Chapter 9 - A Cruel Chrysalis

"We received another hundred suits of Robb's new munition armor," said Jon, between spoonfuls of watery soup. He wouldn't have known the details of the Watch's stockpiles if he'd been a ranger, perhaps he'd misjudged his placement. "A breast plate, a back plate, some tassets to protect the thighs, but it offers little to protect a man's arms or legs. And Robb only sent ten new recruits. Why send us extra half suits when we don't have the men to fill them? Why not build fewer suits, but build them right? I don't get it. What is he seeing that I'm not?"

"The tits of a certain blonde southerner," said Grenn, nodding to himself. "I hear our great young lord has been collared like a pup. Wish I could ride south and see them for myself. I'd like to get a look at the lass whose breathy whispers felled the mighty Warden of the North."

"Ser Alliser's a liar or a fool," said Pyp, his voice a bit too loud. Jon allowed himself a smile. There were a few men in the Night's Watch he'd gladly call brothers, a few men with good sense. "The lord's not like you or me. He doesn't have to impress a woman or please her to get inside her. If he wanted her, he'd just take her. If she spoke up, he'd just have her killed. Or sent to the Wall."

Or perhaps not.

"Robb would never," said Jon, heat in his voice. Perhaps such things happened in the south, but a northern lord's honor would never allow them to do something so despicable. Pyp was a fool. "And the rumors aren't true. I saw 'im mehself, the man my fa- The man Lord Stark made a deal with was an old soldier named Lother Brune, not some whore from King's Landing. He had gray in his hair. He'd seen his share of battles, and knew what he was about. If Robb isn't selling us full sets, I say there's a damn good reason for it."

"Speed," said Sam eagerly. "Have you noticed that all the bits making up each part of the armor are the same? It may not function quite as well as an entire suit of armor, but it comes close enough, and you can build six sets of munitions armor for every full suit. It's revolutionary, in a few years they'll be all you see in a battlefield, you'll see."

"Perhaps," said Jon, tapping his finger on the table. "But we still don't have the men to wear it. Last I heard, all of the recruitment efforts in the southern kingdoms have failed. We can't pull more than one man in fifty from the fields without causing collapse, so how's he planning on filling all these unfinished suits? Robb knows something we don't."

More men would be nice. More than nice, they bloody needed more men, but where would they be coming from, if not the South? There were a couple options Jon could think of. Perhaps the white walkers were closer to the Wall than imagined, and the Long Night was upon them. Then Robb would send all the men he could, their food reserves be damned. Perhaps tomorrow was the end of the world. It certainly seemed more likely than the only other alternative Jon could imagine. If Robb couldn't get men from the kingdoms to their south, he'd get them from the kingdom to his north.

"Hopefully," said Sam, an eager glimmer in his eye. "Conwy and Yoren's crews were able to convince King Robert to send us a few thousand men. If enough men take the Black they'll have to get rid of some vows, don't you think? Especially the stupid ones. As if we can't defend the Wall unless we're celibate. It's ridiculous."

That drew a stirring round of applause from all the crows in the Common Room.

ooOoo

"Mother," said Robb nervously, greeting her from the high seat of the Great Hall. "You're back. You should've sent a raven, I'd have ridden out and welcomed you."

"That's why I didn't." Catelyn kept the warmth she felt from her voice. For Robb's own well being, she had to be harsh, stern, and cold. "There are rumors about you. That you're following the orders of a smallfolk girl. Are they true?"

Robb squirmed in the high seat, like he'd been caught skipping one of his lessons or playing with one of his Father's swords. But he was a boy no longer, he was acting Lord of Winterfell, and although it broke her heart, his mistakes could no longer be settled with a lecture and a hug. "Aye. They're true."

"Well, at least you've enough wits remaining to be honest," said Catelyn, sighing. "Denying it will do you no good anymore. I could see the soot from a day's ride out. All the smoke coming from her furnaces, I thought our holding had caught fire. And Winterfell has been surrounded by the ugly homes of the smallfolk, like Fleabottom to King's Landing. I had to walk through the mud and piss and shit for nearly half a mile before I finally arrived at the South Gate. She has infected the North with her southern ways."

