Ned
Preparing to ride to the Wall was no easy thing when you were the Warden of the North. Ned leant back in his chair and then looked at the map in his Solar, before looking wryly at the stack of letters and messages that had to be read, evaluated and then replied to. There was a lot that had to be arranged first. Cat was obviously staying in Winterfell, to advise Bran as the Stark in Winterfell. Besides, there was no way that he was going to risk a pregnant woman on the road to Castle Black.
Robb was going with him, as he had planned. It was time that the lad saw the Wall, especially as they both now knew how important it was for the North now. The lives of everyone in the North, perhaps everyone in Westeros, now rested on the Wall.
He sighed and then looked at the list of things that Cat would have to help Bran with. And then he winced a little. Bran had been left in charge of Winterfell in that terrible future that would not now come to pass. From what Robb had heard, Bran had died here, crippled and betrayed. Well, Theon wouldn't do that this time. He was a changed man. He was still in two minds about taking Theon to the Wall. It would help to have the Ironborn alerted – but would Balon Greyjoy listen? Even to his own son?
He stood up and walked over to the door, which was open. As he strode through it he could see young Jojen Reed approaching and he frowned a little. "Jojen. Were you looking for me?"
"Yes, Lord Stark," the boy said almost formally. "May I talk with you in private?"
"You may," he sighed and led him to his Solar, closing the door behind him and then gesturing at a chair. "Now," he said as he sat down himself, "What's all this about?"
"Dreams, Lord Stark."
He paused at this. Jojen hadn't reported any new dreams since arriving in Winterfell with his father and sister. "You're dreaming again? Special dreams?"
The lad nodded sombrely. He seemed to do everything sombrely these days, as if he held not an ounce of frivolity. "Aye Lord Stark." He seemed to collect his thoughts for a moment and then he spoke again: "I dreamt of a hundred cages, filled with parts of men that still moved. I dreamt of a great mountain of ice, filled with a terrible hate and being summoned by a terrible evil. I dreamt of a walking dead man who was filled with light but who needed help with one last task. And I dreamt of a shooting star from the South, whose heart was from the North."
Ned absorbed all of this and then nodded slowly. "Did you see any faces in your dreams?"
"Some. The man who was dead, but was filled with light… he looked like some of the statues that are in the crypts here."
That was a surprise. "A Stark?" He considered this for a moment. "Not every Stark is buried here, despite the efforts of those who saw them fall in battle. But this filled with light business… a walking dead man? A wight, but not turned all the way? Why? How?"
"I know not, Lord Stark."
Ned nodded slowly. "Thank you for telling me about this. I will think on it a lot. I was going to pass word for you anyway. You know that your father is going to Castle Black with me?"
"Aye, Lord Stark."
"My son Bran will be the Stark in Winterfell when we are gone. If you see any other visions you are to tell him at once. Him and my wife. Two other things. When you first came here to Winterfell and you saw my direwolf you started to say a name. Did you already know what I'll name her?"
There was a pause and then the lad nodded reluctantly. "Aye, my Lord."
"I have been thinking about a name for her a lot of late. I was thinking… Frostfyre."
For a moment a look of smiling relief flashed over Jojen's face. Then it faded. "A good name for her my Lord."
He smiled at the lad. Then he sighed. "As for the other - can I ask you a question, Jojen Reed?"
"Of course Lord Stark."
"You said that you could once see the moment of your death – the manner of it?"
The boy paled. "Aye."
"May I ask how you died, before?"
Jojen looked down, still very pale – and then he looked Ned in the eye. "I was killed by wights, Lord Stark. Under a great Weirwood tree, beyond the wall. I was trying to protect your son Bran, who could no longer walk after losing the use of his legs in a fall. Bran was our last hope. He was the replacement for the Three-Eyed Crow, Brynden Rivers, who still lives there now, entwined in the tree itself."
Ned felt himself stiffen from head to toe with shock. "Wait… what? How could Bran be North of the Wall? I thought that he died in Winterfell in that other future?"
