Bran

He pulled away from the trees to reorient himself, absently brushing fresh dirt out of his hair. Looking up, Bran could see the roof of the cave the grotto beneath Winterfell was in sported deeply worrying cracks, roots visible where the dirt and rock had fallen away. Earth is a poor defense against cold lightning, he thought ruefully. Most of the Singers were still in commune with the trees readying to make another push against the dead, but Bran got Branch's attention anyhow.

"Our trick won't work with the moon-ward protecting the bone dragon!" Bran told him, having to shout to make himself heard. For the hundredth time it seemed the whole grotto shook, dirt snowing down in a grey-brown flurry.

"Protected by the moon, by the wind, we would need the sun to break through." Branch replied, looking harried.

"Well, if we had the sun in the first place, we'd not be in this pinch, would we? Who was that Other with the night-sword, anyway?"

"Someone seeking to put an end to our interference, it seems." Root said from her corner of the grotto. And by so doing, end the battle, Bran thought grimly. He cannot be allowed to wreak bloody havoc on the Singers. A dragon might have handily done for him and his, but they were too busy trying to keep the cataclysm overhead from getting any nearer.

"It's no good," panted another of the Singers, breaking with her tree. "We cannot get through the moon-ward, not without the sun."

"It can't be left to rain lightning down on Winterfell." Bran said.

"Well, Brandon Stark, if you have a notion of how to circumvent the full moon at its brightest-"

"We can't go through it." Bran cut her off. An idea was tickling the back of his brain. "You saw as well as I that the Other-queen has a mastery of moon-magic we cannot hope to rival. The wards coat the dragon bones from skull to tail." If a man's armor is too heavy, he falls down, Bran mused. Perhaps the same thing might apply to wards. "Forget going through. Drum up all the power you can. When I say, empower the wards, don't try to break them." The sight of a Singer of the Song of Earth gaping like a child was something almost comical but for their circumstances. "They're only bones. With everything the Others are running through them as is, lightning and moon-wards, maybe a bit of help from you will crumple them to dust like an old hornets' nest." He turned for the steps up to Winterfell proper.

"Where are you going, Brandon Stark?" Branch called.

"You need time to fill your quiver. I'll see about getting you as much as can be found."

He found Howland Reed in the Great Hall surrounded by his bannermen. They were passing around a bowl full of what seemed to be arrowhead ants, each sticking their bare hands in for the ants to seethe over and bury their stingers into. One by one, the lords of the Neck went wide-eyed. But not from pain, Bran saw. Gently he reached for Lord Howland, gasping as a rush of energy drowned what pain the stings could cause to crannog-flesh. Lights became darker, darkness became brighter, and the movements of the guardsmen at the doors slowed observably. Then someone was behind him and Howland leaned his head back into the crook of their shoulder. Bran caught a glimpse of Lady Jyana before she dripped something in her husband's eye, the pain intense enough to make Bran tear up himself. Then came the other eye and Bran was blind, unable to do anything but vaguely feel himself go to his knees. The next thing he knew he was seeing through Summer's eyes, feeling his wolf's fear. This is not the world he knows. The noise was horrendous, the air was full of blood, and lightning, fire and ice fell from the sky it seemed at complete random. There was no thought to any of it, no control, the gathering storm had begun to simply hurl attackers and defenders both where it would. You've made it this far, Bran told Summer. A bit farther and we'll be free and clear. He stirred on the floor of the Great Hall, sitting up to find Lord Howland crouching near him.

"You might have picked a better time to come calling, my prince." He wore an almost apologetic half-smirk.

"The Singers are going to try to bring down the bone dragon, level the field. They need time to marshal the necessary power, though. The Others have broken through, it seems they want to stop what resistance the Singers can present as soon as possible." Howland Reed stood and extended a hand to Bran. Pulling him up, the crannogman nodded.

"Then we must intercept them." He looked to the high table. Lady Jyana stood before it, her arms around a bundle of rags.

