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)

15. THE WINGED WOLF I

CHAPTER FIFTEEN: THE WINGED WOLF I

Brandon Stark, now hosting the Three Eyed Raven, returns to his family in Winterfell. There, he tells a truth thought lost, and shakes the very foundation of his family. Bran reunites with a brother he sent away, and speaks with his sister.

---

His dreams begin with burning stone, screaming men, and then he watches as blood runs through open hands, pouring onto the ground below. There is a bed of red and white, a girl sobbing with a babe in her arms, wailing for her brothers, for mercy. She whispers a kingly name over and over, caressing the babe's head as she cries. There are darkened statues in a crypt, the whisper of a breath on his neck like the ghost of a kiss, and blue petals fall around him like snow. Hands intertwine, the wind howls in tune with wolves. Golden and red eyes flicker in the night, and a little bird lies in the snow, dead. A sword swings through the night air, and ice shatters.

Brandon Stark, The Three-Eyed Raven, wakes up.

Winterfell is a smudge on the horizon through the breaking dawn, only a scant few hours away from him, now. Sansa and Jon's outriders had found him, Meera, Summer, and the escort Benjen had spared from the Night's Watch three days prior, and they've been invaluable in helping Bran get through the snows that are falling with regularity, now. Everywhere he looks, there is snow, but at least right now, none is falling, and the skies are a clear and endless blue.

Summer is stretching at his side, and he reaches out for his wolf, who comes padding over without a sound, nuzzling close to him. He'd thought him dead, thought him lost, but despite the scar at his side that will likely never fully heal, Summer has survived, and they're almost home, anyway. He curls himself over Summer, closing his eyes for a moment and breathing deep.

–beads of black and red glimmering in the noonday sun. kisses, hot and heady and desperate. bloody hands on a broken stomach, a crown of iron swords falling from a head. a pale neck and a paler blade, a gush of red blood. howling wolves. a thin blade, thin as a needle, a desecrated corpse. bodies piled up, choking on their death. a crackling fire, songs in the night. the blast of a horn, and the ruin of all–

Bran opens his eyes again, shaking his head to dispel the vision. The Three-Eyed Raven is in every corner of his mind, digging its claws into him, taking his mind every time he tries to close his eyes and breathe, showing him half a hundred images that mean little to him, distant dreams of other lives. But he refuses to be the cold shell that was The Bloodraven. He is still, and will always be, Brandon Stark of Winterfell, son of Eddard and Catelyn Stark. Brother to a king, and much more.

–a crown of iron and steel, someone screaming The King in the North! someone's voice, a voice he once knew, says Am I your brother, now and always? screams and fire. a head rolls. another man, born and felled eight thousand years ago, kneels in the grave of an age and rises as a king, rises as the sun breaks in the aftermath of The Long Night. a man with hungry eyes burns and reaps and raves, a body on the prow of his ship, a warning to all. a man with a cold face and terrible dreams sees a dragon and the kings die with him–

"Bran?" It's Meera, and he looks at her, feeling slightly startled, and yet he does his best to smile when she does the same to him. He pushes Summer away a bit, letting her sit next to him as the men of The Night's Watch and the Outriders get to packing up the last of that night's campsite. To think tonight, they'll all be in Winterfell's great hall, feasting and laughing and Bran will be home. Thoughts of that are almost enough to push The Three-Eyed Raven's incessant visions aside. "Are you alright?"

"I'm alright," he agrees with a smile that comes easier now. He looks at Winterfell in the horizon, and while it is hard to tell, it looks somewhat repaired from when he last saw it, when it was burning and Luwin was dying, and he and Rickon still had one another, and Osha, and Hodor. When Theon Greyjoy had stolen their home. (–a man is screaming– reek, reek, reek– blood is pouring onto the floor–) But now, Sansa and Jon hold Winterfell, and Rickon is with them. A brother, a sister, and…Jon. A secret. He has to tell him. He wishes their Uncle Benjen could come South and tell Jon for him, just so Bran didn't have to be the one to break Jon in two. "Just nervous."

Meera's smile gets tighter. She'll have to write to her father with the news of Jojen when they get there, no easy task for any child to do, even if they all knew it was coming from dreams that have never lied. Bran gets to go home to his siblings. Meera has not been afforded the same luxury. Her green eyes look away, hard and strong as ever, and he thinks that the news he has is also troubling her, somewhat, in her own way. The secret they, along with her father and Benjen, hold is one that might just end up determining the fate of the realm.

–binding hands together, a Godswood at night, a broken man. screaming dragons. red rimmed eyes, lips curled into a snarl, the voice of a man who knows only for sure that he is a king. a crown of silver braids, a crown of three dragons. Burn them all! a white cloak, a sword covered in blood, the green kiss of wildfire, a golden lion atop a throne that does not belong to it–

"Bran," she repeats, flatter now, drawing his attention back to her. He murmurs an apology, but she just squeezes his shoulder gently and asks in a voice that suggests she already knows, "It's the visions, right? What are you seeing?"

"The past, mainly," he says, curling his fingers into twin fists in his lap. "I think the last one was Jaime Lannister killing the Mad King. There was a marriage–two, maybe. One in a Godswood, another somewhere else. Dragons. And before, there was blood and a lot of kings. Brandon the Builder, Theon The Hungry Wolf, Torrhen, the King who Knelt, and Robb, even. And a death. A lot of people were dying."

She nods, her lips pursing together, though she does not say anything on it. He rubs the space between his brows and tries to fend off the incoming headache, or at least keep it away until he gets to Winterfell, but with how long these coming hours are bound to be, he's not sure of how far he's going to get with that endeavour. But still, he tries his best to stay in the moment as they draw closer and closer to Winterfell and Wintertown alike, which gets easier when his heart starts beating harder and harder with each step he gets closer to Winterfell. To his home.

Summer pauses at his side, and he's just about to ask his wolf what is wrong when he sees that the men have stopped as well. Astride her horse beside him, Meera is looking at the tree line with a furrowed brow, and Bran feels an odd sensation in the back of his mind, one he thinks he knew, once, but has long since forgotten. Astride his own horse in a specialised saddle the Night's Watchmen had pieced together from his recollections of the last one, he tightens his grip on the reins and scans trees for any hint of what is wrong and what seems to be spooking the horses and giving even Summer pause.

Another vision –breathless laughter as two boys rush ahead. a head rolling, Valyrian Steel glimmering. Don't look away. whimpering pups, a stag dead to a wolf, a wolf dead to a stag. the woods, rising up around him, the memory of a knife at his neck. a wolf rushes through a field that will turn into a massacre, slamming into a boy and saving his life, at the cost of an arrow to the shoulder. a man stands against an onslaught. birds fly through the air, trapped on banners of blue and white–

And then he hears it. Howls and barks. A smile breaks across his face and he draws his horse forward just in time to see three blurs crash through the trees, careening straight towards Bran, straight to Summer. He pulls away just in time and feels laughter bubble up within him as he sees the mound of fur in shades of black, white, and grey, that has become his wolf and his littermates whom he's been torn from for as long as Bran has been torn from his family.

It's Lady, Shaggydog, and Ghost, all of them together, who nip and play with a happily yowling Summer. He and Shaggy, especially, seem to play, with Lady eventually going to press against a silent Ghost, who watches their brothers play through his red eyes. Slowly, those red eyes turn to look at Bran, and for a moment, he thinks that he's staring right at Jon and his grey eyes, but the illusion fades. Ghost draws near to him, and licks his hand when he outstretches it, causing him to laugh brightly.

"Don't worry," he tells the nervous-looking man from The Night's Watch whom his uncle had tasked with the lead of this mission and who even Sansa and Jon's outriders have given authority to as he draws up next to Bran. Lady has now decided that it is her turn to get Bran's attention, and he's glad at the size of all of them, so he only slightly has to lean to pet between her ears, causing her tail to wag fiercely. "They're my siblings' wolves. They will not harm anyone here. We must be only an hour or two from Winterfell."

"Aye, we are," the man agrees, sending Lady an uncertain look. Summer has, after all, largely kept to himself and to Bran's side, only peeling away to hunt, and staying out of the way of the men. Bran supposes he cannot blame the wolf for his nervousness around larger crowds, with most of his life being spent in the wilds of the North, with only Bran, Rickon, and Shaggy left to him of a once much larger pack. The man turns back to his men and calls for them to keep moving.

Shaggydog is the last to approach Bran, large as ever, and no less dark. At the same time, he, as with the rest of them, looks to be growing in a Winter coat. Lady and Summer are both slightly lighter than they were in the autumn, but Ghost is unchanged, still as white as fresh snow. Shaggydog shoves his nose into Bran's palm, and he shushes his little brother's wild wolf gently, rubbing circles into the space between his ears, which seems to please the wolf, at least.

And then they are in Wintertown before he even knows it. And Bran has to smile at the sight of the Direwolves that fly on banners in the air, at the sight of the repairs that have been made, at the sight of the hardy folk of the North who look at him and the four wolves around him with dawning comprehension. He hears whispers of Ned's boy and The Prince! But the second name makes his stomach lurch with old memories, and he bows his head, remembering how he left this place.

