Bran

'Why only that weirwood?'

That was the thought that kept going through Bran's head. Why was it that the Three-Eyed Raven kept having them only go back to the weirwood in King's Landing?

He knew that his friends were worried about him. That they thought him delusional and naïve and brainwashed. And that was if he was being nice about their opinions of him. They had stopped trying to convince him to eat or get some sleep and just stared at him with sorrowful eyes, shaking their heads and sighing before they went back to what they were doing. And he hated that he was causing them such distress but he knew what he was doing was important. That he needed to master his abilities because he felt it, deep in his gut, that they would be all the difference.

'Will they though?' the dark little voice that had been with him since the moment he had awoken to find his legs useless. 'Or are you merely so desperate to not be a pathetic little burden that you are clinging to any hope you can find?'

Bran forced those thoughts aside.

Osha and Meera and to a lesser extent Hodor were worried about him. Jojen… Jojen not so much. But he didn't actually encourage him like he used to. Merely would stare at him and that would be enough to get Bran to continue on with his lessons. Ser Jaime was often gone and he didn't know what he was doing and when he tried to ask the others would suggest he actually talk to the knight when he was there to find out. But Bran couldn't do that… he had come to realize that Ser Jaime was far smarter than he even gave himself credit for and far more persuasive. Whenever Ser Jaime pressed him about the Three-Eyed Raven and their lessons… his words penetrated him. He couldn't easily shove them away.

But he knew the lessons were important. He knew they were.

He… just wasn't for sure why it felt like they were taking so long.

'All we do is visit that heartstree,' he thought to himself. 'Or the pendant now.' Two days prior they had witnessed a moment between a young Aegon the Unlikely and Ser Duncan the Tall which should have been exciting but the Three-Eyed Raven had spent the entire time wandering around them, looking for spies. He didn't know why and when he had asked the Raven had chastised him for not 'considering all that might be found'. 'It is no where near the Wall or the North. Our enemies aren't coming from the South they come from the North… so why does the Three-Eyed Raven have me looking the wrong way?'

He'd asked the Three-Eyed Raven such things but the old man had merely told him that it didn't matter and he needed to let him worry about such things. That Bran wasn't ready yet to look into such mysteries. But… if the Three-Eyed Raven truly could see into the past he would have known that telling Bran not to do something was the best way to get him to do something. After all, how many times had his mother demanded he not climb the walls of Winterfell…

'Mother,' Bran thought to himself, his eyes snapping open.

He suddenly remembered her, as clear as day. His mother. He hadn't seen her since the accident and yet she was clear in his mind. And he wanted nothing more to see her in that moment, even if it was just a shade from the past. Bran was suddenly filled with the urge to find the Three-Eyed Raven and demand he allow him to see his family. After all, they had seen the Raven's own family many times during their lessons… why couldn't Bran see his own? See his father. His mother. Robb and Arya. Go back to the past and see Sansa again, as she had once been before the Lannisters had clouded her mind and made her forget all about them. Find Jon too… he missed Jon terribly and wondered if things would have been better if he had stayed in Winterfell with them. Find Rickon and see how he was doing with all the changes…

Yes. Yes, Bran decided in that moment… he needed to see his family.

Looking about though, ready to call for Hodor, he snapped his jaw shut.

He had fallen asleep at some point and he dimly realized that his stomach was screaming for food. He looked about the chamber that he and his friends had made their own and saw that everyone else was asleep. Not wanting to awaken anyone Bran rolling onto his Belly and began to crawl towards where they kept their supplies, quietly horrified at how much effort it took. Back at Winterfell he had bene able to move about rather easily; he only needed Hodor to carry him around because Robb had deemed it undignified to have him wriggling on his belly like a serpent. But while his legs had been useless things his arms had been strong from hours spent climbing and they had only become stronger as he had begun to move about in private. But now he found himself barely able to get a few feet before he collapsed onto the cold dirt floor, his arms simply unable to support his weight.