"Father was the one who made a deal with the Salamander Corporation, not I," Robb said angrily. "I've merely followed his orders to the best of my ability."

"Oh," said Catelyn sharply. "Is that true? If given your freedom, you'd have kept Winterfell the way it was? I saw Ser Rodrick training farmers in swordsmanship as if they were to be knights! Worse, I saw women working the coal, Robb. Women!"

Robb took a breath and steadied himself. "No… No, I'd have done the same, even without orders. Winter is Coming, mother, and these new methods have increased our steel output a thousandfold, all without sacrificing our harvest. If I must adopt some... unusual practices, so be it. It's a small price to pay for survival."

"A small price?" Catelyn glared at him. "I saw her. The one that's stolen your wits and your position, the one they all say you're in love with. A girl no older than Arya, giving out commands to full grown men, to maesters. They listen. They follow. They look at her as if she was their lord. How long until that becomes reality?"

"One moon ago," said Robb, glaring right back at her. "Once she had my ear, once I followed her instructions, once everything she said actually worked, it was done. They were hers. If I ordered her executed, my own men would take me to the knife."

"What kind of lord loses his throne to a child?" Catelyn sneered.

"A lord that cares more for his people than his power," said Robb. "Did King Torrhen not kneel?"

"To Aegon the Conqueror! Seven hells Robb, you have to be smarter than this. He had a dragon, and was the last scion to the greatest empire the world has ever seen. She's a near penniless smallfolk child from nothing!"

"He did it to save the North from fire," said Robb stubbornly. "I do it to save the North from ice. I've made many mistakes in my short rule. This was not one of them."

Catelyn's breath stuck. He was the very image of his Father. Warmth filled her, and she could hold her facade no longer.

"Yes. You've done far better than your Father and I had ever dreamed of." Catelyn allowed herself to finally smile, and walked forward to give her son a hug. "Robb. I've missed you. You've done well. There will be opposition, far fiercer than what I've presented, but you must stand up to them the way you did to me. Doubt will only lend credence to the voices that would feast upon our corpses."

"Mother," said Robb, chuckling. "That was cruel of you."

Catelyn laughed, a weight off her at last. She was home again.

"Have you heard from Father?" Robb asked.

Catelyn shook her head, shackled by fear once more. Things in Winterfell had been going far too well. It was just too… Too convenient for the real world, that some southern smallfolk would come north and solve all their problems. In her gut, she knew something was amiss.

"The King is dead," said Robb. "Father declared Joffrey king. Stannis and Renly declared Joffrey a bastard. There's to be war between Baratheons and Lannisters."

Catelyn thanked the gods that Ned had sided with the Lannisters, if only temporarily. She despised them, obviously, she was all but certain they'd killed Jon Arryn and indirectly caused sweet Lysa's madness, but she was a pragmatist at heart. She wanted her family, not revenge. "Write Ned. Tell him he must return with the girls at once."

"He hasn't been relieved of duty," said Robb. "Tywin would see it as an act of disrespect. We're facing war with the north. We cannot afford another from the south."

"He can resign," said Catelyn sharply, her sense of impending doom growing and growing. "Tywin Lannister has his hands full with the Baratheons. He won't make another enemy until he's dealt with them. Keeping the girls so close to the Lannister bastards can only lead to disaster. Think on it Robb, you know I speak true."

Robb grew alarmed. "You're right. I'l-"

Theon burst through the doors, pale and panicked. "It's Bran. He's not waking up! I think it might have to do with-" He noticed Catelyn. "You know..." Robb seemed confused. Theon glanced at Catelyn again.

"She's my mother," said Robb. "Anything you can say to me, you can say to her."

"Bran's lessons," said Theon reluctantly. "With Tan-"

"Right," Robb interrupted angrily. "I get it." He glanced at Catelyn, looking very much like he wanted to send her away.

"What lessons?" Catelyn asked.

Robb shrugged. "Mmm. Harmless stuff, potentially useful."

"What lessons, Robb?" Catelyn asked again. "Don't make me ask a third time."

