This chapter was edited by Gladiusx.

Winterfell

The castle was lively as news of Ser Rodrik's victory arrived, despite how empty and abandoned it felt following the departure of most of the garrison and the masons and builders who followed Rickon north. Still, Bran only felt unease as the days passed, and they awaited the Castellan's return with the turncoat. Bran had tried to fly to the west and see for himself, yet no matter what raven he skinchanged into, it would struggle madly to release itself from his hold, barely a dozen miles from Winterfell. Trying to go the long way around, whether from the north through the Wolfswood or south through Barrowton, resulted in the same; mad ravens and severe pain in his head were the only fruit of Bran's efforts.

Something was hiding what happened in Torrhen's Square from him.

"Make sure the gates are closed when Ser Rodrik returns," Bran warned Luwin as the Maester deposited a couple of scrolls on the desk. "I want to be there before they allow anyone in."

"You suspect foul play?"

"I don't know, I just have a bad feeling." Bran did not know how to voice his concerns. Even if Maester Luwin had been enthusiastic about his magic, he only studied it as a curiosity, forging a single Valyrian steel link and did not understand much about it. "Ravens?"

"Aye, one from the Dreadfort and another from Riverrun."

Bran wondered why the Boltons would send him a raven, so he opened it first and chuckled. "Sansa and her husband had freed the Hornwood and had just taken the Dreadfort. They plan to continue to Karhold to muster their troops before deciding on a heading. Apparently, she was forced to burn the Hornwood keep, as the Bolton men holed up inside refused to surrender, which scattered all of their ravens. I wonder how Lord Bolton will react to that?" He opened the other scroll, and his eyebrows climbed to his forehead, "I suppose he shall not need to worry about that."

"What is it, Prince Bran?"

"The Northern army was defeated outside of Harrenhal. The Kingslayer slew Roose Bolton before routing the rest of the army."

"By the gods! That's terrible news."

"Uncle Edmure forwards a command from Robb, who has left half of his army in the Westerlands and is on his way back to Riverrun. We must ramp up recruitment efforts, but most importantly, he wants more warhorses." Bran stifled a yawn as he handed the scroll to the Maester; he had not been sleeping well lately. "Are we capable of purchasing more?"

"I will need to consult Joseth as the master of horse, but I do not have high hopes. It is not really a matter of wealth, but rather the simple availability of warhorses." The Maester fiddled with the chain on his neck before sighing. "King Robb had taken the finest horses in the Stark lands, and those that remained in the manors and estates were the foals, the mares, and the aging studs. If it wasn't for the war, we could have organized hunting expeditions to capture and tame the multitude of wild horses roaming the lands. Or perhaps called for a horse fair and invited horse breeders from all over the North, or even the other kingdoms, to introduce new stock, but…"

"The North has too many enemies, and such a fair would be difficult to plan, let alone protect with enemies plaguing the land." Bran rubbed his brows at the disaster his brother was now facing. "At least there's a silver lining; Our Bolton problem is now permanently resolved. I will pen a letter to Sansa to annex the Dreadfort and its lands with my blessings, and we can deal with who gets it later."

"Very good, My Prince. The raven is well rested and can depart for the Dreadfort before the sun sets."

"Good. What's the status of the garrison?"

The Maester grimaced, Luwin was incredibly helpful and loyal yet he simply was not knowledgeable in matters of war. Most of the links in his chain were gold for sums and money, silver for healing, or brass for engineering. He still forged at least one link in every subject, as was expected from a maester, yet the sole Iron link in his chain spoke of how little he cared for the art of warfare.

"We have less than three hundred men, nearly all of them half-trained with little to no experience in leading, let alone fighting."

"Three hundred men are barely enough to fully garrison a single gate and a small section of the walls around it." Bran sighed; his time ruling Winterfell had forced him to learn many things, the most important of which was how to defend a castle. "How many residents are left in Winterfell and Wintertown?"

"Wintertown is nearly deserted now that most residents moved north in support of the Watch. Between both the castle and town, there are less than two thousand souls living here."

"And there is no chance we could form a levy out of them?"

"Hardly. Most of those who remain are women and children. Perhaps some greybeards could take up a spear or a bow to defend their home from the safety of the walls, but I doubt they would be capable of any sort of training or fighting in the field."

Bran tapped the desk in thought, finding that there was little they could do to further strengthen House Stark in any meaningful way. What did his father say to Robb once?

