305AC Maegors Holdfast, Red Keep, Kings Landing
In the dimly lit dungeons of the Red Keep, Jon Snow's journey began, shackled by the echoes of his tumultuous past. The air was thick with the residue of despair, a stark contrast to the lofty halls above. As he ascended from the subterranean depths, each step carried the weight of his fate, the clinking of chains reverberating through the narrow passageways.
Emerging into the cold stone corridors of the Red Keep, Jon found himself in the company of solemn guards escorting him to his new abode. The journey unfolded through twists and turns, the torchlight casting flickering shadows on the rough-hewn walls. The distant echoes of past courtly life filtered down, a stark reminder of the world Jon once inhabited.
Upon reaching Maegor's Holdfast, the atmosphere shifted. The guards, with disciplined efficiency, unshackled Jon, leaving him to stand alone in the antechamber. Heavy oak doors creaked open, revealing the chambers that would become Jon's home for one night. With the guards standing outside, this was just another prison, albeit the standard of comfort was far greater than the last.
Jon explored the room within Maegor's Holdfast. Although the chambers were devoid of opulence, the rooms bore the regal remnants of Lannister influence. Dim light filtered through the once white, now smoke damaged shutters, casting a subdued glow on the green walls, which were tainted by the soot of Daenerys's fiery wrath. Terracotta slabs, cracked from the damage, comprised the floor, bearing witness to the scars left by the recent upheaval.
A hearth, its flames now reduced to smouldering embers, cast a feeble warmth across the room, offering little solace against the chill that permeated both stone and bone. The bed, sizeable yet adorned with meagre linens, stood as a testament to the punishment of Jon Snow, a man, a criminal, who had been sworn off titles and grandeur.
A desk, scarred by the passage of quills and the weight of important decisions, bore the remnants of plans and strategies hastily abandoned. The wardrobe, though lacking the extravagance seen in royal chambers, still held garments befitting a man of honour. Fresh clothes hung inside. The black garbs of the Night's Watch, a hint to his next duty to cleanse himself. He took them out and placed them upon the bed, a reminder of what was to come.
A vanity table, adorned with a tarnished mirror, reflected a face marked by weariness and the burdens of leadership. The rugs which lay upon the terracotta floor, once vibrant in their red and gold Lannister hues, now bore the scars of smoke damage, a stark reminder of the chaos that had unfolded within the very heart of power.
A door at the opposite side of the room, led to a Privy, which revealed a tin bath, already full of steaming hot water, offered a semblance of privacy, a small luxury in a chamber tainted by the echoes of its recent past.
In the air, like an uninvited guest, the stench of death lingered—a ghostly reminder of Daenerys's devastating attack on King's Landing. The room, caught between the remnants of loyalty and the heavy weight of consequences, mirrored the conflicted soul of its occupant. A man who awaited his fate amid the chilling echoes of a city scarred by both dragonfire and the price of power.
The balcony, a small respite from the confined space, was adorned with shutters, tightly sealed against the harsh realities of a world scarred by both war and dragonfire.
As he settled into the quiet solitude of his new quarters, Jon contemplated the uncertain path that lay ahead. Beyond the window, the city sprawled in silent testimony to the repercussions of power and ambition. In Maegor's Holdfast, Jon's story continued—a tale intertwined with the intricate threads of Westerosi politics, destiny, and the enigmatic forces that shaped the realm.
Jon's gaze shifted toward the clothes neatly laid out on the bed—stark black attire, a fitting choice considering the impending journey beyond the Wall. Fresh and unblemished, a welcome departure from the grime-stained rags that clung to his body, a haunting reminder of the charred remnants of King's Landing.
In the corner of the room, Jon confronted his reflection. Vanity was not his vice, but the unkempt state of his hair and beard betrayed the toll of recent events. His body, a canvas marked by the stains of smoke and stench of weeks old, dried sweat; bore the indelible scars of the city's fiery reckoning. The prospect of a steaming bath in the adjoining privy beckoned, promising respite from the physical remnants of his perceived sins.