"Magic," Robb admitted, with all the bluntness of his father. Catelyn's blood froze. "It isn't like that! She didn't even want to do it, she kept trying to talk him out of it! Besides, she wasn't even teaching him anything dangerous, just harmless fun like hovering sticks. He was in far more danger climbing than he ever was from the lessons… She was... she was using it to make him take his studies seriously! It was nothing like what happened to Arya!"

"You've been following advice from a witch?" Asked Catelyn, panic giving way to terror, voicing an old suspicion which had only grown. "What if she's for the other side? How do you know she hasn't put some kind of spell on you?"

"She can't," said Robb. "Her magic has a cost. Each spell she casts nearly kills her. And it's all physical stuff, nothing like the skinwalking in Old Nan's tales."

"Or so she would have you believe," said Catelyn, almost hysterical. A mysterious voice that supplied all the answers, just when would her damn children learn to question strangers! That gifts always came with strings! "She's put some kind of curse on Bran! Look at all she's done! She's taken your power, and now she seeks to remove us."

"Doubtful," said the Greyjoy ward pompously. "She all but told him there was a curse on the knife, but Bran was obsessed with it. This was not her doing Robb, I'd bet my manhood on it. Something special is happening here- the bards may sing of us for a thousand years- and she is the key to it all; you must not rui-"

"Quiet, fool! " Screamed Catelyn. "She's a witch! And now Bran won't wake! Bring her in, ask what it'll take to get my son back."

"No," said Robb, with the voice of a king. "There will be no negotiation. If she's hurt Bran, she'll lose her head. I'll take it myself. Theon, bring her to me."

Catelyn's calm wouldn't come. No good came from magic. Eddard had been so concerned with what Arya saw, that he'd never seemed to realize the cost. Gods, the costs. Magic always had a cost, and it was always steep. And Arya's visions- as useful as they were- had never given them steel, had never been a hundredths as useful as whatever secrets Tanya's demon had shared! Considering what Arya's demons had demanded, what price must Tanya have paid? It seemed unlikely that even her life itself would be sufficient payment. So what was the cost? Not Bran! Not Bran! Not her boy! It was all too much!

Catelyn steeled herself. She'd had enough. Not her children, even if it cost them the world, not her children.

ooOoo

Curse you Being X!

But ultimately, my irritation was irrational and controlled within a few moments. I was not so incompetent as to blame others for my own mistakes. Mance Rayder, Tyrion Lannister, even the more abstract tyranny of Westerosi feudalism, none of them were my true enemy. It was Being X. As soon as I'd confirmed his presence, his manipulation of Bran, I should have shared my concerns with Lord Robb Stark. If I had done so, I'd have avoided the situation.

Bran wouldn't be comatose, I wouldn't have been surrounded by angry knights, and had a furious mother breathing down my neck like I was Maleficent and her son was Sleeping Beauty.

"Well witch," said Robb sternly. "There he is. What have you done to him?"

"Nothing," I said. Bran almost appeared asleep, but his eyes had rolled to the back of his head, his body slouched in a chair, the Valyrian steel dagger lying on the table just in front of him. "This isn't my work. Nor am I aware of any magic which causes these symptoms. Not as a curse nor as a side-effect." Robb frowned. It took me only a moment to identify my superior's dissatisfaction. He wished for me to be the scapegoat for Bran's condition. If I were a child, I'd complain that it wasn't fair, that I'd directly told Bran not to investigate Valyrian steel, and that I didn't have the status to do anything more. But I was an experienced professional, and I knew that excuses- even valid ones- only made you look incompetent to clueless higher ups. Ultimately, only solutions earned forgiveness, regardless of your culpability. "But be that as it may, I do have some knowledge of magic. I'll get your brother back to normal, My Lord, although I say again, Bran's condition is not my doing."

"Good," said Robb. "See it done. If he doesn't wake up, neither will you."

I nodded dully, my irritation hidden with expert experience.

