Early February, 305 AC
Content warning: This chapter deals heavily with grief and mourning the loss of a family member. Please be advised.
AAhoooo.
Half a heartbeat later, the horn of winter burst apart, sending shards everywhere. The reaver clutched his face, blood trickling over his blue lips, his screams chasing the blue-grey star away. Later he could feel sorry for the old man and his daughter who fought and died atop the Hightower, for the folk of Oldtown lying slain and those who yet lived to battle fire and foe.
For now, though, the blue-grey star turned north. On and on he flew, growing more afraid with every mile. Was Lord Brynden right? Had the Wall fallen as he had foreseen, shattering to pieces like a pane of glass? The moon was a mere sliver, the night so dark he could barely see the long leagues racing by, until at last he came to a great cliff of ice. Cold and vast, the Wall loomed over the world like a giant, a sight so beautiful the blue-grey star could have whooped from the joy of his victory—
Instead, he fell back into his body to the sound of a woman's wail.
Bran lay at the foot of the corpse lord's throne, dazed and dizzy. Rushlights cast long shadows over the cavern floor where Meera knelt upon the great stone slab, her face in shadow as she clung to her brother. Jojen's mossy green eyes were dull and empty, as dark as the stain that spread across his belly, the wound still weeping blood.
Summer was crying too. Singers surrounded the direwolf, who made a high, awful whimpery sound as he struggled to rise, his claws scrabbling uselessly. His right front leg was pinned, pierced by a three-pronged frog spear that had caught in a crack in the floor. Bran almost retched at the sight of blood and bone and sinew, and he quickly looked away.
That was a mistake. Bran had not realized he lay beside a skeleton, one with long white hair and charred black bones. Lord Brynden. His heart pounded rabbit quick; his breath caught in his throat. Bran gulped for air, only to choke on the stench of smoke and blood and rotten flesh. Nausea overcame him and he heaved, vomit splattering the floor, his mouth acid with bile.
"Bring Jojen back!" Meera screamed at the singers. "You bring him back, I know you can!"
"We cannot," Leaf said. Her gold-green eyes shone as she stroked Summer's fur with her claws, his whimpers fading. "He was dead the moment he gave his life to free us. He is gone, child."
"He can't be gone." Meera's voice was half a shriek, half a sob. "Use your magic. If you need a life, take mine instead."
"He made his choice." Leaf's large, slightly pointed ears drooped. "No magic can unmake it."
"No." Meera shook her head, her face anguished. "No." She cradled Jojen's body in her arms, rocking him as if he were a babe. "No." A river of tears flowed down her cheeks and dripped onto her brother's face.
Bran's own eyes were wet as he pushed himself up on bleeding hands, his muscles tingling from the effort. He crawled toward Meera, dragging his legs behind him. He was almost close enough to offer her a hug when her head snapped up and she saw him, and the fury in her eyes made him flinch away.
The singers did not seem to notice. They stood around Summer in a rough circle, tending to the injured direwolf. Leaf and Snowylocks were petting him and singing in the True Tongue, whilst Black Knife examined the frog spear. Black Knife tugged at the shaft, frowned, then bent to look more closely at the direwolf's leg.
When Black Knife drew his knife, Bran cried out. No one seemed to hear; Summer's eyes had fluttered shut, the singers were intent on their work, and Meera knew nothing but her grief. Horrified yet fascinated, Bran watched as Black Knife shaved the direwolf's shoulder bare of fur. Once that was done, the singer set to work with the dragonglass blade which had inspired his name.
When he finished, Ash bound up the wound with a plaster of honey and pine needles and weirwood leaves. The sight of them made Bran suddenly remember another weirwood tree, fat and huge, its mouth shut tight. His brothers and sisters were free, but he had forgotten the last of the wells from which Lord Brynden had drawn his stolen strength.
Quick as thought Bran slipped his skin. One moment he was in the roots; the next he was in the godswood of Winterfell, looking down from the eyes of the heart tree. Beside the black pool lay a man asleep, curled up tight and bound by pale chains. Theon Greyjoy had slept long enough; it was time for him to wake.
Jojen would never wake. All through the day Meera kept her vigil, utterly ignoring Bran and the singers. She would not speak to them, nor let go of Jojen, nor touch the food the singers brought, nor return to the chamber where they dwelt. Not daring to leave her by herself, when night fell Bran wrapped himself in furs and slept upon his weirwood throne.
