Bran I

"How do we get in?" Meera asked, her voice heavy with exhaustion as she dropped the reins of the sleigh. Her arms ached from days of pulling Bran along through the relentless snow, her breaths clouding in the bitter northern air.

"We knock," Bran replied in the calm, matter-of-fact tone that had become second nature to him. His expression betrayed no uncertainty, no hesitation, as if the answer had always been obvious. Meera sighed, brushing a strand of her windblown hair from her face. After six years together, she knew better than to question him when he spoke like this. He saw things she couldn't, knew things he could never fully explain.

Bran was no longer the boy who had fallen from a tower and been carried across Westeros on Hodor's back. At 18, he was handsome in a way that felt almost tragic. His dark hair, now grown to his jaw, was unevenly cut—something Meera only bothered to trim when it started obscuring his vision. A faint dusting of stubble lined his sharp jaw. If fate had been kinder, he might have been a knight, galloping on horseback through the streets of a town while girls turned their heads to admire him. But in this life, he was a cripple, bound to a sleigh and reliant on the strength and kindness of others to carry him where he needed to go.

Meera, now a woman of 21, was no longer the girl who had left Greywater Watch with her brother to guard Bran. Years of hardship and survival had etched their marks on her, shaping her into someone fierce, resilient, and capable. Her once-short curls had grown long and wild, though she often kept them braided and tucked away under layers of fur. She hadn't cut it since the day Bran had idly remarked that it suited her longer. Beneath the heavy furs, she bore the body of a woman, though her life left little time for vanity or indulgence. Despite everything they had endured, there were moments when she still felt like the girl who had set out from her home with a spear in hand, following the orders of her father.

In some ways, they were both trapped in time, frozen like the North itself. It was as if the years spent in hiding had preserved a part of their youth, even as the world around them moved on.

As they approached the towering gates of Castle Black, the Wall loomed above them, an icy fortress that seemed more like a barrier between worlds than a simple structure. Its sheer size made Meera's stomach twist with unease. They had seen so much death, endured so much pain, and yet here they were, on the edge of the world, still searching for safety—or perhaps, purpose.

Meera hesitated. "What if they don't let us in?"

"They will," Bran said, his tone unshakable. His eyes—those haunted, ancient eyes that seemed far older than his years—fixed on the gate.

Meera stepped forward, pounding on the gate with the hilt of her spear. The sound echoed like thunder in the icy stillness, and for a moment, there was no response. Then, the sound of heavy locks being undone filled the air, and the gate creaked open just enough for a wary face to peer through.

A man in black armor, his weathered face shadowed by a hood, studied them cautiously. "Who goes there?"

"Bran Stark," Bran said simply, his voice steady and commanding despite his fragile appearance. "And Meera Reed."

The man's eyes widened at the name, and his gaze shifted to Bran, lingering for a moment on the Stark features that marked his lineage. Then he nodded, stepping aside to let them in.

As the gates groaned open, Meera pulled the sleigh forward, her legs trembling with effort but her determination unshaken. Bran sat silently, his expression calm but unreadable, his eyes scanning the courtyard as if he were seeing more than what lay before him.

Inside the Wall, the chill was no less biting, but there was a strange sense of relief in being surrounded by stone and men, a reprieve from the endless emptiness of the wilderness. A few brothers of the Night's Watch gathered to stare at the newcomers, their faces a mix of curiosity and suspicion.

"Welcome to Castle Black," the gatekeeper said gruffly, though there was a note of respect in his tone. "The Lord Commander will want to see you."

Meera glanced at Bran, her expression guarded. "You didn't mention this part."

"I didn't need to," Bran replied, his voice distant. "Everything is already in motion."

Meera's heart sank at his cryptic words, but she said nothing. She simply adjusted her grip on the reins and followed the black-cloaked man into the shadowy halls of Castle Black. Behind her, Bran's gaze lingered on the Wall, his thoughts already far beyond its icy expanse, where visions of fire and blood flickered at the edges of his mind.

The great hall of Castle Black was a shadow of its former self. The once-sturdy walls seemed to sag under the weight of neglect, and the cold air seeped in through cracks that had gone untended. Only a handful of the Night's Watch remained, their black cloaks faded and their faces etched with exhaustion. This was not the bastion of strength Bran had imagined in his youth; it was a skeleton of what it had once been.

Bran and Meera entered slowly, their presence drawing the attention of the men gathered near the hearth. At the head of the room sat a young man, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression skeptical and guarded. Beside him stood an older man with a grizzled beard, his posture stiff and his eyes sharp.

