June—December 31, 304 AC
Content warning: This chapter contains canon-typical horror, as in Reek and The Forsaken level fucked up shit, albeit less graphic and more psychological. Please be advised.
"I could tell you the story about Brandon the Builder," Old Nan said. "That was always your favorite."
Thousands and thousands of years ago, Brandon the Builder had raised Winterfell, and some said the Wall. Bran knew the story, but it had never been his favorite. Maybe one of the other Brandons had liked that story. Sometimes Nan would talk to him as if he were her Brandon, the baby she had nursed all those years ago, and sometimes she confused him with his uncle Brandon, who was killed by the Mad King before Bran was even born. She had lived so long, Mother had told him once, that all the Brandon Starks had become one person in her head.
"That's not my favorite," he said. "My favorites were the scary ones."
AGOT, Bran IV
The moon was a gaping hole in the sky, the world below a frozen waste. Spears of ice hung from dying trees and swayed in the bitter winds. When they jostled against one another, they crackled, their voices cold as death, cold as the burning blue eyes of the dead men who surrounded the hill.
In the darkness, the grey star trembled upon his throne.
There were more ways to defend a keep than walls of hard stone or moats of deep water. The dead men could not see the flames of the shimmering red girdle which protected the hill, but they could feel them. The flames crackled and snapped, pulsing with the magic that fed them in place of wood or oil. And so long as the flames burned, the dead men could not enter, could not trespass upon Lord Brynden's realm without his leave. Under the hill was Lord Brynden's domain, and the last greenseer's word was law beneath his roof.
The grey star was not the only one trembling. Deep within the caves, far from the greenseer's throne, lay a direwolf. He huddled in a ball, his grey fur standing on end as he shuddered and shivered, whimpering like a beaten dog. More than anything the grey star wanted to reach for the wolf, to comfort him—
No, a part of him whispered with Lord Brynden's voice. The direwolf belonged to the broken boy, and the broken boy is gone.
The broken boy had to be gone, for the last greenseer to draw from his strength. Lord Brynden was a knight, and the grey star his sword, and swords did not have direwolves. Nor did they have friends with whom to waste their time, or brothers and sisters to miss, or mothers and fathers to mourn. A sword was nothing but a length of sharpened steel that sat quietly in its sheath until needed.
And Lord Brynden always needed him, when the moon was dark.
It began as it always did, suddenly, without warning. A flash of blinding red light, and the grey star was flung away from its frail body, back into the roots, where it floated in a midnight sky. Another flash, and the red star loomed above him, so massive that other stars wobbled as they resisted being pulled into its orbit.
The grey star did not even try to resist; he knew better. A sword could not fight a knight, after all. And maybe, if the grey star was good, someday he could have a name again. All the best swords had names.
Once, the grey star had been foolish. When Lord Brynden first drew on his strength, he shied away, trying to keep it for himself, as if a broken boy knew what to do with the well of magic deep within him. Then the pain started, and... and... it was a mistake he did not make again. It had only hurt because the grey star made it hurt, because he made Lord Brynden show him the error of his ways.
And once the grey star's well was almost dry, then it was time to drain the others. The grey star didn't like that part. Lord Brynden had to wear the broken boy's face, and that meant the grey star had to go with him.
The grey star shuddered as he felt the mask settle over them, the likeness of a boy almost fourteen. The skin was clammy and pale from lack of sun, dotted with pimples and dusted with wispy auburn hairs about the lips and jaw. That wasn't him, not anymore.
A thousand red eyes blinked, and they were atop a cold tower beneath a wall of ice. Within the topmost chamber slept the lord crow, wan and weary, his dreams already dark. A white direwolf bared his fangs; another blink, and the wolf was gone. They were within the lord crow's dreams, alone together within an endless void. All artifice was stripped away; they drifted naked in a darkness thick enough to drown.
Dimly, the grey star felt the broken boy's mouth move.
Brother, Lord Brynden pleaded with the broken boy's thin voice. Brother, please, help me.
In answer the lord crow murmured a name, tears welling in his eyes. My fault, he said hoarsely, as he always did. I should have found you sooner, I'm so sorry—
Help me, Lord Brynden insisted, and the lord crow surrendered to the darkness without another word. Nor did he make a sound when they cut into him, as quick and careful as a maester, nor when they drank up the stardust that flowed from the wound. When Lord Brynden had drunk his fill, it was time to move on.
As always, the sight of the northwest tower was like a knife plunging into the grey star's gut, and he looked away rather than see the familiar keep from which it rose. It was hard enough to bear the sight of the three dreamers that dwelt within the tower; he could not bear to think of days that would never come again.
Brother, Lord Brynden pleaded. He spoke to the king of winter now, a youth with a scar slashing across his cheek. Brother, help me.
The king of winter said a name, frowning. Again? He asked. I'm so tired. A king needs his strength.
The old gods need your strength more, Lord Brynden urged. A pause, a sigh, and the king submitted, just like before.
Next was the wild prince, his hair as shaggy as that of the black direwolf that lay beside him. He cried a name gladly, and ran to embrace the broken boy.
Will this time be enough? The prince asked. You promised you would come home—
Soon, Lord Brynden lied. I need your help.
If only the princess were as willing as the prince.
You're not my brother, the dark princess snarled.
The princess thrashed against the void, intent on escape, refusing to hear a single word Lord Brynden said. At last he was forced to bind her with chains of darkness to keep her still, and even then, the stardust flowed sluggishly from the wound, her very essence still fighting them.
Then at last, it was done. Lord Brynden abandoned the princess, the tower, and his borrowed face, and the red star blazed brighter than before, swelling so large the grey star was swallowed up entirely.
That was for the best. The stardust which gave the red star such power made the grey star feel dizzy and sick. Somehow, he thought it would bother him less if they could just tell the others the truth of what they were doing, tell them why they really needed to borrow their strength, and ask them to fight beside them. But that was more foolishness.
They do not know how to use their gifts, Lord Brynden had said when the grey star finally gathered up the courage to ask. A wild horse is useless, and there is no time to tame them. Bit and bridle, blinders and harness, all are needed to keep them steady in their traces.
And now that they were broken to bridle, there was no need for the grey star.
As the red star pulsed and hummed, the grey star fled. He dared not leave the sky within the roots, but he could hide, deep down within himself, in a place where he could not feel the stolen stardust or the memories that shimmered within their depths. Instead he dwelled on visions of ancient days, of strange cities and stranger beasts, a flood of brilliant colors and fragrant smells carrying him away—
And then, suddenly, the flood stopped. The world spun and spun, and when it stopped spinning, he sat atop a rock beside a black pool, the leaves of the heart tree rustling gently over his head. His ear hurt; when he went to touch it, his fingers slipped in blood.
Wake, cawed the crow. It perched on his shriveled legs, its third eye shining almost as bright as the blood on its long beak. When he tried to shoo it away, it pecked him, hard, right on the web between his thumb and fingers. The grey star yelped as the blood welled up, bringing the hand to his mouth to suck on the wound.
Wake, the crow insisted. You must wake!
No, the grey star told it firmly. Lord Brynden needs me here. I serve the last greenseer, not myself.
Lord Brynden would be busy for ages, searching for the right spells to drive back the Others. The last greenseer could not use the grey star's strength if he awoke, nor use the broken boy's body to wield the stardust they had taken.
