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)

24. THE WINGED WOLF II

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: THE WINGED WOLF II

Bran Stark speaks with many about what has come to pass since he was last in Winterfell. Theon Greyjoy finds himself facing his greatest regrets. Daenerys Targaryen asks a raven about visions, and the heads of the dragon. Old Kings make oaths.

---

Bran knows who's coming to call even before the snow crunches under boots behind him, the steps stalling as they draw closer, the silence of The Godswood surrounding them both. He has known since he first saw him that this man would find him, seeking penance or forgiveness or something in shades of both. Much lies between them all, after all.

–screaming men, burning stone, falling rain, blood on a face, blood between fingers, running down them, staining the floor and consuming the world–

"Bran?" Theon Greyjoy asks, his voice nothing like the voice of the man he once knew. There is a distinct emptiness to it now, like something has been hallowed out of the man and nothing has come to fill the space left behind. Bran doesn't have to wonder what happened, he knows well enough. He's seen the torment and the pain of Theon Greyjoy, and it is enough for him to be able to turn and look Theon in the eye and not feel like he's falling apart. He thinks he understands, as best he can, why Theon did what he did. As well as anyone can understand.

Theon swallows loudly when Bran's gaze meets him, standing stiffly a few feet away. "I wanted to…to speak to you, before I left," He says, shifting awkwardly as a gust of wind blows gently through the woods and ruffles his hair and through his clothes that do little to disguise just how thin he's gotten since Bran last saw the man who tore it all down and paid for it twice over. "About…about what I did. I wanted to say I'm sorry–I know it doesn't change anything, and that you don't have to forgive me, I just–"

"I know, Theon," He cuts him off, and Theon freezes, wincing slightly as his voice rushes over him. He knows he sounds different, looks different, acts different. There is little left of that boy whom Theon Greyjoy stole these walls from, just as he knows there is little left of that man left in the one who stands before him now, a Kraken over his chest and with sunken cheeks and haunted eyes. Bran meets those eyes and says, much more intentionally, "I know."

It takes a moment for the meaning to wash over Theon, and when it does, Bran can tell by how his shoulders curve inwards and his eyes flicker away and shame etches its way all over his face. Bran can't ever recall a time when Theon seemed ashamed of much of anything. And now, here he stands, voice so soft it's almost wholly swallowed by the wind when he says, "The Three-Eyed Raven showed you…that?"

"Yes," Bran replies, to not try and get into the schematics. In truth, he'd searched all of them out in Westeros's history. He's seen so much of them all and more, seen all of them bleed, seen all of them be broken in one way or another. Theon continues to shift awkwardly, looking anywhere but Bran. "And I took no pleasure in it. You betrayed us, yes. You hurt me. You hurt all of us. And yet…" he rakes his eyes over Theon, "You and I both know what price you paid for all of it. We both know just how high that price was."

Theon's laugh is a rough and grim thing, something that could really hardly even be considered a laugh. His eyes rove over the Godswood, likely so he can look anywhere but Bran, face anything but his judgement. His eyes even linger just over Bran's shoulder, at the weeping face that Bran can feel himself ever drawn to. Such is the nature of it all.

"Indeed, it was a high price, wasn't it?" Theon agrees, mouth twisting in displeasure. "One I became certain I was owed. And yet, here I stand in these walls again, a free man with my head attached still to my neck, about to ride to the end of the world with Jon fucking Snow because Robb has told me so. I have been welcomed back, and even you do not spit and scream and shut me out, as I feel you should." He meets Bran's eyes again, something unspeakable pooling in them. "All I know to ask is: What have I done to deserve this? Why do you not seem to hate me? Why do I live?"

"Because I know what you did for Sansa," Bran says evenly. Theon's expression is briefly bowled over by grief and pain alike, the memories doubtless running raw in these halls of their torment again. The images float ever by Bran, linger at the back of his mind–hands intertwine, wind rushes through hair, icy water churns, steel sings–but he does not let them overtake him quite yet, keeping his gaze on the man who stands before him, searching for something he alone cannot give to him. "It means more than you know, Theon Greyjoy, what you did for her."

"I think I know well enough," Theon mutters, eyes roving over The Godswood once more. But this time, it does not seem to be out of a desire for avoiding eye contact or anything of the sort, just simply a man trying to reacquaint himself with something. Bran knows there are dark memories of this place for Theon and Sansa both. But The Old Gods have a way of their own, a power that is hard to deny. "Robb made it plenty clear when we spoke after she wrote to him and spoke for me."

He reaches up to rub the back of his neck, slowly taking a step forward. And when Bran does not move to stop him, and when Summer, who sits silently at the base of the Godswood, does not even growl at him, he comes to stand beside Bran, some snow in his hair and on his shoulders, though he seems nearly heedless of it, really. He glances once at Bran, and this close, he can see the scars on his face, faded with time but there for someone who knows what to look for.

"I know an apology won't change anything. I know I can't undo any of it. At the same time, though…" Theon looks at him, and Bran can see the unshed tears in his eyes and the undoing misery in his eyes. For a moment, Theon Greyjoy simply looks at him, looking like a ghost pulled from his grave and returned to this dark world. "I am sorry. For all of it. For every inch of pain I heaped on your shoulders when you were far too young to know it. I should have stayed. I should have done a lot of things. But I didn't. And for that, all I know how to be is sorry."

"Thank you," Bran says.

–reek, reek, it rhymes with meek, a voice no louder than a whisper, sobbing and begging and pleading and repeating all the same platitudes. red hair like falling leaves, blue eyes on blue, a bank of virgin snow. a body falls. the walls stream by, stone and snow, stone and snow, stone and–and more, that which is yet to come to pass, distant futures that could happen–falling snow and ice eyes and singing blades. a scream, a song, a whisper, hands gripping a spear–

Theon is blinking silently at him, and Bran finds the strength within him to give the man a slight smile. "Winterfell is not done with you, Theon Greyjoy. You will return to these walls, come hell or high water."

Theon gives him a strange look and then he too smiles. It's not the same as his old ones, sharper and wryer and saddened, but some trace of the man he used to be rises just a little closer to the surface all the same. When he snorts, Bran feels himself soften, reminded of that laugh in a thousand other jokes, a thousand other moments, "Aye, if Jon doesn't find a way to throw me off the top of The Wall at his earliest convenience. Never mind your uncle."

They both smile for a moment and though Bran knows Jon won't (probably) attempt to murder Theon, his temper and his ability to pointedly and aggressively ignore someone will certainly be fully on show. Bran understands where Robb was going in sticking Theon with Jon, but there seems to be an almost sadistic undertone to it, a sort of voyeuristic fascination at the thought of throwing those two together and letting them loose into the wild. Bran is strangely interested to see how this one plays out. And Benjen…well Bran just hopes Theon is expected.

–jon, dead in the snow, howling wolves, benjen's face covered in blood, his sword dripping red and awful, the snow swirling around them, a head falling to the snow, a woman in red, a gasp of breath in a nearly empty room–

Bran pushes those images away. That strange and troubled look is back on Theon's face, but the man says nothing to question Bran. Instead, he rakes his eyes over the Godswood again, staring for a long moment at The Heart Tree behind them. When he speaks, the humour has been bled from his voice, and there is more misery in it than ever before. "What else have you seen? What do you know of all that has happened to us?"

"I know enough," Bran says quietly. Just last night, dreams of Osha's death and Rickon's betrayal and Shaggydog's skin-of-the-teeth escape had come to him. Arya had been the one to find him, staring silently at the wall, and had climbed into bed beside him silently, squeezing his hand in hers until he remembered how to breathe. Rickon will always be a long and painful shame deep within him. His little brother, he thinks, is the one true innocent left to them. There is no blood on his young hands, and yet… "Enough to know how different we all are."

"Yeah," Theon agrees flatly, still staring at The Heart Tree. Bran wonders what memories come to Theon Greyjoy's mind when he sees that tree. A wedding, doubtless. But perhaps also the quieter and gentler moments of their youth. Does he see a man in grey with a sword? Does he see children with fiery hair, disappearing between the trees? Does he see snow and wolves? What part of Theon Greyjoy belongs to this bower, to The Old Gods? If anything?

They stay like that for some time, silent and bound together by memories and aches that may not ever go away. But, despite it all, when Bran looks at Theon Greyjoy, he can find no hate in his heart, find no home for what is left of fury within him. As The Three-Eyed Raven, much of that fades to a dull ache–which is not to say he does not still persist, that he does not love and hate and feel–but it is different now. As it should be. Things have changed, his perspective has changed, and, without a doubt, Theon Greyjoy has changed.

"I'll see you again," Theon finally says, looking at Bran. It is not a question, and still, Bran nods. Theon nods in reply, hesitating for just a heartbeat longer before he turns on his heel and leaves the sight of The Gods. In the very back of his mind, a voice whispers, a voice of the long since dead, at Theon's own hand. Gods help you, Theon Greyjoy. Now you are truly lost.

Theon lives. Rodrick died at his hand. There is no undoing something like that, no washing that blood from one's hands, but Bran doesn't think that Theon is truly seeking forgiveness or even penance. All it seems he wants, at least to Bran, is to do something good for them, something to at least make his heart beat that much steadier before he returns to the sea, never to be seen again. There is no forgiveness in this world, not really. And Theon Greyjoy is not a man who can ever really undo what he has done. But he can fight. He can bleed. He can die. And he can do it all in these walls, for the ones whom he first betrayed.

And really, what say does Bran have in it all? He knows now why The Bloodraven was so strict about the past and staying in his lane, and nothing in this world can wash away the guilt of Hodor and all that Bran has done to him, without ever even knowing. The job of The Three-Eyed Raven is not to rule, not to move the pieces, not to do anything but ensure the survival of men for another generation. He was made to be a foil against this coming enemy, that much he is sure. But what that fully means, he doesn't know, not yet.

He settles back in his chair, unbothered by the cold and the snow, just like Summer. Both of them are born of The North, creatures melded by the hands of The Old Gods, or so some might say. No cold can truly bite them, truly own or even really know them, when it all comes down to it. His father, he remembers, used to say that they all had Winter in them, along with The Wolf Blood. And Bran thinks he knows why. Sometimes, he feels more wolf than man or anything else. A wolf-boy, shadowed by one of his own.

