AEMON THE DRAGONWOLF

Part 3 - Banishing Nightmares

Bran I

Seeing the walls of his beloved Winterfell again almost made Bran weep. He had not seen them since that awful day when he and Rickon had escaped, both powerless as their childhood home burned. After all these years, it was nearly impossible to believe that Jon and Sansa were so near, hiding behind the walls he'd climbed so many times.

Something must have shown on his face, because Meera took his hand and smiled.

"You're almost home, Bran," she told him quietly.

"As are you," he replied. "It's not Greywater Watch, but Jon's raven said your father was here."

Meera's smile dimmed. Bran knew she was eager to see her father again, but she'd have to tell him how Jojen had died. He wished he could take back his words.

"What's all this?" protested one of his Vale knight escorts, gesturing at the mass of people around Winterfell's eastern gate. The men, women, and children clustered at the gate were almost skeletal, wearing dirty clothing too thin for winter, and their frostbitten faces were pinched with pain and exhaustion.

"I don't know," replied one of the Bear Islanders. "Looks like smallfolk begging a place for the winter."

"Shouldn't they go straight to the winter town, then?" another argued.

Before they could discuss it further, a rider with a bright red beard came to meet them. Bran didn't recognize him, but his escorts obviously knew the man.

"Lady Commander!" he greeted cheerfully. "Welcome back! The Wintersguard has missed you sorely," he added, awkwardly gallant. Now that he was closer, Bran noticed he was dressed in wildling furs, and his accent was similar to Osha's.

"Your grace," Lady Brienne said, turning to face Bran. "This man is Tormund Giantsbane, one of your family's sworn protectors."

"You wound me, Commander!" the wildling cried. "I thought you kneeler folk were eager to give everyone titles, and bow and scrape. I'm Tormund Giantsbane, true enough, but I am also Tormund Thunderfist, Husband to Bears, the Mead-King of Ruddy Hall, Speaker to Gods, Father of Hosts, and King Crow's most trusted friend. I am glad to meet you at last, Brandon Stark."

Bran couldn't help but like this man, though it was easy to see he irritated Lady Brienne.

"Yes, very well," she said impatiently. "What's all this commotion at the gate, Tormund?"

"They're the Winterfell folk carried away to the Dreadfort," he replied, turning somber. "They're in a bad way, and they've had a hard march, but not a single one would stay in that place another day."

Bran's stomach sank into the legs he could no longer feel. These were the people he had failed by yielding Winterfell to Theon! He couldn't bear to see them now, when he was comfortable and warm and surrounded by protectors, and they were so tired that some could barely stand.

"What is being done for them?" Brienne asked.

"Princess Sansa and her people are serving them hot stew in the Great Hall," Tormund answered. "Jon made some of his kneeler lords bring their chained heal—maesters—and they're tending the ill and wounded folk in the guards' hall. Well, to be truthful, they're all ill and wounded—but some more than most. If you wish to come inside quicker, you ought to ride around to the north gate. I'll warn Jon and Sansa," he offered. "They'll be that glad to see you, little Bran!"

"Don't!" cried Bran, suddenly dreading the meeting. "They're busy helping our people. I can wait until they're finished."

"Your grace," protested Young Artos of the Wintersguard. "King Jon and Princess Sansa will wish to welcome you!"

"I will wait," Bran insisted. "And I will rest. I am tired from the journey," he lied. He'd never been so comfortable on any journey, with horses pulling his weight over smooth snow, and piles of furs to keep him warm, but the guilt and shame nullified it all. He wanted to hide.

"Very well, your grace," Brienne told him. Her honest face showed disappointment, but she ordered the group to turn right, and they rode around to the north gate. Even from the outside, Bran could see the changes the Battle of the Bastards had wrought. Enormous white banners hung proudly from the outer curtain wall, the same his mother had ordered for King Robert's visit. The running direwolf of House Stark adorned Winterfell again.

Bran did not realize he was crying until the wind picked up. When he and his escorts reached the north gate, it was deserted, with only a few guards to protect it. The prince said little as Brienne declared their purpose and the outer gate swung open, taking in his home with wide blue eyes. Over the moat they went, and through the inner gate. The entrance to the crypts was nearby, also deserted, as were the ruins of the glass gardens. Bran thought of his baby brother down there, buried with the scary old Kings of Winter, and closed his eyes against a new flood of tears.