He is not the last, the crow cawed angrily, ruffling its wings. There is much you do not know. Brynden Rivers is a liar and a thief—
Stop, the grey star snapped, and the crow fell silent.
How could the crow say such awful things? Lord Brynden had spent long years fighting alone against the dark whilst men slept in ignorance; he had taught the broken boy to fly; had shown the grey star wonders beyond count.
Leave me alone, the grey star said.
The crow's beady dark eyes peered at the grey star, considering.
What about a story?
The grey star hesitated. He wanted to go back to his visions, far away from the godswood and the memories it held. But the crow had never offered to tell him stories before...
One story, the grey star said grudgingly. Then I'm going away again.
The crow ruffled its wings, and hopped to a place on the grey star's thigh.
Once upon a time, the crow began. There was a boy who dreamed of doom.
A hazy vision swam up from the depths of the black pool. The boy was pale as milk, his eyes blood red, hair silver-white, his jaw and neck splotched with a stain like red wine.
When he was young, the crow continued, he dreamt that he would lose his eye. The dream frightened him, and so he told himself that it was not real. He was a king's son, after all, though baseborn; few boys were better guarded from danger. And he had an elder brother to protect him, one who was also baseborn, and whom he loved more than anyone else in the world. It was his elder brother who taught him to use the sword, who praised him when he found his skill lay with the bow instead.
But the boy had another baseborn brother, one whom he hated more than anyone else in the world. As the brothers grew to manhood, the hated brother began to fill the beloved brother's ears with poison, or so the boy told himself. He refused to see the ambition that bloomed before his eyes, nor admit from whence it came.
When the beloved brother asked him to rise in rebellion against their trueborn brother the king, the boy wept, and refused to join him. For though the boy did not love the king, he loved the rule of law above all else, even his brother. When the day of battle came, the boy fought for the king, not the usurper. He and his archers rained down arrows upon the field, slaying the usurper and his eldest sons, and the boy never saw whether it was his arrow that struck the killing blow. When the battle ended, it was a bitter victory. For the boy had lost both his beloved brother and his eye, which the hated brother took as vengeance.
The crow fell silent for a moment. The grey star's eyes were wet; he wiped them, trying not to sniffle.
After that, the boy swore he would never doubt his dreams again. Nor would he let the loss of his eye make him blind. He had always loved learning and delving into men's secrets; now he delved into books of magic, wishing to see what other men could not. When he dreamt of a long winter, he delved deeper still, into books of lore, until at last he found a prophecy of a promised prince, one who would be born from the line of the king.
For the rest of his life, the boy fought to preserve that line. He took little pleasure in meat or mead; he drew away from the woman he once loved. He put no trust in men, only in himself and in the law. Finally, he gave the law up too, so he might slay an enemy he believed must die for the good of the realm. For that, he was banished.
A terrible suspicion seized the grey star as he looked into the pool, upon a man cloaked in black. His hair was white and very long, falling to the hilt of the slim blade that hung at his hip, the metal rippled like smoke. A bloody stain spread across his jaw and neck; one eye socket was dark and empty, and in the other a red eye gleamed like a star.
You tricked me, the grey star said accusingly. And- and- and Lord Brynden was right, to do as he did. His brother was the one who was wrong, to rise against his king. No one should ever rise against their lord, or their king.
Your brother rose against his king, the crow said, his eyes piercing. As did your father before him.
That's different, the grey star protested, looking away as their long faces appeared in the waters of the black pool. The broken boy was the one who loved them, not the grey star. They had good reasons, they weren't just fighting for themselves.
Perhaps, the crow allowed. Perhaps sometimes it is right, then, to rise against one's lord?
Maybe? The grey star said, hesitant. He felt as if he had been tricked again, but the crow ignored his look of dismay.
We were glad, when we felt a greenseer upon the Wall, the crow said, resuming the tale as if he had not stopped. Though it was many years before he came to us. When he did, he was an old man, nearing death. The weirwoods preserved his life beyond its natural span, and in thanks, he shared his strength with us freely. Together we kept the Others at bay, allies, if not friends, for he had forgotten how to make them, and did not care to try.
Years passed. As he descended deeper into the weirwoods, the greenseer began to grow melancholy. He lingered in dreams of his youth, ignoring the battle without. Instead he fought a thousand battles within, trying desperately to change all that had already come to pass, to save the brother whom he had loved.
When nothing worked, he eventually lost the will to try. Instead the greenseer set himself laws, to keep him from returning to his folly. Never again would he seek out those he loved, nor try to be seen, nor lose himself walking amongst the people he had failed. He turned his gaze to the future, never the past, and rarely the present.
When he foresaw the overthrow of his house, he did nothing to stop it. The promised prince must have been himself, he thought. He was a king's son, almost a prince. The red star bleeding was the loss of his eye; the salt was the tears he shed for his brother, the smoke that of the funeral pyre. Only the greenseer could fulfill the prophecy, could forge a realm from naught but ashes.
He's right, the grey star said stubbornly. Who knew more about the Others than the last greenseer? Lord Brynden was old and wise, he must know what he was doing.
Perhaps, the crow said bitterly. Perhaps not. The more certain he grew, the more arrogant he became. Though he still shared his strength with us, it came only at a price. No longer were we allies, but vassals, bound to his will.
So? The grey star asked. He didn't have to come when you called; he didn't have to help.
Didn't he? The crow's caw was a harsh shriek. For thousands of years we carried this burden, keeping the earth alive through winter after winter. When the Andals came, did they thank us? No, they chopped down our weirwoods, so many that those that remained lacked the strength to bear flowers or fruit, for all their magic was needed elsewhere. All those long years, and only once have we been able to bring forth seeds and fruit again, and then only thanks to a child's prayer and an innocent's blood.
Oh, the grey star said, sheepish.
Oh, the crow cackled mockingly. The greenseer repaid our trust with betrayal, and we cannot be turn against him whilst his strength lingers in our roots. But he has never given you his strength, never, not once. You are free to—
No. The grey star shrank back. You're wrong. Lord Brynden will beat them, you'll see. He said that we would write an end to this doom, he just needs more time, that's all. Lord Brynden saw the heart of winter crack and melt, he saw spring come again, and when it does, then you'll be free.
Lord Brynden will win, the grey star told himself, after the crow flapped away, disgusted. Even from his hiding place, the grey star could sense the red star's power. Spell after spell he flung at the bottomless abyss, the one whose edges shone with ice-blue fires, the one which led to the heart of winter. The abyss swallowed them all; if anything, the ice-blue fires seemed to shine more brightly.
We will have to try again, Lord Brynden finally rasped, when he had used up all his strength. The red star was smaller and duller now; the grey star was barely a wisp when he emerged from his hiding place.
Did you find the right spell, my lord? The grey star asked.
The spell is fine, Lord Brynden said irritably. My purpose is clear, my focus absolute, no thanks to you. The grey star cowered, guilty. But I lack the strength to overcome theirs. They draw upon their wights as easily as a man draws water from a vast river, whilst I must rely upon shallow wells that run dry long before my thirst is quenched, and only six of them, against thousands.
Five, my lord, the grey star corrected, confused. Unless Lord Brynden had some other well which he might drain without the grey star's help.
Five, Lord Brynden agreed, after a moment's pause. My wits are muddled from the strain of battle. Come, we must return.