The images wash over him, one after another, bleeding together. None of it is really new, memories and whispers and moments he has already seen–the iron throne, bleeding hands and a crown of gold. chaos is a ladder. a darkened crypt and flickering flames, clawing up stone and then metal as screams fill the air. howling wolves and the shadow of a dragon–But still, he's coming to think that it's not always random, not always by mere choice. Perhaps it is intertwined with his thoughts and his worries, or there is something more in hand. He'll never know for sure. All he knows is what he sees.

"Bran?" A voice asks, snapping him out of his reverie. His eyes open and go towards the sound to see Robb standing a few feet away, sword resting casually at his side, Grey Wind sniffing around nearby. He smiles when their eyes meet and comes over to him, kissing the top of his head and cradling the back of his neck in his hand. "Jon and Theon just left. I haven't really seen you yet, so I figured I'd say hello and pay a visit to the Gods." His eyes leave Bran for The Heart Tree, just as Theon's did.

Bran turns slightly in his chair to watch as Robb ghosts closer to the Weirwood that may very well be the centre of Winterfell, at least in importance. If Bran closes his eyes, he knows what visions will float by him–his father, sitting before this tree in the sight of their gods, ice in hand, the pond rippling silently. blood on the snow, traitors bound and awaiting northern justice. a wedding, a guilty man, a woman who is about to have it all turn to dust–He does not close his eyes, close them long enough for the dreams and the memories to consume him.

The Old Gods are their only gods now. The Seven did not save their Mother. Their father was murdered on the steps of a sept, and none of them stepped in to save him, to save the realm from violence and death. But the Old Gods have given them much, have bound him to the rest of them, and have been a throughline that has never once betrayed them. Gods of the stream and the rock and the falling snow are all that is left to the Wolves of Winterfell, and he thinks that is how it should be.

The Gods of their father. Bran misses him more than words can say. More than he dares to speak aloud to Robb as he stands silently before The Weirwood Tree of Winterfell, The Heart Tree with its weeping face, now carrying Eddard Stark's legacy on his shoulders. Robb was always going to inherit this. Bran doesn't think any of them expected it to happen when they were all still so young. Rickon hardly recalls either of their parents.

Robb turns back to Bran after a moment, a sad smile on his face, but a lightness to him. He is not bent by his grief, not now, not as Bran has seen in some of the darker and crueller visions of the past. He has seen his brothers in chains, his brothers betrayed, his brothers half dead or fully so, his sisters beaten, his sisters blinded by fury and rage with nowhere to take them. He knows their shame and their grief. He knows more than he ever wanted to.

Robb crouches before him, smiling up at him in silence, taking his hands in his. Bran smiles softly at him as well, squeezing his hands as he feels Robb take a deep, shuddery inhale. "I am sorry, Bran, for what fell upon you once I left," he whispers to him, reaching up with one hand to trace the side of his face. "I know it is foolish, but some part of me wishes I could go and turn back time and start it all over. I would never have left you alone as I did. Left you to a path that would cause the both of you so much suffering and pain."

"A path that led me to being who I am now," Bran says softly, and Robb's smile is a sort of grimace, above all else, his eyes tilting away from Bran as if he cannot face it. "I do not disparage any of it, at least when it comes to me. I would save Rickon the pain, doubtless. But I am a different matter. I am what I am because I left Winterfell. I am what I am because I went beyond The Wall. Indeed, I am what I am because Jaime Lannister threw me from a window when I saw him with Cersei. All of this has led to this…and though I miss what I had, sometimes, I know I am what I was always going to be."

"Bran," Robb says fondly, shaking his head and resting it in his lap, a tremble in the set of his shoulders. "Oh, Bran, my sweet brother." He turns his eyes back to Bran, tears welling in the corners, his smile hurt as much as it is loving. "You are far too good for this world."

–hodor, hodor, hodor–

"No, I'm not," Bran says softly, and Robb's eyes soften, a question in them. But he doesn't ask anything, and leaves Bran to his secrets. There is still much for all of them to say, more than the secret Bran knows Jon has given to him. But there is a time and place for all of it, a time to know pain and know grief. For now, they have to come to terms with Jon's foolish quest Northwards, the trouble that is stirring, and the woman who now sits with them in these walls.

Robb stands slowly, the snow in his hair and some of the softness gone from his face. The crown glitters on his brow, caught in the late morning light, drawing all eyes to it. Bran thinks his brother looks rather good in a crown, all things considered, and he seems stronger and prouder with it, like one of those cold Winter Kings who sit in silence in the crypts, with nought but their blood and stone wolves and iron swords for company. "Perhaps none of us are, anymore."

–tell them the north remembers. a letter burns. i sentence you to die. men scream. you haven't fed them in seven days. blood soaks through the snow. mother…a hand clenches around a throat, foreign madness. you are a traitor and will die as one! a boy runs through a field. am i your brother now and always? wolves howl into the distant and dark night–

"Bran?" Robb's voice pulls him back from the edge of another spiel of mind-numbing visions. It is harder than he would like, sometimes, to draw himself back to the world, to keep his eyes clear, especially when he is within a Godswood as old as this one. But his siblings are good at reeling him back in, tying him to this world with only their voice. Robb smiles slightly. "You are alright?"

He nods, settling back in his chair and watching the snow spin in dizzying circles as it slowly falls to the ground. "It can be hard to keep myself present, sometimes," he explains, and Robb nods along, mouth pressing itself into a thin line. "I see so much, all the time. The past blends together in my mind, and whenever I try to understand what is coming, it feels like there is so much to search through. I'm looking for a needle in a haystack, except I have barely any idea what the needle looks like."

"You will find it, Bran," Robb says, his voice sure and firm like their father's used to be. He is a good king, Bran thinks, the type The North needs. Though it could just be the sight of that steel crown and the wolfish look to him that makes him think that, he's not sure. Robb is made of something strong, they all are. And as the oldest, as the heir, as the king, as all that he is, so much of it falls back on him, for good or for ill. He has to be certain of what he is saying, or else it will all fall apart before the end.

"I know that it may seem foolish to you, to make myself be so certain of that," Robb continues, a frazzled edge coming into his voice, his eyes taking on a wilder and stranger light. "But I have to believe it. But I know that if I let myself be given over to despair and hopelessness–let myself think Jon will never come home, that we are all truly doomed, that I will have to give this all over for our survival, or that we will not be able to defeat this doom–this all fails. Hope is all we have left to our name."

"Father always used to say we had a duty to our people," Bran adds softly, and Robb nods. "And I understand, I suppose. I'm afraid–afraid for all of us, afraid for Jon, and what everything around him means. But despair is how The Night King wins, and if we let that overtake us, we will have no allies left. We have to stand together."

Robb nods in agreement, his eyes tilting to where The Direwolves lie in the snow. "There is so much I wish I could ask of our father, of all that came before us. Why must there always be a Stark in Winterfell? What does this all mean? Why now, why us? What made it so that this had to fall on our shoulders? But Ghosts have no voices to answer with, and I don't know that I will find any comfort in their answers." He inhales deeply. "The Lone Wolf Dies…"

"But The Pack Survives," Bran finishes, both of them smiling wryly, eyes glimmering with old wounds. Their father's words will always ache in them, ache an awful tune that can never be sated, but Bran would rather live with that pain and grief than ever forget all that their father passed onto them. Perhaps the meaning of it all has been lost to time, slipped between the cracks of time and passing ages, but that does not mean that they are any less true. You are a Stark of Winterfell.

"Robb," Bran says after a beat of silence, and his brother hums in reply, looking at him from the corner of his eye. "I'm glad you're home."

Robb's wry smile breaks into something real and lovely and gentler, like a rogue burst of warmth in the depths of Winter. Perhaps not all is lost, truly, if Robb can still smile like that. Perhaps, even though the world is ending, it's not all set in stone yet. Stone does not smile. Only life does. "I'm glad I am home, too. And I am glad that you are here, Bran, glad that all of us have come home. I think it is what our father would have wanted."

"Yeah," Bran agrees softly. "It is."

—

The visions of House Targaryen are bloody and burning, as to be expected. Bran has seen much of their storied and gruesome history. He has seen both The Dance and The Blackfyre Rebellions, seen The Doom of Valyria, and Balerion The Winged Shadow descend upon armies with a fury. He has seen their shaping of the world and how by their hands, Westeros has prospered and suffered both. There is perhaps no one else in this world who knows their history as well as he, for The Bloodraven is at long last dead, and Daenerys Targaryen does not possess what he does.

He has seen Torrhen Stark bend his knee, rest his crown on the ground, biting his tongue, his own mind plagued with whatever troubles burned deep in his eyes, never to be spoken aloud. He has seen Aegon impart his dream into the steel of his knife and has seen that carving with his own two eyes, the blade glowing red as he and his siblings crowded around it in silent worry and fear. A voice sings ever in the back of his mind, reading those damning words aloud. From my blood shall come The Prince that was Promised, and his shall be a Song of Ice and Fire.

He has seen bloody hands on The Iron Throne. He has seen madness set in, dig its claws deep within the once great, seen wildfire consume a man who thought himself a dragon. He has seen his uncle and grandfather die a hundred times, seen his grandfather's armour turn red, seen his uncle's neck be slowly constricted until they were both gone from this realm. He has seen men die on The Throne. He has seen men die for The Throne. He has seen the words of House Targaryen come to life. Fire and Blood, they say.

Jon had wanted to hear nothing of it. Bran knows the truth is consuming his brother, and that is why he has run away to the very end of The World, where ghosts lay in wait, poised to consume him whole. But, on the contrary, Robb and Sansa both have pried as much as they can out of him, as much as he knows how to explain. Everything has meaning, everything has some role in this dance of madness and old wounds they are playing roles within. They do not believe his dreams are random. Neither does he, for that matter.

They pull it out of him the night after Jon leaves, and Bran has little doubt that his absence is playing a role in this sudden questioning. They all know Jon well enough to know how he can be, how he plays himself against that which he has no desire to know in truth. Jon had to know the truth, Bran cannot deny that, but he thinks there is still some part, deep within his brother, that wishes it had never been given to him. That he wishes he could still be a motherless bastard with nothing to his name but black honour.

Come the next morning, though, Brandon Stark has a visitor.

Daenerys Targaryen is not an exceptionally tall woman, especially compared to women of The North, or even Sansa, who has the height of a Riverlander, but she makes up for it in her own way. The bells that sing softly in her braided hair the colour of the moon make it so she can never be ignored or missed. Her eyes and her Valyrian features say enough on her own, and the crown she wears, a golden band that is carved with images of dragons, say more than enough for her.