"Even the most skilled of men cannot squeeze water from stone."

He was loath to admit it, but their best option was to wait for Ser Rodrik to return and then endure any potential attack from the Ironborn until Sansa and her husband arrived with the full muster of the east. It sounded simple, yet Bran could not help but worry about Ser Rodrik and how he could not get any ravens to fly to the west.

Worse, the Ghosts of Winterfell had been restless and appeared to be fighting… something. If only Bran could talk to them, yet they were not a true force to be relied on, as he had not seen them capable of affecting the physical world.

He was awoken from his thoughts by the Maester, "Prince Bran? Was there something else you wished to discuss?"

"No, that would be all, Maester. You are dismissed."

That was two days ago, and now, Bran was in the Godswood, relaxing under the Heart Tree's red canopy - the sun barely visible through the clouds and light fog that covered the castle. His two guards, Barth and Calon, who had replaced Walder's position, were a respectful distance away, holding Dancer's reins. The docile filly was feeding on a sack of oats, and Bran recalled how Luwin had warned that the Godswood was not a place for a horse, yet the intelligent mare was obedient and did not even defecate without permission.

He closed his eyes as he rested on the roots, easily slipping into the skin of a raven flying over the castle. The early morning fog hid the grounds outside the castle yet Bran could see the castle's residents going about their day. He frowned slightly when he found the two Frey wards, Big Walder and Small Walder, playing dice and drinking ale with some of the guards by the west gate.

Bran was tempted to cut the connection and have them reprimanded for distracting the guards, but decided otherwise. He would rather check on Rickon instead.

Turning the raven North, Bran flew for a few minutes until he felt another connection further away. Focusing on it, he jumped from the raven to another one he released earlier flying north to Coldwatch - Maester Luwin would most likely not be amused to find the only raven to the Norreys missing but Bran was certain he could have him return after his jaunt.

He still could not fly west, and the harder he tried, the greater the pain and the more terrible the visions that assaulted his mind. A massive demonic figure in a dark place seemed to laugh at him, and Bran nearly lost his mind if not for that same ghost of a powerful man wielding a hammer to bring him back. That was yestereve, and Bran dearly wished they could send any riders to the west to meet with Ser Rodrik, yet they had no more horses aside from drays or donkeys, not fit for riding.

Instead, he sent Summer to the Wolfswood in an attempt to circumvent whatever barrier was in place that blocked his vision. A nudge in his mind showed success as he could easily see through Summer's eyes!

Summer had gathered a following of wolves, however, and Bran had to remind his companion of his mission; having his own army of wolves was one thing, but Bran needed to know what was happening with Ser Rodrik. The direwolf felt bashful as he turned south and hurried through the woods to follow his command, his furry army following along.

Shaking his head in amusement, Bran returned to the raven and, within a few heartbeats, was flying over the Northern Mountains, enjoying the beautiful and picturesque land, from the snow-capped mountains, the glaciers, ravines, valleys, springs, streams, and so much more!

How he longed to run up the hills, climb the highest peaks, and ride through the valleys; Yet it was not meant to be. He continued flying north until he arrived at the seat of the Norreys, the northernmost house of the clans.

Their castle, Coldwatch, was built along the headwaters of the Last River, the northernmost castle of the North, though the Umbers of Last Hearth would argue that theirs was the one. It was a point of contention between the giants and the clansmen that usually started many arguments that his father would be forced to mediate, more likely than not by having champions between both sides fighting it out.

The castle was hardly a grand one, even smaller than Cerwyn castle, yet it was solidly built on a hill and surrounded by a large village. Bran smiled as he saw many Northmen working the fields in a valley as they plowed and planted for the warm months harvest - the cold months were here and already, summer snows were covering the land.

Men, women, and children fished in the streams and rivers, but, most importantly, preparing for war. The lands of the Norreys historically stretched even further north into the New Gift, yet with Alysanne's gift cutting their lands by half, many formed villages and towns around the main castle. Flying further north, Bran was surprised to find many more communities well inside the New Gift but still within the mountains, clearly not thinking much about the Good Queen's decree.

