Brienne
The darkness smothered her and she clawed at it for a moment. And then it lifted. She was standing at the edge of a forest, with statues in front of her. Statues of men and the odd women dressed in archaic clothing. Old armour. Furs in places. She looked about, confused. Where was this place? The statues stood on flagstones and… wait, there were others here. She could see a man with shoulder-length hair talking to an old man. And then suddenly the old man vanished like smoke in the wind. She blinked – and then she saw the green fire in the eyes of the statues. All the statues.
Stark talked to Stark. You stand in the presence of the Old Gods and the ancestors of the Starks, a voice seemed to say, a voice that she seemed to both feel and hear. The blood of the First Men is still strong on Tarth. Still strong in you. And you must be strong. As strong as you were in a future that will not come to pass.
And then the darkness took her again and she fell. When it lifted again she was standing in a tent. A figure was standing to one side with its back to her as various pieces of green armour were piled to one side. And then her breath caught as a man stepped into the tent. It was Renly Baratheon. The man who had danced with her on Tarth, the man who had treated her with politeness that few others ever had, until she met the Blackfish.
She peered at him shyly. He was a comely man, handsome. Not as tall as his brother the King and… wait. As she came to look at him she could see something in his eyes that made her pause. There was an… emptiness there. A look of a man trapped by events. She could tell by the sounds from outside the tent that something terrible was happening here, something huge. The preparations before a battle perhaps?
And the ground seemed to shake under her feet, because the other person in the tent turned around – and it was her. She was in armour as well, good armour too. She held a green breastplate in her hands and helped Renly Baratheon to don it, moving carefully with the straps.
The wind blew in through the flaps of the tent and despite herself she shivered. What was this? Why was she being shown this?
And then… something black and terrible came through the very shadows at the base of the tent. Something evil. She could sense how wrong it was even as she caught sight of it out of the corner of her eyes. She opened her mouth to call out, to warn that other version of her, who was also reacting – but it was too late. A black tendril, like smoke but somehow sharper looking than Valyrian steel, slashed out at Renly – and suddenly there was blood everywhere. It gushed from his neck to his hip and she stared in horror, before giving a wail of grief as he fell first to his knees and then onto his side, his mouth opening and closing. She wanted to fall to her knees, to weep, to help that other version of her, who was desperately trying to tend to a dying man.
"Why show me this," she sobbed. "Why?"
To show you that magic is real. Magic is deadly. This was the work of a shadowbinder of Assai. This was magic used for evil, in a future that will not now happen. Renly Baratheon's death was an empty one in this world, part of a tide of death that we avoided.
She looked up at this, away from the now frozen tableau of death in front of her. "This will not happen?"
No. This was a world that went wrong, a world where the Call was never sent out, a world where death marched on the Wall and no-one cared about it in the South. We acted to change this.
The scene changed again to a room in which a young man slept in a bed. He had red hair and from the vague memories she had of something her father had said once, he looked like a Tully. She found herself shaking less from shock all of a sudden and wondered just how she was seeing this. Was this like a dream? Had her ancestors had such visions?
This is Robb Stark of Winterfell. The Starks are the key to everything. King of Winter of old, their blood was used to build the spells that made the Wall. In that other future he died. Here – he lives. We brought him back in time.
The young man came awake with a shudder and a scream, his hands going to his chest – and then looking down at his bare skin in confusion, before staring around the room in total confusion. "I… was at the Twins," he muttered. "I… I died…"
She stared at Robb Stark in awe. "You.. brought him back from the moment of his death? Then… you are indeed Gods. Did… did the Starks send out the Call? Did Robb Stark?"
His Father did. An ancient artefact owned by his ancestors did it. The Starks know the threat now, as does the North. And those with the blood of the First Men. You heard it.
She had heard it. It still rang within her. "The Others come. The Stark calls for aid. You are needed."
Tarth awakens then. But much remains to be done. There is another future that must be avoided.