"You say you're Bran Stark," the younger man said, his tone laced with doubt.

"He is Bran Stark," Meera replied firmly, stepping forward as if to shield Bran from the accusation. Her spear was still slung across her back, but the tension in her stance made it clear she was ready to defend him if needed.

The man leaned forward in his chair, his gaze narrowing. "Bran Stark is dead."

Meera's lips pressed into a thin line, but she said nothing. Bran, seated in the sled behind her, remained silent, his expression unreadable.

The younger man rose from his chair. "My name is Gendry," he said, his voice steady but tinged with weariness. "I'm the acting Lord Commander of what's left of the Night's Watch."

Meera's brows furrowed at his words. "I thought Jon Snow was Lord Commander."

At the mention of Jon's name, Gendry stiffened. "Jon Snow is dead," he said flatly, in unison with Bran.

Gendry's eyes widened, disbelief flickering across his face. He stepped closer to Bran, his broad frame casting a shadow over the sled. The young man's expression was guarded but searching, as though trying to unearth some hidden truth in Bran's pale, drawn face. His voice, when he finally spoke, was hoarse with suspicion. "How do you know that?"

Bran met Gendry's gaze steadily, his blue eyes calm but distant, as though he were looking beyond the present moment. "I see things," he said, his tone soft but resolute, each word weighted with certainty. "I see your past, your choices, your fears—and your future."

Gendry's brow furrowed, his skepticism deepening, but Bran continued before he could interrupt.

"I see you," Bran said, his voice taking on a quiet intensity. "A smith's apprentice in King's Landing, working the forge, dreaming of a life you didn't think you'd ever have. I see your father, Robert Baratheon, dead before you even knew him. I see the Lannister soldiers coming for you, to kill you for your bloodline, and I see your master hiding you, sending you north to the Wall."

Gendry's breath hitched, but Bran's voice remained steady, unyielding. "I see you with my brother Jon, standing atop the Wall, staring into the endless snow, unsure of what lay beyond. I see you with my sister Arya, in the courtyard in Winterfell, fighting the connection you have with her. I see you at Hardhome, wielding your hammer against the dead, your arms aching but your resolve unbroken."

Bran's tone softened slightly, tinged with something almost like regret. "I see you here, defending the Wall against the Lannisters. I see Jon, naming you as his choice to lead the Night's Watch after him. And I see you watching him die, powerless to stop it."

The hall fell into a heavy silence, the weight of Bran's words pressing down on everyone present. Gendry stared at Bran, his face a mixture of shock and something else—pain, perhaps, or anger at hearing his memories spoken aloud by a boy who couldn't have possibly been there.

"That's enough," Gendry said, his voice tight, but there was no venom in his words. He took a step back, running a hand through his dark, unruly hair. His mind reeled as he tried to process what he had just heard. It wasn't just the details Bran knew; it was the way he spoke them, with a certainty that left no room for doubt.

"How?" Gendry demanded, his voice breaking slightly. "How do you know all of that? No one else could—"

Bran's steady gaze didn't falter, his voice calm but laden with authority. "I told you," he said simply, his tone carrying a weight far beyond his years. "I see things. Not just the past, but the present and the future. I see the threads that connect us all—the choices that bind us and the paths we walk. I see what has been and what will be." His voice dropped lower, a chilling edge creeping in. "And I see what is coming."

"The dead," the older man, said grimly, his weathered face hardening.

"Yes," Bran confirmed. His eyes flickered to Davos. "You're Davos Seawo—"

"I know who I am," Davos cut him off sharply, his tone brusque but not unkind. "I don't need you to tell me my whole life's tale, boy. But if you are who you say you are, how in the Seven Hells are you still alive?"

Bran's expression darkened, a flicker of sorrow crossing his face before he spoke. "We ran," he said, his voice quieter now, heavy with the weight of memory. "When Theon took Winterfell, there was chaos. One night, we had a chance to escape, and we took it—me, my brother Rickon, and our servants, Osha and Hodor. The plan was to head south, to reach Riverrun. Our uncle Edmure could have helped us if we got there. But we never made it."

Bran paused, his hands clenching slightly on the edges of the sleigh as the memories surged. Meera moved a step closer, her presence a steadying force beside him. "We were deep in the wilderness, somewhere near the Wolfswood. That's when they found us—a group of bandits. Deserters from some army, I think. They didn't care who we were. They wanted to rob us, but we had nothing. No gold, no food, nothing of value." His voice trembled slightly. "Rickon...he was just a boy. They didn't care. They killed him."