Bare and unburdened, Jon discarded the rags that clung to him, flinging them carelessly onto the chamber's floor. His path led to the privy, where the lingering heat of the bath invited him. The tin tub awaited, promising warmth and a brief respite from the weight of his own existence.
Descending into the water's embrace, Jon submerged himself, the warmth enveloping him like a cocoon. Holding his breath beneath the surface, he sought solace in the quiet sanctuary the bath provided—a place where the world couldn't intrude, and he could momentarily escape the consequences of his actions. As seconds stretched into minutes, Jon remained submerged, a fleeting attempt to elongate the cocoon of tranquillity.
Emerging from the water, he drew in a deep breath, reminiscent of a newborn taking its first gulp of air. The ritual unfolded like a cleansing, a symbolic rebirth that offered him the chance to start anew. In the simple act of submerging himself, Jon found a brief respite from the turmoil that surrounded him—a moment of purity, untainted by the complexities of the world he inhabited.
Having cleansed himself with the provided soaps, Jon dried off with the towels and ventured, unclad, into the chambers. Surprisingly, the discarded rags from before had vanished, leaving him little choice but to don the attire laid out for him.
His attention shifted to the vanity table, where a bowl of water, soap, a razor, a beard comb, and scissors awaited. Unconcerned with dressing, Jon seated himself, contemplating the task of transforming his appearance into that of a man of the Night's Watch—the man he once was before death claimed him. "Kill the boy, let the man be born," the wise words of Maester Aemon echoed in his mind. The boy had perished, yet the man born in his stead seemed perpetually entangled in a web of mistakes. Perhaps reverting to the guise of the boy he once was held the key to regaining the clarity he had lost.
Jon set about the grooming task with a sense of purpose, trimming and tidying his beard with his own hands. While cutting his own hair proved a challenge beyond his skills, it mattered little. The bath had worked its magic, restoring his unruly curls to a semblance of order. The bounce in his hair seemed to shorten its appearance, bringing him closer to the semblance of his former self. In this ritual of self-care, Jon sought not only a physical transformation but a return to the essence of the man he once was—man who, still had much to offer.
Upon the bed, neatly laid out garments awaited Jon, tailored with an almost uncanny precision to his form. The thought crossed his mind—Sansa's doing, he presumed. Bran, even with all his knowledge of a Three-Eyed-Raven, was unlikely to possess the knack for accurate measurements.
It was Sansa's meticulous craftsmanship that reflected in the clothes, and upon closer inspection, Jon could discern the subtle touch of her hand. A miniature direwolf, discreetly stitched into the tunic's hem, bore witness to Sansa's quiet artistry—a detail concealed from the prying eyes of the servants who had arranged the outfit. A half-formed smile tugged at Jon's lips, yet resentment toward Sansa lingered, postponing the moment of forgiveness. That moment, he conceded, would need more time.
Fully attired, Jon faced himself in the mirror—a man of the Night's Watch reborn. The familiar cloak of black draped over him, and he felt a certain comfort in the colour that had defined much of his life. With an almost ritualistic precision, Jon turned towards the hearth. A chair stood before the fire, its flames dancing more vividly than when he first entered. Adjacent on the table lay a pewter pitcher, presumably filled with ale, accompanied by a horn for drinking.
As Jon settled into the chair, pouring ale into the horn, the distant echo of footsteps reached his ears. Unfazed, he took a measured sip, savouring the quality of the brew. Thoughts of inquiring about the recipe surfaced; a touch of improvement for the Castle Black ale might be a pursuit to consider.
A click of the lock on the door announced a guest. Jon looked up, the door creaked open, and Bran's wheelchair entered the chamber, pushed by the capable hands of Podrick. The once-squire had risen to his own quiet prominence. Now a knight of the Kingsguard, the unmistakable white cloak adorned his shoulders. The fate of becoming the caretaker of the realm's omniscient ruler had fallen to him. The air shifted as Bran's gaze, unfathomable in its depth, met Jon's. It was a gaze that transcended the physical limitations of both king and cripple, a gaze that spoke of an understanding beyond the realm of men.