There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, his father's voice rings clear in the back of his mind like a tolling bell. Words that he drilled into each and every one of them, and yet, Bran is the Stark who gave Winterfell to Theon, who ran and thus let the Bolton's snatch it up. He swallows around a lump in his throat and closes his eyes. The flashes of images from lives that are not his own come again.

–barking dogs, a man bracketed by light, leaning in exhaustion against a wall. My real father lost his head in King's Landing. burning stone and falling ash and a horse running through it all. pleas for mercy, pleas for it to all stop falling on deaf ears. one man rushes another, their faces inches from one another. two hands intertwine and a bank of snow comes rushing up to meet them as they leap from the walls–

They pass through the first gate, and he stares at the scars from the burning that are still there. That day feels like a lifetime ago. It's been some four years, he thinks. His heart is a drum in the cavern of his chest. He shifts in his seat, feeling more nervous than he thinks he should feel when one is coming home, when the people you love are, at last, in reach. He hasn't seen Sansa or Jon since before his fall, hasn't seen them since the Feast and Winterfell, probably, all those years ago.

The Second Gate opens to the courtyard that he knows better than almost anything else. His memories of Robb and Jon are almost all in here, shooting bows terribly and hearing them laugh at his poor aim. He'll never shoot again. He'll never run again. But he's so much more than what he could have been, now, even without the use of his legs. Sansa and Jon's outriders hold Stark Banners aloft with pride, and it's been years since he rode as a Stark into his home. And now he finally does it again.

He pulls forward through the crowd, and there they all are, standing together in shades of black and grey, looking as Stark and as Northern as he's ever seen any of them. Lovely Sansa and stalwart Jon, and–

"Bran!" Rickon shouts, rushing to him, utterly heedless of how both Jon and Sansa alike shout after him. Bran laughs loudly as Rickon slams into his useless legs, reaching down to kiss the top of Rickon's head and ruffle his hair fondly. Rickon beams up at him, and Bran feels his eyes swell with happy tears. He sent his brother away for safety, and now they're home together, again. What was it that Rickon said when he sent him away because it was all he knew how to do? I'm your Brother. I have to protect you.

"Hey, Rickon," he whispers in reply, running his thumb under Rickon's eyes. Rickon smiles up at him, a little gap between his teeth, his blue eyes wide and wild and utterly delighted at the mere sight of Bran. He ruffles his hair again, glancing up when he sees two people approaching, one in black, and the other with hair as red as flame. Jon and Sansa, then.

Sansa is the first to him, hugging him close and starting to tug the straps on his leg free. She pulls back after a moment though, cradling his face, and looking like their mother for a moment. But Sansa is not their mother, and looking at his sister now, Bran has the cold sense that she is also not the girl who looked at Joffrey with stars in her eyes. There is a harder and far colder edge to her now, and still, she looks as sweet as anything when she kisses his brow, finally pulling away properly, and allowing Jon to step forward.

Jon is the one who helps Bran down, onto a waiting chair that has him raising his brows in interest. Jon sets him down and crouches in front of him, his grey eyes bright as he too studies Bran's face for a long moment, one hand gently holding one of Bran's knees. "Gods," he whispers. "Look at you. You're almost a man grown."

Look at you, Bran wants to reply. Despite it all, Jon has never looked more like their father, Bran thinks, with his dark hair bound back in a Northern fashion and his growing beard and his twinkling grey eyes. Great furs are on his shoulders and there's a sword at his side, complete with a white wolf head with red eyes for a pommel. He looks like a Lord. Looks like a Northman. The secret tugs at the back of Bran's mind, but he forces himself to smile as Meera draws nearer.

Jon rises to his feet as she comes by. "This is Meera of House Reed," Bran introduces her. "She was one of the people who helped me get North. Rickon, you remember Meera?"

He nods fiercely, smiling shyly at her from where he is pressed to Sansa's side like a limpet. Bran looks at his sister with curiosity, and she mouths 'later' as Meera begins to speak, now directly to his little brother, "Hello, Rickon. You've grown so much since I last saw you, I hardly recognise you!"

"He and his wolf both," Jon says, grunting as said wolf comes to slam into his side, directly followed by Ghost. "We thank you for our brother's safety, Lady Reed. We've had rooms prepared for you, and will have you shown to them now." A tall woman comes up, glances once at Bran, and Jon introduces her. "Bran, My Lady, this is Brienne of Tarth. She is sworn to Sansa and our House. Lady Brienne, if you could show Lady Reed to her rooms?" The woman nods, and Meera follows behind her after a brief glance at Bran, who nods with a smile. He needs some time alone with his siblings.

And Jon. He keeps forgetting that.

He tries to hide his awkward look at Jon as he's brought into the keep, and he chooses to focus on the chair he's in. "What is it?" He asks, tapping the armrest. Sansa and Jon exchange a look with twin grins on his face that has Bran's head spinning. Since when do they not only get along but seem to be perfectly capable of conspiring together on something? Bran glances at Rickon, who is looking up at Sansa with an adoring look, meaning he is absolutely zero help. Of course.

"We found it, well more Maester Wolkan found it, when going through some of Maester Luwin's old papers and books. It's like the one Aegon II had, during The Dance With Dragons," Sansa says, a look of utter excitement on her face. "We had it made once word came from Uncle Benjen that you were on your way home. Unfortunately, it can't go up the stairs, though," She sends a sympathetic look up the stairs that they have come to stop in. Bran looks at Jon as he comes to stand next to him.

"May I…?" Jon asks, completely awkward and uncertain. Bran sends him a flat look, and he sighs with a roll of his eyes. "Alright, I get it. You're already as bad as Sansa, and you only just got here!"

She makes an incredulous and offended sound from behind them as Jon scoops Bran up and begins up the stairs. He smiles at him, a sharp and private thing, and Bran glances down to see that Ghost and Summer are close at Jon's heels, Sansa and Rickon along with their wolves likely just behind them as well. He watches the walls spin by in circles as they climb the stairs in silence, finally reaching their old rooms after a few moments. Sansa opens the door to one of the rooms, and Bran has just enough time to realise it's his old room before he's being set on the bed.

Rickon is at his side in an instant, pressing close to Bran's side. Sansa and Jon both sit at the end of the bed, her head resting on his shoulder as they watch the pair of them with twin smiles. He's about to ask why they actually like one another now, when Rickon accidentally elbows him in the stomach, causing him to cough, and the both of them to laugh, which makes him glare at them. They both stop laughing, but they're still giggling, sharing secretive glances like Jon and Arya used to do, not Jon and Sansa.

"You both are weird," he tells them flatly. Rickon giggles at his side, and he draws him closer, to whisper conspiratorially, "Have they been weird and annoying, Rickon? Do you need me to rescue you from them?" Rickon glances between Jon and Sansa, who are the very pictures of barbed curiosity, and Bran, who is smiling. He buries closer to Bran, and he laughs again, which makes Rickon laugh, and both Jon and Sansa smirk, as if victors in some game he is not privy to.

But the mirth does not last long. Before he knows it, they're sharing their stories, all of them. Jon's eyes are darkening as Sansa tells Bran of her time in King's Landing, and they are cold as Bran tells of the sack. At some point, a Maester comes by to take Rickon to his lessons, and Bran realises Sansa and Jon must have planned for that, as they seem to have weights fall off both their shoulders once their little brother is gone.

From there, the stories get cold and hard to say. Sansa cries as she tells Bran of Theon Greyjoy, and his mind remembers the strange images of screaming men and bloody torrents that kept piercing his mind. She does not tell him to forgive Theon, but looking into his sister's eyes, he can see that she has forgiven him, in some sense of that word. Neither he nor Jon presses the issue, but he can see how it grates on Jon's mind as she speaks of him.

Jon speaks of The Others, and when Bran shows The Night King's mark on his arm to Jon, his face falls and goes entirely grave. His fingers run over the lines, and Bran watches as he swallows tightly, his lips pressed into a flat line. Sansa makes much the same face, her eyes sad as she looks upon the mark that Bran knows is unlikely to ever fade. Jon says little of his death, and less of his return. He does ask after their uncle, though, seemingly pleased that he is well, or as well as he can be given the doom on the horizon and the general state of living on The Wall.

And then it is Bran's turn to speak of The Three-Eyed Raven and all that has transpired. They both gape at him as he tells them of Bloodraven and Dark Sister, which is with Meera still. Jon coughs loudly when Bran tells him about when he and Rickon saw him at Queenscrown, muttering I'd forgotten about that, as Sansa looks incredulously between them. They both seem confused by the whole notion, and while neither looks surprised at the whole we're all wargs thing, Jon looks to be particularly uninterested in that as if he hopes that should he ignore it enough, it will go away.

Stubborn, foolish, Jon, Bran thinks to himself. Jon, who is the son of Rhaegar and Lyanna. He feels his mood sour, and unfortunately, both Sansa and Jon notice. But when, after exchanging a look, they ask what is the matter, he just says, in a bit of a rougher voice, "It's not something for right now. I'll tell you tomorrow when we've all eaten and rested."

"Is it something bad?"

"It's…" Bran sighs. "It has to do with some of what I have seen with the Three-Eyed Raven. And it's important. Really important."

