BRAN
The red leaves of the weirwood rustled in the morning breeze, a swarm of crimson butterflies fluttering amongst the branches. The face carved into the trunk staring out into the winter wood, Bran felt the bloody eyes piercing his own.
He felt a stronger connection to the weirwood since the dead breached the wall. His visions more vivid and more frequent, I know not what they mean, they must mean something…they must. Bran's dreams beneath the sea were full of wisdom and wonder, terror and trauma, splenda and suffering. He often found sleep troubling, spending many a day and night out in the godswood, in the wind, in the rain, in the snow, yet he never felt cold, wet nor tired.
Bran wondered if his humanity was slipping away, the time he spent in his physical body felt empty, hollow, almost without purpose. He knew he had to learn to see better, that he would have a role to play in the coming conflict. I must uncover the secrets of these visions, to see better. They MUST mean something, how can they not? Will they show me how the dead are defeated; will they show me how the dead will triumph? Will they show me why they've awoken now? Bran remembered seeing the thousands of undead at the foot of the wall beneath Eastwatch, hearing the shattering roar of the Night Kings mount as it soared through the air. There's nothing to stop them now, they're coming for us, he's coming for me.
He was bundled in layers of clothing, an onion of black leather and brown furs, packed tightly into his chair. Removing his gloves, sitting up straight, he stared down the weirwood face. Sensing a deep surge of energy, he felt his eyes close over and his hands grip the wooden handle.
He found himself in a shrouded forest, his breath forming a white cloud in front of his face with every exhale. The hour was late, the stars dotted the night sky above the trees, silver blotches amidst a black canvas.
Manoeuvring about the trees across the snow that coated the forest floor, he saw the outline of a structure through the mist. Two smaller huts flanking a larger third hut in the centre, wooden spikes protruded from each one in pairs of two along the beams of the sloped roofs and along the edges. There were fires burning bright in braziers either side of the main hut as well as a few scattered throughout the camp.
Crasters' Keep
As Bran got closer, he could see the perimeter of skewered wooden barbs circling the array of huts, plumes of smoke became more visible swirling in the wind as they rose above the keep.
A man appeared from the smaller hut to the left, carrying something in his arms wrapped in cloth. Bran couldn't quite see his face but followed him as he traversed outside the camp. The wind was fierce as it whistled amongst the trees yet Bran could not feel it on his face nor could he sense the snow beneath his feet as it shuffled over his shoes.
The man ahead came to a stop between two trees, kneeling down at a small bush, Bran saw him conceal the carried object underneath the brush. Standing turning to face him, Bran saw the depraved, twisted look on the man's face, a thin beard covered his mouth and face, patches of yellow and brown spotted throughout the hairs, his eyes were grey, soulless and sullen. Scars carved the pale skin on his forehead and cheeks. This must be Craster…what is he doing out here? He thought, as the wildling man walked past him as if he wasn't there.
The brush then started to fuss and rustle, taking a few steps forward, Bran could see the bundle of cloths rocking and shifting in the snow. A babe…newborn, the infant had rosy, red cheeks and clear blue eyes. It shook the fabrics from its arms and started waving them in the air. It began to cry and wail as the wind whipped up the cloths surrounding it.
The wind began to coil around the tree trunks like a viper circling its prey, the wood slowly began to turn to ice, icicles draping from the leaves as they formed spears of blue and silver.
Bran could see a shape in the darkness ahead, the darkness then took form above the child as it got closer. Two blue steely eyes came into view as a figure of ice emerged. Gathering the bundle in its arms, it simply vanished into the night air. It took it, it took the child. But why? What reason could it want an infant? For what use?
A twig snap behind him made swivel on the spot, crouched next to a tree he saw a young brother of the nights watch. Dressed in black leather with a dark cloak upon his shoulders, sword in hand was Jon Snow. He looked as young as he did when Bran saw him last, his black curls shadowed his grey eyes. His short beard faintly traced his jawline forming a thin moustache above his upper lip.
Before Bran could call out to him, he felt a familiar surge rotating him on the spot, the ground twisting and turning beneath him, the trees blurring and meshing together as his vision became hindered and he felt his eyes close over once more.
A pounding boom thundered in his ears as the surroundings came into view. A sea of white and grey huts stood before him, the wind blew fast and fierce bellowing through the camp. Snow figures passed him left and right carrying weapons, firewood and animal carcasses. Fires whipped and cracked in braziers sporadically scattered as the flames blazed wicks of red and orange.
