Summary:
In the aftermath of the destruction wrought by Daenerys Targaryen, King's Landing remains a hollow shell of its former self, its spirit buried beneath the ruins of Flea Bottom and the silence of its haunted streets. King Bran Stark, seated on a weirwood-and-steel throne, uses the weirwood network to manipulate the North, fracturing alliances to keep his hold over the realm. Yet, his attempts to control destiny are shadowed by unease as he glimpses Jon Snow, now Aegon Targaryen, and Meera Reed on paths he cannot fully see, obscured by Howland Reed's magic.
In Winterfell, Sansa Stark grapples with the growing dissent among Northern houses like the Glovers and the Ryswells. Haunted by her resentment toward Jon for kneeling to Daenerys, she navigates the delicate balance of maintaining power while sowing division among her lords and plotting to destabilize the Manderlys and Reeds.
Elsewhere, Howland Reed works to shield Jon and Meera from Bran's sight while lamenting his silence on Jon's true parentage. In the Tower of the Hand, Tyrion Lannister drinks deeply in regret, mourning Jon's exile, the folly of supporting Bran as king, and his own life's failures.
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Notes:
Not sure how fast I will keep the updates coming. I am still outlining where and how I want this to go. I am actually legitimately shocked that one person gave me a Kudos or someone bookmarked it.
Chapter Text
The Red Keep
The Red Keep rose against the horizon, a pale ghost of its former self. Rebuilt stone by stone, its smooth walls gleamed under the midmorning sun, yet no amount of craftsmanship could erase the shadows of what had been. King's Landing, once a vibrant heart of trade and chaos, had been silenced. The city lived, but it no longer thrived. Its spirit had burned with the flames, and its scars lay bare for all to see.
Flea Bottom remained the city's most damning scar. Once a cacophony of life—a place of arguments, drunken revelry, and desperate bargains—it was now a desolate grave. The tightly packed hovels and crooked streets had been obliterated, reduced to ash and rubble by the dragon's fury. No effort had been made to rebuild. What was the point? The wealthy had no need for the slums, and those who had lived there were gone—either dead or fled. In the daylight, the ruins stood as jagged shadows against the horizon, their silence more deafening than the noise they once held. At night, the wind howled through the empty alleys, carrying with it the faint echoes of screams and the phantom cries of children who had perished in the firestorm.
The rest of the city fared little better. The wide streets of the market districts, once bustling with traders hawking wares and the laughter of children running between stalls, now lay empty. The ever-present stink of refuse and shit was gone, cleansed in the fire, but so too was the life. The few survivors who remained walked hurriedly, heads down, as though afraid to linger too long in one place. Even the docks, once the lifeblood of King's Landing, had grown quiet. The ships that came brought goods for the Crown and little else, their crews departing as quickly as they had arrived, unwilling to stay in a city haunted by its past.
Ghosts lingered in King's Landing—not the kind Bran Stark could see through the weirwood, but the kind that weighed heavy in the hearts of its people. They whispered in the cracks of the stones, in the soot-streaked walls of buildings that had somehow survived. To walk the streets of the city was to feel their presence, to hear their mourning.
And above it all loomed the Red Keep. It had been scrubbed clean, its halls reinforced, its towers shining like beacons against the bleakness. But for all its grandeur, it could not escape its history. The Throne Room, once a place of sharp iron and blood, had been remade with smoother lines and the pale, sacred wood of weirwoods. The new Iron Throne stood at its center—a melding of steel and white bark, its veins running crimson like dried blood. It was a quieter throne, but no less a symbol of power.
Bran Stark sat upon it, draped in furs that served only as decoration. He no longer felt the cold. His hands rested on the armrests, his frame motionless, but his dark eyes roamed far beyond the room. They passed through the weirwood network, tracing the threads of the realm with the detached clarity of one who saw too much.
He saw the North fraying, its unity an illusion barely held by Sansa's iron will. The Karstarks were diminished, their house clinging to survival under a pardoned heir. The Umbers, their bloodline reduced to a legitimized bastard, stood on similarly shaky ground. The Ryswells, ever ambitious, cast greedy eyes toward the Neck, while White Harbor's markets lay bare as the Reach squeezed the North for every coin it could spare. Winter was not yet here, but its shadow loomed, and the cracks were widening.
"Your Grace," came the sharp voice of Tyrion Lannister, breaking Bran's trance. The Hand of the King stood at the foot of the dais, scroll in hand, his weathered face lined with concern. "There's been a report from White Harbor. Another shipment of grain has failed to reach Winterfell. Sansa will not take kindly to this."