"Watch out!" warned one of the Vale knights, taking the reins tightly as his horse panicked.

Before Bran could react, a massive white wolf had jumped onto his sled, scattering the remaining logs Brienne's men had used to light the campfires. An eager tongue licked at his face, making Bran laugh despite himself.

"Ghost! Stop!"

His cousin's direwolf watched Bran with intelligent red eyes. The boy buried his gloved hands in the coarse, snow-white fur.

"I'm glad you're here to greet me," he told the wolf quietly. "I wish Summer were with us, too."

Ghost seemed to understand. He nudged Bran with his large head, silent as always.

They hadn't even arrived at the Great Keep when a man dressed in Stark gray ran toward them. A tall young woman with long, auburn braids followed as closely as her skirts allowed, and a smaller man dressed in green brought up the rear.

"Bran!" shouted Jon joyfully, sprinting to the sled and kneeling at his side (after giving Ghost a gentle nudge). Bran looked up at him in awe. Jon had grown up so much! The resemblance between him and Father was incredible, though the crown of swords on his head was new. "I saw you coming through Ghost's eyes," he admitted quietly. "Welcome home, brother!"

Sansa knelt on Bran's other side, smiling and weeping. She wore a crown as well, a thin iron band with winter roses made of bronze. "Oh, Bran!" she cried, bending to hug him. "I'm so glad you're safe!"

The Vale knights and Bear Islanders scattered, giving the Starks their privacy. Meera, forgotten for the nonce, ran to embrace her father. Only the Wintersguards remained, guarding their charges from a short distance.

"It's good to be home," Bran told them, blinking up at his family through teary eyes. "You look well."

Jon gave him a small, crooked smile. "We've been better, but we've been worse, too. We have much to tell you, when you've recovered from your journey."

"I have much to tell you, too," Bran told him seriously. He dreaded the moment he had to tell Jon he wasn't Father's son; there was no possible way he would be happy about that; not Jon, who was more like Father than any of Ned Stark's children!

"Where is your direwolf?" Sansa asked, looking in vain for a second wolf. When Bran's face fell, she bowed her head in understanding.

"Summer died protecting me from wights, just like Hodor and Jojen," he mumbled shamefully. "I couldn't help them."

Jon's eyes had gone wide. "You've met wights?"

Bran nodded. "Uncle Benjen has, too. He almost became one, but the Children stopped it. He's gone all cold," the prince told them, frowning at the lack of proper words to describe his uncle, "but he's not dead. It's hard to explain."

"Why didn't he come with you?" Jon wondered. "Surely if he's almost a wight, he's free of his oath to the Watch?"

"As free as you are?" Bran asked ruefully. The memory of his cousin's stabbing made him shudder. That was a vision he'd never asked to see. "He's not like you, Jon. He never actually died, but he's a lot closer to dead. The magic of the Wall wouldn't let him pass."

"We should go inside," Sansa decided. "Bran needs to get out of the cold, and rest and eat."

Jon nodded in agreement. "Lady Brienne, we'll need a litter, or two strong men to carry Bran to his chambers."

"I'll find some, your grace," she promised, wandering off in search of volunteers.

"Oh, Bran," sighed Sansa. "I can't believe you're home, but I'm so glad!"

"Me too," Jon told him, watching him with those Stark gray eyes that missed nothing. "You won't believe what's happened around here."

"I doubt that," Bran promised wryly. He allowed Brienne's volunteers to carry him into the Great Keep, and up the stairs to the family wing. Jon, Sansa, Ghost, and the Wintersguards followed like ducklings until he'd been placed on his old bed. Jon dismissed them all with a regal wave of his hand, but not before asking for food.

"He's good at that, isn't he?" Bran observed to Sansa, who grinned.

"He used to act and speak like a Lord Commander," Sansa explained, watching Jon shut the door. "But I've been training him to act and dress more kingly."