In the morning Bran felt better, but Meera looked worse. He did not think she had slept a wink; her eyes were bloodshot, ringed by dark circles. In the end, the body was beginning to stink by the time the singers pried it away from her. Leaf promised to return Jojen's bones, but that didn't seem to help. The moment the singers were gone, Meera flew into rage, screaming and weeping as she seized hold of Lord Brynden's bones and flung them into the abyss.
Bran would have almost preferred screaming and weeping to the bitter silence that fell once Meera's tears were gone. She haunted the caves like a ghost, wandering where she would. Bran would have followed her, but the paths and tunnels were too hard for him to manage with only his arms and his trestle. The singers had to carry Bran and Summer back to their chamber, though once there he could drag himself around well enough whilst the direwolf rested, so weak he had to be fed by hand.
Bran would have rather remained in the cavern, atop his throne. He need to fly, and not with a mere raven. The haunted forest was almost as dreary as the cavern, only grey and white instead of black and brown. Within the roots was another world, one rich with bright colors and fragrant aromas and sweet music. In truth, he had not realized how much his happiness depended upon the hours he spent wandering through the ages of the earth. After, he could almost abide the cage of his body and the misery of the companions who had followed him to the cavern.
A few hours should be enough to raise his spirits, Bran decided. Though time passed strangely in the roots, he was sure Meera would not notice he was gone, even if he should happen to remain there for days. If anything, it was for her benefit that he should go. Once he was in a better mood, he might be better able to comfort her. Yet when he asked Leaf to have him carried back to his throne, she refused.
"The Others think us gone, perished with the last greenseer," Leaf warned, her claws digging into his arm. "Our spells have hidden the hill, and their wights are busy elsewhere, but should you draw their notice..."
She refused to explain any further, nor was she moved by Bran's pleading. Worse, Leaf declared that since he required something to do, he could begin learning the Old Tongue. The True Tongue would have been better, she allowed, but the mouths and tongues of men could not manage it, not even those of the greenseers born among them.
"Am I the last greenseer now?" Bran asked. How could he be, if he must stay away from the roots? A greenseer could not be confined to the darkness of the cavern, imprisoned beneath the earth. Besides, he was a prince, and Leaf was only one singer among the hundred who dwelt within the caves. "Am I your lord, like Lord Brynden was?"
Leaf grimaced, her ears back and her nostrils flared.
"You are our ally, not our master," she spat. "Do not take our kindness for submission. We cannot defeat the enemy alone, little though we may wish to rely upon the fickle promises of men."
"We're not fickle," Bran protested.
"Prove it." Leaf's eyes gleamed. "Swear that you will not enter the roots. Swear by the old gods, by the memory of your parents, by the direwolf we sent you."
Bran swore, and soon regretted it. He itched to be back in the roots, away from the awkward shell that was his flesh. He almost wished he was a grey star again. At least then he might pull the puppet's strings from a distance, rather than be forced to confront his frailty every waking hour.
He was not used to being trapped for so long; it was like wearing gloves that no longer fit. Bran's hair and skin always felt greasy; angry pimples marched up and down his face, hurting whether he tried to pop them or left them be. Peach fuzz crept over his upper lip and along his chin, but it was so thin and wispy he might have shaved it off if he knew how.
Bran wished he knew how to comfort Meera. The half moon was in the sky when the singers brought back her brother's bones, cleaned by the beetles who dwelt in the depths of the caverns. Her voice shook as she spoke the words of the funeral rite. Bran spoke them with her, trying not to think of when he and Rickon had spoken the same prayers for their father Lord Eddard.
When the prayers were done, Meera tucked the ancient offerings amongst the bones. An acorn seed, pressed into a lump of earth and splashed with water. The bronze prong which had snapped off her frog spear, and Jojen's iron eating dagger. Last was a chunk of ice from outside the caves and a coal from the ashes of the fire in their chamber.
Bran barely noticed when Leaf and Meera began to speak in low, tense voices. His thoughts were elsewhere, dwelling upon the roots which he so yearned to enter once more. He belonged amidst glittering stars, or soaring over the countless ages of the world, not sitting in a dank, dark cavern as a girl of twenty-two and a singer of two hundred argued in whispers. Bran was a greenseer, a knight who wielded magic in place of a sword. Only he could hope to succeed where Lord Brynden had failed, to find the spell which would make an end of the Others. The Others must have been shocked and dismayed when he thwarted their attempt against the Wall; there was no better moment to catch them off guard.
Yet when he interrupted to say so, Leaf's gaze was so sharp it almost cut.
"The time is not yet ripe," she said, her voice certain as the sunrise. "South we must go, and soon."
"The sooner the better," added Meera in a stiff tone.
