing, Bran," Jojen said softly.
Bran scowled dejectedly. "You mean no ." For so long Bran had been clinging onto the hope that he might be healed, but being in this place seemed to suck the hope away… "I'm going to be a cripple for life."
"You are more capable than most full-bodied men," Jojen said. He was trying to be sympathetic, but the crannogman wasn't very good at it. Jojen's hands hovered, as if unsure if he should approach to comfort Bran or not.
Bran felt miserable. The only time he felt whole was when he was in someone else's body. Every day was making him more and more depressed - trapped behind a Wall he couldn't climb.
"I found a suit of armour today…" Bran said. "It was an old suit of armour buried in the dungeon of a broken tower."
"Really? I thought the Night's Watch cleared the castle out."
He nodded. "It was in a collapsed dungeon. They must have missed it. It looked really old. Probably not even wearable anymore."
"Huh."
"It was full plate armour too; really good armour." The type a knight would wear . "And I'm never going to be able to wear armour like that, am I?"
"Bran, you can't torture yourself like this…"
"Why not?" Bran muttered sourly, his arms folded. "I'm never going to be able to wear armour, or mount a horse, or climb a horse, or… or…" Or kiss a girl .
"You can do more than that," Jojen insisted. "The greenseers are said to have many gifts. They could see through trees, possess bodies of the beasts, even power over the land itself."
Bran didn't reply. "You could learn how to wear the skins of any animal. You could have a freedom that no man could match."
He shook his head. "No… I can't even control it." Bran murmured. "It only happens easily in my dreams, and I can't take any other body but Summer's…"
"Well, skinchanging is like any other skill," Jojen said with a gentle smile. "It will get easier with practice."
There was a long silence. Bran frowned, but didn't reply. Jojen hesitated, but he didn't push the issue.
They ate their fish in silence. Bran winced slightly, trying to twist himself over while dragging his useless legs. It was impossible to find a comfortable position on the floor. Strangely, his legs bothered him the most when he was doing nothing except trying to get comfortable. It felt like they were numb, dead weights hanging off his hip.
Bran sat awake for a long time. Could I really take the body of any creature? Summer was the only body that felt comfortable too him, but…
I've never really practiced before, Bran thought, staring up the broken ceiling. Not really practiced .
Curiously, Bran glanced at Hodor.
Later that evening, after thinking a long time, Bran closed his eyes and reached out to Hodor. He felt the giant tremble and convulse.
Slipping into Hodor's skin was not like Summer. Bran could slide into the wolf's skin so smoothly it felt natural, but pushing into Hodor felt like trying to squeeze into something that didn't fit.
It felt like trying to drag Hodor open, as if Bran had to stretch him apart. The stable boy would always tremble and panic fearfully. He didn't know what was happening.
The first time Bran had done it, he had reached out instinctively into Hodor during the lightning storms - just to get Hodor to calm down. It had been almost accidental. Now, Bran had time to practice - time to experiment.
He felt Hodor twitch. The stable boy didn't make a noise except for a faint gagging, but Bran could feel the convulsions. Bran took a deep breath, pushing in gently. It felt violent, painful; so bad that Bran's stomach clenched with the thought.
He could feel Hodor shivering and trembling. He was a large, grown man, but he felt like a boy. Bran didn't want to hurt him, he stretched the warg outwards as gently as he could.
Jojen was right. It did get easier with practice.
It's alright, Bran soothed. He could feel Hodor whimpering as he touched him. I'm not going to hurt you. It's alright.
Later that night, Bran dropped the warg. Hodor clutched to the far corner of the room. He seemed shaken, keeping his distance from Bran. "Hodor," the large man whimpered uncertainly. "Hodor…"
Bran took a deep breath, trying to concentrate. He had never felt a warg like it.
It felt wrong to try and steal Hodor's body. It made him twinge in guilt, but at the same time…
Sooner or later, Bran would probably have to take Hodor's skin. It would be the only way to control Hodor sometimes, or the only way to force Hodor to fight. It would be easier for both of them if they were comfortable warging with each other. Their lives might depend on Bran controlling Hodor's body at some point, so surely that was worth it?
Maybe Hodor could come to accept Bran in the same way Summer did?
Maybe I need to try again, Bran thought. Maybe it's just a matter of practice. Maybe Hodor can learn to accept me…
Bran was wide awake by the time morning came, staring at the ceiling. Hodor was awake too, pacing restlessly outside of the kitchens.