"Then why not say it now?" Jon asks, and Bran fights to not grimace. Tomorrow, Jon, you will probably be wishing I never said anything and that you never asked. I am trying to spare you for a little while longer. Give you one more night where you can sleep easy, not knowing the truth, thinking you are Ned Stark and some nameless woman's son, not the son of a man we have all been told raped and kidnapped your mother.

"It's complicated. More complicated than I think any of us are in the place for right now," he says, meeting Jon's grey eyes. It's hard, just how much he looks like their father. Jon will always be his brother in his heart, that much he is becoming sure of, but until he tells Jon, there will always be a voice whispering the horrid truth in the back of his mind. And it won't just be Jon, his brother, he's telling it to. It will be a man who looks so much like their father. A man who Bran hasn't seen in so long it hurts. A man with a temper. "Please understand."

"We do," Sansa says, grabbing Jon's hand and squeezing it as she reaches out and brushes Bran's hair back from his face. She stands up, dragging Jon with her. But briefly, she stoops low over him, her hair like a flaming curtain around them both, her lips brushing over his brow. "Get some rest, Bran. You have had a long journey. The wolves will be with you, should you need one of us." Her eyes dance with joy and love, but she turns to go after a moment, leaving Jon and Bran alone.

When Bran asks for some new clothes, Jon complies silently and helps Bran get under the bed's furs when he asks, sitting at his side, his hand holding Bran's, his thumb running over the back of his knuckles. Summer has leapt up behind Bran, pressing close to his back. Jon is looking down at him with an odd expression, and just like Sansa, he leans over and kisses Bran's brow, before leaving with only a smile in goodbye, the door closing gently behind him.

He sees Theon in his dreams. He sees Sansa in his dreams. He sees Jon nearly beating the man who broke them both to death in the same courtyard he'd greeted Bran in. He sees Rickon running through an open field, arrows in the air. He sees his father and his mother die. Sees Arya on a ship, and Robb in chains in a dark cell. And then he is watching Lyanna and Rhaegar exchange vows on the Isle of Faces for the tenth or so time, and it's no easier even now.

That one had come after he'd left The Wall. That and the images of a crying Lyanna in The Tower of Joy, a girl who was finally realising her mistake, realising the truth of the man she'd let steal her away. Perhaps Lyanna was not perfect, and Bran knows that it will always be impossible for his Uncle to not love his sister and defend her in all moments, but watching Lyanna weep and find comfort only in the babe that will become Jon Snow, alone and thousands of miles from home…he feels pity well within him. She made mistakes, yes. But none like the ones Rhaegar Targaryen made. But they're both dead now. And all that is left of either of them is Jon.

The sun is low in the sky by the time he wakes back up to knocking. Getting onto his back is some effort, and by that time Sansa has already barged her way in and has come to sit at his side. "Jon and Rickon are bringing dinner up here. We figured we'd spare you the effort of getting down to the Great Hall. That and Jon is inclined to spare you from the men and their questions, at least for one night. They will have many questions, certainly. Questions about…everything."

"I can't be Lord of anything, Sansa," he tells her, and she glances at him. He grabs her hand and squeezes. "You're acting Lady of Winterfell, no? And Jon is in charge of the soldiers?" She nods. "Good. I'd be no good in either of yours' places, anyway, and because I'm The Three-Eyed Raven, I have no place in thrones or in titles. Doubtless Robb would still insist I'm a Prince of Winterfell, but that's his prerogative, and I have little doubt he'll deny you and Jon's efficiency. It's yours, Sansa. Or, is it Lady Stark? Princess?" He smiles cheekily at her.

"Don't call me that," she says, bossy as he remembers, but there's a fondness to it now, especially as she helps him sit up in his bed and lets him rest his chin on her shoulder, her hand in his hair. "Jon does it plenty to be annoying, thinking he is quite funny. I have enough insolence from him, and plenty of dramatics about quite literally everything from Rickon. Please try and be normal."

He smiles up at her in a way that has her rolling her eyes with an exasperated sigh. She runs her finger over his cheek and says, "You look so grown, Bran. I was always so sad I never got to say goodbye to you…in more ways than one. I should have written to you more once you woke up, should have paid that more mind, rather than fawning over Joffrey. But I was a fool. A foolish girl who didn't know how much I could lose until the world saw it fit to show me."

"You were a child, Sansa," he reminds her. "We all were. I'm older than you were, back then. I don't think I could ever fault you for being a child. Not after everything that's happened."

Pain crosses her face, and she pulls him in for a tight hug, her hands tangling themselves in his hair. He presses his face into her shoulder and loosely wraps his arms around her as she rocks him slightly as if trying to console them both. The realisation that not only is he older than she was when they last saw each other, but that he's nearly the same age Jon was when they last saw one another had been hard for him. It cannot be any easier for his older siblings.

Images float past his mind. –jon, dying in the snow, dying in their uncle's arms. sansa, in a white dress, snow falling around her. robb blacking out the second their mother fell to the floor, dead– He holds her tighter in reply to them, squeezing his eyes tightly shut and clinging to her, clinging to what it feels like to be home, to have his older sister hugging him, cradling him close.

They pull apart when Jon comes in, skillfully holding three steaming bowls, Rickon following behind with only one. Bran cannot say he blames Jon for his clear mistrust of their little brother and bowls of hot soup as he watches Rickon walk to the bed with so much focus dedicated only to not spilling the soup. He's doing not a bad job, but Bran's not sure the same could be said had Rickon been given two heavy bowls. Jon hands him a bowl, and Bran stops thinking about Rickon's talent for carrying bowls around and focuses on the very good soup he's been given.

That and the fact that, come tomorrow morning, this will be the last time he, Jon, and Sansa sit together with only one of them knowing the truth. Bran will not tell Rickon, not because he does not deserve to know, but simply because he is not sure his little brother could understand quite how destructive this secret could be. He does not want to burden Rickon with it, not yet. Not if Jon does not want to do so.

—

The next morning, the three of them converge in the solar that has long since belonged to The Lords of Winterfell. The sun streams through in weak golden rays, snow falls gently, and Bran can't help but be bitter at every pretty part of the day, knowing he's about to burn it all down with a few words. But with Winter and Dragons both coming, Jon needs to know, and has every right to know. Bran can't keep this from him. He simply cannot fathom trying to.

Sansa arrives first, Lady on her heels, looking so harried that Bran raises a brow at her, which makes her scowl and mutter, viciously, "Littlefinger." Bran nods in assent. He has things to say about the Lord Protector of the Vale, but they are words best left for later. For after he says what needs to be said.

Jon arrives a few minutes later, Ghost on his heels as well. He looks to have just come from outside, and so he takes a moment to pull off his cloak and shake the last remnants of snow from his boots and hair before he sits down next to Sansa around the fire, where Bran has also situated himself. The three wolves have curled up into a pile at the base of the crackling fire, and Bran feels an odd surge of jealousy. Ghost may be the runt, the albino, the one away from the rest, but he was off the same litter, no doubt. Jon…

He turns to Jon. "I know who your mother is," he says to begin, and both Sansa and he straightens, but it is his eyes that brighten. No, please don't look at me like that, Bran thinks, despair in the back of his mind, in the very beat of his heart. He meets Jon's eyes. His grey eyes of House Stark, the eyes his mother gave to him. The eyes that are full of a hope that Bran is no doubt about to destroy. He swallows as Sansa takes Jon's hand and squeezes it, both their eyes so wide and hopeful. "And who your father is."

Jon's brows furrow. Bran does not let him speak, but he cannot look at Jon, cannot look at him as he whispers the next words, the awful truth, the truth that would have seen Jon dead had the wrong people known. Robert Baratheon would have seen his father and Jon both dead by his hands for this secret, for this betrayal of everything. Even if Jon was but a child, he would have followed Rhaenys and Aegon to their graves. "Your mother is Lyanna Stark." He drags his eyes to Jon. "And your father…your father is Rhaegar Targaryen."

And there it is. Said so simply, it seems so innocuous. Bran feels his face break with pity and shame, and he looks at Jon through vision that is blurring at the corners. My brother, he thinks. A man I have never gotten to truly know. My cousin. The Heir to The Iron Throne.

Jon blinks at him, face pale and mouth hanging slack, mounting horror growing slowly in his eyes. He shakes his head and tries to speak as he looks between Bran and Sansa. He begins gasping for breath, shaking his head back and forth harder as he shakes in his very boots and stands so quickly to his feet that his chair clatters back, startling the wolves. Sansa has a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with confusion and something close to terror.

Jon chokes on his breath with an awful noise, before gagging once, eyes blown wide with revulsion and despair alike. Sansa reacts just barely quickly enough, rushing to a basin that rests upon the mantle from one thing or another, and shoving it under him just for Jon to dry heave in it, not actually throwing up. Her fingers curl into his hair, and she shushes him softly, looking at Bran with a despondent expression as she helps Jon sit back down, so he doesn't fall over on his shaking knees.