Bran gaped at them, both astonished and confused. Leaf and Meera were never of one mind; why should they agree on this, of all things? The world beyond was a forbidding wasteland of ice and snow and bitter winds; hard as their journey north had been, their journey south would be much harder.
Yet a part of him wished to leave at once, desperate to be somewhere, anywhere else. But they couldn't go, not yet. Summer had only begun to stand on three shaky legs; he needed more time to heal. The singers could not mend wounds in a trice, only help the body repair itself more smoothly. And even once Summer was healed, a lone direwolf could not take on every enemy that stood between them and the safety of the Wall. Meera was a good fighter with her frog spear and her net, and Leaf knew spells to hide them from wights, but neither of them were warriors. They needed an archer. They needed Theon.
That was why, whilst Meera clung to her dead, the singers had bade Coldhands bring Theon to the hill. The ranger could not enter the caves, so when the singers sent him on his way, they had left the weirwood bow and the quiver of obsidian-tipped arrows on the hill outside the door. The Others liked prey who fought back, but only if they had no chance of winning.
"The Others wouldn't be so bad, if they didn't have so many wights," Bran said peevishly that evening, when Leaf brought him a bowl of blood stew. Meera was already asleep, curled around the leather bag that held her brother's bones. "You should have made more like Coldhands."
"Would that we could," Leaf answered. "It has been many long years since we freed him, and then only by chance. He died upon our doorstep; we reached him before the enemy could make him a thrall chained to their will."
"Chains can be broken," Bran said, mutinous. "See how they like trying to fight a whole army like Coldhands."
Bran's temper seemed to grow with the moon as it waxed to full. Meera had begun talking to him again, but only so she could tell him what to do. There was much to be done to prepare for their journey, and all of Jojen's chores had to be done by someone.
"You have hands, my prince," Meera said. Not a trace of her former good humor remained; even her face was lean and sharp, her cheeks hollow. "You best learn to use them."
So while Meera hunted and the woodworkers among the singers worked on sleds, Bran found himself scrubbing and mending clothes, along with a dozen other duties that proved much harder than they looked. Meera's instructions were curt and confusing; more than once he almost slipped into the roots, tempted by the notion of escaping Leaf's lessons in the Old Tongue, and of watching other hands do the tasks with which he struggled.
Summer was struggling too as he learned to walk with only three legs. While Bran sat and worked, muttering in the Old Tongue to himself, the direwolf limped tentatively around the cavern, choosing each step with care. His bond with the direwolf seemed stronger of late; sometimes he felt Summer could almost speak.
The direwolf was glad of the corpse lord's death, just as he was frightened of Meera and fond of the singers. His boy though... his boy he was not sure of. Summer did not like it when Bran drifted off into a daydream, relieving one of the many memories crammed inside his head. To Bran's annoyance, Summer formed a habit of nuzzling at him whenever he daydreamed too long, forcing him back to whatever awful chore he was supposed to be doing.
The night of the full moon, Bran tried to mind his manners and be courteous to Meera. She was a woman, after all, and that meant she be suffering her monthly moonblood. She didn't seem to be in a worse mood than usual, but everyone knew that women on their moonblood were apt to fits of rage or weeping at any small offense.
When dinner came and went without any such explosion, Bran was both surprised and relieved. To his annoyance, Summer was not impressed. The only blood the direwolf smelled on Meera was that of the reindeer she had butchered yesterday. In fact, the direwolf seemed convinced that Meera hadn't bled in months. That didn't make any sense, but Bran was too tired and grumpy to think about it. He'd worked hard at his chores all day, and Meera hadn't even thanked him when she came in from the cold.
Someday, she would smile again. Bran would make sure of it. He was the Prince of Winterfell; once they returned home, he could give her everything her heart desired. Fourteen was old enough for a betrothal, he just had to convince Robb to give them his blessing. It wasn't like any other houses would be eager to wed their daughters to a cripple. And none of their daughters were friends who had stuck by him through thick and thin, not like Meera. A beautiful face or a rich dowry was nothing compared to a loyal heart.
His own heart was acting queerly of late. It fluttered in his chest whenever Bran's thoughts drifted to the roots, whether he was at his lessons in the Old Tongue or occupied with some tedious chore. Worse were the pangs of guilt he suffered whenever he thought of the dead. It did not help that he still bore the marks of where his nails had cut him as he clenched his fists, resisting Lord Brynden's command to sacrifice Jojen even as spasms of pain washed over him.