She comes to him in the library. He's spent a lot of time in the Godswood recently and would have done the same today, had Sansa not put her foot down as a storm crawled over Winterfell. Though he may be a Stark of Winterfell, that does not, allegedly, make him immune to frostbite. He'd had a cheeky retort for Sansa, but she'd glared it out of him before he could tell it, much to Arya's apparent amusement. So, he'd chosen The Library.

It still carries scars from the fire that was set on the night of that first attack that spelt this all, but it is, like the rest of Winterfell, still intact, still standing. Scarred, yes, but alive and strong all the same. Just like he and his siblings. Just like this Dragon Queen who stands before him, if he had to wager a guess. He has seen much of her in his visions. Seen things he knows better than to mention before her, but which linger at the back of his mind, giving him an edge that she does not know of, one that she cannot counterbalance with her own secrets. She, he knows, knows very little of who he is now.

"I was hoping to ask you about The Three-Eyed Raven," she tells him as she sits across from him and wine is offered to the both of them. She takes a sip, her eyes of valyrian purple never leaving him over the rim as she takes a sip of it. "I do understand your brevity in the meeting from two days ago, but I seek to understand everything I can about the nature of this fight. So, all I ask is what you can give me." Do you want me to tell you about The Bloodraven, Stormborn? He wonders.

"My people are superstitious by nature," he says after a moment.

She nods. "Your brother said much the same."

I know, he wants to say. He knows so much and that much more. He knows the stars and the earth and words on the wind, words screamed to a thousand waiting ears. He does not. Instead, he says, "We have no organisation to our faith. It is a quiet belief. Quiet and solemn prayer before Gods who give no miracles. But, they give signs, or so some say. They have their marks and their signs, their silent approvals. I cannot confirm this. I don't know the Gods. But I know what I have seen."

"It is impossible to tell the whole truth of what I am now," he confesses, looking away from her as the mark on his arm twinges, an ever-ready reminder of how it all ended, why he dashed Southwards when he did. The Night King knows where he is. He knows where to go to destroy them all, to destroy whatever The Three-Eyed Raven really is. "For it is more than words. And even then, I do not understand all of it. I could not tell you why I am The Three-Eyed Raven, why this is all as it is now."

"I asked my Hand much the same questions," she confesses, a troubled furrow in her brows. "It is strange to me, indeed, how magic has slowly bled back into this world in the past decade. Your direwolves, my dragons, the coming of The Dead. Many who know the magic in the fabric of this world have heralded things beyond my full comprehension, called upon other dooms and darkening skies. The Prince that Was Promised, they whisper of."

–from my blood shall come the prince that was promised, and his shall be a song of ice and fire. the blade they called catspaw slashing hands, slashing a throat, slashing a dress and the skin underneath, clenched in unworthy hands. burning red and with a dream that would end it all on its steel. pressed to a throat, resting at a hip, a bed soaked in blood, another blade at it's foot, born beneath a bleeding star–

"Magic waxes, magic wanes, some would say," Bran tells her, looking at the falling snow outside the window, feeling her eyes bear deep into him. But he does not answer to Queens. He isn't sure what he answers to, anymore. "But it is also tied to both our houses, I'd say. The Starks of Winterfell are an old line and have ruled and broken rebellions over and over again. And the Targaryens of Old Valyria have the Blood of the Dragon within them, carrying the legacy of Old Valyria on their shoulders for three long centuries. They are both more than we might seem, no?"

"Why, after all, would Daenys have dreamed of The Doom and saved her family? Why would Starks for generations on end pass on the same warnings and platitudes about our home and wolves? Why have we both outlasted so many even when it seemed like we were this close to being ended? Why are we bound together as we are?" She looks at him oddly, and he swallows tightly, thinking of Jon and all that he could become the undoing of without him even knowing or trying to do so.

"Your brother has taken great lengths to remind me of just how old and settled your House is, for good reason. In Essos, being what I am–the blood of Old Valyrian, a Targaryen with three Dragons–reminds them of Old Valyria. Many of the places I visited were once bound to it. But while it means something here too, it is different. I am not the heir to these lands as I could be perhaps called in Essos, the last survivor of a long since gone Empire. House Stark holds that claim here, in some sense of it…" she trails off, her eyes still bearing so keenly and deeply into Bran.

"We are more alike than I think either of our Houses like to say," Bran says, and she laughs slightly at that, more a huff with a light in her eyes that he thinks he knows the origins of. Robb had confessed too much, last night, Sansa looking on with blatant displeasure. Bran does not bring that up, though, having no use of it. "Old and with magic deep within our veins, and much to answer for and to defend. We are better allies than enemies, as a result, but it is Ice and Fire."

She nods, fingers curling slightly on the table, the wind whooshing outside the only sound in the room for a long moment. She seems to have a hundred questions on her mind but also seems to be at a loss as to how to ask them of him. He's well aware he's hardly answered her question about the nature of what he is now, but there is so much more to it all that it seems to be slowly slipping her mind. And really, what does it matter, against Dragons and Wolves and prophecies that will tie them together?

–and his shall be a song of ice and fire. promise me, ned. steel meets ice, grey eyes meet blue, and it all comes to pass. blood runs down a face, a woman dies in black arms, a brother is dragged from his sister, the song echoes and repeats as blood runs from a body into virgin snow. rubies scatter in blue water. a hand goes limp. a man begs the gods. promise me, benjen–

Jon Snow, a hidden prince, Jaehaerys Targaryen, lies so central to this all. And should this all go right, Daenerys Targaryen will not know of this until the cards are perfectly held in their hands, until it will not doom them all. The Long Night will come and go and she will learn after, and he will not be forced to die or forced to run or hand it all over for a choice that was never his. He will not have to keep running away from it all. He can come home. It's a pretty dream. One that Bran cannot dream of too much, lest it spell their end.

Hope will keep them alive, yes, but it can also make them fools who are bound to be destroyed, bound to die for their mistakes. This all lies on survival, all lies on them playing this game right. This all lies on Daenerys Targaryen not letting madness and fear become her truth, relies on her proving she really is more than the father who broke this realm in two and never looked back as he did.

"I had a vision, once," she suddenly says, her eyes hard and her expression distant. "I was in a city in Essos, known as Qarth. Or, in their telling of it, The Greatest City that Ever Was or Will Be." She scoffs slightly, a tight smile on her face. "In Qarth, there was a group of warlocks who held power, led by a group known as The Undying Ones, and their home was The House of The Undying–or, as many called it, The Palace, or occasionally, House of Dust."

She pauses for a moment, her eyes far away. Something scratches at the back of his mind, visions that doubtless tie to this place, but he pushes them down to focus on The Dragon Queen and what she is so touched by. "I saw so much. Much that has come to pass, so much of the past of my House. I saw my father in his madness. I saw my brother at the birth of his son, and he spoke of Promised Princes, of a Song of Ice and Fire."

There is a tremble in her voice, pain and grief. "I have not told my Hand, or anyone, really, of this all," she tells him, the warning clear in her eyes. She waits until Bran nods silently to continue. "I don't recall it all, but I do recall he said that the Dragon must have Three Heads. You say our Houses are bound together, and your Brother says House Stark lies central to this all. And this prophecy speaks of doom. Is that why he sought out your aunt, then? To achieve this dream?"

–promise me, ned. his name…his name is…bloody hands. promise me ned. promise me. promise me. promise me–

"Perhaps," Bran says, carefully. There is much that could be questioned about it all. Much that could come undone if just one person knows the wrong thing. He looks away from her as he speaks, the half-lies heavy on his tongue but necessary. "I have paid little time to The Rebellion, I must admit, for I am needed in the distant past when this all was first said and seen." A truth. "So, I do not know what came of that, or why your brother did what he did. I do not have the answers you seek." A lie, the biggest and worst of them all.

He does know what came of it. He knows what came of it very well. Knows the grey eyes and black hair of Jon Snow, Jaehaerys Targaryen, quite well. Their houses are bound and married together in one man, in Jon, who has just run to the end of the world so that he does not have to face this all, face her and lie. Bran hardly wants to lie, himself, but he has to. He knows what hangs in the balance if he does not. He knows how this could destroy the world.

"There were Three Conquerors," she continues, sounding like she's almost thinking out loud. "And I bore three dragons. Yet, I am a Targaryen alone in this world, and Viserion and Rhaegal have no riders to them." She sighs. "I apologise for my trouble, but there is so much I feel I hardly understand about this all, about what it all means! I did not even know of this enemy until your brother brought a wight to Dragonstone!" She laughs without humour.

But Bran understands, as much as anyone can, and he says so. "I understand. I often feel like I am searching for something so small in a field as large as The Wolfswood. These things take time, and answers are slow to come, and slow to be understood. Everything you have seen, indeed, everything all of us have seen or dreamt, will come to pass, one way or another. Such is the nature of fate and dreams in these troubled times, or so it would seem."

She nods along, looking at him with open curiosity on her face, though she does not speak of it, speak of what eats at her so much. There is a time and a place for all questions, and he thinks they are both in agreement that not everything can come out now. Much to his relief. He knows that things will bend and warp the closer people press to the story that they have all known, the deeper they dig into the timeline and everything left unsaid in the aftermath of The Rebellion.

Robert Baratheon pained Lyanna as the helpless virgin maid who was kidnapped and raped and stolen from him, for it is a story that justified it all in his mind. And though Bran knows well enough now just how far from helpless Lyanna Stark, or should he say, The Knight of The Laughing Tree, ever was, his father never went against it. Indeed, Eddard Stark spoke little of his sister or the war, sitting alone in his cold seat for nearly twenty years, hiding a truth so damning it could destroy the whole of the realm. An innocent, helpless Lyanna would never be thought of as the true mother of Jon Snow. And Robert, in his delusions of victimhood, would never have the thought pass his mind.

And so, here they are, now. Secrets spin and consume them both, damn them to the ends of the world. House Targaryen and House Stark are bound together, bound together because once, so many years ago, two people wedded in secret and bore a child. A son, born of ice and of fire, born with such a secret on his shoulders that it could kill him should it ever leave. Bran knows why his brother ran away. He will never be able to blame Jon for his fear of what he is. What he has always been.

