December 301 AC- March 302 AC


"Are you ready?" Lord Brynden's voice was rough and raw, a harsh rasp that scraped at Bran's ears and sent gooseprickles crawling up his arms.

Once Bran would have said that the roots and branches of the weirwood throne were white as bone, but they weren't, not really. He had never known so many shades of white existed until he spent his days in darkness. Weirwoods and their roots and branches were pure white, whiter than the moon or stars, but Lord Brynden's bones were tinged with faint traces of brown and yellow, just like the tatters of leathery skin that hung upon them, his few strands of hair a cold pale silver that shone like the edge of a sharpened blade.

Bran tried to sit up straighter, the branches of his weirwood throne digging into his back. Leaf said that rocks were the bones of the earth, just as waters were her blood and soil her flesh. But what did that make the trees?

"I'm ready," Bran said. Despite his best efforts the words sounded hollow, quavering. Afraid. Bran had slipped into the roots before, why was he frightened now? He would not repeat his past mistakes, he wouldn't, he mustn't. He wished he had Summer. The direwolf always made him feel stronger, surer of himself. It was a vain wish, for the direwolf would not come with him for lessons, no matter what Bran said. The corpse lord's scent made his hackles rise, teeth bared in a silent snarl, ears flattened against his head, tail lashing back and forth.

Focus, he must focus. A long deep breath filled his lungs with air that tasted of dust and decay. There were no fresh breezes here, no scents of flowers or growing things. The stone walls of the cave pressed in, the abyss yawning before him as though it meant to swallow him whole. The only time a man can be brave is when he is afraid, his father's voice whispered.

"I'm ready," Bran said, his voice strong as a prince's should be. Anything was better than remaining here. He wanted to escape, he needed to escape. It took only a moment to slip from his skin and into the roots.

This time, he was not alone.

Every raven in the cave carried a shadow, a whisper of a soul. Bran had ridden all of them, over and over and over again, until he knew each raven and the soul it bore. Some felt old and some felt young, some were quiet and some were loud, some welcomed him while others tried to fling him out. But he had only ever felt one shadow at a time, one for each raven.

But in the roots... It was as though he walked across the night sky, stars dancing through the air and brushing against his arms. There were hundreds of them, no, thousands, no two the same. Swirls of stardust embraced him, sparkling like jewels, sapphire, emerald, diamond and countless others he did not know.

Bran could not say how long he gazed upon the stars, breathless, entranced by their beauty. Yet the longer he looked, the more troubled he became. Many of the stars were but faint shadows, each twinkle dimmer than the last, and as he watched stars began to disappear one by one, the sky darker and colder without them. At last only a few hundred remained, clustered about a red star that shone brighter than the rest. Its ruby light did not fade, it pulsed, like a beating heart or an eye fluttering open.

Focus, the red star rasped. Your frail shell has no use here; why do you cling to it?

Bran looked down. He floated in the sky, his arms pale and scrawny from long months without sunlight, his legs straight and strong like they were in his dreams, not wasted and twisted as they were in life.

But— Bran protested. The red star blazed, burning him.

Let go of it, the red star commanded. Unless... perhaps you need more practice. Shall we return to the cave?

He blanched. Bran did not want to go back to slipping into blind fish and bats, over and over and over, with nothing all around but dark waters and dark tunnels. Frantically he stripped away his skin until he was a star like the rest of them, blue-grey light spilling forth like the first glimpse of dawn.

Good, the red star said. You cannot see what is ahead unless you stop looking back.

Yes, the grey star nodded, ignoring the plaintive wailing in his heart. Only babies looked back, and he was not a baby. He had acted like one though, slipping into the roots to watch his father, his mother, his sisters and brothers.

Forget them. The red star flared. I will teach you better uses of your power.

Something warm tickled the grey star's face. That didn't make sense. Stars didn't have faces, or eyes, or ears. Then how could he hear a low whine, an urgent whimper? Sharp claws scrabbled at his chest, a wet snout nuzzled at his cheek, and the stars vanished, leaving nothing but darkness.

"Bran? Are you alright?"