"Fear not, my prince. Your son is below with Princess Arya, as safe as can be." Which isn't very, all things considered, Bran thought grimly. When Howland approached, she leaned her burden toward him. Bran spotted a glint of white in the pommel before Howland's hand closed around the grip, pulling it from the rags in a single fluid motion. Dawn came free at once, the blade whiter than milk and spotless despite its lack of scabbard.

"A sword is too cumbersome in the Neck." Howland said, eyeing Dawn's tip. Though it was a greatsword, the little man needed but a single hand to hold it aloft. Whatever metal it was made of was as close to weightless as a solid object could be, Bran knew. Wielded with a crannogman's speed and precision instead of a knight's blundering brute force…

"That's what you used to beat First Frost into submission. The Other that escaped." he realized aloud.

"I hadn't touched it since we returned from the rebellion." Howland replied, the last tears of a life spent grieving in the corners of his eyes.

"Well, swords aren't for looking at or keeping hidden away from sight. Princesses, either." Lady Jyana intoned, as the crannogmen in the hall began readying arrows tipped with dragonglass- some forewent even shortbows, favoring blowpipes or even hollow balls of mud filled with glittering black dust. Even the forge's waste is used.

"What if you should fall, my lord?" Bran asked, voicing a concern long budding, now in bloom.

"What if I should?" Howland Reed asked. Bran swallowed. Even a prince, a warg, and a father myself, I am still a boy before such a man. So painfully aware of it was he that finding the words was a challenge.

"House Reed has endured alongside House Stark since the Dawn Age…I would never want to brave the future without knowing that as there is always a Stark in Winterfell, there is a Reed at Greywater Watch." Almost idly, Howland's fingers drummed Dawn's hilt. "House Reed must continue, must go on past tonight."

"Why shouldn't it, my prince?" Lord Howland asked, almost offhandedly, in reply.

"I don't understand…" Bran said, lost as usual whenever the crannogman shared his wisdom.

"Howland will be Prince of Winterfell after you. The Jojen yet to come can be Lord of Greywater Watch just as easily. Not as a Stark, but as a Reed." A commotion outside took his attention off Bran. "Our guests are here. We should give them a reception as does our reputation justice."

We are readying, Brandon Stark. Branch's voice filled his head with an energy he'd never heard aloud. More time is needed, but it will work.

Press on, then. You will not be interrupted. Bran told him.

"If you would, my prince, take my lady somewhere she will be safe from harm." Howland said as the doors of the Great Hall began to pound with the fists of countless wights. The crannogmen did not tense, did not raise their weapons impulsively. Wights are nothing, they know this. It's the Others that are their targets. The ceiling of the Great Keep shook and the doors began to glow cherry red, golden embers flickering through the cracks in the wood. Bran felt the sensation of Meera's mouth against his cheek before the doors collapsed in a cloud of ash. The crannogmen began hurling their glass mudballs, tossing small pouches of the stuff and even tossing buckets of hot tar. "Go now, my prince." Howland Reed said as the glint of razor-ice began to twinkle through the mess. Bran took Lady Jyana's hand and led her away from the hall, though it burned his cheeks to the bone to leave Howland Reed behind.

"You needn't be ashamed, my prince." she said, having to half-shout to be heard even as they went below the surface. "Not every man is made to wield a sword." Bran gave a halfhearted murmur of agreement before finding Val with Howland in one arm and Dalla in the other in one of the Singers' countless off-tunnels, Arya waiting with her as well. "Well, this seems as good company as can be found." Lady Reed said. "Let me share your burden." She took Howland off Val's hands, the wildling princess busying herself with shushing her daughter. Bran wasn't listening, his eyes on Arya, sitting slumped against the earthen wall. Warging into Nymeria, he knew at once, sitting beside his sister and sliding a hand in hers.