It was there that Bran finally found his brother in one of the villages that he realized was repurposed to be a war camp. Rickon was with an old short man, slight of build but sly-eyed and spry. He resembled an old fox clad in fur and iron, yet as he showed his brother how to swing an axe, he still retained strength that belied his age. Shaggydog was playfully chasing some dogs nearby, though judging by their wide eyes, they did not seem to enjoy it as much; Palla was chasing after the direwolf with a brush, cussing up a storm, and Bran looked around until he found Osha staring morosely at a large upturned wooden tub, soap bubbles and steam floating away.

Satisfied that his brother was in good hands and clearly having the time of his life, Bran continued flying further north, feeling the limitations of his control over the raven. Within an hour, he arrived at the Shadow Tower, gazing in wonder at the massive Wall, before veering west to Westwatch by the bridge, just south of the Bridge of Skulls, to find the castle brimming with life.

It wasn't much of a castle, for it had only a single curtain wall with one gate facing the bridge and two towers at each end of the wall that overlooked the narrow bridge and the gorge. It was clear that it had seen far better days; Hardly any of the crenelations remained, yet the masons were busy rebuilding what they could, and even now, the gate was being reinforced with a proper iron portcullis - one donated from Winterfell's stocks. Bran spied a few rusted poles abandoned nearby that must have been the old portcullis.

A team of builders was busy rebuilding what could be recovered from the abandoned buildings. Another was constructing a wooden palisade around the castle while a last one oversaw the construction of two wooden towers attached to the walls.

There were barely a hundred Black Brothers in the castle, most of them working with the builders, yet Bran recognized many of the Stark men he sent and many more Clansmen. There must have been nearly three thousand fighting men and even more in workers and laborers in the castle and its vicinity. Many long houses and halls had sprung up to house all the men. Flying to the west, Bran also saw a new fishing village with several boats out in the Bay of Ice sailing back with the day's catch.

Something whispered his name, and Bran looked around but found nothing. Shaking his head, Bran ignored it and turned north towards the gorge.

He tried to get beyond it, but his head nearly exploded in pain the closer to the Wall he got, which confused him as he did not think the Wall's protections extended so far west. Nevertheless, he was satisfied with the defensive measures the Northmen were taking against the coming threat. Bran flew towards a wooden hall that had many banners and pennants placed outside to find several men speaking around a table.

"… Scouts report a large force led by the Weeper approaches. We believe he is the vanguard to an even larger force." A Black Brother reported. "The Lord Commander's plan is working, and the wildlings have failed to cross the Milkwater. Unfortunately, that means we must expect to face the full might of their army to come here, the only feasible way south unless they risk scaling the Wall."

"And the savages will do it." A man with an enormous beer belly scowled, "There are too many abandoned castles on the Wall to cover every section of it, and Jeor has far too few men to fully cover every single crossing. If Mance Rayder had any wits, he would swing back and storm the remaining crossings, no matter the losses. They will scale the Walls and try to bugger us from behind, you have my word on that."

Several murmurs of assent came from the rest of the table, and Bran recognized Walder towering next to the commander of the Stark contingent, Gareth Mollen, the third and youngest son of Edwyle Mollen, who, like Donnis Poole, was also trained as an acolyte by Maester Luwin. A good archer and horseman, though barely a year older than Robb, Gareth brought far more useful skills than simple martial prowess, as he was also an engineer. He was responsible for the walls and towers, and Bran wagered that once they were completed, they would have scorpions or mangonels built on top courtesy of the man.

There were many other notable figures, all of them Clansmen. Still, he only recognized Brandon Norrey, the Younger, from when he visited Winterfell years ago with many of the Clansmen to resolve a dispute.

"… Need more supplies for the Shadow Tower and the ranging." Bran focused back on the Black Brother speaking. "Qhorin Halfhand has less than a hundred men against the hordes of wildlings. Some volunteers to join the ranging could be planned and make sure as many of the savages remain west of the Milkwater as possible to…"

Bran's head pounded as someone kept calling his name urgently, but he did not want to answer. He was having so much fun flying and inspecting the results of his decision.

Still, the pain was harsh as he could barely focus on what the men were saying.

"… Heard The Ned's son is wreaking havoc on the savages from further north."

"… Wait, Wynch? You're a squid?!"

"Calm it, Buckets. Aladale is a brother of the Night's Watch before anything else."

"Aye, true that. Apologies, lad, you serve the Watch with honor."

Exhaustion hit Bran like a charging bull, even though whoever was calling him sounded hysterical. Was it a ghost? Or maybe it was the Three-Eyed Crow? He did mention that he was beyond the wall. Why bother calling for him now? Still, as the pounding in his head reached a crescendo, Bran decided it was time for him to leave, even if he wished to learn more about what Jon was doing beyond the wall.