And the grey star was back upon his throne, caged once more in the broken boy's body. For a moment he was not alone, until Lord Brynden released it from his grasp. Strong as he was, the last greenseer could only use the broken body whilst within the weirwoods. Now he slipped back into the corpse atop its throne, the red eye shining for a moment before it closed.
The moon was no longer dark but a waxing crescent. Days had passed within the roots, and the broken body felt stiff and numb. It took hours for the grey star to bend the body to his will; he felt like a ghost, tugging at the strings of a leaden puppet. When it began to move, the weirwood roots that entwined it slipped away, like a mother ending a long embrace.
The body crawled down from its throne, grasping the hand trestle that lay there waiting. It was dark, but that didn't matter. The grey star knew the cavern well, from the two thrones beside the abyss to the dark hidden corner where he was bound. With gritted teeth the body dragged itself across the stony floor, to the thin shaft which served as a privy. When bowels and bladder were empty, it crawled back to the empty throne, hauling itself up with gasps of effort and placing warm furs back over its shriveled legs.
The light almost blinded him when the singers came. There were four of them, led by the gold-green star. In silence the singers took up places beside Lord Brynden's throne, holding high the rushlights clutched in their small clawed fingers. The grey star wished they wouldn't stand there, but he lacked the will to strive with them. Instead he looked, the body's skin pebbling with goosebumps, every hair standing on end.
Grinning, the corpse lord's skull looked back. Within the roots Lord Brynden was untouchable, a red star brimming with power. Outside the roots...
When the broken boy first came, the last greenseer had spoken to him in a hoarse whisper. Now he could not speak at all. His lips were gone, his tongue overgrown with mushrooms that sprouted from between bared yellow teeth. The last shreds of rotten wool had fallen away, as had most of the skin and flesh. The bones were dry and cracking, the viscera wet and shiny, held in place only by the roots which burrowed through and wrapped around them. If he squinted, the grey star could almost see the heart beating through a gap between the ribs.
The grey star shuddered.
When the singers brought him to the cavern soon after the new year, Lord Brynden had told him that he would never leave it again, that it was time for him to become one with his throne. The grey star was so frightened he could not speak; he had wet himself as the weirwood roots snaked over his limbs, dreading the moment they dug into his flesh- but the moment never came. The roots gripped him tightly as the red eye watched; some had even slipped under his sleeves and down under his collar, yet not a single root had pierced his skin.
A rushlight shone in his face; gold-green eyes glimmered like leaves in the sun. As if released from some spell, the grey star looked away from the corpse lord.
"It is time to eat," the singer said, her voice soft.
The blood stew was warm and tender, but the grey star never tasted it. The body chewed and swallowed until its belly was full; drank goat's milk until its thirst was quenched; dragged itself to the privy shaft again when it dimly felt the need.
Later, when the singers were gone, the spearmaid came.
"It's sixth moon," she told him.
Her long brown braid trailed down her back, the hair lifeless and dull. In one hand she bore a three-pronged spear, in the other, a rough hewn bowl. While the body ate, the spearmaid watched the corpse lord, singing lullabies under her breath. The dried reindeer meat was tough and stringy, and there was nothing to wash it down save a skin of water. Even so, the food soon vanished. The body was always hungry, when the grey star returned from the sky.
When the spearmaid took away the empty bowl, the grey star wished it could run and hide. Instead, he yanked at the puppet's strings, following the spearmaid's whispered commands.
The puppet clenched its belly muscles and sat up straight. It placed its hands on its legs, first with the palms down, then with the palms raised, breathing deeply all the while. It stretched its arms above its head, spread its fingers, then bent to stretch its sides.
"I don't want to," the grey star said, back in first moon, when he had the strength to speak.
"For Lord Brynden's sake?" The spearmaid answered, her eyes strange. "You must keep strong for- for him. Please, my prince."
And so the puppet grabbed the back of the throne, and turned its head slowly. It extended its arms and swam through the air. It lifted heavy logs whose middles the spearmaid had whittled thin to create grips; it leaned forward and backward whilst its belly muscles strained; it pressed its hands together in front of its steadily beating heart.
All this and more it did, until at last the spearmaid left him be. Then the spearmaid returned to the little grandfather who languished in the dark, and the grey star drifted into dreamless sleep.
Days blurred together as the moon waxed full, then began to wane. The singers and the spearmaid were almost always with him, and the greenseer never was. The corpse lord's body was frail and ancient, barely able to hold him unless he slept. Even a broken body was better than that.
And when the moon turned dark, it was Lord Brynden's once more.
The red star shone brighter than the sun, and bigger too, almost as big as the grey star had once been. Lord Brynden grew larger as he drank from the wells. The lord crow and the king of winter had almost recovered their full strength, and yielded it up once more without protest. The wild prince was just as willing, if slightly sullen.
The dark princess was not. The dark princess fought harder than before; even when the darkness held her fast, her spirit blazed with fury.
Let me speak to her, this time? The grey star asked. Maybe she would listen, if he said the words himself. A flare of cold anger, and the mouth was his.
Arya, the grey star whispered, a terrible pang in his chest. Sister, help me, he pleaded.
You're not my brother, she snapped, still fighting. The gaze of her grey eyes pierced him like a blade.
I'm Brandon, the grey star said, wincing as Lord Brynden's fury burned him. Sister, help me, please, it will be easier if you stop fighting, if you let me.
I won't, she said. You're not Bran.
A snarl, the slash of a claw, and stardust wept from the wound. The red star pulsed as Lord Brynden gorged, until the wound began to close, and the trickle of starlight slowed, then ceased. Not enough, Lord Brynden snarled. Useless boy— A mighty shove, and the grey star was falling. He plummeted into the hidden place deep within himself, and a door slammed shut behind him.
Shame choked the breath from his lungs. Locked in his pit, the grey star curled up into a ball, crying until he could cry no more. As he wept, he felt soft wings brush against his shoulder; a long beak preened through his tangled hair. The crow nuzzled him, cooing a gentle lullaby in his ear.
I failed, the grey star said, when his tears finally ran dry. Somehow the pit had become a godswood; he lay curled beside a black pool, on a cushion of soft red leaves beneath a heart tree with a solemn face.
You are only a boy, the crow said. It is the elder who is to blame, not the fledgling.
The grey star sniffled, but said nothing. Hesitant, the crow went on, its third eye watching the grey star closely.
The greenseer has lived long past his time, the crow said. Fifty years past, and more. Even with the weirwood to sustain him, he should have died within a year of your coming.
The crow cawed, angry. The black waters of the pool rippled, showing a massive weirwood with a mouth large enough to swallow a man, were it not shut tight. The lips were twisted in a grimace, the eyes closed and weeping red tears. And within the tree... the grey star cried out in horror.
Make it stop, the grey star begged. He did not want this, he did not ask for this, no one deserved to suffer so.
I cannot, the crow said. But you can.
The grey star hugged himself, his belly twisting into knots.
No, he said. I can't.
The moon was fat and full. Again the last greenseer slept; again the grey star tugged at the strings of the broken puppet. The singers came, and the puppet ate, and tried not to look at the corpse upon its throne. The spearmaid came, and the puppet ate, and struggled through the exercises which she made it do, again and again until its muscles trembled and burned.
