embrace the world in grey

by TheTenthSunrise

Two Wolves are sent North. Deep in the North, beyond the Wall, a lone Wolf survives the cold. A Young Wolf lies in the dark, and waits for rescue. Winter draws ever nearer (or, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives)

29. THE WINGED WOLF III

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: THE WINGED WOLF III

Bran looks upon Cersei Lanister, who thinks herself untouchable in the Red Keep. Jaime Lanister comes to make amends, and Bran speaks of redemption. Bran faces his biggest enemy yet, and catches glimpses of the distant past. Strangers arrive at Winterfell.

---

–the things we do for love. the world grows dim. steel glows hot and red, melting and being reshaped. a crow squawks, the wind howls around him in tune with the howls of a wolf. slashed fingers bleed red and fire blooms in the evening air. a wolf snarls, its mouth filled with blood, snout dripping red. the wind rushes up to meet him, and a scream breaks through the air–

Bran opens his eyes to see Jaime Lannister, standing there.

He finds, rather quickly, he is far from shocked that the man has come to find his penance with him. Bran knows that he's been spending most of his time in the cells, as of late, but Robb had told him that he'd asked to speak to Bran already, and that's why he's seemingly been given what looks like free reign, but is, in reality, a controlled release. Bran knows damn well that some guards probably lie in wait a little ways away, ready to drag him back should it go sideways. Again.

But Bran doesn't need protection, not here. Summer is at his feet, and Jaime Lannister is unarmed. Bran is far from danger. So, all that he has in him is a cold calculation as he looks at the shadow of a man that Jaime Lannister has become. He's only alive because they can't quite pass up a few hundred more swords, and the chance to hold something over Cersei. Bran doubts he is blind to this fact. But he took his gamble in coming here.

Jaime seems to hesitate for a moment as he sees Bran, opening his mouth before shaking his head. He swallows loudly before taking a deep breath and finally saying, "I'm sorry for what I did to you." He makes an awkward face as he says it, as if it's been a rather long time since he's had to apologise to someone's face for something he did to them personally. Bran suspects it has been. Jaime Lannister has gotten off remarkably well, in the grand scheme of things.

But still, a conjecture remains in Bran, the apathy of The Three-Eyed Raven. Had it not been for Jaime Lannister pushing him from that window, Bran knows he would not have been sent down this path, not in the same way, at least. So much would be different. Some for the better, but some for the worse as well. Such is the nature of things. Such is the danger in this world.

Still, Bran smiles tightly and meets his eyes. "You were not sorry then." Jaime presses his lips together and nods. Bran continues, "You were protecting your family…protecting yourself. And I understand that better, now. We all do things for the people we love–foolish, stupid, things. Some have little consequence on the world. And some spell the death of thousands." Jaime Lannister flinches at that, and Bran looks away.

"And yet…I would not be what I am today if you had not done so. The world would not be the same. Perhaps we would be more allied against The Night King, but perhaps not. Perhaps other things would have been spun into the web that ties us all together, and they would have been far more disastrous. Who are we to know? The past is the past, and the past is done, and we cannot change it," he says, forcing himself to not think of Hodor and the power he made there. That was a disaster, one he is not seeking to repeat any time soon.

"I would like to believe I'm not that person anymore," Jaime says with a slight smile, laced with a bitter edge that Bran knows all too well. His one hand flexes awkwardly, and he draws just a step nearer, glancing at Summer as he does so. But Bran's wolf stays silent and still, staring at the Kingslayer with an unreadable expression. Bran can feel his wolf's worry and distrust, but his wolf can sense his calm as well, and his wolf knows how to listen to him. Summer will not attack unless Bran tells him to do so.

"You still would be, had you not pushed me out of that window," Bran allows, and Jaime nods along, his green eyes looking at Bran like he can hardly recognise the boy who fell in the young man who sits before him now, washed over with eerie calm. "And The North would not be as it is. My siblings would be strangers to who they are now. Your sister would perhaps not be the Madwoman she is now. And perhaps Daenerys Targaryen would not be sitting inside, biting her tongue and biding her time, waiting until the dead have passed, so she can take her justice."

"Why has she left me alive?" Jaime asks with a sudden fury. He looks at Bran with an expression of worry and fear and gnawing terror. "From the second I saw her, I considered my life forfeit. And now, I hear that I will be allowed to raise my sword for Winterfell. I will sit pretty in a cell for a little while longer, yes, but that is only until Robb Stark can make sure he has everything in order. Can you tell me why I am alive? I hear whispers that you know everything, now."

"Not everything," Bran corrects with a slight smile. "And I cannot speak to Daenerys Targaryen. All I know is that everyone in these walls has made painful concessions and that everyone in these walls has some reason to hate someone else in those walls. For many people, that is you. At the end of the day, though, we have one enemy–one true enemy–and it is not one another. You will get your justice, Jaime Lannister. Whether during the Long Night or in the dawn that follows. I suspect that Daenerys is simply waiting until our first issue has passed to deal with the issue that is you."

Jaime nods, looking strange and gaunt. Truly, there is nothing of that glimmering knight he once was in the man who stands before Bran. His hair is greying, his sword hand is gone, and he no longer wears a white cloak and glittering armour. Instead, he wears simple, hardy brown clothes and some furs to keep him warm. No sword is at his side. No smile is upon his lips, and his glory is long since gone, that much is clear. But they don't need flashy knights and mythic heroes. They need men who can do what it takes, men who will see this through or die trying.

"You're not angry at me?"

"I was, once," Bran admits, looking away towards the heart tree, feeling that old ache in his heart. "I was until I learned that there is more to this world than what I thought. I contain an ancient power in me, one that may be the edge needed in this fight. I have seen the rise and fall of dynasties with my own eyes. I have seen the coldest winters and the hottest summers. There is little place for anger and grievances in a world so vast."

"Did you convince her to spare me?" He asks Bran, and the look on his face when Bran shakes his head is strikingly close to relief. Bran does not get a chance to wonder at it before Jaime is continuing, "Then who did? Who turned her heart towards me? Barristan? No, he hates me for my dishonour as much as the rest of them. Your sister, your brother? No, I saw the looks in their eyes. Her? The Daughter of The Mad King? I don't think she is one to readily forgive that, is she?"

"I would suspect it is Beric Dondarrion's influence, at most," Bran says, and Jaime raises a brow at that, but Bran continues before he can ask. "He has counselled her and my brother both in matters like these. And as he said, it does not matter what banner we fight under when death comes for us. So, we must fight under one. A black banner, perhaps, for the night that never ends and The Watch that has guarded this threat since the start. Or perhaps no banner at all, as Dondarrion and his men have long since done, as the Brotherhood Without Banners."

"And, you are a piece to the puzzle, no?" Bran asks, smiling slightly. "Something that can be used against Cersei like my sisters were used against my brother."

"I told you Cersei was mad," Jaime says, a venom and a pain in his voice that is hard to deny. He does not seem afraid to die, in fact, Bran thinks that this man has been ready to die for a very, very long time. Instead, what he hears is almost grief. Jaime loves Cersei and has done unspeakable things for her, for their House. Bran cannot hate him for that. He cannot hate a man for loving…especially since Jaime Lannister has chosen something beyond that love for once. "And now you seek to provoke her?"

"Why do people follow Robb or Daenerys? Why do your men follow you, Kingslayer?" Bran asks, stressing the name. Jaime flinches slightly at it, his green eyes narrowing at Bran, though he gives no answer. So, Bran answers for him. "Because they love Robb and Daenerys. I do not know if your men perhaps love you, but they clearly respect you to have followed you this far, to turn against their Queen. Men follow power, yes, but power does not keep men. Ask The Boltons."

Jaime Lannister gives him a wary look, but Bran keeps speaking. "Your sister has no love. She has bought her influence, bought her power. There is perhaps one thing in this world she loves, and that one thing is the only thing that loves her back. You." He smiles at that, feeling like Sansa with her hidden edge and her brilliant schemes. "Her Madness comes from love. Losing you, losing your allegiance…who knows what it has already done to her? The cracks will begin to show. And then it is time to take our revenge, and for Daenerys Targaryen to take her throne."

"Why do you follow The Dragon Queen?" Jaime suddenly asks, a harsh edge to his voice. "Her House has reaped as much violence onto yours as mine has. Why do you break bread with her, but put me in a cell? Where does House Stark draw the line?"

"We do not follow her," Bran says simply. "Robb still bears his crown, does he not? The North is free, the North is unshackled by any real power–because Daenerys Targaryen is not the fool her father was, nor the fool that your sister is. She can see the pain that has been caused, she can understand she has no place here."

"All the same, she fights for the living, as do you. And that matters. That is enough for us to put our pain aside and aid one another, I'd say. And, when it comes time to take The Throne, if we aid her, it is because she proved her worth here, because we respect her enough to try. And because that is our fight as well. House Lannister will pay for what they have done. But our knees will not bend to anyone. To her or Cersei. That is our line, Jaime Lannister."

Jaime looks at him oddly then, bowing his head after a moment and swallowing. Bran cannot say for certain why Daenerys Targaryen did what she did, but she has made her choice, and all that is left to do is prepare to fight. Bran has seen only glimpses of The Wall. Jon got there around when Jaime got to Winterfell. And now, he and Theon and Benjen are holding out as much as they can. But it's all doomed to fall. And they must be ready for when that happens.

Eventually, Jaime leaves Bran alone, with one more murmured apology that Bran hardly hears. His mind is miles away, his heart a bird with wings. He misses the use of his legs, yes, but their loss opened many other doors. They led him to where he is, right now, with the visions that press around his mind, that press in his skull, and consume him whole…

—

He opens his eyes and finds himself in a hall he has been in before, in the shadow of a throne he knows all too well, now. But the woman who sits upon it is a new figure on it, though not a new face. Bran swallows tightly, pressing close to the wall of the hall as he stares at Cersei Lannister, sitting upon her throne, a golden crown atop her golden curls. They have grown from the severe cut he has seen glimpses of, and now rest gently on her shoulders. Her green eyes are bright as she stares at the men before her.

Though Bran does not know their names, he knows, despite it all, that they must be members of The Brotherhood Without Banners. One of them is a large, brawny man with a travel-stained cloak of a brilliant yellow about his shoulders. A sword glints at his side, though he rests his hand upon it with practised ease. The other man is an older, wiry man with a foxish look about him. An axe is strapped at his back, and when he shifts slightly, Bran can see the knives at his belt. With the exception of the yellow cloak, both the men are wearing Black.

And between them is a cage. Bran thinks he knows what's going on already, and he feels his curiosity spike in an instant, right as sound comes in, a voice ringing from the hall. "You are representatives of The Night's Watch?" Someone asks, causing both men to grin, ever so slightly.