He laid there for several moments, willing himself not to cry. It wasn't fair though… he just wanted to be of some use! The Three-Eyed Raven had claimed he would learn to fly but he couldn't even get a bit of hard tack or salted meat to fill his aching belly! Everyone thought him weak and as he lay there amongst the roots of the weirwood he knew he was weak. Weak and pathetic.

'How am I supposed to help anyone if I can't even make it to a supply bag, let alone to the chamber of the Three-Eyed Raven?' he thought bitterly. He pressed his forehead against the ground and felt the tears he was fighting against sting his eyes. 'How can I learn what the Others are plotting if I can't even move ten feet? Will I need Hodor to constantly carry me back and forth to the chamber? Or… or will that be my home forever? Forced to forever be apart-'

Bran suddenly paused.

'This entire place… it is a weirwood,' he realized, running his hand along the root he had ended up lying upon. 'Why… why can I not…'

Reaching out, Bran pressed his palm against the root, feeling it. But not like how most would have felt a tree root, sensing the roughness in it. No, Bran sought out the warmth of the weirwood, the proof that it was still alive and strong even so far North in the Lands of Always Winter. Bran felt the heat and then allowed his mind to dive into it, much like how he and his brothers had dived into the pools in the godswood during warm summer days, plunging into the dark depths.

He found himself swirling about the Weirwood Network but while the path back to the pendant was bright and clear he moved away from it and made for other paths, ones that lay closer to him. Ones in the North. But the pull of the King's Landing weirwood was stronger than he expected and while he was able to fight off its grasp he still found himself crashing down not in Winterfell but a place he had never been to before.

It was a godswood, he could tell that, but it also wasn't a godswood. Not a true one. It was too… false. Too maintained and orderly. He was used to the godswood of Winterfell, which was a true forest right in the middle of the castle grounds. The area he found himself in was too well organized and it made it utterly off-putting. All the trees perfectly lined up in rows, the grass trimmed down to tiny short shoots, flowers forced to grow in beds instead of wherever their seeds might fall. He could feel the trees complaining about how their branches had been cut so that they all looked the same; a useless thing in their opinion. Beyond that the entire place, despite being quite airy, had a damp quality to it. He could taste the moisture in the water, but it wasn't salty like Theon had commented the sea brought. There was a dampness to everything, so that Bran had the sense that he would never know what it was like to be dry again.

"I suppose this makes for a lovely little garden," someone said and Bran hurried to his feet, looking for a place to hide before he suddenly felt very foolish; he wouldn't be visible to those that were talking, for he was seeing and hearing what the weirwoods had experienced. So instead he stood there and watched as two figures turned a corner and continued along the path.

The first had to be a Stark. There was no doubt of it in Bran's mind. He had Jon and Father's coloring though he was beefier than both of them. He also was smiling openly and broadly which was something Bran wasn't used to. His father and brother weren't joyless but they were always careful about how they showed their pleased moods. They didn't let it explode outward like so many but rather carefully parceled it out, as if afraid that if they gave too much then they'd run out. He wore the grays of House Stark but was far more richly dressed than even Robb when he'd needed to act as the Prince of Winterfell.

Next to him… well, Bran was startled to find himself staring at Sansa. His sisters hair was long and braided in the Southern style she always preferred and she was wearing a deep blue dress that only made it stand out all the more. She moved easily along the path, not struggling at all when it came to her companion and his longer strides.

"This is the godswood," Sansa said.

"Aye, I suppose that's what you've been told," the Stark informed her. "But this is no godswood. When we are married I will show you a true godswood, as it is meant to be. You will see how wild and savage it truly is, allowed to grow free as it should. And then you'll see this is nothing more than a garden."

"I think I perfect the order," Sansa stated.

"That isn't true," the Stark said, suddenly grabbing her by the waist and causing her to cry out in shock. "You like the wild… you just don't know it yet."