Jojen was sleeping quietly. He slept most of the day, trying to search in his green dreams. Bran watched as the boy shivered silently, as if a bad dream.
"What's wrong?" Bran asked, as the boy opened his eyes. Jojen's deep green eyes blinked repeatedly. "What did you dream of?"
Jojen took deep breath. "I dreamt of pigs," he said.
"Pigs?"
He simply nodded. "Yes. I saw small pigs, large hogs, dead pigs and butchered pigs. I saw a butcher that was a pig, a huntsman that wanted to be a pig, a large hog that thought himself wounded piglet. I heard the oinking." Jojen voice was tired. "I think I even saw a flying pig."
Bran looked confused. "Are all of your green dreams that confusing?"
Jojen smiled wearily. "Some more than others. The greensight is thicker here, close to the Wall. The green dreams have been more frequent than ever."
There was a moment of pause. Jojen rarely shared half of the things he saw, but they were alone here. The air was quiet and soft; it made Jojen talk more than he normally would. "What else have you seen?"
"More than I can understand. It's not easy, it's always… vivid. Like feeling something rather than seeing it. You can hardly make sense of the images, but you always know what it feels like," he said. "… One of the most frequent dreams is of the earth. I dream of things buried - sometimes buried under stone, sometimes ice, occasionally in the water and sometimes in the roots of ancient trees.
"I dream of things stirring underneath them, and slowly realising they are becoming strong enough to leave. It feels like ancients things are waking up again." He paused. "No… it feels like changing of seasons."
Bran listened raptly. Jojen's voice sounded distant. "Last night, I dreamt of a frozen ocean. I saw coins and swords spilling over the ice. I saw a man made of stone trying and failing to hack against the ice, but only breaking himself apart more and more with every swing. Eventually, he hacked so hard that his own hand broke clean off."
In his mind's eye, Bran imagined trying to hack through the Wall itself. "Is that about us?"
Jojen shook his head. "I don't think so. Normally the dreams feel different when I'm dreaming about myself, or someone I'm close to."
There was a pause. Jojen glanced around the room. Hodor was missing. The stable boy was outside, still disturbed. Hodor was muttering wordlessly under his breath, like a scared boy. Jojen blinked, realising what was different.
"You warged with Hodor again, didn't you? Just like you did at Queenscrown."
Bran nodded, guiltily. "I tried." He hesitated. "How much do you know about skinchanging?"
"Not enough, it appears." Jojen frowned disapprovingly. "Did it hurt Hodor?"
"He was so scared. I don't think he understood."
"Then why did you do it?"
Bran hesitated for a while. The cold floor felt numb on his dead legs. He looked at the embers of the campfire burning in the middle of the old kitchen. "Because pretty soon we're going to run out of firewood," Bran muttered. "Somebody will need to chop some more, but look at Hodor. He's a baby, he struggles to even swing an axe." Bran frowned. "What if we come under attack? We might need Hodor to fight, but he won't be able to fight by himself - he's as gentle as a kitten."
"And also because you wanted to feel what it's like to walk again."
Bran grimaced. He couldn't deny it. "Yes. That too."
"Take care, Bran," Jojen said solemnly. "It's a dangerous power that you have there, and you use it recklessly. Be careful, treat it with more respect."
"I want to learn how to use it."
"I know." Jojen sighed. "The three-eyed crow will come for us soon."
"Are you sure about that?"
Jojen didn't reply. His green eyes flickered.
It was a cold night. Bran could hear the ghosts stirring around him as he finally dozed off on the stone kitchen floors.
Before he fell asleep, Bran thought of that suit of armour. That old black armour lingering down there in the dungeons.
I want to be able to wear armour. I want to be a knight, he thought. I want to stand, to walk…
…
The night was howling.
Summer could feel the howl in the air. The sound was lonely, echoing through the Nightfort.
In Bran's dreams, he dreamt of sad singing and flashing blades. Of a woman wailing, of an old man's laughter. He dreamt of a man so young he could still be called a boy, falling to the stones.
The wolves were howling. Crying in the night.
When he woke up, there were tears dripping from Bran's eyes. He stared at the darkness quietly, feeling the tears drip onto the floor.
He caught one of them in his hand. The teardrop glistened on his palm.
"… Oh," Bran muttered, listening to Summer howling. The direwolf was scratching and whining, pacing across the empty kitchens restlessly
Bran pulled himself up to stare at Jojen. The quiet boy was wide awake too, his green eyes bright. There was a long moment of silence. Bran could feel the quiet in the air. They could all feel it.