"Just because you don't like black—" Jon protested, catching the end of Sansa's comment as he returned to Bran's bedside.

"It's not just the black, Jon! The rips in your shirts, the holes in your stockings! A king can't have holes in his stockings!"

Bran laughed for the first time in ages. Finally, he felt at home.

"That was one time!" Jon protested, though his eyes shone with mirth. "And it was right after a battle! Who has time to mend stockings after a battle, I ask you?" the King in the North complained, his accent growing more and more northern in his exasperation. "And I challenge you to find a man who doesn't rip his shirts now and then after a good sparring match, or after repairing buildings and hauling barrels of supplies. I don't just sit around and look kingly all day, you know!"

Bran laughed harder, and this time Sansa and Jon joined him. Only when tears streamed down Sansa's face did they calm down. A timid knock at the door revealed one of the kitchen maids, carrying a tray with three bowls of stew, a plate of bread, and three tankards of ale. Bran wagered it was the same fare they were serving to the men and women in the Great Hall, and smiled at his sister and cousin.

"Well, we have plenty of tales to tell you, and you have some for us. Where should we begin, Bran?" asked Jon, picking up a bowl and dipping his bread in it.

"I'll start," Bran said.

In between bites of food, he told them of his dreams after his fall; of waking up and finally naming his direwolf, Summer. He spoke of Tyrion Lannister, and the plans he'd left for a saddle that would carry even a cripple. He told them of the Greatjon's fingers and Robb's departure; of Osha, Meera and Jojen, of Theon's betrayal and of hiding in the crypts while Winterfell was sacked. The words became more and more difficult, due to the great lump that had formed in his throat. He told them of poor Maester Luwin's death, and how he and Rickon had escaped, leaving their people to the Boltons. He'd been a complete failure as Lord of Winterfell, and the smallfolk had suffered for it.

"Bran, no," Jon cried, dropping his empty bowl and hugging him fiercely. Bran soaked his cousin's clothes with his tears, but Jon didn't seem to mind. "I know how you feel, brother. I failed at my duties too, and for some reason the Red Witch brought me back, when so many others die and never return, or they come back as slaves to the White Walkers. But this wasn't your fault; Robb took the men south, and Theon betrayed us; what else could you have done?"

"I don't know," Bran sobbed. "Something. Anything."

Sansa watched in sympathetic silence, and her eyes glistened with unshed tears, but she allowed them this moment. Bran knew she'd had her failures too, but she'd never been responsible for so many lives. Jon understood where she could not.

When Bran had composed himself, Jon released him and returned to his perch at the foot of his bed. There was no shame or judgment in those gray eyes. The silent support helped Bran overcome his embarrassment.

"Where did you go after you escaped?" Sansa asked finally, her hands wrapped delicately around her tankard of ale.

Bran spoke of the Tumbledown Tower and Queenscrown, where he'd attacked wildlings from inside Summer's skin. He told them he'd seen Jon that day, and helped him escape. Jon's eyes went wide, but he did not interrupt. He went on, telling them of the Nightfort, as well as his meeting with Samwell Tarly, and of crossing the Wall to the north. The afternoon turned into evening, and the weak sun disappeared. As Bran spoke, Jon lit some candles and added wood to the fire.

Sansa's and Jon's faces scrunched in confusion as he told them of the three-eyed crow, the Children, green dreams and greenseers, and wights. Bran told them of Brynden Rivers, weirwood paste, and how he had learned to see through the eyes of the weirwood trees.

"It was you," Sansa breathed. "When we set the trap for Littlefinger in the godswood."

Bran nodded. "I saw him hold a dagger to Father's throat in one of my visions," he explained. "I knew he couldn't be trusted. I had to help you."

Before he lost his nerve, Bran told them of seeing the Night King, and showed them the mark he'd left on his arm. In a rushed jumble of words, he told them of Hodor's sacrifice, Bloodraven's death, and his flight south with Meera and Uncle Benjen.

"The Night King touched you?" Jon asked, looking at Bran in horror.

Bran nodded in shame, clutching his marked forearm. "I'm not sure what the mark is for, but it destroyed whatever protected that cave," he told them. "And it was all my fault; because I had to go poking around!"