"Let me grow, Brandon!" Sansa cried out.

"Never, Cat."

'Cat?' Bran thought before it suddenly struck him what he was seeing. This wasn't Sansa… it was Bran's mother when she was young!

He took a step forward, though he had no idea what he'd do, but suddenly everything lurched and he found himself falling again, tumbling through the weirdwood roots, body spinning end over end. He cried out but no one could hear him, for when the trees cried out no one cared about them, after all.

Bran suddenly landed in the snow, groaning and spitting out a wet mouthful of the stuff, only to scramble back in a panic when he realized he was surrounded by many boots, dark in color so they stood out against the snow. But none of the wearers noticed him and, once more, he felt foolish. But he couldn't help his reaction, as it felt just utterly natural for him to be worried about people seeing him when he stood right before them.

Calming himself he took in the men, who were wildly different from each other. Northern looks. Southern. Various heights and weights and builds. But they were all powerful men, warriors each and every one of them. That he knew for sure. Each could be a hero in some epic tale that would have delighted him back at Winterfell as he sat with Old Nan. They all wore dark clothing, furs and leathers layered properly to provide heat without the danger of causing one to pass out. And their weapons were black too, which was very striking to Bran. They of course had regular steel on their hips, as well as bronze weapons that gleamed in the bright winter morning light, but their main swords, the ones they kept closest to them, seemed to be made of stone. A shiny black stone that at once made Bran, though he didn't know why, think of fire.

The man at the center of the group suddenly perked up, head raised as he looked past the grove of trees they were standing in and Bran heard the crunching of snow. The leader, a barrel-chested man with a thick mustache and a small rather dapper looking hat perched on his head, grunted and took a puff from the strange object he had shoved between his teeth that extended past his lips; smoke came out of the corner of his mouth and Bran wondered if he was a dragon given human form.

"Well?" the leader of the group asked as the new arrival trudged towards them. "What has happened?"

"The Night's King has been pushed back, Dum Dum," the new arrival said.

"What did you call-" a young man near the leader said, bristling in indignation, only to grow silent when the leader held up his hand.

"Its my fucking name, you idiot," the newly named Dum Dum said. "You got a problem with that?" The young man shrank down and the leader turned to the new arrival. "Pushed back or killed?"

"Pushed back," the messenger admitted. "We did all we could… we following your commands to the letter, Dum Dum… but they must have realized what we were plotting because they summoned forth a great ice storm. We lost many knights who charged into the maelstrom. I've never seen someone freeze so quickly." He shook his head, clearly disturbed by what he had seen.

"And… Steve?"

Bran turned and his eyes widened. At first he thought he was staring at his father's cousin, Antony Stark, but the man before him merely looked very much like him and had a similar air about him. But his face was a bit more round and rather than the neatly trimmed beard that Antony had this man had a full beard and long dark hair that hung down to his shoulders. The direwolf of House Stark was emblazed upon his leather jacket and upon his head sat a weirwood crown.

He knew, even without being told, that he was staring at Bran the Builder, the famous founder of House Stark.

The messenger shook his head. "There was no sign of him."

"He isn't dead," Dum Dum said. "And he isn't captured then."

"You can't-" one of the other men near Dum Dum said but the thickly built man shook his head.

"Thanos would have mocked us if he had killed or captured Steve. He said not a word and I saw him as he was beginning the retreat… he was looking for him. He was disturbed that he couldn't find him and he was waiting for Steve to suddenly pop out and attack him with his shield and a smile. No… Steve is still out there, trapped, and I won't stop looking for him."

King Bran though shook his head. "We must focus on the living, Dum Dum… Steve would have wanted that. The Long Night has finally been broken but Winter is still upon us. And many more will come soon. Our lands have been ravaged and our people weakened… we must see to them."