Jojen stood before him, a torch clasped in his hand. "Summer wouldn't leave me be until I came looking for you," the little crannogman said. The light of the flames flickered over his dark brown hair and pale brown skin, casting shadows beneath his mossy green eyes. Behind him the greenseer sat on his throne, unseeing, his eye rolled back in his skull so only the white was visible.

The direwolf whined. His paws rested on Bran's shoulders, his heavy weight pinning Bran to the weirwood throne as Summer bathed Bran's face in wet kisses. Soft grey fur tickled his nose, and for a moment Bran remembered the godswood, direwolf pups gamboling about his feet as his brothers and sisters laughed—

"I'm fine," Bran snapped, trying and failing to shove the direwolf away.

Why did Summer have to bother him now, just when Lord Brynden finally let him enter the roots again? Usually the direwolf spent his time hunting outside the caves, or playing games with Meera, or sleeping beside Jojen as he recovered from the long illness that had plagued him. Bran had been happy when Jojen at last felt well enough to explore the caves with Meera, but now he wished Jojen was still stuck in bed.

Bran had to swat Summer on the nose before he finally got down, sitting on his haunches and whining as Bran tried to slip his skin and return to the roots. It was hard to concentrate with all the noise the direwolf was making, and it felt like hours before Bran finally found the field of stars. He marveled at them, spellbound, only to be flung back by a burst of red light.

His body had never felt so much like a cage. "I was busy," Bran said, so frustrated he wanted to cry as he looked down at his shriveled legs. They were a little longer now, growing with the rest of him. He hated that. There was no point to them growing, they were useless, like him, nothing but dead weight. "Why did you have to ruin it?"

"I trust Summer." Jojen said in a low voice, looking over his shoulder at the greenseer. "When I arrived you were slumped in your seat. Your skin was cold to the touch, your pulse weak, as though you were shriveling away."

"I was in the weirwood roots." Who cared what he looked like while he was doing it? "I have to learn, that's what the three-eyed crow said. That's why we're here!"

Jojen's face was strange and solemn. He did not speak for a long while, and when he did, he stared at the corpse lord. "I know, Bran. The three-eyed crow led me to you, and then led us north. But if learning greenseeing is so important..." he hesitated, and when he spoke again his voice was so soft Bran had to strain to hear. "Why does he delay your lessons?"

Hot anger coursed through Bran's veins. He couldn't tell Jojen it was his own fault, and anyway, it wasn't any of Jojen's business. He wasn't a greenseer, he wasn't able to slip his skin and fly with ravens or swim with fish or run with the direwolf. All he could do was dream, and now the dreams were gone. Sudden knowledge pierced Bran like a knife.

"You're jealous."

Jojen stepped back as if Bran had struck him, and Lord Brynden's eye turned red.

"Your lesson is finished for today, Brandon," the lord rasped. Bones creaked as he inclined his head, singers appearing from the gloom to carry Bran away. Jojen followed, torch held high, Summer trotting by his side, and Bran clenched his fists, no longer to keep the hot tears from falling.

Back in their chamber the darkness consumed him. Singers brought meals of blood stew and roasted mushrooms, but they did not bring Leaf, nor did they bring Bran to his throne beside Lord Brynden. Bran slipped into Summer whenever the direwolf left the cave, his paws kicking up plumes of snow as he chased after hares, but Jojen and Meera kept dragging him back, flicking him on the ear or ruffling his shaggy hair until he lost his grip and fell back into his own skin.

Bran did not like that. Who were they, to take away the only thing that cheered him? Jojen's stories weren't as good as the stories Leaf told, or the visions Lord Brynden showed him. Even worse, Meera was always making him exercise his arms, cajoling and teasing and scolding until he gave in. She handed him rocks and made him lift them, she made him lay on the ground and try to push himself up, she made him play tug of war with a rope that chafed his fingers raw.

She had just gotten the idea of making Bran try to drag himself across the cave by his hands when Leaf finally came for him, a wary look in her gold-green cat's eyes. Meera did not smile at Leaf as she usually did. Instead she picked up her three-pronged frog spear and her net, pressed a kiss to the sleeping Jojen's brow, and announced she was going hunting. Bran was almost glad to see her go.