"No," Jon whispers, over and over, like a mantra, like a prayer to Gods who have no power to undo this truth. "No. No. No!" He screams the last word, looking at Bran with red-rimmed eyes. Ghost is on his feet, nosing at Jon, and he looks at his wolf as if he's horrified to see him. Ghost cocks his head at Jon, again trying to nose closer as Jon seems to make an effort to ignore him, ignore the signs that he is still as Stark. Ignore everything to the end. Stubborn, foolish, Jon. "You're lying."

"I saw it," Bran says gently. "Rhaegar did not…well, it was not a wholly informed decision, but Lyanna went willingly with him, as willingly as one can when it's as complicated as everything was. He took her to the Isle of Faces, and there, they were wed by a Septon who was sworn to secrecy, though I do not know how valid the ceremony would be in the eyes of The Faith. He kept her in the Tower of Joy in Dorne. Our father found her, but it was too late. She died, and her last words were a plea to him to protect you." Jon makes a strangled noise.

He licks his lips. "And your name isn't Jon. She named you Jaehaerys before her death. Jon was the name he gave you to protect you because you are the Heir to the Iron Throne."

Jaehaerys, an obnoxiously kingly name for a little boy and an exceedingly strange name for a Northman. Neither Jaehaerys is remembered with too much fondness by The North, but for so many people, they still associate it with the Conciliator, a man they say bound the realm together. Of course, in two generations after him, the Targaryens would be ripping themselves apart, but he has always remained Jaehaerys the Conciliator, despite what those efforts brought to the realm.

And for a girl like Lyanna, torn from her home with her family branded traitors and falling apart at the very seams, would dreams of peace and reconciliation not seem so sweet? Would she not dare to dream by giving her little boy a name like that, a name born by a man said to be a peacemaker, once upon a time? She never got any input from Rhaegar on his name, Bran is pretty sure. It was her choice to name him that, and her brother's choice to hide it from everyone. Everyone except for Howland Reed, who tore him from the body of his sister.

Jon is back on his feet in an instant after that reveal, staring at Bran with an expression he can't decipher. He shakes his head, trying to deny it, but Bran can see him doing the math, running the numbers, going over the story they have all heard about The Rebellion. When he glances at Sansa, he can see she is doing the very same thing, and slowly, she bows her head as it all slots together. "My name is Jon, " he whispers hotly, tears on his face. His voice raises with every word that follows. "Not–not that! My father is Eddard Stark, not–I'm not– NO! "

"Jon," Sansa whispers hoarsely, and he turns his wounded gaze onto her. She reaches out to grab his hands, her face carefully gentle, but he snaps them away before she can, backing up, looking at both her and Bran with fear and terror. Ghost comes to stand before him, blocking Jon from both of them, and for one more long, terrible moment, he just stares at them both, before turning on his heels and running out the door without another word.

Sansa is on her feet in an instant, crying out his name, but he's gone. She stands in the middle of their father's solar, her shoulders shaking as she stares at the door he'd slammed behind him. Bran watches her bow her head and hears the sob that rips its way out her chest. Then, with a shake of her head, she turns on her heel and rushes to where Bran is, coming to sit on her knees before him, making him suddenly taller than she is. Her hands curl into fists in the blanket he has across his legs.

"Bran," she whispers, looking at him with an expression that is torn between a horrified girl who is watching her dreams die again, the cold The Lady of Winterfell, and a sister who is feeling a choking fear for the big brother she loves desperately, dearly. He looks away, and she takes his face in her hands, forcing their twin blue eyes to meet. "You are certain of this? You are sure that this is true?"

He nods. And she, to his surprise, swears at that, looking at him with anguished eyes. He tries to imbue comfort into his words, though he does not think he does it all too well. "Uncle Benjen knows, along with Meera Reed. Her father was with ours at The Tower of the Joy. Before I saw the vision, he was the only living man following father's death who knew the truth. We must send word to Greywater Watch, and have him come here, have him speak to Jon, as someone who was there. Jon will not take this well."

"Of course, he will not take it well, Bran!" She nearly shouts, squeezing her hands tighter in the blanket. "You have just upended everything he thought he knew about himself!"

"He deserves to know!" Bran snaps back, startling the both of them.

Sansa sighs heavily, her eyes fluttering closed as if in defeat. She seems to realise something and flinches with a pained wince, her breath leaving her in an uncomfortably shaky exhale. "He does deserve to know. Especially because Daenerys Targaryen has arrived in Westeros. The reply about the Dragonglass came from Dragonstone a few days past. Jon was going to reply today, but we got so busy, and…"

"He will not want to think about it any more than he has to, now. About another Targaryen being in Westeros," Bran finishes. She nods, and he bows his head. "Benjen said that Jon would not take it well. He warned of his temper, and called him a good man, but reminded me of it. And now I fear that I have permanently damned myself to Jon, that I will never have him back. That I've ruined everything too. First, I kill Hodor–"

"Bran," she cuts him off. He'd nearly cried, the night before, telling them the truth of Hodor, but neither Jon or Sansa had seemed to know what to say, and so he swept into other stories and tampered down the emotions. But there's no denying that it's he who permanently changed Hodor's life, permanently made it so he could never be Wylis again. And to think that Hodor probably knew his fate, from the very day Bran was born. And yet, he still came with Bran, knowing it meant his death. What has Bran ever done to deserve that loyalty? "Do not regret what you have done. Jon is…"

"Jon is temperamental, indeed." A smile crosses her face, a sad, wry smile. "He would have killed Ramsay, had I not been there. And I heard whispers of fiercely temperamental Lord Commander while on The Wall. But I love him, and I owe my life to him, and what he has done for me. He is our brother, Bran, no matter who sired him." She looks away. "But convincing him of that will be no small task."

"You both seem close, at least. So maybe he might just listen to someone for once," Bran replies softly, and she turns her eyes to him, looking rawer, more unguarded at his words. He can't help but laugh. "I thought I was going insane, for a moment, watching you two actually get along!"

"We're the oldest ones left. He's the closest friend I have left. I can't not…" She trails off softly. Her eyes take on a hurt look, memories making them shine with new tears. "I don't suppose you've seen Robb, at all?"

"Only him in chains," he says, and she nods, wiping away a stray tear. "But he, as far as I know, still lives, as does Arya. The four of us are not all that is left of our parents." Sansa's eyes dawn with true, beautiful hope at the mention of Arya, and the tears flow freely then as she smiles widely.

"Father once told me and Arya both that we would all need one another when Winter came. The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives, and all that. And Jon was the first family I'd seen in years, the first time I'd seen one of my brothers since Robb was dragged before Joffrey and the whole of his court following The Red Wedding." Her mouth twists into a frown, her eyes hardening. "I could do nothing but love him when I saw him again, that day in Castle Black. I had my brother back. I was…I was the safest I'd been in so long. And he rode with me to take back our home, despite his fear, despite what had happened to him."

"He needs us, Bran," she tells him, grabbing his hands and squeezing. "You were right to tell him, but we both know him, we both know our brother. He can be a stubborn fool when he wants to. He's always been like that. But no matter who his parents are, he will always be my brother, he will always be the man I ran to when I saw him standing there in Castle Black. He is our brother. For all time." To think that it is Sansa who is so insistent on Jon being their brother, now, no matter what. Oh, how the years have changed them all.

Bran nods in agreement, and she stands after a moment, glancing out the window. He follows her gaze and sees the snow is falling all around. Jon Snow, The Bastard of Winterfell. Snow, a name of the North, a name of shame. Jaehaerys Targaryen, a man that doesn't quite exist, someone so few even know the truth of. A myth from spring. Jon is the brother Bran knows, the only name he thinks any of them will ever know for him. Whether he is a Stark, a Snow, or a Targaryen matters little to Bran, and when he glances at Sansa again, he thinks it is much the same for her. She is not the girl who went South, that is certain.

"He'll be in the Crypts," she says. Bran nods in agreement. "We should go find him."

"We should."

And so, thirty minutes later, (The time being due to the amount of stairs they had to go down and the need to find someone who could carry Bran up and down those stairs) Sansa is wheeling Bran towards where they can both see Jon, standing before a statue with a palm outstretched and a candle in hand. Their aunt Lyanna. He does not look at them as they draw near to him, doesn't even so much as blink when Sansa rests her hand on his shoulder and shakes him slightly, her voice soft as she calls his name.

After a long, arduous moment wherein Jon says nothing, he finally speaks, his voice hoarse and raw, eyes never leaving the stony face of his mother's statue. "The last thing he ever said to me was that when he saw me again, we'd speak of my mother. I'd never seen him so torn apart by something. He hated it when I asked, I always thought. I hated the fact that he wouldn't tell me for so long. I hated that I would always be nothing more than a motherless bastard, that I would never know the truth. And now that I know it, now that I know the horror I was born from…" Only then, does he look at them both with anguish that has been completely married with misery in his eyes.

The sight of him like that is not an easy one. Jon's face is shattered into heartbroken pieces, his eyes full of tears, and his voice broken with the desolation that is tearing him in two. This is not Bran's unshakable older brother, not the brother who was the one to tell him to face the death of the deserter. This is a boy who wants to go back to how it was, who wanted nothing more than the truth up until the very moment he had it. Because Jon looks like a boy, standing there, shaking in his boots, tears flowing freely down his cheeks.