The room fell silent, the weight of Bran's words pressing down on everyone. Even Davos, who had seen horrors beyond count, looked away, his jaw tightening. Bran's gaze dropped to his hands as he continued. "Osha tried to save him, but there were too many of them. She died protecting us. And Shaggydog...Rickon's direwolf. They killed him too, just to sell his pelt."

Meera placed a hand on Bran's shoulder, her face pale but resolute. Bran's voice grew steadier, though his words cut like a blade. "They turned on me next. I couldn't run. I couldn't fight. They dragged me from Hodor's arms and were ready to kill me too. That's when Meera and her brother, Jojen, found us. They killed the bandits and saved me."

Davos's gaze shifted to Meera, his expression a mix of respect and sorrow. "Sounds like you've been through more than most," he said, his voice rough but sincere.

Bran gave a slight nod, his expression somber, his gaze distant as if seeing something far beyond the confines of the great hall. "After that, Jojen told me I had a greater purpose," he began. "He said I was meant to find the three-eyed raven beyond the Wall. So, we went north, into the lands of endless winter. It was harsh, cruel...but that's where we stayed. For years. Training, hiding, surviving."

"Five years," Meera interjected, her voice heavy with memory. "We lived with him—Brynden Rivers."

At the mention of the name, Davos let out a short, incredulous laugh. "Now I know this is a jest," he said, shaking his head. "Brynden Rivers is long dead."

"Who's Brynden Rivers?" Gendry asked, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"A Targaryen bastard," Davos replied, his tone laden with skepticism. "One who lived about a hundred years ago. He was the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch before my grandfather was born."

"Time works differently for people like him," Bran said, his voice quiet but firm. His gaze lifted to meet Davos'. "People like me."

Davos frowned, his skepticism fading into a mix of unease and curiosity. "And what exactly does that mean?"

"The three-eyed raven," Bran explained, his voice as calm and detached as if he were reciting a lesson. "It's not just a man. It's a force of nature, like the wind, the rain, or the snow. It's something that passes from person to person, growing stronger with each new host. For a time, it was Brynden Rivers, but now…"

"It's him," Meera finished, her voice steady despite the weight of her words. "Now it's Bran."

Bran inclined his head slightly, his face shadowed with an eerie mix of wisdom and sorrow. "I am the three-eyed raven," he said. "Brynden prepared me for this, though I didn't fully understand it then. He taught me how to see—not just the past, but the threads that bind all things, the connections between people, between events. He taught me to look beyond time itself."

Davos crossed his arms, his expression heavy with skepticism and unease. "And what happened to him—this Brynden Rivers?" His voice was gruff, his narrowed eyes fixed on Bran.

"The dead came," Bran replied, his voice calm, almost detached. "The same ones who are coming for all of us. We lost them all Brynden, Hodor, even my direwolf Summer. Only Meera and I made it out alive."

Gendry, standing nearby, lowered his head slightly, his brows furrowed in thought. Then, as though sensing the weight behind Bran's words, he looked back up. "And Jojen?" he asked softly, his tone lacking its usual bluntness.

Meera's lips tightened, and her complexion turned pale, her eyes shadowed with painful memories.

"He gave himself," Bran said, his words measured but heavy. "That's all you need to know."

"No," Gendry said sharply, stepping forward. "You don't get to walk in here, start talking about three-eyed ravens, magic, and claim to be people who've been dead for years, and then keep secrets. Not if you expect us to trust you." His voice was firm, though not without sympathy.

Bran's expression didn't change, but his tone softened, tinged with sorrow. "Jojen was a greenseer," he explained. "It means he had visions, like I do, though his abilities were...different. Limited, compared to mine. But when we reached Brynden, it was clear he wasn't fully…"

Meera took over, her voice hardening as her emotions rose to the surface. "He wasn't a person anymore," she said bitterly, her hands curling into fists. "Brynden Rivers was a creature—more magic than man. He claimed Bran needed more power to fulfill his purpose. And to do that...he sacrificed Jojen."

"What do you mean, sacrificed?" Davos asked, his grizzled face tightening with disbelief.

Meera's voice grew quieter, but no less furious. "He killed Jojen," she said, her words sharp and bitter, "and fed him to Bran. He said it was the only way for Bran to become what he needed to be. That...thing...made us believe it was the only way forward."

Bran's gaze remained fixed on Gendry and Davos, his tone unflinching as he added, "Brynden Rivers was a monster. But he wasn't entirely wrong."

Gendry stared at the two of them, horrified. "He fed him to you?" he repeated, the words coming out almost in disbelief.