Lord Brynden waited upon his throne, a pale specter emerging from the darkness. "Shall we?" His teacher asked, a terrible smile upon his ruined lips. Bran nodded, his throat too tight to speak. Between one breath and the next he slipped his skin, abandoning the cavern for the field of stars that hid within the weirwood roots.

Bran's body followed, a pale, weak thing. He quickly set it aside, lest the greenseer see and halt the lesson. The grey star did not need the frail cage of a crippled boy. Eons passed as the stars whirled around him, yet it was only an instant before the red star appeared, half blinding him with how brightly it burned. A gold-green star shone beside the red, smaller, softer, yet possessed of a gentle radiance.

There once was a boy who loved stories, the red star said. All his life he loved nothing better than knowing all there was to know, from the lore of the maesters to the hidden thoughts of the mighty. The boy grew old, and still he learned, delving into secrets lost to men, mysteries known only to those who wished to forget.

The grey star shimmered, unable to hide his excitement, and the red star chuckled.

Ah, another boy who loves stories, I see. Shall I share them with you?

Yes! Bran shouted, the grey star shining brilliant as the sun.

Very well, the red star gleamed. Let us begin at the beginning. Men think themselves the rulers of the world, the only souls superior to the beasts of land and sea. They are wrong. Three kindreds there are, for men are not alone, though the other two have dwindled.

The giants were the first, the builders, born from the earth's flesh. Next came the children, the singers, born of the earth's spirit. Last came men, who are of flesh and spirit both, their very natures locked in eternal war, always reaching for power they cannot safely grasp, for the magic which flows through giants and singers from the moment of their birth.

We have magic, the grey star said tentatively.

We are not like other men. Any fool can summon magic with the right words and a splash of blood, but our power comes from the weirwoods, from the earth herself. Even then, neither you nor I can match the spells laid when the world was young, the countless miracles and the peerless wonders.

I want to see, said the grey star. Can you show me?

That was thousands of years ago. The gold-green star shimmered, her voice high and sweet. There are few of us left who remember.

Please, the grey star begged. He did not want to go back to the cave, to the darkness. He wanted to see, he wanted to know.

Show him, the red star rasped.

A pale yellow star glowed, dim shadows moving within his depths. Giants strode across vast plains of long grass, some almost hairless like men, others shaggy as bears. They were huge, their legs like tree trunks, their hands like shovels. The largest of them formed a circle about the others, with the smallest in the middle. One stumbled over his awkward feet, crying out in a strange tongue until a larger giant came and helped him up. The small ones are their children, he realized, astonished. It was hard to think of such towering creatures as children; they were bigger than Hodor. No, he mustn't think that, the red star would know. The grey star watched as the memory flickered, then went out, along with the pale yellow star.

The red star pulsed a command. Another yellow star glimmered, this time showing a memory of stony mountains capped with snow. For a moment the grey star blinked, confused, staring at the immense boulders that littered the mountainside. Each boulder was twenty, perhaps thirty feet tall; instead of being round they were shaped like pillars, lying in a straight line. Almost as if—

The boulders began to move, and the grey star cried out in fear.

Jhogwin, the gold-green star said sadly. Stone giants. They are gone now, every one.

On and on it went. Each star cast a different memory, some dimming, some fading away entirely as the first one had. He saw rocky islands upon a frigid sea, mazes rising beneath the hands of giants with shaggy brown fur and clever eyes. He saw rain fall upon a steaming jungle, droplets dripping from leaves the size of a man's chest, while giants dug deep tunnels with spades the size of wheelbarrows. Then the memories came faster, glimpses of vast subterranean cities and airy mountain palaces, rings of ornately carved stone obelisks and rows of marble shrines, attended by giants in woven robes.

The grey star frowned. He had glimpsed giants before, when he was trying to find the boy who was his half-brother. They wore no clothes but their shaggy pelts, and bore no tools but crude clubs. Their tiny eyes were weary, their shoulders slumped. How could those be the same creatures who built the marvels he had seen?