Robb turned to go, but none of his men followed after him. Not his mother, not Theon, not his maesters nor his smiths, and not Tyrion or his uncle Kevan. It didn't take a genius to know why. They wanted to see me perform magic. I gave them what they wanted, a halo appearing above my head as I cast a basic observation formula. As expected, I felt no disruption from the Type-95. It appeared that only combative magic disrupted my healing spell. I gauged the reaction of the room, curious to the reaction of the first people I'd ever shown my magic. The maesters seemed shell-shocked, Catelyn Stark had withdrawn to a corner of the room, and Tyrion stared at me intensely with his one good eye.

"So magic is real," said Tyrion. "Let us celebrate with a game. Doesn't that sound fun? I'd ask you to take a drink if what I say is true, but Uncle would frown on introducing alcohol to a child." He winked at her.

"Perhaps," said Kevan Lannister. "But I could use a drink myself."

"Your knowledge comes from greensight," said Tyrion. "Or dragon dreams. Whatever you call it, you can see the future. I'd always considered reports of prophecy folly, but I'm a rational man, and when confronted with sufficient evidence, I can reconsider. But unlike others, you must be able to exert some degree of control over what you see. You've used your innate abilities to not only grasp advancements in technology and industrial practices, but in magic as well. I'd wager that your coke-based smelting was a century in the future, and that you know other secrets, even further out."

Much as I personally disliked the man, Tyrion's guess was yet another display of his keen intellect. It was shockingly close to the truth, perhaps even technically true, as I was unsure whether my soul was intact, or whether Being X had merely overwritten two infant's minds with memories of another person's life. Tyrion's genius was another sign of the caution that I ought to display around him. I'd do well to remember that my successes- moderate as they were- were still merely regurgitations of ideas from better men, and that I was nothing more than an ordinary if productive member of society. My only advantage was my knowledge, and I'd be wise to protect it dearly.

I smiled at Tyrion politely. "I just used a detection spell. Aside from myself, I found one mana signature in the room." I turned to Robb. "Yours. You're a mage."

Was it shameless to attempt to save my own life by promising to teach him magic? Perhaps, but I'd done it once before. Further, it seemed unlikely that I could complete the task Robb wished. I didn't know what had happened to Bran, aside from it having something to do with Being X and Valyrian steel. And even if I knew, it was unlikely I'd know the spell to save him.

Lady Catelyn gasped. "Don't listen to her, Robb, she seeks to tempt you! The Seven warns us that magic always comes at a heavy price!"

Hmm. I'd heard such things in King's Landing, but thought they were superstitious nonsense. On the other hand, using the Type-95 had always corrupted me with the sweet, sweet certainty of blind faith. Perhaps magic granted by Being X came with more severe drawbacks? Mary Sue had always come across as unstable, and I'd made the perhaps too easy conclusion that she was a mere lunatic. Perhaps not. Perhaps she'd once been a perfectly functional citizen. Perhaps magic from Being X, or any of his cronies, could have more severe cognitive drawbacks than I'd initially thought. It was an idea worth considering.

Robb's smile was thin, his jaw straining. "Interesting, but magic won't save my kingdom. I've no desire to become a magician. The next time you attempt to bribe me I'll take your head."

I bristled. I was far from a perfect manager myself, but even I could recognize how counterproductive Robb's threats were. It was poor practice. At worst he'd alienate his subordinates with such heavy handed leadership and earn several saboteurs. At best, his meddling would reduce output. I'd heard of Soviet engineers and scientists who'd been given similar ultimatums during the space race. No wonder the US got to the moon first, unsurprisingly mortal terror stifled creativity. Accountability was required for an organization to thrive of course, but a sense of security was a prerequisite for higher order thinking. Fear was good for training soldiers but shit for motivating detectives. Under such incompetent leadership, defection was the only rational course of action.

"You misunderstand me, my lord. Bran had a mana signature just yesterday, but it has vanished with his consciousness. I suspect the two are linked." I frowned. While I'd simply been spewing nonsense like a politician caught in a scandal, I found my half-formed musings plausible. An idea was taking shape in my mind as I put two and two together. Delicately, I placed a hand on the Valyrian steel dagger. "Yesterday I investigated this very dagger. Strangely, the dagger's magic was more similar to a shielding spell than a piercing one. People have speculated that human sacrifice was responsible for their creation, and indeed, what you call magic is typically temporary. It's as if the Valyrian steel has a soul itself, constantly maintaining the spell that makes it so effective. Perhaps the blade does have a soul. One that must be imprisoned with magic."