But Jojen was shaking his head. "The Crypt. I remember dreaming once of hiding there, with my sister and Bran – and Rickon too, who was with some girl I have not seen here. The sea had come to Winterfell, but we hid and took a tunnel out of it. That's all I remember. But the Tree, where I died, I remember that well. Until it changed. Something happened. You speak of another future – yes, there was one once. That's why my dreams have changed of late. The Old Gods did something."
If this was true…. That meant that Theon hadn't murdered Bran and Rickon. So what had really happened? The fact that Bran had been crippled in both the vision and the future that Robb remembered meant that it all sounded true, or at least that one followed the other.
No. He forced his mind away from that terrible vision, looked Jojen in the eye and then nodded, before placing a hand on his shoulder. "Yes. The Old Gods touched my son. Jojen – you cannot tell anyone about this. Few would understand."
Jojen Reed stared at him gravely, but then nodded again. "I know, my Lord," he said hoarsely as he stood up. "I know. May I go by your leave?"
"Aye," Ned said quietly. "You can go."
As the boy slipped out Ned thought long and hard about what he had just heard. Certain pieces were falling into place. In that first vision, the one that he had had in the Godswood all those weeks ago, he remembered hearing a voice, the voice of an old man, talking bitterly about why things had changed, just as he had his replacement. Had that been this Three-Eyed Crow? And he remembered his father talking about the tales surrounding Brynden Rivers. Was that not Lord Bloodraven? An odd man, a Targaryen bastard who had lost an eye in battle and who had once been Hand of the King, before becoming Lord Commander of the Night's Watch –but then vanished one day beyond the Wall almost fifty years ago. Where had he gone to? What had he done? What role did this Three-Eyed Crow play in all of this?
His eyes narrowed a little. Wait… Father had once said that there had been a rumour that Brynden Rivers had been a sorcerer or something. He'd used magic, anyway. And…. why, if he still lived then he was far, far older than any man could be! Entwined in the tree as well…. What did that mean?
Magic. It all came down to magic and he just didn't know enough about it. So much depended on it, but so little was known. Well, here at least. His ancestors must have known – how else could Bran the Builder have built all that he had? The Wall, Winterfell, and the other places that he was at least linked to. Storm's End. The Hightower at Oldtown. All amazing feats.
And now here he was, desperately trying to piece together fragments, scraps of information left by his ancestors. He hoped that it would be enough. What if it wasn't though? He closed his eyes and sighed. If he started to second-guess himself then he'd run the risk of going raving mad. No. He couldn't afford to do that.
He stood up and left his Solar. Perhaps a walk to the Godswood to clear his head? As he passed down the corridor he looked out of one of the windows. Off to one side he could see Domeric Bolton giving young Robert another riding lesson. The boy was a fast learner, according to Domeric, and judging by the way that he was sitting in the saddle he was improving by the day.
As he padded down the stairs to the main courtyard he saw Frostfyre sitting to one side, watching as Grey Wind and Ghost play-fought as their master sparred with practice swords. He walked over to her and as he approached she turned and looked at him, her eyes intent. "I named you today," he muttered to her and he reached out and slowly laid a hand on her neck. "Frostfyre. What do you think?"
The direwolf tilted her head to one side and then huffed once, as if in acknowledgement. He wondered what direwolves thought about names and naming conventions. What did they call themselves? He sighed again.
A horn sounded beyond the walls of Winterfell and he frowned at the gates. Men were peering out at the road, before shouting something down and after a while Jory Cassel strode up to him, looking a little bemused. "A party approaches, my Lord. One bears… well, the Baratheon banner with colours reversed."
His eyebrows flew up for a moment. Oh. Robert had obviously been busy. A bold choice, that. "Admit them at once."
He watched as the little party of no more than a dozen men entered, baulked a little at the sight of the direwolf and then came forwards. Some bore Baratheon livery, whilst their leader, a totally bald man, bore a tabard of brown, with white feathers, or quills. He blinked. "Cortney Penrose! I haven't see your face since Pyke!"
"Aye, my Lord. We shared that barrel of ale together after the end of the siege, along with the others." He dismounted and then bowed formally, before gesturing to a smaller figure on the next horse, who was wearing a hooded cloak. "Lord Eddard Stark, I have the honour to present to you my ward, Edric Storm."