Bran turns his eyes towards it to see a man in black maester robes, and the pin of the Hand of The Queen on his chest. He is to Cersei's right, and to her immediate right is a narrowed-eyed Jaime Lannister, dressed in the same armour he wore when he first came to Winterfell, only a few days ago. The walls are lined with soldiers. Bran spots the two Tarlys as well. But most curiously, is the large man who looms nearby…and the black-haired man with one eye who leans causally on the wall.

Bran swallows tightly. The Mountain and Euron Greyjoy, he thinks, and though he knows himself to be invisible, he presses closer to the shadows, unable to help himself. Greyjoy seems to bear some resemblance to Theon, or enough so that when Bran glances at him again, he feels his heart lurch, and images pass his mind of a young man he once knew, the young man who ended their old lives, once and for all, and suffered dearly for it. Bran swallows tightly and forces himself to pay attention.

"Not quite, and I apologise for that little fib of ours," the man in the yellow cloak says. His voice is rough, with a grimly amused edge to it. His eyes glint as he looks at the Mountain, and Bran can see the debate raging in his eyes for just a moment before he smiles easily, and looks towards Cersei and The Hand. "My name is Lem–Lem Lemoncloak as the uncreative took to calling me for my cloak, you see. This here is Tom o' Sevenstrings. Pay him well enough, and perhaps he'll sing you a song, my Lord Hand. I ride with the Brotherhood Without Banners, a company of Men led by Beric Dondarrion."

"I have heard of you," Cersei says in a posh tone that makes Bran grit his teeth. "A band of brigands and outlaws who have terrorised The Riverlands for years now, and who have disobeyed the laws of this land and their Lords alike, and who have now bought their way into my presence with a lie. Tell me why I should not kill you here and now?"

"Because I have something you might want to know about," Lem says with a crooked smile, seemingly far from afraid of Cersei's threat. "See, my Lord Dondarrion recalls Ned Stark well. After all, he was sent out by the man once upon a time. So, when Benjen Stark, Lord Commander of The Watch, started asking around for some help, he thought: Well, fuck it. I ain't got much left to do here, so aye, I'll do it. So up we go to The Wall, and oh did the wolf tell us a story! Winter is Coming, he tells us. No one can stand against it. I need all the help I can get."

"Ah, yes, The Northern Snarks and Grumpkins," Cersei says with a hollow laugh that the court echoes after a moment. But Lem isn't smiling, and Cersei seems to note that, her eyes flickering towards the crate in a moment of brief vulnerability or perhaps just uncertainty. Bran feels himself smile slightly.

"I would not be so hasty, Your Grace," Lem says, voice a little darker now. "Stark asked us to go help his nephew and The Dragon Queen. So my Lord Dondarrion–who, I think your protector there could tell you much about–" Cersei bristles, and Lem and Tom smile with slight mockery, "–decides, well, I can't just go show only them, can I? I fight for everyone. Perhaps that Lion Queen would like to know what her enemies are doing. So he sends us further South."

"You know where that Targaryen Girl and The Stark Boy are going?" Cersei asks, a sudden light in her eyes, her fingers curling on the edge of the throne. Bran creeps a little closer, narrowing his eyes at them, trying to get a better look…for it almost looked like she had a bandage on one of her fingers…

"Can't say we do, Your Grace," Lem says, though Bran doubts that is true. "Lord Dondarrion just sends us here with orders to tell you what we told 'em. Winter is Coming. And here's the proof."

Lem suddenly rips the front of the crate away and kicks it forward. An unholy shriek fills the air, and Bran straightens as he sees the wight come crawling out, though it is quickly stopped from doing much harm by what looks like a thick iron chain. For a long moment, the only sound that fills the Throne Room is the sound of the wight's screeches, before Lem draws his sword, and, before any of the suddenly very alert knights and soldiers can do anything, cleaves one arm from the wight, now leaving it with no arms.

"These fuckers can only be stopped by flame," he says, with a remarkably cheery tone, his eyes wide and wild. He gestures to the arm, which is still moving, despite its detachment from the rest of the corpse. Bran suddenly doubts that he is really here to convince Cersei of anything. Rather, Bran thinks as he looks around the room and sees the faces of everyone in it–as he sees how Jaime Lannister looks at the wight–he is here to cause a little chaos, and perhaps cause the very series of events that Winterfell has just received the final acts of.

"Now, I ain't saying what you should or should not do, but I'm just saying that if you want to live, maybe don't go dismissing the Night Watch next time, yeah?" Lem says with a cheery grin. He nods at Tom, who nods back, before suddenly lighting a match, and throwing it onto the wight. It catches remarkably easily, and the room goes silent as the smell of burning flesh fills the air, and the screams of the wight subside, leaving only Lem Lemoncloak and Tom o' Sevenstrings standing there, looking mighty pleased with themselves.

"Get them out of my sight," Cersei says from between clenched teeth, and that, of course, is when the vision slips away into something more.

Lem and Tom seem to be in some clean, but rather small, rooms. Lem is tending his sword, while the Sevenstrings is plucking out a tune on a harp that Bran doesn't think he had in The Throne Room. He is slouched against a couch, while Lem is sort of hunched over. The mood is not expressly cheery, but they do not seem worried, rather deep in thought. Bran feels a little awkward, standing in the shadows, but all he can do is watch, and understand, and wait to know why The Gods are showing him this.

A knock at the door comes soon enough, and with it, Bran's answer. He straightens as Jaime Lannister comes in, something Lem and Tom both do as well, exchanging a glance. There's a harried look in The Kingslayer's eyes, the same look that Bran saw in his eyes earlier, when he first came into the Great Hall of Winterfell, the look that was in his eyes as he told his truth. She is mad, and will see you all dead, heedless of what doom it may heap upon her shoulders.

"Kingslayer," Tom says, speaking for the first time. There's a melodicism to his voice, and he half sings the word, smiling even as Jaime glowers at him. "What can we do for you?"

"Is what you said true?" Jaime asks bluntly, looking back at the door as if he is afraid. Bran feels himself straighten even more, and again, the two men of The Brotherhood exchange a glance. He betrays himself already, Bran thinks, watching even more carefully now. "The Army of The Dead is real? And House Stark has allied with Daenerys Targaryen?"

"We said nothing of that," Tom says, strumming his harp. Jaime's expression tightens, and the singer laughs slightly. "Oh, but yes it is, of course. Everyone whispers about it, probably. The Wolf definitely reached his word far, father than your sister likes, I'd reckon?" After a moment, Jaime nods mutely, and Tom sits up then, instrument still in hand even as he regards the man carefully. "And I doubt she has any plans to aid any of us, does she?"

"She dismisses it outright," Jaime confesses softly.

The men nod. Lem speaks up then. "Of course, she does. The Starks and The Dragon Queen are her enemies, and she cannot dare help them. She's smart enough to know that they'll do their very best to kill her, whether they're allied or not. Such is the hole she has dug herself into." He sets his sword aside. "But you haven't dug that hole for yourself. I don't think many have. And if say…some lords of The Reach learned The Truth of The Tyrell Heirs, what then?"

"What are you suggesting?" Jaime asks dangerously.

"Perhaps Garlan and Willas Tyrell live indeed. Perhaps House Tarly would wish to know. Perhaps there is a choice that lies ahead of you, now. Life, or death. The living, or your sister's burgeoning madness." Jaime gives him a warning look, and Lem smiles then, looking far from afraid. "Oh, don't glare at me. You know what you have seen. You know what she has done already. You know her grave is dug. The Queen has Three Dragons and Thousands of Dothraki…you have met them."

Jaime Lannister gives no answer, which is confirmation in and of itself. "You know what she will do in a fruitless attempt to win. The Freys and Boltons are gone, and all that is left for The Wolf are the Lannisters. I glimpsed the king, you know? All sharp-toothed and vicious–there's no milk teeth left on him. What do you think he hopes to do to the mother of the bastard king who broke his House in two with only a few words? What do you think awaits you, should The Throne be taken back and The North held?"

"Death," Jaime says softly, and Lem inclines his head. Jaime breathes deeply, rubbing the bridge of his nose and looking up at the two men with a harried, haunted expression. Bran can see the war he is waging in his eyes, see how he hesitates, see how he weighs the options. But Lem has struck a chord, has spoken aloud the fears The Kingslayers has yet to face. "Say someone wanted to go…to go and fight for the Living. Say someone wanted to escape the madness before it killed him. What then would The Brotherhood do?"

"You want to get North?" Lem asks, suddenly much more blunt than any of them had been before, his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes digging deep into The Kingslayer, stripping him down and demanding only what honesty he can give. After a moment of hesitation, Jaime Lannister nods. And then Lem Lemoncloak smiles widely. "Well then. I suppose we shall get to it, yeah?"

—

That night, Bran begins the process of driving Cersei Lannister mad.

It is an exhausting process, yes, but one he thinks he can use as he opens his eyes and recalls Cersei's burgeoning horror, the way she'd looked around wildly as his voice faded. He did not reveal himself, not knowing what that would do, but his voice was real, and his whispers struck her hard and fast, just as he intended. If they cannot force her hand through Jaime, this still leaves roads open towards other end goals and other choices. He can do a lot of damage with this and has been doing so for the past few days, but all the same…

He thinks of Hodor, as he broods in his room, feeling unmoored by the power he has, the power he has no way of checking himself with. So far, he has seen many helpful things, but he can walk in real-time, implant his mind in other places, into the air itself and whisper his melody into unsuspecting ears. The whisper of a crow, the voice in the trees, small things with so much more power to them than he knows what to do with, really. He killed Hodor with his power, and that terrifies him.

He saw his uncle Benjen, standing before a heart tree, eyes wide and wild, wolves looming close. He had whispered his name in a voice that was not his alone, and drawn him out to see the living sigils of their House. He does not know how the Wolves knew how to get there, does not know what drew them to those woods then, but the thought tugs at the back of his mind. Living creatures beyond The Wall shouldn't exist. And yet, there they had been, looming and silent, standing before a man of their own blood, a man who is as wolfish as them.

Something is strange in this world, Bran knows. Wolves beyond The Wall, Walkers crawling near to them, whispering Gods and power beyond all comprehension. He swallows tightly, remembering how Hodor had seized and gasped, how he had broken Wylis's mind. Hodor had followed him to the very edge of the world, knowing that he was going to his doom. He had followed Bran Stark. He had watched his killer be born, and known it was him. He was more than anyone ever knew, and it's all Bran's fault, how it turned out.

He feels tears rise to the corners of his eyes, but a soft, familiar voice draws his attention away from them. "Bran?" He hears her ask, and he looks up instantly, to see Meera standing in the doorway, looking at him awkwardly.