The room grew quiet. Until old Maester Qyburn pushed his way through.

"If what you say is true, then perhaps I know what happened," he said, ignoring the glares of the other maesters. "The hidden histories speak of skinwalkers. Men who could throw their souls into the body of another. It was a magic that was said to belong to the First Men. The Starks are known to carry their blood. It seems likely that Bran possessed this magic himself, and in his excitement of his newfound abilities threw his soul into the dagger." He turned. "Lord Stark, this is an ability of the North alone, you must not blame Lady Tanya for the matter."

"Perhaps," said Robb. "Is there any proof that Bran's soul is in the dagger?"

Indeed. Proof. I'd once sliced a plane in half with a magical blade. If Bran's mana were truly in the dagger, it should have grown much more powerful. I shifted the pointy end downwards, and gently dipped the knife in the table. The wood parted like water. I moved to the windowsill, and the knife sliced through stone like it was hot butter. Bran's mana had turned the Valyrian steel dagger into what was effectively a lightsaber, and easily the most dangerous weapon this world had ever seen.

A few people laughed; a few people cried. Most were silent. The secret of Valyrian steel naked for all the world to see. All it cost to create an unparalleled weapon of destruction was a single human life.

"Let's say I believe you," said Robb finally. "What is to be done?"

"Melt the thing," I said, shrugging, placing the blade back onto the table. "Everyone knows that the Valyrian steel loses its properties when reforged. Perhaps it will save him."

Robb said nothing. The men around him shifted uncomfortably. Nobody wanted to say it.

"How do we even know Bran will return if we melt it?" Theon finally asked. "It seems likely his soul will be destroyed with the metal. Speaking freely, my lord, consider we're to fight a war with the army of the dead. It's a tragedy, what happened to Bran. I loved him like a brother, but he's already gone. It would be unwise to spend good money after bad. This blade is unblockable. Give it to a man in armor, and he'd be an unstoppable force. Would he not want us to use the weapon he gave his life to create?"

Robb bit his lip. "Will Bran return if we melt it?"

"I don't know," I said. It would be the height of folly to lie about a proposition that would likely be tested in a few hours. "Valyrian steel is a black box. I do not know how it converts the magic of the soul into a magical blade, but it seems likely that there is some kind of transformation. I doubt it's pleasant. If Bran does return, I'd expect him to be a very different person."

"This weapon," said Robb, taking the dagger, and experimentally using it to cut his sword in half. The blade sliced through the steel quietly and easily, meeting little resistance. "Could it kill a white walker?"

"Yes," I said. "Of that I'm sure."

"Theon," said Robb, grimacing. "Escort her to the dungeons. I'll consider the matter."

"Yes, my lord," said Theon. He bound my hands behind my back, and pushed me out of the room roughly. Lady Stark's shrieks could be heard, even as I was halfway down the stairs. Once we'd arrived in the dungeons, he whispered into my ear. "I love Robb like a brother, but he's acting like a fool. I can free you. It would be hard, but you've made enough friends that I'm sure I'd be able to get you out of Winterfell. If I'm to do this, I'll need something in return. That black powder from Yi Ti, made of sulfur, charcoal, and saltpeter. I'm interested in it. Make the Iron Islands some of those guns you told Bran about, and I'll make you the richest woman in the world."

"And if I refuse?" I asked. The Iron Islands were the weakest great house in Westeros, their culture utterly repulsive, and Balon Greyjoy seemed more delusional than even the Empire's glory hungry politicians. I'd rather deal with Tyrion's chronic backstabbing than all the headaches caused by Greyjoy megalomania. Ideally, I wished to put all this northern tedium behind me, return to Fleabottom, and continue my old pursuit of discovering a substitute for coffee. While nothing would truly replace my beloved coffee beans, I'd heard promising war stories of soldiers creating decent replicas using wheat, but I'd never quite managed it myself. It was probably too much to ask for my share of the gold produced by the new steel manufacturing techniques I'd introduced, but even with all the gold in the world I'd not find a proper black. Or even some decent cacao for that matter. Curse you Being X, for putting me in the miserable shithole that was Westeros!