The boy pulled his hood down and then nodded formally in his saddle at Ned. "I am honoured to meet you Lord Stark. My father told me many stories about you in our passage from Storm's End to Dragonstone." Then he grinned in such a way that made him look very like his father. "He did not say that you had a direwolf?!"
Ned smiled a little. Oh, all of a sudden he had such memories flowing through his head. "Welcome to Winterfell. Ser Cortney, Edric, word of your passing was sent from White Harbour by Lord Manderly. You have made good time. Now – let us get you settled in. There is much we need to discuss."
Brynden
Some would probably call the Isle of Faces a very restful place, he thought as he sat grumpily on the bench and stared at the white trees on the other side of the clearing. He wouldn't. He had far too much to think about, starting with, well, the entire damn place.
He'd heard the legends and stories about this place. He knew that Addam Velaryon had come here, on his dragon, to consult with the Green Men. No-one had ever known what he had asked. Or been told, as Velaryon had been killed not too long afterwards. Had other kings come here? If they had then history was silent on the matter.
Brienne of Tarth sat on the other side of the bench. Her eyes were closed and she seemed to be savouring the sun on her face. He wondered about what had brought her here. Did she feel that other pull now? That pull, that drive, to be on the road to Winterfell.
If only they knew what was going on. They hadn't been told much, just to wait – whilst the Green Men (who interestingly enough included women) went about their increasingly busy business. And they were very busy indeed. Many of the older ones seemed to be busy teaching the younger ones about… well, trees. Lots and lots of trees. And how to plant them, tender to them and then leave them to their own devices. He had his own suspicions about what they were planning.
That said, he didn't like waiting. Not with lunatics like the Faith Militant, or the seemingly reborn elements of it, out there. He hoped that Robar Glovett was well, he and his people. The last thing he wanted to go back and then wade through the blood of hundreds of demented smallfolk in the name of vengeance.
"You're brooding again."
Brienne of Tarth had a nasty habit of speaking the truth very bluntly. He sighed a little. "Yes. We still don't know why we're here and what's going on. And I feel a different pull now."
"To Winterfell?"
"Yes." And it was a strong one.
"I feel it too."
He nodded. "I wish I could do something to protect that village as well. You saw the eyes on that mad Septon."
"I did."
Another pause. Just as he was about to speak again he heard boots scuff to one side and looked to his right to see one of the younger Green Men approach, his hood up with the antlers sticking out to each side. "You are both summoned to the Green Man."
They both stood, but Brynden frowned as he came upright. "The Green Man? I thought that you were all Green Men?"
A slight smile played around the lips of the other man. "He leads us, so to speak. He sees further than any of us that are South of the Wall."
That was oddly phrased. "And North of the Wall?"
"That is something for later. Follow me please." And off he strode, almost loping away like a man who was used to long walks measured with long strides. Brynden looked at Brienne, shrugged and then followed.
The Green Man led them into one of the few areas that he had only briefly seen before, one of the older parts of the encampment. The buildings were more ancient here, the wood had moss on it in places, the paths seemed more sunken, the stone more weathered. And at the far end was a stone building that seemed older and more ancient than anything he had ever seen. The Green Man led them to it, knocked three times on the closed door and then opened it and escorted them in.
There was a hall in the building, with a fireplace that had a huge stone for a hearth and an even bigger one for the back of the hearth. There might have been the remains of something carved on it, but it was hard to tell because of the fire. And in front of the fire there was an old man. A very old man, with what showed of his face being deeply wrinkled. He was hunched, which hid the fact that he had once been very tall, and he was wearing a cloak of the deepest green that he had ever seen. His hood was pulled down to almost the lines of his eyes and the antlers that were attached to it looked ancient. As they approached the man caught sight of them and pulled his hands back from where he had been warming them in front of the fire – but not before Brynden caught sight of what looked like terrible burns on one of them.
"Ser Brynden Tully and Brienne of Tarth." Old as the man must have been, there was still strength in that voice. Brynden frowned slightly. That voice seemed vaguely familiar. "I apologise for not meeting you earlier, but I was called away to speak with… well, we'll get to that later. Some friends, shall we say. You must have many questions."