The storm was growing worse topside, the noise enough to deafen him and the snow, rain, ice, smoke and soot enough to make his nose useless. There was nothing to do but run to and fro, pulling down enemies wherever he could as he looked for his pack. At last he found his sister in the great courtyard, sticking close to a cadre of stormlanders hard-pressed against the curtain wall by several of the ravening brutes. By now he knew their teeth were useless- any wound they gave them would close, any limb he tore away would spurt out of the bleeding flesh in mere moments. One of the monsters wore the pelt of a snow bear, swinging around a great branch capped with a piece of glowing quartz. From his gnashing teeth jutted a long silver tooth. Vetrartonn. Icicles rained down on the stormlanders as a fog of frigid breath washed over them, the brute-shaman cackling madly.

"MAJIK!" he jeered. His glee turned into a shriek of pain as something shot out of the landbound cloud to crash against his knee. The force of the blow put the monster on his back, blasting wildly with his staff until a massive warhammer came down on its quartz headpiece, shattering it into countless specks of dust. He and his sister leapt at the monster rushing to the shaman's aid, trading fang for claw with another possessed of a similar silver tooth. The horned figure with flesh-of-steel cared nothing for the claws that flailed against its hard hide, buried a glinting horn in the shaman's throat before jamming its massive metal arm down the gash it opened. Gurgling and gasping, the monster's flesh regrew as best it could around the arm, but the bull-man simply locked his arms around its ruined throat. Rolling around in a panic, thrashing wildly, the shaman could not throw him off. Falling backward through a hovel, the sounds of struggle ended and only the bull-man emerged, ripping another monster's arm from its spindly body on his way to picking up his warhammer. The brutes began to fall away in the face of the one-body stampede that had begun to unfold, the warhammer leaving wounds that burned and boiled and bled cold steam. He howled into the uproar, his sister and the wild siblings nearby joining in to send the monsters fleeing. A brief moment of euphoria was broken when dead men came against them next, who neither felt nor feared. Worse, they had no flesh to bite or gnaw. His teeth found only cold bones clattering along under ancient bronze armor while he wore only fur. Their swords and spears were no less sharp for all the ages they'd endured, and with wielders who could not err as life could err he and his sister were soon forced to back off where they could not reach. Every time they found a wild sibling the butchery made the snows run red enough to match the armor of the crowned figure in their center, lance couching before he and his company of unliving cavalrymen charged the still-reeling stormlanders. The bull-man hefted his warhammer and planted himself squarely in the way of the dead king's charge, not moving until the last possible moment- to charge headlong into the bronze lance pointed at his face and bring his hammer crashing through the horse beneath him, bones snapping and splintering even as the force of the charge knocked the bull-man into a snowpile, the dead king's horse collapsing to send bronze tumbling after steel. Even with the king's entourage crashing into him, lances smashing into his armored body, the bull-man rose, a metal hand closing around one of their backbones to yank the dead rider off his skeletal horse and snap him in twain as if he were a fallen branch. The king pulled a pitted bronze greatsword off his back, red amber glinting in its pommel as its owner swung it. Unlike his guardsmen, the dead king soon had the bull-man's steel hide denting and warping from the pure force of his blows. Only when the last of the skeletal horsemen were stomped to dust beneath the bull-man's sharp steel hooves did he turn his attention to the king, trading blows without a sound of protest. Pitted bronze and age-old bones proved to be a poor match for living steel, the bull-man burying his hammer in the king's ribs, snapping them to the last with a single blow as he crumpled forward. The bull-man's hand closed around the crowned skull and yanked it free, crushing it in his grip with a wild bellow of victory.