A shadow fell over him as another boom ruptured in his ears, looking above him Bran saw a giant pass over him, carrying a log twice the size of its own body. A long mane of grey and silver hair flowed down its back; a smoky white bushy beard covered half its face matching the garbs that coated its massive figure.
Making his way through the encampment, Bran found himself in front of a huge bonfire, standing twenty feet high, the flames licking the edges of the clouds as they reached into the air. Rows of benches surrounded the fire, some occupied but most were empty. Looking to the far-left Bran saw two wildings eating two rabbits skewered on a wooden stick. Once again Bran saw the black curls of Jon Snow, tinted with speckles of white, this time dressed in the ashen clothing of the wildlings. Shoulder to shoulder with him was a girl, hair the colour of fire, wild and dazzling to look upon.
He moved along the bench behind them, taking a seat as he watched them finish their meal, "So what's it like, top of the wall?" He heard her ask
"It's an amazing thing to see, I remember the first time I saw it, with my uncle Benjen. Forests and iceland for miles and miles, sometimes I wondered what was out there, beyond the haunted forest, the frost fangs, the skirling pass. Ha, I never thought I'd be this far north, let alone with a wildling."
"We won't be this far north for much longer Jon Snow, when we take Castle Black, those lands south of the wall will become ours. Mance will be our king and we'll be safe from the darkness."
"You think the other lords of the north will just allow you to stay?"
"They won't be able to stop us, we are a hundred-thousand strong. There's no army in the south with a force that powerful."
"You might have a strong force, Ygritte, but it's not an army. You've no siege weapons, no cavalry, you're not even armoured. Your army is no army. You wouldn't stand a chance against them."
"You don't know that."
"I do Ygritte, I know it." Lowering his voice to almost a whisper, "If the nights watch doesn't stop you, the northern lords will."
Ygritte, who is she? Bran wondered How did Jon end up here, with the wildlings? Where are his brothers? So many questions, too many…I have to know the answers…do I…does it matter? Does this matter? Yes, I must know, all questions must be answered.
The wildling Ygritte scolded as she tossed the rabbit carcass off to the side. "We have the numbers Jon Snow and we have the will to make it." She said confidently. "You won't make it Ygritte, all the times a king-beyond-the-wall has attacked the south, they've failed. This time will be no different."
"You know nothing Jon Snow, cos this time is different. We may be attacking you southerners but we're not invading, we're running…running for our lives…and you know exactly what from. You've seen them…with your own eyes and you can't deny the danger they pose to us here."
"So, all we want is the safety all you southerners have, to hide behind your wall…to hide from the darkness when it comes. And we have you to help us, you know Castle Black better than any of us, you can help us take it swiftly." She paused as she faced Jon, putting her hand on his.
"I know you Jon Snow, you're no oath-breaker. You didn't stop being a crow when you stepped into Mance Rayder's tent. But I'm your woman now Jon Snow and you're going to be loyal to your woman. I understand your oath to your crow brothers but when we hit Castle Black none of them will be safe, so when we do, you and me…we slip through and head south."
Bran saw Jon narrow his eyes at the red-haired wildling.
"I have no desire for bloodshed." She continued, "All I want is to be safe…with you…and we can be." Bringing her lips to his, Ygritte pulled herself into him, Jon held her close as they embraced.
The two figures became one in the shadow of the pyre behind as it began to burn brighter, Bran rose to his feet as the bonfire started to bend and warp into different shapes. Crackling and snapping as scraps of wood began to fly out in every direction.
The light had Bran almost hypnotised, it blocked his surroundings from view, consuming his vision as the glare expanded ever further. Strands of gold, orange and red whistled past him, black embers scratched at his legs and feet whilst grey smoke suffocated his senses. Voices started to whisper in his ears and shout in the distance, he couldn't make sense of the words, they blurred together like a foreign tongue.
"Who's there! Hello? Jon! Are you there? Can you hear me?"
'Aaaaaaaawwwwoooohhhhhhh' The howl of a far off Direwolf was the only reply speedily followed by the 'Caw Caw Caw Caw' of a distant crow.
When the smoke cleared from his vision, he found himself in a corridor with a door standing before him. The wood was split into two shades of colour, the left was a deep red with shades of black and gold running around the edges. The right was a cool blue with splashes of white and grey in zig-zags originating from the centre protruding outwards.