I don't understand, the grey star said. How—

"Look, Bran!"

He opened his eyes, a bitter scream caught in his throat. Meera stood before him, grinning, a roe deer slung over her shoulders. "I found her trail, and Summer chased her down. We'll have a proper feast for the solstice tomorrow!"

Bran had not tasted venison for months, perhaps years. They left Winterfell with salted and dried meat, and when that ran out Meera fished every stream they crossed on their journey north, until the scent of fish made his stomach clench and his throat taste of bile. He should be returning Meera's smile, but all he could think of was his long-awaited lesson, interrupted yet again.

He forced himself to smile the next night, as he doled out hunks of roasted venison and small rough loaves Meera had made from the singers' oats. The eve of the new year was a day when princes served their bannermen, after all. There were no beeswax candles or balls of bronze wire filled with stuffed with kindling, but Jojen had filled the cavern with rushlights, their ends jammed into every crevice, nook, and cranny, a thousand golden flames dancing merrily. Bran tried to enjoy the venison, but all he could think of were spiced honeycakes and dried apple rings and sweet sauces made from every kind of fruit.

Meera had known it was the solstice because she marked the days on the walls of the rocky chamber, tracking the moon as it waxed and waned, and Bran watched the tally marks with growing unease. A sennight passed, then a fortnight, before Lord Brynden finally summoned Bran. His arms ached from trying to drag himself across the floor, pebbles and shards of rock digging into his belly and scraping his useless legs. It was much easier being carried by the singers, their hands gentle as they tucked him into his throne, covering him with furs even as he slipped his skin and went into the roots.

The field of stars awaited him, the red star a little brighter than he remembered. Is it time to learn about the singers? the grey star asked, impatient.

The red star did not answer, only pulsed once. Like hounds jumping to the kennelmaster's whistle the other stars began to shine, each showing a different memory, a different place, a different time.

He had thought all the singers would look like Leaf, perhaps four feet tall, their brown skin dappled with white spots. Yet in the visions flashing before him... there were singers as tall as men whose deep green-blue skin let them melt away into dense forests of pine. There were singers with brown-red scales sunning themselves like lizards on warm rocks in the desert, there were singers who galloped across plains of yellow grass, their lower halves akin to those of horses, with four legs and hooves in place of feet. He saw singers with golden eyes and butterfly wings, singers who climbed trees with eight furry legs like tree spiders, singers who swam through clear lakes with a serpent's tail, singers who ran through drifts of snow on furry dog legs.

The giants used their magic to shape the land to their will, the gold-green star explained as the grey star gaped, overcome with awe. But the singers were shaped by the lands where we lived, our spirits molded by the earth herself.

Are grumkins and snarks real too?

The visions twisted. Now he saw singers smaller than any of the others, three feet tall at most, with snow white skin and blood red eyes. Yet despite their frightening look their faces were kind, their songs sweeter than the finest mead.

They were, the gold-green star said, bitter. The grumkins were fond of men, always granting them wishes and returning lost children. Then men began to hunt them down and demand wishes. They did not know that a wish must be freely given, never taken. When the wishes turned sour they slew the grumkins, one by one, naming them demons, child stealers. Few survived. Of those that lived, some turned cold and cruel, and became the monsters they had been falsely named. They were the first snarks.

The grey star shivered. What about merlings? Were they real? What about selkies and harpies?

Every star dimmed for a moment, as though hiding their faces in shame. All but the red star, which glowed brighter than ever.

The singers and the giants could not breed as quickly as men, said the red star. Yet with magic a singer could sire babes on a human woman; a giantess could carry the babes of a human man. Such love matches were rare, but common enough, in the elder days.

Bran wrinkled his nose, ignoring the strange dryness of his mouth and rumble in his stomach. Girls were one thing, but falling in love with a giantess thrice his height sounded even more awkward and embarrassing. How would he even kiss a giantess? With a ladder?

So that's how merlings and selkies and harpies were born? the grey star asked. From love? Then why do the stories say they were dangerous?