Bran pulled away from Summer with a gasp. If only Others proper were so easily felled, he thought, knowing better than to think Arya might have returned with him. She'll stay with Nymeria and Gendry to the end and no mistake, he thought. If only Summer could fly, I might be able to stay with Meera just as well. He bit his lip. When he reached for Viserion, he was surprised not to find an endless impenetrable Neck around the dragon's consciousness. Instead, he beheld the battle playing out beneath him while Viserion and his brothers danced with the bone dragon. Gently he pushed at Viserion's mind, taking his focus off whatever was going on below so he could focus on above. Without the chaos on the ground to worry about it seemed the dragon's jaunts up from the haze of heat and flame to singe the bone dragon's moon-ward began to intensify. Further, as a lizard-lion might burst from the water's edge to clamp its jaws around a cow or horse, Viserion burst from mess of heat and flame to snap his teeth around a cold drake whenever the opportunity arose. More than once he even turned their speed against them, rearing up out of the red blur their cold eyes saw once they had gotten too close to veer away. I wonder if a dragon has ever lived so fond of ambush, Bran thought. Certainly, there's never been one so fond of the bogs of the Neck. Then he remembered how his princess, for the moment safe on Viserion's back, came into the world. One that knew they were a dragon, anyway. Thinking on lizard-lions had Bran worrying about Howland Reed, slipping back into Summer's mind with the firm intent of assisting the Lord of the Neck however he could. Summer's ears were no more able to sort out the chaos reigning around him but a new sound had joined the clangor, a queer clear ringing so different from all the other noise. He dashed up the nearest steps to the ramparts, knocking wights off the parapets as he dashed for the noise. It's coming from near the Great Keep, Bran thought, pulse quickening. When at last he came upon Lord Howland, the little crannogman was waltzing with the Other with the night-sword on the keep steps. Whenever it and Dawn chanced to meet, the noise they made was a ringing so clear and so loud it had Summer's hair standing on edge. The rest of the melee steered well clear of the two even given the chaos, for their blades were moving so fast it was all anyone else could do not to be diced by the dancing swords, white and black. Unparalleled as Howland Reed might have been among men, his adversary was clearly more than his match…or would have been, without the blinding fires burning most everywhere, the hellish noise, and the cramped closeness Howland did not permit him to leave. Half-blinded, the dragonglass dust in the air eating through his plate-of-ice, and having to keep clear of the constant flights of arrows and darts sent his way from above, below and around, the clash was made more manageable.

To Bran's surprise Howland let the Other push him up the steps toward the collapsed bridge to the armory- a gap the Lord of the Neck crossed with a nimble leap that made Bran envious. The Other matched his feat without a thought. He's not being pushed anywhere, Bran realized. He's pulling the Other to the godswood. Whether or not the Other himself was aware of what Howland Reed was up to was anyone's guess, but time was of the essence. Whatever effect the secrets of the Neck might have will not outlast the Other's stamina. The latest bolt of lightning had the Guards' Hall collapsing into rubble off to the right, but neither combatant so much as looked. The Other dealt Howland such a blow that even with Dawn to catch it, had him tumbling backward and through a window. If Summer tries to push him after, all he'll get is that black sword through an eye for his trouble. Instead the direwolf gave a defiant howl, yipping and jumping out of the path of a thrown razor icicle, the Other never having even turned his head. Then he simply bulled through the mortared stone of the armory wall, clearly intent on finishing his dance with Howland Reed. Without a second thought Summer followed him through the breach, eager to trade the cold stone beneath his paws for the soft earth of the godswood. Another bolt of lightning flashed overhead, the bone dragon contending only with Drogon and Rhaegal.

Branch, we don't have much time left. That thing's going to smash all of Winterfell to dust, and then the Others won't need an army to do away with us.

Where is it now?

Directly above the godswood, there will never be a better time to do whatever you intend to do! The ground beneath Summer's paws began to tremble, quite apart from the cold mammoths that had managed to keep aright thus far. What wights he could spot in the godswood began to topple, then crumble altogether as the Singers' magic filled the earth. The power that moves them is powerless here. Bran said.

Not so, Brandon Stark. There is power, and there is power. Observe. Something rushed up out of the ground, some force, and the wards the bone dragon bore began to glow a silver so bright it was like looking at the sun. Then with a thunderclap that knocked Summer off his feet, the moon-ward shattered, exploding outward in a blinding flash of silver moonlight. In the godswood Summer was clear of the destruction but he heard the sounds of more than a few of Winterfell's buildings giving up the ghost all the same. Walls of mortared stone here and there around the godswood sagged, swayed, folded like they were made of wet paper. Furthermore, the storms that had raged incessantly began to slow, began to still almost at once, the black clouds gathered by the cold giants' storm-speaker blown away. For now, Bran thought, the only things above them the moon and the stars. And the dragons, black and green and bone.