"You will see to them," Dum Dum said and his tone made clear that he wasn't mocking or insulting King Bran for his choice. "You will see to them and ensure that they are well. But we will remain… we will watch for Steve. And the Night's King as well. He is driven back and he has been wounded but he will return. We must be prepared." Dum Dum turned to stare North.

King Bran rubbed his chin. "I have… a few ideas on that. Ones I have discussed with the Children of the Forest and the Giants. Something to help us. A Wall."

"You think a Wall can hold back the Others?" the man that had jumped to Dum Dum's defense asked, it clear he didn't believe such a thing could ever work.

King Bran though smirked. "Wall with a capital W. Something… powerful. Eternal."

Bran wanted to hear more. This… this was the forging of the Wall! And he believed that Dum Dum might very well be one of the first men to lead the Night's Watch! 'But what do they mean that the Night's King was only driven back… what was their plan? And how did they wound him? I need to-'

He stepped forward only for find the ground no longer there. He let out a cry and then he was falling, tumbling down down down without any way to stop. Except that wasn't right because Bran suddenly got to experience something he'd never felt before.

He had fallen plenty of times during climbing… despite his claims to his mother that he had never lost his grip there had been plenty of times that he had fallen during many of his climbs. But he'd always been careful in those early days to make sure that he was near things that would break his fall. Straw. Bushes. Mud. The last one had led his mother to believing he was going through a 'dirty' phase but he hadn't been willing to explain to her that he simply had been finding mud pits to fall in so that he didn't break any bones. As he had gotten older he'd fallen but learned out to catch himself, to the point that sometimes he'd purposely let go and drop several feet before landing on a ledge he knew was there, just for the thrill of it.

The point was that Bran knew what it was like to fall. The terrible, horrible, yet also thrilling moment where one's guts suddenly rocketed into their throat and their body dropped towards the earth with the wind whistling against their ears.

But… he'd never risen before.

Perhaps… perhaps his father had suddenly picked him up. That might be the only thing that came close to what he was experiencing and even then that didn't really match up to what Bran was feeling. His body suddenly yanked up, fighting against the pull of the earth yet managing to break free of its grasp. His guts going into the soles of his feet rather than into his head. Even his dreams of flying had never let him feel as he was now and he shielded his face with his arms-

Suddenly he dropped but it was for such a short moment that he was already back on his feet before he realized just what had happened. He looked about wildly and saw that he was no longer in the snowy lands beyond the Wall but rather in another wet and damp place. But this place… there was an aging to it. That was the only way to word it. It had the weight of years upon it. But not like some places. Winterfell had years upon it but that was because of history. The many deeds done within its walls. No… what Bran was sensing was age. The difference between a warrior that had fought many battles and an old man near the end of his life. Both might feel pains in their body and find their backs bent but it wasn't the same, not really.

The air wasn't like Riverrun, where there had been a dampness to everything but it was free. No… the air was stale, like bread left out to mold. The godswood he found himself in was soggy and he sensed that if he took the wrong turn he might plunge down into the depths of whatever green pool he'd mistaken for grass. Things were rotting in the forest but one wouldn't call it a place of death for in that godswood the dead served a purpose for the living. New plants grew from the fallen ones.

And then he saw the figure walking towards the Heartstree and knew at once where he was.

Greywater Marsh.

"Jojen," Bran whispered, wondering if the boy's greensight would allow him to know that Bran was there. The Three-Eyed Raven had warned him there were people like that, able to see those that journeyed through the memories of the weirwoods. Once the Three-Eyed Raven had claimed that those looking through the weirwoods had been what had driven Aerys mad, for he was able to sense them and knew that they were there yet at the same time couldn't detect them. Bran didn't want that to happen to Jojen though but he wondered… could his friend see him?

But Jojen didn't react to his words and instead moved to stand before the Heartstree that stood in the certain of the godswood, placing his hands upon it, palms lightly touching the bark. Bran stared at the face on the tree, with its small eyes and drooping mouth… only to let out a gasp when above the two weeping eyes a third eye suddenly opened, red sap at once bleeding from it.