King Bran. The thought echoed in Jon's mind as he rose from his seat. The room, dimly lit by the flickering candles, felt like a stage where destinies played out against the backdrop of stone walls. Jon's hand, accustomed to wielding swords and leading men, now grappled with the weight of the choices that had led him here.
Podrick, a silent sentinel, left the room once the wheelchair was positioned opposite Jon. The door swung shut behind him, leaving Jon and Bran in the cocoon of solitude. The rhythmic sound of Podrick's steps faded, and the room became an arena for the unfolding drama between the two brothers.
Jon, a man of honour and duty, bowed before the wheelchair-bound Bran. It was a symbolic gesture, an acknowledgment of the role reversal that fate had orchestrated. Once a king in his own right, Jon now bowed to a brother who had become a vessel for the wisdom of ages. The flickering candles bore witness to this silent exchange, an act laden with the gravity of both familial ties and the cosmic forces that guided their paths.
From king to subject. Jon's thoughts whirled in the quiet tempest of this moment. He had faced death, betrayed oaths, and now, in this room, he bowed to a king who held the wisdom of centuries. The room, once a bastion of political discourse, now seemed a crucible for the reshaping of destinies.
Bran, the silent observer, watched Jon with an expression that betrayed neither joy nor sorrow. The room held its breath as the echoes of footsteps faded, leaving only the quiet hum of flickering flames. The wheelchair, a throne of both power and vulnerability, became the focal point of this intimate tableau.
Bran nodded his head, acceptance of Jon's deferential act. Jon returned to his chair opposite his once brother, waiting for him to speak, yet he uttered no words.
Jon couldn't hold back the questions any longer. The air in the room seemed heavy with unspoken mysteries, and Jon's curiosity demanded answers.
"I should have asked you sooner. Back at Winterfell. What happened to you, Bran? Where did you go north of the wall?" Jon's words cut through the stillness like a dagger slicing through the night.
"I'm not really Bran anymore. I'm the Three-Eyed-Raven. But you can call me Bran if you wish," came Bran's cryptic reply, his eyes holding the distant gaze of one who has seen beyond the veil.
"Or should I call you 'Your Grace'?" Jon probed, attempting to grasp the essence of the transformation that had befallen his brother.
Bran, or the Three-Eyed-Raven, offered a soft smile. "There's no need for such formalities. Not when it's just you and I."
As Jon settled into the chair, his eyes locked onto Bran, the need for understanding etched into his furrowed brow. "So, tell me, Bran. What happened to you?"
"Beyond the Wall, where the realms of men fade into the unknown, I found the Children of the Forest and the roots of a great weirwood tree. There, time unfolded before me like a vast, ancient book," Bran's voice resonated with a weight that transcended mere words.
Intrigued by the enigma of Bran's journey, Jon leaned forward. "What did you see?"
Bran's lips curved, a semblance of a smile playing upon them, while his gaze held the shadowy depths of knowing. "Everything. The past, the present, and the future—all tangled in the ancient branches. I became the keeper of history, Jon, a witness to the eons."
Jon, his brow furrowed in a tapestry of curiosity, probed deeper. "The future?"
Bran, the embodiment of ancient wisdom, nodded solemnly. "A glimpse, uncertain and hazy. The threads of fate are not always clear. But the past, Jon, the past is etched in the weirwood's memory. It is how I found out who you were."
As Bran's words unfolded, Jon's thoughts swirled like a tempest of wonder and skepticism. Each syllable hung in the air, unraveling layers of mystery. The weirwood's memory, the keeper of time—concepts that danced at the periphery of Jon's understanding. A journey beyond the Wall, where the roots of the weirwood embraced the passage of ages, sounded like a calling from a realm untouched by the machinations of men.
Jon eased into the chair, his gaze fixed on Bran. "Tell me, Bran. What was it you saw? The future, I mean."