She sighs heavily, smiling slightly. "I am surrounded by sceptics, though. Surrounded by, as I think you Northmen would say it, Southerners who have no real knowledge of this world. My Hand, especially, does not put much stock in myths and legends, for good or for ill. It is good to have practical men around me. And yet…I am the Mother of Dragons. You possess an entity that lies beyond any explanation. Practicality may soon turn to foolishness."

"Tyrion Lannister is a clever man," Bran says evenly, a single vision crossing his mind. The death of Tywin Lannister, on the privy, by his own son's hand. What an appropriate end for that man. The man who allowed children to be slaughtered and helped kill Bran's mother. He's seen it before, and never once has it made him sad. "A very clever man. Not one The North particularly likes, sometimes, but it is growing hard to find a Southerner held in high regard here, now, after everything."

"I know," she says, and Bran knows that too comes from one Robb. Warnings and grievances are bound to come up in any discussion between The North and The South, and he is the one who calls himself King in The North (The King of Winter) while she herself has declared Cersei a Usurper and she the True Queen of The Seven Kingdoms. "And I know that all of this will take time. But it is time that I do not know we have. Your uncle suggests our doom is perhaps three months away."

"He has," Bran agrees, voice hollow and eyes far away. The visions came to him, visions of Benjen's reality, of the fate that befell the mystery rangers beyond The Wall. They have so little time left, so little time to bicker and argue. That is why they must play this delicate game, why they must tiptoe around secrets, why he must bite his tongue and lie. "And I am inclined to agree with him. But all we can do is prepare, ready ourselves for what comes next, and trust in Jon and my uncle."

"Your brother jumped on that rather quickly, no?" She asks, her eyes narrowing. What are you asking of me, Daenerys Targaryen? What troubles you about this all? "My Hand has asked much of me about his oaths. I don't presume I will get answers out of you, but it is perhaps worth a try: how did your brother escape his oaths for life? And why does he crawl back now?"

"Jon's story is his alone to tell, and some of it has to do with choices made by others. I will not break his trust and tell you all that lies within him, Daenerys Stormborn. What I can say is that there is much that Jon left unfinished at The Wall, prices and debts he feels he still must face or answer to." He sighs heavily, well aware that his creeping displeasure must show on his face. "Jon has his own views, his own regrets, ones that are hard for others to know fully. It has always been that way. But he is where he believes himself necessary, and not alone, at any rate. He is doing what he needs to be doing."

–night gathers and now my watch begins. blood on the snow. howling wolves. a gasp in a silent room. fire and ice and bare skin, slick with blood. a woman in red. it shall not end until my death. swords sing and men and boys fall dead to a wolf's gaping fury. the world burns, a man holds his nephew in his arms, and it all turns to dust in the wind–

He shakes his head slightly to dispel the thoughts. The Dragon Queen gives him a strange look, but when he offers no explanation, she does not pry for one, sitting back in her chair and looking around the room in silence. And like this, he thinks of all the other Targaryens he has seen, the women especially. With their hair the colour of the stars and their eyes of Valyrian purple, she is the echo of many of them. But with her braids and her bells and her golden crown, she is her own woman, in all the ways that truly matter, at the end of the day.

The Mother of Dragons. The Three-Eyed Raven. Both of them are keepers of deep magic, knowers of things beyond most people. They go against so many of the narratives of this world, made by men in Ivory Towers who think themselves wise because they know better than to listen to old folk tales. But they do not have the blood of The First Men, they do not have Northern memories. What then, could they ever truly know of this land?

The Maesters will deny all of this, until it is too late, until there is no hope otherwise. But Bran does not think that The North really needs them, and neither does Daenerys Targaryen, for that matter, he'd reckon. They all know their truths, at the end of the day, and there is nothing that will undo cold truths.

A knock at the door startles them both out of their reverie. It is Daenerys who calls for them to enter, and after a moment, Robb walks in. There is snow in the fur on his shoulders and in his hair, and with the crown on his head, he looks particularly cold. His eyes only add to it, hard and troubled, giving Bran a heavy look that makes him sit up straighter in his chair, looking at his brother in interest.

"There is a new arrival," he says, glancing once at Daenerys, for just a heartbeat, and then at Bran again. His jaw tightens, and Bran does not miss the edge in his voice as he continues, "From Old Town. Jon's friend, Samwell Tarly. He has news for us."

—

Samwell Tarly is just as Bran recalls him, down to the Wildling woman he is with, though they seem to have replaced his uncle Benjen with a toddler they call little Sam. He thinks the child was there when he met them, but he cannot be certain.

When he makes that comment, Sansa smiles widely at it, which makes the Wildling woman, Gilly, smile nervously at her as well. Bran has little doubt that Winterfell is slightly overwhelming to the woman. Though she has seen The Wall, Oldtown, Horn Hill, and who knows what else, Winterfell is unique in its own, undeniable way. It is the heart of The North. The walls of House Stark.

All of them have gathered in what was once father's solar, and really should be Robb's now but is really the space that Sansa has commandeered for herself, to no one's complaint. It is populated now by the five Starks who remain, the children of Eddard and Catelyn Stark, along with one Samwell Tarly, who is accompanied by Gilly and her baby, along with, of course, the wolves, who blink at them all from where they are curled up in a pile at the foot of the fireplace.

Sam seems worn by travel and notably miffed that Jon has missed him yet again. "Though I cannot blame him, there was little time to send a raven ahead of our departure," Sam does say, nodding at Robb when he pours him some wine with a warm smile. Bran guesses it is a little overwhelming to be surrounded by the family of your best friend, with said friend being absent, and most of your knowledge coming from his stories or the rumours and whispers of the realm. "It was a rather…timely one. Which reminds me–" He turns to Robb, who raises a brow.

"I may have stolen a few books from The Citadel. I was hoping that I could perhaps receive some sort of pardon from you, Your Grace," he stumbles over the title, though that is probably less about the title and the fact that Robb Stark sits before him, casual and so very at ease. He's even taken off his crown, letting it rest on the table before him, hair a little askew. But still, he is Robb Stark. Not only the closest brother to Sam's own best friend but one of the most famous men in the whole realm.

Robb laughs at the comment, waving his hand through the air as he says, "Consider it forgiven. I've heard that The Citadel was quite dismissive of my uncle, so I see no issue in levying any and all insults at them. They have no thought towards helping us, so I will do nothing to aid them in turn."

Sam nods at that. "That's part of the reason I came North, actually. I've learned a Lot at the Citadel, doubtless, but they're…they don't care about anything beyond their books. The Maesters actually berated and interrogated me about your uncle's letter, and got mad when I seconded everything he said. They're no use to us, and I haven't found anything more beyond what we know already when it comes to this fight. I'm more useful here, I think, with The Watch, and Jon too." His expression shifts, though, a nervous edge coming over him. He glances at Gilly.

"Gilly came across something, while reading some of the books," he says, slowly and carefully. A particular chill comes through the room, and Bran feels himself exchanging glances with all of his siblings. Even Rickon seems to be thinking on the same line as them. Sam frowns a little, noting this, but continues anyway. "Something that I think has to do with Jon and the whole of your House. I'm not sure, but–"

The room somehow gets colder, and all of them straighten. Sam cuts himself then, looking between them as they do the same. Bran meets Robb and Sansa's eyes, a silent agreement passing between them. Let him say it first. Reveal only if true. Nodding, Sansa is the one who speaks. "What do you think you have learned?"

"Rhaegar Targaryen wedded someone in a secret ceremony in Dorne, during the Rebellion, following an annulment of his marriage to Elia Martell. As far as I see it, there is no one else who could be the bride save for Lyanna Stark. So, I started thinking it through, reading through histories of The Rebellion and the role your house played in it, and it all lined up. Jon…I think he is their son. A trueborn Targaryen male, and…The Heir to The Iron Throne." He blinks at them as he finishes, and Bran feels frozen in his chair, heart racing.

It is Robb who speaks now, a cold edge to his voice. "Do you have the book you learned this from?" Sam nods, and Robb makes a low noise. "Good. Hide it. Let no one know or see it, especially any who hold to The Dragon Queen. We cannot risk discovery this way. Especially not with Baelish…" he trails off, but he's already said enough.

Sam glances between them. "You know. It's true." It is not a question, but still, Robb nods in ascent, which makes Sam go very pale, looking between them all with mounting horror. "How?"

"I saw it, in a vision," Bran explains, and his brows shoot upwards. "I can explain more later, but I host an entity known as The Three-Eyed Raven. I am a greenseer, and in one of my visions, I saw not only their wedding but Jon's birth. We all know of it, as does Jon, and some of The Northern Lords and our uncle. But it is utterly crucial that no one can learn of this. Already much is fraught, and this cannot be allowed to escape beyond that circle. Do you understand?"

Sam nods, but even then says, "He is still an heir to The Iron Throne, one with a better claim than The Dragon Queen. I am not suggesting that he usurp her, but there are many who would sooner see him on the throne than any woman at all. You must know this will not remain a secret forever." They all nod, grim and silent. "So, you must also know that people will try to put him there."

Sansa snorts then, her eyes bright. "Don't remind Jon of that, he may just throw you off The Wall." Arya snickers along with her, eyes sharp and analytical as they take in Samwell Tarly. "And besides, he has no want of it, as he has made clear time and time again. He is not suited for The Iron Throne and cares little for the blood on it. He will be an unwilling usurper, at any rate."

"I reckon he has taken it poorly, then," Sam says.

Again, Sansa snorts, settling back in her chair with an eye roll that reminds Bran very much of how his older sister was when she was so much younger and they were all freer. Exchanging a glance with Arya and Robb, he sees the same sentiment in their eyes. Rickon is just blinking in almost wonder at Sam. "Has his less than auspicious absence not made that clear?" Sansa says with a raised brow.

Sam coughs slightly. "I noted that, yes." Sending an awkward glance around the solar, he continues, "Jon has never been one for power or even really ambition–beyond always wanting to be a ranger, that is. He undertakes duty, doubtless, but never sets himself to it. Indeed, it was me and our friends who put his name in for the Lord Commander, and gave him that seat." He pauses awkwardly. "I heard that he was killed and resurrected by Stannis Baratheon's Red Woman. Is that true?"

"Aye," Robb cuts back in, a troubled light coming into his eyes, one that is mirrored in Sam's eyes. Bran thinks that, for both of them, the thought of Jon dying while they were entirely powerless to do anything about it is far from a comforting thought. It gnaws at the both of them. "Though, we are not the ones to speak to about it. Jon is being very…well, Jon, about everything now."