"We have," Brynden rumbled, still fighting that sense that had met this man once, many years ago, or at least seen him. "As we were both called here. We'd like to know why."
A small smile flashed across the old man's face. "Ah," he said after a long moment. "I could tell you, but you wouldn't believe me. I know that you have both heard the Call and that therefore you have the blood of the First Men within you, in some measure. As to why you are here on the Isle of Faces… well, that's for you to discover. And no, Ser Brynden, I am not speaking in riddles. I am saying that you will find out today."
An old and rather gnarled hand pointed to the North. "There's a Heart Tree about a mile that way in the forest. There's a path that will lead you straight to it – this time at least. The tree itself is… quite large. You'll find a mortar and pestle by the face carving. Divide the contents in half and then eat it. Return here… afterwards."
Brynden stared at the old man and then at Brienne and then back at the old man. As he opened his mouth to ask what he was talking about the old hand waved them away. "Shoo."
He went. No, they went, she looking as baffled as he felt. The younger Green Man led them out of the building and to a small path that seemed to twist and turn as he looked at it. Taking a deep breath he led the way. The path did indeed twist and turn, but at least there were no paths that led off it – just this small thin trail. He peered at the ground as they went and frowned a little. What had created it? He couldn't see any hoofprints, or footprints.
Well, there was one footprint. But the number of toes looked… wrong.
After about a mile the path widened a little and he beheld something that made him pause long enough to have Brienne almost walk into him. Then she saw the same thing that he did. The tree. The huge Weirwood Tree. It looked impossibly old but also massively strong.
"That… that tree is so big that… that we should have seen it from outside the island," Brienne muttered in shock. "Why didn't we?"
Magic. No-one said it out loud, not that he could sense it, but the word still pealed in his mind, like a bell.
"Well," he said, deeply shaken, "Let's be about this."
He saw the mortar and pestle as they approached the face. Whoever had carved the face so many years ago had chosen a rather lopsided expression, as if between a smile and a frown. As they halted by it he reached out and picked up the container with a frown. It looked very old of itself, as if it had been carved many centuries ago – and by odd hands. Peering inside he could see that Weirwood seeds had been ground into – into a paste, and the words of Robar Glovett came to mind. "Eat the paste, he said."
Brienne of Tarth stared at him and then also looked into the bowl. "Your friend on the mainland said to eat the paste."
"Aye."
"Looks revolting."
"Aye."
"Will you divide it up?"
"Aye." As he did he wondered just what this would do. How could crushed seeds give anyone a reason for what they were doing here? He sighed, scooped out Brienne of Tarth's portion into her hand, removed his own portion, exchanged an uneasy glance with her and then ate what was on his hand. It didn't taste too revolting, but it wasn't something that he'd recomm-
Darkness fell, and he fell with it. How long he fell for he could never work out. A heartbeat? A moment? A minute? An hour? A day? All he knew was that he fell – and as he did he heard scraps of voices.
"Riverrun! For Riverrun!" "The King in the North!" "Treachery! Woe to the Freys!" "This is my home Kingslayer. And I will defend it." "Honour? The honour of a Lannister? Your honour is worthless, boy." "Blackfish! The Blackfish for the Riverlands! The True Tully!"
When he finally stopped falling… well, he seemed to slow and be suspended in thin air for a moment – and then he saw stone flagstones appear under his feet. He could see statues ahead and amongst them a figure. Wait. That was Ned Stark. He was talking to an old man, but Brynden was too far away to hear them. He tried to step closer but his feet seemed to be nailed to the ground, he could not move them. He looked down at them in confusion and then up again. Ned seemed to be agitated about something – and then shocked. And then the old man he was talking to disappeared, like fog on a hot day. He stared – and then his skin crawled as he realised that all of the statues had somehow opened their eyes. Eyes filled with green fire.
Darkness fell again, and again he fell – but this time for a shorter time. When he opened his eyes again he looked around, baffled. Where was he? It was night and there was water nearby, based on the sound of the waves breaking gently nearby. Then he paused. There was a strange glow on the horizon. Oh and a fire to one side. A man was sitting by it – a man in the robes of the Green Men.