The Other was too busy dancing with Howland Reed to notice the absence of Viserion overhead or even the collapse of the bone dragon's moon-ward- or if he did, it was something he was not overmuch concerned with. Dawn was flying at his face in a blur of glinting white edges, the ground of the godswood grew marshy and uneven as the dancers moved toward the water. Steam clung to the pool's surface, a grounded warm cloud that turned to flakes whenever the Other chanced to pass through it. Despite his obvious disquiet at being cloaked in clinging warmth, it was not enough to put him off balance nor into Dawn's path. Furthermore, whatever blessings of the Neck Howland Reed had carried into battle looked nearly expended. Bran left Summer behind, his own consciousness shielding Howland Reed's from things like fatigue, pain and uncertainty. Thus augmented, Bran watched through the Lord of the Neck's eyes as the Other's movements slowed, along with the rest of the world.

I cannot stop your flesh from failing, my lord. This dance must end, and on your terms.

We are very nearly there, my prince. If Howland Reed was discomfited by his circumstances, Bran would not have guessed it in a thousand years. He sounds utterly content, Bran thought. Exhausted beyond words, but content. Out of the corner of his eye, the steam came heavier off the godswood's pool, the Other's movements duly slowing. Wherever the blade of starry night tried to go, Dawn would get there first. Wherever Howland wished to put Dawn, the Other's blade could not reach fast enough. The Other became Ser Arthur Dayne as Ser Arthur had once become everything from three cruel squires to the Prince of Dragonstone. Bran knew then how it would end. With a last flurry of lightning-quick slashes, Dawn sent the black sword spinning out of the Other's grip- or would have, if Howland's adversary had not been born to reflexes a mortal man could not pray to match. Even slowed, even blinded, even assailed from all sides, the Other's hand shot out to close around his sword's hilt once more. This time it was the black sword that was the quicker, rushing through flesh blood and bone with equal ease. As Bran's body writhed on the floor of the tunnel, its shrieks echoing dimly in Howland Reed's ears, the Lord of the Neck's hands locked around Dawn, then he punched it through the Other's failing plate, the flesh beneath it and out the back again. A stream of cold liquid glass spurted from the Other's lips, the steam making the godswood spin around Howland.

You know what to do. Bran heard his words, barely comprehended them…and then he saw something break the pool's surface.

Viserion exploded from the water slowly enough for Bran to see the droplets flying from his cream-colored scales, Meera flat upon the dragon's back. A flood of memories deluged Howland. Bran saw again his wedding to Jyana Fenn, as well as Meera's first time swimming on her own, scarcely three years old. Jojen's birth, a grievous wound to Lady Jyana that never truly healed. News that Lord Stark had been killed, the day his children left Greywater Watch. The Other had Dawn through him to contend with, and did not see the dragon approach, did not hear him- or if he did, there was nothing he could do. Viserion's mouth opened, golden teeth framing a small sun building at the back of his throat. Then at the last moment his head turned sideways and the dragon's jaws snapped shut around the Other, his body folding into steam and vapor billowing from between Viserion's teeth. Howland Reed had not the strength to stand without the Other holding him up, sliding into the pool with his hands around Dawn and his gut around the starry blade. Someone was splashing toward him, shouting, calling.

"Father! FATHER!" Strong, nimble arms linked around him and pulled him back up above the water's surface. The face above him was one he knew. That's my father's man you're kicking! When he blinked, though, the nose ran a bit longer.

This is where we part, my prince. Howland said, and Bran sat up, shaking and shuddering, on the tunnel floor.