"All my life, all I wanted was to be a Stark!" He spits, voice breaking on every word like waves against a shore, but still, he continues. "I pleaded to the Gods, I begged the man who called himself my father for some shred of the truth, I denied Winterfell when it was offered by Stannis Baratheon because it felt like a betrayal to dare to even think to accept it from him! I have done all I can to do right by the North, right by the people I love, and the entire time, it was a lie! I am a Targaryen! I am of the House that is hated in The North as much as The Lannisters, Boltons, and Freys alike! My father–" his voice trails off with a snarl.

Ghost comes out of the shadows then, and presses against his hand. Jon seems to barely notice him, staring at Lyanna's visage. "And I find myself wondering now: Do I look like her? I keep searching her face, trying to find what comes from her, what comes from Rhaegar, what is true about me, and yet I can find nothing." He looks at them both again. "Do I?"

"You are not made of stone, nor do you sit in a silent crypt, so no," Sansa says, ghosting forward to take his hands in hers. When he tries to pull away again, she grabs them with a fiery look, and draws him closer to Bran, her hands looking like an iron band on his hands. Jon glances between them both, brows furrowing as he sees the looks in both their eyes. "You are my brother, Jon. You are the man I ran to on The Wall, the man I looked to for safety. You are a Stark, to me, and to Bran, and to Rickon–to all the people that matter! Father said so, did he not?"

Jon looks away, a sob escaping him as his face collapses in on itself. He runs a hand over his face, covers his mouth with his hand, and then slowly sinks to his knees before Bran, resting his head in his lap and beginning to hollowly sob. Ghost presses against his back in an instant, and Sansa follows not a moment later, seemingly heedless of the dirt that is on her dress as she wraps her arm around Jon's shaking shoulders and kisses the crown of his head.

Jon's hand gropes for Bran's, and he finds it after a moment, taking it in a fierce grip, and Sansa covers their hands with hers, her skin soft and cold against Bran's, her thumb rubbing over both their hands gently. She pulls Jon a little closer, and Bran can barely take it, pushing himself forward until Jon and Sansa get the hint and help him sit on the floor with them, allowing him to properly haul his big brother in for a hug. It's a horrid inverse of how it used to be. It's the only way he can imagine managing to make this any better.

Sansa curls over them both, her hands resting at the nape of their necks, her fingers carding through their hair, her voice whispering soft words to Jon, murmured words of comfort that make him shake further, makes him sob louder, the sounds echoing around the crypts. Bran and Sansa both curl closer, and his mind is full of images, images of Robb and Arya, the ones Jon was close to once, the ones that Sansa and he are poor replacements for. The wolves all curl around them.

He does not know how long they sit there, holding one another, with Jon weeping openly, but eventually, Jon pulls himself away with a shaky breath, running a hand over his face. Silent as the grave, he helps Bran sit back in his chair and helps Sansa to his feet, looking between them both with an expression that makes Bran's stomach twist. Jon's face morphs into a grieved look, almost like a wince with his lips pressed into a thin line.

Sansa grabs his hand again, holding it tight and looking at their older brother with a searching look, a begging look. But Bran knows Jon has already gone away, has already made himself a lone ranger, just as Benjen put it. And glancing at his older sister as she drops Jon's hand after a moment, he knows she's seen it to.

Jon leaves without another word, without so much as a cloak to keep him warm. Sansa and Bran watch him go together, Ghost following behind him. Jon seems to be trying to ignore the Direwolf at his footsteps, but Bran knows it will be good for him to have a living and undeniable reminder that he is a Stark, that half his blood is the blood of The First Men, and that no matter his father's name, he will be a Stark of Winterfell to those who matter.

Sansa sighs, rubbing her brow. "I have to meet with some of the Bannermen today. Jon was supposed to come with me, but I think that'll be the last thing he wants to do now. Would you like to come with me?"

"Could you bring me to the Godswood?" Bran asks, and a soft smile comes over her face. "I have not been there yet."

"Of course," she tells him.

Later, when they have finally got there, they both take a moment at the base of the great Heart Tree of Winterfell to watch the snow as it falls around them, complete with a few stray leaves, the colour of their hair. Sansa picks one up, and rolls it around between her fingers, her blue eyes troubled but her face serene beyond that. Bran himself is content to just watch the world move by, but he feels himself pause as her eyes turn to him and a smile stretches across her face, making her look bright and alive.

"Oh, my dear Bran," she says, coming up to him to hold his face between her hands. She once again leans down to kiss his brow, and he feels a pang of longing for his mother, long since dead, long since torn from them all. He is not a boy anymore, and she is not their mother, but he thinks she's trying to be something to him and Rickon both. They will, after all, forever be the two youngest of their family, and Bran only ever gets to be a big brother to Rickon.

"Rickon, is he alright?" He asks her, and he thinks he knows the answer when her eyes get a little sad.

"He is quite unhappy when he is away from Jon or I, unless he is in his lessons," she tells Bran. He feels his mouth curl down with a frown. She crouches down before him. "Do not blame yourself for his clinginess. You did what you could to keep him safe, and I would take his life any day, even if it means I am doomed to have a very persistent attachment forever. He was barely a child when we all left. He would want to be with us all, no matter what you did or did not do. This is not your fault, Bran." Her eyes harden. "Neither is Hodor. He saved you, Meera, and Summer. You could not have known."

"I know," Bran says, though it is hard to say he really believes Sansa. But this will all take time, and he is with Sansa in being glad that Rickon lives, no matter what that means for their lack of privacy against an over energetic ten-year-old. Sansa stands, dusting herself off, and Bran is struck by how tall she has become. Jon is still taller than her, but she is like a willow, beautiful and serene. His lip quirks. "You have the smallest wolf, and yet, you're taller than some of the men!"

She laughs with him, and at that moment, a black bird comes sweeping down, sitting on one of the lower branches. "Corn!" It caws, and Sansa laughs harder, especially once she sees his confusion. "Snow! Corn!"

"Yes, you damned bird, someone will get you corn," she says with a roll of her eyes. Smiling, she tells Bran, "The raven is technically Jon's; he inherited it from the prior Lord Commander. But it seems content to waylay any and all unsuspecting soldiers, lords, ladies, and servants it comes across, demanding corn, and often something else. I don't know why Jon keeps it around, seeing as all he does is complain about it, but it is entertaining, I suppose."

"Dead!" The bird crows. Sansa doesn't even seem fazed by a raven screaming dead in the middle of Godswood, and so Bran elects that it's probably not all that important to listen to the thing, a suspicion that is confirmed as it starts loudly calling for corn once more. Sansa rolls her eyes, and after a moment, it comes flying down to rest on her arm, noticeably gentle as it does.

She looks at him. "You alright here?"

"Perfectly fine," he tells her, and she nods, turning on her heel and leaving the Godswood with Lady not a moment later, leaving Bran and Summer alone there. Summer rests his head on Bran's lap, and he takes a deep breath, closing his eyes and letting the images tumble into him once again, losing himself in The Godswood of Winterfell.

–Who comes to claim this woman? nervous laughter, hands on waists, fiery hair, a private kiss. I, Eddard of The House Stark. dresses swirl, and voices laugh in lilting tunes. someone takes up a song and it swirls into the Rains of Castamere. robb sits in a cell beneath some keep, his blue eyes staring out the small window he's been granted, his hair clinging flat to his face, wet from something or another. someone is singing that damnable song.

dragons soar, white and green and black and the night, fire climbs up walls. a crown rests upon a head, and Greyjoy banners flap in the breeze, secondary to the black and red of House Targaryen. a man whispers, his mouth curling with some shade of regret, a woman's name. rubies bleed into a river. a lovelt woman, a mother of five, with her throat as red as a rose on a thornbush, is thrown into a river.

The Dragon must have Three Heads, a man whispers. a crown of blue flowers is given to a hidden jewel, a tourney goes silent, songs drift through the night and maidens weep. a man in gold and black bellows, his hammer held aloft his antlered head. screams fill a room, hands bleed from kisses of the blades under them, then curl into fists. men approach the throne, a woman approaches the throne, they blend into one. wildfire, green as grass, as wrong as laughter in death, blooms like a flower.

bolts fly through the air. dragons scream. wolves howl, encircle a man whose blood is pooling in the snow, leaves falling around him. a glove is pulled over a golden hand. a king kneels before a shadow and a crown is placed on his head, and his sword sings as it is drawn. The King in the North! stone faces cry tears of blood. a girl presses herself against a wall, a Needle in her hand, and a single name on her lips. fire surrounds two brothers. The Iron Throne looms above it all, dripping with blood, lit by flames, a thousand swords of Aegon's victory.

kisses. flaming red hair. blue eyes. grey eyes. hair as dark as raven's feathers. a cave. a tent in war. hands–

Bran doesn't want to see this part of either of his older brothers, he thinks.

He opens his eyes, just in time to see someone approaching. It takes him a moment to recognise Petyr Baelish, but when he does, he is struck by the man's arrogance, the fact that he thinks he has every right to simply waltz into the Godswood of Winterfell. I did warn you not to trust me.

The man they call Littlefinger draws up before Bran, pausing when he sees that he and Summer both are watching him. He smiles a flinty smile, the same one he gave Bran's father, the same one he gave his Aunt Lysa, the same one he gave his mother, too, the woman he claimed to love. Not that he knows that Bran knows that. Not that he has any idea of what Bran knows about him.