Summer knew it before any of them. The wolf was still howling. Bran felt it like a dagger to his heart.
Far to the south, his litter-mate had just died. Summer could feel the mourning echoing through the world like a howl.
Jojen's solemn face looked at him. "I'm sorry, Bran."
It was a long time before Bran replied. "I think my brother has just died."
It was a grim and gloomy day. When morning came, it wasn't much better.
Bran spent most of his time asleep.
He could feel the sadness in Summer too. Bran still hid inside Summer because then he didn't need to face his own pain. When he was inside the direwolf, he felt strong, powerful and brave, but in his own body Bran was nothing but a weak and crippled little boy.
The direwolf could feel the death in the way that Bran couldn't quite understand or even explain.
Once there had been six in the litter. Now, there were only four - four wolves scattered in the wind.
His black brother was growing angry and vicious, heading further and further west every day. He was alone and lost, and that loneliness made him angrier and angrier every passing day. He was growing large and savage.
The wild sister was to the south, lost in unfamiliar lands. She was hunted and challenged every day, out of her element and away from her pack, but she learned how to survive and adapt. Those lands were making her sharp and vicious.
The final brother, the quiet one, the one that didn't howl - he was north; further north than anyone else. Summer could barely feel his quiet brother anymore, but the only glimpses he received were of a predator growing lean and strong.
Bran stayed in Summer's skin for most of the day. He lost sense of himself as Summer explored the lower levels of the Nightfort. He sniffed through the darkness, following the mould and dust. The Nightfort seemed solemn, gloomy. The whole place felt like a castle for the dead, an immense crypt for ghosts.
Only the scent of Meera finally returning to the castle brought Bran back to his own body. Summer scuffled through the overgrown yards, and Bran's heart skipped softly as he heard the girl's voice.
She was outside the kitchen, talking to Jojen in the broken corridor, but it was quiet enough that Bran could make out the words.
"You sure?" Meera said with a breathless gasp.
"I dreamt it," Jojen replied. "I dreamt of a pack of rodents chewing on a wolf's body. An old weasel took the wolf's head as a crown, while a skeletal rat stripped the wolf's skin and paraded around in its furs. I've had that dream before, but I never said anything. But, last night…" Jojen grimaced. "Bran saw it at the same time I did. I think his brother Robb died yesterday."
"But that means…"
"That the north isn't safe for any Stark anymore," said Jojen. "We need to take shelter somewhere quickly."
"I don't think we can cross the Wall," Meera said. "I know you said that the three-eyed crow is waiting for him on the other side, but we can't get there. I went as far as Deep Lake - all the gates are sealed. The nearest way through would be Castle Black -"
"No," Jojen said. "Castle Black is not a safe place to be for anyone."
"Then we've got nowhere else to go."
The words made him miserable. Bran escaped into Summer again without a second thought. The direwolf prowled towards the lower vaults, stalking through tunnels that had been abandoned for centuries. The blackness was so dark that even the wolf's eyes were useless.
Summer could hear movement deeper down the tunnels. Fluttering. Bats, Bran tried to tell himself, but Summer turned and bolted. The direwolf ran straight back out towards the surface.
By the time Bran returned to his own body again, it was already getting dark. The shadows seemed to be whispering.
Meera and Jojen had left to gather firewood, and probably to talk without him, leaving Bran alone in the deserted stone ruins. Just a broken little boy in a place haunted by nightmares, with nowhere else to go.
Bran took a deep breath, staring upwards at the weirwood tree bursting out of the kitchen floor.
The prince of the Nightfort, he thought bitterly.
He couldn't go any further north, and there was nothing left for him in the south. The three-eyed crow had promised him that he would fly, but he wouldn't be able to fly over the Wall. Why wasn't the crow helping them?
Robb is dead, Bran thought. That makes me the heir to Winterfell. They're going to be hunting me now, the eldest son of Eddard Stark.
I didn't want to be heir and I didn't ask for any of this .
But there's nothing I can do, nothing but be carried around. Like a useless, broken toy…
Off in the distance somewhere, a raven cawed. Bran paused.
When the Reeds came back, Bran was still staring upwards at the weirwood tree. The red leaves were rippling in the gentle wind.
"Jojen," he said slowly. "I think I might know how we could reach the three-eyed crow."