Right before he cut the connection, a horn blast came from the south, and a sentry entered the hall. Bran barely managed to keep focusing on learning what happened.

"My Lords, the Umbers have arrived."

"About damn time!" Norrey grumbled though he was also grinning. "How many?"

"A thousand, but they bring more in supplies."

As the men cheered and moved to greet the Umbers, Bran decided the Wall was in good hands and cut the connection, sighing in relief.

Only to hear screaming, steel clashing against steel, and realize he was being carried by one of the guards as they hurried across the courtyard towards the great keep, the other guard leading Dancer.

"What's happening?"

"We're under attack! The Ironborn have managed to get through the curtain walls." Barth replied, the worry clear in his voice. "We must get you to the keep, My Pri–"

Pain erupted as an arrow sprouted from Barth's throat, and it's barbed edge continued until it pierced his chest. Bran collapsed just as Calon shouted his name, and Dancer neighed.

And yet, Bran did not at all feel any sort of worry, despite the pain in his elbows from the fall and the barbed arrowhead stuck in his chest as the shaft broke; all he felt was detached curiosity as the world seemed to slow down around him and he instinctively skinchanged into a flying raven and inspected the situation.

There were many people running around like headless chickens inside Winterfell's inner castle. A lot of them were noncombatants, who hurried inside the keep or guest house or any other building, yet Bran spied about a hundred of his guards trying to close the gate as they fought against the invaders. There was no question it was the Ironborn; how they made it inside the castle did not matter, but considering they were garbed in Stark colors, he could hazard a guess.

Gazing at the Hunter's Gate to the west, he lamented the sight of many dead Stark guards littering the outer courtyard and the drawbridges. Some of them had been pushed into the moat below, their young faces frozen in horror - Bran recognized one of the Frey wards with his skull split. His orders to close the gates were not heeded, whether out of malice or incompetence; it did not matter. There were many reavers inside the castle, spreading out wildly into the outer courtyards as they killed any man they saw. Thankfully, the Battlements Gates leading to the different sections of the castle were sealed, though the Ironborn could cross it if they gained access to the walls.

The biggest worry came from the inner castle's gate, where many reavers had already made it past the portcullis, two large beams of wood were placed to keep it raised. Bran spied the savage, snarling face of Theon Greyjoy leading the assault, his form frozen as he balanced on another Ironborn's shoulder to get a height advantage; a bow was in his hand as he grinned manically at his fallen form.

It was then that Bran realized he could not move the raven, for time truly had stopped. The situation looked dire, as the few defenders fighting at the gate were about to be overwhelmed, yet he did not know what to do. They did not have enough men, and they lost their only advantage, the safety of the walls. There must have been a thousand Ironmen already inside Winterfell!

Slowly, panic began to set in Bran's mind; was this how Winterfell would fall? Through the foolish actions of its acting lord? If only they had more men… men who were now preparing for war against the wildlings.

"Call for us, Son of Winterfell."

Bran froze at the sound and found himself facing the same ghost he was sure was an important ancestor. There were many more appearing behind him, and more importantly, many of them had direwolves floating next to them.

For once, Bran could see them far clearer than at any other time. "You can talk?"

"We could always talk, yet it took time for me to acclimate to the new tongue of my descendants as well as for our voices to reach you." The hammer-wielding warrior uttered, his lips quirking in amusement. "You can thank your goodbrother for claiming all those Weirwoods. It had allowed us to better interact with the mortal world, once again."

To say Bran was confused was an understatement, Sansa's husband did what? It did not matter, not when Winterfell was falling around him. "Who are you?"

"I am the one who witnessed the fall of Winter and built a castle to stand the test of time in its place. I erected the great barrier and many more, yet those do not matter now. Winterfell is about to fall. I and many of my descendants would rather that not happen."

Brandon the Builder! He focused on the rest of the ghosts and confirmed what he had always suspected: many of them had crowns, yet a few did not. An elderly ghost resembling a tapestry of Cregan Stark, a gaunt man with a grin more manic than Theon's and eyes filled with even more hatred as he glared bloody murder at the reavers than Bran thought possible, a morose man whose crown seemed to be fading. There was even a sad girl standing in the back next to two men who looked suspiciously similar to his father and Uncle Benjen.