"I have come master," Jojen said softly, eyes going shut. "I apologize for the delay but the keep is preparing to move again. My father is not pleased that King Robert passed through here without giving the proper words."

"That… is to be expected," the face on the tree said and Bran was utterly shocked to realize he knew that voice. It… it was the Three-Eyed Raven! "Despite having a Targaryen for a grandmother he refused to learn the lessons of that house. In another life, with a different teacher, he could have been a mighty Dragon Rider… but he came into his lordship too young and the Lord of the Eyrie failed to get him to learn respect for other houses. The actions of Rhaegar… that ensured he did not learn the Old Ways, even with Ned Stark as a friend." The Three-Eyed Raven chuckled at that, the sound so dry that Bran expected to see saw dust come from the mouth. "Though… I believe it is possible his father never bothered to teach Ned… never expected him to need to know. The Moat would be his… what would he need to know of the Greywater?"

Jojen remained utterly still. "We are preparing to move the keep once more and the waterways will be altered. I will soon need to find a new godswood to meet with you in."

Bran blinked at that, slowly lowering himself down into a crouch. 'Jojen… had been meeting with the Three-Eyed Raven? And he calls him master. Why… why didn't he ever tell me this?'

"I have told you many times that I am not bound to this tree, my boy," the Three-Eyed Raven said, his tone so warm and friendly despite how dry his voice was that it startled Bran. Never had he heard his teacher speak to him in such a tone and it was only in that moment that he realized how firm the Three-Eyed Raven addressed him. Even his 'softer' moments were always filled with judgement.

It was as if he had been forced to wear a thin cloth over his eyes, distorting the world and causing him to see things differently than they were. And now that cloth was slowly being lifted, inch by inch, to reveal the truth to him in full. It was a disturbing and horrifying revelation, to see how cruel the Three-Eyed Raven had been when it came to Bran's education. All from a few quietly spoken words.

"Yes, of course," Jojen said, dipping his head even further down.

"When last we met we spoke of your father… have you done as I suggested?"

"Yes," Jojen said quickly. "I told him that I saw the swamp come to a castle that stood against the winter. That a wolf was told the secrets of silver princes and laughing trees and he turned into a dragon and flew South, burning everything. And when he was done he found that it wasn't ashes that rained down from the sky but snow and they covered all but the dead."

The Three-Eyed Raven murmured at that. "Yes… yes, I believe that will be good enough. It is dangerous to speak too openly and too directly about such things… the greensight is known for the vaguely worded warnings they give. As much as I would prefer for you to simply tell your father, no… this should work." The smile fell away from the tree's face, the bark cracking as the Three-Eyed Raven considered him for a long moment. "Jon Snow must never learn of his parentage."

'What?' Bran thought. 'But… but why? Why would Jojen and the Three-Eyed Raven worry about such things?'

"My father has discussed sending my sister and I to Winterfell. I will be able to keep an eye on things there," Jojen said. "I will ensure that the Starks are placed where they need to be. Lord Eddard is away in the South and if all goes as planned he will die there… Robb Stark will be easy to manipulate into going to war."

Bran felt as if someone had grabbed his heart and squeezed it between their fingers, trying to milk every last drop of blood from it. Jojen, his friend who had shown him the path to become something far more… he had been working against his family the entire time? And the Three-Eyed Raven… why would he want any of this? Why would he want to hurt Jon? See Bran's father dead? Why-

"To… Winterfell you say?" the Three-Eyed Raven stated, murmuring more to himself than to Jojen. "Winterfell… yes…" Jojen continued to kneel before the Heartstree but, for the first time since he had begun to speak to the face carved into the ancient bark, he lifted his head and looked up at the tree, considering it confusion. His features screwed up and his mouth twisted into a frown as the Three-Eyed Raven continued to mutter to himself. "Winterfell… sooner than I expected but… yes, a second approach… a second approach…"

"I… I don't understand," Jojen said.