The door had no handle but when Bran approached, he heard the latch drop as the wood slowly creaked open, entering apprehensively Bran saw a bed positioned lengthways across the room. The sheets were dishevelled and messy, the colours were faded, grey and brown with patches of black. Looking further Bran could see stains of red leading to a weary woman at the head of the bed. Beads of sweat graced her forehead, soaking into her brown luscious locks that lay about her shoulders and arms. She turned to meet his eyes as she took another ragged breath.
Aunt Lyanna?
A man came into view at the far side of the bed, a tall man with a handsome face, violet eyes and silver hair. Bran could sense a quiet sadness from the man as he looked towards him.
Prince Rhaegar?
"The Prince who was promised." His voice was silky smooth as it filled the room, "A boy, Lyanna, born of the dragon and the wolf, the blood of Old Valyria and the blood of the first men, coursing through his veins, he will be the one."
"Our boy Aegon, will do great things my love." The voice of his Aunt Lyanna was quiet, just more than a whisper.
"He will do more than that, he will be more than that and you must tell him…Brandon."
Bran felt his mouth agape and his eyes widen as he stumbled backwards through the door frame. When he regained his composure, he looked back to find the room empty, save for a small podium in the centre. The structure was comprised of dragonglass blocks that glistened with small specks of silver. Atop the platform a small fire smouldered, a blue winter rose lay in the centre untouched by the flames. Snow was descending on the poignant flower seemingly from the open air above. Bran noticed the platform start to sink as the fire started to extinguish itself and the winter rose lost its petals and began to shrink and slump over. Taking a few steps back, Bran could see the dragonglass melting into the ground, as it spread across the floor, the stone beneath began to crack and break. The black liquid started crawling up the walls as it reached the edge of the room, slithering across the ceiling like a black shadow. As the roof became consumed, Bran felt the darkness reach out to him, slowly shrinking towards the ground as the room got smaller. Turning to the door, Bran found it encased in black stone. Nevertheless, he ran to it pushing against, then through the darkness.
The darkness dissipated into a large room in disarray, to the right arched windows lined the walls in pairs of two. Metal bars formed lattices in compact squares between the stone pillars, some were ripped apart, others were warped and melted in twisted shapes. Six round pillars paved the length of the room reaching high to the ceiling, the first two to the right were badly damaged, chunks had been blown from the stone scattered across the ground. Snow lay upon the debris coating it in a layer of white, as Bran looked up he could see cracks and holes in the ceiling above, parts of the stone had broken away clearing paths for the snowfall. The furthest two pillars away appeared to have been set alight, they were blackened with small piles of ash at their feet. A ring of spikes surrounded the base of each pillar like a necklace, the tips blacker than the night sky, several were snapped to half their original size protruding jagged edges. Gazing down to the end of the grand hall, Bran could see the pillars led to a set of steps mounting to a grand throne some fifteen feet into the air.
The Iron Throne
The steps were smeared with snow, chunks were clumped together forming grey mounds across the blanket with flecks of black dotted throughout. Scaling the steps, the sheer volume of swords was astounding to Bran. They obtruded from every orifice, twisting this way and that way, a mountain of steel forged together in fire and brimstone into the ultimate symbol of power. Reaching the top, Bran observed the throne before him, a black seat, it appeared hazardous to sit upon. Swords rose around the top of the back of the chair in an overarching circle. The hand rests were made of purely distorted metal, a thousand spikes swirled and extended along the sides. Extending a hand, Bran went to touch the chair before pulling back as a shadow flew over him. Looking back around the throne room, it remained empty, Bran felt an unease wash over him. The gentle snowfall continued to gracefully fall from the damaged ceiling, flying on the wind as it looped through the arched windows.
"Hello!" Bran called out "Is anyone there!?"
Nobody answered Bran but the silence, turning back to the throne, Bran heard a faint screech yet saw nothing. Suddenly enamoured by the throne, he felt the urge to sit upon the rugged chair. Grabbing the left side, Bran adjusted himself to take a seat, yet when he lowered himself, he never felt the cold metal touch his back.
Instead, he was falling, falling backwards, falling so far, so fast. The hall had turned to dust and a grey waterfall flew before him. Sinking into the abyss, Bran felt a weightlessness to his body as he began to get flashes of events before his eyes. Twisting and turning, he was able to right himself up giving him a sensation of flying.
The flashes were brief but vivid, rapid and fierce, splices of the past, present and future. Bran saw Kings Landing with the winged shadow of a dragon gliding overhead. He saw the Iron Throne in ruins, ash and snow casing the warped metal. A sword burning bright with the power of a thousand dragons, the flames ingrained into the metal weaving through the steel like crimson sharks swimming through a sea of lava. Bran saw a figure pull the sword from the shadows raising it high as the scream of a woman assaulted his ears.