The green-eyed boy looked at him quietly. "I think I know how I could stop being a cripple," he muttered. "People are looking for Bran Stark the Broken - the cripple - but maybe I don't have to be that anymore…"
Maybe I could be something else. Some one else. I don't want to be me anymore…
"Bran…"
Bran kept his voice low, so quiet that Meera couldn't hear. "… Do you think it would be possible for me to take another body?"
Daenerys
She gasped. She woke up gasping for breath, clutching at her chest frantically. The halls outside her bedchamber exploded with noise.
That was a mistake, Dany realised in an instant.
Dany was alone in her apartments except for her handmaidens, but it was still so soon after the sack. Her reign over Meereen was mere days old, and her guards were on high alert. Her captains had all been paranoid about the possibility of assassination, and the Unsullied took their guard duty as seriously as they took everything else. They didn't let any citizens of Meereen into Dany's chambers, not even servants; not without an armed guard present.
Even at night, there were Unsullied guards right outside her door at all times, and even more guards down the corridor.
All it had taken was one bad dream, one strangled gasp as she shot awake, and then suddenly those guards were bursting through her doors.
Grey Worm. He was the first inside, it had taken him only heartbeats. Perhaps he hadn't slept. A part of Dany wondered if he slept at all.
It was the middle of the night, and now her chambers were filled with wary-eyed guards, looking over every nook and corner and shadow in search of some presumed attacker.
Missandei - sweet, poor, little Missandei - screamed when they broke through. Which, of course, had only attracted more and more guards. Daenerys already wished that she just could go back to sleep.
It took nearly half an hour for Dany to explain, for some reason explaining just once wasn't enough for her guardsmen. "I'm quite alright. I'm all right. I just had a bad dream, that's all."
It was about midnight, Dany guessed. She knew the guards were only being protective, and Grey Worm apologised so profusely that she couldn't remain angry. Something about the general of her Unsullied suggested that he still half-expected to be whipped for his mistake. Dany didn't doubt his loyalty, or his dedication, and it was understandable for him to be so cautious in a pyramid that they had only just captured.
Still, Dany was only a queen when she was wearing silks and gems, astride a horse or flanked by her children. Right now, in the middle of the night with her hair a mess and in her bedclothes in disarray, she felt like nothing but a very irritated and sleep-deprived girl.
The guardsmen returned to their duties. Missandei still looked shaken. Dany invited the girl to share her bed for the rest of the night. The girl's eyes lit up, snuggling up next to Dany on the thick cushions, as the queen sighed and stroked the girl's hair softly.
Dany didn't like sleeping alone. Occasionally Irri or Jhiqui would share the bed with her, but none of them of them were as good company at night as Missandei. The girl was so soft and fragile, sweet and innocent, and Dany still loved the way the former slave had relaxed and softened around her queen.
"Your Grace? You said you had a bad dream," Missandei purred, closing her eyes while Dany stayed wide awake. "What did you dream about?"
Her eyes flickered. Missandei was always a considerate girl. "… I dreamt of the funeral pyre," Dany said, although the dream had been so blurred she could barely make it out. She rubbed the centre of her chest absentmindedly. "It felt like it was the funeral pyre. It felt like I walking into the fire again."
The memory was still the most intense she had ever had. Dany would never, ever forget how it felt to walk into the flames. The vision was lost to the haze of the emotions, but the memory of the feelings felt razor sharp.
"The pyre?" Missandei asked. "That's how you got your name? The Unburnt?"
"Yes. The fire didn't hurt me." Dany had felt the heat, but it didn't burn. She paused, thinking back to the dream. "Except in my dream, this fire felt cold . It still didn't freeze, though… it just…"
Her voice trailed off. She didn't quite know how to explain it. "It sounds scary," Missandei muttered, while Dany tightened her arms around the girl softly.
No, she thought. Not the word I would use .
In her arms, Missandei fell asleep quickly. Dany didn't sleep, she barely closed her eyes. She doubted she would be able to sleep soundly again. I can't sleep easily in this place.
The Great Pyramid of Meereen was awash with wealth, filled with silk tapestries, marble floors, gems and imported curiosities both from east and west. The wealth she was surrounded by was old as the city itself, the legacy of past empires and faded glories. Her chambers were at the apex of the pyramid, almost a three thousand feet above the city's streets - a set of lavish apartments and terraces filled with greenery and fragrant pools, brick parapets and mosaics, fine sculptures and thick drapes. The air was always warm and humid, and but the smell of gentle perfumes and scented candles tingled in the rooms, and the continuous gentle wind kept it all clean and crisp.