More blackness – and then she was standing at the top of a tower. There were four grim-faced figures there – and again, some other version of her was one of them. She stared at that other version of her. Her hair was a little longer, but not overly so and a thin scar marked her cheek. She wore a necklace of small antlers, but it was her eyes that had really changed. They were the eyes of someone who had seen far too much. She'd seen such eyes on the faces of veterans, those who had seen far too much.
The other three… well, judging by the runed armour one was Bronze John Royce. Another was Lord Arryn, looking old but still formidable. And the third was a black-haired, black-bearded man in dark leathers, with a nose that looked as if it had broken and then reset at some point.
Brienne looked over the ramparts and then felt herself paling. A steady stream of men and women were passing down the road to one side. Judging by the Sun they were all heading South – and they were desperate. She could see that many were gaunt with hunger and many others wounded – and that all were armed in some fashion. Even the women were carrying what looked like crude spears, with some kind of stone attached to the tips.
"This is no longer a war that can be won with the old tactics," Lord Arryn said wearily. "The Knights of the Vale are no more. Heavy cavalry cannot charge the endless ranks of the dead. Not without being swarmed over – and adding to them. This is a war of the First Men now. First Men magic and First Men tactics. I will return to King's Landing and send supplies. Lord Royce – this is your war now. Lord Cassley – I have paid a part of your debt, as you asked. Your service to House Arryn and Westeros remains exemplary."
The black-haired man smiled wryly. "Thank you my Lord. If I live to see her again I doubt that she'll ever speak to me again for having her sent away, but given what's at stake... aye, you have my thanks."
Lord Arryn nodded in response and then shook his head a little. "I would give all the gold in the world to see my son just for an instant."
"Winterfell holds out, my Lord, despite all that the Night King has thrown at its walls," that other version of her said. "And Ser Brynden is with the King in Riverrun. Hope remains, though the thread grows thin."
"Grows thin indeed, with the Westerlands gone. Our Western flank is gone and the Martells are panicking. Well – all we can do is fight. Lord Royce – your runes could provide us with the edge we need to delay them at the very least."
"I pray to the Old Gods that it will be so," the bearded man in the runed armour growled. "Much has been lost over the centuries and even we in Runestone do not know if it will be enough. We need more of everything. Valyrian steel. Dragonglass. Knowledge. And time."
All four looked grim at that. "Time," the other version of her said with a shake of the head. "The one thing we need more of."
And then things seemed to shimmer and freeze. She looked around.
This future is one that must not come to pass. We brought Robb Stark back in time because there was a war between men, a war that stilled the voices.
"The voices?"
The voices of those who worship us. The war stilled too many. As would this future. This is why it cannot happen. It must be stopped. You and Brynden Tully are the ones who must stop it.
She stared around again. "How?
There are those who deny the Call. Who deny that the Others have awoken again. Who would place their own petty desires and politics over those of this world. They must be persuaded. We stand on the blade of a sword – the slightest thing can tip things one way or another. The Riverlands must be alerted – as must the Westerlands – to the threat that lies ahead. The North must be supported.
"And I have been chosen for this? Me and Ser Brynden? Why us?"
You both have a sense of honour and justice that few others have. You both persuade others to find that better part of themselves. You both believe that the world can be better. And in all the futures that we have seen you keep fighting when others would despair and give up.
She felt vaguely proud at that. But she also felt stunned. "Very well," she said eventually. "What will the cost be?"
The Green Man will tell you, for it has been his burden for too long. Prepare yourself.
"How can I prepare myself?"
But there was no answer. Instead red fire seemed to fill her eyes and every part of her body. She opened her mouth to scream – and then she was back in front of the great Heart Tree, on her back and feeling as if the weight of the world had been laid on her for a second. She groaned and opened her eyes and then turned to look for the Blackfish. He was next to her and he seemed to be staring in horror at her – and his eyes were filled with red fire, which blazed brightly and then vanished as if snuffed out.
There was a long moment of silence and then he croaked: "Your eyes… they were filled with red fire."
"So were yours," she replied shakily. "Did the Old Gods speak to you as well?"