Not all were born from love. He had never seen the gold-green star so subdued. Some... the men outnumbered us, more every year. Some singers and giants thought to increase their numbers by forcing humans to mate with them.

Rape. The field of stars dimmed again as he shuddered.

A human child born of rape is no different than one born of love. But when magic is involved... if a wish taken at swordpoint turns sour, what happens when seed is stolen or planted in an unwilling field?

Monsters, the grey star breathed, shaking. In the distance a girl cried out. Strong hands gripped his shoulders, and then he was shaking in the cave instead of the sky.

"Oh, thank the gods!"

The grey star blinked, confused. Why was he back in this worthless shell? The girl pressed a warm hand to his forehead, then touched his cold wrist with her fingertips, feeling his sluggish pulse. Bran stared at Meera, calling moisture to his dry lips and parched throat. "What are you doing?"

"You've been here for days, my prince," Meera said, distraught. "Bran, you need to sleep, you need to eat and drink—"

"I need to learn!"

His voice cracked on the last word, a shrill cry that echoed off the stone walls of the cavern.

"My prince, I only—"

"I am your prince." Anger coiled hot within him. "And as your prince I command you to never interrupt my lessons again."

Meera flinched at the fury in his voice, her face stricken. For a moment she lingered, then with a deep bow she took her leave. Only when she was gone did Bran realize his stomach was hollow with hunger and with guilt.

He waited in the dark for what seemed like hours, knowing better than to slip back into the roots. Lord Brynden never woke, and when Leaf and her singers carried him away none of them would speak to him, not a single word.

Days passed, then weeks. Bran ate every morsel Meera put before him, and pretended to listen to Jojen's stupid stories. He pushed himself up and down, tugged at the rope, and dragged himself across the chamber, all the while trying not to think of the roots, of the stars, of the growing number of tally marks on the wall.

It was a full turn of the moon when they finally came. Bran was glad he had ordered the Reeds not to bother him; after so long a wait he was desperate to escape the cavern, to fly again, and this time he would not be disturbed. He had so many questions for Lord Brynden and Leaf, so many things he wanted to know, but he must choose carefully, in case he upset his teacher and the lesson ended early yet again.

And so when he rejoined the roots, the grey star knew exactly what he wanted to ask first. Why do you call the giants your bane? Bran knew men had slain giants, and giants had slain men, but he had never heard of singers and giants fighting.

We were like oil and water, ice and flame. The gold-green star glimmered sadly. Our natures set us at odds, for we loved the earth as she was, and the giants loved her for what she could be, if they shaped her to their will. Our battles were as many as the leaves of the trees, from small skirmishes to terrible wars.

How terrible?

A deep green-blue star flickered, and waves pounded against a rocky shore. There were shapes in the water, singers with webbed hands and feet and enormous eyes. Their jaws unhinged, revealing thousands of long sharp teeth like needles, and the roar of the waves became a malevolent hiss, a song of power that pierced him like a knife.

Mazes covered the land, and giants stood tall atop their walls, with two-pronged spears in their massive fists. One by one they flung their spears, and one by one singers fell silent, dark pools of blood turning the sea dark. How could the little fish singers threaten giants? Were they mad?

Winds whipped at the giants' shaggy hair. Down below the waves churned and foamed, spinning and swirling like a child's top, until a wall of water rose high above the land, a tempest without thunder or lightning, a storm like none he had ever seen. The fish-singers shrieked, and the tempest crashed over the land, smashing the giants against their walls and drowning them beneath the sea.

Only a few survived, those farthest inland. The green-blue star shed tears of stardust as she mourned. My kin lived in the forests, we traded with the giants... none of them stayed. How could they, when they could feel the death in every stone?

Where did they go?

Another star twinkled, this one green-black, and he saw the mouth of a great bay, encircling an isle of black stone lapped by gentle waves, the waters warm and smooth. Giants toiled beneath the setting sun, the stone molten in their hands as they pulled and tugged and fused the black stone into a square fortress, a labyrinth. The sun rose and set and rose again a thousand times, and the walls of the labyrinth rose too, straight and strong and unadorned. At last the giants finished, exhausted by their labor, rough smiles upon their craggy faces. For a moment his heart was glad.