Bran closed his eyes, as if venturing into the vast expanse of time. "The free folk finding new homes, forging alliances with the Night's Watch. The Wall rebuilt, standing as a monument to unity. And... a shadow in the north. Something ancient stirring."
A ripple of concern etched itself on Jon's brow. "What is it? What stirs beyond the Wall?" His inquiry carried a weight, a sense of foreboding, and an acknowledgment of the ties that bound him to the enigmatic revelations.
Bran, the harbinger of visions, locked eyes with Jon. "I'm not certain. The visions are fragments, whispers. But there's a power awakening—one we've never encountered."
"Not the walkers?" Jon's voice held a tremor of fear.
Bran's enigmatic smile played upon his lips as he shook his head. "It is different. I do not sense good, or evil. Just an ancient power. Perhaps it can be controlled." he suggested,
Jon's thoughts whirred like the winds sweeping across the north, carrying secrets whispered by icy breaths. An ancient power awakening—ominous, yet shrouded in ambiguity. The revelation echoed the intricacies of Jon's own destiny, a connection that transcended the physical boundaries of the Wall.
"Do we have time to find out how to control it? Is that why you're sending me back to Castle Black?" Jon's question lingered, a plea for reassurance in the face of an uncertain future. The free folk, the Night's Watch, the Wall—all entwined in the tapestry of his fate. The shadow beyond the Wall, an entity that could herald either salvation or doom, cast its influence over Jon's thoughts.
Bran's smile held a wisdom that seemed to penetrate the fabric of time itself. "Time is a construct, Jon. It bends and weaves. But we must prepare for its arrival. For now, it sleeps, but will soon waken, when the time is right. There is no concern to be had for now."
Jon's nod was an acknowledgment, a silent admission that Bran possessed insights beyond his own grasp. If the Three-Eyed-Raven deemed a threat significant or imminent, urgency would be unmistakable. So, Jon steered the conversation toward matters more immediate, more personal. "And what of me, Bran?"
"Your initial path leads beyond the Wall, where your heart finds solace. There's a destiny awaiting you, my brother," Bran conveyed, the words draped in a solemn certainty.
A small smile played on Jon's lips at the term 'my brother.' While Bran was not his brother by blood, and this Three-Eyed-Raven entity remained a mystery, Jon found solace in the camaraderie implied by the term brother. Perhaps Bran wasn't entirely lost to them. Yet, the ensuing words stirred a sense of confusion within him. "Destiny?"
"The weirwood has murmured your name, Jon Snow. You're woven into a tale that spans the ages, and your part in it is far from concluded," Bran elucidated, his words reverberating within the chamber.
"And what of Daenerys? What of the toll I paid? What about the toll she bore for this destiny we shared?" Jon's voice bore the weight of a history etched in shadows, his gaze locked onto Bran.
"Daenerys's legacy is a tragic tale of choices, Jon. The toll paid, the burdens carried—they carve the path forward. Your journey is an unfolding chapter, not a conclusion; Daenerys was but a vessel. A lesson had to be learned from her. Now you comprehend the way," Bran spoke with an ethereal calm, his gaze piercing through the veils of time.
"What have I learned? How not to be a tyrant? What good is that at the Wall?" Jon questioned.
"All shall become clear in due course. Your apprenticeship under Daenerys has concluded. A new beginning awaits, with more wisdom to glean, and more tasks to fulfil," Bran responded.
Inner turmoil stirred within Jon. He felt a revelation lurking beneath the surface—all this while, Bran had known. In that realization, Jon sensed a feeling of being manipulated, akin to Daenerys. The gods, it seemed, cared little for the emotions of those destined to serve their will. A surge of rebellion welled within Jon. "Screw that!" he thought. "I want my freedom, not a predetermined destiny." An undercurrent of anger gripped him, one he struggled to conceal, though Bran, he suspected, was privy to these suppressed emotions.
Yet, Jon focused on the immediate task at hand. "What does destiny expect from me now?"