Still, somehow, all the perfumes and breezes in the world couldn't mask that pungent, coppery undertone still lingering in the air. The smell of blood.
She lay on the bed wide awake, swaddled in pillows with Missandei curled into her side sound asleep. And yet still, Daenerys felt cold. She found herself staring through the moonlit dark at her large, emperor-sized four poster bed. It was a bed fit for a king, built of finely carved mahogany and set with the fullest mattress Dany had ever seen. It had so many drapes and cushions that she thought she might be smothered in it all. Everything about the bed screamed luxury, wealth, and decadent comfort.
And yet, less than a week ago, the previous occupant of this bed, a corpulent and obese figure without peer, had used it to fuck half a dozen little slave girls. At once. That knowledge alone was enough to make Dany want to sleep on the floor.
She had stripped as much of the apartments bare as she could, but somehow its past occupants still lingered, almost as though the stones themselves remembered them. The memories and feelings lingered like ghosts.
Maybe I shouldn't be here, she thought, biting her lip. Everything about these apartments reminded her of what Meereen had once been.
Dany knew that if the apartments seemed empty now, that was because of how large they truly were. Once they had been filled with at least two dozen slaves that would fan the master to keep him cool as he slept. Slaves to pour him wine, slaves to wash his back, slaves to feed him, slaves be ordered about at a thousand different tasks. And always, always, bed-slaves kept near at hand, exotic beauties from every corner of the world worth naming.
She knew that the terraces were overgrowing and the fragrant pools were stewing because they suddenly lacked the slaves that used to maintain them constantly. And she knew that that everything in the luxury apartments had been bought with several hundred lifetimes' worth of slave money.
She also knew that the foul smell in the air was the stench of rotting bodies that still littered the plaza of Meereen. Somehow, that stench could find her even up here, atop the Great Pyramid. Some days, it seemed like that stench followed her around.
The man that used to take residence in her apartment had been the master of slaves to Meereen's richest families, commander of the corrupt city guard - a man that owned seemingly half of the city, an aging man so fat it he could hardly walk. Apparently, the master, in all his life, had rarely ever left the Great Pyramid.
And now, that master was rotting on a spike in Meereen's central plaza, right beneath the golden statue of the harpy itself. One of the many, many masters that Dany had crucified as her price for peace.
For the life her, she couldn't even remember the master's name. After a while, the strange names of these strange lands all tended to blur together.
Right outside, just down the corridor, there had been fighting during the sack. A group of slaves in the Great Pyramid had revolted while Dany's soldiers stormed the plaza. The master had been dragged naked out of his luxury apartment, and then the master's daughters had all been raped and murdered by their former slaves. By the time the Unsullied had actually taken the Great Pyramid of Meereen, the corpses had already lain thick on the pyramid's marble floors.
Dany kept on replaying the sack in her mind, just trying to make some sense out of it. She wanted to find some meaning to such acts of death. She hadn't seen the battle, but she had seen the aftermath. She had seen hundreds upon hundreds of corpses, and it still disturbed her how many of them had been young, old or innocent.
Four days ago, she had taken Meereen and freed its people. Already, she was starting to question that decision more and more.
Breaking Meereen had been easy. It hadn't seemed an easy the time, but in hindsight it had been nice and simple. Slavery bad, freedom good. She had the forces, she knew the enemy, she knew the objective.
Ruling Meereen wasn't easy, though. She had only just declared herself queen, and already it seemed like the city was crumbling around her. She had freed a lot of people, she had broken the old order, but for some reason the fighting and the heartache didn't end when the battle did. Riots in the streets, murders, rapes, and so many more savageries. Starvation, disease, war. Some days, she could stare out over the city and watch the problems pile up with her naked eye. And yet still, Dany had taken it upon herself to rule this place. It would have been so easy to pillage and burn this place and keep moving west…
Why is it so much easier to break something than build something new?
A part of her wondered why her ancestors had chosen those words. Blood and Fire. You could not build out of blood, you could not preserve with fire. Blood and Fire. Was that really all that her family was good for, all that they could bring to the world?
Dany sighed. She had taken the finest and highest apartments in Meereen for her own, she was not so naive as to neglect the importance of symbols. Her new monarchy demanded nothing less, and from here, the entire city knew that she was in charge now.