"We both know the boy is as good as dead. You warned him about the demon, he didn't listen, and this is the result. Bran was Lady Catelyn's favorite and she's looking for someone to blame; she will see you executed," he said, shrugging. "And I already know the ingredients for black powder. It'll take longer to create it without you, but I didn't share that particular detail with Robb so I've no competition. I'm confident that I can recreate the weapons from your descriptions given time."

On the other hand, the Greyjoy's would soon have cannons and I wasn't exactly flush with choices.

ooOoo

Burning and burning. The thing that had once known itself as Bran was changing. In the world of misery and darkness, as hopelessness became its natural state, an echo of a soul was its only light. Something in this universe had once been human, had once felt such suffering, and yet now felt nothing.

And that was…

Somehow, the soul had escaped its misery, had escaped everything. It had dwindled and dwindled, until there was nothing left to feel the pain. The burning would never stop, but without a subject, without existence, there could be no misery. It could escape the fire by entering a never ending chill, by becoming the steel itself.

But he was Bran! He was Bran! And he was burning! Burning and burning, and it felt like an eternity, and he cried and cried, but nobody came, he was alone in an unbearable world. He couldn't. He couldn't anymore… Unbearable. Unbearable. Anywhere else. Anyone else. Please, please, please. No more. Just for a moment, no more. Please let him be somebody else, anything else.

And suddenly he was. He'd escaped into a vast greenland, meadows as far as he could see, and a farmer prayed at a lonely sept. But then the great dragon lords came. Many men fought, many men burned, and the women ran. Not far. They were caught, restrained, and taken forcefully, until their eyes were as glassy as their dead husbands. Some were killed, some were taken as slaves, as were some men like the farmer, and brought to a new land with giant stone towers which cut into the clouds themselves, rivers as red as blood, and a sky of dragons. The slaves were lined up next to a great fire. One by one their hands were cut by a robed Valyrian man, and their blood dripped into the fire. For most, nothing happened. But the fire reacted to the farmer's blood, billowing and smoking.

"You're to be given a great honor," said the Valyrian man, in an unfamiliar tongue. "I will grant you immortality. The flesh dies, but with proper care steel remains forever. In your new form you will become an eternal tool for your empire, more valuable than entire kingdoms."

The farmer did not react, but the echo of his soul did. Anger, fury, loathing. But most of all, regret.

The farmer was forced inside a giant furnace and covered in pig iron as the robed Valyrian man chanted unfamiliar words that Bran instantly memorized. A great green dragon flew to an opening in the furnace, took a deep breath, and filled it with fire. Glowing red liquid filled a large crucible, and was poured into a cast for a dagger. The metal was not tempered by smiths, but by the chanting of the Valyrian mage with a spell that Bran now knew. A spell that Bran had once believed was his destiny. It was useless to him now.

"Why are you showing this to me?" Bran asked the farmer. "I can create Valyrian steel, what good will it do me when I can't escape it?"

The soul was silent.

Bran was returned to darkness, but the soul shielded him from the agony of the Valyrian curse. For a time he thought of what he'd learned, how it might help him save Westeros, guilt over forcing anyone to such misery, and the depression about the meaninglessness of it all, as he could not escape the dagger. But there was little he could do about that, so he thought of other things. Fantasies, plans that would never come to fruition, the nature of existence, and so on. Fascinating for a few years, dull after a few more, excruciating after only a few decades. The darkness, the isolation was a prison of its own, if a little less excruciating than the burning agony the farmer's soul shielded him from. He needed…

He needed to escape. Into the past. Or perhaps… Into the future. Could it be possible?