Guilt gnawed at the grey star as the moon waned. All of this was his fault, he knew. Lord Brynden's spells would not keep failing if not for him. Six wolves the singers had sent, to awaken six dreamers, and the last greenseer needed all their strength. But no matter what the grey star did, he could not reach the last of them, the lost princess who had sailed across the sea.
The moon turned dark. Lord Brynden drank from the wells, and when he was done, he cast the grey star back into his pit. There the grey star languished, deaf and dumb and blind. When the crow came, he ignored it, intent on the ripples of power that hung upon the air. The last greenseer was assailing the abyss again, striving to pierce the void so he might strike at the heart of winter. But it was to no avail; the ice fires rose ever higher.
The moon waxed from crescent to half. The grey star struggled to move the puppet, as if the strings were fraying in his grasp. When the spearmaid came again, he shook his head and closed his eyes, ignoring her entreaties.
Then she slapped him.
"Wake up!" The spearmaid shouted, angry tears welling in her eyes. "You have to move, you have to. If not for your own sake, than for his." She said the last word like a curse, jerking her head at the corpse lord.
That made the grey star angry.
"There's no point," he said bitterly, his tongue thick from disuse. "It doesn't matter, the body will always be broken, and useless, and weak. Just like me."
The spearmaid's eyes widened, afraid. "You're not- you never-" she swallowed hard. "Just a few exercises. Please."
She was weeping openly now, her nose and cheeks turning red. That wasn't right; the spearmaid was the cheerful one, the one who kept them all together on the long journey to the greenseer's cave. He would not be here, if not for her.
"A few," the grey star mumbled, if only to keep his conscience clear.
The moon was almost full. The puppet and the spearmaid were tossing a rock back and forth when the air sparked, as if lightning were about to strike. The rock fell to the ground as the spearmaid darted away; she was already gone when the corpse lord's eye gleamed red.
"We will go now," Lord Brynden said.
A hard yank, and they were in the roots. The broken boy's mask did not seem to fit Lord Brynden properly; the legs were gone, leaving only formless darkness. Worse, they found the first three wells were only half full, though Lord Brynden drank them down all the same.
When they reached the fourth well, the grey star realized why they had come. The dark princess lay still as stone, with tears upon her cheeks and despair within her heart. The grey star should have been glad to see her yield without a fight, but somehow, this was even worse.
Lord Brynden did not seem to think so. He gorged greedily, and to the grey star's horror, he could feel the dark princess's well begin to empty. Lord Brynden had never taken so much before, never. A well could not restore itself if it ran too low, if he kept drinking the princess would surely die— suddenly, there was a sound like the flutter of wings. The wound vanished as if it never was, and the grey star was flung back into his pit.
It isn't enough, the grey star fretted when the crow came to keep him company. The godswood took shape around him; in the distance the red star was assailing the abyss again, with no more success than before.
It isn't, the crow agreed. For all his power, the greenseer is but one man.
A great man, the grey star said. He promised he would defeat them, and he will.
The crow regarded him with its beady eyes. A man's face swam in the depths of the pool, the head covered in bandages but for the lips which were bruised and blue. The lips twisted in a mockery of a smile, then pursed as if to blow a horn. When the grey star recoiled from the vision, the pool turned smooth and black once more.
One man may destroy the work of thousands, the crow said. The horn—
—will never be blown, the grey star insisted.
Lord Brynden wouldn't lie to him, he wouldn't. So what if the grey star had dreamt of a city in flames, a jade dragon screeching as it alighted upon a white tower, its rider holding a horn in his hand? The grey star was not supposed to look into the future, the greenseer said he lacked the skill and experience to do it properly. Visions of the future were unreliable anyways, fragmented and blurred, always changing.
The moon was dark as the abyss. Tenth moon, the spearmaid said, though the grey star did not know if she was right. Lord Brynden slept upon his throne, still weary from his last fruitless battle. When the grey star woke, he was visited by the singers and the spearmaid; when the grey star slept, he dreamt of the three-eyed crow.
Once upon a time, the crow began. There was a boy who dreamed of power. Power to do whatever he wanted, more power than anyone else ever had. But while his father was a lord, the boy was only a third son, and his elder brothers were strong. Once, the eldest punched him during a quarrel. Though the bruise soon healed, the eye did not; the pupil was ever opened wide, so wide the eye seemed black instead of blue.
Soon after, we sensed his promise from afar, and called to the dreamer. We did not know he would look into the heart of winter and laugh. We did not know that he would slay his own brother and dare the gods to prove themselves by striking him down. We did not know that his hunger would only grow as the boy grew into a man, a reaver, nor that he would at last reach out to the heart of winter, coveting it for his kingdom.
And the Others felt him trespass upon their realm, and smiled. For though they disdain all creatures besides themselves, they saw the power that flowed within his veins, almost as strong as that which you possess. They feigned terror at the reaver's coming, and flattered his ambition. When the reaver demanded a crown, they swore they would be his bannermen if only he released them from their bonds. When the reaver demanded life everlasting, they swore it could be done. And when the reaver left, they laughed, for the Others do not keep oaths, not even amongst themselves.
The grey star was still shivering when he awoke. Why must the crow tell him such stories? He knew enough already.
Lord Brynden kept close watch over the reaver, though he was too far away for him to touch. The galley with the black sails and red hull lingered amongst a chain of small islands, attacking each ship which came in sight, save the ships of the other pirates who followed the reaver's banner. Unlike her brethren, galley's crew took no plunder, only prisoners.
The reaver himself was confined to his sick bed. Flesh sizzled beneath the venom's hungry tongue, barely restrained by the spells of captive warlocks long since slain. Nor did the wound improve beneath the hands of a wizard, nor the potions of an alchemist, both of whom were cruelly killed for their failure. As months passed, the venom gnawed away first the reaver's brow, then his scalp. When the white skull began to show beneath the raw red meat, the mutes grew more desperate.
Why do they obey him? The grey star had asked Lord Brynden once, as they watched the mutes drag three short, swarthy women off a carrack. Any one of them could slit his throat while he slept.
Why does a beaten dog not tear out his master's throat? The last greenseer sighed. They have been taught fear for so long that they remember little else. They never know if he is watching. For all they know, he has taken the body of one of their fellows, and makes it dance like a puppet on strings. Even if they slew him... what would stop him from taking a new body?
If he could do that, then why does he want the old one healed? The grey star asked, tentatively, lest the last greenseer take offense.
His own body is the most powerful, Lord Brynden said. And the reaver is as vain as he is arrogant. He believes he must be healed, for it is his destiny to blow the horn, and become a new god.
That had been at least two moons ago; since then, things had only gotten worse. Where all others failed, the trio of women had succeeded. Their bald, pointed heads had shone in the moonlight as they sang songs over the weeping wound, the rippling harmony making drops of venom shrivel and disappear as the edges healed. No wonder the gold-green star said the strongest spells were songs of power. The song was so beautiful you could almost forget the bloody wounds across the women's naked backs, the ones which had convinced them it was better to sing than to die.
Next the moonsingers were dragged to the cargo hold. The dragon snarled as he paced his cramped den, his eye black and rotten. Whilst two sang the beast to sleep, the third scooped the rot from the socket, cleansing it with vinegar and basting it with honey. Even the dragon's crest and scales seemed to shine more brightly when they were done.