And yet now, staring at this monstrous bed of hers, she was starting to regret that decision.
I could order them to bring me a new bed, Dany thought quietly, but her gut wrenched at the thought. All of the servants had been too busy washing up blood and clearing corpses for what seemed like such a petty demand.
Outside, the moon shone bright in the sky. She faintly heard a cry in the distance. Drogon, she guessed. Her black dragon was probably hunting by moonlight over the bay, as was his habit.
Missandei was already dozing off. Dany's arm was starting to cramp, so she gingerly pulled it out from the girl's grasp. Missandei stirred, but didn't awake.
Slowly, the feel of the pillows and sheets weighed ever more on her. Eventually it all seemed strangling to Daenerys, so she sighed and delicately pulled herself out of the bed, taking care not to wake Missandei. She walked barefoot over the stone floor, out onto the terrace. She breathed of the night air, and found staring upwards at the black sky and stars.
She could see shapes stirring, flying before the stars. For a heartbeat, one made a shadow of the moon. My children are restless too, she thought. All three dragons were flying tonight. That was rare - Drogon enjoyed his evening hunts, but normally Viserion and Rhaegal preferred to slumber.
Dany leaned over a stone parapet, staring upwards idly. Behind the clouds, the moon was fat and luminous, spilling moonlight out over the terrace.
There was a soft rustle behind, and Daenerys turned. She could see nothing in the darkness of her apartments. "Missandei?" she softly called. "Irri? Jhiqui?"
"They sleep," came the answer.
A woman stood under the persimmon tree, clad in a hooded robe that brushed the grass. Beneath the hood, her face seemed hard and shiny. She is wearing a mask, Dany realized, a wooden mask. She recognized that dark red lacquer. The last time she'd seen this woman had been on the Balerion, when they had first come to Astapor. "Quaithe? Am I still dreaming?"
The shadowbinder's head turned, stepping through the moonlight. "You do not dream."
"How are you here? How did you get past my guards?"
"I came another way. Your guards never saw me."
"If I call out, they will kill you."
"They will swear to you that I'm not here."
"Are you here?"
"No." The word was simple, definite. "Hear me, Daenerys Targaryen. The cold winds are blowing. A new song has been sung, and the Old Ones are stirring. Remember the Undying. The stone men will be breaking soon, and then the earthen beast will rise. The kraken will take flight soon after. The kneeling man will stand. Beware the mummer's charade, and trust none of them. Beware the five horns."
Dany blinked. Her skin was tingling from the cool air. "If you have some warning, then speak plainly. For once, no riddles. What are you talking about?"
"There will be two of them," Quaithe replied. "One dark, one bright - one true, and one false. They will both come to you for aid against the other. Both of them will claim your love. Choose wisely, Daenerys. Remember the Undying. Remember who you are."
Far above, the dragon's cries were like wind echoing over sand. Dany's gaze flickered. "I know who I am, but who are you talking about, I don't understa-"
"Him . He needs your help. You must save the boy, Daenerys. Save the boy." There was an edge to her voice. Daenerys barely caught the words. "The doom has been awakened, winter is moving again."
"Winter? How could winter be…?"
There was a cry in the distance. Drogon roared, closer than Dany expected. She flinched, and then Quaithe was gone. The masked woman seemed to disappear into darkness like a rippling shadow fading out of existence. It was like someone just extinguished a candle, and then Quaithe was gone.
The night was dark. Strangely, there was a chill in the air. Dany stood for a long time, staring around the terrace.
In the skies, her children soared and cried. They weren't normally this agitated at night. All of the dragons were restless.
Dany didn't have a wink of sleep afterwards. She spent the night obsessing over what had just happened, replaying every word in her head. Prophecies, she thought. I hate prophecies .
She was in a foul, tired mood come morning. The day didn't help either.
The next morning, Dany toured Meereen with her armed guards. She wanted to see the city that so many had died for. She wanted to see the markets, the homes, the trader's stalls and the places of business. She wanted to see the people she had saved. Instead, all she saw were corpses. The hundred and sixty-three corpses in the plaza were all ripe and rotting from where Dany had hung them. The flies were everywhere.
By noon, an envoy arrived that made her mood drop even further. An envoy from the so-called 'King Cleon the Great' - the butcher king of Astapor. The envoy brought her some dainty little shoes and an offer of marriage, and somehow Dany was expected to smile and nod when she heard that Astapor had fallen to a bloody dictator not days after she left it, that the council of wise men she'd left behind had been butchered by this very 'Cleon.' A butcher . Part of her wanted to kill the weasel of an envoy and be done with it, while the rest of her despaired.