"She never does," Bran replied softly, his voice steady and cold. He turned his gaze to Tyrion, unreadable. "And the rumors?"
Tyrion hesitated. "The northern lords are restless. Lord Glover openly accuses Sansa of mishandling the grain stores. Lord Ryswell is less vocal, but no less displeased. The whispers grow louder with each passing moon." He paused, narrowing his eyes. "Tell me, Your Grace, how many of these whispers have been… encouraged by your ravens?"
Bran's head tilted slightly, as if considering the question. "The North is like the Riverlands. It is strongest when its currents flow together. When they diverge, they weaken themselves. Division will serve the realm."
"And what of Sansa?" Tyrion's tone sharpened. "She is your sister. Do you intend to let the North crumble under the weight of winter and ambition?"
Bran's dark eyes turned to him, unblinking. "Sansa understands power. She knows how to hold it. Hunger sharpens loyalty. If she cannot endure this, then she was not meant to rule."
Tyrion's lips pressed into a thin line. "And if she cannot endure it, neither will the North. Neither will the realm. Even the wisest players can be outplayed when the board is tilted too far."
Bran's gaze shifted toward the far wall, his focus seemingly drifting elsewhere. In truth, his consciousness stretched through the weirwood network, following threads that led north. He saw Winterfell cloaked in snow, its great hall filled with tense voices and uncertain alliances. He saw the swamps of the Neck, where shadows moved among the reeds. And beyond the Wall, he glimpsed a wolf's pale fur shimmering under moonlight.
Jon.
The thought was like a faint ripple on a still pond. Jon Snow was coming south. Not by Bran's will, but by some greater thread he could not yet unravel. That knowledge gnawed at him, an anomaly in the pattern he had so carefully woven.
"Send a raven to Lord Ryswell," Bran said at last, his voice cutting through the silence. "Remind him of Sansa's… difficulties. And to Lord Glover, offer assurances that the Crown will support the North in the coming winter. Slowly."
Tyrion's eyes narrowed, but he gave a slight bow. "As you wish, Your Grace."
As Tyrion left, Bran's gaze returned to the threads in his mind. The North was fracturing. Sansa played her game with skill, turning houses against one another to preserve her crown, but Bran's threads pulled at those divisions, widening the cracks. Yet his sight was not absolute. There were places even he could not reach, where the mists of the Neck thickened and blurred his vision.
There, he knew, Howland Reed watched.
Winterfell
Winterfell stood as a bulwark against the relentless winter winds, its grey stone walls unyielding against the blizzard sweeping through its courtyards. Inside the Great Hall, the heat from roaring hearth fires barely touched the icy tension. The lords of the North sat arrayed before Sansa Stark, their voices filled with grievances that echoed in the rafters. Above them, the Stark banners hung like silent sentinels, bearing witness to their queen's struggle to maintain control.
Sansa sat at the head of the long table, her back straight and her hands resting lightly on its polished surface. Her gown, a deep grey lined with black fur, spoke of her authority, but her auburn hair, intricately braided, was a crown in its own right. She exuded poise and command, yet beneath her calm exterior, anger and insecurity churned.
Her thoughts strayed to Jon Snow. The image of him kneeling before Daenerys Targaryen, surrendering the North's hard-won independence, still burned in her memory. He had called it loyalty, but to Sansa, it had been a betrayal of everything they had fought for. He had risked their future for a foreign queen who brought fire and ruin in her wake. The resentment festered, warring with the love she still held for her brother. But love was a weakness she could ill afford.
"The grain stores are insufficient," Lord Glover said, his voice rough with frustration. His hands gripped the edge of the table as though holding it would steady his resolve. "White Harbor's trade has slowed to a trickle, and the Reach demands more coin than we can pay. If this continues, our people will starve."
"And what of the failed shipments?" Lord Ryswell interjected, his tone sharp and accusing. "Is it not Winterfell's duty to secure safe passage for supplies? Or shall we wait for King Bran's ravens to deliver salvation?"
The mention of Bran sent a flicker of irritation through Sansa, but she masked it well. "The Crown's support has been… delayed," she admitted, her voice steady. "But the North has never relied on southerners to solve its problems. We will manage, as we always have."
Ryswell's smirk widened. "Then perhaps Winterfell should have chosen a leader more capable of managing its affairs."