"No, I imagine you do not," the Three-Eyed Raven said. "I have been careful to only let you know so much… that was always the danger. You are a smart child and that always carries a risk. Especially when your desperation was so… stunted." He chuckled at that and Bran was startled by the fire that seemed to burn in Jojen's eyes at that. He wondered what the Three-Eyed Raven was teasing at, for it was clear that the comment meant something to them. "When one needs something it is wise to find one who needs something else and at a greater desire than yourself. Their desperation can help you get them to do things they would have never considered. To ignore their instincts in favor of going for that prize that had taken claim over their heart, even surpassing what once they thought was their entire world. You, dear Jojen, had desire, but never quite enough for me."

He paused.

"But Bran Stark… just might."

Bran wanted to run. Away from the scene or at it… he didn't know. And he never would because he found himself rooted to the ground, unable to stop staring at the heartstree and the now mockingly sweet smile the face carved into it bark.

Jojen clearly wasn't as thunderstruck as Bran. He pulled back, clearly wanting to leave… only he didn't. Bran looked down and let out a gasp, in time with Jojen's own cry of shock, as the red sap of the weirwood gushed from the face's eyes and mouth, latching onto his hands and forcing them to remain in place against the bark of the tree. Jojen fought back but his hands simply couldn't break free of the grasp of the sticky red sap and attempting to pull away only caused him to jerk forward, his face slamming into the tree. He screamed but it was muffled thanks to the awkward way his cheek was pressed against the weirwood, more sap latching onto him and holding him in place.

Then the boy's eyes went red. Not like the fires in a hearth but rather like the sunlight striking the dried tree sap. He knew that there were some in the South that made jewelry out of weirwood sap; Sansa had once made the mistake of asking for such a piece and all of the Great Hall had gone quiet. When their mother had tried to brush it aside their father had ordered her to come to his solar and stormed out mid-meal; after that their mother had never said a word about such pieces and Sansa had been quiet and timid for two days. The way Jojen's eyes shone in that moment reminded Bran greatly of the sap he had seen in the godswood and he dimly understood why some would find it beautiful. But he didn't… not with Jojen's panicked screams filling the air, becoming more shrill and hoarse as he fought-

And then he went silent.

The sap shattered and Jojen pushed away from the tree, rubbing his hands to remove the last bits of it. He looked at the trunk and Bran saw that the bark had become completely smooth, the face gone. He wondered if somehow Jojen had beated back the Three-Eyed Raven, forcing him to stand down from whatever cruel action he had been attempting.

And then… Jojen spoke.

"It will be a shame to lose this tree," he said, his voice dry and scratchy. But not from the screaming… Bran realized that right away. "It served me well. But I believe your form will work wonders for me, Jojen." He took out a knife and considered the trunk for a long moment before quietly putting it away. "No… no I think it better you don't get to see anything. Let the darkness be all you know." He paused, tilting his head. "Oh… and before you think that perhaps help will come remember what you told me: your father is moving Greywater Marsh. This glen will not be visited by the frog-eaters for hundreds of years. And by then… I imagine even if they do find you memory will have left them… and you."

And with that Jojen… no, the Three-Eyed Raven… walked away.

Bran waited until he was sure the figure was gone before he pressed his hands against his knees and began to dry heave.

'He… the entire time. The entire time the Three-Eyed Raven has been pretending to be Jojen. Every moment I spent with him… it was him! But how? How can he be Jojen when I also talked with the Three-Eyed Raven!'

"That… is his power."