Then the sky turned violet, clouds churning overhead as the waves rose and spun. Fish-singers rose from the depths, their song a screech of hatred, and Bran looked away as the sea turned red with blood.

What were the fish-singers called? The grey star asked, trying to hide his dismay. Why did they hate the giants so much?

Deep Ones, the green-black star boomed, and suddenly Bran was five again, staring up at Theon, his mouth agape. They were in the godswood, sitting by the pool of black water. In the distance he could hear Robb and Jon sparring with wooden swords, yelling the names of great heroes back and forth. Their sisters watched, Sansa calling encouragement to Robb in a light airy voice, Arya bellowing for Jon to whack Robb harder.

"The Deep Ones are scarier than any of Old Nan's silly stories." Theon laughed, a cocky smile on his lips. "They live in the depths of the sea, so dark and deep they never see the sun. They have great crab claws instead of arms, and tentacles instead of legs, and they snatch naughty children and drown them before feasting on their tender flesh."

"That's not very scary," Bran declared, unimpressed. The ocean was thousands and thousands of leagues away, after all. He only swam in the pools of the godswood; Mother wouldn't let him try swimming in the moat.

"Oh no?" Theon smirked. "On dark nights they can use their magic to slip into any stream or pool, no matter how far from the sea. Then they wait on the bottom, licking their lips as they wait for a juicy child to come along—"

The grey star fled the memory, fearful of the red star's wrath. He hadn't meant to do it that time, he wasn't trying to find Theon—

Stardust whirled about him like a snowstorm, visions flashing before his eyes. He saw Theon wrapped in pale chains, emaciated, a shadow of himself with tears frozen on his cheeks and a silent scream frown upon his lips. He saw a hill crowned with pillars of bone, a crowd cheering for a hulking man in full plate as a hawk-nosed woman placed a driftwood crown atop his kraken helm. He saw a green dragon, no bigger than a horse, pacing the hold of a ship. A tall man watched, his hair dark as a crow's wing, his lips bruised, his face split by the strap of a leather patch that covered one eye. The other eye was blue, bluer than the sky or the sea, and somehow the man was turning, he was looking at Bran—

No! The red star burned so brightly that Bran cried out in pain, the vision turning to ash before blowing away in a hot wind.

You must concentrate, the red star said, his voice so soft and deadly that even the other stars trembled. You cannot flit here and there as you please. If I am to teach you, you must do as I say, or return home and never fly again.

I'll be good, the grey star cried. I will, I promise. Please don't send me away, please don't.

A long cold silence filled the void, the field of stars cowed and dim beneath the red star's fury.

The boy is trying, lord, the gold-green star whispered. Perhaps he might ask one more question, before the lesson ends?

One more, the red star allowed. And then there will not be another lesson for some time, so that he may think upon his actions.

Bran shivered, the grey star wavering as he tried to think of what to ask. If the wars between the singers and the giants were so terrible, what happened when men came?

For a brief moment every star went out, all but the red and the grey. A cold wind howled as faint blue light shone across the darkened sky. Numbness crept through his veins, an icy hand squeezing at his heart, telling him to let go, to obey, to yield. The world spun, then blazed with light as the stars reappeared, so radiant they outshone the sun. The blue light retreated, the sky grew warm, and the stars dimmed again, all but the red.

Men have existed as long as we have, the gold-green star admitted. Though we thought them no more than hairless apes for many thousands of years. They did not build like the giants; their songs were crude rough noises without a spark of magic. Yet... because their lives were short, they passed wisdom from father to son, mother to daughter, sometimes even shared their knowledge with humans not of their clan. They did not trouble the singers, for we favored the same wild places they scorned, and they hid from the giants out of fear. Until their numbers began to grow. Until men spread over the land like locusts. Until they began to play with magic as if it were a child's plaything.

He had never heard such anger in her voice before. Unbidden one of the stars began to glow, and he saw a great orb spin slowly through the sky, a smaller orb revolving around her. The small orb was silver grey, but the great orb shone like a pearl, blue as the sea, with swirls of white and patches of green, so lovely it brought tears to his eyes.