"Come, my lady, there isn't a moment to lose." he said, feeling as though he were numb below the waist again. Lady Jyana's haunting violet eyes went wide. Bran took his son from her, led her up out of the tunnels into the godswood. Even despite the madness all around, she had eyes only for the pair waist-deep in the pool before her, wading out to them without a second thought. Bran followed, Howland burbling as his feet trimmed the water's surface. He circled 'round to take Lord Reed's head in his lap, the three of them gently pulling him to the pool's edge. Viserion was raining golden fire on all who came near, unwittingly vouchsafing them a moment uninterrupted. Howland Reed's eyes moved from his daughter to his wife and back again, Meera brushing the hair from his brow as his beardless cheeks began to pale. His lips moved, but it seemed speech was beyond his waning strength. His left hand came up to cup her face though, thumb tenderly pushing a bit of mud from her grey Stark eye. Meera buried her face in her father's chest, weeping. While Bran was still thinking in vain of something to do, or at the very least say, Howland's gaze found Lady Jyana's face for a final time. Then Dawn slipped from his grasp, sliding down the wet grass and into the pool's black depths. Neither Bran nor Meera nor Lady Jyana so much as turned to watch it sink.

"Oh, my love…" Lady Jyana breathed, cradling her husband. She whispered something Bran didn't catch, but he caught her refrain, as lovely as it was mournful. "Oh, my love…"

Howland's sniffle dredged Bran up from the mire of grief that threatened to swallow him. We will not be safe here forever. "We must go. Come, we must get you back below, my lady. We can tend to him after-" Without a word, Lady Jyana simply stood, her husband's body in her arms. Meera was not so steeled, seated and sobbing with her forehead on her knees. "Meera, we have to go." She did not push him away, gods be praised, but he could not rouse her either. Finally, she had to stop and catch her breath.

"I'm not a dragon princess, Bran. I'm Meera Reed of Greywater Watch- who else could I be? I use a trident, not a sword, and certainly not Dark Sister." Bran got on his knees, a hand cupping Meera's cheek as her father's had done. Howland burbled and reached for his mother.

"Bloodraven waited all those years in that cave for us, Meera. 'For both of you', those were his words. Who else could Dark Sister go to? Jojen once called me 'the Winged Wolf'…well, if I've got wings then so have you, and what else might you call a winged lizard-lion but a dragon? If you don't take my word for it, ask Viserion what he thinks." The dragon's wroth had boiled away by then, looming over them and dousing Meera in a sweltering exhale of hot air. Bran's hand trailed down the dragon's ivory jaw, over the beard of spikes. "A splendid white bull," Bran said as Meera stood to put her forehead to Viserion's snout.

"Wondrous to behold." she finished for him.

"Give me Howland, my prince." Lady Jyana said, leaving the elder Howland's body on the grass.

"I'll go below with you, my lady-"

"Your wife needs you more than your son just now, my prince."

"Just so, but I'll be with her even below-"

"You'll be with her high above, and in more than spirit." Her meaning escaped Bran for a few moments, then he felt his stomach flip.

"If you are indeed my wings, Bran, small use you'll be to me beneath the ground." Meera intoned, already climbing up to mount Viserion. Some small instinctive part of him began to follow her up, sitting behind her to slip an arm tight around her waist. Fly, indeed, he thought shakily, sucking in as Viserion's golden wings came up. The feeling of ascension, of flying, was so unlike what he'd experienced warging birds and even within Viserion's own mind that Bran's thoughts seemed to lock up until they were high enough for Winterfell's godswood to seem a spot of moss. Don't vomit, he thought, unable to keep it out of his head or indeed focus on anything else. Or if you must, wait until Viserion dives, that way you'll keep it clear of your wife's hair!

Brandon Stark! Branch's voice sounded dim and distant the further away they got from the ground.

I'm here, Branch. Your trick did the trick, the bone dragon's moon-ward is no more.

The Other Howland Reed slew was more than a lowly soldier. He was one of the Lords of the Long Night, whose numbers dwindle. If you can bring the bone dragon down, that may be the tipping point for Those That Walk With Winter! The tipping point? Bran thought, unsure what was meant by that. If it means finally peeling the Others off us, I'm all for it, he resolved as Viserion rose to join his brothers in harrying the great swirl of black bone. Then it's just a matter of keeping Meera and our children safe and warm and fed. After dealing with the Others, how hard could such a thing be?