He smiles, though, glad to see her. She'd gotten caught up in the hustle and bustle of Winterfell, he thinks, and they have barely spoken since he first came home, over three months ago, now. After so many months that bled into years spent together, though, she'd become a familiar part of his life, one that he didn't realise he had missed until he saw her again, just now.

"Meera," he greets as she comes in, closing the door gently behind her, with a wary look towards it. She looks far less tired than she was when he last saw her properly, which makes sense. She sits on his bed, near where he's sat in a chair before his fireplace. She smiles at him, glancing around his room and taking it in. He smiles a little at her scrutiny, drumming his fingers against the armrest of his chair as she hums, and then turns to look at him properly, smiling slightly.

"I wanted to say hello," she tells him, and he smiles widely then, and she matches it, much to his pleasure. She'd been burdened with so much on his account, but he's glad she's here now, fighting for the lands they both love, fighting for this war that took her brother from her first. She was the first one he told of Jon, whispering the words, trying to make sense of it. She'd hugged him close and it had been there she realised that her father must have known as well, and it was there she wept, understanding all her father, Howland Reed had ever done and why.

Bran knows, deep down, that Howland Reed's solitude and his lack of involvement were not because he did not care. In fact, he'd hazard a guess that it pained the Lord of Greywater Watch beyond thought that he could not ride to avenge his dearest friend, a man he had known and bled beside for years. But he could not, for he alone held a secret more dangerous than anything else, and he could not be risked. Bran has seen his father give the orders and knows what Howland Reed was told to do.

–go home, howland. go to jyana, and bear your house forward. but do not leave the neck, not for me, not for death, not for war. you must guard this secret, you must keep it, even if i cannot. jon will need knowing eventually, and if i am gone, i want you to be the one to tell him. if i die before i can tell him, open this letter, and read my instructions. follow them, howland. for lyanna's sake, and for mine. and…and should it fall to ruin, should we be revealed, you must disappear. i will call upon you one day. i swear to this, howland, my dearest friend–

"Well, in that case, hello," he says, and she laughs outright, rolling her eyes. He knows she did not miss the moment where he slipped, being so very attuned to those moments. But that also means she is far from bothered by them, means that she knows how to weave around them with ease, and knows how to keep going without missing so much as a beat. Such is the effect of spending years on the road together, and he finds a sudden ache in him for those times, long gone, and not better but simpler.

Us and Rickon and Jojen and Hodor and Osha, he thinks, and then he recalls Maester Luwin, dying before The Heart Tree, and the tears rise again. The old Maester had looked so relieved to see Bran and Rickon alive that it had made it all so much harder. Even now, Bran finds himself looking for the man, turning to where he would have once been. Maester Wolkan is a good man, a man who has done his duty, but he knows they all long for the man who helped raise them, who taught them all so very much.

She looks at him oddly, after a moment, her brows drawing together, her dark eyes glinting. He smiles wanly, and she smiles like that as well, doubtless caught by the thoughts that he has been caught by. They sit in silence for a moment, mourning the long gone past, before she says, "Rickon is growing up well. I sometimes think I hardly recognise the little boy he once was, but then he starts growling and play fighting and I'm delighted to find that it would seem he is not so much a stranger as I thought."

"Yeah," Bran says, smiling fondly, looking at the crackling flames. "Robb's been trying to get him trained in swords and bows, actually. I haven't watched any of it, not yet, but Arya and he say that he's doing rather well, all things considered. And once Jon and Theon come home, he'll have some of the best teachers I know available to them. I'm glad he's gotten the chance to grow up again here, training with us, and the like. He's done well."

"He has," Meera agrees, her eyes on the fire as well. She glances at Bran for a moment, before asking, her voice dropping into a far more serious tone, "Who else knows, now? I doubt that your brother has told The Dragon Queen, yet, and I don't dare to think you've told many other people beyond the ones who already knew."

"All of House Stark knows," Bran says, "As with The Northern Lords and Yohn Royce. But you heard about Littlefinger, yes?"

She nods. "My father has been nearly driving himself mad, trying to figure out what happened. He thinks it was some servant in his quarters, who Littlefinger tipped off somehow, but he has no proof and is struggling to trace the action without drawing much attention to him. Crannogmen are not trusted by most, and that has only served to impede him in this matter." She looks at him intently. "Could you look?"

"Possibly," Bran says, "But I have no idea when it would have happened. You and your father have been here for months now. There's a lot of time left for us then, even if we rule out some obvious times. Perhaps your father's best bet is to rope Arya into it. She's good with people, and with sneaking around."

"I'll ask him about it," Meera says, and he nods, eyes still on the flickering flames, the beacons of heat and beauty that lie before him, the one thing that can destroy the swaths of the army that is coming to them. He drums his fingers against his armrest, again, and swallows tightly, thinking of their impending doom and the darkness that's bound to swallow them whole with a pit in the very base of his stomach. But Meera draws him from it, as she is wont to do. "Bran?"

"Do you think we have a chance?" He asks, suddenly, before he can bite back his words. And he sees Meera startle at the question from the corner of his eye, gaping silently at him, confusion written across her face. He curls his fingers into a fist and continues, "Do you think we can make this work? With only a few Valyrian Steel swords, some fifty to eighty thousand men in one keep against an enemy that outnumbers us by three or four times that at least, with three dragons to us? Will that be enough? Do you think Winterfell will hold?"

–let his fates be tied to the presence of my house. and i will do all that i can to secure our future– Winter-fell, the dream of a king, the hallowed sight that rests as the death place of an age long since gone by. Thinking of Winterfell's fall, thinking of this home and these stones he loves so very much falling to the cold, falling to one who once held the blood that strengthens it, falling to the dark, makes his heart strain in his chest, makes him feel sick. He does not want to lose this home, this home they fought and died and bled for.

–jon, in a press of bodies. sansa, standing before the heart tree. rickon, running across the plain. the wolves, howling and colliding just in time. arrows flying, whistling an awful tune. the knights of the vale, their banners caught high in the wind. there must always be a stark of winterfell. let the blood i spill here be forever remembered by these woods. robb, calling the banners. theon, bleeding and dying, begging for mercy that would not come. arya, needle held aloft, darkness swallowing the world with one slash. and bran, the little lord he once was–

Bran breathes deeply as the images continue to press against him. He can hear Meera, distantly, in the back of his mind, but his mind cannot comprehend her words, cannot latch onto them.

–jon, dead in the snow. sansa, bruised and bloody. rickon's wounds bleeding rough and raw. the wolves, with bloody fur and wild eyes. forgive me. i have not the strength to kill you. robb, collapsing to his knees as the knife slit across their mother's throat. arya, the knife in her stomach. bran, falling from the window. their father dying and the fight his mother had with his would-be assassin, all those years ago–

And to finish the unceasing vision, Brandon the builder's words echo in the very back of his mind like a bell. I banish you, brother. So long as our blood soaks the earth, fills the air around this tree–the tree that they made you under, the tree that our gods watch us through, you will never return to the land of the living.

And then, he is a new vision, and Winterfell is gone from him.

—

"Please!" A man screams, struggling as he is dragged to a Heart Tree, thrashing against the grips of The Children who drag him forward. Bran ducks into the shadows the second he sees them, uncertain as to what ability anyone here will have to perceive him. The man continues to beg and scream, and Bran forces himself to bite his tongue as he watches it all unfold, as he watches the moment that will single-handedly spell the doom of them all, write the future that he now lives in.

"Please," the man moans, his last words before he is bound to the weeping Heart Tree that still lies in Winterfell. They gag him, and he keens–a high and broken sound, as his shirt is removed from him by the children. Bran sees what looks like heraldry on the shirt, and feels his stomach lurch as he makes out the familiar swirling pattern. He looks up slowly at the man, and his dark, long hair, and his grey eyes.

Bran swallows down the bile as it threatens to rise, running his hand over his face and forcing himself to breathe. He has seen a glimpse of this, but never like this. The man keeps screaming, fighting against the bonds that hold him back, and Bran winces as his scream heightens as the dragonglass plunges slowly into his chest. He sees his eyes go blue, and then white, and then–

Bran screams as he feels something press against him. There is a wildness and a roughness to what presses against him, and his knees buckle against him, and the world goes white, swallowed by some storm, swallowed by something beyond him. The presence presses against him, cold and ancient, demanding to be let in, but he holds true, holds fast. Bran's vision dips in and out, his mind goes blank for a single moment, and, and–

–in winterfell, eight thousand years later, meera reed holds her prince as he spasms, wincing as his wolf begins to howl. shouts sound, and footsteps thunder, and his eldest brother comes crashing in, wolf on his heels–

Bran is a bird. He is flying above them all, with three eyes to him. He sees the man standing before him, in the clothes he was wearing as he was dragged to The Heart Tree. But, more importantly, it would seem like the man sees him too. He cocks his head at Bran, looking at him with curiosity. Bran stares at the sigil emblazoned on his chest. The swirls look like a storm, harsh and jagged and undeniable.

"Do I know you?" The man–The Night King–asks Bran, and he recalls that they not only share blood, but that, in a few thousand years, this man will leave his mark on him. Bran feels his arm twinge, but he resists the urge to lift his sleeve and look at it. He takes a half step back, and the man cocks his head again, like a dog. "You seem familiar. You remind me of…of a distant dream. Of a bird. Of the trees. Of a brother, perhaps. What is your name?"

"Brandon Stark," Bran says before he can think.

The Night King smiles. "How strange. My brother has that name too. My name is–" it is swallowed by the wind, and Bran feels something begin to pull at him, begin to draw him out. The Night King's eyes narrow, and flash blue. Bran takes another step back, and The Night King frowns at him, looking almost sad. "Why do you recoil from me, young Brandon? We must share some blood. Stark blood…though you do not bear the storm upon your heart."

"Why should I?" Bran asks, flexing his hand, yearning for the comfort of home.

The man looks at him oddly. "It is our sigil, young Brandon. Certainly, you know that…if you are one my House." Bran flinches, and again, his eyes flicker blue. He pauses for a moment, before drawing himself up and smiling again, but it is far more manic now. Bran pulls further away as The Night King looks at him with all blue eyes. "Ah, I see. You are…oh, I know what you are, now. The Children's magic is thick in you, Brandon Stark, son of Eddard Stark. I see what you are. A Raven. A hopeful boy who yearned to fly. A Stark… like the brothers who betrayed me. Who left me for dead."

"They kidnapped you," Bran says, gesturing broadly. "The Children. What could your brothers have done?"

"Brandon and–" again the name is swallowed, and a voice whispers in the back of his mind, saying, the names of the walkers have been burned from all memory, little prince… Bran swallows tightly, as the Night King laughs. "What could they have done? Oh, they could have tried. But it would seem that is not my fate. But perhaps…yes…"

Bran shouts as The Night King lunges at him, but a burst of sudden wind cuts through Bran, sending him sprawling as he tries to get away. Darkness plunges over Bran, rushes over him like waves, choking the air out of him. He feels fire crawl up his back, water pours down his back, and snow falls in his hair. He sees Winterfell, on a day so many years ago, sees all the people he loves with snow in their hair, sees the last day of peace before the end of the world. He sees an empty mound, with naught but a Heart Tree upon it.