A large lake appeared with the castle of Harrenhaal visible in the distance. An island resided in the centre with a weirwood tree larger than any Bran had ever seen. In a split second, it manifested into the eye of an ethereal being, a crystal blue eye with an emerald iris, flickered with hazel specks. The eye then split into a thousand weirwood trees, each with a face carved into the wood. The trees then started to blacken as the faces became twisted and malicious, they began to cry sap tears of blood, the red liquid steamed and melted the wood as it ran down. The scarlet leaves set alight, burning the branches in a magnificent blaze of golden ruby flames. To his left Bran noticed a barrage of flaming arrows soaring through the darkness, they fluttered through the air like so many candles lighting the way. He then heard a thundering of hooves coming from the horizon, an enormous line of cavalry was charging beneath the bombardment, the silhouettes mounting the horses waved curved blades in the air. A piercing 'Lelelelelelelelelele' emanated from the warriors as the tremendous noise grew closer.
He could see long braids whipping and cracking from behind their backs as they straddled their mounts. 'Lelelelelelelelelelele…Lelelelelelelelelelel'. The cavalry stretched far beyond what Bran could see, it seemed to go on forever. Edging closer and closer, the ground began to shake ever more violently until it knocked Bran off his feet. Falling to the ground. Bran felt another surge, as he blinked, he found himself back in the godswood, gripping the handles of his chair so tightly his fingers were white. He could feel beads of sweat on his forehead and a deep pain in the back of his head.
"Bran?"
Samwell Tarly stood to his right with a concerned look.
"You're back, you've been out here for hours."
Shifting in his chair, Bran felt the snow trickle and slide from his furs. The whiteness completely overlaid his legs and feet yet the cold did not touch them.
"Are you alright, Bran?"
"Yes Sam, I'm fine."
"Let's get you inside, I'll fetch Maester Wolkan."
Bran felt the heat of the fire yet received no warmth from it, reaching his hands towards the fireplace, the visions swirled in his mind as the flames swirled amongst the embers, Bran could almost see each one within the dancing colours. They were clearer than a memory. Why am I seeing these things, what do they mean? He wondered, Rhaegar called Jon the Prince that was Promised, what does that mean? Craster was giving up his sons to the White Walkers, Jon witnessed it? How long had this been happening? Why?...and how? Some many questions…I must see better…I must
Bran wondered if his visions were consuming him, they filled each and every one of his thoughts. After long sessions in the godswood, he sometimes felt himself slipping away…and yet he knew this was his purpose. He knew had a part to play.
There was a knock at the door, Samwell returned carrying a large book accompanied by Maester Wolkan. Setting the book down on the table, Sam cleared a space moving about stray pieces of parchment and scrolls, carefully manoeuvring the candles lighting the room to the edges.
Maester Wolkan rounded the table behind Bran, rotating his chair forward to face the table.
"How are you feeling Bran?" The maester asked "Sam tells me you were out there again for some time."
"I'm fine Maester Wolkan, I promise. My visions were quite strong this time and they've been becoming more intense every time. The connection I have to the weirwoods is getting stronger by the day, it has to be for a reason and it's up to me to find out what that reason is."
The maester gave a slight nod before taking his place at the edge of the table. Samwell opened the large book, flicking the pages about a quarter way through. The sheets lined with details of his visions; Sam had been recording them in an attempt to decipher their meaning. With the frequency of the visions now, they were a solid point of reference to return to. At times the visions became muddied and seemed to overlap, occasionally Bran found himself reliving the same one but with one aspect slightly altered in some way.
Sam inked his quill as he found the next available space of parchment, "Ok Bran, what did you see this time?"
Retelling everything he saw and felt, he watched as Sam wrote intently dipping the quill between visions. Bran could see his eyes flare wildly as he heard the terrific, mysterious tales. Maester Wolkan listened attentively, his eyes focused and intrigued.
"What do you think these mean Bran?" queried Sam.
"You once said Jon is the one to lead the fight against the dead, I think he has the most important part to play. All the most recent visions, they all seem to be revolving around Jon." Bran replied. "I saw him at Craster's Keep, then again in the wildling camp. Then our Aunt Lyanna…" He trailed off…Sam caught his eye…
They had kept Jon's true parentage a secret from good old Maester Wolkan, they agreed he seemed a harmless elderly man yet neither had known him very long so the bond of trust was not there thus far. Bran knew Jon was the only one they could tell. He must be the first to know, others will know in time…in time
"What about the throne room, Bran?" The maester broke him from his thoughts
"You saw the Iron Throne surrounded by debris enfolded in snow?"