"Embrace the enigma, Jon. Beyond the Wall, your narrative converges with a grander saga—a chronicle of ice and fire, woven into the very tapestry of time. Do you think my directive to return to the Wall was a punitive measure, or a destination ordained by fate?" Bran disclosed, his words carrying an otherworldly weight that transcended the confines of the chamber.
As Bran's revelation lingered, Jon grappled with its implications. Beyond the Wall, where the whispers of weirwood trees danced with the frigid winds, awaited a destiny interwoven with elemental forces. The Wall, once viewed as a punitive boundary, now stood as a threshold to the unexplored—a crossroads where Jon's odyssey merged with a broader epic.
Amidst Bran's revelation, he produced a clear glass vial with a cork stopper. A relic radiant and luminescent. Bran extended the vial toward Jon. "Weirwood paste," Bran stated, as the vial exchanged hands between the two brothers.
Jon furrowed his brow. A profound silence enveloped them, an eternity distilled in the examination of the small vial containing white paste streaked with red veins.
At last, the stillness yielded to Bran's voice, a resonance echoing with the eons. "Jon," he commenced, the words lingering in the air like an ancient spell, "beyond the Wall, where the icy zephyrs whisper secrets and the time-worn trees bear silent witness, I glimpsed the continuation of our saga. In the frozen heartland, a solitary weirwood tree stands, its roots plunging deep into the earth, and its branches stretching toward a sky that cradles the echoes of ages. It is a portal, Jon, a gateway that swings open into the very fabric of time. The weirwood paste you bear, the elixir of antiquity, is a key to this gateway. Ingest it, and you shall stand at the crossroads of deeds done and those yet to unfold."
Jon, his thoughts swirling like a tempest, clutched the vial of weirwood paste in his palm, its contents aglow in the ambient light. "What lies beyond that threshold, Bran?" he inquired, a fusion of apprehension and determination in his tone.
Bran's eyes, portals to the infinite, locked onto Jon's. "The tapestry of your destiny, Jon Snow. An odyssey that stretches beyond the dominion of men, where the choices you make will navigate you through the epochs. Past, present, and future—all converge in the north, where the heart of winter beats in cadence with the pulse of time."
"Where can this weirwood tree be found?" Jon sought more details, though uncertain if he truly desired the answers.
"I cannot say precisely. Yet, it will sing its call to you," Bran responded. "Chase its melody, and you shall uncover what you seek."
Jon's gaze returned to the vial of paste. "Once I locate this tree, ingest the paste, and touch its roots, what unfolds next?"
"You will encounter the one destined to aid you in your quest. Patience is your ally, for this ally will not reveal themselves right away," Bran elucidated, his words as enigmatic as the journey ahead. "Exercise caution, for your sojourn is not eternal. Remain submerged for as long as necessary. The paste will grant you the ability to navigate, yet once its effects wane, you risk drowning."
Jon acquiesced with a nod, embracing his destiny. "I will starve, then."
"To endure in the river of time, a moment shall approach where you must decide between life and death. Opt for death, and only then shall you truly live."
Amidst the river of time, the concept of survival lingered like an elusive specter, entwining Jon's thoughts in a tempest of contemplation. The weirwood paste, a mystical elixir, bore the promise of resilience against the torrents of history. Bran's urgency, echoed in his solemn tone, etched an indelible mark on Jon's consciousness. The elixir, more than a mere physical substance, served as a bridge between realms—a means for Jon to navigate the currents propelling him into the past. "What unfolds after that?"
Bran's gaze, filled with a knowing depth that transcended mere sight, fixed upon Jon. "You will return, Jon. Once you've unearthed what lies beyond the Wall, it will guide you to your ultimate destination, your true home."
"And the burgeoning power in the north?" Jon inquired. "Is my home the wellspring of this power?"
Bran simply smiled, the question hung in the air, laden with the weight of prophecy and destiny. Jon, caught between the echoes of the past and the enigma of the future, absorbed Bran's revelation.
With the bow, Jon acknowledged the meeting had concluded. As Podrick returned to guide Bran out of the chambers. The door closed behind him, while Jon remained, a solitary figure in the room, alone once more.