The city that she had tried to save had ended up worse than before.
All my victories turn to dross in my hands. Whatever I do, all I make is death and horror .
Dany sat uncomfortably when she talked to a captain of trader's ships. A merchant of some renown, who had once had dozens of captains in his employ under the old regime. The merchant-captain wept as he described the slaughter and needless bloodshed in Astapor. Dany shifted in her seat as she realised that the same thing would probably happen in Meereen when she left.
Then Daario stood forward and admitted that many of the Meereenese citizens were begging to be taken back at slaves. I gave them freedom, and they beg for slavery again . Dany ordered that only willing men could sell themselves, but it still irritated her to no end.
By evening, she half-wanted to just walk away, but she couldn't. A queen could never quit, and there was one more judgement to carry out. Two more prisoners waiting in the lower pyramid - not quite imprisoned, but kept close all the same - and Dany needed them.
"Tell Belwas to bring my knights," Dany commanded, before she could change her mind. "My good knights."
Strong Belwas was panting as he marched them through the door. Ser Barristan walked with his head held high, while Ser Jorah stared at the marble floor as his feet traipsed across the ground. One proud, one guilty.
They had both risked their lives to help win the city. They had each saved her on multiple occasions. Dany so longed for her knights, but she forced herself to be stern.
Still, when Jorah muttered "… Khaleesi…" so forlornly, Dany's posture nearly cracked.
"You helped win this city," she said loudly, her voice filling the great hall. "And you served me well in the past. Ser Barristan saved me from the Titan's Bastard, and from the Sorrowful Man in Qarth. Ser Jorah saved me from the poisoner in Vaes Dothrak and again from Drogo's blood-riders after my sun-and-stars died." So many people wanted her dead that she couldn't even remember them all, there had been so many close calls. "And yet you lied. Deceived me. Betrayed me."
She turned to them one by one. Ser Barristan held his head up high, he met her gaze, and Dany found herself believing the old knight when he spoke. He admitted to serving the Usurper after her father's death, he admitted everything - but he was a good knight who had served her family for generations. Most importantly of all, he freely admitted that he'd been wrong, and asked only for a chance to redeem himself.
He served on my grandfather's kingsguard, Dany thought, feeling her heart soften. Barristan the Bold. Even across the narrow sea, she'd heard tales of the greatest of the living kingsguard, the knight without peer.
Dany pardoned Ser Barristan easily. He refused to accept a sword except for one that was offered by her, which surprised her, but after it was done, Dany found herself liking the old knight even more than before.
And yet… and yet while Ser Barristan the Bold had been the very image of grace and humility, Ser Jorah Mormont was the opposite. His was a visage of stubbornness and insolence. Her bear was a harder one to forgive.
Jorah Mormont's face was red, whether from anger or shame she wasn't sure. He didn't back down, he argued everything. He excused everyone else, stayed defensive, insistent that he had committed no crime.
Their voices became more and more heated. Nobody in the hall met her gaze. Jorah squirmed and dodged her questions.
"No… no… You have to forgive me," Jorah snapped eventually, shaking his head. Those words caused her to bristle.
"Have to?" Dany saw Jorah's eyes. They were proud, stubborn and possessive. It's too late, she realised quietly. She had wanted to pardon him, oh, how she had wanted to forgive him - she had been all ready to forgive him and welcome him back into her service - but just like that she realised that she couldn't.
He sees me as his, she thought hollowly. Like I belong to him. Like I should belong to him. Like I am still that lost little girl, and he's the big knight who must protect me from everyone but himself…
Dany couldn't rule a man like that. She would rather take hatred, greed or evil any day, rather than that sort of love.
She shook her head. "I can't forgive you," she said. "I can't."
"You forgave the old man…" Jorah snapped.
"He lied to me about his name. You sold my secrets to the men who killed my father and stole my brother's throne."
"I protected you. I fought for you. Killed for you," Jorah's voice was heated. "I went down into the sewers like a rat. For you." His hands clenched. His face was so pained. Dany couldn't help but think, it might have been kinder for them both if he had died down in those sewers. "… Daenerys… I have loved you."