The insult was barely veiled, and the hall grew still as the tension crackled like the logs in the hearth. Sansa's hands tightened imperceptibly on the arms of her chair, her blue eyes narrowing as she fixed Ryswell with a cold stare.
"If you believe yourself more capable, Lord Ryswell," she said, her tone icy, "perhaps you'd like to march south and negotiate with the Reach yourself. Or should I send Lord Glover? I'm sure his loyalty to Winterfell is stronger than his appetite for complaints."
Glover stiffened, his gaze darting toward Ryswell. The tension between them was palpable, and Sansa felt a flicker of satisfaction. Division was a dangerous game, but it was one she had learned to play well. If the lords turned their frustration on each other, their focus would be drawn away from challenging her rule.
"My loyalty is to the North," Glover said gruffly, though his tone carried a hint of bitterness. "But loyalty will not fill our granaries, Your Grace. We need action, not words."
"You shall have it," Sansa replied, her voice firm. "The maesters assure me our stores can last until spring if rationed wisely. I have sent ravens to White Harbor and the Vale, appealing for aid. Winterfell will endure, as it always has."
The lords exchanged uneasy glances but offered no further challenges. For now, Sansa had quelled their dissent, but she knew their doubts lingered.
As the lords filed out of the hall, Sansa remained seated, her gaze lingering on the map spread across the table. The North was a fractured land, its unity strained by hunger and ambition. The Glovers and the Ryswells, once steadfast allies, now bristled with rivalry. Sansa wondered how far she could push that tension without breaking them entirely.
Her thoughts shifted to the Manderlys and the Reeds. White Harbor was the North's lifeline, its wealth and trade essential to survival. The Neck, however, was its shield—a treacherous marshland that had long protected the North from southern aggression. Together, these two houses represented the backbone of the region, yet their interests often clashed. What if she could exploit that friction?
A carefully placed whisper in White Harbor could make the Manderlys question the Reeds' loyalty. A veiled suggestion in Greywater Watch might lead the Reeds to view the Manderlys as greedy and untrustworthy. If they spent their energy vying for influence, they would have little left to challenge Winterfell's authority.
Sansa stood, her hands brushing over the map as she traced the pathways of her thoughts. She hated that it had come to this—schemes and stratagems, the same games she had despised in King's Landing. But survival demanded sacrifice, and she had sacrificed too much to falter now.
"Unity," she whispered to herself, though the word felt hollow. "Even if I must break it to preserve it."
Her gaze shifted to the Stark banner hanging above the hall. The wolves of Winterfell had survived betrayal, war, and the Long Night. But winter had returned, and its chill crept not only through the land but through the hearts of those sworn to her. She would see them through the storm—no matter the cost.
Graywater Watch
Greywater Watch, hidden deep within the swamps of the Neck, was a place of both refuge and burden. The fortress, if it could be called that, seemed to shift with the tides and mist, as though it were alive. Its towers rose unevenly from the bog, their wooden frames groaning softly in the damp air. Here, surrounded by the ever-present murmur of frogs and the sigh of the reeds, Howland Reed watched the realm through the eyes of the old gods.
The weirwood tree at the heart of Greywater Watch stood ancient and sacred, its pale bark etched with the flowing veins of red sap. Howland knelt before it, his hands pressed against its gnarled roots. The whispers of the green dreams swirled around him, filling his mind with images of snow, shadow, and fire. The threads of fate were knotted and fraying, and his efforts to preserve them felt increasingly futile.
He saw Jon Snow, standing tall and grim beyond the Wall. The wolf of winter, the dragon's heir. Jon's presence was a ripple in the waters of destiny, an anomaly that could not be ignored. Howland had always admired the boy's quiet strength, his unshakable honor. Yet Jon's path had been twisted by forces beyond his control—forces that Howland had been too silent to oppose.
"If only I had spoken," he murmured, his voice barely audible over the croaking of the swamp. The truth of Jon's parentage had burned in his heart for years, a secret he had kept out of loyalty to Lyanna Stark and the memory of Rhaegar Targaryen. But what had that silence cost? If he had raised his voice, could he have spared Jon the exile, the betrayal? Could he have given the North a leader who united rather than divided?
The thought weighed heavy on him as his fingers tightened around the roots of the weirwood. Regret was a cold companion, but it was not enough to paralyze him. Jon's journey was far from over, and Howland knew his role in it was not yet complete.