They all laugh at that, all well aware of what that means. For as long as Bran can recall, his brother has never been the type to really spill his guts about it all, unless he finds himself truly tipped over the edge and wholly unable to stand against the onslaught. His brother is one of the strongest men he knows, doubtless, but the weight of what he is carrying would make many lesser men break. It says a lot that he's still going, still able to pick himself up and keep fighting. Thought that too is very Jon, in its own way. Stubborn, foolish, Jon.

They lapse into silence for a moment, before Arya speaks up, a glint in her eyes. "I don't think I ever fully thanked either of you for your help in Braavos. Though, it would seem it did not reach Jon's ears, did it?" She smiles at them with a raised brow, and they both exchange a slightly amused look. "He was quite dumbstruck by the revelation. Thank you for that, as well."

"I do recall receiving a letter about that, right before we left," Sam says, smiling with a slight laugh catching the end of his words. "He is quite good at veiled threats."

"A trait he has gained from Sansa here," Robb says, laughing when she sends him a look. They all laugh a little too, and Bran feels something warm in him. Robb's face settles after a pause, a harder and more kingly countenance settling over him. "He will return in time, doubtless, with the end of the world on his heels. I will not send you to The Wall, if you do not mind. I would like someone with your mind here, helping around. I hear you have Valyrian Steel with you, as well?"

"Aye," Sam says. "My family sword, Heartsbane. I have heard that House Tarly serves Cersei, and though I do not know why, I have no intention of letting my father fight for her with a sword that we need more. I am no son to him, not anymore, but I can live with that. I am no swordsman though, Your Grace. And I would sooner have that blade in good hands, Your Grace…" he trails off, sending Robb an intentional look.

Robb's face is a cold mask, and Bran knows that, deep in his brother's heart, all he wants is Ice. But that is not feasible, not right now. So they will make do. "A discussion for another time," Robb says evenly, fingers curling into a loose fist on the armrest of his chair, the only betrayal to the truth. "When our best soldiers have gathered and we know what blades are being wielded by whom. For now, House Stark thanks you, Samwell Tarly, for all that you have done for us."

"Jon's my brother," he says firmly, and Bran feels himself smile, just as all his other siblings do. He is glad, truly, that Jon has a friend like this one, someone so fiercely loyal to him despite it all. "And you're his family, too. He was the first person to ever really believe in me, believe that I could be something more. I owe my life to him twice over. It is the very least I can do to help House Stark, in whatever way I can. Jon always spoke of all of you with high praise."

"An honour I try to deserve every day," Robb says, voice quieting as a shadow comes over his expression. Jon is a good man, despite it all, and someone Bran loves more than words can really express. All of them, The Starks of Winterfell, are bound together in a way that cannot be put into words, and even given all that they know about him, all the dangerous truths that could undo them hanging in the air, that remains unchanged. They have been shaped and changed by this world, and all that has really done is draw them closer together, stitching them together until they are one shapeless form.

Sam nods along in silent agreement. They break off into another conversation soon enough, about their travels and The Citadel and the nature of what is coming, but Bran lets himself drift away a little, keeping only a cursory ear to the conversation that really only Robb and Sansa are digging into. Before long, Sam and Gilly are dismissing themselves with smiles and promises as to what they will do next when it comes to it all, leaving the five of them alone, the five children of Eddard and Catelyn Stark. Together again after so very long.

Robb does not put his crown on again, though he does fiddle with it, tracing one of the swords and the runes in a methodical pattern, a troubled expression on his face. He seems to be taking care that he does not slice himself on the sharper edges of the swords in the crown, made to be as sharp as any real blade. Rickon has gone over to the wolves, and lays against Grey Wind, showing the wolf a toy of his. Sansa and Arya sit close together, hand in hand, staring at the table with equally thoughtful expressions. And Bran…

–hands binding together with a length of cloth. i am yours and you are mine. a birthing bed, red as a crown of leaves, red as hair, red as the blood that flows freely from a body and from the carved faces of weeping trees. snow falls all around, consuming the world in its kiss. fires burn and ice melts and a wall stands tall above it all, casting its long shadow–

It is strange, really, how a single choice can undo it all. He has little doubt that Samwell Tarly will go to the greatest extremes to keep this secret, to honour what Jon wants, to not undo this all before they have any chance to save themselves. And still, it is maddening to think that a single line in a single book helped him realise it all. What little, yet unknown pieces, lie out there, able to doom them all and send this all tumbling down? How do they live with the fact that they will never find them all?

"Jon shouldn't have gone to The Wall," Arya finally says, a harsh edge in her voice. Sansa nods in agreement, and Bran follows their expectant looks toward Robb, who is looking away from them out the window, his profile caught by the candlelight of the room. Even with no crown and his wolf not beside him, it is hard to deny either his kingliness or his wolfish countenance, one that Bran knows full well that they all share. The Wolves of Winterfell.

"What am I supposed to do, then?" Robb wonders aloud, mouth twisting. "Keep him here, bind him back? I want him here as much as you, I want him by my side–and yet, that is not my choice to make for him. I can't keep him here, even if I want to. He'd find a way out if I tried because he doesn't want to be here. He felt the need to run, and so he did, and I can't be the one who keeps him here against his will."

"You're his king," Arya agrees hotly. "And he's being an idiot. I left because I knew I couldn't stop him, and I wasn't going to try to, but–"

"I'm his brother," Robb corrects before she can finish, a sharper edge in his voice, glancing at them with a fierce look. "And that will always come first in me, for good or for ill. I love Jon, and I want him to be able to make his own choices, his own mistakes. And besides, who are any of us to deny him some chance at settled scores? We all know what he left behind at The Wall. I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I denied him what might be his very last chance to make peace with the fact that he was murdered by his own men." His mouth twists and Bran knows what thought is in his mind. They all do.

–blood streams from a pale neck. a woman wails, a boy wails, a song drones on and on. a wolf runs wild and free. blood stains calloused hands and a king is turned into no more than a weeping boy whose heart is breaking in two. in only a few moments, the whole of the north comes crashing and burning down, broken by one choice, one night, one arrow, one arc of a silver knife–

Sansa sighs heavily, resting her chin in her hand as she glares at the table. "He's running away, Robb. I know he does not want to face this, none of us do! There will come a day, all the same, though, when he has to! What good is running from this hell to another?"

"It's Jon," Robb just says, looking out the window again, at the swirling snow. "I think, at least in his mind, he needs to consider this all on his own–or at least, away from us and The Dragon Queen. He will never say it again, but I know he's scared out of his mind, for he told me. Not just about the truth of who he is, but everything else as well. The Dead, and the fact that he died, the fact that he isn't what he thought he was. And I'm scared too. His fear is making him do this. I'm not agreeing with all of it, no, but…I know better than to try and turn his mind from this."

"Starks are stubborn," Arya agrees, softly. They all smile slightly at that, hanging their heads. Outside, the wind blows. Arya stands after a moment, her chair screeching across the floor, and she rests her hands on the table, looking at all of them in turn. "Jon needs us. The North needs us. We're the last hope against what comes next, and I think we're better off trying to make sure we're ready for The Dead than worrying about this all. Winter is Coming."

"Winter is Coming," they all echo, the North thick in their voices. Looking at them all, Bran can see so much of their father bleeding through, so much of the man who now lies beside his siblings and his father and all who came before them in a darkened crypt. It is from him that Bran first heard those words. Eddard Stark, a second son turned Lord as his family fell to pieces around him. A tragic man, who died with one secret left to him.

Robb and Sansa stand too after a moment, and Bran leans forward a bit, resting his elbows on the table as Arya goes over to grab some maps from a basket. She unfurls a map of Winterfell, one that is also from when their grandfather did some updates around the castle, like the one in the war room. It's not as large or detailed, but it gets the job done.

"You are certain about being in The Godswood?" Arya asks him. Her lips purse as he nods, but she swallows her commentary. Their ages have all blended together as they get older, but Bran is suddenly reminded that for most of them, prior to Rickon's birth, he was the baby. And Rickon is still a boy, so of the four of them, he is still the youngest. He knows that it is far from easy for them to let him make himself bait, and yet, they have bitten their tongues and done so because they know as much as he does that it is for the best. "Alright. We plan around that."

They spend most of the rest of the day in that room, scheming around that map. At some point, Maester Wolkan comes to collect Rickon, agreeing to have some food brought up to them and regards being sent to The Dragon Queen for their definitive absence at dinner that night. They do not pause, even as food is brought to them, lighting more candles when it grows dark, and keeping the fire burning in the room as they plot and they scheme and plan around Winterfell and all its defences.

And, the more they scheme, the more it spins together, some of it just becomes wholly undeniable. And he can see it in the faces of his siblings, the silent trouble and the pieces that are drawing slowly together. They live in a keep called Winterfell–Winter-fell. A keep that seems so strangely built, the more he thinks about it. There is really nothing like it, anywhere in Westeros, and though The Maesters may deny that it was built eight thousand years ago, perhaps it is not the keep that was built then. For, that is not all that lies in Winterfell.

For there are always The Crypts. Bran recalls his fleeing through it, recalls the swords that he and Rickon and Hodor and Osha all stole from old Stark Kings, dating back hundreds of years. And the Old Tunnels have all collapsed. Who knows what lies down there? Perhaps that is what remains, and since The Starks have seldom let any outsiders into those hallowed halls, never mind any men sent by The Citadel for research and knowledge, it has slipped by. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.

There is more to Winterfell. And Bran says as much, causing them all to go silent and grim-faced, the truth settling deep over them. Sansa picks up, her voice harrowed and her eyes fixed on the map. "And if there is more to Winterfell, what is to say there is not more to us? More to The Wall? More to all that comes from Bran the Builder and The First Long Night?"

"I told Daenerys Targaryen that House Stark has been around since the dawn that was brought about at the end of The Long Night," Robb says, stroking his beard and speaking carefully and very nearly hesitantly, like the thoughts are coming to him as he speaks. "But…Brandon the Builder did not spring out of the ground. He had a father and a mother, as did they. House Stark may have been founded then, but the blood is older than that. Doubtless as old as the coming of the First Men to these shores."