He opens his eyes, and he is before the Heart Tree from all his visions, The Heart Tree of Winterfell. He looks up at the weeping face and hears a hundred voices whisper past him. Somehow, he knows that he is being looked upon by all who came before him, all The Three-Eyed Ravens who have come before him, who have passed it all down through generations so he can be made. The Night King knows what they are, searches for Brandon Stark, with no idea as to when he will come, knowing only that he will come, and that he is what has freed him.

Our magic undoes itself, but he has freed himself of it, the children had said in his other vision. We wanted to create a saviour for our people against yours, something that could stop your people's destruction. But all we have brought on is the end of the world. His abilities let him escape us and made him go rogue, go insane.

He went rogue, because he tried to Warg into Bran, who had come from eight thousand years in the future. But it didn't work, and damaged something, undid some of the magic and allowed him to run free, to plunge the lands into the winter Bran can see as he looks around. The Children are gone, but he can vaguely make out small footprints in the snow. There is blood in the snow, and Bran feels his breath leave his lungs as he sees what it comes from.

Lying right before him, with its little neck broken is a young Raven. He reaches forward, before drawing his hands back with a sudden movement that surprises him. Swallowing tightly, he looks around, and forces himself to his feet, only to be suddenly hit with an overwhelming wave of nausea. He bites his tongue to keep from throwing up, and he groans lowly, stumbling forward and careening into the weeping face of the heart tree. There, his legs give out again, and he collapses against the tree of his gods.

And, if you have ever loved me, Gods of stream and forest and wind, let my blood live on until such time as some weapon and some man exists to destroy them. "Please," he whispers, murmuring a prayer that does not belong to him, the mark on his arm burning hotly. His vision dips, and he hears a voice, one he knows, knows from a cave, from the corpse of a man long past gone, whisper in his ear. You are far from your time. But not from your home, not from your Gods. But the ink is dry, young Prince.

Bran moans in agony as his mind splits with a headache unlike anything else. The snow swims around him, and he feels out of control, afraid of Winter for the first time in his life. This Winter is wrong, this Winter is malevolent. Winter is Coming, he thinks, and he sobs soundlessly, thinking of his father and suddenly yearning for him, for his mother, for his home and his family. The Things we do for Love, he hears a voice whisper, and he gropes blindly for the tree.

His hand slides down the bark, over the face, and he gasps as he feels the wet sap on his hand. He blinks at it and sees the sap is flowing freely, despite the cold, and now it covers his hand, like blood. Bran whirls and sees a creature approaching. Despite the change in appearance, he knows those blue eyes well and feels his heart hammer in his chest, and panic seizes him for just a moment. He presses his hand to the tree, and the world suddenly crumbles under him, plunging him deeper.

He sees a little boy, hundreds of miles away, looking to the horizon with wonder and fear, for there lies a cloud the colour of night. Bran looks at the little boy, and chokes on his breath, as the boy glances at him and seems to perceive him. The boy opens his mouth to scream, and maybe he does, but he cannot hear over the rushing wind that suddenly surrounds him. The boy's mother comes in, right as he collapses, and Bran is thrust into another vision.

He sees two people dancing under the moonlight. A man and a woman, with hair like spun silver, eyes like jewels. The woman is wearing very little, her hair falling around her face like waves, and her eyes are mismatched–one the blue of the deep sea, the other the green of a leaf. Her laugh floats through the air, like a twinkling bell, and her fingers reach up to encircle the man's throat and neck as she pulls him in for a kiss.

The man is one Bran knows on instinct, for he can feel how his mind is pulled to him. His eyes are red, red like blood, like wine, and there is a similarly coloured mark on his cheek. He ducks his head, kissing the woman's neck, but he looks at Bran for just a moment, and Bran thinks Bloodraven smiles at him, just a little bit, before he turns his attention back to his woman, and the vision fades away.

For a moment, Bran drifts in an unknowing in-between, before finally, he lies in one more vision. He sees two people, a man and a woman, and he feels his heart seize in his chest as he recognises them. One is a young girl, with long black hair, and a face and eyes Bran knows as well as anything. Lyanna, he thinks, and then he looks at the man–a man with a handsome face, indigo eyes, and silver hair. Rhaegar. Bran hardly dares to breathe.

Lyanna seems to be pleading with Rhaegar. His sleeves are rolled up, allowing Bran to see the crescent-shaped marks in his skin, doubtless given to him by Lyanna, who clutches his arms in a white-knuckled grip. Bran's aunt is begging him, pleading with him, tears rising in her eyes as she does. Her shoulders shake, and Bran can just make out the curve of her belly under the loose dress she wears. It takes a moment for any sound to seep back in.

"Rhaegar, please," she begs him. "Surrender. None of this is worth it. Let me go home to Ned, and I will tell him what you have seen, what I have seen. Winter is Coming, and it is not worth dooming the whole world for it. Magic is in our veins, in our child. Let my son be born safely, please, please, Rhaegar–"

"Our daughter," Rhaegar corrects softly, a wild light in his eyes. "The Dragon must have Three Heads, sweet Lyanna. I have given this world Aegon and Rhaenys, and all that is left is our Visenya. War must be, if we hope to see this. Your brother will murder the babe in your belly, at Robert's command, if he tells him so. You are safest here."

"You don't know Ned! He is my brother!" Lyanna weeps, dragging him close as he tries to leave. "Let me go, Rhaegar! I want to go home, please! I do not wish for the realm to bleed on my account! Let me go, let me speak to them, let me tell them what I have seen. It is a son I bear, Rhaegar, I know this in my heart. My Gods have shown me a boy, black-haired like me, with my eyes too. Please!"

"I am sorry, Lyanna," Rhaegar whispers, and then he is gone. Lyanna stands there for a moment, staring at the door, one hand cradling her pregnant belly, before she stumbles forward, falling to her knees with a dull thud. She gasps soundlessly, her back curled, her tears spilling down her cheeks. And Bran sees her as she is–a scared little girl, far from home with a babe in her belly, led down the path of dreams by a Silver Prince. Bran doubts she understood what she was doing until it was too late, entrenched as she was in fancy and distant dreams.

Bran swallows tightly, thinking of Jon. Lyanna turns her face up, and yes, Bran can see so much of her son in him. He looks at her strangely though, recalling her words. Let me tell them what I have seen, she'd just begged Rhaegar. My Gods have shown me a boy. Bran takes a half step back as the implication settles after him…after all, they all bear Warg magic, and Jon could not have gotten it from Ned, as the rest of them did. Which means he got it from…Lyanna, probably.

"Oh, my sweet child," Lyanna whispers, and Bran startles as her voice cuts through his thoughts. He looks at his aunt again, lying prone on the floor, her cheeks wet with tears, but a smile on her face as well. He has her smile, Bran thinks, suddenly, and he smiles as realises. For all that Jon got of his personality, Rhaegar left little physical impact on his son. Lyanna cradles her pregnant belly, laughing hollowly. "My little prince."

"For all his dreams, your father does not see, does he?" She whispers, laughing again, the sound wet and wild. Bran does not know when this is, but her begging to go home to Ned says enough. Brandon and Rickard are dead, and Lyanna knows it. "I suppose I didn't, either. I am so sorry, my sweetling. I cannot undo what I have done. I don't suppose I shall know you, that either of us will. I will pay for my mistakes, pay for being weak enough to be swayed by The Silver Prince." She sobs again.

And Bran feels his heart clench in his chest. His poor aunt, alone and abandoned in Dorne, thousands of miles from home, believing herself the sole proprietor of her doom. Bran feels a sudden rush of hatred for Rhaegar, consumed by his visions and his prophecies, too blind to see the war he was making. He should never have swayed Lyanna, never should have convinced her to run off and elope. He never should have kept her in The Tower of Joy, left her to die, left her to be found by a desperate older brother, never left her to orphan her poor son who would spend all his life yearning for her.

He remembers the vision of his father coming upon her at last, remembers how he cradled her close, whispered her name, and how they both wept, even as her blood got all over him, as her strength slowly seeped from her. And even after she had died, Eddard Stark cradled Lyanna Stark's body–the body of his little sister–in his arms and wept over it until Howland Reed pulled him away at long last. And he'd protected her son as well, died with the secret, and Howland Reed had done his duty and waited until it was time and told Jon for him…or, tried to.

Promise me, Ned, she'd whispered to him, begged her older brother. And she'd whispered the kingly name she had given her only son, her sweet prince, the man that would become the brother Bran loves now. Jaehaerys Targaryen, her little rebellion against The Prince who left her, the Prince who manipulated her for his dreams, The Prince who wanted a Visenya and got…got Jon instead. Vicious, bold, and proud, Jon…Jon, the son of Winterfell, the son of Lyanna.

Jon may have Rhaegar's melancholy, but he's got Lyanna's passion, Bran thinks. He sees so much of his older brother in the woman who weeps upon the floor, stroking her belly with tears in her eyes. She does not fight as a knight in white armour comes in, lifting her from the floor into his arms, and depositing her on the bed. She does not fight as nursemaids tend around her, stroking her hair and drying her sweat and tears and fixing her banged-up knees. But her eyes tell another story.

There is a familiar spark there, a set to her jaw that Bran recognises. He thinks of Jon, sword in hand, bloody and muddy, fighting like hell. He thinks of Jon, seen through Summer's eyes, the rain pressing his hair to his face, washing the blood from it too. Jon Snow may be Rhaegar Targaryen's blood, may have his brooding nature, but he is, really, at the end of the day, Lyanna's son. They look upon the world in the same way, look at it like it is something to be challenged, something to be beaten, to be won.

And that is enough to bring Bran back to himself.

He blinks awake, hearing someone inhale sharply as his mouth opens and he tries to make a sound around his parched throat. He is resting against a chest, he realises, and he hears someone calling his name, feels arms grab him by the shoulders and gently adjust him. A hand runs through his hair, and he deflates against the body as he finally realises who holds him close, who repeats his name over and over again, gently coaxing him back into reality, back to Winterfell, back to his home.

"Robb," he croaks, and his brother makes a hollow sound, cradling him close. Bran does not have the strength to try and escape Robb's grasp, so he just sighs heavily and goes limp against him. His brother readjusts after a moment, allowing Bran to meet his eyes and see the worry in them as he cradles his face between his hands, his calloused thumbs running over Bran's smooth cheeks. "What happened?"