"Why aren't you helping, then? You could help, right? Smite the Ironborn and rid Winterfell and the North of the scum!"

"If only it were that simple. We lack the power to manifest in the world, even if magic has steadily grown stronger. A time will come when spirits and gods will directly interact with the mortal world, yet it is still too early for that."

"Then… is there no hope for us? I was the one who foolishly sent away most of the garrison. Ser Rodrik is dead, and most likely the rest of his army." Bran felt despair clutching his heart as tears formed in his eyes. He raised a hand to wipe them away, only to find them ethereal and white - like a ghost. "Am I already dead? What's the point of any of this, then?"

"You are not dead. The arrow missed your lung and barely scrapped your ribs. You will recover after some rest… however, it seems time is running out."

Bran flinched as the sound of battle returned. Shouts of his name caught his attention, and Calon moved Barth's body away from him before carrying him. Dancer, that smart and loyal horse, stubbornly remained beside him as another arrow nearly hit Calon but struck the saddle instead. The fighting at the gate was brutal, and the Ironborn were steadily gaining ground, even as the defenders threw rocks and boiling water at them from above. It was as if the Ironmen did not feel any pain as they all roared and screamed in agonized ecstasy before they continued to fight.

"You can save us. You wouldn't be so cruel as to keep me here while my home falls. You can save us!"

"We can. But a price must be paid, young greenseer."

There was power in those words, and Bran felt trepidation before he gritted his teeth. "Name it. I will do anything to save my home. To save Winterfell and my people!"

The Builder smiled warmly, "Spoken like a true Son of Winterfell. First, you must believe, then you must pray."

A*H*M

Hundreds of miles to the east

"Fuck!"

Percy grabbed his head in pain as he nearly fell off Blackjack. The stallion neighed loudly, grabbing the attention of the rest of the column as the pounding in Percy's head reached a crescendo. Just a minute ago, he was talking to Sansa and her friends in their fancy carriage while he rode next to them, a thousand more warriors escorting them to Karhold, but the sudden onslaught of screams of pain and despair echoed in his mind.

"Percy! What's wrong?"

He could hear his wife's worried tone from a hundred miles away, but Blackjack neighed again before turning and galloping away from the column. Percy could barely hold on to the reins as the thousands of voices in his head spoke all at once.

"Dad! What's happening?"

"Someone is praying to you." His father explained simply. "It appears our pact with the Builder is coming to fruition sooner than we expected."

"Fuck, I thought we would have more time!"

The reason why they had so easily managed to claim so much of the Weirwoods of the North without any struggle from the many spirits or gods that dwelled in the land had to do with their patron. Brandon the Builder, also posing as the Smith, held considerable influence in the land. By claiming the Weirwoods, Percy would be more capable of using his powers without any backlash, along with many other effects that affected Poseidon more than him.

Yet it was not a freebie; The Builder had extracted a promise from him and Poseidon to protect the North in perpetuity.

Considering Percy had already planned to do that once he married Sansa, it was a no-brainer. Yet, it was not simply defending the land from invaders but also from hostile gods.

"Apparently, something unexpected happened. Quickly, place your hand on the weirwood. It's not a Heart Tree, but it would have to do."

Before he knew it, Blackjack stopped by a Weirwood grove, and Percy barely got off the horse before collapsing on the roots and closing his eyes. Instantly, the pounding in his head ceased, and he found himself floating over a massive castle. Percy cursed loudly at finding himself so high off the ground, yet he was quickly distracted by the sound of battle beneath him.

"Thank you for arriving so promptly, Perseus."

He turned at the voice and found himself faced with the progenitor of the Starks, Brandon the Builder. There were dozens of other ghosts surrounding him, each one of them clearly a king or a lord, yet they kept a polite distance as the Builder approached, followed by a familiar boy.

"What's going on? Where am I?"

"You are in Winterfell. There is no time to waste. Bran here has agreed to do what is necessary. You will soon have the power to affect the world and protect your wife's home."

Percy gawked at the ghost/god/ancestral spirit, honestly, he still did not understand how the whole thing worked, but all his demigod instincts screamed at him to act. This was Sansa's home, and that rowdy bunch did not look like they were here for a sales pitch.

"What do you need?"

The spirits seemed to sigh in relief at his quick agreement, and the young boy who had dragged him into the Weirwood when he was at the Moat stepped forward, though they were all still floating in the air.