"And The Children of The Forest…" Bran begins, a sudden realisation dawning on him, and he straightens, speaking quickly, brow furrowing as it settles over him. "Old Nan–in her stories about The Others, they were created by The Children. I never asked about that, for it had slipped my mind, but–The Night King could only slip past their barriers once he marked me, and can only break The Wall with a horn. Doubtless, it has ties to them. I think that it takes their magic to destroy their magic."

He reels back, the room silent as it washes over them too. "There must always be a Stark in Winterfell…" he whispers. The pieces are right there, just out of reach… "There is more to all of this. Something to do with Bran the Builder, The Children, and what The Walkers were made for, what they were made from. Something happened to turn the Walkers against The Children, to ally The Children and The First Men. And something in that led to The Wall, The Last Hero, The Night's Watch, The Long Night, Brandon the Builder, The Winter Kings and Winterfell–House Stark and The North in its entirety."

They all look at each other in silent contemplation of it all. Bran can hardly dare to breathe, feeling the visions creep into the back of his mind. Though, he does not know that the answers lie in them. The King of Winter. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. Winter. Fell.

He can sense the through line, sense the thing that ties this all together. But it is out of his reach like this. There are no answers in this world. No answers in this time. All of this is set in stone, the ink long since dried. But he is the one person in this world who will not be stopped by that. And so–

—

Brandon Stark opens his eyes to a field of devastation in a dark night. At least his legs work under him.

He starts walking in a near instant, feeling a strange sense of familiarity as his eyes rove over the world and the field of the dead. Everywhere he looks, the dead lie motionless, snow falling over them, fires blazing all around, the only light to see walks without purpose or direction, drawn towards something inexplicable, but it is not until he comes over a rise and sees a tree standing tall that he realises where he is.

I am at Winterfell, he thinks. Before it was ever made.

He quickens his pace, going to where a man stands before the tree, a sword in hand, and blood all over him. But Bran slows as he sees what the man faces off against, his heart skipping in his chest. Right there stands The Night King, his blue eyes terrible. The man across from him has a Stark-ish look, with long black hair and cold grey eyes that stare at the Night King. Bran clings to the shadows, panic settling low in him.

"Stark," The Night King rasps, a horrible sound.

"Aye," The Bloody Man says. "As you once were, brother. But now, this chapter ends. Forgive me."

Bran hardly has time to feel the shock wash over him before the dark-haired man throws himself forward with a wild screech. The Night King howls as well, and Bran can see that he is injured, though Bran does not know how. The blade that the man held flashes in the night, and The Night King raises a blade of his own, but not fast enough. The sword pierces his heart, and the other man, who had called him brother, howls like a wolf as an unearthly screech pierces the air.

The Night King writhes, screeches filling the air. The other man collapses to the floor and looks at him through bloody eyes and says, in an astonishingly even voice that carries across the world, "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." He rises to his feet and slams the blade down one more time, saying in a broken voice, "Forgive me. I have not the strength to kill you."

The vision bleeds into another before Bran can understand.

This time, he is like a bird, watching from above as the same man who had wielded that blade runs through a forest. One by one, his company falls. He loses his first sword and one of his men to a rushing river and howls. To Bran's shock, he is joined by a wolf, a great beast that Bran knows is a Direwolf without even a question. The group presses on, and he sees the drowning man being pulled from the river, touched by cold hands and transformed into a walker.

More men die. The man takes a sword from a dying comrade and runs, and that comrade is soon found by the Walkers who have been made from their companions, their blue eyes terrible and cold, their pursuit never lagging. That sword is lost in the stomach of a beast, and more men are lost to the cold. But it is only when the man lies weeping over the body of the Direwolf that Bran realises who this is. The Last Hero.

And this is where the story ended when Old Nan told him. But this time, Bran sees how it ends. The Last Hero keeps running, and finally finds The Children of the Forest, halfway to dead, blinded by frozen tears. They spin their magic and bring him back from the very edge, and in the shadows of the cave, they speak of it.

The Hero does not trust them. The Children speak of a brother that they turned into a monster, a brother who did not obey. "We did not know that he possessed the magic of our gods," One of The Children says. "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. Forgive us–" his name is lost to a gust of wind.

The Last Hero stares silently at them, fury and grief in his eyes. And then he says, his voice dark and cold, "I cannot kill my own brother. I will not, no matter what he has become now. My blades are no use against him. But let me find a way to free him. Help me to undo the mistake you made when you kidnapped him and turned him into your evil."

"That is not how this story ends," One of The Children warns. "The black glass will destroy his Walkers, the creatures he made out of your doomed companions. But there is not enough strength in this world to destroy him entirely. The Black Glass will not harm him, for it is what made him. Our magic undoes itself, but he has freed himself of it. Only something unknown to him will destroy him."

"But we can fashion you a blade, a blade that will banish him, so long as you make some binding to this world that will keep it as is. Magic is a fickle thing and now is not the time, or so the seers say. Banishment will be our only hope, and then…doing what we can for when Winter comes again."

"My brother has destroyed the natural order of things," the man says, to a chorus of nods. "He has broken this world. The ashmouths no longer sing their lays, and Winter consumes these lands. The world has changed, and we cannot go back. So all we can do is make a new future." Again they nod, and he lays his hands out, palms up. "Give me some hope. Give me a blade, and I will name it Ice, for the winter he has brought, and I will do what I can."

"Very well."

The vision shifts once again. The Hero bows before the Heart Tree, murmuring softly, the great sword in his hand. Bran draws closer and hears him whispering, praying, really, voice rough. "Let the blood I spill here be forever remembered by these woods. Let the creature that was my brother, that fled North when I took my blade from his body the second time, be bound to this oath. Let his fates be tied to the presence of my House. And I will do all that I can to secure our future. 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."

Bran stares at him, seeing the dragonglass dagger at his side, which, if all he has seen is to be believed, is powerless against them…meaning their only hope is perhaps Valyrian steel. Horror and terror take him by the throat but before he can do anything, he is swept into a rush of images, the visions blurring together into a senseless stream.

He sees banners burning, a spiral on them. And then he sees that same spiral again, eight thousand years later, made out of the corpses of Night's Watchmen. His heart hammers in his chest. He sees a man, bound to a heart tree, screaming as his eyes turn blue and dragonglass is plunged into his heart, and then they go white for just a moment, and a scream breaks the still air. He sees iron glow hot, a crown coming out of the flames. He sees that same crown on dark hair, sees blood run down it like drops of water. He sees it handed over. He sees men in dark cloaks go south.

It is all blending together. Life and death, love and duty, fire and ice–one horrible melody. From my blood shall come the Prince that was Promised, and his shall be a Song of Ice and Fire. Bran is thrust into a final vision before he can hope to understand.

He is upon The Wall, watching a young man approach a familiar-looking older king. He has the look of The Last Hero, if aged a good thirty years or so. Bran presses close to the shadows, despite knowing he is invisible, and watches the younger man come closer to the Last Hero. After a moment, Bran catches a glimpse of what might be a crown on The Last Hero's head. A hero turned King, he thinks, reminded of Sansa's stories for just a moment.

"It is beautiful, Father," the younger man says as he draws closer to the man who stands overlooking the edge, and now he can properly see the familiar crown on his head. Clinging to the shadows as he is, Bran can see how the setting sun glimmers on the metal, shining against the sea of black hair. The Last Hero is older, doubtless, and a king as well. Bran feels his curiosity pique. "The Children's magic is sound?"

"Yes," The man, the king, says, voice a rumble. Bran knows, instinctively, that they are speaking in The Old Tongue, though he does not know how he knows their tongue. Perhaps it is something to do with the language itself, and its ties to The Old Gods… The king speaks again. "You are my heir, of course, but I have spoken to your brother. He will take The Black, and be the 13th Lord Commander. We have already spoken of the oaths, and he is eager to begin. His place is here."

"Thirteenth?" The man questions, a furrow in his brows, arms crossing over his chest.

"Twelve good men perished before him in the Lands of Always Winter, the first to give their lives to this order. They have no wives to go home to, no sons to continue their blood. They did not die in glory, they were twisted in horror, eyes unseeing and blue. Their flames died out, their shields broke, their horns brought no deliverance, lives given to this fight," The King says, and Bran feels something go cold in him. He had, after all, just spoken of oaths.

"They were my friends, and one my own brother," The King continues, mouth twisting. "I have no other way to honour the creatures they were turned into, to honour their memories. They are the first twelve to fight and honour the oaths we have made, and so, they will be the first twelve Lord Commanders of The Night's Watch." He turns to his son, frowning as he sees his expression. "What is it? Do you not like your brother's choice? Is that what this is?"

"He's ambitious," The man says darkly, eyes trained on the horizon. "And he has little fear."

The King snorts. "As are you. As are any brothers to kings. You will rule in my place one day. While he will hold no crowns, no title save for this, he will forever be remembered as a brother to a King and the man who set The Watch on its course. This is a time of kings, my son, kings and fearless men. I faced death to win this victory. And, certainly, you have heard the whispers from beyond The Wall that the folk there have their own king, a boy who is barely older than you. Joramun, he is named. He and your brother will be your allies, your equals. Both of them are fearless men."

But his son does not seem swayed. "I have heard of him. They say he is as talented in the skills of craftsmanship as he is with the bite of a blade. They call him proud and quick to anger. They also say that he has little love for The Wall you have built between us and him." He looks to his father, voice taking on a colder edge as he says. "They will not soon forget how you have left them on the same side of The Wall that The Others disappeared to."

"I could build it no further north, not with the woods and all that lie there. As long as we remember how it came to be, we'll persist," The King says firmly, and Bran feels his heart twist, his own father's voice ringing in the back of his mind. The North Remembers. And yet, it would seem they have forgotten that which was the most crucial.

"They have skinchangers and greenseers like your brother, and look what happened to him when The Children of The Forest got their hands on him. And those same children lie in their forests, whispering in their ears, telling them who knows what. I have little trust in all their secrets and their magic." The son shudders. "Who knows how they kept you alive? There are Men beyond The Wall who could destroy us again and women too."

The King's face is grim, and Bran can see a hundred men in his eyes, all whom have become silent statues, now. "Then we will do what must be done if it comes to it. We have defeated the dead once. We can do it again, if it comes down to it, though I hope it will not."

His son turns his dark eyes on him. "We did not defeat them. We delayed them. The bonds of magic will not last forever, and someday, this all may come crumbling down! All that holds The Wall and Winterfell together is blood. That alone cannot be strong enough to hold this back!"