"Meera said you were having a vision. But then you began convulsing, and then you wouldn't wake up, and Summer kept howling–" Robb's voice cuts off, and Bran knows, without having to ask, what his older brother is being reminded of–the things we do for love. the wind rushing up to meet him, and the unending blackness–His brother shakes him, and Bran opens his eyes, seeing a naked worry on his brother's face. "What happened? What did you see?"

Bran's mouth goes dry the second he so much as tries to understand what he saw, so much as tries to explain to Robb the horrors and the ravens. How can he explain the true creation of The Night King without making his brother despise him, how can he explain it without sounding like a madman? And what about that boy, and Shiera Seastar and Bloodraven, and Lyanna, begging Rhaegar, and–and–and the sigil, and the children, and the dead raven? Tears rise to Bran's eyes.

"I can't," he whispers, careening forward, pressing as close to Robb as he can. His brother holds him close, kissing the top of his head, and holding the back of Bran's neck carefully. Bran can feel how his hands shake and can feel how close his brother is coming to fall apart. Because he feels just about ready to do much the same himself. You seem familiar. You remind me of…of a distant dream. Of a bird. Of the trees. Of a brother, perhaps. "I saw so many things. Things beyond explanation."

"Okay," Robb whispers. "It's okay. When…if you're ever ready, I'm here. I'm just glad you're okay. You…" Robb doesn't finish the sentence, but Bran thinks he knows what he was about to say. He can hear the fear and the genuine relief in Robb's voice, can feel how tightly he holds him, like he has been forced to face the chance of losing him, and it's shaken him to his very core. Tears come to Bran's eyes again, and he hugs Robb back, politely pretending he doesn't hear how Robb sobs softly.

And that reminds him, almost inexplicably of Lyanna. He thinks of her, on her knees, sobbing and weeping, scratching at the closed door of Rhaegar's fleeting love. The man who abandoned his other wife and other children for her. What was to say he would never do the same to her, that he wouldn't choose some dream over her, just like he'd done with Elia and Rhaenys and Aegon? Again, something raw consumes Bran, and he pulls away from Robb, to look him in his eyes as he says, "I saw Lyanna, as well. At the Tower of Joy, before…"

He drags the vision out of himself slowly. Robb's face closes with grief as Bran tells him of how she'd seen Jon, his lips pressed together in a thin line, tears in his eyes. He knows they both think of Jon, of how much hearing this would break and warm him alike. The thought that his mother saw him before he died, that she saw Jon, in some figment of it all, and gave him the gift in his veins…oh, what a sad thought it is. I don't suppose I shall know you, that either of us will, she'd said. Robb sobs outright as Bran relays those words.

"Gods," Robb whispers, dragging a hand over his face. Bran glances outside, starling when he realises that it is dark out. How much time did I lose? He wonders, but he does not dare ask Robb, seeing the hollow look in his eyes, the haunted expression that lies in his face. "Gods. I…Jon…" he trails off with a groan, but Bran understands well enough. Robb swallows with a wet click. "She wanted to go home. And he denied her. And for what? For a dream?"

"I suppose so," Bran says, thinking of Jon. His brother was never a dreamer, he thinks…but maybe he was, in his own way. Bran has seen many visions of his brother, after all…I want a great many things, Your Grace. And he'd come home, hadn't he? He'd chosen The Starks over anything else. He'd gotten to go home, whereas his mother was denied by a man she thought she had the love of. The man who put a baby in her belly, for nothing more than a dream, and never looked back.

"Tell him, Bran, please," Robb says, looking at Bran with an expression he cannot decipher. "Tell Jon what you have seen of them. He deserves to know. He deserves to know that she loved him. He deserves to know…everything."

…Bran thinks that Jon knows that. He thinks. But Jon Snow is a strange and stubborn man, with his own pained view of the world, so who knows what he thinks his mother ever thought of him? Jon, the martyr of his own making, the broken son who has never had parents, really. His mother and father are long dead. He is what came of their mistakes and their lies and their twisted notions of love. So…perhaps Jon Snow thinks she died not loving him. Perhaps he thinks he killed his mother.

But Bran can prove otherwise. And so he will…for the sake of the girl who collapsed to her knees and wept, yearning for her home, for her big brother, for some shred of goodness to come back into her world. Her father and her brother were dead for her mistakes. Her son would be haunted by them for the whole of her life. She was pulled away, pulled back, pulled down. And she died for the mistakes she made. But she died loving her son, and loving her home, The North, her distant dream.

(She died in her big brother's arms. And twenty years later, her son will die in her little brother's.)

—

It is only a few days later that something new–and entirely unexpected–comes around to Winterfell.

Many people are moving in and out of Winterfell right now, Bran knows. Lords, smallfolk, Unsullied, Dothraki, and the like, all peruse these halls, stand in their walls and take their bread and salt. The keep is alive in a way Bran hasn't seen since perhaps Robert Baratheon rode Northwards, but it is a very different thing. The keep is alive, yes, but everyone is grim and focused at the task at hand, with no mind towards frivolity or cheer. Even Tyrion Lannister is a little sombre…but not sober.

Bran sighs deeply as he looks over the half-full hall. Robb and Sansa are riding back from Cerwyn as they speak–which he knows because he'd been stalking them with a bird until Robb told him (well, really, the bird) to leave them alone–and he'd decided then to find Arya. She'd dragged him down to Lunch, where Daenerys was also alone, with her Hand being off speaking with his brother about something or another…under the watchful eye of Brynden Tully, of course.

So it is up to the three of them to make conversation, along with Rickon. Bran can tell that The Dragon Queen is a little put off by him and Arya both, but she makes a valiant effort and listens with rapt attention as Arya tells her a little of her travels. She laughs outright when she hears Arya's telling of her robbery and abandonment of The Hound, and Bran does not miss the cheeky grin his sister sends in the man's direction. Sandor Clegane, scowling over his food, caught between an argument between some Dothraki and Wildling Spearwives, looks miserable.

Rickon is in the middle of regaling Daenerys with some story he heard from Osha once, when the main door creaks open. Bran glances up to see The Doorman standing there, looking to them intently. He straightens a bit and the hall goes a little more quiet. After a moment (and a slight smack from Arya) he realises that he's the one in charge, right now–with Robb and Sansa and Jon gone, and Arya as blunt as a training sword–so, he says, "What is it?"

"New arrivals. They claim to be…priests of The Red God?" The man trails off as if in question, and Bran reels back, suddenly very confused. He glances at Arya and then at Daenerys, both of which look as confused as he does.

After a moment, he gathers his wits and nods, saying, "Speak to them. Gather their names, announce them, and then bring them into the hall. Have bread and salt prepared." The man nods and leaves with a curt turn, and Bran takes that moment to rake his eyes over the hall. A hushed whisper has fallen over it, and he can see how everyone murmurs, clearly just as confused as he is–at the very least.

Priests of The Red God? He thinks. What are they doing in Winterfell?

The doorman seems to hesitate as he comes back in, for just a moment, and that is what really startles Bran. He sees Arya straighten, just a little, at his side, her eyes narrowing into thin slits as they wait for the man to speak. And finally, he does, his clear voice ringing out over the hall. "I present Kinvara of Volantis, High Priestess of the Red Temple of Volantis, the Flame of Truth, the Light of Wisdom, and First Servant of the Lord of Light, accompanied by others in the service of The Lord of Light."

The room goes silent, and Bran feels his brows rise up as he sees the woman sweep in, accompanied by a few other men and women alike, dressed in blood red. He sees The Hound seemingly choke on his drink in his corner, and Arya is completely still at his side. He glances at her and sees her eyes are trained forward, a dark and odd expression on her face, one he cannot dissect. He swallows tightly and looks back to the lead woman, who has stopped before the dias, looking upon them all with a slight smile that puts Bran on edge in a near instant.

"Sandor," Arya says suddenly, her voice ringing out over the hall as she looks at him. All eyes turn to the Hound as he looks at her dangerously. "Go find Lord Donarrion and Thoros of Myr, please."

"I'm not your fucking errand boy," he says, even as he gets out of his chair and leaves without another word. The Red Priestess smiles a little as she watches him go, before turning back to the three of them. Bran inhales deeply, trying to calm his heart, which is beginning to race. Visions fill the back of his mind–jon, dead in the snow. the red woman leaning over him, her hands splayed flat on his bloody stomach, a gasp in a silent room–

"I have much desired to meet you for some time, Daenerys Targaryen," The woman, Kinvara, Bran recalls, says, looking at The Dragon Queen to his left with unsettlingly red eyes. Bran glances at the woman just in time to see her glance towards Arya, doubtless about to go ask her to attempt to find Robb, Sansa, and Tyrion, but it would appear his sister is already gone. Bran watches her work her jaw for a moment, glancing at him. He nods, and she turns back to the woman, who seems to have missed nothing of it.

She continues. "I spoke once to two of your advisors, once. Lord Tyrion and Lord Varys, I believe it was." Daenerys nods, saying nothing. The woman then looks to Bran and tilts her head. "I do not presume that you are Robb Stark, King in The North. My visions have revealed Northern Kings, but their faces remain obscured. But none have looked as you do…"

"I am Brandon Stark," he says, as evenly as he can manage following her cryptic words. "Prince of Winterfell. My brother is the King, and until he arrives, I suppose it lies on me to speak to you. Be welcome in Winterfell." He jerks his head at the woman, looking sharply at the doorman. He bustles forward then with bread and salt, and the Lord of Light's followers take it after a brief hesitation. He settles back in his chair, a little less unmoored now.

"Why have you desired to speak to me?" Daenerys ventures warily, her eyes narrowed. It is strange to think that he and her are the two most senior voices here, with all his older siblings gone or far too curt for matters such as these. Visions press against his mind, but he bats them away forcibly. He needs to keep his mind on this moment, right now, at least until someone returns. He knows Robb and Sansa are probably only an hour out, now, riding lightly.

"The Lord of Light has revealed much to all of us," Kinvara says. "From Volantis to Asshai, the whispers are the same. A great castle in the snow, with fire around it, lighting up the dark air. The song of wolves and dragons fills the air. Swords swinging and fire scorching the blood-soaked ground. The Lord of Light has led us to this keep…to Winterfell, the once seat of those who called themselves The Winter Kings."

Her eyes glimmer dangerously as she looks at Bran. He lifts his chin a bit, regarding him carefully. He has heard from Jon, briefly, of Melisandre of Asshai, the woman who brought him from the dead. And from what he gathered from his brother, she was not one who believed much in the power of other gods. But Bran wonders what these red priests would say, should they be faced with the magic of the old gods, faced with the power of The Three-Eyed Raven. He squares his jaw a bit.

"The Lord of Light's enemy is The Great Other," she says, her voice like a hushed whisper, like a breath at the back of his neck, like a distant dream. He hears Summer shift a bit, feeling his wolf's unease at the woman well enough. "A creature of the dark, of the cold, of death. A King who calls his domain winter…" she trails off, smiling sharply.