Bran didn't flinch. "What he did saved us," he said. "Jojen knew what was going to happen. He accepted it. He believed in me. Without his sacrifice, I wouldn't be here. And none of us would have a chance against what's coming."

The room fell into a strained silence. Gendry's jaw clenched as he struggled to process the story, while Davos's expression darkened, his distrust of magic and its consequences clearly etched on his face.

Finally, Gendry broke the silence, shaking his head in a mix of anger and bewilderment. "So what now?" he asked. "You're this...three-eyed raven. What exactly are you supposed to do?"

Bran straightened in his chair, his gaunt face calm but resolute. "What I'm supposed to do is make sure the living survive what's coming. The dead are marching south, and they won't stop until every kingdom is ash. My role is to guide us—to help us find the only path where we survive."

"And what is that path?" Davos asked, his voice gruff but tinged with curiosity.

"It begins with Jon Snow," Bran said, his voice steady. "He's the one who can unite us, the one who can bring the living together to face the dead. But he's dead. That's why we need Melisandre."

Davos's face darkened further at the mention of her name. "The Red Woman? After everything she's done, you're putting your faith in her?"

"She has a role to play," Bran replied. "As do all of us. The Lord of Light brought her here for this moment. She's the only one who can bring him back."

"And if she doesn't?" Gendry asked, his voice low.

"She will," Bran repeated, his tone unwavering, the weight of his words filling the cold, empty hall. "Because she must. If she doesn't, we're all doomed."

"This is crazy," Gendry muttered, pacing in front of the hearth, his hands clenched into fists. The firelight flickered across his face, highlighting the tension in his features. "And if I hadn't seen the White Walkers with my own eyes, I'd be throwing you out of this keep for spouting madness. But..." He paused, his voice softening. "Maybe—just maybe—you're telling the truth. Either way, you're not seeing the Red Woman tonight. You need food, and a good night's rest. Jon will still be dead in the morning."

"There isn't the time—" Bran began, his voice urgent, but Gendry cut him off, stepping closer.

"You may be the Three-Eyed Raven. You may even be Bran Stark," Gendry said, his voice low but firm. "But I am the Commander of this keep, and I won't have witches and greenseers bringing men back from the dead in the middle of the night." His gaze shifted to Meera, softening slightly. "We'll set you both up in chambers, and you're welcome to what little food we have. But this will wait until dawn."

Meera stepped protectively in front of Bran. "We stay together," she said firmly, her green eyes locking with Gendry's.

Gendry hesitated, then inclined his head with a weary sigh. "Whatever you wish, my lady," he replied. Without waiting for a response, he strode past them, his boots echoing against the stone floor as he exited the room.

They were escorted to a chamber by a tired steward, a man whose face bore the hollowed-out look of someone who had seen too much death. "A princess stayed here a few weeks ago," he said gruffly as he opened the door. "She's dead now. They're all dead." He said it matter-of-factly, as though it were a truth so universal it no longer carried weight.

Bran and Meera exchanged a glance. They knew what that felt like.

The room itself was small and humble. A narrow double bed was pushed against one wall, with a hearth in the corner and a worn dresser whose drawers creaked open reluctantly. The air smelled faintly of old wood and ash.

Meera ran a hand over the bedframe, brushing away some of the dust. "It's hardly home, but it'll do," she said quietly. After a pause, her voice softened, tinged with an ache she couldn't quite hide. "You know, I don't even remember what Greywater Watch looks like anymore. I used to think of it every day, but now…" She trailed off, staring into the hearth where a fire had been lit but did little to warm the room. "I suppose you don't have that problem. You can see Winterfell whenever you like."

Bran, who had been gazing at the ceiling as if lost in thought, shook his head slowly. "I try not to," he admitted. His voice was low, almost a whisper. "It hurts too much. And besides, we'll be there soon."

Meera turned to look at him, the flickering firelight casting long shadows across his face. "Is that where we're heading next? Once Jon is back?"

"You know I can't say," Bran replied, his tone soft but firm. He had grown used to withholding pieces of the future, not out of cruelty, but because he didn't want Meera to live like he did—adrift in the vast, tangled web of past, present, and future. He wanted her to stay tethered to the present, to remain grounded in a way he no longer could.

"Maybe we'll live there," Meera suggested, her voice tentative. "When all this is over." She hesitated, then continued, "I'd like to go home at some point. Tell my father about Jojen." Her voice faltered briefly at her brother's name. "Although I think he'll already know."