"Bran," sighed Jon. "Any battle commander would tell you that information is crucial. You were only trying to see what we're up against."

"And what if he can follow me wherever I go, because I have this?" Bran cried, lifting his arm. "What if he comes to Winterfell?"

"Then I'll say hello with this," Jon replied, showing Bran his Valyrian steel sword. "Longclaw, the ancestral sword of House Mormont. It's killed a White Walker before, and it will do so again."

Of course he'd say so. Jon was nothing if not brave, and a fierce defender of the Starks. It only made Bran's next tale harder to tell.

"Jon," Bran said, hesitating. "I must tell you this, but you'll hate it. You'll hate me."

That got his cousin's attention, and Sansa's too.

"What is it?"

"In one of my visions, I saw a tower in the mountains of Dorne," Bran said slowly. "I saw Father and his companions fighting Arthur Dayne, Gerold Hightower, and Oswell Whent."

Jon and Sansa glanced at each other. Bran was not sure what they meant by it.

"Jon—I saw your birth," he said quickly. "I love you like a brother, but you're not our brother. You're Aunt L—"

"Lyanna's son?" Jon asked, giving Bran a small, crooked smile. "I know. Lord Reed told me the story, and he brought documents to back it up."

Oh.

Well, that was a surprise. And a relief, if Bran was honest with himself. Jon was strangely unruffled about the whole thing, however.

"I didn't think you'd be so calm," Bran confessed.

"I wasn't, when he first told me. I might have shouted a bit, and felt sorry for myself. And it didn't help that Jaime Lannister was here, talking about how great my father was," Jon replied honestly. "I've had weeks to get used to the idea. And it helps that Rhaegar didn't actually kidnap and rape Ly—my mother, I suppose."

"The whole council knows," Sansa told Bran. "Jon told them all as soon as we found out, and he's still king, somehow. I think the lords were shamed into staying loyal by Jon's wildlings; they don't care whose son he is."

"That's about the size of it," Jon agreed. "Tormund may have saved my life that day. That said, if you'd like to take over, I will hand over my title in an instant," he offered, holding out his crown. Sansa groaned in annoyance.

"I told you I wouldn't allow it," Bran replied, grinning at the cousin he loved like a brother. "I have enough to do as a greenseer—and Lord of Winterfell, I suppose, though Sansa has done a fine job with that as far as I can see. I've been trying to find anything in the crypts that can help us, and tell us how the White Walkers were defeated the first time."

"Why the crypts?" asked Sansa in confusion.

Bran shrugged. "They're the oldest part of Winterfell, and I've been thinking about the iron swords. Is it like Father said, and the swords keep the restless dead inside their tombs, or are they there to protect something? If the dead turned to wights back in Bran the Builder's day, why do we bury our dead instead of burning them? And how did our ancestors defeat the White Walkers before they had Valyrian steel? They didn't even have iron until the Andals crossed the sea."

"I have no idea," Jon confessed. Sansa agreed with him.

"Well, I'll go back as far as I can using the heart tree, and let you know if I find anything interesting. In the meantime, I have something for you, Jon."

Bran removed the bundle he'd hidden inside the furs he'd traveled in. Sansa looked politely puzzled, but recognition flared in Jon's eyes as soon as he saw the hand-and-a-half longsword, with its dragon-adorned pommel and cross-guard.

"It can't be," he said reverently. "Blackfyre?"

"The very same," Bran told him, handing the blade to Jon with a smile. "Brynden Rivers took it to the Wall with him, and kept it in the cave all these years. Aegon the Conqueror's sword is now yours, Aemon Targaryen."

Jon flinched. "Bran, please. I'm still Jon."

"I know; you'll always be my brother at heart, but the sword is yours. I've seen Daenerys Targaryen in a vision or two, and I can tell you she'd never wield this sword, even if she had the training; it's too big for her. That leaves you, the last Targaryen prince. And it's Valyrian steel, conveniently enough."

"Yes," Jon said softly, inspecting the old sword. "I'm used to Longclaw, though. I can't wield both at the same time, and we don't have a smith that can melt either down into smaller weapons. If we did, we could turn this into several daggers, or even arrowheads. I'll have to give Blackfyre to a worthy swordsman."