"Lord Baelish," he says.

"Brandon Stark," he replies, stepping closer after a moment's hesitation, glancing nervously at Summer. Which is a good sign, knowing that his head is not so far up in the clouds that he doesn't know to be afraid of wolves. Bran makes a note to thank his siblings for their likely involvement in all of that. "It would appear you have made it home at long last, my prince."

"I have," Bran says carefully, sitting back in his chair. He tilts his head at Littlefinger. "But I did not take you to be a man who gained his reputation through stating the obvious, my lord."

That makes the other man smile wider, and he nods. "Astute observation. Indeed, I am here on other business." He pulls something out from under his long cloak, and Bran feels his brows raise as he sees the knife. "This knife was once used in an attempt against your life. The man would have cut your throat, but your mother fended him off. I deem it is right to give it to you, now." His eyes brighten with the mention of Catelyn Stark, and Bran feels his stomach roll, even more so when the knife is offered to him.

He takes it, slowly turning it over in his hand. The Valyrian Steel glimmers in the light of the day. Baelish continues. "The other dagger, the one that took her life…I would have stopped that dagger with my own heart if I could have." His eyes turn away, and however misplaced his affections were always doomed to be, Bran does not doubt that he truly believed he loved Catelyn Tully Stark. "I wasn't there for her when she needed me most. But I am here for her now. To do what she would have done. To protect her children." He turns his sharp eyes onto him.

What could you have done? Robb couldn't save our mother, and you think you could have done what he couldn't have? Beaten that which Robb Stark, The Young Wolf, The King in The North could not have? Bran's mind is alight with half a hundred angry thoughts, but he keeps his mind forcibly even, breathing deeply to calm his racing heart.

"Anything I can do for you, Brandon, you need only ask," Baelish says, as Bran studies the blade. Flashes of images cross his mind. This knife to a throat, this knife, sailing through the air, caught in a black-gloved hand that is covered in blood. This knife in a heart and in a neck, and blood flows like a river into the sea. Hands of a Princess turn it over, and a voice whispers, softly, reverently, From my blood come the prince that was promised, and his will be the song of ice and fire. Ice shatters.

This knife, in Petyr Baelish's hands, years ago, before it all began. Bran knows what lies he spun. But what would Littlefinger confess now, if asked? Not looking at the man, he asks, "Do you know who this belonged to?"

"No," Baelish says with a shake of his head, and Bran almost smiles. And still, you lie? When will you see the wolves that circle you, I wonder? Littlefinger, for that is who truly looks at Bran with his beady and sharp eyes, continues. "That very question was what started the War of the Five Kings."

His eyes brighten with madness and interest. Bran thinks of the Iron Throne, covered in blood, thinks of Wildfire, green as a flower stem, green like Petyr Baelish's eyes. "In a way, that dagger made you what you are today. Forced from your home, driven out to the wilds beyond The Wall, or so I hear." He tilts his head at Bran, some mocking interest in his eyes. "I imagine you've seen things most men wouldn't believe."

Would you like me to sing you a song about them, Littlefinger?

Bran meets his eyes and smiles, saying nothing. Baelish smiles tightly back, offering the sheath to the dagger, which Bran takes, hiding the cursed blade from his eyes. And with his mouth curling around his words, Littlefinger says, "To go through all of that and make your way home again, only to find such chaos in the world, I can only imagine…"

Bran does not let him finish. "Chaos is a Ladder," he says, and the Godswood falls as silent as the crypts, as silent as Winterfell was when he left it, all those years ago, as silent as The Bloodraven's cave. Littlefinger stares at him, green eyes meeting blue, and Bran tilts his head at the Lord of the Vale, the man who is too blind to see circling dogs. "Good day, Lord Baelish."

—

"He hasn't eaten, and every time I try to come by, he refuses to open the door, keeping it locked so I cannot enter anyway. I know that it has not spread far, and I am telling those who ask that Jon is not feeling well and will be recovered soon, in order to assuage suspicion, but Rickon is bound to notice his prolonged absence and my concern, and Jon will not tell him what the truth, not wanting to burden him. And he needs to eat, and eat soon." Sansa turns to Bran. "He's taken this horribly."

In the comfort of their late father's solar, with a snowstorm howling outside, Bran still feels cold, even with a crackling fire before him and warm clothes bundling him up. In the three days since he'd told Jon, his brother has only gotten more and more distant from the whole of Winterfell, clearly agitated, and it's beginning to rub off on Sansa as well. Sparing a glance at his older sister, he sees that she looks exhausted and entirely torn between seven places. "He'll come around eventually. He's not going to starve himself to death."

Sansa's lips purse together like she has her own thoughts on that matter, but she doesn't speak her thoughts aloud, not immediately. Instead, she sighs and looks over the scattered papers across her desk, her fingers drumming against the desk. Somewhere in the distance, through the storm, Bran thinks he hears a horn blast. Lady, Summer, Bran, and Sansa, so every one of the occupants of the room, all glance up and out the window. Bran strains his ears, but he can only barely make out shouts through the wind that rattles the windows.

"If it's something that requires us, I'm sure Ser Davos will come by," she mutters to herself as if trying to remind herself that she needs not to respond to every blast of a horn here in Winterfell. Bran had made it clear, when they met with what Lords are still in Winterfell, that he could not be a Lord again, and that The Keep was still Sansa's, at least until Robb's return. Which, speaking of… "Now, you said you think you know where Robb could be? Our own sources have all come up dry, even Littlefinger's. His hold on The South is not what it once was, after so long away."

"Yes," Bran replies. "I cannot be certain, but I believe he was moved to Casterly Rock following Joffrey's death, where the rest of those who were captured at The Red Wedding were. It was supposed to be temporary, likely, but then The Faith and The Tyrells started digging their fingers into Tommen, Cersei got arrested, and things fell apart soon after. She forgot about him."

Sansa snorts. "Tywin Lannister with teats, indeed." Her lips twist into a mocking smile, a wolf-like sneer. It's not an expression he would have expected on the older sister he once knew, the girl with her dreams of Southern Knights and beautiful princes, but it's perfectly at home on the face of the woman she has become, on the face of The Lady of Winterfell. But it fades after a moment, and her eyes darken. "The North will not be able to take The Rock."

"No," Bran agrees, his own voice growing sad. Sansa's hopes seem to fade from her face even more, her blue eyes like stormy seas. "No, we will not be able to. Not without a fleet, not with The Iron Islands as they are, and certainly with Riverrun barred to us and The Twins no friend of ours. In fact, I think the only thing keeping Cersei from coming North is the snow." They both glance outside, at the storm.

"She will try to get us other ways," Sansa says darkly, her fingers curling into loose fists on the desk, her eyes digging holes into the papers across them. "As long as I sit here, she will want Winterfell ripped from House Stark. She probably still thinks I helped murder Joffrey, and she can't get her fingers on The North as long as we are here." She scoffs with a roll of her eyes. "I would not put it past her to call for our heads to be put upon spikes."

Bran feels himself smirk. "I welcome her men to try and get past the walls in conditions like these." Sansa laughs at that, but her reply is cut off by a knock at the door. Both their eyes snap to it, and it is Bran who says, "Come in!"

Ser Davos Seaworth, The Onion Knight, one of Jon's trusted advisors and a man who looks properly miserable for a southern man who has come from a snowstorm, steps into the room, but he is not alone. Behind him is Meera, Bran first notices, but another man as well. Short in stature, the man has mossy green eyes and sharp features that make his already keen eyes seem like knives as they look at Bran and Sansa. And standing next to Meera, the resemblance is undeniable.

"You are Howland Reed," Sansa says, straightening slowly. He nods at her, and Sansa comes around the desk not a moment later, glancing at Bran, who nods at her. Swallowing, she folds her hands together in front of her, standing tall in her dark dress, her red hair falling down her back as she smiles warmly at him. "Your House has done mine a great service. For many long years. Any reward you crave will be yours, by whatever power the Gods have given me. Your daughter is the reason my brother is here today."

"I am proud to serve House Stark, Princess," He replies, his accent a little odd, but his voice soft and kind. Sansa waves off the title, and he turns to look at Bran, his eyes dancing with light and geniality. "Do not grieve for Jojen, please, my Prince. Meera has spoken of what you are to me already. Jojen knew what lay at the end of his path, and Winter is Coming." He pulls his daughter closer to him, his eyes bright as he looks at her. Bran bows his head at him.

But Sansa looks confused. "Apologies if I am incorrect, but Lady Meera and my brother arrived only four days ago. Her letter would have had to arrive after you departed Greywater Watch, especially with the storm outside." Lord Reed nods in assent. "Now, I presume you spoke to your daughter upon your arrival, and I am glad to see you two reunited. But I still must ask, why are you here, my lord?"

"You are ever your father's daughter. You are as straight to the point as he ever was," he tells her. She smiles, and he smiles back, before glancing at Davos, then back at her. "I am here to speak to Jon Snow. Meera informed me of…" Again, he glances at Davos.