Howland Reed. Bran knew the name well, knew the man even better in a way that Meera never could. Her father, a greenseer, had passed the gift to Jojen but not to Meera. Over the years, she had spoken to Bran about the quiet isolation she had felt, the frustration of being the only one in her family without the sight. But for Bran, who bore the weight of knowing too much, the idea of that silence sounded like a mercy.

"You don't have to stay with me, Meera," Bran said after a long silence, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the room, beyond even her. "I'm safe now. I can get to Winterfell myself. You could go home."

Meera turned sharply, her expression hardening. "I can't leave you," she said, the words edged with defiance. "I love—" She stopped herself abruptly, her voice catching in her throat. The unfinished sentence lingered in the air, a truth they both knew but rarely spoke aloud.

Bran's expression softened for a moment, but there was a sadness in his eyes. They had both felt the same for a long time. She had fallen in love with the boy he once was—the boy who had spun stories to help her fall asleep in the cold, who had made her laugh when the longing for home became unbearable. The boy who had kissed her for the first time under the northern sky, their breaths mingling in the icy air.

But that boy was slipping away. Bran's powers had grown, and with them, so had the distance between the person he was and the person he had been. He could feel it, the steady erosion of his humanity, the way his memories of his old life felt like echoes in a vast and empty cavern.

Meera had dreamed of a future where they could be together, a life in Greywater Watch where he could read and study while she hunted. She imagined the children they could have—children who would sit on Bran's lap as he told them tales of Westeros' long and storied history. But Bran didn't want that for her. He didn't want her future shackled to him—a man bound to a chair, a mind that was half his own and half something otherworldly. And besides, he had seen their future, and that wasn't what awaited them.

"You don't have to say it," Bran said finally, his voice almost too soft to hear. "I know."

Meera sat down on the edge of the bed, her shoulders slumping. "I just wish..." She didn't finish the thought. There was no point. They both knew what she wished for—for the boy she loved to come back, for the future they had once dreamed of to somehow still be possible.

Bran reached out, his hand brushing against hers. It was a small gesture, but it was enough to remind her that some part of him was still there.

"Whatever comes next," she said after a long pause, "we'll face it together."

Bran nodded, though he didn't meet her eyes. "Together," he echoed. But even as he said it, he couldn't help but wonder how much longer he could hold onto her, and how much longer she would want to hold onto him.

She helped Bran into the bed, her movements careful and practiced from years of supporting his weight. Once he was settled, she climbed in beside him, the fur blankets heavy over them both. Without a word, he pulled her close, his arms wrapping around her in a gesture that felt as natural as breathing. Meera pressed her face into his chest, seeking the warmth and solace she so desperately needed.

The night was long and restless. Sleep came to her in fleeting snatches, only to be chased away by nightmares—visions of icy landscapes, dead eyes, and the faces of those she had lost. She would stir, trembling and afraid, and each time Bran would tighten his hold, his presence steady and unmoving.

He rarely slept anymore, his mind too full of visions and whispers from realms she could never understand. Instead, he lay awake, gazing at the shadows flickering on the walls, listening to her breathing as it shifted between shallow gasps and the deep, even rhythm of temporary rest. He could do little to fight the demons in her dreams, but he could be there when she woke.

If he couldn't be the boy she had once loved, the boy who made her laugh and chased her fears away, he could at least stay quiet, holding her as though nothing had changed. He let her pretend—for a few fleeting hours—that he was still him. That the world hadn't stolen the future they had imagined, leaving only this fragile, fractured moment in its place.

Gendry led Bran and Meera down the narrow, dimly lit corridors of Castle Black, the cold stone walls bearing the scars of countless years of use. The air was heavy with dampness and the faint tang of iron, as though the very keep itself still remembered the blood spilled there. Bran was seated in an old, rickety wheelchair that Gendry had retrieved from storage—one that had once belonged to Maester Aemon in his final years when even walking had become too much for him. Meera walked beside the chair, her hand resting protectively on its arm, her gaze watchful as they moved deeper into the keep.

The clatter of Gendry's boots echoed in the silence as they descended into the cells, a foreboding place that reeked of neglect and misery. He carried a torch, its flickering light casting long, eerie shadows along the stone walls. He stopped abruptly in front of an iron-barred door, his expression hardening.

"We left her in here after the Lannisters marched out," Gendry said, his voice low and laced with disgust. "Tywin pardoned us all after Ned and Jon's execution. Said they still needed someone to keep the wildlings out. But I saw what she did—the princess. I saw her body. Whatever you think of the witch, you won't convince me she deserves to walk free. Not after that."

Meera exchanged a wary glance with Bran, who remained silent, his expression unreadable.