"Jon!" protested Sansa. "You can't give away your family sword, not like that!"

The King in the North shrugged. "Blackfyre is just another sword to me. A legendary one, to be sure, but I don't feel like it's mine. The Starks are my family."

"We know, Jon," Sansa told him gently. "But you're a Targaryen prince, too. Now that you've told everyone, you'll have to take the title and everything that goes with it—like legendary swords."

"I agree," Bran told them. "Why don't you give Longclaw to Lady Brienne? I got half of Father's sword from Jaime Lannister," he told them, showing them a second sword hidden among his things. "If we can get the other half from her, we could see about reforging Ice, and Longclaw would be a suitable replacement for the Lady Commander of our Wintersguard. You could pass down the sword with the title."

"We don't have a smith that can reforge Father's sword," Jon objected. "And how did you convince Ser Jaime to give up his blade?"

"We traded," Bran confessed. "I gave him Dark Sister, and he gave me Widow's Wail."

"Widow's Wail?" Jon said in disgust. "Who came up with that name?"

"Joffrey, of course," Sansa sighed. "He couldn't even give Father's sword a decent name, the useless, inbred, Lannister sack of shi—"

"Sansa!" cried Bran, wide-eyed.

"What?"

"Nothing, it's just—I've never heard you curse like that," Bran said sheepishly.

"Oh, that," Jon said, keeping his expression neutral. "I've been teaching her to speak like a Princess in the North, or a spearwife, depending on the situation. She's good at that, isn't she?"

Bran's burst of laughter was heard around the Great Keep. "You've been hard at work teaching each other, haven't you?"

"Aye," Jon said fondly. "Princess Sansa insists I must learn to act kingly and play the harp, like my father before me."

"And King Jon has been educating me on the old wives' tales of the North, and swears from beyond the Wall," Sansa told Bran. "Not like my mother before me."

"I'll say," Bran agreed with a grin.

"Well," said Jon, getting to his feet. "We have over two hundred new arrivals, and this kingdom won't run itself. I need to leave you for a bit, brother."

He ruffled Bran's hair, and Bran blinked back tears at the memory of his father and Robb doing the same thing, so long ago.

"You have to come back tomorrow, Jon," Bran told him. "You and Sansa still need to tell me your stories."

"What, you didn't see it all through the weirwoods, since you're the Three-Eyed Wolf?"

"Of course not!" Bran protested. "I'm still learning, and there aren't enough hours in the day to follow all of my family, all of the time. Besides, I wouldn't follow you to the privy, or into your bath."

Jon's dark eyes went wide, and then he flushed in sudden horror.

"Don't worry, your grace," Bran teased. "I didn't watch you with Ygritte, either."

"Brat," huffed the King in the North, still a very becoming shade of crimson. He said goodbye to Sansa, and then excused himself from Bran's bedchamber with a shake of the head.

Bran rearranged his pillow, and wiped at the half-dried tears on his cheeks. He was as comfortable as he could be, and fire crackled merrily a few feet away. From the foot of his bed, he heard Ghost snoring; he could almost imagine it was Summer. Sansa took some needlework out of her apron pocket and went to work, humming a familiar tune to herself as Bran drifted off to sleep.

It was good to be home.

Woohoo! The Stark count at Winterfell is now 3 humans and one direwolf, if you count Jon. And he's a Stark on his mother's side, so he totally counts. Unlike in the show, the people Theon and then the Boltons screwed over didn't just vanish into thin air, either. They're here and they're hungry and traumatized as all get out, but the Starks have their smallfolk back.

Now, my Bran is obviously quite different to show!Bran, who seems to have given up his personality to make room for a massive info dump. I'm not going to do that. Bran has changed, and you'll see it as the story goes on, but he's still human. He doesn't know everything; he has access to it, but he has thousands of years of information to sort through to find something useful. It's going to take up his time and energy, and neither Jon nor Sansa will fully understand what he's going through. Now that the initial "yay, our baby brother is home" reaction is over, they'll start to see the real Bran.

Next up: Bran gets down to business and reveals his gift to the northern council.