Right then, it felt like her heart turned to stone. Her face lost all expression, and in the moment, she couldn't say if she felt more angry, or more disappointed. Seconds stretched into minutes, and there was nothing but silence in the throne room as she stared at Ser Jorah.
I can't keep him by my side, she thought. He can't stay next to me, not like this . Her heart twisted at the thought of him dying, but she couldn't keep him…
She hesitated. Ser Jorah stepped forward, and then the whole room seemed to tense. Her advisors, her guards, her commanders. They were all waiting on her command…
"The good queen struggles to say the words," Daario purred, stepping forward from the hall. His hands caressed the hilts of his two blades, but his eyes sharp. "But you need not say them, my radiance. Only give the tiniest nod, and your Daario can do the rest."
Jorah's eyes glared furiously, his face red. Any moment now, he might snap, or her guards might overreact. I don't want him to die, Dany realised. He shouldn't die for loving me…
And suddenly Quaithe's words came back to her. Two will claim your love, the shadowbinder had said. He needs your help. Save the boy…
Dany found her voice quickly. The idea formed even as she started speaking.
"Enough," Dany said sharply. "The gods do nothing without a purpose, they say. You did not die in battle, so you will not die here. But you will not stay near me."
"No…" His eyes were wide. Jorah reached for her, yet her guards intervened. Both Strong Belwas and Ser Barristan moved to stop him. "Daenerys, please, hear me…"
"I have made my decision. You are banished, ser." I must be iron . The words looked like they hit Jorah like a punch to the gut. There was a pause. "… However, in light of your service, I will give you one chance to redeem your queen's trust."
The room froze. His eyes were pleading. She forced herself to meet his gaze and did not flinch. "You betrayed and informed on me to my enemies." She held up her hand as he tried to object. "If you want my forgiveness, then you must balance the scales."
"Anything," Ser Jorah choked.
"Then return to Westeros, ser," she said coolly. Ser Barristan looked surprised. Ser Jorah blinked. "You know the lands, you know the customs, and you have friends and family there. I need information on the Seven Kingdoms, and you must give it to me. To prepare for my arrival."
He twitched. "I am exiled."
"I declare your exile over. You must be my scout, my spy - my envoy even. Whatever it takes."
He can still fight for me, I just can't have him next to me.
"They will kill me if I return."
"I will kill you if you stay. Believe that. If you choose not to, then fine - you must still leave by daybreak. You will not stay by my side."
It was a chance, it was a choice. Daenerys felt guilty hanging such a cruel choice in front of him, but she already knew he would take it, and in truth she didn't know what else to do with him. In any case, she needed information he could provide. She needed someone in Westeros, someone who could stay informed about events to the west. Somebody who she could trust, who would be driven to serve her even across great distances. She needed allies, ready for the day her homecoming eventually arrived.
It felt wrong to use him, to manipulate a man who loved her, but… No, Dany thought. I am a queen; love can have naught to do it with it. He is a knight and this is his duty.
The thought of Quaithe lingered, of all those riddles and vague statements. Danys hated being in the dark, she hated not knowing.
Exiling Jorah brought her nothing, and killing him would give her only heartbreak; offering him a chance to redeem himself in her cause felt like the right thing to do.
He stared down at the marble steps. "If I do so…" he choked. "How long, and when can I…?"
Her eyes narrowed. Too insolent, even when he was a hair's breadth away from being banished from her side for good. "Until I take the Iron Throne, ser," she replied. "And until I choose to welcome you again to my court."
Jorah's form trembled, and his hands clenched. He let out a breath, and closed his eyes. When they opened, his eyes were harder, his former anger and panic chilled to ice. "I would go to the ends of the earth for you, Daenerys. I swear it," he promised. "I would sail off the edge of the Sunset Sea, or walk through the darkness of Sothoryos alone in your name. I will even return home for you."
Just to clarify, the story will probably be leading towards a Jon/Dany pairing - yet, well, it's not going to happen instantly, since they're on opposite sides of the planet and all. Other pairings could appear, though; right now I've got a lot of the main ideas fixed, but a lot of the story is fairly fluid.
I'm planning divergences for a lot of the story, but for now anything that isn't otherwise stated you can assume to be happening the exact same way as canon. Any other POVs not related to stuff happening at the Wall are mostly going the same way for now, they'll be coming in later. How I've been writing it is that at the beginning the story focuses mainly on the far north, because that's where the main ripples are happening, but then it travels south as more of the realm starts to get involved. After all, giant dragons do generally cause a pretty big splash…