Meera's face rose in his mind, her features resolute and weathered by the years. She had carried Bran Stark across the frozen wilderness, fought against the dead, and endured trials that had tested her to the core. Yet, after all she had done, she had been cast aside when Bran embraced his transformation as the Three-Eyed Raven. She had returned to Greywater Watch, lost and searching for purpose. Howland had seen her pain, her frustration, and her yearning for something greater.
"You will find him," Howland had told her when she begged to leave. "You will guide him as you once guided Bran. Jon Snow walks a path none can see, but he will need you at his side."
Meera had accepted the task without hesitation. She had left Greywater Watch with her spear in hand, her green cloak blending with the mists. Howland watched her go, pride and sorrow warring within him. He had sent his daughter to a man who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, knowing that her presence could make the difference between salvation and ruin.
But Bran. Bran was the ever-present shadow. The boy Howland had once known was gone, replaced by the Three-Eyed Raven—a being of cold logic and detached vision. Through the weirwood network, Bran's sight stretched across the realm, seeking to shape it in ways that only he could comprehend. Howland felt the weight of Bran's gaze whenever it drew near, probing the edges of the Neck, reaching for the threads of Jon and Meera.
"Let him not see," Howland whispered, his voice trembling with the effort of his will. He closed his eyes, reaching deep into the old gods' power. "Let the mists rise. Let the raven's eyes grow dim."
The weirwood seemed to pulse beneath his hands, its roots vibrating faintly as the mists of the swamp thickened. They spread outward, curling like fingers of smoke, shrouding the Neck in a veil that even Bran's sight could not fully penetrate. Howland felt the strain in his very bones, the effort of blinding a power as vast as the Three-Eyed Raven's. Sweat beaded on his brow, and his breath came shallow, but he held firm.
Jon Snow must remain hidden. Meera must reach him unseen. Howland could not allow Bran's cold vision to twist their destinies as it had twisted so many others. The North's survival depended on it.
He leaned back, releasing the roots as exhaustion washed over him. The mists swirled thickly now, cloaking Greywater Watch and the paths beyond. Howland stared into the fog, his thoughts heavy with worry. Bran's influence reached further with each passing day, his calculated manipulations fracturing the North and sowing discord. Howland saw it clearly in his dreams: Sansa clinging to her crown with iron determination, the Glovers and Ryswells bristling with rivalry, the Manderlys and Reeds circling one another like wary predators.
"The North is splintering," he muttered. "And Bran would see it broken further if it served his purpose."
His gaze drifted to the weirwood, its red-veined bark glistening faintly in the dim light. The old gods whispered still, their voices mingling with his own fears. He had trusted Bran once, believed in his wisdom, but now he wondered if that trust had been misplaced.
"Jon Snow," Howland murmured, his voice a quiet plea. "You are the wolf, the dragon, the sword in the darkness. If the North is to endure, it will be by your hand."
The frogs croaked in the distance, their chorus rising and falling like a dirge. Howland turned back toward the heart of Greywater Watch, his steps slow and heavy. The weight of the realm pressed upon him, but he could not falter. The threads of fate were fragile, but he would do all he could to see them woven into something stronger.
Tower of the Hand
The Tower of the Hand rose high above King's Landing, a bastion of quiet amidst the scars that marred the city. Inside its walls, Tyrion Lannister sat slumped in his chair, the hearth casting long, flickering shadows across the study. In one hand, he cradled a goblet of Arbor Red, the other rested limply on the armrest. The once vibrant and quick-witted Hand of the King was weary, his thoughts drowning in the wine he had taken up again with renewed vigor.
"The best story," Tyrion muttered to himself, his voice a bitter rasp. "A broken boy with the best story. What a fool I was to believe it."
He drained the goblet and poured another, watching the deep red liquid swirl in the firelight. He had thought himself wise, a man of vision and pragmatism. When the lords and ladies had gathered to choose a ruler, he had spoken with conviction, swayed the uncertain, and handed the crown to Bran the Broken. His words about stories shaping the world had sounded noble at the time. Now, they tasted like ash.
"The best story," he repeated with a derisive snort. "And here we are. The kingdoms fracturing, the North starving, Bran sitting on his throne of ice while the realm collapses beneath him. Did I cast my vote for stability, or for madness wrapped in stillness?"
He ran a hand over his face, his fingers lingering on the deep lines etched into his skin. Regret weighed heavy on him—regret for Jon Snow, for the betrayal he had wrought against the one man who had truly been noble. Tyrion had urged Jon to kill Daenerys, knowing it would doom him to exile. He had told himself it was the only way, that it would save the realm. Yet, watching Jon disappear into the wilderness beyond the Wall, Tyrion had felt only hollow victory.