"They did. They showed me… they showed me visions. Of the future. One in which there was a… a war. Betrayal. Treachery. And another in which… the Others were in the Riverlands and had overrun Casterly Rock."
Shock roiled through her. "You were in Riverrun, with the King. Winterfell was under siege."
He stared back at her. "Yes. You saw it too?"
"I saw… myself. With others. Lord Royce I think. Lord Arryn. And someone called Lord Cassley. We were discussing the war against the Others. I do not think that we were winning."
The Blackfish stood with a groan and then peered at the Sun. "Well, several hours have passed. It feels like but a moment, despite all that we saw, but hours have passed." He held out a hand and she reached out and grabbed it as she levered herself up. There was a moment of dizziness and then it passed.
"It seems that we have a task to perform," she muttered. "And a future to prevent."
"Aye," he replied. "A dark and terrible one too. Those who heard the Call but reject it must be… persuaded. I feel that I am an odd choice for that, but it seems that we have been chosen together."
"I asked what the cost would be," she said as they both made for the path that would lead back to the building where they had started off from. "I was told that the Green Man would tell us."
"Aye," he said again. Then his brow furrowed. "From his hand… well he would know about cost. He was badly burnt at one point. His voice though… I have heard it before, or I have met him in passing before at some point… when though? It must have been a long time ago. A very long time ago."
It was at that point that she realised something. "This is not the same path that we came down. I mean, it goes in the right direction… but these are not the same trees."
He peered around. "You're right," he said in astonishment. Then he looked down at the ground. "Wait – tracks. Someone small has been up and down here." And then frowned. "Someone with odd feet. Not enough toes. Odd."
They pressed on and after a while she could see the hall that they had left what now felt like a lifetime ago. There was no-one outside it, but as they entered they could see that the Green Man was still sitting by the fire, staring into it. As they approached he looked up, allowing the hood to shift a little – and Ser Brynden stopped dead next to her, staring at the man as the blood drained from his face.
"You're dead," he muttered eventually. "You're supposed to be dead. Everyone said that you died. After… after…"
"After Summerhall?" The Green Man smiled bitterly. "Oh, I wanted to die after that." He pulled the sleeve back for a moment to reveal the terrible burns on his hand. "I failed, you see. I failed to protect them. And not just from the fire."
It was her turn to stare. And then she made the connection and felt her eyes widen and her nostrils flare. "But… if you are who I think you are… that would make you more than a hundred!"
The Green Man smiled again, this time faintly. "Being the Green Man has its… peculiarities. After Summerhall I came hear seeking answers. I found them – but not the ones to the questions I was asking. I found bitter truths here. And… a measure of peace. As well as something else."
The shock was still rattling through her mind, as she thought about the tales she had heard… and the shield that she had found in the armoury of Tarth. "I… I am Brienne of Tarth."
The Green Man stood slowly, his back crackling as he straightened up. He was at least six and a half feet tall, but from his slightly crooked back he had once been closer to seven feet tall. "I know," He said with a smile. "Hello, great-granddaughter. You have made me so proud. You did not just hear the Call, you came to the Isle of Faces."
She had no idea what to do, or say, or how to react – but the Green Man took the decision out of her hands by approaching and hugging her gently. "Come," he said as he released her, "Both of you. Sit. You have been chosen. The Old Gods are with you. I sense it. They chose me too once. My time is passing. A new time is upon us – if we can survive the storm that is upon us. And a black and terrible one it is. You have been shown visions."
"We have indeed," the Blackfish muttered as he sat down by the fire. "The Others come. We have people to persuade about the threat."
"Aye," the Green Man agreed. "And I have one last fight in me. One last war. The Green Men will go forth from here for the first time in centuries, to tend the groves of the First Men. And... the way must be made safe for our allies."
She swapped a confused glance with the Blackfish. "Allies?"
The Green Man did not reply, but instead looked up. It was only then that she saw the little figures sitting in the rafters. Figures with green and gold eyes – and some with eyes of moss green or blood red. And both hope and wonder stirred in her heart.