"You're not in Essos!" Someone heckles, and Bran is far from surprised when he realises it is The Greatjon. He sends the man a warning look, but he knows that, at the end of the day, nothing will stop an Umber when it comes to the defence of The North, His King, and Their Gods. Bran can see the looks The Wildlings are sending the woman as well. Glancing at The Dragon Queen, he sees his nervousness reflected back at him in her eyes. "And this isn't a place of your God!"

"I do not presume to make it so," Kinvara says, though her smile does little to convince Bran. He drums his fingers on the table and regards her carefully as she continues. "The Winter Kings have a role yet to play…a role that will serve The Lord of Light. We all fight for the living, after all. But whereas the wolves are the ice and the cold…the dragon is fire and heat."

She looks to Daenerys then, something glimmering in her eyes. Daenerys regards her carefully before speaking in a measured voice. "I have heard many a Red Priest speak their prophecies. A Red Priest of Myr lies in these walls, even. And I respect The Lord of Light deeply. But, it is as Lord Umber has said. This is the home of The Old Gods, Lady Kinvara, and you are a Guest of House Stark…the Winter Kings, as you call them. They are my allies. A word against them is a word against me."

The woman smiles, dangerous and bright. "On that, we agree." She looks towards Bran with a nod, her eyes flickering briefly to Bran. "I do not wish to cause offence. The Gods of The Forest are unfamiliar to many of us, who follow The Lord of Light…who is, in our reckoning, The One True God." Shouts arise at that from many parties–including some Dothraki–but Kinvara seems unaffected. "But I thank you for your hospitality, Brandon Stark. Is there a chance we may speak alone?"

Bran glances at Daenerys and sees his thoughts reflected in her eyes. He looks towards The Greatjon, and then to Dacey Mormont, Robb's most trusted allies, and then to Howland. They all nod at him, and within only a moment, the hall is a rush of motion as men file out, murmuring amongst themselves. Howland helps wheel Bran to the attached room behind the hall, Daenerys and The Red Priests following.

They have just gotten settled when the door slams open, a breathless Thoros of Myr in the doorway, looking genuinely shocked to see his fellow priests standing there. A grim-faced Beric Dondarrion is behind them, and Bran catches a glimpse of The Hound before the door closes behind them. Kinvara smiles at Thoros, who regards her with some wariness. "Thoros of Myr. You are known to us."

"My Lady," he says, bowing his head with more reverence in his words than Bran has ever heard from the drunken knight. Beric Dondarrion lingers behind Bran, his hands clasped behind his back, face shadowed by his furrowed brows. Thoros glances at him once before continuing, "Apologies, but I did not look to see my fellowmen in Winterfell at any time. What brings you to Winterfell, my lady?"

"Darkness and death," she says, and Bran feels the room go a touch colder. Beric comes forward, and her eyes linger on him for a moment, before she says, "Something this man knows well. You have been brought back by The Lord of Light again and again. His presence burns within you, Lord…"

"Dondarrion," he says, "Beric Dondarrion."

She nods, glancing at Bran with a knowing look. Bran clenches his jaw and forces himself not to think of Jon, to not let the images seep into his mind and consume him slowly. There is nothing good in watching Jon bleed out and die over and over again, nothing in those visions but fear and pain and confusion. Even still, watching Benjen cradle his corpse and weep, the wolves pressed around him, his voice hollow from the weight of his pleading, it makes Bran feel sick.

She smiles widely then. "Our doom is near at hand, as you all likely know. The Hour of The Lord of Light comes soon, but first, we must face the endless dark and cold of The Great Other. The Long Night will fall here, as it once did." Her eyes seem to glitter. "And here, The Prince that was Promised will be revealed in their glory."

Bran swallows tightly. The voice rings clear in the back of his mind. From my blood shall come The Prince that was Promised, and his shall be a song of Ice and Fire. Kinvara's eyes bear into him, and he wonders, suddenly, what mark he leaves in the world in her eyes. He knows wargs can sense other wargs, that the magic of his gods calls to itself. And clearly, she had a way of sensing all of Beric Dondarrion's revivals. But what does that mean when put against one another?

"The Night King will march upon The Wall soon," Bran says, and all The Priests look at him fully then, eyes red and terrible, like blood, like flame. He feels something in him recoil, thinking of blue eyes and a scream that filled the air–his scream. "And using the magic–the same magic that first made him–he will bring it down. He will then take his horror to Winterfell, and to The Heart Tree that he was made and banished from. He will hunt House Stark to extinction, and destroy the living with us."

"He comes here for his blood lies here. For The Night King has the blood of House Stark with him, for he is the brother to the man who founded our House, raising it from some heraldry that is long since lost, to wolfish kingship. He raised Winterfell around where he swore his most solemn oath, an oath to the gods, an oath that has been held for generations on end" Bran says grimly.

They look at him with wildness in their eyes, and he feels himself swallow tightly. He broke that oath. He left Winterfell. And now, these Red priests of a foreign good look at him with such…such wary wonder that he feels his mouth curl into a frown. "Our blood has kept this enemy at bay for eight thousand years. This is a matter of our house. We are not your enemies, Priestess. We are not servants of your God's enemy. We are the people who have been fighting this war for the longest."

"You may not be," she concedes, "But this Night King certainly is. Gods can take many forms, after all."

"The Night King was made by The Children of The Forest, as an attempt to turn one of them into a creature that could stand against The First Men, who had been their enemies since they landed on these shores," Bran says tersely, on edge and frustrated at this woman's words. He knows what he has seen. "But for their treachery, they paid dearly. The Night King was a powerful greenseer, after all, and he broke through their magic, putting himself beyond it. And now, he seeks revenge on those who made him and The Family that abandoned him, and the world he was made to destroy."

"I do not pretend to know the way of The Lord of The Light, or dare to say that he could not have a role in this," Bran says. "But I know what I have seen, and I know what blood was shed to make my House. Brandon The Builder made an alliance with The Children. They banished The Others. And now they have returned, right as The Winter King and Direwolves and Dragons have as well…and I walk these lands as well."

He leans back in his chair, surprised at how much they have allowed him to talk, but not unhappy about it. He looks at him carefully, seeing how they regard him a little differently now, like they are trying to unpack something. There is a slight smirk on both Beric Dondarrion and Thoros of Myr's faces, and Daenerys Targaryen is noticeably blank of face, though he thinks her eyes are sparkling, just a bit.

Branon The Builder's words float through his mind for just a moment before he speaks to them. So long as our blood soaks the earth, fills the air around this tree–the tree that they made you under, the tree that our gods watch us through, you will never return to the land of the living. One solemn sentencing. One thing that changed this all, that made this all, that destroyed them all. "I am The Three-Eyed Raven. I am a greenseer–a skinchanger who possesses the green sight. My visions are of the past and sometimes of the future. I can walk a thousand lifetimes. I keep the history of Westeros in my mind, and see through the carved eyes of my silent gods…and other matters, too."

"There is a strange magic in you, Brandon Stark, Prince of Winterfell," Kinvara says, her mouth curling into a smile around his name. He tilts his head at her, raising a brow, and her eyes spark with sudden interest. "I have seen much of your House. Blood in the snow. Crowns on hair like flame. Massacres. Wolves prowling through the underbrush. Blood runs through it all–over swords, on wooden blocks, on snow, marred by the scars of betrayal."

She smiles as he stiffens, looking at her dangerously. Her smile seems to blanch, for just a moment, as Summer growls lowly, sensing Bran's sudden distress. The Dragon Queen looks at him strangely, and Bran frowns, pulling a little on his bond with Summer, until his wolf has calmed. In the corner of his eye, he can see how Beric Dondarrion looks at him. He doubts that the man is unaware of what happened to Jon, and he also doubts that he will betray that truth in this company.

A knock at the door. When Bran calls for them to enter, Maester Wolkan comes in, bowing quickly before looking at Bran. "Banners spotted in the distance. The King and Princess Sansa are on their way. It would appear that Princess Arya has almost caught them, as well, though I do not know how she gained such speed…" he pauses for a moment, but Bran knows the answer. Skinchanging. "Shall I send them here?"

"Yes," Bran says. "And bring me Howland Reed as well."

The Maester nods and is gone. They have to wait only a few minutes before Howland arrives, a look in his eyes that Bran knows well. It is a look all The Northern Lords seem to share–a look of careful wariness, often brought about when dealing with those they know little of, those who they deem as threats, as outsiders to their cause. Bran is under no illusions that the people of The North are exceptionally cordial to strangers. They have made their efforts, with Daenerys and her entourage, but to foreign priests of a Fiery God…

"My Prince," he says, bowing shallowly towards Bran, and then to Daenerys. "Your Grace. What can I be of assistance with?"

"Do you know what a greenseer is, Lady Kinvara?" He asks the woman, and she raises a perfectly arched brow at her.

"The work of Northern Magic is not ours. I know not as much as I would like. Volantis, after all, is not the trodding grounds of those who hold the Blood of The First Men." She looks to Howland then, and to his credit, he does not blanch under his gaze. For someone so short of stature, Howland Reed holds himself quite well, doubtless aided by the secret he held for so long, and the blood on his hands. Bran has never forgotten the sight of Howland's knife embedding itself into Arthur Dayne's back. "Lord Reed, yes?" He nods. "I suppose you are some expert."

"I would not call myself an expert," he says with a slight laugh and a smile, though it does not reach his eyes. "But I know of it. I have followed my Gods very closely for a long time. My own son, Jojen–may the gods hold him dear–was blessed by them. He was no skinchanger, but he had the greensight. The Gods would give him visions, and glimpses of the past and the present. It is through those visions he knew to go Northwards to serve the son of one of my dearest friends."

"A friend, I met, in fact, because I had followed the path of my Gods," Howland continues, and Bran sends him a look of warning, knowing where this is going. He just smiles and sits down, deceptively casual as he does. "I journeyed to The Isle of Faces, a holy place to my gods, in search of those with such abilities. Afterwards, I travelled to the nearby keep, where my Lord's daughter saved me from some bold squires, and I found myself in the company of the future of House Stark."

For a moment, Howland's eyes are distant and bright, caught in the memories. But then he shakes his head and opens his mouth to continue, only to be cut off by the voice of Ser Barristan. Bran barely manages to hide his surprise–he had somehow missed the man's presence, though it does not surprise him. "You were at the Tourney of Harrenhal?" He asks, a strange note in his voice. Howland looks at him carefully, then nods his head, saying nothing. Barristan tilts his head. "I do not suppose you were that mystery knight…what was it they were called…"

"The Knight of The Laughing Tree," Howland says, much of the whist and light gone from his voice. Brarristan hums his agreement, and Howland shakes his head. "I cannot claim to be so. But that is beside the point. The magic of The Old Gods lies within the blood of The First Men, and in the realm of prophecy and nature. Skinchangers can possess a bonded animal. And when one has both the greensight and the ability to skinchange, they are a greenseer. Amongst The Children of The Forest, those with those abilities are leaders."