"The Ironborn are inside the castle. If left to their devices, they will slaughter or enslave all the inhabitants and burn my home!" Sansa's brother was young, too young to worry about such matters, yet his eyes were full of resolve as he glared down. "I must awaken and do what I must, but I will need you to banish them outside the castle afterward."

'What I must?' For some reason, he felt dread at those words, yet a scream from below showed that the invaders had broken through, led by a guy with pitch-black eyes; Percy could feel the sheer wrongness with the man, and he was willing to bet his new shield that this was no man, but some kind of demon possession. "How am I supposed to do that? I'm still hundreds of miles away, and I can barely feel the sea!"

"There's plenty of water around." The Builder shrugged, and Percy realized it was true. He could feel the presence of water, hot water, throughout the castle, not to mention the moat, yet he could no more control it than he could move his body. "Get ready."

Percy braced but realized the man was talking to the younger Bran, who closed his eyes. Suddenly, loud wolf howls came from outside the walls. It wasn't one or two, but a scary cacophony of dozens, no hundreds of wolves howling in unison. The Ironborn froze for a moment, but Percy had eyes only on Sansa's brother as he woke up and had one of the guards lift him on a horse just as the invaders continued to attack, but the brief pause had allowed the few defenders to rally and form a line; Percy was shocked to find it was mostly old men, most of the young had either already died or were sent away into the keep. Bran galloped away through another gate leading to the Godswood, stopped his horse in front of the Heart Tree, and threw himself on the roots. Percy's eyes widened when he pulled out a dagger and stared at it sadly.

"No, wait–"

Too late, Brandon Stark tore away at his clothes and stabbed himself in the heart. With the last vestige of strength he had, he pulled the blade out, allowing his blood to flow freely to the roots, and placed his bloody hands on the Heart Tree's face, smearing his blood on it before quickly losing strength and collapsing.

Many things happened at the same time.

As one, the Ghosts of Winterfell and their large wolves disappeared, but suddenly, the remaining few defenders let out unholy roars of rage as if any previous sign of weakness and defeat was gone. There were only twenty of them, yet as they charged at the attacking Ironmen, they might have been two hundred, given how utterly savage and mad their charge was. Wisps of white could be seen clinging to them, showing who was truly controlling the defenders.

Percy felt an unbridled rage coursing through his veins, yet it was not his own. He was too busy feeling horror at the boy, who could not have been older than ten or eleven, willingly sacrificing himself in the hopes that someone like him would save his home. Bran did not know him, yet he still trusted him to do what was necessary. As the defenders fought back against the invaders, their foes began raining arrows at them, yet they did not care and as they crashed into their lines, it was clear that they were not human anymore.

Just vessels for the Ghosts of Winterfell.

Yet they were still too few to truly defeat the Ironmen; no matter how many they slayed, more seemed to come; nearly a third of the Ironmen lay dead or dying, broken to pieces by the defender's axes or their bare hands or even teeth, unconcerned with any injury they may suffer.

Percy felt the connection between him and the land solidify. If the earlier connection to the water was like a string, now, it was like a Celestial Bronze chain and with a thought, boiling hot water exploded out of the ground, and crashed into the Ironborn, just as a particularly ugly man with a split lip slew the last defender.

He was the first to be cooked alive by the boiling water.

The screams of pain sent many of them careening back from the inner castle. It was almost as if they had woken up from their bloodlust and realized that they were not facing mortal men anymore.

Percy did not care. Especially when a few of them began muttering those hateful words. "What is dead shall remain fucking dead!"

The boiling water continued to rush forth and, like a raging current, smashed through everything in its path and seeped through the gaps of everything it could not. The few survivors rushed back out of the castle just as the waters of the moat rose to block their path. Percy felt satisfaction as he saw their leader, that young man with a demon possessing him, freezing in horror before both hot and cold water crashed into them.

"Thank you for the aid, Perseus."

Percy breathed heavily; he had no idea how he could feel exhaustion while in an incorporeal form, yet it must be real; he could already feel the connection to the water fading.

None of that mattered to him as he glared at the Builder, "You… Son of a bitch! You drove that kid to kill himself! And for what?"