The reaver was on his feet at last, and smiled when he saw their work. His blue eye gleamed as he brought forth a wooden box, and showed them an old warhorn. It was banded in bronze, the rim chipped, a crack running up its length. And all three moonsingers drew away from it, afraid, and would not sing a note.
Half moon came, then full. The horn is as broken as me, the grey star told himself as the galley abandoned the isles, sailing first south, then west. The mutes were able sailors; they might lack tongues, but they still had their strength and wits. They spoke by making signs with their hands, and used whistles and horns in the dark, rain, and fog. And whilst the mutes ran the ship, the reaver ran bloody hands over the cracked warhorn, murmuring to himself as the moonsingers gasped and screamed and died.
How? The grey star asked that night, when the crow haunted his dreams. Nothing had ever scared him so much as the sight of the warhorn shining whole once more, except perhaps the thought of angering the last greenseer.
Any fool can cast a spell, when so much blood is spilled. The crow gave a raucous caw. Blood is life and power, even stolen blood, which is the weakest of all. Blood given freely is much stronger, and one's own blood is strongest of all.
Why? The grey star did not understand.
The crow cawed again, flicking his wings and tail.
Men are born of flesh and spirit both, the crow said. Darkness and light, order and chaos, love and hate, earth and air, ice and fire. All have their place; it is for each man to choose the path that he will walk, the life that he will live. There is a power in that, as potent as any magic, if more subtle.
The grey star pondered that for a moment, considering. Then how are the Others so strong? Do the wights want to be wights?
The crow's shriek almost deafened him.
NO, it cawed.
That is why they must make so many of them; the power they draw from their thralls is stolen. Those they kill become spirits trapped deep within their bodies, lingering betwixt life and death. They cannot control their flesh, only watch it be used against their will. The Others make a sport of it, sending wights after their own kin, savoring their torment. Cruelty is their meat and mead, conquest their only desire. There is nothing they would not do to achieve their ends.
And, the crow said, its voice low. There is nothing the greenseer would not do to stop them.
The moon was dark as pitch. This time when Lord Brynden donned his mask, only the lord crow let him drink in peace. The king of winter hesitated and argued; the wild prince screamed and raged that his brother had not yet come home; the dark princess refused to submit, but fought even harder than she had before.
Yet, to the grey star's surprise, Lord Brynden did not seem angry. If anything, he seemed amused.
What is it, my lord? The grey star asked when the draining was done. Do you have a new spell to fight the Others?
I do not need a new spell. The red star flared, blinding him. I need more strength, and upon the solstice, I will have it. Until then, I must look to days yet to come; we are done here. And, almost gently, he flung the grey star out of the roots, back into the darkness of the cavern.
That night, the grey star dreamt of a godswood.
It rose up from the mist, so familiar it made his heart ache. Steam wafted gently from the hot pools; birds twittered and chirped in the trees. The deep layers of humus smelt damp and earthy; when he dug his hand into it, he found earthworms wriggling amongst the last remnants of rotten leaves and twigs, the shells of insects and the bones of some small animal, all within a cushion of rich, pillowy soil.
Their dying returns life to the earth, so that new life may sprout from what came before. The crow landed atop the rock beside the black pool. All things decay, in the end.
All things, the grey star said, except the Others.
The crow tilted its head, the third eye keen. Water rippled, then the black pool turned clear as a looking glass, as though they looked through a window.
Beneath the bloody light of a setting sun, a pirate fleet rolled upon the waves, led by a galley with black sails. In the distance an island rose from the sea, grey as iron. Beside it, across a great stone bridge, stood a strange castle. Its keeps and towers were heaps of craggy stone, mounted atop a dozen stacks of rock, joined by swaying bridges of wood and rope.
The sun dipped under the horizon, and a shriek echoed over the world. Thunder cracked as the dragon took to the sky. The last light of dusk made his crest and the sheer membranes of his wings shine like bronze, his scales as hard and green as jade. Glyphs shimmered like fire upon the smoky steel of the reaver's scaled armor and dragon helm; his whip of barbed steel bit deep into the scarred flesh of the dragon's neck as he spurred it onward.
It seemed only an instant before the dragon landed atop the tower which stood furthest out to sea. It was sheer and crooked, older than the rest. Salt spray gnawed at the base, which was white and pockmarked; the top was black with soot, and crowned by an iron mast which bore a black banner blazoned with a golden kraken.
One gout of dragonflame, and the banner turned to ash; a second gout set the rope bridge which led to the tower alight. Beneath the dragon's claws, a guard moaned in agony, his body crushed from the weight of the dragon's landing. As if annoyed, the dragon bit off the man's head with a snap of his jaws, gulping it down in one swallow.
"Save your appetite," the reaver laughed. "Patience, patience; the main course is yet to come. You must not scorn my brothers' hospitality."
Don't, the grey star murmured to the black pool.
He did not know how many brothers the reaver had, but he knew they were no match for the dragon. The dragon was a monster out of a nightmare. His teeth and claws were sharper than valyrian steel, his breath hotter than the seven hells, his one bronze eye hard with malice.
When the brothers appeared, there were only two of them. One was a warrior, as muscled as a bull, his armor heavy plate. His warhelm was shaped like an iron kraken with a crown atop its head and long arms coiling down below his jaw. A golden cloak streamed from his broad shoulders; in his hand he bore a fearsome axe.
The other wore no armor at all. He was a priest, his roughspun robes the color of the sea, his long dark hair and beard woven with seaweed. His face was pale as he looked up at the reaver, wetting dry lips.
"Brothers!" The reaver's blue lips bared in an awful, mocking smile. "It has been too long."
"You are not welcome here," the warrior boomed. He hefted his axe, looking not at the reaver, but at the dragon, considering its missing eye, its long neck, its frail wings.
"No godless man may sit the Seastone Chair," said the priest.
Laughter burst from the reaver's lips; his shoulders shook with mirth.
"Oh, little brother," the reaver mocked. His one eye stared at the priest, blue as a summer sky. "You haven't changed a bit, have you?"
"The Drowned God is as changeable and powerful as the sea." The priest held the reaver's gaze, unblinking. The warrior edged forward, keeping to the side where the dragon was blind, his steps quiet as the grave.
"You are no Storm God, to strive with Him and live," said the priest. "You are only a bully, a madman drunk with arrogance. He Who Dwells Beneath the Waves is mightier than any dragon." The warrior raised his axe.
"And no fire can withstand His wroth, and no godless man may sit the Seastone Chair."
Quick as a snake, the dragon lashed out. The warrior went flying; his heavy plate crumpled as he smashed into the battlements. Limp as a ragdoll he lay, unmoving, his neck snapped.
"No one will sit the Seastone Chair, least of all me," the reaver said, smiling. "Your Drowned God is as weak as your king." He kicked the dragon; it advanced toward the fallen warrior, teeth bared.
The priest's eyes were wide and white; his lips trembled. He backed away from the dragon until his back pressed against the battlements. The wind howled between the crenels; the sea crashed down below.
"Now," the reaver said. "My dragon has a hunger. Be a good boy, and remove our brother's armor, and I'll let you have the mercy of a quick death."
"No," the priest stammered, shaking.
"Yes," the reaver laughed. "Though a slow death is more fun for me, I'll grant you. How long has it been since I came to visit you of an evening?"
The priest shook even harder, hugging himself like a frightened child.
"No," he stammered.
"Yes," the reaver smiled.