Howland says nothing of what they are amongst men, but Bran can see how his eyes glimmer as he looks at him. And Bran doubts Kinvara and her company miss it, given that smile on her lips, but she says nothing of it, beyond a bow of her head, and saying, "Thank you for your explanation, Lord Reed. It is beautiful indeed, all the ways The Gods manifest in us all." She glances once at Summer, curled in the corner. She looks to Bran and says, "And what power they help us wield for their wars."

"Indeed," Howland agrees, a sharp edge to his voice that almost surprises Bran, but not fully. Howland Reed may seem just like another Crannogmen, but Bran knows there is much more to the man than he seems. Howland Reed is the man who allowed Eddard Stark to kill The Sword of The Morning. Howland Reed held one secret close to his chest, obeying the pleaded orders of his best friend. Howland Reed has only ever served House Stark to its fullest, and gods above is Bran grateful for the man.

They are saved from further conversation as a single horn blasts through the keep. "That would be Robb," Bran murmurs, to no one in particular, but just to say it. He breathes deeply, feeling Howland's gaze upon him. The room lapses into silence, thick with unsaid words and tension. Until finally, after what feels like centuries, the door slams open, and Robb comes striding through, crown on his head, and wolf on his heel.

"Robb Stark," Kinvara says, and Bran's brother pauses, his ice-blue eyes raking over to her. "It is a pleasure to meet you at long last."

—

Kinvara lingers, even after Daenerys and her company have left, along with Beric and Thoros and the rest of the Priests of The Red God. She stays, standing and looking at Robb with an indecipherable expression, looking at him like he is a piece to a puzzle she cannot figure out. She seems heedless of the cold look Sansa is pining into her back–that, or she is wholly unbothered by it. "I am not the first Red Priestess you have met, am I?"

"No," Robb agrees, looking at her with an odd expression that makes Bran frown slightly. Also standing, Robb is tall and imposing, his crown adding to all of it. Bran glances at Sansa, who just raises her brow. "At Dragonstone, I met a woman by the name of Melisandre of Asshai. She once served Stannis Baratheon, believing him to be your promised prince." He snorts a bit at that, eyes dark and glinting like steel. "Didn't save him from dying, though. And then, she followed my sister and brother Southwards. And then, she found herself banished from The North in it's entirety."

"And why was that?" Kinvara asks, though Bran would not be surprised if she already knows.

Sansa speaks up, then. "She burned Shireen Baratheon, a girl of only ten and one, claiming it was what her God demanded for victory. Stannis Baratheon let her. And now they both lie dead, swallowed by fire and then by the cold bite of Winter." His sister's voice is cold. "That is not a crime that is forgiven here in The North, my lady. Blind allegiance is a fool's game."

"Are you a woman of faith, Lady Stark?" Kinvara asks. Sansa doesn't reply, simply regards the woman cooly. She smiles a little and continues, "Perhaps not. But Gods call on us all to do painful things. I know not what Melisandre of Asshai saw in the fires, and what she deemed right. I will not make excuses for her." She pauses. "Your brother. Which one was it?"

"Jon Snow," Sansa says, barely hesitating before saying, "Our father's baseborn son. He was released from his oaths, and led the campaign to retake Winterfell alongside me. He is upon The Wall right now, aiding our uncle in his efforts to at least thwart the dead long enough for us to be as prepared as we possibly can be." She looks away, her jaw clenching a bit, her eyes dark and far away. They dance dangerously close to something, something raw and terrifying. Blood runs through it all–over swords, on wooden blocks, on snow, marred by the scars of betrayal.

"The one I saw die in the snow," she surmises, smiling when they all go stock still. Her smile is a terrible thing, like some mockery of a real one. This woman is beyond unsettling, Bran thinks. Unsettling and wrong in half a hundred ways. "Do not act so shocked. I will keep this secret for you, if that is what it is. The Lord of The Light has shown much of Houses Stark and Targaryen to all of us. For some time, all many of us could see was snow, covering the world. Snow, you called him?"

"Aye," Robb says for Sansa, who is silent and dark-eyed, looking at the woman carefully. In the corner where Arya lingers, Bran can see that his other sister is also watching the Red Priestess carefully like she is ready to strike at her at the first sign of trouble. And Bran knows for a fact that she is very much ready to do so. It's Arya, after all. "Snow is the name for a highborn bastard of The North. Jon Snow. Former Lord Commander of The Night's Watch, and now my chief war councillor."

"I wished to speak to him as well," Kinvara says, sounding almost amused by the fact that she's saying this. Bran meets Sansa's eyes and sees her wary distrust, which he knows comes from her years spent in The South. His sister is not the trusting dreamer she used to be. She is something harder and colder now, Northern to the bone, vicious as any she-wolf. She will protect Jon with teeth and nails, Bran knows, if it comes down to it. She may like her silks and her finery, but that does not make her a weak woman. In fact, she's one of the scariest women he thinks he knows.

"And why is that?" Sansa asks her. Kinvara turns to look at her properly then, regarding her carefully.

But then the Priestess smiles, just a little. "You are a distrustful woman, Sansa Stark, and I do not blame you for that. Husbands and men are such cruel things, are they not? And Jon Snow was a sort of saviour to you, the brother you ran to the moment you were running free, in the hands of a once turncloak." Sansa tilts her head at her, eyes narrowed into slits. "But rest assured. I have no plans to harm your dear brother. All I seek to know is why The Lord of Light has put him so central to it all."

From my blood shall come The Prince that was Promised, and His shall be a Song of Ice and Fire. Over and over again, those words ring in the back of Bran's mind like the unceasing bell that marks death in the city, the horn that calls the soldiers to war, the howls that lead the wolves to the slaughter. They haunt him, crowd the back of his mind, never leaving him alone as much as he tries to get them to go. He wishes he could banish them. But they seem more than content to stay.

"A question to save for when he comes home," Sansa says curtly. He can see how tense his sister is, looking at this woman with an expression of…not fear, no, but something that goes beyond wariness. He thinks that his sister looks almost unsettled, really, caught off guard by this woman who knows about Jon's death at the hands of disloyal men, and has no reason to keep their secrets, but does all the same. Bran feels almost unsettled, himself. What game is she playing?

"You told Thoros of Myr that you were brought here by a vision of darkness and death," Robb says, pinning her with his dark gaze, his lips curled back a bit, his countenance sharp and wary. The Priestess nods, and Robb stares at her for a moment longer. "But I don't think that's enough to make a priest of a God who has no hold in The North come here, come to Winterfell, the heart of The Old Gods. So, why are you really here? What are you playing at?"

Brusque, sharp-tongued, straight to the point–that is Robb Stark, all of The North, in only a few words. Robb's eyes are like twin chips of ice, something wary and unnatural in how he looks at her. Bran understands. All of them are trying to protect the world around them–protect Jon, The North, the peace they have bled for, the peace they would die for. This war is marked by their blood. Bran knows none of them want to make the sacrifices that have all made amount to nothing because they listened to the wrong person.

She looks at them for a long moment. The four eldest children of Catelyn and Eddard Stark, the heirs of Winter. Three of their House are missing, at the edge of the world, or a few hallways away, learning how to become something new. Northmen have no real place in Essos, no ties to those cities, no understanding there. They have long since learned to be content with their place here, to be content with Northern lives and Northern ways. The North is enough for them. It always has been.

"I am here because I do not ignore what The Lord of Light shows me," she says, sitting down in the seat Daenerys had abandoned earlier. Robb sits as well after a moment, and Grey Wind comes to his side, nuzzling his master when he puts his hand atop his head, burying it in the fur. "I saw a castle in the snow. I saw fire and flame surrounding–but not consuming it. Knowing not the castles of these kingdoms, I wrote to those of Asshai, where our biggest reserve of knowledge lays."

"They said that the wolves and dragons were prowling, and were on the move. They spoke of one of ours, here in these walls, and another, banished from them," She continues, her red eyes glimmering. "They said that the keep in the snow was home to an old line of cold Kings. And so, I was given a solemn task–go to the castle in the snow, accompanied by some of the best, and aid those who come from the snows to greet me, those who stand against The Great Other. And, should I find the enemies of our Lord, dispel them and dispense the Light."

Robb furrows his brow, and they all exchange a quiet glance. "Are you…" Robb begins, before clamping his mouth shut, brows furrowing even more, until it looks like he's almost scowling. Silence lingers for a heartbeat before he picks up again, "Are you saying that Priests of The Red God, from all the way in Asshai, knew of Winterfell, knew of House Stark and The Winter Kings? Are you saying that they knew enough to send you here, to get you here?"

"I am," Kinvara agrees. "I said I did not know much of Northern Magic, that much is true, but that does not mean those like me do not. House Stark is an old line, and the blood of Kings is powerful, more powerful than you may know. We know the ways of the world, know the shadows and the brightness of flame. Why would a line of ancient kings from a land of cold and winter be unknown to us? Some whisper you are born of the Great Other. Some say that you are the danger on the doorstep."

"And do you believe that?" Robb asks, smiling sharply and looking at the woman with a cold expression. The King of Winter, Bran thinks, glancing at his sisters and seeing cold, distant expressions on their faces. "Do you believe that I am a great enemy to you, with snow in my veins, and a chunk of black ice where my heart should be? Do you believe I am a madman, a savage who whispers to trees, who controls a monstrous beast? Do you think I am your enemy, Kinvara, Flame of Truth?"

"Do you think I should?" She throws back, looking far from afraid of the king she plays the board with. "I have seen many things in my life, Robb Stark, King of Winter. Dynasties have broken and been made in my lifetime. The magic of The Red God goes beyond the resurrection of beloved brothers. His power is not to be dismissed…though, I suppose, neither is yours. Three-Eyed Ravens fly in these walls, and great beasts follow the House of Wolves. Whispers spread of black vows and bloody snow."

"Is that what you wish to be–feared? Do you wish to be a thing of fear, to make The Southerners who murdered your mother and your father feel fear? Do you wish to show your hand, show just how hard the wolf bites when it is cornered? Do you wish to spill the blood of thousands across the plain for the deaths of only a few?" She smiles, wide and horrible, and wrong. Bran curls his hand into a fist, forcing himself to breathe evenly. "Do you wish to be a madman? Do you wish to be a cold man?"