Leaf had tended the wounds and rubbed them with a stinging poultice. The little cuts should have healed without a trace, yet still they taunted him, a row of four angry red lines across the middle of each palm. Faith he had kept, and Jojen had died anyway, by his own hand. Lord Brynden, though... Bran had killed his teacher himself, though he bore no scars to show how he had ripped the corpse from its throne to shatter on the floor.
Lord Brynden had deserved to die, Bran knew. Nor was there any trace of his soul left behind to dwell within some lonely raven; the singers were sure of that, to their relief. He wished he could share their relief, their triumph, yet it eluded him. Bran could not forget that it was Lord Brynden who had made a greenseer out of a cripple, who had lifted him beyond the cares of ordinary men. It must have been madness that made him act so cruelly, some illness caused by so many long years of solitude.
Bran was not the only one who had given up a part of himself, though his teacher had lost only possessions, never his name. The singers would not allow Lord Brynden to enter the cave with anything save the clothes upon his back. All else he had placed in the trunk of a hollow tree, a yew, whose bark had long since grown over the wound.
It was there Leaf had found the weirwood bow and arrows meant for Theon, the ones Coldhands had taken with him when he left. Nor was that all she had retrieved. Lord Brynden's sword was Valyrian steel, so beautiful it almost made Bran gasp. Dragon scales covered the hilt; the pommel was a dragon's foot, with a ruby clasped in its claws. And the blade was slim, so slim a woman might wield it.
The moon was a waning crescent when he presented the sword to Meera, sitting in their rocky chamber before the fire. It had taken days for Bran to persuade Leaf to allow the gift, and to gather his courage. In a faltering voice he told Meera of the sword's name and her history, gleaned from Leaf and from his memories of wandering in the roots.
"You should have Dark Sister," Bran finished, handing her the sword and its scabbard, whose black leather had faded to a dark grey. "She's much better than a frog spear, even if it weren't broken."
Meera stared at him, her eyes dull, never looking at the sword she held. "You honor me, my prince," she said at last, "but I am no swordswoman. I'll keep my frog spear, such as it is."
"But—" Bran could not understand. "But you've come so far, endured so much. You deserve a blade of legend, not a rusty old spear. I want to protect you, Meera, like you've protected me. You deserve everything, and when we're married—"
Meera leapt to her feet so fast he almost thought to see wights bursting into the chamber, startling Summer, who lay on the floor between them.
"The King in the North will never consent." Her cheeks were flushed; her voice shook. "Greywater Watch is too humble, too poor. I am no fit bride for a Stark of Winterfell."
"Yes, he will," Bran assured her. "And yes, you are. You're a maiden of noble birth, and..." he faltered. How could he explain how he saw her, why he loved her? Meera was clever and gentle and brave, but she was so much more than that. "When I tell Robb how you got us north, how all these years you've kept me safe—"
"Safe?" Meera shrieked.
The direwolf whimpered and flattened his ears. Summer's remaining legs were so tired. Otherwise he would have run away from the noise, and hid in some quiet den.
"Oh, aye, I've kept you safe," Meera spat. "Safe upon your wretched throne, too busy dreaming to care for aught else. I have been huntress, laundress and scullery maid, maester and master-at-arms, and what are my thanks? Jojen is dead, and it was my fault that I could not save him!"
"It's not your fault!" He said, appalled. "You- you would have stopped Lord Brynden, if he hadn't skinchanged you, and Jojen chose—"
"YOU chose!" She stamped her foot and flung the sword to the ground, tears welling in her eyes. "We came here for your sake, not Jojen's. We came to this accursed place so you could learn to fly, and you did, you flew away and left us behind, and wouldn't hear a word except the poison Lord Brynden whispered in your ear!"
"It wasn't poison!" Bran snapped. He could feel his face darkening with anger, his heart racing. Oh, if only he could slip into the roots and take her with him, if only he could make her understand. "It was knowledge, the knowledge we'll need to defeat the Others! I know you miss Jojen, I miss my brothers too—"
Meera gave a piercing cry of anguish.
"Your brothers are alive," she screamed through her tears. "I only had one, and instead of returning him whole to our mother and father, all I can give them are his bones!"
"I'll be a good husband," Bran said desperately. His cheeks were wet; Summer hid his eyes beneath his one front paw. "I'll make it up to them, and to you. Somehow, I will, I swear."
She let out a bitter, strangled laugh.
"Will you put the flesh back upon his bones?" Meera snatched up the sword. "Will you call back his shade to haunt me?" She drew it from the scabbard. "Will you give your life, as weregild for his?" She pointed the blade at his heart.
Bran stared at her, not daring to breathe. Meera's hand trembled; the firelight skittered over Dark Sister's smoky blade as it shook.
