Bran was falling from a tower.
Clouds rushed across the sky as the sun descended into the skies.
Bran's mother. A man behind her with a knife, slitting her throat.
A dark dragon flying above.
The dragon flew over buildings with tiled roofs of red clay.
A beautiful girl, with purple eyes and hair of silver. Covered in soot and smoke, a tiny dragon on her shoulder.
A babe in the snow, eyes turning blue like sapphires, skin turning white like snow.
The babe lay on a table of ice. A man walked towards it. He was blue, like cold and death.
A blue ice man, with a crown of ice upon his head, raising his arms.
A murder of ravens flying through the trees in the night.
Three men, one with a torch, one with a glass jar full of green liquid, pouring it into a clay urn held by the third man.
A King with silver hair sat on the Iron Throne.
"Burn them all!" he cried.
Green fire rushing down a tunnel.
The men with the green liquid, one putting the urn on a shelf.
A man in a white cloak, a Kingsguard drawing his sword, climbing the steps to the King who cried "Burn them all."
A man who looked like Bran's father, albeit much younger.
"Where's my sister?" he asked.
A bloody hand.
The Kingsguard, stabbing the King in the back.
Robb dying from a stab wound.
The silver-haired King was on the floor, the Kingsguard forcing thrusting his sword into the dying man.
A raven.
Robb falling, dying.
Bran was falling from a tower.
A girl with a green face and yellow eyes.
A man made of ice is long white hair. He wore armour and carried a spear of ice in his hand and was swinging it at a man.
The Kingsguard sat on the Iron Throne.
Green fire rushing down a tunnel.
The dark dragon flying above.
The dragon flew over buildings with tiled roofs of red clay.
A beautiful girl, with purple eyes and hair of silver. Covered in soot and smoke, a tiny dragon on her shoulder.
A babe in the snow, eyes turning blue like sapphires, skin turning white like snow.
The babe lay on a table of ice. A man walked towards it. He was blue, like cold and death.
The babe was being carried by someone.
A shadow on the wall. The King with a sword in his back.
The murder of ravens flying through the grove.
The strange-looking girl with a green face and yellow eyes. Others like her stood behind while she stared at someone. She held a dragonglass dagger in her hand.
A Kingsguard climbing the steps to the King, drawing his sword.
Green fire rushing down a tunnel.
The blue ice man raising his arms.
A dead woman turning her head, eyes of blue.
Bran's father, his head on a block, an axe falling down upon his neck.
Bran was falling from a tower. He was falling, falling, falling…
⸺⸺⸺◊◊◊⸺⸺⸺
Bran woke with a start, filling his lungs with air as if he were a babe taking his first breath. Beads of sweat formed across his brow and trickled down his neck. His head hurt.
"You're awake," came a voice he recognised. Uncle Benjen. Bran turned his head, to see the man sitting on a chair beside his bed.
"What happened?" Bran asked.
"Don't you remember?" Benjen asked. Bran shook his head. "You were having a sword-fighting lesson with Ser Barristan. You stepped on a patch of ice, slipped, banged your head, and knocked yourself out. You've been unconscious for two days."
"Two days?" Bran asked and uncle Benjen nodded. "Can I have a drink?" he tried to sit up, but the room was spinning. Benjen picked up a mug of water. He helped Bran raise his head just enough to take a sip of water.
"Will I be alright?" Bran was overcome by terror from the story which Jon, Sansa and Arya had told him. The one which his dream appeared to confirm. "Can I walk?"
Benjen frowned and smiled. "Not this very minute, but it was a bump to the head. You didn't fall far. Although Maester Fell says you might have twisted your ankle. Why do you ask?"
"I dreamt I was falling from the broken tower."
"It was just a dream," Benjen tried to reassure him.