"I wish to be what is needed to get The North through the longest and bitterest and coldest winter we will have seen since The First Long Night spread across these lands, since a Stark was taken from his home, and turned into a monster. Since Brandon Stark, the first of his name, rose Winterfell from the ashes, since he ran through the underbrush, since he made his vows to his gods," Robb says, bowing his head a little, causing the light to dance against his crown. "I wish to be the type of man that is needed to face the storm. Can you, perhaps, aid me in that?"

"Only The Lord of Light knows that for sure," Kinvara says. "But he knows the hearts and minds of even those who follow other ways. I know convincing you of him is a lost cause, and I do not think to waste my time on that. But do not dismiss my power, Robb Stark, or the power of R'hllor." She whispers the name almost reverently, like it is a prayer, a magical cure-all, heat in the midst of the most bitter cold. "And I will not dismiss yours. Skinchanging, is it?"

She offers a hand towards the nearest wolf to her–Lady. Sansa's wolf sniffs her hand curiously after a moment, and though she does not suddenly smother the woman with kisses or any affection, she does not seem turned away by her. Sansa's eyes track the movements dangerously, but she herself does nothing to stop her wolf. Bran's sister seems almost interested in the movement, above all else.

–ghost, sniffing a pale hand. jon and a woman in red upon the wall, eyes latched onto one another. a bare chest, and jon flushing red, eyes wide, breaths caught in his chest. this power in you–you resist it, and that is your mistake. red and grey and black, a thousand burning things. whispers of life, whispers of so many things. i swore a vow–

Bran bites his lip as the vision abates. He can feel the eyes on him, most of all Kinvara's, but he waves them off with a muttered assurance of everything being fine. Sansa and Robb don't buy it, he can tell, and though he cannot see Arya properly, he doubts she is much different from them, right now. They have all been worried, since the last vision, and he cannot blame them. He can already feel a headache blooming in the back of his mind, unceasing.

"A vision," Kinvara says, knowingly, her voice burning with bright interest. Bran looks at her tiredly, rubbing his brow a little, trying to get the headache to just leave him alone. Swallowing tightly, he nods mutely, and she smiles. "What did you see, Three-Eyed Raven?"

My name is Bran, he wants to say, but he cannot form the words. He does not answer for a long moment, taking a deep breath, swallowing again. "I saw Melisandre of Asshai and my brother. I think she was trying to seduce him," he says, smiling wanly. Sansa blanches and Robb stifles his laugh with a cough. More voices float past him–i loved another. hands on laces. the dead don't need lovers, only the living. a caught breath. i know. but i still love her. a door opens. you know nothing, jon snow–

"Some of ours take that route," Kinvara says knowingly, and Bran can hear both Robb and Arya stifling their laughter. It makes him settle a bit himself, thinking of poor Jon, caught by the advances, so stubborn till the last. But I still love her. He barely speaks of the woman he loved. He barely seems to be able to register she's really gone, and Bran supposes that's just how things are. Whoever she was, he loved her. Loved her enough to hold on. The assuredness of that, of something like love living in this world, makes it easier to breathe.

Silence lulls for a moment. Words lie on the edge of Bran's tongue, dangerous and cold, but wanting to be said. His siblings have not pressed on the vision that he saw a few days ago, but he knows that they must wonder, knows that it nags at their mind, wonder and worry mingled in their minds. He breathes deeply one more time, feeling the images rush back over him like he just saw him–you seem familiar. you remind me of…of a distant dream. of a bird. of the trees. of a brother, perhaps. magic is in our veins, in our child. my sweet child, my little prince–

"I told you of what I saw of Lyanna," He tells Robb, and his brother nods, eyes flickering to Kinvara, careful and dangerous but not angry or cruel. Who knows? Maybe this woman knows that truth too, has seen the red birthing bed, seen the world as it fell, seen the whispers and the intertwined hands and the glittering cloak. Maybe she knows all of them like they are close friends. "But that was not all I saw. I saw The Night King be made."

He does not have the strength to look at any of them as he says the words, as he makes the awful confession. "I know why he hunts Three-Eyed Ravens, why he hunts me. Because the line between the past and the present was thinned that day. Afraid and lonely, the man who they made The Night King lashed out with his untrained magic, and latched onto the invisible presence…onto me. He went mad, in some part, because of it, because he put himself where he did not belong. The veil is so thin."

Hodor. Hodor. Hodor. He feels sick. He can feel them all staring at him, drawing the pieces together. Summer whines and presses close to Bran, and he buries his hand in the soft fur of his wolf's head. To think he almost lost this part of himself to The Night King, who he has been tied to since the very start. "He hates The Living because that is what he was made to do. But it burns more than that. He is not human. He touched the future, touched it and was burned by it, shattered into what he is now. He escaped our magic because he was broken by it."

Bran hardly understands what he's saying. He knows these are answers he will never get, answers he will make no attempt to seek out, even. The thought of them terrify him, anyway. He does not want to make more confessionals, does not want to look into those cold blue eyes of his enemy. How many Three Eyed Ravens have been made so that, one day, he'll lie in a cave beyond The Wall and be thrown into the throes of a vision that changes it all? The mark on his arm burns, just a little.

"I see," Kinvara whispers, sounding almost awed by his confession. Her eyes dance with a fire-like light, red and bright. She stares at Bran for a moment, before rising to her feet. "You have made all of this, Brandon Stark. The Night King hunts you for a crime beyond you. And–" she smiles, her eyes distant and wide. "The past and the present bleed and blend. Snow comes over fire, the inferno washes over ice. The Prince that Was Promised will be made in these walls. The Wolf and The Dragon are needed…"

And then she is leaving, looking caught in something beyond them. Bran swallows tightly, watching her go, feeling like he has started something, feeling like he has done something awful. A part of him whispers that he made The Night King, and he knows that's not fully true, but it's not enough. Shame and guilt, hotter even what lies around Hodor, burn in him, rage through him, consume him from the inside out. Did they know, all the Three-Eyed Raven who came before him? Did they know, and is that why The Bloodraven said what he did? The past is already written. The ink is dry.

But what if it is not? Bran knows he cannot rewrite the past…unless that it's already fate that he did. Hodor and The Night King, they existed before he did, were made as they were before his mother birthed him. He was always there, always in the past, always doing what he did. His fingerprints have lived on this world before he even took his first breath, since before even his mother was born, since before his parents met, since before it all. He has been here as long as The North has.

"I fear what I have done," Bran says, and they all look at him. Silent Arya, proud Sansa, impervious Robb. They look at him, eyes bright and kind, strong but worried too. "The Night King didn't know what he was doing. He was afraid and untrained…as untrained as all of you." His siblings straighten, eyes wide, shoulders tensing. He swallows, looking away. "And the Children should have known. They should have known they were making a mistake. He would have warged anyway. If not into me, into something else, into one of them, maybe. And who knows what would have happened?"

He thinks of the dead little raven, the voice that whispered in the back of his mind. The voice of the gods, he thinks, but he bets it was one of The Children, one of the ones who were there back then, who realised that someone had walked between times, and used their magic to find the lonesome little soul, and tried to understand what was coming. And maybe they did. They let Brandon The Builder in. They made him the first Ice. They made their choices, some good, some bad. They helped the Horn be made. They gave the chance for Bran to be trained in all he knows. They died for him.

Tears are in the corner of his eye. He doesn't even realise he's crying until Arya is pressing herself close, taking his hands in hers, cradling him close to her. He leans on her, leeches her warmth and all the strength she possess, the strength he doesn't think he has. He's afraid, he realises, slowly and awfully. Afraid of what he is, what he has the power to do, what comes for him. The North Remembers. The Night King knows what and who he is, knows where he lies.

Winter is Coming, he thinks. He has never feared Winter, never been afraid of the cold. The Night King made Winter, he made the world as he did. And who knows how he did it? Who knows what really happened when Bran and the man he used to be blended together for one moment, what fate was set in stone in those few moments? The Children gave Brandon the Builder a sword to banish him, to bind Winter to him. The Night King made the world as it is. The Stark Kings were The Kings of Winter.

"This doesn't change anything," Robb says, his voice stern and sharp, so very sure in his conviction. Bran looks up at his brother through blurry vision, breathing unsteadily as he sees the look in his big brother's eyes. He looks at him with such assurance, such love, so much that Bran can't even argue with him. His brother smiles, just a little, tired and a little afraid, btu strong too. Robb is so strong, the strongest man Bran thinks he knows. "Not if we don't let it. Winter is Coming. The Night King hunts us down. And now, we know why. Now, we have a thousand more reasons to fight, and to live."

And Bran looks around at them–at this scattered family he has loved and lost. He can see the absences, see the gaps where Rickon and Jon and Theon and Uncle Benjen, and their parents too, should be. He can sense all their absences, however far from permanent they may be, in the end, sense them like a wound, like an ache in his heart that won't let go of him. He breathes evenly and deeply, and this time he does it, and it settles him in truth.

"The North Remembers," Robb whispers, looking away, out at the land beyond the windows. A slight smile crosses his face, his eyes a hundred miles away, sad and lonely. There's a scar on his jaw, thin and silvering. "Our father told us about Lone Wolves. The Night King is ours to answer for. His brothers could not save him or kill him. So, we will do what they cannot. We will finish what they started."

And then what? Bran wonders.

---

notes:

-i am...behind on chapters. i know that. i am working on it but no promises on getting it done in a timely manner as i will be on a trip all of this next week so 😭

-im playing a bit with the origins of house stark, obvi. the way I think of it is they were 'Starks' a general term for the men who bore the storm sigil (which becomes the night king) but after tln, Brandon takes it as a House name, and it becomes regelated to only the bloodline, thus establishing house stark. There was no organic way to explain that here, so theres that

-lyanna's greenseeing was an idea from a commenter on ao3 but one that actually ended up filling in the last few gaps here. i hope I made everything with them as clear as I can, without making bran aware of emotions he cannot possibly be aware of. All of its just some deduction, really. Its not THAT important beyond it giving a reason for Jon to have his magic, and allowing me to feel happy bc at least she gets a glimpse of her baby boy before she dies

-I had the brilliant idea when I was playing around with beric last chapter to have the red priests show up at winterfell becayse…they SHOULD be there. Their whole shtick is based around the long night, and I think even off in asshai/volantis/wherever the fuck, someone prob saw Winterfell, figured out what it was and was like 'I know where we need to pull up to'. So now I get to include Kinvara (plus have thoros be like… heeeey guys ive managed to convince like ten people, and this is Sandor hes getting there :)) and have some fun religious stuff come in! Yipee! For those wondering where Mel is…just wait. Girl is coming.

-I am OBSESSED with how essos and Westeros interact, esp within the context of the fact that it is VERY likely that the long night came from Westeros/the north, and has very tight ties to House Stark. While the red priests may not know much of Westeros or the north, they can figure out enough to know where to send people

next up, house stark rallies and Cersei shows her hand