"Who is she?" Meera asked, her voice steady but edged with curiosity. "What did she do?"

Gendry's jaw tightened, his knuckles white where they gripped the torch. "Melisandre," he spat, as though the name itself was poison. "The Red Woman. She came here preaching about gods and sacrifices, claiming she was acting on behalf of her so-called Lord of Light. She used the princess... Stannis' daughter, Shireen. Said her death would win the war against the Lannisters. Burned her alive in front of her own father."

Meera inhaled sharply, her face pale in the torchlight. "And Stannis allowed this?"

"He didn't just allow it—he ordered it," Gendry said bitterly. "But it didn't matter. It didn't save him. The Lannisters crushed him, and his men. He died a traitor, and the princess died for nothing." He gestured toward the cell door. "After that, we locked Melisandre away. There's no justice I can give her myself, but I'll be damned if I let her walk free."

Bran's eyes, pale and distant, seemed to bore into the darkness beyond the bars. "She has a role yet to play," he murmured, his voice eerily calm.

Gendry spun around, his face dark with anger and disbelief. "And what role would that be? More death? More innocent blood spilled in the name of her fire god?" His voice grew harsher, trembling with old wounds. "She wanted me next, you know. Said my blood was special—royal. Maybe she'd still try if she had the chance."

Bran remained silent, his expression distant and unreadable as they walked through the dim corridor, their footsteps echoing against the cold stone. The only sound besides their movements was the faint crackle of the torchlight. Finally, they reached the cell. Inside, a woman sat hunched on a small cot, her fiery red hair unkempt and tangled, her once-elegant crimson dress tattered and stained.

The walls of the cell were covered in chaotic markings—lines, symbols, and words etched with what seemed like desperate fervor. They twisted and overlapped, forming a maddening tapestry of incomprehensible scrawls.

Without looking up, the woman spoke in a calm, haunting voice. "I've been expecting you, Bran Stark."

Meera tightened her grip on Bran's arm, her wary eyes darting between Bran and the woman in the cell. Gendry, standing stiffly at Bran's side, scowled. "You can talk to her if you must," he muttered, his voice heavy with mistrust, "but know this—she's not going anywhere. That's final."

He handed the torch to Meera, his jaw clenched, and turned on his heel, his boots echoing as he walked away.

Bran's eyes remained fixed on Melisandre as the air between them seemed to grow heavy with unspoken truths. "You've seen me?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, though there was no doubt in his tone.

"In the flames," Melisandre replied, her voice distant, almost dreamlike. She stared into the dim space around them, her thoughts drifting somewhere far beyond the confines of the cell. "I saw a raven fall to the ground, its wings clipped, broken. But then another raven took flight, soaring high, far across the skies. It flew for what felt like a lifetime, and then… it landed in my lap."

Bran took in the words slowly, the meaning behind them not lost on him. He had seen the same vision in his dreams, a raven falling, the beginning of something new, something far more significant than any one person. "Do you know where you went wrong?" Bran asked, his gaze unwavering.

Melisandre met his eyes then, and for the first time, something close to regret flickered in the depths of her fiery gaze. She nodded solemnly, the weight of years of mistakes pressing upon her. "Yes," she said, her voice thick with the weight of her admissions. "Stannis wasn't the chosen one. But… he had his part to play. He needed to lead them here."

Bran nodded, his expression unreadable. "You weren't wrong, not entirely," he said quietly. "Your visions misled you, yes. But they served a purpose." His voice dropped slightly, as if to share a truth that had always been just beneath the surface. "You had to believe. Only then could he believe. Only then would he follow you."

Melisandre's lips parted, her brow furrowing slightly as she absorbed Bran's words. There was a flicker of something like understanding in her eyes, but it was gone before it could settle. She had always believed that the flames held the truth, that they guided her to her purpose. But Bran was speaking of something different—something deeper. "What do you see now?" he asked. "What do the flames say now?"

She walked over to where Meera held the lit torch and looked deep into it. "I see snow," she said, her voice quiet, but her words carrying a weight that hung heavy in the air. "Rising from the ground, as though it's in reverse, as though time itself is bending. And then it falls, covering everything. Dragonstone. Winterfell. King's Landing. It spreads like a blanket, like a storm. It's him, isn't it?" she asked softly, her voice heavy with the gravity of the realisation she had reached. "Jon Snow?"