Brynden walked carefully up to the fire. He felt no heat from it. And then man seemed to see straight through him. Was this the Isle of Faces? Then he heard the sound of rowing and he turned just in time to see a small boat be run up on the shore not too far away. Two men sat in it whilst a third dressed in leather armour jumped out and walked to the fire. As he approached Brynden frowned a little. The man had the hair of a Tully, but he had never seen him before. He also looked tired, the kind of tiredness that only a lot of sleep can cure, and also dirty.
"You came then," the man by the fire said softly. "I began to fear that you would not."
"I came. I had to." The other man sat down heavily on a log to one side. "Do you have any wine? I need wine."
The Green Man reached down, pulled out a wineskin from a bag and threw it over to the other, who caught it, unstoppered it and then took a long swallow, before lowering it. "I didn't know that stone could melt," he muttered. "Or men, come to that."
"Now you know better. Was it worth it?"
There was a pause as the dirty man stared into the fire. "Was it worth it? Well, he's dead. Him and his sons. And his fucking castle still burns. He beggared the Riverlands to build it, aye and his own precious Iron Islands. All for nothing."
Brynden felt his skin crawl again – and then he stared back at that glow in the sky. Harrenhall? Was that Harrenhall? If this was the day that it was burnt by Balerion… then this had to be his ancestor, Edmyn Tully. He shivered for a moment.
"Did the Valyrian give you the title I mentioned?"
Another pause. "He did," he said eventually. "He'll proclaim it tomorrow. Lord Paramount of the Riverlands. Ambitious bastard, isn't he? But we are well rid of Harren and his Ironborn scum." He looked at the Green Man bleakly. "So. This will be, as you predicted, my last trip here. There will be those who will say that I should not have come here at all. What do I need to know?"
"There are three things," the Green Man said slowly as he looked into the fire. "All are important. And they are all related to the Valyrian. Or perhaps we should just call him the Targaryen, as Valyria is no more? Gone in smoke and flame."
"Don't get lyrical on me now, Uncle. Three things?"
Uncle? Brynden peered at the Green Man. Tullys had once been Green Men?
"Three things. The first is the steel. He lies. He may say that the secret will be rediscovered, but it died in Valyria, at the Doom. Valyrian Steel can no longer be made."
"Shit. I was promised a sword."
"You'll not get it. Second – the Targaryens were just lesser Dragonlords, not greater ones. As time goes on and proud idiots fail to pass on everything to their sons, well – dragonlore will fade. Best keep that one to yourself. Bury it deep and whisper it to your sons."
Edwyn Tully stared at his uncle. "I thought that the dragons were here to usher in a new age."
"For a time. It's a pity – they're needed. There will come a time, when…" And for a second the eyes of the Green Man darted to Brynden, which shocked him deeply. "When fish are black here on this isle, they will be needed again."
His ancestor took another long pull on the wineskin. "Uncle, that makes no sense."
"Worry not. Just… be aware that the dragons will not always last."
"Very well. And the third thing?"
"Something else was lost at the Doom. Knowledge of a different kind. The Valyrians liked to wed brother to sister. Do that here in Westeros and after a generation or two you have deformed idiots for offspring. The Valyrians had an answer to that." He looked away and winced. "The Targaryens will see that secret spark and gutter and die. Tullys of the future must not trust them."
Edwyn Tully stared at the other man. "Are you saying that they will go mad?"
"Eventually. I have seen it. Be cautious. And that is the third thing."
"Uncle, you are saying that I have bent the knee to a man whose family will eventually go mad!"
"He will unite Westeros. That is needed. The visions from the Old Gods are clear on that. The Starks will bend the knee, they are too canny to do otherwise. Don't worry about the Storm Kings – one will be reborn, after a fashion. Something is coming, Edwyn. Something… far ahead of us. We Green Men will prepare. Protect this isle, as you agreed."
A long silence fell as the two men stared at each other – and then Edwyn Tully nodded slowly. "Very well. It is agreed. You have given me much to think on. And… you said that I will never return here."
"You have a great task ahead of you. Harren the Black looted the Riverlands. You must restore it. You'll be busy."