Bran turned towards the tree and was startled to see the world around him suddenly shifting and moving rapidly. The sun rose and sank and rose again, the movement becoming so quick that first it was like someone rapidly opening and closing a doorway to a dark room, letting the candlelight appear and then be banished. But then it grew so fast that he found himself in forever twilight, a mix of the light and the dark. Shadows swirled around him, the coming and going of lizard-lions and swamp deer and other creatures. Flowers grew from seed to blossom and then wilted into nothing. And the trunk of the tree cracked as bark fell from it until finally a new face appeared, one that greatly resembled Jojen's.

Bran looked about with worry. "The Raven-"

"He does not know we are speaking. He can not be here… not anymore. Not when he cut himself off from the weirwood network to take over my body. He needs another to view the past now… he did not realize that and I imagine he was very wroth when he realized what he had done. It is why he presses you as hard as he does… he needs you to let him in."

"You were working with him," Bran said, anger coming to him now that he knew that there was no risk of the Three-Eyed Raven watching him. "Against my family."

The face on the tree… well, Bran got the sense that if the trunk could move he would have shaken his 'head'. "I thought I was working to protect all of Westeros. What are the lives of a few when it means the survival of the many?"

"But you weren't willing to sacrifice your sister," Bran snapped. "Your father. Or even yourself. It was okay for others to die but you never sacrificed anything yourself."

"I have sacrificed all!" Jojen shouted, the branches of the tree shaking overhead.

But Bran wasn't cowed. "No… this wasn't a sacrifice. This was you being caught by someone better at the game than you were."

Jojen shut his eyes at that and sighed, his rage leaving him. "You are right… you are right Bran. And my mistake has cost us much."

"How did you come to work with him?" Bran asked. "How-"

"We do not have time for that," Jojen said, cutting him off. "His plan is already in motion… I have sensed it. Soon he will enact it and then all of Westeros will face a danger from a fourth front."

"A… fourth front?"

"Let me finish! I must finish!" Jojen scolded fiercely. "You are right to look to the North. Thanos grows stronger every day and soon he will be healed fully from his wounds and will march upon the Wall. But his attack will not come from just the Lands of Always Winter. The Night's Queen lies in King's Landing, twisting your sister's body further and further into her perfect form and soon she will begin her own march, attempting to trap Westeros in a vice!

"And from the East comes the third threat. Petyr Baelish has seized control of the Ultron Armor of Maegor the Cruel and he has gathered is dark Small Council. Even now they prepare to strike at the Heart of the North, the Vale already corroding from the inside outward. He desires that which was never his and yet he feels was denied him and he will reach out with his metal hand and take it.

"But Bloodraven… he is the fourth front. He learned from the heartstrees and they, believing him an ally, taught him things that no mortal should know. He has begun to push his strength into every Weirwood tree in Westeros and when the time is right he will use them to claim more bodies, shattering the network and creating a Parliament of Ravens. All him… all with the same goal: eternal life and rule. He is close to finding the armor of Aenys Targeryen and should he do so he will claim it as well, to aid him to turn every man, woman, and child into himself.

"You must find the armor, Bran! You must find the armor and defeat Bloodraven! You must not allow him to do to all others has he has done to me! Seek out the armor that was hidden! Ensure that it is forever blind to him!"

"I… but how!" Bran cried out. He felt the world begin to fall out from under him but he leapt towards the heartstree, grabbing hold of it as all but it began to tumble into the fissures that were appearing in the ground; not just the rocks and the trees but the very sky itself till nothing remained but him and the tree that held Jojen.

"Jaime Lannister!" Jojen cried out. "He has been preparing! Do not let Bloodraven know you work with him… do not let him know you've learned his secret!"

Bran's hand slipped and he found himself clinging to a single root.

"Bran… my body… there is a place here… force it amongst the roots…"

But whatever else Jojen was going to say was lost to Bran as he fell once more, then rose, then fell. His body was jerked in a thousand directions-

Then he woke up on the cold floor.

"Hodor?"

Bran looked up at Hodor, the only one awake, and held out his arms to him. Hodor smiled and gathered him up, giving him a hug, not understanding why Bran began to sob.