"No, it wasn't," Bran told him. "I saw him, the Night King. I saw Jaime Lannister stabbing King Aerys in the back. 'He said burn them all.' I think I saw Daenerys Targaryen just after she hatched her dragons. Jon was fighting one of the whitewalkers, but Jon was older. He wore the clothes of the Nights Watch, but the fur on his cloak was bigger than yours. I think he was Lord Commander."
Benjen paled. "Aye, the cloak of Lord Commander is bigger and heavier than the rest of the watch. It represents the burden he carries. You say you saw all of this?"
"That and more," Bran replied, the memories of his mother, father, and Robb being murdered, haunted him, but he couldn't tell Benjen of those memories. Summer jumped up onto his bed and lay beside him.
"He's only left the room to do his business. We've had to feed him from the stores. He only let a few people into the room," Benjen told him.
Bran squinted. "My head hurts."
"I'm not surprised," Benjen smiled. "Best I go find Maester Fell and tell him you're awake."
Benjen left Bran alone to understand the dreams he had experienced. Was his imagination revisiting the stories he'd been told by his siblings of their past life? Bran didn't think so. The dreams felt different. It was as if he'd lived the other life himself, having those same dreams as the Three-Eyed-Raven. He needed to see Jon, Sansa, and Arya.
There was a knock on the door. It opened before Bran could invite the person in. However, it was just uncle Benjen and Maester Fell.
Maester Fell approached Bran with a smile on his face. "Good to have you back in the land of the living. Do you remember what happened?" he asked. Bran shook his head. "That isn't unusual. What is the last thing you remember?"
Bran furrowed his brow, trying to remember the last thing he did before he woke up. "I had porridge for breakfast and met Ser Barristan?"
"Where?" Maester Fell asked.
"Not in the usual sparring yard. It was full. We were next to the Godswood. I remember nothing after that," he replied.
"That is where Ser Barristan said you were when he carried you back. I doubt there's much more for you to remember if what Ser Barristan says is true," Benjen said.
"Does it hurt anywhere?" Maester Fell pulled up one of Bran's eyelids and stared into it.
"My head hurts," Bran admitted. "And my back aches."
"You twisted your ankle as you fell and likely knocked your back as you hit the ground."
Maester Fell lift the furs from his body. He examined Bran's ankle, which hurt enough for him to want to cry out. In two moons, he would be ten and three, almost a man. Crying out was for children, so he bit his tongue.
"Does it hurt?" the Maester asked.
"Some," Bran nodded.
"Let's turn you over and have a look at your back," the Maester said, rolling Bran onto his chest. Maester Fell lifted Bran's tunic and pressed down on his lower back. Bran couldn't keep from crying out.
"Ow, that hurt," he complained.
"Not surprised, you're black and blue," Benjen laughed.
"Will I be able to walk?" Bran asked.
Maester Fell pulled Bran's tunic down with a chuckle. "It is a mere bruise, Lord Bran. But if you want proof, raise your right leg," he suggested.
Bran did as he was told. It hurt, but other than that, there were no problems. To silence his fears, he did the same with the left leg, although it was harder as this was the one with the twisted ankle. Despite that, he was able to lift it without too much problem.
"See?" Maester Fell smiled.
"When will I be able to leave my room?" Bran asked.
"A day or so," Maester Fell replied.
"How long before I can return to Winterfell?"
Benjen looked a little put out by that comment. "You bored with us already, lad?" he asked. Bran shook his head.
"I need to see Jon and Sansa. They… need me," he replied.
"Ah, I see," Benjen replied. His uncle knew better that to argue with someone who was possibly having dreams which connected him to the previous lives of his nieces and nephew.
"I'll write to your mother and father. To let them know you are awake and that you will be returning to Winterfell. I should think you should be ready to travel within the week," Maester Fell said.
"Ser Barristan claims to be fit enough to travel, you can go together," Benjen suggested.
"In the meantime, you need to rest, my Lord," Maester Fell said. "I can give you some milk of the poppy to help with the headache and backache. I'll get the carpenters to make you some crutches to help you walk until you are steady on your feet."