"Everyone in this room has been informed, along with Jon," Sansa tells him with a nod, which is thankfully true. Davos had been the only one Jon had insisted also be told, even above that raucous Wildling that seemed to be close to him. Jon, as it would appear, holds The Onion Knight in quite high regard for all that he has done for him since and upon The Wall, and Bran is glad for it, for it is making their lives easier here and now.

Lord Reed nods briskly at Davos, as if in agreement. "I suspect your brother has many questions he would like answered. I come with…not answers, but stories that may ease his heart, the ones I have the power to share. Is Jon Snow around, so we may speak?"

"Jon has taken to locking himself in his room because he would much rather ignore the truth than be forced to face it," Sansa tells The Lord of Greywater Watch flatly, looking completely frayed. Davos hides his snort with a cough, but he straightens as Sansa turns to look at him. "Ser Davos, please inform Jon of Lord Reed's arrival, and tell him that if he is not in this solar within fifteen minutes, I will drag him here myself." She bares her teeth. "Even if he locks his door."

Davos nods and leaves, looking half afraid, and Sansa turns to Lord Reed and Meera both, a pleasant smile on her face. "Come, sit by the fire. You have been given bread and salt?" He nods. "Good. Take off your cloaks and be rid of your worries. The hospitality of Winterfell is yours." She herself comes to sit by the fire, nearest to where Lady is, across from Bran.

Bran watches as Meera and her father trade a few words of their own, and he kisses her brow, before she turns to leave with a glance back at Bran. They smile at one another, and he feels a stab of regret that they have been unable to talk much since their arrival and that she still has to be the one to keep Dark Sister safe. But those are issues for another time, and she seems disinclined to be involved in what comes next.

Lord Reed also sits across from Bran and closest to Sansa, leaving a single seat open for Jon next to Bran. He pulls his green cloak off of his shoulders, and kicks the last traces of snow from his boots, offering a hand to Lady when she looks at him in interest. She gives his hand a lick, and then turns back to the fire, closing her eyes. The Crannogman laughs, a melodic noise, and sits back in his chair, appraising Sansa and Bran both carefully.

"You certainly have your mother's colouring, both of you," he says, tilting his head as if contemplating something more. "But you both hold yourself as Ned once did. You especially, Princess, look like him."

"Call me Sansa, My Lord," she says with a smile. "You were my father's fiercest friend, and I would not have you calling me titles while we discuss this."

The man rests his hand over his heart. "Then I ask you both to call me Howland."

They converse for a few minutes, with Howland speaking about some of his journey from Greywater Watch and a little of his own experiences with their father, although it makes his eyes darken with grief. At some point, Bran is pretty sure his sister is only half listening, her eyes fixed on the door to the solar, waiting for Jon to either trudge in or for the moment that she can get up and make good on her promise.

Just as Bran is beginning to think that he will later have to explain to Rickon why everyone is talking about Jon getting dragged through the castle by the collar of his shirt, the door creaks open. Ghost is the first to bound in, curling up right next to Lady, nipping at her playfully. But they all pay little attention to that, instead watching as Jon enters slowly and awkwardly, closing the door with his back to them all before he slowly turns to look at them. Davos is right beside him, having come in with him.

"Ser Davos, would you please get us some ale, and some food for Jon?" Sansa asks, glaring sharply at Jon when he tilts his head and opens his mouth to reply. He snaps his mouth shut and stalks forward to the empty chair as Davos once again leaves, crossing his arms over his chest and looking particularly prickly as he stares at Howland.

Howland regards Jon for a moment, as if seeing a ghost. He smiles wanly, and settles comfortably in his chair, giving Jon a gentle smile that seems to make Bran's brother uncomfortable as he glances away. "You could be Ned's twin," he breathes. "Indeed, I see plenty of Lyanna in you, but it is no wonder he was believed by so many. You are his very picture, Jon Snow."

"I've heard that is not my name, nor am I a bastard in truth," Jon says flatly, and Howland nods. "And that you were the only living man to know the truth, following my…my uncle's death, and prior to Bran learning the truth." He tilts his head at Howland. "You knew my mother?"

"Oh, yes, indeed!" Howland says with a bright laugh. "I don't expect any of you to know much of the Tourney at Harrenhal, beyond Rhaegar giving Lyanna his favour over his wife, Elia. Am I correct?" They all nod, and his smile grows sad, his eyes far away. "Well, for me, I came to the Tourney from the Isle of Faces, where I stayed for a year in search of Green Men. However, I was quickly marked as a stranger to many of the Southern Lords and their squires there, and a queer one at that. Three Squires took issue with me, being taller but younger than I was."

His voice is enthralling, slightly raspy and perfectly lilting, and Bran sees even Jon lean forward in interest, hanging onto the Crannogman's every word.

"However, a saviour appeared in a strange form–My Lord Rickard Stark's only daughter, Lyanna. After soundly scaring them away with no more than a tourney sword, she invited me to the Stark tent. It was there I would meet his three sons, brash Brandon, quiet Eddard, and young Benjen, for the first time. At their insurance and against my better judgement, I was persuaded to join them at the feast that night in Harrenhal."

"When we recognised the three squires, your uncle Benjen, who was all teeth then," his eyes twinkle with mischief, and the thought of their uncle as a young, bold, boy, is enough to get them all slightly laughing, as Howland continues, "Offered to find me arms and armour to defend my fallen pride. I gave the pup no answer, knowing that I have never been destined for knighthood and that my pride would only be further slighted."

Again, they laugh, and Bran is suddenly curious as to what their uncle Benjen, now Lord Commander of The Night's Watch, would have to say about Howland's description of him as a boy. Howland's face gets a little more grave before he can voice the thought aloud, though, his voice darkening with something new. "However, my honour would go defended for me, anyway. After being given a place in Ned's tent for the night, on the second day of the Tourney I would find a mysterious knight going against the very squires who had knocked me into the dirt. The Knight of the Laughing Tree."

"Aerys…" Howland shakes his head, a distant look on his face, "Gods, but Aerys was incensed by the show. After the knight demanded only that the knights the squires belonged to teach their charges honour in reward for their sound victory, there was much curiosity as to who the skilled stranger could be. Many believed it to be Jaime Lannister, newly inducted into the Kingsguard. And when Aerys demanded they remove their helm and reveal themselves to nearly all the Lords of Westeros, he was spurned, and the knight disappeared. So, he sent his son, Prince Rhaegar, after The Knight."

"The Knight was Lyanna, of course," he says with a snort and a close-to-bitter smile. "She was fine with Lance, better than three arrogant squires at least, and was one of the finest horsemen I've ever met. I do not know for sure what happened when Rhaegar went in search of her, but I know that when he won the jousts, he chose her to be the Queen of Love and Beauty with her crown being a circle of blue winter roses. Less than two years later, she would disappear with the Silver Prince, and all would come to ruin." He meets Jon's eyes.

"I do not know many things that I know you likely desire to know," he tells Jon. "I cannot say what words Rhaegar whispered to Lyanna, or if she ever truly loved him, or was just swayed by the prince that so many loved and his gilded promises. I do not know if it was a kidnapping and rape following a forced marriage that sired you, or the foolish flight of a young girl and promises that she did not know the weight of made in the eyes of a Septon. But I knew Lyanna better than many, and was there as her brother wept over her body."

His eyes fill with tears, and he looks away with a fierce set of his jaw. "Your mother loved you, and though he may not be your father by blood, Ned swore to protect you. I know he does not recall being pulled from her bedside by me, nor any of the immediate hours following her death. But he had a babe with him, and would tell me later of the oath he swore to his beloved little sister." He looks at all three of them.

"If you don't know what happened, how can you be any help to me?" Jon says cooly, heedless of the dark look of warning that Sansa gives him. "I don't care about adages or about what happened after she died because of me–"

"Winter is Coming," Howland cuts him off, his voice sharpening to a point, and though Bran agrees that Howland Reed does not have the making of a Knight, it would seem being one of the only keepers of the most important secret in the world is enough to put ice in one's spine. Bran knows that there are many, even in Jon's youth, who were disinclined from sharp tongues in his hearing, due to the stony grey eyes and stroking temper that graced him when he was at the end of a sword. But here is this Crannogmen, looking a Targaryen Heir and Winter Prince in the eye as he seethes in his bull-headed fury.

"Your father, the man who raised you, my friend Ned, knew what you were, and what it meant. You are the son of House Stark and The Targaryens Old Valyria, two of the oldest bloodlines in the world, Jon Snow, Bastard of Winterfell. You were raised in The North, by The North, for The North. Winter is Coming, and who knows what else is on its heels? You are central to this all, because of who you are, who you have always been." Howland's eyes dig into Jon, and though his gaze is not on him, Bran can still feel the weight of the Crannogman's stare. "You are Jaehaerys of the Houses Stark and Targaryen."

"From my blood come the prince that was promised, and his will be the song of ice and fire," Bran finds himself suddenly saying aloud, recalling the vision that floated past his mind, the knife he'd been given. He's kept it tucked at his side, unsure as to what else to do with it, and he pulls it out now. All eyes turn to him, bright with curiosity. "I heard those words, in one of my visions, with this knife. It was aflame, the words hidden until them, carved in…Valyrian, likely, and a voice was reading it out."