"Winter is here for us all Maester Wolkan. Perhaps the dead will reach the Capital, imagine…a city of one million…decimated" Bran replied.
"What about the end Bran?" Sam said, breaking the silence. "The warriors of the cavalry charge, could you see them, what they looked like?"
"No, they were like shadows, simply silhouettes on horseback. The barrage of flaming arrows did nothing to illuminate them. All that stood out was their braids, they all appeared varying in lengths as they charged towards me. I was back before they managed to reach me."
"What about the sounds you heard?" added Wolkan. "You say you heard the howl of a wolf and a screech in the throne room, what do you suppose they mean?"
"The Starks have a strong connection with the direwolves, we all had fierce bonds with our own wolves, we trained them, we fed them, we raised them beneath this roof. Jon always had the strongest attachment to Ghost. Maybe that was the only way he could try to communicate in the vision. As for the screech, it was so faint and distant it could have been anything."
Sam placed the quill on the desk, scanning the words on the page before closing the book. "Jon will be returning soon Bran; you think these visions will mean anything to him?"
"I'm not sure, he might not understand how it's possible."
"Are you meant to be looking for something in these visions Bran?" interjected Wolkan.
"The Three Eyed Raven was teaching me when I was beyond the wall, he was training me to see better. He was guiding me through the past, showing me what I needed to see. He would often say when the time came, I would see exactly what I needed to see."
"And what happened to him?" questioned Wolkan
"He was murdered by the White Walkers when they breached the cave beneath the weirwood where we were."
"So, you're searching for something that will…defeat the White Walkers."
"I believe so, but without the guidance of the three eyed raven it's been difficult. He would control the visions we were in. He made sure I didn't stay beneath the sea for too long, now he's not here…I find it difficult to manage at times."
"Is there anything we can do?" Pried Wolkan.
"No, this is something I can only do myself."
"Very well, if you'll excuse me gentlemen, I must continue work on the accounts with Lady Stark." Rising he bowed before taking his leave.
"You think we should tell him?" posed Sam once the old man had departed.
"No, not till we tell Jon. He has to know first."
"Right…was there anything else you saw you think might be of import?"
"I saw Prince Rhaegar holding Jon as a baby."
"You did?" Sam said excitedly, hastily grabbing his quill once more.
"Don't record this Sam, we can't risk Wolkan reading your notes. He can't find out what we're keeping from him. He was at her bedside, he sired Jon, 'The Prince who was Promised'."
"The Red Woman, at Castle Black. She called Stannis the prince who was promised. She believed he was the chosen one, the one to defeat the white walkers, to save us from the darkness."
"The Red Woman?" quizzed Bran
"Melisandre was her name; she was a red priestess from Asshai. She accompanied Stannis when he came to the Wall."
"Was she the same priestess that brought Jon back from the dead?"
"The very same…and after she did, she believed Jon was the prince who was promised."
"What happened to her?"
"Jon banished her from the north for…a most egregious crime."
"The Princess Shireen." said Bran
"How…how did you know about that?"
"I've seen it, in my visions. I've seen what happened to her. Why do you think this red priestess believed Stannis to be the one?"
"I don't know…but as soon as she saw her sorcery worked on Jon, she followed his every move."
"Do you know where she is now?" asked Bran
"No." replied Sam
"I might see if I can find her, uncover her whereabouts."
"She could be anywhere Bran; she could be sailing the Summer Sea returning to Asshai by now."
"I wouldn't be so sure Sam. Could you take me back to the godswood, I need to go under again."
"So soon Bran? You've only just come out. At least rest first."
"I can't Sam, these visions are showing me the way, revealing what I need to see, what I need to know. I can't rest until I find it…please Sam…our very lives could depend on it."
Rising in a slight huff, Sam moved to the door calling to the guard outside. As the two men manoeuvred his chair out the room, down the corridor, across the courtyard and into the godswood. Bran's thoughts churned in his mind, So many questions yet the answers lie behind hints and riddles. If only it were simpler, I need to control my visions…I need to. I wonder where this red priestess may be, what role will she have to play, if she does reside halfway across the world, has her part already been played? Was she solely needed to resurrect Jon. He seems to be forming the centrepiece of my visions, he is the one to lead the fight against the dead, mayhaps he must be the one to defeat them…maybe…maybe…