"Thank you Maester Fell," Bran smiled.
The Maester merely nodded his head and left with uncle Benjen, to go send the raven and fetch milk of the poppy. Leaving Bran alone to ponder his strange dreams.
⸺⸺⸺◊◊◊⸺⸺⸺
Three days later, Bran was able to make his way outside for the first time since his accident using one crutch. His left ankle was sore. The swelling had gone down, and the bruises were turning yellow.
The back pain had eased a little, although the bruising had yet to fade. However, Bran was confident he could ride to Winterfell in a few days.
The dreams had continued, and were growing ever more intense by the day. That was why Bran had to leave his room. Seeing the alternate lives of his siblings when he slept was disturbing to say the least. This was why he needed to venture to the Godswood. Bran's actions were a mystery. He felt compelled to touch the heart tree, as if it was calling him.
Summer hadn't left his side since the fall. Therefore, it was no surprise the direwolf would follow him to the Godswood. In truth, Bran was glad for the company, and warmth. The autumn snows were falling, and the air had turned somewhat cooler. A fur cape was warm, being surrounded by a living direwolf was warmer.
Once he reached the weirwood tree, he sat on a thick root protruding the ground, next to the white trunk. There was no snow underneath the branches of the tree, for the bright red leaves still adorned its branches.
Bran stared at the face, carved millennia past. A pensive look adorned the trunk, which was smaller than the one in Winterfell. Bran wondered if the carvings started out the same, but grew over time with the tree. A question which would never be answered.
Summer curled his body around Bran like a giant bedpan. It was as if the direwolf knew what his master was about to do.
"Watch out for me, Summer."
Bran told the direwolf, who whimpered in response. With trepidation, he placed his hand on the face, and the world became dark.
⸺⸺⸺◊◊◊⸺⸺⸺
Bran was inside a cavern. At first, he thought it was a cave, but the tree roots gave away his location. He was under a Godswood, deep in the heart of the roots of a weirwood tree. He turned around to take in his surroundings, and to his surprise, he saw a man tangled up in the tree. Although, that wasn't the right description.
The man before Bran was more ghost than flesh, a pale, skeletal figure draped in rotted, black clothing. He sat upon what looked to be a throne of twisted weirwood roots with. His skin was as white as the snow outside, save for a red blotch staining his neck and cheek. Long, fine hair, white as the heart of winter, cascaded down to the earthen floor. One of his eyes was an empty socket, while the other burned a fierce, unnatural red.
The weirwood roots surrounded him, piercing through his body, growing through his leg and the empty eye socket, binding him to the throne. He was a part of the tree, and the tree was part of him. Bran felt a shiver run down his spine as he took in the sight, the eerie silence of the cave pressing in around him.
"Brandon Stark, good to see you at last," the man said. His voice is slow and dry, as if he hadn't spoken to anyone in a hundred years.
"Are you the Three-Eyed-Raven?" Bran asked.
"I am called many things, but you can call me that if you wish," he replied.
Bran sat on the earthy ground, which, much to his surprise, was warm and dry, although the air was damp.
"Why am I here?" Bran wanted to know.
"You sisters and cousin have told you their story, have they not?" the Three-Eyed-Raven asked.
"Is it all true?"
"I'm afraid so," his voice was tinged with sadness. "But this time, it is not you who must carry the burden. It is up to me. By sending us all back in time, I was able to prepare myself. Once the war for the dawn is won, it will be up to you whether you wish to become me, or to live a life amongst those you love."
"Then why have you summoned me?" Bran asked.
"It was not me who summoned you. It was your sister. She wished for your abilities. Of course, there isn't enough time to train you in every ability you need. When you fell, it opened your third eye. In the time between now and your arrival at Winterfell, I can help you become a competent greenseer. If one day, when you are old and frail, you choose to take my place, your training will prove a far easier task than we had on your first attempt."