"To protect his home, such is his duty as The Stark in Winterfell. Do not dare besmirch his resolve, boy." The Builder growled, just as the rest of the ghosts floated back from the corpses of those they possessed. "None of us would have been capable of so much as whisper to the men of Winterfell if not for his sacrifice. Those greybeards that fought to the bitter end? They willingly sacrificed themselves so their children could live and fight another day. If they so much as hesitated to accept our offer of aid, we would have failed to help them."

"But… He was also a child. What would drive a child to willingly take his own life like this?!"

His roar did not even make the stoic ghost flinch; all of them met his gaze without hesitation, without doubt, even the morose girl who looked no older than Sansa, though he thought he saw guilt and pity in her gaze.

"We Starks have protected the North since time immemorial," one of the older-looking ghosts said. This one looked more dangerous a warrior than almost all the others, but he lacked a crown atop his head, yet somehow reeked of blood. "We enjoy a great deal of benefits as we accept the supplicants and their tributes, yet when the time comes, no matter how young or old or infirm we are, a Stark must do what he must to ensure the protection of his home. Of the North."

Percy still felt hesitant, and he wondered if he was barking up the wrong tree. These were different people. They had different customs. Yet, he married a Stark, and by all rights, he was already half of one. Would there come a time when he would expect his child to seek death for the sake of his home? His people? His siblings? Was death and sacrifice such an easy answer to any time of trouble?

He did not know, but a much more simple answer came to his mind. Percy simply needed to prevent such a situation from ever happening in the first place. To become powerful enough to protect his family. To make sure his children were well-trained and powerful enough to protect themselves and their own loved ones.

By now, the residents of Winterfell had come out of hiding. A few of the surviving guards were pulled to the Godswood by Bran's horse only to find the corpse of their prince and wailed in anguish, yet Percy was distracted by a groaning noise from where the dead Ironborn were. He felt shocked as he realized one had survived before it morphed into a rage as a black gas seemed to be seeping from the leader of the Ironmen as he rose unnaturally to his feet. It solidified into some sort of demon with sickly yellow eyes and many tentacles that seemed to act as strings to control the half-melted Ironborn; his bones were visible from beneath his sludge-like muscles and skin.

Before Percy could raise his hands to finish him off, the Builder spoke.

"Wait. Let him finish Greyjoy off. He has the right after all he suffered and his sacrifice."

Percy was confused before another howl erupted from the gates. He watched as a massive wolf ran with a hundred smaller, yet no less vicious, wolves with pale light in their eyes, crossed the drawbridge, and crashed into Greyjoy, Theon Greyjoy, as Percy recalled Sansa's lessons. The traitor who grew up in the same home as the Starks yet so gleefully tried to murder one of them. He did not know if he did it willingly or not, but most possessions usually required the victim to at least be receptive to the idea - same with the ghosts possessing the greybeards.

Nevertheless, Percy felt satisfaction as the direwolf tore him to shreds and even bit into the dark apparition controlling him. It let loose an agonizing scream and flew away in defeat, leaving behind all of its tentacles and half of its body for the wolves to feast on.

Outside the castle, more howls could be heard as well as screams of pain and Percy realized there were more Ironmen out of the castle. Or there were, before the wolves got to them.

"What was that?"

"The lieutenant of the Abyssal Spawn. Most call him the Drowned God these days, yet I remember his pathetic existence when he was but a human, just like I was." The Builder shook his head before gazing at the direwolf. "Young Bran is now living his second life."

The direwolf looked up from its meal and stared right at them. Percy realized then that this was not some mindless beast, for those intelligent eyes were too human - one yellow and one a familiar blue, both primal yet intelligent.

"Tell his sister if she wishes to see him, then she must hurry with her tour and return to Winterfell - there are more reavers that need slaying. I am grateful for your aid, Perseus, but I believe it is time for you to go."

At the mention of Sansa, Percy realized his body was fading. It was time for him to go, and he turned one last time at the Builder. He was not sure if he agreed with his methods or those of the Starks in general; too cold and pragmatic, too dutiful and loyal to their people, at the expense of their loved ones.

With a heavy heart, Percy allowed himself to fade back to his body, finding the worried eyes of his wife staring at him. How was he supposed to tell her that she lost her brother?

Bran goes down like an utter Chad. I always wondered what the whole thing with being The Stark in Winterfell was about, and this is the answer I arrived at. To be ready to do what is necessary at any cost.

We get a glimpse at the preparations in Westwatch.

Percy takes the meaning of protector of the North to a whole other level.

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