"Don't be so hasty, my son. We have time, time for this magic to seep into the ground and take root. We must remain ever vigilant, of course, and remain strong. Our blood must always lie in The Walls, as your sister does now. If we do so, these bonds will hold, I know." He turns to look over the horizon, silence stretching for a very long time, the only sound the howl of the wind.

"Father?"

"I will confess, though, that my dreams have been dark as of late. I dream of Kings, many kings. Young and old, proud and bold. Wolves too, in shades of grey, patrolling through snow, children in their shadows," The King says, and Bran is rooted to the spot. Did he perhaps see Bran, and all his siblings, with their great wolves, their ever-constant companions, ever in their shadows and at their side? Could this King have seen the future of his House?

"I did not have the strength of magic my brother had but it lies in me too," The King says, turning to look at his son. "In all of us. We share blood with those beyond The Wall–never forget that, my son. You may disparage their magic, but it lies in you and I both and may grow strong in our line. Do not fear those beyond The Wall–they are more like us than different. Did you know that Joramun's father and I shared the same name, the very name I gave you?"

"Brandon," The man–Brandon–says. And it all clicks together then. The King is the first King, the man whom Bran saw bring the dawn. Brandon the Builder. And his son had spoken of a brother and the thirteenth Lord Commander. And Bran can recall well enough Old Nan's Stories of the Night's King, who was beaten by Brandon The Breaker and a King-Beyond-The-Wall named…named Joramun.

He reels back in shock, staring at the men before him.

Brandon The Builder continues on, though, his eyes sharp as they bear into his son, who will someday be proved correct about his brother "Yes. Brandon–a Kingly name, a proud one that will doubtless be remembered for centuries to come." He rests his hand on his shoulder. "You will be King one day, King of Winter. You will take Ice in hand and rule the power of Winter, rule North. With this, and our blood ever in Winterfell, the dead will never come again to destroy us."

"Ice cannot defeat them, though," Brandon the Younger, The future Breaker, says. His father nods. "So what is the point? Only the black glass can, and we have so little of it, and it is brittle besides. What is so important about Ice?"

"It is like this very Wall. The magic of The Children lies in it, and it has the power to help us control these lands. The seasons are not as they once were, and have been overturned by my brother's creations. Winter is no longer a passive thing. It is alive, and it will always be coming to us, trying to destroy us. Ice helps us bind it back. I have named myself King of Winter, for with this blade, I can rule it."

Brandon the Breaker, along with Bran, both glance towards the blade that lies at the king's hip. Bran alone knows that this blade will be lost to time, destroyed or broken. These two men are older than Valyria. As they speak, there are no Dragon Lords, there is no Valyrian Steel. All they have is Dragonglass, born of the volcanoes that were destroyed with Winter's coming, broken by The Night King. The same king who has at last returned, the oaths unfurling with Starks gone from their lands for so long, and Winter really coming again.

Bran can feel the hint of shame crawling up in his throat. He and Rickon broke eight thousand years of tradition and left Winterfell. It would take four years for any Stark to come home, and by then, it was undone. And he knows he will never know why The Others were already rising, why so much of it is as it is, but he knows that with no one there to fill the oath for longer than anyone has ever been able to steal Winterfell to the Starks, they sealed their doom.

This dynasty has risen and fallen. They have broken many, burned and buried so much, more than words can convey. But they have remained. These two men speak on the top of The Wall, in its first days, and some eight thousand years later, their blood will do the same. Jon Snow and Benjen Stark, men of the Watch that Brandon the Breaker's brother first ruled and nearly destroyed, will stand on this very Wall and overlook this very forest. Such is the way of history, a cyclic repetition of the same stories, time and time again.

"I do not trust him," Brandon the Breaker says, finally breaking the silence and drawing Bran away from his thoughts. "He is my brother, yes, but–"

"Our family must stick together," Brandon the Builder cuts him off. "My brother was left alone by me and the rest of our family, left to his fancy and his dreams and we all fell to ruin as a result. Our House must stay together, and must never divide itself. Winter is Coming, my son. I took the Direwolf as our new sigil, and Direwolves do not live alone as some common wolves do. Our blood will secure The North. It will save The North. It may also be what destroys it. Do you understand?"

"I understand," the son says, the father nodding and reaching forward to hold the side of his face in hand.

"You will be a good King, my son. I am old and grey, and will one day die, but you will be my heir. And rule with pride and dignity, and honour all that I have made–can I trust in that, my son?"

"You can, father," his son whispers, smiling softly. "I will be a worthy heir. I swear it on my life, on our family, on everything we have made."

"Good," Brandon the Builder, the first King of Winter, founder of House Stark, a House that would persist for generations to come, says. His grey eyes dance, and Bran feels himself drawing forward, slightly. Suddenly, though, The King's slate grey eyes dart briefly to the shadows where Bran is, brows furrowing.

"Father? What is it?" His son asks.

Brandon the Builder's eyes linger for just a moment in the shadows where Bran is standing stock still. Brandon The Builder, by his own admission, has a latent magic in his blood. And his own brother, the creature who is The Night King, whose mark lies on Bran's own arm, could see him in one of these visions. Perhaps The Builder could catch a glimpse of his future heir, a boy he will never know but whose name he will share. "Nothing," he says, turning back to his son. "Just a shadow."

And that is when Bran opens his eyes.

His siblings are all staring at him in open worry. Sansa and Robb are hovering nearby, with Arya on a knee before him, her expression open in a way he's hardly seen since she got back. He blinks at all of them, mind struggling to compute, feeling exhaustion slowly creep up on him, accompanied by a pounding headache. Gritting his teeth as a groan presses its way out of him, he's unable to stop himself from leaning forward against Arya, who catches him easily, her hands holding his arms tightly as she asks him worried questions that he can't quite catch against the onslaught in his brain.

By the time he manages to tether himself back to reality, all of his siblings, save the ones who left Winterfell and this room, are crouching around him, worried looks in their eyes. Robb speaks, and this time, the words are clear, his hand a grounding presence on Bran's shoulder, "Where did you go? What did you see? Your eyes rolled back in your head, about an hour ago, and we didn't want to try and snap you out of it, just in case, but you were gone for a while, Bran–"

"I saw," he says, cutting Robb off before he finishes, while the images are still fresh in his mind, "I saw the founding of our House. I know what The Night King is. I know how he came to be. I know how he was dispelled the first time. I know how all of this came to be."

They stare silently at him, exchanging wide-eyed looks. He swallows, motioning for some of the wine. Sansa rushes to hand it to him, and he sips at it for a moment, clearing his throat and speaking quickly, before he loses it all. "The Last Hero is Brandon the Builder, Brandon Stark. He had at least two brothers. One was one of his companions who died in that story that Old Nan told us, the story of The Last Hero, where he seeks out The Children of the Forest."

"But his other brother–" Bran coughs, feeling the horror of the implication set in. He takes another sip of the wine, gripping the armrests of his chair tightly as he speaks. "His other brother is The Night King."

For a moment, the room is silent. They all stare at him in wide-eyed horror, and he can do very little but stare back. Arya shakes her head, Sansa mutters a low oath under her breath, and Robb swears, running a hand over his face. In the corner of the room, the fire crackles, and Bran glances at the wolves, recalling the sight of Brandon the Builder weeping over the corpse of his own beloved companion. I did not have the strength of magic my brother had but it lies in me too. I took the Direwolf as our sigil, and Direwolves do not live alone as some common wolves do.

"There's a lot to say, so let me speak, and do not interrupt me," he begins, waiting until they all nod before he begins. "As far as I gathered, The Children of the Forest took his brother for their own and made him the first Walker, in an attempt to create something that could defend them against the First Men, who were their enemies. They did it in this very Godswood."

They all straighten in sudden panic and interest both at that comment, the pieces slowly drawing together. Bran glances out the window to see nothing but Darkness. The darkest part of the Night is called The Hour of The Wolf, and the House with wolves as their sigil was born on the death of darkness. "The Starks weren't as they are now, but his blood is ours. And like us he had magic in his blood–he was a greenseer, as I was, and Brandon had that very magic in his blood as well, though it was less powerful. The greenseeing disrupted the Children's control, and he went mad, went rogue, and became the creature he is now. Somehow, he managed to…disrupt the world."

The images press against him. Snowstorms, unlike any ever seen, swallowed the world, freezing the volcanoes that made Dragonglass, which were natural counteractions to Winter and Ice-Born magic. Destroyed by a single hand. "Brandon, in the visions I saw, said that there had been volcanoes and his brother had stopped them with Winter, said that he'd utterly reshaped the seasons. It is because of his terrible power that the seasons are as they are. His dark shadow fell, and his two remaining brothers and a company of eleven others fled north, accompanied by a Direwolf, The Night King on their heels."

"The Last Hero," Robb whispers, despite himself.

Bran just nods. "One by one, the men fell to the power of The Night King, becoming the first walkers. Brandon broke two swords, and his wolf died in his arms. Just as he was going to die himself, The Children saved him. Though he had little love for them given what they did, he formed a pact with them. He did not have the strength to kill his brother, and besides, I think the children suggested that dragonglass cannot kill him, for it is what made him and he is beyond the magic of The Children. Most of the time, their magic can destroy itself, hence why The Wall can probably be destroyed by the horn–which I'll get back to–but he's different."

"But we have Valyrian Steel," Bran says, sending an intentional look towards the blade at Arya's hip. She palms it and he continues. "A magic that is foreign to them all. In my vision, one of The Children said that only something unknown to him will destroy him. Valyria, and by extension, Valyrian Steel, is younger than him. His walkers can be killed by Dragonglass, but I'd bet that only Valyrian Steel can murder him, for the same reason it can kill his walkers. It is born of fire, born of a magic that can answer and overpower him. The Magic of Valyria."

"So how did they kill him?" Arya asks, her dark eyes glinting in the firelight.

"That's the thing–Brandon didn't kill him. He banished him. At the very end of the Long Night, when all the Walkers were gone, he stabbed The Night King twice with the blade that The Children had fashioned for him. This blade was The Original Ice, before father's sword. It was made of ice and magic like The Wall, and while it couldn't kill them, it could apparently harness Winter and banish The Dead. To seal it, he did something to make sure that as long as his blood was near The Heart Tree where he banished his brother, where his brother was made, the banishment would stay. And around that tree, he made a keep." He meets all their eyes. "A keep he called Winterfell."