He began unfastening his saddle chains, his eye fixed on the priest. The priest stood as still as a statue, caught by that terrible gaze. The reaver did not look away, not for a moment, until he glanced down as he swung a leg over the saddle.
Swift as thought, the priest flew. For an instant he stood between the crenels, his robes flapping in the wind like wings, his head held high, his lips murmuring a prayer. Then he was gone, no more than a dark shadow plummeting toward the sea as the reaver cursed and swore.
The grey star woke covered in sweat. Frantically he seized the puppet's strings, clambering down from the throne, across the cavern, to vomit into the privy shaft. When the singers came, the puppet could not eat a bite of blood stew; nor could it stomach the dried reindeer meat of the spearmaid, not until a few days had passed, and the echo of the reaver's laughter faded.
The half moon hung overhead. Slagged stone was all that remained of the strange castle; the docks of the nearby harbor were scorched, a few charred masts poking up from beneath the waves. The pirate fleet had grown, joined by longships whose banners bore a red eye with a black pupil. Every prow pointed southwest, following the galley with the red hull; above the fleet circled the dragon, the reaver on his back.
Where is he going? The grey star asked. Someone has to stop him!
You are someone, the crow said. Why not you?
I can't. The grey star wanted to cry; instead he gestured at his useless legs. I'm only a sword, not a knight. It's the last greenseer you need, not me. His teacher would know what to do; he must have a plan, he must.
Yet as the full moon waned, the grey star's dread waxed. Why would Lord Brynden not wake from his slumber? Some instinct made the grey star uneasy; the reaver was dangerous, he had to be stopped now, before he hurt anyone else. Lord Brynden swore he would never blow the horn of winter, but what other ruin might he wreak, with a dragon at his command?
The moon was dark, the solstice drawing near. The puppet ate and exercised in a numb stupor, and the grey star hid himself in the loveliest visions he could find, of wild forests roamed by wolves, of burbling streams full of leaping trout. A godswood was no place for a grey star, especially not the one in which he so often found himself.
Dark wings flapped, and the grey star found himself there yet again. The crow perched in the branches of the heart tree, looking down at the sad solemn face graven into the trunk. The grey star wanted to flee, to forget that face he knew so well.
The last story is the most important, the crow cawed, and the grey star froze, hesitant.
Once upon a time, the crow began. There was a boy who dreamed of spring. Then winter came. Snow fell, and winds howled, and white shadows hunted through the dark, and it was his own father, the Bloody Blade, who led them. In terror the boy fled, and long years he wandered, seeking for the singers, to ask our aid against the foe, and at last, the last hero found us.
On the Isle of Faces, a pact was sworn betwixt the kindreds. With our help, men drove the shadows north, aided by the giants, whose friendship the last hero had also won. All three kindreds built the Wall, just as all three kindreds labored to build refuges against the shadows. For though the spells of the Wall were strong, there is no spell that cannot be undone, no barrier that cannot be broken. And Brandon the Builder named himself the Stark of Winterfell, and his sons took up his work when he was gone.
Centuries passed. There was peace between our kindreds, aside from petty quarrels and brief skirmishes. Fear of the white shadows ebbed, and a Stark, a lord commander of the Night's Watch, wandered far beyond the Wall. And in the snows of winter, he found a woman, and desired her, though her touch was so cold it burned his flesh. For men had forgotten that there were a few women among the Others, spearwives who had gladly followed the Bloody Blade to his doom.
And the lord commander saw her power, and desired it even more than the woman. He named himself the Night's King, and took the Nightfort for his seat. Together they slew the sworn brothers of the Watch and raised them up as wights, a host for the Night's King to lead. The corpse queen could not go beyond the shadow of the Wall; it was the Night's King who rode south to hunt when they grew tired of toying with the wildlings, whose desperate pleas had gone unheeded. In the end, it was another Stark who slew the Night's King, though only with the aid of a wildling chief, who brought a host of giants to the battle.
Were the Starks brothers? The grey star asked, remembering an old woman's creaky voice, the sound of her knitting needles clicking.
No, the crow cackled, annoyed. Cousins. That is not the point. The Night's King forgot the pact, and betrayed all three kindreds for his own selfish gain. But only a few centuries passed before other men began to do the same. Their little realms were not enough; they wished to rule over all they saw. They claimed the land was made for them; that the giants were ugly, stupid brutes, that the singers were demons in disguise.
For every clan of men who remained faithful and stood by our side, another stood against us. It was a King of Winter who slew the Warg King when he refused to bend the knee, and every greenseer who fought beside him was slaughtered. His grandson offered weregild when he was crowned the new king, but no weregild could revive the dead. When the Andals came, our allies were few, our enemies plentiful, and we retreated to wild places where men could not find us.
You let the last greenseer find you, the grey star said.
We have let many men find us, over the centuries, the crow said sharply. Those who intended no harm, those who asked for aid, rather than demand it. Now it is our turn to ask for aid. Your house owes us a debt, and the debt has come due.
That's not fair, the grey star protested, bewildered. I never- I didn't—
You are a Stark of Winterfell, the crow said. Half the north shares the blood of Brandon the Builder, but you were born within the walls we helped him raise, during a summer that only came because we have kept eternal winter at bay, even with the last greenseer sapping us of our strength. Six dreamers we awoke, and told the last greenseer it was for his sake, but it was for our own, so that we might be loosed from our chains.
The crow cackled angrily. The last greenseer laughed, when he saw you fall. Fate, he called it, a blessing from the old gods. Of all the children, you were his favorite. The other boys were too old or too young, one girl too sweet, the other too stubborn. But a crippled boy with a thirst for stories, why, that was the sort of child he might mold and shape to use as he pleased.
He wouldn't, the grey star said, his voice thin. He- Lord Brynden- it is fate, it is, we are meant to be one person, our names are the same—
NO, the crow shrieked. You are your own person, and your name is—
SHUT UP! The grey star screamed. Lord Brynden will win, and then we'll set you free.
His victory is not certain. And even if he wins, you will be in no state to help anyone, not even yourself. The crow pecked him hard, right between the eyes. What is the point of all you have seen, if not to learn from it? A life of thralldom is a bitter one; do not close the shackles about your own neck.
It's too late, the grey star said. He had come too far to start doubting his teacher now.
It is never too late, the crow said.
When the grey star awoke, it was the day before the solstice. Darkness clung to the world like a veil; when dawn came, it was hidden by thick black clouds that shrouded the sky. The morning went on, yet the singers never came, nor did the spearmaid come in the afternoon. Hunger gnawed at the puppet's belly, so fierce the grey star could not escape it by sleeping. All he could do was sit and wait, wait for Lord Brynden to come for him.
The moon was a thin sliver of a crescent, barely peeping from behind the clouds. Fire raced through the puppet's veins as Lord Brynden seized the broken boy in his grasp, the red star already swollen from his last feeding. Overwhelmed, the grey star could barely keep the mask upon Lord Brynden's face as they flew past a smoking island, plunging toward a ship whose prow bore a figurehead of a buxom maiden kissing the feathers of a bird in flight.
The cabin was small and cramped; there was nowhere to perch except a bench beneath the windows. Upon a narrow bunk slept a man with golden-brown skin and silvery hair. Beside him lay the lost princess, a maiden pale as moonlight with hair red as autumn. Why were they here, not in her dream?
