Bran looked toward the icy horizon that was expanding before his eyes. Darkness had surrounded the castle of Winterfell many hours before winter had come with it. The castle was sleeping in the exaltation of their victory. Memories of his young time flowed into his mind briefly, as peaceful snow was falling upon Winterfell. His eyes looked into the night, the castle of Winterfell was lighted by the light of the moon, and some torches inside the occupied chambers.
The night was still young, but the battle was fierce, the people need to rest and recover, grieve. Bran knows, he saw it. After the fall of the night king, it's the only thing they can do. They're not prepared for the second war that is to come. From where he sits, Bran can remember all that once was in Winterfell, since its creation. The wall that once stood high against the harsh wind of winter, and the happiness of his ancestors living in peace between in its center. Bran can see their pale figures slowly reenacting their past lives.
He's not begetting a fantasy. Bran sees memories of times where people were happier. Winter had raped every smile on the face of the living. The sepultures of the dead have bent with it, so now they roam free, walking their world once more, for the last time. He sees mothers and children embracing each other, brothers and sisters greeting one another happily, Bran understands that life after death is not given to those who are buried. He sees their forme vanish in the dark of the night one after the other, as they figure out how to leave the world of the living. His eyes diverged from the ground to look for the horizon and the sun that is slowly rising, nights are shorts in the north, and morning is still far.
Bran sees a form that is yet to disappear in the dim light of the morning. He can see her eyes as if she was standing in front of him. Dark brown, an ocean of malicious stars that shines carefully. In the smile she holds up toward him, Bran can see the knowledge she had of him. Her lips moved, but the cold wind took the words from Bran before they could reach his ears. She blinked, her dress was torn in many places, he could see the holes she was proudly harbouring. The early morning sun was reflecting upon her dark hair, making the red in them shine even brighter. A delicate crown made out of tangled roots and some ice was resting upon her head.
She smiled at him, one of her hand passing through her hair. Bran's heart skipped a beat. It wasn't his emotions, for it had been a long time since he felt anything, those emotions were older than he was, they came from beneath his own knowledge, from the firsts Sighted. The ghostly form of the girl he watched from his window was so old that she came from the very first generation living between the walls of Winterfell. She touched her forehead, where a crystal of ice was resting with a finger, a knowing smile was illuminating her face. The wind blew again, taking her form away as she waved at Bran one last time.
Bran could feel his heart crushing as if it was the first time he was seeing death. His palms can feel the wood of his chair as well as the cold wind outside, but he mostly feel the hollow now present in his heart. A crow called in the night the croaking echoed within the walls of the castle and deep into the very soul of the once-was-Stark. A mokering sound for his grief, he doesn't even know why he feel so alone at the moment, for it was a feeling he thought he had under control. The roots-crowned girl with dark eyes is still smiling before his eyes, a memory that doesn't belong to him, and leaves the three-eyed raven alone to his fate once more. After all, he mostly lived in the past. His life wasn't really his, as he knew all of the history behind it. Only the girl remained a mystery.
His hand released his seat from the grasp he had on it. The sun was shining upon the snow, before his eyes, a see of gold and white was expending without end. Bran doesn't move to his bed, it's to late now, or to early. Plus he doesn't really want to do anything anymore. All he wants is to know the name of the brown-haired girl with a cunning smile and sharp eyes, maybe, if he could recall where his memory last had her, he could feel complete again. All he could remember of her was the smile on her face and the feeling of roots upon his head, like a dirty crown resting at the end of his hair.