A chill runs through the room, and Sansa whispers softly, horror dawning in her blue eyes, making her look pale and too small for the weight of this realisation, "There must always be a Stark in Winterfell." Her voice is no louder than a breath, but the simple repetition of those words that have been drilled into all of them since they were children is a damnation in and of itself. Bran can picture his father, saying those words. Saying it all, words that were born of a King and his son.

The Lone Wolf dies, but The Pack survives. Brandon said his brother had been left behind, left to his visions, and blames that for it all. Of course, he'd impress the need of staying together, knowing how quickly doom comes for their blood when left alone. Winter is Coming. Words first whispered by him, with his son, speaking of the literal coming of Winter. The North Remembers. Brandon had made his son promise to remember. And though Bran has little doubt that Brandon the Breaker did, what's to say it remained? Ours is the Old way. Everything he has seen is older than the Maesters say, than anyone knows. Older than the dawn.

And…of course, the true horror. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. For just a moment, he's consumed by those words again, a desperate prayer–Let the blood I spill here be forever remembered by these woods. Let the creature that was my brother, that fled North when I took my blade from his body the second time, be bound to this oath. Let his fates be tied to the presence of my House. And I will do all that I can to secure our future. 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–

"Fuck," Robb says, drawing Bran from his vision. His brother cradles his head in his hands and says it again, voice shaking, "Fuck."

Bran looks away, finishing up. "I don't get the intricacies of it all. I don't know how the original Ice worked, how he made that blood pact, or fully how The Night King was banished and went North. But I saw Brandon and his son talking upon The Wall, right after it was finished, I think."

"His son was Brandon the Breaker, the man who allied with Joramun, King-Beyond-The-Wall, to bring down the Thirteenth Lord Commander of The Night's Watch. His own brother, whom he already trusted little. But Joramun, despite their allyship, was not comforted. I think he schemed in secret with The Children, who were likely wary of the vengeance of this New King of Winter for what they did to their brother and made the horn. Magic undoes Magic," he trails off after that, looking at them with wide eyes.

He is met with wide eyes and terrified expressions. And he cannot blame his siblings, because he can feel the terror as it claws up his throat well enough himself, an eternal fear he knows that will never leave him. And then he thinks of Jon, the blood of The Night King, one of only a few left in this world to have the blood of the people who made the steel that can hopefully destroy The Night King. Ice and Fire.

Brandon the Builder's voice echoes in the back of his mind, his prayer having seeped its way into his bones–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–He swallows tightly, feeling bile rise up his throat, along with a destroying worry and fear. He feels suddenly so small for this world, left out and left alone to die, with nothing to him but dreams and visions of the past.

"This doesn't change anything, not if we want it to," Robb suddenly says, lurching to his feet and beginning to pace. "Not about us, that is. The Night King may be our blood, but we are not born of him. Our forefather was his brother, The Last Hero. The only thing this really does is solidify my conviction. The North has to be free. Our blood has been diminished in power–perhaps that is why The Others were returning even when Starks lay in these walls. Because we were Lords and Wardens, no longer ruling Kings."

Sansa nods along, running a hand over her face. "Which means we need to do what must be done. There will be no bent knee, no second guessing. When we tell The Dragon Queen, our only offer is a marriage, and that is only between her and Jon, and if he agrees. That, or perhaps making him Prince of Dragonstone, but we make it clear why The North cannot bend. We tell her of what we have seen."

"But if The Night King is gone by then do you think she'll agree?" Arya cuts in, her eyes like steel. She is still crouched next to Bran, her hand holding his tightly, her voice never wavering. "Jon is a threat to her, and we are too. This suggests that there is as much magic in our blood as hers–if not more. Winterfell, The North, and this entire conflict hinges on our blood. The Blood of the First Men…and indeed, The Blood of the Night King. The blood of the dead."

They all lapse into silence again, the wind howling outside.

Sansa is the one who breaks the silence. "There is one thing we must do, though, before the dead come, before all else. Petyr Baelish must die. He is encroaching close to us and has served his purpose well enough. Robb, you said he suggested that he might have heard rumours of Lyanna?" Robb nods, and Bran squeezes Arya's hand, unsure as to how else to comfort her as he feels her go stock still. "We cannot leave it up to chance. Jon is our brother, and we defend one another above anyone else. Littlefinger is only a complication in this game we play, a man who may doom us all for a little more chaos."

"You are sure of this?" Robb whispers.

"Yes," she says, a fierce edge and hard look coming into her. "I have let him get comfortable, but this has shifted this all. I would like to think of us as being above his games, but that is not set in stone, and our survival and unity are paramount. He has already tried to sow discord between us, and I have done my best to not listen while playing along, but I do not know how much strength I have left in me. He wants The Iron Throne, he wants me, and he has little mind that someone could turn his games against him. So, we will do just that."

"Littlefinger is whispering. He tells me of rumours, tells me of chaos to be sewn and plots to make. I think he thinks himself comfortable here. But I have spoken to some of The Dragon Queen's allies. And they have told me what he never has. Of how he betrayed our father to his death. Of all that he has done to someday get me in his bed and get revenge on Brandon and Eddard Stark both. He whispers to all of us, makes us fear, makes us worry," she spits, and her face curls. "But The North Remembers. All that he has done will not go unanswered."

Bran is never able to really say what happened then and there, at that moment, later. All he knows is that the room seems to shift, and with it, all of them. In tandem, the wolves perk up in the corner, and it is like a sudden chill comes through it, and imbues itself into their bones. He does not fully understand Sansa's worry and her conviction in this matter, but that is little matter. Sansa says that Petyr Baelish has served his purpose and must now die, and so he will do just that.

Images float by him–a knife at a throat. i did warn you not to trust me. a woman falling through the air. i have only ever loved one woman. your sister. a kiss in snow. a replica of winterfell, beaten by a fool of a boy. a letter written in the dark of the night. poison on lips, a blade glimmering in candlelight, the patterns on it intangible, indescribable, unmakeable. chaos is a ladder–and he knows what comes next. Baelish will not expect him. Expect any of them. Expect Sansa.

"I promised Jon that if I thought he was coming close to knowing, I would see him dead," Robb says, glaring at the table, hunched over it, crown sitting before him, a near-perfect replica of the one Brandon the Builder once wore. "I know there is much you have not gotten time to tell me, and I will ask the whole of you later, but for now…I think we might just have to honour that oath." He swallows tightly, and slowly, nearly hesitantly, reaches forward to put his crown on.

And there he is, without warning. The Young Wolf. The King of Winter.

"Tomorrow morning, I will label Petyr Baelish a traitor to The North and call for his arrest and his death. The reason will not matter. Lord Royce, I believe, will help us, once he knows the whole truth. Sansa, before dawn, I want you to speak to him about this if you will." She nods, and Robb continues. "I don't doubt that he has whispers listening in, do not doubt that whispers of my intentions might somehow reach him. And so, he may escape these walls." He looks at Arya. "You will go after him then, and only then. He is to be returned alive, so he can face Northern Justice."

She nods, silent as the grave, silent as death. Robb looks to Bran, looking far from his kind older brother. And Bran knows he's not just Robb's little brother, either, right now. He is the Three-Eyed Raven. In the very back of his mind, he wonders if his Stark blood has anything to do with The Night King and all the games they have played. He had spoken, before his banishment, spoke one word–Stark.

"Do what needs to be done," Robb says, and he nods. He looks briefly at Sansa, face softening for just a heartbeat before he clears his throat and continues. "We will kill him with a blade. Whether that be mine or someone else's, the justice will be in our father's way, our way. Let him, and all our many guests, be reminded of what and who we are. They all shamed Ned Stark and his honour, but they forgot who stood behind Robert on the Trident, who the other one they called demon was. We are Wolves of Winterfell. He is nothing against that."

Sansa smiles then, wolfish and dangerous. "He will realise that, before the end, no doubt. He sees our mother when he looks at me and has forgotten what name I carry in truth. The Starks have ruled as Kings for longer than anyone else. We have survived more than he has ever known. Our blood holds these lands together." Her smile widens, a dark and feral look in her eyes. "So, I say, we let him know the shape and name of his doom is that of our House. The House whose power he has forgotten."

"The North remembers," Arya murmurs. And they echo her, Northmen to the very last. The Wolves of Winterfell, the children of Eddard and Catelyn Stark. Eddard Stark, who he thought he beat, and Catelyn Tully Stark, who he thought he could win. The man whose death he created, and the woman who he killed with his scheming. Bran hopes, with a rush of hatred, that he felt grief and horror when he realised what he did to the woman he so loved.

They carry ghosts in them, carry a bloody vengeance he has never dared to face. Of course, the real ghost, the echo of Ned and Brandon both is far away, but between the four of them…Bran thinks they can more than make up for it.

---

notes:
-I have a lot of debate in me about where I want Theon to go and what his fate will be Its gonna take a while for me to be really sure, but either way, that conversation with bran sets him up a lot. He's not seeking redemption, or really forgiveness—he doesn't think he can get either. All he wants is to make one good choice before the end…and that's a very important part of where he goes

-despite the length of these chapters, it is so hard to get everything in sometimes. Some reunions are gonna be a little different than I imagined just because of that. But still, I'm doing my best to give these smaller moments between people—esp Robb and co (just wait till jaime comes back in :))

-dany and bran. WHOOOO BOY. There is a lot more to unpack in that than I can feasibly ramble on about here, but what I'll say is this: bran just cannot fully hide the secret, though he is doing his very best. No one can, esp when people are trending so close to it. And that's about to get that much more important…

-in this chapter there is a. VERY. specific moment where it just all clicked. ive spent a lot of the past few months trying to figure out what game I am playing with the Starks and winterfell and all of it, and i cannot deny it when I say that it finally came together for me and it was the single most satisfying moment of it all. And then, writing that scene after, writing bran see the end of the long night, the truth of the others, and finally understanding what this all really means…I had the dumbest grin on my face

-remember how last chapter I was complaining about Jon and the greatjon? Yeah three fuckers all named Brandon is so much worse. next chapter has that as well and i might just throttle grrm

-I really hope you all like what I decided on for the whole why the starks are important. There might be a little more clarification about some of the finer points of what happened, and about that oath Brandon/the last hero makes and its connection to everything, but not much more (which is to say, if you are confused, please let me know so I can remedy that and/or answer questions that may arise)

Next up, Arya goes hunting...