Brynden's ancestor stood and then passed the wineskin back. "Will… will I ever see you again?"
"No. I have seen that much." The Green Man stood and then embraced his nephew. "Your father would be proud of you. Riverrun endures."
"Riverrun endures. Be well, Uncle." And then he was off, striding back to the boat and the waiting men.
Brynden watched him go. After a while he turned back to the Green Man. "Can… can you see me?"
The Green Man stood and pulled his hood up, settling the antlers in place on his head. "That's a dangerous question," he said. "My nephew couldn't see you. But then he believes in the Seven, not the Old Gods, not really. What do you believe in?"
He stood there for a long moment. "I… never thought about it."
"Time you should then, Blackfish. Time you should. You may not be sure about the Old Gods, but let me tell you something – they believe in you. Why else are you here?" And for a moment his eyes blazed with red fire.
Brynden felt his eyes widen as he stumbled back – and then he was falling again. This time it was for longer – and then his feet hit the ground again. Flagstones, it felt like, but everything around him was black.
Greetings Blackfish, said a voice that he felt rather than heard. We have watched you for some time.
He looked about into the darkness wildly. "Who are you? The Old Gods?"
There are those who call us that. We are simply those that ARE. Those that remain. We have long watched. It's time to do more than that now.
He shivered. "Did you send the Call out? Was that your work?"
Nay, that was done by the Wolfsblood. The Starks as you would call them. We gave them the means to do it, long ago. After the First Long Night and the Alliance of Desperation. And now the Call has been sounded again. Men must listen. You must help them to listen. Otherwise doom will follow. The Others, as you call them, come again.
"The Others? They are not a myth then?"
No, never a myth. A tale the start of which has been shrouded in darkness. The… thing behind them is one of madness and hate for the living. A cautionary tale even for gods. But time destroys memory and long ago something broke free from its prison. Something able to make the dead walk.
He shivered again. "Truly? The tales of the First Men about wights-"
Are true. All of them. But men are very good at forgetting. And others at… refusing to believe. They place their own desires first. And their own hate.
The blackness lifted to reveal a hall – the Twins in fact, a place that he knew and hated. And the hall was filled with fighting men. Men in Stark and Tully livery were desperately fighting with knives against freys armed with swords. An ambush! What was happening? He looked around wildly – and then his blood ran cold. Edmore was on the floor, his chest rising and falling but his forehead covered in blood. And…. he was there. Himself. He had killed one Frey with what looked like a spoon through the eye and was laying about him with a sword, before glancing back at trhe Dais, snarling and then cutting a way out of the nearest door.
He looked at the dais as well. Two red-headed bodies were lying in front of it, He froze in horror. Cat. It was Cat. And next to him… was that Robb? He looked older and wearier even in death. Bearded as well. There was a thin cold-eyed man next to him with a dripping knife – and on the dais Walder Frey was cackling with glee.
"What happened here?"
Treachery and foolishness. All for naught. They all died anyway. The Wolfsbloods are… persistent. But that is not why we show you this. This was the moment that we acted.
"Acted?"
This is a future that will not now happen. A future that we diverted. We took the mind of Robert Stark from the moment of his death and took it back through time.
He stared at the body, stunned. "To when?"
The hall faded from view and a room appeared, smaller and with a bed. And then suddenly the figure under the blankets woke with a scream, before looking about wildly. It was Robb Stark again, but younger and unbearded.
To now. Some months back. He remembers what went wrong and has been working with his father. Truths have been shown to him – to them both. They know about the Others. They sent out the Call. You will need to talk to them. They will need help.
"Help? With what?"
With those who will not listen. The First Men are awakening, but we still stand on the blade of a sword. Things can still go wrong. The hearts of men are hard to predict at times, stubbornness and stupidity can still rule at times. And this must be avoided.
Blackness fell again and when it lifted he realised that he was on the walls of Riverrun. But it was a Riverrun that was different. The air was cold and snowflakes drifted through the air. Men were working on the walls here and there, repairing damage and there was the smell of smoke in the air.