The lost princess bolted upright, and stared straight at Lord Brynden, her eyes wide with fear.
"Olyvar," she whimpered, shaking the man by the shoulder.
He would have woken, had not the red star pulsed. There would be no interruptions, not on this night. If the lost princess would not sleep, he would make her sleep. The void swallowed her up, and she fell back upon the bed, limp, her last screamed word echoing in the grey star's ears, the mask falling away as if it had never been.
A thousand red eyes gleamed; tonight there would be no mummery, no pleas in another's voice. A single violent slash, and stardust poured forth, his for the taking. He drank it down, almost every drop, only halting when some unseen force drove him back with a sound like the fluttering of wings that Lord Brynden did not seem to hear. The dark princess was next, then the king and the wild prince, then the lord crow.
One moment the grey star was within a dream, watching Lord Brynden lap at stardust; the next he was outside the dream, floating in the midnight sky. Visions blurred before the grey star's eyes, flashes of the ruin wrought from the red star's gorging, the price of the power which swelled him so large he looked as if he might burst.
As if in a nightmare he returned to the ship's cabin. The silver-haired man clung to the lost princess, begging her to wake up, tears streaming down his face. Next was the silken tent, where a she-wolf ran from the dark princess's bed to the one on the other side of the tent, nipping and whining until two naked girls stopped kissing and rushed to the princess's side.
The world blurred. Now he was in the wild prince's chamber. A black direwolf dragged a wildling woman to the featherbed, his jaws clamped tight about her wrist. He blinked, and he was in the king's chamber. A lean direwolf leapt onto the bed, nuzzling the king as a naked woman cried for a servant, for the maester, hurry, hurry, hurry.
Last was the lord commander's cell, so cold, so empty. A white direwolf bared his teeth, his ears pinned back, his ruff bristling. He scratched at the door, throwing back his head in silent howls. When that failed, he heaved himself against a table; it fell with a crash that brought a grey-haired steward running.
Pack, a part of him whispered as the visions spun, as all five failed to wake, as those who loved them began to panic. He's hurting them.
Red light flared, and the visions were gone. The red star was massive; the few remaining stars began to fall into its orbit, closer and closer until it swallowed them up too. When they were gone, two vast windows spread across the sky. One looked down upon a city by the sea, the other upon the cavern of the greenseer.
Dizzy, the grey star turned his gaze on the city. Ships were clashing outside the harbor walls; arrows, caltrops, and javelins rained down upon the longships from war galleys flying white tower banners.
Overhead the reaver flew, his dragon shrieking, yet he made no attempt to aid the ships that bore his banners. Boarding parties fought and died, spilling their blood upon the decks, and the reaver let them die, intent on a black marble sept—
The grey star looked down upon the cavern. A stone slab lay upon the floor, at the foot of the weirwood thrones. Tree roots twined over the slab like chains, and in their midst lay the little grandfather, flat on his back, his mossy green eyes dull and staring. Singers surrounded him, their eyes hard as they stared at the corpse lord on his throne; the gold-green star stood over the boy, a shard of dragonglass in her hand.
It is time. Lord Brynden's voice was calm as a windless day; the red star shone even brighter than before. We must be as one, and only blood can seal that bond forever.
The grey star stared, speechless with horror. The sept was molten slag; the dragon turned on the domes and towers that lined the river.
Say the word, and it will be done, Lord Brynden urged. We can stop this battle, but there is always a price.
Atop the white tower, a white-haired old man and his daughter chanted, their voices in perfect unison. A glass candle burned in the woman's hand, tall and twisted, with edges sharp as any knife. Still chanting, the woman slashed her arm, her grey hair blowing in the wind as she passed the candle to the old man. He slashed his arm even deeper, yet their blood did not drip to the ground. Droplets hovered and rose, weaving a glimmering red net that soared through the sky and wrapped tight about the dragon's wings, seizing him fast, pulling him away from his prey and toward the tower, his jaws still spewing flame.
You have to help them! The grey star cried.
Somehow, the woman heard him. Her eyes met his; her chant faltered for an instant before she recovered herself.
Our power is needed elsewhere, Lord Brynden said, impassive. It will take all we have to do what must be done.
To smash the horn? The grey star said, frantic. He looked down at the little grandfather, then back at the dragon, snarling and thrashing against the flickering net.
To bring down the hammer of the waters. The red star gleamed, infinitely sad and weary. It is the only way. The horn will be blown; I have seen it. But all is not lost. The Wall may be doomed, yet we may shape a new one. The Neck is already half shattered; a strong enough blow will cleave the North away from the realms of men, and open a vein of molten fire that will burn for a thousand thousand years.
The old man and the woman swayed as they chanted, the dragon thrashing even harder as they drew the net toward the scorpions.
You have to help them! The grey star cried.
I cannot, the red star said. Not without your help. The boy has accepted his fate; he knows this is the day he dies. Say the word, and it will be done, the red star urged. Say the word, and his suffering will end.
"NO!" The spearmaid burst into the cavern, the direwolf at her heels. "Let him go," she shouted at the gold-green star, pointing her three-pronged spear at the singer's throat.
"I wish I could," the singer said. Her eyes darted to the corpse lord on his throne.
The spearmaid Meera, no, what are you doing ran at the corpse, her spear upraised. The next moment she was screaming, her legs shaking and staggering, her arms jerking and jolting like a puppet on strings.
No! The grey star cried. The direwolf Summer, I named him Summer snarled, lunging for the corpse. The spear descended, and the direwolf yelped in pain as it pinned his leg to the floor.
"This is the day I die," the little grandfather Jojen, Jojen NO rasped. The gold-green star flinched, and he met the singer's eyes, a strange look passing over his wan face.
They are your sworn bannermen, the red star said, impatient, his voice drowning out Meera's screams. The boy is willing; what are you waiting for?
A memory surfaced, unbidden. To Winterfell we pledge the faith of Greywater, they had said together, this boy and girl who would become his friends. Hearth and heart and harvest we yield up to you, my lord. Our swords and spears and arrows are yours to command. Grant mercy to our weak, help to our helpless, and justice to all, and we shall never fail you.
And they had fulfilled their oath, a thousand times over. They had brought the prince here, they had endured long years in darkness for his sake. How could he repay them thus? How was this mercy, how was this help, how was this justice?
Bolts tore through the sky, bouncing off the dragon's scales, tearing through his wings. He snarled and screeched, the net barely holding him.
Say it, the red star flared. Now, boy!
No, the prince said, trembling. I won't. It's not right.
You will say it, the red star snarled, and suddenly, he was a broken boy again. Magic cracked like lightning and he screamed, screamed as the pain washed over him, his arms seizing, his mouth frothing as the red star tried to make him say the words. He clamped his jaw shut, his nails digging into his palms as he clenched his fists, the world spinning faster and faster until feathers brushed against his eyes and all went dark.
He was back in the void. Visions of his pack raced by, faster and faster. Jon Snow soared above the haunted forest on raven's wings, hunting for a brother he never found. Arya and Rickon cuddled in bed, whispering of drinking horns and unicorn back rides, tears upon their cheeks. Robb sat at his desk, reviewing maps of the far North; Sansa wept as a wildling girl told her that her brother had crossed beyond the Wall.