"From whose blood?" Jon whispers.

"Aegon The Conqueror, I think," Bran says, running his finger over the flat of the blade, eyes tracing the whirls in the steel. "I have seen the dream a few more times, and I believe he was mentioned once. If these were his words…" he meets Jon's eyes. "Then it could apply to you, Jon."

Jon shakes his head, but he looks like he is recalling something as well, and then he buries his head in his hands with a groan. "The Red Woman–the one who brought me back," he says, voice cold and angry, and it begins to shake as he continues, "She said that title to me. She said, 'Stannis was not The Prince Who Was Promised, but someone has to be.' " He shakes his head, a bitter laugh escaping him.

"I don't want this! I don't want a Throne, I don't want to be some…mythic hero, I don't want–"

"But you might be!" Howland nearly shouts, and Jon's eyes, along with Bran and Sansa's, snap to him. Despite his outburst, though, he looks miraculously calm, a picture of Northern stoicism. "You are the son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen. No amount of hiding will change that. Perhaps their marriage was a sham and you could find yourself disinherited from The Throne by a whole host of people, but that will not change your blood. Winter is Coming, and so are the dead, I hear."

"You–Lord Snow, Jaehaerys, Jon, Prince of Winterfell, whatever name you take–are the man who has been with this fight for the longest. I have heard whispers from The Wall for many long years, you know? Winter is Coming, and I reckon there are very few who know what we fight half as well as we do. You will be needed before the end."

Jon shakes his head, burying his head in his hands after a moment with a drawn out groan of utter and complete misery. Bran glances at Sansa and sees that she is running through something in her mind, her eyes fixed on the knife in Bran's lap. Eventually, when no one else does, she speaks. "The Prince that was promised? Not The King, not The Lord? The Prince."

Jon groans again.

"There is more, on that, as well, though I do not hold the proof of it," Howland says. "See, I do not travel completely alone. A day's ride behind me is Galbart Glover, Maege Mormont, and three of her daughters. I beat them only due to the storm and me having the better horse. They took refuge at Greywater Watch once news of The Red Wedding spread, and there they have stayed in my protection, cloaked by the dangers of The Neck. And with them, they carried false orders, should they be captured, but they recalled the word of their King well enough and told me of what he said."

Howland leans forward in his chair. "Our King, your brother Robb, made a decision following the news of Sansa's marriage to Tyrion Lannister." She winces at that, mouth turning down with a frown. Howland glances at Bran. "And he was also under the assumption that his other trueborn siblings were dead, be that at the hands of Theon Greyjoy or lost in the chaos of The War. So, he turned to his last remaining brother, hundreds of miles from even him, alone upon The Wall. Well out of the reach of The Lannisters."

"According to Lady Mormont and Lord Glover, by your brother's decree, you are Jon Stark, Prince of Winterfell, and heir to Robb Stark, King of the North," Howland tells him. Jon stares blankly at the floor, and Howland turns his eyes to Sansa, bowing his head. "You were removed from The Will, My Lady Sansa, due to your marriage and the need to not have a Lannister child ruling Winterfell. But I am certain that will be rescinded if and when our King gets the chance, and learns of your presence here, and your strength as The Lady of Winterfell."

Jon groans loudly once again, causing Ghost to perk up in worry. "Then what am I? Jaehaerys Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne, or Jon Stark, Prince of Winterfell, and heir to a man who still believes me to be his brother? A usurper anyway, with Daenerys Targaryen having arrived in Winterfell, and Sansa being truly the next in line. Bran and Rickon and Arya, as well–"

"I cannot and will not be Lord of anything, Jon," Bran reminds him. "Rickon has no desire to either. Arya…well, she is the younger sister. And how have you usurped Sansa? All I have seen is that she is The Lady of Winterfell, the one called Princess, and you are simply Lord Snow, Commander of the Northern Armies, a position you likely would have had with Robb had you been beside him since the start. Why are you so insistent on making this difficult? You are our brother, Jon, no matter what name you take."

"I came here, not because I believed I could offer more than you already might have known, but because I am the last survivor of that day, the only living man in this world to have ever seen Lyanna in her birthing bed. Your father was my friend, your real father, the man who raised you, and I want to do right by the woman who defended me," Howland says, standing slowly and crossing towards Jon, crouching before him. "I am not here to tell you what you are to be, for I do not know, but I am here, in truth, in my heart, to tell you that your mother loved you, child, and as did Ned.

"I know little of knives of Valyrian Steel and Princes who were Promised, but I knew Lyanna," he tells Jon, squeezing his knee gently as Bran's brother looks at him with despair in his grey eyes, his Stark eyes. Bran knows it is not Jon's fault entirely that it is so hard for him to understand that he will always be he and Sansa's brother, but he still wishes Jon could understand just how much they truly mean it. Robb made him a Stark, in truth. The one thing he ever wanted to be. "She would want you to be happy, happy and free to make your own choices. But she would also tell you the words of your house: Winter is Coming."

Jon stands slowly, going over to the window, and staring out at it. "All my life, I have wanted to be a Stark. Wanted to wear grey and white and stand beside Robb, my Lord, my brother, my truest friend."

"And you still can," Bran says softly. "I don't speak for anyone but myself, but I care who your parents are, or if you are some fabled hero from a prophecy made by a man who died three hundred years ago. I told you because I knew you deserved to know, not because I expected you to suddenly turn around and want The Iron Throne. Starks who go South die, we all know that, now. I told you because I could not keep this secret from you, no matter what higher logic demands."

"And I thank you for that, Bran, truly," he says with a sigh. "And My Lord Reed, I thank you for the stories of my mother. I should not yell, you are only trying to tell me of a woman I have always wanted to know. I apologise for that. But I am afraid, afraid for what this means. Daenerys Targaryen is in Westeros, three dragons behind her, and she will not suffer those who block her ascension to the Throne. I don't want to die simply because I am heir to a throne I neither want nor have ever even seen."

"Well, I won't let her," Sansa says suddenly, almost impishly, but when Bran looks at his sister, she looks deathly serious. "She can have The Iron Throne, she can have The South, but she does not get to take my brother from me. Let her feel fear, let her advisors scamper about and scheme in circles around her. They cannot touch us, not while we have one another, not while we are The Starks of Winterfell." Jon bows his head, shoulders shaking. Bran thinks his brother might be crying.

"You are a good man, by all accounts, my prince," Howland says, rising to his feet. "There are some things that I brought with me, treasures from the Tower of Joy. Should you desire to see them, should you desire to speak more of your mother, I am here. The Banners were called to Winterfell, and House Reed will stand in Winterfell, beside our King should he come home, and forever beside House Stark, when Winter comes for us all. But for now, I take my leave, to speak at length with my daughter." He bows at them. "Princes, Princess."

Davos comes in behind Lord Reed as he leaves, a bowl of steaming stew balanced on a tray with a few mugs of ale. He sets down the tray, taking one of the ales for himself when he notes the absence of the Crannogman, and at that moment, Sansa goes over to Jon, and gently coaxes him back around the fire. Together, they sit on the floor at Bran's feet, and she places the stew into his hand with a stern look, one that Davos couples with a single raised brow. After a moment, Jon begins to eat, silent and still as the statues in the crypts.

Bran takes one of the ales as it is offered to him. Davos is watching Jon carefully, and Sansa seems to have little intention of removing herself from Jon's side. Bran, himself, sits back and closes his eyes, breathing deeply as he hears the storm continue to howl outside the windows, memories and dreams and voices joining the song slowly, filling his mind and spreading him out across the world.

---

notes:

- most of my formatting has seemingly dissapeared on the last few chapters, unfortunately, lol. i did my best with this one, and will go back through teh otehrs when i have the time, but AUGH.

-one thing we see throughout both the books and show is that the direwolves are an inherent tie for all the kids to themselves and their family. especially here, as bran is struggling with the visions and to control the three eyed ravens...until the wolves come home. until he's surrounded by sigils of his house and reminders of who he was, even before the fall. and then he's really home, with the people he loves, and now he can take the steps to control the 3ER, and use it for good...

-poor jon, genuinely. everything he knew about himself has been upended, and he cant even ask ned about it. howland is some comfort, but as we see, he's not handling it well, and sansa and bran are worried. we'll see more of his perspective and just how much this is fucking him up in his next chapter (which is, for those wondering, three chapters after this one, so ch18), and how its effecting how he handles himself. but he's got his sister and his brother, at least. and rickon, though the bby doesn't know shit about what is going on, he can just tell jon is sad and wants to make him feel better

-is mormonts raven likely a puppet of bloodraven. yes. do i care? no. do i find it funny that he could also just be an incredibly weird and uncomfortably knowledgeable bird? also yes. let me live and someone get the bird some corn

-on today's episode of starklings utterly owning petyr 'no situal awareness when it comes to the north' baelish

-ive always been fascinated about the point of it being the PRINCE that was promised. now i know many ppl believe dany to be tptwp, and i get that, but i don't really plan to concretely and completely confirm it one way or another.. they both have roles to play in the battle for the dead, and also, the starks here are looking for some glimmer of hope and sanity to go around, so its no wonder they want to believe its jon...