Bran did not see the dark comet until it was too late. The shooting star was tiny compared to the great orb, yet when it crashed he saw the whole world shake, the land convulsing as mountains belched forth fire and islands drowned beneath monstrous waves. Then he saw nothing, nothing but clouds of black and grey ash.

What happened then? the grey star asked, afraid.

The stars spoke as one, a chorus of voices that made the grey star quake.

The Others.


I am so, so anxious about this chapter. Lore is tricky to handle, and many people already struggle to connect with Bran's story in ADWD, let alone trying to go beyond it. Really hope this doesn't disappoint; can't wait to hear what y'all think.

NOTES

1) The existence of Children of the Forest, Giants, and Men is from canon; casting them as three separate sentient races is my own invention. Most of the other sentient beings come from canon too, but I made up how they were related to the COTF, Giants, and/or Men. In order of appearance:

Jhogwin- double sized giants who lived in Essos at the northern end of the Bone Mountains

Mazemakers- giants who lived in Lorath and built immense mazes

Old Ones- "gods" (giants) who built subterranean labyrinths on the island of Leng

Ifequevron (children who lived in the forests of northern Essos)

Centaurs (eastern plains of Essos)

Shrykes (children who lived in the far eastern deserts of Essos; legends call them lizard people)

Butterfly children- my own invention, singers native to Naath

Spider children- singers native to Sothoryos, based on Anansi the spider from the Akan people of West Africa

Snake children- singers native to the lands of Ulthos (unknown lands east of Asshai), based on the Tlanchana from the folklore of the Matlatzinca people of Mexico

Dog legged children- singers native to the far northern lands of Ulthos, based on the Adlet of Inuit folklore from Greenland

Deep Ones- singers native to the bottom of the ocean; I gave them the canon webbed hands/feet of squishers but then expanded from there.

2) Yeah, since the should be able to see/remember things from all over the world, I included singers from Sothoryos ("unknown" continent south of Essos) and Ulthos ("unknown" continent southeast of Essos).

I decided that on Planetos, Sothoryos is equivalent to most of Africa, and Ulthos is equivalent to the Americas, but neither have been explored by Westerosi or Essosi because the regions closest to the "known" world are equatorial jungles with turbocharged malaria, venomous snakes, etc, and *even if* you get past the jungles there's massive (volcanic?) mountain ranges between the known world and the rest of Sothoryos and Ulthos. No, I don't know if that's how plate tectonics work, but just imagine like Himalaya size mountains providing a chokepoint that protects most of Sothoryos and Ulthos the same way the Pacific and Atlantic separated the Americas from Asia and Europe/Africa.

3) Switching between "the grey star" and "Bran" during the visions inside the weirwood roots is deliberate, to show when Bran is accidentally being himself versus when he is letting go of his body/identity as Bloodraven ordered him to.

4) Hurricanes require warm water, and are thus incredibly rare in Europe. The word hurricane never appears in ASOIAF, nor does cyclone. The Deep Ones were pretty strong to manage a hurricane in Lorath, which is on the same latitude as the Vale and should have a similar climate. So when they decided to attack again in the much warmer waters of the Whispering Sound (the harbor of Oldtown)...

5) Neither the word "meteor" or "asteroid" appears in ASOIAF; I had Bran use "comet," which is incorrect, because that's his only reference for shooting stars. Scientists believe the asteroid which killed the dinosaurs (and all other tetrapods over 55lb) and caused the Cretaceous–Paleogene (K–Pg) extinction event was 6-9 miles wide; the black comet was much smaller, but still fucked everyone pretty hard, especially the giants and the largest species of animals outside the ocean. The ash/debris would have blocked out the sun and caused a global temperature drop, aka an impact winter, aka the Long Night. would have been caused years of darknes

Now, why did the meteor hit? Was it just bad luck, like the asteroid that wiped out the dinosaurs? Was it the result of the Bloodstone Emperor or the singers or someone else meddling with magic beyond their control? We'll never know ;)