"Nay," she whispered, her voice breaking. "There is nothing you can do."
Nerveless fingers unclenched; the sword fell to the ground with a soft thud. With a sob Meera retreated to her bed, curling up around the bag that held her brother's bones. She was asleep by the time Bran dragged himself across the chamber to her side. He pulled the furs over her, tucking them in lest she catch a chill. Maybe she was right, maybe he couldn't fix things, but he still had to try.
Several days passed in awkward silence. Bran had the oddest feeling that he had forgotten to tell Meera something, though what he could not recall. Regardless, Bran did his best to do his chores without complaint, even though he still felt miserable and cranky.
Daydreaming about the roots helped a little, but not much. Leaf showed him no sympathy, and he didn't dare ask to be released from his vow, not when she reminded him of it every time she came to teach him the Old Tongue. Leaf was making Bran repeat the proper greeting to a giant for the fifth time when Meera suddenly bolted into the chamber, her frog spear in her hand.
"There's an intruder," she said, low under her breath. "A black brother, but not Coldhands. I saw him climbing the hill, climbing toward the door. If he saw me- if he follows—"
"He followed," Leaf said quietly. "Can you not hear his steps?"
Meera frowned, straining to listen. Summer twitched his nose; he knew that smell, or had known it once, long ago. Bran let out his breath with a sigh. All was well; when he heard the steps of their guest draw close, he felt no fear.
Yet Meera did not share his calm. She whirled on Leaf, her frog spear raised, her net hanging at her hip. "The dead cannot get in, you swore it!"
"I'm not dead," a wry voice called.
Theon Greyjoy entered the chamber with a swagger and a sly smile. Both vanished when Meera gave a shout, cast her net over him, and yanked. Theon only barely managed to break his fall by catching himself on his hands, rather than let his head smack against the hard rocks that littered the chamber floor.
"What the fuck?!" Theon shouted. He wriggled in his bonds, trying to untangle himself from the net and from the black cloak which had gotten wrapped around him.
"Who are you?" Meera demanded. She jabbed at Theon with her frog spear. She would have drawn blood, if not for the black ringmail under his black surcoat.
"Meera, stop!" Bran said, frantic. "Theon is supposed to be here, you know that, I told you!"
Meera froze, save for her head, which turned slowly to look at him.
"Theon." She said, ever so softly. "Theon Greyjoy. No, my prince, you did not tell me."
"Yes, I did," Bran said uncertainly. He must have told Meera, surely.
"No," Leaf said, her voice high and sweet and unwelcome. "You did not."
"I don't care," Theon snapped from the floor. "But if that bitch doesn't get me out of this damn net, I'm going to cut it to pieces."
Meera did not move. Neither did Leaf. He hated how they loomed over him. He would be taller than them if he could stand, not just sit uselessly on the ground. Bran gritted his teeth, and began dragging himself to Theon's side. The seams of his tunic's sleeves strained against the thick muscles of his arms, his wooden trestle thumping and scraping against the stony floor. Untangling the net was almost easy compared to that. A few twists and tugs and the net was free, as was Theon.
"Thank you," Theon huffed, getting to his feet with a groan. A handsome man in his middle twenties, his father's ward was leaner than Bran remembered, with hollows in his cheeks and bruises beneath his eyes. His hair, eyes, and shaggy beard were as dark as his cloak, a stark contrast to the pale weirwood bow slung over his shoulder and the quiver of arrows on his back.
"This is Meera, of House Reed," Bran told him. "And that's Leaf, of those who sing the song of earth." With the introductions done, he dragged himself toward a rock that served as a bench. Anything was better than being on the floor, looking up at everyone else as they stood over him
"Leaf?" Theon smirked, opened his mouth- then closed it, once he'd gotten a better look at the singer's narrowed eyes and sharp claws.
"Why is he here?" Meera's spear was still raised, the prongs pointed at Theon's throat.
"The gods willed it." Leaf's eyes gleamed gold and green. "They have brought him hither, just as they will send us on our way."
"I brought myself," Theon objected. "Once the weirwood—" he shuddered "—once Bran let me go."
"And who guided you?" Leaf asked. "Who smoothed your path? How did you come to us, if not with their aid?"
"How did you get here?" Bran asked, curious.
Theon told the tale in fits and starts, keeping one eye on Meera's spear. He had awoken inside the mouth of the weirwood at Whitetree. The village was abandoned, empty and desolate, and so cold he'd built a ring of nightfires around the little hut where he slept. There had been plenty of firewood, left by whatever rangers had been in Whitetree last.
"And plenty of fresh meat, too," Theon said. His lips twisted in a mockery of a smile.