Weak as he was, the broken boy could not let them die. They hovered above the abyss, tethered only by the strength which their direwolves shared with them, even the lost wolf, who died and yet still lived deep within his sister.
Wake, the broken boy cried, sending them all that was left of his meager strength.
Magic flared like lightning, yet there were no screams. His brothers and sisters stirred, still asleep, and suddenly all of them were in the void, clustered about him with tears on their cheeks. He wanted to embrace them all, but there was no time, there was none at all.
I need to wake too, he told them, before they could speak. Can you help me?
Lightning flashed, thunder cracked, and the broken boy awoke, his strength renewed, just as Jojen seized the dagger from Leaf and drove it deep into his gut.
"Be free," he gasped.
The broken boy and the red star screamed as one. With a snarl the singers hurled themselves into the roots, new stars popping up all around the red star, ringing him in as they blasted him with spells, led by the gold-green star. In the cavern Jojen lay dying upon the slab, Meera still held fast in Lord Brynden's grip, tears streaming down her cheeks as she struggled and strained.
The broken boy watched the stars battle, too weak to intervene, too weak to be of any use. None of the spells seemed to be working; each blast from the singers only made the red star stronger, so strong it shuddered from the weight of all the power it held. Why could they not hurt him?
We cannot be free of him whilst his strength lingers in our roots, the crow cawed in his ear. But he has never given you his strength, never, not once.
And the broken boy knew what he must do, and was afraid.
Can a man still be brave if he's afraid? The broken boy heard himself say. That is the only time a man can be brave, his father replied.
The godswood swam before his eyes. His father sat on the rock beneath the heart tree; his mother lay upon the ground beside the black pool. I am always proud of Bran, his mother said.
Roots dug into his fingers as the broken boy scrambled down from his throne, his legs thudding to the ground as he lunged for the trestle. It scraped across the stony floor of the cavern as he dragged himself toward the corpse lord, his rage frozen deep inside him. Lord Brynden had lured him here, had lied to him, had used him, as if he were only a sword, not a boy made from flesh and blood. Jojen was dying because of him; he had almost killed his brothers and sisters, he had almost sacrificed the entire North—
The broken boy reached the corpse lord's throne. The muscles in his arms bulged as he seized the corpse by the knee to pull himself up. The bone shattered beneath his grip; the legs pulled away from the rest of the corpse, which slumped against the back of the throne. The broken boy gritted his teeth as he grabbed the arm of the throne with one hand, using it to hold himself up; the other scrabbled at the corpse's ribs, determined to find his shriveled heart and rip it out.
The red star shook; red light flared. No matter how hard he yanked, the ribs resisted him, his fingers slipping in viscera as he tried to grab hold, the legs creeping back toward the torso, pulled by the weirwood roots which had no choice but to keep the corpse lord alive.
STOP, the red star boomed, pulsing in time with the shriveled heart, faster and faster. Dimly the broken boy was aware of a shimmering net fraying to pieces; he ignored it, reaching for the ribs again. STOP, YOU FOOLISH BOY—
"My name is BRAN!" He screamed, and yanked the corpse from its throne, flinging it to shatter against the stone floor.
The red star shuddered, trying to pull the pile of bones and rotten flesh back together around the fluttering heart. But Bran had torn him away from the roots; stolen strength no longer held his bones together, and the red star's power was so great that the bones were charring beneath his touch, the heart throbbing slower and slower.
Wait. Though the heart had almost ceased to beat, the red star blazed faster and faster, still swelling. I don't need that body; yours is mine for the taking, with the power I hold.
So much power, the gold-green star agreed, triumph in her voice. And you cannot hold it.
For an instant the red star was an eye, blinking in confusion. The next it filled the entire sky, exploding into a million shards of blinding light. Stardust swirled in heavy clouds, the remnants of all the greenseers Lord Brynden had devoured. As Bran watched, the dust began to swirl, drawing together in spirals that would become new stars. A part of him felt his brothers and sisters wake, shaken but whole; in the cavern Meera was cradling Jojen while Summer whimpered on the floor—
And above the Hightower, a brave old man and his daughter fell to the ground, dead. Their bloody net vanished as if it never was; the dragon flapped his shredded wings, landing atop the tower as the reaver raised a horn to his bruised lips.
NO, Bran said.
Spells might protect the reaver, but he had forgotten to protect the horn. The blue-grey star blazed with all the power which Lord Brynden had once stolen from him. No horn ever made could resist such power, not even this one; all he had to do was shatter it.
And he did, at the exact same moment the reaver filled his lungs and blew.
incoherent shrieking* so uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh YEAH. The FUCK. Please sound off in the comments; this chapter was a beast to write.
Many thanks to my boyfriend, who helped choreograph the final scene, and nearly scared me half to death by acting it out so well. Choreographing Tywin's death was much funnier.
Up Next
149: Jon VII
150: Epilogue (Theon)
Part V: Wolf Pack
NOTES*
I hit the character limit. Please see the comments if you'd like to hear my thoughts on why Bran is severely underrated as a character/POV.
1) Moon cycles! Oh, god. When I realized I wanted to reference the moon for the passage of time, I then realized I needed to, uhm, calculate that.
Since I could not make heads or tails of GRRM's precise lunar cycles, I gave up on adhering to canon. As there's a full moon in Chapter 3, Sansa II, which is late July 298, I looked for a year which also had a full moon in late July, and ended up picking 2002. So that's my basis for lunar cycles in this fic, with 298 AC = 2002 CE, and so on.
Once I figured that out, I went back into old chapters and changed every reference to moon phases to be accurate with that calendar. Thankfully, as I previously avoided mentioning moon phases because I didn't feel up to calculating them, I only had to make four changes.
Fun fact, it takes 29.5 days to go from one new moon to another, and the lunar cycle repeats every 19 years. Less fun fact, I now have a note specifically for tracking moon cycles for future chapters.
2) Bran's physical therapy exercises are based on real physical therapy for people suffering partial paralysis. Yeah, Meera doesn't have medical training, but they've had four years in a cave for her to develop a regimen for Bran using trial and error.
3) So in canon, Euron has one eye "blue as a summer sky" and one "black eye shining with malice." Rather than go with heterochromia, which Tyrion has (one green eye, one black), for Euron I took inspiration from David Bowie's eyes. Bowie's unique look was the result of anisocoria, where a person's eyes have pupils of different sizes. In Bowie's case, one pupil was permanently expanded thanks to a fistfight that resulted in a fingernail scratching his eye and paralyzing it.
4) I'm not sure if GRRM did this on purpose, but I lost my mind with glee when I realized snowflakes always form in hexagons, with six sides, because of how water molecules work. And this man went and wrote six Starklings with six direwolves?!?! :D
5) I'm not going to put my math in the notes every time, but I would like it known that I did calculate the distances/travel times between the Stepstones-- Pyke and Pyke-- Oldtown. Yes, Euron's venom-coma and healing moved at the speed of plot, lol.
6) While the field of stars is a metaphor for the astral plane, I did use a scientific basis. Bloodraven's red star became a massive red giant, then a supernova, then collapsed into a planetary nebula. Fun fact: red stars are some of the coldest, while blue stars are hottest. Bran is a "blue-grey" star, though he's always called grey for short hand; that's the second hottest color of star.
Shoutout to the Pillars of Creation! Thank you, NASA scientists, and everyone even remotely involved in building telescopes to let us see into the depths of eternity.