A knock at the door broke his reverie. He groaned, setting the goblet down with a heavy clink. "Enter," he called, his voice laden with weariness.
The door creaked open, revealing Samwell Tarly. Now Grand Maester, Sam's chain clinked softly as he stepped inside. His face, once round and hopeful, now bore the wear of years and the burdens of his station. He glanced at Tyrion's goblet, then at the nearly empty bottle beside it, but said nothing.
"Ah, the Grand Maester himself," Tyrion said, gesturing toward the empty chair across from him. "Come to lecture me on the dangers of drowning in wine, or to join me?"
Sam hesitated, then sat. "Neither, though the temptation is there." He paused, his hands fidgeting in his lap. "I thought you might want company. It's… a heavy night."
Tyrion arched a brow. "A heavy night? Every night is heavy these days, Sam. The weight of the world doesn't lift just because we choose to ignore it."
"I wasn't ignoring it," Sam replied softly. "I've been thinking about Jon. About what we did to him."
Tyrion stiffened, his hand tightening around the goblet. "What we did," he echoed bitterly. "Yes. We. I, the clever, scheming Hand of the King, persuaded him to murder the woman he loved. Then I watched as they sent him to the Wall—a punishment for doing what was necessary." He laughed, a short, bitter sound. "And the worst part? He went willingly. Of course he did. That's who Jon Snow is. The honorable bastard. The broken thing we discarded."
Sam's eyes dropped to the table. "He deserved better," he said quietly. "After everything he gave, everything he sacrificed…"
"Deserve," Tyrion interrupted, his voice sharp. "A meaningless word. Did my first wife deserve to die? Did my brother deserve to be slain while trying to save the woman he loved? Did Varys deserve to burn for whispering what we all feared?" He gestured broadly with the goblet, his tone growing harsher. "No, Sam. Deserve has nothing to do with it."
The room fell silent for a moment, the fire crackling in the hearth. Tyrion sighed and rubbed his temples. "I thought I could be more. A shadow cast large despite my stature. But all I've done is bring ruin. From the moment I was born and killed my mother, through Tysha, through the blood I spilled in the Red Keep. And now this." He drained the goblet in one long pull, slamming it down with a sharp clink. "And Bran… Gods, Bran. What have I done?"
Sam watched him carefully, his voice gentle. "You tried to save the realm, Tyrion. We all did."
Tyrion's laugh was hollow. "Save it? Look around you, Sam. The North starves, the South stirs with rebellion, and the only man who could have held it all together is beyond the Wall, forgotten. And for what? For Bran's grand vision? A boy who sees everything and understands nothing."
Sam hesitated. "He doesn't seem the same as he was. Bran. He's… distant. Cold."
"Cold doesn't begin to describe it," Tyrion muttered. "He is the Three-Eyed Raven now, whatever that means. He watches us all, moves us like pieces on a board, but for what purpose? To what end? He doesn't care for the pieces, Sam. Not for you, not for me, and certainly not for Jon."
Sam's shoulders slumped. "I thought we were doing the right thing. Choosing Bran, sending Jon to the Wall. I thought it would bring peace."
"Peace," Tyrion said, his voice dripping with disdain. "There's no peace, Sam. Just a fragile illusion of it. A peace paid for with blood and lies. And every night, I close my eyes and see Jon's face. Not anger, not resentment. Just resignation. The man we all abandoned." He leaned forward, his voice a whisper. "I will never forgive myself for what I did to him."
Sam's gaze dropped to the table, his own guilt etched across his face. "Do you think he'll ever forgive us?"
Tyrion shook his head. "Forgiveness? Perhaps. But it doesn't matter. Forgiveness won't fix this broken realm. It won't heal Jon. And it won't bring me peace." He poured another goblet of wine, staring into the swirling liquid. "Peace, like deserve, is a lie."
The two men sat in silence, the weight of their regrets pressing down on them like the cold air of winter. Beyond the walls of the Tower of the Hand, King's Landing stretched into the darkness, its ghosts stirring in the quiet night.
The Red Keep
The Throne Room of the Red Keep was silent, save for the faint whisper of the wind that filtered through the narrow windows. Bran Stark, the Three-Eyed Raven and King of the Six Kingdoms, sat motionless on the pale, woven throne of steel and weirwood. His hands rested lightly on the armrests, his expression calm, but beneath the still surface, his thoughts churned.