Bran tilted his head, confused. "What meat?"
Theon's smile flickered. "Feral hog," he said, after a long pause. "There were several of them wandering about; one almost gutted me."
"Oh." Bran supposed that made sense. Long ago, when they were journeying to the cave, Coldhands had found a sow in the woods, a veritable feast after weeks of starving. Although... "Why would the wildlings leave their hogs behind?"
"It is hard, to control a passel of hogs." Leaf's eyes were fixed on him, her voice strangely intent. "Their masters turned south long ago, but a swineherd can only drive so many. Eventually, a few escape his grasp, to wander back to the sty from whence they came."
"He saved me from them," Theon muttered. "The ranger."
Coldhands had found Theon fighting a particularly big, mean hog, one night when his fires had gone out before the dawn. It was Coldhands who had slaughtered the brute, and Theon who cooked it up for breakfast. When the meal was done, the ranger led him toward the cavern of the greenseer.
"But the dead men followed us," Theon said, shivering. "More of them, every night. When we came to an old village a few leagues from here, Coldhands decided we must take a stand. All through the day we piled firewood and kindling between the huts and the longhall, and when night fell, Coldhands lured them into the trap. When I tossed him the torch—"
"But he's afraid of fire!" Bran's voice cracked, to his shame.
Theon shifted, uneasy. "It was the ranger's idea. One of us had to lure them into the trap so that the other could escape. When the village burned, it made a ring of unbroken fire that devoured every wight within. If it hadn't worked- if Coldhands hadn't- he said I had to reach you, that this was the only way."
"You should have sacrificed yourself, not Coldhands," Meera said angrily. "Why aren't you on the Wall? Did you desert?"
"No." Theon looked indignant. "I had command of a ranging, with orders to investigate Craster's Keep—"
Leaf made a terrible noise, a snorting-wheeze that made all three humans stare at the singer. Theon sank onto the bench beside Bran, swearing under his breath, while Meera lowered her frog spear, having seemingly forgotten her foe. Bran shivered; he could feel the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
"Who's Craster?" Bran asked.
"A craven," she answered. "Years ago, before any of you were born, there was a foul winter. Blizzards blew, rivers froze, and larders ran dry. Whilst the women and children remained huddled by their hearths, the men went out to hunt. Some returned bearing meat, and lived to see the spring. Some perished, struck down by cold, by unhappy chance, or by the white shadows who stalked through the night."
"Craster would have been one of them, if not for his cowardice. When the Other raised his sword, Craster begged for mercy, offering the life of his newborn son in place of his own. The Other only laughed, and took him by the ear and forced him to his knees. Then Craster offered all his sons. The one in the cradle, the one at the breast, and all the other sons he might ever sire. And the Other smiled, and the bargain was struck, and for almost forty years, all of Craster's sons were given to the cold."
"But- what did he do to his daughters?" Meera asked, wan and frightened.
"He wed them, and raped more sons into them." Theon rose to his feet, his face bloodless. "It has been a very long, miserable journey, there is a kettle of water boiling on the fire, and I haven't bathed in almost five years. Unless you wish to help me scrub, get out."
For a moment, Bran thought Meera was going to stab Theon. Instead, she sneered at him before walking away. Leaf did not even bother to do that much; she almost seemed to melt back into the darkness of the cavern.
"You can stay," Theon said carelessly as Bran picked up his trestle. Theon had already found buckets of cold water, into which he was pouring the steaming water from the kettle. "That peach fuzz is an embarrassment. Once I've shaved, I can show you how to get rid of it."
"No." Thrown by the sudden change of subject, Bran folded his arms, trying to look stern. Theon had no right to be so rude to the girls, or to tell him what to do. "I don't want to."
Theon shrugged. "It will grow back faster if you shave."
Bran hesitated. Was that true? A beard might make him look older and more handsome, more like a prince worthy of Meera's hand.
"You can show me," Bran said, "if you apologize to the girls. Leaf may look like a child, but she's old and powerful and wise, and Meera is a highborn lady."
Theon gave a bark of laughter. "A fishwife, more like. I saw her hands, all rough and red and hard with callus. What sort of lady has those sort of hands?"
"The best kind." Bran paused, trying to think of how to make Theon behave. "Meera is going to be my wife someday, and she's under my protection. You should be as nice to her as you would be to me."
Though Theon hadn't always been nice, now that he thought of it. So to drive home the point, Summer bared his fangs and rumbled low in his throat. The direwolf might be injured, but he was still almost as big as a horse. And he was walking better now, having finally found his balance. Though his gait did look rather odd; rather than stalking gracefully across the cavern, he approached Theon with a hop and a hobble.