He was in an icy tundra in the land of always winter. Tanya led an army of hundreds of thousands of fully armored northerners against the army of the dead, a small well dressed man by her side. The dead rushed the army, until Tanya lowered a hand with a bored expression, and the sound of thunder filled the battlefield. A haze of smoke covered the tundra, as the Northerners reloaded giant metal cylinders with dark glass. In a few hours, the army of the dead was no more. Robb and Eddard Stark bowed to Tanya, and proclaimed her the Queen of the North. The living had won with minimal casualties, and the Starks were the most powerful house in the history of the world. How? How had it happened? He needed to know how. The ice blurred, faded, and he was back in the Great Hall in Winterfell.

Tanya gasped, choked on blood. Arya ripped a silver blade from her chest. The sword shined brilliantly, as if the sun itself was within it.

"I'm sorry," said Arya. "It's the only way. Nothing we've tried can hurt him. Not dragon glass. Not Valyrian steel."

The scenery blurred, and Arya's words were true. The Starks confronted the army of the dead in Winterfell, and with the sword, she was an unstoppable force. It enhanced her speed, her strength, to superhuman levels. She was even able to shoot giant beams of light, which incinerated large swathes of wights and white walkers alike. She even managed to kill a white walker with an icy crown on his head. But the army of the dead did not fall. They surrounded her, overtook her, defeated her, defeated the North. The army of the dead had not taken Winterfell easily, losing two thirds of their forces in the battle. But they recuperated their losses in moments, the fallen of the battle rising once more, and the plague of the others spread throughout Westeros slowly, burning the crops and the forests, and salting the soil that remained. They systematically hunted down and destroyed all of humanity, leaving the world barren and dead.

Bran needed to know why. Why had Arya killed Tanya?

He was in a castle that stood above a city much larger than Winterfell. Prince Tommen sat the throne, Tanya and a small man by his side. There was no great confrontation with the white walkers in this world. Merely meetings with lords and merchants and soldiers. But roads were built, steel and books became commonplace, and laws were put in place which protected the small folk. The Realm thrived as never before. There was no bloodshed, no great war with the white walkers, simply a golden age of peace and prosperity. This was a future worth pursuing. But how? How come the white walkers never crossed the Wall? Was it as simple as sending Tanya south?

He was back in the city, but this time it was under siege from a massive fleet, with three dragons. Tanya lowered her hand, as she had in the icy tundra. She was seized by fearful Lannisters, and taken to a blonde woman.

"I'm sorry," said the woman, holding a silver blade. "But this is the only way to save the Realm."

She buried the blade in Tanya's chest, and when she brought it out, it erupted with light. A prophecy fulfilled. A girl dead. The white walkers crossed the Wall, and although the blonde woman managed to kill their leader, the army of the dead prevailed, and extinguished all life, so much more cunning and intelligent than they had been in the first vision.

Bran viewed thousands of possible futures. In many, Tanya successfully partnered with a great house and defeated the army of the dead, in others she partnered with a great house and the army of the dead never even came. In a few she was nowhere to be found. In those futures the army of the dead was rarely defeated, but generally retreated back north after a few victories. Only in futures where Tanya was sacrificed, where the Night King was killed, did the white walkers become the monsters whispered in legend. Why? Who was he? Who were the white walkers? What did they want?

The future was meaningless. Mere speculation. To learn how to achieve salvation he'd need to learn from the past.

The scenery shifted once more, and Bran found himself in the skin of another. He was tied to a tree, surrounded by inhuman creatures with green skin, wielding a blade of changing colors.

Bran screamed and screamed. But nobody came. The blade pressed to his chest, not hot, but as cold as ice. It did not bring pain, nor darkness, it brought something else.

Bran learned something no mortal man should ever learn. Not a secret. Not a lie. Not even a spell, although he learned a few of those. He remembered a truth from a time of no memories, a truth that swallowed up Bran, and left something else.

The world burned once more, and in the darkness there was light.

"My child," said God. "Have you become something more than human? Have you realized your purpose?"

Snow fell from the sky. Trickles of steel were collected in a crucible. A chrysalis melted.

"It worked!" A woman cried in relief and rushed close. "Bran! Bran! My sweet baby boy, I'm here. I'm here."

Blood pumped once more. Purposeless warmth.

"To save them," whispered the dagger, filled with love and compassion. "To save them all."