A sense of unease gnawed at him. The North had been quiet, too quiet, save for the murmurings of discontent that even his ravens could not silence. Sansa's rule teetered on the edge of unity and fracture, and the threads of fate that bound the northern houses were fraying. Yet it was not the North's politics that troubled him most. It was Jon.
Jon Snow. A name that Bran had long since tried to bury in the depths of his mind. A name that carried with it the weight of fire and blood, of wolves and dragons, and the promise of chaos. Jon was an anomaly in Bran's carefully woven plans, a thread that defied control, a piece that could unseat the entire game. His presence beyond the Wall had brought a measure of comfort, a reassurance that he was far removed from the machinations of the realm. But now, the threads were shifting. The wolf was moving south.
Bran closed his eyes, his consciousness reaching outward, through the veins of the weirwood network that crisscrossed the lands. His sight flew over snow-draped forests, over the icy expanse of the Wall, seeking Jon. But the mists thickened the closer he came to his brother's path, an unnatural fog that veiled the truth. Howland Reed. Bran's lips tightened imperceptibly. He could feel the old man's interference, the ancient magic of the Neck weaving its obscuring shroud.
For a brief moment, the fog lifted, and Bran caught a glimpse—a fleeting vision that sent a chill coursing through his veins.
Jon Snow stood before him, no longer the exiled man of the Night's Watch. He was cloaked in majesty, his figure adorned in gleaming silver armor, the heraldry of wolves and dragons etched into the intricate plates. A thick winter cloak of deep black hung from his shoulders, lined with white fur that shimmered in the cold light of the vision. In his hands, he gripped Longclaw, the ancestral Valyrian steel sword of House Mormont. But it was no longer just the weapon of a bastard; it was a king's blade, held by a man whose very presence radiated command and destiny.
This was not Jon Snow. This was Aegon Targaryen, the conqueror reborn, the wolf-dragon come again.
Bran's breath caught, his fingers tightening on the armrests of his throne. The image shifted, and a second figure appeared, smaller and slighter but no less striking. A woman, cloaked in green, moved through the wilderness. Her steps were steady, her spear gripped tightly in one hand, and a bow slung across her back. Her hair was dark and braided, her face weathered from years of hardship, but her emerald eyes shone with fierce determination. She gazed northward, toward the Wall, her every movement imbued with purpose. Meera Reed.
The vision darkened, the mist creeping back in like a living thing, but not before one final image seared itself into Bran's mind. Crimson eyes glowed in the blackness, burning like the embers of a dying fire. They belonged to a massive silhouette, a wolf as white as untouched snow, its gaze piercing and unyielding. Ghost. The direwolf stood still as a statue, yet his presence loomed large, a silent guardian and a warning all at once.
The vision dissolved, the mists swallowing everything in their path. Bran opened his eyes abruptly, his breath uneven, though his face betrayed no emotion. The chill of the vision lingered, colder than the winter winds that battered the walls of the Red Keep. He sat in silence, his mind turning over the images he had seen.
Jon was more than a brother. He was more than the bastard who had knelt to a queen or the man who had been exiled for a necessary crime. Jon was a threat—a piece on the board that could upset the fragile balance Bran had worked so carefully to maintain. The wolf and the dragon, united in one. Aegon Targaryen, the name whispered in the shadows of history, a name that carried with it the promise of fire and blood.
And Meera. Bran's thoughts flickered to the woman who had once carried him through the wilderness, who had fought beside him in the darkness of the Long Night. She had left his side when he no longer needed her, but now she was moving again, her path entwined with Jon's. What role would she play? Ally or distraction? Guide or destroyer?
The direwolf haunted him most of all. Ghost's crimson eyes burned in his memory, a warning that Bran could not ignore. The wolf was watching, guarding, waiting. Bran felt the weight of that gaze even now, as if it lingered in the edges of his mind.
The Three-Eyed Raven leaned back against his throne, his body as still as stone, but the storm inside him raged. For the first time in many moons, Bran Stark felt a sliver of uncertainty. The threads of fate were shifting, and his grasp on them was not as firm as he had believed. He closed his eyes again, his mind reaching outward once more, but the fog had returned, thicker and more impenetrable than before. Howland's magic held firm.
A cold smile touched Bran's lips, though it did not reach his eyes. "You think you can blind me, Howland?" he murmured to the empty room. "You think you can stop what must be?"
The mists swirled in his mind, and Bran let them come. For now, he would wait. But the wolf, the dragon, and the fire they carried would not be ignored for long.