Theon glanced at the three-legged direwolf, his face impassive. "Agreed," he drawled.
Unsurprisingly, the shave went much more smoothly than the apologies. When Meera came back, she fetched Jojen's bones and her sleeping furs, then left the chamber before Theon could get even halfway through asking for her forgiveness. As for Leaf, she did not return until the next day, when she came to teach Bran the Old Tongue. At least the singer listened to Theon's words, although she also told him she only half accepted the apology because he only half meant it.
Thus chastened, Theon refused to even try apologizing to Meera again. As the new moon shifted to a waxing crescent, they spoke only of arrangements for the journey south, and then only through Bran. Irritated by serving as a messenger raven on top of his irksome chores, he was sorely tempted to have Summer bite them. Jojen might have known how to mend the breach, but Bran's attempts ended in failure, no matter whether he scolded or pleaded.
By the time the moon waxed to half, Theon and Meera had stopped making Bran relay their messages. Instead, they began openly yelling at each other. They argued over everything and nothing at all, from the proper butchering of game to the amount of salt needed for the journey south to the best way to prevent lice. Leaf remained aloof, directing the other singers as they finished preparing the sleds and summoned elk and reindeer from the forest to help pull them.
Matters came to a head on the tenth day of second moon. The moon was full, and they were to leave on the morrow. All was in chaos as they prepared to depart, so much so that Bran forgot that it was Jojen's nameday. He remembered when a relatively calm argument over what time they should rise before dawn somehow turned into a shouting match when Meera discovered Theon had been using the soap that had been Jojen's.
Attempting to calm her down only made her angrier. Giving up, Bran focused on the seam he was mending. He tried to ignore the voices echoing off the walls, but the argument only escalated, Meera striding back and forth in her fury, whilst Theon squatted by the fire.
"No one wants you here." Meera's face was flushed red; sweat beaded on her brow. Even her long brown braid looked disheveled, loose hairs escaping every which way. "I don't want your help, you're the one who drove us here!"
"Me?" Theon snorted his derision as he poked at the coals. "My sins are grievous, I admit, but I cannot see how I am to blame in this."
"If you hadn't marched on Winterfell, we wouldn't have had to leave it!"
Theon recoiled as if he'd been slapped. The blood drained from his face; his thin smile vanished. For a moment, silence reigned.
"I-" Theon stammered. "I—"
"Theon drove us away," Bran burst out, interrupting. "But... you're not really angry with Theon, because he didn't slay Jojen." The words came unbidden, his tongue letting slip the thoughts he'd pondered so long in silence. "You're angry at Jojen, because he slew himself."
"He had no right." Meera's shoulders shook; her voice was a ragged, broken thing. She sank down on the bench, burying her face in her hands. "How could he go, without my leave? If he had told me- to free the singers, I could have- he was my little brother, it was my duty to- why would the gods take him, when they could have taken me?"
"I don't know," Bran whispered. "Jojen was so melancholy, at the end. Maybe he knew there was no other way, maybe he saw you had another path, maybe it was for the best."
"For the best?" Meera's head jerked up. He had never seen such hatred in her eyes. "My brother is dead. All that I drink is vinegar, and all that I eat is ash. Greens are grey and the sky is dark, and the sun will never shine again."
And with that, she grabbed a rushlight and strode angrily from the cavern. Bran called after her to no avail, his belly hot with guilt. He wanted to follow her, but her sleeping chamber was up a steep tunnel, one he could not manage with his trestle and his shriveled legs.
"I made it worse," Bran said miserably. "And- and I can't-" he gestured helplessly at his legs.
Theon stood. "I'll go after her."
Bran couldn't walk, but he could fly. There were plenty of ravens in the tunnels, and he could slip his skin as easily as breathing. The raven's wings carried him to Meera's chamber so quickly that they reached it before she did. A crevice in the wall above the doorway provided a perch, and it was there they waited, until the sound of voices broke through the darkness, followed by the orange glow of the rushlights.
"Stop following me," Meera said, harsh and angry.
"No, my lady, not until I've spoken my piece."
Meera paused on the threshold, below the raven's crevice. Theon stood a few steps lower down, forcing him to look up at her.
"My lady?" She gave a jagged laugh. "I thought you said I was a fishwife."
Theon reddened. "I beg your pardon, my lady, I should not have said that."
"Why not? You've said and done far worse."
Theon flinched. "I have. Worse than you can imagine, I do not doubt. But believe me, you cannot hate me as much as I hate myself."