Bran's voice was calm, but there was an intensity beneath his words that seemed to resonate in the cold air of the cell. He gazed beyond Melisandre, his unseeing eyes appearing to pierce through time itself. "From the beginning, it's always been about him," he began, his voice low but filled with an undeniable certainty. "Aegon Targaryen crossing the Narrow Sea to claim Westeros, changing the course of history. Torrhen Stark, the King Who Knelt, surrendering the North without a fight, preserving his people for what was to come. Lyanna Stark, falling in love with Rhaegar Targaryen despite the chaos it unleashed. All of it—every moment, every choice—was to set the stage for him to exist."

Melisandre's expression shifted, a flicker of unease crossing her face as she tried to comprehend the vastness of what Bran was saying. He continued, his voice growing steadier, as though each word solidified a truth he'd carried within him for years. "Since the day Jon Snow was born, the threads of fate have revolved around him. Every triumph, every tragedy, every sacrifice—it has all been leading to this moment, to him standing on the precipice of destiny. And everything—every death, every war—has been to ensure he would be here, now, when the world needs him most."

Melisandre stepped closer to Bran, her eyes narrowing as she hung onto his every word. "And you believe this was all… orchestrated? That every thread of history led to his birth, to his resurrection?"

Bran nodded, his expression grave. "Yes. He was meant to be born of ice and fire, the bloodlines of Stark and Targaryen united to bring him into this world. Even the conflicts that tore our families apart, the rebellion that cost so many lives—it was all to place him on the board, ready for the moment he would be needed. And since that day, everything has been guiding him here, ensuring he would endure, ensuring he would rise again when the time was right."

Meera, silent until now, cast a questioning look at Bran. "And now that he's here, what does it mean? What happens next?"

Bran's gaze didn't waver, his voice soft but unwavering. "Now, he must be brought back. He must take his place, not just as Jon Snow, but as who he truly is. His path will be fraught with pain, with sacrifice, but he is the only one who can lead us through what is coming. He is the sword in the darkness, the shield that guards the realms of men. He is our hope, our light against the endless night."

Melisandre's lips parted, her face a mixture of awe and fear. "If you are right," she whispered, "then every choice I've made, every failure, every mistake… it was all necessary, wasn't it? All to bring him to this moment."

Bran's expression softened slightly, though his tone remained steady. "Yes. The flames showed you glimpses of the truth, but only enough to lead you to where you needed to be. You believed in Stannis because you had to, because he had his part to play. But now… now you see what the flames were truly pointing toward. Not the one who would clear the path, but the one who would walk it."

Melisandre closed her eyes briefly, as though trying to absorb the weight of Bran's words. When she opened them, her gaze burned with a renewed purpose. "Then we cannot waste any more time. The dawn must rise, and Jon Snow must be the one to bring it."

The group made their way through the shadowed halls of Castle Black, the torch in Meera's hand casting flickering light across the stone walls. Davos led the way, his expression grim and his words heavy with the weight of what they were about to see. "We tried to burn the body," he began, his voice low and rough. "We burned the others who fell that day, but not him. Every time we tried, the pyre wouldn't light, or the flames would extinguish themselves before they even touched him. After a while, we stopped trying. We brought him here, to the maester's chambers."

The door creaked open, and a wave of biting cold swept over them. Even in the perpetual chill of Castle Black, the air in the chamber was unnaturally frigid, like the depths of a winter storm. Bran felt the familiar sharpness of the cold against his skin, a chill that reminded him of the far north and the presence of the dead.

The room itself was stark and barren, the only notable feature being the stone slab in the center where Jon Snow's body lay. It was an eerie sight—Jon looked as though he were merely asleep, his face serene, untouched by decay. The only visible mark of his death was the stitched line encircling his neck, where his head had been gruesomely reattached after his execution.

Meera's voice broke the tense silence. "He's been dead for weeks?" she asked, her breath visible in the frosty air. "How… how did you stop him from decomposing?"

Davos shook his head, his expression a mixture of disbelief and resignation. "We didn't," he said simply.

Gendry, stepping into the room behind them, added, "We did nothing. He just… stayed like this. No rot. No smell. Nothing. It's like time stopped for him."

Bran moved closer to Jon's body, his wheelchair creaking faintly against the stone floor. His pale blue eyes focused on the still form of his brother. "It's the magic," Bran murmured. "The blood of the old gods and the new. Something… something is preserving him."

Meera shivered, not just from the cold but from the unease creeping up her spine. "It doesn't feel right," she said softly. "It's like he's in between, neither here nor gone."

Davos nodded, rubbing his arms against the chill. "That's what I've been saying. It's not natural, but then again, none of this is."