"Will I be able to see the future?" he asked.
"No," the Three-Eyed-Raven replied. "Given too much information at too young an age will only lead to confusion and losing yourself in your visions. It is best to stay in the past, and only when you know who to look for or what to look for."
"Are you under the tree in the Godswood of Queenscrown?" Bran asked.
"I am North of the wall, young Brandon. The trees speak to one another, allowing you to see me as if you were in the same cave as I. You are still sat outside, on the roots, with your direwolf curled around you."
"How will I communicate with you when I travel to Winterfell?" he asked. "There aren't any weirwoods along the Kingsroad."
"But there are other trees. A small offering is all that is required," the Three-Eyed-Raven replied.
"Offering?" Bran wasn't sure what the man in the tree was referring to.
"At night, you must always sleep next to a tree. When you lay down to sleep, prick your finger with a needle, and place your hand upon the trunk. That will be enough. I can teach you at night. Do not worry about sleep, you will feel well rested."
"Can you show me something now?" Bran asked.
"At first, we will concentrate on the alternative life you and your family led. By the time you arrive in Winterfell, you will have witnessed the entire story. You will know what happened to everyone you loved, and those you do not know. You must learn the histories. I will not teach you to see the present, nor the future. I will only show you how to look back."
Bran was disappointed. He wanted to see the future. "Why only the past?"
"The past is already written. The ink is dry. You cannot and should not change history. I cannot allow you to look beyond the wall. You broke the magic which has been woven into the wall. If you need to see what is happening, I will look, and then show you through my memory. That way the Others cannot touch you."
Bran frowned. "What use will I be?" he asked.
"Help will be needed. Questions will need to be answered. History teaches us much of the present and the future, for it has a habit of repeating itself." the Three-Eyed-Raven said. "But first you must learn the story of your siblings, their lives, and what they saw before you sent them back in time."
"But that took place over many years."
"True, and we have a mere moon to learn all of it."
"How can I learn years of peoples lives in less than a moon?" Bran asked.
"By the power of magic, young Brandon. Now, hold on to one of the roots of the tree, and I will take you back to where it all began. The tourney of Harrenhal."
Bran placed his hand on one of the roots and closed his eyes. He felt like he was sinking into the ground, the roots cocooning him.
"You can open your eyes," the Three-Eyed-Raven said.
Bran opened his eyes. To his astonishment, it was broad daylight and warm. Off in the distance, he could see Harrenhal, an enormous, dark, monstrosity of a castle. However, in front of him, was an array of tents, people, banners, and horses. All decorated in bright colours, taking away the drab atmosphere of the castle.
An even stranger sight was the Three-Eyed-Raven himself. He looked more like a human. His hair was shorter, and he had both eyes, although both were red. The mark upon his cheek remained. It was then, Bran realised who the Three-Eyed-Raven was.
"You're Brynden Rivers, Bloodraven," he gasped, fear gripping him. Bloodraven had a reputation of being among many things, cruel and someone who dabbled in magic.
"I was. But that was a long time ago. Now I am the Three-Eyed-Raven. A greenseer and a skinchanger, just like you."
"But…" Bran spluttered.
"But nothing. Brynden Rivers died the day he became the Three-Eyed-Raven. Now come," the Three-Eyed-Raven said. "I think we should explore, don't you?"
"Won't they see us?" Bran asked, trying to put his reservations at the back of his mind.
"No. we aren't even at the tourney of Harrenhal. We are visiting a memory of the tourney." the Three-Eyed-Raven replied.
"Whose memory?" Bran asked.
"The trees," the Three-Eyed-Raven said in a way which made it clear to Bran that he wasn't to argue the point anymore.
The Three-Eyed-Raven set off towards the tents, and Bran followed, ready to take in the sights, sounds, scents, and stories of the past. Starting with the infamous tourney of Harrenhal, where Jon's parents, Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark met for the first time.