"Can't I?"
"No," Theon said. His eyes were fixed on Meera as he stepped closer, so close they almost touched. "You've kept all your hatred for yourself. I've seen how it gnaws at you, how it chokes your breath and clouds your sight. But hate will not bring your brother back, it will not feed you or keep you warm."
"I haven't felt warm in years." For a moment Bran could have sworn her eyes flicked to the raven, though it was invisible in the dark. Meera folded her arms, watching Theon warily, as if judging how many inches stood between them.
Theon gave a rusty laugh. "Nor I. Alas, there are no wenches to—"
Meera closed the space between them, yanked Theon by the tunic, and kissed him. It was an ugly kiss, frantic and messy, devoid of love or tenderness. She bit his lip, drawing blood; he wrapped her braid around his fist, and pulled until she whimpered, one hand going for the laces of his breeches.
"Wait," Theon panted, breaking the kiss. "You're a maiden, you're betrothed. You don't know what you're doing, I have to protect your virtue."
"I'm not his betrothed," Meera growled, "and I don't want to be. You want to protect me? Then ruin me."
And Bran was back in the cavern, unable to blame the smoke of the fire stinging at his eyes for the regret dripping down his cheeks.
We're back, baby! Hooo boy, sound off in the comments!
God, July was a bitch of a month, I'm so glad it's over. Being busy writer's block = not fun. Reminder that you can get updates on my tumblr at RedWolf17.
Thank you so much to my main beta PA2, and to Wiverse, Avislone, Shadow, and Erzherzog, who also provided feedback and ideas, some of which got pushed to Bran II.
Up Next
159: Jaime
160: Bel I
161: Bran II
NOTES
1) Bran isn't super close to get a good look, but Summer's leg was badly mangled when Bloodraven forced Meera to stab him back in Bran V. With the leg hanging on by barely a thread, Black Knife chose to amputate.
Tripod animals can recover and enjoy full, healthy lives. I got my info on the recovery process from Tripawds. Summer was partially inspired by Champion from Parks and Recreation.
2) Bran's discomfort after being cut off from the weirwood roots is partially based off the symptoms of cocaine withdrawal. Turns out being suddenly deprived of magical cocaine/escapism is no fun.
3) Meera's lack of moonblood, or amenorrhoea, is due to severe stress and malnutrition. She spent almost 5 years in a cave, hunting in the cold to survive because she didn't trust the singers' food, eating as little as possible to give more food to Jojen and Bran, and fretting over how to prevent Jojen's approaching and seemingly inevitable death.
Also, yes, Bran thinks women get their moonblood every full moon, at which point they become irrational rage or sadness monsters. Look, he left Winterfell when he was nine, he didn't exactly get proper sex ed, and Meera handled her moonblood quietly and privately on their journey until it became erratic and then stopped coming. I wanted to highlight boys and men being ignorant about women's health issues; god knows plenty of modern men have even weirder ideas about women's health despite sex ed and internet access.
4) Alas, Theon's weirwood "vacation" didn't suddenly make him less of a misogynist tool. He got new perspective, but bad habits take time to unlearn; plus he's just had a miserable journey through the snow, so he's lashing out. But... he's trying?
5) Yes, the "feral hogs" were... uh... well, Theon wasn't eating pork. Welcome to the wight cannibalism club, my dude; Dywen made t-shirts YIKES Bran is still in denial about the "sow" they ate on their way to Bloodraven's cave in both ADWD and in TWQ canon.
Side note, a group of hogs is called a passel or team, and a group of swine is called a sounder. Yeah, pigs and swine and hogs aren't technically the same thing? Weird. Turns out a pig is a young swine, and a hog is a swine over 120lb.
6) Some of Leaf's reactions, like flattening her ears and snort-wheezing to show anger, are based on deer behavior. Other sub-species of singers that I made up back in Chapter 122 would also have some traits/reactions based on the various animals with whom they share similarities due to their spirits/shapes being influenced by the places where they live.
7) "Greens are gray and the sky is dark" is a verbatim quote of something my bf said, almost out of the blue, while we were talking about this chapter. He was talking about Bran's withdrawal, but I thought the quote worked even better for Meera's trauma at losing her brother :(
8) Sometimes good people make terrible decisions, especially when in the midst of debilitating grief and anger and isolation. Please don't judge Meera too harshly for grabbing onto a way to guarantee she wouldn't be eligible to marry Bran. While Theon has treated other women horrifically, in this case, things were consensual, if incredibly messy and unhealthy and a bad idea. And for anyone who is worried, no, this is not going to be a ship, just a one-night stand.