And then he saw the two figures looking out over the ramparts. Himself again, only older and infinitely wearier. He was dressed in leather armour, but had a necklace of small antlers around his neck, with a wicked-looking mace in his belt. And Robert Baratheon was next to him. The King looked older as well – and a lot thinner. Still powerful, but there was a haunted look in his eyes. He stepped up to them to see at what they were looking at and saw a small boat drifting sluggishly through the water, its way blocked now and then by chunks of ice. There was a body in it, judging by the fire that was engulfing it. A funeral boat.
"I always wondered why we burnt our dead," the older version of him spat bitterly. "Now I know."
"A holdover from the old days of the First Men," the King rumbled. "A good thing. Otherwise we'd have wights in your crypts." He sighed. "So much for going North. It would be a death sentence. I've lost enough men as it is – and then had to kill those who came back." He patted his sword and Brynden started slightly. What was that thing? It was huge – and old. And so very deadly.
"A rider came," the older him said eventually. "News from the West. It's true. All of it."
The King sighed. "I feared it was so. Damn that bloody man. Lannisters!" He spat the word with hate. "Fools, the lot of them. Especially Tywin. He wouldn't believe."
"Tyrion Lannister is no fool and he believes. He has to. He leads the last of them South. What's left of them."
"The Westerlands are gone. The North is besieged. Winterfell might be holding out but Ned's last raven said that the Night's King himself was outside the walls. And the Iron Islands… are best not talked about. Any word from anywhere else?"
"Nay. And the new Maester… well, we'll need new ravens. Who would have thought that your old Maester would go so mad?"
"Others will come. Although the ones from the Twins… well, we know what happened there."
Boots scuffed to one side and a tired looking young man walked towards them with a sack in one hand and bowed formally. "Your Grace. Lord Tully." The lad looked familiar – like a younger version of the King, with a shock of black hair and very blue eyes. A bastard son perhaps. "I spotted a wight that looked familiar." And he opened the sack and pulled out a severed head – with blue eyes that opened and closed and a mouth that also moved. Brynden stared at it in horror. A wight? Wait…
The older version of him and the King both peered at the head and then burst into laughter. "The Late Lord Frey!" The other him chuckled and then shook his head. "He begged for help in his messages. And now here he is. So much for the Freys." He pointed to one side. "Put it down please lad. I'll see to this one."
The lad did as he was told and was about to move off when the King held up a hand. "Gendry?"
"Your Grace?"
The King paused for a long moment. "You've done me proud these past few weeks. Shown your mettle like few others. Time it was rewarded. I don't know how long we've got here. I don't know if we can break out South and survive. But whatever we do I want you at my side as my son. You're Gendry Baratheon from this day forwards. I'll proclaim it."
The young man bowed his head for a long moment and then looked up with tears shining in his eyes. "Thank you your Grace. I mean – Father."
The King laid a large hand on his shoulder and smiled at him. "Off you go lad." As he went then the two of them looked back at the severed head. And then the older version of him pulled out the mace, hefted it thoughtfully – and then brought it down on the head of Walder Frey savagely.
And the darkness fell again.
This must be avoided. This future holds no hope. You must work against it, you and Brienne of Tarth.
"Why me? Why her?"
You are both needed. You are both… honourable in ways that many do not understand – but also clear-sighted. You see the fundamental truths that many deny. You both have your blind spots, but between you, you are one. You will need her and she will need you to keep to the proper path. The world rests on this, Brynden Tully, the Blackfish. You are needed.
He thought long and hard. "What would this make me? A Green Man?"
Something like that. The Green Men will be tending the groves again, they will have their duties. They will walk the roads and forests again, as it was before. You and Brienne of Tarth will have other duties. You must convince other men. Even men as stubborn as your nephew – and the Old Lion of Casterly Rock, who must avoid the fate that overtook him in that future we showed you, that of a stumbling wight in the blood-soaked halls of his ancestors.
He nodded slowly. "Very well. I will do this. What choice do I have?"
None.
And then pain annihilated his world as red fire enveloped him for a long instant. When he opened his eyes again he was sprawled at the foot of the tree. Brienne of Tarth was next to him – and as she opened her own eyes and groaned he saw red fire in them for an instant.