Bran reached out a trembling hand, hesitating just above Jon's chest, where the faintest wisp of frost seemed to cling to his armor. "He's waiting," Bran said, his voice distant, as though he were speaking from another time or place. "The threads of his life are tangled, but they're not cut. He's tied to something… something larger."

Melisandre stepped forward, her presence commanding despite her disheveled appearance. Gendry had brought her from her cell, her hands still bound in shackles. Her eyes flicked to Bran, her lips pressing into a thin line as though she understood what needed to be done. "The fire refused him," she said, her voice quiet but filled with conviction. "Because it was not his time to burn. The Lord of Light has plans for him."

Bran nodded, lowering his hand. "It's time to bring him back. He doesn't belong to the darkness, not yet."

Davos let out a long breath, glancing at Gendry. "You really think this is going to work? You think we can just… bring him back?"

Bran's gaze didn't waver. "I've seen it. He has a role to play, and this is not how his story ends."

Gendry shook his head, his skepticism evident, but he didn't argue. The tension in the room was thick as they stood there, each of them feeling the weight of what was to come. Finally, Davos stepped back, gesturing to Melisandre. "Do what you need to do, but if he wakes up wrong—if he's not the man he was—we deal with it. Agreed?"

Melisandre stood unwavering, her gaze locked on Jon's body. "Bring me water, fire, and salt," she commanded, her tone brooking no argument. Then, after a pause, she added, "And mud from the base of the weirwood tree."

Davos exchanged a skeptical glance with Gendry, but neither protested. Instead, they dispersed, gathering the items as the witch had instructed. When they returned, their arms full of supplies, she was already arranging the room. The small chamber seemed to shrink as more candles were brought in, their flickering flames casting eerie shadows across the cold stone walls. Soon, the room was filled with a faint warmth, though the unnatural chill emanating from Jon's body lingered.

Melisandre carefully prepared her tools, moving with the precision of someone performing a sacred rite. She took the mud, dark and rich with the essence of the weirwood, and began to mix it with water, creating a thick paste. With reverence, she scooped the mixture into her hands and approached Jon's body.

"This mud comes from the roots of the old gods," she murmured, almost to herself. "I may not kneel to them, but I cannot deny their power. Their touch lingers in this place, in this boy, in the blood that runs through his veins. This will seal the wound, binding what was severed."

She leaned over Jon's still form and began to apply the paste with deliberate care. Her movements were slow, almost tender, as she spread the mud across the line where his head had been crudely reattached to his neck. The suture marks disappeared beneath the thick coating, the dark mud contrasting sharply against his pale, lifeless skin.

"It won't be perfect," Melisandre said softly, almost to herself. "There will be scars—there are always scars when one comes back. But it will hold. It must hold."

Meera watched from the corner of the room, her fingers gripping the torch tightly. "You've done this before?" she asked, her voice tense.

Melisandre didn't look up. "No" she said, "But I've seen it happen. When I was girl." She turned to Davos. "Salt and water," she said, holding out her hand. He hesitated for a moment before passing her the bowl of salt. She sprinkled it over Jon's chest, murmuring prayers in a language none of them understood. The cadence of her words was hypnotic, rising and falling like the ebb and flow of the sea.

Next, she took the bowl of water and dipped her fingers in, letting droplets fall onto Jon's brow. "Water for the rivers of life," she whispered. "Salt for the tears shed for him. Fire to awaken the soul."

At this, she gestured for Gendry to hand her the torch. With steady hands, she held the flame above Jon's heart, its heat radiating against his cold skin. The candlelight reflected in her eyes, making them seem to burn with their own inner fire.

She knelt beside the slab, pressing her hands against Jon's chest. The room seemed to grow even colder, and the flames of the candles flickered wildly. Her voice rose in a chant, the words harsh and commanding, invoking the power of the Lord of Light. The mud on Jon's neck began to shimmer faintly, as though the weirwood's essence was responding to her call.

The room grew still, the air thick with anticipation. Bran's gaze was fixed on Jon's body, his breathing shallow. Meera's grip on the torch tightened, and Davos crossed his arms, his expression a mixture of doubt and unease. Even Gendry, who had been the most skeptical of all, watched with bated breath.

As the chanting reached its crescendo, Melisandre leaned forward and whispered something against Jon's ear—words none of them could hear. Then, she placed the torch back in the holder and pressed her palms firmly against his chest.

For a moment, nothing happened.

And then the candles flickered wildly, their flames shooting higher. A low, guttural sound escaped Jon's throat, his chest heaving as if he were gasping for air. His eyes flew open, dark and wild, and a sharp, ragged breath filled the room.

Everyone froze.

Jon Snow was alive.